If any, born of kindlier blood, Should ask, What maiden lies below? Say only this: A tender bud, That tried to blossom in the snow, Lies withered where the violets blow. THE PROMISE. NOT charity we ask, Nor yet thy gift refuse; Please thy light fancy with the easy task Only to look and choose. The little-heeded toy That wins thy treasured gold May be the dearest memory, holiest joy, Of coming years untold. Heaven rains on every heart, But there its showers divide, The drops of mercy choosing as they part The dark or glowing side. One kindly deed may turn The fountain of thy soul To love's sweet day-star, that shall o'er thee burn Long as its currents roll! The pleasures thou hast planned, Where shall their memory be When the white angel with the freezing hand Shall sit and watch by thee? Living, thou dost not live, If mercy's spring run dry ; What Heaven has lent thee wilt thou freely give, Dying, thou shalt not die! Behold, the tears that soothed thy sister's woe Have washed thy Master's feet! March 20, 1859. THE LIVING TEMPLE. NOT in the world of light alone, Where God has built his blazing throne, Nor yet alone in earth below, With belted seas that come and go, And endless isles of sunlit green, Is all thy Maker's glory seen: The smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves And red with Nature's flame they start From the warm fountains of the heart. No rest that throbbing slave may ask, While far and wide a crimson jet But warmed with that unchanging flame See how yon beam of seeming white Arches and spirals circling round, Wakes the hushed spirit through thine ear With music it is heaven to hear. |