A FATHER READING THE BIBLE.* 'Twas early day, and sunlight stream'd That hush'd, but not forsaken seem'd, * This little poem, which, as its Author herself expressed in a letter to Mrs Joanna Baillie, was to her "a thing set apart," as being the last of her productions ever read to her beloved mother, was written at the request of a young lady, who thus made known her wish "that Mrs Hemans would embody in poetry a picture that so warmed a daughter's heart:" "Upon going into our dear father's sitting-room this morning, my sister and I found him deeply engaged reading his Bible, and being unwilling to interrupt such a holy occupation, we retired to the further end of the apartment, to gaze unobserved upon the serene picture. The bright morning sun was beaming on his venerable silver hair, while his defective sight increased the earnestness with which he perused the blessed book. Our fancy led us to believe that some immortal thought was engaging his mind, for he raised his fine open brow to the light, and we felt we had never loved him more deeply. After an involuntary prayer had passed from our hearts, we whispered to each other, 'Oh! if Mrs Hemans could only see our father at this moment, her glowing pen would detain the scene, for even as we gaze upon it, the bright gleam is vanishing.' "December 9, 1826." Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, And touch'd the page with tenderest light, A radiance all the spirit's own, Some word of life e'en then had met Some ancient promise, breathing yet Of Immortality! Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow Of quenchless faith survives: While every feature said-" I know That my Redeemer lives!" And silent stood his children by, Of thoughts o'ers weeping death. Oh! blest be those fair girls, and blest THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS.* "His early days Were with him in his heart.” THE voices of two forest boys, In years when hearts entwine, WORDSWORTE. Had fill'd with childhood's merry noise To rock and stream that sound was known, The sunny laughter of their eyes, But this, as day-spring's flush, was brief Alas! 'tis but the wither'd leaf That wears the enduring hue: Those rocks along the Rhine's fair shore, For now on manhood's verge they stood, And heard life's thrilling call, As if a silver clarion woo'd To some high festival; For the tale on which this little poem is founded, see L'Hermite en Italie. And parted as young brothers part, With love in each unsullied heart. They parted-soon the paths divide And making strangers in their course, Met they no more?—once more they met, Though the fierce day was wellnigh past, And the red sunset smiled its last. But as the combat closed, they found The mists o'er boyhood's memory spread All melted with those tears, The faces of the holy dead Rose as in vanish'd years; The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever blest, Oh! was it then a time to die? A ball swept forth-'twas guided well- Happy, yes, happy thus to go! Bearing from earth away A passing touch of change or chill, And they, between whose sever'd souls, A gulf is set, a current rolls For ever to divide ; Well may they envy such a lot, Whose hearts yearn on --but mingle not. THE LAST WISH. "Well may I weep to leave this world-thee-all these beautiful woods, and plains, and hills.' Go to the forest shade, Lights and Shadows. Seek thou the well-known glade, Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie, Like dark eyes fill'd with sleep, And bathed in hues of Summer's midnight sky. |