Alfred left the home of his grandsire, more at rest with himself and all the world. Fresh peaceful hopes again sprang up within him, and he began to see his way clear. He reasoned himself into resignation, and, as day after day went on, he grew grateful for the privilege and opportunity offered to school his rebellious spirit to order.
Four years passed; Alfred was engaged in the busy world, and he shrunk not from it, but rather sought to do his duty in it. One summer evening, he was called to enter the large, old-fashioned house of his grandfather. His brow was thoughtful, but calm and resigned—he sought a quiet room; it was the chamber of death,—yet was its stillness beautiful and peaceful; he knelt by a dying couch, and clasped the hand of his aged grandsire—then he wept, but the unbidden tears were those of gratitude. The serenity of heaven was upon the countenance of the noble old man.
"My hour has come, Alfred," he said, placing one hand upon the beloved head bowed before him, "and I go hence with thankfulness. Ah! even now, there is a heavenly content in my bosom. The angels are bending over me, and wait to take my spirit to its home: there is no mist before my sight, all is clear. The Father of love lifts up my soul in this hour—our parting will be short, my son—" the old man's voice trembled, an infinite tenderness dwelt in his eyes, and Alfred felt that there was a reality in the peace of the dying one. All the good that he had done him rushed before him, and he exclaimed with humility,
"How can I ever repay you, dear grandfather! for all your noble lessons to me?"
"I am repaid," was (sic) the the low reply; "they have brought forth fruit, and I have lived to see it. I trust that you will leave the world with all the peace that I do, and with deeper goodness in your spirit. My blessing be upon you, my son!"
"Amen!" came low from Alfred's fervent lips.
The eyes of the aged one closed in death, and his young disciple went forth again into the world, made better by the scene he had witnessed.
A HYMN OF PRAISE.
I BLESS Thee for the sunshine on the hills,
For Heaven's own dewdrops in the vales below,
For rain, the parent cloud alike distils,
On the fond bridegroom's joy—the mourner's woe!
And for the viewless wind, that gently blows
Where'er it listeth, over field and flood,
Whence coming, whither going, no man knows,
Yet moved in secret at Thy will, Oh, God!
E'en now it lifts a ring of shining hair
From off the brow close to my bosom pressed—
The loving angels scarce have brows more fair
Than this, that looks so peaceful in its rest:—
We bless Thee, Father, for our darling child,
Oh, like Thine angels make her, innocent and mild!