And deeper wo than Salem's fall That tortured heart is breaking: "Tis RACHEL, of her sons bereft,
Who lifts that voice of weeping;
And childless are the eyes that there
Their watch of grief are keeping,
O! who shall tell what fearful pangs
That mother's heart are rending,
As o'er her infant's little grave
Her wasted form is bending;
From many an eye that weeps to-day
Delight may beam to-morrow;
But she her precious babe is not!
And what remains but sorrow?
Bereaved one! I may not chide
Thy tears and bitter sobbing-
Weep on! 'twill cool that burning brow,
And still that bosom's throbbing:
But be not thine such grief as theirs
To whom no hope is given-
Snatch'd from the world, its sins and snares,
Thy infant rests in heaven.
THAT silent moon, that silent moon,
Careering now through cloudless sky,
O! who shall tell what varied scenes
Have pass'd beneath her placid eye,
Since first, to light this wayward earth,
She walk'd in tranquil beauty forth!
How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud, licentious revelry
Profaned her pure and holy light: Small sympathy is hers, I ween,
With sights like these, that virgin queen!
But dear to her, in summer eve,
By rippling wave, or tufted grove,
When hand in hand is purely clasp'd,
And heart meets heart in holy love,
To smile in quiet loneliness,
And hear each whisper'd vow, and bless.
Dispersed along the world's wide way,
When friends are far, and fond ones rove, How powerful she to wake the thought,
And start the tear for those we love,
Who watch with us at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon that silent moon.
How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
To bring again the vanish'd scenes-
The happy eves of days gone by;
Again to bring, mid bursting tears,
The loved, the lost of other years.
And oft she looks, that silent moon,
On lonely eyes that wake to weep
In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,
Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep: O! softly beams her gentle eye
On those who mourn, and those who die!
But, beam on whomsoe'er she will,
And fall where'er her splendours may,
There's pureness in her chasten'd light,
There's comfort in her tranquil ray:
What power is hers to soothe the heart-
What power, the trembling tear to start!
The dewy morn let others love,
Or bask them in the noontide ray;
There's not an hour but has its charm,
From dawning light to dying day:
But, O! be mine a fairer boon-
That silent moon, that silent moon!
"Twas an hour of fearful issues, When the bold three hundred stood, For their love of holy freedom,
By that old Thessalian flood; When, lifting high each sword of flame, They call'd on every sacred name, And swore, beside those dashing waves, They never, never would be slaves! And, O! that oath was nobly kept: From morn to setting sun Did desperation urge the fight
Which valour had begun; Till, torrent-like, the stream of blood Ran down and mingled with the flood, And all, from mountain-cliff to wave, Was Freedom's, Valour's, Glory's grave. O, yes, that oath was nobly kept, Which nobly had been sworn, And proudly did each gallant heart The foeman's fetters spurn; And firmly was the fight maintain'd, And amply was the triumph gain'd; They fought, fair Liberty, for thee: They fell-TO DIE IS TO BE FREE.
"And MOSES cried unto the LORD, and the LORD showed him a tree, which, when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet."
Br Marah's stream of bitterness
When MOSES stood and cried,
JEHOVAH heard his fervent prayer,
And instant help supplied:
The prophet sought the precious tree
With prompt, obedient feet;
'Twas cast into the fount, and made
The bitter waters sweet.
Whene'er affliction o'er thee sheds
Its influence malign,
Then, sufferer, be the prophet's prayer
And prompt obedience, thine:
"Tis but a Marah's fount, ordain'd
Thy faith in Gon to prove,
And prayer and resignation shall
Its bitterness remove.
WHAT is that, Mother?-The lark, my child!—
The morn has but just look'd out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.
What is that, Mother?-The dove, my son!-
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return:
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.
What is that, Mother?-The eagle, boy!—
Proudly careering his course of joy;
Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying,
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.
What is that, Mother?-The swan, my love!-
He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down, by himself to die;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.
"Dear Sir, I am in some little disorder by reason of the death of a little child of mine, a boy that lately made us very glad; but now he rejoices in his little orbe, while we thinke, and sigh, and long to be as safe as he is."JEREMY TAYLOR to EVELYN, 1656.
BEAUTIFUL thing, with thine eye of light,
And thy brow of cloudless beauty bright,
Gazing for aye on the sapphire throne
Of Him who dwelleth in light alone-
Art thou hasting now, on that golden wing,
With the burning seraph choir to sing?
Or stooping to earth, in thy gentleness,
Our darkling path to cheer and bless?
Beautiful thing! thou art come in love,
With gentle gales from the world above,
Breathing of pureness, breathing of bliss,
Bearing our spirits away from this,
To the better thoughts, to the brighter skies,
Where heaven's eternal sunshine lies;
Winning our hearts, by a blessed guile,
With that infant look and angel smile.
Beautiful thing! thou art come in joy,
With the look and the voice of our darling boy-
Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts
He had twined about with his infant arts,
To dwell, from sin and sorrow far,
In the golden orb of his little star:
There he rejoiceth in light, while we
Long to be happy and safe as he.
Beautiful thing! thou art come in peace,
Bidding our doubts and our fears to cease;
Wiping the tears which unbidden start
From that bitter fount in the broken heart,
Cheering us still on our lonely way,
Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray,
Till, risen with CHRIST, we come to be,
Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee.
THIS placid lake, my gentle girl,
Be emblem of thy life,
As full of peace and purity,
As free from care and strife;
No ripple on its tranquil breast
That dies not with the day,
No pebble in its darkest depths,
But quivers in its ray.
And see, how every glorious form
And pageant of the skies,
Reflected from its glassy face,
A mirror'd image lies;
So be thy spirit ever pure,
To GoD and virtue given, And thought, and word, and action bear The imagery of heaven.
THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH.
LIFT not thou the wailing voice,
Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth,-
Up, where blessed saints rejoice,
Ransom'd now, the spirit flieth;
High, in heaven's own light, she dwelleth,
Full the song of triumph swelleth;
Freed from earth, and earthly failing,
Lift for her no voice of wailing!
Pour not thou the bitter tear;
Heaven its book of comfort opeth;
Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear,
But, as one who alway hopeth,
Humbly here in faith relying,
Peacefully in JESUS dying,
Heavenly joy her eye is flushing,—
Why should thine with tears be gushing?
They who die in CHRIST are bless'd,-
Ours be, then, no thought of grieving! Sweetly with their Gon they rest,
All their toils and troubles leaving:
So be ours the faith that saveth,
Hope that every trial braveth,
Love that to the end endureth,
And, through CHRIST, the crown secureth!
THE Reverend WILLIAM B. O. PEABODY was born at Exeter, New Hampshire, in 1799. He was educated at Cambridge, where he graduated in 1816. In 1820, he was established as a minister
in the village of Springfield, Massachusetts, and has resided there since that time, discharging his professional duties, and occasionally writing for the North American Review and other periodicals.
Gon of the earth's extended plains!
The dark, green fields contented lie; The mountains rise like holy towers, Where man might commune with the sky; The tall cliff challenges the storm
That lowers upon the vale below, Where shaded fountains send their streams, With joyous music in their flow.
Gon of the dark and heavy deep!
The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm
Hath summon'd up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dash'd like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calm'd by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.
GoD of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale, Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand,
When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm.
Gon of the light and viewless air!
Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry tempests blow; All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry, Breathe forth the language of thy power.
GoD of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue, Suspended on the rainbow's rings! Each brilliant star, that sparkles through, Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives The beauty of its praise to thee.
Gon of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.
For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.
GoD of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay;
Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.
WRITTEN BY A BEREAVED FATHER.
It seems but yesterday, my love,
Thy little heart beat high;
And I had almost scorn'd the voice
That told me thou must die.
I saw thee move with active bound,
With spirits wild and free;
And infant grace and beauty gave
Their glorious charm to thee.
Far on the sunny plains, I saw
Thy sparkling footsteps fly, Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird That cleaves the morning sky; And often, as the playful breeze
Waved back thy shining hair, Thy cheek display'd the red rose-tint That health had painted there.
And then, in all my thoughtfulness,
I could not but rejoice
To hear, upon the morning wind,
The music of thy voice,-
Now, echoing in the rapturous laugh,
Now sad, almost to tears,
"T was like the sounds I used to hear, In old and happier years.
Thanks for that memory to thee,
My little, lovely boy,-
That memory of my youthful bliss,
Which time would fain destroy.
I listen'd, as the mariner
Suspends the out-bound oar,
To taste the farewell gale that breathes
From off his native shore.
So gentle in thy loveliness!-
Alas! how could it be,
That death would not forbear to lay
His icy hand on thee;
Nor spare thee yet a little while,
In childhood's opening bloom,
While many a sad and weary soul
Was longing for the tomb!
Was mine a happiness too pure
For erring man to know?
Or why did Heaven so soon destroy
My paradise below!
Enchanting as the vision was,
It sunk away as soon
As when, in quick and cold eclipse,
The sun grows dark at noon.
I loved thee, and my heart was bless'd;
But, ere the day was spent,
I saw thy light and graceful form
In drooping illness bent,
And shudder'd as I cast a look
Upon thy fainting head;
The mournful cloud was gathering there,
And life was almost fled.
Days pass'd; and soon the seal of death
Made known that hope was vain;
I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp
Would never burn again;
The cheek was pale; the snowy lips
Were gently thrown apart;
And life, in every passing breath,
Seem'd gushing from the heart.
I knew those marble lips to mine
Should never more be press'd,
And floods of feeling, undefined,
Roll'd wildly o'er my breast;
Low, stifled sounds, and dusky forms
Seem'd moving in the gloom,
As if death's dark array were come,
To bear thee to the tomb.
And when I could not keep the tear
From gathering in my eye,
Thy little hand press'd gently mine,
In token of reply;
To ask one more exchange of love,
Thy look was upward cast,
And in that long and burning kiss
Thy happy spirit pass'd.
I never trusted to have lived
To bid farewell to thee,
And almost said, in agony,
It ought not so to be;
I hoped that thou within the grave
My weary head shouldst lay,
And live, beloved, when I was gone,
For many a happy day.
With trembling hand, I vainly tried
Thy dying eyes to close;
And almost envied, in that hour,
Thy calm and deep repose;
For I was left in loneliness,
With pain and grief oppress'd,
And thou wast with the sainted,
Where the weary are at rest.
Yes, I am sad and weary now;
But let me not repine,
Because a spirit, loved so well,
Is earlier bless'd than mine;
My faith may darken as it will,
I shall not much deplore,
Since thou art where the ills of life
Can never reach thee more.
UPON the far-off mountain's brow
The angry storm has ceased to beat;
And broken clouds are gathering now
In sullen reverence round his feet;
I saw their dark and crowded bands
In thunder on his breast descending;
But there once more redeem'd he stands,
And heaven's clear arch is o'er him bending. I've seen him when the morning sun
Burn'd like a bale-fire on the height; I've seen him when the day was done,
Bathed in the evening's crimson light. I've seen him at the midnight hour, When all the world were calmly sleeping, Like some stern sentry in his tower,
His weary watch in silence keeping.
And there, forever firm and clear,
His lofty turret upward springs;
He owns no rival summit near,
No sovereign but the King of kings.
Thousands of nations have pass'd by,
Thousands of years unknown to story,
And still his aged walls on high
He rears, in melancholy glory.
The proudest works of human hands
Live but an age before they fall;
While that severe and hoary tower
Outlasts the mightiest of them all.
And man himself, more frail, by far,
Than even the works his hand is raising,
Sinks downward, like the falling star
That flashes, and expires in blazing.
And all the treasures of the heart,
Its loves and sorrows, joys and fears, Its hopes and memories, must depart To sleep with unremember'd years. But still that ancient rampart stands Unchanged, though years are passing o'er him; And time withdraws his powerless hands, While ages melt away before him.
So should it be-for no heart beats
Within his cold and silent breast;
To him no gentle voice repeats
The soothing words that make us blest. And more than this-his deep repose
Is troubled by no thoughts of sorrow; He hath no weary eyes to close,
No cause to hope or fear to-morrow.
Farewell! I go my distant way;
Perchance, in some succeeding years, The eyes that know no cloud to-day,
May gaze upon thee dim with tears. Then may thy calm, unaltering form
Inspire in me the firm endeavourLike thee, to meet each lowering storm, Till life and sorrow end forever.
"TIs the high festival of night!
The earth is radiant with delight;
And, fast as weary day retires,
The heaven unfolds its secret fires,
Bright, as when first the firmament
Around the new-made world was bent,
And infant seraphs pierced the blue,
Till rays of heaven came shining through.
And mark the heaven's reflected glow
On many an icy plain below;
And where the streams, with tinkling clash,
Against their frozen barriers dash,
Like fairy lances fleetly cast,
The glittering ripples hurry past;
And floating sparkles glance afar,
Like rivals of some upper star.
And see, beyond, how sweetly still
The snowy moonlight wraps the hill,
And many an aged pine receives
The steady brightness on its leaves,
Contrasting with those giant forms,
Which, rifled by the winter storms,
With naked branches, broad and high,
Are darkly painted on the sky.
From every mountain's towering head
A white and glistening robe is spread,
As if a melted silver tide
Were gushing down its lofty side;
The clear, cold lustre of the moon
Is purer than the burning noon;
And day hath never known the charm
That dwells amid this evening calm.
The idler, on his silken bed,
May talk of nature, cold and dead;
But we will gaze upon this scene,
Where some transcendent power hath been,
And made these streams of beauty flow
In gladness on the world below,
Till nature breathes from every part
The rapture of her mighty heart.
LIFT high the curtain's drooping fold
And let the evening sunlight in;
I would not that my heart grew cold
Before its better years begin.
"Tis well; at such an early hour,
So calm and pure, a sinking ray Should shine into the heart, with power To drive its darker thoughts away.
The bright, young thoughts of early days
Shall gather in my memory now,
And not the later cares, whose trace
Is stamp'd so deeply on my brow.
What though those days return no more?
The sweet remembrance is not vain,
For Heaven is waiting to restore
The childhood of my soul again.
Let no impatient mourner stand
In hollow sadness near my bed,
But let me rest upon the hand,
And let me hear that gentle tread
Of her, whose kindness long ago,
And still, unworn away by years,
Has made my weary eyelids flow
With grateful and admiring tears.
I go, but let no plaintive tone
The moment's grief of friendship tell;
And let no proud and graven stone
Say where the weary slumbers well.
A few short hours, and then for heaven!
Let sorrow all its tears dismiss ;
For who would mourn the warning given Which calls us from a world like this?
BEHOLD the western evening light!
It melts in deepening gloom;
So calmly Christians sink away,
Descending to the tomb.
The wind breathes low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree;
So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.
How beautiful on all the hills
The crimson light is shed!
"T is like the peace the Christian gives
To mourners round his bed.
How mildly on the wandering cloud
The sunset beam is cast!
"Tis like the memory left behind
When loved ones breathe their last.
And now, above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears;
So faith springs in the heart of those
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.
But soon the morning's happier light
Its glory shall restore;
And eyelids that are seal'd in death
Shall wake, to close no more.
|