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And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here ? The love that lived through all the stormy past,
And meekly with my harsher nature bore, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,
Shall it expire with life, and be no more? A happier lot than mine, and larger light,
A wait thee there, for thou hast bowed thy will In cheerful homage to the rule of right,
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell
Shrink and consume the heart, as heat the scroll; And wrath has left its scar—that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name,
Lovelier in Heaven's sweet climate, yet the same ? Shalt thou not teach me in that calmer home
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this The wisdom that is love,-till I become
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss ?
GOD IN NATURE.
Oh mighty is the Lord of Hosts !
He spans the spangled skies;
The midnight thunder cries !
He wields the awful lightning-brand,
The war-torch of the storm,
It rocks its cloud-wrapt form;
The hollow-sounding seas,
The crashing mountain trees ! His earthquakes shake the eternal hills
And toss “old ocean's locks;" The hungry breakers howl amain,
Between the dreadful shocks :
And the swift whirlwind, spinning o'er
The mountain bald and pale, Raves wildly to the angry flood
That thunders in the vale,
He sows death in the red simoon,
And cities shrink aghast; He speaks! and mist-wrapt pestilence,
In horrid gloom, moves past! Oh mighty is the Lord of Hosts !
Of all earth’s kings, the King ! Behold! he shakes the mountain pine,
And plumes the whirlwind's wing! And from his throne of majesty,
Upon the bended sky, Around the universe he casts
His all-beholding eye!
She selected the place for her grave in a new cemetery of a rural village, while she felt herself sinking under the power of consumption. She was the first whose remains were laid in that beautiful resting place of the dead.
WHILE yet she lived, she walked alone
Among these shades.—A voice divine
Here shall thy wasting form recline
Beneath the shadow of this pine."
The spot was hallowed from that hour;
And morning's dew this green spot made
More lovely than her bridal bower.
And spirit-like-these walks she trod;
Was heard, she knelt upon this sod,
And gave her spirit back to God.
Went up, from the young mother's bed.
She's lost to earth and earthly things :
But, “Weep not, for she is not dead,
The first that in these grounds hath slept.
This grave, first watered with the tear
That child or widowed man hath wept,
Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept. The babe that lay upon her breast,-
A rose-bud dropped on drifted snow,Its young
hand in its father's press’d, Shall learn that she who first caress'd Its infant cheek now sleeps below.
And often shall he come alone
When not a sound but evening's sigh Is heard, and, bowing by the stone
That bears his mother's name, with none But God and guardian angels by,
This was my mother's choice For her own grave. O, be it mine! Even now, methinks, I hear her voice
Calling me hence, in the divine
IF I had Jubal's chorded shell,
O’er which the first-born music rolled, In burning tones, that loved to dwell
Amongst those wires of trembling gold; . If to my soul one note were given
Of that high harp, whose sweeter tone Caught its majestic strain from heaven,
And glowed like fire round Israel's throne; Up to the deep blue starry sky
Then might my soul aspire, and hold Communion fervent, strong and high,
With bard and king, and prophet old : Then might my spirit dare to trace
The path our ancient people trod, When the gray sires of Jacob's race,
Like faithful servants, walked with God!
But Israel's song, alas! is hushed,
That all her tales of triumph told, And mute is every voice that gushed
In music to her harps of gold; And could my lyre attune its string
To lofty themes they loved of yore, Alas! my lips could only sing
All that we were but are no more! Our hearts are still by Jordan's stream,
And there our footsteps fain would be; But oh, 't is like the captive's dream
Of home his eyes may never see. A cloud is on our fathers' graves,
And darkly spreads o'er Zion's hill, And there their sons must stand as slaves,
Or roam like houseless wanderers still.
Yet, where the rose of Sharon blooms,
And cedars wave the stately head, Even now, from out the place of tombs,
Breaks a deep voice that stirs the dead. Through the wide world's tumultuous roar
Floats clear and sweet the solemn word,