Strewed[12] acorns on the lea,[13]
And one took root, and sprouted up,
And grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade at evening time,
To breathe its early vows,
And Age was pleased, in heat of noon,
To bask[14] beneath its boughs.
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs;
The birds sweet music bore;
It stood a glory in its place—
A blessing evermore.
2. A little spring had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern:
A passing stranger scooped a well,
Where weary men might turn;
He walled it in, and hung with care
A ladle at the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did,
But judged that Toil might drink.
He passed again—and lo! the well,
By summers never dried,
Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues,
And saved a life beside.
3. A dreamer dropped a random[15] thought;
’Twas old, and yet ’twas new—
A simple fancy of the brain,
But strong in being true:
It shone upon a genial[16] mind,
And lo! its light became
A lamp of life, a beacon[17] ray,
A monitory[18] flame.
The thought was small—its issue[19] great;
A watch-fire on the hill,
It sheds its radiance[20] far adown,
And cheers the valley still!
4. A nameless man, amid a crowd
That thronged the daily mart,[21]
Let fall a word of hope and love,
Unstudied, from the heart;
A whisper on the tumult thrown—
A transitory[22] breath—
It raised a brother from the dust;
It saved a soul from death.
Oh germ! oh fount! oh word of love!
Oh thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at the first,
But _mighty at the last_!
[12] STREWED, sowed, scattered.
[13] LEA, open land, meadow land.
[14] BASK, repose, recline.
[15] RANˊ-DOM, at hazard; without aim or purpose.
[16] GEˊ-NI-AL, sympathetic; adapted to receive it.
[17] BEAˊ-CON, guiding, warning against danger.
[18] MONˊ-I-TO-RY, admonishing, warning.
[19] ISˊ-SUE (ish’-shu), result, consequence.
[20] RAˊ-DI-ANCE, light, brightness.
[21] MART, a place of sale or traffic.
[22] TRANSˊ-I-TO-RY, fleeting, quickly passing away.
III.—THE DEVOTED SON AND THE GENEROUS STRANGER.
BROTHER PHILIPPE.
Brother Philippe is the present (1871) Superior General of the
Brothers of the Christian Schools. He is the author of several
very meritorious works. He resides in France, where during the
late war he was remarkable, though a very old man, for his
energy, courage and holy zeal in providing for the wants of the
wounded and dying upon the battle fields.
1. A young man, named Robert, was waiting on the coast at Marseilles for
some one to hire his boat. A stranger entered, and was on the point of
stepping out again, notwithstanding the presence of Robert, whom he did
not suppose to be the owner. “As the boat-man is not coming,” said he, “I
shall pass into another boat.” “Sir,” said Robert, “this is my own boat,
do you wish to get out of port?” “No; I merely thought of enjoying a row
on the river before night closed in, but you don’t look like a sailor.”
“True, Sir, I am not a sailor; but the want of money forces me to seek
employment during my leisure hours.”
2. “What! avaricious[23] at your age? This is a shame which mars your
youth, and lessens the interest inspired by your pleasing appearance.”
“Ah! Sir, if you knew why I wish to make money, you would not, indeed,
add to my sorrow by believing me guilty of such a low vice.” “I may have
wronged you; but you have not explained yourself. Let us have a row;
meantime you can tell me all your troubles, for your looks have disposed
me in your favor.”
3. “I have but one trouble,” said the young man; “it is that of having
a dear father bound in chains; and this may last I know not how long!
My father was a broker in this city, and had obtained, by means of his
own and my mother’s earnings, an interest in a merchant vessel bound to
Smyrna. He took charge of the buying and the selling of the stock. The
vessel was seized by a pirate ship, and taken to Tetuan, where my father
remains prisoner, with the greater part of the ship’s crew. They demand
ten thousand francs for his ransom;[24] but, as he had made large outlays
so as to increase the business, we are far from possessing that sum.
However, my mother and my sisters work day and night, and I contrive to
do my part as a clerk in a jeweler’s shop, and I seek besides, as you
perceive, to fill up my leisure hours. We have retrenched our mode of
living in every possible way, and one room forms our lodging. At first
I thought of going to take my father’s place, and thus release him from
his cruel chains. I was about putting this idea into execution, when
my mother assured me that such an undertaking was as rash as it was
impracticable;[25] and she forbade all the captains of the Levant to take
me on board.”
4. “Do you ever hear from your father? Do you know the name of his
master in Tetuan, and in what manner is he treated?” “His master is the
intendant of the king’s gardens; they treat him with humanity, and the
labor to which he is subjected is not above his strength. But he is
our father; he is so good, and we are not there to comfort him; he is
far from us, from his dear wife and his three children, whom he loves
tenderly.”
5. “What name does he bear in Tetuan?” “It is not changed; they call him
Robert.” “Robert? in Tetuan? with the intendant[26] of the gardens?”
“Yes, Sir.”
6. “I am touched at your sorrow, my good friend; and, in consequence of
your noble sentiments, I predict[27] for you the accomplishment of your
wishes, which, indeed, you richly merit. Meanwhile, let me now enjoy a
few moments’ solitude in this spot.”
7. When it was night, Robert had orders to put him ashore. Then the
stranger, slipping a purse into the young man’s hands, disappeared
without allowing him time to express his thanks. The purse contained four
hundred francs, mostly in gold coins. Such generosity gave Robert the
highest opinion of the stranger, who had listened with so much interest
to his sad tale. In vain did Robert seek him, to assure him of his
lasting gratitude.
8. Six weeks elapsed since this extraordinary occurrence, and those good
people worked on indefatigably,[28] to complete the sum mentioned. One
day they were partaking of a frugal meal of bread and dried almonds, in
the narrow room which was their home, when a man entered, and surprised
them in the midst of their trouble and their misery. He was cleanly
clad. Heavens! ... it is Robert, their father. What astonishment! What
exclamations of joy! What tears were shed, in their happiness. Robert
embraced his wife and his children, and told them how thankful he felt
for the twelve thousand francs which he received at the moment he
embarked on the vessel, where his passage had been already paid; clothes
also were furnished him, and he knew not, he said, how to acknowledge so
much solicitude[29] and attention.
9. The surprise of the mother and the children increased at every word
spoken; they could not comprehend this mysterious language, and they
looked at each other in their bewilderment. At length, the mother broke
silence: she supposed that her son had done all this without consulting
her; she told her husband how zealously he had labored since the
beginning of his captivity; how he had endeavored to go and replace him,
and how she had prevented him from so doing. “Ten thousand francs,” added
she, “were necessary for the ransom; we had but a little more than the
half, most part of which was acquired[30] by his attention to business;
for the rest, friends must have aided him.”
11. All at once the disheartened father grew thoughtful and gloomy, and
thus addressed his son: “Unhappy boy, can I owe you my liberty without
regret? How could it have remained a secret to your mother, and not be
bought at the price of virtue? At your age, unhappy son of a slave, one
cannot easily obtain so much money. I shudder to think that filial piety
may have made you culpable.[31] Confide in me, be sincere, do not conceal
the truth; have you been guilty of dishonesty?”
12. “Banish your fears, dear father,” cried the virtuous son, as he
embraced him tenderly; “your child is not unworthy of this title, nor
lucky enough to have effected your freedom, which, in truth, you do not
owe to me; I know your benefactor—oh, yes, I know him. Do you remember,
dear mother, the stranger who gave me his purse—how he questioned me
thus: ‘Where is your father? What is his name? Who is his master?’ Were I
to spend my whole life, I shall find him again, and he shall admire the
fruits of his generosity.”
Then his dutiful son related the incident which had taken place,
restoring, meanwhile, the peace and the happiness which had, for a
moment, given place to fear.
13. Restored to his family, the honest Robert found friends and means.
Success surpassed his hopes. After ten years, he had acquired a little
fortune; and his children, who were all settled in life, shared the
happiness of their father and mother.
[23] AVˊ-A-RIˊ-CIOUS, greedy of wealth.
[24] RANˊ-SOM, the price paid to redeem a person or goods from an enemy.
[25] IM-PRACˊTI-CA-BLE, incapable of being done.
[26] IN-TENDˊ-ANT, an overseer.
[27] PRE-DICTˊ, to foretell.
[28] INˊ-DE-FATˊ-I-GA-BLE, untiring, not yielding to fatigue.
[29] SO-LICˊ-I-TUDE, anxiety, care, concern.
[30] ACˊ-QUIRE, to gain, to obtain.
[31] CULˊ-PA-BLE, blameable.
IV.—THE CHRISTIAN MOTHER.
MARY I. HOFFMAN.
Miss Hoffman is an American authoress of very marked ability. Her
“Agnes Hilton,” “Alice Murray,” and “Felix Kent” are works of
fiction of great and deserved popularity.
1. It was a poor, dilapidated[32] house in a narrow lane; no curtains
shaded the small windows through which the glaring sun came mockingly in.
A table stood in the middle of the room, with—we cannot say the remains
of the last meal, for the meal had been too scant to have any remains—but
with the soiled cups and plates still unremoved; the cold stove looked
as if it had never known what it was to have a good fire blazing and
burning within it; back by the wall was an old scuttle, in which were a
few coals, evidently placed there away from the stove, lest too close
proximity[33] might tempt to using them before the time to heat the
teakettle for the next meal came round.
2. On a little bench sat a pale, thin-faced child of seven or eight
years. An old, threadbare coat, very much too large, was wrapped around
him, completely covering, or rather burying him in its ample folds. After
one or two ineffectual attempts he succeeded in disengaging[34] his
little hands, and then smoothed back the golden locks from his broad,
handsome brow.
3. On the floor were two little girls, one five, the other three. They
were playing with bits of cloth and shreds of ribbons, ever and anon
pausing to look up in the face of a middle-aged woman sitting by the
window, sewing on a jacket as fast as her hand could fly. She had on a
faded dress of mourning, and her countenance looked sorrow-stricken and
worn.
4. On a bed in one corner was lying a boy of fifteen or sixteen years. He
was very pale, and with the sunken eyes closed, the chin slightly fallen,
the ashen lips parted, displaying the large even teeth, a looker-on might
have congratulated himself that the vital[35] spark had fled—that the
spirit had found a happier home. But his languid eyes opened, and a groan
escaped his lips.
5. His mother started and exclaimed:
“Oh, Alfred, that pain has again awakened you!”
“No, mother, no, I was not asleep,” he sorrowfully replied.
“Not asleep, Alfred! I thought you were, you lay so quiet.”
“I know it, but I only had my eyes closed, thinking of the time we lived
in Stanton, and it all came back so plain, that I thought this poor, cold
room was only a dream, but I opened my eyes, and oh, mother, it wasn’t,
it wasn’t!” Clasping his hands, he cried: “What a change since father
died, what a change!” and sobs choked the further utterance of the poor,
sick boy.
6. “Oh, Alfred, dear Alfred,” said his mother, while unbidden tears came
into her eyes; “your father was too good to be left here to suffer. He
was called home to heaven—to heaven,” she slowly repeated, dropping
her needle and pressing her hand upon her heart to keep down its
tumultuous[36] throbbings. Then, after a moment’s pause, she added:
“But, Alfred, be patient; God will not forget us.”
“Forget us!” he exclaimed, starting up and looking wildly around, “why,
mother, it seems we are already forgotten.”
“No, Alfred, don’t say that; God is so good and merciful, He sends us
these trials to disengage our minds from the world, and prepare us for
heaven; His beautiful heaven, child. You remember when, in Stanton, we
used to read of it, and think we could even suffer martyrdom to show our
love and gratitude to our dear Lord, who came on earth and died that we
might enjoy it. And now, when pain and suffering come upon us, shall we
murmur and repine?”
7. “Oh, mother, I don’t want to murmur,[37] but—oh, it is so much easier
to talk of pain than it is to suffer it.”
“But, Alfred, dear, any pain or trial sent by God, if we only bear it
with patience and resignation, will be showing the same love as if we
died for Him.”
“Why, mother!” he exclaimed, forgetting, in his surprise, the great
weakness that a moment before had gathered around his heart; “your words
seem so strange, I will not say irreverent—but, mother, to compare our
trials to martyrdom seems—seems so presumptuous.”[38]
8. Pausing an instant in her sewing, she fixed a steadfast gaze upon him;
perceiving the conversation was not wearying him, she said:
“Alfred, I have often wished in this sickness to tell you my thoughts
on this subject, for it seems they were suggested by my good angel,
to strengthen and comfort me. You have been so weak, that I have not
dared to dwell on any subject, or use more words than were absolutely
necessary. But now I see you are able to hear me, and I will speak.”
9. “Yes, do, mother, do tell me something that will comfort me too; for,
oh, how sad, how stricken I feel!” His large eyes looked haggard and
wild. The little boy on the bench moved nearer, and, bending over with
his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his tiny palms, fixed his
blue eyes wonderingly upon her, listening intently to what she was about
to say. Newly threading her needle, she commenced;
“Alfred, a martyr suffers death through love of God, and rather than
consent to an act displeasing to Him; in other words, rather than do any
thing that would offend Him.”
“Yes, mother, but—”
“Wait, my child, wait. If now, through the same love of God, and through
fear of offending Him, we suffer our trials and afflictions with patience
and resignation, is it not the same spirit which leads one to martyrdom?
is it not, my child, the same?”
10. He paused a moment before replying, and then slowly said: “In the
way in which you present it to my view, it really does seem so, mother;
but—” placing his hand upon his heart, “I wish I could make it seem so
here.” He raised himself on his elbow and gazed round the desolate room;
a wintry smile lit up his wan countenance.
“Oh, mother,” he bitterly exclaimed, “to talk of glorious martyrdom and
joyous heaven in this wretched, wretched home of poverty!”
11. “Why not, my child?” she asked, in her kindest and most soothing
tones. “Is it not the very place to talk of them? Has Alfred forgotten
the cold little stable of Bethlehem, and the poor, comfortless home of
Egypt? No, no, Alfred, poverty itself can never exclude[39] us from
heaven. One single sin may forever close its gates, but, let us be ever
so poor and wretched, we still have just as great a claim to heaven as
the richest; perhaps even greater; remember Lazarus.”
11. Clasping her thin hands, while a smile played over her worn features,
she continued:
“It may come upon us—poverty may—with such crushing force that we will
have to lie down and die; but then it will be _our_ path to heaven,
_our_ road home. Home! Oh, Alfred, what comfort in that word! There
we will meet father, mother, sisters, brothers, and all will be joy
and happiness. Every tear will be wiped away, and all the sorrow and
wretchedness of the way-side forgotten. Yes, Alfred, from this very room,
so poor and cold, we may go to a home all beautiful and bright.” With a
hurried hand she resumed her sewing. Alfred was silent, but the cloud had
passed from his brow.
[32] DI-LAPˊ-I-DATED, gone to ruin, decayed.
[33] PROX-IMˊ-ITY, nearness.
[34] DIS-EN-GAGE, to free, to release.
[35] VIˊ-TAL, necessary to life.
[36] TU-MULTˊ-UOUS, with wild commotion.
[37] MURˊ-MUR, to grumble, to complain.
[38] PRE-SUMPTˊ-U-OUS, rashly bold, over confident.
[39] EX-CLUDEˊ, to shut out, to debar.
V.—WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.
MORRIS.
George P. Morris, an American writer, was born October 10, 1802,
and died July 6, 1864. He was the author of many popular songs.
1. Woodman, spare that tree;
Touch not a single bough;
In youth it sheltered me,
And I’ll protect it now.
’Twas my forefather’s[40] hand
That placed it near his cot;
Then, woodman, let it stand;
Thy axe shall harm it not.
2. That old, familiar[41] tree,
Whose glory and renown[42]
Are spread o’er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke:
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
O, spare that aged oak,
Now towering[43] to the skies.
3. When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing[44] joy.
Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand:
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand.
4. My heartstrings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree, the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I’ve a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.
[40] FOREˊFA-THER, an ancestor, as a grandfather, or great-grandfather.
[41] FA-MILˊIAR, well-known.
[42] RE-NOWNˊ, fame, high honor.
[43] TOWˊER-ING, rising aloft.
[44] GUSHˊ-ING, flowing, exuberant, impulsive.
VI.—THE TWO ROADS.
1. It was New Year’s night. An aged man was standing at a window. He
raised his mournful eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the stars were
floating, like white lilies, on the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then
he cast them on the earth, where few more hopeless beings than himself
now moved towards their certain goal[45]—the tomb.
2. Already he had passed sixty of the stages[46] which lead to it, and he
had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health
was destroyed, his mind vacant, his heart sorrowful, and his old age
devoid of comfort.
3. The days of his youth rose up in a vision[47] before him, and he
recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the
entrance of two roads—_one_ leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered
with a fertile harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs; the
_other_ leading the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was
no issue[48], where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents
hissed and crawled.
4. He looked towards the sky, and cried out in his agony, “O youth,
return! O my father, place me once more at the entrance to life, that I
may choose the better way!” But his father and the days of his youth had
both passed away.
5. He saw wondering lights floating away over dark marshes, and then
disappear. _These_ were the days of his wasted life. He saw a star fall
from heaven, and vanish in darkness. This was an emblem[49] of himself,
and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse[50] struck home to his heart.
Then he remembered his early companions, who entered on life with him,
but who, having trod the paths of virtue and of labor, were now honored
and happy on this New Year’s night.
6. The clock, in the high church tower, struck, and the sound, falling
on his ear, recalled his parents’ early love for him, their erring son;
the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up in his
behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look towards
that heaven where his father dwelt; his darkened eyes dropped tears, and
with one despairing effort, he cried aloud, “Come back, my early days!
come back!”
7. And his youth _did_ return; for all this was but a dream which visited
his slumbers on New Year’s night. He was still young; his faults alone
were real. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own; that he
had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread
the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave.
8. Ye who still linger on the threshold[51] of life, doubting which path
to choose, remember that, when years are passed, and your feet stumble on
the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly[52], but cry in vain, “O youth,
return! O, give me back my early days!”
[45] GOAL, a post or mark set to bound a race, end.
[46] STAGˊES, steps or degrees of advance or progress.
[47] VIˊSION, an imaginary appearance, as seen in a dream or in sleep.
[48] ISˊSUE (Ishˊshu), egress, passage out.
[49] EMˊBLEM, a picture or object representing one thing to the eye and
another to the understanding.
[50] RE-MORSEˊ, reproach of conscience.
[51] THRESHˊOLD, a door-sill; beginning; entrance.
[52] BITˊTER-LY, sorrowfully.
VII.—THE LABORERS.
1. You can not pay with money
The million sons of toil—
The sailor on the ocean,
The peasant on the soil,
The laborer in the quarry,
The hewer of the coal;
Your money pays the _hand_,
But it can not pay the _soul_.
2. You gaze on the cathedral[53]
Whose turrets[54] meet the sky:
Remember the foundations
That in earth and darkness lie:
For, were not those foundations
So darkly resting there,
Yon towers up could never soar
So proudly in the air.
3. The workshop must be crowded,
That the palace may be bright;
If the plowman did not plow,
Then the poet could not write.
Then let every toil be hallowed[55]
That man performs for man,
And have its share of honor
As part of one great plan.
4. See, light darts down from heaven,
And enters where it may;
The eyes of all earth’s people
Are cheered with one bright day.
And let the _mind’s_ true sunshine
Be spread o’er earth _as_ free,
And fill the souls of men,
As the waters fill the sea.
5. The man who turns the soil
Need not have an earthly mind;
The digger ’mid the coal
Need not be in spirit blind:
The mind can shed a light
On each worthy labor done,
As lowliest things are bright
In the radiance[56] of the sun.
6. What cheers the musing[57] student?
The poet, the divine?
The thought that, for his followers,
A brighter day will shine.
Let every human laborer
Enjoy the vision bright—
Let the thought that comes from heaven.
Be spread like heaven’s own light!
7. Ye men who hold the pen,
Rise like a band inspired;[58]
And, poets, let your lyrics[59]
With hope for man be fired;[60]
Till the earth becomes a temple,
And every human heart
Shall join in one great service,
Each happy in his part.
[53] CA-THEˊ-DRAL, a church edifice.
[54] TURˊ-RETS, spires, or little towers.
[55] HALˊ-LOW-ED, treated as sacred.
[56] RAˊ-DI-ANCE, vivid brightness.
[57] MUSˊ-ING, meditating.
[58] IN-SPIRˊED, divinely influenced.
[59] LYRˊ-ICS, songs; hymns.
[60] FIRˊED, animated.
VIII.—THE BOY.
WILLIS.
1. There’s something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,
His dread of books and love of fun,
And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepressed[61] by sadness,—
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,
And felt its very gladness.
2. And yet, it is not in his play,
When every trace of thought is lost,
And not when you would call him gay,
That his bright presence thrills me most:
His shout may ring upon the hill,
His voice be echoed in the hall,
His merry laugh like music trill,
And I in sadness hear it all,—
For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now,—
3. But when, amid the earnest game,
He stops, as if he music heard,
And, heedless of his shouted name
As of the carol[62] of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air,
As if some dream were passing there;—
’Tis then that on his face I look—
His beautiful but thoughtful face—
And like a long-forgotten book,
Its sweet familiar meanings trace,—
4. Remembering a thousand things
Which passed me on those golden wings,
Which time has fettered now;
Things that came o’er me with a thrill,
And left me silent, sad, and still,
And threw upon my brow
A holier and a gentler cast,
That was too innocent to last.