On A Packet Of Letters.

"To-day" Oh! not to-day shall sound
Thy mild and gentle voice;
Nor yet "to-morrow" will it bid
My heart rejoice.

But one, one fondly treasured thing
Is left me 'mid decay,
This record, hallowed with thy thoughts
Of yesterday.

Chaste thoughts and holy, such as still
To purest hearts are given,
Breathing of Earth, yet wafting high
The soul to Heaven;

Soaring beyond the bounds of Time,
Beyond the blight of Death,
To worlds where "parting is no more,"
"Nor Life a breath."

'Tis true they whisper mournfully
Of buds too bright to bloom,
Of hopes that blossomed but to die
Around the tomb.

Still they are sweet remembrances
Of life's unclouded day
Sketches of mind, which death alone
Can wrench away;

Memorials sad of by-past hours,
Gone with the silent dead;
Pictured affections, pencilled dreams.
Forever fled!

Forever? Are they hushed indeed
To wake again no more?
Ties dearer far than Life itself
With life all o'er?

No! Faith can point to holier climes,
And bid the soul prepare
For deathless union that awaits
The faithful there.

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney was an influential Quaker minister known for her comforting letters to President Abraham Lincoln during the American Civil War. Born on October 22, 1801, in Philadelphia, she became a widow after the death of her husband, Joseph John Gurney, a prominent Quaker minister and abolitionist. Gurney's written works and letters provided solace and guidance during turbulent times. She passed away on December 8, 1881.

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Spring.

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney, Simple Poetry

Written In L. J.'s Album.

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney, Simple Poetry

Oh, For A Home Of Rest!

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney, Simple Poetry

Kindness.

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney, Simple Poetry

English

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Life's Stages.

To the heart of trusting childhood life is all a gilded way,
Wherein a beam of sunny bliss forever seems to play;
It roams about delightedly through pleasure's roseate bower,
And gaily makes a playmate, too, of every bird and flower;
Holds with the rushing of the winds companionship awhile,
And, on the tempest's darkest brow, discerns a brightening smile,
Converses with the babbling waves, as on their way they wend,
And sees, in everything it meets, the features of a friend.
"To-day" is full of rosy joy, "to-morrow" is not here:
When, for an uncreated hour, was childhood known to fear?
Not until hopes, warm hopes, its heart a treasure-house have made,
Like summer flowers to bloom awhile, like them, alas, to fade;
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On Leaving Pine Cottage.

When our bosoms were lightest,
And day-dreams were brightest,
The gay vision melted away;
By sorrow 'twas shaded,
Too quickly it faded;
How transient its halcyon sway!

From my heart would you sever,
(Harsh fate!) and forever,
The friends who to life gave a charm,
What oblivion effaces
Fond mem'ry retraces,
And pictures each well-beloved form.

Some accent well known,
Some melodious tone,
Through my bosom like witchery shed,
Shall awake the sad sigh,
To the hours gone by,
And the friends, like a fairy dream, fled.

Long remembrance shall treasure
Those moments of pleasure,
When time flew unheeded away;
Joy's light skiff was near us,
Hope ventured to steer us,
And brighten our path with her ray.

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Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Written In L. J.'s Album.

Gay visions for thee 'neath hope's pencil have glowed,
Peace dwells in thy bosom, a guileless abode;
Thou hast seen the bright side of existence alone,
And believ'st every spirit as pure as thine own.
May'st thou never awake from these rapturous dreams,
To find that the world is not fair as it seems,
To feel that the few thou hast loved have deceived,
Have forsaken the heart that confided, believed,
And left it as leafless, as bloomless, and waste
As the rose-tree that's stript by the merciless blast.

When the warm sky of childhood was beaming for me,
My days were all joyous, my heart was all glee;
Affection's best ties round my bosom were spun;
No cloud dimmed the lustre of life's morning sun.
If I watched o'er my favorite rose-bud's decay,
And mourned that ...

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Woodburn.

Oh, the brow that has never been shaded by care
The rosewreath of pleasure may smilingly wear,
And the heart that is wholly a stranger to gloom,
'Mid the din of existence may fearlessly bloom;
But the one that is blighted by sadness and pain,
And blighted too rudely to blossom again,
When its hold on a reed-like support is resigned.
Nor peace, nor composure, nor solace can find,
Nor strength to submit to the chastening rod,
Save only in stillness alone with its God!

And oh! if a blissful communion with Heaven
To earth-wearied spirits has ever been given,
If the loved and the distant, the lost and the dead,
Who smiled on our pathway a moment, and fled,
Who darkened our sunshine and saddened our mirth,
To prove that the soul has no home upon earth,
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Consolation In Bereavement.

'Tis not when we look on the dreamless dead,
And feel that the spirit forever has fled;
'Tis not when we're called to the voiceless tomb
By the loved who were culled in their brightest bloom;
'Tis not when the grave's last rite is o'er,
And we know they are gone to return no more;
But, oh! 'tis when Time with oblivious wing
A balm to all other hearts may bring;
When the dark, dark hours of grief are o'er,
And we join the world we can love no more,
That world whose grief for the absent one
Passed like a cloud from an April sun;
When, amid the mirth that salutes the ear,
One tone is gone we had used to hear,
One form is missed in that happy train,
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Heaven And Earth.

Turn from the grave, turn from the grave,
There's fearful mystery there;
Descend not to the shadowy tomb,
If thou wouldst shun despair.
It tells a tale of severed ties
To break the bleeding heart,
And from the "canopy of dust"
Would make it death to part.
Oh! lift the eye of faith to worlds
Where death shall never come,
And there behold "the pure in heart"
Whom God has gathered home,
Beyond the changing things of time,
Beyond the reach of care.
How sweet to view the ransomed ones
In dazzling glory there!
They seem to whisper to the loved
Who smoothed their path below,
"Weep not for us, our tears have all
Forever ceased to flow."
Take from the grave, take from the grave,
Those bright, but withering; flowers,
The spiri...

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney