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diff --git a/20504.txt b/20504.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8cf29fd --- /dev/null +++ b/20504.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7092 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Man of Uz, and Other Poems, by Lydia Howard Sigourney + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Man of Uz, and Other Poems + +Author: Lydia Howard Sigourney + +Release Date: February 2, 2007 [EBook #20504] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OF UZ, AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Sigal Alon and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was +produced from scanned images of public domain material +from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + +THE + +MAN OF UZ, + +AND + +OTHER POEMS. + + + +BY + +MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. + + + +HARTFORD +WILLIAMS, WILEY & WATERMAN. + +1862. + + + + +Entered according to Act or Congress, in the Year 1862, by + +MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY, + +In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Connecticut. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +The arrogance of attempting a parody on the most ancient and sublime +poem in the Inspired Volume, is not mine. The great pleasure enjoyed in +its perusal from early years, had occasionally prompted metrical +imitations of isolated passages. These fragmentary effusions, recently +woven together, are here presented, with the hope that as wandering +streams are traced to their original fountain, some heart may thus be +led to the history of the stricken and sustained Patriarch, with more +studious research, purer delight, or a deeper spirit of devotion. + +L. H. S. + +Hartford, Conn., November 5th, 1862. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + Page. +Preface, 3 + +The Man of Uz, 9 + + +THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND, + +Canto First, 59 +Canto Second, 91 +Canto Third, 109 + + +IN MEMORIAM. + +1859. + +Rev. Dr. T. M. Cooley, 147 +Madam Olivia Phelps, 149 +Martha Agnes Bonner, 151 +Madam Whiting, 153 +Denison Olmsted, LL.D. 155 +Herbert Foss, 157 +Mrs. Charles N. Cadwallader, 159 +Rev. Dr. James W. Alexander, 161 +Mrs. Joseph Morgan, 163 +Alice Beckwith, 165 +Mary Shipman Deming, 167 + + +1860. + +Rev. Dr. F. W. Hatch, 169 +Mrs. Payne, 171 +Mrs. Mary Mildenstein Robertson, 173 +Madam Williams, 175 +Mr. Samuel Ogden, 177 +Mr. George Beach, 179 +Miss Margaret C. Brown, 181 +Miss Frances Wyman Tracy, 183 +Deacon Normand Smith, 185 +Mrs. Helen Tyler Beach, 187 +Mrs. Elizabeth Harris, 189 +Miss Anna M. Seymour, 191 +Caleb Hazen Talcott, 193 + + +1861. + +Miss Jane Penelope Whiting, 195 +Miss Anna Freeman, 197 +Madam Pond, 199 +Annie Seymour Robinson, 201 +Mrs. Georgiana Ives Comstock, 203 +Wentworth Alexander, 206 +Mrs. Harvey Seymour, 208 +Mrs. Frederick Tyler, 211 +Miss Laura Kingsbury, 213 +Govenor and Mrs. Trumbull, 214 +Mrs. Emily Ellsworth, 218 +Rev. Dr. Stephen Jewitt, 220 +Miss Delia Woodruff Godding, 222 +Miss Sara K. Taylor, 224 +Mr. John Warburton, 226 +Rev. Henry Albertson Post, 228 +Miss Caroline L. Griffin, 230 +Mr. Normand Burr, 232 +Hon. Thomas S. Williams, 234 +Col. H. L. Miller, 237 + + +1862. + +Col. Samuel Colt, 239 +Madam Hannah Lathrop, 242 +Henrietta Selden Colt, 244 +The Little Brothers, 247 +Mr. D. F. Robinson, 249 +Mr. Samuel Tudor, 251 +Henry Howard Comstock, 254 +Rev. Dr. David Smith, 256 +Miss Emily B. Parish, 258 +Harriet Allen Ely, 260 +Miss Catharine Ball, 261 +Mrs. Morris Collins, 263 +Mrs. Margaret Walbridge, 265 +The Brothers Buell, 267 +Mr. Phillip Ripley, 269 +Richard Ely Collins, 271 +Miss Elizabeth Brinley, 273 +Mr. John A. Taintor, 275 + + + + +THE MAN OF UZ. + + +A JOYOUS FESTIVAL.-- + The gathering back +Of scattered flowrets to the household wreath. +Brothers and sisters from their sever'd homes +Meeting with ardent smile, to renovate +The love that sprang from cradle memories +And childhood's sports, and whose perennial stream +Still threw fresh crystals o'er the sands of life. +--Each bore some treasured picture of the past, +Some graphic incident, by mellowing time +Made beautiful, while ever and anon, +Timbrel and harp broke forth, each pause between. +Banquet and wine-cup, and the dance, gave speed +To youthful spirits, and prolong'd the joy. + + * * * * * + +The patriarch father, with a chasten'd heart +Partook his children's mirth, having God's fear +Ever before him. Earnestly he brought +His offerings and his prayers for every one +Of that beloved group, lest in the swell +And surging superflux of happiness +They might forget the Hand from whence it came, +Perchance, displease the Almighty. + Many a care +Had he that wealth creates. Not such as lurks +In heaps metallic, which the rust corrodes, +But wealth that fructifies within the earth +Whence cometh bread, or o'er its surface roves +In peaceful forms of quadrupedal life +That thronging round the world's first father came +To take their names, 'mid Eden's tranquil shades, +Ere sin was born. + Obedient to the yoke, +Five hundred oxen turn'd the furrow'd glebe +Where agriculture hides his buried seed +Waiting the harvest hope, while patient wrought +An equal number of that race who share +The labor of the steed, without his praise. +--Three thousand camels, with their arching necks, +Ships of the desert, knelt to do his will, +And bear his surplus wealth to distant climes, +While more than twice three thousand snowy sheep +Whitened the hills. Troops of retainers fed +These flocks and herds, and their subsistence drew +From the same lord,--so that this man of Uz +Greater than all the magnates of the east, +Dwelt in old time before us. + True he gave, +And faithfully, the hireling his reward, +Counting such justice 'mid the happier forms +Of Charity, which with a liberal hand +He to the sad and suffering poor dispensed. +Eyes was he to the blind, and to the lame +Feet, while the stranger and the traveller found +Beneath, the welcome shelter of his roof +The blessed boon of hospitality. + +To him the fatherless and widow sought +For aid and counsel. Fearlessly he rose +For those who had no helper. His just mind +Brought stifled truth to light, disarm'd the wiles +Of power, and gave deliverance to the weak. +He pluck'd the victim from the oppressor's grasp, +And made the tyrant tremble. + To his words +Men listened, as to lore oracular, +And when beside the gate he took his seat +The young kept silence, and the old rose up +To do him honor. After his decree +None spake again, for as a prince he dwelt +Wearing the diadem of righteousness, +And robed in that respect which greatness wins +When leagued with goodness, and by wisdom crown'd. +The grateful prayers and blessings of the souls +Ready to perish, silently distill'd +Upon him, as he slept. + So as a tree +Whose root is by the river's brink, he grew +And flourish'd, while the dews like balm-drops hung +All night upon his branches. + Yet let none +Of woman born, presume to build his hopes +On the worn cliff of brief prosperity, +Or from the present promise, predicate +The future joy. The exulting bird that sings +Mid the green curtains of its leafy nest +His tuneful trust untroubled there to live, +And there to die, may meet the archer's shaft +When next it spreads the wing. + The tempest folds +O'er the smooth forehead of the summer noon +Its undiscover'd purpose, to emerge +Resistless from its armory, and whelm +In floods of ruin, ere the day decline. + + * * * * * + +Lightning and sword! + Swift messengers, and sharp, +Reapers that leave no gleanings. In their path +Silence and desolation fiercely stalk. +--O'er trampled hills, and on the blood-stain'd plains +There is no low of kine, or bleat of flocks, +The fields are rifled, and the shepherds slain. + +The Man of Uz, who stood but yestermorn +Above all compeers,--clothed with wealth and power, +To day is poorer than his humblest hind. +A whirlwind from the desert! + All unwarn'd +Its fury came. Earth like a vassal shook. +Majestic trees flew hurtling through the air +Like rootless reeds. + There was no time for flight. +Buried in household wrecks, all helpless lay +Masses of quivering life. + Job's eldest son +That day held banquet for their numerous line +At his own house. With revelry and song, +One moment in the glow of kindred hearts +The lordly mansion rang, the next they lay +Crush'd neath its ruins. + _He_,--the childless sire, +Last of his race, and lonely as the pine +That crisps and blackens 'neath the lightning shaft +Upon the cliff, with such a rushing tide +The mountain billows of his misery came, +Drove they not Reason from her beacon-hold? +Swept they not his strong trust in Heaven away? + +List,--list,--the sufferer speaks. + "The Lord who gave +Hath taken away,--and blessed be His name." + +Oh Patriarch!--teach us, mid this changeful life +Not to mistake the ownership of joys +Entrusted to us for a little while, +But when the Great Dispenser shall reclaim +His loans, to render them with praises back, +As best befits the indebted. + Should a tear +Moisten the offering, He who knows our frame +And well remembereth that we are but dust, +Is full of pity. + It was said of old +Time conquer'd Grief. But unto me it seems +That Grief overmastereth Time. It shows how wide +The chasm between us, and our smitten joys +And saps the strength wherewith at first we went +Into life's battle. We perchance, have dream'd +That the sweet smile the sunbeam of our home +The prattle of the babe the Spoiler seiz'd, +Had but gone from us for a little while,-- +And listen'd in our fallacy of hope +At hush of eve for the returning step +That wake the inmost pulses of the heart +To extasy,--till iron-handed Grief +Press'd down the _nevermore_ into our soul, +Deadening us with its weight. + The man of Uz +As the slow lapse of days and nights reveal'd +The desolation of his poverty +Felt every nerve that at the first great shock +Was paralyzed, grow sensitive and shrink +As from a fresh-cut wound. There was no son +To come in beauty of his manly prime +With words of counsel and with vigorous hand +To aid him in his need, no daughter's arm +To twine around him in his weariness, +Nor kiss of grandchild at the even-tide +Going to rest, with prayer upon its lips. + +Still a new trial waits. + The blessed health +Heaven's boon, thro' which with unbow'd form we bear +Burdens and ills, forsook him. Maladies +Of fierce and festering virulence attack'd +His swollen limbs. Incessant, grinding pains +Laid his strength prostrate, till he counted life +A loathed thing. Dire visions frighted sleep +That sweet restorer of the wasted frame, +And mid his tossings to and fro, he moan'd +Oh, when shall I arise, and Night be gone! + +Despondence seized him. To the lowliest place +Alone he stole, and sadly took his seat +In dust and ashes. + She, his bosom friend +The sharer of his lot for many years, +Sought out his dark retreat. Shuddering she saw +His kingly form like living sepulchre, +And in the maddening haste of sorrow said +God hath forgotten. + She with him had borne +Unuttered woe o'er the untimely graves +Of all whom she had nourished,--shared with him +The silence of a home that hath no child, +The plunge from wealth to want, the base contempt +Of menial and of ingrate;--but to see +The dearest object of adoring love +Her next to God, a prey to vile disease +Hideous and loathsome, all the beauty marred +That she had worshipped from her ardent youth +Deeming it half divine, she could not bear, +Her woman's strength gave way, and impious words +In her despair she uttered. + But her lord +To deeper anguish stung by her defect +And rash advice, reprovingly replied +Pointing to Him who meeteth out below +Both good and evil in mysterious love, +And she was silenced. + What a sacred power +Hath hallow'd Friendship o'er the nameless ills +That throng our pilgrimage. Its sympathy, +Doth undergird the drooping, and uphold +The foot that falters in its miry path. +It grows more precious, as the hair grows grey. +Time's alchymy that rendereth so much dross +Back for our gay entrustments, shows more pure +The perfect essence of its sanctity, +Gold unalloyed. + How doth the cordial grasp, +Of hands that twined with ours in school days, now +Delight us as our sunbeam nears the west, +Soothing, perchance our self-esteem with proofs +That 'mid all faults the good have loved us still, +And quickening with redoubled energy +To do or suffer. + The three friends of Job +Who in the different regions where they dwelt +Teman, and Naamah and the Shuhite land, +Heard tidings of his dire calamity, +Moved by one impulse, journey'd to impart +Their sorrowing sympathy. + Yet when they saw +Him fallen so low, so chang'd that scarce a trace +Remained to herald his identity +Down by his side upon the earth, they sate +Uttering no language save the gushing tear,-- +Spontaneous homage to a grief so great. + + * * * * * + +Oh Silence, born of Wisdom! we have felt +Thy fitness, when beside the smitten friend +We took our place. The voiceless sympathy +The tear, the tender pressure of the hand +Interpreted more perfectly than words +The purpose of our soul. + We _speak_ to err, +Waking to agony some broken chord +Or bleeding nerve that slumbered. Words are weak, +When God's strong discipline doth try the soul; +And that deep silence was more eloquent +Than all the pomp of speech. + Yet the long pause +Of days and nights, gave scope for troubled thought +And their bewildered minds unskillfully +Launching all helmless on a sea of doubt +Explored the cause for which such woes were sent, +Forgetful that this mystery of life +Yields not to man's solution. Passing on +From natural pity to philosophy +That deems Heaven's judgments penal, they inferr'd +Some secret sin unshrived by penitence, +That drew such awful visitations down. +While studying thus the _wherefore_, with vain toil +Of painful cogitation, lo! a voice +Hollow and hoarse, as from the mouldering tomb, + +"Perish the day in which I saw the light! +The day when first my mother's nursing care +Sheltered my helplessness. Let it not come +Into the number of the joyful months, +Let blackness stain it and the shades of death +Forever terrify it. + For it cut +Not off as an untimely birth my span, +Nor let me sleep where the poor prisoners hear +No more the oppressor, where the wicked cease +From troubling and the weary are at rest. +Now as the roar of waves my sorrows swell, +And sighs like tides burst forth till I forget +To eat my bread. That which I greatly feared +Hath come upon me. Not in heedless pride +Nor wrapped in arrogance of full content +I dwelt amid the tide of prosperous days, +And yet this trouble came." + With mien unmoved +The Temanite reprovingly replied: +"Who can refrain longer from words, even though +To speak be grief? Thou hast the instructor been +Of many, and their model how to act. +When trial came upon them, if their knees +Bow'd down, thou saidst, "be strong," and they obey'd. +But now it toucheth thee and thou dost shrink, +And murmuring, faint. The monitor forgets +The precepts he hath taught. Is this thy faith, +Thy confidence, the uprightness of thy way? +Whoever perish'd being innocent? +And when were those who walk'd in righteous ways +Cut off? How oft I've seen that those who sow +The seeds of evil secretly, and plow +Under a veil of darkness, reap the same. + + * * * * * + +In visions of the night, when deepest sleep +Falls upon men, fear seiz'd me, all my bones +Trembled, and every stiffening hair rose up. +A spirit pass'd before me, but I saw +No form thereof. I knew that there it stood, +Even though my straining eyes discern'd it not. +Then from its moveless lips a voice burst forth, +"Is man more just than God? Is mortal man +More pure than He who made him? + Lo, he puts +No trust in those who serve him, and doth charge +Angels with folly. How much less in them +Dwellers in tents of clay, whose pride is crush'd +Before the moth. From morn to eve they die +And none regard it." + So despise thou not +The chastening of the Almighty, ever just, +For did thy spirit please him, it should rise +More glorious from the storm-cloud, all the earth +At peace with thee, new offspring like the grass +Cheering thy home, and when thy course was done +Even as a shock of corn comes fully ripe +Into the garner should thy burial be +Beldv'd and wept of all." + + Mournful arose +The sorrowful response. + "Oh that my grief +Were in the balance laid by faithful hands +And feeling hearts. To the afflicted soul +Friends should be comforters. But mine have dealt +Deceitfully, as fails the shallow brook +When summer's need is sorest. + Did I say +Bring me a gift? or from your flowing wealth +Give solace to my desolate penury? +Or with your pitying influence neutralize +My cup of scorn poured out by abject hands? +That thus ye mock me with contemptuous words +And futile arguments, and dig a pit +In which to whelm the man you call a friend? +Still darkly hinting at some heinous sin +Mysteriously concealed? + Writes conscious guilt +No transcript on the brow? Hangs it not out +Its signal there, altho' it seem to hide +'Neath an impervious shroud? + Look thro' the depths +Of my unshrinking eye, deep, deep within. +What see ye there? what gives suspicion birth? +As longs the laborer for the setting sun, +Watching the lengthening shadows that foretell +The time of rest, yet day by day returns +To the same task again, so I endure +Wearisome nights and months of burdening woe. +I would not alway live this loathed life +Whose days are vanity. Soon shall I sleep +Low in the dust, and when the morning comes +And thro' its curtaining mists ye seek my face +I shall not be." + + * * * * * + + Earnest the Shuhite spake, +"How long shall these thy words, like eddying winds +Fall empty on the ear? + Doth God pervert +Justice and judgment? If thy way was pure, +Thy supplication from an upright heart +He would awake and make thy latter end +More blest than thy beginning. + For inquire +Of ancient times, of History's honor'd scroll +And of the grey-hair'd fathers, if our words +Seem light, we who were born but yesterday. +Ask them and they shall teach thee, as the rush, +Or as the flag forsaken of the pod, +So shall the glory of the hypocrite +Fade in its greenness. + Tho' his house may seem +Awhile to flourish, it shall not endure. +Even tho' he grasp it with despairing strength +It shall deceive his trust and pass away, +As fleets the spider's filmy web. Behold +God will not cast away the perfect man +Nor help the evil doer." + + * * * * * + + In low tones, +Sepulchral, and with pain, the sufferer spake, +"I know that this is truth, but how can man +Be just with God? How shall he dare contend +With Him who stretches out the sky and treads +Upon the mountain billows of the sea, +And sealeth up the stars? + Array'd in strength, +He passeth by me, but I see Him not. +I hear His chariot-wheels, yet fear to ask +Where goest Thou? + If I, indeed, were pure, +And perfect, like the model ye see fit +To press upon me with your sharpest words, +I would not in mine arrogance arise +And reason with Him, but all humbly make +Petition to my Judge. + If there were one +To shield me from His terrors, and to stand +As mediator, I might dare to ask +Why didst Thou give this unrequested boon +Of life, to me, unhappy? My few days +Are swifter than a post. As the white sail +Fades in the mist, as the strong eagle's wing +Leaves no receding trace, they flee away, +They see no good. + Hath not Thy mighty hand +Fashion'd and made this curious form of clay, +Fenc'd round with bones and sinews, and inspired +By a mysterious soul? Oh be not stern +Against Thy creature, as the Lion marks +His destin'd prey. + Relent and let me take +Comfort a little, ere I go the way +Whence I return no more, to that far land +Of darkness and the dreary shades of death." + + * * * * * + +Scarce had he ceas'd ere Zophar's turbid thoughts +Made speed to answer. + "Shall a tide of talk +Wash out transgression? If thou choose to set +The truth at nought, must others hold their peace? +Hast thou not boasted that thy deeds and thoughts +Were perfect in the almighty Maker's sight? +Canst thou by searching find out God? Behold +Higher than heaven it is, what canst thou do? +Deeper than deepest hell, what canst thou know? +Why wilt thou ignorantly deem thyself +Unblamed before Him? + Oh that He would speak, +And put to shame thine arrogance. + His glance +Discerns all wickedness, all vain pretence +To sanctity and wisdom. Were thine heart +Rightly prepared, and evil put away +From that and from thy house, then shouldst thou lift +Thy spotless face, clear as the noon-day sun +Stedfast and fearless. Yea, thou shouldst forget +Thy misery, as waters that have past +Away forever. + Thou shouldst be secure +And dig about thee and take root, and rest, +While those who scorn thee now, with soul abased, +Should make their suit unto thee. + But the eyes +Of wicked men shall fail, and as the groan +Of him who giveth up the ghost, shall be +Their frustrate hope." + Dejectedly, as one +Who wearied in a race, despairs to reach +The destined goal, nor yet consents to leave +His compeers masters of an unwon field. +Job said,-- + "No doubt ye think to have attained +Monopoly of knowledge, and with you +Wisdom shall die. This modesty of creed +Befits ye well. Yet what have ye alledg'd +Unheard before? what great discoveries made? +Who knoweth not such things as ye have told? +Despised am I by those who call'd me friend +In prosperous days. Like a dim, waning lamp +About to be extinguished am I held +By the dull minds of those who dwell at ease. +Weak reasoners that ye are, ye have essay'd +To speak for God. Suppose ye He doth need +Such advocacy? whose creative hand +Holdeth the soul of every living thing, +And breath of all mankind? + He breaketh down, +And who can build again? Princes and kings +Are nothing in his sight. Disrobed of power +Ceaseless they wander and He heedeth not. +Those whom the world have worship'd seem as fools. +He lifteth up the nations at His will, +Or sweeps them with his lightest breath away +Like noteless atoms. + Silence is for you +The truest wisdom. Creatures that ye count +Inferior to yourselves, who in thin air +Spread the light wing, or thro' the waters glide, +Or roam the earth, might teach if ye would hear +And be instructed by them. + Hold your peace! +Even tho' He slay me I will trust in Him +For He is my salvation, He alone; +At whose dread throne no hypocrite shall dare +To stand, or answer. + Man, of woman born +Is of few days, and full of misery. +Forth like a flower he comes, and is cut down, +He fleeth like a shadow. What is man +That God regardeth him? The forest tree +Fell'd by the woodman may have hope to live +And sprout again, and thro' the blessed touch +Of waters at the root put forth new buds +And tender branches like a plant. But man +Shorn of his strength, doth waste away and die, +He giveth up the ghost and where is he? +As slides the mountain from its heaving base +Hurling its masses o'er the startled vale, +As the rent rock resumes its place no more, +As the departed waters leave no trace +Save the groov'd channels where they held their course +Among the fissur'd stones, his form of dust +With its chang'd countenance, is sent away +And all the honors that he sought to leave +Behind him to his sons, avail him not." +He ceas'd and Eliphaz rejoin'd, + "A man +Of wisdom dealeth not in empty words +That like the east wind stirs the unsettled sands +To profitless revolt. Thou dost decry +Our speech and proudly justify thyself +Before thy God. He to whose searching eye +Heavens' pure immaculate ether seems unclean. +Ask of tradition, ask the white hair'd men +Much older than thy father, since to us +Thou deign'st no credence. Say they not to thee, +All, as with one consent, the wicked man +Travaileth with fruitless pain, a dreadful sound +Forever in his ears; the mustering tramp +Of hostile legions on the distant cloud, +A far-off echo from the woe to come? +Such is his lot who sinfully contends +Against the just will of the Judging One, +Lifting his puny arm in rebel pride +And rushing like a madman on his doom. +The wealth he may have gathered shall dissolve +And turn to ashes mid devouring flame. +His branch shall not be green, but as the vine +Casteth her unripe grapes, as thro' the leaves +Of rich and lustrous hue, the olive buds +Untimely strew the ground, shall be his trust +Who in the contumacy of his pride +Would fain deceive both others and himself." +To whom, the Man of Uz,-- + "These occult truths +If such ye deem them, I have heard before; +Oh miserable comforters! I too +Stood but your soul in my soul's stead, could heap +Vain, bitter words, and shake my head in scorn. +But I would study to assuage your pain, +And solace shed upon your stricken hearts +With balm-drops of sweet speech. + Yet, as for me, +I speak and none regard, or drooping sit +In mournful silence, and none heed my woe. +They smite me on the cheek reproachfully, +And slander me in secret, though my cause +And witness rest with the clear-judging Heaven. +My record is on high. + Oh Thou, whose hand +Hath thus made desolate all my company, +And left me a poor, childless man--behold +They who once felt it pride to call me friend, +Make of my name a by-word, which was erst +Like harp or tabret to their venal lip. +Mine eye is dim with grief, my wasted brow +Furrow'd with wrinkles. + Soon I go the way +Whence I shall not return. The grave, my house, +Is ready for me. In its mouldering clay +My bed I make, and say unto the worm +Thou art my sister." + With unpitying voice +Not comprehending Job, the Shuhite spake. +"How long ere thou shalt make an end of words +So profitless and vain? Thou dost account +Us vile as beasts. But shall the stable earth +With all its rocks and mountains be removed +For thy good pleasure? + See, the light forsake +The wicked man. Darkness and loneliness +Enshroud his dwelling-place. His path shall be +Mid snares and traps, and his own counsel fail +To guide him safely. By the heel, the gin +Shall seize him, and the robber's hand prevail +To rifle and destroy his treasure hoard. +Secret misgivings feed upon his strength, +And terrors waste his courage. He shall find +In his own tabernacle no repose, +Nor confidence. His withering root shall draw +No nutriment, and the unsparing ax +Cut off his branches. From a loathing world +He shall be chased away, and leave behind +No son or nephew to bear up his name +Among the people. No kind memories +Shall linger round his ashes, or refresh +The bearts of men. They who come after him +Shall be astonish'd at his doom, as they +Who went before him, view'd it with affright. +Such is the lot of those who know not God +Or wickedly renounce Him." + + Earnestly +Replied the suffering man, + "Ye vex my soul +And break it into pieces. These ten times +Have ye reproach'd me, without sense of shame +Or touch of sympathy. If I have err'd +As without witness ye essay to prove +'Tis my concern, not yours. + But yet, how vain +To speak of wrong, or plead the cause of truth +Before the unjust. + Can ye not understand +God in his wisdom hath afflicted me? +Ilis hand hath reft away my crown and stripp'd +Me of my glory. Kindred blood vouchsafes +No aid or solace in my deep distress. +Estrang'd and far away, like statues cold +Brethren and kinsfolk stand. Familiar friends +Frown on me as a stranger. They who dwell +In my own house and eat my bread, despise me. +I call'd my own tried servant, but he gave +No answer or regard. My maidens train'd +For household service, to perform my will +Count me an alien;--even with my wife +My voice hath lost its power. Young children rise +And push away my feet and mock my words. +Yea, the best loved, most garner'd in my heart +Do turn against me as a thing abhorr'd. +Have pity, pity on me, oh my friends! +The hand of God hath smitten me. + + I know +That my Redeemer liveth, and shall stand +At last upon the earth, and though in death +Worms shall destroy this body, in my flesh +Shall I see God." + + * * * * * + + This glorious burst of faith +Springing from depths of misery and pain +Awed them a moment, like the lightning's flash, +Cleaving the cloud. But gathering strength again, +They sought the conflict. + "Thou, who art so wise, +Hast thou not learn'd how baseless is the joy +And boasting of the hypocrite? His head +Up to the heavens in excellence and pride +May seem to mount, yet shall he swiftly fall +Leaving no trace. Though still he toils to keep +His sin a secret from his fellow-men, +Like a sweet, stolen morsel, hiding it +Under his tongue, yet shall the veil be rent. +God's fearful judgments shall make evident +What he hath done in darkness. Vipers' tongues +And the dire poison of the asp, shall be +His recompense. Terrors shall strike him through, +An inward fire of sharp remorse, unblown +By mortal hand, shall on his vitals feed, +And all his strength consume. His wealth shall fleet, +And they who trusted to become his heirs +Embrace a shadow, for his goods shall flow +Away, as the false brook forsakes its sands. +This is the portion of the hypocrite, +The heritage appointed him by God." + + * * * * * + +To Zophar answered Job,-- + "Hear ye my speech, +And when 'tis done, mock on. Not unto man +Is my complaint. For were it so, my heart +Would sink in darker depths of hopeless woe. +Say ye that earth's 'prosperity' rewards +The righteous man? Why do the wicked live, +Grow old, and magnify themselves in power? +Their offspring flourish round them, their abodes +Are safe from fear. Their cattle multiply +And widely o'er the hills and pastures green +Wander their healthful herds. Forth like a flock +They send their little ones, with dance and song, +Tabret and harp. They spend their days in wealth +And sink to slumber in the quiet grave. +Yet unto God they said, Depart from us, +For we desire no knowledge of thy ways. +Why should we serve the Almighty? Who is he? +And what our profit if we pray to Him? + +Close by these impious ones lies down to sleep, +One in the strength and glory of his prime, +Whom sorrow never touch'd, nor age impair'd; +And still another, wan misfortune's child, +Nurtur'd in bitterness, who never took +His meat with pleasure. Side by side they rest +On Death's oblivious pillow. Do ye say +Their varied lot below, mark'd their deserts? +In retribution just? + + * * * * * + + But as for you +With eyes so sharp for your own selfish ends, +Who by the wayside ask where'er ye go, +"_Where is the dwelling of the prince?_ and seek +Gain more than godliness, I know full well +Your deep contempt for one too poor to bribe +Your false allegiance, and the unkind device +Ye wrongfully imagine. + Will ye teach +Knowledge to God? Doth He not wisely judge +The highest? and reserve the sons of guilt +For the destruction that awaiteth them?" + + * * * * * + +In quick rejoinder, Eliphaz replied, +"What is thy fancied goodness in the sight +Of the Almighty? Is it gain to Him +If thou art righteous? Would it add to Him +Gladness or glory, that thy ways should be +What thou call'st perfect? + Rather turn thine eyes +Upon the record of thy sins, and see +Their countless number. + Hast thou taken a pledge +From thy poor brother's hand? or reft away +The garment from the shivering? or withheld +Bread from the hungry? or the widow sent +Empty away? not given the weary soul +What it implored? nor bound the broken arm +Of the forsaken fatherless? + For this +Have snares beset thee? and a secret fear +Dismay'd thy spirit? and a rayless night +Shut over thee? + Look to the height of heaven, +Above the utmost star. Is not God there? +Think'st thou that aught can intercept His sight +Or bar His righteous judgment? He who makes +The thickest clouds His footstool, when He walks +Upon the circuit of the highest heavens? +Acquaint thyself with Him and be at peace, +Return to Him, and He shall build thee up. +Take thou His precepts to thine inmost heart +That thy lost blessings may revisit thee. +Put far away thy foster'd sins, and share +The swelling flood-tide of prosperity. +Thou shalt have silver at thy will, and gold, +The gold of Ophir in thy path shall lie +As stones that pave the brooks. + Make thou thy prayer, +And pay thy vows, and He will hear thy voice +And give thee light, and thy desires confirm: +For He will save the humble and protect +The innocent and still deliver those +Whose hands are pure." + + To whom, the Man of Uz, + +"Oh that I knew where I might find my Judge, +That I might press even to His seat, and plead +My cause before Him. Would He strike me dumb +With His great power? Nay,--rather would he give +Strength to the weakness that would answer Him. +Lo! I go forward,--but He is not there,-- +And backward, yet my eyes perceive Him not. +On the left hand, His works surround me still, +But He is absent,--on the right, I gaze, +Yet doth He hide Himself. + But well He knows +My way, and when the time of trial's o'er, +And the refining fire hath purg'd the dross, +I shall come forth as gold. My feet have kept +The path appointed, nor from His commands +Unduly swerved, for I have prized His word +More than my needful food. + Yet He performs +What His wise counsel hath decreed for me, +Though sometimes sinks my soften'd heart beneath +The terror of His stroke. + There are, who seize +With violence whate'er their eyes desire; +Gorging themselves upon the stolen flock +And leaving desolate the rifled hut +Of the defenceless. Solitary ones +Hide from their robberies, for forth they go +Into the wilderness, their prey to hunt +Like ravening beasts. + There are, who watch to slay, +Rising before the dawn, or wrapp'd in night +Roaming with stealthy footstep, as a thief, +To smite their victims, while the wounded groan +Struck by their fatal shaft. + There are, who do +Such deeds of utter darkness as detest +The gaze of day. Muffling their face, they dig +Their way to habitations where they leave +Shame and dishonor. + Though He seem to sleep, +God's eye is on their ways. A little while +They wrap themselves in secret infamy, +Or proudly flourish,--but as the tall tree +Yields in a moment to the wrecking blast, +As 'neath the sickle falls the crisping corn, +Shall they be swept away, and leave no trace." + + * * * * * + +Bildad, the Shuhite, rose in act to speak. + +"Dominion is with God, and fear. He makes +Peace in his own high places. Dost thou know +The number of His armies? Or on whom +His light ariseth not? + How then can man +Be justified with God? or he be pure +Born of a woman. Lo! the cloudless Moon, +And yon unsullied stars, are in His sight +Dim and impure. Can man who is a worm +Be spotless with his Maker?" + Hark, the voice +Of the afflicted man: + "How dost thou help +Him that is powerless? how sustain the arm +That fails in strength? how counsel him who needs +Wisdom? and how declare the righteous truth +Just as it is? + To Him who reads the soul, +Hades is naked, and the realms of Death +Have naught to cover them. This pendent Earth +Hangs on his word,--in gathering clouds he binds +The ponderous waters, till at his command +They rend their filmy prison. Day and night +Await his nod to run their measured course. +Heaven's pillars and its everlasting gates +Tremble at his reproof. The cleaving sea +And man's defeated pride confess his power. +Yet the same Hand that garnisheth the skies +Disdaineth not to fashion and sustain +The crooked serpent. But how small a part +Of all its works are understood by us +Dim dwellers in this lowly vestibule, +And by the thunders of mysterious power +Still held in awe. + As the Eternal lives +Who hath bow'd down my soul, as long as breath +Inspires this mortal frame, these lips shall ne'er +Utter deceit, nor cast away the wealth +Of a good conscience. While I live I'll hold +Fast mine integrity,--nor justify +The slanderous charges of a secret guilt +Ye bring against me. + For what is the gain +Of the base hypocrite when God shall take +Away his perjured soul? Yourselves have seen +How often in this life the wicked taste +Of retribution. The oppressor bears +Sway for a while,--but look!--the downfall comes. +His offspring shall not flourish, nor his grave +Be wet with widow's tears. + The unjust rich man +Heapeth up silver for a stranger's hand, +He hoardeth raiment with a miser's greed +To robe he knows not who, though he himself +Had grudg'd to wear it. Boastfully he builds +A costly mansion to preserve his name +Among the people. But like the slight booth, +Brief lodge of summer, shall it pass away. +Terrors without a cause, disable him +And drown his courage. Like a driven leaf +Before the whirlwind, shall he hasten down +To a dishonor'd tomb. Men shall rejoice, +And clap their hands, and hiss him from his place +When he departs. + Surely, there is a vein +For silver, and a secret bed for gold +Which man discovers. Where the iron sleeps +In darkest chambers of the mine he knows, +And how the brass is molten. But a Mind +Deeper than his, close-hidden things explores, +Searching out all perfection. + Earth unveils +The mystic treasures of her matron breast, +Bread for her children, gems like living flame, +Sapphires, whose azure emulates the skies, +And dust of gold. Yet there's a curtain'd path +Which the unfettered denizens of air +Have not descried, nor even the piercing eye +Of the black vulture seen. The lion's whelps +In their wide roaming, nor their fiercer sire +Have never trod it. + There's a Hand that bares +The roots of mountains at its will, and cuts +Through rifted rocks a channel, where the streams +And rivers freely flow--an Eye that scans +Each precious thing. + But where doth Wisdom dwell? +And in what curtain'd chamber was the birth +Of Understanding? + The great Sea uplifts +Its hand in adjuration, and declares +"_'Tis not with me,_" and its unfathom'd deep +In subterranean thunders, echoing cry +"_No, not with me._" + Offer ye not for them +Silver, or Ophir's gold, nor think to exchange +Onyx, or sapphire, or the coral branch +Or crystal gem where hides imprison'd light, +Nor make ye mention of the precious pearl +Or Ethiopian topaz, for their price +Transcendeth rubies, or the dazzling ray +Of concentrated jewels. + In what place +Are found these wondrous treasures? Who will show +Their habitation? which alike defies +The ken of those who soar, or those who delve +In cells profound. + Death and destruction say, +From their hoarse caverns, "We have heard their fame +But know them not." + Lo! He who weighs the winds +Measures the floods, controls the surging sea +And points the forked lightnings where to play, +He, unto whom all mysteries are plain +All secrets open, all disguises clear, +Saith unto man the questioner,-- + "Behold +The fear of God is wisdom, and to break +The sway of evil and depart from sin +Is understanding." + Anguish wrings my soul +As in my hours of musing I restore +The picture of my lost prosperity, +When round my side my loving children drew +And from my happy home my steps were hail'd +Where'er I went. The fatherless and poor, +And he who had no helper, welcomed me +As one to right their wrongs, and pluck the spoil +From the oppressor's teeth. Pale widows raised +The glistening eye of gratitude, and they +Whose sight was quench'd, at my remembered tones +Pour'd blessings on me. Overflowing wealth +Brought me no titles that I held so dear +As father of the poor, and comforter +Of all who mourn. + When in the gate I sate +The nobles did me honor, and the wise +Sought counsel of me. To my words the young +Gave earnest heed, the white-hair'd men stood up, +And princes waited for my speech, as wait +The fields in summer for the latter rain. +But now, the children of base men spring up +And push away my feet, and make my name +A bye-word and a mockery, which was erst +Set to the harp in song. + Because my wealth +God hath resumed, they who ne'er dared to claim +Equality with even the lowest ones +Who watch'd my flock, they whom my menials scorned, +Dwellers in hovels, feeding like the brutes +On roots and bushes of the wilderness, +Despise me, and in mean derision cast +Marks of abhorrence at the fallen chief +Whom erst they fear'd. + Unpitied I endure +Sickness and pain that ope the narrow house +Where all the living go. My soul dissolves +And flows away as water--like the owl +In lone, forgotten cavern I complain, +For all my instruments of music yield +But mournful sounds, and from my organ comes +A sob of weeping. + I appeal to Him +Who sees my ways, and all my steps doth count, +If I have walk'd with vanity or worn +The veil of falsehood, or despised to obey +The law of duty; if I basely prowl'd +With evil purpose round my neighbor's door, +Or scorn'd my humblest menial's cause to right +When he contended with me, and complain'd, +Framed as he was of the same clay with me +By the same Hand Divine; or shunn'd to share +Even my last morsel with the hungry poor, +Or shield the uncovered suppliant with the fleece +Of my own cherish'd flock. + If ere I made +Fine gold my confidence, or lifted up +My heart in pride, because my wealth was great, +Or when I saw the glorious King of Day +Gladdening all nations, and the queenly Moon +Walking in brightness, was enticed to pay +A secret homage,--'twere idolatry +Unpardonably great. + If I rejoiced +In the affliction of mine enemy +Or for his hatred breathed a vengeful vow +When trouble came upon him,--if I closed +The inhospitable door against the foot +Of stranger, or of traveller,--or withheld +Full nutriment from any who abode +Within my tabernacle,--or refused +Due justice even to my own furrow'd field, +Then let my harvest unto thistles turn, +And rootless weeds o'ertop the beardless grain." + + * * * * * + +Then ceased the Man of Uz, like one o'erspent, +Feeling the fallacy of argument +With auditors like these, his thoughts withdrew +Into the shroud of silence, and he spake +No more unto them, standing fix'd and mute, +Like statued marble. + Then, as none replied, +A youthful stranger rose, and while he stretch'd +His hand in act to speak, and heavenward raised +His clear, unshrinking brow, he worthy seem'd +To hold the balance of that high debate. +Still, an indignant warmth, with energy +Of fervid eloquence his lips inspired. + +--"I said that multitude of days should bring +Wisdom to man, and so gave earnest heed +To every argument. And lo! not one +Of all your speeches have convicted Job, +Or proved your theory that woes like his +Denote a secret guilt. + I listened still +With that respect which youth doth owe to age, +And till ye ceased to speak, refrain'd to show +Mine own opinion. But there is a breath +From the Almighty, that gives life to thought, +And in my soul imprison'd utterance burns +Like torturing flame. So, will I give it vent +Though I am young in years, and ye are old, +And should be wise. I will not shun to uphold +The righteous cause, nor will I gloze the wrong +With flattering titles, lest the kindling wrath +Of an offended Maker, sweep me hence. + +Hearken, O Job, I pray thee, to my words +For they are words of truth. + Thou hast assumed +More perfect innocence than appertains +To erring man, and eager to refute +False accusation hast contemn'd the course +Of the All-Merciful. + Why shouldst thou strive +With Him whose might of wisdom ne'er unveils +Its mysteries to man? Yet doth He deign +Such hints and precepts as the docile heart +May comprehend. Sometimes in vision'd sleep, +His Spirit hovereth o'er the plastic mind +Sealing instruction. Or a different voice +Its sterner teaching tries. His vigor droops, +Strong pain amid the multitude of bones +Doth revel, till his soul abhorreth meat. +His fair flesh wastes, and downward to the pit +He hourly hastens. Holy Sympathy +May aid to uphold him in its blessed arms +Kindly interpreting the Will Divine, +With angel tenderness. + But if the God +Whose gracious ear doth hear the sigh of prayer +Baptized with dropping tears--perceives the cry +Of humbled self-abasing penitence, +He casts away the scourge--the end is gained. +Fresh as a child's, the wither'd flesh returns, +And life, and health, and joy, are his once more. +With discipline like this, He often tries +The creatures He hath made, to crush the seeds +Of pride, and teach that lowliness of soul +Befitting them, and pleasing in His sight. + + * * * * * + +Oh Man of Uz--if thou hast aught to add +Unto thy argument--I pray thee, speak! +Fain would I justify thee. + Is it well +To combat Him who hath the right to reign? +Or even to those who fill an earthly throne +And wear a princely diadem, to say, +Ye are unjust? + But how much less to Him +The fountain of all power, who heedeth not +Earth's vain distinctions, nor regards the rich +More than the poor, for all alike are dust +And ashes in His sight. + Is it not meet +For those who bear His discipline, to say +I bow submissive to the chastening Hand +That smites my inmost soul? Oh teach me that +Which through my blindness I have failed to see, +For I have sinn'd, but will offend no more. +Say, is it right, Oh Job, for thee to hold +Thyself superior to the All-Perfect Mind? +If thou art righteous what giv'st thou to Him +Who sits above the heavens? Can He receive +Favor from mortals? + Open not thy mouth +To multiply vain words, but rather bow +Unto the teaching of His works that spread +So silently around. His snows descend +And make the green Earth hoary. Chains of frost +Straighten her breadth of waters. Dropping rains +Refresh her summer thirst, or rending clouds +Roll in wild deluge o'er her. Roaming beasts +Cower in their dens affrighted, while she quakes +Convuls'd with inward agony, or reels +Dizzied with flashing fires. + Again she smiles +In her recovered beauty, at His will, +Maker of all things. So, He rules the world, +With wrath commingling mercy. Who may hope +With finite mind to understand His ways, +So excellent in power, in wisdom deep, +In justice terrible, respecting none +Who pride themselves in fancied wisdom." + Hark! +On the discursive speech a whirlwind breaks, +Tornadoes shake the desert, thunders roll +And from the lightning's startled shrine, _a voice_! +The voice of the Eternal. + "Who is this +That darkeneth knowledge by unmeaning words? +Gird up thy loins and answer. + Where wert thou +When the foundations of the earth were laid? +Who stretch'd the line, and fix'd the corner-stone, +When the bright morning-stars together sang +And all the hosts that circle round the Throne +Shouted for joy? + Whose hand controll'd the sea +When it brake forth to whelm the new-fram'd world? +Who made dark night its cradle and the cloud +Its swaddling-band? commanding + "Hitherto +Come, but no further. At this line of sand +Stay thy proud waves." + Hast thou call'd forth the morn +From the empurpled chambers of the east, +Or bade the trembling day-spring know its place? +Have Orion's depths been open'd to thy view? +And hast thou trod his secret floor? or seen +The gates of Death's dark shade? + Where doth light dwell? +And ancient Darkness, that with Chaos reign'd +Before Creation? Dost thou know the path +Unto their house, because thou then wert born? +And is the number of thy days so great? +Show me the treasure-house of snows. Unlock +The mighty magazines of hail, that wait +The war of elements. + Who hath decreed +A water-course for embryo fountain springs? +Mark'd out the lightning's path and bade the rain +O'erlook not in its ministries the waste +And desolate plain, but wake the tender herb +To cheer the bosom of the wilderness. +Tell me the father of the drops of dew, +The curdling ice, and hoary frost that seal +The waters like a stone, and change the deep +To adamant. + Bind if thou canst, the breath +And balmy influence of the Pleiades. +Bring forth Mazzaroth in his time, or guide +Arcturus, with his sons. + Canst thou annul +The fix'd decree that in their spheres detain +The constellations? Will the lightnings go +Forth on thine errands, and report to thee +As loyal vassals? + Who in dying clay +Infused the immortal principle of mind, +And made them fellow-workers? + If thou canst +Number the flying clouds, and gather back +Their falling showers, when parch'd and cleaving earth +Implores their charity. Wilt hunt the prey +With the stern forest-king? or dare invade +The darkened lair where his young lions couch +Ravenous with hunger? + Who the ravens feeds +When from the parent's nest hurl'd out, they cry +And all forsaken, ask their meat from God? +Know'st thou the time when the wild goats endure +The mother-sorrow? how their offspring grow +Healthful and strong, uncared for, and unstall'd? +Who made the wild ass like the desert free, +Scorning the rein, and from the city's bound +Turning triumphant to the wilderness? +Lead to thy crib the unicorn, and bind +His unbow'd sinews to the furrowing plough, +And trust him if thou canst to bring thy seed +Home to the garner. + Who the radiant plumes +Gave to the peacock? or the winged speed +That bears the headlong ostrich far beyond +The baffled steed and rider? not withheld +By the instinctive tenderness that chains +The brooding bird, she scatters on the sands +Her unborn hopes, regardless though the foot +May trampling crush them. + Hast thou given the Horse +His glorious strength, and clothed his arching neck +With thunder? At the armed host he mocks,-- +The rattling quiver, and the glittering spear. +Prancing and proud, he swalloweth the ground +With rage, and passionate desire to rush +Into the battle. At the trumpet's sound, +And shouting of the captains, he exults, +Drawing the stormy terror with delight +Into his fearless spirit. + Doth the Hawk +In her migrations counsel ask of Thee? +Mounts the swift Eagle up at thy command? +Making her nest among the star-girt cliffs, +And thence undazzled by the vertic sun +Scanning the molehills of the earth, or motes +That o'er her bosom move. + Say,--wilt thou teach +Creative Wisdom? or contend with Him +The Almighty,--ordering all things at His will?" + + * * * * * + +Then there was silence, till the chastened One +Murmured as from the dust, + "Lo, I am vile! +What shall I answer thee?--I lay my hand +Upon my mouth. Once have I dared to speak, +But would be silent now, forevermore." + +--Yet still, in thunder, from the whirlwind's wing, +Jehovah's voice demanded,-- + "Wilt thou dare +To disannul my judgments? and above +Unerring wisdom, and unbounded power +Exalt thine own? + Hast thou an arm like mine? +Array thyself in majesty, and look +On all the proud in heart, and bring them low,-- +Yea, deck thyself with glory, cast abroad +The arrows of thine anger, and abase +The arrogant, and send the wicked down +To his own place, sealing his face like stone +Deep in the dust; for then will I confess +Thy might, and that thine own right hand hath power +To save thyself. + Hast seen my Behemoth, +Who on the grassy mountains finds his food? +And 'neath the willow boughs, and reeds, disports +His monstrous bulk? + His bones like brazen bars, +His iron sinews cased in fearful strength +Resist attack! Lo! when he slakes his thirst +The rivers dwindle, and he thinks to draw +The depths of Jordan dry. + Wilt cast thy hook +And take Leviathan? Wilt bind thy yoke +Upon him, as a vassal? Will he cringe +Unto thy maidens? + See the barbed spear +The dart and the habergeon, are his scorn. +Sling-stones are stubble, keenest arrows foil'd, +And from the plaited armor of his scales +The glittering sword recoils. Where he reclines, +Who is so daring as to rouse him up, +With his cold, stony heart, and breath of flame? +Or to the cavern of his gaping jaws +Thick set with teeth, draw near? + The Hand alone +That made him can subdue his baleful might." + + * * * * * + +Jehovah ceas'd,--for the Omniscient Eye +That scans the inmost thought of man, discern'd +Its work completed in that lowliness +Of deep humility which fits the soul +For heavenly intercourse, and renovates +The blessed image of obedient love +That Eden forfeited. + Out of the depths +Of true contrition sigh'd a trembling tone +In utter abnegation, + "I repent! +In dust and ashes. I abhor myself." +--Thus the returning prodigal who cries +Unclothed and empty, "Father! I have sinn'd, +And am not worthy to be called thy son," +Finds full forgiveness, and a free embrace, +While the best robe his shrinking form enfolds. + +But with this self-abasement toward his God +Job mingled tenderest regard for man. +No longer with indignant warmth he strove +Against his false accusers, or retained +Rankling remembrance of the enmity +That vexed his wounded soul + With earnest prayers +And offerings, he implored offended Heaven +To grant forgiveness to those erring friends, +Paying with love the alienated course +Of their misguided minds. + Heaven heard his voice, +And with that intercession sweet, return'd +The sunbeams of his lost prosperity. +Back came his buried joys. They had no power +To harm a soul subdued. The refluent tide +Of wealth swept o'er him. On his many hills +Gathered the herds, and o'er his pastures green +Sported the playful lambs. The tuneful voice +Of children fill'd his desolate home with joy, +And round his household board their beauty gleam'd, +Making his spirit glad. + So full of days, +While twice our span of threescore years and ten, +Mark'd out its silvery chronicle of moons +Still to his knee his children's children climb'd +To hear the wisdom he had learned of God +Through the strong teaching both of joy and woe. + + * * * * * + +Nor had this sublunary scene alone, +Witness'd his trial. Doubt ye not that forms +To earth invisible were hovering near +With the sublime solicitude of Heaven. +For he, the bold, bad Spirit, in his vaunting pride +Of impious revolt, had dared to say +Unto the King of Kings, + "Stretch forth thy hand +And take away all that he hath, and Job +Will curse Thee to Thy face." + Methinks we hear +An echo of angelic harmony +From that blest choir who struck their harps with joy +That from the Tempter's ordeal he had risen +An unhurt victor. Round the Throne they pour'd +Their gratulations that the born of clay +Tho' by that mystery bow'd which ever veils +The inscrutable counsels of the All-Perfect One, +Might with the chieftain of the Rebel Host +Cope unsubdued and heavenward hold his way. + + + + +THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW-ENGLAND. + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +It may be thought that the following poem, especially its opening Canto +is too minute and circumstantial in its descriptions. Yet the habitudes +of a past and peculiar generation, fast fading from remembrance, are +worthy of being preserved, though little accordant with romance, +perhaps with poetry. So rapid has been our progress as a people, that +dimness gathers over the lineaments of even our immediate ancestry. Yet +traits at one period despised, or counted obsolete, may at another be +diligently sought after and re-juvenated. + +It has been observed that nations reaching their zenith, regard with +more complacency their rising morn, than the approaching west. France, +notwithstanding the precision given to her language by Richilieu, and +the Academy, turns back affectionately to her Troubadours and +Trouvires, to the long-drawn, scarce-readable "Romance of the Rose," +and the itinerant Chronicles of Froissart. England is not indifferent +to Anglo-Saxon traditions, or the customs of her Norman dynasty. + +A time may arrive when our posterity will not scorn to be reminded of +the primitive usages of their rural fathers. To that time, and to +unborn readers, this simple poem is dedicated. + +L. H. S. + + + + +THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW-ENGLAND. + + +CANTO FIRST. + +Peaceful is the rural life, made strong by healthful industry, +Firm in love of the birth-land, and the laws that govern it, +Calm through moderated desires and a primitive simplicity, +Walking filially with Nature as the Patriarchs walked with God. +Such have I beheld it in my native vales, green and elm-shaded. +Such hath it been depicted in their legends who went before me; +What therefore, I have seen and heard, declare I unto you +In measures artless and untuneful. + Fearless of hardship, +In costume, as in manners, unadorn'd and homely +Were our ancestral farmers, the seed-planters of a strong nation. +Congenial were their wives, not ashamed of the household charge, +Yoke-fellows that were help-meets, vigorous and of a good courage; +Revolting not at life's plain intent, but its duties discharging +Patiently, lovingly, and with true faith looking upward. +Thence came the rudiments of an inflexible people +Whose praise is in themselves. + Hail to the ancient farmer! +Broad-shouldered as Ajax--deep-chested through commerce with free air, +Not enervated by luxury, nor care-worn with gold-counting, +Content with his lot, by pride and envy unvisited. +Muscular was his arm, laying low the kings of the forest, +Uncouth might be his coat, and his heavy shoes, Vestris flouted, +At the grasp of his huge hand, the dainty belle might have shuddered. +Yet blessings on his bronzed face, and his warm, honest heart, +Whose well-rooted virtues were the strength and stay of republics. + + * * * * * + +True independence was his, earth and sky being his bankers, +Bills drawn on them, endorsed by toil were never protested. +Bathed in vernal dews was his glistening plough-share, +Birds, newly-returned, the merry nest-builders, bade him good morrow, +Keenly wrought his scythe in summer, where fell the odorous clover, +Clear was his song at autumn-husking, amid piles of golden corn. +Winter saw him battling the drifted snows, with his oxen, +Bearing to the neighboring town, fuel that gladden'd the hearth-stone. +Deep in undisturbed beds then slept the dark-featured anthracite, +Steam not having armed itself to exterminate the groves, +Lavishly offering them as a holocaust to winged horses of iron, +Like Moloch, cruel god, dooming the beautiful to the flame. + + * * * * * + +Independent was the farmer, the food of his household being sure; +With the fields of waving grain; with the towering tassell'd maize; +With the herds, moving homeward, bearing their creamy nectar; +He saw, and gather'd it, giving thanks to the bountiful Father. +Among the lambs sporting in green pastures, among the feathery people, +Among the fruit-laden branches, he beheld it also; +Under the earth, on the earth, in the air, ripen'd his threefold crop. +Swelling in the cluster'd vine, and the roots of the teeming garden, +The Garden--precious spot! which God deign'd to bless at the beginning, +Placing therein Man, made after his own glorious image, +To dress it and to keep it. + Hail, to the ancient farmer, +Naught to him the fall of stocks that turns pale the speculator, +Naught to him the changes of trade, wrinkling the brow of the merchant, +Naught to him, the light weight, or exorbitant price of the baker; +Sure was his bread, howsoe'er the markets might fluctuate, +Sweet loaves of a rich brown, plentifully graced his table, +Made by the neat hand of wife or daughter, happy in healthful toil. +Skilfully wrought the same hands, amid the treasures of the dairy, +Rich cheeses, and masses of golden butter, and bowls of fragrant milk +Not doled out warily, as by city dames, but to all, free and flowing; +Woman's right it was, to crown the board with gifts of her own + preparing; +Rights not disputed, not clamored for in public assemblies, +But conceded by approving Love, whose manliness threw around her +A cherishing protection, such as God willed in Paradise. + + * * * * * + +Dense was the head of the Maple, and in summer of a lustrous green, +Yet earliest in autumn, among all trees of the forest, +To robe itself in scarlet, like a cardinal going to conclave. +Subjected was it in spring, to a singular phlebetomy; +Tubes inserted through its bark, drew away the heart's sweet blood, +Pore after pore emptying itself, till the great arteries were + exhausted. +Fires then blazed amid the thickets, like the moveable camp of the + gipsies, +And in boiling kettles, fiercely eddying, struggled the caloric, +With gases, and the saccharine spirit, until the granulated sugar, +Showed a calm, brown face, welcome to the stores of the housewife; +Moulded also into small cakes, it formed the favorite confection +Of maiden and swain, during the long evenings of courtship. + + * * * * * + +Gamboling among wild flowers, gadded the honey-bee, +Bending down their innocent heads, with a buzzing lore of flattery, +Beguiling them of their essences, which with tireless alacrity, +Straightway deposited he in his cone-roof'd banking-house, +Subtle financier--thinking to take both dividend and capital. +But failing in his usury, for duly cometh the farmer, +Despoiling him of his hoard, yea! haply of his life also. +Stern was the policy of the olden times, to that diligent insect, +Not skill'd like our own, to confiscate a portion of his earnings, +Leaving life and limb unscathed for future enterprise. +Welcome were the gifts of that winged chemist to a primitive people. +Carefully cloistered in choice vases, was the pure, virgin honey, +Sacred to honor'd guests, or a balm to the sore-throated invalid. +Dealt out charily, was the fair comb to the gratified little ones, +Or, to fermentation yielded, producing the spirited metheglin. +Not scorn'd by the bee-masters, were even those darken'd hexagons +Where slumber'd the dead like the coral-builders in reefy cell. +Even these to a practical use devoted the clear-sighted matron, +Calling forth from cavernous sepulchres cheerful light for the living. +Cleansed and judiciously mingled with an oleagenous element, +Thus drew she from the mould, waxen candles, whose gold-tinted beauty +Crown'd proudly the mantel-piece, reserved for bettermost occasions. +Unheard of, then, was the gas, with briliant jet and gorgeous + chandelier, +Nor hunted they from zone to zone, with barbed harpoon the mighty + whale, +Making the indignant monarch of ocean, their flambeau and link-boy: +For each household held within itself, its own fountain of light. +Faithful was the rural housewife, taking charge of all intrusted + things, +Prolonging the existence of whatever needed repair, +Requiring children to respect the property of their parents, +Not to waste or destroy, but be grateful for food and clothing; +Teaching them industry, and the serious value of fleeting time, +Strict account of which must be rendered to the Master and Giver of + Life. +Prudence was then held in esteem and a laudable economy +Not jeered at by miserly names, but held becoming in all, +For the poor, that they might avoid debt; and the rich that they might + be justly generous. + + * * * * * + +Ho! for the flax-field, with its flower of blue and leaf freshly + green,-- +Ho! for the snowy fleece, which the quiet flock yield to their + master,-- +Woman's hand shall transmute both, into armor for those she loves, +Wrapping her household in comfort, and her own heart in calm content. +Hark! at her flaxen distaff cheerily singeth the matron, +Hymns, that perchance, were mingled with her own cradle melodies. +Back and forth, at the Great Wheel, treadeth the buxom damsel, +Best form of calisthenics, exercising well every muscle +Regularly and to good purpose, filling the blue veins with richer + blood. +Rapidly on the spindle, gather threads from the pendent roll, +Not by machinery anatomized, till stamina and staple fly away, +But with hand-cards concocted, and symmetrically formed, +Of wool, white or grey, or the refuse flax smoothed to a silky lustre, +It greeteth the fingers of the spinner. + In this Hygeian concert +Leader of the Orchestra, was the Great Wheel's tireless tenor, +Drowning the counter of the snapping reel, and the quill-wheels fitful + symphony, +Whose whirring strings, yielded to children's hands, prepare spools for + the shuttle. +At intervals, like a muffled drum, sounded the stroke of the loam, +Cumbrous, and filling a large space, with its quantity of timber, +Obedient only to a vigorous arm, which in ruling it grew more vigorous. +From its massy beam were unrolled, fabrics varied and substantial, +Linen for couch and table, and the lighter garniture of summer, +Frocks of a flaxen color for the laborer, or striped with blue for the + younglings; +Stout garments in which man bides the buffet of wintry elements. +From the rind of the stately butternut, drew they a brown complexion, +Or the cerulean borrowed from the tint of the southern indigo. +Thus rustic Industry girded itself, amid household music, +As History of old, set her fabulous legends to the harp. +Ears trained to the operas of Italy, would find discordance to be + mocked at, +But the patriot heard the ring of gold in the coffers of his country, +Not sent forth to bankruptcy, for the flowery silks of France; +While the listening christian caught the strong harmonies of a peaceful + Land, +Giving praise to Jehovah. + Lo! at the winter evening +In these uncarpeted dwellings, what a world of comfort! +Large hickory logs send a dancing flame up the ample chimney, +Tinging with ruddy gleam, every face around the broad hearth-stone. +King and patriarch, in the midst, sitteth the true-hearted farmer. +At his side, the wife with her needle, still quietly regardeth the + children. +Sheltered in her corner-nook, in the arm-chair, the post of honor, +Calm with the beauty of age, is the venerable grandmother. +Clustering around her, watching the stocking that she knits, are the + little ones, +Loving the stories that she tells of the days when she was a maiden, +Stories ever mix'd with lessons of a reverent piety. +Manna do they thus gather to feed on, when their hair is hoary. +Stretch'd before the fire, is the weary, rough-coated house-dog, +Winking his eyes, full of sleep, at the baby, seated on his shoulder, +Proudly watching his master's darling, and the pet of the family, +As hither and thither on its small feet it toddles unsteadily. + +On the straight-back'd oaken settle, congregate the older children. +Work have they, or books, and sometimes the weekly newspaper, +Grey, on coarse, crumpled paper, and borrowed from house to house, +Small-sized, yet precious, and read through from beginning to end, +Bright, young heads circling close, peering together over its columns. +Now and then, furtive glances reconnoitre the ingle-side, +Where before a bed of coals, rows of red apples are roasting, +Spitting out their life-juices spitefully, in unwilling martyrdom. +Finished, and drawn back, the happy group wait a brief interval, +Thinking some neighbor might chance to come in and bid them good even, +Heightening their simple refection, for whose sake would be joyously + added +The mug of sparkling cider passed temperately from lip to lip, +Sufficient and accepted offering of ancient, true-hearted hospitality. +Thus in colonial times dwelt they together as brethren, +Taking part in each others' concerns with an undissembled sympathy. + +But when the tall old clock told out boldly three times three, +Thrice the number of the graces, thrice the number of the fates, +The full number of the Muses, the hour dedicated to Morpheus, +At that curfew departed the guest, and all work being suspended, +Laid aside was the grandmother's knitting-bag, for in its cradle +Rock'd now and then by her foot, already slumbered the baby. +Then, ere the fading brands were covered with protecting ashes, +Rose the prayer of the Sire, amid his treasured and trusted ones, +Rose his thanks for past blessings, his petitions for the future, +His committal of all care to Him who careth for his creatures, +Overlooking nothing that His bountiful Hand hath created. + +Orderly were the households of the farmer, not given to idle merriment, +Honoring the presence of parents, as of tutelary spirits. +To be obedient and useful were the first lessons of the young children, +Well learned and bringing happiness, that ruled on sure foundations, +Respect for authority, being the initial of God's holy fear. +Modern times might denounce such a system as tyrannical, +Asking the blandishments of indulgence, and a broader liberty; +Leaving in perplexing doubt, the mind of the infant stranger +Whether to rule or to be ruled he came hither on his untried journey, +Rearing him in headstrong ignorance, revolting at discipline, +Heady, high-minded, and prone to speak evil of dignities. + +Welcome was Winter, to the agriculturist of olden times, +Then, while fruitful Earth, with whom he was in league, held her + sabbath, +Knowledge entered into his soul. At the lengthened evening, +Read he in an audible voice to his listening family +Grave books of History, or elaborate Theology, +Taxing thought and memory, but not setting fancy on tiptoe +Teaching reverence for wise men, and for God, the Giver of Wisdom. +Not then had the era arrived, when of making books there is no end. +Painfully the laboring press, brought forth like the kingly whale +One cub at a time, guiding it carefully over the billows, +Watching with pride and pleasure, its own wonderful offspring. +A large, fair volume, was in those days, as molten gold, +Touched only with clean hands, and by testators willed to their heirs. + + * * * * * + +Winter also, brought the school for the boys,--released from + farm-labor. +Early was the substantial breakfast, in those short, frosty mornings, +That equipped in season, might be the caravan for its enterprise, +Punctuality in those simple times being enrolled among the virtues. +There they go! a rosy group, bearing in small baskets their dinner; +Plunging thro' all snow-drifts, the boys,--on all ices sliding the + girls, +Yet leaving not the straight path, lest tardy should be their arrival. +Lone on the bleak hill-side, stood the unpainted village school-house, +Winds taking aim at it like a target, smoke belching from its chimney, +Bare to the fiery suns of summer, like the treeless Nantucket. +Desks were ranged under the windows where on high benches without backs +Sate the little ones, their feet vainly reaching toward the distant + floor, +Commanded everlastingly to keep still and to be still, +As if immobility were the climax of all excellence; +Hard lesson for quick nerves, and eyes searching for something new. +Nature endowed them with curiosity, but man wiser than she +Calling himself a teacher, would fain stiffen them into statues. +No bright visions of the school-palaces of future days +With seats of ease, and carpets, and pianos, and pictured walls, +And green lawns, pleasantly shaded, stretching wide for play, +And knowledge fondling her pets, and unveiling her royal road, +Gleam'd before them as Eden, kindling smiles on their thoughtful + faces. + +Favor'd were the elder scholars with more congenial tasks: +Loudly read they in their classes, glorying in the noise they made, +Busily over the slates moved the hard pencils, with a grating sound, +Diligently on coarse paper wrote they, with quill pens, bushy topp'd, +Blessed in having lived, ere the metallic stylus was invented. +Rang'd early around the fire, have been their frozen inkstands, +Where in rotation sits each scholar briefly, by the master's leave, +Roasting on one side, and on the other a petrefaction, +Keen blasts through the crevices delighting to whistle and mock them. +Patient were the children, not given to murmuring or complaining, +Learning through privation, lessons of value for a future life, +Subjection, application, and love of knowledge for itself alone. +On a high chair, sate the solemn Master, watchful of all things, +Absolute was his sway and in this authority he gloried, +Conforming it much to the Spartan rule, and the code of Solomon, +Showing no mercy to idleness, or wrong uses of the slippery tongue: +Yet to diligent students kind, and of their proficiency boastful, +Exhibiting their copy-books, to committee-man and visitant, +Or calling out the declaimers, in some stentorian dialogue. +Few were the studies then pursued, but thoroughness required in all, +Surface-work not being in vogue, nor rootless blossoms regarded. +Especially well-taught was the orthography of our copious language, +False spelling being as a sin to be punished by the judges. +In this difficult attainment the master sometimes accorded +A form of friendly conflict sought with ardor as a premium, +Stirring the belligerent element, ever strong in boyish natures. +Forth came at close of the school-day, two of reproachless conduct, +Naming first the best spellers, they proceeded to choose alternately, +Till all, old and young, ranging under opposite banners, +Drawn up as in battle array, each other stoutly confronted. +Rapidly given out by the leaders to their marshall'd forces, +Word by word, with its definition, was the allotted lesson, +Vociferously answered from each side like discharges of artillery; +Fatal was the slightest mistake, fatal even pause or hesitation, +Doubt was for the vanquished, to deliberate was to be lost. +Drooping with disgrace down sate each discomfited pupil, +Bravely stood the perfect, the most unbroken line gaining the victory. +Not unboastful were the conquerers, cheered with shouts on their + homeward way, +Crest-fallen were the defeated, yet eager for a future contest. +Strong elements thus enlisted, gave new vigor to mental toil, +As the swimmer puts forth more force till the rapids are overpast. +Dear to the persevering, were those schools of the olden time, +Respected were the teachers, who with majestic austerity, +Dispensed without favoritism, a Lacedamonian justice. +Learning was not then loved for luxury, like a lady for her gold, +But testing her worshippers by trial, knew who sought her for herself. + + * * * * * + +Not given to frequent feasting was the home-bred farmer of New England, +Parties, and the popular lectures swelled not his code of enjoyments. +One banquet, climax of his convivial delight, was the yearly + thanksgiving, +Substituted by puritan settlers for the Christmas of the Mother-Clime, +Keeping in memory the feast of ingathering, of the Ancient Covenant + People; +Drear November was its appointed season, when earth's bounty being + garnered, +Man might rest from his labors, and praise the Lord of the Harvest. +Such was its original design, but the tendencies of Saxonism, +Turn'd it more to eating and drinking, than devotional remembrance. +Yet blessed was the time, summoning homeward every wanderer: +Back came the city apprentice, and from her service place the damsel, +Back came the married daughter to the father's quiet hearth-stone, +Wrapped warmly in her cloak is a babe, its eyes full of wonder,-- +Hand in hand, walked the little ones, bowing low before the + grandparents, +Meekly craving their blessing, for so had they been piously taught. +Back to the birth-spot, to the shadow of their trees ancestral, +Came they like joyous streams, to their first untroubled fountain, +Knowing better how to prize it, from the rocks that had barred their + course. +In primitive guise, journeyed homeward those dispersed ones. +Rare, in these days, was the carriage, or stage-coach for the + traveller; +Roads, unmacadamized, making rude havoc of delicate springs. +Around the door, horses gather with the antique side-saddle and + pillion, +Led thence to the full barn, while their riders find heartfelt welcome. + +Then all whom culinary cares release, hasten to the House of Worship, +Religion being invoked to sanction the rejoicing of the fathers. +Plain was the village-church, a structure of darkened wood, +Having doors on three sides, and flanked by sheds for the horses, +Guiltless of blackening stove-pipe, or the smouldering fires of the + furnace. +Assaulted oft were its windows, by the sonorous North-Western, +Making organ-pipes in the forest, for its shrill improvisations +Patient of cold, sate the people, each household in its own square pew, +Palisaded above the heads of the children, imprisoning their roving + eyes. +Patiently sate the people, while from 'neath the great sounding-board, +The preacher unfolded his sermon, like the many-headed cauliflower. +Grave was the good pastor, not prone to pamper animal appetites, +But mainly intent to deal with that which is immortal. +Prolix might he have been deemed, save by the flock he guided, +Who duteously accounted him but a little lower than the angels. + +As solemn music to the sound of his monotonous periods +Listened attentively the young, until he slowly enunciated +Fifteenthly, in the division of his elaborate discourse. +Then gadded away their busy thoughts to the Thanksgiving dinner, +Visioning good things to come. + + At length, around the table, +Duly bless'd by the Master of the feast, they cheerily assemble. +Before him, as his perquisite, and prerogative to carve. +In a lordly dish smokes the huge, well-browned Turkey, +Chickens were there, to whose innocent lives Thanksgiving is ever a + death-knell; +Luscious roasters from the pen, the large ham of a red complexion, +Garnish'd and intermingled with varied forms of vegetable wealth. +Ample pasties were attached, and demolished with dexterity, +Custards and tarts, and compounds of the golden-faced pumpkin, +Prime favorite, without whose aid, scarcely could New England have been + thankful. +Apples, with plump, waxen cheeks, chestnuts, and the fruit of the + hickory, +Bisected neatly, without fragment, furnished the simple dessert, +Finale to that festival where each guest might be safely merry. +Hence, by happy-hearted children, was it hailed as the pole-star, +Toward which Memory looked backward six months, and Hope forward for + six to come, +Dating reverently from its era, as the Moslem from his Hegira. +Hymen also hailed it as his revenue, and crowning time; +Bachelors wearied with the restraints that courtship imposes, +Longed for it, as the Israelite for the jubilee of release, +And many a householder, in his family-bible marked its date +As the day of his espousals, and of the gladness of his heart. + + * * * * * + +Content was the life of agriculture, in unison with that wisest prayer +"_Thy will be done._" Wisest, because who, save the Eternal +Knoweth what is best for man, walking ignorantly among shadows, +Himself a shadow, not like Adam our father in Paradise, +Rightly naming all things, but calling evil, good, and good, evil, +Blindly blaming the discipline that might bless him ever-lastingly, +And embracing desires, that in their bosom hide the dagger of Ehud. +Asketh he for honor? In its train are envyings and cares; +"Wealth? It may drown the soul in destruction and perdition; +Power? Lo! it casteth on some lone St. Helena to die: +Surely, safest of all petitions, is that of our blessed Saviour,-- +"_Not my will hut Thine._" + + * * * * * + + Thus, as it was in the days before us, +Rural life in New-England, with its thrift, and simplicity, +Minutely have I depicted, not emulous of embellishment. +More of refinement might it boast when our beautiful birth-clime, +From the colonial chrysalis emerging, spread her wing among the + nations. +Then rose an aristocracy, founded not on wealth alone +That winds may scatter like desert sands, or the floods wash away, +But on the rock of solid virtue, where securely anchors the soul. + + * * * * * + +Mid its cultured acres rose gracefully a dwelling of the better class, +Large, but not lofty, its white walls softened by surrounding shades, +Fresh turf at its feet like velvet, green boughs bannering its head, +Bannering, and dropping music, till the last rustle of the falling + leaves. +There, still in her comely prime, dwelt the lady of the mansion. +Moderate would her fortune be held in these days that count by + millions, +Yet rich was she, because having no debts, what seemed to be hers, was + so; +Rich, in having a surplus for the poor, which she gladly imparted; +Rich too, through Agriculture, pursued less from need than habit. +Habit mingled with satisfaction, and bringing health in its train. +Early widowhood had touched her brow with sadness such as time + bringeth, +Yet in her clear eye was a fortitude, surmounting adversity. +Busy were her maidens, and happy, their right conduct kindly approved, +Busy also the swains thro' whose toil her fields yielded increase, +Respect had she for labor; knowing both what to require, and when it + was well performed, +Readily rendering full wages, with smiles and words of counsel, +Accounting those who served her, friends, entitled to advice and + sympathy. +Thus, looking well to the ways of her household, and from each + expecting their duty, +Wisely divided she her time, and at intervals of leisure, +Books allured her cultured mind through realms of thought and + knowledge. + + * * * * * + +But the deepest well-spring of her joys, not yet hath been unfolded, +A fountain where care and sorrow forgot both their name and nature. +Two little daughters, like olive plants, grew beside that fountain, +One, with dark, deepset eyes, and wealth of raven tresses, +The other gleaming as a sunbeam, through her veil of golden hair, +With a glance like living sapphire, making the beholder glad. +Clinging to the sweet mother's hand, smiling when she smiled, +If she were sad, grieving also, they were her blessed comforters, +Morn and Even were they styled by admiring, fanciful visitants, +So "the evening and the morning, were to her soul the first day," +After the heavy midnight of her weeping and widowhood. + +Side by side, in sweet liberty hither and thither roamed those little + ones, +Hunting violets on the bank, tasting cheese curds in the dairy, +Seeking red and white strawberries, as ripening they ran in the garden + beds, +To fill the small basket for their mother, covering the fruit with + rose-buds, +Peering archly to see if she would discover what was lurking beneath. +Gamboling with the lambs, shouting as the nest-builders darted by, +Sharing in the innocence of one, and catching song from the other. + +Nighty on the same snowy pillow, were laid their beautiful heads, +The same morning beam kiss'd away their lingering slumbers, +The first object that met their waking eye, was the bright, sisterly + smile. +One impulse moved both hearts, as kneeling by their little bed, +Breathed forth from ruby lips, "Our Father, who art in Heaven!" +Simple homage, meekly blending in a blessed stream of incense. + +Forth went they among the wild flowers, making friendship with the + dragon-fly, +With the ant in her circling citadel, with the spider at her silk-loom, +Talking to the babbling brook, speaking kindly to the uncouth terrapin, +And frog, who to them seem'd dancing joyously in watery halls. +Like the chirping of the wood-robin murmured their tuneful voices, +Or rang out in merry laughter, gladdening the ear of the Mother, +Who when she heard it afar off, laughed also, not knowing wherefore. + +Thus, in companionship with Nature, dwelt they, growing each day more + happy, +Loving all things that she cherish'd, and loved by her in return. +Yet not idly pass'd their childhood, in New England's creed that were + heresy, +Promptly, as strength permitted, followed they examples of industry, +Lovingly assisting the Mother wherever her work might be. +Surprising was it to see what their small hands could accomplish, +Without trespassing on the joy of childhood, that precious birthright + of life. +Diligently wrought they in summer, at the dame's school with plodding + needle, +Docile at their lessons in winter, stood they before the Master: +Yet learning most from Home and Mother, those schools for the heart, +Befitting best that sex, whose sphere of action is in the heart. +Attentive were they to the Parents' rule, and to the open book of + Nature, +Teachers, whose faithful pupils shall be wise towards God. + + * * * * * + +Different were the two daughters, though to the same discipline + subjected. +Grave was the elder born and thoughtful, even beyond her years, +Night upon her tresses, but the star of morning in her heart. +Exceeding fair was the younger, and witty, and full of grace, +Winning with her sunny ringlets, the notice of all beholders. +Different also were their temperaments, one loving like the Violet +Shaded turf, where the light falls subdued through sheltering branches, +The other, as the Tulip, exulting in the lustrous noontide, +And the prerogatives of beauty, to see, and to be seen. +Sweet was it to behold them, when the sun grew low in summer, +Riding gracefully through the green-wood, each on her ambling palfrey, +One, white as milk, and the other like shining ebony, +For so in fanciful love had the Mother selected for her darlings. +Sweet was it to mark them, side by side, in careless beauty, +Looking earnestly in each others' faces, thought playfully touching + thought. + + * * * * * + +Chief speaker was Miranda, ever fearless and most fluent. +"Tired am I of always seeing the same dull, old scenes. +I wish the rail-fences would tumble down, and the sprawling + apple-trees,-- +And the brown farm-houses take unto themselves wings and fly away, +Like the wild-geese in autumn, if only something might be new. +There's the Miller forever standing on that one same spot of ground, +Watching his spouting wheel, when there's water, and when there is + none, +Grumbling, I suppose, at home, to his spiritless wife and daughters. +I like not that fusty old Miller, his coat covered with meal, +Ever tugging at bags, and shoveling corn into the hopper." +Discreetly answer'd Bertha, and the lively one responded, +Lively, and quick-sighted, yet prone to be restless and unsatisfied, +"Counting rain-drops as they fall, one by one, from sullen branches. +Seeing silly lambkins leap, and the fan-tail'd squirrels scamper, +What are such things to me? Stupid Agriculture I like not, +Soap-making, and the science of cheese-tubs, what are they to me? +The chief end of life with these hinds and hindesses, +Is methinks, to belabor their hands, till they harden like brick-bats." + + * * * * * + +"Look, look, Miranda, dearest! The new moon sweetly rising +Holdeth forth her silver crescent, which the loyal stars perceiving, +Gather gladly to her banner, like a host around their sovereign. +Let us find the constellations that our good Instructor taught us. +Remember you not yesterday, when our lesson was well-render'd, +How with unwonted flattery he call'd us his Hesperus and Aurora?" + + * * * * * + +"These hum-drum teachings tire me, I'm disgusted with reciting +And repeating, day by day, what I knew well enough before." +Then quickening briskly her startled steed with the riding-whip, +She darted onward through the forest, reaching first their own abode. + +At night, when they retired, ere the waning lamp was extinguished, +That good time for talking, when heart to heart discloseth +What the work or the pride of day, might in secrecy have shrouded, +Said Miranda, + "I have seen our early play-mate, Emilia, +From a boarding-school return'd, all accomplished, all delightful, +So changed, so improved, her best friends might scarcely know her. +Why might not I be favor'd with similar advantages? +Caged here, year by year, with wings beating the prison-door; +I would fain go where she went. If overruled I shall be wretched. +I _must_ go, Bertha, yes! No obstacle shall withhold me." + + * * * * * + +"Oh Miranda! Our Mother! In your company is her solace. +In your young life she liveth, at your bright smile, ever smileth, +Such power have you to cheer her. What could she do without you +When the lengthen'd eve grows lonely, and the widow sorrow presseth?" +"Oh persuade her!" she cried, with an embrace of passionate fervor, +"Persuade her, Bertha! and I'll be your bond-servant forever." + + * * * * * + +Seldom had a differing purpose ruffled long those sisterly bosoms. +Wakeful lay Bertha, the silent tear for her companion, +While frequent sighs swelling and heaving the snowy breast of Miranda, +Betray'd that troubled visions held her spirit in their custody. + + * * * * * + +Like twin streamlets had they been, from one quiet fountain flowing, +Stealing on through fringed margins, anon playfully diverging, +Yet to each other as they wander'd, sending messages through whispering + reeds, +Then returning and entwining joyously, with their cool chrystalline + arms. + + * * * * * + +But who that from their source marketh infant brooklets issue, +Like sparkling threads of silver, wending onward through the distance +Can foretell which will hold placid course among the vallies, +Content with silent blessings from the fertile soil it cheereth, +Or which, mid rocky channels contending and complaining, +Now exulting in brief victory, then in darken'd eddies creeping, +Leaps its rampart and is broken on the wheel of the cataract. + + * * * * * + +Generous is the love and holy that springeth from gratitude; +Rooting not in blind instinct, grasping not, exacting not, +Remembering the harvest on which it fed, and the toil of the harvester; +Fain would it render recompense according to what it hath received, +Or falling short, weepeth. As the leaf of the white Lily +Bendeth backward to the stalk whence its young bud drew nutrition, +So turneth the Love of Gratitude, with eye undimm'd and fervent, +To parent, friend, teacher, benefactor, bountiful Creator. +Sympathies derived from such sources ever sacredly cherishing; +Daughter of Memory, inheriting her mother's immortality, +Welcome shall she find among angels, where selfish love may not enter. + + +CANTO SECOND. + +In the gay and crowded city +Where the tall and jostling roof-trees +Jealous seem of one another, +Jealous of the ground they stand on, +Each one thrusting out its neighbor +From the sunrise, or the sunset, +In a boarding school of fashion +Was Miranda comprehended, +Goal of her supreme ambition. + +--Girls were there from different regions, +Distant States, and varying costumes, +She was beautiful they told her, +And her mirror when she sought it +Gave concurrent testimony. + +--Many teachers met their classes +In this favorite Institution +Where accomplishments or studies +Were pursued as each selected, +Or their parents gave commandment. +But Miranda was impeded +In successful application, +By the consciousness of beauty +And the vanity it fosters. + +--Very fond was she of walking +In the most frequented places, +Fondly fancying all beholders +Gazed on her with admiration. +Striking dresses, gay with colors +She disported and commended, +Not considering that the highest +Of attractions in a woman +Is simplicity of costume, +And a self-forgetful sweetness. + +--Men with business over-laden, +Men of science, pondering axioms, +Men of letters, lost in reverie, +She imagined when they passed her +Gaz'd with secret admiration, +Ask'd in wonder, "_who can that be_?" +Backward turned perchance, to view her, +As she lightly glided onward. + +--So completely had this beauty +Leagued with vanity, uprooted +Serious thought and useful purpose, +And the nobler ends of being, +That even in the solemn Temple +Where humility befitteth +All who offer adoration, +Close observance of the apparel +Of acquaintances or strangers, +And a self-display intruded +On the service of devotion, +While her fair cheek oft-times rested +Daintily on gloveless fingers +Where the radiant jewels sparkled +On a hand like sculptured marble. + + * * * * * + +Meantime in the rural mansion +Whence with gladness she departed, +Sate the mother and the sister +By the hearth-stone or the lamp-light, +Thinking of their loved Miranda, +Speaking of her, working for her, +Writing tender, earnest letters +To sustain her mid her studies, +Fearing that her health might suffer +By the labor and privation +That a year at school demanded. + +--As the autumnal evenings lengthen'd, +Bertha with a filial sweetness +Sought her mother's favorite authors, +And with perfect elocution +Made their sentiments and feelings, +Guests around the quiet fireside. + +--Page of Livy, or of Caesar, +Stirring scenes of tuneful Maro, +From their native, stately numbers +To the mother's ear she rendered; +Or with her o'er ancient regions, +Fallen sphynx, or ruin'd column, +Led by guiding Rollin, wandered, +Deeply mused with saintly Sherlock, +Or through Milton's inspiration +Scanned the lore of forfeit Eden. + + * * * * * + +With the vertic rays of Summer +Homeward came the fair Miranda. +How the village people wonder'd +At her fashions, and her movements, +How she made the new piano +Tremble to its inmost centre +With _andante_, and _bravura_, +What a piece she had to show them +Of Andromache the Trojan, +Wrought in silks of every color, +And 'twas said a foreign language +Such as princes use in Paris, +She could speak to admiration. + +--Greatly their surprise amused her, +But the Mother and the Sister +With their eagle-eyed affection, +Spied a thorn amid the garland, +Heard the sighing on her pillow, +Saw the flush invade her forehead, +And were sure some secret sorrow +Rankled in that snowy bosom. + + * * * * * + +Rumor, soon with hundred voices +Whisper'd of a dashing lover, +Irreligious and immoral, +And the anxious Mother counsel'd +Sad of heart her fair-hair'd daughter. + +--Scarce with any show of reverence +Listen'd the impatient maiden, +Then with tearless eyes wide open +Like full orbs of shadeless sapphire +All unpausing, thus responded. + +--"I have promised Aldebaran, +To be his,--alone,--forever! +And I'll keep that promise, Mother, +Though the firm skies fall around me, +And yon stars in fragments shatter'd, +Each with thousand voices warn'd me. + +--Thou hast spoken words reproachful, +Doubting of his soul's salvation, +Of his creed I never question'd, +But where'er he goes, I follow. +Whatsoe'er his lot, I'll share it, +Though it were the darkest chamber +In the lowest hell. 'Twere better +There with him, than 'mid the carols +Of the highest heaven, without him." +Swan-like arms were wrapped around her +With a cry of better pleading, +"Oh Miranda!--Oh my Sister! +Gather back the words you've spoken, +Quickly, ere the angel write them +Weeping on the doom's day tablet. + +--You have grieved our blessed Mother: +See you not the large tears trickle +Down those channels deeply furrow'd +Which the widow-anguish open'd? +Kneel beside me, Oh my Sister! +Darling of my cradle slumbers, +Ask the grace of God to cleanse thee +From thy blasphemy and blindness, +Supplicate the Great Enlightener +Here to purge away thy madness, +Pray our Saviour to forgive thee." + + * * * * * + +"Bertha! Bertha! speak not to me, +What knowest thou of love almighty? +Naught except that craven spirit +Measuring, weighing, calculating, +That goes shivering to its bridal. +On this deathless soul, all hazard +Here I take, and if it perish, +Let it perish. + From the socket +This right eye I'd pluck, extinguish +This right hand, if he desire it, +And go maim'd through all the ages +That Eternity can number. + +--Prayer is not for me, but action, +Against thee, and Her who bare me +Stand I at Love's bidding, boldly +In the armor that he giveth, +For life's battle, strong and ready. +--Hush! I've sworn, and I'll confirm it." + + * * * * * + +In due time, the handsome suitor +Paid his devoirs to Miranda, +In her own paternal dwelling. +Very exquisite in costume, +Very confident in manner, +Pompous, city-bred, and fearless +Was the accepted Aldebaran. + +--Axious felt she, lest the customs +Of the rustic race around her, +So she styled her rural neighbors, +Might discourage or disgust him, +But he gave them no attention, +Quite absorbed in other matters. + +--In their promenades together +She beheld the people watching +Mid their toils of agriculture, +Saw them gaze from door and windows, +Little ones from gates and fences, +On the stylish Alderbaran, +And her heart leap'd up exulting. + +--Notice took he of the homestead, +With an eye of speculation, +Ask'd the number of its acres, +And what revenue they yielded. +Notice took of herds and buildings +With their usufruct, and value, +Closer note than seem'd consistent +With his delicate position; +But Miranda, Cupid blinded, +No venality detected. + +--He, in gorgeous phrase address'd her, +With an oriental worship, +As some goddess condescending +To an intercourse with mortals. +Pleas'd was she with such observance, +Pleas'd and proud that those around her +Should perceive what adoration +Was to her, by him accorded. + +--When he left, 'twas with the assurance +The next visit should be final. +Marking on his silver tablet +With gay hand, the day appointed +When he might return to claim her +In the nuptial celebration. + + * * * * * + +There's a bridal in the spring-time, +When the bee from wintry covert +Talking to the unsheath'd blossoms, +Meditates unbounded plunder, +And the bird mid woven branches +Brooding o'er her future treasures +Harkeneth thrilling to the love-song +Of her mate, who nestward tendeth. + +--There's a bridal in the spring-time, +And the beautiful Miranda +Through her veil of silvery tissue +Gleams, more beautiful than ever. +From the hearth-stone of her fathers, +With the deathless love of woman +Trusting all for earth or heaven +To a mortal's rule and guidance, +One, but short time since, a stranger, +Forth she goes. + The young beholders +Gazing on the handsome bridegroom, +Gazing on the nuptial carriage, +Where the milk-white horses sported +Knots of evergreen and myrtle, +Felt a pleasure mix'd with envy +At a happiness so perfect. + +--But more thoughtful ones, instructed +By the change of time and sorrow, +By the cloud and by the sunbeam, +Felt the hazard that attended +Such intrustment without limit, +Vows that none had right to cancel +Save the hand of Death's dark Angel. + + * * * * * + +Of the sadness left behind her +In the mansion whence she parted, +Loneliness, and bitter heart-ache, +Deep, unutter'd apprehension, +Fearful looking for of judgment, +It were vain in lays so feeble +To attempt a true recital. + +--Still, to Mother and to Sister +Came epistles from Miranda, +Essenc'd and genteelly written, +Painting happiness so perfect, +So transcending expectation, +So surpassing all that fancy +In her wildest flights had pencil'd, +That even Eden ere the tempter +Coil'd himself amid the blossoms +Fail'd to furnish fitting symbol. + + * * * * * + +Heartfelt bliss is never boastful, +Like the holy dew it stealeth +To the bosom of the violet, +Only told by deeper fragrance. + +--He who saith "See! see! I'm happy? +Happier than all else around me," +Leaves, perchance, a doubt behind him +Whether he hath comprehended +What true happiness implieth. + + * * * * * + +Oh, the storm-cloud and the tempest! +Oh, the dreary night of winter! +Drifting snows, and winds careering +Down the tall, wide-throated chimney, +Like the shrieking ghosts from Hades. +Shrieking ghosts of buried legions. + +--"Mother! hear I not the wailing +Of a human voice?" + "My daughter! +'Tis the blast that rends the pine-trees. +The old sentry-Oak is broken, +Close beside our chamber-window, +And its branches all are moaning. +'Tis their grief you hear, my daughter." + + * * * * * + +But the maiden's car was quicken'd +To all plaint of mortal sorrow, +And when next, the bitter north wind +Lull'd, to gather strength and vigor, +For a new exacerbation, +Listening close, she caught the murmur, +"Hush mein daughter! hush mein baby." +Then she threw the door wide open, +Though the storm rush'd in upon her, +With its blinding sleet and fury. + +What beheld she, near the threshold, +Prostrate there beside the threshold, +But a woman, to whose bosom +Clung a young and sobbing infant? + +--Oh the searching look that kindled +'Neath those drooping, straining eye-lids, +Searching mid the blast and darkness, +For some helper in her anguish, +Searching, kindling look, that settled +Into heavy, deadly slumber, +As the waning taper flashes +Once, to be relumin'd never. + +Still her weak arm clasp'd the baby, +Rais'd its pining, pinching features, +Faintly cried, "Mein kind! Have pity, +Pity, for the love of Jesus!" + +--Yes, forlorn, benighted wanderer, +Thy poor, failing feet have brought thee +Where the love of Jesus dwelleth. +Gently in a bed they laid her, +Chafed her stiffening limbs and temples, +Pour'd the warm, life-giving cordial, +But what seem'd the most to cheer her, +Were some words by Bertha spoken +In her own, dear native language. +Voice of Fatherland! it quicken'd +All the heart's collapsing heart-strings, +As though bath'd, and renovated +In the Rhine's blue, rushing waters. + + * * * * * + +O'er the wildering waste of ocean, +Moved by zeal of emigration +She had ventured with her husband +To this western World of promise, +Rainbow-vested El-Dorado. + +On that dreary waste of waters +He had died, and left her mourning, +All unguided, unbefriended. +--There the mother-sorrow found her +And compell'd her by the weeping +Of the new-born, to encounter +With a broken-hearted welcome +Life once more, which in the torrent +of her utter desolation +She had cast aside, contemning +As a burden past endurance. + +--Outcast in this land of strangers, +Strange of speech, and strange in manner, +She had travel'd, worn and weary, +Here and there, with none to aid her, +Ask'd for work, and none employ'd her, +Ask'd for alms, and few reliev'd her, +Till at length, the wintry tempest +Smote her near that blessed roof-tree. + + * * * * * + +Heavy slumber weigh'd her downward, +Slumber from whence none awaketh. +Yet at morn they heard her sighing, +On her pillow faintly sighing, +"I am ready! I am ready!" +"Leonore! my child! my darling!" + +Then they brought the infant to her, +Cleanly robed, and sweetly smiling, +And the parting soul turn'd backward, +And the clay-seal on the eyelids +Lifted up to gaze upon it. + +Bertha kiss'd the little forehead, +Said "_mein kind_," and lo! a shudder +Of this earth's forgotten pleasure +Trembled o'er the dying woman, +And the white hand cold as marble +Strove to raise itself in blessing, +For the mother-joy was stronger +That one moment, while it wrestled +With the pausing king of terrors, +Stronger than the king of terrors. + +Then they laid her icy fingers +Mid the infant's budding ringlets, +And the pang and grasp subsided +In a smile and whispering cadence, +"God, mein God, be praised!"--and silence +Settled on those lips forever. + + * * * * * + +Favor'd is the habitation +Where a gentle infant dwelleth, +When its brightening eye revealeth +The immortal part within it, +And its curious wonder scanneth +All its wide spread, tiny fingers, +And its velvet hand caressing +Pats the nurse's cheek and bosom, +Hoary Age grows young before it, +As the branch that Winter blighted +At the touch of Spring reviveth. + +When its healthful form evolveth, +And with quadrupedal pleasure +Creeping o'er the nursery carpet, +Aiming still, its flowery surface +With faint snatches to appropriate, +Or the bolder art essaying +On its two round feet to balance +And propel the swaying body +As with outstretch'd arms it hastens +Tottering toward the best beloved, +Hope, her freshest garland weaveth +Glittering with the dews of morning. + +When the lisping tongue adventures +The first tones of imitation, +Or with magic speed o'ermasters +The philosophy of language +Twining round the mind of others, +Preferences, and pains and pleasures, +Tendrils strong, of sentient being, +Seeking kindness and indulgence, +Loving sports and smiles, and gladness, +Tenderest love goes forth to meet it, +Love that every care repayeth. + + * * * * * + +Thus the little German exile +Leaning on her foster parents +Brought a love that soothed and cheer'd them, +And with sweet confiding meekness +Taught to older ones the lesson +Of the perfect trust, we children +Of One Great Almighty Parent +Should repose in His protection +Goodness and unerring wisdom: +Though His discipline mysterious +Oft transcendeth feeble reason, +And perchance overthrows the fabrics +That in arrogance we builded, +Call'd _our own_, and vainly rented +To a troop of hopes and fancies, +Gay-robed joys, or fond affections. + + * * * * * + +'Tis a solemn thing and lovely, +To adopt a child, whose mother +Dwelleth in the land of spirits: +In its weakness give it succor, +Be in ignorance its teacher, +In all sorrow its consoler, +In temptation its defender, +Save what else had been forsaken, +Win for it a crown in Heaven,-- +Tis a solemn thing and lovely, +Such a work as God approveth. + + * * * * * + +Blessed are the souls that nurture +With paternal care the orphan, +Neath their roof-tree lending shelter, +At their table breathing welcome, +Giving armor for the journey +And the warfare that awaiteth +Every pilgrim, born of woman, +Blessed, for the grateful prayer +Riseth unto Him who heareth +The lone sigh of the forsaken, +Bendeth, mid the song of seraphs, +To the crying of the ravens, +From whose nest the brooding pinion +By the archer's shaft was sever'd. + + * * * * * + +Pomp and wealth, and pride of office +With their glitter and their shouting, +May not pass through death's dark valley, +May not thrill the ear that resteth +Mid the silence of the grave-yard; +But the deed that wrought in pity +Mid the outcast and benighted, +In the hovel or the prison, +On the land or on the ocean, +Shunning still the applause of mortals, +Comes it not to His remembrance +Who shall say amid the terrors +Of the last Great Day of Judgment, +"Inasmuch as ye have done it +Unto one, the least, the lowest. +It was done to Me, your Saviour." + + +CANTO THIRD. + +I'll change my measure, and so end my lay, +Too long already. + I can't manage well +The metre of that master of the lyre, +Who Hiawatha, and our forest tribes +Deftly described. Hexameters, I hate, +And henceforth do eschew their company, +For what is written irksomely, will be +Read in like manner. + What did I say last +In my late canto? Something, I believe +Of gratitude. + Now this same gratitude +Is a fine word to play on. Many a niche +It fills in letters, and in billet-doux,-- +Its adjective a graceful prefix makes +To a well-written signature. It gleams +A happy mirage in a sunny brain; +But as a principle, is oft, I fear, +Inoperative. Some satirist hath said +That _gratitude is only a keen sense +Of future favors_. + As regards myself, +Tis my misfortune, and perhaps, my fault, +Yet I'm constrain'd to say, that where my gifts +And efforts have been greatest, the return +Has been in contrast. So that I have shrunk +To grant myself the pleasure of great love +Lest its reward might be indifference, +Or smooth deceit. Others no doubt have been +More fortunate. I trust 'tis often so: +But this is my experience, on the scale +Of three times twenty years, and somewhat more. + + * * * * * + +In that calm happiness which Virtue gives, +Blent with the daily zeal of doing good, +Mother and daughter dwelt. + Once, as they came +From their kind visit to a child of need, +Cheered by her blessings,--at their home they found +Miranda and her son. With rapid speech, +And strong emotion that resisted tears +Her tale she told. Forsaken were they both, +By faithless sire and husband. He had gone +To parts unknown, with an abandon'd one +He long had follow'd. Brokenly she spake +Of taunts and wrongs long suffer'd and conceal'd +With woman's pride. Then bitterly she pour'd +Her curses on his head. + With shuddering tears +They press'd her to their hearts. + "Come back! Come back! +To your first home, and Heaven's compassions heal +Your wounded spirit." + Lovingly they cast +Their mantle o'er her, striving to uplift +Her thoughts to heavenly sources, and allure +To deeds of charity, that draw the sting +From selfishness of sorrow." + But she shrank +From social intercourse, nor took her seat +Even in the House of God, lest prying eyes +Should gloat upon her downfall. Books, nor work +Enticed her, and the lov'd piano's tone +Waking sad echoes of the days that were, +She seem'd to shun. Her joy was in her child. +The chief delight and solace of her life +To adorn his dress, and trim his shining curls, +Dote on his beauty, and conceal his faults, +With weak indulgence. + "Oh, Miranda, love! +Teach your fair boy, obedience. 'Tis the first +Lesson of life. To him, you fill the place +Of that Great Teacher who doth will us all +To learn submission." + But Miranda will'd +In her own private mind, not to adopt +Such old-world theories, deeming the creed +Of the grey-headed Mother, obsolete. +--Her boy was fair; but in those manners fail'd +That render beauty pleasing. Great regard +Had he for self, and play, and dainty food, +Unlike those Jewish children, who refused +The fare luxurious of Chaldea's king, +And on their simple diet grow more fair +And healthful than their mates, and wiser too, +Than the wise men of Babylon. + I've seen +Ill-fortune follow those, whose early tastes +Were pampered and inured to luxury. +Their palates seem'd to overtop the brain, +And the rank Dives-pleasure, to subvert +Childhood's simplicity of sweet content. +--Precocious appetites, when overruled, +Or disappointed, lend imperious strength +To evil tempers, and a fierce disdain. +Methought, our Mother-Land, in this respect +Had wiser usages. Her little ones +At their own regular, plain table learn'd +No culinary criticism, nor claim'd +Admission to the richly furnish'd board +Nor deem'd the viands of their older friends +Pertain'd to them. + A pleasant sight it was +At close of day, their simple supper o'er, +To find them in the quiet nursery laid, +Like rose-buds folded in a fragrant sheath +To peaceful slumber. Hence their nerves attain'd +Firm texture, and the key-stone of the frame, +This wondrous frame, so often sinn'd against,-- +Unwarp'd and undispeptic, gave to life +A higher zest. + Year after year swept by, +And Conrad's symmetry of form and face +Grew more conspicuous. Yet he fail'd to win +Approval from the pious, or desire +To seek him as companion for their sons. + +--At school and college he defied restraint, +And round the associates of his idle hours +Threw a mysterious veil. But rumor spake +Of them, as those who would be sure to bring +Disgrace and infamy. + Strong thirst for gold +Sprang with the weeds of vice. His mother's purse +Was drain'd for him, and when at length she spake +In warm remonstrance, he with rudeness rush'd +Out of her presence, or withdrew himself +All night from her abode. Then she was fain +To appease his anger by some lavish gift +From scant resources, which she ill could spare, +Making the evil worse. + The growth of sin +Is rank and rapid when the youthful heart +Abjures the sway of duty. Weaving oft +The mesh of falsehood, may it not forget +What the truth is? The wavering, moral sense +Depraved and weaken'd, fails to grasp the clue +Of certainty, nor scruples to deny +Words utter'd, and deeds done, for conscience sleeps +Stifled, and callous. Fearful must it be, +When Truth offended and austere, confronts +The false soul at Heaven's bar. + + * * * * * + + An aged man +Dwelt by himself upon a dreary moor, +And it was whisper'd that a miser's hoard +Absorb'd his thoughts. + There, at the midnight hour +The unwonted flash of lights was seen by those +Who chanced to pass, and entering in, they found +The helpless inmate murder'd in his bed, +And the house rifled. + Differing tracks they mark'd +Of flying footsteps in the moisten'd soil, +And eager search ensued. + At length, close hid +In a dense thicket, Conrad they espied, +His shoes besmear'd with blood. Question'd of those +Who with him in this work of horror join'd, +He answered nothing. + All unmov'd he stood +Upon his trial, the nefarious deed +Denying, and of his accomplices +Disclosing nought. But still there seem'd a chain +Of evidence to bind him in its coil, +And Justice had her course. The prison bolts +Closed heavily behind him, and his doom +For years, with felons was incorporate. + + * * * * * + +Of the wild anguish and despair that reign'd +In his ancestral home, no words can give +Description meet. + In the poor mother's mind +Reason forsook its throne. Her last hope gone, +Torn by a torrent from her death-like grasp, +Having no anchor on the eternal Rock, +She plunged beside it, into gulphs profound. +--She slept not, ate not, heeded no kind word, +Caress of fondness, or benignant prayer: +She only shriek'd, + "My boy! my beautiful! +They bind his hands!" + And then with frantic cries +She struggled 'gainst imaginary foes, +Till strength was gone. + Through the long syncope +Her never-resting lips essay'd to form +The gasping sounds, + "My boy! my beautiful! +Hence! Caitiffs! hence! my boy! my beautiful!" +And in that unquell'd madness life went out, +Like lamp before the blast. + + * * * * * + + With sullen port +Of bravery as one who scorns defeat +Though it hath come upon him, Conrad met +The sentence of the law. But its full force +He fail'd to estimate; the stern restraint +On liberty of movement, coarsest fare, +Stripes for the contumacious, and for all +Labor, and silence. + The inquiring glance +On the new-comer bent, from stolid eyes +Of malefactors, harden'd to their lot, +And hating all mankind, he coldly shunn'd +Or haughtily return'd. Yet there were lights +Even in this dark abode, not often found +In penal regions, where the wrath of man +Is prompt to punish, and remembereth not +The mercy that himself doth ask of God. + +--A just man was the warden and humane, +Not credulous, or easily deceiv'd, +But hopeful of our nature, though deprav'd, +And for the incarcerate, careful to restrain +All petty tyranny. + Courteous was he +To visitants, for many such there were. +Philanthropists, whose happy faith believ'd +Prisons reforming schools, came here to scan +Arrangements and appliances as guides +To other institutions: strangers too, +Who 'mid their explorations of the State, +Scenery and structures, would not overlook +Its model-prison. + Now and then, was seen +Some care-worn mother, leading by the hand +Her froward boy, with hope that he might learn +A lesson from the punishment he saw. + +--When day was closed and to his narrow cell +Bearing his supper, every prisoner went, +The night-lock firmly clench'd, beside some grate +While the large lamp thro' the long corridors +Threw flickering light, the Chaplain often stood +Conversing. Of the criminal's past life +He made inquiry, and receiv'd replies +Foreign from truth, or vague and taciturn: +And added pious counsels, unobserv'd, +Heeded but slightly, or ill understood. + + * * * * * + +The leaden-footed weeks o'er Conrad pass'd, +With deadening weight. + Privation bow'd his pride. +The lily-handed, smiting at the forge, +Detested life, and meditated means +To accomplish suicide. + At dusk of eve, +While in his cell, on darkest themes he mused, +Before his grate, a veiled woman stood. + +--She spake not, but her presence made him glad,-- +A purer atmosphere seem'd breathing round +To expand his shrivell'd heart. + Fair gifts she brought, +Roses fresh-blown, and cates, and fragrant fruits +Most grateful to his fever'd lip. + "Oh speak! +Speak to me!" + But she glided light away, +And heavenly sweet, her parting whisper said +"Good night! With the new moon I'll come again." + + * * * * * + +"_With the new Moon!_" + Hope! hope! Its magic wand +With phosphorescence ting'd that Stygian pool +Of chill despair, in which his soul had sank +Lower and lower still. Now, at the forge +A blessed vision gleam'd. Its mystery woke +The romance of his nature. Every day +Moved lighter on, and when he laid it down, +It breathed "_good night_!" like a complacent child +Going to rest. One barrier less remain'd +Between him and the goal, and to each night +A tarrying, tedious guest, he bade farewell, +Like lover, counting toward his spousal-morn. + + * * * * * + +But _will she come_? + And then, he blamed the doubt. +His pulse beat quicker, as the old moon died. +And when the slender sickle of pale gold +Cut the blue concave, by his grated door +Stood the veil'd visitant. The breath of flowers +Foretold her coming. With their wealth she brought +Grapes in the cluster, and a clasped Book, +The holiest, and the best. + "Show me thine eyes!" +He pray'd. But still with undrawn veil, she gave +The promise of return, in whisper sweet, +"Good night! good night! + Wilt read my Book? and say +Oh Lamb of God, forgive!" + So, by the lamp +When tardy Evening still'd the din of toil, +He read of Him who came to save the lost, +Who touch'd the blind, and they receiv'd their sight, +The dead young man, and raised him from his bier, +Reproved the raging Sea, and it was still: +Deeds that his boyhood heard unheedingly. +But here, in this strange solitude of pain +With different voice they spake. And as he read, +The fragrance of the mignionette he loved, +Press'd 'tween the pages, lured him onward still. + + * * * * * + +Now, a new echo in his heart was born, +And sometimes mid the weary task, and leer +Of felon faces, ere he was aware +From a compress'd unmurmuring lip, it broke, +_O Lamb of God!_ If still unquell'd Despair +Thrust up a rebel standard, down it fell +At the o'er-powering sigh, _O Lamb of God!_ +And ere upon his pallet low, he sank, +It sometimes breathed, "_O Lamb of God, forgive!_ +Like the taught lesson of a humbled child. + + * * * * * + +Yet duly as the silver vested moon +Hiding awhile in the dark breast of night +Return'd to take her regent watch again +Over our sleeping planet, softly came +That shrouded visitant, preferring still +Like those who guard us lest we dash our foot +Against a stone, to do her blessed work +Unseen. And with the liberal gifts she brought +For body, and for soul, there seem'd to float +A legacy of holy themes and thoughts +Behind her, like an incense-stream. He mused +Oft-times of patience, and the dying love +Of our dear Lord, nor yet without remorse +Of that unsullied Truth which Vice rejects, +And God requires. + How beautiful is Truth! +Her right-lined course, amid the veering curves +And tangents of the world, her open face +Seeking communion with the scanning stars, +Her grave, severe simplicity of speech +Untrammelled by the wiles of rhetoric, +By bribes of popular applause unbow'd, +In unison with Him she dwells who ruled +The tyranny of Chaos, with the words +"_Let there be light!_" + Gladly we turn again +To that fair mansion mid the rural vales +Where first our song awoke. Advancing years +Brought to its blessed Lady no regret +Or weak complaint for what the hand of Time +Had borne away. Enduring charms were hers +On which he laid no tax; the beaming smile, +The voice of melody, the hand that mark'd +Each day with deeds of goodness, and the heart +That made God's gift of life more beautiful, +The more prolong'd. Its griefs she counted gains, +Since He who wisely will'd them cannot err, +And loves while He afflicts. + Their dialect +Was breathed in secret 'tween her soul and Him. +But toward mankind, her duties made more pure +By the strong heat of their refining fires, +Flow'd forth like molten gold. She sought the poor, +Counsell'd the ignorant, consoled the sad, +And made the happy happier, by her warmth +Of social sympathy. She loved to draw +The young around her table; well she knew +To cheer and teach them, by the tale or song, +Or sacred hymn, for music dwelt with her +Till life went out. It pleased her much to hear +Their innocent merriment, while from the flow +And swelling happiness of childhood's heart +So simply purchased, she herself imbibed +A fuller tide of fresh vitality. +Her favor'd guests exultingly rehears'd +Their visits to "the Lady," counting each +A privilege, not having learned the creed +Which modern times inculcate in our land +That whatsoe'er is _old_, is _obsolete_. + +--Still ever at her side, by night and day +Was Bertha, entering into every plan, +With zealous aid, assuming every care +That brought a burden, catching every smile +On the clear mirror of a loving heart, +Which by reflection doubled. Thus they dwelt, +Mother and daughter, in sweet fellowship, +One soul betwixt them. Filial piety +Thrives best with generous natures. Here was nought +Of self to cheek it, so it richly bloom'd +Like the life-tree, that yieldeth every month +New fruits, still hiding mid its wealth of leaves +The balm of healing. + In that peaceful home +The fair-haired orphan was a fount of joy, +Spreading her young heart like a tintless sheet +For Love to write on. Sporting 'mid the flowers, +Caroling with the birds, or gliding light +As fawn, her fine, elastic temperament +Took happiest coloring from each varying hour +Or changing duty. Kind, providing cares +Which younglings often thoughtlessly receive +Or thankless claim, she gratefully repaid +With glad obedience. Pleas'd was she to bear +Precocious part in household industry, +Round shining bars to involve the shortening thread, +And see the stocking grow, or side by side +With her loved benefactresses to work +Upon some garment for the ill-clad poor, +With busy needle. As their almoner, +'Twas her delight to seek some lowly hut +And gliding thence, with noiseless footstep, leave +With her kind dole, a wonder whence it came. +--A heavenly blessing wrapp'd its wing around +The adopted orphanage. + Oh ye whose homes +Are childless, know ye not some little heart +Collapsing, for the need of parent's love, +That ye might breathe upon? some outcast lamb +That ye might shelter in your fold? content +To make the sad eye sparkle, guide the feet +In duty's path, bring a new soul to Heaven, +And take your payment from the Judge's Voice, +At the Last Day? + --A tireless tide of joy, +A world of pleasure in the garden bound, +Open'd to Leonore. From the first glance +Of the frail Crocus through its snowy sheath, +On, to the ripen'd gatherings of the Grape, +And thorn-clad chestnut, all was sweet to her. +She loved to plant the seed and watch the germ, +And nurse the tender leaflet like a babe, +And lead the tendril right. To her they seem'd +Like living friends. She sedulously mark'd +Their health and order, and was skill'd to prune +The too luxuriant spray, or gadding vine. +She taught the blushing Strawberry where to run, +And stoop'd to kiss the timid Violet, +Blossoming in the shade, and sometimes dream'd +The Lily of the lakelet, calmly throned +On its broad leaf, like Moses in his ark, +Spake words to her. And so, as years fled by, +Young Fancy, train'd by Nature, turn'd to God. +Her clear, Teutonic mind, took hold on truth +And found in every season, change of joy. + +--Yet her prime pleasure seem'd at wintry eve +Tho' storms might fall, when from its branching arms +The antique candelabra shed fair light +On polished wainscot and rich curtains dropp'd +Close o'er the casements, she might draw her seat +Near to her aged friend and take her hand +And frame her voice to join some tuneful song, +Treasuring whate'er of wise remark distill'd +From those loved lips. + Then, as her Mentor spoke +Of God's great goodness in this mortal life, +Teaching us both by sorrow and by joy, +And how we ought to yield it back with trust +And not with dread, whenever He should call, +Having such precious promises, through Christ +Of gain unspeakable, beyond the grave, +The listening pupil felt her heart expand +With reverent love. + Friendship, 'tween youth and age +Is gain to both,--nor least to that which finds +The germs of knowledge and experience drop +And twine themselves around the unfrosted locks, +A fadeless coronet. In this sweet home +The lengthen'd day seem'd short for their delights, +And wintry evening brief. The historic page +Made vocal, brought large wealth to memory. +The lore of distant climes, that rose and fell +Ere our New World, like Lazarus came forth, +The napkin round her forehead, and sate down +Beside her startled sisters. + Last of all, +The large time-honor'd Bible loos'd its clasps +And shed its manna on their waiting souls; +Then rose the sacred hymn in blended tones, +By Bertha's parlor-organ made intense +In melody of praise, and fervent Prayer +Set its pure crown upon the parted day, +And kiss'd the Angel, Sleep. + Yet ere they rose +From bended knee, there was a lingering pause, +A silent orison for one whose name +But seldom pass'd their lips, though in their hearts +His image with its faults and sorrows dwelt, +Invoking pity of a pardoning God. + +--Thus fled the years away, the cultured glebe +Stirr'd by the vernal plough-share, yielding charms +To Summer, pouring wealth o'er Autumn's breast, +Pausing from weary toil, when Winter comes, +Bringing its Sabbath, as the man of eld +With snow upon his temples, peaceful sits +In his arm-chair, to ruminate and rest. + + * * * * * + +Once, at that season when the ices shrink +Befere the vernal equinox, at morn +There was no movement in the Lady's room, +Who prized the early hours like molten gold, +And ever rose before the kingly Sun. + +--On the white pillow still reposed her head, +Her cheek upon her hand. She had retired +In health, affection's words, and trustful prayers +Hallowing her lips. Now, on her brow there seem'd +Unwonted smoothness, and the smile was there +Set as a seal, with which the call she heard, +"_Come! sister-spirit!_" + She had gain'd the wish +Oft utter'd to her God, to pass away +Without the sickness and enfeebled powers +That tax the heart of love. Death that unbars +Unto the ready soul the Gate of Heaven, +Claiming no pang or groan from failing flesh, +Doth angel-service. + But alas! the shock, +The chill, the change, the anguish, where she dwelt, +And must return no more. As one amaz'd +The stricken daughter held her breath for awe, +God seem'd so near. Methought she saw the Hand +That smote her. Half herself was reft away, +Body and soul. Yet no repining word +Announc'd her agony. + The tolling bell +To hill and valley, told with solemn tongue +That death had been among them, and at door +And window listening, aged crone and child +Counted its strokes, a stroke for every year, +And predicated thence, as best they might, +Whom they had lost. Neighbor of neighbor ask'd, +Till the sad tidings were possess'd by all. + +--A village funeral is a thing that warns +All from their homes. In the throng'd city's bound, +Hearses unnoticed pass, and none inquire +Who goeth to his grave. But rural life +Keepeth afresh the rills of sympathy. +True sorrow was there at these obsequies, +For all the poor were mourners. There the old +Came in the garments she had given, bow'd down +With their own sense of loss. O'er furrow'd cheeks +In care-worn channels stole the trickling tear. +The young were weepers, for their memories stored +Many a gentle word, and precept kind, +Like jewels dropp'd behind her. Mothers rais'd +Their little ones above the coffin's side +To look upon her face. Lingering they gazed +Deeming the lovely Lady sweetly slept +Among the flowers that on her pillow lay. + + * * * * * + +He's but a tyro in the school of grief +Who hath not from the victor-tomb return'd +Unto his rifled home. The utter weight +Of whelming desolation doth not fall +Till the last rites are paid. The cares of love +Having no longer scope, withdraw their shield, +And even the seat whereon the lost one sate, +The pen he held, the cup from which he drank, +Launch their keen darts against the festering soul. + +--The lonely daughter, never since her birth +Divided from the mother, having known +No separate pleasure, or secreted thought, +With deep humility resumed her course +Of daily duty and philanthropy, +Not murmuring, but remembering His great love +Who lent so long that blessing beyond price, +And from her broken censer offering still +Incense of praise. + She deem'd it fearful loss +To lose a sorrow, be chastis'd in vain, +Not yield our joys, but have them rent away, +And make this life a battle-field with God. + +The sombre shadow brooding o'er their home +Was felt by all. The heart of Leonore +Dwindled and shrank beneath it. Vigor fled, +The untastcd meal, and couch bedew'd with tears +Gave the solution to her wasted flesh, +And drooping eye-lids. + Folded in her arms, +Bertha with tender accents said, "my child, +We please not her who to the angels went, +By hopeless grief. Doubt not her watchful eye +Regards us, though unseen. How oft she taught +To make God's will our own. You, who were glad +To do her bidding then, distress her not +By disobedience now. Waste not the health +In reckless martyrdom, which Heaven hath link'd +With many duties, and with hope to dwell +If faithful found, with Her who went before +And beckoning waits us." + From dull trance of grief +By kind reproof awakened, Leonore +Strove to redeem her scholarship from blame +And be a comforter, as best she might +To her remaining patroness. + + * * * * * + + Within +The limits of a neighboring town, a wretch +Fell by the wayside, struck by sudden Death +That vice propels. A Man of God, who sought +Like his blest Master every form of woe +Found him, and to a shelter and a couch +Convey'd. Then bending down, with earnest words +For time grew short, he urg'd him to repent. +"Say, Lord have mercy on my soul. + Look up +Unto the Lamb of God, for He can save +Even to the uttermost." + Slight heed obtain'd +This adjuration, wild the glazing eye +Fix'd on the wall,--and ever and anon +The stiffening fingers clutch'd at things unseen, +While from those spent lungs came a shuddering sound, +"_That's he! That's he! + The old man! His grey hairs +Dabbled with blood!_" + Then in a loud, long cry, +Wrung out by torturing pain, + "I struck the blow! +I tell ye that I struck the blow, and scaped. +Conrad who bore the doom is innocent, +Save fellowship with guilt." + And so he fled; +The voice of prayer around him, but the soul +Beyond its reach. The kneeling Pastor rose +Sadly, as when the Shepherd fails to snatch +A wanderer from the Lion. + But the truth +Couch'd in that dismal cry of parting life +He treasured up, and bore to those who held +Power to investigate and to reprieve; +And authorized by them with gladness sought +The gloomy prison. Conrad there he found +In sullen syncope of sickening thought, +And cautiously in measured terms disclosed +His liberation. Wondering doubt look'd forth +From eyes that opening wide and wider still +Strain'd from their sockets. Yet the hand he took +That led him from the cell, and onward moved +Like Peter following his angel guide +Deeming he saw a vision. As the bolts +Drew gratingly to let them pass, he seem'd +To gather consciousness, and restless grew +With an unspoken fear, lest at the last +Some sterner turnkey, or gruff sentinel +Might bar their egress. + When behind them closed. +The utmost barrier, and the sweet, fresh air +So long witheld, fill'd his collapsing lungs, +He shouted rapturously, + "_Am I alive?_ +Or have I burst the gates of death, and found +A second Eden?" + The unwonted sound +Of his own voice, freed from the drear constraint +Of prison durance, swell'd his thrilling frame +With strong and joyous impulse, for 'tis said +Long stifled utterance is torturing pain +To organs train'd to speech. + With one high leap +Like an enfranchis'd steed he seem'd to throw +His spirit-chain behind him. Then he took +The Pastor's offer'd arm, who led the way +To his own house, and bade him bathe and change +His prison garments, and repose that night +Under his roof. + With thoughtful care he spoke +To his own household, kindly to receive +The erring one,--"for we are sinners all, +And not upon our merits may depend +But on abounding grace." + So when the hour +Of cheerful supper summon'd to the board, +He came among them as a comely guest, +Refresh'd and welcome. Pleasant converse cheer'd +The hospitable meal, and then withdrawn +Into the quiet study 'mid the books, +That saintly good man with the hoary hair +Silvering his temples like a graceful crown, +Strove by wise counsel to encourage him +For life's important duties, + But he deem'd +A ban was on him, and a mark which all +Would scan who met him. + "He whose lot hath been +With fiends in Pandemonium, must expect +Hate and contempt from men." + "Not so, my son! +Wipe off the past, as a forgotten thing, +Propitiate virtue, by forsaking vice. +The good will aid you, and a brighter day +Doubtless awaits you. Be not too much moved +By man's applause or blame, but ever look +Unto a higher Judge." + Then there arose +A voice of supplication, so intense +To the Great Pardoner, that He would send +His spirit down to change and purify +The erring heart, that those persuasive tones, +So humble, yet so strangely eloquent +Breathed o'er the unhappy one like soothing spell +Of magic influence, and he slept that night +With peace and hope, long exiled from his couch. + + * * * * * + +A summer drive to one sequestered long, +Hath charms untold. + The common face of earth, +The waving grass, the rustle of the leaves, +Kiss'd by the zephyr, or by winged bird +Disparted, as it finds its chirping nest, +The murmur of the brooks, the low of herds, +The ever-changing landscape, rock and stream, +And azure concave fleck'd with silver clouds +Awaken rapturous joy. This Conrad felt, +While pleasure every kindling feature touch'd, +And every accent tuned. But when they saw +The fair ancestral roof through trees afar, +Strong agony convuls'd him, and he cried, +"_Not there! Not there!_ + First take me to _Her_ grave!" +And so to that secluded spot they turn'd, +Where rest the silent dead. + On the green mound, +His Mother's bed, with sobs and groans he fell, +And in his paroxysm of grief would fain +Have torn the turf-bound earth away, to reach +The mouldering coffin. Then, a flood of tears, +Heaven's blessed gift burst forth, + "Oh weep, my Son! +These gushing tears shall help to wash away +Remorseful pangs, and lurking seeds of sin. +Here, in this sacred tomb, bury the past, +And strong in heavenly trust, resolve to rise +To a new life." + Still kneeling on the sod +With hands and eyes uprais'd, he said, + "_I will! +So help me God!_" + The tear was on his cheek +Undry'd, when to the home of peace they came. +There Bertha greeted them with outstretch'd hands +And beaming brow, while the good Pastor said, +"Thy Son was dead, but is alive again." +A sweet voice answer'd, + "Lost he was, and found! +Oh, welcome home." + She would have folded him +In her embrace. But at her feet he fell, +Clasping her knees, and bowing down his head, +Till she assured him that a mother's love +Was in her heart. + "And there is joy in Heaven +Because of him, this day," the good Man said. +--His tones were tremulous, as up he rose, +"Ah, my veil'd Angel! Now I see thy face, +And hear thy voice." + + * * * * * + +What were the glowing thoughts +Of the meek shepherd, as alone he took +His homeward way? The joy of others flow'd +O'er his glad spirit like a refluent tide +Whose sands were gold. Had he not chosen well +His source of happiness? + There are, who mix +Pride and ambition with their services +Before the altar. Did the tinkling bells +Upon the garments of the Jewish priest +Draw down his thoughts from God? + The mitred brow, +Doth it stoop low enough to find the souls +That struggle in the pits of sin, and die? +Methinks ambitious honors might disturb +The man whose banner is the Cross of Christ, +And earth's high places shut him out of Heaven. + +--Yet this serene disciple, so content +To do his Master's will, in humblest works +Of charity, had he not chosen well +His happiness? + The hero hears the trump +Of victor-fame, and his high pulses leap, +But laurels dipp'd in blood shall vex his soul +When the death-ague comes. More blest is he +Who bearing on his brow the anointing oil +Keeps in his heart the humility and zeal +That sanctify his vows. So, full of joy +That fears no frost of earth, because its root +Is by the river of eternal life, +The white-hair'd Pastor took his homeward way. + + * * * * * + +New life upon the farm. A master's eye +And step are there. Forest, and cultured field, +And garden feel his influence. Forth at morn +He goes amid the laboring hinds who bathe +Their scythe in fragrant dew, mid all their toils +Teaching or learning, with such cheerful port +As won their hearts. + Even animals partook +His kind regard. The horse, with arching neck, +And ear erect, replied as best he might +To his caressing tones. The patient ox, +With branching horns, and the full-udder'd cow +Grew sleek and flourish'd and in happiest guise +Reveal'd his regency. The noble dog, +O'erflowing with intelligence and zeal, +Follow'd him as a friend; even the poor cat +Oft scorn'd and distanc'd, till her fawning love +Turns into abjectness, crept to his knee +Without reproof, and thro' her half-shut eyes +Regarding him, ere into sleep she sank +With song monotonous, express'd her joy. + +--He loved to hear the clarion of the cock, +And see him in his gallantry protect +The brooding mothers,--of their infant charge +So fond and proud. + The generous care bestow'd +For weal and comfort of these servitors +And their mute dialect of gratitude +Pleas'd and refresh'd him, while those blessed toils +That quicken earth's fertility bestowed +The boon of healthful vigor. Bertha found +The burden of her cares securely laid +On his young arm, and gratefully beheld +Each day a portion of allotted time +Spent in the library, with earnest care, +Seeking the knowledge that in youth he scorn'd. + +--Amid their rural neighborhood were some +Who frankly took him by the hand, as one, +Worthy to rise, and others who preferr'd +To cherish evil memories, or indulge +Dark auguries. But on his course he held +Unmov'd by either, for to her he seem'd +Intent and emulous alone to please +A higher Judge. When leaning on his arm +She sought the House of God, her tranquil brow +Seem'd in its time-tried beauty to express +The _Nunc Dimittis_. + Prisons are not oft +Converting places. Vicious habits shorn +Of their top branches, strike a rankling root +Darkly beneath, while hatred of mankind +And of the justice that decreed such doom +Bar out the Love Divine. + Yet Bertha felt +God's spirit was not limited, and might +Pluck brands from out the burning, and in faith +Believ'd the son of many prayers had found +Remission of his God. His life she scann'd, +Of honest, cheerful industry, combined +With intellectual progress, and perceived +How his religious worship humbly wore +The signet "_I have sinn'd;_" while toward men +His speech was cautious, far beyond his years, +As one by stern Experience school'd to know +The human heart's deceptions. Yet at home +And in that fellowship with Nature's works +Which Agriculture gives, his soul threw off +Its fetters and grew strong. + Once as they walk'd +Within a favorite grove, consulting where +The woodman's ax, or pruning-knife had best +Exert their wholesome ministry, he led +To a fair resting-place, a turf-bound seat, +Beneath a spreading Walnut, carpeted +With depth of fragrant leaves, while a slight brook +Half-hidden, half revealed, with minstrel touch, +Soften'd the spirit. There, in tones subdued +By strong emotion, he disclosed his love +For Leonore. + "Oh Conrad! she is pure +And peaceful as the lily bud that sleeps +On the heaven-mirror'd lake." + "I know it well, +Nor would I wake a ripple or a breath +To mar its purity." + "Yet wait, my Son!" +"_Wait? Mother, wait! It is not in man's heart +To love, and wait?_" + "But make your prayer to God. +Lay your petition at his feet, and see +What is His will." + "Before that God I swear +To be her true protector and best friend +Till death remove me hence, if she confide +At fitting time, that holy trust to me. +Oh angel Mother! sanction me to search +If in her heart there be one answering chord +To my great love. So may we lead below +That blended life which with a firmer step +And holier joy tends upward toward a realm +Of perfect bliss." + Thus authorized, he made +Her mind's improvement his delight, and found +Community in knowledge was a spell +To draw young hearts together. O'er the lore +And language of her native land they hung +Gleaning its riches with a tireless hand, +Deep and enamour'd students. When she sang +Or play'd, he join'd her with his silvery flute, +Making the thrill of music more intense +Through the heart's harmony. + Amid the flowers +He met her, and her garden's pleasant toil +Shared with a master's hand, for well he knew +The nature and the welfare of the plants +That most she prized. They loved the umbrageous trees, +And in their strong, columnar trunks beheld +The Almighty Architect, and for His sake +Paid them respect. + At the soft twilight hour, +He sate beside her silently, and watch'd +The pensive lustre of her lifted eye, +Intent to welcome the first star that hung +Its holy cresset forth. Unconsciously +Her moods of lonely musing stole away, +And his endear'd society became +Part of her being. + In her soul was nought +Of vanity, or coquetry to bar +That heaven-imparted sentiment which makes +All hope, all thought, all self, subordinate +Unto another's weal, while life shall last. + + * * * * * + +One morn, the orphan sought the private ear +Of her kind benefactress. + In low tones +With the sweet modesty of innocence, +She told that Conrad offered her his heart, +And in the tender confidence of trust +Entreated counsel from her changeless friend. + +"Can you o'erlook the past, my Leonore?" + +"Our God forgives the penitent. And we +So prone to error, cannot we forgive? +The change in Conrad, months and years have made +More evident. + Might I but sooth away +The memory of his woes, and aid his feet +More steadfastly to tread in virtue's path, +And make him happier on his way to Heaven, +My life and love I'd gladly consecrate." + + * * * * * + +Wrapp'd in her arms the foster-mother gave +A tearful blessing, while on bended knee +Together they implored the approving smile +Of Him, who gives ability to make +And keep the covenant of unending love. +A rural bridal, + Cupid's ancient themes +Though more than twice-told, seem not wearisome +Or obsolete. The many tomes they prompt, +Though quaint or prolix, still a place maintain +In library or boudoir, and seduce +The school-girl from her sleep, and lessons too. +But I no tint of romance have to throw +On this plain tale, or o'er the youthful pair +Who gladly took the irrevocable vow. + + * * * * * + +Their deep and thoughtful happiness required +No herald pomp. Buds of the snowy rose, +On brow and bosom, were the only gems +Of the young fair-hair'd bride, whose ringlets fell +Down to her shoulders:--nature's simple veil +Of wondrous grace. + A few true hearted friends +Witness'd the marriage-rite, with cheering smiles +And fervent blessings. + And the coming years +With all their tests of sunshine or of shade, +Belied no nuptial promise, striving each +With ardent emulation to surpass +Its predecessor in the heavenward path +Of duty and improvement. + Bertha's prayers +Were ever round them as a thread of gold +Wove daily in the warp and woof of life. +In their felicity she found her own +Reduplicated. In good deeds to all +Who sought her aid, or felt the sting of woe, +With unimpaired benevolence she wrought, +And tireless sympathy. + Ordain'd she seem'd +To show the beauty of the life that hath +God for its end. + Clearer its brightness gleam'd +As nearer to its heavenly goal it drew. +The smile staid with her till she went above, +Death harm'd it not. Her passport to that clime +Where Love begun on earth, doth end in joy, +Forevermore. + + + + +IN MEMORIAM. + + + + +REV. DR. T. M. COOLEY, + +For more than sixty years Pastor of one Church in East Granville, +Mass., died there in 1859, aged 83. + + +Not in the pulpit where he joy'd to bear +The message of salvation, not beside +His study-lamp, nor in the fireside chair, +Encircled by those dearest ones who found +In him their life of life, nor in the homes +Of his beloved flock, sharing with them +All sympathies of sorrow or of joy, +Is seen the faithful Shepherd. + He hath gone +To yon blest Country where he long'd to be, +To stand before the Great White Throne, and join +That hymn of praise for which his course below +Gave preparation. + At one post he stood +From youth till fourscore years, averse to change +Though oft-times tempted. For he did not deem +Restless ambition or desire of gold +Fit counterpoise for that most sacred love +Born in the inner chambers of the soul, +And intertwining with a golden mesh +Pastor and people. + Like some lofty tree +Whose untransplanted roots in freshness meet +The living waters, and whose leaf is green +'Mid winter's gather'd frost, serene he stood, +More fondly honor'd for each added year, +While 'neath his shadow drew with reverent love +Successive generations. + + Hoary Time +Linger'd with blessings for his latest day, +And now 'neath turf embalm'd with tears he sleeps, +Waiting the resurrection of the just. + + + + +MADAM OLIVIA PHELPS, + +Widow of the late ANSON G. PHELPS, Esq., died at New York, April +24th, 1859, aged 74. + + +When the good mother dieth, and the home +So long made happy by her boundless love +Is desolate and empty, there are tears +Of filial anguish, not to be represt; +And when the many friends who at her side +Sought social sympathy and counsel sweet, +Or the sad poor, who, for their Saviour's sake, +Found bountiful relief, and kind regard, +Stand at that altered threshold, and perceive +Faces of strangers from her casement look, +There is a pang not to be told in words. + +Yet, when the christian, having well discharged +A life-long duty, riseth where no sin +Or possibility of pain or death +May follow, should there not be _praise_ to Him +Who gives such victory? + Thus it is even now-- +Tears with the triumph-strain; + For we are made +Of flesh as well as spirit, and are taught +By Joy and Sorrow, walking side by side, +And with strong contrast deepening truths divine. + +But unto thee, dear friend, whose breath was prayer, +And o'er whose mortal sickness hovering Faith +Shed heaven's content, there was no further need +Of tutelage like that by which we learn, +Too slow, perchance, with vacillating minds, +What the disciples of our Lord should be; +For when the subjugation to God's will +Is perfect, and affliction all disarmed, +Is not life's lesson done? + + + + +MARTHA AGNES BONNER, + +Child of RobERT BONNER, Esq., died at New York, April 28th, 1859, +aged 13 months. + + +There was a cradling lent us here, + To cheer our lot, +It was a cherub in disguise, +But yet our dim and earth-bow'd eyes + Perceiv'd it not. + +Its voice was like the symphony + That lute-strings lend, +Yet tho' our hearts the music hail'd +As a sweet breath of heaven, they fail'd + To comprehend. + +It linger'd till each season fill'd + Their perfect round, +The vernal bud, the summer-rose, +Autumnal gold, and wintry snows + Whitening the ground. + +But when again reviving Spring + Thro' flowers would roam, +And the white cherry blossoms stirr'd +Neath the soft wing of chirping bird, +A call from angel-harps was heard, + "Cherub,--come home." + + + + +MADAM WHITING, + +Widow of the late SPENCER WHITING, Esq., died at Hartford, April, +1859, aged 88. + + +Life's work well done, how beautiful to rest. +Aye, lift your little ones to see her face, +So calmly smiling in its coffin-bed! +There is no wrinkle there,--no rigid gloom +To make them turn their tender glance away; +And when they say their simple prayer at night +With folded hands,--instruct their innocent lips +Meekly to say: "Our Father! may we live, +And die like her." + Her more than fourscore years +Chill'd not in her the genial flow of thought +Or energy of deed. The earnest power +To advance home-happiness, the kindly warmth +Of social intercourse, the sweet response +Of filial love, rejoicing in her joy, +And reverencing her saintly piety, +Were with her, unimpair'd, until the end. +A course like this, predicted close serene, +And so it was. + There came no cloud to dim +Her spirit's light, when at a beckoning brief +She heavenward went. + Miss'd is she here, and mourn'd; +From hall, from hearthstone, and from household board, +A beauty and a dignity have fled,-- +And the heart's tears as freely flowed for her, +As for the loved ones, in their prime of days. +Age justly held in honor, hath a charm +Peculiarly its own, a symmetry +Of nearness to the skies. + And these were hers, +Whose life was duty, and whose death was peace. + + + + +DENISON OLMSTED, LL.D., + +Professor of Astronomy in Yale College, Conn., died at New Haven, May, +1859. + + +Spring pour'd fresh beauty o'er the cultured grounds, +And woke to joyance every leaf and flower, +Where erst the Man of Science lov'd to find +Refreshment from his toils. + + 'Twas sweet to see +How Nature met him there, and took away +All weariness of knowledge. Yet he held +Higher communion than with fragrant shrub, +Or taper tree, that o'er the forest tower'd. +His talk was with the stars, as one by one, +Night, in her queenly regency, put forth +Their sprinkled gold upon her sable robe. +He knew their places, and pronounc'd their names, +And by their heavenly conversation sought +Acquaintance with their Maker. + Sang they not +Unto his uncloth'd spirit, as it pass'd +From sphere to sphere, above their highest ranks, +With its attendant angel? + We are dark. +We ask, and yet no answer. + But we trace +In clearest lines the shining course he took +Among life's duties, for so many years, +And hear those parting words, that "_all is peace_!"[1] +The harvest-song of true philosophy. + +His epitaph is that which cannot yield +A mouldering motto to the tooth of time. +--Man works in marble, and it mocks his trust, +But the immortal mind doth ever keep +The earnest impress of the moulding hand, +And bear it onward to a race unborn. +--That is his monument. + + [1] The last words of Professor Olmsted. + + + + +HERBERT FOSS, + +Only son of SAMUEL S. FOSS, Esq., died May 23d, 1859, aged three +years and three months. + + +"Read more, Papa," the loving infant cried,-- +And meekly bow'd the listening ear, and fix'd +The ardent eye, devouring every word +Of his dear picture book. And then he spread +His arms, and folded thrice the father's neck. +--The mother came from church, and lull'd her boy +To quiet sleep, and laid him in his crib; +And as they watch'd the smile of innocence +That sometimes lightly floated o'er his brow +That Sabbath eve, they to each other said, +"_How beautiful._" + There was another scene,-- +The child lay compass'd round with Spring's white flowers, +Yet heav'd no breath to stir their lightest leaf. +And many a one who on that coffin look'd +And went their way, in tender whisper said +"_How beautiful!_" + Oh parents, ye who sit +Mourning for HERBERT, in your empty room, +What if the darling of your fondest care +Scarce woke from his brief dream and went to Heaven? +--Our dream is longer, but 'tis mixed with tears. +For we are dreamers all, and only those +Fully awake, who dwell where naught deceives. + +So, when time's vision o'er, you reach the land +Which hath no need of sun, or waning moon +To give it light, how sweet to hear your child +Bid you "_good morning_" with his cherub tongue. + + His last words to his father, who was reading to him in a favorite + book, were, "Read, more, papa, please read more." Soon after, and + almost without warning, he died. + + + + +MRS. CHARLES N. CADWALLADER, + +Died at Philadelphia, July 2nd, 1859, five weeks after her marriage. + + +The year rolls round, and brings again + The bright, auspicious day, +The marriage scene, the festive cheer, + The group serenely gay, + +The hopes that nurs'd by sun and shower + O'er youth's fair trellis wound, +And in that consecrated rite + Their full fruition found. + +But One unseen amid the throng + Drew near with purpose fell, +And lo! the orange-flowers were changed + To mournful asphodel. + +Five sabbaths walk'd the beautiful + Her chosen lord beside, +But ere the sixth illumed the sky + She was that dread One's bride. + +Yet call her not the bride of Death + Though in his bed she sleeps, +And broidering Myrtle richly green + O'er her cold pillow creeps: + +She hath a bower where angels dwell, + A mansion with the blest, +For Jesus whom she trusted here, + Receiv'd her to His rest. + + + + +REV. DR. JAMES W. ALEXANDER, + +Pastor of the Fifth Avenue Church, New York, died at the Virginia +Springs, July, 1859. + + +The great and good. How startling is the knell +That tells he is but dust. + The echo comes +From where Virginia's health-reviving springs +Make many whole. But waiting there for him +The dark-winged angel who doth come but once, +Troubled the waters, and his latest breath +Fled, where his first was drawn. + That noble brow +So mark'd with intellect, so clear with truth, +Grave in its goodness, in its love serene, +Will it be seen no more? + That earnest voice +Filling the Temple-arch so gloriously, +With themes of import to the undying soul +Enforced by power of fervid eloquence +Is it forever mute? + That mind so rich +With varied learning and with classic lore, +Studious, progressive, affluent, profound, +That feeling heart, instinct with sympathy +For the world's family of grief and pain, +The dark in feature, or the lost in sin, +Say, are their treasures lost? + No, on the page +Of many a tome, traced by his tireless pen +They live and brighten for a race to come, +Prompting the wise, cheering the sorrowful, +And for the little children whom he loved +Meting out fitting words, like dewy pearls +Glittering along their path. + His chief delight +Was in his Master's work. How well performed +Speak ye whose feet upon Salvation's rock +Were planted through his prayers. His zeal involved +No element of self, but hand in hand +Walk'd with humility. He needeth not +Praise from our mortal lips. The monuments +Of bronze or marble, what are they to him +Who hath his firm abode above the stars? + +--Yet may the people mourn, may freshly keep +The transcript of his life, nor wrongly ask +"When shall we look upon his like again?" + + + + +MRS. JOSEPH MORGAN, + +Died at Hartford, August, 1859. + + +I saw her overlaid with many flowers, +Such as the gorgeous summer drapes in snow, +Stainless and fragrant as her memory. + +Blent with their perfume came the pictur'd thought +Of her calm presence,--of her firm resolve +To bear each duty onward to its end,-- +And of her power to make a home so fair, +That those who shared its sanctities deplore +The pattern lost forever. + + Many a friend, +And none who won that title laid it down, +Muse on the tablet that she left behind, +Muse,--and give thanks to God for what she was, +And what she is;--for every pain hath fled +That with a barb'd and subtle weapon stood +Between the pilgrim and the promised Land. +But the deep anguish of the filial tear +We speak not of,--save with the sympathy +That wakes our own. + And so, we bid farewell. + + * * * * * + +Life's sun at setting, may shed brighter rays +Than when it rose, and threescore years and ten +May wear a beauty that youth fails to reach: +The beauty of a fitness for the skies,-- +Such nearness to the angels, that their song +"Peace and good will," like key-tone rules the soul, +And the pure reflex of their smile illumes +The meekly lifted brow. + She taught us this,-- +And then went home. + + + + +MISS ALICE BECKWITH, + +Died at Hartford, September 23d, 1859. + + +The beautiful hath fled + To join the spirit-train; +Earth interposed with strong array, +Love stretch'd his arms to bar her way, + All,--all in vain. + +There was a bridal hope + Before her crown'd with flowers; +The orange blossoms took the hue +With which the cypress dank with dew + Darkeneth our bowers. + +Affections strong and warm + Sprang round her gentle way, +Young Childhood, with a moisten'd eye, +And Friendship's tenderest sympathy + Watch'd her decay. + +Disease around her couch + Long held a tyrant sway, +Till vanished from her cheek, the rose, +And the fair flesh like vernal snows + Wasted away. + +Yet the dark Angel's touch + Dissolv'd that dire control, +And where the love-knot cannot break +Nor pain nor grief intrusion make, + Bore the sweet soul. + + + + +MARY SHIPMAN DEMING, + +Died at Hartford, Nov. 11th, 1839, aged 4 years and 6 months. + + +The garner'd Jewel of our heart, + The Darling of our tent! +Cold rains were falling thick and fast, + When forth from us she went. + +The sweetest blossom on our tree, + When droop'd her fairy head, +We might not lay her 'mid the flowers, + For all the flowers were dead. + +The youngest birdling of our nest, + Her song from us hath fled; +Yet mingles with a purer strain + That floats above our head. + +We gaze,--her wings we may not see: + We listen,--all in vain: +But when this wintry life is o'er, + We'll hear her voice again. + + + + +REV. DR. F. W. HATCH, + +Died at Sacramento, California, January 16th, 1860, aged 70. + + +A pleasant theme it is to think of him +That parted friend, whose noble heart and mind +Were ever active to the highest ends. +Even sceptics paid him homage 'mid their doubts, +Perceiving that his life made evident +A goodness not of earth. + His radiant brow +And the warm utterance of his lustrous eye +Told how the good of others triumph'd o'er +All narrowness of self. He deem'd it not +A worthy aim of Christ's true ministry +To chaffer for the gold that perisheth +Or waste its God-given powers on lifeless forms; +But love of souls, and love of Him who died +That they might live, gave impulse to his zeal. + +--And so, while half a century chronicled +The change of empires, and the fall of kings +And death of generations like the leaves +That strew the forest 'neath autumnal skies, +He toil'd unswerving in that One Great Cause +To which the vigor of his youth was given. + +--And as his life, its varied tasks well done +Shrouded its head and trustful went to Him +Who giveth rest and peace and rich reward +Unto his faithful servants, it behooves +Us to rejoice who have so long beheld +His pure example. + From it may we learn +Oh sainted Friend, wherever duty calls +With fervent hearts to seek for others' good, +And wear thy spirit-smile, and win even here +Some foretaste of the bliss that ne'er shall end. + + + + +MRS. PAYNE, + +Wife of Right Rev. Bishop PAYNE, died at Monrovia, Liberia. + + +Oh true and faithful! Twice ten earnest years +Of mission-toil in Afric's sultry clime +Attest thy patience in thy Master's cause, +Thy self-denial and humility. + +Now, neath the shadow of the princely palm, +And where Liberia's church-crown'd summits rise, +Are sighs from sable bosoms, swelling deep +With gratitude for all thy hallow'd care. + +--The Prelate, unto whom thy heart of hearts +Was link'd so tenderly,--who found in thee +Solace for exile from his native shore, +Laments thy loss, as the lone hours go by. +He mourns thee deepest, for he knew thee best, +Thy purity, thy sublimated search +For added holiness. With angel hand +Press thou thy pattern on us,--we who dwell +Amid the fullness of the bread from Heaven, +Forgetful of our heathen brother's need. +Now thou dost sweetly sleep, where pain and woe +Follow thee not. Their trial-time is o'er, +Their discipline perfected. For thy will +Was subjugated to the Will Divine, +And through a dear Redeemer's strength, thy soul +Hath won the victory. + + + + +MRS. MARY MILDENSTEIN ROBERTSON, + +Wife of Rev. WILLIAM H. C. ROBERTSON, died at Magnolia, East Florida, +January 13th, aged 34. + + +Our buds have faded,--winter's frigid breath + Sigh'd o'er their bosoms, and they fell away, +So in these household bowers the ice of death + Bids rose and lily ere their prime decay, +And see a Passion-Flower from tropic skies +Beneath our drifted snows, not without requiem lies. + +A brilliant daughter of the Cuban vales + Of generous mind, impulsive, strong and high +Twined the home-tendril where our northern gales + Sweep grove and forest with their minstrelsy, +Labor'd for classic lore with studious part, +And planted friendship's germ in many an answering heart. + +Her filial piety intensely warm + Whose gushing tenderness no limit knew, +Clasp'd day and night, a Mother's wasted form + And o'er her failing powers protection threw, +Cheering the darken'd soul with comfort sweet +And girding it anew, life's latest pang to meet. + +Then came the sacred vow for good or ill, + The life-long study of another's joy, +The raptur'd and unutterable thrill + With which a mother greets her first-born boy, +The climax of those hopes and duties dear +Which Heaven's unerring hand accords to Woman's sphere. + +And then the scene was ended, and she found + What here her ardent nature vainly sought, +Unwithering flowers and music's tuneful sound + Without a shadow or discordant thought, +And entered through a dear Redeemer's love +The never-changing clime of perfect rest above. + + + + +MADAM WILLIAMS, + +Widow of the late EZEKIEL WILLIAMS, Esq., and Daughter of Chief +Justice Oliver Ellsworth, died at Hartford, February 28th, 1860, +aged 87. + + +She was a link that bound us to the past,-- +To the great days of Washington, when men +Loving their country better than themselves +Show'd to the world what patriot virtue meant. +She on the knee of her majestic sire +Drew to her listening heart when life was new +Those principles that made his honored name +Synonymous with wisdom, and the might +Of holy truth. + + So when in woman's sphere +She took her post of duty, still in all +The delicate proprieties of life, +The inner sanctities of household weal, +In social elegance, and in the deeds +That christian pity to the poor extends, +She was our model; and we saw in her +The perfect lady of the olden time. +Thus on the pleasant hill-top where she dwelt +In her green-terraced home, o'ercanopied +By graceful elm, mid evergreens and flowers, +The years stole over her, and slowly wrote +Their more than fourscore on her faded scroll, +While the kind care of unexhausted love +Guarded her long decline. + + And now she sleeps +Where thro' the riven snows, the quickening turf +Gives emblem of the never-ending Spring, +That wraps the accepted soul in robes of joy. + + + + +SAMUEL G. OGDEN, ESQ., + +Died at Astoria, New York, April 5th, 1860. + + +Upon his suffering couch he lay, + Whose noble form and mind +The stress of fourscore years had tried, + Yet left a charm behind. +The charm of heaven-born happiness + Whose beauty may not fade, +The charm of unimpair'd regard + For all whom God had made. + +Upon his suffering couch he lay, + While sadly gathering there, +Were loved and loving ones, who made + That honored life their care; +And 'mid the group, a daughter's voice + Of wondrous sweetness read +Brief portions from the Book Divine, + As his dictation led. + +"Bow down thine ear, Most Merciful, + Oh, hearken while I speak, +Now in my time of utmost need, + To Thee alone I seek. +Shew me some token, Lord, for good, + Before I pass away, +For Thou hast ever been my strength, + My comforter and stay."[1] + +So when that precious breath went forth, + Her gentle hand was laid +To close those pale and trembling lids + In slumber's dreamless shade, +And then, the pure and sacred flowers + She for his burial twined, +And bade her struggling grief be still + Till the last rite declined. + +Through every trial change of life + Had reign'd within her breast +A holy zeal of filial love, + That could not be represt; +Its memories, like a music strain, + Still in that casket swell, +And wake perchance, some fond response + Where watching angels dwell. + + [1] The 86th Psalm, one of his favorites, as death drew nigh was + often read to him by his daughter, who never left him, day or + night, during his sickness, and "out of whose arms," says one who + was present, "when he drew his last breath, the angels took him." + + + + +MR. GEORGE BEACH, + +Died at Hartford, May 4th, 1860. + + +Aye, robe yourselves in black, light messengers +Whose letter'd faces to the people tell +The pulse and pressure of the passing hour. +'Tis fitting ye should sympathize with them, +And tint your tablets with a sable hue +Who bring them tidings of a loss so great. + +What have they lost? + An upright man, who scorn'd +All subterfuge, who faithful to his trust +Guarded the interests they so highly prized, +With power and zeal unchang'd, from youth to age. + +Yet there's a sadder sound of bursting tears +From woe-worn helpless ones, from widow'd forms +O'er whom he threw a shelter, for his name +Long mingled with their prayers, both night and morn. +The Missionary toward the setting sun +Will miss his liberal hand that threw so wide +Its secret alms. The sons of want will miss +His noble presence moving thro' our streets +Intent on generous deeds; and in the Church +He loved so well, a silence and a chasm +Are where the fervent and responsive voice, +And kingly beauty of the hoary head +So long maintained their place. + Sudden he sank, +Though not unwarn'd. + A chosen band had kept +Watch through the night, and earnest love took note +Of every breath. But when approaching dawn +Kindled the east, and from the trees that bowered +His beautiful abode, awakening birds +Sent up their earliest carol, he went forth +To meet the glories of the unsetting sun, +And hear with unseal'd ear the song of heaven. + +--So they who truest loved and deepest mourn'd, +Had highest call to praise, for best they knew +The soul that had gone home unto its God. + + + + +MISS MARGARET C. BROWN, + +Died at Hartford, May 12th, 1860. + + +Gone, pure in heart! unto thy fitting home, +Where nought of ill can follow. O'er thy life +There swept no stain, and o'er its placid close +No shadow. + As for us, who saw thee move +From childhood onward, loving and serene, +To every duty faithful, we who feel +The bias toward self too often make +Our course unequal, or beset with thorns, +Give thanks to Him, the Giver of all good, +For what thou wert, but most for what thou art. + + * * * * * + +Thy meek and reverent nature cheer'd the heart +Of hoary Age even in thine early bloom, +And with sweet tenderness of filial care, +And perfect sympathy, thy shielding arm +Pillow'd a Mother's head, till life went out. +We yield thee back, with sound of holy hymns, +Flowers in thy hand, and bosom,--parting gifts +Of Spring, that makes our earth so beautiful, +Faintly prefiguring thine eternal gain +Of flowers that never fade and skies that need +Not sun nor moon to light them. + So farewell, +Our grief is selfish, yet it hath its way, +Nor can we stand beside thine open grave +Without a tear. + Yet still doth chasten'd faith +Ask help of God, to render back with praise +A soul to which He gave the victory. + + + + +MISS FRANCES WYMAN TRACY, + +Adopted daughter of Mrs. WILLIAM TRACY, died at New York, in 1860, +aged 17. + + +O young and beautiful, thy step + Was light with fairy grace, +And well the music of thy voice + Accorded with thy face, + +And blent with those attractive charms + How fair it was to see +Thy tenderness for her who fill'd + A Mother's place to thee. + +Yet all the pure and holy ties + Thus round thy being wove, +They are not lost, they are not dead, + They have a life above. + +What though the sleepless care of love + Might not avail to save, +And sorrow with her dropping tear + Keeps vigil o'er thy grave, + +Faith hath a rainbow for the cloud, + A solace for the pain, +A promise from the Book Divine + To rise, nor part again. + + + + +DEACON NORMAND SMITH, + +Died at Hartford, May 22d, 1860, aged 87. + + +One saintly man the less, to teach us how +Wisely to live,--one blest example more +To teach us how to die. + Fourscore and seven, +Swept not the beauty of his brow away, +Nor quell'd his voice of music, nor impair'd +The social feeling that through all his life +Ran like a thread of gold. + In filial arms +Close wrapp'd with watchful tenderness, he trod +Jordan's cold brink. + The world was beautiful, +But Christ's dear love so wrought within his heart +That to depart seem'd better. + Many a year +He lent his influence to the church he loved, +For unity and peace, and countless gems +Dropp'd from his lips when the last sickness came, +To fortify young pilgrims in the course +That leads to glory and eternal life. + +As the frail flesh grew weak, the soul look'd forth +With added brightness thro' the clear, dark eye, +As though it saw unutterable things, +Or heard the welcome of beloved ones +Who went to rest before him. + So, with smiles, +And prayers and holy hymns, and loving words +He laid the burden of the body down, +And slept in Jesus. + + + + +MRS. HELEN TYLER BEACH, + +Wife of Mr. C. N. BEACH, died at Philadelphia, July 30th, 1860. + + +How strange that One who yesterday + Shed radiance round her sphere, +Thus, in the prime of life and health, + Should slumber on the bier. + +How sad that One who cheer'd her home + With love's unvarying grace, +Should leave at hearth-stone and at board + Nought save a vacant place. + +The beaming hope that bright and fair + Around her cradle shone, +Made cloudless progress year by year, + With lustre all its own, + +While still unselfish and serene + Her daily course she drew, +To every generous impulse warm + To every duty true: + +Yet all these pure and hallowed charms + To favor'd mortals given, +That make their loss to earth so great, + Enhance the gain of Heaven. + + + + +MRS. ELIZABETH HARRIS, + +Died at Hartford, Sunday evening, September 9th, 1860, aged 80. + + +Oh sorrowing Daughter, left alone + In home's deserted sphere, +Where every object group'd around, +In pleasant room, or garden's bound +Is twined by links of sight or sound + With the lost Mother dear; + +Yet take sweet thoughts thy grief to soothe + Of what she was below, +Her years to faithful duty given, +Her comfort in the Book of Heaven, +Her ready trust when life was riven, + To Christ, her Lord, to go. + +And take sweet memories of the care + That smoothed her couch of pain, +The grateful love that o'er her way +Kept tender vigil, night and day, +And let its pure, reflected ray + Thy drooping heart sustain. + +So shall thy faith the pang assuage + That heaves thy mourning breast; +For nearer brings each setting sun +Their blessed meeting who have won +The plaudit of the Judge, "Well done, + Come, enter to my rest." + + + + +MISS ANNA M. SEYMOUR, + +Died at Hartford, August 24th, 1860. + + +The beauteous brow, the form of grace, + With all their youthful charms, +The hand that woke the pencil's power, +And bore to penury's lowly bower, + The never-wearied alms, + +The sweet, sweet voice that duly cheer'd + A grateful Sabbath train, +The uprais'd eye that taught them more +Of Heaven, than all their student lore, + Must ne'er return again. + +She took her flight as from the cage + Enfranchised warblers glide, +Though friends were dear, and life was fair, +She saw her Saviour standing there, + Beyond rough Jordan's tide. + +Praise, praise to Him, whose faithful hand + Prepared her glorious place, +For us is loss,--for her release, +The robe of rest, the home of peace,-- + For us, the pilgrim race. + +Praise,--praise for her,--though love and grief + Still mournful vigil kept,-- +The tear-wet incense He will take +Who at the grave, for friendship's sake, + In holy sadness wept. + + + + +CALEB HAZEN TALCOTT, + +Son of C. TALCOTT, Esq., died at Hartford, October 26th, 1860, aged +2 years and 6 months. + + +There came a merry voice + Forth from those lips of rose, +As tireless through its fringing flowers + The tuneful brooklet flows, + +And with the nurslings feet + Engaged in busy play +It made the parents' pleasant home + A joyance all the day. + +There breath'd a languid tone + Forth from those pallid lips, +As when some planet of the night + Sinks in its dread eclipse. + +"Sing to me, sing," it cried, + While the red fever reign'd, +"Oh sing of Jesus,"[1] it implored + While struggling life remained. + +Then rose a mournful sound, + The solemn funeral knell, +And silent anguish settled where + The nursery's idol fell. + +But he who so desired + His Saviour's name to hear +Doth in His glorious presence smile, + Above this cloud-wrapp'd sphere. + + [1] His request, during his sickness was, "Sing to me of Jesus." + + + + +MISS JANE PENELOPE WHITING, + +Died at Portland, Connecticut, January 1st, 1861. + + +I think of her unfolding prime, + Her childhood bright and fair, +The speaking eye, the earnest smile, + The dark and lustrous hair, + +The fondness by a Mother's side + To cling with docile mind, +Fast in the only sister's hand + Her own forever twined, + +The candor of her trustful youth, + The heart that freshly wove +Sweet garlands even from thorn-clad bowers, + Because it dwelt in love, + +The stainless life, whose truth and grace + Made each beholder see +The gladness of a spirit tuned + To heavenly harmony. + +But when this fair New-Year looked forth + Over the old one's grave, +While bridal pleasures neath her roof + Their bright infusion gave, + +Upon the lightning's wing there came + A message none might stay, +An angel,--standing at her side. + To bear the soul away. + +For us, was sorrow's startling shock, + The tear, the loss, the pain, +For her, the uncomputed bliss + Of never-ending gain. + + + + +MISS ANNA FREEMAN, + +Died at Mansfield, Connecticut, February, 1861. + + +The world seems drearier when the good depart, +The just, the truthful, such as never made +Self their chief aim, nor strove with glozing words +To counterfeit a love they never felt; +But steadfast and serene--to Friendship gave +Its sacred scope, and ne'er from Duty shrank, +Though sternest toil and care environ it. +These, loving others better than themselves, +Fulfill the gospel rule, and taste a bliss +While here below, unknown to selfish souls, +And when they die, must find the clime where dwells +A God of truth, as tend the kindred streams +To their absorbing ocean. + Such was she +Who left us yesterday. Her speaking smile +Her earnest footstep hastening to give aid +Or sympathy, her ready hand well-skill'd +In all that appertains to Woman's sphere, +Her large heart pouring life o'er every deed, +And her warm interchange of social joy +Stay with us as a picture. + There, we oft +Musing, shall contemplate each lineament +With mournful tenderness, through gushing tears, +That tell our loss, and her unmeasured gain. + + + + +MADAM POND, + +Widow of the late CALEB POND, Esq., died at Hartford, February 19th +1861, aged 73. + + +Would any think who marked the smile + On yon untroubled face, +That threescore years and ten had fled + Without a wrinkling trace? + +Yet age doth sometimes skill to guard + The beauty of its prime, +And hold a quenchless lamp above + The water-floods of time. + +And she, for whom we mourn, maintained + Through every change and care, +Those hallowed virtues of the soul + That keep the features fair. + +They raised a little child to look + Into the coffin deep, +Who dream'd the lovely lady lay + But in a transient sleep, + +And gazed upon the face of death + With eye of tranquil ray, +Well pleased, as with the snowy flowers, + That on her bosom lay. + +Then on the sad procession moved, + And mid funereal gloom, +The only son was there to lay + His mother in the tomb. + +Oh, memories of an only child, + How strong and rich ye are! +A wealth of concentrated love + That none beside can share. + +And hence, the filial grief that swells, + When breaks its latest tie, +Flows onward with a fuller tide + Than meets the common eye. + +With voice of holy prayer she pass'd + Forth from her pleasant door, +Where tender recollections dwell + Though she returns no more. + +Even so the pure and pious rise + From tents of pain and woe, +But leave a precious transcript here + To guide us where they go. + + + + +ANNIE SEYMOUR ROBINSON, + +Daughter of LUCIUS F. ROBINSON and Mrs. ELIZA S. ROBINSON, died at +Hartford, Wednesday, April 10th, 1861, aged 6 years and 2 months. + + +Dids't hear him call, my beautiful?-- + The Sire, so fond and dear +Who ere the last moon's waning ray, +Pass'd in his prime of days away, + And hath not left his peer? + +Say, beckoning from yon silver cloud + Though none beside might see, +A hand that erst with love and pride +Its little daughter's steps would guide-- + Stretch'd out that hand for thee? + +The wreathing buds of snowy rose + That o'er thy bosom lay, +Were symbols in their beauty pale, +Of thy young life so sweet and frail, + And all unstain'd as they. + +Oh stricken hearts!--bear up,--bear on,-- + Think of your Saviour's grace, +Think of the spirit-welcome given, +When at the pearly gate of Heaven, + Father and child embrace. + + + + +MRS. GEORGIANA IVES COMSTOCK, + +Died at Hartford, April 30th, 1861, aged 22. + + +I saw a brilliant bridal. + All that cheers +And charms the leaping heart of youth was there; +And she, the central object of the group, +The cherished song-bird of her father's house, +Array'd in beauty, was the loved of all. +Would I could tell you what a world of flowers +Were concentrated there--how they o'erflow'd +In wreaths and clusters--how they climb'd and swept +From vase to ceiling, with their gay festoons +Whispering each other in their mystic lore +Of fragrance, and consulting how to swell, +As best they might, the tide of happiness. + +A few brief moons departed and I sought +The same abode. There was a gather'd throng +Beyond the threshold stone. A few white flowers +Crept o'er a bosom and a gentle hand +That clasp'd them not. A holy hymn awoke +In plaintive melody; but she who breath'd +The very soul of music from her birth, +Lay there with close-seal'd lips. + And the same voice +That in the flushing of the autumnal rose +Gladly pronounced the irrevocable words +"_What God hath join'd together let no man +Asunder put_," now, in the chasten'd tones +Of deep humility and tenderness, +Strove, from the armory of Heaven, to gird +The hearts that freshly bled. + + At close of day, +In the lone, sadden'd hour of musing thought, +I seem'd to view a scene where, side by side, +Bridals and burials gleam'd--the smile and tear-- +Anguish and joy--peace in her heavenly vest, +And brazen-throated war--and heard a cry, +"Such is man's life below." + I would have wept, +Save that a symphony of harps unseen +Broke from a hovering cloud; "Lo! we are they +Who from earth's tribulation rose and found +Our robes made white. Henceforth we grieve no more." + +List! List! She mingleth in that raptur'd strain +Who said so sweetly to her spirit's-guide, +That the dear Lord whom she had early serv'd +Stood near in her extremity, and gave +Her soul full willingness to leave a world +All bright with beauty, and requited love. + +And so Death lost his victory, tho' he snatched +The unwither'd garland out of Hymen's hand, +And wound it in cold mockery round the tomb. + + + + +WENTWORTH ALEXANDER, + +Son of Dr. WILLIAM and Mrs. MARY WENTWORTH ALEXANDER, died at +Fayette, Iowa, May, 1861, aged 2 years. + +Coming in from play, he laid his head on his mother's bosom, and said +"Mama, _take your boy,--boy tired_," and never looked up +healthfully again. + + +Boy tired! the drooping infant said, +And meekly laid his noble head, + Down on that shielding breast, +Which mid all change of grief, or wo, +Had been his Paradise below, + His comforter and rest. + +Boy tired! Alas for nursing Love, +That sleepless toiled and watched and strove, + For dire disease portends. +Alas for Science and its skill +Opposed to his unpitying will + This mortal span that rends. + +Boy tired! So thou hast past away, +From heat and burden of the day, + From snares that manhood knows,-- +From want and wo and deadly strife, +From wrong, and weariness of life, + Hast found serene repose. + +Boy tired! Those words of parting pain +Thou never more wilt breathe again, + Nor lift the moaning cry, +For naught to wound or vex, or cloy, +Invades the cherub home of joy, + No shade obscures the sky. + +O, mother! When above ye meet, +When all these years, so few and fleet, + Fade like a mist away, +This sorrow that thy soul hath bowed, +Shall seem but as an April cloud, + Before the noon-tide ray. + + + + +MRS. HARVEY SEYMOUR, + +Died at Hartford, Sunday, May 5th, 1861. + + +She found a painless avenue to make +The great transition from a world of care +To one of rest. + It was the Sabbath day, +And beautiful with smile of vernal sun +And the up-springing fragrance from the earth, +With all that soothing quietude which links +The consecrated season unto Him +Who bade the creatures He had made, revere +And keep it holy. + From her fair abode, +Lovely with early flowers, she took her way +The second time, unto the House of God, +And side by side with her life's chosen friend +Walk'd cheerfully. Within those hallow'd courts, +Where holds the soul communion with its God, +She listening sate. + But then she lean'd her head +Upon her husband's shoulder, and unmark'd +By one distorted feature, by the loss +Or blanching of the rose-tint on her cheek, +Rose to more perfect worship. + It might seem +As if a sacred temple, purified +By prayers and praises, were a place sublime, +Of fitting sanctity, wherein to hear +The inexpressive call that summoneth +The ready spirit upward. + But the change +In her delightful home, what words can tell! +The shock and contrast, when a mind so skill'd +With order and efficiency to fill +Each post of woman's duty and of love, +Vanished from all its daily ministries, +And the lone daughter found the guiding voice +Silent forevermore. + Her's was the heart +For an unswerving friendship, warm and true, +And self-forgetful; her's the liberal hand +To those who pine in cells of poverty, +The knowledge of their state, the will to aid, +The thought that cared for them, the zeal that blest. + +Hence, tears o'er rugged cheeks fell fast for her, +And the old white-hair'd pensioner knelt down +Beside her lifeless clay and cross'd himself, +And pour'd his desolate prayer; for her kind heart +Saw in the creed of varying sects no bar +To charity, but in their time of need +Held all as brethren. + 'Twas a pleasant spot, +Amid fresh verdure, where they laid her down, +While the young plants that o'er a daughter's grave +Took summer-rooting seemed in haste to reach +Forth their incipient roots and tendrils green +To broider her turf-pillow. + Sleep in peace, +Ye, whom the ties of nature closely bound, +And death disparted for a little while, +Mother and gentle daughter, sleep in peace; +Your forms engraven deep on loving hearts, +As with a diamond's point, till memory fade. + + + + +MRS. FREDERICK TYLER, + +Died at Hartford, Wednesday, June 19th, 1861. + + +They multiply above, with whom we walk'd +In tender friendship, and whose steadfast step, +Onward and upward, was a guide to us +In duty's path. + + They multiply above, +Making the mansions that our Lord prepared +And promised His redeemed, more beautiful +To us, the wayside pilgrims. + + One, this day +Hath gone, whose memory like a loving smile +Lingereth behind her. She was skilled to charm +And make her pleasant home a cloudless scene +Of happiness to children and to guests; +But most to him whose heart for many years +Did safely trust in her, finding his cares +Divided and his pleasures purified. +A sweet-voiced kindness, prompting word and deed, +Dwelt ever with her; and, when hours of pain +Narrowed the scope of her activities, +Its radiance comforted the friends who came +To comfort her. + + With soul serenely calm +She felt the cherished ties of earth recede +That long had bound her in such fond control, +And with a hymn upon her whitening lip, +A thrilling cadence tremulously sweet, +Into the valley of the shade of death +Entered unshrinkingly. + + How blest to rise +With song of praise, unto that tuneful choir +Whose harps are ne'er unstrung, and have no tone +Of weary dissonance. + + The rose of June +Was in its flushing, and a few brief moons +Had cast upon her lovely daughter's grave +Their hallowed lustre, when we laid so low +Her perishable part, seeming to hear +Their chant of welcome, unto whom the Sun +No more goes down, and partings are unknown. + + + + +MISS LAURA KINGSBURY, + +Died at Hartford, July, 1861. + + +Faithful and true in duty's sacred sphere, + How like the summer-lightning hath she fled! +One moment bending o'er the letter'd page,-- + The next reposing with the silent dead. + +No more by shaded lamp, or garden fair;-- + Yet hath she left a living transcript here, +Yon helpless orphans will remember her,[1] + And the young invalid she skilled to cheer; + +And he who trusted in her from his birth, + As to a Mother's love,--and friends who saw +Her goodness seeking no applause from earth, + But ever steadfast to its heavenly law: + +For she, like her of old, with listening ear +Sate at the Saviour's feet and won His plaudit dear. + + [1] She was a judicious and faithful manager of the Female + Beneficent Society of Hartford. + + + + +GOVERNOR JOSEPH TRUMBULL, + +Died at Hartford, August 4th, 1861; and his wife, Mrs. ELIZA STORRS +TRUMBULL, the night after his funeral. + + +Death's shafts fly thick, and love a noble mark. +--And one hath fallen who bore upon his shield +The name and lineage of an honor'd race +Who gave us rulers in those ancient days +Where truth stood first and gain was left behind. + +--His was the type of character that makes +Republics strong,--unstain'd fidelity,-- +A dignity of mind that mark'd unmov'd +The unsought honors clustering round his path, +And chang'd them into duties. With firm step +On the high places of the earth he walk'd, +Serving his Country, not to share her spoils, +Nor pamper with exciting eloquence +A parasite ambition. + With clear eye +And cautious speech, and judgment never warp'd +By fancy or enthusiasm, he pursued +An even, upright course. His bounties sought +Unostentatious channels, and he loved +To help the young who strove to help themselves, +Aiding their oar against opposing tides, +Into the smooth, broad waters. + Thus flow'd on +His almost fourscore years,--levying slight tax +On form or mind, while self-forgetful still, +He rose to prop the sad, or gird the weak. + +--Yet, when at last, in deep repose he lay, +His classic features, and unfurrow'd brow, +Wearing the symmetry of earlier days +Which Death, as if relenting, render'd back +In transitory gleam, 'twas sweet to hear +His aged Pastor at the coffin-side +Bearing full tribute to his piety +So many lustrums, that consistent faith +Which nerv'd his journey and had led him home. +Home?--Yes! Give thanks, ye, who still travel on, +Oft startled, as some pilgrim from your side +Falls through the arches of Time's broken bridge +Without a warning, and is seen no more-- +Give thanks that he is safe,--at home,--in heaven. + + * * * * * + +Back to the grave, from whence ye scarce have turn'd, +Break up the clods on which the dews of night +But twice had rested. Lo! another comes. +She, who for many years had garner'd up +Her heart's chief strength in him, finding his love +Armor and solace, in all weal or woe, +Seem'd the world poor without him, that she made +Such haste to join him in the spirit-land? +Through the dark valley of the shade of death, +Treading so close behind him? Scarce his lip +Learn'd the new song of heaven, before she rose +To join the enraptur'd strain. Her earthly term +Of fair and faithful duty well perform'd, +In fear of God, and true good will to man, +How blessed thus to enter perfect rest, +Where is no shadow of infirmity, +Nor fear of change, but happy souls unite +In high ascriptions to redeeming Love. + + * * * * * + +And thou,[1] sole daughter of their house and heart, +Leading thy mournful little ones to look +Into the open and insatiate tomb, +With what a rushing tide thy sorrows came. +--The sudden smiting, in his glorious prime +Of him who held the key of all thy joys,-- +The fair child following him,--the noble Friend +Who watch'd thee with parental pride,--and now +Father and Mother have forsaken thee. +--The lessons of a life-long pilgrimage +Thou hast achiev'd, while yet a few brief moons +With waning finger, as in mockery wrote +Of treasur'd hopes, more fleeting than their own. + +--But mays't thou from these sterner teachings gain +A higher seat, where no o'ershadowing cloud +Veileth the purpose of God's discipline. +And mid their glad embrace,--the gone before,-- +The re-united ne'er to part,--behold +The teaching of no bitter precept lost, +Nor tear-sown seed fail of its harvest crown. + + [1] Mrs. Eliza S. Robinson, the only child of Governor and Mrs. + Trumbull, whose early life had been a scene of singularly unbroken + felicity, was appointed to a fearful contrast of rapid and severe + bereavements. Her noble husband, Lucius F. Robinson, Esq., in the + midst of his days and usefulness, was suddenly smitten,--immediately + after, their beautiful child, Annie Seymour,--then her distinguished + relative, Chief Justice Storrs, who from her birth had regarded her + with a fatherly love; and then both her parents, side by side, + almost hand in hand, passed to the tomb. + + With unsurpassed calmness, she met this whelming tide of sorrow, + girding herself to her maternal duties, in tho armor of a disciple + of Jesus Christ. Yet with little warning, she was herself soon + summoned to follow those beloved ones, dying in August, 1862, at + the age of 35, leaving three orphan daughters, and a large circle + of friends to lament the loss of her beautiful example of every + christian grace and virtue. + + + + +MRS. EMILY ELLSWORTH, + +Wife of Govenor ELLSWORTH, and daughter of Noah Webster, LL.D., died +at Hartford, August 23d, 1861. + + +Not with the common forms of funeral grief +We mourn for her who in the tomb this day +Taketh her narrow couch. For we have need +Of such example as she set us here, +The sphere of christian duty beautified +By gifts of intellect, and taste refined; +A precious picture, set in frame of gold +And hung on high. + + Hers was a life that bore +The test of scrutiny, and they who saw +Its inner ministration, day by day, +Bore fullest witness to its symmetry, +Its delicate tissues, and unwavering crown +Of piety. A heritage of fame, +And the rich culture of her early years +Wrought no contempt for woman's household care, +But gave it dignity. Order was hers, +And system, and an industry that weighed +The priceless value of each fleeting hour. +Hers was a charm of manner felt by all, +A reference for authorities that marked +The olden time, and that true courtesy +Which made the aged happy. + + Scarce it seemed +That she was of their number, or the links +Of threescore years and ten, indeed had wound +Their coil around her, with such warmth the heart, +And cloudless mind retained their energies. +Beauty and grace were with her to the last, +And fascination that withheld the guest +Beyond the allotted time. + More would we say, +But her affections 'tis not ours to touch +In lays so weak. He of their worth might tell, +Whose dearest hopes so long with hers entwined, +And they who shared the intense maternal love, +That knew no pause of effort, no decay, +No weariness, but glazed the dying eye +With heaven-born lustre. + + So, we bid farewell; +Friend and Exemplar, we who tread so close +In thine unechoing footsteps. + + Be thy faith +As strong for us, when we the bridge shall pass +To the grand portal of Eternity. + + + + +REV. STEPHEN JEWITT, D.D., + +Died at New Haven, August 25th, 1861, aged 78. + + +I well remember him, and heard his voice +In vigorous prime, beneath the Temple-Arch, +His brow enkindling with its holy themes. + +And I remember to have heard it said +In what a patient studiousness of toil +His youth had pass'd, and how his manhood's tent +Spread out its curtains joyously, to shield +His aged parents, from their lonely home +Amid the glory of the Berkshire hills, +Turning in tender confidence to him; +And giving scope to earn the boon that crowns +The fifth commandment of the decalogue. +--And this he did, for their departing prayer +Fell balmily upon his filial heart, +As when the dying Jacob, blessed his race +And worshipp'd, leaning on his patriarch-staff. +--His lengthened life amid a peaceful scene +Flow'd on, with loving memories. + He had serv'd +The Church he lov'd, not in luxurious ease, +But self-forgetful as a pioneer, +When she had fewer sons to build her walls, +Or teach her gates salvation. + And the dome +Of yon fair College on its classic heighth +So beautiful without, and blest within,-- +By liberal deeds, as well as gracious words +Remembereth him and with recording pen +Upon the tablet of its earliest[1] friends +Engraves his name. + So, full of honor'd years, +Blessing and blest, he took his way, above. + + [1] The Rev. Dr. Jewitt was tho first founder of a scholarship in + Trinity College, Hartford, a quarter of a century since. + + + + +MISS DELIA WOODRUFF GODDING, + +A faithful Teacher of the young from early years, and recently the +Principal of a Female Seminary and Boarding School at St. Anthony, +Minnesota, died suddenly of an attack of fever, while on a visit at her +paternal home in Vermont, September, 15th, 1861. + + +Thine earnest life is over, sainted Friend! +And hush'd the teaching voice that gladly pour'd +Knowledge and goodness o'er the plastic mind. +--Full many a pupil of thy varied lore +Amid thine own New-England's elm-crowned vales +Holds thee in tenderness of grateful thought, +And far away in the broad-featured west +Where the strong Sire of waters robes in green +The shores of Minnesota, comes a wail +From youthful bands expecting thy return, +To guide them, as the shepherd leads the lamb. + +They watch in vain. + The pleasant halls are dark +Once lighted by thy smile, and flowing tears +Reveal the love that linger'd there for thee. +Said we thy life was o'er? + Forgive the words. +We take them back. + Thou hast begun to live. +Here was the budding, there the perfect flower, +Here the faint star, and there the unsetting sun, +Here the scant preface, there the open Book +Where angels read forever. + + * * * * * + +Here on the threshold, the dim vestibule +Thou with a faithful hand didst toil to tune +That harp of praise within the unfolding heart +Which 'neath the temple-arch not made with hands +Swells the full anthem of Eternity. + + + + +MISS SARA K. TAYLOR, + +Died at Hartford, October 23d, 1861, aged 20. + + + How beautiful in death +The young and lovely sleeper lies-- +Sweet calmness on the close-sealed eyes, +Flowers o'er the snowy neck and brow +Where lustrous curls profusely flow; +If 'twere not for the icy chill +That from her marble hand doth thrill, +And for her lip that gives no sound, +And for the weeping all around, + How beautiful were death. + + How beautiful in life! +Her pure affections heavenward moving, +Her guileless heart so full of loving, +Her joyous smile, her form of grace, +Her clear mind lighting up the face, +And making home a blessed place, +Still breathing thro' the parents' heart +A gladness words could ne'er impart, +A faith that foil'd affliction's dart-- + How beautiful her life. + + Gone to the Better Land! +Before the world's cold mist could shade +The brightness on her spirit laid, +Before the autumnal breeze might fray +One leaflet from her wreath away, +Or crisp one tendril of the vine +That hope and happiness did twine-- +Gone--in the soul's unfaded bloom +That dreads no darkness of the tomb-- + Gone to the Better Land. + + + + +MR. JOHN WARBURTON, + +Died at Hartford, November, 1861. + + +The knot of crape upon yon stately door, +And sadness brooding o'er the sun-bright halls, +What do they signify? + Death hath been there +Where truth and goodness hand in hand with love +Walk'd for so many years. + Death hath been there, +To do mid flowing tears his mighty work, +Extinguishing the tyranny of pain +And taking the immortal essence home +Where it would be. + Yet is there left behind +A transcript that we cherish, and a chasm +We have no power to fill. Almost it seems +That we beheld him still, with quiet step +Moving among us, saintly and serene, +Clear-sighted, upright, held in high regard, +Yet meekly unambitious, seeking nought +Of windy honor from the mouth of men +But with the Gospel's perfect code content, +Breathing good-will to all. + Freely his wealth +Wrought blessed channels mid the sons of need, +Lending Philanthropy and Piety +A stronger impulse in their mission-course +To ameliorate and save. + + So, thus intent +On higher deeds and aims than earth supplies, +An adept in that true philosophy +Learnt only in Christ's school, he calmly went +Unto his Master and the Class above. + + + + +REV. HENRY ALBERTSON POST, + +Died at Warrensburgh, New York, November 12th, 1861, aged 26. + + +[1]Read me rejoicing Psalms, + Oh dearest one, and best! +I go from war to peace, + From pain to glorious rest, + +Where the bright life-tree sheds + Around its precious balms, +So, while I linger here + Read me rejoicing psalms. + +And when my place I take + Amid the ransom'd throng +Who through a Saviour's love + Uplift the immortal song, + +Repress the tear of grief + That washes faith away, +And brave in zeal and love + Await our meeting-day. + +Yes, let thy course below + Through all its fleeting days +In its angelic ministries + Be as a psalm of praise. + + [1] His request of his wife during the sufferings of an acute + dyptheria, which suddenly separated him from an attached people, + was, "Read me rejoicing Psalms." + + + + +MISS CAROLINE L. GRIFFIN, + +Died at New York, November 17th, 1861. + +WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY. + + +The day returns, beloved friend + When in thy Mother's arms +Thou a fair gift from Heaven wert laid + In all thine infant charms, +That day, with cloudless sky returns, + But yet thou art not here +And from the smitten Mother's eye + Distils the mourner's tear. + +The wondrous brightness of thy smile, + Thy tones of greeting kind, +The love of knowledge that inspired + Thy strong and ardent mind, +Thy pity for the suffering poor, + Thy patient zeal to teach +Their children, though in manners rude + And ignorant in speech, + +And all thy many deeds and words + Of friendship's earnest part, +Are with a never-fading trace + Depictured on my heart. +But thou art with that Saviour dear + Who was thine early choice, +And mid thy blooming youth didst bend + A listener to His voice, + +So thy firm faith without a fear + Launch'd forth on Jordan's wave +The victor-palm-branch in thy hand + That o'er stern Death He gave; +And may we meet, beloved friend + At God's appointed day +Where every care and pain of earth + Have fled like dreams away. + + + + +MR. NORMAND BURR, + +Editor of the "Christian Secretary" for more than twenty years, died at +Hartford, December 5th, aged 59. + + +We knew him as a man of sterling worth, +Whose good example is a legacy +Better than gold for those he leaves behind. + +--His inborn piety flowed forth in streams +Of social kindness and domestic love, +Cheering with filial warmth the parents' heart, +And making his own home a pleasant place. + +--His was that self-reliant industry, +Smiling at hardship, which develops well +The energies of manhood, and lends strength +To commonwealths. + + By silent messenger, +A weekly scroll, he strove to spread abroad +The stores of knowledge, and increase the fruits +Of righteousness. Hence is his loss bemoan'd +By many who had never seen his face +Here in the flesh, but thro' the links of thought +Held intimate communion. + + The true life +Of virtue, is not lost to men below, +Though smitten by the frost of death it fall,-- +Its quickening memory survives, to gird +On in the heavenward race, and gently guide +Where the high plaudit of the Judge is won. + + + + +HON. THOMAS S. WILLIAMS, + +Late Chief Justice of Connecticut, died at Hartford, on Sunday morning, +December 15th, 1861, aged 84. + + + 'Tis not for pen and ink, +Or the weak measures of the muse, to give +Fit transcript of his virtues who hath risen +Up from our midst this day. + + And yet 'twere sad +If such example were allow'd to fleet +Without abiding trace for those behind. +To stand on earth's high places, in the garb +Of Christian meekness, yet to comprehend +And track the tortuous policies of guile +With upright aim, and heart immaculate, +To pass just sentence on the wiles of fraud, +And deeds of wickedness, yet freshly keep +The fountain of good-will to all mankind, +To mark for more than fourscore years, a line +Of light without a mist, are victories +Not oft achiev'd by frail humanity, +Yet were they his. + Of charities that knew +No stint or boundary, save the woes of man +He wish'd no mention made. But doubt ye not +Their record is above. + Without the tax +That age doth levy, on the eye or ear, +Movement of limbs, or social sympathies, +In sweet retirement of domestic joy +His calm, unshadow'd pilgrimage was closed +By an unsighing transit. + + Our first wintry morn +Lifted its Sabbath face, and saw him sit +All reverent, at the table of his Lord, +And heard that kindly modulated voice +Teaching Heaven's precepts to a youthful class +Which erst with statesman's eloquence controll'd +A different audience. The next holy day +Wondering beheld his place at church unfill'd, +And found him drooping in his peaceful home, +Guarded by tenderest love. + + But on the third, +While the faint dawn was struggling to o'ercome +The lingering splendors of a full-orb'd moon, +The curtains of his tent were gently raised +And he had gone,--_gone_,--mourn'd by every heart +Among the people. They had seen in him +The truth personified, and felt the worth +Of such a Mentor. + + 'Twere impiety +To let the harp of praise in silence lie, +We who beheld so beautiful a life +Complete its perfect circle. Praise to Him +Who gave him power in Christ's dear name to pass +Unharm'd, the dangerous citadel of time, +Unsullied, o'er its countless snares to rise +From earthly care--to rest,--from war--to peace,-- +From chance and change,--to everlasting bliss. +Give praise to God. + + + + +COLONEL H. L. MILLER, + +Died at Hartford, December 30th, 1861. + + +Sorrow and Joy collude. One mansion hears +The children shouting o'er their Christmas Tree, +While in the next resound the widow's wail +And weeping of the fatherless. So walk +Sickness and health. One rounds the cheek at morn, +The other with a ghost-like movement glides +Unto the nightly couch, and lo! the wheels +Of life drive heavily, and all its springs +Revolving in mysterious mechanism +Are troubled. + And how slight the instrument +That sometimes sends the strong man to his tomb, +Revealing that the glory of his prime, +Is as the flower of grass. + + Of this we thought +When looking on the face that lay so calm +And comely in its narrow coffin-bed, +Remembering how the months of pain that sank +His manly vigor to an infant's sigh +Were met unmurmuringly. + Dense was the throng +That gather'd to his obsequies,--and well +The Pastor's prayer of faith essayed to gird +The smitten hearts that whelm'd in sorrow mourn'd +Husband and sire, whose ever-watchful love +Guarded their happiness. + + Slowly moved on +The long procession, led by martial men +Who deeply in their patriot minds deplored +Their fallen compeer, and bade music lay +With plaintive voice, her chaplet down beside +His open grave. + Then, the first setting sun +Of our New-Year, cast off his wintry frown, +And seemed to write in clear, long lines of gold +Upon the whiten'd earth, the glorious words, +So shall the dead arise, at the last trump, +Sown here in weakness, to be raised in power, +Sown in corruption, to put on the robes +Of immortality. + Praise be to Him +Who gives through Christ our Lord, to dying flesh +Such victory. + + + + +COLONEL SAMUEL COLT, + +Died at Hartford, on Friday morning, January 10th, 1862. + + +And hath he fallen,--whom late we saw + In manly vigor bold? +That stately form,--that noble face, + Shall we no more behold?-- +Not now of the renown we speak + That gathers round his name, +For other climes beside our own + Bear witness to his fame; + +Nor of the high inventive power + That stretched from zone to zone, +And 'neath the pathless ocean wrought,-- + For these to all are known;-- +Nor of the love his liberal soul + His native City bore, +For she hath monuments of this + Till memory is no more; + +Nor of the self-reliant force + By which his way he told, +Nor of the Midas-touch that turn'd + All enterprise to gold, +And made the indignant River yield + Unto the ozier'd plain,-- +For these would ask a wider range + Than waits the lyric strain: + +We choose those unobtrusive traits + That dawn'd with influence mild, +When in his noble Mother's arms + We saw the noble child, +And noted mid the changeful scenes + Of boyhood's sport or strife, +That quiet, firm and ruling mind + Which marked advancing life. + +So onward as he held his course + Through hardship to renown, +He kept fresh sympathy for those + Who cope with fortune's frown, +The kind regard for honest toil, + The joy to see it rise, +The fearless truth that never sought + His frailties to disguise, + +The lofty mind that all alone + Gigantic plans sustain'd, +Yet turned unboastfully away + From fame and honors gained; +The tender love for her who blest + His home with angel-care, +And for the infant buds that rose + In opening beauty fair. + +Deep in the heart whence flows this lay, + Is many a grateful trace +Of friendship's warm and earnest deed + Which nought can e'er replace; +For in the glory of his prime + The pulse forsakes his breast, +And by his buried little ones + He lays him down to rest. + +And thousand stand with drooping head + Beside his open grave, +To whose industrious, faithful hands, + The daily bread he gave, +The daily bread that wife and babe + Or aged parent cheer'd, +Beneath the pleasant cottage roofs, + Which he for them had rear'd. + +There's mourning in the princely halls + So late with gladness gay, +A tear within the heart of love + That will not dry away; +A sense of loss on all around, + A sigh of grief and pain-- +"The like of him we lose to day, + We ne'er shall see again." + + + + +MADAM HANNAH LATHROP, + +Died in Norwich, Connecticut, January 18th, 1862, aged 92. + + +Had I an artist's pencil, I might sketch +Her as she was, in her young matronhood +Graceful and dignified, serene and fair. + +--I well remember, when at Sabbath-morn, +With pious zeal, the rural church she sought, +Our rural church,--by rocks o'er-canopied,-- +Where with her stately husband and their group +Of younglings bright, each in the accustom'd seat, +How many a glance was toward her beauty bent +Admiringly. + In those primeval days +The aristocracy that won respect, +Sprang not from wealth alone, but laid its base +In goodness and in virtue. Thus she held +Her healthful influence in society +Without gainsaying voice. + The polity +Of woman's realm,--sweet home,--those inner cares +And countless details that promote its peace, +Prosperity and order, were not deem'd +Beneath the highest then, nor wholly left +To hireling hands. This science she upheld, +And with her circle of accomplishments +And charms so mingled it, that all combined +Harmoniously. + That energy and grace +So often deem'd the exclusive property +Of youth's fresh season, or of vigorous prime, +She brought to Age, an unencumbered dower, +Making the gift of being beautiful, +Even beyond ninety years. + And though the change +Of mortal life, dispers'd her cherish'd band, +And some had gone their own fair nests to build +And some arisen to mansions in the skies +Alone, yet undismay'd, her post she kept, +Guiding a household in the same good ways +Of order and of hospitality. + +So, when with mild decline, the sunset came, +Her powers still unimpair'd, all willingly +As a confiding and obedient child +Goes to its father's house, she went above. + + + + +HENRIETTA SELDEN COLT, + +Daughter of Col. SAMUEL and Mrs. ELIZABETH COLT, died January 20th, +1862, aged 7 months and 27 days. + +THE MOURNING MOTHER. + + +A tomb for thee, my babe! + Dove of my bosom, can it be? +But yesterday in all thy charms, +Laughing and leaping in my arms, + A tomb and shroud for thee! + +A couch for thee mine own, + Beneath the frost and snow! +So fondly cradled, soft and warm, +And sheltered from each breath of storm, + A wintry couch for thee! + +Thy noble father's there, + But the last week he died, +He would have stretched his guarding arm, +To shelter thee from every harm, + Nestle thee to his side. + +Thy ruby lip skill'd not + That father's name to speak, +Yet wouldst thou pause mid infant play +To kiss his picture when away, + The love smile on thy cheek. + +Thy brother slumbereth there, + Our first-born joy was he, +Thy little sister sweetly fair, +Most like a blessed bird of air; + A goodly company. + +Only one left with me, + _One_ here and _three_ above, +Be not afraid my precious child! +The Shepherd of the lambs is mild,-- + Sleep in His love. + +Thou never saw'st our Spring + Unfold the blossoms gay; +But thou shalt see perennial bowers, +Enwreathed with bright and glorious flowers, + That cannot fade away. + +And thou shalt join the song, + That happy cherubs pour, +In their adoring harmonies: +I'll hear ye, darlings, when I rise + To that celestial shore. + +Yes, there's a Saviour dear,-- + Keep down, oh tears, that swell! +A righteous God who reigns above, +Whose darkest ways are truth and love, + He doeth all things well. + + + + +THE LITTLE BROTHERS, + +WILLIAM CHILDS BREWER, died Jan. 24th, 1862, aged 7 years, and GEORGE +CLEVELAND BREWER, aged 5 years, at Springfield, Mass., Feb. 4th, +1862. + + +The noble boy amid his sports + Droop'd like a smitten flower +That feels the frost-king's fatal shaft, + And withers in its bower. + +But then a younger darling sank + In childhood's rosy bloom, +And those whose hearts were one from birth, + Were brothers in the tomb. + +_Not in the tomb_. Ah no! They rose + Through Christ their Saviour's love, +In his blest presence to cement + Their deathless bond of love. + +Are they not dwelling side by side? + Have they not 'scaped the strife, +The snares, the sins, the woes that stain + This pilgrimage of life? + +Oh heart of sorrowing Love, be strong! + Tho' tenderest ties are riven, +For do not earth's bereavments aid + The angel-chant of Heaven. + + + + +MR. DAVID F. ROBINSON, + +Died at Hartford, January 26th, 1862, aged 61. + + +We did not think it would be so;-- + We kept +The hope-lamp trimm'd and burning. Day by day +There came reports to cheer us;--and we thought +God in his goodness would not take away +So soon, another of that wasting band +Of worthies, whose example in our midst, +Precious and prized, we knew not how to spare. +These were our thoughts and prayers;-- + But He who reigns +Above the clouds had different purposes. + + * * * * * + +On the low pillow where so late he mourn'd +His gifted first-born, in the prime of days, +Circled by all that makes life beautiful +And full of joy, his honored head is laid,-- +The Sire and Son,--ne'er to be sunder'd more. +Yet his unblemish'd memory still survives, +And walks among us;--the upright intent,-- +Firmness that conquer'd obstacles,--the zeal +For public good,--the warmth of charity, +And piety, that gave unwithering root +To every virtue. + Of the pleasant home +Where his most fond affections shed their balm +And found response,--now in its deep eclipse +And desolate, it is not ours to speak; +Nor by a powerless sympathy invade +The sacredness of grief. + 'Twere fitter far +For faith to contemplate that glorious Home +Which knows no change, and lose itself in praise +Of Him, who to His faithful followers gives +Such blessed passport o'er the flood of Death, +That "where He is, there shall His servant be." + + + + +MR. SAMUEL TUDOR, + +Died at Hartford, January 29th, 1862, aged 92. + + +We saw him on a winter's day, + Beneath the hallowed dome, +Where for so many years his heart + Had found its Sabbath-home, +Yet not amid his ancient seat + Or in the accustomed place +Arose his fair, and reverend brow, + And form of manly grace. + +Then Music, through the organ's soul + Melodious descant gave, +But yet his voice so rich and sweet + Swell'd not the sacred stave, +The Christmas wreaths o'er arch and nave + Were lingering still to cheer +His parting visit to the fane + Which he had help'd to rear. + +And flowers were on the coffin-lid + And o'er his bosom strown, +Fit offering for the friend who loved + The plants of every zone, +And bade them in his favor'd cell + Unfold their charms sublime, +And felt the florist's genial joy + Repel the frost of time. + +No cloud of sorrow marr'd his course, + Save when _her_ loss he wept, +Whose image in his constant soul + Its angel presence kept, +But heavenly Mercy's balm was shed + To cheer his lonely breast, +For tenderest love in filial hearts + His latest moments blest. + +And so, for more than ninety years + Flow'd on his cloudless span, +In love of Nature, and of Art, + And kindred love for man, +Our oldest patriarch, kind and true, + To all our City dear, +His cordial tones, his greeting words + No more on earth we hear. + +Last of that band of noble men + Who for their Church's weal +Took counsel in her hour of need + And wrought with tireless zeal, +Nor in their fervent toil declined + Nor loiter'd on their ways, +Until her Gothic towers arose + And her full chant of praise. + +But as we laid him down with tears, + The westering Sun shone bright, +And through the ice-clad evergreens + Diffused prismatic light, +Type of the glory that awaits + The rising of the just, +And so, we left him in the grave + That Christ his Lord had blest. + + + + +HENRY HOWARD COMSTOCK, + +Youngest child of the late Capt. JOHN C. COMSTOCK, died at Hartford, +February 11th, 1862, a fortnight after his father, aged 11 months. + + +It was a fair and mournful sight + Once at the wintry tide, +When to the dear baptismal rite +Was brought an infant, sweet and bright, + His father's couch beside, + +His dying father's couch beside, + Whose eye, with tranquil ray, +Beheld upon that beauteous head +The consecrated water shed, + Then calmly pass'd away. + +A little while the lovely babe, + As if by angels lent, +With soft caress and soothing wile +Invok'd a widow'd mother's smile, + Then to his father went. + +Christ's holy seal upon his brow, + Christ's sign upon his breast, +He 'scaped from all the cares and woes +That earth inflicts or manhood knows, + And enter'd with the blest. + + + + +REV. DR. DAVID SMITH, + +For many years Pastor of a Church in Durham, Conn., died at Fair Haven, +March 3d, 1862, aged 94. + + +The transcript of a long, unblemish'd life +Replete with happiness and holiness, +Is a fair page to look upon with love +In this world's volume oft defaced by sin, +And marr'd with misery. And he, who laid +His earthly vestments down this day, doth leave +Such tablet for the heart. + 'Twas good to see +That what he preach'd to others, he portray'd +Before them in example, that the eye +Adding its stronger comment to the ear, +Might lend new impulse to the flock he led +Toward the Great Shepherd's fold. + + * * * * * + + Along his path +Sorrows he met, but such as wrought him gain, +And joys that made not weak his hold on heaven, +But touch'd his brow with sunbeams, and his heart +With warmer charity. + Year after year, +Home's duties and its hospitalities +Were blent with cheerfulness, and when the chill +Of hoary Time approach'd he took no part +In that repulsive criticism of age, +Pronouncing with a frown, the former days +Better than these. + The florid glow that tints +The cheek of health, which youth perchance, accounts +Its own peculiar beauty, dwelt with him +Till more than fourscore years and ten achiev'd +Their patriarch circle, while the pleasant smile +And genial manner, casting light around +His venerable age, conspired to make +His company desirable to all. + +And so beloved on earth and waited for +Above, he closed this mortal pilgrimage +In perfect peace. + + + + +MISS. EMILY B. PARISH, + +Formerly a Teacher in Hartford, died at Cleveland, Ohio, March 12th, +1862. + + +Teachers,--she is not here + With the first breath of Spring +Her aid to your devoted band +With cheering smile and ready hand + Untiringly to bring. + +Pupils,--her guiding voice, + Her sweetly warbled strain +Urging your spirits to be wise +With daily, tuneful harmonies + Ye shall not hear again. + +Parents,--and loving friends + The parents' heart who shared, +Give thanks to that abounding grace +Which led her through the Christian race, + To find its high reward. + +Lover,--the spell is broke + That o'er your life she wove, +Look to her flitting robes that gleam +So white, beyond cold Jordan's stream, + Look to the Land of Love. + + + + +HARRIET ALLEN ELY, + +Died at Providence, Rhode Island, April 27th, 1862, aged 7 years and 2 +months. + + +Seven blest years our darling daughter, + We have held thee to our hearts, +Every season growing dearer; +We have held thee near and nearer, + Never dreaming thus to part. + +Seven brief years--our only daughter-- + Sweet has been the parent rule, +Infant watch by cradle nightly, +'Till we saw thy footsteps lightly + Tripping joyously to school. + +Germ of promise,--bud of beauty, + To our tenderest nurture given, +Not for our too dim beholding +Was thy fair and full unfolding; + That perfection is in Heaven. + +Earth no license had to harm thee, + Time no power to touch thy bloom, +Holy is our faith to meet thee, +Glorious is our trust to greet thee + Far beyond the conquering tomb. + + + + +MISS CATHARINE BALL, + +Daughter of Hon. Judge BALL of Hoosick Falls, N.Y., died at the City +of Washington, 1862. + + +Bright sunbeam of a father's heart + Whose earliest radiance shone +Delightful o'er a mother's eye +Like morning-star in cloudless sky, + Say, whither hast thou flown? + +Fair inmate of a happy home + Whose love so gently shed +Could a serene enchantment make +And love in stranger bosoms wake, + Ah, whither art thou fled? + +They know, who trust the Saviour's word + With faith no tear can dim, +That such as bear His spirit here +And do His will in duty's sphere + Shall rise to dwell with Him. + +They know, who feel an Angel near, + Though hid from mortal sight +And reaching out to her their hand +Shall safer reach that Pleasant Land + Whose buds no blast can blight. + +Even I, who but with fleeting glance + Beheld thee here below, +From its remembered sweetness gain +New impulse toward that heavenly train +Whose harps in never-ceasing strain + With God's high praises glow. + + + + +MRS. MORRIS COLLINS, + +Died at Hartford, May 19th, 1862. + + +Frail stranger at the gate of life, + Too weak to grasp its key, +O'er whom the Sun on car of gold +Hath but a few times risen and roll'd, + Unnoticed still by thee,-- + +To whom the toil of breath is new, + In this our vale of time +Whose feet are yet unskill'd to tread +The grassy carpet round thee spread + At the soft, vernal prime,-- + +Deep sympathy and pitying care + Regard thy helpless moan, +And 'neath thy forehead arching high +Methinks, the brightly opening eye + Doth search for something gone. + +Yon slumberer 'mid the snowy flowers, + With young, unfrosted hair, +Awakes not at the mournful sound +Of bird-like voices murmuring round + "_Why sleeps our Mother there?_" + +Hers was that sunshine of the heart, + Which Home's fair region cheer'd, +Hers the upright, unselfish aim, +The fond response to duty's claim, + The faith that never fear'd. + +Oh mystery! brooding oft so dark + O'er this our path below, +Not ours, with wild, repining sigh, +To ask the _wherefore_, or the _why_, + But drink our cup of woe. + +So, in her shrouded beauty cold, + Yield to the earth its own, +Assured that Heaven will guard the trust, +Of that which may not turn to dust, + But dwells beside the Throne. + + + + +MRS. MARGARET WALBRIDGE, + +Died at Saratoga, N.Y., June 2d, 1862, aged 35. + +WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY. + + +This was her birth-day here, + When summer's latest flowers +Were kindling to their flush and prime, +As if they felt how short the time + In these terrestrial bowers. + +She hath a birth-day now + No hastening night that knows, +She hath a never-ending year +Which feels no blight of autumn sere, + Nor chill of wintry snows. + +She hath no pain or fear, + But by her Saviour's side +Expansion finds for every power; +And knowledge her angelic dower + An ever-flowing tide. + +They sorrow, who were called + From her sweet smile to part, +Who wore her love-links fondly twined +Like woven threads of gold refined + Around their inmost heart. + +Tears are upon the cheeks + Of little ones this day, +God of the motherless,--whose eye +Notes even the ravens when they cry + Wipe Thou their tears away: + +Oh, comfort all who grieve + Beside the sacred urn,-- +For brief our space to wail or sigh, +Like grass we fade, like dreams we fly, + And rest with those we mourn. + + + + +THE BROTHERS, + +Mr. FISHER AMES BUELL, died at Hartford, May 19th, 1861, aged 25, and +Mr. HENRY R. BUELL, on his voyage to Europe, June 20th, 1862, aged +30, the only children of Mr. ROBERT and Mrs. LAURA BUELL. + + +_Both gone._ Both smitten in their manly prime, + Yet the fair transcript of their virtues here, +And treasured memories of their boyhood's time + Allay the anguish of affection's tear. + +One hath his rest amid the sacred shade + Whose turf reveals the mourner's frequent tread, +And one beneath the unfathomed deep is laid + To slumber till the sea restores her dead. + +The childless parents weep their broken trust, + Hope's fountain failing at its cherish'd springs, +And widow'd sorrow shrouds herself in dust, + While one lone flowret to her bosom clings. + +Yet no blind chance this saddening change hath wrought, + No dark misrule this mortal life attends, +A Heavenly Father's never-erring thought + Commingles with the discipline He sends. + +Not for His reasons let us dare to ask, + His secret counsels not aspire to read, +But faithful bow to each allotted task + And make His will our solace and our creed. + + + + +HON. PHILLIP RIPLEY, + +Died at Hartford, July 8th, 1862, aged 68. + + +It is not meet the good and just + Oblivious pass away, +And leave no record for their race, +Except a dim and fading trace, + The memory of a day. + +We need the annal of their course, + Their pattern for a guide,-- +Their armor that temptation quell'd,-- +The beacon-light that forth they held + O'er Time's delusive tide. + +Within the House of God I sate + At Summer's morning ray,-- +And sadly mark'd a vacant seat +Where erst in storm, or cold or heat + While lustrums held their way, + +Was ever seen with reverent air + Intent on hallow'd lore, +A forehead edg'd with silver hair, +A manly form bow'd low in prayer,-- + They greet our eyes no more. + +And where [1]Philanthropy commands + Her lighted lamp to burn, +And youthful feet inured to stray +Are wisely warn'd to duty's way, + Repentant to return, + +He, with a faith that never fail'd, + Its first inception blest,-- +And year by year, with zeal untired, +Wise counsel lent,--new hopes inspired, + And righteous precepts prest. + +They did him honor at his grave, + Those men of mystic sign, +Whose ancient symbols bright and fair, +The Book, the Level, and the Square, + Betoken truth benign: + +All do him honor, who regard + Integrity sincere, +But they who knew his virtues best, +While fond remembrance rules the breast, + Will hold his image dear. + + [1] Mr. Ripley was a persevering friend and patron of the State + Reform School at West Meriden. He had long sustained the office of + Trustee for the County of Hartford, and was at the time of his + death, the Chairman of that body, and a prominent member of its + Executive Committee. His frequent visits to that Institution, his + attention to all its internal concerns, and earnest satisfaction in + its prosperity, entitle him to its grateful remembrance. + + + + +RICHARD ELY COLLINS, + +Son of Mr. MORRIS COLLINS, died at Wethersfield, September 5th, 1862, +aged 3 months and 27 days. + + +It was a sad and lovely sight + They call'd us to behold, +That infant forehead high and fair, +Those beauteous features sculptured rare, + Yet breathless all, and cold. + +Heard it in dreams, an angel voice + Soft as the zephyr's tone? +The yearning of a Mother mild +To clasp once more her three months' child + But a few days her own? + +Just a few days of wasting pain + She linger'd by its side, +And then consign'd to stranger arms +The frail unfolding of the charms + She would have watch'd with pride. + +Yet happy babe! to reach a home + Beyond all sorrowing cares, +Where none a Mother's loss can moan +Or seek for bread, and find a stone, + Or fall in fatal snares. + +Thrice happy,--to have pass'd away + Ere Time's sore ills invade,-- +From fragrant buds that drooping shed +Their life-sigh o'er thy coffin-bed-- + To flowers that never fade. + + + + +MISS ELIZABETH BRINLEY, + +Died at Hartford, September 28th, 1862. + + +We miss her at the chancel-side, + For when we last drew near, +The holy Eucharist to share, +She, with the warmth of praise and prayer + Was meekly kneeling here. + +We miss her when the liberal hand + Relieves a thirsting soil, +And when the Blessed Church demands +Assistance for the mission bands + That on her frontier toil. + +We miss her 'mid the gather'd train + Of children[1] young and poor, +Whom year by year she deign'd to teach +With faithful zeal and patient speech, + And hope that anchor'd sure. + +Her couch is in the ancestral tomb + With Putnam's honor'd dust, +The true in word, the bold in deed, +A bulwark in his Country's need, + A tower of strength and trust. + +Her spirit's home is with her Lord, + Whom from her youth she sought, +The miss'd below hath found above +The promise of a God of Love + Made to the pure in thought. + + [1] The well-conducted Industrial School in connection with + St. Paul's Church, where she had been for several years an + indefatigable and valued teacher. + + + + +MR. JOHN A. TAINTOR, + +Died at Hartford, on Saturday Evening, November 15th, 1862, aged 62 +years. + + +A sense of loss is on us. One hath gone + Whose all-pervading energy doth leave +A void and silence 'mid the haunts of men + And desolation for the hearts that grieve +In his fair mansion, so bereft and lone, +Whence the inspiring smile, and cheering voice have flown. + +Those too there are who eloquently speak + Of his firm friendship, not without a tear, +Of its strong power to undergird the weak + And hold the faltering feet in duty's sphere, +While in the cells of want, a broken trust +In bitterness laments, that he is of the dust. + +In foreign climes, with patriotic eye + He sought what might his Country's welfare aid, +And the rich flocks of Spain, at his behest + Spread their proud fleeces o'er our verdant glade, +And Scotia's herds, as on their native shore +Our never-failing streams, and pastures rich explore. + +Intent was he to adorn his own domain + With all the radiant charms that Flora brings, +There still, the green-house flowers pronounce his name, + The favor'd rose its grateful fragrance flings, +And in their faithful ranks to guard the scene +Like changeless memories rise, the unfading evergreen. + +On friendly deeds intent, while on his way + A widow'd heart to cheer,--_One_ grasp'd his hand +Whose icy touch the beating heart can stay, + And in a moment, at that stern command +Unwarn'd, yet not unready, he doth show +The great transition made, that waits on all below. + +Yet, ah! the contrast,--when the form that pass'd + Forth from its gates, in full vitality, +Is homeward, as a lifeless burden borne, + No more to breathe kind word, or fond reply, +Each nameless care assume with earnest skill, +Nor the unspoken wish of those he loved fulfill. + +But hallow'd lips within the sacred dome + Where he so long his sabbath-worship paid +Have given his soul to God from whence it came + And laid his head beneath the cypress shade, +While "_be ye also ready_," from his tomb, +In a Redeemer's voice, doth neutralize the gloom. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Man of Uz, and Other Poems, by +Lydia Howard Sigourney + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OF UZ, AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 20504.txt or 20504.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/5/0/20504/ + +Produced by Sigal Alon and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was +produced from scanned images of public domain material +from the Google Print project.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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