He smites the rock-upheaved in pride,
See towers of strength and domes of taste. Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal, Fire bears his banner on the wave,
He bids the mortal poison heal,
And leaps triumphant o'er the grave.
He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
Admiring Beauty's lap to fill;
He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep,
And mocks his own Creator's skill.
With thoughts that swell his glowing soul,
He bids the ore illume the page,
And proudly scorning Time's control,
Commerces with an unborn age.
In fields of air he writes his name,
And treads the chambers of the sky; He reads the stars, and grasps the flame That quivers round the Throne on high. In war renowned, in peace sublime,
He moves in greatness and in grace; His power, subduing space and time, Links realm to realm, and race to race.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF M.S.C.
I KNEW that we must part - day after day,
I saw the dread Destroyer win his way;
That hollow cough first rang the fatal knell,
As on my ear its prophet-warning fell;
Feeble and slow thy once light footstep grew,
Thy wasting cheek put on death's pallid hue,
Thy thin, hot hand to mine more weakly clung,
Each sweet" Good night" fell fainter from thy tongue;
I knew that we must part no power could save
Thy quiet goodness from an early grave;
Those eyes so dull, though kind each glance they cast,
Looking a sister's fondness to the last;
Thy lips so pale, that gently pressed my cheek,
Thy voice-alas! thou couldst but try to speak ; -
All told thy doom; I felt it at my heart,
The shaft had struck- I knew that we must part.
And we have parted, MARY
Gone in thine innocence, meek, suffering one.
Thy weary spirit breathed itself to sleep
So peacefully, it seemed a sin to weep,
In those fond watchers who around thee stood,
And felt, even then, that God, even then, was good.
Like stars that struggle through the clouds of night,
Thine eyes one moment caught a glorious light,
As if to thee, in that dread hour, 'twere given
To know on earth what faith believes of heaven;
Then like tired breezes didst thou sink to rest,
Nor one, one pang the awful change confessed.
Death stole in softness o'er that lovely face,
And touched each feature with a new-born grace;
On cheek and brow unearthly beauty lay,
And told that life's poor cares had passed away.
In my last hour be Heaven so kind to me!
I ask no more than this to die like thee.
But we have parted, MARY - thou art dead! On its last resting-place I laid thy head, Then by thy coffin-side knelt down, and took A brother's farewell kiss and farewell look; Those marble lips no kindred kiss returned; From those veiled orbs no glance responsive burned; Ah! then I felt that thou hadst passed away, That the sweet face I gazed on was but clay; And then came Memory with her busy throng Of tender images, forgotten long;
Years hurried back, and as they swiftly rolled,
I saw thee, heard thee, as in days of old;
Sad and more sad each sacred feeling grew,
Manhood was moved, and sorrow claimed her due;
Thick, thick and fast the burning tear-drops started;
I turned away—and felt that we had parted.
But not forever- in the silent tomb,
Where thou art laid, thy kindred shall find room;
A little while, a few short years of pain,
And, one by one, we'll come to thee again;
The kind old Father shall seek out the place,
And rest with thee, the youngest of his race;
The dear, dear Mother, bent with age and grief,
Shall lay her head by thine, in sweet relief;
Sister and Brother, and that faithful Friend,
True from the first and tender to the end, -
All, all, in His good time, who placed us here,
To live, to love, to die and disappear,
Shall come and make their quiet bed with thee,
Beneath the shadow of that spreading tree;
With thee to sleep through death's long, dreamless night,
With thee rise up and bless the morning light.
"I rocked her in the cradle,
And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest.
What fireside circle hath not felt the charm
Of that sweet tie? The youngest ne'er grow old.
The fond endearments of our earlier days
We keep alive in them, and when they die
Our youthful joys we bury with them."
Remembrance, faithful to her trust,
Calls thee in beauty from the dust;
Thou comest in the morning light,
Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night
In dreams I meet thee as of old;
Then thy soft arms my neck enfold,
And thy sweet voice is in my ear;
In every scene to memory dear,
I see thee still.
In every hallowed token round;
This little ring thy finger bound,
This lock of hair thy forehead shaded,
This silken chain by thee was braided,
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