MY BROTHER.[11]

I. Kind friends! bear with me but a moment more, My tales of death are nearly ended now; ’Tis sad I must repeat them o’er and o’er. If by these mournful lines, on any brow I cause a cloud to gather, O, do Thou Whose love can turn the darkest night to day, Dispel the gloomy clouds, and me endow With power to sing a sweetly soothing lay, And by religion’s light to chase the gloom away. II. Yet all have sorrows—all are called to mourn; There lives no man who has not bid farewell To youthful joys that never will return. Then patient listen to the mourner’s tale, And if perchance your gentle bosoms swell With sympathetic feeling, breathe a prayer For all who in the vale of sorrow dwell, That pitying Heaven would grant them strength to bear The woes they but increase by yielding to despair. III. Like an oasis in the desert wild, Is the sweet sympathy of tender hearts To the sad mourner—sorrow’s weeping child! O, when the bitter tear of anguish starts, When every cheering ray of hope departs, When tides of sorrow o’er the bosom roll, And pleasure vainly tries her dazzling arts, If aught on earth can soothe the stricken soul, Sweet sympathy will oft grief’s raging tide control. IV. But let me with my mournful task proceed; ’Tis pleasing, though ’tis mournful. I have said How my dear brother, in her hour of need, Stood near his darling sister’s dying bed, And on his bosom held her drooping head. But ah, sad thought! I have no brother now! He too is number’d with the silent dead! When the strong hand of death shall lay me low, O, he will not be near, to wipe my cold damp brow! V. ’Twas sad to see him when our sister died, Struggling to bear his grief composedly; For they had “grown together—side by side;” And it was rare such perfect love to see As was their love. But they were not to be Divided long. Ere one short year had pass’d, Our tender mother’s penetrating eye Saw that disease a with’ring blow had cast Upon her only son, and he was failing fast. VI. ’Tis much to say his mother was his friend; For this implies such holy confidence, As will at once his filial heart commend; And we may draw this wise conclusion thence, That both were worthy; for kind Providence Hath so arranged this sweet relationship, That faithfulness will bring its recompense. Who sows the seed will aye the harvest reap— A faithful mother will her son’s affections keep. VII. Good mothers make good men. It is a truth With few exceptions, that the great and good Have learn’d such lessons in their earliest youth, That, like attendant angels, they have stood Close by their side in hours of solitude, There, by the charms of mem’ry, to arrest Each thought of vice, whene’er it would intrude Into the heart. O, those are truly blest, Who drink the purest virtue at their mother’s breast. VIII. Few lose the mem’ry of a mother’s love; Few go so far from virtue, that they ne’er Think of the hand that pointed them above; The lips that whisper’d in their infant ear; The eyes that often shed affection’s tear. I speak of Christian mothers. There are those Who lead the way in folly’s mad career, Who never speak of Heaven’s blest repose, Or tell in accents sweet, of Sharon’s deathless Rose. IX. How often, in the tender sprouting time Of early youth, the plant receives a blight! Or the young vine, that upward loves to climb, Creeps on the ground from careless oversight, Needing a friendly hand to train it right! Then let the tree of knowledge flourish near, To give the clinging vine support, and bright Will be the clustering flowers that vine will bear, And rich reviving fruit, man’s drooping heart to cheer. X. “Knowledge is power.” ’Tis a trite remark, But true. ’Tis power for good or ill; With ever bright’ning flame it lights the dark Uneven path to Zion’s holy hill, Which else had been to mortals darken’d still, Or fires the magazine so full of things Combustible—man’s unregenerate will. Knowledge gives pain or joy. To earth it clings, Or to the highest Heaven it soars with eagle wings. XI. My brother’s gifted mind was furnish’d well With earthly knowledge, and with heavenly. I’ve often seen, as words of wisdom fell From lips so young, surprise light up the eye, When those who knew not his attainments high Held converse with him. From his earliest years, His eager mind with such intensity Sought after knowledge, that, oppress’d with fears, His parents oft would shed most sad foreboding tears: XII. For when they saw his cheek grow thin and pale, And saw the lustre fading from his eye, What wonder if their anxious hearts did fail Within them? Oft they fear’d that he would die A victim to that slow, sure malady— The fever of the mind. Their only son— Their gifted son he was; yet silently They saw disease at work; that work begun, How surely speeds it on, until at length—’tis done! XIII. How often is the meed of fame obtain’d At vast expense; by blood, and groans, and tears! But he who immortality has gain’d By lightening the load of human cares, Or teaching men true wisdom, passing years Dim not the glory of his deathless fame: For each succeeding age its witness bears To things which ever must attention claim, And shed a living light upon their author’s name. XIV. Lo! on the mount where fame’s proud temple towers, All things look beautiful to those below; And trees of life, and amaranthine flowers, Immortal there in bright luxuriance grow, And streams with soft melodious murmurs flow. Lured by the view, ambition’s vot’ries press To reach th’ inviting spot which charm’d them so; But many a man who there has gain’d access, Has gain’d it at th’ expense of health and happiness. XV. Then what to him the glory of renown— The loud tongued welcome to the realms of fame— The nymphs who wait his weary brow to crown, And sing with voices sweet his honor’d name? How sinks his heart who hears the loud acclaim, But sees the landscape fading from his eye, And feels that he has overtask’d his frame, And spent his life to reach the summit high! Just as his end is gain’d, he lays him down—to die! XVI. ’Tis sad—’tis sad! but if his aim has been To plant with deathless flowers man’s rugged way, What matters it if he must leave the scene, And die upon his coronation day? Bright round his head immortal glories play; ’Tis joy to think he has not lived in vain; For every tear that he has wiped away, An angel comes to cool his burning brain, Attend his dying couch, and mitigate his pain. XVII. My brother cared not for this world’s applause; He long’d to be a minister of God, Well furnish’d for his work. His object was To preach the blessed gospel, but the rod Was often held above him, while he trod The path of learning. Sickness often came, And to his failing heart his weakness show’d; But still within his bosom burn’d the flame Of love to dying men, and to the Savior’s name. XVIII. In early youth religion was his choice— His solemn choice; and one might often hear, In some retired place, his deep toned voice— That voice so like his father’s—rais’d in prayer, When, with his young companions, gather’d there, He’d kneel before the mercy seat, and fly On wings of faith above this world of care. Thus while to Heaven he turn’d his constant eye, He heeded not, nor loved, the vain world’s flattery. XIX. That man is blest, who ne’er, with greedy ears, Drank in the sounds of flatt’ry’s silver tongue; He feels himself a man, who never cares To hear his name on fame’s loud tocsin rung, Content to be unnoticed and unsung! He who, with stern integrity of soul, Moves on, earth’s fawning sycophants among, Has that within himself which can control Deep sorrow’s darkest waves, and make them backward roll. XX. Who cares not to be prais’d or paragraph’d, Is wise—is happy. Better ’tis to be Too low to make a mark for envy’s shaft, Than be so high that thousands bow the knee. The happiest men are men of low degree, Cheerful, contented with their humble lot, With minds enlighten’d, and with thoughts all free, Who have no restless cares, of pride begot, Nor envy others’ fame, because they have it not. XXI. I’d rather gaze at earth’s proud pageantry, Than be a part o’ the show. I love to hide Far from the envious world’s malignant eye, And calmly down the ever flowing tide Of this short life, in humble silence glide. I’m weary of the never ending chase After the world’s esteem—its pomp and pride! Then grant me, Heaven! some secret hiding place, Till I shall sweetly rest—asleep in death’s embrace. XXII. O, let me feel the almost heavenly bliss— The calm contentment of humility! There never was a plainer truth than this; “Peu connue, peu troublée.”[12] I long to be Unnoticed and unknown; my actions free— Untrammel’d by proud fashion’s stern decrees. O, this is life! to bow the willing knee Alone to God, and, with a mind at ease, To catch the gales of Heaven in every passing breeze. XXIII. I hate “that solemn vice of greatness—pride!”[13] ’Tis like an angel to be truly great, Yet truly humble. He who seeks to hide His virtuous deeds, shall sweetly meditate In lonely hours, and thus anticipate The peace of Heaven. The man of noble mind, Whom earth’s loud praises never can elate, Has fix’d his anchor where no storms unkind Can shake his steadfast soul, to every storm resign’d. XXIV. But whither have I wander’d? ’Tis my fault T’ assume an attitude belligerent, And with a wordy war my foes t’ assault! My words are harmless, let me give them vent, Nor in my bosom harbor discontent; Things, and not persons, are my enemies. And if I stay to pluck a flower, and paint Its unpretending beauties to your eyes, O, follow for awhile my restless vagaries. XXV. My brother left us soon. His heart was sad, And all were sad around him. Who could say What was before us? Hearts one moment clad In robes of joy, another moment may Be dress’d in sorrow’s sables. Happy they, Who in the bosom of the Savior dwell, And find a refuge there in grief’s dark day. The parting came—how did each bosom swell, When, with a silent kiss, he told us all farewell! XXVI. And as he turn’d he dash’d a tear away; For he must feel a pang who says “farewell;” Yet ’tis a word that all have had to say. To me it ever seems a mournful knell; And, when I hear it, tides of sorrow swell My heart, and busy mem’ry brings to me Full many a by-gone hour, whose potent spell Returns with all its weight of agony. O, parting scenes! too vividly ye come to me! XXVII. He left us. ’Twas a blessing soon to hear That he had comforted his aching heart By the sweet power of love. O, what can cheer Man’s heart, like woman’s love? What can impart Such healing balm? What else remove the dart Still rankling in the bosom? Thou hast proved, O, gentle Love! full well thy healing art!— One of Virginia’s fairest daughters loved Our stricken one, and thus the deadly dart remov’d. XXVIII. O, Love! thy presence sweetens all below! Thou art the sunshine of life’s dreary road; Or, ’mid the storm, thou art the cheering bow Held up before us by the hand of God! He who has long life’s devious pathway trod, And knows that sorrow is man’s certain doom, Needs one to help him bear each heavy load. In search of bliss man never ought to roam, When lovely woman is the polar star of home. XXIX. Love timid flies the busy haunts of men; The dear domestic altar is his throne; One word unkind may break his blissful reign; He goes where willing hearts his empire own, And takes alarm at one disloyal tone. And if he spread his ever active wings, O, sue for pardon quick—or he is gone! And as he flies, this farewell truth he sings, Experience oft too late, a sad repentance brings. XXX. My brother loved, and was beloved again. The peerless maid whose love his heart did bless, Held his affections by a golden chain, All unalloy’d. Much in her artless grace, And in her soul-subduing gentleness, Did she resemble her who was in Heaven— Our sainted sister; and her sweet fair face, So like to hers, seem’d a dear token given To comfort all our hearts, so deeply sorrow-riven. XXXI. He led her to the altar, where their hands, Those willing hands, by one who lately died[14] Were join’d with Hymen’s life-enduring bands; Their hearts were one before. The fair young bride— The lily of Virginia, by the side Of Carolina’s son stood modestly, While on them gazed fond parents in their pride. It is a sight that all must love to see— A youthful pair thus join’d by Heaven’s most kind decree! XXXII. But he was call’d to leave her for awhile, To seek a home in a more genial clime, Far in the south, where nature seems to smile The livelong year. Her soft blue eye grew dim With pearly tears, that gather’d to the brim, And overflow’d their fountain, when she heard That he must leave her. Who could comfort him As she could? Yet ’twas winter; and he fear’d T’ expose his precious one, till all was well prepared. XXXIII. They parted—full of hope—yet griev’d to part; Nor knew they that a worm was at the core Of that young husband’s rich confiding heart; Our mother saw her son not long before, And her prophetic eye discover’d more In his wan cheek, than other eyes could see; She heard his “trifling” cough, and o’er and o’er, She caution’d him to watch it. Only she Could see his danger, who had nurs’d his infancy! XXXIV. But yet she dream’d not he would die so soon, Nor dream’d of death at all; save that her fear— A mother’s fear for her own precious one— Was ever whisp’ring in her anxious ear, That death might come again. He had come near, And stricken from her arms so oft before Her dearest treasures, that his lifted spear Afar off gleaming, would alarm her more Than hosts of other foes, with all their threaten’d power. XXXV. My brother never saw his love again. He journey’d to a distant land—to die! I must not speak of this—the throbbing pain That settles at my heart—the tearful eye— The trembling hand—the thrill of agony— All warn me to forsake the mournful theme. We heard that ere he breathed his parting sigh, He said his parents soon would follow him, But that his “dear young wife”—and here his eyes grew dim, XXXVI. And faintness seized upon him. ’Twas a thought So full of deep, heart rending agony, It quickly overcame him; and he sought On heavenly scenes to fix his failing eye, And thus with Christian fortitude to die! An outstretched arm, omnipotent to save, Was near him when his last great enemy Closed for the mortal struggle. Then he gave His parting soul to Him who triumph’d o’er the grave. XXXVII. His parents, ignorant of his dying state, Were in the great south western city,[15] when A letter came. Twas not of recent date, For it had sought them long, and sought in vain. At length it reach’d them, and it brought new pain To their still aching hearts. It told a tale Of sadness; that the threat’ning rod again Hung over them. Here let me draw a veil; To tell their feelings now, all words would sadly fail. XXXVIII. But I, who ever hope, hoped even now; For I was with them when the letter came, And though some sadness settled on my brow, With specious words I strove to comfort them. I could not feel that he would die—the same Delusive flatt’rer, Hope, who oft before Had lighted in my breast a glowing flame When all had else been darkness, now once more Beguiled my willing heart with too successful power. XXXIX. Swift on affection’s never tiring wings, Our parents flew to see their only son; And I was left behind; for many things Concurr’d to keep me from the dying one. But, in my grief, I was not left alone, For they were with me who were all to me, My noble husband, and my darling son! With them, how could I ever lonely be? O, to each other we were all in all—we three! XL. My parents reach’d at length the distant spot: Borne to the earth by grief and sad suspense. O, God! O, God! they found that “HE was not,” For thou had’st taken him! thy providence So order’d it in kind benevolence! He breath’d his last before the wish’d-for day When he expected them—he knew not whence They had to come, nor what a devious way The white wing’d messenger that bore the news would stray. XLI. Urania, goddess of the sacred lay! Come, touch my languid lips with holy fire, Brought from divine Parnassus—or convey The heart’s deep feelings to my sounding lyre! ’Tis vain—’tis vain—such feelings must retire From mortal view! Again I draw the veil Over these parents’ hearts. It would require A more than mortal tongue to tell the tale Of all their high wrought feelings—mortal speech would fail. XLII. ’Tis sad when those we love cannot be near Our dying bed; and yet it saves much pain. The last farewell that falls upon the ear— The tears that mourners seek to hide, in vain— The bursting sobs they cannot quite restrain— These wring the heart. Now, when we truly know That friends were near, a sympathizing train, Who sooth’d our dying one, when faint and low, O, surely in our hearts sweet gratitude must glow! XLIII. God’s providence had led his footsteps, where He found the kindest friends. A stranger he, Yet taken to their bosoms! Far and near, My father’s children find his name a key Unlocking many hearts. I’d rather be The child of such a father, than of one Who’d leave the wealth of India to me! They heard my brother’s name, and there were none Who open’d not their doors to my dear father’s son. XLIV. God bless them evermore! and he will bless With all the choice expressions of his love, Those who befriend the stranger in distress. There is a God in Heaven, whose bowels move With gentle pity; and he must approve, Whene’er his creatures pity and relieve The way-worn sufferer! Then from above Our God will smile on those who thus did give Their tender love to one who had not long to live. XLV. Now, when th’ afflicted parents weeping came, Those noble friends shed with them tear for tear, And thus most kindly did their love proclaim For him whom they had laid upon his bier With aching hearts. O, many a fervent prayer, While with most tender tears my cheeks are wet, Ascends to Heaven for them. May Jesus hear! And may my heart within me cease to beat, If ever I their love to one I loved forget!