Shall Zion's harps of old so sweet Alone be wanting there? Yet place me in thy lower seat, Though I—as now -- be, there, The Christian's scorn, the Christian's jest ; But let me see and hear, From some dim mansion in the sky, Thy bright ones, and their melody!' وو The sun goes down with sudden gleam; The vision of a dark-eyed girl, He knew his God was reconciled, And this the messenger, As sure as God had hung on high THE BURIAL AT SEA. And life's most holy feeling strung And on his daughter's stainless breast THE BURIAL AT SEA. CHARLES SPRAGUE. 307 SPARE him one little week, Almighty Power! Yield to his father's house his dying hour; Once more, once more let them who hold him dear But see his face, his faltering voice but hear; We know, alas! that he is marked for death, But let his mother watch his parting breath; O, let him die at home! It could not be ! At midnight, on a dark and stormy sea, And meekly breathed his blameless life away. * * * Wrapped in the raiment that it long must wear, His body to the deck they slowly bear; How eloquent, how awful in its power, Rest, loved one, rest, beneath the billow's swell, Where tongue ne'er spoke, where sunlight never fell; Rest, till the God who gave thee to the deep Rouse thee, triumphant, from the long, long sleep. And you, whose hearts are bleeding, who deplore That ye must see the wanderer's face no more, Weep,- he was worthy of the purest grief; Weep,-in such sorrow ye shall find relief; While o'er his doom the bitter tear ye shed, Memory shall trace the virtues of the dead; These cannot die, for you, for him, they bloom, And scatter fragrance round his ocean tomb. SUGGESTED BY THE DECEASE OF THE REV. MR. WRIGHT OF BOSTON, MISSIONARY AT LIBERIA, WITH HIS LADY, IN 1833; BOTH IN THE BLOOM OF YOUTH. B. B. THATCHER. WEEP not for him! He but rose to his rest From his own dear land of the fervid line, With the silvery sheaves of his dawn all gleaned Ere bright dews blazoned his noon's decline. He shall toil with tears in the gloom of a dim, Lone harvest no more: O weep not for him! And weep not for her! They have laid the dust Of the early exile so softly away, In the pleasant shade of the plantain-tree, That the Judgment Angels, who seek that day The jewels of glory, will scarcely stir So sweet a slumber: weep not for her! Weep not! In the clime where the sinless meet, No mourning, nor yearning: O weep not for them! * Alluding to a passage in Mr. Wright's Journal of his Voyage to Liberia. TO MY FRIEND, ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER. J. G. WHITTIER. THINE is a grief, the depth of which another Yet o'er the waters, O my stricken brother! I lean my heart unto thee, — sadly folding With even the weakness of my soul upholding I never knew, like thee, the dear departed; When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted And on thy ear my words of weak condoling The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling I will not mock thee with the poor world's common Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman |