A LADY. (continued 3)

I remember how I loved her, as a little guileless child; I saw her in the cradle, as she looked on me, and smiled. My cup of happiness was full; my joy, no words can tell, And I bless the Glorious Giver, "who doeth all things well." Months passed, that bud of promise, was unfolding every hour. I thought that earth had never smiled upon a fairer flower. So beautiful! it well might grace the bowers, where angels dwell, And waft its fragrance to His throne, "who doeth all things well." Years fled; that little sister then was dear as life to me, And woke, in my unconscious heart a wild idolatry. I worshipped at an earthly shrine, lured by some magic spell, Forgetful of the praise of Him "who doeth all things well." She was like the lovely Star, whose light around my pathway shone, Amid this darksome vale of tears through which I journey on; No radiance had obscured the light, which round His throne doth dwell, And I wandered far away from Him, who "doeth all things well." That star went down, in beauty, yet, it shineth, sweetly now, In the bright and dazzling coronet that decks the Saviour's brow, She bowed to that destroyer, whose shafts none may repel; But we know, for God has told us, that "He doeth all things well." I remember well, my sorrow, as I stood beside her bed, And my deep and heartfelt anguish when they told me she was dead. And, oh! that cup of bitterness—but let not this heart rebel, God gave; he took; he can restore; "He doeth all things well."

Count not the days that have idly flown, The years that were vainly spent; Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own, When thy spirit stands before the throne To account for the talents lent. But number the hours redeemed from sin, The moments employed for heaven; Oh, few and evil thy days have been, Thy life, a toilsome but worthless scene, For a nobler purpose given. Will the shade go back on thy dial plate? Will thy sun stand still on his way? Both hasten on, and thy spirit's fate Rests on the point of life's little date, Then live while 'tis called to–day. Life's waning hours, like the Sybil's page, As they lessen, in value rise; Oh, then rouse thee, and live nor deem that man's age Stands in the length of his Pilgrimage, But in days that are truly wise.

Who needs a teacher to admonish him That flesh is grass! that earthly things, but mist! What are our joys, but dreams? And what our hopes? But goodly shadows in the summer cloud? There's not a wind that blows, but bears with it Some rainbow promise. Not a moment flies, But puts its sickle in the fields of life, And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares. 'Tis but as yesterday, since on those stars, Which now I view, the Chaldean shepherd gazed, In his mid watch observant, and disposed The twinkling hosts, as fancy gave them shape; Yet, in the interim, what mighty shocks Have buffeted mankind; whole nations razed, Cities made desolate; the polished sunk To barbarism, and once barbaric states, Swaying the wand of science and of arts. Illustrious deeds and memorable names, Blotted from record, and upon the tongues Of gray tradition, voluble no more. Where are the heroes of the ages past,— Where the brave chieftans; where the mighty ones Who flourished in the infancy of days? Ah to the grave gone down! On their fallen fame Exultant, mocking, at the pride of man, Sits grim Forgetfulness. The warrior's arm Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame, Hushed is the stormy voice, and quenched the blaze Of his red eye–ball. Yesterday, his name Was mighty on the earth; to–day,—'tis what? The meteor of the night of distant years, That flashed unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld, Musing, at midnight, upon prophecies, Who at her only lattice, saw the gleam Point to the mist–poised shroud, then quietly Closed her pale lips, and locked the secret up, Safe in the charnel's treasure. Oh! how weak Is mortal man! how, trifling! how confined His scope of vision! Puffed with confidence His phrase grows big with immortality; And he, poor insect of a summer's day, Dreams of eternal honours to his name, Of endless glory and perennial bays, He idly reasons of eternity. As of the train of ages; when, alas! Ten thousand thousand of his centuries Are in comparison, a little point, Too trivial for account. Oh it is strange; 'Tis very strange to mark men's fallacies. Behold him proudly view some pompous pile, Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, And smile, and say, my name shall live with this, Till time shall be no more; while at his feet, Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust Of the fallen fabric of the other day, Preaches the solemn lesson.—He should know That time must conquer; that the loudest blast That ever filled renown's obstreperous trump, Fades in the lap of ages, and expires. Who lies, inhumed, in the terrific gloom Of the gigantic pyramid? Or who Reared its huge wall? Oblivion laughs, and says, The prey is mine. They sleep, and never more Their names shall strike upon the ear of man, Or memory burst its fetters. Where is Rome? She lives but in the tale of other times; Her proud pavilions, are the hermits' home, And her long colonades, her public walks, Now faintly echo to the pilgrims' feet, Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace Through the rank moss revealed, her honoured dust. But not to Rome, alone, has fate confined The doom of ruin; cities numberless. Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, And rich Phoenicia; they are blotted out Half razed,—from memory razed; and their very name And being, in dispute. —WHITE

One stood upon the threshold of his life; A life all bright with promise,—and he prayed, "Father of Heaven! this beautious world of thine, Is trod in sorrow by my race." The shade Of sin and grief darken the sunshine, Thou Around us with a lavish hand, hast spread. Man only walks this breathing glowing earth, With spirit crushed,—with bowed and stricken head. I ask not, Father, why these things be so, I only ask, that thou will make of me A messenger of joy, to lift the woe From hearts that mourn, and lead them up to Thee.