Comes like a ray with noonday brightness fraught,
And cheers the heart obscured by sorrow’s breath,
Which dims all brightness in this world of death--
I thank thee for the lays which thou hast sung!
I thank thee for the lyre which thou hast strung!
Those thrilling lays--that have with me communed,
That deep toned lyre--by holy feelings tuned.
Still let thy silvery dulcet tones be heard,
Like the low warbling of some lonely bird;
Or let thy full toned diapason roll,
Like organ strains--entrancing every soul!
This weary earth is full of discord strange;
But when thy harp is struck, how sweet the change!
Then tune it oft, and sweep th’ obedient strings
Till all the air with heaven-born music rings!
And when thy hand shall wake its harmonies,
To bear the music on, let Echo rise,
And every where in sweet vibration play,
Till _I_ shall hear it--far, O, far away!
BOSTON, _October 13, 1840_.
HEAVEN ON EARTH.
“They that believe _do_ enter into rest.”
Yes--even here, in this dark world,
We enter into rest,
If shelter’d in the Savior’s arms,
And pillow’d on his breast!
The flowery paths of earthly joy
Are not so sweet to me,
As thorny roads, and darksome clouds,
Which drive me, Lord! to thee.
The fragrant flowers--how soon they die,
Scorch’d by the noonday heat;
Or scatter’d, lie along my path,
By angry tempests beat!
Though sore afflictions come to me,
My soul is satisfied;
And longer ’neath the chast’ning rod,
I’m willing to abide.
I never felt as now I feel,
The dark world’s vanity;
I never loved as now I love,
The Heaven I hope to see.
How calmly can I travel on,
While joys and comforts die;
And smile to see my bosom friends
In death’s embraces lie.
’Tis well with them--’tis well with me--
Why should I shed one tear?
My loved ones now are safe at home,
And I shall soon be there.
Yes--even here, in this dark world,
I’ve enter’d into rest;
I’ve flown into my Savior’s arms,
He bears me on his breast!
CHARLESTON, _November 15, 1840_.
THE JOY OF SOLITUDE.
Break not, my solitary heart!
Thy sadness will not always last;
A brighter day will come for thee,
When all thy sorrows will be past.
’Tis thus I cure each bitter pang
My mourning, lonely bosom feels;
I look beyond all earthly things,
Where faith the Christian’s home reveals.
When sorely aches the stricken heart,
How sweet it is _to be alone_;
Where precious tears can freely flow,
And none can hear my stifled moan.
Sweet Solitude! thou art to me,
Like rivers in a desert waste
To faint and weary travelers,
Who long the cooling stream to taste.
O, ye, whose hearts are desolate--
Ye tearful mourners, can ye tell
Why, when my heart feels loneliest,
I love to be alone so well?
Is it because e’en friendship’s joy
Recalls the mem’ry of the past,
And lifts the dark impervious veil
Which death has o’er my pleasures cast?
I cannot tell; I am not vers’d
In the heart’s deep philosophy;
I only know when sad I feel,
Dear Solitude! I fly to thee!
DECEMBER 5, 1841.
“THERE REMAINETH THEREFORE A REST.”
How sweet the sound of _rest_,
To pilgrims weary of the length’ning road!
With quicken’d steps they seek the blest abode
Where sorrow is exchanged for peace and love;
So flies, with eager haste, the timid dove,
To seek her shelt’ring nest!
The aromatic gales
Which reach us oft in contemplative hours,
Bring back the fragrance of “transplanted flowers,”
And give delight unmix’d with earth’s alloy;
So feels the wand’rer, who, with trembling joy,
The breeze from home inhales!
The pilgrim, parch’d with thirst,
Who hears of Heaven’s pure, immortal streams,
Sees, with a vision bright, in all his dreams,
The river flowing near the throne of God;
So joys the traveler, fainting on the road,
To see the fountain burst!
Fair beauty’s beaming eye
Grows brighter as she nears her father’s home,
While springs the vessel through the billowy foam,
Bearing her on to sweet domestic love!
So looks the Christian joyfully above,
Whose hour has come to die!
DECEMBER 15, 1840.
“EXCEEDING GREAT AND PRECIOUS PROMISES.”
“In a dry and thirsty land,
Where no water is,”
Thou hast given us, O, God!
Glorious promises!
Kneeling at thy mercy seat,
Pouring out our prayer,
O, how sweet it is _to know_,
Thou wilt meet us there!
Sweet the words the Savior said
To his chosen few,
“Ye shall not be comfortless,
I will come to you.”
Be not troubled, O, my soul!
He will come again,
To receive you to himself,
Wash’d from every stain.
He has sent the Comforter,
With us to abide,
Till, with all his chosen ones,
We are glorified!
Many mansions are prepared
Where our Lord has gone;
Surely to that peaceful home
Sweetly we are drawn!
Blessed Spirit! when my heart
Feels affliction’s sting,
All these precious promises
To remembrance bring!
Then, as beams the cheerful sun,
Shining after rain,
When these floods of grief are o’er,
I shall smile again.
DECEMBER 27, 1840.
“BLESSED ARE THE MEEK.”
Who is this, with brow serene,
And such a peaceful smile?
Surely now the vision bright
Can sorrow’s self beguile!
As the vision pass’d me by,
I heard an angel speak,
And the simple words were these--
O, “Blessed are the meek.”
Then I follow’d silently,
Where’er the vision led,
Till a storm seem’d gathering
Around the fair one’s head;
Still I saw the peaceful smile,
And heard the angel speak,
And the only words he said
Were--“Blessed are the meek.”
Onward, onward still I went,
Where’er the vision led;
Till I saw the fair one laid
Upon a dying bed.
Then the smiling sufferer,
With voice all faint and weak,
Spake herself--and sweetly said--
O, “Blessed are the meek.”
Now seraphic grew her smile,
The angel too was there,
Waiting, to the upper skies
Th’ unprison’d soul to bear.
Then the angel said to me,
“If happiness you seek,
Ever, ever bear in mind,
How ‘blessed are the meek.’”
JANUARY 8, 1841.
TRUST IN HEAVEN.
“What though some cherish’d joys are fled,
Some flatt’ring dreams are gone?”
Come, mourning spirit, come to me!
I have wherewith to comfort thee;
I have a charm to soothe thy grief,
Which ever yields a sweet relief;
I cherish it within my breast;
It there abides--a welcome guest;
It chideth me whene’er I weep,
And lulls my sorrows all to sleep;
It brings bright visions to my heart,
When, one by one, my friends depart;
To all who seek this boon is given,
’Tis--_an unwav’ring trust in Heaven_.
The woes which in thy pathway stand,
Are there by Heaven’s high command;
By God commission’d, there they stood,
To work together for thy good.
’Tis well thou couldst not pass them by,
Or bribe them from thy path to fly,
Till each had pierc’d thy trembling heart
With sorrow’s ever pointed dart.
For, when thy wounds were aching sore,
If thou had’st never thought before
Of Him who wounded was for thee,
O, _then_ He’d come to memory!
And if, when overwhelm’d with grief,
We fly to Jesus for relief,
And hear his gentle voice of love,
Telling of mansions far above
These often overclouded skies,
Where tears no more shall dim our eyes;
With cheerful voices may we sing,
“O, tyrant Death! where is thy sting?
O, gloomy Grave! we fear not thee,
Where is thy boasted victory?”
Then, drooping mourner! raise thy head;
What though some cherish’d joys are fled?
What though some flatt’ring dreams are gone?
Soon shall the glorious morning dawn,
Which never more shall darken’d be
By clouds o’ercharg’d with misery.
JANUARY 10, 1841.
LINES
ON THE DEATH OF ALONZO CLAUDIUS WHITRIDGE, AGED EIGHT YEARS.
He came into this world of care,
A precious gift from Heaven;
And on his brow, so passing fair,
A holy kiss was given,
As, cradled in his mother’s arms,
The smiling cherub lay;
While gazed the father on his charms,
Pure as the opening day.
In after months, too tenderly
They watch’d his gambols wild;
Ah! did they know how tenderly
They held their darling child?
A few short hours, and O, the change
Their sadden’d spirits feel!
The tear--the sigh--the gloom; how strange!
Who can the cause reveal?
Ah! look around--the mother’s arms
No precious burden hold;
The father’s heart no longer warms
With ecstasy untold,
As when his playful infant boy,
With outstretch’d, dancing hands,
In baby language spoke his joy,
Or utter’d his commands.
Yes, look around! in that still place
A lovely infant lies,
A parting smile upon his face,
The smile of sweet surprise,
As burst upon his ravish’d ear
The music of the blest
In Heaven, when harps were tuning there
To welcome _home_ the guest.
But hark! a softer, sweeter strain
Of _infant_ harmony!
O, who would now to earth enchain
That spirit, pure and free?
Though icy cold the body lies
Enwrapt in death’s embrace,
To Jesus’ arms the spirit flies,
Burning to see his face.
CHARLESTON, _May, 1834_.
WHEN SHALL IT BE?
“And he showed me a pure river of water of life, clear as
crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.
“In the midst of the street of it, and on another side of the
river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of
fruits, and yielded her fruit every month, and the leaves of the
tree were for the healing of the nations.”--REV.
When shall I taste of that pure river,
Flowing near the throne?
When shall I drink and live forever,
Far from sorrow flown?
When shall I bathe my fever’d spirit
In the limpid stream?
When shall I Heaven’s joys inherit--
Ended life’s short dream?
When shall the tree of life wave o’er me,
Bearing precious fruit,
When shall the healing sap restore me,
Springing from its root?
When shall I taste the fruit, and never,
Never hunger more?
When shall I droop no more forever,
Pain and anguish o’er?
Not till I reach my home in Heaven,
All life’s journey trod;
Not till my sins are all forgiven
By the grace of God!
“I WILL TRUST IN THE COVERT OF THY WINGS. SELAH.”
My heart is pain’d within me. When shall I
Away from all these mournful sorrows fly--
The ills of life--the ceaseless care and toil,
Spontaneous growth of earth’s polluted soil?
How oft my spirit plumes her eager wings,
To seek a refuge from these tiresome things!
But like a wounded bird, she strives in vain,
Then sinks desponding to the earth again.
My heavenly Father! may my refuge be
Thine own almighty wings o’ershadowing me;
Thy shelter o’er my struggling spirit cast,
Till these calamities be overpast.
Then trusting in the covert of thy wings--
A peaceful shade--whence healing virtue springs,
I’ll lay me down, content to live or die,
And wait till thou shalt bear my soul on high.
DECEMBER 22, 1840.
TO THE ASHLEY RIVER.
Ashley river! Ashley river!
Do I tread thy banks again?
Then ’twas not farewell forever,
Told I thee with throbbing pain,
When I sought thee last, sweet river,
With my lovely sister, Jane!
Was there not a gentle warning
Murmur’d in thy gurgling tone?
Clouds were gath’ring o’er life’s morning,
Which in radiant beauty shone;
Ah! I _felt_ the whisper’d warning,
I should tread thy banks alone.
Yes--alone! my gentle sister
Here no more shall rove with me;
How I trembled when I kiss’d her,
Standing near our fav’rite tree!
Still I dream’d not, angel sister!
’Twas my last sweet walk with thee.
Evergreens were spreading o’er us,
With their cool embow’ring shade;
Hoary mosses waved before us,
And a graceful drapery made:
While the gliding waters bore us
Many a tuneful serenade.
Pearly tears, in silence starting,
Told the heart’s deep seated gloom,
While we brooded o’er the parting
From our early, only home;
Ah! we knew not one was starting
For a distant lonely tomb!
Now, no mosses wave above her,
Where she sleeps so far away;
But the eyes of those who love her
Guard the precious sleeping clay;
Angels keep bright watch above her,
Till the resurrection day.
O, sweet Ashley! gently gliding,
Calmly can I gaze on thee,
For my loved one is abiding
Where I quickly hope to be;
So, each deep emotion chiding,
Still I love to gaze on thee!
DECEMBER 16, 1840.
“ONE WOE IS PAST.”
Written after the death of a friend.
I have one sorrow less to bear,
Of those that shall befal me here;
Another grievous woe is past;
Would God that it _might_ be the last!
While through the wilderness I go,
With feeble footsteps, faint and slow,
My dear companions of the way,
How gladly would I bid them stay!
’Tis sweet to travel arm in arm
Along life’s road--the sweetest charm
Of human life is human love,
And friends are blessings from above.
But one who loves them more than I
Calls, “Come up hither,” from on high;
Then joyfully they soar away,
And leave me lonely here to stay.
Yet, when they leave me, well they know
That I, from whose embrace they go,
With swifter steps will travel on
To where my dearest friends have gone.
So, smiling as they take their flight
To regions of celestial light,
They whisper low, with dying breath,
“A _short_ farewell”--then sleep in death.
JANUARY 1, 1841.
TO MY FRAIL BODY.
O! frail and falling house of clay!
I’ve loved thee far too well;
With thee I have not long to stay,
How long, I cannot tell.
But this I know, thy tott’ring wall
Which now imprisons me,
When touch’d by Death’s cold hand, shall fall;
O! _then_ I shall be free!
And yet, whene’er I part from thee,
Mid nature’s dying pain,
O! let this truth remember’d be,
We part to meet again
As tender rose trees seem to die,
When touch’d by winter’s breath,
And for a little season lie,
With every mark of death;
Then spring to life when summer comes,
And wear their brightest dress,
To beautify our pleasant homes,
Our careworn hearts to bless,
So shalt thou hear the trumpet’s sound,
And leave thy lowly grave,
Whether thou sleepest under ground,
Or ’neath the rolling wave.
Then still I’ll love thee, house of clay!
But not with former pride;
For not until the last great day
Shalt thou be glorified!
JANUARY 4, 1841.
A HYMN FOR THE AFFLICTED.
Wounded within me is my heart,
I mourn and sit alone;
And every voice that comes to me
Breathes out a plaintive tone.
Ah me! how can I longer live
Where all is desolate?
I wander like a lonely bird,
Bereaved of its mate.
O! would that I had died with thee,
My dear, my early friend!
Then deep affliction would not now
My mourning bosom rend.
But no! It was my Father’s choice!
I bow to his decree!
He loved my friend, and call’d him home,
And O! he loveth me!
The Angel of the covenant
Is standing by my side;
I pray thee, soother of my griefs!
There ever to abide!
And now he makes the storm a calm;
The waves thereof are still;
My peace doth like a river flow,--
_I love my Father’s will_.
JANUARY 2, 1841.
THE BEREAVED FATHER TO HIS SON.
Dear miniature of her I loved and lost,
Come to thy father’s almost broken heart!
Come, lay thy lovely head upon my breast,
And let me smooth thy golden ringlets down,
As I have seen thy sainted mother do!
Ah me! those dear soft hands lie mouldering,
Now clasp’d upon her still, unconscious breast!
Would I could sing for thee, my orphan boy,
As I have heard thy sainted mother sing!
O! we shall never hear her sing again!
The music of our fireside is hush’d--
The silver voice that cheer’d us, now is mute.
I pity thee, my boy! for well I know
This mournful silence sends an icy chill
To every heart within these lonely walls,
That lately echoed to angelic tones.
Methought I heard thee lisp thy mother’s name,
As she had taught her darling boy to do;
O! say it not again--’twill break my heart!
I see deep sadness in thy violet eyes,
As though thou knew’st thy kindest friend was gone.
Yes--she _is_ gone--poor boy! poor orphan boy!
Too soon thou’lt find that thou art motherless;
For who will love thee with a mother’s love--
That sacred, changeless, deep, untiring love?
She loves thee still, my boy! and it may be
She watches o’er thee now with tender care,
A guardian angel to her own dear child!
My wife! my cherish’d wife! my bosom friend!
If thou art near us, whisper peaceful words,
And teach me how to bear my Father’s stroke!
If ever, ’mid the swelling tides of grief,
My spirit, struggling in the stormy wave,
Lets go her only anchor, faith in God,
And blindly plunges near the dang’rous shoals
Of proud rebellion ’gainst th’ almighty will,
Or total self-abandonment to grief,
Then, sainted spirit! bear me back again,
By some unknown, mysterious influence,
Such as the ministering angels use!
O! sigh not thus, my dear, my gentle boy!
Nor let the sad contagion of my grief
Infect so soon thy young unconscious breast.
’Tis strange to see thee gazing silently
Where there is nought to catch thy infant eye,
With downcast look, and grave abstracted air,
As though thou hadst th’ experience of years,
And wert reflecting on the woes of life.
The silken fringes round thy sweet blue eyes
Are almost resting on thy downy cheek,
And thy fair head reposes on my breast,
My lonely, sorrowing, bereaved breast,
With all the silent, touching eloquence
So often felt where not a word is said.
Thy angel mother may be near thee, boy!
Communing with thy untaught spirit now,
And teaching thee the rudiments of thought.
O Death! thou art th’ ambassador of Heaven,
To wean us from th’ allurements of the world;
May not thy visits ever be in vain!
The storm, the calm, the sunshine, and the cloud,
Must each alternately my portion be,
And all to me their sacred lessons teach;
O! may I learn the varied lessons well!
The youthful stranger in a foreign land
Soon learns to know where happiness is found.
Should Pleasure lure him to some shining place,
And surly Disappointment meet him there,
If he is wise, he shuns that path again,
Because the meteor sparkles to deceive.
But I, a stranger and a pilgrim here,
Must learn the same sad lesson o’er and o’er,
That all is changeful in this dying world.
I clasp a shadow to my foolish heart,
Then weep to find my arms are empty still!
O! could I but remember that on earth
My dearest treasures are a loan from Heaven,
And may at any moment be recall’d,
I should prepare my heart for each sad loss.
My darling boy! I must not love thee so;
Dear miniature of her I loved and lost,
I’ll try to feel that I may lose _thee_ too!
Yet, joyful thought! such treasures cannot die,
_The time will come I’ll find them all again_.
JANUARY 4, 1841.
WHERE IS THE BETTER COUNTRY?
Where is the better country, where?
Ye who have found it, lead me there;
I long have sought a happy home,
Yet weary, weary, still I roam;
I’ve tried by turns each pathway bright;
My sun goes down, and all is night;
I grope my way in sad despair;
Where is the better country, where?
I catch at every beaming ray
That shines upon my weary way;
I’m taken captive by a flower,
That blooms and withers in an hour;
And yet, whene’er my bosom tries
To shield a flower, there it dies:
Away the withered thing I throw,
And sadly on my way I go.
An infant in its cradle smiled--
Its look of joy my heart beguiled;
But, when I gazed a moment more,
Its joyous brow was clouded o’er;
Then, sick at heart, I heav’d a sigh,
And turn’d away my tearful eye;
How vain the search for pleasure here!
With every smile there comes a tear.
I saw a shining beauteous thing--
It hung before me glittering;
They call’d it friendship, and with joy,
My hand I stretch’d to seize the toy.
It proved to be a gilded dart,
Which, ere I knew it, pierced my heart!
Then, faint and bleeding, thus I thought--
“Experience must be dearly bought.”
I saw the star-bespangled sky,
And there I fixed my earnest eye;
One star grew brighter to my gaze,
For me it seem’d to shed its rays;
I thought if I could soar afar,
I’d hie me to that lonely star:
Ah me! ’twas but a meteor’s light;
It fled away--that star so bright!
As carelessly I roved along,
I heard a soft, delightful song;
I turn’d aside to catch the sound,
But no sweet songster could be found.
It was my own Canary bird,
Whose faint, receding notes I heard;
He breathed “farewell” in every tone--
The cage was there--the bird had flown!
A beauteous, meek eyed, carrier dove
Came flying with the speed of love;
I caught, and kiss’d him o’er and o’er,
I knew the bird a letter bore;
I broke the seal with eager hand,
For tidings from a distant land;
But ah! I shudder’d while I read,
It told me one I loved--was dead!
The falling of a far cascade
Most sweet, harmonious music made;
It charm’d me oft at evening-tide,
And once, by moonlight, there I hied;
But, when I reach’d the chosen spot,
The louder music pleased me not;
’Tis thus with many things I meet,
They’re only at a distance sweet.
Long, long ago I left my home;
For many years ’twas mine to roam;
And when at last I there return’d,
O! how my heart within me burn’d!
But every thing I saw was chang’d,
And from my home I felt estrang’d;
And then I cried in deep despair,
“Where is the better country, where?”
O! he whose heart is fix’d below,
Finds disappointment, change, and woe!
Where are the never clouded skies--
O! where the joy that never dies?
Where is the music ever sweet,
O! where the friends I long to meet?
No more earth’s changing scenes allure,--
Where is the land all bright and pure?
The land where all is pure and bright,
That better land, is “out of sight!”
And I must journey here awhile,
And see by turns, the tear, the smile;
Yet, even now, ’tis bliss to me,
That I one day that land shall see,
And joyful wing my eager flight
To that sweet country--out of sight.
CHARLESTON, _January 19, 1841_.
TO A MOTHER, ON THE DEATH OF A DAUGHTER.
Mother! I’ve news for thee from Heaven!
Thy daughter boweth near the throne!
O, canst thou not for her rejoice,
Though thou art left alone?
Hast thou not seen her lovely eye
Gaze on thee through her glitt’ring tears,
Though thou didst strive from every ill
To shield her tender years?
Mother! thy daughter weeps no more,
For all her tears are dried away;
Exhaled like dew-drops from the rose,
Beneath the sun’s bright ray!
Hast thou not seen how cruel pain
Could steal the roses from her cheek,
And wring the moisture from her brow,
And leave her faint and weak?
Mother! thy daughter is in Heaven,
And pain can never reach her there,
No sickness comes to those who breathe
That pure delightful air!
Look up, with faith’s observant eye,
And see thine angel daughter now!
I would not wish to call her back
To this dark world--_wouldst thou_?
“O! no--O! no”--I hear thee say,
“My Savior hath his promise kept;
He comforts me; and yet I must
Weep on--for Jesus wept!”
“But let the youthful Christian go
Thus early to her peaceful home;
Yes--I am willing now to lay
My darling in the tomb!”
CHARLESTON, _February 14, 1841_.
A MORNING HYMN.
Early, early O! my God!
I send my prayer to thee,
Ere my heart has roved abroad
’Mid scenes of vanity.
Shielded by thy tender love,
I have calmly, safely slept,
Guards, commission’d from above,
Round me their station kept.
Through the darkness--through the night
Refreshing rest was mine;
Fire, nor sword, nor sickly blight,
Against me did combine;
But revolving hours have brought,
Opening fair, another day;
May I spend it as I ought,
And love, and watch, and pray!
When the solemn hour has come
For me to sleep in death,
Jesus, bear my spirit home,
When fails my mortal breath!
Clasp me in thy faithful arms--
Fold me to thy tender breast--
Till, enraptured with thy charms,
I gently sink to rest.
CHARLESTON, _February 14, 1841_.
SONG.
I remember--I remember--
The sacred place for prayer!
In the morning and the evening
Thou wert always with me there;
Lowly bending--lowly bending--
Retired from earthly things,
For celestial flights preparing,
We plumed the spirit’s wings.
I remember--I remember--
The “wormwood and the gall,”
When I felt that thou hadst left me,
All alone to stand or fall.
Lowly bending--lowly bending--
I told my grief to God,
And he heard me, and he gave me
Submission to his rod.
I remember--I remember--
The pleasing “joy of grief,”
How affliction turn’d to gladness,
When my prayer had brought relief;
Lowly bending--lowly bending--
Thus may I spend my days,
Till with rapture I am singing
Th’ eternal song of praise.
CHARLESTON, _February 16, 1841_.
HYMN.
“O Lord! I am oppressed--undertake for me.”--Ps.
Lost in affliction’s darksome maze,
O! whither shall I go?
Where shall I find the peaceful streams
Where healing waters flow?
My soul! wait only on the Lord,
All other help is vain;
My wounded heart! no other friend
Can ease thy throbbing pain.
The Savior, for his sorrowing ones,
Will surely undertake;
He’ll clasp the suff’rers in his arms,
For his dear mercy’s sake:
The Christian, ’mid his sorrowing,
May evermore rejoice,
And raise, above the howling storm,
His loud triumphant voice.
Then, Jesus! Savior of my soul!
O! undertake for me;
Able and willing as thou art,
I leave my case with thee.
Since I was precious in thy sight,
I’ve known thy tender love;
And each event that comes to me
Seems calling me above.
Well, let me go; I long to go
Where those I loved have gone;
They, through the might of Him who died,
Have won the victor’s crown.
O! ’twill be sweet with them to join
In one unwearied song,
And, through our blest eternity
The joyful notes prolong.
Dear Savior! when I leave the world,
And rise to dwell with thee,
I’ll praise thee with a seraph’s tongue,
And never wearied be!
FEBRUARY 17, 1841.
THE BENDED KNEE.