She Slumbers Still. Even now I seem to see thee, Lovely boy, with thy sweet smile, Bright and beautiful as when Reading that holy book, the while I listened to thee, little dreaming, Docile, gentle, pleasant child, God who gave, so soon would take thee , Even thee, so sweet , so mild . But how merciful in chastening Our father is—oh! bless his name— Your little face was decked with smiles, Dear child, just when the summons came. Escaped from lingering sickness, thou hadst Nought to mar thy little frame. While ye mourn the dear departed, Each bitter feeling disallow; Look to heaven, ye broken hearted, Look, and with submission bow. In thy hour of deepest sorrow, Never murmur, dare not blame; God, who wounds, alone can heal thee; Trust his power and praise his name. Oh! may we say, each , every one, “Not my will, but thine be done.” She Slumbers Still. Return to Table of Contents On a midsummer’s eve she lay down to sleep, Wearied and toil-worn the maiden was then; How deep was that slumber, how quiet that rest, ’Twas the sleep from which no one awakens again. Morn returned in its freshness, and flowers that she loved In beauty and fragrance were blooming around; The birds caroled sweetly the whole live-long day, But that strange mystic sleep all her senses had bound. Day followed day until summer was gone, And autumn still found her alone and asleep; Stern winter soon followed, but its loud blasts and shrill, Were powerless to rouse her from slumber so deep. Again spring returns, and all nature revives, And birds fill the groves with their music again; But the eyes and the ears of that loved one are closed, And on her these rich treasures are lavished in vain. Unheeded by her the winter snow falls, Its beautiful garment spring puts on in vain; Many summers the birds her sad requiem have sung, But to sound of sweet music she’ll ne’er wake again. There is but one voice that deep slumber can break, ’Tis the same one that loudly called, “Lazarus, come forth!” At the sound of that voice all the dead shall arise, And before God shall stand all the nations on earth. Then shall this dear one, our first born, awake, Her mortal put on immortality then; And oh! blissful thought, that we once more may meet In that home where’s no parting, death, sorrow, or pain. Weston, May 29, 1852. To a Friend in the City, From her Friend in the Country. Return to Table of Contents By especial request I take up my pen, To write a few lines to my dear Mrs. N.; And though nothing of depth she has right to expect; Yet the will for the deed she will not reject The task, on reflection, is a heavy one quite, As here in the country we’ve no news to write; For what is to us very new , rich, and rare, To you in the city is stale and thread bare. Should I write of Hungary, Kossuth, or the Swede, They are all out of date, antiquated indeed. I might ask you with me the New Forest to roam, But it’s stript of its foliage, quite leafless become; N.P. Willis and rival have each had their day, And of rappings and knockings there’s nought new to say. Yet do not mistake me, or think I would choose, A home in the city, the country to lose; The music of birds, with rich fruits and sweet flowers, We all in the country lay claim to as ours. A bird that’s imprisoned, I hate to hear sing, Let me catch its glad note as it soars on the wing; Its carol so sweet as it’s floating along, It seems the Creator to praise in its song. With the sweetest of poets I often exclaim, “God made the country,”—let the pride of man claim The town with its buildings, its spires, and its domes, But leave us in the country our sweet quiet homes. The scenery around us is lovely to view, It charmed when a child , and at three-score charms too. Then leave me the country with its birds, fruits, and flowers, And the town , with its pleasures and crowds, may be yours. E’en in winter the country has right to the claim Of charms equal to summer; to be sure, not the same. See winter, stern monarch, as borne on the gale, He comes armed cap-a-pie in his white coat of mail; Behold what a change he hath wrought in one night, He has robed the whole country in pure spotless white . He fails not to visit us once every year, But finds us prepared for him —meets with good cheer, And a most cordial welcome from all of us here. When with us he’s quite civil and very polite, In manners most courtly, and dignified quite; But I’m told were he goes unexpected he’s rough, Chills all by his presence, and savage enough. Hark, hear how it storms! blowing high and yet higher; But then we’ve books, music, and a brilliant wood fire, Where logs piled on logs give one warmth e’en to see; Oh! these evenings in winter are charming to me. In good keeping these logs are with wind and the hail, Everything in the country is on a grand scale . You have nought in the city I think can compare, To the bright glowing hearth from a good country fire. To be sure, now and then, one is cheered by the sight Of wood fire in the city, but when at its height Compared to our fires , Lilliputianal quite. But here I will stop, for I think it quite time To have done with my boasting, and finish my rhyme. M.A.H.T. Bigelow. Weston, April 6, 1852. P.S. And now, my dear friend, it is certainly fair, Your city advantages you should compare With ours in the country, let me know what they are. Reply: Which I am grateful for Permission to insert. Return to Table of Contents Dear Madam, Many thanks for your missive so charming in verse, So kind and descriptive, so friendly and terse; It came opportune on a cold stormy day, And scattered ennui and “blue devils” away; For though in the city, where “all’s on the go,” We often aver we feel only “so so,” And sigh for a change—then here comes a letter! What could I desire more welcome and better? But how to reply? I’m lost in dismay, I cannot in rhyme my feelings portray. The nine they discard me, I’m not of their train, They entreatingly beg, “I’ll ne’er woo them again;” But I’ll brave their displeasure, and e’en write to you A few lines of doggrel, then rhyming adieu. My errors do “wink at,” for hosts you’ll descry, And spare all rebuff, and the keen critic’s eye. I appreciate all of your calm country life, And feel you are happy as mother and wife; Surrounded by taste, and the friend so refined, Who with sterling good sense, loves the delicate mind; Who with you can admire the “bird on the wing,” With you welcome back the return of the spring; Enjoying the promise of fruits and sweet flowers, With music to cheer and beguile evening hours; Then long , very long, may such hours be given— They whisper content, and the foretaste of heaven. I was born in the city, the city’s my home, Yet oft in the country with pleasure I roam; For there , I confess, the heart finds repose In its pleasures and sorrows, which here it ne’er knows. There no fashion, no nonsense, intrude on your walk, But rational moments of rational talk, Asserting that soiries, with jewels and dress, Make a very small part of life’s happiness. Ah! this I believe, most sincerely I do, And sympathize freely, most truly with you. Now Kossuth is coming, pray what’s to be done? No pageant to welcome, to children no fun? Some “turn a cold shoulder,” and look with disdain, Yet many there’ll be who will follow his train. He’s “sure missed a figure,” and “bit his own nose,” Ah, many the thorn he’ll find ‘mid life’s rose. Then we’ve concerts, fine readings, museum and halls, With disputes, and debates, in legislative halls, Ethiopian Minstrels, Shakesperian plays; And yet, my dear friend, I’m told in these days, Religion’s blessed joys are most faithfully felt, With devotion’s pure prayers the proud heart to melt; That many have turned to the straight narrow road, Which leadeth to peace and communion with God. To you this assurance a welcome will find, A subject of vital concern to the mind. When hither you come, do enter our door, I’ll give you my hand, perhaps something more. Let me urge, if inclined, to this you’ll reply, I’ll again do my best, yes, surely I’ll try; The fair one who brings it ought sure to inspire Some poetical lay from Genius’ sweet lyre. But Genius repels me, she “turns a deaf ear,” And frowns on me scornful, the year after year; Perhaps if I sue, in the “sere yellow leaf,” She’ll open her heart, and yield me relief. But wayward my pen, I must now bid adieu, My friendship, dear madam, I offer to you, And beg with your friends, you’ll please place my name, The privilege grant me of doing the same. S. Nicholson. Boston, April 16, 1862. Rejoinder to the foregoing Reply. Return to Table of Contents Many, many thanks my friend, For those sweet verses thou didst send, So good they were and witty; And now I will confess to thee, Mixed up with bad, much good I see Within the crowded city. Boston, “with all thy faults I love Thee still,” though much I disapprove— See much in thee to blame; Yet to be candid, I’ll allow Thy equal no one can me show From Mexico to Maine. It is my boast, perhaps my pride, To be to English blood allied, Warm in my veins it’s flowing; And when I see the homage given To foreign men and foreign women , 1 1.By this I do not mean to include all foreigners, for some of them I consider among the very best of our population, but dancers, &c., &c. That blood with shame is glowing . I hope when Kossuth fever’s cool And we have put our wits to school, And sober senses found; When the Hungarian’s out of sight And shattered brains collected quite, We may be safe and sound. But what simpletons, should we choose, With nought to gain and much to loose, ’Gainst Austria to war; What greater folly, when we know By doing this, we’ll get a blow From the ambitious Czar. But you may not with me agree, And I am getting warm I see, So here I bid adieu To Kossuth and to Hungary, To Russia and to Germany, And the great Emperor too. And now my friend a word I’d say Before I throw my pen away, On subject most important; In doing this I need not fear I shall offend the nicest ear, Or strike a note discordant. Oh! had I true poetic fire, With boldness would I strike the lyre So loud that all might hear; But ah! my harp is tuned so low, Its feeble strains I full well know Can reach no distant ear. Yet I rejoice that harps on high, And voices of sweet harmony, Are raised to bless the name Of Him who sits upon the throne, Rejoicing over souls new born, Who soon will join with them, Eternally His name to adore Who died, yet lives forevermore. Weston, May 8, 1852. To my Friend Mr. J. Ellis. Return to Table of Contents To thee, the guardian of my youthful days, Fain would I pay some tribute of respect; And though it falls far short of thy desert, The will to do thee justice thou’lt accept. As I recall the days of former years, Thy many acts of kindness bring to mind, Tears fill my eyes, in thee I’ve ever found A friend most faithful, uniformly kind. Thou art the earliest friend of mine that’s left— The rest have long departed, every one; They’ve long years since the debt of nature paid, But thou remainest still, and thou alone. The snow of four score winters thou has seen, And life’s long pilgrimage may soon be o’er; Respected, loved, and happy hast thou been, With ample means to relieve the suffering poor, Thou ever hadst the will, as well as power. Temperate in habit, and of temper even, Calm and unruffled as the peaceful lake, To thee the satisfaction has been given Much to enjoy, and others happy make. And when thy days on earth shall all be past, And thou before the Saviour’s bar appear, Mayst thou be found clothed in his righteousness And from his lips the joyful sentence hear— “Well done, thou good and faithful servant; thou Hast over few things faithful been, and now I’ll make thee ruler over many things, And place a crown of glory on thy brow.” Such will be thy reward, my friend, and mine, If trusting in Christ’s merits, not our own , We at the last great day in him be found; He is the ark of safety— He alone . Weston, April 24, 1852. A Pastoral. Return to Table of Contents Oh! tell me ye shepherds, tell me I pray, Have you seen the fair Jessie pass by this way? You ne’er could forget her, if once you had seen, She’s fair as the morning, she moves like a Queen. My sheep are neglected, my crook’s thrown aside, In pursuit of dear Jessie, sweet Jessie, my bride; I hear nothing of her, no tidings can glean, To see is to know her, she moves like a Queen. Say, have you seen her? oh, pity my grief! Speak quick , and impart me the needful relief; You cannot forget her, if once you have seen, She’s lovely as Venus, she moves like a Queen. Have you not seen her?—then listen I pray, Oh! listen to what a poor shepherd can say In the praise of one ne’er so lovely was seen; She’s youthful as Hebe, she moves like a Queen. She’s fair as the Spring in the mild month of May, She’s brilliant as June decked in flowerets so gay; You ne’er could forget her if once you had seen, She’s charming as Flora, she moves like a Queen. Oh! tell me not Damon, that yours can compare To Jessie, sweet Jessie, with beauty so rare; With a face of such sweetness, so modest a mien, She’s like morn in its freshness, she moves like a Queen. You tell me your Sylvia is beautiful quite; She may be, when Jessie is kept out of sight; She is not to be mentioned with Jessie, I ween, Her voice is sweet music, she moves like a Queen. Then name not your Sylvia with Jessie I pray, ’Tis comparing dark night with the fair light of day; Sylvia’s movements are clumsy, and awkwardly seen, But Jessie is graceful, she moves like a Queen. Menalaus’ fair wife, for beauty far famed, By the side of my Jessie is not to be named; Paris ne’er had woo’d Helen, if Jessie he’d seen, She’s chaste as Diana, she moves like a Queen. Oh! aid me, do aid me, ye shepherds, I pray! The time is fast flying, no longer I’ll stay; You cannot mistake her, there’s none like her seen, She’s lovely as Venus, she moves like a Queen. Do help me to find her, I’m wild with affright, The day passes swiftly, it soon will be night; There’s none to compare with her, none like her seen, More lovely than Venus, she moves like a Queen. The Jessamine. Eddie to Jessie. Return to Table of Contents There are many flowers famous for fragrance and hue, Sweet Roses and Lilies, Geraniums too; And though decked in gay colors they look very fine, They are not to my fancy like sweet Jessie mine . For the S.S. Concert, In the Wayland Orthodox Church. Return to Table of Contents Feed my lambs! the Saviour said, Near two thousand years ago; If we truly love the Lord, By obedience, love we’ll show. What was said to Peter then, In that distant age and clime, Sure is binding on us now, Here and to the end of time. If our Shepherd then we love, His commandments we’ll obey; Let us true disciples prove, Feed his lambs as best we may. Twice twelve years have passed this day, 2 2. June 13, 1852. Since our Sabbath School commenced; Countless lessons have been learned, Much instruction been dispensed. Let us up and doing be, Sow the seed all times and hours; Cast our bread on water even, Tax with vigor all our powers. May the teachers now engaged, Courage take, and persevere; They’ll not fail of their reward, Though they may not meet it here. God is faithful, who hath said, (Let the thought allay your fears,) “They with joy shall surely reap, Who have sown in prayers and tears.” Then sow the seed with prayers and tears; Never doubt, but faithful be; Though thou reapest not for years, A rich harvest thou wilt see. Happy faces now we miss, Who were wont these seats to fill; Loved and lovely passed away, Yet they’re fresh in memory still. Soon their earthly race was run, In the morning called away; Others soon may follow them, May all hear the Saviour say, “Well done, faithful servant; thou Hast o’er few things faithful been, I will make the ruler now Over many—enter in.” Feed my Lambs. Return to Table of Contents Just before the bright cloud the Saviour received, When about to return to his father in Heaven; His mission accomplished, his work on earth done, ’Twas then that this parting injunction was given: “Feed my lambs!” this was said to one of the twelve, Whom he called to be with him while sojourning here; “Feed my lambs!” Oh, what love was evinced by those words, What tender compassion, what fatherly care. Three times at this meeting the question was asked, “Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me?” And though grieved, yet how truly could Peter reply, “Lord thou knowest all things, thou know’st I love thee.” Thrice this same Peter his Lord had denied, And had he not reason reproaches to fear? Oh, no! for his Saviour had all this forgiven, He saw his repentance, he knew it sincere. That disciple soon followed his Lord whom he loved, And many long ages have since passed away; But the parting command still remains in full force, And will ever remain so till time’s latest day. Many wolves in sheep’s clothing are still to be found, Whom Satan fails not to instruct and employ; They enter the fold, and with most specious wiles, Seek the young of the flock to ensnare and destroy. And shall we dare call ourselves followers of Christ, And yet his known precepts presume to evade? Ah! stop and reflect, what’s the test that’s required? “If ye love me, keep my commandments,” he said. June 26, 1852. “God is Love.” Return to Table of Contents Come blest Spirit from above, Come and fill my heart with love; Love to God, and love to man, Love to do the good I can; Love to high, and love to low, Love to friend, and love to foe. Love to rich, and love to poor, Love to beggar at my door. Love to young, and love to old, Love to hardened heart and cold. Love, true love, my heart within For the sinner, not the sin ; Love to holy Sabbath day, Love to meditate and pray, Love for love, for hatred even; Love like this, is born of Heaven . To my Friend Mrs. Lloyd Return to Table of Contents My very dear friend Should never depend Upon anything clever or witty, From a poor country wight When attempting to write, To one in your far famous city. Indeed I’m inclined, To fear that you’ll find These lines heavy, and quite out of joint; And now I declare, It’s no more than fair, Should this prove a dull letter, That you write me a better; And something that’s quite to the point. This having premised As at present advised, I’ll indulge in the thoughts that incline, Not with curious eye The dim future to spy, But glance backward to “Auld Lang Syne.” If I recollect right, It was a cold day quite, And not far from night When the Boarding School famous I entered. Now what could I do? Scarce above my own shoe Did I dare take a view, Or to speak, or e’en move hardly ventured. At this school I remained Till supposed to have gained Education quite good and sufficient; But one in those days, Thought deserving of praise, Would in these, be deemed very deficient. And here we will try Before the mind’s eye, To bring forward a few of that household; There were the witty, Also the pretty, But some very plain, Not a few very vain, And among them the phlegmatic and cold. Though it seems out of place I will here find a space For some few in the lower apartment; Sure this must be right, They contributed quite To our comfort, in their humble department. Here’s Lydia and Polly, And Peter the jolly, With teeth white as ivory And cheeks black as ebony, So from Africa doubtless was he; But we’ll ascend from below, And see entering just now With a Parisian bow And all in a glow Gay Monsieur Pichon, And French teacher Faucon; Also V——, the Musician, And B——, Mathematician. Monsieur Laboltierre, So brisk and debonnair Had also been there; And there’s Eggleston fair, With whom none might compare. Miss W——, romantic, Miss F——, transatlantic, And of others a score you might see. But here I propose The long list to close, With addition of only one name; Amidst the gay throng Was one lovely and young, Who brought sunshine wherever she came. She had light brown hair, Was graceful and fair, Of children many Youngest of any, And Margaret this maiden they call; A sweet smile she had That round her lips played, And with eyes bright and blue She’d a heart warm and true And disposition affectionate withal. One advantage she’ll allow That I have over her now, The same in our youthful days, when On our studies intent Over school desk we bent, Her Senior I always have been. How like to a dream Do those days to me seem, When with others preparing to enter On the world’s great stage, And with light heart engage Our part in the drama to venture. Of that school there’s not one Except thee alone, Whom now living as friend I can claim; Some have departed, Some are false hearted, And their friendship exists but in name. But that friendship’s long lived That forty years has survived, And may we not hope ’twill endure, When in flames of fire This earth will expire, And old time shall itself be no more. July 12, 1852. Escape of the Israelites, And Destruction of Pharaoh. Return to Table of Contents Ah! short-sighted monarch, dost thou think to pursue The Israel of God, and recapture them too? Hast thou so soon forgotten the plagues on thee sent, Or so hardened thy heart that thou can’st not relent? Then make ready thy chariots, a long way they’ll reach; Thou hast six hundred chosen, a captain to each. Now after them hasten , no time’s to be lost, That God worketh for them, thou’st felt to thy cost. Speed thee then, speed thee , thou’lt soon them o’ertake, Thou hast so overtasked them they’re powerless and weak. Ah! weak and defenceless they truly appear, But the Lord is their rock, they’re his special care. See that pillar that’s leading them all on their way, It’s a bright cloud by night and a dark cloud by day; And now by the Red Sea behold they encamp, But hark ! what’s that sound, it’s the war horse’s tramp. Look up, see thy enemy close by thee now, The sea lies before thee, ah! what canst thou do? Moses bids them go forward at God’s command, When the waters divide, and they walk on dry land; And the cloud that to Egypt is darkness all night, To the children of Israel, is a bright shining light. And now have the Hebrews all safely passed through The Red Sea, which Pharaoh assaying to do Is destroyed with his host, every one of them drowned, Not a man saved alive, not a single man found To return to lone Egypt, the sad news to bear To the widows and orphans made desolate there. But list! hear the rescued their glad voices raise, And to timbrel and dance add the sweet song of praise, For Pharaoh hath perished beneath the dark sea, And the long enslaved Hebrews are happy and free. July 14, 1852. Hymn, Sung at the Ordination of the Rev. Henry Allen. Return to Table of Contents We meet to-day as ne’er before, To greet a pastor of our choice, Without a single jarring note, And without one dissenting voice. Oh thou who art enthroned on high, Before whom holy angels bow, Be pleased to hear us when we sing, Accept the praises offered now. Let no one present, dare to give, The service of the lip alone; Or think if they the heart withhold, ’Twill find acceptance at thy throne. But with united heart and voice, A grateful tribute we would raise; Oh bless us all assembled now, Help us to pray, and help to praise. Thou great Immanuel, who didst lead Thy Israel all the desert through; Like them we’re weak and helpless quite, Oh! condescend to lead us too. And when our Shepherd with his flock Before thy throne shall re-appear, May every one acceptance find, And ceaseless praises offer there. Sept. 1852. Margaret's Remembrance of Lightfoot. Return to Table of Contents My beautiful steed, ’Tis painful indeed To think we are parted forever; That on no sunny day, With light spirits and gay, Over hills far away, We shall joyously travel together. Thy soft glossy mane I shall ne’er see again, Nor thy proudly arched neck ’gain behold; Nor admire that in thee, Which so seldom we see, A kind, gentle spirit, yet bold. Thou wert pleasant indeed My darling grey steed, “In my mind’s eye” thou’rt beautiful still; For when thou wert old Thy heart grew not cold, Its warm current time never could chill. Not a stone marks the spot Where they laid thee, Lightfoot, And no fence to enclose thee around; But what if there’s not, Deep engraved on my heart Thy loved image may ever be found. "The Clouds return after the Rain." Return to Table of Contents Dark and yet darker my day’s clouded o’er; Are its bright joys all fled, and its sunshine no more? I look to the skies for the bright bow in vain, For constantly “clouds return after the rain.” Must it always be thus, peace banished forever, And joy to this sad heart returned again never? I long for the rest that I cannot obtain, For the clouds, so much dreaded, return after rain. Is there not in this wide world one spot that is blessed With exemption from suffering, where one may find rest; Where sickness and sorrow no entranpe can gain, And the clouds do not return after the rain? Ah! deceive not thyself by a vain hope like this, Nor expect in this world to enjoy lasting peace: But bow with submission to God’s holy will, For the hand that afflicts is thy kind Father’s still. If my days are dark here, there are brighter above, In those pure realms of light, peace, joy, and of love; Where the air is all balm, and the skies ever fair, And the river of life, clear as crystal flows there. There also, for healing the nations, are found The leaves of the tree on which rich fruits abound; There is no need of candle, for God is their light, There never is darkness, for “ there is no night.” Oh! may I there find, when this brief life is past, By my Saviour prepared, a sweet home at last; Where sin never enters, death, sorrow, nor care, And clouds are not feared, for it never rains there. August 19, 1852. The Nocturnal Visit. Return to Table of Contents Lo the curtains of night around Palestine fall, And Jerusalem’s streets into darkness are thrown; The late-busy hum of men’s voices is hushed, And the city is clad in dark livery alone. But see through the dimness that half opened door, And slowly emerging a figure behold; A quick, furtive glance he has thrown all around, For what is he thirsting, for blood, or for gold? Stealthily, fearfully, onward he moves, So light are his footsteps you scarce hear their tread; Yet no midnight robber, no murderer is he, Then why dread recognition—of man why afraid? Let us follow his footsteps and learn where he goes; And now at the door of a house see him stand; But why wait so long ere admittance he seeks, In attempting to knock, why trembles that hand? He has come to the fountain of light and of life, Before whom ne’er suppliant sued humbly in vain; He has come for the knowledge that alone maketh rich, And without which we’re poor, though the whole world we gain. He has come to learn wisdom of that lowly one, Who spake as “never man spake” it was said; And who, though so poor and despised among men, Is the whole world’s Sustainer, creation’s great Head. But list to the words of the Saviour of men, “Verily, verily I say unto thee, That no man, except he be born again, Is permitted the kingdom of heaven to see.” How humbling to pride were these words of our Lord, What fears in his guest they serve to awaken; Though a ruler of Jews, he was yet in his sins; The first step towards heaven he never had taken. Ah! Nicodemus, how many like thee, Would perceive all their boasted religion was vain, Could they meet but his glance who “searcheth the heart, And trieth the reins of the children of men.” Sept. 9, 1852. Sovereignty of God and Free Agency of Man. Return to Table of Contents Thou art a perfect Sovereign, oh my God! And I rejoice to think that thou art so; That all events are under thy control, And that thou knowest all I think and do. But some may ask, “then why am I to blame Because I sin, if God hath made me thus?” Stop, stop, my friend, God tempteth not to sin, Thou dost it of thy own free will and choice. Though God is Sovereign, we free agents are, Accountable to him for all we do, Feel, think, or say; and at the last great day, A most exact account must render too. With this conclusion be thou satisfied— For all who will accept him, Christ hath died . Sept. 19, 1862. God is a Sovereign, man free agent too; How these to reconcile I do not know: But this I know, if lost , the blame is mine , If saved, the praise , oh God! be only thine . Autumn and Sunset. Return to Table of Contents Hail, sober Autumn! thee I love, Thy healthful breeze and clear blue sky; And more than flowers of Spring admire Thy falling leaves of richer dye. ’Twas even thus when life was young, I welcomed Autumn with delight; Although I knew that with it came The shorter day and lengthened night. Let others pass October by, Or dreary call its hours, or chill; Let poets always sing of Spring, My praise shall be of Autumn still. And I have loved the setting sun, E’en than his rising beams more dear; ’Tis fitting time for serious thought, It is an hour for solemn prayer. Before the evening closes in, Or night’s dark curtains round us fall, See how o’er tree, and spire, and hill, That setting sun illumines all. So when my earthly race is run, When called to bid this world adieu, Like yonder cloudless orb I see, May my sun set in glory too. Oct 8, 1852. “My times are in thy hand.” Return to Table of Contents My times are in thy hand, my God! And I rejoice that they are so; My times are in thy hand, my God, Whether it be for weal or woe. My times are in thy hand, I know; And if I’m washed in Jesus’ blood, Though dark my pathway here below, It leads directly up to God. Since all thy children chastening need, And all so called must feel the rod, Why for exemption should I plead, For am I not thy child, my God? Ah why go mourning all the day, Or why should I from trials shrink? Though much of sorrow’s in my cup, The cup that I am called to drink. ’Tis needful medicine I know, By the most skilful hand prepared, Strictly proportioned to my wants, There’s not a drop that can be spared. Then why desponding, oh my soul, Because of trials here below? They’re all appointed by my God, My times are in thy hand, I know. Jan. 18, 1863. November. Return to Table of Contents Remember the poor, in the dark chilly day, When November’s loud winds are fierce blowing; Remember the poor, at thy plentiful board, When the fire on thy bright hearth is glowing. Remember the poor in yon damp dismal shed, Without food, fire, or clothing to warm them; And not like the Priest or the Levite pass by, But Samaritan like stop and cheer them. Remember the slave, the poor down trodden slave, And do all in thy power to relieve him; And when from oppression he strives to be free, Do thou open thy gate to receive him. For what saith the Lord is thy duty to such, “To his master thou shalt not return him,” 3 3. See Deuteronomy, 23:15, 16. But give him a home near thy own if he likes, And be sure not to vex or oppress him. When parents or children or brethren you meet, In our happy New England and free, Then remember the slave, the heart broken slave, For thy brother, thy brother is he. Remember him also when prayer for thyself, In affliction’s dark hour doth ascend; And when crying to God the father of all, Let his wants with thine own kindly blend. And at the last day, when the rich and the poor Shall alike by the Judge be regarded; When master and slave shall appear before God, And a sentence impartial awarded,— The cup of cold water He will not forget, But with other good acts bring to mind; “When naked ye clothed me, when hungry ye fed,” Will be uttered in accents most kind. But when, blessed Saviour, ah when was the time, That we fed, clothed, or visited thee? “Such acts,” He replies, “to my poor brethren done, I consider as done unto me.” Nov. 1862. Winter. Return to Table of Contents His thundering car Is heard from afar, And his trumpet notes sound All the country around; Stop your ears as you will, That loud blast and shrill Is heard by you still. Borne along by the gale, In his frost coat of mail, Midst snow, sleet, and hail, He comes without fail, And drives all before him, Though men beg and implore him Just to let them take breath, Or he’ll drive them to death. But he comes in great state, And for none will he wait, Though he sees their distress Yet he spares them no less, For the cold stiff limb Is nothing to him; And o’er countless blue noses, His hard heart he closes. His own children fear him And dare not come near him; E’en his favorite child 4 4. Spring. Has been known to run wild At his too near approach, Her fear of him such, And to shriek and to howl And return scowl for scowl. Indeed few dare him face, And all shun his embrace; For though pleasant his smile, Yet one thinks all the while Of that terrible frown, Which the hardiest clown, Though a stout hearted man, Will avoid if he can. And though many maintain That he gives needless pain, I confess I admire This venerable sire. True his language is harsh, And his conduct oft rash, And we know well enough, That his manners are rough; Yet still in the main, We’ve no right to complain, For if we prepare for him, And show that we care for him, We may in him find A true friend and kind. With us he will stay Three months to a day, So let us prepare The snug elbow chair, Which placed by the fire For the hoary-head sire, May comfort impart And cheer his old heart. Though he seems so unkind, Yet always you’ll find That his cold heart will warm, And he’ll do you no harm If your own can but feel For your poor neighbor’s weal; And with pity o’erflowing, Your free alms bestowing, Never closing your door On the suffering poor; But clothe, feed, and warm them, And see that none harm them. E’en to others just do As you’d wish them by you. Let’s adopt but this plan, To do good when we can, And the dark stormy day Will full quick pass away, And we never complain Of cold weather again, Or of tedious long hours, That are spent within doors; For when winter winds blow, And we’re hedged up by snow, We shall find full employment, And lack no enjoyment. Thus prepared, let him come, He will find us at home; Bring wind, hail, or snow, Blow high, or blow low, We’re prepared for him now. Then come winter, come, You’ll find us at home. Nov. 5, 1852.