GEORGE W. BETHUNE. THE REV. George W. Bethune, D. D., is a native of New York, and is widely known as one of the finest scholars and most eloquent preachers in the American churches. He is author of several volumes of literary and religious discourses, which are as much distinguished as his poems by a genial, loving spirit, and a classical elegance of diction. A collection of his poems was published in Philadelphia in 1847. Dr. Bethune has been for several years a minister of the Reformed Dutch Church in Philadelphia, where he now resides. TO MY MOTHER. My mother!-Manhood's anxious brow And sterner cares have long been mine; Yet turn I to thee fondly now, As when upon thy bosom's shrine My infant griefs were gently hushed to rest, I never call that gentle name, My mother! but I am again E'en as a child; the very same That prattled at thy knee; and fain. Would I forget, in momentary joy, The artless boy, to whom thy smile Was sunshine, and thy frown, sad night, And gazed o'er many a classic scene; That pleasant home of fruits and flowers, Would hastening come from distant toil to bless On flint-paved streets profanes the spot, Of ancient wisdom, and have won, Or bard have never taught thy son Lessons so dear, so fraught with holy truth, As those his mother's faith shed on his youth. If, by the Saviour's grace made meet, My God will own my life and love, Methinks, when singing at His feet, Amid the ransomed throng above, Thy name upon my glowing lips shall be, And I will bless that grace for heaven and thee. For thee and heaven; for thou didst tread The way that leads me heavenward, and My often wayward footsteps led In the same path with patient hand; And when I wandered far, thy earnest call Restored my soul from sin's deceitful thrall. I have been blessed with other ties, Fond ties and true, yet never deem That I the less thy fondness prize; No, mother! in my warmest dream Of answered passion, through this heart of mine. One chord will vibrate to no name but thine. Mother! thy name is widow-well I know no love of mine can fill The waste-place of thy heart, or dwell Lean on the faithful bosom of thy son, I AM alone; and yet In the still solitude there is a rush A crowd of viewless wings; I hear a gush Ye winged Mysteries, Sweeping before my spirit's conscious eye, And go forth from my very self, and fly With you far in the unknown, unseen immense Of worlds beyond our sphere-What are ye? Whence? Ye eloquent voices, Now soft as breathings of a distant flute, Now strong as when rejoices. The trumpet in the victory and pursuit ; Strange are ye, yet familiar, as ye call My soul to wake from earth's sense and its thrall. I know you now-I see With more than natural light-ye are the good, Are come from heaven to claim your brotherhood And chains, which once were yours in this sad life. Ye hover o'er the page Ye traced in ancient days with glorious thought Ye love to watch the inspiration caught From your sublime examples, and so cheer The fainting student to your high career. Ye come to nerve the soul Like him who near the Atoner stood, when He, The wrathful potents of Gethsemane, With courage strong: the promise ye have known Still keep! O, keep me near you, Compass me round with your immortal wings : Striking your triumphs from your golden strings An angel, like you, 'mid the white-robed throng. LINES WRITTEN ON SEEING THOR WALDSEN'S BAS-RELIEF REPRESENTING NIGHT. The YES! bear them to their rest; rosy babe, tired with the glare of day, Clasp them to thy soft breast, Bless them in dreams with a deep hushed delight. Yet must they wake again, Wake soon to all the bitterness of life, O Night, Canst thou not take with them a longer flight? Canst thou not bear them far E'en now all innocent-before they know To some ethereal, holier, happier height? Canst thou not bear them up Through starlit skies, far from this planet dim The O Night, cup of wrath for hearts in faith contrite? To Him, for them who slept A babe all lowly on His mother's knee, O Night, That on our souls might dawn Heaven's cheering light. So, lay their little heads Close to that human breast, with love divine O Night, On them a brother's grace of God's own boundless might. Let them immortal wake Among the breathless flowers of Paradise, O Night, And to celestial joy their kindred souls invite. There can come no sorrow, The brow shall know no shade, the eye no tears, In one unfading morrow, O Night, Nor sin, nor age, nor pain their cherub-beauty blight. Would we could sleep as they, So stainless and so calm, at rest with thee, Bear us with them away, O Night, To that ethereal, holier, happier height. |