Scarce was the sacred service done, When, whispering through the waving trees, And strewed the rose-leaves, fair and white, As if some angel had been sent, And flowers of love and peace been given, To strew our darling's path to Heaven; "I HAVE FOUGHT WITH BEASTS AT EPHESUS." "HAVE fought with beasts!" oh, blessed Paul, How small were that, if that were all ! But harder far, to fight, with men, Than beard the lions, in their den! Men, who concert the secret snare, Men, who their sanctity proclaim, Men, who will sit and eat your bread, But, Saviour, Thou hast known them all; Peter, Iscariot, and Saul: And, worse than all, Thy Father's face Averted from Thee, for a space. Why should the servant hope to be, Then, Saviour, let me clasp Thy Cross, Welcome the strife with godless men; DELICIIS MEIS, G. H. D.; IN MARE NAVIGANTI. WHEN morning streaks the eastern sky, And wakes the world for me; To thee, my first affections fly, Through all the close and crowded day, While, from the far and fading West, The day dies duskily; With thee, my spirit seeks its rest, My darling, on the sea. The silent watches of the night, Still find my soul with thee; And dreams restore thee, fond and bright, My darling, on the sea. By day or night, in toil or rest, With thee, my fond heart finds its rest, And, come what can, of pains or cares, Of joys, or griefs, to me; I still will shield thee, with my prayers, RIVERSIDE, August 30, 1852. "PERFECT, THROUGH SUFFERINGS." HEB. II. 10. "PERFECT, through sufferings:" may it be, That brings me nearer to my God. "Perfect, through sufferings:" be Thy Cross The crucible, to purge my dross! Welcome, for that, its pangs, its scorns, Its scourge, its nails, its crown of thorns. "Perfect, through sufferings:" heap the fire, And pile the sacrificial pyre; But spare each loved and loving one, And let me feel the flames, alone. "Perfect, through sufferings:" urge the blast, It recks not where the dust be trod, THE BREAKERS, June 1, 1853. THE CHURCH OF THE HOLY INNOCENTS, (IN ALBANY ;) "A HOUSE OF PRAYER FOR ALL PEOPLE;" Was Erected by a Childless Man, as the Memorial of his Four Dead Children. In the Chancel, is a mural tablet, of the purest marble, with the simple record of their names and deaths, in four compartments, surrounded and separated by an exquisite wreath of lilies of the valley, the leaves and flowers, together; the design of a young saint, (the wife of the architect,) who came from a Northern climate, to find, with us, an early grave. At the foot of the tablet, a lamb is sleeping, on the cross. "Behold the lilies, how they grow." "Of such, is the kingdom of God." SWEET lilies of the valley, ye have been, From earliest childhood, my instinctive joy; That tricksome spring, in her embroidery weaves. I've twined you, on the breast of blushing bride, And childless sorrow kissed the rod, and smiled. Ye charm, anew, my meditative heart; Four lovely children glide, into the grave; Enwreathed with lilies, he records his loss; "RORES, FLORES." WHEN April showers Wake up the flowers, From their long winter's sleep, The crocus starts, The rose-bud parts, The fragrant violets peep. When tear-drops fall, On penitential heart, The perfect peace, Like flowers in Spring, will start. TO ONE OF RAPHAEL'S ANGELS.* "Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my FATHER which is in heaven." SWEET angel, while I gaze on thee, So mute, so meek, so mild, I deem that thou must surely be To whom the SAVIOUR said, such grace, Sweet angel, I would be like thee, * That one of the two at the foot of the Madonna di S. Sisto, which is leaning on both arms. |