With burnish'd ivy for its screen, And moss, that glows as fresh and green As though beneath an April cloud.— Who says the widow's heart must break, A kinder truer voice I hear, Which even beside that mournful bier Whence parents' eyes would hopeless shrink, Bids weep no more-O heart bereft, How strange, to thee, that sound! A widow o'er her only son, Feeling more bitterly alone The friends that press officious round. Yet is the voice of comfort heard, For Christ hath touch'd the bier- The swelling bosom dares not sigh, Even such an awful soothing calm VOL. II. On Christian mourners while they wait, And such the tones of love, which break Quelling th' embitter'd spirit's strife- "Am I believe, and die no more.”— Unchang'd that voice-and though not yet The dead sit up and speak, Answering its call; we gladlier rest Our darlings on earth's quiet breast, And our hearts feel they must not break. Far better they should sleep awhile Within the church's shade, Nor wake, until new heaven, new earth, Meet for their new immortal birth For their abiding place be made, Then wander back to life, and lean On our frail love once more. 'Tis sweet, as year by year we lose Friends out of sight, in faith to muse How grows in Paradise our store. Then pass, ye mourners, cheerly on, Then cheerly to your work again Over the grave their Lord have met. CII. CHURCHING OF WOMEN. Is there, in bowers of endless spring, One known from all the seraph band More exquisitely bland! Here let him speed: to-day this hallow'd air Ouly let Heaven her fire impart, No richer incense breathes on earth: "A spouse with all a daughter's heart," Fresh from the perilous birth, To the great Father lifts her pale glad eye, Like a reviving flower when storms are hush'd on high. O what a treasure of sweet thought Is here! what hope of joy and love All in one tender bosom brought, For the all-gracious Dove To brood o'er silently, and form for heaven Each passionate wish and dream to dear affection given. Her fluttering heart, too keenly blest, Would sicken, but she leans on Thee, Sees Thee by faith on Mary's breast, Slight tremblings only of her veil declare a Soft answers duly whisper'd to each soothing prayer. We are too weak, when Thou dost bless, To bear the joy-help Virgin-born! By thine own mother's first caress, That wak'd thy natal morn! Help, by the unexpressive smile, that made A heaven on earth around the couch where Thou wast laid! a When the woman comes to this office, the rubric (as it was altered at the last review, directs that she be decently apparelled, i.e. as the custom and order was formerly, with a white covering or veil. Wheatley on the Common Prayer, c. xiii. sect. i. 3. |