Classic Poem

Why should we wander in the fields of fiction, to cull fancy's flowers
to feast a morbid imagination, when there are so many thrilling
incidents in the pathway of human life, calculated to awaken the most
refined emotions, and stir the deepest currents of the human soul?
Would the painter, as he raised his brush to give the last finishing
touch to his picture, draw his colors from fancy? Would he not rather
imitate the color of the natural rose, copy the forest green, the
azure of the sky, or the brilliant hues of the rainbow, as it spans
the heavens with its bow of promise?

Fiction may weave her intricate labyrinths and enchain the fancy by
wandering in mazy circuits, and weaving her mystic web; but truth will
stand in all its primitive lustre, when the foundations of this earth
have passed away. Then let me record the truth in preference to
fiction.

The clouds hung in heavy dense masses, during the day, while a damp
chilly wind from the north-east betokened an uncomfortable winter
rain. It was winter, although the bridge of ice that had been formed
over the Blackstone was broken up, and floated on its surface in huge
masses, as it hurried rapidly along, to empty them into the waters of
the Narragansett Bay, reminding the thoughtful observer of the stream
of time, bearing away its vast multitudes to the ocean of eternity.

Here, where now stands our beautiful village, a few short years since
stood the dense forest--the growth of centuries. Here the rude Indian
roamed, in native wildness, hunted his prey, built his council fire,
or smoked his pipe of peace. Here, where now stands the temple of the
living God, with its heaven directed spire, perchance smoked the
blood of some poor victim, as it was offered upon the altar of savage
brutality; or the rude wigwam stood.

But all these things have passed, as a tale that is told. They have
floated down the current of time, even like the broken masses of ice
that are borne so rapidly down our river, and have passed into the
broad ocean of eternity.

On the banks of that stream, where the pale face first crossed to hold
a council with his red brethren, stands a flourishing village, reared
by the hand of civilization, and offering many facilities to the
industry of its virtuous and well disposed inhabitants. It would be
pleasant to tell a tale of the times of old, of the deeds of the days
of other years, of the Indian that paddled his light canoe upon our
river; but this is not the purport of the story.

It is to scan the different scenes as they lay spread out before
us, upon the map of busy life. The day had closed, dark, dreary and
cheerless. The rain and sleet were driven furiously before the wind,
and the child of want shrank from the biting blast, as stern necessity
drove him forth to meet the peltings of the winter storm.

There was a social gathering at a large, elegantly finished and
furnished hall, splendidly illuminated with its brilliant gas lights,
diffusing a lustre upon gorgeous trappings with which they were
surmounted.

The streets resounded with the rattling wheels of omnibusses, cabs and
various vehicles, as they bore the gay and fashionable part of the
village to the splendid hall.

Soft music charmed the ear, and floated in sweet melody through the
apartment. Beauty was there, with rosy cheek and brilliant eye.
Fashion displayed her most tasteful arrangements, and each one seemed
vieing with the other in elegance of costume. All looked like the
enchanting scenes pictured in fairy tales, and one might almost
suppose Alladin's wonderful lamp was still extant, performing its
mysterious spells, and casting a supernatural lustre over the gay
group that assembled, to dissipate the cheerless gloom that reigned
without, by mirth and hilarity. And they joined in the mazy dance, and
spent the hours of night in joyous revelry. A sumptuous entertainment
was prepared, and everything provided to satisfy the votaries of
pleasure.

But as the lively music sounded from that splendid hall, it stole upon
the

"Cold, dull ear of death,"

for, but a few rods distant, lay a female, little passed the meridian
of life (who had lived in the same village, and trod in the pathway of
life with them many years), wrapped in the shroud of death, and next
day to be borne away to the tomb, and shut out forever from all the
scenes where she had once been an actress. But now she would look out
upon the world no more. Her eyes were closed in death, and her ear
heard not the wild music that was stealing through her otherwise
silent chamber.

All of earth had passed from her vision. Life, with its stern, cold
realities, or its light toned revelry, could awaken no response in her
inanimate form.

A brother had been summoned from a distant village to attend her
funeral. He had travelled, notwithstanding the inclemency of the
weather, and when the shades of twilight fell over the earth, he stood
by that dearly loved form. Memory brought back the past. That cold,
pulseless one was a child again, sporting by his side, prattling upon
his knee, and winning attention by the ten thousand witcheries of
childhood.

Then, with the rapidity of thought, blooming youth succeeded this age,
and she stood, blushing in maiden modesty, the gay young sister of
other days; and his heart was filled with sadness as he gazed upon her
stiff in the icy arms of death, and felt that she could no more return
his affection. He was an aged man, and knew much of the sorrow and
the trials of life; he turned, with a tear in his eye, from his loved
sister and passed into the street.

The storm was increasing, but he heeded not the peltings of the wintry
wind, or the wild music that mingled with its mournful wail, as he
passed the luxurious hall, where

"Fashion's gay tapers were lighted."

Other thoughts occupied his mind.

He soon stood by the bedside of a dear daughter, who was passing away
from earth, while yet in the bloom and the beauty of youth. She was a
wife, and a mother of two sweet children, whose tender age required a
mother's watchfulness--a mother's care. But with childlike trust, she
had given them back to that God, who had given them to her. Her trust
was in him, and now she was ready to follow her dear Saviour into the
cold dark grave, with the assurance that she should have a part in the
first resurrection. Melancholy sounded the music from that distant
ball room, as it stole upon the wings of the winter wind, into the
chamber of the dying one. Her ear was listening to catch the notes
of angel harps before the throne of God, and her passing spirit was
attuned to their melodies. The beauties of the upper world transfixed
her rapt vision, and no earthly object stood between her soul and God.
And so she passed away, and left to her earthly friends but the frail
casket, while the priceless jewel had soared to brighter regions, to
glitter in a Saviour's crown.

The father had come just in time to take the last look of his living
child, to hear her last words, to witness her last struggle, as the
pure spirit departed from earth, to join her sainted mother in the
spirit land. He was taking another portion from the cup of affliction,
which however bitter to the taste, often sweetens the journey of human
life, preparing the recipient better to perform its duties, and bear
its trials.

As the stricken father retired to bed, the sound of revelry fell
heavily upon an almost bursting heart.

And the dear children, could they listen to its glad strain? O, no;
they had seen death cast his marble paleness upon their mother's face;
had felt the icy coldness of her pulseness limbs; had called her by
the endearing name of mother, and her pale lips answered not, and they
had retired with eyes red with weeping; they as yet knew nothing
of the extent of their bereavement. The husband, too, had lost the
companion of his youth, the mother of his children, and although he
possessed like precious faith with her, and kissed the rod with pious
resignation; still they were a grief-stricken household, and presented
a striking contrast to the gay group that were dancing thoughtlessly
away the hours of that solemn night, while the recording angel was
taking note of all that was passing beneath his all-seeing eye, in
that book that shall be opened when we shall all stand before God, to
be judged according to the deeds done in the body.

The music floated on and reached the ear of a poor maniac as he sat by
his comfortable fire, listening to the monotonous roar of the distant
water fall, and the howling of the wintry winds, as it came surging
on, waving the leafless tree and pelting the falling rain against the
windows.

"Hark!" said he, springing up, "the bees are swarming; I shall be
stung to death," and out he rushed, with a brighter fire in his eye
and a more intense one in his brain. Descending the hill, he watched
the sylph like forms as they floated on in the mazy dance, declaring
the bees were in terrible commotion, and he should be stung to death.
With difficulty he was prevailed upon to return to his house, and ever
and anon, as the sound of the music reached his ear, he would start
and affirm that the bees surely were swarming.

Such is man, the noblest work of God, when bereft of reason to guide
and direct him.

Still farther on were young parents keeping anxious watch over a sick
infant, whose feeble thread of life seemed trembling upon a very hair.
The doctor had said there was no hope; kind, sympathizing friends, as
they looked on the sufferings of the dear babe with tearful eyes, had
said, there is no hope; and the agonized hearts of the parents echoed
back, no hope. But still they did hope. The breath came heavily from
the heaving chest, and the blue orbs looked dimly from their half
closed lids, while the little sufferer, with burning hand and parched
lip, seemed struggling for that life that it had enjoyed but for so
brief a space. The parents were young in years and unacquainted with
sorrow, and very dear to their loving hearts was the sick infant. They
felt they could not part with the dear one. Carefully they nursed the
flickering lamp of life: through that dreary winter night, lest some
ruder blast should extinguish it forever. Wished they to join the
thoughtless throng in the tinselled hall of fashion? O, no, they had
rather count the fluttering pulses of their dear boy, cool his fevered
brow, and administer the reviving cordial through the weary hours of
the night, than to listen to sweetest strains of Orpheus' harp, or
thread the winding mazes of the giddy dance.

And so with them the night wore away, the long dark night of suffering
to the babe, and watchful anxiety to the parents. But the angel of
death that had hovered so long over the darling babe, unfurled his
sable pinions and flew away in search of another victim, and he is
spared yet a little longer.

Pursuing the way a little farther in another direction, you find
another weary watcher by the midnight lamp. An aged woman, who has
lived her three score years and ten, sits bolstered up in her chair,
toiling for her little remaining sum of existence, which nature seems
unwilling to relinquish, although subsisting now upon borrowed time.
From an adjoining room comes a frequent hollow cough, and the sunken
eye and emaciated frame of the poor girl betray the secret foe,
lurking in the hidden springs of life.

Death is no stranger beneath this roof. He has borne away one after
another from this numerous household, and laid them down side by side
in the silent grave. And now his darts seem aimed at the two only ones
of that household, the mother and her daughter. The sons are married
and have families of their own, but the mother and this daughter live
alone in the home of her youth, the very place, perchance, where she
was brought a gay and expecting bride by that husband she is expecting
now to follow so soon to the spirit world. Could the pleasures or the
gaities of the world cast one cheering beam upon their lonely home? O,
no, the religion of Jesus alone can illuminate their benighted hearts,
and in "this light they see light," and feel prepared to go when the
summons comes.

Following the street, you pass the door of a daughter who is weeping
for the recent loss of a mother, who passes suddenly away without
a moment's warning, and a widow who mourns a husband, cut off by
lingering disease.

A few steps and we reach a cottage, where other parents were watching
over a little son of five years, who is wasting away with consumption.
His attenuated limbs bear his little frame but feebly, and he often
talks of death, for he has recently seen a little sister younger than
himself fall a prey to the fearful malady. A burning fever is raging
in his veins, and lights up his eye with unwonted brilliancy, as he
tossed restlessly from side to side upon his pillow. His silken hair
of beautiful brown is brushed smoothly back from his high, marble
forehead, while gentle hands apply the cooling bath, to still if
possible, its tumultuous throbbings, and he murmurs of sweet sister
and of heaven. Soft words of love are whispered in his ear, and he is
told of the Lamb of God that bids little children to come unto him.

And thought not these weary watchers of that lonely night, of the
revellers in that distant hall? Methinks their hearts went up in
fervent prayer to God that he would spare them yet a little longer,
for there were immortal souls there, for whom he labored and prayed,
who entered the sanctuary and heard the word of God as it fell from
his lips, Sabbath after Sabbath, and he felt sensibly that the
midnight revel would not prepare the heart to seek God, or make the
necessary preparation for death. Towards morning the eyes of the
little sufferer closed in uneasy slumber, and the parents too, were
refreshed by a short interval of sleep.

Passing yet in another direction was a tall youth, with a subdued
expression of countenance, hurrying on, in spite of wind and rain, to
the doctor's office, to procure assistance for a sick mother, who was
tossing in all the agony of brain fever. The doctor had been called
away to visit a little child that had a sudden attack of the croup,
that fearful disease that bears so many children to the tomb. He
returned again with a sorrowing heart. Heeded he the sweet tones of
music that fell upon his youthful ear? wished he to join the gay group
as they flitted before the brilliantly lighted, window, and the fairy
forms of the fashionable, and the pleasure-seeking met his eye? O,
no; there was sorrow in his young heart, and sorrow brooded over the
household. Towards midnight the doctor came, and a young daughter,
younger than many who graced the festive ball, following his
directions, alleviated the sufferings of a sick mother, and wore the
weary night away in anxious watchings.

Not till another day dawned, did the rumbling of the carriages cease,
that were conveying home the sons and daughters of dissipation. And
thus passed the night, leaving no trace upon earth, for the waves of
time have obliterated all its footprints. But its record is on
high, and it will never be forgotten by the Eternal One, whose eye
slumbereth not.

Such is human life, and such is the race of man. Although we are all
bound together by one common brotherhood, the song of the gay is ever
the funeral dirge to the sorrowing.

Perchance that night might have disclosed still darker pictures in
the hidden recesses of our village, for, oh, there are dens of foul
pollution, that send their infectious taint over the pure air of
our community, calling the blush of shame to the cheek of conscious
virtue, and creating an ardent desire in the breast of the
philanthropist, to go forth and labor in the vineyard of the Lord,
that these foul spots may be washed in his precious blood, and made
clean.

O, could all the misery that was extant in the village have been
presented to the thoughtless revellers, could they have danced on?
Would not the tear of sympathy have moistened the cheek, and the still
small voice whispered of a solemn time that m