« AnteriorContinuar »
THE SPIRIT'S SONG OF CONSOLATION.
BY F. W. P. OREENWOOD.
Dear parents, grieve no more for me;
My parents, grieve no more;
Than even with you before.
Swell onward as a river,
In peace and joy forever.
Our Father bade me come to him,
He gently bade me come,
My dwelling-place and home.
Which saw the Saviour rise,
Which called me to the skies.
I saw, too, what you could not see,
Two beauteous angels stand;
And beckoned with their hand;
And they were sent to bear My spirit to their blessed abode,
To live forever there.
Then think not of the mournful time
When I resigned my breath,
The gloomy house of death;
No more shall suffer pain,
In heaven shall meet again.
THE ANGLER'S SONG.
When first the flame of day
Crimsons the sea-like mist, And from the valley rolls away
The haze, by the sunbeam kissed, Then to the lonely woods I pass,
With angling rod and line. While yet the dew-drops, in the grass,
Like flashing diamonds shine.
How vast the mossy forest-halls,
Silent, and full of gloom! Through the high roof the daybeam falls
Like torch-light in a tomb.
The old trunks of trees rise round
Like pillars in a church of old, And the wind fills them with a sound
As if a bell were tolled.
Where falls the noisy stream,
In many a bubble bright,
Flowers gaudy to the sight,
Watching my angle play, And eagerly draw to the land
My speckled prey.
Oft, ere the carrion bird has left
His eyrie, the dead tree,
The cloud in heaven's blue sea,
To meet the misty day, My foot hath shaken the bending reeds,
My rod sought out its prey.
And when the Twilight, with a blush
Upon her cheek, goes by, And evening's universal hush
Fills all the darkened sky,
In villages far away,
And from the forests gray.
BY PROSPER M. WETMORE.
Oh, Judah! thy dwellings are sad,
Thy children are weeping around, In sackcloth their bosoms are clad
As they look on the famishing ground; In the deserts they make them a home,
And the mountains awake to their cry; For the frown of Jehovah hath come,
And his anger is red in the sky.
Thy tender ones throng at the brink,
But the waters are gone from the well; They gaze on the rock, and they think
Of the gush of the stream from its cell; How they came to its margin before,
And drank in their innocent mirth: Away! it is sealed, and no more
Shall the fountain give freshness to earth.
The hearts of the mighty are bowed,
The voices of mothers are loud,
Oh, Jerusalem! mourn through thy halls,
And bend to the dust in thy shame, For the doom that thy spirit appals,
Is famine, the sword, and the flame!
I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAYS.
BY B. B. THATCHER.
Earth is the spirit's rayless cell; But then, as a bird soars home to the shade Of the beautiful wood, where its nest was made,
In bonds no more to dwell;—
So will its weary wing Be spread for the skies, when its toil is done, And its breath flow free, as a bird's in the sun,
And the soft, fresh gales of spring.
O, not more sweet the tears
When it enters the eve of years.
Nor dearer, mid the foam
To him that weeps for home.