The gallant ship is ’midst the storm and howling tempest lost;
And while the mother and the wife are dreaming of the hour
That to their home the much-loved son and husband will restore.
The wind with loud and frightful roar drowns their last dying cry
And ’mid the wild and dashing waves is spent their latest sigh.
“I like the ballad style of poetry,” said Mary; “it is so natural and so many little incidents may be introduced which touch the feelings and delight the fancy.” “I am an admirer of poetry,” said Mrs. Wilson, “but I have not patience to read much of the sickly sentiment, dignified by that name, which is beginning to be the style of the present day, and I much prefer the old English ballad, with all its homely simplicity.”
After a pleasant and lively conversation the evening was closed and they retired.
The storm had gradually subsided during the night and the morning sun shone clear. The turbulent waves had receded from the shining sands, a fresh and mild breeze dispersed every vapor and the Sabbath morning, in all its calm and peaceful stillness, was again welcomed. There is no feeling more delightful to one whose taste is in unison with it than the lovely quiet of a peaceful Sabbath morning. Even nature seems hushed, the wind lulled into more tranquil murmurs, and the notes of the birds on a summer day sound sweeter and more subdued. After the breakfast table was arranged in due order Philip and Phoebe presented themselves in their Sunday attire and smiling faces, prepared to join the family in listening to the reading of the Bible, and the day was spent in the usual Sabbath duties. “Mother,” said Charles, “I liked the sermon this afternoon very much because it was about Ruth.” “It is a story of much interest,” said Mrs. Wilson, “and read in connection with other parts of the Bible, of much profit.” “Was the country of the Moabites very rich and fertile at that time?” “There is no doubt of it, my son, but it is now accursed of God and almost deserted by man. Formerly it was a land abounding in wealth and all the luxuries of life, and through its thickly populated country ran a high road where were continually passing immense caravans loaded with rich merchandise, and travellers from different nations, thus distributing wealth throughout the whole territory. But the sound of trade and commerce has long since died upon its borders, the once fruitful soil no longer yields its treasures, and the wandering Bedouin gains but a miserable subsistence amidst its sandy deserts, which now echo only the heavy trot of his camels. We can hardly recognize in the description of late travelers the land of plenty which gave refuge to the famished Bethlehemites. I will read you a few lines of a poem entitled “Ruth.”
“Where Moab’s fertile plains once lay, in glowing beauty dressed,
Now spreads a dreary, barren waste, far as the eye can rest.