Who holdest the earth and the sea in thine hand, And rulest Eternity's shadowy land-
To thee let our thoughts and our offerings tend, Of virtue the Hope, and of sorrow the Friend; Let the incense of prayer still ascend to thy throne, Omnipotent-glorious-eternal-alone!
The Graves of the Patriots.—PERCIVAL.
HERE rest the great and good-here they repose After their generous toil. A sacred band, They take their sleep together, while the year Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves. And gathers them again, as Winter frowns. Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre; green sods Are all their monument; and yet it tells A nobler history than pillared piles, Or the eternal pyramids. They need No statue nor inscription to reveal
Their greatness. It is round them; and the joy
With which their children tread the hallowed ground That holds their venerated bones, the peace
That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth
That clothes the land they rescued,-these, though mute, As feeling ever is when deepest,-these
Are monuments more lasting than the fanes
Reared to the kings and demigods of old.
Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade
Over their lowly graves; beneath their boughs
There is a solemn darkness, even at noon,
Suited to such as visit at the shrine Of serious Liberty. No factious voice Called them unto the field of generous fame, But the pure consecrated love of home. No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes In all its greatness. It has told itself To the astonished gaze of awe-struck kings, At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here, Where first our patriots sent the invader back Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all To tell us where they fought, and where they lie. Their feelings were all nature, and they need
No art to make them known. They live in us, While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold, Worshipping nothing but our own pure hearts, And the one universal Lord. They need Ne column, pointing to the heaven they sought, To tell us of their home. The heart itself, Left to its own free purpose, hastens there, And there alone reposes. Let these elms Bend their protecting shadow o'er their graves, And build, with their green roof, the only fane Where we may gather on the hallowed day, That rose to them in blood, and set in glory. Here let us meet, and, while our motionless lips Give not a sound, and all around is mute In the deep sabbath of a heart too full
For words or tears,-here let us strew the sod With the first flowers of spring, and make to them An offering of the plenty Nature gives, And they have rendered ours-perpetually.
Funeral Hymn.-CHRISTIAN EXAMINER.
He has gone to his God; he has gone to his home, No more amid peril and error to roam;
His eyes are no longer dim;
His feet will no more falter;
No grief can follow him;
No pang his cheek can alter.
There are paleness, and weeping, and sighs below; For our faith is faint, and our tears will flow;
But the harps of heaven are ringing;
Glad angels come to greet him;
And hymns of joy are singing
While old friends press to meet him.
O honored, beloved, to earth unconfined, Thou hast soared on high; thou hast left us behind. But our parting is not forever;
We will follow thee, by heaven's light, Where the grave cannot dissever
The souls whom God will unite.
Yes, visions of his future rest
To man, the pilgrim, here are shown; Deep love, pure friendship, thrill his breast, And hopes rush in of joys unknown.
Released from earth's dull round of cares, The aspiring soul her vigor tries; Plumes her soiled pinions, and prepares To soar amid ethereal skies.
Around us float, in changing light, The dazzling forms of distant years; And earth becomes a glorious sight, Beyond which opening heaven appears.
We did not part as others part;
And should we meet on earth no more, Yet deep and dear, within my heart,
Some thoughts will rest, a treasured store.
How oft, when weary and alone,
Have I recalled each word, each look,
The meaning of each varying tone,
And the last parting glance we took!
Yes, sometimes, even here, are found Those who can touch the chords of love, And wake a glad and holy sound,
Like that which fills the courts above.
It is as when a traveller hears,
In a strange land, his native tongue, A voice he loved in happier years, A song that once his mother sung.
We part; the sea will roll between, While we through different climates roam;
Sad days, a life may intervene ;
But we shall meet again,—at home.
To Laura, two Years of Age.-N. P. WILLIS.
BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee,
Child of the sunny brow
Bright as the dream flung over thee By all that meets thee now. Thy heart is beating joyously, Thy voice is like a bird's, And sweetly breaks the melody Of thy imperfect words.
I know no fount that gushes out As gladly as thy tiny shout.
I would that thou might'st ever be As beautiful as now,—
That Time might ever leave as free Tny yet unwritten brow,-
I would life were "all poetry," To gentle measure set,
That nought but chastened melody Might stain thine eye of jet- Nor one discordant note be spoken, Till God the cunning harp hath broken.
I would but deeper things than these With woman's lot are wove, Wrought of intenser sympathies, And nerved by purer love. By the strong spirit's discipline, By the fierce wrong forgiven, By all that wrings the heart of sin, Is woman won to Heaven. "Her lot is on thee," lovely child- God keep thy spirit undefiled!
I fear thy gentle loveliness, Thy witching tone and air; Thine eye's beseeching earnestness May be to thee a snare.
The silver stars may purely shine, The waters taintless flow-
But they who kneel at woman's shrine Breathe on it as they bow-
Ye may fling back the gift again, But the crushed flower will leave a stain.
What shall preserve thee, beautiful child? Keep thee as thou art now? Bring thee, a spirit undefiled, At God's pure throne to bow? The world is but a broken reed, And life grows early dim: Who shall be near thee in thy need,
To lead thee up-to Him?
He, who himself was "undefiled:"
With him we trust thee, beautiful child!
The dead Leaves strew the Forest-walk.-BRAINARD.
THE dead leaves strew the forest-walk, And withered are the pale wild-flowers; The frost hangs blackening on the stalk, The dew-drops fall in frozen showers. Gone are the spring's green, sprouting bowers, Gone summer's rich and mantling vines, And autumn, with her yellow hours,
On hill and plain no longer shines.
I learned a clear and wild-toned note, That rose and swelled from yonder tree-
A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,
There perched, and raised her song for me. The winter comes, and where is she? Away--where summer wings will rove, Where buds are fresh, and every tree Is vocal with the notes of love.
Too mild the breath of southern sky, Too fresh the flower that blushes there; The northern breeze, that rustles by, Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair; No forest-tree stands stript and bare, No stream beneath the ice is dead, No mountain-top, with sleety hair, Bends o'er the snows its reverend head.
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