“Unless above himself he can
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!”
The woman helps the man to “erect himself above himself.” Then the man, if he be a man, draws the woman up to his level.
As they climb life’s hill together, the roughness decreases, the way becomes smoother. Instead of the thorn, comes up the fir-tree; instead of the brier, comes up the myrtle-tree. The moral atmosphere grows purer, and the prospect more pleasing. He constantly plucks flowers from the garden of the heart, and weaves them into bouquets for his companion. And, as Byron beautifully says,
“These flowers of love make glad the garden of life.”
Standing high on life’s hillside, they lean on the Rock of Ages, and rest under the olive-branch of peace. Together they speak of their rough places in life, about their sufferings and sorrows, their troubles and triumphs. They look back at the valley whence they have come, and then turn their faces on towards the New Jerusalem, city of the soul, to which they are journeying. Their steps are growing slow and feeble. They lean on each other, and both lean on Christ. They are approaching the end of their pilgrimage. The shadows of evening are falling long and deep around them. Their white locks are streaming in the winds of winter. Their latest sun is sinking fast; but, sinking, he lights up the Star of Hope, and flings it out like a glorious chandelier to light the pilgrims home to glory and to God. Ask me, “Is life worth living?” I say, there’s the answer. That’s the poetry of life. That’s
“The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam.”
Do you say this is an ideal picture? Well, yes; the latter part of it is; but ‘tis a fancy resting on fact. Besides,
“The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray
And more beloved existence.”