Because no human tone, Unto the altar-stone, Of that pure spousal fane inviolate, Where it should make eternal truth its mate, Oh! be the whisper of thy voice within Which glorious minds have piled Thro' bright self-offering, earnest, child-like, lone, For mounting to thy throne! And let my soul, upborne On wings of inner morn, Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense The dimness melts away, That on your glory lay, O ye majestic watchers of the skies! Through the dissolving veil, Which made each aspect pale, Your gladd'ning fires once more I recognize; And once again a shower Of hope, and joy, and power, Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes. And, if that splendour to my sober'd sight Than I was wont to trace On Heaven's unshadow'd face Be it e'en so!-be mine, though set apart A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart; Bow'd before thee, O Mightiest! whose blest will All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil. THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG. FATHER, guide me! Day declines, Father! in the forest dim, Be my stay! In the low and shivering thrill Ominous, with sullen sound, Falls the closing dusk around. Father! through the storm and shade Oh! be Thou the lone one's aid- Many a swift and sounding plume Shield the homeless 'midst the waste, In his distant cradle nest, Back, through thine all-guiding power, Darker, wilder, grows the night- Where no roof to that blest head Father! through the time of dread, BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT'S CHILD IN THE FORESTS. SCENE.-The banks of a solitary river in an American Forest. A tent under pine-trees in the foreground. AGNES sitting before the tent with a child in her arms, apparently sleeping. Agnes. Surely 'tis all a dream-a fever-dream! The desolation and the agony The strange red sunrise-and the gloomy woods, And the broad lonely river! all a dream! Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch'd And her soul faint with longing for thy voice. (Shudderingly) The strange damp thrilling touch! To journey on without the blessed light [Her HUSBAND enters. Husband. Agnes, my Agnes! hast thou look'd thy last On our sweet slumberer's face? The hour is comeThe couch made ready for his last repose. Agnes. Not yet! thou canst not take him from me yet! If he but left me for a few short days, This were too brief a gazing time, to draw His angel image into my fond heart, And fix its beauty there. And now-oh! now, Never again the laughter of his eye Shall send its gladd'ning summer through my soul, Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay! Thou canst not take him from me. Husband. My beloved! Is it not God hath taken him? the God That took our first-born, o'er whose early grave Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and say, "His will be done!" Agnes. Oh! that near household grave, Under the turf of England, seem'd not half, VOL. VII. 15 |