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To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal !
“Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
But only time for Grief!
But in their briny bed
Hinders needle and thread !”
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
She sang this “Song of the Shirt !"
DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. Alexander Popo.
Vital spark of heavenly flame,
With sounds seraphic ring :
O death! where is thy sting?
EXTRACT FROM "A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PROGRESS.”
From my spirit's serene;
On my organized clay.
Yet I faint fast away !
On the Heaven-heights of Truth!
Oh! the soul keeps its youth —
It is weak, it is cold,
The rein drops from its hold
On, chariot, - on, soul, –
Of the strange and the sweet !
Let us love, let us live,
We are glorious — and die!
That smiles with a change,
Here we lie!
O DEATH, O BEYOND,
Ibid. “I will invite thee, from thy envious herse
To rise, and 'bout the world thy beams to spread,
May feel the heart's decaying
Yet let the grief and humbleness,
As low as silence, languish ;
To whom she gave her anguish.
O poets! from a maniac's tongue
Was poured the deathless singing !
A hopeless hand was clinging!
Your weary paths beguiling,
And died while ye were smiling !
And now, what time ye all may read
Through dimming tears his story – How discord on the music fell,
And darkness on the glory – And how, when one by one, sweet sounds
And wandering lights departed, He wore no less a loving face,
Because so broken-hearted —
He shall be strong to sanctify
The poet's high vocation,
In meeker adoration :
By wise or good forsaken;
Of one whom God hath taken!
With sadness that is calm, not gloom,
I learn to think upon him;
On God whose Heaven hath won him Who suffered once the madness-cloud,
Toward His love to blind him; But gently led the blind along
Where breath and bird could find him;
And wrought within his shattered brain,
Such quick poetic senses,
Harmonious influences !
The pulse of dew upon the grass,
His own did calmly number; And silent shadows from the trees
Fell o'er him like a slumber.
The very world by God's constraint,
From falsehood's chill removing, Its women and its men became
Beside him, true and loving !And timid hares were drawn from woods
To share his home-caresses, Uplooking to his human eyes
With sylvan tendernesses.
But while, in blindness he remained
Unconscious of the guiding,
The sweet sense of providing,
Though frenzy-desolated Nor man, nor nature satisfy,
Whom only God created !
Like a sick child that knoweth not
His mother while she blesses,
The coolness of her kisses ;
“My mother! where 's my mother ? :. As if such tender words and looks
Could come from any other!
The fever gone, with leaps of heart
He sees her bending o'er him;
Th’unweary love she bore him !
His life's long fever gave him, Beneath those deep pathetic eyes,
Which closed in death, to save him.
Thus! oh, not thus ! no type of earth
Could image that awaking, Wherein he scarcely heard the chant
Of seraphs, round him breaking
Or felt the new immortal throb
Of soul from body parted;
“My Saviour! not deserted!”
Deserted! who hath dreamt that when
The cross in darkness rested,
No love was manifested ?
Th'atoning drops averted -
That one should be deserted ?
Deserted! God could separate
From His own essence rather:
The righteous Son and Father-
His universe hath shakenIt went up single, echoless,
• My God, lam forsaken!”
It went up from the Holy's lips
Amid his lost creation,
Those words of desolation ;
Should mar not hope's fruition;
His rapture, in a vision !
I wait and watch: before my eyes
Methinks the night grows thin and gray;
Beneath the oriflamme of day!
Like one whose limbs are bound in trance
I hear the day sounds swell and grow,
The shining ones with plumes of snow!