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We are wicked—we are weary

For us pray and for us plead ; God, who ever hears the sinless,

May through you the sinful heed : Pray that, through the Mediator,

All our faults may be forgiven; Plead that ye be sent to greet us

At the gates of Heaven !

March 1838.



Vainly for us the sunbeams shine,

Dimm'd is our joyous hearth; O Casa, dearer dust than thine

Ne'er mixed with mother earth! Thou wert the corner-stone of love,

The keystone of our fate; Thou art not! Heaven scowls dark above,

And earth is desolate !



Ocean may rave with billows curld,

And moons may wax and wane, And fresh flowers blossom ; but this world

Shall claim not thee again. Closed are the


which bade rejoice Our hearts till love ran o'er ; Thy smile is vanish'd, and thy voice

Silent for evermore!


Yes ; thou art gone-our hearth’s delight,

Our boy so fond and dear ;
No more thy smiles to glad our sight,

No more thy songs to cheer;
No more thy presence, like the sun,

To fill our home with joy :
Like lightning hath thy race been run,

As bright as swift, fair boy.


The green

Now winter, with its snow departs,

leaves clothe the tree; But summer smiles not on the hearts

That bleed and break for thee :
The young May weaves her flowery crown,

Her boughs in beauty wave;
They only shake their blossoms down

Upon thy silent grave.


Dear to our souls is every spot

Where thy small feet have trod; There odours, breathed from Eden, float,

And sainted is the sod ;
The wild-bee with its buglet fine,

The blackbird singing free,
Melt both thy Mother's heart and mine-

They speak to us of thee !


Only in dreams thou comest now

From Heaven's immortal shore, A glory round that infant brow,

Which Death's pale signet bore : 'Twas thy fond looks, 'twas thy fond lips,

That lent our joys their tone; And life is shaded with eclipse,

Since thou from earth art gone.


Thine were the fond, endearing ways,

That tenderest feeling prove ;
A thousand wiles to win our praise,

To claim and keep our love;
Fondness for us thrill'd all thy veins ;

And, Casa, can it be
That nought of all the past remains

Except vain tears for thee ?


Idly we watch thy form to trace

In children on the street ; Vainly, in each familiar place,

We list thy pattering feet;
Then, sudden, o'er these fancies crush'd,

Despair's black pinions wave;
We know that sound for ever hush'd

We look upon thy grave.


O heavenly child of mortal birth !

Our thoughts of thee arise,
Not as a denizen of earth,

But inmate of the skies :
To feel that life renew'd is thine,

A soothing balm imparts ;
We quaff from out Faith's cup divine,

And Sabbath fills our hearts.


Thou leanest where the fadeless wands

Of amaranth bend o'er; Thy white wings brush the golden sands

Of Heaven's refulgent shore.
Thy home is where the psalm and song

Of angels choir abroad;
And blessed spirits, all day long,

Bask round the throne of God.


There chance and change are not; the soul

Quaffs bliss as from a sea,
And years, through endless ages, roll,

From sin and sorrow free :
There gush for aye fresh founts of joy,

New raptures to impart;
Oh! dare we call thee still our boy,

Who now a seraph art ?


A little while a little while

Ah! long it cannot be !
And thou again on us wilt smile,

Where angels smile on thee.
How selfish is the worldly heart-

How sinful to deplore!
Oh! that we were where now thou art,

Not lost, but gone before.S

April 1838.

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