The broad ocean of eternity lays before us; into that must our little shallop pass, and meet its final award. This, this is all that is worth living for--happy entrance into the presence of God, that
"We may bathe our weary souls,
In seas of heavenly rest."
The Fatal Feast.
Wealth would have a birth-day ball,
A high and lordly feast:
And open'd wide his spacious hall,
And ask'd in many a guest.They came--the trifling ones of earth,--
A gay and thoughtless throng,
To join in revelry and mirth,
With music, dance and song.High waxen tapers burning bright,
Illum'd the brilliant hall,
And threw their soft, enchanting light,
In dazzling rays o'er all.Soft music echoed sweetest tones,
By unseen minstrels breath'd;
The air was laden with perfume,
From flow'rs that round were wreath'd.Beauty was there, with brilliant eye.
And Health, with rosy cheek,--
Manhood, with forehead stern and high,
And youth with many a freak.All--all were sparkling, bright and gay,
And join'd the dance or song,--
And seem'd unto the gazer's eye,
A happy, joyous throng.And Wealth spread out his costly feast,
And gaily all partook:
The choicest viands cheered each guest,
As all with pleasure look.For Luxury's self ne'er spread a board
With dainties so profuse,--
The most fastidious must be pleas'd,
For he had but to choose.One goblet fill'd with nectar bright,
The centre seem'd to keep;
And when 'twas pass'd among the guests,
They all quaff'd long and deep.The music never ceas'd its strain;
But warbl'd low and sweet;--
Sometimes, soft wailing, 'twould complain--
Then mirth the ear would greet.All seem'd enchantment spread around,--
A golden, fairy dream;
And far off, mingling in the sound,
Was heard a murmuring stream.And summer breezes softly sigh'd,--
And wasted sweet perfume,
Through door and lattice, open'd wide,
Around the spacious room.When mirth was in its wildest mood,
And reign'd in every breast,
Sudden there stalk'd into the hall,
An uninvited guest.The air grew chill, the lamps burn'd pale,--
All gaz'd with wild dismay,
The music turn'd a funeral wail,--
Then sighing, died away.Twas Death that came into the hall,
With visage wan and grim,
And throwing off his sickly pall,
Disclos'd each meagre limb.Some rose to flee, but palsied fell,
"I'm monarch here," cries Death;
And falling bodies quickly tell
His power o'er life and breath.Beauty lies cold in his embrace,
And pale is manhood's brow;
The rose that crimson'd youth's fair cheek,
Lies a crush'd lily now.All, all have sank beneath his dart,
Save fashion's ruthless hold;
She still maintains her iron grasp
O'er bodies pale and cold.Gold glitters on the pallid brow,
And glassy eye-balls stare
Through glossy ringlets, clustering bright,
Of silken, raven hair.All, all had bow'd to Fashion's shrine,
To deck the living form,
Through which will drag its length'ned slime,
The crawling coffin worm.The morning sun had risen high,
And brightly shone o'er all;
But comes no voice, and wakes no eye
Within that spacious hall.A traveller passing by that morn,
Marvell'd that all so long
Should linger in that festive hall
With revelry and song.And so alighting from his steed,
He cross'd the portal high,
And glancing o'er the silent hall,
The sad sight met his eye.With lightning's speed he hurri'd forth
To tell the dismal tale,
And soon were gather'd sorrowing friends
From mountain, hill, and dale.Sad was the fun'ral wail that rose
From that infected hall;
Nought could the different forms define,
But Fashion's slimpsey pall.And there they rais'd one common tomb,
And left them to their sleep,
'Till Christ's loud trump shall wake the dead
From slumber, long and deep.The marble monument they rais'd
Doth this instruction bear:
"The things of earth pass soon away,
To meet your God prepare."Many voices from the dead,
Here bid you well beware;
Tho' youth may bloom upon your cheek,
Still, still for death prepare.The flowing nectar that had grac'd
The centre of the whole,
And so enlivened every guest,
Had death within the bowl.Some small ingredient, when 'twas fix'd,
Was left by a mistake,
And others were together mix'd,
That active poison make.
To the Maiden
Maiden, have not the joys of earth
Prov'd fleeting, and of little worth?
And when the summer sun rode high,
Have clouds ne'er flitted o'er the sky?
Has Hope ne'er sprung beside thy way,
And blossom'd only to decay?
Has Friendship never chang'd her tone,
And 'woke a sigh for pleasures gone?
Has Love ne'er shed his fitful gleam
Across thy path--then hid his beam?
Hast thou ne'er felt the solemn truth--
That palsied age must steal o'er youth;
And that the auburn tresses gay
Must soon be chang'd for mournful gray?
Has sickness never pal'd the rose,
That on the cheek of beauty glows,
And ghastly death, with funeral gloom,
Oft call'd the lovely to the tomb?
Ah, maiden, yes, that tell-tale sigh,
The downcast glances of thine eye,
Say that thy heart is but the tomb
Of hopes that wither'd in their bloom;--
Say that, where all things else decay,
Thy fragile form must pass away.
Then why so fondly cling to earth,
Whose joys are of so little worth?
But rather raise your thoughts on high,
Where Hope's fair promises ne'er die,
Where ghastly death holds no domain,
But endless youth and beauty reign.
To Mrs. B----, On the Death of a Son.
How frail are all the things of earth,
How subject to decay;
Scarce they receive their fragile birth
Ere they are swept away.And tyrant death, with icy hand,
Is ever lurking near,
And binding in his frozen band,
The forms to us most dear.But do not mourn the early dead,
Whose thread of life is riven;
'Tis Jesus calls them from the earth,
To be with Him in heaven.Spotless and pure they pass from earth,
And Jesus bids them come;
And glorious is their heavenly birth
In their eternal home.No more you'll hear the plaintive voice;--
"Mother, dear mother, where?"
Your child shall with his God rejoice
In full fruition there.No more shall burning fever rage,
No more shall pain oppress,
But angel strains his tongue engage
In hymns of righteousness.And when life's ebbing sands shall fail,
And pallid death shall come,
May you then look within the vail,
To that eternal home.And then, perhaps, your gentle child,
So soon from sin set free,
May be the first of angel bands,
Brightly to welcome thee.So do not mourn the early dead,
So sinless and so fair,
But be prepared to join their bliss,
Thus is the stranger's prayer.
O Come Back, My Brother.
My brother, O, come back to play,
For all the flow'rs are springing gay,
And all the birds sing on the spray;
So, come back, my brother.'Twas winter when you hung your head,
And lay so pale upon your bed,
And mother told me you were dead,
My poor little brother.Then the birds all went away,
And all the leaves fell from the spray,
And all the streams forgot to play,
Just like you, my brother.Then deep fell the drifting snow,
And loud the wintry winds did blow,
And all the flow'rs were buried low,
Just like you, my brother.But now the sun is riding high,--
The busy bee comes humming by,
And spring's soft gales around us sigh;
O come back, my brother.Your little rose-bush springs to view,
Your daffodils and daisies too,
And ev'rything comes back but you,
My poor little brother.O, could I ope the grassy mound,
With which your lovely form is bound,
And break your slumber, so profound,
My poor little brother.Then gentle mother'd cease to mourn,
And speak to me in that sad tone;
And pity me because alone;
O, come back, my brother.And yet, I know, it cannot be,
That thou wilt ever come to me;
But I must shortly go to thee,
My poor little brother.I know that thy once lovely form,
Now feeds the cruel coffin worm,--
And that corruption doth deform
All traces of my brother,I know that life will swiftly glide,--
That death's bark floats upon the tide,
And soon will lay me by your side,
My dear buried brother.Then may our souls together reign,
On yonder bright, aerial plain,
And shout a loud, seraphic strain,
In happiness, my brother.