The Man of Uz, and Other Poems
Date: 2007-02-02T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Poetry

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Title: The Man of Uz, and Other Poems

Author: L. H. Sigourney

Release date: February 2, 2007 [eBook #20504]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN OF UZ, AND OTHER POEMS ***

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 Cæsar,

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

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.

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
vFor 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."[2]

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.

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,"[3] 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.

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

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,[4]

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.

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,[5] 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.

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[6] friends

Engraves his name.

So, full of honor'd years,

Blessing and blest, he took his way, above.

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.

[7] 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.

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 [8] 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.

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[9] 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.

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.

Footnotes

1 (Return)
The last words of Professor Olmsted.

2 (Return)
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."

3 (Return)
His request, during his sickness was, "Sing to me of Jesus."

4 (Return)
She was a judicious and faithful manager of the Female Beneficent Society of Hartford.

5 (Return)
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.

6 (Return)
The Rev. Dr. Jewitt was tho first founder of a scholarship in Trinity College, Hartford, a quarter of a century since.

7 (Return)
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."

8 (Return)
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.

9 (Return)
The well-conducted Industrial School in connection with St. Paul's Church, where she had been for several years an indefatigable and valued teacher.

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Table of Contents

- THE MAN OF UZ, AND OTHER POEMS.

- 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.

- CONTENTS.

- THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW-ENGLAND. INTRODUCTION.

- THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW-ENGLAND.

- IN MEMORIAM.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE