Read Ebook: The Man of Uz and Other Poems by Sigourney L H Lydia Howard

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Ebook has 461 lines and 33152 words, and 10 pages

When the lisping tongue adventures The first tones of imitation, Or with magic speed o'ermasters The philosophy of language Twining round the mind of others, Preferences, and pains and pleasures, Tendrils strong, of sentient being, Seeking kindness and indulgence, Loving sports and smiles, and gladness, Tenderest love goes forth to meet it, Love that every care repayeth.

'Tis a solemn thing and lovely, To adopt a child, whose mother Dwelleth in the land of spirits: In its weakness give it succor, Be in ignorance its teacher, In all sorrow its consoler, In temptation its defender, Save what else had been forsaken, Win for it a crown in Heaven,-- Tis a solemn thing and lovely, Such a work as God approveth.

Pomp and wealth, and pride of office With their glitter and their shouting, May not pass through death's dark valley, May not thrill the ear that resteth Mid the silence of the grave-yard; But the deed that wrought in pity Mid the outcast and benighted, In the hovel or the prison, On the land or on the ocean, Shunning still the applause of mortals, Comes it not to His remembrance Who shall say amid the terrors Of the last Great Day of Judgment, "Inasmuch as ye have done it Unto one, the least, the lowest. It was done to Me, your Saviour."

CANTO THIRD.

--At school and college he defied restraint, And round the associates of his idle hours Threw a mysterious veil. But rumor spake Of them, as those who would be sure to bring Disgrace and infamy. Strong thirst for gold Sprang with the weeds of vice. His mother's purse Was drain'd for him, and when at length she spake In warm remonstrance, he with rudeness rush'd Out of her presence, or withdrew himself All night from her abode. Then she was fain To appease his anger by some lavish gift From scant resources, which she ill could spare, Making the evil worse. The growth of sin Is rank and rapid when the youthful heart Abjures the sway of duty. Weaving oft The mesh of falsehood, may it not forget What the truth is? The wavering, moral sense Depraved and weaken'd, fails to grasp the clue Of certainty, nor scruples to deny Words utter'd, and deeds done, for conscience sleeps Stifled, and callous. Fearful must it be, When Truth offended and austere, confronts The false soul at Heaven's bar.

An aged man Dwelt by himself upon a dreary moor, And it was whisper'd that a miser's hoard Absorb'd his thoughts. There, at the midnight hour The unwonted flash of lights was seen by those Who chanced to pass, and entering in, they found The helpless inmate murder'd in his bed, And the house rifled. Differing tracks they mark'd Of flying footsteps in the moisten'd soil, And eager search ensued. At length, close hid In a dense thicket, Conrad they espied, His shoes besmear'd with blood. Question'd of those Who with him in this work of horror join'd, He answered nothing. All unmov'd he stood Upon his trial, the nefarious deed Denying, and of his accomplices Disclosing nought. But still there seem'd a chain Of evidence to bind him in its coil, And Justice had her course. The prison bolts Closed heavily behind him, and his doom For years, with felons was incorporate.

Of the wild anguish and despair that reign'd In his ancestral home, no words can give Description meet. In the poor mother's mind Reason 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 cries She struggled 'gainst imaginary foes, Till strength was gone. Through the long syncope Her never-resting lips essay'd to form The 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 port Of bravery as one who scorns defeat Though it hath come upon him, Conrad met The sentence of the law. But its full force He fail'd to estimate; the stern restraint On liberty of movement, coarsest fare, Stripes for the contumacious, and for all Labor, and silence. The inquiring glance On the new-comer bent, from stolid eyes Of malefactors, harden'd to their lot, And hating all mankind, he coldly shunn'd Or haughtily return'd. Yet there were lights Even in this dark abode, not often found In penal regions, where the wrath of man Is prompt to punish, and remembereth not The 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 restrain All petty tyranny. Courteous was he To visitants, for many such there were. Philanthropists, whose happy faith believ'd Prisons reforming schools, came here to scan Arrangements and appliances as guides To other institutions: strangers too, Who 'mid their explorations of the State, Scenery and structures, would not overlook Its model-prison. Now and then, was seen Some care-worn mother, leading by the hand Her froward boy, with hope that he might learn A lesson from the punishment he saw.

--When day was closed and to his narrow cell Bearing his supper, every prisoner went, The night-lock firmly clench'd, beside some grate While the large lamp thro' the long corridors Threw flickering light, the Chaplain often stood Conversing. Of the criminal's past life He made inquiry, and receiv'd replies Foreign 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 means To 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 round To expand his shrivell'd heart. Fair gifts she brought, Roses fresh-blown, and cates, and fragrant fruits Most 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."

--Still ever at her side, by night and day Was Bertha, entering into every plan, With zealous aid, assuming every care That brought a burden, catching every smile On 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 piety Thrives best with generous natures. Here was nought Of self to cheek it, so it richly bloom'd Like the life-tree, that yieldeth every month New fruits, still hiding mid its wealth of leaves The balm of healing. In that peaceful home The fair-haired orphan was a fount of joy, Spreading her young heart like a tintless sheet For Love to write on. Sporting 'mid the flowers, Caroling with the birds, or gliding light As fawn, her fine, elastic temperament Took happiest coloring from each varying hour Or changing duty. Kind, providing cares Which younglings often thoughtlessly receive Or thankless claim, she gratefully repaid With glad obedience. Pleas'd was she to bear Precocious part in household industry, Round shining bars to involve the shortening thread, And see the stocking grow, or side by side With her loved benefactresses to work Upon some garment for the ill-clad poor, With busy needle. As their almoner, 'Twas her delight to seek some lowly hut And gliding thence, with noiseless footstep, leave With her kind dole, a wonder whence it came. --A heavenly blessing wrapp'd its wing around The adopted orphanage. Oh ye whose homes Are childless, know ye not some little heart Collapsing, for the need of parent's love, That ye might breathe upon? some outcast lamb That ye might shelter in your fold? content To make the sad eye sparkle, guide the feet In 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 glance Of 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'd Like living friends. She sedulously mark'd Their health and order, and was skill'd to prune The 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'd The Lily of the lakelet, calmly throned On 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 truth And found in every season, change of joy.

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

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

--A village funeral is a thing that warns All from their homes. In the throng'd city's bound, Hearses unnoticed pass, and none inquire Who goeth to his grave. But rural life Keepeth afresh the rills of sympathy. True sorrow was there at these obsequies, For all the poor were mourners. There the old Came in the garments she had given, bow'd down With their own sense of loss. O'er furrow'd cheeks In care-worn channels stole the trickling tear. The young were weepers, for their memories stored Many a gentle word, and precept kind, Like jewels dropp'd behind her. Mothers rais'd Their little ones above the coffin's side To look upon her face. Lingering they gazed Deeming the lovely Lady sweetly slept Among the flowers that on her pillow lay.

He's but a tyro in the school of grief Who hath not from the victor-tomb return'd Unto his rifled home. The utter weight Of whelming desolation doth not fall Till the last rites are paid. The cares of love Having 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 birth Divided from the mother, having known No separate pleasure, or secreted thought, With deep humility resumed her course Of daily duty and philanthropy, Not murmuring, but remembering His great love Who lent so long that blessing beyond price, And from her broken censer offering still Incense of praise. She deem'd it fearful loss To 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.

What were the glowing thoughts Of the meek shepherd, as alone he took His homeward way? The joy of others flow'd O'er his glad spirit like a refluent tide Whose sands were gold. Had he not chosen well His source of happiness? There are, who mix Pride and ambition with their services Before the altar. Did the tinkling bells Upon the garments of the Jewish priest Draw down his thoughts from God? The mitred brow, Doth it stoop low enough to find the souls That struggle in the pits of sin, and die? Methinks ambitious honors might disturb The man whose banner is the Cross of Christ, And earth's high places shut him out of Heaven.

--Yet this serene disciple, so content To do his Master's will, in humblest works Of charity, had he not chosen well His happiness? The hero hears the trump Of victor-fame, and his high pulses leap, But laurels dipp'd in blood shall vex his soul When the death-ague comes. More blest is he Who bearing on his brow the anointing oil Keeps in his heart the humility and zeal That sanctify his vows. So, full of joy That fears no frost of earth, because its root Is by the river of eternal life, The white-hair'd Pastor took his homeward way.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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