LI.
THE VOICE IN RAMAH.
"RACHEL WEEPING FOR HER CHILDREN, AND WOULD NOT HE COMFORTED, BECAUSE THEY WERE NOT."
We have heard the voice in Ramah, The grief in the days of yore, When the beautiful "flowers of the martyrs"
Went to bloom on another sh.o.r.e.
The light of our life is darkness, And with sorrow we are not done; For thine is the bitterest mourning, Mourning for an only son!
And what shall I utter to comfort The heart that is dearest of all?
Too young for the losses and crosses, Too young for the rise and the fall?
O, yes; we own it, we own it; But not too young for the grace That was so nameless and blameless, For the yearning and tender embrace!
He hung, he hung on thy bosom In that happiest, weariest hour, A dear little bird to its blossom, The beautiful, dutiful flower.
And thus he grew by its sweetness, He grew by its sweetness so That smile unto smile responded-- But a little while ago!
And you and I were happy In many a vision fair Of a ripe and glorious manhood Which the world and we should share.
In a little while the patter Of two little feet was heard; And many a look it cheered us, A look that was more than a word.
In a little while he uttered The words we longed to hear; And mamma and papa blessed him With a blessing of hope and fear.
In a little while he budded, A bud of the promising Spring, And O for the beautiful blossom, And O for the fruit it will bring!
The joy, they never may know it Who never have parents been, The joy of a swelling bosom, With a growing light within:
A light that is soft and tender, And growing in strength and grace, Which wreathes a form that is slender And glows in a dear little face!
But life it knoweth the shadow, The shadow as well as the shine; For the one it follows the other, And both together are thine.
For the bud it never unfolded, The light it flickered away, And whose is the power to utter The grief of that bitterest day?
His form is yet before me, With the fair and lofty brow, And the day since last we kissed it-- Is it long since then and now?
Dearest, it seems but a minute, Though Winter has spread the snow, Meek purity"s mantle to cover The one that is resting below.
In the acre of G.o.d, that is yonder, And unto the west his head, He sleepeth the sleep untroubled, With one to watch at his bed.
For the bright and guardian angel Who beholdeth the Father"s face, Doth stand as a sentinel watching O"er the dear one"s resting-place;
Doth stand as a sentinel guarding The dust of the precious dead, Till at length the trumpet soundeth, When the years of the world are sped;
And the throng which can not be numbered Put on their garments of white, And gird themselves for the glory Of a realm that hath no night.
And so he is gone, the darling, And the dream so fair and vain, Whose light has faded to darkness, We shall never dream again!
Never? Is the earth the limit To bright and beautiful hope?
If the world brings not fruition, Must we in darkness grope?
O no! There is expectation Which the grave can not control; There is boundless infinite promise For the living and deathless soul.
And the darling who left us early May yonder grow a man; In deeds of the great hereafter He may take his place in the van.
O, if thine is the bitterest mourning, Mourning for an only son, Believe that in G.o.d, the Giver, Our darling his course begun;
Believe that in G.o.d, the Taker, His course forever will be; For this is the blessed comfort, The comfort for thee and me.
Yea, this is the blessed comfort In sorrow like that of yore, When the beautiful "flowers of the martyrs"
Went to bloom on another sh.o.r.e.
LII.
LA FAYETTE.
(BORN 1757--DIED 1834.)
THE FRIEND AND DEFENDER OF LIBERTY ON TWO CONTINENTS.
In the year 1730 there appeared in Paris a little volume ent.i.tled "Philosophic Letters," which proved to be one of the most influential books produced in modern times.
It was written by Voltaire, who was then thirty-six years of age, and contained the results of his observations upon the English nation, in which he had resided for two years. Paris was then as far from London, for all practical purposes, as New York now is from Calcutta, so that when Voltaire told his countrymen of the freedom that prevailed in England, of the tolerance given to religious sects, of the honors paid to unt.i.tled merit, of Newton, buried in Westminster Abbey with almost regal pomp, of Addison, secretary of state, and Swift, familiar with prime ministers, and of the general liberty, happiness, and abundance of the kingdom, France listened in wonder, as to a new revelation The work was, of course, immediately placed under the ban by the French Government, and the author exiled, which only gave it increased currency and deeper influence.
This was the beginning of the movement which produced at length, the French Revolution of 1787, and which has continued until France is now blessed with a free and const.i.tutional government. It began among the higher cla.s.ses of the people, for, at that day, not more than one-third of the French could read at all, and a much smaller fraction could read such a book as the "Philosophic Letters" and the books which it called forth. Republicanism was fashionable in the drawing-rooms of Paris for many years before the ma.s.s of the people knew what the word meant.
Among the young n.o.blemen who were early smitten in the midst of despotism with the love of liberty, was the Marquis de La Fayette, born in 1757. Few families in Europe could boast a greater antiquity than his. A century before the discovery of America we find the La Fayettes spoken of as an "ancient house," and in every generation at least one member of the family had distinguished himself by his services to his king. This young man, coming upon the stage of life when republican ideas were teeming in every cultivated mind, embraced them with all the ardor of youth and intelligence. At sixteen he refused a high post in the household of one of the princes of the blood and accepted a commission in the army. At the age of seventeen he was married to the daughter of a duke, whose dowry added a considerable fortune to his own ample possessions. She was an exceedingly lovely woman, and tenderly attached to her husband, and he was as fond of her as such a boy could be.
The American Revolution broke out. In common with all the high-born republicans of his time, his heart warmly espoused the cause of the revolted colonies, and he immediately conceived the project of going to America and fighting under her banner. He was scarcely nineteen years of age when he sought an interview with Silas Deane, the American envoy, and offered his services to the Congress. Mr, Deane, it appears, objected to his youth.
"When," says he, "I presented to the envoy my boyish face, I spoke more of my ardor in the cause than of my experience; but I dwelt much upon the effect my departure would have in France, and he signed our mutual agreement."