Poems | Page 4

far, barbarian climes, where mountains
cold
Built up a solitude of trackless snows,
There he and grisly
wolves prowl'd side by side,
There he lived famish'd--there,
methought, he died;
But not of hunger, nor by malady;
I saw the snow around him, stain'd
with gore;
I said I had no tears for such as he,
And, lo! my cheek is
wet--mine eyes run o'er;
I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt,
I
weep the impious deed, the blood self-spilt.
More I recall not, yet the vision spread
Into a world remote, an age to
come--
And still the illumined name of Jesus shed
A light, a
clearness, through the unfolding gloom--
And still I saw that sign,
which now I see,
That cross on yonder brow of Calvary.
What is this Hebrew Christ?-to me unknown
His
lineage--doctrine--mission; yet how clear
Is God-like goodness in his
actions shown,
How straight and stainless is his life's career!
The
ray of Deity that rests on him,
In my eyes makes Olympian glory
dim.
The world advances; Greek or Roman rite
Suffices not the inquiring
mind to stay;
The searching soul demands a purer light
To guide it
on its upward, onward way;
Ashamed of sculptured gods, Religion
turns
To where the unseen Jehovah's altar burns.
Our faith is rotten, all our rites defiled,
Our temples sullied, and,
methinks, this man,
With his new ordinance, so wise and mild,
Is
come, even as He says, the chaff to fan
And sever from the wheat; but
will his faith
Survive the terrors of to-morrow's death ?

I feel a firmer trust--a higher hope
Rise in my soul--it dawns with

dawning day;
Lo! on the Temple's roof--on Moriah's slope
Appears
at length that clear and crimson ray
Which I so wished for when shut
in by night;
Oh, opening skies, I hail, I bless pour light!
Part, clouds and shadows! Glorious Sun appear!
Part, mental gloom!
Come insight from on high!
Dusk dawn in heaven still strives with
daylight clear
The longing soul doth still uncertain sigh.
Oh! to
behold the truth--that sun divine,
How doth my bosom pant, my spirit
pine!
This day, Time travails with a mighty birth;
This day, Truth stoops
from heaven and visits earth;
Ere night descends I shall more surely
know
What guide to follow, in what path to go;
I wait in hope--I
wait in solemn fear,
The oracle of God--the sole--true God--to hear.
MEMENTOS.
Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves
Of cabinets, shut up for
years,
What a strange task we've set ourselves!
How still the lonely
room appears!
How strange this mass of ancient treasures,

Mementos of past pains and pleasures;
These volumes, clasped with
costly stone,
With print all faded, gilding gone;
These fans of leaves from Indian trees--
These crimson shells, from
Indian seas--
These tiny portraits, set in rings--
Once, doubtless,
deemed such precious things;
Keepsakes bestowed by Love on Faith,

And worn till the receiver's death,
Now stored with cameos, china,
shells,
In this old closet's dusty cells.
I scarcely think, for ten long years,
A hand has touched these relics
old;
And, coating each, slow-formed, appears
The growth of green
and antique mould.
All in this house is mossing over;
All is unused, and dim, and damp;

Nor light, nor warmth, the rooms discover--
Bereft for years of fire

and lamp.
The sun, sometimes in summer, enters
The casements, with reviving
ray;
But the long rains of many winters
Moulder the very walls
away.
And outside all is ivy, clinging
To chimney, lattice, gable grey;

Scarcely one little red rose springing
Through the green moss can
force its way.
Unscared, the daw and starling nestle,
Where the tall turret rises high,

And winds alone come near to rustle
The thick leaves where their
cradles lie,
I sometimes think, when late at even
I climb the stair reluctantly,

Some shape that should be well in heaven,
Or ill elsewhere, will pass
by me.
I fear to see the very faces,
Familiar thirty years ago,
Even in the
old accustomed places
Which look so cold and gloomy now,
I've come, to close the window, hither,
At twilight, when the sun was
down,
And Fear my very soul would wither,
Lest something should
be dimly shown,
Too much the buried form resembling,
Of her who once was mistress
here;
Lest doubtful shade, or moonbeam trembling,
Might take her
aspect, once so dear.
Hers was this chamber; in her time
It seemed to me a pleasant room,

For then no cloud of grief or crime
Had cursed it with a settled
gloom;
I had not seen death's image laid
In shroud and sheet, on yonder bed.

Before she married, she was blest--
Blest in her youth, blest in her
worth;
Her mind was calm, its sunny rest
Shone in her eyes more

clear than mirth.
And when attired in rich array,
Light, lustrous hair about her brow,

She yonder sat, a kind of day
Lit up what seems so gloomy now.

These grim oak walls even then were grim;
That old carved chair was
then antique;
But what around looked dusk and dim
Served as a foil
to her fresh cheek;
Her neck and arms, of hue so fair,
Eyes of
unclouded, smiling light;
Her soft, and curled, and floating hair,

Gems and attire, as rainbow bright.
Reclined in yonder deep recess,
Ofttimes she would, at evening, lie

Watching the sun; she seemed to