When morning's tears of joy were shed, The morning echoes sweetly speak, For rays of heaven, serenely bright, On all its gathering thoughts of gloom. To that blessed land to Israel given, We'll stand within the temple's bound, But where thou goest I will go; And where thy grave is, mine shall be; Death can but for a time divide My firm and faithful heart from thee. Live for Eternity.-CARLOS WILCOX. A BRIGHT or dark eternity in view, The joys that death-beds always turn to stings! To dance along the path that always brings Our life is like the hurrying on the eve Before we start, on some long journey bound, When fit preparing to the last we leave, Then run to every room the dwelling round, And sigh that nothing needed can be found; Yet go we must, and soon as day shall break; We snatch an hour's repose, when loud the sound For our departure calls; we rise and take A quick and sad farewell, and go ere well awake. Reared in the sunshine, blasted by the storms, What matter whether pain or pleasures fill Dedication Hymn.-PIERPONT. WITH trump, and pipe, and viol chords, Its tribute to the Lord of lords, Its homage to the King of kings. To God, who, from the rocky prison Where death had bound him, brought his Son, Creator, at whose steadfast word Here, where we hymn thy praises now, In worship and in prayer to Thee. And when our lips no more shall move, With trump, and pipe, and viol strings The Indian Summer.-BRAINARD. WHAT is there sadd'ning in the autumn leaves Have they that "green and yellow melancholy," That the sweet poet spake of?-Had he seen Our variegated woods, when first the frost Turns into beauty all October's charmsWhen the dread fever quits us-when the storms Of the wild Equinox, with all its wet, Has left the land, as the first deluge left it, With a bright bow of many colors hung Upon the forest tops-he had not sighed. The moon stays longest for the hunter now: The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe And busy squirrel hoards his winter store: While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along The bright blue sky above him, and that bends Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks, To William. Written by a bereaved Father.-Peabody. It seems but yesterday, my love, thy little heart beat high; And I had almost scorned the voice that told me thou must die. I saw thee move with active bound, with spirits wild and free, And infant grace and beauty gave their glorious charm to thee. Far on the sunny plains, I saw thy sparkling footsteps fly, Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird that cleaves the morning sky; And often, as the playful breeze waved back thy shining hair, Thy cheek displayed the red rose tint that Health had painted there. And then, in all my thoughtfulness, I could not but rejoice, To hear upon the morning wind the music of thy voice,Now echoing in the rapturous laugh, now sad almost to tears; 'Twas like the sounds I used to hear, in old and happier years. Thanks for that memory to thee, my little lovely boy,That memory of my youthful bliss, which Time would fain destroy. I listened, as the mariner suspends the out-bound oar, To taste the farewell gale that breathes from off his native shore. So gentle in thy loveliness!-alas! how could it be, Was mine a happiness too pure for erring man to know? As when, in quick and cold eclipse, the sun grows dark at noon. I loved thee, and my heart was blessed; but, ere that day was spent, I saw thy light and graceful form in drooping illness bent, And shuddered as I cast a look upon thy fainting head; The mournful cloud was gathering there, and life was almost fled. Days passed; and soon the seal of death made known that hope was vain; I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp would never burn again; The cheek was pale; the snowy lips were gently thrown apart; And life, in every passing breath, seemed gushing from the heart. I knew those marble lips to mine should never more be pressed, And floods of feeling, undefined, rolled widely o'er my breast; Low, stifled sounds, and dusky forms, seemed moving in the gloom, As if Death's dark array were come to bear thee to the tomb. And when I could not keep the tear from gathering in my eye, Thy little hand pressed gently mine, in token of reply; I never trusted to have lived to bid farewell to thee, I hoped that thou, within the grave my weary head should'st lay, And live, beloved, when I was gone, for many a happy day. With trembling hand I vainly tried thy dying eyes to close; And almost envied, in that hour, thy calm and deep repose; For I was left in loneliness, with pain and grief oppressed, And thou wast with the sainted, where the weary are at rest. Yes, I am sad and weary now; but let me not repine, Because a spirit, loved so well, is earlier blessed than mine; My faith may darken as it will, I shall not much deplore, Since thou art where the ills of life can never reach thee more. |