Elizabeth Oakes Smith: Verses about Fear

Thy mission is accomplished— painter— sage,
Look to thy crown of glory— for thy brow
Is circled with its radiant halo now.
No more earth's turmoil will thy soul engage,
Its hopes unquiet, littleness, or rage.
With thine own voyager thou hast heard the sound
Of that vast ocean, waveless, rayless, dread,
Where time's perpetual tribute, circling round,
Drops silent in, all passionless and dead.
When thine own voyage is o'er, and thou shalt near
The eternal wave, thus, thus above thy head
May opening glories shield thy heart from fear;
A child again, but strong in faith and prayer,
Thou shalt look meekly up-behold thy God is there!

Thou art not of earth, thou beautiful thing,
With thy changeless form and hue-
For thou in thy heart hast ever borne
A drop of that living dew
That nourished thee, when earth was young,
And the music of Eden around thee rung.

Thou art not of earth; no change is thine
No touch of death or decay;
And the airs that fanned thee in Paradise,
Seem over thy leaves to play;
And they whisper still of fadeless bowers,
Where never shall wither the blooming flowers.

Thou art not of earth; thou changest not
When the wintry blast is nigh,
Though thy scattered leaves are wildly tossed
On the wind as it rushes by;
For even then, in that hour of dread.
Not a hue of beauty hath left the dead.

I deem that Eve, when in terror forced
From her Eden home to part,
Must have sadly looked on those fadeless bowers,
And clasped thee to her heart-
And thou in thy exile still dost tell
Of a changeless home where the good shall dwell.

The loud winds rattled at the door—
The shutters creaked and shook,
While Eva, by the cottage hearth,
Sat with abstracted look.
With every gust, the big rain-drops
Upon the casement beat,
How doubly, on a night like this,
Are home and comfort sweet!

The maiden slowly raised her eyes,
And pressed her pallid brow:—
'Dear mother! I have been far hence:
My sight is absent now!
O mother! 't is a fearful thing,
A human heart to wrong,
To plant a sadness on the lip,
Where smiles and peace belong.

In selfishness or callous pride,
The sacred tear to start,
Or lightest finger dare to press
Upon the burdened heart.
And doubly fearful, when a child
Lifts its imploring eye,
And deprecates the cruel wrath
With childhood's pleading cry.

The child is made for smiles and joy,
Sweet emigrant from Heaven,
The sinless brow and trusting heart,
To lure us there, were given.
Then who shall dare the simple faith
And loving heart to chill,
Or its frank, upward, beaming eye
With sorrowing tears to fill!'

'T was thus young Eva silence broke,
While still the dame, intent
On household thrift, croned at her work—
Her sounding needles blent
With flapping of the eager flame,
Nor raised she once her eyes,
But to her daughter's musing thought,
In answering tale replies.



The Stepmother.
You speak of Hobert's second wife, a lofty dame and bold,
I like not her forbidding air and forehead high and cold,
The orphans have no cause for grief, she dare not give it now,
Though nothing but a ghostly fear, her heart of pride could bow.

One night the boy his mother called, they heard him weeping say,
'Sweet mother, kiss poor Eddy's cheek, and wipe his tears away.'
Red grew the lady's brow with rage, and yet she feels a strife
Of anger and of terror too, at thought of that dead wife.

Wild roars the wind, the lights burn blue, the watch-dog howls with fear,
Loud neighs the steed from out the stall: what form is gliding near?
No latch is raised, no step is heard, but a phantom fills the space—
A sheeted spectre from the dead, with cold and leaden face.

What boots it that no other eye beheld the shade appear!
The guilty lady's guilty soul beheld it plain and clear,
It slowly glides within the room, and sadly looks around—
And stooping, kissed her daughter's cheek with lips that gave no sound.

Then softly on the step-dame's arm she laid a death-cold hand,
Yet it hath scorched within the flesh like to a burning brand.
And gliding on with noiseless foot, o'er winding stair and hall,
She nears the chamber where is heard her infant's trembling call.

She smoothed the pillow where he lay, she warmly tucked the bed,
She wiped his tears, and stroked the curls that clustered round his head.
The child, caressed, unknowing fear, hath nestled him to rest;
The Mother folds her wings beside—the Mother from the Blest!*

'Fast by the eternal throne of God
Celestial beings stand,
Beings, who guide the little child
With kind and loving hand:
And wo to him who dares to turn
The infant foot aside,
Or shroud the light that ever should
Within his soul abide.

All evils of the outer world,
The strong heart learns to bear,
Bears proudly up the heavy weight,
Or makes it light by prayer;
But when it passes through the door,
To touch the life within,
God shield the soul that dared to give
An impulse unto sin.'

'T was thus the pair the hours beguiled,
In lowliness content,
For Eva to the humblest things,
A grace and beauty lent,
And half she wiled the thrifty dame
From toil and vapid thought,
To see how much of mystery
In common life is wrought;

And daily learning deeper truth,
She Eva ceased to chide;
Whose simple mission only sought
The lowly fireside;
To cleanse the heart from selfishness,
From coldness, pride, and hate;
That Love might be a dweller there,
And Peace his dove-eyed mate.

She saw that round her daughter grew,
In all her guileless youth,
The depth and grace of womanhood,
The nobleness of truth;
And coarser natures shrank away,
Awed by a strange rebuke,
That lived within the purity
Of every tone and look.

And something like instinctive light,
Broke feebly on her mind,
That Love, the love of common hearts,
Might not young Eva bind;
That she was made for ministry,
To lofty cheer impart,
And yet live on in tranquilness,
And maidenhood of heart.

And thence content around her grew,
Content, that placid grace
That clears the furrows of the cheek,
And smooths the matron face;
And now she laid her knitting by,
And quaint old legends told,
About a miser years agone,
A miser dull and old.

The Defrauded Heart.
For fifty years the old man's feet had crossed the oaken sill,
No human eye his own to greet—the room is damp and chill—
Silent he comes and silent goes, with cold and covert air,
Around a searching look he throws, then mounts the creaking stair.
He's a sallow man, with narrow heart, and feelings all of self—
His thoughts he may to none impart; they all are thoughts of pelf.
But now he enters not the door, he lingers on the stone,
What think you has come the old man o'er, that he loiters in the sun?

'Come hither, child,'—he stretched his hand and held a boy from play—
'The green old woods throughout the land—are they passing all away?
I remember now 'tis a bye-gone joy since birds were singing here—
'Twas a merry time, and I a boy to list their spring-time cheer.'
And then he loosed the wondering child, and fiercely closed the door,
For there was something new and wild, that come his nature o'er—
A crowding of unwonted thought, that might not be repressed,
An inward pang that aching sought a sympathizing breast.

The long-lost years of sullen life apart from human kind,
Long torpid powers awaked to strife are struggling in his mind:
The child still near the threshold stays and ponders o'er and o'er,
With a perplexed and dull amaze the words of him of yore.
A stealthy foot beneath the sill—a dry hand pale and thin—
And thus the old man hushed and still has drawn the boy within.
'How long is't, child, since that cross-road the greenwoods severed wide?
A pool there was—'twas dark and broad with black and sluggish tide.

It seems but yesterday that I was hunting bird's eggs there—
To-day it chanced to meet mine eye, a dusty thoroughfare.'
Breathed freely once again the child, 'That road was always so.'
And half in fear the urchin smiled, and made as he would go.
'Nay once a goodly wood was there—wild blossoms in the spring,
And darted thence the crouching hare and bird upon the wing,
But now a lengthened dusty way—a cross-road—mile-stone too—
Things that to you have been alway, to me are strange and new.'

'I have not slept these long blank years, for store of gold is here,
Apart from joy, apart from tears, with neither grief nor cheer,
And never on my conscience left the stain of any wrong,
Why should I feel as one berest, with yearnings new and strong?
Why hear a voice for ever cry, `Unfaithful steward thou!'
Come tell me, child, the sun is high—do chills oppress thee now?'
The boy glanced wistfully about the damp and lonely place,
Then at the warm bright sun without, then in the old man's face.

A moment shook his wasted frame as by a palsy touch,
The white hair thither went and came, the bony fingers clutch
Each other with an eager speed; and then his thin lips part—
'Come, child, canst thou the omen read? cheer up an old man's heart.'
The boy, half pitying, half in dread, looked in his pale cold face,
'My grandam says, when footsteps tread upon our burial-place,
Tread on the spot our grave to be, we feel a sudden cold;
She's often said the thing to me, and she is very old.'

'Now get thee hence,' the old man cried, 'thou bringest little cheer.'
And then he thrust the boy aside as with a deadly fear;
Who wondering cast his eyes about to drink in life and air,
And burst his lips in one wild shout, for both were buoyant there.
Three days from thence a mound of earth the cross road marked anew,
And children stayed their voice of mirth when they beside it drew—
Unhallowed though the old man's rest, where men pass to and fro,
The rudest foot aside is pressed from him who sleeps below.

As years passed on, no wonder, each
An inward grace revealed;
For where the soul is peace and love,
It may not be concealed.
They stamp a beauty on the brow,
A softness on the face,
And give to every wavy line
A tenderness and grace.

Long golden hair in many curls
Waved o'er young Eva's brow;
Imparting depth to her soft eye,
And pressed her neck of snow:
Her cheek was pale with lofty thought,
And calm her maiden air;
And all who heard her birdlike voice,
Felt harmony was there.

For winning were her household ways,
Her step was prompt and light,
To save her mother's weary tread,
Till came the welcome night;
And though the toil might useless be,
The housewife's busy skill,
Enough for Eva that it bore
Inscribed a mother's will;

All humble things exalted grow
By sentiment impressed—
The love that bathes the way-worn feet,
Or leans upon the breast;
For love, whate'er the offering be,
Lives in a hallowed air,
And holy hearts before its shrine,
Alone may worship there.

Young Eva's cheek was lily pale,
Her look was scarce of earth,
And doubtingly the mother spoke,
Who gave to Eva birth.
'O Eva, leave thy thoughtful ways,
And dance and sing, my child;
Thy pallid cheek is tinged with blue,
Thy words are strange and wild.

Thy father died—a widow left,
An orphan birth was thine,
I longed to see thy infant eyes
Look upward into mine.
I hoped upon thy sweet young face,
Thy father's look to see;
But Eva, Eva, sadly strange
Are all thy ways to me.

While yet a child, thy look would hold
Communion with the sky;
Too tranquil is thy maiden air,
The glances of thine eye
Are such as make me turn away,
E'en with a shuddering dread,
As if my very soul might be
By thy pure spirit read.'

Slow swelled a tear from Eva's lid,
She kissed her mother's cheek,
She answered with an earnest look,
And accents low and meek:—
'Dear mother, why should mortals seek
Emotions to conceal?
As if to be revealed were worse
Than inwardly to feel.

The human eye I may not fear,
It is the light within,
That traces on the growing soul
All thought, and every sin.
That mystic book, the human soul,
Where every trace remains,
The record of all thoughts and deeds,
The record of all stains.

Dear mother! in ourselves is hid
The holy spirit-land,
Where thought, the flaming cherub, stands
With its relentless brand;
We feel the pang when that dread sword
Inscribes the hidden sin,
And turneth everywhere to guard
The paradise within.'

'Nay, Eva, leave these solemn words,
Fit for a churchman's tongue,
And let me see thee deck thy hair,
A maiden blithe and young.
When others win admiring eyes,
And looks that speak of love,
Why dost thou stand in thoughtful guise?
Why cold and silent move?

Thy beauty sure should win for thee
Full many a lover's sigh,
But on thy brow there is no pride,
Nor in thy placid eye.
Dear Eva! learn to look and love,
And claim a lover's prayer,
Thou art too cold for one so young,
So gentle and so fair.'

'Nay, mother! I must be alone,
With no companion here,
None, none to joy when I am glad,
With me to shed a tear:
For who will clasp a maiden's hand
In grot or sheltering grove,
If one unearthly gift debar
From sympathy and love!

Such gift is mine, the gift of thought,
Whence all will shrink away,
E'en thou from thy poor child dost turn,
With doubting and dismay.
And who shall love, and who shall trust,
Since she who gave me birth,
Knows not the child that prattled once
Beside her lonely hearth?

I would I were, for thy dear sake,
What thou wouldst have me be;
Thou dost not comprehend the bliss
That's given unto me;
That union of the thought and soul
With all that's good and bright,
The blessedness of earth and sky,
The growing truth and light.

That reading of all hidden things
The mystery of life,
Its many hopes, its many fears,
The sorrow and the strife.
A spirit to behold in all,
To guide, admonish, cheer,
For ever in all time and place,
To feel an angel near.'

'Dear Eva! lean upon my breast,
And let me press thy hand,
That I may hear thee talk awhile
Of thy own spirit-land.
And yet I would the pleasant sun
Were shining in the sky,
The blithe birds singing through the air,
And busy life, were by.

For when in converse, like to this,
Thy low, sweet voice I hear,
Strange shudderings o'er my senses creep,
Like touch of spirits near.
How fearful grow familiar things,
In silence and the night,
The cricket piping in the hearth,
Half fills me with affright!

I hear the old trees creak and sway,
And shiver in the blast;
I hear the wailing of the wind,
As if the dead swept past.
Dear Eva! 'tis a world of gloom,
The grave is dark and drear,
We scarce begin to taste of life
Ere death is standing near.'

Then Eva kissed her mother's cheek,
And looked with saddened smile,
Upon her terror-stricken face,
And talked with her the while;
And O! her face was pale and sweet,
Though deep, deep thought was there,
And sadly calm her low-toned voice
For one so young and fair.

'Nay, mother, everywhere is hid
A beauty and delight,
The shadow lies upon the heart,
The gloom upon the sight;
Send but the spirit on its way
Communion high to hold,
And bursting from the earth and sky,
A glory we behold!

And did we but our primal state
Of purity retain,
We might, as in our Eden days,
With angels walk again.
And memories strange of other times
Would break upon the mind,
The linkings, that the present join,
To what is left behind.

The little child at dawn of life
A holy impress bears,
The signet-mark by Heaven affixed
Upon his forehead wears;
And naught that impress can efface,
Save his own wilful sin,
Which first begins to draw the veil
That shuts the spirit in.

And one by one his lights decay,
His visions tend to earth,
Till all those holy forms have fled
That gathered round his birth;
Or dim and faintly may they come,
Like memories of a dream.
Or come to blanch his cheek with fear,
So shadow-like they seem.

And thus all doubtingly he lives
Amid his gloomy fears,
And feels within his inmost soul,
Earth is a vale of tears:
And scarce his darkened thoughts may trace
The mystery within;
For faintly gleams the spirit forth
When shadowed o'er by sin.

Unrobed, majestic, should the soul
Before its God appear,
Undimmed the image He affixed,
Unknown to doubt or fear;
And open converse should it hold,
With meek and trusting brow;
Such as man was in Paradise,
He may be even now.

But when the deathless soul is sunk
To depths of guilt and wo,
It then a dark communion holds
With spirits from below.'
And Eva shuddered as she told
How every heaven-born trace
Of goodness in the human soul
Might wickedness efface.

Alas! unknowing what he doth,
A judgment-seat man rears,
A stern tribunal throned within,
Before which he appears;
And conscience, minister of wrath,
Approves him or condemns;
He knoweth not the fearful risk,
Who inward light contemns.

'O veil thy face, pure child of God,'
With solemn tone she said,
'And judge not thou, but lowly weep,
That virtue should be dead!
Weep thou with prayer and holy fear,
That o'er thy brother's soul,
Effacing life, and light, and love,
Polluting waves should roll.

Weep for the fettered slave of sense,
For passion's minion weep!
For him who nurtureth the worm,
In death that may not sleep;
And tears of blood, if it may be,
For him, who plunged in guilt,
Perils his own and victim's soul,
When human blood is spilt.

For him no glory may abide
In earth or tranquil sky;
Fearful to him the human face,
The searching human eye.
A light beams on him everywhere;
Revealing in its ray,
An erring, terror-stricken soul,
Launched from its orb away.

Turn where he will, all day he meets
That cold and leaden stare;
His victim, pale, and bathed in blood,
Is with him everywhere;
He sees that shape upon the cloud,
It glares from out the brook,
The mist upon the mountain side,
Assumes that fearful look.

He sees, in every simple flower,
Those dying eyes gleam out;
And starts to hear a dying groan,
Amid some merry shout.
The phantom comes to chill the warmth,
Of every sunlight ray,
He feels it slowly glide along,
Where forest shadows play.

And when the solemn night comes down,
With silence dark and drear,
His curdling blood and rising hair
Attest the victim near.
With hideous dreams and terrors wild,
His brain from sleep is kept,
For on his pillow, side by side,
A gory form hath slept.'

'O Eva, Eva, say no more,
For I am filled with fear;
Dim shadows move along the wall;
Dost thou not see them here?—
Dost thou not mark the gleams of light,
The shadowy forms move by?'
'Yes, mother, beautiful to see!
And they are always nigh.

O, would the veil for thee were raised
That hides the spirit-land,
For we are spirits draped in flesh,
Communing with that band;
And it were weariness to me,
Were only human eyes
To meet my own with tenderness,
In earth or pleasant skies.'

'Then trim the lights, my strange, strange child,
And let the fagots glow;
For more of these mysterious things
I fear, yet long, to know.
I glory in thy lofty thought,
Thy beauty and thy worth,
But, Eva, I should love thee more,
Didst thou seem more like earth.'

A pang her words poor Eva gave,
And tears were in her eye,
She kissed her mother's anxious brow,
And answered with a sigh;
'Alas! I may not hope on earth
Companionship to find,
Alone must be the pure in heart,
Alone the high in mind!

We toil for earth, its shadowy veil
Envelops soul and thought,
And hides that discipline and life,
Within our being wrought.
We chain the thought, we shroud the soul,
And backward turn our glance,
When onward should the vision be,
And upward its advance.

I may not scorn the spirit's rights,
For I have seen it rise,
All written o'er with thought, thought, thought,
As with a thousand eyes!
The records dark of other years,
All uneffaced remain;
The unchecked wish forgotten long,
With its eternal stain.

Recorded thoughts, recorded deeds,
A character attest,
No garment hides the startling truth,
Nor screens the naked breast.
The thought, fore-shaping evil deeds,
The spirit may not hide,
It stands amid a searching light,
Which sin may not abide.

And never may the spirit turn
From that effulgent ray,
It lives for ever in the glare
Of an eternal day;
Lives in that penetrating light,
A kindred glow to raise,
Or every withering sin to trace
Within its scorching blaze.

Few, few the shapely temple rear,
For God's abiding place—
That mystic temple where no sound
Within the hallowed space
Reveals the skill of builder's hand;
Yet with a silent care
The holy temple riseth up,
And God is dwelling there.*

Then weep not when the infant lies
In its small grave to rest,
With scented flowers springing forth
From out its quiet breast;
A pure, pure soul to earth was given,
Yet may not thus remain;
Rejoice that it is rendered back,
Without a single stain.

Bright cherubs bear the babe away
With many a fond embrace,
And beauty, all unknown to earth,
Upon its features trace.
They teach it knowledge from the fount,
And holy truth and love;
The songs of praise the infant learns,
As angels sing above.'

The widow rose, and on the blaze
The crackling fagots threw—
And then to her maternal breast
Her gentle daughter drew.
'Dear Eva! when old Richard died,
In madness fierce and wild,
Why did he in his phrensy rave
About a murdered child!'

'Dear mother, I have something heard
Of Richard's fearful life,
Hints of a child that disappeared,
And of heart-broken wife—
If thou the story wilt relate,
A light will on me grow
That I shall feel if guilt were his
Or only common woe.'

The Story Of Old Richard.
'HE died in beggary and rags, friendless, and gray, and old;
Yet he was once a thriving man, light-hearted too, I'm told.
Dark deeds were whispered years ago,but nothing came to light;
He seemed the victim of a spell, that nothing would go right.

His young wife died, and her last words were breathed to him alone,
But 'twas a piteous sound to hear her faint, heart-rending moan.
Some thought, in dreams he had divulged a secret hidden crime,
Which she concealed with breaking heart, unto her dying time.'

'Ah, mother, tis a fearful thing,
When human bonds unite
Unwedded hearts, and they are doomed
For ever, day and night,

Companionship to hold,
Yet feeling every hour,
A beauty fading from the earth,
Thought losing half its power.'

'From that day forth he never smiled; morose and silent grown,
He wandered unfrequented ways, a moody man and lone.
The schoolboy shuddered in the wood, when he old Richard passed,
And hurried on, while fearful looks he o'er his shoulder cast.

And naught could lure him from his mood, save his own trusting boy,
Who climbed the silent father's neck, with ministry of joy;
That gentle boy, unlike a child, companions never sought,
Content to share his father's crust, his father's gloomy lot.

With weary foot and tattered robe, beside him, day by day,
He roamed the forest and the hill, and o'er the rough highway;
And he would prattle all the time of things to childhood sweet;
Of singing bird or lovely flower, that sprang beneath their feet.

Sometimes he chid the moody man, with childhood's fond appeal:—
'Dear father, talk to me awhile, how very lone I feel!
My mother used to smile so sad, and talk and kiss my cheek,
And sing to me such pretty songs; so low and gently speak.'

Then Richard took him in his arms with passionate embrace,
And with an aching tenderness he gazed upon his face;—
Tears rushed into his hollow eyes, he murmured soft and wild,
And kissed with more than woman's love the fond but frightened child.

He died, that worn and weary boy; and they that saw him die,
Said on his father's rigid brow was fixed his fading eye.
His little stiffening hand was laid within poor Richard's grasp;—
And when he stooped for one last kiss, he took his dying gasp.

It crazed his brain—poor Richard rose a maniac fierce and wild,
Who mouthed and muttered everywhere, about a murdered child.'

'And well he might,' young Eva said,
'For conscience day by day,
Commenced that retribution here,
That filled him with dismay.
A girl beguiled in her young years
From all of youthful joy,
And unto solitary life,
Is doomed her stricken boy.'

Nor was this all the widow said, for in his early youth,
There was a tale of love and wrong, of vows and perjured truth.
The storm I do remember well that brought the bones to light;
I was a maiden then myself, with curly hair and bright.

Unwedded , but a mother grown, poor Lucy pressed her child,
With blushing cheek and drooping lid, and lip that never smiled.
Their wants were few; but Richard's hand must buy them daily bread,
And fain would Lucy have been laid in silence with the dead.

For want, and scorn, and blighted fame, had done the work of years,
And oft she knelt in lowly prayer, in penitence and tears;
That undesired child of shame, brought comfort to her heart,
A childlike smile to her pale lip, by its sweet baby art.

And yet, as years their passage told, faint shadows slowly crept
Upon the blighted maiden's mind, and oft she knelt and wept
Unknowing why, her wavy form so thin and reed-like grew,
And so appealing her blue eyes, they tears from others drew.

Years passed away, and Lucy's child, a noble stripling grown,
A daring boy with chestnut hair, and eyes of changeful brown,
Had won the love of every heart, so gentle was his air,
All felt, whate'er might be his birth, a manly soul was there.

The boy was missing, none could tell where last he had been seen;
They searched the river many a day, and every forest screen;
But never more his filial voice poor Lucy's heart might cheer;
Lorn in her grief and dull with wo, she never shed a tear.

And every day, whate'er the sky, with head upon her knees,
And hair neglected, streaming out upon the passing breeze,
She sat beneath a slender tree that near the river grew,
And on the stream its pendent limbs their penciled shadows threw.

The matron left her busy toil, and called her child from play,
And gifts for the lone mourner there she sent with him away.
The boy with nuts and fruit returned, found in the forest deep,
A portion of his little store would for poor Lucy keep.

That tree, with wonder all beheld, its growth was strange and rare;
The wintry winds, that wailing passed, scarce left its branches bare,
And round the roots a verdant spot knew neither change nor blight,
And so poor Lucy's resting-place was always green and bright.

Some said its bole more rapid grew from Lucy's bleeding heart,
For, sighs from out the heart, 'tis said, a drop of blood will start.*
It was an instinct deep and high which led the Mother there,
And that tall tree aspiring grew, by more than dew or air.

The winds were hushed, the little bird scarce gave a nestling sound,
The warm air slept along the hill, the blossoms drooped around;
The shrill-toned insect hardly stirred the dry and crisped leaf;
The laborer laid his sickle down beside the bending sheaf.

A dark portentous cloud is seen to mount the eastern sky,
The deep-toned thunder rolling on, proclaims the tempest nigh!
And now it breaks with deafening crash, and lightning's livid glow;
The torrents leap from mountain crags and wildly dash below.

Behold the tree! its strength is bowed, a shattered mass it lies;
What brings old Richard to the spot, with wild and blood-shot eyes?
Poor Lucy's form is lifeless there, and yet he turns away,
To where a heap of mouldering bones beneath the strong roots lay.

Why takes he up with shrivelled hands, the riven root and stone,
And spreads them with a trembling haste upon each damp, gray bone.
It may not be, the whirlwind's rage again hath left them bare,
All bare, and mingled with the locks of Lucy's tangled hair.'

Of wife, and child, and friends bereft,
And all that inward light,
Which calmly guides the white-haired man,
Who listens to the right;
Old Richard laid him down to die,
Himself his only foe,
His baffled nature groaning out
Its weight of inward wo.

Oh there are wrongs that selfish hearts
Inflict on every side,
And swell the depths of human ill
Unto a surging tide,
And there are things that blight the soul,
As with a mildew blight,
And in the temple of the Lord
Put out the blessed light.

There are, who mindless God hath given,
To mark each human soul,
Distinctive laws, distinctive rights,
Its being to control,
Would, in their blind and selfish zeal,
Remove God's wondrous gift,
And, that their image might have place,
God's altar veil would lift:

They call it Love, forgetful they,
That 'twas this hallowed screen,
Concealing, half revealing too,
The seen and the unseen,
That first suggested deathless love,
The infinite in grace,
This inward and seraphic charm,
That floated o'er the face.

'Tis the summer prime, when the noiseless air
In perfumed chalice lies,
And the bee goes by with a lazy hum,
Beneath the sleeping skies:
When the brook is low, and the ripples bright,
As down the stream they go;
The pebbles are dry on the upper side,
And dark and wet below.

The tree that stood where the soil's athirst,
And the mulleins first appear,
Hath a dry and rusty-colored bark.
And its leaves are curled and sere;
But the dog-wood and the hazel bush,
Have clustered round the brook—
Their roots have stricken deep beneath,
And they have a verdant look.

To the juicy leaf the grasshopper clings,
And he gnaws it like a file,
The naked stalks are withering by,
Where he has been erewhile.
The cricket hops on the glistering rock,
Or pipes in the faded grass,
The beetle's wing is folded mute,
Where the steps of the idler pass.

The widow donned her russet robe,
Her cap of snowy hue,
And o'er her staid maternal form
A sober mantle threw;
And she, while fresh the morning light,
Hath gone to pass the day,
And ease an ailing neighbor's pain
Across the meadow way.

Young Eva closed the cottage-door;
And wooed by bird and flower,
She loitered on beneath the wood,
Till came the noon-tide hour.
The sloping bank is cool and green,
Beside the sparkling rill;
The cloud that slumbers in the sky,
Is painted on the hill.

The spirits poised their purple wings
O'er blossom, brook, and dell,
And lingered in the quiet nook,
As if they loved it well.
Young Eva laid one snowy arm
Upon a violet bank,
And pillowed there her downy cheek,
While she to slumber sank.

A smile is on her gentle lip,
For she the angels saw,
And felt their wings a covert make
As round her head they draw.
A maiden's sleep, how pure it is!
The innocent repose
That knows no dark nor troublous dream,
Nor love's wild waking knows!

A huntsman's whistle; and anon
The dogs come fawning round,
And now they raise the pendent ear,
And crouch along the ground.
The hunter leaped the shrunken brook,
The dogs hold back with awe,
For they upon the violet bank
The slumbering maiden saw.

A reckless youth was Albert Linne,
With licensed oath and jest,
Who little cared for woman's fame,
Or peaceful maiden rest.
Light things to him, were broken vows—
The blush, the sigh, the tear;
What hinders he should steal a kiss,
From sleeping damsel here?

He looks, yet stays his eager foot;
For, on that spotless brow,
And that closed lid, a something rests
He never saw till now;
He gazes, yet he shrinks with awe
From that fair wondrous face,
Those limbs so quietly disposed,
With more than maiden grace.

He seats himself upon the bank,
And turns his face away,
And Albert Linne, the hair-brained youth,
Wished in his heart to pray.
He looked within his very soul,
Its hidden chamber saw,
Inscribed with records dark and deep
Of many a broken law.

For thronging came his former life,
What once he called delight,
The goblet, oath, and stolen joy,
How palled they on his sight!
No more he thinks of maiden fair,
No more of ravished kiss.
Forgets he that pure sleeper nigh
Hath brought his thoughts to this!

Unwonted thought it was for him
Whose eager stirring life,
Panted for action and renown,
High deeds and daring strife;
Who scorning times of work-day zeal
When thought may power impart;
In manly pastime sought to quell,
The beatings of his heart.

Unwonted thought, unwonted calm,
Upon his spirit fell;
For he unwittingly had sought
Young Eva's hallowed dell,
And breathed that atmosphere of love.
Around her path that grew;
That evil from her steps repelled,
The good unto her drew.

Now Eva opes her child-like eyes,
And lifts her tranquil head;
And Albert, like a guilty thing,
Had from her presence fled.
But Eva marked his troubled brow,
His sad and thoughtful eyes,
As if they sought, yet shrank to hold
Their converse with the skies.

And all her kindly nature stirred,
She prayed him to remain;
Well conscious that the pure have power
To balm much human pain.
There mingled too, as in a dream,
About brave Albert Linne,
A real and ideal form.
Her soul had framed within.

And he whose ready jest had met
The worldling in her pride,
Felt all his reckless nature hushed,
By hallowed Eva's side;
And when she held her wavy hand,
And bade him stay awhile;
He looked into her sinless eyes,
And marked her child-like smile:

And that so pure and winning beamed,
So calm and holy too,
That o'er his troubled thoughts at once
A quiet charm it threw.
Light thought, light words were all forgot,
He breathed a holier air,
He felt the power of womanhood—
Its purity was there.

And soft beneath their silken fringe
Beamed Eva's dovelike eyes,
That seemed to claim a sisterhood,
With something in the skies.
Her gentle voice a part became
Of air, and brook, and bird,
And Albert listened, as if he
Such music only heard.

O Eva! thou the pure in heart,
Why falls thy trembling voice?
A blush is on thy maiden cheek,
And yet thine eyes rejoice.
Another glory wakes for thee,
Where'er thine eyes may rest;
And deeper, holier thoughts arise
Within thy peaceful breast.

Thine eyelids droop in tenderness,
New smiles thy lips combine,
For thou dost feel another soul
Is blending into thine.
Thou upward raisest thy meek eyes,
And it is sweet to thee;
To feel the weakness of thy sex,
Is more than majesty.

To feel thy shrinking nature claim
The stronger arm and brow;
Thy weapons, smiles, and tears, and prayers,
And blushes such as now.
A woman, gentle Eva, thou,
Thy lot were incomplete,
Did not all sympathies of soul
Within thy being meet.

But Faith was thine, the angel gift,
And Love untouched by earth,
For Albert was the crown affixed
To thine immortal birth;
And not for thee the heavy pangs
Of those, who, doomed by fate,
Learn, through the lapse of weary years,
To love, to watch, and wait.

Oh not for thee for such as thee,
To tremble with dismay,
Lest baser hands pollute thy crown,
And rieve its light away.
Oh not for thee, the anguished prayer,
The struggle long and late,
The pleading of the still small voice,
That bids thee trust and wait.

Thou didst o'er-step this fleeting space,
And grasp the higher world;
And angel-like thy pinions here,
Their glory half unfurled.
All evil to thy clear, calm eyes,
Was but of transient date.
'Tis not for such, like us to sit,
And weep, and love, and wait;

Wait with a vain and mournful gaze
For feet that linger long,
Wait for the voice more dear to us,
Than aught of mirth and song;
And grieving much, lest over-wronged,
The spirit lose its mate;
And sit in deathful solitude,
Alone, to watch and wait.

No, Eva, for those eyes, that brow,
That proud and manly air,
Have often mingled with thy dreams,
And with thine earnest prayer!
And how hast thou, all timidly,
Cast down thy maiden eye,
When visions have revealed to thee
That figure standing nigh!

Two spirits launched companionless
A kindred essence sought,
And one, in all its wanderings,
Of such as Eva thought.
The good, the beautiful, the true,
Should nestle in his heart,
Should lure him by her gentle voice,
To choose the better part.

And he that kindred being sought,
Had searched with restless care
For that true, earnest, woman-soul
Among the bright and fair—
He might not rest, he felt for him,
One such had been created,
Whose maiden soul in quietude
For his all meekly waited.

And oft when beaming eyes were nigh,
And beauty's lip was smiling,
And bird-like tones were breathing round
The fevered sense beguiling;
He felt this was not what he sought—
The soul such mockery spurned.
And evermore with aching zeal,
For that one being yearned.

And she whose loving soul went forth
Wherever beauty dwelt;
Who with the truthful and the good
A genial essence felt,
Oh! often in her solitude,
By her own soul oppressed,
She fain had nestled like a dove
Within one stronger breast.

Though higher, holier far than those
Who listening to her voice,
A something caught of better things,
That make the heart rejoice;
Yet teaching thus her spirit lone
Aweary would have knelt,
And learned with child-like reverence,
Where deeper wisdom dwelt.

And now that will of stronger growth,
That spirit firmer made,
Instinctive holds her own in check,
Her timid footsteps stayed;
And Eva in her maidenhood,
Half trembles with new fear,
And on her lip that strange, deep smile,
The handmaid of a tear.

Oh, Eva, child of life and light,
Did angel missions part,
When half way in its flight to God,
Was stayed thy maiden heart?
Thine eyes, that unarrested sought
Their kindred in the sky,
Now, with a gentle searchingness,
Read first brave Albert's eye.

And was their glance undimmed from thence?
Was heaven as near to thee?
Did folding pinions guard thee still,
Thou child of mystery?
Did no dim shadows from without
Darken thine inner light?
Didst thou in thy white meekness stand,
As ever, calm and bright?

Oh, human Love! thou seal of life,
Link to the good and true,
Strength to the fainting and infirm,
And youth's perpetual dew;
So oft art thou allied to tears,
To deep and hidden pain,
That in our weakness we are prone,
To deem thy mission vain:

Too much remembering of thy griefs,
Thy wildness and despair,
We seek to God with streaming eyes,
And agony of prayer.
Far better did we fold our hands,
The blessed boon above,
Nor, beeding incidental pangs,
Shield thus the gift of Love.

While doubting thus, a seraph stayed
His radiant course awhile;
And with a heavenly sympathy,
Looked on with beaming smile:
And thus his words of spirit-love
Trust and assurance brought,
And bade her where the soul finds birth,
To weakly question not.

'Content to feel—care not to know,
The sacred source whence LOVE arise—
Respect in modesty of soul,
This mystery of mysteries:
Mere mind with all its subtle arts,
Hath only learned when thus it gazed
The inmost veil of human hearts,
E'en to themselves must not be raised!'

But Eva doubted, questioned not,
Content to only feel,
The music of a manly voice,
Upon her senses steal—
To find one heart instinctive learn
The beatings of her own,
And read afar unuttered thought
Known unto his alone.

And firmer grew her heavenward life,
Thus with another blent;
They, twin-born souls, the wedded twain,
One in God's covenant:
And she in modesty of soul,
Received the seal and smiled;
The crowning grace of womanhood,
Upon the sinless child.

Her trusting hand fair Eva laid
In that of Albert Linne,
And for one trembling moment turned
Her gentle thoughts within.
Deep tenderness was in the glance
That rested on his face,
As if her woman-heart had found
Its own abiding place.

And evermore to him it seemed
Her voice more liquid grew,
'Dear youth, thy soul and mine are one;
One source their being drew!
And they must mingle evermore—
Thy thoughts of love and me,
Will, as a light, thy footsteps guide
To life and mystery.'

There was no sadness in her tone,
But Love unfathomed deep;
As from the centre of the soul,
Where the Divine may sleep:
Prophetic was the tone and look,
And Albert's noble heart,
Sank with a strange foreboding dread,
Lest Eva should depart.

And when she bent her timid eyes
As she beside him knelt,
The pressure of her sinless lips
Upon his brow he felt,
And all of earth, and all of sin,
Fled from her sainted side;
She, the pure virgin of the soul,
Ordained young Albert's bride.

Low were her sweet and heart-breathed words,
Low was her voice of prayer,
Balmy and gentle was her love,
Like dew in summer air;
And Love, unto the Infinite,
Like Eva's is allied,
We say of such, ''tis gone before,'
But not that it hath died.