Dearest, those fragrant flowers
Are odours of his life,

The gentle-hearted, the heavenly-willed,
With the choicest grace of the Holiest, filled,
Where loveliest deeds, were rife.

Dearest, they breathe, those flowers,
Of the land, where he takes his rest,
Where the river of immortality flows,
With our White, and Hobart, and Jebb, and Rose,
And all, that he loved, the best.

Dearest, they say, those flowers

Earth's winter womb's first born"So shall the dead in Christ arise, Heirs of the world, beyond the skies, On the resurrection morn."

1839.

TO MY WIFE.

My only, and my own one,
How dark and drear, the day
That drags its lingering hours along;
When thou art far away,

The loveliness, that lighted up

My life, no longer nigh,

And hushed the voice, that used to fill

My soul with melody.

High, in the broad blue firmament,
Among those worlds of light,
The faithful witness holds her place,
Constant, serene, and bright;
My aching heart in sadness sinks,

For so, her placid eye

Looked down, when heart to heart, we walked, In hours of joy, gone by.

I sit among my silent books,
And think, with what a pride,
I scanned their hoarded treasures o'er,
When thou wert by my side;

I listen, for thy gentle step,

I watch the opening door;

The page is marked, the pen laid down, Alas! thou comest no more.

Beloved, "it is well!"

Though sorrow clouds our way, "Twill make the joy more dear, That ushers in the day.

* In a little book of Dr. Bedell's, having this title. VOL. 1.-42

Beloved, "it is well!"
The path that Jesus trod,
Though rough and dark it be,
Leads home, to heaven, and God.

March 2, 1833.

TO MY DEAR SISTER.

ON HER 19TH BIRTHDAY.

My gentle sister, if the love,
My bosom bears for thee,
Were poured, like running waters, out,
"Twould be a surging sea.
But fullest streams, are ever those,
Most silently which run,

And the deep earth has deeper founts,

Than ever see the sun.

My gentle sister, could the thoughts,
That throng my heart, of thee,
Be coined in ducats, what a shower,
Of minted gold, 'twould be!
But richest ores, lie farthest down,
And, ripening in the mine,
Sleep gold and jewels, costlier far
Than all, on earth, that shine.

Then, gentle sister, think not hard,

Nor count it, loss of love,
That ne'er for thee, in idle hours,

One idle rhyme I've wove;
That fitful harp, whose sleeping strings,
The wild wind, wakes at will,
The soul of music harbours yet,
Though all its strings are still.

Then, sister dearest, with the year,
That newly dawns to-day,

To light thee on, in gentleness,
Thy pure and peaceful way;
Take deeply, warmly, from the heart,
The silent prayer of love—

God's blessing be thy portion here,

His blessedness, above!

TO MY DEAR SISTER.

My gentle sister, twenty years,

To day, have flitted by,

Since first thou camest, a helpless thing,
Among our hearts to lie.

We welcomed thee, as best we might,

With mingled smiles and tears;

And poured, we could no more, our prayers,

For blessings on thy years.

And, sister sweet, our prayers were heard,

God's blessed one thou art:

Not, with the rich, or proud, or gay,

But, with the pure in heart:

His gifts, to thee, in gentleness

And piety, are given;

The treasures that endure, on earth,
And never fail, in heaven.

My gentle sister, thou hast been,

Even as a child to me,

Since first, thy new-born helplessness
Was tended on my knee;

And stretched upon the shaded bank,

Whole summer days, I lay,

And watched, as with a parent's joy,
Thy happy, infant play.

And still, the holy bond endures,

And still, a father's care

Makes tenderer, deeper, more intense,
The love, for thee, I bear.

It grows with years, with cares it grows,
Unchanged by change of lot;

In joy and sorrow, hope and fear,
Still failing, faltering not.

My gentle sister, may the years,
That yet remain to thee,

Be spent, as all the past have been,

In tranquil piety:

May Heaven, in mercy, spare thee long
To all who share thy love;

And faith and peace, prepare thee here,
For endless joy above!

1840-1850.

THE SMELL OF SPRING.

The first violets of the year 1840, seen this day, 4th March, Ash Wednesday.

THE smell of Spring! how it comes to us,
In those simple, wild-wood flowers,
With memories sweet, of friends and home,
When never a cloud on our sky had come,
In childhood's cheerful hours.

The smell of Spring! how it comes to us,
In that cluster of purple bloom,
With thoughts of the loved and loving one,
Not lost, we know, but before us gone,
Whom we left, in his wintry tomb.

The smell of Spring! how it comes to us,
In the violet's fragrant breath,
With beaming hopes of that brighter shore,
Where flowers and friends, shall fall no more,
"And there shall be no more death."

1840.