University of Virginia Library

A SUNDAY MORNING ECLOGUE.

WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE DEATH OF REV. GEORGE WHITNEY, OF JAMAICA PLAIN, ROXBURY, AND REV. DR. HARRIS, OF DORCHESTER.

Scene.—A rustic Cottage on a Hill-side; a Lake beneath; a Village in the distance beyond.—A Child is sitting on the bank near the cottage door, at which his Father appears.
Child.
Is it not time, dear father, for the bell?
I'm weary listening for it. Here I've sat
Since breakfast, waiting, waiting; but I hear
No sound. I'm tired of waiting!

Father.
How the child
Delights to catch the music of that bell!
And so do I, in truth. I love its peal,
As it comes swelling o'er the placid lake,
And stirs the silence of our far hill-side.
The undulating tones float calmly on,
As if from heaven's broad depths they wafted down
Sweet messages of peace, such as befit
A Sunday's sacred calm.—Come hither, boy;
Sit on the door-stone by your father's side,
And I will listen with you for the bell.

Child.
How beautiful it is!

Father.
What's beautiful?

Child.
Why, every thing;—the trees, and flowers, and clouds,
And pond, and houses;—all are beautiful.
What makes them always look most beautiful
On Sunday morning?

Father.
Do they so?

Child.
Why, yes;
And mother says so too; and then she asks,
If heaven will be more fair than this bright earth.

Father.
Well, child, and will it?

Child.
O, I asked her that;
She answered, “Surely yes;” and said the hymn,
“If God hath made this world so fair,
Where sin and death abound,
How beautiful, beyond compare,
Must Paradise be found!”
But why on Sunday should it seem most fair?

Father.
Because the mind is then in tune; its thoughts
Of holy truth have roused it to perceive
The harmony of all with things divine:
The heart, attuned to heavenly melody,
Beats in accord with nature's melodies,
Which always are of Heaven. You understand?

Child.
O, yes; for mother always says, you know,
If I am sweet and pleasant, every thing
Will pleasant be to me and sweet; and so
All things will be most heavenly to the eye
Beneath a Sabbath sun, because ourselves
Are then most heavenly.

Father.
Ay, but might we not
Find all as full of heaven another day?

Child.
Surely,—as all would pleasant be to me
If I were always in a pleasant mood.

Father.
But children fret, and then all joys are soured;
And men disturb their minds with foolish cares,
Till nature's peace and God's great presence fade;
Till noxious mists have darkened all their world,
And rarely yield a moment's glimpse of heaven.
Bless me, this day, my God, with one such glimpse!
Lift off the darkness from my soul! Remove
The dimness of my eye, that I may see,
The dulness of my ear, that I may hear,
The melodies and beauties of thy realms.

Child.
Hark! hark! Methought I heard it.—Have they bells
In heaven, father?

Father.
They have music, dear,
And worship—love and angels.—Hark!—'Tis strange!
'Tis very strange! The shadows have grown short,
The sun rides high, and yet no call to church!
The air is still—we could not fail to hear.
But what should cause that iron tongue to lie
Speechless to-day, which for two hundred years
Ne'er failed before to ring its summons forth,
Proclaiming, to the forests and the hills,
That toil had pause, and earth was bowed in praise?
What can it mean?

Child.
List, father! Up the steep,
Straight from the village, comes the sound of wheels.

Father.
And now I see the wagon, as it winds
Round yonder turn. I will approach and know
The reason of this mystery.—Neighbor, hail!
A Sabbath's salutation to you, friend!
But why this more than Sabbath's silence? Why
No customary bell?

Neighbor.
Have you not heard?

Father.
I have heard nothing.

Neighbor.
Not the heavy news
That fills the vale with sadness, and makes dim
The eyes of all its dwellers?

Father.
Not a word.

Neighbor.
Then hear and weep with them. Our pastor's dead!

Father.
Dead? Dead? Impossible; so young, so strong—
Impossible! I saw him three days since.

Neighbor.
A sudden illness, with its stern assault,
Leaped on his sturdy frame, and bore him down.
But yesterday he sat as he was wont,
Scarce conscious of an ill beyond the dull
And languid apathy which often keeps
The student from his books. This morning's sun
Beheld his spirit mounting from its clay,
And stricken children weeping o'er his corse,
Appalled and comfortless.

Father.
God comfort them,
And us, and all! What mystery is this,
That puts this fearful pause to so much life
And useful cares, so needed and so loved,—
While withered forms, that scarce can drag their limbs,
And spent their stores of blessings long ago,
Still bear the burden of infirmest age,
Helpless and hopeless! Who can note unawed
God's deep-sealed secret? Why was he not left
To run his tranquil course of seventy years,
And then, all duty done, reposing wait,—
As in the twilight of a summer's day
The rustic lingers at his cottage door,—
And to the pressure of Time's heavy hand
Yield gently, sinking to the grave as men
Withdrawing to their chambers seek their rest,
In Sleep's protecting bosom?

Neighbor.
So, last night,
In ripe old age, and ever gentle faith,
That old man passed away; life's twilight calm
Still beautiful around him; no more toil
For him on earth, and every hope in heaven.

Father.
What old man speak you of, whose sun has set
In timely beauty thus, while yonder orb
Is stricken headlong from its noonday height?

Neighbor.
You know old Father Simon; long withdrawn
From charge of holy things, but loving still
The hallowed office which so long he held,
An humble priest. A messenger was sent
To tell the venerable man that death
Had robbed our altar of its youthful priest,
And lead the elder to the vacant rite.
Guess what a thrill of consternation struck
The village heart when he, returning, told
That Father Simon, too, had died last night!
Therefore it is that every sound is mute; the church
Is closed; the scattered flock, that should have thronged
The house of prayer, amazed, and pale, retreat,
And mournful silence broods o'er all the scene.
I, too, would fain retire. I have no heart
For human intercourse to-day. Farewell!

Father.
Farewell!—His work was done. From early morn,
Through all the heat and burden of the noon,
Unresting,—always at the task he loved,—
He labored on, till round him gathering eve
Began to cast its shades. The wearied man
Now sat him down to rest; about him cast
A placid look on his accomplished task,
And smiled that all was done. What had he more
To live for? Pleasures, hopes, and useful toils,
For him there none remained, except in heaven.
There they awaited him; and there his trust
Serenely fixed, the gentle summons came,
And called him home—“Go to thy rest, old man!
Peace waits thee in the Father's house, on earth
Unknown. Go, we have known and loved thee long;
We can but weep to miss thee; but our tears
Are tears of hope as well as fond regret—
Of joy yet more than grief; of sympathy
With thy rejoicing in thy new-found bliss.”