The Sinless Child Part 1

Whilom ago, in lowly life,
Young Eva lived and smiled,
A fair-haired girl, of wondrous truth,
And blameless from a child.
Gentle she was, and full of love,
With voice exceeding sweet,
And eyes of dove-like tenderness,
Where joy and sadness meet.

No Father's lip her brow had kissed,
Or breathed for her a prayer;
The widowed breast on which she slept,
Was full of doubt and care;
And oft was Eva's little cheek
Heaved by her mother's sigh—
And oft the widow shrunk in fear
From her sweet baby's eye,

For she would lift her pillowed head
To look within her face,
With something of reproachfulness,
As well as infant grace,—
A trembling lip, an earnest eye,
Half smiling, half in tears,
As she would seek to comprehend
The secret of her fears.

Her ways were gentle while a babe,
With calm and tranquil eye,
That turned instinctively to seek
The blueness of the sky.
A holy smile was on her lip
Whenever sleep was there,
She slept, as sleeps the blossom, hushed
Amid the silent air.

And ere she left with tottling steps
The low-roofed cottage door,
The beetle and the cricket loved
The young child on the floor;
For every insect dwelt secure
Where little Eva played;
And piped for her its blithest song
When she in greenwood strayed;

With wing of gauze and mailèd coat
They gathered round her feet,
Rejoiced, as are all gladsome things,
A truthful soul to greet.
They taught her infant lips to sing
With them a hymn of praise,
The song that in the woods is heard,
Through the long summer days.

And everywhere the child was traced
By snatches of wild song,
That marked her feet along the vale,
Or hill-side, fleet and strong.
She knew the haunts of every bird—
Where bloomed the sheltered flower,
So sheltered, that the searching frost
Might scarcely find its bower.

No loneliness young Eva knew,
Though playmates she had none;
Such sweet companionship was hers,
She could not be alone;
For everything in earth or sky
Caressed the little child,
The joyous bird upon the wing,
The blossom in the wild:

Much dwelt she on the green hill-side,
And under forest tree;
Beside the running, babbling brook,
Where lithe trout sported free—
She saw them dart, like stringed gems,
Where the tangled roots were deep,
And learned that love for evermore
The heart will joyful keep.

She loved all simple flowers that spring
In grove or sun-lit dell,
And of each streak and varied hue
Would pretty meanings tell.
For her a language was impressed
On every leaf that grew,
And lines revealing brighter worlds
That seraph fingers drew.

The opening bud that lightly swung
Upon the dewy air,
Moved in its very sportiveness
Beneath angelic care;
She saw that pearly fingers oped
Each curved and painted leaf,
And where the canker-worm had been
Were looks of angel grief.

Each tiny leaf became a scroll
Inscribed with holy truth,
A lesson that around the heart
Should keep the dew of youth;
Bright missals from angelic throngs
In every by-way left,
How were the earth of glory shorn,
Were it of flowers bereft!

They tremble on the Alpine height;
The fissured rock they press;
The desert wild, with heat and sand,
Shares too, their blessedness,
And wheresoe'er the weary heart
Turns in its dim despair,
The meek-eyed blossom upward looks
Inviting it to prayer.

The widow's cot was rude and low,
The sloping roof moss-grown;
And it would seem its quietude
To every bird were known,
The winding vine quaint tendrils wove
Round roof and oaken door,
And by the flickering light, the leaves
Were painted on the floor.

No noxious reptile ever there
A kindred being sought,
The good and beautiful alone
Delighted in the spot.
The very winds were hushed to peace
Within the quiet dell,
Or murmured through the rustling bough
Like breathings of a shell.

The red-breast sang from sheltering tree,
Gay blossoms clustered round,
And one small brook came dancing by,
With a sweet tinkling sound.
Staining the far-off meadow green
It leaped a rocky dell
And resting by the cottage door,
In liquid music fell.

Upon its breast white lilies slept,
Of pure and wax-like hue,
And brilliant flowers upon the marge
Luxuriantly grew.
They were of rare and changeless birth,
Nor needed toil nor care;
And many marvelled earth could yield
Aught so exceeding fair.

Young Eva said, all noisome weeds
Would pass from earth away,
When virtue in the human heart
Held its predestined sway;
Exalted thoughts were alway hers,
Some deemed them strange and wild;
And hence in all the hamlets round,
Her name of SINLESS CHILD.

Her mother told how Eva's lips
Had never falsehood known;
No angry word had ever marred
The music of their tone.
And truth spake out in every line
Of her fair tranquil face,
Where Love and Peace, twin-dwelling pair,
Had found a resting-place.

She felt the freedom and the light
The pure in heart may know—
Whose blessed privilege it is
To walk with God below;
Who see a hidden beauty traced,
That others may not see,
Who feel a life within the heart,
And love and mystery.

The Sinless Child Part 5

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.