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She died,' as the prass,
While the poor wanderer of life is in this vale of tears,
The lovely form of youthful hope revisits his sad heart,
Oft I remember thus, and feel the mystery of the hour;
Yes! sadly welcomed and with tears, is now and long must be
For oh! how fast and fervently, when life is in its spring,
Now death hath thrown us wide apart ;.but memory treasures yet,
The open brow with sunny curls around its arches thrown,
And then how sternly beautiful, the spirit bold and high,
vol. HI. No. Iv. 36
When seated by the evening fire, or rambling side by side,
And thus with feelings all the same,—with bright and earnest eye,
And so within the temple walls we stood with childish awe, And wondered why our fathers feared a God they never saw, Till we had learned and loved to raise our early offering there, To join the deep and plaintive hymn, or pour our souls in prayer.
Was this a happiness too pure for erring man to know?
Or why did heaven so soon destroy my paradise below?
For, lovely as the vision was, it sunk away as soon
As when in quick and cold eclipse, the sun grows dark at noon!
I gazed with trembling in thine eye ;—its living light was fled!
And then thy sweet and gentle voice confirmed that we must part!
But thou art gone—too early gone—and I am doomed to stay,
'T is thus the stream of early life before us seems to run,
'THAT YE THRoUGH HIS POvERTY MIGHT BE RICH.'
Low in the dim and sultry west
Is the fierce sun of Syria's sky;
Its hour of feast and joy is nigh.
But he, with thirst and hunger spent,
And from the humble well he drinks.
On the dark wave of Galilee
The gloom of twilight gathers fast;And o'er the waters drearily
Sweeps the bleak evening blast.
The weary bird hath left the air,
And sunk into his sheltered rest;
And laid him down to welcome rest.
Still, near the lake, with weary tread,
Lingers a form of humankind;
Flows the chill night-damp on the wind.
Why seeks not he a home of rest 1
Such was the lot he freely chose, To bless, to save, the human race;
A rich full stream of heavenly grace. W. R.
TO MRS HEMANS,
AFTER READING HER LINES ON THE IVY.*
Lady! if I for thee would twine
No cause why on a brow like thine,
* See the Christian Examiner for March and April, 1826.
Its verdant foliage 'never sere,'
Of glossy and of changeless hue ?—
Ah! yes, there is a cause most dear
It is not that it long hath been
Combined with thoughts of festal rite— The cup which thou hast drunk, I ween,
Not always sparkles bright; Nor is it, that it hath been twined
Round Victory's brow in days gone by— Such glory has no power to blind
Thy intellectual eye.
For thou canst look beyond the hour
Elated by the wine cup's thrall;
Unto the end of all!
The deathless wreath of Ivy place;
Art worthy of its grace.
Had Earth and Earth's delights alone,
Unto thy various strains giv'n birth;
The fading flowers of Earth;
By thee in song, would spotless be, The Jasmine's, Lily's, Harebell's braid, ■
Should brightly bloom for thee.
But thou to more exalted themes
Hast nobly urged the Muse's claim;
Than Fancy's meteor flame;
Strains have proceeded more sublime,
That appertain to Time!
Yes! Female Minstrel!—thou hast set,
An eloquent example !—yet
How few of their most lofty lays
Have to Religion's cause been given, And taught the kindling soul to raise Its hopes, its thoughts to heaven!
Yet this at least has been thy aim;
For thou hast ' chos'n that better part,' Above the lure of worldly Fame,
To touch and teach the heart; To touch it, by no slight appeal
To feelings in each heart confest,— , To teach, by truths that bear the seal
God hath himself imprest!
And can those flowers, which bloom to fade,
For thee a fitting wreath appear? No !—Wear thou then the Ivy braid,
Whose leaves are 'never sere.' It is not gloomy—brightly play
The sunbeams on its glossy green; And softly on it sleeps the ray
Of moonlight, all serene.
It changes not, as seasons flow
In changeful, silent course along; Spring finds it verdant, leaves it so;
It outlives Summer's song. Autumn no wan or russet stain
Upon its fadeless glory flings,— And Winter o'er it sweeps in vain,
With Tempest on his wings.
Then wear thou this, the Ivy Crown!
And though the bard who twines it, be Unworthy of thy just renown,
Such wreath is worthy thee. For hers it is, who, truly wise,
To Virtue's cause her powers hath given; Whose page the 'gates of hell' defies,
And points to those of heaven!