Classic Poem

Early in the winter of 18--, there was a heavy rain, accompanied by
high winds, which swelled the waters of the Sandy river to an amazing
height, and every moving thing upon its surface was borne away with
the rapidity of lightning. Standing upon its margin was Frank Somers,
his eyes fixed with intense interest upon a frail raft that was
plunging and heaving among the boiling waves. Upon it stood a man
about the middle of life, with an athletic form and a determined
expression of countenance, his eyes fixed fiercely upon a brace of
logs that had been left reposing on the quiet bosom of the waters,
waiting their turn to be sawed into boards. It was a valuable lot,
and would bring considerable of an income to the owner, therefore he
pursued it over the rapid current, hoping to arrest its course ere
it reached the falls. Beside him stood a young boy on the raft,
his cheeks blanched to marble whiteness, and his dark eyes fixed
imploringly upon his father as they danced along over the furious
wave, every bound conveying them so much nearer the falls that
thundered on like a mighty cataract, heaving up a cloud of spray, then
foaming and dashing off to join the mad waters below. O, it was a
fearful sight. On, on went the logs, and on, on went the raft, the
reckless man exerting himself to his utmost to stop their progress by
endeavoring to reach them with a long pole he held in his hand.

Willie Somers raised his pleading eyes to his face (and many long
years after did their expression haunt him), "O Mr. Lambert, please
don't go any farther, we shall be over the falls."

"Pshaw, child," answered Mr. Lambert, rather sternly, "I must save my
logs at any risk."

The frantic father screamed from the shore,--"Mr. Lambert, save
yourselves and let the logs go.

"You are lost, you are lost!" cried many voices, as a log bounded upon
a giant wave, leaping over the cataract hurrying on through the waters
below. The strong man made a desperate effort and reached the land,
but the poor boy upon the raft was precipitated over the falls into
the gulf below. As the agonized father stood gazing with breathless
horror upon the sight, the form of his dear son arose once more,
standing erect upon the bounding billows, with his arms widely
extended, and his eyes glaring from their sockets. But in, a moment he
was hid from view, beneath the heaving mass of waters. All effort to
find him proved unavailing.

The next spring his body was found thirty miles distant down the
river, having laid in the water over three months. He was sent to his
friends. The father was almost beside himself, although a man slow
to anger; but he turned when his son sank from his sight groaning in
spirit, and shut himself up in his chamber, not daring to see Mr.
Lambert till his wrath was in some degree abated. He secluded himself
in his room four days, suffering intensely, and then went forth among
men an altered man, for the fearful death of his son had made an
impression upon his mind never to be obliterated by time.

He was a man of sorrow, having separated from his family on account of
domestic troubles, and this, his only son, was his greatest comfort.

His eldest daughter Matilda, was married to a man in the same
neighborhood, and had been a witness of her brother's sudden death.
She was young in years, but insidious consumption was sapping the
secret springs of life, and that awful sight gave her a shock from
which she never recovered. The wretched father soon left that part of
the country and journeyed to a far distant southern city, and far, far
away in a land of strangers, they made his grave. No dear child was
near to wipe the dew of death from his noble brow, or to minister to
his necessities, or to close his weary eyes as they cast their sad
glances upon a world that had been to him a world of trial.

Matilda gradually failed. She had given her heart with her hand in
early youth, to a young man of moderate circumstances, but prudent and
industrious; and by these means they procured a comfortable living,
and with this they were contented. She united her industry with that
of her husband, and her good management gave a neat and almost an
elegant appearance to their little cottage home, which peeped out like
a bird's nest from the trees that surrounded it. Charles Abbot was a
happy man, happy in the consciousness of well doing, happy in the love
of his wife, and in the caresses of two little boys, the pledges of
their united love.

They had been married six years when the death of the dear brother
cast so deep a shadow over their hitherto happy home. Matilda's
failing health scarce attracted attention, it was so gradual.

A slight cough, a deeper rose upon the cheek, and a brighter fire in
the eye, were almost its only indications. It was a calm evening in
the early part of June, as Charles and Matilda sauntered forth to
inhale the sweet fragrance of the evening breeze that fanned the
leaves of the trees, and wafted the odors of many flowers upon its
downy pinions, and rippling the now quiet waters of the Sandy river
that lay in peaceful repose, its glassy surface reflecting the mild
radiance of the setting sun.

Before them ran their little children in all their sportive gaiety,
clapping their hands with joyous glee, as they watched the progress of
a little boat that was plying its way across the river, and listening
to the boatman's whistle, and the splashing of the oar as it dipped
the silver waves. The towering mountains rose high above their heads,
and "Father Abraham" looked as though it were about to fall and crush
them as they seated themselves at its base, to gaze upon the prospect
before them. Charles adjusted Matilda's shawl as she seated herself by
his side, with a sharp cough.

He glanced anxiously toward her, but became reassured as the deep
crimson upon her cheek and the bright sparkle of her eye met his gaze.

She sat looking pensively towards the river for some time, with her
cheek resting upon her husband's shoulder, and occasionally watching
the many gambols of her children as they sported at their feet. At
length she said: "Charles, how deceitful to me looks the placid bosom
of yonder rippling stream, as it reposes in quiet beauty, reminding me
of the stream of time, on the ocean of human life when unmoved by the
tumultuous storms of passion that so often agitate the human breast,
and cause the waves to rise and the billows to swell before the
surging storm. Scarce six months have passed since that stream swept
by in giant fury, and poor Willie was buried in its angry bosom. O,
Charles, do you know I cannot look upon that river without hearing
again his last agonizing shriek, and seeing again his pale fearful
gaze as he looked death in the face, for well must the dear boy have
known that his doom was sealed; and oh, what agony must have filled
his breast as he cast his last gaze upon us, imploring our assistance,
and yet feeling it would be vain."

"We will leave this place, as it awakens unpleasant memories."

"It is best so," continued she; "Even now the spirit of my dear
brother seems hovering over me, whispering of the spirit land. But
Charles, I have something to say to you of importance."

The husband looked earnestly and tenderly into the face of his wife,
and she continued,

"Perhaps, my dear husband, you are not aware of my failing health, but
I feel the necessity of having assistance in my household duties, and
have thought perhaps it would be better to send for sister Ellen to
come and stay with me a while."

"Certainly, my dear, certainly; I will go after her to-morrow; forgive
me, Matilda, that I have not thought of this before, but I think if
you are relieved of part of your labor for a while, your health will
improve."

The poor wife smiled sadly, and pulling down a stalk laden with buds
from an adjacent rose bush that stood waving on a flowery bank beside
them, and pointing to a crimson bud enclosed in its casing of green,
she said, "Charles, is not that a beautiful bud?"

He looked at it and answered in the affirmative.

"Do you think it will ever bloom?"

"I see no reason why it should not, it looks as promising as any one
upon the stem."

"But look a little closer, do you see that little worm gnawing at the
very heart and sapping the secret springs of its life?"

Her husband gazed tearfully upon her, and she felt she was understood;
and then pressed her to his heart in a passionate, fond embrace, and
spoke words of comfort, and of hope and of life.

The wife smiled faintly upon him, and replied:

"Even now there is such a weariness in my limbs that I do not feel as
though I scarcely can reach our little cottage home, where we have
spent so many happy hours together."

They called their little Frank, who bore his grandfather's name, and
Willie, for the youngest was named for her dear brother, and
pursued their way silently to the house, each wrapped in their own
meditations.

That night, when Mr. Abbot closed his family Bible, and they all knelt
together to implore God's mercy, fervent was the supplication that
arose from the lips of the husband and father, as he besought grace
for every time of need. The heart of the husband was full as he
prayed our Father to stay the disease of his dear wife, and earnestly
repeated, "if it be possible let this cup pass from me;" but after
wrestling long, that peace came that passeth understanding--that peace
that the God that heareth prayer bestows upon his children when they
bow themselves before Him, and cast their burden upon Him who careth
for us, and ere he arose from his knees he was made to say, "Thy will,
not mine be done;" and they retired to rest beneath the shadow of the
Almighty, and felt that his watchful eye was upon them during the
silent hours of the night.

Early the following morning Mr. Abbot started, to go down the river
(as was the usual phrase) to Matilda's grandfather's, where Annie and
Ellen, the two younger sisters resided, having both left the residence
of their mother some time previous. Annie, then eighteen, had the sole
management of the family, as her grandmother was very feeble, and
unable to assist her at all. She was rather surprised at Mr. Abbot's
arrival, and quite alarmed when she heard the import of it. It was
immediately settled that Ellen should go with him, and preparation
was accordingly made for their departure early the following morning,
every thing being attended to by the careful Annie, who supplied the
place of mother to the younger sister, who was now about sixteen.

Suffice it to say, the assistance was not productive of the
anticipated good; Matilda's health declined rapidly, and it became
evident to all who looked upon her, that she was passing away to the
spirit land. The struggle in her husband's mind was over, and he felt
a pious resignation to the will of God.

Frequently did they converse together upon the joys of the heavenly
world, and select such passages of Scripture as are calculated to
prepare the soul for its upward flight.

"O Charles," said Matilda, one beautiful autumn day, as the yellow sun
shed his mild radiance over the decaying face of nature, "support me
by your strong arm while we pass through the garden to the river by
the nearest way. I feel quite refreshed to-day, and would look once
more upon that restless stream that is ever hurrying on 'to meet old
Ocean.'"

He placed his arm lovingly round her waist, and almost bore her to the
spot, scarcely feeling her weight, so fragile had she become. Frank
and Willie accompanied them with their happy countenances and glad
voices, and plucking a bunch of fading flowers, presented them to
their mother.

She watched them with a tranquil smile, and rewarded them with a kiss
as she took the proffered boquet from the uplifted hands of her dear
children. Frank was a noble boy, with dark brown hair and coal black
eyes, inheriting his mother's beauty. Willie was a feeble child, with
hair of lighter brown and eyes of azure blue, that betrayed a noble
soul in their very depths.

The mother called him to her, and taking his little hand in hers,
pressed them lightly to her forehead and then to her lips: looked
earnestly into his eyes as though she would penetrate their very
depths, then tenderly said:

"Willie, we are very near to heaven here; it is the music of angels
that whispers through the waving trees, and it is the motion of their
wings that sways their branches so gently. O Willie, will you meet me
in heaven?"

"Frank, come and kiss me; we are very near heaven; will you too meet
your mother there? Charles, it does not make me sad now to see the
place where dear brother Willie passed over the falls. It looks
pleasant now, so near heaven, and his gentle spirit says, 'sweet
sister, come;' surely the things of earth are passing away. Charles,
the dear boys will comfort you when I am gone, and perchance my spirit
may meet with yours in sweet communings, and soon we shall meet in
heaven to spend an eternity together. Charles, pray in this beautiful
place. O, those towering mountains apeak the majesty of their Creator."

"Ellen, dear, 'remember your Creator in the days of your youth;' and
oh Charles, pray that we all may meet in heaven."

He knelt and offered up the prayer of faith, but while he concluded,
there was a pressure of the hand he held in his, the white lips
parted, the head fell heavily upon his shoulder; there was a faint
whisper "Jesus, receive my spirit," and the mother was an Angel.

The boys were overcome with grief. Charles and Ellen too, were
awestruck.

He bore his lovely burden back to the house and wrapped her in the
habiliments of the grave.

It was a mournful day in autumn, when a sad procession bore her to her
last resting place, and laid her down by the side of her much lamented
brother. The appropriate text, "He that believeth on me shall never
die," comforted the grief-stricken mourners. She passed away early in
life, ere the sun of twenty-four summers had shone upon her pathway.

Charles mourned his loss, but not as one without hope. And as he
turned from the grave to his home and crushed the blighted leaves
of autumn beneath his feet, he felt that he too, was passing over
withered hopes back to the battle field of human life.

He cast one long, lingering glance upon Matilda's grave, then looked
fervently to heaven, and pressed on to "life and to duty with
undismayed heart."

Ellen soon returned to her grand-parents, and a sister of Mr. Abbot,
losing her husband about the same time his wife died, came to reside
with him, and thus the husband and children were provided for; and
although the shadow of a great grief rested upon them, and there was
a vacancy in their household, they learned to be happy in the present
good, and by living so as to join the dear departed ones in a happier
world.

It was again June--mild, lovely June. The air was filled with the
sweet music of the birds that carolled their evening lay, and seemed
pouring forth a sweet song of gratitude to Heaven, for that delightful
day. Gentle breezes sighed through the leafy trees soft as the first
whispering of young love, giving them a trembling motion, like a
bashful maiden as she blushingly listens to it. Beautiful looked the
little village of W----, as the setting sun cast his slanting rays
upon it, tinging the leaves with deeper green, and burnishing the
little stream with gems of sparkling gold. The tall lilac bushes were
filled with large red and white blossoms, and as they slightly nodded
their graceful heads before the passing zephyr, might have been
fancied to be giving a cold greeting to some humbler flower that grew
by their side.

In a large, square, old fashioned house, encircled by a neat white
fence, which separated it from the street, might be seen a young girl,
occupied in what New England housewives would call setting the house
in order, and very carefully are all things arranged, the crockery
being nicely washed and wiped to a shining brightness, stands neatly
arranged in their proper places, on shelves scoured to a snowy
white