Chapter 7

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.

IN MEMORIAM.

REV. DR. T. M. COOLEY,

For more than sixty years Pastor of one Church in East Granville, Mass., died there in 1859, aged 83.

Not in the pulpit where he joy'd to bear The message of salvation, not beside His study-lamp, nor in the fireside chair, Encircled by those dearest ones who found In him their life of life, nor in the homes Of his beloved flock, sharing with them All sympathies of sorrow or of joy, Is seen the faithful Shepherd. He hath gone To yon blest Country where he long'd to be, To stand before the Great White Throne, and join That hymn of praise for which his course below Gave preparation. At one post he stood From youth till fourscore years, averse to change Though oft-times tempted. For he did not deem Restless ambition or desire of gold Fit counterpoise for that most sacred love Born in the inner chambers of the soul, And intertwining with a golden mesh Pastor and people. Like some lofty tree Whose untransplanted roots in freshness meet The living waters, and whose leaf is green 'Mid winter's gather'd frost, serene he stood, More fondly honor'd for each added year, While 'neath his shadow drew with reverent love Successive generations.

Hoary Time Linger'd with blessings for his latest day, And now 'neath turf embalm'd with tears he sleeps, Waiting the resurrection of the just.

MADAM OLIVIA PHELPS,

Widow of the late ANSON G. PHELPS, Esq., died at New York, April 24th, 1859, aged 74.

When the good mother dieth, and the home So long made happy by her boundless love Is desolate and empty, there are tears Of filial anguish, not to be represt; And when the many friends who at her side Sought social sympathy and counsel sweet, Or the sad poor, who, for their Saviour's sake, Found bountiful relief, and kind regard, Stand at that altered threshold, and perceive Faces of strangers from her casement look, There is a pang not to be told in words.

Yet, when the christian, having well discharged A life-long duty, riseth where no sin Or possibility of pain or death May follow, should there not be _praise_ to Him Who gives such victory? Thus it is even now-- Tears with the triumph-strain; For we are made Of flesh as well as spirit, and are taught By Joy and Sorrow, walking side by side, And with strong contrast deepening truths divine.

But unto thee, dear friend, whose breath was prayer, And o'er whose mortal sickness hovering Faith Shed heaven's content, there was no further need Of tutelage like that by which we learn, Too slow, perchance, with vacillating minds, What the disciples of our Lord should be; For when the subjugation to God's will Is perfect, and affliction all disarmed, Is not life's lesson done?

MARTHA AGNES BONNER,

Child of RobERT BONNER, Esq., died at New York, April 28th, 1859, aged 13 months.

There was a cradling lent us here, To cheer our lot, It was a cherub in disguise, But yet our dim and earth-bow'd eyes Perceiv'd it not.

Its voice was like the symphony That lute-strings lend, Yet tho' our hearts the music hail'd As a sweet breath of heaven, they fail'd To comprehend.

It linger'd till each season fill'd Their perfect round, The vernal bud, the summer-rose, Autumnal gold, and wintry snows Whitening the ground.

But when again reviving Spring Thro' flowers would roam, And the white cherry blossoms stirr'd Neath the soft wing of chirping bird, A call from angel-harps was heard, "Cherub,--come home."

MADAM WHITING,

Widow of the late SPENCER WHITING, Esq., died at Hartford, April, 1859, aged 88.

Life's work well done, how beautiful to rest. Aye, lift your little ones to see her face, So calmly smiling in its coffin-bed! There is no wrinkle there,--no rigid gloom To make them turn their tender glance away; And when they say their simple prayer at night With folded hands,--instruct their innocent lips Meekly to say: "Our Father! may we live, And die like her." Her more than fourscore years Chill'd not in her the genial flow of thought Or energy of deed. The earnest power To advance home-happiness, the kindly warmth Of social intercourse, the sweet response Of filial love, rejoicing in her joy, And reverencing her saintly piety, Were with her, unimpair'd, until the end. A course like this, predicted close serene, And so it was. There came no cloud to dim Her spirit's light, when at a beckoning brief She heavenward went. Miss'd is she here, and mourn'd; From hall, from hearthstone, and from household board, A beauty and a dignity have fled,-- And the heart's tears as freely flowed for her, As for the loved ones, in their prime of days. Age justly held in honor, hath a charm Peculiarly its own, a symmetry Of nearness to the skies. And these were hers, Whose life was duty, and whose death was peace.

DENISON OLMSTED, LL.D.,

Professor of Astronomy in Yale College, Conn., died at New Haven, May, 1859.

Spring pour'd fresh beauty o'er the cultured grounds, And woke to joyance every leaf and flower, Where erst the Man of Science lov'd to find Refreshment from his toils.

'Twas sweet to see How Nature met him there, and took away All weariness of knowledge. Yet he held Higher communion than with fragrant shrub, Or taper tree, that o'er the forest tower'd. His talk was with the stars, as one by one, Night, in her queenly regency, put forth Their sprinkled gold upon her sable robe. He knew their places, and pronounc'd their names, And by their heavenly conversation sought Acquaintance with their Maker. Sang they not Unto his uncloth'd spirit, as it pass'd From sphere to sphere, above their highest ranks, With its attendant angel? We are dark. We ask, and yet no answer. But we trace In clearest lines the shining course he took Among life's duties, for so many years, And hear those parting words, that "_all is peace_!"[1] The harvest-song of true philosophy.

His epitaph is that which cannot yield A mouldering motto to the tooth of time. --Man works in marble, and it mocks his trust, But the immortal mind doth ever keep The earnest impress of the moulding hand, And bear it onward to a race unborn. --That is his monument.

[1] The last words of Professor Olmsted.

HERBERT FOSS,

Only son of SAMUEL S. FOSS, Esq., died May 23d, 1859, aged three years and three months.

"Read more, Papa," the loving infant cried,-- And meekly bow'd the listening ear, and fix'd The ardent eye, devouring every word Of his dear picture book. And then he spread His arms, and folded thrice the father's neck. --The mother came from church, and lull'd her boy To quiet sleep, and laid him in his crib; And as they watch'd the smile of innocence That sometimes lightly floated o'er his brow That Sabbath eve, they to each other said, "_How beautiful._" There was another scene,-- The child lay compass'd round with Spring's white flowers, Yet heav'd no breath to stir their lightest leaf. And many a one who on that coffin look'd And went their way, in tender whisper said "_How beautiful!_" Oh parents, ye who sit Mourning for HERBERT, in your empty room, What if the darling of your fondest care Scarce woke from his brief dream and went to Heaven? --Our dream is longer, but 'tis mixed with tears. For we are dreamers all, and only those Fully awake, who dwell where naught deceives.

So, when time's vision o'er, you reach the land Which hath no need of sun, or waning moon To give it light, how sweet to hear your child Bid you "_good morning_" with his cherub tongue.

His last words to his father, who was reading to him in a favorite book, were, "Read, more, papa, please read more." Soon after, and almost without warning, he died.

MRS. CHARLES N. CADWALLADER,

Died at Philadelphia, July 2nd, 1859, five weeks after her marriage.

The year rolls round, and brings again The bright, auspicious day, The marriage scene, the festive cheer, The group serenely gay,

The hopes that nurs'd by sun and shower O'er youth's fair trellis wound, And in that consecrated rite Their full fruition found.

But One unseen amid the throng Drew near with purpose fell, And lo! the orange-flowers were changed To mournful asphodel.

Five sabbaths walk'd the beautiful Her chosen lord beside, But ere the sixth illumed the sky She was that dread One's bride.

Yet call her not the bride of Death Though in his bed she sleeps, And broidering Myrtle richly green O'er her cold pillow creeps:

She hath a bower where angels dwell, A mansion with the blest, For Jesus whom she trusted here, Receiv'd her to His rest.

REV. DR. JAMES W. ALEXANDER,

Pastor of the Fifth Avenue Church, New York, died at the Virginia Springs, July, 1859.

The great and good. How startling is the knell That tells he is but dust. The echo comes From where Virginia's health-reviving springs Make many whole. But waiting there for him The dark-winged angel who doth come but once, Troubled the waters, and his latest breath Fled, where his first was drawn. That noble brow So mark'd with intellect, so clear with truth, Grave in its goodness, in its love serene, Will it be seen no more? That earnest voice Filling the Temple-arch so gloriously, With themes of import to the undying soul Enforced by power of fervid eloquence Is it forever mute? That mind so rich With varied learning and with classic lore, Studious, progressive, affluent, profound, That feeling heart, instinct with sympathy For the world's family of grief and pain, The dark in feature, or the lost in sin, Say, are their treasures lost? No, on the page Of many a tome, traced by his tireless pen They live and brighten for a race to come, Prompting the wise, cheering the sorrowful, And for the little children whom he loved Meting out fitting words, like dewy pearls Glittering along their path. His chief delight Was in his Master's work. How well performed Speak ye whose feet upon Salvation's rock Were planted through his prayers. His zeal involved No element of self, but hand in hand Walk'd with humility. He needeth not Praise from our mortal lips. The monuments Of bronze or marble, what are they to him Who hath his firm abode above the stars?

--Yet may the people mourn, may freshly keep The transcript of his life, nor wrongly ask "When shall we look upon his like again?"

MRS. JOSEPH MORGAN,

Died at Hartford, August, 1859.

I saw her overlaid with many flowers, Such as the gorgeous summer drapes in snow, Stainless and fragrant as her memory.

Blent with their perfume came the pictur'd thought Of her calm presence,--of her firm resolve To bear each duty onward to its end,-- And of her power to make a home so fair, That those who shared its sanctities deplore The pattern lost forever.

Many a friend, And none who won that title laid it down, Muse on the tablet that she left behind, Muse,--and give thanks to God for what she was, And what she is;--for every pain hath fled That with a barb'd and subtle weapon stood Between the pilgrim and the promised Land. But the deep anguish of the filial tear We speak not of,--save with the sympathy That wakes our own. And so, we bid farewell.

* * * * *

Life's sun at setting, may shed brighter rays Than when it rose, and threescore years and ten May wear a beauty that youth fails to reach: The beauty of a fitness for the skies,-- Such nearness to the angels, that their song "Peace and good will," like key-tone rules the soul, And the pure reflex of their smile illumes The meekly lifted brow. She taught us this,-- And then went home.

MISS ALICE BECKWITH,

Died at Hartford, September 23d, 1859.

The beautiful hath fled To join the spirit-train; Earth interposed with strong array, Love stretch'd his arms to bar her way, All,--all in vain.

There was a bridal hope Before her crown'd with flowers; The orange blossoms took the hue With which the cypress dank with dew Darkeneth our bowers.

Affections strong and warm Sprang round her gentle way, Young Childhood, with a moisten'd eye, And Friendship's tenderest sympathy Watch'd her decay.

Disease around her couch Long held a tyrant sway, Till vanished from her cheek, the rose, And the fair flesh like vernal snows Wasted away.

Yet the dark Angel's touch Dissolv'd that dire control, And where the love-knot cannot break Nor pain nor grief intrusion make, Bore the sweet soul.

MARY SHIPMAN DEMING,

Died at Hartford, Nov. 11th, 1839, aged 4 years and 6 months.

The garner'd Jewel of our heart, The Darling of our tent! Cold rains were falling thick and fast, When forth from us she went.

The sweetest blossom on our tree, When droop'd her fairy head, We might not lay her 'mid the flowers, For all the flowers were dead.

The youngest birdling of our nest, Her song from us hath fled; Yet mingles with a purer strain That floats above our head.

We gaze,--her wings we may not see: We listen,--all in vain: But when this wintry life is o'er, We'll hear her voice again.

REV. DR. F. W. HATCH,

Died at Sacramento, California, January 16th, 1860, aged 70.

A pleasant theme it is to think of him That parted friend, whose noble heart and mind Were ever active to the highest ends. Even sceptics paid him homage 'mid their doubts, Perceiving that his life made evident A goodness not of earth. His radiant brow And the warm utterance of his lustrous eye Told how the good of others triumph'd o'er All narrowness of self. He deem'd it not A worthy aim of Christ's true ministry To chaffer for the gold that perisheth Or waste its God-given powers on lifeless forms; But love of souls, and love of Him who died That they might live, gave impulse to his zeal.

--And so, while half a century chronicled The change of empires, and the fall of kings And death of generations like the leaves That strew the forest 'neath autumnal skies, He toil'd unswerving in that One Great Cause To which the vigor of his youth was given.

--And as his life, its varied tasks well done Shrouded its head and trustful went to Him Who giveth rest and peace and rich reward Unto his faithful servants, it behooves Us to rejoice who have so long beheld His pure example. From it may we learn Oh sainted Friend, wherever duty calls With fervent hearts to seek for others' good, And wear thy spirit-smile, and win even here Some foretaste of the bliss that ne'er shall end.

MRS. PAYNE,

Wife of Right Rev. Bishop PAYNE, died at Monrovia, Liberia.

Oh true and faithful! Twice ten earnest years Of mission-toil in Afric's sultry clime Attest thy patience in thy Master's cause, Thy self-denial and humility.

Now, neath the shadow of the princely palm, And where Liberia's church-crown'd summits rise, Are sighs from sable bosoms, swelling deep With gratitude for all thy hallow'd care.

--The Prelate, unto whom thy heart of hearts Was link'd so tenderly,--who found in thee Solace for exile from his native shore, Laments thy loss, as the lone hours go by. He mourns thee deepest, for he knew thee best, Thy purity, thy sublimated search For added holiness. With angel hand Press thou thy pattern on us,--we who dwell Amid the fullness of the bread from Heaven, Forgetful of our heathen brother's need. Now thou dost sweetly sleep, where pain and woe Follow thee not. Their trial-time is o'er, Their discipline perfected. For thy will Was subjugated to the Will Divine, And through a dear Redeemer's strength, thy soul Hath won the victory.

MRS. MARY MILDENSTEIN ROBERTSON,

Wife of Rev. WILLIAM H. C. ROBERTSON, died at Magnolia, East Florida, January 13th, aged 34.