"Come, take the wreath I've twined for thee,
'Tis wet with morning dew;
And lessons rare of love and truth
These flowers shall bring to you.
The half-blown rose, whose spotless leaves
Speak of thy hopes as fair,
And spicy balm, with healing breath,
Are mingling odors there.
The sweet geranium so green
A fragrance doth impart,
True as the gentle breath of love,
That fills the youthful heart.
But most of all I'd have thee mark
The modest myrtle bough;
It speaks of love that e'er will be
As pure and bright as now.
For though the rose may fade and die,
The balm may cease to cure,
Through summer's light and winter's shade
The Myrtle will endure.
Then take the wreath I've twined for thee,
'Tis wet with morning dew;
And many a lesson true of love
These flowers shall bring to you."
We find a letter among our papers, written about the period of which we now speak. It is from his pen, and bears date New York, April 21st, 1839, on the occasion of a brief visit to that city, and was addressed to the author of these pages.
"Maturin: A kind Providence brought me to this city early yesterday morning. I had a very pleasant passage hither, and the good company and kind attention of Capt. Parker. I am at the Walton House, which was Washington's head quarters during the Revolutionary war. It is now between nine and ten o'clock, Sabbath morning. My health is good as when I left home. My friends expect me to preach three sermons this day and evening. Whether I shall return on Monday to Boston, or remain another week here, I have not now the means of determining. I pray God to preserve the health of the family, and return me soon to enjoy that circle from which it is painful to be absent, though I have every attention and necessary accommodation for my comfort. Take good care of your health, and tell your mother that I shall endeavor to be careful of mine.
"Affectionately,
"Hosea Ballou.""M. M. Ballou."
This, and a private letter previously given in these pages, are not made public for any particular information they communicate, but simply to show the reader the feelings of the writer as expressed between himself and those whom he loved and in whom he confided. These letters might be greatly multiplied, but this would perhaps serve our object no better purpose. If a hundred were to be submitted to the reader, they would convey no other spirit than is evinced by the two already given. Mr. Ballou's private correspondence was never very extensive; his letters were nearly all of a domestic nature, or brief notes relating to exchanges with other brethren at a distance. The reason that his letters were so much of this nature, was, that when he transcribed his thoughts to paper it was for the press. Most men of strong and active minds are in the practice of relieving them, as it were, by writing down their thoughts, from time to time, to valued friends; it is a sort of necessary relief that some minds could not get along without. But Mr. Ballou's writings were so universally made public, and he was so constantly supplying the public press with matter, even to the very last week of his life, that his mind and pen were quite sufficiently worked in this vein, without seeking any other channel.
During the fall of 1843, Mr. Ballou, then at the age of seventy-two years, made a long journey to the West, to attend the national convention of Universalists, held at Akron, Ohio. On the route thither, in company with Rev. Thomas Whittemore and some other friends, he visited, for the first time, Niagara Falls. Mr. Whittemore, in writing home a description of their visit to his paper, the Trumpet, said:—"When we came to Table Rock, Father Ballou stood in amazement, and when we urged him to go back over the river before dark, 'Oh!' said he, 'how can I go away?' He said his thoughts were like those of Peter on one occasion: 'It is good to be here; let us build tabernacles, and dwell upon the spot.' A prism was handed to him, through which he could see the rapids in colors ineffably glorious. 'Oh! my soul! oh! glory to God!' were his exclamations."