I returned, the flowers had perished, the vine was dead at the root. Weeds towered where the woodbine blossomed, and tangled grass sprung up by the threshold where many feet used to tread. There was no sound of sporting children, or of the mother singing to her babe.
I turned my steps to the church-yard. Three new mounds were added there. That mother slept between her sons. A lonely man was bowing down there, whose face I did not see. But I knew his voice, when he said in his low prayer of sorrow, "Thou hast made desolate all my company." The tall grass rustled and sighed in the cold east wind. Methought it said, "See, an end of all perfection."
I saw an infant with a ruddy brow, and a form like polished ivory. Its motions were graceful, and its merry laughter made other hearts glad. Sometimes it wept, and again it rejoiced, when none knew why. But whether its cheeks dimpled with smiles, or its blue eye shone more brilliant through tears, it was beautiful.
It was beautiful, because it was innocent. And careworn and sinful men admired, when they beheld it. It was like the first blossom which some cherished plant has put forth, whose cup sparkles with a dew-drop, and whose head reclines upon the parent stem.
Again I looked. It had become a child. The lamp of reason had beamed into his mind. It was simple, and single-hearted, and a follower of the truth. It loved every little bird that sang in the trees, and every fresh blossom. Its heart danced with joy, as it looked around on this good and pleasant world.
It stood like a lamb before its teachers, it bowed its ear to instruction, it walked in the way of knowledge. It was not proud, or stubborn, or envious; and it had never heard of the vices and vanities of the world. And when I looked upon it, I remembered our Saviour's words, "Except ye become as little children, ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven."
I saw a man whom the world calls honourable. Many waited for his smile. They pointed to the fields that were his, and talked of the silver and gold which he had gathered. They praised the stateliness of his domes, and extolled the honour of his family.
But the secret language of his heart was, "By my wisdom have I gotten all this." So he returned no thanks to God, neither did he fear or serve him. As I passed along, I heard the complaints of the labourers who had reaped his fields, and the cries of the poor, whose covering he had taken away.
The sound of feasting and revelry was in his mansion, and the unfed beggar came tottering from his door. But he considered not that the cries of the oppressed were continually entering into the ears of the Most High.
And when I knew that this man was the docile child whom I had loved, the beautiful infant on whom I had gazed with delight, I said in my bitterness, "I have seen an end of all perfection." So I laid my mouth in the dust.