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His simple record I have pondered o'er
With deep and quiet joy.
Its woods around,
To me is holy ground.
His vigils still;
Or Virgil's laurelled hill.
To Juliet's urn,
Like brother pilgrims turn.
But here a deeper and serener charm
To all is given ;
The holy hues of Heaven !
TO J. P.
Not as a poor requital of the joy
With which my childhood heard that lay of thine,
Which, like an echo of the song divine
Bore to my ear the Airs of Palestine,-
How much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see,
And girded for thy constant strife with wrong, Like Nehemiah fighting
while he wrought The broken walls of Zion, even thy song Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought!
THE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON.
(IBN BATUTA, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the four teenth century, speaks of a Cypress-tree in Ceylon, universally held sacred by the natives, the leaves of which were said to fall only at certain intervals, and he who had the happiness to find and eat one of them, was restored, at once, to youth and vigor The traveller saw several venerable Jogees, or saints, sitting silent and motionless under the tree, patiently awaiting the falling of a leaf.]
THEY sat in silent watchfulness
The sacred cypress-tree-about,
Their failing eyes looked out.
Gray Age and Sickness waiting there
Through weary night and lingering dayGrim as the idols at their side
And motionless as they.
Unheeded in the boughs above
The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet;
Bloomed brightly at their feet.
O'er them the tropic night-storm swept,
The thunder crashed on rock and hill;
Yet there they waited still !
What was the world without to them?
The Moslem's sunset-call-the dance Of Ceylon's maids—the passing gleam
Of battle-flag and lance ?
They waited for that falling leaf,
of which the wandering Jogees sing: Which lends once more to wintry age
The greenness of its spring. Oh!-if these
and blinded ones In trustful patience wait to feel O'er torpid pulse and failing limb
A youthful freshness steal;
Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree,
Whose healing leaves of life are shed In answer to the breath of
prayer Upon the waiting head • Not to restore our failing forms,
And build the spirit's broken shrine, But, on the fainting soul to shed
A light and life divine :
Shall we grow weary in our watch,
And murmur at the long delay ?
And his appointed way?
Allure and claim the Christian's eye, When on the heathen watcher's ear
Their powerless murmurs die ? Alas! a deeper test of faith
Than prison cell or martyr's stake, The self-abasing watchfulness
Of silent prayer may make.
We gird us bravely to rebuke
Our erring brother in the wrong: And in the ear of Pride and Power
Our warning voice is strong. Easier to smite with Peter's sword,
Than“ watch one hour” in humbling prayer Life's “great things,” like the Syrian lord,
Our hearts can do and dare.
But oh! we shrink from Jordan's side,
From waters which alone can save:
And Pharpar's brighter wave.
Didst wake thy weary ones again,
Forgetful of thy pain;
Bend o'er us now, as over them,
And set our sleep-bound spirits free. Nor leave us slumbering in the
watch Our souls should keep with Thee !
A DREAM OF SUMMER
BLAND as the morning breath of June
The southwest breezes play;
Seems warm as summer's day.
Has dropped his icy spear;
Again the streams gush clear.
The fox his hill-side cell forsakes,
The muskrat leaves his nook,
Is singing with the brook.
Bird, breeze, and streamlet free;
Of summer days to thee !"
So, in those winters of the soul,
By bitter blasts and drear
Will sunny days appear.
The soul its living powers,
germs of summer flowers !
The Night is mother of the Day,
The Winter of the Spring,
The greenest mosses cling.
the cloud the starlight lurks,
Has left his Hope with all ! 4th 1st month, 1847.
WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL.
"Get the writings of John Woolman by heart.”—Essays of Elia
MAIDEN! with the fair brown tresses
Shading o'er thy dreamy eye,
Cloud wreaths of its sky.