66 HE FOR GOD ONLY, SHE FOR GOD IN HIM." 187 "HE FOR GOD ONLY, SHE FOR GOD IN HIM." MRS. CAROLINE GILMAN. WHEN Pleasure gilds thy passing hours, When nature's beauties bless thy sight, Then I'll admire with thee. When the far-clustering stars unroll I'll gaze on heaven with thee. When Music with her unsought lay I'll sing those strains with thee. But should Misfortune, hovering nigh, Should Poverty with withering hand That haunts a mind with hope destroyed, When youth and youthful pleasures fly, I'll love that calm with thee. And when unerring death, at last, And when thy spirit soars above, THE YOUNG TEACHERS. 189 THE YOUNG TEACHERS. J. WEISS. THE world throws wide its brazen gates; O grant us, in our humble sphere, To free that world from sin! We have one mind in Christ our Lord The star is resting in the sky; To worship Christ we came; The moments haste; O touch our tongues The truest worship is a life; We lay our offerings at thy feet,— LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING CHARLESTON FOR THE SEASON. 1820. SAMUEL GILMAN. FAREWELL, awhile, thou hospitable spot! And destined circuit of my earthly race. Farewell, ye friends, who hung so long and true, With sleepless care, around my fevered bed, And ye from whom a stranger's title drew Profuse attentions, delicately shed. Yet why a stranger? since no other home. Remains for me; e'en now, depressed, I fly For the last time through youthful haunts to roam, And snatch the breezes of my native sky. Yes, dear New England! help me from thy breast To wean these childish yearnings ere we part; Help me these cords to snap, these ties to wrest, So wound, and stamped, and woven in my heart. A few more bounds along thy rocky shore, A few more pensive walks among thy streams, THE WAN REAPERS. 191 A few more greetings from dear friends of yore, A few more dreams, and then dreams. Come, sacred, solid duty! at thy call no more of My cheerful will submissively shall flow, Teach me to bear the Christian herald's part, To guide each doubting, soothe each aching heart, THE WAN REAPERS. MRS. EMILY C. JUDSON. I CAME from a land where a beautiful light All wasted and worn with their wearisome toil, Still they pause not, that brave little band, Though soon their low pillows must be the strange soil Of that distant and grave-dotted strand. |