In an old house, a country dwelling, nigh
A river, chafed by many a wave-worn stone,
A good man kept old hospitality,
With a warm purse well fill'd by industry
And prosperous dealings in the torrid zone.
His spouse was comely, stricken well in years;
His daughters' faces lighted all the house,
And they had tongues as well as eyes and ears.
But one there was, the youngest of the dears,
A child sedate, as still as any mouse.
Still as a little timid mouse she sat;
And yet her stillness seem'd not to be fear,
Like mouse's hiding from the whisker'd cat.
Oh no! whate'er the subject of our chat,
She seem'd to drink it in with eye and ear.
I cannot say she had a speaking eye,
For when my eye with hers would fain converse,
She would begin her needle's task to ply,
Stirring her little fingers busily;
And, wanting work, the kitten would she nurse.
Soon as she could, she unobserved withdrew,
Determined of my purpose to defeat me;
And yet I loved her, as I always do
All pretty maids that are too young to woo,
However scurvily they choose to treat me.
Years have gone by, her worthy father dead,
And she could deem herself a child no longer.
Who can conceive what thoughts in her were bred,
When she beheld her elder sisters wed,
And womanhood in her grew daily stronger?
Or did she feel a warning in her heart,
An inward clock that timely struck eleven,
And said, sweet Agnes, tender as thou art,
One hour is thine; be ready to depart;
Thy spouse affianced waits for thee in heaven?
I cannot tell, for I was far away,
By what slow course of gracious discipline,
Through gradual shades of unperceived decay,
As moonlight steals on fading summer day,
Her spiritual eye was train'd to light divine.
But yet I trust she never knew the woe
Of body's waste, that brings despair and dearth
Unto the soul; that living death, so slow,
That leaves to those that would yet would not go,
No love of heaven, but weary hate of earth.
Nay, better, loving dearly to the last
All that she ever loved, with fond delay
The latest hour before her spirit past,
Prayed yet, though feeling that her lot was cast,
Like Jesus, that the cup might pass away.
HATH the vast ocean, that strange, humorous thing,
In all its depths or perilous banks a shell
That hath matured a pearl; let Ocean bring
That pearl to thee, and like some gentle spell
Which never witch or wicked wizard mutter'd,
But still hath dwelt in angel heart unutter'd-—
Mark on the pearl the sad, sweet word, farewell!
Hath the dead earth, dead now, but once alive
In every atom, every pore and cell,—
Relics of life, or fated gems that strive
To be their proper selves, and pant and swell
Towards Light, the universal mediator,
And daily witness of the one Being greater,
Hath it aught sadder, sweeter, than farewell!
And hath the air-the always gracious air-
That ever fleeting yet would gladly dwell
For ever in the lowly voice of prayer-
Full loth, I ween, when ruder sounds compel
Its passive nature to unwilling madness;-
Hath air a joy so meek, so sweet a sadness,
As when she murmurs in a last farewell!
SUFFERING UNDER A RECENT BEREAVEMENT.
THINK not, my friend, my heart or hard or cold
Because I do not, and I cannot weep.
Too sudden was the knowledge of the woe,
And it requires some time, some thoughtful pause,
Ere we believe what but too well we know.
Some men are lesson'd long in sorrow's school,
And serve a long apprenticeship to grief,
So, when the ill day comes, their minds are clad
In funeral garments. Death came here at once,
Like the sun's setting in the level sea;
No meek, pale, warning, melancholy eve,
Wean'd the fond eyesight from the joyous day;
'Twas full-orb'd day, and then 'twas total night—
Sad night for us, but better day for her.
Well may'st thou mourn, but mourn not without hope :
Thou art not one, I know, that can believe
A pausing pulse, an intermitted breath,
Or aught that can to mortal flesh befal,
Can turn to nothing any ray of God,
Or frustrate one good purpose of our Lord.
She was a purpose of her great Creator,
Begun on earth, and well on earth pursued,
Now in the heaven of heavens consummate,
Or only waiting the predestined day,
The flower and glory of her consummation.
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