Lines, Written on the Year 1852.
Weary and sad I sit alone,
The storm-god whistles shrill and high,
And piles of sombre clouds are thrown
O'er the blue curtains of the sky.Mournful I sit, for one by one
Time's golden sands are ebbing fast;
Whispering in low sepulchral tones,
The next, perchance, may be the last.'Tis midnight's deep and solemn hour,
When visionary forms appear,
And shed their strange, mysterious power
O'er the departure of the year.The charnel house is opened wide,
And thither's borne with brief adieu,
And slumbering eyes laid beside
Eighteen hundred fifty-two.Now memory wakes her silent string,
And holds her umpire in the brain;
And brings as she alone can bring,
The image of the past again.Her golden key, with using bright,
Unlocks the chambers of the soul,
And holds to reason's steady light
The secret records of her scroll.Back, back she sails, down time's dark stream,
To childhood's bright and sunny hours;
And paints again her fairy dream,
Her sports, her fancies, and her flowers.Touched by her wand, the sleeping dead
Spring up to active life again:
And in the busy pathway tread,
Mingling in our joy and pain.She points where many a hope sprang bright,
And plum'd a while her pinions gay:
Then sank in disappointment's night,
And each fair promise died away.And as I scan her records of the past,
And in succession all their deeds appear,
There's none o'er which so deep a shade is cast
As thine, thou just expiring year.Thy spring was green, and bright, and gay,
And bloom'd as fair as Eden's bow'rs.
But mil-dew in her sunbeams lay,
And scorpions lurk'd among the flowers.For when all perfumed seemed thy breath,
And all thy aspect sweet and mild,
It brought contagion, blight and death,
And from us bore a lovely child,Then Summer came, with ardent glow,--
With burning guns and sultry skies,
Her mantle over Spring to throw,--
Of richer tints and deeper dyes.Then often, with her fairy train,
Came gnawing Grief and wasting Care,
Sickness, Anxiety and Pain,
Mingling in sad confusion there,Then Autumn came, with sober mien,
For summer days are always brief;--
And in her pathway soon were seen
The wither'd flow'r, the yellow leaf.But ere her hollow, chilly breeze,
Scarce spake of nature's sad decay,
Or ting'd the foliage pa the trees,
A gentle brother pass'd away.Sweet was his passage to the tomb,
Reclining on a Saviour's breast;
He heard the welcome--"Child, come home,"
And enter'd on the promis'd rest.Then Winter came, with icy breath,
His hoarse winds whistling shrill and loud,
And quickly o'er the frozen earth,
He lightly spread his snowy shroud.And sorrow, like that snowy pall,
Seemed spread o'er all my prospects bright,
And Health, and Hope, and Joy, and Peace,
Seem verging all to death's dark night.But hark! I hear a cheering voice,--
And see--those pale, cold lips still move.
Mortal, shrink not; in God rejoice!
He is Wisdom, Power and Love.'Tis he ordains the rolling year;--
Seasons and changes are his own;
Then, mortal, live in God's own fear;--
One struggle, and the year was gone,But Peace had stolen o'er my breast;
And as I gazed I shed a tear,--
And grateful for the last behest,
I bless'd the just departed year.
Consumption.
The whirlwind in its fury depopulates a district, or a small tract of land over which it passes perhaps once in a century--the earthquake rumbles through the hidden recesses of the earth, and here and there the yawning cavern swallows the ill-fated inhabitants that dwell upon its surface; the lightning's stroke blasts in a moment, and cuts the threads of life without any warning; and the steam engine destroy their thousands in a year; and the winds and the waves conspire to people the dark caves of ocean with the dead. These, and a thousand other avenues, lead to death, bearing terror in their course, and heralding their approach by terrific sounds.
But there is an insiduous foe, silent in its progress, sapping first the secret springs of life, but yet diffusing hopefulness, ever whispering in syren voice, of coming health and happiness, often adding a deeper crimson to the cheek and a brighter lustre to the eye.
It feeds alike on all; the infant in its innocence; childhood in its playfulness; youth in its beauty; manhood in his usefulness, and old age in its decrepitude. All, all fall alike before the withering breath of consumption.
Glancing back through the long avenue of past years, many a green mound rises by the pathway over the wasted victims of this fearful disease.
First upon memory's list, comes up a smiling infant, of rare beauty and patient mien, that won our love by those little winning ways that are the prerogatives of that tender age. A slight cough and extreme weakness, were the only indications of the fearful work that was progressing within. A bright flush rested upon the lily cheek, and none who looked upon the unwonted brilliancy of those eyes ever could forget their lustre. The pure spirit seemed to look forth from their azure depths. A moan seldom escaped her lips, but she would lay quiet in her little cradle, looking out unmoved upon the business and stir of that life, upon which she had so briefly entered, but where she was to bear so small a part in its fluctuations and concerns.
Anxiously did the fond mother watch over her precious one, and endeavor by a thousand attentions, to strengthen the feeble tenure that held her to life. She was the darling, the youngest one of a numerous family, and all the purest affections of many fond hearts were offered at her shrine.
But could this bribe death? O no, the destroyer stayed not in his course, but drew stealthily along, and aimed his dart secretly but surely, at his victim.
It was a chilly day in early spring; vegetation was just arousing from winter's sleep, and the spring blossoms were just beginning to peep from their casing of green, when this little bud of beauty perished from earth. She lay in the cradle usually, because it wearied her to be held in the lap.
It was noon, when the mother bent over her to administer some nourishment, and thought she perceived a change upon her countenance. The same glad smile rested upon her features, but it was more heavenly in its expression. She seated herself by the cradle, and raised her affectionately in her arms, saying as she did so,
"My dear child, I shall not lay you down again till you look better."
She looked at her a few moments, her blue orbs were turned to heaven, and by their earnest gaze seemed penetrating the glories of the upper world.
There was soon an effort to vomit, succeeded by the fearful death rattle that comes but once in human life. It was the struggle that must come to all, sooner or later. The angel of death was leading this feeble infant through the valley of the shadow of death, by a gentle hand; one little struggle, one gentle sigh, one little quiver of the lip, and the sinless spirit had departed ere the father and brothers, who had been hastily summoned, reached her side.
Beautiful beyond description was the touch of death as it lingered upon that marble brow, and rested upon the beautifully chiselled features of the dear babe.
She was arrayed in a simple white robe, and laid into her cradle, while a sorrowing angel hovered over the household. An absent son returned who had been teaching several miles distant, and among other gifts were some for the little one, but those little eyes were closed, and those little hands that used to be raised with so much fondness, were now stiff and cold in death; but how lovely! Her grave was made in the headland of the garden; a tall lilac stood upon one side of it, and a fragrant rose bush stood upon the other No stone marked the spot, but will she be forgotten on the morning of the resurrection?
Years passed on, many silent years, for we heard no sounds to tell us that time was threading the mazy thoroughfares of human life, stealing noiselessly through our dwellings, and pressing his way with us to the ocean of eternity, hastening on to the period when he shall come to an end, and the great angel shall swear there shall be time no longer. But so it was; years had been borne away by his rapid flight, and laid side by side with those that passed before the flood, and change had come.
Many voices that lisped their matin and their vesper hymns by one hearth stone, were now scattered far and wide, and other homes had sprung up, and the children had become parents, and new duties devolved upon them. Some had passed the meridian of life, the sun of some had reached their noon, while others were climbing up the eastern summit. But as yet death had spared that numerous, household; but now he was watching for his prey. A son who had reached the meridian of life, with fair prospects and an unblemished reputation, was selected.
He had consecrated himself to God, had put on Christ by baptism, and well did he adorn his profession, living a consistent Christian life. But death marked him for his victim.
It were needless now to tell of all the secret underminings of life's hidden springs. He was cheerfully, hopefully looking forward to a long life of usefulness, and striving to attain to greater proficiency in his profession, for he was a physician. But the strength of manhood, integrity of principle, nor Christian virtue could shield him from the stealthy foe that was infusing its poison through the secret avenues of life.
Strength declined, the cough increased, night sweats came on, and one occupation after another had to be relinquished, till he was a confirmed invalid, and when he became next convinced that he must die, the business of his remaining time upon earth was to make preparation for that event.
His countenance ever wore a smile, and he conversed cheerfully with his friends.
He sold his place, which was one he had desired for many years, and which he had recently purchased, anticipating a long life of usefulness in the bosom of his family, which consisted of his wife and one son. But he cheerfully resigned it, and settled all his business as far as was in his power, made the best possible provision for his wife and son, and retired with them to her paternal home to prepare the inner man for the great change that was before him.
His mind was relieved from earthly cares, every thing being arranged as he desired, and he used to say,
"I have 'set my house in order,' and have nothing to do but die."
The things of eternity occupied his entire thoughts; he seldom spoke of his sufferings as being great, but expressed thankfulness that he was passing so easily away. But it appeared different to his friends that looked upon him. He could lay only upon one side for several months before he died, and he had painful ulcers upon several parts of the body, and a constant cough, with laborious breathing and profuse night sweats, accompanied by great emaciation. These were the most prominent features in the fearful disease.
But he would allow no one to remain with him during the night, affirming it was unnecessary for any one to be disturbed, thus spending his restless, weary nights in communion with his Saviour and his God.
He made all the arrangements for his funeral, telling his friends not to weep for him. He hoped as his usefulness on earth was so soon to end, his death might be sanctified so as to be the means of inducing his unconverted friends to seek that preparation of heart that is necessary for entrance into a better life.
He told his wife the manner in which he should probably die, and endeavored to prepare her mind for it. He had distressing turns of suffocation, so that they were obliged to open all the windows and doors for the benefit of the air, and he long expected every turn would be the last.
A few days before his death, his aged mother and a sister visited him. He conversed with them cheerfully upon the arrangements of his funeral; told them he was ready to be offered, and should meet the appointment as cheerfully as ever he met any in his life. He consulted them about the propriety of the hour of the funeral, and some other things in connection with the coming event, as he would were he making preparations for a journey. When the aged mother pressed the hand of her son for the last time on earth, she said with a smile,
"I can only wish the presence of your Saviour, to go with you, and lighten the 'dark valley of the shadow of death.'"
He looked fondly in her face, while a smile of ineffable sweetness beamed upon his countenance. "You could not wish me a better wish, mother."
"I shall soon follow you, my son; I do not think I shall live the winter out," said the mother, as she unclasped her hand from the son's, that she had taken, for the last time.
That mother's hand had been extended, to guide him through the wayward paths of childhood and youth, to strengthen and comfort him, and smooth many rough places in the pathway of manhood; but now it was withdrawn upon the brink of the grave--it could not assist, could not support him; but she committed him to that arm that is mighty to save.
It was a mild day in early autumn, when the pale messenger came to beckon him away. He had tasted of the early autumnal fruits, had drank the delicious juice from her purple grape, and watched the early symptoms of decay that were visible in some withering flower or fading leaf, and felt that "passing away" was legibly written on all earthly things. Once, and once only, he had prayed, "O, my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me, but thy will be done."
He failed fast the last few hours of his life, losing all appetite for nourishment, and having more frequent turns of suffocation, and a sister was sent for. Scarcely had she arrived, when he remarked to his wife that he felt very easy; but as it was time, he would take his medicine. He took out the quantity upon the point of his knife, and after taking it, lay back upon his pillow, apparently asleep. He started suddenly, looked wildly up, and told them he was choking to death. They raised his head, and used their accustomed means to relieve him, but all to no avail. The death dew stood in large drops upon his forehead, and the film gathered over the sparkling eye and shut out the light of earth forever. He stretched out one hand and placed it upon the head of his son, who came hurriedly to his bedside, crying out, in piteous accents,
"O, father, father," and stood sobbing beside him.
This was his only recognition of any one. But the struggle was soon over, and the spirit had burst the barriers that held it to its clay tenement and passed away to a brighter world.
His sun set at noon; but his memory has left a sweet fragrance behind it, grateful to the surviving friends, who are called upon to follow his pious example.
He was borne to the Cemetery, and buried in a spot, which he had selected a few weeks before, in company with his aged mother, by a long train of weeping friends, for he had been very dear to us, and nature would have her tribute, and it filled our hearts with sadness, when we realized that we should see that loved form on earth no more. Yet we rejoiced that he had died in the glorious hope of a blessed immortality, and that we could say, in the impressive language of the text that was chosen for his funeral sermon, "Our friend Lazarus sleepeth." Sweet be thy sleep, dear brother, during the night of death; but the morning will come--the glorious morning of the resurrection--and unlock the portals of the tomb, and the dead shall come forth, the righteous clothed in eternal youth, shall never die, the wicked sinking into the second death that has no end.
Sober autumn perfected his work of decay, and dreary winter spread his snowy shroud over the barren globe, when the aged mother laid down upon the bed of death. Her infant had passed away, in the very dawn of its existence. Her son had sunk down, while his meridian sun was shining in its noonday splendor; but she had lived till the winter of life had scattered its snows upon her head, and was now falling, like a shock of corn, fully ripe. She was ready to be bidden suddenly away, for she was ever watching for the coming of the bridegroom. Consumption had long been preying upon her form, and paving her way to the tomb; but she could look calmly upon the prospect, and contemplate the struggle of death without shrinking from it.
She had long been an humble follower of the meek and lowly Jesus, and his religion diffused its divine light over the most trifling incidents of her life. She ever looked upon the fashions of this world as passing away, and never conformed to them, or the manners of the world; but taking the holy word of God for her example, endeavored to imbibe its precepts, and practice its requirements. In profession of her faith, she united with the Congregational Church, at the early age of nineteen, and at the age of seventy-six years, could look back upon a life spent to the honor and glory of him who had redeemed her with his precious blood. She offered up her children upon the altar of her heart's purest affections, consecrating them to God, by having them publicly dedicated, thus performing what she felt to be an important duty of a Christian mother.
Many an adverse wind had she encountered--that weary voyager on life's troubled sea; but Christ had long been her pilot, and now he was about to moor her frail bark into the haven of peace, and the tumultuous waves were hushed, while the loving Saviour whispered, "Peace, be still."
She could converse but little, and was with difficulty understood; but every word breathed of faith and hope. On the afternoon before her death, she repeated these beautiful lines, and, apparently, felt their import:
"Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are,
While on his breast I lean my head,
And breathe my life out sweetly there."
She wished to have her robe and cap prepared so that she might see them before her death. She expressed anxiety for her aged companion, to whom she had been united fifty-five years, and who was dangerously sick at the time, and thought he would never recover; but would soon drop into a deep stupor, occasioned by ossification of the brain.
During the night her feet and hands grew cold, and the worn spirit seemed struggling to depart.
She would frequently arouse from her stupor, and speak a word or two to her attendants, saying to one,
"You did not expect me to be found alone now, did you?"
She repeated, "In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so I would have told you; I go to prepare a place for you."
She lingered till about ten o'clock in the fore-noon, then calling for the absent members of the family, she desired to be raised up. Her son supported her in his arms, the feeble lamp of life flickered a moment in its socket, there was a little struggle, and that pure breast lay free from the care or burden of life. Those loving eyes had looked their last upon her dear children, that stood weeping by her bedside, and the toil worn hands were laid cold and pulseless upon her peaceful bosom, and she was now at rest with her Saviour, "in the house of many mansions." Those dear hands that had been so active, administering to the necessities of her family, had now ceased their labor, and lay inactive, in their marble whiteness.
How many thoughts come surging up, from the wellspring of memory, as we looked upon her in her last repose, and glanced retrospectively upon her useful and exemplary life. Again we heard the rich instruction that had fallen from those pale lips, and a new-purpose sprung up in the heart--a new desire to be more entirely consecrated to God, that our path might be the path of the just, that "grows brighter and brighter to the perfect day."
Her coffin was carried to the bedside of her husband, who was unable to rise, and too sick to realize the extent of his sorrow, and so he looked for the last time upon the countenance of that dear wife, who had been the partaker in his joys and sorrows, through their long journey together. It was fifty-five years since their union, and now the bond was broken. One was an angel of light, the other was left to drift awhile upon the ocean of life, ere his frail bark sails over death's sluggish stream.
She, too, was conveyed to the Cemetery, and laid beside her dear son, who had been deposited there a few month's previous. And they followed her, slowly and sadly, along the same road she had passed over half a century before, when she was borne into the neighborhood, a young and joyous bride, and passed the house that was then built for the reception of the young mistress.
Here she commenced her first experience in the trials and duties of house-keeping; and here were opened the deep fountains of a mother's love. This had been for many years the theatre of her life, where she had acted a conspicuous part in its changeful drama, and where still linger many footprints time will never efface, for true it is, the influence still lives, and will be transmitted to succeeding generations. The scenes that were so familiar to her eyes, were now hid from her sight, and she rested in the Cemetery, within a few feet of the land that was once contained in their own farm.
One son, the eldest of the family, after being absent from home many years, died in a land of strangers, and little was ever known of his death or burial. The dear babe was left, far away, and the mother and son slept side by side, in the Cemetery, waiting the time when other dear friends shall come and, lay down by their sides in that quiet resting place.
The tall trees stand waving in the wind, and seem beckoning the weary ones of earth, to lay down beneath their cooling shades.
The silvery stream dances on, making sweet music in its winding course, ever murmuring a sweet requiem to the dead. Birds warble their matin songs in the branches, and the night dew water the graves with their tears, while the winds sigh over the grassy mounds; and all on earth must make their bed with them, and every step we take in the journey of life, is a step towards the tomb, whatever other duty may be performed. Solemn is the reflection that there is an open grave before every one that lives, and were we so situated that we could define our progress, and notice each day's approach to its confines, we should feel sensibly that we were hastening on to join the pale nations of the dead, and fill our respective places in the land of darkness and shadow of death.
But we will leave the dear infant, the brother, and the mother, to that rest that remains for the people of God; they have fallen victims to consumption, with the vast multitudes that have fallen a prey to the ruthless destroyer.
Memory brings up, upon her retentive tablet, the recollection of a family that fell before its withering blight, ere the elasticity of youth had passed away.
The first that died was a young wife and mother. She faded like the early spring flowers, and soon her brothers and sisters younger than she were laid by her side in the silent chambers of death, all in the vigor and beauty of youth. The rose faded suddenly upon their cheeks, and they fell before thee, thou ruthless destroyer of the generations of men.
The infant of a few days laid down its young life, and joined the multitude in the place of graves.
One young man just verging upon manhood, was cut suddenly down with but little warning. He apparently had a slow fever, and had been confined a few days at the house of a friend, but had so far recovered as to anticipate a visit to his family on horseback, as the distance was short, and the doctor had recommended that exercise. But on the appointed day, while his horse stood saddled at the door, he came in from a short walk, and asked a niece to help him off with his coat, as he wished to lay down. As she did so she perceived the blood was settled under his nails. He flung himself on the bed; concealing his hands under his back; his breathing became difficult, and death soon claimed him for his own.
Sorrow filled the afflicted household when the intelligence reached them. The father saw the messenger approaching, and informed the family the son was coming.
A younger sister and brother were lingering in the last stages of consumption. They were now filled with eager expectancy. The father soon discovered the horse, but not the rider they were expecting, and waited the issue with fearful forebodings.
Loud was the burst of grief that rung the air when the stricken family heard of the death of the absent one in so unexpected a moment; thus crushing out forever the hope that had sprung up in so many hearts of returning health and usefulness.
Upon a post mortem examination, it was discovered that the rupture of a blood vessel was the cause of his death. His lungs were found to be in a bad condition, betraying that the foe of the family had been holding secret revel there.
A day or two later, and the sable plumed angel returned again, and hovered over the gentle sister, casting his shadow upon her brow, and chilling her with his icy breath. His snowy fingers rested upon her fluttering pulses; she cast one fond gaze upon the dear brother that was soon to follow her, bade farewell to her earthly friends, and went with the angel to the spirit land.
The brother lingered till the remains of his sister were laid in the grave, then he followed her, to add another to the long row of headstones that marked the resting place of that stricken family. They sleep together, side by side, ten in number, the oldest one scarce twenty-two years old. As we stand by the spot and read the melancholy tale, we can but exclaim with Ossian, "The flower lifts its green head to the sun. Why dost thou awake me, O gale," it seems to say, "I am wet with the dews of heaven." "The time of my fading is near, and the blast that shall scatter my leaves." "To-morrow shall the traveler come; he that saw me in my glory shall come; his eye shall search the field for me but shall not find me."
A youth of great promise next presents; his mother had many years since fallen a prey to the fatal disease, and although he inherited from her the fearful malady, "the young disease that must subdue at length," had not as yet developed itself. Buoyant with hope and expectation, he was preparing to enter the gospel ministry, having consecrated himself to God and his service. He had entered the institution at North Yarmouth, and by his assiduous attention, almost finished his education. He was expecting soon to launch out upon the broad ocean of public usefulness, but his heavenly Father bid him "come up higher," and he passed on into the more expansive ocean of eternity. The seeds of an inherent disease sprung up and bore early fruit, and deposited this young man in his grave, far from the home and the friends of his childhood. The eye of the stranger rests upon it, the foot of the stranger visits it.
A younger sister too, fell by the same powerful agent far from home, and is buried in a land of strangers. A brother sleeps by his mother's side in the family burial ground.
In another family the mother was called first from a family of little children. She wept in the agonies of death, as she contemplated their bereavement. She pressed to her heart the infant of a few days, and prayed fervently to that God that heareth prayer, to be the God of her dear children, to protect them in their tender age, and lead them in the narrow way that leads to eternal life. After the sands of life had ebbed out, and her loving heart had ceased to feel, the tear-drops that had fallen for her children still lingered upon her cheeks.
A lovely daughter followed her at the early age of sixteen, another ere she reached the meridian of life, leaving seven children. Another daughter passed away just as her sun was verging toward the western hemisphere, leaving a son and daughter. The son soon followed her and was laid by the side of his mother and grandmother.
The crimson spot upon the daughter's cheek, accompanied by the hacking cough, seem to denote that the tardy messenger will soon bear another victim to the mansions of death. Another daughter too is lingering upon the confines of the grave, while the fatal seeds are taking deep root in the constitutions of two of the sons, and heralding by unmistakable evidence the approach of death.
But why particularize? Many, very many who have walked with us side by side, in the sweet associations of life, are mingled with the long train that are buried beneath the "clods of the valley," while there is a long train of living victims marching before the fearful blight to the open tomb.
No monarch sways his despotic sceptre over so numerous a population as this fell destroyer, in his unseen lurking places, "drinking up the very fountains of human life." But when will the sons of men learn to think? with all the blight of death around, cutting one down upon the right hand and another upon the left, the thoughtless crowd pass on, little seeming to heed their own mortality. They look into the open grave, or watch the passing funeral perhaps with a momentary sadness, and turns lightly again to the active concerns of life, mingling in its gaities and dissipation, dancing on to the very whirlpool that is soon to engulf their frail bark, and bear it away where hope can never come.
Happy they who receive instruction from the revelations of God's holy word, and imbibe its precepts into their heart; who, cleansed in a Saviour's blood, are made recipients of his rich grace, and are thus prepared to enter that "land where death comes not."
To Mrs. A---- B----, on the Death of Her Child.
"Are they not all ministering spirits?"
"Mother, do not weep for me,
Shining angels guide my way;
And oft they lead me back to thee,
Through realms of everlasting day.I may not burst the spirit's tie,
Or lift the dim, mysterious screen,
That hides me from thy mortal eye;
But I may visit thee unseen.Night comes not here; no evening shade
Ere gathers round the throne of God;
And when your setting sunbeams fade,
I visit then your lone abode.The twilight hour was dear to me,
With murmur'd tone of evening prayer;
When with hands clasp'd upon your knee,
And learned to lisp "Our Father" there.There I first caught the notes of praise,
Flowing from a mother's tongue.
Which through eternity shall raise
A holy, high, angelic song.And then your thoughts are all of me,
So softly nestling by your side;
I wait to hear those trembling tones,
In which you sang the day I died.Your patient watch beside my couch,
You fain my ev'ry woe beguil'd;
For anxiously, and tenderly,
You ever watch'd your dying child.But all your efforts were in vain,--
Friends or physicians could not save;
For ghastly death his mandate gave,
To lay me in the silent grave.And scarce had rosy finger'd morn
Unrolled her earliest tints of gray,
To usher in the peaceful dawn
Of that delightful Sabbath day,--When, silently, the angel came,
With upraised eye, and beck'ning hand,
And gently folding in his arms,
Bore me to the spirit land.Where sweet transporting voices stole
On my enraptur'd eye and ear,
That spoke the Sabbath of the soul.
Ceaseless as the eternal year.Here angel and arch-angel bow
In worship round the great white throne;
And ceaseless hallelujahs rise,
To the Almighty, Three and One.Each has a mission to perform,
As swift through ambient air they fly;
'Tis mine to minister to thee,
And gently woo thee to the sky.Mother, there are jewels bright
Graven on your deathless soul,
And brighter shall their radiance glow,
While everlasting ages roll.Mother, they are pure thoughts of heaven,
Murmur'd oft upon your ear,
Which God to me had kindly given,
Your solitary way to cheer.Mother, these are memories sweet,
Deeply treasur'd in your heart,
Which time, with his restless change,
May never dare to bid depart.Sometimes across your lap I lie,
And breathe that evening prayer again,
And looking in your tearful eye,
Again repeat that sweet amen.Then mother, leave your child of earth
To moulder back to kindred dust,
And trace my new and heav'nly birth,
A ransom'd spirit with the just.And weep not o'er the casket laid
Beneath this little heaped up mound.
The deathless jewel cannot fade,--
A diamond in a Saviour's crown.
An Evening in Our Village.
Why should we wander in the fields of fiction, to cull fancy's flowers to feast a morbid imagination, when there are so many thrilling incidents in the pathway of human life, calculated to awaken the most refined emotions, and stir the deepest currents of the human soul? Would the painter, as he raised his brush to give the last finishing touch to his picture, draw his colors from fancy? Would he not rather imitate the color of the natural rose, copy the forest green, the azure of the sky, or the brilliant hues of the rainbow, as it spans the heavens with its bow of promise?
Fiction may weave her intricate labyrinths and enchain the fancy by wandering in mazy circuits, and weaving her mystic web; but truth will stand in all its primitive lustre, when the foundations of this earth have passed away. Then let me record the truth in preference to fiction.
The clouds hung in heavy dense masses, during the day, while a damp chilly wind from the north-east betokened an uncomfortable winter rain. It was winter, although the bridge of ice that had been formed over the Blackstone was broken up, and floated on its surface in huge masses, as it hurried rapidly along, to empty them into the waters of the Narragansett Bay, reminding the thoughtful observer of the stream of time, bearing away its vast multitudes to the ocean of eternity.
Here, where now stands our beautiful village, a few short years since stood the dense forest--the growth of centuries. Here the rude Indian roamed, in native wildness, hunted his prey, built his council fire, or smoked his pipe of peace. Here, where now stands the temple of the living God, with its heaven directed spire, perchance smoked the blood of some poor victim, as it was offered upon the altar of savage brutality; or the rude wigwam stood.
But all these things have passed, as a tale that is told. They have floated down the current of time, even like the broken masses of ice that are borne so rapidly down our river, and have passed into the broad ocean of eternity.
On the banks of that stream, where the pale face first crossed to hold a council with his red brethren, stands a flourishing village, reared by the hand of civilization, and offering many facilities to the industry of its virtuous and well disposed inhabitants. It would be pleasant to tell a tale of the times of old, of the deeds of the days of other years, of the Indian that paddled his light canoe upon our river; but this is not the purport of the story.
It is to scan the different scenes as they lay spread out before us, upon the map of busy life. The day had closed, dark, dreary and cheerless. The rain and sleet were driven furiously before the wind, and the child of want shrank from the biting blast, as stern necessity drove him forth to meet the peltings of the winter storm.
There was a social gathering at a large, elegantly finished and furnished hall, splendidly illuminated with its brilliant gas lights, diffusing a lustre upon gorgeous trappings with which they were surmounted.
The streets resounded with the rattling wheels of omnibusses, cabs and various vehicles, as they bore the gay and fashionable part of the village to the splendid hall.
Soft music charmed the ear, and floated in sweet melody through the apartment. Beauty was there, with rosy cheek and brilliant eye. Fashion displayed her most tasteful arrangements, and each one seemed vieing with the other in elegance of costume. All looked like the enchanting scenes pictured in fairy tales, and one might almost suppose Alladin's wonderful lamp was still extant, performing its mysterious spells, and casting a supernatural lustre over the gay group that assembled, to dissipate the cheerless gloom that reigned without, by mirth and hilarity. And they joined in the mazy dance, and spent the hours of night in joyous revelry. A sumptuous entertainment was prepared, and everything provided to satisfy the votaries of pleasure.
But as the lively music sounded from that splendid hall, it stole upon the
"Cold, dull ear of death,"
for, but a few rods distant, lay a female, little passed the meridian of life (who had lived in the same village, and trod in the pathway of life with them many years), wrapped in the shroud of death, and next day to be borne away to the tomb, and shut out forever from all the scenes where she had once been an actress. But now she would look out upon the world no more. Her eyes were closed in death, and her ear heard not the wild music that was stealing through her otherwise silent chamber.
All of earth had passed from her vision. Life, with its stern, cold realities, or its light toned revelry, could awaken no response in her inanimate form.
A brother had been summoned from a distant village to attend her funeral. He had travelled, notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, and when the shades of twilight fell over the earth, he stood by that dearly loved form. Memory brought back the past. That cold, pulseless one was a child again, sporting by his side, prattling upon his knee, and winning attention by the ten thousand witcheries of childhood.
Then, with the rapidity of thought, blooming youth succeeded this age, and she stood, blushing in maiden modesty, the gay young sister of other days; and his heart was filled with sadness as he gazed upon her stiff in the icy arms of death, and felt that she could no more return his affection. He was an aged man, and knew much of the sorrow and the trials of life; he turned, with a tear in his eye, from his loved sister and passed into the street.
The storm was increasing, but he heeded not the peltings of the wintry wind, or the wild music that mingled with its mournful wail, as he passed the luxurious hall, where
"Fashion's gay tapers were lighted."
Other thoughts occupied his mind.
He soon stood by the bedside of a dear daughter, who was passing away from earth, while yet in the bloom and the beauty of youth. She was a wife, and a mother of two sweet children, whose tender age required a mother's watchfulness--a mother's care. But with childlike trust, she had given them back to that God, who had given them to her. Her trust was in him, and now she was ready to follow her dear Saviour into the cold dark grave, with the assurance that she should have a part in the first resurrection. Melancholy sounded the music from that distant ball room, as it stole upon the wings of the winter wind, into the chamber of the dying one. Her ear was listening to catch the notes of angel harps before the throne of God, and her passing spirit was attuned to their melodies. The beauties of the upper world transfixed her rapt vision, and no earthly object stood between her soul and God. And so she passed away, and left to her earthly friends but the frail casket, while the priceless jewel had soared to brighter regions, to glitter in a Saviour's crown.
The father had come just in time to take the last look of his living child, to hear her last words, to witness her last struggle, as the pure spirit departed from earth, to join her sainted mother in the spirit land. He was taking another portion from the cup of affliction, which however bitter to the taste, often sweetens the journey of human life, preparing the recipient better to perform its duties, and bear its trials.
As the stricken father retired to bed, the sound of revelry fell heavily upon an almost bursting heart.
And the dear children, could they listen to its glad strain? O, no; they had seen death cast his marble paleness upon their mother's face; had felt the icy coldness of her pulseness limbs; had called her by the endearing name of mother, and her pale lips answered not, and they had retired with eyes red with weeping; they as yet knew nothing of the extent of their bereavement. The husband, too, had lost the companion of his youth, the mother of his children, and although he possessed like precious faith with her, and kissed the rod with pious resignation; still they were a grief-stricken household, and presented a striking contrast to the gay group that were dancing thoughtlessly away the hours of that solemn night, while the recording angel was taking note of all that was passing beneath his all-seeing eye, in that book that shall be opened when we shall all stand before God, to be judged according to the deeds done in the body.
The music floated on and reached the ear of a poor maniac as he sat by his comfortable fire, listening to the monotonous roar of the distant water fall, and the howling of the wintry winds, as it came surging on, waving the leafless tree and pelting the falling rain against the windows.
"Hark!" said he, springing up, "the bees are swarming; I shall be stung to death," and out he rushed, with a brighter fire in his eye and a more intense one in his brain. Descending the hill, he watched the sylph like forms as they floated on in the mazy dance, declaring the bees were in terrible commotion, and he should be stung to death. With difficulty he was prevailed upon to return to his house, and ever and anon, as the sound of the music reached his ear, he would start and affirm that the bees surely were swarming.
Such is man, the noblest work of God, when bereft of reason to guide and direct him.
Still farther on were young parents keeping anxious watch over a sick infant, whose feeble thread of life seemed trembling upon a very hair. The doctor had said there was no hope; kind, sympathizing friends, as they looked on the sufferings of the dear babe with tearful eyes, had said, there is no hope; and the agonized hearts of the parents echoed back, no hope. But still they did hope. The breath came heavily from the heaving chest, and the blue orbs looked dimly from their half closed lids, while the little sufferer, with burning hand and parched lip, seemed struggling for that life that it had enjoyed but for so brief a space. The parents were young in years and unacquainted with sorrow, and very dear to their loving hearts was the sick infant. They felt they could not part with the dear one. Carefully they nursed the flickering lamp of life: through that dreary winter night, lest some ruder blast should extinguish it forever. Wished they to join the thoughtless throng in the tinselled hall of fashion? O, no, they had rather count the fluttering pulses of their dear boy, cool his fevered brow, and administer the reviving cordial through the weary hours of the night, than to listen to sweetest strains of Orpheus' harp, or thread the winding mazes of the giddy dance.
And so with them the night wore away, the long dark night of suffering to the babe, and watchful anxiety to the parents. But the angel of death that had hovered so long over the darling babe, unfurled his sable pinions and flew away in search of another victim, and he is spared yet a little longer.
Pursuing the way a little farther in another direction, you find another weary watcher by the midnight lamp. An aged woman, who has lived her three score years and ten, sits bolstered up in her chair, toiling for her little remaining sum of existence, which nature seems unwilling to relinquish, although subsisting now upon borrowed time. From an adjoining room comes a frequent hollow cough, and the sunken eye and emaciated frame of the poor girl betray the secret foe, lurking in the hidden springs of life.
Death is no stranger beneath this roof. He has borne away one after another from this numerous household, and laid them down side by side in the silent grave. And now his darts seem aimed at the two only ones of that household, the mother and her daughter. The sons are married and have families of their own, but the mother and this daughter live alone in the home of her youth, the very place, perchance, where she was brought a gay and expecting bride by that husband she is expecting now to follow so soon to the spirit world. Could the pleasures or the gaities of the world cast one cheering beam upon their lonely home? O, no, the religion of Jesus alone can illuminate their benighted hearts, and in "this light they see light," and feel prepared to go when the summons comes.
Following the street, you pass the door of a daughter who is weeping for the recent loss of a mother, who passes suddenly away without a moment's warning, and a widow who mourns a husband, cut off by lingering disease.
A few steps and we reach a cottage, where other parents were watching over a little son of five years, who is wasting away with consumption. His attenuated limbs bear his little frame but feebly, and he often talks of death, for he has recently seen a little sister younger than himself fall a prey to the fearful malady. A burning fever is raging in his veins, and lights up his eye with unwonted brilliancy, as he tossed restlessly from side to side upon his pillow. His silken hair of beautiful brown is brushed smoothly back from his high, marble forehead, while gentle hands apply the cooling bath, to still if possible, its tumultuous throbbings, and he murmurs of sweet sister and of heaven. Soft words of love are whispered in his ear, and he is told of the Lamb of God that bids little children to come unto him.
And thought not these weary watchers of that lonely night, of the revellers in that distant hall? Methinks their hearts went up in fervent prayer to God that he would spare them yet a little longer, for there were immortal souls there, for whom he labored and prayed, who entered the sanctuary and heard the word of God as it fell from his lips, Sabbath after Sabbath, and he felt sensibly that the midnight revel would not prepare the heart to seek God, or make the necessary preparation for death. Towards morning the eyes of the little sufferer closed in uneasy slumber, and the parents too, were refreshed by a short interval of sleep.
Passing yet in another direction was a tall youth, with a subdued expression of countenance, hurrying on, in spite of wind and rain, to the doctor's office, to procure assistance for a sick mother, who was tossing in all the agony of brain fever. The doctor had been called away to visit a little child that had a sudden attack of the croup, that fearful disease that bears so many children to the tomb. He returned again with a sorrowing heart. Heeded he the sweet tones of music that fell upon his youthful ear? wished he to join the gay group as they flitted before the brilliantly lighted, window, and the fairy forms of the fashionable, and the pleasure-seeking met his eye? O, no; there was sorrow in his young heart, and sorrow brooded over the household. Towards midnight the doctor came, and a young daughter, younger than many who graced the festive ball, following his directions, alleviated the sufferings of a sick mother, and wore the weary night away in anxious watchings.
Not till another day dawned, did the rumbling of the carriages cease, that were conveying home the sons and daughters of dissipation. And thus passed the night, leaving no trace upon earth, for the waves of time have obliterated all its footprints. But its record is on high, and it will never be forgotten by the Eternal One, whose eye slumbereth not.
Such is human life, and such is the race of man. Although we are all bound together by one common brotherhood, the song of the gay is ever the funeral dirge to the sorrowing.
Perchance that night might have disclosed still darker pictures in the hidden recesses of our village, for, oh, there are dens of foul pollution, that send their infectious taint over the pure air of our community, calling the blush of shame to the cheek of conscious virtue, and creating an ardent desire in the breast of the philanthropist, to go forth and labor in the vineyard of the Lord, that these foul spots may be washed in his precious blood, and made clean.
O, could all the misery that was extant in the village have been presented to the thoughtless revellers, could they have danced on? Would not the tear of sympathy have moistened the cheek, and the still small voice whispered of a solemn time that must come to them? O, it is wise to receive the admonition, "Be ye also ready, for in such an hour as ye think not, the Son of Man cometh."
Faint, indeed, are the delineations from Memory's tablet, upon this little map, but enough, perchance, to lead the contemplative mind to reflect upon the vicissitudes and changes of its little day, and teach us to prepare for a better world, "where change comes not."