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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 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 It sinks back with the death in its face!
On, chariot, — on, soul, –
Ye are all the more fleet-
Of the strange and the sweet !
Let us love, let us live,
We are glorious — and DIE!
That smiles with a change,
O DEATH, O BEYOND,
“ I will invite thee, from thy envious herse
May feel the heart's decaying –
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 shaken It went up single, echoless,
“My God, I am 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!