Ye bid him farewell, and ye welcome him here—
Ye help the old man along!
Ye are singing to look on the fruits of the year
Gather'd in, and in ripeness, with plenty around;
And ye pour o'er earth's fulness a rapturous sound.
Ye are singing a strain that man should have sung—
Man with ingratitude seal'd on his tongue:
At seed-time, thy joyous and hope-breathing lay,
To the ploughman was sung, as an anthem, all day,
And now at his harvest ye greet him again,
And call him to join in thy thanksgiving strain.
Agnes wept as she perused the foreboding lines, which he had marked in what printers call Italics, in the second stanza, by drawing a line under them. She felt interested in the fate of Henry Cranstoun—deeply interested. We believe that, like the gentle Desdemona, she wished that
"Heaven had made her such a man;"
for, though the young writer to the signet spoke not
"Of war, and broils, and battles,"
his tongue was the interpreter of nature—he dwelt as an enthusiast on its beauties, its mysteries, its benevolence, its glorious design; and, through all, he would point
"Through nature up to nature's God!"
It is a common saying, "that you cannot put an old head upon young shoulders!" but, if ever the truth of the saying might be disputed, it was in the case of Henry Cranstoun. The deaths of his brothers and his sisters had rested upon his young mind—they had struck it with awe—they had made him to feel that he, too, must die—he, indeed, felt as though the shadow of death were creeping over him; and the thoughts and the hopes of eternity early became the companions of his spirit. He treasured up the words of the inspired preacher, "Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth." He treasured them up, and he practised them; and his deportment gave him a deeper interest in the eyes of the Northumberland farmer and his family.
William Percy was esteemed by his neighbours as a church-going and a good man. He was kind to his servants; he paid every man his own; he was an affectionate husband and a fond father; the poor turned not away murmuring from his door; and every Sunday night he knelt with his wife and with his daughter, before their Maker, in worship, as though it were a duty which was to be discharged but once in seven days. Now, it was late on Saturday night when Henry Cranstoun arrived at their house; and, on the following evening, he joined in the devotions of the family. But Monday night came, and the supper passed, and the Bibles were not brought. Henry inquired—
"Is it not time for worship?"