"True, ere thou meet'st that long and dreamless sleep,
Man's proud mistaken judgments and false scorn
Shall melt like mists before the uprising morn,
Thy heart must ache-thy weary eyes must weep: And holy truth stand forth serenely bright,
It is our human lot! The fairest child
That e'er on loving mother brightly smiled,-
Most watch'd, most tended-ere his eyelids close
Hath had his little share of infant woes,
And dies familiar with a sense of grief,
Though for all else his life hath been too brief!
But shall we therefore, murmuring against God,
Question the justice of his chastening rod,
And look to earthly joys as though they were
The prize immortal souls were given to share?
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Oh! were such joys and this vain world alone The term of human hope-where, where would be
The victims of some tyranny unknown,
Who sank, still conscious that the mind was free? They that have lain in dungeons years on years, No voice to cheer their darkness,-they whose pain
Of horrid torture wrung forth blood with tears,
Murder'd, perhaps, for some rapacious gain,-
They who have stood, bound to the martyr's stake,
While the sharp flames ate through the blister-
ing skin,-
They that have bled for some high cause's sake,
They that have perish'd for another's sin,
And from the scaffold to that God appeal'd
To whom the naked heart is all reveal'd,
Against the shortening of life's narrow span
By the blind rage and false decree of man?
And where obscurer sufferers-they who slept
And left no name on history's random page,-
But in God's book of reckoning, sternly kept,
Live on from year to year, from age to age?
The poor-the labouring poor! whose weary lives,
Through many a freezing night and hungry day,
Are a reproach to him who only strives
In luxury to waste his hours away,-
The patient poor! whose insufficient means
Make sickness dreadful, yet by whose low bed
Oft in meek prayers some fellow-sufferer leans,
And trusts in Heaven while destitute of bread;
The workhouse orphan, left without a friend;
Or weak forsaken child of want and sin,
Whose helpless life begins, as it must end,
By men disputing who shall take it in;
Who clothe, who aid that spark to linger here,
Which for mysterious purpose God hath given
To struggle through a day of toil and fear,
And meet him-with the proudest-up in Hea-
ven!
In the rich flood of God's eternal light!
"Then shall the Lazarus of the earth have
The rich man judgment-and the grieving breast
Deep peace for ever. Therefore look thou not
So much to what on earth shall be thy lot,
As to thy fate hereafter,-to that day
When like a scroll this world shall pass away,
And what thou here hast done, or here enjoy'd,
Import but to thy soul:-all else destroy'd!
"And have thou faith in human nature still; Though evil thoughts abound, and acts of ill; Though innocence in sorrow shrouded be, And tyranny's strong step walk bold and free! For many a kindly generous deed is done Which leaves no record underneath the sun,Self-abnegating love and humble worth, Which yet shall consecrate our sinful earth! He that deals blame, and yet forgets to praise, Who sets brief storms against long summer-days. Hath a sick judgment. Shall the usual joy Be all forgot, and nought our minds employ, Through the long course of ever-varying years, But temporary pain and casual tears?
And shall we all condemn, and all distrust,
Because some men are false and some unjust?
Forbid it Heaven! far better 'twere to be
Dupe of the fond impossibility
Of light and radiance which thy vision gave
Than thus to live suspicion's bitter slave.
Give credit to thy mortal brother's heart
For all the good that in thine own hath part,
And, cheerfully as honest prudence may,
Trust to his proffer'd hand's protecting stay:
For God, who made this teeming earth so full,
And made the proud dependent on the dull-
The strong upon the weak-thereby would show
One common bond should link us all below.
"And visit not with a severer scorn
Faults, whose deep root was with our nature born
From which-though others woo'd thee just as
vain-
Thou, differently tempted, didst abstain:
Nor dwell on points of creed-assuming right
To judge how holy in his Maker's sight
Is he who at a different altar bends;
For hence have risen the bitterest feuds of friends,
The wildest wars of nations; age on age
These were, and are not:-shall we therefore Hath desecrated thus dark history's page;
That they have vanish'd like a sleeper's dream?
Or that one half creation is to know
Luxurious joy, and others only woe,
And so go down into the common tomb,
With none to question their unequal doom?
Shall we give credit to a thought so fond?
Ah! no-the world beyond-the world beyond!
There, shall the desolate heart regain its own!
There, the oppress'd shall stand before God's
throne!
There, when the tangled web is all explain'd,
Wrong suffer'd, pain inflicted, grief disdain'd,
And still (though not, perhaps, with fire and sword)
Reckless we raise 'The banner of the Lord!'
Mock Heaven's calm mercy by the plea we make,
That all is done for gentle Jesus' sake,-
Disturb the consciences of weaker men,-
Employ the scholar's art, the bigot's pen,-
And rouse the wrathful and the spirit-proud
To language bitter, vehement, and loud,
Whose unconvincing fury wounds the ear,
And seeking, with some sharp and haughty sneer,
How best the opposing party may be stung,-
Pleads for religion with a devil's tongue!
Oh! shall God tolerate the meanest prayer That humbly seeks his high supernal throne, And man-presumptuous pharisee-declare
His fellow's voice less welcome than his own?
Is it a theme for wild and warring words
How best to satisfy the Maker's claim?
In rendering to the Lord what is the Lord's,
Doth not the thought of violence bring shame?
Think ye he gave the branching forest-tree
To furnish fagots for the funeral pyre?
Or bid his sunrise light the world, to see
Pale tortured victims perish there by fire?
No! oft on earth, dragg'd forth in pain to die,
The heretic may groan-the martyr bleed-
But, set before his Sovereign Judge on high,
'Tis man's offence condemns him, not his creed.
His first commandment was to worship Him:
His next-to love the creature he hath made:
How blind the eyes of those who read, how dim,
Who see not here religious fury stay'd!
From the proud half-fulfilment of his law
Sternly he turns away his awful face,
Nor will contentment from their service draw,
Who fail to grant a fellow creature grace.
Haply the days of martyrdom are past,
But still we see, without a visible end,
The bitter warfare of opinion last,
Owns what the gift of woman's love is worth
To cheer his toils and trials upon earth!
"Sure it is much, this delegated power
To be consoler of man's heaviest hour!
The guardian angel of a life of care,
Allow'd to stand 'twixt him and his despair!
Such service may be made a holy task;
And more, 'twere vain to hope, and rash to ask.
Therefore, oh! loved and lovely, be content,
And take thy lot, with joy and sorrow blent.
Judge none; yet let thy share of conduct be,
As knowing judgment shall be pass'd on thee
Here and hereafter; so, still undismay'd,
And guarded by thy sweet thoughts' tranquil
shade,
Undazzled by the changeful rays which threw
Their light across thy path while life was new,
Thou shalt move sober on,-expecting less,
Therefore the more enjoying, happiness."
There was a pause: then, with a tremulous smile,
The maiden turn'd and press'd her mother's
hand:-
:-
"Shall I not bear what thou hast borne e'erwhile?
Shall I, rebellious, Heaven's high will with-
stand?
Tho' God hath will'd that man should be man's No! cheerly on, my wandering path I'll take,
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"And be not thou cast down, because thy lot
The glory of thy dream resembleth not.
Not for herself was woman first create,
Nor yet to be man's idol, but his mate.
Still from his birth his cradled bed she tends,
The first, the last, the faithfulest of friends;
Still finds her place in sickness or in woe,
Humble to comfort, strong to undergo;
Still in the depth of weeping sorrow tries
To watch his death-bed with her patient eyes!
And doubt not thou,- (although at times de-
ceived,
Outraged, insulted, slander'd, crush'd, and
Nor fear the destiny I did not make :
Though earthly joy grow dim-though pleasure
This thou hast taught thy child, that God remaineth!"
And from her mother's fond protecting side She went into the world a youthful bride.
OR, THE PHYSICIAN'S STORY.
Elle était de ce monde, où les plus belles choses
Ont le pire destin;
Et Rose, elle a vécu ce que vivent les Roses,
L'espace d'un matin!
SHE came to England from the island clime
Which lies beyond the far Atlantic wave;
She died in early youth-before her time-
"Peace to her broken heart, and virgin grave!"
She was the child of passion, and of shame,
English her father, and of noble birth;
Though too obscure for good or evil fame,
Her unknown mother faded from the earth.
And what that fair West Indian did betide,
None knew but he, who least of all might tell,-
And that which was her grievance, made her Which for a while gives out a hope of bloom,
And gives us strength to meet the struggling And more than ever from that world, where stii. Her father hoped to place her, she would shrink,
Loving to be alone, her thirst to fill
From the sweet fountains where the dreamers And no one said to him-"Why mournest thou?”’
One eve, beneath the acacia's waving bough, Wrapt in these lonely thoughts she sate and read;
Her dark hair parted from her sunny brow,
Her graceful arm beneath her languid head;
And droopingly and sad she hung above
The open page, whercon her eyes were bent, With looks of fond regret and pining love;
Nor heard my step, so deep was she intent.
And when she me perceived, she did not start,
But lifted up those soft dark eyes to mine,
And smiled, (that mournful smile which breaks
the heart!)
Then glanced again upon the printed line.
Because she was the unknown child of shame; (Albeit her mother better kept the vow Of faithful love, than some who keep their fame.)
"What readest thou?" I ask'd. With fervent Thee the world wrings not with some vain pre
(Which, bending down, I saw was Coralie,") Then gave me one imploring piteous look,
Nor chills thy tears, nor mocks at thy distress.
From man's injustice, from the cold award
Of the unfeeling, thou hast pass'd away;
Thou'rt at the gates of light where angels guard
Thy path to realms of bright eternal day.
And tears, too long restrain'd, gush'd fast and There shall thy soul its chains of slavery burst, free.
It was a tale of one, whose fate had been
Too like her own to make that weeping strange; Like her, transplanted from a sunnier scene;
Like her, all dull'd and blighted by the change.
No further word was breathed between us two;No confidence was made to keep or break ;— But since that day, which pierced my soul quite through,
My hand the dying girl would faintly take,
And murmur, as its grasp (ah! piteous end!)
Return'd the feeble pressure of her own,
"Be with me to the last,-for thou, dear friend,
Hast all my struggles, all my sorrow known!"
She died!-The pulse of that untrammell'd heart Fainted to stillness. Those most glorious eyes Closed on the world where she had dwelt apart, And her cold bosom heaved no further sighs.
She died—and no one mourn'd, except her sire, Who for a while look'd out with eyes more dim; Lone was her place beside his household fire, Vanish'd the face that ever smiled on him.
There, meekly standing before God's high
Thou'lt find the judgments of our earth reversed, And answer for no errors but thine own.
I CANNOT love thee, tho' thy soul
Be one which all good thoughts control;
Altho' thy eyes be starry bright,
And the gleams of golden light
Fall upon thy silken hair,
And thy forehead, broad and fair;
Something of a cold disgust,
(Wonderful, and most unjust,)
Something of a sullen fear
Weighs my heart when thou art near;
And my soul, which cannot twine
Thought or sympathy with thine,
With a coward instinct tries
To hide from thy enamour'd eyes,
Wishing for a sudden blindness
To escape those looks of kindness;
Sad she folds her shivering wings
From the love thy spirit brings,
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