Canto Third

I'll change my measure, and so end my lay,Too long already.I can't manage wellThe metre of that master of the lyre,Who Hiawatha, and our forest tribesDeftly described. Hexameters, I hate,And henceforth do eschew their company,For what is written irksomely, will beRead in like manner.What did I say lastIn my late canto? Something, I believeOf gratitude.Now this same gratitudeIs a fine word to play on. Many a nicheIt fills in letters, and in billet-doux,--Its adjective a graceful prefix makesTo a well-written signature. It gleamsA happy mirage in a sunny brain;But as a principle, is oft, I fear,Inoperative. Some satirist hath saidThat gratitude is only a keen senseOf future favors.As regards myself,Tis my misfortune, and perhaps, my fault,Yet I'm constrain'd to say, that where my giftsAnd efforts have been greatest, the returnHas been in contrast. So that I have shrunkTo grant myself the pleasure of great loveLest its reward might be indifference,Or smooth deceit. Others no doubt have beenMore fortunate. I trust 'tis often so:But this is my experience, on the scaleOf three times twenty years, and somewhat more.

In that calm happiness which Virtue gives,Blent with the daily zeal of doing good,Mother and daughter dwelt.Once, as they cameFrom their kind visit to a child of need,Cheered by her blessings,--at their home they foundMiranda and her son. With rapid speech,And strong emotion that resisted tearsHer tale she told. Forsaken were they both,By faithless sire and husband. He had goneTo parts unknown, with an abandon'd oneHe long had follow'd. Brokenly she spakeOf taunts and wrongs long suffer'd and conceal'dWith woman's pride. Then bitterly she pour'dHer curses on his head.With shuddering tearsThey press'd her to their hearts."Come back! Come back!To your first home, and Heaven's compassions healYour wounded spirit."Lovingly they castTheir mantle o'er her, striving to upliftHer thoughts to heavenly sources, and allureTo deeds of charity, that draw the stingFrom selfishness of sorrow."But she shrankFrom social intercourse, nor took her seatEven in the House of God, lest prying eyesShould gloat upon her downfall. Books, nor workEnticed her, and the lov'd piano's toneWaking sad echoes of the days that were,She seem'd to shun. Her joy was in her child.The chief delight and solace of her lifeTo adorn his dress, and trim his shining curls,Dote on his beauty, and conceal his faults,With weak indulgence."Oh, Miranda, love!Teach your fair boy, obedience. 'Tis the firstLesson of life. To him, you fill the placeOf that Great Teacher who doth will us allTo learn submission."But Miranda will'dIn her own private mind, not to adoptSuch old-world theories, deeming the creedOf the grey-headed Mother, obsolete.--Her boy was fair; but in those manners fail'dThat render beauty pleasing. Great regardHad he for self, and play, and dainty food,Unlike those Jewish children, who refusedThe fare luxurious of Chaldea's king,And on their simple diet grow more fairAnd healthful than their mates, and wiser too,Than the wise men of Babylon.I've seenIll-fortune follow those, whose early tastesWere pampered and inured to luxury.Their palates seem'd to overtop the brain,And the rank Dives-pleasure, to subvertChildhood's simplicity of sweet content.--Precocious appetites, when overruled,Or disappointed, lend imperious strengthTo evil tempers, and a fierce disdain.Methought, our Mother-Land, in this respectHad wiser usages. Her little onesAt their own regular, plain table learn'dNo culinary criticism, nor claim'dAdmission to the richly furnish'd boardNor deem'd the viands of their older friendsPertain'd to them.A pleasant sight it wasAt close of day, their simple supper o'er,To find them in the quiet nursery laid,Like rose-buds folded in a fragrant sheathTo peaceful slumber. Hence their nerves attain'dFirm texture, and the key-stone of the frame,This wondrous frame, so often sinn'd against,--Unwarp'd and undispeptic, gave to lifeA higher zest.Year after year swept by,And Conrad's symmetry of form and faceGrew more conspicuous. Yet he fail'd to winApproval from the pious, or desireTo seek him as companion for their sons.

--At school and college he defied restraint,And round the associates of his idle hoursThrew a mysterious veil. But rumor spakeOf them, as those who would be sure to bringDisgrace and infamy.Strong thirst for goldSprang with the weeds of vice. His mother's purseWas drain'd for him, and when at length she spakeIn warm remonstrance, he with rudeness rush'dOut of her presence, or withdrew himselfAll night from her abode. Then she was fainTo appease his anger by some lavish giftFrom scant resources, which she ill could spare,Making the evil worse.The growth of sinIs rank and rapid when the youthful heartAbjures the sway of duty. Weaving oftThe mesh of falsehood, may it not forgetWhat the truth is? The wavering, moral senseDepraved and weaken'd, fails to grasp the clueOf certainty, nor scruples to denyWords utter'd, and deeds done, for conscience sleepsStifled, and callous. Fearful must it be,When Truth offended and austere, confrontsThe false soul at Heaven's bar.

An aged manDwelt by himself upon a dreary moor,And it was whisper'd that a miser's hoardAbsorb'd his thoughts.There, at the midnight hourThe unwonted flash of lights was seen by thoseWho chanced to pass, and entering in, they foundThe helpless inmate murder'd in his bed,And the house rifled.Differing tracks they mark'dOf flying footsteps in the moisten'd soil,And eager search ensued.At length, close hidIn a dense thicket, Conrad they espied,His shoes besmear'd with blood. Question'd of thoseWho with him in this work of horror join'd,He answered nothing.All unmov'd he stoodUpon his trial, the nefarious deedDenying, and of his accomplicesDisclosing nought. But still there seem'd a chainOf evidence to bind him in its coil,And Justice had her course. The prison boltsClosed heavily behind him, and his doomFor years, with felons was incorporate.

Of the wild anguish and despair that reign'dIn his ancestral home, no words can giveDescription meet.In the poor mother's mindReason forsook its throne. Her last hope gone,Torn by a torrent from her death-like grasp,Having no anchor on the eternal Rock,She plunged beside it, into gulphs profound.--She slept not, ate not, heeded no kind word,Caress of fondness, or benignant prayer:She only shriek'd,"My boy! my beautiful!They bind his hands!"And then with frantic criesShe struggled 'gainst imaginary foes,Till strength was gone.Through the long syncopeHer never-resting lips essay'd to formThe gasping sounds,"My boy! my beautiful!Hence! Caitiffs! hence! my boy! my beautiful!"And in that unquell'd madness life went out,Like lamp before the blast.

With sullen portOf bravery as one who scorns defeatThough it hath come upon him, Conrad metThe sentence of the law. But its full forceHe fail'd to estimate; the stern restraintOn liberty of movement, coarsest fare,Stripes for the contumacious, and for allLabor, and silence.The inquiring glanceOn the new-comer bent, from stolid eyesOf malefactors, harden'd to their lot,And hating all mankind, he coldly shunn'dOr haughtily return'd. Yet there were lightsEven in this dark abode, not often foundIn penal regions, where the wrath of manIs prompt to punish, and remembereth notThe mercy that himself doth ask of God.

--A just man was the warden and humane,Not credulous, or easily deceiv'd,But hopeful of our nature, though deprav'd,And for the incarcerate, careful to restrainAll petty tyranny.Courteous was heTo visitants, for many such there were.Philanthropists, whose happy faith believ'dPrisons reforming schools, came here to scanArrangements and appliances as guidesTo other institutions: strangers too,Who 'mid their explorations of the State,Scenery and structures, would not overlookIts model-prison.Now and then, was seenSome care-worn mother, leading by the handHer froward boy, with hope that he might learnA lesson from the punishment he saw.

--When day was closed and to his narrow cellBearing his supper, every prisoner went,The night-lock firmly clench'd, beside some grateWhile the large lamp thro' the long corridorsThrew flickering light, the Chaplain often stoodConversing. Of the criminal's past lifeHe made inquiry, and receiv'd repliesForeign from truth, or vague and taciturn:And added pious counsels, unobserv'd,Heeded but slightly, or ill understood.

The leaden-footed weeks o'er Conrad pass'd,With deadening weight.Privation bow'd his pride.The lily-handed, smiting at the forge,Detested life, and meditated meansTo accomplish suicide.At dusk of eve,While in his cell, on darkest themes he mused,Before his grate, a veiled woman stood.

--She spake not, but her presence made him glad,--A purer atmosphere seem'd breathing roundTo expand his shrivell'd heart.Fair gifts she brought,Roses fresh-blown, and cates, and fragrant fruitsMost grateful to his fever'd lip."Oh speak!Speak to me!"But she glided light away,And heavenly sweet, her parting whisper said"Good night! With the new moon I'll come again."

"With the new Moon!"Hope! hope! Its magic wandWith phosphorescence ting'd that Stygian poolOf chill despair, in which his soul had sankLower and lower still. Now, at the forgeA blessed vision gleam'd. Its mystery wokeThe romance of his nature. Every dayMoved lighter on, and when he laid it down,It breathed "good night!" like a complacent childGoing to rest. One barrier less remain'dBetween him and the goal, and to each nightA tarrying, tedious guest, he bade farewell,Like lover, counting toward his spousal-morn.

But will she come?And then, he blamed the doubt.His pulse beat quicker, as the old moon died.And when the slender sickle of pale goldCut the blue concave, by his grated doorStood the veil'd visitant. The breath of flowersForetold her coming. With their wealth she broughtGrapes in the cluster, and a clasped Book,The holiest, and the best."Show me thine eyes!"He pray'd. But still with undrawn veil, she gaveThe promise of return, in whisper sweet,"Good night! good night!Wilt read my Book? and sayOh Lamb of God, forgive!"So, by the lampWhen tardy Evening still'd the din of toil,He read of Him who came to save the lost,Who touch'd the blind, and they receiv'd their sight,The dead young man, and raised him from his bier,Reproved the raging Sea, and it was still:Deeds that his boyhood heard unheedingly.But here, in this strange solitude of painWith different voice they spake. And as he read,The fragrance of the mignionette he loved,Press'd 'tween the pages, lured him onward still.

Now, a new echo in his heart was born,And sometimes mid the weary task, and leerOf felon faces, ere he was awareFrom a compress'd unmurmuring lip, it broke,O Lamb of God! If still unquell'd DespairThrust up a rebel standard, down it fellAt the o'er-powering sigh, O Lamb of God!And ere upon his pallet low, he sank,It sometimes breathed, "O Lamb of God, forgive!Like the taught lesson of a humbled child.

Yet duly as the silver vested moonHiding awhile in the dark breast of nightReturn'd to take her regent watch againOver our sleeping planet, softly cameThat shrouded visitant, preferring stillLike those who guard us lest we dash our footAgainst a stone, to do her blessed workUnseen. And with the liberal gifts she broughtFor body, and for soul, there seem'd to floatA legacy of holy themes and thoughtsBehind her, like an incense-stream. He musedOft-times of patience, and the dying loveOf our dear Lord, nor yet without remorseOf that unsullied Truth which Vice rejects,And God requires.How beautiful is Truth!Her right-lined course, amid the veering curvesAnd tangents of the world, her open faceSeeking communion with the scanning stars,Her grave, severe simplicity of speechUntrammelled by the wiles of rhetoric,By bribes of popular applause unbow'd,In unison with Him she dwells who ruledThe tyranny of Chaos, with the words"Let there be light!"Gladly we turn againTo that fair mansion mid the rural valesWhere first our song awoke. Advancing yearsBrought to its blessed Lady no regretOr weak complaint for what the hand of TimeHad borne away. Enduring charms were hersOn which he laid no tax; the beaming smile,The voice of melody, the hand that mark'dEach day with deeds of goodness, and the heartThat made God's gift of life more beautiful,The more prolong'd. Its griefs she counted gains,Since He who wisely will'd them cannot err,And loves while He afflicts.Their dialectWas breathed in secret 'tween her soul and Him.But toward mankind, her duties made more pureBy the strong heat of their refining fires,Flow'd forth like molten gold. She sought the poor,Counsell'd the ignorant, consoled the sad,And made the happy happier, by her warmthOf social sympathy. She loved to drawThe young around her table; well she knewTo cheer and teach them, by the tale or song,Or sacred hymn, for music dwelt with herTill life went out. It pleased her much to hearTheir innocent merriment, while from the flowAnd swelling happiness of childhood's heartSo simply purchased, she herself imbibedA fuller tide of fresh vitality.Her favor'd guests exultingly rehears'dTheir visits to "the Lady," counting eachA privilege, not having learned the creedWhich modern times inculcate in our landThat whatsoe'er is old, is obsolete.

--Still ever at her side, by night and dayWas Bertha, entering into every plan,With zealous aid, assuming every careThat brought a burden, catching every smileOn the clear mirror of a loving heart,Which by reflection doubled. Thus they dwelt,Mother and daughter, in sweet fellowship,One soul betwixt them. Filial pietyThrives best with generous natures. Here was noughtOf self to cheek it, so it richly bloom'dLike the life-tree, that yieldeth every monthNew fruits, still hiding mid its wealth of leavesThe balm of healing.In that peaceful homeThe fair-haired orphan was a fount of joy,Spreading her young heart like a tintless sheetFor Love to write on. Sporting 'mid the flowers,Caroling with the birds, or gliding lightAs fawn, her fine, elastic temperamentTook happiest coloring from each varying hourOr changing duty. Kind, providing caresWhich younglings often thoughtlessly receiveOr thankless claim, she gratefully repaidWith glad obedience. Pleas'd was she to bearPrecocious part in household industry,Round shining bars to involve the shortening thread,And see the stocking grow, or side by sideWith her loved benefactresses to workUpon some garment for the ill-clad poor,With busy needle. As their almoner,'Twas her delight to seek some lowly hutAnd gliding thence, with noiseless footstep, leaveWith her kind dole, a wonder whence it came.--A heavenly blessing wrapp'd its wing aroundThe adopted orphanage.Oh ye whose homesAre childless, know ye not some little heartCollapsing, for the need of parent's love,That ye might breathe upon? some outcast lambThat ye might shelter in your fold? contentTo make the sad eye sparkle, guide the feetIn duty's path, bring a new soul to Heaven,And take your payment from the Judge's Voice,At the Last Day?--A tireless tide of joy,A world of pleasure in the garden bound,Open'd to Leonore. From the first glanceOf the frail Crocus through its snowy sheath,On, to the ripen'd gatherings of the Grape,And thorn-clad chestnut, all was sweet to her.She loved to plant the seed and watch the germ,And nurse the tender leaflet like a babe,And lead the tendril right. To her they seem'dLike living friends. She sedulously mark'dTheir health and order, and was skill'd to pruneThe too luxuriant spray, or gadding vine.She taught the blushing Strawberry where to run,And stoop'd to kiss the timid Violet,Blossoming in the shade, and sometimes dream'dThe Lily of the lakelet, calmly thronedOn its broad leaf, like Moses in his ark,Spake words to her. And so, as years fled by,Young Fancy, train'd by Nature, turn'd to God.Her clear, Teutonic mind, took hold on truthAnd found in every season, change of joy.

--Yet her prime pleasure seem'd at wintry eveTho' storms might fall, when from its branching armsThe antique candelabra shed fair lightOn polished wainscot and rich curtains dropp'dClose o'er the casements, she might draw her seatNear to her aged friend and take her handAnd frame her voice to join some tuneful song,Treasuring whate'er of wise remark distill'dFrom those loved lips.Then, as her Mentor spokeOf God's great goodness in this mortal life,Teaching us both by sorrow and by joy,And how we ought to yield it back with trustAnd not with dread, whenever He should call,Having such precious promises, through ChristOf gain unspeakable, beyond the grave,The listening pupil felt her heart expandWith reverent love.Friendship, 'tween youth and ageIs gain to both,--nor least to that which findsThe germs of knowledge and experience dropAnd twine themselves around the unfrosted locks,A fadeless coronet. In this sweet homeThe lengthen'd day seem'd short for their delights,And wintry evening brief. The historic pageMade vocal, brought large wealth to memory.The lore of distant climes, that rose and fellEre our New World, like Lazarus came forth,The napkin round her forehead, and sate downBeside her startled sisters.Last of all,The large time-honor'd Bible loos'd its claspsAnd shed its manna on their waiting souls;Then rose the sacred hymn in blended tones,By Bertha's parlor-organ made intenseIn melody of praise, and fervent PrayerSet its pure crown upon the parted day,And kiss'd the Angel, Sleep.Yet ere they roseFrom bended knee, there was a lingering pause,A silent orison for one whose nameBut seldom pass'd their lips, though in their heartsHis image with its faults and sorrows dwelt,Invoking pity of a pardoning God.

--Thus fled the years away, the cultured glebeStirr'd by the vernal plough-share, yielding charmsTo Summer, pouring wealth o'er Autumn's breast,Pausing from weary toil, when Winter comes,Bringing its Sabbath, as the man of eldWith snow upon his temples, peaceful sitsIn his arm-chair, to ruminate and rest.

Once, at that season when the ices shrinkBefere the vernal equinox, at mornThere was no movement in the Lady's room,Who prized the early hours like molten gold,And ever rose before the kingly Sun.

--On the white pillow still reposed her head,Her cheek upon her hand. She had retiredIn health, affection's words, and trustful prayersHallowing her lips. Now, on her brow there seem'dUnwonted smoothness, and the smile was thereSet as a seal, with which the call she heard,"Come! sister-spirit!"She had gain'd the wishOft utter'd to her God, to pass awayWithout the sickness and enfeebled powersThat tax the heart of love. Death that unbarsUnto the ready soul the Gate of Heaven,Claiming no pang or groan from failing flesh,Doth angel-service.But alas! the shock,The chill, the change, the anguish, where she dwelt,And must return no more. As one amaz'dThe stricken daughter held her breath for awe,God seem'd so near. Methought she saw the HandThat smote her. Half herself was reft away,Body and soul. Yet no repining wordAnnounc'd her agony.The tolling bellTo hill and valley, told with solemn tongueThat death had been among them, and at doorAnd window listening, aged crone and childCounted its strokes, a stroke for every year,And predicated thence, as best they might,Whom they had lost. Neighbor of neighbor ask'd,Till the sad tidings were possess'd by all.

--A village funeral is a thing that warnsAll from their homes. In the throng'd city's bound,Hearses unnoticed pass, and none inquireWho goeth to his grave. But rural lifeKeepeth afresh the rills of sympathy.True sorrow was there at these obsequies,For all the poor were mourners. There the oldCame in the garments she had given, bow'd downWith their own sense of loss. O'er furrow'd cheeksIn care-worn channels stole the trickling tear.The young were weepers, for their memories storedMany a gentle word, and precept kind,Like jewels dropp'd behind her. Mothers rais'dTheir little ones above the coffin's sideTo look upon her face. Lingering they gazedDeeming the lovely Lady sweetly sleptAmong the flowers that on her pillow lay.

He's but a tyro in the school of griefWho hath not from the victor-tomb return'dUnto his rifled home. The utter weightOf whelming desolation doth not fallTill the last rites are paid. The cares of loveHaving no longer scope, withdraw their shield,And even the seat whereon the lost one sate,The pen he held, the cup from which he drank,Launch their keen darts against the festering soul.

--The lonely daughter, never since her birthDivided from the mother, having knownNo separate pleasure, or secreted thought,With deep humility resumed her courseOf daily duty and philanthropy,Not murmuring, but remembering His great loveWho lent so long that blessing beyond price,And from her broken censer offering stillIncense of praise.She deem'd it fearful lossTo lose a sorrow, be chastis'd in vain,Not yield our joys, but have them rent away,And make this life a battle-field with God.

The sombre shadow brooding o'er their homeWas felt by all. The heart of LeonoreDwindled and shrank beneath it. Vigor fled,The untastcd meal, and couch bedew'd with tearsGave the solution to her wasted flesh,And drooping eye-lids.Folded in her arms,Bertha with tender accents said, "my child,We please not her who to the angels went,By hopeless grief. Doubt not her watchful eyeRegards us, though unseen. How oft she taughtTo make God's will our own. You, who were gladTo do her bidding then, distress her notBy disobedience now. Waste not the healthIn reckless martyrdom, which Heaven hath link'dWith many duties, and with hope to dwellIf faithful found, with Her who went beforeAnd beckoning waits us."From dull trance of griefBy kind reproof awakened, LeonoreStrove to redeem her scholarship from blameAnd be a comforter, as best she mightTo her remaining patroness.

WithinThe limits of a neighboring town, a wretchFell by the wayside, struck by sudden DeathThat vice propels. A Man of God, who soughtLike his blest Master every form of woeFound him, and to a shelter and a couchConvey'd. Then bending down, with earnest wordsFor time grew short, he urg'd him to repent."Say, Lord have mercy on my soul.Look upUnto the Lamb of God, for He can saveEven to the uttermost."Slight heed obtain'dThis adjuration, wild the glazing eyeFix'd on the wall,--and ever and anonThe stiffening fingers clutch'd at things unseen,While from those spent lungs came a shuddering sound,"That's he! That's he!The old man! His grey hairsDabbled with blood!"Then in a loud, long cry,Wrung out by torturing pain,"I struck the blow!I tell ye that I struck the blow, and scaped.Conrad who bore the doom is innocent,Save fellowship with guilt."And so he fled;The voice of prayer around him, but the soulBeyond its reach. The kneeling Pastor roseSadly, as when the Shepherd fails to snatchA wanderer from the Lion.But the truthCouch'd in that dismal cry of parting lifeHe treasured up, and bore to those who heldPower to investigate and to reprieve;And authorized by them with gladness soughtThe gloomy prison. Conrad there he foundIn sullen syncope of sickening thought,And cautiously in measured terms disclosedHis liberation. Wondering doubt look'd forthFrom eyes that opening wide and wider stillStrain'd from their sockets. Yet the hand he tookThat led him from the cell, and onward movedLike Peter following his angel guideDeeming he saw a vision. As the boltsDrew gratingly to let them pass, he seem'dTo gather consciousness, and restless grewWith an unspoken fear, lest at the lastSome sterner turnkey, or gruff sentinelMight bar their egress.When behind them closed.The utmost barrier, and the sweet, fresh airSo long witheld, fill'd his collapsing lungs,He shouted rapturously,"Am I alive?Or have I burst the gates of death, and foundA second Eden?"The unwonted soundOf his own voice, freed from the drear constraintOf prison durance, swell'd his thrilling frameWith strong and joyous impulse, for 'tis saidLong stifled utterance is torturing painTo organs train'd to speech.With one high leapLike an enfranchis'd steed he seem'd to throwHis spirit-chain behind him. Then he tookThe Pastor's offer'd arm, who led the wayTo his own house, and bade him bathe and changeHis prison garments, and repose that nightUnder his roof.With thoughtful care he spokeTo his own household, kindly to receiveThe erring one,--"for we are sinners all,And not upon our merits may dependBut on abounding grace."So when the hourOf cheerful supper summon'd to the board,He came among them as a comely guest,Refresh'd and welcome. Pleasant converse cheer'dThe hospitable meal, and then withdrawnInto the quiet study 'mid the books,That saintly good man with the hoary hairSilvering his temples like a graceful crown,Strove by wise counsel to encourage himFor life's important duties,But he deem'dA ban was on him, and a mark which allWould scan who met him."He whose lot hath beenWith fiends in Pandemonium, must expectHate and contempt from men.""Not so, my son!Wipe off the past, as a forgotten thing,Propitiate virtue, by forsaking vice.The good will aid you, and a brighter dayDoubtless awaits you. Be not too much movedBy man's applause or blame, but ever lookUnto a higher Judge."Then there aroseA voice of supplication, so intenseTo the Great Pardoner, that He would sendHis spirit down to change and purifyThe erring heart, that those persuasive tones,So humble, yet so strangely eloquentBreathed o'er the unhappy one like soothing spellOf magic influence, and he slept that nightWith peace and hope, long exiled from his couch.

A summer drive to one sequestered long,Hath charms untold.The common face of earth,The waving grass, the rustle of the leaves,Kiss'd by the zephyr, or by winged birdDisparted, as it finds its chirping nest,The murmur of the brooks, the low of herds,The ever-changing landscape, rock and stream,And azure concave fleck'd with silver cloudsAwaken rapturous joy. This Conrad felt,While pleasure every kindling feature touch'd,And every accent tuned. But when they sawThe fair ancestral roof through trees afar,Strong agony convuls'd him, and he cried,"Not there! Not there!First take me to Her grave!"And so to that secluded spot they turn'd,Where rest the silent dead.On the green mound,His Mother's bed, with sobs and groans he fell,And in his paroxysm of grief would fainHave torn the turf-bound earth away, to reachThe mouldering coffin. Then, a flood of tears,Heaven's blessed gift burst forth,"Oh weep, my Son!These gushing tears shall help to wash awayRemorseful pangs, and lurking seeds of sin.Here, in this sacred tomb, bury the past,And strong in heavenly trust, resolve to riseTo a new life."Still kneeling on the sodWith hands and eyes uprais'd, he said,"I will!So help me God!"The tear was on his cheekUndry'd, when to the home of peace they came.There Bertha greeted them with outstretch'd handsAnd beaming brow, while the good Pastor said,"Thy Son was dead, but is alive again."A sweet voice answer'd,"Lost he was, and found!Oh, welcome home."She would have folded himIn her embrace. But at her feet he fell,Clasping her knees, and bowing down his head,Till she assured him that a mother's loveWas in her heart."And there is joy in HeavenBecause of him, this day," the good Man said.--His tones were tremulous, as up he rose,"Ah, my veil'd Angel! Now I see thy face,And hear thy voice."

What were the glowing thoughtsOf the meek shepherd, as alone he tookHis homeward way? The joy of others flow'dO'er his glad spirit like a refluent tideWhose sands were gold. Had he not chosen wellHis source of happiness?There are, who mixPride and ambition with their servicesBefore the altar. Did the tinkling bellsUpon the garments of the Jewish priestDraw down his thoughts from God?The mitred brow,Doth it stoop low enough to find the soulsThat struggle in the pits of sin, and die?Methinks ambitious honors might disturbThe man whose banner is the Cross of Christ,And earth's high places shut him out of Heaven.

--Yet this serene disciple, so contentTo do his Master's will, in humblest worksOf charity, had he not chosen wellHis happiness?The hero hears the trumpOf victor-fame, and his high pulses leap,But laurels dipp'd in blood shall vex his soulWhen the death-ague comes. More blest is heWho bearing on his brow the anointing oilKeeps in his heart the humility and zealThat sanctify his vows. So, full of joyThat fears no frost of earth, because its rootIs by the river of eternal life,The white-hair'd Pastor took his homeward way.

New life upon the farm. A master's eyeAnd step are there. Forest, and cultured field,And garden feel his influence. Forth at mornHe goes amid the laboring hinds who batheTheir scythe in fragrant dew, mid all their toilsTeaching or learning, with such cheerful portAs won their hearts.Even animals partookHis kind regard. The horse, with arching neck,And ear erect, replied as best he mightTo his caressing tones. The patient ox,With branching horns, and the full-udder'd cowGrew sleek and flourish'd and in happiest guiseReveal'd his regency. The noble dog,O'erflowing with intelligence and zeal,Follow'd him as a friend; even the poor catOft scorn'd and distanc'd, till her fawning loveTurns into abjectness, crept to his kneeWithout reproof, and thro' her half-shut eyesRegarding him, ere into sleep she sankWith song monotonous, express'd her joy.

--He loved to hear the clarion of the cock,And see him in his gallantry protectThe brooding mothers,--of their infant chargeSo fond and proud.The generous care bestow'dFor weal and comfort of these servitorsAnd their mute dialect of gratitudePleas'd and refresh'd him, while those blessed toilsThat quicken earth's fertility bestowedThe boon of healthful vigor. Bertha foundThe burden of her cares securely laidOn his young arm, and gratefully beheldEach day a portion of allotted timeSpent in the library, with earnest care,Seeking the knowledge that in youth he scorn'd.

--Amid their rural neighborhood were someWho frankly took him by the hand, as one,Worthy to rise, and others who preferr'dTo cherish evil memories, or indulgeDark auguries. But on his course he heldUnmov'd by either, for to her he seem'dIntent and emulous alone to pleaseA higher Judge. When leaning on his armShe sought the House of God, her tranquil browSeem'd in its time-tried beauty to expressThe Nunc Dimittis.Prisons are not oftConverting places. Vicious habits shornOf their top branches, strike a rankling rootDarkly beneath, while hatred of mankindAnd of the justice that decreed such doomBar out the Love Divine.Yet Bertha feltGod's spirit was not limited, and mightPluck brands from out the burning, and in faithBeliev'd the son of many prayers had foundRemission of his God. His life she scann'd,Of honest, cheerful industry, combinedWith intellectual progress, and perceivedHow his religious worship humbly woreThe signet "I have sinn'd;" while toward menHis speech was cautious, far beyond his years,As one by stern Experience school'd to knowThe human heart's deceptions. Yet at homeAnd in that fellowship with Nature's worksWhich Agriculture gives, his soul threw offIts fetters and grew strong.Once as they walk'dWithin a favorite grove, consulting whereThe woodman's ax, or pruning-knife had bestExert their wholesome ministry, he ledTo a fair resting-place, a turf-bound seat,Beneath a spreading Walnut, carpetedWith depth of fragrant leaves, while a slight brookHalf-hidden, half revealed, with minstrel touch,Soften'd the spirit. There, in tones subduedBy strong emotion, he disclosed his loveFor Leonore."Oh Conrad! she is pureAnd peaceful as the lily bud that sleepsOn the heaven-mirror'd lake.""I know it well,Nor would I wake a ripple or a breathTo mar its purity.""Yet wait, my Son!""Wait? Mother, wait! It is not in man's heartTo love, and wait?""But make your prayer to God.Lay your petition at his feet, and seeWhat is His will.""Before that God I swearTo be her true protector and best friendTill death remove me hence, if she confideAt fitting time, that holy trust to me.Oh angel Mother! sanction me to searchIf in her heart there be one answering chordTo my great love. So may we lead belowThat blended life which with a firmer stepAnd holier joy tends upward toward a realmOf perfect bliss."Thus authorized, he madeHer mind's improvement his delight, and foundCommunity in knowledge was a spellTo draw young hearts together. O'er the loreAnd language of her native land they hungGleaning its riches with a tireless hand,Deep and enamour'd students. When she sangOr play'd, he join'd her with his silvery flute,Making the thrill of music more intenseThrough the heart's harmony.Amid the flowersHe met her, and her garden's pleasant toilShared with a master's hand, for well he knewThe nature and the welfare of the plantsThat most she prized. They loved the umbrageous trees,And in their strong, columnar trunks beheldThe Almighty Architect, and for His sakePaid them respect.At the soft twilight hour,He sate beside her silently, and watch'dThe pensive lustre of her lifted eye,Intent to welcome the first star that hungIts holy cresset forth. UnconsciouslyHer moods of lonely musing stole away,And his endear'd society becamePart of her being.In her soul was noughtOf vanity, or coquetry to barThat heaven-imparted sentiment which makesAll hope, all thought, all self, subordinateUnto another's weal, while life shall last.

One morn, the orphan sought the private earOf her kind benefactress.In low tonesWith the sweet modesty of innocence,She told that Conrad offered her his heart,And in the tender confidence of trustEntreated counsel from her changeless friend.

"Our God forgives the penitent. And weSo prone to error, cannot we forgive?The change in Conrad, months and years have madeMore evident.Might I but sooth awayThe memory of his woes, and aid his feetMore 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 gaveA tearful blessing, while on bended kneeTogether they implored the approving smileOf Him, who gives ability to makeAnd keep the covenant of unending love.A rural bridal,Cupid's ancient themesThough more than twice-told, seem not wearisomeOr obsolete. The many tomes they prompt,Though quaint or prolix, still a place maintainIn library or boudoir, and seduceThe school-girl from her sleep, and lessons too.But I no tint of romance have to throwOn this plain tale, or o'er the youthful pairWho gladly took the irrevocable vow.

Their deep and thoughtful happiness requiredNo herald pomp. Buds of the snowy rose,On brow and bosom, were the only gemsOf the young fair-hair'd bride, whose ringlets fellDown to her shoulders:--nature's simple veilOf wondrous grace.A few true hearted friendsWitness'd the marriage-rite, with cheering smilesAnd fervent blessings.And the coming yearsWith all their tests of sunshine or of shade,Belied no nuptial promise, striving eachWith ardent emulation to surpassIts predecessor in the heavenward pathOf duty and improvement.Bertha's prayersWere ever round them as a thread of goldWove daily in the warp and woof of life.In their felicity she found her ownReduplicated. In good deeds to allWho sought her aid, or felt the sting of woe,With unimpaired benevolence she wrought,And tireless sympathy.Ordain'd she seem'dTo show the beauty of the life that hathGod for its end.Clearer its brightness gleam'dAs 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 climeWhere Love begun on earth, doth end in joy,Forevermore.