But how much rests unbreathed, my faithful one! The dear work grows Beneath my hand,—the last! Break not my heart with thine excess of love !— Eugene. Weep, weep not thus, beloved! Let my true heart o'er thine retain its power Of soothing to the last! Mine own Teresa ! Take strength from strong affection! Let our souls, Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God's rich boonOur perfect love! Oh, blessed have we been In that high gift! thousands o'er earth may pass, With hearts unfreshen'd by the heavenly dew, Which hath kept ours from withering. Kneel, true wife! And lay thy hands in mine. (She kneels beside the couch-he prays.) Thy children's thanks, Creator! for the love Their spirits to each other and to thee, With links whereon unkindness ne'er hath breathed, Nor wandering thought. We thank thee, gracious God! For all its treasured memories, tender cares, Fond words, bright, bright sustaining looks, un changed Through tears and joy! O Father! most of all, A PRAYER OF AFFECTION. BLESSINGS, O Father! showerFather of Mercies ! round his precious head! On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour, And the pure visions of his midnight bed, Blessings be shed! Father! I pray thee not For earthly treasure to that most beloved- Let such a sense of thee, Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love, That wheresoe'er he move, Upon his heart and mien May sit undimm'd! a gladness rest his own, Faintly remember'd, and too swiftly flown! So let him walk with thee, And when thou call'st him from his mortal place, MOTHER'S LITANY BY THE SICKBED OF A CHILD. SAVIOUR, that of woman born, Mother-sorrow didst not scornThou, with whose last anguish strove One dear thought of earthly loveHear and aid! Low he lies, my precious child, With his spirit wandering wild From its gladsome tasks and play, And its bright thoughts far away— Saviour, aid! And as the seas, beneath your Master's tread, Fell into crystal smoothness, round him spread Like the clear pavement of his heavenly home; So, in your presence, let the soul's great deep Sink to the gentleness of infant sleep. THE SONG OF MIRIAM. A SONG for Israel's God! Spear, crest, and helm Of the dark waters, tossing o'er the slain. RUTH. THE plume-like swaying of the auburn corn, Fall'n in its weariness. Thy fatherland THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH. "And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until water dropped upon them out of heaven; and suffered neither the birda of the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night."-2 SAM. xxi. 10. WHO watches on the mountain with the dead, Alone before the awfulness of night?— A seer awaiting the deep spirit's might? Once proudly graceful, heavy beats the rain; Th' unconquerable angel, mightiest Love! THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMITE WOMAN. "And she answered, I dwell among mine own people." "I DWELL among mine own,"-oh, happy thou! Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line Of streams, that make the green land where they shine Laugh to the light of waters-not for these, Whose kindly whisper floats o'er thee and thing— THE ANNUNCIATION. LOWLIEST of women, and most glorified! From her proud lyre had struck a tempest's tone, For such high tidings as to thee were brought, Chosen of heaven! that hour: but thou, oh! then, E'en as a flower with gracious rains o'erfraught, Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow, And take to thy meek breast th' all-holy word, And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord. That e'en when noontide burns upon the hills, Some one bright solemn starall its lone mirror fills, THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN. YET as a sunburst flushing mountain-snow, Which living harps the choirs of heaven among Might well have link'd with their divinest chords. Full many a strain, borne far on glory's blast, Shall leave, where once its haughty music pass'd, No more to memory than a reed's faint sigh; While thine, O childlike Virgin! through all time Shall send its fervent breath o'er every clime, Being of God, and therefore not to die. THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST'S FEET. THERE was a mournfulness in angel eyes, That saw thee, woman! bright in this world's train, Moving to pleasure's airy melodies, Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain. But from thy beauty's garland, brief and vain, When one by one the rose-leaves had been torn ; When thy heart's core had quiver'd to the pain Through every life-nerve sent by arrowy scorn; When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odours forth On the Redeemer's feet, with many a sigh, And showering tear-drop, of yet richer worth Than all those costly balms of Araby; Then was there joy, a song of joy in heaven, For thee, the child won back, the penitent forgiven! MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST. OH! bless'd beyond all daughters of the earth! But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to meet With love, and wonder, and submissive thought. Oh! for the holy quiet of thy breast, Midst the world's eager tones and footsteps flying, Thou, whose calm soul was like a wellspring, lying So deep and still in its transparent rest, THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER THE DEATH OF LAZARUS. ONE grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead! Was in your bosoms-thou, whose steps, made fleet By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled, THE MEMORIAL OF MARY. "Verily I say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, there shall also this that this woman hath done, be told for a memorial of her."-MATTHEW, xxvi. 13.-See also JOHN, xii. 3. THOU hast thy record in the monarch's hall, Looks upward from the English mother's knee, With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild, There art thou known-where'er the Book of light Bears hope and healing, there, beyond all blight, Is borne thy memory, and all praise above. Oh! say what deed so lifted thy sweet name, Mary to that pure, silent place of fame ? One lowly offering of exceeding love. THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE CROSS. LIKE those pale stars of tempest-hours, whose gleam Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast Such by the cross doth your bright lingering seem, O blessed faith a guiding lamp, that hour MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE. WEEPER! to thee how bright a morn was given MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS OF THE RESURRECTION. THEN was a task of glory all thine own, Nobler than e'er the still, small voice assign'd To lips in awful music making known The stormy splendours of some prophet's mind. "Christ is arisen!"--by thee, to wake mankind, First from the sepulchre those words were brought! Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind First on its way, with those high tidings fraught"Christ is arisen !" Thou, thou, the sin-enthrall'd! Earth's outcast, heaven's own ransom'd one, wert call'd In human hearts to give that rapture birth : Oh raised from shame to brightness! there doth lie The tenderest meaning of His ministry, SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL THE SACRED HARP. How shall the harp of poesy regain That old victorious tone of prophet-yearsA spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears, And all the hovering shadows of the brain? Dark, evil wings took flight before the strain, And showers of holy quiet, with its fall, Sank on the soul. Oh! who may now recall The mighty music's consecrated reign? Spirit of God! whose glory once o'erhung A throne, the ark's dread cherubim between, So let thy presence brood, though now unseen, O'er those two powers by whom the harp is strung, Feeling and Thought! till the rekindled chords Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words. TO A FAMILY BIBLE. WHAT household thoughts around thee, as their shrine, Cling reverently? Of anxious looks beguiled, My mother's eyes upon thy page divine Each day were bent-her accents, gravely mild, Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child, Wander'd on breeze-like fancies oft away, Tosome lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild, Some fresh-discover'd nook for woodland play, Some secret nest. Yet would the solemn Word, At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard, Fall on thy waken'd spirit, there to be A seed not lost,-for which, in darker years, REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY. FROM AN OLD ITALIAN PICTURE. UNDER a palm-tree, by the green, old Nile, Whose undespairing love still own'd the spirit's While, through the stillness of the burning skies, worth. Lo! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings, |