Poems by Rebekah Smith Part 19

In November, 1852, as already stated, she was called home by the sickness of her father, who died the first of December following. In January, 1853, before returning to N. Y., she was solicited, in connection with her brother Uriah, to take charge of the Academy in Mont Vernon, N. H., with a salary for the first year, of one thousand dollars, and a prospect of increase as they should bring the school up to a greater degree of prosperity. But she preferred to labor in some capacity where her efforts would tend more directly to spread a knowledge of the truth among the people, and lead them to seek salvation through Christ the Saviour of men. She therefore declined the offer, preferring, without any pecuniary consideration, to again connect herself with the office.

Two years later, in November, 1854, she came home to West Wilton, suffering under the first stages of that disease which shortly brought her to the grave. The following from a letter to a friend, written soon after her death, sets forth the occasion of her last sickness, and the circ.u.mstances attending the closing hours of her life:

On account of sickness in the family where she boarded, she a.s.sisted in the kitchen awhile, where was a warm stove, and in consequence of a letter being left, she hastened with it to the office unprepared for a cold, wet morning. Had she returned immediately, as she should have done, all might have been well. But she stayed through the day, as her work was there, and became very cold and chilly. That cold undoubtedly seated itself immediately upon her lungs, and threw her into night sweats and a hard cough, which ended but with her life.

So rapid was the wasting process of her disease, that within six weeks from the time she took the cold, she rode up in the cars, on her way home, with an intimate acquaintance of hers who did not know her. He told me he thought of her, but thought it could not be Annie, she was so altered in her looks, being so poor and pale. Her brother Samuel said he did not think he should have known her had he met her unexpectedly, and said with a most dejected look, "_I don't think she will live._"

She came home the 7th of November, kept about and worked some till about the 1st of December, when she had a very distressed day, and raised blood. Having confidence in water treatment, she went where she could receive such treatment, to see the effect it would have, and to get information. She continued this course till the following February. She felt better while under the exhilarating effect of the water, but became satisfied that she was no better.

The 14th of February, most providentially, Bro. Joseph Bates called on us, and stopped till the 18th. This was the occasion of a great blessing to her. At the commencement of the Sabbath, the 16th, the spirit and power of G.o.d descended upon her, and she praised G.o.d with a loud voice. I felt at the same time the sweet influence of Heaven, and the presence of holy angels. I believed G.o.d was hearing prayer, and granting his blessing, and joined them in praising and giving glory to his name. Bro.

B. then said to Annie, "You needed this blessing, and now if the Lord sees that it is best for you to be laid away in the grave, he will go with you."

She appeared some stronger and better a few days in the day time, but I could not see that she rested, or was much different nights. Her cough remained obstinate, and I do not think the disease was ever stayed. She was greatly strengthened in a spiritual point of view, and engaged more earnestly in exhorting people to believe the Word, and be ready for the coming of the Lord. She would feel impressed to go out and talk with different individuals upon the truth, and was strengthened and blessed in so doing. Victory was generally gained, so that the truth was verified, that whom the Lord makes free is free indeed. We had from that time as long as she lived, some of the most sweet, melting seasons of prayer that I ever enjoyed, often accompanied with shouts of praise to the Lord.

It was evident to all around that Annie was failing. Her symptoms became alarming. The 20th of March her brother Samuel was taken suddenly and very sick with influenza and fever, three miles and a half away at his boarding place, and unable to get home. Annie said I must go and attend upon him, even if she never saw me again.

The 30th she went to Mason Village to stay with sister Gorham, while I was with her brother. While there, word came that Annie was much worse.

The 12th of April I went to Mason Village, and found her very much worse than I expected. For twelve days her death was almost hourly expected by those around. She said to me, "Mother, that poem I've been writing since January, 1855, [since published under the t.i.tle of "Home Here and Home in Heaven,"] I suppose must all be lost. It is unconnected, and nothing can be done with it to advantage, without me." I went to Wilton and got the papers containing what she had written, but she was not able to do anything with them. She then prayed that she might be enabled to finish the poem, and prepare the book she had in contemplation; that if she did not live, it might be that through it, she being dead would yet speak, and that good might be done.

Sabbath April 21, the meeting was at sister Gorham's. We did not hold it in her room on account of her low state of health, but went in to close the exercises, when to our surprise she commenced praying with more than usual strength. The presence of G.o.d was manifested, and his power rested down upon her in a remarkable manner. She said she was raised up to go home, and to do the will of the Lord. She rested better that night than she had for a long while. The next day she rode to Wilton, seven miles, to the astonishment of all. Many from our village had been to see her, and taken their leave, never expecting to see her again; and when they saw the carriage drive up, they came in to inquire when she died. Great was their surprise to find her able to walk about the room. She was again in her own quiet home, and soon commenced on her work. She was not able to write much herself, and I kept paper and pencil to write what she dictated at her will.

The 28th of May she had arranged and composed the last verse of her poem "Home Here and Home in Heaven." The 29th, her brother Uriah came home just in time to write it off for the press, and to a.s.sist her in arranging her other poetry for reprinting. She, however, made some alterations, and some little additions while he was copying it.

She dreamed in February that she was with a people, seemingly spectators, and before her was the most beautiful road, which glistened like gold.

There was a company arranged by the side, and some one came to her with a peony, and said to her, "You must go over upon that road and hold up this peony." She stood there dressed in white, holding up the peony, when she awoke with the most pleasing impression, that she had yet something more to do for the Lord. She fully believed after she came from Mason, that she should accomplish the work she had in view, and that this was what was represented by her dream. The peony was her favorite flower, and as soon as they were in blossom, Uriah sketched and engraved one for the book, as is seen on the t.i.tle page.

She often said in view of her dream, that when the book was done there would be a change in her. She should either be raised up to live, or she should die. Her prayer was answered. The book was all done on her part, and as she had a desire to see the proof-sheet of her poem, and heard that help was needed at the office, she said to Uriah, "I feel bad to have you staying on my account, when it seems you might be accomplis.h.i.+ng more good." It was thought she might live till frosty nights, if no longer. Under these considerations, Uriah left for Rochester the 17th of July. He had not been gone with the ma.n.u.script; more than three hours, when she said, "I am ready now to die;" and she did not live quite ten days after.

The 18th she wrote the piece "Our Duty." The 19th, at 3 o'clock, P. M., she said, "Mother, some change has taken place. I don't think I shall live through the day." I saw there was a change, and stayed by her. Night drew on. No one happened in. She said, "It seems to me I could not breathe to have many in the room." I told her I was not afraid to be alone with her if she did die. She seemed gratified, as she wanted everything as quiet as could be, and she was not able to talk much with people if they were in. Her brother John and myself stayed with her during the night, when it seemed that any moment might be her last. She delivered many messages for different individuals, especially for her brother Samuel, if she did not live to see him. She said, "My mind was never clearer; I could do a sum in arithmetic."

About 2 o'clock she looked very happy. I said to John, "Annie is being blessed." She soon exclaimed, "Glory to G.o.d," a number of times, louder than she had spoken for a long while. She said, "Heaven is opened. I know Jesus is mine, and that he will save me. I shall come forth at the first resurrection;" and exhorted us to prepare for the time of trouble, and to be ready to meet her at that day, which she said she did not think was far distant.

Friday morning, the 20th, I wanted to write to Uriah, but she said "It will make no difference, I think I am dying; don't leave me, mother, while I live." We sent for Samuel, and for sister Gorham. She remained about the same. Those who came in thought she must be just gone. They said it did not seem like a sick and dying room, she appeared so happy.

She would look upon them and smile when she could not speak. Sabbath, July 21, she seemed better. Sunday, the 22d, more distressed, though she had some pleasing, and I trust profitable intercourse with her relatives and some of her particular friends. Monday morning, more comfortable.

Some of us entertained hopes that she might, even then, revive and live.

Monday night her distress returned. She said, "I think I cannot live."

Thursday morning, the 24th, she composed her last two verses, "Oh! shed not a tear o'er the spot where I sleep," &c. In the afternoon she had a conflict with the enemy, and seemed to lose sight of Jesus. I told her it was no strange thing; it was only a sign the Lord was near and would deliver. She found it even so. Before night she was enabled to triumph over all the powers of darkness, and praised G.o.d aloud. She prayed for patience to suffer all her Father's will, saying, "I shall not suffer any too much. I can bear anything while Jesus sustains me;" and many like expressions.

Tuesday night was a solemn and interesting night. I stayed with her alone through the night. Neither of us slept. She was very happy, and talked much with me. She said in her former familiar way, "My mother, I've been afraid I should wear you all out. I've called after you by night and by day." She felt bad to have me kept up as I was on her account. But she said, "I am here now, your dying girl. I think this is the last night, and you must be sure to rest when I am gone. O, my blessed mother, I shall bless you in Heaven for taking such care of me. No sorrow or suffering there. We shall all be free there. Yes, we shall all be free when we arrive at home, and we shall live forever. Yes, and I can smile upon you now through all my sufferings." It was her last suffering night.

Wednesday, the 25th, a death coldness was upon her. In the afternoon she became more free from pain and distress. While speaking in the evening of taking care of her, she said, "I shall not want any one to sit up; you can lie on the lounge." At 1 o'clock I called Samuel. She talked with him, called for what she wanted as usual, and told him he might lie down.

About three o'clock she called him to wet her head with water, and said she felt sleepy. She was indeed going into her last sleep. Samuel wet her head, and soon after spoke to me and said, "I don't know but Annie is dying." I spoke to her. She took no notice, breathed a few times, and died apparently as easy as any one going into a natural sleep. Her sufferings were over. She was gone. It was 4 o'clock in the morning, July 26, 1855.

She gave many directions about her burial; wanted as little parade as possible. We were expecting Bro. and sister White. We had had a letter from Bro. H. O. Nichols, saying they were expected there, and would be likely to call on us about that time. Brn. Bates, Burr and Nichols were written to, but circ.u.mstances prevented any of them from attending her funeral. Bro. Hastings and others spoke, prayed, and sung, to the edification of all. The hymns selected were, "Unconscious now in peaceful sleep," and "She hath pa.s.sed death's chilling billow." It has since been said by the friends that they never attended a more interesting funeral.

Annie looked very natural; more so than at any time after she came home.

It was remarked that a holy sweetness seemed to rest upon her countenance, while her remains were with us. Annie had many favors shown her. For the interest and friends.h.i.+p manifested, the friends have my sincere love and grat.i.tude. Though I ever thought much of them, they seem doubly dear since her death, especially Bro. and sister White, with whom she was so long connected. Annie loved them, and manifested an interest for them, and the work there till the last. Bro. White made her the generous donation of seventy-five dollars and other valuable presents, during her sickness.

It was a great satisfaction that I had Annie with me, and that I was enabled to take care of her while she lived. Her complaints required an uneven temperature of the room, which was unfavorable for me. I took one cold after another, and was very much worn down at the time of her death.

I took an additional cold when she was buried, and have scarcely been able to do anything since. I have thought sometimes, that what I had the privilege of doing for Annie, was worth my life, if it must go; and if it were not that I was still needed as a mother, I would now myself willingly lay off the burden of life's duties and cares.

_West Wilton, N. H., Sept. 16, 1855._

POEMS, BY ANNIE R. SMITH.

The Friends of my Youth: Where are They?

Oh, where are they who once did tread With me, in youth's sweet sunny morn, The winding labyrinths that led Where sweetest flowers the path adorn; And gladsome birds send forth their lay, And rivulets murmur on their way?

Oh, where are all the glad and gay, That filled the brightly-lighted hall; With loving hearts to music's lay, Responded to the joyous call?

With blooming cheeks and beaming eye, They dreamed of joy and heaved no sigh.

Some swept adown life's rolling tide, By summer breezes borne along, With prosperous gale they gently glide, Like some sweet fairy boat of song; And bask in pleasure's sunny fold, And revel in their glittering gold.

And some are rudely borne along, By dark misfortune's chilly blast; The storm and tempest coming on, The sky with clouds is overcast, Till weary of their toil and care, They sink in darkness and despair.

And some, whose sunny hopes have fled, Like th' withered and deserted flower, On which no tenderness is shed,-- They sicken in a single hour; And e'en in youth and beauty's bloom, Are ushered to the silent tomb.

And some in yonder graveyard sleep, Beneath the ever verdant soil; Where mortals ne'er are known to weep: They rest from all their pain and toil; Away from care, from sin set free, They peaceful rest, O G.o.d, in Thee.

A few are left to struggle on, Through dangers that beset life's way; To mourn that all the loved are gone, To weep and struggle, and to pray, That all in Heaven at last may meet, And joy each other there to greet.

Ode to the Winds.

Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds, As though ye fain would seek Some quiet rest ye cannot find, In this cold world so bleak.

Sound on, sound on; ye bring to mind The bright and joyful past; The golden hours of sunny yore, That were too bright to last.

Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds, Like thee, 'mid bitter tears, In vain I sigh for brighter days, In other happier years.

Sound on, sound on; ye seem to tell That all things here decay; The brightest flowers the soonest oft Will droop and pa.s.s away.

Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds; Thy strange, mysterious voice Seems like some spirit hovering near, Bidding my heart rejoice.

Sound on, sound on; for oh! ye tell Of a long, peaceful home, Beyond this dark and fleeting world, Where sorrows never come.

Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds; Your moaning, solemn tone Does with this heart so well accord, So dreary, sad and lone.

Sound on, sound on; for oh! ye've power To soothe each rising sigh, And waft my spirit far away, Where pleasures never die.