In thoughts which answer to my own, The waves which lull thy body's rest, Shall these poor elements outlive The mind whose kingly will they wrought? Their gross unconsciousness survive Thy Godlike energy of thought? THOU LIVEST, FOLLEN!- not in vain And the thorned crown of suffering worn. Oh while Life's solemn mystery glooms While day by day our loved ones glide To the cold shadows which divide While even on the closing eye, And on the lip which moves in vain, And only midst the gloom of death, Its mournful doubts and haunting fears, Two pale, sweet angels, Hope and Faith, Smile dimly on us through their tears; 'Tis something to a heart like mine Less dreary seems the untried way Oh!-at this hour when half the sky While through these elm boughs wet with rain I long to know if scenes like this If earth's familiar loveliness Haunts not thy heaven's serener skies. For sweetly here upon thee grew And it may be that all which lends The soul an upward impulse here, With a diviner beauty blends, And greets us in a holier sphere. Through groves where blighting never fell The humbler flowers of earth may twine; And simple draughts from childhood's well Blend with the angel-tasted wine. But be the prying vision veiled, Shall mortal blindness seek to come? We only know that thou hast gone, On all thou lookest we shall look, And to our gaze ere long shall turn With Him, before whose awful power And forest leaf, looked out on thee, We leave thee, with a trust serene, Which Time, nor Change, nor Death can move, While with thy childlike faith we lean On Him whose dearest name is Love! TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND.. GOD bless ye, brothers! in the fight Ye're waging now, ye cannot fail, For better is your sense of right Than tyrant's law, or bigot's ban More mighty is your simplest word; Go let your bloated Church rehearse Let the State scaffold rise again Did Freedom die when Russel died? From earth's green bosom cried? The great hearts of your olden time Are beating with you, full and strong; And glorious round ye throng. *It can scarcely be necessary to say that the author refers to those who are seeking the reform of political evils in Great Britain, by peaceful and Christian means. The bluff, bold men of Runnymede The truths ye urge are borne abroad The weapons which your hands have found Are those which Heaven itself has wrought, Light, Truth, and Love; your battle ground The free, broad field of Thought. No partial, selfish purpose breaks The languid pulse of England starts And bounds beneath your words of power; The beating of her million hearts Is with you at this hour! Oh, ye who, with undoubting eyes, Through present cloud and gathering storm, Behold the span of Freedom's skies, And sunshine soft and warm, not in vain Your generous trust in human kind; The good which bloodshed could not gain Your peaceful zeal shall find. Press on the triumph shall be won |