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I love them all; but closer still the loving
Twine with my being's cords, and make my life ; And while within this sunlight I am moving,
I well can bide the storms of worldly strife.
Then do not let me die! for earth is bright,
And I am earthly, so I love it well : Heaven is a land of holiness and light,
But I am frail, and with the frail would dwell.
ASPIRING TO HEAVEN.
Yes, .et me die! Am I of spirit-birth,
And shall I linger here where spirits fell, Loving the stain they cast on all of earth ?
O, make me pure, with pure ones e'er to dwell!
'Tis sweet to die ! The flowers of earthly love
(Fair, frail, spring blossoms) early droop and die; But all their fragrance is exhaled above,
Upon our spirits evermore to lie.
Life is a dream, a bright but fleeting dream,
I can but love ; but then my soul awakes, And from the mist of earthliness a gleam
Of heavenly light, of truth immortal, breaks.
ASPIRING TO HEAVEN.
I shrink not from the shadows sorrow flings
Across my pathway ; nor from cares that rise In every footprint ; for each shadow brings
Sunshine and rainbow as it glooms and Aies.
But heaven is dearer. There I have my treasure;
There angels fold in love their snowy wings; There sainted lips chant in celestial measure,
And spirit fingers stray o'er heaven-wrought strings.
There loving eyes are to the portals straying ;
There arms extend, a wanderer to fold ; There waits a dearer, holier One, arraying
His own in spotless robes and crowns of gold.
Then let me die. My spirit longs for heaven,
bosom evermore to rest; But, if to labor longer here be given,
Father, thy will be done !” and I am blest.
E’ER last year's moon had left the sky,
A birdling sought my Indian nest, And folded, O, so lovingly !
Her tiny wings upon my breast.
From morn till evening's purple tinge,
In winsome helplessness she lies ; Two rose leaves, with a silken fringe,
Shut softly on her starry eyes.
There's not in Ind a lovelier bird ;
Broad earth owns not a happier nest; O God, thou hast a fountain stirred,
Whose waters never more shall rest!
This beautiful, mysterious thing,
This seeming visitant from heaven, This bird with the immortal wing,
To me, to me, thy hand has given.
The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,
The blood its crimson hue, from mine : This life, which I have dared invoke,
Henceforth is parallel with thine.
Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise ;
Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer: Room for my bird in Paradise,
And give her angel plumage there!
TO MRS. JUDSON.
TO MRS. JUDSON.
SUGGESTED BY HER POEM
And does thy bird, so loved, so fair,
Still with its presence bless thy home ? Then thou indeed, most happy there,
For earthly joys need'st never roam.
But ah! a bird as fair as thine
And fairer earth hath never known
But now, alas ! that bird hath flown.
O long, full long, mayst thou be spared
The anguish that my heart doth know, And with glad songs may thy sweet bird
Cheer thee wherever thou shalt go.
And as it learns, when thou art lone,
To charm thee with its sweetest laye, Then thou canst teach that infant voice
To soar to heaven in grateful praise.
And 0, did not old “
ocean roll” Between thy happy home and mine, I'd hasten to thy Indian cot,
And share thy joys — yes, even thine !
I'd woo that little bird to me,
And fold it to my throbbing breast, And there in safety might it lie,
Where late my own was all so blest.
Say, when at night thy “birdling'
Doth fold its tiny wings to rest, Wilt thou not crave, in secret prayer,
Blessings on this deserted nest ?
MRS. JUDSON'S BURIAL AT ST. HELENA.
Bear onward the dead,
Let the Christian be laid ;
O Rock of the sea !
Was hidden in thee.
Solemn and slow,-
The path as ye go ;
Are mourners to-day ;
O, bear her away.