Thy love alone, my Saviour God,
True satisfaction can impart;
Can fill this aching void I feel,
And give contentment to my heart.
Oh! cheer me by thy presence, Lord,
Increase my faith an hundred fold;
Be thy name on my forehead found,
Mine in thy book of life enrolled.
Dec. 19, 1862.
* * * * *
Forever closed that dark blue eye,
Full and expressive, pensive too;
Thy light brown hair, and face so fair,
And graceful form are hid from view.
A fair young girl was to the altar led
By him she loved, the chosen of her heart;
And words of solemn import there were said,
And mutual vows were pledged till death should part.
But life was young, and death a great way off,
At least it seemed so then, on that bright morn;
And they no doubt, expected years of bliss,
And in their path the rose without a thorn.
Cherished from infancy with tenderest care,
A precious only daughter was the bride;
And when that young protector’s arm she took,
She for the first time left her parents’ side.
With all a woman’s tender, trustful heart,
She gave herself away to him she loved;
Why should she not, was he not all her own,
A choice by friends and parents too approved?
How rapidly with him the days now fly,
With him the partner of her future life;
Happy and joyous as a child she’d been,
Happy as daughter, happier still as wife.
But ere eight months in quick succession passed,
One to each human heart a dreaded foe,
Entered her house, and by a single stroke,
Blasted her hopes, and laid her idol low.
Three months of bitter anguish was endured,
But hope again revived, and she was blest,
When pressing to her heart a darling child,
Whose little head she pillowed on her breast.
Not long is she permitted to enjoy,
This sweetest bud of promise to her given;
Short as an angel’s visit was its stay,
When God, who gave it, took it up to heaven.
Ah, what a contrast one short year presents!
Replete with happiness—replete with woe;
In that brief space, a maiden called, and wife,
Widow and mother written—childless too.
Surely my friend, I need not say to thee,
Look not to earth for what it can’t bestow;
’Tis at the best a frail and brittle reed,
Which trusting for support, will pierce thee through.
Then let us look above this fleeting earth,
To heaven and heavenly joys direct our eyes;
No lasting happiness this world affords—
“He builds too low who builds below the skies.”
Weston, Dec. 1, 1852.
“They will not frame
their doings to turn unto their God.