TRUTH.

WRITTEN IN A PORTFOLIO.

BE TRUTH my motto ever! Thou
That bendest o'er my pages now,
Wouldst thou but write a sentence here,
Be every line and word sincere.

Whether it be to those who mourn
For friends departed, kindred gone,
Or to the jocund and the gay,

Who cannot think friends pass away,—
Whether it be the gravest strain
That ever racked a thoughtful brain,
Or of a style that would beguile

All thought, and raise the dimpling smile, -
Write when you may and what you will,
Of grave or gay, of good or ill,
O, be that word my motto still!

Here, to those gone, with artless art
Pour the full fountains of the heart;
Obey that prompter deep within,
That feels concealment half a sin;
Speak out, and others then to you
Will speak as warmly and as true.

Or should there burn a holier fire
Than ever Friendship can inspire, -
Should mighty Love above me deign
To hover on his azure wing,
And prompt the letter or the strain
That only lovers write or sing,—
Though joy-bewildered, hope-amazed,
Be not that guiding word erased.

And after I am gone, O, still
To mould thy passion, guide thy will,
To point thy path, sustain thy strength,
And lead thee to thy rest at length,
In womanhood and age, as youth,
Be thy firm trust, thy motto, TRUTH.

1836.

TO ONE FAR AWAY.

I SOMETIMES feel melancholy when I think of the traveller's lot; forming friendships only to be broken; becoming a member of families, in which he is scarce domiciled when he is once more called to tear himself away; a plant for ever taking root, and for ever lacerated by transplantation. And yet there is another view of the matter. The friendships which the traveller forms need not perish,-nay, they will not; the mountains may crumble, and the valleys become filled, but true affection is imperishable. Love is not a plant which, lacerated by separation, dies; it is a seed which sinks into our spirits, and may remain hid there for ages, but will one day spring up, and from its tiny envelope send forth a Tree of Life.

A few years since, I used to doubt if we should recognize hereafter those to whom we are attached here, because, I said, our attachments die out even on earth; a year ago I was wrapped up in one on whom I should now look almost with indifference, for during that year we have not met. A few years have revealed to me that my former view was the result of my former blindness, and that blindness the inevitable consequence of my unworthiness; I now see that the purer and truer I become, and the freer from selfishness I am, the more permanent are my attachments, and the less power have time and space over them. To the really pure spirit I cannot doubt that there is given a grasp which enables

!

it, while loving many, to love each as deeply as we can love but one.

I would look forward, then, with entire trust to the time when, free, not from this body only, but also from the inner and grosser body of spiritual death, I may stand connected intimately with a myriad of spirits, connected by bonds which the passing of ages shall not loosen, nor the width of the universe weaken. And I would believe, moreover, that the seeds of those myriad connections are now being planted in my breast from passing acquaintances, from momentary meetings, from slight intimacies, from all knowledge of noble, just, devoted qualities, I would believe that I am receiving those seeds.

The traveller's lot, then, is not wholly mournful: he is not a former of fruitless attachments, and does not plant in vain. He plants, as we all do by every act and feeling, for eternity; and if he plant pure affections, it is good seed, and will bring him a rich harvest.

In connection with these thoughts, let me give you some verses written in reference to one now far away :

Her little motions when she spoke,

The presence of an upright soul,—
The living light that from her broke,-
It was the perfect whole:

We saw it in her floating hair,
We saw it in her laughing eye;
For every look and feature there
Wrought works that cannot die.

pure,

For she to many spirits gave
A reverence for the true, the
The perfect, that has power to save,
And make the doubting sure.

She passed; she went to other lands;
She knew not of the work she did :
The wondrous product of her hands
From her is ever hid.

For ever, did I say? O, no!

The time must come when she will look

Upon her pilgrimage below,

And find it in God's Book :

That as she trod her path aright,

Power from her very garments stole;

For such is the mysterious might
God grants the upright soul.

A deed, a word, our careless rest,
A simple thought, a common feeling,

If He be present in the breast,

Has from Him powers of healing.

Go, maiden, with thy golden tresses,
Thine azure eye, and changing cheek, —

Go, and forget the one who blesses

Thy presence through that week.