Part 12

No huge rolling billows can me overwhelm, The God of the ocean is at the helm; Though the waves may rise, and around me chafe, When Jesus is with me, _all is safe_!

O, Savior! there _is_ consolation in thee, And when I am troubled, ’tis there I flee; I hide in thy bosom, and there lean my head, When the bosoms I loved are cold and dead.

And why do I ever forsake thy breast, And seek upon earth for a place of rest? Why cannot I learn there is safety alone, Where for safety and comfort so often I’ve flown?

How foolish, forgetful, and faithless am I, To fasten my love upon things that must die! And when they are taken, how well ’tis for me, That there is consolation, dear Savior, in thee!

APRIL 21, 1841.

ALL JOY.

“My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trial of your faith worketh patience.”

JAMES i. 2, 3.

O! Father divine! may I count it all joy To resign thee my husband and beautiful boy; Though now I am weeping and breaking my heart, Thou canst dry every tear and cure every smart.

Thou art teaching me patience by trying my faith, This “fight of affliction” springs not from thy wrath; It grieved thee, my Father, to punish me so, But ’twas tenderest mercy that guided each blow.

May I bear, holy Father! this sorrow and pain, And never, O! never, despond or complain; Though all of my loved ones should sicken and die, I will not, I dare not, thy goodness deny.

I have seen a sweet child, with a frown on his brow, Ere his will had been taught to his father’s to bow; I have seen him subdued, and the frown leave his face, And the smile of affection beam bright in its place;

And he loved his kind father, who guided the rod; Then sure I must love thee, my Father! my God! Thou hast taken my treasures, and stricken me sore, Yet more do I love thee than ever before.

Heart broken and sorrowing, Father, to thee, On the wings of affection this moment I’ll flee; If thou wilt be mine, I will “count it all joy” To resign thee my husband and beautiful boy!

MAY 2, 1841.

THE MOURNER’S RESOLVE.

Hence, all ye sombre signs of grief! Ye must not dwell with me; Though to indulge would give relief, I must not selfish be.

I charge thee, O! thou quiv’ring lip! To settle to a smile; And let thy cheerful fellowship My lonely heart beguile.

I’ll strive with all my heart, to bless Each sufferer I see; The widow and the fatherless Shall learn to pray for me.

I’ll ne’er forget how loved ones watch For every smile or tear; Nor how their eager faces catch The look my features wear.

They shall not hear my grief express’d, They shall not see me weep; But every sorrow in my breast Shall there lie, buried deep.

This is my task, and I will still Bear on my broken heart; If God will give me strength awhile, I’ll nobly do my part.

MAY 27, 1841.

WHEREFORE GLORIFY YE THE LORD IN THE FIRES.--Is. xxiv. 15.

Help me, Lord, to glorify thee, In the fires to sing thy praise, With my heart to justify thee All these dark and doleful days. Should I bask in beams of glory All the days I sojourn here, Would I then believe the story, That this world is dark and drear?

Would I ever turn to Heaven, With an ardent sweet desire, If to me ’twere never given Thus to pass through sorrow’s fire? Not from paths of fragrant roses Will the rebel call on God, Not till Jesus interposes, Planting thorns along my road.

Burning fires can ne’er alarm me, When my Savior’s voice I hear, Barbed arrows cannot harm me, With the balm of Gilead near. Sorrow’s flames will purify me, Barbed arrows harmless fall, If I praise and glorify thee In the fires, my Life! my All!

JUNE 8, 1841.

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF HENRY DICKSON,

Infant son of Thomas A. Elliott, M. D., of Orangeburg, S. C.

He died ere sorrow’s blighting breath Had o’er him pass’d; Cold sinking in the arms of Death, He breathed his last. But father, mother, do not weep; Your darling babe is but asleep In Jesus’ arms; He tasted of the cup of pain, Then turned him to his home again-- To heavenly charms.

Remember how, in gentle tones, The Savior said, While o’er th’ unconscious little ones His hands he spread, “Forbid them not to come to me;” O! father, mother, will not ye Remember this? Why does not joy each bosom seize, When Jesus says, “Of such as these My kingdom is?”

Then, while you think upon your boy, Your sainted one, O! sweetly say, with smiles of joy, “God’s will be done!” Go, darling, to thy blissful home, Where pain and death can never come, Nor pale faced woe; Go, nestle in the Savior’s breast; Soon we shall share thy blissful rest; Go, Henry, go!

ORANGEBURG, _August 14, 1841_.

THE DYING HADGI.

I.

With downcast brow and ling’ring feet, Who leaves that richly cushion’d seat? And why that deep convulsive sigh? Thou veiled Beauty, tell me why? ’Twas Selim left that cushion’d seat, With downcast brow and ling’ring feet.

II.

And she who loves him more than life, That dark eyed maid--his promised wife, Whose gath’ring tears bedim each eye, Twas she who sigh’d convulsively; For Selim starts that very day His vows at Mecca’s shrine to pay.

III.

It must be so--for all must part; There lives no man, whose youthful heart Has never ached when he has heard, Farewell--farewell--that saddening word! Unless the heart is cased in steel, This is a pang that all must feel.

IV.

How oft beneath the moon’s pale ray, Have parting tears been wiped away, While others soon their place supply, As though the fount could ne’er be dry! Ah! Stoics! vain are all your sneers; They speak of pain, those parting tears.

V.

Cheer up, young Selim! time will fly, Though lovers oft this ruth deny, And say he lags upon the road; But urge him with thy sharpest goad, Keep a light heart, an active mind, And leave thy vain regrets behind.

VI.

And thou, pale Beauty! weeping sore, Raise up thy head, and weep no more, And bless thy fate that thou hast known Thy future husband; thou alone, Of all thy young companions, art Thus blest in giving up thy heart.[17]

VII.

One last fond look the youth bestows, And Selim with his father goes, To take his place amid the band Who journey to a distant land; The high, the low, the dark, the fair, The master and the slave are there.

VIII.

And now each stately Mussulman Has joined the starting caravan, And rich and poor alike press on To Mecca’s shrine; that journey done, Life’s greatest object is attained, And Paradise is surely gained.

IX.

Thus every man beneath the sun To some vain pilgrimage doth run; The heights of pleasure and of fame Are lighted by a dazzling flame; And every man, with fond design, Bends low at some forbidden shrine.

X.

The caravan is on its way; And, decked with varied colors gay, The sacred camel marches on, Proud of his grand caparison; It hath been so since time began, Brutes imitate their master, man.

XI.

O! ’tis a splendid sight to see The gorgeous banners waving free! From distant lands the pilgrims come, With zeal that shames all christendom; They hope t’ avert a future doom, By bending at their prophet’s tomb.

XII.

The Arab guide his mournful song Chants slowly, as he moves along, And, mounting to the cloudless sky, The hookah’s[18] smoke ascends on high; And every step springs light and free-- O! ’tis a goodly company!

XIII.

But little weens the hadgi now, How suffering may blanch his brow; The horrors of the fell Simoom[19] Not yet have filled his heart with gloom; But still the hour comes on, when all Beneath its fiery breath may fall.

XIV.

Some fall, alas! no more to rise, For death cuts short their agonies; And others only live to feel The pangs of thirst upon them steal, To long for what they cannot taste, And slowly die upon the waste.

XV.

O! ’tis a fearful death to die, That slow consuming agony! To feel the heart’s pulsation stop, The blood creep slowly, drop by drop! To struggle with a burning fire, And, parch’d with raging thirst, expire!

XVI.

Long on the desert have they been, And not one spot of cheerful green Their languid eyes have gazed upon, And ling’ring hope is almost gone. Their scanty store of water too Is gone; what may the pilgrims do?

XVII.

O! for some intervening cloud, Arabia’s burning sun to shroud! O! for some sheltering rock, to cast Its shadow on the dreary waste! O! for some fountain spark’ling clear, Or Hagar’s friendly angel near!

XVIII.

The hills of sand on every side, Like waves of ocean, petrified While high their restless forms did run, Stand whitening in the bleaching sun. All parch’d and bare the ground below, The heaven above one scorching glow!

XIX.

“O! give me water, e’er I die”-- This was the fainting pilgrim’s cry: But who could help? that dreadful hour Was one when friendship had no power To mitigate the sufferer’s pain; --The dying hadgi called in vain!

XX.

Stretch’d on the burning sands he lay, And in his eye the sparkling ray-- The index of his soul, grew dim; Now what was all his wealth to him? We would have given all to buy One drop of water--none was nigh.

XXI.

“O! father! father! canst thou bear To die, thy journey’s end so near? This dreadful desert almost pass’d, And wilt thou, father! sink at last?” Thus spoke the hadgi’s noble son, His darling boy--his only one!

XXII.

’Twas Selim spake--his father now Gazed on his face with troubled brow, And ’twas for him escaped the sigh, And sprang the teardrop from his eye; ’Twas hard to part from Selim there, Where all was woe, and blank despair.

XXIII.

’Tis sad to see proud manhood lie As weak as helpless infancy! Not one in all that caravan With stronger heart their march began, Than he, whose long drawn, gasping breath Was wavering ’twixt life and death.

XXIV.

So is it often here below, The strongest are the first to bow Beneath the ruthless storms of life; The proud man sinks--the gentle wife Uprises ’mid the stormy blast, And smiles until its rage be past.

XXV.

The father turned his failing eye Upon his boy--he rais’d on high His trembling hand, and faintly said, “Allah protect him when I’m dead!” Then laid his hand upon his breast, And sigh’d, “I soon shall be at rest.”

XXVI.

“O! die not thus, my father! no! I would not have thee perish so!” Thus spake the boy, then made a sign To those around; “You know ’tis mine,” He said, “to promise wealth, ’tis yours To gain it--now the richest stores

XXVII.

“I’ll give to him who brings me first, A draught to quench this dying thirst; My noble father must not die; Who brings me water, thus will buy The princely wealth I have to give-- Haste then, and bid my father live.”

XXVIII.

But all are silent--there they stand Like statues, all that turban’d band; For who could do his bidding, who? When they were nearly dying too? They now prepare to travel on, Ere life’s last energy is gone.

XXIX.

“And must I leave my father here?” Cried out the boy, in wild despair; “It must not be; he is not dead, And I will hope till life has fled; I’ll bear him in my bosom, where Sweet water gushes, bright and clear.”

XXX.

He said, and rais’d his father’s form; He found his heart still beating warm; The hope of saving him at length Endued him with a giant’s strength; And while the patient camel knelt, Tumultuous joy young Selim felt.

XXXI.

Now onward moves the caravan; The movement wakes the dying man; The houdah[20] is a place of rest, For he reclines on Selim’s breast; A faint breeze comes, and seems to give New life, and bid the dying live.

XXXII.

He softly murmurs in his dreams, Of cooling shades, and flowing streams; Perhaps he sees, that dying man, The fountain in his own divan; And while he hears its gurgling sound, He sees his loved ones all around.

XXXIII.

Dream on--dream on--for never more Thou’lt pass the threshold of thy door. Smile not, young Selim! death is near, Though Hope is whisp’ring in thine ear! No--Selim--no--’tis but the strife When mortals bid adieu to life.

XXXIV.

The panting beast, with ling’ring tread, Bears on the dying and the dead; For Selim’s father breaths no more, And Selim bows to sorrow’s power. How oft, when hope is prostrate laid, Oblivion lends her friendly aid!

XXXV.

And now the wild Arabian Watches the weakened caravan; He knows when death has done its work On many a proud and wealthy Turk; And there are signs he knows full well, Which tales of suffering weakness tell;

XXXVI.

When deep despair has seized on all; And every jaded animal But creeps his weary way along, And jest, and laugh, and merry song Are hush’d--and all is silent there, Save the deep sigh, or mutter’d prayer.

XXXVII.

A palm tree in the desert--ho! Now see how cheerily they go! For Hope has lit her sparkling light, And every sadden’d eye grows bright. Farewell to every boding fear! The palm tree marks a streamlet near!

XXXVIII.

The baffled robber wheels around, And fast his steed flies o’er the ground; For men who but an hour before Were faint and weak, are weak no more! Who knows what mortals can endure, When hope leads on, and help is sure?

XXXIX.

’Tis reach’d at length--the blessed spot! But son and father heed it not. O’er one oblivion’s wing is spread, And one is numbered with the dead: And O! ’twould save most bitter pain, Could Selim never wake again!

XL.

Now, prostrate bending to the wave, How drink the master and the slave! And ’tis the most delicious draught That ever weary traveler quaff’d! With blessings on the purling rill, Each toil-worn pilgrim drinks his fill.

XLI.

But, fainting nature satisfied, They now repair to Selim’s side; And there, within the houdah, see A picture of mortality! And, struck with sorrow, every one Bewails the father and the son.

XLII.

But soon they know that Selim lives, And each some prompt attention gives; They bear him to a shaded place, And bathe his pallid, deathlike face; And now he heaves a deep drawn sigh, And gazes round with languid eye.

XLIII.

“Young Selim! there is water near! O, list thee now, and thou wilt hear The murm’ring of a blessed stream; Cheer up! it is no fev’rish dream! See nature’s best restorative! Poor fainting Selim! drink and live!”

XLIV.

But Selim hears not. On his brow The damps of death are gath’ring now; And, though no sound is plainly heard, His lips pronounce some cherish’d word; For while he goes through death’s lone shade, His thoughts are with his dark eyed maid.

XLV.

And she, within her splendid home, Will wonder why he does not come; And, wand’ring through the marble halls, Where many a tear in secret falls, Will vainly hope from day to day, While creep the tardy hours away.

XLVI.

And through the shady citron grove, At morn and eve the maid will rove, And, gazing on the verdant ground, Will start at every rust’ling sound, And, pale with mingled hope and fear, Will look to see her love appear.

XLVII.

O! lady! Selim will not come-- Thou’lt never bid him “welcome home”-- With sick’ning pangs thou’lt weep apart, Till hope forsakes thy fresh young heart; And then, in silent agony, That heart will break, and breaking, die!

FOOTNOTES

[17] In Turkish families the daughters are betrothed when quite young, and very often do not see their destined husbands.

[18] “Hookah,” the Turkish pipe.

[19] “Simoom.” I believe I have good authority for the orthography of this word, although it is oftener spelled “Simoon.”

[20] “Houdah.” A covered or open divan, placed on the back of the camel, and either rudely or luxuriously furnished.

REAL COMFORT.

There! I have lock’d the door ’Gainst every senseless bore! O! ’tis a blessing to retire, And, drawing near my cheerful fire, To feel I am alone-- Responsible to none-- My cares behind me thrown-- Hence! vanish every one! Now for a cozy time with my sweet Muse! Come, lady, wake! this is no time to snooze; When we’re alone we’ve not an hour to lose, We cannot always thus ourselves amuse.

I’ve laid my trappings by; For now no envious eye Looks on, my dress to criticise, With strictures aye more nice than wise. Clad in a flowing gown, My hair I’ve taken down, And, o’er my shoulders thrown, It seeks my loosen’d zone; Thus, free from all undue restraint, we sit, My darling Muse and I, to try our wit, While, author-like, our learned brows we knit, And coax our brains bright sparkles to emit.

’Tis true, the silent night Has darken’d round us quite; But ’tis the time we love the best, When earthly things are all at rest, And sweet the hours glide Down time’s fast flowing tide, Nor daylight’s pomp, nor pride, Invades our fireside; And should, perchance, my fickle Muse be shy, And choose to tarry in her native sky, Why, even then, I’ll not to others fly; I think myself the best of company.

But come, consenting Muse! We’ll now a subject choose From things below, or things above; I have it then, it shall be--LOVE! Which has its home, you know, In earth and heaven too; So, with no more ado, I’ll sing of love to you:--

SONG.

_Love is a tyrant, with a silken chain_-- What! pouting, Miss? you toss your head in vain; You know full well I’ve reason to complain, Love serves me many a trick--Let’s try again.

But not of Love I’ll sing, Who’s ever on the wing, And will not stay a moment more Than he’s caress’d, and fondled o’er; I’ll choose some nobler theme, Commanding more esteem; Come, come, how dull you seem! Rouse up, you surely dream! I’ve rack’d my brains until they fairly ache; Come, help me now, sweet Muse, for pity’s sake; You know I can’t a single couplet make Worth any thing, till you my genius wake.

What! art thou drowsy still? Come now, I’ll take it ill, If, at my need, you serve me so; O! surely you don’t mean to go! Fold up your tiny wing, You darling little thing! Forget the tyrant king, And hear me while I sing:--

SONG.

_Sweet Poetry! thine influence o’er me shed,_ _For thou canst charm when other charms have fled_; O! now you smile, and raise your lovely head; Well, kiss me, dear! make friends; I’ll go to bed.

CHARLESTON, _February 8, 1841_.

SONG.

O! that I could ever live Where the ocean waves do play, And make delightful harmony, Both night and day!

How they thrill upon the heart, Murmurs of the restless wave, When rolling waters gracefully The fair beach lave!

In the stillness of the night, How I love to hear the sound, It seems to lull the daylight cares To sleep profound!

When the storm is rising too, When the startled waves run high, Even then it seems to me All melody!

So, ’twill please me well to live Where the ocean waves do play, And make delightful harmony, Both night and day!

FEBRUARY 26, 1841.

SONG.

O! happy days of childhood! Ye have left me all too soon, When I wandered in the wildwood, And sang sweet “Bonnie Doon.”

When merry voices ringing, In the tones of childish glee, Told that no sad cares were clinging To my young friends or me.

Oft in the woodland hiding, How we ran from tree to tree, Or on young pine saplings riding, We laughed in ecstasy!

Or in the waters wading, On the smooth and sea-girt shore, While the western sun was fading, We frolick’d more and more.

O! happy days of childhood! Ye will never more return; For the waters and the wildwood, In vain, in vain I yearn.

CHARLESTON, _February 26, 1841_.

TO MRS. WILLIAM H----.

Written after receiving from her a beautiful bunch of flowers.

I do thank thee, lovely lady, For these bright and fragrant flowers; O! how sweetly such mementos Lend their charms to lonely hours!

Here are roses, freshly blooming, Free from blight, and free from stain; Time will mar their brilliant beauty, But their fragrance will remain.

So, when time shall part us, lady, Though I view thy charms no more, Think not mem’ry will forsake me, Nor thy smiles to me restore.

When my roses all have faded, When life’s flowers are pale and dead, When my spring has changed to winter, When its frosts are on my head;

Like an evergreen shall flourish All my memory of thee, Or like roses, freshly blooming; Shall these hours return to me.

_Love me_, lady, gentle lady, All unworthy though I be; ’Twill be sweet to think hereafter I was once beloved by THEE.

MCPHERSONVILLE, _April 22, 1841_.

THE DREAM OF THE SICK.

But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep! Thou art all one world of affections deep.

MRS. HEMANS.

In the dim twilight of my darkened room, When worn and wasted by long suffering, I lay, and thought upon the past. No bloom To my wan face could even mem’ry bring; For fever’s fiery thirst had drunk my blood, And stolen from my cheek the vital flood.

A breath of air--a zephyr from the west, Came stealing through the latticed window frame; To me, as comes a dear expected guest, One long beloved and waited for, it came; It bore a message to my fainting heart, And caused sweet tears through my closed eyes to start.

It told my heart that love was ling’ring still Around the places where I once did dwell; In every grove--near every bubbling rill-- On every mound--in every peaceful dell-- The guardian spirit of the place was love; I left it there, nor will it thence remove.

Well, as I said, it came; the zephyr’s breath Came to my pillow from the far off west; Twas a long journey through a world of death, But, till it reach’d me, would it take no rest, That messenger of love;--all spent it came; A dying zephyr to a dying frame.

I felt the faint breeze wand’ring o’er my cheek, Then sank to sleep; and as I slept, I dream’d; And in that blessed dream I felt not weak And dying; no! with youthful step I seem’d O’er well remembered scenes again to roam, Once more a tenant of my western home.

O! there I wandered as in days of yore, And back to life came dear departed ones; I saw them as I’ve seen them oft before, My own, my best beloved! and setting suns Threw their mild dying light on many a scene, Where, in my dream, we roved through forests green.