His gentlemanly bearing, his benevolent smile, his tall and commanding appearance won all hearts; while his calm judgment, his energetic course of action gained respect and demanded admiration. In public and private life he was a pattern of excellence. Surely his mother must have looked upon such a son with feelings of gratitude and even pride. As you enter the door, from which no poor man was ever turned empty away, and crossing the hall, advance into the elegant parlor to greet your host and his amiable wife, you can fancy a smile of satisfaction upon the lips of that mother's portrait, which hangs in the place of honor on the wall, a smile which seems to say, "this is my eldest born." But, alas! it was for this son that that mother had put up her last prayer—for him it was, she had poured forth her soul, and now years have passed since he stood by her helpless remains, and her petition is still unanswered.
It is a May morning, two years later, and cheerily does the sun shine upon the village of ——. The pine forest at a little distance, sheds forth after the last night's rain that fragrance which is so delicious, the fields are gay with dandelions, the brooks yellow with the American cowslip, close beside which peeps forth the lovely veronica, while yonder slope is enameled with bright blue violets, and the little white Mayflower. But no children are seen plucking them. The very herds in the field low in a subdued manner, and the birds warble their gladsome spring song with a depth which belongs only to sacred music. None are moving about the streets. The church doors are open, however, for it is the Sabbath. Come with me to yonder mansion—the tasteful shrubbery, the vine-covered window, the well arranged garden bespeak for its possessor wealth and luxury. Enter with me, but tread lightly as we ascend the staircase. Upon that white curtained bed, raised by pillows, reposes one who has numbered more than sixty summers. His brow is scarcely furrowed, though his face is thin. His clasped hands are emaciated, but he does not look old. The fever spot burns in his cheeks, and his eye is lighted up with a heavenly ray, which shows that now at least the soul is triumphing over the body.
A small table, covered with damask of snowy whiteness, stands near, on which are placed the emblems of the broken body and poured-forth blood of our Redeemer. A few Christian brethren and sisters are kneeling around, and the pastor is blessing the bread. Methinks "it is good to be here." The great Master is present, and "his banner over this little company is love." One can almost see the ministry of angels as they bend to watch the scene.
The rite is done. The softly murmured hymn which concludes it, has died upon the balmy evening air. The partakers of the Lord's Supper have departed. The pastor has for the last time pressed the hand which has so recently subscribed to the covenant of the church, and he, too, has taken his final leave. Relations alone remain in the chamber of death. Solemnity broods over the spot. The brothers who through life have looked to this now dying brother, as a father, guide, and friend, sit gazing on him in mournful silence, the tears slowly chasing each other down their manly cheeks, with something of the feeling of the prophet when it was told him, "Know thou that your master will be taken from your head to-day".
The sisters watch and anticipate his wishes, till first one and then another is overcome by her emotion, and steals away to give it vent. The wife, like a ministering spirit, silently wipes the clammy brow and moistens the parched lips. But now the sick man speaks: "Brother, will you bring mother's portrait! I would take my leave of that—O, how soon shall I join her now." It is brought, and the heavy window curtains are thrown back, and it is placed at the foot of the bed with reverend care, which showed the veneration in which the original was held.
"Look, brother: it smiles upon me!" and observing the astonished expression of his friends, the dying man continued in a less excited tone, "Do not suppose that my mind is wandering. I assure you on the word of one who must shortly appear before a God of truth, that ever since my mother's death the picture has frowned upon me. I knew what it meant, for you have not forgotten her last prayer, and every time I have looked upon it I felt, while I continued to deny the divinity of our Savior, I could not expect my mother's approbation or blessing. For years I fought against the doctrine of the Holy Trinity, till I examined the subject more thoroughly, and to-day I have sealed my renunciation of that error, and have testified my faith in the atonement made for sinners. The cross of Christ has drawn me with cords of love. I wanted to see that portrait once more, and, lo, the frown is gone—and my mother beams upon me the same sweet smile as when at sixteen years of age I left home a fatherless boy, to make my own way in the world. Thank God I die in peace."
My sketch is finished. Shall I make the application? Has not every mother's heart made it already? asking the question, "Is my influence over my children such that when I am gone my portrait shall have such power over them for good?"
Cowper has embalmed his mother's miniature in lines which will touch the heart while our language is preserved. But this picture is hallowed by strains which are poured forth from angelic choirs, as they tune their harps anew "over one sinner that repenteth."
The likeness of Cowper's mother led him to mourn for past delights, but this picture led the son to look in humble joy to that blessed hope and glorious appearing of the great God and our Savior Jesus Christ.