The Kings and Queens of England with Other Poems | Page 7

the bright cloud at night,
and the dark cloud by day,
So the Christian is led through the straight
narrow road
That brings him direct to his home and his God;
And
when the last stage of life's journey is o'er,
And Jordan's dark waves
can affright him no more,
When safely arrived in his own promised
land,
He's permitted with Saints and with Angels to stand,
Then
weighed in the balance how light will appear
All the sorrows of life,
with his blissful state there.
Oh! let us by faith take a view of him
now,
See the crown of bright jewels encircling his brow;
His old
tattered robe swept away by the flood,
Is replaced by a new one, the
gift of his Lord;
The hand of his Saviour that garment hath wrought,


It is pure stainless white, free from wrinkle and spot.
The streets
that he walks in are pavëd with gold,
And yet it's transparent as glass
we are told;
The pure river of water of life is in view,
And for
healing the nations, the tree of life too.
There's no need of a candle or
sun there, for night
Is excluded forever--the Lord God is their light.

But here we will stop, for no tongue can declare,
No heart may
conceive what the Saints enjoy there.
And these joys may be ours--oh!
how blissful the thought,
Ours without money, without price may be
bought.
For us they've been purchased by the Son of God,
At an
infinite price--his own precious blood.
They wait our acceptance,
may be ours if we choose,
'Tis life_ to accept them,--'tis _death to
refuse.
Weston, May 15, 1862.
AN ACROSTIC.
Ah! what is this life? It's a dream, is the reply;
Like a dream that's
soon ended, so life passes by.
Pursue the thought further, still there's
likeness in each, How constant our aim is at what we can't reach.
E'en
so in a dream, we've some object in view
Unceasingly aimed at, but
the thing we pursue
Still eludes our fond grasp, and yet lures us on
too.
How analagous this to our waking day hours,
Unwearied our efforts,
we tax all our powers;
Betimes in the morning the prize we pursue,

By the pale lamp of midnight we're seeking it too;
At all times and
seasons, this same fancied good
Repels our advances, yet still is
pursued,
Depriving us oft, of rest needful, and food.
But there's a
pearl of great price, whose worth is untold,
It can never he purchased
with silver or gold;
Great peace it confers upon all to whom given,

Ever cheering their pathway, and pointing to heaven.
Look not to this
world for a prize of such worth,
Or hope that to obtain from this
perishing earth
Whose essence is spiritual, and heavenly its birth.

Weston, June 6, 1862.
ACROSTIC.
Even now I seem to see thee,
Lovely boy, with thy sweet smile,

Bright and beautiful as when
Reading that holy book, the while
I
listened to thee, little dreaming,
Docile, gentle, pleasant child,
God
who gave, so soon would take thee,
Even thee, so sweet_, so _mild.

But how merciful in chastening
Our father is--oh! bless his name--

Your little face was decked with smiles,
Dear child, just when the
summons came.
Escaped from lingering sickness, thou hadst

Nought to mar thy little frame.
While ye mourn the dear departed,

Each bitter feeling disallow;
Look to heaven, ye broken hearted,

Look, and with submission bow.
In thy hour of deepest sorrow,

Never murmur, dare not blame;
God, who wounds, alone can heal
thee;
Trust his power and praise his name.
Oh! may we say, each,
every one,
"Not my will, but thine be done."
SHE SLUMBERS STILL.
On a midsummer's eve she lay down to sleep,
Wearied and toil-worn
the maiden was then;
How deep was that slumber, how quiet that rest,

'Twas the sleep from which no one awakens again.
Morn returned in its freshness, and flowers that she loved
In beauty
and fragrance were blooming around;
The birds caroled sweetly the
whole live-long day,
But that strange mystic sleep all her senses had
bound.
Day followed day until summer was gone,
And autumn still found
her alone and asleep;
Stern winter soon followed, but its loud blasts
and shrill, Were powerless to rouse her from slumber so deep.
Again spring returns, and all nature revives,
And birds fill the groves
with their music again;
But the eyes and the ears of that loved one are

closed,
And on her these rich treasures are lavished in vain.
Unheeded by her the winter snow falls,
Its beautiful garment spring
puts on in vain;
Many summers the birds her sad requiem have sung,

But to sound of sweet music she'll ne'er wake again.
There is but one voice that deep slumber can break,
'Tis the same one
that loudly called, "Lazarus, come forth!" At the sound of that voice all
the dead shall arise,
And before God shall stand all the nations on
earth.
Then shall this dear one, our first born, awake,
Her mortal put on
immortality then;
And oh! blissful thought, that we once more may
meet
In that home where's no parting, death, sorrow, or pain.
Weston, May 29, 1852.
TO A FRIEND IN THE CITY,
FROM HER FRIEND