The Kings and Queens of England with Other Poems | Page 7

the gift of his Lord;?The hand of his Saviour that garment hath wrought,?It is pure stainless white, free from wrinkle and spot.?The streets that he walks in are pav?d with gold,?And yet it's transparent as glass we are told;?The pure river of water of life is in view,?And for healing the nations, the tree of life too.?There's no need of a candle or sun there, for night?Is excluded forever--the Lord God is their light.?But here we will stop, for no tongue can declare,?No heart may conceive what the Saints enjoy there.?And these joys may be ours--oh! how blissful the thought,?Ours without money, without price may be bought.?For us they've been purchased by the Son of God,?At an infinite price--his own precious blood.?They wait our acceptance, may be ours if we choose,?'Tis life_ to accept them,--'tis _death to refuse.
Weston, May 15, 1862.
AN ACROSTIC.
Ah! what is this life? It's a dream, is the reply;?Like a dream that's soon ended, so life passes by.?Pursue the thought further, still there's likeness in each, How constant our aim is at what we can't reach.?E'en so in a dream, we've some object in view?Unceasingly aimed at, but the thing we pursue?Still eludes our fond grasp, and yet lures us on too.
How analagous this to our waking day hours,?Unwearied our efforts, we tax all our powers;?Betimes in the morning the prize we pursue,?By the pale lamp of midnight we're seeking it too;?At all times and seasons, this same fancied good?Repels our advances, yet still is pursued,?Depriving us oft, of rest needful, and food.?But there's a pearl of great price, whose worth is untold,?It can never he purchased with silver or gold;?Great peace it confers upon all to whom given,?Ever cheering their pathway, and pointing to heaven.?Look not to this world for a prize of such worth,?Or hope that to obtain from this perishing earth?Whose essence is spiritual, and heavenly its birth.
Weston, June 6, 1862.
ACROSTIC.
Even now I seem to see thee,?Lovely boy, with thy sweet smile,?Bright and beautiful as when?Reading that holy book, the while?I listened to thee, little dreaming,?Docile, gentle, pleasant child,?God who gave, so soon would take thee,?Even thee, so sweet_, so _mild.?But how merciful in chastening?Our father is--oh! bless his name--?Your little face was decked with smiles,?Dear child, just when the summons came.?Escaped from lingering sickness, thou hadst?Nought to mar thy little frame.?While ye mourn the dear departed,?Each bitter feeling disallow;?Look to heaven, ye broken hearted,?Look, and with submission bow.?In thy hour of deepest sorrow,?Never murmur, dare not blame;?God, who wounds, alone can heal thee;?Trust his power and praise his name.?Oh! may we say, each, every one,?"Not my will, but thine be done."
SHE SLUMBERS STILL.
On a midsummer's eve she lay down to sleep,?Wearied and toil-worn the maiden was then;?How deep was that slumber, how quiet that rest,?'Twas the sleep from which no one awakens again.
Morn returned in its freshness, and flowers that she loved?In beauty and fragrance were blooming around;?The birds caroled sweetly the whole live-long day,?But that strange mystic sleep all her senses had bound.
Day followed day until summer was gone,?And autumn still found her alone and asleep;?Stern winter soon followed, but its loud blasts and shrill, Were powerless to rouse her from slumber so deep.
Again spring returns, and all nature revives,?And birds fill the groves with their music again;?But the eyes and the ears of that loved one are closed,?And on her these rich treasures are lavished in vain.
Unheeded by her the winter snow falls,?Its beautiful garment spring puts on in vain;?Many summers the birds her sad requiem have sung,?But to sound of sweet music she'll ne'er wake again.
There is but one voice that deep slumber can break,?'Tis the same one that loudly called, "Lazarus, come forth!" At the sound of that voice all the dead shall arise,?And before God shall stand all the nations on earth.
Then shall this dear one, our first born, awake,?Her mortal put on immortality then;?And oh! blissful thought, that we once more may meet?In that home where's no parting, death, sorrow, or pain.
Weston, May 29, 1852.
TO A FRIEND IN THE CITY,
FROM HER FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.
By especial request I take up my pen,?To write a few lines to my dear Mrs. N.;?And though nothing of depth she has right to expect;?Yet the will_ for the _deed she will not reject?The task, on reflection, is a heavy one quite,?As here in the country we've no news to write;?For what is to us_ very _new, rich, and rare,?To you in the city is stale and thread bare.?Should I write of Hungary, Kossuth, or the Swede,?They are all out of date, antiquated indeed.?I might ask you with me the New Forest to roam,?But it's stript of its foliage, quite leafless become;?N.P. Willis and rival have each had their day,?And of rappings and knockings there's nought new to say.?Yet do not mistake