CHAPTER IV.
CONCLUSION.
Five years had passed since the commencement of our tale, and Clara and I still remained at our homes in Willowdale. Life had passed gently with us, and the friendship formed in our school-days remained unbroken. It was sweet to recall those days; and we passed many a pleasant hour in the renewal of old memories. Clara had heard nothing from Philip Sidney, save once, about a year before, when a letter from Fan Selby informed her that he had called on them. He had inquired very particularly after Clara, and said that he intended to visit Willowdale the following year, but where the intervening time was to be passed she did not know. It seemed very strange to me that Clara should not doubt his truth from his long silence, but her faith remained unshaken.
It was the day before Christmas, and the young people of Willowdale were assembled to finish the decorations of the church. The garlands were hung in deep festoons along the walls, and twined around the pillars. The pulpit and altar were adorned with wreaths tastefully woven of branches of box mingled with the dark-green leaves and scarlet berries of the holly, the latter gathered from trees which the old rector had planted in his youth, and carefully preserved for this purpose. On the walls over the entrance was the inscription, "Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace and good-will to men," in letters covered with box, after the model of those we had seen in our school-days. We surveyed our work with pleasure, mingled with anxiety to discover any improvement that might be made, for we knew that a stranger was that night to address us. The growing infirmities of the old rector had for a long time rendered the duties of a pastor very fatiguing to him, and he had announced to us the Sabbath before, that a young relative who had lately taken orders, would be with him on Christmas Eve, and assist him until his health should be improved. The news was unwelcome to the older members of the congregation, who had been so long accustomed to hear instruction from their aged pastor that the thought of seeing another stand in his place was fraught with pain to them. He had been truly their friend, sharing their joys and sorrows—and their hearts were linked to him as childrens' to a parent. At the baptismal font, the marriage altar, and the last sad rites of the departed, he had presided, and it seemed as if the voice of a stranger must strike harshly upon their ears. But to the young there was pleasure in the thought of change; and though they dearly loved the old man, the charm of novelty was thrown around their dreams of his successor. No one knew his name, though rumor whispered that he had just returned from England, where he had spent the last year. No wonder, then, that we looked with critic eyes upon our work, eager to know how it must appear to one who had traveled abroad, and lingered among the rich cathedrals of our fatherland. Clara alone seemed indifferent, and was often rallied on her want of interest in the young stranger, I alone read her secret, as she glanced at the gem which sparkled upon her finger, for I knew that her thoughts were with the past—and Philip Sidney.
Christmas Eve arrived, as bright and beautiful as the winter nights of the North. A light snow covered the ground, and the Frost King had encrusted it with thousands of glittering diamonds. The broad expanse of the valley was radiant in the moonbeams, and the branches of the willows were glittering with frosty gems. The church was brilliantly lighted, and the blaze from its long windows left a bright reflection upon the pure surface of the snow. The merry ringing of sleigh-bells were heard in every direction, and numerous sleighs deposited their fair burden at the door. There was a general gathering of the young people from ours and the neighboring villages, to witness the services of the evening, and brighter eyes than a city assembly could boast, flashed in the lamp-light. The garlands were more beautiful in this subdued light than they had been in the glare of day, and their richness was like a magic spell of beauty to enthrall the senses of the beholder. Clara and I were seated in one of the pews directly in front of the altar, occasionally looking back to see the new arrivals, and return the greetings of friends from other villages. Suddenly the organ swelled in a rich peal of music, and the old pastor entered, followed by the youthful stranger. There was no time to scrutinize the features of the latter ere he knelt and concealed his face, yet there was something in the jetty curls that rested upon his snowy surplice, as his head laid within his folded hands that looked familiar, and Clara involuntarily grasped my hand. As he arose and opened the prayer-book to turn to the services of the evening, he took a momentary survey of the congregation. That glance was enough to tell us that the stranger was Philip Sidney. As his eye met Clara's, a crimson flush spread over his pale face, his dark eye glowed, and his hand trembled slightly as he turned over the leaves. It was but a moment ere he was calm and self-possessed again, and when he commenced reading the services his voice was clear and rich. The deepest silence pervaded the assembly, save when the responses rose from every part of the house. Then the organ peals, and the sweet voices of the choir joined in the anthems, and again all was still. The charm of eloquence is universally acknowledged, and the statesman, the warrior, and votary of science have all wielded it as a weapon of might, but we can never feel its irresistible power so fully as when listening to its richness from the pulpit. The perfect wisdom of holy writ, the majesty of thought, and purity of sentiment it inspires, will elevate the mind of the hearer above surrounding objects, and when to this power is added beauty of language and a musical voice, the spell is deeper. Such was the charm that held all in silent attention while Philip Sidney spoke. The scene was one which would tend to fix the mind on the event it was designed to commemorate, and the sweet music of his words might remind one of the angel's song proclaiming "Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace and good-will to men." Richer seemed its melody, and more beautiful his language, as he dwelt upon the love and mercy of the Redeemer's mission, and the hope of everlasting life it brought to the perishing. He led them back to the hour when moral darkness enshrouded the world, and mankind were doomed to perish under the frown of an offended God. There was but one ray to cheer the gloom, the prophetic promise of the Messiah who should come to redeem the world. To this they looked, and vainly dreamed that he should appear in regal splendor, to gather his followers and form a temporal kingdom. Far from this, the angel's song was breathed to simple shepherds, and the star in the East pointed out a stable as the lowly birth-place of the Son of God. He came, not to rule in splendor in the palaces of kings, but to bring the gospel of peace to the lowliest habitations, and fix his throne in the hearts of the meek and humble-minded. He claimed no tribute of this world's wealth as an offering, but the love and obedience of those whom he came to save. Earnestly the speaker besought his hearers to yield to their Saviour the adoration which was his due, and requite His all-excelling love with the purest and deepest affections of their hearts. Every eye was fixed upon the speaker, every ear intently listened to catch his words, and tears suffused the eyes so lately beaming with gayety. At the close of his eloquent appeal, there were few in that congregation unmoved. The closing prayers were read, the benediction pronounced, and the audience gradually left the house. Clara and I were the last to leave our seats, and as we followed the crowd that had gathered in the aisles before us she did not speak, but the hand that rested in mine trembled like a frightened bird. Suddenly a voice behind us whispered the name of Clara. She turned and met the gaze of Philip Sidney. The trusting faith of years had its reward, and those so long severed met again. Not wishing to intrude upon the joy of that moment, I left them, and followed on with the old rector. We walked on in the little foot-path that led to our homes; and while Clara's hand rested upon his arm, the young clergyman told the tale of his life since their parting.
"But how did it come," asked Clara, "that you chose the sacred profession of the ministry?"
"I cannot fully trace the source of the emotions that led me to become a worshiper at the throne of the Holiest, unless it is true that the love of the pure and good of earth is the first pluming of the soul's pinions for heaven. I went to church that Christmas eve, urged only by the wish to look upon your face once more, yet, when there, the words of the speaker won my attention. I had listened to others equally eloquent many times before; but that night my heart seemed more susceptible to religious impressions. I felt a deep sense of the folly and ingratitude of my past life, and firmly resolved for the future to live more worthily of the immortal treasure that was committed to my charge. Prayerfully and earnestly I studied the Word of Life, and resolved to devote myself to the ministry. I wrote to my worthy relative, the rector of Willowdale, for his advice, and found, to my great joy, that he was your devoted friend. He condemned my rashness in the avowal I had made to you, and insisted that there should be no communication between us until I had finished my studies. I consented, on condition that he should write frequently and inform me of your welfare. One year ago I had completed my studies, and would have hastended to you, but my stern Mentor insisted that I should travel abroad, as he said, to give me a better knowledge of human nature, and test the truth of my early affection. I have passed the ordeal, and now, after an absence of five years, returned to you unchanged in heart."
The rest of the conversation was lost to me, as I reached my home; but that it was satisfactory to those engaged in it I know from the fact, that the next day I had the pleasure of congratulating Clara upon her engagement, with the full consent of her relatives. The remainder of the tale is quickly told. The old rector resigned his pastoral charge to Philip Sidney, with the full approbation of his parishioners; and it was arranged that the old rector and his wife should remain at the parsonage with the young clergyman and his bride. Deacon Lee became warmly attached to Philip, and felt a father's interest in the happiness of Clara, though he sometimes chid her playfully for keeping their early acquaintance a secret from him. As for Mrs. Lee, she was so proud of the honor of being aunt to a minister, that she almost forgot her dislike to prelacy. It is true she was once heard to say to one of her gossiping acquaintances, that she would have been better pleased if Clara had married a good Congregationalist minister, even if he had not preached quite so flowery sermons as Philip Sidney.
One bright day in the month of May following was their wedding-day. The bride looked beautiful in her pure white dress of muslin, with a wreath of May-blossoms in her hair. Blessings were invoked on the youthful pair by all, both high and low, and sincere good wishes expressed for their future happiness. Here I will leave them, with the wish that the affection of early years may remain through life undimmed, and that the Christmas Garland, so linked with the history of their loves, may be their emblem.
HEADS OF THE POETS.
BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.
I.—CHAUCER.
——Chaucer's healthy Muse,
Did wisely one sweet instrument to choose—
The native reed; which, tutored with rare skill,
Brought other Muses [1] down to aid its trill!
A cheerful song that sometimes quaintly masked
The fancy, as the affections sweetly tasked;
And won from England's proud and foreign [2] court,
For native England's tongue, a sweet report—
And sympathy—till in due time it grew
A permanent voice that proved itself the true,
And rescued the brave language of the land,
From that [3] which helped to strength the invader's hand.
Thus, with great patriot service, making clear
The way to other virtues quite as dear
In English liberty—which could grow alone,
When English speech grew pleasant to be known;
To spell the ears of princes, and to make
The peasant worthy for his poet's sake.
II.—SHAKSPEARE.
——'T were hard to say,
Upon what instrument did Shakspeare play—
Still harder what he did not! He had all
The orchestra at service, and could call
To use, still other implements, unknown,
Or only valued in his hands alone!
The Lyre, whose burning inspiration came
Still darting upward, sudden as the flame;
The murmuring wind-harp, whose melodious sighs
Seem still from hopefullest heart of love to rise,
And gladden even while grieving; the wild strain
That night-winds wake from reeds that breathe in pain,
Though breathing still in music; and that voice,
Which most he did affect—whose happy choice
Made sweet flute-accents for humanity
Out of that living heart which cannot die,
The Catholic, born of love, that still controls
While man is man, the tide in human souls.
III.—THE SAME.
——His universal song
Who sung by Avon, and with purpose strong
Compelled a voice from native oracles,
That still survive their altars by their spells—
Guarding with might each avenue to fame,
Where, trophied over all, glows Shakspeare's name!
The mighty master-hand in his we trace,
If erring often, never commonplace;
Forever frank and cheerful, even when wo
Commands the tear to speak, the sigh to flow;
Sweet without weakness, without storming, strong,
Jest not o'erstrained, nor argument too long;
Still true to reason, though intent on sport,
His wit ne'er drives his wisdom out of court;
A brooklet now, a noble stream anon,
Careering in the meadows and the sun;
A mighty ocean next, deep, far and wide,
Earth, life and Heaven, all imaged in its tide!
Oh! when the master bends him to his art,
How the mind follows, how vibrates the heart;
The mighty grief o'ercomes us as we hear,
And the soul hurries, hungering, to the ear;
The willing nature, yielding as he sings,
Unfolds her secret and bestows her wings,
Glad of that best interpreter, whose skill
Brings hosts to worship at her sacred hill!
IV.—SPENSER.
It was for Spenser, by his quaint device
To spiritualize the passionate, and subdue
The wild, coarse temper of the British Muse,
By meet diversion from the absolute:
To lift the fancy, and, where still the song
Proclaimed a wild humanity, to sway
Soothingly soft, and by fantastic wiles
Persuade the passions to a milder clime!
His was the song of chivalry, and wrought
For like results upon society;
Artful in high degree, with plan obscure,
That mystified to lure, and, by its spells,
Making the heart forgetful of itself
To follow out and trace its labyrinths,
In that forgetfulness made visible!
Such were the uses of his Muse; to say
How proper and how exquisite his lay,
How quaintly rich his masking—with what art
He fashioned fairy realms and paints their queen,
How purely—with how delicate a skill—
It needs not, since his song is with us still!
V.—MILTON.
The master of a single instrument,
But that the Cathedral Organ; Milton sings
With drooping spheres about him, and his eye
Fixed steadily upward, through its mortal cloud,
Seeing the glories of Eternity!
The sense of the invisible and true
Still present to his soul, and in his song;
The consciousness of duration through all time,
Of work in each condition, and of hopes
Ineffable, that well sustain through life,
Encouraging through danger and in death,
Cheering, as with a promise rich in wings!
A godlike voice that, through cathedral towers
Still rolls, prolonged in echoes, whose deep tones
Seem born of thunder, that subdued to music
Soothe when they startle most! A Prophet Bard,
With utt'rance equal to his mission of power,
And harmonies that, not unworthy heaven,
Might well lift earth to equal worthiness.
VI.—BURNS AND SCOTT.
——Not forgotten or denied,
Scott's trumpet-lay, and Burns's violin-song;
The one a call to arms, of action fond;
The other, still discoursing to the heart—
The lowly human heart—of loves and joys—
Such as beseem the cotter's calm fireside—
Cheerful and buoyant still amid a sadness—
Such sadness as still couples love with care!
VII.—BYRON.
——For Byron's home and fame,
It needed manhood only! Had he known
How sorrow should be borne, nor sunk in shame,
For that his destiny decreed to moan—
His Muse had been triumphant over Time
As still she is o'er Passion; still sublime—
Having subdued her soul's infirmity
To aliment; and, with herself o'ercome,
O'ercome the barriers of Eternity,
And lived through all the ages, with a sway
Complete, and unembarrassed by the doom
That makes of Nature's porcelain, common clay!
VIII.-A GROUP.
Shelly and Wordsworth,—Tennyson, Barrett, Horne and Browning;—Baily and Taylor;—Campbell and Moore.
——As one who had been brought,
By Fairy hands, and as a changeling left
In human cradle, the sad substitute
For a more smiling infant—Shelly sings
Vague minstrelsies that speak a foreign birth,
Among erratic tribes; yet not in vain
His moral, and the fancies in his flight
Not without profit for another race!
He left his spirit with his voice—a voice
Solely spiritual, which will long suffice
To wing the otherwise earthy of the time,
And, with the subtler leaven of the soul,
Inform the impetuous passions!
With him came
Antagonist, yet still with sympathy,
Wordsworth, the Bard of the contemplative,
A voice of purest thought in sweetest music!
—These, in themselves unlike, together linked,
Appear in unison in after days,
Making progressive still, the mental births,
That pass successively through rings of time,
Each to a several conquest; most unlike
That of its sire, yet borrowing of its strength,
Where needful, and endowing it with new,
To meet the new necessity which still
Haunts the free progress of each conquering race.
—Thus, Tennyson and Barrett, Browning, Horne,
Blend their opposing faculties, and speak
For that fresh nature, which in daily things
Beholds the immortal, and from common forms
Extorts the Eternal still! So Baily sings
In Festus; so, upon a humbler rank,
Testing the worth of social policies,
As working through a single human will,
The Muse of Taylor argues—Artevelde,
Being the man who marks a popular growth,
And notes the transit of a thought through time,
Growing as still it speeds.....
Exquisite
The ballads of Campbell, and the lays of Moore,
Appealing to our tastes, our gentler moods,
The play of the affections, or the thoughts
That come with national pride; and as we pause
In our own march, delight the sentiment!
But nothing they make for progress. They perfect
The language, and diversify its powers—
Please and beguile, and, for the forms of art,
Prove what they are, and may be. But they lift
None of our standards; help us not in growth;
Compel no prosecution of our search,
And leave us, where they found us—with the time!
HOPE ON—HOPE EVER.
BY H. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.
Poor stricken one! whose toil can gain,
And barely gain, the coarsest fare,
From bitter thoughts and words refrain;
Yield not to dark despair!
The blackest night that e'er was born
Was followed by a radiant morn;
Heed not the world's unfeeling scorn,
Nor think life's brittle thread to sever;
Hope on—hope ever!
Hope, though your sun is hid in gloom,
And o'er your care-worn, wrinkled brow,
Grief spreads his shadow—'tis the doom
That falls on many now.
Grim Poverty, with icy hand,
May bind to earth with ruthless band
Bright gifted ones throughout the land;
But struggle still that band to sever—
Hope on—hope ever!
Sit not and pine that FORTUNE led
Another on to grasp her wreath;
The same blue sky is o'er thy head,
The same green earth beneath,
The same bright angel-eyes look down,
Each night upon the humblest clown,
That sees the king with jeweled crown;
Of these, stern fate can rob thee never—
Hope on—hope ever!
What though the proud should pass thee by,
And curl their haughty lips with scorn;
Like thee, they soon must droop and die,
For all of woman born,
Are journeying to a shadowy land,
Where each devoid of pride must stand,
By hovering wings of angels' fanned;
There sorrow can assail thee never—
Hope on—hope ever!
Then plod along with tearless eye,
Poor son of toil! and ne'er repine,
The road through barren wastes may lie,
And thorns, as oft hath mine;
But there was One who came to earth,
Star-heralded at hour of birth,
Humble, obscure, unknown his worth,
Whose path was thornier far. Weep never!
Hope on—hope ever!