The Kings And Queens Of England With Other Poems Part 3

Oh! heart-stricken mother, thou didst not then know All the bitter ingredients in thy cup of woe.

The hand of thy father that cup had prepared, Each drop needful for thee, not one could be spared.

Ere thy first wound had healed, while bleeding and sore, Death entered again, and a fair daughter bore From home of her childhood, to return never more.

How painful the shock, for in striking that blow A child, parent, sister, and wife was laid low.

Thy strength seemed unequal that shock to sustain, But death was not satiate, he soon called again, And tears and entreaties were powerless to save Another dear daughter from death and the grave.

Like a fair lily when droops its young head, With little of suffering her mild spirit fled.

She was thy namesake, to her young friends most dear; So many thy trials, so heavy to bear, It seemed that much longer thou couldst not survive; _How much can the human heart bear and yet live_.

Up to this time there had always been one Who shared in thy trials and made them his own; Many years his strong arm had support been to thee, The friend of thy youth, thy kind husband was he.

He's ever been with thee in weal and in woe, But the time's just at hand when he too must go.

The bolt fell not single, it pierced the slight form Of a child, too fragile to weather the storm; The summons that took her dear father away Seemed her young heart to break, she could not here stay, And now in deep slumber they side by side lay.

I have felt, my dear friend, as I've witnessed thy grief, How inadequate language to give thee relief; And that _real relief_ could never be found Except from the hand that inflicted the wound.

In the furnace of fire thou wert not alone, For walking beside thee had ever been one, The kindest of friends, though thou could'st not him see, For the scales on thine eyes weighed them down heavily.

Those scales have now fallen; look up, thou canst see That look of compa.s.sion, it's fixed upon thee.

Raise thine eyes once again, see that head crowned with thorns; In those feet, hands, and side, see the deep bleeding wounds.

You now know full well why such suffering was borne, 'Twas for thee, and for me, and for every one Who trusts in his merits and on him alone.

Thy day is just pa.s.sed, 'tis now evening with thee, But the faith of the Christian is given to see The star of bright promise, amid the dark gloom Which shall light all thy footsteps and gild the lone tomb; And at the last day mayst thou and thine stand An _unbroken household_ at Jesus' right hand.

March 27, 1852.

FOR MY NIECE ANGELINE.

In the morning of life, when all things appear bright, And far in the distance the shadows of night, With kind parents still spared thee, and health to enjoy, What period more fitting thy powers to employ In the service of him, who his own life has given To procure thee a crown and a mansion in Heaven.

As a dream that is gone at the breaking of day, And a tale that's soon told, so our years pa.s.s away.

"Then count that day lost, whose low setting sun Can see from thy hand no worthy act done."

Midst the roses of life many thorns thou wilt find, "But the cloud that is darkest, with silver is lined."

As the children of Israel were led on their way By the bright cloud at night, and the dark cloud by day, So the Christian is led through the straight narrow road That brings him direct to his home and his G.o.d; And when the last stage of life's journey is o'er, And Jordan's dark waves can affright him no more, When safely arrived in his own promised land, He's permitted with Saints and with Angels to stand, Then weighed in the balance how light will appear All the sorrows of life, with his blissful state there.

Oh! let us by faith take a view of him now, See the crown of bright jewels encircling his brow; His old tattered robe swept away by the flood, Is replaced by a new one, the gift of his Lord; The hand of his Saviour that garment hath wrought, It is pure stainless white, free from wrinkle and spot.

The streets that he walks in are paved with gold, And yet it's transparent as gla.s.s we are told; The pure river of water of life is in view, And for healing the nations, the tree of life too.

There's no need of a candle or sun there, for night Is excluded forever--the Lord G.o.d is their light.

But here we will stop, for no tongue can declare, No heart may conceive what the Saints enjoy there.

And these joys may be ours--oh! how blissful the thought, Ours without money, without price may be bought.

For us they've been purchased by the Son of G.o.d, At an infinite price--_his own precious blood_.

They wait our acceptance, may be ours if we choose, 'Tis _life_ to accept them,--'tis _death_ to refuse.

Weston, May 15, 1862.

AN ACROSTIC.

Ah! what is this life? It's a dream, is the reply; Like a dream that's soon ended, so life pa.s.ses by.

Pursue the thought further, still there's likeness in each, How constant our aim is at what we can't reach.

E'en so in a dream, we've some object in view Unceasingly aimed at, but the thing we pursue Still eludes our fond grasp, and yet lures us on too.

How a.n.a.lagous this to our waking day hours, Unwearied our efforts, we tax all our powers; Betimes in the morning the prize we pursue, By the pale lamp of midnight we're seeking it too; At all times and seasons, this _same fancied good_ Repels our advances, yet still is pursued, Depriving us oft, of rest needful, and food.

But there's a pearl of great price, whose worth is untold, It can never he purchased with silver or gold; Great peace it confers upon all to whom given, Ever cheering their pathway, and pointing to heaven.

Look not to this world for a prize of such worth, Or hope _that_ to obtain from this perishing earth Whose essence is spiritual, and heavenly its birth.

Weston, June 6, 1862.

ACROSTIC.

Even now I seem to see thee, Lovely boy, with thy sweet smile, Bright and beautiful as when Reading that holy book, the while I listened to thee, little dreaming, Docile, gentle, pleasant child, G.o.d who gave, _so soon would take thee_, Even thee, so _sweet_, so _mild_.

But how merciful in chastening Our father is--oh! bless his name-- Your little face was decked with smiles, Dear child, just when the summons came.

Escaped from lingering sickness, thou hadst Nought to mar thy little frame.

While ye mourn the dear departed, Each bitter feeling disallow; Look to heaven, ye broken hearted, Look, and with submission bow.

In thy hour of deepest sorrow, Never murmur, dare not blame; G.o.d, who wounds, alone can heal thee; Trust his power and praise his name.

Oh! may we say, _each_, every one, "Not my will, but thine be done."

SHE SLUMBERS STILL.

On a midsummer's eve she lay down to sleep, Wearied and toil-worn the maiden was then; How deep was that slumber, how quiet that rest, 'Twas the sleep from which no one awakens again.

Morn returned in its freshness, and flowers that she loved In beauty and fragrance were blooming around; The birds caroled sweetly the whole live-long day, But that strange mystic sleep all her senses had bound.

Day followed day until summer was gone, And autumn still found her alone and asleep; Stern winter soon followed, but its loud blasts and shrill, Were powerless to rouse her from slumber so deep.

Again spring returns, and all nature revives, And birds fill the groves with their music again; But the eyes and the ears of that loved one are closed, And on her these rich treasures are lavished in vain.

Unheeded by her the winter snow falls, Its beautiful garment spring puts on in vain; Many _summers_ the birds her sad requiem have sung, But to sound of sweet music she'll ne'er wake again.

There is _but one voice_ that deep slumber can break, 'Tis the same one that loudly called, "Lazarus, come forth!"

At the sound of that voice all the dead shall arise, And before G.o.d shall stand all the nations on earth.

Then shall this dear one, our first born, awake, Her mortal put on immortality then; And oh! blissful thought, that we once more may meet In that home where's no parting, death, sorrow, or pain.

Weston, May 29, 1852.

TO A FRIEND IN THE CITY,

FROM HER FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.