But see on pole suspended,
A serpent now appears;
And hark! what blissful tidings
Salute the mourner’s ears.

For every one that’s bitten,
A remedy is found;
However bad the case is,
However deep the wound.

If but one spark remaineth
Of life in any soul,
Just look upon this serpent,
That look will make thee whole.

But there’s a wound that’s deeper
Than fiery serpent gave;
And bite that’s doubly fatal,
It kills beyond the grave.

And there’s a great physician,
That e’en this wound may cure;
And those to him applying,
May life and health secure.

The broken heart he healeth,
He cures the sin-sick soul;
And all who will behold him,
May look and be made whole.

“I am the way!” he crieth;
“And all who will may come,
I’ll pardon their transgression,
And safe conduct them home.

“To cleanse from all pollution,
My blood doth freely flow;
And sins, though red as scarlet,
Shall be as white as snow.

“Thy ransom to pay for thee,
E’en my own life it cost;
And he such love that slighteth,
Forever shall be lost.”

April 14, 1853.

TO MY NIECE, MRS. M.A.  CALDWELL.

When days are dark and spirits low,
And hope desponding stands,
What comfort these few words bestow,
“My times are in thy hands.” 
That thought should every fear allay,
And every cloud dispel;
For we are in the hands of One
Who “doeth all things well.”

He clothes the lily of the field,
Paints the gay tulip’s leaf,
Hears the young ravens when they cry,
And hastes to their relief. 
That little sparrow in thy path,
He noticed when it fell;
Numbereth the hairs upon thy head,
And “doeth all things well.”

Then say not when with cares oppressed,
He hath forsaken me;
For had thy father loved thee less,
Would he so chasten thee? 
A friend he takes, a Husband too,
A Child, with him to dwell;
Selects the day, the place, the hour—­
“He doeth all things well.”

His power is heard when thunders roll,
Felt when the cold wind blows,
Seen in the vivid lightning’s flash,
And in the blushing rose. 
He cares for monarch on his throne,
For hermit in his cell,
For sailor on the mighty deep—­
“He doeth all things well.”

He raiseth one to high estate,
He brings another low;
This year an empire doth create
The next may overthrow. 
What he may plan for you or me,
While here on earth we dwell,
We know not—­but of this I’m sure,
“He doeth all things well.”

Weston, April 18, 1853.

THE MORNING DRIVE.

FOR MY DAUGHTER MARGARET.