Go-let oblivion s curtain fall
Upon the stage of man,
Nor with thy rising beams recal
Life's tragedy again;
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain, again to writhe;
Stretched in diseases, shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass before the scythe.
E'en I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.
These lips that speak the dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see, thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of nature spreads my pall;
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!
This spirit shall return to Him
Who gave the vital spark:-
Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No, it shall rise, again, and shine
In bliss, unknown to beams of thine,
By Hım recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of victory-
And took the sting from death!
"Go, sun, while mercy holds me up
On nature's awful waste,
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief which man shall taste
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of human race,
On Earth's sepulchral sod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality,
Or shake his trust in God."
What is that Mother ?
What is that mother ?
The lark, my child!
The morn has but just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his grassy nest,
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.
What is that mother ?
The dove, my son!
And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return-
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.
What is that mother ?
The eagle, boy!
Proudly careering his course of joy,
Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine, Onward and upward, and true to the line.
What is that mother?
The swan, my love!
He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down by himself to die,
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so my love, that when death shall come,
Swan like and sweet, it may waft thee home!
Telho loves me best?
Who loves me best? -My mother sweet,
Whose every look with love is replete;
Who held me, an infant, on her knee, -
Who hath ever watched me tenderly;
And yet I have heard my mother say,
That she sometime must pass away:
Who then shall shield me from earthly ill ?
Some one must love me better still!
Who loves me best? - My father dear.
Who loveth to have me always near;
He whom I fly each eve to meet,
When passed away is the noon tide heat;
Who from the bank where the sunbeam lies
Brings me the wild wood strawberries.
Oh! he is dear as my mother to me,-
But he will perish, even as she.
Who loves me best? - The gentle dove,
That I have tamed with my childish love,
That every one but myself doth fear,
Whose soft coo soundeth when I come near;
Yet perhaps it but loves me because I bring
To its cage the drops from the clearest spring,
And hang green branches around the door:
Something, surely, must love me more !
Who loves me best? - My sister fair,
With her laughing eyes and her clustering hair;
Who flowers around my head doth twine,
Who presseth her rosy lips to mine,
Who singeth me songs in her artless glee,
Can any one love me better than she?
Yet when I asked, that sister confest,
Of all, she did not love me the best!
Who loves me best?---My brother young,
With his healthy cheek and his lisping tongue,
Who delighteth to lead me in merry play
Far down the green wood's bushy way;
Who sheweth me where the hazel nuts grow,
And where the fairest field flowers blow;
Yet perhaps he loves me no more than the rest,-
How shall I find who loves me best?
My mother loves-but she may die;
My white dove loves me-but that may fly;
My father loves me, he may be changed;
I have heard of brothers and sisters estranged
If they should forsake me, what should I do?
Where should I bear my sad heart to ?
Some one surely would be my stay-
Some one must love me better than they.
Yes, fair child! there is One above,
Who loves thee with an unchangeable love;
He who formed these frail, dear things,
To which thy young heart fondly clings,—
Even though all should forsake thee, still
He would protect thee from every ill,
Oh, is not such love worth all the rest ?
Child! it is God that loves thee best!
"I hear thee speak of the better land, Thou call'st its children a happy band: Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore ? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? "Is it where the flowers of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?"
"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ?
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds on their starry wings w
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
"Not there, not there, my child !"
"Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold;
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?
Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?"
"Not there, not there, my child?"
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