Sing on, before the storm and after, sing!
And call us to your echoing woods away
From worldly cares; and bid our spirits bring
Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay.
So may those blessed vernal strains renew
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true
E'en than the first, within th' awaken'd mind;
While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life,
That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife,
But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resign'd.
THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON.
"And he that was dead sat up and began to speak."
He that was dead rose up and spoke-He spoke ! Was it of that majestic world unknown?
Those words, which first the bier's dread silence broke, Came they with revelation in each tone?
Were the far cities of the nations gone,
The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep, For man uncurtain'd by that spirit lone,
Back from their portal summon'd o'er the deep? Be hush'd, my soul! the veil of darkness lay Still drawn :-thy Lord call'd back the voice departed, To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted, Not to reveal the mysteries of its way.
Oh! take that lesson home in silent faith,
Put on submissive strength to meet, not question death!
The Palm-the Vine-the Cedar-each hath power
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by,
And each quick glistening of the Laurel bower
Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye.
But thou, pale Olive!-in thy branches lie
Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old
Might e'er enshrine:-I could not hear thee sigh
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold
One shiver of thy leaves' dim silvery green,
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene
When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray'd-
When pale stars look'd upon his fainting head,
And angels, ministering in silent dread,
Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade.
THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION.
On Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung,
Felt shudderingly at noon:-the land had driven
A Guest divine back to the gates of Heaven,
A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung,
All grace, all truth:—and, when to anguish wrung,
From the sharp cross th' enlightening spirit fled,
O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread
By the great shadow of that death was flung.
O Saviour! O Atoner! thou that fain
Wouldst make thy temple in each human breast,
Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign,
Ne'er may thy presence from its depths depart,
Chased thence by guilt!-Oh! turn not thou away,
The bright and morning star, my guide to perfect day!
Spirit! whose life-sustaining presence fills
Air, ocean, central depths, by man untried,
Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified
All place, all time! The silence of the hills
Breathes veneration:-founts and choral rills
Of thee are murmuring:-to its inmost glade
The living forest with thy whisper thrills,
And there is holiness on every shade.
Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest
With dearer consecration those pure fanes,
Which, sever'd from all sound of earth's unrest,
Hear naught but suppliant or adoring strains
Rise heavenward.-Ne'er may rock or cave possess
Their claim on human hearts to solemn tenderness.
OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK.1
Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone
In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound,
Caressingly, about the holy ground;
And warbled, with a never-dying tone,
Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone
Seem'd, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam
Of tower and cross, pale quivering on the stream,
O'er all th' ancestral woodlands to be thrown,
And something yet more deep. The air was fraught
With noble memories, whispering many a thought
Of England's fathers; loftily serene,
They that had toil'd, watch'd, struggled, to secure, Within such fabrics, worship free and pure, Reign'd there, the o'ershadowing spirits of the scene.
A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES.1
Blessings be round it still! that gleaming fane,
Low in its mountain-glen! old mossy trees
Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane,
And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze,
The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas,
Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone,
There meets the voice of psalms!-yet not alone
For memories lulling to the heart as these,
I bless thee, 'midst thy rocks, grey house of prayer!
But for their sakes who unto thee repair
From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore.
Oh! may the fisher and the mountaineer,
Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear,
Within thy lowly walls for evermore !
Louise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of the pas tor Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his children for their perusal after his decease, affectingly commemorates her unwearied zeal in visiting and instructing the children of the mountain hamlets, through all seasons, and in all circumstances of difficulty and danger.
A fearless journeyer o'er the mountain snow
Wert thou, Louise! the sun's decaying light,
Oft, with its latest melancholy glow,
1 That of Aber, near Bangor.
Redden'd thy steep wild way: the starry night
Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle's height,
Piercing some dark ravine: and many a dell
Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well,
Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright
Oft in mid-storms; oh! not with beauty's eye,
Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning;
No! pilgrim of unwearying charity!
Thy spell was love-the mountain deserts turning
To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice,
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving voice!
For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind,
Through the pine forests, by the upland rills,
Didst roam to seek the children of the hills,
A wild neglected flock! to seek, and find,
And meekly win! there feeding each young mind
With balms of heavenly eloquence: not thine,
Daughter of Christ! but his, whose love divine,
Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined,
A burning light! Oh! beautiful, in truth,
Upon the mountains are the feet of those
Who bear his tidings! From thy morn of youth,
For this were all thy journeyings, and the close
Of that long path, Heaven's own bright Sabbath-rest,
Must wait thee, wanderer! on thy Saviour's breast.
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