Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

"RORES, FLORES."

WHEN April showers

Wake up the flowers,

From their long winter's sleep,

The crocus starts,

The rose-bud parts,

The fragrant violets peep.

When tear-drops fall,
At sorrow's call,

On penitential heart,

The perfect peace,
That shall not cease,

Like flowers in Spring, will start.

TO ONE OF RAPHAEL'S ANGELS.*

"Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my FATHER which is in heaven."

SWEET angel, while I gaze on thee,

So mute, so meek, so mild,

I deem that thou must surely be

The angel of some child;

To whom the SAVIOUR said, such grace,
For our sakes, has been given,
That they behold the FATHER'S face,
Continually in Heaven.

Sweet angel, I would be like thee,
In faith, in hope, in love;
My heart's affections, constantly,
Engaged with things above;

* That one of the two at the foot of the Madonna di S. Sisto, which is leaning

on both arms.

My thoughts, turned off from earth, like thine,
"Commercing with the skies,"

Till all the Majesty Divine

Grow radiant, to mine eyes.

Sweet angel, I will ever pray,
TO JESUS meek and mild,
That I may be, from day to day,
Still more, His "little child."

So, through the Cross, such grace to me,
May graciously be given,

That thou for me, may'st always see

MY FATHER'S face, in Heaven.

THE BREAKERS, June, 1853.

THE CHRISTIAN PILGRIM-BY CRAWFORD.

TO S. P. O.

SWEET maiden, I would be like thee,

As heavenward, eye, and thought, and heart;

And foot, as lightly, to the earth,

Like greyhound, straining on the start;

As closely to the Cross, I'd cling,

And lean as simply on its stay; The things of earth, all thistle down, As hindrances, along my way.

Sweet maiden, by that scollop shell,

Thy thoughts are, where the Saviour lay; And towards His tomb, thy steps are bent, To wait, and watch, and weep, and pray; And I, my heart, would bury, there,

As dead to self, as dead to sin;

With thee, His Cross, on earth, to bear,
With thee, His Crown, in heaven, to win.

1853.

H

TO MY SWEET GRAND-DAUGHTER,

ELIZA GREENE DOANE,

ON HER BAPTISMAL BIRTH-DAY.

SWEET baby, when thy father
Was granted to our love,

We hailed him, as a blessed streak
Of sunshine, from above:
And all his life, he still has shed
His sunshine, on our way:
And cheered us, with his brightness,
Through the dark, and cloudy day.

Now, two and twenty winters

Have heaped on us their snows:
And, down the hill of life, our feet
Are tottering to repose:
When, once again, the love of God,
Upon our path, has smiled,
In the sunshine of our sunshine,
Our Willie's darling child.

Thou meek and gentle Jesus,
We bring her to be Thine:
Baptized into the blessed name,
Of Thine eternal Trine:

And humbly, we implore Thy grace,

To keep her for Thine own;
And guide us all, to meet, at last,

Before Thy glorious throne.

RIVERSIDE, ST. ANDREW'S DAY, 1854.

THE NEW CRADLE.

A very little boy, whose infant brother had died the day before, being asked where he was, sweetly replied, " Asleep, up stairs, in his new cradle."

"ASLEEP, in his new cradle "___
How beautiful the thought,
Thy childhood, in its simpleness,
From nature's heart, has caught:
A reach, our "Sweetest Shakspeare,"
Himself, has failed to win;

And one, whose truthful tenderness
Must make "the world, all kin.”

"Asleep, in his new cradle

Sad mother, dry your tears;
In this, your heart-bereavement,
God's tenderest love appears :
The cradle, you provided,

From death, could not be free;
Your loveliest has now secured
His immortality.

"Asleep, in his new cradle ".

He wakes in Paradise;

The lullabies of nature,
Lost, in its symphonies :
Among the holy children,
In pastures green, he plays;
Or joins, with lisping accents,
In the music of their lays.

"Asleep, in his new cradle "

He waits for you to come,
From earth, its sins and sorrows,

To his bright and happy home;
Till the resurrection-breaking,

God's loved ones, all, shall bring,
And the dead in Christ, awaking,

Reign with their Saviour-King.

RIVERSIDE, SEPTUAGESIMA, 1855.

FANNY'S GRAVE.

"There's pansies, that's for thoughts."-Ophelia, in Hamlet.
"A most unspotted lily."-Cranmer, in Henry VIII.

UPON our darling Fanny's grave,

The Pansies are in bloom:

What sweetest thoughts, unbidden, spring,
Beside her sacred tomb!
Forever, shall my memory dwell,

Upon that peaceful spot :
For one, so loved, my faithful heart
Needs no "forget me not!"

The lilies of the valley wave,
At Fanny's dearest feet:

While she, on flowers immortal, treads,

A thousand times more sweet.

Still may her loveliness attract

Our thoughts, and hearts above;

Till, through the Cross she clasped, we join
The Lily of our love!

WHITSUNDAY, 1855.

THE EYES OF THE ANGELS.

A little child was disappointed, when her mother told her what the stars were She said, “I thought they were the eyes of angels."

"MOTHER, what are those little things,
That twinkle from the skies?"

"The Stars, my child!" "I thought, Mother,
They were the angels' eyes.

"They look down on me, so like yours,

As beautiful, and mild;

When, by my crib, you used to sit,

And watch your feverish child.

« ZurückWeiter »