Yet Lady! while the chaste caress
Of friendship, soothes life's sorrows keen,
Still may affection richly bless
Your path, when fled is gay SIXTEEN.
I SEE thee not, my brother! thou art far
From me, removed to thy empyrion-
Thou dwellest in the chambers of the star;
Inhabitant of yon returnless bourne,
Where mortality comes not-yet in sleep
I saw thee.
'Twas a vision of the night,
When fancy, roused, no more would vigils keep,
When all within was holy, calm and bright.
I saw thee as thou wast. Though many a flower
Of summer birth has flourished on thy bed-
Though many a cold and wintry blast has swept
The spot where thou hast pillowed thy head-
The spot where I in boyhood's laughing hour,
Forgot my mirth and o'er thy memory wept ;
My brother! I saw thee, and thou didst seem
Like nought of earth-a shadowy, pleasing dream-
A voiceless vision, beckoning me away
To skiey fields, where love's pure fountain flows
'Mid landscapes, sunned by an unclouded day,
Where pilgrims dwell-the weary find repose.
Methought 'twas by a river's brink we walked :
How touching was night's silence! Echo talked
Along the breezes, on the eddying air
Came dying murmurs ;-music, too, was there,
Music unheard, yet felt, the harmony
That soothes the spirit in the parting hour,
That hails the disembodied to their bower.
'Twas invitation all;-I strove to follow thee-
My brother! I sought again thy speaking eye,
But thou wast gone; there was nought left with me;
The stars shone coldly in the clear blue sky,
The lonely night-wind, murmuring, passed by.
THE MATERNAL PRAYER MEETING.
THEY'VE met, thou seest, this is where
They always love to meet ;
The chosen room, well known to prayer,
The Mother's mercy seat;
They've met-in beauteous eyes, the tear
Of stirring thought is dim;
For each, this hour, her sweet ones here,
Leads up in prayer to HIM.
Is't not a holy place?-look round-
Unto these bosoms given,
Are hopes, not by the wide world bound,
They look away to heaven;
And think not Heaven, as side by side,
Are child and mother bowed-
Between itself and this deep tide
Of prayer, hath flung a cloud.
Oh no! if ever broken speech
May audience find above,
'Tis when the mother's heart would reach
Down blessings for its love;
And though in tears each suppliant long
May tarry near the throne,
She knows that here the faith is strong
That is so faint alone.
And firm the faltering step, for then
The altar-place is trod;
And rises timid woman, when
She gives her child to God;
Yet not for self is given the sigh,
The earnest tear is shed;
But that rich mercies from on high
May fall upon his head.
Oh woman! to whose forming touch
Is given the plastic mind,
Thou need'st the frequent prayer, for much
Hath heaven to thee consigned ;
Still in thy weakness there is power
Before thy King to stand;
With him there is a hearing hour,
A sceptre in his hand.
'Tis wise, while fountains fail below,
To lead those thou dost love,
Unto the streams that brightly flow
In fairer worlds above;
To furnish, ere 'tis thine to fall,
These dear ones for the strife;
And oh, to see them peril all
For crowns of endless life!
THE dawn hath broke on Solyma,
Yet in her streets sits wan despair;
The temple greets the early ray,
The voice of gladness is not there;
Gone forth is the accursed decree,
Blush Sun! and hide each starry gem! Your Maker is condemned, and He Wears now the thorny diadem.
Did not from yonder battlement
The gathered angels bend and weep, When crushed with toil, with sorrow spent, Immanuel trod the painful steep?
Was there not anguish known above-
Say, ye! that knelt before the throne,
When He whose every throb was love,
By man rejected, wept alone?
O, suffering Saviour! let me be
Patient, when crowding cares invade ; Resigned, when earthly blessings flee, And grateful while enjoyments fade :
Thou wast rejected!-Son of God!
Near to the Highest is thy seat;
'Tis mine to meet the stormy flood,
Give me a place beneath thy feet.
DARKLY o'er thee, Palestine !
Hangs the mystic veil of night;
Land of Shinar, grief is thine,
Quenched the glory of thy light,—
Where is now the promise given
To thy sires of ancient day?
Where, O where, the lamp of heaven,
To direct the wanderer's way?
Ye who, favoured, saw HIM, tell
Of his mien, beyond compare;
Ye who marked Him when he fell,
Say, was not the Godhead there?
Yet he writhed beneath the rod-
Anguish sat upon his brow-
Men have triumphed in his blood,
And the marble holds him now.
Wherefore then the golden beam,
Springing up the eastern sky;
Bright, yet soft as morning's dream,
When night's empire passes by?
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