vague, unmeaning stare,
And, reeling, clasped the clammy hand,
So deathly pale and fair.
In a dark and gloomy chamber,
Life ebbing fast away,
On a coarse and wretched pallet,
The dying sufferer lay:
A smile of recognition
Lit up the glazing eye;
“I’m very glad,” it seemed to say,
“You’ve come to see me die.”
That smile reached to his callous heart,
Its sealèd fountains stirred;
He tried to speak, but on his lips
Faltered and died each word.
And burning tears like rain
Poured down his bloated face.
Where guilt, remorse and shame
Had scathed, and left their trace.
“My father!” said the dying child,
(His voice was faint and low,)
“Oh! clasp me closely to your heart,
And kiss me ere I go.
Bright angels beckon me away,
To the holy city fair—
Oh! tell me, father, ere I go,
Say, will you meet me there?”
He clasped him to his throbbing heart,
“I will! I will!” he said;
His pleading ceased—the father held
His first-born and his dead!
The marble brow, with golden curls.
Lay lifeless on his breast;
Like sunbeams on the distant clouds
Which line the gorgeous west.
The Slave Auction
The sale began—young girls were there,
Defenceless in their wretchedness.
Whose stifled sobs of deep despair
Revealed their anguish and distress.
And mothers stood with streaming eyes,
And saw their dearest children sold;
Unheeded rose their bitter cries,
While tyrants bartered them for gold.
And woman, with her love and truth—
For these in sable forms may dwell—
Gaz’d on the husband of her youth,
With anguish none may paint or tell.
And men, whose sole crime was their hue,
The impress of their Maker’s hand,
And frail and shrinking children, too,
Were gathered in that mournful band.
Ye who have laid your love to rest,
And wept above their lifeless clay,
Know not the anguish of that breast,
Whose lov’d are rudely torn away.
Ye may not know how desolate
Are bosoms rudely forced to part,
And how a dull and heavy weight
Will press the life-drops from the heart.
In yonder halls reclining
Are forms surpassing fair,
And brilliant lights are shining,
But, oh! the dead are there!
There’s music, song and dance,
There’s banishment of care,
And mirth in every glance,
But, oh! the dead are there!
The wine cup’s sparkling glow
Blends with the viands rare.
There’s revelry and show,
But still, the dead are there!
’Neath that flow of song and mirth
Runs the current of despair,
But the simple sons of earth
Know not the dead are there!
They’ll shudder start and tremble,
They’ll weep in wild despair
When the solemn truth breaks on them,
That the dead, the dead are there!
That Blessed Hope
Oh! crush it not, that hope so blest,
Which cheers the fainting heart,
And points it to the coming rest,
Where sorrow has no part.
Tear from my heart each worldly prop,
Unbind each earthly string,
But to this blest and glorious hope,
Oh! let my spirit cling.
It cheer’d amid the days of old
Each holy patriarch’s breast;
It was an anchor to their souls,
Upon it let me rest.
When wandering in dens and caves,
In sheep and goat skins dress’d,
A peel’d and scatter’d people learned
To know this hope was blest.
Help me, amidst this world of strife,
To long for Christ to reign,
That when He brings the crown of life,
I may that crown obtain!
The Dying Christian
The light was faintly streaming
Within a darkened room,
Where a woman, faint and feeble,
Was sinking to the tomb.
The silver cord was loosened,
We knew that she must die;
We read the mournful token
In the dimness of her eye.
We read it in the radiance
That lit her pallid cheek,
And the quivering of the feeble lip,
Too faint its joys to speak.
Like a child oppressed with slumber,
She calmly sank to rest,
With her trust in her Redeemer,
And her head upon His breast.
She faded from our vision,
Like a thing of love and light;
But we feel she lives for ever,
A spirit pure and bright.
Report
I heard, my young friend
You were seeking a wife,
A woman to make
Your companion for life.
Now, if you are seeking
A wife for your youth,
Let this be your aim, then—
Seek a woman of truth.
She may not have talents,
With greatness combined,
Her gifts may be humble,
Of person and mind:
But if she be constant,
And gentle, and true,
Believe me my friend,
She’s the woman for you!
Oh! wed not for beauty,
Though fair is the prize;
It may pall when you grasp it,
And fade in your eyes.
Let gold not allure you,
Let wealth not attract;
With a house full of treasure,
A woman may lack.
Let her habits be frugal,
Her hands not afraid
To work in her household
Or follow her trade.
Let her language be modest,
Her actions discreet;
Her manners refined,
And free from deceit.
Now if such you should find,
In your journey through life,
Just open your mind,
And make her your wife.
Advice to the Girls
Nay, do not blush! I only heard
You had a mind to marry;
I thought I’d speak a friendly word,
So just one moment tarry.
Wed not a man whose merit lies
In things of outward show,
In raven hair or flashing eyes.
That please your fancy so.
But marry one who’s good and kind,
And free from all pretence;
Who, if without a gifted mind,
At least has common sense.
Life to her no brightness brought,
Pale and stricken was her brow,
Till a bright and joyous thought
Lit the darkness of her woe.
Long had sickness on her preyed,
Strength from every nerve had gone;
Skill and art could give no aid:
Thus her weary life passed on.
Like a sad and mournful dream,
Daily felt she life depart,
Hourly knew the vital stream
Left the fountain of her heart.
He who lull’d the storm to rest,
Cleans’d the lepers, raised the dead,
Whilst a crowd around him press’d,
Near that suffering one did tread.
Nerv’d by blended
