And then came the daughter, the delicate child,
To hold up the head that was breathless and hoary;
And then came the maiden, all frantic and wild,
To kiss the loved lips that were gasping and gory.
And then came the consort that struggled in vain
To stem the red tide of a spouse that bereft her;
And then came the mother that sunk 'mid the slain,
To weep o'er the last human stay that was left her.
Oh, bloody Gilboa! a curse ever lie
Where the king and his people were slaughter'd together: May the dew and the rain leave thy herbage to die, Thy flocks to decay, and thy forests to wither!
Oн, my sister's voice has gone away;
Around our social hearth
We have lost its tones that were so gay,
So full of harmless mirth-
We miss the glancing of her eye,
The waving of her hair,
The footsteps lightly gliding by,
The hand so small and fair;
And the wild bright smile that lit her face,
And made our hearts rejoice
Sadly we mourn each vanished grace,
But most of all her voice.
For, oh! it was so soft and sweet
When breathed forth in words;
Such tones it had as hearts repeat
In echoes on their chords;
And lovely when in measures soft
She sung a mournful song,
And heavenly, when it swelled aloft
In triumph chorus strong;
And dearest when its words of love
Would soothe our bosoms' care;
And loveliest when it rose above
In sounds of praise and prayer.
Oh, in my childhood I have sate,
When that sweet voice hath breathed,
Forgetful of each merry mate-
Of the wild flowers I had wreathed:
And though each other voice I scorned
That called me from my play,
If my sweet sister only warned,
I never could delay.
'Twas she who sang me many a rhyme,
And told me many a tale,
And many a legend of old time
That made my spirit quail.
There are a thousand pleasant sounds
Around our cottage still--
The torrent that before it bounds,
The breeze upon the hill;
The murmuring of the wood-dove's sigh;
The swallow in the eaves;
And the wind that sweeps a melody
In passing from the leaves;
And the pattering of the early rain,
The opening flowers to wet-
But they want my sister's voice again,
To make them sweeter yet.
We stood around her dying bed,
We saw her blue eyes close;
While from her heart the pulses fled,
And from her cheek the rose.
And still her lips in fondness moved,
And still she strove to speak
To the mournful beings that she loved,
And yet she was too weak:
Till at last from her eye came one bright ray,
That bound us like a spell;
And, as her spirit passed away,
We heard her sigh "Farewell!"
And oft since then that voice hath come
Across my heart again;
And it seems to speak as from the tomb,
And bids me not complain:
And I never hear a low soft flute,
Or the sound of a rippling stream,
Or the rich deep music of a lute,
But it renews my dream,
And brings the hidden treasures forth
That lie in memory's store!
And again to thoughts of that voice gives birth-
That voice I shall hear no more.
No more!-it is not so-my hope
Shall still be strong in Heaven-
Still search around the spacious scope
For peace and comfort given.
We know there is a world above,
Where all the blessed meet,
Where we shall gaze on those we love,
Around the Saviour's feet:
And I shall hear my sister's voice
In holier, purer tone-
With all those spotless souls rejoice
Before the Eternal Throne.
AGAIN the week's dull labours close;
The sons of toil from toil repose;
And fast the evening gloom descends,
While home the weary peasant wends.
This night his eyes, in slumber sweet,
Shall droop their lids; to-morrow greet
A day of calm content and rest—
To Labour's aching limbs how blest!
Now, ere I seek my peaceful bed,
And on the pillow rest my head,
Oh, come, my soul, and wide display
The mercies of the week and day!
From danger who my frame hath kept,
While waking, and what time I slept?
Who hath my every want supplied,
And to my footsteps proved a guide?
'Tis thou, my God!-to Thee belong
Incense of praise, and hallowed song;
To Thee be all the glory given,
Of all my mercies under heaven.
From Thee my daily bread and health,
Each comfort-all my spirit's wealth,
Have been derived; my sins alone,
And errings, I can call my own.
Oh, when to-morrow's sun shall rise,
And light once more shall glad these eyes,
May I Thy blessed Sabbath prove,
A day of holy rest and love.
May my Redeemer's praises claim
My constant thought; the Spirit's flame
Descend, my accents to inspire,
And fill my soul with rapture's fire.
And when the night of Death is come,
And I must slumber in the tomb,
Oh, then, my God, this faint heart cheer,
And far dispel the shades of fear,
And teach me, in Thy strength, to tread
The path that leads me to the dead,
Assured, when life's hard toils are o'er,
Of rest with Thee for evermore !
STANZAS WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE.
METHINKS it is good to be here,
If thou wilt let us build-but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear;
But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.
Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no!
Affrighted, he shrinketh away,
For see, they would pin him below
In a dark narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.
To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets
The charms which she wielded before;
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
The skin that but yesterday fools could adore
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.
Shall we build to the purple of Pride,
The trappings which dizen the proud?
Alas! they are all laid aside,
And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed
Save the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.
To Riches? Alas, 'tis in vain ;
Who hid in their turns have been hid;
The treasures are squandered again;
And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid.
Save the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin lid.
To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?
Ah! here is a plentiful board!
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.
Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah, no! They have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above:
Friends, brothers and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.
Unto sorrow? The dead cannot grieve;
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,
Which Compassion itself could relieve.
Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear,
Peace! peace! is the watchword, the only one here.
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?
Ah, no! for his empire is known.
And here they are trophies enow?
Beneath the cold head, and around the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.
The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise!
The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled;
And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,
Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies.
How withered, perished seems the form
Of yon obscure, unsightly root!
Yet from the blight of wintry storm
It hides secure the precious fruit.
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