MEMORIES. Оn, pleasant are the memories In summer's golden sheen: Up in the old oak's pleasant shade, Where mossy branches swing, With a whispered prayer and blessing. Like a ship on ocean's breast. The evening star as a beacon shines On the far horizon's verge, And the wind moans through the distant pines, Like the troubled ocean's surge. From lowly vales the rising mist Curls up the hillside green, And its summit, 'twixt the earth and sky, Away in the depths of ether shine Circling the brow of night. Our Father! if thy meaner works If such revealings of thy love If to our mortal sense thou dost Thy treasures thus unfold, When death shall rend this earthly veil, Thy glory-when the spirit soars And in thy presence folds her wing, ENDURANCE. WHEN, upon wings of rainbow hues, Let not her blandishments allure: The flag of victory seems unfurled, And Faith, exulting, sees afar Earth's idol, Error, downward hurled, Deem not the triumph thou shalt shareGod keeps his chosen vessels pure: The final reckoning is on high, On earth thy meed is to endure. As one who fears to such frail deeds Wax not faint-hearted-while thou toil'st, Thy bread and water shall be sure; Leaving all else to God, be thou Patient in all things to endure. DUTY AND REWARD. EVERY day hath toil and trouble, Every heart hath care: And thy brother's share. Fear not, shrink not, though the burden God shall fill thy mouth with gladness, Let thy spirit be Bound by links, that can not sever, Labor-wait! thy Master perished Ere his task was done; Count not lost thy fleeting moments, Labor and the seed thou sowest Water with thy tears; God is faithful-he will give thee Wait in hope! though yet no verdure Thou shalt see the ripened harvest Labor-wait! though midnight shadows Gather round thee here, And the storms above thee lowering Fill thy heart with fear Wait in hope the morning dawneth And a peaceful rest awaits thee LAURA M. THURSTON. LAURA M. HAWLEY, afterward Mrs. THURSTON, was born in Norfolk, Connecticut, in December, 1812. She completed her education in the Hartford Female Seminary, and subsequently was a teacher in Hartford and New Milford, Connecticut, in Philadelphia, and in New Albany, Indiana. In the latter place she was married, in September, 1839, to Mr. Franklin Thurston, a merchant; and surren dering the school of which she had been the principal, to other hands, she resided there until her death, which occurred on the twenty-first of July, 1842. Under the signature of "Viola" Mrs. Thurston had made herself known by many productions marked by feeling and a melodious versification, which were for the most part originally published in the Louisville Journal. www THE GREEN HILLS OF MY FATHERLAND. THE green hills of my fatherland In dreams still greet my view: I see once more the wave-girt strand, The sky, the glorious sky, outspread Still singing as it flows; When men go up to pray; Thy green vales sleep beneath; Thy groves, thy rocks, thy murmuring rills, The dawn of morning on thy hills, Thy gorgeous sunset skies; A thousand streams have birth, With melody and mirth. I wonder if my home would seem I wonder if the mountain stream And if the flowers still bloom as fair, As when I used to train them there, I wonder if the birds still sing Upon the garden tree, As sweetly as in that sweet spring I know that there hath been a change, The heavens above are still as bright That cheered my morning sky; I mourn not for my childhood's hours, I mourn not for the hills and streams CROSSING THE ALLEGANIES. THE broad, the bright, the glorious West, Is open to my view: Land of the valiant and the free- I hail thee, Valley of the West, For what thou yet shalt be; I hail thee for the hopes that rest Upon thy destiny! Here, from this mountain height, I see Yet, while I gaze upon thee now, Oh! brightly, brightly glow thy skies Along the Atlantic shore! Upon the lofty bound I stand That parts the East and West; Before me lies a fairy land— Behind, a home of rest! Here, Hope her wild enchantment flings, But there, in Memory's light, I see MARTHA DAY. MISS DAY was a daughter of the late eminent president of Yale College, and was born in New Haven on the thirteenth of February, 1813. She was educated at the best schools in Connecticut, and was particularly distinguished for her acquirements in mathematics and languages. She died suddenly, when but twenty years of age, on the second of December, 1833, and in the following year HYMN. FATHER Almighty! a collection of her Literary Remains, with Memorials of her Life and Character, was published at New Haven by her friend and relative, Prof. Kingsley. Her poems were buds of promise, which justified the anticipa tions that were entertained of her eminence in literature. The following hymn was designed to be inserted in an unwritten drama, suggested by an incident in the life of David. Father, her heart from all her idols tearing, Thine erring child again would turn to thee; To thee she bends, trembling, yet not despairing: From fear, remorse, and sin, O Father! set her free. LINES ON PSALM CII. All that it hath of splendor and of life, MARY ANN HANMER DODD. MISS DODD is a daughter of Mr. Elisha Dodd, of Hartford, Connecticut, and was born in 1813. Her first appearance as an author was in 1834, when she contributed a few poems to The Hermenethean, a miscellany conducted by the students of Washington (now Trinity) College. She has since written frequently for the Ladies' Repository, a monthly magazine, and The Rose of Sharon, an annual, edited for several years by her friend the late Mrs. Mayo. A collection of her poems was published at Hartford in 1843. Miss Dodd writes with taste and feeling, and her writings would have been known more generally and perhaps more favorably if she had not confined herself so much to denomi national channels of publication. Like Mrs. Scott, Mrs. Mayo, Mrs. Sawyer, Mrs. Case, the Careys, and some others who are quoted in this volume, she is of the Universalist church, though her religious compositions are all addressed to universal sympathies. LAMENT. SUMMER departs! the golden hours are dying! On the calm waters and the distant hill. Since one beloved hath with thee passed away! Thou wilt come back; but when thy skies are burnAnd thy fair presence gladdens all the plain, [ing, How can we ever joy in thy returning? How can we welcome thee with smiles again? Thou wilt not wake the dead, in silence sleeping, Who vanished from us with thy long, bright days; Thou wilt not call the form the grave is keeping, Once more to meet and bless our lingering gaze. So is it best-thou friend, returning never! Thou, the true-hearted, generous, and kind! For thee 'tis best: when kindred spirits sever, They only suffer who remain behind. Thou art secure from ill. Life's toil is ended; Finished, for thee, its feverishness and strife; Its discords in one harmony are blended; Its seeming gloom is all with brightness rife. Oh! in that glorious land the good inherit, Canst thou the anguish of a mourner see, Who finds the only spell that soothes her spirit In weaving thus a sad lament for thee? THE MOURNER. THOU weepest for a sister! In the bloom And vainly pray the shaft may be removed. Couldst thou not spare the treasure for a while? There are warm hearts that wait to yield their breath, And aged eyes that can no longer smile. Why pass the weary pilgrims on their way Bowed down with toil, and sighing for relief; To make the blossom in its pride thy prey, Whose joyous heart had never tasted grief? Sad sister, turn not hopelessly away; Nor longer at the will of Heaven repine; Fold not thy hands in agony and say, "There is no sorrow in the world like mine." Oh! could my numbers soothe the sinking soul, Or one hope waken with the wreath I twine, Soft sounds of sympathy should round thee roll Warm from a heart that knows such pain as thine. I, too, have been a mourner. Sorrow deep Its lava-tide around my pathway rolled; And sable weeds a hue could never keep, Sad as the heart they hid beneath their fold. All joy grew dim before my tearful eye, Which but the shadow of the grave could see; There was no brightness in the earth or sky, There was no sunshine in the world for me. Oh! bitter was the draught from Sorrow's cup, And stern the anguish which my spirit wrung, When I was called to give mine idol up, And bend a mourner o'er the loved and young. And for the lost to weep is still my choice: I ask for one whose pilgrimage is o'er, And vainly listen for a vanished voice, Whose pleasant tones shall greet my ear no more. There is a spell around my spirit cast, A shadow where the sanbeam smiled before; 'Tis grief, but all its bitterness is past; "T is sorrow, but its murmurings are o'er. Within my soul, which to the storm was bowed, Now the white wing of Peace is folded deep; And I have found, I trust, behind the cloud, The blessing promised to the eyes that weep. So thou wilt find relief. For deepest wo A fount of healing in our pathway springs; Like Lethe's stream, that silver fountain's flow A soothing draught unto the sufferer brings. A Father chastened thee! oh, look to Him, And his dear love in all thy trials see; Look with the eye of faith through shadows dim, And he will send the Comforter to thee. TO A CRICKET. CEASE, cricket! cease thy melancholy song! Its chiming cadence falls upon mine ear With such a saddening influence all day long, I can not bear those mournful notes to hear; Notes that will often start the unbidden tear, And wake the heart to memories of old days, When life knew not a sorrow or a fear: For ever basking in the sunny rays Which seem so passing bright to youth's all-trustful gaze. Once more my steps are stayed at eventide, Wake not remembrance thus! for stern the fate In sable guise, trailing the faded flowers, Those emerald robes will change to russet brown, Will make the dark old woods a while look gay; But Death must come when the rare show is past: Then cease thy chant, dark prophet of decay! I can not bear to hear thy melancholy lay! THE DREAMER. "A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break, HEART of mine, why art thou dreaming! With a world of beauty round me, Lone and sad I dwell apart; Changing scenes can bring no pleasure To this wrecked and worn-out heart. Now I tempt the quiet Ocean While the sky is bright above, And the sunlight rests around me, Like the beaming smile of Love. Or by streamlet softly flowing Through the vale I wander now; And the balmy breath of Summer Fans my cheek and cools my brow. But as well, to me, might darken Over all the gloom of night; Could I weep, the spell might vanish; Tears would bring my heart relief— Heart so sealed to all emotion, Dead alike to joy and grief. Left its mission finished there, Than the wildness of despair. Whence the spell that chills my being, Wake, oh spell-bound Soul! awaken— Life is thine, and "life is earnest," Toil and grief thou canst not shun; But be hopeful and believing, Till the prize of faith is won. Then the peace thou shalt inherit By the Savior promised free; Peace the world destroyeth never— Father, give that peace to me! |