When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery;
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,
Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.
Herne Bay, August 29, 1834.
IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HERNE, KENT.
SWEET Babe, from griefs and dangers Rest here for ever free;
We leave thy dust with strangers, But oh, we leave not Thee.
Thy mortal sweetness, smitten To scourge our souls for sin, Is on our memory written,
And treasured deep therein;
While that which is immortal Fond Hope doth still retain, And saith "At heaven's bright portal Ye all shall meet again."
"TWAS my fond wish to greet our wedding day, My Margaret, with a strain of jocund rhyme, Such as I used to weave in youth's sweet prime, From a strange store of fancies wild and gay, And quaint conceits, which intermingled lay With graver thoughts, and musings half sublime In my brain's cells: all these the frosts of time Have nipt ere yet my hair is tinged with grey. Chide me not, Love, nor cherish vain regret For gifts departed :—we can spare them well; What tho' young Fancy's dreamy moon hath set, And Passion's once wild waves no longer swell, Love's sober daylight smiles upon us yet, And Peace is ours, how pure no tongue can tell. July 28, 1833.
IF I may break my spirit's icy spell,
And free once more the frost-bound stream of song, To thee, beloved Wife, will first belong
The praise and the reward; for thou canst tell Whose gentle efforts made my bosom swell Once more with love of verse extinct so long;
Who first evoked me with enticement strong, And pleasant bribes, from the deep silent cell Of mental idlesse: the next place to thee
In this poor praise holds that dear friend by right, Who sheds upon our path so rich a light
Of cheering love and tenderest sympathy. High above both, my song's sole Lord, is He, Its Origin and End-the Infinite.
DEAR friend, they tell me 'tis the happy day, (To me most happy) which beheld thy birth, And, ere my name was written in the Earth, Smiled on a rich and bountiful array
Of blessings, then provided, to allay
My future griefs, enhance my future mirth, And in my future home, and round my hearth, Cause pleasant gleams of light and love to play: Therefore, dear friend, this day henceforth shall be The holiest in my calendar of life
Save two alone; the two which gave to me First a betroth'd, and then a wedded wife,
Whom only love I more than I love thee; My dove of peace 'midst this world's toil and strife.
IF I could doubt that, in another sphere Brighter than this, and ne'er to pass away,
The renovated soul shall live for aye,
Methinks such doubts would quickly disappear, Friend, in thy presence, whom we all revere: For when thy cheerful aspect I survey,
And mark thy sweet affections' ceaseless play, Yet feel they lack their truest object here,— How should my heart endure the freezing thought That all this depth of love exists in vain; Doom'd ne'er to lavish its rich sweets again On him long lost, and oh, how fondly sought! But here to dwell, in widowhood's dull pain, A few brief years, then vanish into nought.
No, this can never be: we needs must meet, (If my poor faith may to the end endure) Where love shall be more perfect and more pure, And love's enjoyments more serenely sweet, Than here they can be. There thine eyes shall
With joy, which tears shall never more obscure, Him whom, preserved in Memory's portraiture, Thy heart yet treasures in its still retreat; While we, to whom thy love hath been so dear, (My mate beloved and I) at length set free From all the sorrows of this nether sphere, Shall feel a scarce less rapturous ecstasy, Contemplating the perfect bliss, which ye Enjoy, beyond the reach of change or fear.
WHEN from my desk in yonder crowded fane, Thy vacant pew my wandering eyes survey, Seeking unconsciously the far away,
My heart shrinks back upon itself with pain And disappointment dull; and oft in vain I wish and wish that thou wast here to pray Beside me, and so speed upon their way (As oft thou hast) my flagging prayers again: But when, our solemn act of worship o'er, In pastoral guise the pulpit I ascend, No longer then thy absence I deplore : Nay, can almost rejoice, beloved friend, That I need play the mountebank no more, Presuming my dim light to thee to lend.
YET didst thou tell me once that some chance word, From these unconscious lips at random sent, Reproof and warning to thy spirit lent, And dormant will to new exertion stirr'd: And doubtless of such triumphs I have heard, Achieved by ministry most impotent,
Which God, on purpose of rich grace intent, To this world's strength and wisdom hath preferr'd. But oh! beloved friend, if 'tis delight
To turn some unknown sinner from his way,
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