That brings unto the homesick mind Night is the time for care; Brooding on hours misspent, Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, Night is the time to muse; Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and with expanding views Beyond the starry pole, Descries, athwart the abyss of night, Night is the time to pray; Our Saviour oft withdrew So will his followers do; Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, Night is the time for death; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign THE GRAVE. There is a calm for those who weep, Low in the ground. The storm that wrecks the winter sky I long to lay this painful head For misery stole me at my birth, Take home thy child! On thy dear lap these limbs, reclined, Nor leave one wretched trace behind Hark! a strange sound affrights mine ear; The Grave, that never spake before, Be silent, pride! Art thou a wretch, of hope forlorn, By fell despair? Do foul misdeeds of former times Murder thy rest? Lashed by the furies of the mind, From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou flee? Ah! think not, hope not, fool! to find A friend in me. By all the terrors of the tomb, Beyond the power of tongue to tell! I charge thee live! repent and pray; And sin no more. To friendship didst thou trust thy fame? Live! and repine not o'er his loss, For friendship's gold. Go, seek that treasure, seldom found, Did woman's charms thy youth beguile, Live! 'twas a false, bewildering fire: Thrills the fond soul with wild desire, Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear, To ask-and pause in hope and fear A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou be, A bruised reed he will not break; Humbled beneath his mighty hand, Prostrate his Providence adore: 'Tis done!-Arise! He bids thee stand, The soul, of origin divine, God's glorious image, freed from clay, The sun is but a spark of fire, The soul, immortal as its sire, Shall never die." THE FIELD IS THE WORLD. Sow in the morn thy seed, At eve hold not thine hand; To doubt and fear give thou no heed, Beside all waters sow; The highway furrows stock; Drop it where thorns and thistles grow; The good, the fruitful ground, Expect not here nor there; O'er hill and dale, by plots, 'tis found; Thou know'st not which may thrive, Grace keeps the precious germs alive, And duly shall appear, In verdure, beauty, strength, The tender blade, the stalk, the ear, Thou canst not toil in vain : Cold, heat, and moist, and dry, Thence, when the glorious end, The angel-reapers shall descend, THE COMMON LOT. Once, in the flight of ages past, There lived a man: and who was he? Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast, Unknown the region of his birth, The land in which he died unknown: That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear, The bounding pulse, the languid limb, He suffered-but his pangs are o'er: He loved but whom he loved the grave He saw whatever thou hast seen; The rolling seasons-day and night, Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Erewhile his portion, life and light, To him exist in vain. The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye That once their shades and glory threw, Have left in yonder silent sky No vestige where they flew. The annals of the human race, Their ruins, since the world began, Of him afford no other trace Than this-there lived a man! ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH. Higher, higher, will we climb, That our names may live through time |