Southern Christian Advocate

POETRY.
From the Charleston Observer.

VERSES ON THE DEATH OF JAS. ADGER,
Infant son of the Rev. John B. Adger, Missionary at
Smyrna, aged 22 months—Written at Smyrna, by Miss
Hamilton, an Irish lady, and sister of Sir James Hamilton.

Go, thou young spirit of thy God—
Go as a dew-drop goes
At sun-rise, from the unfolding leaves
Of summer's earliest rose:
Pass from our mortal sight, hence.
Go in thy crystal innocence!.

Such was my thought, dear sufferer meek!
When first I heard thy soul
Had spread its air unsullied wings
To seek Heaven's radiant goal.
Beautiful blossom! Go! I said
Who, who would weep the early dead?

Thy little heart will breathe away.
Calmly its fragrant life;
Not one dark memory of sin
To ruffle with its strife
Death's silent current, as it flows
Bearing thee onward to repose.

Not one wild pang of fear or grief.
Or agonizing love,
To sadden thy celestial flight,
Thou pure and precious dove!
No darkness on thy lonely way
To that far world of endless day.

None of the thoughts that trouble us,
None of the burning tears
That the proud heart will sternly hide
For long and weary years,
Until that weak all-humbling hour
Wrings forth to sight their reckless shower,

And mind and soul give way at last
In wanderings breathing of the past!
But thou! there is no past for thee!
No memories save of flowers,
And sun-shine, and the smiles of love
That lit thy early hours:
Thou didst but look on earth, and go
From its unknown, untasted woe!

'Tis past—alas! o'er thee, even thee,
All guileless as thou wert,
Death's deep, cold waters darkly rolled,
Nor spared thine infant heart;
But now thy all of death is o'er,
And pain shall never touch thee more.

When flowers were shutting, and the moon
Rose on the cypress trees,
The immortal flower, like those of earth,
Shrunk from the chill night breeze;
Folded its fragile leaves like them,
And drooped in rest its wearied stem,

To wake with all that glorious band
The martyrs of this solemn band.

'Twas not the excluded splendour soft
That eastern moon beams shed,
Which lit thy lips, and made thy look
Too lovely for the dead;
No! O night, in truth it seemed
That o'er thee a lustre streamed,

A light, not of earthly skies;
The light of thy Redeemer's eyes!

Ol! beautiful those gentle hands
That pure as sculpture lay!
The wondrous mystery of their grace
Passed not with life away.
Instinct with soul each snowy palm
Had language yet tho' cold and calm,

And the transparent fingers still,
An eloquence the heart to thrill.
Go—without one profaning tear
Dropped on thy placid brow!
The heart grows sick with envy's gloom
To gaze upon thee now.
Go! go thou little child to Heaven!
A blessed lot to thee is given.

But no! it is a glorious doom,
Strong in undaunted faith,
To live, yet calmly learn that life
Is bitterer than death!
To know what thou canst never know
Of this polluted world below—

Trod by Him, who bore its whole
Dark horrors on His spotless soul.
Like warriors on its mortal field
Wounded and faint to stand;
And yet defy the powers of hell
To pluck us from His hand.

With ever kindling courage high
To look upon the earth and sky.
And through affliction's heaviest shade
Move on unconquered, undismayed!
Thou wert not granted thus to strive,
Or the fierce conflict see—

"The heat and burden of the day,"
Were all unknown by thee.
Shame on my coward spirit, weak,
I spoke as the faint-hearted speak!

(By all the fiery trials past,
By all to come while life shall last,
By that victorious joy within,
Trampling to death all grief and sin;)
Thy early grave—thy tearless lot—
Thou happy child, I envy not.

E. M. H.
Boujah, 16th April, 1837.