The Rural Life In New-England.

INTRODUCTION.

It may be thought that the following poem, especially its opening Canto is too minute and circumstantial in its descriptions. Yet the habitudes of a past and peculiar generation, fast fading from remembrance, are worthy of being preserved, though little accordant with romance, perhaps with poetry. So rapid has been our progress as a people, that dimness gathers over the lineaments of even our immediate ancestry. Yet traits at one period despised, or counted obsolete, may at another be diligently sought after and re-juvenated.

It has been observed that nations reaching their zenith, regard with more complacency their rising morn, than the approaching west. France, notwithstanding the precision given to her language by Richilieu, and the Academy, turns back affectionately to her Troubadours and Trouvires, to the long-drawn, scarce-readable "Romance of the Rose," and the itinerant Chronicles of Froissart. England is not indifferent to Anglo-Saxon traditions, or the customs of her Norman dynasty.

A time may arrive when our posterity will not scorn to be reminded of the primitive usages of their rural fathers. To that time, and to unborn readers, this simple poem is dedicated.

L. H. S.

THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW-ENGLAND.

CANTO FIRST.

Peaceful is the rural life, made strong by healthful industry,

Firm in love of the birth-land, and the laws that govern it,

Calm through moderated desires and a primitive simplicity,

Walking filially with Nature as the Patriarchs walked with God.

Such have I beheld it in my native vales, green and elm-shaded.

Such hath it been depicted in their legends who went before me;

What therefore, I have seen and heard, declare I unto you

In measures artless and untuneful.

Fearless of hardship,

In costume, as in manners, unadorn'd and homely

Were our ancestral farmers, the seed-planters of a strong nation.

Congenial were their wives, not ashamed of the household charge,

Yoke-fellows that were help-meets, vigorous and of a good courage;

Revolting not at life's plain intent, but its duties discharging

Patiently, lovingly, and with true faith looking upward.

Thence came the rudiments of an inflexible people

Whose praise is in themselves.

Hail to the ancient farmer!

Broad-shouldered as Ajax--deep-chested through commerce with free air,

Not enervated by luxury, nor care-worn with gold-counting,

Content with his lot, by pride and envy unvisited.

Muscular was his arm, laying low the kings of the forest,

Uncouth might be his coat, and his heavy shoes, Vestris flouted,

At the grasp of his huge hand, the dainty belle might have shuddered.

Yet blessings on his bronzed face, and his warm, honest heart,

Whose well-rooted virtues were the strength and stay of republics.

*    *    *    *    *

True independence was his, earth and sky being his bankers,

Bills drawn on them, endorsed by toil were never protested.

Bathed in vernal dews was his glistening plough-share,

Birds, newly-returned, the merry nest-builders, bade him good morrow,

Keenly wrought his scythe in summer, where fell the odorous clover,

Clear was his song at autumn-husking, amid piles of golden corn.

Winter saw him battling the drifted snows, with his oxen,

Bearing to the neighboring town, fuel that gladden'd the hearth-stone.

Deep in undisturbed beds then slept the dark-featured anthracite,

Steam not having armed itself to exterminate the groves,

Lavishly offering them as a holocaust to winged horses of iron,

Like Moloch, cruel god, dooming the beautiful to the flame.

*    *    *    *    *

Independent was the farmer, the food of his household being sure;

With the fields of waving grain; with the towering tassell'd maize;

With the herds, moving homeward, bearing their creamy nectar;

He saw, and gather'd it, giving thanks to the bountiful Father.

Among the lambs sporting in green pastures, among the feathery people,

Among the fruit-laden branches, he beheld it also;

Under the earth, on the earth, in the air, ripen'd his threefold crop.

Swelling in the cluster'd vine, and the roots of the teeming garden,

The Garden--precious spot! which God deign'd to bless at the beginning,

Placing therein Man, made after his own glorious image,

To dress it and to keep it.

Hail, to the ancient farmer,

Naught to him the fall of stocks that turns pale the speculator,

Naught to him the changes of trade, wrinkling the brow of the merchant,

Naught to him, the light weight, or exorbitant price of the baker;

Sure was his bread, howsoe'er the markets might fluctuate,

Sweet loaves of a rich brown, plentifully graced his table,

Made by the neat hand of wife or daughter, happy in healthful toil.

Skilfully wrought the same hands, amid the treasures of the dairy,

Rich cheeses, and masses of golden butter, and bowls of fragrant milk

Not doled out warily, as by city dames, but to all, free and flowing;

Woman's right it was, to crown the board with gifts of her own preparing;

Rights not disputed, not clamored for in public assemblies,

But conceded by approving Love, whose manliness threw around her

A cherishing protection, such as God willed in Paradise.

*    *    *    *    *

Dense was the head of the Maple, and in summer of a lustrous green,

Yet earliest in autumn, among all trees of the forest,

To robe itself in scarlet, like a cardinal going to conclave.

Subjected was it in spring, to a singular phlebetomy;

Tubes inserted through its bark, drew away the heart's sweet blood,

Pore after pore emptying itself, till the great arteries were exhausted.

Fires then blazed amid the thickets, like the moveable camp of the gipsies,

And in boiling kettles, fiercely eddying, struggled the caloric,

With gases, and the saccharine spirit, until the granulated sugar,

Showed a calm, brown face, welcome to the stores of the housewife;

Moulded also into small cakes, it formed the favorite confection

Of maiden and swain, during the long evenings of courtship.

*    *    *    *    *

Gamboling among wild flowers, gadded the honey-bee,

Bending down their innocent heads, with a buzzing lore of flattery,

Beguiling them of their essences, which with tireless alacrity,

Straightway deposited he in his cone-roof'd banking-house,

Subtle financier--thinking to take both dividend and capital.

But failing in his usury, for duly cometh the farmer,

Despoiling him of his hoard, yea! haply of his life also.

Stern was the policy of the olden times, to that diligent insect,

Not skill'd like our own, to confiscate a portion of his earnings,

Leaving life and limb unscathed for future enterprise.

Welcome were the gifts of that winged chemist to a primitive people.

Carefully cloistered in choice vases, was the pure, virgin honey,

Sacred to honor'd guests, or a balm to the sore-throated invalid.

Dealt out charily, was the fair comb to the gratified little ones,

Or, to fermentation yielded, producing the spirited metheglin.

Not scorn'd by the bee-masters, were even those darken'd hexagons

Where slumber'd the dead like the coral-builders in reefy cell.

Even these to a practical use devoted the clear-sighted matron,

Calling forth from cavernous sepulchres cheerful light for the living.

Cleansed and judiciously mingled with an oleagenous element,

Thus drew she from the mould, waxen candles, whose gold-tinted beauty

Crown'd proudly the mantel-piece, reserved for bettermost occasions.

Unheard of, then, was the gas, with briliant jet and gorgeous chandelier,

Nor hunted they from zone to zone, with barbed harpoon the mighty whale,

Making the indignant monarch of ocean, their flambeau and link-boy:

For each household held within itself, its own fountain of light.

Faithful was the rural housewife, taking charge of all intrusted things,

Prolonging the existence of whatever needed repair,

Requiring children to respect the property of their parents,

Not to waste or destroy, but be grateful for food and clothing;

Teaching them industry, and the serious value of fleeting time,

Strict account of which must be rendered to the Master and Giver of Life.

Prudence was then held in esteem and a laudable economy

Not jeered at by miserly names, but held becoming in all,

For the poor, that they might avoid debt; and the rich that they might be justly generous.

*    *    *    *    *

Ho! for the flax-field, with its flower of blue and leaf freshly green,--

Ho! for the snowy fleece, which the quiet flock yield to their master,--

Woman's hand shall transmute both, into armor for those she loves,

Wrapping her household in comfort, and her own heart in calm content.

Hark! at her flaxen distaff cheerily singeth the matron,

Hymns, that perchance, were mingled with her own cradle melodies.

Back and forth, at the Great Wheel, treadeth the buxom damsel,

Best form of calisthenics, exercising well every muscle

Regularly and to good purpose, filling the blue veins with richer blood.

Rapidly on the spindle, gather threads from the pendent roll,

Not by machinery anatomized, till stamina and staple fly away,

But with hand-cards concocted, and symmetrically formed,

Of wool, white or grey, or the refuse flax smoothed to a silky lustre,

It greeteth the fingers of the spinner.

In this Hygeian concert

Leader of the Orchestra, was the Great Wheel's tireless tenor,

Drowning the counter of the snapping reel, and the quill-wheels fitful symphony,

Whose whirring strings, yielded to children's hands, prepare spools for the shuttle.

At intervals, like a muffled drum, sounded the stroke of the loam,

Cumbrous, and filling a large space, with its quantity of timber,

Obedient only to a vigorous arm, which in ruling it grew more vigorous.

From its massy beam were unrolled, fabrics varied and substantial,

Linen for couch and table, and the lighter garniture of summer,

Frocks of a flaxen color for the laborer, or striped with blue for the younglings;

Stout garments in which man bides the buffet of wintry elements.

From the rind of the stately butternut, drew they a brown complexion,

Or the cerulean borrowed from the tint of the southern indigo.

Thus rustic Industry girded itself, amid household music,

As History of old, set her fabulous legends to the harp.

Ears trained to the operas of Italy, would find discordance to be mocked at,

But the patriot heard the ring of gold in the coffers of his country,

Not sent forth to bankruptcy, for the flowery silks of France;

While the listening christian caught the strong harmonies of a peaceful Land,

Giving praise to Jehovah.

Lo! at the winter evening

In these uncarpeted dwellings, what a world of comfort!

Large hickory logs send a dancing flame up the ample chimney,

Tinging with ruddy gleam, every face around the broad hearth-stone.

King and patriarch, in the midst, sitteth the true-hearted farmer.

At his side, the wife with her needle, still quietly regardeth the children.

Sheltered in her corner-nook, in the arm-chair, the post of honor,

Calm with the beauty of age, is the venerable grandmother.

Clustering around her, watching the stocking that she knits, are the little ones,

Loving the stories that she tells of the days when she was a maiden,

Stories ever mix'd with lessons of a reverent piety.

Manna do they thus gather to feed on, when their hair is hoary.

Stretch'd before the fire, is the weary, rough-coated house-dog,

Winking his eyes, full of sleep, at the baby, seated on his shoulder,

Proudly watching his master's darling, and the pet of the family,

As hither and thither on its small feet it toddles unsteadily.

On the straight-back'd oaken settle, congregate the older children.

Work have they, or books, and sometimes the weekly newspaper,

Grey, on coarse, crumpled paper, and borrowed from house to house,

Small-sized, yet precious, and read through from beginning to end,

Bright, young heads circling close, peering together over its columns.

Now and then, furtive glances reconnoitre the ingle-side,

Where before a bed of coals, rows of red apples are roasting,

Spitting out their life-juices spitefully, in unwilling martyrdom.

Finished, and drawn back, the happy group wait a brief interval,

Thinking some neighbor might chance to come in and bid them good even,

Heightening their simple refection, for whose sake would be joyously added

The mug of sparkling cider passed temperately from lip to lip,

Sufficient and accepted offering of ancient, true-hearted hospitality.

Thus in colonial times dwelt they together as brethren,

Taking part in each others' concerns with an undissembled sympathy.

But when the tall old clock told out boldly three times three,

Thrice the number of the graces, thrice the number of the fates,

The full number of the Muses, the hour dedicated to Morpheus,

At that curfew departed the guest, and all work being suspended,

Laid aside was the grandmother's knitting-bag, for in its cradle

Rock'd now and then by her foot, already slumbered the baby.

Then, ere the fading brands were covered with protecting ashes,

Rose the prayer of the Sire, amid his treasured and trusted ones,

Rose his thanks for past blessings, his petitions for the future,

His committal of all care to Him who careth for his creatures,

Overlooking nothing that His bountiful Hand hath created.

Orderly were the households of the farmer, not given to idle merriment,

Honoring the presence of parents, as of tutelary spirits.

To be obedient and useful were the first lessons of the young children,

Well learned and bringing happiness, that ruled on sure foundations,

Respect for authority, being the initial of God's holy fear.

Modern times might denounce such a system as tyrannical,

Asking the blandishments of indulgence, and a broader liberty;

Leaving in perplexing doubt, the mind of the infant stranger

Whether to rule or to be ruled he came hither on his untried journey,

Rearing him in headstrong ignorance, revolting at discipline,

Heady, high-minded, and prone to speak evil of dignities.

Welcome was Winter, to the agriculturist of olden times,

Then, while fruitful Earth, with whom he was in league, held her sabbath,

Knowledge entered into his soul. At the lengthened evening,

Read he in an audible voice to his listening family

Grave books of History, or elaborate Theology,

Taxing thought and memory, but not setting fancy on tiptoe

Teaching reverence for wise men, and for God, the Giver of Wisdom.

Not then had the era arrived, when of making books there is no end.

Painfully the laboring press, brought forth like the kingly whale

One cub at a time, guiding it carefully over the billows,

Watching with pride and pleasure, its own wonderful offspring.

A large, fair volume, was in those days, as molten gold,

Touched only with clean hands, and by testators willed to their heirs.

*    *    *    *    *

Winter also, brought the school for the boys,--released from farm-labor.

Early was the substantial breakfast, in those short, frosty mornings,

That equipped in season, might be the caravan for its enterprise,

Punctuality in those simple times being enrolled among the virtues.

There they go! a rosy group, bearing in small baskets their dinner;

Plunging thro' all snow-drifts, the boys,--on all ices sliding the girls,

Yet leaving not the straight path, lest tardy should be their arrival.

Lone on the bleak hill-side, stood the unpainted village school-house,

Winds taking aim at it like a target, smoke belching from its chimney,

Bare to the fiery suns of summer, like the treeless Nantucket.

Desks were ranged under the windows where on high benches without backs

Sate the little ones, their feet vainly reaching toward the distant floor,

Commanded everlastingly to keep still and to be still,

As if immobility were the climax of all excellence;

Hard lesson for quick nerves, and eyes searching for something new.

Nature endowed them with curiosity, but man wiser than she

Calling himself a teacher, would fain stiffen them into statues.

No bright visions of the school-palaces of future days

With seats of ease, and carpets, and pianos, and pictured walls,

And green lawns, pleasantly shaded, stretching wide for play,

And knowledge fondling her pets, and unveiling her royal road,

Gleam'd before them as Eden, kindling smiles on their thoughtful faces.

Favor'd were the elder scholars with more congenial tasks:

Loudly read they in their classes, glorying in the noise they made,

Busily over the slates moved the hard pencils, with a grating sound,

Diligently on coarse paper wrote they, with quill pens, bushy topp'd,

Blessed in having lived, ere the metallic stylus was invented.

Rang'd early around the fire, have been their frozen inkstands,

Where in rotation sits each scholar briefly, by the master's leave,

Roasting on one side, and on the other a petrefaction,

Keen blasts through the crevices delighting to whistle and mock them.

Patient were the children, not given to murmuring or complaining,

Learning through privation, lessons of value for a future life,

Subjection, application, and love of knowledge for itself alone.

On a high chair, sate the solemn Master, watchful of all things,

Absolute was his sway and in this authority he gloried,

Conforming it much to the Spartan rule, and the code of Solomon,

Showing no mercy to idleness, or wrong uses of the slippery tongue:

Yet to diligent students kind, and of their proficiency boastful,

Exhibiting their copy-books, to committee-man and visitant,

Or calling out the declaimers, in some stentorian dialogue.

Few were the studies then pursued, but thoroughness required in all,

Surface-work not being in vogue, nor rootless blossoms regarded.

Especially well-taught was the orthography of our copious language,

False spelling being as a sin to be punished by the judges.

In this difficult attainment the master sometimes accorded

A form of friendly conflict sought with ardor as a premium,

Stirring the belligerent element, ever strong in boyish natures.

Forth came at close of the school-day, two of reproachless conduct,

Naming first the best spellers, they proceeded to choose alternately,

Till all, old and young, ranging under opposite banners,

Drawn up as in battle array, each other stoutly confronted.

Rapidly given out by the leaders to their marshall'd forces,

Word by word, with its definition, was the allotted lesson,

Vociferously answered from each side like discharges of artillery;

Fatal was the slightest mistake, fatal even pause or hesitation,

Doubt was for the vanquished, to deliberate was to be lost.

Drooping with disgrace down sate each discomfited pupil,

Bravely stood the perfect, the most unbroken line gaining the victory.

Not unboastful were the conquerers, cheered with shouts on their homeward way,

Crest-fallen were the defeated, yet eager for a future contest.

Strong elements thus enlisted, gave new vigor to mental toil,

As the swimmer puts forth more force till the rapids are overpast.

Dear to the persevering, were those schools of the olden time,

Respected were the teachers, who with majestic austerity,

Dispensed without favoritism, a Lacedamonian justice.

Learning was not then loved for luxury, like a lady for her gold,

But testing her worshippers by trial, knew who sought her for herself.

*    *    *    *    *

Not given to frequent feasting was the home-bred farmer of New England,

Parties, and the popular lectures swelled not his code of enjoyments.

One banquet, climax of his convivial delight, was the yearly thanksgiving,

Substituted by puritan settlers for the Christmas of the Mother-Clime,

Keeping in memory the feast of ingathering, of the Ancient Covenant People;

Drear November was its appointed season, when earth's bounty being garnered,

Man might rest from his labors, and praise the Lord of the Harvest.

Such was its original design, but the tendencies of Saxonism,

Turn'd it more to eating and drinking, than devotional remembrance.

Yet blessed was the time, summoning homeward every wanderer:

Back came the city apprentice, and from her service place the damsel,

Back came the married daughter to the father's quiet hearth-stone,

Wrapped warmly in her cloak is a babe, its eyes full of wonder,--

Hand in hand, walked the little ones, bowing low before the grandparents,

Meekly craving their blessing, for so had they been piously taught.

Back to the birth-spot, to the shadow of their trees ancestral,

Came they like joyous streams, to their first untroubled fountain,

Knowing better how to prize it, from the rocks that had barred their course.

In primitive guise, journeyed homeward those dispersed ones.

Rare, in these days, was the carriage, or stage-coach for the traveller;

Roads, unmacadamized, making rude havoc of delicate springs.

Around the door, horses gather with the antique side-saddle and pillion,

Led thence to the full barn, while their riders find heartfelt welcome.

Then all whom culinary cares release, hasten to the House of Worship,

Religion being invoked to sanction the rejoicing of the fathers.

Plain was the village-church, a structure of darkened wood,

Having doors on three sides, and flanked by sheds for the horses,

Guiltless of blackening stove-pipe, or the smouldering fires of the furnace.

Assaulted oft were its windows, by the sonorous North-Western,

Making organ-pipes in the forest, for its shrill improvisations

Patient of cold, sate the people, each household in its own square pew,

Palisaded above the heads of the children, imprisoning their roving eyes.

Patiently sate the people, while from 'neath the great sounding-board,

The preacher unfolded his sermon, like the many-headed cauliflower.

Grave was the good pastor, not prone to pamper animal appetites,

But mainly intent to deal with that which is immortal.

Prolix might he have been deemed, save by the flock he guided,

Who duteously accounted him but a little lower than the angels.

As solemn music to the sound of his monotonous periods

Listened attentively the young, until he slowly enunciated

Fifteenthly, in the division of his elaborate discourse.

Then gadded away their busy thoughts to the Thanksgiving dinner,

Visioning good things to come.

At length, around the table,

Duly bless'd by the Master of the feast, they cheerily assemble.

Before him, as his perquisite, and prerogative to carve.

In a lordly dish smokes the huge, well-browned Turkey,

Chickens were there, to whose innocent lives Thanksgiving is ever a death-knell;

Luscious roasters from the pen, the large ham of a red complexion,

Garnish'd and intermingled with varied forms of vegetable wealth.

Ample pasties were attached, and demolished with dexterity,

Custards and tarts, and compounds of the golden-faced pumpkin,

Prime favorite, without whose aid, scarcely could New England have been thankful.

Apples, with plump, waxen cheeks, chestnuts, and the fruit of the hickory,

Bisected neatly, without fragment, furnished the simple dessert,

Finale to that festival where each guest might be safely merry.

Hence, by happy-hearted children, was it hailed as the pole-star,

Toward which Memory looked backward six months, and Hope forward for six to come,

Dating reverently from its era, as the Moslem from his Hegira.

Hymen also hailed it as his revenue, and crowning time;

Bachelors wearied with the restraints that courtship imposes,

Longed for it, as the Israelite for the jubilee of release,

And many a householder, in his family-bible marked its date

As the day of his espousals, and of the gladness of his heart.

*    *    *    *    *

Content was the life of agriculture, in unison with that wisest prayer

"_Thy will be done._" Wisest, because who, save the Eternal

Knoweth what is best for man, walking ignorantly among shadows,

Himself a shadow, not like Adam our father in Paradise,

Rightly naming all things, but calling evil, good, and good, evil,

Blindly blaming the discipline that might bless him ever-lastingly,

And embracing desires, that in their bosom hide the dagger of Ehud.

Asketh he for honor? In its train are envyings and cares;

"Wealth? It may drown the soul in destruction and perdition;

Power? Lo! it casteth on some lone St. Helena to die:

Surely, safest of all petitions, is that of our blessed Saviour,--

"_Not my will hut Thine._"

*    *    *    *    *

Thus, as it was in the days before us,

Rural life in New-England, with its thrift, and simplicity,

Minutely have I depicted, not emulous of embellishment.

More of refinement might it boast when our beautiful birth-clime,

From the colonial chrysalis emerging, spread her wing among the nations.

Then rose an aristocracy, founded not on wealth alone

That winds may scatter like desert sands, or the floods wash away,

But on the rock of solid virtue, where securely anchors the soul.

*    *    *    *    *

Mid its cultured acres rose gracefully a dwelling of the better class,

Large, but not lofty, its white walls softened by surrounding shades,

Fresh turf at its feet like velvet, green boughs bannering its head,

Bannering, and dropping music, till the last rustle of the falling leaves.

There, still in her comely prime, dwelt the lady of the mansion.

Moderate would her fortune be held in these days that count by millions,

Yet rich was she, because having no debts, what seemed to be hers, was so;

Rich, in having a surplus for the poor, which she gladly imparted;

Rich too, through Agriculture, pursued less from need than habit.

Habit mingled with satisfaction, and bringing health in its train.

Early widowhood had touched her brow with sadness such as time bringeth,

Yet in her clear eye was a fortitude, surmounting adversity.

Busy were her maidens, and happy, their right conduct kindly approved,

Busy also the swains thro' whose toil her fields yielded increase,

Respect had she for labor; knowing both what to require, and when it was well performed,

Readily rendering full wages, with smiles and words of counsel,

Accounting those who served her, friends, entitled to advice and sympathy.

Thus, looking well to the ways of her household, and from each expecting their duty,

Wisely divided she her time, and at intervals of leisure,

Books allured her cultured mind through realms of thought and knowledge.

*    *    *    *    *

But the deepest well-spring of her joys, not yet hath been unfolded,

A fountain where care and sorrow forgot both their name and nature.

Two little daughters, like olive plants, grew beside that fountain,

One, with dark, deepset eyes, and wealth of raven tresses,

The other gleaming as a sunbeam, through her veil of golden hair,

With a glance like living sapphire, making the beholder glad.

Clinging to the sweet mother's hand, smiling when she smiled,

If she were sad, grieving also, they were her blessed comforters,

Morn and Even were they styled by admiring, fanciful visitants,

So "the evening and the morning, were to her soul the first day,"

After the heavy midnight of her weeping and widowhood.

Side by side, in sweet liberty hither and thither roamed those little ones,

Hunting violets on the bank, tasting cheese curds in the dairy,

Seeking red and white strawberries, as ripening they ran in the garden beds,

To fill the small basket for their mother, covering the fruit with rose-buds,

Peering archly to see if she would discover what was lurking beneath.

Gamboling with the lambs, shouting as the nest-builders darted by,

Sharing in the innocence of one, and catching song from the other.

Nighty on the same snowy pillow, were laid their beautiful heads,

The same morning beam kiss'd away their lingering slumbers,

The first object that met their waking eye, was the bright, sisterly smile.

One impulse moved both hearts, as kneeling by their little bed,

Breathed forth from ruby lips, "Our Father, who art in Heaven!"

Simple homage, meekly blending in a blessed stream of incense.

Forth went they among the wild flowers, making friendship with the dragon-fly,

With the ant in her circling citadel, with the spider at her silk-loom,

Talking to the babbling brook, speaking kindly to the uncouth terrapin,

And frog, who to them seem'd dancing joyously in watery halls.

Like the chirping of the wood-robin murmured their tuneful voices,

Or rang out in merry laughter, gladdening the ear of the Mother,

Who when she heard it afar off, laughed also, not knowing wherefore.

Thus, in companionship with Nature, dwelt they, growing each day more happy,

Loving all things that she cherish'd, and loved by her in return.

Yet not idly pass'd their childhood, in New England's creed that were heresy,

Promptly, as strength permitted, followed they examples of industry,

Lovingly assisting the Mother wherever her work might be.

Surprising was it to see what their small hands could accomplish,

Without trespassing on the joy of childhood, that precious birthright of life.

Diligently wrought they in summer, at the dame's school with plodding needle,

Docile at their lessons in winter, stood they before the Master:

Yet learning most from Home and Mother, those schools for the heart,

Befitting best that sex, whose sphere of action is in the heart.

Attentive were they to the Parents' rule, and to the open book of Nature,

Teachers, whose faithful pupils shall be wise towards God.

*    *    *    *    *

Different were the two daughters, though to the same discipline subjected.

Grave was the elder born and thoughtful, even beyond her years,

Night upon her tresses, but the star of morning in her heart.

Exceeding fair was the younger, and witty, and full of grace,

Winning with her sunny ringlets, the notice of all beholders.

Different also were their temperaments, one loving like the Violet

Shaded turf, where the light falls subdued through sheltering branches,

The other, as the Tulip, exulting in the lustrous noontide,

And the prerogatives of beauty, to see, and to be seen.

Sweet was it to behold them, when the sun grew low in summer,

Riding gracefully through the green-wood, each on her ambling palfrey,

One, white as milk, and the other like shining ebony,

For so in fanciful love had the Mother selected for her darlings.

Sweet was it to mark them, side by side, in careless beauty,

Looking earnestly in each others' faces, thought playfully touching thought.

*    *    *    *    *

Chief speaker was Miranda, ever fearless and most fluent.

"Tired am I of always seeing the same dull, old scenes.

I wish the rail-fences would tumble down, and the sprawling apple-trees,--

And the brown farm-houses take unto themselves wings and fly away,

Like the wild-geese in autumn, if only something might be new.

There's the Miller forever standing on that one same spot of ground,

Watching his spouting wheel, when there's water, and when there is none,

Grumbling, I suppose, at home, to his spiritless wife and daughters.

I like not that fusty old Miller, his coat covered with meal,

Ever tugging at bags, and shoveling corn into the hopper."

Discreetly answer'd Bertha, and the lively one responded,

Lively, and quick-sighted, yet prone to be restless and unsatisfied,

"Counting rain-drops as they fall, one by one, from sullen branches.

Seeing silly lambkins leap, and the fan-tail'd squirrels scamper,

What are such things to me? Stupid Agriculture I like not,

Soap-making, and the science of cheese-tubs, what are they to me?

The chief end of life with these hinds and hindesses,

Is methinks, to belabor their hands, till they harden like brick-bats."

*    *    *    *    *

"Look, look, Miranda, dearest! The new moon sweetly rising

Holdeth forth her silver crescent, which the loyal stars perceiving,

Gather gladly to her banner, like a host around their sovereign.

Let us find the constellations that our good Instructor taught us.

Remember you not yesterday, when our lesson was well-render'd,

How with unwonted flattery he call'd us his Hesperus and Aurora?"

*    *    *    *    *

"These hum-drum teachings tire me, I'm disgusted with reciting

And repeating, day by day, what I knew well enough before."

Then quickening briskly her startled steed with the riding-whip,

She darted onward through the forest, reaching first their own abode.

At night, when they retired, ere the waning lamp was extinguished,

That good time for talking, when heart to heart discloseth

What the work or the pride of day, might in secrecy have shrouded,

Said Miranda,

"I have seen our early play-mate, Emilia,

From a boarding-school return'd, all accomplished, all delightful,

So changed, so improved, her best friends might scarcely know her.

Why might not I be favor'd with similar advantages?

Caged here, year by year, with wings beating the prison-door;

I would fain go where she went. If overruled I shall be wretched.

I _must_ go, Bertha, yes! No obstacle shall withhold me."

*    *    *    *    *

"Oh Miranda! Our Mother! In your company is her solace.

In your young life she liveth, at your bright smile, ever smileth,

Such power have you to cheer her. What could she do without you

When the lengthen'd eve grows lonely, and the widow sorrow presseth?"

"Oh persuade her!" she cried, with an embrace of passionate fervor,

"Persuade her, Bertha! and I'll be your bond-servant forever."

*    *    *    *    *

Seldom had a differing purpose ruffled long those sisterly bosoms.

Wakeful lay Bertha, the silent tear for her companion,

While frequent sighs swelling and heaving the snowy breast of Miranda,

Betray'd that troubled visions held her spirit in their custody.

*    *    *    *    *

Like twin streamlets had they been, from one quiet fountain flowing,

Stealing on through fringed margins, anon playfully diverging,

Yet to each other as they wander'd, sending messages through whispering reeds,

Then returning and entwining joyously, with their cool chrystalline arms.

*    *    *    *    *

But who that from their source marketh infant brooklets issue,

Like sparkling threads of silver, wending onward through the distance

Can foretell which will hold placid course among the vallies,

Content with silent blessings from the fertile soil it cheereth,

Or which, mid rocky channels contending and complaining,

Now exulting in brief victory, then in darken'd eddies creeping,

Leaps its rampart and is broken on the wheel of the cataract.

*    *    *    *    *

Generous is the love and holy that springeth from gratitude;

Rooting not in blind instinct, grasping not, exacting not,

Remembering the harvest on which it fed, and the toil of the harvester;

Fain would it render recompense according to what it hath received,

Or falling short, weepeth. As the leaf of the white Lily

Bendeth backward to the stalk whence its young bud drew nutrition,

So turneth the Love of Gratitude, with eye undimm'd and fervent,

To parent, friend, teacher, benefactor, bountiful Creator.

Sympathies derived from such sources ever sacredly cherishing;

Daughter of Memory, inheriting her mother's immortality,

Welcome shall she find among angels, where selfish love may not enter.

CANTO SECOND.

In the gay and crowded city

Where the tall and jostling roof-trees

Jealous seem of one another,

Jealous of the ground they stand on,

Each one thrusting out its neighbor

From the sunrise, or the sunset,

In a boarding school of fashion

Was Miranda comprehended,

Goal of her supreme ambition.

--Girls were there from different regions,

Distant States, and varying costumes,

She was beautiful they told her,

And her mirror when she sought it

Gave concurrent testimony.

--Many teachers met their classes

In this favorite Institution

Where accomplishments or studies

Were pursued as each selected,

Or their parents gave commandment.

But Miranda was impeded

In successful application,

By the consciousness of beauty

And the vanity it fosters.

--Very fond was she of walking

In the most frequented places,

Fondly fancying all beholders

Gazed on her with admiration.

Striking dresses, gay with colors

She disported and commended,

Not considering that the highest

Of attractions in a woman

Is simplicity of costume,

And a self-forgetful sweetness.

--Men with business over-laden,

Men of science, pondering axioms,

Men of letters, lost in reverie,

She imagined when they passed her

Gaz'd with secret admiration,

Ask'd in wonder, "_who can that be_?"

Backward turned perchance, to view her,

As she lightly glided onward.

--So completely had this beauty

Leagued with vanity, uprooted

Serious thought and useful purpose,

And the nobler ends of being,

That even in the solemn Temple

Where humility befitteth

All who offer adoration,

Close observance of the apparel

Of acquaintances or strangers,

And a self-display intruded

On the service of devotion,

While her fair cheek oft-times rested

Daintily on gloveless fingers

Where the radiant jewels sparkled

On a hand like sculptured marble.

*    *    *    *    *

Meantime in the rural mansion

Whence with gladness she departed,

Sate the mother and the sister

By the hearth-stone or the lamp-light,

Thinking of their loved Miranda,

Speaking of her, working for her,

Writing tender, earnest letters

To sustain her mid her studies,

Fearing that her health might suffer

By the labor and privation

That a year at school demanded.

--As the autumnal evenings lengthen'd,

Bertha with a filial sweetness

Sought her mother's favorite authors,

And with perfect elocution

Made their sentiments and feelings,

Guests around the quiet fireside.

--Page of Livy, or of C'sar,

Stirring scenes of tuneful Maro,

From their native, stately numbers

To the mother's ear she rendered;

Or with her o'er ancient regions,

Fallen sphynx, or ruin'd column,

Led by guiding Rollin, wandered,

Deeply mused with saintly Sherlock,

Or through Milton's inspiration

Scanned the lore of forfeit Eden.

*    *    *    *    *

With the vertic rays of Summer

Homeward came the fair Miranda.

How the village people wonder'd

At her fashions, and her movements,

How she made the new piano

Tremble to its inmost centre

With _andante_, and _bravura_,

What a piece she had to show them

Of Andromache the Trojan,

Wrought in silks of every color,

And 'twas said a foreign language

Such as princes use in Paris,

She could speak to admiration.

--Greatly their surprise amused her,

But the Mother and the Sister

With their eagle-eyed affection,

Spied a thorn amid the garland,

Heard the sighing on her pillow,

Saw the flush invade her forehead,

And were sure some secret sorrow

Rankled in that snowy bosom.

*    *    *    *    *

Rumor, soon with hundred voices

Whisper'd of a dashing lover,

Irreligious and immoral,

And the anxious Mother counsel'd

Sad of heart her fair-hair'd daughter.

--Scarce with any show of reverence

Listen'd the impatient maiden,

Then with tearless eyes wide open

Like full orbs of shadeless sapphire

All unpausing, thus responded.

--"I have promised Aldebaran,

To be his,--alone,--forever!

And I'll keep that promise, Mother,

Though the firm skies fall around me,

And yon stars in fragments shatter'd,

Each with thousand voices warn'd me.

--Thou hast spoken words reproachful,

Doubting of his soul's salvation,

Of his creed I never question'd,

But where'er he goes, I follow.

Whatsoe'er his lot, I'll share it,

Though it were the darkest chamber

In the lowest hell. 'Twere better

There with him, than 'mid the carols

Of the highest heaven, without him."

Swan-like arms were wrapped around her

With a cry of better pleading,

"Oh Miranda!--Oh my Sister!

Gather back the words you've spoken,

Quickly, ere the angel write them

Weeping on the doom's day tablet.

--You have grieved our blessed Mother:

See you not the large tears trickle

Down those channels deeply furrow'd

Which the widow-anguish open'd?

Kneel beside me, Oh my Sister!

Darling of my cradle slumbers,

Ask the grace of God to cleanse thee

From thy blasphemy and blindness,

Supplicate the Great Enlightener

Here to purge away thy madness,

Pray our Saviour to forgive thee."

*    *    *    *    *

"Bertha! Bertha! speak not to me,

What knowest thou of love almighty?

Naught except that craven spirit

Measuring, weighing, calculating,

That goes shivering to its bridal.

On this deathless soul, all hazard

Here I take, and if it perish,

Let it perish.

From the socket

This right eye I'd pluck, extinguish

This right hand, if he desire it,

And go maim'd through all the ages

That Eternity can number.

--Prayer is not for me, but action,

Against thee, and Her who bare me

Stand I at Love's bidding, boldly

In the armor that he giveth,

For life's battle, strong and ready.

--Hush! I've sworn, and I'll confirm it."

*    *    *    *    *

In due time, the handsome suitor

Paid his devoirs to Miranda,

In her own paternal dwelling.

Very exquisite in costume,

Very confident in manner,

Pompous, city-bred, and fearless

Was the accepted Aldebaran.

--Axious felt she, lest the customs

Of the rustic race around her,

So she styled her rural neighbors,

Might discourage or disgust him,

But he gave them no attention,

Quite absorbed in other matters.

--In their promenades together

She beheld the people watching

Mid their toils of agriculture,

Saw them gaze from door and windows,

Little ones from gates and fences,

On the stylish Alderbaran,

And her heart leap'd up exulting.

--Notice took he of the homestead,

With an eye of speculation,

Ask'd the number of its acres,

And what revenue they yielded.

Notice took of herds and buildings

With their usufruct, and value,

Closer note than seem'd consistent

With his delicate position;

But Miranda, Cupid blinded,

No venality detected.

--He, in gorgeous phrase address'd her,

With an oriental worship,

As some goddess condescending

To an intercourse with mortals.

Pleas'd was she with such observance,

Pleas'd and proud that those around her

Should perceive what adoration

Was to her, by him accorded.

--When he left, 'twas with the assurance

The next visit should be final.

Marking on his silver tablet

With gay hand, the day appointed

When he might return to claim her

In the nuptial celebration.

*    *    *    *    *

There's a bridal in the spring-time,

When the bee from wintry covert

Talking to the unsheath'd blossoms,

Meditates unbounded plunder,

And the bird mid woven branches

Brooding o'er her future treasures

Harkeneth thrilling to the love-song

Of her mate, who nestward tendeth.

--There's a bridal in the spring-time,

And the beautiful Miranda

Through her veil of silvery tissue

Gleams, more beautiful than ever.

From the hearth-stone of her fathers,

With the deathless love of woman

Trusting all for earth or heaven

To a mortal's rule and guidance,

One, but short time since, a stranger,

Forth she goes.

The young beholders

Gazing on the handsome bridegroom,

Gazing on the nuptial carriage,

Where the milk-white horses sported

Knots of evergreen and myrtle,

Felt a pleasure mix'd with envy

At a happiness so perfect.

--But more thoughtful ones, instructed

By the change of time and sorrow,

By the cloud and by the sunbeam,

Felt the hazard that attended

Such intrustment without limit,

Vows that none had right to cancel

Save the hand of Death's dark Angel.

*    *    *    *    *

Of the sadness left behind her

In the mansion whence she parted,

Loneliness, and bitter heart-ache,

Deep, unutter'd apprehension,

Fearful looking for of judgment,

It were vain in lays so feeble

To attempt a true recital.

--Still, to Mother and to Sister

Came epistles from Miranda,

Essenc'd and genteelly written,

Painting happiness so perfect,

So transcending expectation,

So surpassing all that fancy

In her wildest flights had pencil'd,

That even Eden ere the tempter

Coil'd himself amid the blossoms

Fail'd to furnish fitting symbol.

*    *    *    *    *

Heartfelt bliss is never boastful,

Like the holy dew it stealeth

To the bosom of the violet,

Only told by deeper fragrance.

--He who saith "See! see! I'm happy?

Happier than all else around me,"

Leaves, perchance, a doubt behind him

Whether he hath comprehended

What true happiness implieth.

*    *    *    *    *

Oh, the storm-cloud and the tempest!

Oh, the dreary night of winter!

Drifting snows, and winds careering

Down the tall, wide-throated chimney,

Like the shrieking ghosts from Hades.

Shrieking ghosts of buried legions.

--"Mother! hear I not the wailing

Of a human voice?"

"My daughter!

'Tis the blast that rends the pine-trees.

The old sentry-Oak is broken,

Close beside our chamber-window,

And its branches all are moaning.

'Tis their grief you hear, my daughter."

*    *    *    *    *

But the maiden's car was quicken'd

To all plaint of mortal sorrow,

And when next, the bitter north wind

Lull'd, to gather strength and vigor,

For a new exacerbation,

Listening close, she caught the murmur,

"Hush mein daughter! hush mein baby."

Then she threw the door wide open,

Though the storm rush'd in upon her,

With its blinding sleet and fury.

What beheld she, near the threshold,

Prostrate there beside the threshold,

But a woman, to whose bosom

Clung a young and sobbing infant?

--Oh the searching look that kindled

'Neath those drooping, straining eye-lids,

Searching mid the blast and darkness,

For some helper in her anguish,

Searching, kindling look, that settled

Into heavy, deadly slumber,

As the waning taper flashes

Once, to be relumin'd never.

Still her weak arm clasp'd the baby,

Rais'd its pining, pinching features,

Faintly cried, "Mein kind! Have pity,

Pity, for the love of Jesus!"

--Yes, forlorn, benighted wanderer,

Thy poor, failing feet have brought thee

Where the love of Jesus dwelleth.

Gently in a bed they laid her,

Chafed her stiffening limbs and temples,

Pour'd the warm, life-giving cordial,

But what seem'd the most to cheer her,

Were some words by Bertha spoken

In her own, dear native language.

Voice of Fatherland! it quicken'd

All the heart's collapsing heart-strings,

As though bath'd, and renovated

In the Rhine's blue, rushing waters.

*    *    *    *    *

O'er the wildering waste of ocean,

Moved by zeal of emigration

She had ventured with her husband

To this western World of promise,

Rainbow-vested El-Dorado.

On that dreary waste of waters

He had died, and left her mourning,

All unguided, unbefriended.

--There the mother-sorrow found her

And compell'd her by the weeping

Of the new-born, to encounter

With a broken-hearted welcome

Life once more, which in the torrent

of her utter desolation

She had cast aside, contemning

As a burden past endurance.

--Outcast in this land of strangers,

Strange of speech, and strange in manner,

She had travel'd, worn and weary,

Here and there, with none to aid her,

Ask'd for work, and none employ'd her,

Ask'd for alms, and few reliev'd her,

Till at length, the wintry tempest

Smote her near that blessed roof-tree.

*    *    *    *    *

Heavy slumber weigh'd her downward,

Slumber from whence none awaketh.

Yet at morn they heard her sighing,

On her pillow faintly sighing,

"I am ready! I am ready!"

"Leonore! my child! my darling!"

Then they brought the infant to her,

Cleanly robed, and sweetly smiling,

And the parting soul turn'd backward,

And the clay-seal on the eyelids

Lifted up to gaze upon it.

Bertha kiss'd the little forehead,

Said "_mein kind_," and lo! a shudder

Of this earth's forgotten pleasure

Trembled o'er the dying woman,

And the white hand cold as marble

Strove to raise itself in blessing,

For the mother-joy was stronger

That one moment, while it wrestled

With the pausing king of terrors,

Stronger than the king of terrors.

Then they laid her icy fingers

Mid the infant's budding ringlets,

And the pang and grasp subsided

In a smile and whispering cadence,

"God, mein God, be praised!"--and silence

Settled on those lips forever.

*    *    *    *    *

Favor'd is the habitation

Where a gentle infant dwelleth,

When its brightening eye revealeth

The immortal part within it,

And its curious wonder scanneth

All its wide spread, tiny fingers,

And its velvet hand caressing

Pats the nurse's cheek and bosom,

Hoary Age grows young before it,

As the branch that Winter blighted

At the touch of Spring reviveth.

When its healthful form evolveth,

And with quadrupedal pleasure

Creeping o'er the nursery carpet,

Aiming still, its flowery surface

With faint snatches to appropriate,

Or the bolder art essaying

On its two round feet to balance

And propel the swaying body

As with outstretch'd arms it hastens

Tottering toward the best beloved,

Hope, her freshest garland weaveth

Glittering with the dews of morning.

When the lisping tongue adventures

The first tones of imitation,

Or with magic speed o'ermasters

The philosophy of language

Twining round the mind of others,

Preferences, and pains and pleasures,

Tendrils strong, of sentient being,

Seeking kindness and indulgence,

Loving sports and smiles, and gladness,

Tenderest love goes forth to meet it,

Love that every care repayeth.

*    *    *    *    *

Thus the little German exile

Leaning on her foster parents

Brought a love that soothed and cheer'd them,

And with sweet confiding meekness

Taught to older ones the lesson

Of the perfect trust, we children

Of One Great Almighty Parent

Should repose in His protection

Goodness and unerring wisdom:

Though His discipline mysterious

Oft transcendeth feeble reason,

And perchance overthrows the fabrics

That in arrogance we builded,

Call'd _our own_, and vainly rented

To a troop of hopes and fancies,

Gay-robed joys, or fond affections.

*    *    *    *    *

'Tis a solemn thing and lovely,

To adopt a child, whose mother

Dwelleth in the land of spirits:

In its weakness give it succor,

Be in ignorance its teacher,

In all sorrow its consoler,

In temptation its defender,

Save what else had been forsaken,

Win for it a crown in Heaven,--

Tis a solemn thing and lovely,

Such a work as God approveth.

*    *    *    *    *

Blessed are the souls that nurture

With paternal care the orphan,

Neath their roof-tree lending shelter,

At their table breathing welcome,

Giving armor for the journey

And the warfare that awaiteth

Every pilgrim, born of woman,

Blessed, for the grateful prayer

Riseth unto Him who heareth

The lone sigh of the forsaken,

Bendeth, mid the song of seraphs,

To the crying of the ravens,

From whose nest the brooding pinion

By the archer's shaft was sever'd.

*    *    *    *    *

Pomp and wealth, and pride of office

With their glitter and their shouting,

May not pass through death's dark valley,

May not thrill the ear that resteth

Mid the silence of the grave-yard;

But the deed that wrought in pity

Mid the outcast and benighted,

In the hovel or the prison,

On the land or on the ocean,

Shunning still the applause of mortals,

Comes it not to His remembrance

Who shall say amid the terrors

Of the last Great Day of Judgment,

"Inasmuch as ye have done it

Unto one, the least, the lowest.

It was done to Me, your Saviour."

CANTO THIRD.

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

Too long already.

I can't manage well

The metre of that master of the lyre,

Who Hiawatha, and our forest tribes

Deftly described. Hexameters, I hate,

And henceforth do eschew their company,

For what is written irksomely, will be

Read in like manner.

What did I say last

In my late canto? Something, I believe

Of gratitude.

Now this same gratitude

Is a fine word to play on. Many a niche

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

Its adjective a graceful prefix makes

To a well-written signature. It gleams

A happy mirage in a sunny brain;

But as a principle, is oft, I fear,

Inoperative. Some satirist hath said

That _gratitude is only a keen sense

Of future favors_.

As regards myself,

Tis my misfortune, and perhaps, my fault,

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

And efforts have been greatest, the return

Has been in contrast. So that I have shrunk

To grant myself the pleasure of great love

Lest its reward might be indifference,

Or smooth deceit. Others no doubt have been

More fortunate. I trust 'tis often so:

But this is my experience, on the scale

Of three times twenty years, and somewhat more.

*    *    *    *    *

In that calm happiness which Virtue gives,

Blent with the daily zeal of doing good,

Mother and daughter dwelt.

Once, as they came

From their kind visit to a child of need,

Cheered by her blessings,--at their home they found

Miranda and her son. With rapid speech,

And strong emotion that resisted tears

Her tale she told. Forsaken were they both,

By faithless sire and husband. He had gone

To parts unknown, with an abandon'd one

He long had follow'd. Brokenly she spake

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

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

Her curses on his head.

With shuddering tears

They press'd her to their hearts.

"Come back! Come back!

To your first home, and Heaven's compassions heal

Your wounded spirit."

Lovingly they cast

Their mantle o'er her, striving to uplift

Her thoughts to heavenly sources, and allure

To deeds of charity, that draw the sting

From selfishness of sorrow."

But she shrank

From social intercourse, nor took her seat

Even in the House of God, lest prying eyes

Should gloat upon her downfall. Books, nor work

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

Waking sad echoes of the days that were,

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

The chief delight and solace of her life

To adorn his dress, and trim his shining curls,

Dote on his beauty, and conceal his faults,

With weak indulgence.

"Oh, Miranda, love!

Teach your fair boy, obedience. 'Tis the first

Lesson of life. To him, you fill the place

Of that Great Teacher who doth will us all

To learn submission."

But Miranda will'd

In her own private mind, not to adopt

Such old-world theories, deeming the creed

Of the grey-headed Mother, obsolete.

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

That render beauty pleasing. Great regard

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

Unlike those Jewish children, who refused

The fare luxurious of Chaldea's king,

And on their simple diet grow more fair

And healthful than their mates, and wiser too,

Than the wise men of Babylon.

I've seen

Ill-fortune follow those, whose early tastes

Were pampered and inured to luxury.

Their palates seem'd to overtop the brain,

And the rank Dives-pleasure, to subvert

Childhood's simplicity of sweet content.

--Precocious appetites, when overruled,

Or disappointed, lend imperious strength

To evil tempers, and a fierce disdain.

Methought, our Mother-Land, in this respect

Had wiser usages. Her little ones

At their own regular, plain table learn'd

No culinary criticism, nor claim'd

Admission to the richly furnish'd board

Nor deem'd the viands of their older friends

Pertain'd to them.

A pleasant sight it was

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

To find them in the quiet nursery laid,

Like rose-buds folded in a fragrant sheath

To peaceful slumber. Hence their nerves attain'd

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

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

Unwarp'd and undispeptic, gave to life

A higher zest.

Year after year swept by,

And Conrad's symmetry of form and face

Grew more conspicuous. Yet he fail'd to win

Approval from the pious, or desire

To seek him as companion for their sons.

--At school and college he defied restraint,

And round the associates of his idle hours

Threw a mysterious veil. But rumor spake

Of them, as those who would be sure to bring

Disgrace and infamy.

Strong thirst for gold

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

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

In warm remonstrance, he with rudeness rush'd

Out of her presence, or withdrew himself

All night from her abode. Then she was fain

To appease his anger by some lavish gift

From scant resources, which she ill could spare,

Making the evil worse.

The growth of sin

Is rank and rapid when the youthful heart

Abjures the sway of duty. Weaving oft

The mesh of falsehood, may it not forget

What the truth is? The wavering, moral sense

Depraved and weaken'd, fails to grasp the clue

Of certainty, nor scruples to deny

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

Stifled, and callous. Fearful must it be,

When Truth offended and austere, confronts

The false soul at Heaven's bar.

*    *    *    *    *

An aged 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.