"I promised to let you know where I brought up, and here I am, domiciled in a pretty little country village, where Bently has property, and I have hired his snug hunting lodge, and, in the mind I am in, I shall remain the next six months, that is, if when the term for renting this said lodge expires, I can find a place to which I can bring my sister Emily, Here there is hardly room enough for myself and Philips, who is still my factotum, valet, groom, and I know not what besides; however, he is content, and so am I. Heartily sick of town, and its conventualities, and tired of being courted and feted, not for myself, but my fortune, I care not, if I never see it again. I am weary, too, of 'single blessedness,' and yet afraid to venture on matrimony; why is it so few are happy, who do? There is some grand evil somewhere; but where? 'Aye there's the rub.' I look narrowly into every family I visit, especially, the newly married ones, and I see the effect, but not the cause. Now, one cannot be without the other, we well know. I fear I expect too much from the other sex, and begin to think there is more truth than poetry in your observation, that I 'must have a woman made on purpose for me,' for I certainly do want to find one very different from most that I have yet seen.
"Travelling between London and Bath, I met my father's old friend and college chum, Falkner, who finding I had no settled plans, persuaded me to take Bently's hunting lodge, which is in the vicinity of his villa. Falkner is a worthy good creature, whom I should give credit for a great deal of common sense, were he not so completely under the dominion of his wife, a perfect Xantippe; by the bye, I think, however wise he might be in some respects, that Master Socrates was a bit of a goose, particularly if, as history maintains, he did, he knew what a virago he was taking. But, however deficient in her duty as a wife, Mrs. Falkner goes to the other extreme, and overacts her part as a mother; but I am very ungrateful in thus animadverting on her behaviour, for you must know, she has singled out your humble servant as a most especial favourite; and though she does not wish her girls married, takes right good care to let me know that she thinks the woman who gets me, will be lucky; and that, much as she would grieve to part from one of her daughters, yet, were an eligible chance to offer, she would throw no obstacles in the way. I do verily believe she has discarded a little girl who taught her daughters music, solely for fear I should fall in love with her; and certainly, she is as far superior to the Misses Falkner as she well can be, both in attainments and personal attractions. I am so afraid of coming to a hasty conclusion, but own myself greatly prepossessed in her favour. She has been well and carefully brought up; I have watched her in church, and have marked an unaffected devotion, which I have seen carried to the sick and suffering poor around her. She has lost both parents, and now by her talents, supports an orphan brother and sister. The former, an intelligent interesting boy of thirteen, is a frequent companion of mine, and if I can, without wounding the delicacy of the sister, I trust to be of some future service to him. I have, indirectly, and, perhaps, you will say, unfairly questioned the boy, and all tells in her favour; now, here it must be genuine. Miss Willoughby plays and sings like a Syren; but then, so does many a pretty trifler. Beauty and accomplishments are very well to pass an evening away; but in a companion for life, far more is required; much more than these must I find in a woman, ere I venture to ask her to be mine. I am heartily tired of my present life; it is a lonely stupid way of living; living! I don't live, I merely vegetate! I have no taste for dissipation; neither have I any great predilection for field sports.
"Miss Willoughby is, I think, far superior to the generality of her sex, but she shall never have an idea of my partiality, till I am thoroughly persuaded she can make me happy; for although she may not come up to my standard of female perfection, she is far too amiable and too forlorn to be trifled with; and, therefore, I will not try to win her affections, till I know I can reciprocate them. With regard to the Falkners, I will be guarded. I respect the old man sincerely, and his family; farther, deponent sayeth not. He is the beau ideal of a country squire, and I think you will like him! They are all remarkably civil, and I must, for many reasons, keep up an intercourse, or give room elsewhere of having my plans suspected, The whole village, I believe have given me to one of the Falkners. I do not wish even the worthy Dr. Sherman and his excellent wife to suspect that I feel more than a common interest in their protegee. I wish you would come down for a month, I think you would like this part of the country, and I am sure you and Mr. Falkner would get on together. Neither have I the slightest doubt, but you would be pleased with the Shermans; they are gems, perfect gems, in their way. And as to Miss Willoughby,—but come and judge for yourself. You are engaged, or I might not, perhaps, be so pressing.
"Just as I was concluding this, a letter was brought by the mail, from a distant relative, who is just returned from India. It was hastily written, and sent off while the ship was laying in the Downs, requesting me, if possible, to meet him at Deal. So I am off for a short time, and will write to you directly I return. Till when, farewell.
"Ever faithfully yours,
"George."
Every meeting increased Helen's respect for Mr. Mortimer; she often met him at Dr. Sherman's, but it seemed always the result of chance, nor had she the slightest idea that he felt for her other, than the esteem of a friend. The village gave him to one of the Misses Falkner, and Helen took it for granted it was so. She rather regretted it, as she thought him too good, and feared they could, neither of them, appreciate his worth. She occasionally met the Falkners at Dr. Sherman's, when the eldest young lady always took care to monopolize him, which, for reasons of his own, he readily fell into. When he took leave to go to Deal, Helen could not help fancying there was a tenderness and peculiarity in his tone, as he addressed her, and yet she thought she must be mistaken, and that it was only his natural friendly warmth of manner, for she had none of that silly vanity, that leads many girls to fancy, because a man is kind and attentive, he must be in love.
She missed him greatly, for latterly he had accompanied her in her songs, and supplied her with music and books; still, all was done under the mask of friendship, and duplicates of these little presents were generally procured for Falkner Villa. Also, Henry, too, was sadly at a loss for his companion; all his out door amusements seemed to have lost their interest, and he began to look anxiously for the time proposed for his return. A room was prepared both for Mr. Mortimer, and his cousin, at Mr. Falkner's. On his return, however, he preferred going to his own quarters, leaving Sir Horace Mortimer, his relative, to the hospitalities of Falkner Villa.
Sir Horace Mortimer's stay with them, opened a fresh field for Mrs. Falkner's speculations, and not being either so fastidious or clear–sighted as his cousin George, Sir Horace, at one time, bid fair to set the former an example.
They were all assembled at Dr. Sherman's a few nights after Mr. Mortimer's return, when Sir Horace was introduced, to Helen. He almost started, but said nothing; however his eyes were so completely riveted on her, that he became quite absent—in short, his fixed gaze became painful. Dr. Sherman was, during the evening, called to the door, when he received a parcel from London, carriage paid, which the man said he had promised to place in the Doctor's own hand. The worthy man wondering from whom it could possibly come, retired to his own room and opened it. It contained Mrs. Willoughby's portrait and the pocket book; the latter he locked up carefully; the former he was carrying to Helen: who being engaged with Mrs. Sherman in the adjoining room, he showed it to Sir Horace Mortimer, with whom he had just been conversing about Helen, and her orphan charge.
"Can it be possible," said he "or do my eyes deceive me?"
The Doctor looked inquiringly, but Sir Horace said no more. At last he went up to the Doctor, and asked if Helen was expecting the arrival of the miniature? Dr. Sherman replied, she knew it was safe, but was quite uncertain when it might arrive.
"Then my dear sir, would you trust me with it till to–morrow morning? when I will restore it at an early hour," I would not ask, but for very particular reasons, connected it may be, of much moment to that dear girl: if as I strongly suspect, I have seen that miniature before, there is a secret and very minute spring, which I could not well ascertain without my glasses. Believe me, my dear Doctor, I have very cogent reasons for my request, and I feel no common interest in Miss Willoughby: but we are attracting the notice of those people I am staying with, who are not at all friendly disposed towards her; in fact, they have done all in their power to prejudice me against her.
The Doctor marvelled much at the request; but readily acceeded to it—and then both he and Sir Horace Mortimer, joined in the general conversation.
When the little party broke up, Sir Horace Mortimer undertook to be Helen's escort, and offered her his arm. Miss Falkner having come with him, quietly took the other. When they reached Helen's abode, which was in the way to Falkner Villa, at parting, Sir Horace requested permission to call and see her at an hour he named next day, and she promised to be ready.
"Will you send your young brother for me? I have heard much of him; and must make his acquaintance."
"Oh," said Miss Falkner, "we are going to call at the cottage to–morrow, and I will be your guide. We have long been intending to pay a visit to Miss Willoughby, mamma is anxious to apologize for some little misunderstanding." Helen tried to speak, but her words could find no utterance, in reply to the impertinent speech of Miss Falkner, but shaking Sir Horace warmly by the hand, she bowed and went into her home.
At breakfast Miss Falkner told her mother, that as Sir Horace Mortimer, had made an appointment to visit Miss Willoughby; they could avail themselves of his escort, and go with him. This I beg leave to say, though apparently the thought of the moment, was a preconcerted proposition: but one which Sir Horace declared impossible! as he had particular business with Miss Willoughby, at which none but Dr. Sherman, and Mrs. Cameron could be present. This was spoken so decidedly, that no further opposition was made to his wish to go alone.
But both mother and daughters were sadly puzzled. Conjecture was rife among them the whole morning: at last they came to the conclusion that he had made up his mind to propose for Helen—it must be so, else why Dr. Sherman and Mrs. Cameron present?—this point, therefore, was settled—at least with the Falkners, of her acceptance of him, a rich East Indian, oh there could be no doubt of that. And the elder Miss Falkner could breathe again, since she was free to captivate Mr. George Mortimer, with whom she was desperately in love. Thus do vain and silly people jump at conclusions and thus is half the business of a country town, or village, settled without any concurrence, or even knowledge of those most concerned.
The request of Sir Horace Mortimer set Helen wondering, and certainly deprived her of some hours sleep. His peculiar manner and his ardent gaze, too, recurred to her mind, as she lay thinking on the subject.
She was completely puzzled, he was a perfect stranger whom she had never before seen, nor he her, what could it mean? Would not some have concluded he was in love with her, but a man old enough to be her father! Such an idea never entered her head: in fact she could make no probable guess, so she determined to make a virtue of necessity, and wait quietly, till he came. Early the next day, she sent for Mrs. Cameron, and told her of the appointment Sir Horace had made, and as she thought it more than probable, the Falkners might accompany him, as they spoke of doing so over night, she wished her friend to be with her. But we have already seen that Sir Horace had decidedly expressed his determination to go alone. Mrs. Cameron was equally perplexed with Helen, as to his object. She thought perhaps he had mistaken Helen's likeness, to some one he was attached to in his early years, and applying her favorite well–founded maxim and belief in an over–ruling Providence, made up her mind, that however the mistake might be; it would end in the orphans finding a sincere friend in the Baronet or the rich Nabob, as the people termed him.
Whatever were the surmises of Sir Horace Mortimer, he was perfectly satisfied with the result of his private examination of the miniature for he exclaimed to himself, "God be praised! it must indeed be so," saying this, he put it in his pocket, and joined the Falkner family at breakfast, where the conversation before related, took place.
On his way to Helen's, he met his cousin, and they walked on together. At length Sir Horace Mortimer asked, "George, my boy do you not begin to think of marrying; it is in my opinion, high time you should—let me see; you must be eight and twenty, why you are losing time sadly, take care I don't get spliced first, as sailors say."
"Why sir, they do say Maria Falkner has certainly made a conquest of you."
"They do, do they: its very kind of them to settle so important a point for me. Do you approve the match."
"I think there are many who would make you happier."
"Miss Willoughby, for instance!" said Sir Horace.
"Miss Willoughby! sir."
"Yes, Miss Willoughby, George, what objection? Should I be the first old man, who has married a young girl? and made her happy too. I intend to make her a proposal to–day."
"You! sir; you surely don't mean what you say!"
"But I do, though; I was never more in earnest in my life. But, eh, George! what is the matter? you change colour. You don't want her yourself? You know you can't marry her and Miss Falkner too."
"I marry Miss Falkner? Never; I would sooner be wedded to—"
"Hold! my boy; I know the workings of that wayward heart of yours, better than you think; and, therefore, let us understand each other; at any rate, let me be clearly understood, when I say, that unless you make up your mind to marry Helen Willoughby, I shall."
"But, my dear Sir Horace, though I greatly admire and esteem her far beyond any woman I ever saw. Yet I am,——" and he paused.
"You are what? Shall I tell you? You are so very fastidious, that you are refining away your happiness, like anything but a sensible man. You don't expect perfection, do you? The long and the short of the matter, is this: in your haste to answer my letter from the Downs, you sent me, by mistake, a confidential epistle, which you had intended for some intimate friend. Not having any signature, I went on reading it, nor till you adverted to my arrival off Deal, was I aware who was the writer. It was a lucky contre temps, it gave me a better insight into your views and character, than years of common intercourse could have done. I admire your principles, though I think you carry them a little too far. Now don't blame me, as I again repeat, you omitted your name at the end. So no more nonsense, my lad; 'screw up your courage to the sticking point,' and go, and propose for the girl at once. You must do it, I tell you, or I disinherit you, and give her every penny; and, as I before said, myself into the bargain. But I am off to Sherman's and thence, to Miss Willoughby, where I shall expect you in an hour, so you had best be on the alert. You will not be the first young man who has been outwitted by an old one, so mind." Saying this, he left his young relative, who was not, however, very tardy in following advice so consonant to his own wishes.
It may be thought George Mortimer was too particular, but be it remembered, it was a most honorable feeling that led to his deliberation; viz., the firm resolve not to win Helen's, affections, and then leave her. No, he nobly resolved first to learn the state of his own feelings; and well would it be if many others would act equally generous. But no! however men decry beauty, they are all its slaves, and it ever wins a willing homage from them. They are won by the attractions of a pretty face, and are in consequence, most particular in their attentions to its possessor; who is thus singled out, and in all probability, is subject to the jokes of her friends till from so constantly hearing, she is beloved, she believes it to be so, nor awakes from her dream, till she sees herself supplanted by a newer or prettier face. This is a crying evil: a bad state of things; and in regretting it, we must not lay the blame wholly on the opposite sex. There is doubtless too much credulity in the ladies, but this credulity would be greatly diminished, were they more frequently met and treated as rational beings, and they would much sooner become so: for they would have an object in it. How much would the state of society be improved, could there be a little reform on the side of each sex. Let the man, as the superior, commence; he will find his young female friends, beings capable of more than the small talk, with which they are too generally amused; and I think they will soon be better prepared for sensible conversation; and then let the ladies on their part be a little more sceptical in believing the flattery and adulation of the men, and not fancy every gentleman, who is friendly and attentive in perhaps merely a general way, in love with her. As in everything else, there are exceptions, here I only speak of generalities, and I trust not with acerbity. A very little of mutual effort, would bring about a great improvement in these matters. The young have great influence on the young, particularly in the formation of character, and well for those who exercise it beneficially.
When Sir Horace Mortimer went into the cottage, he had hardly shaken hands than he asked Helen her mother's maiden name.
"Brereton," she replied.
"Brereton?" said he "not Anna Brereton, for she married a Lieutenant Bateson; am I wrong then, after all?"
"Papa changed his name," said Helen, "on receiving some, property, which we afterwards found he had no claim to."
"Then, my beloved girl, in me you behold your uncle William. You have heard your mother speak of me."
"Oh, yes, frequently! she always said, had you been at home, you would have brought about a reconciliation with grand–papa."
"Do you ever see or hear of your Aunt Elinor; she was engaged when I went away, to a Mr. Selwyn, and it was thought to be a good match."
Helen told him she had received two letters from Mrs. Selwyn.
"Which two letters I must see, for I suspect she has slighted you. As to you, my dear Mrs. Cameron, what can I ever say to you and your worthy brother, or the kind Mrs. Sherman, I meant to have had the Doctor with me; but just as we were leaving his door, he was called away to somebody taken suddenly ill. Helen, there is your mother's portrait, which was taken for me, but I sailed before it was completed. I gave the order myself and a pattern; Sherman received it last night, and this led to my discovering you. Though I was much struck when I first saw you, by your strong likeness, to your mother, I never expected, to see any of you."
"But why, dearest uncle have we heard, nothing of you for so long a time?"
"That my child is a long story, which time will not allow me to go into now: you shall have it some of these days; as I see George coming, whom I desired to follow me here, as I recommended him to consult you about his proposing to Miss Falkner."
"Me!" said Helen, "consult me?" and she colored deeply.
"Why not, you are second or third cousins; and he has a great opinion of your judgement."
"Well sir," said the Baronet to Mr. Mortimer, as he entered, "the hour has not yet expired: however you have given me time to tell Helen, how nearly she and I are related, for her mother was my own sister!"
"Is it possible!" cried the astonished George.
"Yes, and I told her you were coming to consult her upon several matters." As he spoke this, he stole his hat and slipped off giving a significant look at Mrs. Cameron, who followed the old gentleman to the garden, and there learnt what he had gleaned from George Mortimer's letter, to Mr. Emmerson, viz., that he was much attached to Helen—and added he had no doubt but they should soon have a job for Mr. Montgomery, to marry them.
"At any rate we must have him here."
The remainder of my tale, is soon told, viz.: that Helen and Mortimer, were united, and Mrs. Falkner, insisted on removing to a place where she would be more likely to settle her girls. Sir Horace bought the villa which still retained its name.
IDLE WORDS.
"My God!" the beauty oft exclaimed,
In deep impassioned tone;
But not in humble prayer, she named
The High and Holy One;
'Twas not upon the bended knee,
With soul upraised to Heaven,
Pleading with heartfelt agony,
That she might be forgiven.
'Twas not in heavenly strains
She raised, to the great Source of Good,
Her daily offering of praise,
Her song of gratitude.
But in the gay and thoughtless crowd,
And in the festive Hall,
'Midst scenes of mirth and mockery proud
She named the Lord of All.
The idlest thing that flattery knew,
The most unmeaning jest,
From her sweet lips profanely drew,
Names of the Holiest!
I thought how sweet that voice would be,
Breathing this prayer to Heaven,
"My God, I worship only thee,
Oh be my sins forgiven!"
THE MANIAC OF VICTORY.
But here comes one, that seems to out–rejoice
All the rejoicing tribe! wild is her eye,
And frantic is her air, and fanciful
Her sable suit; and round, she rapid rolls
Her greedy eyes upon the spangled street.
And drinks with greedy gaze upon the sparkling scene!
"And see!" she cries how they have graced the hour
That gave him to his grave! hail lovely lamps,
In honor of that hour a grateful land
Hath hung aloft! and sure he well deserves
The tributary splendor—for he fought
Their battles well—ah! he was valor's self—
Fierce was the look with which he faced the foe
But on his Harriet, when my hero bent it,
'Twas so benign! and beautiful he was—
And he was young; too young in years, to die!
'Twas but a little while his wing had thrown
Its guardian shadow o'er me—but 'tis gone—
Fall'n is my shield, yet see now if I weep.
A British warrior's widow should not weep—
Her hero sleeps in honor's fragrant bed—
So they all tell me, and I have nobly learned
Their gallant lesson—all my tears are gone—
Bright glory's beam has dried them every drop
No,—No,—I scorn to weep—high is mine heart!
Hot are mine eyes! there's no weak water there!
'Tis time I should have joyed—what mother would not?
To have shown him that sweet babe o'er which he wept
When last he kissed it—yes he did—he wept;
My warrior wept!—as the weak woman's tears
From off this cheek, where now I none can feel,
He kissed away—he wet it with his own;
Oh! yes 'twould—'twould have been sweet to have shown him
How his dear lovely boy had: grown, since he
Beheld it cradled, and to have bid it call him
By the sweet name that I had taught it utter
In softest tones, while he was thunder hearing,
And thunder hurling round him—for his hand
Would not be idle amid deeds of glory;
Yes glory—glory—glory is the word—
See how it glitters all along the street!—
And then she laughs, and wildly leaps along
With tresses all untied. Fair wretch—adieu:
In mercy—heaven thy shattered peace repair.
—FAWCETT.
"GOD DOETH ALL THINGS WELL."
I remember how I loved her, as a little guileless child;
I saw her in the cradle, as she looked on me, and smiled.
My cup of happiness was full; my joy, no words can tell,
And I bless the Glorious Giver, "who doeth all things well."
Months passed, that bud of promise, was unfolding every hour.
I thought that earth had never smiled upon a fairer flower.
So beautiful! it well might grace the bowers, where angels dwell,
And waft its fragrance to His throne, "who doeth all things well."
Years fled; that little sister then was dear as life to me,
And woke, in my unconscious heart a wild idolatry.
I worshipped at an earthly shrine, lured by some magic spell,
Forgetful of the praise of Him "who doeth all things well."
She was like the lovely Star, whose light around my pathway shone,
Amid this darksome vale of tears through which I journey on;
No radiance had obscured the light, which round His throne doth dwell,
And I wandered far away from Him, who "doeth all things well."
That star went down, in beauty, yet, it shineth, sweetly now,
In the bright and dazzling coronet that decks the Saviour's brow,
She bowed to that destroyer, whose shafts none may repel;
But we know, for God has told us, that "He doeth all things well."
I remember well, my sorrow, as I stood beside her bed,
And my deep and heartfelt anguish when they told me she was dead.
And, oh! that cup of bitterness—but let not this heart rebel,
God gave; he took; he can restore; "He doeth all things well."
HOW OLD ART THOU?
Count not the days that have idly flown,
The years that were vainly spent;
Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own,
When thy spirit stands before the throne
To account for the talents lent.
But number the hours redeemed from sin,
The moments employed for heaven;
Oh, few and evil thy days have been,
Thy life, a toilsome but worthless scene,
For a nobler purpose given.
Will the shade go back on thy dial plate?
Will thy sun stand still on his way?
Both hasten on, and thy spirit's fate
Rests on the point of life's little date,
Then live while 'tis called to–day.
Life's waning hours, like the Sybil's page,
As they lessen, in value rise;
Oh, then rouse thee, and live nor deem that man's age
Stands in the length of his Pilgrimage,
But in days that are truly wise.
ON TIME.
Who needs a teacher to admonish him
That flesh is grass! that earthly things, but mist!
What are our joys, but dreams? And what our hopes?
But goodly shadows in the summer cloud?
There's not a wind that blows, but bears with it
Some rainbow promise. Not a moment flies,
But puts its sickle in the fields of life,
And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares.
'Tis but as yesterday, since on those stars,
Which now I view, the Chaldean shepherd gazed,
In his mid watch observant, and disposed
The twinkling hosts, as fancy gave them shape;
Yet, in the interim, what mighty shocks
Have buffeted mankind; whole nations razed,
Cities made desolate; the polished sunk
To barbarism, and once barbaric states,
Swaying the wand of science and of arts.
Illustrious deeds and memorable names,
Blotted from record, and upon the tongues
Of gray tradition, voluble no more.
Where are the heroes of the ages past,—
Where the brave chieftans; where the mighty ones
Who flourished in the infancy of days?
Ah to the grave gone down! On their fallen fame
Exultant, mocking, at the pride of man,
Sits grim Forgetfulness. The warrior's arm
Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame,
Hushed is the stormy voice, and quenched the blaze
Of his red eye–ball.
Yesterday, his name
Was mighty on the earth; to–day,—'tis what?
The meteor of the night of distant years,
That flashed unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld,
Musing, at midnight, upon prophecies,
Who at her only lattice, saw the gleam
Point to the mist–poised shroud, then quietly
Closed her pale lips, and locked the secret up,
Safe in the charnel's treasure.
Oh! how weak
Is mortal man! how, trifling! how confined
His scope of vision! Puffed with confidence
His phrase grows big with immortality;
And he, poor insect of a summer's day,
Dreams of eternal honours to his name,
Of endless glory and perennial bays,
He idly reasons of eternity.
As of the train of ages; when, alas!
Ten thousand thousand of his centuries
Are in comparison, a little point,
Too trivial for account.
Oh it is strange;
'Tis very strange to mark men's fallacies.
Behold him proudly view some pompous pile,
Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies,
And smile, and say, my name shall live with this,
Till time shall be no more; while at his feet,
Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust
Of the fallen fabric of the other day,
Preaches the solemn lesson.—He should know
That time must conquer; that the loudest blast
That ever filled renown's obstreperous trump,
Fades in the lap of ages, and expires.
Who lies, inhumed, in the terrific gloom
Of the gigantic pyramid? Or who
Reared its huge wall? Oblivion laughs, and says,
The prey is mine. They sleep, and never more
Their names shall strike upon the ear of man,
Or memory burst its fetters.
Where is Rome?
She lives but in the tale of other times;
Her proud pavilions, are the hermits' home,
And her long colonades, her public walks,
Now faintly echo to the pilgrims' feet,
Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace
Through the rank moss revealed, her honoured dust.
But not to Rome, alone, has fate confined
The doom of ruin; cities numberless.
Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy,
And rich Phoenicia; they are blotted out
Half razed,—from memory razed; and their very name
And being, in dispute.
—WHITE
THE YOUNG MAN'S PRAYER.
One stood upon the threshold of his life;
A life all bright with promise,—and he prayed,
"Father of Heaven! this beautious world of thine,
Is trod in sorrow by my race." The shade
Of sin and grief darken the sunshine, Thou
Around us with a lavish hand, hast spread.
Man only walks this breathing glowing earth,
With spirit crushed,—with bowed and stricken head.
I ask not, Father, why these things be so,
I only ask, that thou will make of me
A messenger of joy, to lift the woe
From hearts that mourn, and lead them up to Thee.