How oft I've wish'd to break the lines
Thy wisdom to my lot assigns!
How oft indulged a vain desire
For something more, or something higher!
And, but for grace, and love divine,
A fate thus dreadful had been mine."
53. THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
THEY grew in beauty side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee ;-
Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight,-
Where are those dreamers now?
One 'midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream is laid,—
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one;.
He lies where pearls lie deep:
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain :
He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers, —
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth,—
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, oh earth!
54. THE JOURNEY TO EMMAUS.
[From CONVERSATION.]
happen'd on a solemn eventide,
Soon after He that was our Surety died,
Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined,
The scene of all those sorrows left behind,
Sought their own village, busied as they went
In musings worthy of the great event.
They spake of Him they loved; of Him whose life,
Though blameless, had incurr'd perpetual strife:
Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts,
A deep memorial graven on their hearts.
The recollection, like a vein of ore,
The farther traced, enrich'd them still the more. They thought Him, and they justly thought Him, one Sent to do more than He appear'd t' have done
To exalt a people, and to place them high
Above all else; and wonder'd He should die.
Ere yet they brought their journey to an end,
A Stranger join'd them, courteous as a friend,
And ask'd them, with a kind engaging air,
What their affliction was, and begg'd a share.
Inform'd, He gather'd up the broken thread,
And, truth and wisdom gracing all He said,
Explain'd, illustrated, and search'd so well
The tender theme on which they chose to dwell,
That, reaching home, "The night," they said, "is near,
We must not now be parted— sojourn here."
The new acquaintance soon became a guest,
And, made so welcome at their simple feast,
He bless'd the bread, but vanish'd at the word,
And left them both exclaiming, ""Twas the Lord!
Did not our hearts feel all He deign'd to ?
Did not they burn within us by the way ?
55. MY BIRTHDAY.
birthday!"—what a different sound
That word had in my youthful years!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears!
When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as youth counts the shining links
That time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last!
Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said "Were he ordain'd to run
His long career of life again,
He would do all that he had done."
Ah! 'tis not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birthdays speaks to me;
Far otherwise-of time it tells,
Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly-
Of counsel mock'd-of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines!
All this it tells, and could I trace
The imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, retouch, efface,
The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away—
All, but that freedom of the mind
Which hath been more than wealth to me,
Those friendships in my boyhood twin'd,
And kept till now, unchangingly;
And that dear home, that saving ark,
Where Love's true light at last I found,
Cheering within, when all grows dark,
And comfortless, and stormy round!
56. THE PARROT.
HE deep affections of the breast, That Heaven to living things imparts Are not exclusively possess'd
By human hearts.
A Parrot, from the Spanish main,
Full young, and early caged, came o'er, With bright wings, to the bleak domain Of Mulla's shore.
To spicy groves, where he had won
His plumage of resplendent hue,
His native fruits, and skies, and sun,
He bade adieu.
Instead, he watch'd the smoke of turf,
A heathery land and misty sky,
And turn'd on rocks and raging surf
His golden eye.
But, petted, in our climate cold
He lived and chatted many a day;
Until, with age, from green and gold
His wings grew grey.
At last, when blind and seeming dumb,
He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more,
A Spanish stranger chanced to come
He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech;
The bird in Spanish speech replied,
Flapp'd round his cage with joyous screech,
Dropt down, and died.
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