And kept with watchful care;
And no rude hand may ever touch
That flower to thee so dear.
And the hour comes on when thou must die,
How soon that hour may be!
Now is it not better thy beautiful branch
Should first be removed from thee?
As thus I gazed on the treasured flower
That grew on a lonely grave,
I thought of the silent sleeper there,
Whom no earthly love could save;
And of him who gladly would have died
For her who was taken away,
Who bow’d his head to the stormy blast,
And droop’d for many a day.
O, why didst thou droop and hang thy head,
Bereav’d and desolate one?
I know from thy loved and cherish’d flower,
’Twas hard to part so soon.
But knowest thou not she is far more safe
Than in thy sheltering arms?
For now she liveth in beauty bright,
And fears no sudden alarms.
O, knowest thou not that a heavenly Friend
Is keeping her safely for thee,
And myriads of bright and holy ones
Are joining her minstrelsy?
And the flower pluck’d from thy darling’s grave
Will never again revive,
But the blossom torn from thy throbbing breast
Shall ever in beauty live.
And the hour is coming when thou, frail man,
Shalt lay thee down and die;
And who can tell but thy sainted love
Now waits thy coming on high,
And will joyfully greet th’ unfetter’d soul,
Releas’d from its prison of clay,
And herald thee on through fields of light,
To the blaze of eternal day?
CHARLESTON, _Dec. 27, 1839_.
INVOCATION TO SLEEP.
Come to my pillow, gentle sleep!
And hold me in thy calm embrace;
And with oblivious wing, efface
The stain of tears and sorrows deep!
Or charm me with thy dreamy spell,
And paint a smile where tears had been;
And lead me to the pastures green,
Where I shall find Immanuel!
In waking hours I love to rove
Where Israel’s shepherd feeds his sheep;
Now, on thy wings, O, gentle sleep,
Come, bear me to the spot I love!
Farewell--sad world, farewell to thee!
Let me forget my woes and cares;
“Still waters” murmur in mine ears;
O, to those waters let me flee!
I’ll bathe my soul in liquid love,
And freely drink the crystal tide,
Then sit me down the wave beside,
Nor ever would I thence remove!
There sweetly sounds Immanuel’s name,
Borne gently on the breezy air,
Ten thousand thousand voices there,
With spirit-tongues his love proclaim.
He leads his flock--he loves them well--
He takes the weary in his arms,
And lures them by his dazzling charms,
Forever in his fold to dwell.
Come, gentle sleep, I feel thy power!
Thy dreamy spell is over me,
Farewell, sad world! farewell to thee!
All hail, my sleeping, dreaming hour!
HEAVEN.
“There shall be no more death--neither sorrow--nor
crying--neither shall there be any more pain, for the former
things have passed away.”
REV. xxi. 4.
There shall be no more death! I love to trace
The records of my last abiding place--
A mansion bought for me by dying love;
And--blissful thought!--I may not thence remove.
No waning strength, nor painful heaving breath,
Shall give me warning of thy coming, Death!
I shall not see thee fix thy baleful eye
On those I love, and feel that they must die;
No arrow from thy ever outstretch’d bow
Again shall lay my dearest treasures low;
No thoughts of absent ones shall there intrude,
Nor hearts be broken by thine entrance rude;
No dark abyss of grief shall open there,
To drown my soul in billows of despair;
I shall not feel that I am left _alone_;
And only hear each well remember’d tone
Sound in mine ears, like some low sighing moan!
But Heaven’s undying choral harmony
Shall ever my immortal music be,
And sweet accordance thrill my list’ning ear,
While tuneful angel songs entranc’d I hear.
Yes! there’s a land where death shall be no more,
Where sad heartbreaking partings all are o’er!
I know the land--my darling ones are there;
Come, Death--to that bright world my spirit bear!
There shall be no more sorrow! I shall feel
No chilling sadness o’er my spirit steal;
And there shall be no aching heart in Heaven;
No mem’ry’s tear; no trespass unforgiven;
No restless cares fresh gath’ring every hour;
No clouds o’er life’s dark labyrinth to lower;
No longing thirst for life’s immortal stream;
No disappointment; no deceitful dream;
No heart of adamant to vex me there;
No secret sins to fill me with despair;
No viper gliding round my place of rest,
To fix its deadly fangs within my breast;
No midnight watchings, paling friendship’s cheek;
No harrowing fears I do not dare to speak;
No last adieu to chill my sinking heart,
And whisper me the hour has come--to part!
No sad preparings for the silent grave;
No dark funereal group where willows wave;
No deep distress to bow my fainting head;
No _sorrow’s anniversary_ to dread!
Come--blissful hour! when all have pass’d away--
Those “former things” that darken’d life’s sad day,
And safely housed shall all my loved ones be,
In ever brightening immortality!
Yes! there’s a land where sorrows shall be o’er,
And I shall see the gath’ring cloud no more;
I know the land--I languish to be there:
Come, Death! to that bright world my spirit bear!
There shall be no more crying! Joyful day!
When God’s own hand all tears shall wipe away,
And while eternity’s long ages roll,
Sweet peace shall settle on my ransom’d soul.
I shall not be a wand’ring alien there,
Estrang’d from God--as I am often here;
Loud hallelujahs, ever on my tongue,
Shall to my golden harp be sweetly sung;
No plaintive notes shall give their mournful sounds,
Save when I sing my Savior’s dying wounds;
Then to the Lamb a louder song shall rise,
And echo joyful round th’ eternal skies;
And souls redeem’d shall praise a Savior slain,
While bright archangels catch the pealing strain!
Then, rising high, the song shall swell again,
And infant voices lisp a sweet--AMEN!
No tears can fall where all the blest employ
Is rapturous praise; and ever growing joy
Sits radiant on each angelic face,
While glory brightens all the blissful place!
Yes! there’s a land where tears shall fall no more,
Nor dim the eyes that often wept before;
I know the land--my sainted ones are there;
Come, Death! to that bright world my spirit bear!
There shall be no more pain! no languishing!
No mortal sickness shall its anguish bring;
There shall be no last agony to dread;
No fever’d brain; no restless, aching head;
No bounding pulse; no deathlike shiv’ring chill;
No throbbing heart for death’s cold touch to still;
No curd’ling of the heart’s warm vital flood;
No heavy dulness o’er the eyes to brood;
No pallid faces stealing round my bed,
Fearing to rouse me by the softest tread;
No closing out the blessed light of day;
No need to force my weeping friends away;
No painful gaspings for the thick’ning breath;
No sorrow--no sad tears--no pain--no death!
O, these shall not be there! for life’s sad day
And gloomy night, shall all have “pass’d away!”
There in my own, my dear, eternal home,
No baleful sickly blights may ever come;
My soul shall flourish in immortal bloom,
While lies my body mould’ring in the tomb;
And this poor clay shall yet in beauty rise,
When the last trump shall sound its glad surprise.
Yes! there’s a land where pain shall be no more,
A land of smiles and joy, blest Canaan’s shore!
My Savior and his ransom’d ones are there;
Come, Death! to that bright world my spirit bear!
CHARLESTON, _August 2, 1840_.
TO A MOTHER WITH A DYING CHILD.
Loosen thine arms, fond mother,
And let thy darling go!
Thou _wouldst_ not hold him down to earth,
Amid these floods of woe.
O, clasp him not so fondly
Close to thy trembling breast;
It is a spot he loves--and yet
’Tis not a place of rest.
There is no love nor beauty
Can charm disease away;
The spoiler comes, and rude his touch,
Be long or short his stay.
Soft is thy baby’s pillow
Upon thy tender breast;
Oft have its gentle heavings lull’d
Thy weary boy to rest.
But now in mortal anguish,
What spot can ease his pain?
No more he’ll nestle in thine arms,
Or smile on thee again!
To watch his painful breathings,
To hear his parting sigh,
To see him chill and motionless,
All glazed his beauteous eye,
’Twill tear thy twining heartstrings,
’Twill melt thy soul with woe;
But he in Heaven will drink of joy
He tasted not below.
Look forward, weeping mother,
And place thy darling there;
Eased in a moment all his pain--
His struggles--and his fear!
O, see thy lovely cherub,
Enraptured with surprise!
All new to him the glorious things
Which charm his wond’ring eyes!
He wears a robe of beauty,
The Savior has put on;
Tinged like the gorgeous clouds that lie
Around the setting sun!
He makes harmonious music,
He tunes his golden lyre,
And in his own loud welcome, joins
The bright celestial choir!
He thinks of thee, fond mother!
But not with sorrow there;
He watches for thy spirit-form
Beside those portals fair.
Now--look again in pity
Upon thy suff’ring boy,
And choose his home in that bright world
Of pure immortal joy.
Loosen thine arms, fond mother,
And let thy darling go;
Yes! bid him stretch his angel wings,
And fly from pain and woe!
JUNE 13, 1840.
AN INVOCATION TO DEATH.
O, Death! thou art a welcome friend,
I woo thee to my heart;
From all I loved and valued once,
I’m ready now to part.
This voice, attuned to notes of joy,
Come, hush to silence now;
And in the stillness of the tomb,
Kind friend! come lay me low!
These hands, now warm with active life,
Fear not thy chilling grasp;
Come, Death! though icy cold thou art,
Thy hand I’ll freely clasp.
These eyes, now fondly glancing round
On those I dearly love,
Come, o’er them spread a filmy veil,
Nor let them longer rove.
These lips, now forming words of love,
Come, give one palsying kiss!
They’ll yield thee up their living breath,
With joyful eagerness.
Come, take this heart, this beating heart,
And freeze it all to stone;
And let my soul, my longing soul,
Fly to th’ Eternal One!
Kind Death! come, take me in thine arms,
And set me wholly free!
I’ll thank thee for that cold embrace
Through all eternity!
DECEMBER 31, 1839.
O! SING TO ME OF HEAVEN!
The following lines were written on the occasion of the death of Mrs.
Ramsay, widow of the late David Ramsay, the son of the Historian of
South Carolina. Her maiden name was Pinckney, a name identified with
the history of our state. The lines were suggested by the scenes which
took place at her death; they are affectionately dedicated to my dear
friends, Mr. and Mrs. H. L. Pinckney, and to our beloved teachers, the
Misses Ramsay, to whom my father’s daughters owe a pleasing debt of
gratitude.
O! sing to me of Heaven,
When I am call’d to die!
Sing songs of holy ecstasy,
To waft my soul on high!
When cold and sluggish drops
Roll off my marble brow,
Burst forth in strains of joyfulness--
Let Heaven begin below!
When the last moment comes,
O! watch my dying face;
And catch the bright seraphic gleam
Which o’er each feature plays!
Then to my ravish’d ears
Let one sweet song be given;
Let music charm me last on earth,
And greet me first in Heaven!
Then close my sightless eyes,
And lay me down to rest;
And clasp my pale and icy hands
Upon my lifeless breast.
Then round my senseless clay
Assemble those I love;
And sing of Heaven--delightful Heaven!
My glorious home above!
JANUARY 15, 1840.
TO A DYING CHRISTIAN.
Trembling soul, dismiss thy fear;
See thy great deliv’rer near!
Hear him calling thee to come
To thy long expected home!
Weary wand’rer, hasten home!
Dost thou fear the Monarch pale?
Death is vanquish’d--bid him “hail!”
Near him stands a mightier King;
He will needful courage bring:--
Dying Christian! why not sing?
Dost thou dread, when thou shalt die,
Nature’s parting agony?
Calm as evening’s ling’ring ray
Shall thy spirit pass away;
Flutt’ring soul! no longer stay!
Dost thou dread the last “good bye;”
Dread to hear the choking sigh?
When thy friends around thee stand,
Point them to Immanuel’s land--
That delightful, happy land!
Dost thou fear to leave alone
One whose soul was like your own?
Friends, ye shall not parted be;
One in spirit still are ye;
Soon in Heaven both shall be!
Christians, take one long embrace,
Look your last on each dear face!
Hark! the waiting seraph sings!
All the air with music rings!
Struggling spirit, spread thy wings!
JANUARY 11, 1840.
“CHIEFEST AMONG TEN THOUSAND AND ALTOGETHER LOVELY.”
O, thou art the chiefest
Among ten thousand charms,
And altogether lovely;--
I speed me to thine arms!
Enraptured with thy beauty,
O, Bridegroom of my soul!
My all to thee I offer,
And yield to thy control.
I’ve heard thee sweetly wooing
My weary soul to rest;
And granting me, dear Savior,
A home upon thy breast!
O, where could I have found me
So soft a resting place,
Where I can dwell forever,
And feed upon thy grace?
How gently glide the hours,
When I repose in thee;
Like clear untroubled waters,
Fast flowing to the sea.
To pass my happy moments,
So fast my days shall flee,
Till I shall reach the ocean
Of vast eternity!
Then, O! what blissful greetings,
What rapture shall be mine!
And, best of all, forever
Shall I in peace recline
On thy kind arms, dear Savior!
Safe folded to thy breast,
And none shall ever tear me
From that sweet place of rest.
SEPTEMBER 6, 1840.
GOD’S LOVE TO ISRAEL.
Jerusalem! Jerusalem! I’ve set my love on thee;
O! foolish and ungrateful! to wander thus from me.
How kindly would I gather thee beneath my shelt’ring wings!
Jerusalem! thou knowest not whence all thy safety springs.
O! well do I remember thee, the kindness of thy youth;
The love of thine espousals, thy faithfulness and truth;
When thou thy Lord didst follow in a land that was not sown,
In a bleak and howling wilderness--unpeopled, dark, and lone.
I led thee through the desert, and through a land of drought,
And from Egyptian bondage I brought thee safely out;
I placed thee in a fertile land, where milk and honey flow;
And now thou lovest strangers, and after them wilt go.
Jerusalem! Jerusalem! my bowels yearn for thee;
For cisterns, broken cisterns, thou hast forsaken me!
I am the living fountain, whose waters gently flow;
How couldst thou ever leave me, so far astray to go?
O! when wilt thou return again? my arms are open’d wide;
Return, backsliding Israel, to thine almighty Guide!
I’ll lead thee to the pastures green, and to the waters clear;--
Jerusalem! Jerusalem! the friendly warning hear!
JANUARY 18, 1841.
HYMN TO THE TRINITY.
In intimate communion,
Dear Father! I am thine;
O! bless thee for the favor,
For love so much divine;
And though afflictions won me,
How could my heart repine?
If thou wilt love me ever,
All else I can resign.
O! keep me near the fountain
Of overflowing love,
To drink the living water,
Till all my soul shall move;
Till I shall prize thy favor
All other things above,
And thou shalt dwell within me,
O! holy, heavenly Dove!
I cannot live without _thee_,
All lonely as I am;
Thou art a sweet companion,
O! lovely, gentle Lamb!
Dear Father, Son, and Spirit!
Each name can sweetly calm,
And pour into my bosom
A rich and healing balm!
MOUNT AUBURN.
Written immediately after a visit to that sacred spot. Boston, Oct. 3,
1841.
They took me to Mount Auburn--where
They bury the lov’d, the brave, the fair;
’Twas beautiful, all beautiful!
The shaded walk--the grove so cool--
The flowers planted there by love--
The green and leafy arch above--
The grassy mound--and the polish’d stone--
And the strangers passing, one by one.
I saw it all--yet the heart would rove,
Borne onward by deep cherish’d love,
And I thought of _two dear lonely graves_
In the far off West, where the willow waves.
O! beautiful Mount Auburn--where
They bury the loved, the brave, the fair!
Death always chooses the sweetest flowers
When he comes to this living world of ours;
And now he has chosen thee, sweet place!
The loveliest part of the earth’s fair face,
As a home for those who silent sleep,
Where friends may come, and smile, or weep;
For Death is not always a tyrant king,
Casting a gloom over every thing;
Here dwelleth not unmingled pain,
For those who die shall live again,
And every tenanted spot of ground
Shall give up its dead at the trumpet’s sound;
So _I smile_ when I think of _those lonely graves_
In the far off West, where the willow waves.
O! Death’s own palace royal--where
They bury the loved, the brave, the fair!
I have gazed on thy sculptured works of art,
Bearing many a lesson to reach the heart;
The tributes of love to those who have died,
Who lie in earth’s bosom, side by side;
Peace to your ashes, silent dead!
I may not lay my humble head
In such a highly favor’d spot,
When God has call’d, and _I am not_;
For this I care not, so I be
Buried beneath some branching tree;
But could I choose my resting place
When I have run my earthly race,
’Twould be _beside those lonely graves_
In the far off West, where the willow waves.
O! Death’s most cheerful garden--where
They bury the loved, the brave, the fair!
The sweet birds love to visit thee,
And build their nests on many a tree;
And in some cool sequester’d spot,
They sing to those who hear them not;
The busy bee comes often too,
To drink the balmy honey dew,
Where flowers bloom in beauty rare,
And scatter fragrance through the air.
O! bright hued flowers! how _can_ ye bloom
So very near the cold dark tomb?
O! warbling birds! how _can_ ye sing
Where death is mark’d on every thing?
Sweet flowers! ye speak of HEAVEN to me;
For bright to all eternity,
“Transplanted flowers” shall bloom above,
Where all the air is full of love.
And birds! ye do not sing in vain,
Ye chant of HEAVEN in every strain!
For I know that those _I_ loved so well,
In Heaven their notes of triumph swell;
They sleep in _those two lonely graves_
In the far off West, where the willow waves.
THE GIFT.
Written after meeting, in the street, Miss C---- P----, of Boston; who
was going on an errand of mercy, to carry a beautiful Peach to a sick
friend.
I met her in the fragrant morn,
When the dew-drop sparkled on the thorn,
And the eastern blast was asleep at home,
And the mild south wind had softly come
To visit this beautiful northern land,
And paint the cheeks by her warm breath fann’d.
And I was thinking how sweet was life!
How sweet to the maiden, and the wife!
Aye--sweet to the pensive widow too,
When her heart breathes out for its chosen few,
And the amulet worn on the throbbing breast
Is love--the purest and the best.
’Twas then I met a queen-like form,
But O, that heart, which, beating warm,
Sent its bright current to her cheek--
Would that I could its praises speak!
But were I lonely, sick, or sad,
Her voice would make the stranger glad.
She held a basket in her hand,
Which seem’d to have come from fairy land;
For flower, and vine, and fruit were mix’d,
And all so tastefully were fix’d,
I thought that fairy hands had done
The beautiful thing I gazed upon.
And so it was; for fingers fair
Had placed the delicate flowers there;
And round the peach, the leafy vine
Had made, in soft embrace, to twine;
Like ringlets, gracefully falling o’er
A blushing cheek, just kiss’d before.
Ah, tempting Peach! ’tis well that thou
Art not _forbidden fruit_ just now!
For, given as I know thou’lt be,
So cordially, so gracefully,
What mortal could refuse the boon,
When offer’d, as thou wilt be, soon?
Thou art going to a sufferer’s couch;
He’ll take thee with a gentle touch,
And feast his languid sight awhile,
As though thou hadst a woman’s smile;
And then he’ll turn his grateful eyes
On her who brought the blushing prize.
There let them rest--they’ll surely see
A look so full of sympathy,
They’ll want to gaze on the vision fair,
Till they are dimm’d by a gathering tear;
Then will they gently turn away,
With a look that speaks what the tongue would say.
She has been lately at the side
Of one, who in life’s morning died;[16]
I had not seen him since a slow
And dire disease had laid him low;
But sure I am his beaming eye
Oft thank’d her thus, when none were nigh.
He knew the heart of woman well;
And he loved, in sweetest verse, to tell
Of things that were beautiful on the earth,
And his own bright thoughts oft gave them birth;
O, gifted one! may thy requiem be
Thine own strains that linger in memory!
But now, ’tis time I end my lay;
The potent spell has pass’d away;
I could not see _that_ offering,
And not my heart’s own tribute bring
Of thankfulness, that God has given
Some things on earth, so like to Heaven.
Ah! call ye this a trifling thing?
I’ve seen the smallest flower bring
Such a tide of feeling to the breast,
When the heart was sick, with cares oppress’d,
That now seems never strange to me,
The wonderful power of sympathy!
BOSTON, _October 5, 1840_.
FOOTNOTE
[16] The late lamented B. B. Thatcher.
THE EVER PRESENT FRIEND.
“Lo! I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.”
I’ve a Friend who will not leave me,
Ever walking by my side;
Other friends too often grieve me,
Coldly smile, or harshly chide.
But the Friend who dwelleth near me,
Is my Father--Guard--and Guide;
Ah! ’tis He alone can bear me
Safely over sorrow’s tide.
All the world may think me lonely,
Pitying eyes upon me bend;
But, with this companion only,
_Can_ I need another friend?
Early in the cheerful morning,
Though I seem to walk alone,
He, the proud and lofty scorning,
Walks with me, his own--_his own!_
Or, when evening darkens o’er me,
Solitary though I seem,
Hope’s bright visions glow before me,
While of heavenly joys I dream.
Nearer, dearer than a brother,
Is my kind Almighty Friend;
Surely then, I need no other,
While he will my steps attend.
“I GO TO PREPARE A PLACE FOR YOU.”
My Savior! is my place prepared,
And for my welcome hast thou cared,
When death shall call for me?
When I shall rest beneath the sod,
Shall angels bear my soul to God?
O, Savior! can it be?
Exceeding grace! I raise my eyes,
All wet with tear-drops, to the skies,
And bless thee for thy love;
I would not always dwell below,
Where death has torn my heartstrings so;
’Twill ne’er be thus above.
And yet, ’tis well--’tis well for me,
And well for those who’ve gone to thee,
That thou didst call them home;
I love those dear ones far too well,
To wish that they again should dwell
Where I in sadness roam.
I would not ask them now to change
Their peaceful home; they’d think it strange,
And ’twould be strange indeed
If I, who am a pris’ner here,
And daily shed the silent tear,
Should mourn when they are freed.
I feel not as an exile feels,
When lonely sadness o’er him steals,
And hope forsakes his breast;
I am not banish’d from my home;
I have not many days to roam
Ere I shall be--at rest.
O, blessed Savior! now I see
Great preparations made for me,
In mansions bright and fair;
For thou, with sweet attractive art,
To make Heaven dearer to my heart,
Hast placed my jewels there!
BOSTON, _October 11, 1840_.
TO THE REV. J---- P----, OF BOSTON.
Written after reading some of his touching poems, particularly the one
entitled, “My father, mother, brothers, and sisters.”
O, tell me! art thou not life-weary now,
Thou of the noble heart and lofty brow?
Or canst thou breast the waves that round thee rise,
Till call’d to soar above these clouded skies?
Thy father, mother, brothers, sisters, all
Save one, have heard the heavenly Master’s call,
And hasten’d to their dear eternal home;
And thou art left in this dark world to roam.
O, tell me what on earth to thee remains?
For weeping I have read thy mournful strains,
When thou hast told of sorrows, such as I
Have felt--though I had not the power to die,
When death a welcome friend had been to me;
O, would not death be welcome too, to thee?
Yet there are loved ones round thy cheerful hearth;
O, these must sweetly bind thee still to earth!
We hold a chain outstretch’d from earth to Heaven,
By God’s own love to weary mortals given;
But every link removed, that shortens this,
Draws us the nearer to our home of bliss.
The moanful sighings of the wand’ring wind
Have a strange power to move my inmost mind,
And bring sweet thoughts of other days to me,
By some unknown, mysterious sympathy.
So has thy plaintive lyre, with low soft tone,
Pour’d on my soul a music of its own,
And waked an answering chord within my breast,
Which thrills harmonious in my hours of rest.