« PreviousContinue »
* Joy, joy, for ever I my task is done— The gates are passed, and heaven is won! Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am—
To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,
And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad!
'Farewell, ye odours of earth, that die,
'Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone
Behold a meeting scene
Of early love, and then infer its worth.
Her prayer nightly offered, nightly heard.
Seen only, while she sought this boon alone:
Her lover's safety, and his quick return.
Thus holy, wrestling thus, and all for him I
Nor did he not: for oft-times Providence,
With unexpected joy the fervent prayer
Of faith surprised :—returned from long delay,
With glory crowned of righteous actions won,
The sacred thorn to memory dear, first sought
The youth, and found it at the happy hour,
Just when the damsel kneeled herself to pray.
Wrapt in devotion, pleading with her God,
She saw him not, heard not his foot approach.
All holy images seemed too impure
To emblem her he saw. A seraph kneeled,
Beseeching for his ward, before the throne
Seemed fittest, pleased him best. Sweet was the thought.
But sweeter still the kind remembrance came,
That she was flesh, and blood, formed for himself,
The plighted partner of his future life.
And as they met, embraced, and sat embowered
In woody chambers of the starry night;—
Spirits of love about them ministered,
And God approving, blessed the holy joy.—
TO MY MOTHER.
And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think,
Could from our best of duties ever shrink?
Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink
Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink:
Banish the thought!—where'er our steps may roam,
And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;
H. K. White.
TO A DYING CHRISTIAN.
Parting soul' the flood awaits thee,