University of Virginia Library

We had not met, nor each with each
Exchanged a word of human speech;—
I scarce had heard her name, or known
How near her dwelling to my own;
When first, in anxious grief and fear,
With faltering voice and rising tear,
Her husband came to ask my prayer,
And some few words of pastoral care,
To soothe the soul which seem'd to be
Fast hurrying to Eternity.

I knelt beside her in the gloom
Of the dim, closely curtain'd room:
So dark it was, I could not trace
The outline of her pillow'd face,
Nor guess if she, reclining there,
Was old or young, was dark or fair;
Feeble and faint her accents came
From out that worn and wasted frame;
She spake of sin which grieved her still,—
Of wayward heart and selfish will,—
Of doubts which oft, when near life's goal,
Oppress the saintliest Christian soul;—
Misgivings, such as still will vex
Our mortal frailty, and perplex
The heart intent on heavenly things
With anxious, deep self-questionings.

Few words I utter'd in reply,—
Such words as oft to those who die
Had, in my past experience, brought
The comfort which their weakness sought;—
Few words, but utter'd in a tone
Which shew'd I made her griefs my own,—
Discern'd her burden, and would fain
Remove the weight, relieve the pain;—
Few words, but when they ceased, I knew
That she had felt them sweet and true;
Yea that to them had power been given
To rend the veil 'twixt her and Heaven;
And when together we had pray'd,
And each to each farewell had said,
Parting I felt I left behind
A peace my coming did not find.

Again—again—from day to day,
I knelt beside her where she lay;
Again we held communion high,
Again in mutual sympathy,
With unrestrain'd and fervent speech,
Each spirit was reveal'd to each;
And we, who never yet had seen
Each other's features, form or mien,
Could yet discern, by converse taught,
The mysteries of each other's thought.
Such light could pierce the spectral gloom
Of that dim, closely curtain'd room.

At length was past the storm of pain,
And partial health returned again:
The curtains which shut out the light
Were now withdrawn, and on my sight
There burst—no language can express
What rare and perfect loveliness;—
A temple worthy of the mind
Saintly and sweet therein enshrined;
A beauty, blemishless and bright
As the pure soul it veil'd from sight.

Thanks! to the providential love
Which fix'd my portion from above,
Ordaining by benign decree
That I of English birth should be;
An alien from the rites of Rome,
A pastor with a happy home.
Thanks! for those dearest boons of life,
The love of children and of wife;
The heart-repose, the healthful play
Of feelings which the spirit sway;
To none so precious or so blest
As him who seeks a needful rest
For weary heart and weary brain
From pastoral labour, oft in vain,—
From cares which still the spirit vex,
From questions which the mind perplex;—
His daily lot whose neck must bear
The yoke of ministerial care.
Thanks! for these boons,—for what they yield
To hearts against all peril steel'd
By their strong magic, in the hour
When else temptation most had power.
Thanks! for a joy too pure to tell,
Which they alone make possible
For man commission'd to impart
Counsel and help to woman's heart,
In woman's loveliest charms array'd
And in its weakness self-display'd.
Thanks! for these boons, which give him power
To solace woman's darkest hour,—
To share, unscathed in soul or sense,
The treasure of her confidence;
Which make his spirit clear and free,
Through wedlock's lawful liberty,—
To teach, direct, support, console
A weak and trusting sister's soul.
Thanks! for these boons, to Him who gave,
To them, the faithful and the brave,
Who bled and burn'd to wrest from Rome
The freedom of the pastor's home.
Thanks! for the stalwart arms which broke
The celibate's detested yoke;
Thanks! for deliverance from the thrall
Of the obscene confessional;
Thanks! that the priest no more may pry
With busy, keen, intrusive eye,
And craft, by vile experience taught,
Into those secret cells of thought
Which nature teaches to conceal;
Which conscience shudders to reveal;
Which, once disclosed, the heart no more
Can, to itself, itself restore.
Thanks! that, instead, 'tis ours to know
The free, spontaneous, natural flow
Of thought reveal'd from soul to soul,
Without constraint, without controul;
The counsel freely given as sought,—
The teacher learning from the taught,
The mutual faith, by each to each
Imparted in untrammell'd speech;
The healthful play of heart, which springs
From free and genial questionings
On subjects of allow'd debate
Affecting our eternal state.
Thanks! for the moral freedom wrought
By womanly and manly thought;—
Thanks! for the moral health sustain'd
By Christian courage unrestrain'd;—
Thanks! for the full communion given,
Through priestcraft's fall, 'twixt earth and heaven;—
Thanks! for the deep and quiet bliss,—
The faith, the strength, which flow from this.
God grant that it through time may last!
God give us grace to hold it fast!
In Church and State, in hearth and home,
God shield us from the guile of Rome!
And help us to stand firm and free
In this our Christian liberty!

Such thoughts within me would arise,
As in the light of those sweet eyes
I sat, and saw their soul-lit ray
Grow brighter still from day to day.
From that fair cheek and marble brow
Death's shadow had departed now;
And she, though oft with pain at strife,
Once more resign'd herself to life;
Content deliverance to forego
From its dull weight of care and woe;
Still of her crown to feel the loss,
And bear the burden of the cross,
Till she by patience might fulfil
Her Father's and her Saviour's will.

So weeks and months flew swiftly by,
And still, from time to time, did I—
My daily round of duty o'er,—
Return at evening to her door;
Too happy if I then might share,
Beside her couch or easy chair,
Some brief exchange of thought for thought;
Where each from each received unsought
Some mutual gift, and some bestow'd;
Each somewhat to the other owed
Of doubt resolved, of knowledge gain'd,
Of care beguiled, of faith sustain'd,
Of speculation high and keen
Set wandering through the world unseen.
Nor lack'd we moods of talk more gay,
And cheerful intellectual play;
In genial flow of temperate mirth,
Discoursing oft of things on earth,
Till heart to heart itself had shown
In weakness, as in strength, made known;
Array'd in nature's week-day dress
Of plain, unvarnish'd homeliness;
And confidence between us grew
From all that each both felt and knew.

But this was not to last;—again
Burst on her the fierce storm of pain;
So fierce, so fell, that to her side
All access was perforce denied,
And weeks and weeks wore darkly past,
And her sweet life was waning fast,
Ere I again approach'd the gloom
Of that dim, closely-curtain'd room;
Then, when the strife seem'd nearly o'er,
They came to ask my prayers once more;—
Once more beside her couch I knelt,
Once more, in high communion, dwelt,
With her pure spirit, upon themes
Transcending the sublimest dreams
Of sage or prophet, but which she
With the soul's eye began to see,
Touch'd with such hues as angels paint
To vision of expiring saint.
For she had now approach'd the bar
'Twixt things which seem and things which are;
And through the mists of fleshly sense
Almost discern'd, with gaze intense,
Glories unknown to mortal eye,
And heard faint snatches floating by
Of music which no fleshly ear
Amidst the din of life can hear.
O! those brief moments daily given
Of peace which seem'd the peace of Heaven!
When through the darkness I could trace
The outline of that angel face,
And with intent, habituate eye
Its hidden loveliness descry,
Unchanged by all that anguish sore
Which still from day to day she bore
In faith and patience, while the strife
Was raging between death and life.
O! those high thoughts between us bred!
The rapture of that dying-bed!
That intercourse serene and free,
Of full, congenial sympathy,
Which o'er our spirits breathed the balm
Of Paradise, sublimely calm!—
An antepast of their high lot
Who like the angels marry not.

But now arrived a darker hour,
When she, beneath the o'erwhelming power
Of agony, no more could bear
The bedside tread, the whisper'd prayer.
So weary weeks again wore by,—
She waned and waned, but could not die;
For the pure spirit's swift release
From fleshly bonds to rest and peace,
We pray'd and hoped—to hope and pray
Again—again—from day to day.

At last the blest deliverance came,
And from that worn and wasted frame
Reclaim'd, restored, renew'd, forgiven,
Her saintly spirit pass'd to Heaven.
'Twas mine, “in sure and certain” trust
To render back her dust to dust;
And from the grave, wherein inurn'd
The body lay, when I return'd
To my known round of duties back,
I felt that o'er my daily track
A seraph watch'd, thenceforth to be
For ever in my company.
I felt that to that heavenly cloud
Of witnesses, which in the crowd
And coil of earth I once have known,—
Now compassing the eternal throne,—
And chiefly those to whom through me
The grace was sent which made them free
From fear and doubt—one witness more
Was added, whom, when death is o'er,
I trust that I again shall meet,
Sweet as on earth—and scarce more sweet.
And now when I to thought recall
My heart's best treasures, one and all,
I count, upon that list of love,
One less below, one more above;
And know that to my charge was sent,
With gracious and benign intent,
A saintly soul, to whom 'twas given
To draw me in her wake toward Heaven.

EPITAPH.

A saintlier spirit, in a lovelier frame,
Ne'er foil'd Death's sharpest sting, than thine in thee;
Now sleep secure in Christ's victorious Name,
And where thou art may all who love thee be!