On hearing it said, "There is nothing on earth worth a smile or a tear."
AND is there nothing-nothing here,
That's worth a smile, or worth a tear?
That though this world's a scene of wo,
God's mercy has not left it so-
So reft of good, that here we've nought,
That's worth a sad or happy thought.
O, 'tis a dark deceiving dream
For fretful man, when he can deem
This being barren, dull, and drear,
Nor e'er bestow a smile or tear,
Or if emotion bring them forth,
Will coldly say they 're nothing worth!
Come, let us wisely, calmly look,
And truly read the unfailing book;
The blameless life that Jesus drew,
Should move his humble followers too,
And all His words and actions prove,
There's something here that's worth our love.
The common things of man's estate,
Though oft o'erlook'd, are mercies great;
All nature's ever varying store,
Countless as sands on ocean's shore,
May well for some brief space employ
A thought of gratitude and joy!
And there are better blessings here,
Our drooping souls to rouse and cheer,
Friendship and love to calm and soothe,
And life's uneven passage smooth,
Sweet ties that may divinely bind
The aspiring and immortal mind.
And is there nothing-nothing here,
That's worth a gentle smile or tear?
Behold how Jesus groan'd and wept,
When Lazarus in the cold grave slept,
Did not his holy soul rejoice,
When He beheld his Father's choice!*
'Tis something sure to lose a friend,
Then we may weep, nor e'en offend;
To see the Gospel work with power,
May well demand a joyous hour :
Then cease to say, there's nothing here,
That's worth a smile, or worth a tear!
To MARY S-, FOR HER ALBUM.
DEAR child, O, may it be thy happiness,
To hear the still small whisper in thy heart,
Mary hath wisely chosen that good part,
The one thing needful;" nothing, nothing less,
Whate'er of earthly bliss thy path may bless,
Can fill thy soul with an untroubled peace,
Or hush the storm, or bid the tempest cease!
But if is heard that gracious voice Divine,
A lot of more than mortal joy is thine,
Though cumber'd by the many things of life,
Its needful cares, 'mid all the varied strife,
And though nor sun, nor stars, may seem to shine,
Still shalt thou hear the heavenly promise say,
"That better part from thee, shall ne'er be rent away!"
DEPARTED FRIENDS.
UNDYING thoughts, at evening's solemn hour,
Will gather round the things that pass away,
Even as the ivy clings to ruined fanes,
Casting its verdant mantle o'er decay.
At moments such as these, our minds revert
To those whom death hath torn from our embrace;
The loved and lost ones, who have left this earth,
And fixed upon our souls grief's bitter trace.
We miss them when we gaze on nature's charms;
When morning's dawning splendours light the sky;
When the air gladdens with the summer birds,
And sunset's dying glories fade on high.
They are not with us in the lonely hour;
Their cheering voices we no longer hear;
Their well-known features cheat our mortal gaze,
Their silver tones no more shall charm our ear.
Yes! they are far away; they feel no more
The joys, the sorrows, or the hopes of earth;
For they have joined the ransom'd ones on high,
The sinless children of the second birth.
Soon may we quit this darkened scene of woe!
Soon may we share with them their blest employ !
And cross the dark and angry floods that roll
Between us and the land of peace and joy!
THE ORPHAN BROTHER TO HIS YOUNGEST SISTER,
ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
THE flower upon the breezy heath,
And the wild roses' bloom,
And many a lowly bud beneath
The forest's sheltering gloom,
Perfume the gentle summer's air;
The trees are clothed in verdant hue,
And all around a landscape fair,
Of smiling beauty, meets the view.
Alas! they win no smile from thee-
Why art thou sad and lone?
Thine eye has lost its sunny glee,
Thy voice its cheerful tone;
And one by one the dewy tears
Steal down the cheek that knew no pain;
Say, dost thou weep for by-gone years,
And sigh for childhood's joys again?
Or does the gloomy future fright
Thy young and gentle soul?
And dreamest thou the shades of night
Around thy path may roll?
Or roused, by memory's magic spell,
From the still slumber of the tomb,
Does some dear friend, once loved too well,
Haunt the green fields with thoughts of gloom.
Oh! I have touched the only string
Whose tones arrest thine ear;
In vain the song of joy I sing,
Thy drooping heart to cheer;
Then o'er my rude harp I will sweep
The notes of woe, yet not repine;
Still must I weep-oh! let me weep-
My tears shall fall to blend with thine.
The flowers on thy last natal day
Were beautiful as now;
Then on thy lips did pleasure play,
And sunshine on thy brow:
Yes, on that morning's welcome dawn,
A mother smiled with tender love,
And fondly pressed her youngest born,
And breathed a prayer for thee above.
The lips that smiled, the heart that beat
With ardent love for thee;
The glance of love that used to meet
Thy glances then so free.
Oh! where are they? for ever fled!
We saw those languid eyelids close,
We laid her in her narrow bed,
And envy now her calm repose.
The weary spirit joyful rent
The dearest ties of earth,
And all its strong affections bent
On things of higher worth.
Oh! say not so-can friendship die?
And is not love the bond of heaven?
The mightiest, sweetest human tie?
And can its holy bands be riven?
"Weep not for me!" methinks I hear
Thy mother's whisper soft ;
Still am I watching often near,
And guard thy slumbers oft;
And soon amid the bowers on high
Thy spirit shall forget its woe;
The hand that wounds, will dry thine eye,
And sorrow's tears no longer flow.
ON A COLLECTION OF DRIED FLOWERS, FOR
THE YEAR 1836.
YE are not specimens of withered things,
But still to me, my flowers, a living wreath!
I almost feel the perfume that you breathe
As at your gathering; every wild weed brings
Back to my heart a pleasant light, a gleam
Of some past pleasure of the summer's day.
These Harebells track the woodwalk's tangled way;
Then of the river's shelvy bank I dream;
For here is Figwort and tall Willow-herb,
That seem'd as they were pictured in the stream,
Its glassy surface was so lightly stirr❜d
They make of thee a shepherd's clock, sweet flowers,
Be then that moral mine: I'll count my hours,
By my poor
faded wreath; the year is flown
Alas! and is it lost as well as gone?
THE DEAD IN CHRIST.
LIFT not thou the wailing voice;
Weep not; 'tis a Christian dieth;
Up where blessed saints rejoice,
Ransomed now the spirit flieth:
High in heaven's own light she dwelleth,
Full the song of triumph swelleth;
Freed from earth and earthly failing,
Lift for her no voice of wailing.
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