Imágenes de páginas

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;—
Doth God exact day-lahour, light denied,

I fondly ask? hut patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts; who hest
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him hest: his state
Is kingly; thousands at his hidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.


If this delicious, grateful flower,
Which hlows hut for a little hour,
Should to the sight so lovely he,
As from its fragrance seems to me,
A sigh mast then Its colour show,
For that's the softest joy I know;
And sure the rose is like a sigh,
Born jnst to soothe, and then,—to die!

My Father, when our fortune smiled,
With jewels deck'd his eyeless child;
Their glittering worth, the world might see,
But, ah! they had no charms for me;
A trickling tear hedew'd my arm—
I felt it, and my heart was warm;
And sure the gem to me most dear,
Was a kind father's pitying tear.



Stranger, pause!—for thee the day
Smiling, pours its cheerful ray,
Spreads the lawn, and rears the hower,
Lights the stream, and paints the flower.

Stranger, pause!—with softened mind
Learn the sorrows of the hlind:

Earth and seas, and varying skies
Visit not their cheerless eyes.

Not for them the hliss to trace
The chisel's animating grace:
Nor on the glowing canvass find!
The poet's soul, the sage's mind.

Not for them the heart is seen
Speaking through the expressive mien;
Not for them are pictured there
Friendship, pity, love sincere.

Helpless as they slowly stray,
Childhood points their cheerless way;
Or the wand exploring guides
Faltering steps, where Fear presides.

Yet for them has Genius kind
Humhle pleasure here assigned;
Here with unexpected ray
Reached the soul that felt no day.

Lonely hlindness here can meet
Kindred woes, and converse sweet;
Torpid once, can learn to smile
Gladly o'er its useful toil.

He who deign'd for man to die,
Oped on day the darkened eye;
Humhly copy—thou canst feel!
Give thine alms—thou canst not heal!



Look where hecomes—in this emhowered

alcove Stand close concealed, and seeastatne move: Lips husy, and eyes fixt, foot falling slow, Anns hanging idly down, hands clasped helow, Interpret to the marking eye distress, •Such as its symptoms can alone express. That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue Could argue once, could jest or join the song, Could give advice, could censure or commend, Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. Renounced alike its office and its sport, Its hrisker and its graver strains fell short; Both fail'd heneath a fever's secret sway, And like a summer-hrook are past away. This is a sight for pity to peruse, Till she. resemhle faintly what she views, Till sympathy contract a kindred pain, Pierced with the woes that she laments in

vain. This, of all maladies that man infest, Claims most compassion, and receives the

least: Joh felt it, when he groaned heneath the rod And the harhed arrows of a frowning God; And such emollients as his friends could

spare, Friends such as his for modern Johs prepare. Blest, rather curst, with hearts that never

feel, Kept snug in caskets of close hammered

steel, With months made only to grin wide and

eat, And minds, that deem derided pain a treat, With limhs of British oak,and nerves of wire, And wit, that puppet-prom piers might inspire, Their sovereign nostrum is a clumsy joke On pangs enforced with God's severest stroke

But with a soul that ever felt the sting
Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing:
Not to molest, or irritate, or raise
A laugh at his expense, is slender praise;
He, that has not usurped the name of mau,
Does all, and deems too little, all he can,
T' assuage the throhhings of the festered

And stanch the hleedings of a hroken heart.
'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose,
Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes;
Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight,
Each yielding harmony disposed aright;'
The screws reversed (a task which if he please
God in a moment executes with ease,)
Ten thousand thousand strings at once go

loose, Lost, till he tone them, all their power and

use. Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair As ever recompensed the peasant's care, Nor soft declivities with tufted hills, Nor view of waters turning husy mills, Parks in which art preceptress nature weds, Nor gardens interspersed with flowery heds, Nor gales, that catch the scent of hlooming

groves, And waft it to the mourner as he roves, Can call up life into his faded eye, That passes all he sees unheeded hy: No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels, No cure for such, till God who makes them,

heals. And thou, sad sufferer under nameless ill. That yields not to the touch of human skill, Improve the kind occasion, understand A Father's frown, and kiss his chasteniug

hand; To thee the day-spring, and the hlaze of noon, The purple evening, and resplendent moon, The stars, that sprinkled o'er the vault of

night, Seem drops descending in a shower of light, Shine not, or ondesired and hated shine, Seen through the medium of a cloud like


Yet seek him, in his favour life is found,
All hliss heside a shadow or a sound:
Then heaven, eclipsed so long, and this dull

Shall seem to start into a second hirth!
Nature, assuming a more lovely face,
Borrowing a heauty from the works of grace,
Shall he despised and overlooked no more,
Shall fill thee with delights unfelt hefore,
Impart to things inanimate a voice,
And hid her mountains and her hills rejoice;
The sound shall run along the winding vales,
And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails.


Father of heaven I full many a wasted day,

And weary, wakeful night, this heart hath worn

In one hright vision, waning now away, And leaving it all desolate, forlorn. O with thy gracious liaht, direct my feet

To a more peaceful way,—a nohler love! Guide thou a wanderer to that hless'd retreat,

The clouds and cares of this dark world ahove. For Thou, my Lord, hast seen year after year

Roll on in sadness, since this heart of mine

Bow' d to that yoke alike on all severe; Now, weak and faint, I ask thy hand divine To fix each rehel thought, and vagrant tear,

Saviour of all I upon that cross of thine!


1 Nrver hear that plaintive sigh,

Borne on the tremhling zephyrs' wings,

But fancy paints some spirit nigh,

Who hreathes in rapture o'er ihy strings; Some minstrel sylph or fairy power, Whose music charms in lonely hour.

iEolian harp! the magic swell,
That lingers midst thy sounding wire,

On whose wild notes I love to dwell,
Could aught hut angel voice inspire!

Conld mortal voice so sweetly sing,

Or raise the soul on fancy's wing?

Ah 1 no—No mortal voice e'er sung
A strain so soft, a hreath so light;

No chord such witching numhers rung,
But what was tuned hy airy sprite;

Some seraph wanderer of the sky,

Who sighs the note of melody.

In vesper hour no requiem swell,
Borne on the hreezes of the night,

On which the pious crowd would dwell,
To waft the soul to realms of light,

E'er threw around such magic power,

Or hreath'd more sweet in lonely hour.

That song is o'er; the hreeze of night Shall sweep in silence o'er the strings;

And, ah! that hreath, so soft, so light, Shall mourn no more on zephyrs' wingi;

Thy tremhling chords no more shall sigh,

No fairy minstrel hover nigh.

Farewell, sweet harp; for damp decay
Upon thy mouldering chords shall dwell,

And thou shalt hreathe no future lay,
And thou shalt raise no future swell;

The hreeze flits hy, the music's o'er,

The fairy sounds can charm no more.



It is a fearful thing to see The vacant smile of idiocy;

That staring eye of soulless ray,
Which wandeis wildly every way;
Those lips which mutter ghastly mirth:
Oh ! 'tis the saddest sight on earth.
I'd sooner see within that eye
The wild-fire of insanity;

I'd sooner see within that frame,

Ly can throphy, that none can tame.

For such a frame would move me less,

Than that same form of helplessness.

A mass of flesh without a mind,

A mockery of human kind;

The shape of man without one spring

Of thought, however wandering;

A living statue, it can weep,

And laugh, and hreathe, and move, and

But this mere mechanism—the call

Of natural instinct—this is all
That gives this mass of moulded clay

Its title to humanity.

There's not a gleaming, not a spark

Of reason there; all, all is dark.

It is an awful thing to see,

The vacant face of idiocy!



There often wanders one,whom hetter days Saw hetter clad, in cloak of satin trimmed

With lace, and hat with splendid rihand

hound. A serving maid was she, and fell in love With one who left her, went tosea,anddied. Her fancy followed -him through foaming

waves To distant shores; and she would sit and

weep At what a sailor suffers; fancy too, Delusive most where warmest wishes arc, Would oft anticipate his glad return, And dream of transports she was not to know: She heard the doleful tidings of his death— And never smiled again! and now she roams The dreary waste; there spends the live-long

day, And there, unless when charity forhids, The live-long night. A tattered apron hides, Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown More tattered still; and hoth hut ill conceal A hosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs. She hegs an idle pin of all she meets, And hoards them in her sleeve; hut needful

food, Tho' pressed with hunger oft, or comelier

clothes, Tho' pinched with cold, asks never—Kate

is crazed;




Nay, shrink not from that word "Farewell!'1 As if 'twere Friendship's final knell;

Such fears may prove hat vain: So changeful is Life's fleeting day, Whene'er we sever—Hope may say

We part, to meet again!

E'en the last parting Earth can know,
Brings not unutterahle wo,

To souls that heavenward soar;
For humhle Faith, with stedfast eye,
Points to a hrighter world on high,
Where hearts, that here at parting sigh,

May meet—to part no more! «


When forced to part from those we love,

If sure to meet to-morrow,
We still a pang of anguish prove,

And feel a touch of sorrow.

But who can paint the hriny tears
We shed when thus we sever,

If forced to part for months, for years,
To part—perhaps forever!



But if our thoughts are fix'd aright, A cheering hope is given,

Though here our prospects end in night,
We meet again in heaven.

Yei, if our sonls are raised ahove,
'Tis sweet when thus we sever,

Since parting in a Saviour's love,
We part to meet for ever!



Land where the hones of our Fathers are sleeping!
Land where our dear ones and fond ones are weeping!
Land where the light of Jehovah is shining;
We leave thee lamenting^ hut not with repining.

Land of oar Fathers 1 in grief we forsake thee;
Land of our Friends! may Jehovah protect thee;
Land of the Church! may the light shine around thec,
Nor darkness, nor trouhle, nor sorrow confound thee.

God is thy God; thou shalt walk in His hrightness!
Gird ihee with joy! let thy rohes he of whiteness •
fiod is thy God! let thy hills shout for gladness!
But ahT we must leave thee—we leave thee in sadness.

Dark is our path o'er the dark rolling ocean;
Dark are oar hearts; hat the fire of devotion
Kindles within ;—and a far distant nation
Shall learn from oar lips the glad song of Salvation.

Hail to the land of our toils and our sorrows I
Land of our rest! when a few more to-morrows
Pass o'er our heads, we shall seek our cold pillows,
And rest in our graves, far away o'er the hillows.

Jesus, we pray for thy Spirit to lead us,
Jesus, we pray for thy power to succeed us;
Then when thy grace from our toils shall release us,
Thy love in the mansions of glory shall hless us,


Oh My Lov'd Rachel! name for ever dear,
Nor writ, nor spoke, nor thought without a tear!
Whose heav'nly virtues and transcendent charms,
Have hless'dihrough many a year my peaceful arms;
Parting with thee, into my cup has thrown,
Life's harshest dregs, else nought had forced a groan:
But all is o'er—these eyes have gazed their last,
And now the hitternest of death is past.

« AnteriorContinuar »