Sometimes my heart grows sad and sick
When to the past I turn,
And for a sweet and gentle voice
To call me mother yearn.
I see the silver in my hair,
The lines upon your brow,—
And oh, I wish our boy had lived
To be our comfort now!
One moment—then the wish is o'er:
The sun begins to shine;
I lift my heart in thankfulness,
And say, "Thy will is mine."
'Tis true, of poverty and pain
We both have had our share,
But do you think in all the world
There is a happier pair?
I know the harvest-time is near,—
I know the Reaper stands
Before us, and I tremble much
Lest he unlock our hands
But God will be our strength and shield,
Our refuge in that hour;
And he will join our hands again
Beyond the Reaper's power.
Now let me wipe away those tears;
Forget my gloomy talk,
And with your own improve the scene
And sanctify our walk:
So that with Nature's melody
Our hearts may be in tune,
And send up incense like the flowers
This pleasant day in June!
AN EVENING MEDITATION.
How softly yonder pale star beams above my head to-night! How beautiful it appears in the azure vault of heaven where twilight holds the connecting link between day and night. Oh, if my soul were freed from its clayey fetters how swiftly it would fly (if such a journey were possible) to the boundaries of that sweet star! Can that fair planet, seemingly so pure and spotless, be inhabited by beings as frail and erring as ourselves? Can there be any sad souls there to- night— any who are weeping over blighted hopes and blasted prospects? It may be so; and yet perchance such a thing as a pang of sorrow and a burning tear are unknown, for it may be sin has never entered there. Vain, useless conjectures! But will the veil which hides the scenes of other worlds from our eyes never be withdrawn? … Surely it is because God is merciful that I have been spared through another day. I cannot forbear wondering that I have been spared so long,—that I have not been cut down as a cumberer of the ground. O God, according to thy loving-kindness preserve me. Grant that I may yet be an humble instrument in thy hand of doing something for the good of thy cause. Forgive my numberless sins and at last receive me to glory.—July 20, 1852.
It is a lovely scene; the sun has set,
But left his glory in the western sky
Where daylight lingers, half regretful yet
That sombre Night, her sister, draweth nigh,
And one pale star just looketh from on high;
'Tis neither day nor night, but both have lent
Their own peculiar charms to please the eye,—
Declining day its sultry heat has spent,
And calm, refreshing night its grateful coolness lent.
The lake is sleeping—on its quiet breast
Are clouds of every tint the rainbows wear,
Some are in crimson, some in gold are dressed.
Oh, had I wings, like yonder birds of air,
How I would love to dip my pinions there,
Then mount exulting to the heavenly gate,—
A song of love and gratitude to bear
To Him who gives the lowly and the great,
In earth, and sea, and sky, so glorious an estate.
It is the time when angels are abroad
Upon their work of love and peace to men,—
Commissioned from the dazzling throne of God,
They come to earth as joyfully as when
The tidings ran o'er mountain and o'er glen,
"A son is born, a Saviour and a King,"—
For they have tidings glorious as then,
Since tokens from our risen Lord they bring,
That life has been secured, and death has lost its sting.
The twilight deepens; o'er the distant hill
A veil is spread of soft and misty grey;
And from the lake, so beautiful and still,
The images of sunset fade away;
The twinkling stars come forth in bright array,
Which shunned the splendor of the noontide glare,—
A holy calm succeeds the bustling day.
And gentle voices stealing through the air,
Proclaim to hearts subdued the hour of grateful prayer.