TIME and Patience! These are AngelsBy our Heavenly Father sent;Whispering to our restless spirits,"Cease to murmur—be content;God, who is thy truest friend,Doth our aid in trials send.
When thy weary spirit faileth,'Neath the weary cross it bears,God is not unmindful of thee—He is listening to thy prayers;From His children's tearful pleadingHe willneverturn unheeding!"
Heart of mine! Trust thou these Angels;Lean on Patience, and be calm;Trust in Time, who is preparingFor thy grief a spirit-balm;God is merciful, and HeGave them charge concerning thee.
The light of her young life went out,As sinks behind the hillThe glory of a setting star;Clear, suddenly, and still.—WHITTIER.
YOU ask me to tell you of her, the sweet friend we have loved and lost. You impose on me a difficult task; I find it so harrowing to my feelings, and I also find that my pen is inadequate to the tribute my heart would pay.
I would that the privilege of knowing and loving her had been yours, for to know her was to love her.
In former letters I told you something of her; how she came to us a lovely bride of just nineteen summers; how anxiously we looked for her first appearance in church, for they arrived late Saturday evening, and no one had seen her. I told you how my heart went out to her as I looked on her sweet, bright, yet somewhat timid face; there was a perfect witchery in her eyes. I felt that I could gaze into them for ever; there was about them a spell, a fascination that I have never seen in others; they laughed as they looked at you, and yet they were not merely laughing eyes; perhaps the long, drooping lashes somewhat modified the expression, and helped to give the peculiarity so strikingly their own.
Her dress and whole appearance were captivating; the simple light straw hat, with the little illusion veil, and the pure white dress fitting so prettily the slender form. I could hardly wait for the next day, so anxious was I to see and speak with her, for I loved her already.
I had been prepared to love her, for our young pastor had told us much of his future bride. You know our house was one of his homes, and to us he had spoken often and enthusiastically of his Mary. It seemed to me that first Sabbath, that his prayers were particularly impressive, and his thanks to the Author and Giver of every perfect gift unusually appropriate; he seemed overpowered by a weight of gratitude and love.
How I admired the two as I glanced from one to the other! And I know that many prayers went up from that assembled congregation for long life and blessings on them.
It was a beautiful home that had been prepared for her. Her furniture had been sent on previous to their marriage, and our little band had vied with each other in arranging with a view both to taste and comfort. How we did wish for a peep into her own home, to get a hint with regard to arranging her things, so as to behome-like!
You know there is often so much in association, and we would have loved the new strange place to have a familiar look to her at first sight. Oh! what visions we conjured up as we arranged the room which was to serve both as parlour and dining-room; for the house was small, and Mr. B.'s study must be on the first floor.Therewas the best place for the piano between the windows, which looked into the garden; we heard in anticipation the sweet voice which was to fill the little room with melody, as the roses and flowers of June now filled the garden with fragrance. The pretty fire-screen must stand in a conspicuous corner, for that spoke particularly of home, and of the hours delightfully passed in the dear family circle while tracing it stitch by stitch; and I fancied that into each bright flower which stood out so life-like from the canvas some emotion of her heart had been indelibly wrought. How many lovely home associations will the pretty fire-screen bring up!
How we arranged, and disarranged, and re-arranged, before all was to our minds; and how we hoped, when all was finished, that it would look as charming to her as it did to us! And we were not disappointed; for, on the following Monday, when we called to see her, nothing could exceed the enthusiasm of her expression and gratitude; everything was lovely, perfect; she saw allen couleur de rose.
She had left indulgent parents, and a home of refinement and luxury, and we feared for her the untried duties of her new position; but an intimate acquaintance proved her eminently qualified for the responsibility she had assumed. She adapted herself with charming grace and readiness to her present circumstances. She was a most delightful acquisition to our limited circle; a favourite with all; and she blended so beautifully the graces of religion with those of her natural temperament that she became our idol.
The "parsonage" seemed to me a paradise, surrounded by none but bright and holy influences. There the poor always found a welcome, a willing heart, a ready hand, and listening ear; however sad and desponding on entering, they invariably came out cheerful and hopeful. There seemed a magic spell cast around every one who sought the presence of our dearly loved pastor and his wife.
With what pleasure I used to watch for their steps as they took their morning walks together that bright first year of their married life! They seemed to have the life and vivacity of children. She always accompanied him in his walks, in his visits to the poor, in relief to the sick, by the bedside of the dying; she was like his shadow, and always haunted him for good. It might be said most emphatically of both, "When the ear heard them it blessed them, and when the eye saw them it gave witness to them, because they delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had none to help him; the blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon them, and they caused the widow's heart to sing for joy."
Thus several years passed away; new cares and new duties devolved on them; but all were cheerfully met and delightfully performed; and they basked in the sunshine of God's love. Beautiful children sprang up around them, and we felt that "earth never owned a happier nest" than that which was placed in our midst.
How proud Mr. B. was of his family, and with what reason, too, for we all felt it with him; his wife so beautiful, so good, so in all respects fitted to make home happy, with her never-failing sunshine and light-heartedness; his two little girls, our impersonation of cherubs; and the youngest a noble boy, so dear to his mother's heart. Oh! how many attractions within that charmed circle!
I shall never forget an evening I passed in the nursery with that dear one surrounded by her happy little band. Willie, "the baby," as she called him, although more than two years old, was sitting in her lap, twirling one of her long, beautiful ringlets round his tiny fingers.
"Sing, mamma!" he said.
"Oh, do!" joined in Effie and Minnie, putting their bright innocent faces and soft brown curls close to hers; "sing The Dove, mamma, please."
She laughingly asked me to excuse her, saying, she always devoted the twilight hour to amusing and instructing the little ones. I begged her to allow my presence to be no restraint upon her usual custom. She then commenced, and I thought no seraph's voice could be sweeter, as she sang one of Mary Howitt's beautiful translations:—
"There sitteth a dove so white and fairAll on the lily spray,And she listeneth how to Jesus ChristThe little children pray;Lightly she spreads her friendly wings,And to Heaven's gate hath fled,And to the Father in Heaven she bearsThe prayers which the children have said.
And back she comes from Heaven's gate,And brings, that dove so mild,From the Father in Heaven, who hears her speak,A blessing for every child.The children lift up a pious prayer—It hears whatever you say,That heavenly dove, so white and fair,All on the lily spray."
I joined heartily in the thanks and admiration the children expressed when she had finished.
As she laid them in their little beds, and kissed their rosy lips and dimpled cheeks, she said, "I can never thank God enough for these sweet children." She then added, "Oh! what an affliction it must be to lose a child; I think if one of mine should die, I should die too; but," she added, "I should not say so; could I not trust them with Him who doeth all things well?" She little realized how soon she was to be put to the test. I called there a few days after. She was in the garden raising and tying up some drooping carnations which the rain of the preceding day had injured.
"Willie is not well," said she. "I have just sung him to sleep, and Mr. B. said I must take a little fresh air, for I was fatigued with holding him, and I thought I would confine myself to the garden, to be near, if he should wake."
Soon a cry from the nursery was heard; she sprang up the steps in nervous haste, while I quite chided her anxiety. I followed her into the room, and was surprised and shocked to find the dear boy in a high fever; his little arms tossing restlessly, and his lips dry and parched. Mr. B. sent immediately for the physician; we waited anxiously his arrival, hoping secretly that we were unnecessarily alarmed; but his coming did not reassure us; he saw dangerous symptoms; but still, he said, he hoped for the best. I went home, as Mr. and Mrs. B. both declined my services for the night, saying they would rather attend him alone. The next day I was pained to hear that his symptoms were more unfavourable; that the medicine had had no effect, and the physician was becoming discouraged. I flew over to the "parsonage;" the wildly anxious look of the mother distressed me. I begged her to lie down a little while, and allow me to take her place by the baby.
"Oh, no," she said, "I cannot leave him; who but his mother should be by his side?"
It seemed to me that I had never seen greater distress on any countenance. Mr. B. endeavoured to soothe her, though his anguish was apparently as keen as her own.
"If our Saviour would remove this little flower to his own garden, shall we refuse to give it up? Shall we not rather bless and thank him for allowing us to keep it so long?"
"Oh, yes!" she said, "He doeth all things well; I know that he does not willingly afflict nor grieve the children of men. I know that whom He loveth he chasteneth, and I can say, 'Thy will be done.' Nature is powerful, but my Saviour feels for me, and will forgive the inward struggle."
All that night they watched his little life fast ebbing away. Towards morning his sufferings seemed to cease; he smiled upon his parents. Hope for a moment revived in their hearts, but soon to be displaced by bitter anguish. Daylight showed the marked change in his features and complexion that told too plainly the messenger was very near.
"Speak to me, Willie," she exclaimed, bending over him in an agony of grief.
"Mamma," he said, and, with the effort, his little spirit took its flight.
Much has been said and written upon the death of infants, but when we see so much of wickedness in the world, so much of sin to blight, so much sorrow to fade, can we wonder that the Lord of Paradise loves to transplant to a fairer clime these frail buds of earth, there to have a beautiful and unfading development!
We saw no more of our precious friends till the day of the funeral. This was their first affliction, and none liked to intrude on the sanctity of their grief, though many tears were shed, and hearts went out to them; but we felt that they knew whom they had trusted, and that under the shadow of His wings they could rest securely till the storm was past.
A neighbouring clergyman was to perform the last sad office for the dead. Most lovely did little Willie look in his coffin. The child-like, beautiful expression still lingered. Rare flowers, the smallest and whitest, had been placed in the tiny hand, and shed their fragrance throughout the room.
Oh! how sad and sick appeared the mother, as she bent to take the last look at the little form she had loved and cherished so tenderly! Her nights of anxiety and watching had left their traces upon her face; her usually light and elastic step was feeble and slow, and she rested heavily upon the arm of her husband. His form also was bowed, and his countenance bore traces of the deepest grief.
One of those sudden changes which we so often experience in this our most changeful climate, took place that day. At noon it was very warm and bright, but before we returned from the funeral it was cloudy and cold.
The next day Mrs. B. was quite sick with severe cold, and the effects of the past excitement and grief. We flattered ourselves that rest and quiet, with good nursing, would soon restore her; and you may judge of our dismay upon learning, the day after, that she was dangerously ill.
"Oh no," we thought and said a hundred times, "it cannot be so; she will surely be better to-morrow."
We could not have it otherwise. We could not for an instant admit the idea that she would not recover. The bare supposition was agony. Oh! how harrowing to me is the remembrance of those long summer days, and those wakeful moonlight nights, in which, prostrated by disease, lay that young and lovely being so idolized by us all, but whom, indeed, we were destined to see no more on earth.
The Divine fiat had gone forth, and hearts were agonized, and looks grew sadder and sadder, as day after day sounded like a knell in our ears the fearful words, "Not materially better." But we could not give her up; hope would linger. No one was permitted to see her but the family and nurses, for the doctor said all excitement must be carefully avoided. We said, "She will not die; God will raise her up." In our weakness and blindness, we could see no mercy nor wisdom in this terrible bereavement, this scorching desolation of the already heavily-stricken servant of the Most High. He was naturally of a most hopeful disposition, and this, notwithstanding the discouraging words of the physician, buoyed up his soul, and he with us hoped against hope. They could not persuade him to leave her for a moment. Whole nights he watched by the side of her he loved best on earth, anticipating every word and look, and administering to her comfort.
How you would have felt for us, dear Anna, had you been here! We would walk by the house, and look up at the windows or door, not daring to knock for fear of disturbing her, but hoping to see one of the physicians or some one of the family, of whom to make inquiries. Oh, the nervousness of those days! the restless, weary nights we passed, till our fears and apprehensions became a racking torment, and we felt almost that we must die (sic) ourselves ourselves or be out of suspense; but when, on the evening of the tenth day after her illness, a messenger came with pallid face and almost wild look to say that she wasdead, we were stunned. I really think we were almost as much shocked as though we had not heard of her illness; for we felt that, at the eleventh hour, some favourable turnmusttake place. I think we expected a miracle to be performed, so certain were we, or wished and tried to be, that she would recover.
But God's ways are not as our ways; truly, they are past finding out. We felt like putting our hands on our mouths, for fear of rebelling againstHismost righteous decrees. "Be still, and know that I am God," was all that we could say. It was hard to realize that the sun was still shining behind the cloud, for this was a darkness that might be felt. There seemed a pall over the earth and sky. Oh, how unsatisfactory seemed all on earth! how dark and strange! how mysterious and unreal! We could not weep, we were stunned, and it seemed at the time that we could never come back to earth without her. But when the touching relation of her last hours was made to us, the fountains of grief were unsealed, and we wept, as it were, rivers of tears.
I can give you no idea on paper of the beauty and sublimity of that death-scene as it was painted to me. We imagined that the heart must shrink, or at least draw back before the entrance into the dark valley. But all was peace; it flowed in upon her like a river, and she felt that underneath were the everlasting arms. Her husband and two remaining children stood by the bed. Oh, the bitterness of the cup he was called upon to drink! He shrank from it. As he bent over her, she said,
"Do not weep, love. How good God has been to give us so many bright, happy years together! Surely the lines have fallen to us in pleasant places, and I"—raising her beautiful eyes to heaven—"have a goodly heritage. I go to my Saviour. How should I feel at this moment had I not a hope in him? Oh, I am going home! I see Willie beckoning me to hasten. I will bear him in my arms to the Saviour's feet, and together we shall sing the 'new song.' I do not love you nor these sweet darlings less; but I love the Saviour more. I wish you could look in my heart and see the love I bear you. Thank you for all your indulgence, for all your kindness in bearing with my many infirmities. If I am permitted, I will be ever your guardian angel. Remember me with much and undying love to all the dear friends who have been so kind to me."
She appeared buoyed up with unnatural strength, though her end was so near. She broke into a sweet hymn; and it was, they said, as though the angel's voice had anticipated the few short moments before she should sing the "new song." She lay quiet for a little time, holding the hand of her husband in her own; then, opening her eyes and seeing the last rays of the departing sun, "I shall never look upon that bright orb again; but there is no need of the sun there. I draw near to heavenly habitations, and I would not retreat for what the world can give. Dearest, be faithful to your trust." And, imprinting a kiss upon his lips, her pure spirit went peacefully home.
We draw a veil upon the feelings of that bereaved one; too sacred are they to be looked upon; his house was left unto him desolate. That form, which had been to his eye like the well in the desert or the bow in the sky, was now cold in death.
Oh! thought we, why needed this affliction to be sent upon one so nearperfection? Surely,he, of all others, needed not this discipline; and then came to our minds, soft, sweet, and soothing, the words, "Every branch in me that beareth fruit, he purgeth it that it may bring forth more fruit."
We felt that it was hard to lay in the grave the form of our dear friend; it was hard to part with the casket which had enshrined the precious jewel. Beautiful in life, she was so in death. The departing spirit had left a ray of brightness on its earthly house, and, in looking at the calm brow and peaceful smile, death seemed divested of its terror. We had twined the pure white flowers she loved around and amongst the rich dark masses of wavy hair, and she looked like a beautiful bride more than a tenant for the grave. The memory of that day will live ever in our minds. It was the last day of summer, and there seemed a beautiful appropriateness in the season; it seemed to us that the summer of our hearts had gone with her.
A sad and mournful procession, we followed her remains to the church so dear to her in life. It was but a few days since she entered it in her loveliness and bloom, and for the last time on earth commemorated a Saviour's dying love. She will partake with us here no more. May we be counted worthy to sit down with her at our Father's board in heaven! Mournful was the sight of the black pall which covered the coffin; mournful the drapery which shrouded her accustomed seat and enveloped the chancel; mournful the badges which all, as by consent, had adopted as expressive of their feelings on the occasion; but, oh! most mournful and heart-rending was the sight of that husband and father leading by the hand on either side all that remained to him of his beautiful family. It was difficult to recognise in him the man of two short weeks before; twenty years seemed added to his life; the eyes, usually beaming with light, now cast down and swollen with weeping—the countenance, index of a heart full of peace and joy, now so sorrow-stricken. Truly, he seemed "smitten of God and afflicted." We turned our eyes away as he stood by the grave which contained almost his earthly all.
It was a beautiful spot where they laid her to rest by the side of her baby. The sun was just going down in a golden flood of light, betokening a glorious morrow (beautiful emblem of the resurrection, when this perishing body should be raised in glory), and the shadows of the trees were lengthening on the grass. Every sound was in sweet accordance with the scene; the soft twittering of the birds as they sought their resting-places for the night, the quiet hum of the insects, and the sweet murmuring of the brook which flowed at a little distance.
A holy calm pervaded our minds as we wended our way between the trees and down the slope which bounded this lovely spot; and, as we left the gate, we involuntarily paused and looked back long and earnestly on the sweet view. Every object was bathed in that golden haze so peculiar to the last days of summer and the beginning of autumn; but at this time it seemed to us that the flood of soft light had escaped from the gate of heaven which we imagined had opened to receive the form lost to our sight.
Oh, we miss her more and more, everywhere! in our walks and visits; in the missionary circle, of which she was so ready and active a member; in the Sunday school; in her accustomed seat in church; and we miss the soft tones of her voice in prayer, and the rich outpourings of her melody in praise.
The poor of the parish have, indeed, lost a friend, as their tears and remembrance amply testify when they recount her kindnesses, her gentle words, her deeds of charity and love. "Flowers grew under the feet of her," said one wretchedly poor, yet, I thought, quite poetical old woman, whose declining days she had lightened of much of their weariness. A track of glory seems that which she has left behind; and there was so much that was beautiful and consoling in her last hours that it were selfishness to wish her back. She is with the Saviour she loved; she folds again to her heart the little one whose loss she had not time to realize on earth; together they have entered on their "long age of bliss in heaven."
Does not that death-scene speak volumes in attestation of the religion she professed, of the Saviour she adored? That young fair being, surrounded by all that makes life happy; friends who loved, a husband who idolized, children who clung to her; with a heart full of love and sympathy for all, rejoicing with those who rejoiced, and weeping with those who wept; of rare beauty and rarer accomplishments, a sunbeam on the face of the earth; yet she willingly left all when her Father called her. Is not her faith worth striving after?
We have reason (blessed be God!) to see already some good effects from the contemplation of her life and death. The young have received a warning, thoughtlessness a check. We have realized that neither youth nor beauty is a security against the ravages of the spoiler.
God grant that our dear pastor may experience the truth of the words of the Psalmist: "Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy." He feels that his treasure is laid up in heaven, and we know that his heart is there. To see his dear one happy had ever been his chief desire, and he would not call her back, for he knows that she is now in the enjoyment of a bliss that the world cannot give.
Though cast down, he is not destroyed; he has come unscathed from this furnace of affliction because one like the Son of God was with him. With eyes turned heavenward, he waits his appointed time. The religion of the cross glistens like a gem on his dark-robed fortunes, and points him to fairer worlds, where the love that grew here amidst clouds will be made perfect in a light that knows no shadow, where he and his departed ones will again have one home, one altar, and one resting place.
Like his Divine Master, he goes about doing good. Oftener than ever is he found amongst the sons and daughters of affliction; more than ever are they objects of his special care; his precept is blessed by his example, and thus many a prodigal son has he recalled from his wanderings, many an outcast gathered into the fold, many a wayworn pilgrim pointed to his true rest, many a mourner comforted. They saw that the resignation he preached to others he practised himself; they saw that the hand of the Lord was heavy upon him, but that yet he turned not backward; they saw that he went his way as a pilgrim pressing forward to a better country. Most brilliant will be the diadem which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give him in the last day, for are not these words of Holy Writ, "They who turn many to righteousness shall shine like the stars for ever and ever?"
EACH owns some secret law;—the flowers that flourishBloom in their season, in their season die;Dews flow beneath, their feeble strength to nourish,The wind, Earth's angels, life's sweet breath supply.
As in the wondrous world of faultless Nature,So in the moral universe of man,Given for the spirit's every form and feature,Are powers fulfilling its immortal plan.
Whether its aim be fixed on seeking Pleasure,Whilst draining deep her falsely-sparkling bowl,Or in the light of Love be sought the treasureWhose worth may satisfy the craving soul;
Whether it court the applause of listening nations,And toil, with earnest energy, for fame,Or seek with nobler hopes those elevations,Whence from its God with spotless robes it came:
All help to lead it on; to Truth or Error,Darkness or Light, as its own pathway lies;Here, seeming seraphs, hidden shapes of terror,There, darksome shadows, angels in disguise.
Behold yon miser bend, with palsied fingers,O'er the rich gold around him glittering piled,How, with a father's care, he tireless lingersBy life's all-precious hope, his darling—child.
Fond wretch! his aim to narrow life is bounded,Yet, true to Nature, all for him hath proved;The glorious gifts that once his path surrounded,Have served to strengthen feelings basely loved!
By glittering lights, behold yon splendid palace,See squalid youth and beauty enter there,Eager to drown within the brimming chalice,All pangs of grief—all thoughts of woe or care.
Alas! for them, that such a sad fruitionShould burst from seeds bright with the hues of Time;These specious splendours fail not in their mission,But spur their spirits on the road to crime!
In yonder room, behold a beauteous maiden,Who bright the standard of her hope unrolls;But, oh! that smiling bark, with evil laden,Leads on to fatal depths, or treacherous shoals!
Gaze on the gambler, pale with care and sorrow,And mark the dismal shades he long hath trod,Who lives to witness each returning morrow,Sin-burdened, roll before an outraged God!
Seest thou the light from yonder casement streaming?Seest thou the shadow on the window cast?There, lost in thought and poesy's wild dreaming,Waits one to hear Fame's loud but fickle blast.
This is his life's great aim; but what beyond it?Of Truth's bright treasure though he love to tell,In barren mines of lore he hath not found it,Bowing beneath his idol's deadly spell.
But gaze on One, who seeks in all around him,Lessons of good to cheer him on his way,As every golden year through life hath found himNearer the realms of Heaven's eternal day.
With him events of earth are sweet evangels,All meaner things but step-stones hurled beneath;Whilst nobler lead to Eden-realms of angels,With shining robes, and crown, and amaranth wreath.
Oh! fellow-pilgrims through this desert dreary,In all the scenes of life God's mercy trace,Then though with grief cast down, with watching weary,Strong shall ye stand in His sufficient grace!
Thus sweet, melodious tones and forms of beauty,All glorious sights and sounds may ever proveAngels to lure us on the path of duty,Echoes of symphonies that float above!
WHO has not observed in passing through the crowded streets of our city, how great, comparatively, is the number of those, who are more or less deformed? My heart aches for these poor unfortunates, who are deprived of some of the legitimate avenues of enjoyment which God has so bounteously vouchsafed to me.
Here is one (and it would seem to me the most unmitigated of all the catalogue) who is groping his way along in darkness, holding fast by the hand of a little girl. There is another who has lost a limb, and makes his way along with the utmost difficulty. Yonder is one so extremely deformed, that his sensitiveness forbids him often to appear in the crowded streets. And there is another still, who is quite helpless, sitting in a little wagon drawn about by a faithful dog.
In the minds of different individuals, these various aspects of deformity produce pity, disgust, and horror; but I have often thought, could we but look, as God looks—down into the audience chamber of the spirit—the heart—how differently our minds would be affected at the sight of these bodily deformities. Perhaps yon poor blind man, grinding away upon his hand-organ, whose natural eyes for long, weary years, have been closed against the profusion of beauty around him, has had the eyes of his understanding opened, and the pure light from the eternal throne illumes the depth of his soul. Perhaps he, who hobbles slowly and sadly along upon his crutches, treads with care and unknown joy, thenarrow way,—and when, life's journey's over, he walks through the valley of the shadow of death, he will fear no evil; for a rod and a staff unknown to his earthly pilgrimage,they will comfort him. Who shall say but he, whose deformity drives him from the public way, walks continually before God and Angels—a perfect man? It may be, that yon helpless one—sohelpless that his mother feeds him—has power to move the arm that moves the world; for God hears prayer.
It is a most solemn truth that He who is the judge of quick and dead, looks not upon theouterman; but upon his inner, spiritual nature. With His judgment, it matters not, that a man be deformed; that his eyes be blind or his tongue be tied: is the heart all right?—has it become a sanctuary, meet for the spirit's residence and lighted by the Sun of Righteousness, where every word, thought, and deed, becomes an acceptable sacrifice to God? is it not disturbed by sin or blinded by passion? These are the things which have to do in the estimate which God puts upon every intelligent creature. Take good care then, my brother pilgrim, that the heart is all right—though the body which covers it for a little season is distorted and maimed.
"Though our tears fell fast and faster,Yet we would not call her back;We are glad her feet no longerTread life's rough and thorny track.We are glad our Heavenly FatherTook her while her heart was pure;We are glad He did not leave her,All life's troubles to endure.We are glad—and yet the tear-dropFalleth, for, alas! we knowThat our fireside will be lonely,We shall miss our darling so!"
HOW beautiful a young child in its shroud! Calm and heavenly looks the white face on which the blighting breath of sin never rested.
The silken curls parted from the marble brow—the once bright eyes closed—once red lips pale—little hands that have ofttimes been clasped as the lips repeated "Our Father," now meekly folded over the throbless heart, tell us that Death, cruel, relentless Death, has been there.
Surely, thesoulthat once beamed from those closed eyes is happy! Hath not the Saviour said, "Of such is the kingdom of heaven?" Robed like an angel is she now, a lamb in the Saviour's bosom. Could parental love ask more? Surely not. Cleansed from all earthly taint; secure from all trouble, care, or sin, those eyes will no more weep; but the tiny hands will sweep a golden harp, and the childish voice will be heard making music in heaven.
Often, O, how often had our hearts said, "God bless her!" And has not our prayer been answered? The yearnings of love cannot be stifled; for we miss the loving clasp of white arms—the soft pressure of fresh lips—the prattle and smile that were music and light to our world-weary hearts; our hand moves in vain for a resting-place on the golden head; yet we feel, we know that "it is well with the child," for we see how much of woe she has escaped; how much of bliss she has gained; a home with the sinless; the companionship of angels for ETERNITY. Blessed one!
Alone, yet fearlessly, didst thou pass through the "dark valley" and enter into the home prepared for thee. As fearlessly, trustingly maywemeet the conqueror, Death, and when the conflict is ended, meet thee in thy new home to dwell for evermore!
GOD is the author of all our blessings. There is no truth, perhaps, to which we are more ready to give our assent than this; and yet, a great many people seem to act as if they did not believe it, or, at least, as if they were prone to forget it.
A traveller stopped at a fountain, and, letting the rein he held in his hand fall upon the neck of his horse, permitted the thirsty animal to drink of the cooling water that came pouring down from a rocky hill, and spread itself out in a basin below. While the weary beast refreshed himself, the traveller looked at the bright stream that sparkled in the sunlight, and said thus to himself:—
"What a blessing is water! How it refreshes, strengthens, and purifies! And how bountifully it is given! Everywhere flows this good gift of our Heavenly Father, and it is as free as the air to man and beast."
While he thus mused, a child came to the fountain. She had a vessel in her hand, and she stooped to fill it with water.
"Give me a drink, my good little girl," said the traveller.
And, with a smiling face, the child reached her pitcher to the man who still sat on his horse.
"Who made this water?" said the traveller, as he handed the vessel back to the child.
"God made it," was her quick reply.
"And do you know anything that water is like?" asked the traveller.
"Oh, yes! Father says that water is like truth."
"Does he?"
"Yes, sir. He says that water is like truth, because truth purifies the mind as water does the body."
"That is wisely said," returned the traveller. "And truth quenches our thirst for knowledge, as water quenches the thirst of our lips."
The little girl smiled as this was said, and, taking up her pitcher, went back to her home.
"Yes, water represents truth," said the traveller, as he rode thoughtfully away. "The child was right. It purifies and refreshes us, and is spread out, like truth, on every hand, free for those who will take it. Whenever I look upon water again, I will think of it as representing truth; and then I will remember that it is as important to the mind's health and purity to have truth as it is for the body to have water."
Thus, from a simple fountain, as it leaped out from the side of a hill, the traveller gained a lesson of wisdom. And so, as we pass through the world, we may find in almost every natural object that exists something that will turn our minds to higher and better thoughts. Every tree and flower, every green thing that grows, and every beast of the field and bird of the air, have in them a signification, if we could but learn it. They speak to us in a spiritual language, and figure forth to our natural senses the higher, more beautiful, and more enduring things of the mind.
WOULDST thou be beautiful?Ah, then, be pure! be pure! An angel's faceIs the transparent mirror of her soul.If ghastly guilt on fairest brows you trace,Then do you hear the knell of beauty toll.Let Purity her seal on thee impress,And thine shall be angelic loveliness.The pure are beautiful.
Wouldst thou be dearly loved?Then love, love truly all that God has made;For by His name of love is He best known.No damp distrust be on thy spirit laid;And let affection's words and deeds be one.Thy soul's warm fountain shall not gush in vain;From Love's deep source it shall be filled again;For they who love, are loved.
And wouldst thou happy be?Then make the truth thy talisman, thy guide.Be truth the stone in all thy jewels set.Into thy heart its opal-light shall glide,And guide thee where are happier spirits yet.For these three rays are in the shining crown:The seraph by the Throne of Light lays down,Truth, Love, and Purity.
WHAT! can this be true in this dark world of ours, where the thick clouds of sorrow, disappointed hopes, and bereavements are continually hanging over us, obscuring even the bright star of hope; where upon every passing breeze is borne deep wailings of woe, bitter sighs ascending from bruised and broken hearts mourning over lost hopes, crushed affections, wasted love; struggling vainly for victory in the fierce battle of life; groping about in darkness to catch, if possible, one gleam of sunlight from the heavy clouds—but in vain?
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Another shrine robbed of its idol; another hearth left desolate. See, how the black clouds settle down and press more closely around that lonely widowed one. Grim Death mocks at his grief from the open grave, so soon to receive his heart's idol. Ay, remove the coffin lid; gaze with all the agonizing bitterness of alastlook upon that cold marble face; was aught on earth so lovely? Kiss for the last time the pure forehead. Ah! those pale white lips give back no answering pressure of love; sealed for ever by that last chilling blast from the cold river.
And now the damp earth presses heavily over that cherished form; far down in the darkness and silence of the grave must the loved one remain, never more to cheer by her gentle words of love and kindness, the heart of him who so needed her sympathy and love. Gone, gone for ever.
What on earth is now beautiful or bright since the dearest, best treasure is removed? Oh, no! there can be no bright spot in affliction like this; there can be no bright ray to gild this night of sorrow.
Ah! thou erring mortal, repine not. The all-wise Father knew thy frail heart, saw thy whole life and soul bound up in that one creature, weak and sinful like thyself; forgetful of the Creator; and wilt thou dare raise thy feeble voice against the Almighty when He removed the idol that He alone may reign? Wilt thou not bow meekly, kiss the rod, and accept the bitter cup of bereavement, offered as it is in mercy?
And is this all? Is there no life beyond the grave? Is the spirit which held such communion with thine for ever quenched?
Can the grave contain for ever the immortal part? Look up, oh! mourning one; thy loved one is not there.
Hark! hearest thou not soft, heavenly voices, whispering sweetly of a life beyond the dark river, where Death can never come; of glorious mansions where is peace and joy for ever more, and of another freed spirit welcomed to the blissful home? Dost thou not feel upon thy tear-moistened cheek, gentle wavings of angel wings perfumed with the breath of heavenly flowers?
Even now, may the happy glorified spirit of thy loved one be hovering around; think you it would return again to that perishing body of clay?
The sweet star of faith is already rising over thy grief; the clouds, all bright and shining with hues caught from heavenly skies, are no longer dark and rayless; and now, even with thy lonely bleeding heart, canst thou humbly receive the chastisement from Him who doeth all things well.
Henceforth will earth seem less dear, heaven nearer, and more to be desired; thy own cherished companion is there, and who can know but that her pure spirit may sometimes look down upon thee, still to encourage thy endeavours to battle manfully with life and its trials, still to cheer and console in thy hours of distress; but now, with heart and affections all purified from the dross of earth, will not the influence be more blessed than when she walked with bodily presence at thy side?
Yes, thanks to our merciful Father, every cloudhasa silver lining, however dark the side presented to our view, ladened heavy though it be with sorrows and woes, which almost crush the life from our hearts as it presses upon us; yet there away, hidden from our short mortal vision, gleams the soft silvery lining, ever gently shining, perhaps never to be revealed in this world, reserved for us to discover after we too have been called from this to our heavenly home, and look back upon our earthly pilgrimage with rejoicings that we have been so safely borne through every trial and temptation.
Ah! then will our sky be without a cloud. All joyous and happy will we tune our harps anew to the praise of Him who loved us and hath given us the victory!