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326      CAROLINE M. SAWYER.

"I see you not, mother, for darkness and night
Are hiding your dear loving face from my sight—
But I hear your low sobbings—dear mother, good bye!
The angels are ready to bear me on high!
I will wait for you there—but, oh, tarry not long,
Lest grief at your absence should sadden my song!"
He ceased, and his hands meekly clasp'd on his breast,
While his sweet face sank down on its pillow of rest,
Then, closing his eyes, now all rayless and dim,
Went up with the angels that waited for him!


THE VALLEY OF PEACE.

It was a beautiful conception of the Moravians to give to rural cemeteries the appropriate name of "Valleys" or "Fields of Peace."

OH, come let us go to the Valley of Peace!
There earth's weary cares to perplex us shall cease;
We will stray through its solemn and far-spreading shades,
Till twilight's last ray from each green hillock fades.
There slumber the friends whom we long must regret—
The forms whose mild beauty we cannot forget!
We will seek the low mounds where so softly they sleep,
And will sit down and muse on the idols we weep:
But we will not repine that they're hid from our eyes,
For we know they still live in a home in the skies;
But we'll pray that, when life's weary journey shall cease,
We may slumber with them in the Valley of Peace!

Oh, sad were our path through this valley of tears,
If, when weary and wasted with toil and with years,
No home were prepared, where the pilgrim might lay
Mortality's cumbering vestments away!
But sadder, and deeper, and darker the gloom,
That would close o'er our way as we speed to the tomb,


CAROLINE M. SAWYER.         327

If faith pointed not to that heavenly goal,
Where the sun of eternity beams on the soul!
Oh, who, 'mid the sorrows and changes of time,
E'er dream'd of that holy, that happier clime,
But yearn'd for the hour of the spirit's release—
For a pillow of rest in the Valley of Peace!

Oh, come, thou pale mourner, whose sorrowing gaze
Seems fix'd on the shadows of long vanish'd days,
Sad, sad is thy tale of bereavement and woe,
And thy spirit is weary of life's garish show!
Come here—I will show thee a haven of rest,
Where sorrow no longer invades the calm breast—
Where the spirit throws off its dull mantle of care,
And the robe is ne'er folded o'er secret despair!
Yet the dwelling is lonely, and silent, and cold,
And the soul may shrink back as its portals unfold;
But a bright star has dawn'd through the shades of the east,
That will light up with beauty the Valley of Peace!

Thou frail child of error! come hither and say,
Has the world yet a charm that can lure thee to stay?
Ah, no! in thine aspect are anguish and woe,
And deep shame has written its name on thy brow!
Poor outcast! too long hast thou wander'd forlorn,
In a path where thy feet are all gored with the thorn—
Where thy breast by the fang of the serpent is stung,
And scorn on thy head by a cold world is flung!
Come here, and find rest from thy guilt and thy tears,
And a sleep sweet as that of thine innocent years!
We will spread thee a couch where thy woes shall all cease
Oh, come and lie down in the Valley of Peace!

The grave! ah, the grave! 't is a mighty strong-hold,
The weak, the oppress'd, all are safe in its fold!
There penury's toil-wasted children may come,
And the helpless, the houseless, at last find a home!

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 13:37:46