Nor shrink to quit, when quit we must,
Our bodies cast away.
In sunshine, and in gloom, may we
To Him the helm confide!
To Him for strength-for wisdom flee,
Whatever may betide!
WHEN earthly joys glide fast away,
When hopes and comforts flee,
When foes beset, and friends betray,
I turn, my God, to Thee.
Thy nature, Lord, no change can know,
Thy promise still is sure,
And ills can ne'er so hopeless grow
But Thou canst find a cure.
Deliverance comes most bright and blest
At danger's darkest hour;
And man's extremity is best
To prove Almighty power.
High as Thou art, Thou still art near When suppliants succours crave;
And as thine ear is swift to hear,
Thy arm is strong to save.
(Written on being presented with the flower so called, by my Sister.)
MEEK flower of unpretending hue,
Of starry eye, and pallid blue,
That springes in the woodland way-
Or purest, 'mid the hedgerows gay,
Through tufted grass,—'neath hawthorn shade;
Sweet tenant of the gladsome glade,
The sunny bank, the twilight dell,
Who shall thy modest merits tell?
Who sing thy praise in simple lay,
Fair daughter of the lovely May?
The stranger, as he pensive roves,
When springtide blossoms scent the groves,
Perchance may view, with heedless eye,
Full many a flower of brighter dye,—
And e'en regardless pass the bed,
Where secret violets perfume shed:
Then sighing pause, while thoughts of home
Fast crowding o'er the spirit come;
And half forget his lonely lot,
Where gleams thy smile-"Forget me not."
Of days of infant mirth it tells-
Of young imagination's spells,
When fields below, and skies above,
Were radiant all with hope and love;
And life seemed all a verdant plain,
Where frowned not cares, nor entered pain:
Of hours passed in fraternal play,
Where streamlets dash, with mimic spray, Round mossy stone, or murmuring glide, 'Neath willow boughs their waves to hide.
And when we stray those paths along,
Made vocal by the woodland song;
Or o'er the verdant meadows roam,
Where wild bees love to seek their home;
Or in the sylvan glade repose,
While foliaged ramparts round us close;
Let each low plant-each floweret spread
Upon the turf their footsteps tread,
-A preacher in such tranquil spot,
Exclaim-"O, man, forget me not!
Forget not thou the wondrous skill,
That formed me at thy Maker's will:
Forget not that the fearful Power
Which earth sustains, decks too the flower!
Though suns, though planets own his might,
Which called them from the womb of night,
Not less His wisdom meets thy view,
Where the green herb drinks in the dew,
And insect bowers their tenants shield,
-Those flitting pilgrims of the field!"
Yes, O my God! thy voice I hear
In all the seasons of the year;
In every scene of night or day,
Thy wisdom hails me on my way;
All, all, or high or low, proclaim
The glory of thy awful name!
And though a frail and fleeting thing,
Fain would I of that glory sing,
And pray, unworthy though I be,
That Thou would'st e'en Forget not me.
ON THE RECOLLECTION OF MY SISTER.
"VISIONS OF SOLITUDE," A POEM.
Ay, there was one, the first I ever loved,
As child loves child,-my hopes did hover round,
Gaily as butterflies around the flower,
The early beauteous flower of summer-tide;
And years of absence only to our love
Added new strength, until we all but met,
All but became companions once again.
But, Oh, our trysting-spot was where the earth,
In new-raised mound, pressed on her pulseless
And the sad sighing of the chilly breeze
That shook the sere leaf from the shivering bough,
Or vacant passenger's discordant mirth,
The only sounds that fell upon my ear!
Long has the dim and melancholy hour
Elapsed; but never from my mind can fade
Remembrance of my wintry pilgrimage
To the first grave, in which the heart itself
Seems to descend, pressed down by tearless woe;
While time-untutored feelings scarce may own—
Scarce may conceive corruption and the worm
Reigning below the turf whereon we gaze.
In ardent sanctitude and pious deeds,
And chief in Woman charities prevail,
That soothe when sorrow or disease assail.
As dropping balm medicinal instils
Health when we pine, her tears alleviate ills,
And the moist emblems of her pity flow
As Heaven relented with the watery bow.
Let pearls embellish tresses, dew the morn,
But beauties more divine the maid adorn,
When mourning him she loved, her tender tear,
That else had blest his bed, imbathes his bier.
Ask the poor pilgrim on this convex cast,
His grizzled locks distorted in the blast;
Ask him what accent soothes, what hand bestows
The cordial beverage, garment, and repose;
O, he will dart a spark of ancient flame,
And clasp his tremulous hands, and Woman
name!
|