53

33

BUNYAN'S CHAIR.

And silent centuries have gone,
Since some forgotten wight

Made thee, that seemest so forlorn,
Both beautiful and tight.

The two brass nails, whose value must

As relics, rival gold—

Were wrought, and in thy fore legs driven
By Bunyan's self, I'm told.

And here thou art-and show'st the scars

Of use, and age's rust,

While thrones and seats of kings and czars,
Have tottered down to dust.

Old Chair! with thoughts akin to dread,
I look on thee, for thou
Call'st up the venerable dead;-

One sits before me now!

One sits before me!-who is he?-
A gray-haired man he seems;
Such flashing eye, yet kindly, we
May sometimes see in dreams.

The same in reverend form and look
That boyhood pictured, when
I dwelt, impassioned, on his Book,—
My heaven of romance, then!

54

BUNYAN'S CHAIR.

The same that simply, truly taught,
While simple hearts gave heed-
Of freedom, gold has never bought,
Of men, whom Truth has freed.

The same that fell beneath the grim
Myrmidon coward crew,

That fastened outward gyves on him,
Yet could not soul subdue.

The same whose noble fancies soared,
Like eagles, to the sky;

And far above their dungeon poured
Immortal strains on high.

Chair! that hast seen in faction's whirl
Three kingdoms sorely vexed,
Speak through the mist of years to us,
Who are in turn perplexed:

And if thou canst, to these far climes
The destiny reveal,

That soon for us shall fall from Time's

Untiring, toiling wheel.

Shall here be forged the self-same chain, The lofty free to bind?

Shall prisons, whips, and racks of pain, Thrall here undaunted mind?

BUNYAN'S CHAIR.

Shall brutes breathe here, like those that led

Old Bunyan to his cell?

And shapes flit here, like those that fed
In England, fires of hell?

If so, what matters it with us
Are found the glorious dead?-
That fields of fame are here, and hills
Of victory lift their head?

What matters it that God has rained
His benisons, if we

Must write our fallen nation's name
No longer with the free?

If thought be muzzled, and the Press
Be hemmed with outdrawn steel?-

If to our sword won heritage

Be linked the bondman's seal!

Yea, if upon the innocent,

Be fixed the brand of shame ?And such to save from murder, boots Not even the Christian's name!

No more no more-I will not make
A stricken land my theme,-

A chainless spirit is abroad

That shall her faith redeem,

56

IS IT WELL WITH THE CHILD.

And purge away her one dark spot,

For she, the tempest-tossed, Must rise, a pure republic, free, Or sink-a nation lost.

1835.

IS IT WELL WITH THE CHILD?

"TIs well with her, who on that bed Of sickness, late, was laid so low; 'Tis well-though anguish bowed her head, And conflicts rent her bosom so.

"Twas well with her in health's glad hour,
Well, when the wasting arrow came;
Oh, she could trust his wing of power,
For she had learned a Saviour's name.

'Tis well with her, though we have laid In kindred dust that beauteous form; She lives, a bright, celestial maid,

Far, far above life's raging storm.

'Tis well with her-the lovely one, Though like a broken flower she lies;

Her mortal puts immortal on,

Her graces flourish in the skies.

"Tis well with her-oh God 'tis well

Ever with those whom thou dost love,
Whether in fleshly tents they dwell,
Or tread thy starry courts above.

NEW YORK;

DURING THE PESTILENCE OF 1822.

SISTER city! wrapt in fears,
Stricken by affliction's rod,
Now with you we mingle tears-

We have heard the voice of God!
In your street the sigh of anguish
Steals upon the shuddering ear;

On your couch are those that languish,
Destined to another sphere.

Fathers hasten to the tomb;

Lo, in dust the matron lies,Blighted is the maiden's bloom,

Where the stern Death-Angel flies ; Mute the cheerful note of gladness, Mirth forsakes her favourite spot,Hark! the midnight sob of sadness, Mothers weep, the babe is not!