« PreviousContinue »
Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest
Lightly when those pure orisons are done, As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppressed,
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun, Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.
Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled
springs Of hope, make melody where'er ye tread; And o'er your sleep, bright shadows from the
wings Of spirits visiting but youth be spread ; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe !
Her lot is on you—silent tears to weep,
To pour on broken reeds, a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship--therefore pray !
Her lot is on you, to be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And a true heart of hope, though hope be
vain, Meekly to bear with wrong, and cheer decay, And oh! to love through all things—therefore
And take the thought of this calm vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds, and silvery
light, On through the dark days, fading from their
prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight. Earth will forsake-oh! happy to have given Th' unbroken heart's first tenderness to heaven!
Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,
Nor other thought her mind admits
But he was dead, and there he sits,
Then one deep love doth supersede
All other, when her ardent gaze
Roves from the living brother's face, And rests upon the Life indeed.
All subtle thought, all curious fears
Borne down by gladness so complete ;
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears.
Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
Whose loves in higher love endure;
What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like their's ?
When one that holds communion with the
skies Has filled his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis e'en as if an Angel shook his wings : Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide, That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.
So, when a ship, well-freighted with the stores
THE MOTHER WHO HAS A CHILD AT SEA.
There's an eye that looks on the swelling cloud,
eye, that ear! oh, whose can they be, But a mother's who hath a child at sea ?
There's a cheek that is getting ashy white,
That cheek ! that form! oh, whose can they be, But a mother's who hath a child at sea ?
The rushing whistle chills her blood,
She conjures up the fearful scene
She presses her brow—she sinks and kneels, Whilst the blast howls on and the thunder peals : She breathes not a word, for her passionate
prayer Is too fervent and deep for the lips to bear ;