Part 9 — THE WINGED WATCHER.

(WRITTEN OFF THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE.)

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BY FANNY FORESTER.

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PART I.

Morning arose, and from their dreams,

Awoke the slumbering flowers;

Red glowed the hill-tops in her beams,

Her crest lay glittering on the streams,

And on one cot her gayest gleams

Broke in warm golden showers.

A pair of eyes had oped that morn,

Eyes soft and sweet and blue;

A poor, weak, helpless thing forlorn,

Beneath that humble roof was born,

A folded bud from blossoming thorn,

Save that a soul peeped through.

And many a jocund laugh there rung,

Up from that cottage low,

And glad words sat on many a tongue,

And bliss upon fond bosoms hung,

For there a rill of life had sprung,

Which would forever flow.

One form unseen stood meekly nigh,

Which drew the sunlight there,

His radiance for a time flung by,

He was an Angel from the sky,

With loving pity in his eye,

And brow new-wreathed with care.

Down from the palace of the King,

That morning had he hied;

The song was stayed upon the string,

The glory folded in the wing,

For sad would be his wandering

By that poor mortal’s side.

PART II.

Years passed; the boy a man had grown,

And shadowy things of fear

With many an ill his path had strown;

Foes trooping came, and friends had flown,

But one white wing, to him unknown,

Kept ever hovering near.

It was a lovely sight to see,

By those who watched above,

That Spirit glorious and free

In such an humble ministry,

Unfalteringly, unfalteringly,

Pursue his work of love.

When the worn youth lay down to rest,

The Angel stood beside;

And stole the burden from his breast,

And soothed his wearied sense to rest,

Fanned his hot brow, his cheek caressed,

And blissful dreams supplied.

Once on a mountain peak stood he,

A high and rugged steep;

Where many dangerous shapes there be,

And many things most fair to see,

While shouting crowds bent low the knee,

And broke wild Echo’s sleep.

Pride centered in his burning eye,

Pride mantled on his brow;

“Who ever stood the clouds so nigh?”

Ah! he has climbed a step too high!

For giddily, bewilderingly,

His brain is whirling now.

But ever that pure Watcher bright

Pleads softly in his ear,

“Think, mortal, of the coming night!

Think of the mildew and the blight;

Think of thy ransomed spirit’s light,

Dimmed by thy dallying here!”

He hears, and lo! his pulses wild

Are hushed, and in his veins

The riot ebbs; things which beguiled,

Seem heaps of mist about him piled;

He bends his knee, a little child,

And tears efface his stains.

PART III.

The babe, the youth, was bent and gray,

A feeble man and old;

Death stood beside him as he lay;

No mourner there his breath would stay,

Or guide him on his untrod way,

When lip and heart were cold.

He loved, had served the God of heaven,

But death’s a fearful thing:

And when all earth-wrought ties are riven,

When back to dust the dust is given,

The soul which long with sin has striven,

May shrink to meet the King.

He trusted; but still shivering clung,

Where long he’d been a guest;

Meanwhile death-pangs his bosom wrung;

The scared soul on the hushed lip hung,

Then lay, soft wings about it flung,

Upon the Angel’s breast.