A Leaf from the Old Forest

by John D. Cossar

And dwell in peace, and joy, and love, and songs,
Which are for ever gladly rising there.
Sweet were our days together spent below,
But sweeter far they shall be when above
We are united through unending days
With her, an angel too, who was our babe,
And who hath come to bear me presence here.”
Then by the hand she took him, and thus spake
In kind and pleading words: “The laws of man
Would hold and deem it just that, if a man
In time of his prosperity forget
To render to his God a full return
Of thankfulness and praise, then he shall be
In time of his adversity forgot.
But God is more compassionate, and says
That if a man turn from his heedless ways,
And bear a true repentance, he shall live.
Then I, the spirit of your once fond wife,
Come from the realms of bliss, do thee adjure;
Turn to thy God, and give Him worship due,
And mourn not with a needless sorrow more.
Then, but a season longer, ye shall come
And join me in this never-ending bliss.”
Awe-struck and dumb the wondering Henry stood,
And took communion from the Holy One;
In adoration bound, he knew not whence

To make an answer fit, and would have knelt,
Like as before a God, to worship them.
But, ere he knew, they had on pinions bright
Resumed their course unto the regions whence
He saw them come; and, with a wondering look,
He watched them still ascend, until the gates
Of heaven opened, and they entered in.
Then it was morn, and Henry woke from sleep,
And looked in wonder on the things around,
And felt bewildered for a time to know
How hither he had come, and whence the cause.
Then fragments of the dream broke on his mind,
And yet awhile the joys, the cares, the woes
Came clear in their intensity, as when
He had endured them in the days just gone.
The chilly numbness from his limbs removed,
He turned to wander homeward, being now
Refreshed by sleep and more in spirit soothed,
Reflecting long and deep on the stern truths
And troubles tending on the lives of men.
Then came the vision of the night before
Clear as the waters of a Summer stream,
And bore its beauties to his soul anew,
Wherefrom he saw a lucent line ascend,
Of comfort and of warning to his life,
Bidding his soul to higher things ascend,

As vapors rise—as vapors rise and flow—
To seek the presence of the sunny heights,
Sore of their sojourn in the sphere below;
And thus reflected on his bygone days:
“Ah me! ah me! my latter life hath been
A sorry semblance of the lives of men,
Who seek for pleasures in a barren land,
And look for comfort in an empty urn,
And lose the aim wherefore they live and die
Amid the luring of deluding joys.
O error bold! ye now thyself reveal
Within the chaos of departed time,
That she, my wife, received the honor due
Unto my God, for she was as my God,—
The idol I adored, my constant theme.
Forget! forgive! I will return again
Unto a nobler purpose, and will give
Unto my God the reverence which is meet,
And yet a cherished recollection hold,
Because of her who hath departed, and
Who came to warn me of my error here.
Then in a future day I shall ascend,
And share beside her an eternal joy.”
Again he thought, “But can the babe be dead?
It which should be my only comfort now.
But now I cannot murmur; I will say,

‘God’s will be done!’ He knoweth what is good.”
In manner thus he pondered full and deep,
Until the hall he reached, then entered in.
And all the household wondered whence he came,
For that their lord had been the night away,
But none could ask him whither he had been;
And when they told him that the child was dead,
For it was sickly ere he wandered forth,
He shed a silent tear, and calmly said,
“Great are my woes, but I can bear them now.”
And ’twas the vision of the fallen night
That stood a comfort to his spirit then;
Yet he had hoped to see the child survive,
And be a last lone comfort to his soul
Of earthly kind. And they were glad to see
That the full torrent of his grief had gone,
And that a peaceful sadness moved him now.
Then on the fifth day from her death it was,
All due obsequies made, the castle gates
Were opened, and emerged therefrom, in deep
And sombre black, a mournful train, which bore
Unto the grave the mother and the child.
There in the ancients’ tombs they were reposed
Together, by the graves where many years
Had slept his fathers in a silent sleep.
The old church bell tolled mournfully, and all

The village mourned, while many wept among
The aged and the feeble, who had known
The kindness of her way, and the full hand
With which in trouble she had come to them.
Then Henry rose, and left the well-loved spot,
Nor could he brook to linger on the scene,
Where had been spent so many happy hours
With her he loved, and where she lived and died;
But in a foreign land he sought a home,
And there sojournéd many years away.

MY MOTHER’S DEATH.

It is a mournful song I sing—
A loving mother dead.
Who can so hard a tiding bring,
Or deeper sorrow bid.

THE MESSAGE.

Soft as an angel’s breath,
Swift as the wings of death,
Through all the haunts of men,
By lake and by river,
Across forest and fen,
Onward they sped, pauséd they never.
By hamlet or hall,
Mystic their pall,
Hied as a spirit hidden from view,
Faithless nor wavering, ever more true.
Onward these words sped—
“Your mother is dead.”
Quick as a dart,
Piercing the heart,

Bore they upon me;
Reeling the blow sent me.
Oh! for the woe lent me,
How could I stand.