THE TOMB.
Mrs. Sigourney.
"So parted they; the angel up to heaven,
And Adam to his bower."
THIS is the parting place; yon turf-bound roof,
And marble door, where tenants may not hope
To enter and return. If earth's poor gold
E'er clave unto thee, here unlade thyself;
For thou didst bring none with thee to this world,
Nor mayst thou bear it hence. Honours hast thou,
Ambition's shadowy gatherings? Shred them loose
To the four winds, their natural element.
Yea, more, thou must unclasp the living ties
Of strong affection. Hast thou nurtured babes ?
And was each wailing from their feeble lip
A thorn to pierce thee ? every infant smile
And budding hope, full springs of ecstasy?
Turn, turn away, for thou henceforth to them
A parent art no more. Wert thou a wife?
And was the arm on which thy spirit lean'd
Faithful in all thy need? Yet must thou leave
This fond protection, and pursue alone
Thy shuddering pathway down the vale of death.
Friendship's free intercourse-the promised joys
Of soul-implanted, soul-confiding love-
The cherished sympathies which every year
Struck some new root within thy yielding breast,
Stand loose from all, thou lonely voyager
Unto the land of spirits.
Lay down the body! Hast thou worshipped it
With vanity's sweet incense, and wild waste
Of precious time? Did beauty bring it gifts,
The lily brow, the full resplendent eye,
The tress, the bloom, the grace, whose magic power
Woke man's idolatry? The loan is o'er,
Yet the lone soul retains
One blessed trophy; if its
Secured the palm of Christ's atoning love:
For that shall win an entrance when it stands
A pilgrim at Heaven's gate.
"SHOW US THE FATHER."
Mrs. Sigourney.
HAVE ye not seen Him, when through parted snows Wake the first kindlings of the vernal green ? When 'neath its modest veil the arbutus blows,
And the pure snow-drop bursts its folded screen ? When the wild rose, that asks no florist's care, Unfoldeth its rich leaves, have ye not seen him there ?
Have ye not seen Him, when the infant's eye, Through its bright sapphire-windows, shows the mind?
When, in the trembling of the tear or sigh,
Floats forth that essence, trembling and refined— Saw ye not Him, the author of our trust,
Who breathed the breath of life into a frame of dust?
Have ye not heard Him, when the tuneful rill
Casts off its icy chains and leaps away?
In thunders echoing loud from hill to hill ?
In song of birds at break of summer's day?
Or in the ocean's everlasting roar,
Battling the old gray rocks that sternly guard his shore ?
Amid the stillness of the Sabbath morn,
When vexing cares in tranquil slumber rest : When in the heart the holy thought is born,
And Heaven's high impulse warms the waiting breast,
Have ye not felt Him, while your kindling prayer Swell'd out in tones of praise, announcing God was there ?
Show us the Father! If ye fail to trace
His chariot where the stars majestic roll,
His pencil 'mid earth's loveliness and grace,
His presence in the Sabbath of the soul,
How can you see Him till the day of dread,
When to assembled worlds the book of doom is read?
William Wordsworth.
NOT seldom, clad in radiant vest,
Deceitfully goes forth the morn;
Not seldom, evening in the west
Sinks smilingly forsworn.
The smoothest seas will sometimes prove,
To the confiding bark, untrue;
And if she trust the stars above,
They can be treacherous too.
The umbrageous oak, in pomp outspread,
Full oft, when storms the welkin rend,
Draws lightning down upon the head
It promised to defend.
But thou art true, incarnate Lord!
Who didst vouchsafe for man to die;
Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word
No change can falsify!
I bent before thy gracious throne,
And asked for peace with suppliant knee :
And peace was given-nor peace alone,
But faith, and hope, and ecstacy!
GOD IS OUR REFUGE AND STRENGTH.
Watts.
HE that hath made his refuge God,
Shall find a most secure abode;
Shall walk all day beneath his shade,
And there at night shall rest his head.
Then will I say, "My God, thy power
Shall be my fortress and my tower:
I, that am formed of feeble dust,
Make thine almighty arm my trust."
Thrice happy man! thy Maker's care Shall keep thee from the fowler's snare, Satan the fowler who betrays
Unguarded souls a thousand ways.
If burning beams of noon conspire
To dart a pestilential fire,
God is their life; his wings are spread
To shield them with a healthful shade.
If vapours with malignant breath
Rise thick, and scatter midnight death,
Israel is safe: the poison'd air
Grows pure, if Israel's God be there.
What though a thousand at thy side,
At thy right hand ten thousand died,
Thy God his chosen people saves
Amongst the dead, amidst the graves.
So, when he sent his angel down,
To make his wrath in Egypt known,
And slew their sons, his careful eye
Pass'd all the doors of Jacob by.
But if the fire, or plague, or sword,
Receive commission from the Lord
To strike his saints among the rest,
Their very pains and deaths are blest.
The sword, the pestilence, or fire,
Shall but fulfil their best desire;
From sins and sorrows set them free,
And bring thy children, Lord, to thee.
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