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.

Very like to a dream, Doth the time to me seem, When with thee a young girl by my side, One of summer's fine days, In a one pony chaise, We commenced in the morning our ride.

By the pine grove and nook, Over bridge and through brook, Quite at random we drove without fear; While the birds of the grove, In sweet harmony strove, By their concert of music to cheer.

With none to molest us, No home cares to press us, Farther onward, and onward we roam; But at length the skies lower, And unhoped for the shower Finds us many miles distant from home.

Even so is life's day, Like a fair morn in May, With hope's bright bow of promise it cheers; But long before night, The sun that so bright In the morning had shone, disappears.

Do not then I entreat, My beloved Margaret, Be content with this world for thy portion; Let ambition soar _higher_, E'en _above_ earth aspire, And to G.o.d give thy heart's true devotion.

April 29, 1853.

REPLY TO A TOAST,

SENT BY MR. W. TO THE LADIES OF WAYLAND, AT THEIR FAIR HELD ON MAY-DAY.

Many, _many_ kind thanks from the Waylanders fair, Who are sorry, quite sorry you could not be there, To receive their warm greeting, partake of their cheer, And repaid by their smiles for your wishes sincere.

That health and content may your footsteps attend, Believe me, dear sir, is the wish of your friend.

May 2, 1853.

TO MR. C.R.

FOR MANY YEARS DEPRIVED OF SIGHT.

They say the sun is shining In all his splendor now, And clouds in graceful drapery, Are sailing to an fro.

That birds of brilliant plumage, Are soaring on the wing; Exulting in the daylight, Rejoicing as they sing.

They tell me too that roses, E'en in _my_ pathway lie; And decked in rich apparel, Attract the pa.s.sers by.

They say the sun when setting, Is glorious to behold; And sheds on all at parting, A radiant crown of gold.

And then the night's pale empress, With all her glittering train, The vacant throne ascending, Resumes her peaceful reign.

That she in queenly beauty, Subdued yet silvery light, Makes scarcely less enchanting Than day, the sober night.

But sights like these so cheering, Alas, I cannot see!

The daylight and the darkness Are both alike to me.

Yet there's a world above us, So beautiful and fair, That nothing here can equal, And nought with it compare.

There, in a blaze of glory, Amidst a countless throng, The Saviour smiles complacent, While listening to their song.

Ten thousand times ten thousand, Their cheerful voices raise, While golden harps in harmony Are tuned to sound the praise

Of Him the blest deliverer, Who conquered when he fell; The man of many sorrows, The _Great Immanuel_.