THE YOUNG MOTHER.Composedin its beauty, the fair infant slept;But still the young mother sat by it and wept:She rocked not the cradle, she sang not the song,The sleep of her dear, only child to prolong.The same fleecy cover, so soft and so warm,That oft wrapped it sleeping, lay light o’er its form;Its pillow was downy, and smooth was its bed,And yet, that sad mother! her fond bosom bled.She knew that no dream of her babe, in its rest,Was now of her voice, or its home on her breast;She caught not the sound nor the balm of its breath:She knew that her little one slumbered in death!A hand with the pencil was called to portrayThe features and form of her child as it lay;But false were the hues and the touches of artTo paint the bright image enshrined in her heart.Its lustre was drawn from a glory on high:No pencil of earth could the likeness supply;Nor yet on the canvass was mortal to traceA smile the pure spirit had left on that face.The skies, as they opened, their guest to receive,Had shed, on the dust they allured it to leave,A sign of the peace, of the joy, and the love,Encircling for aye the young angel above.That mother rose calm, when the beautiful clayMust be from her sight laid forever away!The gloom left her soul, as a cloud leaves the sun;It whispered, “Thy will, O my Father, be done!”
Composedin its beauty, the fair infant slept;But still the young mother sat by it and wept:She rocked not the cradle, she sang not the song,The sleep of her dear, only child to prolong.The same fleecy cover, so soft and so warm,That oft wrapped it sleeping, lay light o’er its form;Its pillow was downy, and smooth was its bed,And yet, that sad mother! her fond bosom bled.She knew that no dream of her babe, in its rest,Was now of her voice, or its home on her breast;She caught not the sound nor the balm of its breath:She knew that her little one slumbered in death!A hand with the pencil was called to portrayThe features and form of her child as it lay;But false were the hues and the touches of artTo paint the bright image enshrined in her heart.Its lustre was drawn from a glory on high:No pencil of earth could the likeness supply;Nor yet on the canvass was mortal to traceA smile the pure spirit had left on that face.The skies, as they opened, their guest to receive,Had shed, on the dust they allured it to leave,A sign of the peace, of the joy, and the love,Encircling for aye the young angel above.That mother rose calm, when the beautiful clayMust be from her sight laid forever away!The gloom left her soul, as a cloud leaves the sun;It whispered, “Thy will, O my Father, be done!”
Composedin its beauty, the fair infant slept;But still the young mother sat by it and wept:She rocked not the cradle, she sang not the song,The sleep of her dear, only child to prolong.
The same fleecy cover, so soft and so warm,That oft wrapped it sleeping, lay light o’er its form;Its pillow was downy, and smooth was its bed,And yet, that sad mother! her fond bosom bled.
She knew that no dream of her babe, in its rest,Was now of her voice, or its home on her breast;She caught not the sound nor the balm of its breath:She knew that her little one slumbered in death!
A hand with the pencil was called to portrayThe features and form of her child as it lay;But false were the hues and the touches of artTo paint the bright image enshrined in her heart.
Its lustre was drawn from a glory on high:No pencil of earth could the likeness supply;Nor yet on the canvass was mortal to traceA smile the pure spirit had left on that face.
The skies, as they opened, their guest to receive,Had shed, on the dust they allured it to leave,A sign of the peace, of the joy, and the love,Encircling for aye the young angel above.
That mother rose calm, when the beautiful clayMust be from her sight laid forever away!The gloom left her soul, as a cloud leaves the sun;It whispered, “Thy will, O my Father, be done!”
EVENING AT ANDOVER SEMINARY-HILL.I stoodon that majestic height,The lofty Hill of Andover,Where sacred science holds the lightThat beams to distant lands from her.For there the school of sages stands,Where, from afar, disciples meetFor lore divine, in holy bandsTo sit and learn at Wisdom’s feet.Within its consecrated wallsIs kept and taught Jehovah’s will:—TheLAW, whose voice in thunder falls—TheGOSPEL, whispering, “Peace! be still!”The structures while I viewed around,I seemed to breathe Mount’s Zion’s air;I set my foot with awe profound,As if the ark of God were there.Each earthly care was calm and dumb,For holier thoughts the soul to fill;As if the Shechinah had comeTo rest upon that reverend hill.A mellow glory crowned its head;And from its foot, in landscape wide,Profusely nature’s charms were spread,Till in the distance vision died.It was a summer day’s decline:The drowsy flowers began to close;The breezes lulled, that stirred the vine;And all things tended to repose.The sun, adown the western skies,Was sinking fast to pass from view,Calm as the righteous when he diesTo earth, in heaven to live anew.And thence, on edifice and site,His golden smile was backward cast,As if he loved that favored heightTo bless the longest and the last.In eastern splendor, then arrayed,The full-orbed moon arose serene,Through evening’s hush and night’s cool shadeTo throw her lustre o’er the scene.Her silvery vesture wrapped in sheenThe stately seminary pile,And fell on tree, and flower, and green,Where pearly dews distilled the while.And through the chapel’s crystal shoneHer light, within the place of prayer,Till bright-winged angels, from the throneAbove, seemed met and hovering there.It was a scene—it was an hourA spirit bowed in dust to raiseEnnobled, till its every power,Awaked to joy, was tuned to praise.Clear as that sun, fair as that moon,Shall thy dear Zion rise and shineAbove her foes—Ah! Lord, how soon?—When shall the ends of earth be thine?
I stoodon that majestic height,The lofty Hill of Andover,Where sacred science holds the lightThat beams to distant lands from her.For there the school of sages stands,Where, from afar, disciples meetFor lore divine, in holy bandsTo sit and learn at Wisdom’s feet.Within its consecrated wallsIs kept and taught Jehovah’s will:—TheLAW, whose voice in thunder falls—TheGOSPEL, whispering, “Peace! be still!”The structures while I viewed around,I seemed to breathe Mount’s Zion’s air;I set my foot with awe profound,As if the ark of God were there.Each earthly care was calm and dumb,For holier thoughts the soul to fill;As if the Shechinah had comeTo rest upon that reverend hill.A mellow glory crowned its head;And from its foot, in landscape wide,Profusely nature’s charms were spread,Till in the distance vision died.It was a summer day’s decline:The drowsy flowers began to close;The breezes lulled, that stirred the vine;And all things tended to repose.The sun, adown the western skies,Was sinking fast to pass from view,Calm as the righteous when he diesTo earth, in heaven to live anew.And thence, on edifice and site,His golden smile was backward cast,As if he loved that favored heightTo bless the longest and the last.In eastern splendor, then arrayed,The full-orbed moon arose serene,Through evening’s hush and night’s cool shadeTo throw her lustre o’er the scene.Her silvery vesture wrapped in sheenThe stately seminary pile,And fell on tree, and flower, and green,Where pearly dews distilled the while.And through the chapel’s crystal shoneHer light, within the place of prayer,Till bright-winged angels, from the throneAbove, seemed met and hovering there.It was a scene—it was an hourA spirit bowed in dust to raiseEnnobled, till its every power,Awaked to joy, was tuned to praise.Clear as that sun, fair as that moon,Shall thy dear Zion rise and shineAbove her foes—Ah! Lord, how soon?—When shall the ends of earth be thine?
I stoodon that majestic height,The lofty Hill of Andover,Where sacred science holds the lightThat beams to distant lands from her.
For there the school of sages stands,Where, from afar, disciples meetFor lore divine, in holy bandsTo sit and learn at Wisdom’s feet.
Within its consecrated wallsIs kept and taught Jehovah’s will:—TheLAW, whose voice in thunder falls—TheGOSPEL, whispering, “Peace! be still!”
The structures while I viewed around,I seemed to breathe Mount’s Zion’s air;I set my foot with awe profound,As if the ark of God were there.
Each earthly care was calm and dumb,For holier thoughts the soul to fill;As if the Shechinah had comeTo rest upon that reverend hill.
A mellow glory crowned its head;And from its foot, in landscape wide,Profusely nature’s charms were spread,Till in the distance vision died.
It was a summer day’s decline:The drowsy flowers began to close;The breezes lulled, that stirred the vine;And all things tended to repose.
The sun, adown the western skies,Was sinking fast to pass from view,Calm as the righteous when he diesTo earth, in heaven to live anew.
And thence, on edifice and site,His golden smile was backward cast,As if he loved that favored heightTo bless the longest and the last.
In eastern splendor, then arrayed,The full-orbed moon arose serene,Through evening’s hush and night’s cool shadeTo throw her lustre o’er the scene.
Her silvery vesture wrapped in sheenThe stately seminary pile,And fell on tree, and flower, and green,Where pearly dews distilled the while.
And through the chapel’s crystal shoneHer light, within the place of prayer,Till bright-winged angels, from the throneAbove, seemed met and hovering there.
It was a scene—it was an hourA spirit bowed in dust to raiseEnnobled, till its every power,Awaked to joy, was tuned to praise.
Clear as that sun, fair as that moon,Shall thy dear Zion rise and shineAbove her foes—Ah! Lord, how soon?—When shall the ends of earth be thine?
HYMN OF THE PARTING CLASS.SUNG BY THEOLOGICAL STUDENTS.Wefeel the parting angel’s handIs in our midst, to loose the bandSo close, so sacred, and so dear,That long hath bound us, brethren, here.No more within this hallowed place,United at the throne of grace,Our prayers shall rise—our voices pourIn praise, when this, our song is o’er.To each we hear the Saviour sayWe to his work must hence away;For great the field—the laborers few!What wilt thou, Lord, have us to do?O send thy Spirit from aboveTo fire our hearts with heavenly love;And light our lips with truth, that weMay, witnesses, go forth for thee.And may we count all else as lossTo spread the glory of thy cross—From shades and death redeemed, to bringThe priceless jewels of our King.On distant islands of the sea—On heathen shores our lot may be,To dying souls to bear the breadAnd balm of life on Calvary shed.Yet, though our lines be marked afar,And some beneath a foreign star,We may look upward to the SunOf righteousness, and still be one.And when our works of faith are past,In joy we ’ll meet on high at last;And there, in praise, our voices swellThe song, where enters no farewell.
SUNG BY THEOLOGICAL STUDENTS.
Wefeel the parting angel’s handIs in our midst, to loose the bandSo close, so sacred, and so dear,That long hath bound us, brethren, here.No more within this hallowed place,United at the throne of grace,Our prayers shall rise—our voices pourIn praise, when this, our song is o’er.To each we hear the Saviour sayWe to his work must hence away;For great the field—the laborers few!What wilt thou, Lord, have us to do?O send thy Spirit from aboveTo fire our hearts with heavenly love;And light our lips with truth, that weMay, witnesses, go forth for thee.And may we count all else as lossTo spread the glory of thy cross—From shades and death redeemed, to bringThe priceless jewels of our King.On distant islands of the sea—On heathen shores our lot may be,To dying souls to bear the breadAnd balm of life on Calvary shed.Yet, though our lines be marked afar,And some beneath a foreign star,We may look upward to the SunOf righteousness, and still be one.And when our works of faith are past,In joy we ’ll meet on high at last;And there, in praise, our voices swellThe song, where enters no farewell.
Wefeel the parting angel’s handIs in our midst, to loose the bandSo close, so sacred, and so dear,That long hath bound us, brethren, here.
No more within this hallowed place,United at the throne of grace,Our prayers shall rise—our voices pourIn praise, when this, our song is o’er.
To each we hear the Saviour sayWe to his work must hence away;For great the field—the laborers few!What wilt thou, Lord, have us to do?
O send thy Spirit from aboveTo fire our hearts with heavenly love;And light our lips with truth, that weMay, witnesses, go forth for thee.
And may we count all else as lossTo spread the glory of thy cross—From shades and death redeemed, to bringThe priceless jewels of our King.
On distant islands of the sea—On heathen shores our lot may be,To dying souls to bear the breadAnd balm of life on Calvary shed.
Yet, though our lines be marked afar,And some beneath a foreign star,We may look upward to the SunOf righteousness, and still be one.
And when our works of faith are past,In joy we ’ll meet on high at last;And there, in praise, our voices swellThe song, where enters no farewell.
THE SPECKLED ONE.Poorspeckled one! none else will deignTo waft thy name around;So, let me take it on my strain,To give it air and sound.Yes—air and sound, low child of earth!For these are oft the thingsThat give a name its greatest worth,Its gorgeous plumes and wings.But do not shun me thus, and hopAffrighted from my way.Dismiss thy terrors—turn, and stop;And hear what I may say.Meek, harmless thing, afraid of man?This truly should not be.Then calmly pause, and let me scanMy Maker’s work in thee.For both of us to him belong;We ’re fellow-creatures here;And power should not be armed with wrong,Nor weakness filled with fear.I know it is thy humble lotTo burrow in a hole—To have a form I envy not,And that without a soul.In motion, attitude and limbI see thee void of grace;And that a look supremely grim,Reigns o’er thy solemn face.But thou for this art not to blame;Nor should it make us loadWith obloquy, and scorn, and shameThe honest name ofToad.For, though so low on nature’s scale—In presence so uncouth,Thou ne’er hast told an evil taleOf falsehood, or of truth.Thy thoughts are ne’er on malice bent—Nor hands to mischief prone;Nor yet thy heart to discontent;Though spurned, and poor and lone.No coveting nor envy burnsIn thy bright golden eye,That calm and innocently turnsOn all below the sky.Thy cautious tongue and sober lipNo words of folly pass,Nor, are they found to taste and sipThe madness of the glass.Thy frugal meal is often drawnFrom earth, and wood, and stone;And when thy means by these are gone,Thou seem’st to live on none.I hear that in an earthen jarSealed close, shut up alive,From food, drink, air, sun, moon and star,Thou ’lt live and even thrive:And that no moan, or murmuring soundWill issue from the lidOf thy dark dwelling under ground,When it is deeply hid.Thou hast, as ’t were, a secret shelfWhereon is a supply,Of nourishment within thyself,Concealed from mortal eye.Methinks this self-sustaining art’T were well for us to know,To keep us up in flesh and heart,When outer means grow low.Could we contain our riches thus,On such mysterious shelves,Why, none could rob or beggar us;Unless we lost ourselves!But ah! my Toadie, there ’s the rub,With every human breast—To live as in the cynic’s tub,And yet be self-possessed!For, how to let no boast get roundBeyond our tub, to showThat we in head and heart are sound,Is one great thing to know.And yet, the prison-staves and hoopTo let no murmur through,However hard we find the coop,Is greater still to do.Then go, thou sage, resigned and calm;Amid thy low estate,And to thy burrow bear the palmFor victory over fate.We conquer, when we meekly bearThe lot we cannot shape,And hug to death the ills and careFrom which there ’s no escape.
Poorspeckled one! none else will deignTo waft thy name around;So, let me take it on my strain,To give it air and sound.Yes—air and sound, low child of earth!For these are oft the thingsThat give a name its greatest worth,Its gorgeous plumes and wings.But do not shun me thus, and hopAffrighted from my way.Dismiss thy terrors—turn, and stop;And hear what I may say.Meek, harmless thing, afraid of man?This truly should not be.Then calmly pause, and let me scanMy Maker’s work in thee.For both of us to him belong;We ’re fellow-creatures here;And power should not be armed with wrong,Nor weakness filled with fear.I know it is thy humble lotTo burrow in a hole—To have a form I envy not,And that without a soul.In motion, attitude and limbI see thee void of grace;And that a look supremely grim,Reigns o’er thy solemn face.But thou for this art not to blame;Nor should it make us loadWith obloquy, and scorn, and shameThe honest name ofToad.For, though so low on nature’s scale—In presence so uncouth,Thou ne’er hast told an evil taleOf falsehood, or of truth.Thy thoughts are ne’er on malice bent—Nor hands to mischief prone;Nor yet thy heart to discontent;Though spurned, and poor and lone.No coveting nor envy burnsIn thy bright golden eye,That calm and innocently turnsOn all below the sky.Thy cautious tongue and sober lipNo words of folly pass,Nor, are they found to taste and sipThe madness of the glass.Thy frugal meal is often drawnFrom earth, and wood, and stone;And when thy means by these are gone,Thou seem’st to live on none.I hear that in an earthen jarSealed close, shut up alive,From food, drink, air, sun, moon and star,Thou ’lt live and even thrive:And that no moan, or murmuring soundWill issue from the lidOf thy dark dwelling under ground,When it is deeply hid.Thou hast, as ’t were, a secret shelfWhereon is a supply,Of nourishment within thyself,Concealed from mortal eye.Methinks this self-sustaining art’T were well for us to know,To keep us up in flesh and heart,When outer means grow low.Could we contain our riches thus,On such mysterious shelves,Why, none could rob or beggar us;Unless we lost ourselves!But ah! my Toadie, there ’s the rub,With every human breast—To live as in the cynic’s tub,And yet be self-possessed!For, how to let no boast get roundBeyond our tub, to showThat we in head and heart are sound,Is one great thing to know.And yet, the prison-staves and hoopTo let no murmur through,However hard we find the coop,Is greater still to do.Then go, thou sage, resigned and calm;Amid thy low estate,And to thy burrow bear the palmFor victory over fate.We conquer, when we meekly bearThe lot we cannot shape,And hug to death the ills and careFrom which there ’s no escape.
Poorspeckled one! none else will deignTo waft thy name around;So, let me take it on my strain,To give it air and sound.
Yes—air and sound, low child of earth!For these are oft the thingsThat give a name its greatest worth,Its gorgeous plumes and wings.
But do not shun me thus, and hopAffrighted from my way.Dismiss thy terrors—turn, and stop;And hear what I may say.
Meek, harmless thing, afraid of man?This truly should not be.Then calmly pause, and let me scanMy Maker’s work in thee.
For both of us to him belong;We ’re fellow-creatures here;And power should not be armed with wrong,Nor weakness filled with fear.
I know it is thy humble lotTo burrow in a hole—To have a form I envy not,And that without a soul.
In motion, attitude and limbI see thee void of grace;And that a look supremely grim,Reigns o’er thy solemn face.
But thou for this art not to blame;Nor should it make us loadWith obloquy, and scorn, and shameThe honest name ofToad.
For, though so low on nature’s scale—In presence so uncouth,Thou ne’er hast told an evil taleOf falsehood, or of truth.
Thy thoughts are ne’er on malice bent—Nor hands to mischief prone;Nor yet thy heart to discontent;Though spurned, and poor and lone.
No coveting nor envy burnsIn thy bright golden eye,That calm and innocently turnsOn all below the sky.
Thy cautious tongue and sober lipNo words of folly pass,Nor, are they found to taste and sipThe madness of the glass.
Thy frugal meal is often drawnFrom earth, and wood, and stone;And when thy means by these are gone,Thou seem’st to live on none.
I hear that in an earthen jarSealed close, shut up alive,From food, drink, air, sun, moon and star,Thou ’lt live and even thrive:
And that no moan, or murmuring soundWill issue from the lidOf thy dark dwelling under ground,When it is deeply hid.
Thou hast, as ’t were, a secret shelfWhereon is a supply,Of nourishment within thyself,Concealed from mortal eye.
Methinks this self-sustaining art’T were well for us to know,To keep us up in flesh and heart,When outer means grow low.
Could we contain our riches thus,On such mysterious shelves,Why, none could rob or beggar us;Unless we lost ourselves!
But ah! my Toadie, there ’s the rub,With every human breast—To live as in the cynic’s tub,And yet be self-possessed!
For, how to let no boast get roundBeyond our tub, to showThat we in head and heart are sound,Is one great thing to know.
And yet, the prison-staves and hoopTo let no murmur through,However hard we find the coop,Is greater still to do.
Then go, thou sage, resigned and calm;Amid thy low estate,And to thy burrow bear the palmFor victory over fate.
We conquer, when we meekly bearThe lot we cannot shape,And hug to death the ills and careFrom which there ’s no escape.
THE MOON OF A WINTRY NIGHT.Moon, thou art wading through the gathered snow,That o’er us, on the fields of ether spread,Threatens, ere morning to be here below,To lie where our poor mortal feet must tread.Thy face is muffled in a gelid haze,That shrouds its lustre like a frozen veil;And kills the twinkling of the starry rays,Till all on high looks cheerless, dim, and pale.It gives almost the ague, to beholdThe skies so rayless, yet so far from dark;As when our hearth’s white ashes, tired and cold,We stir in vain to find one pleasant spark.Yet, by to-morrow’s eve our parts may shift,And thou be shining there, serene and clear,While we are hedged by many a frigid drift;Or sleigh-bells shrill may pierce the tingling ear.How dreary then the scene for thy mild beamsTo light, and for the burning stars to view!The hard ice coating all the lakes and streams,And one dead white where late gay flowerets grew.The naked trees, that stand with buried feet,Like skeletons, will slender shadows throwOn what seems spread as nature’s winding-sheet,While her slain beauties lie concealed below.Then, but to look abroad on vale and hill,Where one pale uniform invests the whole,Though it should make one’s vital current chill,It must not let in winter to the soul!It must not bring a frost upon the heart,To kill affection’s tendrils—friendship’s root,Where vernal shoots and buds should ever start,And grow with summer flowers and autumn fruit:Nor cause the streams of thought to be congealed,Or, pressed beneath incumbent ice, grow low;But, like the fount that irrigates the field,Make bloom and verdure spring, where’er they flow.It must not make our shrinking fancies flee,Like birds of summer from the cold withdrawn;But wise, the mind should, like the prudent bee,On honey banquet, though the flowers are gone.Nor must it strike the hopeful spirit dumb,Or quench the beaming of her upturned eye,Or close her ear, or make her members numb,Ere her thank-offerings on the altar lie.And yet, fair Moon, methinks I like the bestTo see thy silvery lustre sprinkled here,When these bare branches all appear full-dressed,In some more gentle season of the year.I love to see it, mingled with the dew,Falling to bathe the sleeping buds and flowers;And soft, and silent, coolly streaming throughThe whispering leaves, that clothe the summer bowers.I love to see thy beaming mantle trailAlong the flower-sprent borders of the rill,With rich, deep shadows stamped, o’erspread the vale,Or bind the forehead of the silent hill.I love to see thee through the foliage peep,Where, one soft hour before, the robin sungHer vesper song; the while, in downy sleep,With peaceful breast she guards her callow young.I love to see thee, when the whip-poor-willMoans in the hedge behind the cottage-eaves;And when the plaintive crickets, hidden, trillTheir harvest-hymn among the golden sheaves.But these are tender memories—ay, and more—Fresh budding hope from memory’s root that grows,To see earth clothed in beauty as before,When thou and we have struggled through the snows.Then come, sweet Moon, and fondly smile on me,From thy pure azure home, with face serene,While I will look abroad, and up to thee,And bless the great Creator of the scene.Others may call thee fickle—faithless—strange,When veiled in part, or wholly from their view;Yet, though twelve times a year thouseems’tto change,Again twelve times I ever find thee true.’T is our gross planet, heaving misty shrouds,Or rolled before thee, that our darkness brings,Just as earth’s bulk or vapor hides or cloudsOur glorious view of higher, holier things.
Moon, thou art wading through the gathered snow,That o’er us, on the fields of ether spread,Threatens, ere morning to be here below,To lie where our poor mortal feet must tread.Thy face is muffled in a gelid haze,That shrouds its lustre like a frozen veil;And kills the twinkling of the starry rays,Till all on high looks cheerless, dim, and pale.It gives almost the ague, to beholdThe skies so rayless, yet so far from dark;As when our hearth’s white ashes, tired and cold,We stir in vain to find one pleasant spark.Yet, by to-morrow’s eve our parts may shift,And thou be shining there, serene and clear,While we are hedged by many a frigid drift;Or sleigh-bells shrill may pierce the tingling ear.How dreary then the scene for thy mild beamsTo light, and for the burning stars to view!The hard ice coating all the lakes and streams,And one dead white where late gay flowerets grew.The naked trees, that stand with buried feet,Like skeletons, will slender shadows throwOn what seems spread as nature’s winding-sheet,While her slain beauties lie concealed below.Then, but to look abroad on vale and hill,Where one pale uniform invests the whole,Though it should make one’s vital current chill,It must not let in winter to the soul!It must not bring a frost upon the heart,To kill affection’s tendrils—friendship’s root,Where vernal shoots and buds should ever start,And grow with summer flowers and autumn fruit:Nor cause the streams of thought to be congealed,Or, pressed beneath incumbent ice, grow low;But, like the fount that irrigates the field,Make bloom and verdure spring, where’er they flow.It must not make our shrinking fancies flee,Like birds of summer from the cold withdrawn;But wise, the mind should, like the prudent bee,On honey banquet, though the flowers are gone.Nor must it strike the hopeful spirit dumb,Or quench the beaming of her upturned eye,Or close her ear, or make her members numb,Ere her thank-offerings on the altar lie.And yet, fair Moon, methinks I like the bestTo see thy silvery lustre sprinkled here,When these bare branches all appear full-dressed,In some more gentle season of the year.I love to see it, mingled with the dew,Falling to bathe the sleeping buds and flowers;And soft, and silent, coolly streaming throughThe whispering leaves, that clothe the summer bowers.I love to see thy beaming mantle trailAlong the flower-sprent borders of the rill,With rich, deep shadows stamped, o’erspread the vale,Or bind the forehead of the silent hill.I love to see thee through the foliage peep,Where, one soft hour before, the robin sungHer vesper song; the while, in downy sleep,With peaceful breast she guards her callow young.I love to see thee, when the whip-poor-willMoans in the hedge behind the cottage-eaves;And when the plaintive crickets, hidden, trillTheir harvest-hymn among the golden sheaves.But these are tender memories—ay, and more—Fresh budding hope from memory’s root that grows,To see earth clothed in beauty as before,When thou and we have struggled through the snows.Then come, sweet Moon, and fondly smile on me,From thy pure azure home, with face serene,While I will look abroad, and up to thee,And bless the great Creator of the scene.Others may call thee fickle—faithless—strange,When veiled in part, or wholly from their view;Yet, though twelve times a year thouseems’tto change,Again twelve times I ever find thee true.’T is our gross planet, heaving misty shrouds,Or rolled before thee, that our darkness brings,Just as earth’s bulk or vapor hides or cloudsOur glorious view of higher, holier things.
Moon, thou art wading through the gathered snow,That o’er us, on the fields of ether spread,Threatens, ere morning to be here below,To lie where our poor mortal feet must tread.
Thy face is muffled in a gelid haze,That shrouds its lustre like a frozen veil;And kills the twinkling of the starry rays,Till all on high looks cheerless, dim, and pale.
It gives almost the ague, to beholdThe skies so rayless, yet so far from dark;As when our hearth’s white ashes, tired and cold,We stir in vain to find one pleasant spark.
Yet, by to-morrow’s eve our parts may shift,And thou be shining there, serene and clear,While we are hedged by many a frigid drift;Or sleigh-bells shrill may pierce the tingling ear.
How dreary then the scene for thy mild beamsTo light, and for the burning stars to view!The hard ice coating all the lakes and streams,And one dead white where late gay flowerets grew.
The naked trees, that stand with buried feet,Like skeletons, will slender shadows throwOn what seems spread as nature’s winding-sheet,While her slain beauties lie concealed below.
Then, but to look abroad on vale and hill,Where one pale uniform invests the whole,Though it should make one’s vital current chill,It must not let in winter to the soul!
It must not bring a frost upon the heart,To kill affection’s tendrils—friendship’s root,Where vernal shoots and buds should ever start,And grow with summer flowers and autumn fruit:
Nor cause the streams of thought to be congealed,Or, pressed beneath incumbent ice, grow low;But, like the fount that irrigates the field,Make bloom and verdure spring, where’er they flow.
It must not make our shrinking fancies flee,Like birds of summer from the cold withdrawn;But wise, the mind should, like the prudent bee,On honey banquet, though the flowers are gone.
Nor must it strike the hopeful spirit dumb,Or quench the beaming of her upturned eye,Or close her ear, or make her members numb,Ere her thank-offerings on the altar lie.
And yet, fair Moon, methinks I like the bestTo see thy silvery lustre sprinkled here,When these bare branches all appear full-dressed,In some more gentle season of the year.
I love to see it, mingled with the dew,Falling to bathe the sleeping buds and flowers;And soft, and silent, coolly streaming throughThe whispering leaves, that clothe the summer bowers.
I love to see thy beaming mantle trailAlong the flower-sprent borders of the rill,With rich, deep shadows stamped, o’erspread the vale,Or bind the forehead of the silent hill.
I love to see thee through the foliage peep,Where, one soft hour before, the robin sungHer vesper song; the while, in downy sleep,With peaceful breast she guards her callow young.
I love to see thee, when the whip-poor-willMoans in the hedge behind the cottage-eaves;And when the plaintive crickets, hidden, trillTheir harvest-hymn among the golden sheaves.
But these are tender memories—ay, and more—Fresh budding hope from memory’s root that grows,To see earth clothed in beauty as before,When thou and we have struggled through the snows.
Then come, sweet Moon, and fondly smile on me,From thy pure azure home, with face serene,While I will look abroad, and up to thee,And bless the great Creator of the scene.
Others may call thee fickle—faithless—strange,When veiled in part, or wholly from their view;Yet, though twelve times a year thouseems’tto change,Again twelve times I ever find thee true.
’T is our gross planet, heaving misty shrouds,Or rolled before thee, that our darkness brings,Just as earth’s bulk or vapor hides or cloudsOur glorious view of higher, holier things.
TOM TAR.I ’lltell you now about Tom Tar,The sailor stout and bold,Who o’er the ocean roamed so far,To countries new and old.Tom was a man of thousands; heWould ne’er complain nor frown,Though high and low the wind and seaMight toss him up and down.Amid the waters dark and deep,He had the happy art,When all around was storm, to keepFair weather in his heart.Though winds were wild, and waves were rough,He ’d always cast about,And find within he ’d calm enoughTo stand the storms without.“For naught,” said Tom, “is ever gainedBy sighs for what we lack;Nor can it mend a vessel strained,To let our temper crack.“And sure I am, the worst of storms,That any man should dread,Is that, which in the bosom forms,And musters to the head.”Serene, and ever self-possessed,His mess-mates he would cheer,And often put their fears to rest,When dangers gathered near.If on the rocks the ship was cast,And surges swept the deck,Tom Tar was ever found the last,Who would forsake the wreck.And when his only hat and shoesThe waters plucked from him,Why, these, he felt, were small to lose,Could he keep up and swim!Then through the billows, foam, and spray,That rose on every hand,He ’d, somehow, always find a wayOf getting safe to land.The secret was, the fear and loveOf Heaven had filled his soul:His trust was firm in One above,Howe’er the seas might roll.And Tom had sailed to many a shore,And many a wonder seen:The stories he could tell would moreThan fill a magazine.He ’d seen mankind in every state,Almost, that man can know;But envied not the rich and great,Nor scorned the poor and low.The monarch in his sight had stood,Superb, in glittering vest;The savage, too, that roams the wood,In skins and feathers dressed.The tribes of many an isle he knew;And beasts, and birds, and flowers,And fruits, of many a shape and hue,In lands remote from ours.He ’d seen the wide-winged albatrossHer breast in ocean lave;And bold sea-lions, playing, tossTheir heads above the wave.He ’d seen the dolphin, while his backWent flashing to the sun,A swarm of flying fish attack,And swallow every one!The porpoise and the spouting whaleHad sported in his view;And hungry sharks pursued his sail,As if they ’d eat the crew.And ever, when Tom Tar got home,The children, at their play,Were glad to have the sailor come,And greet them by the way.Then, oft, some curious stone, or shell,The laughing girls and boysWould find, that on their aprons fell,To put among their toys.“These pearly shells,” said he, “I foundWhere gloomy waters roar:These polished stones, so smooth and round,Rough surges washed ashore.“Though small to us a pebble seems,’T is made and marked by One,Who gave the warmth, and lit the beamsOf yon great shining sun.“And when these pretty shells I find,Along the ocean strand,Their beauteous finish brings to mindTheir Maker’s perfect hand.“When on the wildest shore I’m thrown,And far from human eye,I think of him who made the stone,And shell, and sea, and sky.“For he ’s my friend, and I am his,Though cold and rough the blast:My safest guide I know he is,Where’er my lot is cast.”When Tom passed on, the children said,“These treasures from afarHe brought us! Blessings on his head!For he ’s a good Tom Tar!”
I ’lltell you now about Tom Tar,The sailor stout and bold,Who o’er the ocean roamed so far,To countries new and old.Tom was a man of thousands; heWould ne’er complain nor frown,Though high and low the wind and seaMight toss him up and down.Amid the waters dark and deep,He had the happy art,When all around was storm, to keepFair weather in his heart.Though winds were wild, and waves were rough,He ’d always cast about,And find within he ’d calm enoughTo stand the storms without.“For naught,” said Tom, “is ever gainedBy sighs for what we lack;Nor can it mend a vessel strained,To let our temper crack.“And sure I am, the worst of storms,That any man should dread,Is that, which in the bosom forms,And musters to the head.”Serene, and ever self-possessed,His mess-mates he would cheer,And often put their fears to rest,When dangers gathered near.If on the rocks the ship was cast,And surges swept the deck,Tom Tar was ever found the last,Who would forsake the wreck.And when his only hat and shoesThe waters plucked from him,Why, these, he felt, were small to lose,Could he keep up and swim!Then through the billows, foam, and spray,That rose on every hand,He ’d, somehow, always find a wayOf getting safe to land.The secret was, the fear and loveOf Heaven had filled his soul:His trust was firm in One above,Howe’er the seas might roll.And Tom had sailed to many a shore,And many a wonder seen:The stories he could tell would moreThan fill a magazine.He ’d seen mankind in every state,Almost, that man can know;But envied not the rich and great,Nor scorned the poor and low.The monarch in his sight had stood,Superb, in glittering vest;The savage, too, that roams the wood,In skins and feathers dressed.The tribes of many an isle he knew;And beasts, and birds, and flowers,And fruits, of many a shape and hue,In lands remote from ours.He ’d seen the wide-winged albatrossHer breast in ocean lave;And bold sea-lions, playing, tossTheir heads above the wave.He ’d seen the dolphin, while his backWent flashing to the sun,A swarm of flying fish attack,And swallow every one!The porpoise and the spouting whaleHad sported in his view;And hungry sharks pursued his sail,As if they ’d eat the crew.And ever, when Tom Tar got home,The children, at their play,Were glad to have the sailor come,And greet them by the way.Then, oft, some curious stone, or shell,The laughing girls and boysWould find, that on their aprons fell,To put among their toys.“These pearly shells,” said he, “I foundWhere gloomy waters roar:These polished stones, so smooth and round,Rough surges washed ashore.“Though small to us a pebble seems,’T is made and marked by One,Who gave the warmth, and lit the beamsOf yon great shining sun.“And when these pretty shells I find,Along the ocean strand,Their beauteous finish brings to mindTheir Maker’s perfect hand.“When on the wildest shore I’m thrown,And far from human eye,I think of him who made the stone,And shell, and sea, and sky.“For he ’s my friend, and I am his,Though cold and rough the blast:My safest guide I know he is,Where’er my lot is cast.”When Tom passed on, the children said,“These treasures from afarHe brought us! Blessings on his head!For he ’s a good Tom Tar!”
I ’lltell you now about Tom Tar,The sailor stout and bold,Who o’er the ocean roamed so far,To countries new and old.
Tom was a man of thousands; heWould ne’er complain nor frown,Though high and low the wind and seaMight toss him up and down.
Amid the waters dark and deep,He had the happy art,When all around was storm, to keepFair weather in his heart.
Though winds were wild, and waves were rough,He ’d always cast about,And find within he ’d calm enoughTo stand the storms without.
“For naught,” said Tom, “is ever gainedBy sighs for what we lack;Nor can it mend a vessel strained,To let our temper crack.
“And sure I am, the worst of storms,That any man should dread,Is that, which in the bosom forms,And musters to the head.”
Serene, and ever self-possessed,His mess-mates he would cheer,And often put their fears to rest,When dangers gathered near.
If on the rocks the ship was cast,And surges swept the deck,Tom Tar was ever found the last,Who would forsake the wreck.
And when his only hat and shoesThe waters plucked from him,Why, these, he felt, were small to lose,Could he keep up and swim!
Then through the billows, foam, and spray,That rose on every hand,He ’d, somehow, always find a wayOf getting safe to land.
The secret was, the fear and loveOf Heaven had filled his soul:His trust was firm in One above,Howe’er the seas might roll.
And Tom had sailed to many a shore,And many a wonder seen:The stories he could tell would moreThan fill a magazine.
He ’d seen mankind in every state,Almost, that man can know;But envied not the rich and great,Nor scorned the poor and low.
The monarch in his sight had stood,Superb, in glittering vest;The savage, too, that roams the wood,In skins and feathers dressed.
The tribes of many an isle he knew;And beasts, and birds, and flowers,And fruits, of many a shape and hue,In lands remote from ours.
He ’d seen the wide-winged albatrossHer breast in ocean lave;And bold sea-lions, playing, tossTheir heads above the wave.
He ’d seen the dolphin, while his backWent flashing to the sun,A swarm of flying fish attack,And swallow every one!
The porpoise and the spouting whaleHad sported in his view;And hungry sharks pursued his sail,As if they ’d eat the crew.
And ever, when Tom Tar got home,The children, at their play,Were glad to have the sailor come,And greet them by the way.
Then, oft, some curious stone, or shell,The laughing girls and boysWould find, that on their aprons fell,To put among their toys.
“These pearly shells,” said he, “I foundWhere gloomy waters roar:These polished stones, so smooth and round,Rough surges washed ashore.
“Though small to us a pebble seems,’T is made and marked by One,Who gave the warmth, and lit the beamsOf yon great shining sun.
“And when these pretty shells I find,Along the ocean strand,Their beauteous finish brings to mindTheir Maker’s perfect hand.
“When on the wildest shore I’m thrown,And far from human eye,I think of him who made the stone,And shell, and sea, and sky.
“For he ’s my friend, and I am his,Though cold and rough the blast:My safest guide I know he is,Where’er my lot is cast.”
When Tom passed on, the children said,“These treasures from afarHe brought us! Blessings on his head!For he ’s a good Tom Tar!”
THE SEAMAN’S HYMN.Landmen, on your downy pillows,While your eyes are sealed in sleep,Seamen, tossed ’mid foam and billows,Roam, for you, a boisterous deep.When the glorious light of dayIs on your homes so peaceful dawning,Along our pathless, troubled wayThe surge swells high, the flood is yawning.When earth’s flowers to you are blooming,Or your hearths are bright and warm;We behold the wild waves booming,Mount the shrouds, and brave the storm.Singing birds your hearing greet—Your hearts the kindred tone rejoices;While winds, that on our canvass beat,And roaring ocean join their voices.Then, to meet the High and Holy,When ye to his throne repair,O before him, meek and lowly,Bow for us, as suppliants there!When his blessed day appears,The dearest, best of all the seven,Your souls the gospel herald cheers;But none tells us of rest and heaven.Zion, bid thy sons and daughtersOften, on the bended knee,Cry to Him, who rules the waters,For the wanderers o’er sea!Now, to Thee, the seaman’s Friend,Our guide—our light—our ark abiding,Our Saviour, we our all commend,While time’s rude waves in frailty riding.
Landmen, on your downy pillows,While your eyes are sealed in sleep,Seamen, tossed ’mid foam and billows,Roam, for you, a boisterous deep.When the glorious light of dayIs on your homes so peaceful dawning,Along our pathless, troubled wayThe surge swells high, the flood is yawning.When earth’s flowers to you are blooming,Or your hearths are bright and warm;We behold the wild waves booming,Mount the shrouds, and brave the storm.Singing birds your hearing greet—Your hearts the kindred tone rejoices;While winds, that on our canvass beat,And roaring ocean join their voices.Then, to meet the High and Holy,When ye to his throne repair,O before him, meek and lowly,Bow for us, as suppliants there!When his blessed day appears,The dearest, best of all the seven,Your souls the gospel herald cheers;But none tells us of rest and heaven.Zion, bid thy sons and daughtersOften, on the bended knee,Cry to Him, who rules the waters,For the wanderers o’er sea!Now, to Thee, the seaman’s Friend,Our guide—our light—our ark abiding,Our Saviour, we our all commend,While time’s rude waves in frailty riding.
Landmen, on your downy pillows,While your eyes are sealed in sleep,Seamen, tossed ’mid foam and billows,Roam, for you, a boisterous deep.When the glorious light of dayIs on your homes so peaceful dawning,Along our pathless, troubled wayThe surge swells high, the flood is yawning.
When earth’s flowers to you are blooming,Or your hearths are bright and warm;We behold the wild waves booming,Mount the shrouds, and brave the storm.Singing birds your hearing greet—Your hearts the kindred tone rejoices;While winds, that on our canvass beat,And roaring ocean join their voices.
Then, to meet the High and Holy,When ye to his throne repair,O before him, meek and lowly,Bow for us, as suppliants there!When his blessed day appears,The dearest, best of all the seven,Your souls the gospel herald cheers;But none tells us of rest and heaven.
Zion, bid thy sons and daughtersOften, on the bended knee,Cry to Him, who rules the waters,For the wanderers o’er sea!Now, to Thee, the seaman’s Friend,Our guide—our light—our ark abiding,Our Saviour, we our all commend,While time’s rude waves in frailty riding.
THE MARINER’S SONG OF DEPARTURE.Whileo’er the bright bay,With her streamers at play,Our bark in her beauty is gliding,As brothers, are we,The glad sons of the sea,Our own darling element riding.Good pilot, adieu;For the skies are all blue;And yonder, blue billows are bounding.We speed from the port,To be off by the fort,While her gun to the sunrise is sounding.We leave all behind,That a warm heart can bind,In home, love, and friendship endearing;While hope flies before,For a far, foreign shore,As the hand at the rudder is steering.And well do we knowThe proud waters below,That hence are by us to be ridden;’Mid the corals and cavesThere are mariners’ graves,Dark wrecks, and lost treasures deep hidden.Yet, before our frail bark,Be the way light or dark,Our Sun, and the Star that we follow,Is He, who unbindsOr enchains the strong winds;Whose hand holds the seas in its hollow.If o’er the bright skiesThe wild storm-spirit rise,And spread his black wings full of thunder,Our canvass we ’ll reef,Or heave-to for relief,And safely his pinions pass under.And so, ’mid the strifeOn the flood-waves of life,To Heaven in our ark lowly bendingFor help would we cry,Till the dove, from on high,Appears with the peace-branch descending.Thus, we’ve friend, love, and home,Wheresoe’er we may roamThe wide seas, from pole to equator—We ’ve a light, and high-tower,In the name and the powerOf him, who is ocean’s Creator.
Whileo’er the bright bay,With her streamers at play,Our bark in her beauty is gliding,As brothers, are we,The glad sons of the sea,Our own darling element riding.Good pilot, adieu;For the skies are all blue;And yonder, blue billows are bounding.We speed from the port,To be off by the fort,While her gun to the sunrise is sounding.We leave all behind,That a warm heart can bind,In home, love, and friendship endearing;While hope flies before,For a far, foreign shore,As the hand at the rudder is steering.And well do we knowThe proud waters below,That hence are by us to be ridden;’Mid the corals and cavesThere are mariners’ graves,Dark wrecks, and lost treasures deep hidden.Yet, before our frail bark,Be the way light or dark,Our Sun, and the Star that we follow,Is He, who unbindsOr enchains the strong winds;Whose hand holds the seas in its hollow.If o’er the bright skiesThe wild storm-spirit rise,And spread his black wings full of thunder,Our canvass we ’ll reef,Or heave-to for relief,And safely his pinions pass under.And so, ’mid the strifeOn the flood-waves of life,To Heaven in our ark lowly bendingFor help would we cry,Till the dove, from on high,Appears with the peace-branch descending.Thus, we’ve friend, love, and home,Wheresoe’er we may roamThe wide seas, from pole to equator—We ’ve a light, and high-tower,In the name and the powerOf him, who is ocean’s Creator.
Whileo’er the bright bay,With her streamers at play,Our bark in her beauty is gliding,As brothers, are we,The glad sons of the sea,Our own darling element riding.
Good pilot, adieu;For the skies are all blue;And yonder, blue billows are bounding.We speed from the port,To be off by the fort,While her gun to the sunrise is sounding.
We leave all behind,That a warm heart can bind,In home, love, and friendship endearing;While hope flies before,For a far, foreign shore,As the hand at the rudder is steering.
And well do we knowThe proud waters below,That hence are by us to be ridden;’Mid the corals and cavesThere are mariners’ graves,Dark wrecks, and lost treasures deep hidden.
Yet, before our frail bark,Be the way light or dark,Our Sun, and the Star that we follow,Is He, who unbindsOr enchains the strong winds;Whose hand holds the seas in its hollow.
If o’er the bright skiesThe wild storm-spirit rise,And spread his black wings full of thunder,Our canvass we ’ll reef,Or heave-to for relief,And safely his pinions pass under.
And so, ’mid the strifeOn the flood-waves of life,To Heaven in our ark lowly bendingFor help would we cry,Till the dove, from on high,Appears with the peace-branch descending.
Thus, we’ve friend, love, and home,Wheresoe’er we may roamThe wide seas, from pole to equator—We ’ve a light, and high-tower,In the name and the powerOf him, who is ocean’s Creator.
THE SEA-EAGLE’S FALL.AnEagle, on his towering wing,Hung o’er the summer sea;And ne’er did airy, feathered kingLook prouder there than he.He spied the finny tribes below,Amid the limpid brine;And felt it now was time to knowWhereon he was to dine.He saw a noble, shining fishSo near the surface swim,He felt at once a hungry wishTo make a feast of him.Then straight he took his downward course;A sudden plunge he gave;And pouncing, seized, with murderous force,His tempter in the wave.He struck his talons firm and deep,Within the slippery prize,In hope his ruffian grasp to keep;And high and dry to rise.But ah! it was a fatal stoop,As ever monarch made;And, for that rash—that cruel swoop,He soon most dearly paid!The fish had too much gravityTo yield to this attack.His feet the eagle could not freeFrom off the scaly back.He ’d seized on one too strong and great;His mastery now was gone!And on, by that prepondering weight,And downward, he was drawn.Nor found he here the elementWhere he could move with grace;And flap, and dash, his pinions went,In ocean’s wrinkled face.They could not bring his talons out,His forfeit life to save;And planted thus, he writhed aboutUpon his gaping grave.He raised his head, and gave a shriek,To bid adieu to light:The water bubbled in his beak—He sank from human sight!The children of the sea came round,The foreigner to view.To see an airy monarch drowned,To them was something new!Some gave a quick, astonished look,And darted swift away;While some his parting plumage shook,And nibbled him for prey.O! who that saw that bird at noonSo high and proudly soar,Could think how awkwardly—how soon,He ’d fall to rise no more?Though glory, majesty, and prideWere his an hour ago,Deprived of all, that eagle died,For stooping once too low!Now, have you ever known or heardOf biped, from his sphereDescending, like that silly bird,To buy a fish so dear?
AnEagle, on his towering wing,Hung o’er the summer sea;And ne’er did airy, feathered kingLook prouder there than he.He spied the finny tribes below,Amid the limpid brine;And felt it now was time to knowWhereon he was to dine.He saw a noble, shining fishSo near the surface swim,He felt at once a hungry wishTo make a feast of him.Then straight he took his downward course;A sudden plunge he gave;And pouncing, seized, with murderous force,His tempter in the wave.He struck his talons firm and deep,Within the slippery prize,In hope his ruffian grasp to keep;And high and dry to rise.But ah! it was a fatal stoop,As ever monarch made;And, for that rash—that cruel swoop,He soon most dearly paid!The fish had too much gravityTo yield to this attack.His feet the eagle could not freeFrom off the scaly back.He ’d seized on one too strong and great;His mastery now was gone!And on, by that prepondering weight,And downward, he was drawn.Nor found he here the elementWhere he could move with grace;And flap, and dash, his pinions went,In ocean’s wrinkled face.They could not bring his talons out,His forfeit life to save;And planted thus, he writhed aboutUpon his gaping grave.He raised his head, and gave a shriek,To bid adieu to light:The water bubbled in his beak—He sank from human sight!The children of the sea came round,The foreigner to view.To see an airy monarch drowned,To them was something new!Some gave a quick, astonished look,And darted swift away;While some his parting plumage shook,And nibbled him for prey.O! who that saw that bird at noonSo high and proudly soar,Could think how awkwardly—how soon,He ’d fall to rise no more?Though glory, majesty, and prideWere his an hour ago,Deprived of all, that eagle died,For stooping once too low!Now, have you ever known or heardOf biped, from his sphereDescending, like that silly bird,To buy a fish so dear?
AnEagle, on his towering wing,Hung o’er the summer sea;And ne’er did airy, feathered kingLook prouder there than he.
He spied the finny tribes below,Amid the limpid brine;And felt it now was time to knowWhereon he was to dine.
He saw a noble, shining fishSo near the surface swim,He felt at once a hungry wishTo make a feast of him.
Then straight he took his downward course;A sudden plunge he gave;And pouncing, seized, with murderous force,His tempter in the wave.
He struck his talons firm and deep,Within the slippery prize,In hope his ruffian grasp to keep;And high and dry to rise.
But ah! it was a fatal stoop,As ever monarch made;And, for that rash—that cruel swoop,He soon most dearly paid!
The fish had too much gravityTo yield to this attack.His feet the eagle could not freeFrom off the scaly back.
He ’d seized on one too strong and great;His mastery now was gone!And on, by that prepondering weight,And downward, he was drawn.
Nor found he here the elementWhere he could move with grace;And flap, and dash, his pinions went,In ocean’s wrinkled face.
They could not bring his talons out,His forfeit life to save;And planted thus, he writhed aboutUpon his gaping grave.
He raised his head, and gave a shriek,To bid adieu to light:The water bubbled in his beak—He sank from human sight!
The children of the sea came round,The foreigner to view.To see an airy monarch drowned,To them was something new!
Some gave a quick, astonished look,And darted swift away;While some his parting plumage shook,And nibbled him for prey.
O! who that saw that bird at noonSo high and proudly soar,Could think how awkwardly—how soon,He ’d fall to rise no more?
Though glory, majesty, and prideWere his an hour ago,Deprived of all, that eagle died,For stooping once too low!
Now, have you ever known or heardOf biped, from his sphereDescending, like that silly bird,To buy a fish so dear?
THE CAGED LION.Lion, like a captive king,Sad behind thy prison grate,Monarch, how I long to bringBack to thee thy lost estate!Where thy royal kindred live—Where thy native sky is warm,Sufferer, how I long to giveFreedom to that noble form!Gladly would I know thee there,Bounding over Afric’s plain,Wildly, with the desert airWafting wide thy flowing mane.Are there words that can describeWhat thou wast, at liberty,When “The Lion of the tribeOf Judah” names his type in thee?Here, beneath thy keeper’s hand,Where the blasts of winter freeze,Think’st thou of that palmy land,Thy mild country o’er the seas?Seen but through thy prison bars,Round thee set so strong and thick,Do not sun, and moon, and starsMake thy cowering spirit sick?Grace, and majesty, and powerWere thy gifts by nature made;Yet, in one unhappy hour,All to lose, wast thou betrayed.When thou first was snared and caught,Never after to be free,How thy mighty spirit wroughtIn thee, like a troubled sea!But thou didst not, couldst not thinkOf the deep indignity,To which thou then wast doomed to sink—Of the exile thou must be.Oh! that quenched and languid eyeTells me of a pining heart:Homesick prisoner, sooner dieThan remain the thing thou art.Liberty to me and mine—Liberty is life and breath!So no less to thee and thine—Bonds to both but lingering death.
Lion, like a captive king,Sad behind thy prison grate,Monarch, how I long to bringBack to thee thy lost estate!Where thy royal kindred live—Where thy native sky is warm,Sufferer, how I long to giveFreedom to that noble form!Gladly would I know thee there,Bounding over Afric’s plain,Wildly, with the desert airWafting wide thy flowing mane.Are there words that can describeWhat thou wast, at liberty,When “The Lion of the tribeOf Judah” names his type in thee?Here, beneath thy keeper’s hand,Where the blasts of winter freeze,Think’st thou of that palmy land,Thy mild country o’er the seas?Seen but through thy prison bars,Round thee set so strong and thick,Do not sun, and moon, and starsMake thy cowering spirit sick?Grace, and majesty, and powerWere thy gifts by nature made;Yet, in one unhappy hour,All to lose, wast thou betrayed.When thou first was snared and caught,Never after to be free,How thy mighty spirit wroughtIn thee, like a troubled sea!But thou didst not, couldst not thinkOf the deep indignity,To which thou then wast doomed to sink—Of the exile thou must be.Oh! that quenched and languid eyeTells me of a pining heart:Homesick prisoner, sooner dieThan remain the thing thou art.Liberty to me and mine—Liberty is life and breath!So no less to thee and thine—Bonds to both but lingering death.
Lion, like a captive king,Sad behind thy prison grate,Monarch, how I long to bringBack to thee thy lost estate!
Where thy royal kindred live—Where thy native sky is warm,Sufferer, how I long to giveFreedom to that noble form!
Gladly would I know thee there,Bounding over Afric’s plain,Wildly, with the desert airWafting wide thy flowing mane.
Are there words that can describeWhat thou wast, at liberty,When “The Lion of the tribeOf Judah” names his type in thee?
Here, beneath thy keeper’s hand,Where the blasts of winter freeze,Think’st thou of that palmy land,Thy mild country o’er the seas?
Seen but through thy prison bars,Round thee set so strong and thick,Do not sun, and moon, and starsMake thy cowering spirit sick?
Grace, and majesty, and powerWere thy gifts by nature made;Yet, in one unhappy hour,All to lose, wast thou betrayed.
When thou first was snared and caught,Never after to be free,How thy mighty spirit wroughtIn thee, like a troubled sea!
But thou didst not, couldst not thinkOf the deep indignity,To which thou then wast doomed to sink—Of the exile thou must be.
Oh! that quenched and languid eyeTells me of a pining heart:Homesick prisoner, sooner dieThan remain the thing thou art.
Liberty to me and mine—Liberty is life and breath!So no less to thee and thine—Bonds to both but lingering death.
THE TRAVELLER AT THE RED SEA.Atlast have I found thee, thou dark, rolling sea!I gaze on thy face, and I listen to thee,With spirit o’erawed by the sight and the sound,While mountain and desert frown gloomy around.And thee, mighty deep, from afar I behold,Which God swept apart for his people of old—That Egypt’s proud army, unstained by their blood,Received on thy bed, to entomb in thy flood.I cast my eye out, where the cohorts went down:A throng of pale spectres, no waters can drown,With banner and blades, seem to rise on the waves,As Pharaoh’s bold hosts rushed in arms to their graves.But quick from the light of the skies they withdraw,At silent Omnipotence shrinking with awe;And each sinks away in his billowy shroud,From him who walked here, clothed in fire and a cloud.I stand by the pass, the freed Hebrews then trod,Sustained by the hand of Jehovah, dry-shod;And think how the song of salvation, they sang,With praise to his name, through the wilderness rang.Our Father, who then didst thine Israel guide,Console, and rebuke in their wanderings wide,From these gloomy waters, through this desert drear,O still in life’s maze, to thy pilgrim be near!Let sins, that would hold in their service, or slayThe soul, that would break from their bondage away,Forever be drowned in the blood of thy Son,Who o’er sin and death hath the victory won.Whilst thou, day by day, wilt thy manna bestow,And give, for my thirst, the Rock-fountain to flow,Refreshed by the way, will I speed to the climeOf rest for the weary, beyond earth and time.
Atlast have I found thee, thou dark, rolling sea!I gaze on thy face, and I listen to thee,With spirit o’erawed by the sight and the sound,While mountain and desert frown gloomy around.And thee, mighty deep, from afar I behold,Which God swept apart for his people of old—That Egypt’s proud army, unstained by their blood,Received on thy bed, to entomb in thy flood.I cast my eye out, where the cohorts went down:A throng of pale spectres, no waters can drown,With banner and blades, seem to rise on the waves,As Pharaoh’s bold hosts rushed in arms to their graves.But quick from the light of the skies they withdraw,At silent Omnipotence shrinking with awe;And each sinks away in his billowy shroud,From him who walked here, clothed in fire and a cloud.I stand by the pass, the freed Hebrews then trod,Sustained by the hand of Jehovah, dry-shod;And think how the song of salvation, they sang,With praise to his name, through the wilderness rang.Our Father, who then didst thine Israel guide,Console, and rebuke in their wanderings wide,From these gloomy waters, through this desert drear,O still in life’s maze, to thy pilgrim be near!Let sins, that would hold in their service, or slayThe soul, that would break from their bondage away,Forever be drowned in the blood of thy Son,Who o’er sin and death hath the victory won.Whilst thou, day by day, wilt thy manna bestow,And give, for my thirst, the Rock-fountain to flow,Refreshed by the way, will I speed to the climeOf rest for the weary, beyond earth and time.
Atlast have I found thee, thou dark, rolling sea!I gaze on thy face, and I listen to thee,With spirit o’erawed by the sight and the sound,While mountain and desert frown gloomy around.
And thee, mighty deep, from afar I behold,Which God swept apart for his people of old—That Egypt’s proud army, unstained by their blood,Received on thy bed, to entomb in thy flood.
I cast my eye out, where the cohorts went down:A throng of pale spectres, no waters can drown,With banner and blades, seem to rise on the waves,As Pharaoh’s bold hosts rushed in arms to their graves.
But quick from the light of the skies they withdraw,At silent Omnipotence shrinking with awe;And each sinks away in his billowy shroud,From him who walked here, clothed in fire and a cloud.
I stand by the pass, the freed Hebrews then trod,Sustained by the hand of Jehovah, dry-shod;And think how the song of salvation, they sang,With praise to his name, through the wilderness rang.
Our Father, who then didst thine Israel guide,Console, and rebuke in their wanderings wide,From these gloomy waters, through this desert drear,O still in life’s maze, to thy pilgrim be near!
Let sins, that would hold in their service, or slayThe soul, that would break from their bondage away,Forever be drowned in the blood of thy Son,Who o’er sin and death hath the victory won.
Whilst thou, day by day, wilt thy manna bestow,And give, for my thirst, the Rock-fountain to flow,Refreshed by the way, will I speed to the climeOf rest for the weary, beyond earth and time.
THE HEBREW CAPTIVES.Ouraltars they razed, and our temples profaned!The blood of our prophets and kindred they drained!And us, from our desolate homes did they bearAfar, the cold chains of the Painim to wear.And they, who had carried us captive, drew nigh;They looked on our woes with an insolent eye;Our burdens were heavy, our fetters were strong;And then, they required of us mirth and a song!We hung up our harps on the willows to sleep;By Babylon’s rivers we sat down to weep;The song of the Lord, as too holy to sound,We shut in our souls, on that dark heathen ground.We thought of our Zion, and sent her a sighBy each gentle breeze, that went silently by;But poured not the strains in the proud Painim’s ear,That God and his angels will hearken to hear!
Ouraltars they razed, and our temples profaned!The blood of our prophets and kindred they drained!And us, from our desolate homes did they bearAfar, the cold chains of the Painim to wear.And they, who had carried us captive, drew nigh;They looked on our woes with an insolent eye;Our burdens were heavy, our fetters were strong;And then, they required of us mirth and a song!We hung up our harps on the willows to sleep;By Babylon’s rivers we sat down to weep;The song of the Lord, as too holy to sound,We shut in our souls, on that dark heathen ground.We thought of our Zion, and sent her a sighBy each gentle breeze, that went silently by;But poured not the strains in the proud Painim’s ear,That God and his angels will hearken to hear!
Ouraltars they razed, and our temples profaned!The blood of our prophets and kindred they drained!And us, from our desolate homes did they bearAfar, the cold chains of the Painim to wear.
And they, who had carried us captive, drew nigh;They looked on our woes with an insolent eye;Our burdens were heavy, our fetters were strong;And then, they required of us mirth and a song!
We hung up our harps on the willows to sleep;By Babylon’s rivers we sat down to weep;The song of the Lord, as too holy to sound,We shut in our souls, on that dark heathen ground.
We thought of our Zion, and sent her a sighBy each gentle breeze, that went silently by;But poured not the strains in the proud Painim’s ear,That God and his angels will hearken to hear!