Then, though the wind an alter'd tone Oh! fly it not!-no fruitless grief Still trace the path which knew their tread Still commune with the holy dead In each lone hour! The holy dead!-oh! bless'd we are, That we may call them so, And to their image look afar, Through all our woe! Bless'd, that the things they loved on earth, That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth, Bless'd, that a deep and chastening power If but to bird, or song, or flower, HE WALK'D WITH GOD.* He walk'd with God, in holy joy, To love and reverence grew. Or sought the flowers by stream and fount- The graver noon of manhood came, The full of cares and fears; One voice was in his heart-the same It heard through childhood's years. "These two little pieces," (He walked with God,' and 'The Rod of Aaron,') says the author in one of her letters, "are part of a collection I think of forming, to be called Sacred Lyrics. They are all to be on Scriptural subjects, and to go through the most striking events of the Old Testament, to those far more deeply affecting ones of the New." The two following are subjoined, as having been (probably) intended to forin a part of the same series. THE ROD OF AARON.-THE VOICE OF GOD. Amidst fair tents, and flocks, and swains, O'er his green pasture-sod, A shepherd king on eastern plains- No cloud it knew, no parting strife, He bow'd him not, like all beside, But join'd at once the glorified, So let us walk!-the night must come We through the darkness must go home, THE ROD OF AARON. WAS it the sigh of the southern gale Was it the sunshine that woke its flowers With a kindling look of love? Oh, far and deep, and through hidden bowers, No! from the breeze and the living light But it felt in the stillness a secret might, E'en so may that breath, like the vernal air, And all such things as are good and fair, 231 THE VOICE OF GOD. "I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid.' —Gen. iii 10. AMIDST the thrilling leaves, thy voice At evening's fall drew near; Father! and did not man rejoice Therefore, 'midst holy stream and bower To veil his conscious head. Oh! in each wind, each fountain flow, Grant me, my God, thy voice to know, THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH. "And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter. "And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall we drink? "And he cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree, which, when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet."-Exodus, xv. 23-25. WHERE is the tree the prophet threw Into the bitter wave Left it no scion where it grew, Is there no distant eastern bower Nay, wherefore ask?-since gifts are ours Earth's many troubled founts with showers Oh! mingled with the cup of griet And every prayer shall win a leaf From that bless'd healing tree! THE PENITENT'S OFFERING. (St. Luke, vii. 37, 38.) THOU that with pallid cheek, And eyes in sadness meek, THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN. And faded locks that humbly swept the ground, Before the all-healing Son, Did'st bow thee to the earth, oh, lost and found! And many a shower of woman's burning tear, From the crown'd beauty of its festal year. While the sharp scorn of men On thy once bright and stately head was cast? A solemn light serene, Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last. For thee, their smiles no more Familiar faces wore ; Voices, once kind, had learn'd the stranger's tone; Thy silent spirit's wound? He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone! But which oh, erring child! Which of thine offerings won those words of Heaven, Condemn'd of earth to bleed, In music pass'd, " Thy sins are all forgiven?" From the sweet woods of Araby the bless'd? Of tears, which, not in vain To Him who scorn'd not tears, thy woes confess'd? Unto thy Father's board, Thy peace, that kindled joy in Heaven, was made; By that bless'd sacrifice, Thy heart, thy full-deep heart, before Him laid. 293 THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN, ON CHANTRY'S MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL. THE monument by Chantrey in Lichfield Cathedral, to the memory of the two children of Mrs. Robinson, is one of the most affecting works of art ever executed. He has given a pathos to marble which one who trusts to his natural feelings, and admires, and is touched only at their bidding, might have thought from any previous experience that it was out of the power of statuary to attain. The monument is executed with all his beautiful simplicity and truth. The two children, two little girls, are represented as lying in each other's arms, and, at first glance, appear to be sleeping: "But something lies, Too deep and still on those soft sealed eyes." It is while lying in the helplessness of innocent sleep, that infancy and childhood are viewed with the most touching interest; and this and the loveliness of the children. the uncertainty of the expression at first view, the dim shadowing forth of that sleep from which they cannot be awakened, their hovering, as it were, upon the confines of life, as if they might still be recalled, all conspire to render the last feeling, that death is indeed before us, most deeply affecting. They were the only children of their mother, and she was a widow. A tablet commemorative of their father hangs over the monument. This stands at the end of one of the side aisles of the choir, where there is nothing to distract the attention from it, or weaken its effect. It may be contemplated in silence and alone. The inscription, in that subdued tone of strong feeling which seeks no relief in words, harmonizes with the character of the whole. It is as follows: Sacred to the Memory of ELLEN JANE and MARIANNE, only children Of the late Rev. WILLIAM ROBINSON, and ELLEN JANE, his wife, In fond remembrance of their heaven-loved innocence, In humble gratitude for the glorious assurance, FAIR images of sleep, Hallow'd, and soft, and deep, On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies, Like moonlight on shut bells Of flowers, in mossy dells, A. N Fill'd with the hush of night and summer skies! How many hearts have felt *Your silent beauty melt Their strength to gushing tenderness away! How many sudden tears, From depths of buried years All freshly bursting, have confess'd your sway! How many eyes will shed Still, o'er your marble bed, Such drops from memory's troubled fountains wrung- While love breathes mortal air, While roses perish ere to glory sprung! Yet from a voiceless home, If some sad mother come, From the Offering, an American annual. |