MEMORY—THE GLEANER.

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BY ANSON G. CHESTER, A. B.

———

The harvest-field of Boaz. Like a host

Drawn up for battle stands its yellow grain,

Rustling its own sweet music. Brawny men

Are there to steal its beauty—and the noise

Of the keen sickle blends with random songs.

Close on their track the agile binders haste

To form the lately fallen grain in sheaves,

Which throng the field with golden monuments

To Industry and Labor.

Glance again —

Woman upon the field, the sweet and frail!

Like a young lily in a waste of thorns,

So she among the workmen. See! she bends —

And with a graceful, stainless hand collects

The single stalks that else would perish there.

’Tis gentle Ruth, the meek and beautiful,

Around whose name are wreathed the rarest flowers

Of generous remembrance—whom, though years

Counted by centuries have come and gone,

Woman delights to love and man to praise.

Oh! who can gaze upon her slender form,

Intent upon its labor, or can catch

The mild expression of her lovely face,

Nor feel his veins thrill deeper! Filial Ruth!

While that blest page endures that chronicles

Thy winning history for after times,

Love shall embalm thy name in benisons,

And hearts shall be thy home!

Another scene —

Behold before thine eye a mightier field —

Th’ unmeasured, the illimitable Past!

Yonder, well-busied with her ceaseless toil,

Lo! Memory—The Gleaner. Not like her,

The gentle Moabitess, laboring for love,

But as another Nemesis in look and work.

One gleaned to succor life—affection led

Her footsteps to the field and cheered her toil —

The other gleans for justice—hoarding up

A store of testimony in her garner-place,

For judgment and for Heaven. Pause awhile —

View her vocation and its circumstance —

Give wing to Thought—expand Reflection’s sails —

And thy salvation may be thy reward.

She stretcheth forth her hand and gleaneth. Day

And cheerless night are each to her the same;

A stranger to vicissitude and change,

She gathers up material for Heaven.

Mark what is in her grasp—lo! thrifty tares,

Old, unrepented sins thou hast forgotten —

And thistles, too, thine unforgiven wrongs —

And worthless weeds, thy lost and squandered hours —

And flowers, thy deeds of common charity,

Which Pity’s ardent hot-bed forced to shoot,

Not Duty’s tardy but unerring soil —

Life’s sweet embellishments, which make it fair,

Yet have no signal claim to merit—these

Were but unwelcome witnesses when thou

Art summoned for thy last account to meet

With thine accuser, Memory—and these,

If these were all to testify of thee,

Would seal thy doom with rayless misery:

It is alone the rich, ripe, perfect grain

Of Goodness and of Virtue that can win

For thee the taintless wealth of Paradise.

. . . . . . . . .

Our lives are what we make them—human will

Moulds human destiny—spirits on earth

But leave and bud, the blossom is the Future’s —

Earth, like a cunning sculptor, fashioneth

The form and features of Eternity.

Like Jacob’s dream-known angels we can rise

Upon “celestial stairs” to his and their fruition —

Or, like to him who burned and glowed in Heaven,

Be quenched amid the mists of endless night.

. . . . . . . . .

As thou shalt sow, man-brother, she shall glean —

Like maketh like—the seed thou scatterest

Into Life’s furrows shall produce its kind

In generous abundance. Oh! reflect

That thou art sowing for Eternity—that this

Thine earthly labor shall be known on high:

For as thou sowest, Memory will glean—

And as she gleans so shall thy portion be.

Her store-house shall be opened—from its depths

Her treasured evidence shall be produced,

Hoary with years, yet firm and forcible.

All else is worthless—but, if thou hast left

Upon thy pathway pure and sterling grain,

And Memory’s hand has gathered it for thee,

Then shalt thou tread the golden streets of Heaven,

And thy clear brow shall wear a seraph’s crown.

Scatter, oh! scatter on thine earthly way

The perfect seed of Goodness, Truth and Love:

That, when thou meetest Memory on high,

Bearing the tokens of thy life’s employ,

Thou shalt embrace her as an olden friend: —

And, counted with the angels, shalt remain

In the eternal childhood of the skies.

COME REST IN THIS BOSOM.