Though now I am a faded leaf,
That's sever'd from its parent tree,
And thrown upon a stormy tide,
Life's awful tide that leads to Thee !-
Still, gracious Lord! the voice of praise
Shall spring spontaneous from my breast;
Since, though I tread a weary way,
I trust that he I mourn is blest.
WHILE Thee I seek, protecting Power!
Be my vain wishes still'd;
And may this consecrating hour
With better hopes be fill'd!
Thy love the powers of thought bestow'd;
To Thee my thoughts would soar;
Thy mercy o'er my life has flow'd ;—
I adore!
In each event of life, how clear
Thy ruling hand I see!
Each blessing to my soul more dear,
Because conferr'd by Thee!
In every joy that crowns my days,
In every pain I bear,
My heart shall find delight in praise,
Or seek relief in prayer.
When gladness wings my favour'd hour,
Thy love my thoughts shall fill;
Resign'd, when storms of sorrow lour,
My soul shall meet Thy will.
My lifted eye, without a tear,
The gath'ring storm shall see;
My steadfast heart will know no fear;
Because it rests on Thee.
SLEEP on, my Mother! sweet and innocent dreams
Attend thee, best and dearest! Dreams that gild
Life's clouds like setting suns, with pleasure fill'd,
And saintly joy, such as thy mind beseems,——
Thy mind where never stormy passion gleams,
Where their soft nest the dove-like virtues build,
And calmest thoughts, like violets distill'd,
Their fragrance mingle with bright Wisdom's beams.
Sleep on, my Mother! not the lily's bell
So sweet; not the enamour'd west wind's sighs
That shake the dew-drop from her snowy cell
So gentle; not that dew-drop ere it flies
So pure! Een slumber loves with thee to dwell, Oh, model most beloved of good and wise!
How sweet and solemn, all alone,
With reverent steps, from stone to stone,
In a small village churchyard lying,
O'er intervening flowers to move!
And as we read the names unknown
Of young and old to judgment gone,
And hear in the calm air above
Time onwards softly flying,
To meditate, in Christian love, Upon the dead and dying!
THE CHURCHYARD OF THE VILLAGE.
Across the silence seem to go
With dream-like motion wavering slow,
And shrouded in their folds of snow,
The friends we loved, long, long ago!
Gliding across the sad retreat,
How beautiful their phantom-feet!
What tenderness is in their eyes,
Turn'd where the poor survivor lies
'Mid monitory sanctities!
What years of vanish'd joy are fann'd
From one uplifting of that hand
In its white stillness! when the Shade
Doth glimmeringly in sunshine fade
From our embrace, how dim appears
This world's life through a mist of tears!
Vain hopes blind sorrows! needless fears!
Such is the scene around me now;
A little churchyard on the brow
Of a green pastoral hill;
Its sylvan village sleeps below,
And faintly here is heard the flow
Of Woodburn's summer rill :
A place where all things mournful meet,
And yet the sweetest of the sweet,
The stillest of the still!
With what a pensive beauty fall,
Across the mossy, mouldering wall,
That rose-tree's cluster'd arches ! See
The robin-red-breast warily,
Bright, through the blossoms, leaves his nest; Sweet ingrate, through the winter blest.
At the firesides of men-but shy
Through all the sunny summer hours,
He hides himself among the flowers,
In his own wild festivity.
THE CHURCHYARD OF THE VILLAGE.
What lulling sound and shadow cool
Hangs half the darken'd churchyard o'er,
From thy green depth so beautiful,
Thon gorgeous Sycamore;
Oft hath the holy wine and bread
Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent,
Where many a bright and hoary head
Bowed at the awful Sacrament.
Now all beneath the turf are laid,
On which they sat, and sang, and pray'd.
Above that consecrated tree
Ascends the tapering spire, that seems
To lift the soul up silently
To Heaven with all its dreams;
While in the belfry, deep and low,.
From his heaved bosom's purple gleams,
The dove's continuous murmurs flow,
A dirge-like song, half bliss, half woe,
The voice so lonely seems.
A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting Sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watch'd the glory moving on
O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow,
Even in its very motion there was rest;
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West.
Emblem, methought, of the departing soul!
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven,
Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.
|