LIFE.
The following lines were by Mrs. Anna Letitia Barbauld, an English writer of great merit, extensively known as the author of excellent Hymns, and Early Lessons for Children. She was born in 1743, and lived to be nearly eighty-two years old. She employed the latter part of her life in editing a series of the best English novels and essays, accompanied with biographical sketches of the authors; and compositions in prose and verse continued to be her favorite occupation to the last.
Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me’s a secret yet.
Life! we have been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather.
’Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear.
Then steal away; give little warning;
Choose thine own time;
Say not Good Night; but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good Morning!
THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE.
By L. MARIA CHILD.
There was a traveller who set out upon a new road, not knowing whither it would lead him, nor whence he came, for he had been conveyed thither blindfold, and the bandage had been removed in his sleep. When he woke up he found himself among all sorts of pretty novelties, and he ran about hither and thither, eagerly asking, “What is this?” “What is that?” His activity was untiring. He tried to catch everything he saw, and hold it fast in his hand. But humming-birds whirred in his ears, and as soon as he tried to grasp them they soared up out of his reach, and left him gazing at their burnished throats glistening in the sunshine. Daintily painted butterflies poised themselves on such lowly flowers, that he thought he had but to stoop and take them; but they also floated away as soon as he approached. He walked through stately groves, where the sunshine was waltzing with leaf-shadows, and he tried to pick up the airy little dancers. “They won’t let me catch ’em!” he exclaimed, petulantly. But on he hurried in pursuit of a squirrel, which ran nimbly away from him up into a tree, and there he sat on the high boughs, flourishing his pretty tail in the air. And so the traveller went along the wondrous road, always trying for something he couldn’t catch, not knowing that the pleasure was in the pursuit.
As he went on, the path widened and grew more attractive. Birds of radiant colors flitted about, and filled the air with charming variations of melody. Trees threw down showers of blossoms as he passed, and beneath his feet was a carpet of emerald-colored velvet, embroidered with a profusion of golden stars. Better than all, troops of handsome young men and lovely maidens joined him, all put blindfolded into the road, and travelling they knew not whither. And now they all set out upon a race after something higher up than squirrels or butterflies could go. “Look there! Look there! See what is before us!” they exclaimed. And lo! they all saw, away beyond, on hills of fleecy cloud, the most beautiful castles! The walls were of pearl, and rainbow pennons waved from the gold-pointed turrets. “We will take possession of those beautiful castles! That is where we are going to live!” they shouted to each other; and on they ran in pursuit of the rainbows. But they often paused in the chase, to frolic together. They laughed, and sang merry songs, and pelted each other with flowers, and danced within a ring of roses. It was a beautiful sight to see their silky ringlets tossed about by the breeze, and shining in the sunlight. But the game they liked best was looking into each other’s eyes. They said they could see a blind boy there, with a bow and arrow; and always they were playing bo-peep with that blind boy, who wasn’t so blind as he seemed; for whenever he aimed his arrow at one of them, he was almost sure to hit. But they said the arrow was wreathed with flowers, and carried honey on its point; and there was nothing they liked quite so well as being shot at by the blind boy.
Sometimes their sport was interrupted by some stern-looking traveller, who said to them, in solemn tones, “Why do you make such fools of yourselves? Do you know whither this road leads?” Then they looked at each other bewildered, and said they did not. “I have been on this road much longer than you have,” he replied; “and I think it is my duty to turn back sometimes and warn those who are coming after me. I tell you this road, where you go dancing so carelessly, abounds with pitfalls, generally concealed by flowers; and it ends in an awful, deep, dark hole. You are all running, like crazy fools, after rainbow castles in the air. You will never come up with them. They will vanish and leave nothing but a great black cloud. But what you have most to fear is a cruel giant, who is sure to meet you somewhere on the road. Nobody ever knows where; for he is invisible. Whatever he touches with his dart turns first to marble and then to ashes. You ought to be thinking of him and his dreadful arrow, instead of the foolish archer that you call the blind boy. Instead of chattering about roses and rainbows, you ought to be thinking of the awful black pit at the end of the road.”
His words chilled the young men and maidens, like wind from a cavern. They looked at each other thoughtfully, and said, “Why does he try to spoil our sport with stories of pitfalls and invisible giants? We don’t know where the pitfalls are; and if we go poking on the ground for them, how can we see the sunshine and the birds?” Some of the more merry began to laugh at the solemn traveller, and soon they were all dancing again, or hurrying after the rainbow castles. They threw roses at each other by the way; and often the little blind archer was in the heart of the roses, and played them mischievous tricks. They laughed merrily, and said to each other, “This is a beautiful road. It is a pity old Howlit don’t know how to enjoy it.”
But as our traveller passed on his way, he found that the words of the lugubrious prophet were sometimes verified. Now and then some of his companions danced into pitfalls covered with flowers. He himself slipped several times, but recovered his balance, and said it would teach him to walk more carefully. Others were bruised and faint in consequence of falls, and made no effort to rise up. In the kindness of his heart, he would not leave them thus; but always he tried to cheer them, saying, “Up, and try again, my brother! You won’t make the same mistake again.” Cheerful and courageous as he was, however, he saw the rainbow castles gradually fading from his vision; but they did not leave a great black cloud, as the solemn traveller had foretold; they melted into mild and steady sunlight. The young men and maidens, who had frolicked with him, went off in pairs, some into one bypath, some into another. Hand in hand with our traveller went a gentle companion, named Mary, in whose eyes he had long been playing at bo-peep with the blind boy. When they talked of this, they said they could still see him in each other’s eye-mirrors, but now he had put his arrows into the quiver, and was stringing pearls. Mary brought little children to her companion, and they were more charming than all the playthings of their former time. They gazed fondly into the eyes of the little strangers, and said, “We see angels in these azure depths, and they are lovelier than the blind boy ever was.” They played no more with roses now, but gathered ripe fruits, glowing like red and purple jewels, and planted grain which grew golden in the sunshine. Companions with whom they had parted by the way occasionally came into their path again, as they journeyed on. Their moods were various, according to their experiences. Some still talked joyfully of the ever-varying beauty of the road. Others sighed deeply, and said they had found nothing to console them for withered roses, and rainbows vanished. Sometimes, when inquiries were made about former acquaintances, the answer was that the invisible giant had touched them, and they had changed to marble. Then a shadow seemed to darken the pleasant road, and they spoke to each other in low tones. Some of those who sighed over withered roses, told of frightful things done by this invisible giant, and of horrid places whither they had heard he conveyed his victims. To children who were chasing butterflies, and to young men and maidens who were twining rose-wreaths, they said, “You ought not to be wasting your time with such frivolous pastimes; you ought to be thinking of the awful invisible one, who is near us when we least think of it.” They spoke in lugubrious tones, as the solemn traveller had aforetime spoken to them. But our traveller, who was cheerful of heart, said: “It is not kind to throw a shadow across their sunshine. Let them enjoy themselves.” And his Mary asked whether He who made the beautiful road had wasted time when He made the roses and the butterflies? And why had He made them, if they were not to be enjoyed?
But clouds sometimes came over this sunshine of their souls. One of the little cherub boys whom Mary had brought to her companion received the invisible touch, and became as marble. Then a shadow fell across their path, and went with them as they walked. They pressed each other’s hands in silence, but the thought was ever in their hearts, “Whom will he touch next?” The little cherub was not in the marble form; he was still with them, though they knew it not. Gradually their pain was softened, and they found comfort in remembering his winning ways. Mary said to her companion: “As we have travelled along this mysterious road, the scenery has been continually changing, even as we have changed. But one form of beauty has melted into another, so gently, so imperceptibly, that we have been unconscious of the change, until it had passed. Where all is so full of blessing, dearest, it cannot be that this invisible touch is an exception.” The traveller sighed, and merely answered, “It is a great mystery”; but her words fell on his heart like summer dew on thirsty flowers. They thought of the cherub boy, who had disappeared from their vision, and the tears dropped slowly; but as they fell, a ray of light from heaven kissed them and illumined them with rainbows. They clasped each other’s hands more closely, and travelled on. Sometimes they smiled at each other, as they looked on their remaining little ones, running hither and thither chasing the bright butterflies. And Mary, who was filled with gentle wisdom, said, “The butterfly was once a crawling worm; but when it became stiff and cold, there emerged from it this wingéd creature, clothed with beauty.” He pressed her hand tenderly; for again her soothing words fell upon his heart like dew on thirsty flowers.
Thus lovingly they passed on together, and many a blessing followed them; for whenever a traveller came along who was burdened and weary, they cheered him with hopeful words and helped to carry his load; and ever as they did so a softer light shone upon the landscape and bathed all things with a luminous glory. And still the scene was changing, ever changing. The glowing fruit had disappeared, and the golden grain was gathered. But now the forest-trees were all aglow, and looked like great pyramids of gorgeous flowers. The fallen foliage of the pines formed a soft carpet under their feet, ornamented with the shaded brown of cones and acorns, and sprinkled with gold-tinted leaves from the trees. As they looked on the mellowed beauty of the scenery, Mary said: “The Being who fashioned us, and created this marvellous road for us to travel in, must be wondrously wise and loving. How gradually and gently all things grow, and pass through magical changes. When we had had enough of chasing butterflies, the roses came to bind us together in fragrant wreaths. When the roses withered, the grain-fields waved beautifully in the wind, and purple and yellow grapes hung from the vines, like great clusters of jewels. And now, when fruit and grain are gathered, the forests are gorgeous in the sunlight, like immense beds of tulips. A friendly ‘Good morning’ to something new, mingles ever with the ‘Good night, beloved,’ to something that is passing away. Surely, dearest, this road, so full of magical transformations, must lead us to something more beautiful than itself.” The traveller uncovered his head, raised his eyes reverently toward heaven, and said: “It is a great mystery. O Father, give us faith!”
Before the glowing tints departed from the trees, Mary’s cheek grew pale, and the light of her eyes began to fade. Then the traveller shuddered and shivered; for a great shadow came between him and the sunshine; he felt the approach of the invisible. More and more closely he pressed the beloved companion, to warm her with his heart. But her mild eyes closed, and the graceful form became as marble. No more could he look into those serene depths, where he had first seen the blind boy shooting his arrows, afterward stringing pearls, and then as an angel twining amaranthine crowns. In the anguish of his desolation, he groaned aloud, and exclaimed: “O thou Dread Destroyer! take me, too! I cannot live alone! I cannot!” A gentle voice whispered, “Thou art not alone, dearest. I am still with thee!” but in the tumult of his grief he heard it not. The children Mary had given him twined their soft arms about his neck, and said: “Do not leave us alone! We cannot find our way, without thee to guide us.” For their sakes, he stifled his groans, and knelt down and prayed, “O Father, give me strength and faith!”
Patiently he travelled on, leading the children. By degrees they joined themselves to companions, and went off in pairs into new paths, as he and his Mary had done. The scenery around him grew more dreary. The black branches of the trees stood in gloomy relief against a cold gray sky. The beautiful fields of grain ripening in the sunshine had changed to dry stubble fluttering mournfully in the wind. But Nature, loath to part with Beauty, still wore a few red berries, as a necklace among her rags, and trimmed her scanty garments with evergreen. But the wonderful transformations had not ceased. The fluttering brown rags suddenly changed to the softest ermine robe, flashing with diamonds, and surmounted by a resplendent silver crown. The magical change reminded our traveller that his lost companion had said, “Surely a road so full of beautiful changes must lead to something more beautiful than itself.” Again he knelt in reverence, and said, “All things around me are miraculous. O Father, give me faith!”
The road descended into a deep valley, ever more narrow and dark. The nights grew longer. The ground was rugged and frozen, and the rough places hurt the pilgrim’s stiff and weary feet. But when he was joined by pilgrims more exhausted than himself, he spoke to them in words of good cheer, and tried to help them over the rough places. The sunshine was no longer warm and golden, but its silvery light was still beautiful, and through the leafless boughs of the trees the moon and the stars looked down serenely on him. The children whom he had guided sometimes came and sang sweetly to him; and sometimes, when he was listening in the stillness, he seemed to hear mysterious echoes within himself, as if from a musical chime of bells on the other side of a river.
The shudderings and shiverings he had felt in presence of the cold shadow became more frequent; and he said to himself, “The Dread Destroyer is approaching more and more near.” With trembling hands he uncovered his snow-white head, and looking upward, he said, “It is a fearful mystery. O Father, give me faith!” Praying thus, he sank on the cold ground, and sleepiness came over him. He felt something gently raising him, and slowly opening his eyes, he said, “Who art thou?” The stranger answered, “I am that Dread Destroyer, whose shadow always made thee shudder.”
“Thou!” exclaimed the tired pilgrim, in tones of joyful surprise; “why thou art an angel!” “Yes, I am an angel,” he replied; “and none but I can lead thee to thy loved ones. Thy Heavenly Father has sent me to take thee home.” Gratefully the weary one sank into the arms of the giant he had so much dreaded. “All things are ordered in love,” he said. “Thy touch is friendly, and thy voice like music.”
They passed a narrow bridge over a dark river. On the other side was a flowery arch, bearing the motto, “The Gate of Life.” Within it stood Mary and her cherub-boy, shining in transfigured light. The child stretched out his hands for an embrace, and Mary’s welcoming smile was more beautiful than it had ever been in the happy old time of roses and rainbows. “This is only one more of the magical transformations, my beloved,” she said. “It is as I told thee. The beautiful, mysterious road leads to something far more beautiful than itself. Come and see!” With tender joy he kissed her and the angel child. There was a sound of harps and voices above him, singing, “The shadow has departed!” And a cheerful response came from well-remembered voices he had left behind him on the road: “We are coming! We are coming!” Through all the chambers of his soul went ringing the triumphant chorus, “The shadow has departed!” with the cheerful response, “We are coming! We are coming!”
THE HAPPIEST TIME.
By ELIZA COOK.
An old man sat in his chimney-seat,
As the morning sunbeam crept to his feet;
And he watched the Spring light as it came
With wider ray on his window frame.
He looked right on to the Eastern sky,
But his breath grew long in a trembling sigh,
And those who heard it wondered much
What Spirit hand made him feel its touch.
For the old man was not one of the fair
And sensitive plants in earth’s parterre;
His heart was among the senseless things,
That rarely are fanned by the honey-bee’s wings;
It bore no film of delicate pride,
No dew of emotion gathered inside;
O, that old man’s heart was of hardy kind,
That seemeth to heed not the sun or the wind.
He had lived in the world as millions live,
Ever more ready to take than give;
He had worked and wedded, and murmured and blamed,
And just paid to the fraction what honesty claimed;
He had driven his bargains and counted his gold,
Till upwards of threescore years were told;
And his keen blue eye held nothing to show
That feeling had ever been busy below.
The old man sighed again, and hid
His keen blue eye beneath its lid;
And his wrinkled forehead, bending down,
Was knitting itself in a painful frown.
“I’ve been looking back,” the old man said,
“On every spot where my path has laid,
Over every year my brain can trace,
To find the happiest time and place.”
“And where and when,” cried one by his side,
“Have you found the brightest wave in your tide?
Come tell me freely, and let me learn,
How the spark was struck that yet can burn.
Was it when you stood in stalwart strength,
With the blood of youth, and felt that at length
Your stout right arm could win its bread?”
The old man quietly shook his head.
“Then it must have been when love had come,
With a faithful bride to glad your home;
Or when the first-born cooed and smiled,
And your bosom cradled its own sweet child;
Or was it when that first-born joy,
Grew up to your hope,—a brave, strong boy,—
And promised to fill the world in your stead?”
The old man quietly shook his head.
“Say, was it then when fortune brought
The round sum you had frugally sought?
Was the year the happiest that beheld
The vision of poverty all dispelled?
Or was it when you still had more,
And found you could boast a goodly store
With labor finished and plenty spread?”
The old man quietly shook his head.
“Ah, no! ah, no! it was longer ago,”
The old man muttered,—sadly and low!
“It was when I took my lonely way
To the lonely woods in the month of May.
When the Spring light fell as it falleth now,
With the bloom on the sod and the leaf on the bough;
When I tossed up my cap at the nest in the tree;
O, that was the happiest time for me.
“When I used to leap and laugh and shout,
Though I never knew what my joy was about;
And something seemed to warm my breast,
As I sat on a mossy bank to rest.
That was the time; when I used to roll
On the blue-bells that covered the upland knoll,
And I never could tell why the thought should be,
But I fancied the flowers talked to me.
“Well I remember climbing to reach
A squirrel brood rocked on the top of a beech;
Well I remember the lilies so sweet,
That I toiled with back to the city street;
Yes, that was the time,—the happiest time,—
When I went to the woods in their May-day prime.”
And the old man breathed with a longer sigh,
And the lid fell closer over his eye.
O, who would have thought this hard old man
Had room in his heart for such rainbow span?
Who would have deemed that wild copse flowers
Were tenderly haunting his latest hours?
But what did the old man’s spirit tell,
In confessing it loved the woods so well?
What do we learn from the old man’s sigh,
But that Nature and Poetry cannot die?
ODE OF ANACREON.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK.
The women tell me, every day,
That all my bloom has passed away.
“Behold!” the lively lasses cry,
“Behold this mirror with a sigh!
Old wintry Time has shed his snows,
And bald and bare your forehead shows.”
I will not either think or care
Whether old Time has thinned my hair;
But this I know and this I feel,
As years advancing on me steal,
And ever bring the end more near,
The joys of life become more dear;
And had I but one hour to live,
That hour to cheerfulness I’d give.
