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,
As relics we may hold,

That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth,
By springs untold!

Bless'd, that a deep and chastening power

Thus o'er our souls is given,

If but to bird, or song, or flower,
Yet all for Heaven!

HE WALK'D WITH GOD.1

(Genesis v. 24.)

He walk'd with God, in holy joy,
While yet his days were few;
The deep glad spirit of the boy

To love and reverence grew.

1 "These two little pieces," (He walk'd 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 form a part of the same series.

1

HE WALK'D WITH GOD.

Whether, each nightly star to count,

The ancient hills he trode,

Or sought the flowers by stream and fount-
Alike he walk'd with God.

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.
Amidst fair tents, and flocks, and swains,
O'er his green pasture-sod,

A shepherd king on eastern plains—
The patriarch walk'd with God.

And calmly, brightly, that pure life
Melted from earth away;

No cloud it knew, no parting strife,
No sorrowful decay;

He bow'd him not, like all beside,
Unto the spoiler's rod,
But join'd at once the glorified,
Where angels walk with God!

So let us walk!—the night must come
To us that comes to all;

We through the darkness must go home,
Hearing the trumpet's call.

Closed is the path for evermore,

Which without death he trod; Not so that way, wherein of yore His footsteps walk'd with God!

191

THE ROD OF AARON.

(Numbers xvii. 8.)

Was it the sigh of the southern gale
That flush'd the almond bough?
Brightest and first the young Spring to hail,
Still its red blossoms glow.

Was it the sunshine that woke its flowers
With a kindling look of love?

Oh, far and deep, and through hidden bowers,
That smile of heaven can rove!

No! from the breeze and the living light
Shut was the sapless rod;

But it felt in the stillness a secret might,
And thrill'd to the breath of God.

E'en so may that breath, like the vernal air,
O'er our glad spirits move;

And all such things as are good and fair,
Be the blossoms, its track that prove!

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

That blessed sound to hear?

THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH.

Did not his heart within him burn,
Touch'd by the solemn tone?
Not so!-for, never to return,
Its purity was gone.

Therefore, 'midst holy stream and bower,
His spirit shook with dread,
And call'd the cedars, in that hour,

To veil his conscious head.

Oh! in each wind, each fountain flow,
Each whisper of the shade,

Grant me, my God, thy voice to know,
And not to be afraid!

193

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,

The thirsting soul to save?

Hath nature lost the hidden power
Its precious foliage shed?

Is there no distant eastern bower

With such sweet leaves o'erspread?

Nay, wherefore ask?-since gifts are ours
Which yet may well imbue

Earth's many troubled founts with showers
Of heaven's own balmy dew.

Oh! mingled with the cup of grief
Let faith's deep spirit be!

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,

And faded locks that humbly swept the ground,
From thy long wanderings won,

Before the all-healing Son,

Didst bow thee to the earth, oh, lost and found!

When thou would'st bathe his feet

With odours richly sweet,

And many a shower of woman's burning tear, And dry them with that hair,

Brought low the dust to wear,

From the crown'd beauty of its festal year.

Did he reject thee then,

While the sharp scorn of men

On thy once bright and stately head was cast?