The sun, as he unlocks the rosy gates of the east, and comes forth to run his glad journey across the sky, diffusing light and warmth upon the vegetable world beneath, moves with the utmost regularity, giving to each succeeding year, "the seasons and their changes."

The gentle moon, as she sheds her borrowed light from the blue chambers of the sky, throwing her silver mantle overnight's sable form, performs her varied evolutions without "variableness or shadow of turning." Every planet and every star has its fixed place assigned it, and even the fiery comet has its appointed orbit, and the man of science can tell the exact time of its appearance, and the course it will run, and now it is accounted for by the laws of nature, rather than regarded as a fearful herald of war or devastation; and even the meteor flash, that glares for a moment and then disappears forever, is awakened into action by the density of the atmosphere, and regulated by the same common laws.

The portentous thunder clouds that emit the vivid lightning's flash, and the deep-toned thunder reverberating through the sky, speak of the sublimity of their Author, and perform their destined missions of purifying the air and increasing the health of man.

The sea, the deep blue sea, too, has its bounds that it cannot pass. Its tides may ebb and flow, its bounding waves make music on their winding shore, or heave in their giant strength, and dash their foam and spray before the raging tempest, but they are curbed by that Eternal fiat, which says, "So far shalt thou go and no farther," or hushed by the same voice saying, "Peace, be still!"

Rivers run in their destined courses, and pay constant tribute to old ocean, and even the sparkling brook that bubbles over its pebbly bottom, dances not in vain, for the grass upon its margin assumes a deeper green and marks the threading of its silver current.

The gentle dew that distils upon the tender herbage in the deep silence of midnight, of the mist that rises from the bosom of the earth, are not without design. The mountain rising in its magnificence, the gently sloping hill and verdant vale, are so arranged as to fill the mind of the beholder with satisfaction, while the eye gazes upon the perfect harmony that pervades great nature's works.

Every thing that is beautiful, every thing that is sublime, is depicted in the order and perfection of the natural world, where each has its appropriate sphere and fulfils its appropriate destiny.

This is a theme upon which the most powerful mind may expand itself, stretching from thought to thought, and from object to object, without grasping half the amazing whole. When we contemplate the forest standing in silent grandeur, the tree, the shrub, the flower in all its beautiful varieties, the rock, the precipice, the foaming cataract that has thundered on for ages with the same deafening roar, and all the ten thousand varied objects of inanimate creation, and observe the nice regulations in which they are placed, we can but remark with reverential awe, "In wisdom hast thou made them all."

If we find beauty thus depicted in the inanimate, how much greater will be our admiration in the contemplation of animate creation? If we descend into the depths of the ocean we shall find it teeming with life, from the sponge that clings to the rock, to the mighty leviathan that sports amid the bounding billows.

Or search we the air, we find it peopled with myriads of floating insects, on silken wings, each moving in its own little sphere, and then passing away. The spotted butterfly, that flits through the air, on fairy wing, or rests its downy pinions on the bosom of the fragrant rose; the bird that carols on the spray, or warbles sweetly through the air; the mountain bee, that comes humming round the summer flower, sipping its store of sweets, and even the drowsy hum of the summer-fly, as it floats in mazy circles, are all connecting links in nature's chain.

But where shall we stop? the spider, the cricket, the beetle, the glow-worm, with his feeble lamp, the firefly that flies twinkling through the air all the "midsummer night," and every beast that roams the field, whether wild or tame, all—all have their proper sphere, and are in proper order.

But we have still to contemplate the most beautiful piece of mechanism, of nature's plastic hand, in the formation of man, for whose convenience and use, all things else seem created. A careless observer looks upon man, and sees in the general outline a beautiful piece of mechanism, moving in grace and dignity, and standing in an exalted position upon the earth. He, too, has his place assigned him, by the order of nature, and moves in the highest sphere of earthly being. By the useful and interesting study of physiology, we are enabled to define the construction of his system, to delineate the muscles, nerves, veins and fibres, and the complicated mass that forms the man, with all their separate dependencies upon each other. But the mind, the great moving spring of action that gives motion to the whole, who can analyze or delineate? That will live forever, when the stillness of death rests upon the pulses. That is the great connecting link between time and eternity, and doomed, by the order of nature, to live forever, and the boundless ages of eternity alone can fully develop its faculties, or define its station.

And too, there is another upon earth, whose presence is often felt, but is never seen. The pale horse and his rider leave unmistakable evidences of their sojourn with the generations of men, They pass on, breathing upon them a chilling breath, and they are seen no more. They go forth, conquering and to conquer, and the king, and the beggar, fall alike, before their ruthless sway.

But, there is yet the great unchanging God, for whose honor and glory all things are and were created, who "spake and it was done," and who has taught us by revelation, that the heavens shall be rolled together as a scroll, and the spirit alone remain of man.



The Seasons.

Swift rolls the fast revolving year, As months and seasons disappear; And scarce we greet the vernal Spring, Ere Summer spreads her sultry wing; And she retires with hasty pace To give to sober Autumn place; Who scatters fruits and flowers around, And then to Winter leaves the ground; With frost and snow and tempests drear, He closes each succeeding year. But though so swift they pass from view, Each has its portioned work to do. Spring must unbind the icy chains, And send the streamlet o'er the plains; Call the feather'd songsters home, That far in southern climates roam: Must bid the springing grass appear, And daisies crown the bright parterre; Gently distil her silent show'rs, And propagate her budding flow'rs; Thus gathering up her treasures fair, A gift for Summer, rich and rare.

She takes the garland bright and gay, Fresh from the blooming lap of May: Unfolds the casings from the flow'rs, And flings them o'er her sylvan bow'rs; Brings all their hidden tints to view, Gives to their leaves a deeper hue: Sends forth the bee and butterfly, On downy pinions soaring high, Or sporting gay from flow'r to flow'r, Through the short lived Summer hour. She brings, on every passing breeze, Some fragrant odor from the trees; Spreads out rich beauties to the eye, And softly breathes her gentlest sigh; That wakes the ripple on the stream,— That dances in the sun's bright beam. But summer beauties vanish soon,— As shadows dim the sun at noon; And Autumn comes with aspect mild, Meditation's favorite child.

She takes the gift from Summer fair,— Unbraids the tresses of her hair, Mellows her fruits, scatters her flow'rs, And blights the leaves upon her bow'rs, Then, breathes a mournful sigh around, And whirls them, wither'd, o'er the ground.

Then Winter comes, with tempest wild, Nature's boisterous, willful child, To bind the streams in icy chains,— Drive sleet and snow across the plains; And howling through the wintry sky, The drifting winds shriek loud and high.

Thus Winter closes every year, With snow, and ice, and tempest drear. So human life is but a span,— A title, portion'd out to man; A tale, a song, a fev'rish dream,— A bubble floating on a stream, A tear, a sigh, a passing breath,— A meteor, swallow'd up in death. But though so brief the space we view, Each has its portion'd work to do: Youth must unbind and bud the flow'rs, To bloom o'er manhood's sylvan bow'rs; He must propel the early shoot, And ripen it to golden fruit, And weave a chaplet, rich and rare, For age to twine around his hair,— As Faith looks up, with trusting eye, To brighter worlds beyond the sky.



Dedication in an Album.

Pure, unsullied pages lay before me. How chaste should be the thought, how refined the sentiment here inscribed. May this book be dedicated to Religion, Morality and Virtue, and a deep toned piety pervade the thoughts and emotions here portrayed, which shall find a deep response in your own heart. Like these spotless pages, the mind of youth lays unoccupied, spread out for the reception of the seed committed to its trust. May it be yours to propagate high and holy principles, that shall be watered by the dews of divine grace, ripened by the Sun of Righteousness, and bring forth fruit to eternal life.

As passing years bear away the glad season of youth, and usher in a more mature period, may the traces upon these pages bring back pleasant recollections of dear friends, some, perchance, who may have passed away with passing years, and the hand that now writes may be mouldering in the dust; for disguise as we may, "it is appointed to all men once to die." Those who live well, live in preparation for death.

When in future years your eye glances upon this page, my prayer for your enduring happiness will meet it. May flowers bloom beside your pathway, that never fade.

Sweet flowers beside thy pathway Are blooming, bright and gay, Fann'd gently by the zephyr's wing,— Kiss'd by the sun's warm ray.

But soon they fold their withered leaves, And fade away and die; But still they shed a sweet perfume, Where fallen low they lie.

But there are flowers, perennial flowers, That bloom within the mind: Shedding a fragrance o'er the life, Leaving perfume behind.

Henry, may these adorn your mind, Religion, Virtue, Truth; And thus diffuse their odor sweet, O'er the glad days of youth.

They shall not fade, but brighter bloom, As years are flitting by;— Cast a sweet fragrance round the tomb, And bloom in worlds on high.



Lines, Written to Mrs. S——, On the Death of Her Infant.

Thy anxious watchings now are past, The summons has been given, Thy gentle one has breath'd her last, And gone from earth to heaven.

Yet do not mourn that she from earth Thus early passed away; A pitying Saviour call'd her hence, To realms of endless day.

And she is free from earth-born cares, Which we must still endure; Her little dream of life is o'er, Her crown of glory sure.

Though icy death, like winter's shroud, Surrounds the mould'ring tomb, Upon the resurrection morn Eternal spring shall bloom.

Mother of angels, softly tread, Perchance to thee 'tis given, To hold communings with the dead, Who live and reign in heaven.

And as thy treasures there are laid, There thy warm hopes will rise; Thou hast an added golden link To draw thee to the skies.

Thy mission is a holy one: Thy honor'd husband stands A watchman upon Zion's walls, Its standard in his hands.

'Tis thine to aid the glorious work, Thy ransom'd soul may tell The wonders of a Saviour's love, Who "doeth all things well."

Press onward in thy heav'nly task, And drink in full supplies From free Salvation's living springs, That in the gospel rise.

God speed thee, sister, on thy way; May many souls be giv'n In answer to thy fervent prayers, To form thy crown in heav'n.



Lines, To Mrs. S——, On the Death of Her Son, Who Died March, 1854.

Smooth gently back the silken hair, From off the death-damp brow; Life's feeble struggles all are o'er,— Free is that spirit now.

Mother, no more those anxious eyes Will seek thy loving face; That little, pulseless, marble form, Heeds not thy fond embrace.

Fold the hands lightly on his breast, And close his weary eyes, Then gently seek the place of rest, Where his sweet sister lies.

And place their coffins side by side, Within the narrow tomb. Sweetly, the gentle Saviour said, "To me, let children come."

Then bring pure buds of snowy white, And strew them by their side, Meet emblems, these, of their frail lives,— That in the blooming—died.

They lov'd each other while on earth, And now a purer love Than earth can give, shall elevate Their intercourse above.

Three cherubs now, before the throne, Join in the anthem sweet; Perchance, it lack'd thy Linnae's voice, To make that song complete.

Thou hast a trio angel band, In heaven's high court above;— There Freddie, Lizzie, Linnae stand, Before a God of love.

Thou soon must join that angel band, For earthly must decay; Thy children from the spirit land, Seem beck'ning thee away.

And now a threefold golden cord, Has unto thee been given, Gently to draw thy trusting heart Away from earth to heaven.

And though mysterious are God's ways— His promises are sure; Earth no affliction has so deep, "That heaven cannot cure."

And though so dark appears the cloud— Its silver lining, see; The Sun of Righteousness there sheds His healing beams for thee.

Thou hast one jewell'd casket yet— Thy Eddie still remains; O, may a dying Saviour's blood Cleanse all his guilty stains.

That he may be prepared to go, When Christ shall bid him come, And join that glittering, angel band, In their eternal home.

Then when the last loud trump shall sound, And wake the sleeping dead; Thy family shall all be found, With Christ, their Living Head.



The First and Last Voyage of The Atlantic.

It was a delightful afternoon in midsummer, when I passed through New York, that great thoroughfare of human life, to pursue my passage towards my own New England home, with a heart filled with those inexpressible emotions that crowd upon us, when, after a long absence we anticipate a return to the bosom of a loved family.

Nature seemed tuned to sweet harmonies, and echoing the happiness that filled the heart, produced no discordant note. Gentle breezes fanned the cheek, and bore sweet perfume from the waving branches of the trees as they gently swung before it, and their trembling leaves fluttered before the passing breath of the summer wind; for summer was brightly clad in all her robes of glory.

Birds carolled in wild melody their hymns of praise, and lifted their glad voices to Him "who tipped their glittering wings with gold, and tuned their voice to praise." Flowers were blooming in all their rich varieties, and the splendid boquet that had been presented me from the lady with whom I had been boarding several weeks, bespoke the handy work of its Creator, and involuntarily raised the thoughts to that land, where the flowers fade not, where change and decay come not.

Our journey led us by the quiet Cemetery of Greenwood, that vast receptacle of the city dead. As we mused upon its peaceful rest, its quiet shades, the transparency of the waters, that sleep in the bosom of the sylvan lake, and then glanced upon the great thoroughfare, teeming with life in all its varied and changeful positions, and reflected that every individual in that moving mass possessed an immortal mind, and was pressing their way to these grassy avenues, passing on, step by step, toward the silent grave, the thought was overwhelming, and the question came up, "Lord, what is man that thou art mindful of him, or the Son of man that thou regardest him?"

As we crossed Fulton ferry at Brooklyn, the waters spoke in low, dirge like voices of the same Almighty hand, and their waves were tossed into gentle motion by the passing breeze, and seemed to reflect myriads of diamonds upon its sparkling bosom, as it lay spread out before the eye of the beholder.

The bustling throng of the city were moving down by the Battery toward the steamboat wharf. The silver fountain sent forth its sparkling waters, and the white swan curved its graceful neck in its mimic lake, and the walks in the Battery were neat and inviting; but these attracted not the attention of the passing throng. There was a more intense object of curiosity.

The beautiful Atlantic lay at the wharf, lifting high her huge steam pipes, emitting her blinding steam, and impatient to try her strength upon the bosom of the deep. Her deck was thronged with human beings, filled with impatient curiosity to see the gallant boat launch forth, and pursue her way over the waste of waters.

Little thought that gaping multitude of the rich freight that was on board that floating bark, that was now to try its giant strength upon the billowy waves, the ocean of human mind broader, deeper than the watery waste of the wide Atlantic. O, no, they thought not of those priceless treasures, but it was the boat and her noble bearings that attracted all eyes and was the absorbing theme of conversation.

Near by lay the proud Oregon, apparently boasting that she had tried her strength, and was now willing to contest the point with the stranger boat, and be her pilot down the Sound. Her decks, too, were crowded with passengers anxious for the approaching race, for which every preparation was making.

The sun was sinking towards the west, and shed his subduing beams over the face of nature. No cloud hung its fleecy curtains over the canopy of heaven, but the arch of cerulean blue hung in deep solemn grandeur over the gathered crowd, over the boats at their moorings, and over the rippling waves that mirrored back its placid smile from their own tranquil bosom.

The hour came, the cheerful bells pealed their cordial invitation for all to come on board, and so they hastened on; the second bell rang its departure to the multitude on the shore, and soon the sound of the fierce steam whistle, the noise of the machinery, and the splash of the waters, told that the boats were moving like a thing of life over the bounding billows. The officers of the boat and many of the passengers were hurrying round, with busy feet, and using necessary efforts to propel their speed. As a bird cuts the air or an arrow wings its feathery course, so sped the boats upon their onward way.

The crowd on the shore watched them till they became small black specks in the distance, and then the tumultuous tide of human life turned towards the city's mart, and mingled again in its busy fluctuations and its change.

There was a delightful view as the boat passed the beautiful villages and elegant mansions of the wealthy citizens upon the surrounding shore, reflecting the mild radiance of the setting sun.

When the shadows of twilight deepened, and the sable curtains of night hid more distant objects from view, we could see in the dim distance upon the waste of waters, the heated steam pipes of the swift Atlantic, shedding a lurid glare upon the surrounding darkness.

By some failure in the fire works of the Oregon, one of the boilers refused to do its office, and it was a fearful sight to some on board to witness the high pressure principle that was applied to the other to raise the steam. The blue sky was above us and the blue waters beneath, and midnight shed her mysterious shapes and phantom shadows around us, and awoke memories of steamboat disasters and perishing crews sinking into a watery grave.

The ill-fated Lexington that was burned upon this very track, came up, haunting the imagination with wild, fantastic dreams.

But turning from a land of fancies and of shadows, we raised a trusting eye to the glittering host of silent stars that glistened in all their matchless beauty in heaven's blue vault above, then listened to the dashing of the briny wave, and felt that God was there, that His eye slumbereth not, and His hand holds not only individual life, but the destinies of nations, and at this solemn midnight hour, when there was no object of His creative power in sight save the spangled arch above and the foaming waters beneath, it was sweet to look up to Him in confidence and trust, feeling that His Almighty arm is omnipotent to save.

About midnight the ardor of the race abated. The Atlantic veered off in a different direction toward her destined port, and the Oregon pursued her accustomed way to her usual landing in Stonington.

Both boats reached their places of destination in safety, and thus passed the first night of the gallant boat upon the ocean wave.

* * * * *

It was a cold day when sober autumn had almost accomplished her appointed task, and swept cleanly away the beautiful shrubs and flowers, and rolled the withered leaves before his chilling breath to prepare for the entrance of cold, freezing winter, that already began to send his icy messengers before him, touching the streams with their freezing breath, and scattering snow flakes upon the barren earth.

It was on such a day when autumn came forth dressed in the icy garb of winter, that the Atlantic again prepared to loose from her accustomed moorings and ply her destined way to the busy city. Day after day she had performed her journey, and was winning public confidence in her safety and expedition.

Notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, many sought a passage, desirous of reaching the distant city to spend the coming thanksgiving with absent friends. The wind sighed in low, fitful murmurs as it bore the fleecy snow flakes upon its airy pinions, and flung them unceremoniously into the face of the passing traveler, thus warning him of a fiercely coming storm.

The officers hesitated, as the ominous sea swell came surging on, and the dashing waves moaning upon the winding shore, seemed shrieking a sad requiem over the departed.

But finally the urgency of the passengers was so great, that they concluded to put forth upon the waste of waters and brave the fury of the midnight storm.

The bell gave its usual signal, and as its stifled sounds were borne upon the ear by the howling winds, they sounded like a death knell.

There were hurrying vehicles, and the busy tread of active feet, and the motley group were all on board, and many sorrowing friends stood upon the shore, breathing a tearful farewell, to the dear ones who were going from them.

The man of God was there; he had committed his interests to the "God of the winds and the waves," and his heart was at peace.

The gay and thoughtless were there, who heeded not that "human life is a vapor, that passeth soon away."

The second bell rang, and the sound fell with that leaden weight upon many hearts, that so often comes upon us, when we are called to part from some dearly loved objects, and we feel that it may be an eternal separation.

The boat was soon gliding over the foaming ocean, and the sorrowing friends returned to their homes, for the driving snow and sleet would not permit them to linger long, to watch its progress.

The last fond look was given, white handkerchiefs fluttered a moment in the sweeping blast, and the last farewell had passed between many fond, loving hearts.

The boat pursued her dangerous way, amid "the windy storm and tempest," and hope animated their bosoms, and some felt sure they should arrive in safety.

The storm and darkness increased, the wind blew with greater violence, and the tumultous sea hove up a hollow, bellowing sound, and seemed threatening swift destruction.

About midnight the boat became unmanageable, and it became evident to all on board, that many, if not all, must perish.

O, who may paint the agony of that fearful night? when death was heralding his approach, in the loud surging of the ruthless blast, and the deep toned thunder of the many voiced waters, as they dashed their giant waves against the ill-fated bark, that groaned and trembled beneath their mighty pressure.

Mingling with the tumultous groans of troubled nature, arose a fearful cry, from lips white with fear.

The solemn voice of prayer went up, and there were none to scoff, when the aged man bent his knee, and lifted his heart to God in prayer, beseeching him, for Jesus Christ's sake, to have mercy upon their souls. Many prayed in that hour of trial that never prayed before. It was an hour that closed the scorner's lip, and made the most profligate feel he was in the presence of a prayer-hearing God.

The bell, as if by some mysterious agency, commenced tolling, and its sad knell sounded through that long night, over the bosom of the lone sea. It was the same bell that rang so loud and clear on the day of the boat's first departure from New York; but now how different are the tones as they mingle with ocean's wail, and the fearful shriek of the howling blast.

It was like the changes that come over us so often, as we toss upon the tide of life, and buffet its adverse storms.

Many, ere morning dawned, found a watery grave.

It is not my intention to particularize, but draw the contrast of the first and last night the beautiful boat tossed upon the mighty deep.

Perchance the same eyes that witnessed her departure from the shore, anxiously watched her return that morning, and the anticipated greeting of many a dear friend burned bright in many a heart, but was soon—very soon—to be forever extinguished, as the loved, expected form was even then buried beneath the ocean wave. Many a mother had prepared the sumptuous thanksgiving breakfast, for a long-absent expected son, who, perchance, was offering up his thanksgiving anthem before the throne of God.

Hoary age and helpless infancy fell alike, before the destroying angel, and there were vacancies in almost all the relations of life.

How often it is thus with those who sail in life's frail bark, out upon the ocean of time. The morning may be calm and serene, and the golden sun shed his glad beams upon our joyous pathway, or the pale moon may walk forth in her beauty, accompanied by all the hosts of twinkling stars, to gladden the night, while gentle winds sigh around our dwellings, and we may pass on in the sunshine and the calm. But clouds will arise, tempests will come, for the waves and billows of human passions will surge over us, and many a frail bark is shattered and stranded beneath their giant strength.

Weary pilgrim in life's rugged journey, there is a haven of peace, where thy worn spirit may find rest. There is a chart to guide thee over the troubled sea, and a pilot stands ready to steer thy little bark aright.

His beams can ever shed a cheering ray upon thy toilsome way; and, oh, may you see light in his light.

The broad ocean of eternity lays before us; into that must our little shallop pass, and meet its final award. This, this is all that is worth living for—happy entrance into the presence of God, that

"We may bathe our weary souls, In seas of heavenly rest."



The Fatal Feast.

Wealth would have a birth-day ball, A high and lordly feast: And open'd wide his spacious hall, And ask'd in many a guest.

They came—the trifling ones of earth,— A gay and thoughtless throng, To join in revelry and mirth, With music, dance and song.

High waxen tapers burning bright, Illum'd the brilliant hall, And threw their soft, enchanting light, In dazzling rays o'er all.

Soft music echoed sweetest tones, By unseen minstrels breath'd; The air was laden with perfume, From flow'rs that round were wreath'd.

Beauty was there, with brilliant eye. And Health, with rosy cheek,— Manhood, with forehead stern and high, And youth with many a freak.

All—all were sparkling, bright and gay, And join'd the dance or song,— And seem'd unto the gazer's eye, A happy, joyous throng.

And Wealth spread out his costly feast, And gaily all partook: The choicest viands cheered each guest, As all with pleasure look.

For Luxury's self ne'er spread a board With dainties so profuse,— The most fastidious must be pleas'd, For he had but to choose.

One goblet fill'd with nectar bright, The centre seem'd to keep; And when 'twas pass'd among the guests, They all quaff'd long and deep.

The music never ceas'd its strain; But warbl'd low and sweet;— Sometimes, soft wailing, 'twould complain— Then mirth the ear would greet.

All seem'd enchantment spread around,— A golden, fairy dream; And far off, mingling in the sound, Was heard a murmuring stream.

And summer breezes softly sigh'd,— And wasted sweet perfume, Through door and lattice, open'd wide, Around the spacious room.

When mirth was in its wildest mood, And reign'd in every breast, Sudden there stalk'd into the hall, An uninvited guest.

The air grew chill, the lamps burn'd pale,— All gaz'd with wild dismay, The music turn'd a funeral wail,— Then sighing, died away.

Twas Death that came into the hall, With visage wan and grim, And throwing off his sickly pall, Disclos'd each meagre limb.

Some rose to flee, but palsied fell, "I'm monarch here," cries Death; And falling bodies quickly tell His power o'er life and breath.

Beauty lies cold in his embrace, And pale is manhood's brow; The rose that crimson'd youth's fair cheek, Lies a crush'd lily now.

All, all have sank beneath his dart, Save fashion's ruthless hold; She still maintains her iron grasp O'er bodies pale and cold.

Gold glitters on the pallid brow, And glassy eye-balls stare Through glossy ringlets, clustering bright, Of silken, raven hair.

All, all had bow'd to Fashion's shrine, To deck the living form, Through which will drag its length'ned slime, The crawling coffin worm.

The morning sun had risen high, And brightly shone o'er all; But comes no voice, and wakes no eye Within that spacious hall.

A traveller passing by that morn, Marvell'd that all so long Should linger in that festive hall With revelry and song.

And so alighting from his steed, He cross'd the portal high, And glancing o'er the silent hall, The sad sight met his eye.

With lightning's speed he hurri'd forth To tell the dismal tale, And soon were gather'd sorrowing friends From mountain, hill, and dale.

Sad was the fun'ral wail that rose From that infected hall; Nought could the different forms define, But Fashion's slimpsey pall.

And there they rais'd one common tomb, And left them to their sleep, 'Till Christ's loud trump shall wake the dead From slumber, long and deep.

The marble monument they rais'd Doth this instruction bear: "The things of earth pass soon away, To meet your God prepare."

Many voices from the dead, Here bid you well beware; Tho' youth may bloom upon your cheek, Still, still for death prepare.

The flowing nectar that had grac'd The centre of the whole, And so enlivened every guest, Had death within the bowl.

Some small ingredient, when 'twas fix'd, Was left by a mistake, And others were together mix'd, That active poison make.



To the Maiden

Maiden, have not the joys of earth Prov'd fleeting, and of little worth? And when the summer sun rode high, Have clouds ne'er flitted o'er the sky? Has Hope ne'er sprung beside thy way, And blossom'd only to decay? Has Friendship never chang'd her tone, And 'woke a sigh for pleasures gone? Has Love ne'er shed his fitful gleam Across thy path—then hid his beam? Hast thou ne'er felt the solemn truth— That palsied age must steal o'er youth; And that the auburn tresses gay Must soon be chang'd for mournful gray? Has sickness never pal'd the rose, That on the cheek of beauty glows, And ghastly death, with funeral gloom, Oft call'd the lovely to the tomb? Ah, maiden, yes, that tell-tale sigh, The downcast glances of thine eye, Say that thy heart is but the tomb Of hopes that wither'd in their bloom;— Say that, where all things else decay, Thy fragile form must pass away. Then why so fondly cling to earth, Whose joys are of so little worth? But rather raise your thoughts on high, Where Hope's fair promises ne'er die, Where ghastly death holds no domain, But endless youth and beauty reign.



To Mrs. B——, On the Death of a Son.

How frail are all the things of earth, How subject to decay; Scarce they receive their fragile birth Ere they are swept away.

And tyrant death, with icy hand, Is ever lurking near, And binding in his frozen band, The forms to us most dear.

But do not mourn the early dead, Whose thread of life is riven; 'Tis Jesus calls them from the earth, To be with Him in heaven.

Spotless and pure they pass from earth, And Jesus bids them come; And glorious is their heavenly birth In their eternal home.

No more you'll hear the plaintive voice;— "Mother, dear mother, where?" Your child shall with his God rejoice In full fruition there.

No more shall burning fever rage, No more shall pain oppress, But angel strains his tongue engage In hymns of righteousness.

And when life's ebbing sands shall fail, And pallid death shall come, May you then look within the vail, To that eternal home.

And then, perhaps, your gentle child, So soon from sin set free, May be the first of angel bands, Brightly to welcome thee.

So do not mourn the early dead, So sinless and so fair, But be prepared to join their bliss, Thus is the stranger's prayer.



O Come Back, My Brother.

My brother, O, come back to play, For all the flow'rs are springing gay, And all the birds sing on the spray; So, come back, my brother.

'Twas winter when you hung your head, And lay so pale upon your bed, And mother told me you were dead, My poor little brother.

Then the birds all went away, And all the leaves fell from the spray, And all the streams forgot to play, Just like you, my brother.

Then deep fell the drifting snow, And loud the wintry winds did blow, And all the flow'rs were buried low, Just like you, my brother.

But now the sun is riding high,— The busy bee comes humming by, And spring's soft gales around us sigh; O come back, my brother.

Your little rose-bush springs to view, Your daffodils and daisies too, And ev'rything comes back but you, My poor little brother.

O, could I ope the grassy mound, With which your lovely form is bound, And break your slumber, so profound, My poor little brother.

Then gentle mother'd cease to mourn, And speak to me in that sad tone; And pity me because alone; O, come back, my brother.

And yet, I know, it cannot be, That thou wilt ever come to me; But I must shortly go to thee, My poor little brother.

I know that thy once lovely form, Now feeds the cruel coffin worm,— And that corruption doth deform All traces of my brother,

I know that life will swiftly glide,— That death's bark floats upon the tide, And soon will lay me by your side, My dear buried brother.

Then may our souls together reign, On yonder bright, aerial plain, And shout a loud, seraphic strain, In happiness, my brother.



The Twins

It was a sad day in autumn, pale, withering autumn, when a little group of friends collected round the cradle of an infant of a few weeks, who had tasted the cup of life, and now was turning seemingly disappointed away from the bitter portion. The mild blue eyes were raised to heaven, and that heavenly angelic expression, so peculiar to expiring infancy rested upon his face, which was lovely in the extreme, though wasted by disease. He was tenacious of life, and lingered long in the embrace of the pale messenger, although the eye was dim and the wrist pulseless.

The father, mother, sister, and brother, and grandmother, sat watching the quivering flame that would rally for a few moments, then wane again. Near by sat the nurse, bearing upon her lap the little twin sister, who had her birth at the same hour with him, and who, like him too, was passing away.

How soon they wearied of life, those frail, gentle ones, and the angel came to bear them to a brighter, holier world, where the purity of their sinless spirits should remain untarnished by the blight and pollutions of earth.

We watched till the sun went down in the western sky, dim and shadowy, enshrined long before his setting by a yellow autumnal haze, that cast a melancholy subduing shade over the face of decaying nature that hung out her fading flowers and withered leaves, as a token of the sad change that was passing in her realm, while the evening breeze, as it swayed the branches of the trees, bearing many a leaf to the ground, and drifting them before his melancholy breath, seemed sighing a sad requiem over departed glory.

Such a scene, at such an hour, spoke forcibly of the varied changes and uncertainties of life, and as we looked upon the marble paleness of the dear children, and compared them with the withering flowers beneath the window, we felt that human life is but a flower that perisheth.

In this instance, the worm had sapped the bud ere the brighter tints were developed. As we stood in that chamber of death, we felt that God was present, that He who had given life was about to take it back to reign with Him, and though the deep fountains of grief were stirred, there came a "still, small voice," heard through the silence of that lone room, "Be still, and know that I am God," and we bowed in submission to the Divine will.

The mist broke from the face of the sun, and his last setting beams looked forth clear and bright upon the earth, tinging the fleecy clouds with gold and purple, and they looked like gorgeous piles of molten gold, over hung with crimson purple curtains, forming a sumptuous canopy to decorate the heavens.

Even so with the babe, life's feeble taper seemed to revive and emit a brilliant glare for a moment, the lips parted, the eyes wandered from object to object, and seemed to survey all the room contained, gazing most earnestly upon the face of the little sister, so soon to follow him, then wearily closing them with a slight struggle, the spirit passed away.

As we folded him in the vestments of the grave and laid him into the silent halls of death, hope whispered of a glorious resurrection morn, when those blue orbs should again awake from that long peaceful sleep, and look out upon the beauties of the upper world.

They placed his little form in a wide coffin, and laid it in the tomb to await the coming of his little sister.

A week passed away, a week of weary watchfulness and anxiety, of pain, suffering and distress, and the angel returned again for the twin spirit.

It was at the deep midnight hour when he announced his mysterious presence, by laying his icy hand and spreading his marble paleness over the form of the departing sister. The little frame was convulsed, and writhed beneath the grasp of the pale visitant, but he pitied not, relented not, but steady to his purpose, snapped the brittle thread of life, performed the task he had been commissioned with, and hurried away from that place of tears to cast his deep shadow over the sun light of other homes, and fill other hearts with grief, and cause other eyes to look red with weeping, "because death has come into the world," and the children of men must fall before his withering blight.

Already had decomposition commenced its repulsive work in the form of the little son, and he was laid away, while the coffin returned for the other dear one, who was to moulder with him in its narrow confines.

Deposited in the same tomb, was a coffin covered with mould, and just ready to drop from the shelf upon which it was placed, and the shrunken boards had separated, and it was perforated with large cracks where it had been joined together. The lid was always unscrewed, and was often raised by the hand of a fond mother, who looked upon the dust of an only daughter, who had been the idol of her heart. She had spared no pains in educating her, and she had well repaid the labor bestowed upon her in the acquisition of knowledge.

She was beautiful in person, amiable in disposition, and was beloved by a large circle of acquaintances. She was married early, to the companion of her choice, who had been attentive to her from childhood, declaring the first time he saw her, he never saw such beautiful curls in his life, as Annie Grey's.

She had two little sons, and all looked bright and prosperous; Annie was happy in the affection of her husband, her children and her friends, but death lingered not for these things; he came, a most unwelcome visitant, and bore his unwilling victim from the presence of her agonized mother, "to join the pale nations of the dead."

She dressed her in the gilded trappings of life, bolstered her up in bed, and curling her beautiful hair in glossy ringlets over her pale face, had her likeness taken as large as life, and touched with natural coloring, thus preserving the form and features of her child, upon the senseless canvass, which was kept hung up in her room, covered with black crape, during her life time.

Annie ever expressed repugnance at the idea of being deposited in the ground, and her mother had this tomb built that she might there repose, and she could watch her sleeping dust as it crumbled to decay.

Who that looked in upon that mouldering mass of blackened dust, and contrasted it with the beautiful form that moved in life, but learned an impressive lesson of the change that death makes upon the form of youth and beauty? She had slept there many years, and the mother felt the time was approaching, when she must take the last look of those dear remains, and have them removed to the second vault, or buried beneath the grassy turf; but ere the time arrived, the great reaper gathered father and mother into his abundant harvest, and laid them by her side.

Her husband, many years before, had passed from life's busy scenes, and closed his eyes forever upon earth.

The little girl was placed in a coffin, and borne by weeping friends to the burial place, and with her dead brother, lay side by side, beautiful in death.

Fresh buds were placed in the hands of each, as they lay, with their little arms entwined around each other, and their white marble faces, looking up to the pure sky above, while their half-open lids displaying their blue orbs, seemed looking out beneath the drooping fringes, to take a last farewell of earth, sun, sky, friends, and all the endearing associations of life.

A little mound was raised beside the grave of the maternal grandfather, who had fallen suddenly, in the meridian of life, while the strength of manhood was yet upon him. As the aged grandmother turned from the grave of the little ones, she gave one lingering glance to her husband's grave, and removing her glove from her hand, pressed the marble slab, that stood at the head of it, and passed on, with a sigh and a tear, to fulfil the remaining duties that awaited her in life.

She had parted from him, many long years before, and now she had lived her threescore years and ten, and her head was whitened with passing years; but the infant of a few days had gone before her. But a few more years passed, and you looked in vain upon earth for that weary voyager,



On the Frailty of Earthly Things.

The things of earth are false, as fair, And glitter to betray, They scarce outlive the sunny glare Of one short summer day.

The hours—how rapid in their flight, And days pass swift away, Scarce dawning ere the shades of night Chase its bright beams away.

The dew-drop trembling on the flow'r, Gemm'd by the morning's ray,— Glitters scarce one little hour, Ere it is dried away.

The butterfly with gilded wing, That flits from spray to spray, Is but an evanescent thing, That passeth soon away.

The flow'rs—those gay and brilliant things, So charming to the eye, Soon fold their withered petals up, And fade away and die.

The busy bee, with drowsy hum, That through the summer day, Flies sipping round from flow'y to flow'r, Bearing its sweets away,

Is soon constrain'd by wintry winds, To seek her honi'd cell, And giving o'er her wandering life, In quiet there, to dwell.

And rosy health that paints the cheek With richest crimson dye, And bids the heart of kindness speak From beauty's flashing eye,

Soon, soon withdraws the blushing rose, And leaves the lily there: Bedims the lustre of the eye, And pales the cheek with care.

I saw a smiling infant stand By its fond mother's side: She fondly pressed one dimpl'd hand With sweet maternal pride.

Her form was faultless to behold, And every infant grace Beam'd sweetly from her radiant eye, And rosy dimpl'd face.

But sudden stiffness seiz'd those limbs, A gurgling stopp'd her breath: Those eyes that shone so bright before, Were soon upturn'd in death.

And love that fills the youthful breast, With visions bright and gay, Oft strews his downy nest with thorns, And quickly flies away.

And friendship, that peculiar boon, From God to mortals given, That seems a brilliant golden link, Uniting earth with heaven,

Is broken off, and often turn'd With careless heart away, And hatred fills the self same place Where gentle love had sway.

But oh! how poison'd is the dart That sheds its venom there, And drives uncherish'd from the heart, The gift so good and fair.

An aching void must ever dwell Within the stricken heart; For who can all the suff'ring tell When friends in hatred part?

Then do not fondly cling to earth, Where all things must decay: Where happiness scarce has its birth Ere it is swept away.

Lean not on earth, 'twill pierce the heart, At best a broken reed, And oft a spear where hope expires, And peace as often bleeds.

But far beyond yon azure sky, Yon sparkling star-lit dome, Let your aspiring hopes ascend, For there's your heav'nly home.



To a Friend

I love to watch thy youthful eye, That speaks thy fond affection; I love to hear thy tender sigh,— It charms my deep dejection.

The gentle beamings of that eye Have power to soothe each sorrow, While casting hope's refulgent dye, In glances, on to-morrow.

My love is clear as crystal streams, Flowing from sylvan fountains,— And pure as Phoebus' noon-day beams, That gild yon rising mountains.

And constant as the Northern Bear, That guards the pole unceasing, And ushers in the new-born year,— Nor waning, nor decreasing.

But still, shouldst thou faithless prove, Thy plighted vows resigning, Leave me and seek another love, I'd bear, without repining.

No discontent should fill my breast, But calm as summer even, I'd still look forward to my rest, In yonder vaulted heaven.

And still I'd breathe my pray'r for thee With all my soul's devotion, Till life itself should cease to be, And death chill'd each emotion.

Then calm as day's expiring breath, Each injury forgiven, My ransom'd soul should take its flight, And wing its way to Heaven.



The Mother and Her Child.

Child, raise a fervent prayer to heav'n, That this day's sin may be forgiv'n, Ere you sink to sweet repose, While evening's shadows round you close.

The golden sun has sunk to rest, Behind the curtains of the west, And rosy twilight, soft and mild, Brings gentle slumber to my child.

The busy, bustling cares of day, In noise and tumult pass'd away; Solemn night, so still and deep, Bids nature's wearied children sleep.

Soft is the pillow of your rest,— With health and friends, and comforts blest; Then raise a fervent prayer to heav'n, That ev'ry sin may be forgiv'n.

The child began, "Father forgive My many sins, and bid me live: May I be humble, meek and mild, Like Jesus, when a little child.

"O may this feeble soul of mine, Be join'd to Christ, the living vine; May I ever bow the knee, And 'Abba, Father,' cry, to thee.

"Father, in heaven, hear my prayer, And make a little child thy care, Jesus has said, so let it be, 'Suffer such to come to me.'

"But, mother, why's my pulse so still? Mother, why is the air so chill? And, mother, why are angels fair Hov'ring o'er me, in the air?

"Mother, with thee I cannot stay,— Those angels beckon me away; I feel this night, so still, so deep, Will bring to me a lasting sleep."

"My child, my child, can it be so? Can I let my darling go? Oh, yes—I see it plainly now,— 'Tis death's cold hand upon thy brow.

"Come, lay thy icy cheek to mine,— I'd kiss thee once, ere I resign To icy death, thy lovely form, To feed the gnawing coffin worm.

"Corruption, nor the coffin worm, Can thy triumphant soul deform; That, enraptur'd, shall arise, To dwell with Christ, beyond the skies.

"'Tis the dear Saviour bids thee come,— His angels wait to bear thee home; Loudly, he's saying now to thee,— 'Suffer such to come to me.'"

"Mother, all things are pure and bright;— I see them by a heavenly light, And beaming in the distance far, I see the glorious morning Star.

"Farewell, mother," but the name Died on her lips—life's quiv'ring flame Had just expir'd; that deathless soul Had burst its chains, and pass'd the goal.

The mother meekly knelt in prayer,— She felt that God's own hand was there, Then wip'd one pearly tear away, And rose to shroud her lifeless clay.

So sweet a smile the lips still wreath'd, It seemed life through their parting breath'd, So gently death had o'er her crept, That all who gaz'd might deem she slept.

The mother watch'd, with earnest eye, Her youngest Child before her lie, Then meekly glancing up to heaven, "Father, she was not lent, but given.

"Father, thou hast in mercy spoken,— A tender tie from earth is broken, But that same tie is link'd to heaven, And stronger faith and hope are given."



A Mother's Prayer.

My children all have sunk to rest, The youngest pillow'd on my breast, And though 'tis midnight, stern and deep, I still a mother's vigil keep. Why comes so oft the unbidden sigh? Why springs the tear-drop to my eye, And why this agonizing prayer, Ming'ling with the midnight air? O, God, to thee I lift mine eye, Help thou, or else my children die. To thee my inmost thoughts arise; By faith I pierce the vaulted skies, And there I see thy risen Son, Seated beside thee on the throne, His pitying accents cry "Forgive," And let the thoughtless sinner live. "Father, I have been crucified—" "An ignominious death have died,—" "Deep agony for sin have known;" "Father, and will not this atone?" I come, too, leaning on His breast, There all my hopes and wishes rest, And join with His my pleading voice, That they may all in god rejoice. May one melodious concert rise From angels, bending from the skies:— O'er new-born souls, redeemed on earth, Rejoicing in their heav'nly birth. Lead them in pastures green and fair, And gardens planted by thy care; Where streams of free salvation flow, And fruitful trees of knowledge grow. Father, I ask not sordid wealth, Nor the more precious boon of health; The only blessing that I crave Is endless life beyond the grave; That when the icy hand of death Shall seize their frames, and stop their breath, Their souls on wings of faith may rise To life and joy beyond the skies. O Father, grant me this request And I shall be supremely bless'd; Bend ev'ry stubborn, wilful knee, And draw each wand'ring heart to thee. But hark! I hear a cheering voice That bids my waiting soul rejoice. "Be still, and know that I am God," And bow submissive to the rod. It seems almost that voice from heav'n, Had spoke my childrens' sins forgiven, So suddenly had calmness stole O'er the deep currents of my soul. Glory to God, who whispers peace, And bids our hope and faith increase; Glory to God, be echoed then, 'Till earth repeats the long amen.



Lines, Written in an Album.

Earthly beauties soon decay, Earthly pleasures fade away; Then raise your fond desires to heaven, And let not all to earth be giv'n.

Though touch'd by brilliant rainbow dyes, Earth can contain no lasting prize. But high above yon azure dome, The ransom'd spirit finds a home.

O, then make wisdom's ways your choice In early youth. You will rejoice To tread the straight and narrow way, That upward leads to endless day.

Then when life's little day is past, Angels shall welcome thee at last To yonder blissful, happy shore, Where sin and sorrow come no more.



On The Death of a Mother.

O bring a robe of snowy white, And fold it lightly o'er her breast; Cold and pulseless now it lies, The sainted spirit's sunk to rest;

And gently fold the toil-worn hands, And softly close the weary eyes; Life's rugged journey now is past, And calm in death's cold sleep she lies.

That gentle heart has ceas'd to feel The gushings of a mother's love; But now a purer, holier flame, Springs up in brighter realms above.

And mother, though the tender tie Uniting us, has thus been riven, May we not feel a stronger bond Drawing our trusting hearts to heaven?

Now oft when evening's shadows steal Across my path, thy voice I hear; Again its well remember'd tones Seem murmuring on my childish ear.

And oft, when sorrow fills my breast, And my worn spirit turns from earth, There comes a gentle, well known voice, Whisp'ring of the spirit's birth.

'Twas hers to guide our infant feet In wisdom's straight and narrow way, To lead us to a Saviour's cross, And teach our infant lips to pray.

But now how blissful is her state, Free from this cumb'rous, earthly clod, Her ransom'd spirit fill'd with praise, Joins the pure throngs that worship God.

She's join'd her children in their home, In those bless'd mansions far away, Where sin nor death can ever come, But all is bright, eternal day.

And though our mother's pass'd from earth, An angel bending from the skies, Is ever hov'ring o'er our path, Urging our weary souls to rise.

Then let us her sweet precepts take, Tread in the paths our mother trod, Walk prayerfully the narrow way. Directed by the word of God,

Cleans'd by a dying Saviour's blood, We may obtain the promis'd rest; And when we pass away from earth, Join our dear mother with the bless'd.

Peace to thy memory, mother dear, Sweet be thy slumber in the tomb, 'Till Christ in judgment shall appear, And call His ransom'd children home.



The Music of Earth.

There's music in the summer breeze, That sighs along the bow'rs; There's music in the hum of bees, That flit among the flow'rs. There's music in the gentle show'r That patters on the spray; And music in the bubbling brook That dances on its way. There's music in the rustling leaf, Before the zephyr's sigh, And music in sweet childhood's laugh, As it comes ringing by. There's music in the warbler's song, That trills his matin lay; And music in the evening breeze, As soft it dies away. There's music in "Old Ocean's" wave, That breaks upon the shore; And music in the tempest's moan,— The distant thunder's roar. There's music in the things of earth, Sweet music that we love; But oh, there's music sweeter far In yon bright world above. Where angel bands, with golden harps, Sing loud of sins forgiven; And praises to a Saviour slain, Fill the high dome of heaven.



Lines, Written on the Death of Mrs. Caroline P. Baldwin, Who Died July 6, 1827.

O bring a wreath of summer flow'rs, And twine it lightly round her brow; How calmly pass these holy hours— Mysterious death is with her now.

His icy breath is on her cheek, His dew is freezing on her brow; Her eyes no more earth's shadows seek— Eternity's before them now.

She sees a glittering angel band, On downy pinions floating by, To waft her to the spirit land, Beyond the blue etherial sky.

And hears low music stealing by,— From golden harps the concert rings; Earth mingles in the melody That rises, to the King of kings.

"Husband, I know I'm dying now, Life's golden sands are waning fast; Seal on my lips the parting kiss,— It is the last one—yes, the last.

"Now bring to me our blue eyed boy,— I'd gaze upon his face once more; May he, kept from earth's alloy, Meet me on yon blissful shore."

"Mother, your love is pure and deep— I know the fount will never dry; But in its onward current keep, Through a long eternity.

"Sister, I'm passing to the tomb, When life's young morn is fair and bright; And shrouded soon, my youthful bloom Shall dreamless sleep in death's dark night.

"Dark, did I say—O, no, I see The golden city full in view; The pitying Saviour smiles on me, And angel-bands conduct me through.

"Sweet as the carol of a bird, Soft as the gentlest summer sigh, When scarce one trembling leaf is stirr'd My sinking pulses faint and die."

And so death rested on her cheek,— Lingering in "strange beauty there;" That seraph smile a rapture speaks— That earthly pleasures may not share.



Lines, Written in a Sick-Room, April 15, 1855.

O, fold my flowing curtains by, I fain would catch the breath of spring, And breathe its gentle, balmy sigh, As soft it floats on silken wing.

Lightly it fans my pallid cheek, And cools the fever of my brow, And seems of coming health to speak, As soft it murmurs round me now.

Oh, there are those in life's young morn, Who, gazing forth with earnest eye, Feel that spring's joyous, glad return, Brings but to them the time to die.

While I, a pilgrim, worn and gray, Wearied with care, still linger on, Life's path to tread, one little day, Before the feverish race is run.

On the great battle-field of life, The warp of destiny is spread, And countless millions in the strife, Supply the woof with varied thread.

O, there are some, with hearts of truth, With courage bold, and daring high, Whose texture scarce from early youth, Presents one blemish to the eye.

And there are those all steeped in crime, Whose fabric is one constant stain; Who fill up their appointed time, With conduct vile, and lips profane.

There are bright streaks of glowing hope, And blackened shades of deep despair,— All smiles of joy, all tears of grief, Like rainbow dyes are blended there.

Repentance, with her bitter tears, Would wash some dismal crime away; And Terror, arm'd with many fears, Stands pointing to a future day.

And Happiness, with sunny smile, Weaves in her roses, rich and rare, Love, Constancy and Truth, we find, And trusting Faith, with humble prayer.

Vain were the effort to portray The varied shades life's scenes present; But oh, how swift the shuttles play, By every thought or action sent.

And so each one is weaving fast His little web of human life;— Happy those, who find at last, They have conquered in the strife.

It matters not how short the warp, If to the goal the object tend, For, oh, we know, "That life is long That answers life's great end."



Lines, Written in a Sick Room, July 20th, 1855.

The voice of "many waters" Is murmuring on my ear, And mingling in the mystic strains A mother's voice I hear. Two white rob'd cherub sisters Stand harping by her side; A brother in the concert joins, Who erst in Jesus died.

And other sainted spirits, Who've pass'd from earth away,— Stand wooing me to join their bands In realms of endless day. The flow'rs are blooming brightly, The tree of life is seen; And so inviting stand the fields, "Array'd in living green."

The Saviour sheds his presence, In radiance round the place: And joy and adoration Beams bright on ev'ry face. Loud swells the pealing anthem, Through the high dome of heav'n, "Worthy the Lamb, who once was slain," And hath our sins forgiv'n.

As thus I gaze enraptur'd, And drink heav'n's spirit in Earth's costliest tow'rs and palaces Look faded, worn and dim; And death's cold stream that murmurs So hoarsely on my ear; If Jesus were my pilot I'd cross without a fear.

But oh! the tide is turning, Health flows through ev'ry vein: And I a little longer On time's dark shore remain. But thou, celestial city! I'd keep thee still in view, And gladly would the summons heed That wafts my soul to you.



To a Friend

Sweet comes the gentle breath of spring, Sighing soft among the flow'rs, Or sporting high on airy wings, Fanning the leaves upon the bow'rs.

The golden sun looks gladly down Upon the vari'gated earth; Encouraged by his genial rays, Her garner'd treasures have their birth.

But though the face of earth is fair, Chance and change are busy here; And her rugg'd, chequer'd path, Is water'd oft by sorrow's tear.

Her bosom holds our treasured dead, The lov'd who in our pathway trod: Whose place is found on earth no more, But the freed spirit's soar'd to God.

When ling'ring in the place of graves, Came there no voice from out the tomb, Whisp'ring to thy spirit's ear, "Mother, when will the morning come?"

"O mother, yes, it soon will come, The glorious resurrection morn, When Christ shall wake the sleeping dead, And an immortal day shall dawn."

And though your path may lead you forth From early friends far, far away; Far from your darling children's graves, Jacob's God shall be your stay.

Your chasten'd soul from sorrow's cup, Has often drank the bitter draught; But ere the portion was consumed, A mingled sweet thy spirit quaff'd.

Sister in Christ, God be thy stay, And lead as He has led before; And keep thee "in the narrow way," Where pleasures dwell for ever more.

Perchance we may not meet again While ling'ring in this vale of tears; But mem'ry casts a hallow'd spell Over the scenes of other years.

And treasur'd in her secret cells, My much loved friend, are thoughts of thee; And if we meet no more on earth, I feel thou'lt sometimes think of me.

Now fare thee well, sweet sister dear, God speed thy bark o'er life's dark sea; Safe moor it in the port of peace, Thy pilot, friend, and helper be.



The Mother's Watch.

O, no, he will not come to-night,— The stars are fading from the sky; I've watch'd their dim, expiring light, With an unwearied, earnest eye,

And soon the golden king of day Morn's eastern gates will open wide; And mounted on his fiery car, Triumphant over earth will ride.

And she array'd in robes of green, Adorned with vari'gated flowers, Will welcome him with smiling mien, While soft winds sigh along the bowers.

He'll kiss the roses on her cheek, And dry the tear-drop from her eye,— Cast a glad smile o'er all her face, And gild each stream that glances by.

And she'll spread out her tempting store Of fruits and flow'ers, to his warm ray; He'll touch them with his genial smile, As glad he runs his joyous way.

But soon his journey will be o'er, And the dun curtains of the west, Will hide his beams, while low he sinks Upon the pillow of his rest.

And soft will steal the twilight hour, And bring again my watch for thee; Oh, who may tell a mother's love, Or fathom that unbounded sea?

Time, that has pass'd with rapid flight, On silent pinions, hurrying by, Has witness'd oft the midnight watch, Of the fond mother's earnest eye.

In infancy, when feverish dreams Disturb'd her darling as he slept, How anxious was the mother's watch, As she her nightly vigil kept.

Her watch is o'er the cradle cast, Through childhood's wild and flow'ry maze; Her hand would lead through youth's gay scenes, And smooth the path of riper days.

Would shield from each impending ill,— Would guard from ev'ry dang'rous snare. Instruct the reason, curb the will, And lift to heaven the trusting prayer.

And should the pois'nous flowers that bloom Beside his path, tempt him to rove, To bring the thoughtless wanderer back,— How earnest is a mother's love.

And so we watch from youth to age,— From the soft cradle to the grave; No power can check a mother's love, That would from sin and sorrow save.



Why Should I Smile?

Why should I smile in mockery now, When grief sits heavy on my brow? Or strive in anguish to repress The tears of gushing tenderness, That from my heart's deep fountain rise, And rush unbidden to my eyes? Oh let me weep, for there's a balm In tears, they bring a holy calm: And yield a soothing, sweet relief To hearts that else would burst with grief. Yes, I will weep in hopeless woe, Until my tears refuse to flow; For lo! before my mental gaze, The hopes and joys of other days, Come gathering round, a mystic band, Like phantoms from the spirit land; And one by one they pass me by, "With bloodless cheek and hollow eye," And seem to mock me as they go, In tones of bitterness and woe. Oh, how unlike the glittering throng That smiling beckon'd me along, And strewd with fragrant flow'rs my way, In childhood's bright and sunny day. They came in glittering robes arrayed, O'er golden harps their fingers strayed, And from their robes of spotless white They scattered showers of sparkling light. O, how could my fond heart believe They glittered only to deceive; To visions bright as fairy land. Hope pointed with her magic hand, And love, with soft and speaking eye, And tones of thrilling witchery, A dream like mist around me threw, Ting'd by many a rainbow hue. And friendship, with her smiling face, Clasped me within her warm embrace, And fondly whisper'd in mine ear, Sweet words of hope I loved to hear. And O, how fondly did I fling On friendship's shrine, the offering Of my young heart: nor could I deem Her words were but an idle dream; But oh, the illusion fled too late, It left my heart all desolate.



The Youth's Return.

'Twas evening, and sweet melting strains Of music floated by, While the soft splendor glowed around, Of an Italian sky.

Within a green and fragrant bower, Sat a young, dark eyed girl; And midst her glossy raven hair, Shone many a costly pearl.

Fair was that high born maiden's brow, And stately was her air; And the proud beauty of her face Was all undimmed by care.

And in her dark and shadowy eye There dwelt a tender light, Like some soft trembling star that shines Upon the brow of night.

And the sweet music of her voice Was thrilling, soft and low, As tones of an Aeolian harp, When southern breezes blow.

And costly gems that lady wore, And jewels rich and rare, But her beauty far outshone The brightest jewel there.

Bright, glowing pictures hung around, So exquisitely fair— Touched with such wondrous skill they seemed To breathe in beauty there.

Delicious odor fill'd the room, Wafted from orange bow'rs: The fragrance mingling with perfume, Of rare exotic flow'rs.

In thoughtful mood that lady sat, While her dark, lustrous eye, Looked out in pensive tenderness, Upon the glowing sky.

She thought upon a noble youth, A brave and gallant knight, Whose heart was true to woman's love, And strong amid the fight.

And noble deeds that youth had done, And won a glorious name; Which future ages would enroll Upon the book of fame.

E'en now, he hastes that maid to greet— Safe from the war returned; Impatient at her feet to lay The laurels he had earned.

Ah, lady, thou wilt never more Thy gallant lover see; His eye of melting tenderness Will never rest on thee.

Death saw that gentle maiden there, By dreams of love beguiled; He gazed upon her winning charms, As hideously he smiled.

Full many a bright and lovely form, Beneath his touch had died; But she, the loveliest of them all, He thought to make his bride.

With noiseless step and watchful eye He stole into her bower; She felt his chill and icy breath, And withered in an hour.

The soft light faded from her eye, And pallid grew her face, As folded in Death's icy arms, She felt his cold embrace.

Her breath came heavily and slow, Vainly she tried to speak; The life blood froze around her heart, And curdled in her cheek.

And when her maidens sought her there At the accustomed hour, They found her cold and motionless, Within that leafy bower.



To A——.

When the spring tide of thy life shall have passed away, with all its joyous anticipations and budding hopes—when Summer with the music of its birds and the perfume of its flowers, and melancholy Autumn, with its faded leaf and sighing winds, shall have chased each other down the tide of time, and the cold blasts of Winter have begun to chill the life-blood in thy veins—when the hand that penned these lines shall be mouldering in dust, and the friends of thy youth who journeyed with thee along the pathway of life, and who cheered thee with the music of their voices and the light of their smiles have, perchance, one by one passed away, and left thee to journey on in loneliness of heart, when the light of thine own eye shall have become dimmed, and thy sunny hair whitened by the frosts of age—when thy voice, which was wont to gush forth in melody and song, entrancing the ear and cheering the heart of the listener, has become weak and tremulous, and care and sorrow have set their seal upon thy brow. Oh, then may the recollection of no misspent hours, of no neglected opportunities for doing good, or wasted privileges, arise like dim meteors from the tomb to haunt thee with their reproach, but may the smiles of an approving conscience beam upon thee; may sweet peace and hope administer the balm of consolation to thy wounded spirit; may angels hover o'er the couch of thy repose, and fan thee with their balmy wings, and when thy tired spirit shall burst its prison house of clay,

May they bear it to mansions of the blest, There to repose on Jesus' breast; From every pain and sorrow free,— This is the boon I ask for thee.



Beauties of Nature.

This is indeed a beautiful world. As we sit by our window, and gaze out upon the landscape that lies spreads out, diversified by hill and dale, and and waving tree and murmuring rivulet; as we listen to the warbling of the birds, the dreamy hum of the insects, and the low whispering of the soft summer air, as it floats by, redolent with perfume of flowers, we are deeply impressed with the truth, that the Being, who could create such a world, must be a great and glorious Being, before whom we ought to humble ourselves in deep humility.

Yet the little that we are able to behold at one view, is but as a grain of sand upon the sea-shore, compared with the vast world that lies stretched out beyond our vision. Diversified by lofty mountains, whose snow-capped summits tower far up towards the blue vault of heaven, and are covered with perpetual clouds and mists; the mighty ocean, whose bosom heaves, and moans, and wails, as though convulsed by some terrible agony, and which, in its frantic fits, rages with ungovernable fury; the deep, broad, glassy rivers, that flow in quiet beauty, to mingle their waters with the ocean, the foaming cataract, the broad green prairie, variegated by nature's choicest flowers, the old majestic woods, that have been styled nature's cathedral, whose dim, silent, far-stretching aisles have never been trodden by the foot of man; but I must stop, overwhelmed by the magnitude of my subject. It were impossible for the most gifted pen to do justice to the beauty, the grandeur, the sublimity of the theme.

Even those who have climbed the lofty mountain tops, and found themselves lost amidst the clouds, who have been rocked upon the bosom of the heaving ocean, and seen it when the elements held terrible contest, when the howling winds lashed its waves to wild frenzy, when the sheeted lightnings played upon its surface, and the deep, heavy peals of thunder reverberated through the heaven's vast concave, and those, too, who have traversed the broad prairie, that far as the eye can reach, stretches out in wavy undulations, who have heard the eternal thunder of the cataract, as its waters plunge madly into the abyss below, who have wandered amidst orange bowers and spicy groves, and as Pollock expresses it, "have mused on ruins grey with years, and drank from old and fabulous wells, and plucked the vine that first born prophets plucked; and mused on famous tombs, and on the waves of ocean mused, and on the desert waste: the heavens and earth of every country, seen where'er the old inspiring Genii dwelt, aught that could rouse, expand, refine the soul," even such would fail to do justice to the glowing theme.

What renders the pleasure that nature confers doubly valuable, is, that it is free for all. The poor as well as the rich participate in its enjoyment. The sun dispenses its genial light and warmth as generously upon the beggar, who seeks his daily bread from door to door, as upon the crowned monarch. The bird carols as sweet a lay for the toil-worn peasant, who labors from morn till night, to gain a scanty subsistence, as for the titled nobleman, who rolls along in his gilded chariot. The little ragged sunburnt child of poverty may pluck the wayside flowers with as much freedom as the child of wealth, who is nurtured upon the lap of luxury and ease. The cool summer breeze, laden with grateful perfume, fans the hot brow of the slave, weary and fainting beneath his task, as freely as it does that of his pompous and lordly master. Our souls seem to be united by a bond of sympathy, with the inanimate objects of creation. There are many poor beings who are obliged to toil from early dawn far into the hours of night, to obtain bread for themselves and those who are dearer to them than life, and who have never been instructed, even in the first rudiments of science. Yet, are they conscious of possessing bright gems of thought, which they find it impossible to detach from the dust and rubbish and cobwebs of ignorance, with which their minds are filled. There are many such, who, bound down by the grinding hand of oppression, which would, if it were possible, crush out all aspirations of the mind for something higher, nobler, more exalted in the scale of being, are obliged to suppress that longing of the soul that will at times arise to explore the mysterious labyrinths of knowledge, yet, even such, can hold sweet communion with the works of creation. The great volume of nature lies open before them, and though, in studying its pages, they often make wild mistakes, yet they fear no ridicule.

When they gaze upon the blue vault of heaven, bespangled with all its countless gems, though the conclusions they arrive at are far—very far from truth, yet the placid moon looks down upon them as queenly as though they understood all the laws by which she is governed. As they contemplate, with wonder and admiration, the shining stars with which the brow of night is studded, though they understood not all the principles that astronomy unfolds, concerning those heavenly bodies, yet, no scornful light flashes from those brilliant orbs, as they look down from their high estate; and although they do sometimes emit a merry twinkle, yet, there is nothing of ridicule in the expression: but it seems rather to woo the beholder, to gaze upon their wondrous beauty.

The sweet flowers look up to them as lovingly inviting them to partake of their precious sweets, as though they understood all their several properties, and knew how to assign to each its place in the vegetable kingdom. It is true, the poor possess not all the means of the rich for exploring what is rare and curious in the works of nature. They are obliged to confine themselves to what is presented to their view in their own immediate neighborhood; but there is enough even in the tamest prospect, to excite the wonder and admiration of the beholder, and to inspire them with emotions of love and gratitude towards the great Creator.

Yet, grand and beautiful and sublime as this world is, God has only fitted it up as a temporary abode for man; he does not consider it a fit dwelling place for his children to inhabit through all eternity. We are told that when the "spirits of the just made perfect" leave this world, they will go to a better world: a more costly and magnificent abode, that God has prepared for them. Yes, costly indeed, since a title to an inheritance in that better world is purchased by the blood of his only Son; and we are told that it is not in the heart of man to concieve of the glory and magnificence of that place, that is to be the home of those who accept of the terms by which it is to be secured; and what are those terms? why, merely to repent and believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and to seek forgivness for our sins through his blood.

To put our trust in God, to love him supremely, and to seek to do his will; and are not these conditions very easy? Can we help loving such a God, so great, so good, and who has been at such infinite pains, and given such a costly sacrifice to secure the happiness of his subjects? And can we help loving the Saviour who was willing to be made a sacrifice to secure the eternal happiness of a lost and ruined race; and who left a home of glory, of bliss, and joy inexpressible, to come to a world where he must suffer persecution, contempt, and mockery; where he would be reviled, and spit upon, and taunted, and finally die a cruel and ignominous death upon the cross?

All this he suffered, that sinners through his sufferings might receive a title to the joys of that better world that God has prepared for those that love him. Oh how cold, how hard, how utterly lost to all grateful emotions, must that heart be that could treat with scorn or indifference that dear Saviour who has done so much for them, and prepared for all who will accept, a happy entrance into a world of ineffable light and glory.

Where the sun does not emit its golden beams, nor the moon shed her paler rays, and no golden star spangles the canopy, but God's countenance lights the place, and the Lamb is in the midst; He who was offered for the remission of sin. Who would not enter this world, of happiness, where sin enters not, pain or sickness come not, and death is swallowed up in victory? Where the saints of the most high God are clothed upon with the righteousness of Christ, and the "spirits of the just made perfect" join with angels and arch-angels, in singing sweet songs of redeeming love.

But angels cannot appreciate the full rapture of the redeemed soul. We cannot comprehend here, fully, but the mind is overwhelmed when we contemplate the revelations of the Gospel, "Come then expressive silence, muse His praise."



On the Death of Willie White, Who Was Drowned Sept. 21, 1856.

How suddenly this opening flow'r Was borne from earth away; In sweeter fragrance to unfold In realms of endless day.

The angel gaz'd with pitying eye O'er all life's devious way; Then pluming bright his golden wings, Bore his freed soul away.

Now when you gather round your hearth, There's Willie's vacant chair; And Willie's voice of childish mirth, Is missing every where.

And oft you gaze upon his toys, 'Till weeping eyes grow dim; You know he cannot come to you, But you must go to him.



The Human Heart

The human heart's a mystery, That few can understand; And all its trembling chords should be Swept with a gentle hand.

For if we rudely strike the strings Whence melody should flow, A harsh, unnatural discord rings, Of bitterness and woe.

We mingle with the joyous crowd, Where all is bright and gay, With music light, and laughter loud, They pass the hours away.

How oft, amid such scenes, the heart Is sad, we know not why; And though a smile the lips may part, A tear steals to the eye.

And then we quickly turn away To hide the starting tear, While the music of their laughter falls Dirge-like upon the ear.

And we wonder why, when all around Is song and revelry, Their joyous mirthfulness should sound, To us, so mournfully.

And yet, sometimes the simplest thing, Such happiness affords, It seems as though an angel's wing Had swept the trembling chords.

The gushing music of the rill, The whisp'ring of the breeze, And the low and gentle rustling Of the leaves upon the trees.

The sweet, sad sighing autumn winds, As mournfully they blend, Speak to the heart as if in words, Of a departed friend.

And as we listen, breathlessly, To the low, mysterious tone, We deem some angel spirit Is whisp'ring to our own.

But suddenly, a careless tone, Or word in harshness spoken, Recalls the wand'ring spirit home, And the spell is rudely broken.

And then a sad, lone feeling steals Upon the weary heart, And amid the gloom we only feel A longing to depart.

A longing to depart and be Amid the angel choir, Where perfect love and sympathy Shall tune each heart and lyre.



Lines, Written on the Death of a Friend.

Oh, who would check the starting tear, Or who suppress the rising sigh, When those we fondly cherished here, In early youth are called to die?

Such was thy fate, my early friend, Thus snatch'd away in beauty's bloom; No aid that earthly love might lend, Could save thee, dear one, from the tomb.

I call to mind thy greetings warm, Thy gentle smile, thy winning grace, And weep that now thy fragile form, Lies cold and still in Death's embrace.

But though I miss thy winning smile, And the sweet music of thy voice, That could my weary heart beguile; Yet I, amid my tears, rejoice,

That thou, thus early, didst depart: When all around was fair and bright: Ere yet thy fond, confiding heart Had felt of earthly woe the blight.

For it is sweeter, far, to die When the young heart with hope is fill'd, Than live o'er ruined hopes, to sigh When cold distrust that heart has chill'd.

Who would not rather pass away From earth, like some sweet summer flow'r, When the soft murmuring zephyrs play. Than live till wintry tempests lower?

We trust thy sins have been forgiv'n; Thy soul made pure from guilt's dark stain; And that a ransom'd soul in heav'n, Thou'lt raise to God the angelic strain.

Then let no murmuring thought arise, Though lonely oft my path may be, And bitter tears oft dim my eyes, Unbidden, at the thought of thee.

Still the sweet memory of thy love, Has power to sooth my aching heart; Even as crush'd and withered flow'rs, A lasting fragrance oft impart.



To a Friend.

Dear girl, thine eye is clear and bright, Fill'd with a glad and joyous light; And thy young brow is pure and fair, As thou hadst never known a care.

Full oft, I gaze upon thy face, Where dwells a sweet and quiet grace; And wonder what thy fate may be, Upon life's dark and dangerous sea.

Ah, many a rude, tempestous gale, Perchance, may rend thy little sail, Ere thou wilt reach that blissful shore, Where loving friends have gone before.

Even now, sweet girl, young as thou art, Sorrow hath touched thy loving heart, And clouds have dimmed thy sky, so fair, And left a shadow resting there.

Thou'st lost a mother, kind and dear, No more her sweet voice greets thine ear— In winning tones, that could impart Gladness and joy to thy young heart.

No more her gentle hand is laid In loving kindness on thy head;— No more her soft eyes rest on thee, Fill'd with a tender sympathy.

Oft will the world seem cold the while, Without her sweet, approving smile; Oft will thy heart be sad and weary, With no fond mother's voice to cheer thee.

Thy loved and honored father, too,— Thy faithful guardian, kind and true, Whose stronger arm could shield thy form, And guard it from the impending storm;—