A Book for the Young Part 11

"My G.o.d!" the beauty oft exclaimed, In deep impa.s.sioned tone; But not in humble prayer, she named The High and Holy One; 'Twas not upon the bended knee, With soul upraised to Heaven, Pleading with heartfelt agony, That she might be forgiven.

'Twas not in heavenly strains She raised, to the great Source of Good, Her daily offering of praise, Her song of grat.i.tude.

But in the gay and thoughtless crowd, And in the festive Hall, 'Midst scenes of mirth and mockery proud She named the Lord of All.

The idlest thing that flattery knew, The most unmeaning jest, From her sweet lips profanely drew, Names of the Holiest!

I thought how sweet that voice would be, Breathing this prayer to Heaven, "My G.o.d, I worship only thee, Oh be my sins forgiven!"

THE MANIAC OF VICTORY.

But here comes one, that seems to out-rejoice All the rejoicing tribe! wild is her eye, And frantic is her air, and fanciful Her sable suit; and round, she rapid rolls Her greedy eyes upon the spangled street.

And drinks with greedy gaze upon the sparkling scene!

"And see!" she cries how they have graced the hour That gave _him_ to his grave! hail lovely lamps, In honor of that hour a grateful land Hath hung aloft! and sure he well deserves The tributary splendor--for he fought Their battles well--ah! he was valor's self-- Fierce was the look with which he faced the foe But on his Harriet, when my hero bent it, 'Twas so benign! and beautiful he was-- And he was young; too young in years, to die!

'Twas but a little while his wing had thrown Its guardian shadow o'er me--but 'tis gone-- Fall'n is my shield, yet see now if I weep.

A British warrior's widow should not weep-- Her hero sleeps in honor's fragrant bed-- So they all tell me, and I have n.o.bly learned Their gallant lesson--all my tears are gone-- Bright glory's beam has dried them every drop No,--No,--I scorn to weep--high is mine heart!

Hot are mine eyes! there's no weak water there!

'Tis time I should have joyed--what mother would not?

To have shown him that sweet babe o'er which he wept When last he kissed it--yes he did--he wept; My warrior wept!--as the weak woman's tears From off this cheek, where now I none can feel, He kissed away--he wet it with his own; Oh! yes 'twould--'twould have been sweet to have shown him How his dear lovely boy had: grown, since he Beheld it cradled, and to have bid it call him By the sweet name that I had taught it utter In softest tones, while he was thunder hearing, And thunder hurling round him--for his hand Would not be idle amid deeds of glory; Yes _glory--glory--glory_ is the word-- See how it glitters all along the street!-- And then she laughs, and wildly leaps along With tresses all untied. Fair wretch--adieu: In mercy--heaven thy shattered peace repair.

--FAWCETT.

"G.o.d DOETH ALL THINGS WELL."

I remember how I loved her, as a little guileless child; I saw her in the cradle, as she looked on me, and smiled.

My cup of happiness was full; my joy, no words can tell, And I bless the Glorious Giver, "who doeth all things well."

Months pa.s.sed, that bud of promise, was unfolding every hour.

I thought that earth had never smiled upon a fairer flower.

So beautiful! it well might grace the bowers, where angels dwell, And waft its fragrance to His throne, "who doeth all things well."

Years fled; that little sister then was dear as life to me, And woke, in my unconscious heart a wild idolatry.

I worshipped at an earthly shrine, lured by some magic spell, Forgetful of the praise of Him "who doeth all things well."

She was like the lovely Star, whose light around my pathway shone, Amid this darksome vale of tears through which I journey on; No radiance had obscured the light, which round His throne doth dwell, And I wandered far away from Him, who "doeth all things well."

That star went down, in beauty, yet, it shineth, sweetly now, In the bright and dazzling coronet that decks the Saviour's brow, She bowed to that destroyer, whose shafts none may repel; But we know, for G.o.d has told us, that "He doeth all things well."

I remember well, my sorrow, as I stood beside her bed, And my deep and heartfelt anguish when they told me she was dead.

And, oh! that cup of bitterness--but let not this heart rebel, G.o.d gave; he took; he can restore; "He doeth all things well."

HOW OLD ART THOU?

Count not the days that have idly flown, The years that were vainly spent; Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own, When thy spirit stands before the throne To account for the talents lent.

But number the hours redeemed from sin, The moments employed for heaven; Oh, few and evil thy days have been, Thy life, a toilsome but worthless scene, For a n.o.bler purpose given.

Will the shade go back on thy dial plate?

Will thy sun stand still on his way?

Both hasten on, and thy spirit's fate Rests on the point of life's little date, Then live while 'tis called to-day.

Life's waning hours, like the Sybil's page, As they lessen, in value rise; Oh, then rouse thee, and live nor deem that man's age Stands in the length of his Pilgrimage, But in days that are _truly wise_.

ON TIME.

Who needs a teacher to admonish him That flesh is gra.s.s! that earthly things, but mist!

What are our joys, but dreams? And what our hopes?

But goodly shadows in the summer cloud?

There's not a wind that blows, but bears with it Some rainbow promise. Not a moment flies, But puts its sickle in the fields of life, And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares.

'Tis but as yesterday, since on those stars, Which now I view, the Chaldean shepherd gazed, In his mid watch observant, and disposed The twinkling hosts, as fancy gave them shape; Yet, in the interim, what mighty shocks Have buffeted mankind; whole nations razed, Cities made desolate; the polished sunk To barbarism, and _once_ barbaric states, Swaying the wand of science and of arts.

Ill.u.s.trious deeds and memorable names, Blotted from record, and upon the tongues Of gray tradition, voluble no more.

Where are the heroes of the ages past,-- Where the brave chieftans; where the mighty ones Who flourished in the infancy of days?

Ah to the grave gone down! On their fallen fame Exultant, mocking, at the pride of man, Sits grim Forgetfulness. The warrior's arm Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame, Hushed is the stormy voice, and quenched the blaze Of his red eye-ball.

Yesterday, his name Was mighty on the earth; to-day,--'tis what?

The meteor of the night of distant years, That flashed unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld, Musing, at midnight, upon prophecies, Who at her only lattice, saw the gleam Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly Closed her pale lips, and locked the secret up, Safe in the charnel's treasure.

Oh! how weak Is mortal man! how, trifling! how confined His scope of vision! Puffed with confidence His phrase grows big with immortality; And he, poor insect of a summer's day, Dreams of eternal honours to his name, Of endless glory and perennial bays, He idly reasons of eternity.

As of the train of ages; when, alas!

Ten thousand thousand of his centuries Are in comparison, a little point, Too trivial for account.

Oh it is strange; 'Tis very strange to mark men's fallacies.

Behold him proudly view some pompous pile, Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, And smile, and say, my name shall live with this, Till time shall be no more; while at his feet, Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust Of the fallen fabric of the other day, Preaches the solemn lesson.--He should know That time must conquer; that the loudest blast That ever filled renown's obstreperous trump, Fades in the lap of ages, and expires.

Who lies, inhumed, in the terrific gloom Of the gigantic pyramid? Or who Reared its huge wall? Oblivion laughs, and says, The prey is mine. They sleep, and never more Their names shall strike upon the ear of man, Or memory burst its fetters.

Where is Rome?

She lives but in the tale of other times; Her proud pavilions, are the hermits' home, And her long colonades, her public walks, Now faintly echo to the pilgrims' feet, Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace Through the rank moss revealed, her honoured dust.

But not to Rome, alone, has fate confined The doom of ruin; cities numberless.

Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, And rich Phoenicia; they are blotted out Half razed,--from memory razed; and their very name And being, in dispute.

--WHITE