I love thee, Sabbath morn!—I cannot sayBut 'tis because my father loved thee so,—Because my mother's care-worn face would growSo sweetly placid in thy peaceful ray;—
It may be,thatis part of what endearsThee, Sabbath, to my soul; for memory stirsOld buried thoughts of his voice and of hers—Heard never more on Earth—till sudden tears
So sadly sweet well up, I bid them flow,They leave a Sabbath in the soul when past;As when the sky, by April clouds o'ercast,Shows fairer in the sun's returning glow.
I see the grass-grown lane we trod of old,Dear father, sainted mother! whileThe Sabbath sun looked down with loving smile,And touched the hills and streams with rippling gold.
I hear your voices as ye talked, what timeIn childish pride I walked before, and thoughtThis world a paradise, and Earth full-fraughtWith blessedness and love,—a summer clime
Of changeless beauty!—Ah! those streams flow on,Blue are those skies, as green the woods, as stillThe Sabbath hush that foldeth vale and hillIn sweet embrace, but ye, beloved, are gone!
She sleeps in stranger dust.—He, old and lone,Long waited by the river, staff in hand,Till a voice called him, and he sought that landWhere age takes on fresh youth to change unknown.
And we are parted, brothers, sisters dear—Alas, the band is broken!—One by oneYe left the hill-side green,—the Sabbath sunFinds those old paths to-day, forsaken, drear.
And Mem'ry paints me yet another scene—A home, love-lighted by an earnest eye—A home, of fellowship so pure, so high.I pause, and ask myself, have such things been?—
Or have I dreamed?—Was it a blessed dream?—A dream of peace, and rest, and hallowed calm,—The skies all sunshine, and the air all balm,—The tranquil hours aglow with Heaven's own beam?—
A dream?—a dream?—the long, long, clouded dayThat ended in a longer, sadder night,When, in my home went out that blessed light,And Love from its hushed chambers passed away?
O no!—oh no! 'Tis but the old, old taleOf human bliss and human agony,—Of morning's joy-bells ringing full and free,—And evening's hollow winds and funeral wail!
Yet thou art left me, Sabbath! In thy lightI sit and muse, this sweet, June morning, tillThe past, with all its varied scenes of good and ill,Fades from my thought—fades, with the bliss and blight,
The short-lived transports of those buried years,—The summer flowers I gathered with such pains,—The gold I hoarded in slow-gathered grains,—All lost,—the summer chilled by Autumn's tears,—
The long, lone, flowerless autumn—when the sun,Hurled from his zenith, shivered cold and paleOn the horizon's verge—the funeral wailO! tempest-burdened winds through forests dim,
And desolate, and drear,—all pass awayThis morn, O Sabbath, in thy hallowed light,And, glancing far beyond the infiniteOf thy blue heavens, where a clearer day
Lights the Eternal hills, I seem to seeThe Heavenly City, whence the radiant gleamOf a fair Temple, and a crystal streamOf living water wanders down to me
In changeless light! O Home!—O Rest!-O Heaven!Thus to thy hallowed calm I'd look away,Sabbath of God!—Eternal Sabbath day!Till to my soul thy tranquil rest is given.
When the heavy, midnight shadowsGather o'er a slumbering world,And the banner folds of darknessAre in gloomy pomp unfurled,—Think, lone watcher, pale and tearful,In thy sad, unpitied lot,By the death couch waking, weeping,There is One who slumbers not!—One who, though no mourning brotherShare thy vigils lone and drear,Loving, pitying, as no otherLoves or pities, watches near!
When the waves, o'erwrought by tempest,Lift their strong arms to the skies,And amid the inky darknessShrieks of winds and waters rise,—Mariner, 'mid doubt and danger,Wildly tossed upon the deep,Think, o'er all in power presidingThere is One who does not sleep—One who holds the risen tempestIn obedience to His will,Who, to still its wildest fury,Need but whisper—"Peace, be still"
When, weighed down by heavy anguish,Waking, sad, at midnight lone,Sorrowing mourner, thou dost languishFor affection's missing tone,—When thy heart o'er buried treasuresIn its uncheered misery weeps,Think, that gently watching o'er thee,Is an eye that never sleeps!And, above the mournful shadows,Lift thy heart so lone and riven,Up to Him who 'mid thy sorrowsWooes thee still to hope and Heaven
God will not let His bright gifts dieIf I may not sing my songs just nowI shall sing them by and by
A young man with a Poet's soul,And a Poet's kindling eye—Dark, dreamy, full of unvoiced thought—And forehead calm and high,Toiled wearily at his heavy taskTill his soul grew sick with pain,And the pent up fires that burned withinSeemed withering heart and brain
"Work, work, work!" he murmured low,Glancing up at the golden west—Work, with the sunset heavens aglowBy the hands of angels dressed,Work for this perishing, human clay,While the soul, like a prisoned bird,Flutters its helpless wings alwaysBy passionate longings stirred
"I hear in the wandering zephyr's songTones that no others hear,And alien melodies all day longAre murmuring in my ear,—Phantoms of beauty in cloud and flowerHaunt me where'er I stray,And flit thro' the green of the summer bower,At the close of each toil spent day
"There are voices that sigh in the wind's low sigh,Or wail in the tempest's roar,—That sing in the brooklets that wander by,Or sob along ocean's shore;—I hear them ever, yet may not stay,To list to the rhythmic strain;And the unvoiced melodies die away,Never to come again.
"Something I see in the lightning's flashThat my fellows may not see,And something hear in the thunder's crash,That cometh alone to me;—But the glory fades ere I gather it in,And fix it in brain or heart;And the strains I caught thro' the elements' din,Are lost in Toil's crowded mart.
"O haunting strains of unuttered song!O tenderest melodies lost!O sweet, stray notes of the heavenly throngOn the wing of the tempest tossed!O spirit-harp that, untouched, untuned,To each subtle influence thrills,As thrills some wild, Aeolian harp,To the breezes that sweep the hills!—
"I thirst, I pant, to be free to listTo the voices that call to me,From flood and fountain, from vale and height,From forest, and shore, and sea,—To gaze on the Beauty whose subtle fireBreaks on me thro' Nature's eyes,And pour from the strings of my unused lyreAll tenderest harmonies!"
Ah, thirsty spirit! the day will come,When, the sway of this mortal o'er,Thou shall strike thy lyre with a fearless handOn a brighter, calmer shore;For God, who giveth the breath of Song,Will not let His bright gifts die;And though thy harp-strings be silent long,Thou shalt waken them by and by.
Aye! and the Music that seemeth lostShall linger in Memory's cells,As lingers along the Alpine heightsThe echo of vesper-bells;—Not lost, but waiting the freer pulseOf the life thou yet shalt know,To blend with the tides of enraptured songThat the Heavenly heights o'erflow.
And the Beauty that, lost to thee, seemeth nowSealed in thy heart shall stay,As the sun-ray sealed in the diamond's heart,Burns on with unchanging ray,Then take with gladness the joy that stealsThe sting of thy toil away,And wait in hope for the higher joyThat shall crown thee another day.
Storms gather o'er thy path,Christian!—the sullen, tempest-darkened skyGrows lurid with the elemental wrath,—Say, whither wilt thou fly?
God is my Refuge!—let the tempests come,They will but speed me sooner to my home!
Night lowers in sullen gloom,Christian!—a long, dark night awaiteth thee,Dreary as Egypt's night of fear and doom,—Where will thy hiding be?
God is my refuge!—in the dreary nightIn Him I dwell, and have abundant light!
Thine is a lonely way,Christian!—and dangers all thy path infest;Pitfalls and snares crowd all thy doubtful way,—Where is thy place of rest?
God is my Refuge!—safe in Him I move,And feel no fear, kept by sustaining Love.
The grave—that dreary place,Christian, the lonely dwelling in the dustAwaits thee; 'tis the doom of all thy race,—Where, then, shall be thy trust?
God is my refuge! Sweet will be my restOn the dear pillow that my Saviour pressed!
Alas!—that dreamless sleep—Christian, its chains are strong, and hard to break;All thy belov'd sleep on in silence deep,And dostthouhope to wake?
God is my refuge! I shall wake and sing—"O grave! where is thy vict'ry?—death thy sting?"
He sleeps where the billowLifts high its white crestO'er his lone, sea-weed pillowOn Ocean's dark breast;No shroud is around him,No flowers bloom above,No mourners surround himWith grief-drops of love.
But the limitless oceanHis requiem sings,As, with tireless motion,The green billow springsToward the infinite heaven,Blue, bending above,Where angels are watchingHis slumbers in love.
Oh! boundless his tomb is,Far-reaching, sublime,Stretching forth in immensenessTo every clime;Thus boundless his love was,On every sideSpreading freely whereverMan sorrowed or died.
Sleep, Judson! no grave-dustShall rest on thy head,In sunlight or starlightNo marble shall shedIts shadow sepulchralAbove thee,—no tombSave Earth's grandest and vastest,May give to thee room!
Man marks not thy pillowWith yew-tree or stone;But God, o'er the billow,Keeps watch of His own;And glorious thy rising,O crowned one, will be,When Jehovah shall summonHis dead from the sea!
"ALL PERSON'S HELD AS SLAVES, within said designated States and parts of States, ARE, AND HENCEFORWARD SHALL BE FREE!" —Proclamation of Emancipation, Jan. 1st, 1863.
"Shall be free! shall be free!"—lo, the strong winds have caught it,And borne it from hill top to hill top afar,And echo to answering echo has taught it,Through the din of the conflict, the thunder of war!It has flashed like the lightning from ocean to ocean,Across the black face of the skies it has blazed,And strong men have thrilled with unwonted emotion,And shouted for joy as they listened and gazed!
"Shall be free! shall be free!"—the poor, manacled "chattel"Has caught the sweet word amid fetters and blows;It has burst on his ear through the tumult of battle,Through the shoutings of friends and the cursings of foes;And lifting his poor, fettered hands up to heaven,He has joined in the song that ascended to God;Or, kneeling in trembling rapture, has givenThanksgiving to Him who has broken the rod!
"Shall be free! shall be free!"—there are ears that have listened,There are lips that have prayed through long, agonized years,There are eyes that with hope's fitful radiance have glistenedYet, as hope was deferred, have grown heavy with tearsJoy! joy!—thou hast heard it at last, lonely weeper,Look up, for the prayer of thy anguish is heard.Look up, ye bruised spirits, for God is your keeper,And the heart of His boundless compassion is stirred.
"Shall be free! shall be free!"—O Humanity, listenThe Dawn that long since on the pale "Watcher" shoneNow higher, and brighter, and clearer has risen,As the Day star rides on toward the glories of noon.Those words that rang out from the isles of the ocean,Sarmatia has echoed from mountain to seaAnd America, from her red field of commotion,He echoes the same stirring words—"Shall be free!"
Hark!—all the wild air is astir with the tempest!The swift lightnings leap in red arrows on high!Winds shriek to mad winds, and the hoarse thunder answerAs it ploughs its dread path through the shuddering sky!There are hisses of serpents, and howlings of demons,And moanings of anguish by land and by sea,But, clearer than angel tones, high o'er the tumult,Rings out the glad utterance—"they shall be free!"
And lo! dimly seen, on the crest of the billowLashed white by the storm, undismayed and serene,Moves that form that once bent o'er the sufferer's pillow,And touched the dim eyes till strange glories were seenAnd sweetly, to ears that will patiently listen,That voice which spake "peace" to turbulent sea,Now speaks through the roar of the tempest uprisen,In tones unmistakable,—"THEY SHALL BE FREE!"
Just fifty years, my daughters,Just fifty years, my son,Since your sire and I togetherThe march of life begun.It does not seem so long agoAshalf a hundred years,Since hand in hand we started out,To face life's toils and tears.
And toils, and tears, too, we have met;Yet sunbeams oft have come—Many and beautiful, and bright—To cheer our happy home;Sweet infant faces, thro' the years,Are smiling back to me;And, God be praised, each precious oneStill at my side I see!
Yet ye are changed, my children three,Your baby-bloom is gone;And you are growing old, I see,Grey hairs are coming on;Yet when I, musing, close my eyes,I see you as you wereIn those old years when cloudless skiesDropped sunshine on your hair.
The patter of your busy feetStill rings upon the floor,And song, and jest, and laughter sweetFloat round me as of yore;—Yet when I open eager eyes,To watch your pastimes gay,Your children's faces round me rise—Yourselves have done with play.
And there was one—a little one—Who slumbered on my breast—I loved and cherished as my own,That dove that sought your nest;Andsheis here,—I see her faceAmong my own to-day;—Thank God for all the loves I trace,Along life's devious way!
And yet there's one we miss to-day,—The last to quit our side,—The one who wandered far awayThe day she was a bride.Were she but here, our chain of loveNo missing link would show,And every face we called our ownWould still around us glow.
Well,half a centuryis, I know,A long, long stretch of time;And truly once we deemed it so,When we were in our prime.But as we've glided down the yearsThey've shorter seemed to grow,And now, how brief the time appearsSince fifty years ago!
And, husband, you and I have changedSince that old wedding day;—I viewed you then with partial eyes—"Fond, girlish eyes" you'd say;—But were my eyes as keen as then,And I allowed to scanThe handsomest of handsome men,Youstill would be the man.
The man of men!—'twas so I thoughtJust fifty years ago,When you and I joined hands for life;And yet, I did not knowHalf—half as well as I do now,How dear you were that day;And ever dearer still you've grownAs years have rolled away!
And still this fiftieth wedding-dayI have thee by my side—An old man, weary, bent, and grey,My tall tree tempest tried.And yet I do aver that thouArt fairer in my sight,As in thy face I gaze just now,Than on our wedding night!
And husband—oh, the best of all,We'll soon be young again,And free to tread with buoyant feetA brighter, holier plain;—We'll soon have done with pain and age,And weariness and strife,Soon end our earthly pilgrimageIn new, exultant life.
For you and I, dear, have a home—A mansion of our own—Where change and blight can never come,And sorrow is unknown;And soon we're going to enter in,And with our Lord sit down,—Heirs of His glory and His bliss,His kingdom and His crown!
Many we love have thither gone,And soon we'll be there too,—And, children, you will follow on,We shall look out for youOh, may we, in that blessed throngOf saved ones robed in white,Not miss a single dear loved faceThat smiles on ours to night!
Just fifty years of wedded lifeIn the dear past I see,Before us spreads—not fifty years—But all EternityAnd while, 'mid ever deepening bliss,The tranquil ages glide,Still, hand in hand and heart in heart,With Christ we shall abide!
I plucked a fair flower that grewIn the shadow of summer's green trees—A rose petalled flower,Of all in the bower,Best beloved of the bee and the breezeI plucked it, and kissed it, and called it my own—This beautiful, beautiful flowerThat alone in the cool, tender shadow had grown,Fairest and first in the bower
Then a murmur I heard at my feet—A pensive and sorrowful sound,And I stooped me to hear,While tear after tearRained down from my eyes to the ground,As I, listening, heardThis sorrowful word,So breathing of anguish profound:—
"I have gathered the fairest and best,I have gathered the rarest and sweetest,My life-blood I've givenAs an off'ring to HeavenIn this flower, of all flowers the completestThrough the long, quiet night,With the pale stars in sight,—Through the sun-lighted dayOf the balm-breathing May,I have toiled on, in silence, to bringTo perfection this beautiful flower,The pride of the blossoming bower—The queenliest blossom of spring.
"But I am forgotten;—none heedMe—the brown soil where it grew,That drank in by dayThe sun's blessed ray,And gathered at twilight the dew;—That fed it by night and by dayWith nectar drops slowly distilledIn the secret alembic of earth,And diffused through each delicate veinTill the sunbeams were charmed to remain,Entranced in a dream of delight,Stealing in with their arrows of lightThrough the calyx of delicate green,The close-folded petals between,Down into its warm hidden heart—Until, with an ecstatic startAt the rapture, so wondrous and new,That throbbed at its innermost heart,Wide opened the beautiful eyes,And lo! with a sudden surpriseCaught the glance of the glorious sun—The ardent and worshipful one—Looking down from his heavenly place,And the blush of delighted surpriseRemained in its warm glowing dyes,Evermore on that radiant face
"Then mortals, in worshipful mood,Bent over my wonderful flower,And called it 'the fairest,'The richest, the rarest,The pride of the blossoming bowerBut I am forgotten. Ah me!I, the brown soil where it grew,That cherished and nourishedThe stem where it flourished,And fed it with sunshine and dew
"O Man! will it always be thus?—Will you take the rich gifts that are givenBy the tireless workers of earth,By the bountiful Father in heaven,And, intent on the worth of the gift,Never think of the maker, the giver?—Of the long patient effort,—the thoughtThat secretly grew in the brainOf the Poet to measure and strain,Till it burst on your ear, richly fraughtWith the rapturous sweetness of song?—
What availeth it, then, that ye toil,You, thought's patient producers, to beUnloved and unprized,Trodden down and despisedBy those whom you toil for, like me—Forgotten and trampled like me?—"
Then my heart made indignant reply,In spite of my fast falling tears—In spite of the wearisome yearsOf toil unrequited that layIn the track of the past, and the wayThorn-girded I'd trod in those years—
"So be it, if so itmustbe!—May I know that the thingI so patiently bringFrom the depths of the heart and the brain,A creature ofbeautygoes forth,Midst the hideous phantoms that pressAnd crowd the lone paths of this work-weary life,Midst the labor and care, the temptation and strife,To gladden and comfort and bless!
"So be it, if so itmustbe!—May I know that the thingI so patiently bringFrom the depths of the heart and the brain,Goes forth with a conquerors might,Through the gloom of this turbulent world,Potent for truth and for right,Where truth has so often been hurled'Neath the feet of the throng—The hurrying, passionate throng!—
"What matter though Ibeforgot,Since toil is itself a delight?—Since thepowerto do,To the soul that is true,Is the uttered command of the LordTo labor and faint not, but stillTo pursue and achieve,And ever believe.That ACHIEVEMENT ALONE IS REWARD!"
Thou hast entered the land without shadows,Thou who, 'neath the shadow, so longHast sat with thy white hands close-folded,And lips that could utter no song;Through a rift in the cloud, for an instant,Thine eyes caught a glimpse of that shore,And Earth with its gloom was forgotten,And Heaven is thine own evermore!
We see not the glorious vision,Nor the welcoming melodies hear,That, from bowers of beauty Elysian,Float tenderly sweet to thine ear;Round us, lie Earth's desolate midnight,Her winter-plains bare and untrod,—Round thee, is the glad, morning sunlightThat beams from the City of God!
Our eyes have grown heavy with weeping,—Thine, "the King in his beauty" beholdAnd thou leanest thy head on His bosom,Like him, the beloved, of old;The days of thy weeping are ended,Thy sorrow and suffering done,And angels thy flight have attendedTo the side of the Crucified One.
On thy hearth-stone the ashes are fireless,In thy dark home the lights never burn,In thy garden the sweet flowers have perished,To thy bower no song-birds return!Yet a mansion of bliss glory-lighted,Where anguish and death are unknown,Where beauty and bloom are unblighted,Henceforth is forever thine own!
Oh! joy for thee, glorified spirit!With Jesus forever to be,And with sinless and sainted companionsThe bliss of His Paradise see!Joy, joy!—for thy warfare is finished,Thy perilous journeying o'er,And, above the deep gloom of Earth's shadows,Thou art dwelling in Light evermore!
Beautiful Autumn is dead and gone—Weep for her!Calm, and gracious, and very fair,With sunny robe and with shining hair,And a tender light in her dreamy eye,She came to earth but to smile and die—Weep for her!
Nay, nay, I will not weep!She came with a smile,And tarried awhile,Quieting Nature to sleep;—Then went on her wayO'er the hill-tops grey,And yet—and yet,she is dead, you say!Nay!—she brought us blessings, and left us cheer,And alive and well shell return next year!—Why should I weep?
Desolate Winter has come again—Frown on him!He comes with a withering breath,With a gloomy scowl,With a shriek and a howl,Freezing Nature to death!He stamps on the hills,He fetters the rills,And every hollow with snow he fills!Frown on the monster grim and old,With snowy robes and with fingers cold,And a gusty breath!
Nay, nay! I shall give him a smile!—For I know by the sleet,And the snow in the street,He has come to tarry awhile.Ho, for the sleigh-bells merrily ringing!Ho, for the skaters joyously singing—Over the ice-fields gliding, swinging!—So let the Winter-king whiten the plain!Fetter the fountains and frost the pane,His greeting shall be—Not a frown from me,But a smile—a smile!
Good night! good night!—the golden dayHas veiled its sunset beam,And twilight's star its beauteous rayHas mirrored in the stream;—Low voices come from vale and height,And murmur soft, good night! good night!
Good night!—the bee with folded wingsSleeps sweet in honeyed flowers,And far away the night-bird singsIn dreamy forest bowers,And slowly fades the western lightIn deepening shade,—good night! good night!
Good night! good night!—in whispers lowThe ling'ring zephyr sighs,And softly, in its dreamy flow,The murm'ring brook replies;And, where yon casement still is bright,A softer voice has breathed good-night!
Good night!—as steals the cooling dewWhere the young violet lies,E'en so may slumber steal anewTo weary human eyes,And softly steep the aching sightIn dewy rest—good night! good night!
Over the waves of the Western sea,Led by the hand of Hope she came—The beautiful Angel of Liberty—When the sky was red with the sunset's flame,—Came to a rocky and surf-beat shore,Lone, and wintry, and stern, and wild,The waves behind her, and wastes before,And the Angel of Liberty, pausing, smiled.
"Here, O Sister, shall be our rest!"Softly she sang, and the waters shoneWhile a mellower radiance flushed the west,Lingering mountain and vale upon;—Sweetly the murmurous melody blentWith flow of rivers and woodland song,And wandering breezes that singing went,Joyously wafted the notes along.
Acadia lifted her mist-wreathed brow,Westerly gazing with eager eye,And lakes that sat in the sunset glowFlashed back upon her in glad reply;—On, with every murmuring stream,On, with every wandering breeze,Floated the strain through the New World's dream,Till it died on the far Pacific seas.
* * *
Many a season came and went,—Many a changeful year sped by,—Many a forest its proud head bent,—Many a valley looked up to the sky;Patient Labor and bold Emprise,Art, Invention, Science, Skill,Each for each 'neath those northern skiesToiled together with earnest will.
Up the mountain, and down the glen,And far away to the level West,Hosts of dauntless, unwearied menOnward ever with firm foot pressed;The blue axe gleamed in the wintry light,And forests melted like mist away,Through virgin soils went the ploughshare bright.And harvests brightened the summer day.
Learning gathered around her feetListening crowds of aspiring youth;Meek Religion with accents sweetGuided her vot'ries in ways o' truth;Countless church-spires pierced the skies,Countless temples of Science wooedTo thought's arena of high empriseAn eager, emulous multitude.
White sails dotted the waters blue,Hamlets smiled amid valleys green,Populous cities sprang and grewWhere swamp and wilderness erst were seen;Fleet as the tempest the iron-steedShook the hills with his thunderous tread;From shore to shore, with the lightning's speed,Couriers electric man's errands sped.
Then kindred States that had stood apartStretched to each other fraternal hands,And, each to all, with a loyal heart,Bound themselves with enduring bands;—Then the Angel of Liberty smiled once more,Softly singing—"O Lands, well done!"And the strains were wafted from shore to shoreTo the far-off climes of the setting sun.
"Here, O Sister, shall be our rest!"—Again the beautiful Angel sung—Long, oh long, shall these climes be blessed,Free and fetterless, brave and young,If only loyal to Him who reignsOver all nations the Lord Most-High,Monarch of Heaven's serene domains,Ruler of all things below the sky.
"Bow to His service, O young, bright lands!Give Him the bloom of your joyous youth!Lift to Him alway adoring hands!Worship Him ever in love and truth!So shall ye still, as the glad years rise,Ever more stable and glorious be,Heir of all loftiest destinies,HOPE OF HUMANITY! HOME OF THE FREE!"
"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, andI will give you rest."
I gave myself to JesusIn my sunny childhood's years,When on my young, unsullied cheekThere lay no trace of tears;I little knew what gift I gave,Nor yet what gift I took;For life without and life withinWere each a sealed-up book.
But soon enough unfolding yearsBrought sorrow, toil, and pain,—Brought disappointment's burning tears,And yearnings wild and vain;And then I learned what precious GiftIn Jesus I receivedIn that still hour of childish trust,When my young heart believed.
'Twas then I knew what arm unseenWas round me 'mid the strife,The blighted hope, the toil uncheered,The cold, rude storms of life;And when the reeds on which I leanedAll failed me one by one,I clasped my pierced and bleeding hands,And wept, butnot alone.
For He was near me midst the strife,And, leaning on His arm,I trod the thorny paths of life,Safe sheltered from all harm;The while He whispered to my heart,"I gave my life for thee!Then, heavy laden as thou art,Cast all thy care on me!"
"On me!ON ME!"—oh, gentle word!—O Sympathy divine!—O Fount of joy, how deeply stirred,Within this heart of mine!—O cool, sweet Waters, how ye stilledThe fever of my brain,—And soothed the heart-strings that had thrilledWith agonizing pain!
My own,—My Rock!—the heavy tideMay beat in uproar dread,Calmly 'gainst its unmoving sideI rest my weary head;—For well I know how deep it strikesBeneath the raging flood—My Soul's firm Anchor 'mid the strife,My Refuge and my God!
There's a beautiful Artist abroad in the world,And her pencil is dipped in heaven,—The gorgeous hues of Italian skies,The radiant sunset's richest dyes,The light of Aurora's laughing eyes,Are each to her pictures given.
As I walked abroad yestere'en, what timeThe sunset was fairest to see,I saw where her wonderful brush had beenOver a maple tree—half of it green—And the fairiest col'ring that ever was seenShe had left on that maple tree.
There was red of every possible hue,There was yellow of every dye,From the faintest straw-tint to orange bright,Fluttering, waving, flashing in light,With the delicate, green leaves still in sight,Peeping out at the sunset sky.
She had touched the beech, and the scraggy thing.In a bright new suit was dressed;Very queer, indeed, it looked to me,The sober old beech tree thus to see,So different from what he used to be,Rigged out in a holiday vest.
Red, and russet, and green, and grey—He had little indeed of gold—For the beech was never known to be gay,Being noted a very grave tree alway,Never flaunting out in a fanciful wayLike other trees, we are told.
But the beautiful artist had touched him offWith an extra tint or so;And he held his own very well with the rest,On which, I am sure, she had done her best,Dressing each in the fairiest kind of a vest,Till the forest was all aglow.
There were the willow that grew by the brook,And the old oak on the hill;The graceful elm tree down in the swale,The birch, the ash, and the bass-wood pale,The orchard trees clustering over the vale,And weeds that fringed the rill.
One, she had gilt with a flood of gold,And one, she had tipped with flame;One, she had dashed with every hueThat the laughing sunset ever knew,And one—she had colored it through and throughRusset, all sober and tame.
Now this beautiful artist will only stayA very few days, and then,She will finish her gorgeous pictures all,And hurry away ere the gusty squallRuins her work, and the sere leaves failDarkly in copse and glen.
Then welcome these pictures, so soon to fade,While they're fresh, and bright, and new,For a frosty night, and a gusty day,And a withering blight are not far away,So enjoy the beautiful while you may,It was given, good friend,for you!
[Footnote: A precious memory is associated with these words. The voice that uttered them is silent now but the solemnity of their utterance has not passed away. The [below] is a feeble attempt to give it something like permanency.]
Bow the head in supplication,Lowly, penitent, sincere,Worthiest of adoration,God, the Holy One is here!—Here, while through the open casementGently beams the rising day,While, in contrite self abasement,Rev'rently we kneel and pray!
Let us pray!—we're weak and weary,Faint of heart and slow of limb,Over mountains dark and drearyLies our pathway—narrow, dim,Thorn beset and demon-haunted,Steep and slipp'ry is the way,Would we tread it all undaunted,Firm of footstep?—let us pray!
Let us pray!—on every spirit,Secret, solemn records lie,Of transgression and demerit,On'y seen by God's pure eye,—Secret sins, desires unholy,Thoughts impure that once held sway,—Oh, in penitence most lowly,Deeply contrite, let us pray!
Let us pray!—we need forgiveness,—Strength and patience to endure,—For our arduous labors fitness,—Spirits consecrate and pure,Shelter need when storms are round us,—Bread of Heavenly life each day,—Help when hidden snares surround us,—Guidance always—let us pray!
Old Aleck, the weaver, sat in the nookOf his chimney, reading an ancient book,Old, and yellow, and sadly worn,With covers faded, and soiled, and torn;—And the tallow candle would flicker and flareAs the wind, which tumbled the old man's hair,Swept drearily in through a broken pane,Damp and chilling with sleet and rain.
Yet still, unheeding the changeful light,Old Aleck read on and on that night;Sometimes lifting his eyes, as he read,To the cob-webb'd rafters overhead;—But at length he laid the book away,And knelt by his broken stool to pray;And something, I fancied, the old man saidAbout "treasures in Heaven" of which he'd read.
A wealthy merchant over the waySat in his lamp-light's steady ray,Where many a volume richly boundAnd heavily gilded was lying round.One, with glittering clasps was there,Embossed, and pictured, and wondrous fair;But the printed words were the very sameAs those I read by the flickering flameThat gave me light as I stooped to lookInto the old man's tattered book,And I knew by the page's spotless white,No hand had opened it yet to the light.
"Treasures In Heaven"!—what, rich man, heirTo countless thousands, your thoughts are—where?With theseheread of?—No; ah, no!—Over the storm-vexed waters they go,Where stout ships buffet the blast to-night,With never a glimmering star in sight!
Day fretted the east with its stormy gold,But the turbulent ocean raged and rolled,And dashed on many a rock girt shoreThe wrecks of ships that would sail no more,—Lifting, at times, to the topmost waveGhastly faces no hand could save,—And then, far down with his treasures vain,Burying each in the depths again.
And the merchant looked from his mansion fair,Over the ocean, with troubled air;And thought of his treasures, in one short nightWhelmed in the deep by the tempest's might;—Ah,—I knew by that pale brow's deepening gloom,That he owned no treasure beyond the tomb.
Day fretted the east with its stormy gold,Creeping slow through a casement old,And stealing sadly with faint, cold rayInto the hut where the old man lay.White and still was the scattered hair,And the hands were crossed with a reverent air;—Calm and stirless the eyelids lay,Pale as marble and cold as clay,But the lips were tenderly wreathed, the while,With the beautiful light of a saintly smile;And I knew he had passed from that desolate roomTo a fadeless treasure beyond the tomb.
A light departed from the hearth of home,Leaving a shadow where its radiance shone,—A flower just bursting into life and bloom,Lopped from its stem, the bower left sad and lone,—A golden link dropped from love's precious chain,—Gem from affection's sacred casket riven,—Of music's richest tones a missing strain,—A bird-note hushed in the blue summer heaven!
That light is gathered to its Source again,Though long its radiance will be missed on earth,That flower, transplanted to a sunnier plain,Bloometh immortal where no blight has birth;That missing link gleams in Love's chain above,—That lost gem sparkles on the Saviour's breast,—That music-uttrance, tuned to holier love,Swells richly 'mid the anthems of the blest.Thank God! there's nothing lost! A little while,And what ye miss will be your own againE'en the dear clay once more will on you smileWith life immortal throbbing in each veinTis well to leave your treasure with the Lord—With One so tender your beloved to see,—Back to the Source of life a life restored—Thenwhere your treasure is let your affections be!
Balmy morning! blessed morning!Dew-drops brightAll the emerald glade adorningIn thy light—In thy golden glowing beamWith an ever-changeful gleamFlashing sparkling deeply glowingVarying tints of beauty showingEverywhereRadiant areIn thy welcome light!
Balmy morning! blessed morning!Flowers look up,With a precious, pearly off'ring,In each cup—Dewy off'ring gleaned by night,As a tribute to the light,—Far more precious than the gemOf a monarch's diadem,Is the giftWhich they liftTo thy welcome light!
Balmy morning! blessed morning!Sounds of mirth,From the vocal vales ascending,Hail thy birth.Happy birds in echoing bowers,Waken all their tuneful powers,And spontaneous music springsFrom all animated things,—Verdant hills,Tuneful rills,Joyful greet thy light!
Balmy morning! blessed morning!How serene,In thy calm and cloudless dawningSmiles the scene!Even man, by care oppressed,Feels thy gladness thrill his breast,Hails thee as a source of bliss,Precious in a world like this,GratefullyBlessing thee—Welcome, morning light!
Oh, take me where the wild flowers bloom!
Oh, take me where the wild flowers bloom!I'm dying, mother dear!And shades of ever deepening gloomAre round, and o'er me here,—The city's din is in my ear,Its glitter mocks my eye,—Oh, take me where the skies are clear.And the hills are green, to die!
I do not dread the shadowy vale,The river deep and chill,—For, leaning on my Saviour's arm,My soul shall fear no ill,—But oh, to pass from Earth awayWhere skies are blue above,Where glad birds sing, and streamlets play,And soft winds breathe of love!
And oh, within these fevered hands,To clasp my flowers again!To lay them on my weary breast,And round my throbbing brain!Then, feel the South wind o'er me passAs long ago it swept,When, 'mid the scented summer grass,I laid me down and slept!
Oh, ever, in my fevered dreams,The fountain's play I hear,—The sighing winds, the rippling streams,The robin's music clear,—Old pleasant sounds are in my ear,Sweet visions meet my eye—Oh take me, take me, mother dear,To the summer hills, to die!
Tearing up the stubborn soil,Trudging, drudging, toiling, moiling,Hands, and feet, and garments soiling—Who would grudge the ploughman's toil?Yet there's lustre in his eye,Borrowed from yon glowing sky,And there's meaning in his glancesThat bespeak no dreamer's fancies;For his mind has precious loreGleaned from Nature's sacred store.
Toiling up yon weary hill,He has worked since early morning,Ease, and rest, and pleasure scorning,And he's at his labor still,Though the slanting, western beamQuivering on the glassy stream,And yon old elm's lengthened shadowFlung athwart the verdant meadow,Tell that shadowy twilight greyCannot now be far away.
See! he stops and wipes his brow,—Marks the rapid sun's descending—Marks his shadow far-extending—Deems it time to quit the plough.Weary man and weary steedWelcome food and respite need'Tis the hour when bird and beeSeek repose, and why not he?Nature loves the twilight blest,Let the toil worn ploughman rest
Ye, who nursed upon the breastOf ease and pleasure enervating,Ever new delights creating,Which not long retain their zestEre upon your taste they pall,What avail your pleasures all?In his hard, but pleasant labor,He, your useful, healthful neighbor,Finds enjoyment, real, true,Vainly sought by such as you
Nature's open volume lies,Richly tinted, brightly beaming,With its varied lessons teeming,All outspread before his eyes.Dewy glades and opening flowers,Emerald meadows, vernal bowers,Sun and shade, and bird and bee,Fount and forest, hill and lea,—All things beautiful and fair,His benignant teachers are
Tearing up the stubborn soil,Trudging, drudging, toiling, moiling,Hands, and feet, and garments soiling—Who would grudge the ploughman's toil?Yet 'tis health and wealth to him,Strength of nerve, and strength of limb,Light and fervor in his glances,Life and beauty in his fancies,Learned and happy, brave and free,Who so proud and blest as he?
The dawn-light wakes, and brightens to the day,And the slow sun climbs the far eastern skies,Then, down the western slopes pursues his way,Till shadows deepen and the twilight dies;—And still I muse, and wait, and list in vainFor feet that never, never will return,—For loving words I may not hear again,Howe'er with ear attent I wait and yearn.
O love that never wavered, never changed!How shall I miss thee as the years go by?O tenderest heart that could be estranged!—O fount that age and suffring could not dry!—O guiding hand to earliest thought endeared—O hand that after clung so long to me!—O patient Father, honored, loved, revered!How shall I hear life's burden wanting thee?
Be still, fond heart!—another Father, thine—Bothhisand thine—still on thee bends His eye;Thou canst not walk alone, for Love Divine,Unseen, yet near, each starting tear will dry.Lean on the strong, true breast, of Love more deep,More constant far than earthly love may be,Who gently soothed his pain, and gave him sleep,And shall enfold, uplift, and comfort thee!
So lay thy burden in His hands, and rest!Thy Lord hath fathomed every earthly woe;With patient feet Earth's thorniest pathway pressed,And left the tomb with Heaven's light aglow;—For, what them seest not now, some other day,In lands unreached by sorrow's dreary knell,Thou in His light shalt read, and meekly say,"E'en so, dear Lord, Thou hast done all things well."
"For he looked for a city that hath foundations, whose Maker andBuilder is God."
Somewhere, I know, there waits for meA home that mocks the pomp of Earth,Eye hath not seen its majesty,Nor heart conceived its priceless worth,—Talk not of crystal, gems, or gold,Or towers that flame in changeless light,Imagination, weak and cold,Faints far below the unmeasured height!And through its open doors for aye,As ages after ages glide,Without a moment's pause or stay,Flows grandly in the living tide—Brothers, redeemed ones, pressing homeFrom every clime, from every shore,Beneath that fair celestial domeMeet to be parted nevermore!
Somewhere, I know, there waits for meA holy, tranquillized repose,Calmer than summer noontides be,Softer than twilight's tenderest close—Peace, deeper than the peace that stoleO'er the vexed Galilean flood,When One, Almighty to control,Breathed o'er it the still "peace" of God.To break that calm, no throbbing painMay ever come, no chilling fears,No hopes unreached, no yearnings vain,No love-light quenched in sorrow's tears;But, while eternal ages glide,That hallowed peace without alloyShall still increase, and still abide,A deepening fount of holiest joy.
Somewhere, I know, there wait for meSweet tones that wander back betimesThrough the charmed gates of Memory,Like far-off swell of Sabbath chimes;And fair, sweet faces, dimly seenIn the uncertain light of dreams,And glances, tender and sereneAs star-beams mirrored soft in streams;—They wait for me who long have missed,From the lone paths I since have pressed,The hands I clasped, the lips I kissed,The loves that life's young morning blessed,—Wait long, while still, through mist and tearsI darkly wend my pilgrim way,Until for me the dawn appearsAnd night gives place to perfect day
Somewhere, I know, in brighter lands,ONE waits—"the Fairest of the Fair"—With loving words and gentle hands,To welcome all who gather there."Father, I will," we heard Him say,"That those whom thou hast given meBe with me where I am, that theyMy glory evermore may see!"And there, without a veil between,The sweetness of His face to hide,Him whom I've loved yet never seen,I shall behold well satisfied—And, viewing Him, shall sweetly beTransformed into His image bright,And through a glad EternityWalk in His love's unclouded light!