Ah, empty are the mother’s arms
  Which clasp a vanished form;
A darling spared from life’s alarms,
  And safe from earthly storm.

In absent reverie, she hears
  That voice, nor can forget;
The fond illusion disappears,—­
  Her arms are empty, yet.

In Deo Fides.

Almighty God!  Supreme!  Most High! 
  Before Thy throne, in reverence, we kneel;
We cannot realize Thine infinity;
  Beholding not, we can Thy presence feel;
Though veiled impenetrably, Thou dost reveal
Such evidence as clouds cannot conceal!

Acknowledged, though unseen, Almighty Power! 
  Within its secret depths, the bosom pays
In pleasure’s or affliction’s calmer hour,
  The heart’s sincerest offering of praise;
Intuitive, unuttered prayers arise
Without the outstretched arms, or reverently clos-ed eyes.

Down deep within the soul’s mysterious seat,
  The voice of reason, and inherent sense,
Admits Thy Sovereign Power, and doth entreat
  The guidance of a Just Omnipotence;
Thus doth the human essence e’er depend
On that Supreme.  Eternal.  Without End.

Supreme, Mysterious Power!  Whate’er Thou be,
  Can e’er our mortal natures comprehend,
This side the veil which shrouds futurity,
  Thy Wisdom, Power, and Love?  The end
Of all conclusions, reasoned o’er and o’er,
We know Thou dost exist!  Can we know more?

Shall Love, as the Bridal Wreath, Whither and Die?

Shall love as the bridal wreath, wither and die? 
  Or remain ever constant and sure,
As the years of the future pass rapidly by,
And the waves of adversity’s tempest roll high,
  Ever changeless and fervent endure?

Mistake not the fancy, that lasts but a day,
  For the love which eternally thrives;
That sentiment false, is as prone to decay
As the wreath is to fade and to wither away;
  And like it, it never revives.

Shall Our Memories Live When the Sod Rolls Above Us?

Shall our memories live, when the sod rolls above us
  And marks our last home with a mouldering heap? 
Shall the voices of those who profess that they love us
  E’er mention our names, as we dreamlessly sleep?

Will their eyes ever dim at some fond recollection,
  Or their hands ever plant a small flower o’er the breast,
Or will they gaze with a sad circumspection
  At the tablets, which tell of our last solemn rest?

Ah! soon shall the hearts which our memories cherish
  Forget, as they strive with the cares of their own;
And even the last dim remembrance shall perish
  As we peacefully slumber, unwept and unknown.

But if our lives, though of transient duration,
  Are filled with some work in humanity’s name,
Some uplifting effort, or self-immolation,
  Our memories shall live in the temples of Fame.

A Reverie.