And spring adorns
      The sunny morns
      With opening flowers;
      Upon the cross;
      And thought the loss
      Of all that earth
      Contained—­of mirth,
      Of loves, and fame,
      And pleasures’ name—­
      No sacrifice
      To win the prize,
      Which Christ secured,
      When He endured
      For us the load—­
      The wrath of God! 
      With many a tear,
      And many a fear,
      With many a sigh
      And heart-wrung cry
      Of timid faith,
      Where intervenes
      No darkening cloud
      Of sin to shroud
      The gazer’s view. 
      Thus sadly flew
      The merry spring;
      And gaily sing
      The birds their loves
      In summer groves. 
      But not for him
      Their notes they trim. 
      His ear is cold—­
      His tale is told. 
      Above his grave
      The grass may wave—­

      The crowd pass by
      Without a sigh
      Above the spot. 
      They knew him not—­
      They could not know;
      And even though,
      Why should they shed
      Above the dead
      Who slumbers here
      A single tear? 
      I cannot weep,
      Though in my sleep
      I sometimes clasp
      With love’s fond grasp
      His gentle hand,
      And see him stand
      Beside my bed,
      And lean his head
      Upon my breast,
      O’er lawn and mead;
      Its virgin head
      The snowdrop steeps
      In dew, and peeps
      The crocus forth,
      Nor dreads the north. 
      But even the spring
      No smile can bring
      To him, whose eye
      Sought in the sky
      For brighter scenes.

      And bid me rest
      Nor night nor day
      Till I can say
      That I have found
      The holy ground
      In which there lies
      The Pearl of Price—­
      Till all the ties
      The soul that bind,
      And all the lies
      The soul that blind,
      Be

Nothing could more fully prove the deep impression which the event made than these verses.  But it was not a transient regret, nor was it the “sorrow of the world.”  He was in his eighteenth year when his brother died; and if this was not the year of his new birth, at least it was the year when the first streaks of dawn appeared in his soul.  From that day forward his friends observed a change.  His poetry was pervaded with serious thought, and all his pursuits began to be followed out in another spirit.  He engaged in the labors of a Sabbath school, and began to seek God to his soul, in the diligent reading of the word, and attendance on a faithful ministry.