Flowers.
Flowers are emblems of our youth,
Emblems of innocence and truth,
For though their freshness must decay,
Their fragrance will not pass away.
So, youthful beauty soon must fail;
The eye grow dim, the cheek grow pale;
The brow that now is pure and fair,
May soon be shaded o'er by care.But if within the trusting heart
Goodness and innocence have part;
If we God's holy law fulfil,
And bow submissive to his will,
Then shall the heart, like some sweet flow'r,
That's lightly pluck'd from beauty's bow'r,
And rudely crush'd beneath the feet,
Yield fragrance far more pure and sweet
Than when in sunshine and the dew,
A fair and beauteous flow'r it grew,
The Old Castle.
In olden times, so legends tell,
In lordly castle there did dwell
A lady fair, of noble birth,
Of beauty rare and matchless worth.And she was flattered and caressed,--
The poor her generous bounty blessed;
Princes and lords, a gorgeous crowd,
Before her peerless beauty bow'd.Lady and courtiers passed away,
This ivyed tower, these ruins gray
Are all that's left to tell the story,
Of grandeur, pomp, and former glory.Thus, Time moves on, with ceaseless tread,
Still adding to the silent dead;
Nor power, nor splendor can withstand
The touch of its effacing hand.
The Myrtle.
This Myrtle wreath will never fade,
In sunshine or in gloom,
When wintry storms sweep o'er the glade,
Its flow'rs will brighter bloom,
So Virtue's lamp will brighter be,
'Mid storms of dark adversity.
Death.
Thou pale visitant of the spirit land, why dost thou hover ever round the shades of time, and ever ply thy bark on yonder sluggish stream, whose oozy waters bear thee on its bosom? Why dost thou ever bear away a victim that returns not with thee? As we look for thy returning bark "through the vista, long and dark it comes with thee alone." Thou mysterious messenger, where dost bear those whom thou dost convey away?--but hark! that voice! husky, hollow, but impressive, the spirit shall return unto God who gave it. But now I see thee more distinctly, thou grisly monster; I know thy form, thou conqueror of conquerors, and thou king of kings. But yesterday I saw a smiling infant in its fond mother's arms; a thousand dimpling smiles played around its beautiful features, and its eyes beamed with brilliancy; thou didst approach, and lay thy icy hand upon its fluttering pulses, and all was still. The parted lips had closed with the passing smile yet upon them, the eye had ceased to roll, that little form was cold and motionless as the clods of the valley, life had ebbed away, the mysterious link that bound the soul to the body was broken; the spirit had departed; many witnessed the expiring struggle, but none saw the spirit as it took its flight from its clay tenement; yet it had gone with thee over yon dark stream.
Again I entered the chamber where a father lay, upon whom a numerous family were dependant. Thou wast there; thy icy breath was upon him; thy agonizing throes were depicted on his pallid countenance; his expansive chest heaved laboriously; his shortening breath came up convulsively, and his eyes seemed starting from their sockets. He had been called suddenly--unexpectedly to meet thee. A tearful wife and children gathered around the bed, formed an interesting group, and strove in vain to allay the agony of the husband and father. But a sterner blow, and that wife was a widow, those children fatherless. Thou hadst taken that father to "that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler e'er returns." That weeping wife and those children "were cast abandoned on the world's wide stage, doomed in scanty poverty to roam." But still I followed thee, thou fell destroyer of the human race, determined to portray thy doings.
A gentle mother next received thy visitation, falling a prey to thy relentless hand. Five darling children shared her maternal love, as day by day she ministered to their necessities. The rose had long since faded from her cheek; an unwonted lustre lit up her eye, and her step became more and more feeble, 'till thou didst summon her away, leaving a void in the hearts of those children that can never be filled. Sad, sickening was the sight as I followed in thy train, and saw father, mother, sister, brother, and all the endearing relations of life, fall before thy sway. But thou art coeval with the race; there lives not a man who will not bow before thy sceptre; all must drink from thy cup. The crowned monarch and the beggar sleep side by side, and their mingled dust is the sport of the winds of the heavens. Then may we
"So live, that when our summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chambers in the silent halls of death,
We go not like the quarry slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon; but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach our graves
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."
The Home of Childhood.
Home of my childhood, once again,
With fond delight, I turn to thee;
Here, in this green and silent glen,
I'll sit beneath the o'ershadowing tree;
While memory, with its magic power,
Summons to my enraptured mind,
Scenes, which, till this mysterious hour,
Had been to Lethean waves consign'd.Sweet visions rise before my gaze,
All dim and meagre, like ruins old;
Which seen beneath the moon's pale rays,
Scarce can their real form be told.
Yet, beautiful and fair they seem,--
Those shadowy visions of the past;
And to my soul they bring a dream
Of happines, too bright to last.Soft eyes are gazing on my own,--
Sweet voices fall upon my ear,--
I feel that I am not alone,
For spirits of the loved are near;
And joyfully my soul goes forth,
Mingling with theirs in blissful love,
Linked in the bonds of union sweet--
Through the past scenes of life we rove.And once again, they spring to life,--
The hopes and joys of other years;
Fresh as before the world's rude strife
Had changed their fount to bitter tears,
Smiles, looks and words that long had been
Erased from memory's tablet leaves,
Come thronging o'er my soul again,
Bright as the spell which Fancy weaves.Oh, could the dream forever last,--
Could those loved forms forever stay;
But no, e'en now the visions past,--
Like rainbow hues they fade away.
And I am left to muse alone,
As one by one, those forms depart:
The chill wind blows with hollow moan,
And sadness broodeth o'er my heart.Well, I must nerve my spirit up,
To meet life's trials, stern and dark;
I'll shrink not from the bitter cup,
For fear, though storms assail my bark.
But I will trust in him, whose power
Curbs the proud billows in their might,
Whose presence cheers the darkest hour,
And guides the wanderer's bark aright.
The Happy Land.
There is a land beyond the sky,
Where all is fair and bright,
No tear there dims the sparkling eye,
No cloud obscures the light.There, in those bright elysian fields,
Bloom flow'rs that never fade;
And seraphs tune their golden harps,
In spotless robes arrayed.
Devotion.
Tempted, my cottage home to leave,
I wandered forth one dewy eve,
When all was hushed and still;
Save the low music of the breeze,
That murmur'd through the leafy trees,
And gushing of the rill.An unfrequented path I took,
That led to a sequester'd nook--
That 'neath the moon's pale beams,
Seemed like some spirit-haunted dell,
Where those light, airy phantoms dwell,
That visit us in dreams.The sweet flowers, bathed in pearly dew,
Half veil'd their glowing charms from view
And drooped their lowly heads;
While out, upon the evening air,
A grateful incense, rich and rare,
Stole up from their low beds.The green trees seemed to tower on high,
And mingle with the deep blue sky;
While in the moon's soft light,
The noiseless shadows came and went,
Waver'd and glanced, and graceful bent,
Like champions in fight.There was a little, fragrant bower,
That nature, in some sportive hour,
Had gracefully arrayed;
And overgrown with creeping vines,
Their tendrils with the green bows twined,
Formed an imperious shade.As near this fairy bower I drew,
An object met my startled view,
Entrancing all my powers;
A fair young girl was kneeling there,
Her white hands clasped in fervent prayer,--
Her dark hair wreathed with flowers.Meekly her eyes to heav'n were turned,
While in her trusting heart there burned
The fire of holy love;
So fair, so heavenly, looked her face,
Less seemed she one of mortal race,
Than angel from above.It was a lovely, starry night,
And softly in the silver light,
Did flickering shadows fall;
And bright the flowers that blossomed there;
But the incense of that maiden's prayer,
Was purer, far, than all.The sweetest sight below the skies,--
And sweetest in holy angels' eyes,
Is the young heart, when given,
With all its hopes and fears,--
Its sunny smiles and gushing tears,
An offering unto Heaven.
To a Friend
Oh, wherefore ask a song of me;
Romance within my heart is dead;
Hush'd is my spirit's minstrelsy,
Youth's golden visions all have fled.Life's rainbow hues have pass'd away,
With clearer vision now I see;
And I more deeply feel each day,
That life's a stern reality.It is no dream, or fairy tale,
Or minstrel's strain of music rare;
But ever foremost in its train,
Walk duty stern, and weary care.We may not linger by the way,
To pluck the lily or the rose,
Too soon will pass the summer day,
And evening shadows round us close.Yet there's within each heart a chord
That vibrates with a music tone;
Duty performed brings its reward,
We live not for ourselves alone.Life has a higher, nobler aim,
A destiny beyond earth's toys;
A richer heritage we claim,
A title to celestial joys.Then upward look, with firm resolve,
Thy spirit's precious plume to rise;
What though thine earthly house dissolve;
Thou hast a mansion in the skies.
Lines, Written upon the Death of Two Sisters.
What heav'nly music greets mine ear!
What seraph's voice is that I hear,
Breathing in numbers soft and low?
Methinks th' angelic strains I know.Dearest sister, come away,
There's nought on earth that's worth thy stay;
Then, sister, linger not, but haste
The joys of paradise to taste.The songs of praise we utter here,
Have ne'er been heard by mortal ear;
Nor mortal eye hath ever seen
"The fields array'd in living green."The gates of precious stone unfold,
The streets are paved with shining gold;
Pure crystal streams of water flow,
And trees of fadeless verdure grow.There is no sighing here, nor tears,
No guilty thoughts, no doubts or fears;
But love is pure and never dies,
And songs of endless praise arise.Then sister, linger not, but come,
Angels await to guard thee home;
Here, in the mansions of the blest,
Here shall thy weary soul find rest.Sister, I come, thy cheering voice
Bids my whole heart and soul rejoice;
Fain would my ling'ring spirit rise
On wings of Faith beyond the skies.I linger but a little space,
To gaze upon my husband's face;
My gentle infant's lips to press,
And fold my first born to my breast.My mother's voice once more to hear,--
Once more to see a brother dear,
A sister's parting kiss receive,--
Then, dearest sister, I will leave.E'en now my clouded senses feel
A heav'nly transport o'er them steal;
My sight grows dim, thick comes my breath;
Sister, I come, for this is death.
To I----.
My long neglected lyre I'll take,
And seek its echoes to awake;
But it hath lain untuned so long,
Scarce can I hope to frame a song.Yet, when I sweep the trembling strings,
A low sad wail of music rings;
Encouraged by that gentle strain,
I'll touch the silken cords again.I wish thee happiness, my friend,--
Such as on virtue doth attend;
And pray that grief's dark funeral pall
May ne'er upon thy young heart fall.O may an interest in Christ's blood,--
Thy soul, bathed in that crimson flood,
Shall be from guilt's dark stain set free,
Thy sins no more imputed thee.I wish a friend, faithful and kind,
Noble, sincere, pure and refined,
Whose sympathy with thine shall blend,
And to life's duties sweetness lend.Loving and loved, thy bark shall glide
Smoothly along life's rapid tide,
Until 'tis launched upon the sea
Of infinite eternity.
Lines, Written for a Friend upon the 20th Anniversary of Her Birthday.
Would some kind Muse my heart inspire,
With the poetic heaven-born fire,
That did in olden times belong
To gifted bards, of ancient song.Then could I wake a thrilling strain
That would with mystic power enchain,
But now, alas! my untaught lyre
Can to no lofty themes aspire.How many scenes of joy and grief,
Trac'd o'er life's ever-varying leaf,
Have pass'd since first thy mother smiled
On thee, a little helpless child.Though few thy years on earth have been,
In the past view, dark clouds are seen;
The cup prepared for thee to drain,
Has not been all unmix'd with pain,The future now before thee lies,
Still unreveal'd to human eyes;
But to imagination's view,
Bright visions gleam the vista through.The future, who would dare to look
Into that still unopened book?
What mortal would presume to read
The hidden mysteries there decreed.Oh, Ellen, let it be thy prayer,
What e'er of ill is written there,
That thou may'st ever bear thy part,
With humble and submissive heart.But if its pages should unfold
Thy destiny, inscribed in gold,
If radiant joy, with pinions bright,
Should round thy path shed rosy light,Oh, then forget not those whom God
Has chasten'd with a heavy rod,
Let the poor stricken mourner find
In thee, a friend sincere and kind.And when old Time, with sly embrace,
Steals the bright rose-tint from thy face,
Still keep thy heart in love and truth,
Guileless as in thy early youth.As you review each closing year,
May no grim phantoms there appear
Casting dark shadows in the scene,
Thy view and happiness between.But in their stead may sweet content,
A consciousness of life well spent,--
A trusting heart to thee be given,
And last of all a crown in heav'n.
Human Thought
Oh, how deep and unfathomable is human thought. It descends into the lowest depths of the ocean, and into the mines, caverns and inmost recesses of the earth, or is borne aloft upon the soaring pinions of imagination, to the vaulted, star-lit sky above our heads; we can trace the azure canopy, and wander from star to star, or contemplate the silvery moon, in all her full-orbed glory, or trace the golden sun, as he runs his journey through the heavens, and hides behind the crimson curtains of the west, in majestic splendor. And though the body be confined to the restless, feverish couch of pain, thought flies untrammelled through the circuit of the globe, far--far to the frigid regions of the north, where almost eternal winter reigns, and we view the hardy inhabitant of that sterile clime, wrapped in his furs, drawn by the swift-footed reindeer, across the barren glebe.
But, sudden as the lightning's flash, thought wings us across intervening space, to the sultry, arid plains of India, where seated upon the huge elephant, the inhabitants screen themselves from the burning rays of the vertical sun, and all nature seems fainting beneath the oppressive heat; there the deluded mother tosses her struggling infant into the serpentine Granges, and bowing before her idol, thinks she has appeased her God; we at a glance visit Afric's billowy strand, her vast sandy deserts, spotted here and there with an oasis, where the toil-worn traveller stops to refresh himself; and then turning to America--our own happy America, the land of freedom, we there see thousands of Afric's sable sons groaning beneath the galling bondage of slavery.
But after thought thus visits every portion of the globe, and sits down to contemplate what is the conclusion of the whole matter, is not "passing away" legibly written upon the whole earth, and upon each succeeding generation of man, for "one generation passeth away and another generation cometh," and death conquers all. Happy are they, whose thoughts, enriched by the promises of the gospel, "can soar beyond the narrow bounds of time, and fix their hopes of happiness on heaven."
Lines, Written on the Departure of a Brother.
Dear brother, is it even so?
And are we doomed to part?--
We who have been through weal and woe
United, hand and heart.Ah, would that I could share thy fate,
Upon Life's stormy sea;
I'd deem no sacrifice too great,
That I might make for thee.But no, it may not--cannot be,--
The world before thee lies;
And fairer lands are spread for thee,
Beneath more genial skies.There's many a spot, of which we're told,
In legend and romance,
Where plumed knights were wont of old
To meet with sword and lance.And there's a charm that lingers round
Each ruined tower and shrine;--
Full well I know its magic power,
On such a heart as thine.Then go; I would not seek to chain
Thy spirit bold and free;
Although I feel when thou art gone,
How lonely I shall be.I know thee noble; have I not
From childhood's earliest hour
Witnessed thy spirit's mastery
O'er dark temptation's power.Go, and ambition's heights explore,--
Seek Honor, Wealth and Fame;
But prize than gold or jewels more
A pure, untarnished name.But when far o'er the deep blue sea,
In other lands you roam,
Forget not those who prayed with thee,
In thy sunny childhood's home,Forget not, when you mingle with
The beautiful and gay,
And yield your heart to pleasure's charms,
A sister far away.Though rosy lips may on you smile,
And bright eyes turn to thine,
Dear brother, thou wilt never find
One truer heart than mine.
Lines, on the Death of a Friend.
Mournfully, tearfully, twine we a wreath,
To the memory of one who sleeps with the dead;
Calmly she slumbers the cold sod beneath,
While the wind chants a requiem over her bed.Early she drank of the fountain of sorrow.
Cold press'd the hand of grief on her heart;
No gleam from the sunshine of hope could she borrow,
In earthly enjoyments her soul had no part.She pass'd from the earth like a beautiful vision;
Pale grew her cheek, and sunken her eye,
Yet her spirit evinc'd a noble decision,
Still strong in affection and fearless to die.Her husband and child had pass'd on before her,
Through the dark valley and shadow of death;
Her Saviour, she hop'd, to their love would restore her.
Then she fear'd not the summons to yield up her breath.To rest near the spot where those lov'd ones were sleeping,
Was the last earthly wish of her desolate heart;
And she pray'd whilst disease to her vitals was creeping,
That God would his grace and protection impart.The tears of fond sisters, the love of a brother,
From that hallow'd spot could not tempt her to stay;
Though dear to her heart, the love of another
Still o'er her spirit held mightier sway.She left the dear spot of her childhood's affection,
For her own belov'd home in the far distant west;
Her fond heart still clung to the sweet recollection
Of hours she had pass'd there, contented and bless'd.But now all her trials and sorrows are ended,
Clos'd are her eyes in "death's dreamless sleep;"
Her spirit, we trust, has to glory ascended,
Hope whispers sweet peace while in sadness we weep.
The Power of Custom.
Custom is a despotic tyrant, wielding an iron sceptre over man, before whose unbounded sway unnumbered millions hourly bend. We are controlled by its influence from earliest infancy to latest age, even from the making of an infant's frock to the shroud. In early youth we must go to this school, or that lecture, or to that resort of fashionable amusement, because others go, and it is the custom.
It seems strange that custom should hold such a dominion over us--we, the people of this enlightened age, be bound to such a tyrant! it seems almost impossible, but so it is. We see it in the professional man, the man of business, and men in all grades of society, and from the lady at her toilet to the factory operative. We must have our clothing cut after such a style, and wear it after such a manner; and why? O, it is the custom. It is too much the custom for people to look with contempt upon those who have not quite so good advantages, or more especially, those who have not so much wealth, without regard to intellect or education. Custom has introduced into society vices of all descriptions. Not long since it was the custom to pass the social glass, and it has been the means of making a great many inebriates, and making beggars of a great many families; thus we see the effects of that custom. The custom of revelry, balls, parties, and gay assemblies, tend to dissipate the minds of youth, and lead them into the paths of vice. The custom of card-playing has led to the gaming-table, and been the ruin of thousands.
"The suns of riot flow down the loose stream,
Of false and tainted joy on the rankled soul,
The gaming fury falls, till in one gulf
Of total ruin; honor, virtue, peace,
Friends, families, and fortune
Headlong sink."
Annie Howard.
It was a chill, dreary day in November. The autumn winds swept with a dirge-like sound through the tops of the tall old trees that overshadowed a stately mansion, where a group of sorrowing friends had collected, to pay the last sad rite, to one of earth's fairest, loveliest flowers. All without wore an air of gloom and melancholy. Ever and anon a sere and yellow leaf would fall with a faint rustling sound, speaking in mournful language to the heart, that all things earthly must decay; and well did the scene accord with the sadness and sorrow that reigned in the hearts of those who had assembled on that mournful occasion.
The deceased was one whom we had all known and loved, for she was one of those sweet angelic beings, whom it is impossible not to love. Her presence, like sunshine, seemed to diffuse light and cheerfullness upon all who came within the magic circle of her influence.
Her glad laugh fell like music upon the ear. Her large dark eyes beamed with the light of intelligence and affection. The softest rose tint tinged her alabaster cheek, and the tones of her voice were like the melody of an Aeolian harp, when touched by the wandering zephyrs.
But youth, beauty, and goodness could not shield her from the cruel shafts of the destroyer. The hand of disease fell heavily upon her, and her fragile form sank beneath the blow, and faded like a blighted flower. There sat her parents bowed down by grief, for the being whom they most loved on earth, the light of their home, the joy, the hope, the pride of their hearts, had been taken from them, and they were indeed left desolate.
One ray of light alone illumined the darkness that overshadowed them like a pall. But one star shone out upon the dim horizon of the future, the hope of being reunited with their beloved child in that better land, where tears shall be wiped from all eyes--where love never dies, and parting scenes are never known.
The funeral services were performed in a solemn and impressive manner. The coffin was then opened, and one by one we approached to take the last fond look of its frail tenant. Oh, could it be that that form, so cold and motionless, clad in the white habiliments of the grave, was that of the once lovely and fascinating Annie Howard? Were those lips that were wont to entrance with their melody forever sealed in death? Would those eyes never again beam with the light of affection, or kindle with the glow of enthusiasm? Oh, how forcibly were we reminded that "passing away" is written upon all things here below, and that the fairest forms that walk the earth, in all the pride of beauty, must go down to the dark, cold grave, to be food for the loathesome worm. With slow and faltering steps, and with tear-suffused eyes, we followed the remains to the narrow house, appointed for all the living; and then mournfully returned to our homes, to muse upon the uncertainty, and the perishable nature of all earthly joys.
Annie Howard was one of my earliest and dearest friends, and thinking that, perhaps, her history might be interesting to some who may chance to peruse these pages, I have endeavored, although but imperfectly, to give a brief sketch of her life.
She was the only child of wealthy and highly respectable parents. Possessed of refined and cultivated minds, they were anxious that their daughter should be educated in all the more solid branches, which would render her a useful member of society, as well as the lighter graces and accomplishments which, too often, in the present day, supercede the cultivation of the mind. Endowed with a brilliant intellect, she excelled in whatever she attempted, and the fond anticipations of her friends were more than realized. The acquirement of literature was to her a source of exquisite delight. Her thirsty soul drank at the fountain of knowledge, with as much avidity as the weary traveller slakes his thirst at the fountain of cool waters, that bubbles up in the midst of the sandy desert. Her inquiring mind was never weary of exploring the deep mysteries of science or poring over the pages of ancient lore. Music, painting and poetry seemed to form the etherial essence of her mind. She played with exquisite skill and taste, and sang with surpassing sweetness and melody.
Her brilliant powers of mind, the beauty of her person, her graceful, winning manners, the sweetness of her disposition, and the unaffected goodness of her heart, rendered her a universal favorite in the circle in which she moved.
Yet, was she ever modest and unassuming. She was far from that vain haughtiness that is the common characteristic of narrow and superficial minds, and which, too often, displays itself in persons of cultivated intellect, where there is not a corresponding goodness of heart. It seemed to be her aim to render those with whom she associated, pleased with themselves rather than to impress upon them a sense of her own superiority. This trait in her character had in it nothing allied to sycophancy, which quickly disgusts persons of sense and refinement; neither did it originate merely in the desire to please, but had its source in an inherent principle of her nature, which prompted her to seek to promote the happiness of others.
She possessed an intuitive knowledge of human nature, which, together with her extreme delicacy, with regard to the feelings of others, formed the keystone which unlocked to her the secret recesses of hearts, which, to a less careless observer, would have been veiled in impenetrable coldness and reserve.
In early life she had given her heart to the Saviour, and had consecrated herself to the service of God; and she sought to follow the example of the meek and lowly Jesus.
The poor, the sick, and the sorrowful, were objects of her peculiar care and attention. Many a poor, crushed and broken-hearted being, borne down by poverty and affliction, was made glad by her sympathy and kindness. She possessed that sweet, graceful way of offering a benefit which rendered a favor from her doubly acceptable. Among the gentlemen of her acquaintance, there were many who, fascinated by the charms both of her mind and person, sought to win her heart, but of all her numerous admirers, there was but one whose affection was reciprocated, and that one was well worthy the love and confidence of such a being as Annie Howard. He possessed those noble qualities of heart and mind which command the admiration of the great and good, and which render man, in the true sense of the term, the noblest work of God. Gifted with strong powers of mind, which had been disciplined by a thorough education, possessing principles of the strictest integrity, and an elegant and prepossessing exterior, he was beloved and esteemed by all who knew him. He was a physician, and had the reputation of being a skilful practitioner. He had resided in the same village with Annie some two or three years, and being of congenial dispositions, and thrown much into each others' society, a strong attachment had sprung up between them, which was sanctioned by the friends of both parties.
But brilliant intellect, beauty of person, sweetness of disposition, goodness of heart, nor love of friends could save her from death's relentless dart. In her case, the words of the poet Wordsworth were verrified,
"The good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket."
Ere nineteen summers had passed over her head, consumption had fastened upon her vitals. At first the symptoms were so slight that her friends felt little alarm, but soon the hollow cough, which sounds so much like a funeral knell, the unnatural brilliancy of the eye, the hectic glow upon the cheek, and the short, labored breathing, told but too plainly that death was not to be cheated of his prey. It has been said that death loves a shining mark, and it is true that he often passes by the loathsome form, shriveled by age, and want, and lingering disease, to feast upon the sparkling eye, the ruby lips, and glowing cheek of youth and beauty.
Annie soon became fully sensible that she was not long for this world, but was perfectly calm and resigned. She possessed that hope that alone can sustain the soul in sickness and suffering, when we feel that our hold upon earth is each day growing weaker, and eternity, vast, boundless, with all its untried scenes, with all its deep mysteries, and overwhelming interests, lies stretched out before us, when the soul feels that it must soon be called upon to enter upon those untried scenes, and to fathom the deep mysteries of that endless existence, and that it must go alone and unattended into the presence of its Maker, there to render up its account. She felt that, although she was unworthy of God's favor, yet Christ had shed his blood for her, and she trusted that her sins had been washed away by that blood, and her soul made meet for the heavenly inheritance. She strove to console the grief of her parents, who were almost heartbroken at the thought of parting from their child. She pointed them to that home beyond the grave, where they should be reunited never more to part; never more to suffer pain, or sorrow, or care; where tears are wiped from all eyes, and the ransomed spirit will be permitted to join with the heavenly host in singing praises to the Redeemer.
She bore her sufferings with sweet resignation. As her bodily strength failed her mind seemed to expand, and her intellectual powers to grow higher. Her love of the beautiful seemed also to increase. The deep blue sky, when studded by a countless host of brilliant stars; the soft, fleecy clouds when reflecting the gorgeous hues of sunset; the music of the birds; the whispering of the breeze, making mysterious melody as it mingled with the rustling of the leaves; these, with a thousand other sweet but incomprehensible charms of nature, seemed to form the link that bound her soul to earth.
Gradually her strength failed; each day her fragile form became more attenuated, and her thin hand more transparent. There was nothing terrible in the approach of death. Nothing that was revolting to the most sensitive mind; but when we were summoned to stand around her dying bed, there was something so calm, so heavenly, so peaceful, in the expression of her countenance, that we all felt that it was indeed a privilege to witness the departure of her soul to the world of spirits, and we involuntarily exclaimed, "Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his."
We All Do Perish Like the Leaf.
One rosy cloud lay cradled
In the chambers of the sky;
Rock'd gently by the autumn winds,
As they came sighing by;Touching, oh, so lightly,
Each leaf on ev'ry tree,
Yet wafting them in tinted show'rs,
O'er mountain, hill, and lee.For autumn's chilling finger
Has touch'd them, by decay;
And now the slightest zephyr's wing
Bears their frail form away:And strews them o'er the barren glebe,
In withered heaps to lie
The sport of many a wintry storm,
As it comes surging by.So man, with earthly honor,
Stands proudly forth, to-day,--
To-morrow Death's untimely frost
His glory sweeps away.And down in Death's dark chambers,
With folded hands he lies;
The things of earth excluded
Forever from his eyes.
Life Compared to the Seasons.
Loud blows the stern December blast;
The snow is falling thick and fast;
And all around so cold and drear,--
Proclaims the winter of the year.
Touched by the finger of decay,
Summer beauties passed away--
Her fragrant flowers forgot to bloom,
And slept within their winter tomb.
The butterfly, that airy thing,
That floated on its gilded wing,
And birds that with their music rare,
Warbling filled the summer air;
Dewdrops that gemm'd the morning flower,
All--all were pageants of an hour,--
The trappings of a summer day,
That sank with her into decay.
But though bleak winter reigns around,--
Nor fruit, nor flower adorns the ground,
We know that Spring will wake again
All the pageant Summer train.
And Winter has its store of mirth,
Its studies and its social hearth,
And by nature seems designed
To elevate the human mind.
The seed committed to its trust
Will not decay, and sink to dust,--
It will not with the summer die,
And dormant through the winter lie;
But ever fruitful, it will be,
Even through eternity.
Writing Composition.
Well, here I am, sitting down with inkstand, pen and paper all before me, to write a composition. And what is composition? It is thought drawn from the resources of the mind, and portrayed upon the unsullied page. The mind, that mysterious, unfathomable, undying, immortal part of man; that immaterial essence, which contemplates upon past and future scenes, from which emanates all our thoughts and passions--and all our happiness or misery. If we would have our composition correct, the mind must be well cultivated, for that, like a well cultivated garden, will produce fine fruit and beautiful flowers, where no noxous weed should be allowed to intrude, or delicate plant wither and die for want of culture. The mind should be strengthened and nourished by solid reading, well digested. The rich volume of nature lies open before us, where all who will read, may improve the intellect.
Do we seek for the beautiful? we see it around us in the gently sloping hill, the verdant vale, the fragrant flowers, and the whispering rill, and the ten thousand varied beauties with which nature is decked. Or seek we for the sublime, we must contemplate the whirlwind in its fury, the vivid lightning's flash, and the deep toned thunder, reverberating peal on peal, the mountain torrent, dashing down the stupendous height, and hurrying to embosom itself in the ocean below; or the forest, standing unbroken in its silent majesty, till the thoughts instinctively rise from the sublimities of nature, to nature's God, the maker and former of them all.
Composition is said to be the index of the mind, if so, how necessary it is that there should be no improper word or idea expressed, no blot or tarnish should be upon the fair page; how chaste and elegant should be the diction, how pure and refined the idea, how simple and concise the expression. It should be like the glassy lake that reflects an unclouded sky--the mirror of a spotless mind.
Lines, Written in Answer to the Question "Where Is Our Poet?"
Ask you for the poet lyre?
What can touch his soul with fire,
When from ev'ry passing cloud
The storm-king whistles shrill and loud,
And nature shrieks her requiem wild,
O'er summer, her departed child.
When through the shortened winter day
The languid sun sheds sickly ray,
And struggling moonbeams seem at most,
Dim meteor forms of Ossian's ghost.
Then shall not I, a feeble maid,
Of the Muses be afraid?
When poets sleep with talents fine,
Shall I approach the "sacred Nine?"
But when I heard the vesper bell
Mournful peal its sad farewell;
And murmuring through the evening air,
Echo only answered, "where?"
I thought I'd chase my fears away,
And conjure up a simple lay.
Ye poets who have talents ten,
Excuse the errors of my pen;
The best I could do I have done,
For reader I have scarcely one.
My Husband's Grave.
In looking over the foregoing pages, I feel that sad indeed have been my wanderings in the shady paths of life. The aged friends of my childhood have been buried over again. The last sad parting from many dear friends has been noted down; the deaths of sister, brother and mother, have been noticed in sad rotation; grand-children have sprung up, beside the way, flourished for a little season, then faded like the pale, withering leaves of autumn, and passed away from earth forever.
O, Memory, thy garland has indeed been entwined, with many a withered flower, whose leaves though faded, emit a sweet fragrance to the heart, and lead it to a purer, holier trust in heaven.
But there is a deeper shadow, a gloomier shade, a sadder spot upon earth, than we have yet visited. It is the recently made grave of my husband--the father of my children, who passed suddenly away, leaving his afflicted family, bereft of his counsel, his watch care, and his support.
As I stand in this sad spot, and gaze upon that lone grave, with tearful eyes and a bursting heart, memory comes like a tide, throwing over my soul the remembrances of the many--many years we have journeyed on together, since our first acquaintance in academic halls (for our intimacy first commenced in school), and all the sad loneliness of the present presses like a weight upon me, crushing me to the earth, and obscuring all the sunshine of earthly bliss.
How sad and desolate is the home from which some loved one has been borne suddenly away, with the firm assurance that "the places that once knew them shall know them no more forever."
The vacant seat at table, the return of their usual hour of arrival, all places and all things remind us of the departed one, and bring up harrowing remembrances of the past, that add deeper pangs to our sorrow, and fill our hearts with more unendurable anguish, and suffuse our cheeks with more scalding tears, as the stern reality presses upon us, that it always must be thus.
Companion of my youth, can it be possible thy manly form is hid beneath this grassy mound at my feet? that I never again shall hear the sound of that voice, whose endearing tone won me to thy side, to unite my destiny with thine, and float with thee over life's tempestous ocean?
Rough, indeed, has been the passage, and many the adverse storms we have encountered, during our thirty-two years companionship, and now, way-worn and weary, the grave--the greedy grave claims thee for its occupant. How sweet is the assurance "that the graves shall give up their dead, and this mortal shall put on immortality." Yes, this dear dust shall rise again, and be clothed in undying youth.
O, how stealthily the stern messenger came, laying low the form of the strong man, ere we were aware of his danger. One week--one short week, and yet to him a week of agonizing suffering, and all was over. Yet, in that week, what a volume might be written, of deep, intense thought and feeling, of fervent prayer and supplication, and tearful, childlike submission to the divine will. Might be written did I say? Is it not written--even in the book of God's remembrance? Neither sigh or tear were unnoticed, or prayer unheard, by that God who careth for us, and numbereth the very hairs of our heads. How often the prayer ascended from the lips of the dying man, "O my Father, help me in this my extremity," and it was indeed his hour of extreme necessity, for he was wrestling with his last enemy.
A smile sat upon his countenance, even while struggling for that frail life that was so soon to end, and it is now very evident to those that were in attendance upon him, that he was more fully aware of his situation than they. Every arrangement and every observation plainly shows now that he had little, if any hope of recovery.
But still the attending physician spoke very encouragingly to him, and to others, and so we hoped and believed he would yet be well.
He was grateful for every attention. Ere the disease (which was pneumonia) assumed its most fearful aspect; a daughter, who was watching by the bed, hearing him whisper, thought he was addressing her; but bending over the pillow, she heard him say,
"Oh, my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me."
Then raising his clasped hands, said, fervently, "Nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done." Towards morning, reason became dethroned, and the bewildered imagination wandered in the land of shadows. There was an extremely anxious expression of countenance, and he would look earnestly upon his attendants, as though he thought we could relieve him. He was incessantly springing from his bed in his struggles for breath, and trying every new position that the extremity of his case could possibly suggest, but all to no avail.
But why dwell upon the fearful scene? We have seen the little child contending with the strong arm of the destroyer, and felt it was a fearful thing for it to yield up its little life and pass forever away from earth. But when we see the strong man cut suddenly down, the man who has scarcely passed the meridian of life, we "feel how dreadful 'tis to die." The love of life is strengthened by years. There are cords of association binding him to it, the rolling, restless tide of business, with its fluctuations and its cares, sweeps over him, and seems binding him to earth. The love of children, for whose welfare a kind father has so long been mindful, and all the fond endearments of home and kindred, are so many sacred ties binding him to life. But all must be severed before the ruthless tyrant who conquers conquerers, and has justly been styled, "the king of terrors."
And so it was in this case. Nature yielded reluctantly every advantage gained by the fearful foe, 'till her energies were exhausted, and sinking down in quiet slumber, she yielded the contest without a struggle.
About eight o'clock on Thursday evening, a heavy stupor came over him, and the fearful death-rattle warned us of the approach of the grim messenger. We watched his failing breath with agonizing emotions. But we turned from him one little moment, and when we turned again, the lamp of life was extinguished. O, the fearful agonizing cry that arose by that death bed, when we realized that the husband and father had passed away, forever away. But while we wept and mourned, he slept on unheeding. Death made little change in his countenance, and when he was dressed in his accustomed clothing, and laid in his coffin, he looked like a weary man taking rest in sleep.
It was a pleasant day in mid April that we bore him to his grave, and laid him down beneath the green branches of the arbor vitæ tree. How many mournful thoughts pressed upon the heart, almost crushing out the very life, as the mournful train followed him to that sacred spot. Who that has looked into an open grave, and seen the coffin of the dearly loved lowered into it, but has felt an indiscribable agony filling the heart, and blotting out all the prospect of future earthly happiness? And who that listens to the sound of the heavy, damp earth as it falls upon the coffin, but will say, "oh, has earth another sound like this?" And there we left the husband and the father reposing beneath the tree his own hand had trained, and in the yard where he had spent so many hours laboring to beautify the spot where he was so soon to lie down in his last long sleep. By his side are the graves of the two dear grand-children, who were wont to share in his caresses, and his smiles. Silent now is their greeting, as the weary grandfather lays down with them in the place of graves: But eternity! oh eternity! how is the meeting there? Have they met? There are father, mother, brothers, sister, and a long train of relatives from whom he has been long separated. Have they recognized each other? O, bewildering thoughts, be still, and cease your restless longings; "secret things belong to God," and "what we know not now we shall know hereafter." But now, while the soft winds of summer are gently sighing through the branches of the arbor vitae tree that stands at the head of the grassy mound that rises over the form of my buried husband, I see by his side, the spot where, in all human probability, this frame will soon be deposited, to sleep with him in death's silent halls, even as I have journeyed with him through life. 'Till then, let me turn to my mission, and endeavor by a faithful discharge of every duty, to prepare for that time, and strive by a holy life and godly conversation, to so influence my children, that they may all seek a city not made with hands eternal, and in the heavens. And thus shall be answered my daily prayer, that we may be a united family in heaven.
So we returned to the house beneath the mild radiance of a Sabbath sun, to experience that awful void that death makes in the domestic circle to which so many bereaved hearts can respond.
Lines, Written upon the Young Who Have Recently Died in Our Village.
Why are the young and beautiful
Call'd so early to the tomb?
Death surely loves a shining mark,--
And sweetly feeds on youthful bloom!Go, wander in the place of graves,
When softly steals the autumn's sigh,
And on the sculptured marble read,
How many in life's morning die.Beauty may bloom upon the cheek,
And brightly sparkle in the eye;
But soon the fatal hectic streak
Proclaims that stealthy Death is nigh.Maria, by her mother's side,
So young, in Death's dark chambers laid,
And Lottie, soon to be a bride,
Have seen earth's fairest vision fade.A lovely vision floating fair,
In Memory's chambers now is seen,
With sparkling eyes and glossy hair,
A radiant brow, and gentle mien.She stole by fond and winning ways,
Into many a loving heart;
And with a sweet and childish grace,
Well performed her little part.But death soon laid her beauty low,
Like spring flowers fading on the stem,
And, blighting all her youthful bloom,
Laid Clara, mould'ring now with them.Dear Willie too, that child of prayer,
So suddenly has pass'd away,
And enter'd those bless'd mansions where
All is bright, eternal day.Here, many a loving name is found,
Of those who in life's pathway trod;
Who slumber now, beneath the mound,
Their spirits summon'd to their God.Some by long disease confin'd,
Have slowly wasted day by day;
Health, strength and beauty--all declin'd,
And Youth's bright visions pass'd away.But wander on; the sculptured stone
In thunder tones is speaking here;
The name--the age--it loudly tells,
To eye and heart, if not the ear.They sleep when winter's winds are loud,
And snow and sleet come drifting by;
And when light sails the rosy cloud,
And Spring's sweet gales around them sigh.They sleep--ah, yes--that dreamless sleep,
That never shall know waking more;
They've cross'd the icy steam of death,
And pass'd unto the viewless shore.