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Was not my spirit born to shine
Where yonder stars and suns are glowing ? To breathe with them the light divine,
From God's own holy altar flowing ? To be, indeed, whate'er the soul
In dreams hath thirsted for so long-
Of loveliness and song ?
Who breathe their fire, as we the air-
Oh! say, is He, the Eternal, there? Bend there around his awful throne
The seraph's glance, the angel's knee?
O wild and mighty sea ?
Swift as the eagle's glance of fire,
To the far aim of your desire !
Like spring-doves from the startled wood, Bearing like them
sacrifice Of music unto God!
And shall these thoughts of joy and love
Come back again no more to me ?Returning like the Patriarch's dove
Wing-weary from the eternal sea, To bear within my longing arms
The promise-bough of kindlier skies,
Which shadow Paradise ?
At thy command the strong wind goes;
Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose,
Until it folds its weary wing
Once more within the hand divine ; So, weary
from its wandering, My spirit turns to thine ! Child of the sea, the mountain stream,
From its dark caverns, hurries on, Ceaseless, by night and morning's beam,
By evening's star and noontide's sun, Until at last it sinks to rest,
O’erwearied, in the waiting sea, And moans upon its mother's breast
So turns my soul to Thee !
O Thou who bidst the torrent flow,
Who lendest wings unto the windMover of all things! where art thou ?
Oh, whither shall I go to find
Is there no holy wing for me,
Of highest heaven for Thee ?
Oh, would I were as free to rise
As leaves on Autumn's whirlwind borneThe arrowy light of sunset skies,
Or sound, or ray, or star of morn Which melts in heaven at twilight's close,
Or aught which soars unchecked and free Through Earth and Heaven; that I might lose Myself in finding Thee!
When the BREATH DIVINE is flowing,
Conscious of a touch the slightestAs some calm still lake, whereon Sinks the snowy-bosomed swan, And the glistening water-rings Circle round her moving wings.: When my upward gaze is turning Where the stars of heaven are burning Through the deep and dark abyss-Flowers of midnight's wilderness, Blowing with the evening's breath Sweetly in their Maker's path : When the breaking day is flushing All the East, and light is gushing Upward through the horizon's haze, Sheaf-like, with its thousand rays Spreading, until all above Overflows with joy and love, And below, on earth's green bosom, All is changed to light and blossom: When my waking fancies over Forms of brightness flit and hover, Holy as the seraphs are, Who by Zion's fountains wear On their foreheads, white and broad, 66 HOLINESS UNTO THE LORD !” When, inspired with rapture high, It would seem a single sigh Could a world of love createThat my life could know no date, And my eager thoughts could fill Heaven and Earth, o'erflowing still ! Then, O Father !—Thou alone, From the shadow of Thy throne, To the sighing of my
breast And its rapture answerest. Al my thoughts, which, upward winging,
Bathe where thy own light is springing-
Seldom upon lips of mine
In the secret place of mind,
Like an awful presence shrined,
THE FEMALE MARTYR.
(MARY G- , aged 18, a “SISTER OF CHARITY," died in ons of our Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian Cholera, while in voluntary attendance upon the sick.)
“BRING out your dead!” the midnight street
Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call; Harsh fell the tread of hasty feetGlanced through the dark the coarse white shietHer coffin and her pall.
What—only one !” The brutal hackman said, As, with an oath, he spurned away the dead.
How sunk the inmost hearts of all,
As rolled that dead-cart slowly by, With creaking wheel and harsh hoof-fall ! The dying turned him to the wall,
To hear it and to die !
Onward it rolled ; while oft its driver stayed,
It paused beside the burial-place;
“Toss in your load !”—and it was done.-
They cast them, one by one-
No white-robed sisters round thee trod-
Giving thee to thy God;
In every heart of kindly feeling,
Thy sisterhood were kneeling,
Of Heaven's own love was kindled well.
Where manly hearts were failing, ---where
The throngful street grew foul with death, O high-souled martyr!—thou wast there,