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He turned him to visions of future years,
The rainbow's hues were round him; And a father's bodings a mother's tears
Might not weigh with the hopes that crowned them. That mother's cheek is far paler now
Than when she last caressed him:
Since the hour when last he blessed him.
Like the flowers that will fade to-morrow;
Ever end in ruth and sorrow.
Of fame and fortune dreaming,
Or the penon above him streaming.
'Neath a sultry sun they've laid him; And stranger forms bent o'er his grave,
When the last sad rites were paid him.
With friends and kinsmen near him:
With no thought, save heaven, to cheer him.
In the port where the wild winds swept him, Than if home's green turf his grave had bound,
Or the hearts he loved had wept him?
That pestilent sun sheds o'er him?
Of the friends who now deplore him?
It hath 'scaped the storm's deep chiding;
In a haven of peace is riding.
THE REV. J. MOULTRIE
Is known to us only as the author of the following exquisite piece. It displays
the true spirit of poetry.
MY BROTHER'S GRAVE.
Exposed to every rustic tread,
My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Thy name-thy birth-thy youth declare
In simplest phrase recorded there.
Where thou, beneath thy burial stone,
The living eye hath never known.
He sweeps the unholy dust away,
Those windows on the sabbath-day;
But when the sweet-toned Sabbath-chime,
Pouring its music on the breeze,
Of prayer and thanks and bended knees;
When rustic crowds devoutly meet,
And lips and hearts to God are given,
Of earthly ills, in thoughts of heaven;
And if a voice could reach the dead,
My brother, makes thy heart his bed.
Within these sacred walls to kneel;
These stones which now thy dust conceal, The sweet tones of the Sabbath bell,
Were holiest objects to thy soul; On these thy spirit loved to dwell,
Untainted by the world's control. My brother, those were happy days,
When thou and I were children yet! How fondly memory still surveys
Those scenes the heart can ne'er forget! My soul was then as thine is now,
Unstained by sin, unstung by pain;
Mine ne'er will be so calm again.
I feel not now as then I felt;
The sunshine of my heart is o’er; The spirit now is changed which dwelt
Within me, in the days of yore.
But thou wert snatched, my brother, hence
I looked not on thy glazing eye,
Nor viewed thy dying agony! I felt not what my parents felt,
The doubt-the terror--the distress ;-
My soul was spared that wretchedness :
And days of mourning glided by,
The well-known morn, I used to greet
With boyhood's joy, at length was beaming, And thoughts of home and rapture sweet
In every eye but mine were gleaming: But I, amidst that youthful band
Of bounding hearts and beaming eyes,
Nor felt those wonted ecstacies!
I feared to meet my mother's eye,
No smiling faces met me now,
Grief sat upon my mother's brow; I heard her, as she kissed me, sigh: A tear stood in my father's eye; My little brothers round me pressed, In gay, unthinking childhood blessed, Long, long, that hour has passed; but when Shall I forget its gloomy scene! The Sabbath came. With mournful face I sought my brother's burial-place; That shrine, which when I last had viewed, In vigour by my side he stood. I gazed around with fearful eye; All things reposed in sanctity. I reached the chancel,-nought was changed: The altar decently arranged, The pure white cloth above the shrine, The consecrated bread and wine, All was the same. I found no trace Of sorrow in that holy place. One hurried glance I downward gave,My foot was on my brother's grave! And years have passed and thou art now
Forgotten in thy silent tomb;
My father's eye has lost its gloom;
Another victim by thy side ;
But not more pure than thee he died.