Chapter L: H. S (2)

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'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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

* * * * *

But _will 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 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 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 is _old_, is _obsolete_.

--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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

* * * * *

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 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 to _Her_ grave!" 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 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 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 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 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 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 The _Nunc 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 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 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 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 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.

IN MEMORIAM.

REV. DR. T. M. COOLEY,

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

Not in the pulpit where he joy'd to bear The message of salvation, not beside His study-lamp, nor in the fireside chair, Encircled by those dearest ones who found In him their life of life, nor in the homes Of his beloved flock, sharing with them All sympathies of sorrow or of joy, Is seen the faithful Shepherd. He hath gone To yon blest Country where he long'd to be, To stand before the Great White Throne, and join That hymn of praise for which his course below Gave preparation. At one post he stood From youth till fourscore years, averse to change Though oft-times tempted. For he did not deem Restless ambition or desire of gold Fit counterpoise for that most sacred love Born in the inner chambers of the soul, And intertwining with a golden mesh Pastor and people. Like some lofty tree Whose untransplanted roots in freshness meet The living waters, and whose leaf is green 'Mid winter's gather'd frost, serene he stood, More fondly honor'd for each added year, While 'neath his shadow drew with reverent love Successive generations.

Hoary Time Linger'd with blessings for his latest day, And now 'neath turf embalm'd with tears he sleeps, Waiting the resurrection of the just.

MADAM OLIVIA PHELPS,

Widow of the late ANSON G. PHELPS, Esq., died at New York, April 24th, 1859, aged 74.

When the good mother dieth, and the home So long made happy by her boundless love Is desolate and empty, there are tears Of filial anguish, not to be represt; And when the many friends who at her side Sought social sympathy and counsel sweet, Or the sad poor, who, for their Saviour's sake, Found bountiful relief, and kind regard, Stand at that altered threshold, and perceive Faces of strangers from her casement look, There is a pang not to be told in words.

Yet, when the christian, having well discharged A life-long duty, riseth where no sin Or possibility of pain or death May follow, should there not be _praise_ to Him Who gives such victory? Thus it is even now-- Tears with the triumph-strain; For we are made Of flesh as well as spirit, and are taught By Joy and Sorrow, walking side by side, And with strong contrast deepening truths divine.

But unto thee, dear friend, whose breath was prayer, And o'er whose mortal sickness hovering Faith Shed heaven's content, there was no further need Of tutelage like that by which we learn, Too slow, perchance, with vacillating minds, What the disciples of our Lord should be; For when the subjugation to God's will Is perfect, and affliction all disarmed, Is not life's lesson done?

MARTHA AGNES BONNER,

Child of RobERT BONNER, Esq., died at New York, April 28th, 1859, aged 13 months.

There was a cradling lent us here, To cheer our lot, It was a cherub in disguise, But yet our dim and earth-bow'd eyes Perceiv'd it not.

Its voice was like the symphony That lute-strings lend, Yet tho' our hearts the music hail'd As a sweet breath of heaven, they fail'd To comprehend.

It linger'd till each season fill'd Their perfect round, The vernal bud, the summer-rose, Autumnal gold, and wintry snows Whitening the ground.

But when again reviving Spring Thro' flowers would roam, And the white cherry blossoms stirr'd Neath the soft wing of chirping bird, A call from angel-harps was heard, "Cherub,--come home."

MADAM WHITING,

Widow of the late SPENCER WHITING, Esq., died at Hartford, April, 1859, aged 88.

Life's work well done, how beautiful to rest. Aye, lift your little ones to see her face, So calmly smiling in its coffin-bed! There is no wrinkle there,--no rigid gloom To make them turn their tender glance away; And when they say their simple prayer at night With folded hands,--instruct their innocent lips Meekly to say: "Our Father! may we live, And die like her." Her more than fourscore years Chill'd not in her the genial flow of thought Or energy of deed. The earnest power To advance home-happiness, the kindly warmth Of social intercourse, the sweet response Of filial love, rejoicing in her joy, And reverencing her saintly piety, Were with her, unimpair'd, until the end. A course like this, predicted close serene, And so it was. There came no cloud to dim Her spirit's light, when at a beckoning brief She heavenward went. Miss'd is she here, and mourn'd; From hall, from hearthstone, and from household board, A beauty and a dignity have fled,-- And the heart's tears as freely flowed for her, As for the loved ones, in their prime of days. Age justly held in honor, hath a charm Peculiarly its own, a symmetry Of nearness to the skies. And these were hers, Whose life was duty, and whose death was peace.

DENISON OLMSTED, LL.D.,

Professor of Astronomy in Yale College, Conn., died at New Haven, May, 1859.

Spring pour'd fresh beauty o'er the cultured grounds, And woke to joyance every leaf and flower, Where erst the Man of Science lov'd to find Refreshment from his toils.

'Twas sweet to see How Nature met him there, and took away All weariness of knowledge. Yet he held Higher communion than with fragrant shrub, Or taper tree, that o'er the forest tower'd. His talk was with the stars, as one by one, Night, in her queenly regency, put forth Their sprinkled gold upon her sable robe. He knew their places, and pronounc'd their names, And by their heavenly conversation sought Acquaintance with their Maker. Sang they not Unto his uncloth'd spirit, as it pass'd From sphere to sphere, above their highest ranks, With its attendant angel? We are dark. We ask, and yet no answer. But we trace In clearest lines the shining course he took Among life's duties, for so many years, And hear those parting words, that "_all is peace_!"[1] The harvest-song of true philosophy.

His epitaph is that which cannot yield A mouldering motto to the tooth of time. --Man works in marble, and it mocks his trust, But the immortal mind doth ever keep The earnest impress of the moulding hand, And bear it onward to a race unborn. --That is his monument.

[1] The last words of Professor Olmsted.

HERBERT FOSS,

Only son of SAMUEL S. FOSS, Esq., died May 23d, 1859, aged three years and three months.

"Read more, Papa," the loving infant cried,-- And meekly bow'd the listening ear, and fix'd The ardent eye, devouring every word Of his dear picture book. And then he spread His arms, and folded thrice the father's neck. --The mother came from church, and lull'd her boy To quiet sleep, and laid him in his crib; And as they watch'd the smile of innocence That sometimes lightly floated o'er his brow That Sabbath eve, they to each other said, "_How beautiful._" There was another scene,-- The child lay compass'd round with Spring's white flowers, Yet heav'd no breath to stir their lightest leaf. And many a one who on that coffin look'd And went their way, in tender whisper said "_How beautiful!_" Oh parents, ye who sit Mourning for HERBERT, in your empty room, What if the darling of your fondest care Scarce woke from his brief dream and went to Heaven? --Our dream is longer, but 'tis mixed with tears. For we are dreamers all, and only those Fully awake, who dwell where naught deceives.

So, when time's vision o'er, you reach the land Which hath no need of sun, or waning moon To give it light, how sweet to hear your child Bid you "_good morning_" with his cherub tongue.

His last words to his father, who was reading to him in a favorite
book, were, "Read, more, papa, please read more." Soon after, and
almost without warning, he died.

MRS. CHARLES N. CADWALLADER,

Died at Philadelphia, July 2nd, 1859, five weeks after her marriage.

The year rolls round, and brings again
The bright, auspicious day,
The marriage scene, the festive cheer,
The group serenely gay,

The hopes that nurs'd by sun and shower
O'er youth's fair trellis wound,
And in that consecrated rite
Their full fruition found.

But One unseen amid the throng
Drew near with purpose fell,
And lo! the orange-flowers were changed
To mournful asphodel.

Five sabbaths walk'd the beautiful
Her chosen lord beside,
But ere the sixth illumed the sky
She was that dread One's bride.

Yet call her not the bride of Death
Though in his bed she sleeps,
And broidering Myrtle richly green
O'er her cold pillow creeps:

She hath a bower where angels dwell,
A mansion with the blest,
For Jesus whom she trusted here,
Receiv'd her to His rest.

REV. DR. JAMES W. ALEXANDER,

Pastor of the Fifth Avenue Church, New York, died at the Virginia Springs, July, 1859.

The great and good. How startling is the knell That tells he is but dust. The echo comes From where Virginia's health-reviving springs Make many whole. But waiting there for him The dark-winged angel who doth come but once, Troubled the waters, and his latest breath Fled, where his first was drawn. That noble brow So mark'd with intellect, so clear with truth, Grave in its goodness, in its love serene, Will it be seen no more? That earnest voice Filling the Temple-arch so gloriously, With themes of import to the undying soul Enforced by power of fervid eloquence Is it forever mute? That mind so rich With varied learning and with classic lore, Studious, progressive, affluent, profound, That feeling heart, instinct with sympathy For the world's family of grief and pain, The dark in feature, or the lost in sin, Say, are their treasures lost? No, on the page Of many a tome, traced by his tireless pen They live and brighten for a race to come, Prompting the wise, cheering the sorrowful, And for the little children whom he loved Meting out fitting words, like dewy pearls Glittering along their path. His chief delight Was in his Master's work. How well performed Speak ye whose feet upon Salvation's rock Were planted through his prayers. His zeal involved No element of self, but hand in hand Walk'd with humility. He needeth not Praise from our mortal lips. The monuments Of bronze or marble, what are they to him Who hath his firm abode above the stars?

--Yet may the people mourn, may freshly keep The transcript of his life, nor wrongly ask "When shall we look upon his like again?"

MRS. JOSEPH MORGAN,

Died at Hartford, August, 1859.

I saw her overlaid with many flowers, Such as the gorgeous summer drapes in snow, Stainless and fragrant as her memory.

Blent with their perfume came the pictur'd thought Of her calm presence,--of her firm resolve To bear each duty onward to its end,-- And of her power to make a home so fair, That those who shared its sanctities deplore The pattern lost forever.

Many a friend, And none who won that title laid it down, Muse on the tablet that she left behind, Muse,--and give thanks to God for what she was, And what she is;--for every pain hath fled That with a barb'd and subtle weapon stood Between the pilgrim and the promised Land. But the deep anguish of the filial tear We speak not of,--save with the sympathy That wakes our own. And so, we bid farewell.

* * * * *

Life's sun at setting, may shed brighter rays Than when it rose, and threescore years and ten May wear a beauty that youth fails to reach: The beauty of a fitness for the skies,-- Such nearness to the angels, that their song "Peace and good will," like key-tone rules the soul, And the pure reflex of their smile illumes The meekly lifted brow. She taught us this,-- And then went home.

MISS ALICE BECKWITH,

Died at Hartford, September 23d, 1859.

The beautiful hath fled To join the spirit-train; Earth interposed with strong array, Love stretch'd his arms to bar her way, All,--all in vain.

There was a bridal hope Before her crown'd with flowers; The orange blossoms took the hue With which the cypress dank with dew Darkeneth our bowers.

Affections strong and warm Sprang round her gentle way, Young Childhood, with a moisten'd eye, And Friendship's tenderest sympathy Watch'd her decay.

Disease around her couch Long held a tyrant sway, Till vanished from her cheek, the rose, And the fair flesh like vernal snows Wasted away.

Yet the dark Angel's touch Dissolv'd that dire control, And where the love-knot cannot break Nor pain nor grief intrusion make, Bore the sweet soul.

MARY SHIPMAN DEMING,

Died at Hartford, Nov. 11th, 1839, aged 4 years and 6 months.

The garner'd Jewel of our heart,
The Darling of our tent!
Cold rains were falling thick and fast,
When forth from us she went.

The sweetest blossom on our tree,
When droop'd her fairy head,
We might not lay her 'mid the flowers,
For all the flowers were dead.

The youngest birdling of our nest,
Her song from us hath fled;
Yet mingles with a purer strain
That floats above our head.

We gaze,--her wings we may not see:
We listen,--all in vain:
But when this wintry life is o'er,
We'll hear her voice again.

REV. DR. F. W. HATCH,

Died at Sacramento, California, January 16th, 1860, aged 70.

A pleasant theme it is to think of him That parted friend, whose noble heart and mind Were ever active to the highest ends. Even sceptics paid him homage 'mid their doubts, Perceiving that his life made evident A goodness not of earth. His radiant brow And the warm utterance of his lustrous eye Told how the good of others triumph'd o'er All narrowness of self. He deem'd it not A worthy aim of Christ's true ministry To chaffer for the gold that perisheth Or waste its God-given powers on lifeless forms; But love of souls, and love of Him who died That they might live, gave impulse to his zeal.

--And so, while half a century chronicled The change of empires, and the fall of kings And death of generations like the leaves That strew the forest 'neath autumnal skies, He toil'd unswerving in that One Great Cause To which the vigor of his youth was given.

--And as his life, its varied tasks well done Shrouded its head and trustful went to Him Who giveth rest and peace and rich reward Unto his faithful servants, it behooves Us to rejoice who have so long beheld His pure example. From it may we learn Oh sainted Friend, wherever duty calls With fervent hearts to seek for others' good, And wear thy spirit-smile, and win even here Some foretaste of the bliss that ne'er shall end.

MRS. PAYNE,

Wife of Right Rev. Bishop PAYNE, died at Monrovia, Liberia.

Oh true and faithful! Twice ten earnest years Of mission-toil in Afric's sultry clime Attest thy patience in thy Master's cause, Thy self-denial and humility.

Now, neath the shadow of the princely palm, And where Liberia's church-crown'd summits rise, Are sighs from sable bosoms, swelling deep With gratitude for all thy hallow'd care.

--The Prelate, unto whom thy heart of hearts Was link'd so tenderly,--who found in thee Solace for exile from his native shore, Laments thy loss, as the lone hours go by. He mourns thee deepest, for he knew thee best, Thy purity, thy sublimated search For added holiness. With angel hand Press thou thy pattern on us,--we who dwell Amid the fullness of the bread from Heaven, Forgetful of our heathen brother's need. Now thou dost sweetly sleep, where pain and woe Follow thee not. Their trial-time is o'er, Their discipline perfected. For thy will Was subjugated to the Will Divine, And through a dear Redeemer's strength, thy soul Hath won the victory.

MRS. MARY MILDENSTEIN ROBERTSON,

Wife of Rev. WILLIAM H. C. ROBERTSON, died at Magnolia, East Florida, January 13th, aged 34.

Our buds have faded,--winter's frigid breath Sigh'd o'er their bosoms, and they fell away, So in these household bowers the ice of death Bids rose and lily ere their prime decay, And see a Passion-Flower from tropic skies Beneath our drifted snows, not without requiem lies.

A brilliant daughter of the Cuban vales Of generous mind, impulsive, strong and high Twined the home-tendril where our northern gales Sweep grove and forest with their minstrelsy, Labor'd for classic lore with studious part, And planted friendship's germ in many an answering heart.

Her filial piety intensely warm Whose gushing tenderness no limit knew, Clasp'd day and night, a Mother's wasted form And o'er her failing powers protection threw, Cheering the darken'd soul with comfort sweet And girding it anew, life's latest pang to meet.

Then came the sacred vow for good or ill, The life-long study of another's joy, The raptur'd and unutterable thrill With which a mother greets her first-born boy, The climax of those hopes and duties dear Which Heaven's unerring hand accords to Woman's sphere.

And then the scene was ended, and she found What here her ardent nature vainly sought, Unwithering flowers and music's tuneful sound Without a shadow or discordant thought, And entered through a dear Redeemer's love The never-changing clime of perfect rest above.

MADAM WILLIAMS,

Widow of the late EZEKIEL WILLIAMS, Esq., and Daughter of Chief Justice Oliver Ellsworth, died at Hartford, February 28th, 1860, aged 87.

She was a link that bound us to the past,-- To the great days of Washington, when men Loving their country better than themselves Show'd to the world what patriot virtue meant. She on the knee of her majestic sire Drew to her listening heart when life was new Those principles that made his honored name Synonymous with wisdom, and the might Of holy truth.

So when in woman's sphere She took her post of duty, still in all The delicate proprieties of life, The inner sanctities of household weal, In social elegance, and in the deeds That christian pity to the poor extends, She was our model; and we saw in her The perfect lady of the olden time. Thus on the pleasant hill-top where she dwelt In her green-terraced home, o'ercanopied By graceful elm, mid evergreens and flowers, The years stole over her, and slowly wrote Their more than fourscore on her faded scroll, While the kind care of unexhausted love Guarded her long decline.

And now she sleeps Where thro' the riven snows, the quickening turf Gives emblem of the never-ending Spring, That wraps the accepted soul in robes of joy.

SAMUEL G. OGDEN, ESQ.,

Died at Astoria, New York, April 5th, 1860.

Upon his suffering couch he lay,
Whose noble form and mind
The stress of fourscore years had tried,
Yet left a charm behind.
The charm of heaven-born happiness
Whose beauty may not fade,
The charm of unimpair'd regard
For all whom God had made.

Upon his suffering couch he lay,
While sadly gathering there,
Were loved and loving ones, who made
That honored life their care;
And 'mid the group, a daughter's voice
Of wondrous sweetness read
Brief portions from the Book Divine,
As his dictation led.

"Bow down thine ear, Most Merciful,
Oh, hearken while I speak,
Now in my time of utmost need,
To Thee alone I seek.
Shew me some token, Lord, for good,
Before I pass away,
For Thou hast ever been my strength,
My comforter and stay."[1]

So when that precious breath went forth,
Her gentle hand was laid
To close those pale and trembling lids
In slumber's dreamless shade,
And then, the pure and sacred flowers
She for his burial twined,
And bade her struggling grief be still
Till the last rite declined.

Through every trial change of life
Had reign'd within her breast
A holy zeal of filial love,
That could not be represt;
Its memories, like a music strain,
Still in that casket swell,
And wake perchance, some fond response
Where watching angels dwell.

[1] The 86th Psalm, one of his favorites, as death drew nigh was
often read to him by his daughter, who never left him, day or
night, during his sickness, and "out of whose arms," says one who
was present, "when he drew his last breath, the angels took him."

MR. GEORGE BEACH,

Died at Hartford, May 4th, 1860.