The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith

Second edition

Smith, Elizabeth Oakes Prince (1806-1893)

THE SINLESS CHILD.

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THE SINLESS CHILD.

“I say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father, which is in heaven.”—

Matthew, xviii.10.

INSCRIPTION.

Sweet Eva! shall I send thee forth, to other hearts to speak?
With all thy timidness and love companionship to seek?
Send thee with all thy abstract ways, thy more than earthly tone—
An exile, dearest, send thee forth, thou, who art all mine own!
Thou art my spirit's cherished dream, its pure ideal birth;
And thou hast nestled in my heart, with love that's not of earth.
Alas! for I have failed, methinks, thy mystic life to trace;
Thy holiness of thought and soul, thy wild enchanting grace.

Thou dwellest still within my heart, thy beauty all unsung;
Like bells that wake the village ear, by echo sweeter rung;
And as thy graces one by one upon my fancy steal,
There lingereth yet another grace the soul alone can feel.
With thee I've wandered, cherished one, at twilight's dreamy hour,
To learn the language of the bird, the mystery of the flower;
And gloomy must that sorrow be, which thou couldst not dispel,
As thoughtfully we loitered on by stream or sheltered dell.

Thou fond Ideal! vital made, the trusting, earnest, true,
Who fostered sacred, undefiled, my heart's pure, youthful dew;
Thou woman-soul, all tender, meek, thou wilt not leave me now
To bear alone the weary thoughts that stamp an aching brow!
Yet go! I may not say farewell, for thou wilt not forsake,
Thou'lt linger, Eva, wilt thou not, all hallowed thoughts to wake?
Then go; and speak to kindred hearts in purity and truth;
And win the spirit back again, to Love, and Peace, and Youth.

1. PART I.

Eva, a simple cottage maiden, given to the world in the widowhood of one parent, and the angelic existence of the other, like a bud developed amid the sad sweet sunshine of autumn, when its sister-flowers are all sleeping, is found from her birth to be as meek and gentle as are those pale flowers that look imploringly upon us, blooming as they do apart from the season destined for their existence, and when those that should hold tender companionship with them have ceased to be. She is gifted with the power of interpreting the beautiful mysteries of our earth. The delicate pencilling traced upon the petals of the flowers, she finds full of gentle wisdom, as well as beauty. The song of the bird is not merely the gushing forth of a nature too full of blessedness to be silent, but she finds it responsive to the great harp of the universe, whose every tone is wisdom and goodness. The humblest plant, the simplest insect, is each alive with truth. More than this, she beholds a divine agency in all things, carrying on the great purposes of love and wisdom by the aid of innumerable happy spirits, each delighting in the part assigned it. She sees the world, not merely with mortal eyes, but looks within to the pure internal life, of which the outward is but a type. Her mother, endowed with ordinary perceptions, fails to understand the high

spiritual character of her daughter, but feels daily the truthfulness and purity of her life. The neighbors, too, feel that Eva is unlike her sex only in greater truth and elevation.

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.

2. PART II.

The widow, accustomed to forms, and content with the faith in which she has been reared, a faith which is habitual, rather than earnest and soul-requiring, leaves Eva to learn the wants and tendencies of the soul, by observing the harmony and beauty of the external world. Even from infancy she seems to have penetrated the spiritual through the material; to have beheld the heavenly, not through a glass darkly, but face to face, by means of that singleness and truth, that looks within the veil. To the pure in heart alone is the promise, “They shall see God.”

Untiring all the weary day
The widow toiled with care,
And scarcely cleared her furrowed brow
When came the hour of prayer;
The voices, that on every side,
The prisoned soul call forth,
And bid it in its freedom walk,
Rejoicing in the earth;

Fall idly on a deafened ear,
A heart untaught to thrill
When music gusheth from the bird,
Or from the crystal rill;
She moves unheeding by the flower
With its ministry of love,
And feels no sweet companionship,
With silent stars above.

Alas! that round the human soul
The cords of earth should bind,
That they should bind in darkness down
The light—discerning mind—
That all its freshness, freedom, gone,
Its destiny forgot,
It should, in gloomy discontent,
Bewail its bitter lot.

But Eva, while she turned the wheel,
Or toiled in homely guise,
With buoyant life was all abroad,
Beneath the pleasant skies;
And sang all day from lightsome heart,
From joy that in her dwelt,
That evermore the soul is free,
To go where joy is felt.

All lowly and familiar things
In earth, or air, or sky,
A lesson brought to Eva's mind
Of import deep and high;

She learned, from blossom in the wild,
From bird upon the wing,
From silence and the midnight stars,
Truth dwells in everything.

The careless winds that round her played
Brought voices to her ear,
But Eva, pure in thought and soul,
Dreamed never once of fear—
The whispered words of angel lips
She heard in forest wild,
And many a holy spell they wrought,
About the Sinless Child.

And much she loved the forest walk,
Where round the shadows fell,
The solitude of mountain height,
Or green and lowly dell;
The brook dispensing verdure round,
And singing on its way,
Now coyly hid in fringe of green,
Now wild in sparkling play.

She early marked the butterfly,
That gay, mysterious thing,
That, bursting from its prison-house
Appeared on golden wing;
It had no voice to speak delight,
Yet on the floweret's breast,
She saw it mute and motionless,
In long, long rapture rest.

She said, that while the little shroud
Beneath the casement hung,
A kindly spirit lingered near,
As dimly there it swung;
That music sweet and low was heard
To hail the perfect life,
And Eva felt that insect strange
With wondrous truth was rife.

It crawled no more a sluggish thing
Upon the lowly earth;
A brief, brief sleep, and then she saw
A new and radiant birth;
And thus she learned without a doubt,
That man from death would rise,
As did the butterfly on wings,
To claim its native skies.

The rainbow, bending o'er the storm,
A beauteous language told;
For angels, twined with loving arms,
She plainly might behold,
And in their glorious robes they bent
To earth in wondrous love,
As they would lure the human soul
To brighter things above.

The bird would leave the rocking branch
Upon her hand to sing,
And upward turn its fearless eye
And plume its glossy wing,

And Eva listened to the song,
Till all the sense concealed
In that deep gushing forth of joy,
Became to her revealed.

And when the bird a nest would build,
A spirit from above
Directed all the pretty work,
And filled its heart with love.
And she within the nest would peep
The colored eggs to see,
But never touch the dainty things,
For a thoughtful child was she.

Much Eva loved the twilight hour,
When shadows gather round,
And softer sings the little bird,
And insect from the ground;
She felt that this within the heart
Must be the hour of prayer,
For even earth in quietude
Did own its Maker there.

The still moon in the saffron sky
Hung out her silver thread,
And the bannered clouds in gorgeous folds
A mantle round her spread.
The gentle stars came smiling down
Upon the brilliant sky,
That looked a meet and glorious dome,
For worship pure and high;

And Eva lingered, though the gloom
Had deepened into shade;
And many thought that spirits came
To teach the Sinless Maid,
For oft her mother sought the child
Amid the forest glade,
And marvelled that in darksome glen,
So tranquilly she stayed.

For every jagged limb to her
A shadowy semblance hath,
Of spectres and distorted shapes,
That frown upon her path,
And mock her with their hideous eyes;
For when the soul is blind
To freedom, truth, and inward light,
Vague fears debase the mind:

But Eva like a dreamer waked,
Looked off upon the hill,
And murmured words of strange, sweet sound,
As if there lingered still
Ethereal forms with whom she talked,
Unseen by all beside;
And she with earnest looks, besought
The vision to abide.

‘Oh Mother! Mother! do not speak,
Or all will pass away,
The spirits leave the green-hill side,
Where light the breezes play;

They sport no more by ringing brook,
With daisy dreaming by;
Nor float upon the fleecy cloud
That steals along the sky.

It grieves me much they never will
A human look abide,
But veil themselves in silver mist
By vale or mountain side.
I feel their presence round me still,
Though none to sight appear;
I feel the motion of their wings,
Their whispered language hear.

With silvery robe, and wings outspread,
They passed me even now;
And gems and starry diadem
Decked every radiant brow.
Intent were each on some kind work
Of pity or of love,
Dispensing from their healing wings
The blessings from above.

With downy pinion they enfold
The heart surcharged with wo,
And fan with balmy wing the eye
Whence floods of sorrow flow;
They bear, in golden censers up,
That sacred gift, a tear;
By which is registered the griefs,
Hearts may have suffered here.

No inward pang, no yearning love
Is lost to human hearts,
No anguish that the spirit feels,
When bright-winged hope departs;
Though in the mystery of life
Discordant powers prevail;
That life itself be weariness,
And sympathy may fail:

Yet all becomes a discipline,
To lure us to the sky;
And angels bear the good it brings
With fostering care on high,
Though human hearts may weary grow,
And sink to toil-spent sleep,
And we are left in solitude,
And agony to weep:

Yet they with ministering zeal,
The cup of healing bring,
And bear our love and gratitude
Away, on heavenward wing;
And thus the inner life is wrought,
The blending earth and heaven;
The love more earnest in its glow,
Where much has been forgiven!

I would, dear Mother, thou couldst see
Within this darksome veil,
That hides the spirit-land from thee,
And makes our sunshine pale;

The toil of earth, its doubt and care,
Would trifles seem to thee;
Repose would rest upon thy soul.
And holy mystery.

Thou wouldst behold protecting care
To shield thee on thy way,
And ministers to guard thy feet,
Lest erring, they should stray;
And order, sympathy, and love,
Would open to thine eye,
From simplest creature of the earth
To seraph throned on high.

E'en now I marked a radiant throng,
On soft wing sailing by,
To sooth with hope the trembling heart,
And cheer the dying eye;
They smiling passed the lesser sprites,
Each on his work intent;
And love and holy joy I saw
In every face were blent.

The tender violets bent in smiles
To elves that sported nigh,
Tossing the drops of fragrant dew
To scent the evening sky.
They kissed the rose in love and mirth,
And its petals fairer grew,
A shower of pearly dust they brought,
And o'er the lily threw.

A host flew round the mowing field,
And they were showering down
The cooling spray on the early grass,
Like diamonds o'er it thrown;
They gemmed each leaf and quivering spear
With pearls of liquid dew,
And bathed the stately forest tree,
Till his robe was fresh and new.

I saw a meek-eyed creature curve
The tulip's painted cup,
And bless with one soft kiss the urn,
Then fold the petals up.
A finger rocked the young bird's nest,
As high on a branch it hung.
And the gleaming night-dew rattled down,
Where the old dry leaf was flung.

Each and all, as its task is done,
Soars up with a joyous eye,
Bearing aloft some treasured gift—
An offering ON HIGH.
They bear the breath of the odorous flower,
The sound of the bright-sea shell;
And thus they add to the holy joys
Of the home where spirits dwell.

3. PART III.

The grace of the soul is sure to impart expressiveness and beauty to the face. It must beam through its external veil; and daily, as the material becomes subordinate to the spiritual, will its transparency increase. Eva was lovely, for the spirit of love folded its wings upon her breast. All nature administered to her beauty; and angelic teachings revealed whence came the power that winneth all hearts. The mother is aware of the spell resting upon her daughter, or rather, that which seemed a spell to her, but which, in truth, was nothing more than fidelity to the rights of the soul, obedience to the voice uttered in that holy of holies. Unable to comprehend the truthfulness of her character, she almost recoils from its gentle revealings. Alas! that to assimilate to the good and beautiful should debar us from human sympathy! Eva walked in an atmosphere of light, and images of surpassing sweetness were ever presented to her eye. The dark and distorted shapes that haunt the vision of the unenlightened and the erring, dared not approach her. She wept over the blindness of her mother, and tenderly revealed to her the great truths that pressed upon her own mind, and the freedom and the light in which the soul might be preserved. She blamed not the errors into which weak humanity is prone to be betrayed,

but deplored that it should thus blind its own spiritual vision, and thus impress dark and ineffaceable characters upon the soul; thus sink, where it should soar.

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.”

4. PART IV.

The widow, awe-struck at the revealments of her daughter, is desirous to learn more; for it is the nature of the soul to search into its own mysteries: however dim may be its spiritual perception, it still earnestly seeks to look into the deep and the hidden. The light is within itself, and it be comes more and more clear at every step of its progress, in search of the true and the beautiful. The widow, hardly discerning this light, which is to grow brighter and brighter to the perfect day, calls for the material lights that minister to the external eye; that thus she may be hid from those other lights that delight the vision of her child. Eva tells of that mystic book—the human soul—upon which, thoughts, shaped into deeds, whether externally, or only in its own secret chambers, inscribe a character that must be eternal. But it is not every character that is thus clearly defined as good or evil. Few, indeed, seize upon thought, and bring its properties palpably before them. Impressions are allowed to come and go with a sort of lethargic indifference, leaving no definite lines behind, but only a moral haziness. The widow recollects the story of old Richard, and Eva

enlarges upon the power of conscience, that fearful judge placed by the Infinite within the soul, with the two-fold power of decision and punishment.

“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.

“There was neither hammer nor axe, nor any tool of iron, heard in the house while it was building.”— 1 Kings, vi. 7.

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 wo.”

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 is a common belief among the vulgar, that a sigh always forces a drop of blood from the heart, and many curious stories are told to that effect; as for instance, a man wishing to be rid of his wife, in order to marry one more attractive, promised her the gift of six new dresses, and sundry other articles of female finery, provided she would sigh three times every morning before breakfast, for three months. She complied, and before the time had expired, was in her grave. Many others of a like nature might be recorded. The old writers are full of allusions of a like kind, particularly Shakspere, “blood-consuming sighs,” &c.

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 crispéd 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.

5. PART V.

The storm is raging without the dwelling of the widow, but all is tranquil within. Eva hath gone forth in spiritual vision, and beheld the cruelty engendered by wealth and luxury—the cruelty of a selfish and unsympathizing heart. Her mother tells the story of the neglected children and their affluent stepmother. Sins of omission are often as terrible in their consequences, and as frightful in the retribution, as crimes committed intentionally. Certain qualities of the heart are of such a nature, that, when in excess, they resolve themselves into appropriate forms. The symbol of evil becomes mentally identified with its substance, and the fearful shapes thus created haunt the vision like realities. The injurer is always fearful of the injured. No wrong is ever done with a sense of security; least of all, wrong to the innocent and unoffending. The belief of a Protecting Power watching over infancy, is almost universal; its agency being recognised even by those who have forgone the blessing in their own behalf. The little child is a mystery of gentleness and love, while it is preserved in its own atmosphere; and it is a fearful thing to turn its young heart to bitterness; to infuse sorrow and fear, where the

elements should be only joy and faith. In maturer years, it is ever the state of the soul the prevailing motive—the essential character that involves human peace or wretchedness. “The Kingdom of Heaven is within you,” said the Great Teacher; and as we wander from the innocence of children, and allow selfishness or vice to increase upon the domain of the holy, distrust usurps the place of confidence and joy.

The pair wile away the hours in domestic chat, Eva ever uttering her sweet mission of truth and fidelity to the internal life. The story of the Miser follows. No human law may be violated, all the claims of justice, and the common observances of society respected, and yet the soul be dead to its own real needs: may be defrauded of its “bread of life.” The miser wakes to a perception of these things, and bewildered in his helpless gloom and ignorance commits suicide.

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!

The worship of the Madonna is in the true spirit of poetry. She became to the Christian world what the Penates had been to the classical. In confining ourselves to the abstractions of religion, we run the hazard of making it one of thought rather than of emotion. A woman must always worship through her affections, and one may readily conceive the comfort which the household faith in the presence of the Madonna is likely to inspire.

“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.

We are indebted to the Aborigines for this beautiful superstition. The Indian believes that if the wekolis or whippoorwill alights upon the roof of his cabin and sings its sweet plaintive song, it portends death to one of its inmates. The omen is almost universally regarded in New England. The author recollects once hearing an elderly lady relate with singular pathos, an incident of the kind. She was blest with a son of rare endowments and great piety. In the absence of his father he was wont to minister at the family altar: and unlike the stern practices of the Pilgrims, from whose stock he was lineally descended, he prostrated himself in prayer in the lowliest humility. It was touching to hear his clear low voice, and see his spiritual face while kneeling at this holy duty.

One quiet moonlight night, while thus engaged, the mother's heart sank within her to hear the plaintive notes of the whippoorwill blending with the voice of prayer. It sat upon the roof and continued its song long after the devotions had ceased. The tears rushed to her eyes, and she embraced her son in a transport of grief. She felt it must be ominous. In one week he was borne away, and the daisies grew and the birds sang over his grave.

I need not say that this is to illustrate the well-known superstition of the vulgar, that when a foot treads upon the spot that is to be our future resting-place in death, we feel a strange unaccountable shiver.

6. PART VI.

It is the noon of summer, and the noonday of Eva's earthly existence. She hath held communion with all that is great and beautiful in nature, till it hath acquired strength and maturity, and been reared to a beautiful and harmonious temple, in which the true and the good delight to dwell. Then cometh the mystery of womanhood; its gentle going forth of the affections seeking for that holiest of companionship, a kindred spirit, responding to all its finer essences, and yet lifting it above itself. Eva had listened to this voice of her woman's nature; and sweet visions had visited her pillow. Unknown to the external vision, there was one ever present to the soul; and when he erred, she had felt a lowly sorrow that, while it still more perfected her own nature, went forth to swell likewise the amount of good in the great universe of God. At length Albert Linne, a gay youth, whose errors are those of an ardent and inexperienced nature, rather than of an assenting will, meets Eva sleeping under the canopy of the great woods, and he is at once awed by the purity that enshrouds her. He is lifted to the contemplation of the good—to a sense of the wants of his better nature. Eva awakes and recognises the

spirit that for ever and ever is to be one with hers; that is to complete that mystic marriage, known in the Paradise of God; that marriage of soul with soul. Eva the pure-minded, the lofty in thought, and great in soul, recoiled not from the errors of him who was to be made meet for the kingdom of Heaven, through her gentle agency, for the mission of the good and the loving is not to the good, but to the erring.

'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.

7. PART VII.

Eva hath fulfilled her destiny. Material things can no farther minister to the growth of her spirit. That waking of the soul to its own deep mysteries— its oneness with another—has been accomplished. A human soul is perfected. She had moved amid the beings around her one, but unlike them—in the world, but not of it. Those who had felt the wisdom of her sweet teachings, yet felt repelled, as by a sacred influence. They dared not crave companionship with a spirit so lofty, and yet so meek. And thus, though the crowd, as it were, might press upon her, she was yet alone in her true spiritual atmosphere. To them she became a light, a guide, but to Albert Linne alone, was her mission of Womanhood. In her he learned that no one seeketh in vain, the good and the true—that as our faith is, it is given unto us. He confidently sought for the Divine, and it was given unto him. He but touched her garment and she perceived the soul test.

Sorrow and pain—hope, with its kin-spirit, fear, are not for the sinless. She hath walked in an atmosphere of light, and her faith looked within the veil. The true woman, with woman's love and gentleness, and trust and childlike simplicity, yet with all her noble aspirations and spiritual discernments, she hath known them all without sin, and

sorrow may not visit such. She ceased to be present —she passed away like the petal that hath dropped from the rose—like the last sweet note of the singing-bird, or the dying close of the wind harp. Eva is the lost pleiad in the sky of womanhood. Has her spirit ceased to be upon the earth? Does it not still brood over our woman hearts?— and doth not her voice blend ever with the sweet utterance of Nature! Eva, mine own, my beautiful, I may not say—farewell.

'Twas night—bright beamed the silver moon,
And all the stars were dim;
The widow heard within the dell
Sweet voices of a hymn,
As loitering winds were made to sound
Her sinless daughter's name;
While to the roof a rare toned-bird
With wondrous music came.

And long it sat upon the cot
And poured its mellow song,
That rose upon the stilly air,
And swelled the vales along.
It was no earthly thing she deemed,
That, in the clear moonlight,
Sat on the lowly cottage roof,
And charmed the ear of night.

The sun is up, the flowerets raise
Their folded leaves from rest;
The bird is singing in the branch
Hard by its dewy nest.

The spider's thread, from twig to twig,
Is glittering in the light,
With dew-drops has the web been hung
Through all the starry night.

Why tarries Eva long in bed,
For she is wont to be
The first to greet the early bird,
The waking bud to see?
Fresh as the dew of rose lipped morn
Her sweet young face was seen,
Early amid the clustering blooms,
And woodbine's tendrilled screen.

Why tarries she in secret bower,
Where lightly to and fro,
The curtain rustles in the air,
And shadows come and go?
Why stoops her mother o'er the couch
With half-suppresséd breath,
And lifts the deep-fringed eyelid up?—
That frozen orb is death!

Why raises she the small pale hand,
And holds it to the light?
There is no clear transparent hue
To meet her dizzy sight.
She holds the mirror to her lips
To catch the moistened air:
The widowed mother stands alone
With her dead daughter there!

And yet so placid is the face,
So sweet its lingering smile,
That one might deem the sleep to be
The maiden's playful wile.
No pain the quiet limbs had racked,
No sorrow dimmed the brow,
So tranquil had the life gone forth,
She seemed but slumbering now.

They laid her down beside the brook
Upon the sloping hill,
And that strange bird with its rare note,
Is singing o'er her still.
The sunbeam warmer loves to rest
Upon the heaving mound,
And those unearthly blossoms spring,
Uncultured from the ground.

There Albert Linne, an altered man,
Oft bowed in lowly prayer,
And pondered o'er the mystic words
Which Eva uttered there.
That pure compassion, angel-like,
Which touched her soul when he,
A guilty and heart-stricken man,
Would from her presence flee;

Her sinless lips from earthly love,
So tranquil and so free;
And the low, fervent prayer for him,
She breathed on bended knee.

As Eva's words and spirit sank
More deeply in his heart,
Young Albert Linne went forth to act
The better human part.

Oft in the stillness of the night
Sweet Eva's dove-like eyes,
Beamed through the darkness of his room,
Like stars in dusky skies.
Oft came a tranquil light diffused
The darkness to beguile,
And Albert felt within his heart,
It was but Eva's smile.

Not lost, his Eva, though her form
The elements concealed,
Within the chambers of the soul,
Her meek form stood revealed;
And there he felt her heavenly eye,
Her downy arms caressed,
And like a living presence there,
She stole into his breast.

Oh not alone did Albert strive;
For, blending with his own,
In every voice of prayer or praise.
Was heard young Eva's tone.
He felt her lips upon his brow,
Her angel form beside;
And nestling nearest to his heart,
Was she—THE SPIRIT BRIDE.

The sinless Child, with mission high,
Awhile to Earth was given,
To show us that our world should be
The vestibule of Heaven.
Did we but in the holy light
Of truth and goodness rise,
We might communion hold with God
And spirits from the skies.