There was a small church in the little town
Of Bristol, some miles distant, over which
A loving pastor ruled with watchful care.
He came from England,—and but few had known
That he was bishop, of that secret line
Which Ken, and other loyalists prolonged,
Prepared for any changes in the realm.
The good man loved his people at the ford.
The child's expanding mind had ample seals
Of his kind guidance. From his store of books
He culled the treasures for her thoughtful eye.
Another memorable influence,
To add refining grace, came from the town.
One, whose sweet beauty threw a woman's charm
Over a household, seeking health in air,
That rustles forest leaves, that sweeps the fields,
Came to their home, and was not useless there.
She threw round Ellen, in resplendent light,
What Ellen knew before, in fainter day.
The lady was so true in all her grace,
Such open nature, that the child, all heart,
Could think, could love, could be as one with her.
How sad, that the refinement of the world,
Should often be the cost of all that's true!
From the volcano's side the dreadful stream,
That buried the great city, pressed its way,
To every room of refuge. Prison ne'er
Gave bondage like those dark and awful homes.
Around each form came the encrusting clay:
Death at the moment. Dying ne'er so still.
In passing ages all the form was gone:
The dark clay held the shapes of what had been,
And when the beauteous city was exhumed,
Into those hollows, moulds of former life,
They poured the plaster, and regained the form,
Of men, or women, as they were at death.
So all that lives in nature, in the heart,
Is often, living, buried by the world,
By its dead stream. Dust only can remain.
And in its place the statue—outward all
The form of beauty—the pretense of soul.
How the child basked in all her loveliness!
Unconscious, she was moulded day by day,
Sweet buds that in her heart strove to unfold,
Had waited for that sun. And Ellen saw
Her mother in changed aspect. The soft charms
Of her new friend, revealed at once in her,
More of the woman's natural tenderness.
The gentle child, had not a single love
For all the varied scenes of bank and stream—
And these to her were almost all the earth,
But as each glory centered round her home.
If the descending sun threw down the light
Tinged with the mellow hues of autumn leaves,
Upon the waters till they shone as gold,
And yet diminished not the million flames
That burnt upon the trees, all unconsumed,
It was to her a joy. But deeper joy
Came with the thought, that all her eye surveyed,
Was but a repetition of the scene,
When her fond mother, at some former day,
Had by her side blessed God for these his works.
And all the softest murmurs of the air
Recalled her father's step, and his true voice.
Thus home entwined itself with every thought,
As that great vine with all that wide-branched oak.
PART SECOND.
And in this quiet scene, the child grew up,
To know not inequalities of lot,
Of any rank dissevering man from man.
Once from the splendid coach, the city dame
And her young daughter entered the Ford Inn.
As Ellen gazed upon the little one
Whose eye recalled the dove, and then the gleam
That morning threw upon her much loved waves,
And on the tresses, like the chesnut fringe
In full luxuriance, she came forth and stood
With such a guileless, and admiring love,
That tenderness was won. And then they strolled
O'er Ellen's favorite haunts. She asked the child,
Have you such waters, and such trees beside
Your home far off? The little languid eye
Gazed vacantly on all the beauty there,
And then, as one who had not heard the words,
And least of all could give forth a response
To nature's loving call, even as it passed
To her, through Ellen's eyes, and Ellen's voice,
And from her kindled soul,—she turned again,
Absorbed in the small wagon which they drew,
And to the stones they skimmed upon the stream.