On my ear; did I say? Little gain,
Little comfort, such gift, would impart
O let its deep impress remain
Indelibly stamp'd on my heart.
Does GOD then His creatures invite
Upon Him to cast every care?
His word does Omnipotence plight
Thus freely their burden to bear?
O let me not baffle such love
By a thankless and cold unbelief;
But His truth and His faithfulness prove,
By resigning my every grief.
Does a Father his fostering hand
From heaven in mercy extend;
And shall I such compassion withstand,
And refuse such a bountiful friend?
Let me rather with rapture embrace
An offer so gracious and kind,
And unlimited confidence place
In such pow'r and such goodness combin'd.
Has it pleas'd Him, in wisdom, to take
My earthly dependence away?
Then with child-like submission I'll make
His arm my sole pillar and stay.
I'll repose on the words which declare,
That the desolate still He befriends,
Makes the fatherless children His care,.
And the cause of the widow defends...
I'll list to His heart-soothing voice,
Who has said that the mourners are blest,
Who invites them to Him to rejoice,
And assures them of comfort and rest.
To the heart truly humbled by woe,
The anointing of joy shall be given;
To the tears which from penitence flow,
The peace that's a foretaste of heaven.
John Moultrie, Esq. then aged 15.
BENEATH the chancel's hallow'd stone,
Expos'd to ev'ry rustic tread,
To few, save rustic mourners, known,
My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Few words upon the rough stone graven,
Thy name, thy birth, thy youth declare,
Thy innocence, thy hopes of heaven,
In simplest phrase recorded there;
No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave,
In mockery o'er my brother's grave.
The place is silent;-rarely sound
Is heard those ancient walks around;
No mirthful sound of friends that meet
Discoursing in the public street;
Nor hum of business, dull and loud,
Nor murmur of the passing crowd,
Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell,
From neighb'ring fort or citadel;
No sound of human toil or strife,
To Death's lone dwelling speaks of life;
Nor breaks the silence, still and deep,
Where thou, beneath thy burial stone, Art laid, in that unstartled sleep
The living eye hath never known!
The lonely sexton's footstep falls
In dismal echoes on the walls,
As slowly pacing thro' the aisle
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,
Pouring it's music on the breeze,
Proclaims the well-known holy time
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;
What voice of calm and solemn tone
Is heard above thy burial stone?
What form in priestly meek array
Beside the altar kneels to pray?
What holy hands are lifted up
To bless the sacramental cup ?
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!
How blithly then we hail'd the ray
Which usher'd in the sabbath-day;
How lightly then our footsteps trod
Yon pathway to the house of GOD;
For souls, in which no dark offence
Hath sullied childhood's innocence,
Best meet the pure and hallow'd shrine,
Which guiltier bosoms own divine.
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
In reverential piety,
For childish faults forgiveness crave,
The next beam'd brightly on thy grave.
The crowd, of which thou late wert one,
Now throng'd across thy burial stone;
Rude footsteps trampled on the spot
Where thou liest mould'ring and forgot ;
While some few gentler bosoms wept
In silence, where my brother slept.
I stood not by thy feverish bed,
I look'd not on thy glazing eye,
Nor gently lull'd thy aching head,
Nor view'd thy dying agony ;
I felt not what my parents felt,
The doubt, the terror, the distress,
Nor vainly for my brother knelt;
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,
And brought me back my gaiety;
For soon to childhood's wayward heart
Does crush'd affection cease to smart;
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