Legends and Lyrics-1 [4]
life must not be
dreamed away, and that her indulgence in her favourite pursuits
must be balanced by action in the real world around her, she was
indefatigable in her endeavours to do some good. Naturally
enthusiastic, and conscientiously impressed with a deep sense of
her Christian duty to her neighbour, she devoted herself to a
variety of benevolent objects. Now, it was the visitation of the
sick, that had possession of her; now, it was the sheltering of the
houseless; now, it was the elementary teaching of the densely
ignorant; now, it was the raising up of those who had wandered and
got trodden under foot; now, it was the wider employment of her own
sex in the general business of life; now, it was all these things
at once. Perfectly unselfish, swift to sympathise and eager to
relieve, she wrought at such designs with a flushed earnestness
that disregarded season, weather, time of day or night, food, rest.
Under such a hurry of the spirits, and such incessant occupation,
the strongest constitution will commonly go down. Hers, neither of
the strongest nor the weakest, yielded to the burden, and began to
sink.
To have saved her life, then, by taking action on the warning that
shone in her eyes and sounded in her voice, would have been
impossible, without changing her nature. As long as the power of
moving about in the old way was left to her, she must exercise it,
or be killed by the restraint. And so the time came when she could
move about no longer, and took to her bed.
All the restlessness gone then, and all the sweet patience of her
natural disposition purified by the resignation of her soul, she
lay upon her bed through the whole round of changes of the seasons.
She lay upon her bed through fifteen months. In all that time, her
old cheerfulness never quitted her. In all that time, not an
impatient or a querulous minute can be remembered.
At length, at midnight on the second of February, 1864, she turned
down a leaf of a little book she was reading, and shut it up.
The ministering hand that had copied the verses into the tiny album
was soon around her neck, and she quietly asked, as the clock was
on the stroke of one:
"Do you think I am dying, mamma?"
"I think you are very, very ill to-night, my dear!"
"Send for my sister. My feet are so cold. Lift me up?"
Her sister entering as they raised her, she said: "It has come at
last!" And with a bright and happy smile, looked upward, and
departed.
Well had she written:
Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death,
Who waits thee at the portals of the skies,
Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath,
Ready with gentle hand to close thine eyes?
Oh what were life, if life were all? Thine eyes
Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see
Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off skies,
And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee.
VERSE: THE ANGEL'S STORY
Through the blue and frosty heavens
Christmas stars were shining bright;
Glistening lamps throughout the City
Almost matched their gleaming light;
While the winter snow was lying,
And the winter winds were sighing,
Long ago, one Christmas night.
While, from every tower and steeple,
Pealing bells were sounding clear,
(Never with such tones of gladness,
Save when Christmas time is near,)
Many a one that night was merry
Who had toiled through all the year.
That night saw old wrongs forgiven,
Friends, long parted, reconciled;
Voices all unused to laughter,
Mournful eyes that rarely smiled,
Trembling hearts that feared the morrow,
From their anxious thoughts beguiled.
Rich and poor felt love and blessing
From the gracious season fall;
Joy and plenty in the cottage,
Peace and feasting in the hall;
And the voices of the children
Ringing clear above it all!
Yet one house was dim and darkened;
Gloom, and sickness, and despair,
Dwelling in the gilded chambers.
Creeping up the marble stair,
Even stilled the voice of mourning -
For a child lay dying there.
Silken curtains fell around him,
dreamed away, and that her indulgence in her favourite pursuits
must be balanced by action in the real world around her, she was
indefatigable in her endeavours to do some good. Naturally
enthusiastic, and conscientiously impressed with a deep sense of
her Christian duty to her neighbour, she devoted herself to a
variety of benevolent objects. Now, it was the visitation of the
sick, that had possession of her; now, it was the sheltering of the
houseless; now, it was the elementary teaching of the densely
ignorant; now, it was the raising up of those who had wandered and
got trodden under foot; now, it was the wider employment of her own
sex in the general business of life; now, it was all these things
at once. Perfectly unselfish, swift to sympathise and eager to
relieve, she wrought at such designs with a flushed earnestness
that disregarded season, weather, time of day or night, food, rest.
Under such a hurry of the spirits, and such incessant occupation,
the strongest constitution will commonly go down. Hers, neither of
the strongest nor the weakest, yielded to the burden, and began to
sink.
To have saved her life, then, by taking action on the warning that
shone in her eyes and sounded in her voice, would have been
impossible, without changing her nature. As long as the power of
moving about in the old way was left to her, she must exercise it,
or be killed by the restraint. And so the time came when she could
move about no longer, and took to her bed.
All the restlessness gone then, and all the sweet patience of her
natural disposition purified by the resignation of her soul, she
lay upon her bed through the whole round of changes of the seasons.
She lay upon her bed through fifteen months. In all that time, her
old cheerfulness never quitted her. In all that time, not an
impatient or a querulous minute can be remembered.
At length, at midnight on the second of February, 1864, she turned
down a leaf of a little book she was reading, and shut it up.
The ministering hand that had copied the verses into the tiny album
was soon around her neck, and she quietly asked, as the clock was
on the stroke of one:
"Do you think I am dying, mamma?"
"I think you are very, very ill to-night, my dear!"
"Send for my sister. My feet are so cold. Lift me up?"
Her sister entering as they raised her, she said: "It has come at
last!" And with a bright and happy smile, looked upward, and
departed.
Well had she written:
Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death,
Who waits thee at the portals of the skies,
Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath,
Ready with gentle hand to close thine eyes?
Oh what were life, if life were all? Thine eyes
Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see
Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off skies,
And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee.
VERSE: THE ANGEL'S STORY
Through the blue and frosty heavens
Christmas stars were shining bright;
Glistening lamps throughout the City
Almost matched their gleaming light;
While the winter snow was lying,
And the winter winds were sighing,
Long ago, one Christmas night.
While, from every tower and steeple,
Pealing bells were sounding clear,
(Never with such tones of gladness,
Save when Christmas time is near,)
Many a one that night was merry
Who had toiled through all the year.
That night saw old wrongs forgiven,
Friends, long parted, reconciled;
Voices all unused to laughter,
Mournful eyes that rarely smiled,
Trembling hearts that feared the morrow,
From their anxious thoughts beguiled.
Rich and poor felt love and blessing
From the gracious season fall;
Joy and plenty in the cottage,
Peace and feasting in the hall;
And the voices of the children
Ringing clear above it all!
Yet one house was dim and darkened;
Gloom, and sickness, and despair,
Dwelling in the gilded chambers.
Creeping up the marble stair,
Even stilled the voice of mourning -
For a child lay dying there.
Silken curtains fell around him,