Here is the place, and this the hour
To seek thy presence, and bow to thee.
Bright is the world with the sun's first rays,
Cool is the dew on the soft, green sod,
The Rose-tree blooms, while the birds sing praise,
And earth gives glory to Nature's God.
Under this beautiful work of thine,
The flowery boughs that are bending o'er
The glistening turf, to thy will divine
I kneel, and its Maker and mine adore!
Thou art around us. Thy robe of light
Touches the gracefully waving tree,
Turning to jewels the tears of night,
And making the buds unfold to thee.
Thy name is marked in delicate lines,
On flower and leaf that deck the stem;
Thy care is seen, and thy wisdom shines
In even the thorn that is guarding them.
Now, while the Rose that has burst her cup,
Opens her heart and freely throws
To me her odours, I offer up
Thanks to the Being who made the Rose.
Here is the place, and this the hour
To seek thy presence, and bow to thee.
Bright is the world with the sun's first rays,
Cool is the dew on the soft, green sod,
The Rose-tree blooms, while the birds sing praise.
And earth gives glory to Nature's God.
Under this beautiful work of thine,
The flowery boughs that are bending d'er
The glistening turf, to thy will divine
I kneel, and its Maker and mine adore! Thou art around us. Thy robe of light Touches the gracefully waving tree, Turning to jewels the tears of night,
And making the buds unfold to thee. Thy name is marked in delicate lines,
On flower and leaf that deck the stem; Thy care is seen, and thy wisdom shines
In even the thorn that is guarding them.
Now, while the Rose that has burst her cup,
Opens her heart and freely throws
To me her odours, I offer up
Thanks to the Being who made the Rose.
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But not a wandering sunbeam falls
Within these high and hallowed walls,
Which echo back my lonely tread,
Like solemn answers from the dead;
-The murmurs steal along the nave,
And die above my sister's grave!
'Tis evening-still I linger here;
Yet sorrow speaks not in a tear!
The silence is so sadly deep,
The place so pure, I dare not weep:
I sit as in a shapeless dream,
Where all is changing, save its theme;
And if a sigh will sometimes heave
A heart that loves, but may not grieve,
It seems as though the spirits round
Sent back reproachfully the sound;
I gazed around with fearful eye :
All things reposed in sanctity.
I reached the chancel,-nought was changed:
The altar decently arranged,
The pure white cloth above the shrine,
The consecrated bread and wine,
All was the same. I found no trace
Of sorrow in that holy place.
One hurried glance I downward gave,-
My foot was on my brother's grave!
And years have passed-and thou art now
Forgotten in thy silent tomb;
And cheerful is my mother's brow;
My father's eye has lost its gloom;
And years have pass'd-and death has laid
Another victim by thy side;
With thee he roams, an infant shade,
But not more pure than thee he died.
Blest are ye both! your ashes rest
Beside the spot ye loved the best;
And that dear home, which saw your birth,
O'erlooks you in your bed of earth.
But who can tell what blissful shore
Your angel-spirits wander o'er !
And who can tell what raptures high
Now bless your immortality!
My boyish days are nearly gone;
My breast is not unsullied now;
And worldly cares and woes will soon
Cut their deep furrows on my brow,-
And life will take a darker hue
From ills my brother never knew;
And I have made me bosom friends,
And loved, and linked my heart with others;
But who with mine his spirit blends,
As mine was blended with my brother's!
When years of rapture glided by.
And then I start, and think I have
A chiding from my sister's grave!
The feeling is a nameless one
With which I sit upon thy stone,
And read the tale I dare not breathe
Of blighted hope that sleeps beneath.
A simple tablet bears above
Brief record of a father's love,
And hints, in language yet more brief,
The story of a father's grief;
Around the night-breeze sadly plays,
With scutcheons of the elder days;
And faded banners dimly wave
On high, right o'er my sister's grave!
Lost spirit-thine was not a breast
Ta struggle vainly after rest;
The wert not made to bear the strife,
Jabour through the storms of life:
Thy heart was in too warm a mould
Teme with the dull and cold;
And every thought that wronged thy truth,
Fee a blight upon thy youth:
The shouldst have been, for thy distress,
Les pure, and, oh! more passionless;
Far sorrow's wasting mildew gave
The beauty to my sister's grave.
Bathy griefs, my girl, are o'er,-
Thy fair-blue eyes shall weep no more;
Te sweet to know thy fragile form
Les safe from every future storm.
Of as I haunt the dreary gloom,
That gathers round thy peaceful tomb,
I've to see the lightning stream
Ang thy stone with fitful gleam;
Tasty in each flash are given
Thy spirit's visitings from heaven;
And stile to hear the tempest rave
Above my sister's quiet grave!
Blest are ye both! your ashes rest
Beside the spot ye loved the best;
And that dear home, which saw your birth,
O'erlooks you in your bed of earth.
But who can tell what blissful shore
Your angel-spirits wander o'er!
And who can tell what raptures high
Now bless your immortality!
My boyish days are nearly gone;
My breast is not unsullied now;
And worldly cares and woes will soon
Cut their deep furrows on my brow,-
And life will take a darker hue
From ills my brother never knew;
And I have made me bosom friends,
And loved, and linked my heart with others;
But who with mine his spirit blends,
As mine was blended with my brother's!
When years of rapture glided by.
And then I start, and think I have
A chiding from my sister's grave!
The feeling is a nameless one With which I sit upon thy stone, And read the tale I dare not breathe Of blighted hope that sleeps beneath. A simple tablet bears above Brief record of a father's love, And hints, in language yet more brief, The story of a father's grief; Around the night-breeze sadly plays, With scutcheons of the elder days; And faded banners dimly wave On high, right o'er my sister's grave!
Lost spirit!-thine was not a breast To struggle vainly after rest; Thou wert not made to bear the strife, Nor labour through the storms of life: Thy heart was in too warm a mould To mingle with the dull and cold; And every thought that wronged thy truth, Fell like a blight upon thy youth: Thou shouldst have been, for thy distress, Less pure, and, oh! more passionless; For sorrow's wasting mildew gave Thy beauty to my sister's grave. But all thy griefs, my girl, are o'er,Thy fair-blue eyes shall weep no more; 'Tis sweet to know thy fragile form Lies safe from every future storm. Oft as I haunt the dreary gloom, That gathers round thy peaceful tomb, I love to see the lightning stream Along thy stone with fitful gleam; To fancy in each flash are given Thy spirit's visitings from heaven; And smile to hear the tempest rave Above my sister's quiet grave!
FAIR was thy blossom, tender flower, That open'd like the rose in May, Though nursed beneath the chilly shower Of fell regret, for love's decay.
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