THE CONFLICT.[2]

I.’Twas night. No star was shining in the sky;The moaning winds had lull’d themselves to rest,And all was still as death. His plaintive cryEven the lonely whip-poor-will suppress’d,And droop’d his head upon his rounded breast.Silence and darkness o’er the landscape reign’d;All nature was in mournful sable drest;The mountain rivulets seem’d all enchain’d,Or, with a stealing step, the distant vallies gain’d.II.Silence is eloquent. It speaketh to the heart;It hath a potent language, all its own,Which bids the tear of sorrow freely start.The pensive mourner loves to weep alone;And silent night is lonely. We are proneTo mask our feelings in the light of day,And smile when we could weep. O, many a groanIs smother’d in its birth; and many a rayShoots from the sparkling eye, when tears are on their way.III.I said ’twas still as death. Well, death was nigh.Where burn’d the taper’s dim and flick’ring light,A weary mother sat, with anxious eyeGazing upon her boy. All deadly whiteThe suff’rer looked, as though its upward flightThe spirit had already taken. But the lowFaint breathing still was heard—the eye was bright,Nor did the inexperienced mother knowThat Death stood at the door, to give the fatal blow.IV.O, Hope, sweet Hope! when even Death is near,How fondly, madly, do we cling to thee!Nor can we from the heart thy presence tear,Till we are forced by stern necessity,Till Death steals in, and ends the tragedy!And, even then, Hope leaves us not alone.The hopes of earth are false—hopes heavenlyStand by us when all other joys have flown,And in the suff’ring heart erect their lasting throne.V.The mother knew not that her boy would die;And yet the semblance of a chilling fearWas creeping round her heart—and in her eyeWould gather now and then a pearly tear,And, for a little moment, tremble there!Then would she brush it hastily away,And hush the sigh, lestheshould see or hear,Who, spent with watching, on the sofa lay,To rest his aching head until the dawn of day.VI.He was the father of her darling boy,Who long had watch’d through many a weary night;And pleas’d she was to see him now enjoyRefreshing sleep—yet ’twas a sadd’ning sight,To see them, in the pale and glimmering light,Both look so deathlike; while she stoop’d to traceEach vein so blue, beneath the skin so white,She scarce refrain’d from kissing each dear face,And waking both the sleepers with a fond embrace.VII.She left them to their peaceful rest awhile,And, stepping softly, gain’d the open door;The house was built in simple western style,With all its chambers on the lower floor;In fact, of stories it could boast no moreThan simply one. ’Twas at the river’s side,And near it grew a noble sycamore;A velvet lawn of green, outspreading wide,Sloped smoothly down to meet the ever rippling tide.VIII.Long at the door the wife and mother stood,With ear intent to catch the slightest soundFrom those pale sleepers. Deep solicitudeWithin her breast its gloomy way had found,And round her heart its cutting cord had bound.But now, the calmness of the midnight hour,While earth reposed in silence so profound,Brought back to memory the days of yore,When life’s fair path was strew’d with many a fragrant flower.IX.In blooming myrtle bowers she seem’d to rove,’Mid shady orange groves to wend her way,And jasmine vines were twining far above,Where sang the Mocking-bird[3]his varied lay,And Nonpareils among the leaves did play.Bright buttercups along her path did bloom;It seem’d not night—it seem’d refulgent day;The flowers of memory, amid the gloom,Were wafting o’er her soul their odorous perfume.X.O, Memory! thou skilful architect!Thy handiwork doth ne’er offend the taste;Thou hidest from the view each dark defect,And show’st a structure beautiful and chaste.Thou lookest backward o’er life’s dreary waste,And gath’rest flowers thy home to beautify;But all the thorns that in thy path were placed,Thou leavest there upon the path to die:O, Memory! thou hast a wise discerning eye!XI.And skilfully thou hast the art to paintMost beautiful perspectives. Lights and shadesSo blended, that the darkest shades grow faint,By rosy light so tinged. Thy hills and gladesLook mellow in the distance, nor invadesThat bright domain, one sad unpleasing scene;No shameful blot that master piece degrades:Yes—cheerful Memory! ’tis true, I ween,That all thy fairy land looks beautiful and green.XII.Come forth from thy concealment, silver Moon!Come, lend thy cheering influence to the heart,And ride in beauty to thy highest noon!Night is too cheerless when thy smiles depart;Thou peerless orb! night’s fairy queen thou art!Ah, see! from Luna’s face the clouds have fled,Her lovely rays their mellow light impart;Then, while a pensive smile her face o’erspread,With softly whisp’ring voice the lonely watcher said:XIII.“O, happy days of childhood, when each hourWas full of life’s enjoyment! when no careOn my young heart had tried its palsying power;When all I saw a rosy hue did wear,And mirthful smiles did chase each transient tear!When in my bosom slept its latent pride,And, all unmoved by fashion’s gaudy glare,No meteor bright had turned my feet aside,And I, nor knew, nor dreamed, that evil could betide!XIV.O, those were halcyon days, those days of youth!That sun-bright, dewy morning of my life,When all around wore the bright garb of truth;Before I knew that earth with wo was rife;Ere I had heard or seen the din or strifeWhich all too soon salutes the eye and ear;Before my breast had felt the sharpen’d knifeAffliction points at every bosom here;O, those were blissful days, when all my sky was clear.XV.There is a peaceful river near my home,Along whose banks the moss-grown evergreenSpreadeth an ample shade, a leafy dome,Where happy birds may warble all unseen.Sweet Ashley! well I love thy walks serene!Thy gentle murmur, as thou glidest by,Whispers to me of many a joyous scene;O, when the past returns to memory,By Carolina’s streams I’d lay me down and die.XVI.But why this yearning for the buried past?And why, my heart, this anxious, gloomy fear?If my domestic bliss could ever last,O, surely, I should find my heaven here!But something tells me there is sorrow near;Some sad foreboding weighs my spirit down;And, ere I know it, fast th’ unbidden tearSprings to my eye. Ev’n nature seems to frown;The moon has hid herself—the chill night breezes moan.XVII.O, why does my imagination thusRun riot in a world of fancied woes?Why do I brood o’er dangers perilous,And so disturb the present calm repose?He who in search of future trouble goes,Will find it near at hand—even at his side;Imagined evils are the worst of foes;More dang’rous they than sorrow’s sudden tide,Which flows upon the soul, but does not there abide.XVIII.Man is a compound of strange mysteries,Which to unravel needs almighty skill;The soul, enchain’d by unknown sympathies,Oft feels a sadness unaccountable,An ominous warning of some coming ill,From which it shudd’ring turns, and tries t’ escape,But turns and tries in vain—for boldly stillTh’ unwelcome, horrid fantasies will creepBefore his mental eye, in many a fearful shape.XIX.I cannot shake it off—this heartfelt pain!Thou know’st, O God! what lines are writ for me;Whatever comes, I will not dare complain.Perhaps thou’lt take my lovely boy to thee—O, can it be, my Father! can it be?No—no—he must not die—thou wilt not takeOur treasure from our hearts—we are but three—Thou wilt not this delightful union break—O, spare him—spare our boy—for thine own mercy’s sake.XX.Last night, when fell delirium rack’d his brain,He turn’d to me, and kiss’d me o’er and o’er;Yes—yes—while tears ran down our cheeks like rain,He kiss’d his father too, ten times or more,And call’d us by each name he’d lov’d before!Was thus our idol bidding us farewell?Does this explain the look his features wore?Was this the reason why our hearts did swell,And floods of burning tears in briny torrents fell?XXI.Is this the reason why his father nowOft views me with a sad portentous gaze,And why the frequent cloud steals o’er his brow,And why his look some secret grief betrays?Whene’er I speak of hope, a sad smile playsAround his lips awhile, and then ’tis gone:He pleads forresignationwhen he prays,As though some gift were soon to be withdrawn;Some dear, some cherish’d gift, he’d set his heart upon.XXII.O can it be my noble boy must die?See—dearest Lord! I stretch my hands to thee,And through my streaming tears I gaze on high,In silent, helpless, heartfelt agony!O, Father! hear a mother’s yearning cry!Save him—my Father! save my darling son!Now, now, while darkness veils the midnight sky,I pray thee be the healing work begun!O, hear my broken prayer, thou glorious Three in One!XXIII.Take from my lips this bitter, bitter cup,If it be possible, my Father God!He is my only son—my joy—my hope—O, Savior! who affliction’s vale hast trod,I pray thee to avert the threat’ning rod!This wasthyprayer, Jehovah’s equal Son!Now may it reach thy glorious abode!But, if my darling’s mortal race be run,O, give me grace to say, thy blessed will be done!XXIV.If I could arbitrate my doom, and chooseWhat should be on the morrow, I would fearJehovah’s high prerogative to use.‘My times are in thy hand’—I leave them there;But, what thou sendest, give me strength to bear!To the shorn lamb thou temperest the blast;O, now regardmewith peculiar care,My Father God! I’ll trust thee to the last,Though now with frowning clouds my sky is overcast.XXV.Say to this tempest raging in my breast,Say to these heaving waters, ‘Peace—be still!’This whelming tide of agony arrest!Send heavenly peace, that, like a gentle rill,May flow within my soul! Thy holy willBe done on earth, as now ’tis done in Heaven!This aching breast with sweet submission fill!Though by the dreadful stroke my heart be riven,O, help me to resign the gift thy love has given!XXVI.Take him, my Father! take him if thou wilt—My breaking heart withholds him not fromThee!The rock on which my every hope is built,Stands firm—the Rock of Ages! cleft for me!Here, holy Father! on my bended knee—Alone—beneath the darken’d vault of Heaven—Once more—once more—I cry in agony,Though by the dreadful stroke my heart be riven,O, help me to resign the gift thy love has given!”XXVII.The mother rose from off her bended knee,And clasped her hands upon her heaving breast;Just then, a strain of softest melody,Stole sweetly on that hour of midnight rest,Like angel song breathed out by spirit blest.’Twas plaintive—yet ’twas heavenly. Such a thingMay be, why may it not? Such tones may bestBecome redeemed spirits, when they singThe bleeding, dying love, of Heaven’s eternal King.XXVIII.And yet ’twas earthly music. There was oneWho loved to warble at the midnight hour;She was a stricken mourner—prone to shunThe noisy crowd, and daylight’s dazzling power;Her melancholy mind could not endureThis weary world’s confusion. All day longShe sat retired within her secret bower,While on the willows high her harp was hung—Twas only in the night, she tuned her harp and sung.XXIX.When came the midnight hour with peaceful calm,Congenial to the contemplative mind—That hour when holy mem’ry doth embalm(Within the heart, for future use enshrined,)Treasures of thought, from earthly dross refined—’Twas then she wander’d forth from human sight,In nature’s solitude sweet peace to find,Or far on high to wing her mental flight;And oft with plaintive song she charm’d the ear of night.XXX.Night is the time for music—when the soundsOf man’s untuneful instruments are still;When hush’d is all the noise that so confoundsThe delicate sense of hearing. Then from hillAnd vale, soft echoes wake to catch the trillOf warbling nightbird—or the lively air,When love enlists the serenader’s skillTo make sweet music for the list’ning fair—Or the sad song breath’d out from heart oppress’d with care.XXXI.It was that mourner’s song the mother heard;It came with soothing to her troubled breast,And all the elements so lately stirr’dIn wild confusion, gently sank to rest,And pitying Heaven granted her request.Now at the bedside of her dying son,While on his pallid brow her lip she press’d,And while she felt that he was almost gone,She sweetly smiled, and said, “God’s blessed will be done.”XXXII.The father, waken’d from refreshing sleep,Now rises to resume his watchful care,And forward coming with a muffled step,He sees his wife and boy together there.And then with tears the mother said—“My dear!I have been trying to resign our son;Come, kneel with me, give thanks to God in prayer,That now the conflict’s o’er—the vict’ry won,And from my heart I say, O, God! thy will be done!”XXXIII.She flies into her husband’s open arms,And on his bosom pours a flood of tears;There had she often flown, when gath’ring stormsAt distance seen, had roused her timid fears.O, surely now a darker cloud appears,Than any which had cast its sombre shadeO’er life’s fair path, in all their by-gone years:O, who but God in such an hour could aid,Or where but on high Heaven, could now their hearts be stayed?XXXIV.The heavy hearted love the throne of grace;’Tis only there they can their burdens leave,And all the earthborn cares that so debase,And all the tempting snares that so deceive,Do lose their pow’r when we to Heaven cleave.“Is any one afflicted? Let him pray!”Go, kneel, ye sorrowing ones! and thus receiveThat heavenly peace, whose soul enlivening rayThe world can never give, nor ever take away.XXXV.Together kneeling at the sufferer’s side,They pour’d their sorrows in Jehovah’s ear;And when in vain to him has mourner cried?Such cries, O, when has God refused to hear?Sad hearts, O, when has God refused to cheer?In fond embrace they knelt, and pray’d to Heaven,And Heaven’s almighty King in love drew near,And though beneath the stroke their hearts were riven,They both gave back to God the gift his love had given!

’Twas night. No star was shining in the sky;The moaning winds had lull’d themselves to rest,And all was still as death. His plaintive cryEven the lonely whip-poor-will suppress’d,And droop’d his head upon his rounded breast.Silence and darkness o’er the landscape reign’d;All nature was in mournful sable drest;The mountain rivulets seem’d all enchain’d,Or, with a stealing step, the distant vallies gain’d.

’Twas night. No star was shining in the sky;

The moaning winds had lull’d themselves to rest,

And all was still as death. His plaintive cry

Even the lonely whip-poor-will suppress’d,

And droop’d his head upon his rounded breast.

Silence and darkness o’er the landscape reign’d;

All nature was in mournful sable drest;

The mountain rivulets seem’d all enchain’d,

Or, with a stealing step, the distant vallies gain’d.

II.

Silence is eloquent. It speaketh to the heart;It hath a potent language, all its own,Which bids the tear of sorrow freely start.The pensive mourner loves to weep alone;And silent night is lonely. We are proneTo mask our feelings in the light of day,And smile when we could weep. O, many a groanIs smother’d in its birth; and many a rayShoots from the sparkling eye, when tears are on their way.

Silence is eloquent. It speaketh to the heart;

It hath a potent language, all its own,

Which bids the tear of sorrow freely start.

The pensive mourner loves to weep alone;

And silent night is lonely. We are prone

To mask our feelings in the light of day,

And smile when we could weep. O, many a groan

Is smother’d in its birth; and many a ray

Shoots from the sparkling eye, when tears are on their way.

III.

I said ’twas still as death. Well, death was nigh.Where burn’d the taper’s dim and flick’ring light,A weary mother sat, with anxious eyeGazing upon her boy. All deadly whiteThe suff’rer looked, as though its upward flightThe spirit had already taken. But the lowFaint breathing still was heard—the eye was bright,Nor did the inexperienced mother knowThat Death stood at the door, to give the fatal blow.

I said ’twas still as death. Well, death was nigh.

Where burn’d the taper’s dim and flick’ring light,

A weary mother sat, with anxious eye

Gazing upon her boy. All deadly white

The suff’rer looked, as though its upward flight

The spirit had already taken. But the low

Faint breathing still was heard—the eye was bright,

Nor did the inexperienced mother know

That Death stood at the door, to give the fatal blow.

IV.

O, Hope, sweet Hope! when even Death is near,How fondly, madly, do we cling to thee!Nor can we from the heart thy presence tear,Till we are forced by stern necessity,Till Death steals in, and ends the tragedy!And, even then, Hope leaves us not alone.The hopes of earth are false—hopes heavenlyStand by us when all other joys have flown,And in the suff’ring heart erect their lasting throne.

O, Hope, sweet Hope! when even Death is near,

How fondly, madly, do we cling to thee!

Nor can we from the heart thy presence tear,

Till we are forced by stern necessity,

Till Death steals in, and ends the tragedy!

And, even then, Hope leaves us not alone.

The hopes of earth are false—hopes heavenly

Stand by us when all other joys have flown,

And in the suff’ring heart erect their lasting throne.

The mother knew not that her boy would die;And yet the semblance of a chilling fearWas creeping round her heart—and in her eyeWould gather now and then a pearly tear,And, for a little moment, tremble there!Then would she brush it hastily away,And hush the sigh, lestheshould see or hear,Who, spent with watching, on the sofa lay,To rest his aching head until the dawn of day.

The mother knew not that her boy would die;

And yet the semblance of a chilling fear

Was creeping round her heart—and in her eye

Would gather now and then a pearly tear,

And, for a little moment, tremble there!

Then would she brush it hastily away,

And hush the sigh, lestheshould see or hear,

Who, spent with watching, on the sofa lay,

To rest his aching head until the dawn of day.

VI.

He was the father of her darling boy,Who long had watch’d through many a weary night;And pleas’d she was to see him now enjoyRefreshing sleep—yet ’twas a sadd’ning sight,To see them, in the pale and glimmering light,Both look so deathlike; while she stoop’d to traceEach vein so blue, beneath the skin so white,She scarce refrain’d from kissing each dear face,And waking both the sleepers with a fond embrace.

He was the father of her darling boy,

Who long had watch’d through many a weary night;

And pleas’d she was to see him now enjoy

Refreshing sleep—yet ’twas a sadd’ning sight,

To see them, in the pale and glimmering light,

Both look so deathlike; while she stoop’d to trace

Each vein so blue, beneath the skin so white,

She scarce refrain’d from kissing each dear face,

And waking both the sleepers with a fond embrace.

VII.

She left them to their peaceful rest awhile,And, stepping softly, gain’d the open door;The house was built in simple western style,With all its chambers on the lower floor;In fact, of stories it could boast no moreThan simply one. ’Twas at the river’s side,And near it grew a noble sycamore;A velvet lawn of green, outspreading wide,Sloped smoothly down to meet the ever rippling tide.

She left them to their peaceful rest awhile,

And, stepping softly, gain’d the open door;

The house was built in simple western style,

With all its chambers on the lower floor;

In fact, of stories it could boast no more

Than simply one. ’Twas at the river’s side,

And near it grew a noble sycamore;

A velvet lawn of green, outspreading wide,

Sloped smoothly down to meet the ever rippling tide.

VIII.

Long at the door the wife and mother stood,With ear intent to catch the slightest soundFrom those pale sleepers. Deep solicitudeWithin her breast its gloomy way had found,And round her heart its cutting cord had bound.But now, the calmness of the midnight hour,While earth reposed in silence so profound,Brought back to memory the days of yore,When life’s fair path was strew’d with many a fragrant flower.

Long at the door the wife and mother stood,

With ear intent to catch the slightest sound

From those pale sleepers. Deep solicitude

Within her breast its gloomy way had found,

And round her heart its cutting cord had bound.

But now, the calmness of the midnight hour,

While earth reposed in silence so profound,

Brought back to memory the days of yore,

When life’s fair path was strew’d with many a fragrant flower.

IX.

In blooming myrtle bowers she seem’d to rove,’Mid shady orange groves to wend her way,And jasmine vines were twining far above,Where sang the Mocking-bird[3]his varied lay,And Nonpareils among the leaves did play.Bright buttercups along her path did bloom;It seem’d not night—it seem’d refulgent day;The flowers of memory, amid the gloom,Were wafting o’er her soul their odorous perfume.

In blooming myrtle bowers she seem’d to rove,

’Mid shady orange groves to wend her way,

And jasmine vines were twining far above,

Where sang the Mocking-bird[3]his varied lay,

And Nonpareils among the leaves did play.

Bright buttercups along her path did bloom;

It seem’d not night—it seem’d refulgent day;

The flowers of memory, amid the gloom,

Were wafting o’er her soul their odorous perfume.

O, Memory! thou skilful architect!Thy handiwork doth ne’er offend the taste;Thou hidest from the view each dark defect,And show’st a structure beautiful and chaste.Thou lookest backward o’er life’s dreary waste,And gath’rest flowers thy home to beautify;But all the thorns that in thy path were placed,Thou leavest there upon the path to die:O, Memory! thou hast a wise discerning eye!

O, Memory! thou skilful architect!

Thy handiwork doth ne’er offend the taste;

Thou hidest from the view each dark defect,

And show’st a structure beautiful and chaste.

Thou lookest backward o’er life’s dreary waste,

And gath’rest flowers thy home to beautify;

But all the thorns that in thy path were placed,

Thou leavest there upon the path to die:

O, Memory! thou hast a wise discerning eye!

XI.

And skilfully thou hast the art to paintMost beautiful perspectives. Lights and shadesSo blended, that the darkest shades grow faint,By rosy light so tinged. Thy hills and gladesLook mellow in the distance, nor invadesThat bright domain, one sad unpleasing scene;No shameful blot that master piece degrades:Yes—cheerful Memory! ’tis true, I ween,That all thy fairy land looks beautiful and green.

And skilfully thou hast the art to paint

Most beautiful perspectives. Lights and shades

So blended, that the darkest shades grow faint,

By rosy light so tinged. Thy hills and glades

Look mellow in the distance, nor invades

That bright domain, one sad unpleasing scene;

No shameful blot that master piece degrades:

Yes—cheerful Memory! ’tis true, I ween,

That all thy fairy land looks beautiful and green.

XII.

Come forth from thy concealment, silver Moon!Come, lend thy cheering influence to the heart,And ride in beauty to thy highest noon!Night is too cheerless when thy smiles depart;Thou peerless orb! night’s fairy queen thou art!Ah, see! from Luna’s face the clouds have fled,Her lovely rays their mellow light impart;Then, while a pensive smile her face o’erspread,With softly whisp’ring voice the lonely watcher said:

Come forth from thy concealment, silver Moon!

Come, lend thy cheering influence to the heart,

And ride in beauty to thy highest noon!

Night is too cheerless when thy smiles depart;

Thou peerless orb! night’s fairy queen thou art!

Ah, see! from Luna’s face the clouds have fled,

Her lovely rays their mellow light impart;

Then, while a pensive smile her face o’erspread,

With softly whisp’ring voice the lonely watcher said:

XIII.

“O, happy days of childhood, when each hourWas full of life’s enjoyment! when no careOn my young heart had tried its palsying power;When all I saw a rosy hue did wear,And mirthful smiles did chase each transient tear!When in my bosom slept its latent pride,And, all unmoved by fashion’s gaudy glare,No meteor bright had turned my feet aside,And I, nor knew, nor dreamed, that evil could betide!

“O, happy days of childhood, when each hour

Was full of life’s enjoyment! when no care

On my young heart had tried its palsying power;

When all I saw a rosy hue did wear,

And mirthful smiles did chase each transient tear!

When in my bosom slept its latent pride,

And, all unmoved by fashion’s gaudy glare,

No meteor bright had turned my feet aside,

And I, nor knew, nor dreamed, that evil could betide!

XIV.

O, those were halcyon days, those days of youth!That sun-bright, dewy morning of my life,When all around wore the bright garb of truth;Before I knew that earth with wo was rife;Ere I had heard or seen the din or strifeWhich all too soon salutes the eye and ear;Before my breast had felt the sharpen’d knifeAffliction points at every bosom here;O, those were blissful days, when all my sky was clear.

O, those were halcyon days, those days of youth!

That sun-bright, dewy morning of my life,

When all around wore the bright garb of truth;

Before I knew that earth with wo was rife;

Ere I had heard or seen the din or strife

Which all too soon salutes the eye and ear;

Before my breast had felt the sharpen’d knife

Affliction points at every bosom here;

O, those were blissful days, when all my sky was clear.

XV.

There is a peaceful river near my home,Along whose banks the moss-grown evergreenSpreadeth an ample shade, a leafy dome,Where happy birds may warble all unseen.Sweet Ashley! well I love thy walks serene!Thy gentle murmur, as thou glidest by,Whispers to me of many a joyous scene;O, when the past returns to memory,By Carolina’s streams I’d lay me down and die.

There is a peaceful river near my home,

Along whose banks the moss-grown evergreen

Spreadeth an ample shade, a leafy dome,

Where happy birds may warble all unseen.

Sweet Ashley! well I love thy walks serene!

Thy gentle murmur, as thou glidest by,

Whispers to me of many a joyous scene;

O, when the past returns to memory,

By Carolina’s streams I’d lay me down and die.

XVI.

But why this yearning for the buried past?And why, my heart, this anxious, gloomy fear?If my domestic bliss could ever last,O, surely, I should find my heaven here!But something tells me there is sorrow near;Some sad foreboding weighs my spirit down;And, ere I know it, fast th’ unbidden tearSprings to my eye. Ev’n nature seems to frown;The moon has hid herself—the chill night breezes moan.

But why this yearning for the buried past?

And why, my heart, this anxious, gloomy fear?

If my domestic bliss could ever last,

O, surely, I should find my heaven here!

But something tells me there is sorrow near;

Some sad foreboding weighs my spirit down;

And, ere I know it, fast th’ unbidden tear

Springs to my eye. Ev’n nature seems to frown;

The moon has hid herself—the chill night breezes moan.

XVII.

O, why does my imagination thusRun riot in a world of fancied woes?Why do I brood o’er dangers perilous,And so disturb the present calm repose?He who in search of future trouble goes,Will find it near at hand—even at his side;Imagined evils are the worst of foes;More dang’rous they than sorrow’s sudden tide,Which flows upon the soul, but does not there abide.

O, why does my imagination thus

Run riot in a world of fancied woes?

Why do I brood o’er dangers perilous,

And so disturb the present calm repose?

He who in search of future trouble goes,

Will find it near at hand—even at his side;

Imagined evils are the worst of foes;

More dang’rous they than sorrow’s sudden tide,

Which flows upon the soul, but does not there abide.

XVIII.

Man is a compound of strange mysteries,Which to unravel needs almighty skill;The soul, enchain’d by unknown sympathies,Oft feels a sadness unaccountable,An ominous warning of some coming ill,From which it shudd’ring turns, and tries t’ escape,But turns and tries in vain—for boldly stillTh’ unwelcome, horrid fantasies will creepBefore his mental eye, in many a fearful shape.

Man is a compound of strange mysteries,

Which to unravel needs almighty skill;

The soul, enchain’d by unknown sympathies,

Oft feels a sadness unaccountable,

An ominous warning of some coming ill,

From which it shudd’ring turns, and tries t’ escape,

But turns and tries in vain—for boldly still

Th’ unwelcome, horrid fantasies will creep

Before his mental eye, in many a fearful shape.

XIX.

I cannot shake it off—this heartfelt pain!Thou know’st, O God! what lines are writ for me;Whatever comes, I will not dare complain.Perhaps thou’lt take my lovely boy to thee—O, can it be, my Father! can it be?No—no—he must not die—thou wilt not takeOur treasure from our hearts—we are but three—Thou wilt not this delightful union break—O, spare him—spare our boy—for thine own mercy’s sake.

I cannot shake it off—this heartfelt pain!

Thou know’st, O God! what lines are writ for me;

Whatever comes, I will not dare complain.

Perhaps thou’lt take my lovely boy to thee—

O, can it be, my Father! can it be?

No—no—he must not die—thou wilt not take

Our treasure from our hearts—we are but three—

Thou wilt not this delightful union break—

O, spare him—spare our boy—for thine own mercy’s sake.

XX.

Last night, when fell delirium rack’d his brain,He turn’d to me, and kiss’d me o’er and o’er;Yes—yes—while tears ran down our cheeks like rain,He kiss’d his father too, ten times or more,And call’d us by each name he’d lov’d before!Was thus our idol bidding us farewell?Does this explain the look his features wore?Was this the reason why our hearts did swell,And floods of burning tears in briny torrents fell?

Last night, when fell delirium rack’d his brain,

He turn’d to me, and kiss’d me o’er and o’er;

Yes—yes—while tears ran down our cheeks like rain,

He kiss’d his father too, ten times or more,

And call’d us by each name he’d lov’d before!

Was thus our idol bidding us farewell?

Does this explain the look his features wore?

Was this the reason why our hearts did swell,

And floods of burning tears in briny torrents fell?

XXI.

Is this the reason why his father nowOft views me with a sad portentous gaze,And why the frequent cloud steals o’er his brow,And why his look some secret grief betrays?Whene’er I speak of hope, a sad smile playsAround his lips awhile, and then ’tis gone:He pleads forresignationwhen he prays,As though some gift were soon to be withdrawn;Some dear, some cherish’d gift, he’d set his heart upon.

Is this the reason why his father now

Oft views me with a sad portentous gaze,

And why the frequent cloud steals o’er his brow,

And why his look some secret grief betrays?

Whene’er I speak of hope, a sad smile plays

Around his lips awhile, and then ’tis gone:

He pleads forresignationwhen he prays,

As though some gift were soon to be withdrawn;

Some dear, some cherish’d gift, he’d set his heart upon.

XXII.

O can it be my noble boy must die?See—dearest Lord! I stretch my hands to thee,And through my streaming tears I gaze on high,In silent, helpless, heartfelt agony!O, Father! hear a mother’s yearning cry!Save him—my Father! save my darling son!Now, now, while darkness veils the midnight sky,I pray thee be the healing work begun!O, hear my broken prayer, thou glorious Three in One!

O can it be my noble boy must die?

See—dearest Lord! I stretch my hands to thee,

And through my streaming tears I gaze on high,

In silent, helpless, heartfelt agony!

O, Father! hear a mother’s yearning cry!

Save him—my Father! save my darling son!

Now, now, while darkness veils the midnight sky,

I pray thee be the healing work begun!

O, hear my broken prayer, thou glorious Three in One!

XXIII.

Take from my lips this bitter, bitter cup,If it be possible, my Father God!He is my only son—my joy—my hope—O, Savior! who affliction’s vale hast trod,I pray thee to avert the threat’ning rod!This wasthyprayer, Jehovah’s equal Son!Now may it reach thy glorious abode!But, if my darling’s mortal race be run,O, give me grace to say, thy blessed will be done!

Take from my lips this bitter, bitter cup,

If it be possible, my Father God!

He is my only son—my joy—my hope—

O, Savior! who affliction’s vale hast trod,

I pray thee to avert the threat’ning rod!

This wasthyprayer, Jehovah’s equal Son!

Now may it reach thy glorious abode!

But, if my darling’s mortal race be run,

O, give me grace to say, thy blessed will be done!

XXIV.

If I could arbitrate my doom, and chooseWhat should be on the morrow, I would fearJehovah’s high prerogative to use.‘My times are in thy hand’—I leave them there;But, what thou sendest, give me strength to bear!To the shorn lamb thou temperest the blast;O, now regardmewith peculiar care,My Father God! I’ll trust thee to the last,Though now with frowning clouds my sky is overcast.

If I could arbitrate my doom, and choose

What should be on the morrow, I would fear

Jehovah’s high prerogative to use.

‘My times are in thy hand’—I leave them there;

But, what thou sendest, give me strength to bear!

To the shorn lamb thou temperest the blast;

O, now regardmewith peculiar care,

My Father God! I’ll trust thee to the last,

Though now with frowning clouds my sky is overcast.

XXV.

Say to this tempest raging in my breast,Say to these heaving waters, ‘Peace—be still!’This whelming tide of agony arrest!Send heavenly peace, that, like a gentle rill,May flow within my soul! Thy holy willBe done on earth, as now ’tis done in Heaven!This aching breast with sweet submission fill!Though by the dreadful stroke my heart be riven,O, help me to resign the gift thy love has given!

Say to this tempest raging in my breast,

Say to these heaving waters, ‘Peace—be still!’

This whelming tide of agony arrest!

Send heavenly peace, that, like a gentle rill,

May flow within my soul! Thy holy will

Be done on earth, as now ’tis done in Heaven!

This aching breast with sweet submission fill!

Though by the dreadful stroke my heart be riven,

O, help me to resign the gift thy love has given!

XXVI.

Take him, my Father! take him if thou wilt—My breaking heart withholds him not fromThee!The rock on which my every hope is built,Stands firm—the Rock of Ages! cleft for me!Here, holy Father! on my bended knee—Alone—beneath the darken’d vault of Heaven—Once more—once more—I cry in agony,Though by the dreadful stroke my heart be riven,O, help me to resign the gift thy love has given!”

Take him, my Father! take him if thou wilt—

My breaking heart withholds him not fromThee!

The rock on which my every hope is built,

Stands firm—the Rock of Ages! cleft for me!

Here, holy Father! on my bended knee—

Alone—beneath the darken’d vault of Heaven—

Once more—once more—I cry in agony,

Though by the dreadful stroke my heart be riven,

O, help me to resign the gift thy love has given!”

XXVII.

The mother rose from off her bended knee,And clasped her hands upon her heaving breast;Just then, a strain of softest melody,Stole sweetly on that hour of midnight rest,Like angel song breathed out by spirit blest.’Twas plaintive—yet ’twas heavenly. Such a thingMay be, why may it not? Such tones may bestBecome redeemed spirits, when they singThe bleeding, dying love, of Heaven’s eternal King.

The mother rose from off her bended knee,

And clasped her hands upon her heaving breast;

Just then, a strain of softest melody,

Stole sweetly on that hour of midnight rest,

Like angel song breathed out by spirit blest.

’Twas plaintive—yet ’twas heavenly. Such a thing

May be, why may it not? Such tones may best

Become redeemed spirits, when they sing

The bleeding, dying love, of Heaven’s eternal King.

XXVIII.

And yet ’twas earthly music. There was oneWho loved to warble at the midnight hour;She was a stricken mourner—prone to shunThe noisy crowd, and daylight’s dazzling power;Her melancholy mind could not endureThis weary world’s confusion. All day longShe sat retired within her secret bower,While on the willows high her harp was hung—Twas only in the night, she tuned her harp and sung.

And yet ’twas earthly music. There was one

Who loved to warble at the midnight hour;

She was a stricken mourner—prone to shun

The noisy crowd, and daylight’s dazzling power;

Her melancholy mind could not endure

This weary world’s confusion. All day long

She sat retired within her secret bower,

While on the willows high her harp was hung—

Twas only in the night, she tuned her harp and sung.

XXIX.

When came the midnight hour with peaceful calm,Congenial to the contemplative mind—That hour when holy mem’ry doth embalm(Within the heart, for future use enshrined,)Treasures of thought, from earthly dross refined—’Twas then she wander’d forth from human sight,In nature’s solitude sweet peace to find,Or far on high to wing her mental flight;And oft with plaintive song she charm’d the ear of night.

When came the midnight hour with peaceful calm,

Congenial to the contemplative mind—

That hour when holy mem’ry doth embalm

(Within the heart, for future use enshrined,)

Treasures of thought, from earthly dross refined—

’Twas then she wander’d forth from human sight,

In nature’s solitude sweet peace to find,

Or far on high to wing her mental flight;

And oft with plaintive song she charm’d the ear of night.

XXX.

Night is the time for music—when the soundsOf man’s untuneful instruments are still;When hush’d is all the noise that so confoundsThe delicate sense of hearing. Then from hillAnd vale, soft echoes wake to catch the trillOf warbling nightbird—or the lively air,When love enlists the serenader’s skillTo make sweet music for the list’ning fair—Or the sad song breath’d out from heart oppress’d with care.

Night is the time for music—when the sounds

Of man’s untuneful instruments are still;

When hush’d is all the noise that so confounds

The delicate sense of hearing. Then from hill

And vale, soft echoes wake to catch the trill

Of warbling nightbird—or the lively air,

When love enlists the serenader’s skill

To make sweet music for the list’ning fair—

Or the sad song breath’d out from heart oppress’d with care.

XXXI.

It was that mourner’s song the mother heard;It came with soothing to her troubled breast,And all the elements so lately stirr’dIn wild confusion, gently sank to rest,And pitying Heaven granted her request.Now at the bedside of her dying son,While on his pallid brow her lip she press’d,And while she felt that he was almost gone,She sweetly smiled, and said, “God’s blessed will be done.”

It was that mourner’s song the mother heard;

It came with soothing to her troubled breast,

And all the elements so lately stirr’d

In wild confusion, gently sank to rest,

And pitying Heaven granted her request.

Now at the bedside of her dying son,

While on his pallid brow her lip she press’d,

And while she felt that he was almost gone,

She sweetly smiled, and said, “God’s blessed will be done.”

XXXII.

The father, waken’d from refreshing sleep,Now rises to resume his watchful care,And forward coming with a muffled step,He sees his wife and boy together there.And then with tears the mother said—“My dear!I have been trying to resign our son;Come, kneel with me, give thanks to God in prayer,That now the conflict’s o’er—the vict’ry won,And from my heart I say, O, God! thy will be done!”

The father, waken’d from refreshing sleep,

Now rises to resume his watchful care,

And forward coming with a muffled step,

He sees his wife and boy together there.

And then with tears the mother said—“My dear!

I have been trying to resign our son;

Come, kneel with me, give thanks to God in prayer,

That now the conflict’s o’er—the vict’ry won,

And from my heart I say, O, God! thy will be done!”

XXXIII.

She flies into her husband’s open arms,And on his bosom pours a flood of tears;There had she often flown, when gath’ring stormsAt distance seen, had roused her timid fears.O, surely now a darker cloud appears,Than any which had cast its sombre shadeO’er life’s fair path, in all their by-gone years:O, who but God in such an hour could aid,Or where but on high Heaven, could now their hearts be stayed?

She flies into her husband’s open arms,

And on his bosom pours a flood of tears;

There had she often flown, when gath’ring storms

At distance seen, had roused her timid fears.

O, surely now a darker cloud appears,

Than any which had cast its sombre shade

O’er life’s fair path, in all their by-gone years:

O, who but God in such an hour could aid,

Or where but on high Heaven, could now their hearts be stayed?

XXXIV.

The heavy hearted love the throne of grace;’Tis only there they can their burdens leave,And all the earthborn cares that so debase,And all the tempting snares that so deceive,Do lose their pow’r when we to Heaven cleave.“Is any one afflicted? Let him pray!”Go, kneel, ye sorrowing ones! and thus receiveThat heavenly peace, whose soul enlivening rayThe world can never give, nor ever take away.

The heavy hearted love the throne of grace;

’Tis only there they can their burdens leave,

And all the earthborn cares that so debase,

And all the tempting snares that so deceive,

Do lose their pow’r when we to Heaven cleave.

“Is any one afflicted? Let him pray!”

Go, kneel, ye sorrowing ones! and thus receive

That heavenly peace, whose soul enlivening ray

The world can never give, nor ever take away.

XXXV.

Together kneeling at the sufferer’s side,They pour’d their sorrows in Jehovah’s ear;And when in vain to him has mourner cried?Such cries, O, when has God refused to hear?Sad hearts, O, when has God refused to cheer?In fond embrace they knelt, and pray’d to Heaven,And Heaven’s almighty King in love drew near,And though beneath the stroke their hearts were riven,They both gave back to God the gift his love had given!

Together kneeling at the sufferer’s side,

They pour’d their sorrows in Jehovah’s ear;

And when in vain to him has mourner cried?

Such cries, O, when has God refused to hear?

Sad hearts, O, when has God refused to cheer?

In fond embrace they knelt, and pray’d to Heaven,

And Heaven’s almighty King in love drew near,

And though beneath the stroke their hearts were riven,

They both gave back to God the gift his love had given!

Charleston,May, 1841.

FOOTNOTES

[2]Charles Palmer Dana, son of Charles E. and Mary S. B. Dana, died in Bloomington, Iowa Territory, August 20th, 1839, aged 2 years and 3 months.“Woman! thy son liveth.”

[2]Charles Palmer Dana, son of Charles E. and Mary S. B. Dana, died in Bloomington, Iowa Territory, August 20th, 1839, aged 2 years and 3 months.

“Woman! thy son liveth.”

[3]The Mocking-bird and the Nonpareil are birds peculiar to the south.

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