Then hath in heaven its perfect rest;
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of Love is there.
Oh! when the mother meets on high
The babe she loved in infancy;
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of wo, the watchful night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight!
WHERE shall the child of sorrow find
A place for calm repose? Thou Father of the fatherless,
Pity the orphan's woes!
What friend have I in Heaven or earth,
What friend to trust but thee?
My father's dead-my mother's dead;
My God, remember me !
Thy gracious promise now fulfil,
And bid my trouble cease;
In thee the fatherless shall find
Pure mercy, grace and peace.
I've not a secret care or pain,
But he that secret knows;
Thou, Father of the fatherless,
Pity the orphan's woes!
"O THAT I HAD WINGS LIKE A DOVE!"
O, COULD the soul oppress'd with care
Shake off her deadly load;
Spring upward to the realms of air,
And seek a new abode;
Where misery's gnawing pang should cease,
And hope forever dwell with peace.
Methinks 't were sweet to soar on high,
And feel the heart grow light,
To see the gloomy cloud pass by,
And all around look bright;
To leave behind the weight of pain,
And sorrow, with her fearful train.
How would the spirit joy to look
On all she left below,
And, as her parting glance she took,
With hope triumphant glow ;
And think that all her toils were o'er,
When she had gain'd that peaceful shore.
God of eternity! from thee
This feeble being came,
Thine eye its hidden springs can see,
Thou know'st its inmost frame;
And in its ways and wanderings still
'Tis but the creature of thy will.
O! if o'er all its varying fate
Thy hand supreme presides,
And tempering affliction's weight,
The stroke in mercy guides,
With meek submission let me bend,
And thy unseen design attend.
NAY, William, nay, not so; the changeful year
In all its due successions to my sight
Presents but varied beauties, transient all,
All in their season good. These fading leaves
That with their rich variety of hues
Make yonder forest in the slanting sun
So beautiful, in you awake the thought
Of winter, cold, drear winter, when these trees
Each like a fleshless skeleton shall stretch
Its bare brown boughs; when not a flower shall spread
Its colors to the day, and not a bird
Carol its joyance,—but all nature wear
One sullen aspect, bleak and desolate,
To eye, ear, feeling, comfortless alike.
To me their many-colored beauties speak
Of times of merriment and festival,
The year's best holiday: I call to mind
The schoolboy days, when in the falling leaves
I saw with eager hope the pleasant sign
Of coming Christmas, when at morn I took
My wooden kalendar, and counting up
Once more its often-told account, smooth'd off
Each day with more delight the daily notch.
the beauties of the autumnal year
Make mournful emblems, and you think of man
Doom'd to the grave's long winter, spirit-broke,
Bending beneath the burden of his years,
Sense-dull'd and fretful, "full of aches and pains,"
Yet clinging still to life. To me they show
The calm decay of nature, when the mind
Retains its strength, and in the languid eye
Religion's holy hopes kindle a joy
That makes old age look lovely. All to you
Is dark and cheerless; you in this fair world
See some destroying principle abroad,
Air, earth, and water full of living things,
Each on the other preying; and the ways
Of man, a strange perplexing labyrinth,
Where crimes and miseries, each producing each,
Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope
That should in death bring comfort. O, my friend,
That thy faith were as mine! that thou couldst see
Death still producing life, and evil still
Working its own destruction; couldst behold
The strifes and tumults of this troubled world
With the strong eye that sees the promised day
Dawn through this night of tempest! all things then
Would minister to joy; then should thy heart
Be heal'd and harmonized, and thou shouldst feel
God always, everywhere, and all in all.
"YE ARE THE SALT OF THE EARTH."
SALT of the earth! ye virtuous few,
Who season human kind;
Light of the world! whose cheering ray
Illumes the realms of mind.
Where misery spreads her deepest shade
Your strong compassion glows;
From your blest lips the balm proceeds
That softens human woes.
By dying beds, in prison glooms,
Your frequent steps are found;
Angels of love! you hover near,
To bind the stranger's wound.
You wash with tears the bloody page
Which human crimes deform;
When vengeance threats, your prayers ascend,
And break the gathering storm.
As down the summer stream of wo
The thoughtless many glide,
Upward ye steer your steady bark,
And stem the rushing tide.
Where guilt her foul contagion breathes,
And golden spoils allure,
Unspotted still your garments shine,
Your hands are ever pure.
Whene'er you touch the poet's lyre,
A loftier strain is heard;
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