Death held not Deity, Immanuel rose again; Now o'er the darksome tomb, The couch on which He lay, Floods of undying Day; Say! is not Music there Where Light and Life are shed? Yes! and mankind shall share Those strains, when worlds have fled. THE PRISON. THEY have built ye firmly, frowning walls! Unto the lost one, here, may years Within your cold damp-dripping cell, Unseen by human eye, Methinks 'tis horrible to dwell, Less dreadful 'twere to die. To know that the bright blessed sun, It was not mine to see; That spring should bloom and summer smile, Yet bloom nor smile for me To listen for the voice, or tread Yet to the lost, abandoned one, Cast out, yea spurned of all, To him, the dead, is life revealed,— When Mercy, breaking through the gloom, TO MY DAUGHTER ZELIA. My child! my child! I love to see And infant beauty now. My child! my child! thy pleasant way Is garnished o'er with flowers; And thine, as thou pursuest thy play, They fly!-they fly!-how soon the doom And childhood's flowers and childhood's bloom, How soon the worm will know! Perhaps 'twill be thy lot severe, To tread, in tears, the weary way, Or to thy God, in early years, To slumber where thy brothers lie, To bathe in glory where they fly, Yet, freed from sorrows scarcely felt, And spared life's dreary doom, Oh, who, in bitterness, e'er knelt Beside an infant's tomb? To think, for recollected sin, These may betide-beyond the veil Then be it thine, an early flower, Enough-lives not the promise now? TO A DEAF AND DUMB GIRL. I GRIEVE not Heaven to thee denies When reading in those kindling eyes, I grieve not no assuring tone Thou favoured one! to thee is given I grieve not that to thee life's scroll They tell of wrongs, of bitter strife, The flickering light that gilds our day, I grieve not, yonder steady ray And pure and tranquil is that rest, Where thought, untroubled, flows, As waveless ocean, on whose breast The moon-beam seeks repose. Shut out from scenes of feverish joy, Far from the din of this low sphere, Thou hearest a voice we cannot hear, Of themes we cannot know. Thou drinkest of the crystal well, |