Thy soul shall feed; till from the gate of death
Upon thy drooping soul it seem to smile
Unearthly peace and pardon; then thy knees
Shall gather firmness, and thy gentle soul
Shall smile 'neath earthly wrongs. While year and
Roll o'er thee and roll from thee, each still wave
That hurries on the noiseless bark of life,
But bears thee onward to thy place of rest,
To be on Abraham's bosom with thy God.
RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD.
The morn of being round me breaking,
Like a glad vision fair and wild!
And I in a bright world awaking,
With trees and flowers all greenly dight,
And arch'd with roof of deep blue light,
Where to a golden cave remote
There rode a fiery Charioteer,
And then anon his pale compeer
Had launch'd her crescent boat!
Light as that arch's mantle blue,
The curtains from my soul withdrew,
E'en now as back my view I bear,
That dream-it seems strange hues to wear,
Like that unearthly sea displayed
In microscopes, as light and shade
Fleet through the mirror gathering rays,
And lighting all with silvery rays,
E'en now as in enchanter's glass,
To life's sweet orison
The darkly gleaming shadows pass,
While memory lifts her twilight Moon
In caves of dim Oblivion.
As o'er me woke that shadowy scene,
A little Spirit came to me,
And told me of a great Unseen,
That walked o'er that blue canopy.
Oh, 'twas a fearful mystery,
Around me, but unknown to sight,
Like light around the blind!
And should the blind man wake, and find
All he had done he did in light!
That great Unseen, all-seeing Eye,
Where'er I turn'd it seemed on me!
A cloud was o'er my childhood's dream,
I sat in solitude,
I know not how, I know not why,
But round my soul all drearily,
There was a silent shroud,
For with my sleep such terrors came,
Of rolling on a rolling billow,
With a wild storm for my pillow.
That Sun seemed hurrying to his tomb,
From which the Moon, in silent gloom,
Gliding in stole of ghastly light,
Came forth, and sat on throne of Night.
Then in my childish agony,
That little Spirit came to me,
And bade me rest on Him above,
That He unseen,
Did o'er me lean,
With far more than a parent's love.
Tho' tempests may the soul o'erwhelm,
Asleep or wake, through toil or trouble,
Tho' wild winds howl and waves redouble,
Day or night o'er ocean's breast,
That He would sit, and hold the helm,
To the Pavilion of His Rest!
Fled were the hues that were adorning,
The dews that hung upon Life's morning;
Another scene was on my dream,
Around my path there was a gleam;
A laughing boy,
It was a joy that flush'd the cheek,
But not the joy, so mild and meek,
Which erst my earlier childhood knew,
In leaning thoughts of One above,
When even sorrow caught a hue
From plumes of the o'ershadowing Dove.
'Twas not the soul's serene moonlight,
But a meteor lamp down the arch of Night.
That little Spirit came no more,
Knocking at my heart's low door ;
Save when came pensive Solitude,
And wove around her peopled cloud;
Thro' the dim lengthening avenue,
'Twas He-in distance seen-and low
Bending His averted brow.
I struggled with a crowd, and play'd,
'Twas chang'd-I sat on a hill's side,
Crown'd with an avenue of ancient shade,
A leafy colonnade;
Methought some shadowing rock was nigh,
Its shade did on my soul abide ;
Till I had climb'd and sat on high,
Upon that" Rock of Pride."
The world it seem'd to wear bright eyes,
And cast them on me; from my side
Wings seemed to spring, and I to rise;
Oh, then my spirit sat apart,
And I was sick at heart,
Sick of a world with nought to win
To fill that urn within.
Then musing came, and care unholy;
And pensive pining melancholy,
That listened to the distant lute,
When all around was mute:
b Harrow on the hill.
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