Chapter M: S. B. D (2)

Another tenant for Death’s charnel house!
Another victim for Death’s banqueting!
Ha! holds he not a glorious carouse?
But, cruel Death! thy fangs have lost their sting;
Thou hast no power to stay the spirit’s wing;
Thou canst not bar its entrance to the skies;
Thou canst but set it free, thou ghastly King!
Thy touch doth man’s best part immortalize;
The deathless spirit lives, when the poor body dies.

II.

Once more approach with me the bed of death;
Come, see once more a fellow mortal die;
’Tis not a doleful sight. The dying breath
May pass through lips that smile in ecstasy,
And beams from Heaven may light the languid eye;
With sudden burst the failing voice may strive
To join the sweet approaching melody,
Heard when the angel messengers arrive
To bear the spirit hence, in Heaven’s own bliss to live.

III.

O, there are solemn hours which come to all;
The bed of death is aye a solemn place;
To see the saint asleep in Jesus fall,
And leave the world with glory on his face--
Or, to suppose a mournful, mournful case,
To see the dying one with awful dread
Meet death, and call aloud for slighted grace,
O, ’tis most solemn. They who mourn the dead,
Know what religion is upon a dying bed.

IV.

And to the novice ’tis a fearful scene--
The first sad interview with Death. To see
The failure of that wonderful machine--
Our mortal frame; when Death, pale enemy!
Comes to the prison door, and turns the key,
And tells the soul it has its freedom now.
But O, the pangs! the parting agony!
The clammy sweat that beads the suff’rer’s brow
Doth a sad evidence of nature’s anguish show.

V.

Man lives to die, as flowers bloom to fade;
Expanded bloom is but incipient death;
The rose that with the morning zephyr played,
At eve lies scattered on the ground beneath;
And flowers at eve that formed a living wreath,
When morning beameth bright, all drooping lie,
Cast on the ground to waste their fragrant breath,
Or tell their story to the passer-by,
That they, once highly prized, are cast aside to die.

VI.

Man, when he dies, is buried out of sight,
But not forgotten. Few so friendless are,
That some bewail not their untimely blight,
Always untimely. Death can scarce unbar
The soul’s dark prison gates, and send afar
Th’ unfetter’d spirit to its endless home
Of joy or woe, ere sounds discordant jar
Upon the ear, and fill the heart with gloom,
When wailing voices sound from mourners round the tomb.

VII.

We know that we must die. O, then, how strange
That he, whose life is but a passing day,
Should live regardless of his last great change!
All earthly brightness soon must fade away;
All earthly things are hasting to decay;
And man, possess’d of an immortal soul,
Lives to exalt his perishing mortal clay,
Nor listens to the never ceasing toll
Of hours he may regret while endless ages roll.

VIII.

For man is but the creature of a day;
Dress’d for a little “pomp and circumstance,”
He figures for awhile in grand display,
Or on the stage, or in the mazy dance;
While on the stage, he plays a vain romance;
And while he dances, swift his moments fly!
O, trifler, pause! for even now, perchance,
With dart in hand, grim Death stands waiting by;
For those who thus have lived, ’tis awful work--to die!

IX.

But sweet the dying chamber, where the saint
A farewell bids to his mortality;
What tongue can tell--what master hand can paint
The radiant glories of the upper sky,
That burst upon the Christian’s dying eye!
And even when he “dies, and gives no sign”--
When nature sinks beneath her agony,
Then comes the hope no fears can undermine,
That he who lived so well, must die with joys divine.

X.

As the proud monarch of the forest falls,
Even so it lies. And thus th’ immortal soul,
When death has freed it from its prison walls,
Shall hear the knell of its probation toll.
For while eternal ages ceaseless roll,
In realms above--or in the shades below,
No fears shall chill--no flatt’ring hopes console;
No change shall come, except that bliss or woe
More blissful or more woful still shall ever grow.

XI.

’Tis sunset. Fleecy clouds of rosy light
With brilliant hues do tinge the western skies!
The sun has left a track of radiance bright!
Could mortal pencil catch those splendid dyes,
How would the painter’s art in glory rise!
Changing--still changing! change must come to all
Beneath the sun; the sun which swiftly flies
On wheels of fire, enshrouded in his pall,
From his proud place on high, one day himself shall fall.

XII.

Slowly the tedious hours move along
Within the sick man’s chamber. On his face
Has gathered paleness. Pearly drops are hung
Around his pallid brow with mournful grace,
By Death’s moist finger. In that cold embrace
The chills of death creep o’er each trembling limb;
The noble form lies nearly motionless;
The friends around flit by as in a dream;
The throbbing heart grows cold; the speaking eye grows dim.

XIII.

Fever has done the work. He’s conquer’d now,
And driven from the field. And this may be,
This coldness--paleness--moisture on the brow,
May only be the price of victory.
It was a fierce encounter. Forced to flee,
The dire disease exerted all his might
To give the death blow to his enemy,
Ere from the prostrate form he took his flight.
’Twas needless--all his strength was yielded in the fight.

XIV.

Yet do they strive to raise the sinking frame,
By every means within the healer’s art;
To fan the dying embers to a flame,
And kindle life within the cold, cold heart;
The wife, with anxious care, seeks to impart
Warmth to the clammy limbs; and gen’rous wine
And sav’ry broths their tonic power exert;
Kind sympathizing friends their efforts join,
And still to Heaven’s high King they look for aid divine.

XV.

’Tis now the midnight’s calm and holy hour,
When all the world is locked in sleep’s embrace,
The fairy steals within the tiny flower,
The nightingale sleeps in her resting place.
None sleep within that chamber, where the face
Grows pale with watching--where the hand of death
Is laid on one of Adam’s sinful race--
Where still the cold drops form a pearly wreath,
And fainter, fainter grows the slowly heaving breath.

XVI.

’Tis strange that smiling Hope is even now
Whisp’ring her flatt’ries to the young wife’s heart!
She wipes the death-damps from her husband’s brow,
Which in his dying anguish freely start;
But still she cannot feel that they must part,
Nor see the stamp of death upon his cheek;
O, Hope! a skilful flatterer thou art!
For while the suff’rer grows more faint, more weak,
Thy soft beguiling voice doth words of comfort speak.

XVII.

But, ah! there is no hope. The blow that fell
Upon his heart, when his dear only son
Died in his arms--has done its work too well;
The work disease already had begun!
In that sad hour death marked him for his own;
His feeble frame, unequal to the strife
With strong disease already undergone,
Must yield itself to Death. O, gentle wife!
It is too late to call the dying back to life:

XVIII.

Yes--’tis indeed too late. All, all in vain
Their efforts to revive the dying one;
Why should they seek the spirit to detain,
Which may be free before the rising sun,
Bowing with angels near Jehovah’s throne?
No! rather say, “God speed thee to the skies,
Thou who hast fought the fight--the battle won!
Go--happy conqueror! go, take the prize!
Go--weary wanderer! to Heaven and glory rise!”

XIX.

The hour has come--and now the dying man
Must grapple with his mortal enemy;
But unseen hosts, with Jesus in the van,
Pale sufferer! will surely fight for thee!
’Tis but one struggle more, and thou art free!
O, trembling soul! thou’rt struggling into life!
Yet there is meaning in thine agony;
There’s reason for this last heart rending strife;
Thou canst not bear to leave thine own beloved wife!

XX.

God will support her in her hour of need;
She’ll have no friend but God to lean upon;
He surely will not break the bruised reed,
And bruised her heart will be when thou art gone!
She will be left in this dark world--alone,
Whilst thou to heavenly glory shalt ascend,
Where dwelleth now thine own--thy sainted son;
But He who calls himself the widow’s friend
Will heal her broken heart, and all her steps attend.

XXI.

Hark! heard ye not that voice of mournful sound?
Whence came that sudden, deep, heart breaking sigh?
See! where the childless mourner may be found
Waiting to see her best beloved die!
See there! O, see the speechless suff’rer lie
Gazing upon the face he loves so well!
See fond affection beaming in his eye,
That eye where love was ever wont to dwell!
See how he vainly strives to say his last farewell!

XXII.

What trembling seizes on the stricken wife!
She fears that they must part--for speechless now
And struck with death he lies;--the tide of life
Is ebbing fast;--the pulses faint and slow,
Tell that the blood has nearly ceas’d to flow;--
There is a strange sad look in every eye;--
The neighbors stand aside and whisper low;--
The Doctor comes, and with a deep drawn sigh,
He tells the startled wife that her dear love must die.

XXIII.

God help th’ afflicted one! the time had come
When she must bid delusive hope farewell;
God help her ’neath his stroke still to be dumb,
And open not her mouth; or if she tell
Her tale of woe, to say that all is well;
Amid her desolation and dismay,
Safe in Jehovah’s shelt’ring arms to dwell.
God help thee, mourner! now so far away
From father--mother--all--in thy distressful day.

XXIV.

Thy God is with thee. Mourner! raise thy head,
And hear the words of love he speaks to thee;
’Tis true thy earthly hopes and joys have fled,
But God will more than child or husband be.
She raises up her drooping head, and see!
She looks on high! Her lips in prayer do move!
She clasps her hands as if in agony!
One pleading look she sends to Heaven above,
Then thus with falt’ring voice says to her dying love,

XXV.

“O, canst thou not, my husband! speak to me?
O, shall I hear that well known voice no more?
My heart will break. O, God! I cry to thee,
And in this awful hour thine aid implore.
Deep calleth unto deep;--the waves do roar,
Thy waves and billows, rushing o’er my head!
God of all mercy! in this trying hour,
Have pity on the work thy hands have made;
May everlasting arms be underneath me spread.

XXVI.

O, speak once more, my husband! speak once more!
See! ’tis thy Mary leaning over thee!
Or, if to speak thy lips have lost their power,
Just press my hand to tell thou knowest me.
’Tis I, thy darling wife--see, loved one! see!
O, God! what shall I do? he gives no sign;
O, that I e’er should feel such agony!
And yet his speaking eye is fix’d on mine;
_He knows me_--Lord! for this I bless thy love divine!

XXVII.

Is Jesus precious to thy parting soul?
O, press my hand if thou my voice canst hear,
For while the waves of Jordan o’er thee roll,
I’ll speak of JESUS in thy dying ear.
I know that blessed name thy heart can cheer;
Jesus can surely make thy dying bed
Feel soft and sweet as downy pillows are,
While on his breast thou lean’st thy fainting head,
To breathe away thy life, till all thy life has fled.

XXVIII.

O, dearest! fear no evil; for thy God
Through the dark vale thy falt’ring feet will guide;
Death’s gloomy shade will soon be safely trod,
With such a kind companion by thy side;
Fear not, for he is with thee. Jordan’s tide
Can never overwhelm thy trusting soul;
Secure are they in Jesus who confide;
Though storms arise, and raging billows roll,
A mighty Friend is near, who can the storm control.

XXIX.

O, that I could, my dear, my dying love!
Go with thee through the dark and dreary vale,
Till thou hast spread thy wings and soar’d above,
Till saints and angels loud thy coming hail!
But ah! what could my presence there avail?
What could I do to help thee on thy way,
Or cheer thee if thy trembling heart should fail?
Jesus, thy Captain, all thy foes can slay,
His rod and staff alone must be thy strength and stay.

XXX.

Hark to celestial music! hear it, love!
The angel hosts are speeding from the skies,
To bear thy spirit to its home above!
I see the sudden joy light up thine eyes!
I see the beaming smile of glad surprise!
What is it, darling! bursts upon thy view,
That makes thee smile in death’s last agonies?
O, would to God that I the myst’ry knew!
Dear Savior! may not I go with my loved one too?

XXXI.

I, who have shared in every grief or joy,
Which, at thy mandate, pour’d its tide upon
The bosoms of my husband and my boy!
Well, still I’ll share their joy; and near thy throne,
O, God be praised! no grief will e’er be known.
No tear, my love! will tremble in thine eye,
As I have seen it, when with falt’ring tone,
And quiv’ring lip, and deep convulsive sigh,
Thou’st told, with long embrace, thy boy and me, ‘Good bye.’”

XXXII.

Then paus’d the wife. But ever and anon
She raised her eyes, and moved her lips in prayer,
Or laid her head beside the dying one,
And whispered, “Jesus,” in her husband’s ear.
Her face was pale, but not a single tear
Roll’d down her cheek, or glisten’d in her eye;
Upon her Father God she cast her care,
And prayed that she his name might glorify;
And thus he gave her strength to see her husband die.

XXXIII.

Shorter and shorter grew the heaving breath;
Dimmer and dimmer grew the failing eye;
Colder and colder grew the pearly wreath
Which seem’d the pallid brow to beautify,
And sparkled there--a crown of victory!
One groan--one gasp--the wife is left alone!
She o’er him bends to catch his parting sigh,
Then speaks aloud, with clear triumphant tone,
“I wish thee joy, my love! my darling Charles! my own!”

CHARLESTON, _June 13, 1841_.

FOOTNOTE

[4] CHARLES E. DANA died in Bloomington, Iowa Territory, August 22, 1839, aged 35 years.

“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.”

THE JOYS OF GRIEF.

I.

It was a quiet morning. Skies were clear,
And hills, and vales, and woods kept jubilee;
All nature seem’d a lovely smile to wear,
A smile of peace and joy. In ecstasy
Bright plumaged warblers flew from tree to tree,
And sang their joy with many a cheerful tone;
But every heart was not so full of glee;
Within that room where death his power had shown,
A pensive mourner sat, in silence, and alone.

II.

Alone, yet not alone--for loneliness
The most entire is often felt in crowds,
Where friends are off’ring many a fond caress
To one, whose heart the deepest gloom enshrouds.
But there are those who ’mid the darkest clouds
Can smile the wreck of earthly joy to see,
And such are not alone; the water floods
Have swept their all away; but thought is free,
And thoughts are aye our most important company.

III.

Thought is not trammel’d by earth’s narrow bounds;
It revels in the regions of delight;
And oft when darkness all on earth surrounds,
It springs away to worlds where all is bright;
Affliction comes t’ assist this heavenly flight;
The sorrowing soul, all tired of earth, can feed
On heavenly joys with quicken’d appetite;
And such a rich repast can never need
The sick’ning sweets of earth, that dire diseases breed.

IV.

Affliction often proves the kindest friend
To mortal man; the mourning soul grows wise;
All chast’ning hath improvement for its end;
Man looks to Heaven when earthly comfort dies,
And most effectual prayers are breathed in sighs.
The broken hearted never plead in vain;
Their anguish hath a voice to reach the skies;
O, would the soul rich consolation gain,
It cometh in the day of suffering and pain.

V.

And disappointment lurks in every spot;
The plays of life all end in tragedy;
Smiles turn to tears, when some dark counterplot
Changes the scene from joy to misery.
There is a power whose vast supremacy
Doth our unwise appointments overthrow;
We plan--but God appoints our destiny,
And therefore all seems changeful here below;
But still from scene to scene with new born hope we go.

VI.

The child of sorrow stands on vantage ground;
It is a paradox both strange and true,
That he, who in affliction’s vale is found,
Dwells on the mount of observation too,
And sees the world without the dazzling hue
Which bright prosperity throws all around:
He learns to _feel_ what once he only knew
From hearing other men, the warning sound,
That all who lean on earth receive a deadly wound.

VII.

How many ordeals erring man must pass,
While going through his short probation here!
His road is full of them--and oft, alas!
He quails before the trial too severe,
And falls into temptation and a snare;
Forgetting where his only safety lies,
Or who will make the trusting soul his care,
He downward bends to earth his anxious eyes,
And, trusting to himself, away from shelter flies.

VIII.

But happy he who passes on unharm’d,
Safe guarded in the hour of seeming ill;
He ever finds the threat’ning foe disarm’d,
Who, while he looks to earth, looks heavenward still.
The mental eye may gaze on Zion’s hill,
And seek protection from a power divine;
Though sorrows deep the heart with anguish fill,
And hope seems driven from its earthly shrine;
Yet beams from Heaven may still amid the darkness shine.

IX.

Alone, yet not alone--for cold and dead,
A manly form lies stretch’d upon its bier
And she whose hand supports her weary head,
Is gazing on her husband’s features there.
How peaceful is the smile those features wear!
One hand is laid in his, so icy cold,
The other hidden by her flowing hair;
And statue-like she sits, while scenes untold
Rush on her mental view, and glorious things unfold.

X.

No deep dejection sits upon her brow,
Though from her fond embrace her love has fled;
How can her heart indulge in sadness now,
When glory crowns her sainted husband’s head?
Why should the bitter tear of grief be shed,
When he has reach’d his bright eternal home?
O, why do mortals mourn the blessed dead,
Who’ve gone where grief and sin can never come?
Why do they sorely weep, and hang their heads in gloom?

XI.

’Tis hard to part. But if our dreadful loss
Be gain unspeakable to those we mourn,
How selfish ’tis to grieve! O, is it thus
We show our love? Besides, ye sad forlorn!
They are not lost who from your arms are torn,
They’ve only sooner reach’d their blissful rest!
’Tis sweet to end a wearisome sojourn,
And reach a wish’d-for home--and they are blest
Whose friends are safely housed where nothing can molest.

XII.

In those delightful realms of perfect bliss,
The raptured spirit finds an endless home;
And is it well to break your hearts for this?
O, could to earth the sainted spirit come,
’Twould chide the mourner weeping o’er the tomb
As though the _soul_ were chained in prison there!
’Twould bid him lay aside his look of gloom,
And in its place the smile of triumph wear;
’Twould bid him hush the sigh, and wipe the starting tear!

XIII.

’Twas not with stoical philosophy,
She bore her double grief. Forgetfulness
Was not its antidote. Nor could it be
Despair that sat upon her peaceful face.
O, no! her soul was made of tenderness;
Nor could her heart forget the joyous past;
Nor did despair her tranquil mind possess;
What could it be that o’er her features cast
A sweet expressive look, that seem’d too calm to last?

XIV.

The truly pious are most sensitive
To the delights of dear domestic love;
It is religion’s high prerogative,
The tend’rest feelings of the heart to move
To delicate sensations, far above
The gross, impure affections, cherish’d oft
In earthly love. A double tie is wove
For those whose hearts together soar aloft;
’Tis God who makes the heart pure, delicate, and soft.

XV.

What was it, then, that spread a peaceful glow.
Upon that lonely mourner’s countenance--
She, who had loved her child and husband so,
And lived but in their smiles? A cheerful glance
She gave to each intruder, who, by chance,
Stray’d into that lone room. She’d call them near,
And tell them of a bright inheritance,
And that she knew her darling ones were there;
’Twas this had sov’reign power the mourner’s heart to cheer.

XVI.

’Twas confidence in Heaven--for there she turn’d
When “friend and lover” failed her, and that God
Who never yet the broken hearted spurn’d,
Supported her beneath the chast’ning rod,
And sooth’d her in her childless widowhood!
All glory to his name, who sweetly spoke,
And still’d the raging of affliction’s flood!
O, sad it is to bear Jehovah’s stroke
Like bullocks unaccustom’d to the galling yoke.

XVII.

It well becomes frail man to acquiesce
In God’s most wise and holy providence;
Yea, though he bow his head in sore distress,
Borne down to earth by sufferings intense,
Still let him trust in God, his sure defence
Against the rushing tide; for sorrow’s flood
Can soon be stay’d by kind omnipotence.
Whene’er on us descends th’ afflictive rod,
Weak hearted though we be, our strength is found in God.

XVIII.

God leads his children with a gentle hand,
Though often through a gloomy, rugged road,
But if they reach at last the promised land,
What matter if the paths their feet have trod--
Those thorny paths--be moistened with their blood?
How gloriously they end their sad career!
Their blood stain’d feet are wash’d in Jordan’s flood,
Before the throne all spotless they appear,
And hush’d is every groan, and dried is every tear.

XIX.

So thought the mourner, watching o’er her dead:
What glorious visions cheer’d her solitude!
What heavenly scenes their peaceful influence shed,
As there she sat in calm and pensive mood!
The glories of the upper world she view’d;
Away from earth on faith’s glad wings she sped,
And saw in many a bright beatitude,
The shining mansions of the sainted dead;
And, deep in silent thought, thus to herself she said:

XX.

“If never more the blessed sun should rise--
If moon and stars in blackest gloom were seal’d--
Though nature in the gloom should sympathize--
Though winds and waves their utmost power reveal’d,
And to the heart in hollow groans appeal’d--
Though all my friends were laid beneath the sod--
Though icy death my blood had all congealed--
Still would I trust in thee, my Father God!
And bless thee most of all for thy chastising rod.

XXI.

No--I will not repine. It were not well
To mourn for thee, my darling! Not for thee!
No--thou hast gone ’mid perfect love to dwell,
And ‘death is swallow’d up in victory!’
I wish thee joy--from pain and sorrow free,
While on thy mother earth reclines thy head!
All soft and peaceful may thy slumbers be,
Till the last trump shall sound, when time has fled,
To wake the sleeping pulses of the silent dead!

XXII.

I almost envy thee, my sainted love,
Enjoying Heaven’s sweet society!
O, that I had the pinions of a dove!
How would my eager spirit fly to thee,
And joyful share thy blest eternity!
Thou, who hast seen the Savior as he is,
Art thou not filled with perfect ecstasy?
Explain’d are all thy life’s dark mysteries,
Thy fears, thy woes, thy pains, thy heart’s deep agonies.

XXIII.

Thou art at rest, my husband! on thy head
No more the storm shall beat. Thou art of those
Whose works do follow them--the blessed dead!
O how I long to share thy soft repose--
To know that I am safe from inward foes,
And foes without! My heavy laden breast
Shall bear no longer then its weight of woes,
And I shall be no more with cares oppress’d;
Welcome the blissful hour, when I shall be at rest!

XXIV.

They say that woman bringeth happiness
To him she loves. I do believe it true;
I know, my own! that I could ever bless
Thy heart, when to my fond embrace it flew.
Yes--yes--it gives me comfort to review
The few short years we’ve spent together here;
Each hour was fraught with gladness ever new;
’Tis sweet, my love! beside thine early bier,
To think thy noble heart ’twas ever mine to cheer.

XXV.

But hearts like thine are seldom truly known;
Some things too lofty are for mortal ken,
Till the dim eye, to earthly prospects prone,
Learns to look far above this misty fen,
Where earth’s rank vapors blind the eyes of men.
The truly noble ones are all too few,
Nor can they breathe in earth’s polluted den;
They, like the eagle, oft escape from view,
And soar aloft ’mid Heaven’s deep and tranquil blue.

XXVI.

I joy to think, my dear, my only love!
Thou’st laid aside thy load of cumbrous clay,
And wing’d thy joyful flight to realms above,
To pure celestial worlds--away! away!
I see around thy head bright glories play!
I see thee clothed in robes of innocence!
I see the hosts of Heaven in white array!
And can I wish to call thy spirit thence,
Inhabitant of Heaven? thou pure intelligence?

XXVII.

O, Charles! ‘thy love to me was wonderful,
Passing the love of woman.’ In thine eyes--
Those dark blue eyes--those mirrors of thy soul,
Were pictured feelings words would but disguise--
Pure, tender, soul subduing sympathies!
Should ever slander, with its poison’d tooth,
Or malice, double tongued, against me rise,
I’ll think of thee, whose kindness bless’d my youth;
I’ll think of all thy love, thy tenderness, thy truth.

XXVIII.

I’ll plant the grave of all my early joy
With seeds of mem’ry, and enrich the soil
With precious tears, and then I will employ
My heart as gard’ner, caring not for toil;
And thus the gloomy grave I will despoil
Of all its gloom, and raise bright flowers there,
To cheer me ’mid life’s wearisome turmoil;
And so when sad and overcharged with care,
To cull sweet mem’ry’s flowers I will oft repair.

XXIX.

I bless thee, husband! for thy tender love,
For all th’ ecstatic bliss ’twas mine to know;
I nestled in thy breast, a timid dove,
While my fond heart to thine did firmly grow.
I saw upon thy cheek love’s ardent glow,
And felt that I was more than others blest,
When such a rich pure heart was mine; but, O!
I did not dream that warm and throbbing breast
So soon would cease to beat--so soon would be at rest!

XXX.

They tell me love has wings--I know it well;
But there’s a love implanted in the heart,
Which cruel death can never thence expel;
’Tis Christian love. Death may a moment part
Two faithful ones, and cause sad tears to start;
But hope beyond this darksome world can see,
And, by the magic of her soothing art,
A most effectual comforter can be;
So Hope and Memory by turns shall comfort me.

XXXI.

For Hope and Memory twin sisters are,
Born in a moment ’mid the present gloom,
Bringing their soft illusions from afar,
And cheering e’en the darkness of the tomb.
Come to my heart, ye lovely sisters, come!
And so my wond’ring senses all entrance
With pictures of my past and future home,
That I may take one life-enduring glance,
Nor cease till I have gain’d my blest inheritance!

XXXII.

I thank thee, holy Father! that I am
Immortal. ’Tis a cure for all my woes,
That soon they will be followed by the calm
Of Heavens’s tranquil and secure repose,
When this poor life has reach’d its blessed close.
There may be many sorrows more for me,
There may arise stern unrelenting foes;
But I will trust in Heaven, and thither flee,
When I am writhing ’neath opinion’s tyranny.

XXXIII.

Who wrongs the widow, will be judged by One
Who makes the widow his peculiar care;
O, wretched, wretched man! whose setting sun
Shall sink amid the clouds of dark despair!
In God’s own book the words of truth declare
That man accurs’d. Thou, who hast e’er oppress’d
The fatherless or widow, canst thou bear
To die with such a stain upon thy breast,
And hear thy Maker say, ‘Thou shalt not see my rest?’

XXXIV.

My Father! all my times are in thy hand!
Though floods arise, thou’lt bear me safely through,
And though thy ways I cannot understand,
Whatever pleases thee, shall please me too.
Though thou with thorns shalt all my pathway strew,
I’ll sweetly rest when life’s short day is o’er,
And bless the hand which me to Heaven drew;
Then far above this weary world I’ll soar,
And through eternity I’ll triumph and adore.

XXXV.

When nights of weariness do come to me,
They are appointed by my sov’reign friend,
To cure me of this world’s idolatry,
And thus to Heaven my aspirations send,
And with my tears sweet expectations blend.
So when I lie and long for morning’s dawn,
And vainly wish the painful night would end,
And sadly cry, with many a plaintive moan,
‘O, when shall I arise, and this sad night be gone?’--

XXXVI.

I’ll think of Heaven, where night shall be no more,
Where not one tear shall gather in mine eye,
Where weariness and pain shall all be o’er,
And I, with seraph wings, shall swiftly fly
With willing speed, my God to glorify,
And execute his blessed sovereign will.
Welcome the joyful hour when I shall die!
Die? No! I then shall live. On Zion’s hill
I shall forever dwell, and fear no future ill.

XXXVII.

My rest will come ere long. O, when I sleep
My last long sleep beneath the cold damp sod,
Parents and friends! I pray ye not to weep
For one whose feet a thorny path have trod,
Then shelter’d in the bosom of her God!
I’ve had sore trial of each tender limb,
In such a rough and thorn-besprinkled road;
O, then, to weep for me would be a crime,
When I have safely fled beyond the bounds of time!

XXXVIII.

Till then I’ll patient be. It is not best
To bosom sorrow, or to nourish grief;
No! let me bear my heavy laden breast
Where only suff’ring hearts can find relief--
To Him who was of sufferers the chief!
He numbers every hair upon my head,
He clothes the flower, he notes the falling leaf;
And will he, now my dearest ones are dead,
Leave me in sorrow’s night my burning tears to shed?

XXXIX.

No--no--it cannot be. He shows his power,
And who can hinder him? He takes away
Man’s glory and his pride in one short hour,
And, when he chooses, hides each cheering ray
Of earthly joy, that o’er his path did play.
But while his hand thus smites, his heart is love;
He sends the cloudy, wintry, stormy day,
To make us pause awhile, and look above,
And by adversity, the suff’rer’s heart to prove.

XL.

How sweet the names my heavenly Father bears!
‘God of all comfort!’ O, the soothing sound!
‘Father of mercies!’ Yes! I’ll dry my tears,
And go where comfort--mercy--can be found.
What though my love lies cold beneath the ground?
’Tis but his mortal part. His deathless soul
Lives and rejoices where pure joys abound;
He ran his race, and reach’d th’ immortal goal,
And ne’er shall sorrow more, while countless ages roll.

XLI.

Husband, sweet husband! where, O, where art thou?
Art thou not near me, whispering peaceful things?
Do I not hear thy spirit-accents now,
And feel the waving of thy spirit-wings,
Cooling my burning heart, where sorrow’s stings
Would rankle, were it not for Heaven and thee?
It must be so. My eager spirit springs
To meet thee, love! ’Tis thy sweet task to be
A ministering angel, sent to comfort me!”

XLII.

’Twas thus the mourner mused from hour to hour,
Beside her loved one laid upon his bier;
She strew’d his corse with many a fragrant flower,
And kiss’d his cheek, and stroked his glossy hair.
You would have thought her love was sleeping there,
And she was watching o’er him--such a smile
Sat on his lip, and wreathed his forehead fair;
But he is dead--and in a little while
The damp and teeming earth that forehead must defile!

CHARLESTON, _June 22, 1841_.

THE SECOND BURIAL.

All-conqu’ring Love!
Thou mak’st the heart of gentle woman strong!
All-cheering Faith! thou hast a magic power
To win the soul away from haggard grief!
On the pure surface of the calm blue sky,
Thou paintest Heaven’s glories with a touch
Surpassing mortal genius, and with art
Most wonderful, dost lure the tearful eye
Away from the attractions of the tomb,
Where earthly hopes and joys lie sepulchred.
What sweet amazement seizes on the soul,
When these celestial visions greet the eye!
The ambient air seems full of harmony,
As though ten thousand angel visitors
Were hov’ring round th’ afflicted one, to cheer
With Heaven’s softest, sweetest melodies,
Her mourning heart.

The evening hour had thrown
Dark length’ning shadows on the verdant earth,
And men had gather’d to the burial.
Women were there, with hearts of sympathy
For the bereaved; and rosy children too
Gazed up into the mourner’s marble face,
With troubled looks of awe, and wonder’d why
She was alone, and where the lovely boy
Whom they had ever seen beside her--was.
The mother brought her babe, and when it cried,
Alarm’d at her unwonted gravity,
She press’d it closer to her swelling breast,
And hush’d its plaintive voice--or stole away,
Fearing ’twould wring the stricken mother’s heart
To hear a baby cry. So delicate
And tender hearted is true sympathy!

But she was dead to every earthly sound;
Her senses were in Heaven. Her last long look,
A mournful look of thrilling tenderness,
She had just taken of the silent form
Of him she loved; and now her eyes were fix’d
On that same form reanimate in Heaven,
Cloth’d in celestial splendors. Anxiously
Th’ assembled crowd gazed on the mourner’s face,
And look’d to see her hang her fainting head,
Whene’er they closed the coffin lid--but, ah!
They did not know the superhuman power
That was at work within her. It was strange,
But it was true, that she was seen to smile
When she was ask’d if she would look once more
Upon her husband’s corse, ere it was hid
Forever from her view. Yes, she did smile
A strange unearthly smile, and softly said,
“I will not look again.” Then did they place
The envious cover o’er that noble form,
And screw it firmly down. Yet still she sat
And gently rock’d her in the cushion’d chair,
And her closed eyes did shed no tear. Her hands
All peacefully were clasped upon her knee,
Nor did the fingers tremble.

All was still
Within that solemn chamber of the dead.
They waited for the minister of God,
To do the last sad offices of earth;
And yet he came not. Moments pass’d away,
Until an hour had mark’d its silent flight,
With longer, darker shadows on the ground.
’Twas time they had convey’d, with solemn tread,
The body to its home, ere night should draw
Her curtain round the world. Where linger’d he
Who should be at the burial of the dead?
He comes not--and they fear he will not come.

Then one who knew and loved the dear deceas’d,
An elder in the church of which he was
A member, forward came, and with a voice
All tremulous from deep emotion, read
A chapter from the holy word of God.
Twas from Corinthians, where th’ apostle Paul
Speaks of the resurrection from the dead,
In language borrowed from the court of Heaven.
The solemn deep toned voice of him who read,
Reach’d every ear, and thrill’d to every heart.
These were the words: “And how say some of you
There is no resurrection of the dead?
For if there be no resurrection, then
Is Christ not ris’n; and if Christ be not ris’n,
Then is our preaching vain,--and faith is vain;
And we are found false witnesses of God,
Because that we have testified of God,
That he did raise up Christ;--whom if the dead
Rise not, he raised not up. For if the dead
Rise not, Christ is not raised; and if Christ be not raised,
Your faith is vain, and ye are in your sins.
And also they which are asleep in Christ
Are perish’d. If in this sad life alone
We have a hope in Christ, we are of all
Most miserable men. But now the Lord
Is risen from the dead, and has become
First fruits of them that slept. For since by man
Came death, by man has also come
The resurrection of the dead. For as
In Adam all men die, even so in Christ
Shall all be made alive. But every man
In his own order; Christ the earliest fruits,
And afterwards they that belong to Christ,
At his lastcoming. And then comes the end,
When he shall have deliver’d up to God
The kingdom--when all rule, and power,
And all authority, he shall put down.
For he must reign till all his enemies
Under his feet are laid. The enemy
That last of all shall be destroy’d, is Death.

* * * * *

All flesh is not the same. There is one kind
Of flesh, of men; another flesh of beasts;
Another flesh of fishes; and of birds:
There are celestial bodies; and there are
Terrestrial; but their glories are not one:
There also is one glory of the sun;
One glory of the moon; one of the stars;
For one star diff’reth from another star.

So is the resurrection of the dead;
’Tis in corruption sown, but it is raised
In incorruption; in dishonor sown,
’Tis raised in glory; ’tis in weakness sown,
’Tis raised in power; a body natural
’Tis sown, ’tis raised a spiritual one.
For it is written thus; Adam, the first,
Was made a living soul; Adam, the last,
Was made a quick’ning spirit. Of the earth
Earthy, the first man is; the second man,
He is the Lord from Heaven. As we have borne
The image of the earthly, we shall bear
The image of the heavenly. Now, behold!
A mystery I show; all shall not sleep;
But we shall all be chang’d, at the last trump,
In a moment--in the twinkling of an eye.

The trump shall sound--the dead shall all be rais’d.
_Then_ incorruptible; and we shall all
Be quickly changed. For this corruptible
Must put on incorruption, and this mortal
Put on immortality. So when
Corruptible has put on incorruption--
And mortal put on immortality,
Then what is written shall be brought to pass,
That death is swallow’d up in victory.

O, Death! where is thy sting? O, Grave! where is
Thy victory? The sting of death is sin;
The strength of sin, the law; but unto God
Be thanks, who giveth us the victory,
Through Jesus Christ our Lord!” Amen! Amen!

What glorious words are these! The Bible speaks
To souls that are afflicted with a force
And emphasis unknown before. The wax
When duly soften’d, will receive and keep
The beautiful impression--and the heart
Tried in affliction’s furnace, will be made
To picture the refiner’s countenance,
Reflected sweetly there.

The mourner heard
These things, with joy unspeakable, and peace
That passeth understanding. Every word
Was music to her ear, and healing balm
To her poor bleeding heart. The drowning man
Will grasp for life at every floating straw;
And so the mourner, of all joy bereft,
Will catch at every hope the gospel gives.

The reader closed the book, and sat him down;
And then the mourner call’d him to her side
With silent beckon. In her hand she held
A little volume--’twas the same sweet book
Had been her kind companion all the day;
It was the hymn book given her by him
Who now lay coffin’d there. She pointed out
A certain hymn, and begg’d it might be sung;
For at her darling sister’s distant grave,
In dear New Haven, it was sweetly sung
But two short years before. The young and fair,
The brave and beautiful, had chanted it
Around her early grave, with swelling hearts,
And many a falling tear. For she was loved
By all who knew her, and they knew her well
In sweet New Haven. ’Twas a favorite place
Where these two sisters loved to walk alone
And commune with the dead; for very near
The sacred spot where now her form was laid,
Two much loved friends were sleeping side by side--
The gifted Martha, and the lovely Jane.[5]
And he who once had led her ardent mind
In search of knowledge[6]--he too slept within
That peaceful grave yard. O, he was a man
Whose like is seldom seen on earth; all, all
Who ever knew him will his name revere,
Till they shall meet him in the realms of bliss,
Who ever sought to lead them to the skies.
Peace to the mem’ry of the holy man!

A father and a mother weeping stood
Beside her grave--one sister on a bed
Of sickness lay, not very far remote;
And one was at her distant southern home:
O, she had yet to hear the sad, sad news!
An only brother, very near in age,
Who loved her as himself--and more; he stood
With folded arms and drooping head, and saw
His darling sister hidden from his view
By the dark envious grave. But he has gone
To meet her in her everlasting home!
In distant Alabama’s friendly soil,
He found a grave! They were too pure for earth;
And ’tis not saying they were wholly pure,
To say thus much--for when th’ immortal soul
Has bathed itself so freely in the blood
Of Jesus, that its stains of sin grow pale,
God always calls the spirit to himself,
To take its station near his own bright throne.
It could not breathe the atmosphere of earth
When it is purified and fit for Heaven.
But while it lives on earth ’tis human still,
And therefore sinful.

Round the open grave
Of her who died so far away from home,
How grateful to the mourning bosoms there,
The friendly sympathy of old and young!
Cold hearted and unfriendly call ye these--
The natives of the north? It is not so;
My fellow Southrons! If the hand of God
Shall ever lay you low, when far from home,
Among your breth’ren of the frozen north,
I know, dear friends! I know ye’ll see them shed
With the dejected mourner, tear for tear.

Sweetly the voices round that young girl’s grave,
Peal’d forth a solemn dirge. Now swell’d it high
In lofty strains; and now in cadence soft,
It seem’d to die away upon the ear;
Then would it swell again, and reach the skies,
And seem to mingle with the music there.
Now where the Mississippi proudly roll’d
Its world of waters to the distant sea,
That dirge was sung again. The words were these:

“Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb!
Take this new treasure to thy trust;
And give these sacred relics room
To slumber in the silent dust.

No pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear
Invades thy bounds; no mortal woes
Can reach the lowly sleeper here,
While angels watch the soft repose.

So Jesus slept; God’s dying Son
Pass’d through the grave, and bless’d the bed:
Rest here, blest saint! till from his throne
The morning break, and pierce the shade.

Break from his throne, illustrious morn!
Attend, O, earth, his sov’reign word;
Restore thy trust; a glorious form
Shall then arise to meet the Lord.”

Again that childless widow raised her voice,
And sang the funeral song. The strength she had:
Was not her own--it came from God himself.
For like a vine deprived of its support,
She shot new tendrils forth, and clasp’d them round
Th’ almighty arm of God, reach’d down from Heaven.
For her relief; and that almighty arm
Rais’d her above the troubles of the earth.
They little know what solid comfort is,
Who ne’er have turn’d to Heaven in sorrow’s hour!
Thrice happy man, corrected of the Lord!
Whose roots are torn from earth’s most wretched soil,
Whene’er they shoot their clinging fibres down.
O, let me ever be uprooted thus!
If I be watered with the dews of Heaven,
I still shall flourish in celestial green,
And bear the blessed fruits of holiness.
Yes--with unfalt’ring voice the mourner sang,
While others gazed in pure astonishment,
And thought ’twas “passing strange.”

The music ceas’d,
And all prepared to follow to the grave
Him who had won their hearts. The twilight hour
Was beautiful indeed. The setting sun
Linger’d awhile upon his ruddy throne
Of burnish’d clouds, ere he sank down to rest,
To shed his parting beams upon the grave
Of him on whom he ever loved to shine.
The river roll’d more silently along
Than was its wont;--all nature seem’d to pause
T’ attend that honor’d burial. Silently,
With ling’ring feet, the long procession moved
To that same resting place within a grove,
Where they had follow’d to his peaceful home
The young and lovely boy, two days before.

But who are these approaching from afar,
And urging on their weary steeds? They seem
In haste to meet the mournful retinue
Of him who rides within the sabled hearse.
They meet--dismount--advance with tott’ring steps,
And take their station at the mourner’s side,
Now near her husband’s grave. Who, who are they?
The minister, and his beloved wife;
Both sick, both weary, pale, and sorrowful;
They each had risen from the couch of pain,
And come with trembling haste, four miles or more.

Nor did they come too late; again in prayer
The preacher rais’d his voice; its solemn tones
Awaked the evening echoes; hollow sounds
They were, for he was sick; but in that hour
The spirit triumph’d o’er the fainting frame.
It was a melting scene. Long hoary hairs
Were waving in the breeze, while old and young
Again uncover’d their respectful heads,
When prayer was made to God; and in that hour,
When stood the mourner at her husband’s grave,
Quite near the little mound that cover’d o’er
Her boy so beautiful, again she rais’d
Her beaming face to Heaven, and, all entranc’d
With visions of celestial glory--smiled!
The parting beams of the descending sun
Play’d on her cheek, and on her pallid brow,
And kiss’d her parting lips; they seem’d a sign
From Heaven--a sweet love token from the skies.

But hark! what noise is that, that strangely breaks
Upon the sacred stillness of the scene?
All eyes are turn’d to where the sound is heard,
Nor is it far away. Affecting sight!
Beside that little mound, with mournful whine,
There lies the dog; he struggles in his grief
To tear away the heavy covering
That hides his little master from his sight!
With frantic strength he scratches on the earth!
The faithful creature sees one open grave;
Why not the other too? Why keep it closed--
That grave that hides the form he dearly loves?
Ah, noble friend! thou’lt see that form no more!

Again the minister returneth thanks
To those around, for all their kindness shown;
Again upon the buried coffin, fall
The heavy clods of earth, with hollow sound;
Again the mourner, shudd’ring, turns away,
And leaves the burial place with ling’ring step.

Go with her to the now deserted room,
Where she must dwell in grief and loneliness.
She slowly enters there, and casts around
A sad, despairing glance. O, could she weep,
How would the briny waters burst their bounds,
And pour in torrents down her cheeks! But no,
She cannot weep. The fountain of her tears
Seems turn’d into a flood of burning fire,
To scorch her fever’d brain. She looks around;
There hangs the little dress her boy last wore,
Just as she took it from him; pantaloons,
And frock, and shoes, and shining leather belt,
All ready for the wearer. There is, too,
His little hat of leghorn, temptingly
Laid by his long sleeved apron, ready for
His gamboling upon the sunny lawn.
There hangs the coat her husband wore, when last
He walk’d with her, and with his little boy.
There hangs his hat, dress’d with its weed of crape,
Worn for her brother, who had died before.
To each of these she goes, and lays her hand
Upon them--takes them down, and fancies how
They look’d upon the wearer--kisses them--
The dress, the hat, the belt, the coat, the shoes--
And then returns them to their places. O,
For tears! for sweet, sweet tears! They will not come.

There in the corner stands the instrument
On which her husband loved at eve to play;
Yes, at that very hour--that twilight hour,
How often would the viol’s tones be heard
To mingle with her voice in sacred song!
She thither goes, and takes her boy’s low chair,
And sits beside it. See! she lays her head
Upon the very spot his hand would touch
If he were playing it. See! she kisses it,
And clasps her arms around the slender neck,
And hugs it to her breast! It will not do--
Still, still she cannot weep.

The violin
Is hanging silent in its ’custom’d place;
’Twas with the violin he used to lull
His boy to sleep, when, wearied with his play,
His head was on its evening pillow laid.
The boy would warble, as the father play’d,
A drowsy song, then silent sink to sleep.
What visions must have visited his couch,
Thus woo’d to peaceful slumbers! On the chair
She stands, and reaches it from its high place,
And covers it with kisses!--Still no tears.

Who comes into that room with stealthy tread?--
That room so sacred to the mourner, who?
It is a good old lady, come to see
What means the stillness in that mournful room.
Long had she knock’d without--but, dead to all
Save her own grief, the mourner did not hear.
At last she ventured in, and reaching forth
Her venerable arms, she clasp’d them round
The mourner, sobbing out--“My poor dear child!”
Lo! at these magic words of pity, she
Who could not weep before, is weeping now
Upon the dear old lady’s bosom. Yes!
Her arms are tightly clasp’d around her neck,
As though she were her mother; and her head
Has sunk upon that sympathizing breast;
And when at length she raises it again,
There beams a tranquil smile upon her face,
Like the bright rainbow shining after rain!

How sweet is sympathy! Each heart doth know
Its own deep bitterness; but many weigh
The grief of others in false balances,
And blame them where they ought to sympathize.
When the sharp deadly arrows of the Lord
Are drinking up the spirit, O, ’tis hard
To meet with “miserable comforters.”
To him that is afflicted, pity show;
Ye, who enjoy the smiles of Providence!
Your turn may come; then who will pity you,
If ever you have breath’d a word unkind
To one whose heart was breaking? God will laugh
At your calamity, and mock at all your fear!

CHARLESTON, _June 26, 1841_.

FOOTNOTES

[5] MARTHA DAY, daughter of President Day, of Yale College: and JANE L. FLOYD, daughter of the late Rev. Laomi Floyd, and adopted daughter of the Rev. Dr. Palmer, of Charleston; who died in New Haven, where she was pursuing her studies.

[6] The REV. CLAUDIUS HERRICK, long known and celebrated as the instructor of young ladies in New Haven.

A VOICE FROM HEAVEN.

“And one of the elders said unto me, ‘Weep not.’”

ST. JOHN.

O, weep not in thy lonely hours,
My Mary! weep not so;
If thou couldst hear my spirit-voice,
Thy tears would cease to flow.

I’d tell thee of thy future home,
Its pure unfading bliss,
Where hearts that once have swell’d with grief
Now swell with happiness.

I’d tell thee how our angel son
Reclines in Jesus’ arms,
Or roams with me these heavenly hills,
Enraptured with their charms.

I’d tell thee how with seraph’s voice
We make these arches ring,
And sound melodious notes of praise
To Heaven’s eternal King.

I’d tell thee how with golden wings
We fly at his command,
Who bought for us this heritage--
This fair delightful land.

I’d tell thee how in God’s own book
I’ve read thy title clear,
I know, my own! my still beloved!
That I shall see thee here.

I’d tell thee of the glorious rest
Remaining yet for thee,
When with thy loved and sainted ones
In Heaven thou shalt be.