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300 SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH

But I'd bow to the light that God has given, 
The nobler light of mind, 
The only light, save that of Heaven, 
That should free-will homage find.

STANZAS. 

I WOULD not have thee deem my heart 
Unmindful of those higher joys,
Regardless of that better part 
Which earthly passion ne'er alloys. 
I would not have thee think I live 
Within heaven's pure and blessed light, 
Nor feeling, nor affection give 
To Him who makes my pathway bright.

I would not chain to mystic creeds
A spirit fetterless and free;   
The beauteous path to heaven that leads 
Is dimm'd by earthly bigotry: 
And yet, for all that earth can give, 
And all it e'er can take away, 
I would not have that spirit rove
One moment from its heavenward way. 

I would not that my heart were cold 
And void of gratitude to Him, 
Who makes those blessings to unfold, 
Which by our waywardness grow dim. 
I would not lose the cherish'd trust 
Of things within the world to come,––
The thought, that when their joys are dust, 
The weary have a peaceful home. 

For I have left the dearly loved, 
The home, the hopes of other years, 


SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH       301 

And early in its pathway proved 
Life's rainbow hues were form'd of tears. 
I shall not meet them here again, 
Those loved and lost, and cherish'd ones, 
Bright links in young affection's chain, 
In memory's sky unsetting suns. 

But perfect in the world above, 
Through suffering, woe, and trial here, 
Shall glow the undiminish'd love 
Which clouds and distance fail'd to sear; 
but I have linger'd all to long, 
Thy kind remembrance to engage, 
And woven but a mournful song, 
Wherewith to dim thy page. 

THE FALL OF WARSAW. 

THROUGH Warsaw there is weeping,
And a voice of sorrow now, 
For the hero who is sleeping, 
With death upon his brow; 
The trumpet-tone will waken 
No more his martial tread,
Nor the battle-ground be shaken, 
When his banner is outspread! 
Now let our hymn 
Float through the aisle, 
Faintly and dim, 
Where moonbeams smile; 
Sisters, let our solemn strain
Breathe a blessing o'er the slain! 

There's a voice of grief in Warsaw, 
The mourning of the brave
O'er the chieftain who is gather'd
Unto his honour'd grave; 

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