Part 5

Till then I’ll patient be. It is not best To bosom sorrow, or to nourish grief; No! let me bear my heavy laden breast Where only suff’ring hearts can find relief-- To Him who was of sufferers the chief! He numbers every hair upon my head, He clothes the flower, he notes the falling leaf; And will he, now my dearest ones are dead, Leave me in sorrow’s night my burning tears to shed?

XXXIX.

No--no--it cannot be. He shows his power, And who can hinder him? He takes away Man’s glory and his pride in one short hour, And, when he chooses, hides each cheering ray Of earthly joy, that o’er his path did play. But while his hand thus smites, his heart is love; He sends the cloudy, wintry, stormy day, To make us pause awhile, and look above, And by adversity, the suff’rer’s heart to prove.

XL.

How sweet the names my heavenly Father bears! ‘God of all comfort!’ O, the soothing sound! ‘Father of mercies!’ Yes! I’ll dry my tears, And go where comfort--mercy--can be found. What though my love lies cold beneath the ground? ’Tis but his mortal part. His deathless soul Lives and rejoices where pure joys abound; He ran his race, and reach’d th’ immortal goal, And ne’er shall sorrow more, while countless ages roll.

XLI.

Husband, sweet husband! where, O, where art thou? Art thou not near me, whispering peaceful things? Do I not hear thy spirit-accents now, And feel the waving of thy spirit-wings, Cooling my burning heart, where sorrow’s stings Would rankle, were it not for Heaven and thee? It must be so. My eager spirit springs To meet thee, love! ’Tis thy sweet task to be A ministering angel, sent to comfort me!”

XLII.

’Twas thus the mourner mused from hour to hour, Beside her loved one laid upon his bier; She strew’d his corse with many a fragrant flower, And kiss’d his cheek, and stroked his glossy hair. You would have thought her love was sleeping there, And she was watching o’er him--such a smile Sat on his lip, and wreathed his forehead fair; But he is dead--and in a little while The damp and teeming earth that forehead must defile!

CHARLESTON, _June 22, 1841_.

THE SECOND BURIAL.

All-conqu’ring Love! Thou mak’st the heart of gentle woman strong! All-cheering Faith! thou hast a magic power To win the soul away from haggard grief! On the pure surface of the calm blue sky, Thou paintest Heaven’s glories with a touch Surpassing mortal genius, and with art Most wonderful, dost lure the tearful eye Away from the attractions of the tomb, Where earthly hopes and joys lie sepulchred. What sweet amazement seizes on the soul, When these celestial visions greet the eye! The ambient air seems full of harmony, As though ten thousand angel visitors Were hov’ring round th’ afflicted one, to cheer With Heaven’s softest, sweetest melodies, Her mourning heart.

The evening hour had thrown Dark length’ning shadows on the verdant earth, And men had gather’d to the burial. Women were there, with hearts of sympathy For the bereaved; and rosy children too Gazed up into the mourner’s marble face, With troubled looks of awe, and wonder’d why She was alone, and where the lovely boy Whom they had ever seen beside her--was. The mother brought her babe, and when it cried, Alarm’d at her unwonted gravity, She press’d it closer to her swelling breast, And hush’d its plaintive voice--or stole away, Fearing ’twould wring the stricken mother’s heart To hear a baby cry. So delicate And tender hearted is true sympathy!

But she was dead to every earthly sound; Her senses were in Heaven. Her last long look, A mournful look of thrilling tenderness, She had just taken of the silent form Of him she loved; and now her eyes were fix’d On that same form reanimate in Heaven, Cloth’d in celestial splendors. Anxiously Th’ assembled crowd gazed on the mourner’s face, And look’d to see her hang her fainting head, Whene’er they closed the coffin lid--but, ah! They did not know the superhuman power That was at work within her. It was strange, But it was true, that she was seen to smile When she was ask’d if she would look once more Upon her husband’s corse, ere it was hid Forever from her view. Yes, she did smile A strange unearthly smile, and softly said, “I will not look again.” Then did they place The envious cover o’er that noble form, And screw it firmly down. Yet still she sat And gently rock’d her in the cushion’d chair, And her closed eyes did shed no tear. Her hands All peacefully were clasped upon her knee, Nor did the fingers tremble.

All was still Within that solemn chamber of the dead. They waited for the minister of God, To do the last sad offices of earth; And yet he came not. Moments pass’d away, Until an hour had mark’d its silent flight, With longer, darker shadows on the ground. ’Twas time they had convey’d, with solemn tread, The body to its home, ere night should draw Her curtain round the world. Where linger’d he Who should be at the burial of the dead? He comes not--and they fear he will not come.

Then one who knew and loved the dear deceas’d, An elder in the church of which he was A member, forward came, and with a voice All tremulous from deep emotion, read A chapter from the holy word of God. Twas from Corinthians, where th’ apostle Paul Speaks of the resurrection from the dead, In language borrowed from the court of Heaven. The solemn deep toned voice of him who read, Reach’d every ear, and thrill’d to every heart. These were the words: “And how say some of you There is no resurrection of the dead? For if there be no resurrection, then Is Christ not ris’n; and if Christ be not ris’n, Then is our preaching vain,--and faith is vain; And we are found false witnesses of God, Because that we have testified of God, That he did raise up Christ;--whom if the dead Rise not, he raised not up. For if the dead Rise not, Christ is not raised; and if Christ be not raised, Your faith is vain, and ye are in your sins. And also they which are asleep in Christ Are perish’d. If in this sad life alone We have a hope in Christ, we are of all Most miserable men. But now the Lord Is risen from the dead, and has become First fruits of them that slept. For since by man Came death, by man has also come The resurrection of the dead. For as In Adam all men die, even so in Christ Shall all be made alive. But every man In his own order; Christ the earliest fruits, And afterwards they that belong to Christ, At his lastcoming. And then comes the end, When he shall have deliver’d up to God The kingdom--when all rule, and power, And all authority, he shall put down. For he must reign till all his enemies Under his feet are laid. The enemy That last of all shall be destroy’d, is Death.

* * * * *

All flesh is not the same. There is one kind Of flesh, of men; another flesh of beasts; Another flesh of fishes; and of birds: There are celestial bodies; and there are Terrestrial; but their glories are not one: There also is one glory of the sun; One glory of the moon; one of the stars; For one star diff’reth from another star.

So is the resurrection of the dead; ’Tis in corruption sown, but it is raised In incorruption; in dishonor sown, ’Tis raised in glory; ’tis in weakness sown, ’Tis raised in power; a body natural ’Tis sown, ’tis raised a spiritual one. For it is written thus; Adam, the first, Was made a living soul; Adam, the last, Was made a quick’ning spirit. Of the earth Earthy, the first man is; the second man, He is the Lord from Heaven. As we have borne The image of the earthly, we shall bear The image of the heavenly. Now, behold! A mystery I show; all shall not sleep; But we shall all be chang’d, at the last trump, In a moment--in the twinkling of an eye.

The trump shall sound--the dead shall all be rais’d. _Then_ incorruptible; and we shall all Be quickly changed. For this corruptible Must put on incorruption, and this mortal Put on immortality. So when Corruptible has put on incorruption-- And mortal put on immortality, Then what is written shall be brought to pass, That death is swallow’d up in victory.

O, Death! where is thy sting? O, Grave! where is Thy victory? The sting of death is sin; The strength of sin, the law; but unto God Be thanks, who giveth us the victory, Through Jesus Christ our Lord!” Amen! Amen!

What glorious words are these! The Bible speaks To souls that are afflicted with a force And emphasis unknown before. The wax When duly soften’d, will receive and keep The beautiful impression--and the heart Tried in affliction’s furnace, will be made To picture the refiner’s countenance, Reflected sweetly there.

The mourner heard These things, with joy unspeakable, and peace That passeth understanding. Every word Was music to her ear, and healing balm To her poor bleeding heart. The drowning man Will grasp for life at every floating straw; And so the mourner, of all joy bereft, Will catch at every hope the gospel gives.

The reader closed the book, and sat him down; And then the mourner call’d him to her side With silent beckon. In her hand she held A little volume--’twas the same sweet book Had been her kind companion all the day; It was the hymn book given her by him Who now lay coffin’d there. She pointed out A certain hymn, and begg’d it might be sung; For at her darling sister’s distant grave, In dear New Haven, it was sweetly sung But two short years before. The young and fair, The brave and beautiful, had chanted it Around her early grave, with swelling hearts, And many a falling tear. For she was loved By all who knew her, and they knew her well In sweet New Haven. ’Twas a favorite place Where these two sisters loved to walk alone And commune with the dead; for very near The sacred spot where now her form was laid, Two much loved friends were sleeping side by side-- The gifted Martha, and the lovely Jane.[5] And he who once had led her ardent mind In search of knowledge[6]--he too slept within That peaceful grave yard. O, he was a man Whose like is seldom seen on earth; all, all Who ever knew him will his name revere, Till they shall meet him in the realms of bliss, Who ever sought to lead them to the skies. Peace to the mem’ry of the holy man!

A father and a mother weeping stood Beside her grave--one sister on a bed Of sickness lay, not very far remote; And one was at her distant southern home: O, she had yet to hear the sad, sad news! An only brother, very near in age, Who loved her as himself--and more; he stood With folded arms and drooping head, and saw His darling sister hidden from his view By the dark envious grave. But he has gone To meet her in her everlasting home! In distant Alabama’s friendly soil, He found a grave! They were too pure for earth; And ’tis not saying they were wholly pure, To say thus much--for when th’ immortal soul Has bathed itself so freely in the blood Of Jesus, that its stains of sin grow pale, God always calls the spirit to himself, To take its station near his own bright throne. It could not breathe the atmosphere of earth When it is purified and fit for Heaven. But while it lives on earth ’tis human still, And therefore sinful.

Round the open grave Of her who died so far away from home, How grateful to the mourning bosoms there, The friendly sympathy of old and young! Cold hearted and unfriendly call ye these-- The natives of the north? It is not so; My fellow Southrons! If the hand of God Shall ever lay you low, when far from home, Among your breth’ren of the frozen north, I know, dear friends! I know ye’ll see them shed With the dejected mourner, tear for tear.

Sweetly the voices round that young girl’s grave, Peal’d forth a solemn dirge. Now swell’d it high In lofty strains; and now in cadence soft, It seem’d to die away upon the ear; Then would it swell again, and reach the skies, And seem to mingle with the music there. Now where the Mississippi proudly roll’d Its world of waters to the distant sea, That dirge was sung again. The words were these:

“Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb! Take this new treasure to thy trust; And give these sacred relics room To slumber in the silent dust.

No pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear Invades thy bounds; no mortal woes Can reach the lowly sleeper here, While angels watch the soft repose.

So Jesus slept; God’s dying Son Pass’d through the grave, and bless’d the bed: Rest here, blest saint! till from his throne The morning break, and pierce the shade.

Break from his throne, illustrious morn! Attend, O, earth, his sov’reign word; Restore thy trust; a glorious form Shall then arise to meet the Lord.”

Again that childless widow raised her voice, And sang the funeral song. The strength she had: Was not her own--it came from God himself. For like a vine deprived of its support, She shot new tendrils forth, and clasp’d them round Th’ almighty arm of God, reach’d down from Heaven. For her relief; and that almighty arm Rais’d her above the troubles of the earth. They little know what solid comfort is, Who ne’er have turn’d to Heaven in sorrow’s hour! Thrice happy man, corrected of the Lord! Whose roots are torn from earth’s most wretched soil, Whene’er they shoot their clinging fibres down. O, let me ever be uprooted thus! If I be watered with the dews of Heaven, I still shall flourish in celestial green, And bear the blessed fruits of holiness. Yes--with unfalt’ring voice the mourner sang, While others gazed in pure astonishment, And thought ’twas “passing strange.”

The music ceas’d, And all prepared to follow to the grave Him who had won their hearts. The twilight hour Was beautiful indeed. The setting sun Linger’d awhile upon his ruddy throne Of burnish’d clouds, ere he sank down to rest, To shed his parting beams upon the grave Of him on whom he ever loved to shine. The river roll’d more silently along Than was its wont;--all nature seem’d to pause T’ attend that honor’d burial. Silently, With ling’ring feet, the long procession moved To that same resting place within a grove, Where they had follow’d to his peaceful home The young and lovely boy, two days before.

But who are these approaching from afar, And urging on their weary steeds? They seem In haste to meet the mournful retinue Of him who rides within the sabled hearse. They meet--dismount--advance with tott’ring steps, And take their station at the mourner’s side, Now near her husband’s grave. Who, who are they? The minister, and his beloved wife; Both sick, both weary, pale, and sorrowful; They each had risen from the couch of pain, And come with trembling haste, four miles or more.

Nor did they come too late; again in prayer The preacher rais’d his voice; its solemn tones Awaked the evening echoes; hollow sounds They were, for he was sick; but in that hour The spirit triumph’d o’er the fainting frame. It was a melting scene. Long hoary hairs Were waving in the breeze, while old and young Again uncover’d their respectful heads, When prayer was made to God; and in that hour, When stood the mourner at her husband’s grave, Quite near the little mound that cover’d o’er Her boy so beautiful, again she rais’d Her beaming face to Heaven, and, all entranc’d With visions of celestial glory--smiled! The parting beams of the descending sun Play’d on her cheek, and on her pallid brow, And kiss’d her parting lips; they seem’d a sign From Heaven--a sweet love token from the skies.

But hark! what noise is that, that strangely breaks Upon the sacred stillness of the scene? All eyes are turn’d to where the sound is heard, Nor is it far away. Affecting sight! Beside that little mound, with mournful whine, There lies the dog; he struggles in his grief To tear away the heavy covering That hides his little master from his sight! With frantic strength he scratches on the earth! The faithful creature sees one open grave; Why not the other too? Why keep it closed-- That grave that hides the form he dearly loves? Ah, noble friend! thou’lt see that form no more!

Again the minister returneth thanks To those around, for all their kindness shown; Again upon the buried coffin, fall The heavy clods of earth, with hollow sound; Again the mourner, shudd’ring, turns away, And leaves the burial place with ling’ring step.

Go with her to the now deserted room, Where she must dwell in grief and loneliness. She slowly enters there, and casts around A sad, despairing glance. O, could she weep, How would the briny waters burst their bounds, And pour in torrents down her cheeks! But no, She cannot weep. The fountain of her tears Seems turn’d into a flood of burning fire, To scorch her fever’d brain. She looks around; There hangs the little dress her boy last wore, Just as she took it from him; pantaloons, And frock, and shoes, and shining leather belt, All ready for the wearer. There is, too, His little hat of leghorn, temptingly Laid by his long sleeved apron, ready for His gamboling upon the sunny lawn. There hangs the coat her husband wore, when last He walk’d with her, and with his little boy. There hangs his hat, dress’d with its weed of crape, Worn for her brother, who had died before. To each of these she goes, and lays her hand Upon them--takes them down, and fancies how They look’d upon the wearer--kisses them-- The dress, the hat, the belt, the coat, the shoes-- And then returns them to their places. O, For tears! for sweet, sweet tears! They will not come.

There in the corner stands the instrument On which her husband loved at eve to play; Yes, at that very hour--that twilight hour, How often would the viol’s tones be heard To mingle with her voice in sacred song! She thither goes, and takes her boy’s low chair, And sits beside it. See! she lays her head Upon the very spot his hand would touch If he were playing it. See! she kisses it, And clasps her arms around the slender neck, And hugs it to her breast! It will not do-- Still, still she cannot weep.

The violin Is hanging silent in its ’custom’d place; ’Twas with the violin he used to lull His boy to sleep, when, wearied with his play, His head was on its evening pillow laid. The boy would warble, as the father play’d, A drowsy song, then silent sink to sleep. What visions must have visited his couch, Thus woo’d to peaceful slumbers! On the chair She stands, and reaches it from its high place, And covers it with kisses!--Still no tears.

Who comes into that room with stealthy tread?-- That room so sacred to the mourner, who? It is a good old lady, come to see What means the stillness in that mournful room. Long had she knock’d without--but, dead to all Save her own grief, the mourner did not hear. At last she ventured in, and reaching forth Her venerable arms, she clasp’d them round The mourner, sobbing out--“My poor dear child!” Lo! at these magic words of pity, she Who could not weep before, is weeping now Upon the dear old lady’s bosom. Yes! Her arms are tightly clasp’d around her neck, As though she were her mother; and her head Has sunk upon that sympathizing breast; And when at length she raises it again, There beams a tranquil smile upon her face, Like the bright rainbow shining after rain!

How sweet is sympathy! Each heart doth know Its own deep bitterness; but many weigh The grief of others in false balances, And blame them where they ought to sympathize. When the sharp deadly arrows of the Lord Are drinking up the spirit, O, ’tis hard To meet with “miserable comforters.” To him that is afflicted, pity show; Ye, who enjoy the smiles of Providence! Your turn may come; then who will pity you, If ever you have breath’d a word unkind To one whose heart was breaking? God will laugh At your calamity, and mock at all your fear!

CHARLESTON, _June 26, 1841_.

FOOTNOTES

[5] MARTHA DAY, daughter of President Day, of Yale College: and JANE L. FLOYD, daughter of the late Rev. Laomi Floyd, and adopted daughter of the Rev. Dr. Palmer, of Charleston; who died in New Haven, where she was pursuing her studies.

[6] The REV. CLAUDIUS HERRICK, long known and celebrated as the instructor of young ladies in New Haven.

A VOICE FROM HEAVEN.

“And one of the elders said unto me, ‘Weep not.’”

ST. JOHN.

O, weep not in thy lonely hours, My Mary! weep not so; If thou couldst hear my spirit-voice, Thy tears would cease to flow.

I’d tell thee of thy future home, Its pure unfading bliss, Where hearts that once have swell’d with grief Now swell with happiness.

I’d tell thee how our angel son Reclines in Jesus’ arms, Or roams with me these heavenly hills, Enraptured with their charms.

I’d tell thee how with seraph’s voice We make these arches ring, And sound melodious notes of praise To Heaven’s eternal King.

I’d tell thee how with golden wings We fly at his command, Who bought for us this heritage-- This fair delightful land.

I’d tell thee how in God’s own book I’ve read thy title clear, I know, my own! my still beloved! That I shall see thee here.

I’d tell thee of the glorious rest Remaining yet for thee, When with thy loved and sainted ones In Heaven thou shalt be.

I’d tell thee of the honor’d place The Savior will prepare, When thou shalt have thy shining crown, And robes of glory wear.

I’d tell thee how these ransom’d ones No more shall say farewell, Forever in these realms of joy Unparted may we dwell.

I’d tell thee how we long for thee, And soon expect thee here, Where all thy sorrows shall be past, Forgotten every tear.

O, weep not in thy lonely hours, My Mary! weep not so; If thou couldst hear my spirit-voice, Thy tears would cease to flow.

CHARLESTON, _June 20, 1840_.

THE SOLITARY WALK.

One sunny day I walk’d abroad, All balmy was the air; The noble Mississippi roll’d Majestically there.

But nature’s smiling beauty brought No pleasure to my breast, For gloomy grief sat brooding there, An uninvited guest.

In vain I strove to drive away The deep unwelcome gloom, My fav’rite flowers I heeded not, In all their summer bloom.

It was the first, the only time, Since I was left alone, That I had dared to wander forth, A solitary one!