’Midst the thorns are fragrant roses,
Sunbeams ’midst the shifting clouds.
Many days of open weather now intervened, when winter appeared to
meditate resigning his sovereignty. The snow disappeared from the
hills which surrounded their pleasant retreat, little sunny nooks were
visible where the early violet might shelter, and the sands on the
seashore were becoming bright and sparkling. Delightful as were these
indications of spring, the inmates of Mrs. Wilson’s abode were not
inclined to wish for its rapid approach. The winter had not only been
pleasantly, but they all felt, profitably, spent, that seed had been
sown which might, by careful culture, produce an abundant harvest. The
joyous and lively spirits of Susan still retained all their buoyancy
and she joined them on the sands where they were watching the white
sails of the vessels as they were leaving the harbor, as the sun shone
full upon them.
“They are leaving their homes,” said Elizabeth, “to cross that ocean,
which, though now so serene, we have seen under such different
aspects.” “And,” said Herbert, “they are, no doubt, elated with the
pleasant auspices under which they commence their voyage. Sailors are
a superstitious race; they dread to leave their port under a lowering
sky; and it is almost impossible to induce them to embark on Friday.
You will frequently see them on a land-cruise, as they call it, to
overhaul the log-book of the redoubtable Moll Pitcher, or some old
fortune teller, relative to the success of their voyage, the constancy
of their sweethearts, etc., and the wise old lady prognosticates so
much to their satisfaction that they return in great glee, after
leaving with her a goodly portion of their well-filled purses.” “It is
surely a kind Providence,” said Mary, “which hides from us the events
of futurity. How wretched would be every intervening moment were we
certain of the time of some great calamity!”
“True, Mary,” said Herbert, “and there are many who, without this
knowledge, suffer a thousand deaths in fearing one. I refer to those
who are ever anticipating evil, who prophesy destroying frost in
every cold wind and blight or blasting mildew in the warm sun or
refreshing rain.” “I am decidedly of the opinion,” said Susan, “that
such persons are worse in society than drones in a hive, for the idle
person generally injures himself more than any one else, but the
discontented one makes others wretched by imparting to them a portion
of his bitterness. It gives me the fidgets to hear poor Mrs. Flagg
complain of this wicked world, protesting that everybody is governed by
selfish motives and, shaking her head, declare that there is no such
thing as happiness on earth, and yet she enjoys, or seems to enjoy, to
perfection a good cup of tea and a warm cake.”
“We are too young, as yet, my cousin,” said Herbert, “and have seen too
few of the trials of life to controvert, positively, the good woman’s
assertion, but, when we look around us and see so much beauty, so much
to love and admire, we may be sure that our Creator did not place us
here to be miserable.”
“Now for a race, Charles,” said Susan; “I shall be at the gate first.”
They met Mrs. Wilson at the door and she greeted them with joyful news;
a letter had arrived from their parents. The health of their father
had so much improved that he wrote of speedy return and rejoiced in
the happiness so apparent in the letters of his children. There was
but one shadow to this pleasant news, the breaking up of their winter
enjoyments, but Herbert reminded them that at any rate his vacation
was nearly at an end; that they could look back upon this Winter in
Retirement with almost unalloyed pleasure and forward with the cheering
hope of future joyous meetings; also with the certainty that, by the
help of Providence, the treasures stored in their minds through this,
at first, dreaded season, would prove precious and available in all the
varying events of their lives. “We will improve the time yet left us
and I will read you this evening some lines written by a lady born in
this town.”
THE OLD HOME
Speed onward, Time! thy dark wings leave
Deep traces on the path they cleave!
Speed onward! for the goal is near,
Backward I mark thy swift career,
And through the hazy past mine eye
Dwells on the scenes of infancy;
For, bright and clear its visions seem,
And sweet, in Memory’s glowing dream,
The broad Atlantic’s waves are bright
Where first my eyes beheld the light;
The broad Atlantic’s shores are fair
Where first I breathed my native air;
They boast of clear Italian skies;
I’ve seen the glorious sun arise
From out his sparkling ocean-bed,
And, o’er my home, his splendors shed,
His beams illumined the swelling sails
That caught the scented morning gales;
Ne’er were Italian skies more fair
Than rested o’er my old Home there.
Thy rocky cliffs, Nahant, gleamed bright
As morning poured her golden light;
And silvery streams of whiteness broke
From the rough seams of old Egg Rock;
Inland arose, ’midst foliage gay,
The Lover’s Leap, with forehead grey;
With haughty front, High Rock would seek
To court the sun’s first rising beam,
And sheltered homes, and meadows rare,
Soon caught the glittering radiance there.
The early sunlight never shone
On brighter than my own old Home.
And romance spread her witching dream
O’er shore and wood and rippling stream,
For here, ’twas said, the pirate Kidd
His ill-got store of treasure hid;
Amidst a wild and craggy waste,
Where straggling pines their shadows cast,
A rocky Cavern, dark and deep,
Stretched inward from its opening steep;
And there, ’twas told, foul deeds were wrought
And gold concealed, by murder bought,
Till, at the Dungeon’s gloomy name
The blood in quicker currents came.
Weird Superstition spread her wing
Of sombre shade, o’er dell and spring;
Once, powers of ill seemed leagued, to bind
In clouds of mist, the human mind;
Dread scenes ensued, and but the name
Of Witchcraft roused the smouldering flame,
The whirlwind spent its mightiest force
On Salem’s heights, but in its course
Its withering breath defiled the scene
Which else would more like Eden seem,
The haze of long past years alone
Casts shadows o’er my own old Home.
We boast, too, of a Sybil’s fame,
Though graced with but a homely name,
But never Sybil had more power,
And Sybil ne’er more honors bore;
No horrid rites she tried to show
A prophet’s skill, no charms to know,
No Sybil of old Rome was she
To give the Books of Destiny;
She knew no Book; but could enthrall
With magic skill the minds of all,
And some may live who once have known
The Sybil of my own old Home.
Here patriot hearts and patriot hands
Were joined to break Oppression’s bands;
Our pleasant homes sent forth their best
To fight, at Freedom’s high behest;
We claim the Puritan’s high birth;
Our fathers left their native hearth,
Their sons on Freedom’s land to rear,
Who, tyrant despots need not fear;
Where they might truly worship God
Without a Bishop’s mitred rod;
And tyrant power has ne’er been known
To hover round my own old Home.
Speed onward, Time! while life remains
And Memory her power retains,
My own old Home! I’ll cherish thee
Amidst the dreams of infancy;
The mists of age may gather round;
The silver cord may be unbound;
Speed onward, Time! for death alone
Can dim the thought of my old Home.
“Though the local scenery of Lynn,” said Mrs. Wilson, “is not
essentially changed since this was written, many of its manners and
customs are. The good old Puritan days have somewhat gone by; but it
is pleasant to read something which refers to the time when they were
reverenced and appreciated.”