Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland

by Abigail Stanley Hanna

But brilliant intellect, beauty of person, sweetness of disposition, goodness of heart, nor love of friends could save her from death's relentless dart. In her case, the words of the poet Wordsworth were verrified,

"The good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket."

Ere nineteen summers had passed over her head, consumption had fastened upon her vitals. At first the symptoms were so slight that her friends felt little alarm, but soon the hollow cough, which sounds so much like a funeral knell, the unnatural brilliancy of the eye, the hectic glow upon the cheek, and the short, labored breathing, told but too plainly that death was not to be cheated of his prey. It has been said that death loves a shining mark, and it is true that he often passes by the loathsome form, shriveled by age, and want, and lingering disease, to feast upon the sparkling eye, the ruby lips, and glowing cheek of youth and beauty.

Annie soon became fully sensible that she was not long for this world, but was perfectly calm and resigned. She possessed that hope that alone can sustain the soul in sickness and suffering, when we feel that our hold upon earth is each day growing weaker, and eternity, vast, boundless, with all its untried scenes, with all its deep mysteries, and overwhelming interests, lies stretched out before us, when the soul feels that it must soon be called upon to enter upon those untried scenes, and to fathom the deep mysteries of that endless existence, and that it must go alone and unattended into the presence of its Maker, there to render up its account. She felt that, although she was unworthy of God's favor, yet Christ had shed his blood for her, and she trusted that her sins had been washed away by that blood, and her soul made meet for the heavenly inheritance. She strove to console the grief of her parents, who were almost heartbroken at the thought of parting from their child. She pointed them to that home beyond the grave, where they should be reunited never more to part; never more to suffer pain, or sorrow, or care; where tears are wiped from all eyes, and the ransomed spirit will be permitted to join with the heavenly host in singing praises to the Redeemer.

She bore her sufferings with sweet resignation. As her bodily strength failed her mind seemed to expand, and her intellectual powers to grow higher. Her love of the beautiful seemed also to increase. The deep blue sky, when studded by a countless host of brilliant stars; the soft, fleecy clouds when reflecting the gorgeous hues of sunset; the music of the birds; the whispering of the breeze, making mysterious melody as it mingled with the rustling of the leaves; these, with a thousand other sweet but incomprehensible charms of nature, seemed to form the link that bound her soul to earth.

Gradually her strength failed; each day her fragile form became more attenuated, and her thin hand more transparent. There was nothing terrible in the approach of death. Nothing that was revolting to the most sensitive mind; but when we were summoned to stand around her dying bed, there was something so calm, so heavenly, so peaceful, in the expression of her countenance, that we all felt that it was indeed a privilege to witness the departure of her soul to the world of spirits, and we involuntarily exclaimed, "Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his."

We All Do Perish Like the Leaf.

One rosy cloud lay cradled
In the chambers of the sky;
Rock'd gently by the autumn winds,
As they came sighing by;

Touching, oh, so lightly,
Each leaf on ev'ry tree,
Yet wafting them in tinted show'rs,
O'er mountain, hill, and lee.

For autumn's chilling finger
Has touch'd them, by decay;
And now the slightest zephyr's wing
Bears their frail form away:

And strews them o'er the barren glebe,
In withered heaps to lie
The sport of many a wintry storm,
As it comes surging by.

So man, with earthly honor,
Stands proudly forth, to-day,--
To-morrow Death's untimely frost
His glory sweeps away.

And down in Death's dark chambers,
With folded hands he lies;
The things of earth excluded
Forever from his eyes.

Life Compared to the Seasons.

Loud blows the stern December blast;
The snow is falling thick and fast;
And all around so cold and drear,--
Proclaims the winter of the year.
Touched by the finger of decay,
Summer beauties passed away--
Her fragrant flowers forgot to bloom,
And slept within their winter tomb.
The butterfly, that airy thing,
That floated on its gilded wing,
And birds that with their music rare,
Warbling filled the summer air;
Dewdrops that gemm'd the morning flower,
All--all were pageants of an hour,--
The trappings of a summer day,
That sank with her into decay.
But though bleak winter reigns around,--
Nor fruit, nor flower adorns the ground,
We know that Spring will wake again
All the pageant Summer train.
And Winter has its store of mirth,
Its studies and its social hearth,
And by nature seems designed
To elevate the human mind.
The seed committed to its trust
Will not decay, and sink to dust,--
It will not with the summer die,
And dormant through the winter lie;
But ever fruitful, it will be,
Even through eternity.