Imatges de pàgina
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Meantime, while lighter shocks succeed,
Let patience still bear up;

But, maiden, chiefly learn to heed
The carrying of the cup.

And think, O think, there is a Fount
Whence living waters flow:
Like Siloa's brook, by Sion's mount,
Softly those waters go.

Yet though of the proud flood no burst
Is heard, or torrent's noise;

Those waters more shall quench thy thirst,
Than all terrestrial joys.

Drink, and these earthly rills shall seem―
Though vaunted-mean and poor;
Cease, then, to grieve! At that free stream
O drink, and thirst no more!

Then no rude accident shall wrest
From thee thy full supply; -
The well, deep-seated in thy breast,
Shall spring eternally.

MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE.

I LOVE the dawnings of the beautiful,

The budding rose, the earliest green of spring, The sun just entering heaven's rich vestibule,

The soonest lark when first she mounts her wing,
And the young moon at eve, whose virgin face,
Side-long reveal'd, shines with a modest grace.

Shall these give pleasure to the glowing sense,
But to the soul yield nothing more refined?
Nothing of purer touch, to recompense

The busy wonderings of the searching mind?
Yes; hues and forms are but the mystic wand
That starts the visions of her fairy-land!

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MORE THAN MEETS THE VIEW" lies in the bloom; The fruitage of a distant day shines there.

Twice charm'd we see the pent flower burst its tomb;
Twice, as when from the harp, swept by the air,

A soft sweet note seems sounding from on high,
That with a deeper note chimes harmony.

Thus lovelier than the beauty of her smiles,

The opening virtues rise of heaven-taught youth.
Behold, they come, first of their lengthening files,-
Sincerity, Devotion, Love, and Truth;
Like waves that break and sparkle on the shore,
Sounding the advance of many thousands more.

;

But, O my child, should folly blast thy flower,
Like snow in summer, it would chill my soul
'T would seem like sun-set at the noon-tide hour;
As if the last sweet song had ceased to roll;
As if the waxing proved a waning moon;

Or Heaven in wrath resumed some matchless boon!

O no! I must not fear it; God will guide
Thy bless'd career of sanctity and joy.
The lustre of thy spring can never hide

The mellow harvest which my hopes employ;
And still I see immortal growths lie there,

In still surpassing forms of good and fair.

Bright from the Maker's hand glow'd earth and sky;
Man look'd astonishment, and joy, and love.

Again he mused, and "MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE
Was traced on all, was sung through every grove.

Then rose the eagle vision of his soul,
Scanning the eternal purpose of the whole.

But soon a storm of crime and curse began,
Dashing the inscription from its monument;
Nay, struck the mind, and left erroneous man
To know his world, but not its true intent.
Then, as the darkness thicken'd to its height,
God spake once more,—and there was glorious light.

Thrice blessed light! whose many streams have found
A central sea in God's own truth reveal'd;
Whose cloudless ray can pierce the dark profound,
Where Providence her secrets has conceal'd ;
Unsounded depths beneath the surface lie,
More than can ever meet a seraph's eye.

See, "I am thine!" Who yet has understood
The illimitable sense of these brief sounds?
Writ by the pen of God, confirm'd with blood

Drawn from his own immedicable wounds,
In these small, charmless characters is given
The eternal charter of our highest heaven.

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How small to sense!-a touch conceals the line;
To faith how more than infinite the thought!
Deed of Adoptive Love! seal'd by Divine,

By rapturous joy, that sets earth's joys at nought;
A gem whose ray now lights this cave of care,
Whose price in heaven will purchase kingdoms there.

O do not scorn the ungraceful type that stains
With misty hue its dark and tatter'd page:
Read me the words, I envy not the strains
Of every Orpheus of this tuneful age.
Show me the line, and let a Newton fly
Enraptured through his planetary sky.

Then look, my soul, not on the narrow field
Of this low weedy world; lift up thine eye;
Pursue the ever-lengthening vale; and yield
Thy homage to the mountains; there descry,
At every new ascent, still nobler heights,
Feasting thy hopes with infinite delights.

These give celestial temper to the soul,

To meanest things of earth a sweep sublime ; Urge us to rush upon the eternal goal,

Till Death himself shall die, and hoary Time Take youth's bright form, his night turn into day, Dwell in new worlds, and cast his wings away.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD:

WHO, WHILE APPARENTLY IN POSSESSION OF HIS USUAL HEALTH
AND VIVACITY, EXPIRED IN A MOMENT.

WHY dimm'd so suddenly, thou beauteous gem?
My angel, why, O why so quickly flown?

The branch is sever'd from its living stem,
Before the fruit is seen, or blossom blown.

Thou wast, my son, a pleasant child to me;
But now that pleasure is transform'd to pain:
The smile, the kiss, the clasp of love, from thee,
Will never glad thy mother's heart again.

I look-thou heed'st me not-thy bright blue eyes,
For ever closed, speak not their wonted joy;
I weep-thou hear'st not my distressful cries-
Thy mother's tears warm not her clay-cold boy.

But we forget, thou art immortal now:

Thou hast at once thy noblest manhood gain'd; And, shooting to perfection's loftiest brow,

Shunn'st the slow path of youth by folly stain'd.

What, though the music of thy lispings here
No more shall charm the family around;
Thy language now-O might it reach our ear!-
Earth's low sublime transcends, with sweeter sounds.
These tiny vestures-needless now!-are changed
For living robes, insufferably bright;

The toys, o'er which thy fancy oft has ranged,
For high pursuits, through countless worlds of light.
Yet thee we mourn, struck from a parent's care,
A sister's fondness, and a brother's love;
But while we sigh, faith joys to see thee share
The friendships of thy Father's house above.
Nor art thou wholly from thy kindred fled;
Thy infant sisters,* now like thee mature,
Shout from the skies, "Well has our brother sped!
Of heaven, of God, eternally secure !"

Sweet smiling band of sainted ones! you draw

True knowledge from its pure and living Fount; Ye know each other, touch'd by love's great law; Ye know the adoring throngs on Zion's mount. The body, too, waked by the Voice Divine,

Shall start to life, a glorious, deathless thing; The diamond thus, that slumber'd in the mine, Now burns upon the bosom of a king.

Farewell awhile! For we by faith aspire

To mount, and mingle with your spotless train: And as affection fans the warm desire,

Hope swells the joy,-that we shall meet again.

TO A YOUNG LADY.

IS FRIENDSHIP, to thy young and gen'rous heart,
The sweetest flower that scents this weary waste?
A landscape breathing balm in every part?
A sunny scene of ocean at his rest?

* Alluding to three infants who had died before this time.

Ah! some rude foot may crush that beauteous flower;
The plain may wither to the beating storm;
And the fierce hurricane assume his power,

Shaking the flood in many a dreadful form.

There is O what unfathomable joy

Sounds from that syllable !-There is A FRIEND Whose well-tried love and truth, in heaven, employ Unnumber'd harps with songs that ne'er shall end : A matchless Friend! Doubt not his power;-behold Those pond'rous globes careering in the sky: Would'st thou the friendship of his heart were told? On Calvary see him bleed, and faint, and die.

THE LORD'S DAY.

LORD, it is ours when it is thine;
Thy love has made it all Divine,
That we thy love may know :
The day we in thy praise employ
Is ours-thy gift—and we enjoy
A Paradise below.

Thus if at noon he veils his beams,
The wearied sun, as fancy dreams,
Sinks to his fleecy bed;

And while for rest his orb retires,
That cloud abates his fiercest fires,
And screens the reaper's head.

THE CRUCIFIXION.

JESUS, whom wicked bands betray,
Condemn'd, is dragg'd to death away!
Think, O my soul, think on that day,
Look on Mount Calvary!
Behold him, lamb-like, led along,
Surrounded by a wicked throng,
Accused by every lying tongue,
See, the meek Lamb of God is hung
Upon the blood-stain'd tree!

"T was thus the glorious Sufferer stood,
With hands and feet nail'd to the wood;
From every wound a stream of blood

Came trickling down amain :

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