« AnteriorContinuar »
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies
And death stills the soul's last emotion,
O then may the seraph of mercy arise
Like a star on eternity's ocean.
I HAD found out a sweet green spot,
Where a lily was blooming fair;
The din of the city disturb'd it not,
But the spirit, that shades the quiet cot
With its wings of love, was there.
I found that lily's bloom
When the day was dark and chill:
It smiled, like a star in the misty gloom,
And it sent abroad a soft perfume,
Which is floating around me still.
I sat by the lily's bell,
And watch'd it many a day :
The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell,
Grew faint and dim, then droop'd and fell,
And the flower had flown away.
I look'd where the leaves were laid,
In withering paleness, by;
And, as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said,
There is many a sweet and blooming maid,
Who will soon as dimly die.
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss, of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
"Sister spirit, come away!"
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ?—
Tell me, my soul, can this be Death?
The world recedes, it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?
How fair is the Rose! what a beautiful flower!
The glory of April and May!
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.
Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field:
When its leaves are all dead, and fine colors are lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,
Though they bloom and look gay like the rose !
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain :
Time kills them as fast as he goes.
Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade;
But gain a good name by well doing my duty:
This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.
THAT setting sun-that setting sun!
What scenes, since first its race begun,
Of varied hue, its eye hath seen,
Which are as they had never been.
That setting sun! full many a gaze
Hath dwelt upon its fading rays,
With sweet, according thought sublime,
In every age, and every clime!
"T is sweet to mark thee, sinking slow
The ocean's fabled caves below,
And when the obscuring night is done,
To see thee rise, sweet setting sun.
So when my pulses cease to play,
Serenely close my evening ray,
To rise again, death's slumber done,
Glorious like thee, sweet setting sun.
O THOU whose lips can well repeat
The Savior's prayer, nor deem'st deceit
The while is lurking in thy heart,
Pause, ere their memory shall depart.
"Thy will be done!"—and dost thou find In the deep musings of thy mind
No fear, no hope, no passion there,
Thou couldst not freely from thee tear?
And darest thou call upon thy God
To try thee with his chastening rod,
And round the wide world steadfast look,
And find no ill thou canst not brook?
What! couldst thou see the whirlwind come
To tear thee from thy cherish'd home?
See the strong arm of death embrace
The best beloved of all thy race?
See, undeserved, an evil fame
Attaint thy long unsullied name?
Feel slow consuming sickness break
Thy mind, now impotent and weak?
Yet not one murmur ?-If but one,
Thou must not say, "Thy will be done!"
No: rather, ere thy spirit dare
Adopt the Savior's fervent prayer,
The Savior's spirit earnest seek,
Enduring, patient, firm, and meek.
Go, seek of God a heavenly mind,
Active, like His-like His, resign'd:
Pray, that thy very prayer may bring
No hated, no unwelcome thing;
Pray, that the will of Heaven may be
Health, joy, and all things else to thee;
And, thus the work of prayer begun,
Thou well may'st say, "Thy will be done."