The sun set in a fearful hour, The stars might well grow dim. When this mortality had power So to o'ershadow HIM! That He who gave man's breath, might know The very depths of human woe. He proved them all! the doubt, the strife, The faint perplexing dread, The mists that hang o'er parting life, And the Deliverer knelt to pray- It pass'd not-though the stormy wave It pass'd not-though to him the grave Had yielded up its dead. But there was sent him from on high A gift of strength for man to die. Thro' Him-thro' Him, that path who trod Save, or we perish, Son of God! Hark, hark! the parting signal. [Prison attendants enter. Fare-thee-well! O thou unutterably loved, farewell! Let our hearts bow to God! Herbert. One last embrace On earth the last!We have eternity For love's communion yet!-Farewell-farewell!— [She is led out. 'Tis o'er the bitterness of death is past! FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS. Once, when I look'd along the laughing earth, I wept! and thought how sad for one so young But Christ hath call'd me from this lower world, WILSON. Apartment in an English Country-House.-LILIAN reclining, as sleeping on a couch. Her Mother watching beside her. Her Sister enters with flowers. Mother. Hush, lightly tread! still tranquilly she sleeps, As, when a babe, I rock'd her on my heart. I've watch'd, suspending e'en my breath, in fear And oh! those flowers! dear Jessy, bear them hence— That shook her trembling frame, when last we brought The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know What sudden longings for the woods and hills, These leaves and odours with strange influence wake Jessy. Oh! she would pine, Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld, For the blue sky, the singing-birds and brooks, Lilian,(raing herself.) Is that my Jessy's voice? It woke me not, sweet mother! I had lain Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness, Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought flowers? Which, with their sudden startling flush awoke By day unheard. Mother. And wherefore night, my child? Thou art a creature all of life and dawn, And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise, And walk forth with the day-spring. Lilian. Hope it not ! Dream it no more, my mother!—there are things Known but to God, and to the parting soul, Which feels his thrilling summons. But my words Too much o'ershadow those kind loving eyes. |