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No art to make them known. They live in us,
While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold,
Worshipping nothing but our own pure hearts,
And the one universal Lord. They need
No column, pointing to the heaven they sought,
To tell us of their home. The heart itself,
Left to its own free purpose, hastens there,
And there alone reposes. Let these elms
Bend their protecting shadow o'er their graves,
And build, with their green roof, the only fane
Where we may gather on the hallowed day,
That rose to them in blood, and set in glory.
Here let us meet, and, while our motionless lips
Give not a sound, and all around is mute
In the deep sabbath of a heart too full
For words or tears, here let us strew the sod
With the first flowers of spring, and make to them
An offering of the plenty Nature gives,
And they have rendered ours—perpetually.
HE has gone to his God; he has gone to his home,
No more amid peril and error to roam;
His eyes are no longer dim;
His feet will no more falter;
No grief can follow him;
o pang his cheek can alter.
There are paleness, and weeping, and sighs below;
For our faith is faint, and our tears will flow ;
But the harps of heaven are ringing;
Glad angels come to greet him;
And hymns of joy are singing
While old friends press to meet him.
O honored, beloved, to earth unconfined,
Thou hast soared on high; thou hast left us behind.
But our parting is not forever;
We will follow thee, by heaven’s light,
Where the grave cannot dissever
The souls whom God will unite.
Yes, visions of his future rest
To man, the pilgrim, here are shown;
Deep love, pure friendship, thrill his breast,
And hopes rush in of joys unknown.
Released from earth’s dull round of cares,
The aspiring soul her vigor tries;
Plumes her soiled pinions, and prepares
To soar amid ethereal skies.
Around us float, in changing light,
The dazzling forms of distant years;
And earth becomes a glorious sight,
Beyond which opening heaven appears.
We did not part as others part;
And should we meet on earth no more,
Yet deep and dear, within my heart,
Some thoughts will rest, a treasured store.
How oft, when weary and alone,
Have I recalled each word, each look,
The meaning of each varying tone,
And the last parting glance we took!
Yes, sometimes, even here, are found
Those who can touch the chords of love,
And wake a glad and holy sound,
Like that which fills the courts above.
It is as when a traveller hears,
In a strange land, his native tongue,
A voice he loved in happier years,
A song that once his mother sung.
We part; the sea will roll between,
While we through different climates roam
Sad days, a life may intervene;
But we shall meet again,_at home.
To Laura, two Years of Age.—N. P. WILLIs.
BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee,
Child of the sunny brow—
Bright as the dream flung over thee
y all that meets thee now.
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird’s,
And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.
I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.
I would that thou might'st ever be
As beautiful as now,
That Time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow,
I would life were “all poetry,”
To gentle measure set,
That nought but chastened melody
Might stain thine eye of jet—
Nor one discordant note be spoken,
Till God the cunning harp hath broken.
I would—but deeper things than these
With woman’s lot are wove,
Wrought of intenser sympathies,
And nerved by purer love.
By the strong spirit's discipline,
By the fierce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
Is woman won to Heaven.
“Her lot is on thee,” lovely child—
God keep thy spirit undefiled!
I fear thy gentle loveliness,
Thy witching tone and air;
Thine eye’s beseeching earnestness
May be to thee a snare.
The silver stars may purely shine.
The waters taintless flow—
But they who kneel at woman's shrine
Breathe on it as they bow—
Ye may fling back the gift again,
But the crushed flower will leave a stain.
What shall preserve thee, beautiful child?
Keep thee as thou art now 2
Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,
At God’s pure throne to bow 2
The world is but a broken reed,
And life grows early dim:
Who shall be near thee in thy need,
To lead thee up—to Him?
He, who himself was “undefiled:”
With him we trust thee, beautiful child !
-oThe dead Leaves strew the Forest-walk.-BRAINARD.
THE dead leaves strew the forest-walk,
And withered are the pale wild-flowers;
The frost hangs blackening on the stalk,
The dew-drops fall in frozen showers.
Gone are the spring's green, sprouting bowers,
Gone summer's rich and mantling vines,
And autumn, with her yellow hours,
On hill and plain no longer shines.
I learned a clear and wild-toned note,
That rose and swelled from yonder tree—
A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,
here perched, and raised her song for me.
The winter comes, and where is she
Away—where summer wings will rove,
Where buds are fresh, and every tree
Is vocal with the notes of love.
Too mild the breath of southern sky,
Too fresh the flower that blushes there;
The northern breeze, that rustles by,
Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair;
No forest-tree stands stript and bare,
No stream beneath the ice is dead,
No mountain-top, with sleety hair,
Bends o'er the snows its reverend head.
Go there with all the birds,-and seek
A happier clime, with livelier flight;
Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek;
And leave me lonely with the night.
I’ll gaze upon the cold north light,
And mark where all its glories shone—
See—that it all is fair and bright,
Feel—that it all is cold and gone!
Seasons of Prayer.—HENRY WARE, JR.
To prayer, to prayer;-for the morning breaks,
And earth in her Maker’s smile awakes.
His light is on all below and above,
The light of gladness, and life, and love.
0, then, on the breath of this early air,
Send upward the incense of grateful prayer.
To prayer;-for the glorious sun is gone,
And the gathering darkness of night comes on.
Like a curtain from God’s kind hand it flows,
To shade the couch where his children repose.
Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright,
And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night.
To prayer;-for the day that God has blessed
Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest.
It speaks of creation's early bloom;
It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb.
Then summon the spirit's exalted powers,
And devote to Heaven the hallowed hours.
There are smiles and tears in the mother’s eyes,
For her new-born infant beside her lies.
O, hour of bliss! when the heart o'erflows
With rapture a mother only knows.
I.et it gush forth in words of fervent prayer;
Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care.
There are smiles and tears in that gathering band,
Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand
What trying thoughts in her bosom swell,
As the bride bids parents and home farewell!