Speak of me, when in heaven's blue arch afar
Shines forth in glory each effulgent star;
Say how I loved their lustre, that my name
May ever dwell amid their hosts of flame,
To meet your eyes!
Speak of me, when my own sweet garden rose,
On slender stem, in moss-clad beauty blows;
I would be linked with all the flowers that bloom,
Till ye might half forget the silent tomb,
Speak of me, when, around the winter's hearth,
Young hearts are cheerful with the season's mirth,
And strike the soft guitar I loved so well,
And let its chords, in some old ballad, tell
Speak of me, not in sorrow, for ye know
To what calm skies and gentle streams I go;
To flowers that fade not, through eternal spring,
All robed in light, to wear an angel's wing,
Speak of me then with gladness, not with tears,
For when have flitted by a few short years,
Ye, too, will pass from earthly care and pain,
And we shall meet in paradise again,
THOU, who art hid forever from these eyes-
Thou, who hast lain so long in that dark sleep,
Unconscious that thy mother yet doth weep
Beside thy early tomb with heavy sighs,-
Mine own fair child, thy voice no more replies
To the accustomed call of her whose tone
Dies on the chilly wind, unheard, unknown.
If thy young spirit, bending from the skies,
Can view the wretched in the hour of prayer,
Look on me now, and though it may not be
That I shall trace thy heavenly form in air,
Shadow immortal, that I cannot see,
O wander round, and I shall deem I hear
Thy low voice whisper, Weep no more for me.
Suggested by the death of Willets, the interesting son of John Keese, who perished by drowning, on the 21st of April, 1843.
I LEAVE the land of spirits pure,
And come to earth again,
With healing on my viewless wings,
With balm for every pain.
I seek the home, where late they smiled
So tenderly on me;
And find them weeping o'er the clay,
Where I have ceased to be.
They call me by the tender names
Familiar to my ear;
Then turn with sickening hearts away,
Unthinking I am near.
From heaven's cloudless realms I've come,
A mission to fulfil-
To shed the peace, that God can give,
O'er those who mourn me still.
Oh! could ye see the infant throng
That round his altar stands,
With golden harps to tune his praise,
And palms within their hands-
Could ye but see our white array,
So free from spot or stain;
Ye would not call your loved one back,
To weep on earth again.
Could ye but know whose arms enfold
Your little darling now
Could ye but see the crown of light
That sparkles on his brow-
Could ye but feel the rapture pure
That wakes his angel-strain;
Ye would not surely call him back,
To sigh on earth again.
Could ye recline within the shade
Of our sweet Eden bowers,
And see my infant playmates wreath
Their little brows with flowers-
Could you but know how free we are
From sickness, sin, or pain;
Ye would not, could not call me back,
To sin and death again.
Joy! joy! the precious tear drops flow!
I've touched their welling springs;
And God has sent the holy balm
Of healing on my wings.
Peace! for the spirits reconciled
To his unerring will;
Peace! to the hearts that bend, not break-
That weep, yet trust Him still.
Ah! 'mid the flight of weary years,
I oft to earth will come,
To shed the rays of heavenly hope
Around my former home.
I'll watch my parents' couch beside-
I'll be with them in prayer-
Then, bear their wishes up to heaven,
And plead those wishes there.
And when the cord of life is rent,
That separates us now;
When Death his signet-seal hath set
Upon each parent brow;
My harp shall be the first to hymn
Their welcome to the skies;
My form shall be the first to meet
Their rapture-beaming eyes.
Farewell, farewell, my mission's done-
I have not come in vain;
Ye would not, if ye could, recall
My soul to earth again.
Live on, for those who yet remain
To need your loving care;
Live on your hearts will not be dark, For God's own light is there.
G. B. SINGLETON.
WEEP; the spirit fled,
All too early blighted:
Weep; the tears we shed,
To its worth are plighted.
Saving not, we mourn,
Though such idle token,
Scarce may tell the deep forlorn,
Of the young heart-broken.
Weep; the noble form,
Late that stood a tower,
Prostrate by the storm
In a single hour.
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