Weep not for her, the dear lamb we have folded,
Though sadly we miss her, from out our fond arms;
Just when her young life had sweetly unfolded,
And ours seemed renewed, in the light of her charms.
Here, for a while she has left us behind her,
To wander and wait, on life's desolate shore; There, through the Cross, we shall certainly find her, And with her, the lambling we folded before.
DE GULIELMO MEO, MORTUO, SUSPIRIUM.
ALAS! how life divides itself,
The Left and the Departed;
Like funeral files, in double row,
The Dead, the Broken-Hearted!
FRAMED IN THE DOOR WHICH FRONTED MY SICK BED.
WRITTEN WITH MY CROSWELL'S PENCIL.
THAT blessed Cross-I bend mine eyes,
On its atoning sacrifice;
And find forgiveness, from my God,
In its divine, redeeming, blood.
That blessed Cross-I tear my heart,
To make it, of myself a part;
And gain no shelter, from my sin,
Till Christ be crucified, within.
That blessed Cross-I bow my life,
To bear its pain, its load, its strife;
The way that leads me to my God,
The bleeding path my Saviour trod.
That blessed Cross, that blessed Cross,
Welcome, its wounds, its shame, its loss,
My hope, my help, my victory—
My Maker bore that Cross, for me!
NEWARK, October 24, 1852.
TENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY, AUGUST 15, 1852.
"They that sow in tears, shall reap in joy."
THE lovely day had passed away,
Its stillness, on the landscape lay;
A summer sunset's lingering rays
Still kept the atmosphere, ablaze;
When, gathered in a darkened room,
Where light just glimmered, through the gloom,
A sorrowing circle, silent sate;
Distressed, but not disconsolate.
But yesterday, and every grace,
That makes of home, a sacred place,
The comforts, and the charms of life,
That blend in Mother, and in Wife;
All that the heart of man holds dear,
Was crowned and consecrated here.
Serene and beautiful, to-day,
Decked for the dead, our darling lay;
Whose eye, whose soul, whose heart, had been
The charm of all this sacred scene;
So calm, so sweet, our blessed dead,
We scarce could deem the spirit fled.
Like infant, tired, that sinks to rest,
At
noon, upon its Mother's breast;
Her score of summers scarcely done,
And yet, her crown of victory won.
It is her own, her charmed room,
This ante-chamber of the tomb;
Her Bible opens, at the day;
The Book, that taught her how to pray,
Her Taylor, Kempis, Keble, lie
Just where she left them, all, to die.
In western window's deep retreat,
A table stands, in order meet,
With linen cloth, and roses white,
And crystal water, pure and bright.
The lingering beams of parting day,
Upon the trembling waters play ;
Then stretching through the glimmering gloom,
That fills the still, and sacred room,
Upon our dear one's forehead fall,
Like some celestial coronal;
For sainted Mother, meet array,
To grace her babe's baptismal day.
Upon her fair and pulseless head,
His hand, the kneeling husband laid;
The honoured father bowed him low,
The mother's tears in silence flow,
From sisters, brothers, loved ones, friends,
The hushed and stifled sorrow blends;
One heart, one voice, in faltering flow,
Pours the low litany of woe,
"Thou gavest, Thou hast taken, Lord,
We bless Thy Holy name and Word!"
The surpliced Priest, comes gliding in ;
The wave is blessed that saves from sin,
It sparkles on an infant's brow,
The child of grace and glory, now,
The Mother's blessed name is given,
That one may serve for both, in Heaven;
The cross is sealed, the pledge secured,
The heritage of Heaven, ensured;
The Mother's arms, the treasure, take,
With Jesu's mark, impressed, to nurse for Jesu's sake.
Scarce was the sacred service done,
And our dear dead one, left alone,
When, whispering through the waving trees,
There came a balmy western breeze,
And strewed the rose-leaves, fair and white,
Upon the water, pure and bright,
As if some angel had been sent,
To certify the sacrament;
And flowers of love and peace been given,
To strew our darling's path to Heaven;
And way-marks left along the road,
To bring our baby, home to God.
RIVERSIDE, August 22, 1852.
"I HAVE FOUGHT WITH BEASTS AT EPHESUS."
"HAVE fought with beasts!" oh, blessed Paul,
How small were that, if that were all !
But harder far, to fight, with men,
Than beard the lions, in their den!
Men, who concert the secret snare,
To take the guileless, unaware;
Men, who, with "bated breath," betray,
And hint the things, they dare not say;
Men, who their sanctity proclaim,
In libels on a neighbour's name;
Men, who their nameless letters scrawl,
And chalk their scandal, on a wall;
Men, who will sit and eat your bread,
Then, lift their heel, to break your head;
Men, who abuse the holiest garb,
To hide the slanderer's poisoned barb.
But, Saviour, Thou hast known them all;
Peter, Iscariot, and Saul:
And, worse than all, Thy Father's face
Averted from Thee, for a space.
Why should the servant hope to be,
From ills, that haunt his Master, free?
Who, the disciple, would accord,
A rule, less rigid, than his Lord?
Then, Saviour, let me clasp Thy Cross,
And count all other things, but loss;
Nor ask, from foes, to be set free;
So, they be, also, foes to Thee!
Welcome the strife with godless men;
The fight, with Satan in his den;
One only thing, I crave, from Thee;
Turn not Thy face, my God, from me!
WHEN morning streaks the eastern sky,
And wakes the world for me;
To thee, my first affections fly,
My darling, on the sea.
Through all the close and crowded day,
What toils, what cares, there be;
By thee, my thoughts still find their way, My darling, on the sea.
While, from the far and fading West,
The day dies duskily;
With thee, my spirit seeks its rest,
My darling, on the sea.
The silent watches of the night,
Still find my soul with thee;
And dreams restore thee, fond and bright, My darling, on the sea.
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