Thou gav'st me time much good to do,
And health-and privileges too,
And if I fail'd, still blameless thou.
Thou brought'st me comfort from above,
Sweet peace, and fond paternal love,
No night of pain, or day of noise,
But gentle, intellectual joys.
I hang upon thy parting glance,
And bind thy memory to my heart;
Thy little life to me was sweet,
Was sweet as friendship-so depart.
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 1st, 1812.
HAIL, stranger! thou art welcome! for I know Thou cam❜st to guide me on my way, and haste My journey to my home. Thro' paths unknown
Dark with the sable of uncertainty,
Thou point'st me, and I follow undismay'd;
For all thy course is mark'd and rul'd by Him
Who cannot err. Oh! that his pow'r might make
Me active every hour, patient and kind,
Grateful and cheerful, seeking to do good,
Forgetting all the things that lay behind,
And pressing firmly onward in the path
Of duty and of peace. O stranger fair!
Who com'st to aid me on this little stage
Of life's uncertain road, thy smile is soft,
And thy first deed is kind; for first thou shew'st
To me the brow of morn, gilded and bright,
And as I gaze thou whisper'st in my ear
That it is holy so thou guid'st my steps
To God's own temple, where the gathering crowds
Resort to seek his face and chant his praise.
On the death of the Rev. Mr. WASHBURN, of Farmington, Connecticut, during a storm at midnight, while on his passage to South-Carolina, for the benefit of his health, accompanied by his wife.
THE southern gale awoke, its breath was mild,
The hoary face of mighty ocean smil'd;
Silent he lay, and o'er his breast did move
A little bark that much he seem'd to love;
He lent it favouring winds of steady force,
And bade the zephyrs waft it on its course;
So on its trackless way, it mov'd sublime,
To bear the sick man to a softer clime.
Then night came on; the humid vapours rose,
And scarce a gale would fan the dead repose;
It seem'd as if the cradled storms did rest,
As infants dream upon the mothers breast.
But when deep midnight claim'd his drear domain,
And darkly prest the sick man's couch of pain,
The prison'd winds to fearful combat leap,
And rouse the wrathful spirit of the deep,
The impatient storms arose their sleep was
The thunder roar'd a hoarse and dreadful blast,
The troubled bark was tost upon the wave,
The cleaving billows shew'd a ready grave,
The lightnings blaz'd insufferably bright,
Forth rode a spirit on the wing of night;
An unseen hand was there, whose strong control,
Requir'd in that dread hour the sick man's soul,
It struggled and was gone! to hear no more
The whirlwinds sweeping, and the torrents roar,
The rending skies, the loud and troubled deep,
The agonizing friend, that wak'd to weep;
No more to shrink before the tempest's breath,
No more to linger in the pangs of death;
No more! no more! it saw a purer sphere,
Nor surging sea-nor vexing storms were there;
Before his eye a spotless region spread,
Where darkness rested not-or doubt or dread, And sickness sigh'd not there, and mortal ills were fled.
THE following productions were addressed by the author to a number of young Ladies placed under her care, and are here introduced in the form of Essays.
|