Abbildungen der Seite



OUR MOTHER'S EPITAPH. [The beautiful epitaph on which the subjoined lines are founded, is copied from an American paper. It reminds us of the simple and sublime memorials of some of the earlier Christians, from the Catacombs of Rome, so well described by Maitland, and familiar to most of our readers through the Rev. William Arthur's recent Lecture, at Exeter Hall.]


“Nov. 12th, 1840.

Æ. 41.
“Our mother fell asleep”—but her repose
Was short-Our FATHER smiled, and she arose.
So soon, so glorious, burst the Morning's light
On her rapt sense, as faith was merged in sight,
And, “purely purged” from aught of worldly leaven,
Her love went out on earth, to burn in Heaven!
“ What of the Night ?” we ask with tearful eye;
“ The Morning cometh,”

»* swells in faint reply.
“But when ?"-O Lord! how long !-we ask again
As the scarce-wakened stillness answers · When ?'
Whilst thou hast solved the mystery, and art free
In the pure day of Immortality.
“When will the morning come !" Within thy smile,
Mother! our day-spring centred for awhile,
And when thy sun had set, ours sank to rest
Till Faith endorsed the hope that thou wert blest,
Flooding with glory Death's retiring wave
That left a heaven, where it had whelmed a grave.
Yet, Mother, but a little while, and we
Shall sleep in Jesus, to awake with thee.
Morning will come, and this mistaking sight
Feel with new power the word—“Let there be LIGHT!"
Then shall we know as we are known, nor thread
The dim and devious ways our passions led,
But one in Christ, with undivided heart
Meet, with no fear, no will—no power to part!

* Isaiah, xxi 11, 12

COME, with thine eye still bright
And open brow, by sorrow yet unshaded;
Thy spirit stirred by rapture's breathings light,
Nor bowed, as willow by the blast upbraided,
Or stricken hopes like flowers untimely faded;
Come! offer God thy love,

Now in thy springtide blooming;
So shalt thou look above,

When wintry storms are glooming;
Nor ever fail to meet

Through cloud and darkness, gleaming
A kindly ray and sweet,
Full on thy sorrow beaming.

Come, with the full-swollen tide
Of life's fresh current through thy bosom rushing,
Come, while the sky above thy head is dyed
With all the rosiness of morning's blushing,
And far, and clear, joy's skylark-song is gushing.
Come, let thy sunrise glow

On free libations given
Forth from thy heart's glad flow-

Sparkling and pure to heaven.
So, by thy toilsome way

When noontide heats oppress thee, Low murmuring winds shall play, And springing waters bless thee.

But waste the strength of youth, Lavish its freshness on thine own wild pleasureGive to the world its fervid love and truth; And bitterly, in sorrow's lonely leisure, Thou'lt rue the gift and mourn the wasted treasure, In many a day of care,

And many a night of weeping; Vain wish, and hopeless prayer,

A thorny harvest reaping, For all the rich seed flung

On alien soil to perish. Oh! spirit, fair and young,

For God thy beauty cherish.



Hollow thunder
Split the clouds, which girt the head
Of the mountain, whence came dread

Words of wonder:
Hosts of Hebrews standing near,
Hide their faces pale with fear.

What was spoken Ushered by such dread portent? Lo, a code of wrath is sent;

This, if broken, Death of spotless lamb, alone, For the sinner might atone.

What subjection
To the mandates of their prince,
Did this favored race evince?

Small defection
Soon to deeper guilt did lead
Blood of vengeance marked the deed.

Gentle Jesus,
Mildly did His code reveal;
No hoarse thunders crash and peel;

But to ease us
From the ills that we endure,
Wrought he miracle and cure.

What was spoken, Ushered by such deeds of grace? Laws of mercy for our race,

Which, though broken,

He will lovingly forgive,
Bid the death-doomed sinner live.

Men outrying
Give him bitter mockery-
Scourged him-nailed him to the tree:

But when dying,
For his foes he prayeth too,
“For they know not what they do."

S. X.

“IT IS I.”

WHAT though the clouds of life

Hang dark and low'ring,
Storms be on every side-

Dangers be nigh-
Yet shall a voice be heard

Tempest o'erpowering,
Christian, it speaks to thee

Peace-" It is I."

Art thou in sorrow?

A loved one departed,
One the delight

And the pride of thine eye;
Yet cheer thee, oh pilgrim!

Be not broken-hearted,
'Tis a Father's voice whispering

Peace, It is I.

scourges to

He loves whom he chastens,


To draw thee more near

To thy home in the sky;
Where sorrow shall leave thee,

Where no ill can harm thee,
Then be thou not fearful-
But hope_“It is I.”


« ZurückWeiter »