« AnteriorContinuar »
On my ear; did I say? Little gain,
Does GOD then His creatures invite
O let me not baffle such love
By a thankless and cold unbelief;
Does a Father his fostering hand
Let me rather with rapture embrace
And unlimited confidence place
Has it pleas'd Him, in wisdom, to take
I'll repose on the words which declare,
I'll list to His heart-soothing voice,
Who has said that the mourners are blest,
To the heart truly humbled by woe,
MY BROTHER'S GRAVE.
John Moultrie, Esq. then aged 15.
BENEATH the chancel's hallow'd stone,
To few, save rustic mourners, known,
In simplest phrase recorded there;
The place is silent;-rarely sound
Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell,
Where thou, beneath thy burial stone, Art laid, in that unstartled sleep
The living eye hath never known!
He sweeps th' unholy dust away, And cobwebs, which must not defile
Those windows on a sabbath day; And passing thro' the central nave, Treads lightly on my brother's grave.
But, when the sweet-toned sabbath chime,
Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees; When rustic crowds devoutly meet,
And lips and hearts to God are given, And souls enjoy oblivion sweet
Of earthly ills in thoughts of heaven;
Full well I know that reverend form :
And, if a voice could reach the dead, Those tones would reach thee;-but the worm, My brother, makes thy heart his bed;That Sire who thy existence gave, Now stands beside thy lowly grave.
It is not long since thou wert wont
Within these sacred walls to kneel; This altar, that baptismal font,
These stones which now thy dust conceal. The sweet tones of the sabbath bell,
Were holiest objects to thy soul; On these thy spirit lov'd to dwell,
Untainted by the world's control. My brother, those were happy days
When thou and I were children yet; How fondly memory still surveys
Those scenes the heart can ne'er forget. My soul was then, as thine is now,
Unstain'd by sin, unstung by pain; Peace smil❜d on each unclouded brow;
Mine ne'er will be so calm again!
I feel not now, as then I felt,
The sunshine of my heart is o'er; The spirit now is chang'd, which dwelt
Within me in the days before.
But thou wert snatch'd, my brother, hence
In all thy guileless innocence;
One sabbath saw thee bend the knee
For childish faults forgiveness crave,
I stood not by thy feverish bed,
I look'd not on thy glazing eye,
The doubt, the terror, the distress,
My heart was spar'd that wretchedness. One sentence told me in a breath My brother's illness, and his death!
The days of mourning glided by,