Chapter 2

All day the snow came silently to earth, Until the path before the cottage door Was even with the drift on either side. No foot disturbed the mass of crystals white, But when the wind began to roar and shriek, And Night descended, with her sable wing Darkening the scene around, a pallid face Which had been pressed against the window pane For half an hour, came forth into the gloom. As looks the moon upon some stormy night When every star is quenched, and she alone Through rifted clouds peers forth and keeps her watch: So looked that wife and mother as she stood Upon the threshold gazing down the road With chattering teeth, and limbs that quaked with cold, Imagining she heard in every gust The voice and footfall of the man she loved.

The hearth was piled with blazing logs that shed A cheerful glow upon the cottage walls; The table spread for three before it stood, And yet the bread was all unbroken there,-- And from the cottage to the garden gate A shivering form went flitting to and fro. Despair was on her cheek--and in her eye A mother's anguish: "But they might have seen How fierce a storm was gathering--might have stayed." And while the hope was fresh within her heart She hurried in, but only to return And take her station at the door again.

* * * * *

The moments slowly lengthened into hours, The air grew chilly--for upon the hearth A few decaying embers smoked alone; And pale with midnight vigils and with grief The watcher knelt to find relief in prayer. Then hark! a sound--a footstep--and she starts! Her heart leaps to her throat, and with a bound She gains the cottage door--it opens wide.

A cry of joy is trembling on her lips, For there the husband and the father stood. She stretched her eager arms to take the boy, But in the movement caught the father's eye Where horror sat, and told the dreadful tale He dared not trust his quivering lips to speak. _"My boy is dead,"_ she cried; "my boy, my boy!" And caught him wildly to her bursting heart. Cold on her bosom fell the little head Which had been pillowed there so oft in sleep,-- And as she raised the frosty lid which veiled The violet eye beneath that lately laughed, So deep a groan escaped her pallid lips The guilty husband shuddered as he heard. "Too late," he muttered in a husky tone, And like an image of despair he stood, Until she called him weeping to her side, And murmured in a voice half choked with sobs: "Nay, not too late, my husband, not too late: God takes the child in mercy and in love, To save the father. Shall it not be so? Say by the love we bore this precious child, Our own no longer--shall it not be so?" The answer came, so low she scarcely heard, But 'twas enough, and she looked up and smiled!

SIGHS ON MORTALITY.

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE?

Why do we mourn? why do we sigh? We who may to-morrow lie With folded hands and death-sealed eye?

A brave and gallant heart I knew: Like some young sturdy oak he grew Nursed by the sun, refreshed by dew.

His hopes were bright and high their aim: Above reproach or fear of shame None ever lightly spoke his name.

He left our cottage blithe and gay, And as he left we heard him say, "I will return at close of day."

We watched him as he passed along, He was so manly, brave and strong, Oh, was the pride we cherished wrong?

We thought of him as one designed To bless and elevate mankind,-- And it was well that we were blind!

We did not see the gathering frown,-- But long before the sun went down, A dreadful rumor filled the town.

They told us gently he was dead,-- I would not credit what they said: But when I knew it reason fled.

I woke to real life once more; My dream of happiness was o'er-- I stood upon a desert shore.

All day I heard the billows moan, All night I answered groan with groan, For I was desolate and lone.

There came no message o'er the sea, No message from the lost to me, And I repined at God's decree.

The bolt was spared--and o'er my head The bow of mercy shone instead, And I at last was comforted.

Now when the billows rage and roar, I think it shortly will be o'er,-- 'Tis calm upon the other shore.

I look at Time as one who sees A pale leaf floating on the breeze Amid a grove of noble trees.

It fills awhile a little nook; To-day it is--to-morrow, look! The great white Throne! the open Book!

We stand upon a narrow space, Eternity rolls on apace-- Where next shall be our resting-place?

LIFE.

As when the graceful bark, with spreading sails, Glides from the port into the open sea, Wafted along by soft and prosperous gales, Just as the rising sun bids darkness flee; So, like that bark, in early youth are we, When first we launch upon the sea of life-- Our hopes as bright, our youthful souls as free, The scene around with love and beauty rife. And all unknown to us its griefs, its cares and strife.

The bark glides on; but, see, the azure sky With dark and angry clouds is soon o'ercast; The thunders roar, the forked lightnings fly, The billows beat, and howls the midnight blast! The trembling vessel, with dismantled mast, The maddened waves have in their fury tossed, Until she lies a helpless wreck at last, Her plans all thwarted, and her hopes all crossed, Her guiding star obscured, and her direction lost.

'Tis thus with life; at times deemed most secure, When all seems calm, and beautiful, and fair, Dark rocks concealed, the easier to allure, The fragile bark in youth's bright morn ensnare; And storms arise, and fierce the lightnings glare, And wild and high the raging billows roll, While sinks the heart a wreck in deep despair, Till, brightly o'er the dark and dreary pole, The Morning Star appears to the benighted soul!

It guides the bark across life's troubled sea,-- It points the way unto the destined shore, Till, anchored in a blest eternity, It buffets with the howling storm no more. Be ours that star to guide us safely o'er! To us, oh, may its precious light be given! And though the tempests beat and billows roar, And though we now by adverse winds are driven, We'll safely anchor soon in the blest port of Heaven!

THE SILENT ARMY.

Life is the road to death. No one can lose the way--'tis sure and plain. Whatever paths we take all end the same. Some walk in sunshine, and some beneath a cloud; some gather flowers and some the thorn; but at the gate all stand alike: nor poverty, nor wealth can enter there.

To those who smile, and those who weep, To those who sing, and those who sigh, There comes the same long final sleep,-- There comes the time when each must die.

We watch the faces as they pass-- We say of some, "How very fair": Nor think how soon the churchyard grass Will thrive upon the beauty there.

The objects of our love we take Close to our hearts and call them ours! They are the gods we ne'er forsake, But crown them every morn with flowers.

We dip them o'er and o'er again In love's immortal fount; but when We find that all has been in vain, God shield us in our anguish then.

The Death-drum beats, the roll is called, New names are on the list to-day: Some answer calm and unappalled As if 'twere pleasure to obey.

For life to them was full of pain, Death opened wide the only door, While others weep and plead in vain For just one little moment more.

Through all the springs that come and go, At noon, at night, at early dawn, Through summer's heat and winter's snow, That silent army marches on!

On, on forever to the tomb! They pitch no tents along the way; On, on, it is the common doom, There's no return and no delay.

They take no purse nor scrip with them However rich they were before; The brow of beauty wears no gem, And slaves are men--and kings no more.

From every land, and sea, and clime, Through all the ages that are gone, Through all the years of future time, That host has marched--will still march on.

And shall we of to-morrow boast? This very night may seal our doom And find us with that shadowy host, Whose line of march is for the tomb!

Death and the tomb! our hearts rebel, And wonder why such things should be; Great God, who doeth all things well, We leave these mysteries with Thee!

Thou knowest why, and we shall know When raised in triumph from the grave, Redeemed from death, and sin, and woe, Through Him who hath the power to save.

THE DYING WARRIOR.

A warrior lay, with a heaving breast, On the field of the dying and dead; His cheek was pale and his lips compressed, And the fading light from the distant west Shone o'er his gory bed.

The night came on, and the moon arose With her soft and tremulous glow; She shed her light o'er friends and o'er foes, All sleeping together in dull repose On the battle-field below.

The warrior gazed with a mournful sigh On the blue and the star-spangled dome; While tears shone bright in his sunken eye, And vivid thoughts like the lightning fly To his childhood's distant home.

He thought of the mother who used to bend O'er his couch, when in sorrow and pain-- Who to his complaints an ear would lend; But alas! he knew that that dearest friend Would never bend o'er him again.

He thought of the scenes where once he strayed With his brothers in days of yore; He thought of the stream, the peaceful glade, The cottage that stood in the dark green shade, With the vines around the door.

He thought, with a pang of dark despair, 'Twas the hour they all used to meet With grateful heart for the evening prayer; He thought of the group that were gathered there; He thought--of a vacant seat.

He knew that a fervent prayer would rise For the loved and the long-absent one; He knew that the tears would flow from their eyes, And his father's voice would be choked with sighs, As he prayed for his erring son.

He knew for him they would all implore A renewed and a sanctified heart; That when the toils of this life were o'er They all might embrace each other once more, Never, no never to part!

One trembling hand to his brow he pressed, And the tears of contrition he shed; He implored for pardon, a home with the blest; Then he wrapped his cloak round his gory breast, And the warrior's spirit fled!

ON SEEING A SKULL

This morning while examining a skull strange emotions took possession of me--such as I never before experienced. That senseless skull had once been the seat of deep thought and powerful passions; beaming eyes once glistened brightly where now there was only a hollow space; that head was once proudly erected, and the form that supported it once mingled in the busy scenes of life. But now what a change! His very name is forgotten--himself but a handful of dust. O mortals! behold, and learn a lesson. His body has long since mouldered away and mingled with the parent earth,--this skull alone remains; and yet the time will surely come, and cannot be far distant, when "the bones shall come together--bone to his bone"; when the sinews and the flesh shall come upon them, the skin cover them, and the breath entering the body the dead shall live! Will this skull come forward at "the resurrection of the just," or ----? Oh, what an awful thought! My very blood runs cold, and a shudder steals over me. O thou great Mediator of mankind, intercede for me before thy Father's throne, that ere it is everlastingly too late my unworthy name may be written in the Lamb's book of life. (_July_ 5, 1852.)

THOUGHTS ON DEATH.

A bride but yesterday--all hope and love,-- Flowers at her feet and cloudless skies above, Bright buds of promise twining round her brow, Approach--approach and gaze upon her now! Come not in festal robes as once ye came, The bride is here but she is not the same As when ye saw her to the altar led, And called down blessings on her fair young head. The cheek is pale that with the rose could vie, There is no lustre in that rayless eye, Upon those pallid lips there is no breath, And she alas is now the bride of Death! Henceforth what soul will ever dare to trust In things that crumble at a breath to dust? And who would dream of earthly joy and bliss Taught by a lesson terrible as this?

Short-sighted mortal hastening to the tomb, Gaze on the scene, and realize thy doom! All tongues and nations mingle with the clay; Art thou less subject unto death than they? The conquerors of the world have left their throne Before a mandate mightier than their own,-- Rank, pride and power have sunk into the grave, And Caesar moulders with the meanest slave. Canst thou escape his all-destroying breath And bid defiance to the victor Death? What strange enchantment has allured thine eyes? Shake off the spell! immortal soul, arise! Oh, burst thy fetters ere it be too late, Regain thy freedom and thy lost estate,-- A thousand angels hover round thy track, They plead with thee, they long to lead thee back.

The sacrifice too great? bethink thee, soul! A few more suns above thy head may roll, A few at most and thou wilt trembling stand Just on the borders of the spirit land. Who ever stood there calm and undismayed, And smiled to see all earthly prospects fade? Not he who lived for things of time alone, Who won a name, a fortune or a throne; Who added field to field, and store to store, And cried at last, "Oh, for one moment more!" But he whose eye could pierce the dreary tomb, He who could say amid the gathering gloom,-- "There is my home and there my Saviour stands With smiling brow and with extended hands!" Would'st thou depart with that exulting cry, In glorious hope of immortality? Thy heart all joy, and praise thy latest breath? _The holy life insures the happy death!_ Oh, thou wilt wonder in that trying hour.

When home, and love, and friendship lose their power To cheer and comfort, thou could'st ever prize What then will sink to nothing in thine eyes-- Time for repentance then? beware! beware! How many souls are yearly shipwrecked there! Like him of old they cry--"Go now thy way"-- And keep repentance for their dying day; But God is jealous of his honor still, He asks a ready mind, a hearty will, And those who through a life-time break his laws, Despite his mercy and his glorious cause, Who seek their own enjoyment and their ease, And only yield when death demandeth these,-- May find too late they were deceived at last, And mourn the summer and the harvest past!

There's not in heaven itself a lovelier sight, Nor one which angels view with more delight, Than youthful soldiers of Immanuel's cross, In life's glad morning counting all as loss, Since they have proved a dying Saviour's love, And placed their treasures and their hearts above. Let pleasure woo them with her syren voice, They heed her not--they've made a nobler choice; Let others walk the shining path of fame, They dare to suffer poverty and shame, And turning from the world's enchanted bowers, To consecrate their youth and all their powers To Him they serve, and even here they find More real pleasure than they e'er resigned.

The best they have in early life they bring A free-will offering to their God and King; And in that hour when heart and flesh shall fail, Their song of triumph ringing through the vale, Will mingle with the anthems of the blest, Who wait to hail them to their heavenly rest. Would'st thou depart with that exulting cry In glorious hope of immortality? I read an answer in that beaming face, _Behold thy Saviour--fly to his embrace!_

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

Strewn on the battle-plain, After the fight was done, And the bloody victory won, Were a thousand heaps of slain. Rider and horse there lay, But the war-steed neighed no more, And the gallant form he bore Upon that eventful day, Shattered, and marred, and ghastly pale, Had fallen beneath the deadly hail.

Prince and peasant were there! Rich and poor, master and slave, Wise and simple, timid and brave; Old men with snow-white hair, Young men of noble birth, Boys just from their native shore, And the homes they shall see no more, Stretched on the cold, damp earth; And mother and sister may watch in vain, They never shall press those lips again.

Clasped in a fond embrace Was a young and gentle pair, And the love that was pictured there Made holy that dreadful place. Near by a chieftain bled, While his faithful dog still kept A mournful watch where he slept, And mourned above the dead, Then gazed on the pallid lips and brow: It is death--does he comprehend it now?

Just as they fell they lay-- Struck down in the dreadful strife; And the latest look they wore in life Death had not taken away: Some with a pleasant smile, Foeman with foemen at peace, Croat, and Frank, and Tyrolese, All in one ghastly pile, From the Seine, the Po, and the Land of Song, Oh, where were the souls of that countless throng?

Gone to the bar of God! Gone from the battle's din, Gone with their weight of sin, To the solemn bar of God! Woe to ambition and pride! Woe to the tyrant king Who dares from his subjects wring What God has never denied! Aye, woe to him, for the record stands, And the blood of the slain is on his hands.

DEAD AND FORGOT.

Dead and forgot! How sad the lot When wintry tempests blow To lie all cold 'Neath the churchyard mould, And in a year or so To have our very name unsaid, Unless it chance to fall From careless lips that say, "She's dead,"-- She's dead, and that is all!

But sadder still That one should fill The place we thought our own: That a form more light, And an eye more bright Should guard our dear hearth-stone; That where we strayed another's feet At morn and eve should roam, And another's voice--perchance more sweet-- Make music in our home!

That where we locked Our hands and talked Amid our chosen flowers, The lips we pressed Should be caressed By other lips than ours,-- That other eyes should watch for him, And other arms embrace, Until our image growing dim Yield to another's face.

And this is love! O injured Dove! Thy wings have many a stain: But pure and white In the Land of Light They shall be spread again; The deep, true love our spirits crave Earth has never supplied; Nor till we leave the dreary grave Shall we be satisfied.

DEAR EMILY.

Dear Emily, sweet Emily! So early gone to rest, I love to think of thee as one Among the good and blest,-- No shadow on thy radiant eye, No sorrow in thy breast.

Dear Emily, sweet Emily! I cannot call thee dead: 'Tis true I do not see thy face Nor hear thy gentle tread; Yet in my heart of hearts, sweet friend, Thou never canst be dead.

When by the solemn stream of death We parted long ago, How little of the world we knew! But I have lived to know How friendship fades, how love decays, How all things change below.

Time changes some, and absence some, And envy--oh, the shame! Of those who played together once Some rise to wealth and fame, While in the vale of poverty The rest remain the same.

But nothing now can come between Thy heart and mine, sweet friend! With every image of the past Thy memory will blend, And what thou wast in early life Thou wilt be to the end.

I love to think--oh, call it not A fancy wild and vain-- That thou hast seen and pitied me Through all these years of pain; But I shall know how that has been When we two meet again.

My bleeding feet have left their mark Wherever they have passed; But now the sun is getting low, The shadows lengthen fast, And Emily, dear Emily, All will be well at last!

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

She sleeps the quiet sleep of death and I survive. But for what purpose? why was not I called first to explore the untried regions of eternity? 'Tis known only to Him whose mighty arm often spares the humble flower while the waving trees that stand around it are torn from their roots by the roaring tempest. She has gone before me, and yet how long may it be ere I shall follow her? O solemn thought!--well might it sink deeply into my heart, and taking root there spring forth yielding fruits of repentance. Soon may Death, the great enemy of mankind, add one more ghastly victim to the lifeless piles that lie heaped together in every clime and on every shore; and when my death- knell shall sound will it be the signal of a spirit wailing in the regions of the lost, or rejoicing in the bright realms of everlasting bliss? It is for me, and me alone to decide. Perhaps it is for this that my life has been spared--that I might make a firm and decided choice; and shall I still draw back? shall I still hesitate and remain inactive? No, _no_; for "now is the accepted time, and now is the day of salvation."

THE HEAVENLY HELPER.

What strange lessons I am every day learning! Thank God for them. They are very unpleasant to human nature, but they are leading me to place less confidence in earthly love and more in heavenly. I have leaned too much upon an arm of flesh, and it is right I should suffer for it. Sweet Saviour, fold me in thine arms; comfort me with thy love; and as soon as thou seest best let me go and live with thee forever.

All earthly hopes have passed away, Stay with me, O my Saviour, stay: Thy blessed smile is all the light That breaks upon my dismal night.

I cling to thee--thou must not go; Oh, let me tell thee every woe And whisper in thy ready ear What other friends would frown to hear.

Distressed in body and in mind, Diseased and wretched, poor and blind, I only care to see thy face,-- I only sigh for thy embrace.

I droop, I faint beneath the rod, It is so heavy, O my God! Spare me, I cry, in mercy spare-- But thou refusest still the prayer!

Sometimes I murmur and repine, Prefer my stubborn will to thine, And doubt if love or anger deal The dreadful anguish that I feel.

Then suddenly before me stands,-- With bleeding side, and feet, and hands,-- The Lamb that groaned and died for me, That I might live eternally.

Such love o'erwhelms me, and with shame I call upon thy holy name; Forgive me, O thou blessed One, And let thy will, not mine, be done.

O my Redeemer, Friend and Guide, Take health, take what thou wilt beside, But let me see the lovely face That makes a heaven of every place.

Nay, turn not from my earnest prayer! Thy smile can save me from despair; The shadows deepen round my way, Stay with me, O my Saviour, stay.

Who save thee, O God, knoweth the human heart? Pity me, for thy rod is heavy. My earthly hopes are all torn and crushed,--oh, may they turn heaven-ward and there find support and nourishment. This is Father's discipline, shall I murmur? Nay, but rather rejoice that he does not leave me to myself but deals with me as a child--chastening, rebuking, scourging and refining: preparing me by all these afflictions for the "rest that remaineth for the people of God." And sweet the rest will be after such a weary journey! How I shall fold my hands upon the bosom that shall never again be troubled, and say in all sincerity: I thank thee, O God, for the sweet that was mingled in my earthly cup, but more do I thank thee for the bitter.

THE PROMISE.

"In early life I'm called to part With all I hold so dear; Strong tendrils bind my yearning heart, But cannot keep me here.

"I am resigned; yet tears will fall, Sad thoughts steal over me; And dost thou know that with them all Are mingling thoughts of thee?

"We have been friends in hopes and fears In joys and griefs the same-- Since first we learned in childhood's years To lisp each other's name.

"In quiet grove, in lonely dell, In meadows green and fair, Beside the stream we loved so well, If one then both were there.

"Together we our plans have laid With hopeful brow and heart,-- When roving 'neath the summer shade, But never thought to part.

"The spring will come, the trees will wave As when we saw them last, But thou wilt linger by my grave, And muse upon the past.

"Beyond the portals of the tomb I look with joyful eye: A glorious light dispels the gloom, 'Tis not so hard to die.

"There is a home of rest divine-- A home prepared for me; But hours of darkness will be thine, For this I cling to thee.

"Hark! 'tis the angel choirs above; I've but one earthly care,-- Oh, promise me by all our love That thou wilt meet me there."

That earnest look--I see it still, That voice--I hear it yet; And death this aching heart shall chill Before it can forget.

The flowers have faded one by one, The summer birds are flown, And 'neath a cold autumnal sun I wander forth alone.

The yellow leaves are falling fast Along the river side,-- I watch them borne upon the blast, And on the swelling tide.

I think how all things earthly fade, Then wipe the tears that flow, As memory brings the promise made So many years ago.

THE DEAD CHRIST.

The last expiring groan was hushed; the beaming eye was closed--it wept no longer over the sins of a perverse race. Those gentle and lovely features were robed with the pallid hue of death, and the heart that melted at the sorrows of mankind beat no longer. The grave, the cold grave, rejoicingly closed its dreary portals upon his sacred form; and he, the lowly and despised Nazarene, who found no resting- place for his weary head, slept quietly in a borrowed sepulchre.

THE COMPLAINT.

Ah! many springs have come and gone, And called me forth in vain; Now winter folds the winding-sheet Round nature's breast again.

Young hands have gathered bright, wild flowers, Young feet have trod the grass, But I have watched in solitude The mournful shadows pass.

Young hands have gathered brighter flowers From wisdom's pleasant tree-- But darker still the shadows fall, There are no flowers for me!

No flowers! where shadows deepest lie Amid the wint'ry gloom, Thank God, I see with kindling eye The Rose of Sharon bloom!

It is enough--my earthly hopes Are fading one by one; My God and my Redeemer lives, And may his will be done.

I know that in a better world I shall look back and say I never could have reached my home By any other way.

And such a home! no frightful dreams, No wakings to despair-- No cries of--God remove the cup, Or give me strength to bear!

No pillows wet with burning tears,-- No longings wild and vain To wander in the pleasant fields, Or dear old woods again!

But love and peace, and endless joy, And rest to me how strange! Lord give me patience to await The happy, happy change!

THE MIXED CUP.

Joy and sorrow, are they not mingled in every cup? We call some happy, others unfortunate; and so they appear to us. But could we draw aside the curtain that conceals the mysteries of the human heart what problems would be solved, and how often we should be lead to exclaim, "God dealeth justly: pain and pleasure are more equally distributed than we imagined"! But this may not be. We judge according to appearances, and this is one great source of misery; for, in our grief, we imagine others are more favored than we, and for the blessings we do enjoy we are not thankful. Oh, the great mercy of God! What a wonder it is that he does not smite us to the earth when we dare murmur at his dealings!

I SHALL DEPART.

When the flowers of Summer die, When the birds of Summer fly, When the winds of Autumn sigh, I shall depart.

When the mourning Earth receives Last of all the faded leaves,-- When the wailing forest grieves, I shall depart.

When are garnered grain and fruit, When all insect life is mute, I shall drop my broken lute; I shall depart.

When the fields are brown and bare, Nothing left that's good or fair, And the hoar-frost gathers there, I shall depart.

Not with you, O songsters, no! To no Southern clime I go,-- By a way none living know I shall depart.

Many aching hearts may yearn, Many lamps till midnight burn, But I never shall return, When I depart.

Trembling, fearing, sorely tried, Waiting for the ebbing tide, Who, oh! who will be my guide When I depart?

Once the river cold and black Rolled its waves affrighted back,-- I shall see a shining track When I depart.

There my God and Saviour passed, He will be my guide at last,-- Clinging to his merits fast, I shall depart.

--_Written in 1858._

TIME FLIES.

Tears are coming, years are going, Be they fraught with joy or pain,-- Like a river they are flowing To the everlasting main!

On the banks are thorns and roses, And we take of both a share Till the ocean round us closes, And we drop our anchor--where?

If the future were uncertain, If across the mighty deep, Brushing back the misty curtain Angel pinions did not sweep,--

If there were no bright to-morrow For our day of toil and strife, Burdened with its weight of sorrow, What a curse were human life!

Locks are whitening, cheeks are paling, With each month and year that flies; Youth and vigor both are failing, But the spirit never dies!

Short indeed is our probation, Dark and certain is the tomb,-- But the Lamp of revelation Dissipates the fearful gloom.

Oh, we take our life too sadly, Ever grieve and mourn too much, Turn to ashes what would gladly Turn to gold beneath our touch.

'Tis because that in our blindness We imagine God is blind,-- 'Tis because we doubt his kindness, That we cannot be resigned.

Nature cries amid the trials That beset our thorny path: "God outpoureth all the vials Of his anger and his wrath!"

Such complaints are more surprising Since the declaration runs: "If ye be without chastising, Then indeed, ye are not sons."

All our future course He seeth Better than we see our past, And whatever he decreeth We shall understand at last.

Let us then in our affliction Meekly trust our gracious Lord,-- Well assured his benediction Will ere long be our reward.

Let us beautify the present,-- There is much we all can do That will make the year more pleasant, For ourselves and others too.

A VOICE FROM A SICK-ROOM.

[At one time Miss Johnson seems to have entertained the idea of writing for publication a series of articles entitled "Voices from a Sick-room." Whether she ever wrote more than one or not I cannot say. The following is the only one we can find among her manuscripts, and it is so thrillingly interesting as to make us wish for more. It is dated Sept. 5, 1859.]

Draw the curtains--shut out the light of heaven; the inner world is so full of darkness that the sunshine of the outer world becomes painful by contrast. Hush, little bird! don't sing to-day. There--all is dark and still. Now, O wretched heart, exult in thy wretchedness; draw the dark, heavy curtains of despair around thee; shut out the light of hope and love; hush the voice of praise and thanksgiving. Think of all thou hast suffered; think of thy present misery; crowd the future with black-robed phantoms; people every nook and corner with horrible faces, and over all let the thunder crash and bellow, and the winds moan and shriek, as they moan and shriek only when the great are dying.

Ah, what sad havoc do sickness and pain make of the poor body; but sadder still when they trample on the bright inhabitant within, and make it a slave to tremble at their bidding! "Bring chains--bring chains," cries the fell destroyer; and ere she has time to rally her forces around her, or even think of resistance, the poor Soul has become a helpless captive, and Disease wears a smile of triumph upon her ghastly cheek, and again lifts up her voice to shout "victory." And a complete victory it is: Self-control, Pride, Ambition--all are humbled; Hope is shrouded in sackcloth, and if she ever speaks it is only to whisper: "There is one secret passage by which thou mayest yet escape, but it winds through the kingdom of Death and the Grave." Reason herself grows pale and trembles, lest she lose her throne; for the thousands of obedient servants, which have never before disputed her authority, are all up in arms against her. Every nerve begins to quiver and vibrate; the whole body is in commotion; and no wonder the trembling Soul sits down amid the ruins of her former self and makes the whole place doleful with her cries and lamentations.

Don't chide her: she is no criminal waiting the demands of justice, but a prisoner of war, and therefore should be dealt kindly with. Don't gaze at her through her prison bars, as though she were a wild beast caged, or some curious object kept only for a show; but go to her enveloped in the mantle of love, upon your lips the honey-dew of human kindness, and in your heart the melting tenderness of Christian affection. Don't tell her she is escaping many trials and temptations to which she would be exposed if she came in contact with the busy world around her. Go to the imprisoned eagle, and, as he looks up longingly into the deep blue sky and beats his wings in agony, comfort him with the assurance that his wants are provided for, and he himself safe from the arts of the fowler! Aye, tell this to the free-born eagle, but disgust not the ever-yearning, restless Soul with such mockeries. She may listen, but she laughs you to scorn in secret and prays Heaven to be delivered from such comforters. She knows her struggles and temptations are inward; and she knows too, for that very reason, they are more terrible. There greater battles have been fought than the blood-dyed fields of Europe ever witnessed. Magentas and Solferinas fatten with the blood of heroes, but she carries on a never ending warfare "with principalities and powers"--the numberless host of hell--and legions of native passions.

Deal gently with her. Would you win her confidence? There is but one passage to her affections. Speak that word--bolt and bar fly open: she takes you by the hand and welcomes you to her most sacred and secluded retreat. That word is _sympathy:_ let her feel it in your tender embrace, see it in the glance of your eye, hear it in the modulation of your voice. It is for this she yearns and sighs, and refuses to be comforted where it is not.

Bring her flowers--sweet, beautiful flowers. They are meet companions for her solitude. Gather blossoms from the whitening apple-bough, violets from the meadow, dandelions from the wayside. She will fold them more tenderly to her bosom than the rarest plants, for their faces are old, familiar ones, and she imagines they wear a look of pity.

But there are more precious things than human sympathy; there are sweeter flowers than violets or roses. They bloom on the prayer-consecrated mountains of Judea, amid the ancient olives of Gethsemane, along the Dolorous Way trodden by the Man of Sorrows, beneath the shadows of the Cross, and around the borrowed Sepulchre. Oh, gather them with no sparing hand: there are enough for you and her--enough for every sorrowing heart in the universe. Take them to the poor sufferer. Their fragrance will make the lonely chamber like a garden of spices; the tearful eyes will turn heavenward, and the pale lips--tremulous with contrition will whisper, "Father; forgive me, for I knew not what I did when I murmured at thy dealings." Then a solemn hush will follow--a holy twilight of the soul,--as if the sorrows of earth were blending with the joys of heaven, the pains of mortality with the blessedness of the angelic bards. Oh, these are the flowers for a sickroom! How dreary and desolate does it seem without them! The strong and healthy may live on, careless and irreligious, but what would become of the poor, grief-stricken, despairing Soul if she could not repose quietly in the bosom her Beloved, and say with child-like simplicity, morning and evening, _"Our Father who art in heaven!"_

SONGS OF HOPE

"HE GIVETH SONGS IN THE NIGHT."

Gloriously the sun sinks behind the western hills. Half the sky seems on fire, and the other half wreathed with light fantastic clouds. All nature is beautiful--can I be sad? Nay; away with sadness, away with sorrow; I will forget everything my strangeness, my blasted hopes, and seek for happiness where happiness only is to be found, in the sacred Oracles of God.--_July_ 14, 1852.

God sometimes speaks in earthquake and in storm, But oftener in the "still small voice" of love: He urges men as loving fathers plead. God _is_ our Father, yet we shun his face And hide ourselves when at the cool of day He walketh in the garden!

How sweet the thought that God, our heavenly Father, is omniscient. Our griefs are not hidden from him. He knows our hearts, and with all this knowledge he is good--so tender, so pitiful! Oh, to love him as he deserves! Oh, for a thousand tongues to sing his praises! Tell the sick, tell the sorrowing, tell the broken-hearted of this God; tell the wretched, the guilty, the wayward prodigal of this gracious Father.

THE LAST GOOD NIGHT.

[In the day of health and prosperity everybody feels like singing, but "in the night" of adversity grace must produce the song of holy confidence and hope. Such a song is the following, which has probably been printed oftener than any other of Miss JOHNSON'S poems. It has appeared in several papers; finds a place in Dewart's "Selections from Canadian Poets"; was set to music by George F. Root, and appears in his "School for the Cabinet Organ." With many it has been a favorite.]

Mother, good night! my work is done,-- I go to rest with the setting sun: But not to wake with the morning light, So, dearest mother, a long good night!

Father, good night! the shadows glide Silently down to the river's side,-- The river itself with stars is bright, So, dearest father, a long good night!

Sisters, good night! the roses close Their dewy eyes for the night's repose-- And a strange, damp mist obscures my sight, So, dearest sisters, a long good night!

Brothers, good night! the sunset flush Has died away, and a midnight hush Has settled o'er plain and mountain height, So, dearest brothers, a long good night!

Good night! good night! nay, do not weep: I'm weary of earth, I long to sleep-- I shall wake again with the dawning light Of eternal day--good night, good night!

RETROSPECTIVE AND PROSPECTIVE.

I remember the time when we went forth arm in arm over the newly mown fields, scaring the grasshoppers from our pathway, with our baskets on our arms, to gather the blueberries that hung in clusters on their slender stalks. But thou art gone now to the fairer fields of paradise, to pluck sweeter fruit than ever ripened here. Thou art gone! The blueberry bushes have fallen long ago before the scythe; the field has changed its appearance; and as for me, the breezes woo me forth in vain--I cannot go. Sickness and sorrow have come between me and the love of earth; they have cast a dark shadow over what I once thought fair. But as there can be no shadow without a light beyond it I have caught bright glimpses of a better home--a land of life and glory.

HOPE.

[We have no clue to the time when this was written. It is imperfect: the second verse is not complete in the copy. But is it not true to life so far as earthly hope is concerned? Of "the hope of the gospel" our songstress would speak differently.]

What a syren is Hope--what a charming deceiver! She whispers so blandly you can but believe her; The garments of Truth and of Reason she stealeth And every deformity thus she concealeth.

When down in the valley I'm talking with Sorrow She comes with a song--all its burden _to-morrow;_ She mocks my companion....

Then she beckons me up to the top of a mountain; She brings me a draught from a clear, sparkling fountain, And talks of the beautiful prospect before us Till ere I'm aware, the dark night settles o'er us.

Sometimes in my anger I try to elude her; I call her a jade and an idle intruder; But she kisses, caresses, and coaxes, and flatters Till I build me a castle the next zephyr shatters.

When I firmly resolve I will listen no longer, Than my will or my reason somehow she is stronger: I chide her, deride her, despise her and doubt her, And yet it is true I can't live without her!

EARTH NOT THE CHRISTIAN'S HOME.

Earth, with all thy grief and sorrow, And thy changes of to-morrow; With thy woe and with thy parting, With thy tears of anguish starting, With thy countless heart-strings breaking, With thy loved and lost forsaking, With thy famished millions sighing, With thy scenes of dead and dying, With thy graveyards without number, Where the old and youthful slumber; Earth, oh, earth! thus dark and dreary, Cold, and sad, and worn, and weary, Thou art not my home!

Earth, oh, earth! with all thy slaughter And thy streams of blood like water O'er the field of battle gushing, Where the mighty armies rushing, Reckless of all human feeling, With the war trump loudly pealing, And the gallant banners flying, Trample on the dead and dying; Where the foe, the friend, the brother, Bathed in blood sleep by each other; Earth, oh, earth! thus dark and gory, Blood and tears make up thy story, Thou art not my home!

Earth, with all thy scenes of anguish, Where the poor and starving languish, To the proud oppressor bending, And their cries for mercy blending; Where the slave with bosom swelling, Which despair has made its dwelling, And the scalding tear-drops falling-- Sight to human hearts appalling-- Strives, but strives in vain to sever Fetters that must bind him ever; Earth, oh, earth! with each possession Sold to tyrants and oppression, Thou art not my home!

Earth, oh, earth! thy brightest treasures, Like thy hopes and like thy pleasures, Wintry winds are daily blighting; Pain, and woe, and death uniting, Youth and love and beauty crushing, And the sweetest voices hushing; Rich and poor, and old and blooming, To one common mansion dooming; While the cries of every nation Mingle with those of creation; Earth, oh, earth! thus dark and dreary, Cold, and sad, and worn and weary, Thou art not my home!

Earth, oh, earth! though dark and gory, In thy pristine state of glory! Angels came upon thee gazing, Songs of love and rapture raising; For thou then wast bright and beaming, With the sunlight on thee streaming, With thy crystal waters laving Shores with fadeless forests waving; With thy plains and with thy mountains, With thy ever-gushing fountains; Earth, oh, earth! once fair and holy, Fallen, fallen, and so lowly; Thou art not my home!

Earth, oh, earth! bowed down by sorrow, Cheer thee, for there comes a morrow; Night and clouds, and gloom dispersing, And thyself, O earth, immersing In a flood of light undying; When the curse upon thee lying, With its thousand woes attending. Death, and pain, and bosoms rending, Partings that the heart-strings sever, Will be banished and forever,-- Earth, oh, earth! renewed in glory, Love and joy make up the story; Oh, be thou my home!

Earth, although thou seem'st forsaken, Yet a note of praise awaken; For the angels, lowly bending Round the throne of light unending, Gaze upon thee, sad and groaning, Listen to thy bitter moaning; Thou hast scenes to them amazing, While on Calvary's mountain gazing; And they smile on every nation Purchased with so great salvation,-- Earth, oh, earth! renewed in glory, Angels shall rehearse thy story; Oh, be thou my home!

Earth, the morn will _soon_ break o'er thee, And thy Saviour will restore thee; Far more bright and far more blooming, And more glorious robes assuming Than when first, o'er Eden ringing, Angel-voices were heard singing; For thy King himself descending, Heaven and earth together blending, With his saints a countless number, Those who live and those who slumber, Over thee will reign victorious,-- Earth, oh, earth, thus bright and glorious, Be thou then my home!

"WE SORROW NOT AS OTHERS WITHOUT HOPE."

While looking over an old manuscript, written by one who is long since passed from time into eternity, I met with the following lines: "It is six years to-day since my Elsa died, and five months since my Amanda left me forever. They sleep in the grave, and there they will remain through endless years." He then went on, in strains mournful and tender, and with all a father's sorrow deplored his loss. I could not wonder that he wept the tears of anguish and despair if, as he said, they are to remain in the dark tomb through endless years. The glorious Resurrection morning was unknown to him. He saw only the tomb, and considered not that there is One who holds the keys of the grave, and who will soon burst the icy bars of death and bring forth the righteous to immortality. Truly that morning has charms for the Christian. God grant that if I am called to slumber for a while I may "have part in the first resurrection."--_June_ 22, 1852.

THE MESSENGER BIRD.

Oh, fly away to the better land, Thou bird of the snowy wing! Oh, fly away to the blood-washed band, And hear the songs they sing!

But bear a message from us, O dove, To that bright and happy throng; For we have friends whom we dearly love, Who swell the Conqueror's song.

Oh tell them our hearts are sad and lone, Our homes not bright as of yore; For we miss the soft, the soothing tone Of the friends we loved before.

Oh tell them we sigh for the better land, For earth has grown sad and chill; And we long rejoicing with them to stand On the heights of Zion's hill.

Oh tell them we long to share their rest, Afar from all earthly strife; We long to lean on our Saviour's breast, And roam by the tree of life.

Oh tell them our fondest hopes are there, For our earthly hopes are o'er; And we sigh for the land all bright and fair-- We sigh for the deathless shore.

Then fly away to the better land, Thou bird of the snowy wing! Oh fly away to the blood-washed band, And hear the songs they sing.

And then return with the speed of love, When the night grows dark and chill, And tell us, oh, tell us, thou white-winged dove! Do they love, do they love us still?

We know there is One, in that blissful home, Who loves and remembers us yet; Though weary and sorrowful now we roam, We know that he will not forget.

We'll trust him then, the great and the strong; By his own almighty hand He'll bring us soon with the blood-washed throng To the bright, the better land.

OUR SHIP IS HOMEWARD BOUND.

What though the angry waves are high, And darkness reigns around? Let hope be bright in every eye, Our ship is homeward bound!

What though nor moon nor stars appear Amid the gloom profound, Why should we yield a place to fear? Our ship is homeward bound!

What though the lightnings glare above, And deaf'ning thunders roar, When with the eye of faith and love We view the distant shore?

We know that friends are waiting there We loved in life before; And angel forms all bright and fair Line the eternal shore.

We've often longed with them to bow At our Redeemer's feet,-- He loved us first, we love Him now, Then let the billows beat!

And let them bear our hopes away, Although they once were sweet, We catch a glimpse of coming day-- Oh, let the billows beat!

The coward peers with trembling form Into the gloom profound, But we can smile to view the storm, Our ship is homeward bound!

And though for us on life's dark wave No anchorage be found,-- Oh, let our hearts be true and brave, Our ship is homeward bound!

MIDNIGHT.

Shades of night have gathered round, 'Tis the hour of gloom profound; 'Tis the hour when many sleep, 'Tis the hour when many weep, Over pleasures buried deep.

Faces smiling through the day, Lips that told a spirit gay, Eyes that beamed _as with_ delight, Now concealed from human sight, Put aside the mask to-night.

Tossing on the couch of pain, Seeking rest but all in vain, With the dark and dreary tomb Oft appearing through the gloom, Weary sufferers wait their doom!

Bright and golden dreams have some: On their airy wings they come, Giving fancy leave to soar To the happy scenes of yore,-- Or to some untraveled shore.

By the hearth he holds so dear, Softly ringing in his ear Gentle voices, faces bright Bursting on his gladdened sight,-- Sits the wanderer to-night.

Clasping hands in holy trust Long since mouldered into dust,-- Gazing into death-sealed eyes, With a look of sweet surprise, Every tear the mourner dries.

From some rugged mountain high Making journeys through the sky, Or in amaranthine bowers Talking with the birds and flowers, Poets spend the midnight hours.

Phantoms that by day elude, Flying ever when pursued,-- Like the desert mirage bright, Filled with joy and with delight Dreamers fondly clasp to-night.

Oh, that morning's early beam Should dissolve the blissful dream! Oh, that love and hope should fly Like the mist in yonder sky, When the burning sun is high!

There's a morning yet to break, When the sleepers shall awake From the couch and from the grave, From the mountain and the cave, From beneath the ocean wave.

Then the _dream_ of life is o'er, Then they wake to sleep no more; Then all earthly hopes shall fly Like the mist in yonder sky,-- And that morning draweth nigh!

EASTER SUNDAY.

The old, the young, and the middle-aged all meet to-day in the house of prayer. From a thousand churches in our own and other lands the voice of praise and thanksgiving goes up to heaven--_"The Lord is risen!"_ Oh glorious tidings! "The Lord is risen indeed," and hath appeared to Peter! aye, and to Mary also,--the poor sinner whose touch would have been profanation to the Pharisees of our own times. And still more wonderful, He hath appeared to Thomas--to Thomas the infidel, who laughed at the story of the resurrection!

THE RISEN REDEEMER.

Rejoice now, O sorrowing bride, for he sleeps no longer. Let thy glad songs of praise and adoration reach the skies, for the Lord is not among the dead--he is risen. "Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion! shout, O daughter of Jerusalem!" for thy Savior has burst the iron bands of death and come forth a mighty conqueror. For thy sins he laid himself down in the icy tomb; he rises again for thy justification. For thy iniquities he suffered, died and was buried: he comes forth again that thou mayest be a sharer of his glory. He has hallowed the dreary tomb by his own dear presence, and now he has ascended to his Father and your Father, to his God and your God. He has taken his seat at the right hand of the Majesty on high, and there, despairing soul, trembling under the burden of sin, he pleads for thee (Heb. 7: 25). He points to the cross on Calvary, dripping with his own precious blood, and in a voice of tender compassion exclaims: "Father, I died for that wretched sinner; spare, oh spare him for my sake!" He has entered into the holy place by his own blood, having obtained eternal redemption for thee, O daughter of Zion.

DOST THOU REMEMBER ME?

O Thou whose footsteps are unknown, Whose path is on the sea,-- Whose footstool earth, and heaven whose throne, Dost Thou remember me?

O Thou whom winds and waves obey, At whose supreme command The shining worlds pursue their way, Or in their orbits stand,--

Thou at whose touch the hills disperse, And burning mountains flee, Thou Ruler of the Universe, Dost Thou remember me?

This world though fallen still is thine, And dearer far to-day Than all the countless orbs that shine But never went astray.

For here the blessed Son of God Was born, and wept, and died; Our valleys and our hills he trod, And they are sanctified.

On Him my guilty soul relies, Through him I come to thee; Thou dost accept my sacrifice, Thou dost remember me!

'T IS I--BE NOT AFRAID.

Dark hung the clouds o'er Galilee; A lonely bark was on the sea, Where wild the billows played; Deep terror filled each trembling frame, When suddenly the accents came, "'T is I--be not afraid!"

A martyr stood with tranquil air; He saw the stake, the fetters there, The fagots all arrayed; But, though such darkness reigned around, He caught the sweet, the cheering sound, "'T is I--be not afraid!"

A weary pilgrim roamed alone; For him was breathed no friendly tone, No friendly hand brought aid; But through the gloom so dark and drear, A gentle whisper reached his ear, "'T is I--be not afraid!"

A mother knelt in anguish wild Beside a loved, a dying child, And tears in torrents strayed; A soothing voice breathed to her heart, In tones that bade despair depart, "'T is I--be not afraid!"

Upon a bed of pain and death A Christian faintly drew his breath, With spirit half dismayed; He heard a soft, a tender voice-- It caused that spirit to rejoice-- "'T is I--be not afraid!"

A penitent with streaming eye Raised unto heaven his doleful cry, And fervently he prayed; A brilliant light around him shone, And with it came a heavenly tone, "'T is I-be not afraid!"

And when the trump from yonder skies Shall bid the silent dead arise; When suns and stars shall fade; When thunders roar, and mountains fall; The saints shall hear above them all, "'T is I-be not afraid!"

THE ONLY PERFECT ONE.

I have just finished "D'Aubigne's History of the Reformation." How many noble characters are here brought to light! how many fervent Christians--how many lofty souls--how many holy hearts! The firm and undaunted Luther, the gentle Melancthon, the brave and courageous Zwingle, the mild Ecolampadi--us, the zealous and fiery Farel--and a host of others equally noble in the Master's cause. And yet they all had their faults; not one of them was perfect. Though we may sometimes feel to deplore their failings, yet surely it is a comfort to the poor Christian, beset with temptations and wandering daily from the straight and narrow path, to look back upon the lives of the best of earth's sons--the noblest and the holiest,--and behold that even they sometimes went astray. It buoys up his soul with new hope and courage. It bids it cast aside every thought of justification save by faith in Jesus Christ. It increases that faith, and directs the weary pilgrim to the feet of Him who alone is holy and perfect.--June 30,1852.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN.

I have heard music from a far-off land, Where sighs and sad laments are never heard; Where friends can meet and clasp each other's hand, But ne'er give utterance to that dreadful word Which has wrung hearts, and like a funeral knell Has tolled for our departed hopes--"_Farewell!_"

I have had visions of that blessed clime, Where fadeless flowers and fruits immortal grow-- Far, far beyond the troubled waves of--Time, Where streams of living waters sparkling flow; And while a pilgrim here I sadly roam, I love to call that blissful land my home.

And often with the passing breeze I hear A sweet, a sad, perchance a warning tone: "Heaven calls for thee," falls on my willing ear; Oh! can the glorious message be mine own? Can it be mine, unworthy child of clay, To win the realms of everlasting day?

Through Him who died, through Him who rose again, Through Him who lives, and lives forevermore, I may at last that blissful rest obtain, And I may stand upon the lovely shore Where youth and health on every cheek shall bloom, Beyond the reach of death and of the tomb.

Then hail sweet voice! sweet message to my heart! Hail, land of love and home of endless peace! Ye ties that bind me here, oh! quickly part, And shout, my soul, for joy to find release, With angels meet and sing in sweet accord, Forever blest, forever with the Lord!

THE REQUEST.

Come sit here close beside me and take my hand in thine, And tell me of the happy home I think will soon be mine; Oh, tell me of the river and of the garden fair, And of the tree of life that waves its healing branches there!

And tell me of the love of God who gave his only Son To die and suffer on the cross for deeds that I have done; And tell to me the holy words the blessed Jesus spake When from the courts of Heaven he came, an exile for my sake.

I love to hear how Mary sat at the Redeemer's feet,-- I wish I could have been there too, I would have shared her seat; I envy much the little group that met at Martha's board To listen to the gentle voice of him whom they adored.

I envy those rude fishermen who rowed him o'er the sea, Who walked with him and talked with him as I now talk to thee; I envy those who brought their sick, just at the close of day, That they might be restored to health when Jesus passed that way.

Had I been living then I know I would have joined the crowd-- "Have mercy, oh have mercy, Lord!" I would have cried aloud. Thou sayest that I still may go and tell him all my grief, And go I will; "Lord, I believe, help thou my unbelief."

I know my heart is very hard, I feel the load within; But in the blood of Jesus Christ I wash away my sin; I lay my burden at his feet while to his cross I cling; I do so long to hear him speak death seems a blessed thing.

Now kneel here close beside me and lift thy voice in prayer That I may say his will be done whatever I may bear, Oh, I should love to _work_ for him, if that could be his will, But pray that I may be resigned--may suffer and be still.

COMPLETE IN HIM.

Does not the blood of Jesus alone cleanse from _all_ sin?-who but sinners are invited to the great Fountain? Are my robes filthy?--where can they be made white but in the blood of the Lamb? Is my heart obdurate and unbelieving?--who can soften and subdue it save the Almighty One who listens to its throbbings and knows all its trouble? Am I tempted, sorely tempted?--who can pity like Him who in the wilderness met face to face the great enemy, the great tempter of mankind? Ah, my poor heart aches when I think of all that is in the past and of all the future may have in store for me. But is there no balm in Gilead? is there no physician there? Will He not take me by the hand and whisper, "Be of good cheer; thy sins are forgiven thee"? Will He not heal thy wounds by pouring into them the oil of consolation? He has promised to do this--yea, much more than this; and will he for the first time in the history of mankind fail to perform what he has spoken? Nay, _nay_, and I will doubt no longer.... O Jesus, my Mediator, my Redeemer, have compassion upon me, and declare thyself to the Father as THE LORD MY RIGHTEOUSNESS.--_Sept_. 1860.

TRUST IN GOD.

Trust in God! He will direct thee, He will love and will protect thee; Lean upon his mighty arm, Fear no danger, fear no harm. Trust him for his grace and power; Trust him in each trying hour.

Trust in God whate'er betide thee! Trust him though he sometimes chide thee: 'Tis in love to lead thee back When thou turnest from the track. Trust him, cling to him forever, And he will desert thee--never.

Trust in God, the Rock of ages! Louder still the tempest rages, Earthquakes heave and thunders roar, Mountain surges lash the shore, Nations tremble--hark! the warning, "Comes the night, and comes the morning."

Watchmen on the walls of Zion Catch a glimpse of Judah's Lion! Man of sorrows, Lamb once slain, Comes as King of kings to reign, And from long oppressed Creation, Break the anthems of salvation.

Trust in God! the morn awaits thee, And while such a hope elates thee, Wilt thou fold thy hands in ease? No, the golden moments seize! Lay thy gift upon the altar, Thou hast duties--do not falter!

A PARADOX.

Alone, and yet not alone am I; sad, and yet not sad. No human form intrudes upon my solitude, and yet He who fills creation with himself is surely with me; sad I am, for there are many _earthly_ thoughts that contribute to cast a shade upon my soul, and yet _heavenly_ thoughts soon dispel such mournful ones. Oh, that my whole affection might be placed upon things above, and not on things on the earth! Why should my heart be gloomy when such a glorious prospect opens before me?--a world of immortal beauty, enlivened by the presence of God himself, and a glorious city, even the New Jerusalem. "Fly, lingering moments, fly away, and bring that long expected day" when Christ shall appear in glory to take his weary children home.

"THOU SHALT KNOW HEREAFTER."

The wind has ceased--how still and tranquil all! The ghastly moon still shines upon the wall; While other eyes are closed why do I weep? Begone, ye phantoms, welcome, balmy sleep! And bear me to the shadowy land of dreams Where yesternight I roamed by crystal streams, And gathered flowers methought would never fade, Or talked with angels 'neath the pleasant shade!

It was a dream; ah, yes, and life to me Was once a dream--smooth as the placid sea When all is calm, and on its bosom lies The golden radiance of the summer skies. There came a storm--the thunder's dreadful roar, The angry waves that beat against the shore Awakened me--oh, I had lived too long In the bright realms of fancy and of song.

Perhaps 'twas well the storm swept o'er the sea, Perhaps 'twas well the tumult startled me, 'Twas well I learned there's much to do and dare, Much to be suffered, much to meekly bear, But when I found the real though unsought, And thought of life and trembled as I thought,-- When like the leaves in autumn day by day The hopes I cherished hastened to decay, And hopeless, helpless in my great despair I turned to earth but found no solace there, 'Twas well for me that in the darkened skies I saw the Star of Bethlehem arise!

I know not why, though nature craves to know, That all my dreams of happiness below Should be thus blighted, yet the time is near When I, poor voyager, often shipwrecked here, Shall reach the port, and safely moored at last Review the scenes and sufferings of the past,-- Beholding where the shadows darkest lay The dawning glory of immortal day, And all along the path that seemed so drear Leaving this one memorial--God was here!

"THINE EYES SHALL SEE THE KING IN HIS BEAUTY."

The thought is ever present, Shall these eyes indeed see the Maker of the universe? shall these feet indeed walk the Golden City? shall these hands wave the palm of victory and strike the chords of the glorious harp whose music shall be sweeter than that of David's? Can this be possible, and do I weep and mourn because of present affliction? Oh, the future, the future! what has it not in reserve for me? Glories of which mortal never dreamed: eternal life--eternal happiness--perpetual youth--knowledge unbounded, yet ever increasing! Fly, fly, fly, days of pain and sorrow! Hail, all hail! bright morn of deliverance. It _will_ come; and I--oh, the thought overpowers me--I, poor and wretched and sinful, shall be blessed forever, _forever_, FOREVER.

ALL IS WELL

Dark the future yawns before me, Bitter griefs my bosom swell; But a light is breaking o'er me, And a voice--"All, all is well!"

Sad and lone has been my journey, Sad and lone my way must be:-- Care and sorrow, pain and sickness, Long have been allotted me.

Sunshine--that o'er youthful bosoms Flings a bright and magic spell, Seldom breaks upon my pathway, Yet I know that all is well!

If the Hand that guides the planets Feeds the ravens when they cry, Can it be that I'm unnoticed By a Father's loving eye?

He has thoughts of mercy toward me, His designs I cannot tell; 'Tis enough for me to trust Him, He knows best--and all is well!

Many doubts and many shadows Oft have flitted through my mind, And I've questioned, sadly questioned, But no answer could I find.

Earth was silent to my pleading, Nature taught me to rebel; But when I recall the promise "_I am with thee_"--all is well!

Many things I can't unravel; Many winding mazes see; But I'll go with faith unshaken, For the Lord is leading me.

And when beams of endless glory The mysterious clouds dispel, Grateful shall I tell my story, Grateful say that all was well!

WE SHALL MEET.

We have wandered oft together At the hour of setting sun; Shall we wander thus together, When the toils of life are done?

Many hours we've spent together Scenes of joy and grief have known; Shall we spend the hours together When the joy will be alone?

Sad indeed would be our parting If we hoped to meet no more, But although the tears are starting, Look we to a brighter shore.

Dark indeed would be the morrow When, apart we sadly roam, If beyond this world of sorrow We could see no happier home.

But we've heard a joyful story Of a land that's bright and fair, And we hope to share its glory, And to meet each other there.

Swiftly onward to the ocean Roll the troubled waves of time, Bearing us with every motion Nearer to the blessed clime.

Soon the tears that now are starting With their causes will be o'er; Soon the hands now clasped in parting Will be joined forevermore.

We have shared one home together, We have sat around one board; And we'll find a home together In the Paradise restored!

WHAT THE DAUGHTER OF THE CLOUD SAID.

Down the spout a torrent gushed, to be pent up in an old, dark tub, and made the slave of the washerwoman. Would it not have been better for thee, O water, to have fallen in the beautiful forest? to lie in the bosom of the lily, or become a looking glass for the many colored insects? "I would be useful," whispered the daughter of the cloud, "therefore I have stooped to an humble action--I left the abode of the lightning. My lot is a lowly one; my life full of sorrow and humiliation. I must pass through a fiery ordeal; I must be cast out and despised by those whom I have served. But then will be the time of my exaltation: the blessed Sun will take pity upon me, and make me a gem of beauty in the angels' highway!"

[Though no application has been made of this similitude, yet the truth designed to be taught is easily gathered: The Christian may be called to many a lowly act--to a ministration which will subject him to reproach and suffering here, but the day of exaltation is sure to come. "He that humbleth himself shall be exalted." The day hastens when from the heavens the Saviour will descend, "who will transform the body of our humiliation, that it may be conformed to the body of his glory."--Phil. 3:21 (_Am. Bible Union Trans._). How glorious will the humble workers of earth appear when they are beautified by the Sun of righteousness in the resurrection morning! That will be all Easter day of surpassing loveliness.]

THIS IS NOT HOME.

This is not home! from o'er the stormy sea Bright birds of passage wing their way to me; They bear a message from the loved and lost Who tried the angry waves and safely crossed, And now in homelike mansions find repose Where billows never roar nor tempest blows.

As strangers here in foreign lands we roam, Oh, why should not the exile sigh for home? A thousand snares beset our thorny way, And night is round us--why not wish for day? The storm is high, beneath its wintry wing The blossom fades--oh, why not wish for Spring?

The waters roll o'er treasures buried deep, And sacred dust the lonely churchyards keep-- Homes are dissolved and ties are rent in twain, And things that charm can never charm again, On every brow we mark the hand of time, Oh, why not long for the celestial clime?

Wave after wave rolls inward to the land, Then comes the wail and then the parting hand, And those for whom we would have freely died Are borne away upon the ebbing tide; We weep and mourn, we bid the sea restore, It mocks our grief--and takes one idol more.

'Tis well for us that ties which bind the heart Too strongly here are rudely snapped apart; 'Tis well the pitcher at the fountain breaks, The golden bowl is shattered for our sakes, To show how frail and fleeting all we love, To raise our souls to lasting things above.

We are but pilgrims--like the tribes who roam In every land but call no land their home,-- And what their ancient Canaan is to them, So is to us the New Jerusalem; Then while our hopes, our hearts, our homes are there, "_Thy Kingdom come_" must be our fervent prayer!

THE SOUL'S CONSOLATION.

Ah, well it is for thee that there is one ear that will listen, one eye that pities, one heart that will take thee in--"Thou God seest me!" Was ever consolation contained in so few words? Oh, repeat it when the heart is breaking--when between thee and every earthly object yawns a gulf dark and impassable. Thou God _seest_ me! Thou God _lovest_ me--lovest _me_! Thou knowest the agony of my spirit: thou knowest what I suffer, and thou must give me strength and grace to endure all, and to say in truth and sincerity, Thy will not mine be done.

"WE SEE THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY."

We weep when from the darkened sky The thunderbolts are driven, And wheresoe'er we turn our eye Our earthly hopes are riven; But could we look beyond the storm That threatens all before us, We might observe a heavenly form Guiding the tempest o'er us.

The eye that sees, the sparrow's fall, That never sleeps nor slumbers, Beholds our griefs however small, And every sigh he numbers. The angels fly at his command, With love their bosoms swelling, They lead us gently by the hand,-- They hover round our dwelling.

And when the fading things of earth Our hearts too fondly cherish, Forgetful of their mortal birth, How suddenly they perish! But 'tis in mercy and in love Our Father thus chastises, To fix our thoughts on things above; He strikes, yet sympathizes.

We know not, and we may not know Till dawn the endless ages, Why round his children here below The howling tempest rages; But _this_ we know, that life nor death Our souls from him can sever! We'll praise him with our latest breath We'll sing his praise forever!

WORDS OF CHEER FOR FAINTING CHRISTIANS.

Poor pilgrim, weary with the toils of life, distressed and afflicted on every hand, persecuted and forsaken by thy fellowmen, hast thou ever fathomed the depths of that glorious declaration, "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee"?--Heb. 13:5. Hast thou ever realized that in whatever situation thou mayest be placed--on the mountains of delight or in the vale of humiliation, in sickness or in health, in prosperity or in adversity, in life or in death--thou art under the immediate protection of the great Shepherd of Israel, who never sleeps nor slumbers? The heavens may gather blackness, the storm may come down in fury, but He who whispered, "Peace, be still," to the raging billows, is "the same yesterday, to-day and forever"; and though now invisible his presence is with thee as truly and as really as it was with the timid band of disciples on the stormy sea of Galilee. The same Jesus that walked the streets of Jerusalem,--the pitiful, the affectionate, the tender-hearted,--is an eye-witness of all thy tears, thy trials and temptations. His ear, which was never closed to the cry of the poor and needy, is still open to thy call; and the heart which embraced the whole universe has a place for thee. The fires upon thy altar may have grown dim; the sacrifice may have been the poor and lean of thy flock; but the coals of divine love are bright upon the heavenly altar; and the great Sacrifice--the Lamb without spot or blemish-whispers of Calvary and Gethsemane, and mentions thee in his intercession.

Amazing love! love never to be fathomed. Angels who wait to do his' bidding, seraphim and cherubim who behold his face in glory, can ye comprehend the height and depth, the length and breadth of the Saviour's love? Ah! angels, and seraphim, and cherubim still bend above the mercy-seat and "desire to look into" these things; but ages on ages of eternity may roll away and the love that bowed the heavens for sinful and degraded mortals shall still remain an unsounded deep! And this love is for thee--for _thee_--, poor pilgrim. Plunge then deeply into this unfathomable ocean. Fear not to loosen thy hold upon the shore: there is nothing there worthy thy love. Thou art an heir of immortality, and the pleasures which endure for a season should be nothing to thee. Wealth, and honor, and power are only the gildings of a groaning and sin-cursed earth. The shouts of mirth and revelry borne upon the midnight air, are only the prelude to tears and sighs and mourning. Behind thee is the blackness of despair, before thee the everlasting sunshine. Away, away! tarry not to sip water from the broken cistern, for the living fountain gushes forth, clear as crystal; and the invitation is for all: "Ho, every one that thirsteth" (Isa. 55: 1; Rev. 21:6; 22:17).--_Aug_. 10, 1856.

MISCELLANY.

THE DYING YEAR.

Hark! there comes at midnight hour Sound like funeral knell, Chaining us with magic power, Whispering, "_Farewell_."

'Tis the dying year's last sigh Mingling with the storm; Closes now his hollow eye, Sinks his feeble form.

Still at midnight, dark and lone, Mournful echoes ring, Murmuring in solemn tone, "_Time_ is on the wing."

INCOMPREHENSIBILITY OF GOD.

O God, where art thou? where thy mighty throne? Why is thy face unseen, and thou unknown?-- Source and support of all, why is thy form Hidden from mortal eyes? when every storm That sweeps athwart the dark and angry sky, When all the bright and burning orbs on high, When the deep sea that in its fury roars, When all its beautiful and fertile shores, When every river, hill and lowly dale, When every mountain, tree, and flowery vale, When every bird, and e'en the springing Whisper aloud, _"There is, there is a God!"_

These are thy works; but where, O God, art thou? Pavilioned in deep darkness, is thy brow Hid in dark folds, ne'er to be drawn apart? Will mortal never see thee as thou art? Yes; when the wheels of time have ceased to run, When yon bright orb its glorious, task has done, Then will the veil be rent which once concealed The throne of God, the mighty unrevealed; Then human eyes will view his dwelling-place, And saints, as angels, see him face to face.

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

Lo in the east the Star begins to rise. The glorious centre for admiring eyes Of men and angels--Herald of the morn So long foretold, the Prince of peace is born! O'er all the earth let hallelujahs ring, Let all the earth a fitting tribute bring-- With gold and silver, frankincense and myrrh. Come from the south, or, clad in robes of fur, Come from the frozen north, from east and west, Prince, priest and warrior, earth's great ones and best, Come to the manger, humbly there lay down The sword, the mitre and the jeweled crown.

The rich and noble celebrate the day With pomp and show; but who are these? make way Ye sons of wealth! ye rulers stand aside! This is no place, this is no hour for pride; The sick, the lame, the Wind, the deaf, the dumb, The sinful, poor and sorrowful may come; And even I can bring my little store-- A weary, sin-sick heart--I've nothing more: The world may frown, the lofty may despise, The gift is precious in my Saviour's eyes. To him as sacred are the tears that fall In lowly cottage as in princely hall,-- No rich, no poor his loving bosom knows, He cares for all and pities all their woes, In the same censer offers up their prayers, And on his heart their names alike he bears.

O Star above all stars! whose blessed light Illumes the darkness of our moral night, Still guide our wandering feet till He whose birth Thou didst announce shall come again to earth, And wise and simple, king and subject meet To hear their doom before the judgment-seat,-- Till nature's groans with human groans shall cease, And Earth itself, once more with Heaven at peace, Shall put her robes of deathless beauty on, Time be no more, and the millennium dawn!

GOD MADE ME POOR.

God made me poor--am I to blame? And shall I bow my head As though it were some dreadful shame I had inherited?

Shall I among the rich and great Like trembling culprit stand, Or like obedient servant wait To do their least command?

And when they pass me by in scorn-- As they have often done,-- Shall I regret that I was born An humble farmer's son?

No! should it ever cause a sigh This were indeed a shame; For all unworthy then were I To bear my father's name.

I'll pay to all the homage due Whatever rank they hold; But to my manhood ever true, _I will not bow to gold,_

THE STRANGER GUEST.

Came a stranger, sad and weary, To my humble cot one day, And he asked me for a shelter,-- Long and rough had been the way He had traveled On that sultry summer day.

Pain and grief had marred his beauty, And a tear was in his eye As he asked me for a shelter, And then waited a reply. Tears did gather In mine own, I knew not why.

'Neath my humble roof I led him, As he crossed the threshold o'er "Peace to thee," he softly whispered; Peace I never knew before Filled my bosom, As the stranger filled my door.

Be my friend and guest forever, In a trembling voice I said; And he smiled and laid so gently One dear hand upon my head; It was bleeding, And I knew for me it bled!

"I will be thy guest forever," Said the stranger unto me; "But the cost--say, hast thou counted-- Counted what the cost will be? Earthly pleasures, Wilt thou leave them all for me?

"Wilt thou take my yoke upon thee? Wilt thou humbly bear my name? Crush the risings of ambition, And the hopes of earthly fame? Freely suffering, For my sake, reproach and shame?"

Then I said, Both fame and pleasure Willingly I can resign; Let me only feel thy presence, Let me know that thou art mine, And dear Saviour, All I have and am are thine!

A LONG DELIGHTFUL WALK.

While reading to-day an account of the descendants of Adam my mind was particularly struck with the short but comprehensive narrative of Enoch: "He walked with God, and he was not; for God took him" (Gen. 5:21-24). He "walked with God," and how long? "Three hundred years" after he begat Methuselah. Oh, how strange that it should be so hard for me to walk in the commandments of the Lord even for a few days! O God, give me more of the love and more of the faith that Enoch possessed.--_Aug._ 18,1853.

"THE SERVANT IS NOT ABOVE HIS MASTER."

Lonely pilgrim, art thou sinking 'Neath the weight of grief and care? Bitter dregs of sorrow drinking From the cup of dark despair? Mourn not, for thy Master's footsteps The same gloomy paths have trod He has drained the cup of anguish,-- He, the mighty Son of God.

Does gaunt poverty surround thee, With its pale and meagre train? Do they gather closely round thee, Want, and suffering and pain? Mourn not, for the chilly dew-drops, Fell upon thy Master's bed; Mourn not, for the Prince of Glory Had not where to lay his head!

Are thy kindred lowly lying In the cold and silent tomb, Heedless of thy plaintive sighing, Heedless of thy grief and gloom? Know thy Master's tears descended, Where a dearly-loved one slept; He knows well thy weight of sorrow; Murmur not, for Jesus wept.

Do the friends that once caressed thee Pass thee by with frowning brow? Has the friendship that once blessed thee Changed to bitter hatred now? Weep not, for thy Masters brethren In his sorrow turned aside, Scorned to own that once they loved him; Weep not,--Jesus was denied!

Does a scoffing world deride thee, And expose to scorn and shame? Do thy foes rise up beside thee, Blast thy character and name? Know thy Master was derided, Scorned in Pilate's judgment-hall. Mourn not; Christ, the great Redeemer, Was despised and loathed by all.

Art thou torn with grief and anguish? Racked with many a burning pain? Does thy weary body languish? Fearful pangs torment thy brain? Murmur not; from Calvary's mountain List thy Master's dying groan! Murmur not; thy great Redeemer Gave his life to save thine own!

Does the monster Death look dreary? Fill thy mind with fears and gloom? Does thy spirit, faint and weary, Shrink in terror from the tomb? Know thy Master's gone before thee, Crossed the dark and narrow tide, Disarmed Death of all his terrors: Then fear not--thy Saviour died!

Yes, he died,--the Prince of Glory,-- Died upon the cursed tree; Pilgrim, spread the joyful story: Jesus died, and died for thee! And he rose,--he rose triumphant,-- Burst the bars of death in twain. Lonely pilgrim, that same Jesus Will return to earth again!

See the first faint beams of morning Chasing night and clouds away, All the glorious sky adorning; Pilgrim, it is break of day! Rouse thee, pilgrim, weep no longer; Let thy glad Hosanna ring! Jesus comes in power and glory; Hail thy Saviour and thy King!

ELIJAH.

He calmly stands on the mountain's brow. God shield thee, thou lonely prophet, now! For thy friends are few, and thy foes are strong, And each heart beats high in that mocking throng; And every eye is fixed upon thee, As thou standest alone in thy majesty.

The prophets of Baal are many and great, And they move along in princely state; With a scornful eye and a haughty air, They have proudly taken their station there; While the blood of thy comrades stains the sod, And thou only art left a prophet of God.

Yet firm is thy step, and calm thy brow-- The Lord God of hosts is for thee now; And, strong in his strength, thou mayest advance, And defy the world with thy piercing glance; While the prophets of Baal bend at thy nod, And the people own that the Lord, he is God.

The sun shines bright in the azure sky, And the morning breeze sweeps gently by, And all is quiet on earth, in air-- Not a sound escapes from that multitude there; Though eager each eye and troubled each mien, Yet the stillness of death reigns over the scene.

But a voice is heard; and clear and loud It breaks on the ears of the listening crowd; They quickly obey. A space is cleared; The bullock is slain, the altar is reared; While the prophets of Baal around it bend, And implore their god an answer to send.

The day wears on, and the sun is high-- Still round that altar they madly cry; But the sky is serene as ever before, And, frantic with rage, they shout the more; But 't is all in vain; and the day has past, And the prophets of Baal have yielded at last.

Each heart beats high with anxiety there, As Elijah, with calm, majestic air, Alone and exposed to a nation's frown, Rebuilds the altar long since thrown down. 'T is the hour for the evening sacrifice now, And he solemnly kneels on the mountain's brow.

On, the name of the Lord his God he calls; When, lo! quick as lightning, the fire falls! A smoke ascends to the vaulted sky, And with it arises a mingled cry; And bowed is each head, and bent is each knee As "The Lord, he is God!" rings loud o'er the sea.

'T is night, and the evening breeze grows chill; The prophet pleads with Jehovah still; He has seen the prophets of Baal slain. And now he implores for the falling rain. The heavens grow black at Jehovah's word; Arise, Elijah, thy prayer is heard!

THE SACRED PAGE.

Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age Bend together earnestly o'er the Sacred Page; One amid spring blossoms, while the falling leaves Gather round the other sitting 'mid the sheaves; One amid the twilight of the coming day, While the shadows deepen round the other's way.

Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age, Read the same sweet lessons from the Sacred Page; Eyes that brim with laughter, eyes that dim with years, Resting there pay tribute in a flood of tears; Rosy lips and pallid trembling at the cry-- Mournfully repeating the Sabachthani!

Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age Draw their consolation from the Sacred Page; One is in the valley where the grass is green, While the other gazes on a wintry scene; Both have lost their birth-right-both have felt their loss, And they both regain it through the blessed Cross!

Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age, Find their way to Heaven in the Sacred Page; Like the little children waiting to be blessed, One goes forth rejoicing to the Saviour's breast, While the other clingeth to his mighty arm, 'Mid the swelling Jordan feeling no alarm.

Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age, Come, and seek for treasures in the Sacred Page; To the one how tender is the Saviour's call; Yet the invitation He extends to all; Earthly fountains fail you--hasten to assuage Every grief of childhood--every pang of age!

Oh, what a book is the Bible! There is enough in one verse to condemn the whole world, and enough in another to redeem it.

No man in a dark night can behold himself in a mirror until a lamp is lighted,--and not even then distinctly and perfectly until the dawn of day: so no man can see himself in God's mirror until the beams of the divine lamp [the Holy Spirit] illume his soul,--nor even then can he see perfectly what a wretched and distorted being he is "until the day break" and, being made like his Saviour, he contrasts what he is with what he once was.

BEHOLD HOW HE LOVED US.

While on the cross the Saviour bleeds, While friend nor foe his anguish heeds, While many a taunt and bitter jeer Break harshly on his holy ear, He prays,--what can that last prayer be? Oh, wondrous love, he prays for me!

Deep anguish fills his troubled soul, The streams of blood in torrents roll; And louder railings now are heard; He breathes not one complaining word; Yet, hark! he prays,--what can it be? Oh, wondrous love, he _prays_ for me!

He bows his head, Immanuel dies; Darkness o'erspreads the azure skies, Loud thunders shake the earth and air, And earthquakes heave in horror there; Angels the act with wonder see; Oh, matchless love, he _dies_ for me!

He leaves the dark and gloomy grave, While angel-pinions round him wave, And rising from the mountain's brow, Appears before his Father now; He pleads,--what can those pleadings be? Oh, deathless love, he _pleads_ for me!

And can I then such scenes behold, And still be careless, still be cold? Can I, with air of sinful pride, Cast such unbounded love aside? My soul, oh, can it, _can it_ be? Has Jesus died in vain for thee?

Oh, no! the crimson streams that glide From Calvary's deeply blood-stained side, Invite my soul, so stained with sin, To wash away its guilt therein; And in those precious drops I see Christ has not died in vain for me!

The Saviour pleads, in thrilling tone, Before his mighty Father's throne, That for his sake my guilty name Within the book of life may claim A place. He smiles; and now I see Christ does not plead in vain for me!

Amazing love! what tongue can tell The wondrous depths that in thee dwell? What angel's mind can e'er explore The riches of thy boundless store? Oh, matchless love beyond degree,-- Christ bled, he died, and pleads for _me_!

LOVE YOUR ENEMIES.

Arrows dipped in poison flew From the fatal bow; And they pierced my bosom through, And they laid me low.

Every nerve to anguish strung, In distress I cried: And the waste around me rung, But no voice replied.

"Cruel was the hand," I said, "That could draw the bow: Curses rest upon the head Of my heartless foe!"

Turning straightway at the sound, In the tangled wood, Pale, and bearing many a wound, There a stranger stood.

Mournfully on me he gazed, Not a word he said: But one hand the stranger raised, And I saw it bled.

Blood was flowing from his side And his thorn-pierced brow; "Who has wounded thee?" I cried, And he answered, "_Thou!_"

Then I knew the Stranger well, And with sobs and tears Prostrate at his feet I fell, But he soothed my fears.

"Thou hast wounded me, but live,-- And my blessing take: Henceforth wilt thou not forgive Freely for my sake?"

Resting in his fond embrace, Eased of every woe,-- Then I said, with smiling face, "Jesus, bless my foe!"

THE ORPHAN.

The storm was loud; a murky cloud O'erhung the midnight sky, And rude the blast that wildly passed A lonely orphan by; But ruder still the bitter thrill Of woe that rent his heart; Darker his fears, sadder the tears That evermore would start.

"Bleak is the storm, and on my form The winds in fury beat; A racking pain, torments my brain, And sore these weary feet; No ray of light illumes the night, And here, alas! I roam, Where tempests howl and wild beasts growl; Oh, that I had a home!

"Full many a day has rolled away Since I have laid me down, To cease to weep, and fall asleep, Save on the cold, damp ground; And many more may pass me o'er Ere I may cease to roam; One year ago it was not so,-- For then I had a home!

"Then on his child a father smiled, And fondly me caressed; When sorrow came, or bitter pain, I leaned upon his breast; He'd kiss my cheek, and kindly speak In soft and soothing tone; Oh, what a strange and dreary change-- For then I had a home!

"When evening gray shut out the day, Beside my mother's knee, With simple air I breathed the prayer That mother taught to me; Then laid me down, not on the ground, Not on this cold, damp stone; But on my bed, love made instead,-- For then I had a home!

"The livelong day I spent in play Around our peaceful cot, Or plucked the flowers from blooming bowers, And to my mother brought. Then bliss and joy without alloy, And love around me shone; Then hope could rest within my breast-- For then I had a home!

"My father died, and by his side My darling mother sleeps; And now their child in anguish wild Wanders around and weeps! The pleasant cot my father bought A stranger calls his own; With tearful face I left the place, For it was not my home!

"No home have I, no shelter nigh, And none my grief to share; But I've a Friend, to him I'll bend, And he will grant my prayer. He'll lend an ear for he can hear, Though high his mighty throne; My steps he'll guide, and he'll provide The orphan with a home!

"Dark grows the sky, my lips are dry, And cold my aching brow; Is this a dream?--for, lo! I seem To see my mother now! Faint grows my breath, the arm's of death Are surely round me thrown; Oh, what a light breaks on my sight! There, there's the orphan's home!"

With smiling face in death's embrace The orphan calmly slept; He heard no more the tempest's roar; No more the orphan wept. No longer pain might rack his brain, No longer might he roam, The dearly loved he'd met above, And found with them a home!

SENTENTIOUS PARAGRAPHS.

Rest, but few can comprehend the word. At morn I speak it, but at midnight most, and then 'tis music! Oh, the thought of _rest_--of perfect freedom, from distress and pain--of health, of vigor in each nerve and limb. The thought inspires, consoles, and makes me pray for fear I shall lose the blessing. Grant me, O God, a patient heart; and may my will be so conformed to thine, that I may wait thy own good pleasure, whatsoever it be.

There are moments when Calvary overshadows Mount Sinai; when the blessed words, "It is finished," swell long and loud above the roar of thunder and the sound of trumpets; when the Cross conceals the Tables of stone bearing the holy law of the Almighty, and then I can boldly reply to the upbraidings of Conscience, "There is now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus."

Sing, my heart, for the day cometh wherein the night shall be no more at all remembered; the clouds shall melt like vapor, and the voice of mourning and lamentation shall be heard no more forever. Awake and sing!

"YE DID IT NOT TO ME."

'Twas night--a dark and stormy night: The wintry winds were high; Within the fire was blazing bright And as I trimmed the cheerful light I heard a pleading cry.

"Come in," in hasty tones I said, The door flew open wide-- The tempest roared--I shrieked with dread, For, lo, a Spectre from the dead Was standing by my side!

One icy hand was on mine own, I would have turned and fled: But ah! my limbs were chilled to stone, As in a low, sepulchral tone The sheeted Spectre said:

"It was a night like this I died, Scorned by my fellow men; To me a shelter was denied But when they slumber by my side, We shall, be equals then.

"I starved--and thou wast clothed and fed, And had enough to spare; Thou mightst have come with gentle tread, And stood beside my dying bed, And found a blessing there.

"But now my curse: nor mine alone-- The moment yet will be When thou wilt stand before the Throne, And hear it said in thunder tone: 'Thou didst it not to Me.'"

The light grew dim throughout the room, Soon darkness reigned supreme, But that pale Spectre from the tomb Still eyed me through the dusky gloom,-- Thank God, 'twas but a dream!

HEAR AND HELP ME.

Darkness and death are round me, The night is late; Yet once the Shepherd found me In such a state! He lulled my fears to rest, He took me to his breast; Is he less kind to-day? Lord Jesus, hear me pray!

Oh, hear me pray! Remove the hateful sin Which cankers all within And shrouds my way. Oh, hear me in my anguish, My Saviour God! I droop, I faint, I languish Beneath thy rod: I tremble on the brink, Support me or I sink: Oh, hear me while I cry; Oh, save me or I die!

FAREWELL.

We stood upon the lonely shore And watched the bounding bark Which far away the loved ones bore, On billows wild and dark; And then there came a gloomy sound Mournfully, mournfully stealing around-- And the sound was this, As it rose and fell O'er the broad expanse,-- _"Farewell, farewell!"_

We sought our home--once bright and fair, No word of hope we said, For Sorrow entered with us there, With slow and silent tread; And came a voice from every room Mournfully, mournfully through the gloom; And the voice was this, As it sadly fell On our aching hearts,-- _"Farewell, farewell!"_

The garden that at morn was gay, And the sequestered bower, Seemed to have wept their bloom away, All in one little hour; We heard a voice upon the breeze Sigh mournfully, mournfully through the trees, And the voice was this, As it rose and fell On the balmy air,-- _"Farewell, farewell!"_

Years, weary years have passed us o'er Since that unhappy morn, And in our arms we clasp once more With rapture our first-born. And thankful for our Father's care Gratefully, gratefully raise the prayer, That when life is o'er Our anthems may swell Where lips breathe no more-- Farewell, farewell!

NO MOTHER.

No mother! well, the burning tears may flow And bathe thy pillow, hapless orphan, now; No mother's tender voice may soothe thy woe, No mother's kiss is on thy aching brow.

Thou hearest footsteps passing by the door, Oft hast thou heard thy mother's footsteps there; But ah! she comes, unhappy boy, no more To say "Good night" or hear thy evening prayer.

Weep on: there's none to wipe away thy tears, There's none on earth thy mother's place to fill; The night seems dark, but when the morn appears Darkness and gloom will be around thee still.

For thou hast lost what time can ne'er restore, What other friends, though kind, can never be; She had bright visions of a better shore But asked to live--it was alone for thee.

Kneel, wretched orphan, kneel beside thy bed; Thy voice is choked, thy sobs have louder grown; No mother's hand is lying on thy head, No mother's heart is lifted with thy own.

But thou canst pray, and on the Saviour's breast, Which feels for every grief and every care, Pillow thy head and sweetly sink to rest, A _more than mother_ will protect thee there.

TO A MOTHER ON THE DEATH OF HER CHILD.

Mother, thy loved one slumbers now In deep, unbroken rest; But slumbers not with smiling brow Upon thy tender breast. Oh, no! for Death with cruel dart, Unheeding anguish wild, Has rudely torn thy yearning heart, And borne away thy child.

Thy home is drear at break of day, And drear at set of sun; For, lo! the grave enwraps the clay Of thy departed one. And vainly does thy spirit sigh, With yearnings deep and wild, To clasp once more within thy arms Thy dear, thy darling child.

Cold Death has snatched thy lovely flower; But, lo! the day draws near, When even Death shall lose his power, And thy sweet child appear All glorious with immortal life, In Eden's garden fair. Oh, mother, mother! would'st thou meet Thy dearly loved one there?

Oh, would'st thou join the blood-washed throng On that immortal shore? Oh, would'st thou swell the Conqueror's song And greet thy child once more? Then turn to Him who died for thee A death of woe and pain; And at the resurrection morn Embrace thy child again!

IN GOODNESS IS TRUE GREATNESS.

[The following lines were addressed to her brother on receiving a locket containing his daguerreotype.]

I touch the spring--and lo, a face Which for these many years Within my heart has had a place, A tender place--appears.

The large dark eyes look up to mine, So like thyself!--the cheek, The brow, the features, all are thine: Speak to me, brother, speak!

And tell me of each grief and care: For be they great or small, A sister's heart would take a share-- And, if it could, take all!

And tell me of each hopeful plan, And how the future seems,-- Oh, may that future to the man Be all the boy now dreams.

I've heard thee say thou wouldst be great, And with the gifted shine; 'T is well; but there's a nobler fate, I pray it may be thine:

It is to be an honest man,-- To elevate thy race, And like the good Samaritan Do good in every place;

To struggle bravely for the right, Though kings defend the wrong; To live as in thy Maker's sight, And in his strength be strong;

To put the spotless garment on, To keep it pure and white, And when the endless day shall dawn Receive a crown of light.

Dear brother, fame is but a breath, So I implore for thee A holy life, a happy death, A blest eternity.

SIMILES.

Beneath the snow and frost of winter there are living seeds which shall produce abundant harvests: so beneath a cold exterior there may be a heart full of high resolves and glorious impulses, which at the right season shall burst into blossom and bear precious fruit.

How often the sun rises in a cloudless sky, to be obscured before noonday! Human life is like our fickle clime: to-day all sunshine, and to-morrow clouds. The sun is the same by day and night, but the earth comes betwixt his light and us: so when the Sun of righteousness seems to have left our horizon and we turn in vain to the right and the left to find him, may it not be that the dark, dense earth has come betwixt us and his life-giving beams, while He remains "the same yesterday, to-day and forever"?

The thistle has a fragrant smell, and the thorn a pleasant fruit. It is a disease in the shell-fish that makes the pearl: so your sickness, my friend, may be the means of your winning the Pearl of great price.

What plant would thrive if the sun shone forever? and what should we be if the sun of prosperity always shone upon our pathway? Along life's dusty thoroughfare I see the world, but not as I saw it once: sickness and sorrow have given me another pair of eyes.

Gentle breezes, balmy breezes, There is vigor in your breath, But ye cannot bring the roses To the leaden cheeks of death!

The soil that produces the rankest weeds would by proper care and cultivation produce the richest crops: so will the human heart when regenerated by grace and truth.

The violet cannot become the rose, the daisy cannot be the lily; and if they could all be the loveliest flower, earth would lose half its beauty. Without variety, a scene however fair within itself soon wearies us. Knowest thou the moral? Be content in thy proper sphere: then mayest be the violet or the daisy, but envy not the rose and the lily; all are beautiful when in their appointed place.

At morn the shadows slant toward the west, but toward the east at night: so when the sun of life declines the shadows stretch away toward the everlasting hills whence the eternal beams of day shall arise.

THE CRUCIFIED OF GALILEE.

Methought I stood, at close of day, Where soft the balmy breezes play, And bright beneath the Eastern skies The sacred hills of Canaan rise, And saw him on the shameful tree,-- The Crucified of Galilee!

I heard the mocking throng deride The anguish of the Crucified; I saw the brilliant sun grow dim; I heard creation shriek for him; I saw him die, and die for me,-- The Crucified of Galilee!

And then I saw the veil upraised From the eternal world, and gazed Upon the scene in deep surprise; One form alone could fix my eyes; I knew him, yes, indeed 'twas he,-- The Crucified of Galilee!

And though upon his lovely brow A beam of glory rested now; Though angels praised his holy name; Yet still I knew he was the same Who hung upon the shameful tree,-- The Crucified of Galilee!

I knew him by his tender air; I knew him by the fervent prayer He breathed for those for whom he died; I knew him by his wounded side; By these I knew that it was he,-- The Crucified of Galilee!

I knew him by the loving smile With which he welcomed sinners vile; I knew him, for he took a share In all his children's griefs and care; I knew him by his love for me,-- The Crucified of Galilee!

The vision faded from afar; But still 't is memory's guiding star, To cheer the night and point a way Unto an everlasting day, When I, with unveiled eyes, shall see The Crucified of Galilee!

THE ASCENSION.

A well-known group stood on the mountain side And in their midst appeared the Crucified. Oft had they stood in that sequestered place, Their beaming eyes fixed on their Saviour's face; But never met on Olivet's fair brow With such emotions as they cherished now; And never with such eager spirits hung Upon the words that fell from Jesus' tongue; For never had their Master's voice before Sounded so sweet as when--his mission o'er,-- He gathered round him that devoted band, To give his blessing and his last command: "Go ye, and teach all nations in my name-- The Jew and Greek, the bond and free, the same; But first proclaim a Saviour's love to those Who thirsted for his blood, and mocked his woes, That they, believing, through his death may live, And know their risen Saviour can forgive. Ye shall declare salvation's waters free, And bid all nations to the fountain flee; And though ye meet with perils dark and drear, And tribulation be your portion here,-- Though persecution, with uplifted sword, Shall call for blood, and your own blood be poured,-- Yet know that I, your Saviour and your friend, Will be with you till life itself shall end; And with all those who boldly shall proclaim To a lost world salvation through my name, In every land, in every age and clime, Till the last trump shall sound the knell of time."

* * * * *

The humble followers of the Nazarene In silent awe gazed on the wondrous scene; Beheld their Lord in power and glory rise Up the bright pathway of the parting skies; And while they strove with piercing eyes in vain To catch one glimpse of that dear form again, Two angels left the bright and heavenly shore, And messages of joy and love they bore. Oh, glorious message to that faithful band, Who on the mountain's top bewildered stand! Oh, glorious sound to every ransomed soul, From sea to sea, from spreading pole to pole In every age, oh, tell the tidings o'er-- "That very Jesus shall return once more!" Hark! angel-voices rend the vaulted sky, In thrilling tones those shining angels cry, "Why stand ye gazing on yon glistening dome? Heaven has received your risen Master home! The time will come, when, as ye saw him rise, He shall descend in power the parted skies."

THE HEBREW'S LAMENT.

Thou art the land of all my dreams,-- Thy wanderer's heart is thine, And oft he lingers by thy streams, O holy Palestine!

A stranger in a stranger's land O'er hill and vale I roam; But hope forever points her hand Towards my father's home.

They tell me that on Zion's hill The Cross and Crescent shine: But oh, my heart is with thee still, Beloved Palestine.

I know that Israel's weary race Are scorned on every shore, And scarcely find a dwelling-place Where they were lords before.

Yet, 'mid the darkness and the gloom, A light begins to break; O Israel, from the dreary tomb Thy buried hopes awake,--

And lips that raise the fervent prayer, "How long, O Lord, how long?" Shall change the wailings of despair To the triumphant song.

And I may live to see the hour-- The hour that must be near,-- When in his royalty and power Our Shiloh will appear.

Till then my prayers will rise for thee, Till then my heart be thine, O land beyond the stormy sea, O holy Palestine.

WHEN SHALL I RECEIVE MY DIPLOMA?

For many long years I have been in the school of affliction, and during that time how often I have asked the questions, When will my course be completed? when shall I receive my diploma? But let me first consider: Am I prepared for the grand examination in which angels are to be the spectators, and God himself judge? Here teachers and professors--however skilled in human wisdom, friends and relatives-- however anxious for my welfare, must step aside and leave me alone before the dread tribunal! In the presence of my fellow-creatures I might wear the robes of hypocrisy and appear in reality what I am not; but what would this avail me in the presence of Him who knows every thought even before it is formed, and whose searching eye can take in at a single glance the past, present, and future of my history?

O dreaded hour! who can wonder that timid mortals put it far in the distance, and even strive to shut their eyes to its stern reality? What folly! Were the light of revelation quenched forever, there is that within every human breast which warns of a judgment to come and of a righteous retribution. Swift as the planets roll in their orbits around the sun, still swifter advances that terrible scene around which the hopes and fears, the joys and miseries of eternity cluster. It is the great centre of attraction, not only for one age or one nation, but for all who have drawn the breath of life from the grand creation anthem of stars and angels (Job 38:4-7) till stars and angels again lift up their voices in concert, and swear that "Time shall be no longer." Yet the life, the heart of each individual there will be as closely examined as if the court of Heaven were sitting for him alone, and he the only person for whom the joys of Paradise or the pains of Hell were prepared by eternal Justice!

ALONE WITH JESUS.

Alone with Jesus! leave me here, Without a wish, without a fear,-- My pulse is weak and faint my breath But is He not the Lord of death? And if I live, or if I die, 'T is all the same when He is nigh.

Alone with Jesus! ye who weep, And round my bed your vigils keep, My love was never half so strong, And yours--oh, I have proved it long, But when had earthly friend the power To comfort in a dying hour!

Alone with Jesus! oh, how sweet In health to worship at his feet! But sweeter far when day by day We droop, and pine, and waste away, To feel his arms around us close, And in his bosom find repose!

Alone with Jesus! how secure, Vile in myself, in him how pure; The tempests howl, the waters beat, They harm me not in my retreat; Night deepens--'mid its gloom and chill He draws me nearer to him still.

Alone with Jesus! what alarms The infant in its mother's arms? Before me death and judgment rise,-- I turn my head and close mine eyes, There's naught for me to fear or do, I _know_ that he will bear me through!

Alone with Jesus! earth grows dim,-- I even see my friends through him; Time, space, all things below, above, Reveal to me one Life, one Love,-- That One in whom all glories shine, All beauties meet--that One is mine!

THE LOST BABE.

There was a bower that love had reared And beautified with care; One day a messenger appeared And asked admission there.

He was not welcome to the bower, For something in his face, Where'er he went, had always power To cloud the brightest place.

Love barred the door, and cried, "Forbear, Thou art no bidden guest"; Then gathered up her jewels rare And hid them in her breast.

Still louder knocked he than before, And still he was denied; Then, laughing at the well-barred door, He threw it open wide.

"I come from Paradise above," The messenger began: "Oh, not in anger but in love God worketh out his plan.

"Sent from the King's eternal throne My mission to fulfill, I ask one jewel of thine own,-- It is the Master's will:

"One birdling from the parent nest, One lamb from out thy fold, To nestle in the Saviour's breast As did the babes of old.

"How safe! Her resting-place how sweet! But thou wilt sadly miss The busy hands, the dancing feet, The prattle and the kiss.

"There comes an hour, so long foretold That many deem it vain, When in his arms thou shalt behold That precious lamb again.

"When earth and sea at God's command Their treasures shall restore Then thou shalt clasp this little hand, Nor dread a parting more."

Love wept--her very bosom bled For that lost little one; But Faith supported her and said, "The Master's will be done."

THE DAY OF WRATH.

"The great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?" --Rev. 6:17.

The nations tremble, and the isles are moved; All cheeks are gathering paleness; lips are dumb That smiled in scorn but yesterday, or proved The day of wrath would not for ages come; Each eye is fixed--there seems nor life nor breath In that vast human sea,--but ah! it is not death.

The morning broke in splendor, as it rose Upon the fated Cities of the Plain; And men went forth refreshed from their repose, Where duty called them, or the love of gain; When sudden as the lightning's vivid glare Like heated furnace glowed the earth, the sea, the air.

From the Equator to the frozen Pole, All nations saw, and understood "the sign"; The seventh angel sounded! like a scroll The heavens departed, and a Form divine And awful in its grandeur was revealed,-- The sun and moon grew pale, and earth astounded reeled.

Then rose a wail of anguish and despair-- By men, by angels, never heard before; The tones of earth and hell were mingled there, Henceforth to be thus mingled evermore Beyond the reach of Mercy's loving ear, Who wept and pleaded once--but will no longer hear.

But hark! in contrast what a shout of joy Goes up to heaven; it tells of victory won O'er sin and death, o'er all that can destroy,-- It tells of life eternal just begun,-- Of bliss coeval with the endless years,-- Of love that waited long for Him who now appears.

My soul consider--'t is no idle flight Of fancy, when she pictures thus the day When sun and planets shall withdraw their light, And heaven and earth like smoke shall pass away; God hath declared it; and our Saviour hath, And lo, it hastens fast--that dreadful day of wrath.

Where wilt thou find a shelter from the storm? Not wealth, nor power, nor friends can succor then; How wilt thou gaze upon that glorious Form That seals the doom of angels and of men? How wilt thou stand before the judgment seat And every idle word, and thought, and action meet?

O Lamb of God whose blood was shed for me,-- Redeemer, Saviour, Lover of mankind,-- Spread over me thy robes that I in Thee A shelter from that dreadful storm may find,-- And calm amid the tumult and despair Look at the great white throne, and see my Surety there!

THE BELIEVER'S SAFETY.

Ah, Christian, why is thy heart sad and thy brow clouded? Hast thou been gazing down into the depths of thine own soul, and--art thou startled at what thou hast there seen? Hast thou met with evil thoughts which thou wouldst gladly never have harbored, and art thou despairing because of thy short-comings and unworthiness? Art thou looking to the future with dread, and trembling lest in the hour of trial and temptation thou wilt fall?

Turn away thine eyes from the pollution of thine own sinful heart, and gaze upon One who has become a perfect sin-offering for thee. True, thou art frail and unworthy, but the Lamb that was slain _is worthy_, and his perfection is enough for thee; his righteousness alone recommends thee to the Father. Dost thou trust in him with all thy heart? Dost thou hope for eternal life because he died? Then thou art safe. "The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath thee are the everlasting arms." The storms may howl, and tempests may gather around thee; the billows may rage, but they only lash the Rock upon which thou standest. "Though the earth be removed, and the mountains be cast into the midst of the sea;" yet thou art safe, for he who made the heavens and the earth is thy Father. He who commandeth the sun, and it riseth not, and sealeth up the stars; "who alone spreadeth out the heavens and treadeth upon the waves of the sea," is thy nearest and dearest friend. The same voice which said, "Let there be light, and there was light;" which commanded the raging waters, "Hitherto shalt thou come, but no farther: and here shall thy proud waves be stayed," is still whispering in thine ear, "Fear thee not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God." Yes, thou art safe! thou art trusting in the mighty One of Israel, and thou shalt never be confounded.

Thou hast been looking away into the regions of the blessed; thou hast beheld with an eye of faith the things which God has prepared for those that love him, and amid the ineffable glory of that beautiful world thou hast heard the voices of the redeemed from the earth, saying: "Salvation to our God which sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb," until thou hast longed to join with them in the song of redemption, singing praises forever and ever to him who has ransomed thee with his own precious blood. Then a cloud has gathered over thee, thy sinfulness has risen like a mountain, and thou hast sighed in thy spirit, "Oh, that I were sure of a part with them; oh, that I was safe as they!" and thou art as safe this moment with thy feet upon the Rock of Ages, as if thou didst walk the golden streets of the New Jerusalem, or bow with the angelic hosts around the dazzling throne of thy Creator. Thou art safe, for thy "life is hid with Christ in God"; and could'st thou ask for a surer hiding-place! Thou hast entered into an everlasting covenant with the King of kings, and while thou dost cling to his side shall it ever be broken? Thou hast entrusted thy soul into his hands, and is he not able to "keep that which thou hast committed unto him?" Thine enemies are many and powerful, but what are they compared to the living God? In the hour of temptation "he will never leave thee nor forsake thee"; when thy foes surround thee on every side, and the darkness of midnight gathers over thy soul, the Almighty arm shall lift up a standard, and thou shalt safely repose "under the shadow of his wings." "The Lord is thy rock, and thy fortress, and thy deliverer." "The Lord is thy light and thy salvation; whom shalt thou fear? The Lord is the strength of thy life, of whom shalt thou be afraid?"

Then look up, Christian! 'tis no time for desponding. The glittering spires of the Eternal City are already heaving in sight; perchance another storm, another beating against the fragile bark, and thou art there! Already the music of that glorious land steals softly over the roaring billows, and reminds thee thou art nearing the peaceful shore. Already the dark cloud which gathers above thy head is tinged with the beams of immortal glory, and away in the distance thou canst behold the first faint glimmerings of the Morning Star. Joy for thee, O wanderer! the shadows of the night are passing away, and the unclouded morning comes on apace!

Yes, thou art safe! lift up thine eyes, And calm thy anxious fears; The Sun of glory gilds the skies, And Christ thy life appears.

End of Project Gutenberg's Canadian Wild Flowers, by Helen M. Johnson