Poems | Page 4

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 bless?With happy glance the glorious sky.?She loved such scenes, and as she gazed,?Her face evinced her spirit's mood;?Beauty or grandeur ever raised?In her, a deep-felt gratitude.?But of all lovely things, she loved?A cloudless moon, on summer night,?Full oft have I impatience proved?To see how long her still delight?Would find a theme in reverie,?Out on the lawn, or where the trees?Let in the lustre fitfully,?As their boughs parted momently,?To the soft, languid, summer breeze.?Alas! that she should e'er have flung?Those pure, though lonely joys away--?Deceived by false and guileful