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And if the storms are wild,
And we perish in the sea,
One grave shall hold the three !
And neither shall remain
To meet and bear alone
That we, my love, have known.
And there's a sweeter joy,
Wherever we may be :
Our trust, O God! in thee!
Or what have we to fear ? Though home, and friends, and life, we leave,
Our God is ever near.
If he who made all things,
And rules them, is our own, Then every grief and trial brings
Us nearer to his throne.
Then come, my gentle bride,
And come, my child of love;
Our portion is above!
Ye winds, blow foul or fair,
THE DYING BLIND BOY TO HIS MOTHER.
Mother, I am dying now,
Sun or moon I could not see, * It has been related of some who were recovered from early blindness, that they evidently expected to find those whom affection and kindness had endeared to them, the most beautiful to the eye.
But love measured time for me : When your kiss my slumber broke, Then I knew the morn had woke; When I heard the loud winds blow, And I felt the warm fire glow, Then I knew 't was winter wild, And kept at home—your helpless child ! When the air grew mild and soft, And the gay lark sang aloft, And I heard the streamlet flowing, And I smelt the wild flower blowing, And the bee did round me hum, Then I knew the spring was come. Forth I wander'd with delight, And I knew when days were bright; When I climb’d the green hill's side, Fancy traced the prospect wide; And 't was pleasant when I press'd The warm and downy turf to rest. Now I never more shall roam The many paths around my home; And you will often look in vain, Nor hail your wandering boy again ; Never more on tiptoe creep, Where he lies as if asleep; Or with a low and plaintive moan, Humming to himself alone, On a bed of wild flowers stretch'd, Starting when a kiss you snatch'd, Till nature whisper'd 't was my mother, And affection gave another ! But 't is sweeter thus to die, With
tender mother by,
Than to be in life alone,
THE VOICE AND TEMPLE OF NATURE.
"T was Eve's pensive twilight, the valley was gray, And the golden streak'd west seem'd the memory of
day; Between the dark trees almost deepen’d to night, The brook yet reflected the soft amber light. And all was so still and so fragrant around, That the fragrance appear'd from the stillness to
creep; It seem'd as if Nature reposed on the ground, And the odor that rose was the breath of her sleep. The nightingale singing within her green cells, Made the woods sweetly mourn with the strains of
her ditty ; O, her notes sobb'd so true, it was Grief when she
tells All the woes of her breast to the listening of Pity. Nought was heard when she paused, but the sound
of the rill,
With its little lone music so silvery and meek,
still, Seem'd as first infant essays of Silence to speak The moon slowly rising behind the tall trees, Her silver globe seem'd to suspend from the pine'T was the calm lamp of Silence—the leaves felt no
breeze, And the world at that moment seem'd form'd but to
All soothed and subdued in the midst of the scene,
Ther sin who tell us Love can die :
All others are but vanity.
But Love is indestructible.
It here is tried and purified,