In the giddy whirl, in the greedy swirl,
I felt I was sinking fast,
When an arm, as white as the opal bright,
Was firmly around me cast.
And a well-known voice made my heart rejoice—
“Fear not! for the strife is o’er;
To your resting-place in my warm embrace,
Do I welcome you back once more.”
’Twas my mother dear spake those words of cheer,
Whom I met with a glad surprise,
For I thought she slept where the willows wept,
Till the day when the dead should rise.
I had passed away from my form of clay,
But not to a distant sphere;
Like a troubled dream did the struggle seem,
For my spirit still lingered here.
I had weathered the storm, but my mortal form
Like a wreck in my presence lay;
They said I was dead when my spirit fled,
And with weeping they turned away.
Then the dearest came, and she sobbed my name;
But how could those pale lips speak?
She bent o’er my form like a reed in the storm,
As she kissed my clay-cold cheek.
I was with her there, and with tender care
I folded her close to my breast,
Till the heart’s wild throb, and the bursting sob,
Were silenced and soothed to rest.
O human love! there is nought above,
That ever will rudely part
The sacred tie, or the union high,
Of those who are one in heart.
A bridge leads o’er from the heavenly shore,
Where the happy spirits pass,
And the angels that stand with the harp in the hand,
On the “sea, as it were, of glass,”
Play so soft and clear that the human ear,
And the spirits who love the Lord,
Can catch the sound through the space profound,
And join in the sweet accord.
O, what is death? ’Tis a fleeting breath—
A simple but blesséd change—
’Tis rending a chain, that the soul may gain
A higher and broader range.
Unbounded space is its dwelling-place,
Where no human foot hath trod,
But everywhere doth it feel the care
And the changeless love of God.
O, then, though you weep when your loved ones sleep,
When the rose on the cheek grows pale,
Yet their forms of light, just concealed from sight,
Are only behind the vail.
With their faces fair, and their shining hair
With blossoms of beauty crowned,
They will also stand, with a helping hand,
When you shall be Outward Bound.
THE WANDERER’S WELCOME HOME.
A woman, with weary heart and hand,
Wasted and worn by the rude world’s strife,
Prayed for the peace of the better land,
And the mansions fair of the higher life.
She prayed at night in the churchyard lone,
Resting her brow on a cold, white stone.