ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold; Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, then, Write me as one that loves his fellowmen." The angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. [1785-1842.] A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, And bends the gallant mast, my boys, JOHN WILSON. [1785-1854.] THE EVENING CLOUD. A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow: Long had I watched the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seemed, 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 departed 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. O, how long-suffering, Lord! but thou delightest To win with love the wandering; thou invitest, By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors, Man from his errors. Who can resist thy gentle call, appealing To every generous thought and grateful feeling, That voice paternal, whispering, watching ever, My bosom?-never. Father and Saviour! plant within this bosom The seeds of holiness; and bid them blossom In fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal, And spring eternal! Then place them in those everlasting gardens, Where angels walk, and seraphs are the wardens; Where every flower that climbs through death's dark portal Becomes immortal. HYMN. FATHER, thy paternal care Has my guardian been, my guide. Every hallowed wish and prayer Has thy hand of love supplied. Thine is every thought of bliss Left by hours and days gone by; SAMUEL WOODWORTH. Every hope thy offspring is, Every sun of splendid ray, Every moon that shines serene, Every morn that welcomes day, Every evening's twilight scene, Every hour that wisdom brings, Every incense at thy shrine, These, and all life's holiest things, And its fairest, all are thine. And for all, my hymns shall rise Turn unwearied, righteous One! SAMUEL WOODWORTH. [U. s. A., 1785 1842.] THE BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well, The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure; I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well, The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt Though filled with the nectar that And now, far removed from the loved The tears of regret will intrusively AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER. THE rain is o'er. How dense and bright In grateful silence earth receives The general blessing; fresh and fair, Each flower expands its little leaves, As glad the common joy to share. For often at noon, when returned from The softened sunbeams pour around the field, A fairy light, uncertain, pale; MARINER'S HYMN. LAUNCH thy bark, mariner! Breakers are round thee; "What of the night, watchman? No land yet-all's right.” |