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
As dies the Christian, with his armor on!-
What is the hero's clarion, though its blast
Ring with the mastery of a world, to this ?-
What are the searching victories of mind-
The lore of vanish'd ages?—What are all
The trumpetings of proud humanity,
To the short history of him who made
His sepulchre beside the King of kings?
ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLAY."
TIRED of play! Tired of play!
What hast thou done this livelong day!
The birds are silent, and so is the bee;
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves;
Twilight gathers, and day is done-
How hast thou spent it-restless one !
Playing? But what hast thou done beside
To tell thy mother at eventide?
What promise of morn is left unbroken?
What kind word to thy playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven?
What hast thou learn'd by field and hill,
By greenwood path, and by singing rill?
There will come an eve to a longer day,
That will find thee tired-but not of play!
And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now,
With drooping limbs and aching brow,
And wish the shadows would faster creep,
And long to go to thy quiet sleep.
Well were it then if thine aching brow
Were as free from sin and shame as now!
Well for thee, if thy lip could tell
A tale like this, of a day spent well.
If thine open hand hath relieved distress-
If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness-
If thou hast forgiven the sore offence,
And humbled thy heart with penitence→→
If Nature's voices have spoken to thee
With her holy meanings eloquently-
If every creature hath won thy love,
From the creeping worm to the brooding dove-
If never a sad, low-spoken word
Hath plead with thy human heart unheard-
Then, when the night steals on, as now,
It will bring relief to thine aching brow,
And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest,
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.
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