And blushing with the beams of morning ?
Yes, there is one, and one alone ;
Mimosa, pride of vegetation,
Boasts higher honors of her own ;
Hers is the honor of sensation.
And is there one whose peace the glare
Of others beauty never mars ?
One of the blooming, sparkling fair,
Whose emblems are the flowers and stars ?
Yes : there is one ; t is she who shrinks
From even admiration s gaze,
Who courts the shade, who feels, who thinks,
And spreads her hands to heaven in praise ;
Tis she whose spirit dwells on high,
Even in the thoughtful nights of youth ;
T is she whose mild and constant eye
Beams with the faithful light of truth.
Heaven s brilliant lights, Earth s blooming flowers,
These shall all fade, and those shall fall :
The moral beauty that is ours
Shall flourish o er the tomb of all.
FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS CAROLINE C .
: Grace is deceitful, and beauty vain." Solomon.
O, SAY not, wisest of all the kings
That have risen on Israel s throne to reign,
Say not, as one of your wisest things,
That grace is false, and beauty vain.
Your harem beauties resign ! resign
Their lascivious dance, their voluptuous song !
To your garden come forth, among things divine,
And own you do grace and beauty wrong.
Is beauty vain because it will fade ?
Then are earth s green robe and heaven s light vain ;
For this shall be lost in evening s shade,
And that in winter s sleety rain.
But earth s green mantle, pranked with flowers,
Is the couch where life with joy reposes ;
And heaven gives down, with its light and showers,
To regale them, fruits, to deck them, roses.
And, while opening flowers in such beauty spread,
And ripening fruits so gracefully swing,
Say not, O King, as you just now said,
That beauty or grace is a worthless thing.
FOR AN ALBUM. 325
This willow s limbs, as they bend in the breeze,
The dimpled face of the pool to kiss,
Who, that has eyes and a heart, but sees
That there is beauty and grace in this !
And do not these boughs all whisper of Him,
Whose smile is the light that in green arrays them ;
Who sitteth, in peace, on the wave they skim,
And whose breath is the gentle wind that sways
And are not the beauty and grace of youth,
Like those of this willow, the work of love ?
Do they not come, like the voice of truth,
That is heard all around us here, from above ?
Then say not, wisest of all the kings
That have risen on Israel s throne to rei^n,
Say not, as one of your wisest things,
That grace is false, and beauty vain.
FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS OCTAVIA W .
OCTAVIA ! what the eighth ! If bounteous Heaven
Hath made eight such, where are the other seven ?
FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS MARY G. M .
MARY, never on these pages
Let there be a single line,
Be it beau s, or bard s, or sage s,
That shall aught unholy speak,
Or blot the paper s virgin cheek,
Or bring a blush o er thine.
Let no hand, or friend s or lover s,
Ever, from wit s sparkling mine
Call, and leave between these covers,
Any gem, however bright,
That in jealous Virtue s sight
Shall be unfit for thine.
With the pearls from shallow waters,
Such as brainless flatterers twine
Round the brow of Folly s daughters,
Let the pedlers of those pearls
Grace the albums of their girls,
But never trick out thine.
Gems of truth and genius, rather,
That, from heights or depths divine,
Wisdom s sons and daughters gather,
Gems of thought and holy feeling,
To thyself thyself revealing,
Shall fill this book of thine.
SUNDAY MORNING. 327
Flowers, by kindred spirits painted,
Taste shall here so intertwine,
That thy brother s spirit sainted,
Could the finished volume lie
Open to his watchful eye,
Would give it back to thine.
Mary, now thy cheek is blowing ;
But its bloom wilt thou resign,
With the locks that now are flowing
Down the shoulders of thy youth ;
But thy purity and truth
O keep for ever ! Thine,
1840. J. P.
SUNDAY MORNING AT CAMBRIDGE.
IT had rained in the night ; but the morning s birth
Was as calm and still as even ;
The heralds of day were awake in their mirth,
For the sun in his glory was coming to earth,
And the mists had gone to heaven.
The winds were asleep ; so soft was the weather,.
Since the storm had spent its might,
Not an angel of morning had lifted a feather,
Or whispered a word for hours together,
Or breathed a " Farewell ! " to night.
The fields were green,
And the world was clean ;
The young smokes curled in air,
And the clear-toned bell
Swung merrily to tell
The students hour of prayer.
The elm s yellow leaf, that the frost had dyed,
Caught the yellower sun as he came in pride
Down the church s spire and the chapel s side.
As learning s pale and dark-robed throng
Moved on to morning s prayer and song,
One of the train, who walked alone,
One, to the rest bt t little known,
Whose way of worship was his own,
Moved tardily, till by degrees
He stopped among the glittering trees
While the rest in the chapel assembled.
For the diamond drops of the mist hung there,
All meltingly strung on the stiff, straight hair,
Of the shrubbery larch. The sun s flash came
And wrapped the bush all at once in flame ;
Yet its glorious locks never trembled.
Not Horeb s bush, to Moses eye,
Wa fuller of the deity.
The worshipper gazed : *t was a glorious sight !
As the pageant blazed with its rainbow light,
He was bowing his heart adoringly.
From the bush, that in silence and purity burned,
To commune with the Spirit that filled it he learned.
And from earth I saw that his eyes were turned,
And lifted to heaven imploringly.
MORNING PRAYER FOR A CHILD.
O GOD ! I thank thee, that the night
In peace and rest hath passed away,
And that I see in this fair light
My Father s smile, that makes it day.
Be thou my guide, and let me live
As under thine all-seeing eye ;
Supply my wants, my sins forgive,
And make me happy when I die.
EVENING PRAYER FOR A CHILD.
ANOTHER day its course hath run,
And still, O God, thy child is blessed ;
For thou hast been by day my sun,
And thou wilt be by night my rest.
Sweet sleep descends, my eyes to close ;
And now, while all the world is still,
I give my body to repose,
My spirit to my Father s will.
How glad should I have been,
Could I, in my lone wanderings,
Thine aged walls have seen !
Could I have gazed upon the dome,
Above thy towers that swells,
And heard, as evening s sun went down,
Thy parting camels bells :
Could I have stood on Olivet,
Where once the Saviour trod,
And, from its height, looked down upon
The city of our God !
For is it not, Almighty Go_d,
Thy holy city still,
Though there thy prophets walk no more.
That crowns Moriah s hill ?
Thy prophets walk no more, indeed,
The streets of Salem now,
Nor are their voices lifted up
On Zion s saddened brow ;
Nor are their garnished sepulchres
With pious sorrow kept,
Where once the same Jerusalem,
That killed them, came and wept.
But still the seed of Abraham
With joy upon it look,
And lay their ashes at its feet,
That Kedron s feeble brook
Still washes, as its waters creep
Along their rocky bed,
And Israel s God is worshipped yet
Where Zion lifts her head.
Yes ; every morning, as the day
Breaks over Olivet,
The holy name of Allah comes
From every minaret ;
At every eve the mellow call
Floats on the quiet air,
" Lo, God is God ! Before him come,
Before him come, for prayer ! "
I know, when at that solemn call
The city holds her breath,
That Omar s mosque hears not the name
Of Him of Nazareth ;
But Abraham s God is worshipped there
Alike by age and youth,
And worshipped, hopeth charity,
" In spirit and in truth."
Yea, from that day when Salem knelt
And bent her queenly neck
To him who was, at once, her Priest
And King, Melchisedek,
To this, when Egypt s Abraham *
The sceptre and the sword
Shakes o er her head, her holy men
Have bowed before the Lord.
Jerusalem, I would have seen
Thy precipices steep,
The trees of palm that overhang
Thy gorges dark and deep,
The goats that cling along thy cliffs,
And browse upon thy rocks,
Beneath whose shade lie down, alike,
Thy shepherds and their flocks.
. I would have mused, while Night hung out
Her silver lamp so pale,
Beneath those ancient olive trees
That grow in Kedron s vale,
Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides
The city s wall sublime,
Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks
Defy the sithe of Time.
The Garden of Gethsemane
Those aged olive trees
Are shading yet, and in their shade
I would have sought the breeze,
* This name, now generally written Ibrahim, is the same as
that, of " the father of the faithful," the contemporary of Melchis
That, like an angel, bathed the brow,
And bore to heaven the prayer,
Of Jesus, when in agony,
He sought the Father there.
I would have gone to Calvary,
And, where the Marys stood
Bewailing loud the Crucified,
As near him as they could,
I would have stood, till Night o er earth
Her heavy pall had thrown,
And thought upon my Saviour s cross,
And learned to bear my own.
Thy cross thou bearest now !
An iron yoke is on thy neck,
And blood is on thy brow ;
Thy golden crown, the crown of truth,
Thou didst reject as dross,
And now thy cross is on thee laid,
The Crescent is thy cross !
It was not mine, nor will it be,
To see the bloody rod
That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged,
Thou city of our God !
But round thy hill the spirits throng
Of all thy murdered seers,
And voices that went up from it
Are ringing in my ears,
Went up that day, when darkness fell
From all thy firmament,
And shrouded thee at noon ; and when
Thy temple s vail was rent,
And graves of holy men, that touched
Thy feet, gave up their dead :
Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard,
HlS BLOOD IS ON THY HEAD !
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THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY