Part II. 177
BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS:
The Stormy Peterel 184
The Poor Man’s Garden 186
The Oak-Tree 190
The Carolina Parrot 192
Morning Thoughts 198
Harvest Field-Flowers 199
Summer Woods 200
The Cuckoo 203
The Use of Flowers 206
Sunshine 207
Summer 209
The Child and the Flowers 211
Childhood 212
L’Envoi 216
SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY:
The Coot 219
The Eagle 221
The Garden 223
The Spider and the Fly 226
TALES IN VERSE:
Andrew Lee 230
The Wanderer’s Return 232
A Swinging Song 239
Ellen More 240
A Day of Disaster 244
The Young Mourner 249
The Soldier’s Story 251
The Child’s Lament 257
A Day of Hard Work 260
The Old Man and the Carrion Crow 264
The Little Mariner 268
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES:
The Sale of the pet Lamb of the Cottage 274
America 278
Mourning on Earth 291
Rejoicing in Heaven 292
An English Grave at Mussooree 293
A Forest Scene in the days of Wickliffe 297
MEMOIR
OF
MARY HOWITT.
Mary Howitt was born at Coleford, in Gloucestershire, where her parents were making a temporary residence; but shortly after her birth they returned to their accustomed abode at Uttoxeter, in Staffordshire, where she spent her youth. The beautiful Arcadian scenery of this part of Staffordshire was of a character to foster a deep love of the country; and is described with great accuracy in her recent prose work “Wood Leighton.” By her mother she is descended from an ancient Irish family, and also from Wood, the ill-used Irish patentee, who was ruined by the selfish malignity of Dean Swift,--from whose aspersions his character was vindicated by Sir Isaac Newton. A true statement of the whole affair may be seen in Ruding’s “Annals of Coinage.” Charles Wood, her grandfather, was the first who introduced platina into England from Jamaica, where he was assay-master. Her parents being strict members of the society of Friends, and her father being, indeed, of an old line who suffered persecution in the early days of Quakerism, her education was of an exclusive character; and her knowledge of books confined to those approved of by the most strict of her own people, till a later period than most young persons become acquainted with them. Their effect upon her mind was, consequently, so much the more vivid. Indeed, she describes her overwhelming astonishment and delight in the treasures of general and modern literature, to be like what Keates says his feelings were when a new world of poetry opened upon him, through Chapman’s “Homer,”--as to the astronomer,
“When a new planet swims into his ken.”
Among poetry there was none which made a stronger impression than our simple old ballad, which she and a sister near her own age, and of similar taste and temperament used to revel in, making at the same time many young attempts in epic, dramatic, and ballad poetry. In her twenty-first year she was married to William Howitt, a gentleman well calculated to encourage and promote her poetical and intellectual taste,--himself a poet of considerable genius, and the author of various well-known works. We have reason to believe that her domestic life has been a singularly happy one. Mr. and Mrs. Howitt spent the year after their marriage in Staffordshire. They then removed to Nottingham, where they continued to reside until a few years ago, and are now living at Esher, in Surrey.
Mary Howitt published jointly with her husband two volumes of miscellaneous poems, in 1823; and, in 1834, she gave to the world “The Seven Temptations,” a series of dramatic poems; a work which, in other times, would have been alone sufficient to have made and secured a very high reputation: her dramas are full of keen perceptions, strong and accurate delineations, and powerful displays of character. She afterwards prepared for the press a collection of her most popular ballads, a class of writing in which she greatly excels all her contemporaries. She is also well known to the young by her “Sketches of Natural History,” “Tales in Verse,” and other productions written expressly for their use and pleasure.
Mrs. Howitt is distinguished by the mild, unaffected, and conciliatory manners, for which “the people called Quakers” have always been remarkable. Her writings, too, are in keeping with her character: in all there is evidence of peace and good-will; a tender and a trusting nature; a gentle sympathy with humanity; and a deep and fervent love of all the beautiful works which the Great Hand has scattered so plentifully before those by whom they can be felt and appreciated. She has mixed but little with the world; the home-duties of wife and mother have been to her productive of more pleasant and far happier results than struggles for distinction amid crowds; she has made her reputation quietly but securely; and has laboured successfully as well as earnestly to inculcate virtue as the noblest attribute of an English woman. If there be some of her contemporaries who have surpassed her in the higher qualities of poetry,--some who have soared higher, and others who have taken a wider range,--there are none whose writings are better calculated to delight as well as inform. Her poems are always graceful and beautiful, and often vigorous; but they are essentially feminine; they afford evidence of a kind and generous nature, as well as of a fertile imagination, and a safely-cultivated mind. She is entitled to a high place among the Poets of Great Britain; and a still higher among those of her sex by whom the intellectual rank of women has been asserted without presumption, and maintained without display.
THE POOR SCHOLAR.
PERSONS.
THE POOR SCHOLAR. ACHZIB, THE PHILOSOPHER. THE MOTHER. LITTLE BOY.
_The Scholar’s Room--Evening._
THE POOR SCHOLAR AND LITTLE BOY.
_Little Boy, reading._ “These things have I spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.” Here endeth the 16th chapter of the Gospel according to St. John.
_Poor Scholar._ Most precious words! Now go your way; The summer fields are green and bright; Your tasks are done.--Why do you stay? Christ gave his peace to you: Good night!
_Boy._ You look so pale, Sir! you are worse; Let me remain, and be your nurse! Sir, when my mother has been ill, I’ve kept her chamber neat and still, And waited on her all the day!
_Schol._ Thank you! but yet you must not stay; Still, still my boy, before we part Receive my blessing--’tis my last! I feel Death’s hand is on my heart, And my life’s sun is sinking fast; Yet mark me, child, I have no fear,-- ’Tis thus the Christian meets his end: I know my work is finished here, And God--thy God too--is my friend! The joyful course has just began; Life is in thee a fountain strong; Yet look upon a dying man, Receive his words and keep them long! Fear God, all-wise, omnipotent, In him we live and have our being; He hath all love, all blessing sent-- Creator--Father--All-decreeing! Fear him, and love, and praise, and trust, Yet have of man no slavish fear; Remember kings, like thee, are dust, And at one judgment must appear. But virtue, and its holy fruits, The poet’s soul, the sage’s sense, These are exalted attributes; And these demand thy reverence. But, boy, remember this, e’en then Revere the gifts, but not the men! Obey thy parents; they are given To guide our inexperienced youth; Types are they of the One in heaven, Chastising but in love and truth! Keep thyself pure--sin doth efface The beauty of our spiritual life: Do good to all men--live in peace And charity, abhorring strife! The mental power which God has given, As I have taught thee, cultivate; Thou canst not be too wise for heaven, If thou dost humbly consecrate Thy soul to God! and ever take In his good book delight; there lies The highest knowledge, which will make Thy soul unto salvation wise! My little boy, thou canst not know How strives my spirit fervently, How my heart’s fountains overflow With yearning tenderness for thee! God keep and strengthen thee from sin! God crown thy life with peace and joy, And give at last to enter in The city of his rest! My boy Farewell--I have had joy in thee; I go to higher joy--oh, follow me! But now farewell!
_Boy._ Kind sir, good night! I will return with morning light. [_He goes out._
[_The Poor Scholar sits for some time as in meditation, then rising and putting away all his books, except the Bible, he sits down again._
_Schol._ Now, now I need them not, I’ve done with them. I need not blind philosophy, nor dreams Of speculating men, entangling truth In cobweb sophistry, away with them-- One word read by that child is worth them all! --The business of my life is finished now With this day’s work. I have dismissed the class For the last time--I am alone with death! To-morrow morn, they will inquire for me, And learn that I have solved the last, great problem. This pale, attenuate frame they may behold, But that which loves, and hopes, and speculates, They will perceive no more. Mysterious being! Life cannot comprehend thee, though thou showest Thyself by all the functions of our life-- ’Tis death--death only, which is the great teacher! Awful instructor! he doth enter in The golden rooms of state, and all perforce Teach there its proud, reluctant occupant; He doth inform in miserable dens The locked-up soul of sordid ignorance With his sublimest knowledge! He hath stolen Gently, not unawares, into the chamber Of the Poor Scholar, like a sober friend Who doth give time for ample preparation! He hath dealt kindly with me, giving first Yearnings for unimaginable good, Which the world’s pleasure could not satisfy; And lofty aspiration, that lured on The ardent soul as the sun lures the eagle; Next came a drooping of the outward frame, Paleness and feebleness, and wasted limbs, Which said, “prepare! thy days are numbered!” And thus for months had this poor frame declined, Wasting and wasting; yet the spirit intense Growing more clear, more hourly confident, As if its disenthralment had begun! Oh, I should long to die! To be among the stars, the glorious stars; To have no bounds to knowledge; to drink deep Of living fountains--to behold the wise, The good, the glorified! to be with God, And Christ, who passed through death that I might live! Oh I should long for death, but for one tie, One lingering tie that binds me to the earth! My mother! dearest, kindest, best of mothers! What do I owe her not? all that is great, All that is pure--all that I have enjoyed Of outward pleasure, or of spiritual life, I have derived from her! has she not labored Early and late for me? first through the years Of sickly infancy--then by her toil Maintained the ambitious scholar--overpaid By what men said of him! Oh thou untired, True heart of love, for thee I hoped to live; To pay thee back thy never spent affection; To fill my father’s place, and make thine age As joyful as thou mad’st my passing youth! Alas! it may not be! thou hast to weep-- Thou hast to know that sickness of the heart Which bows it to the dust, when some unlooked-for, Some irremediable woe befals! ----Surely ere long thou wilt be at my side, For I did summon thee, and thy strong love Brooks not delay! Alas, thou knowest not It was to die within thy holy arms That I have asked thy presence! Oh! come, come, Thou most beloved being, bless thy son, And take one comfort in his peaceful death!
[_A slight knocking is heard at the door, and the Philosopher enters._
_Philos._ Well, my young friend, I’ve looked in to enquire After your health. I saw your class depart, And would have conference with you once again.
_Schol._ To-night I must decline your friendship, sir. I am so weak I cannot talk with you On controversial points ever again. Besides, my faith brings such a holy joy, Such large reward of peace, why would you shake it? Or is it now a time for doubts and fears, When my soul’s energy should be concentrated For one great trial? See you not, e’en now, The spectre death is with me?
_Philos._ Cheer up, friend. It is the nature of all sickness thus To bring death near to the imagination, Even as a telescope doth show the moon Just at our finger-ends without decreasing The actual distance. Come, be not so gloomy;-- You have no business to be solitary; A cheerful friend will bring back cheerfulness. Have you perused the books I left with you?
_Schol._ I have, and like them not!
_Philos._ Indeed! indeed! Are they not full of lofty argument And burning eloquence? For a strong soul, Baptized in the immortal wells of thought, They must be glorious food!
_Schol._ Pardon me, sir, They are too specious;--they gloss over error With tinsel covering which is not like truth. Oh! give them not to young and ardent minds, They will mislead, and baffle and confound: Besides, among the sages whom you boast of, With their proud heathen virtues, can ye find A purer, loftier, nobler character; More innocent, and yet more filled with wisdom, Fuller of high devotion--more heroic Than the Lord Jesus--dignified yet humble; Warring ’gainst sin, and yet for sinners dying?
_Philos._ Well; pass the men, what say you to the morals?
_Schol._ And where is the Utopian code of morals Equal to that which a few words set forth Unto the Christian, “do ye so to others As ye would they should do unto yourselves.” And where, among the fables of their poets, Which you pretend veil the divinest truths, Find you the penitent prodigal coming back Unto his father’s bosom; thus to show God’s love, and our relationship to him? Where do they teach us in our many needs To lift up our bowed, broken hearts to God, And call him “Father?” Leave me as I am! I am not ignorant, though my learning lie In this small book--nor do I ask for more!
_Philos._ But have you read the parchments?
_Schol._ All of them.
_Philos._ And what impression might they make upon you? For knowing as I do your graceful mind, And your profound research beyond your years, I am solicitous of your approval.
_Schol._ I cannot praise--I cannot say one word In commendation of your misspent labors. Oh, surely it was not a friendly part To hold these gorgeous baits before a soul Just tottering on eternity! Delusion, ’Tis all delusion! while my soul abhorred, My heart was wounded at the traitorous act!
_Philos._ Come, come, my friend, this is mere declamation; You have misunderstood both them and me! Point out the errors--you shall find me ever Open unto conviction.
_Schol._ See my state-- A few short hours, and I must be with God; And yet you ask me to evolve that long Entanglement of subtlest sophistry! This is no friendly part: but I conjure you, Give not your soul to vain philosophy: The drooping Christian at the hour of death Needs other, mightier wisdom than it yields. Oh, though I am but young, and you are old, Grant me the privilege of a dying man, To counsel you in love!
_Philos._ Enough, enough! I see that you are spent. I have too long Trespassed upon your time. But is there nought That I can serve you in? Aspire you not To win esteem by study? I will speak Unto the primest scholars throughout Europe In your behalf. All universities Will heap upon you honors at my asking.
_Schol._ There was a time these things had been a snare; But the near prospect of eternity Takes from the gauds of earth their temptingest lure; No, no--it was a poor unmeet ambition Which then was hot within me, and, thank God, Affecteth me no more!
_Philos._ Nay, but my friend, For your dear mother’s sake would you not leave A noble name emblazoned on your tomb?
_Schol._ Can such poor, empty honors compensate Unto a childless mother for her son? You know her not, and me you know not either!
_Philos._ But think you, my young friend, learning is honored By every honor paid to its disciples: Your tomb would be a shrine, to learning sacred.
_Schol._ There is more comfort, sir, unto my soul To feel the smallest duty not neglected, And my day’s work fulfilled, than if I knew This perishable dust would be interred In kingly marble, and my name set forth In pompous blazonry.
_Philos._ Not to be great-- You do mistake my drift--but greatly useful; Surely you call not this unmeet ambition!
_Schol._ Sir, had the will of God ordained a wider, A nobler sphere of usefulness on earth, He would have given me strength, and health, and power For its accomplishment. I murmur not That little has been done, but rather bless Him Who has permitted me to do that little; And die content in his sufficient mercy, Which has vouchsafed reward beyond my merit.
_Philos._ Nay, I must serve you! Let me but contribute Unto your body’s ease. This wretched room, And its poor pallet--would you not desire A lighter, airier, more commodious chamber, Looking out to the hills; and where the shine Of the great sun might enter--where sweet odours, And almost spiritual beauty of fair flowers Might gratify the sense--and you might fall Gracefully into death, in downy ease? Speak, and all this is yours!
_Schol._ Here will I die! Here have I lived--here from my boyhood lived; These naked walls are like familiar faces, And that poor pallet has so oft given rest To my o’erwearied limbs, there will I die!
_Philos._ But you do need physicians--here is gold, I know the scholar’s fee is scant enough! I will go hence, and send you an attendant.
_Schol._ I cannot take your gold, I want it not. My sickness is beyond the aid of man; And soon, even now, I did expect my mother.
_Philos._ [_affecting sorrow._] My dear young friend, I have to ask your pardon; The letter that I promised to deliver, I did forget--indeed I gave it not!
_Schol._ How have I trusted to a broken reed! Oh mock me not with offers of your friendship, Say not that thou would serve me! Oh my mother-- Poor, broken-hearted one, I shall not see thee!
[_He covers his face for a moment, then, rises up with sudden energy._
Whoe’er you are, and for what purpose come, I know not--you have troubled me too long-- But something in my spirit, from the first, Told me that you were evil; and my thought Has often inly uttered the rebuke, “Get thee behind me, Satan!” Leave me now-- Leave me my lonely chamber to myself, And let me die in peace!
[_The Philosopher goes out, abashed. The scholar falls back into his chair, exhausted; after some time recovering, he faintly raises himself._
’Tis night fall now--and through the uncurtained window I see the stars; there is no moon to-night. Here then I light my lamp for the last time; And ere that feeble flame has spent itself, A soul will have departed! Let me now Close my account with life; and to affection, And never-cancelled duty, give their rights:
[_He opens his Bible and inscribes it._
This I return to thee, my dearest mother, Thy gift at first, and now my last bequest; And these poor earnings, dust upon the balance Compared with the great debt I owe to thee, Are also thine--would I had more to give! There lie you, side by side.
[_He lays a small sum of money with the Bible._
Thou blessed book, Full of redeeming knowledge, making wise Unto salvation, and the holy spring Of all divine philosophy--and thou poor dust, For which the soul of man is often sold; Yet wast thou not by evil traffic won, Nor got by fraud, nor wrung from poverty-- God blessed the labourer while he toiled for thee, And may’st thou bless the widow!--lie thou there-- I shall not need you more. I am departing To the fruition of the hope of one, And where the other cannot get admittance! And now a few words will explain the rest:--
[_He writes a few words, which he incloses with them, and making all into a packet, seals them up._
God comfort her poor heart, and heal its wounds, Which will bleed fresh when she shall break this seal.
[_Shortly after this is done, he becomes suddenly paler--a convulsive spasm passes over him; when he recovers, he slowly rises, and kneels upon his pallet-bed._
_Schol._ Almighty God! look down Upon thy feeble servant! strengthen him! Give him the victor’s crown, And let not faith be dim! Oh, how unworthy of thy grace, How poor, how needy, stained with sin! How can I enter in Thy kingdom, and behold thy face! Except thou hadst redeemed me, I had gone Without sustaining knowledge to the grave! For this I bless thee, oh thou Gracious One, And thou wilt surely save! I bless thee for the life which thou hast crowned With never-ending good; For pleasures that were found Like wayside flowers in silent solitude. I bless thee for the love that watched o’er me Through the weak years of infancy, That has been, like thine everlasting truth. The guide, the guardian-angel of my youth. Oh, Thou that didst the mother’s heart bestow Sustain it in its woe, For mourning give it joy, and praise for heaviness!
[_He falls speechless upon the bed. His mother enters hurriedly._
_Mother._ Alas, my son! and am I come too late? Oh, Christ! can he be dead?
_Schol._ [_looking up faintly._]. Mother, is’t thou? It is! who summoned thee, dear mother?
_Mother._ A little boy, the latest of thy class; He left these walls at sunset, and came back With me e’en now. He told me of thy words, And of thy pallid cheek and trembling hand;-- Sorrowing for all; but sorrowing more because Thou saidst he would behold thy face no more!
_Schol._ My soul doth greatly magnify the Lord For his unmeasured mercies!--and for this Great comfort, thy dear presence! I am spent-- The hand of death is on me! Ere the sun Lightens the distant mountains, I shall be Among the blessed angels! Even now I see as t’were heaven opened, and a troop Of beautiful spirits waiting my release!
_Mother._ My son! my son! and thou so young, so wise, So well-beloved, alas, must thou depart! Oh, rest thy precious head within mine arms, My only one!--Thou wast a son indeed!
_Schol._ Mother, farewell! I hear the heavenly voices, They call!--I cannot stay: farewell--farewell!
_Choir of Spiritual Voices._
No more sighing, No more dying, Come with us, thou pure and bright! Time is done, Joy is won, Come to glory infinite! Hark! the angel-songs are pealing! Heavenly mysteries are unsealing, Come and see, oh come and see! Here the living waters pour, Drink and thou shalt thirst no more, Dweller in eternity! No more toiling--no more sadness! Welcome to immortal gladness, Beauty and unending youth! Thou that hast been deeply tried, And like gold been purified, Come to the eternal truth! Pilgrim towards eternity, Tens of thousands wait for thee! Come, come!
THE SORROW OF TERESA.
PERSONS.
OLAF. TERESA, HIS WIFE. PAOLO, THEIR CHILD. ACHZIB, AS A NORTHERN HUNTER. HULDA, AN OLD WOMAN.
SCENE I.
_A little chapel in a gloomy northern forest--Teresa on her knees before the image of the Virgin._
_Ter._ Thou, that didst bear a pain that had no healing-- An undivided misery, Which unto kindred heart knew no appealing, O, hear thou me! I tell thee not mine own peculiar woe; I tell thee not the want that makes me poor, For thou, dear Mother of God, all this dost know!-- But I beseech thy blessing, and thy aid; Assure me, where my nature is afraid, And where I murmur, strengthen to endure!
[_She bows her head, kneeling in silence--as she prepares to leave the chapel_, _enter_ PAOLO, _with a few snow-drops in his hand_.
_Paol._ Mother, in Italy I used to gather Sweet flowers; the fragrant lily, like a cup Chiselled in marble, and the rich, red rose, And carry them, an offering to Our Lady; Think’st thou she will accept such gifts as these, For they are not like flowers of Italy-- But they are such, dear mother, as grow here?
_Ter._ My boy, she will accept them! Gracious Virgin, She would receive a poorer gift than this; She would accept the will without the gift, For she doth know the heart! There on the shrine Lay them, my boy, and pray if thou have need; Fear not, for she is gracious,--so is God!
_Paol._ [_laying the flowers at the feet of the Virgin._ I have no prayer, dear mother, save for thee, And that is in my heart. I cannot speak it, Thou didst weep so, when last I prayed for thee!
_Ter._ [_kissing him._] It is enough, my boy, the Holy Mother Knoweth what is within thy inmost heart!
[_She again bows herself before the Virgin, then taking the child’s hand, goes out._
SCENE II.
_Night--the same forest; the pine trees are old and splintered, and covered with snow; it is a scene of desolation--at a little distance a small house is seen through an opening of the wood._
_Enter_ ACHZIB, _as a northern hunter_.
_Hun._ And this is their abode! A mighty change, From a proud palace on the Arno’s side, To a poor cabin in a northern wild! Let me retrace the history of this pair:-- He was Count Spazzi--young and rich, and proud, Ambitious and determined. Fortune brought Unto his knowledge fair Teresa Cogni, The daughter of an exiled chief of Corinth; Beautiful as her own land, and pure As her own cloudless heavens. It is a tale So long, so full of sorrow and of guile, Of heart-ache and remorseless tyranny, That now I may not stop to trace it out. But she was forced to marry that stern man, After her father’s death had given her Into his power.--Enough, it was a marriage Where joy was not; but where the tyrant smiled Because his pride and will were gratified. Next followed lawless years of heedless crime; To those, the desperate strife between us two, Wherein I made the vow which I have kept, How, it now matters not. I watched him fall, Impelled by my fierce hate, until at length I saw him banished from his native land. Meantime that gentle partner of his fall, Bore, with a patience which was not of earth, All evils of their cruel destiny. But she was now a mother--and for him, That docile boy, whose spirit was like hers, Ever-enduring and so full of kindness, What mother would not bear all misery And yet repine not, blessed in the love Of that confiding spirit! Thus it was. And they three went forth, exiles from their land: One with the curse of his own crimes upon him; Two innocent as doves, and only cursed In that their lives and fortunes were bound up With that bad man’s. He is a hunter now; And his precarious living earns with toil And danger, amid natures like his own: And here I might have left him to live out The term of his existence, had I not Seen how the silent virtues of the wife, And the clear, innocent spirit of the boy, Have gained ascendance o’er him; and besides, Sure as I am of Spazzi, ’tis for her, My seventh victim, that I tread these wilds; For will she not curse God, if from her sight Is ta’en that precious child, and hate her husband, By whom it shall appear the deed is done? She will, she will--I know this mother’s heart! And on the morrow, as a skilful hunter, I shall present myself before her husband, No more Count Spazzi, but the hunter Olaf.
[_He goes farther into the forest._
SCENE III.
_The following morning--the interior of the house in the forest--Teresa sitting near the fire--Paolo kneeling upon a footstool at her side._
_Paol._ And now, dear mother, tell me that old tale, About the little boy who prayed that Jesus Might come and play with him.
_Ter._ I will, my love.
[_She sings in a low recitative._
[1]Among green, pleasant meadows, All in a grove so wild, Was set a marble image Of the Virgin and the Child.
[1] A free translation of one of Herder’s beautiful legends.
There oft, on summer evenings, A lonely boy would rove, To play beside the image That sanctified the grove.
Oft sate his mother by him, Among the shadows dim, And told how the Lord Jesus Was once a child, like him.
“And now from highest heaven He doth look down each day, And sees what’er thou doest, And hears what thou dost say!”
Thus spoke his tender mother: And on an evening bright, When the red, round sun descended ’Mid clouds of crimson light,
Again the boy was playing, And earnestly said he, “Oh beautiful child Jesus, Come down and play with me!
“I will find thee flowers the fairest, And weave for thee a crown; I will get the ripe, red strawberries, If thou wilt but come down!
“Oh Holy, Holy Mother, Put him down from off thy knee; For in these silent meadows There are none to play with me!”
Thus spoke the boy so lonely, The while his mother heard, But on his prayer she pondered, And spoke to him no word.
That self-same night she dreamed A lovely dream of joy; She thought she saw young Jesus There, playing with the boy.
“And for the fruits and flowers Which thou hast brought to me, Rich blessings shall be given A thousand-fold to thee.
“For in the fields of heaven Thou shalt roam with me at will, And of bright fruits, celestial, Shall have, dear child, thy fill!”
Thus tenderly and kindly The fair child Jesus spoke; And full of careful musings, The anxious mother woke.
And thus it was accomplished In a short month and a day, The lonely boy, so gentle, Upon his death-bed lay.
And thus he spoke in dying: “Oh mother dear, I see That beautiful child Jesus A-coming down to me!
“And in his hand he beareth Bright flowers as white as snow, And red and juicy strawberries,-- Dear mother, let me go?”
He died--but that fond mother Her sorrow did restrain, For she knew he was with Jesus, And she asked him not again!
_Paol._ I wish that I had been that boy, dear mother!
_Ter._ How so, my, Paolo, did not that boy die, And leave his mother childless?
_Paol._ Ah, alas, I had forgotten that! But, mother dear, Thou couldst not be so wretched, wanting me, As I, if thou wert not! It breaks my heart Only to think of it; and I do pray, Morning and night, that I may never lose thee!
_Ter._ My precious child, heaven is so very good, I do believe it will not sunder us Who are so dear, so needful to each other!
_Paol._ Let us not speak of parting! and, indeed, I will not be a hunter when a man; I will not leave thee early in a morning, And keep away from thee for days and days! I do not love the chase, it frightens me; The horrid bark of wolves fills me with dread. I dream of them at night!
_Ter._ Thou shalt not, love! And yet, what couldst thou be, if not a hunter, In these wild regions, Paolo!
_Paol._ Oh no, mother, I will be not a hunter! They are fierce, They have loud angry voices. Dearest mother I tremble when I hear my father speak; I wish he was as kind, and spoke as sweetly As thou dost.
_Ter._ Hush, my Paolo--say not thus-- Thy father is a bold and skilful hunter,-- A very skilful hunter.
_Paol._ Yes I know it; I’ve often heard it said. But tell me why Men are so stern! If I am e’er a man, I will be kind and gentle; and the dogs Shall not start up whene’er they hear my step, And skulk away from the warm, pleasant hearth. I will love all things, mother; I will make All things love me!
_Ter._ My dearest, gentle boy, I do believe thou wilt!
_Paol._ Mother, hast heard My father goes unto the chase to-day, And that strange hunter with him!
_Ter._ Nay, my love, In this wild storm they will not go to hunt.
_Paol._ I saw them even now. The sledge is ready, With the horse harnessed to’t; and, mother dear, We shall have such a long and quiet day,-- ’Twill be so happy! And oh, wilt thou tell me About thy home at Corinth, and the time When from the morning to the blessed eve Thou sangest to the music of thy lute; Or wander’dst out with kind and merry friends; Or tendedst thy sweet flowers;--and tell me too About the bright, blue, restless sea at Corinth-- And sing me songs and hymns in thy Greek tongue, And hear how I can sing them after thee-- Wilt thou, dear mother?
_Ter._ I will indeed, my love! But hark! thy birds are chirping for their meal, Go, feed them, my sweet boy.
_Paol._ Yes, I will feed them, And then there will be nothing all the day To take me from thy side!
[_He goes out._
_Ter._ Thou dear, dear child! Thou happy, innocent spirit! ’Tis o’er payment, A rich o’er payment of my many woes, To see thee gather up such full enjoyment Within the narrowed limits of the good Which thy hard fortune gives thee! And no more Let me account myself forlorn and stripped, Whilst I have thee, my boy! But hark! here comes My husband!
_Enter_ OLAF, _muffled in his hunting dress_.
_Olaf._ Where’s the boy! I hunt to-day.
_Ter._ Not in this storm, my husband!
_Olaf._ In this storm. Where is the boy? I heard him here, just now.
_Ter._ Why, why the boy? What dost thou want with him?
_Olaf._ He shall go out with me on this day’s hunt.
_Ter._ Oh no! not so--he must not go to-day!
_Olaf._ Why, ’tis a puny, feeble-hearted thing, Whom thou hast fondled with and fooled, till nought Of a boy’s spirit is within his heart! But he shall go with me, and learn to dare The perils of the forest.
_Ter._ But this once-- This once, my husband, spare him--and when next Thou goest to the hunt, he shall go with thee!
_Olaf._ This day he shall go with me! Thou wouldst teach The boy rebellion! He shall go with me!
_Ter._ Nay, say not so--he does not love the chase!
_Olaf._ ’Tis me he does not love--and for good reason,-- Thou ever keep’st him sitting at thy side, A caded, dwindled thing that has no spirit! Look at the other children of the forest; They are brave, manly boys!
_Ter._ Alas, my husband, Thou hast forgotten, ’tis a tender flower Transplanted to a cold, ungenial clime.
_Olaf._ Say not another word! Thou hear’st my will!
_Enter_ PAOLO; _he runs to his mother’s side_.
_Ter._ Thy father wishes thee to hunt to-day.
_Paol._ Oh, not to-day, dear mother!
_Olaf._ And why not? It ever is the cry, “Oh not to-day!” I pr’ythee what new fancy’s in thy head, That thou canst not go with me?
_Paol._ I besought My mother to sing me her Corinth songs; To tell me of the groves and of the flowers, And of that happy home that was more fair Than even was ours, in pleasant Italy; And she has promised that she will, my father.
_Olaf._ Ha! ha! is’t so?--’Tis even as I thought. I know wherefore these stories of the past! Mark me, Teresa, if thou school him thus, I’ll sunder ye!--Thou need’st not clasp thy hands; For on my life I’ll do it!
_Paol._ [_weeping._] Father, father, Part me not from my mother, and indeed I will go with you.
_Ter._ [_aside to Olaf._] Pray thee, speak him kindly!
_Olaf._ Come, I’ll be thy companion! I will teach thee To be a man;--dry up these childish tears!
_Ter._ My sweet boy, do not weep! Go out this day, Thy mother prays it of thee, and bring back A little ermine, we will make it tame; It shall be thine, my Paolo, and shall love thee.
_Paol._ I will go, dearest mother--nor will cry Though the gaunt, hungry wolves bark round about, [_aside._] But, mother dear, will you sit by my side When we come back, and sing me fast asleep? I have such horrid dreams of wolves at night.
_Ter._ I will, indeed I will, my dearest love!
_Olaf._ Come, come, why all this fondling? We’ll be back Long ere the night.
_Ter._ Come, now I’ll put thee on Thy cloak, and that warm cap of ermine skin I made for thee last winter! [_They go out._
_Olaf._ How she sways him! With a sweet word she guides him as she will! Would that the child loved me but half as well; Heaven help me! but I am a rough, bad man, And have deserved neither her love nor his! But now the sledge is ready.
_He goes out._
SCENE IV.
_Near sunset--a dreary, desolate region, surrounded with ice-mountains--the Hunter drives a sledge rapidly forward, in the back part of which sit Olaf and Paolo._
_Olaf._ Where is this wild? I know not where thou drivest!
_Hunter._ Below our feet lies the eternal ice Of the great sea!
_Olaf._ Our prey abides not here!
_Hunt._ We’ll find enough, anon!
_Olaf._ Thou dost not know The track on which thou go’st.--Here only dwells The gaunt and savage wolf! and hark--even now I hear their bark!
_Paol._ Oh, are there wolves a-nigh?
_Hunt._ Ay, they are nigh, look in that black abysm, It is a wild wolf’s den!
_Olaf._ Thou braggart hunter, Is this thy wondrous skill? Wheel round the sledge Before the horse is maddened with the cry! There is no time to lose! Pull in the beast!
_Hunt._ It will not do--the wolves are now upon us!
_Paol._ Oh father, save me! save me, dearest father!
_Olaf._ Let go my cloak--they shall not hurt thee, child! [_to the hunter._] Thou cursed man!--Dost see these savage beasts, And yet sit grinning there, as thou had’st done A piece of hunter-craft!
_Hunt._ You carry arms-- Cannot you fire upon them? They will gorge Upon each other, and be pacified!
_Olaf._ If they taste blood, they will be more ferocious-- And thou knowest well, we have not ammunition For such a strife! yet will I fire upon them, Their savage barking will bring others down.
[_He fires._
_Paol._ Oh horrid! how they tear each other’s flesh.
_Olaf._ Now hurry forward, for our only hope Lies in out-speeding them!
_Paol._ Let us go home!
_Olaf._ Again they are upon us--their gaunt jaws Dropping with blood, which they lick evermore! Now for another slaughter!
_Hunt._ ’Tis in vain, For right and left, yet other packs are coming!
_Paol._ Oh father, father, they will be upon us! And I shall never see my mother more!
_Hunt._ Peace, brawling child!
_Olaf._ My poor, dear boy, be still.
_Paol._ I will, I will, dear father!
_Olaf._ [_To the hunter._] Cursed murderer. His blood will be upon thy head!
_Hunt._ Indeed! Who forced him from his mother ’gainst his will?
_Olaf._ Most strange, inhuman wretch!
_Hunt._ Nay, use thy gun, ’Twill do thee better service than thy tongue!
_Olaf._ [_aside._] Please heaven I live, I’ll pay thee for this hunt, Wages thou didst not ask!
[_He puts his last charge into his piece._
This is the last-- When this is done, there is no other hope But in our flight! _He fires._ Now heaven must be our helper! On, on, spare not the thong!
[_The horse in dashing forward, breaks from the sledge; the wolves fall upon him instantly._
_Olaf._ Now must we fly!
_Hunt._ There is a hut among these icy deserts Raised by some hunters. While they gorge themselves We may escape.
_Paol._ Take, take my hand, dear father!
_Olaf._ How cold it is, poor boy!
[_They turn among the ice-mountains, and soon are out of sight._
SCENE V.
_A chaotic wilderness of icebergs._
_Enter the_ HUNTER, _and_ OLAF _carrying_ PAOLO, _who appears faint_.
_Hunt._ I hear their bark--we are not much ahead!
_Olaf._ How far is’t now unto the hunter’s cabin?
_Hunt._ A half hour it would take us, could we run At our best speed--but cumbered with the child, What can we do?
_Paol._ Dear father, I will run-- I will not cumber thee--I am strong now!
_Olaf._ My poor dear boy, thou canst not! would to heaven Thou wert at home!
_Paol._ How kind thou art, dear father! I will run on--I will not cumber thee!
_Hunt._ The wolves are here! Hark, hark! their barking comes Upon the passing wind!
_Paol._ Oh, they are here!
_Olaf._ How can we ’scape from them? I’ll sell my life Dearly for this child’s sake!
_Hunt._ Throw them the child! And while they gorge on him, we can escape.
_Olaf._ Thou devil of hell!
_Paol._ Sweet father, do it not!
[_The wolves surround them; and the hunter snatching up Paolo throws him among them._
_Paol._ Oh father, father, save me!
_Olaf._ My boy! my boy!
_Hunt._ It is too late--they tear him limb from limb! Now for escape! Run, run, and we shall reach A place of safety! [_He darts forward._
_Olaf._ God in heaven! my boy-- My gentle-hearted boy! my murdered boy!
[_He dashes among the wolves with his hunting knife, and then springs forward after the hunter._
SCENE VI.
_Night--the interior of Olaf’s house--Teresa alone--a bright fire burns on the hearth--refreshments are set out, and clothes hanging by the fire for Olaf and Paolo._
_Teresa._ How late it is! an hour beyond the midnight! And bitter cold it is! The icy wind Even pierces through these walls! Poor little Paolo, How weary and half-frozen he will be: But he shall sit upon the bench beside me, And I will hold his hands, and lay his head Upon my knee; it is his dear indulgence-- Poor child, and he shall have it all to-night!
[_She puts fresh logs on the fire._
And this is the third time I have renewed The wasting fire! and when I piled at first, “My Paolo will be here,” I said, “before These logs shall have burned through!” but, now alas, I know not what to say, saving the wonder That he comes not, and even this is grown A kind of vague despair, that seems to threaten He will not come at all! Oh, if aught happen Save good unto the child, like poor old Jacob, Then should I be bereaved!
_Enter_ HULDA, _with a very dejected countenance; she takes down_ PAOLO’S _clothes, and folds them up_.
_Ter._ Nay, how is this?
_Huld._ He will not need them more?
_Ter._ Woman, what say’st thou?
_Huld._ Two hunters from the icebergs are come down-- Ere long thy husband comes.
_Ter._ And not my boy?
_Hulda._ [_laying the clothes together._] He will not need these more!
_Ter._ Then he is dead!
_Huld._ Alas, dear lady, yes!
_Ter._ Peace, woman! peace! The earth were less forlorn without the sun, Than I without my boy! He is not dead!
_Huld._ Would God he were not!
_Ter._ Do not say he is! It is like blasphemy to say he’s dead. Heaven would not strip me so--O do not say it! Where are these men? I’ll forth and meet my boy!
_Huld._ [_stopping her._] He is not on the road! No, never more Will he repass this threshold!
_Ter._ ’Tis a dream!
_Huld._ Dear lady, no!--too plainly tell the hunters All that has happened!
_Ter._ And, pr’ythee, what has happened?
_Huld._ A quarrel ’twixt the hunter and our master, Who now comes wounded home.
_Ter._ And what of Paolo?
_Huld._ Oh heavy, heavy news!--The child is missing!
_Ter._ Nay, then he is not dead!--Oh no, not dead! I told thee heaven would not so deal with me! My precious boy will come back on the morrow,-- Hunters are often lost for many days. These men shall seek for him among the wilds-- I, too, will go myself. Where are the men!
_Enter the_ HUNTER, _hastily_.
_Hunt._ Dear lady, woe is me!
_Huld._ Away, away!
_Ter._ Where is my boy?
_Hunt._ Oh wretched, wretched mother!
_Ter._ Torture me not, but tell me where he is?
_Hunt._ Lady, forgive me for the news I bring!
_Ter._ Then he is dead?
_Hunt._ Most terrible recital! Lady, thy husband, to preserve himself, Hath given thy little Paolo to the wolves!
_Ter._ [_with a scream of horror._] Oh no, no, no!
_Hunt._ He stopped their maws With thy poor Paolo’s blood!
_Ter._ He did not so!
_Hunt._ Poor little one, how he did cry for thee!
_Huld._ Peace! can’st not hold thy peace. Oh hear it not! Lady, he is but missing.
_Hunt._ Poor weak thing! How he did cling to me, and pray that I Would save him from his father!
[_Teresa clasps her hands, and stands in speechless agony._
I might have snatched a pretty lock of hair; I wish I had--a pretty curling lock!
_Ter._ [_falling on her knees._] God, of thy mercy strengthen, strengthen me! Enable me to bear what is thy will!
[_She falls insensible to the floor._
_Huld._ Wretch, why didst tell it her so cruelly-- Besides, the iceberg hunters say not so. Thou’st killed her by thy tidings!
_Hunt._ Hark, he comes! I hear her husband’s voice!
_Huld._ She must not see him!
[_She bears Teresa out._
_Hunt._ I must off! I’ll not again meet Olaf; He’s not the facile fool that once he was: But there’s that damning deed laid to his charge, Will make Teresa curse both him and heaven!
[_He goes out._
SCENE VII.
_The following day--the interior of the chapel--Teresa on her knees before the image of the Virgin._
Mother of God, who borest That cruel pang which made thy spirit bleed! Who knew’st severest anguish, sorrow sorest, Hear me in my great need!
My need is great, my woe is like thine own! I am bereaved of mine only one! Thou know’st I have no other! Comfort me, oh my mother!
Kind Saviour, who didst shed Tears for thy Lazarus dead; Who raised the widow’s son from off his bier; Who didst endure all woe That human hearts can know, Hear me, O hear!
Thou that art strong to comfort, look on me-- I sit in darkness, and behold no light! Over my heart the waves of agony Have gone, and left me faint! Forbear to smite A bruised and broken reed! Sustain, sustain; Divinest Comforter, to thee I fly, Let me not fly in vain! Support me with thy love, or else I die!
Father, who didst send down thy Well-Beloved, To suffer shame and death that I might live, Hear me, in this great sorrow not unmoved, And if I sin, forgive! Whate’er I had was thine! A God of mercy thou hast ever been; Assist me to resign; And if I murmur, count it not for sin!
How rich I was, I dare not--dare not think; How poor I am, thou knowest, who canst see Into my soul’s unfathomed misery; Forgive me if I shrink! Forgive me if I shed these human tears! That it so hard appears To yield my will to thine, forgive, forgive! Father, it is a bitter cup to drink!
[_She bows her face, and after a time of silence, rises._
My soul is strengthened! It shall bear My lot, whatever it may be; And from the depths of my despair I will look up, and trust in Thee!
[_She goes slowly out._
SCENE VIII.
_Many weeks afterwards--a chamber of Olaf’s house--Olaf near death, lying upon his bed--Teresa sits beside him._
_Olaf._ For years of tyranny I do beseech Thy pardon!--For thy meekness and thy truth The unrepining patience, and the beauty Of thy most holy life, my wife, I bless thee!
_Ter._ Thank God! affliction has been merciful! My boy, thy death has saved thy father’s soul!
_Olaf._ And the great might of virtue in thyself;-- Thy resignation, and thy pitying pardon-- For these, receive my blessing ere I die-- These, which have been the means of my salvation!
_Ter._ Bless Him, my husband, who is strong to save!
_Olaf._ I do, I do!--and I rejoice in death; Though, had my life been spared, I would have been Both son and husband to thee!--Weep not thou-- We shall all three ere long be united-- I, the poor outcast else, be one with you!
_Ter._ Out of affliction has arisen joy, And out of black despair immortal hope!
_Olaf._ [_after a silence of some time._] Give me thy hand, sweet friend;--I fain would sleep;-- And if I wake no more, I still would know Thou wilt be with me when I pass away!
_Ter._ May the kind, holy Mother bless thy sleep,-- And bless thy waking, be’t of life or death;
[_Olaf remains perfectly quiet, and after some time a light slumber comes over Teresa, during which she hears dream-like voices singing._
Oh human soul, ’tis done, Past is thy trial; past thy woe and pain; Nor is there mortal stain Upon thy spirit-robes, redeemed one! Spirit, that through a troubled sea Of sin and passion hast been wildly tost, And yet not lost, With songs of triumph do we welcome thee!
Redeemed spirit, come, Thine is a heavenly home! Come, freed from human error; From frailty, that did gird thee as the sea Engirds the earth; from darkness, doubt and terror, Which hung around the soul ere the light came; From these we welcome thee! Hark, heaven itself, rejoices, Hark, the celestial voices Shouting, like trumpet-peals, thy spirit-name!-- Oh gladly enter in, Thou conqueror of sin, The eternal city of the holy ones, Where, brighter far than stars; or moons, or suns, Thou shalt shine out before the Infinite!-- And see! a heavenly child, With garments undefiled, Streaming upon the air like odorous light, Awaits to welcome thee! Oh father, clasp thy boy, Pour out thy soul in joy, In love, which human frailty held in thrall;-- Boy, clasp thy father now, Distrust and fear in heaven there cannot be, For love enfoldeth all! Oh happy pair, too long divided, Pour out your souls in one strong sympathy! Eternal Love your meeting steps hath guided, Ne’er to be parted through eternity!
_Ter._ [_Waking._] I know that he is dead; but this sweet omen, These holy voices pealing joy in heaven, Have taken the sting from death! My dear, dear husband, I know that thou art blessed--art reunited Unto our boy!
[_She bends over the body for a few moments; then kneeling down and covering her face, she remains in silent prayer._
HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES.
TO
CAROLINE BOWLES,
AN
HONOURED FELLOW-LABOURER,
THIS LITTLE BOOK,
THE DESIGN OF WHICH IS
TO MAKE THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTIANITY
AN ENDEARED AND FAMILIAR
FIRE-SIDE GUEST,
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.
L’ENVOI.
I have indited thee with care and love, My little book; and now I send thee forth On a good mission like the gentle dove, Bearing glad tidings with thee o’er the earth.
Thou wast not meant for riot and for jest, Dear little book, all simple as thou art; But in sweet homes to be a loving guest; And find a place in many a guileless heart.
Have not a fear! I know that thou wilt find Thy journey pleasant as a path of flowers, For pure and youthful hearts are ever kind, Glad to be pleased with labour such as ours.
Sit down with little children by the way, And tell them of sweet Marien how she went Over the weary world from day to day, On christian works of love, like thee, intent.
Tell them of Him who framed the sea, the sky; The glorious earth and all that dwell therein; And of that Holy One made strong to die, Sinless himself, to save the world from sin.
And thou hast many a tale of wonder planned With various art to make thy spirit wise; These have I given thee that thou may’st command Glad smiles at will and pitying tears and sighs.
For thus, young, generous spirits would be won; And I have gifted thee to win them best; Now go thou forth undaunted, gentle one, And trust thy cause to every youthful breast.
Go forth, and have thou neither fear nor shame; Many shall be thy friends, thy foes be few; And greet thou those who love thee in my name, Yea, greet them warmly! Little book, adieu!
MARIEN’S PILGRIMAGE.
A FIRE-SIDE STORY.
Christianity, like a child, goes wandering over the world. Fearless in its innocence, it is not abashed before princes, nor confounded by the wisdom of synods. Before it the blood-stained warrior sheathes his sword, and plucks the laurel from his brow;--the midnight murderer turns from his purpose, and, like the heart-smitten disciple, goes out and weeps bitterly. It brings liberty to the captive, joy to the mourner, freedom to the slave, repentance and forgiveness to the sinner, hope to the faint-hearted, and assurance to the dying.
It enters the huts of poor men, and sits down with them and their children; it makes them contented in the midst of privations, and leaves behind an everlasting blessing. It walks through great cities, amid all their pomp and splendour, their unimaginable pride, and their unutterable misery, a purifying, ennobling, correcting, and redeeming angel.
It is alike the beautiful companion of childhood and the comfortable associate of age. It ennobles the noble; gives wisdom to the wise, and new grace to the lovely. The patriot, the priest, the poet, and the eloquent man, all derive their sublime power from its influence.
Thanks be to the Eternal Father, who has made us one with Him through the benign Spirit of Christianity!