CANTO THIRD.

I'll change my measure, and so end my lay, Too long already. I can n't manage well The metre of that master of the lyre,

Who Hiawatha, and our forest tribes Deftly described. Hexameters, I hate, And henceforth do eschew their company, For what is written irksomely, will be

Read in like manner. What did I say last In my late canto? Something, I believe Of gratitude.

Now this same gratitude Is a fine word to play on. Many a niche It fills in letters, and in billet-doux,— Its adjective a graceful prefix makes

To a well-written signature. It gleams A happy mirage in a sunny brain; But as a principle, is oft, I fear, Inoperative. Some satirist hath said

That gratitude is only a keen sense Of future favors. As regards myself, Tis my misfortune, and perhaps, my fault,

Yet I'm constrain'd to say, that where my gifts And efforts have been greatest, the return Has been in contrast. So that I have shrunk To grant myself the pleasure of great love

Lest its reward might be indifference, Or smooth deceit. Others no doubt have been More fortunate. I trust‘ tis often so: But this is my experience, on the scale

Of three times twenty years, and somewhat more. In that calm happiness which Virtue gives, Blent with the daily zeal of doing good, Mother and daughter dwelt.

Once, as they came From their kind visit to a child of need, Cheered by her blessings,— at their home they found Miranda and her son. With rapid speech,

And strong emotion that resisted tears Her tale she told. Forsaken were they both, By faithless sire and husband. He had gone To parts unknown, with an abandon'd one

He long had follow'd. Brokenly she spake Of taunts and wrongs long suffer'd and conceal'd With woman's pride. Then bitterly she pour'd Her curses on his head.

With shuddering tears They press'd her to their hearts. “Come back! Come back! To your first home, and Heaven's compassions heal

Your wounded spirit.” Lovingly they cast Their mantle o'er her, striving to uplift Her thoughts to heavenly sources, and allure

To deeds of charity, that draw the sting From selfishness of sorrow.” But she shrank From social intercourse, nor took her seat

Even in the House of God, lest prying eyes Should gloat upon her downfall. Books, nor work Enticed her, and the lov'd piano's tone Waking sad echoes of the days that were,

She seem'd to shun. Her joy was in her child. The chief delight and solace of her life To adorn his dress, and trim his shining curls, Dote on his beauty, and conceal his faults,

With weak indulgence. “Oh, Miranda, love! Teach your fair boy, obedience.‘ Tis the first Lesson of life. To him, you fill the place

Of that Great Teacher who doth will us all To learn submission.” But Miranda will'd In her own private mind, not to adopt

Such old-world theories, deeming the creed Of the grey-headed Mother, obsolete. — Her boy was fair; but in those manners fail'd That render beauty pleasing. Great regard

Had he for self, and play, and dainty food, Unlike those Jewish children, who refused The fare luxurious of Chaldea's king, And on their simple diet grow more fair

And healthful than their mates, and wiser too, Than the wise men of Babylon. I've seen Ill-fortune follow those, whose early tastes

Were pampered and inured to luxury. Their palates seem'd to overtop the brain, And the rank Dives-pleasure, to subvert Childhood's simplicity of sweet content.

— Precocious appetites, when overruled, Or disappointed, lend imperious strength To evil tempers, and a fierce disdain. Methought, our Mother-Land, in this respect

Had wiser usages. Her little ones At their own regular, plain table learn'd No culinary criticism, nor claim'd Admission to the richly furnish'd board

Nor deem'd the viands of their older friends Pertain'd to them. A pleasant sight it was At close of day, their simple supper o'er,

To find them in the quiet nursery laid, Like rose-buds folded in a fragrant sheath To peaceful slumber. Hence their nerves attain'd Firm texture, and the key-stone of the frame,

This wondrous frame, so often sinn'd against,— Unwarp'd and undispeptic, gave to life A higher zest. Year after year swept by,

And Conrad's symmetry of form and face Grew more conspicuous. Yet he fail'd to win Approval from the pious, or desire To seek him as companion for their sons.

— At school and college he defied restraint, And round the associates of his idle hours Threw a mysterious veil. But rumor spake Of them, as those who would be sure to bring

Disgrace and infamy. Strong thirst for gold Sprang with the weeds of vice. His mother's purse Was drain'd for him, and when at length she spake

In warm remonstrance, he with rudeness rush'd Out of her presence, or withdrew himself All night from her abode. Then she was fain To appease his anger by some lavish gift

From scant resources, which she ill could spare, Making the evil worse. The growth of sin Is rank and rapid when the youthful heart

Abjures the sway of duty. Weaving oft The mesh of falsehood, may it not forget What the truth is? The wavering, moral sense Depraved and weaken'd, fails to grasp the clue

Of certainty, nor scruples to deny Words utter'd, and deeds done, for conscience sleeps Stifled, and callous. Fearful must it be, When Truth offended and austere, confronts

The false soul at Heaven's bar. An aged man Dwelt by himself upon a dreary moor, And it was whisper'd that a miser's hoard

Absorb'd his thoughts. There, at the midnight hour The unwonted flash of lights was seen by those Who chanced to pass, and entering in, they found

The helpless inmate murder'd in his bed, And the house rifled. Differing tracks they mark'd Of flying footsteps in the moisten'd soil,

And eager search ensued. At length, close hid In a dense thicket, Conrad they espied, His shoes besmear'd with blood. Question'd of those

Who with him in this work of horror join'd, He answered nothing. All unmov'd he stood Upon his trial, the nefarious deed

Denying, and of his accomplices Disclosing nought. But still there seem'd a chain Of evidence to bind him in its coil, And Justice had her course. The prison bolts

Closed heavily behind him, and his doom For years, with felons was incorporate. Of the wild anguish and despair that reign'd In his ancestral home, no words can give

Description meet. In the poor mother's mind Reason forsook its throne. Her last hope gone, Torn by a torrent from her death-like grasp,

Having no anchor on the eternal Rock, She plunged beside it, into gulphs profound. — She slept not, ate not, heeded no kind word, Caress of fondness, or benignant prayer:

She only shriek'd, “My boy! my beautiful! They bind his hands!” And then with frantic cries

She struggled‘ gainst imaginary foes, Till strength was gone. Through the long syncope Her never-resting lips essay'd to form

The gasping sounds, “My boy! my beautiful! Hence! Caitiffs! hence! my boy! my beautiful!” And in that unquell'd madness life went out,

Like lamp before the blast. With sullen port Of bravery as one who scorns defeat Though it hath come upon him, Conrad met

The sentence of the law. But its full force He fail'd to estimate; the stern restraint On liberty of movement, coarsest fare, Stripes for the contumacious, and for all

Labor, and silence. The inquiring glance On the new-comer bent, from stolid eyes Of malefactors, harden'd to their lot,

And hating all mankind, he coldly shunn'd Or haughtily return'd. Yet there were lights Even in this dark abode, not often found In penal regions, where the wrath of man

Is prompt to punish, and remembereth not The mercy that himself doth ask of God. — A just man was the warden and humane, Not credulous, or easily deceiv'd,

But hopeful of our nature, though deprav'd, And for the incarcerate, careful to restrain All petty tyranny. Courteous was he

To visitants, for many such there were. Philanthropists, whose happy faith believ'd Prisons reforming schools, came here to scan Arrangements and appliances as guides

To other institutions: strangers too, Who‘ mid their explorations of the State, Scenery and structures, would not overlook Its model-prison.

Now and then, was seen Some care-worn mother, leading by the hand Her froward boy, with hope that he might learn A lesson from the punishment he saw.

— When day was closed and to his narrow cell Bearing his supper, every prisoner went, The night-lock firmly clench'd, beside some grate While the large lamp thro’ the long corridors

Threw flickering light, the Chaplain often stood Conversing. Of the criminal's past life He made inquiry, and receiv'd replies Foreign from truth, or vague and taciturn:

And added pious counsels, unobserv'd, Heeded but slightly, or ill understood. The leaden-footed weeks o'er Conrad pass'd, With deadening weight.

Privation bow'd his pride. The lily-handed, smiting at the forge, Detested life, and meditated means To accomplish suicide.

At dusk of eve, While in his cell, on darkest themes he mused, Before his grate, a veiled woman stood. — She spake not, but her presence made him glad,—

A purer atmosphere seem'd breathing round To expand his shrivell'd heart. Fair gifts she brought, Roses fresh-blown, and cates, and fragrant fruits

Most grateful to his fever'd lip. “Oh speak! Speak to me!” But she glided light away,

And heavenly sweet, her parting whisper said “Good night! With the new moon I'll come again.” “With the new Moon!” Hope! hope! Its magic wand

With phosphorescence ting'd that Stygian pool Of chill despair, in which his soul had sank Lower and lower still. Now, at the forge A blessed vision gleam'd. Its mystery woke

The romance of his nature. Every day Moved lighter on, and when he laid it down, It breathed “good night!” like a complacent child Going to rest. One barrier less remain'd

Between him and the goal, and to each night A tarrying, tedious guest, he bade farewell, Like lover, counting toward his spousal-morn. But will she come?

And then, he blamed the doubt. His pulse beat quicker, as the old moon died. And when the slender sickle of pale gold Cut the blue concave, by his grated door

Stood the veil'd visitant. The breath of flowers Foretold her coming. With their wealth she brought Grapes in the cluster, and a clasped Book, The holiest, and the best.

“Show me thine eyes!” He pray'd. But still with undrawn veil, she gave The promise of return, in whisper sweet, “Good night! good night!

Wilt read my Book? and say Oh Lamb of God, forgive!” So, by the lamp When tardy Evening still'd the din of toil,

He read of Him who came to save the lost, Who touch'd the blind, and they receiv'd their sight, The dead young man, and raised him from his bier, Reproved the raging Sea, and it was still:

Deeds that his boyhood heard unheedingly. But here, in this strange solitude of pain With different voice they spake. And as he read, The fragrance of the mignionette he loved,

Press'd‘ tween the pages, lured him onward still. Now, a new echo in his heart was born, And sometimes mid the weary task, and leer Of felon faces, ere he was aware

From a compress'd unmurmuring lip, it broke, O Lamb of God! If still unquell'd Despair Thrust up a rebel standard, down it fell At the o'er-powering sigh, O Lamb of God!

And ere upon his pallet low, he sank, It sometimes breathed, “O Lamb of God, forgive! Like the taught lesson of a humbled child. Yet duly as the silver vested moon

Hiding awhile in the dark breast of night Return'd to take her regent watch again Over our sleeping planet, softly came That shrouded visitant, preferring still

Like those who guard us lest we dash our foot Against a stone, to do her blessed work Unseen. And with the liberal gifts she brought For body, and for soul, there seem'd to float

A legacy of holy themes and thoughts Behind her, like an incense-stream. He mused Oft-times of patience, and the dying love Of our dear Lord, nor yet without remorse

Of that unsullied Truth which Vice rejects, And God requires. How beautiful is Truth! Her right-lined course, amid the veering curves

And tangents of the world, her open face Seeking communion with the scanning stars, Her grave, severe simplicity of speech Untrammelled by the wiles of rhetoric,

By bribes of popular applause unbow'd, In unison with Him she dwells who ruled The tyranny of Chaos, with the words “Let there be light!”

Gladly we turn again To that fair mansion mid the rural vales Where first our song awoke. Advancing years Brought to its blessed Lady no regret

Or weak complaint for what the hand of Time Had borne away. Enduring charms were hers On which he laid no tax; the beaming smile, The voice of melody, the hand that mark'd

Each day with deeds of goodness, and the heart That made God's gift of life more beautiful, The more prolong'd. Its griefs she counted gains, Since He who wisely will'd them cannot err,

And loves while He afflicts. Their dialect Was breathed in secret‘ tween her soul and Him. But toward mankind, her duties made more pure

By the strong heat of their refining fires, Flow'd forth like molten gold. She sought the poor, Counsell'd the ignorant, consoled the sad, And made the happy happier, by her warmth

Of social sympathy. She loved to draw The young around her table; well she knew To cheer and teach them, by the tale or song, Or sacred hymn, for music dwelt with her

Till life went out. It pleased her much to hear Their innocent merriment, while from the flow And swelling happiness of childhood's heart So simply purchased, she herself imbibed

A fuller tide of fresh vitality. Her favor'd guests exultingly rehears'd Their visits to “the Lady,” counting each A privilege, not having learned the creed

Which modern times inculcate in our land That whatsoe'er is old, is obsolete. — Still ever at her side, by night and day Was Bertha, entering into every plan,

With zealous aid, assuming every care That brought a burden, catching every smile On the clear mirror of a loving heart, Which by reflection doubled. Thus they dwelt,

Mother and daughter, in sweet fellowship, One soul betwixt them. Filial piety Thrives best with generous natures. Here was nought Of self to cheek it, so it richly bloom'd

Like the life-tree, that yieldeth every month New fruits, still hiding mid its wealth of leaves The balm of healing. In that peaceful home

The fair-haired orphan was a fount of joy, Spreading her young heart like a tintless sheet For Love to write on. Sporting‘ mid the flowers, Caroling with the birds, or gliding light

As fawn, her fine, elastic temperament Took happiest coloring from each varying hour Or changing duty. Kind, providing cares Which younglings often thoughtlessly receive

Or thankless claim, she gratefully repaid With glad obedience. Pleas'd was she to bear Precocious part in household industry, Round shining bars to involve the shortening thread,

And see the stocking grow, or side by side With her loved benefactresses to work Upon some garment for the ill-clad poor, With busy needle. As their almoner,

‘ Twas her delight to seek some lowly hut And gliding thence, with noiseless footstep, leave With her kind dole, a wonder whence it came. — A heavenly blessing wrapp'd its wing around

The adopted orphanage. Oh ye whose homes Are childless, know ye not some little heart Collapsing, for the need of parent's love,

That ye might breathe upon? some outcast lamb That ye might shelter in your fold? content To make the sad eye sparkle, guide the feet In duty's path, bring a new soul to Heaven,

And take your payment from the Judge's Voice, At the Last Day? — A tireless tide of joy, A world of pleasure in the garden bound,

Open'd to Leonore. From the first glance Of the frail Crocus through its snowy sheath, On, to the ripen'd gatherings of the Grape, And thorn-clad chestnut, all was sweet to her.

She loved to plant the seed and watch the germ, And nurse the tender leaflet like a babe, And lead the tendril right. To her they seem'd Like living friends. She sedulously mark'd

Their health and order, and was skill'd to prune The too luxuriant spray, or gadding vine. She taught the blushing Strawberry where to run, And stoop'd to kiss the timid Violet,

Blossoming in the shade, and sometimes dream'd The Lily of the lakelet, calmly throned On its broad leaf, like Moses in his ark, Spake words to her. And so, as years fled by,

Young Fancy, train'd by Nature, turn'd to God. Her clear, Teutonic mind, took hold on truth And found in every season, change of joy. — Yet her prime pleasure seem'd at wintry eve

Tho’ storms might fall, when from its branching arms The antique candelabra shed fair light On polished wainscot and rich curtains dropp'd Close o'er the casements, she might draw her seat

Near to her aged friend and take her hand And frame her voice to join some tuneful song, Treasuring whate'er of wise remark distill'd From those loved lips.

Then, as her Mentor spoke Of God's great goodness in this mortal life, Teaching us both by sorrow and by joy, And how we ought to yield it back with trust

And not with dread, whenever He should call, Having such precious promises, through Christ Of gain unspeakable, beyond the grave, The listening pupil felt her heart expand

With reverent love. Friendship,‘ tween youth and age Is gain to both,— nor least to that which finds The germs of knowledge and experience drop

And twine themselves around the unfrosted locks, A fadeless coronet. In this sweet home The lengthen'd day seem'd short for their delights, And wintry evening brief. The historic page

Made vocal, brought large wealth to memory. The lore of distant climes, that rose and fell Ere our New World, like Lazarus came forth, The napkin round her forehead, and sate down

Beside her startled sisters. Last of all, The large time-honor'd Bible loos'd its clasps And shed its manna on their waiting souls;

Then rose the sacred hymn in blended tones, By Bertha's parlor-organ made intense In melody of praise, and fervent Prayer Set its pure crown upon the parted day,

And kiss'd the Angel, Sleep. Yet ere they rose From bended knee, there was a lingering pause, A silent orison for one whose name

But seldom pass'd their lips, though in their hearts His image with its faults and sorrows dwelt, Invoking pity of a pardoning God. — Thus fled the years away, the cultured glebe

Stirr'd by the vernal plough-share, yielding charms To Summer, pouring wealth o'er Autumn's breast, Pausing from weary toil, when Winter comes, Bringing its Sabbath, as the man of eld

With snow upon his temples, peaceful sits In his arm-chair, to ruminate and rest. Once, at that season when the ices shrink Befere the vernal equinox, at morn

There was no movement in the Lady's room, Who prized the early hours like molten gold, And ever rose before the kingly Sun. — On the white pillow still reposed her head,

Her cheek upon her hand. She had retired In health, affection's words, and trustful prayers Hallowing her lips. Now, on her brow there seem'd Unwonted smoothness, and the smile was there

Set as a seal, with which the call she heard, “Come! sister-spirit!” She had gain'd the wish Oft utter'd to her God, to pass away

Without the sickness and enfeebled powers That tax the heart of love. Death that unbars Unto the ready soul the Gate of Heaven, Claiming no pang or groan from failing flesh,

Doth angel-service. But alas! the shock, The chill, the change, the anguish, where she dwelt, And must return no more. As one amaz'd

The stricken daughter held her breath for awe, God seem'd so near. Methought she saw the Hand That smote her. Half herself was reft away, Body and soul. Yet no repining word

Announc'd her agony. The tolling bell To hill and valley, told with solemn tongue That death had been among them, and at door

And window listening, aged crone and child Counted its strokes, a stroke for every year, And predicated thence, as best they might, Whom they had lost. Neighbor of neighbor ask'd,

Till the sad tidings were possess'd by all. — A village funeral is a thing that warns All from their homes. In the throng'd city's bound, Hearses unnoticed pass, and none inquire

Who goeth to his grave. But rural life Keepeth afresh the rills of sympathy. True sorrow was there at these obsequies, For all the poor were mourners. There the old

Came in the garments she had given, bow'd down With their own sense of loss. O'er furrow'd cheeks In care-worn channels stole the trickling tear. The young were weepers, for their memories stored

Many a gentle word, and precept kind, Like jewels dropp'd behind her. Mothers rais'd Their little ones above the coffin's side To look upon her face. Lingering they gazed

Deeming the lovely Lady sweetly slept Among the flowers that on her pillow lay. He's but a tyro in the school of grief Who hath not from the victor-tomb return'd

Unto his rifled home. The utter weight Of whelming desolation doth not fall Till the last rites are paid. The cares of love Having no longer scope, withdraw their shield,

And even the seat whereon the lost one sate, The pen he held, the cup from which he drank, Launch their keen darts against the festering soul. — The lonely daughter, never since her birth

Divided from the mother, having known No separate pleasure, or secreted thought, With deep humility resumed her course Of daily duty and philanthropy,

Not murmuring, but remembering His great love Who lent so long that blessing beyond price, And from her broken censer offering still Incense of praise.

She deem'd it fearful loss To lose a sorrow, be chastis'd in vain, Not yield our joys, but have them rent away, And make this life a battle-field with God.

The sombre shadow brooding o'er their home Was felt by all. The heart of Leonore Dwindled and shrank beneath it. Vigor fled, The untastcd meal, and couch bedew'd with tears

Gave the solution to her wasted flesh, And drooping eye-lids. Folded in her arms, Bertha with tender accents said, “my child,

We please not her who to the angels went, By hopeless grief. Doubt not her watchful eye Regards us, though unseen. How oft she taught To make God's will our own. You, who were glad

To do her bidding then, distress her not By disobedience now. Waste not the health In reckless martyrdom, which Heaven hath link'd With many duties, and with hope to dwell

If faithful found, with Her who went before And beckoning waits us.” From dull trance of grief By kind reproof awakened, Leonore

Strove to redeem her scholarship from blame And be a comforter, as best she might To her remaining patroness. Within

The limits of a neighboring town, a wretch Fell by the wayside, struck by sudden Death That vice propels. A Man of God, who sought Like his blest Master every form of woe

Found him, and to a shelter and a couch Convey'd. Then bending down, with earnest words For time grew short, he urg'd him to repent. “Say, Lord have mercy on my soul.

Look up Unto the Lamb of God, for He can save Even to the uttermost.” Slight heed obtain'd

This adjuration, wild the glazing eye Fix'd on the wall,— and ever and anon The stiffening fingers clutch'd at things unseen, While from those spent lungs came a shuddering sound,

“That's he! That's he! The old man! His grey hairs Dabbled with blood!” Then in a loud, long cry,

Wrung out by torturing pain, “I struck the blow! I tell ye that I struck the blow, and scaped. Conrad who bore the doom is innocent,

Save fellowship with guilt.” And so he fled; The voice of prayer around him, but the soul Beyond its reach. The kneeling Pastor rose

Sadly, as when the Shepherd fails to snatch A wanderer from the Lion. But the truth Couch'd in that dismal cry of parting life

He treasured up, and bore to those who held Power to investigate and to reprieve; And authorized by them with gladness sought The gloomy prison. Conrad there he found

In sullen syncope of sickening thought, And cautiously in measured terms disclosed His liberation. Wondering doubt look'd forth From eyes that opening wide and wider still

Strain'd from their sockets. Yet the hand he took That led him from the cell, and onward moved Like Peter following his angel guide Deeming he saw a vision. As the bolts

Drew gratingly to let them pass, he seem'd To gather consciousness, and restless grew With an unspoken fear, lest at the last Some sterner turnkey, or gruff sentinel

Might bar their egress. When behind them closed. The utmost barrier, and the sweet, fresh air So long witheld, fill'd his collapsing lungs,

He shouted rapturously, “Am I alive? Or have I burst the gates of death, and found A second Eden?”

The unwonted sound Of his own voice, freed from the drear constraint Of prison durance, swell'd his thrilling frame With strong and joyous impulse, for‘ tis said

Long stifled utterance is torturing pain To organs train'd to speech. With one high leap Like an enfranchis'd steed he seem'd to throw

His spirit-chain behind him. Then he took The Pastor's offer'd arm, who led the way To his own house, and bade him bathe and change His prison garments, and repose that night

Under his roof. With thoughtful care he spoke To his own household, kindly to receive The erring one,— “for we are sinners all,

And not upon our merits may depend But on abounding grace.” So when the hour Of cheerful supper summon'd to the board,

He came among them as a comely guest, Refresh'd and welcome. Pleasant converse cheer'd The hospitable meal, and then withdrawn Into the quiet study‘ mid the books,

That saintly good man with the hoary hair Silvering his temples like a graceful crown, Strove by wise counsel to encourage him For life's important duties,

But he deem'd A ban was on him, and a mark which all Would scan who met him. “He whose lot hath been

With fiends in Pandemonium, must expect Hate and contempt from men.” “Not so, my son! Wipe off the past, as a forgotten thing,

Propitiate virtue, by forsaking vice. The good will aid you, and a brighter day Doubtless awaits you. Be not too much moved By man's applause or blame, but ever look

Unto a higher Judge.” Then there arose A voice of supplication, so intense To the Great Pardoner, that He would send

His spirit down to change and purify The erring heart, that those persuasive tones, So humble, yet so strangely eloquent Breathed o'er the unhappy one like soothing spell

Of magic influence, and he slept that night With peace and hope, long exiled from his couch. A summer drive to one sequestered long, Hath charms untold.

The common face of earth, The waving grass, the rustle of the leaves, Kiss'd by the zephyr, or by winged bird Disparted, as it finds its chirping nest,

The murmur of the brooks, the low of herds, The ever-changing landscape, rock and stream, And azure concave fleck'd with silver clouds Awaken rapturous joy. This Conrad felt,

While pleasure every kindling feature touch'd, And every accent tuned. But when they saw The fair ancestral roof through trees afar, Strong agony convuls'd him, and he cried,

“Not there! Not there! First take me to Her grave!” And so to that secluded spot they turn'd, Where rest the silent dead.

On the green mound, His Mother's bed, with sobs and groans he fell, And in his paroxysm of grief would fain Have torn the turf-bound earth away, to reach

The mouldering coffin. Then, a flood of tears, Heaven's blessed gift burst forth, “Oh weep, my Son! These gushing tears shall help to wash away

Remorseful pangs, and lurking seeds of sin. Here, in this sacred tomb, bury the past, And strong in heavenly trust, resolve to rise To a new life.”

Still kneeling on the sod With hands and eyes uprais'd, he said, “I will! So help me God!”

The tear was on his cheek Undry'd, when to the home of peace they came. There Bertha greeted them with outstretch'd hands And beaming brow, while the good Pastor said,

“Thy Son was dead, but is alive again.” A sweet voice answer'd, “Lost he was, and found! Oh, welcome home.”

She would have folded him In her embrace. But at her feet he fell, Clasping her knees, and bowing down his head, Till she assured him that a mother's love

Was in her heart. “And there is joy in Heaven Because of him, this day,” the good Man said. — His tones were tremulous, as up he rose,

“Ah, my veil'd Angel! Now I see thy face, And hear thy voice.” What were the glowing thoughts Of the meek shepherd, as alone he took

His homeward way? The joy of others flow'd O'er his glad spirit like a refluent tide Whose sands were gold. Had he not chosen well His source of happiness?

There are, who mix Pride and ambition with their services Before the altar. Did the tinkling bells Upon the garments of the Jewish priest

Draw down his thoughts from God? The mitred brow, Doth it stoop low enough to find the souls That struggle in the pits of sin, and die?

Methinks ambitious honors might disturb The man whose banner is the Cross of Christ, And earth's high places shut him out of Heaven. — Yet this serene disciple, so content

To do his Master's will, in humblest works Of charity, had he not chosen well His happiness? The hero hears the trump

Of victor-fame, and his high pulses leap, But laurels dipp'd in blood shall vex his soul When the death-ague comes. More blest is he Who bearing on his brow the anointing oil

Keeps in his heart the humility and zeal That sanctify his vows. So, full of joy That fears no frost of earth, because its root Is by the river of eternal life,

The white-hair'd Pastor took his homeward way. New life upon the farm. A master's eye And step are there. Forest, and cultured field, And garden feel his influence. Forth at morn

He goes amid the laboring hinds who bathe Their scythe in fragrant dew, mid all their toils Teaching or learning, with such cheerful port As won their hearts.

Even animals partook His kind regard. The horse, with arching neck, And ear erect, replied as best he might To his caressing tones. The patient ox,

With branching horns, and the full-udder'd cow Grew sleek and flourish'd and in happiest guise Reveal'd his regency. The noble dog, O'erflowing with intelligence and zeal,

Follow'd him as a friend; even the poor cat Oft scorn'd and distanc'd, till her fawning love Turns into abjectness, crept to his knee Without reproof, and thro’ her half-shut eyes

Regarding him, ere into sleep she sank With song monotonous, express'd her joy. — He loved to hear the clarion of the cock, And see him in his gallantry protect

The brooding mothers,— of their infant charge So fond and proud. The generous care bestow'd For weal and comfort of these servitors

And their mute dialect of gratitude Pleas'd and refresh'd him, while those blessed toils That quicken earth's fertility bestowed The boon of healthful vigor. Bertha found

The burden of her cares securely laid On his young arm, and gratefully beheld Each day a portion of allotted time Spent in the library, with earnest care,

Seeking the knowledge that in youth he scorn'd. — Amid their rural neighborhood were some Who frankly took him by the hand, as one, Worthy to rise, and others who preferr'd

To cherish evil memories, or indulge Dark auguries. But on his course he held Unmov'd by either, for to her he seem'd Intent and emulous alone to please

A higher Judge. When leaning on his arm She sought the House of God, her tranquil brow Seem'd in its time-tried beauty to express The Nunc Dimittis.

Prisons are not oft Converting places. Vicious habits shorn Of their top branches, strike a rankling root Darkly beneath, while hatred of mankind

And of the justice that decreed such doom Bar out the Love Divine. Yet Bertha felt God's spirit was not limited, and might

Pluck brands from out the burning, and in faith Believ'd the son of many prayers had found Remission of his God. His life she scann'd, Of honest, cheerful industry, combined

With intellectual progress, and perceived How his religious worship humbly wore The signet “I have sinn'd;” while toward men His speech was cautious, far beyond his years,

As one by stern Experience school'd to know The human heart's deceptions. Yet at home And in that fellowship with Nature's works Which Agriculture gives, his soul threw off

Its fetters and grew strong. Once as they walk'd Within a favorite grove, consulting where The woodman's ax, or pruning-knife had best

Exert their wholesome ministry, he led To a fair resting-place, a turf-bound seat, Beneath a spreading Walnut, carpeted With depth of fragrant leaves, while a slight brook

Half-hidden, half revealed, with minstrel touch, Soften'd the spirit. There, in tones subdued By strong emotion, he disclosed his love For Leonore.

“Oh Conrad! she is pure And peaceful as the lily bud that sleeps On the heaven-mirror'd lake.” “I know it well,

Nor would I wake a ripple or a breath To mar its purity.” “Yet wait, my Son!” “Wait? Mother, wait! It is not in man's heart

To love, and wait?” “But make your prayer to God. Lay your petition at his feet, and see What is His will.”

“Before that God I swear To be her true protector and best friend Till death remove me hence, if she confide At fitting time, that holy trust to me.

Oh angel Mother! sanction me to search If in her heart there be one answering chord To my great love. So may we lead below That blended life which with a firmer step

And holier joy tends upward toward a realm Of perfect bliss.” Thus authorized, he made Her mind's improvement his delight, and found

Community in knowledge was a spell To draw young hearts together. O'er the lore And language of her native land they hung Gleaning its riches with a tireless hand,

Deep and enamour'd students. When she sang Or play'd, he join'd her with his silvery flute, Making the thrill of music more intense Through the heart's harmony.

Amid the flowers He met her, and her garden's pleasant toil Shared with a master's hand, for well he knew The nature and the welfare of the plants

That most she prized. They loved the umbrageous trees, And in their strong, columnar trunks beheld The Almighty Architect, and for His sake Paid them respect.

At the soft twilight hour, He sate beside her silently, and watch'd The pensive lustre of her lifted eye, Intent to welcome the first star that hung

Its holy cresset forth. Unconsciously Her moods of lonely musing stole away, And his endear'd society became Part of her being.

In her soul was nought Of vanity, or coquetry to bar That heaven-imparted sentiment which makes All hope, all thought, all self, subordinate

Unto another's weal, while life shall last. One morn, the orphan sought the private ear Of her kind benefactress. In low tones

With the sweet modesty of innocence, She told that Conrad offered her his heart, And in the tender confidence of trust Entreated counsel from her changeless friend.

“Can you o'erlook the past, my Leonore?” “Our God forgives the penitent. And we So prone to error, cannot we forgive? The change in Conrad, months and years have made

More evident. Might I but sooth away The memory of his woes, and aid his feet More steadfastly to tread in virtue's path,

And make him happier on his way to Heaven, My life and love I'd gladly consecrate.” Wrapp'd in her arms the foster-mother gave A tearful blessing, while on bended knee

Together they implored the approving smile Of Him, who gives ability to make And keep the covenant of unending love. A rural bridal,

Cupid's ancient themes Though more than twice-told, seem not wearisome Or obsolete. The many tomes they prompt, Though quaint or prolix, still a place maintain

In library or boudoir, and seduce The school-girl from her sleep, and lessons too. But I no tint of romance have to throw On this plain tale, or o'er the youthful pair

Who gladly took the irrevocable vow. Their deep and thoughtful happiness required No herald pomp. Buds of the snowy rose, On brow and bosom, were the only gems

Of the young fair-hair'd bride, whose ringlets fell Down to her shoulders:— nature's simple veil Of wondrous grace. A few true hearted friends

Witness'd the marriage-rite, with cheering smiles And fervent blessings. And the coming years With all their tests of sunshine or of shade,

Belied no nuptial promise, striving each With ardent emulation to surpass Its predecessor in the heavenward path Of duty and improvement.

Bertha's prayers Were ever round them as a thread of gold Wove daily in the warp and woof of life. In their felicity she found her own

Reduplicated. In good deeds to all Who sought her aid, or felt the sting of woe, With unimpaired benevolence she wrought, And tireless sympathy.

Ordain'd she seem'd To show the beauty of the life that hath God for its end. Clearer its brightness gleam'd

As nearer to its heavenly goal it drew. The smile staid with her till she went above, Death harm'd it not. Her passport to that clime Where Love begun on earth, doth end in joy,

Forevermore.