For we are the same that our fathers have been;
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen-
We drink the same stream and we view the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink,
To the life we are clinging they also would cling;
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.
They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud-.
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
"Poor fool!" the base and soulless worldling cries,
"To waste his strength for nought,-to blanch his cheek,
And bring pale Death upon him in his prime.
Why did he not to pleasure give his days,-
His nights to rest, and live while live he might?"
What is't to live? To breathe the vital air,
Consume the fruits of earth, and doze away
Existence? Never! this is living death.
Shall man, once formed to be creation's lord,
Stamped with the impress of Divinity, and sealed
With God's own signet, sink below the brute?
Forbid it, Heaven! it cannot, must not be!
Oh! when the mighty God from nothing brought
This universe,-when at His word the light
Burst forth, the sun was set in heaven,-
And earth was clothed in beauty; when the last,
The noble work of all, from dust He framed
Our bodies in His image,-when He placed
Within its temple shrine of clay, the soul,—
The immortal soul-infused by His own truth,
Did He not show, 'tis this which gives to man
His high prerogative? Why then declare
That he who thinks less of his mortal frame,
And lives a spirit, even in this world,
Lives not as well,-lives not as long, as he
Who drags out years of life, without one thought,―
One hope,-one wish beyond the present hour?
How shall we measure life? Not by the years,―
The months,-the days,-the moments that we pass
On earth. By him whose soul is raised above
Base worldly things,-whose heart is fixed in heaven,-
His life is measured by that soul's advance,-
The enlargement of its powers,-the expanded field
Wherein it ranges,-till it glows and burns
With holy joys, with high and heavenly hopes.
When in the silent night, all earth lies hushed
In slumber, when the glorious stars shine out,
Each star a sun,-each sun a central light
Of some fair system, ever wheeling on
In one unbroken round,-and that again
Revolving round another sun,-while all
Suns, stars, and systems, proudly roll along,
In one majestic, ever-onward course,
In space uncircumscribed and limitless,-
Oh! think you then the undebaséd soul
Can calmly give itself to sleep,—to rest?
No! in the solemn stillness of the night,
It soars from earth,-it dwells in angels' homes,-
It hears the burning song,-the glowing chant,
That fills the sky-girt vaults of heaven with joy!
It pants, it sighs, to wing its flight from earth,
To join the heavenly choirs, and be with God.
And it is joy to muse the written page,
Whereon are stamped the gushings of the soul
Of genius; where, in never-dying light,
It glows and flashes as the lightning's glare;
Or where it burns with ray more mild, more sure,
And wins the soul, that half would turn away
From its more brilliant flashings. These are hours
Of holy joy,-of bliss, so pure, that earth
May hardly claim it. Let his lamp grow dim,
And flicker to extinction; let his cheek
Be pale as sculptured marble,—and his eye
Lose its bright lustre,-till his shrouded frame
Is laid in dust. Himself can never die!
His years, 'tis true, are few,-his life is long;
For he has gathered many a precious gem;
Enraptured, he has dwelt where master minds
Have poured their own deep musings,-and his heart
Has glowed with love to Him who framed us thus,—
Who placed within this wondrous tegument
The spark of pure Divinity, which shines
With light unceasing.
The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.
The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,
Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And lean'd in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashion'd for a happier world!
King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem; and now he stood,
With his faint people, for a little rest
Upon the shores of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full-when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such an empty mockery-how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He prayed for Israel-and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for those
Whose love had been his shield-and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,
For his estranged, misguided Absalom-
The proud, bright being who had burst away
In all his princely beauty, to defy
The heart that cherish'd him-for him he pour'd
In agony that would not be controll'd
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds
Sank to their still proportions, they betray'd
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd
To the admitted air, as glossy now
As when in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soil'd
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him; and the jewel'd hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he fear'd the slumberer might stir.
A low step startled him. He grasped his blade,
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David enter'd, and he gave command,
In a low tone, to his few followers,
And left him with his dead. The king stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:
"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb!
My proud boy, Absalom!
"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee:
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee And hear thy sweet 'My Father!' from these dum And cold lips, Absalom!
"But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!
"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!
"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up-
With death so like a slumber on thee;-
And thy dark sin!-Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have call'd thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!"
He covered up his face, and bow'd himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently-and left him there-
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
20.-DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.
REV. JOHN HOME.
My name is Norval. On the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
Whose constant care was to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home:
For I had heard of battles, and I longed
To follow to the fields some warlike lord:
But heaven soon granted what my sire denied.
This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield,
Had not yet filled her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills,
Rushed, like a torrent down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled
For safety and for succor. I alone,
With bended bow and quiver full of arrows,
Hovered about the enemy, and marked
The road he took; and hasted to my friends;
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