Part 6

And when at the morning and evening devotion, While bending with offerings of praise and of prayer, To God we commend thee afar on the ocean, We feel thou art kneeling for us to him there.

While months on the waters, long months are before thee, The two fluid worlds thou art tossing between-- The cold deep below, and the skies bending o'er thee, Alone by their changes will vary the scene.

Or, if a bright isle, on the flood-waste upstarting, Rude ocean's green oasis, rest thy glad eye, 'T will fade as a cloud--as a phantom departing, 'T will sink in the circle that bounds sea and sky.

Should some white-winged ship, with her light pennon streaming, Thy heart on that wide watery desert to cheer, Arise, like a star through night's solitude beaming, With meteor swiftness she 'll soon disappear.

And when the coy sea-bird, a wild ether-sailor, Comes near on her passage, for one language more, O! how wilt thou long, ere she flies thee, to hail her, To ask whither bound, and the tidings from shore!

Yet, while so unstable, so pathless and lonely, Thy way o'er that desolate deep may be found, 'T is marked with the impress of Deity only; His merciful arms will thy frailty surround.

'T is grand, 't is ennobling, while feeling and knowing His presence is power, and his banner is love, To look from that flood, to the firmament showing Bright shadowings-forth of his glory above.

And, William, though tempest and terrors assail thee-- Though clouds rolled on clouds hide the stars and the sun, Thy soul's chosen Friend never, never will fail thee! Winds and waves but obey that omnipotent ONE.

While o'er and around thee thick darkness may gather; When wide yawns the deep, and the surges swell high, Thy spirit may hear the kind voice of her Father, Still whispering, "Be of good cheer; it is I."

And safe may he bear thee through perils and changes Besetting his course, who so widely would roam, Then speed thy return from the land of the Ganges, From pagod and painim! Dear William, come home.

Come home, where the eyes beam through tears to behold thee; Where arms open wide to receive thee will be; And promise, while yet to the heart they infold thee To be, never after, our William at sea!

MY PORTRAIT.

Well, thou art done, cold, speechless thing; Yet, in thy silence, with the power A crowd of feelings deep to bring Unknown until the present hour.

But wherefore done, to life so true? Not human pride, nor vanity Could ask the artist hand to do, And show the world a deed like thee.

And was it simple most, or kind To have upon the canvass cast My semblance, thus to leave behind My shadow, when myself am past?

I know not if another eye Will ever weep beside thee, more Than mine does now, I know not why-- It never dropped such tears before.

I view thee as a piece, composed To last, when I have passed from sight-- When time and earth to me are closed, To be in time and earthly light.

Perhaps 't is this, that makes me weep-- The thought that I shall pass away, And those, who have thee then to keep, May glance at thee, and still be gay.

But why should grief be felt by me, For fear that others will not grieve? And what to others then will be A shade of life, that I may leave?

Still, from their deep, mysterious spring Gush up these hot, resistless tears; Whilst thou, cold, heartless, stoic thing, Dost wear a smile that 's set for years.

Years! Ah, but then, when years shall wipe From being every line of thee, The spirit, which thy prototype Enshrined, shall live eternally!

THE WIDOW'S ONLY SON.

She wrapped her in her sable cloak, And walked beside the sea; But seldom of her sorrow spoke,-- Too full of grief was she!

'T was this that made her heart so sad, To view the ocean wide: The only son, that widow had, Went out to sea and died.

And then, in that great, rolling deep, With solemn, tearful eyes, His mess-mates lowered him down, to sleep Till all the dead shall rise.

But where, among those waters vast, With ceaseless fall and swell, Her child to that repose had passed, The mother none could tell.

She therefore questioned wave on wave, As up they heaved to shore, If they had rolled across his grave, Whom she must see no more.

And often, when she marked a ship With full, returning sail, The color would forsake her lip, And speech and vision fail.

For, O! she thought about the one That spread its canvass white, To waft away her only son Forever from her sight!

But still, amid the bitter grief Which wrung that widow's heart, Her spirit felt the sweet relief That faith and hope impart.

She knew her son had ever kept The path to heavenly rest-- That, when he sank in death, he slept Upon a Saviour's breast.

"My heavenly Father," she would say, "I know the troubled sea But holds from me the precious clay: My child 's at home with thee!"

THE YOUNG MOTHER.

Composed in its beauty, the fair infant slept; But still the young mother sat by it and wept: She rocked not the cradle, she sang not the song, The sleep of her dear, only child to prolong.

The same fleecy cover, so soft and so warm, That oft wrapped it sleeping, lay light o'er its form; Its pillow was downy, and smooth was its bed, And yet, that sad mother! her fond bosom bled.

She knew that no dream of her babe, in its rest, Was now of her voice, or its home on her breast; She caught not the sound nor the balm of its breath: She knew that her little one slumbered in death!

A hand with the pencil was called to portray The features and form of her child as it lay; But false were the hues and the touches of art To paint the bright image enshrined in her heart.

Its lustre was drawn from a glory on high: No pencil of earth could the likeness supply; Nor yet on the canvass was mortal to trace A smile the pure spirit had left on that face.

The skies, as they opened, their guest to receive, Had shed, on the dust they allured it to leave, A sign of the peace, of the joy, and the love, Encircling for aye the young angel above.

That mother rose calm, when the beautiful clay Must be from her sight laid forever away! The gloom left her soul, as a cloud leaves the sun; It whispered, "Thy will, O my Father, be done!"

EVENING AT ANDOVER SEMINARY-HILL.

I stood on that majestic height, The lofty Hill of Andover, Where sacred science holds the light That beams to distant lands from her.

For there the school of sages stands, Where, from afar, disciples meet For lore divine, in holy bands To sit and learn at Wisdom's feet.

Within its consecrated walls Is kept and taught Jehovah's will:-- The LAW, whose voice in thunder falls-- The GOSPEL, whispering, "_Peace! be still!_"

The structures while I viewed around, I seemed to breathe Mount's Zion's air; I set my foot with awe profound, As if the ark of God were there.

Each earthly care was calm and dumb, For holier thoughts the soul to fill; As if the Shechinah had come To rest upon that reverend hill.

A mellow glory crowned its head; And from its foot, in landscape wide, Profusely nature's charms were spread, Till in the distance vision died.

It was a summer day's decline: The drowsy flowers began to close; The breezes lulled, that stirred the vine; And all things tended to repose.

The sun, adown the western skies, Was sinking fast to pass from view, Calm as the righteous when he dies To earth, in heaven to live anew.

And thence, on edifice and site, His golden smile was backward cast, As if he loved that favored height To bless the longest and the last.

In eastern splendor, then arrayed, The full-orbed moon arose serene, Through evening's hush and night's cool shade To throw her lustre o'er the scene.

Her silvery vesture wrapped in sheen The stately seminary pile, And fell on tree, and flower, and green, Where pearly dews distilled the while.

And through the chapel's crystal shone Her light, within the place of prayer, Till bright-winged angels, from the throne Above, seemed met and hovering there.

It was a scene--it was an hour A spirit bowed in dust to raise Ennobled, till its every power, Awaked to joy, was tuned to praise.

Clear as that sun, fair as that moon, Shall thy dear Zion rise and shine Above her foes--Ah! Lord, how soon?-- When shall the ends of earth be thine?

HYMN OF THE PARTING CLASS.

SUNG BY THEOLOGICAL STUDENTS.

We feel the parting angel's hand Is in our midst, to loose the band So close, so sacred, and so dear, That long hath bound us, brethren, here.

No more within this hallowed place, United at the throne of grace, Our prayers shall rise--our voices pour In praise, when this, our song is o'er.

To each we hear the Saviour say We to his work must hence away; For great the field--the laborers few! What wilt thou, Lord, have us to do?

O send thy Spirit from above To fire our hearts with heavenly love; And light our lips with truth, that we May, witnesses, go forth for thee.

And may we count all else as loss To spread the glory of thy cross-- From shades and death redeemed, to bring The priceless jewels of our King.

On distant islands of the sea-- On heathen shores our lot may be, To dying souls to bear the bread And balm of life on Calvary shed.

Yet, though our lines be marked afar, And some beneath a foreign star, We may look upward to the Sun Of righteousness, and still be one.

And when our works of faith are past, In joy we 'll meet on high at last; And there, in praise, our voices swell The song, where enters no farewell.

THE SPECKLED ONE.

Poor speckled one! none else will deign To waft thy name around; So, let me take it on my strain, To give it air and sound.

Yes--air and sound, low child of earth! For these are oft the things That give a name its greatest worth, Its gorgeous plumes and wings.

But do not shun me thus, and hop Affrighted from my way. Dismiss thy terrors--turn, and stop; And hear what I may say.

Meek, harmless thing, afraid of man? This truly should not be. Then calmly pause, and let me scan My Maker's work in thee.

For both of us to him belong; We 're fellow-creatures here; And power should not be armed with wrong, Nor weakness filled with fear.

I know it is thy humble lot To burrow in a hole-- To have a form I envy not, And that without a soul.

In motion, attitude and limb I see thee void of grace; And that a look supremely grim, Reigns o'er thy solemn face.

But thou for this art not to blame; Nor should it make us load With obloquy, and scorn, and shame The honest name of TOAD.

For, though so low on nature's scale-- In presence so uncouth, Thou ne'er hast told an evil tale Of falsehood, or of truth.

Thy thoughts are ne'er on malice bent-- Nor hands to mischief prone; Nor yet thy heart to discontent; Though spurned, and poor and lone.

No coveting nor envy burns In thy bright golden eye, That calm and innocently turns On all below the sky.

Thy cautious tongue and sober lip No words of folly pass, Nor, are they found to taste and sip The madness of the glass.

Thy frugal meal is often drawn From earth, and wood, and stone; And when thy means by these are gone, Thou seem'st to live on none.

I hear that in an earthen jar Sealed close, shut up alive, From food, drink, air, sun, moon and star, Thou 'lt live and even thrive:

And that no moan, or murmuring sound Will issue from the lid Of thy dark dwelling under ground, When it is deeply hid.

Thou hast, as 't were, a secret shelf Whereon is a supply, Of nourishment within thyself, Concealed from mortal eye.

Methinks this self-sustaining art 'T were well for us to know, To keep us up in flesh and heart, When outer means grow low.

Could we contain our riches thus, On such mysterious shelves, Why, none could rob or beggar us; Unless we lost ourselves!

But ah! my Toadie, there 's the rub, With every human breast-- To live as in the cynic's tub, And yet be self-possessed!

For, how to let no boast get round Beyond our tub, to show That we in head and heart are sound, Is one great thing to know.

And yet, the prison-staves and hoop To let no murmur through, However hard we find the coop, Is greater still to do.

Then go, thou sage, resigned and calm; Amid thy low estate, And to thy burrow bear the palm For victory over fate.

We conquer, when we meekly bear The lot we cannot shape, And hug to death the ills and care From which there 's no escape.

THE MOON OF A WINTRY NIGHT.

Moon, thou art wading through the gathered snow, That o'er us, on the fields of ether spread, Threatens, ere morning to be here below, To lie where our poor mortal feet must tread.

Thy face is muffled in a gelid haze, That shrouds its lustre like a frozen veil; And kills the twinkling of the starry rays, Till all on high looks cheerless, dim, and pale.

It gives almost the ague, to behold The skies so rayless, yet so far from dark; As when our hearth's white ashes, tired and cold, We stir in vain to find one pleasant spark.

Yet, by to-morrow's eve our parts may shift, And thou be shining there, serene and clear, While we are hedged by many a frigid drift; Or sleigh-bells shrill may pierce the tingling ear.

How dreary then the scene for thy mild beams To light, and for the burning stars to view! The hard ice coating all the lakes and streams, And one dead white where late gay flowerets grew.

The naked trees, that stand with buried feet, Like skeletons, will slender shadows throw On what seems spread as nature's winding-sheet, While her slain beauties lie concealed below.

Then, but to look abroad on vale and hill, Where one pale uniform invests the whole, Though it should make one's vital current chill, It must not let in winter to the soul!

It must not bring a frost upon the heart, To kill affection's tendrils--friendship's root, Where vernal shoots and buds should ever start, And grow with summer flowers and autumn fruit:

Nor cause the streams of thought to be congealed, Or, pressed beneath incumbent ice, grow low; But, like the fount that irrigates the field, Make bloom and verdure spring, where'er they flow.

It must not make our shrinking fancies flee, Like birds of summer from the cold withdrawn; But wise, the mind should, like the prudent bee, On honey banquet, though the flowers are gone.

Nor must it strike the hopeful spirit dumb, Or quench the beaming of her upturned eye, Or close her ear, or make her members numb, Ere her thank-offerings on the altar lie.

And yet, fair Moon, methinks I like the best To see thy silvery lustre sprinkled here, When these bare branches all appear full-dressed, In some more gentle season of the year.

I love to see it, mingled with the dew, Falling to bathe the sleeping buds and flowers; And soft, and silent, coolly streaming through The whispering leaves, that clothe the summer bowers.

I love to see thy beaming mantle trail Along the flower-sprent borders of the rill, With rich, deep shadows stamped, o'erspread the vale, Or bind the forehead of the silent hill.

I love to see thee through the foliage peep, Where, one soft hour before, the robin sung Her vesper song; the while, in downy sleep, With peaceful breast she guards her callow young.

I love to see thee, when the whip-poor-will Moans in the hedge behind the cottage-eaves; And when the plaintive crickets, hidden, trill Their harvest-hymn among the golden sheaves.

But these are tender memories--ay, and more-- Fresh budding hope from memory's root that grows, To see earth clothed in beauty as before, When thou and we have struggled through the snows.

Then come, sweet Moon, and fondly smile on me, From thy pure azure home, with face serene, While I will look abroad, and up to thee, And bless the great Creator of the scene.

Others may call thee fickle--faithless--strange, When veiled in part, or wholly from their view; Yet, though twelve times a year thou _seems't_ to change, Again twelve times I ever find thee true.

'T is our gross planet, heaving misty shrouds, Or rolled before thee, that our darkness brings, Just as earth's bulk or vapor hides or clouds Our glorious view of higher, holier things.

TOM TAR.

I 'll tell you now about Tom Tar, The sailor stout and bold, Who o'er the ocean roamed so far, To countries new and old.

Tom was a man of thousands; he Would ne'er complain nor frown, Though high and low the wind and sea Might toss him up and down.

Amid the waters dark and deep, He had the happy art, When all around was storm, to keep Fair weather in his heart.

Though winds were wild, and waves were rough, He 'd always cast about, And find within he 'd calm enough To stand the storms without.

"For naught," said Tom, "is ever gained By sighs for what we lack; Nor can it mend a vessel strained, To let our temper crack.

"And sure I am, the worst of storms, That any man should dread, Is that, which in the bosom forms, And musters to the head."

Serene, and ever self-possessed, His mess-mates he would cheer, And often put their fears to rest, When dangers gathered near.

If on the rocks the ship was cast, And surges swept the deck, Tom Tar was ever found the last, Who would forsake the wreck.

And when his only hat and shoes The waters plucked from him, Why, these, he felt, were small to lose, Could he keep up and swim!

Then through the billows, foam, and spray, That rose on every hand, He 'd, somehow, always find a way Of getting safe to land.

The secret was, the fear and love Of Heaven had filled his soul: His trust was firm in One above, Howe'er the seas might roll.

And Tom had sailed to many a shore, And many a wonder seen: The stories he could tell would more Than fill a magazine.

He 'd seen mankind in every state, Almost, that man can know; But envied not the rich and great, Nor scorned the poor and low.

The monarch in his sight had stood, Superb, in glittering vest; The savage, too, that roams the wood, In skins and feathers dressed.

The tribes of many an isle he knew; And beasts, and birds, and flowers, And fruits, of many a shape and hue, In lands remote from ours.

He 'd seen the wide-winged albatross Her breast in ocean lave; And bold sea-lions, playing, toss Their heads above the wave.

He 'd seen the dolphin, while his back Went flashing to the sun, A swarm of flying fish attack, And swallow every one!

The porpoise and the spouting whale Had sported in his view; And hungry sharks pursued his sail, As if they 'd eat the crew.

And ever, when Tom Tar got home, The children, at their play, Were glad to have the sailor come, And greet them by the way.

Then, oft, some curious stone, or shell, The laughing girls and boys Would find, that on their aprons fell, To put among their toys.

"These pearly shells," said he, "I found Where gloomy waters roar: These polished stones, so smooth and round, Rough surges washed ashore.

"Though small to us a pebble seems, 'T is made and marked by One, Who gave the warmth, and lit the beams Of yon great shining sun.

"And when these pretty shells I find, Along the ocean strand, Their beauteous finish brings to mind Their Maker's perfect hand.

"When on the wildest shore I'm thrown, And far from human eye, I think of him who made the stone, And shell, and sea, and sky.

"For he 's my friend, and I am his, Though cold and rough the blast: My safest guide I know he is, Where'er my lot is cast."

When Tom passed on, the children said, "These treasures from afar He brought us! Blessings on his head! For he 's a good Tom Tar!"

THE SEAMAN'S HYMN.

Landmen, on your downy pillows, While your eyes are sealed in sleep, Seamen, tossed 'mid foam and billows, Roam, for you, a boisterous deep. When the glorious light of day Is on your homes so peaceful dawning, Along our pathless, troubled way The surge swells high, the flood is yawning.

When earth's flowers to you are blooming, Or your hearths are bright and warm; We behold the wild waves booming, Mount the shrouds, and brave the storm. Singing birds your hearing greet-- Your hearts the kindred tone rejoices; While winds, that on our canvass beat, And roaring ocean join their voices.

Then, to meet the High and Holy, When ye to his throne repair, O before him, meek and lowly, Bow for us, as suppliants there! When his blessed day appears, The dearest, best of all the seven, Your souls the gospel herald cheers; But none tells us of rest and heaven.

Zion, bid thy sons and daughters Often, on the bended knee, Cry to Him, who rules the waters, For the wanderers o'er sea! Now, to Thee, the seaman's Friend, Our guide--our light--our ark abiding, Our Saviour, we our all commend, While time's rude waves in frailty riding.

THE MARINER'S SONG OF DEPARTURE.

While o'er the bright bay, With her streamers at play, Our bark in her beauty is gliding, As brothers, are we, The glad sons of the sea, Our own darling element riding.

Good pilot, adieu; For the skies are all blue; And yonder, blue billows are bounding. We speed from the port, To be off by the fort, While her gun to the sunrise is sounding.