THE VOICE THAT BADE THE DEAD ARISE.
THE voice that bade the dead arise,
And gave back vision to the blind,
Is hushed; but when he sought the skies,
Our Master left his Word behind.
'T was not to calm the billows' roll,
'T was not to bid the hill be riven;
No! 't was to lift the fainting soul,
And lead the erring back to heaven,
To heave a mountain from the heart,
To bid those inner springs be stirred.
Lord, to thy servant here impart
The quickening wisdom of that Word !
Dwell, Father, in this earthly fane,
And, when its feeble walls decay,
Be with us till we meet again
Amid thy halls of endless day.
THE blush upon a summer sky;
The ocean's moan upon the shore;
The upward glancing of an eye;
A sound we never heard before;
The dark main waking in its ire ;
The shifting of the northern fire;
Ten thousand things which Fortune flings
Across our drudging daily track,
May touch the quick, electric rings
Of Memory's mysterious chain,
And, like the light from heaven, comes back
The past in youthful prime again.
The sculptured column seems a tree,
The moulded roof a sky;
And we hear the wood-bird's minstrelsy
In the bleak wind whistling by.
The mist curls up into the form
Of those that lived, and loved, and died;
And the bleak winter seems the warm
And pleasant summer-tide!
Again I seek the shady nook,
Or tumble on the new-mown hay,
Or chase the fishes in the brook,
Or, happy, buoyant, bright, and gay,
With old straw hat upon my head,
Once more my native hills I tread,
And watch the sinking sunlight shed
Its pensive beauty o'er the bay.
While round me, 'mid the radiance mild,
Cluster, as when a little child,
The many forms I knew, which lie
In mouldering graves so silently.
But while the memories of the past
Thus throng upon me, thick and fast,
And from the realms of death and doubt
The spirits of the dead step out,
And the drop stands upon my brow,
Some careless, some unmindful hand
Will tear me from that blessed land,
Drive from my sight that magic train,-
And I a wanderer am again.
But what a wondrous power is this!
And what a privilege is ours,
To find a never-failing bliss
In past and future hours !
Misfortune o'er the present day
May govern with unquestioned sway;
But in that world which is to be,
How poor, how powerless, is she!
Though pain and poverty their might,
With fearful death, should all unite
To crush me to the earth,
Still would the elastic spirit rise,
The suffering and the fear despise,
And seek beyond the opening skies
The country of its birth.
There unto me it may be given,
Amid the countless hosts of heaven,
Amid the bright, seraphic band,
Before my Father's throne to stand,
Before my Saviour's face to bow,
A seraph's sceptre in my hand,
A seraph's crown upon my brow.
Then unto me the power may be,
With kind and gentle ministry,
To bid the warring cease,
To cause the shades of sorrow flee,
And bring the mourner peace.
Or, in a wider sphere of good,
Above some universe of strife,
Dove-like, it may be mine to brood,
And still the chaos into life.
O, when I dwell on thoughts like these,
My spirit seems to hear the cry,
“Come up!"— and, listening to the call,
Earth's dearest pleasures quickly pall,
The scales from off my vision fall,
And I could pray to die.
'LET us seek for that happy land
Where grief is unknown;
Let us seek to rejoin the band
That has made heaven its own.
Haste, haste, let us flee
To that calm eternity;
Ours all its peace shall be,
But not ours alone.
To that happy land shall come
All our Saviour knows;
In that our Father's home
All shall find repose.
There, there, every race
Shall have ample dwelling-place,
And, cheered by God's own face,
Shall forget its woes.
Let us seek, then, that happy land Where hate is unknown;
Let us seek for the brother band,
That has made heaven its own.
Haste, haste, let us flee,
Where true love shall ever be,
Where through eternity
Love shall rule alone.
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