IT is observable that the trivial services of social life are best
performed, and the lesser particles of domestic happiness are most
skilfully organized, by the deepest and the fairest heart. It is an
error to suppose that homely minds are the best administrators of
small duties. Who does not know how wretched a contradiction such a
rule receives in the moral economy of many a home? how often the
daily troubles, the swarm of blessed cares, the innumerable minutiae
of arrangement in a family, prove quite too much for the generalship
of feeble minds, and even the clever selfishness of strong ones; how
a petty and scrupulous anxiety in defending with infinite
perseverance some small and almost invisible point of frugality, and
comfort, surrenders the greater unobserved, and while saving money,
ruins minds; how, on the other hand, a rough and unmellowed sagacity
_rules_ indeed, and without defeat, but while maintaining in action
the mechanism of government, creates a constant and intolerable
friction, a gathering together of reluctant wills, a groaning under
the consciousness of force, that make the movements of life fret and
chafe incessantly? But where, in the presiding genius of a home,
taste and sympathy unite (and in their genuine forms they cannot be
separated)--the intelligent feeling for moral beauty, and the deep
heart of domestic love,--with, what ease, what mastery, what
graceful disposition, do the seeming trivialities of life fall into
order, and drop a blessing as they take their place! how do the
hours steal away, unnoticed but by the precious fruits they leave!
and by the self-renunciation of affection, there comes a spontaneous
adjustment of various wills; and not an innocent pleasure is lost,
not a pure taste offended, nor a peculiar temper unconsidered; and
every day has its silent achievements of wisdom, and every night its
retrospect of piety and love; and the tranquil thoughts, that in the
evening meditation come down with the starlight, seem like the
serenade of angels, bringing in melody the peace of God! Wherever
this picture is realized, it is not by microscopic solicitude of
spirit, but by comprehension of mind, and enlargement of heart; by
that breadth and nicety of moral view which discerns everything in
due proportion, and in avoiding an intense elaboration of trifles,
has energy to spare for what is great; in short, by a perception
akin to that of God, whose providing frugality is on an infinite
scale, vigilant alike in heaven and on, earth; whose art colours a
universe with beauty and touches with its pencil the petals of a
flower. A soul thus pure and large disowns the paltry rules of
dignity, the silly notions of great and mean, by which fashion
distorts God's real proportions; is utterly delivered from the
spirit of contempt; and, in consulting for the benign administration
of life, will learn many a truth, and discharge many ant office,
from which lesser beings, esteeming themselves greater, would shrink
from as ignoble. But in truth, nothing is degrading which a high and
graceful purpose ennobles; and offices the most menial cease to be
menial, the moment they are wrought in love. What thousand services
are rendered, ay, and by delicate hands, around the bed of sickness,
which, else considered mean, become at once holy and quite
inalienable rights! To smooth the pillow, to proffer the draught, to
soothe or obey the fancies of the delirious will, to sit for hours
as the mere sentinel of the feverish sleep; these things are
suddenly erected, by their relation to hope and life, into sacred
privileges. And experience is perpetually bringing occasions,
similar in kind, though of less persuasive poignancy, when a true
eye and a lovely heart will quickly see the relations of things
thrown into a new position, and calling for a sacrifice of
conventional order to the higher laws of the affections; and alike
without condescension and without ostentation, will noiselessly take
the post of service and do the kindly deed. Thus it is that the
lesser graces display themselves most richly, like the leaves and
flowers of life, where there is the deepest and the widest root of
love; not like the staring and artificial blossoms of dry custom
that, winter or summer, cannot change; but living petals woven in
Nature's workshop and folded by her tender skill, opening and
shutting morning and night, glancing and trembling in the sunshine
and in the breeze. This easy capacity of great affections for small
duties is the peculiar triumph of the highest spirit of love.
"OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN."
How quietly she lies!
Closed are the lustrous eyes,
Whose fringed lids, so meek,
Rest on the placid cheek;
While, round the forehead fair,
Twines the light golden hair,
Clinging with wondrous grace
Unto the cherub face.
Tread softly near her, dear ones! Let her sleep,--
I would not have my darling wake to weep.
Mark how her head doth rest
Upon her snowy breast,
While, 'neath the shadow of a drooping curl,
One little shoulder nestles like a pearl,
And the small waxen fingers, careless, clasp
White odorous flowers in their tiny grasp;
Blossoms most sweet
Crown her pure brow, and cluster o'er her feet,
Sure earth hath never known a thing more fair
Than she who gently, calmly, slumbers there.
Alas! 'tis Death, not sleep,
That girds her in its frozen slumbers deep.
No balmy breath comes forth
From the slight-parted mouth;
Nor heaves the little breast,
In its unyielding rest;
Dead fingers clasp
Flowers in unconscious grasp;--
Woe, woe is me, oh! lone, bereaved mother!
'Tis Death that hath my treasure, and none other.
No more I hear the voice,
Those loving accents made my heart rejoice;
No more within my arms
Fold I her rosy charms.
And, gazing down into the liquid splendour
Of the brown eyes serenely, softly tender,
Print rapturous kisses on the gentle brow,
So cold and pallid now.
No more, no more! repining heart, be still,
And trust in Him who doeth all things well.
Oh, happy little one!
How soon her race was run--
Her pain and suffering o'er,
Herself from sin secure.
Not hers to wander through the waste of years,
Sowing in hope, to gather nought but tears;
Nor care, nor strife,
Dimmed her brief day of life.
All true souls cherished her, and fondly strove
To guard from every ill my meek white dove.
Love, in its essence,
Pervaded her sweet presence.
How winning were her ways;
Her little child-like grace,
And the mute pleadings of her innocent eyes,
Seizing the heart with sudden, soft surprise,
As if an angel, unaware,
Had strayed from Heaven, here;
And, saddened at the dark and downward road,
Averted her meek gaze, and sought her Father, God.
In her new spiritual birth,
No garments soiled with earth
Cling round the little form, that happy strays,
Up through the gates of pearl and golden ways,
Where sister spirits meet her,
And angels joyful greet her.
Arrayed in robes of white,
She walks the paths of light;
Adorning the bright city of our God,
The glorious realms by saints and martyr trod!