Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing

How quietly she lies!
Closed are the lustrous eyes,
Whose fringed lids, so meek,
Rest on the placid cheek;
While, round the forehead fair,
Twines the light golden hair,
Clinging with wondrous grace
Unto the cherub face.
Tread softly near her, dear ones! Let her sleep,—
I would not have my darling wake to weep.

Mark how her head doth rest
Upon her snowy breast,
While, 'neath the shadow of a drooping curl,
One little shoulder nestles like a pearl,
And the small waxen fingers, careless, clasp
White odorous flowers in their tiny grasp;
Blossoms most sweet
Crown her pure brow, and cluster o'er her feet,
Sure earth hath never known a thing more fair
Than she who gently, calmly, slumbers there.

Alas! 'tis Death, not sleep,
That girds her in its frozen slumbers deep.
No balmy breath comes forth
From the slight-parted mouth;
Nor heaves the little breast,
In its unyielding rest;
Dead fingers clasp
Flowers in unconscious grasp;—
Woe, woe is me, oh! lone, bereaved mother!
'Tis Death that hath my treasure, and none other.

No more I hear the voice,
Those loving accents made my heart rejoice;
No more within my arms
Fold I her rosy charms.
And, gazing down into the liquid splendour
Of the brown eyes serenely, softly tender,
Print rapturous kisses on the gentle brow,
So cold and pallid now.
No more, no more! repining heart, be still,
And trust in Him who doeth all things well.

Oh, happy little one!
How soon her race was run—
Her pain and suffering o'er,
Herself from sin secure.
Not hers to wander through the waste of years,
Sowing in hope, to gather nought but tears;
Nor care, nor strife,
Dimmed her brief day of life.
All true souls cherished her, and fondly strove
To guard from every ill my meek white dove.

Love, in its essence,
Pervaded her sweet presence.
How winning were her ways;
Her little child-like grace,
And the mute pleadings of her innocent eyes,
Seizing the heart with sudden, soft surprise,
As if an angel, unaware,
Had strayed from Heaven, here;
And, saddened at the dark and downward road,
Averted her meek gaze, and sought her Father, God.

In her new spiritual birth,
No garments soiled with earth
Cling round the little form, that happy strays,
Up through the gates of pearl and golden ways,
Where sister spirits meet her,
And angels joyful greet her.
Arrayed in robes of white,
She walks the paths of light;
Adorning the bright city of our God,
The glorious realms by saints and martyr trod!

THE OLD VILLAGE CHURCH

TWENTY years! Yes, twenty years had intervened since I left the pleasant village of Brookdale, and not once during all this period had I visited the dear old spot that was held more and more sacred by memory. Hundred times had I purposed to do so, yet not until the lapse of twenty years was this purpose fulfilled. Then, sobered by disappointments, I went back on a pilgrimage, to the home of early days.

I was just twenty years old when I left Brookdale. My father's family removed at the same time, and this was the reason why I had not returned. The heart's strongest attractions were in another place. But the desire to go back revived, after a season of affliction and some painful defeats in the great battle of life. The memory of dear childhood grew so palpable, and produced such an earnest longing to revisit old scenes, that I was constrained to turn my face towards my early home.

It was late in the evening of a calm autumnal day, at the close of the week, when I arrived at Brookdale. The village inn where I stopped, and at which I engaged lodgings for a few days, was not the old village inn. That had passed away, and a newer and larger building stood in its place. Nor was the old landlord there. Why had I expected to see him? Twenty years before, he was bent with age. His eyes were dim and his step faltered when last I saw him. It was but natural that he should pass away. Still, I felt a shade of disappointment when the truth came. He who filled his place was unknown to me; and, in all his household, not a familiar countenance was presented.

But I solaced myself for this with thoughts of the morrow, when my eyes would look upon long-remembered scenes and faces. The old homestead, with its garden and clambering vines—a picture which had grown more vivid in my thoughts every year—how earnest was my desire to look upon it again! There was the deep, pure spring, in which, as I bent to drink, I had so often looked upon my mirrored face; and the broad flat stone near by, where I had sat so many times. I would sit there again, after tasting the sweet water, and think of the olden time! The dear old mill, too, with its murmuring wheel glistening in the bright sunshine, and the race, on whose bank I had gathered wild flowers and raspberries?

I could sleep but little for thinking of these things, and when morning broke, and the sun shone out, I went I forth impatient to see the real objects which had been so long pictured in my memory.

"Am I in Brookdale? No—it cannot be. There is some strange error. Yes—yes—it is Brookdale, for here is the old church. I cannot mistake that. Hark! Yes—yes—it is the early bell! I would know its sound amid a thousand!"

On I moved, passing the ancient building whose architect had long since been called to sleep with his fathers, and over whose walls and spire time had cast a duller hue. I was eager to reach the old homestead. The mill lay between—or, once it did. Only a shapeless ruin now remained. The broken wheel, the crumbling walls, and empty forebay were all that my eyes rested upon, and I paused sadly to mark the wreck which time had made. The race was dry, and overgrown with elder and rank weeds. A quarter of a mile distant stood out sharply, against the clear sky, a large factory, newly built and thither the stream in which I had once sailed my tiny boat, or dropped my line, had been turned, and the old mill left to silence and decay. Ah me! I cannot make words obedient to my thoughts in giving utterance to the disappointment I then felt. A brief space I stood, mourning over the ruins, and then moved on again, a painful presentiment fast arising in my heart that all would not be, as I had left, it in the white cottage I was seeking. The two great elms that stood bending together, as if instinct with a sense of protection, above that dear home—where were they? My eyes searched for them in vain.

"Where is the spring? Surely it welled up here, and this is the way the clear stream flowed!"

Alas! the spring was dried, and scarcely a trace of its former existence remained. The broad flat stone was broken. The shady alcove beneath which the waters came up so cool and clear, had been removed. All was naked and barren. Near by stood an old deserted house. The door was half open, the windows were broken out, the chimney had fallen, and great patches of the roof had been torn away. Around, all was in keeping with this. The little garden was covered with weeds, the fence that once enclosed it was broken down, the old apple-tree that I had loved almost as tenderly as if it had been a human creature, was no more to be seen, and in the place where the grape-vine grew was a deep pool of green and stagnant water.

My first impulse was to turn and flee from the place, under a painful revulsion of feeling. But I could not leave the spot thus. For some minutes I stood mournfully leaning on the broken garden gate, and then forced myself to enter beneath the roof where I was born, and where I grew up with loving and happy children, under the sunlight of a mother's smile. If there was ruin without, there was desolation added to ruin within, but neither ruin nor desolation could entirely obliterate the forms so well remembered. I passed from room to room, now pausing to recall an incident, and now hurrying on under a sense of pain at seeing a place, hallowed in my thoughts by the tenderest associations of my life, thus abandoned to the gnawing tooth of decay, and destined to certain and speedy destruction. When I came to my mother's room, emotion grew too powerful, and a gush of tears relieved the oppressive weight that lay upon my bosom. There I lingered long, with a kind of mournful pleasure in this scene of my days of innocence, and lived over years of the bygone times.