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J. R. Chandler (search for this): chapter 9
imes dream their pleasant smiles Still on me sweetly fall! Their tones of love I faintly hear My name in sadness call. I know that they are happy, With their angel plumage on; But my heart is very desolate, To think that they are gone. The departed!-the departed! They visit us in dreams, And they glide above our memories, Like shadows over streams; But where the cheerful lights of home In constant lustre burn, The departed — the departed Can never more return! A mother's monument. J. R. Chandler. The flowers that spring up on the sunny side of hillocks, beneath remnants of snow-banks, are very small and entirely scentless, and the little beauty which is imputed to them, is chiefly from contrast with the desolation and coldness in which they are found. The death of a friend who never spared a fault of my character, nor found a virtue which he did not praise, had cast a gloom over my mind, which no previous deprivation had produced. I remember how sceptical and heart-s
Adam (search for this): chapter 9
ne standing beneath the dome of the Temple, with his cloak of pall, and face of darkest gloom; and wherever that figure might take its stand, the spot would seem a sepulchre. He watched the mourners as they lowered the coffin down. And so, said he to Adam Forrester, with the strange smile in which his insanity was wont to gleam forth, you have found no better foundation for your happiness than on a grave! But as the Shadow of Affliction spoke, a vision of Hope and Joy had its birth in Adam's mind, even from the old man's taunting words; for then he knew what was betokened by the parable in which the Lily and himself had acted; and the mystery of Life and Death was opened to him. Joy! Joy! he cried, throwing his arms towards Heaven, on a grave be the site of our Temple; and now our happiness is for eternity! With these words, a ray of sunshine broke through the dismal sky and glimmered down into the sepulchre, while, at the same moment, the shape of old Walter Gascoigne s
Walter Gascoigne (search for this): chapter 9
s errand. It was a near relative of Lilias Fay, an old man by the name of Walter Gascoigne, who had long labored under the burthen of a melancholy spirit, which was d now relapsed into the wild simplicity of nature. Not here! cried old Walter Gascoigne. Here, long ago, other mortals built their Temple of Happiness. Seek anoth shrieks were often heard to echo beneath the cliffs. And see! cried old Gascoigne, is the stream yet pure from the stain of the murderer's hands? Methinks rd. But still, she watched the daily growth of the Temple; and so did old Walter Gascoigne, who now made that spot his continual haunt, leaning whole hours together e funeral procession brought Lilias thither in her coffin, they beheld old Walter Gascoigne standing beneath the dome of the Temple, with his cloak of pall, and facemered down into the sepulchre, while, at the same moment, the shape of old Walter Gascoigne stalked drearily away, because his gloom, symbolic of all earthly sorrow,
Temple (search for this): chapter 9
sess together, seeking a proper site for their Temple of Happiness. They were themselves a fair anWhy should we seek farther for the site of our Temple-? It was indeed a delightful spot of earth, and find no lovelier spot. We will build our Temple here. But their sad old companion, who had gne. Here, long ago, other mortals built their Temple of Happiness. Seek another site for yours! so deep a stain; or, at least, that no joyous Temple should be built there. This is very sad, saascade. This glen was made on purpose for our Temple! And the glad song of the brook will be aleating, where in this world shall we build our Temple! Ah! have you already asked yourselves thaas growing at their feet. We will build our Temple here, said they, simultaneously, and with an iilt or sorrow, to desecrate this site of their Temple of Happiness. In a little time longer, whil towards Heaven, on a grave be the site of our Temple; and now our happiness is for eternity! Wit[2 more...]
Adam Forrester (search for this): chapter 9
. So, one breezy and cloudless afternoon, Adam Forrester and Lilias Fay set out upon a ramble over aking poetry of the pretty name of Lilias, Adam Forrester was wont to call her Lily, because her forr than this sport of fantasy. Yes, said Adam Forrester, we might seek all day, and find no lovelil their household mirth. Under this type, Adam Forrester and Lilias saw that the old man spoke of s, there are lovelier spots than this, said Adam Forrester, soothingly-spots which sorrow has not bliosterity. Where in the world, exclaimed Adam Forrester, despondingly, shall we build our Temple o may build it. While the old man spoke, Adam Forrester and Lilias had carelessly thrown their eyecation. On the preceding evening, after Adam Forrester had taken leave of his mistress, he lookede of Happiness! In his unutterable grief, Adam Forrester had no purpose more at heart, than to convred the coffin down. And so, said he to Adam Forrester, with the strange smile in which his insan[2 more...]
Easter (search for this): chapter 9
p of the frail anemone, The reed by every wandering whisper thrilled. Where but in such a spot, and in a country full of such, could genius itself have ever penned the Elegy? Who but an English poet could have been its author?-one who had revelled from childhood in scenes like those he describes in that immortal poem, and who had lain the dust of his own mother where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. From what other source than a mountain church-yard could spring the spirit of Easter day, --so sublimely cheerful, so divinely true? It was the graves that appealed to the poetess; to them she uttered her appeal:--And you, ye graves! upon whose turf I stand, Girt with the slumber of the hamlet's dead, Time, with a soft and reconciling hand, The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread O'er every narrow bed: But not by time, and not by nature sown Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown. Christ hath arisen! Oh, not one cherished head Hath, 'midst the
John Pierpont (search for this): chapter 9
y grave shall be a blessed shrine, Adorned with nature's brightest wreath; Each glowing season shall combine Its incense there to breathe; And oft, upon the midnight air, Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. And oh! sometimes, in visions blest, Sweet spirit, visit our repose, And bear, from thine own world of rest, Some balm for human woes; What form more lovely could be given, Than thine, to messenger of heaven! The grave and the tomb. from an article in the Token for 1832. John Pierpont. The tomb is not so interesting as the grave. It savors of pride in those who can now be proud no longer; of distinction, where all are equal; of a feeling of eminence even under the hand of the great leveller of all our dust. And how useless to us are all the ensigns of magnificence that can be piled up above our bed! What though a sepulchral lamp throw its light up to the princely vaults under which my remains repose! They would rest as quietly were there no lamp there. The sle
Man (search for this): chapter 9
ditor in reply to a letter communicating the design of this volume. Fair land, whose loveliness hath filled My soul's imaginings, At whose high names my heart hath thrilled, Through all its finest strings! There was a sunny light around My idlest thought of thee; I dreamed that thou a hallowed ground, A fairy land, must be; I thought upon thy boundless woods, Thy prairies broad and lone,-- I thought upon thy rushing floods, Thy cataracts' thunder-tone,-- On valleys, 'midst whose summer pride Man's foot hath never been, On cities rising, white and wide, Amidst the forest green; I sent my heart to many a nook Beyond the western waves; Strange, that its dreams should overlook The places of thy graves! I thought upon the Indian race, Those phantoms of the past, Following, unchecked, the patient chase, Through forests, drear and vast; I thought of all thy mighty ones, The giants of their time, Whose names their country proudly owns Eternal, and sublime. But of the myriads in their shroud
M. A. Browne (search for this): chapter 9
o sad thought, Awaked us to no toiling day; Together, when the school-bell called, Our willing youthful feet obeyed, And when the eve grew dim, our heads Were on the self-same pillow laid Ah! never more that happy voice Will cheer me on life's thorny way, And never more that buoyant frame Will rise with me at peep of day; But low within the silent vault, Beneath the dull and senseless clod, It rests until that trump shall sound, The awaking trump of God! A thought of Mount Auburn. Miss M. A. Browne. Of Liverpool. Received by the Editor in reply to a letter communicating the design of this volume. Fair land, whose loveliness hath filled My soul's imaginings, At whose high names my heart hath thrilled, Through all its finest strings! There was a sunny light around My idlest thought of thee; I dreamed that thou a hallowed ground, A fairy land, must be; I thought upon thy boundless woods, Thy prairies broad and lone,-- I thought upon thy rushing floods, Thy cataracts' thunder-to
Edwin Buckingham (search for this): chapter 9
wing his arms towards Heaven, on a grave be the site of our Temple; and now our happiness is for eternity! With these words, a ray of sunshine broke through the dismal sky and glimmered down into the sepulchre, while, at the same moment, the shape of old Walter Gascoigne stalked drearily away, because his gloom, symbolic of all earthly sorrow, might no longer abide there, now that the darkest riddle of humanity was read. The two graves. see preceding sketches of the monuments of Buckingham and McLellan. I. McLellan, Jun. Here, in the ray of morn and eve, Gleams the white stone, that bears his name; While far away, beneath the sea, Is sepulchred his frame. But here, with solemn step, may come Affection, with her streaming eye, The father, with his manly grief, The mother, with her mournful sigh, The brother, with his brow of care, The sister, with her secret prayer. Dear Youth! when seeking, in a foreign land, New vigor for thy wasted form, How fondly didst thou pant once
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