Part 10

My Savior! is my place prepared, And for my welcome hast thou cared, When death shall call for me? When I shall rest beneath the sod, Shall angels bear my soul to God? O, Savior! can it be?

Exceeding grace! I raise my eyes, All wet with tear-drops, to the skies, And bless thee for thy love; I would not always dwell below, Where death has torn my heartstrings so; ’Twill ne’er be thus above.

And yet, ’tis well--’tis well for me, And well for those who’ve gone to thee, That thou didst call them home; I love those dear ones far too well, To wish that they again should dwell Where I in sadness roam.

I would not ask them now to change Their peaceful home; they’d think it strange, And ’twould be strange indeed If I, who am a pris’ner here, And daily shed the silent tear, Should mourn when they are freed.

I feel not as an exile feels, When lonely sadness o’er him steals, And hope forsakes his breast; I am not banish’d from my home; I have not many days to roam Ere I shall be--at rest.

O, blessed Savior! now I see Great preparations made for me, In mansions bright and fair; For thou, with sweet attractive art, To make Heaven dearer to my heart, Hast placed my jewels there!

BOSTON, _October 11, 1840_.

TO THE REV. J---- P----, OF BOSTON.

Written after reading some of his touching poems, particularly the one entitled, “My father, mother, brothers, and sisters.”

O, tell me! art thou not life-weary now, Thou of the noble heart and lofty brow? Or canst thou breast the waves that round thee rise, Till call’d to soar above these clouded skies? Thy father, mother, brothers, sisters, all Save one, have heard the heavenly Master’s call, And hasten’d to their dear eternal home; And thou art left in this dark world to roam. O, tell me what on earth to thee remains? For weeping I have read thy mournful strains, When thou hast told of sorrows, such as I Have felt--though I had not the power to die, When death a welcome friend had been to me; O, would not death be welcome too, to thee?

Yet there are loved ones round thy cheerful hearth; O, these must sweetly bind thee still to earth! We hold a chain outstretch’d from earth to Heaven, By God’s own love to weary mortals given; But every link removed, that shortens this, Draws us the nearer to our home of bliss. The moanful sighings of the wand’ring wind Have a strange power to move my inmost mind, And bring sweet thoughts of other days to me, By some unknown, mysterious sympathy. So has thy plaintive lyre, with low soft tone, Pour’d on my soul a music of its own, And waked an answering chord within my breast, Which thrills harmonious in my hours of rest.

Thou gifted Bard! whose richly gilded thought Comes like a ray with noonday brightness fraught, And cheers the heart obscured by sorrow’s breath, Which dims all brightness in this world of death-- I thank thee for the lays which thou hast sung! I thank thee for the lyre which thou hast strung! Those thrilling lays--that have with me communed, That deep toned lyre--by holy feelings tuned. Still let thy silvery dulcet tones be heard, Like the low warbling of some lonely bird; Or let thy full toned diapason roll, Like organ strains--entrancing every soul!

This weary earth is full of discord strange; But when thy harp is struck, how sweet the change! Then tune it oft, and sweep th’ obedient strings Till all the air with heaven-born music rings! And when thy hand shall wake its harmonies, To bear the music on, let Echo rise, And every where in sweet vibration play, Till _I_ shall hear it--far, O, far away!

BOSTON, _October 13, 1840_.

HEAVEN ON EARTH.

“They that believe _do_ enter into rest.”

Yes--even here, in this dark world, We enter into rest, If shelter’d in the Savior’s arms, And pillow’d on his breast!

The flowery paths of earthly joy Are not so sweet to me, As thorny roads, and darksome clouds, Which drive me, Lord! to thee.

The fragrant flowers--how soon they die, Scorch’d by the noonday heat; Or scatter’d, lie along my path, By angry tempests beat!

Though sore afflictions come to me, My soul is satisfied; And longer ’neath the chast’ning rod, I’m willing to abide.

I never felt as now I feel, The dark world’s vanity; I never loved as now I love, The Heaven I hope to see.

How calmly can I travel on, While joys and comforts die; And smile to see my bosom friends In death’s embraces lie.

’Tis well with them--’tis well with me-- Why should I shed one tear? My loved ones now are safe at home, And I shall soon be there.

Yes--even here, in this dark world, I’ve enter’d into rest; I’ve flown into my Savior’s arms, He bears me on his breast!

CHARLESTON, _November 15, 1840_.

THE JOY OF SOLITUDE.

Break not, my solitary heart! Thy sadness will not always last; A brighter day will come for thee, When all thy sorrows will be past.

’Tis thus I cure each bitter pang My mourning, lonely bosom feels; I look beyond all earthly things, Where faith the Christian’s home reveals.

When sorely aches the stricken heart, How sweet it is _to be alone_; Where precious tears can freely flow, And none can hear my stifled moan.

Sweet Solitude! thou art to me, Like rivers in a desert waste To faint and weary travelers, Who long the cooling stream to taste.

O, ye, whose hearts are desolate-- Ye tearful mourners, can ye tell Why, when my heart feels loneliest, I love to be alone so well?

Is it because e’en friendship’s joy Recalls the mem’ry of the past, And lifts the dark impervious veil Which death has o’er my pleasures cast?

I cannot tell; I am not vers’d In the heart’s deep philosophy; I only know when sad I feel, Dear Solitude! I fly to thee!

DECEMBER 5, 1841.

“THERE REMAINETH THEREFORE A REST.”

How sweet the sound of _rest_, To pilgrims weary of the length’ning road! With quicken’d steps they seek the blest abode Where sorrow is exchanged for peace and love; So flies, with eager haste, the timid dove, To seek her shelt’ring nest!

The aromatic gales Which reach us oft in contemplative hours, Bring back the fragrance of “transplanted flowers,” And give delight unmix’d with earth’s alloy; So feels the wand’rer, who, with trembling joy, The breeze from home inhales!

The pilgrim, parch’d with thirst, Who hears of Heaven’s pure, immortal streams, Sees, with a vision bright, in all his dreams, The river flowing near the throne of God; So joys the traveler, fainting on the road, To see the fountain burst!

Fair beauty’s beaming eye Grows brighter as she nears her father’s home, While springs the vessel through the billowy foam, Bearing her on to sweet domestic love! So looks the Christian joyfully above, Whose hour has come to die!

DECEMBER 15, 1840.

“EXCEEDING GREAT AND PRECIOUS PROMISES.”

“In a dry and thirsty land, Where no water is,” Thou hast given us, O, God! Glorious promises! Kneeling at thy mercy seat, Pouring out our prayer, O, how sweet it is _to know_, Thou wilt meet us there!

Sweet the words the Savior said To his chosen few, “Ye shall not be comfortless, I will come to you.” Be not troubled, O, my soul! He will come again, To receive you to himself, Wash’d from every stain.

He has sent the Comforter, With us to abide, Till, with all his chosen ones, We are glorified! Many mansions are prepared Where our Lord has gone; Surely to that peaceful home Sweetly we are drawn!

Blessed Spirit! when my heart Feels affliction’s sting, All these precious promises To remembrance bring! Then, as beams the cheerful sun, Shining after rain, When these floods of grief are o’er, I shall smile again.

DECEMBER 27, 1840.

“BLESSED ARE THE MEEK.”

Who is this, with brow serene, And such a peaceful smile? Surely now the vision bright Can sorrow’s self beguile! As the vision pass’d me by, I heard an angel speak, And the simple words were these-- O, “Blessed are the meek.”

Then I follow’d silently, Where’er the vision led, Till a storm seem’d gathering Around the fair one’s head; Still I saw the peaceful smile, And heard the angel speak, And the only words he said Were--“Blessed are the meek.”

Onward, onward still I went, Where’er the vision led; Till I saw the fair one laid Upon a dying bed. Then the smiling sufferer, With voice all faint and weak, Spake herself--and sweetly said-- O, “Blessed are the meek.”

Now seraphic grew her smile, The angel too was there, Waiting, to the upper skies Th’ unprison’d soul to bear. Then the angel said to me, “If happiness you seek, Ever, ever bear in mind, How ‘blessed are the meek.’”

JANUARY 8, 1841.

TRUST IN HEAVEN.

“What though some cherish’d joys are fled, Some flatt’ring dreams are gone?”

Come, mourning spirit, come to me! I have wherewith to comfort thee; I have a charm to soothe thy grief, Which ever yields a sweet relief; I cherish it within my breast; It there abides--a welcome guest; It chideth me whene’er I weep, And lulls my sorrows all to sleep; It brings bright visions to my heart, When, one by one, my friends depart; To all who seek this boon is given, ’Tis--_an unwav’ring trust in Heaven_.

The woes which in thy pathway stand, Are there by Heaven’s high command; By God commission’d, there they stood, To work together for thy good. ’Tis well thou couldst not pass them by, Or bribe them from thy path to fly, Till each had pierc’d thy trembling heart With sorrow’s ever pointed dart. For, when thy wounds were aching sore, If thou had’st never thought before Of Him who wounded was for thee, O, _then_ He’d come to memory!

And if, when overwhelm’d with grief, We fly to Jesus for relief, And hear his gentle voice of love, Telling of mansions far above These often overclouded skies, Where tears no more shall dim our eyes; With cheerful voices may we sing, “O, tyrant Death! where is thy sting? O, gloomy Grave! we fear not thee, Where is thy boasted victory?”

Then, drooping mourner! raise thy head; What though some cherish’d joys are fled? What though some flatt’ring dreams are gone? Soon shall the glorious morning dawn, Which never more shall darken’d be By clouds o’ercharg’d with misery.

JANUARY 10, 1841.

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF ALONZO CLAUDIUS WHITRIDGE, AGED EIGHT YEARS.

He came into this world of care, A precious gift from Heaven; And on his brow, so passing fair, A holy kiss was given, As, cradled in his mother’s arms, The smiling cherub lay; While gazed the father on his charms, Pure as the opening day.

In after months, too tenderly They watch’d his gambols wild; Ah! did they know how tenderly They held their darling child? A few short hours, and O, the change Their sadden’d spirits feel! The tear--the sigh--the gloom; how strange! Who can the cause reveal?

Ah! look around--the mother’s arms No precious burden hold; The father’s heart no longer warms With ecstasy untold, As when his playful infant boy, With outstretch’d, dancing hands, In baby language spoke his joy, Or utter’d his commands.

Yes, look around! in that still place A lovely infant lies, A parting smile upon his face, The smile of sweet surprise, As burst upon his ravish’d ear The music of the blest In Heaven, when harps were tuning there To welcome _home_ the guest.

But hark! a softer, sweeter strain Of _infant_ harmony! O, who would now to earth enchain That spirit, pure and free? Though icy cold the body lies Enwrapt in death’s embrace, To Jesus’ arms the spirit flies, Burning to see his face.

CHARLESTON, _May, 1834_.

WHEN SHALL IT BE?

“And he showed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.

“In the midst of the street of it, and on another side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month, and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.”--REV.

When shall I taste of that pure river, Flowing near the throne? When shall I drink and live forever, Far from sorrow flown?

When shall I bathe my fever’d spirit In the limpid stream? When shall I Heaven’s joys inherit-- Ended life’s short dream?

When shall the tree of life wave o’er me, Bearing precious fruit, When shall the healing sap restore me, Springing from its root?

When shall I taste the fruit, and never, Never hunger more? When shall I droop no more forever, Pain and anguish o’er?

Not till I reach my home in Heaven, All life’s journey trod; Not till my sins are all forgiven By the grace of God!

“I WILL TRUST IN THE COVERT OF THY WINGS. SELAH.”

My heart is pain’d within me. When shall I Away from all these mournful sorrows fly-- The ills of life--the ceaseless care and toil, Spontaneous growth of earth’s polluted soil?

How oft my spirit plumes her eager wings, To seek a refuge from these tiresome things! But like a wounded bird, she strives in vain, Then sinks desponding to the earth again.

My heavenly Father! may my refuge be Thine own almighty wings o’ershadowing me; Thy shelter o’er my struggling spirit cast, Till these calamities be overpast.

Then trusting in the covert of thy wings-- A peaceful shade--whence healing virtue springs, I’ll lay me down, content to live or die, And wait till thou shalt bear my soul on high.

DECEMBER 22, 1840.

TO THE ASHLEY RIVER.

Ashley river! Ashley river! Do I tread thy banks again? Then ’twas not farewell forever, Told I thee with throbbing pain, When I sought thee last, sweet river, With my lovely sister, Jane!

Was there not a gentle warning Murmur’d in thy gurgling tone? Clouds were gath’ring o’er life’s morning, Which in radiant beauty shone; Ah! I _felt_ the whisper’d warning, I should tread thy banks alone.

Yes--alone! my gentle sister Here no more shall rove with me; How I trembled when I kiss’d her, Standing near our fav’rite tree! Still I dream’d not, angel sister! ’Twas my last sweet walk with thee.

Evergreens were spreading o’er us, With their cool embow’ring shade; Hoary mosses waved before us, And a graceful drapery made: While the gliding waters bore us Many a tuneful serenade.

Pearly tears, in silence starting, Told the heart’s deep seated gloom, While we brooded o’er the parting From our early, only home; Ah! we knew not one was starting For a distant lonely tomb!

Now, no mosses wave above her, Where she sleeps so far away; But the eyes of those who love her Guard the precious sleeping clay; Angels keep bright watch above her, Till the resurrection day.

O, sweet Ashley! gently gliding, Calmly can I gaze on thee, For my loved one is abiding Where I quickly hope to be; So, each deep emotion chiding, Still I love to gaze on thee!

DECEMBER 16, 1840.

“ONE WOE IS PAST.”

Written after the death of a friend.

I have one sorrow less to bear, Of those that shall befal me here; Another grievous woe is past; Would God that it _might_ be the last!

While through the wilderness I go, With feeble footsteps, faint and slow, My dear companions of the way, How gladly would I bid them stay!

’Tis sweet to travel arm in arm Along life’s road--the sweetest charm Of human life is human love, And friends are blessings from above.

But one who loves them more than I Calls, “Come up hither,” from on high; Then joyfully they soar away, And leave me lonely here to stay.

Yet, when they leave me, well they know That I, from whose embrace they go, With swifter steps will travel on To where my dearest friends have gone.

So, smiling as they take their flight To regions of celestial light, They whisper low, with dying breath, “A _short_ farewell”--then sleep in death.

JANUARY 1, 1841.

TO MY FRAIL BODY.

O! frail and falling house of clay! I’ve loved thee far too well; With thee I have not long to stay, How long, I cannot tell.

But this I know, thy tott’ring wall Which now imprisons me, When touch’d by Death’s cold hand, shall fall; O! _then_ I shall be free!

And yet, whene’er I part from thee, Mid nature’s dying pain, O! let this truth remember’d be, We part to meet again

As tender rose trees seem to die, When touch’d by winter’s breath, And for a little season lie, With every mark of death;

Then spring to life when summer comes, And wear their brightest dress, To beautify our pleasant homes, Our careworn hearts to bless,

So shalt thou hear the trumpet’s sound, And leave thy lowly grave, Whether thou sleepest under ground, Or ’neath the rolling wave.

Then still I’ll love thee, house of clay! But not with former pride; For not until the last great day Shalt thou be glorified!

JANUARY 4, 1841.

A HYMN FOR THE AFFLICTED.

Wounded within me is my heart, I mourn and sit alone; And every voice that comes to me Breathes out a plaintive tone.

Ah me! how can I longer live Where all is desolate? I wander like a lonely bird, Bereaved of its mate.

O! would that I had died with thee, My dear, my early friend! Then deep affliction would not now My mourning bosom rend.

But no! It was my Father’s choice! I bow to his decree! He loved my friend, and call’d him home, And O! he loveth me!

The Angel of the covenant Is standing by my side; I pray thee, soother of my griefs! There ever to abide!

And now he makes the storm a calm; The waves thereof are still; My peace doth like a river flow,-- _I love my Father’s will_.

JANUARY 2, 1841.

THE BEREAVED FATHER TO HIS SON.

Dear miniature of her I loved and lost, Come to thy father’s almost broken heart! Come, lay thy lovely head upon my breast, And let me smooth thy golden ringlets down, As I have seen thy sainted mother do! Ah me! those dear soft hands lie mouldering, Now clasp’d upon her still, unconscious breast!

Would I could sing for thee, my orphan boy, As I have heard thy sainted mother sing! O! we shall never hear her sing again! The music of our fireside is hush’d-- The silver voice that cheer’d us, now is mute.

I pity thee, my boy! for well I know This mournful silence sends an icy chill To every heart within these lonely walls, That lately echoed to angelic tones. Methought I heard thee lisp thy mother’s name, As she had taught her darling boy to do; O! say it not again--’twill break my heart!

I see deep sadness in thy violet eyes, As though thou knew’st thy kindest friend was gone. Yes--she _is_ gone--poor boy! poor orphan boy! Too soon thou’lt find that thou art motherless; For who will love thee with a mother’s love-- That sacred, changeless, deep, untiring love? She loves thee still, my boy! and it may be She watches o’er thee now with tender care, A guardian angel to her own dear child!

My wife! my cherish’d wife! my bosom friend! If thou art near us, whisper peaceful words, And teach me how to bear my Father’s stroke! If ever, ’mid the swelling tides of grief, My spirit, struggling in the stormy wave, Lets go her only anchor, faith in God, And blindly plunges near the dang’rous shoals Of proud rebellion ’gainst th’ almighty will, Or total self-abandonment to grief, Then, sainted spirit! bear me back again, By some unknown, mysterious influence, Such as the ministering angels use!

O! sigh not thus, my dear, my gentle boy! Nor let the sad contagion of my grief Infect so soon thy young unconscious breast. ’Tis strange to see thee gazing silently Where there is nought to catch thy infant eye, With downcast look, and grave abstracted air, As though thou hadst th’ experience of years, And wert reflecting on the woes of life. The silken fringes round thy sweet blue eyes Are almost resting on thy downy cheek, And thy fair head reposes on my breast, My lonely, sorrowing, bereaved breast, With all the silent, touching eloquence So often felt where not a word is said. Thy angel mother may be near thee, boy! Communing with thy untaught spirit now, And teaching thee the rudiments of thought.

O Death! thou art th’ ambassador of Heaven, To wean us from th’ allurements of the world; May not thy visits ever be in vain! The storm, the calm, the sunshine, and the cloud, Must each alternately my portion be, And all to me their sacred lessons teach; O! may I learn the varied lessons well!

The youthful stranger in a foreign land Soon learns to know where happiness is found. Should Pleasure lure him to some shining place, And surly Disappointment meet him there, If he is wise, he shuns that path again, Because the meteor sparkles to deceive. But I, a stranger and a pilgrim here, Must learn the same sad lesson o’er and o’er, That all is changeful in this dying world. I clasp a shadow to my foolish heart, Then weep to find my arms are empty still! O! could I but remember that on earth My dearest treasures are a loan from Heaven, And may at any moment be recall’d, I should prepare my heart for each sad loss.

My darling boy! I must not love thee so; Dear miniature of her I loved and lost, I’ll try to feel that I may lose _thee_ too! Yet, joyful thought! such treasures cannot die, _The time will come I’ll find them all again_.

JANUARY 4, 1841.

WHERE IS THE BETTER COUNTRY?

Where is the better country, where? Ye who have found it, lead me there; I long have sought a happy home, Yet weary, weary, still I roam; I’ve tried by turns each pathway bright; My sun goes down, and all is night; I grope my way in sad despair; Where is the better country, where?

I catch at every beaming ray That shines upon my weary way; I’m taken captive by a flower, That blooms and withers in an hour; And yet, whene’er my bosom tries To shield a flower, there it dies: Away the withered thing I throw, And sadly on my way I go.

An infant in its cradle smiled-- Its look of joy my heart beguiled; But, when I gazed a moment more, Its joyous brow was clouded o’er; Then, sick at heart, I heav’d a sigh, And turn’d away my tearful eye; How vain the search for pleasure here! With every smile there comes a tear.