STORM had been on the hills. The day had worn
As if a sleep upon the hours had crept;
And the dark clouds that gather'd at the morn
In dull, impenetrable masses slept,
And the wet leaves hung droopingly, and all
Was like the mournful aspect of a pall.
Suddenly, on the horizon's edge, a blue
And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay,
And, as it wider and intenser grew,
The darkness removed silently away,
And, with the splendor of a God, broke through
The perfect glory of departing day:
So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o'er,
Will light upon the dying Christian pour.
ELEGANCE floats about thee like a dress,
Melting the airy motion of thy form
Into one swaying grace; and loveliness,
Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm,
Lead on for thou art now
My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken,
And the strong heart I lean'd upon is broken;
And I have seen his brow-
The forehead of my upright one, and just-
Trod by the hoof of battle in the dust.
He will not meet thee there
Who blest thee at the eventide, my son !
And when the shadows of the night steal on,
He will not call to prayer.
The lips that melted, giving thee to God,
Are in the icy keeping of the sod !
Ay, my own boy! thy sire
Is with the sleepers of the valley cast,
And the proud glory of my life hath pass'd
With his high glance of fire.
Wo that the linden and the vine should bloom,
And a just man be gather'd to the tomb !
Why-bear them proudly, boy!
It is the sword he girded to his thigh-
It is the helm he wore in victory-
And shall we have no joy?
For thy green vales, oh Switzerland, he died!I will forget my sorrow in my pride!
THE evening star will twinkle presently.
The last small bird is silent, and the bee
Has gone into his hive, and the shut flowers
Are bending as if sleeping on the stem,
And all sweet living things are slumbering
In the deep hush of nature's resting time.
The faded West looks deep, as if its blue
Were searchable, and even as I look,
The twilight hath stole over it, and made
Its liquid eye apparent, and above
To the far-stretching zenith, and around,
As if they waited on her like a queen,
Have stole out the innumerable stars
To twinkle like intelligence in heaven.
Is it not beautiful, my fair Adel ?
Fit for the young affections to come out
And bathe in like an element! How well
The night is made for tenderness-so still
That the low whisper, scarcely audible,
Is heard like music, and so deeply pure
That the fond thought is chasten'd as its springs
And on the lip made holy. I have won
Thy heart, my gentle girl! but it hath been
When that soft eye was on me, and the love
I told beneath the evening influence
Shall be as constant as its gentle star.
ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD PAYSON, D. D.
A SERVANT of the living God is dead!
His errand hath been well and early done,
And early hath he gone to his reward.
He shall come no more forth, but to his sleep
Hath silently lain down, and so shall rest.
Would ye bewail our brother? He hath gone
To Abraham's bosom. He shall no more thirst,
Nor hunger, but forever in the eye,
Holy and meek, of Jesus, he may look,
Unchided, and untempted, and unstain'd.
Would ye bewail our brother? He hath gone
To sit down with the prophets by the clear
And crystal waters; he hath gone to list
Isaiah's harp and David's, and to walk
With Enoch, and Elijah, and the host
Of the just men made perfect. He shall bow
At Gabriel's hallelujah, and unfold
The scroll of the Apocalypse with John,
And talk of Christ with Mary, and go back
To the last supper, and the garden prayer
With the beloved disciple. He shall hear
The story of the Incarnation told
By Simeon, and the Triune mystery
Burning upon the fervent lips of Paul.
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