Chapter M: S. B. D (5)

Ah! look around--the mother’s arms
No precious burden hold;
The father’s heart no longer warms
With ecstasy untold,
As when his playful infant boy,
With outstretch’d, dancing hands,
In baby language spoke his joy,
Or utter’d his commands.

Yes, look around! in that still place
A lovely infant lies,
A parting smile upon his face,
The smile of sweet surprise,
As burst upon his ravish’d ear
The music of the blest
In Heaven, when harps were tuning there
To welcome _home_ the guest.

But hark! a softer, sweeter strain
Of _infant_ harmony!
O, who would now to earth enchain
That spirit, pure and free?
Though icy cold the body lies
Enwrapt in death’s embrace,
To Jesus’ arms the spirit flies,
Burning to see his face.

CHARLESTON, _May, 1834_.

WHEN SHALL IT BE?

“And he showed me a pure river of water of life, clear as
crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.

“In the midst of the street of it, and on another side of the
river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of
fruits, and yielded her fruit every month, and the leaves of the
tree were for the healing of the nations.”--REV.

When shall I taste of that pure river,
Flowing near the throne?
When shall I drink and live forever,
Far from sorrow flown?

When shall I bathe my fever’d spirit
In the limpid stream?
When shall I Heaven’s joys inherit--
Ended life’s short dream?

When shall the tree of life wave o’er me,
Bearing precious fruit,
When shall the healing sap restore me,
Springing from its root?

When shall I taste the fruit, and never,
Never hunger more?
When shall I droop no more forever,
Pain and anguish o’er?

Not till I reach my home in Heaven,
All life’s journey trod;
Not till my sins are all forgiven
By the grace of God!

“I WILL TRUST IN THE COVERT OF THY WINGS. SELAH.”

My heart is pain’d within me. When shall I
Away from all these mournful sorrows fly--
The ills of life--the ceaseless care and toil,
Spontaneous growth of earth’s polluted soil?

How oft my spirit plumes her eager wings,
To seek a refuge from these tiresome things!
But like a wounded bird, she strives in vain,
Then sinks desponding to the earth again.

My heavenly Father! may my refuge be
Thine own almighty wings o’ershadowing me;
Thy shelter o’er my struggling spirit cast,
Till these calamities be overpast.

Then trusting in the covert of thy wings--
A peaceful shade--whence healing virtue springs,
I’ll lay me down, content to live or die,
And wait till thou shalt bear my soul on high.

DECEMBER 22, 1840.

TO THE ASHLEY RIVER.

Ashley river! Ashley river!
Do I tread thy banks again?
Then ’twas not farewell forever,
Told I thee with throbbing pain,
When I sought thee last, sweet river,
With my lovely sister, Jane!

Was there not a gentle warning
Murmur’d in thy gurgling tone?
Clouds were gath’ring o’er life’s morning,
Which in radiant beauty shone;
Ah! I _felt_ the whisper’d warning,
I should tread thy banks alone.

Yes--alone! my gentle sister
Here no more shall rove with me;
How I trembled when I kiss’d her,
Standing near our fav’rite tree!
Still I dream’d not, angel sister!
’Twas my last sweet walk with thee.

Evergreens were spreading o’er us,
With their cool embow’ring shade;
Hoary mosses waved before us,
And a graceful drapery made:
While the gliding waters bore us
Many a tuneful serenade.

Pearly tears, in silence starting,
Told the heart’s deep seated gloom,
While we brooded o’er the parting
From our early, only home;
Ah! we knew not one was starting
For a distant lonely tomb!

Now, no mosses wave above her,
Where she sleeps so far away;
But the eyes of those who love her
Guard the precious sleeping clay;
Angels keep bright watch above her,
Till the resurrection day.

O, sweet Ashley! gently gliding,
Calmly can I gaze on thee,
For my loved one is abiding
Where I quickly hope to be;
So, each deep emotion chiding,
Still I love to gaze on thee!

DECEMBER 16, 1840.

“ONE WOE IS PAST.”

Written after the death of a friend.

I have one sorrow less to bear,
Of those that shall befal me here;
Another grievous woe is past;
Would God that it _might_ be the last!

While through the wilderness I go,
With feeble footsteps, faint and slow,
My dear companions of the way,
How gladly would I bid them stay!

’Tis sweet to travel arm in arm
Along life’s road--the sweetest charm
Of human life is human love,
And friends are blessings from above.

But one who loves them more than I
Calls, “Come up hither,” from on high;
Then joyfully they soar away,
And leave me lonely here to stay.

Yet, when they leave me, well they know
That I, from whose embrace they go,
With swifter steps will travel on
To where my dearest friends have gone.

So, smiling as they take their flight
To regions of celestial light,
They whisper low, with dying breath,
“A _short_ farewell”--then sleep in death.

JANUARY 1, 1841.

TO MY FRAIL BODY.

O! frail and falling house of clay!
I’ve loved thee far too well;
With thee I have not long to stay,
How long, I cannot tell.

But this I know, thy tott’ring wall
Which now imprisons me,
When touch’d by Death’s cold hand, shall fall;
O! _then_ I shall be free!

And yet, whene’er I part from thee,
Mid nature’s dying pain,
O! let this truth remember’d be,
We part to meet again

As tender rose trees seem to die,
When touch’d by winter’s breath,
And for a little season lie,
With every mark of death;

Then spring to life when summer comes,
And wear their brightest dress,
To beautify our pleasant homes,
Our careworn hearts to bless,

So shalt thou hear the trumpet’s sound,
And leave thy lowly grave,
Whether thou sleepest under ground,
Or ’neath the rolling wave.

Then still I’ll love thee, house of clay!
But not with former pride;
For not until the last great day
Shalt thou be glorified!

JANUARY 4, 1841.

A HYMN FOR THE AFFLICTED.

Wounded within me is my heart,
I mourn and sit alone;
And every voice that comes to me
Breathes out a plaintive tone.

Ah me! how can I longer live
Where all is desolate?
I wander like a lonely bird,
Bereaved of its mate.

O! would that I had died with thee,
My dear, my early friend!
Then deep affliction would not now
My mourning bosom rend.

But no! It was my Father’s choice!
I bow to his decree!
He loved my friend, and call’d him home,
And O! he loveth me!

The Angel of the covenant
Is standing by my side;
I pray thee, soother of my griefs!
There ever to abide!

And now he makes the storm a calm;
The waves thereof are still;
My peace doth like a river flow,--
_I love my Father’s will_.

JANUARY 2, 1841.

THE BEREAVED FATHER TO HIS SON.

Dear miniature of her I loved and lost,
Come to thy father’s almost broken heart!
Come, lay thy lovely head upon my breast,
And let me smooth thy golden ringlets down,
As I have seen thy sainted mother do!
Ah me! those dear soft hands lie mouldering,
Now clasp’d upon her still, unconscious breast!

Would I could sing for thee, my orphan boy,
As I have heard thy sainted mother sing!
O! we shall never hear her sing again!
The music of our fireside is hush’d--
The silver voice that cheer’d us, now is mute.

I pity thee, my boy! for well I know
This mournful silence sends an icy chill
To every heart within these lonely walls,
That lately echoed to angelic tones.
Methought I heard thee lisp thy mother’s name,
As she had taught her darling boy to do;
O! say it not again--’twill break my heart!

I see deep sadness in thy violet eyes,
As though thou knew’st thy kindest friend was gone.
Yes--she _is_ gone--poor boy! poor orphan boy!
Too soon thou’lt find that thou art motherless;
For who will love thee with a mother’s love--
That sacred, changeless, deep, untiring love?
She loves thee still, my boy! and it may be
She watches o’er thee now with tender care,
A guardian angel to her own dear child!

My wife! my cherish’d wife! my bosom friend!
If thou art near us, whisper peaceful words,
And teach me how to bear my Father’s stroke!
If ever, ’mid the swelling tides of grief,
My spirit, struggling in the stormy wave,
Lets go her only anchor, faith in God,
And blindly plunges near the dang’rous shoals
Of proud rebellion ’gainst th’ almighty will,
Or total self-abandonment to grief,
Then, sainted spirit! bear me back again,
By some unknown, mysterious influence,
Such as the ministering angels use!

O! sigh not thus, my dear, my gentle boy!
Nor let the sad contagion of my grief
Infect so soon thy young unconscious breast.
’Tis strange to see thee gazing silently
Where there is nought to catch thy infant eye,
With downcast look, and grave abstracted air,
As though thou hadst th’ experience of years,
And wert reflecting on the woes of life.
The silken fringes round thy sweet blue eyes
Are almost resting on thy downy cheek,
And thy fair head reposes on my breast,
My lonely, sorrowing, bereaved breast,
With all the silent, touching eloquence
So often felt where not a word is said.
Thy angel mother may be near thee, boy!
Communing with thy untaught spirit now,
And teaching thee the rudiments of thought.

O Death! thou art th’ ambassador of Heaven,
To wean us from th’ allurements of the world;
May not thy visits ever be in vain!
The storm, the calm, the sunshine, and the cloud,
Must each alternately my portion be,
And all to me their sacred lessons teach;
O! may I learn the varied lessons well!

The youthful stranger in a foreign land
Soon learns to know where happiness is found.
Should Pleasure lure him to some shining place,
And surly Disappointment meet him there,
If he is wise, he shuns that path again,
Because the meteor sparkles to deceive.
But I, a stranger and a pilgrim here,
Must learn the same sad lesson o’er and o’er,
That all is changeful in this dying world.
I clasp a shadow to my foolish heart,
Then weep to find my arms are empty still!
O! could I but remember that on earth
My dearest treasures are a loan from Heaven,
And may at any moment be recall’d,
I should prepare my heart for each sad loss.

My darling boy! I must not love thee so;
Dear miniature of her I loved and lost,
I’ll try to feel that I may lose _thee_ too!
Yet, joyful thought! such treasures cannot die,
_The time will come I’ll find them all again_.

JANUARY 4, 1841.

WHERE IS THE BETTER COUNTRY?

Where is the better country, where?
Ye who have found it, lead me there;
I long have sought a happy home,
Yet weary, weary, still I roam;
I’ve tried by turns each pathway bright;
My sun goes down, and all is night;
I grope my way in sad despair;
Where is the better country, where?

I catch at every beaming ray
That shines upon my weary way;
I’m taken captive by a flower,
That blooms and withers in an hour;
And yet, whene’er my bosom tries
To shield a flower, there it dies:
Away the withered thing I throw,
And sadly on my way I go.

An infant in its cradle smiled--
Its look of joy my heart beguiled;
But, when I gazed a moment more,
Its joyous brow was clouded o’er;
Then, sick at heart, I heav’d a sigh,
And turn’d away my tearful eye;
How vain the search for pleasure here!
With every smile there comes a tear.

I saw a shining beauteous thing--
It hung before me glittering;
They call’d it friendship, and with joy,
My hand I stretch’d to seize the toy.
It proved to be a gilded dart,
Which, ere I knew it, pierced my heart!
Then, faint and bleeding, thus I thought--
“Experience must be dearly bought.”

I saw the star-bespangled sky,
And there I fixed my earnest eye;
One star grew brighter to my gaze,
For me it seem’d to shed its rays;
I thought if I could soar afar,
I’d hie me to that lonely star:
Ah me! ’twas but a meteor’s light;
It fled away--that star so bright!

As carelessly I roved along,
I heard a soft, delightful song;
I turn’d aside to catch the sound,
But no sweet songster could be found.
It was my own Canary bird,
Whose faint, receding notes I heard;
He breathed “farewell” in every tone--
The cage was there--the bird had flown!

A beauteous, meek eyed, carrier dove
Came flying with the speed of love;
I caught, and kiss’d him o’er and o’er,
I knew the bird a letter bore;
I broke the seal with eager hand,
For tidings from a distant land;
But ah! I shudder’d while I read,
It told me one I loved--was dead!

The falling of a far cascade
Most sweet, harmonious music made;
It charm’d me oft at evening-tide,
And once, by moonlight, there I hied;
But, when I reach’d the chosen spot,
The louder music pleased me not;
’Tis thus with many things I meet,
They’re only at a distance sweet.

Long, long ago I left my home;
For many years ’twas mine to roam;
And when at last I there return’d,
O! how my heart within me burn’d!
But every thing I saw was chang’d,
And from my home I felt estrang’d;
And then I cried in deep despair,
“Where is the better country, where?”

O! he whose heart is fix’d below,
Finds disappointment, change, and woe!
Where are the never clouded skies--
O! where the joy that never dies?
Where is the music ever sweet,
O! where the friends I long to meet?
No more earth’s changing scenes allure,--
Where is the land all bright and pure?

The land where all is pure and bright,
That better land, is “out of sight!”
And I must journey here awhile,
And see by turns, the tear, the smile;
Yet, even now, ’tis bliss to me,
That I one day that land shall see,
And joyful wing my eager flight
To that sweet country--out of sight.

CHARLESTON, _January 19, 1841_.

TO A MOTHER, ON THE DEATH OF A DAUGHTER.

Mother! I’ve news for thee from Heaven!
Thy daughter boweth near the throne!
O, canst thou not for her rejoice,
Though thou art left alone?

Hast thou not seen her lovely eye
Gaze on thee through her glitt’ring tears,
Though thou didst strive from every ill
To shield her tender years?

Mother! thy daughter weeps no more,
For all her tears are dried away;
Exhaled like dew-drops from the rose,
Beneath the sun’s bright ray!

Hast thou not seen how cruel pain
Could steal the roses from her cheek,
And wring the moisture from her brow,
And leave her faint and weak?

Mother! thy daughter is in Heaven,
And pain can never reach her there,
No sickness comes to those who breathe
That pure delightful air!

Look up, with faith’s observant eye,
And see thine angel daughter now!
I would not wish to call her back
To this dark world--_wouldst thou_?

“O! no--O! no”--I hear thee say,
“My Savior hath his promise kept;
He comforts me; and yet I must
Weep on--for Jesus wept!”

“But let the youthful Christian go
Thus early to her peaceful home;
Yes--I am willing now to lay
My darling in the tomb!”

CHARLESTON, _February 14, 1841_.

A MORNING HYMN.

Early, early O! my God!
I send my prayer to thee,
Ere my heart has roved abroad
’Mid scenes of vanity.
Shielded by thy tender love,
I have calmly, safely slept,
Guards, commission’d from above,
Round me their station kept.

Through the darkness--through the night
Refreshing rest was mine;
Fire, nor sword, nor sickly blight,
Against me did combine;
But revolving hours have brought,
Opening fair, another day;
May I spend it as I ought,
And love, and watch, and pray!

When the solemn hour has come
For me to sleep in death,
Jesus, bear my spirit home,
When fails my mortal breath!
Clasp me in thy faithful arms--
Fold me to thy tender breast--
Till, enraptured with thy charms,
I gently sink to rest.

CHARLESTON, _February 14, 1841_.

SONG.

I remember--I remember--
The sacred place for prayer!
In the morning and the evening
Thou wert always with me there;
Lowly bending--lowly bending--
Retired from earthly things,
For celestial flights preparing,
We plumed the spirit’s wings.

I remember--I remember--
The “wormwood and the gall,”
When I felt that thou hadst left me,
All alone to stand or fall.
Lowly bending--lowly bending--
I told my grief to God,
And he heard me, and he gave me
Submission to his rod.

I remember--I remember--
The pleasing “joy of grief,”
How affliction turn’d to gladness,
When my prayer had brought relief;
Lowly bending--lowly bending--
Thus may I spend my days,
Till with rapture I am singing
Th’ eternal song of praise.

CHARLESTON, _February 16, 1841_.

HYMN.

“O Lord! I am oppressed--undertake for me.”--Ps.

Lost in affliction’s darksome maze,
O! whither shall I go?
Where shall I find the peaceful streams
Where healing waters flow?

My soul! wait only on the Lord,
All other help is vain;
My wounded heart! no other friend
Can ease thy throbbing pain.

The Savior, for his sorrowing ones,
Will surely undertake;
He’ll clasp the suff’rers in his arms,
For his dear mercy’s sake:

The Christian, ’mid his sorrowing,
May evermore rejoice,
And raise, above the howling storm,
His loud triumphant voice.

Then, Jesus! Savior of my soul!
O! undertake for me;
Able and willing as thou art,
I leave my case with thee.

Since I was precious in thy sight,
I’ve known thy tender love;
And each event that comes to me
Seems calling me above.

Well, let me go; I long to go
Where those I loved have gone;
They, through the might of Him who died,
Have won the victor’s crown.

O! ’twill be sweet with them to join
In one unwearied song,
And, through our blest eternity
The joyful notes prolong.

Dear Savior! when I leave the world,
And rise to dwell with thee,
I’ll praise thee with a seraph’s tongue,
And never wearied be!

FEBRUARY 17, 1841.

THE BENDED KNEE.

Pray on--pray on--poor suff’ring soul!
Why wilt thou not thy burdens roll
On Him who died for thee?
O! cease not till thy dying day,
Beneath his cross, to watch and pray;--
Live on thy bended knee!

O! pale faced mourner! raise thy head,
And weep not for the sainted dead
Who’ve left this world and thee;
Remember they are angels now;
And God will teach _thy will_ to bow,
While on thy bended knee.

Come, bring the noblest offering--
Thy broken heart; the Heavenly King
Will surely smile on thee;
He dearly loves the broken heart;
And thou shalt feel thy woes depart,
While on thy bended knee.

Now prostrate lie, and kiss the rod;
The secret purpose of thy God
May not be known to thee;
But in the ocean of his love
Drown all thy fears, and look above,
Still on thy bended knee.

FEBRUARY 17, 1841.

THE HOLY BIBLE.

My God! I bless thee for thy word,
I clasp it to my breast;
Of all thy glorious gifts to man,
The noblest, and the best!

When I am idling in the way,
And danger stalks abroad,
It thunders in my startled ear--
“Prepare to meet thy God!”

Whene’er I stray, its beacon light
Shines through the gloom afar;
And when I turn the other way,
’Tis there--my polar star!

I glory in thy promises
When sorrows rend my breast,
And thus, when thinking on thy word,
My sorrows sink to rest.

In silent watches of the night
I sing upon my bed,
While gently, on its pillow’d rest,
Reclines my weary head.

Father! I’ll take thy blessed word,
And clasp it to my breast;
Of all thy glorious gifts to man,
The noblest, and the best!

FEBRUARY 18, 1841.

SONG.

I see thee in my dreams,
Thou who hast gone before me!
And faithful mem’ry seems
My loved one to restore me!
Thou’rt clad in robes of light,
Thy face with joy is beaming,
Thus, dearest! every night,
I see thee when I’m dreaming!

The songs we loved so well,
I hear my dear one singing,
And sweet, o’er hill and dell,
Melodious notes are ringing!
The tears bedim my sight
Which in my eyes do glisten,
While, trembling with delight,
I hold my breath to listen.

I stretch my arms to thee--
But, suddenly awaking,
My love no more I see--
O! _then_ my heart is breaking!
But when I think that thou
An angel art in glory,
Again to sleep I go,
And dreams repeat the story.

Though thou hast gone above,
And left this world forever,
’Tis true, ’tis true, my love!
I can forget thee never!
Then come in robes of light,
Thy face with rapture beaming,
And let me, every night,
Behold thee when I’m dreaming!

FEBRUARY 16, 1841.

A FUNERAL HYMN.

Lay low the sleeper! let him be
Now buried out of sight;
This dust, O Earth! we give to thee,
’Tis thine undoubted right.

It came from thee; but not the soul--
The breath of Deity!
Insatiate Grave! thy dark control
Ends with mortality.

Ashes to ashes--dust to dust--
Lay low the silent form!
Though loved and cherish’d long, we must
Consign it to the worm.

Rest, brother, rest! thy work is done;
Thy spirit is not here;
The battle’s fought, the vict’ry won;
Where is the victor--where?

Behold! behold! the pearly gates
Of Heaven are opened wide!
What glorious rapture now awaits
The spirit glorified!

Weep on, ye mourners, as ye go,
But weep not for the dead!
Ye lay upon its pillow low
A weary, aching head.

Weep for yourselves, and weep for those
Earth’s thorny path who tread;
But not for those who thus repose--
No! weep not for the dead!

FEBRUARY 16, 1841.

“SEARCH THE SCRIPTURES.”

“For in them ye think ye have eternal life, and they are they
which testify of me.”

Wouldst thou an introduction have
To Him who mighty is to save?
Then search the scriptures--they are they
Which image forth the Deity.

O! dying man! make God your friend,
Whose friendship lives when life shall end;
Your intimate communion here
In Heaven shall grow more sweet, more dear.

The friends of earth--how oft they change,
Forget their love, grow cold and strange!
But heavenly friendship--O! ’twill be
Increasing through eternity!

And Jesus is the source of all;
Around his feet adoring fall
The saints and angels, casting down,
Each happy one, his shining crown.

No “clouds or darkness” veil Him there;
The Sun of Heaven, He shineth clear;
His rays a settled joy impart,
And reach to every perfect heart.

O! joy of joys! can this be mine?
Shall I in God’s own likeness shine?
O! yes! when I awake in Heaven,
All satisfied--my sins forgiven!

FEBRUARY 20, 1841.

GOD IS FAITHFUL.

God is faithful! God is love!
Seated on his throne above,
Still he looks on men below,
Makes them his, and keeps them so.
When in dang’rous paths I roam,
Angel voices call me home;
Penitent and weeping sore,
Then I wonder and adore!

God is faithful! God is just!
Therefore let me ever trust;
Each event will work my good,
Though not always understood.
If he should my comforts slay,
Darken, roughen all my way,
I deserve it all, and more--
Therefore still would I adore.

God is faithful! God is wise!
When he sees me idolize
Dying creatures of a day,
Soon he takes them all away.
Then I bow, and kiss the rod,
Better love and serve my God,
Taste of joys unknown before,
Wonder still, and still adore!

“LOVEST THOU ME?”

A voice salutes my ear!
O! how the accents move me!
I hear my Savior say,
“My daughter! dost thou love me?”

What answer shall I give
To Him who died to save me?
Who rescued me from death,
And all my sins forgave me?

O! hear me, dearest Lord!
In glory throned above me,
And help me thus to say,
“Thou knowest that I love thee!”

FEBRUARY 21, 1841.

THE DYING MOTHER.

A mother is dying--O! breathe no sound,
Let her faint low tones be heard!
Now stifle your sobs as ye stand around,
And list to each parting word!

Throw open the casement, and let the breeze
Playing over the jessamine vine,
And passing the blossoming China trees,
Come in with its fragrance fine.

Make way--make way--let the cool wind play
O’er the pale and dying brow;
For she loves the breath of the closing day,
And the day is closing now.

O! see! how her mild dark eye grows bright,
Like the eye of the gentle fawn!
That eye will sleep in death this night,
Ere another morning’s dawn.

Yes! tender husband! wipe the few
Death pearls from her forehead fair;
They are not those pearls once given by you,
And twined in her chestnut hair.

’Tis true--’tis true--’tis her bridal day,
But the bridal is not of earth;
She will sit no more in her white array,
The pride of the cheerful hearth;

As once she sat, when, young and fair,
She gave thee her virgin hand,
When the bells rang out on the evening air
A call to the bridal band.

She is going now to the great “I AM!”
She will soon with joy sit down
To the marriage supper of the Lamb,
Arrayed in her sparkling crown.

She is now the bride of the Crucified--
His saints he calls _his own_;
She is one of those for whom he died,
Who will sit with him on his throne.

O! see! the beams of the setting sun,
How they kiss her faded cheek!
Like the sun, her race is almost run--
And hark! I hear her speak!

Come near--come near--that voice to hear,
’Tis like music dying away;
Bend low, bend low, each list’ning ear,
For the words those pale lips say:

“I am dying--O! how cold,
O! how deadly faint I feel!
Death’s dark tide has o’er me roll’d,
Tremors on my heartstrings steal!”

“Husband! let me see thee, dear!
Bow not thus thy mournful head!
Speak of Heaven to calm my fear,
Till the spark of life has fled.

“Bring my children! bring them all!
Darlings! round your mother stand!
Place the babe within mine arms,
Let me hold its tiny hand!

“Smiling cherub! heir of Heaven!
I shall see thee, darling! there;
Raise me up, and let me kiss
Cheek, and lip, and forehead fair.

“Husband! let me lean my head
Sweetly on thy noble breast!
Let me breathe away my life
On my fav’rite place of rest!

“Cease thine aching, heaving heart!
Gently, gently, let me die!
Let me give my last farewell,
Free from death’s deep agony.

“Sons and daughters! all farewell!
Let the last sweet kiss be given;
Hear your mother’s dying charge--
Meet me, meet me--all, in Heaven!”

“Kiss me, husband! yet once more!
Once again! there, that will do;
O! ’tis sweet to think I take
But a short farewell of you.

“I am going--all is dark--
Husband! ’tis not hard to die;
O! what heavenly light I see!
Glory! glory! victory!”

FEBRUARY 23, 1841.

SMILING, THOUGH SAD.

O! yes! I’ve learn’d the art
To smile when the bosom’s aching,
In others’ joy to take a part,
When all my heart seems breaking.

I’ve learn’d to raise my voice,
And sing the songs of gladness,
When the sun, that bade my heart rejoice,
Has set in clouds of sadness.

I’ve learn’d to hide my tears,
And hush my heavy sighing,
While every placid feature wears
A look, the truth belying.

If I could speak my woe,
O! who would understand me?
The wond’ring look, from friend and foe,
To silence would command me.

Alone--alone--alone--
I feel in the crowded city;
Yet strive t’ assume a cheerful tone--
I love not _human_ pity!

O! how I love to hide
Whene’er I feel so lonely,
From all the world to turn aside,
And fly to JESUS only.

That sympathizing friend
Will never chide my sadness,
But, while I weep, he’ll o’er me bend,
And whisper words of gladness.

FEBRUARY 27, 1841.

THE POET’S WEALTH.

My friends, I am not poor.
What though my purse be empty? Let it lie
An empty bauble still; my heart is full
Of gushing tenderness to all I love;
And I love every thing, save sin. Thank God!
That thing I do not love. I have been bathed,
With reverence let me utter it, in blood
Which hath a power to make the foulest clean;
And though I need to wash me every day
In that exhaustless fountain, from the stains
Which will on earth my struggling soul defile,
Still, still, I _love_ not sin--my taste is changed.
But that aside, I do love every thing;
And this, sweet friends! is to be rich indeed;
I am content--’tis all the wealth I need.

I love this rich and varied world of ours,
Adorn’d with sunbeams, moonlight, stars, and flowers;
I love another _better_, where I see
With eye of faith, bright things in store for me;
But when I think my Father made this earth
So beautiful, to be th’ abode of man,
O! then I love it well--perhaps too well.

How oft with tremulous delight I’ve gazed
Upon th’ unquiet ocean--while in sport
He tossed his billows in a thousand forms,
And crown’d them all with snowy wreaths of foam!
Long have I stood upon the shelving beach,
With feelings elevated by the scene.
Who does not love the ocean? Who can stand
Spectator of that most sublime expanse--
The fathomless, the ever changing sea,
And feel not reverence, gratitude, and love,
To Him who keeps the waters in their bounds,
Who holds them in the hollow of his hand?
If there be such a man, that man is poor,
Though sums untold within his coffers lie.

I love the sun--the bright impartial sun,
Which shineth on the evil and the good!
I love the moon--the pale and pensive moon,
When, walking thoughtful in the silent night,
She throws her mellow rays on every scene,
Peopling with fairy forms the forest shades,
As her mild eye looks through the moving trees.

I love the stars--“the poetry of Heaven!”
Those meeting places for fond lovers’ eyes,
Who tenderly, at some appointed hour,
With earnest looks gaze on their fav’rite star!
I love the clouds--th’ embroidery of the sky!
Work’d out in bold relief, in figures fine,
Upon a ground of never fading blue!
I even love the frowning thunder cloud,
Clothing the skies in mourning, ere the rain
May weep its torrents o’er the thirsty land.

I love the flowers--fair ornaments of earth!
The many color’d gems which deck her breast--
The scented sprigs upon her robe of green!
I love the trees--which throw their leafy shade,
To screen us from the scorching noontide ray,
Or spread their arms, well fill’d with golden fruit,
Inviting us to taste the rich repast.
I love the birds--those cheerful choristers,
Which sing to us in ever tuneful strains,
Unpaid, and often unregarded too.
I love the noble beasts--untamed which roam,
Or those which patient bear man’s heavy yoke,
Or those which minister to our delight,
By giving food, or bearing friend to friend.

I love mankind--though I would keep afar
From those whose minds are meanly chain’d to earth,
Unless they’d listen to my pleading voice,
Telling of things all fair and beautiful.
I love with all my heart, a little child,
Pure, fresh, and beauteous in its early bloom--
A blossom soon to shed its fragrance far,
Or scatter baleful poison all around.
I love the aged man, whose hoary hair
Lies thinly scatter’d o’er his temples bare;
I love to see him cheerfully descend
The hill of life. The winter of his days
A prelude is to one eternal spring.

And I love sorrow too; it teaches me
The lessons I shall ne’er forget. It breaks
My heart, that love divine may enter in,
And, while it heals the breach, may there abide.
And last, not least, I love sweet poetry,
The only never failing alchemy
Which turneth all it touches into gold.
So much for earth; now for exalted love!

I love, O! how I love, my future home!
Here language fails me. Eye hath never seen,
Ear has not heard, nor heart of man conceiv’d
The things that are reserved for us in Heaven!
Ye see the Christian poet is not poor;
Though bread and water all my portion be,
Still am I rich indeed--I ask no more.
For know ye not that _all_ these things are mine?
They’re mine and yours, for our enjoyment given.
Remember it was said, “All things are yours--
And ye are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s.”

JANUARY 14, 1841.

“THY WILL BE DONE.”

’Tis rebellion gives us pain,
Anguish comes when we complain
In the stormy day;
When the will is all subdued,
When no murm’ring thoughts intrude,
Sorrow flies away.

Tranquil as the sleeping sea,
Ever may our bosoms be,
Though our all is gone;
Sweetly passive when we lie,
Fearing not the frowning sky,
Brighter prospects dawn.

O! ye pilgrims, do ye know
When the heavenly breezes blow
O’er this wretched earth?
’Tis when sorrow rends the heart;
Then the Savior doth impart
Joys of heavenly birth.

When, in God’s mysterious way,
Sorrow’s night shuts out the day,
Patient let me be;
Death, thou great destroyer, come!
Take my friends and bear them home,
Then return for me!

JANUARY 18, 1841.

WHOM THE LORD LOVETH, HE CHASTENETH.

My Father chastens whom he loves;
O! then, he loves me tenderly;
Oft in the fire my heart he proves,
As oft I know the reason why.

For I am full of earthly love;
I idolize the gifts of Heaven;
And then my Father, from above,
Recalls the dear ones he has given.

Then earth’s attractions die to me,
And I am forced to look above;
And He who fills eternity,
Attracts my gaze, and fires my love.

So, trials let me ever hail,
Which bring another world so near;
I’m introduced within the veil,
And angel songs I seem to hear.

Afflicted heart, rejoice, rejoice!
The door of Heaven is oped for thee;
And hark! O! hark! I hear a voice
Which, “Come up hither,” says to me.

O! Father! dost thou love me so?
These dreadful strokes fall not on me;
I bless thy name, each heavy blow
But strikes my chain, to set me free!

MCPHERSONVILLE, _April 15, 1841_.

“IF THERE BE THEREFORE ANY CONSOLATION IN CHRIST.”

Consolation in Christ? O! Savior divine,
How well canst thou comfort this heart of mine!
I’ve tried thee, and proved thee, and well I know
That rivers of comfort from thee do flow.

Not like the dark waters whose waves are strong,
Are those rivers that gently glide along;
My frail little bark safely guided will be,
Till it reaches eternity’s boundless sea.

No huge rolling billows can me overwhelm,
The God of the ocean is at the helm;
Though the waves may rise, and around me chafe,
When Jesus is with me, _all is safe_!

O, Savior! there _is_ consolation in thee,
And when I am troubled, ’tis there I flee;
I hide in thy bosom, and there lean my head,
When the bosoms I loved are cold and dead.

And why do I ever forsake thy breast,
And seek upon earth for a place of rest?
Why cannot I learn there is safety alone,
Where for safety and comfort so often I’ve flown?

How foolish, forgetful, and faithless am I,
To fasten my love upon things that must die!
And when they are taken, how well ’tis for me,
That there is consolation, dear Savior, in thee!

APRIL 21, 1841.

ALL JOY.

“My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into divers
temptations; knowing this, that the trial of your faith worketh
patience.”

JAMES i. 2, 3.

O! Father divine! may I count it all joy
To resign thee my husband and beautiful boy;
Though now I am weeping and breaking my heart,
Thou canst dry every tear and cure every smart.

Thou art teaching me patience by trying my faith,
This “fight of affliction” springs not from thy wrath;
It grieved thee, my Father, to punish me so,
But ’twas tenderest mercy that guided each blow.

May I bear, holy Father! this sorrow and pain,
And never, O! never, despond or complain;
Though all of my loved ones should sicken and die,
I will not, I dare not, thy goodness deny.

I have seen a sweet child, with a frown on his brow,
Ere his will had been taught to his father’s to bow;
I have seen him subdued, and the frown leave his face,
And the smile of affection beam bright in its place;

And he loved his kind father, who guided the rod;
Then sure I must love thee, my Father! my God!
Thou hast taken my treasures, and stricken me sore,
Yet more do I love thee than ever before.

Heart broken and sorrowing, Father, to thee,
On the wings of affection this moment I’ll flee;
If thou wilt be mine, I will “count it all joy”
To resign thee my husband and beautiful boy!

MAY 2, 1841.

THE MOURNER’S RESOLVE.

Hence, all ye sombre signs of grief!
Ye must not dwell with me;
Though to indulge would give relief,
I must not selfish be.

I charge thee, O! thou quiv’ring lip!
To settle to a smile;
And let thy cheerful fellowship
My lonely heart beguile.

I’ll strive with all my heart, to bless
Each sufferer I see;
The widow and the fatherless
Shall learn to pray for me.

I’ll ne’er forget how loved ones watch
For every smile or tear;
Nor how their eager faces catch
The look my features wear.

They shall not hear my grief express’d,
They shall not see me weep;
But every sorrow in my breast
Shall there lie, buried deep.

This is my task, and I will still
Bear on my broken heart;
If God will give me strength awhile,
I’ll nobly do my part.

MAY 27, 1841.

WHEREFORE GLORIFY YE THE LORD IN THE FIRES.--Is. xxiv. 15.

Help me, Lord, to glorify thee,
In the fires to sing thy praise,
With my heart to justify thee
All these dark and doleful days.
Should I bask in beams of glory
All the days I sojourn here,
Would I then believe the story,
That this world is dark and drear?

Would I ever turn to Heaven,
With an ardent sweet desire,
If to me ’twere never given
Thus to pass through sorrow’s fire?
Not from paths of fragrant roses
Will the rebel call on God,
Not till Jesus interposes,
Planting thorns along my road.

Burning fires can ne’er alarm me,
When my Savior’s voice I hear,
Barbed arrows cannot harm me,
With the balm of Gilead near.
Sorrow’s flames will purify me,
Barbed arrows harmless fall,
If I praise and glorify thee
In the fires, my Life! my All!

JUNE 8, 1841.

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF HENRY DICKSON,

Infant son of Thomas A. Elliott, M. D., of Orangeburg, S. C.

He died ere sorrow’s blighting breath
Had o’er him pass’d;
Cold sinking in the arms of Death,
He breathed his last.
But father, mother, do not weep;
Your darling babe is but asleep
In Jesus’ arms;
He tasted of the cup of pain,
Then turned him to his home again--
To heavenly charms.

Remember how, in gentle tones,
The Savior said,
While o’er th’ unconscious little ones
His hands he spread,
“Forbid them not to come to me;”
O! father, mother, will not ye
Remember this?
Why does not joy each bosom seize,
When Jesus says, “Of such as these
My kingdom is?”

Then, while you think upon your boy,
Your sainted one,
O! sweetly say, with smiles of joy,
“God’s will be done!”
Go, darling, to thy blissful home,
Where pain and death can never come,
Nor pale faced woe;
Go, nestle in the Savior’s breast;
Soon we shall share thy blissful rest;
Go, Henry, go!

ORANGEBURG, _August 14, 1841_.

THE DYING HADGI.

I.

With downcast brow and ling’ring feet,
Who leaves that richly cushion’d seat?
And why that deep convulsive sigh?
Thou veiled Beauty, tell me why?
’Twas Selim left that cushion’d seat,
With downcast brow and ling’ring feet.

II.

And she who loves him more than life,
That dark eyed maid--his promised wife,
Whose gath’ring tears bedim each eye,
Twas she who sigh’d convulsively;
For Selim starts that very day
His vows at Mecca’s shrine to pay.

III.

It must be so--for all must part;
There lives no man, whose youthful heart
Has never ached when he has heard,
Farewell--farewell--that saddening word!
Unless the heart is cased in steel,
This is a pang that all must feel.

IV.

How oft beneath the moon’s pale ray,
Have parting tears been wiped away,
While others soon their place supply,
As though the fount could ne’er be dry!
Ah! Stoics! vain are all your sneers;
They speak of pain, those parting tears.

V.

Cheer up, young Selim! time will fly,
Though lovers oft this ruth deny,
And say he lags upon the road;
But urge him with thy sharpest goad,
Keep a light heart, an active mind,
And leave thy vain regrets behind.

VI.

And thou, pale Beauty! weeping sore,
Raise up thy head, and weep no more,
And bless thy fate that thou hast known
Thy future husband; thou alone,
Of all thy young companions, art
Thus blest in giving up thy heart.[17]

VII.

One last fond look the youth bestows,
And Selim with his father goes,
To take his place amid the band
Who journey to a distant land;
The high, the low, the dark, the fair,
The master and the slave are there.

VIII.

And now each stately Mussulman
Has joined the starting caravan,
And rich and poor alike press on
To Mecca’s shrine; that journey done,
Life’s greatest object is attained,
And Paradise is surely gained.

IX.

Thus every man beneath the sun
To some vain pilgrimage doth run;
The heights of pleasure and of fame
Are lighted by a dazzling flame;
And every man, with fond design,
Bends low at some forbidden shrine.

X.

The caravan is on its way;
And, decked with varied colors gay,
The sacred camel marches on,
Proud of his grand caparison;
It hath been so since time began,
Brutes imitate their master, man.

XI.

O! ’tis a splendid sight to see
The gorgeous banners waving free!
From distant lands the pilgrims come,
With zeal that shames all christendom;
They hope t’ avert a future doom,
By bending at their prophet’s tomb.

XII.

The Arab guide his mournful song
Chants slowly, as he moves along,
And, mounting to the cloudless sky,
The hookah’s[18] smoke ascends on high;
And every step springs light and free--
O! ’tis a goodly company!

XIII.

But little weens the hadgi now,
How suffering may blanch his brow;
The horrors of the fell Simoom[19]
Not yet have filled his heart with gloom;
But still the hour comes on, when all
Beneath its fiery breath may fall.

XIV.

Some fall, alas! no more to rise,
For death cuts short their agonies;
And others only live to feel
The pangs of thirst upon them steal,
To long for what they cannot taste,
And slowly die upon the waste.

XV.

O! ’tis a fearful death to die,
That slow consuming agony!
To feel the heart’s pulsation stop,
The blood creep slowly, drop by drop!
To struggle with a burning fire,
And, parch’d with raging thirst, expire!

XVI.

Long on the desert have they been,
And not one spot of cheerful green
Their languid eyes have gazed upon,
And ling’ring hope is almost gone.
Their scanty store of water too
Is gone; what may the pilgrims do?

XVII.

O! for some intervening cloud,
Arabia’s burning sun to shroud!
O! for some sheltering rock, to cast
Its shadow on the dreary waste!
O! for some fountain spark’ling clear,
Or Hagar’s friendly angel near!

XVIII.

The hills of sand on every side,
Like waves of ocean, petrified
While high their restless forms did run,
Stand whitening in the bleaching sun.
All parch’d and bare the ground below,
The heaven above one scorching glow!

XIX.

“O! give me water, e’er I die”--
This was the fainting pilgrim’s cry:
But who could help? that dreadful hour
Was one when friendship had no power
To mitigate the sufferer’s pain;
--The dying hadgi called in vain!

XX.

Stretch’d on the burning sands he lay,
And in his eye the sparkling ray--
The index of his soul, grew dim;
Now what was all his wealth to him?
We would have given all to buy
One drop of water--none was nigh.

XXI.

“O! father! father! canst thou bear
To die, thy journey’s end so near?
This dreadful desert almost pass’d,
And wilt thou, father! sink at last?”
Thus spoke the hadgi’s noble son,
His darling boy--his only one!

XXII.

’Twas Selim spake--his father now
Gazed on his face with troubled brow,
And ’twas for him escaped the sigh,
And sprang the teardrop from his eye;
’Twas hard to part from Selim there,
Where all was woe, and blank despair.

XXIII.

’Tis sad to see proud manhood lie
As weak as helpless infancy!
Not one in all that caravan
With stronger heart their march began,
Than he, whose long drawn, gasping breath
Was wavering ’twixt life and death.

XXIV.

So is it often here below,
The strongest are the first to bow
Beneath the ruthless storms of life;
The proud man sinks--the gentle wife
Uprises ’mid the stormy blast,
And smiles until its rage be past.

XXV.

The father turned his failing eye
Upon his boy--he rais’d on high
His trembling hand, and faintly said,
“Allah protect him when I’m dead!”
Then laid his hand upon his breast,
And sigh’d, “I soon shall be at rest.”

XXVI.

“O! die not thus, my father! no!
I would not have thee perish so!”
Thus spake the boy, then made a sign
To those around; “You know ’tis mine,”
He said, “to promise wealth, ’tis yours
To gain it--now the richest stores

XXVII.

“I’ll give to him who brings me first,
A draught to quench this dying thirst;
My noble father must not die;
Who brings me water, thus will buy
The princely wealth I have to give--
Haste then, and bid my father live.”

XXVIII.

But all are silent--there they stand
Like statues, all that turban’d band;
For who could do his bidding, who?
When they were nearly dying too?
They now prepare to travel on,
Ere life’s last energy is gone.

XXIX.

“And must I leave my father here?”
Cried out the boy, in wild despair;
“It must not be; he is not dead,
And I will hope till life has fled;
I’ll bear him in my bosom, where
Sweet water gushes, bright and clear.”

XXX.

He said, and rais’d his father’s form;
He found his heart still beating warm;
The hope of saving him at length
Endued him with a giant’s strength;
And while the patient camel knelt,
Tumultuous joy young Selim felt.

XXXI.

Now onward moves the caravan;
The movement wakes the dying man;
The houdah[20] is a place of rest,
For he reclines on Selim’s breast;
A faint breeze comes, and seems to give
New life, and bid the dying live.

XXXII.

He softly murmurs in his dreams,
Of cooling shades, and flowing streams;
Perhaps he sees, that dying man,
The fountain in his own divan;
And while he hears its gurgling sound,
He sees his loved ones all around.

XXXIII.

Dream on--dream on--for never more
Thou’lt pass the threshold of thy door.
Smile not, young Selim! death is near,
Though Hope is whisp’ring in thine ear!
No--Selim--no--’tis but the strife
When mortals bid adieu to life.

XXXIV.

The panting beast, with ling’ring tread,
Bears on the dying and the dead;
For Selim’s father breaths no more,
And Selim bows to sorrow’s power.
How oft, when hope is prostrate laid,
Oblivion lends her friendly aid!

XXXV.

And now the wild Arabian
Watches the weakened caravan;
He knows when death has done its work
On many a proud and wealthy Turk;
And there are signs he knows full well,
Which tales of suffering weakness tell;

XXXVI.

When deep despair has seized on all;
And every jaded animal
But creeps his weary way along,
And jest, and laugh, and merry song
Are hush’d--and all is silent there,
Save the deep sigh, or mutter’d prayer.

XXXVII.

A palm tree in the desert--ho!
Now see how cheerily they go!
For Hope has lit her sparkling light,
And every sadden’d eye grows bright.
Farewell to every boding fear!
The palm tree marks a streamlet near!

XXXVIII.

The baffled robber wheels around,
And fast his steed flies o’er the ground;
For men who but an hour before
Were faint and weak, are weak no more!
Who knows what mortals can endure,
When hope leads on, and help is sure?

XXXIX.

’Tis reach’d at length--the blessed spot!
But son and father heed it not.
O’er one oblivion’s wing is spread,
And one is numbered with the dead:
And O! ’twould save most bitter pain,
Could Selim never wake again!

XL.

Now, prostrate bending to the wave,
How drink the master and the slave!
And ’tis the most delicious draught
That ever weary traveler quaff’d!
With blessings on the purling rill,
Each toil-worn pilgrim drinks his fill.

XLI.

But, fainting nature satisfied,
They now repair to Selim’s side;
And there, within the houdah, see
A picture of mortality!
And, struck with sorrow, every one
Bewails the father and the son.

XLII.

But soon they know that Selim lives,
And each some prompt attention gives;
They bear him to a shaded place,
And bathe his pallid, deathlike face;
And now he heaves a deep drawn sigh,
And gazes round with languid eye.

XLIII.

“Young Selim! there is water near!
O, list thee now, and thou wilt hear
The murm’ring of a blessed stream;
Cheer up! it is no fev’rish dream!
See nature’s best restorative!
Poor fainting Selim! drink and live!”

XLIV.

But Selim hears not. On his brow
The damps of death are gath’ring now;
And, though no sound is plainly heard,
His lips pronounce some cherish’d word;
For while he goes through death’s lone shade,
His thoughts are with his dark eyed maid.

XLV.

And she, within her splendid home,
Will wonder why he does not come;
And, wand’ring through the marble halls,
Where many a tear in secret falls,
Will vainly hope from day to day,
While creep the tardy hours away.

XLVI.

And through the shady citron grove,
At morn and eve the maid will rove,
And, gazing on the verdant ground,
Will start at every rust’ling sound,
And, pale with mingled hope and fear,
Will look to see her love appear.

XLVII.

O! lady! Selim will not come--
Thou’lt never bid him “welcome home”--
With sick’ning pangs thou’lt weep apart,
Till hope forsakes thy fresh young heart;
And then, in silent agony,
That heart will break, and breaking, die!

FOOTNOTES

[17] In Turkish families the daughters are betrothed when quite young, and very often do not see their destined husbands.

[18] “Hookah,” the Turkish pipe.

[19] “Simoom.” I believe I have good authority for the orthography of this word, although it is oftener spelled “Simoon.”

[20] “Houdah.” A covered or open divan, placed on the back of the camel, and either rudely or luxuriously furnished.

REAL COMFORT.

There! I have lock’d the door
’Gainst every senseless bore!
O! ’tis a blessing to retire,
And, drawing near my cheerful fire,
To feel I am alone--
Responsible to none--
My cares behind me thrown--
Hence! vanish every one!
Now for a cozy time with my sweet Muse!
Come, lady, wake! this is no time to snooze;
When we’re alone we’ve not an hour to lose,
We cannot always thus ourselves amuse.

I’ve laid my trappings by;
For now no envious eye
Looks on, my dress to criticise,
With strictures aye more nice than wise.
Clad in a flowing gown,
My hair I’ve taken down,
And, o’er my shoulders thrown,
It seeks my loosen’d zone;
Thus, free from all undue restraint, we sit,
My darling Muse and I, to try our wit,
While, author-like, our learned brows we knit,
And coax our brains bright sparkles to emit.

’Tis true, the silent night
Has darken’d round us quite;
But ’tis the time we love the best,
When earthly things are all at rest,
And sweet the hours glide
Down time’s fast flowing tide,
Nor daylight’s pomp, nor pride,
Invades our fireside;
And should, perchance, my fickle Muse be shy,
And choose to tarry in her native sky,
Why, even then, I’ll not to others fly;
I think myself the best of company.

But come, consenting Muse!
We’ll now a subject choose
From things below, or things above;
I have it then, it shall be--LOVE!
Which has its home, you know,
In earth and heaven too;
So, with no more ado,
I’ll sing of love to you:--

SONG.