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ever dear to affection of parents, he has been called to part with all. DELIA PIKE, his companion died, June 30, 1819, aged 32 years; EMILY, his oldest daughter, May 11, 1813, aged 4 years and 4 months; ADALINE, Nov. 13, 1815, aged 5 years and 3 months; ANDREW JACKSON. March 15, 1816, aged 9 months; and POLLY, July 20, 1819, aged 7 years.
THESE lines are designed as a tribute justly due to the character of your worthy and departed friend; embracing, likewise, a notice of the loss of your children. The writer feels that you may have just reason to be sorry that they were not better executed; but with all their faults a hope is entertained that the sentiment will be conceived to be just by every one who was so happy as to have, with her, a personal acquaintance. It is possible, in the eye of a stranger, the beauties of the real poet, displayed on so excellent a character as the subject of this poem, might lose more than a plainer piece, by being considered the mere paintings of his art.
S. C. LOVELAND.
WHEN I, my brother, heard that voice which calls
The pallid messenger within thy walls,
My soul from sympathy was taught to know
That grief abides the traveller below.
The things of time do swiftly pass away,
Our friends, our joys, our lives, our ev'ry day.
Tc-day we smile, to-morrow grieve and mourn,
As one that feels the rod of God alone;
Nor can we always to our minds explain
The varied dealings of the great I AM.
But this is taught the traveller of time,
Content is gain, 'tis mis'ry to repine.
cept from God's paternal care
What clouds our minds with darkness and despair?
Is he unkind to him who feels his rod,
Who lays his friends beneath the earthly sod?
No! God is good; his care is over all
The race of man e'er since the sinful fall.
But such we find are our uniting ties,
That sorrows wake, when kindred nature dies;
Nor can we tell, before the test we know,
What are the feelings of another's woe.
If poets claim the beauties of a name,
Where worth and excellence unite with fame,
Were mine, a Homer's fire, a Virgil's grace,
I could not scorn lov'd Delia's name a place.
Chaste in her life, in manners, social, free,
With constant virtue, grace, and dignity;
Sparing of censure, ever fond of truth;
A good example from her days of youth.
One gift peculiar, as in actions known,
Was great sedateness in her features shown.
Seldom in one do better gifts unite,
In equal excellence and mental light,
Than in this favor'd of the human race,
Was found bestow'd with happiness and grace.
Horrors terrific ne'er her soul could seize, Though long she suffer'd, in her last disease. Though strength and life did daily waste away, Her mind was placid as a summer's day. Who gave her being, gave her faith in him, Increasing as the lamp of life grew dim. The love of Christ renew'd within her breast, Taught her to view, beyond the grave, her rest; To bid farewel to all terrestrial things, And rise on pinions of celestial wings; Calmly to leave the husband of her youth; And one lov'd daughter, with the God of truth, Whose travel in this land of grief below Shall speed them through life's pilgrimage of woe.
She shows the fulness of our Savior's store,
"Where sin abounded, grace abounds much more;"
Rejoic'd, enraptur'd with a Savior's charms,
View'd ev'ry one encompass'd in his arms.
Setting affections on the things above,
Nothing she view'd, could equal Jesus' love;
No king of terror could with pow'r alarm,
Nor earthly thing present a pleasing charm.
Her bright example bids us all pursue,
Till God shall call to bid this world adieu.
What solemn thoughts my musing now employ,
In retrospect of past and social joy
Domestic joys, but joys forever fled,
And little left but pond'rings on the dead.
The bright remembrance of those days now gone,
Like evening twilight to the rays of morn,
Bear the impression weighty on the mind
Of valu'd blessings ere they were resign'd.
None in the evening would have mourn'd for light,
Had morning ne'er been poured on his sight;
And is a gift less precious in our eyes,
Because the present day this gift denies?
Think then your state, ye pensioners on earth;
Learn to esteem, with gratitude, the worth
Of all donations while they are allow'd,
Since things eternal are not here bestow'd.
'Tis pleasing to behold the rising youth,
Enrob'd in innocence, in life and truth;
To see the health that in their features glows
Exceeding far the lily or the rose.
Like beauteous fields in light of solar rays,
They fill our hearts with gratitude and praise;
But ere we think, some direful blast of night.
Destroys the objects of our fond delight.
The babes are slain; the blooming children, fled;
By one rude foe all joined to the dead.
So with our brother's in the dawn of life;
Like spring they rose, but fell in nature's strife; Call'd to the mansions of the men of yore, Their father sees their little eyes no more!
Short is our stay, and short life's blessings here,
But brighter things beyond this vail appear;
Through faith in Christ our mental eyes behold
Treasures exceeding far the purest gold,
More lasting than this solid mass of earth,
Or longest days from a terrestrial birth,
Tribute of Gratitude.
My friends, the dearest title giv'n
Beneath the bending vault of heav'n,
A name for which might angels vie,
That dwell in realms of light on high,
Hear, while I sing, in grateful lays,
The noblest part of mortal praise,
Give thanks to whom much honor's due,
And bear my warm respects to you.
In Helicon's harmonious springs,
Ne'er did he bathe, who praiseful sings,
Nor strive Parnassus' heights to gain,
Or court the Nine's enrapt'ring strains;
Still with a heart attun'd to joy,
While grateful notes its strings employ,
The song shall rise as high or higher,
As though 'twas from Apollo's lyre.
Were I but bourne on seraphs' wings,
To hear the notes which Gabriel sings,
To learn the speech that angels use,
And songs, in sun-beams wrote, peruse,
Fain would I then to earth descend,
And cheerful move from friend to friend,
To thank my benefactors there,
And all their generous deeds declare.
To you, blest donors! I would raise
The sentimental song of praise,
For gifts to me, my children, wife,
The joint companions of my life.
Your bounties crown my feastful board,
And comfort, health and strength adord,
And prattling infants' smiles approve
The kind expressions of your love.
Friends of the destitute! to you
The debt of gratitude is due;
E'en he, whose bosom now o'erflows,
Is taught by ev'ry wind that biows
To love, respect, and thank the friends,
On whom for raiment he depends;
With heart sincere your favors own,
And bear your names before the throne.
As me ye clothe with worldly dress,
May you be rob'd in righteousness;
For bread, your
liberal hands afford,
Feast ye at yon angelic board→
Pluck heav'nly fruits from life's fair tree,
And drink the crystal current free;
Breathe purest air in realms above,
Where gardens bloom with flow'rs of love.
And must the naked starving poor
Shiver with cold from door to door?
Denied a home, and fire that warms,
"Mid chilling wings and blust'ring storms?
Hail, bounteous souls! 'tis yours to show,
What heav'n-imparted love can do,
To disannul the dread decree
Of sorrow, grief and poverty.
By you the poor are freely fed,
The sick befriended at their bed;
Your charity her mantle brings,
Or broods them with her lovely wings.
The widow's mansion doth rejoice,