The looks, the smiles, all vanish'd now,
Follow me where thy roses blow;
The echoes of kind household words
Are with me 'midst thy singing birds.
Till my heart dies, it dies away
In yearnings for what might not stay;
For love which ne'er deceived my trust,
For all which went with "dust to dust!"
What now is left me, but to raise
From thee, lorn spot! my spirit's gaze,
To lift through tears my straining eye
Up to my Father's house on high?
Oh! many are the mansions there,'
But not in one hath grief a share!
No haunting shade from things gone by,
May there o'ersweep the unchanging sky.
And they are there, whose long-loved mien
In earthly home no more is seen;
Whose places, where they smiling sate,
Are left unto us desolate.
We miss them when the board is spread;
We miss them when the prayer is said;
Upon our dreams their dying eyes
In still and mournful fondness rise.
But they are where these longings vain
Trouble no more the heart and brain;
The sadness of this aching love
Dims not our Father's house above.
'In my Father's house there are many mansions.—John, chap. xiv.
Ye are at rest, and I in tears,1
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres!
Under the poplar boughs I stand,
And mourn the broken household band.
But by your life of lowly faith,
And by your joyful hope in death,
Guide me, till on some brighter shore,
The sever'd wreath is bound once more!
Holy ye were, and good, and true!
No change can cloud my thoughts of you:
Guide me like you to live and die,
And reach my Father's house on high!
THE stranger's heart! Oh! wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;
In the green shadow of thy tree,
The stranger finds no rest with thee.
Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone-
The stranger's heart is with his own.
1From an ancient Hebrew dirge:
"Mourn for the mourner, and not for the dead;
For he is at rest, and we in tears!"
Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'd-
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast.
Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim-
Far, far are those who pray'd with him.
Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land-
The voices of thy kindred band-
Oh! 'midst them all when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart!
COME home!-there is a sorrowing breath
In music since ye went,
And the early flower-scents wander by,
With mournful memories blent.
The tones in every household voice
Are grown more sad and deep,
And the sweet word-brother-wakes a wish To turn aside and weep.
O ye Beloved! come home;-the hour
Of many a greeting tone,
The time of hearth-light and of song,
Returns-and ye are gone!
And darkly, heavily it falls
On the forsaken room,
Burdening the heart with tenderness,
That deepens 'midst the gloom.
Where finds it you, ye wandering ones?
With all your boyhood's glee
Untamed, beneath the desert's palm,
Or on the lone mid-sea?
By stormy hills of battles old?
Or where dark rivers foam?
-Oh! life is dim where ye are not-
Back, ye beloved, come home!
Come with the leaves and winds of spring,
And swift birds, o'er the main !
Our love is grown too sorrowful
Bring us its youth again!
Bring the glad tones to music back!
Still, still our home is fair,
The spirit of your sunny life
Alone is wanting there!
THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.
ONE draught, kind Fairy! from that fountain deep,
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast,
And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep
In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest;
And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave—
One draught of that sweet wave!
Yet, mortal, pause!—within thy mind is laid
Wealth, gather'd long and slowly; thoughts divine
Heap that full treasure-house; and thou hast made
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine;
-Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear
A pyramid so fair?
Pour from the fount! and let the draught efface
All the vain lore by memory's pride amass'd,
So it but sweep along the torrent's trace,
And fill the hollow channels of the past;
And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf,
Rase the one master-grief!
1 Quoted from a letter of Lord Byron's. He describes the impression produced upon him by some tombs at Bologna, bearing this simple inscription, and adds, "When I die, I could wish that some friend would see these words, and no other, placed above my grave,—“Implora pace.”
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