LINES WRITTEN AT THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC. A LONE wayfarer from the northern land But thou, O sacred stream, within my heart Linked with her name who perished in thy waves. (1) A voice of sympathy, that shall henceforth Of simple and glad beauty, but a voice Of majesty, sublime in tenderness! That tale of terror from my mother's lips, That quivered telling it, the fearful plunge Down the wild steep to whirling depths below, That breathed its fragrance on a sister's path,- Why from the bosom of that ancient home A bride but then, a bridal gift to thee? (m) Thou answerest not. Ev'n as thou wrappest up Thy waters when thou plungest, God hath wrapped His providence in clouds, nor gives thee leave To unveil the mystery. But as within Thy pillared mists, the sunbeam writes itself In seven-foll lines of promise and of hope, That arch to heaven, so Faith with golden light Traces the bow of promise on God's cloud, And marks her radiant pathway to the skies. And thou, green cedar, waving o'er the brink, (n) Planted of God to mark her stepping stone From earth to heaven, -O breath perennial Thy choicest fragrance on this hallowed air, And wear thy verdurous crown unperishing; Even as her memory liveth, beautiful one, Fadeless and fragrant in our heart of hearts. And thou, sweet spirit, by this gateway gone, Comest thou hither on the viewless wing When shadows of the evening fall, as now? My spirit yearneth toward thee, and my song Would bear its holiest offering, as is meet To such as thou. O chide not if I bring More than a stranger's gift; if in my song There breathes the burden of another's heart, Stricken with terror in the dreadful hour Such tidings came. The voice of cloquence That charmed thy willing ear and won thy love, And Lers who blessed thee with maternal care, Call thee no longer. THE OCEAN-BURIED. Down fathoms unnumbered, Where thousands have slumbered, There slumbereth he. Above the cold billow No marble may rise, Nor cypress, nor willow, May tell where he lies. Yet hearts have enshrined him, Wherever he sleeps. The wild waves are tramping, The rude tempest blows, Yet angels encamping, Guard all his repose. His rest he is taking, 'Till glory's bright morn Shall bring his awakeningImmortality born. Then mourn not to leave him, Since Mercy hath said, Your faith shall receive him Again from the dead.' TO ONE ABSENT. Light from these sombre halls, Hath gone, dear Mary, with thy sunny smile, Morning in golden streams, Pours in upon me from the rising day, But there's no gladness in its brightest ray, Evening with lighted lamps, To cheer my The falling darkness, like an April rain My spirit damps. I wait your coming long, Wife of my youth, and those dear babes of ours ; Welcome your light again within these bowers, Welcome your song. |