Lifting all my thoughts above,
On the wings of faith and love.
Blest alternative to me,
Thus to sleep, or wake with Thee.
What if Death my sleep invade?
Should I be of Death afraid?
While encircled by thine arm,
Death may strike, but cannot harm.
What if beams of opening day
Shine around my breathless clay?
Brighter visions from on high
Shall regale my mental eye.
Tender friends awhile may mourn
Me from their embraces torn;
Dearer, better friends I have,
In the realms beyond the grave.
See the guardian angels nigh,
Wait to waft my soul on high!
See the golden gates displayed!
See the crown to grace my head!
See a flood of sacred light,
Which no more shall yield to night!
Transitory world, farewell!
Jesus calls with him to dwell.
With thy heavenly presence blest,
Death is life, and labour rest.
Welcome sleep or death to me,
Still secure, for still with Thee.
BEFORE READING THE HOLY
SCRIPTURES.
SON of God! to Thee I look,
Teach me this mysterious book;
Take my weakness by the hand,
Make my dulness understand.
With thy grace anoint my eyes,
Make me to salvation wise;
Wisdom from above impart,
Give me the believing heart.
To the memory of an interesting and amiable young relative, whose mortal career was suddenly closed at the early age of sixteen.
BY AN OFFICER OF THE LINE, AUTHOR OF "VISIONS OF SOLITUDE, A POEM, &C."
It is not when the earthquake rends
Temple and palace, hall and tower;
It is not when the whirlwind bends
The forest with unsparing power;
Nor yet when pestilence, with breath
Of vengeance, walketh to and fro,
That most we hear thy voic^, O Death!
Proclaim of guilty man the woe:-
Oft thy still voice more loud may seem,
When thou dost chase some airy dream.
'Tis sad,—most sad, the wreck to view Of hall, and palace,—fortress,—fane; To see the wrathful tempest strew
The forest round-its strength in vain; Or walk the city's silent ways,
When baleful vapours load the air, And mark each brow, on which we gaze, Sealed with the signet of despair: Yet then-e'en then-may Terror's chill Freeze the heart's fount,-deep, dark, and still.
But eyes that oft without a tear
Have looked upon the battle-field,
Perchance o'er perished Beauty's bier
The tribute-drop of grief may yield.
And bosoms that have calmly heaved
Amid the shipwreck's stormy hour,
May feel the pang of heart bereaved,
In chamber lone, or silent bower,
Where dwelt young genius, now no more
A dweller on Life's rugged shore.
And well may I, though crowding years
Have left their traces on my brow;
And many a joy that bright appears
To youth, has flitted past me now;
may I mourn another string,
A silken cord of being riven;
And well again the death-strain sing,
As, down Time's troubled waters driven, I see another star-beam fade,
Which life more lightsome once had made.
Oh! what avails it? She was young,
And gay, and graceful as the fawn,
That ere the early lark has sung
Bounds joyous o'er the dewy lawn:
Nor borrowed charms nor studied art
Were hers,-yet well the way she knew
Of access to each kindred heart;
And closely, and more closely drew
The friends around her, who, in vain,
May seek to find her like again.
Genius she had: and solemn themes
Familiar to her mind were grown,
Mingling amid Life's beauteous dreams,
Ere the cold blast of Care had blown:
Bright was her eye, and firm her tread,—
Upon her cheek the flush of health;
Nor hers of pallid want the dread,
Nor hers the sordid pride of wealth: Humble, though cherished,-blithe, yet mild, She bloomed,-a grey-haired father's child.
But he has wept above her tomb:
I've seen its heavy portals close:
And withered now is all her bloom;
And cold she lies in Death's repose.
No more those accents shall I hear,
Once tuneful echoes of the lyre;
Nor she the social circle cheer,
And lightly touch the trembling wire,
That bade the mansion of her birth
Ring with the notes of maiden mirth.
Yet lingers hope: and though the grave
Press heavy on her gentle breast,
Through Him who mighty is to save,
We trace the spirit to its rest:
And, exiles still below the skies,
By faith we hail the hasting time,
When from the yawning earth shall rise
The buried dead, to soar sublime,—
And triumph in the realms above,
Raised by Messiah's wondrous love.
'Tis hard, when we are sick and poor, And they who loved us are no more— When riches, friends, and health are gone, "O Lord! Thy will be done."
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