Have we no charm when Youth is flown-
Midway to death left sad and lone!
Yet stay!-as 'twere a twilight star
That sends its thread across the wave,
I see a brightening light, from far,
Steal down a path beyond the grave!
And now-bless God!-its golden line
Comes o'er-and lights my shadowy way-
And shows the dear hand clasp'd in mine!
But, list what those sweet voices say!
The better land's in sight,
And, by its chastening light,
All love from life's midway is driven, Save hers whose clasped hand will bring thee on to heaven!
"THEY are all up the innumerable stars-
And hold their place in heaven. My eyes have been
Searching the pearly depths through which they spring
Like beautiful creations, till I feel
As if it were a new and perfect world,
Waiting in silence for the word of God
To breathe it into motion. There they stand,
Shining in order, like a living hymn
Written in light, awaking at the breath
Of the celestial dawn, and praising Him
Who made them, with the harmony of spheres.
I would I had an eagle's ear to list
That melody. I would that I might float
Up in that boundless element, and feel
Its ravishing vibrations, like the pulse
Beating in heaven! My spirit is athirst
For music-rarer music! I would bathe
My soul in a serener atmosphere
Than this; I long to mingle with the flock
Led by the living waters,' and to stray
In the 'green pastures' of the better land!
When wilt thou break, dull fetter! When shall I
Gather my wings, and like a rushing thought
Stretch onward, star by star, up into heaven!"
Thus mused Alethe. She was one to whom
Life had been like the witching of a dream,
Of an untroubled sweetness. She was born
Of a high race, and lay upon the knee,
With her soft eyes perusing listlessly
The fretted roof, or, on Mosaic floors,
Grasp'd at the tesselated squares inwrought
With metals curiously. Her childhood pass'd
Like faery-amid fountains and green haunts-
Trying her little feet upon a lawn
Of velvet evenness, and hiding flowers
In her sweet breast, as if it were a fair
And pearly altar to crush incense on.
Her youth-oh! that was queenly!/ She was like A dream of poetry that may not be
Written or told-exceeding beautiful!
And so came worshippers; and rank bow'd down
And breathed upon her heart-strings with the breath
Of pride, and bound her forehead gorgeously
With dazzling scorn, and gave unto her step
A majesty as if she trod the sea,
And the proud waves, unbidden, lifted her!
And so she grew to woman-her mere look
Strong as a monarch's signet, and her hand.
The ambition of a kingdom. From all this
Turn'd her high heart away! She had a mind,
Deep, and immortal, and it would not feed
On pageantry. She thirsted for a spring
Of a serener element, and drank
Philosophy, and for a little while
She was allay'd,-till, presently, it turn'd
Bitter within her, and her spirit grew
Faint for undying water. Then she came
To the pure fount of God, and is athirst
No more-save when the fever of the world
Falleth upon her, she will go, sometimes,
Out in the star-light quietness, and breathe
A holy aspiration after Heaven.
ON THE DEATH OF A MISSIONARY.
How beautiful it is for man to die
Upon the walls of Zion! to be call'd,
Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel,
To put his armor off, and rest-in heaven!
The sun was setting on Jerusalem,
The deep blue sky had not a cloud, and light
Was pouring on the dome of Omar's mosque,
Like molten silver. Every thing was fair;
And beauty hung upon the painted fanes;
Like a grieved spirit, lingering ere she gave
Her wing to air, for heaven. The crowds of men
Were in the busy streets, and nothing look'd
Like wo, or suffering, save one small train
Bearing the dead to burial. It pass'd by,
And left no trace upon the busy throng.
The sun was just as beautiful; the shout
Of joyous revelry, and the low hum
Of stirring thousands rose as constantly!
Life look'd as winning; and the earth and sky,
And every thing seem'd strangely bent to make
A contrast to that comment upon life.
How wonderful it is that human pride
Can pass that touching moral as it does-
Pass it so frequently, in all the force
Of mournful and most simple eloquence-
And learn no lesson! They bore on the dead,
With the slow step of sorrow, troubled not
By the rude multitude, save, here and there,
A look of vague inquiry, or a curse
Half-mutter'd by some haughty Turk whose sleeve Had touch'd the tassel of the Christian's pall.
And Israel too pass'd on-the trampled Jew!
Israel!-who made Jerusalem a throne
For the wide world-pass'd on as carelessly;
Giving no look of interest to tell
The shrouded dead was any thing to her.
Oh that they would be gather'd as a brood
Is gather'd by a parent's sheltering wings!-
They laid him down with strangers; for his home
Was with the setting sun, and they who stood
And look'd so steadfastly upon his grave,
Were not his kindred; but they found him there,
And loved him for his ministry of Christ.
He had died young. But there are silver'd heads,
Whose race of duty is less nobly run. +
His heart was with Jerusalem; and strong
As was a mother's love, and the sweet ties
Religion makes so beautiful at home,
He flung them from him in his eager race,
And sought the broken people of his God,
To preach to them of JESUS. There was one,
Who was his friend and helper. One who went
And knelt beside him at the sepulchre
Where Jesus slept, to pray for Israel.
They had one spirit, and their hearts were knit
With more than human love. God call'd him home.
And he of whom I speak stood up alone,
And in his broken-heartedness wrought on
Until his Master call'd him.
Oh, is it not a noble thing to die
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