And there re-blooms the jessamine that help'd With thee to form the poor man's silent bower, Weaving o'er head her flowers
Like snow-stars, with thine own.
Nor was the honeysuckle absent then,
But twisted her streak'd blossoms with thy leaves, Asking support from thee,
Repaying with her grace.
The low thatch met thy topmost branches, where The deep green moss, and golden stone crop grew, And house-leek, never sere,
The busy wren there lodged her curious nest,
And ever and anon her whistle came
Full on the rushing wind,
Like melody from heaven.
Yon scented garden charmed my infant days
With all that summer cherishes to life;
The peony was there,
Beside the balmy thyme.
O what of beauty graced that lovely spot!
No luscious dream can glow with richer hues
Of lilacs waving high
Their plumes upon the breeze;
Or pea with slender stem; or spicy pink
That opes her vermiel near the humble bed
Of heart-reviving mint,
And the wild origan;
Or roses cheek by cheek, bow'd laughing down
Amidst their scollop'd leafage, hiding there
The tiny sleeping buds
Scarce ting'd but with a blush.
One, more than all that bloomed in that retreat,
Its name although unknown, impressed itself
Upon my sorrowing heart.
I called it 'Sarah's love."
For her cold hand, all motionless in death,
Calm held the blossoms.
The dark cloud gathered round
Her lovely faded eyes.
And some were mingled with her auburn braids
That clustered round her placid face; but sad
I turned, nor saw again
My Sister's beauteous form.
Oft have I wept at thoughts of her, and can
But love those sweets that rested on her breast,
That nameless flower was there;
And thou, sweet-briar, too,
Didst sigh thy odours where she rests her head.
O stranger, waking pensive thoughts, we meet
Once more, but ah, how chang'd,
Far from my home, and thine!
Since last we met, long years have slowly rolled; Have brought--have left their troubles, but there is A balm for human woe;
And more than human love
Hath hover'd, like some heavenly spirit near.
Mercy can give to saddest grief a joy,
And bid sweet-briars grow
Where thorns beset my path.
The Power that bids thee spring in foreign earth,
And gives thee strength to shed thy fragrance here,
Still clothing thee with green,
My wondering infants crowd to gaze at thee,
Fair sprig, with looks of love, that seem to say
In whispers to my heart,
'O is not this our home?'
May I like thee at least be loved, and live
For others' good, then die, but not unblest,
If one lost soul but learn
From me that heaven is home!
THE PERSECUTOR, JOURNEYING TO DAMASCUS,
WHOSE is that sword-that voice and eye of flame~~
That heart of inextinguishable ire?
Who bears the dungeon keys, and bonds, and fire ?
Along his dark and withering path he came
Death in his looks, and terror in his name,
Tempting the might of heaven's eternal Sire.
Lo! The Light shone!-the sun's veiled beams expire-
A Saviour's self a Saviour's lips proclaim!
Whose is yon form, stretched on the earth's cold bed,
With smitten soul and tears of agony
Mourning the past? Bowed is the lofty head-
Rayless the orbs that flashed with victory.
Over the raging waves of human will
The Saviour's spirit walked and all was still.
OH! that I were as in the days
Gone by-when God my footsteps led;
When safe through danger's darkest ways
I walked-for He around me shed
That light-his own peculiar light-
Which bade me flourish in his sight.
The eye that saw me, brighter grew;
Around me all
children came;
Men deemed me righteous, for they knew
That all who heard me blessed my name;
With fear and love men looked on me-
I lived and flourished like a tree ;-
A tree that by the waters grew,
The sun was on me all the day,
Decking my blossoms, and the dew
All night upon my branches lay.
To me the poor and sorrowing cried,
But never cried to me in vain;
And those who had no hope beside
Were calmed and comforted again;
The lone, and wretched, and oppressed,
Found me their joy, support, and rest.
And now because my God hath taught
My soul to loathe its dwelling-place,
1 live, despised and set at nought
By children of a worthless race;
My harp is tuned to sorrows deep,
My voice, the voice of those who werp.
And why is this? If I had left
The widow in her depth of woe,
Or seen, unmoved, her babes bereft,
Or made the tears of orphans flow;
If I had worshipped gold, or said
To wealth, My hope is placed on thee.”
If earthly glory ere had led
My heart to that which should not be;
If I had been the first in strife-
Or cursed e'en those who sought my life;-
Then Job, the desolate, had known,
Why thus the anger of the Lord,
Had left him friendless, wretched, lone,
A broken reed, a loosened cord,
Whose days are numbered, and whose breath
Is scarce enough to ask for death.
BUT hear the word divine, to me convey'd,`
Than pearls more precious, in the midnight shade;
Amidst th' emotions which from visions rise,
When more than nature's sleep seals human eyes.
Fear seiz'd my soul, the hand of horror strook
My shuddering flesh, and every member shook.
For a strong wind with rushing fury pass'd
So near, so loud, blast whirling after blast,
That my hair started at each stiff'ning pore,
And stood erect. At once the wild uproar
|