Canadian Wild Flowers Part 16

Ah, what sad havoc do sickness and pain make of the poor body; but sadder still when they trample on the bright inhabitant within, and make it a slave to tremble at their bidding! "Bring chains--bring chains," cries the fell destroyer; and ere she has time to rally her forces around her, or even think of resistance, the poor Soul has become a helpless captive, and Disease wears a smile of triumph upon her ghastly cheek, and again lifts up her voice to shout "victory."

And a complete victory it is: Self-control, Pride, Ambition--all are humbled; Hope is shrouded in sackcloth, and if she ever speaks it is only to whisper: "There is one secret pa.s.sage by which thou mayest yet escape, but it winds through the kingdom of Death and the Grave."

Reason herself grows pale and trembles, lest she lose her throne; for the thousands of obedient servants, which have never before disputed her authority, are all up in arms against her. Every nerve begins to quiver and vibrate; the whole body is in commotion; and no wonder the trembling Soul sits down amid the ruins of her former self and makes the whole place doleful with her cries and lamentations.

Don't chide her: she is no criminal waiting the demands of justice, but a prisoner of war, and therefore should be dealt kindly with.

Don't gaze at her through her prison bars, as though she were a wild beast caged, or some curious object kept only for a show; but go to her enveloped in the mantle of love, upon your lips the honey-dew of human kindness, and in your heart the melting tenderness of Christian affection. Don't tell her she is escaping many trials and temptations to which she would be exposed if she came in contact with the busy world around her. Go to the imprisoned eagle, and, as he looks up longingly into the deep blue sky and beats his wings in agony, comfort him with the a.s.surance that his wants are provided for, and he himself safe from the arts of the fowler! Aye, tell this to the free-born eagle, but disgust not the ever-yearning, restless Soul with such mockeries. She may listen, but she laughs you to scorn in secret and prays Heaven to be delivered from such comforters. She knows her struggles and temptations are inward; and she knows too, for that very reason, they are more terrible. There greater battles have been fought than the blood-dyed fields of Europe ever witnessed. Magentas and Solferinas fatten with the blood of heroes, but she carries on a never ending warfare "with princ.i.p.alities and powers"--the numberless host of h.e.l.l--and legions of native pa.s.sions.

Deal gently with her. Would you win her confidence? There is but one pa.s.sage to her affections. Speak that word--bolt and bar fly open: she takes you by the hand and welcomes you to her most sacred and secluded retreat. That word is _sympathy:_ let her feel it in your tender embrace, see it in the glance of your eye, hear it in the modulation of your voice. It is for this she yearns and sighs, and refuses to be comforted where it is not.

Bring her flowers--sweet, beautiful flowers. They are meet companions for her solitude. Gather blossoms from the whitening apple-bough, violets from the meadow, dandelions from the wayside. She will fold them more tenderly to her bosom than the rarest plants, for their faces are old, familiar ones, and she imagines they wear a look of pity.

But there are more precious things than human sympathy; there are sweeter flowers than violets or roses. They bloom on the prayer-consecrated mountains of Judea, amid the ancient olives of Gethsemane, along the Dolorous Way trodden by the Man of Sorrows, beneath the shadows of the Cross, and around the borrowed Sepulchre.

Oh, gather them with no sparing hand: there are enough for you and her--enough for every sorrowing heart in the universe. Take them to the poor sufferer. Their fragrance will make the lonely chamber like a garden of spices; the tearful eyes will turn heavenward, and the pale lips--tremulous with contrition will whisper, "Father; forgive me, for I knew not what I did when I murmured at thy dealings." Then a solemn hush will follow--a holy twilight of the soul,--as if the sorrows of earth were blending with the joys of heaven, the pains of mortality with the blessedness of the angelic bards. Oh, these are the flowers for a sickroom! How dreary and desolate does it seem without them! The strong and healthy may live on, careless and irreligious, but what would become of the poor, grief-stricken, despairing Soul if she could not repose quietly in the bosom her Beloved, and say with child-like simplicity, morning and evening, _"Our Father who art in heaven!"_

SONGS OF HOPE

"HE GIVETH SONGS IN THE NIGHT."

Gloriously the sun sinks behind the western hills. Half the sky seems on fire, and the other half wreathed with light fantastic clouds. All nature is beautiful--can I be sad? Nay; away with sadness, away with sorrow; I will forget everything my strangeness, my blasted hopes, and seek for happiness where happiness only is to be found, in the sacred Oracles of G.o.d.--_July_ 14, 1852.

G.o.d sometimes speaks in earthquake and in storm, But oftener in the "still small voice" of love: He urges men as loving fathers plead.

G.o.d _is_ our Father, yet we shun his face And hide ourselves when at the cool of day He walketh in the garden!

How sweet the thought that G.o.d, our heavenly Father, is omniscient.

Our griefs are not hidden from him. He knows our hearts, and with all this knowledge he is good--so tender, so pitiful! Oh, to love him as he deserves! Oh, for a thousand tongues to sing his praises! Tell the sick, tell the sorrowing, tell the broken-hearted of this G.o.d; tell the wretched, the guilty, the wayward prodigal of this gracious Father.

THE LAST GOOD NIGHT.

[In the day of health and prosperity everybody feels like singing, but "in the night" of adversity grace must produce the song of holy confidence and hope. Such a song is the following, which has probably been printed oftener than any other of Miss JOHNSON'S poems. It has appeared in several papers; finds a place in Dewart's "Selections from Canadian Poets"; was set to music by George F. Root, and appears in his "School for the Cabinet Organ." With many it has been a favorite.]

Mother, good night! my work is done,-- I go to rest with the setting sun: But not to wake with the morning light, So, dearest mother, a long good night!

Father, good night! the shadows glide Silently down to the river's side,-- The river itself with stars is bright, So, dearest father, a long good night!

Sisters, good night! the roses close Their dewy eyes for the night's repose-- And a strange, damp mist obscures my sight, So, dearest sisters, a long good night!

Brothers, good night! the sunset flush Has died away, and a midnight hush Has settled o'er plain and mountain height, So, dearest brothers, a long good night!

Good night! good night! nay, do not weep: I'm weary of earth, I long to sleep-- I shall wake again with the dawning light Of eternal day--good night, good night!

RETROSPECTIVE AND PROSPECTIVE.

I remember the time when we went forth arm in arm over the newly mown fields, scaring the gra.s.shoppers from our pathway, with our baskets on our arms, to gather the blueberries that hung in cl.u.s.ters on their slender stalks. But thou art gone now to the fairer fields of paradise, to pluck sweeter fruit than ever ripened here. Thou art gone! The blueberry bushes have fallen long ago before the scythe; the field has changed its appearance; and as for me, the breezes woo me forth in vain--I cannot go. Sickness and sorrow have come between me and the love of earth; they have cast a dark shadow over what I once thought fair. But as there can be no shadow without a light beyond it I have caught bright glimpses of a better home--a land of life and glory.

HOPE.

[We have no clue to the time when this was written. It is imperfect: the second verse is not complete in the copy. But is it not true to life so far as earthly hope is concerned? Of "the hope of the gospel"

our songstress would speak differently.]

What a syren is Hope--what a charming deceiver!

She whispers so blandly you can but believe her; The garments of Truth and of Reason she stealeth And every deformity thus she concealeth.

When down in the valley I'm talking with Sorrow She comes with a song--all its burden _to-morrow;_ She mocks my companion....

Then she beckons me up to the top of a mountain; She brings me a draught from a clear, sparkling fountain, And talks of the beautiful prospect before us Till ere I'm aware, the dark night settles o'er us.

Sometimes in my anger I try to elude her; I call her a jade and an idle intruder; But she kisses, caresses, and coaxes, and flatters Till I build me a castle the next zephyr shatters.

When I firmly resolve I will listen no longer, Than my will or my reason somehow she is stronger: I chide her, deride her, despise her and doubt her, And yet it is true I can't live without her!

EARTH NOT THE CHRISTIAN'S HOME.

Earth, with all thy grief and sorrow, And thy changes of to-morrow; With thy woe and with thy parting, With thy tears of anguish starting, With thy countless heart-strings breaking, With thy loved and lost forsaking, With thy famished millions sighing, With thy scenes of dead and dying, With thy graveyards without number, Where the old and youthful slumber; Earth, oh, earth! thus dark and dreary, Cold, and sad, and worn, and weary, Thou art not my home!

Earth, oh, earth! with all thy slaughter And thy streams of blood like water O'er the field of battle gus.h.i.+ng, Where the mighty armies rus.h.i.+ng, Reckless of all human feeling, With the war trump loudly pealing, And the gallant banners flying, Trample on the dead and dying; Where the foe, the friend, the brother, Bathed in blood sleep by each other; Earth, oh, earth! thus dark and gory, Blood and tears make up thy story, Thou art not my home!

Earth, with all thy scenes of anguish, Where the poor and starving languish, To the proud oppressor bending, And their cries for mercy blending; Where the slave with bosom swelling, Which despair has made its dwelling, And the scalding tear-drops falling-- Sight to human hearts appalling-- Strives, but strives in vain to sever Fetters that must bind him ever; Earth, oh, earth! with each possession Sold to tyrants and oppression, Thou art not my home!

Earth, oh, earth! thy brightest treasures, Like thy hopes and like thy pleasures, Wintry winds are daily blighting; Pain, and woe, and death uniting, Youth and love and beauty crus.h.i.+ng, And the sweetest voices hus.h.i.+ng; Rich and poor, and old and blooming, To one common mansion dooming; While the cries of every nation Mingle with those of creation; Earth, oh, earth! thus dark and dreary, Cold, and sad, and worn and weary, Thou art not my home!

Earth, oh, earth! though dark and gory, In thy pristine state of glory!

Angels came upon thee gazing, Songs of love and rapture raising; For thou then wast bright and beaming, With the sunlight on thee streaming, With thy crystal waters laving Sh.o.r.es with fadeless forests waving; With thy plains and with thy mountains, With thy ever-gus.h.i.+ng fountains; Earth, oh, earth! once fair and holy, Fallen, fallen, and so lowly; Thou art not my home!

Earth, oh, earth! bowed down by sorrow, Cheer thee, for there comes a morrow; Night and clouds, and gloom dispersing, And thyself, O earth, immersing In a flood of light undying; When the curse upon thee lying, With its thousand woes attending.

Death, and pain, and bosoms rending, Partings that the heart-strings sever, Will be banished and forever,-- Earth, oh, earth! renewed in glory, Love and joy make up the story; Oh, be thou my home!

Earth, although thou seem'st forsaken, Yet a note of praise awaken; For the angels, lowly bending Round the throne of light unending, Gaze upon thee, sad and groaning, Listen to thy bitter moaning; Thou hast scenes to them amazing, While on Calvary's mountain gazing; And they smile on every nation Purchased with so great salvation,-- Earth, oh, earth! renewed in glory, Angels shall rehea.r.s.e thy story; Oh, be thou my home!

Earth, the morn will _soon_ break o'er thee, And thy Saviour will restore thee; Far more bright and far more blooming, And more glorious robes a.s.suming Than when first, o'er Eden ringing, Angel-voices were heard singing; For thy King himself descending, Heaven and earth together blending, With his saints a countless number, Those who live and those who slumber, Over thee will reign victorious,-- Earth, oh, earth, thus bright and glorious, Be thou then my home!