Chapter M: S. B. D (1)

THE PARTED FAMILY.

“Wait on the Lord, be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thy heart; wait, I say, on the Lord.” PSALM xxvii. 14.

Toll not for every joy a parting knell!
Say not to every smile, a last farewell!
O ye, who mourn in sorrow’s darkest night,
Wait on the Lord. He dwells enthron’d in light!
His glory can irradiate the gloom
Of every heart, whose hopes are in the tomb!
There is a power can pierce the darksome cloud
Which overhangs your soul with sable shroud.
O, when the soul is lifted up to Heaven
By the meek penitent, who, sorrow-driven,
Flies to her Savior God, and stretches high
Her supplicating hands in agony,
Bearing aloft to Heaven her bleeding heart,
In silent eloquence to plead her part;
Then comes an influence down, soft, sweet, and still,
Like dews of night, on some fair grassy hill
Parch’d by the noonday sun, whose drooping flowers
Hold up their heads, and wait the morning hours,
To spread their sparkling beauties to the light,
And gladden weary mortals with the sight.
So comes to those who _wait_, a potent balm
From God’s own hand--a spirit-soothing calm,
Which strengthens all the heart, and sheds abroad
A savor of th’ almighty love of God.
So soft, so sweet, so still, its gliding flow,
None see its coming, all its presence know.

I saw a sufferer once--her wounds were deep,
And wide, and deadly, yet she could not weep;
But drop by drop her heart’s blood seemed to go,
And misery sore drank up her spirit’s flow.
Pale grief sat pictured on her woful face,
And every movement gave despair a place.

Not long she suffer’d thus--she rais’d her eyes,
All burning in their anguish, to the skies,
With outstretch’d arms and bursting heart she cried
To Him, whose pierced hands and bleeding side
Told of his dying love, “O, pity me!
O, pity me! I cast myself on thee!”
Was all that she could say; but Jesus heard
Her broken cry, and at his sovereign word,
Sweet tears came trickling down her marble cheek,
And tenderly did angel voices speak:
They whisper’d gently in her ravish’d ear,
“Jesus is here, sad mourner! Do not fear.”

Fast fled the gloom from that o’erclouded brow,
And peace stole softly o’er her features now;
And a new song was given her to sing,
Though all was gone to which her heart could cling,
And she a stranger was in that far land,
Without a tender mother’s fostering hand,
Far from a father’s ever watchful care,
Far from a sister’s sympathizing tear--
Still could she sing with rapture-beaming eye,
Her pallid features brightening joyfully,
And Heaven was all her theme. Her voice would ring
A grateful anthem to the glorious King
Who conquer’d death, and made the lonely tomb
Seem a soft resting place, a peaceful home,
Where the tired wanderer shuts his weary eyes,
And bids a glad farewell to tears and sighs.

And O, the soul! she saw in visions bright,
The veil withdrawn which hides the world of light,
Her eye of faith she raised with fearful joy,
And _they were there_--her husband--and her boy!
Sweet hope of Heaven! thou art a healing balm;
If storms arise, thy deep, rich, holy calm,
Comes with a spirit-influence to the breast,
And to the weary mourner whispers--rest!
Rest--for the fondly loved, the early dead!
Rest--for the longing spirit, heavenward fled!
Rest--from a tiresome path, in weakness trod!
Rest--in the bosom of the Savior, God!

Far in the west--the boundless, prairied west,
Where nature revels, in her beauty drest,
Where roll the waters of that noble stream,
“Father of Rivers” called--the poet’s theme!
How oft the traveler deems he finds a home,
And plants his weary feet, no more to roam,
Feasts his delighted eyes on pastures green,
Nor dreams a blight can mar the lovely scene!
But many there no place of rest may have,
Save in one little spot--their early grave!

Homes of the west! too oft your precincts prove
Sad sepulchres of woman’s dearest love;
The tombs where lie enshrined her brightest joys,
When ruthless death her earthly hope destroys.
Bright was _her_ home whose tale of wo I tell;
Hope ever paints her glittering landscape well,
And fair the tissues love and fancy show,
While joy o’erspreads the whole with radiant glow.

But now the scene was changed from earth to Heaven;
O’er things below brooded the gloom of even;
But an attractive brightness drew her gaze,
Where Heaven’s pure light stream’d in effulgent rays.
And strangers gazed, and wondered at the sight;
Round that lone being glow’d a hallow’d light;
Upon her pale thin face a heaven-born smile
Play’d like a sunbeam on some lonely isle.
Yet plaintive were her tones in speech or song,
Like the low moaning wind the trees among,
And you could see her tender heart was riven,
And all the love she had, she gave to Heaven.

Oft when the god of day had sunk to rest,
And twilight lingered in the rosy west,
Still would she wander forth with noiseless tread,
And by a secret influence, spirit-led,
Seek the same spot to which her step would stray
With those she loved--but now, O, where are they?
At that soft, holy hour, in days gone by,
There might be seen that joyous family,
Husband, and wife, and child--’twas all so fair
Where all was love, it made an Eden there!
Retired from all the stirring scenes of life,
Who look’d so happy as that fair young wife?
The hand she loved had raised that vine-clad bower,
And o’er it trained full many a fragrant flower;
The heart she prized was beating near her side,
How throbb’d her own, that moment, in her pride!
On a soft grassy seat together there,
Her hand in his, the breeze that waved her hair
Seem’d not so sweet to that confiding one,
As the warm breath of him she gazed upon,
As o’er her with a touching smile he bent,
And spoke of love, and joy, and sweet content.
Her head lay pillow’d on his noble breast;
O, that she e’er should lose her place of rest!
Her prattling boy was standing at her knee;
Clear rang his silver voice in tones of glee,
As, shouting to his faithful dog, he cried,
“Come, Ralph, get up! I’ll take a little ride!”
Then would he strive to mount in mirthful mood,
But fractious oft he found his charger rude,
Now up, now down, the boy or dog would be,
Over and over tumbling playfully.

The smiling parents watch their sportive play,
Well pleased to see their darling boy so gay;
The mother whispers in her husband’s ear,
“Is he not beautiful?” she says, “my dear!”
“He is a noble boy,” he quick replies,
“O, long may he be spared to bless our eyes!
“But see! thy mute guitar neglected stands;
“Come, dearest, take it in thy willing hands,
“And sing to me one of thine own sweet songs,
“Surely the need of song to thee belongs.”

Thus sweetly urged, she tunes her soft guitar,
While the still evening sends her notes afar;
Quick at the sound, her music-loving boy
Stands at her side, partaker of their joy;
His playmate too, the shaggy dog, sits by,
Observing all with meek obedient eye.

And now her fingers sweep the tuneful strings,
As thus, with trembling voice, she plaintive sings:

Gently, gently, beating heart!
Love not earthly things too well;
Those who love may quickly part,
Sorrow’s waves too soon may swell.

Softly, softly, boding fear!
Tell me not of fleeting bliss;
Ever would I linger here,
With a joy so pure as this.

Shame thee, shame thee, earthly love!
Chain not thus my spirit here;
Earth must change, and joy must prove
Sure precursor of despair.

Cheer thee, cheer thee, child of God!
Trust in Heaven, and all is well;
Come the smile, or fall the rod,
Cheer thee, cheer thee, all is well!

The pensive song thus ended, all was still;
A warning voice had told of coming ill;
A big tear gather’d in the mother’s eye,
But ere it dropp’d, the father silently
Wiped it away, and kiss’d his wife’s pale cheek,
Though not a word could either parent speak.

The startled boy, with anxious restless eye,
Gazed on each one by turns mysteriously;
His quiv’ring lip gave signal of distress,
And seem’d to ask, “My mother, what is this?”
She who had wrought the spell was troubled too,
To see what one foreboding song could do;
O, was there _need_ to feel her music so?
Was this the presage of a coming wo?
She play’d again a lively interlude,
And sang once more a song of merrier mood;
The spell was broken, and blest music’s power
Was felt again in that eventful hour;
Bright smiles were seen where gloom had been so late,
And burden’d hearts threw off their gathering weight;
Unconscious childhood turned again to play,
And peace resum’d its own delightful sway.

There sits a mourner solitary now,
With downcast eyes, and pale dejected brow;
Cold is the pillow where she laid her head,
When last they sat beneath their favorite shade;
Hush’d is the voice which ever to her own
Answer’d in tones of tenderness alone;
Still’d are the merry notes of childish glee,
And she is left--of all that family.
She looks abroad, and sees no welcome smile;
No cheerful sounds her long, long hours beguile;
She looks within--and all is mute despair;
She looks to Heaven--O, joy! her all is there!

Do angels hover o’er that lonely place,
Bearing sweet messages of heavenly grace?
Do sainted spirits come from Heaven to those
Whom they have loved on earth, to soothe their woes?
See! o’er her face how spreads a kindling ray,
She, who must tread alone her weary way.
But oft in secret hours her tears must flow,
For sweet are tears to hearts o’ercharged with wo.

Well, pour them freely forth, they end with night,[1]
Bright joy stands waiting for the morning light.
A little longer now, and all is won;
Thou hast till break of day to struggle on.
Poor tired wanderer! gather all thy strength;
See, from the east gray morning dawns at length!
Hail to the breaking day! one moment more,
Tears, sighings, groans, and sorrows, all are o’er.
Raise up thy head--bright gleams the morning sun,
Hail to thy home in Heaven, poor sorrowing one!

JULY, 1840.

FOOTNOTE

[1] “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

TO AN ABSENT HUSBAND.

The following piece was composed while viewing a beautiful sunset from the capitol at Washington, in September, 1835.

The day draws near its close, love,
But I am far from thee;
A sweet and calm repose, love,
This hour once brought to me.
But now I am alone, love,
And all the weary day,
I _feel_ that thou art gone, love,
How can I then be gay?

Could’st thou with me enjoy, love,
This glorious sunset hour,
Of bliss without alloy, love,
My soul would feel the power.
But now my mourning heart, love,
Is struggling to be free;
O, could it hence depart, love,
’Twould join itself to thee.

If hanging on thy arm, love,
I could with rapture gaze,
And view without alarm, love,
Those mild departing rays;
But now they speak of change, love,
And dearest pleasures gone,
Thoughts to my bosom strange, love,
Sad thoughts come rushing on.

If nought of pain or harm, love,
Could cloud our future days,
Then nature’s sweetest charm, love,
Would nought but pleasure raise:
But in a changing world, love,
We often have to mourn;
Hope’s banner now unfurl’d, love,
May soon be rudely torn.

If thou wert with me now, love,
I could not shelter thee,
But if thy head must bow, love,
That head could rest _on me_!
And I could share the blow, love,
Or soothe thee when it came,
In gladness or in wo, love,
Thou’lt find me still the same.

TO A DEAR ABSENT FRIEND.

How sweet the early life of those
Whose hearts and hands are bound together!
O, sweet as childhood’s calm repose,
Those days of bright and sunny weather.

Their bark is on the stream of life,
And no dark cloud is gath’ring o’er it,
There comes no sound of stormy strife,
To sweep that little bark before it.

The elements now sweetly rest,
Or with an infant’s strength are playing
Around the bark on ocean’s breast,
In that sweet spot with joy delaying.

Now in the gently breathing spring,
The south wind in its course hath found them;
And, like an insect’s fluttering wing,
But stirs the balmy air around them.

O, sweet spring time of life! how sad
The thought thou canst not always linger;
But when the heart beats warm and glad,
’Tis touch’d by winter’s icy finger.

Poor little bark! ’twill not be long
Thou’lt bear them on through life so sweetly;
When wintry winds blow fierce and strong,
This lovely scene will change completely.

Well, let them come! when all grows dark,
They’ll share the gloom, and keep the nearer;
Affection lights a brilliant spark,
And sadden’d love grows ever dearer.

When heart meets heart, the life blood warm
Will never freeze in wintry weather;
If comes the cold and biting storm,
Those two fond hearts can beat together.

OCTOBER, 1835.

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 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 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 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 heavenly
Stand 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 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, lest _he_ should 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 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 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 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.

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 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:

XIII.

“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 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 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 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 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 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 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?

XXI.

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 for _resignation_ when 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 was _thy_ prayer, 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 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 regard _me_ with 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 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 from THEE!
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 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 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.

XXX.

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’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!”

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 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 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!

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.”

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

THE DYING AND THE DEAD.

Come to the bed of death!
Draw near--the dying hour has come;
The spirit now is going home!
Come, see the suff’rer--almost free
From life, and life’s last agony--
Resign his breath!

Beautiful sight--but sad!
That cheek, so lately clad
In rosy bloom,
Now lays its roses by,
Preparing thus to die;
For roses must not lie
In the dark tomb!

It is a child who dies--
His lovely deep blue eyes
Are fixed in death;
Why should the sweet boy die?
Why should such beauty lie
The sod beneath?

’Tis ever, ever thus!
The loveliest blossoms we can find,
With numerous tender cords we bind,
And fasten firmly to the heart;
But Death comes in to play _his_ part,
And cuts the fibres loose!

Pale as a tenant of the tomb,
Who comes into that dying room,
Supported by his friend?
Why steals a tear down every face?
Why do all move to give him place?
Why springs the mother to his side?
Why seeks she thus her grief to hide,
As o’er him she doth bend?

It is the father, come to lie
Beside his boy--and see him die,
Ere his own life has fled;
’Tis a sad sight to see--
That mournful tragedy--
That dying bed!
There sits the mother--pale with woe;
There lies the father--faint and low;
There gasps the dying boy;
And friendly strangers, gather’d there,
Breathe out the sigh, and drop the tear;
Mournful employ!
There too, unseen, is ONE,
God’s well beloved Son,
Waiting, when all is o’er,
In every heart to pour
The oil of joy!

A kind physician standeth near,
And looks of grief his features wear;
He hears the mother say--
“O, Doctor! must my darling die?
Though fixed and glazed his lovely eye,
Is there no hope that he may still
Revive, and live to bless thy skill?”
O, God! he answers--“Nay”--
And slowly turns away his head,
And wipes the tear that moment shed,
And leaves the room with silent tread,
For hope’s last glimm’ring ray has fled!

“My husband! something must be done--
Resign not hope till life is gone--”
So plead the mother--but he took
Her hand, and gave her one sad look--
He knew that all was o’er;
And as he feels the boy’s faint pulse,
Cold shudderings his frame convulse;
But silently for strength he prays,
And gently to the mother says,
“He’ll breathe but few times more.”

O! what a bursting tide of grief,
Has given that mother’s heart relief!--
She’s calmer now;
And while her boy lies motionless,
She looks to Heaven--then stoops to kiss
His pale--pale brow!

There was a warm, unwavering friend,
Had watch’d beside him to the end,--
His faithful dog;
He was a well tried friend and true,
And Charley loved him fondly too;
Whene’er a list of friends was made,
His much loved dog would surely head
The catalogue.
And tears of sympathy
Gush’d forth from many an eye,
By strangers shed--
The boy was well beloved,
Where’er his footsteps roved,
And none were seen unmoved
Around that bed.

But suddenly
The sick man rises--takes his boy
With all the strength he can employ,
And lays him on his own fond breast,
That dear, that well known place of rest,
There, there to die!

Now fainter, fainter grows his breath--
Chill’d by the icy touch of Death,
His little heart grows cold;
O, hear the mother’s parting word--
“Farewell--receive his spirit, Lord!”
And see! O, see! she stoops to sip
The last cold dew from that pale lip--
Behold--behold!

Upon his father’s noble breast,
The gentle boy has sunk to rest--
Th’ immortal spirit fled!
And ’tis a mournful sight and rare,
To see them lie together there--
The dying and the dead!

MAY 27th, 1841.

THE MOTHER TO HER DEPARTED CHILD.

I must not weep for thee,
In hopeless agony,
My baby dead!
Away from earthly things,
From sorrow’s deadly stings,
On bright angelic wings,
Thus early fled!

Ere thou hast tasted woe,
’Tis better thou should’st go
To perfect bliss;
My darling--heavenward fled!--
O, shall I hang my head,
And mourn my baby dead,
And weep--_for this_?

Go, cherub, to thy rest!
Yes--leave thy mother’s breast,
For Jesus’ arms!
Sweet babe! I bid thee go!
Ah, me! too well I know,
To thee _I_ could not show
Such heavenly charms!

My baby! soon I must
Resign thy sleeping dust--
Smiling in death!
What did’st thou, baby, see,
Which made thee smile on me,
When Death stood near to thee,
Stealing thy breath?

A gleam of sweet surprise
Lit up thy languid eyes,
And polish’d brow;
And the same heavenly ray
Around thy lips did play,
As pass’d thy life away,
_And ’tis there now_!

I never thought that I
Could see my baby die,
Yet feel like this;
Dead--dead--and yet so fair!
No anguish--no despair
Comes o’er me while I dare
Thy lips to kiss!

Those lips that smile in death--
I almost feel the breath,
As once it came,
When, sleeping on my knee,
While burned my love for thee,
Thy breath, so sweet to me,
Did fan the flame!

My beautiful! my own!
Soon will they lay thee down,
Beneath the sod;
Farewell--my baby dear!
O, God! forgive this tear!
Thyself this heart must cheer,
My Father, God!

I’ll thank thee, every day,
That o’er this pale cold clay,
My baby dead!
I’ve felt as now I feel--
Though down the tear drops steal,
Thou dost thy love reveal,
And grief has fled!

CHARLESTON, _March 28, 1841_.

THE BURIAL.

“Stranger! thou pitiest me, she said,
With lips that faintly smiled,
As here I watch beside my dead,
My fair and precious child.

But know the time-worn heart may be
By pangs in this world riven,
Keener than theirs, who yield, like me,
An angel thus to Heaven.”

MRS. HEMANS.

There was silence deep and deathlike, as the silence of the tomb,
Save when a startling sigh was heard, in that funereal room,
Where lay a lovely cherub boy, smiling as if in sleep;
It was the smile that comes with death, and whispers, “Do not weep,
When those you love are snatch’d away from earth and all its cares;”
O, is it strange a smile should be the last farewell to tears?

He was a cherish’d only son, that fair and noble boy,
His father and his mother saw in him their pride and joy;
And he was bright and beautiful, ev’n to a stranger’s eye,
For those who saw him at his play, could never pass him by,
But often have they stopp’d awhile, to kiss his forehead fair,
And part upon his open brow his clustering auburn hair.

And when upraised his beauteous eye, with a confiding gaze,
I’ve thought it was as cherubs look, that sweet angelic face;
So innocent, so passing fair, so full of love and bliss;
It brings a thought of Heaven to earth, sweet childhood’s happiness!
O, types of Heaven they oft may see, whose thoughts to Heaven ascend,
When things all lovely to behold their daily steps attend.

Why lies that babe so silent there, in monumental rest,
Why moves he not from hour to hour, nor heaves his gentle breast?
Why does the mother place her hand upon his marble cheek,
Then move her bloodless, quiv’ring lips, though none can hear
her speak?
Why meets he not her ardent gaze with smiles of infant bliss?
And why, O, why returns he not that long impassion’d kiss!

Why sleeps the tender infant _there_, and not upon his bed?
Why does the mother sever, too, those ringlets from his head?
Why does she slowly curl them thus, around her fingers fair,
And on them gaze so mournfully--those locks of auburn hair?
Why does she press them to her lips, and press them to her breast?
Why does her heart seem like to break, with feelings unexpress’d?

Why wanders she from room to room, with face so deadly pale?
And why so languid is her step, as though her strength would fail?
And yet, why sits upon her brow such resolution high?
What means that strange impressive look, seen in her moisten’d eye?
Why come the strangers there to gaze, who, weeping, turn away
Whene’er the mother stoops to kiss that lovely sleeping clay?

Why does the dog lie prostrate there, with such a mournful eye?
Why does the mother stoop to him, whene’er she passes by?
Why does he instant raise his head, with slow and solemn grace?
Why does the mother place her cheek against his hairy face?
Why does he give that piteous whine, so full of grief and pain,
And when the mother turns away, lie prostrate there again?

Why do the neighbors standing round, such pitying looks exchange,
And, when they see the mother smile, why say, “’Tis passing strange?”
And why do tears come gushing forth from many a friendly eye,
Whene’er they hear her softly say, “My blessed angel boy?”
Why do they gaze upon her thus, with troubled looks of dread,
As though they feared _another_ storm would bark upon her head?

What means that group of busy ones, on some sad work intent?
Why does the mother near them stand, with eyes upon them bent?
Why do they all keep silence there, as though they feared t’ intrude?
Why does the mother’s look express such heartfelt gratitude?
Who are those lovely silent ones--that group of ladies fair?
Why do they ply the needle thus--what are they doing there?

O, list to me, and I will tell--_that beauteous boy is dead_;
The father, in another room, _lies on his dying bed_;
And she who glides from place to place, and wears so sad a smile--
That wife and mother--who can tell what thoughts her bosom fill?
For many sad mysterious things ye’ve asked the reason why;
O, does not this explain full well each mournful mystery?

Beside her husband’s dying bed the mourning mother stands,
And on his cheek, and on his brow, she lays her trembling hands,
And, bending low her fragile form, she whispers in his ear,
“Our darling boy has gone to Heaven, you _know_ he has, my dear!”
He gazes on his loved one long, and says, with plaintive tone,
“O, yes, our boy _has_ gone to Heaven, and I shall follow soon.”

What makes the mother tremble thus, and close each tearful eye,
And murmur forth, with quiv’ring lip, “O, no, you will not die--
You will not leave me here alone--God will not take away
The noblest boy that ever lived, and _you_ my earthly stay.”
Fair mourner! in a few short hours thy hopes must all depart;
’Tis pity that all hope must die within that trusting heart.

Trust on--trust on--a little while, nor yield thee to despair;
The blow that soon shall fall on thee, God give thee strength to bear!
Ah, little know the thoughtless world, what woman can endure
For those she loves, when she believes their happiness secure;
In utter self-forgetfulness, while all her heartstrings bleed,
O, she _can_ yield them up to Heaven, and joy that they are freed!

’Tis even so--she proved it well, that mother and that wife,
When she was willing to resign those dearer far than life;
The time came on--it linger’d not, when that warm loving heart,
From one to which it firmly grew, was rudely torn apart;
And yet, forgetful of her pain, while every fibre bled,
She joy’d to think her dearest love to heavenly bliss had fled!

And I have told how she could smile, as o’er her boy she bent;
O, it was when, with faith’s glad eye, her glance to Heaven she sent;
Yes--though the lovely infant form was stretch’d upon its bier,
’Twas sweet to think--’twas sweet to know, the spirit was not there!
Clad in a shining robe of light, his face illumed with joy;
She saw the glorious spirit form of her sweet angel boy!

Enfolded in the Savior’s arms, one moment he would be,
While every smiling feature glow’d, all bright with ecstacy;
And when she seem’d to catch his eye, he’d spread his golden wings,
And stretch his little arms to her, whose bright imaginings
Were bearing her away from earth, to Heaven and to her child;
When such a vision met her gaze, what wonder that she smiled?

And with such high and holy thoughts, firm fastened to the skies,
What wonder that such looks were seen in those impressive eyes?
It was not strange, though strange it seem’d to those who ne’er
had known
The pure ecstatic “joy of grief,” the trust in Heaven alone.
O, if there be a holy joy, unmingled, it is this--
For those we best have loved on earth, _the certainty of bliss_!

Weep not, ye strangers! weep not thus, for her who is bereaved--
Ye _surely_ weep not for the soul so late to Heaven received!
I know ’tis sad, ’tis very sad, to see that fair young flower--
That rosebud bright and beautiful, all withered in an hour;
But could ye look away from earth, and from the yawning tomb,
In deathless, bright, unearthly tints, ye’d see that flow’ret bloom.

And now, behold! those silent ones--that group of ladies fair!
They’ve finished each her mournful task; what were they doing there?
Why did they ply the needle thus, on white unsullied lawn,
And now, because their task is done, why have they thus withdrawn?
The lovely group of busy ones, who fear’d to speak aloud,
Were making for that sleeping dust, its burial dress--its shroud!

And now the mourner stands alone, beside her sleeping boy,
’Tis but a moment--other cares her heart and hands employ,
They’ve clothed him in his burial dress, whose heart beats not beneath,
But still he wears a smile, and looks all beautiful in death;
O, that corruption’s tainting touch should mar so fair a form!
O, that the young and beautiful should feed the slimy worm!

Fair mourner! whither goest thou? why dost thou turn away?
How canst thou for a moment leave that lovely sleeping clay?
I need not ask--full well I know that thou wouldst linger long,
And near thy sweet unconscious child these sacred hours prolong;
But now thou go’st with eager step, thy husband’s heart to cheer,
And see! thou leav’st a loving friend, to watch beside the bier.

The playmate of thy gentle boy--the dog he loved so well--
He lieth there beside that corse, a faithful sentinel!
O, were that noble beast endow’d with man’s intelligence,
And could he speak, he’d tell his grief, with true heart-eloquence;
E’en now, methinks, he seems to speak, as mournfully he lies,
And looks into his mistress’ face with those confiding eyes.

A crowd is slowly gathering within that silent room;
With eyes intent upon the ground, and sober steps they come;
Their errand is a holy one, to follow to the grave
The beautiful young creature, whom nor tears nor prayers could save;
To place the precious dust within its narrow cheerless home,
And with true hearted sympathy, to weep beside the tomb.

The mother leaves her station near the chosen of her heart;
How strange that in her speaking eye, no tear is seen to start!
She whispers to the friend she leaves, “O, watch my husband well,
And if he ask you where I am, ah me! you need not tell--
But say that I’ll return again, on eager wings of love--
That I have sought a _resting place_, within our fav’rite grove.

A resting place--a resting place! little did I dream
When last we wandered there, ’twould be a resting place for him--
For thee, my boy! my peerless boy! who gambol’d at my side;
O, would to God! my son! my son! that I for thee had died!
Hush--hush--my fond maternal heart! and let thy treasure go;
If thou couldst do it by a word, _wouldst_ thou recall him? No!”

The strangers all have look’d their last upon the clay-cold form,
So late instinct with life and health, with pulses beating warm;
’Tis covered now from every eye--alas! ’tis darkly hid,
It lies upon its narrow bed, beneath the coffin lid.
’Twill see no more the sun’s fair light, when night’s dark hours
have fled--
It sleeps a long and dreamless sleep, upon that narrow bed.

The childless mourner takes her place amid that tearful throng,
She is the only tearless one, that silent crowd among;
The minister of God has come, he bows his reverend head,
And from the holy book he reads, how “blessed are the dead;”
See joy upon the mother’s face! see rapture in her eye!
Pale Death! O, where is now thy sting? where, Grave! thy victory?

And from the volume in his hands, O, list! and hear him tell,
How once a mother and a wife did answer, “It is well.”
Yes--when the holy man of God asked, “Is it well with thee,
And with thy husband and thy child?” thus sweetly answered she.
Now see upon that mourner’s face, what radiant smiles do steal!
She moves her lips--what does she say? She whispers, “It _is_ well.”

Blessed religion of the skies! O blessed hope of Heaven!
How canst thou heal the broken heart, by sore afflictions riven!
And thou, celestial Comforter! thou Spirit of the Lord!
Forever be thy holy name exalted and adored!
For thou canst charm away the grief of those who are distress’d,
And by thine own sweet promises bring rapture to the breast.

There is a strain of melody heard in that western wild,
They sing above the coffin’d dust of that beloved child;
What voice, with clear yet plaintive tone, now swells upon the ear,
So full of high wrought feeling that all others stop to hear?
O, what must be the joyful hope that thus to Heaven clings!
--It is that childless mourner, who thus clearly, sweetly sings:--

“On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand,
And cast a wishful eye
To Canaan’s fair and happy land,
Where my possessions lie.
O, the transporting rapt’rous scene
That rises to my sight!
Sweet fields array’d in living green,
And rivers of delight.

O’er all those wide extended plains
Shines one eternal day;
There God the Son forever reigns,
And scatters night away.
No chilling winds nor pois’nous breath
Can reach that blissful shore,
Sickness and sorrow, pain and death,
Are felt and fear’d no more.

When shall I reach that happy place,
And be forever blest?
When shall I see my Father’s face,
And in his bosom rest?
Fill’d with delight, my raptured soul
Would here no longer stay;
Though Jordan’s waves should o’er me roll,
Fearless I’d launch away.”

With clasped hands and raised eyes, these words the mother sang;
In silv’ry tones on every ear the mournful music rang;
’Twas mournful as the wind-swept harp, that answers to the breeze
Whene’er it sighs complainingly, among the forest trees--
Or voice of lonely nightingale, at evening in the wood,
Warbling her soft and mournful plaint, in melancholy mood.

Along the solitary road, with slow and solemn tread,
Now move the mourners who attend the burial of the dead;
The stranger and the forest-born, the parent and the child,
Go with him to his early grave in yonder western wild;
They weep for her who weepeth not, for, ah! too well they know
That soon, in perfect loneliness, a _widow’s_ tears must flow!

Behold them “on their winding way!” how mournfully they move!
And now they’ve reach’d that resting place, in yonder shady grove;
Not weary of this tiresome world, was he who there shall rest,
A flower just newly blown he was, pluck’d from his mother’s breast;
In yonder sweet sequestered spot, where verdant branches wave,
The funeral train have gather’d now, beside an open grave.

Hark! hear ye not that solemn voice? It is the voice of prayer;
And reverently each listener his bowed head doth bare;
The youthful and the aged man, the man in nature’s prime,
All bow before the King of Kings. Who would not bow to Him?
The mother leans in silence there, upon a stranger’s arm;
Her thoughts are with her angel boy, now safe from every harm.

No more she sees the funeral train--the gentle and the brave;
Nor sees the little coffin laid beside the open grave;
Her pale, pale face is upward turned, her eyes are fixed on high,
A glory shineth on her face, a rapture in her eye!
Why stands she gazing up to Heaven? what sees the mother there?
She sees her shining cherub boy, in answer to her prayer!

The prayer is ended--all is still--and now the man of God
(Before the ready spade has touch’d the cold expectant sod,)
Returns the mourners’ thanks to all who’ve lent their kindly aid
To those on whom the hand of God its crushing weight has laid;
In watching by the suff’rer’s couch, through many a weary night,
And now in burying their dead--their darling, out of sight.

“Ashes to ashes--dust to dust”--with mournful hollow sound
The clods of earth are falling on that coffin under ground;
Nay, shudder not, nor turn away, with sudden heart-despair!
Mother! ’tis but his lifeless dust, his spirit is not there.
Yes, smile again that same sad smile, and raise thy languid eyes,
Again--O, mourner! dost thou see thy darling in the skies?

In silence and in thoughtfulness, away the mourners move;
Deserted is that peaceful spot, within a shady grove.
Deserted? No! for all day long, and through the silent night,
A friend is watching by the boy, now buried out of sight;
Where gently to the western winds the verdant branches wave,
There prostrate lies a faithful dog, beside a new made grave!

CHARLESTON, _June, 1841_.

THE FADING ROSE BUD.

I had a lovely Rose bud,
Just opening beauteously,
I placed it on my bosom,
And fair it was to see;
My heart was proudly swelling,
When every passer-by
Admired my beauteous flower,
That blossom’d but to die.

Awhile it gaily flourish’d,
Nursed by affection’s dew,
And every passing hour,
More beautiful it grew;
Each tender leaf unfolding,
A brilliant hue display’d;
I thought a brighter flower
Was surely never made.

One day I saw it drooping,
It leaned upon my breast;
With paleness and with trembling,
I saw it sink to rest;
I knew not it was dying,
Though paler still it grew;
I vainly strove to save it,
By all that love could do.

I ask’d each passing zephyr
To breathe upon my flower,
And each reviving sunbeam
To try its sovereign power;
I gave each fond endearment,
I water’d it with tears,
But every moment brought me
More agonizing fears.

“O, must I lose my Rose bud,
The only one I have?
Is there no kind physician,
My precious flower to save?”
But vain was all my praying,
A worm was at the core,
And, leaning on my bosom,
It withered more and more.

At length I heard a whisper,
“O, suffer it to come
To me, the only Savior,
And I will take it home;
There, in my garden blooming,
Are many buds like thine,
In bright celestial beauty,
Sweet flowers! how they shine!”

I raised my tearful eyelids,
And lo! a form of light,
Just like the risen Savior,
Then met my wond’ring sight;
And while I strove to tell him
That he might take it home,
Again I heard him saying,
“O, suffer it to come.”

The glory round him shining
Spread heavenly light afar,
And in each hand extended,
I saw the fatal scar;
There too, I saw, with anguish,
The wound upon his side;
By these sad marks I knew him,
’Twas He--the Crucified!

With sad heartbreaking sorrow,
I kiss’d my faded flower,
A long farewell I gave it,
That well remember’d hour;
One dark and painful struggle
Now rack’d my tortured mind,
And then, with sighs and weeping,
My Rose bud I resign’d.

’Twas folded to his bosom,
And, as he placed it there,
I saw new life returning
Beneath his fost’ring care;
And though I felt so lonely,
And throbb’d my heart with pain,
I dared not, and I wish’d not
To call it back again.

And then the tender Savior
Cast such a look on me,
And said to me so sweetly,
“Fear not, I’ll comfort thee,”
That I in calmness waited
To see them take their flight,
And, in a cloud of glory,
They vanish’d from my sight!

CHARLESTON, _December 10, 1840_.

THE DEATH-BED SCENE.[4]

I.