The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, There's nothing true but heaven! And false the light on glory's plume, And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom, Poor wanderers of a stormy day, And fancy's flash, and reason's ray, There's nothing calm but heaven! Moore. TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY. Cold, cold lies the sod on a heart once as warm And sadly and wild moans the winter storm As the dew that moistens the rose at dawn So bright in the morning of life she shone, That her fragrance still lives, while her spirit is gone, Embalming her memory here. As the summer sun, at the close of the day, And sheds his loveliest richest ray When his golden beams are melting away So her viewless spirit, as soaring on high, Gave a lingering look from its native sky, Oh! who ever gazed on a form so fair, In the cold embrace of death? . The snowy brow and the raven hair, And the smile that the lips was wont to wear, Fled not with the parting breath! There needs not the art of the sculptor to tell Her monument, now, are the tears that fell How religiously sweet rose the orb of day, How solemn and still the morn, When the infant throng, in their simple array, Mourned their dearest friend, as they bent their way To her lone appointed bourne. Would you hear of the generous deeds of the dead, Go ask the poor widow of yonder shed, Who smoothed down her pillow, and tended her bed, In the moments of deepest distress. Go, ask the young orphan, who wiped off the tear, Or the throb of affliction beguiled? Who told of a home in a happier sphere, And whispered this comfort, Thy father is near, The sire of the fatherless child?' Twas she whom I mourn, who sought the lone shed, Made the widow and orphan rejoice, Poured the oil and the wine on the penitent's head, Gave the destitute clothing, the indigent bread, And stooped to the supplicant's voice. How oft on her efforts I've gazed with delight Like Samaria's daughter, she poured on the sight But oh! 'tis a theme for an angel's lyre, To tell of her love and her holy desire, To be clothed with the meek and the lowly attire Of the Lamb and his sainted throng. Devotion with her was a feeling serene, An emotion heart-nurtured, yet modestly seen To preside o'er each action, each gesture, and mien, With simplicity's loveliest charm. For pure was her spirit, if mortal were pure, Confiding in Jesus, whose blessings secure Whate'er is substantial, or precious and sure, Her soul to her Lord she resigned.. Farewell! sainted shade! though thy spirit is fled,.. Remembrance will never depart, Though the clods of the valley now cover thy head, While life holds its seat in my heart. M'Comb. DUTY TO PARENTS. Me let the tender office long engage, With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death; And keep awhile one parent from the sky! Pope. THE FALL OF JERICHO. A Ye warriors of Israel, encompass the wall |