ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG CHILD.

STAND back, uncovered stand, for lo!
The parents who have lost their child
Bow to the majesty of woe!

He came, a herald from above,

Pure from his God he came to them,
Teaching new duties, deeper love;

And, like the boy of Bethlehem,
He grew in stature and in grace.
From the sweet spirit of his face
They learned a new, more heavenly joy,
And were the better for their boy.
But God hath taken whom he gave,
Recalled the messenger he sent;
And now beside the infant's grave
The spirit of the strong is bent.

But though the tears must flow, the heart
Ache with a vacant, strange distress,

Ye did not from your infant part

When his clear eye grew meaningless.

That eye is beaming still, and still

Upon his Father's errand he,

Your own dear, bright, unearthly boy,
Worketh the kind, mysterious will,

And from this fount of bitter grief
Will bring a stream of joy;

O, may this be your faith and your relief!

Then will the world be full of him; the sky,
With all its placid myriads, to your eye

Will tell of him; the wind will breathe his tone ;
And slumbering in the midnight, they alone,
Your Father and your child, will hover nigh.
Believe in him, behold him everywhere,
And sin will die within you, — earthly care
Fall to its earth, and heavenward, side by side,
Ye shall go up beyond this realm of storms,

Quick and more quick, till, welcomed there above,
His voice shall bid you, in the might of love,

Lay down these weeds of earth, and wear your native forms.

TASSO IN PRISON.

YES, I am chained: these dark and dreary walls
Must henceforth my horizon be; no light
Will ever come to cheer my aching balls,
Save 't is the jailer's torch, flashing along

The firm-ribbed archway, as he comes at night To deal me out my pittance. I was strong,

Strong once in mind and frame; 't is gone, and now
I have no power; 't is gone, I know not how.
It cannot be that servitude hath might
To rob the spirit of its heaven-born flight,
And plunge the mind in an eternal night?
Let me not think of such things, for my brain
Is weak, and when I think, upon my sight
Those chilling visions all crowd back again,
As to the murderer's eye the spirits of the slain.

Yes, I am chained: the mountain stream no more
Will bear me on its bosom; ne'er again
Shall I go down at evening to the shore,
To listen to the chafed ocean's roar;

Nor ever climb the mottled hill-side, when
The thunder-clouds are gathering; nor repose
By the calm lake at evening, when the earth

Is hushed, to hear that music from above
Which wins the sorrowing from his want and woes,
In the desponding breeds a holy mirth,

And in the hating breast calls forth a fount of love.

Yes, I am chained; but are not all men so?

Are they not chains, these passions frail, yet foul? Is not the body we are wedded to

A clog upon the still upspringing soul? Then am I freer than my tyrant lord,

For I have crushed this body, I have poured
My spirit into that which I adored,-

My Mother Nature; fettered, I have broke
Free from the earthly bonds, and foul desires,
Which cling around us, as the parasite
Clings to and crushes in its poisonous spires
The strength and beauty of the heavenward oak.

I am a freeman; I can take my flight

With the Great Spirit to the realms above,
And ride upon the whirlwind; I am part
And portion of Thee, Author of all love ;
I shall be present wheresoe'er Thou art ;

In the far west at sunset; on the wave
When the storm waketh; in the bursting bud,
The flower, the withering leaf, the angry flood;
The birth, the bridal, and the field of blood;

1835.

In life and death, — the cradle and the grave.

MARQUETTE.*

*

I.

SINK to my heart, bright evening skies!
Ye waves that round me roll,
With all your golden, crimson dyes,

Sink deep into my soul!

And ye, soft-footed stars,

So silently at even,

that come

To make this world awhile your home,

And bring us nearer heaven,

Speak to my spirit's listening ear

With your calm tones of beauty,

And to my darkened mind make clear

My errors and my duty.

II.

Speak to my soul of those who went

Across this stormy lake,

On deeds of mercy ever bent

For the poor Indian's sake.

Composed on Lake Michigan, by the river where Marquette died. See Vol. II. p. 133.