“Blessed Are The Meek.”

Who is this, with brow serene, And such a peaceful smile? Surely now the vision bright Can sorrow’s self beguile! As the vision pass’d me by, I heard an angel speak, And the simple words were these-- O, “Blessed are the meek.”

Then I follow’d silently, Where’er the vision led, Till a storm seem’d gathering Around the fair one’s head; Still I saw the peaceful smile, And heard the angel speak, And the only words he said Were--“Blessed are the meek.”

Onward, onward still I went, Where’er the vision led; Till I saw the fair one laid Upon a dying bed. Then the smiling sufferer, With voice all faint and weak, Spake herself--and sweetly said-- O, “Blessed are the meek.”

Now seraphic grew her smile, The angel too was there, Waiting, to the upper skies Th’ unprison’d soul to bear. Then the angel said to me, “If happiness you seek, Ever, ever bear in mind, How ‘blessed are the meek.’”

JANUARY 8, 1841.

TRUST IN HEAVEN.

“What though some cherish’d joys are fled, Some flatt’ring dreams are gone?”

Come, mourning spirit, come to me! I have wherewith to comfort thee; I have a charm to soothe thy grief, Which ever yields a sweet relief; I cherish it within my breast; It there abides--a welcome guest; It chideth me whene’er I weep, And lulls my sorrows all to sleep; It brings bright visions to my heart, When, one by one, my friends depart; To all who seek this boon is given, ’Tis--an unwav’ring trust in Heaven.

The woes which in thy pathway stand, Are there by Heaven’s high command; By God commission’d, there they stood, To work together for thy good. ’Tis well thou couldst not pass them by, Or bribe them from thy path to fly, Till each had pierc’d thy trembling heart With sorrow’s ever pointed dart. For, when thy wounds were aching sore, If thou had’st never thought before Of Him who wounded was for thee, O, then He’d come to memory!

And if, when overwhelm’d with grief, We fly to Jesus for relief, And hear his gentle voice of love, Telling of mansions far above These often overclouded skies, Where tears no more shall dim our eyes; With cheerful voices may we sing, “O, tyrant Death! where is thy sting? O, gloomy Grave! we fear not thee, Where is thy boasted victory?”

Then, drooping mourner! raise thy head; What though some cherish’d joys are fled? What though some flatt’ring dreams are gone? Soon shall the glorious morning dawn, Which never more shall darken’d be By clouds o’ercharg’d with misery.

JANUARY 10, 1841.