And he that's skilled in Canaan's tongue, Where'er his foot has trod,
Has found with his, some accent strung In unison to God.
The toiler in his city walls,
The journeyer on the sea,
The dweller of imperial halls,
And he of low degree—
Man, in his northern world of snow,
Who herds from man apart, ·
In India's vales, where soft winds blow, Or Afric's mighty heart, —
The foreigner and he at home,
The stranger by the way,
Whoe'er has enterprize to roam,
Or who content to stay;
If of this holy brotherhood,
Each bosom beats the same,·
And each one in the Son of God
Has part, that wears his name.
Where'er thou stray'st or tarryest, know! If cast with Him thy lot,
Thou mayst not in life's passage go
Where kindred mind is not;
Where is not found some follower still,
His witness in each clime
Men keeping cov'nant, whom He will
Keep when sealed up is time.
IN Boston is a street, about a rod
From her famed Common, by men seldom trod;
Never by the mere lounger, or the fair,
To kill off time, or sport attractions there.
'Tis shunned by such as play the flutterer's part
In folly's sunshine; - by the wise in heart
Its thought is entertained. Ranged on each side
Are mansions, not of opulence or pride,
Of structure simple; taste was not invoked
In rearing these. Envy itself, provoked,
Could find no food in gorgeous trappings here.
Yet taste is wanting not, though still severe;
And you may note, in marble, o'er the door,
Each owner's name. Of fame's selectest store
Are some of these. The wise, the good, the great-
And he* among them, whom the cares of state
This moment occupy, - New England's son,
Confessedly, who has her suffrage won,
And wears it too. His domicil, though fit
For use, before he shall inhabit it,
May years pass on !
Here, where earth's kindred meet, And friends convene, how silent is the street ! Each, in due time, takes lodgings, and the gate, Closed sullenly upon him, seems to wait,
Patient, yet surely, till 'tis oped again,
And one more swells the long forgotten train
Of those who, once within that sombre cell,
Till time breaks up, in solitude shall dwell.
Two, lately, 'twas my lot to see, and they
Were here to take possession. In array,
Not like the accustomed bustle that attends,
Methought, the change of habitation;-friends
In concourse sad were with them; - holy rite,
With prayer and dirge, was ordered; and the sight
Of these new tenants was unwonted, such
As in gay life we see not.
Of thought intense prevailing, as on them,
Mother and child, men looked. A very gem
Of beauty was that infant, save, its cheeks
Were stilly pale; and this flower of three weeks -
Folding itself in its sweet bud, as 'twere
Shrinking away from our rough winds of care-
Seemed sleeping — 'twas a kind and quiet sleep.
Its mother, too! the voice of friendship said—
And love confirmed—that grace and nature shed
Early, on her, attraction. She was one
Not formed to dazzle in the garish sun,
But loving shade, yet not inactive shade.
She grew and bloomed, and now, where such ne'er
†The departed consort and infant son of a beloved divine in this city, who were interred with the appropriate and affecting services of the Protestant Episcopal Church.
She lives, with virtuous names not born to die,
And her bright record is inscribed on high.
And is she here? - why weep these? - why, by light Of sickly taper, to this house of night
Comes she? They pause, I notice, and delay
The journeyer's entrance. Grieving friends give way,
And he, who with that partner long had dwelt
In fairer mansion, by her side has knelt
In anguish sore, and takes the last fond look.
Oh, God! 'twas the heart's agony that shook
The servant then. Will he not tarry too?
Is no bed decked within, for love so true?
Ah, in death's undress is she hither brought;
Her couch is damp, her chamber cheerless-nought
To welcome her and babe. What street is this,
Whose dwellers thus are shorn of home's sweet bliss?
And to the world's turmoil and daily strife,
The business, pleasure, weal and wo of life
Are all insensible? A willing search
Will find it soon. 'Tis under St. Paul's Church.
I STOOD beside his dying bed,
His clammy hand was clasped in mine,—
And if there's hope, look up, I said;
He dropt a tear, but made no sign.
I asked him of his misspent years,
He had but reached to manhood's prime, And oh, what griefs, and guilt, and fears Trooped where he stood on shores of time!
For he to drink had yielded up
His intellect and noble strength;
And now the demon of the cup,
Exulting, claimed his prey at length.
I spake then of the broken law,
Of ONE who had the forfeit paid,
And that his faith might strongly draw
On Him, the Merciful, for aid.
Renounce thy sins, and loathe thy life,
So wearily to folly given;
And He will calm thy bosom's strife,
And He will lift thy soul to heaven.
He cried, "What shall a sinner do!"
He greatly wept - "What doom is mine! His face was changed; despair, I knew, Prevailed, and still he made no sign.
I told him that a shoreless sea
Is grace, for mortals stained with sin; To doubt were crime- and safely he, Defiled, indeed, might venture in.
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