Beloved, "it is well!"

The path that Jesus trod,
Though rough and dark it be,
Leads home, to heaven, and God.

March 2, 1833.

TO MY DEAR SISTER.

ON HER 19TH BIRTHDAY.

My gentle sister, if the love,

My bosom bears for thee,

Were poured, like running waters, out, "Twould be a surging sea.

But fullest streams, are ever those,

Most silently which run,

And the deep earth has deeper founts,
Than ever see the sun.

My gentle sister, could the thoughts,
That throng my heart, of thee,
Be coined in ducats, what a shower,
Of minted gold, 'twould be!
But richest ores, lie farthest down,
And, ripening in the mine,
Sleep gold and jewels, costlier far
Than all, on earth, that shine.

Then, gentle sister, think not hard,
Nor count it, loss of love,
That ne'er for thee, in idle hours,
One idle rhyme I've wove;

That fitful harp, whose sleeping strings,
The wild wind, wakes at will,
The soul of music harbours yet,
Though all its strings are still.

Then, sister dearest, with the year,
That newly dawns to-day,

To light thee on, in gentleness,
Thy pure and peaceful way;
Take deeply, warmly, from the heart,
The silent prayer of love—

God's blessing be thy portion here,

His blessedness, above!

TO MY DEAR SISTER.

My gentle sister, twenty years,
To day, have flitted by,

Since first thou camest, a helpless thing,
Among our hearts to lie.

We welcomed thee, as best we might,

With mingled smiles and tears;

And poured, we could no more, our prayers, For blessings on thy years.

And, sister sweet, our prayers were heard,

God's blessed one thou art :

Not, with the rich, or proud, or gay,

But, with the pure in heart:

His gifts, to thee, in gentleness

And piety, are given ;

The treasures that endure, on earth,

And never fail, in heaven.

My gentle sister, thou hast been,

Even as a child to me,

Since first, thy new-born helplessness
Was tended on my knee;

And stretched upon the shaded bank,

Whole summer days, I lay,

And watched, as with a parent's joy,

Thy happy, infant play.

And still, the holy bond endures,

And still, a father's care

Makes tenderer, deeper, more intense,
The love, for thee, I bear.

It

grows with years, with cares it grows,
Unchanged by change of lot;

In joy and sorrow, hope and fear,
Still failing, faltering not.

My gentle sister, may the years,
That yet remain to thee,

Be spent, as all the past have been,

In tranquil piety:

May Heaven, in mercy, spare thee long
To all who share thy love;

And faith and peace, prepare thee here,
For endless joy above!

1840-1850.

THE SMELL OF SPRING.

The first violets of the year 1840, seen this day, 4th March, Ash Wednesday.

THE smell of Spring! how it comes to us,
In those simple, wild-wood flowers,
With memories sweet, of friends and home,
When never a cloud on our sky had come,.
In childhood's cheerful hours.

The smell of Spring! how it comes to us,
In that cluster of purple bloom,
With thoughts of the loved and loving one,
Not lost, we know, but before us gone,
Whom we left, in his wintry tomb.

The smell of Spring! how it comes to us,
In the violet's fragrant breath,

With beaming hopes of that brighter shore,
Where flowers and friends, shall fall no more,
"And there shall be no more death."

1840.

ON THE LITTLE URN IN THE GARDEN.

"H. T. Jan. 16, 1815. M. T. Oct. 12, 1815."

"Lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided."

WIND, graceful clematis, around the urn,

Where filial love, a Mother's name has traced,
Type of her loveliness, whose loss we mourn,
With every charm, with every virtue, graced.

Wave, tall acacia, o'er the sacred stone,

Which bears inscribed a Father's honoured name;
So was his sheltering shadow, round us, thrown,
So fresh, so full, the verdure of his fame.

Blend thus your leaf and tendril, vine and tree,
And waft, as one, the fragrance of your flowers;
So they, in fond communion, full and free,

Passed their sweet lives, amid these happy bowers.

Sweet sainted ones, thus lovely in your life,

Nor, in your peaceful death, divided long,
Saved from the world, its sin, its care, its strife,
May we but join you, in that white-robed throng.

BATTERSEA RISE, 1841.

"SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP."

"Your boy is looking as peaceful and happy, asleep in his cradle, as you can desire."

SLEEP lies like dew about thee,

The sleep, which God bestows;
Nor pain, nor care, nor sorrow, yet,
Thy peaceful spirit knows:
Washed, from the first transgression,
In that baptismal flood;
God makes thee, His beloved,

Through the Beloved's blood.

Sleep sweetly on, and safely,

Mine own baptismal child;
Calm, as the stream in Eden's bower,
While yet Jehovah smiled;
The heavenly Dove hangs o'er thee,
With blessed, brooding wing,

To shelter and to shield thee,

From evil thought and thing.

LONDON, August 24, 1841.

THE BEAUCHAMP MONUMENT,

In the Choir of Warwick Church.

"Te spectem, suprema mihi cum venerit hora,

Te teneam moriens deficiente manu."*

Tibullus Eleg., i. 59, 60.

"LOVE, let me take thy hand,

That tenderest, truest one,
The same I held, when we did stand,

Before the altar-stone:

There, let me hold it so;

It stays my fluttering heart:
Nor, till its pulses cease to flow,
Permit that grasp to part.

"Nay, when thy breast, my bride,
Mingles its dust with mine,
And sweetly sleeping, side by side,
We rest beneath the shrine;
So let the Sculptor's art,

Our love perpetuate:

The grasp, that life could never part,
Death shall but consecrate!"

Thee let me gaze on, with my dying breath,
And clasp thy hand, when mine relents in death.

G. W. D.