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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,
O'crwearied, in the waiting sea,
So turns my soul to Thee!
0 Thou who bidst the torrent flow,
Who lendest wings unto the wind — Mover 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 borne — The 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,
When my upward gaze is turning
When the breaking day is flushing
When my waking fancies over
Then, O Father ! — Thou alone,
From the shadow of Thy throne,
To the sighing of my breast
And its rapture answerest.
All my thoughts, which, upward winging,
Bathe where Thy own light is springing —
All my yearnings to be free
Are as echoes answering Thee!
Seldom upon lips of mine
Father! rests that name of Thine —
Deep within my inmost breast,
THE FEMALE MARTYR.
[mart G , aged 18, a "sister Of Charitt," died in one of onr
Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian Cholera, while in voluntary attendance upon the sick.]
"Bring out your dead!" the midnight street
"What — only one!" The brutal hackman said,
How sunk the inmost hearts of all,
As rolled that dead-cart slowly by,
To hear it and to die !—
It paused beside the burial-place;
"Toss in your load !" — and it was done. —
With quick hand and averted face,
They cast them, one by one —
And thou, young martyr ! — thou wast there —
No white-robed sisters round thee trod —
Giving thee to thy God;
Yet, gentle sufferer ! — there shall be,
In every heart of kindly feeling,
Thy sisterhood were kneeling,
For thou wast one in whom the light
Of Heaven's own love was kindled well,
Far more than words may tell:
Where manly hearts were failing, — where
The throngfol street grew foul with death,
And, where the sickly taper shed
Of suffering human-kind!
Innocent teacher of the high
And holy mysteries of Heaven! How turned to thee each glazing eye, In mute and awful sympathy,
As thy low prayers were given; And the o'er-hovering Spoiler wore, the while, An angel's features — a deliverer's smile!
A blessed task !— and worthy one
"Who, turning from the world, as thou,
Had sealed her early vow;
Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here
Thine is a treasure far more dear—
Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear
The joys prepared — the promised bliss above —
The holy presence of Eternal Love!
Sleep on in peace. The earth has not
The deeds by martial manhood wrought,
The lofty energies of thought,
These have but frail and fading honors ;— thine
Shall Time unto Eternity consign.
Yea, and when thrones shall crumble down,