“One Woe Is Past.”

Written after the death of a friend.

I have one sorrow less to bear, Of those that shall befal me here; Another grievous woe is past; Would God that it might be the last!

While through the wilderness I go, With feeble footsteps, faint and slow, My dear companions of the way, How gladly would I bid them stay!

’Tis sweet to travel arm in arm Along life’s road--the sweetest charm Of human life is human love, And friends are blessings from above.

But one who loves them more than I Calls, “Come up hither,” from on high; Then joyfully they soar away, And leave me lonely here to stay.

Yet, when they leave me, well they know That I, from whose embrace they go, With swifter steps will travel on To where my dearest friends have gone.

So, smiling as they take their flight To regions of celestial light, They whisper low, with dying breath, “A short farewell”--then sleep in death.

JANUARY 1, 1841.

TO MY FRAIL BODY.

O! frail and falling house of clay! I’ve loved thee far too well; With thee I have not long to stay, How long, I cannot tell.

But this I know, thy tott’ring wall Which now imprisons me, When touch’d by Death’s cold hand, shall fall; O! then I shall be free!

And yet, whene’er I part from thee, Mid nature’s dying pain, O! let this truth remember’d be, We part to meet again

As tender rose trees seem to die, When touch’d by winter’s breath, And for a little season lie, With every mark of death;

Then spring to life when summer comes, And wear their brightest dress, To beautify our pleasant homes, Our careworn hearts to bless,

So shalt thou hear the trumpet’s sound, And leave thy lowly grave, Whether thou sleepest under ground, Or ’neath the rolling wave.

Then still I’ll love thee, house of clay! But not with former pride; For not until the last great day Shalt thou be glorified!

JANUARY 4, 1841.

A HYMN FOR THE AFFLICTED.

Wounded within me is my heart, I mourn and sit alone; And every voice that comes to me Breathes out a plaintive tone.

Ah me! how can I longer live Where all is desolate? I wander like a lonely bird, Bereaved of its mate.

O! would that I had died with thee, My dear, my early friend! Then deep affliction would not now My mourning bosom rend.

But no! It was my Father’s choice! I bow to his decree! He loved my friend, and call’d him home, And O! he loveth me!

The Angel of the covenant Is standing by my side; I pray thee, soother of my griefs! There ever to abide!

And now he makes the storm a calm; The waves thereof are still; My peace doth like a river flow,-- I love my Father’s will.

JANUARY 2, 1841.

THE BEREAVED FATHER TO HIS SON.

Dear miniature of her I loved and lost, Come to thy father’s almost broken heart! Come, lay thy lovely head upon my breast, And let me smooth thy golden ringlets down, As I have seen thy sainted mother do! Ah me! those dear soft hands lie mouldering, Now clasp’d upon her still, unconscious breast!

Would I could sing for thee, my orphan boy, As I have heard thy sainted mother sing! O! we shall never hear her sing again! The music of our fireside is hush’d-- The silver voice that cheer’d us, now is mute.

I pity thee, my boy! for well I know This mournful silence sends an icy chill To every heart within these lonely walls, That lately echoed to angelic tones. Methought I heard thee lisp thy mother’s name, As she had taught her darling boy to do; O! say it not again--’twill break my heart!

I see deep sadness in thy violet eyes, As though thou knew’st thy kindest friend was gone. Yes--she is gone--poor boy! poor orphan boy! Too soon thou’lt find that thou art motherless; For who will love thee with a mother’s love-- That sacred, changeless, deep, untiring love? She loves thee still, my boy! and it may be She watches o’er thee now with tender care, A guardian angel to her own dear child!

My wife! my cherish’d wife! my bosom friend! If thou art near us, whisper peaceful words, And teach me how to bear my Father’s stroke! If ever, ’mid the swelling tides of grief, My spirit, struggling in the stormy wave, Lets go her only anchor, faith in God, And blindly plunges near the dang’rous shoals Of proud rebellion ’gainst th’ almighty will, Or total self-abandonment to grief, Then, sainted spirit! bear me back again, By some unknown, mysterious influence, Such as the ministering angels use!

O! sigh not thus, my dear, my gentle boy! Nor let the sad contagion of my grief Infect so soon thy young unconscious breast. ’Tis strange to see thee gazing silently Where there is nought to catch thy infant eye, With downcast look, and grave abstracted air, As though thou hadst th’ experience of years, And wert reflecting on the woes of life. The silken fringes round thy sweet blue eyes Are almost resting on thy downy cheek, And thy fair head reposes on my breast, My lonely, sorrowing, bereaved breast, With all the silent, touching eloquence So often felt where not a word is said. Thy angel mother may be near thee, boy! Communing with thy untaught spirit now, And teaching thee the rudiments of thought.

O Death! thou art th’ ambassador of Heaven, To wean us from th’ allurements of the world; May not thy visits ever be in vain! The storm, the calm, the sunshine, and the cloud, Must each alternately my portion be, And all to me their sacred lessons teach; O! may I learn the varied lessons well!

The youthful stranger in a foreign land Soon learns to know where happiness is found. Should Pleasure lure him to some shining place, And surly Disappointment meet him there, If he is wise, he shuns that path again, Because the meteor sparkles to deceive. But I, a stranger and a pilgrim here, Must learn the same sad lesson o’er and o’er, That all is changeful in this dying world. I clasp a shadow to my foolish heart, Then weep to find my arms are empty still! O! could I but remember that on earth My dearest treasures are a loan from Heaven, And may at any moment be recall’d, I should prepare my heart for each sad loss.

My darling boy! I must not love thee so; Dear miniature of her I loved and lost, I’ll try to feel that I may lose thee too! Yet, joyful thought! such treasures cannot die, The time will come I’ll find them all again.

JANUARY 4, 1841.