"OH, sacred Sorrow! he who knows not thee,
Knows not the best emotions of the heart:
Those tender tears that humanize the soul,
The sigh that charms, the pang that gives delight.
He dwells too near to cruelty and pride,
And is a novice in the school of virtue."
ANGEL of Peace, sweet Melancholy, come,
And be to me my day-star, light, and doom;
For thou above all else art the true poet's home;
Come, and awaken, with sweet Memory's aid,
Joys that are past, but joys that never fade.
Friend of the wise, companion of the just,
None ever loved thee who were slaves to lust;
They never knew thy soft and soothing power,
Or felt the sweetness of a lonely hour!
They never knew thee, but confest thy part,
To bloom the brightest in the purest heart.
Come, while the twilight of soft sorrow sleeps,
And every tree and shrub a dewdrop weeps;
Come, while the magic of this pensive hour,
Woos to its rest each little bird and flower!
Come, while the sun, slow sinking in the west,
Woos all the earth to silence and to rest.
Sweet pensive guest! Religion's fairest child,
Companion of my way 'mid this dark wild,
I hail thee ever dear; be thou my friend,
And let sweet Hope, thine handmaid, me attend.
E'en when a little child 'twas mine to weep,—
And weeping is a luxury,-till sleep
Had o'er mine eyelids stole; and even then
I've wept, and tried my lesson o'er again.
Tearful and ever sorrowful I ran,
And am so now, a melancholy man!
For think not, oh, ye laughing ones, that joy
Is the best sunshine without woe's alloy.
When the great Teacher of mankind would
Who the most blessed were while here below,
These were his words-Blessed are they that
For in their hearts shall joy and peace be born! Blessed are they, the meek, for this bright
They shall inherit without fear or dearth!
And blessed, oh, how blessed, are the poor
In spirit and in truth, for they of heaven are sure!*
Oh there are charms that win the lowly mind
In Melancholy; feels he not resigned,
He, who at midnight stands, bemoaning fate,
And all within his house sit desolate;
For she who was his comforter, his guide,
Now sleeps in peace by her dear infant's side.
* St. Matthew, v. 3, 4, 5.
And there he stands, alone, yet not alone;
But she, his blest companion, she is flown.
And, breathing the sad, soft, and dewy powers,
That fan his pallid cheek, full many hours
He muses much; the starlit deep, the sky,
Are witnesses of his deep agony,
And many tears, that will not, cannot dry.
Then, when the heart would burst, then God, who
Can and will listen to his prayerful woes;
And he, with thoughts unutterable, scans
His better path of life, God's ways and plans,
And in his soul remembers those dark hours,
Those mighty truths, God's good and gracious
Then is he not resigned? Oh say, ye blest,
Ye who can feel and know what 'tis to rest
Beneath the shadow of Almighty love,
And share the inspiration of that Dove,
That ever from the throne of glory sheds
Its sacred halo o'er our erring heads;
Oh! is he not at peace ; if heartfelt prayers,
Kindled by what he feels, by what now tears
His very life away, are heard, 'tis theirs.
And now he sleeps. Oh balmy, blissful hour,
How many seek thy soft and soothing power;
How many on the bright and shining deep,
Will woo sweet Melancholy; on the steep
And craggy rock their memory roves, they
feel
That charm above all else around them steal,
And they are happy; long they sit, and trace
That sweet familiar, well-remember'd place;
And they can see, pictured in Memory's glass,
The coming day before and round them pass;
There is she now, that best beloved, blest friend,
Kneeling beside her little ones; attend,
Ye that are truly great, let love like this,
Re-kindle in your hearts a world of bliss.
Alone she pleads, in the soft twilight hour,
Lifting her heart to Him, th' Eternal Power:
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