Chapter 4

The light of those blue orbs That drank the sunbeams in, Now yields to night, and darkness Holds undisputed reign.

That little form so graceful, The light brown chestnut hair; Those half formed words when uttered, That face so sweet and fair;

All, all his ways so winning, Were impotent to save His life, when called to yield it By _Him that_ life who gave.

So soon his voyage ended, The passage home so short, Before he knew of evil, He entered safe the port.

Since thee, my child, I saw, Long years have passed away; Thy mother's hair then brown, Now's intermixed with gray.

Another link's been broken, By death's relentless hand; A daughter has been taken, The eldest of the band.

_Thy_ little lamp of life, Was put out in a day; But _hers_ was years expiring, By slow yet sure decay.

But _one_ short year of life, Was all allotted thee; But she, thy eldest sister, Was _many_ years spared me.

And though long since we parted, On earth to meet no more; I'd think of thee as children "Not _lost_, but gone before."

Feb. 20, 1853.

"LET ME DIE THE DEATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS."

By the river Euphrates the prophet abode, To whom Balak his messengers sent, Entreating his presence and curses on those Who on Moab's destruction were bent.

By hundreds of thousands they're marching along, And by Moses, God's servant, they're led; The rock for their thirst, cooling water supplies, And with bread from the skies are they fed.

They are felling the nations like trees on their way, And their power there is none can resist; "Come, curse me this people, oh! Balaam, I pray, For he whom _thou_ cursest is curst."

With rich bribes in their hands have these messengers come, Both from Moab and Midian are they; Desiring the Prophet with them would return, And this without any delay.

But the men are requested to stop over night, That the will of the Lord he may learn; And then if by Him he's permitted to go, He'll accompany them on their return.

Now when earth her dark mantle of night had put on, And men's eyes in deep slumber were sealed; In that solemn hour was the voice of God heard, And his will to the Prophet revealed.

"Thou shalt not go with them!" distinctly was said, "Nor to curse the Lord's people presume;" So the Princes of Moab returned as they came, And left Balaam reluctant at home.

Again unto Balaam were messages sent, More in number, in _rank higher still_, With the promise if Balak's request he would grant, He may ask and receive what he will.

But Balaam declared that if Balak would give Him his house full of silver and gold, The word of the Lord he could _not_ go beyond, To do _more_ or do less than he's told.

Still the bait was quite tempting, and Balaam was weak, And wicked he certainly proved; E'en the Ass that he rode, _that_ man's conduct condemned, Who the gains of unrighteousness loved.

In the country of Moab at length he arrives, And King Balak hath met face to face, Who requests that with him a high hill he'd ascend, And the Israelites curse from that place.

Three times seven altars were raised to the Lord, And three times was the sacrifice made; But the curse was withheld, for whom _God_ pronounced blest, Even _Balaam_ to _curse_ was afraid.

Poor Balaam, thy case is a hard one indeed; Like a house that's divided thou art; Both thy Maker and Mammon thou gladly would'st serve, But the former requires thy whole heart.

"Let me die the death of the righteous," say'st thou, "And my last end like his let it be;" But if like the righteous _unwilling to live_, _Never hope like the righteous to die_.

March 24, 1853.

* * * * *

Though life is young, and spirits gay, And hope thy fond heart cheers; Though friends are kind, and health is firm, And death _far off_ appears,

Yet think not happiness like this, Is destined long to last; For ere to-morrow morn, perhaps, Thy sky may be o'ercast.

Ah! let not pleasure blind thy eyes, Or flattery lure thy heart; But in the morning of thy life, Secure the better part.

March 29, 1853.

THE GREAT PHYSICIAN.

"And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be lifted up.

"That whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have eternal life."

St. John, 3:14, 15.

What means that cry of anguish, That strikes the distant ear; The loud and piercing wailing, In desert wilds we hear?

From Israel's camp it cometh, For Israel hath rebelled; And these are cries of anguish, By wrath of God impelled.

It is no common sorrow, Extorts that bitter groan; 'Tis from the broken hearted, And caused by sin alone.

Lo! in the far off desert, Upon that tented ground, Are many hundred thousands Of weary travellers found.

In desert of Arabia, Near forty years they roam; And soon they are to enter "Canaan their happy home."

But come with me and visit A people so distressed; They are the seed that Jacob When dying pronounced blessed.

We'll draw aside the curtain Of tent that's nearest by; Ah! what a mournful picture For stranger's curious eye.

See on that couch reclining, A young and lovely girl, With brow and neck half shaded. By many a clustering curl.

She was an only daughter, Nurtured with tenderest care; The idol of her parents, And fairest of the fair.

In bloom of youth and beauty, But yesterday she shone; And her fond parents thought her A mine of wealth unknown.

She seems like one that sleepeth, But there's no sign of breath; And coil'd 'neath her arm a serpent, Whose bite is _certain death_.

Yet not alone the mourners In this sad tent are found; Shriek after shriek is echoed For many miles around.

The mother, too, is bitten, With infant in her arms; And sire, in strength of manhood; And bride, with all her charms.

But see on pole suspended, A serpent now appears; And hark! what blissful tidings Salute the mourner's ears.

For every one that's bitten, A remedy is found; However bad the case is, However deep the wound.

If but _one spark_ remaineth Of life in any soul, Just look upon this serpent, That look will make thee whole.

But there's a wound that's deeper Than fiery serpent gave; And bite that's _doubly_ fatal, It kills beyond the grave.

And there's a great physician, That e'en _this wound_ may cure; And those to him applying, May life and health secure.

The broken heart he healeth, He cures the sin-sick soul; And all who will behold him, May _look_ and be made whole.

"I am the way!" he crieth; "And all who will may come, I'll pardon their transgression, And safe conduct them home.

"To cleanse from all pollution, My blood doth freely flow; And sins, though red as scarlet, Shall be as white as snow.

"Thy ransom to pay for thee, E'en my own life it cost; And he such love that slighteth, Forever shall be lost."

April 14, 1853.

TO MY NIECE, MRS. M.A. CALDWELL.

When days are dark and spirits low, And hope desponding stands, What comfort these few words bestow, "My times are in thy hands." That thought should every fear allay, And every cloud dispel; For we are in the hands of _One_ Who "doeth all things well."

He clothes the lily of the field, Paints the gay tulip's leaf, Hears the young ravens when they cry, And hastes to their relief. That little sparrow in thy path, He noticed when it fell; Numbereth the hairs upon thy head, And "doeth all things well."

Then say not when with cares oppressed, He hath forsaken me; For had thy father loved thee less, Would he so chasten thee? A friend he takes, a Husband too, A Child, with him to dwell; Selects the day, the place, the hour-- "He doeth all things well."

His power is _heard_ when thunders roll, _Felt_ when the cold wind blows, _Seen_ in the vivid lightning's flash, And in the blushing rose. He cares for monarch on his throne, For hermit in his cell, For sailor on the mighty deep-- "He doeth all things well."

He raiseth one to high estate, He brings another low; _This year_ an empire doth create The _next_ may overthrow. What he may plan for you or me, While here on earth we dwell, We know not--but of this I'm sure, "He doeth all things well."

Weston, April 18, 1853.

THE MORNING DRIVE.

FOR MY DAUGHTER MARGARET.

Very like to a dream, Doth the time to me seem, When with thee a young girl by my side, One of summer's fine days, In a one pony chaise, We commenced in the morning our ride.

By the pine grove and nook, Over bridge and through brook, Quite at random we drove without fear; While the birds of the grove, In sweet harmony strove, By their concert of music to cheer. With none to molest us, No home cares to press us, Farther onward, and onward we roam; But at length the skies lower, And unhoped for the shower Finds us many miles distant from home.

Even so is life's day, Like a fair morn in May, With hope's bright bow of promise it cheers; But long before night, The sun that so bright In the morning had shone, disappears.

Do not then I entreat, My beloved Margaret, Be content with this world for thy portion; Let ambition soar _higher_, E'en _above_ earth aspire, And to God give thy heart's true devotion.

April 29, 1853.

REPLY TO A TOAST,

SENT BY MR. W. TO THE LADIES OF WAYLAND, AT THEIR FAIR HELD ON MAY-DAY.

Many, _many_ kind thanks from the Waylanders fair, Who are sorry, quite sorry you could not be there, To receive their warm greeting, partake of their cheer, And repaid by their smiles for your wishes sincere. That health and content may your footsteps attend, Believe me, dear sir, is the wish of your friend.

May 2, 1853.

TO MR. C.R.

FOR MANY YEARS DEPRIVED OF SIGHT.

They say the sun is shining In all his splendor now, And clouds in graceful drapery, Are sailing to an fro.

That birds of brilliant plumage, Are soaring on the wing; Exulting in the daylight, Rejoicing as they sing.

They tell me too that roses, E'en in _my_ pathway lie; And decked in rich apparel, Attract the passers by.

They say the sun when setting, Is glorious to behold; And sheds on all at parting, A radiant crown of gold.

And then the night's pale empress, With all her glittering train, The vacant throne ascending, Resumes her peaceful reign.

That she in queenly beauty, Subdued yet silvery light, Makes scarcely less enchanting Than day, the sober night.

But sights like these so cheering, Alas, I cannot see! The daylight and the darkness Are both alike to me.

Yet there's a world above us, So beautiful and fair, That nothing here can equal, And nought with it compare.

There, in a blaze of glory, Amidst a countless throng, The Saviour smiles complacent, While listening to their song.

Ten thousand times ten thousand, Their cheerful voices raise, While golden harps in harmony Are tuned to sound the praise

Of Him the blest deliverer, Who conquered when he fell; The man of many sorrows, The _Great Immanuel_.

But stop--I dare not venture Too far on holy ground; Its _heights_ are too exalted, Its _depths_ are too profound.

Yet may I be permitted, When this brief life is past, The hope in yon bright heaven, To find my home at last.

When cleansed from all pollution, From sin and sorrow free, I, with unclouded vision, My Saviour God may see.

Brooklyn, May, 1853.

TO MY MISSIONARY FRIENDS,

MR. AND MRS. I.G. BLISS.

Why, dear friends, oh! tell us wherefore You're so anxious to be gone; Is the country late adopted Dearer to you than your own?

Have you found a father, mother, In that distant clime to love, Or a sister, friend, or brother, Better than the long-tried prove?

"Oh, no! believe us, no such motives Prompt us to tempt old ocean's wave; We go among the poor benighted, Perhaps to find an early grave.

"Ah! you know not half our anguish-- Only those who _feel_ can tell-- When we think of the sad parting, And that solemn word--farewell.

"But while lingering, souls are dying, Souls that Jesus came to save; And of such a priceless value, That for them his life he gave.

"Trials great no doubt await us In that distant home of ours; Work requiring so much labor, As to exceed our utmost powers.

"But He who said 'Go preach the gospel,' All powerful is, to aid, defend; 'Lo I am with you always,' said he, 'And will be even to the end.'

"With such command, and such a promise, Sure our path of duty's plain; Do not then, dear friends, persuade us Longer with _thee_ to remain."

Go then, go! we'll not detain you, We dare not ask your longer stay; And may winds and waves of ocean, Waft you safely on your way.

They who all forsake for Jesus, Father, mother, country, home, Here an hundred fold are promised, And eternal life to come.

Go then, go! but when far distant, Bear us sometimes on your mind; When for others interceding, Forget not those you leave behind.

And when your earthly warfare's ended, And you have laid your armor down, May souls of poor benighted Asia Add _many_ stars to your bright crown.

TO MY HUSBAND.

Just two-and-forty years have passed[5] Since we, a youthful pair, Together at the altar stood, And mutual vows pledged there.

Our lives have been a checkered scene, Since that midsummer's eve; Much good received our hearts to cheer, And much those hearts to grieve.

Children confided to our care, Hath God in kindness given, Of whom five still on earth remain, And two, we trust, in heaven.

How many friends of early days, Have fallen by our side; Shook by some blast, like autumn leaves They withered, drooped, and died.

But still permitted, hand in hand Our journey we pursue; And when we're weary, cheered by glimpse Of "_better land_" in view.

We may not hope in this low world, Much longer to remain, But oh! there's rapture in the thought, That we may meet again.

[5] July 14, 1853.