IN MEMORIAM.

I'll change my measure, and so end my lay,Too long already.I can't manage wellThe metre of that master of the lyre,Who Hiawatha, and our forest tribesDeftly described. Hexameters, I hate,And henceforth do eschew their company,For what is written irksomely, will beRead in like manner.What did I say lastIn my late canto? Something, I believeOf gratitude.Now this same gratitudeIs a fine word to play on. Many a nicheIt fills in letters, and in billet-doux,—Its adjective a graceful prefix makesTo a well-written signature. It gleamsA happy mirage in a sunny brain;But as a principle, is oft, I fear,Inoperative. Some satirist hath saidThatgratitude is only a keen senseOf future favors.As regards myself,Tis my misfortune, and perhaps, my fault,Yet I'm constrain'd to say, that where my giftsAnd efforts have been greatest, the returnHas been in contrast. So that I have shrunkTo grant myself the pleasure of great loveLest its reward might be indifference,Or smooth deceit. Others no doubt have beenMore fortunate. I trust 'tis often so:But this is my experience, on the scaleOf three times twenty years, and somewhat more.

I'll change my measure, and so end my lay,

Too long already.

I can't manage well

The metre of that master of the lyre,

Who Hiawatha, and our forest tribes

Deftly described. Hexameters, I hate,

And henceforth do eschew their company,

For what is written irksomely, will be

Read in like manner.

What did I say last

In my late canto? Something, I believe

Of gratitude.

Now this same gratitude

Is a fine word to play on. Many a niche

It fills in letters, and in billet-doux,—

Its adjective a graceful prefix makes

To a well-written signature. It gleams

A happy mirage in a sunny brain;

But as a principle, is oft, I fear,

Inoperative. Some satirist hath said

Thatgratitude is only a keen sense

Of future favors.

As regards myself,

Tis my misfortune, and perhaps, my fault,

Yet I'm constrain'd to say, that where my gifts

And efforts have been greatest, the return

Has been in contrast. So that I have shrunk

To grant myself the pleasure of great love

Lest its reward might be indifference,

Or smooth deceit. Others no doubt have been

More fortunate. I trust 'tis often so:

But this is my experience, on the scale

Of three times twenty years, and somewhat more.

In that calm happiness which Virtue gives,Blent with the daily zeal of doing good,Mother and daughter dwelt.Once, as they cameFrom their kind visit to a child of need,Cheered by her blessings,—at their home they foundMiranda and her son. With rapid speech,And strong emotion that resisted tearsHer tale she told. Forsaken were they both,By faithless sire and husband. He had goneTo parts unknown, with an abandon'd oneHe long had follow'd. Brokenly she spakeOf taunts and wrongs long suffer'd and conceal'dWith woman's pride. Then bitterly she pour'dHer curses on his head.With shuddering tearsThey press'd her to their hearts."Come back! Come back!To your first home, and Heaven's compassions healYour wounded spirit."Lovingly they castTheir mantle o'er her, striving to upliftHer thoughts to heavenly sources, and allureTo deeds of charity, that draw the stingFrom selfishness of sorrow."But she shrankFrom social intercourse, nor took her seatEven in the House of God, lest prying eyesShould gloat upon her downfall. Books, nor workEnticed her, and the lov'd piano's toneWaking sad echoes of the days that were,She seem'd to shun. Her joy was in her child.The chief delight and solace of her lifeTo adorn his dress, and trim his shining curls,Dote on his beauty, and conceal his faults,With weak indulgence."Oh, Miranda, love!Teach your fair boy, obedience. 'Tis the firstLesson of life. To him, you fill the placeOf that Great Teacher who doth will us allTo learn submission."But Miranda will'dIn her own private mind, not to adoptSuch old-world theories, deeming the creedOf the grey-headed Mother, obsolete.—Her boy was fair; but in those manners fail'dThat render beauty pleasing. Great regardHad he for self, and play, and dainty food,Unlike those Jewish children, who refusedThe fare luxurious of Chaldea's king,And on their simple diet grow more fairAnd healthful than their mates, and wiser too,Than the wise men of Babylon.I've seenIll-fortune follow those, whose early tastesWere pampered and inured to luxury.Their palates seem'd to overtop the brain,And the rank Dives-pleasure, to subvertChildhood's simplicity of sweet content.—Precocious appetites, when overruled,Or disappointed, lend imperious strengthTo evil tempers, and a fierce disdain.Methought, our Mother-Land, in this respectHad wiser usages. Her little onesAt their own regular, plain table learn'dNo culinary criticism, nor claim'dAdmission to the richly furnish'd boardNor deem'd the viands of their older friendsPertain'd to them.A pleasant sight it wasAt close of day, their simple supper o'er,To find them in the quiet nursery laid,Like rose-buds folded in a fragrant sheathTo peaceful slumber. Hence their nerves attain'dFirm texture, and the key-stone of the frame,This wondrous frame, so often sinn'd against,—Unwarp'd and undispeptic, gave to lifeA higher zest.Year after year swept by,And Conrad's symmetry of form and faceGrew more conspicuous. Yet he fail'd to winApproval from the pious, or desireTo seek him as companion for their sons.

In that calm happiness which Virtue gives,

Blent with the daily zeal of doing good,

Mother and daughter dwelt.

Once, as they came

From their kind visit to a child of need,

Cheered by her blessings,—at their home they found

Miranda and her son. With rapid speech,

And strong emotion that resisted tears

Her tale she told. Forsaken were they both,

By faithless sire and husband. He had gone

To parts unknown, with an abandon'd one

He long had follow'd. Brokenly she spake

Of taunts and wrongs long suffer'd and conceal'd

With woman's pride. Then bitterly she pour'd

Her curses on his head.

With shuddering tears

They press'd her to their hearts.

"Come back! Come back!

To your first home, and Heaven's compassions heal

Your wounded spirit."

Lovingly they cast

Their mantle o'er her, striving to uplift

Her thoughts to heavenly sources, and allure

To deeds of charity, that draw the sting

From selfishness of sorrow."

But she shrank

From social intercourse, nor took her seat

Even in the House of God, lest prying eyes

Should gloat upon her downfall. Books, nor work

Enticed her, and the lov'd piano's tone

Waking sad echoes of the days that were,

She seem'd to shun. Her joy was in her child.

The chief delight and solace of her life

To adorn his dress, and trim his shining curls,

Dote on his beauty, and conceal his faults,

With weak indulgence.

"Oh, Miranda, love!

Teach your fair boy, obedience. 'Tis the first

Lesson of life. To him, you fill the place

Of that Great Teacher who doth will us all

To learn submission."

But Miranda will'd

In her own private mind, not to adopt

Such old-world theories, deeming the creed

Of the grey-headed Mother, obsolete.

—Her boy was fair; but in those manners fail'd

That render beauty pleasing. Great regard

Had he for self, and play, and dainty food,

Unlike those Jewish children, who refused

The fare luxurious of Chaldea's king,

And on their simple diet grow more fair

And healthful than their mates, and wiser too,

Than the wise men of Babylon.

I've seen

Ill-fortune follow those, whose early tastes

Were pampered and inured to luxury.

Their palates seem'd to overtop the brain,

And the rank Dives-pleasure, to subvert

Childhood's simplicity of sweet content.

—Precocious appetites, when overruled,

Or disappointed, lend imperious strength

To evil tempers, and a fierce disdain.

Methought, our Mother-Land, in this respect

Had wiser usages. Her little ones

At their own regular, plain table learn'd

No culinary criticism, nor claim'd

Admission to the richly furnish'd board

Nor deem'd the viands of their older friends

Pertain'd to them.

A pleasant sight it was

At close of day, their simple supper o'er,

To find them in the quiet nursery laid,

Like rose-buds folded in a fragrant sheath

To peaceful slumber. Hence their nerves attain'd

Firm texture, and the key-stone of the frame,

This wondrous frame, so often sinn'd against,—

Unwarp'd and undispeptic, gave to life

A higher zest.

Year after year swept by,

And Conrad's symmetry of form and face

Grew more conspicuous. Yet he fail'd to win

Approval from the pious, or desire

To seek him as companion for their sons.

—At school and college he defied restraint,And round the associates of his idle hoursThrew a mysterious veil. But rumor spakeOf them, as those who would be sure to bringDisgrace and infamy.Strong thirst for goldSprang with the weeds of vice. His mother's purseWas drain'd for him, and when at length she spakeIn warm remonstrance, he with rudeness rush'dOut of her presence, or withdrew himselfAll night from her abode. Then she was fainTo appease his anger by some lavish giftFrom scant resources, which she ill could spare,Making the evil worse.The growth of sinIs rank and rapid when the youthful heartAbjures the sway of duty. Weaving oftThe mesh of falsehood, may it not forgetWhat the truth is? The wavering, moral senseDepraved and weaken'd, fails to grasp the clueOf certainty, nor scruples to denyWords utter'd, and deeds done, for conscience sleepsStifled, and callous. Fearful must it be,When Truth offended and austere, confrontsThe false soul at Heaven's bar.

—At school and college he defied restraint,

And round the associates of his idle hours

Threw a mysterious veil. But rumor spake

Of them, as those who would be sure to bring

Disgrace and infamy.

Strong thirst for gold

Sprang with the weeds of vice. His mother's purse

Was drain'd for him, and when at length she spake

In warm remonstrance, he with rudeness rush'd

Out of her presence, or withdrew himself

All night from her abode. Then she was fain

To appease his anger by some lavish gift

From scant resources, which she ill could spare,

Making the evil worse.

The growth of sin

Is rank and rapid when the youthful heart

Abjures the sway of duty. Weaving oft

The mesh of falsehood, may it not forget

What the truth is? The wavering, moral sense

Depraved and weaken'd, fails to grasp the clue

Of certainty, nor scruples to deny

Words utter'd, and deeds done, for conscience sleeps

Stifled, and callous. Fearful must it be,

When Truth offended and austere, confronts

The false soul at Heaven's bar.

An aged manDwelt by himself upon a dreary moor,And it was whisper'd that a miser's hoardAbsorb'd his thoughts.There, at the midnight hourThe unwonted flash of lights was seen by thoseWho chanced to pass, and entering in, they foundThe helpless inmate murder'd in his bed,And the house rifled.Differing tracks they mark'dOf flying footsteps in the moisten'd soil,And eager search ensued.At length, close hidIn a dense thicket, Conrad they espied,His shoes besmear'd with blood. Question'd of thoseWho with him in this work of horror join'd,He answered nothing.All unmov'd he stoodUpon his trial, the nefarious deedDenying, and of his accomplicesDisclosing nought. But still there seem'd a chainOf evidence to bind him in its coil,And Justice had her course. The prison boltsClosed heavily behind him, and his doomFor years, with felons was incorporate.

An aged man

Dwelt by himself upon a dreary moor,

And it was whisper'd that a miser's hoard

Absorb'd his thoughts.

There, at the midnight hour

The unwonted flash of lights was seen by those

Who chanced to pass, and entering in, they found

The helpless inmate murder'd in his bed,

And the house rifled.

Differing tracks they mark'd

Of flying footsteps in the moisten'd soil,

And eager search ensued.

At length, close hid

In a dense thicket, Conrad they espied,

His shoes besmear'd with blood. Question'd of those

Who with him in this work of horror join'd,

He answered nothing.

All unmov'd he stood

Upon his trial, the nefarious deed

Denying, and of his accomplices

Disclosing nought. But still there seem'd a chain

Of evidence to bind him in its coil,

And Justice had her course. The prison bolts

Closed heavily behind him, and his doom

For years, with felons was incorporate.

Of the wild anguish and despair that reign'dIn his ancestral home, no words can giveDescription meet.In the poor mother's mindReason forsook its throne. Her last hope gone,Torn by a torrent from her death-like grasp,Having no anchor on the eternal Rock,She plunged beside it, into gulphs profound.—She slept not, ate not, heeded no kind word,Caress of fondness, or benignant prayer:She only shriek'd,"My boy! my beautiful!They bind his hands!"And then with frantic criesShe struggled 'gainst imaginary foes,Till strength was gone.Through the long syncopeHer never-resting lips essay'd to formThe gasping sounds,"My boy! my beautiful!Hence! Caitiffs! hence! my boy! my beautiful!"And in that unquell'd madness life went out,Like lamp before the blast.

Of the wild anguish and despair that reign'd

In his ancestral home, no words can give

Description meet.

In the poor mother's mind

Reason forsook its throne. Her last hope gone,

Torn by a torrent from her death-like grasp,

Having no anchor on the eternal Rock,

She plunged beside it, into gulphs profound.

—She slept not, ate not, heeded no kind word,

Caress of fondness, or benignant prayer:

She only shriek'd,

"My boy! my beautiful!

They bind his hands!"

And then with frantic cries

She struggled 'gainst imaginary foes,

Till strength was gone.

Through the long syncope

Her never-resting lips essay'd to form

The gasping sounds,

"My boy! my beautiful!

Hence! Caitiffs! hence! my boy! my beautiful!"

And in that unquell'd madness life went out,

Like lamp before the blast.

With sullen portOf bravery as one who scorns defeatThough it hath come upon him, Conrad metThe sentence of the law. But its full forceHe fail'd to estimate; the stern restraintOn liberty of movement, coarsest fare,Stripes for the contumacious, and for allLabor, and silence.The inquiring glanceOn the new-comer bent, from stolid eyesOf malefactors, harden'd to their lot,And hating all mankind, he coldly shunn'dOr haughtily return'd. Yet there were lightsEven in this dark abode, not often foundIn penal regions, where the wrath of manIs prompt to punish, and remembereth notThe mercy that himself doth ask of God.

With sullen port

Of bravery as one who scorns defeat

Though it hath come upon him, Conrad met

The sentence of the law. But its full force

He fail'd to estimate; the stern restraint

On liberty of movement, coarsest fare,

Stripes for the contumacious, and for all

Labor, and silence.

The inquiring glance

On the new-comer bent, from stolid eyes

Of malefactors, harden'd to their lot,

And hating all mankind, he coldly shunn'd

Or haughtily return'd. Yet there were lights

Even in this dark abode, not often found

In penal regions, where the wrath of man

Is prompt to punish, and remembereth not

The mercy that himself doth ask of God.

—A just man was the warden and humane,Not credulous, or easily deceiv'd,But hopeful of our nature, though deprav'd,And for the incarcerate, careful to restrainAll petty tyranny.Courteous was heTo visitants, for many such there were.Philanthropists, whose happy faith believ'dPrisons reforming schools, came here to scanArrangements and appliances as guidesTo other institutions: strangers too,Who 'mid their explorations of the State,Scenery and structures, would not overlookIts model-prison.Now and then, was seenSome care-worn mother, leading by the handHer froward boy, with hope that he might learnA lesson from the punishment he saw.

—A just man was the warden and humane,

Not credulous, or easily deceiv'd,

But hopeful of our nature, though deprav'd,

And for the incarcerate, careful to restrain

All petty tyranny.

Courteous was he

To visitants, for many such there were.

Philanthropists, whose happy faith believ'd

Prisons reforming schools, came here to scan

Arrangements and appliances as guides

To other institutions: strangers too,

Who 'mid their explorations of the State,

Scenery and structures, would not overlook

Its model-prison.

Now and then, was seen

Some care-worn mother, leading by the hand

Her froward boy, with hope that he might learn

A lesson from the punishment he saw.

—When day was closed and to his narrow cellBearing his supper, every prisoner went,The night-lock firmly clench'd, beside some grateWhile the large lamp thro' the long corridorsThrew flickering light, the Chaplain often stoodConversing. Of the criminal's past lifeHe made inquiry, and receiv'd repliesForeign from truth, or vague and taciturn:And added pious counsels, unobserv'd,Heeded but slightly, or ill understood.

—When day was closed and to his narrow cell

Bearing his supper, every prisoner went,

The night-lock firmly clench'd, beside some grate

While the large lamp thro' the long corridors

Threw flickering light, the Chaplain often stood

Conversing. Of the criminal's past life

He made inquiry, and receiv'd replies

Foreign from truth, or vague and taciturn:

And added pious counsels, unobserv'd,

Heeded but slightly, or ill understood.

The leaden-footed weeks o'er Conrad pass'd,With deadening weight.Privation bow'd his pride.The lily-handed, smiting at the forge,Detested life, and meditated meansTo accomplish suicide.At dusk of eve,While in his cell, on darkest themes he mused,Before his grate, a veiled woman stood.

The leaden-footed weeks o'er Conrad pass'd,

With deadening weight.

Privation bow'd his pride.

The lily-handed, smiting at the forge,

Detested life, and meditated means

To accomplish suicide.

At dusk of eve,

While in his cell, on darkest themes he mused,

Before his grate, a veiled woman stood.

—She spake not, but her presence made him glad,—A purer atmosphere seem'd breathing roundTo expand his shrivell'd heart.Fair gifts she brought,Roses fresh-blown, and cates, and fragrant fruitsMost grateful to his fever'd lip."Oh speak!Speak to me!"But she glided light away,And heavenly sweet, her parting whisper said"Good night! With the new moon I'll come again."

—She spake not, but her presence made him glad,—

A purer atmosphere seem'd breathing round

To expand his shrivell'd heart.

Fair gifts she brought,

Roses fresh-blown, and cates, and fragrant fruits

Most grateful to his fever'd lip.

"Oh speak!

Speak to me!"

But she glided light away,

And heavenly sweet, her parting whisper said

"Good night! With the new moon I'll come again."

"With the new Moon!"Hope! hope! Its magic wandWith phosphorescence ting'd that Stygian poolOf chill despair, in which his soul had sankLower and lower still. Now, at the forgeA blessed vision gleam'd. Its mystery wokeThe romance of his nature. Every dayMoved lighter on, and when he laid it down,It breathed "good night!" like a complacent childGoing to rest. One barrier less remain'dBetween him and the goal, and to each nightA tarrying, tedious guest, he bade farewell,Like lover, counting toward his spousal-morn.

"With the new Moon!"

Hope! hope! Its magic wand

With phosphorescence ting'd that Stygian pool

Of chill despair, in which his soul had sank

Lower and lower still. Now, at the forge

A blessed vision gleam'd. Its mystery woke

The romance of his nature. Every day

Moved lighter on, and when he laid it down,

It breathed "good night!" like a complacent child

Going to rest. One barrier less remain'd

Between him and the goal, and to each night

A tarrying, tedious guest, he bade farewell,

Like lover, counting toward his spousal-morn.

Butwill she come?And then, he blamed the doubt.His pulse beat quicker, as the old moon died.And when the slender sickle of pale goldCut the blue concave, by his grated doorStood the veil'd visitant. The breath of flowersForetold her coming. With their wealth she broughtGrapes in the cluster, and a clasped Book,The holiest, and the best."Show me thine eyes!"He pray'd. But still with undrawn veil, she gaveThe promise of return, in whisper sweet,"Good night! good night!Wilt read my Book? and sayOh Lamb of God, forgive!"So, by the lampWhen tardy Evening still'd the din of toil,He read of Him who came to save the lost,Who touch'd the blind, and they receiv'd their sight,The dead young man, and raised him from his bier,Reproved the raging Sea, and it was still:Deeds that his boyhood heard unheedingly.But here, in this strange solitude of painWith different voice they spake. And as he read,The fragrance of the mignionette he loved,Press'd 'tween the pages, lured him onward still.

Butwill she come?

And then, he blamed the doubt.

His pulse beat quicker, as the old moon died.

And when the slender sickle of pale gold

Cut the blue concave, by his grated door

Stood the veil'd visitant. The breath of flowers

Foretold her coming. With their wealth she brought

Grapes in the cluster, and a clasped Book,

The holiest, and the best.

"Show me thine eyes!"

He pray'd. But still with undrawn veil, she gave

The promise of return, in whisper sweet,

"Good night! good night!

Wilt read my Book? and say

Oh Lamb of God, forgive!"

So, by the lamp

When tardy Evening still'd the din of toil,

He read of Him who came to save the lost,

Who touch'd the blind, and they receiv'd their sight,

The dead young man, and raised him from his bier,

Reproved the raging Sea, and it was still:

Deeds that his boyhood heard unheedingly.

But here, in this strange solitude of pain

With different voice they spake. And as he read,

The fragrance of the mignionette he loved,

Press'd 'tween the pages, lured him onward still.

Now, a new echo in his heart was born,And sometimes mid the weary task, and leerOf felon faces, ere he was awareFrom a compress'd unmurmuring lip, it broke,O Lamb of God!If still unquell'd DespairThrust up a rebel standard, down it fellAt the o'er-powering sigh,O Lamb of God!And ere upon his pallet low, he sank,It sometimes breathed, "O Lamb of God, forgive!Like the taught lesson of a humbled child.

Now, a new echo in his heart was born,

And sometimes mid the weary task, and leer

Of felon faces, ere he was aware

From a compress'd unmurmuring lip, it broke,

O Lamb of God!If still unquell'd Despair

Thrust up a rebel standard, down it fell

At the o'er-powering sigh,O Lamb of God!

And ere upon his pallet low, he sank,

It sometimes breathed, "O Lamb of God, forgive!

Like the taught lesson of a humbled child.

Yet duly as the silver vested moonHiding awhile in the dark breast of nightReturn'd to take her regent watch againOver our sleeping planet, softly cameThat shrouded visitant, preferring stillLike those who guard us lest we dash our footAgainst a stone, to do her blessed workUnseen. And with the liberal gifts she broughtFor body, and for soul, there seem'd to floatA legacy of holy themes and thoughtsBehind her, like an incense-stream. He musedOft-times of patience, and the dying loveOf our dear Lord, nor yet without remorseOf that unsullied Truth which Vice rejects,And God requires.How beautiful is Truth!Her right-lined course, amid the veering curvesAnd tangents of the world, her open faceSeeking communion with the scanning stars,Her grave, severe simplicity of speechUntrammelled by the wiles of rhetoric,By bribes of popular applause unbow'd,In unison with Him she dwells who ruledThe tyranny of Chaos, with the words"Let there be light!"Gladly we turn againTo that fair mansion mid the rural valesWhere first our song awoke. Advancing yearsBrought to its blessed Lady no regretOr weak complaint for what the hand of TimeHad borne away. Enduring charms were hersOn which he laid no tax; the beaming smile,The voice of melody, the hand that mark'dEach day with deeds of goodness, and the heartThat made God's gift of life more beautiful,The more prolong'd. Its griefs she counted gains,Since He who wisely will'd them cannot err,And loves while He afflicts.Their dialectWas breathed in secret 'tween her soul and Him.But toward mankind, her duties made more pureBy the strong heat of their refining fires,Flow'd forth like molten gold. She sought the poor,Counsell'd the ignorant, consoled the sad,And made the happy happier, by her warmthOf social sympathy. She loved to drawThe young around her table; well she knewTo cheer and teach them, by the tale or song,Or sacred hymn, for music dwelt with herTill life went out. It pleased her much to hearTheir innocent merriment, while from the flowAnd swelling happiness of childhood's heartSo simply purchased, she herself imbibedA fuller tide of fresh vitality.Her favor'd guests exultingly rehears'dTheir visits to "the Lady," counting eachA privilege, not having learned the creedWhich modern times inculcate in our landThat whatsoe'er isold, isobsolete.

Yet duly as the silver vested moon

Hiding awhile in the dark breast of night

Return'd to take her regent watch again

Over our sleeping planet, softly came

That shrouded visitant, preferring still

Like those who guard us lest we dash our foot

Against a stone, to do her blessed work

Unseen. And with the liberal gifts she brought

For body, and for soul, there seem'd to float

A legacy of holy themes and thoughts

Behind her, like an incense-stream. He mused

Oft-times of patience, and the dying love

Of our dear Lord, nor yet without remorse

Of that unsullied Truth which Vice rejects,

And God requires.

How beautiful is Truth!

Her right-lined course, amid the veering curves

And tangents of the world, her open face

Seeking communion with the scanning stars,

Her grave, severe simplicity of speech

Untrammelled by the wiles of rhetoric,

By bribes of popular applause unbow'd,

In unison with Him she dwells who ruled

The tyranny of Chaos, with the words

"Let there be light!"

Gladly we turn again

To that fair mansion mid the rural vales

Where first our song awoke. Advancing years

Brought to its blessed Lady no regret

Or weak complaint for what the hand of Time

Had borne away. Enduring charms were hers

On which he laid no tax; the beaming smile,

The voice of melody, the hand that mark'd

Each day with deeds of goodness, and the heart

That made God's gift of life more beautiful,

The more prolong'd. Its griefs she counted gains,

Since He who wisely will'd them cannot err,

And loves while He afflicts.

Their dialect

Was breathed in secret 'tween her soul and Him.

But toward mankind, her duties made more pure

By the strong heat of their refining fires,

Flow'd forth like molten gold. She sought the poor,

Counsell'd the ignorant, consoled the sad,

And made the happy happier, by her warmth

Of social sympathy. She loved to draw

The young around her table; well she knew

To cheer and teach them, by the tale or song,

Or sacred hymn, for music dwelt with her

Till life went out. It pleased her much to hear

Their innocent merriment, while from the flow

And swelling happiness of childhood's heart

So simply purchased, she herself imbibed

A fuller tide of fresh vitality.

Her favor'd guests exultingly rehears'd

Their visits to "the Lady," counting each

A privilege, not having learned the creed

Which modern times inculcate in our land

That whatsoe'er isold, isobsolete.

—Still ever at her side, by night and dayWas Bertha, entering into every plan,With zealous aid, assuming every careThat brought a burden, catching every smileOn the clear mirror of a loving heart,Which by reflection doubled. Thus they dwelt,Mother and daughter, in sweet fellowship,One soul betwixt them. Filial pietyThrives best with generous natures. Here was noughtOf self to cheek it, so it richly bloom'dLike the life-tree, that yieldeth every monthNew fruits, still hiding mid its wealth of leavesThe balm of healing.In that peaceful homeThe fair-haired orphan was a fount of joy,Spreading her young heart like a tintless sheetFor Love to write on. Sporting 'mid the flowers,Caroling with the birds, or gliding lightAs fawn, her fine, elastic temperamentTook happiest coloring from each varying hourOr changing duty. Kind, providing caresWhich younglings often thoughtlessly receiveOr thankless claim, she gratefully repaidWith glad obedience. Pleas'd was she to bearPrecocious part in household industry,Round shining bars to involve the shortening thread,And see the stocking grow, or side by sideWith her loved benefactresses to workUpon some garment for the ill-clad poor,With busy needle. As their almoner,'Twas her delight to seek some lowly hutAnd gliding thence, with noiseless footstep, leaveWith her kind dole, a wonder whence it came.—A heavenly blessing wrapp'd its wing aroundThe adopted orphanage.Oh ye whose homesAre childless, know ye not some little heartCollapsing, for the need of parent's love,That ye might breathe upon? some outcast lambThat ye might shelter in your fold? contentTo make the sad eye sparkle, guide the feetIn duty's path, bring a new soul to Heaven,And take your payment from the Judge's Voice,At the Last Day?—A tireless tide of joy,A world of pleasure in the garden bound,Open'd to Leonore. From the first glanceOf the frail Crocus through its snowy sheath,On, to the ripen'd gatherings of the Grape,And thorn-clad chestnut, all was sweet to her.She loved to plant the seed and watch the germ,And nurse the tender leaflet like a babe,And lead the tendril right. To her they seem'dLike living friends. She sedulously mark'dTheir health and order, and was skill'd to pruneThe too luxuriant spray, or gadding vine.She taught the blushing Strawberry where to run,And stoop'd to kiss the timid Violet,Blossoming in the shade, and sometimes dream'dThe Lily of the lakelet, calmly thronedOn its broad leaf, like Moses in his ark,Spake words to her. And so, as years fled by,Young Fancy, train'd by Nature, turn'd to God.Her clear, Teutonic mind, took hold on truthAnd found in every season, change of joy.

—Still ever at her side, by night and day

Was Bertha, entering into every plan,

With zealous aid, assuming every care

That brought a burden, catching every smile

On the clear mirror of a loving heart,

Which by reflection doubled. Thus they dwelt,

Mother and daughter, in sweet fellowship,

One soul betwixt them. Filial piety

Thrives best with generous natures. Here was nought

Of self to cheek it, so it richly bloom'd

Like the life-tree, that yieldeth every month

New fruits, still hiding mid its wealth of leaves

The balm of healing.

In that peaceful home

The fair-haired orphan was a fount of joy,

Spreading her young heart like a tintless sheet

For Love to write on. Sporting 'mid the flowers,

Caroling with the birds, or gliding light

As fawn, her fine, elastic temperament

Took happiest coloring from each varying hour

Or changing duty. Kind, providing cares

Which younglings often thoughtlessly receive

Or thankless claim, she gratefully repaid

With glad obedience. Pleas'd was she to bear

Precocious part in household industry,

Round shining bars to involve the shortening thread,

And see the stocking grow, or side by side

With her loved benefactresses to work

Upon some garment for the ill-clad poor,

With busy needle. As their almoner,

'Twas her delight to seek some lowly hut

And gliding thence, with noiseless footstep, leave

With her kind dole, a wonder whence it came.

—A heavenly blessing wrapp'd its wing around

The adopted orphanage.

Oh ye whose homes

Are childless, know ye not some little heart

Collapsing, for the need of parent's love,

That ye might breathe upon? some outcast lamb

That ye might shelter in your fold? content

To make the sad eye sparkle, guide the feet

In duty's path, bring a new soul to Heaven,

And take your payment from the Judge's Voice,

At the Last Day?

—A tireless tide of joy,

A world of pleasure in the garden bound,

Open'd to Leonore. From the first glance

Of the frail Crocus through its snowy sheath,

On, to the ripen'd gatherings of the Grape,

And thorn-clad chestnut, all was sweet to her.

She loved to plant the seed and watch the germ,

And nurse the tender leaflet like a babe,

And lead the tendril right. To her they seem'd

Like living friends. She sedulously mark'd

Their health and order, and was skill'd to prune

The too luxuriant spray, or gadding vine.

She taught the blushing Strawberry where to run,

And stoop'd to kiss the timid Violet,

Blossoming in the shade, and sometimes dream'd

The Lily of the lakelet, calmly throned

On its broad leaf, like Moses in his ark,

Spake words to her. And so, as years fled by,

Young Fancy, train'd by Nature, turn'd to God.

Her clear, Teutonic mind, took hold on truth

And found in every season, change of joy.

—Yet her prime pleasure seem'd at wintry eveTho' storms might fall, when from its branching armsThe antique candelabra shed fair lightOn polished wainscot and rich curtains dropp'dClose o'er the casements, she might draw her seatNear to her aged friend and take her handAnd frame her voice to join some tuneful song,Treasuring whate'er of wise remark distill'dFrom those loved lips.Then, as her Mentor spokeOf God's great goodness in this mortal life,Teaching us both by sorrow and by joy,And how we ought to yield it back with trustAnd not with dread, whenever He should call,Having such precious promises, through ChristOf gain unspeakable, beyond the grave,The listening pupil felt her heart expandWith reverent love.Friendship, 'tween youth and ageIs gain to both,—nor least to that which findsThe germs of knowledge and experience dropAnd twine themselves around the unfrosted locks,A fadeless coronet. In this sweet homeThe lengthen'd day seem'd short for their delights,And wintry evening brief. The historic pageMade vocal, brought large wealth to memory.The lore of distant climes, that rose and fellEre our New World, like Lazarus came forth,The napkin round her forehead, and sate downBeside her startled sisters.Last of all,The large time-honor'd Bible loos'd its claspsAnd shed its manna on their waiting souls;Then rose the sacred hymn in blended tones,By Bertha's parlor-organ made intenseIn melody of praise, and fervent PrayerSet its pure crown upon the parted day,And kiss'd the Angel, Sleep.Yet ere they roseFrom bended knee, there was a lingering pause,A silent orison for one whose nameBut seldom pass'd their lips, though in their heartsHis image with its faults and sorrows dwelt,Invoking pity of a pardoning God.

—Yet her prime pleasure seem'd at wintry eve

Tho' storms might fall, when from its branching arms

The antique candelabra shed fair light

On polished wainscot and rich curtains dropp'd

Close o'er the casements, she might draw her seat

Near to her aged friend and take her hand

And frame her voice to join some tuneful song,

Treasuring whate'er of wise remark distill'd

From those loved lips.

Then, as her Mentor spoke

Of God's great goodness in this mortal life,

Teaching us both by sorrow and by joy,

And how we ought to yield it back with trust

And not with dread, whenever He should call,

Having such precious promises, through Christ

Of gain unspeakable, beyond the grave,

The listening pupil felt her heart expand

With reverent love.

Friendship, 'tween youth and age

Is gain to both,—nor least to that which finds

The germs of knowledge and experience drop

And twine themselves around the unfrosted locks,

A fadeless coronet. In this sweet home

The lengthen'd day seem'd short for their delights,

And wintry evening brief. The historic page

Made vocal, brought large wealth to memory.

The lore of distant climes, that rose and fell

Ere our New World, like Lazarus came forth,

The napkin round her forehead, and sate down

Beside her startled sisters.

Last of all,

The large time-honor'd Bible loos'd its clasps

And shed its manna on their waiting souls;

Then rose the sacred hymn in blended tones,

By Bertha's parlor-organ made intense

In melody of praise, and fervent Prayer

Set its pure crown upon the parted day,

And kiss'd the Angel, Sleep.

Yet ere they rose

From bended knee, there was a lingering pause,

A silent orison for one whose name

But seldom pass'd their lips, though in their hearts

His image with its faults and sorrows dwelt,

Invoking pity of a pardoning God.

—Thus fled the years away, the cultured glebeStirr'd by the vernal plough-share, yielding charmsTo Summer, pouring wealth o'er Autumn's breast,Pausing from weary toil, when Winter comes,Bringing its Sabbath, as the man of eldWith snow upon his temples, peaceful sitsIn his arm-chair, to ruminate and rest.

—Thus fled the years away, the cultured glebe

Stirr'd by the vernal plough-share, yielding charms

To Summer, pouring wealth o'er Autumn's breast,

Pausing from weary toil, when Winter comes,

Bringing its Sabbath, as the man of eld

With snow upon his temples, peaceful sits

In his arm-chair, to ruminate and rest.

Once, at that season when the ices shrinkBefere the vernal equinox, at mornThere was no movement in the Lady's room,Who prized the early hours like molten gold,And ever rose before the kingly Sun.

Once, at that season when the ices shrink

Befere the vernal equinox, at morn

There was no movement in the Lady's room,

Who prized the early hours like molten gold,

And ever rose before the kingly Sun.

—On the white pillow still reposed her head,Her cheek upon her hand. She had retiredIn health, affection's words, and trustful prayersHallowing her lips. Now, on her brow there seem'dUnwonted smoothness, and the smile was thereSet as a seal, with which the call she heard,"Come! sister-spirit!"She had gain'd the wishOft utter'd to her God, to pass awayWithout the sickness and enfeebled powersThat tax the heart of love. Death that unbarsUnto the ready soul the Gate of Heaven,Claiming no pang or groan from failing flesh,Doth angel-service.But alas! the shock,The chill, the change, the anguish, where she dwelt,And must return no more. As one amaz'dThe stricken daughter held her breath for awe,God seem'd so near. Methought she saw the HandThat smote her. Half herself was reft away,Body and soul. Yet no repining wordAnnounc'd her agony.The tolling bellTo hill and valley, told with solemn tongueThat death had been among them, and at doorAnd window listening, aged crone and childCounted its strokes, a stroke for every year,And predicated thence, as best they might,Whom they had lost. Neighbor of neighbor ask'd,Till the sad tidings were possess'd by all.

—On the white pillow still reposed her head,

Her cheek upon her hand. She had retired

In health, affection's words, and trustful prayers

Hallowing her lips. Now, on her brow there seem'd

Unwonted smoothness, and the smile was there

Set as a seal, with which the call she heard,

"Come! sister-spirit!"

She had gain'd the wish

Oft utter'd to her God, to pass away

Without the sickness and enfeebled powers

That tax the heart of love. Death that unbars

Unto the ready soul the Gate of Heaven,

Claiming no pang or groan from failing flesh,

Doth angel-service.

But alas! the shock,

The chill, the change, the anguish, where she dwelt,

And must return no more. As one amaz'd

The stricken daughter held her breath for awe,

God seem'd so near. Methought she saw the Hand

That smote her. Half herself was reft away,

Body and soul. Yet no repining word

Announc'd her agony.

The tolling bell

To hill and valley, told with solemn tongue

That death had been among them, and at door

And window listening, aged crone and child

Counted its strokes, a stroke for every year,

And predicated thence, as best they might,

Whom they had lost. Neighbor of neighbor ask'd,

Till the sad tidings were possess'd by all.

—A village funeral is a thing that warnsAll from their homes. In the throng'd city's bound,Hearses unnoticed pass, and none inquireWho goeth to his grave. But rural lifeKeepeth afresh the rills of sympathy.True sorrow was there at these obsequies,For all the poor were mourners. There the oldCame in the garments she had given, bow'd downWith their own sense of loss. O'er furrow'd cheeksIn care-worn channels stole the trickling tear.The young were weepers, for their memories storedMany a gentle word, and precept kind,Like jewels dropp'd behind her. Mothers rais'dTheir little ones above the coffin's sideTo look upon her face. Lingering they gazedDeeming the lovely Lady sweetly sleptAmong the flowers that on her pillow lay.

—A village funeral is a thing that warns

All from their homes. In the throng'd city's bound,

Hearses unnoticed pass, and none inquire

Who goeth to his grave. But rural life

Keepeth afresh the rills of sympathy.

True sorrow was there at these obsequies,

For all the poor were mourners. There the old

Came in the garments she had given, bow'd down

With their own sense of loss. O'er furrow'd cheeks

In care-worn channels stole the trickling tear.

The young were weepers, for their memories stored

Many a gentle word, and precept kind,

Like jewels dropp'd behind her. Mothers rais'd

Their little ones above the coffin's side

To look upon her face. Lingering they gazed

Deeming the lovely Lady sweetly slept

Among the flowers that on her pillow lay.

He's but a tyro in the school of griefWho hath not from the victor-tomb return'dUnto his rifled home. The utter weightOf whelming desolation doth not fallTill the last rites are paid. The cares of loveHaving no longer scope, withdraw their shield,And even the seat whereon the lost one sate,The pen he held, the cup from which he drank,Launch their keen darts against the festering soul.

He's but a tyro in the school of grief

Who hath not from the victor-tomb return'd

Unto his rifled home. The utter weight

Of whelming desolation doth not fall

Till the last rites are paid. The cares of love

Having no longer scope, withdraw their shield,

And even the seat whereon the lost one sate,

The pen he held, the cup from which he drank,

Launch their keen darts against the festering soul.

—The lonely daughter, never since her birthDivided from the mother, having knownNo separate pleasure, or secreted thought,With deep humility resumed her courseOf daily duty and philanthropy,Not murmuring, but remembering His great loveWho lent so long that blessing beyond price,And from her broken censer offering stillIncense of praise.She deem'd it fearful lossTo lose a sorrow, be chastis'd in vain,Not yield our joys, but have them rent away,And make this life a battle-field with God.

—The lonely daughter, never since her birth

Divided from the mother, having known

No separate pleasure, or secreted thought,

With deep humility resumed her course

Of daily duty and philanthropy,

Not murmuring, but remembering His great love

Who lent so long that blessing beyond price,

And from her broken censer offering still

Incense of praise.

She deem'd it fearful loss

To lose a sorrow, be chastis'd in vain,

Not yield our joys, but have them rent away,

And make this life a battle-field with God.

The sombre shadow brooding o'er their homeWas felt by all. The heart of LeonoreDwindled and shrank beneath it. Vigor fled,The untastcd meal, and couch bedew'd with tearsGave the solution to her wasted flesh,And drooping eye-lids.Folded in her arms,Bertha with tender accents said, "my child,We please not her who to the angels went,By hopeless grief. Doubt not her watchful eyeRegards us, though unseen. How oft she taughtTo make God's will our own. You, who were gladTo do her bidding then, distress her notBy disobedience now. Waste not the healthIn reckless martyrdom, which Heaven hath link'dWith many duties, and with hope to dwellIf faithful found, with Her who went beforeAnd beckoning waits us."From dull trance of griefBy kind reproof awakened, LeonoreStrove to redeem her scholarship from blameAnd be a comforter, as best she mightTo her remaining patroness.

The sombre shadow brooding o'er their home

Was felt by all. The heart of Leonore

Dwindled and shrank beneath it. Vigor fled,

The untastcd meal, and couch bedew'd with tears

Gave the solution to her wasted flesh,

And drooping eye-lids.

Folded in her arms,

Bertha with tender accents said, "my child,

We please not her who to the angels went,

By hopeless grief. Doubt not her watchful eye

Regards us, though unseen. How oft she taught

To make God's will our own. You, who were glad

To do her bidding then, distress her not

By disobedience now. Waste not the health

In reckless martyrdom, which Heaven hath link'd

With many duties, and with hope to dwell

If faithful found, with Her who went before

And beckoning waits us."

From dull trance of grief

By kind reproof awakened, Leonore

Strove to redeem her scholarship from blame

And be a comforter, as best she might

To her remaining patroness.

WithinThe limits of a neighboring town, a wretchFell by the wayside, struck by sudden DeathThat vice propels. A Man of God, who soughtLike his blest Master every form of woeFound him, and to a shelter and a couchConvey'd. Then bending down, with earnest wordsFor time grew short, he urg'd him to repent."Say, Lord have mercy on my soul.Look upUnto the Lamb of God, for He can saveEven to the uttermost."Slight heed obtain'dThis adjuration, wild the glazing eyeFix'd on the wall,—and ever and anonThe stiffening fingers clutch'd at things unseen,While from those spent lungs came a shuddering sound,"That's he! That's he!The old man! His grey hairsDabbled with blood!"Then in a loud, long cry,Wrung out by torturing pain,"I struck the blow!I tell ye that I struck the blow, and scaped.Conrad who bore the doom is innocent,Save fellowship with guilt."And so he fled;The voice of prayer around him, but the soulBeyond its reach. The kneeling Pastor roseSadly, as when the Shepherd fails to snatchA wanderer from the Lion.But the truthCouch'd in that dismal cry of parting lifeHe treasured up, and bore to those who heldPower to investigate and to reprieve;And authorized by them with gladness soughtThe gloomy prison. Conrad there he foundIn sullen syncope of sickening thought,And cautiously in measured terms disclosedHis liberation. Wondering doubt look'd forthFrom eyes that opening wide and wider stillStrain'd from their sockets. Yet the hand he tookThat led him from the cell, and onward movedLike Peter following his angel guideDeeming he saw a vision. As the boltsDrew gratingly to let them pass, he seem'dTo gather consciousness, and restless grewWith an unspoken fear, lest at the lastSome sterner turnkey, or gruff sentinelMight bar their egress.When behind them closed.The utmost barrier, and the sweet, fresh airSo long witheld, fill'd his collapsing lungs,He shouted rapturously,"Am I alive?Or have I burst the gates of death, and foundA second Eden?"The unwonted soundOf his own voice, freed from the drear constraintOf prison durance, swell'd his thrilling frameWith strong and joyous impulse, for 'tis saidLong stifled utterance is torturing painTo organs train'd to speech.With one high leapLike an enfranchis'd steed he seem'd to throwHis spirit-chain behind him. Then he tookThe Pastor's offer'd arm, who led the wayTo his own house, and bade him bathe and changeHis prison garments, and repose that nightUnder his roof.With thoughtful care he spokeTo his own household, kindly to receiveThe erring one,—"for we are sinners all,And not upon our merits may dependBut on abounding grace."So when the hourOf cheerful supper summon'd to the board,He came among them as a comely guest,Refresh'd and welcome. Pleasant converse cheer'dThe hospitable meal, and then withdrawnInto the quiet study 'mid the books,That saintly good man with the hoary hairSilvering his temples like a graceful crown,Strove by wise counsel to encourage himFor life's important duties,But he deem'dA ban was on him, and a mark which allWould scan who met him."He whose lot hath beenWith fiends in Pandemonium, must expectHate and contempt from men.""Not so, my son!Wipe off the past, as a forgotten thing,Propitiate virtue, by forsaking vice.The good will aid you, and a brighter dayDoubtless awaits you. Be not too much movedBy man's applause or blame, but ever lookUnto a higher Judge."Then there aroseA voice of supplication, so intenseTo the Great Pardoner, that He would sendHis spirit down to change and purifyThe erring heart, that those persuasive tones,So humble, yet so strangely eloquentBreathed o'er the unhappy one like soothing spellOf magic influence, and he slept that nightWith peace and hope, long exiled from his couch.

Within

The limits of a neighboring town, a wretch

Fell by the wayside, struck by sudden Death

That vice propels. A Man of God, who sought

Like his blest Master every form of woe

Found him, and to a shelter and a couch

Convey'd. Then bending down, with earnest words

For time grew short, he urg'd him to repent.

"Say, Lord have mercy on my soul.

Look up

Unto the Lamb of God, for He can save

Even to the uttermost."

Slight heed obtain'd

This adjuration, wild the glazing eye

Fix'd on the wall,—and ever and anon

The stiffening fingers clutch'd at things unseen,

While from those spent lungs came a shuddering sound,

"That's he! That's he!

The old man! His grey hairs

Dabbled with blood!"

Then in a loud, long cry,

Wrung out by torturing pain,

"I struck the blow!

I tell ye that I struck the blow, and scaped.

Conrad who bore the doom is innocent,

Save fellowship with guilt."

And so he fled;

The voice of prayer around him, but the soul

Beyond its reach. The kneeling Pastor rose

Sadly, as when the Shepherd fails to snatch

A wanderer from the Lion.

But the truth

Couch'd in that dismal cry of parting life

He treasured up, and bore to those who held

Power to investigate and to reprieve;

And authorized by them with gladness sought

The gloomy prison. Conrad there he found

In sullen syncope of sickening thought,

And cautiously in measured terms disclosed

His liberation. Wondering doubt look'd forth

From eyes that opening wide and wider still

Strain'd from their sockets. Yet the hand he took

That led him from the cell, and onward moved

Like Peter following his angel guide

Deeming he saw a vision. As the bolts

Drew gratingly to let them pass, he seem'd

To gather consciousness, and restless grew

With an unspoken fear, lest at the last

Some sterner turnkey, or gruff sentinel

Might bar their egress.

When behind them closed.

The utmost barrier, and the sweet, fresh air

So long witheld, fill'd his collapsing lungs,

He shouted rapturously,

"Am I alive?

Or have I burst the gates of death, and found

A second Eden?"

The unwonted sound

Of his own voice, freed from the drear constraint

Of prison durance, swell'd his thrilling frame

With strong and joyous impulse, for 'tis said

Long stifled utterance is torturing pain

To organs train'd to speech.

With one high leap

Like an enfranchis'd steed he seem'd to throw

His spirit-chain behind him. Then he took

The Pastor's offer'd arm, who led the way

To his own house, and bade him bathe and change

His prison garments, and repose that night

Under his roof.

With thoughtful care he spoke

To his own household, kindly to receive

The erring one,—"for we are sinners all,

And not upon our merits may depend

But on abounding grace."

So when the hour

Of cheerful supper summon'd to the board,

He came among them as a comely guest,

Refresh'd and welcome. Pleasant converse cheer'd

The hospitable meal, and then withdrawn

Into the quiet study 'mid the books,

That saintly good man with the hoary hair

Silvering his temples like a graceful crown,

Strove by wise counsel to encourage him

For life's important duties,

But he deem'd

A ban was on him, and a mark which all

Would scan who met him.

"He whose lot hath been

With fiends in Pandemonium, must expect

Hate and contempt from men."

"Not so, my son!

Wipe off the past, as a forgotten thing,

Propitiate virtue, by forsaking vice.

The good will aid you, and a brighter day

Doubtless awaits you. Be not too much moved

By man's applause or blame, but ever look

Unto a higher Judge."

Then there arose

A voice of supplication, so intense

To the Great Pardoner, that He would send

His spirit down to change and purify

The erring heart, that those persuasive tones,

So humble, yet so strangely eloquent

Breathed o'er the unhappy one like soothing spell

Of magic influence, and he slept that night

With peace and hope, long exiled from his couch.

A summer drive to one sequestered long,Hath charms untold.The common face of earth,The waving grass, the rustle of the leaves,Kiss'd by the zephyr, or by winged birdDisparted, as it finds its chirping nest,The murmur of the brooks, the low of herds,The ever-changing landscape, rock and stream,And azure concave fleck'd with silver cloudsAwaken rapturous joy. This Conrad felt,While pleasure every kindling feature touch'd,And every accent tuned. But when they sawThe fair ancestral roof through trees afar,Strong agony convuls'd him, and he cried,"Not there! Not there!First take me toHergrave!"And so to that secluded spot they turn'd,Where rest the silent dead.On the green mound,His Mother's bed, with sobs and groans he fell,And in his paroxysm of grief would fainHave torn the turf-bound earth away, to reachThe mouldering coffin. Then, a flood of tears,Heaven's blessed gift burst forth,"Oh weep, my Son!These gushing tears shall help to wash awayRemorseful pangs, and lurking seeds of sin.Here, in this sacred tomb, bury the past,And strong in heavenly trust, resolve to riseTo a new life."Still kneeling on the sodWith hands and eyes uprais'd, he said,"I will!So help me God!"The tear was on his cheekUndry'd, when to the home of peace they came.There Bertha greeted them with outstretch'd handsAnd beaming brow, while the good Pastor said,"Thy Son was dead, but is alive again."A sweet voice answer'd,"Lost he was, and found!Oh, welcome home."She would have folded himIn her embrace. But at her feet he fell,Clasping her knees, and bowing down his head,Till she assured him that a mother's loveWas in her heart."And there is joy in HeavenBecause of him, this day," the good Man said.—His tones were tremulous, as up he rose,"Ah, my veil'd Angel! Now I see thy face,And hear thy voice."

A summer drive to one sequestered long,

Hath charms untold.

The common face of earth,

The waving grass, the rustle of the leaves,

Kiss'd by the zephyr, or by winged bird

Disparted, as it finds its chirping nest,

The murmur of the brooks, the low of herds,

The ever-changing landscape, rock and stream,

And azure concave fleck'd with silver clouds

Awaken rapturous joy. This Conrad felt,

While pleasure every kindling feature touch'd,

And every accent tuned. But when they saw

The fair ancestral roof through trees afar,

Strong agony convuls'd him, and he cried,

"Not there! Not there!

First take me toHergrave!"

And so to that secluded spot they turn'd,

Where rest the silent dead.

On the green mound,

His Mother's bed, with sobs and groans he fell,

And in his paroxysm of grief would fain

Have torn the turf-bound earth away, to reach

The mouldering coffin. Then, a flood of tears,

Heaven's blessed gift burst forth,

"Oh weep, my Son!

These gushing tears shall help to wash away

Remorseful pangs, and lurking seeds of sin.

Here, in this sacred tomb, bury the past,

And strong in heavenly trust, resolve to rise

To a new life."

Still kneeling on the sod

With hands and eyes uprais'd, he said,

"I will!

So help me God!"

The tear was on his cheek

Undry'd, when to the home of peace they came.

There Bertha greeted them with outstretch'd hands

And beaming brow, while the good Pastor said,

"Thy Son was dead, but is alive again."

A sweet voice answer'd,

"Lost he was, and found!

Oh, welcome home."

She would have folded him

In her embrace. But at her feet he fell,

Clasping her knees, and bowing down his head,

Till she assured him that a mother's love

Was in her heart.

"And there is joy in Heaven

Because of him, this day," the good Man said.

—His tones were tremulous, as up he rose,

"Ah, my veil'd Angel! Now I see thy face,

And hear thy voice."

What were the glowing thoughtsOf the meek shepherd, as alone he tookHis homeward way? The joy of others flow'dO'er his glad spirit like a refluent tideWhose sands were gold. Had he not chosen wellHis source of happiness?There are, who mixPride and ambition with their servicesBefore the altar. Did the tinkling bellsUpon the garments of the Jewish priestDraw down his thoughts from God?The mitred brow,Doth it stoop low enough to find the soulsThat struggle in the pits of sin, and die?Methinks ambitious honors might disturbThe man whose banner is the Cross of Christ,And earth's high places shut him out of Heaven.

What were the glowing thoughts

Of the meek shepherd, as alone he took

His homeward way? The joy of others flow'd

O'er his glad spirit like a refluent tide

Whose sands were gold. Had he not chosen well

His source of happiness?

There are, who mix

Pride and ambition with their services

Before the altar. Did the tinkling bells

Upon the garments of the Jewish priest

Draw down his thoughts from God?

The mitred brow,

Doth it stoop low enough to find the souls

That struggle in the pits of sin, and die?

Methinks ambitious honors might disturb

The man whose banner is the Cross of Christ,

And earth's high places shut him out of Heaven.

—Yet this serene disciple, so contentTo do his Master's will, in humblest worksOf charity, had he not chosen wellHis happiness?The hero hears the trumpOf victor-fame, and his high pulses leap,But laurels dipp'd in blood shall vex his soulWhen the death-ague comes. More blest is heWho bearing on his brow the anointing oilKeeps in his heart the humility and zealThat sanctify his vows. So, full of joyThat fears no frost of earth, because its rootIs by the river of eternal life,The white-hair'd Pastor took his homeward way.

—Yet this serene disciple, so content

To do his Master's will, in humblest works

Of charity, had he not chosen well

His happiness?

The hero hears the trump

Of victor-fame, and his high pulses leap,

But laurels dipp'd in blood shall vex his soul

When the death-ague comes. More blest is he

Who bearing on his brow the anointing oil

Keeps in his heart the humility and zeal

That sanctify his vows. So, full of joy

That fears no frost of earth, because its root

Is by the river of eternal life,

The white-hair'd Pastor took his homeward way.

New life upon the farm. A master's eyeAnd step are there. Forest, and cultured field,And garden feel his influence. Forth at mornHe goes amid the laboring hinds who batheTheir scythe in fragrant dew, mid all their toilsTeaching or learning, with such cheerful portAs won their hearts.Even animals partookHis kind regard. The horse, with arching neck,And ear erect, replied as best he mightTo his caressing tones. The patient ox,With branching horns, and the full-udder'd cowGrew sleek and flourish'd and in happiest guiseReveal'd his regency. The noble dog,O'erflowing with intelligence and zeal,Follow'd him as a friend; even the poor catOft scorn'd and distanc'd, till her fawning loveTurns into abjectness, crept to his kneeWithout reproof, and thro' her half-shut eyesRegarding him, ere into sleep she sankWith song monotonous, express'd her joy.

New life upon the farm. A master's eye

And step are there. Forest, and cultured field,

And garden feel his influence. Forth at morn

He goes amid the laboring hinds who bathe

Their scythe in fragrant dew, mid all their toils

Teaching or learning, with such cheerful port

As won their hearts.

Even animals partook

His kind regard. The horse, with arching neck,

And ear erect, replied as best he might

To his caressing tones. The patient ox,

With branching horns, and the full-udder'd cow

Grew sleek and flourish'd and in happiest guise

Reveal'd his regency. The noble dog,

O'erflowing with intelligence and zeal,

Follow'd him as a friend; even the poor cat

Oft scorn'd and distanc'd, till her fawning love

Turns into abjectness, crept to his knee

Without reproof, and thro' her half-shut eyes

Regarding him, ere into sleep she sank

With song monotonous, express'd her joy.

—He loved to hear the clarion of the cock,And see him in his gallantry protectThe brooding mothers,—of their infant chargeSo fond and proud.The generous care bestow'dFor weal and comfort of these servitorsAnd their mute dialect of gratitudePleas'd and refresh'd him, while those blessed toilsThat quicken earth's fertility bestowedThe boon of healthful vigor. Bertha foundThe burden of her cares securely laidOn his young arm, and gratefully beheldEach day a portion of allotted timeSpent in the library, with earnest care,Seeking the knowledge that in youth he scorn'd.

—He loved to hear the clarion of the cock,

And see him in his gallantry protect

The brooding mothers,—of their infant charge

So fond and proud.

The generous care bestow'd

For weal and comfort of these servitors

And their mute dialect of gratitude

Pleas'd and refresh'd him, while those blessed toils

That quicken earth's fertility bestowed

The boon of healthful vigor. Bertha found

The burden of her cares securely laid

On his young arm, and gratefully beheld

Each day a portion of allotted time

Spent in the library, with earnest care,

Seeking the knowledge that in youth he scorn'd.

—Amid their rural neighborhood were someWho frankly took him by the hand, as one,Worthy to rise, and others who preferr'dTo cherish evil memories, or indulgeDark auguries. But on his course he heldUnmov'd by either, for to her he seem'dIntent and emulous alone to pleaseA higher Judge. When leaning on his armShe sought the House of God, her tranquil browSeem'd in its time-tried beauty to expressTheNunc Dimittis.Prisons are not oftConverting places. Vicious habits shornOf their top branches, strike a rankling rootDarkly beneath, while hatred of mankindAnd of the justice that decreed such doomBar out the Love Divine.Yet Bertha feltGod's spirit was not limited, and mightPluck brands from out the burning, and in faithBeliev'd the son of many prayers had foundRemission of his God. His life she scann'd,Of honest, cheerful industry, combinedWith intellectual progress, and perceivedHow his religious worship humbly woreThe signet "I have sinn'd;" while toward menHis speech was cautious, far beyond his years,As one by stern Experience school'd to knowThe human heart's deceptions. Yet at homeAnd in that fellowship with Nature's worksWhich Agriculture gives, his soul threw offIts fetters and grew strong.Once as they walk'dWithin a favorite grove, consulting whereThe woodman's ax, or pruning-knife had bestExert their wholesome ministry, he ledTo a fair resting-place, a turf-bound seat,Beneath a spreading Walnut, carpetedWith depth of fragrant leaves, while a slight brookHalf-hidden, half revealed, with minstrel touch,Soften'd the spirit. There, in tones subduedBy strong emotion, he disclosed his loveFor Leonore."Oh Conrad! she is pureAnd peaceful as the lily bud that sleepsOn the heaven-mirror'd lake.""I know it well,Nor would I wake a ripple or a breathTo mar its purity.""Yet wait, my Son!""Wait? Mother, wait! It is not in man's heartTo love, and wait?""But make your prayer to God.Lay your petition at his feet, and seeWhat is His will.""Before that God I swearTo be her true protector and best friendTill death remove me hence, if she confideAt fitting time, that holy trust to me.Oh angel Mother! sanction me to searchIf in her heart there be one answering chordTo my great love. So may we lead belowThat blended life which with a firmer stepAnd holier joy tends upward toward a realmOf perfect bliss."Thus authorized, he madeHer mind's improvement his delight, and foundCommunity in knowledge was a spellTo draw young hearts together. O'er the loreAnd language of her native land they hungGleaning its riches with a tireless hand,Deep and enamour'd students. When she sangOr play'd, he join'd her with his silvery flute,Making the thrill of music more intenseThrough the heart's harmony.Amid the flowersHe met her, and her garden's pleasant toilShared with a master's hand, for well he knewThe nature and the welfare of the plantsThat most she prized. They loved the umbrageous trees,And in their strong, columnar trunks beheldThe Almighty Architect, and for His sakePaid them respect.At the soft twilight hour,He sate beside her silently, and watch'dThe pensive lustre of her lifted eye,Intent to welcome the first star that hungIts holy cresset forth. UnconsciouslyHer moods of lonely musing stole away,And his endear'd society becamePart of her being.In her soul was noughtOf vanity, or coquetry to barThat heaven-imparted sentiment which makesAll hope, all thought, all self, subordinateUnto another's weal, while life shall last.

—Amid their rural neighborhood were some

Who frankly took him by the hand, as one,

Worthy to rise, and others who preferr'd

To cherish evil memories, or indulge

Dark auguries. But on his course he held

Unmov'd by either, for to her he seem'd

Intent and emulous alone to please

A higher Judge. When leaning on his arm

She sought the House of God, her tranquil brow

Seem'd in its time-tried beauty to express

TheNunc Dimittis.

Prisons are not oft

Converting places. Vicious habits shorn

Of their top branches, strike a rankling root

Darkly beneath, while hatred of mankind

And of the justice that decreed such doom

Bar out the Love Divine.

Yet Bertha felt

God's spirit was not limited, and might

Pluck brands from out the burning, and in faith

Believ'd the son of many prayers had found

Remission of his God. His life she scann'd,

Of honest, cheerful industry, combined

With intellectual progress, and perceived

How his religious worship humbly wore

The signet "I have sinn'd;" while toward men

His speech was cautious, far beyond his years,

As one by stern Experience school'd to know

The human heart's deceptions. Yet at home

And in that fellowship with Nature's works

Which Agriculture gives, his soul threw off

Its fetters and grew strong.

Once as they walk'd

Within a favorite grove, consulting where

The woodman's ax, or pruning-knife had best

Exert their wholesome ministry, he led

To a fair resting-place, a turf-bound seat,

Beneath a spreading Walnut, carpeted

With depth of fragrant leaves, while a slight brook

Half-hidden, half revealed, with minstrel touch,

Soften'd the spirit. There, in tones subdued

By strong emotion, he disclosed his love

For Leonore.

"Oh Conrad! she is pure

And peaceful as the lily bud that sleeps

On the heaven-mirror'd lake."

"I know it well,

Nor would I wake a ripple or a breath

To mar its purity."

"Yet wait, my Son!"

"Wait? Mother, wait! It is not in man's heart

To love, and wait?"

"But make your prayer to God.

Lay your petition at his feet, and see

What is His will."

"Before that God I swear

To be her true protector and best friend

Till death remove me hence, if she confide

At fitting time, that holy trust to me.

Oh angel Mother! sanction me to search

If in her heart there be one answering chord

To my great love. So may we lead below

That blended life which with a firmer step

And holier joy tends upward toward a realm

Of perfect bliss."

Thus authorized, he made

Her mind's improvement his delight, and found

Community in knowledge was a spell

To draw young hearts together. O'er the lore

And language of her native land they hung

Gleaning its riches with a tireless hand,

Deep and enamour'd students. When she sang

Or play'd, he join'd her with his silvery flute,

Making the thrill of music more intense

Through the heart's harmony.

Amid the flowers

He met her, and her garden's pleasant toil

Shared with a master's hand, for well he knew

The nature and the welfare of the plants

That most she prized. They loved the umbrageous trees,

And in their strong, columnar trunks beheld

The Almighty Architect, and for His sake

Paid them respect.

At the soft twilight hour,

He sate beside her silently, and watch'd

The pensive lustre of her lifted eye,

Intent to welcome the first star that hung

Its holy cresset forth. Unconsciously

Her moods of lonely musing stole away,

And his endear'd society became

Part of her being.

In her soul was nought

Of vanity, or coquetry to bar

That heaven-imparted sentiment which makes

All hope, all thought, all self, subordinate

Unto another's weal, while life shall last.

One morn, the orphan sought the private earOf her kind benefactress.In low tonesWith the sweet modesty of innocence,She told that Conrad offered her his heart,And in the tender confidence of trustEntreated counsel from her changeless friend.

One morn, the orphan sought the private ear

Of her kind benefactress.

In low tones

With the sweet modesty of innocence,

She told that Conrad offered her his heart,

And in the tender confidence of trust

Entreated counsel from her changeless friend.

"Can you o'erlook the past, my Leonore?"

"Our God forgives the penitent. And weSo prone to error, cannot we forgive?The change in Conrad, months and years have madeMore evident.Might I but sooth awayThe memory of his woes, and aid his feetMore steadfastly to tread in virtue's path,And make him happier on his way to Heaven,My life and love I'd gladly consecrate."

"Our God forgives the penitent. And we

So prone to error, cannot we forgive?

The change in Conrad, months and years have made

More evident.

Might I but sooth away

The memory of his woes, and aid his feet

More steadfastly to tread in virtue's path,

And make him happier on his way to Heaven,

My life and love I'd gladly consecrate."

Wrapp'd in her arms the foster-mother gaveA tearful blessing, while on bended kneeTogether they implored the approving smileOf Him, who gives ability to makeAnd keep the covenant of unending love.A rural bridal,Cupid's ancient themesThough more than twice-told, seem not wearisomeOr obsolete. The many tomes they prompt,Though quaint or prolix, still a place maintainIn library or boudoir, and seduceThe school-girl from her sleep, and lessons too.But I no tint of romance have to throwOn this plain tale, or o'er the youthful pairWho gladly took the irrevocable vow.

Wrapp'd in her arms the foster-mother gave

A tearful blessing, while on bended knee

Together they implored the approving smile

Of Him, who gives ability to make

And keep the covenant of unending love.

A rural bridal,

Cupid's ancient themes

Though more than twice-told, seem not wearisome

Or obsolete. The many tomes they prompt,

Though quaint or prolix, still a place maintain

In library or boudoir, and seduce

The school-girl from her sleep, and lessons too.

But I no tint of romance have to throw

On this plain tale, or o'er the youthful pair

Who gladly took the irrevocable vow.

Their deep and thoughtful happiness requiredNo herald pomp. Buds of the snowy rose,On brow and bosom, were the only gemsOf the young fair-hair'd bride, whose ringlets fellDown to her shoulders:—nature's simple veilOf wondrous grace.A few true hearted friendsWitness'd the marriage-rite, with cheering smilesAnd fervent blessings.And the coming yearsWith all their tests of sunshine or of shade,Belied no nuptial promise, striving eachWith ardent emulation to surpassIts predecessor in the heavenward pathOf duty and improvement.Bertha's prayersWere ever round them as a thread of goldWove daily in the warp and woof of life.In their felicity she found her ownReduplicated. In good deeds to allWho sought her aid, or felt the sting of woe,With unimpaired benevolence she wrought,And tireless sympathy.Ordain'd she seem'dTo show the beauty of the life that hathGod for its end.Clearer its brightness gleam'dAs nearer to its heavenly goal it drew.The smile staid with her till she went above,Death harm'd it not. Her passport to that climeWhere Love begun on earth, doth end in joy,Forevermore.

Their deep and thoughtful happiness required

No herald pomp. Buds of the snowy rose,

On brow and bosom, were the only gems

Of the young fair-hair'd bride, whose ringlets fell

Down to her shoulders:—nature's simple veil

Of wondrous grace.

A few true hearted friends

Witness'd the marriage-rite, with cheering smiles

And fervent blessings.

And the coming years

With all their tests of sunshine or of shade,

Belied no nuptial promise, striving each

With ardent emulation to surpass

Its predecessor in the heavenward path

Of duty and improvement.

Bertha's prayers

Were ever round them as a thread of gold

Wove daily in the warp and woof of life.

In their felicity she found her own

Reduplicated. In good deeds to all

Who sought her aid, or felt the sting of woe,

With unimpaired benevolence she wrought,

And tireless sympathy.

Ordain'd she seem'd

To show the beauty of the life that hath

God for its end.

Clearer its brightness gleam'd

As nearer to its heavenly goal it drew.

The smile staid with her till she went above,

Death harm'd it not. Her passport to that clime

Where Love begun on earth, doth end in joy,

Forevermore.

REV. DR. T. M. COOLEY,

For more than sixty years Pastor of one Church in East Granville, Mass., died there in 1859, aged 83.

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