THE JOYS OF GRIEF.
I.It was a quiet morning. Skies were clear,And hills, and vales, and woods kept jubilee;All nature seem’d a lovely smile to wear,A smile of peace and joy. In ecstasyBright plumaged warblers flew from tree to tree,And sang their joy with many a cheerful tone;But every heart was not so full of glee;Within that room where death his power had shown,A pensive mourner sat, in silence, and alone.II.Alone, yet not alone—for lonelinessThe most entire is often felt in crowds,Where friends are off’ring many a fond caressTo one, whose heart the deepest gloom enshrouds.But there are those who ’mid the darkest cloudsCan smile the wreck of earthly joy to see,And such are not alone; the water floodsHave swept their all away; but thought is free,And thoughts are aye our most important company.III.Thought is not trammel’d by earth’s narrow bounds;It revels in the regions of delight;And oft when darkness all on earth surrounds,It springs away to worlds where all is bright;Affliction comes t’ assist this heavenly flight;The sorrowing soul, all tired of earth, can feedOn heavenly joys with quicken’d appetite;And such a rich repast can never needThe sick’ning sweets of earth, that dire diseases breed.IV.Affliction often proves the kindest friendTo mortal man; the mourning soul grows wise;All chast’ning hath improvement for its end;Man looks to Heaven when earthly comfort dies,And most effectual prayers are breathed in sighs.The broken hearted never plead in vain;Their anguish hath a voice to reach the skies;O, would the soul rich consolation gain,It cometh in the day of suffering and pain.V.And disappointment lurks in every spot;The plays of life all end in tragedy;Smiles turn to tears, when some dark counterplotChanges the scene from joy to misery.There is a power whose vast supremacyDoth our unwise appointments overthrow;We plan—but God appoints our destiny,And therefore all seems changeful here below;But still from scene to scene with new born hope we go.VI.The child of sorrow stands on vantage ground;It is a paradox both strange and true,That he, who in affliction’s vale is found,Dwells on the mount of observation too,And sees the world without the dazzling hueWhich bright prosperity throws all around:He learns tofeelwhat once he only knewFrom hearing other men, the warning sound,That all who lean on earth receive a deadly wound.VII.How many ordeals erring man must pass,While going through his short probation here!His road is full of them—and oft, alas!He quails before the trial too severe,And falls into temptation and a snare;Forgetting where his only safety lies,Or who will make the trusting soul his care,He downward bends to earth his anxious eyes,And, trusting to himself, away from shelter flies.VIII.But happy he who passes on unharm’d,Safe guarded in the hour of seeming ill;He ever finds the threat’ning foe disarm’d,Who, while he looks to earth, looks heavenward still.The mental eye may gaze on Zion’s hill,And seek protection from a power divine;Though sorrows deep the heart with anguish fill,And hope seems driven from its earthly shrine;Yet beams from Heaven may still amid the darkness shine.IX.Alone, yet not alone—for cold and dead,A manly form lies stretch’d upon its bierAnd she whose hand supports her weary head,Is gazing on her husband’s features there.How peaceful is the smile those features wear!One hand is laid in his, so icy cold,The other hidden by her flowing hair;And statue-like she sits, while scenes untoldRush on her mental view, and glorious things unfold.X.No deep dejection sits upon her brow,Though from her fond embrace her love has fled;How can her heart indulge in sadness now,When glory crowns her sainted husband’s head?Why should the bitter tear of grief be shed,When he has reach’d his bright eternal home?O, why do mortals mourn the blessed dead,Who’ve gone where grief and sin can never come?Why do they sorely weep, and hang their heads in gloom?XI.’Tis hard to part. But if our dreadful lossBe gain unspeakable to those we mourn,How selfish ’tis to grieve! O, is it thusWe show our love? Besides, ye sad forlorn!They are not lost who from your arms are torn,They’ve only sooner reach’d their blissful rest!’Tis sweet to end a wearisome sojourn,And reach a wish’d-for home—and they are blestWhose friends are safely housed where nothing can molest.XII.In those delightful realms of perfect bliss,The raptured spirit finds an endless home;And is it well to break your hearts for this?O, could to earth the sainted spirit come,’Twould chide the mourner weeping o’er the tombAs though thesoulwere chained in prison there!’Twould bid him lay aside his look of gloom,And in its place the smile of triumph wear;’Twould bid him hush the sigh, and wipe the starting tear!XIII.’Twas not with stoical philosophy,She bore her double grief. ForgetfulnessWas not its antidote. Nor could it beDespair that sat upon her peaceful face.O, no! her soul was made of tenderness;Nor could her heart forget the joyous past;Nor did despair her tranquil mind possess;What could it be that o’er her features castA sweet expressive look, that seem’d too calm to last?XIV.The truly pious are most sensitiveTo the delights of dear domestic love;It is religion’s high prerogative,The tend’rest feelings of the heart to moveTo delicate sensations, far aboveThe gross, impure affections, cherish’d oftIn earthly love. A double tie is woveFor those whose hearts together soar aloft;’Tis God who makes the heart pure, delicate, and soft.XV.What was it, then, that spread a peaceful glow.Upon that lonely mourner’s countenance—She, who had loved her child and husband so,And lived but in their smiles? A cheerful glanceShe gave to each intruder, who, by chance,Stray’d into that lone room. She’d call them near,And tell them of a bright inheritance,And that she knew her darling ones were there;’Twas this had sov’reign power the mourner’s heart to cheer.XVI.’Twas confidence in Heaven—for there she turn’dWhen “friend and lover” failed her, and that GodWho never yet the broken hearted spurn’d,Supported her beneath the chast’ning rod,And sooth’d her in her childless widowhood!All glory to his name, who sweetly spoke,And still’d the raging of affliction’s flood!O, sad it is to bear Jehovah’s strokeLike bullocks unaccustom’d to the galling yoke.XVII.It well becomes frail man to acquiesceIn God’s most wise and holy providence;Yea, though he bow his head in sore distress,Borne down to earth by sufferings intense,Still let him trust in God, his sure defenceAgainst the rushing tide; for sorrow’s floodCan soon be stay’d by kind omnipotence.Whene’er on us descends th’ afflictive rod,Weak hearted though we be, our strength is found in God.XVIII.God leads his children with a gentle hand,Though often through a gloomy, rugged road,But if they reach at last the promised land,What matter if the paths their feet have trod—Those thorny paths—be moistened with their blood?How gloriously they end their sad career!Their blood stain’d feet are wash’d in Jordan’s flood,Before the throne all spotless they appear,And hush’d is every groan, and dried is every tear.XIX.So thought the mourner, watching o’er her dead:What glorious visions cheer’d her solitude!What heavenly scenes their peaceful influence shed,As there she sat in calm and pensive mood!The glories of the upper world she view’d;Away from earth on faith’s glad wings she sped,And saw in many a bright beatitude,The shining mansions of the sainted dead;And, deep in silent thought, thus to herself she said:XX.“If never more the blessed sun should rise—If moon and stars in blackest gloom were seal’d—Though nature in the gloom should sympathize—Though winds and waves their utmost power reveal’d,And to the heart in hollow groans appeal’d—Though all my friends were laid beneath the sod—Though icy death my blood had all congealed—Still would I trust in thee, my Father God!And bless thee most of all for thy chastising rod.XXI.No—I will not repine. It were not wellTo mourn for thee, my darling! Not for thee!No—thou hast gone ’mid perfect love to dwell,And ‘death is swallow’d up in victory!’I wish thee joy—from pain and sorrow free,While on thy mother earth reclines thy head!All soft and peaceful may thy slumbers be,Till the last trump shall sound, when time has fled,To wake the sleeping pulses of the silent dead!XXII.I almost envy thee, my sainted love,Enjoying Heaven’s sweet society!O, that I had the pinions of a dove!How would my eager spirit fly to thee,And joyful share thy blest eternity!Thou, who hast seen the Savior as he is,Art thou not filled with perfect ecstasy?Explain’d are all thy life’s dark mysteries,Thy fears, thy woes, thy pains, thy heart’s deep agonies.XXIII.Thou art at rest, my husband! on thy headNo more the storm shall beat. Thou art of thoseWhose works do follow them—the blessed dead!O how I long to share thy soft repose—To know that I am safe from inward foes,And foes without! My heavy laden breastShall bear no longer then its weight of woes,And I shall be no more with cares oppress’d;Welcome the blissful hour, when I shall be at rest!XXIV.They say that woman bringeth happinessTo him she loves. I do believe it true;I know, my own! that I could ever blessThy heart, when to my fond embrace it flew.Yes—yes—it gives me comfort to reviewThe few short years we’ve spent together here;Each hour was fraught with gladness ever new;’Tis sweet, my love! beside thine early bier,To think thy noble heart ’twas ever mine to cheer.XXV.But hearts like thine are seldom truly known;Some things too lofty are for mortal ken,Till the dim eye, to earthly prospects prone,Learns to look far above this misty fen,Where earth’s rank vapors blind the eyes of men.The truly noble ones are all too few,Nor can they breathe in earth’s polluted den;They, like the eagle, oft escape from view,And soar aloft ’mid Heaven’s deep and tranquil blue.XXVI.I joy to think, my dear, my only love!Thou’st laid aside thy load of cumbrous clay,And wing’d thy joyful flight to realms above,To pure celestial worlds—away! away!I see around thy head bright glories play!I see thee clothed in robes of innocence!I see the hosts of Heaven in white array!And can I wish to call thy spirit thence,Inhabitant of Heaven? thou pure intelligence?XXVII.O, Charles! ‘thy love to me was wonderful,Passing the love of woman.’ In thine eyes—Those dark blue eyes—those mirrors of thy soul,Were pictured feelings words would but disguise—Pure, tender, soul subduing sympathies!Should ever slander, with its poison’d tooth,Or malice, double tongued, against me rise,I’ll think of thee, whose kindness bless’d my youth;I’ll think of all thy love, thy tenderness, thy truth.XXVIII.I’ll plant the grave of all my early joyWith seeds of mem’ry, and enrich the soilWith precious tears, and then I will employMy heart as gard’ner, caring not for toil;And thus the gloomy grave I will despoilOf all its gloom, and raise bright flowers there,To cheer me ’mid life’s wearisome turmoil;And so when sad and overcharged with care,To cull sweet mem’ry’s flowers I will oft repair.XXIX.I bless thee, husband! for thy tender love,For all th’ ecstatic bliss ’twas mine to know;I nestled in thy breast, a timid dove,While my fond heart to thine did firmly grow.I saw upon thy cheek love’s ardent glow,And felt that I was more than others blest,When such a rich pure heart was mine; but, O!I did not dream that warm and throbbing breastSo soon would cease to beat—so soon would be at rest!XXX.They tell me love has wings—I know it well;But there’s a love implanted in the heart,Which cruel death can never thence expel;’Tis Christian love. Death may a moment partTwo faithful ones, and cause sad tears to start;But hope beyond this darksome world can see,And, by the magic of her soothing art,A most effectual comforter can be;So Hope and Memory by turns shall comfort me.XXXI.For Hope and Memory twin sisters are,Born in a moment ’mid the present gloom,Bringing their soft illusions from afar,And cheering e’en the darkness of the tomb.Come to my heart, ye lovely sisters, come!And so my wond’ring senses all entranceWith pictures of my past and future home,That I may take one life-enduring glance,Nor cease till I have gain’d my blest inheritance!XXXII.I thank thee, holy Father! that I amImmortal. ’Tis a cure for all my woes,That soon they will be followed by the calmOf Heavens’s tranquil and secure repose,When this poor life has reach’d its blessed close.There may be many sorrows more for me,There may arise stern unrelenting foes;But I will trust in Heaven, and thither flee,When I am writhing ’neath opinion’s tyranny.XXXIII.Who wrongs the widow, will be judged by OneWho makes the widow his peculiar care;O, wretched, wretched man! whose setting sunShall sink amid the clouds of dark despair!In God’s own book the words of truth declareThat man accurs’d. Thou, who hast e’er oppress’dThe fatherless or widow, canst thou bearTo die with such a stain upon thy breast,And hear thy Maker say, ‘Thou shalt not see my rest?’XXXIV.My Father! all my times are in thy hand!Though floods arise, thou’lt bear me safely through,And though thy ways I cannot understand,Whatever pleases thee, shall please me too.Though thou with thorns shalt all my pathway strew,I’ll sweetly rest when life’s short day is o’er,And bless the hand which me to Heaven drew;Then far above this weary world I’ll soar,And through eternity I’ll triumph and adore.XXXV.When nights of weariness do come to me,They are appointed by my sov’reign friend,To cure me of this world’s idolatry,And thus to Heaven my aspirations send,And with my tears sweet expectations blend.So when I lie and long for morning’s dawn,And vainly wish the painful night would end,And sadly cry, with many a plaintive moan,‘O, when shall I arise, and this sad night be gone?’—XXXVI.I’ll think of Heaven, where night shall be no more,Where not one tear shall gather in mine eye,Where weariness and pain shall all be o’er,And I, with seraph wings, shall swiftly flyWith willing speed, my God to glorify,And execute his blessed sovereign will.Welcome the joyful hour when I shall die!Die? No! I then shall live. On Zion’s hillI shall forever dwell, and fear no future ill.XXXVII.My rest will come ere long. O, when I sleepMy last long sleep beneath the cold damp sod,Parents and friends! I pray ye not to weepFor one whose feet a thorny path have trod,Then shelter’d in the bosom of her God!I’ve had sore trial of each tender limb,In such a rough and thorn-besprinkled road;O, then, to weep for me would be a crime,When I have safely fled beyond the bounds of time!XXXVIII.Till then I’ll patient be. It is not bestTo bosom sorrow, or to nourish grief;No! let me bear my heavy laden breastWhere only suff’ring hearts can find relief—To Him who was of sufferers the chief!He numbers every hair upon my head,He clothes the flower, he notes the falling leaf;And will he, now my dearest ones are dead,Leave me in sorrow’s night my burning tears to shed?XXXIX.No—no—it cannot be. He shows his power,And who can hinder him? He takes awayMan’s glory and his pride in one short hour,And, when he chooses, hides each cheering rayOf earthly joy, that o’er his path did play.But while his hand thus smites, his heart is love;He sends the cloudy, wintry, stormy day,To make us pause awhile, and look above,And by adversity, the suff’rer’s heart to prove.XL.How sweet the names my heavenly Father bears!‘God of all comfort!’ O, the soothing sound!‘Father of mercies!’ Yes! I’ll dry my tears,And go where comfort—mercy—can be found.What though my love lies cold beneath the ground?’Tis but his mortal part. His deathless soulLives and rejoices where pure joys abound;He ran his race, and reach’d th’ immortal goal,And ne’er shall sorrow more, while countless ages roll.XLI.Husband, sweet husband! where, O, where art thou?Art thou not near me, whispering peaceful things?Do I not hear thy spirit-accents now,And feel the waving of thy spirit-wings,Cooling my burning heart, where sorrow’s stingsWould rankle, were it not for Heaven and thee?It must be so. My eager spirit springsTo meet thee, love! ’Tis thy sweet task to beA ministering angel, sent to comfort me!”XLII.’Twas thus the mourner mused from hour to hour,Beside her loved one laid upon his bier;She strew’d his corse with many a fragrant flower,And kiss’d his cheek, and stroked his glossy hair.You would have thought her love was sleeping there,And she was watching o’er him—such a smileSat on his lip, and wreathed his forehead fair;But he is dead—and in a little whileThe damp and teeming earth that forehead must defile!
I.It was a quiet morning. Skies were clear,And hills, and vales, and woods kept jubilee;All nature seem’d a lovely smile to wear,A smile of peace and joy. In ecstasyBright plumaged warblers flew from tree to tree,And sang their joy with many a cheerful tone;But every heart was not so full of glee;Within that room where death his power had shown,A pensive mourner sat, in silence, and alone.II.Alone, yet not alone—for lonelinessThe most entire is often felt in crowds,Where friends are off’ring many a fond caressTo one, whose heart the deepest gloom enshrouds.But there are those who ’mid the darkest cloudsCan smile the wreck of earthly joy to see,And such are not alone; the water floodsHave swept their all away; but thought is free,And thoughts are aye our most important company.III.Thought is not trammel’d by earth’s narrow bounds;It revels in the regions of delight;And oft when darkness all on earth surrounds,It springs away to worlds where all is bright;Affliction comes t’ assist this heavenly flight;The sorrowing soul, all tired of earth, can feedOn heavenly joys with quicken’d appetite;And such a rich repast can never needThe sick’ning sweets of earth, that dire diseases breed.IV.Affliction often proves the kindest friendTo mortal man; the mourning soul grows wise;All chast’ning hath improvement for its end;Man looks to Heaven when earthly comfort dies,And most effectual prayers are breathed in sighs.The broken hearted never plead in vain;Their anguish hath a voice to reach the skies;O, would the soul rich consolation gain,It cometh in the day of suffering and pain.V.And disappointment lurks in every spot;The plays of life all end in tragedy;Smiles turn to tears, when some dark counterplotChanges the scene from joy to misery.There is a power whose vast supremacyDoth our unwise appointments overthrow;We plan—but God appoints our destiny,And therefore all seems changeful here below;But still from scene to scene with new born hope we go.VI.The child of sorrow stands on vantage ground;It is a paradox both strange and true,That he, who in affliction’s vale is found,Dwells on the mount of observation too,And sees the world without the dazzling hueWhich bright prosperity throws all around:He learns tofeelwhat once he only knewFrom hearing other men, the warning sound,That all who lean on earth receive a deadly wound.VII.How many ordeals erring man must pass,While going through his short probation here!His road is full of them—and oft, alas!He quails before the trial too severe,And falls into temptation and a snare;Forgetting where his only safety lies,Or who will make the trusting soul his care,He downward bends to earth his anxious eyes,And, trusting to himself, away from shelter flies.VIII.But happy he who passes on unharm’d,Safe guarded in the hour of seeming ill;He ever finds the threat’ning foe disarm’d,Who, while he looks to earth, looks heavenward still.The mental eye may gaze on Zion’s hill,And seek protection from a power divine;Though sorrows deep the heart with anguish fill,And hope seems driven from its earthly shrine;Yet beams from Heaven may still amid the darkness shine.IX.Alone, yet not alone—for cold and dead,A manly form lies stretch’d upon its bierAnd she whose hand supports her weary head,Is gazing on her husband’s features there.How peaceful is the smile those features wear!One hand is laid in his, so icy cold,The other hidden by her flowing hair;And statue-like she sits, while scenes untoldRush on her mental view, and glorious things unfold.X.No deep dejection sits upon her brow,Though from her fond embrace her love has fled;How can her heart indulge in sadness now,When glory crowns her sainted husband’s head?Why should the bitter tear of grief be shed,When he has reach’d his bright eternal home?O, why do mortals mourn the blessed dead,Who’ve gone where grief and sin can never come?Why do they sorely weep, and hang their heads in gloom?XI.’Tis hard to part. But if our dreadful lossBe gain unspeakable to those we mourn,How selfish ’tis to grieve! O, is it thusWe show our love? Besides, ye sad forlorn!They are not lost who from your arms are torn,They’ve only sooner reach’d their blissful rest!’Tis sweet to end a wearisome sojourn,And reach a wish’d-for home—and they are blestWhose friends are safely housed where nothing can molest.XII.In those delightful realms of perfect bliss,The raptured spirit finds an endless home;And is it well to break your hearts for this?O, could to earth the sainted spirit come,’Twould chide the mourner weeping o’er the tombAs though thesoulwere chained in prison there!’Twould bid him lay aside his look of gloom,And in its place the smile of triumph wear;’Twould bid him hush the sigh, and wipe the starting tear!XIII.’Twas not with stoical philosophy,She bore her double grief. ForgetfulnessWas not its antidote. Nor could it beDespair that sat upon her peaceful face.O, no! her soul was made of tenderness;Nor could her heart forget the joyous past;Nor did despair her tranquil mind possess;What could it be that o’er her features castA sweet expressive look, that seem’d too calm to last?XIV.The truly pious are most sensitiveTo the delights of dear domestic love;It is religion’s high prerogative,The tend’rest feelings of the heart to moveTo delicate sensations, far aboveThe gross, impure affections, cherish’d oftIn earthly love. A double tie is woveFor those whose hearts together soar aloft;’Tis God who makes the heart pure, delicate, and soft.XV.What was it, then, that spread a peaceful glow.Upon that lonely mourner’s countenance—She, who had loved her child and husband so,And lived but in their smiles? A cheerful glanceShe gave to each intruder, who, by chance,Stray’d into that lone room. She’d call them near,And tell them of a bright inheritance,And that she knew her darling ones were there;’Twas this had sov’reign power the mourner’s heart to cheer.XVI.’Twas confidence in Heaven—for there she turn’dWhen “friend and lover” failed her, and that GodWho never yet the broken hearted spurn’d,Supported her beneath the chast’ning rod,And sooth’d her in her childless widowhood!All glory to his name, who sweetly spoke,And still’d the raging of affliction’s flood!O, sad it is to bear Jehovah’s strokeLike bullocks unaccustom’d to the galling yoke.XVII.It well becomes frail man to acquiesceIn God’s most wise and holy providence;Yea, though he bow his head in sore distress,Borne down to earth by sufferings intense,Still let him trust in God, his sure defenceAgainst the rushing tide; for sorrow’s floodCan soon be stay’d by kind omnipotence.Whene’er on us descends th’ afflictive rod,Weak hearted though we be, our strength is found in God.XVIII.God leads his children with a gentle hand,Though often through a gloomy, rugged road,But if they reach at last the promised land,What matter if the paths their feet have trod—Those thorny paths—be moistened with their blood?How gloriously they end their sad career!Their blood stain’d feet are wash’d in Jordan’s flood,Before the throne all spotless they appear,And hush’d is every groan, and dried is every tear.XIX.So thought the mourner, watching o’er her dead:What glorious visions cheer’d her solitude!What heavenly scenes their peaceful influence shed,As there she sat in calm and pensive mood!The glories of the upper world she view’d;Away from earth on faith’s glad wings she sped,And saw in many a bright beatitude,The shining mansions of the sainted dead;And, deep in silent thought, thus to herself she said:XX.“If never more the blessed sun should rise—If moon and stars in blackest gloom were seal’d—Though nature in the gloom should sympathize—Though winds and waves their utmost power reveal’d,And to the heart in hollow groans appeal’d—Though all my friends were laid beneath the sod—Though icy death my blood had all congealed—Still would I trust in thee, my Father God!And bless thee most of all for thy chastising rod.XXI.No—I will not repine. It were not wellTo mourn for thee, my darling! Not for thee!No—thou hast gone ’mid perfect love to dwell,And ‘death is swallow’d up in victory!’I wish thee joy—from pain and sorrow free,While on thy mother earth reclines thy head!All soft and peaceful may thy slumbers be,Till the last trump shall sound, when time has fled,To wake the sleeping pulses of the silent dead!XXII.I almost envy thee, my sainted love,Enjoying Heaven’s sweet society!O, that I had the pinions of a dove!How would my eager spirit fly to thee,And joyful share thy blest eternity!Thou, who hast seen the Savior as he is,Art thou not filled with perfect ecstasy?Explain’d are all thy life’s dark mysteries,Thy fears, thy woes, thy pains, thy heart’s deep agonies.XXIII.Thou art at rest, my husband! on thy headNo more the storm shall beat. Thou art of thoseWhose works do follow them—the blessed dead!O how I long to share thy soft repose—To know that I am safe from inward foes,And foes without! My heavy laden breastShall bear no longer then its weight of woes,And I shall be no more with cares oppress’d;Welcome the blissful hour, when I shall be at rest!XXIV.They say that woman bringeth happinessTo him she loves. I do believe it true;I know, my own! that I could ever blessThy heart, when to my fond embrace it flew.Yes—yes—it gives me comfort to reviewThe few short years we’ve spent together here;Each hour was fraught with gladness ever new;’Tis sweet, my love! beside thine early bier,To think thy noble heart ’twas ever mine to cheer.XXV.But hearts like thine are seldom truly known;Some things too lofty are for mortal ken,Till the dim eye, to earthly prospects prone,Learns to look far above this misty fen,Where earth’s rank vapors blind the eyes of men.The truly noble ones are all too few,Nor can they breathe in earth’s polluted den;They, like the eagle, oft escape from view,And soar aloft ’mid Heaven’s deep and tranquil blue.XXVI.I joy to think, my dear, my only love!Thou’st laid aside thy load of cumbrous clay,And wing’d thy joyful flight to realms above,To pure celestial worlds—away! away!I see around thy head bright glories play!I see thee clothed in robes of innocence!I see the hosts of Heaven in white array!And can I wish to call thy spirit thence,Inhabitant of Heaven? thou pure intelligence?XXVII.O, Charles! ‘thy love to me was wonderful,Passing the love of woman.’ In thine eyes—Those dark blue eyes—those mirrors of thy soul,Were pictured feelings words would but disguise—Pure, tender, soul subduing sympathies!Should ever slander, with its poison’d tooth,Or malice, double tongued, against me rise,I’ll think of thee, whose kindness bless’d my youth;I’ll think of all thy love, thy tenderness, thy truth.XXVIII.I’ll plant the grave of all my early joyWith seeds of mem’ry, and enrich the soilWith precious tears, and then I will employMy heart as gard’ner, caring not for toil;And thus the gloomy grave I will despoilOf all its gloom, and raise bright flowers there,To cheer me ’mid life’s wearisome turmoil;And so when sad and overcharged with care,To cull sweet mem’ry’s flowers I will oft repair.XXIX.I bless thee, husband! for thy tender love,For all th’ ecstatic bliss ’twas mine to know;I nestled in thy breast, a timid dove,While my fond heart to thine did firmly grow.I saw upon thy cheek love’s ardent glow,And felt that I was more than others blest,When such a rich pure heart was mine; but, O!I did not dream that warm and throbbing breastSo soon would cease to beat—so soon would be at rest!XXX.They tell me love has wings—I know it well;But there’s a love implanted in the heart,Which cruel death can never thence expel;’Tis Christian love. Death may a moment partTwo faithful ones, and cause sad tears to start;But hope beyond this darksome world can see,And, by the magic of her soothing art,A most effectual comforter can be;So Hope and Memory by turns shall comfort me.XXXI.For Hope and Memory twin sisters are,Born in a moment ’mid the present gloom,Bringing their soft illusions from afar,And cheering e’en the darkness of the tomb.Come to my heart, ye lovely sisters, come!And so my wond’ring senses all entranceWith pictures of my past and future home,That I may take one life-enduring glance,Nor cease till I have gain’d my blest inheritance!XXXII.I thank thee, holy Father! that I amImmortal. ’Tis a cure for all my woes,That soon they will be followed by the calmOf Heavens’s tranquil and secure repose,When this poor life has reach’d its blessed close.There may be many sorrows more for me,There may arise stern unrelenting foes;But I will trust in Heaven, and thither flee,When I am writhing ’neath opinion’s tyranny.XXXIII.Who wrongs the widow, will be judged by OneWho makes the widow his peculiar care;O, wretched, wretched man! whose setting sunShall sink amid the clouds of dark despair!In God’s own book the words of truth declareThat man accurs’d. Thou, who hast e’er oppress’dThe fatherless or widow, canst thou bearTo die with such a stain upon thy breast,And hear thy Maker say, ‘Thou shalt not see my rest?’XXXIV.My Father! all my times are in thy hand!Though floods arise, thou’lt bear me safely through,And though thy ways I cannot understand,Whatever pleases thee, shall please me too.Though thou with thorns shalt all my pathway strew,I’ll sweetly rest when life’s short day is o’er,And bless the hand which me to Heaven drew;Then far above this weary world I’ll soar,And through eternity I’ll triumph and adore.XXXV.When nights of weariness do come to me,They are appointed by my sov’reign friend,To cure me of this world’s idolatry,And thus to Heaven my aspirations send,And with my tears sweet expectations blend.So when I lie and long for morning’s dawn,And vainly wish the painful night would end,And sadly cry, with many a plaintive moan,‘O, when shall I arise, and this sad night be gone?’—XXXVI.I’ll think of Heaven, where night shall be no more,Where not one tear shall gather in mine eye,Where weariness and pain shall all be o’er,And I, with seraph wings, shall swiftly flyWith willing speed, my God to glorify,And execute his blessed sovereign will.Welcome the joyful hour when I shall die!Die? No! I then shall live. On Zion’s hillI shall forever dwell, and fear no future ill.XXXVII.My rest will come ere long. O, when I sleepMy last long sleep beneath the cold damp sod,Parents and friends! I pray ye not to weepFor one whose feet a thorny path have trod,Then shelter’d in the bosom of her God!I’ve had sore trial of each tender limb,In such a rough and thorn-besprinkled road;O, then, to weep for me would be a crime,When I have safely fled beyond the bounds of time!XXXVIII.Till then I’ll patient be. It is not bestTo bosom sorrow, or to nourish grief;No! let me bear my heavy laden breastWhere only suff’ring hearts can find relief—To Him who was of sufferers the chief!He numbers every hair upon my head,He clothes the flower, he notes the falling leaf;And will he, now my dearest ones are dead,Leave me in sorrow’s night my burning tears to shed?XXXIX.No—no—it cannot be. He shows his power,And who can hinder him? He takes awayMan’s glory and his pride in one short hour,And, when he chooses, hides each cheering rayOf earthly joy, that o’er his path did play.But while his hand thus smites, his heart is love;He sends the cloudy, wintry, stormy day,To make us pause awhile, and look above,And by adversity, the suff’rer’s heart to prove.XL.How sweet the names my heavenly Father bears!‘God of all comfort!’ O, the soothing sound!‘Father of mercies!’ Yes! I’ll dry my tears,And go where comfort—mercy—can be found.What though my love lies cold beneath the ground?’Tis but his mortal part. His deathless soulLives and rejoices where pure joys abound;He ran his race, and reach’d th’ immortal goal,And ne’er shall sorrow more, while countless ages roll.XLI.Husband, sweet husband! where, O, where art thou?Art thou not near me, whispering peaceful things?Do I not hear thy spirit-accents now,And feel the waving of thy spirit-wings,Cooling my burning heart, where sorrow’s stingsWould rankle, were it not for Heaven and thee?It must be so. My eager spirit springsTo meet thee, love! ’Tis thy sweet task to beA ministering angel, sent to comfort me!”XLII.’Twas thus the mourner mused from hour to hour,Beside her loved one laid upon his bier;She strew’d his corse with many a fragrant flower,And kiss’d his cheek, and stroked his glossy hair.You would have thought her love was sleeping there,And she was watching o’er him—such a smileSat on his lip, and wreathed his forehead fair;But he is dead—and in a little whileThe damp and teeming earth that forehead must defile!
I.
It was a quiet morning. Skies were clear,And hills, and vales, and woods kept jubilee;All nature seem’d a lovely smile to wear,A smile of peace and joy. In ecstasyBright plumaged warblers flew from tree to tree,And sang their joy with many a cheerful tone;But every heart was not so full of glee;Within that room where death his power had shown,A pensive mourner sat, in silence, and alone.
It was a quiet morning. Skies were clear,
And hills, and vales, and woods kept jubilee;
All nature seem’d a lovely smile to wear,
A smile of peace and joy. In ecstasy
Bright plumaged warblers flew from tree to tree,
And sang their joy with many a cheerful tone;
But every heart was not so full of glee;
Within that room where death his power had shown,
A pensive mourner sat, in silence, and alone.
II.
Alone, yet not alone—for lonelinessThe most entire is often felt in crowds,Where friends are off’ring many a fond caressTo one, whose heart the deepest gloom enshrouds.But there are those who ’mid the darkest cloudsCan smile the wreck of earthly joy to see,And such are not alone; the water floodsHave swept their all away; but thought is free,And thoughts are aye our most important company.
Alone, yet not alone—for loneliness
The most entire is often felt in crowds,
Where friends are off’ring many a fond caress
To one, whose heart the deepest gloom enshrouds.
But there are those who ’mid the darkest clouds
Can smile the wreck of earthly joy to see,
And such are not alone; the water floods
Have swept their all away; but thought is free,
And thoughts are aye our most important company.
III.
Thought is not trammel’d by earth’s narrow bounds;It revels in the regions of delight;And oft when darkness all on earth surrounds,It springs away to worlds where all is bright;Affliction comes t’ assist this heavenly flight;The sorrowing soul, all tired of earth, can feedOn heavenly joys with quicken’d appetite;And such a rich repast can never needThe sick’ning sweets of earth, that dire diseases breed.
Thought is not trammel’d by earth’s narrow bounds;
It revels in the regions of delight;
And oft when darkness all on earth surrounds,
It springs away to worlds where all is bright;
Affliction comes t’ assist this heavenly flight;
The sorrowing soul, all tired of earth, can feed
On heavenly joys with quicken’d appetite;
And such a rich repast can never need
The sick’ning sweets of earth, that dire diseases breed.
IV.
Affliction often proves the kindest friendTo mortal man; the mourning soul grows wise;All chast’ning hath improvement for its end;Man looks to Heaven when earthly comfort dies,And most effectual prayers are breathed in sighs.The broken hearted never plead in vain;Their anguish hath a voice to reach the skies;O, would the soul rich consolation gain,It cometh in the day of suffering and pain.
Affliction often proves the kindest friend
To mortal man; the mourning soul grows wise;
All chast’ning hath improvement for its end;
Man looks to Heaven when earthly comfort dies,
And most effectual prayers are breathed in sighs.
The broken hearted never plead in vain;
Their anguish hath a voice to reach the skies;
O, would the soul rich consolation gain,
It cometh in the day of suffering and pain.
V.
And disappointment lurks in every spot;The plays of life all end in tragedy;Smiles turn to tears, when some dark counterplotChanges the scene from joy to misery.There is a power whose vast supremacyDoth our unwise appointments overthrow;We plan—but God appoints our destiny,And therefore all seems changeful here below;But still from scene to scene with new born hope we go.
And disappointment lurks in every spot;
The plays of life all end in tragedy;
Smiles turn to tears, when some dark counterplot
Changes the scene from joy to misery.
There is a power whose vast supremacy
Doth our unwise appointments overthrow;
We plan—but God appoints our destiny,
And therefore all seems changeful here below;
But still from scene to scene with new born hope we go.
VI.
The child of sorrow stands on vantage ground;It is a paradox both strange and true,That he, who in affliction’s vale is found,Dwells on the mount of observation too,And sees the world without the dazzling hueWhich bright prosperity throws all around:He learns tofeelwhat once he only knewFrom hearing other men, the warning sound,That all who lean on earth receive a deadly wound.
The child of sorrow stands on vantage ground;
It is a paradox both strange and true,
That he, who in affliction’s vale is found,
Dwells on the mount of observation too,
And sees the world without the dazzling hue
Which bright prosperity throws all around:
He learns tofeelwhat once he only knew
From hearing other men, the warning sound,
That all who lean on earth receive a deadly wound.
VII.
How many ordeals erring man must pass,While going through his short probation here!His road is full of them—and oft, alas!He quails before the trial too severe,And falls into temptation and a snare;Forgetting where his only safety lies,Or who will make the trusting soul his care,He downward bends to earth his anxious eyes,And, trusting to himself, away from shelter flies.
How many ordeals erring man must pass,
While going through his short probation here!
His road is full of them—and oft, alas!
He quails before the trial too severe,
And falls into temptation and a snare;
Forgetting where his only safety lies,
Or who will make the trusting soul his care,
He downward bends to earth his anxious eyes,
And, trusting to himself, away from shelter flies.
VIII.
But happy he who passes on unharm’d,Safe guarded in the hour of seeming ill;He ever finds the threat’ning foe disarm’d,Who, while he looks to earth, looks heavenward still.The mental eye may gaze on Zion’s hill,And seek protection from a power divine;Though sorrows deep the heart with anguish fill,And hope seems driven from its earthly shrine;Yet beams from Heaven may still amid the darkness shine.
But happy he who passes on unharm’d,
Safe guarded in the hour of seeming ill;
He ever finds the threat’ning foe disarm’d,
Who, while he looks to earth, looks heavenward still.
The mental eye may gaze on Zion’s hill,
And seek protection from a power divine;
Though sorrows deep the heart with anguish fill,
And hope seems driven from its earthly shrine;
Yet beams from Heaven may still amid the darkness shine.
IX.
Alone, yet not alone—for cold and dead,A manly form lies stretch’d upon its bierAnd she whose hand supports her weary head,Is gazing on her husband’s features there.How peaceful is the smile those features wear!One hand is laid in his, so icy cold,The other hidden by her flowing hair;And statue-like she sits, while scenes untoldRush on her mental view, and glorious things unfold.
Alone, yet not alone—for cold and dead,
A manly form lies stretch’d upon its bier
And she whose hand supports her weary head,
Is gazing on her husband’s features there.
How peaceful is the smile those features wear!
One hand is laid in his, so icy cold,
The other hidden by her flowing hair;
And statue-like she sits, while scenes untold
Rush on her mental view, and glorious things unfold.
X.
No deep dejection sits upon her brow,Though from her fond embrace her love has fled;How can her heart indulge in sadness now,When glory crowns her sainted husband’s head?Why should the bitter tear of grief be shed,When he has reach’d his bright eternal home?O, why do mortals mourn the blessed dead,Who’ve gone where grief and sin can never come?Why do they sorely weep, and hang their heads in gloom?
No deep dejection sits upon her brow,
Though from her fond embrace her love has fled;
How can her heart indulge in sadness now,
When glory crowns her sainted husband’s head?
Why should the bitter tear of grief be shed,
When he has reach’d his bright eternal home?
O, why do mortals mourn the blessed dead,
Who’ve gone where grief and sin can never come?
Why do they sorely weep, and hang their heads in gloom?
XI.
’Tis hard to part. But if our dreadful lossBe gain unspeakable to those we mourn,How selfish ’tis to grieve! O, is it thusWe show our love? Besides, ye sad forlorn!They are not lost who from your arms are torn,They’ve only sooner reach’d their blissful rest!’Tis sweet to end a wearisome sojourn,And reach a wish’d-for home—and they are blestWhose friends are safely housed where nothing can molest.
’Tis hard to part. But if our dreadful loss
Be gain unspeakable to those we mourn,
How selfish ’tis to grieve! O, is it thus
We show our love? Besides, ye sad forlorn!
They are not lost who from your arms are torn,
They’ve only sooner reach’d their blissful rest!
’Tis sweet to end a wearisome sojourn,
And reach a wish’d-for home—and they are blest
Whose friends are safely housed where nothing can molest.
XII.
In those delightful realms of perfect bliss,The raptured spirit finds an endless home;And is it well to break your hearts for this?O, could to earth the sainted spirit come,’Twould chide the mourner weeping o’er the tombAs though thesoulwere chained in prison there!’Twould bid him lay aside his look of gloom,And in its place the smile of triumph wear;’Twould bid him hush the sigh, and wipe the starting tear!
In those delightful realms of perfect bliss,
The raptured spirit finds an endless home;
And is it well to break your hearts for this?
O, could to earth the sainted spirit come,
’Twould chide the mourner weeping o’er the tomb
As though thesoulwere chained in prison there!
’Twould bid him lay aside his look of gloom,
And in its place the smile of triumph wear;
’Twould bid him hush the sigh, and wipe the starting tear!
XIII.
’Twas not with stoical philosophy,She bore her double grief. ForgetfulnessWas not its antidote. Nor could it beDespair that sat upon her peaceful face.O, no! her soul was made of tenderness;Nor could her heart forget the joyous past;Nor did despair her tranquil mind possess;What could it be that o’er her features castA sweet expressive look, that seem’d too calm to last?
’Twas not with stoical philosophy,
She bore her double grief. Forgetfulness
Was not its antidote. Nor could it be
Despair that sat upon her peaceful face.
O, no! her soul was made of tenderness;
Nor could her heart forget the joyous past;
Nor did despair her tranquil mind possess;
What could it be that o’er her features cast
A sweet expressive look, that seem’d too calm to last?
XIV.
The truly pious are most sensitiveTo the delights of dear domestic love;It is religion’s high prerogative,The tend’rest feelings of the heart to moveTo delicate sensations, far aboveThe gross, impure affections, cherish’d oftIn earthly love. A double tie is woveFor those whose hearts together soar aloft;’Tis God who makes the heart pure, delicate, and soft.
The truly pious are most sensitive
To the delights of dear domestic love;
It is religion’s high prerogative,
The tend’rest feelings of the heart to move
To delicate sensations, far above
The gross, impure affections, cherish’d oft
In earthly love. A double tie is wove
For those whose hearts together soar aloft;
’Tis God who makes the heart pure, delicate, and soft.
XV.
What was it, then, that spread a peaceful glow.Upon that lonely mourner’s countenance—She, who had loved her child and husband so,And lived but in their smiles? A cheerful glanceShe gave to each intruder, who, by chance,Stray’d into that lone room. She’d call them near,And tell them of a bright inheritance,And that she knew her darling ones were there;’Twas this had sov’reign power the mourner’s heart to cheer.
What was it, then, that spread a peaceful glow.
Upon that lonely mourner’s countenance—
She, who had loved her child and husband so,
And lived but in their smiles? A cheerful glance
She gave to each intruder, who, by chance,
Stray’d into that lone room. She’d call them near,
And tell them of a bright inheritance,
And that she knew her darling ones were there;
’Twas this had sov’reign power the mourner’s heart to cheer.
XVI.
’Twas confidence in Heaven—for there she turn’dWhen “friend and lover” failed her, and that GodWho never yet the broken hearted spurn’d,Supported her beneath the chast’ning rod,And sooth’d her in her childless widowhood!All glory to his name, who sweetly spoke,And still’d the raging of affliction’s flood!O, sad it is to bear Jehovah’s strokeLike bullocks unaccustom’d to the galling yoke.
’Twas confidence in Heaven—for there she turn’d
When “friend and lover” failed her, and that God
Who never yet the broken hearted spurn’d,
Supported her beneath the chast’ning rod,
And sooth’d her in her childless widowhood!
All glory to his name, who sweetly spoke,
And still’d the raging of affliction’s flood!
O, sad it is to bear Jehovah’s stroke
Like bullocks unaccustom’d to the galling yoke.
XVII.
It well becomes frail man to acquiesceIn God’s most wise and holy providence;Yea, though he bow his head in sore distress,Borne down to earth by sufferings intense,Still let him trust in God, his sure defenceAgainst the rushing tide; for sorrow’s floodCan soon be stay’d by kind omnipotence.Whene’er on us descends th’ afflictive rod,Weak hearted though we be, our strength is found in God.
It well becomes frail man to acquiesce
In God’s most wise and holy providence;
Yea, though he bow his head in sore distress,
Borne down to earth by sufferings intense,
Still let him trust in God, his sure defence
Against the rushing tide; for sorrow’s flood
Can soon be stay’d by kind omnipotence.
Whene’er on us descends th’ afflictive rod,
Weak hearted though we be, our strength is found in God.
XVIII.
God leads his children with a gentle hand,Though often through a gloomy, rugged road,But if they reach at last the promised land,What matter if the paths their feet have trod—Those thorny paths—be moistened with their blood?How gloriously they end their sad career!Their blood stain’d feet are wash’d in Jordan’s flood,Before the throne all spotless they appear,And hush’d is every groan, and dried is every tear.
God leads his children with a gentle hand,
Though often through a gloomy, rugged road,
But if they reach at last the promised land,
What matter if the paths their feet have trod—
Those thorny paths—be moistened with their blood?
How gloriously they end their sad career!
Their blood stain’d feet are wash’d in Jordan’s flood,
Before the throne all spotless they appear,
And hush’d is every groan, and dried is every tear.
XIX.
So thought the mourner, watching o’er her dead:What glorious visions cheer’d her solitude!What heavenly scenes their peaceful influence shed,As there she sat in calm and pensive mood!The glories of the upper world she view’d;Away from earth on faith’s glad wings she sped,And saw in many a bright beatitude,The shining mansions of the sainted dead;And, deep in silent thought, thus to herself she said:
So thought the mourner, watching o’er her dead:
What glorious visions cheer’d her solitude!
What heavenly scenes their peaceful influence shed,
As there she sat in calm and pensive mood!
The glories of the upper world she view’d;
Away from earth on faith’s glad wings she sped,
And saw in many a bright beatitude,
The shining mansions of the sainted dead;
And, deep in silent thought, thus to herself she said:
XX.
“If never more the blessed sun should rise—If moon and stars in blackest gloom were seal’d—Though nature in the gloom should sympathize—Though winds and waves their utmost power reveal’d,And to the heart in hollow groans appeal’d—Though all my friends were laid beneath the sod—Though icy death my blood had all congealed—Still would I trust in thee, my Father God!And bless thee most of all for thy chastising rod.
“If never more the blessed sun should rise—
If moon and stars in blackest gloom were seal’d—
Though nature in the gloom should sympathize—
Though winds and waves their utmost power reveal’d,
And to the heart in hollow groans appeal’d—
Though all my friends were laid beneath the sod—
Though icy death my blood had all congealed—
Still would I trust in thee, my Father God!
And bless thee most of all for thy chastising rod.
XXI.
No—I will not repine. It were not wellTo mourn for thee, my darling! Not for thee!No—thou hast gone ’mid perfect love to dwell,And ‘death is swallow’d up in victory!’I wish thee joy—from pain and sorrow free,While on thy mother earth reclines thy head!All soft and peaceful may thy slumbers be,Till the last trump shall sound, when time has fled,To wake the sleeping pulses of the silent dead!
No—I will not repine. It were not well
To mourn for thee, my darling! Not for thee!
No—thou hast gone ’mid perfect love to dwell,
And ‘death is swallow’d up in victory!’
I wish thee joy—from pain and sorrow free,
While on thy mother earth reclines thy head!
All soft and peaceful may thy slumbers be,
Till the last trump shall sound, when time has fled,
To wake the sleeping pulses of the silent dead!
XXII.
I almost envy thee, my sainted love,Enjoying Heaven’s sweet society!O, that I had the pinions of a dove!How would my eager spirit fly to thee,And joyful share thy blest eternity!Thou, who hast seen the Savior as he is,Art thou not filled with perfect ecstasy?Explain’d are all thy life’s dark mysteries,Thy fears, thy woes, thy pains, thy heart’s deep agonies.
I almost envy thee, my sainted love,
Enjoying Heaven’s sweet society!
O, that I had the pinions of a dove!
How would my eager spirit fly to thee,
And joyful share thy blest eternity!
Thou, who hast seen the Savior as he is,
Art thou not filled with perfect ecstasy?
Explain’d are all thy life’s dark mysteries,
Thy fears, thy woes, thy pains, thy heart’s deep agonies.
XXIII.
Thou art at rest, my husband! on thy headNo more the storm shall beat. Thou art of thoseWhose works do follow them—the blessed dead!O how I long to share thy soft repose—To know that I am safe from inward foes,And foes without! My heavy laden breastShall bear no longer then its weight of woes,And I shall be no more with cares oppress’d;Welcome the blissful hour, when I shall be at rest!
Thou art at rest, my husband! on thy head
No more the storm shall beat. Thou art of those
Whose works do follow them—the blessed dead!
O how I long to share thy soft repose—
To know that I am safe from inward foes,
And foes without! My heavy laden breast
Shall bear no longer then its weight of woes,
And I shall be no more with cares oppress’d;
Welcome the blissful hour, when I shall be at rest!
XXIV.
They say that woman bringeth happinessTo him she loves. I do believe it true;I know, my own! that I could ever blessThy heart, when to my fond embrace it flew.Yes—yes—it gives me comfort to reviewThe few short years we’ve spent together here;Each hour was fraught with gladness ever new;’Tis sweet, my love! beside thine early bier,To think thy noble heart ’twas ever mine to cheer.
They say that woman bringeth happiness
To him she loves. I do believe it true;
I know, my own! that I could ever bless
Thy heart, when to my fond embrace it flew.
Yes—yes—it gives me comfort to review
The few short years we’ve spent together here;
Each hour was fraught with gladness ever new;
’Tis sweet, my love! beside thine early bier,
To think thy noble heart ’twas ever mine to cheer.
XXV.
But hearts like thine are seldom truly known;Some things too lofty are for mortal ken,Till the dim eye, to earthly prospects prone,Learns to look far above this misty fen,Where earth’s rank vapors blind the eyes of men.The truly noble ones are all too few,Nor can they breathe in earth’s polluted den;They, like the eagle, oft escape from view,And soar aloft ’mid Heaven’s deep and tranquil blue.
But hearts like thine are seldom truly known;
Some things too lofty are for mortal ken,
Till the dim eye, to earthly prospects prone,
Learns to look far above this misty fen,
Where earth’s rank vapors blind the eyes of men.
The truly noble ones are all too few,
Nor can they breathe in earth’s polluted den;
They, like the eagle, oft escape from view,
And soar aloft ’mid Heaven’s deep and tranquil blue.
XXVI.
I joy to think, my dear, my only love!Thou’st laid aside thy load of cumbrous clay,And wing’d thy joyful flight to realms above,To pure celestial worlds—away! away!I see around thy head bright glories play!I see thee clothed in robes of innocence!I see the hosts of Heaven in white array!And can I wish to call thy spirit thence,Inhabitant of Heaven? thou pure intelligence?
I joy to think, my dear, my only love!
Thou’st laid aside thy load of cumbrous clay,
And wing’d thy joyful flight to realms above,
To pure celestial worlds—away! away!
I see around thy head bright glories play!
I see thee clothed in robes of innocence!
I see the hosts of Heaven in white array!
And can I wish to call thy spirit thence,
Inhabitant of Heaven? thou pure intelligence?
XXVII.
O, Charles! ‘thy love to me was wonderful,Passing the love of woman.’ In thine eyes—Those dark blue eyes—those mirrors of thy soul,Were pictured feelings words would but disguise—Pure, tender, soul subduing sympathies!Should ever slander, with its poison’d tooth,Or malice, double tongued, against me rise,I’ll think of thee, whose kindness bless’d my youth;I’ll think of all thy love, thy tenderness, thy truth.
O, Charles! ‘thy love to me was wonderful,
Passing the love of woman.’ In thine eyes—
Those dark blue eyes—those mirrors of thy soul,
Were pictured feelings words would but disguise—
Pure, tender, soul subduing sympathies!
Should ever slander, with its poison’d tooth,
Or malice, double tongued, against me rise,
I’ll think of thee, whose kindness bless’d my youth;
I’ll think of all thy love, thy tenderness, thy truth.
XXVIII.
I’ll plant the grave of all my early joyWith seeds of mem’ry, and enrich the soilWith precious tears, and then I will employMy heart as gard’ner, caring not for toil;And thus the gloomy grave I will despoilOf all its gloom, and raise bright flowers there,To cheer me ’mid life’s wearisome turmoil;And so when sad and overcharged with care,To cull sweet mem’ry’s flowers I will oft repair.
I’ll plant the grave of all my early joy
With seeds of mem’ry, and enrich the soil
With precious tears, and then I will employ
My heart as gard’ner, caring not for toil;
And thus the gloomy grave I will despoil
Of all its gloom, and raise bright flowers there,
To cheer me ’mid life’s wearisome turmoil;
And so when sad and overcharged with care,
To cull sweet mem’ry’s flowers I will oft repair.
XXIX.
I bless thee, husband! for thy tender love,For all th’ ecstatic bliss ’twas mine to know;I nestled in thy breast, a timid dove,While my fond heart to thine did firmly grow.I saw upon thy cheek love’s ardent glow,And felt that I was more than others blest,When such a rich pure heart was mine; but, O!I did not dream that warm and throbbing breastSo soon would cease to beat—so soon would be at rest!
I bless thee, husband! for thy tender love,
For all th’ ecstatic bliss ’twas mine to know;
I nestled in thy breast, a timid dove,
While my fond heart to thine did firmly grow.
I saw upon thy cheek love’s ardent glow,
And felt that I was more than others blest,
When such a rich pure heart was mine; but, O!
I did not dream that warm and throbbing breast
So soon would cease to beat—so soon would be at rest!
XXX.
They tell me love has wings—I know it well;But there’s a love implanted in the heart,Which cruel death can never thence expel;’Tis Christian love. Death may a moment partTwo faithful ones, and cause sad tears to start;But hope beyond this darksome world can see,And, by the magic of her soothing art,A most effectual comforter can be;So Hope and Memory by turns shall comfort me.
They tell me love has wings—I know it well;
But there’s a love implanted in the heart,
Which cruel death can never thence expel;
’Tis Christian love. Death may a moment part
Two faithful ones, and cause sad tears to start;
But hope beyond this darksome world can see,
And, by the magic of her soothing art,
A most effectual comforter can be;
So Hope and Memory by turns shall comfort me.
XXXI.
For Hope and Memory twin sisters are,Born in a moment ’mid the present gloom,Bringing their soft illusions from afar,And cheering e’en the darkness of the tomb.Come to my heart, ye lovely sisters, come!And so my wond’ring senses all entranceWith pictures of my past and future home,That I may take one life-enduring glance,Nor cease till I have gain’d my blest inheritance!
For Hope and Memory twin sisters are,
Born in a moment ’mid the present gloom,
Bringing their soft illusions from afar,
And cheering e’en the darkness of the tomb.
Come to my heart, ye lovely sisters, come!
And so my wond’ring senses all entrance
With pictures of my past and future home,
That I may take one life-enduring glance,
Nor cease till I have gain’d my blest inheritance!
XXXII.
I thank thee, holy Father! that I amImmortal. ’Tis a cure for all my woes,That soon they will be followed by the calmOf Heavens’s tranquil and secure repose,When this poor life has reach’d its blessed close.There may be many sorrows more for me,There may arise stern unrelenting foes;But I will trust in Heaven, and thither flee,When I am writhing ’neath opinion’s tyranny.
I thank thee, holy Father! that I am
Immortal. ’Tis a cure for all my woes,
That soon they will be followed by the calm
Of Heavens’s tranquil and secure repose,
When this poor life has reach’d its blessed close.
There may be many sorrows more for me,
There may arise stern unrelenting foes;
But I will trust in Heaven, and thither flee,
When I am writhing ’neath opinion’s tyranny.
XXXIII.
Who wrongs the widow, will be judged by OneWho makes the widow his peculiar care;O, wretched, wretched man! whose setting sunShall sink amid the clouds of dark despair!In God’s own book the words of truth declareThat man accurs’d. Thou, who hast e’er oppress’dThe fatherless or widow, canst thou bearTo die with such a stain upon thy breast,And hear thy Maker say, ‘Thou shalt not see my rest?’
Who wrongs the widow, will be judged by One
Who makes the widow his peculiar care;
O, wretched, wretched man! whose setting sun
Shall sink amid the clouds of dark despair!
In God’s own book the words of truth declare
That man accurs’d. Thou, who hast e’er oppress’d
The fatherless or widow, canst thou bear
To die with such a stain upon thy breast,
And hear thy Maker say, ‘Thou shalt not see my rest?’
XXXIV.
My Father! all my times are in thy hand!Though floods arise, thou’lt bear me safely through,And though thy ways I cannot understand,Whatever pleases thee, shall please me too.Though thou with thorns shalt all my pathway strew,I’ll sweetly rest when life’s short day is o’er,And bless the hand which me to Heaven drew;Then far above this weary world I’ll soar,And through eternity I’ll triumph and adore.
My Father! all my times are in thy hand!
Though floods arise, thou’lt bear me safely through,
And though thy ways I cannot understand,
Whatever pleases thee, shall please me too.
Though thou with thorns shalt all my pathway strew,
I’ll sweetly rest when life’s short day is o’er,
And bless the hand which me to Heaven drew;
Then far above this weary world I’ll soar,
And through eternity I’ll triumph and adore.
XXXV.
When nights of weariness do come to me,They are appointed by my sov’reign friend,To cure me of this world’s idolatry,And thus to Heaven my aspirations send,And with my tears sweet expectations blend.So when I lie and long for morning’s dawn,And vainly wish the painful night would end,And sadly cry, with many a plaintive moan,‘O, when shall I arise, and this sad night be gone?’—
When nights of weariness do come to me,
They are appointed by my sov’reign friend,
To cure me of this world’s idolatry,
And thus to Heaven my aspirations send,
And with my tears sweet expectations blend.
So when I lie and long for morning’s dawn,
And vainly wish the painful night would end,
And sadly cry, with many a plaintive moan,
‘O, when shall I arise, and this sad night be gone?’—
XXXVI.
I’ll think of Heaven, where night shall be no more,Where not one tear shall gather in mine eye,Where weariness and pain shall all be o’er,And I, with seraph wings, shall swiftly flyWith willing speed, my God to glorify,And execute his blessed sovereign will.Welcome the joyful hour when I shall die!Die? No! I then shall live. On Zion’s hillI shall forever dwell, and fear no future ill.
I’ll think of Heaven, where night shall be no more,
Where not one tear shall gather in mine eye,
Where weariness and pain shall all be o’er,
And I, with seraph wings, shall swiftly fly
With willing speed, my God to glorify,
And execute his blessed sovereign will.
Welcome the joyful hour when I shall die!
Die? No! I then shall live. On Zion’s hill
I shall forever dwell, and fear no future ill.
XXXVII.
My rest will come ere long. O, when I sleepMy last long sleep beneath the cold damp sod,Parents and friends! I pray ye not to weepFor one whose feet a thorny path have trod,Then shelter’d in the bosom of her God!I’ve had sore trial of each tender limb,In such a rough and thorn-besprinkled road;O, then, to weep for me would be a crime,When I have safely fled beyond the bounds of time!
My rest will come ere long. O, when I sleep
My last long sleep beneath the cold damp sod,
Parents and friends! I pray ye not to weep
For one whose feet a thorny path have trod,
Then shelter’d in the bosom of her God!
I’ve had sore trial of each tender limb,
In such a rough and thorn-besprinkled road;
O, then, to weep for me would be a crime,
When I have safely fled beyond the bounds of time!
XXXVIII.
Till then I’ll patient be. It is not bestTo bosom sorrow, or to nourish grief;No! let me bear my heavy laden breastWhere only suff’ring hearts can find relief—To Him who was of sufferers the chief!He numbers every hair upon my head,He clothes the flower, he notes the falling leaf;And will he, now my dearest ones are dead,Leave me in sorrow’s night my burning tears to shed?
Till then I’ll patient be. It is not best
To bosom sorrow, or to nourish grief;
No! let me bear my heavy laden breast
Where only suff’ring hearts can find relief—
To Him who was of sufferers the chief!
He numbers every hair upon my head,
He clothes the flower, he notes the falling leaf;
And will he, now my dearest ones are dead,
Leave me in sorrow’s night my burning tears to shed?
XXXIX.
No—no—it cannot be. He shows his power,And who can hinder him? He takes awayMan’s glory and his pride in one short hour,And, when he chooses, hides each cheering rayOf earthly joy, that o’er his path did play.But while his hand thus smites, his heart is love;He sends the cloudy, wintry, stormy day,To make us pause awhile, and look above,And by adversity, the suff’rer’s heart to prove.
No—no—it cannot be. He shows his power,
And who can hinder him? He takes away
Man’s glory and his pride in one short hour,
And, when he chooses, hides each cheering ray
Of earthly joy, that o’er his path did play.
But while his hand thus smites, his heart is love;
He sends the cloudy, wintry, stormy day,
To make us pause awhile, and look above,
And by adversity, the suff’rer’s heart to prove.
XL.
How sweet the names my heavenly Father bears!‘God of all comfort!’ O, the soothing sound!‘Father of mercies!’ Yes! I’ll dry my tears,And go where comfort—mercy—can be found.What though my love lies cold beneath the ground?’Tis but his mortal part. His deathless soulLives and rejoices where pure joys abound;He ran his race, and reach’d th’ immortal goal,And ne’er shall sorrow more, while countless ages roll.
How sweet the names my heavenly Father bears!
‘God of all comfort!’ O, the soothing sound!
‘Father of mercies!’ Yes! I’ll dry my tears,
And go where comfort—mercy—can be found.
What though my love lies cold beneath the ground?
’Tis but his mortal part. His deathless soul
Lives and rejoices where pure joys abound;
He ran his race, and reach’d th’ immortal goal,
And ne’er shall sorrow more, while countless ages roll.
XLI.
Husband, sweet husband! where, O, where art thou?Art thou not near me, whispering peaceful things?Do I not hear thy spirit-accents now,And feel the waving of thy spirit-wings,Cooling my burning heart, where sorrow’s stingsWould rankle, were it not for Heaven and thee?It must be so. My eager spirit springsTo meet thee, love! ’Tis thy sweet task to beA ministering angel, sent to comfort me!”
Husband, sweet husband! where, O, where art thou?
Art thou not near me, whispering peaceful things?
Do I not hear thy spirit-accents now,
And feel the waving of thy spirit-wings,
Cooling my burning heart, where sorrow’s stings
Would rankle, were it not for Heaven and thee?
It must be so. My eager spirit springs
To meet thee, love! ’Tis thy sweet task to be
A ministering angel, sent to comfort me!”
XLII.
’Twas thus the mourner mused from hour to hour,Beside her loved one laid upon his bier;She strew’d his corse with many a fragrant flower,And kiss’d his cheek, and stroked his glossy hair.You would have thought her love was sleeping there,And she was watching o’er him—such a smileSat on his lip, and wreathed his forehead fair;But he is dead—and in a little whileThe damp and teeming earth that forehead must defile!
’Twas thus the mourner mused from hour to hour,
Beside her loved one laid upon his bier;
She strew’d his corse with many a fragrant flower,
And kiss’d his cheek, and stroked his glossy hair.
You would have thought her love was sleeping there,
And she was watching o’er him—such a smile
Sat on his lip, and wreathed his forehead fair;
But he is dead—and in a little while
The damp and teeming earth that forehead must defile!
Charleston,June 22, 1841.