114

WORDS OF A DYING CHILD.

It is for those who, sunk in woe,

Lie crushed beneath the o'erwhelming blow, To seek the peace thy words bestow— "He comforts me."

Those dying words will prove a balm,
Thy father's rising grief to calm;
And sorrow of its sting disarm,—

"He comforts me."

Thy mother's woe will be beguiled;
She will recall her angel-child;

And answer, in his accents mild,

"He comforts me."

O! when they weep upon thy grave,
And mourn the hopes thy blossom gave,
May He who chastens but to save,

Their comfort be!

And when their latest hour draws nigh,
Like thee, sweet infant, may they die!
And say, with their last fleeting sigh,
"He comforts me."

ON A YOUNG FRIEND'S ILLNESS.

She does not feel the morning breeze,

So sweetly every sense pervading, Touched by the blight of wan disease,

Her bloom is fading.

That soft blue eye that beamed so brightly; Nor that young graceful form appear,

Tripping so lightly.

Sweet counsel we were wont to take,
Forever now on earth suspended :
Soon, though so many hearts will ache,

All will be ended.

They say that lovely to the last

Are all her looks (those silent teachers): Care, anger, grief, no shade have cast

O'er her sweet features.

But though so gentle and serene,

Hers was a thoughtful look, revealing

That oft beyond this transient scene

Her mind was stealing.

116 ON A YOUNG FRIEND'S ILLNESS.

We often feared her earthly date

Would ne'er be long her heart was lowly;

And she seemed ready for that state

Where all is holy.

The lily was her emblem-flower,
So modest, fair, and unassuming,
Concealed within its leafy bower,

Its home perfuming.

Oh! could I shield it from the cold,
And see it bloom a little longer,
And watch its silken buds unfold,

Its stem grow stronger!

Alas! the wintry wind so keen

Has o'er it swept : its leaves are withered!

Yet safely, by a Hand unseen,

They will be gathered.

Weep not! to heaven's fair clime removed,

Where wintry winds can reach it never, Follow and see this flower beloved

Blooming for ever!

ON A RESTLESS NIGHT IN ILLNESS.

My Saviour! what bright beam is shed Around my dark and suffering bed, Though downy slumbers thence have fled? It is, thy peace.

When the sad fear of future ills

My trembling heart with sorrow fills,

What balm sweet quietude instils?

It is, thy peace.

When awful thoughts of death's dark hour Like gathering clouds around me lower, What to dispel them all has power?

It is, thy peace.

When weary night and lonesome day
Cast mournful shadows o'er my way,
What then becomes my staff, my stay?

It is, thy peace.

If suffering be my lot below,

Lord! till my tears shall cease to flow,

In life, in death, one boon bestow!

It is, thy peace.

ON HEARING A CANARY-BIRD SING IN LONDON.

I HEARD a bird singing whose notes were so sweet,

That I sought to discover its tuneful retreat; A cage hanging near me (I found) was the cell

Whence the melody rose which had pleased me so well.

I looked at the songster, his feathers of gold
A tale of misfortune and banishment told;
The orient hue of that plumage so bright
Belonged to some island of splendor and light.

Then I thought on the palm-groves, the myrtles, the vines,

Where the stream ever sparkles, the sun ever shines;