Thenight is dark and cold, a beating rainFalls ceaselessly upon the dripping roof;The dismal wind, with now a fierce, wild shriek,And now a hollow moan, as if in pain,Circles the eaves, and bends the tortured trees that wringTheir long, bear hands in the bleak blast.WithinOur chamber all is bright and warm. The fireBurns with a ruddy blaze. The shaded lampSoftens the pictures on the wall, and glowsUpon the flowers in the carpet, till they seemAll fresh and fragrant. Stretched upon the rug,His collar gleaming in the fire-light, little PipIs sleeping on, defiant of the storm without.The very furniture enjoys the warmth,And from its sides reflects the cheerful light.Up in its painted cage, the little bird,His yellow head beneath his soft, warm wing,Is hiding. Oh! my God, out in the stormOur little yellow headis beaten by the rain.So lonely looks that precious little faceUp at the cold, dark coffin’s lid above,In the bleak graveyard’s solitude!Oh! Ethel darling, do you feel afraid?Or is Christ with you in your little grave?When last we gazed upon those lovely eyesThey looked so tranquil, in their last repose,We knew that Christ’s own tender hand had sealedTheir lids with His eternal peace.Oh! darling, are you happy up in heaven?And do the angels part that golden hairAs tenderly as we? O Saviour dear,Thou knowest childhood’s tenderness. AmidThe care of countless worlds, sometimes descendFrom thine almighty throne of power, and findThat little yellow head, and lay it on thy breast,And smooth her brow with thine own pierced hand;She’ll kiss the wound and try to make it well.And tell her how we love her memory here;And let her sometimes see us, that she mayRemember us. O Jesus, we can trustHer to thy care; and when we lay us downTo rest, beside that lonely, little grave,Oh! let her meet us with her harp.God help us both to make that meeting sure!
Thenight is dark and cold, a beating rainFalls ceaselessly upon the dripping roof;The dismal wind, with now a fierce, wild shriek,And now a hollow moan, as if in pain,Circles the eaves, and bends the tortured trees that wringTheir long, bear hands in the bleak blast.WithinOur chamber all is bright and warm. The fireBurns with a ruddy blaze. The shaded lampSoftens the pictures on the wall, and glowsUpon the flowers in the carpet, till they seemAll fresh and fragrant. Stretched upon the rug,His collar gleaming in the fire-light, little PipIs sleeping on, defiant of the storm without.The very furniture enjoys the warmth,And from its sides reflects the cheerful light.Up in its painted cage, the little bird,His yellow head beneath his soft, warm wing,Is hiding. Oh! my God, out in the stormOur little yellow headis beaten by the rain.So lonely looks that precious little faceUp at the cold, dark coffin’s lid above,In the bleak graveyard’s solitude!Oh! Ethel darling, do you feel afraid?Or is Christ with you in your little grave?When last we gazed upon those lovely eyesThey looked so tranquil, in their last repose,We knew that Christ’s own tender hand had sealedTheir lids with His eternal peace.Oh! darling, are you happy up in heaven?And do the angels part that golden hairAs tenderly as we? O Saviour dear,Thou knowest childhood’s tenderness. AmidThe care of countless worlds, sometimes descendFrom thine almighty throne of power, and findThat little yellow head, and lay it on thy breast,And smooth her brow with thine own pierced hand;She’ll kiss the wound and try to make it well.And tell her how we love her memory here;And let her sometimes see us, that she mayRemember us. O Jesus, we can trustHer to thy care; and when we lay us downTo rest, beside that lonely, little grave,Oh! let her meet us with her harp.God help us both to make that meeting sure!
Thenight is dark and cold, a beating rainFalls ceaselessly upon the dripping roof;The dismal wind, with now a fierce, wild shriek,And now a hollow moan, as if in pain,Circles the eaves, and bends the tortured trees that wringTheir long, bear hands in the bleak blast.WithinOur chamber all is bright and warm. The fireBurns with a ruddy blaze. The shaded lampSoftens the pictures on the wall, and glowsUpon the flowers in the carpet, till they seemAll fresh and fragrant. Stretched upon the rug,His collar gleaming in the fire-light, little PipIs sleeping on, defiant of the storm without.The very furniture enjoys the warmth,And from its sides reflects the cheerful light.Up in its painted cage, the little bird,His yellow head beneath his soft, warm wing,Is hiding. Oh! my God, out in the stormOur little yellow headis beaten by the rain.So lonely looks that precious little faceUp at the cold, dark coffin’s lid above,In the bleak graveyard’s solitude!Oh! Ethel darling, do you feel afraid?Or is Christ with you in your little grave?When last we gazed upon those lovely eyesThey looked so tranquil, in their last repose,We knew that Christ’s own tender hand had sealedTheir lids with His eternal peace.Oh! darling, are you happy up in heaven?And do the angels part that golden hairAs tenderly as we? O Saviour dear,Thou knowest childhood’s tenderness. AmidThe care of countless worlds, sometimes descendFrom thine almighty throne of power, and findThat little yellow head, and lay it on thy breast,And smooth her brow with thine own pierced hand;She’ll kiss the wound and try to make it well.And tell her how we love her memory here;And let her sometimes see us, that she mayRemember us. O Jesus, we can trustHer to thy care; and when we lay us downTo rest, beside that lonely, little grave,Oh! let her meet us with her harp.God help us both to make that meeting sure!
Deepin a cell of darkest green,Rayless and murky with unbroken gloom,With downcast head and shrinking, modest mien,A lily of the valley shed her rare perfume,Breathed softly, as a sea shell’s murmur, from her bloomAn odor so exquisite, none can tell,If ’tis an odor or a whispered sighThat like the dying echoes of a bellFalls on the raptured sense so dreamily,The soul swoons in the tearful clasp of memory.So when an old man hears a harvest songHe used to sing, or smells the new-mown hay,A host of saddened recollections throngThe dusty chambers of his heart, and playUpon the cobwebs there a soft Æolian lay.(Unfinished.)
Deepin a cell of darkest green,Rayless and murky with unbroken gloom,With downcast head and shrinking, modest mien,A lily of the valley shed her rare perfume,Breathed softly, as a sea shell’s murmur, from her bloomAn odor so exquisite, none can tell,If ’tis an odor or a whispered sighThat like the dying echoes of a bellFalls on the raptured sense so dreamily,The soul swoons in the tearful clasp of memory.So when an old man hears a harvest songHe used to sing, or smells the new-mown hay,A host of saddened recollections throngThe dusty chambers of his heart, and playUpon the cobwebs there a soft Æolian lay.(Unfinished.)
Deepin a cell of darkest green,Rayless and murky with unbroken gloom,With downcast head and shrinking, modest mien,A lily of the valley shed her rare perfume,Breathed softly, as a sea shell’s murmur, from her bloomAn odor so exquisite, none can tell,If ’tis an odor or a whispered sighThat like the dying echoes of a bellFalls on the raptured sense so dreamily,The soul swoons in the tearful clasp of memory.
So when an old man hears a harvest songHe used to sing, or smells the new-mown hay,A host of saddened recollections throngThe dusty chambers of his heart, and playUpon the cobwebs there a soft Æolian lay.
(Unfinished.)
Written a short time before his death and handed to his wife with the request, “Do not open this until I am well, or until my death.â€
Lifebloomed for me as if my path thro’ EdenLed its flowery way. Success had crownedIn many ways my efforts. No dark strifeWith adverse Fate its portent shadows castAcross the calm blue scope of heaven.And thoughPride often chafed at plain commercial life,It was but transient, for ambitious HopeKept ever in my view Fame’s gilded dome,Upon whose highest pinnacle I chose my niche,For vain conceit had whispered in my earThat I had Genius to encharm the world,And I looked forward to the loud applauseOf nations as a simple thing of time.Of death I thought but as a fright for thoseWho have no destiny but dying. MineWould come in age, but as a pallid sealTo Honor gained, and Life’s long labors done.Yet I had felt the breath of Asrael’s wingWhen from my youthful head he took my father’s hand,And from my manhood’s arms my only child,And down the past a little mound of earth,Tombed with the darkest sorrow of our hearts,Still stands, though veiling in the folds of time.Of heaven I thought but as a distant home,A place of sweetest rest that I would gain,When weary of the burden of the world.Thus gay of thought and bright of hope, I movedAmid the flowers of my way.At once,With scarce a rustle in the rose leaves, cameA shadowy form, and standing silentlyBefore my pathway, breathed a whispered sigh,As if it loathed its office to perform;Then laid Consumption’s ghastly banner on my breast,Its pale folds crossed with fatal red.The skyGrew dark, the rose leaves withered, as the formWithdrew, still silently; while I, aloneUpon the roadside, kneeled to pray for light.The stunned surprise of sudden shattered hopes,The faith of self-appointed destiny,Still turned my eyes toward the Temple Fame.Across its gilded dome a spotless cloudHad drifted, hiding it from view, but lo!The cloud, unfolding snowy depths, disclosedThe glories of that “House not made with hands,â€And bending from it, so full of tenderness,I could discern the loved ones “gone before.â€And over all I recognized the FormWhose brow endured Gabbatha’s shameful crown,Whose woe distilled itself in trickling blood,By Cedron’s murmuring wave.As tenderlyAs ever mother touched her babe, He boreWithin His arms a little angel form,With golden hair and blue expressive eyes,One dimpled hand lay on His willing cheek,While He bent down to meet the sweet caress,The other, with that well-remembered lookShe kissed, and threw the kiss to me.Then downI bowed my face, and longed to know mine end.’Twere very sweet to leave all toil and careAnd join the blessed ones beyond the tide;And still ’twere sweet beyond compare to waitTill eventide with loved ones here, and shareTheir weal or woe.Then came a flute-like voiceThat thrilled the solemn air:“Pursue thy way,Yet humbly walk and watch, and if I comeAt midnight, or at noon, be ready.â€ThusI wish to live, life’s aims subserved to God;And each continued day and hour regardAs special gifts to be improved for Him;To wear the girdle of the world about my loinsSo loosely that a moment will sufficeTo break the clasp, and lay it down.
Lifebloomed for me as if my path thro’ EdenLed its flowery way. Success had crownedIn many ways my efforts. No dark strifeWith adverse Fate its portent shadows castAcross the calm blue scope of heaven.And thoughPride often chafed at plain commercial life,It was but transient, for ambitious HopeKept ever in my view Fame’s gilded dome,Upon whose highest pinnacle I chose my niche,For vain conceit had whispered in my earThat I had Genius to encharm the world,And I looked forward to the loud applauseOf nations as a simple thing of time.Of death I thought but as a fright for thoseWho have no destiny but dying. MineWould come in age, but as a pallid sealTo Honor gained, and Life’s long labors done.Yet I had felt the breath of Asrael’s wingWhen from my youthful head he took my father’s hand,And from my manhood’s arms my only child,And down the past a little mound of earth,Tombed with the darkest sorrow of our hearts,Still stands, though veiling in the folds of time.Of heaven I thought but as a distant home,A place of sweetest rest that I would gain,When weary of the burden of the world.Thus gay of thought and bright of hope, I movedAmid the flowers of my way.At once,With scarce a rustle in the rose leaves, cameA shadowy form, and standing silentlyBefore my pathway, breathed a whispered sigh,As if it loathed its office to perform;Then laid Consumption’s ghastly banner on my breast,Its pale folds crossed with fatal red.The skyGrew dark, the rose leaves withered, as the formWithdrew, still silently; while I, aloneUpon the roadside, kneeled to pray for light.The stunned surprise of sudden shattered hopes,The faith of self-appointed destiny,Still turned my eyes toward the Temple Fame.Across its gilded dome a spotless cloudHad drifted, hiding it from view, but lo!The cloud, unfolding snowy depths, disclosedThe glories of that “House not made with hands,â€And bending from it, so full of tenderness,I could discern the loved ones “gone before.â€And over all I recognized the FormWhose brow endured Gabbatha’s shameful crown,Whose woe distilled itself in trickling blood,By Cedron’s murmuring wave.As tenderlyAs ever mother touched her babe, He boreWithin His arms a little angel form,With golden hair and blue expressive eyes,One dimpled hand lay on His willing cheek,While He bent down to meet the sweet caress,The other, with that well-remembered lookShe kissed, and threw the kiss to me.Then downI bowed my face, and longed to know mine end.’Twere very sweet to leave all toil and careAnd join the blessed ones beyond the tide;And still ’twere sweet beyond compare to waitTill eventide with loved ones here, and shareTheir weal or woe.Then came a flute-like voiceThat thrilled the solemn air:“Pursue thy way,Yet humbly walk and watch, and if I comeAt midnight, or at noon, be ready.â€ThusI wish to live, life’s aims subserved to God;And each continued day and hour regardAs special gifts to be improved for Him;To wear the girdle of the world about my loinsSo loosely that a moment will sufficeTo break the clasp, and lay it down.
Lifebloomed for me as if my path thro’ EdenLed its flowery way. Success had crownedIn many ways my efforts. No dark strifeWith adverse Fate its portent shadows castAcross the calm blue scope of heaven.And thoughPride often chafed at plain commercial life,It was but transient, for ambitious HopeKept ever in my view Fame’s gilded dome,Upon whose highest pinnacle I chose my niche,For vain conceit had whispered in my earThat I had Genius to encharm the world,And I looked forward to the loud applauseOf nations as a simple thing of time.Of death I thought but as a fright for thoseWho have no destiny but dying. MineWould come in age, but as a pallid sealTo Honor gained, and Life’s long labors done.Yet I had felt the breath of Asrael’s wingWhen from my youthful head he took my father’s hand,And from my manhood’s arms my only child,And down the past a little mound of earth,Tombed with the darkest sorrow of our hearts,Still stands, though veiling in the folds of time.Of heaven I thought but as a distant home,A place of sweetest rest that I would gain,When weary of the burden of the world.Thus gay of thought and bright of hope, I movedAmid the flowers of my way.At once,With scarce a rustle in the rose leaves, cameA shadowy form, and standing silentlyBefore my pathway, breathed a whispered sigh,As if it loathed its office to perform;Then laid Consumption’s ghastly banner on my breast,Its pale folds crossed with fatal red.The skyGrew dark, the rose leaves withered, as the formWithdrew, still silently; while I, aloneUpon the roadside, kneeled to pray for light.The stunned surprise of sudden shattered hopes,The faith of self-appointed destiny,Still turned my eyes toward the Temple Fame.Across its gilded dome a spotless cloudHad drifted, hiding it from view, but lo!The cloud, unfolding snowy depths, disclosedThe glories of that “House not made with hands,â€And bending from it, so full of tenderness,I could discern the loved ones “gone before.â€And over all I recognized the FormWhose brow endured Gabbatha’s shameful crown,Whose woe distilled itself in trickling blood,By Cedron’s murmuring wave.As tenderlyAs ever mother touched her babe, He boreWithin His arms a little angel form,With golden hair and blue expressive eyes,One dimpled hand lay on His willing cheek,While He bent down to meet the sweet caress,The other, with that well-remembered lookShe kissed, and threw the kiss to me.Then downI bowed my face, and longed to know mine end.’Twere very sweet to leave all toil and careAnd join the blessed ones beyond the tide;And still ’twere sweet beyond compare to waitTill eventide with loved ones here, and shareTheir weal or woe.Then came a flute-like voiceThat thrilled the solemn air:“Pursue thy way,Yet humbly walk and watch, and if I comeAt midnight, or at noon, be ready.â€ThusI wish to live, life’s aims subserved to God;And each continued day and hour regardAs special gifts to be improved for Him;To wear the girdle of the world about my loinsSo loosely that a moment will sufficeTo break the clasp, and lay it down.
THE END