Poems

Front matter

BY

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RICHMOND:

Poetry

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More music in one thrilling note, Soft-gushing from a Mock-bird's throat, Than e'er has flowed from minstrel's lyre, However warmed with hallowed fire.

There is a world of poetry In flowers and trees and rills; And stanzas of immortal song Are echoed through the hills; The winds and waves, the bending grass That trembles where the waters pass; The stars that twinkle in the sky Are rich with heaven-born minstrelsy.

The world is full of poetry, On every breeze it flies, It trembles on each azure cloud, That floats along the skies'; It glitters on the sunbeam's breast, It comes in night's dark mantle drest; It fills the earth, the sky, the air— A spirit whispering everywhere.

O! give the poetry to me, That dwells in Nature's store; Give, give to me unwritten thought, I ask, I ask no more; Give me the breath of flowerets fair, Give me the pure and balmy air, Give me the melody that springs From all of earth's created things;— The voiceless music of the soul, The gushing hymn that spurns control; I ask no polished thing of art, I ask the music of the heart.

The Phases of Woman's Life

I saw her when her girlish glee, Had changed to maiden pride; A noble, good, and generous youth Was sitting by her side; And softly as he breathed"to her Love's fond and gentle vow, I saw the shadow of a shade Steal lightly o'er her brow.

I saw her when, a blooming bride, She, at the altar stood, Her smiles were beaming through her tears, Like sunbeams through a cloud; I saw her from the altar turn, Her cheek was passing fair, White as the glittering orange wreath, That bound her sunny hair; Her brow was calm, and from her heart There came a smothered sigh, Like ripples on a sleeping lake, When night winds sweep them by.

I saw her when a lovely wife, In all her beauteous bloom, She was the blossom and the light, The sunbeam of her home; Her step was light, her smile was bright, Her voice still free and wild, As when I looked upon her first, When she was but a child.

I saw her when a mother's joy Was beaming from her eye, When love and care a garland bound Upon her forehead high; A lovely boy was by her side, And one was on her knee; They gazed upon her smiling face, And clapped their hands with glee.

I saw her when she sadly knelt Beside a couch of death, And watched with all a mother's fears Her darling infant's breath.

She laid her hand in tenderness Upon the loved one's head, Then turned aside in agony,— Her darling boy was dead.

I saw her when, with weeping eyes, She o'er her husband bent, As swiftly from his heaving breast The hot breath came and went; The tell-tale pulse had ceased to beat, The warm heart ceased to thrill; She knelt in prayer and murmured low, It is my Father's will. He died, as summer flowerets die, Scarce conscious of decay, Like the last lingering light that gilds The clouds at close of day.

I saw her when they laid her down Upon the silent bier, And many heaved the throbbing sigh, And shed the bitter tear;

ppoem| start=follow| Low in the silent dust she sleeps,

Free from all toil and strife,

Till, startled from her dreamless rest,

{sc}She wakes to endless life.

The Song of the Heavenly Harpers

"How long is it since Eternity has known an hour, in which was not heard the prelude of the heavenly harpers, 'they come, they come!'"

[Bascom's Sermons.

As angels, with their deep-toned harps, Bend from the heavenly dome, And shout, as millions enter there, Behold! "they come, they come."

From every nation, every clime, From every sea and land, See, how in crowds, they enter there, United heart and hand; From all affliction, pain, and grief, From sorrow, sin, and gloom, From all the toils and ills of life, Behold! "they come, they come."

"They come, they come,"—the blood-washed band, From doubt and pain and woe; They come to share these heavenly courts, Where sorrow is no more; Here, not a cloud shall shade their brows, Their eyes ne'er shed a tear; No anxious doubts can pain them now, No sorrowing hearts are here.

"They come, they come,"—long severed ones Are all united now; They come, with wreaths of gladness twined Around each beaming brow; They come with rapturous songs of joy, They come with gladness home, While Angels touch their harps anew, And shout, "they come."

The Missionary's Bride

So loved from early childhood. There were all The friends whom they had cherished, all the hearts That had been clustering round them with a love Undying in its nature. And the hour, The solemn hour of parting was to them An age of speechless sorrow. One by one They gathered round them, whispering farewell From lips that shook with anguish. And the bride, That fair young creature, going forth abroad Upon life's trustless ocean, stood amid That sorrowing group in silence. Not a tear Stole from her downcast eye-lids. Not a sigh Came from her swelling bosom. Brothers all, And friends, and sisters—all had said farewell! And she had felt their hot tears on her cheek,— And yet she wept not. Her's was the still grief That scorneth to be uttered. She had breathed Farewell to all, save one, and that last one Was a devoted mother. She had watched Around her gentle being, like the sun That warms to life the flowerets, and her life Was linked with her existence. All their hopes

And joys had been commingled, till their hearts Seemed melted into one. But she was strong— Strong in the Rock of ages. With a smile Of high and pure affection she bent down And pressed her pale lips to the throbbing brow Of her fair child. "Go thou, my treasure, go," The mother softly whispered, "I have prayed For strength to bear this parting. Be thou strong And bear the cross with patience. I shall miss The mirthful music of thy silvery voice, And thy clear laugh, my Daughter, and thy smile So like a cheerful sunbeam in my home. And thy light step, my Fair one, will no more Be heard in my still chamber. But that God Who gave thee to my keeping—He who calls Thee onward to thy work—Yes, He will be Companion to thy mother."—It was done, The parting hour was over, and the Bride, With her high-placed affections, left her home— The glad home of her childhood.

The Dying Missionary

Their fragrance in his chamber. And his smile Grew brighter, and still brighter as the sun Cast his last lingering beam upon his brow, And on the trembling curtain, which betrayed, By its slight motion, that the beating heart Was struggling hard for freedom. "Home, sweet home," He murmured soft.and slowly, "I would lay This throbbing brow upon my mother's breast, And thus go home rejoicing. But the will Of Heaven has not so ordered. I must die Far from my home and country—far from all The friends who blessed my boyhood—I go to My heavenly home with gladness, like a bird Rejoicing in its freedom. I have done The work that God appointed me to do; Have finished all my labor—all my toil; The battle's fought,—the victory almost won; And angels gather round me, whispering soft, Come home, come home, thou faithful servant come, Thy Father's house is ready. Enter in, And live with him forever."

It was night, The pale moon trembled in the dewy skies, And twinkling stars shone brightly, and the winds Breathed gently through the vine leaves, and the birds, The lonely night-birds, fluttered on soft wings Around a faithful and a holy band,— A band of new-made christians, as they bore, With solemn chant, and slow and measured tread, Their voiceless teacher through the solemn wood, And laid him in the silent earth. The leaves, The quivering leaves, bent over his lone grave, Like trembling mourners. And the sighing winds, With pensive steps, stole round him as he slept, "The sleep that knows no waking."

Farewell

A moment longer, and we part; Time flies, alas! how fast! One trembling pressure of the hand, One look—it is the last. It is our heavenly Father's will, And he does all things well; In Heaven may we all meet at last, No more to say "farewell."

To a Mother on the Death of her Infant

The death-pang rends no more its heart, Its spirit is unfettered now, The withering finger of decay, No more can blight its beauteous brow.

Another voice has joined the songs, That echo sweetly through the skies; Another form is gliding through The shining courts of Paradise.

And wouldst thou win thy child from thence, From those bright realms of endless day, To cast its heavenly garments by, And wear again a robe of clay?

Wouldst thou recall its ransomed soul, From that eternity of bliss, To live, to suffer, and to feel The sorrows of a world like this?

O! bear with resignation meek, The chastenings of thy Father's rod, Be joyful, for thou hast returned Thy child, an angel, back to God.

Weep not, though from thy stricken heart, The dearest, sweetest tie is riven, A bud has fallen from thy breast To bloom eternally in heaven.

The Peaks of Otter

Oh! they are beautiful, beyond Aught that my heart had dreamed; Such scenes of loveliness before Ne'er on my soul had gleamed.

Thou glorious Peak! Could I but stand A moment on thy brow, To see the proud sun sink to rest, As he is sinking now; To see the clouds beneath my feet, Tinged with his golden blaze, Oh! such an hour were joy enough For all life's coming days.

Thou hast been in my dreams by night, And through the busy day, Thy far-off image o'er my heart, In beauty's light doth stray; I've longed to stand upon thy brow, With wishes deep but vain, And now my last, last hope is gone, 'Twere wrong to hope again.

Stand there, thou glorious monument, Of God's eternal might; Stand thou, unchanged by changing years, Unbroken by their flight; Age after age around thy head, Their mantling robes have cast, But thou hast mocked at every change, That o'er thy form has past— And thou wilt stand unbroken there, Unaltered to the last.

Sabbath Morning

Thro' the green boughs the spring birds glance, And warble forth their lays, Each sounding his divinest note To the Creator's praise; Till rock, and tree, and mountain high, Are vocal with their minstrelsy; Song answers song, till all around Is steeped in melody of sound.

How glorious is the Sabbath day, With all its sacred hours! There is a balm upon its breeze, A freshness in its flowers; A beauty in its quiet rest, That calms the tumult of the breast; A voice in every dale and hill, That bids the troubled soul be still.

Thrice welcome, day of holiness! Thrice welcome to this heart! Sweet emblem of eternal rest, To me, to all thou art;

Come with thy deep and noiseless hush, And let our thoughts together rush From earth's dull vanities away, To God's eternal Sabbath day.

The Parsonage

'Tis true it has no marble porch, No high and costly dome, No towering windows mark the place Where stands our preacher's home; Oar preacher's home! no grandeur marks That olden tenement, But kindness, quietness, and love, And goodness and content.

The birds go singing there at morn, As gay as birds can be, And make the sweet air wave and thrill, With their rich melody; And busily the honey bees Fly through the clover bloom, And from their petals gather sweets, To grace the preacher's home.

The green boughs bend above the roof, Most gracefully and low, And make long shadows on the porch; By swinging to and fro;

And round beneath the cottage doors, Sweet flowers are blooming free, Oh! such a home as this would make The very home for me.

I love that bright green spot of earth, That consecrated ground, It seems to me the breath of peace Is dwelling all around; Around that little cottage home, All is so green and fair, It seems to me that sinful thoughts Could find no entrance there.

I do not know what future years May have in store for me; I know not what my destiny In coming time may be; But let it be what e'er it may, A life of pain or bliss, I only ask that I may have A peaceful home like this.

We are Passing Away

We are passing away when we look on the flowers That bloom in the brightest and greenest of bowers, We view them with feelings of joy and of pain, For we know when we enter the garden again, The sweetest among them will have gone to decay, And the dead leaves will whisper, "We are passing away."

When the birds are all soaring away from our clime, To find a warm sky, and a bright summer time, Where the soft breeze comes fresh from the beautiful sea, And the flowers spring up from the moss-covered lea, As they rise to their wings on their sunny bound way, They sing to our hearts, "We are passing away."

We are passing away to the gloom of the grave, We are passing away on time's rapid wave; Life's valuable moments are vanishing fast, And the present, ere long, will belong to the past. Then let us improve each moment we stay; For lo! "We are passing, we are passing away!"

The Voice of the Lightning

Ye scoffing ones! And ye proud! stand by, Ye shall see the glance of my piercing eye, Ye shall feel the touch of my burning wings, Ye shall own the power of the King of kings; As I pass you by with my glittering sword, Ye shall feel in your hearts the strength of the Lord.

Away, away, over the darkened sky, Through the trackless air, like a fiend, I fly; The shivered tree and the broken mast, Will tell of my might when the storm is past; And the blighted pine in the forest green, Will show where the tread of my foot hath been.

Over the bounding waves of the rolling sea, My flight is onward, proud and free, In the valleys deep, on the mountain's crest, In the storm-cloud's bosom I pause for rest; And a flash of fire to the earth I bring, Make way for the bird of the burning wing.

The Sweets of Life

Sweet is the hour when evening spreads Her mantle o'er the earth, When loved ones, free from daily cares, Are gathering round the hearth; But sweeter far than morning dews, Or than the starry showers, Are those, whose every hope and joy, Are ever blent with ours.

Sweet is the rustling of the leaves, When summer winds pass by, When not a lowering cloud obscures The brightness of the sky; Sweet is the minstrelsy of birds, Amid the shady grove, When every tongue seems breathing forth The melody of love; But sweeter far than singing birds, Or woods, or rills, or bowers, Are hearts of tenderness and love, That kindly throb with ours.

The Orator

tpp|THE ORATOR.| {no-sc}He stood amid an anxious throng,

His brow was pale and high,

And melancholy was the light

Of his dark searching eye—

A trembling smile was on his lip,

A smile of light and love,

As if the thoughts that filled his soul

Were gleaming from above.

He spoke, and every lip was hushed,

And every brow was raised,

And every eye in that dense throng

Upon the speaker gazed;

And every heart with rapture thrilled,

To hear the words that fell,

Like the mysterious voice that fills

The murmuring ocean shell.

|end=stanza

Not softer melts a bird's low song Upon the summer breeze— Not gentler dies that breeze away Among the trembling trees— Than came the words, the thrilling words, From his deep throbbing heart, And yet he knew not, gifted one! The power of his high art.

Now, like the sounding ocean surge, Came forth his burning words; Now, like the voice of many harps, Now, like the voice of birds; Now, like the murmur of a lute, Or soft Æolian strings, When evening zephyrs pass them by And touch them with their wings.

He was most gifted, yet his brow Had something of despair, Alas! alas! what could have left So much of sadness there?

He spoke to me of earlier years, And trembled like a bird, When, 'mid the music and the mirth, The "stilly night" he heard.

Ah! he was sad, I knew it well, Tho' much he strove to hide The gush of feeling that swelled up His bosom like a tide; Some memories sad'ning in his heart, Were wakened by that strain; He smiled most sadly, but his smile Was deeply fraught with pain; And then he turned aside, and—I— Ne'er saw his face again.

The Thunder Storm

tpp|THE THUNDER STORM.| {no-sc}I hear the muttering thunders roll,

I see the lightnings fly,

Like comets starting into life,

Along the darkened sky.

How beautiful! how grand! how bright!

How glorious! how sublime!

My soul seems borne away from earth,

Beyond the bounds of time.

I love to stand in rapt delight,

And see the lightnings fly,

As if with darts of living fire,

They sought to cleave the sky.

|end=stanza

In each electric flash I see God's majesty and might; He rides upon the stormy wind And clothes himself with light.

The fool has said, "there is no God," But let him look on high, When through the air those lightning fires In wild confusion fly.

When bursting thunder shakes the ground, And mighty forests nod Before the rushing of the winds,— He feels there is a God.

The Last Dream

tpp|THE LAST DREAM.| {no-sc}It was a darkened chamber. Lightly moved The silent watchers round the Sleeper's bed, And gazed upon her with a love too deep, Too strong for utterance. Silently she lay In hushed and holy slumber. Soft and low The quick breath fluttered on her pale white lips Like a caged bird that struggles to be free From its close thraldom. Ever and anon A crystal tear from her fringed eyelids stole, And, like a dewdrop, trembled on her cheek, That lay in its dim beauty, as a leaf Shook by the rude breath of the summer breeze From the sweet lily's bosom,—lovelier in its fall Than in its early freshness. Rich, dark curls Lay on her snow-white pillow, shading softly The deadly paleness of her languid face; They fell in graceful ringlets round her brow, |end=follow

Ye are whispering memories of old, Ye are telling of other days, And I know, aye, I know, that you love me yet, By your long and earnest gaze.

Say, where is your home, ye spirit band, Where rest ye when night has fled, Say where do you roam? Ye pass away, And I hear not the sound of your tread?

I meet the glance of your loving eyes, And T hear each familiar tone, But ah! when I wake from my nightly dreams, I am startled to find you gone.

I catch the gleam of your sunny brows As ye turn from my couch away, And I long to gaze on your forms again, But ye will not, ye will not stay.

Fondly we have gathered round you, Whispering to you through the night, With our low and solemn voices, Holy dreams of joy and light.

Loved one! we are with you ever, In your thoughts we love to stray, Breathing to you hopes of Heaven, Where all tears are wiped away.

Life with you is almost over, Your departure is at hand, We are waiting now to lead you, Upward to the promised land.

There, no doubt, nor pain can reach you, There no lowering cloud shall come, Heaven is opening to receive you, Suffering one! Come home, come home."

A change passed o'er the quiet Dreamer's brow, A change like morning bright'ning into noon, A smile of rapture played upon her cheek, And lighted up her face with such deep joy, That human love, with breathless awe, bent down In holy admiration. One brief cloud Of untold anguish o'er her features swept— One bitter moment. And the Dreamer slept The "sleep that knows no waking." She had passed From time into eternity.

Our Preacher

tpp|OUR PREACHER.| {no-sc-here}We miss him at the evening hour,

When all around is still;

When Phœbus sheds his last faint rays,

Upon the western hill;

When o'er the sky the silvery moon

Steals gently on her way;

We miss him from the Bible-stand

Where he was wont to pray.

We miss him from the fire-side

When' cold the bleak wind blows,

When on the hearth, the sparkling fire

In cheerful splendour glows;

When eyes are beaming tenderly,

And words are kind and sweet,

We miss our much loved Preacher then

From his accustomed seat.

|end=stanza

We miss his kind and gentle words, His soft and winning ways; We miss the sunlight of pure bliss That on his features plays; We miss the smile we loved to see, Soft stealing o'er his cheek; We miss the truths—the sacred truths, Our Preacher used to speak.

We miss him when the morning light, Spreads gently o'er the skies; We miss him through the busy day, In sadness and in sighs: But oh! when done with earthly things, May we our Preacher meet, All gathered with the angel-band, Around our Father's feet.

The Departed

tpp|THE DEPARTED.| {no-sc-here}Oh! where are those who have passed away?

Can the dead, can the dead forget:

The kind, the true, and the gentle ones,

Do they love, do they love us yet?

Do they look from above with their eyes of love,

To watch over their loved ones here?

Do they smile when joy our cup o'erflows,

Or drop over our faults a tear?

Do they love us yet, do they love us yet?

Do they weep when afflictions come,

Like tempest clouds o'er the way of life,

Enshrouding our paths in gloom?

|end=stanza

Do they look from on high, with a pitying eye, On those they have left below? Do they beckon us up to a world on high, Where parting comes no more?

And oh! if we meet in that better land, Will we know each other's face? Will we think of the deeds in the body done, When we reach that glorious place?

Will they love us there, will they love us then, When we meet in that world of rest? Where death comes not, and no parting tears Shall fall from the eyes of the blest.

The Voice of the Seasons

tpp|THE VOICE OF THE SEASONS.| {no-sc}"I come, I come," said the bright young Spring;

And her step was free and light,

As she flung o'er the earth a garland, wreathed

With flowers, all red and white;

She threw a mantle of living green,

O'er mountain, hill, and dale:

She waked the birds, and their anthems sweet

Made vocal the winding vale;

She decked the hills and valleys wide,

And gardens with flowerets sweet,

And they sparkled out like precious gems,—

All glittering at our feet;

She clothed the world in rich array;—

But I heard a sad sweet tone,

"I am passing away;" I looked, and lo!

The lovely Spring was gone.

|end=stanza

"I come, I come," cried the Summer-time, "Make room, make room for me;" And the green wheat doffed his verdant robe, And waved like a golden sea; "I come to ripen the harvest fields, And work while yet 'tis day, But my task is done, my time is brief, And I must soon away;" I saw the Summer enthroned on the storm, The tempest I trembling heard, And the winds swept by on their rushing wings, Fulfilling their Maker's word; But the storm was hushed, and the tempest died Away in a muffled moan; "I am passing away," I looked again, And the Summer-time was gone.

"I come, I come," said the Autumn chill, "Make room, make room for me, I blast each flower in garden and bower, And wither the grass on the lea:

I come with seared and falling leaves, With a sad and mournful breath, Repeating, as slowly I pass along, Prepare, prepare for death;" And Autumn stood with his pensive look, Casting the dead leaves down, And uttered his warning voice to all, In a sad and solemn sound; He breathed on the mountains and valleys deep The breath of a swift decay, And leaves, and flowers, and warbling birds,— All fled, like a dream, away.

Stern Winter then trod the frozen hills, And his step was proud and high, And the tall trees bowed with trembling awe As he passed in fury by; I heard a sound like a funeral knell Fall sadly on my ear, I turned to look, and lo! I stood On the grave of the buried year;

We are passing away with the seasons too, We bloom and die like them— We all do fade, as a leaf that fades, And falls from its parent stem; We are passing away like the changing year, To slumber 'neath death's cold wave; Our march is onward, and onward still, To the dark and dreamless grave.

On Reading the Works of Mrs. Hemans

But thy spirit turned from the worldly throng To the smiles of that glorious band, Who sing sweet anthems of endless joy, Far off in a better land.

Thou art gone, thou art gone, to thy long-sought rest, Thou art gone to thy home above, Thou art gone where thy spirit can feel the might, The fulness of perfect love; Thy broken lyre shall never breathe Its numbers on earth again; But many a grateful heart still feels, That thy life was not spent in vain.

Thy spirit longed for a happier clime, For a holier home than ours, Where thy joys and hopes had vanished all, Like hue from the drooping flowers; Thy life is o'er, and thy dreams are fled, And thy lyre has ceased to thrill, But the music of its minstrelsy Is lingering round us still.

The City of Silence

That our hearts, wildly beating with hopes and with fears, Will have ceased to remember their joys and their cares, And the life-blood that flows through each warm-gushing vein, Ere long will be stopped, ne'er to course them again.

A few fleeting years, and all must lie down To their dreamless repose in the gloom of the ground; And the hearts, that are beating so warmly to-day, Ere long will be changed to the cold, silent clay. Ye careless! come nigh, and let fall a kind tear, In this City of Silence; it is good to be here; Shrink not from the thoughts that around you may crowd, For yours is the coffin, the grave, and the shroud; 'Twill be yours to repose in the gloom of the earth, 'Twill be yours to leave vacant your place at the hearth, Then shrink not, oh! shrink not, to tread this lone spot! Come nigh, and remember mortality's lot.

The World is full of Beauty

There's beauty in the opening rose That scents the winding vale; There's beauty in each lovely flower That blossoms in the dale; There's beauty in the twilight hour, When all around is still, When forms are mirrored in the depth Of nature's flowing rill.

When stars are looking from above, Like holy angels' eyes, Oh! then there's beauty, wild and free, In all beneath the skies; The world is touched and mantled o'er With beauty's glorious hue, Had we but eyes and hearts to prize The beautiful and true.

The Time to Die

Let me die when the birds are filling the air With their rich and varied chime; When the waves are raising their loudest notes, And the breeze o'er the flowers in music floats; Let me die in the Summer time.

Let me die, let me die in the Autumn time, Said the strong man, as he stood On a leaf-strewn Isle, and gazed far down Through the shade of the lonely wood: When the leaves are falling upon my way, When the flowers are dying fast; When the winds sweep by with a solemn sigh, And the clouds float, dream-like, along the sky, O then let me breath my last!

Let me die, let me die in the Winter time, The way-worn pilgrim said, As he pressed his hand to his withered brow, And bowed his whitened head.

Let me die when the storm is raging loud, And clouds obscure the sky; I have wandered long in this wint'ry way, My step is weak, and my head is gray; It is time for me to die.

The Christian stood on the Jordan of death, And smiled as the waves swept by, Father! he said, if thou willest it, Let thy suffering servant die; Let me pass away from the ills of life, To a fairer and brighter clime; Let me find a holier place of rest, Let me lean my head on thy loving breast; Let me die in thine own good time.

The Storm King

But I swung them up on giant waves, Then down in the surging sea, And I clapped my hands at their horrid shrieks, And laughed their fear to see; Down, down, still down in the boiling sea, That ship and its crew I toss'd, Till none were left of its noble band, To mourn o'er companions lost.

Then after my work of death was done, And the groans of the dying were o'er, I left the ocean, and onward swept, Till I came to a widow's door; I howled around in my fearful might, Till her cottage in ruins lay; Then, whistling loud in my dreadful flight, I resumed my destructive way.

I met a traveller, faint and wan, His cheek was haggard and pale, And I fanned his brow with my freezing breath, In a loud and boisterous gale;

He thought of his home and the loved ones there, Who would hear his voice no more, And he sank, benumbed on the cold white snow, Then perished amid my roar.