LITMIR.BIZ

      O, how mysterious is the bond

      Which blends the earthly with the pure,

      And mingles that which death may blight

      With that which ever must endure!

      Arise, my soul, from all below,

      And gaze upon thy destined home —

      The heaven of heavens, the throne of God,

      Where sin and care can never come.

      Compound of weakness and of strength;

      Mighty, yet ignorant of thy power;

      Loftier than earth, or air, or sea,

      Yet meaner than the lowliest flower! —

      Soaring towards heaven, yet clinging still

      To earth, by many a purer tie!

      Longing to breathe a tender air,

      Yet fearing, trembling thus to die!”

      “My sister! with that thrilling word

      What thoughts unnumbered wildly spring!

      What echoes in my heart are stirred,

      While thus I touch the trembling string!

      My sister! ere this youthful mind

      Could feel the value of thine own;

      Ere this infantine heart could bind,

      In its deep cell, one look, one tone,

      To glide along on memory’s stream,

      And bring back thrilling thoughts of thee;

      Ere I knew aught but childhood’s dream,

      Thy soul had struggled, and was free.

      I cannot weep that thou art fled;

      Forever blends my soul with thine;

      Each thought, by purer impulse led,

      Is soaring on to realms divine.

      I hear thee in the summer breeze,

      See thee in all that’s pure or fair,

      Thy whisper in the murmuring trees,

      Thy breath, thy spirit, every where.

      Thine eyes, which watch when mortals sleep,

      Cast o’er my dreams a radiant hue;

      Thy tears, “such tears as angels weep,”

      Fall nightly with the glistening dew.

      Thy fingers wake my youthful lyre,

      And teach its softer strains to flow;

      Thy spirit checks each vain desire,

      And gilds the lowering brow of woe.

      Thou gem of light! my leading star!

      What thou hast been I strive to be;

      When from the path I wander far,

      O, turn thy guiding beam on me.

      Teach me to fill thy place below,

      That I may dwell with thee above;

      To soothe, like thee, a mother’s woe,

      And prove, like thine, a sister’s love.

      When all is still, and fancy’s realm

      Is opening to the eager view,

      Mine eye full oft, in search of thee,

      Roams o’er that vast expanse of blue.

      I know that here thy harp is mute,

      And quenched the bright, poetic fire;

      Yet still I bend my ear, to catch

      The hymnings of thy seraph lyre.

      O, if this partial converse now

      So joyous to my heart can be,

      How must the streams of rapture flow,

      When both are chainless, both are free! —

      When, borne from earth for evermore,

      Our souls in sacred joy unite,

      At God’s almighty throne adore,

      And bathe in beams of endless light!”

      “Launched forth on life’s uncertain path,

      Its best and brightest gift denied,

      No power to pluck its fragrant flowers,

      Or turn its poisonous thorns aside; —

      No ray to pierce the gloom within,

      And chase the darkness with its light;

      No radiant morning dawn to win

      His spirit from the shades of night; —

      Nature, whose smile, so pure and fair,

      Casts a bright glow on life’s dark stream, —

      Nature, sweet soother of our care,

      Has not a single smile for him.

      When pale disease, with blighting hand,

      Crushes each budding hope awhile,

      Our eyes can rest in sweet delight

      On love’s fond gaze, or friendship’s smile.

      Not so with him; his soul chained down

      By doubt, and loneliness, and care,

      Feels but misfortune’s chilling frown,

      And broods in darkness and despair.

      Favored by Heaven, O, haste thee on;

      Thy blest Redeemer points the way;

      Haste o’er the spirit’s gloom to pour

      The light of intellectual day.

      Thou canst not raise their drooping lids,

      And wake them to the noonday sun;

      Thou canst not ope, what God hath closed,

      Or cancel aught his hands have done.

      But, O, there is a world within,

      More bright, more beautiful than ours;

      A world which, nursed by culturing hands,

      Will blush with fairest, sweetest flowers.

      And thou canst make that desert mind

      Bloom sweetly as the blushing rose;

      Thou canst illume that rayless void

      Till darkness like the day-gleam glows.

      Thus shalt thou shed a purer ray

      O’er each beclouded mind within,

      Than pours the glorious orb of day

      On this dark world of care and sin.

      And

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