The Chamber of the Dying

by Grace Aguilar
 

We take much pleasure in presenting our readers with the following beautiful lines from our highly gifted correspondent Miss Grace Aguilar, extracted from No. 39 of the Voice of Jacob. We hope to be favoured soon with original articles from her pen; in the mean time this must suffice, fully convinced that such sentiments lose nothing by being twice printed. We may as well in this place as elsewhere request those on whom the spirit of song has fallen, to enrich our pages with their contributions. It is comely to those whom the Lord has endowed to raise to Him their thoughts, to incite others by their harmonious words to come and seek refuge at the foot of his throne. For such an object it was that the ancient bards of Israel poured forth their undying melodies; and their inspirations yet warm the heart and invigorate the soul. It is true that sacred poetry is not likely to be as popular for the moment as that which sings of the passions of man, of war, of love, of desolation; but we would sooner be the author of a single living verse whereby the spirit may be soothed and pious feelings awakened, like the poetry of Scripture, than of all the romances that were ever written. We trust that our friends will agree with us in this; and that they will endeavour to respond to our request. We know that poetry like that of the Bible is not likely to be produced now, but something in its spirit may; and this we would gladly receive, and this too, we are sure, will please our readers.

'Tis holy, when the morning peeps
Softly through shadowy night,
When Nature gems of beauty weeps,
And the bright world so gently sleeps,
Hushed in its pomp and might.

'Tis holy, in that hour of eve,
When twilight's robe is spread,
When thought may solemn visions weave,
And care and pain and sorrow leave,
Till all but peace hath fled.

'Tis holy, when the glistening rays
Of many a silent star
Gleam on that sad and yearning gaze,
That up to Heaven its prayer would raise,
And send its dream afar.

'Tis holy, when the choral song
Fills with deep tones the air,
When, awed and hushed, the gathering throng,
Still, in the spirit's depth prolong,
The mighty voice of prayer.

'Tis holy, when loud thunders roar,
And lightning flashes round,
When ocean breaks upon the shore,
And heavy clouds the heavens rush o'er,
And winds send forth deep sound.

But holier e'en than these, the shrine,
Where low the loved is lying,
Where glimmerings of a love divine,
Through pain and sorrow softly shine,
The Chamber of the Dying.

There:--God is there. He calls His own,
In voice so gently mild,
A few brief hours, and to His throne,
Where saints and angels dwell alone,
He calls His favour'd child.

'Tis on an angel that we gaze,
A resident of heaven,
Shrouded awhile, in misty haze,
As morning veils her glowing rays,
Ere night afar is driven.

'Tis holy!--holy thus to rest,
Beside a spirit flying,
Though anguish fills the watchers' breast,
Yet e'en to them,--'tis holiest,
The Chamber of the Dying!