Heart Utterances
AT
VARIOUS PERIODS
OF
A CHEQUERED LIFE.
NOT PUBLISHED.
In this book I have scribbled some innocent rhymes,
In various moods, and at different times;
Some grave and some cheerful, some merry, some sad,
Though none may be good, there are none very bad.
Contents.
PAGE
- [Kindness,] [9]
- [Written at the Delaware Water Gap,] [10]
- [Written in an Album,] [11]
- [On Reading “Gibbon’s Rome,”] [12]
- [Written in a Friend’s Album,] [14]
- [Written after a Visit to the Institution for the Deaf and Dumb,] [15]
- [Oh! Time, as it Fleets, Dooms a Joy To Decay,] [16]
- [On Leaving Pine Cottage,] [17]
- [The Morn and Eve of Life,] [19]
- [The Evening Star,] [21]
- [Recognition in Heaven,] [22]
- [Written in L. J.’s Album,] [23]
- [The Alpine Horn,] [25]
- [The Gathering Round the Oak Tree,] [27]
- [J. H. on the Death of his Wife,] [29]
- [Thou Great First Cause,] [31]
- [In a Season of Bereavement,] [33]
- [On a Packet of Letters,] [36]
- [Reply of the Messenger Bird,] [38]
- [Heaven and Earth,] [40]
- [Hush, Hush! my Thoughts are Resting,] [42]
- [Consolation in Bereavement,] [45]
- [Suggested by the Conversation of a Brother and Sister,] [46]
- [On the Death of my Uncle, Joseph Paul,] [48]
- [Spring,] [49]
- [Oh, for a Home of Rest!] [50]
- [Life’s Stages,] [51]
- [The Shepherd of Israel,] [56]
- [Woodburn,] [58]
- [J. & H. C. Backhouse,] [60]
- [The Plagues of Egypt,] [64]
- [The Last Look is Taken,] [69]
- [To a Friend,] [71]
- [Farewell,] [73]
- [The Last Day,] [75]
- [The Reunion,] [79]
- [On the Death of Elizabeth Fry and Sir T. F. Buxton,] [80]
- [Ephesians 4:32,] [82]
- [At a Time of Deep Proving,] [85]
- [As an Eagle Stirreth up her Nest,] [86]
- [William Forster,] [88]
- [All Alone,] [92]
Heart Utterances.
FIRST ATTEMPT AT RHYME.
KINDNESS.
Kindness soothes the bitter anguish,
Kindness wipes the falling tear,
Kindness cheers us when we languish,
Kindness makes a friend more dear.
Kindness turns a pain to pleasure,
Kindness softens every woe,
Kindness is the greatest treasure,
That frail man enjoys below.
Then how can I, so frail a being,
Hope thy kindness to repay,
My great weakness plainly seeing,
Seeing plainer every day.
Oh, I never can repay thee!
That I but too plainly see;
But I trust thou wilt forgive me,
For the love I bear to thee.
1811. E. P. K.
WRITTEN AT THE DELAWARE WATER GAP.
Great and omnipotent that Power must be,
That wings the whirlwind and directs the storm,
That, by a strong convulsion, severed thee,
And wrought this wondrous chasm in thy form.
Man is a dweller, where, in some past day,
Thy rock-ribbed frame majestically rose;
The river rushes on its new-made way,
And all is life where all was once repose.
Pleased, as I gazed upon thy lofty brow
Where Nature seems her loveliest robes to wear,
I felt that Pride at such a scene must bow,
And own its insignificancy there.
Oh Thou, to whom directing worlds is play,
Thy condescension without bounds must be,
If man, the frail ephemera of a day,
Be graciously regarded still by Thee.
Here, as I ponder on Thy mighty deeds,
And marvel at Thy bounteousness to me,
While wrapt in solemn awe, my bosom bleeds,
Lest recklessly I may have wounded Thee,—
Wounded that Being who is fain to call
The heavy-laden and the wearied home;
The dear Redeemer! He who died that all
Might to his glorious in-gathering come.
1818. E. P. K.
WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
Judge we of coming, by the by-past, years,
And still can Hope, the siren, soothe our fears?
Cheated, deceived, our cherished day-dreams o’er,
We cling the closer, and we trust the more.
Oh, who can say there’s bliss in the review
Of hours, when Hope with fairy fingers drew
A magic sketch of “rapture yet to be,”
A rainbow horizon, a life of glee!
The world all bright before us—vivid scene
Of cloudless sunshine and of fadeless green;
A treacherous picture of our coming years,
Bright in prospective—welcomed but with tears.
How false the view, a backward glance will tell!
A tale of visions wrecked, of broken spell,
Of valued hearts estranged or careless grown,
Affection’s links dissevered or unknown;
Of joys, deemed fadeless, gone to swift decay,
And love’s broad circle dwindled half away;
Of early graves of friends who, one by one,
Leave us at last to journey on alone.
Turn to the home of childhood—hallowed spot,
Through life’s vicissitudes still unforgot;
The sacred hearth deserted now is found,
Or unloved stranger-forms are circling round.
In the dear hall, whose sounds were all our own,
Are other voices, other accents known;
And where our early friends? A starting tear
And the rude headstone promptly answer, “Here.”
Thus will compare Hope’s sketch of bliss to be
With the undreamed of, sad reality;
Yet this and more the afflicted heart may bear,
If Faith, celestial visitant, be there,
Whispering of greener shores, of purer skies,
Of flowers unfading, love that never dies,
A glimpse of joy to come in mercy given,
The eternal sunshine of approving Heaven.
1818. E. P. K.
ON READING “GIBBON’S ROME.”
And this man was “an infidel!” Ah, no!
The tale’s incredible—it was not so.
The untutored savage through the world may plod,
Reckless of Heaven and ignorant of his God;
But that a mind that’s culled improvement’s flowers
From all her brightest amaranthine bowers,
A mind whose keen and comprehensive glance
Comprised at once a world—should worship chance,
Is strangely inconsistent—seems to me
The very essence of absurdity;
Who, from the exhaustless granary of Heaven,
Receives the blessings so profusely given,
Looks with a curious eye on Nature’s face,
Forever beaming with a new-born grace,
And dares with impious voice aloud proclaim
He knows no Heaven but this—no God but Fame.
Lord, in refusing to acknowledge Thee,
Vain man denies his own reality;
But tho’ the boon of life he may receive
From God, and still affect to disbelieve,
What are his views at death’s resounding knell?
Just Heaven! Sure, man ne’er died an infidel.
Stretched on the agonizing couch of pain,
All human aid inefficacious, vain,
Where shall his tortured spirit rest? Ah, where?
The past, all gloom! the future, all despair!
’Tis then, O Lord, the skeptic turns to Thee,
Then the proud scoffer humbly bends the knee;
Feels in this darksome hour there’s much to do—
Earth fading fast, Heaven’s portals far from view.
Oh, what a hopeless wretch this man must be!
His very soul weeps tears of agony.
Dying he owns there is a God above,
A God of Justice, tho’ a Prince of Love.
1820. E. P. K.
WRITTEN IN A FRIEND’S ALBUM.
Trust not Hope’s illusive ray,
Trust not Joy’s deceitful smiles;
Oft they reckless youth betray
With their bland, seductive wiles.
I have proved them all, alas!
Transient as the hues of eve;
Meteor-like, they quickly pass
Through the bosoms they deceive.
Let not Love thy prospects gild;
Soon they will be clouded o’er,
And the budding heart once chilled,
It can brightly bloom no more.
Slumber not in Pleasure’s beam;
It may sparkle for a while,
But ’tis transient as a dream,
Faithless as a foeman’s smile.
There’s a light that’s brighter far,
Soothes the soul by anguish riven,
’Tis Religion’s guiding star
Glittering on the verge of Heaven.
Oh! this beam divine is worth
All the charm that life can give;
’Tis not false as things of earth,
Trust it then, ’twill ne’er deceive.
1821. E. P. K.
WRITTEN AFTER A VISIT TO THE INSTITUTION FOR THE DEAF AND DUMB.
I thought those youthful hearts were bleak and bare,
That not a germ had ever flourished there,
Unless perchance the night-shade of despair,
Which blooms amid the sunless wilderness.
But I was told that flowers of fairest kind
Graced what I deemed a desert of the mind,
That for these hapless beings man had twined
A fadeless wreath to make their sorrows less.
And then I feared, like sunbeams of the morn
Which spoil the frost-work they awhile adorn,
That rays of light might render more forlorn
The expanding bosoms they were meant to cheer.
I feared those glittering beams would vainly show
That the best charms of life they ne’er could know,
“The feast of reason and the soul’s calm flow,”
The witchery of sound, the bliss to hear.
But when I saw those eyes mirthful and bright,
And beaming soft with intellectual light,
My groundless fears that moment winged their flight,
I felt that joy would on their path attend.
May Heaven this favored Institution bless,
Man’s “high endeavor” crown with “glad success,”
And on each patron’s noble brow impress
The glorious title of “The dumb man’s friend.”
1822 E. P. K.
TIME.
Oh! Time, as it fleets, dooms a joy to decay,
From the chaplet of hope steals a blossom away,
Throws a cloud o’er the lustre of life’s fairy scene,
And leaves but a thorn where the rosebud had been.
It sullies a link in affection’s young chain,
That, once slightly tarnished, ne’er sparkles again,
Spoils the sheaves that the heart in its summer would bind,
To guard ’gainst a bleak, leafless autumn of mind.
But a region there is where the buds never die,
Where the sun meets no cloud in his path through the sky,
Where the rose-wreath of joy is immortal in bloom,
And pours on the gale a celestial perfume;
Where ethereal melodies steal through the soul,
And the full tide of rapture is free from control.
Oh, we’ve nothing to do in a bleak world like this,
But to toil for a home in that haven of bliss.
1822. E. P. K.
(Added in 11th mo., 1861.)
“Nay, toil not,” saith Jesus, “but come unto Me;”
There’s rest for the weary, rest even for thee—
I have toiled, and have suffered, and died for thy sin;
Then only believe, and the crown thou shalt win,
The crown of Eternal Life, fadeless and bright,
Prepared for all nations who walk in the light.
E. P. G.
ON LEAVING PINE COTTAGE.
When our bosoms were lightest,
And day-dreams were brightest,
The gay vision melted away;
By sorrow ’twas shaded,
Too quickly it faded;
How transient its halcyon sway!
From my heart would you sever,
(Harsh fate!) and forever,
The friends who to life gave a charm,
What oblivion effaces
Fond mem’ry retraces,
And pictures each well-beloved form.
Some accent well known,
Some melodious tone,
Through my bosom like witchery shed,
Shall awake the sad sigh,
To the hours gone by,
And the friends, like a fairy dream, fled.
Long remembrance shall treasure
Those moments of pleasure,
When time flew unheeded away;
Joy’s light skiff was near us,
Hope ventured to steer us,
And brighten our path with her ray.
’Neath her luminous beam,
Our spirits were closely entwined;
What are joys of the bowl
To this calm flow of soul,
This heavenly mingling of mind?
Pure Friendship was there
With celestial air,
Her cestus around us she threw;
“Be united,” she cried,
“Ne’er may discord divide
A union so blissful and true.”
But those hours are past,
They were too bright to last;
Joyous moments but seldom are given,
That man may be taught,
Worldly pleasures are naught,—
True happiness dwells but in Heaven.
1822. E. P. K.
THE MORN AND EVE OF LIFE.
So soft Time’s plumage in life’s budding spring,
We rarely note the flutter of his wing.
The untutored heart, from pain and sadness free,
Beats high with hope and joy and ecstasy;
And the fond bosoms of confiding youth
Believe their fairy world a world of truth.
The thorn is young upon the rose’s stem;
They heed it not, it has no wound for them.
While yet the heart is new to misery,
There is a gloss on everything we see;
There is a freshness, which returns no more
When fades the morn of life that soon is o’er;
A warmth of feeling, ardency of joy,
Delight almost exempt from an alloy,
A zest for pleasure, fearlessness of pain,
That we are destined ne’er to know again.
And what succeeds this era joyous, bright?
Is it a cloudless eve or starless night?
To those who’re busied in life’s brilliant dawn
With gathering flowers that bloom when spring is gone,
And, ere their morning sun begins to wane,
Add many a link to fond affection’s chain,
To Heaven’s supreme behest have meekly bowed—
’Twill prove indeed an eve without a cloud.
What though the brilliancy and sheen of day
With youthful hours have faded all away;
What though the fresh and roseate bloom of spring
A fragrance in our path no more shall fling;
Yet there’s a foretaste pure of joys divine,
A quiet, holy calm in life’s decline,
A moonlight of the soul in mercy given
To light the pilgrim to the gates of Heaven.
1824. E. P. K.
THE EVENING STAR.
Hail, pensile gem, that thus can softly gild
The starry coronal of quiet eve!