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My Brother's Erabe.
(FROM THE POETRY OF THE COLLEGE MAGAZINE.)
BENEATH the chancel's hallow'd stone,
Expos’d to every rustic tread,
My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Thy name—thy birth—thy youth declareThy innocence—thy hopes of Heaven
In simplest phrase recorded there. No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave, In mockery o'er my brother's grave.
The place is silent-rarely sound
Where thou, beneath thy burial stone,
Art laid in that unstartled sleep
The living eye hath never known.
He sweeps th' unholy dust away,
Those windows on the Sabbath-day; And, passing through the central nave, Treads lightly on my brother's grave.
But when the sweet-ton'd Sabbath-chime,
Pouring its music on the breeze, Proclaims the well-known holy time
Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees; When rustic crowds devoutly meet,
And lips and hearts to God are given, And souls enjoy oblivion sweet
Of earthly ills, in thoughts of Heaven;
Is heard above thy burial stone ?
And if a voice could reach the dead,
My brother, makes thy heart bis bed That Sire, who thy existence gave, Now stands beside thy lowly grave.
It is not long since thou wert wont
This altar, that baptismal font,
These stones which now thy dust conceal, The sweet tones of the Sabbath-bell,
Were holiest objects to thy soul; On these thy spirit lov'd to dwell,
Untainted by the world's control, My brother, those were happy days,
When thou and I were children yet; How fondly memory still surveys
Those scenes, the heart can ne'er forget! My soul was then, as thine is now,
Unstain’d by sin, unstung by pain ;
Mine ne'er will be so calm again.
I feel not now as then I felt,
The sunshine of my heart is o'er; The spirit now is chang'd which dwelt
Within me, in the days before. But thou wert snatch'd, my brother, hence, In all thy guileless innocence; One Sabbath saw thee bend the knee, In reverential pietyFor childish faults forgiveness craveThe next beam'd brightly on thy grave. : si
The crowd, of which thou late wert one,
I stood not by thy fev'rish bed,
I look'd not on thy glazing eye, Nor gently lull’d thy aching head,
Nor view'd thy dying agony: I felt not what my parents felt,
The doubt the terror-the distress
My soul was spar'd that wretchedness.
And days of mourning glided by,
The well-known morn, I used to greet
And thoughts of home and raptures sweet
In ev'ry eye, but mine, were gleaming; But I, amidst that youthful band
Of beating hearts and beaming eyes,
Nor felt those wonted ecstasies :
I drew near to
father's gate No smiling faces met me now I enter'dall was desolate
Grief sat upon my mother's brow:
The Sabbath came with mournful pace