My wife and little one Are with me as I go; And they are all, beneath the sun, With them, upon the sea Or land, where'er I roam, Heave, mighty ocean, heave, And blow, thou boisterous wind: Where'er we go, we cannot leave Our home and friends behind. Then come, my lovely bride, Since we have nought on earth beside, We heed not earthly powers, We heed not wind nor weather; For, come what will, this joy is ours- And if the storms are wild, And we perish in the sea, We'll clasp each other and our child: And neither shall remain To meet, and bear alone, The cares, the injuries, the pain, And there's a sweeter joy, Danger nor death can e'er destroy Then wherefore should we grieve? Or what have we to fear? Though home, and friends, and life, we leave, Our God is ever near. 1 If He who made all things, And rules them, is our own, Then come, my gentle bride, What if we've nought on earth beside? Sweep, mighty ocean, sweep; The Time to weep.-ANONYMOUS. THERE is a time to laugh, When Joy may raise nisows like the deep, And twine with wreaths of flowers the cup we quaff;-But, O, when is the season not to weep? Is it when vernal suns Unfold the silken flower and satin leaf? Or when the hoar frost nips the fading ones, That frailer beings may refrain from grief? Is it when health and bloom Are painted on the smiling cheek of youth? Look not upon the brow, That shows no furrow from the plough of years; The prattling child at play May charm itself, and dry its tears awhile; Destruction has its home, And Mirth is destined to some favorite spot; Thou hast thy dark abode In the lone desert-in the prison's cell; And in the gayest scene, where ever flowed The tide of wine and music, thou dost dwell. Thou art where friends are torn And held asunder by reluctant space; And meeting friends-O, do they never mourn When Memory paints thine image on the face? Thy inmates of the breast All other passions-are but weak and brief; Joy, Hope, Pride, Love and Hatred have a rest, But thou art constant as our breath, O Grief! Then let the trifler laugh, And Joy lift his glad billows like the deep, And twine with wreaths of flowers the cup we quaff; It is far better for the wise to weep. The Autumn Evening.-PEABODY. BEHOLD the western evening light! The winds breathe low; the withering leaf So gently flows the parting breath, How beautiful on all the hills The crimson light is shed! 'Tis like the peace the Christian gives How mildly on the wandering cloud 'Tis like the memory left behind When loved ones breathe their last. And now, above the dews of night, But soon the morning's happier light And eyelids that are sealed in death Lines on revisiting the Country.—BRYANT. I STAND upon my native hills again, Broad, round, and green, that, in the southern sky, With garniture of waving grass and grain, Orchards and beechen forests, basking lie; While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen. A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, For I have taught her, with delighted eye, Here I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat, And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear The song of bird and sound of running stream, Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun: thou canst not wake, From thy fierce heats a deeper, glossier green; He seems the breath of a celestial clime,- The Spirit's Song of Consolation.*-F. W. P. GREENWOOD. DEAR parents, grieve no more for me; My parents, grieve no more; Than even with you before. I've left a world where wo and sin And gained a world where I shall rest In peace and joy forever. Our Father bade me come to him, And he has made his heavenly house I heard the voice you could not hear, I saw, too, what you could not see, They smiling stood, and looked at me, * Supposed to be addressed by the departed spirit of a boy to his parents, who had lost two other children before him. |