Why wilt thou not thy burdens roll
On Him who died for thee?
O! cease not till thy dying day,
Beneath his cross, to watch and pray;--
Live on thy bended knee!
O! pale faced mourner! raise thy head,
And weep not for the sainted dead
Who’ve left this world and thee;
Remember they are angels now;
And God will teach _thy will_ to bow,
While on thy bended knee.
Come, bring the noblest offering--
Thy broken heart; the Heavenly King
Will surely smile on thee;
He dearly loves the broken heart;
And thou shalt feel thy woes depart,
While on thy bended knee.
Now prostrate lie, and kiss the rod;
The secret purpose of thy God
May not be known to thee;
But in the ocean of his love
Drown all thy fears, and look above,
Still on thy bended knee.
FEBRUARY 17, 1841.
THE HOLY BIBLE.
My God! I bless thee for thy word,
I clasp it to my breast;
Of all thy glorious gifts to man,
The noblest, and the best!
When I am idling in the way,
And danger stalks abroad,
It thunders in my startled ear--
“Prepare to meet thy God!”
Whene’er I stray, its beacon light
Shines through the gloom afar;
And when I turn the other way,
’Tis there--my polar star!
I glory in thy promises
When sorrows rend my breast,
And thus, when thinking on thy word,
My sorrows sink to rest.
In silent watches of the night
I sing upon my bed,
While gently, on its pillow’d rest,
Reclines my weary head.
Father! I’ll take thy blessed word,
And clasp it to my breast;
Of all thy glorious gifts to man,
The noblest, and the best!
FEBRUARY 18, 1841.
SONG.
I see thee in my dreams,
Thou who hast gone before me!
And faithful mem’ry seems
My loved one to restore me!
Thou’rt clad in robes of light,
Thy face with joy is beaming,
Thus, dearest! every night,
I see thee when I’m dreaming!
The songs we loved so well,
I hear my dear one singing,
And sweet, o’er hill and dell,
Melodious notes are ringing!
The tears bedim my sight
Which in my eyes do glisten,
While, trembling with delight,
I hold my breath to listen.
I stretch my arms to thee--
But, suddenly awaking,
My love no more I see--
O! _then_ my heart is breaking!
But when I think that thou
An angel art in glory,
Again to sleep I go,
And dreams repeat the story.
Though thou hast gone above,
And left this world forever,
’Tis true, ’tis true, my love!
I can forget thee never!
Then come in robes of light,
Thy face with rapture beaming,
And let me, every night,
Behold thee when I’m dreaming!
FEBRUARY 16, 1841.
A FUNERAL HYMN.
Lay low the sleeper! let him be
Now buried out of sight;
This dust, O Earth! we give to thee,
’Tis thine undoubted right.
It came from thee; but not the soul--
The breath of Deity!
Insatiate Grave! thy dark control
Ends with mortality.
Ashes to ashes--dust to dust--
Lay low the silent form!
Though loved and cherish’d long, we must
Consign it to the worm.
Rest, brother, rest! thy work is done;
Thy spirit is not here;
The battle’s fought, the vict’ry won;
Where is the victor--where?
Behold! behold! the pearly gates
Of Heaven are opened wide!
What glorious rapture now awaits
The spirit glorified!
Weep on, ye mourners, as ye go,
But weep not for the dead!
Ye lay upon its pillow low
A weary, aching head.
Weep for yourselves, and weep for those
Earth’s thorny path who tread;
But not for those who thus repose--
No! weep not for the dead!
FEBRUARY 16, 1841.
“SEARCH THE SCRIPTURES.”
“For in them ye think ye have eternal life, and they are they
which testify of me.”
Wouldst thou an introduction have
To Him who mighty is to save?
Then search the scriptures--they are they
Which image forth the Deity.
O! dying man! make God your friend,
Whose friendship lives when life shall end;
Your intimate communion here
In Heaven shall grow more sweet, more dear.
The friends of earth--how oft they change,
Forget their love, grow cold and strange!
But heavenly friendship--O! ’twill be
Increasing through eternity!
And Jesus is the source of all;
Around his feet adoring fall
The saints and angels, casting down,
Each happy one, his shining crown.
No “clouds or darkness” veil Him there;
The Sun of Heaven, He shineth clear;
His rays a settled joy impart,
And reach to every perfect heart.
O! joy of joys! can this be mine?
Shall I in God’s own likeness shine?
O! yes! when I awake in Heaven,
All satisfied--my sins forgiven!
FEBRUARY 20, 1841.
GOD IS FAITHFUL.
God is faithful! God is love!
Seated on his throne above,
Still he looks on men below,
Makes them his, and keeps them so.
When in dang’rous paths I roam,
Angel voices call me home;
Penitent and weeping sore,
Then I wonder and adore!
God is faithful! God is just!
Therefore let me ever trust;
Each event will work my good,
Though not always understood.
If he should my comforts slay,
Darken, roughen all my way,
I deserve it all, and more--
Therefore still would I adore.
God is faithful! God is wise!
When he sees me idolize
Dying creatures of a day,
Soon he takes them all away.
Then I bow, and kiss the rod,
Better love and serve my God,
Taste of joys unknown before,
Wonder still, and still adore!
“LOVEST THOU ME?”
A voice salutes my ear!
O! how the accents move me!
I hear my Savior say,
“My daughter! dost thou love me?”
What answer shall I give
To Him who died to save me?
Who rescued me from death,
And all my sins forgave me?
O! hear me, dearest Lord!
In glory throned above me,
And help me thus to say,
“Thou knowest that I love thee!”
FEBRUARY 21, 1841.
THE DYING MOTHER.
A mother is dying--O! breathe no sound,
Let her faint low tones be heard!
Now stifle your sobs as ye stand around,
And list to each parting word!
Throw open the casement, and let the breeze
Playing over the jessamine vine,
And passing the blossoming China trees,
Come in with its fragrance fine.
Make way--make way--let the cool wind play
O’er the pale and dying brow;
For she loves the breath of the closing day,
And the day is closing now.
O! see! how her mild dark eye grows bright,
Like the eye of the gentle fawn!
That eye will sleep in death this night,
Ere another morning’s dawn.
Yes! tender husband! wipe the few
Death pearls from her forehead fair;
They are not those pearls once given by you,
And twined in her chestnut hair.
’Tis true--’tis true--’tis her bridal day,
But the bridal is not of earth;
She will sit no more in her white array,
The pride of the cheerful hearth;
As once she sat, when, young and fair,
She gave thee her virgin hand,
When the bells rang out on the evening air
A call to the bridal band.
She is going now to the great “I AM!”
She will soon with joy sit down
To the marriage supper of the Lamb,
Arrayed in her sparkling crown.
She is now the bride of the Crucified--
His saints he calls _his own_;
She is one of those for whom he died,
Who will sit with him on his throne.
O! see! the beams of the setting sun,
How they kiss her faded cheek!
Like the sun, her race is almost run--
And hark! I hear her speak!
Come near--come near--that voice to hear,
’Tis like music dying away;
Bend low, bend low, each list’ning ear,
For the words those pale lips say:
“I am dying--O! how cold,
O! how deadly faint I feel!
Death’s dark tide has o’er me roll’d,
Tremors on my heartstrings steal!”
“Husband! let me see thee, dear!
Bow not thus thy mournful head!
Speak of Heaven to calm my fear,
Till the spark of life has fled.
“Bring my children! bring them all!
Darlings! round your mother stand!
Place the babe within mine arms,
Let me hold its tiny hand!
“Smiling cherub! heir of Heaven!
I shall see thee, darling! there;
Raise me up, and let me kiss
Cheek, and lip, and forehead fair.
“Husband! let me lean my head
Sweetly on thy noble breast!
Let me breathe away my life
On my fav’rite place of rest!
“Cease thine aching, heaving heart!
Gently, gently, let me die!
Let me give my last farewell,
Free from death’s deep agony.
“Sons and daughters! all farewell!
Let the last sweet kiss be given;
Hear your mother’s dying charge--
Meet me, meet me--all, in Heaven!”
“Kiss me, husband! yet once more!
Once again! there, that will do;
O! ’tis sweet to think I take
But a short farewell of you.
“I am going--all is dark--
Husband! ’tis not hard to die;
O! what heavenly light I see!
Glory! glory! victory!”
FEBRUARY 23, 1841.
SMILING, THOUGH SAD.
O! yes! I’ve learn’d the art
To smile when the bosom’s aching,
In others’ joy to take a part,
When all my heart seems breaking.
I’ve learn’d to raise my voice,
And sing the songs of gladness,
When the sun, that bade my heart rejoice,
Has set in clouds of sadness.
I’ve learn’d to hide my tears,
And hush my heavy sighing,
While every placid feature wears
A look, the truth belying.
If I could speak my woe,
O! who would understand me?
The wond’ring look, from friend and foe,
To silence would command me.
Alone--alone--alone--
I feel in the crowded city;
Yet strive t’ assume a cheerful tone--
I love not _human_ pity!
O! how I love to hide
Whene’er I feel so lonely,
From all the world to turn aside,
And fly to JESUS only.
That sympathizing friend
Will never chide my sadness,
But, while I weep, he’ll o’er me bend,
And whisper words of gladness.
FEBRUARY 27, 1841.
THE POET’S WEALTH.
My friends, I am not poor.
What though my purse be empty? Let it lie
An empty bauble still; my heart is full
Of gushing tenderness to all I love;
And I love every thing, save sin. Thank God!
That thing I do not love. I have been bathed,
With reverence let me utter it, in blood
Which hath a power to make the foulest clean;
And though I need to wash me every day
In that exhaustless fountain, from the stains
Which will on earth my struggling soul defile,
Still, still, I _love_ not sin--my taste is changed.
But that aside, I do love every thing;
And this, sweet friends! is to be rich indeed;
I am content--’tis all the wealth I need.
I love this rich and varied world of ours,
Adorn’d with sunbeams, moonlight, stars, and flowers;
I love another _better_, where I see
With eye of faith, bright things in store for me;
But when I think my Father made this earth
So beautiful, to be th’ abode of man,
O! then I love it well--perhaps too well.
How oft with tremulous delight I’ve gazed
Upon th’ unquiet ocean--while in sport
He tossed his billows in a thousand forms,
And crown’d them all with snowy wreaths of foam!
Long have I stood upon the shelving beach,
With feelings elevated by the scene.
Who does not love the ocean? Who can stand
Spectator of that most sublime expanse--
The fathomless, the ever changing sea,
And feel not reverence, gratitude, and love,
To Him who keeps the waters in their bounds,
Who holds them in the hollow of his hand?
If there be such a man, that man is poor,
Though sums untold within his coffers lie.
I love the sun--the bright impartial sun,
Which shineth on the evil and the good!
I love the moon--the pale and pensive moon,
When, walking thoughtful in the silent night,
She throws her mellow rays on every scene,
Peopling with fairy forms the forest shades,
As her mild eye looks through the moving trees.
I love the stars--“the poetry of Heaven!”
Those meeting places for fond lovers’ eyes,
Who tenderly, at some appointed hour,
With earnest looks gaze on their fav’rite star!
I love the clouds--th’ embroidery of the sky!
Work’d out in bold relief, in figures fine,
Upon a ground of never fading blue!
I even love the frowning thunder cloud,
Clothing the skies in mourning, ere the rain
May weep its torrents o’er the thirsty land.
I love the flowers--fair ornaments of earth!
The many color’d gems which deck her breast--
The scented sprigs upon her robe of green!
I love the trees--which throw their leafy shade,
To screen us from the scorching noontide ray,
Or spread their arms, well fill’d with golden fruit,
Inviting us to taste the rich repast.
I love the birds--those cheerful choristers,
Which sing to us in ever tuneful strains,
Unpaid, and often unregarded too.
I love the noble beasts--untamed which roam,
Or those which patient bear man’s heavy yoke,
Or those which minister to our delight,
By giving food, or bearing friend to friend.
I love mankind--though I would keep afar
From those whose minds are meanly chain’d to earth,
Unless they’d listen to my pleading voice,
Telling of things all fair and beautiful.
I love with all my heart, a little child,
Pure, fresh, and beauteous in its early bloom--
A blossom soon to shed its fragrance far,
Or scatter baleful poison all around.
I love the aged man, whose hoary hair
Lies thinly scatter’d o’er his temples bare;
I love to see him cheerfully descend
The hill of life. The winter of his days
A prelude is to one eternal spring.
And I love sorrow too; it teaches me
The lessons I shall ne’er forget. It breaks
My heart, that love divine may enter in,
And, while it heals the breach, may there abide.
And last, not least, I love sweet poetry,
The only never failing alchemy
Which turneth all it touches into gold.
So much for earth; now for exalted love!
I love, O! how I love, my future home!
Here language fails me. Eye hath never seen,
Ear has not heard, nor heart of man conceiv’d
The things that are reserved for us in Heaven!
Ye see the Christian poet is not poor;
Though bread and water all my portion be,
Still am I rich indeed--I ask no more.
For know ye not that _all_ these things are mine?
They’re mine and yours, for our enjoyment given.
Remember it was said, “All things are yours--
And ye are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s.”
JANUARY 14, 1841.
“THY WILL BE DONE.”
’Tis rebellion gives us pain,
Anguish comes when we complain
In the stormy day;
When the will is all subdued,
When no murm’ring thoughts intrude,
Sorrow flies away.
Tranquil as the sleeping sea,
Ever may our bosoms be,
Though our all is gone;
Sweetly passive when we lie,
Fearing not the frowning sky,
Brighter prospects dawn.
O! ye pilgrims, do ye know
When the heavenly breezes blow
O’er this wretched earth?
’Tis when sorrow rends the heart;
Then the Savior doth impart
Joys of heavenly birth.
When, in God’s mysterious way,
Sorrow’s night shuts out the day,
Patient let me be;
Death, thou great destroyer, come!
Take my friends and bear them home,
Then return for me!
JANUARY 18, 1841.
WHOM THE LORD LOVETH, HE CHASTENETH.
My Father chastens whom he loves;
O! then, he loves me tenderly;
Oft in the fire my heart he proves,
As oft I know the reason why.
For I am full of earthly love;
I idolize the gifts of Heaven;
And then my Father, from above,
Recalls the dear ones he has given.
Then earth’s attractions die to me,
And I am forced to look above;
And He who fills eternity,
Attracts my gaze, and fires my love.
So, trials let me ever hail,
Which bring another world so near;
I’m introduced within the veil,
And angel songs I seem to hear.
Afflicted heart, rejoice, rejoice!
The door of Heaven is oped for thee;
And hark! O! hark! I hear a voice
Which, “Come up hither,” says to me.
O! Father! dost thou love me so?
These dreadful strokes fall not on me;
I bless thy name, each heavy blow
But strikes my chain, to set me free!
MCPHERSONVILLE, _April 15, 1841_.
“IF THERE BE THEREFORE ANY CONSOLATION IN CHRIST.”
Consolation in Christ? O! Savior divine,
How well canst thou comfort this heart of mine!
I’ve tried thee, and proved thee, and well I know
That rivers of comfort from thee do flow.
Not like the dark waters whose waves are strong,
Are those rivers that gently glide along;
My frail little bark safely guided will be,
Till it reaches eternity’s boundless sea.
No huge rolling billows can me overwhelm,
The God of the ocean is at the helm;
Though the waves may rise, and around me chafe,
When Jesus is with me, _all is safe_!
O, Savior! there _is_ consolation in thee,
And when I am troubled, ’tis there I flee;
I hide in thy bosom, and there lean my head,
When the bosoms I loved are cold and dead.
And why do I ever forsake thy breast,
And seek upon earth for a place of rest?
Why cannot I learn there is safety alone,
Where for safety and comfort so often I’ve flown?
How foolish, forgetful, and faithless am I,
To fasten my love upon things that must die!
And when they are taken, how well ’tis for me,
That there is consolation, dear Savior, in thee!
APRIL 21, 1841.
ALL JOY.
“My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into divers
temptations; knowing this, that the trial of your faith worketh
patience.”
JAMES i. 2, 3.
O! Father divine! may I count it all joy
To resign thee my husband and beautiful boy;
Though now I am weeping and breaking my heart,
Thou canst dry every tear and cure every smart.
Thou art teaching me patience by trying my faith,
This “fight of affliction” springs not from thy wrath;
It grieved thee, my Father, to punish me so,
But ’twas tenderest mercy that guided each blow.
May I bear, holy Father! this sorrow and pain,
And never, O! never, despond or complain;
Though all of my loved ones should sicken and die,
I will not, I dare not, thy goodness deny.
I have seen a sweet child, with a frown on his brow,
Ere his will had been taught to his father’s to bow;
I have seen him subdued, and the frown leave his face,
And the smile of affection beam bright in its place;
And he loved his kind father, who guided the rod;
Then sure I must love thee, my Father! my God!
Thou hast taken my treasures, and stricken me sore,
Yet more do I love thee than ever before.
Heart broken and sorrowing, Father, to thee,
On the wings of affection this moment I’ll flee;
If thou wilt be mine, I will “count it all joy”
To resign thee my husband and beautiful boy!
MAY 2, 1841.
THE MOURNER’S RESOLVE.
Hence, all ye sombre signs of grief!
Ye must not dwell with me;
Though to indulge would give relief,
I must not selfish be.
I charge thee, O! thou quiv’ring lip!
To settle to a smile;
And let thy cheerful fellowship
My lonely heart beguile.
I’ll strive with all my heart, to bless
Each sufferer I see;
The widow and the fatherless
Shall learn to pray for me.
I’ll ne’er forget how loved ones watch
For every smile or tear;
Nor how their eager faces catch
The look my features wear.
They shall not hear my grief express’d,
They shall not see me weep;
But every sorrow in my breast
Shall there lie, buried deep.
This is my task, and I will still
Bear on my broken heart;
If God will give me strength awhile,
I’ll nobly do my part.
MAY 27, 1841.
WHEREFORE GLORIFY YE THE LORD IN THE FIRES.--Is. xxiv. 15.
Help me, Lord, to glorify thee,
In the fires to sing thy praise,
With my heart to justify thee
All these dark and doleful days.
Should I bask in beams of glory
All the days I sojourn here,
Would I then believe the story,
That this world is dark and drear?
Would I ever turn to Heaven,
With an ardent sweet desire,
If to me ’twere never given
Thus to pass through sorrow’s fire?
Not from paths of fragrant roses
Will the rebel call on God,
Not till Jesus interposes,
Planting thorns along my road.
Burning fires can ne’er alarm me,
When my Savior’s voice I hear,
Barbed arrows cannot harm me,
With the balm of Gilead near.
Sorrow’s flames will purify me,
Barbed arrows harmless fall,
If I praise and glorify thee
In the fires, my Life! my All!
JUNE 8, 1841.
LINES
ON THE DEATH OF HENRY DICKSON,
Infant son of Thomas A. Elliott, M. D., of Orangeburg, S. C.
He died ere sorrow’s blighting breath
Had o’er him pass’d;
Cold sinking in the arms of Death,
He breathed his last.
But father, mother, do not weep;
Your darling babe is but asleep
In Jesus’ arms;
He tasted of the cup of pain,
Then turned him to his home again--
To heavenly charms.
Remember how, in gentle tones,
The Savior said,
While o’er th’ unconscious little ones
His hands he spread,
“Forbid them not to come to me;”
O! father, mother, will not ye
Remember this?
Why does not joy each bosom seize,
When Jesus says, “Of such as these
My kingdom is?”
Then, while you think upon your boy,
Your sainted one,
O! sweetly say, with smiles of joy,
“God’s will be done!”
Go, darling, to thy blissful home,
Where pain and death can never come,
Nor pale faced woe;
Go, nestle in the Savior’s breast;
Soon we shall share thy blissful rest;
Go, Henry, go!
ORANGEBURG, _August 14, 1841_.
THE DYING HADGI.
I.
With downcast brow and ling’ring feet,
Who leaves that richly cushion’d seat?
And why that deep convulsive sigh?
Thou veiled Beauty, tell me why?
’Twas Selim left that cushion’d seat,
With downcast brow and ling’ring feet.
II.
And she who loves him more than life,
That dark eyed maid--his promised wife,
Whose gath’ring tears bedim each eye,
Twas she who sigh’d convulsively;
For Selim starts that very day
His vows at Mecca’s shrine to pay.
III.
It must be so--for all must part;
There lives no man, whose youthful heart
Has never ached when he has heard,
Farewell--farewell--that saddening word!
Unless the heart is cased in steel,
This is a pang that all must feel.
IV.
How oft beneath the moon’s pale ray,
Have parting tears been wiped away,
While others soon their place supply,
As though the fount could ne’er be dry!
Ah! Stoics! vain are all your sneers;
They speak of pain, those parting tears.
V.
Cheer up, young Selim! time will fly,
Though lovers oft this ruth deny,
And say he lags upon the road;
But urge him with thy sharpest goad,
Keep a light heart, an active mind,
And leave thy vain regrets behind.
VI.
And thou, pale Beauty! weeping sore,
Raise up thy head, and weep no more,
And bless thy fate that thou hast known
Thy future husband; thou alone,
Of all thy young companions, art
Thus blest in giving up thy heart.[17]
VII.
One last fond look the youth bestows,
And Selim with his father goes,
To take his place amid the band
Who journey to a distant land;
The high, the low, the dark, the fair,
The master and the slave are there.
VIII.
And now each stately Mussulman
Has joined the starting caravan,
And rich and poor alike press on
To Mecca’s shrine; that journey done,
Life’s greatest object is attained,
And Paradise is surely gained.
IX.
Thus every man beneath the sun
To some vain pilgrimage doth run;
The heights of pleasure and of fame
Are lighted by a dazzling flame;
And every man, with fond design,
Bends low at some forbidden shrine.
X.
The caravan is on its way;
And, decked with varied colors gay,
The sacred camel marches on,
Proud of his grand caparison;
It hath been so since time began,
Brutes imitate their master, man.
XI.
O! ’tis a splendid sight to see
The gorgeous banners waving free!
From distant lands the pilgrims come,
With zeal that shames all christendom;
They hope t’ avert a future doom,
By bending at their prophet’s tomb.
XII.
The Arab guide his mournful song
Chants slowly, as he moves along,
And, mounting to the cloudless sky,
The hookah’s[18] smoke ascends on high;
And every step springs light and free--
O! ’tis a goodly company!
XIII.
But little weens the hadgi now,
How suffering may blanch his brow;
The horrors of the fell Simoom[19]
Not yet have filled his heart with gloom;
But still the hour comes on, when all
Beneath its fiery breath may fall.
XIV.
Some fall, alas! no more to rise,
For death cuts short their agonies;
And others only live to feel
The pangs of thirst upon them steal,
To long for what they cannot taste,
And slowly die upon the waste.
XV.
O! ’tis a fearful death to die,
That slow consuming agony!
To feel the heart’s pulsation stop,
The blood creep slowly, drop by drop!
To struggle with a burning fire,
And, parch’d with raging thirst, expire!
XVI.
Long on the desert have they been,
And not one spot of cheerful green
Their languid eyes have gazed upon,
And ling’ring hope is almost gone.
Their scanty store of water too
Is gone; what may the pilgrims do?
XVII.
O! for some intervening cloud,
Arabia’s burning sun to shroud!
O! for some sheltering rock, to cast
Its shadow on the dreary waste!
O! for some fountain spark’ling clear,
Or Hagar’s friendly angel near!
XVIII.
The hills of sand on every side,
Like waves of ocean, petrified
While high their restless forms did run,
Stand whitening in the bleaching sun.
All parch’d and bare the ground below,
The heaven above one scorching glow!
XIX.
“O! give me water, e’er I die”--
This was the fainting pilgrim’s cry:
But who could help? that dreadful hour
Was one when friendship had no power
To mitigate the sufferer’s pain;
--The dying hadgi called in vain!
XX.
Stretch’d on the burning sands he lay,
And in his eye the sparkling ray--
The index of his soul, grew dim;
Now what was all his wealth to him?
We would have given all to buy
One drop of water--none was nigh.
XXI.
“O! father! father! canst thou bear
To die, thy journey’s end so near?
This dreadful desert almost pass’d,
And wilt thou, father! sink at last?”
Thus spoke the hadgi’s noble son,
His darling boy--his only one!
XXII.