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Death held not Deity,
Immanuel rose again;
The couch on which He lay,
Floods of undying Day;
Where Light and Life are shed?
Those strains, when worlds have fled.
They have built ye firmly, frowning walls!
With the iron and the stone;
Where the wretch may sigh alone.
Unto the lost one, here, may years
Of grief unnoted roll;
The Bastile of the soul,
your cold damp-dripping cell,
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
Of man, yet list in vain;
Than these, were lesser pain.
Yet to the lost, abandoned one,
Cast out, yea spurned of all,
Despair has flung its pall
To him, the dead, is life revealed,
His dungeon-walls are heaven, When Mercy, breaking through the gloom,
Whispers, “ Thou art forgiven!”
TO MY DAUGHTER ZELIA.
My child! my child! I love to see
Thy careless step, as thou
And infant beauty now.
My child! my child! thy pleasant way
Is garnished o'er with flowers;
And thine, as thou pursuest thy play,
Are young life's truest hours.
They fly!--they fly!-how soon the doom
Is thine, to welcome wo;And childhood's flowers and childhood's bloom,
How soon the worm will know!
Perhaps 'twill be thy lot severe,
To stem dark sorrow's wave; And pass—no earthly solace near-
To an untimely grave;
To tread, in tears, the weary way,
Thou sawest beloved ones tread; Thy aching brow with theirs to lay,
Where tears no more are shed.
Or to thy God, in early years,
Perhaps thou’lt yield again, -Baptized in prayer and holy tears
Thy soul, without a stain.
To slumber where thy brothers lie,
-One turf above the four-
And joyfully adore.
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,
It ne'er shall give the sigh;
Is treasured in the sky.
These may betide-beyond the veil
That He hath round thee thrown, Shall dart no bright and searching beam
Of prescience but his own,
Then be it thine, an early flower,
To blossom for the grave;
Fair bloom to Him who gave:
Enough-lives not the promise now?
Oh God! when storms grow wild, And earth's proud expectations bow,
Thou'lt keep it to my child,
TO A DEAF AND DUMB GIRL.
I GRIEVE not Heaven to thee denies
The attribute of speech,
All that the mind can teach;
Of love, bids thee rejoice;
The Spirit's soothing voice,
I grieve not that to thee life's scroll
-Such is the Eternal's willIs unrevealed, thy gentle soul
Reads not that page of ill; 0, gentle maiden! trace not thou
Those characters of fire; They tell of wrongs, of bitter strife,
And blight of fond desire.
The flickering light that gilds our day,
On thee may never shine,
Of peace, is ever thine;
Where thought, untroubled, flows, As waveless ocean, on whose breast
The moon-beam seeks repose.
Shut out from scenes of feverish joy,
Removed from grovelling sense, o, how sublime is thy employ,
With high Omnipotence!
Its smiles, or frequent wo,
Of themes we cannot know.
Thou drinkest of the crystal well,
Whence living knowledge flows; Yet on that fount is laid the spell,
That shuts up human woes;