Now, stumbling up this ridge, we come to a little patch of hemlocks, spreading out their green wings, and making, in the ravine, a deep shelter, where many a fresh springing thing is standing, and where we gain much for our home vases. These pines are motherly creatures. One can think how it must rejoice the heart of a partridge or a rabbit to come from the dry, whistling sweep of a deciduous forest under the home-like shadow of their branches. "As for the stork, the fir trees are her house," says the Hebrew poet; and our fir trees, this winter, give shelter to much small game. Often, on the light-fallen snow, I meet their little footprints. They have a naive, helpless, innocent appearance, these little tracks, that softens my heart like a child"s footprint. Not one of them is forgotten of our Father; and therefore I remember them kindly.
And now, with cold toes and fingers, and arms full of leafy treasures, we plod our way back to the chaise. A pleasant song is in my ears from this old wood lot--it speaks of green and cheerful patience in life"s hard weather. Not a scowling, sullen endurance, not a despairing, hand-dropping resignation, but a heart cheerfulness that holds on to every leaf, and twig, and flower, and bravely smiles and keeps green when frozen to the very heart, knowing that the winter is but for a season, and that the sunshine and bird singings shall return, and the last year"s dry flower stalk give place to the risen, glorified flower.
POEMS.
THE CHARMER.
"_Socrates._--"However, you and Simmias appear to me as if you wished to sift this subject more thoroughly, and to be afraid, like children, lest, on the soul"s departure from the body, winds should blow it away."
"Upon this Cebes said, "Endeavor to teach us better, Socrates. * *
* Perhaps there is a childish spirit in our breast, that has such a dread. Let us endeavor to persuade him not to be afraid of death, as of hobgoblins."
""But you must _charm_ him every day," said Socrates, "until you have quieted his fears."
""But whence, O Socrates," he said, "can we procure a skilful charmer for such a case, now you are about to leave us."
""Greece is wide, Cebes," he replied: "and in it surely there are skilful men, and there are also many barbarous nations, all of which you should search, seeking such a charmer, sparing neither money nor toil, as there is nothing on which you can more reasonably spend your money.""--(_Last conversation of Socrates with his disciples, as narrated by Plato in the Phaedo._)
"We need that Charmer, for our hearts are sore With longings for the things that may not be; Faint for the friends that shall return no more; Dark with distrust, or wrung with agony.
"What is this life? and what to us is death?
Whence came we? whither go? and where are those Who, in a moment stricken from our side, Pa.s.sed to that land of shadow and repose?
"And are they all dust? and dust must we become?
Or are they living in some unknown clime?
Shall we regain them in that far-off home, And live anew beyond the waves of time?
"O man divine! on thee our souls have hung; Thou wert our teacher in these questions high; But, ah, this day divides thee from our side, And veils in dust thy kindly-guiding eye.
"Where is that Charmer whom thou bidst us seek?
On what far sh.o.r.es may his sweet voice be heard?
When shall these questions of our yearning souls Be answered by the bright Eternal Word?"
So spake the youth of Athens, weeping round, When Socrates lay calmly down to die; So spake the sage, prophetic of the hour When earth"s fair morning star should rise on high.
They found Him not, those youths of soul divine, Long seeking, wandering, watching on life"s sh.o.r.e-- Reasoning, aspiring, yearning for the light, Death came and found them--doubting as before.
But years pa.s.sed on; and lo! the Charmer came-- Pure, simple, sweet, as comes the silver dew; And the world knew him not--he walked alone, Encircled only by his trusting few.
Like the Athenian sage rejected, scorned, Betrayed, condemned, his day of doom drew nigh; He drew his faithful few more closely round, And told them that _his_ hour was come to die.
"Let not your heart be troubled," then he said; "My Father"s house hath mansions large and fair; I go before you to prepare your place; I will return to take you with me there."
And since that hour the awful foe is charmed, And life and death are glorified and fair.
Whither he went we know--the way we know-- And with firm step press on to meet him there.
PILGRIM"S SONG IN THE DESERT.
"Tis morning now--upon the eastern hills Once more the sun lights up this cheerless scene; But O, no morning in my Father"s house Is dawning now, for there no night hath been.
Ten thousand thousand now, on Zion"s hills, All robed in white, with palmy crowns, do stray, While I, an exile, far from fatherland, Still wandering, faint along the desert way.
O home! dear home! my own, my native home!
O Father, friends, when shall I look on you?
When shall these weary wanderings be o"er, And I be gathered back to stray no more?
O thou, the brightness of whose gracious face These weary, longing eyes have never seen,-- By whose dear thought, for whose beloved sake, My course, through toil and tears, I daily take,--
I think of thee when the myrrh-dropping morn Steps forth upon the purple eastern steep; I think of thee in the fair eventide, When the bright-sandalled stars their watches keep.
And trembling hope, and fainting, sorrowing love, On thy dear word for comfort doth rely; And clear-eyed Faith, with strong forereaching gaze, Beholds thee here, unseen, but ever nigh.
Walking in white with thee, she dimly sees, All beautiful, these lovely ones withdrawn, With whom my heart went upward, as they rose, Like morning stars, to light a coming dawn.
All sinless now, and crowned, and glorified, Where"er thou movest move they still with thee, As erst, in sweet communion by thy side, Walked John and Mary in old Galilee.
But hush, my heart! "Tis but a day or two Divides thee from that bright, immortal sh.o.r.e.
Rise up! rise up! and gird thee for the race!
Fast fly the hours, and all will soon be o"er.
Thou hast the new name written in thy soul; Thou hast the mystic stone he gives his own.
Thy soul, made one with him, shall feel no more That she is walking on her path alone.
MARY AT THE CROSS.
"Now there stood by the cross of Jesus his mother."
O wondrous mother! Since the dawn of time Was ever joy, was ever grief like thine?
O, highly favored in thy joy"s deep flow, And favored e"en in this, thy bitterest woe!
Poor was that home in simple Nazareth, Where thou, fair growing, like some silent flower, Last of a kingly line,--unknown and lowly, O desert lily,--pa.s.sed thy childhood"s hour.