THE SONG OF THE AXE.

———

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

———

I wasborn deep down—deep down in the sable depths of the mine,(Thus commenced the iron,)Where I lay in dull and sullen sleep,Till the miner, gaunt, naked and strong,With his sharp pickaxe,And by the light of his flaring torch,Torch of flary and smoky crimson!That lit up the gloom like a star,Forced me from my dull and sullen sleep.And whistling like the keen northwest over a peak of the Ural mountains, (oh mountains, stern mountains of snow.)Lifted me, dull and sullen as I was, to the dazzling eye of the sun-god,I hated the miner, that miner, gaunt, naked and strong,With his flaring and crimson torch,And his sharp pickaxe,I hated him, and I wished I was a weapon to bite into his heart —Ho! ho! ho! how I would have laughed, as I bit into his heart,That miner, gaunt, naked and strong,For lifting me from my dull and sullen sleepInto the presence of so radiant a being as the golden-tressed, beautiful sun-god.For I was black, from my dull and sullen sleep,And the dross of long years, of long years that I spent in the mine, clung about me like barnacles to a ship.So I was glad when I was hurried to the forge;But, oh, how I writhed and bent in my anguish as the red hot furnace!Yea, the furnace “heated to a white heat,”Made my heart melt within me, and my whole body change to a mass of living flame —That fierce and merciless forge.Oh how my heart melted within me, and how my whole body changed to a mass of living flame,That softened each agonized pore, and made me turn liquid with sorrow.I was taken then from the forge,And beaten into a long, slender wand, like a spear,And I thought I was changing to a spear,And laughed, for then I could bite into heartOf that miner,That miner, gaunt, naked and strong,That took me from my dull and sullen sleep,And hurried me, all black, and covered with dross like the barnacles on a ship,Into the golden presence of him the bright, beautiful sun-god.But I was not destined to bite into the heart of that miner:And I was hurried then to the smithy,Where stood the stalwort blacksmith leaning on his sledge:That blacksmith, with his leathern apron and arm that would fell a buffalo.And he smiled, that blacksmith,When he placed me inhisforge, and wakened his monstrous bellows.And I—I knew that my foe the red fire would leap again into my entrails,And melt my heart;And I tried to yell out my wrath, but could not —And so I lay dark and sullen, yea, dark and sullen as whenI slept deep down in the sable mine,Until I felt my foe the red fire again melting my heart,And again softening my strong, well-knit musclesInto a mass of living flame —Ah then that sharp anvil!“Swank! swank! swank!” rang the blows of that stalwort blacksmith, and a smutty faced lad that he called “son!”“Son!” oh how I wished I had his throat in my strong and well-knit muscles —I would have torn it as the wild wolf tears the throat of the deer —But as for the stalwort blacksmith, I was afraid of him —So I lay and let him smite me.Then I felt myself beaten into a shape—the welcome shape of the axe —And I laughed,For the axe was made for slaughter —Then I was taken from the burly blacksmith’s,And keen, clear, flashing teeth of steelWere given me,And I laughed again,For I thought that if I had a chance how I would bite in the heart of that miner,That miner, gaunt, naked and strong!And the smutty-faced boy whom the burly blacksmithCalled “son.”But the burly blacksmith himself, I would not bite him,No, not even were his veins beneath the gripe of my clear, keen, flashing teeth,For I loved the burly blacksmith,The burly, stalwort blacksmith,With his apron of leather and arm that could fell a buffalo.And then I was hung up in a village store;A paltry village store, amidst onions, and turnips and tape,To wait my destined doom.I was born in the pleasant wood;(Thus commenced the helve,Not rough and fierce and hatefulLike the iron, but modest and mild)I was born in the pleasant wood;I was an arm of the sturdy oak;And I bore a wealth of green leavesIn the long bright summer days,Where the sunlight loved to sparkle and the rain-drops loved to hum —And I bent a green roof o’er the nest of the merry bird.Oh, I was happy!I danced in the liquid wind,And murmured my joy at all times;In the golden dawn, and sunny noontide;In the crimson evening and beneath the seraphic moon;Yea, I was happy!The oak loved me; for I was his sturdiest arm,And I bore my leaves like an emerald shield.Oh, I was happy!But my time came.The woodman saw me, and he looked at the handle of his axe —The woodman saw me, and grasped the handle of his axe —The woodman saw me, and before I could shrink behind my emerald shield,Ay, even before I could call upon my father oakTo bend his green plume and protect his son,I was crashing on the earth —Oh! I fell headlong to the moss, and I lay without motion,As the woodman,As the whistling woodman,As the free and careless woodman,Rent from me my emerald shield, and made me bareAs a bird just emerged from its shell.And then he shaped me into a thick stick,A thick white stick, with his wood-knife,And carried me to the village store,And bargained me off, me, the strong arm of the oak,That wore an emerald shield, and made arrows of all the beams,And flashed and murmured at dawn, in the red eve,And beneath the seraphic moon;Yes, me, did that careless woodmanBargain for a keg of apple-sauce,The mean, sneaking villain!That pitiful woodman!And here the helve sang out keen and shrill like the sapWhen it shrieks in its prison for help,As the red flame enters its chamber.(But again murmured the helve.)There in that paltry village store,Amidst onions, and turnips, and tape,There did I rest in my dusky nook,Whilst the smooth-faced shopman smirked and smiled,With “yes marm!” and “no marm!” “did you say calico!Calico or tape!Joe, measure a yard of tape!”Good heavens! even the blood of my father the oakBegan to boil in me.But as for the axe,Oh, how he showed his keen, clear, flashing teeth,As if he would bite into the heart of that shopman,That shopman, so smooth-faced and smirk,So smiling, so smooth-faced and smirk,With his “yes marm” and “no marm!” “did you sayCalicoorTape? Joe, measure a yard of tape!”At length an honest settlerCame in from his hill-meadowsAnd spoke for an axe.I was dragged from my corner,And the iron was released from his thraldom,And the sharp knife of the honest settler,As the sundown turned his hill-meadows into golden velvet,Shaved me down and shaped me,Smooth and white, and then married me to my husband the iron,The iron, with his purple head,And his keen, clear, flashing teeth.Since then have we dwelt together,Me and my husband the iron,In the hut of the honest settler.The helve ceased.And then a blended songIn which rang the clear treble of the helveAnd the gruff notes of the ironSwelled on my ear.But at length the settler harnessed his oxen,And bent a canvas tent over his wagon,His wagon, broad-wheeled and wide,And filling it with his household wealth,And casting us, married as we were,On his brawny shoulder,Started on his journey.Oh! long was our way through the forest;The broad-wheeled wagon crushed the violets in its path,The purple, fragrant violets looking with their blue eyesFrom the knotted feet of the pine-tree —Oh, how the pine-tree shook!Oh, how the pine-tree roared!As the violets, that looked with their blue eyesFrom his knotted feet,Screamed in their purple blood underneath the broad-wheeled wagon,And the red strawberries, with their pouting lips,Oh! how they splashed with their sweet bloodThe broad wheelsOf the ruthless wagon.In vain did the laurel hangIts magnificent bouquet of pink and pearlOver that broad-wheeled wagon!In vain did the loftier dog-woodArch his blossoms of creamy silver,Both forming a triumphal arch,Worthy a Roman general in his most glorious days,Over that broad-wheeled wagon.On did the wagon plough,Staying for nothing, and crushing still,Oh, that broad-wheeled wagon!The huddling violets with their blue eyes,And the red strawberries with their ripe pouting lips,Letting their sweet blood flowTill the green velvet of the grass blushed like a sunset cloud.And so we journeyed on,Resting upon the brawny shoulderOf the honest settler.At sunset he made us work,And we bit into the trees,And formed his night-bower in the forest.And so we journeyed onTill we came in sight of the homeThat the settler had chose in the forest,The forest that blackened the tideOf the Delaware, mountain-born;Here he made his home—here he looked at his sylvan empire,And led his band to hew and slaughter the forest,The forest that blackened the tideOf the Delaware, mountain-born.Bright was the August mornThat laughed on the vales and the tree-tops,When he led his stalwort bandTo slaughter the virgin forestThat blackened the Delaware’s brow,And gayly and freely they slaughteredThe trees of the creek-fed river,The river that leaped from its mountain-gobletGlittering, clear as dew, and pure as a thought of the Deity,Far up in its deep scoop of rock.How they laughed as they swung their blowsOn the hemlock and spruce and green mapleThat arbored the glen of the eagle,And bent o’er the cave of the wolf.How they laughed as they heard the deep groansOf the hemlock and spruce and green mapleAnd their proud plumes were bowed to the ground.The forests thus vanished awayLike the fog that is breathed from the water,And the eagle screamed keen from the topOf his dwelling, laid bare from her brood,Whilst they shivered and shook with the cold,Icy cold of the gauntlet that Jack FrostLaid upon the soft down of their breasts.Thus vanished the forests away,And the green smiling farm-fields succeeded,Some like the tawny lion-skin,Some spotted like the robe of the ounce,And some striped like the splendid glory of the tiger.The cabin arose in its clearing,The kine-bells sent tinklings like sounds of silver amidst the thickets and bushes,That grouped in rounded clusters the grassy and quiet glades.Then the log hut was swept awayWith its chimney of sticks,And its little window, like the eye of the deerPeering out from its leafy ambush.The village spread out with its roofsAnd its delicate finger-like steepleThat pointed forever toward heaven,Like the prayer of the pastor ascending.On an emerald knoll, with the shapeOf the delicate finger-like steepleCutting black in the sunshine beside it,The pioneer’s white modest dwellingSparkled out of its bosom of verdure.There lived the brave old patriarch,The father of many children —There lived the gray old patriarch,Awaiting his summons to goTo the land, the bright land of his hopes —To the land, the sweet land of the happy.On the spot where he saw the brindled form of the stealthy pantherProwling like guilt through the tangles of the wood,He sees the quiet steed, born in the spacious Merrimac meadows,The old, faithful, honest steed,Whose feet seemed shod with wind,And whose snort was like the deep bass note of the ophicleideIn the fiery days of his youth;Stamping the flies and whisking his stump of a tailAs he sluggishly moves toward the sparkling springWelling up to the rim of the mossy hogshead.Ah, the old father in Zion was blest!Blest in his household, his home and his goods!Ah, he was perfectly happy!As the full golden moon of his purified soulWheeled down to the rim of the west,Where the angel of God stood with waiting pinionsTo waft him high upward to glory.My song is done.(And the blended tones of the axe sunk awayLike the last water-like notes of the lute of the winds,Sunk away—away—swooned deliciously away,And I treasured it in the inner chamber of my ear,And sung it to myself in the deepest nook of my heart,And then gave it to the world.)

I wasborn deep down—deep down in the sable depths of the mine,

(Thus commenced the iron,)

Where I lay in dull and sullen sleep,

Till the miner, gaunt, naked and strong,

With his sharp pickaxe,

And by the light of his flaring torch,

Torch of flary and smoky crimson!

That lit up the gloom like a star,

Forced me from my dull and sullen sleep.

And whistling like the keen northwest over a peak of the Ural mountains, (oh mountains, stern mountains of snow.)

Lifted me, dull and sullen as I was, to the dazzling eye of the sun-god,

I hated the miner, that miner, gaunt, naked and strong,

With his flaring and crimson torch,

And his sharp pickaxe,

I hated him, and I wished I was a weapon to bite into his heart —

Ho! ho! ho! how I would have laughed, as I bit into his heart,

That miner, gaunt, naked and strong,

For lifting me from my dull and sullen sleep

Into the presence of so radiant a being as the golden-tressed, beautiful sun-god.

For I was black, from my dull and sullen sleep,

And the dross of long years, of long years that I spent in the mine, clung about me like barnacles to a ship.

So I was glad when I was hurried to the forge;

But, oh, how I writhed and bent in my anguish as the red hot furnace!

Yea, the furnace “heated to a white heat,”

Made my heart melt within me, and my whole body change to a mass of living flame —

That fierce and merciless forge.

Oh how my heart melted within me, and how my whole body changed to a mass of living flame,

That softened each agonized pore, and made me turn liquid with sorrow.

I was taken then from the forge,

And beaten into a long, slender wand, like a spear,

And I thought I was changing to a spear,

And laughed, for then I could bite into heart

Of that miner,

That miner, gaunt, naked and strong,

That took me from my dull and sullen sleep,

And hurried me, all black, and covered with dross like the barnacles on a ship,

Into the golden presence of him the bright, beautiful sun-god.

But I was not destined to bite into the heart of that miner:

And I was hurried then to the smithy,

Where stood the stalwort blacksmith leaning on his sledge:

That blacksmith, with his leathern apron and arm that would fell a buffalo.

And he smiled, that blacksmith,

When he placed me inhisforge, and wakened his monstrous bellows.

And I—I knew that my foe the red fire would leap again into my entrails,

And melt my heart;

And I tried to yell out my wrath, but could not —

And so I lay dark and sullen, yea, dark and sullen as when

I slept deep down in the sable mine,

Until I felt my foe the red fire again melting my heart,

And again softening my strong, well-knit muscles

Into a mass of living flame —

Ah then that sharp anvil!

“Swank! swank! swank!” rang the blows of that stalwort blacksmith, and a smutty faced lad that he called “son!”

“Son!” oh how I wished I had his throat in my strong and well-knit muscles —

I would have torn it as the wild wolf tears the throat of the deer —

But as for the stalwort blacksmith, I was afraid of him —

So I lay and let him smite me.

Then I felt myself beaten into a shape—the welcome shape of the axe —

And I laughed,

For the axe was made for slaughter —

Then I was taken from the burly blacksmith’s,

And keen, clear, flashing teeth of steel

Were given me,

And I laughed again,

For I thought that if I had a chance how I would bite in the heart of that miner,

That miner, gaunt, naked and strong!

And the smutty-faced boy whom the burly blacksmith

Called “son.”

But the burly blacksmith himself, I would not bite him,

No, not even were his veins beneath the gripe of my clear, keen, flashing teeth,

For I loved the burly blacksmith,

The burly, stalwort blacksmith,

With his apron of leather and arm that could fell a buffalo.

And then I was hung up in a village store;

A paltry village store, amidst onions, and turnips and tape,

To wait my destined doom.

I was born in the pleasant wood;(Thus commenced the helve,Not rough and fierce and hatefulLike the iron, but modest and mild)I was born in the pleasant wood;I was an arm of the sturdy oak;And I bore a wealth of green leavesIn the long bright summer days,Where the sunlight loved to sparkle and the rain-drops loved to hum —And I bent a green roof o’er the nest of the merry bird.Oh, I was happy!I danced in the liquid wind,And murmured my joy at all times;In the golden dawn, and sunny noontide;In the crimson evening and beneath the seraphic moon;Yea, I was happy!The oak loved me; for I was his sturdiest arm,And I bore my leaves like an emerald shield.Oh, I was happy!But my time came.The woodman saw me, and he looked at the handle of his axe —The woodman saw me, and grasped the handle of his axe —The woodman saw me, and before I could shrink behind my emerald shield,Ay, even before I could call upon my father oakTo bend his green plume and protect his son,I was crashing on the earth —Oh! I fell headlong to the moss, and I lay without motion,As the woodman,As the whistling woodman,As the free and careless woodman,Rent from me my emerald shield, and made me bareAs a bird just emerged from its shell.And then he shaped me into a thick stick,A thick white stick, with his wood-knife,And carried me to the village store,And bargained me off, me, the strong arm of the oak,That wore an emerald shield, and made arrows of all the beams,And flashed and murmured at dawn, in the red eve,And beneath the seraphic moon;Yes, me, did that careless woodmanBargain for a keg of apple-sauce,The mean, sneaking villain!That pitiful woodman!And here the helve sang out keen and shrill like the sapWhen it shrieks in its prison for help,As the red flame enters its chamber.(But again murmured the helve.)There in that paltry village store,Amidst onions, and turnips, and tape,There did I rest in my dusky nook,Whilst the smooth-faced shopman smirked and smiled,With “yes marm!” and “no marm!” “did you say calico!Calico or tape!Joe, measure a yard of tape!”Good heavens! even the blood of my father the oakBegan to boil in me.But as for the axe,Oh, how he showed his keen, clear, flashing teeth,As if he would bite into the heart of that shopman,That shopman, so smooth-faced and smirk,So smiling, so smooth-faced and smirk,With his “yes marm” and “no marm!” “did you sayCalicoorTape? Joe, measure a yard of tape!”At length an honest settlerCame in from his hill-meadowsAnd spoke for an axe.I was dragged from my corner,And the iron was released from his thraldom,And the sharp knife of the honest settler,As the sundown turned his hill-meadows into golden velvet,Shaved me down and shaped me,Smooth and white, and then married me to my husband the iron,The iron, with his purple head,And his keen, clear, flashing teeth.Since then have we dwelt together,Me and my husband the iron,In the hut of the honest settler.The helve ceased.And then a blended songIn which rang the clear treble of the helveAnd the gruff notes of the ironSwelled on my ear.But at length the settler harnessed his oxen,And bent a canvas tent over his wagon,His wagon, broad-wheeled and wide,And filling it with his household wealth,And casting us, married as we were,On his brawny shoulder,Started on his journey.Oh! long was our way through the forest;The broad-wheeled wagon crushed the violets in its path,The purple, fragrant violets looking with their blue eyesFrom the knotted feet of the pine-tree —Oh, how the pine-tree shook!Oh, how the pine-tree roared!As the violets, that looked with their blue eyesFrom his knotted feet,Screamed in their purple blood underneath the broad-wheeled wagon,And the red strawberries, with their pouting lips,Oh! how they splashed with their sweet bloodThe broad wheelsOf the ruthless wagon.In vain did the laurel hangIts magnificent bouquet of pink and pearlOver that broad-wheeled wagon!In vain did the loftier dog-woodArch his blossoms of creamy silver,Both forming a triumphal arch,Worthy a Roman general in his most glorious days,Over that broad-wheeled wagon.On did the wagon plough,Staying for nothing, and crushing still,Oh, that broad-wheeled wagon!The huddling violets with their blue eyes,And the red strawberries with their ripe pouting lips,Letting their sweet blood flowTill the green velvet of the grass blushed like a sunset cloud.And so we journeyed on,Resting upon the brawny shoulderOf the honest settler.At sunset he made us work,And we bit into the trees,And formed his night-bower in the forest.And so we journeyed onTill we came in sight of the homeThat the settler had chose in the forest,The forest that blackened the tideOf the Delaware, mountain-born;Here he made his home—here he looked at his sylvan empire,And led his band to hew and slaughter the forest,The forest that blackened the tideOf the Delaware, mountain-born.Bright was the August mornThat laughed on the vales and the tree-tops,When he led his stalwort bandTo slaughter the virgin forestThat blackened the Delaware’s brow,And gayly and freely they slaughteredThe trees of the creek-fed river,The river that leaped from its mountain-gobletGlittering, clear as dew, and pure as a thought of the Deity,Far up in its deep scoop of rock.How they laughed as they swung their blowsOn the hemlock and spruce and green mapleThat arbored the glen of the eagle,And bent o’er the cave of the wolf.How they laughed as they heard the deep groansOf the hemlock and spruce and green mapleAnd their proud plumes were bowed to the ground.The forests thus vanished awayLike the fog that is breathed from the water,And the eagle screamed keen from the topOf his dwelling, laid bare from her brood,Whilst they shivered and shook with the cold,Icy cold of the gauntlet that Jack FrostLaid upon the soft down of their breasts.Thus vanished the forests away,And the green smiling farm-fields succeeded,Some like the tawny lion-skin,Some spotted like the robe of the ounce,And some striped like the splendid glory of the tiger.The cabin arose in its clearing,The kine-bells sent tinklings like sounds of silver amidst the thickets and bushes,That grouped in rounded clusters the grassy and quiet glades.Then the log hut was swept awayWith its chimney of sticks,And its little window, like the eye of the deerPeering out from its leafy ambush.The village spread out with its roofsAnd its delicate finger-like steepleThat pointed forever toward heaven,Like the prayer of the pastor ascending.On an emerald knoll, with the shapeOf the delicate finger-like steepleCutting black in the sunshine beside it,The pioneer’s white modest dwellingSparkled out of its bosom of verdure.There lived the brave old patriarch,The father of many children —There lived the gray old patriarch,Awaiting his summons to goTo the land, the bright land of his hopes —To the land, the sweet land of the happy.On the spot where he saw the brindled form of the stealthy pantherProwling like guilt through the tangles of the wood,He sees the quiet steed, born in the spacious Merrimac meadows,The old, faithful, honest steed,Whose feet seemed shod with wind,And whose snort was like the deep bass note of the ophicleideIn the fiery days of his youth;Stamping the flies and whisking his stump of a tailAs he sluggishly moves toward the sparkling springWelling up to the rim of the mossy hogshead.Ah, the old father in Zion was blest!Blest in his household, his home and his goods!Ah, he was perfectly happy!As the full golden moon of his purified soulWheeled down to the rim of the west,Where the angel of God stood with waiting pinionsTo waft him high upward to glory.My song is done.(And the blended tones of the axe sunk awayLike the last water-like notes of the lute of the winds,Sunk away—away—swooned deliciously away,And I treasured it in the inner chamber of my ear,And sung it to myself in the deepest nook of my heart,And then gave it to the world.)

I was born in the pleasant wood;

(Thus commenced the helve,

Not rough and fierce and hateful

Like the iron, but modest and mild)

I was born in the pleasant wood;

I was an arm of the sturdy oak;

And I bore a wealth of green leaves

In the long bright summer days,

Where the sunlight loved to sparkle and the rain-drops loved to hum —

And I bent a green roof o’er the nest of the merry bird.

Oh, I was happy!

I danced in the liquid wind,

And murmured my joy at all times;

In the golden dawn, and sunny noontide;

In the crimson evening and beneath the seraphic moon;

Yea, I was happy!

The oak loved me; for I was his sturdiest arm,

And I bore my leaves like an emerald shield.

Oh, I was happy!

But my time came.

The woodman saw me, and he looked at the handle of his axe —

The woodman saw me, and grasped the handle of his axe —

The woodman saw me, and before I could shrink behind my emerald shield,

Ay, even before I could call upon my father oak

To bend his green plume and protect his son,

I was crashing on the earth —

Oh! I fell headlong to the moss, and I lay without motion,

As the woodman,

As the whistling woodman,

As the free and careless woodman,

Rent from me my emerald shield, and made me bare

As a bird just emerged from its shell.

And then he shaped me into a thick stick,

A thick white stick, with his wood-knife,

And carried me to the village store,

And bargained me off, me, the strong arm of the oak,

That wore an emerald shield, and made arrows of all the beams,

And flashed and murmured at dawn, in the red eve,

And beneath the seraphic moon;

Yes, me, did that careless woodman

Bargain for a keg of apple-sauce,

The mean, sneaking villain!

That pitiful woodman!

And here the helve sang out keen and shrill like the sap

When it shrieks in its prison for help,

As the red flame enters its chamber.

(But again murmured the helve.)

There in that paltry village store,

Amidst onions, and turnips, and tape,

There did I rest in my dusky nook,

Whilst the smooth-faced shopman smirked and smiled,

With “yes marm!” and “no marm!” “did you say calico!

Calico or tape!

Joe, measure a yard of tape!”

Good heavens! even the blood of my father the oak

Began to boil in me.

But as for the axe,

Oh, how he showed his keen, clear, flashing teeth,

As if he would bite into the heart of that shopman,

That shopman, so smooth-faced and smirk,

So smiling, so smooth-faced and smirk,

With his “yes marm” and “no marm!” “did you say

Calico

Tape? Joe, measure a yard of tape!”

At length an honest settler

Came in from his hill-meadows

And spoke for an axe.

I was dragged from my corner,

And the iron was released from his thraldom,

And the sharp knife of the honest settler,

As the sundown turned his hill-meadows into golden velvet,

Shaved me down and shaped me,

Smooth and white, and then married me to my husband the iron,

The iron, with his purple head,

And his keen, clear, flashing teeth.

Since then have we dwelt together,

Me and my husband the iron,

In the hut of the honest settler.

The helve ceased.

And then a blended song

In which rang the clear treble of the helve

And the gruff notes of the iron

Swelled on my ear.

But at length the settler harnessed his oxen,

And bent a canvas tent over his wagon,

His wagon, broad-wheeled and wide,

And filling it with his household wealth,

And casting us, married as we were,

On his brawny shoulder,

Started on his journey.

Oh! long was our way through the forest;

The broad-wheeled wagon crushed the violets in its path,

The purple, fragrant violets looking with their blue eyes

From the knotted feet of the pine-tree —

Oh, how the pine-tree shook!

Oh, how the pine-tree roared!

As the violets, that looked with their blue eyes

From his knotted feet,

Screamed in their purple blood underneath the broad-wheeled wagon,

And the red strawberries, with their pouting lips,

Oh! how they splashed with their sweet blood

The broad wheels

Of the ruthless wagon.

In vain did the laurel hang

Its magnificent bouquet of pink and pearl

Over that broad-wheeled wagon!

In vain did the loftier dog-wood

Arch his blossoms of creamy silver,

Both forming a triumphal arch,

Worthy a Roman general in his most glorious days,

Over that broad-wheeled wagon.

On did the wagon plough,

Staying for nothing, and crushing still,

Oh, that broad-wheeled wagon!

The huddling violets with their blue eyes,

And the red strawberries with their ripe pouting lips,

Letting their sweet blood flow

Till the green velvet of the grass blushed like a sunset cloud.

And so we journeyed on,

Resting upon the brawny shoulder

Of the honest settler.

At sunset he made us work,

And we bit into the trees,

And formed his night-bower in the forest.

And so we journeyed on

Till we came in sight of the home

That the settler had chose in the forest,

The forest that blackened the tide

Of the Delaware, mountain-born;

Here he made his home—here he looked at his sylvan empire,

And led his band to hew and slaughter the forest,

The forest that blackened the tide

Of the Delaware, mountain-born.

Bright was the August morn

That laughed on the vales and the tree-tops,

When he led his stalwort band

To slaughter the virgin forest

That blackened the Delaware’s brow,

And gayly and freely they slaughtered

The trees of the creek-fed river,

The river that leaped from its mountain-goblet

Glittering, clear as dew, and pure as a thought of the Deity,

Far up in its deep scoop of rock.

How they laughed as they swung their blows

On the hemlock and spruce and green maple

That arbored the glen of the eagle,

And bent o’er the cave of the wolf.

How they laughed as they heard the deep groans

Of the hemlock and spruce and green maple

And their proud plumes were bowed to the ground.

The forests thus vanished away

Like the fog that is breathed from the water,

And the eagle screamed keen from the top

Of his dwelling, laid bare from her brood,

Whilst they shivered and shook with the cold,

Icy cold of the gauntlet that Jack Frost

Laid upon the soft down of their breasts.

Thus vanished the forests away,

And the green smiling farm-fields succeeded,

Some like the tawny lion-skin,

Some spotted like the robe of the ounce,

And some striped like the splendid glory of the tiger.

The cabin arose in its clearing,

The kine-bells sent tinklings like sounds of silver amidst the thickets and bushes,

That grouped in rounded clusters the grassy and quiet glades.

Then the log hut was swept away

With its chimney of sticks,

And its little window, like the eye of the deer

Peering out from its leafy ambush.

The village spread out with its roofs

And its delicate finger-like steeple

That pointed forever toward heaven,

Like the prayer of the pastor ascending.

On an emerald knoll, with the shape

Of the delicate finger-like steeple

Cutting black in the sunshine beside it,

The pioneer’s white modest dwelling

Sparkled out of its bosom of verdure.

There lived the brave old patriarch,

The father of many children —

There lived the gray old patriarch,

Awaiting his summons to go

To the land, the bright land of his hopes —

To the land, the sweet land of the happy.

On the spot where he saw the brindled form of the stealthy panther

Prowling like guilt through the tangles of the wood,

He sees the quiet steed, born in the spacious Merrimac meadows,

The old, faithful, honest steed,

Whose feet seemed shod with wind,

And whose snort was like the deep bass note of the ophicleide

In the fiery days of his youth;

Stamping the flies and whisking his stump of a tail

As he sluggishly moves toward the sparkling spring

Welling up to the rim of the mossy hogshead.

Ah, the old father in Zion was blest!

Blest in his household, his home and his goods!

Ah, he was perfectly happy!

As the full golden moon of his purified soul

Wheeled down to the rim of the west,

Where the angel of God stood with waiting pinions

To waft him high upward to glory.

My song is done.

(And the blended tones of the axe sunk away

Like the last water-like notes of the lute of the winds,

Sunk away—away—swooned deliciously away,

And I treasured it in the inner chamber of my ear,

And sung it to myself in the deepest nook of my heart,

And then gave it to the world.)

THE DARKENED CASEMENT.

———

BY GRACE GREENWOOD.

———

What lit your eyes with tearful power,Like moonlight on a falling shower?Who lent you, love, your mortal dowerOf pensive thought and aspect pale,Your melancholy sweet and frailAs perfume of the cuckoo-flower?Tennyson.

What lit your eyes with tearful power,

Like moonlight on a falling shower?

Who lent you, love, your mortal dower

Of pensive thought and aspect pale,

Your melancholy sweet and frail

As perfume of the cuckoo-flower?

Tennyson.

Frederic Prestonwas the eldest son of a respectable merchant, in one of the most important seaport towns of New England. He was a young man of fine personal appearance, a warm and honorable heart, and a spirit singularly brave and adventurous. From his boyhood his inclinations had led him to a seafaring life, and at the age of twenty-six, when he is presented to the reader, he had already made several voyages to the East Indies, as supercargo in the employ of the house in which his father was a partner. He was now at home for a year, awaiting the completion of a vessel, which was to trade with Canton, and which he was to command.

Preston had, for all his love of change and adventure, a taste for literature—always taking a well-selected library with him on his long voyages—was even, for one of his pursuits, remarkable for scholarly attainments; yet he sometimes wearied of books and study, and, as he had little taste for general society, often found the time drag heavily in his shore-life. Thus it was that he one day cheerfully accepted the invitation of his mother to accompany her to a school examination, in which his sister was to take a part.

Our young gentleman was shown a seat in front, near the platform on which were ranged the “patient pupils”—“beauties, every shade of brown and fair.”

He gazed about rather listlessly for a while, but at length his attention became fixed on a young lady who stood at the black-board, proving with great elegance and precision a difficult proposition in Euclid. He was observing the admirable taste of her dress, the delicacy and willowy grace of her figure, when suddenly, while raising her arm in drawing her diagram, a small comb of shell dropped from her head, and a rich mass of hair fell over her shoulders.

And such hair!—it was wondrously luxuriant, not precisely curly, but rippling all through with small glossy waves, just ready to roll themselves into ringlets, and of that peculiar, indescribable color between a brown and a bright auburn.

Preston, who felt that the possessor of such magnificent hair must be beautiful, waited impatiently for a sight at the face of the fair geometrician; but, without turning her head, she stepped quietly back, took up the comb, quickly re-arranged her hair, and went on with her problem. It was not until this was finished, and she took her seat among the other pupils, that Preston had a full view of her face. He was more keenly disappointed than he would have acknowledged, when he saw only plainness, in place of the beauty he so confidently expected. Yet Dora Allen was by no means disagreeably plain; her features were regular, and her complexion extremely fair. She was only thin, wan and somewhat spiritless in appearance. Her face was “sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought”—with thought her young eye seemed shadowed, her young brow burdened. But there was a sweet and lovable spirit looking out from the depths of those dreamy eyes, and hovering about those quiet and almost colorless lips, which told the observer that her rare intellectual attainments had not stood in the way of her simple affections, to hinder their generous development.

Frederic Preston liked Dora Allen’s face somewhat better as he regarded it more closely, and when, at the close of the exercises, this young lady was called forward to receive the highest honors of the institution—when she advanced timidly, and bowed modestly, to be crowned with a wreath of rose-buds and lilies of the valley, while a sudden flush kindled in her cheek, flowed into her quivering lips, and illuminated her whole countenance, she grew absolutely beautiful in his eyes.

Our hero was not sorry to learn that Miss Allen was the most intimate friend of his sister Anna, from whom he soon ascertained that she was an orphan, within a few years past, adopted by an uncle, a clergyman of the place—that she was about eighteen—of an amiable, frank and noble disposition, yet chiefly distinguished for her fine intellectual endowments and studious habits.

I will not dwell on what my shrewd reader already anticipates—the love and marriage of Frederic Preston and Dora Allen. I will not dwell on the sad parting scene, when, within six months from “the happiest day of his life,” Captain Preston set sail for Canton, his brave spirit strangely cast down, the once gay light of his eyes quenched in tears, and with a long tress of rich auburn hair lying close against his heart.

On account of some business arrangements which he was to make at Canton, he must be absent somewhat more than two years. He desired greatly to take his young wife with him, but feared, from knowing her delicate organization, that she could not endure the voyage. He left her in a pretty cottage-home, which he himself had fitted up for her, in sight of the harbor.

Dora had living with her a widowed elder sister, whose society and assistance were much comfort to her, in her otherwise most lonely lot.

Among the many letters which Captain Preston received from his loving and constant wife during his absence, there was one which he read with peculiar joy—with tears of grateful emotion. For this was notalone from the bride of his bosom, but from the mother of his child. Thus wrote Dora:

“Our boy is four weeks old to-day, and my heart is already gladdened by his striking resemblance to you, dearest. He has your fine olive complexion, your large black eyes and dark, curling hair. I call himFrederic, and have great joy in often repeating the beloved name.”

It was early on an April morning that the merchantman “Bay State” came into —— harbor. Scarcely waiting for daylight, Captain Preston took his way homeward. He found only Mrs. Mason, his sister-in-law, up; but received from her happy greeting, the assurance that all was well. With his heart on his lips, he softly stole up to Dora’s favorite room, a pleasant chamber which looked out on the sea. He entered and reached her bed-side unheard. She was yet sleeping, and Frederic observed that her hair had escaped from her pretty muslin cap, and was floating over her neck and bosom—then looking closer, he saw peering through it, two mischievous black eyes—a pair of bright, parted lips—a rosy, chubby, dimpled little face—yes, caught his first view of his infant boy through a veil of the mother’s beautiful hair. Then, with a light laugh, he bent down, and clasped them both, calling their names, and in a moment, seemed to hold all heaven in his arms.

——

“I seek her now—I kneel—I shriek—I clasp her vesture—but she fades, still fades;And she is gone; sweet human love is gone!’Tis only when they spring to heaven that angelsReveal themselves to you.”Browning.

“I seek her now—I kneel—I shriek—

I clasp her vesture—but she fades, still fades;

And she is gone; sweet human love is gone!

’Tis only when they spring to heaven that angels

Reveal themselves to you.”

Browning.

From that time the voyages of Captain Preston were not so long as formerly, and he often spent many months, sometimes a year or two with his family. He frequently spoke of resigning his sea-faring life altogether, but was ever concluding that he was not yet in a situation to render the step a prudent one for his business interests. Finally, when he had been about fifteen years married, he set out on what he intended and promised his family should be his last voyage. He was at this time the father of three children; the son, of whom we have spoken, a healthful, high-spirited boy, and two daughters, Pauline and Louise—the first greatly resembling her father, the second very like the mother.

Captain Preston was pained to leave his gentle wife looking paler and more thin than usual, and to observe, for she said nothing of it, that she was troubled with a slight cough. Yet he was of a most hopeful spirit, and even as he heard her low voice, and saw her faint smile, so much sadder than tears, he trusted that the coming summer would bring her health, and more cheerful spirits.

Mrs. Preston had usually a remarkable control over her painful emotions, and was peculiarly calm in all seasons of trial; but at this parting, she clung long and closely about her husband’s neck—it seemed that she could not let him go. She buried her face in his bosom and wept and sobbed in irrepressible anguish.

At last, unwinding her fond arms, he resigned her, half-fainting, to the care of her sister, hastily embraced his children, and rushed from the house. He heard his name called in a wild, pleading voice, yet he dared not look back, but ran down the long garden-walk, and paused not till he reached the road. Here he turned for one look at his home, ere a thick clump of pines should hide it from his sight. He lifted his eyes to that pleasant window looking out on the sea, and there stood Dora, weeping and waving her slender white hand. He drew his cap over his eyes, turned again, and hastened down to the harbor.

During this last absence, Captain Preston received but one letter from his wife—but this was very long—a sort of journal, kept through the spring and summer succeeding his departure. In all this, though Dora wrote most pleasantly of home affairs, and very particularly of the children, she made no mention of the state of her own health, and this he knew not whether to regard as matter for assurance or apprehension.

At length he was on his homeward voyage—was fast approaching his native shores. Never had he looked forward to reaching port with such eager, boyish impatience—never had his weary heart so longed for the rest and joy of home.

But a severe storm came up, drove them off their course, and kept them beating about, so that for some days they made no headway. One night—it was a Sabbath night—Capt. Preston, completely exhausted, flung his cloak around him, and threw himself down on the cabin-floor for a little rest, for he could not lie in his berth. It was full midnight—his eyes closed heavily at once—he was fast falling into sleep, when he thought he heard his name called very softly, but in a tone which pierced to the deeps of his heart. He looked up, half raising himself, andDora was before him! Yes, his own Dora, it seemed, with her own familiar face, still sweet and loving in its looks, though it seemed strangely glorified by the shining forth of a soft, inward light. Again she spoke his name, drew nearer, and bent down, as though to kiss his forehead. He did not feel the pressure of her lips, but he looked into the eyes above him—her own dear eyes, and read there a mournful, unspeakable tenderness—a divine intensity, an eternity of love. He reached out his arms and called her name aloud; but she glided, faint smiling, from his fond embrace—the blessed vision faded, and he was alone—alone in the dim cabin of a storm-rocked vessel, with the tempest shrieking through the cordage, with the black heights of a midnight heaven above, and the blacker depths of a boiling sea below.

Frederic Preston did not sleep that night. In spite of all the efforts of his reason, his heart was racked with anxiety, or oppressed with a mortal heaviness.

In the course of the following day the storm abated, and they afterward crowded all sail for land; yet it was a week ere they cast anchor in —— harbor. It was ten o’clock at night, and Captain Preston was immediately rowed to shore. Without waiting to speak to any one, he hurried up the road toward his cottage. As he drew near the bend in the road, by the clump of pines, he said to himself that if all were well at home, there would surely be a light shining from that window of Dora’s chamber looking out on the sea.But as he came in full view, he paused, and dared not look up, while the thick, high beating of his heart seemed almost to suffocate him. At last, chiding himself for this womanish weakness, he raised his eyes—and all was dark!

He hardly knew how after this he made his way up the garden walk, to the cottage, nor how, when finding it all closed, he still had strength to go on to his father’s house, where he was received with many tears, by his parents, his sisters, and his children. The deep mourning dress of the whole sad group told of itself the story of his desolation. For some time, he neither spoke nor wept, but supported by his father, and leaning his head on his mother’s breast, he swayed back and forth, while his deep, constant groans shook his strong frame, and burdened all the air about him. Finally, in a scarce audible voice, he asked:

“When did she go, mother?”

“Last Sunday, near midnight, my son.”

“Thank God, it was she, then! I saw her last! She came to me—her blessed angel came to bid me farewell. Oh, that divine love which could not die with thee, Dora, Dora!”

Then with a light over his face which was almost a smile, he turned to his poor children, gathered them to his embrace, and wept with them.

Mrs. Preston, who, as we have said, had ever been fragile and delicate, had at last died of a rapid decline. She had been confined to her room but a few weeks, and to her bed scarcely a day. She passed away with great tranquillity of spirit, though suffering much physical pain. Her children were with her at the last, and her patience, serenity, and holy resignation seemed to repress the passionate outbursts of their childish grief till all was over.

It was not until some time had passed that Captain Preston felt himself able to open a large package placed in his hands by his mother, and which Dora had left for him—sealed up and directed with her own hand, the very day before she died.

At length, seeking his own now desolate home, and shutting himself up in that dear familiar chamber, with the pleasant window looking out on the sea—there where he had seen her last—where she had breathed out her pure spirit—where her form had lain in death—there he lifted his heart to God for strength, kissed the seal and broke it. Before him lay a rich mass of dark auburn hair—Dora’s beautiful hair! With a low cry, half joy, half pain, he caught it, pressed it to his lips and heart, and bedewed it with his abundant tears. Suddenly he observed that those long, bright tresses were wound about a letter—a letter addressed to him in Dora’s own familiar hand. He sank into a seat, unfolded the precious missive, and read—what we will give in the chapter following.

——

“Earth on my soul is strong—too strong—Too precious is its chain,All woven of thy love, dear friend,Yet vain—though mighty—vain!“A little while between our heartsThe shadowy gulf must lie,Yet have we for their communingStill, still eternity!”Hemans.

“Earth on my soul is strong—too strong—

Too precious is its chain,

All woven of thy love, dear friend,

Yet vain—though mighty—vain!

“A little while between our hearts

The shadowy gulf must lie,

Yet have we for their communing

Still, still eternity!”

Hemans.

THE LETTER.

“Frederic, my dearest—pride of my heart—love of my youth—my husband! A sweet, yet most mournful task is mine, to write to you words which you may not read until my voice is hushed in the grave—till the heart that prompts is cold and pulseless—till the hand that traces is mouldering into dust. Yes, I am called from you—from our children—and you are not near to comfort me with your love in this dark season. But I must not add to your sorrow by thus weakly indulging my own. Though it may not be mine to feel your tender hand wiping the death-dew from my brow—though I may not pant out my soul on your dear breast, nor feel your strong, unfailing love sustaining me as I go—yet I shall not be all forsaken, nor grope my way in utter darkness; but leaning on the arm of our Redeemer, descend into ‘the valley of the shadow of death.’

“And now, dearest, I would speak to you of our children—our children, of whose real characters it has happened that you know comparatively little. I would tell you of my hopes and wishes concerning them—would speak with all the mournful earnestness of a dying mother, knowing thatyoucan well understand the mighty care at my heart.

“There is Frederic, my ‘summer child,’ our bright-eyed, open-browed boy, almost all we could desire in a son. I resign him into your hands with much joy, pride and hope. Even were my life to be spared, my work in his education were now nearly done. I have had much happiness in remarking his talent, his enthusiasm, his fine physical organization, his vigorous health, his gay, elastic spirits,—and far more in being able to believe him perfectly honest and truthful in character. Oh, my husband, can we not see in him the germ of a noble life, the possible of a glorious destiny?

“Yet, Frederic has some faults, clear even to my sight. I think him too ambitious of mere greatness, of distinction as anend, rather than as the means of attaining some higher good. Teach him, dear husband, that such ambition is but a cold intellectual selfishness, or a fever thirst of the soul; a blind and headlong passion that miserably defeats itself in the end. Teach him that the immortal spirit should here seek honor and wealth only as means and aids in fulfilling the purest and holiest, and, therefore, the highest purposes of our being;—to do good—simplegood—to leave beneficent ‘foot-prints on the sands of time’—to plant the heaven-flower, happiness, in some of life’s desolate places—to speak true words, which shall be hallowed in human hearts—strong words, which shall be translated into action, in human lives. And oh! teach him what I have ever earnestly sought to inspire—a hearty devotion to the right—a fervent love of liberty—a humble reverence for humanity. Teach him to yield his ready worship to God’s truth,wherever he may meet it—followed by the multitude strewing palm-branches, or forsaken, denied and crucified. Teach him to honor his own nature, by a brave and upright life, and to stand for justice and freedom against the world.

“I have seen with joy that Frederic has an utter aversion to the society of fops, spendthrifts and skeptics.I believe that his moral principles are assured, his religious faith clear. Yet I fear that he is sometimes too impressible, too passive and yielding. His will needs strengthening, not subduing. Teach him to be watchful of his independence, to guard jealously his manliness. I know that I need not charge you to infuse into his mind a true patriotic spirit, free from cant and bravado—to counsel him against poor party feuds and narrow political prejudices. God grant that you may live to see our son if not one of the world’s great men, one whose pure life shall radiate good and happiness—whose strong and symmetrical character shall be a lesson of moral greatness, a type of true manhood.

“Our daughter Pauline is a happy and healthful girl, with a good, though by no means a great intellect. She has a dangerous dower in her rare beauty, and I pray you, dear Frederic, teach her not to glory in that perishing gift. She is not, I fear, utterly free from vanity, and she is sometimes arrogant and willful. I have even seen her show a consciousness of her personal advantages toward her less favored sister. You will seek to check this imperiousness, to subdue this will—but not with severity, for with all, Pauline is warm-hearted and generous. You know that she is tall for her age, and is fast putting away childish things. It will not be long now before as a young lady she will enter society. I surely need not charge you to be ever near her—to watch well lest a poor passion for dress and a love of admiration invade and take possession of her mind, lowering her to the heartless level of fashionable life; to teach her to despise flatterers and fops—to shrink from the ostentatious, the sensual, the profane, the scoffing and unbelieving. I feel assured that you will imbue her spirit with your own reverence for honest worth, and your own noble enthusiasm for truth and the right—an enthusiasm never lovelier than when it lights the eye and glows on the lips of a lovely woman.

“For my daughter Louise, our youngest, I have most anxiety, for she seems to have inherited my own physical delicacy, and has moreover an intense affectionateness and a morbid sensibility, which together are a misfortune. Dear husband, deal gently with this poor little girl of mine, for to you I will confess that at this hour she lies nearest my heart. Her whole nature seems to overflow with love for all about her, but the sweet waters are ever being embittered by the feeling that she is not herself an object of pride, scarcely of affection to us. She is very plain, you know—yet, look at her, she is not ugly—her plainness is that of languor and ill health. Poor Louise is seldom well, though she never complains, except mutely, through her pallor and weakness. She also inherits from me an absorbing passion for reading and study, and perhaps you will think it strange in me when I call upon you—earnestly entreat you to thwart and overcome this, if possible—not forcibly, nor suddenly, but by substituting other pleasures and pursuits, thus turning the current of her thoughts.

“Though I do not remember to have ever been very strong, yet I do not think that I had at the first any disease in my constitution. Yet what was the course pursued in my training? It was unfortunately discovered that I wasa genius, and so I was early put to study—my young brain stimulated into unhealthy action, the warm blood driven from my cheek and lip, the childish light quenched in my eye, by a thoughtful and sedentary life. I wasted long bright mornings over books, when I should have been riding over the hills, or frolicking with the waves—rambling through the healthful pine-woods, or fishing from the rocks, inhaling the invigorating ocean breezes. And sweet evenings, instead of strolling abroad in the summer moonlight, I sat within doors, alone, wrapt in deep, vague reveries; and on winter nights, I read and wrote, or pored over Euclid, or Virgil, in my close, dull chamber, instead of joining the laughing, chatting circle below, mingling in the dance and merry game.

“Yet, it was not alone my passion for study which prevented me from taking that vigorous exercise, and indulging in those out-door amusements so absolutely necessary for both physical and mental health, but ideas of propriety and feminine delicacy carefully inculcated and wrought into my character. I have since seen their folly, but too late. Habit and old associations were too strong for the new principles.

“Ah, had my early training been different—had I been suffered to remain a child, a simple, natural child, through the appointed season of childhood—had my girlhood been more free and careless—less proper, and studious, and poetic, I might now have been in my happiest season, the prime of a rich and useful life. But as it is, now, when my husband is at last returning home for his life-rest—when my son is soon to take his first step into the world—when my daughters need me most, atthirty-five, my course is already run! Oh, Frederic, see that our little pale-faced Louise does not pursue her mother’s mistaken course—does not re-live her mother’s imperfect existence. Take her out into the fields, on to the beach—teach her to ride, to row, to clamber—to fear neither sunshine nor rain—let fresh air in upon her life, get her young heart in love with nature, and all will be well with the child, I doubt not.

“Your own dear mother has promised to take home our children when I am gone, and have charge of them, with your consent, for some years to come. The education of our daughters you should direct, for you alone know my plans and wishes. As to their marriage, that seems so far in the future that you will scarcely expect me to speak on the subject. I can only say, dearest, teach our children in the coming years, never to be content with a union which promises less of love, harmony and trust, than have made the blessedness of ours.”

“I wrote the foregoing, dear Frederic, more than two weeks ago, and now, I must say farewell to you, for my hours are indeed few. I think I may not see another morning on earth. I have of late suffered much about midnight, from extreme difficulty of breathing, and something tells me that I shall not survive another such season. But I am not dismayed—God is yet with me in his sustaining Spirit, and I fear no evil.

“And now, my husband, before I go, let me thankand bless you for all your tenderness and patience toward me, in the years gone by. And oh, let me implore you not to sorrow too bitterly when I am dead. We have been very happy in one another’s love, and in our children—our children still left to you. Can you not say ‘blessed be the name of the Lord?’

“I enclose with this my hair, just severed from my head. I remember to have often heard you say that you might never have loved me but for this happy attraction—my one beauty. I desired my sister to cut it for you, and she tried to do so, but the scissors fell from her hand, and she went out, sobbing bitterly. Then I looked around with a troubled expression, I suppose, on our Frederic—he understood it, came at once to my side, and calmly, though with some tears, cut from the head of his dying mother this sad legacy for his poor absent father. Is he not a noble boy?

“I will not say to you farewellfor ever, for I know your living faith in God, who will bring us home, where there shall be ‘no more pain, nor sorrow, nor crying.’ And, Frederic, if it be permitted, I will see you once more, even here. To me it seems that my love would find you, wherever you might be in the wide universe of God, and that my freed spirit would seek you first—over the deep, through night and tempest, cleaving its way to your side. But as heaven willeth, it shall be.

“And now, farewell! best and dearest, farewell! My beloved, my beloved! Oh, that I could compress into human words the divine measure of the love which glows and yearns in my heart, at this hour. That love the frost of death cannot chill, the night of the grave cannot quench. It is bound up with the immortal life of my soul—it shall live for thee in the heavens, and be thy eternal possession there.

“May God comfort thee in thy loneliness, my love, my husband. Again, again farewell!

Back to Index Next