"I am not of an anxious mind,
Nor prone to cherish useless fear;
Yet oft methinks the very wind
Is whispering in my ear,
That many an evil may take place
Within a fortnight's narrow space.
"But no,—a happier thought is mine;
The absent, like the present scene,
Is guided by a Friend Divine,
Who bids us wait, serene,
The issues of that gracious will,
Which mingles good with every ill.
"And who should feel this tranquil trust
In that Benignant One above—
Who ne'er forgets that we are dust,
And rules with pitying love—
Like us, who both have just been led
Back from the confines of the dead?
"Then, dearest, present or apart,
An equal calmness let us wear;
Let steadfast Faith control the heart,
And still its throbs of care.
We may not lean on things of dust,—
But Heaven is worthy all our trust."
"Newton, September 13, 1828.
"Thank you, dearest, for the pleasure your good long letters have given me; and if I am the more pleased that you called your Muse to aid you in my behalf, I hope it is one of the pardonable weaknesses of womankind, and trust your vanity will not take the alarm lest I should undervalue your own unassisted powers of pleasing. It is indeed a great and unceasing source of delight to me, that, although separated externally in our way, our thoughts, our spirits, are pursuing the same course, and we may meet in meditation and prayer, sure that the same feelings of gratitude and trust are ever present to us both. I thought much of this, last Sunday, when I made my first attempt to attend public worship. I had felt a great desire to go to meeting upon that day, being the eighth week from the birth of my child; and, moreover, because the first Sunday in September has been a memorable day to me every year since 1813. I did not attempt it in the morning, but in the afternoon rode over to hear Mr. Wallcut at the Upper Falls. I had felt well and strong at home, but it was quite too much for me; my mind was too weak to bear it quietly. The reflection upon all that had passed since I last entered the house of God, which was forced upon me at one view, was indeed overwhelming. I could scarcely control myself sufficiently to join in the services. I longed to put every one out of the house, that I might prostrate myself bodily, and I did mentally, before that Being whose goodness had brought me to that hour. I did indeed think much of you; and there was a high and holy satisfaction in the idea that you were at the same time employed in the same way; and although all was uncertainty with regard to you, I doubted not, that, whether on earth or in heaven, I might safely rely upon this. How did I rejoice in that faith which could remove from me all anxiety and fear concerning you, which could enable me so calmly to suffer you to go from me for such a length of time, notwithstanding the very many uncertainties which must belong to your situation. I sometimes wonder at the peace which pervades my mind, but I know I have a right to feel it; it has its basis upon an immovable foundation. Mr. Wallcut gave us a very useful, solemn discourse, and I was strengthened by the service, and not injured by the excitement.
"Heaven bless you! Your own
"Mary."
In September, Mrs. Ware returned to their own house in Boston,—that house in which she had been so happy, and to which she hoped soon to welcome her husband back again, in restored health. She writes at once.
"Sheafe Street, September 26, 1828.
"Here we are, dear Henry, as comfortable as you could wish, in our own dear house, more grateful and happy than I could easily describe, every thing looking just as if we had not been away. Never did the place look more comfortable,—I had almost said, beautiful;—I will say so, for there were so many delightful associations with it that it possessed a moral beauty, if I may say so, exceeding any other it could have had. I feel finely, and am sure I am as able to do all that is necessary as I ever was. It is not necessary just now that I should make any violent efforts; there is no call for it. Elizabeth is with me, as happy as a child can be; and the 'young rogue' likes his home so well that he has turned over a new leaf at once, and I believe means to behave well. All we want now is your presence, and that I trust we shall have in the right time. O, how willing does all this experience make one to leave all things in His hands, who has brought us through such troubled waters so safely, so joyfully! I have gained since Sunday; at least, I have none of the confused feeling I then had, which made me fear my head was too light for Boston. It is getting home, I believe; home and its peacefulness are the best restoratives. I trust you will find it so. I shall walk a little every day, and call first on those in affliction and the sick; there are but few, astonishingly few, for the time; none that you have not heard of, I believe. Peace be with you, dearest! Your
"Mary."