OH! there are moments when the cares of life
Press on the wearied spirit; when the heart
Is fainting in the conflict, and the crown,
The bright, immortal crown for which we strive,
Shines dimly through the gathering mists of earth.
Then, Voices of the Dead! sweet, solemn Voices!
How have I heard ye, in my inmost soul!
Voices of those who, while they walked on earth,
Were linked unto my spirit by the ties
Of pure affection-love more strong than death!
Ye cry, "Frail child of earth! tried, tempted one!
Shrink not! despond not! strive as we have striven
In the stern conflict; yet a little while,
And thou shalt be as we are; thou shalt know
How far the recompense transcends the toil."
Sweet sister! thou wert parted from my side,
Ere yet one shade had dimmed thy loveliness-
While still the holy light of innocence
Was radiant round thee; thou hast past away,
In purity unsullied, to his bosom,
Who in his love said, "Suffer little children
To come unto me, and forbid them not."
Mine only sister! thou art calling me-
By all a sister's love, by every hope
Which withered at thy tomb to bloom in heaven-
To that bright home, where all the severed links
Of the dear household band again shall join,
Nor through eternity the silver chain
Of purity, and love, and peace, be broken.
Friend of my youth! how lately, in thy beauty
And gladness, thou wert with me! Life's young flowers
Were budding round us ;—now, my lips have pressed Their last, sad kiss upon thy pale, calm brow,
And the delight of many eyes is hid
In the dark house of death. My friend! My friend!
'Tis thy sweet voice is pleading-shall the hope
Which tinged, as with a ray of heavenly light,
The clouds which gathered round the parting hour-
The blessed hope of meeting thee again,
Where death is not, be lightly cast away?
My mother! O my mother! thoughts of thee
Come o'er my spirit, like the dews of heaven
Upon the fainting flowers. Best beloved
Of all the dear departed! to thy child
Thine image rises, in thy mournful sweetness
And touching beauty, fading from the earth.
I hear thy voice as when I knelt before thee,
And thou didst lay thy hand upon my head,
And raise thy tearful eyes to heaven in prayer
To Him, who, though the mother leave her child,
Will not forsake the orphan. Thy full soul
Was poured in supplication, dying saint!
Wert thou not heard? surely thou wert! by, Him
Who, loving thee, hath called thee to himself!
Surely thou wert!—even now that voice of prayer
Is floating round me, breathing hope and peace.
Thy God has been my God-thy trust, my trust;
His goodness faileth not. O, may he grant,
That yet again the mother with her child
May bow to worship Him, the Merciful,
In that bright temple where no tone of sorrow
Is mingling in the rapturous burst of praise!
TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.
WE miss thy voice while early flowers are blowing, And the first flush of blossom clothes each bough, And the spring sunshine round our home is glowing Soft as thy smile-thou shouldst be with us now!
With us!-we wrong thee by the earthly thought—
Could our fond gaze but follow where thou art,
Well might the glories of this world seem nought
To the one promise given the pure in heart.
Yet wert thou blest e'en here-oh! ever blest
In thine own sunny thoughts and tranquil faith;
The silent joy that still o'erflowed thy breast,
Needed but guarding from all change, by death.
So is it sealed to peace!-on thy clear brow
Never was care one fleeting shade to cast,
And thy calm days in brightness were to flow,
A holy stream, untroubled to the last!
Farewell! thy life hath left surviving love
A wealth of records and sweet "feelings given," From sorrow's heart the faintness to remove,
By whispers breathing "less of earth than heaven."
Thus rests thy spirit still on those with whom
Thy step the paths of joyous duty trod,
Bidding them make an altar of thy tomb,
Where chastened thought may offer praise to God!
LET me not wander comfortless,
My Father, far from thee,
But still, beneath thy guardian wing,
In holy quiet be.
The storms of grief, the tears of woe,
Soothed by thy love, shall cease,
And all the trembling spirit breathe
A deep, unbroken peace.
The power of prayer shall o'er me shed
A soft celestial calm;
Sweeter than evening's twilight dews,
My soul shall drink its balm.
For there the still small voice shall speak
Thy great, thy boundless love;
And angel forms the mourner call
To the bright realms above.
THE afflicted are not commonly addressed on the subject of their duties. We find ourselves disposed rather to sympathize with, than to exhort them. Grief is privileged, and we presume not to approach it, except with tenderness and respect. It is already bowed down. If we could, we would relieve it of the burdens which it bears; we would not lay other burdens upon it.
But the thought of duties which it owes is not to a good mind a burdensome thought, nor is the recommendation of them felt by such a mind to be an unkindness. A true sympathy dictates a regard to the best good, the religious good, of the objects of its concern, and, as far as it can excite them to a conduct becoming
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