Poems

Front matter

,

BY

BOSTON:

May

Like music o'er a moonlit sea, O! be thy future destiny; And may life's yet untrodden bowers Yield nought but sweet and thornless flowers.

Kathleen O'More

When sighs and when mourning in joy shall be hushed, And sorrow's last fountain of tears shall have gushed, Our home shall be heaven, my own little Kathleen, Sweet Kathleen O'More!

The Baptism

A mother's love! exhaustless spring, whence, all unsullied flow The holiest streams of sympathy that e'er can gush below.

A mother's heart! change cannot dim, nor absence quench the flame That glows upon its hidden shrine, in joy or grief the same: On earth, its full, deep meed of bliss ne'er to the soul is given; It asks a holier home than earth,—the paradise of heaven.

Thou blessed one! o'er whose fair brow the mystic waters fell, What yearning prayers for thee and thine, deep in my bosom swell: I feel the impotence of words one kind thought to ex- press, Of all that swell within my heart thy opening life to bless.

O! may the morning's fragrance rise, thy grateful meed to pay, And may'st thou consecrate to God the noon's meridian ray; And when the dews of evening call to slumber and to rest, O! may'st thou fearless seek thy couch as a fond mother's breast.

Thou, to whose race the Sinless One the priceless boon did give, To be the emblem meet of those whose souls in glory live,

May Heaven's best blessing rest upon thy young and happy head, And strew with flowers of heaven's own hue, the future thou must tread.

To my Brother

He cannot break the chain of love, That links us to our home above: There strains of seraph sweetness rise; The smile of God illumes its skies. No tone is heard of human wo, Where joy's rich notes harmonious flow.

And, brother! by the hope of heaven, To cheer our earthly dwelling given, The faith, which views Aer spirit, where No cloud can dim the holy air, O! let us love, while yet shall beam Life's sunlight o'er time's flowing stream.

To my Sister

I view the gracious blessing near, The cherished hope of many a year.

I greet thee, love! my brother's bride, Dearer to him than aught beside. And dear indeed thou art to me, My sister, in his bride I see: A fervent prayer for thee I raise, As love this simple tribute pays.

O! may no gathering cloud of care The sweet repose of love impair: May each unbreathed, unwritten dream In full fruition brighter beam: And should the chastening tone be given, Still be its word of promise,—heaven.

May wedded love thy pathway bless With truth's enduring faithfulness. My sister! could thy future be Bright as the prayer I raise for thee, Though its deep strength thou canst not read, Dearest! thou wouldst be blest indeed.

"Suffer little Children to come unto me"

Fearless, that gracious call she heard; And, as the heaven-aspiring bird Plumes joyfully its golden wing, Mid realms of purer light to sing, So did her spotless soul ascend, Before her Maker's throne to bend.

Life was to her a joyous dream: She wakes where heaven's rich glories beam. Calmly, as to her earthly rest, Her fair young head its pillow pressed: The angel-guard ye might not see, Nor hear their strain of melody.

Would ye recall her from that sphere, Though ransomed by one prayer, one tear? A few short years of grief and pain, And ye shall meet your own again, Where life's pure tide, unsullied swells, And love shall breathe no sad farewells.

The Birth-day of Washington

A star arose. Its dazzling light Dispelled the gathering shades of night; Blessing and freedom were the glorious day. That star its bright ascendant gained; No mist its shining pathway stained; No cloud obscured its glowing, deathless ray.

What was the heaven-born star That shed its light afar, Above the war-cry's din, the battle's strife, And guided us to victory and life? The name is breathed from every freeman's mouth; It comes like incense, on the gentle south: And beams not now the kindling eye? Rise not our swelling notes on high? It is thy natal day, thou matchless one! The day that gave to earth its Washington! It is a feeble gift we bring, And gratitude in vain attempts to tell The glorious visions that within us swell.

There is a holy spot,— Be not the stone forgot, Which hides from view his mouldering dust, Till earth shall yield to Heaven its sacred trust: Be that our Mecca, that, fair freedom's shrine; Brightly may freedom's sunlight o'er it shine: And when his children shall declare With reverence, the glorious name, That links them to a future race, And challenges immortal fame, May they, though in the dust his form they trace, Look up to heaven, and say, "his soul is there." 1832.

"I am the Resurrection and the Life"

Thus shall it be with thee, Sweet flower! that bloomed awhile upon our way, Transplanted now to heaven's celestial day. Rich, glorious destiny! Who would recall thee from that heavenly sphere, Though ransomed by affection's holiest tear?

Thou in the world above, Canst bend thee, unsubdued by grief and wo, At the pure fount whence living waters flow; While we, with trusting love, Dwell on the pledge with joy and glory rife,— "I am the Resurrection and the Life."

God is here

When, kneeling at the shrine of prayer, We breathe our vows from hearts sincere, A sacred calm dispels our care, Our spirits feel that "God is here."

When called around the bed of death, To part with friends beloved and dear, O! as we watch the fleeting breath, Can we not trust that "God is here?"

We mingle dist with kindred dust: Devotion checks the starting tear: Our grief is changed to filial trust: We feel, indeed, that "God is here."

And when to heaven we wing our flight, And view our gracious Maker near, Our souls in realms of endless light, Shall say with rapture, "God is here."

Echo

The sister's smile, the sister's eye, Unchanged amid the lapse of years.

Brother! thy well-known form I see; I gaze on thine unaltered brow. Thou! who wast friend and guide to me, Would I might share thy guidance now. There is a gentler one, whose love Might well have cheered life's trial way. She comes with eye upraised above, To point me to a brighter day.

But they are silent all;—they come From the far regions of the blest. Their souls have left the loved home dumb, And lone and sad this aching breast. And now has fled that sacred band. Where now do these blest spirits stray? Alone upon the earth I stand, And echo answers, "Where are they"

Where are they? Does no gentler voice, Save that of echo, cheer the heart? No tone that bids the soul rejoice, And sad and anxious thoughts depart? Hark! hark! within the midnight gloom, When solitude and grief are near,— Hark! from beyond the silent tomb, A voice is breathed upon the ear.

List to the swell of that pure tone. "Though here thy weary footsteps roam,

Thou art not all unblest, alone, God soon shall call the wanderer home. We see the tear, we hear the sigh, To thee our changeless love is given. Thy "household band" in faith is nigh, And thy best land,—thy home—is heaven."

Mount Vernon

The heart of every freeman swells, The record of his fame to show.

Though in Mount Vernon shall remain, The form whose spirit rests above; Or the proud Capitol contain The sacred dust of him we love;—

Let us but keep the blessing pure, Still free the land he toiled to save; Long, long as ages shall endure, Fame shall illume his lowly grave.

Nor can a prouder, purer fame Upon those marble walls e'er rest. His record is one glorious name: His monument,—each freeman's breast. 1833.

The Christian's Death

tpp|THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH.|{sm} The chamber, where the good man meets his fate, Is privileged beyond the common walk Of virtuous life."

Young.

>><< >>Silence is here; That deep, unbroken stillness which pervades The chamber, hallowed by the Christian's death. Around that couch, where lies the feeble frame, Are guardian angels, hovering to catch His breath, and on their bright and golden wings, To waft his spirit to its native heaven. No thought of mortal joys comes in to break The hushed repose of this most holy hour. Oh! can aught bind him to a fleeting world, Whose hopes are centred on immortal bliss?

Yet there are ties which link his soul to earth;

Those sacred sympathies which God has given, Those sweet affections, binding man to man. The Christian views those sad and weeping ones; To those fond objects of his tender love, He clings with love's enduring faithfulness. Can he not break those hallowed ties, and feel That though the parting hour has come to him, There is beyond life's transient, varied things, Rest for the "pure in heart?" |end=stanza

>>But now a bright And glorious vision bursts upon his eye. Meekly prepared to meet his Master's will, Whate'er that will may be, his eye upraised With filial confidence in God's decrees, He whispers to those dear ones with a voice, Attuned with heaven's own tones, to heavenly strains.

"Weep not! though for a time, the grave may hide My mouldering form from your embrace, my soul In everlasting realms shall dwell; mine eye, Undimmed by all that now obstructs its sight, Shall view you, as you struggle on with life, With all its varied griefs and empty cares, And when its pangs are o'er, shall welcome you To an immortal home."

>>Life is extinct. Hear ye no strains of heavenly melody? See ye no seraph wings of hovering forms, With golden harps attuned to blissful strains, To welcome the redeemed one to his home?

The Nun

Let them the rose and lily bring, But ere they fade, my sun will set. Like me those bright hues fade away, Those glowing tints by nature given. But not mid darkness and decay, Fix they as I, their hopes on heaven.

But I have looked beyond the tomb, With faith to fairer realms on high; Have pierced its cold and cheerless gloom, And raised to God my filial eye. This gloomy prison cannot be The dwelling of my freeborn soul; And its stern inmates soon may see My spirit, past their proud control."

Finished! that victim, peerless, bright, In robes of sacrifice arrayed, Mid gems of clear and flashing light, Stands pure, and fair, and undismayed. Finished! The pealing anthem's sound Reëchoes o'er the fretted dome. With Spring's sweet flowerets she is crowned, And welcomed to her future home.

Heaves there from that young heart no sigh, As o'er her thoughts sweet memories rise? What speaks from that uplifted eye, Communing with yon glorious skies? No sigh disturbs that spirit meek, No cloud is on that holy brow, No fires of passion flush her cheek; But all is calm and quiet now.

Yet in that calm, unclouded gaze, So pure, so eloquently bright With faith's undimmed, celestial rays, There glows devotion's sacred light. And now the tasseled velvet pall Enshrouds her young and lovely form. Ah! what a solemn mockery all, To chill affections pure-and warm.

Those gems still flash, those flowers are bright; But she, to whom their hues were given, Hers was an angel's blissful flight, Her Father—God; her dwelling—heaven.

The Minstrel Lover

Yet one there is, whose ear has caught The faintest murmur of that strain: One, whose fond, faithful heart has sought Long for that low-breathed song, in vain.

No slumber may her eyelids close, Now that she hears the minstrel's song. Her heart with rapture overflows, As thoughts most blest its fountains throng.

Softly she seeks the window nigh, And gazes on the scene around. With breath suppressed, her anxious eye Seeks whence proceeds that welcome sound.

And not in vain. The moon's pale light Shines calmly down on hill and plain; And now there meets her gazing sight, The minstrel of the gentle strain.

Where is the taper's light, which shone So lately in the lofty tower? Its dim and flickering flame is gone, And dark is now the lady's bower.

Soon to her casement she returns, To watch in speechless rapture there. Quickly, love's eagle eye discerns Whose is that proud and manly air.

The minstrel lover nearer draws: And now has ceased his gentle strain.

A prelude now;—now, one short pause,— And hark! those thrilling notes again.

Ah! blessed one, that strain who hears, As on the air its echoes swell. For her, no sad, no blighting fears: These notes of deep affection tell.

Then, minstrel, pour thy melody, And raise thy tuneful numbers high. The shrinking form thou may'st not see; But know her faithful heart is nigh.

To-morrow's sun on thee shall shine, And bless thee with its beaming ray. Her heart's best tribute shall be thine, And thine shall be her gentle lay.

The Thornless Rose

Virtue, when life's bright hues are fled, Its fragrant breath bestows.

Thus, Hannah, let thy virtues give Their fragrance rich and free; Thy name a cherished treasure live, Enshrined in memory.

Celestial Visitants

We gaze. Upon the filmy air, Their golden harps we may not see. We wait to hear their low-breathed prayer, To catch the undying harmony. It may not be. We list in vain. We may not hear that glorious strain.

It cannot be. We may not know, Thus prisoned by our wall of clay, What faithful hearts around us glow, In sun or shade, by night or day. We may not tell what hand is given, To guide our onward path to heaven.

Yet were the fancy soothing, sweet, To think, while here our spirits dwell, That kindred hearts around us beat, That kindred songs in chorus swell; That they, whose eye for us grew bright, Still shed on us their changeless light.

That angel band! perchance our air Is fragrant with their balmy breath, Perchance they kneel with us in prayer,— The truly "faithful unto death;" And when life's golden chain is riven, Waft us on angel wings to heaven.

The presence of the holy dead,— Whose eyes have looked on cloudless day, O! be its gracious influence shed, To guide us in the narrow way; That, when the eternal shore is pressed, Our souls for aye in heaven may rest.

Mary at the Feet of Jesus

The smile of rapture for a soul redeemed From earthly thoughts, to hopes of heaven.

>>He spake, And said to him, whose heart and lip had spurned The holy deed, which hallows Mary's name;— "Thine house I entered; but thou gavest me No water for my feet; but with her tears, She hath not ceased to wash them, wiping them E'en with the clustering locks of her bowed head. Thou gavest me no kiss; but since I came, She hath not ceased in deep humility To kiss my feet. Thou with the fragrant oil, My head didst not anoint; but she hath wrought A holy work on me, anointing me, Even for my burial hour. Wherefore I say, Her sins, though many, are forgiven her. Much hath she loved, and wheresoe'er is preached In the whole world, the Gospel of my word, There also this, the work which she has wrought, Shall be a sweet memorial of her name."

Gently he turned him to the kneeling form, And in the tones of mild encouragement, He spake the words, thrice precious to her ear, "Thy sins are pardoned; go in peace. Thy faith, Humble yet mighty, hath redeemed thy soul."

The Appeal of Ruth

The call of filial love obey, And filial duty gladly pay.

Say, can I leave thine age alone, Without one joy to call thine own? No, I will leave thy side no more, Till my life's pilgrimage is o'er.

And should be hushed thy fleeting breath, My hands will close thine eyes in death; And where thy mouldering ashes sleep, My spirit shall its vigils keep.

Within one grave our forms shall rest Gently, as on a mother's breast; Nor fear to tread the narrow way, Which leads to heaven's unclouded day.

And when before the mercy seat, Our faithful hearts again shall meet, The gracious boon shall then be given, To meet our loved, our lost, in heaven."

Love! love! how deep thy seal is set! Who can its impress e'er forget? O! let thine influence ever rest, Like truth's own signet, on the breast.

The Death of Sir Walter Scott

More! yes! far more! On virtue's shrine Alone, our hearts their homage lay. The shrine, the homage, Scott, are thine: Fame's purest meed to thee we pay.

The Marriage of the Adriatic

Calls it proud man in prayer to kneel? Is it devotion's sacred hour?

No, not to prayer. The bugle's note, The trumpet's thrilling tones are here, And softer sounds of music float In gentle murmurs to the ear. And look, the idle and the gay, And beauty's form pass lightly by; It is their monarch's bridal day; Should not the heart with joy beat high?

O! many a heart beats gaily here, Within this favored, sunny clime; Nor deems a darker day is near Proud Venice, in this glorious time. Noon,—and the sun's meridian rays Still beam on lofty tower and dome: Mid gorgeous pomp and jewel's blaze, The idle throng still gaily roam.

Gaze further. On the glittering stream, What glorious object meets the view? Is it the pageant of a dream, Illumed by Fancy's magic hue? It comes. That train moves slowly on, Beneath the heaven's refulgent light; Never the sun, in splendor shone Upon a scene more proudly bright.

All silent is the gentle lay; The warlike strain is heard no more:

Mid this magnificent array, Those lofty, thrilling strains are o'er. Silent as death's calm, noiseless sleep, Venice, is now thy giddy throng; Nor would thy children idly weep, Were those last sounds thy parting song.

Yes, glorious were it now to die, Free as thy sires thy birthright gave; And proud, beneath a freeman's sky, To find a freeman's hallowed grave. The glittering pledge of faith is given: The monarch weds the yielding sea; And loud, beneath the arch of heaven, Proud bride! arise those shouts for thee.

That bridal pageant was the last, That ever here thy eye beheld; Those varied strains for aye have passed, That richly on the soft air swelled. Venice, thy palmy days are o'er. What art thou, City of the Isles? Upon this festal pomp, no more The sun in pride and glory smiles.

Yet, beautiful in ruins stand, To mark thy former glorious hour, And, sadly, to each listening land, Thy lesson teach of truth and power. And may our nation learn from thee What gives alone immortal fame; Our strength alone in virtue be, Our pride alone,—a freeman's name.

"Is it well with the Child?"

It shall be well with those Whom he, on earth, in word and spirit blessed— Those of the world, the brightest and the best: Calmly their souls repose,— Repose with him, whose voice the promise gave, Whose death the pledge of life beyond the grave.

We know with her 't is well, Called, in her sinless years, to join the band, Who, 'mid his glory, with their Saviour stand, Ere the unsullied swell Of life's young fount a dark'ning stain can know, Or the glad heart be touched with earthly wo.

Let not the spirit weep— Would we recall her from the immortal sphere, Though the pure ransom were a parent's tear? God shall the treasure keep Unstained, unsullied, as a gem of light, To beam forever in His heavenly sight.

The one hundred thirty-ninth Psalm

That eye, whose light would pierce my inmost soul? And should I make my bed where spirits dark Dwell in the silence of the under world, There, too, Thine eye would see my face, and there The glance of Thy displeasure would upbraid The heartless, cold ingratitude of one Who gave Thee not devotion's fervent prayer, Rich incense rising from a grateful heart,— A heart which glowed with an immortal flame, A temple meet for Thee.

Or should I seek, Upon the wings of morn, the ocean depths, Behold, Thy piercing glance looks there,—a glance Undimmed by the destructive flight of time: Thy hand would guide me through its mazy depths. Should I desire the shielding veil of night, Thine eye could penetrate its shadowy folds. All, all is clear to Thee. Is not the night The same as day to thy unclouded eye?

Let me not flee thy presence. Let me seek Nearer and dearer intercourse with Him Whose word created me. Great are Thy works, And in the fulness of Thy boundless power, Thou raisedst me from dust. Upon my soul Thine own immortal image didst Thou stamp, And give me power to fit that soul to dwell Forever in Thy sight.

Precious to me, O God! The gracious promises Thy word reveals; Precious the hope of everlasting life,

A vast eternity passed near to Thee. There shall no clouds of sin my sight obstruct, Nor mist of error veil thy face from me: There shall I see that face, there taste the bliss, The joys of heaven. Father! enthroned on high! O! search my heart. Hush each unholy thought. Quell the fierce storm of anger. Make my soul Humble and grateful to its Gracious Source. Fill it with holy hope and perfect faith In Thy decrees. Let no repining thought Escape the lips enkindled at Thy shrine, With the pure flame of love. Let perfect love, Greater than hope or faith, my bosom fill,— Love for the-human race.

And O! when death Shall set his icy seal upon my brow, And earth, with all its scenes, fades from my view, Grant me Thy changeless light, the light of truth, That points my soul to realms of endless day. There shall that soul, from earthly care set free, Breathe forth to Thee its speechless gratitude.

"For Auld Lang Syne"

Remembered in the low-breathed sigh, And in the secret prayer of love; Remembered in the kindling eye, That turns for thee to God above.

"Life has no charm for me"

O! let thy soul rejoice: Life has a charm, though dark to thee it seem. What though may blighted be thy heart's bright dream? There is a gentle voice, Bidding thy heart, amid this deep despair, On God repose the burden of its care.

And death shall bring no gloom: It is the pathway which thy soul must tread, As to thy Father's mansions thou art led. Beyond the silent tomb, When to that heaven thy spirit wings its flight, Thy God shall be thine Everlasting Light.

"The heavens declare the glory of God"

Heaven's lovely bow its arch expands, The pledge by God to mortals given: The glorious wonders of His hands Illume the glowing page of heaven.

By day is heard a thrilling voice, Proclaiming loud His guardian love: By night those kindling orbs rejoice, Amid their silent march above.

And though upon the careless ear No accents fall of prayer and praise, The listening child of God may hear Those hymning spheres their tribute raise.

The faded Flower

Life has such flowers, the fair, the bright, All glowing with their tints of light: To-day, they greet the gazer's eye, To-morrow, drooping, dead, they lie.

Hope, like some flower of sunny hue, Blooms but to fade in sadness too: Fair as the light of heaven its beam,— Then fled as morning's vanished dream.

Yet shall life's faded flowers assume Fragrance more rich, and fairer bloom, And in the diadem divine As gems of priceless splendor shine.

"Je ne change qu'en mourant"

Change but in death? More precious far They whom it severs from our eye; As the pure beaming of the star, Burns brightest in the midnight sky.

The holiest might of love is given, Where death has hushed life's broken strings, And memory o'er the faithful dead, The light of perfect beauty flings.

Change but in death? It cannot be: Death cannot dim truth's heavenly ray. One star of promise we can see, A prelude of the perfect day.

It cannot be. Too deeply flows, Though silent, love's unsullied stream. Hope o'er its tide her radiance throws, And Faith sheds forth her holier beam.

To the Memory of a Young Lady

O! let our souls rejoice, That thou hast joined that rich, harmonious strain, Where perfect love and fadeless beauty reign. It was a Father's voice Which called thee hence, beneath his smile to dwell; In heaven, thy strain of holy joy to swell.

Great Source of Faith and Love! O! may we bow submissive to Thy will: May each repining, murmuring thought be still. To Thy blest seat above, When we death's yet untrodden path shall tread, Thither, O may our wandering steps be led.

The Sower and his Seed

What though no ear could catch the song, Breathed by the spotless herald-throng? What though no tone in thunder spoke, Or forth no visioned glories broke?

The "still, small voice" of holy love, The Faith, which lifts the soul above, The hope that checks each rising fear, Proclaimed His gracious presence near.

There were the precious seed-drops given, To root, to bud, to bloom for heaven. There, too, the dewy influence fell, Life's still, though onward march to tell.

Eternal God! whose eye can trace The scattered seed, the dew of grace, O! teach our weary, faltering feet, Unharmed, life's gathering ills to meet.

And when our steps, though weal or wo May crown our daily lot below, Shall cease life's varied path to roam, O! lead us to the Christian's home.

Remember me

In every scene,—or weal, or wo,— Mid grief's sad tear, or joy's bright glow, I ask one boon, my path to cheer,— In joy, thy smile,—in grief, thy tear,— Sweet friend! remember me!

Jephthah's Vow

To greet the hero from the battle-field? It was his only child,—she whose pure smile First woke him to that gush of ecstasy,— A father's priceless, unabated love,— The bright, glad being who, in joy's gay hour, As in the time of grief, had been with him, To share his mirth or to assuage his wo.

And shall it be? Must that young life-tide check Its healthy gushings from the heart's deep fount? Must that fond eye, so brightly turned on him, That eye which beamed and shone for him alone, Be closed in death and gloom; and must those lips Which smiled upon him in their joyous mirth, Which breathed devotion's purest offering, And tuned their minstrelsy in holy songs Of praise to God, be hushed in the cold tomb, No more to cheer him with their radiant smile, Or speak to him of bliss?

O! what was life, What the proud consciousness of victory, When thoughts of that bright being filled his soul? The father's heart grew sick. There was no smile Upon his lip, to greet his only child: No voice of welcome issued from his mouth. His brow was furrowed, and his cheek grew pale, While the firm pressure of his fast-closed lip Told but too well the conflict in his soul.

A moment, and his lips broke forth in sounds Of grief. He clasped her to his breast and said, "My child, my only child, how have I loved To gaze on thee, and think, that when the cares

And ills of life would rudely press on me, Thou wouldst be near to comfort and sustain. Ay, thou hast brought me low; for I have sworn,— That vow, alas! it cannot be recalled; And I must yield thee up to Him to whom In a rash hour I vowed to offer thee, A grateful sacrifice."

The gentle girl bent down. No prayer for life was on her parted lip: She knew her hour was come; she felt that life, With all its promised blessings, soon would close. She knew her eye on earth no more would cheer Her aged father's heart. She asked not life: But holy gratitude was in her heart, And the pure fervor of a grateful soul Glowed on her cheek and kindled in her eye; And praise was on her lips, praise to His name Who had that day the glorious victory given.

She sought a hallowed blessing from her sire. "My father! if thy lip hath sworn to Him Who hath this day brought victory to thee, Do unto me according to thy vow. O! life is sweet, and the blest consciousness Of living for my sire, to cheer his heart, Amid its secret, silent loneliness, Comes o'er my spirit like the tones which breathed From a fond mother's love, in childhood's hour. But I can leave all these; there is a joy Which far transcends all earthly bliss, the thought That I may watch o'er thee in happier realms, And hover round thy couch of midnight rest.

Deep, wondrous thoughts possess my secret soul,— Thoughts to which words could give no utterance, So strange, yet holy, is the strain they breathe. True as the voice of sacred prophecy, Comes to my mind, the sweet, assuring thought, That I but leave my father's fond embrace, For some bright realm where we may live and love, When this fair earth shall yield us no abode, And I may be the unseen messenger To waft thy soul to that most blessed home. Calmly I leave thee for a few short years; And, O! it is a soothing thought to me In my last hour of life, that thou hast gained O'er our proud foe the glorious victory."

No tear bedimmed the lustre of her eye; Her cheek was bright as in its happiest hour. Her lips were parted in a gentle smile, That told her willingness to die for him From whom, at first, she drew the springs of life.

Midnight

By day, amid the thronging cares of life, We can forget the dignity of him Whose nature links him to the myriad hosts, That dwell amid the uncreated beams Of heaven's effulgent day. We can forget How we have turned us from the sacred Fount Of truth and wisdom infinite. But when Its star-gemmed mantle, darkness casts around, O! who can gaze upon the countless realms That stud the azure canopy above, Nor feel his littleness, the vanity Of earth and all its joys, the priceless wealth Of heaven, and all his own immortal hopes? Who does not yearn to soar to that abode, Promised a sure and holy heritage, To those who follow His supreme command, Whose will created man for bliss and heaven?