To The Memory Of Patrick Kelley, Who By His Many Good Qualities During Some Years' Residence In My Family, Greatly Endeared Himself To Me And Mine.
From Erin’s fair Isle to this country he came,
And found brothers and sisters to welcome him here;
Though then but a youth, yet robust seemed his frame,
And life promised fair for many a long year.
A place was soon found where around the same board,
He with two of his sisters did constantly meet;
And when his day’s work had all been performed,
At the same fireside he found a third seat.
His faithfulness such, so true-hearted was he,
That love in return could not be denied;
As one of the family—he soon ceased to be
The stranger, who lately for work had applied.
Youth passed into manhood, and with it there came
New duties to fill, new plans to pursue;
But a fatal disease now seizes his frame,
And with health is his strength fast leaving him too.
From his home in the country to the city he went,
Where kind brothers procured him good medical aid;
But all was in vain—Death commissioned was sent,
And soon his remains in the cold grave were laid.
The broad waves of Atlantic lie rolling between
His brothers and sisters and parents on earth;
And never by parents may those children be seen,
Or the latter revisit the land of their birth.
But sooner or later they all must be borne
To that region of darkness from whence none return;
Oh! then may they meet on Canaan’s bright shore,
An unbroken household to part nevermore.
Weston, Jan. 1852.
My S.S. Class.
I now will endeavor, while fresh in my mind,
My Sabbath School Class to portray;
The theme's furnished for me, I've only to find
Colors to blend, their forms to display.
And first on the canvass we'll Adeline place,
With her full and expressive dark eye;
Decision of purpose is stamped on that face,
And good scholarship too we descry.
Next in order comes Alice, with bright sunny smile,
That does one's heart good to behold;
May the sorrows of life ne'er that young spirit blight,
Nor that heart be less cheerful when old.
But who's this that we see, with that mild pensive air,
And a look so expressively kind?
It is Ann, gentle Ann, before whom we pass by,
We will add--'t would be useless in any to try
Disposition more lovely to find.
The next is a bright noble face we espy,
'Tis a boy of ten years we shall find;
There's a spice of the rogue in that merry young eye,
With good sense and good nature combined.
It's young master Alpheus--we never have found
One more punctual at school hour than he;
He's now but a lad, yet who knows when a man,
But a Judge in our land he may be.
Next comes little Moggy, our dear little Moggy,
But before she is brought out to view,
We'll new colors select, add fresh tints to the whole,
And spread all on our pallet anew.
And now she appears in her own proper size,
Her cheeks colored by nature's warm glow;
With her full lustrous and speaking black eyes,
And rich ringlets that grace her young brow.
Walter's the last on the painting we see,
Little Walter, the youngest of all;
Look! he's repeating his lesson just now,
Mark the expression on that infant brow,
He's a wonder, for scholar so small.
But there's one in this grouping we look for in vain,
Whose image we often recall;
How mournfully sweet is the sound of thy name,
Dear Elbridge, the loved one of all.
Thou wert called in the freshness of morning away,
By him who all things doeth well;
The rest for brief periods are suffered to stay,
How long, we may none of us tell.
May the Holy Book studied in this Sabbath School,
Be more precious than silver or gold;
Be its doctrines received, and its precepts obeyed,
And rich treasures it still will unfold.
And when one by one we shall all pass away,
To me, oh! my Father, be given
The joy that no heart upon earth can conceive,
To meet all in the kingdom of Heaven.
Weston, Feb. 17, 1852.
For my Grandsons, Eddy and Ally.
I here engage
Upon this page
A picture to portray,
Of two of an age
Yet neither a sage,
But right honest hearts have they.
Each loves to play
And have his own way,
Yet I’m happy to say
They quarrel, if ever, but seldom.
Though competent quite
To maintain their own right,
And even to fight,
Yet peace to their bosom is welcome.
Both go to school,
And learn by rule
That in neither a dunce we may find;
Both read and spell
And like it well;
Thus with pleasure is profit combined.
One’s eyes are black,
The other’s blue;
They both have honest hearts and true,
And love each other dearly:
One’s father, is brother
To the other one’s mother,
So cousins german are they most clearly;
Each has a father,
And each has a mother,
And both do dearly love him;
But neither a sister,
And neither a brother,
To play with, or to plague him.
And here I propose,
Ere I come to a close,
A little advice to give;
To which if they heed,
They’ll be better indeed,
And happier as long as they live.
Be sure to mind
Your parents kind,
And do nothing to vex or tease them;
But through each day
Heed what they say,
And strive to obey and please them.
Take not in vain
God’s holy name,
Do not work,
Do not play
On God’s holy day,
Nor from church stay away;
Always bear it in mind
To be gentle and kind,
And friends you will find,
And hearts to you bind,
I am sure I may venture to say.
And when you’re men,
Who sees you then
I hope in you models will see,
Of good and great,
In Church and State,
Whose lips with your lives agree.
Weston, Feb. 1852.
For my Grand-Daughters, M. and L.—an Acrostic.
Mary and Lily—how sweet are those names,
Allied as they are to my heart and my home;
Recalling with freshness the days that are past,
Yielding buds of sweet promise for days yet to come.
Links are these names to the chain that hath bound
In fetters my heart, to which still they lay claim;
Loved ones and lovely, still close by me found,
Years past, and time present, whose names are the same.
Enshrined in this bosom, is living one now,
Still youthful and truthful, and talented too,
Though years have elapsed since she passed from our view;
E’en in Summer midst roses in beauty and bloom,
She faded away, and was borne to the tomb.
Weston, March 5, 1852.
For my Friend Mrs. R.
When writing to you, friend, a subject I’d find
In which there’s both pleasure and profit combined,
And though what I’ve chosen may pain in review,
Yet still there’s strange mingling of pleasure there too.
Then let us go back many years that are past,
And glance at those days much too happy to last.
I have seen thee, my friend, when around thy bright hearth
Not a seat was found vacant, but gladness and mirth
Kept high holiday there, and many a time
Were mingled in pastime my children with thine.
I’ve looked in again, the destroyer had come,
And changed the whole aspect of that happy home.
He entered that dwelling, and rudely he tore
From the arms of his mother, her most cherished flower.
Thy heart seemed then broken, oh! how couldst thou bear
To live in this world, and thy idol not here?
Oh! heart-stricken mother, thou didst not then know
All the bitter ingredients in thy cup of woe.
The hand of thy father that cup had prepared,
Each drop needful for thee, not one could be spared.
Ere thy first wound had healed, while bleeding and sore,
Death entered again, and a fair daughter bore
From home of her childhood, to return never more.
How painful the shock, for in striking that blow
A child, parent, sister, and wife was laid low.
Thy strength seemed unequal that shock to sustain,
But death was not satiate, he soon called again,
And tears and entreaties were powerless to save
Another dear daughter from death and the grave.
Like a fair lily when droops its young head,
With little of suffering her mild spirit fled.
She was thy namesake, to her young friends most dear;
So many thy trials, so heavy to bear,
It seemed that much longer thou couldst not survive;
How much can the human heart bear and yet live.
Up to this time there had always been one
Who shared in thy trials and made them his own;
Many years his strong arm had support been to thee,
The friend of thy youth, thy kind husband was he.
He’s ever been with thee in weal and in woe,
But the time’s just at hand when he too must go.
The bolt fell not single, it pierced the slight form
Of a child, too fragile to weather the storm;
The summons that took her dear father away
Seemed her young heart to break, she could not here stay,
And now in deep slumber they side by side lay.
I have felt, my dear friend, as I’ve witnessed thy grief,
How inadequate language to give thee relief;
And that real relief could never be found
Except from the hand that inflicted the wound.
In the furnace of fire thou wert not alone,
For walking beside thee had ever been one,
The kindest of friends, though thou could’st not him see,
For the scales on thine eyes weighed them down heavily.
Those scales have now fallen; look up, thou canst see
That look of compassion, it’s fixed upon thee.
Raise thine eyes once again, see that head crowned with thorns;
In those feet, hands, and side, see the deep bleeding wounds.
You now know full well why such suffering was borne,
’Twas for thee, and for me, and for every one
Who trusts in his merits and on him alone.
Thy day is just passed, ’tis now evening with thee,
But the faith of the Christian is given to see
The star of bright promise, amid the dark gloom
Which shall light all thy footsteps and gild the lone tomb;
And at the last day mayst thou and thine stand
An unbroken household at Jesus’ right hand.
March 27, 1852.
For my Niece Angeline.
In the morning of life, when all things appear bright,
And far in the distance the shadows of night,
With kind parents still spared thee, and health to enjoy,
What period more fitting thy powers to employ
In the service of him, who his own life has given
To procure thee a crown and a mansion in Heaven.
As a dream that is gone at the breaking of day,
And a tale that’s soon told, so our years pass away.
“Then count that day lost, whose low setting sun
Can see from thy hand no worthy act done.”
Midst the roses of life many thorns thou wilt find,
“But the cloud that is darkest, with silver is lined.”
As the children of Israel were led on their way
By the bright cloud at night, and the dark cloud by day,
So the Christian is led through the straight narrow road
That brings him direct to his home and his God;
And when the last stage of life’s journey is o’er,
And Jordan’s dark waves can affright him no more,
When safely arrived in his own promised land,
He’s permitted with Saints and with Angels to stand,
Then weighed in the balance how light will appear
All the sorrows of life, with his blissful state there.
Oh! let us by faith take a view of him now,
See the crown of bright jewels encircling his brow;
His old tattered robe swept away by the flood,
Is replaced by a new one, 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 pavëd 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.