Part 4

One Sabbath morn when the air was balm, And the green earth smiled with a heavenly charm, In the peaceful hush, in the holy calm, Old David Bell, with a new intent, Across the bridge o’er the mill-stream went, And his steps towards the village chapel bent. For he said, “I will try From this fiend to fly, And escape the shadow before I die!”

But all along on the sandy road, His great, gaunt shadow before him strode, Like a fiend escaped from its dark abode. Sometimes it crouched in an angle small, Then up it leapt, like a giant tall; And as David noticed these changes all, He shook his head, As he gloomily said, “This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

At length, he came to the chapel door, But the great, gaunt shadow went in before, Leaping and dancing along the floor. Old David mournfully turned away-- He could not enter to praise and pray, While that impish shadow before him lay. And he shook his head, As he gloomily said, “This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

He wandered away, not heeding where, To a lonely grave, where a willow fair Whispered sweet words to the summer air. But he saw not the long, lithe branches wave, For only a weary look he gave At his own black shadow, across the grave. And he shook his head, As he gloomily said, “This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

“Nay, nay, good David!” a voice replied. He turned him quickly, and close by his side Stood old Goody Gay, known far and wide. Though Time had stolen her bloom away, And changed the gold of her locks to gray, Her face was bright as the summer day. “Don’t shake your head!” She cheerfully said, “But face the sunshine, good man, instead!”

With a hopeless look, and a sigh profound, He sat himself down by the grassy mound, Where the bright-eyed daisies grew thick around. “Nay, leave me,” he said, in a sullen tone, “For I and the shadow would be alone; No balm of healing for me is known. It will be as I said, This thing that I dread, This shadow, will haunt me till I am dead.”

The good dame answered, “O, David Bell! Why will ye be ringing your own heart’s knell? For I tell ye this, that I know full well-- The blesséd Father, who loves us all, Who notices even a sparrow’s fall, Is never deaf to His children’s call; His love is our light In the darkest night: Just turn to _that_ sunshine, and all is right.”

“In this very grave did I lay to rest, With his pale hands folded upon his breast, The one of all others I loved the best. And then, though my heart in its anguish yearned, My face to the sunshine I ever turned, And thus a great lesson of life I learned; Which you, too, will find, If you will but mind, That thus, all life’s shadows are cast behind.”

He gazed in her earnest face as she spoke, And then a light o’er his features broke, As if new life in his soul awoke. There was something so bright in that summer day, And the cheerful language of Goody Gay, That his morbid fancies were charmed away; And he said, “I will try, For it may be, that I Shall escape this shadow before I die.”

He turned him around on the grassy knoll, And flush o’er his forehead and into his soul The warmth of the gladdening sunshine stole. The good dame lifted a willow bough, And gently laid her hand on his brow-- “Say, David, where is your shadow now? The shadow has fled, But ye are not dead. Look up to the sunshine, man! Hold up your head!”

Still athwart the grave did the shadow lay, But the face of David was turned away, And lifted up to the sun’s clear ray. Then the light of truth on his spirit fell, Breaking forever the magic spell That darkened the vision of David Bell. His trial was past; And the shadow, at last, Behind him there, on the grave was cast.

O, ye! who toil o’er your earthly way, With your faces turned from the truth’s clear ray, Consider the counsel of Goody Gay. Though shadows should haunt you as black as night, Be faithful and firm to your highest light, _And face the sunshine with all of your might!_ Keep a cheerful mind, And at length you will find That the grave, and life’s shadows, all lie behind.

HESTER VAUGHN.

[Hester Vaughn was tried for the crime of infanticide. She was convicted, and sentence of death passed upon her. Subsequently, by the efforts of benevolent individuals, and the pressure of public opinion, her sentence was commuted to imprisonment for life. Susan A. Smith, M. D., of Philadelphia, who visited her in prison, and was chiefly instrumental in obtaining her reprieve, gives the following statement in relation to the circumstances attendant upon her alleged crime: “She was deserted by her husband, who knew she had not a relative in America. She rented a third-story room in this city (Philadelphia), from a German family, who understood very little English. She furnished this room, found herself in food and fuel for three months on twenty dollars. She was taken sick in this room at midnight, on the 6th of February, and lingered until Saturday morning, the 8th, when her child was born. She told me she was nearly frozen, and fainted or went to sleep for a long time. Through all this period of _agony_ she was _alone_, without _nourishment_ or _fire_, with her door unfastened. It has been asserted that she confessed her guilt. I can solemnly say in the presence of Almighty God that she never confessed guilt to me, and stoutly affirms that no such word ever passed her lips.”]

NOW by the common weal and woe, Uniting each with all; And by the snares we may not know, Until we blindly fall-- Let every heart by sorrow tried, Let every _woman_ born, Feel that her cause stands side by side With that of Hester Vaughn.

A woman, famished for the love All hearts so deeply crave, Whose only hope was Heaven above, To succor and to save; With only want, and woe, and care, To greet her child unborn; A weary burden, hard to bear, Was life to Hester Vaughn.

No friend, no food, no fire, no light, And face to face with death, She struggled through the weary night, With anguish in each breath; Till that frail life which shared her own, Had perished ere the morn, And left her to the hearts of stone, That judged poor Hester Vaughn.

Who was it, that refused to draw A lesson from the time, And in the name of human law, Pronounced her grief a crime? Was her accuser, cold and stern, _A man of woman born_, Whose _debt_ to woman could not earn Some grace for Hester Vaughn?

The word of judgment is not sure, To wealth and station high, But that she was _alone_ and _poor_, Was she condemned to die. O God of justice! for whose grace The servile worldlings fawn, Has not thy love a hiding-place For such as Hester Vaughn?

Come to the bar of Judgment, come, Ye favored ones of earth, And let your haughty lips be dumb, So boastful of your worth. What virtues, or what noble deeds, _Your_ faithless lives adorn, That thus by laws, or lifeless creeds, You sentence Hester Vaughn?

What countless crimes, what guilt untold, What depths of sin and shame, Are gilded by your lying gold, Or hidden by a name! Ye pave your social hells with skulls Of Infants yet unborn; Then virtuous wrath suspicion lulls, And crushes Hester Vaughn.

Ye, who your secret sins confess, Before the Eternal Throne-- Adulterer and Adulteress! What mercy have _ye_ shown? For place and power, for gems and gold, Ye give your souls in pawn, But Heaven’s fair gates will first unfold To such as Hester Vaughn.

The “mills of God that grind so slow,” Will “grind exceeding small;” And time, at length, will clearly show The want or worth of all. Distinctions will not always be With such precision drawn, Between the proud of high degree And such as Hester Vaughn.

Through Moyamensing’s prison bars,[2] She counts each weary day, Or ’neath the calmly watching stars, She wakes to weep and pray. Thank God! for her in heaven above, A brighter day will dawn, And those who judge all hearts in love, Will welcome Hester Vaughn.

SONG OF THE SPIRIT CHILDREN.

LET us sing the praise of Love-- Holy Spirit! Heavenly Dove! Bringing on its blesséd wings Life to all created things. Wheresoe’er its light is shed, Sorrow lifts its drooping head, And the tears of grief that start Turn to sunshine in the heart. Love divine, All things are thine! Every creature seeks thy shrine. And thy boundless blessings fall With an equal love on all.

Let us sing the praise of Love, Everywhere--around, above; Watching with its starry eyes, From the blue of boundless skies, Heeding when the lowly call, Mindful of a sparrow’s fall, Writing on the flower-wreathed sod, “God is love, and love is God.” Love divine, All things are thine! Every creature seeks thy shrine! And thy boundless blessings fall With an equal love on all.

Let us sing the praise of Love-- Fairest of all things above. How its blesséd sunshine lies In the light of loving eyes! And when words are all too weak, How its deeds of mercy speak! They who learn to love aright, Pass from darkness into light. Love divine, All things are thine! Every creature seeks thy shrine! And thy boundless blessings fall With an equal love on all.

Let us sing the praise of Love-- Shepherd of the lambs above, Nothing can forbid, that we Come in trusting love to Thee. Fold us closely to Thy heart, Make us of Thyself a part; All the heaven our souls have known, We have found in Thee alone. Love divine, All things are thine! Every creature seeks thy shrine! And thy boundless blessings fall With an equal love on all.

HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP.

NIGHT drops her mantle from the skies, And from her home of peace above, She watches with her starry eyes, As with a tender mother’s love. The sounds of toil and strife are stilled, And in the silence calm and deep, The word of promise is fulfilled-- “He giveth his belovéd sleep.”

The weary soul oppressed with care, The young, the old, the strong, the weak, The rich, the poor, the brave, the fair, Alike the common blessing seek. The child sleeps on its mother’s breast, The broken-hearted cease to weep, For answering to the prayer for rest, “He giveth his belovéd sleep.”

Beneath the churchyard’s sod there lies Full many a weary form at rest, With death’s calm slumber in the eyes, And pale hands folded on the breast. O ye who bend above the sod, And tears of silent anguish weep, Lean with a firmer faith on God-- “He giveth his belovéd sleep,”--

Sleep for the eye whose light has fled, Sleep for the weary heart and hand; But not the sleep of those who tread The green hills of “the better land.” No restless nights of pain are theirs, No weary watch for morn they keep, But through release from mortal cares, “He giveth his belovéd sleep.”

Theirs is that sweet, exceeding peace, Where love makes every duty blest, Where anxious cares and longings cease, And labor in itself is rest. O, we will trust the power above The treasures of our hearts to keep, Safe folded in his arms of love, “He giveth _our_ belovéd sleep.”

THE FAMISHED HEART.

The following poem was given at the conclusion of a lecture upon “Jesus the Medium, and Socrates the Philosopher.”

“A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another.”

JOHN xiii. 34.

O YE! upon whose favored shrine Love hath a rich libation poured-- Who, even as a thing divine, Are fondly worshiped and adored-- Spare but one kindly thought for those Who stand in loneliness apart, Worn by that weariest of woes, The hopeless hunger of the heart.

As deadly as the dagger’s thrust, Envenomed as a serpent’s fangs, It eats like slow, corroding rust, And lengthens out in lingering pangs. Think not with careless jest or smile To pass this wasting sorrow by; For countless hearts attest the while, That thus, alas! too many die.

I once was of the earth like you; I loved, and hoped, and feared as well, But on my heart the kindly dew Of fond affection never fell. An orphan in my early years, Mine was a hard and cheerless lot, For I was doomed, with prayers and tears, To seek for love and find it not.

A bird upon a stormy sea, A lamb without a sheltering fold, A vine with no supporting tree, A blossom blighted by the cold,-- The warmth of kindly atmospheres Gave to my life no quickened start; Love’s sunshine melted not to tears The drifted sorrows of my heart.

Fresh from the innocence of youth, I entered on the rude world’s strife, But evermore this venomed tooth Was gnawing at the root of life. O, I was but a thing of dust! And what should save me from my fall? The tempter whispered, “Lawless lust Is better than no love at all!”

Then with a flinty face I turned, Defiant of the social ban, For my poor, famished nature yearned For e’en such sympathy from man. But no! I heard, as from above, This truth that many learn too late, That man’s unhallowed, selfish love, Is far more cruel than his hate.

I shrank from Passion’s burning breath, Those sensuous lips and eyes of flame, And from that furnace fire of death My outraged heart unblemished came. But darker, deeper grew the night That closed around my suffering soul, And Fate’s black billows, flecked with white, O’er all my being seemed to roll.

At length, within a maniac’s cell, I moaned and muttered day by day, Till, like a loathsome thing, I fell From human consciousness away. That nightmare dream of life was brief, For horror choked my struggling breath, And my poor heart, with love and grief, Was famished even unto death.

Unconscious of my spirit’s change, Long did I linger near the earth, Until a being, kind, though strange, Recalled me to my conscious worth. From thence I seemed to be transformed, Renewed as by redeeming grace, And then my soul the purpose formed-- To seek “the Saviour of the race.”

My aspirations served to bear My earnest spirit swift away, Until a heaven, serene and fair, My onward progress seemed to stay. I came where two immortals trod, In friendly converse, side by side; “O, lead me to the Son of God, That I may worship him!” I cried.

One turned--and from his aspect mild A benison of love was shed-- “O, say, whom do you seek, dear child? We all are sons of God,” he said. “Nay, nay!” I cried, “not such I mean! But him who died on Calvary-- The humble-hearted Nazarene!” He meekly answered, “_I am he!_”

“O, then, as sinful Mary knelt, In tearful sorrow, at thy feet, So does my icy nature melt, And her sweet reverence I repeat. O God! O Christ! O Living All! ‘Thou art the Life, the Truth, the Way’; Lo! at thy feet I humbly fall-- Cast not my sinful soul away!”

“Poor bleeding heart! poor wounded dove!” In tones of gentleness, he said: “How hast thou famished for that love Which is indeed ‘the living bread.’ Kneel not to me; the Power Divine, Than I, is greater, mightier far; His glories lesser lights outshine, As noonday hides the brightest star.”

“You died for all the world!” I cried, “And therefore do I bend the knee.” “My friend,”[3] he answered, “at my side, Long ere I suffered, died for me. He drained for man the poisoned cup, I gave my body to the cross, But when the sum is counted up, Great is our gain, and small our loss.

“Not thus would I be deified, Or claim the homage that men pay; But he who takes me for his guide, Makes me his Life, his Truth, his Way. O, heaven shall not descend to man, Nor man ascend to heaven above, Till he shall see Salvation’s plan Is written in the law of love.

“Dear sister! let your fears depart-- I have no power to bid you live, But I can feed your famished heart Upon the love I freely give. Mine are the hearts that men condemn, Or crush in their ambitious strife, And through my love I am to them ‘The Resurrection and the Life.’”

He raised me gently from his feet, And laid my head upon his breast. O God! how calm, how pure and sweet, How more than peaceful was that rest! I feel that blesséd presence yet-- It fills me with a joy serene-- Nor have I hungered since I met The gentle-hearted Nazarene.

THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE.

The following poem, given under the inspiration of Mrs. Hemans, is a reversion of the ideas contained in a poem composed by her in earth life, entitled “The Hour of Death.”

“Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath, And stars to set--but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!”

LEAVES have their glad recall, And blossoms open to the South wind’s breath, And stars that set shall rise again, for all, All things shall triumph o’er the Spoiler--Death.

Day was not made for care-- Eve brings bright angels to the joyous hearth-- Night comes with dreams of peace, and visions fair Of those whom Death could conquer not on earth.

When, in the festive hour, Death mingles poison with the ruby wine, Life also comes with overwhelming power, Changing the deadly draught to life divine.

Youth and the opening rose May vanish from the outward sight away, But Life their inward beauty shall disclose, And rob the haughty Spoiler of his prey.

Leaves have their glad recall, And blossoms open to the South wind’s breath, And stars that set shall rise again, for all, All things shall triumph o’er the Spoiler--Death.

We know that yet again Our loved and lost shall cross the Summer sea, Bearing with them the sheaves of golden grain, Which they have harvested, O Life! with thee.

Thy breath is in the gale Whose kiss unseals the violet’s azure eye; And though the roses in our path grow pale, We know that all things change, they do not die.

Wherever man may roam, Thy presence, viewless as the Summer air, Meets him abroad, or in his peaceful home, And when Death calls him forth, thou, too, art there.

Thou art where soul meets soul, Or where earth’s noblest fall in battle strife; But Death, the Spoiler, yields to thy control; Forevermore thou art the conqueror, Life.

Leaves have their glad recall, And blossoms open to the South wind’s breath, And stars that set shall rise again, for all, All things shall triumph o’er the Spoiler--Death.

REFORMERS.

WHERE have the world’s great heroes gone, The champions of the Right, Who, with their armor girded on, Have passed beyond our sight? Are they where palms immortal wave, And laurels crown the brow? Or was the victory thine, O Grave? Where are they? Answer thou.

We shudder at the silence dread, That renders no reply-- O, dust! from whence the soul hath fled, Thou canst not hear our cry. The violet, o’er their mouldering clay, Looks meekly from the sod, But tells not of the hidden way Their angel feet have trod.

Where are they, Death? thou mighty one! To some far land unknown, Beyond the stars, beyond the sun, Have their bright spirits flown? Their hearts were strong through Truth and Right, Life’s stormy tide to stem. O Death! thou conqueror of might! What need hadst thou of them?

The earth is green with martyrs’ graves, On hill, and plain, and shore, And the great ocean’s sounding waves Sweep over thousands more. For us they drained life’s bitter cup, And dared the battle strife; Where are they, Death? O, render up The secret of their life!

We listen--to our earnest cries No answer is made known, Save the “Resurgam”--I _shall_ rise! Carved on the burial stone. O Grave! O Death! thou canst not keep The spark of Life Divine; They have no need of rest or sleep; Nay, Death, they are not thine!

Where are they? O Creative Soul! To whom no name is given, Whose presence fills the boundless whole, Whose love alone is heaven, Through all the long, eternal hours What toils do they pursue? Are their great souls still linked with ours, To suffer and to do?

Lo! how the viewless air around With quickening life is stirred, And from the silences profound Leaps forth the answering word, “We live--not in some distant sphere Life’s mission to fulfill; But, joined with faithful spirits here, We love and labor still.

No laurel wreath, no waving palm, No royal robes are ours, But evermore, serene and calm, We use life’s noblest powers. Toil on in hope, and bravely bear The burdens of your lot; Great, earnest souls your labors share; They will forsake you not.”

MR. DE SPLAE.

IT may seem a strange question, good people, but say, Did you never hear tell of one Mr. De Splae? A man who made up for the lack of good sense By a wondrous amount of mere show and pretense; Puffed up with conceit like an airy balloon, He was hard to approach as the “man in the moon,” Save when for some _purpose_ it came in his way, And then, O how gracious was Mr. De Splae!

A sly politician, a popular man, When all things went smoothly he marshaled the van; But when there was aught like a failure to fear, He quickly deserted or fell to the rear. His speech for the people went “gayly and glib,” While he drew his support from the National crib; But when an assessment or tax was to pay, O, how outraged and angry was Mr. De Splae!

He smoked, and he chewed, and he drank, and he swore; But then every man whom the ladies adore, Is prone to these failings--some more and some less, Which are all overlooked in a man of address. It also was whispered that he had betrayed The too trusting faith of an innocent maid; But the ladies all blamed _her_ for going astray, While they pardoned and petted--“dear Mr. De Splae.”