A heaven of heart so pure as thine
His reaching shades might dim;
The love that is thy Spirit's shrine
Were echoless to him;
A will more strong than his is forth
To guard thee and to bless,
Which canopies with goodlier worth
The couch thy cheek shall press.
Then hie thee to thy rest, loved one,
Wearied with pains of earth;
And when the morrow's golden Sun
Gives out his good and mirth,
So mayst thou rise, to share the wealth
Poured down in his warm light;
And cheerfulness and Seraph health
Be over thee-good night!
My boy, as gently on my breast,
From infant sport, thou sink'st to rest •
And on my hand I feel thee put,
In playful dreams, thy little foot,
The thrilling touch sets every string
Of my full heart to quivering;
For, ah! I think, what chart can show
The ways through which this foot may go?
Its print will be, in childhood's hours,
Traced in the garden, round the flowers;
But youth will bid it leap the rills,
Bathe in the dew on distant hills,
Roam o'er the vales, and venture out
When riper years would pause and doubt,
Nor brave the pass, nor try the brink
Where youth's unguarded foot may sink.
But, what, when manhood tints thy cheek,
Will be the ways this foot will seek?
Is it to lightly pace the deck,
Helpless, to slip from off the wreck?
Or wander o'er a foreign shore,
Returning to thy home no more,
Until the bosom now thy pillow,
Is low and cold beneath the willow?
Or, is it for the battle-plain,
Beside the slayer and the slain?
Will there its final step be taken ?
There, sleep thine eye no more to waken?
Is it to glory or to shame-
To sully, or to gild thy name?
Is it to happiness or wo
This little foot is made to go?
THE DYING STORM.
But wheresoe'er its lines may fall,
Whether in cottage or in hall;
O, may it ever shun the ground
Where'er his foot was never found,
Who, on his path of life, hath shed
A living light, that all may tread
Upon his earthly steps; and none
E'er dash the foot against a stone!
Yet, if thy way is marked by fate,
As, guilty, dark and desolate;
If thou must float, by vice and crime,
A wreck, upon the stream of time!
Oh! rather than behold that day,
I'd know this foot, in lightsome play,
Would bound, with guiltless, infant glee
Upon the sod that sheltered me!
I AM feeble, pale and weary,
And my wings are nearly furled!
I have caused a scene so dreary,
I am glad to quit the world!
With bitterness I'm thinking
On the evil I have done,
And to my caverns sinking
From the coming of the sun.
The heart of man will sicken
In that pure and holy light,
When he feels the hopes I've stricken
With an everlasting blight!
For widely, in my madness,
Have I poured abroad my wrath;
And, changing joy to sadness,
Scattered ruin on my path.
Earth shuddered at my motion,
And my power in silence owns;
But the deep and troubled ocean
O'er
my deeds of horror moans!
I have sunk the brightest treasure;
I've destroyed the fairest form:
I have sadly filled my measure,
And am now a dying storm!
The body of a young Swedish Miner was once discovered in one of the mines of Dalecarlia, in a state of perfect preservation from the action of the mineral waters in which he had been immersed. No one could recognise the body except a very old woman, who knew it to be that of her lover, and embraced it with the most lively demonstration of grief. He had perished fifty years before.
THEY'VE borne him from the ghastly tomb
Up to the blessed light of day;
And from his cheek the transient bloom
Of life, hath scarcely past away.
Upon the stripling's tranquil cheek,
The bloom of life doth glow,
Like twilight's rich and rosy streak
Upon the Winter snow.
There came an aged dame; and put away
The dark hair, from his pallid brow,
And look! how mournfully she doth lay
Her lips to his pale features now.
Methinks, some pleasant dream of years
Long gone, comes o'er her memory;
For smiles gleam o'er her face, then tears
Gush to her aged eye,
And mournfully and low,
These words from her full heart o'erflow.
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