VII.
While thus, with beating heart, pursuing still His anxious task, slow o'er a neighbouring hill The broad moon rose, by not a cloud concealed, Lit up the valley, and the tomb revealed!-- His parents' tomb!--and now, with wild surprise, He saw the column burst upon his eyes-- Fair, chaste, and beautiful; and on it read These lines in mem'ry of his honoured dead: "Beneath repose the virtuous and the just, Mingled in death, affection's hallowed dust. In token of their worth, this simple stone Is, as a daughter's tribute, reared by one Who loved them as such, and their name would save As virtue's record o'er their lowly grave." "Helen!" he fondly cried, "thy hand is here!" And the cold grave received his burning tear; Then knelt he o'er it--clasped his hands in prayer; But, while yet lone and fervid kneeling there, Before his eyes, upon the grave appear Primroses twain--the firstlings of the year,-- And bursting forth between the blossomed two, Twin opening buds in simple beauty grew. He gazed--he loved them as a living thing; And wondrous thoughts and strange imagining Those simple flowers spoke to his listening soul In superstition's whispers; whose control The wisest in their secret moments feel, And blush at weakness they may not reveal.
VIII.
He left the place of death; and, rapt in thought, The trysting-tree of love's young years he sought; And, as its branches opened on his sight, Bathing their young buds in the pale moonlight, A whispered voice, melodious, soft, and low, As if an angel mourned for mortal woe, Borne on the ev'ning breeze, came o'er his ear: He knew the voice--his heart stood still to hear! And each sense seem'd a listener; but his eye Sought the sad author of the wand'ring sigh; And 'neath the tree he loved, a form as fair As summer in its noontide, knelt in prayer. He clasped his hands--his brow, his bosom burned; He felt the past--the buried past returned! Still, still he listened, till, like words of flame, Through her low prayer he heard his whispered name! "Helen!" he wildly cried--"my own--my blest!" Then bounded forth.--I cannot tell the rest. There was a shriek of joy: heart throbbed on heart, And hands were locked as though they ne'er might part; Wild words were spoken--bliss tumultuous rolled, And all the anguish of the past was told.
IX.
Upon her love long had her father frowned, Till tales of Edmund's rising fortunes found Their way across the wilderness of sea, And reached the valley of his birth. But she, With truth unaltered, and with heart sincere, Through the long midnight of each hopeless year That marked his absence, shunned the proffered hand Of wealth and rank; and met her sire's command With tears and bended knees, until his breast Again a father's tenderness confessed.
X.
'Twas May--bright May: bird, flower, and shrub, and tree, Rejoiced in light; while, as a waveless sea Of living music, glowed the clear blue sky, And every fleecy cloud that floated by Appeared an isle of song!--as all around And all above them echoed with the sound Of joyous birds, in concert loud and sweet, Chanting their summer hymns. Beneath their feet The daisy put its crimson liv'ry on; While from beneath each crag and mossy stone Some gentle flower looked forth; and love and life Through the Creator's glorious works were rife, As though his Spirit in the sunbeams said, "Let there be life and love!" and was obeyed. Then, in the valley danced a joyous throng, And happy voices sang a bridal song; Yea, tripping jocund on the sunny green, The old and young in one glad dance were seen; Loud o'er the plain their merry music rang, While cripple granddames, smiling, sat and sang The ballads of their youth; and need I say 'Twas Edmund's and fair Helen's wedding-day? Then, as he led her forth in joy and pride, A hundred voices blessed him and his bride. Yet scarce he heard them; for his every sense, Lost in delight and ecstasy intense, Dwelt upon her; and made their blessings seem As words breathed o'er us in a wand'ring dream.
XI.
Now months and years in quick succession flew, And joys increased, and still affection grew. For what is youth's first love to wedded joy? Or what the transports of the ardent boy To the fond husband's bliss, which, day by day, Lights up his spirit with affection's ray? Man knows not what love is, till all his cares The partner of his bosom soothes and shares-- Until he find her studious to please-- Watching his wishes!--Oh, 'tis acts like these That lock her love within his heart, and bind Their souls in one, and form them of one mind. Love flowed within their bosoms as a tide, While the calm rapture of their own fireside Each day grew holier, dearer; and esteem Blended its radiance with the glowing beam Of young affection, till it seemed a sun Melting their wishes and their thoughts as one.
XII.
Eight years passed o'er them in unclouded joy, And now by Helen's side a lovely boy, Looked up and called her, Mother; and upon The knee of Edmund climbed a little one-- A blue-eyed prattler--as her mother fair. They were their parents' joy, their hope, their care; But, while their cup with happiness ran o'er, And the long future promised joys in store, Death dropped its bitterness within the cup, And its late pleasant waters mingled up With wailing and with woe. Like early flowers, Which the slow worm with venomed tooth devours, The roses left their two fair children's cheeks, Or came and went like fitful hectic streaks, As day by day they drooped: their sunny eyes Grew lustreless and sad; and yearning cries-- Such as wring life-drops from a parent's heart-- Their lisping tongues now uttered. The keen dart Of the unerring archer, Death, had sunk Deep in their bosoms, and their young blood drunk; Yet the affection of the children grew, As its dull, wasting poison wandered through Their tender breasts; and still they ever lay With their arms round each other. On the day That ushered in the night on which they died, The boy his mother kissed, and fondly cried, "Weep not, dear mother!--mother, do not weep! You told me and my sister, death was sleep-- That the good Saviour, who from heaven came down, And who for our sake wore a thorny crown-- You often told us how He came to save Children like us, and conquered o'er the grave; And I have read in his blessed book, How in his hand a little child He took, And said that such in heaven should greatest be: Then, weep not, mother--do not weep for me; For if I be angel when I die, I'll watch you, mother--I'll be ever nigh; Where'er you go, I'll hover o'er your head; Then, though I'm buried, do not think me dead! But let my sister's grave and mine be one, And lay us by the pretty marble stone, To which our father dear was wont to go, And where, in spring, the sweet primroses blow; Then, weep not, mother!" But she wept the more; While the sad father his affliction bore Like one in whom all consciousness was dead, Save that he wrung his hands and rocked his head, And murmured oft this short and troubled prayer-- "O God! look on me, and my children spare!"
XIII.
Their little arms still round each other clung, When their last sleep death's shadow o'er them flung! And still they slept, and fainter grew their breath-- Faint and more faint, until their sleep was death. Deep, but unmurmured was the mother's grief, For in her FAITH she sought and found relief; Yea, while she mourned a daughter and a son, She looked to heaven, and cried, "Thy will be done!" But, oh! the father no such solace found-- Dark, cheerless anguish wrapt his spirit round; He was a stranger to the Christian's hope, And in bereavement's hour he sought a prop On which his pierced and stricken soul might lean; Yet, as he sought it, doubts would intervene-- Doubts which for years had clouded o'er his soul-- Doubts that, with prayers he struggled to control; For though a grounded faith he ne'er had known, He was no prayerless man; but he had grown To thinking manhood from his dreaming youth, A _seeker_ still--a _seeker after truth!_-- An earnest seeker, but his searching care Sought more in books and nature than by prayer; And vain he sought, nor books nor nature gave The hope of hopes that animates the grave! Though, to have felt that hope, he would have changed His station with the mendicant who ranged Homeless from door to door and begged his bread, While heaven hurled its tempest round his head. For what is hunger, pain, or piercing wind, To the eternal midnight of the mind? Or what on earth a horror can impart, Like his who feels engraven on his heart The word, _Annihilation!_ Often now The sad Enthusiast would strike his brow, And cry aloud, with deep and bitter groans, "How have I sinned, that both my little ones-- The children of my heart--should be struck down! O Thou Almighty Spirit! if thy frown Is now upon me, turn aside thy wrath, And guide me--lead, oh lead me in the path Of heaven's own truth; direct my faith aright, Teach me to hope, and lend thy Spirit's light."
XIV.
Thus, long his soul as a frail bark was tossed On a dark sea, with helm and compass lost, Till she who ever to his breast had been The star of hope and love, with brow serene, As if no sorrow e'er her heart had riven, But her eye calmly looked through time to heaven-- Soothed his sad spirit, and with anxious care Used much of reason, and yet more of prayer; Till bright'ning hope dawned gently o'er his soul, Like the sun's shadow at the freezing pole, Seen by the shiv'ring Greenlander, or e'er Its front of fire does his horizon cheer; While brighter still that ardent hope became, Till in his bosom glowed the living flame Of Christian faith--faith in the Saviour sent, By the eternal God, to preach, "Repent And be ye saved."---Then peace, as sunshine, fell On the Enthusiast's bosom, and the swell Of anguish died away, as o'er the deep The waves lie down when winds and tempests sleep.