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And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
The love that lived through all the stormy past,
A happier lot than mine, and larger light,
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.
For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell
Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,
Shalt thou not teach me in that calmer home
The wisdom that is love,-till I become
GOD IN NATURE.
Oн mighty is the Lord of Hosts!
He speaks, and in its palaces
He wields the awful lightning-brand,
Or, conquering, tramps right royally
His earthquakes shake the eternal hills
And the swift whirlwind, spinning o'er
He sows death in the red simoon,
He speaks! and mist-wrapt pestilence,
Oh mighty is the Lord of Hosts!
And from his throne of majesty,
Upon the bended sky,
Around the universe he casts
His all-beholding eye!
She selected the place for her grave in a new cemetery of a rural village, while she felt herself sinking under the power of consumption. She was the first whose remains were laid in that beautiful resting-place of the dead.
WHILE yet she lived, she walked alone
"Thy will be done!" the sufferer said:-
By the pale moon-herself more pale
And spirit-like-these walks she trod;
That spirit, with an angel's wings,
Went up, from the young mother's bed.
She sleepeth!"-yea, she sleepeth here;
This grave, first watered with the tear
A rose-bud dropped on drifted snow,-
And often shall he come alone
When not a sound but evening's sigh Is heard, and, bowing by the stone
That bears his mother's name, with none
Shall say "This was my mother's choice
IF I had Jubal's chorded shell,
O'er which the first-born music rolled, In burning tones, that loved to dwell Amongst those wires of trembling gold ; If to my soul one note were given
Of that high harp, whose sweeter tone Caught its majestic strain from heaven, And glowed like fire round Israel's throne;
Up to the deep blue starry sky
Then might my soul aspire, and hold Communion fervent, strong and high, With bard and king, and prophet old : Then might my spirit dare to trace The path our ancient people trod, When the gray sires of Jacob's race, Like faithful servants, walked with God!
But Israel's song, alas! is hushed,
To lofty themes they loved of yore,
All that we were but are no more! Our hearts are still by Jordan's stream, And there our footsteps fain would be; But oh, 't is like the captive's dream Of home his eyes may never see. A cloud is on our fathers' graves, And darkly spreads o'er Zion's hill, And there their sons must stand as slaves, Or roam like houseless wanderers still.
Yet, where the rose of Sharon blooms,