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In yon bright sphere, far up the heavens eternal,
Spirit divine, is thy pure dwelling found; Soon may I revel there, mid bowers vernal,
Exempt from sin and toil, with glory crowned.
Ye tranquil stars; there is a magic in
Will you come with me, my own love?
Dearest, come with me;
And tread the dewy lea.
And sweet the hawthorn tree;
From rill and bird and bee.
The night is lovely. Far along, where the
Oh! in an hour like this,
light, Should all reflect my soul's deep love—it were Not pain, methinks, to meet the angel Death; Passing from heavenly calm on earth to thee, Serenity of endless bliss above.
The deer, uprisen from his lair,
Is skipping merrily; There's gladness in the perfumed air,
Then come, my love, with me.
Plays gayly on the tree;
Leaps joyfully and free.
“I STILL LIVE.”
Just o'er the hills, in the eastern sky,
The early beams of morn,
The fleecy clouds adorn.
The grove, the spangled lea, Invite us forth, then come, my love,
Come to the woods with me.
THE DYING WORDS OF WEBSTRR.
STATESMAN, yes! tho' cold and lowly,
In the silent tomb,
Bursts the gloom.
Beholds that light,
O'er the night.
And forever more!
Fade from all Time's shore.
How beautiful the night! How lovely now
Through the deep azure, gleam The countless stars of heaven. Have ye before E’er looked so beautiful as now', sweet orbs ? Ay, oft! and yet my soul was never thrilled With so deep a sense of your near presence.
REV. S. DRYDEN PHELPS, D. D.
He shall live, and future ages
Hear his voice sublime, Speaking wisdom unto sages
Through coming time.
He shall live! Our Heavenly Father.
May we so live
Their light receive.
FORESTS that once were so dear to my soul,
Birds I have so much delighted to hear; Thou mighty river, whose hoarse waters roll,
Gleaming forever so dazzlingly clear,
List to the wail of my spirit's despair, O list to the cry of a sorrowing soul!
Ye knew her, ye woodlands, my bright one ye knew,
Mid light and affection a freedom-nursed child, As pure as a rose newly washed by the dew,
Fond as the dove, as the antelope wild;
O mourn, ye dark hills and ye deep everglades,
mourn! Lament her, ye grots and ye thick-woven shades!
For she to your haunts shall never return;
Yon blackened heath doth her ashes inurn. Sleep quietly, dust of the loveliest of maids.
DRYDEN PHELPS, was born in Suffield,
Conn., May 15, 1816. He is a direct descendant of William Phelps who came from Tewksbury, England, and was one of the first settlers of Windsor, Conn., where for many years he was a magistrate and very prominent in church and state. The parents of Dr. Phelps possessed strong characters, made sweet by loving sympathies, and were devoted Christians. Their influence left an impression on the life of their son. His preparation for college was in his native town in the Connecticut Literary Institution. Poems and numerous articles of his were published in various periodicals at that time. In 1842, when in college, his first volume, "Eloquence of Nature and Other Poems," appeared. He was graduated from Brown University, Providence, R. I., in 1844. For one year he was engaged in supplying the First Baptist Church of New Haven, Conn., while a theological student in Yale Divinity School, and became its pastor in January, 1846. This relation continued twentyeight years, closing December, 1873. In 1856 he published “Sunlight and Hearthlight; or Fidelity and Other Poems." In 1859-60 he spent a year in Europe, Egypt and Palestine, and, in 1863, brought out a book of travels, entitled Holy Land with Glimpses of Europe and Egypt,” which has passed through nine editions. In 1867 a third volume of poems called “The Poet's Song for the Heart and Home," was placed before an appreciative public. It contained many new poems, nearly all of those in the second volume and a few from the first. “Rest Days in Journeys Abroad,” appeared in 1887. It consists of sermons preached during his year of foreign travels, and subsequent tours in Europe, with prefatory notes and a poem appropriate to the subject following each sermon.
'Special Sermons," preached chiefly in the First Baptist Church, New Haven, were collected into a volume the same year. In May, 1874, he became pastor of the Jefferson St. Baptist Church, Providence, R. I., serving two years. In 1876 he took charge, as publisher and editor, of the “Christian Secretary,” Hartford, Conn., and conducted that paper twelve years. He was married, August 26, 1847, to Miss Sophia Emilia Linsley, a daughter of Rev. James H. Linsley (Yale, 1817) who was a Baptist minister and noted naturalist, residing in Stratford, Conn., near New Haven: Mrs. Phelps has great literary ability, is a constant writer, and her character is of rare loveliness. Their children were a daughter and four sons. The second son died when nearly four years of age.
Each mourns for the lost one, but seraphs rejoice;
Cora has gone to the angelic throng;
Have added, to sweeten their wonderful song.
To that fair choir does my bright one belong, Enjoying for ever the home of her choice.
All hail! thou beauteous season, hail!
Our human hearts o'erflow,
To banish dreams of woe.
The bleating lambs reply;
The daughter, Miss Sophia Lyon Phelps, was endowed with musical, intellectual and personal attractions. She died in 1871, in her twenty-third year.
A memorial pamphlet, by her parents, includes a touching poem from her father's pen. Three sons, Rev. Dryden W. Phelps, Rev. Arthur S. Phelps and Mr. William L. Phelps are living. Each inherits literary talents.
The residence of Dr. Phelps is in New Haven, Conn. His poetry is characterized by deep poetic conception and religious feeling. Among a number of this author's widely known hymns “Something for Thee” has been most used in collections, in this and in foreign countries. Dr. Phelps' latest publication, “Songs for all Seasons," was issued in 1891.
J. M. R.
In love my soul would bow,
Something for Thee.
Pleading for me,
Jesus, to Thee.
Something for thee.
Likeness to Thee, That each departing day
Henceforth may see Some work of love begun, Some deed of kindness done, Some wanderer sought and won,
Something for thee. All that I am and have,
Thy gifts so free,
My Lord, for Thee;
Something for Thee.
AN ITALIAN SUNSET.
WHILE I stand on one of her seven hills,
Gray old Rome is under my eye, And a glorious scene my spirit thrills,
As I gaze on the western sky.
There are gorgeous clouds of vermillion hue,
And splendors untold beside,
O'er the whole horizon wide.
'Tis the setting sun in his brilliant dyes,
And what matchless tints are given! They seem like the light of celestial skies
O'er the jasper walls of heaven.
GOD'S PROMISES TO ABRAHAM.
How softly on groves of cypress and pine,
Domes, turrets and temples old,
And bathe St. Peter's in gold.
Upon Alban slope and Sabine crown
The purpling sunbeams play, And they drop on the winding Tiber down
Like glimmerings of upper day.
Fear not, Abraham, saith the Lord,
Beyond this brief and enchanting sight,
I look toward the sky divine, O City of Light, in a splendor more bright,
For ever thy glories shine.
SOMETHING FOR THEE.
SAVIOR, thy dying love,
Thou gavest me, Nor should I aught withhold,
Dear Lord, from Thee.
From a land of trials sore,