I HAVE a Friend so precious,
He loves me with such tenderness,
He loves so faithfully.
I could not live apart from Him,
I love to feel Him nigh,
And so we dwelt together,
My Lord and I.
Sometimes I'm faint and weary,
He knows that I am weak,
And so He bids me lean on Him,
His help I gladly seek.
He leads me in the paths of light
Beneath a sunny sky,
And so we walk together,
My Lord and I.
He knows how much I love Him,
He knows I love Him well,
But with what love He loveth me
My tongue could never tell.
It is an everlasting love,
In ever rich supply,
And so we love each other,
My Lord and I.
I tell Him all my sorrows,
I tell Him all my joys,
I tell Him all that pleases me,
I tell Him what annoys;
He tell me what I ought to do,
He tells me what to try,
And so we talk together,
My Lord and I.
He knows how I am longing
Some burdened soul to win,
And so He bids me go and speak
A loving word for Him.
He bids me tell His wondrous love,
And why He came to die,
And so we work together,
My Lord and I.
I have His yoke upon me,
And easy 'tis to bear;
In the burden that He carried
I gladly take a share,
For when I have it on me
I always feel Him nigh,-
We bear them both together,
My Lord and I.
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.
OH that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
“Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!”
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blessed by the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same,
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear :
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly as the precept were her own;
And while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream that thou art she.
My Mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.-
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties, ere I left my home.
The biscuit or confectionery plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed,
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed ;
All this and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joys to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may ;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, the jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin
(And thou wast happier than myself the while),
Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile; Could those few pleasant days again appear
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might—
But no-what here we call our life is such
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed), Shoots into part at some well havened isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the flood, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar"; And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life, long since has anchored by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain the rest, Always from port withheld, always distressedMe, howling blasts drive devious, tempest tossed, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course, Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise— The son of parents passed into the skies. And now farewell-Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done, By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again : To have renewed the joys that once were mine Without the sin of violating thine :
And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
Ah that maternal smile! It answers-Yes.
I heard the bell toll on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it such ?-It was-Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more !
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived,
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,.
Children, not thine, have trod my nursery floor;
And when the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap,-
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
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