THE AGED PATRIARCH Or life's past woes, the fading trace The calm sublimity of mind. Years o'er his snowy head have past, And those high hopes, whose guiding star Shines from eternal worlds afar, Have with that light illumed his eye, Whose fount is immortality. And o'er his features poured a ray Of glory not to pass away, He seems a being who hath known On earth by nought but pity's tie, E'en now half-mingled with the sky, To heaven's triumphal car of fire. CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST. FEAR was within the tossing bark, When stormy winds grew loud; And waves came rolling high and dark, And the tall mast was bowed. And men stood breathless in their dread, And baffled in their skill; But One was there, who rose and said And the wind ceased-it ceased-that word And slumber settled on the deep, When death's fierce throes are past. Thou, that didst rule the angry hour, Thou, that didst bow the billow's pride, So speak to passion's raging tide, Speak and say,-"Peace, be still!" A DOMESTIC SCENE. 'TWAS early day-and sun-light streamed Soft through a quiet room That hushed, but not forsaken, seemed Still, but with nought but gloom : For there, secure in happy age, A father communed with the page Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright On his grey holy hair, And touched the book with tenderest light, With something lovelier far A radiance all the spirits own, Caught not from sun or star. Some word of life e'en then had met Some ancient promise breathing yet Some heart's deep language, where the glow For every feature said, "I know And silent stood his children by, Before the solemn sanctity Of thoughts o'ersweeping death; Oh! blest be those fair girls-and blest THE BETTER LAND. "I HEAR thee speak of the better land, And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle-boughs?" "Not there, not there, my child!" "Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, "Not there, not there, my child!" "Is it far away in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand, Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?" "Not there, not there, my child! Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! It is there, it is there, my child!' THE HOUR OF PRAYER. CHILD, amidst the flowers at play, Traveller, in the stranger's land, Far from thine own household band; Mourner, haunted by the tone Of a voice from this world gone; Lift the heart and bend the knee. Warrior, that from battle won, Breathest now at set of sun; Woman, o'er the lowly slain, Weeping on his burial plain! Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, Kindred by one holy tie; Heaven's first star alike ye see Lift the heart and bend the knee. |