Out of their dwelling in the wilderness;
But kindly entertain, and what they give,
He readily receives. And now retires
To needed rest the weary traveller;
But wherefore not at once to welcome sleep?
There is a vision on his mind of fire-arms
Ranged in the room he hath so lately left,—
In shining order ranged; and, darksome fear,
That he and his loved gold this night must part,
Comes like a cloud with thunder charged upon
Cometh the fear that his last night has come,
And that he must be buried in the wild,
Where no old friend will ever see his grave,
Or learn where he is laid. Hark! what is that?
The weather-beaten bushman reaches down,—
No, not the rifle,—but the Holy Bible;
And he forgets not in his evening prayer,
The stranger who has sought for shelter with
Nay, traveller, the angels see thy tears,
However much thou may'st intend to hide them;
But there's no angel in the host of heaven
Could have relieved thee of thy dismal doubt,
And dark suspicion, like that simple act
Of worship in the wild. Now, fare thee well!
THE ARGUMENT.-The reign of death.
proving the life hereafter. Enoch and Elijah. Night and death compared. The death and burial of infancy-of hopeful youth-of the maiden lovely---of manhood, and old age.
Another Tide of Even, more uncertain,
But not less sure than that the sunset sees,
Cometh, aye, cometh. Tho' uncertain when,
Yet, by appointment, unto all it cometh.
We know the time of every day's decline,
But know not when the spirit will depart,
And unto God return. Yet we do know
That surely as the twilight spreads abroad,
And darkness nightly gathers round about us,
That we must die, and cannot, cannot help it.
There have been some exceptions to the rule,
That more than serve to prove it; for they prove
The truth of Life Hereafter. Did not Enoch,
Who walked with God on earth, when he went home,
Omit to leave his body in the grave?
He in the twinkling of an eye was changed,
And, lo, God took him. Then, in after days,
Did not Elijah, who called fire from heaven,
To heaven with Him whose way is in the whirlwind,
In sunbright state ascend? Have not the dead Been raised again to life, to teach mankind That there's a state of being after this, Beyond the noisy world, and silent grave?
But here death reigns. And, as the Tide of Even
Husheth the valley into peaceful slumber,
And glides in silentness along the plains,
And climbs in quiet up the steep hill-side,
And overflows the highest of the mountains,
And fills the air above the earth and ocean,
So widely flows that other Tide of Even
Which calleth us to sleep the sleep of death.
Lovely is infancy, though yet unable
To tell its wishes and its wants in words,—
A thing of faith-of confidence and beauty-
Of such, moreover, is the heavenly kingdom―
A thing of love that winneth hearts with ease.
If there be aught in all the living world,
That death might let alone, 'tis surely this.
If there be light we would not see put out;
Or flow of joy we would not have disturb'd;
Or happy bloom we would not should be blighted;
Or a young plant of life that we would see
Rise to a noble tree of pleasant fruit,—
We have it here, in infancy the helpless.
But as the light is followed by the darkness; And as the rill is by the frostwind frozen; As the fair bloom falls under blast of blight, Or the young plant, cut down, can only perish; As the scythe sweeps the fields of grass and flowers; As grass and flowers in sunny hay-time wither, So, frequently, to infancy comes death
The Tide of Even with a morn not ours.
But if the darkness,-not by morning follow'd,-
Follow not soon the morning light of being;
If infancy in safety mount to manhood,
Still the night cometh; for the sun of life
Sets oft in daytime-oft goes down at noon.
And if it seemeth hard that earth should hold
Possession of a portion of our comfort-
The little one so well-beloved and loving;
If it be so much loss, and so much pain
To lay the baby-form down-cover up-
And fasten on the coffin-lid with screws;
To bear it to the tomb in mournfulness-
Gently and carefully as if it were
Only asleep, and we afraid to wake it
If it be hard to hear the cold earth fall
With lonely patter on the coffin-lid;
If the fond heart then feels the chilly gloom,
How must it be when manhood is no more?
They bear him to the grave. And who was he?
A youth beloved, who, like a plant of promise-
Of promise hopeful, had grown up among them:
And many, in an undertone, had said,
(Not in his hearing,) that the time would come,
When, like a star, in steady splendour shining,
He, round his native place, would shed a glory,
And be a blessing in his generation.
But his night came ;-came sickness-sorrowgloom,
Like an eclipse in merry morning vernal;
And unto many the eclipse was total.
They bear her to the grave. And who was
A young-a well-beloved and loving maiden;
Who walked the earth as if she were an angel,
The more beloved because not made with wings
Wherewith to soar too early up to heaven-
Too early for their happiness who knew her.
Yet the night came to her; but in the silence,
When sorrow linger'd in the solemn room,
She sweetly told in sacred tones of gladness,
How there had come sweet music to her spirit;
And that, as well as could be known, she knew
Angels were waiting for her. So she died-
Falling asleep in her Redeemer's bosom.
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