University of Virginia Library

My tale is brief yet strange (the Elder said);
Altho' the days of miracles are fled,
Hear it and mark, all ye who smile at prayer!

John Sutherland, a minister of Ayr,
Stern and unbending, yet a man of worth,
Had one weak child, who, deaf and dumb from birth,
Had never spoke a word or heard a sound.
The mother, with her wild arms folded round
The breathing babe, and eyes upraised to see
Her husband's face set hard in agony,
Had blest them both, the father and the child,
And sank to slumber, even as she smiled
That last farewell and tryst to meet again
Beyond earth's clouds of cruelty and pain.
Thus was the weary widower left alone
To keep sad watch o'er his afflicted son,
A tiny tender waif of feeble breath,
Wordless and still, a thing of life-in-death.

Now God, who to this little child forbad
The pretty speech that makes a parent glad
Who shut the tender doorways of his head,
Closing his soul in silence deep and dread,
Had made him very beautiful and bright,
With golden hair and eyes of heavenly light,
As sweet and bright a bairn in sooth was he
As ever crowed upon a father's knee!
And lo! the father loved him with a love
Passing the love of women and above
All dreams of men more lonely and more blest,
Fondly he reared him, sleeping and at rest,
And ever as he grew more strong and fair
Watching him with a haggard eye of care.
And so, though in that lonely house was heard
No baby prattling and no half-lisp'd word
To show the little spirit was astir,
The child became a silent messenger
Of love and blessing to the afflicted man;
And after, when the little one began
To move upon its feet, and when it knew
The joy of life as happier children do,
The minister thanked God that it was sent
To be his loving comfort and content.
But ever in his hour of happiness
One thought to this good man brought dire distress,
Exceeding pity, and a nameless fear,
'Twas that the little one could never hear
The living voice of prayer,—nor understand
The Book of blessing writ by God's own hand.
How, then, since our salvat on we must reach
Only by what the holy gospels teach
(Nay, smile not, for his faith was absolute!),
Could that afflicted stem bear heavenly fruit?
How, never having even heard Christ's name,
And how to atone for Adam's fall He came,
Could this poor child be saved?

In secret fear
He watched the child grow on from year to year,
Till it was four years old; and then at length,
Having in secret prayed with all his strength,
He said, ‘The bairn shall not forsaken be
Through any lack of fitting faith in me,
But daily in his presence I will read
A chapter of the Holy Book, and plead
That God, who works all wonders, may convey
The message to his soul in some strange way
I comprehend not.’

Ever after that
Each day with book in hand the father sat,
Reading a portion of the Holy Word
To his beloved, who neither spoke nor heard,
But ever with a silent sweet distress,
Shut in his little cloud of silentness,
Seem'd trying prettily to understand;
And sometimes he would stretch his tiny hand
And lay it softly on the leaves, meanwhile
Uplooking with a bright and heavenly smile.
And presently this time to read and pray
Became so loved a duty of the day
Ev'n to the child, that oft the little one,
Eager to see the silent service done,
Would run and lift the great book merrily,
And setting it upon his father's knee,
Look up, and wait, with sweet expectant gaze.

And ever after, on the Sabbath days
When in the church the father preached and taught,
Thither the little silent one was brought,
And while the deep hymn rose, or from above
The good man preached of God's great strength and love
(Nay, very often, if the truth be told,
Of God's avenging judgments manifold—
For the man's creed was gloomy enough and sad),
Below him, looking round with glances glad
Out of his cloud of silence, the pale boy
Beheld the service with mysterious joy,
Smiled, while the light on painted windows played,
Watch'd while the black-robed preacher preached and prayed,
Saw the folk rise and fall like waves of the sea,
Standing erect or kneeling on the knee,
And mimick'd dumbly what he saw them do,
Knelt when they knelt, and seemed to hearken too!
Ah, oftentimes the preacher from his place
Looking with blinding tears upon his face,
Seeing his darling listening as it were,
Quickened his cry of agony and despair,
And as he blest his congregation, blest
The little silent form o'er all the rest!

Thus over father and child the seasons rollèd
Until the little one was seven years old,
When suddenly, with some obscure disease
That wastes the tender blood by slow degrees,
The boy fell sick, and feebly, without pain,
The rosy light of life began to wane.
Doctors were called; they came with solemn tread
And coldly went. ‘He was not strong,’ they said.
‘Nay, 'twas a miracle that one so frail
Had lived so long and scarcely seemed to ail,
But now the end of all was surely nigh,
And in a little while the child must die.’

The father heard, and darkening in despair
Wrestled with God in agonies of prayer,
Then with the strength of loving faith moaned low,
‘My God knows best, maybe 'tis better so,
And in the air of heaven more sweet and clear
My bairn at last shall find a tongue, and hear
A music more divine than ours below!’
Thenceforward, grim as death, his hair like snow,
His body bent, with heavy hanging head,
He sat for hours beside the child and read
Out of the Holy Book! As the days passed
His hope grew stronger and less overcast,
And with a stronger voice of faith he poured
His soul forth, that his boy might know the Lord.
But ever when the seventh day came, alas!
Wearily to the pulpit would he pass,
And as he preached the news of heavenly grace
Look down and miss the upturn'd and smiling face,
The little kneeling form that once knelt there,
The tiny hands clasp'd tight in mimic prayer,
And oft his strong soul shook, his head was bowed,
And in the people's sight he sobbed aloud!

At last one quiet Sabbath eventide,
When home he hastened to the bairn's bedside,
He found him lying very wan and white,
His face illumed by the red sunset light
That crept across the pane, and on the bed
Like roses bright was luminously shed.
His eyes were closed, and on his face there fell
The shadow of some peace ineffable,
And very softly, thinking that he slept,
The father by the bedside knelt, and wept.
But suddenly the piteous eyes of azure
Were opened with a heavenly look of pleasure,
The little arms up-reach'd, the pale face yearned,
The soft mouth pouting for a kiss upturned,
And while the strong man in his anguish shook,
The sick bairn smiled, and pointing to the Book,
Which lay by open, made a sign he knew
That he should read as he was wont to do.
He took the Book, and on it fixed his eyes,
And choking down the tears that still would rise,
Read in a broken voice that chapter blest
Which tells of ‘Quiet Waters,’ peace and rest,
Where all the weary shall have comforting.

Now, mark what followed:—I but tell this thing,
As it was told to me, by one who heard
The very man relate it word by word.
Even as he sat and read, and seem'd to hear
Those heavenly waters softly murmuring near,
There came a cry, and startled at the sound
He raised his eyes and saw with glory crowned
The child's seraphic face! and lo! he heard,
With all his being mystically stirred,
The dumb lips speak! Yea, on his ears there fell
A faint last cry of rapture and farewell;
The bairn stretched out his little arms and cried,
‘Yes, papa!—quiet waters!’—smiled, and died! . . .

O faith divine of days ere faith was fled!
Light of a creed once quick that now is dead!
Was it reality or but a dream?
Did the voice call indeed, or only seem?
Who knows? and who can tell which most doth prove,—
A miracle of fact or one of Love?
Yet this is sure—could such deep faith have seat
Again in some few hearts of all that beat,
Mammon and Antichrist would cease to reign,
Doubts die, and miracles be wrought again!