“I Go To Prepare A Place For You.”

My Savior! is my place prepared, And for my welcome hast thou cared, When death shall call for me? When I shall rest beneath the sod, Shall angels bear my soul to God? O, Savior! can it be?

Exceeding grace! I raise my eyes, All wet with tear-drops, to the skies, And bless thee for thy love; I would not always dwell below, Where death has torn my heartstrings so; ’Twill ne’er be thus above.

And yet, ’tis well--’tis well for me, And well for those who’ve gone to thee, That thou didst call them home; I love those dear ones far too well, To wish that they again should dwell Where I in sadness roam.

I would not ask them now to change Their peaceful home; they’d think it strange, And ’twould be strange indeed If I, who am a pris’ner here, And daily shed the silent tear, Should mourn when they are freed.

I feel not as an exile feels, When lonely sadness o’er him steals, And hope forsakes his breast; I am not banish’d from my home; I have not many days to roam Ere I shall be--at rest.

O, blessed Savior! now I see Great preparations made for me, In mansions bright and fair; For thou, with sweet attractive art, To make Heaven dearer to my heart, Hast placed my jewels there!

BOSTON, October 11, 1840.

TO THE REV. J---- P----, OF BOSTON.

Written after reading some of his touching poems, particularly the one entitled, “My father, mother, brothers, and sisters.”

O, tell me! art thou not life-weary now, Thou of the noble heart and lofty brow? Or canst thou breast the waves that round thee rise, Till call’d to soar above these clouded skies? Thy father, mother, brothers, sisters, all Save one, have heard the heavenly Master’s call, And hasten’d to their dear eternal home; And thou art left in this dark world to roam. O, tell me what on earth to thee remains? For weeping I have read thy mournful strains, When thou hast told of sorrows, such as I Have felt--though I had not the power to die, When death a welcome friend had been to me; O, would not death be welcome too, to thee?

Yet there are loved ones round thy cheerful hearth; O, these must sweetly bind thee still to earth! We hold a chain outstretch’d from earth to Heaven, By God’s own love to weary mortals given; But every link removed, that shortens this, Draws us the nearer to our home of bliss. The moanful sighings of the wand’ring wind Have a strange power to move my inmost mind, And bring sweet thoughts of other days to me, By some unknown, mysterious sympathy. So has thy plaintive lyre, with low soft tone, Pour’d on my soul a music of its own, And waked an answering chord within my breast, Which thrills harmonious in my hours of rest.

Thou gifted Bard! whose richly gilded thought Comes like a ray with noonday brightness fraught, And cheers the heart obscured by sorrow’s breath, Which dims all brightness in this world of death-- I thank thee for the lays which thou hast sung! I thank thee for the lyre which thou hast strung! Those thrilling lays--that have with me communed, That deep toned lyre--by holy feelings tuned. Still let thy silvery dulcet tones be heard, Like the low warbling of some lonely bird; Or let thy full toned diapason roll, Like organ strains--entrancing every soul!

This weary earth is full of discord strange; But when thy harp is struck, how sweet the change! Then tune it oft, and sweep th’ obedient strings Till all the air with heaven-born music rings! And when thy hand shall wake its harmonies, To bear the music on, let Echo rise, And every where in sweet vibration play, Till I shall hear it--far, O, far away!

BOSTON, October 13, 1840.

HEAVEN ON EARTH.

“They that believe do enter into rest.”

Yes--even here, in this dark world, We enter into rest, If shelter’d in the Savior’s arms, And pillow’d on his breast!

The flowery paths of earthly joy Are not so sweet to me, As thorny roads, and darksome clouds, Which drive me, Lord! to thee.

The fragrant flowers--how soon they die, Scorch’d by the noonday heat; Or scatter’d, lie along my path, By angry tempests beat!

Though sore afflictions come to me, My soul is satisfied; And longer ’neath the chast’ning rod, I’m willing to abide.

I never felt as now I feel, The dark world’s vanity; I never loved as now I love, The Heaven I hope to see.

How calmly can I travel on, While joys and comforts die; And smile to see my bosom friends In death’s embraces lie.

’Tis well with them--’tis well with me-- Why should I shed one tear? My loved ones now are safe at home, And I shall soon be there.

Yes--even here, in this dark world, I’ve enter’d into rest; I’ve flown into my Savior’s arms, He bears me on his breast!

CHARLESTON, November 15, 1840.

THE JOY OF SOLITUDE.

Break not, my solitary heart! Thy sadness will not always last; A brighter day will come for thee, When all thy sorrows will be past.

’Tis thus I cure each bitter pang My mourning, lonely bosom feels; I look beyond all earthly things, Where faith the Christian’s home reveals.

When sorely aches the stricken heart, How sweet it is to be alone; Where precious tears can freely flow, And none can hear my stifled moan.

Sweet Solitude! thou art to me, Like rivers in a desert waste To faint and weary travelers, Who long the cooling stream to taste.

O, ye, whose hearts are desolate-- Ye tearful mourners, can ye tell Why, when my heart feels loneliest, I love to be alone so well?

Is it because e’en friendship’s joy Recalls the mem’ry of the past, And lifts the dark impervious veil Which death has o’er my pleasures cast?

I cannot tell; I am not vers’d In the heart’s deep philosophy; I only know when sad I feel, Dear Solitude! I fly to thee!

DECEMBER 5, 1841.