II.

PART FIRST. There, where the time-worn bridge at School House Run, Spans o'er the stream unquiet as our lives, You find a place where few will pause at night; Where the foot-fall is quick, and all press on As if a winter's blast had touched the frame, And men drew to themselves. Oft there is seen, So men aver, the quiet gliding ghost. Descend yon hill, near woods so desolate, With upward gloom, and tangled undergrowths, And shadows mouldering in the brightest day. Near is the Indian spring's unmurmuring flow. The summit now is gladdened by the Church. You leave all village sounds, and are alone, On grass-worn paths your feet emit no sound. The thick damp air is full of dreary rest, And stillness there spreads out like the great night. Upon the left, hidden by aged oaks, Is a small cedar grove; where broken winds Are organ-like with requiem o'er some graves. A low stone wall, and never-opened gate Protect the marble records of the dead. To stand at sunny noon, or starry night Upon the arch, where you can yield the soul, Captive to nature's impress, power with peace, Is stillness from afar. The solitude Seems linked with some far distant, distant space In the broad universe, where worlds are not. Unrest with rest is there. We often call That peace, where thoughts are deep, but where the soul Moves as the great, great sea, in mighty waves. Here memories for tears, forgotten thoughts Come without seeking. Just as the winds of May Bring with unlaboring wings, from unknown fields, Sweet scents from flowers, and from the early grass. The fearful man, who left the village store, Near to the cross roads, where the untutored tongue Supplies the gossip of the printed sheet, Has here beheld the mist-like, awful ghost. The rustic lover under midnight stars, Detained so long by Phebe's sorceries, His little speech taking so long to say, Has had his faith sore tried, as he has asked, Will I, next week, pass here alone, again? Far the most haunted spot lies yet beyond, Follow the road until you reach the Ford, There at the mouldering pile of wall and logs, Where once the floating raft was as a bridge, A pure white spirit oftentimes is seen. She sometimes wanders all along the shore; Sometimes from off the rocks, she seems to look For something in the waters. Then again Where the trees arch the road that skirts the bank, And night is like the darkness of a cave, This gentle spirit glides. Earth's sorrow yet, Its burden, weary burden, borne alone. Sad is the story of her earthly life. You see that lonely house upon the green, With its broad porch beneath that sycamore. 'Tis now a pleasant undisturbed abode. There lingereth much of ancient time within: Long may it cling there in these days of change! Quaint are the rooms, irregular. The bright fire Glows from the corner fire-place. Often there I sit, and marvel o'er the shadowy past. It is a place of welcome. Loving hearts Extend the welcome. Angels welcome thus. Dear sisters, reading there the purest page, Planning some act of gentleness to wo, The selfishness of solitary life, Not finding place amid your daily thoughts, For you commune with that activity Of love most infinite, that once came down From the far Heaven, to human form on earth. The music of the true, the harmony Of highest thoughts, that have enthroned as kings The best in heart, and head of all our race, Have their great kindred echoes as you read. O as your prayers ascend, pray oft for me, And then I shall not lose the name of friend. The golden link that bindeth heart to heart Forever, is the Love and prayer in Christ. Since the Great Being gives me love at home, The Diamond payment for my worth of dust, Gives me that bright and daily light of earth, I'm bold, and covetous of Christian love. This house, in ancient days a wayside inn, Has sheltered men of mark. Here Washington Rested his weary head without despair, Before the sinking tide rose with bright waves At Trenton, and the spot where Mercer fell. Here youthful La Fayette was also seen, Whose smile, benign in age, was joy to me, As my loved Father, at our fire-side spake To him, as the true Patriot speaks to those Who win a nation's homage by their toils. Here even now, on an age-colored pane, The letters, diamond-cut, show Hancock's name. The war had found the host of the Ford Inn A happy man; no idler round a bar; For his chief calling was upon his farm, With rich fields open to the sun, amid The dense surrounding forests, where the deer Still lingered by the homes of laboring men. He bore arms for his country. And he heard The last guns fired at Yorktown for the free. One little daughter played around his hearth; Oft tracked his steps far in the furrowed field; Looked up with guileless eye in his true face. After each absence short, her merry shout Of greeting at his coming, rose as sure As sounds from those dark cedars on the shore, When the winds rise and break their mirror there. Oh happy child! She also learned the love That places underneath her the strong arms Of Him who held the children when on earth, Journeying along his pathway to the cross. She opened all her gentle Heaven-touched heart To all the unknown teachings of her home. The wild-flower's beauty passed into her thoughts, And as she gazed, and saw in earth and sky, In every form the love of God stream forth, She knew of beauty that could never fade. For He, from whom these emanations came, Will never cease to be a God revealed. Happy the child, for her fond parents both Had souls to kindle with her sympathies. They learned anew with her the blessed love, Which makes the pure like children all their days. With her pure mind repassed the former way, Their age and youth blended at once in her. There was a small church in the little town Of Bristol, some miles distant, over which A loving pastor ruled with watchful care. He came from England,—and but few had known That he was bishop, of that secret line Which Ken, and other loyalists prolonged, Prepared for any changes in the realm. The good man loved his people at the ford. The child's expanding mind had ample seals Of his kind guidance. From his store of books He culled the treasures for her thoughtful eye. Another memorable influence, To add refining grace, came from the town. One, whose sweet beauty threw a woman's charm Over a household, seeking health in air, That rustles forest leaves, that sweeps the fields, Came to their home, and was not useless there. She threw round Ellen, in resplendent light, What Ellen knew before, in fainter day. The lady was so true in all her grace, Such open nature, that the child, all heart, Could think, could love, could be as one with her. How sad, that the refinement of the world, Should often be the cost of all that's true! From the volcano's side the dreadful stream, That buried the great city, pressed its way, To every room of refuge. Prison ne'er Gave bondage like those dark and awful homes. Around each form came the encrusting clay: Death at the moment. Dying ne'er so still. In passing ages all the form was gone: The dark clay held the shapes of what had been, And when the beauteous city was exhumed, Into those hollows, moulds of former life, They poured the plaster, and regained the form, Of men, or women, as they were at death. So all that lives in nature, in the heart, Is often, living, buried by the world, By its dead stream. Dust only can remain. And in its place the statue—outward all The form of beauty—the pretense of soul. How the child basked in all her loveliness! Unconscious, she was moulded day by day, Sweet buds that in her heart strove to unfold, Had waited for that sun. And Ellen saw Her mother in changed aspect. The soft charms Of her new friend, revealed at once in her, More of the woman's natural tenderness. The gentle child, had not a single love For all the varied scenes of bank and stream— And these to her were almost all the earth, But as each glory centered round her home. If the descending sun threw down the light Tinged with the mellow hues of autumn leaves, Upon the waters till they shone as gold, And yet diminished not the million flames That burnt upon the trees, all unconsumed, It was to her a joy. But deeper joy Came with the thought, that all her eye surveyed, Was but a repetition of the scene, When her fond mother, at some former day, Had by her side blessed God for these his works. And all the softest murmurs of the air Recalled her father's step, and his true voice. Thus home entwined itself with every thought, As that great vine with all that wide-branched oak.

PART SECOND. And in this quiet scene, the child grew up, To know not inequalities of lot, Of any rank dissevering man from man. Once from the splendid coach, the city dame And her young daughter entered the Ford Inn. As Ellen gazed upon the little one Whose eye recalled the dove, and then the gleam That morning threw upon her much loved waves, And on the tresses, like the chesnut fringe In full luxuriance, she came forth and stood With such a guileless, and admiring love, That tenderness was won. And then they strolled O'er Ellen's favorite haunts. She asked the child, Have you such waters, and such trees beside Your home far off? The little languid eye Gazed vacantly on all the beauty there, And then, as one who had not heard the words, And least of all could give forth a response To nature's loving call, even as it passed To her, through Ellen's eyes, and Ellen's voice, And from her kindled soul,—she turned again, Absorbed in the small wagon which they drew, And to the stones they skimmed upon the stream. Just for a brief space, down there seemed to fall A veil between the two—a veil like night. All Ellen's greater, deeper swell of tides Of soul, forever dashing on the cliffs On which mind's ocean-great forever beat Their swell of thunder, here could find no height That could reverberate. And yet her heart Was all too noble, high, serenely pure, Too Christ-taught ever thus to stand apart. The tender gentleness, the laughing eye, The soul responsive to the moment's joy, The power to love, the softening sympathy With every bird or squirrel that appeared, Or rabbit, scarce afraid, with wondering eye, The love of parents, her sweet talk of friends, And above all, a heart to beat so true To all that One in heaven had said to her, Were most alluring powers. Ellen forgot Wherein they differed: And their souls then chimed As sounds of bells, blended in summer's wind. So, as if sunbeams faltering on the bank, The cloud departing, creep o'er all the green, Her brightening interest rested on the child. And when they parted at the bridge of logs, Though the child's dress was gorgeous, and the pomp Of city livery from the chariot shone, While the soft tear was in our Ellen's eye, There still dwelt all unknown in her sweet mind, All free from pride, the deep inspiring wish, That she could raise this merry-hearted one Above herself: and then there came the thought, Unconscious, causing sorrows—higher aims— That the one gone was poor, and she was rich. There was a loneliness, and so she sought Her mother; whose companionship was peace: Who ever won her to her wonted rest. There is a poetry in many hearts Which only blends with thought through tenderness: It never comes as light within the mind Creating forms of beauty for itself. It has an eye, and ear for all the world Can have of beauty. You will see it bend Over the cradle, sorrow o'er the grave. It knows of every human tie below, The vast significance. Unto its God It renders homage, giving incense clouds To waft its adorations. By the cross, It hears the voice, "How holy all is here!" It speaks deep mysteries, and yet the clue Is most apparent to the common mind. Its sayings fall like ancient memories; We so accept them. Natures such as these Are often common-place, until the heart Is touched, and then the tones from gates of heaven. Such are the blessed to brighten human life— To give a glory to our earth-born thoughts— To teach us how to act our deeds as kings, Which we might else perform as weary slaves. They give us wings, not sandals, for the road Full of dry dust. And such the mother was. So as we tell you of the child, there needs No voice to say, and such the woman was. One day she sought her father in the field, Just before sunset, ready for his home. And as they reached the rocks along the shore, Where the road turns, to meet the deep ravine, Nigh unto Farley, a faint cry for help Rang in their ears. It was a manly voice Grieving through pain. They turned aside, and found A stranger, who had fallen, as he leapt From out his boat. His fallen gun and dress Proclaimed the sportsman. Aid was soon at hand, And in their dwelling he found friends, and care. Days past. His mother came, and soon she found He spake to Ellen, Ellen unto him; As they spake not to others. And it seemed, Such a perpetual reference in his talk, As if he had not now a single thought, Which had not been compared with thought of hers. At first her pride was moved. And while she stood Irresolute, the spell was fixed: as when The power of spring thaws winter to itself. She knew her son was worthy: and she knew Here, in the wide-world must he seek a wife. And in due time she was his fair-haired wife. They had a rural home across the stream. Their lights at night answered the cheerful light Of her paternal home. Their winter's fires Mingled their gleam upon the dark night wave, Or on the ice. By summer's winds her voice Was wafted o'er the waters, as she sang: And loving hearers blessed her in their hearts. Oh! what a joy, when in her arms they placed Her son—ah doomed to be her only born! Her cup of happiness seemed now so full. And then the Father, knowing all to come, Gave her more grace, and so she loved him more, And had no Idol. But, as days rolled on Such sorrow came, I scarce can tell the tale. She saw her husband's manly strength all gone. There was a withering tree, in the spring time, Which on the lawn, seemed struggling to assume The Autumn's hues amid the world's full green. He faintly smiled, and said, "So do I fade." Soon it was dead. He lingered slowly on. Hopes came: hopes faded. From the early world 'Tis the same story. It was well for her, In this her sorrow, she had learned to weep In days of bliss, as she had read the page Which tells of Jesus bearing his own cross. His mother came, but Ellen was repelled By the stern brow of one who met the shock And would not quail. That hard and iron will Was so unlike her firmness. She was one Who had ruled abjects. Sorrow seemed a wrong. The parting time drew near. And then as one Who asked as one gives law. "This little boy Should dwell with me. Thereby shall he attain All discipline to form the noble man. Even as I made his Father what he was, So will I now, again, care for the child. Let him with me. And he shall often come And visit you. This surely will be wise." We need not say that Ellen too was firm. A mother's love! In all the world a power, To educate as this! Could any wealth Of other learning recompense this loss! Would this stern woman ripen in his heart Fruits, that angelic eyes beheld with joy? "When the boy grew, at times she'd gladly send With thanks, the child to all this proffered care." But now—to send him now! Why at the thought A darkness gathered over all the world. From all things came a voice, "All, all alone, The husband is not—the child far away." There was strange meaning in the angry eye; A strange defiance, and an unknown threat, Enmity and a triumph. As if a triumph gained. A nation crushed, her husband's mother looked, No flush was on her face—her voice the same. Coldly she said, farewell. And Ellen held The child with firmer grasp, when she was gone. Then she had sorrow that they thus should part; For she felt all the reverence death made due, And also mourned rejection of her love. As the child slept one night, watched by his nurse, She crossed the river on the bridge of logs, To reach her parents. Under the bright stars The Neshamony, and its hurried waves, Rising and falling all around her path. No peace in all the Heavens that she could see Was like her peace. "I suffer here," she said, "But suffering, I shall learn more love for all." She had returned. Her footsteps died away, Her parents stood yet in the open air, Where they had parted with her for the night. Then o'er the stream there came an awful cry. It was her cry. Oh agony to hear! It stilled all sounds besides. It seemed to make The wide-arched Heavens one call to echo it. Parents and others rushed there with affright, In breathless terror. Nurse and child were gone. Each wood around, and every forest road Gleamed all the night with torches. But no cheer Rose to proclaim a trace of faintest hope. One traveler said, that on a distant road He met a carriage, hurrying with strange speed, And heard, in passing, cries of a young child. In vain they follow. Hopeless they return. Oh wondrous, the ingenious plan devised By that poor mother to regain her child! Her parents tried, as if for life and death To give her aid: and saw that she must die: For patience such as hers was all too grand To linger long on earth. She day by day Trod her old haunts. But never did she see The Heaven, or beauteous world. Her pallid lips Moved with perpetual prayer. And when she leaned On those who loved her, the storm-tossed at rest, She was as quiet as in days, when she Was but an infant. When they spoke of hope She smiled. It was a smile of love, not hope. It was indeed simplicity to one, Just on the threshold where His people pass, And where, forever, they have more than hope. All saw that she attained a mystic life, That was not of the earth. What might she had To love the sorrowing! By the dying bed She seemed as if she had not known a pang, Her voice so peaceful. Little children round Gazed sorrowful: and in their confused thought Deemed that the anguish of her little child Weeping its mother, was her dying pain; And thought how desolate fond hearts would be If they were gone, as was her little one. One sweet Lord's Day she knelt down at the rail, In her loved Church, and had forgot all grief, Receiving there the hallowed Bread and Wine, And the one shadowed forth had strengthened her, So that she fed on food come down from Heaven. The others moved. But she was in her place. The Pastor came, and found that she was dead. Oh how the tears of Christians fell that day! Oh how they thanked God for her good release! And so she went to her eternal rest. But men, unreasoning, said they saw her form, Oft in the night, along the river shore— Oft at the Ford, which now is crossed no more. And men will say, in firmness of belief, That when the Inn was closed, and no man dwelt In its forsaken walls, a light was seen In Ellen's room. And then they also say, That pure while flowers which never grew before, Now come with Spring, where her bright spirit walks. My children say, that if you hear the owl Along her pathway, you may hasten on Sure that her spirit will not meet you there. But should you hear a bird of plaintive song, Break the night's stillness, then go far around By field and wood—for you may see her form Along the shore she gladdened with her life— A shore of many sorrows at the last.