Daniel Wheeler Yet, would I say what thy own heart approveth: Our Father's will, 25 In meek obedience utterance giving Calling to Him the dear one whom He They bore unquestioned evidence loveth, Is mercy still. Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel Hath evil wrought: Her funeral anthem is a glad evangel,- 30 Of an anointed Messenger! Or, bowing down thy silver hair 199 5 ΙΟ The world, its time and sense, shut out, The brightness of Faith's holy trance Gathered upon thy countenance, As if each lingering cloud of doubt, 15 The cold, dark shadows resting here God calls our loved ones, but we lose not In Time's unluminous atmosphere, wholly What He hath given; Were lifted by an angel's hand, They live on earth, in thought and deed, Shone down the blessedness on high, as truly As in His heaven. 35 The glory of the Better Land! The oak has fallen! 20 While, meet for no good work, the vine Up, then, my brother! Lo, the fields of Fallen, while thy loins were girded still, harvest Lie white in view! Thy feet with Zion's dews still wet, She lives and loves thee, and the God The pilgrim's staff and scallop-shell! thou servest To both is true. Thrust in thy sickle! England's toilworn peasants Thy call abide; 45 30 Unharmed and safe, where, wild and free, And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy Or where the noon-hour's fervid heat 35 40 The same mysterious Hand which gave His will be done, whose way 45 Is not as ours! 'Tis well with thee! 50 Nor anxious doubt nor dark dismay Disquieted thy closing day, But, evermore, thy soul could say, Oh, far away, 65 Where never shines our Northern star Th' unfading palm-branch in thy hand; there, With forehead to its damp wind bare, And taro-plains of Tooboonai, 71 Thanksgiving, love, and praise forever! And though the ways of Zion mourn Are gentle hearts, which long shall be 80 Still, sent from His creating hand, Sad as our own at thought of thee, New witnesses for Truth shall stand, 120 Whose souls in weariness and need Were strengthened and refreshed by thine. For blessed by our Father's hand Was thy deep love and tender care, Thy ministry and fervent prayer,— Grateful as Eshcol's clustered vine To Israel in a weary land! And they who drew 125 The Gospel of a risen Lord; To gather to the fold once more 85 The scattered of a cloudy day, And Zion's broken walls restore; 130 90 By thousands round thee, in the hour To Avis Reene TO FREDRIKA BREMER. It is proper to say that these lines are the joint impromptus of my sister and myself. They are inserted here as an expression of our admiration of the gifted stranger whom we have since learned to love as a friend. SEERESS of the misty Norland, Which thy fathers sought of old! Soft as flow of Silja's waters, When the moon of summer shines, We have known and loved thee long. By the mansion's marble mantel, 5 ΙΟ 201 For not alone in tones of awe and power I felt the cool breath of the North; And where the dark shaft pierces down Their vales in misty shadow deep, 20 25 There towered Chocorua's peak; and 'A good look-off!' the driver spake : 'About this time, last year, I drove a party to the Lake, 30 35 And stopped, at evening, here. "T was duskish down below; but all These hills stood in the sun, Till, dipped behind yon purple wall, He left them, one by one. 40 'A lady, who, from Thornton hill, Had held her place outside, Ebenezer Elliott was to the artisans of England what Burns was to the peasantry of Scotland. His Corn-law Rhymes contributed not a little to that overwhelming tide of popular opinion and feeling which resulted in the repeal of the tax on bread. Well has the eloquent author of The Reforms and Reformers of Great Britain said of him, 'Not corn-law repealers alone, but all Britons who moisten their scanty bread with the sweat of the brow, are largely indebted to his inspiring lay, for the mighty bound which the laboring mind of England has taken in our day.' HANDS off! thou tithe-fat plunderer! play And labor's swart and stalwart bands Behind as mourners tread. 20 Leave cant and craft their baptized bounds, Leave rank its minster floor; Give England's green and daisied grounds The poet of the poor! Lay down upon his Sheaf's green verge 25 That brave old heart of oak, With fitting dirge from sounding forge, And pall of furnace smoke! 30 Where whirls the stone its dizzy rounds, There let the peasant's step be heard, No soft lament nor dreamer's sigh For him whose words were bread; The Runic rhyme and spell whereby The foodless poor were fed! Pile up the tombs of rank and pride, No part or lot in these we claim ; But, o'er the sounding wave, 1850. 35 40 45 |