MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. My heid is like to rend, Willie, My heart is like to break; I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie, O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, It's vain to comfort me, Willie, I never sall see mair! I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, Ay, press your hand upon my heart, O, wae's me for the hour, Willie, O, wae's me for the time, Willie, O, dinna mind my words, Willie, But O, it's hard to live, Willie, And dree a warld's shame! Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek, I'm weary o' this warld, Willie, And sick wi' a' I see, I canna live as I ha'e lived, Or be as I should be. But fauld unto your heart, Willie, And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie, O, haud me up and let me kiss Anither, and anither yet! How fast my life-strings break! Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard Step lichtly for my sake! The lav'rock in the lift, Willie, But O, remember me, Willie, And O, think on the leal, leal heart, And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin Ye never sall kiss mair! WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. RESIGNATION. But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace; THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, And beautiful with all the soul's expansion But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted! Let us be patient! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no Death! What seems so is transition: This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, - the child of our affection, Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives whom we call dead. Day after day we think what she is doing Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child: Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear, So Jesus slept; God's dying Son LINES TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, "Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid Passed through the grave, and blest the bed: him." - JOHN xx. 15. Rest here, blest saint, till from his throne The morning break, and pierce the shade. Break from his throne, illustrious morn; DR. ISAAC WATTS. GRIEF FOR THE DEAD. O HEARTS that never cease to yearn! The living are the only dead; The dead live, nevermore to die; And often, when we mourn them fled, They never were so nigh! And though they lie beneath the waves, Yet every grave gives up its dead Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom, 'T is but a mound, and will be mossed Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead The joys we lose are but forecast, ANONYMOUS. In the fair gardens of celestial peace Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks, Fair are the silent foldings of his robes, Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart, And all our pleasant haunts of earthly love We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears, O'erwatched with restless longings night and day; Forgetful of the high, mysterious right He holds to bear our cherished plants away. But when some sunny spot in those bright fields Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave! Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound, Thy garden rosebud bore within its breast Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence, HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. CALM ON THE BOSOM OF THY GOD. CALM on the bosom of thy God, Even while with us thy footstep trod, Dust, to its narrow house beneath! Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, FELICIA HEMANS. LIFE! I KNOW NOT WHAT THOU ART. LIFE! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; Life! we've been long together -Then steal away, give little warning, Say not Good Night, - but in some brighter clime A. L. BARBAULD. NOW AND AFTERWARDS. "Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past." RUSSIAN PROVERB. "Two hands upon the breast, And labor 's done; Two pale feet crossed in rest, The race is won; Two eyes with coin-weights shut, And all tears cease ; Two lips where grief is mute, Anger at peace": So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot; God in his kindness answereth not. "Two hands to work addrest Aye for his praise; Two feet that never rest Walking his ways; Two lips still breathing love, Not wrath, nor fears": So pray we afterwards, low on our knees; Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these! DINAH MARIA MULOCK. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. WHEN the hours of day are numbered, And the voices of the night Wake the better soul that slumbered To a holy, calm delight, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful firelight Dance upon the parlor wall; Then the forms of the departed The beloved ones, the true-hearted, He, the young and strong, who cherished They, the holy ones and weakly, And with them the being beauteous Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Uttered not, yet comprehended, O, though oft depressed and lonely, Such as these have lived and died! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. THIS book is all that's left me now, With faltering lip and throbbing brow I press it to my heart. For many generations past Here is our family tree; My mother's hands this Bible clasped, Ah! well do I remember those Whose names these records bear; Who round the hearthstone used to close, After the evening prayer, And speak of what these pages said My father read this holy book How calm was my poor mother's look, Thou truest friend man ever knew, The mines of earth no treasures give GEORGE P. MORRIS. GOD'S-ACRE. I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. THE night is late, the house is still; My listening heart takes up the strain, His will be done, His will be done! For Charlie's sake I will arise; for Charlie's sake, and mine. JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER. UNDER THE CROSS. I CANNOT, cannot say, Out of my bruised and breaking heart, Storm-driven along a thorn-set way, While blood-drops start From every pore, as I drag on, "Thy will, O God, be done!" |