TO MY SISTER, ON HER TWENTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY. MARY ANNE BROWNE. THINE eye is radiant still thy silken hair Curls just as darkly o'er thy radiant brow; Still is thy cheek as soft, thy hand as fair, Thy forehead was not smoother then than now; And yet two years, two busy years, have pass'd, Sweet sister! since I sang thy birthday last. Two changeful years!-since then, two hoary heads. And, saddest far, from our own chain of love, Even so her spirit, pass'd from earth, is yet Seen like a star in its ethereal light; And on the misty clouds of our regret, Riseth Hope's bow of promise, pure and bright : She hath departed for the holier sphereMourn we, but never wish that she was here. And I am changed, sweet sister: even thou A love that changeth not, save as the young may be; sprung, Matured and deeper rooted it Vain hope! thou hast a better shelter proved, And bind thee in his sheltering mantle fast, And bring thee to His glorious Home at last! SONNET. TO MARY. REV. H. ALFORD. On thy young brow, my cousin, twenty years (Original.) FAMILY WORSHIP. A. R. C. HAST thou forgot thy home, Child of a heaven-distinguished land? And does there seldom come The mem'ry of thy distant household band? Stay-I will touch a spring A secret, hidden string, Which shall the train of buried thought command. Though many a trait hath power To make thy kindling bosom thrill, Yet there's one holy hour, Which to recal, wakes sweeter memories still— The hour that used to bear The murmuring swell of prayer, From thy hearth-altar to the heav'nly hill. Yes! summon back the scene! There was the Book of life outspread, And o'er the page did lean With searching eye and gravely-bending head, The parent so revered, So justly loved and feared, In whose pure walk each precept high was read. There was a lovely group Of young fair forms with serious mien ; As evening flow'rets droop Their dew-filled cups towards their leafy screen, So these young heads did bow, While on each thoughtful brow The stillness of devotion reign'd serene. How holy and how sweet These mingling voices rose on high! Say, canst thou now repeat Some oft-sung portion of their psalmody? And if some voice is gone— Perchance the sweetest one, Doth its soft echo in thy bosom lie? How earnest was the tone Of pleading, from that roof that rose Constant to Mercy's throne, At morning's dawn, and even's shadowy close! Thou hadst a deep, fond part Within each wrestling heart,— How deep, alone the God of prayer knows. Art thou a man of pray'r? Does worship hallow thine abode ? Have manhood's years of care Been sweeten'd by the service of thy God? Or hast thou cast away The soft restraints that lay Upon thy soul, thus train'd in virtue's road? If it indeed be so, What grave and sad upbraiding lies |