Chapter 2

Closed is the book we used to read; There's none to smile, there's none to heed; Our 'customed walk's deserted, too; It charms not as it used to do; The fav'rite path, the well-known tree, All, all are whispering, "Where is he?"

This faithful heart is now a shrine For each dear look and tone of thine, And every scene thou used to prize Forever hallowed in my eyes; But oh! how loved those friends shall be Whose tearful eyes say, "Where is he?"

I would not breathe to stranger's ear A name so sacred and so clear, And, when the reckless crowd are nigh, My bosom checks the rising sigh; But when no human eye can see. It bleeding cries, "Ah, where is he?"

Oh, how I miss thy smile of light, "Welcome" at morn and kind "good night!" But, when the quiet eve comes on, I feel that thou indeed art _gone_. That herald of delight to me Is joyless now, for "Where is he?"

I have not seen the crimson dye, Which sunset gives the western sky, Since on thy couch of death thou lay And watched its glories fade away. Those hues, so oft admired with thee, Would ask too loudly, "Where is he?"

And oh! that orb, on whose mild rays So fondly, too, we used to gaze, And, though far distant, there unite At the same sacred hour of night, Seems sadly now to whisper me, "Thou art all alone,--where, where is he?"

Life was to _us_ no cloudless day, Blossom and blight still marked our way; But sorrow is not skilled to part, It links more closely heart to heart. Yes! and they _ever_ linked _shall_ be-- "Summer, oh! tell me, where is he?"

I hear a voice upon the breeze, It speaks of holier ties than these; Of worlds, where farewell sounds are o'er, And Death a victor never more. It bids me for that clime prepare, And sweetly whispers, "He is there."

1828. E. P. K.

ON A PACKET OF LETTERS.

"To-day"--Oh! not to-day shall sound Thy mild and gentle voice; Nor yet "to-morrow" will it bid My heart rejoice.

But one, one fondly treasured thing Is left me 'mid decay, This record, hallowed with thy thoughts Of yesterday.

Chaste thoughts and holy, such as still To purest hearts are given, Breathing of Earth, yet wafting high The soul to Heaven;

Soaring beyond the bounds of Time, Beyond the blight of Death, To worlds where "parting is no more," "Nor Life a breath."

'Tis true they whisper mournfully Of buds too bright to bloom, Of hopes that blossomed but to die Around the tomb.

Still they are sweet remembrances Of life's unclouded day-- Sketches of mind, which death alone Can wrench away;

Memorials sad of by-past hours, Gone with the silent dead; Pictured affections, pencilled dreams. Forever fled!

Forever? Are they hushed indeed To wake again no more? Ties dearer far than Life itself With life all o'er?

No! Faith can point to holier climes, And bid the soul prepare For deathless union that awaits The faithful there.

1828. E. P. K.

REPLY OF THE MESSENGER BIRD.

Thou art come from the spirits' land, thou bird! Thou art come from the spirits' land: Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard, And tell of the shadowy band!

* * * * *

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain, Can those who have loved, forget? We call--and they answer not again-- Do they love, do they love us yet?

F. HEMANS.

Yes! yes, I have come from the spirits' land, From the land that is bright and fair, I come with a voice from the shadowy band, To tell that they love you there!

To say, if a wish or a fond regret Could live in Elysian bowers, 'Twould be for the friends they could ne'er forget, The loved of their youthful hours;

To whisper the dear deserted band, Who smiled on their tarriance here, That a faithful guard in the dreamless land Are the friends they have loved so dear.

They have gone to be seen of men no more; But oft on a shadowy hill, Or the crest of a wave where the moonbeams pour, They are watching around you still.

And oft on a fleecy cloud they sail, And oft on the hurrying blast, When slumber her light and magic veil O'er man and his woes has cast.

'Tis true, in the silent night you call, And they answer you not again-- For the spirits of bliss are voiceless all; Sound only was made for pain.

That their land is bright and they weep no more, I have warbled from hill to hill, But my plaintive strains should have told before, They love, oh! they love you still.

They bid me say that unfading flowers You'll find in the path they trod, And a welcome true to their deathless bowers Pronounced by the voice of God.

HEAVEN AND EARTH.

Turn from the grave, turn from the grave, There's fearful mystery there; Descend not to the shadowy tomb, If thou wouldst shun despair. It tells a tale of severed ties To break the bleeding heart, And from the "canopy of dust" Would make it death to part. Oh! lift the eye of faith to worlds Where death shall never come, And _there_ behold "the pure in heart" Whom God has gathered home, Beyond the changing things of time, Beyond the reach of care. How sweet to view the ransomed ones In dazzling glory there! They seem to whisper to the loved Who smoothed their path below, "Weep not for us, _our_ tears have all Forever ceased to flow." Take from the grave, take from the grave, Those bright, but withering; flowers, The spirit that had loved them once Is now in fadeless bowers; Undying is the fragrance there, Eternal is the bloom; But the next breeze may waft away This perishing perfume. One fearful stamp, "Doomed to decay," Marks all the joys of earth; Oh! what a resting-place for souls Of an immortal birth! Then linger round the grave no more, Lift, lift the eye to Heaven, Till hues of faith shall gild the gloom, And every sigh's forgiven. Then, when the golden harvest's done, The path of duty trod, Thou with the loved may'st garnered be, And gathered home to God.

1828. E. P. K.

"And the laughter of the young and gay Was far too glad and loud."

Hush, hush! my thoughts are resting on a changeless world of bliss; Oh! come not with the voice of mirth to lure them back to this. 'Tis true, we've much of sadness in our weary sojourn here, That fades, and leaves no deeper trace than childhood's reckless tear; But there are woes which scathe the heart till all its bloom is o'er, A deadly blight we feel but once, _that once for evermore_.

Oh, then, 'tis sweet on fancy's wing to cleave that bright domain! The loved and the redeemed are there, why lure me back again? The cadences of gladness to your hearts may yet be dear; They have no melody for mine, all, all is desert here. The sunshine still is bright to you, the moonlight and the flowers; To me they tell a harrowing tale of dear departed hours.

I would not cull Hope's blossoms now, they seem of deadly bloom; And can I love the sunshine, when it smiles upon the tomb? When on one little hallowed spot its joyous beams are thrown, That sacred turf--the all of earth--I now may call my own. For there my joys are sepulchred, my hopes are buried there; Yet with that holy earth are linked high thoughts that mock despair; Unfaltering faith, that whispers of a purer world than this, Where spirits that are parted here may "mingle into bliss;" "Deep _trust_" that all our sinless hopes, which death forbids to bloom, Shall ripen 'neath the cloudless sky that dawns beyond the tomb; _Conviction_ firm that things of time were never yet designed To quench the vast and deathless thirst of an immortal mind.

Then hush! my thoughts are resting on a changeless world of bliss; There is no voice of gladness now can lure them back to this. I look to Thee, Redeemer! Oh! be every crime forgiven, And take the weary captive to Thy paradise in Heaven; Or teach my heart resignedly to say, "Thy will be done," And calmly wait thy summons home, thou just and holy One! Thou mayst have spoiled my cherished schemes, to let my spirit see That happiness is only found, great God, in serving Thee.

1828. E. P. K.

CONSOLATION IN BEREAVEMENT.

'Tis not when we look on the dreamless dead, And feel that the spirit forever has fled; 'Tis not when we're called to the voiceless tomb By the loved who were culled in their brightest bloom; 'Tis not when the grave's last rite is o'er, And we know they are gone to return no more; But, oh! 'tis when Time with oblivious wing A balm to all other hearts may bring; When the dark, dark hours of grief are o'er, And we join the world we can love no more,-- That world whose grief for the absent one Passed like a cloud from an April sun; When, amid the mirth that salutes the ear, _One_ tone is gone we had used to hear, _One_ form is missed in that happy train, That will never exult in its sports again; We feel that death has indeed passed o'er, And a blank is left, to be filled no more. But though the world and its witching smile, That cheats the heart of its woes awhile, Would prove in its time of deepest need But the frail support of a broken reed, Religion's beam has the magic power To chase the cloud from its darkest hour, To turn the soul from its idols here, And fix its hopes on a purer sphere; Then land it safe in a port of rest, The haven sure of a Saviour's breast.

1828. E. P. K.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY THE CONVERSATION OF A BROTHER AND SISTER IN THE CHAMBER OF A DECEASED AND HIGHLY VALUED PARENT.

My father! Oh! I cannot dwell On hours when we shall meet again; I only feel, I only know That all my prayers for thee were vain.

"Come, brother, take a _last_ farewell; Soon, soon they'll bear him far away."-- "No, sister, no,--he is not there, I parted with him yesterday.

"Our father is in Heaven now, Forever free from care and pain; And, if a half-formed wish could bring His sainted spirit back again,

"The selfish wish I would not breathe; 'Twould cloud with woe that placid brow, Round which a seraph seems to wreathe A crown of glory even now.

"How deep the gloom that mantled there! How sweetly, too, 'twas all withdrawn! Thus, ever thus, night's darkest hour Precedes the day's triumphant dawn.

"Oh! while he lingered, struggling still With pain and anguish and despair, The sting of death was felt indeed, And then I wearied Heaven with prayer.

"But when the unfettered spirit fled From earth and earthly cares away, I joyed to think how blest would be Its entrance on eternal day.

"I joyed to think that never more That tranquil breast would throb with pain; Hope pencilled, too, the sheltering port Where parted spirits meet again.

"Oh! I would drain the bitter cup To him in boundless mercy given, A glorious Sabbath-day to win Of never-ending rest in Heaven.

"Come, sister, let us follow him, Though rugged was the path he trod; 'Twill lead us to the 'saints in light,' 'Twill lead us to our father's God."

1828. E. P. K.

ON THE DEATH OF MY UNCLE, JOSEPH PAUL.

Fare thee well, fare thee well, for thy journey is o'er, And the place that has known thee, shall know thee no more; The eye that has seen thee, shall seek thee in vain, And thy kindness will soothe us, oh, never again! Yet we cannot forget thee, for, shrined in the heart, Is the memory of virtues that will not depart,-- Generosity, candor, integrity, worth, An assemblage of all that is lovely on earth. Thou wert guardian, guide, and instructor to me, And I lose, with thy children, a father in thee. Thy children, alas! they are orphans indeed. Who now shall direct them in seasons of need? The smile that has blest them will bless them no more, And approval and counsel forever are o'er. But the angel of mercy recorded thy prayers, And in gloom and in sunshine _thy_ God will be _theirs_.

1828. E. P. K.

SPRING.

Oh! the world looks glad, for the spring has smiled, And the birds are come with their "wood-notes wild," And the waters leap with a joyous sound, Like freedom's voice when a chain's unbound.

And soon with its bloom will the earth be gay, For the air is bland as the breath of May; Sunshine and buds and all glorious things Will give to the hours their downiest wings.

Nature has burst from her wintry tomb, Wreathed with the glory of brightening bloom; Fetters of frost-work are gently unbound, Blossoms and flowers are clustering round.

Bosoms that know not the blighting of care, Sunshine and gladness may smilingly wear; But for the broken and desolate heart Springtime, alas! has no balm to impart.

Tones that are hushed it awakens no more; "Friends that are gone" it can never restore; Yet e'en to the mourner one hope it may bring, 'Tis the type of Eternity's glorious spring.

1829. E. P. K.

OH, FOR A HOME OF REST!

Oh, for a home of rest! Time lags alone so slow, so wearily; Couldst thou but smile on me, I should be blest. Alas, alas! that never more may be. Oh, for the sky-lark's wing to soar to thee!

This earth I would forsake For starry realms whose sky's forever fair; _There_, tears are shed not, hearts will cease to ache, And sorrow's plaintive voice shall never break The heavenly stillness that is reigning there.

Life's every charm has fled, The world is all a wilderness to me; "For thou art numbered with the silent dead." Oh, how my heart o'er this dark thought has bled! How I have longed for wings to follow thee!

In visions of the night With angel smile thou beckon'st me away, Pointing to worlds where hope is free from blight; And then a cloud comes o'er that brow of light, Seeming to chide me for my long delay.

1829. E. P. K.

LIFE'S STAGES.

To the heart of trusting childhood life is all a gilded way, Wherein a beam of sunny bliss forever seems to play; It roams about delightedly through pleasure's roseate bower, And gaily makes a playmate, too, of every bird and flower; Holds with the rushing of the winds companionship awhile, And, on the tempest's darkest brow, discerns a brightening smile, Converses with the babbling waves, as on their way they wend, And sees, in everything it meets, the features of a friend. "To-day" is full of rosy joy, "to-morrow" is not here: When, for an uncreated hour, was childhood known to fear? Not until hopes, warm hopes, its heart a treasure-house have made, Like summer flowers to bloom awhile, like them, alas, to fade; Cherished too fondly and too long, for ah! the rich parterre, Crushed in its brightest blossoming, leaves but a desert there.

This is life's second stage; the gloss of springtime has passed o'er, The trusting bosom is deceived, but still it trusts the more; Its young affections are bound up within a mother's love, And oh! if blessings ever yet descended from above And rested on an earthly tie to mark approval given, A mother's love, assuredly, is sanctioned thus by Heaven. But soon the ruthless spoiler comes, and all its trust is vain: The eye that beamed so kindly once, will ne'er unclose again; The voice of love that still could soothe when all its hopes were o'er, Alas! those sweetly sacred tones are hushed forever-more; The smile that lingered round its path when other lights had fled, Oh! can it be that blessed smile is buried with the dead? Then what is left the orphan heart thus mournfully bereft? To call its crushed affections home and count the treasures left, With trembling fear to count them o'er, and bitterly to sigh, Remembering they are earthly too,--they, too, alas, must die.

Perchance of its remaining joys, its fondly garnered things, One may be dearer than the rest--to that it fondly clings; And, resting thus confidingly, it half forgets the woe Which changed the orphan's joyous tones to cadence sad and low. And can the stern destroyer find naught else to call his own That he has stamped his fearful mark upon this chosen one? It boots not to inquire the cause, the why it must be so; "It is his victim," this alone is pain enough to know. What's left thee now, poor orphan heart, that entered life so gay, And fondly dreamed 'twould all have proved a bright and cloudless way? Where are the joys that wreathed thee round in childhood's reckless hours? 'Twas thine to watch them droop and fall, like pale, decaying flowers. Where is thy home of love? Ah! well, that thought may cloud thy brow-- The dear loved home that sheltered thee is claimed by strangers now; And does that echoing hall repeat no well-remembered tone? The stranger's voice, the stranger's step have there familiar grown.

And where the joyous faces now that circled round the hearth? Gone. Are all gone? Then changed indeed, fearfully changed, is earth! Alas! poor desolated heart, what more remains for thee? (A sad and solitary wreck on life's tempestuous sea)-- What but to feel, destroying Time, indeed, has roughly past And blighted fairest dreams of bliss, oh! too, too fair to last; What but to muse on perished joys to which sad memory clings, While pleasure's wrecked and ruined hopes, a mournful band, she brings, Death's trophies, which proclaim his shaft at treasured bliss he threw, And oh! which mournfully disclose his fearful victory too.

Yes, this is life! but life it is without that heavenly ray Which ever throws its purest light upon the stormiest way; Which sweetly gilds the darkest sky and comes like angel voice, (E'en 'mid the wreck of dearest hopes), to bid the heart rejoice; Which flings a smile on sorrow's brow, and sunshine on the tomb, And scatters o'er the bed of death bright buds of deathless bloom. 'Tis true the parting hour will come, "the loved" it cannot save; But it can teach us with a smile to yield them to the grave; To watch with chastened sober bliss the spirit's calm release, Trusting, though life have storms for us, all with the dead is peace. And even while the bosom aches, aches to its inmost core, This heavenly beam can bid it joy that earthly ties are o'er. For oh! our covenant Lord, who ne'er his sacred promise breaks, Has sweetly said, when all the world, the changing world, forsakes, He will be all the world to us; then freely may the heart Resign the fondly coffered bliss that clogs the immortal part, (In holy trust 'twill all be ours when earth has passed away,) And calmly wait the unclouded dawn of an eternal day, Conscious while God is near, earth's best and purest joy is given, For 'tis His holy presence makes the perfect bliss of Heaven.

1829. E. P. K.

SHEPHERD OF ISRAEL.

Shepherd of Israel! o'er Thy fold How sweet Thy guardian care, To them invisible indeed, Yet present everywhere.

Thy crook still points to "pastures green," When rugged paths they see, Beside "still waters" bids them rest, And cast their care on Thee.

The "stranger's voice" thou, Lord, canst teach Their watchful ears to know, And make their "peace," their heavenly peace, Like boundless waters flow.

When round this thorny world we stray And find no place of rest, Then come like "doves unto the ark," Faint, wearied, and oppressed,

Thy gentle hand is soon put forth Each wanderer to receive; Thou bindest up the broken heart, And bidd'st the sinner live.

Why should we fear the storms of time? Thy word their force can stay; _Enough, be still!_ the high behest, Which winds and waves obey.

"Thy will be done" can calm the soul By fearful tempests driven, The holiest anthem sung on earth, The highest heard in Heaven.

1830. E. P. K.

WOODBURN.

Oh, the brow that has never been shaded by care The rosewreath of pleasure may smilingly wear, And the heart that is wholly a stranger to gloom, 'Mid the din of existence may fearlessly bloom; But the one that is blighted by sadness and pain, And blighted too rudely to blossom again, When its hold on a reed-like support is resigned. Nor peace, nor composure, nor solace can find, Nor strength to submit to the chastening rod, Save only in stillness--_alone with its God_!

And oh! if a blissful communion with Heaven To earth-wearied spirits has ever been given, If the loved and the distant, the lost and the dead, Who smiled on our pathway a moment, and fled, Who darkened our sunshine and saddened our mirth, To prove that the soul has no home upon earth, Are sent in the night-time of gloom and distress, As heralds of mercy to comfort and bless, To place, while the tempest is fearfully loud, The bright bow of peace on the dark thundercloud, To whisper of purer and holier ties, Of a land where the blossom of joy never dies-- Such tidings to welcome, oh! where shall we flee, If not, dearest Woodburn, to silence and thee?

For ah! did the angel of peace over roam, On an errand of love, from her own hallowed home, To gladden a sin-blighted world for awhile, Make the desert rejoice and the wilderness smile, She has certainly paused in her holy career, And closed up her pinions delightfully here. Dear to me are thy shades, when no sound may be heard Save the soul-soothing strains of thy harmonist bird, For they seem on the soft wing of quiet to come, Like celestial melodies luring us home, Faint breathings from Heaven, to bid us prepare For peals of ethereal minstrelsy there.

But oh! when day rests on the portals of eve, As though loath the bright scene of enchantment to leave, While its drapery of gold, hurried carelessly on, Fades away, tint by tint, till at last all are gone, I feel 'tis an emblem of life's little hour, (Thus perish the hues of hope's loveliest flower), And I sigh for repose on that heavenly shore Where the day is eternal, and change is no more.

1830. E. P. K.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY THE PRESENCE OF THE ENGLISH FRIENDS, J. AND H. C. BACKHOUSE, IN AMERICA--1831.

... "They that turn many to righteousness, shall shine as the stars forever and ever." ...

They have left their homes and kindred, they are in the strangers' land, The voice of God revealed his will; His will was their command. They crossed the pathless main, nor feared the sadly treacherous wave, For is not He in whom they trust omnipotent to save?