No more behold the emblematic wine And bread significant of Jesus' death, To count his sufferings an unmeaning thing. No more those ears shall list the solemn sound Repent," as from the sacred lips of those Who minister in holy things around The sacrificial altar, 'tis proclaimed. No more that haughty spirit shall disdain To note the warnings of a parent's heart.
No more that bosom rest in sinful trust
On Him, whose mercy spread his cottage-board
From day to day,—whose goodness should have led Him swiftly to repent. No more those hands
Shall grasp the horns of Baal's altar, nor Shall heave the censer unto Mammon more.
Those feet no more their wayward course shall choose. Alas! that pulseless bosom tells he's dead!
The pinioned spirit flies to meet its Judge.
Thus mused the stricken father, as he viewed The pallid form of his loved son; when o'er His better nature stole a withering blast, And mingled up his resignation-eup, And he gave loose to melancholic sighs.
'O, eyes! ye cannot weep, nor fast, nor long Enough to flow the river of my grief!
Nor can this heart its aching fountains burst, Nor throb half full or fast enough to tell The measure of my woes. O, spirit! break, And burst the bands of this mortality, And dash thyself a willing sacrifice Upon the altar of paternal love;
If but perchance one heedless son of earth May note the fervor of a father's heart, And see its incense rise, as he pours out In bitterness his soul upon the fire
Of disappointed hope.'
Alas! how e'en the mighty fall, when weak Humanity lets in the current of
A deep affection partly sanctified Without restraint. Parents! events
Like this, o'er which your fancy lingers, are The warning messages from Heaven to you, Submissively to bow beneath the rod,
E'er so severe be its heart-rending strokes, When wielded by your gracious Father's hand; And lessons too, frail nature to distrust, Though under vows most sacred to its God; For, he that thinks he stands, too often falls.
A VISIT TO A DYING FRIEND.
TREAD lightly o'er the threshold, and leave there The vanities of earth and every pulse
Of worldliness, as unfit garments; for
* Benjamin Haggens Pray, son of Isaac C. Pray, Esq., who died in Boston, December 10, 1835-three days after the preparation of this piece for the 'Boston Pearl.'
The place thou enterest is filled with heaven, And angels hover there, to bear away in peace The waiting spirit of the friend thou lovest.
Thus, as it were, a voice from the serene And azure firmament, was I addressed In my sad musings, while I pressed the step Of one whose heart-strings interwove with mine In by-gone days, and whom I loved as my Own soul, but whom the Author of all life Had laid upon a bed of death. I took Due heed, and lightly trode the floor, lest I Might dissipate the swelling notes of joy That rose from the bright tenant of the couch, Whose heart impelled the feeble lips to exclaim, 'How sweet a thing to die !'
He lay, the son of earth,
New-clad for Heaven, in robes of Jesus's love,
A youth of nineteen harvests, born, alas !
Alas! too soon to die- or rather one Whose spirit lit with a celestial fire, Sought its great Emanant in spheres Worthy its burning influences. True, The lucid eye had dimmed itself for death; The intelligent brow was wrinkled by disease; The sunny locks, that played in the light winds, Were matted with the moisture of the grave, And showed no lustre, though a stream of light Anon concentred on his forehead, when The drapery of his couch was drawn. Was nearly spent, but every whisper seemed Like the vibration of a harp whose strings
Were swept by airs of Heaven. Every word Was rich with holy love to God and man. The pallid countenance, the hollow cough, The emaciate visage — all, all told too plain, That he was marked Consumption's victim sure.
The manly form was prostrate; but the soul Was lift on high, and waited for the call Of God, to rise with the bright company Of ministering spirits that bent low Upon his pillow, soon to join the throng Of ceaseless worshippers around the throne In Heaven.
It was a privilege indeed
To be there, and to take the hand of one Whose home was in the skies, and who would soon Possess the mansion there prepared for him
By Christ. 'Twas sweet, indeed, to hold converse With one who e'en already breathed the air That wafted from the streets celestial, and Who soon would tread the golden pavements. I was his teacher; but I felt that now I was the pupil; and the lesson that I learned there buoys my spirits up when I Reflect on death. My heart was better ere I left the interesting spot, and my Dull spirit quickened by the joy that lit His bosom, blent itself away from earth With his in prayer and praise.
This tenement of clay as he will leave The tabernacle of his pilgrimage; For sure, if aught on earth is enviable, It is the dying bed of sainted youth, With all the glorious hopes that cluster round The downy pillow softened by the hand Of Christ, and cheered by radiations bright, That beam from the great Sun of Righteousness, Fond youths! look down the vista of your days, And haste your preparation for a scene So lovely in itself-so full of sweet, Consolatory balm to weeping friends- So rife with honor to your Maker, God!
'Ha! ha! see this old fellow!' cried a little
urchin to his playmate the other day, as he happened to overtake a respectable octogenarian, whose three-cornered scraper, four feet staff, and other antiquated habiliments indicated but little regard to the ever-changing fashions of modern times. Immediately another little fellow came along hooting and hallooing like a wild boy from the woods. They had scarcely succeeded in attracting the attention of the insulted and venerable man, when up stepped a gentleman with an air of authority, and taking each of the vociferous youths suddenly by the arm, addressed them in substance as follows. 'My sons! I am ashamed that you should so treat that good old man. Never again deride any one for the peculiarities of their apparel. Every one has a taste or fancy in regard to their clothes, and it is as absurd for one to ridicule his neighbor for petty differences in the texture or cut of his coat, or the number and size of the buttons upon it, as it would be to desire that every one should eat the same kind of food, or that they should eat nothing at all; for there have been instances of men living without eating for a considerable time. No, no,never again let me know you to insult those whom
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