Looking toward sunset

by Unknown

THE INVALID’S PRAYER

O thou, whose wise, paternal love

Hath cast my active vigor down,

Thy choice I thankfully approve;

And, prostrate at Thy gracious throne,

I offer up my life’s remains;

I choose the state my God ordains.

Cast as a broken vessel by,

Thy will I can no longer do;

But while a daily death I die,

power I can in weakness show;

My patience shall thy glory raise,

My steadfast trust proclaim thy praise.

Wesley.

* * * * *

Trials make our faith sublime,

Trials give new life to prayer,

Lift us to a holier clime,

Make us strong to do and bear.

Cowper.

THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON.
FROM THE GERMAN OF JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

In the little village of Heim, Gottreich Hartmann resided with his old father, who was a curate. The old man had wellnigh outlived all those whom he had loved, but he was made happy by his son. Gottreich discharged for him his duties in the parish, not so much in aid of his parent’s untiring vigor, as to satisfy his own energy, and to give his father the exquisite gratification of being edified by his child and companion.

In Gottreich there thrilled a spirit of true poetry; and his father also had, in his youth, a poet’s ardor, of like intensity, but it had not been favored by the times. Son and father seemed to live in one another; and on the site of filial and paternal love there arose the structure of a rare and peculiar friendship. Gottreich not only cheered his father by the new birth of his own lost poet-youth, but by the still more beautiful similarity of their faith. The father found again his old Christian heart sending forth new shoots in the bosom of Gottreich, and moreover the best justification of the convictions of his life and of his love.

If it be pain for us to love and to contradict at the same time, to refuse with the head what the heart grants, it is all the sweeter to us to find ourselves and our faith transplanted into a younger being. Life is then as a beautiful night, in which, as one star goes down, another rises in its place. Gottreich possessed a paradise, in which he labored as his father’s gardener. He was at once the wife, the brother, the friend of his parent; the all that is to be loved by man. Every Sunday brought him a new pleasure,—that of preaching a sermon before his father. If the eyes of the old man became moistened, or if he suddenly folded his hands in an attitude of prayer, that Sunday became the holiest of festivals. Many a festival has there been in that quiet little parsonage, the joyfulness of which no one understood and no one perceived. The love and approbation of an energetic old man, like Hartmann, whose spiritual limbs had by no means stiffened on the chilly ridge of years, could not but exercise a powerful influence on a young man like Gottreich, who, more tenderly and delicately formed both in body and mind, was wont to shoot forth in loftier and more rapid flame.

To these two happy men was added a happy woman also. Justa, an orphan, sole mistress of her property, had sold the house which had been her father’s in the city, and had removed into the upper part of a good peasant’s cottage, to live entirely in the country. Justa did nothing by halves; she often did things more than completely, as most would think at least, in all that touched her generosity. She had not long resided in the village of Heim, and seen the meek Gottreich, and listened to some of his spring-tide sermons, ere she discovered that he had won her heart, filled as it was with the love of virtue. She nevertheless refused to give him her hand until the conclusion of the great peace, after which they were to be married. She was ever more fond of doing what is difficult than what is easy. I wish it were here the place to tell of the May-time life they led, which seemed to blossom in the low parsonage-house, near the church-door, under Justa’s hand; how she came from her own cottage, in the morning, to order matters in the little dwelling for the day; how the evenings were passed in the garden, ornamented with a few pretty flower-beds, and commanding a view of many a well-watered meadow, and distant hill, and stars without number; how these three hearts played into one another, no one of which, in this most pure and intimate intercourse, knew or felt anything which was not of the fairest; and how cheerfulness and good intention marked the passage of their lives. Every bench was a church seat, all was peaceful and holy, and the firmament above was an infinite church-dome.

In many a village and in many a house is hidden a true Eden, which has neither been named nor marked down; for happiness is fond of covering over and concealing her tenderest flowers. Gottreich reposed in such tenderness of love and bliss, of poetry and religion, of spring-time, of the past and of the future, that, in the depths of his heart, he feared to speak out his happiness, save in prayer. In prayer, thought he, man may say all his happiness and his misery. His father was very happy also. There came over him a warm old age; no winter night, but a summer evening without chill or darkness; albeit the sun of his life was sunk pretty deep below the mound of earth under which his wife was lain down to sleep.

In these sweetest May-hours of youth, when heaven and earth and his own heart were beating together in triune harmony, Gottreich gave ardent words to his ardent thoughts, and kept them written down, under the title of “Reminiscences of the best Hours of Life, for the Hour of Death.” He meant to cheer himself, in his last hours, with these views of his happy life; and to look back, through them, from the glow of his evening to the bright morning of his youth.

Thus lived these three beings, even rejoicing more deeply in one another, and in their genial happiness, when the chariots of war began to roll over the land.[N] Gottreich became another man. The active powers of his nature, which had heretofore been the quiet audience of his poetical and oratorical powers, now arose. It seemed as if the spirit of energy, which hitherto had wasted itself on empty air, like the flames of a bituminous soil, were now seeking an object to lay hold of. He did not venture to propose separating from his father, but he alternately refreshed and tormented himself inwardly with the idea of sharing the labors and combats of his countrymen. He confided his wishes to Justa only; but she did not give him encouragement, because she feared the old man’s solitude would be too great for him to bear. But at last the old man himself became inspirited for the war, by Gottreich and his betrothed; and he said to his son that he had better go; that he knew he had long desired it, and had only been silent through love for him. He hoped, with God’s aid, to be able to discharge his pastoral duties for a year, and thus he also would be doing something to serve his country.

[N] The war of 1813, against Napoleon, to secure the independence of Germany.

Gottreich departed, trusting to the autumnal strength of his father’s life. He enlisted as a common soldier, and preached also wherever he was able. The entrance on a new career awakens new energies and powers, which rapidly unfold into life and vigor. Although fortune spared him the wounds which he would willingly have brought back with him into the peaceful future of his life, in memory of the focus of his youth, as it were, yet it was happiness enough to take part in the battles, and, like an old republican, to fight together with a whole nation, for the common cause.

At length, in the beautiful month of May, the festivals of victory and peace began in more than one nation; and Gottreich was unwilling to pass those days of rejoicing so far from the friends who were dearest to him. He longed for their company, that his joy might be doubled; so he took the road to Heim. Thousands at that time journeyed over the liberated land, from a happy past to a happy future. But there were few who saw, like Gottreich, so pure a firmament over the mountains of his native valleys, in which not a star was missing, but every one of them was bright and twinkling. Justa had, from time to time, sent him the little annals of the parsonage. She had written how she longed for his return, and how his father rejoiced; how well the old man stood the labors of his office; and how she had still better secrets in store for him. To these belonged, perhaps, her promise, which he had not forgotten, to give him her hand after the great peace.

With such prospects before him, Gottreich ever enjoyed in thought that holy evening when he should see the sun go down at Heim,—when he should arrive unexpectedly, to relieve the old man from all his cares, and begin to prepare the tranquil festivities of the village. As he was thinking of that day’s meeting, when he should clasp those fond hearts to his own, and as the mountains above his father’s village were seen more and more clearly in relief against the blue sky, the Reminiscences of the best hours of life, which he had written for the hour of death, echoed and re-echoed in his soul; and, as he went along, he dwelt particularly upon one among them, which commemorated the joy of meeting again here below.

A shower was coming up behind him, of which he seemed to be the happy messenger; for the parched ground, the drooping flowers, and the ears of corn had long been thirsting for water from the warm clouds. A parishioner of Heim, who was laboring in the fields, saluted him as he passed, and expressed joy that Gottreich and the rain had both come at last. Soon he caught sight of the low church-steeple, peeping above the clustered trees; and he entered upon that tract in the valley where the parsonage lay, all reddened by the evening sun. At every window he hoped to see his betrothed one, thinking perchance she might be looking out on the sunset before the storm came on. As he drew nearer, he hoped to see the lattice open, and Whitsuntide-brooms in the chief apartment; but he saw nothing of all this.

At last, he quietly entered the parsonage-house, and slowly opened the well-known door. The room was empty, but he heard a noise overhead. When he entered the chamber, it was filled with a glow from the west, and Justa was kneeling by the bed of his father, who was sitting half upright, and looking, with a stiff, haggard countenance, toward the setting sun before him. One exclamation, and a clasp of her lover to her breast, was all his reception. His father stretched out his withered hand slowly, and said, with difficulty, “Thou art come at the right time”; but without adding whether he spoke of the preachings, or alluded to their approaching separation. Justa hastily related how the old man had overworked himself, till body and spirit had given way together, so that he no longer took a share in anything, though he longed to be with the sharers; and how he lay prostrate, with broken wings, looking upward, like a helpless child. The old man had grown so hard of hearing, that she could say all this in his presence.

Gottreich would fain have infused into that old and once strong heart the fire of victory which was reflected in his own bosom; but he heard neither wish nor question of it. The old man continued to gaze steadily upon the setting sun, and at last it was hidden by the storm-clouds. The landscape grew dark, the winds stood pent, and the earth was oppressed. Suddenly there came a gush of rain and a crash of thunder. The lightning flashed around the old man. He looked up, altered and astonished. “Hist!” he said; “I hear the rain once more. Speak quickly, children, for I shall soon depart!” Both his children clung to him, but he was too weak to embrace them.

And now warm, refreshing fountains from the clouds bathed all the sick earth, from the dripping trees to the blades of grass. The sky glistened mildly, as with tears of joy, and the thunder went rumbling away behind the distant mountains. The sick man pointed upward, and said: “Seest thou the majesty of God? My son, now, in my last hour, strengthen my weary soul with something holy,—something in the spirit of love, and not of penance; for if our hearts condemn us not, then have we confidence toward God. Say something to me rich in love of God and of his works.”

The eyes of the son overflowed, to think that he should read at the death-bed of his father those Reminiscences which he had prepared for his own. He said this to him, but the old man answered, “Hasten, my son!” And, with faltering voice, Gottreich began to read:—

“Remember, in thy dark hour, those times when thou hast prayed to God in ecstasy, and when thou hast thought on him, the Infinite One; the greatest thought of finite man.”

Here the old man clasped his hands, and prayed low.

“Hast thou not known and felt the existence of that Being, whose infinity consists not only in his power, his wisdom, and his eternity, but also in his love, and in his justice? Canst thou forget the time when the blue sky, by day and by night, opened on thee, as if the mildness of God was looking down on thee? Hast thou not felt the love of the Infinite, when he veiled himself in his image, the loving hearts of men; as the sun, which reflects its light not on the moon only, but on the morning and evening star also, and on every little twinkler, even the farthest from our earth?

“Canst thou forget, in the dark hour, that there have been mighty men among us, and that thou art following after them? Raise thyself, like the spirits who stood upon their mountains, having the storms of life only about them, never above them! Call back to thee the kingly race of sages and poets, who have inspirited and enlightened nation after nation!”

“Speak to me of our Redeemer,” said the father.

“Remember Jesus Christ, in the dark hour. Remember him, who also passed through this life. Remember that soft moon of the Infinite Sun, given to enlighten the night of the world. Let life be hallowed to thee, and death also; for he shared both of them with thee. May his calm and lofty form look down on thee in the last darkness, and show thee his Father.”

A low roll of thunder was heard from clouds which the storm had left. Gottreich continued to read:—

“Remember, in the last hour, how the heart of man can love. Canst thou forget the love wherewith one heart repays a thousand hearts, and the soul during a whole life is nourished and vivified from another soul? Even as the oak of a hundred years clings fast to the same spot, with its roots, and derives new strength, and sends forth new buds during its hundred springs?”

“Dost thou mean me?” said the father.

“I mean my mother also,” replied the son.

The father, thinking on his wife, murmured very gently, “To meet again. To meet again.” And Justa wept while she heard how her lover would console himself in his last hours with the reminiscence of the days of her love.

Gottreich continued to read: “Remember, in the last hour, that pure being with whom thy life was beautiful and great; with whom thou hast wept tears of joy; with whom thou hast prayed to God, and in whom God appeared unto thee; in whom thou didst find the first and last heart of love;—and then close thine eyes in peace!”

Suddenly, the clouds were cleft into two huge black mountains; and the sun looked forth from between them, as it were, out of a valley between buttresses of rock, gazing upon the earth with its joy-glistening eye.

“See!” said the dying man. “What a glow!”

“It is the evening sun, father.”

“This day we shall see one another again,” murmured the old man. He was thinking of his wife, long since dead.

The son was too deeply moved to speak to his father of the blessedness of meeting again in this world, which he had enjoyed by anticipation during his journey. Who could have courage to speak of the joys of an earthly meeting to one whose mind was absorbed in the contemplation of a meeting in heaven?

Gottreich, suddenly startled, asked, “Father, what ails thee?”

“I do think thereon; and death is beautiful, and the parting in Christ,” murmured the old man. He tried to take the hand of Gottreich, which he had not strength to press. He repeated, more and more distinctly and emphatically, “O thou blessed God!” until all the other luminaries of life were extinguished, and in his soul there stood but the one sun, God!

At length he roused himself, and, stretching forth his arm, said earnestly, “There! there are three fair rainbows over the evening sun! I must go after the sun, and pass through them with him.” He sank backward, and was gone.

At that moment the sun went down, and a broad rainbow glimmered in the east.

“He is gone,” said Gottreich, in a voice choked with grief. “But he has gone from us unto his God, in the midst of great, pious, and unmingled joy. Then weep no more, Justa.”

* * * * *

His youth was innocent; his riper age

Marked with some act of goodness every day;

And, watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage,

Faded his late declining years away.

Cheerful he gave his being up, and went

To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent.

That life was happy. Every day he gave

Thanks for the fair existence that was his;

For a sick fancy made him not her slave,

To mock him with her phantom miseries.

No chronic tortures racked his aged limbs,

For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him.

Why weep ye, then, for him, who, having won

The bound of man’s appointed years, at last,

Life’s blessings all enjoyed, life’s labors done,

Serenely to his final rest has passed,—

While the soft memory of his virtues yet

Lingers, like twilight hues when the bright sun is set?

W. C. Bryant.

REST AT EVENING.
By ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

When the weariness of life is ended,

And the task of our long day is done,

And the props, on which our hearts depended,

All have failed, or broken, one by one;

Evening and our sorrow’s shadow blended,

Telling us that peace has now begun.

How far back will seem the sun’s first dawning,

And those early mists so cold and gray!

Half forgotten even the toil of morning,

And the heat and burden of the day.

Flowers that we were tending, and weeds scorning,

All alike, withered and cast away.

Vain will seem the impatient heart, that waited

Toils that gathered but too quickly round;

And the childish joy, so soon elated

At the path we thought none else had found;

And the foolish ardor, soon abated

By the storm which cast us to the ground.

Vain those pauses on the road, each seeming

As our final home and resting-place;

And the leaving them, while tears were streaming

Of eternal sorrow down our face;

And the hands we held, fond folly dreaming

That no future could their touch efface.

All will then be faded: Night will borrow

Stars of light to crown our perfect rest;

And the dim vague memory of faint sorrow

Just remain to show us all was best;

Then melt into a divine to-morrow:

O, how poor a day to be so blest!