A winter in retirement

by Hannah Blaney Washburn

Nor sorrows find a place.

Like as the sun, in glory bright

Sank ’neath the glowing sky,

To rise again, with morning light

And greet us in the sky.

So bright, so peaceful, closed his day,

So glorious will he rise,

Jesus has pointed him the way

To bliss beyond the skies.

The sounds died away, and when the aged woman raised her head, her moistened eyes expressed her emotion. “To find objects,” she continued, “on whom to wreak any vengeance I again sought the abodes of man; my predictions were heard with awe and terror; many a young heart, throbbing with hope and visions of bliss, have I caused to beat with dreaded anticipations of evil, and blasted many a dream of happiness. My unhallowed occupation was attended with danger, and, at one time my life was in jeopardy. I was threatened with torture and death, and, publicly exposed, was upon the point of meeting a deserved doom, when Nero, passing the spot, caused inquiries to be made as to the cause of the tumult. His was a heart exulting in all the evil passions of human nature, and the being at enmity with all the world might claim kindred sympathy with him. He ordered my release, and, when with sullen disdain, I denounced him, and foretold his crimes, he jeeringly said I should be under his protection, and forbade any interference with my vocation. But, amidst all my misery and crime, I did not forget the family which had shown me kindness. I followed their career in weal or woe; their enemies were doubly mine. Wandering in search of food, at one time a fierce wolf sprang from his lurking place, and an instant more would have ended my guilty life, but an unerring arrow, from an unseen hand, struck his heart, and he lay dead at my feet. A young Roman emerged from the thicket, and my eye immediately recognized, in his noble countenance, one of the only race whose features raised a kindly feeling in my breast. He gazed upon my haggard form with wonder. “Give God glory,” said he, “He has saved you from a dreadful death.” “My life is a burden,” was my sullen answer, “I give thanks to no being. I own no God, and man is my deadly enemy.” Again I saw the same pitying expression of countenance, which had saved me when a child. “If,” said he, “man has injured you, God is your avenger; if you have injured him, God is your judge, and if you are wretched, God will be your comforter.” It was the son of your love; for whose blood the tyrant thirsted, who saved me from the savage beast; whose words first caused a ray of hope to enter this dark heart.” “And must this son, perish?” said the mother, in the piercing accents of grief, “must I never again see him? and my Cleone,” and anguish checked her utterance. “The hours of the life of his persecutor are numbered,” said the Sybil, “and not by my vain art do I know this. The city is even now in commotion; the Senate have decreed his death; hear ye not those sounds of wild uproar? Hear ye not the shouts of the soldiers?” They listened with intense attention, and the distant cries of “Death to the tyrant” were plainly distinguishable amidst the hoarse clamor of the mob; and occupied by the most anxious suspense, it was some moments ere the matron observed the sinking form of the recluse and her deathly paleness. She was prevented from summoning assistance by her sudden arousing to exertion. “His death, mother?” said she, “didst thou say his death? Will they not leave him the possibility of repentance? Would I might see him, even now!” “To what purpose,” said the aged Sybil, “his heart is as the flinty rock upon which the wild waves of the ocean have beaten for ages. Thy life might be the forfeit.” “Mother! the smile and word of kindly sympathy sank deep; never to be eradicated from thy remembrance; Nero! this tyrant of Rome; this monster so detested by humanity, was kind to her, who now would sacrifice life so she might kindle a spark of hope in his benighted soul.” The sounds from the now fully aroused multitudes of Rome were increasing to deafening outcries, and the attendants surrounded their mistress. “There are footsteps approaching,” said one, and, issuing from the shaded pathway, Cleone and the faithful domestic, who had, with Lucius Flavius, accompanied her to the palace, stood before them. The heartfelt thanksgiving of her mother, as she clasped her in a close embrace, the joyous welcome of the domestics, the tears of gratitude, which stood upon the cheeks of the recluse, seemed even to awake sympathy in the stern heart of the Sybil. “But your brother, my Cleone?” “He will be saved, my own dear mother. Nero has commanded his release, and he will soon be restored to us.” The simultaneous burst of triumph around, showed the affection borne to their noble young master, and words would fail to express the joy and thankfulness which pervaded the breast of the pious mother. “I leave you for a space, dear friends,” said Helena, “I leave you, rejoicing in the grace of God, and if we meet no more on earth, let me greet you in a happier home above. There,” said she, raising her beautiful eyes to heaven, “there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor sighing.” “And thou art going?” said the Sybil. “To perform my duty,” said she, and disappeared in the thicket.