* * * * *

  Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume
  The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb;
  Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll
  Cimmerian darkness o’er the parting soul! 
  Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay,
  Chased on his night-steed by the star of day! 
  The strife is o’er,—­the pangs of Nature close,
  And life’s last rapture triumphs o’er her woes. 
  Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,
  The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze,
  On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
  Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;
  Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail
  Bethlehem’s shepherds in the lonely vale,
  When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still
  Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill!

* * * * *

  Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime
  Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time,
  Thy joyous youth began,—­but not to fade. 
  When all the sister planets have decayed;
  When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow,
  And Heaven’s last thunder shakes the world below;
  Thou, undismayed, shalt o’er the ruins smile,
  And light thy torch at Nature’s funeral pile.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

[Footnote A:  This poem was written when the author was but twenty-one years of age.]

* * * * *

A QUERY.

  Oh the wonder of our life,
  Pain and pleasure, rest and strife,
  Mystery of mysteries,
  Set twixt two eternities!

  Lo, the moments come and go,
  E’en as sparks, and vanish so;
  Flash from darkness into light,
  Quick as thought are quenched in night.

  With an import grand and strange
  Are they fraught in ceaseless change
  As they post away; each one
  Stands eternally alone.

  The scene more fair than words can say,
  I gaze upon and go my way;
  I turn, another glance to claim—­
  Something is changed, ’t is not the same.

  The purple flush on yonder fell,
  The tinkle of that cattle-bell,
  Came, and have never come before,
  Go, and are gone forevermore.

  Our life is held as with a vice,
  We cannot do the same thing twice;
  Once we may, but not again;
  Only memories remain.

  What if memories vanish too,
  And the past be lost to view;
  Is it all for nought that I
  Heard and saw and hurried by?

  Where are childhood’s merry hours,
  Bright with sunshine, crossed with showers? 
  Are they dead, and can they never
  Come again to life forever?

  No—­’t is false, I surely trow;
  Though awhile they vanish now;
  Every passion, deed, and thought
  Was not born to come to nought!

  Will the past then come again,
  Rest and pleasure, strife and pain,
  All the heaven and all the hell? 
  Ah, we know not:  God can tell.