Life hath many mysteries!
Ceaseless when we close our eyes,
Whilst our frame in slumber lies.—
Then the soul breaks forth in gleams—
Bodiless her passage seems
Through fantastic, airy dreams.
Then we meet the dead again,
Hear them speak, and see them plain—
Morning snaps the magic chain!
Time and place are one in sleep,
Thoughts unbidden o’er us creep—
Then we smile, and then we weep.
Life’s stream owns a double flow,
One is real—one but show;
Which the real—who can know?
Body, so alive all o’er,
Feeling breathes from every pore,
What can sentient life do more?
Conscious of a mind within,
Great in thought, though soiled by sin,
Still our upward course we win!
Soul has pledge of endless life—
Doubt with her can have no strife—
Immortality is rife!
But the body—when it lies
Dead before our weeping eyes—
Where’s the hope that it may rise?
Look at yonder giant tree,
Think how dead its germ must be,
Is it not a type of thee?
What is matter? all we see,
Touch, or taste’s a mystery—
How such things from nought could be!
Mind or matter—what are they?
Tenants both of unknown clay,
Past our knowledge, some may say.
Mind, ethereal, cannot be
Else than spirit’s property—
Tho’ from matter not yet free.
Sweet, my sister! sweet to me
Is the thought that dwells with thee!
Dimly through this vale of tears
Thy angelic form appears;
I can see thy radiant brow
’Mid the white-robed seraphs now!
I can see thy heaven-born smile
Turned in love to earth awhile.
How it speaks of perils past,
Weepings o’er, and joy at last!
How it beckons us away,
From the trifles of to-day!
Sweet, my sister! sweet to me
Is the thought that dwells with thee!
Thou hast left a track behind
All who follow thee must find;
Simple faith and truthful love
Plumed thy wings to realms above,
And the savour of thy life
Is with roseate perfume rife.
Beautiful that life appears
As it glimmers through my tears,
Memory blends thy days in one;
They are here, but thou art gone!
Sweet, my sister! sweet to me,
Is the thought that dwells with thee!
Mem’ry! what of London?—what of London? Canst thou tell?
Of palaces and courts, where rank and fashion dwell—
Of music rich and rare; of beauty dressed for show—
Of eloquence in senates, fired with patriot’s glow—
Of military pomp—of parks, alive with flowers—
Of carriages and horses—of light, convivial hours—
Of worship, in dim aisles—of throng’d and lighted streets—
Of chill, November fogs—of sultry summer heats—
Of these can mem’ry tell—but they form but part of life,
’Tis of the daily spot we dwell in that memory is rife.
Out from the bustling street—a stone-throw, but not more,
Where the eye may view the thronging—the ear may catch the roar—
But it passes harmless by you—is a home I know full well,
Of that little spot in London, my memory can tell.
I mount the airy story—my pictures look so neat—
My hearth is trimly swept—I look across the street.
There sits the little Milliner, who never ceases work;
There swings the parrot in his cage, as gaudy as a Turk.
My letters lie unopen’d—my papers by their side—
The easy chair is set for me—its arms are open’d wide.
Then soon the cocoa-pot comes in—the curtains snugly drawn—
Who says a London Lodging is cheerless and forlorn?