MY BROTHER.[11]

I.Kind friends! bear with me but a moment more,My tales of death are nearly ended now;’Tis sad I must repeat them o’er and o’er.If by these mournful lines, on any browI cause a cloud to gather, O, do ThouWhose love can turn the darkest night to day,Dispel the gloomy clouds, and me endowWith power to sing a sweetly soothing lay,And by religion’s light to chase the gloom away.II.Yet all have sorrows—all are called to mourn;There lives no man who has not bid farewellTo youthful joys that never will return.Then patient listen to the mourner’s tale,And if perchance your gentle bosoms swellWith sympathetic feeling, breathe a prayerFor all who in the vale of sorrow dwell,That pitying Heaven would grant them strength to bearThe woes they but increase by yielding to despair.III.Like an oasis in the desert wild,Is the sweet sympathy of tender heartsTo the sad mourner—sorrow’s weeping child!O, when the bitter tear of anguish starts,When every cheering ray of hope departs,When tides of sorrow o’er the bosom roll,And pleasure vainly tries her dazzling arts,If aught on earth can soothe the stricken soul,Sweet sympathy will oft grief’s raging tide control.IV.But let me with my mournful task proceed;’Tis pleasing, though ’tis mournful. I have saidHow my dear brother, in her hour of need,Stood near his darling sister’s dying bed,And on his bosom held her drooping head.But ah, sad thought! I have no brother now!He too is number’d with the silent dead!When the strong hand of death shall laymelow,O, he will not be near, to wipe my cold damp brow!V.’Twas sad to see him when our sister died,Struggling to bear his grief composedly;For they had “grown together—side by side;”And it was rare such perfect love to seeAs was their love. But they were not to beDivided long. Ere one short year had pass’d,Our tender mother’s penetrating eyeSaw that disease a with’ring blow had castUpon her only son, and he was failing fast.VI.’Tis much to say his mother was his friend;For this implies such holy confidence,As will at once his filial heart commend;And we may draw this wise conclusion thence,That both were worthy; for kind ProvidenceHath so arranged this sweet relationship,That faithfulness will bring its recompense.Who sows the seed will aye the harvest reap—A faithful mother will her son’s affections keep.VII.Good mothers make good men. It is a truthWith few exceptions, that the great and goodHave learn’d such lessons in their earliest youth,That, like attendant angels, they have stoodClose by their side in hours of solitude,There, by the charms of mem’ry, to arrestEach thought of vice, whene’er it would intrudeInto the heart. O, those are truly blest,Who drink the purest virtue at their mother’s breast.VIII.Few lose the mem’ry of a mother’s love;Few go so far from virtue, that they ne’erThink of the hand that pointed them above;The lips that whisper’d in their infant ear;The eyes that often shed affection’s tear.I speak of Christian mothers. There are thoseWho lead the way in folly’s mad career,Who never speak of Heaven’s blest repose,Or tell in accents sweet, of Sharon’s deathless Rose.IX.How often, in the tender sprouting timeOf early youth, the plant receives a blight!Or the young vine, that upward loves to climb,Creeps on the ground from careless oversight,Needing a friendly hand to train it right!Then let the tree of knowledge flourish near,To give the clinging vine support, and brightWill be the clustering flowers that vine will bear,And rich reviving fruit, man’s drooping heart to cheer.X.“Knowledge is power.” ’Tis a trite remark,But true.’Tispower for good or ill;With ever bright’ning flame it lights the darkUneven path to Zion’s holy hill,Which else had been to mortals darken’d still,Or fires the magazine so full of thingsCombustible—man’s unregenerate will.Knowledge gives pain or joy. To earth it clings,Or to the highest Heaven it soars with eagle wings.XI.My brother’s gifted mind was furnish’d wellWith earthly knowledge, and with heavenly.I’ve often seen, as words of wisdom fellFrom lips so young, surprise light up the eye,When those who knew not his attainments highHeld converse with him. From his earliest years,His eager mind with such intensitySought after knowledge, that, oppress’d with fears,His parents oft would shed most sad foreboding tears:XII.For when they saw his cheek grow thin and pale,And saw the lustre fading from his eye,What wonder if their anxious hearts did failWithin them? Oft they fear’d that he would dieA victim to that slow, sure malady—The fever of the mind. Their only son—Their gifted son he was; yet silentlyThey saw disease at work; that work begun,How surely speeds it on, until at length—’tis done!XIII.How often is the meed of fame obtain’dAt vast expense; by blood, and groans, and tears!But he who immortality has gain’dBy lightening the load of human cares,Or teaching men true wisdom, passing yearsDim not the glory of his deathless fame:For each succeeding age its witness bearsTo things which ever must attention claim,And shed a living light upon their author’s name.XIV.Lo! on the mount where fame’s proud temple towers,All things look beautiful to those below;And trees of life, and amaranthine flowers,Immortal there in bright luxuriance grow,And streams with soft melodious murmurs flow.Lured by the view, ambition’s vot’ries pressTo reach th’ inviting spot which charm’d them so;But many a man who there has gain’d access,Has gain’d it at th’ expense of health and happiness.XV.Then what to him the glory of renown—The loud tongued welcome to the realms of fame—The nymphs who wait his weary brow to crown,And sing with voices sweet his honor’d name?How sinks his heart who hears the loud acclaim,But sees the landscape fading from his eye,And feels that he has overtask’d his frame,And spent his life to reach the summit high!Just as his end is gain’d, he lays him down—to die!XVI.’Tis sad—’tis sad! but if his aim has beenTo plant with deathless flowers man’s rugged way,What matters it if he must leave the scene,And die upon his coronation day?Bright round his head immortal glories play;’Tis joy to think he has not lived in vain;For every tear that he has wiped away,An angel comes to cool his burning brain,Attend his dying couch, and mitigate his pain.XVII.My brother cared not for this world’s applause;He long’d to be a minister of God,Well furnish’d for his work. His object wasTo preach the blessed gospel, but the rodWas often held above him, while he trodThe path of learning. Sickness often came,And to his failing heart his weakness show’d;But still within his bosom burn’d the flameOf love to dying men, and to the Savior’s name.XVIII.In early youth religion was his choice—His solemn choice; and one might often hear,In some retired place, his deep toned voice—That voice so like his father’s—rais’d in prayer,When, with his young companions, gather’d there,He’d kneel before the mercy seat, and flyOn wings of faith above this world of care.Thus while to Heaven he turn’d his constant eye,He heeded not, nor loved, the vain world’s flattery.XIX.That man is blest, who ne’er, with greedy ears,Drank in the sounds of flatt’ry’s silver tongue;He feels himself a man, who never caresTo hear his name on fame’s loud tocsin rung,Content to be unnoticed and unsung!He who, with stern integrity of soul,Moves on, earth’s fawning sycophants among,Has that within himself which can controlDeep sorrow’s darkest waves, and make them backward roll.XX.Who cares not to be prais’d or paragraph’d,Is wise—is happy. Better ’tis to beToo low to make a mark for envy’s shaft,Than be so high that thousands bow the knee.The happiest men are men of low degree,Cheerful, contented with their humble lot,With minds enlighten’d, and with thoughts all free,Who have no restless cares, of pride begot,Nor envy others’ fame, because they have it not.XXI.I’d rather gaze at earth’s proud pageantry,Than be a part o’ the show. I love to hideFar from the envious world’s malignant eye,And calmly down the ever flowing tideOf this short life, in humble silence glide.I’m weary of the never ending chaseAfter the world’s esteem—its pomp and pride!Then grant me, Heaven! some secret hiding place,Till I shall sweetly rest—asleep in death’s embrace.XXII.O, let me feel the almost heavenly bliss—The calm contentment of humility!There never was a plainer truth than this;“Peu connue, peu troublée.”[12]I long to beUnnoticed and unknown; my actions free—Untrammel’d by proud fashion’s stern decrees.O, this is life! to bow the willing kneeAlone to God, and, with a mind at ease,To catch the gales of Heaven in every passing breeze.XXIII.I hate “that solemn vice of greatness—pride!”[13]’Tis like an angel to be truly great,Yet truly humble. He who seeks to hideHis virtuous deeds, shall sweetly meditateIn lonely hours, and thus anticipateThe peace of Heaven. The man of noble mind,Whom earth’s loud praises never can elate,Has fix’d his anchor where no storms unkindCan shake his steadfast soul, to every storm resign’d.XXIV.But whither have I wander’d? ’Tis my faultT’ assume an attitude belligerent,And with a wordy war my foes t’ assault!My words are harmless, let me give them vent,Nor in my bosom harbor discontent;Things, and not persons, are my enemies.And if I stay to pluck a flower, and paintIts unpretending beauties to your eyes,O, follow for awhile my restless vagaries.XXV.My brother left us soon. His heart was sad,And all were sad around him. Who could sayWhat was before us? Hearts one moment cladIn robes of joy, another moment mayBe dress’d in sorrow’s sables. Happy they,Who in the bosom of the Savior dwell,And find a refuge there in grief’s dark day.The parting came—how did each bosom swell,When, with a silent kiss, he told us all farewell!XXVI.And as he turn’d he dash’d a tear away;For he must feel a pang who says “farewell;”Yet ’tis a word that all have had to say.To me it ever seems a mournful knell;And, when I hear it, tides of sorrow swellMy heart, and busy mem’ry brings to meFull many a by-gone hour, whose potent spellReturns with all its weight of agony.O, parting scenes! too vividly ye come to me!XXVII.He left us. ’Twas a blessing soon to hearThat he had comforted his aching heartBy the sweet power of love. O, what can cheerMan’s heart, like woman’s love? What can impartSuch healing balm? What else remove the dartStill rankling in the bosom? Thou hast proved,O, gentle Love! full well thy healing art!—One of Virginia’s fairest daughters lovedOur stricken one, and thus the deadly dart remov’d.XXVIII.O, Love! thy presence sweetens all below!Thou art the sunshine of life’s dreary road;Or, ’mid the storm, thou art the cheering bowHeld up before us by the hand of God!He who has long life’s devious pathway trod,And knows that sorrow is man’s certain doom,Needs one to help him bear each heavy load.In search of bliss man never ought to roam,When lovely woman is the polar star of home.XXIX.Love timid flies the busy haunts of men;The dear domestic altar is his throne;One word unkind may break his blissful reign;He goes where willing hearts his empire own,And takes alarm at one disloyal tone.And if he spread his ever active wings,O, sue for pardon quick—or he is gone!And as he flies, this farewell truth he sings,Experience oft too late, a sad repentance brings.XXX.My brother loved, and was beloved again.The peerless maid whose love his heart did bless,Held his affections by a golden chain,All unalloy’d. Much in her artless grace,And in her soul-subduing gentleness,Did she resemble her who was in Heaven—Our sainted sister; and her sweet fair face,So like to hers, seem’d a dear token givenTo comfort all our hearts, so deeply sorrow-riven.XXXI.He led her to the altar, where their hands,Those willing hands, by one who lately died[14]Were join’d with Hymen’s life-enduring bands;Their hearts were one before. The fair young bride—The lily of Virginia, by the sideOf Carolina’s son stood modestly,While on them gazed fond parents in their pride.It is a sight that all must love to see—A youthful pair thus join’d by Heaven’s most kind decree!XXXII.But he was call’d to leave her for awhile,To seek a home in a more genial clime,Far in the south, where nature seems to smileThe livelong year. Her soft blue eye grew dimWith pearly tears, that gather’d to the brim,And overflow’d their fountain, when she heardThat he must leave her. Who could comfort himAs she could? Yet ’twas winter; and he fear’dT’ expose his precious one, till all was well prepared.XXXIII.They parted—full of hope—yet griev’d to part;Nor knew they that a worm was at the coreOf that young husband’s rich confiding heart;Our mother saw her son not long before,And her prophetic eye discover’d moreIn his wan cheek, than other eyes could see;She heard his “trifling” cough, and o’er and o’er,She caution’d him to watch it. Only sheCould see his danger, who had nurs’d his infancy!XXXIV.But yet she dream’d not he would die so soon,Nor dream’d of death at all; save that her fear—A mother’s fear for her own precious one—Was ever whisp’ring in her anxious ear,That death might come again. He had come near,And stricken from her arms so oft beforeHer dearest treasures, that his lifted spearAfar off gleaming, would alarm her moreThan hosts of other foes, with all their threaten’d power.XXXV.My brother never saw his love again.He journey’d to a distant land—to die!I must not speak of this—the throbbing painThat settles at my heart—the tearful eye—The trembling hand—the thrill of agony—All warn me to forsake the mournful theme.We heard that ere he breathed his parting sigh,He said his parents soon would follow him,But that his “dear young wife”—and here his eyes grew dim,XXXVI.And faintness seized upon him. ’Twas a thoughtSo full of deep, heart rending agony,It quickly overcame him; and he soughtOn heavenly scenes to fix his failing eye,And thus with Christian fortitude to die!An outstretched arm, omnipotent to save,Was near him when his last great enemyClosed for the mortal struggle. Then he gaveHis parting soul to Him who triumph’d o’er the grave.XXXVII.His parents, ignorant of his dying state,Were in the great south western city,[15]whenA letter came. Twas not of recent date,For it had sought them long, and sought in vain.At length it reach’d them, and it brought new painTo their still aching hearts. It told a taleOf sadness; that the threat’ning rod againHung over them. Here let me draw a veil;To tell their feelings now, all words would sadly fail.XXXVIII.But I, who ever hope, hoped even now;For I was with them when the letter came,And though some sadness settled on my brow,With specious words I strove to comfort them.I could not feel that he would die—the sameDelusive flatt’rer, Hope, who oft beforeHad lighted in my breast a glowing flameWhen all had else been darkness, now once moreBeguiled my willing heart with too successful power.XXXIX.Swift on affection’s never tiring wings,Our parents flew to see their only son;And I was left behind; for many thingsConcurr’d to keep me from the dying one.But, in my grief, I was not left alone,For they were with me who were all to me,My noble husband, and my darling son!With them, how could I ever lonely be?O, to each other wewereall in all—we three!XL.My parents reach’d at length the distant spot:Borne to the earth by grief and sad suspense.O, God! O, God! they found that “HEwas not,”For thou had’st taken him! thy providenceSo order’d it in kind benevolence!He breath’d his last before the wish’d-for dayWhen he expected them—he knew not whenceThey had to come, nor what a devious wayThe white wing’d messenger that bore the news would stray.XLI.Urania, goddess of the sacred lay!Come, touch my languid lips with holy fire,Brought from divine Parnassus—or conveyThe heart’s deep feelings to my sounding lyre!’Tis vain—’tis vain—such feelings must retireFrom mortal view! Again I draw the veilOver these parents’ hearts. It would requireA more than mortal tongue to tell the taleOf all their high wrought feelings—mortal speech would fail.XLII.’Tis sad when those we love cannot be nearOur dying bed; and yet it saves much pain.The last farewell that falls upon the ear—The tears that mourners seek to hide, in vain—The bursting sobs they cannot quite restrain—These wring the heart. Now, when we truly knowThat friends were near, a sympathizing train,Who sooth’d our dying one, when faint and low,O, surely in our hearts sweet gratitude must glow!XLIII.God’s providence had led his footsteps, whereHe found the kindest friends. A stranger he,Yet taken to their bosoms! Far and near,My father’s children find his name a keyUnlocking many hearts. I’d rather beThe child of such a father, than of oneWho’d leave the wealth of India to me!They heard my brother’s name, and there were noneWho open’d not their doors to my dear father’s son.XLIV.God bless them evermore! and he will blessWith all the choice expressions of his love,Those who befriend the stranger in distress.Thereisa God in Heaven, whose bowels moveWith gentle pity; and he must approve,Whene’er his creatures pity and relieveThe way-worn sufferer! Then from aboveOur God will smile on those who thus did giveTheir tender love to one who had not long to live.XLV.Now, when th’ afflicted parents weeping came,Those noble friends shed with them tear for tear,And thus most kindly did their love proclaimFor him whom they had laid upon his bierWith aching hearts. O, many a fervent prayer,While with most tender tears my cheeks are wet,Ascends to Heaven for them. May Jesus hear!And may my heart within me cease to beat,If ever I their love to one I loved forget!

Kind friends! bear with me but a moment more,My tales of death are nearly ended now;’Tis sad I must repeat them o’er and o’er.If by these mournful lines, on any browI cause a cloud to gather, O, do ThouWhose love can turn the darkest night to day,Dispel the gloomy clouds, and me endowWith power to sing a sweetly soothing lay,And by religion’s light to chase the gloom away.

Kind friends! bear with me but a moment more,

My tales of death are nearly ended now;

’Tis sad I must repeat them o’er and o’er.

If by these mournful lines, on any brow

I cause a cloud to gather, O, do Thou

Whose love can turn the darkest night to day,

Dispel the gloomy clouds, and me endow

With power to sing a sweetly soothing lay,

And by religion’s light to chase the gloom away.

II.

Yet all have sorrows—all are called to mourn;There lives no man who has not bid farewellTo youthful joys that never will return.Then patient listen to the mourner’s tale,And if perchance your gentle bosoms swellWith sympathetic feeling, breathe a prayerFor all who in the vale of sorrow dwell,That pitying Heaven would grant them strength to bearThe woes they but increase by yielding to despair.

Yet all have sorrows—all are called to mourn;

There lives no man who has not bid farewell

To youthful joys that never will return.

Then patient listen to the mourner’s tale,

And if perchance your gentle bosoms swell

With sympathetic feeling, breathe a prayer

For all who in the vale of sorrow dwell,

That pitying Heaven would grant them strength to bear

The woes they but increase by yielding to despair.

III.

Like an oasis in the desert wild,Is the sweet sympathy of tender heartsTo the sad mourner—sorrow’s weeping child!O, when the bitter tear of anguish starts,When every cheering ray of hope departs,When tides of sorrow o’er the bosom roll,And pleasure vainly tries her dazzling arts,If aught on earth can soothe the stricken soul,Sweet sympathy will oft grief’s raging tide control.

Like an oasis in the desert wild,

Is the sweet sympathy of tender hearts

To the sad mourner—sorrow’s weeping child!

O, when the bitter tear of anguish starts,

When every cheering ray of hope departs,

When tides of sorrow o’er the bosom roll,

And pleasure vainly tries her dazzling arts,

If aught on earth can soothe the stricken soul,

Sweet sympathy will oft grief’s raging tide control.

IV.

But let me with my mournful task proceed;’Tis pleasing, though ’tis mournful. I have saidHow my dear brother, in her hour of need,Stood near his darling sister’s dying bed,And on his bosom held her drooping head.But ah, sad thought! I have no brother now!He too is number’d with the silent dead!When the strong hand of death shall laymelow,O, he will not be near, to wipe my cold damp brow!

But let me with my mournful task proceed;

’Tis pleasing, though ’tis mournful. I have said

How my dear brother, in her hour of need,

Stood near his darling sister’s dying bed,

And on his bosom held her drooping head.

But ah, sad thought! I have no brother now!

He too is number’d with the silent dead!

When the strong hand of death shall laymelow,

O, he will not be near, to wipe my cold damp brow!

’Twas sad to see him when our sister died,Struggling to bear his grief composedly;For they had “grown together—side by side;”And it was rare such perfect love to seeAs was their love. But they were not to beDivided long. Ere one short year had pass’d,Our tender mother’s penetrating eyeSaw that disease a with’ring blow had castUpon her only son, and he was failing fast.

’Twas sad to see him when our sister died,

Struggling to bear his grief composedly;

For they had “grown together—side by side;”

And it was rare such perfect love to see

As was their love. But they were not to be

Divided long. Ere one short year had pass’d,

Our tender mother’s penetrating eye

Saw that disease a with’ring blow had cast

Upon her only son, and he was failing fast.

VI.

’Tis much to say his mother was his friend;For this implies such holy confidence,As will at once his filial heart commend;And we may draw this wise conclusion thence,That both were worthy; for kind ProvidenceHath so arranged this sweet relationship,That faithfulness will bring its recompense.Who sows the seed will aye the harvest reap—A faithful mother will her son’s affections keep.

’Tis much to say his mother was his friend;

For this implies such holy confidence,

As will at once his filial heart commend;

And we may draw this wise conclusion thence,

That both were worthy; for kind Providence

Hath so arranged this sweet relationship,

That faithfulness will bring its recompense.

Who sows the seed will aye the harvest reap—

A faithful mother will her son’s affections keep.

VII.

Good mothers make good men. It is a truthWith few exceptions, that the great and goodHave learn’d such lessons in their earliest youth,That, like attendant angels, they have stoodClose by their side in hours of solitude,There, by the charms of mem’ry, to arrestEach thought of vice, whene’er it would intrudeInto the heart. O, those are truly blest,Who drink the purest virtue at their mother’s breast.

Good mothers make good men. It is a truth

With few exceptions, that the great and good

Have learn’d such lessons in their earliest youth,

That, like attendant angels, they have stood

Close by their side in hours of solitude,

There, by the charms of mem’ry, to arrest

Each thought of vice, whene’er it would intrude

Into the heart. O, those are truly blest,

Who drink the purest virtue at their mother’s breast.

VIII.

Few lose the mem’ry of a mother’s love;Few go so far from virtue, that they ne’erThink of the hand that pointed them above;The lips that whisper’d in their infant ear;The eyes that often shed affection’s tear.I speak of Christian mothers. There are thoseWho lead the way in folly’s mad career,Who never speak of Heaven’s blest repose,Or tell in accents sweet, of Sharon’s deathless Rose.

Few lose the mem’ry of a mother’s love;

Few go so far from virtue, that they ne’er

Think of the hand that pointed them above;

The lips that whisper’d in their infant ear;

The eyes that often shed affection’s tear.

I speak of Christian mothers. There are those

Who lead the way in folly’s mad career,

Who never speak of Heaven’s blest repose,

Or tell in accents sweet, of Sharon’s deathless Rose.

IX.

How often, in the tender sprouting timeOf early youth, the plant receives a blight!Or the young vine, that upward loves to climb,Creeps on the ground from careless oversight,Needing a friendly hand to train it right!Then let the tree of knowledge flourish near,To give the clinging vine support, and brightWill be the clustering flowers that vine will bear,And rich reviving fruit, man’s drooping heart to cheer.

How often, in the tender sprouting time

Of early youth, the plant receives a blight!

Or the young vine, that upward loves to climb,

Creeps on the ground from careless oversight,

Needing a friendly hand to train it right!

Then let the tree of knowledge flourish near,

To give the clinging vine support, and bright

Will be the clustering flowers that vine will bear,

And rich reviving fruit, man’s drooping heart to cheer.

“Knowledge is power.” ’Tis a trite remark,But true.’Tispower for good or ill;With ever bright’ning flame it lights the darkUneven path to Zion’s holy hill,Which else had been to mortals darken’d still,Or fires the magazine so full of thingsCombustible—man’s unregenerate will.Knowledge gives pain or joy. To earth it clings,Or to the highest Heaven it soars with eagle wings.

“Knowledge is power.” ’Tis a trite remark,

But true.’Tispower for good or ill;

With ever bright’ning flame it lights the dark

Uneven path to Zion’s holy hill,

Which else had been to mortals darken’d still,

Or fires the magazine so full of things

Combustible—man’s unregenerate will.

Knowledge gives pain or joy. To earth it clings,

Or to the highest Heaven it soars with eagle wings.

XI.

My brother’s gifted mind was furnish’d wellWith earthly knowledge, and with heavenly.I’ve often seen, as words of wisdom fellFrom lips so young, surprise light up the eye,When those who knew not his attainments highHeld converse with him. From his earliest years,His eager mind with such intensitySought after knowledge, that, oppress’d with fears,His parents oft would shed most sad foreboding tears:

My brother’s gifted mind was furnish’d well

With earthly knowledge, and with heavenly.

I’ve often seen, as words of wisdom fell

From lips so young, surprise light up the eye,

When those who knew not his attainments high

Held converse with him. From his earliest years,

His eager mind with such intensity

Sought after knowledge, that, oppress’d with fears,

His parents oft would shed most sad foreboding tears:

XII.

For when they saw his cheek grow thin and pale,And saw the lustre fading from his eye,What wonder if their anxious hearts did failWithin them? Oft they fear’d that he would dieA victim to that slow, sure malady—The fever of the mind. Their only son—Their gifted son he was; yet silentlyThey saw disease at work; that work begun,How surely speeds it on, until at length—’tis done!

For when they saw his cheek grow thin and pale,

And saw the lustre fading from his eye,

What wonder if their anxious hearts did fail

Within them? Oft they fear’d that he would die

A victim to that slow, sure malady—

The fever of the mind. Their only son—

Their gifted son he was; yet silently

They saw disease at work; that work begun,

How surely speeds it on, until at length—’tis done!

XIII.

How often is the meed of fame obtain’dAt vast expense; by blood, and groans, and tears!But he who immortality has gain’dBy lightening the load of human cares,Or teaching men true wisdom, passing yearsDim not the glory of his deathless fame:For each succeeding age its witness bearsTo things which ever must attention claim,And shed a living light upon their author’s name.

How often is the meed of fame obtain’d

At vast expense; by blood, and groans, and tears!

But he who immortality has gain’d

By lightening the load of human cares,

Or teaching men true wisdom, passing years

Dim not the glory of his deathless fame:

For each succeeding age its witness bears

To things which ever must attention claim,

And shed a living light upon their author’s name.

XIV.

Lo! on the mount where fame’s proud temple towers,All things look beautiful to those below;And trees of life, and amaranthine flowers,Immortal there in bright luxuriance grow,And streams with soft melodious murmurs flow.Lured by the view, ambition’s vot’ries pressTo reach th’ inviting spot which charm’d them so;But many a man who there has gain’d access,Has gain’d it at th’ expense of health and happiness.

Lo! on the mount where fame’s proud temple towers,

All things look beautiful to those below;

And trees of life, and amaranthine flowers,

Immortal there in bright luxuriance grow,

And streams with soft melodious murmurs flow.

Lured by the view, ambition’s vot’ries press

To reach th’ inviting spot which charm’d them so;

But many a man who there has gain’d access,

Has gain’d it at th’ expense of health and happiness.

XV.

Then what to him the glory of renown—The loud tongued welcome to the realms of fame—The nymphs who wait his weary brow to crown,And sing with voices sweet his honor’d name?How sinks his heart who hears the loud acclaim,But sees the landscape fading from his eye,And feels that he has overtask’d his frame,And spent his life to reach the summit high!Just as his end is gain’d, he lays him down—to die!

Then what to him the glory of renown—

The loud tongued welcome to the realms of fame—

The nymphs who wait his weary brow to crown,

And sing with voices sweet his honor’d name?

How sinks his heart who hears the loud acclaim,

But sees the landscape fading from his eye,

And feels that he has overtask’d his frame,

And spent his life to reach the summit high!

Just as his end is gain’d, he lays him down—to die!

XVI.

’Tis sad—’tis sad! but if his aim has beenTo plant with deathless flowers man’s rugged way,What matters it if he must leave the scene,And die upon his coronation day?Bright round his head immortal glories play;’Tis joy to think he has not lived in vain;For every tear that he has wiped away,An angel comes to cool his burning brain,Attend his dying couch, and mitigate his pain.

’Tis sad—’tis sad! but if his aim has been

To plant with deathless flowers man’s rugged way,

What matters it if he must leave the scene,

And die upon his coronation day?

Bright round his head immortal glories play;

’Tis joy to think he has not lived in vain;

For every tear that he has wiped away,

An angel comes to cool his burning brain,

Attend his dying couch, and mitigate his pain.

XVII.

My brother cared not for this world’s applause;He long’d to be a minister of God,Well furnish’d for his work. His object wasTo preach the blessed gospel, but the rodWas often held above him, while he trodThe path of learning. Sickness often came,And to his failing heart his weakness show’d;But still within his bosom burn’d the flameOf love to dying men, and to the Savior’s name.

My brother cared not for this world’s applause;

He long’d to be a minister of God,

Well furnish’d for his work. His object was

To preach the blessed gospel, but the rod

Was often held above him, while he trod

The path of learning. Sickness often came,

And to his failing heart his weakness show’d;

But still within his bosom burn’d the flame

Of love to dying men, and to the Savior’s name.

XVIII.

In early youth religion was his choice—His solemn choice; and one might often hear,In some retired place, his deep toned voice—That voice so like his father’s—rais’d in prayer,When, with his young companions, gather’d there,He’d kneel before the mercy seat, and flyOn wings of faith above this world of care.Thus while to Heaven he turn’d his constant eye,He heeded not, nor loved, the vain world’s flattery.

In early youth religion was his choice—

His solemn choice; and one might often hear,

In some retired place, his deep toned voice—

That voice so like his father’s—rais’d in prayer,

When, with his young companions, gather’d there,

He’d kneel before the mercy seat, and fly

On wings of faith above this world of care.

Thus while to Heaven he turn’d his constant eye,

He heeded not, nor loved, the vain world’s flattery.

XIX.

That man is blest, who ne’er, with greedy ears,Drank in the sounds of flatt’ry’s silver tongue;He feels himself a man, who never caresTo hear his name on fame’s loud tocsin rung,Content to be unnoticed and unsung!He who, with stern integrity of soul,Moves on, earth’s fawning sycophants among,Has that within himself which can controlDeep sorrow’s darkest waves, and make them backward roll.

That man is blest, who ne’er, with greedy ears,

Drank in the sounds of flatt’ry’s silver tongue;

He feels himself a man, who never cares

To hear his name on fame’s loud tocsin rung,

Content to be unnoticed and unsung!

He who, with stern integrity of soul,

Moves on, earth’s fawning sycophants among,

Has that within himself which can control

Deep sorrow’s darkest waves, and make them backward roll.

XX.

Who cares not to be prais’d or paragraph’d,Is wise—is happy. Better ’tis to beToo low to make a mark for envy’s shaft,Than be so high that thousands bow the knee.The happiest men are men of low degree,Cheerful, contented with their humble lot,With minds enlighten’d, and with thoughts all free,Who have no restless cares, of pride begot,Nor envy others’ fame, because they have it not.

Who cares not to be prais’d or paragraph’d,

Is wise—is happy. Better ’tis to be

Too low to make a mark for envy’s shaft,

Than be so high that thousands bow the knee.

The happiest men are men of low degree,

Cheerful, contented with their humble lot,

With minds enlighten’d, and with thoughts all free,

Who have no restless cares, of pride begot,

Nor envy others’ fame, because they have it not.

XXI.

I’d rather gaze at earth’s proud pageantry,Than be a part o’ the show. I love to hideFar from the envious world’s malignant eye,And calmly down the ever flowing tideOf this short life, in humble silence glide.I’m weary of the never ending chaseAfter the world’s esteem—its pomp and pride!Then grant me, Heaven! some secret hiding place,Till I shall sweetly rest—asleep in death’s embrace.

I’d rather gaze at earth’s proud pageantry,

Than be a part o’ the show. I love to hide

Far from the envious world’s malignant eye,

And calmly down the ever flowing tide

Of this short life, in humble silence glide.

I’m weary of the never ending chase

After the world’s esteem—its pomp and pride!

Then grant me, Heaven! some secret hiding place,

Till I shall sweetly rest—asleep in death’s embrace.

XXII.

O, let me feel the almost heavenly bliss—The calm contentment of humility!There never was a plainer truth than this;“Peu connue, peu troublée.”[12]I long to beUnnoticed and unknown; my actions free—Untrammel’d by proud fashion’s stern decrees.O, this is life! to bow the willing kneeAlone to God, and, with a mind at ease,To catch the gales of Heaven in every passing breeze.

O, let me feel the almost heavenly bliss—

The calm contentment of humility!

There never was a plainer truth than this;

“Peu connue, peu troublée.”[12]I long to be

Unnoticed and unknown; my actions free—

Untrammel’d by proud fashion’s stern decrees.

O, this is life! to bow the willing knee

Alone to God, and, with a mind at ease,

To catch the gales of Heaven in every passing breeze.

XXIII.

I hate “that solemn vice of greatness—pride!”[13]’Tis like an angel to be truly great,Yet truly humble. He who seeks to hideHis virtuous deeds, shall sweetly meditateIn lonely hours, and thus anticipateThe peace of Heaven. The man of noble mind,Whom earth’s loud praises never can elate,Has fix’d his anchor where no storms unkindCan shake his steadfast soul, to every storm resign’d.

I hate “that solemn vice of greatness—pride!”[13]

’Tis like an angel to be truly great,

Yet truly humble. He who seeks to hide

His virtuous deeds, shall sweetly meditate

In lonely hours, and thus anticipate

The peace of Heaven. The man of noble mind,

Whom earth’s loud praises never can elate,

Has fix’d his anchor where no storms unkind

Can shake his steadfast soul, to every storm resign’d.

XXIV.

But whither have I wander’d? ’Tis my faultT’ assume an attitude belligerent,And with a wordy war my foes t’ assault!My words are harmless, let me give them vent,Nor in my bosom harbor discontent;Things, and not persons, are my enemies.And if I stay to pluck a flower, and paintIts unpretending beauties to your eyes,O, follow for awhile my restless vagaries.

But whither have I wander’d? ’Tis my fault

T’ assume an attitude belligerent,

And with a wordy war my foes t’ assault!

My words are harmless, let me give them vent,

Nor in my bosom harbor discontent;

Things, and not persons, are my enemies.

And if I stay to pluck a flower, and paint

Its unpretending beauties to your eyes,

O, follow for awhile my restless vagaries.

XXV.

My brother left us soon. His heart was sad,And all were sad around him. Who could sayWhat was before us? Hearts one moment cladIn robes of joy, another moment mayBe dress’d in sorrow’s sables. Happy they,Who in the bosom of the Savior dwell,And find a refuge there in grief’s dark day.The parting came—how did each bosom swell,When, with a silent kiss, he told us all farewell!

My brother left us soon. His heart was sad,

And all were sad around him. Who could say

What was before us? Hearts one moment clad

In robes of joy, another moment may

Be dress’d in sorrow’s sables. Happy they,

Who in the bosom of the Savior dwell,

And find a refuge there in grief’s dark day.

The parting came—how did each bosom swell,

When, with a silent kiss, he told us all farewell!

XXVI.

And as he turn’d he dash’d a tear away;For he must feel a pang who says “farewell;”Yet ’tis a word that all have had to say.To me it ever seems a mournful knell;And, when I hear it, tides of sorrow swellMy heart, and busy mem’ry brings to meFull many a by-gone hour, whose potent spellReturns with all its weight of agony.O, parting scenes! too vividly ye come to me!

And as he turn’d he dash’d a tear away;

For he must feel a pang who says “farewell;”

Yet ’tis a word that all have had to say.

To me it ever seems a mournful knell;

And, when I hear it, tides of sorrow swell

My heart, and busy mem’ry brings to me

Full many a by-gone hour, whose potent spell

Returns with all its weight of agony.

O, parting scenes! too vividly ye come to me!

XXVII.

He left us. ’Twas a blessing soon to hearThat he had comforted his aching heartBy the sweet power of love. O, what can cheerMan’s heart, like woman’s love? What can impartSuch healing balm? What else remove the dartStill rankling in the bosom? Thou hast proved,O, gentle Love! full well thy healing art!—One of Virginia’s fairest daughters lovedOur stricken one, and thus the deadly dart remov’d.

He left us. ’Twas a blessing soon to hear

That he had comforted his aching heart

By the sweet power of love. O, what can cheer

Man’s heart, like woman’s love? What can impart

Such healing balm? What else remove the dart

Still rankling in the bosom? Thou hast proved,

O, gentle Love! full well thy healing art!—

One of Virginia’s fairest daughters loved

Our stricken one, and thus the deadly dart remov’d.

XXVIII.

O, Love! thy presence sweetens all below!Thou art the sunshine of life’s dreary road;Or, ’mid the storm, thou art the cheering bowHeld up before us by the hand of God!He who has long life’s devious pathway trod,And knows that sorrow is man’s certain doom,Needs one to help him bear each heavy load.In search of bliss man never ought to roam,When lovely woman is the polar star of home.

O, Love! thy presence sweetens all below!

Thou art the sunshine of life’s dreary road;

Or, ’mid the storm, thou art the cheering bow

Held up before us by the hand of God!

He who has long life’s devious pathway trod,

And knows that sorrow is man’s certain doom,

Needs one to help him bear each heavy load.

In search of bliss man never ought to roam,

When lovely woman is the polar star of home.

XXIX.

Love timid flies the busy haunts of men;The dear domestic altar is his throne;One word unkind may break his blissful reign;He goes where willing hearts his empire own,And takes alarm at one disloyal tone.And if he spread his ever active wings,O, sue for pardon quick—or he is gone!And as he flies, this farewell truth he sings,Experience oft too late, a sad repentance brings.

Love timid flies the busy haunts of men;

The dear domestic altar is his throne;

One word unkind may break his blissful reign;

He goes where willing hearts his empire own,

And takes alarm at one disloyal tone.

And if he spread his ever active wings,

O, sue for pardon quick—or he is gone!

And as he flies, this farewell truth he sings,

Experience oft too late, a sad repentance brings.

XXX.

My brother loved, and was beloved again.The peerless maid whose love his heart did bless,Held his affections by a golden chain,All unalloy’d. Much in her artless grace,And in her soul-subduing gentleness,Did she resemble her who was in Heaven—Our sainted sister; and her sweet fair face,So like to hers, seem’d a dear token givenTo comfort all our hearts, so deeply sorrow-riven.

My brother loved, and was beloved again.

The peerless maid whose love his heart did bless,

Held his affections by a golden chain,

All unalloy’d. Much in her artless grace,

And in her soul-subduing gentleness,

Did she resemble her who was in Heaven—

Our sainted sister; and her sweet fair face,

So like to hers, seem’d a dear token given

To comfort all our hearts, so deeply sorrow-riven.

XXXI.

He led her to the altar, where their hands,Those willing hands, by one who lately died[14]Were join’d with Hymen’s life-enduring bands;Their hearts were one before. The fair young bride—The lily of Virginia, by the sideOf Carolina’s son stood modestly,While on them gazed fond parents in their pride.It is a sight that all must love to see—A youthful pair thus join’d by Heaven’s most kind decree!

He led her to the altar, where their hands,

Those willing hands, by one who lately died[14]

Were join’d with Hymen’s life-enduring bands;

Their hearts were one before. The fair young bride—

The lily of Virginia, by the side

Of Carolina’s son stood modestly,

While on them gazed fond parents in their pride.

It is a sight that all must love to see—

A youthful pair thus join’d by Heaven’s most kind decree!

XXXII.

But he was call’d to leave her for awhile,To seek a home in a more genial clime,Far in the south, where nature seems to smileThe livelong year. Her soft blue eye grew dimWith pearly tears, that gather’d to the brim,And overflow’d their fountain, when she heardThat he must leave her. Who could comfort himAs she could? Yet ’twas winter; and he fear’dT’ expose his precious one, till all was well prepared.

But he was call’d to leave her for awhile,

To seek a home in a more genial clime,

Far in the south, where nature seems to smile

The livelong year. Her soft blue eye grew dim

With pearly tears, that gather’d to the brim,

And overflow’d their fountain, when she heard

That he must leave her. Who could comfort him

As she could? Yet ’twas winter; and he fear’d

T’ expose his precious one, till all was well prepared.

XXXIII.

They parted—full of hope—yet griev’d to part;Nor knew they that a worm was at the coreOf that young husband’s rich confiding heart;Our mother saw her son not long before,And her prophetic eye discover’d moreIn his wan cheek, than other eyes could see;She heard his “trifling” cough, and o’er and o’er,She caution’d him to watch it. Only sheCould see his danger, who had nurs’d his infancy!

They parted—full of hope—yet griev’d to part;

Nor knew they that a worm was at the core

Of that young husband’s rich confiding heart;

Our mother saw her son not long before,

And her prophetic eye discover’d more

In his wan cheek, than other eyes could see;

She heard his “trifling” cough, and o’er and o’er,

She caution’d him to watch it. Only she

Could see his danger, who had nurs’d his infancy!

XXXIV.

But yet she dream’d not he would die so soon,Nor dream’d of death at all; save that her fear—A mother’s fear for her own precious one—Was ever whisp’ring in her anxious ear,That death might come again. He had come near,And stricken from her arms so oft beforeHer dearest treasures, that his lifted spearAfar off gleaming, would alarm her moreThan hosts of other foes, with all their threaten’d power.

But yet she dream’d not he would die so soon,

Nor dream’d of death at all; save that her fear—

A mother’s fear for her own precious one—

Was ever whisp’ring in her anxious ear,

That death might come again. He had come near,

And stricken from her arms so oft before

Her dearest treasures, that his lifted spear

Afar off gleaming, would alarm her more

Than hosts of other foes, with all their threaten’d power.

XXXV.

My brother never saw his love again.He journey’d to a distant land—to die!I must not speak of this—the throbbing painThat settles at my heart—the tearful eye—The trembling hand—the thrill of agony—All warn me to forsake the mournful theme.We heard that ere he breathed his parting sigh,He said his parents soon would follow him,But that his “dear young wife”—and here his eyes grew dim,

My brother never saw his love again.

He journey’d to a distant land—to die!

I must not speak of this—the throbbing pain

That settles at my heart—the tearful eye—

The trembling hand—the thrill of agony—

All warn me to forsake the mournful theme.

We heard that ere he breathed his parting sigh,

He said his parents soon would follow him,

But that his “dear young wife”—and here his eyes grew dim,

XXXVI.

And faintness seized upon him. ’Twas a thoughtSo full of deep, heart rending agony,It quickly overcame him; and he soughtOn heavenly scenes to fix his failing eye,And thus with Christian fortitude to die!An outstretched arm, omnipotent to save,Was near him when his last great enemyClosed for the mortal struggle. Then he gaveHis parting soul to Him who triumph’d o’er the grave.

And faintness seized upon him. ’Twas a thought

So full of deep, heart rending agony,

It quickly overcame him; and he sought

On heavenly scenes to fix his failing eye,

And thus with Christian fortitude to die!

An outstretched arm, omnipotent to save,

Was near him when his last great enemy

Closed for the mortal struggle. Then he gave

His parting soul to Him who triumph’d o’er the grave.

XXXVII.

His parents, ignorant of his dying state,Were in the great south western city,[15]whenA letter came. Twas not of recent date,For it had sought them long, and sought in vain.At length it reach’d them, and it brought new painTo their still aching hearts. It told a taleOf sadness; that the threat’ning rod againHung over them. Here let me draw a veil;To tell their feelings now, all words would sadly fail.

His parents, ignorant of his dying state,

Were in the great south western city,[15]when

A letter came. Twas not of recent date,

For it had sought them long, and sought in vain.

At length it reach’d them, and it brought new pain

To their still aching hearts. It told a tale

Of sadness; that the threat’ning rod again

Hung over them. Here let me draw a veil;

To tell their feelings now, all words would sadly fail.

XXXVIII.

But I, who ever hope, hoped even now;For I was with them when the letter came,And though some sadness settled on my brow,With specious words I strove to comfort them.I could not feel that he would die—the sameDelusive flatt’rer, Hope, who oft beforeHad lighted in my breast a glowing flameWhen all had else been darkness, now once moreBeguiled my willing heart with too successful power.

But I, who ever hope, hoped even now;

For I was with them when the letter came,

And though some sadness settled on my brow,

With specious words I strove to comfort them.

I could not feel that he would die—the same

Delusive flatt’rer, Hope, who oft before

Had lighted in my breast a glowing flame

When all had else been darkness, now once more

Beguiled my willing heart with too successful power.

XXXIX.

Swift on affection’s never tiring wings,Our parents flew to see their only son;And I was left behind; for many thingsConcurr’d to keep me from the dying one.But, in my grief, I was not left alone,For they were with me who were all to me,My noble husband, and my darling son!With them, how could I ever lonely be?O, to each other wewereall in all—we three!

Swift on affection’s never tiring wings,

Our parents flew to see their only son;

And I was left behind; for many things

Concurr’d to keep me from the dying one.

But, in my grief, I was not left alone,

For they were with me who were all to me,

My noble husband, and my darling son!

With them, how could I ever lonely be?

O, to each other wewereall in all—we three!

XL.

My parents reach’d at length the distant spot:Borne to the earth by grief and sad suspense.O, God! O, God! they found that “HEwas not,”For thou had’st taken him! thy providenceSo order’d it in kind benevolence!He breath’d his last before the wish’d-for dayWhen he expected them—he knew not whenceThey had to come, nor what a devious wayThe white wing’d messenger that bore the news would stray.

My parents reach’d at length the distant spot:

Borne to the earth by grief and sad suspense.

O, God! O, God! they found that “HEwas not,”

For thou had’st taken him! thy providence

So order’d it in kind benevolence!

He breath’d his last before the wish’d-for day

When he expected them—he knew not whence

They had to come, nor what a devious way

The white wing’d messenger that bore the news would stray.

XLI.

Urania, goddess of the sacred lay!Come, touch my languid lips with holy fire,Brought from divine Parnassus—or conveyThe heart’s deep feelings to my sounding lyre!’Tis vain—’tis vain—such feelings must retireFrom mortal view! Again I draw the veilOver these parents’ hearts. It would requireA more than mortal tongue to tell the taleOf all their high wrought feelings—mortal speech would fail.

Urania, goddess of the sacred lay!

Come, touch my languid lips with holy fire,

Brought from divine Parnassus—or convey

The heart’s deep feelings to my sounding lyre!

’Tis vain—’tis vain—such feelings must retire

From mortal view! Again I draw the veil

Over these parents’ hearts. It would require

A more than mortal tongue to tell the tale

Of all their high wrought feelings—mortal speech would fail.

XLII.

’Tis sad when those we love cannot be nearOur dying bed; and yet it saves much pain.The last farewell that falls upon the ear—The tears that mourners seek to hide, in vain—The bursting sobs they cannot quite restrain—These wring the heart. Now, when we truly knowThat friends were near, a sympathizing train,Who sooth’d our dying one, when faint and low,O, surely in our hearts sweet gratitude must glow!

’Tis sad when those we love cannot be near

Our dying bed; and yet it saves much pain.

The last farewell that falls upon the ear—

The tears that mourners seek to hide, in vain—

The bursting sobs they cannot quite restrain—

These wring the heart. Now, when we truly know

That friends were near, a sympathizing train,

Who sooth’d our dying one, when faint and low,

O, surely in our hearts sweet gratitude must glow!

XLIII.

God’s providence had led his footsteps, whereHe found the kindest friends. A stranger he,Yet taken to their bosoms! Far and near,My father’s children find his name a keyUnlocking many hearts. I’d rather beThe child of such a father, than of oneWho’d leave the wealth of India to me!They heard my brother’s name, and there were noneWho open’d not their doors to my dear father’s son.

God’s providence had led his footsteps, where

He found the kindest friends. A stranger he,

Yet taken to their bosoms! Far and near,

My father’s children find his name a key

Unlocking many hearts. I’d rather be

The child of such a father, than of one

Who’d leave the wealth of India to me!

They heard my brother’s name, and there were none

Who open’d not their doors to my dear father’s son.

XLIV.

God bless them evermore! and he will blessWith all the choice expressions of his love,Those who befriend the stranger in distress.Thereisa God in Heaven, whose bowels moveWith gentle pity; and he must approve,Whene’er his creatures pity and relieveThe way-worn sufferer! Then from aboveOur God will smile on those who thus did giveTheir tender love to one who had not long to live.

God bless them evermore! and he will bless

With all the choice expressions of his love,

Those who befriend the stranger in distress.

Thereisa God in Heaven, whose bowels move

With gentle pity; and he must approve,

Whene’er his creatures pity and relieve

The way-worn sufferer! Then from above

Our God will smile on those who thus did give

Their tender love to one who had not long to live.

XLV.

Now, when th’ afflicted parents weeping came,Those noble friends shed with them tear for tear,And thus most kindly did their love proclaimFor him whom they had laid upon his bierWith aching hearts. O, many a fervent prayer,While with most tender tears my cheeks are wet,Ascends to Heaven for them. May Jesus hear!And may my heart within me cease to beat,If ever I their love to one I loved forget!

Now, when th’ afflicted parents weeping came,

Those noble friends shed with them tear for tear,

And thus most kindly did their love proclaim

For him whom they had laid upon his bier

With aching hearts. O, many a fervent prayer,

While with most tender tears my cheeks are wet,

Ascends to Heaven for them. May Jesus hear!

And may my heart within me cease to beat,

If ever I their love to one I loved forget!

Charleston,July 12, 1841.

FOOTNOTES

[11]My brother,Isaac Stockton Keith Palmer, died in Havana, Green County, Alabama, February 10, 1839, aged 26 years.“Thy brother shall rise again.”—Johnxi. 23.

[11]My brother,Isaac Stockton Keith Palmer, died in Havana, Green County, Alabama, February 10, 1839, aged 26 years.

“Thy brother shall rise again.”—Johnxi. 23.

[12]Motto of Hortense Beauharnais.

[13]Ben Jonson.

[14]The late Rev. George A. Baxter, D. D.

[15]New Orleans.

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