Religious Studies, Sketches and Poems

"And I should like to know if father has found out the answer to that hard question I gave him last Sunday?" said Willie.

"All will come in good time," said Mrs. Fletcher. "But tell me, my dear children, are you sure that you are quite ready for the Sabbath? You say you have put away the books and the playthings; have you put away, too, all wrong and unkind feelings? Do you feel kindly and pleasantly towards everybody?"

"Yes, mother," said Willie, who appeared to have taken a great part of this speech to himself; "I went over to Tom Walter's this very morning to ask him about that chicken of mine, and he said that he did not mean to hit it, and did not know he had till I told him of it; and so we made all up again, and I am glad I went."

"I am inclined to think, Willie," said his father, "that if everybody would make it a rule to settle up all their differences before Sunday, there would be very few long quarrels and lawsuits. In about half the cases, a quarrel is founded on some misunderstanding that would be got over in five minutes if one would go directly to the person for explanation."

"I suppose I need not ask you," said Mrs. Fletcher, "whether you have fully learned your Sunday-school lessons?"

"Oh, to be sure," said William. "You know, mother, that Susan and I were busy about them through Monday and Tuesday, and then this afternoon we looked them over again, and wrote down some questions."

"And I heard Robert say his all through, and showed him all the places on the Bible Atlas," said Susan.

"Well, then," said my friend, "if everything is done, let us begin Sunday with some music."

Thanks to the recent improvements in the musical instruction of the young, every family can now form a domestic concert, with words and tunes adapted to the capacity and the voices of children; and while these little ones, full of animation, pressed round their mother as she sat at the piano, and accompanied her music with the words of some beautiful hymns, I thought that, though I might have heard finer music, I had never listened to any that answered the purpose of music so well.

It was a custom at my friend's to retire at an early hour on Saturday evening, in order that there might be abundant time for rest, and no excuse for late rising on the Sabbath; and, accordingly, when the children had done singing, after a short season of family devotion, we all betook ourselves to our chambers, and I, for one, fell asleep with the impression of having finished the week most agreeably, and with anticipations of very great pleasure on the morrow.

Early in the morning I was roused from my sleep by the sound of little voices singing with great animation in the room next to mine, and, listening, I caught the following words: —

"Awake! awake! your bed forsake,To God your praises pay;The morning sun is clear and bright;With joy we hail his cheerful light.In songs of lovePraise God above —It is the Sabbath day!"

The last words were repeated and prolonged most vehemently by a voice that I knew for Master William's.

"Now, Willie, I like the other one best," said the soft voice of little Susan; and immediately she began: —

"How sweet is the day,When, leaving our play,The Saviour we seek!The fair morning glowsWhen Jesus arose —The best in the week."

Master William helped along with great spirit in the singing of this tune, though I heard him observing, at the end of the first verse, that he liked the other one better, because "it seemed to step off so kind o' lively;" and his accommodating sister followed him as he began singing it again with redoubled animation.

It was a beautiful summer morning, and the voices of the children within accorded well with the notes of birds and bleating flocks without – a cheerful, yet Sabbath-like and quieting sound.

"Blessed be children's music!" said I to myself; "how much better this is than the solitary tick, tick, of old Uncle Fletcher's tall mahogany clock!"

The family bell summoned us to the breakfast room just as the children had finished their hymn. The little breakfast parlor had been swept and garnished expressly for the day, and a vase of beautiful flowers, which the children had the day before collected from their gardens, adorned the centre-table. The door of one of the bookcases by the fireplace was thrown open, presenting to view a collection of prettily bound books, over the top of which appeared in gilt letters the inscription, "Sabbath Library." The windows were thrown open to let in the invigorating breath of the early morning, and the birds that flitted among the rose-bushes without seemed scarcely lighter and more buoyant than did the children as they entered the room. It was legibly written on every face in the house, that the happiest day in the week had arrived, and each one seemed to enter into its duties with a whole soul. It was still early when the breakfast and the season of family devotion were over, and the children eagerly gathered round the table to get a sight of the pictures in the new books which their father had purchased in New York the week before, and which had been reserved as a Sunday's treat. They were a beautiful edition of Calmet's Dictionary, in several large volumes, with very superior engravings.

"It seems to me that this work must be very expensive," I remarked to my friend, as we were turning the leaves.

"Indeed it is so," he replied; "but here is one place where I am less withheld by considerations of expense than in any other. In all that concerns making a show in the world, I am perfectly ready to economize. I can do very well without expensive clothing or fashionable furniture, and am willing that we should be looked on as very plain sort of people in all such matters; but in all that relates to the cultivation of the mind, and the improvement of the hearts of my children, I am willing to go to the extent of my ability. Whatever will give my children a better knowledge of, or deeper interest in, the Bible, or enable them to spend a Sabbath profitably and without weariness, stands first on my list among things to be purchased. I have spent in this way one third as much as the furnishing of my house costs me." On looking over the shelves of the Sabbath Library, I perceived that my friend had been at no small pains in the selection. It comprised all the popular standard works for the illustration of the Bible, together with the best of the modern religious publications adapted to the capacity of young children. Two large drawers below were filled with maps and Scriptural engravings, some of them of a very superior character.

"We have been collecting these things gradually ever since we have been at housekeeping," said my friend; "the children take an interest in this library, as something more particularly belonging to them, and some of the books are donations from their little earnings."

"Yes," said Willie, "I bought Helon's 'Pilgrimage' with my egg money, and Susan bought the 'Life of David,' and little Robert is going to buy one, too, next New Year."

"But," said I, "would not the Sunday-school library answer all the purpose of this?"

"The Sabbath-school library is an admirable thing," said my friend; "but this does more fully and perfectly what that was intended to do. It makes a sort of central attraction at home on the Sabbath, and makes the acquisition of religious knowledge and the proper observance of the Sabbath a sort of family enterprise. You know," he added, smiling, "that people always feel interested for an object in which they have invested money."

The sound of the first Sabbath-school bell put an end to this conversation. The children promptly made themselves ready, and as their father was the superintendent of the school, and their mother one of the teachers, it was quite a family party.

One part of every Sabbath at my friend's was spent by one or both parents with the children in a sort of review of the week. The attention of the little ones was directed to their own characters, the various defects or improvements of the past week were pointed out, and they were stimulated to be on their guard in the time to come, and the whole was closed by earnest prayer for such heavenly aid as the temptations and faults of each particular one might need. After church in the evening, while the children were thus withdrawn to their mother's apartment, I could not forbear reminding my friend of old times, and of the rather anti-sabbatical turn of his mind in our boyish days.

"Now, William," said I, "do you know that you were the last boy of whom such an enterprise in Sabbath-keeping as this was to have been expected? I suppose you remember Sunday at 'the old place'?"

"Nay, now, I think I was the very one," said he, smiling, "for I had sense enough to see, as I grew up, that the day must be kept thoroughly or not at all, and I had enough blood and motion in my composition to see that something must be done to enliven and make it interesting; so I set myself about it. It was one of the first of our housekeeping resolutions, that the Sabbath should be made a pleasant day, and yet be as inviolably kept as in the strictest times of our good father; and we have brought things to run in that channel so long that it seems to be the natural order."

"I have always supposed," said I, "that it required a peculiar talent, and more than common information in a parent, to accomplish this to any extent."

"It requires nothing," replied my friend, "but common sense, and a strong determination to do it. Parents who make a definite object of the religious instruction of their children, if they have common sense, can very soon see what is necessary in order to interest them; and, if they find themselves wanting in the requisite information, they can, in these days, very readily acquire it. The sources of religious knowledge are so numerous, and so popular in their form, that all can avail themselves of them. The only difficulty after all is, that the keeping of the Sabbath and the imparting of religious instruction are not made enough of a home object. Parents pass off the responsibility on to the Sunday-school teacher, and suppose, of course, if they send their children to Sunday-school, they do the best they can for them. Now, I am satisfied, from my experience as a Sabbath-school teacher, that the best religious instruction imparted abroad still stands in need of the coöperation of a systematic plan of religious discipline and instruction at home; for, after all, God gives a power to the efforts of a parent that can never be transferred to other hands."

"But do you suppose," said I, "that the common class of minds, with ordinary advantages, can do what you have done?"

"I think in most cases they could, if they begin right. But when both parents and children have formed habits, it is more difficult to change than to begin right at first. However, I think all might accomplish a great deal if they would give time, money, and effort towards it. It is because the object is regarded of so little value, compared with other things of a worldly nature, that so little is done."

My friend was here interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Fletcher with the children. Mrs. Fletcher sat down to the piano, and the Sabbath was closed with the happy songs of the little ones; nor could I notice a single anxious eye turning to the window to see if the sun was not almost down. The tender and softened expression of each countenance bore witness to the subduing power of those instructions which had hallowed the last hour, and their sweet, birdlike voices harmonized well with the beautiful words: —

"How sweet the light of Sabbath eve!How soft the sunbeam lingering there!Those holy hours this low earth leave,And rise on wings of faith and prayer."

RELIGIOUS POEMS

ST. CATHERINE BORNE BY ANGELS 6

Slow through the solemn air, in silence sailing,Borne by mysterious angels, strong and fair,She sleeps at last, blest dreams her eyelids veiling,Above this weary world of strife and care.Lo how she passeth! – dreamy, slow, and calm:Scarce wave those broad, white wings, so silvery bright;Those cloudy robes, in star-emblazoned folding,Sweep mistily athwart the evening light.Far, far below, the dim, forsaken earth,The foes that threaten, or the friends that weep;Past, like a dream, the torture and the pain:For so He giveth his beloved sleep.The restless bosom of the surging oceanGives back the image as the cloud floats o'er,Hushing in glassy awe his troubled motion;For one blest moment he complains no more.Like the transparent golden floor of heaven,His charmèd waters lie as in a dream,And glistening wings, and starry robes unfolding,And serious angel eyes far downward gleam.O restless sea! thou seemest all enchantedBy that sweet vision of celestial rest;Where are the winds and tides thy peace that haunted, —So still thou seemest, so glorified and blest!Ah, sea! to-morrow, that sweet scene forgotten,Dark tides and tempests shall thy bosom rear;And thy complaining waves, with restless motion,Shall toss their hands in their old wild despair.So o'er our hearts sometimes the sweet, sad storyOf suffering saints, borne homeward crowned and blest,Shines down in stillness with a tender glory,And makes a mirror there of breathless rest.For not alone in those old Eastern regionsAre Christ's beloved ones tried by cross and chain;In many a house are his elect ones hidden,His martyrs suffering in their patient pain.The rack, the cross, life's weary wrench of woe,The world sees not, as slow, from day to day,In calm, unspoken patience, sadly still,The loving spirit bleeds itself away.But there are hours when, from the heavens unfolding,Come down the angels with the glad release;And we look upward, to behold in gloryOur suffering loved ones borne away to peace.Ah, brief the calm! the restless wave of feelingRises again when the bright cloud sweeps by,And our unrestful souls reflect no longerThat tender vision of the upper sky.Espousèd Lord of the pure saints in glory,To whom all faithful souls affianced are,Breathe down thy peace into our restless spirits,And make a lasting, heavenly vision there.So the bright gates no more on us shall close;No more the cloud of angels fade away;And we shall walk, amid life's weary strife,In the calm light of thine eternal day.

THE CHARMER

"Socrates. However, you and Simmias appear to me as if you wished to sift this subject more thoroughly, and to be afraid, like children, lest, on the soul's departure from the body, winds should blow it away.

"Upon this Cebes said, 'Endeavor to teach us better, Socrates. Perhaps there is a childish spirit in our breast that has such a dread. Let us endeavor to persuade him not to be afraid of death, as of hobgoblins.'

"'But you must charm him every day,' said Socrates, 'until you have quieted his fears.'

"'But whence, O Socrates,' he said, 'can we procure a skillful charmer for such a case, now you are about to leave us?'

"'Greece is wide, Cebes,' he said, 'and in it surely there are skillful men; and there are many barbarous nations, all of which you should search, seeking such a charmer, sparing neither money nor toil.'" – Last words of Socrates, as narrated by Plato in the Phœdo.

We need that charmer, for our hearts are soreWith longings for the things that may not be,Faint for the friends that shall return no more,Dark with distrust, or wrung with agony."What is this life? and what to us is death?Whence came we? whither go? and where are thoseWho, in a moment stricken from our side,Passed to that land of shadow and repose?"And are they all dust? and dust must we become?Or are they living in some unknown clime?Shall we regain them in that far-off home,And live anew beyond the waves of time?"O man divine! on thee our souls have hung;Thou wert our teacher in these questions high;But ah! this day divides thee from our side,And veils in dust thy kindly guiding eye."Where is that Charmer whom thou bidst us seek?On what far shores may his sweet voice be heard?When shall these questions of our yearning soulsBe answered by the bright Eternal Word?"So spake the youth of Athens, weeping round,When Socrates lay calmly down to die;So spake the sage, prophetic of the hourWhen earth's fair morning star should rise on high.They found Him not, those youths of soul divine,Long seeking, wandering, watching on life's shore;Reasoning, aspiring, yearning for the light,Death came and found them – doubting as before.But years passed on; and lo! the Charmer came,Pure, simple, sweet, as comes the silver dew,And the world knew him not, – he walked aloneEncircled only by his trusting few.Like the Athenian sage, rejected, scorned,Betrayed, condemned, his day of doom drew nigh;He drew his faithful few more closely round,And told them that his hour was come – to die."Let not your heart be troubled," then He said,"My Father's house hath mansions large and fair;I go before you to prepare your place,I will return to take you with me there."And since that hour the awful foe is charmed,And life and death are glorified and fair;Whither He went we know, the way we know,And with firm step press on to meet him there.

KNOCKING

"Behold, I stand at the door and knock."

Knocking, knocking, ever knocking?Who is there?'Tis a pilgrim, strange and kingly,Never such was seen before; —Ah, sweet soul, for such a wonderUndo the door.No, – that door is hard to open;Hinges rusty, latch is broken;Bid Him go.Wherefore, with that knocking drearyScare the sleep from one so weary?Say Him, – no.Knocking, knocking, ever knocking?What! Still there?O sweet soul, but once behold Him,With the glory-crownèd hair;And those eyes, so strange and tender,Waiting there;Open! Open! Once behold Him, —Him, so fair.Ah, that door! Why wilt Thou vex me,Coming ever to perplex me?For the key is stiffly rusty,And the bolt is clogged and dusty;Many-fingered ivy-vineSeals it fast with twist and twine;Weeds of years and years beforeChoke the passage of that door.Knocking! knocking! What! still knocking?He still there?What's the hour? The night is waning, —In my heart a drear complaining,And a chilly, sad unrest!Ah, this knocking! It disturbs me,Scares my sleep with dreams unblest!Give me rest,Rest, – ah, rest!Rest, dear soul, He longs to give thee;Thou hast only dreamed of pleasure,Dreamed of gifts and golden treasure,Dreamed of jewels in thy keeping,Waked to weariness of weeping; —Open to thy soul's one Lover,And thy night of dreams is over, —The true gifts He brings have seemingMore than all thy faded dreaming!Did she open? Doth she? Will she?So, as wondering we behold,Grows the picture to a sign,Pressed upon your soul and mine;For in every breast that livethIs that strange, mysterious door; —Though forsaken and betangled,Ivy-gnarled and weed-bejangled,Dusty, rusty, and forgotten; —There the piercèd hand still knocketh,And with ever-patient watching,With the sad eyes true and tender,With the glory-crownèd hair, —Still a God is waiting there.

THE OLD PSALM TUNE

You asked, dear friend, the other day,Why still my charmèd earRejoiceth in uncultured toneThat old psalm tune to hear?I've heard full oft, in foreign lands,The grand orchestral strain,Where music's ancient masters live,Revealed on earth again, —Where breathing, solemn instruments,In swaying clouds of sound,Bore up the yearning, trancèd soul,Like silver wings around; —I've heard in old St. Peter's dome,Where clouds of incense rise,Most ravishing the choral swellMount upwards to the skies.And well I feel the magic power,When skilled and cultured artIts cunning webs of sweetness weavesAround the captured heart.But yet, dear friend, though rudely sung,That old psalm tune hath stillA pulse of power beyond them allMy inmost soul to thrill.Those halting tones that sound to you,Are not the tones I hear;But voices of the loved and lostThere meet my longing ear.I hear my angel mother's voice, —Those were the words she sung;I hear my brother's ringing tones,As once on earth they rung;And friends that walk in white aboveCome round me like a cloud,And far above those earthly notesTheir singing sounds aloud.There may be discord, as you say;Those voices poorly ring;But there's no discord in the strainThose upper spirits sing.For they who sing are of the blest,The calm and glorified,Whose hours are one eternal restOn heaven's sweet floating tide.Their life is music and accord;Their souls and hearts keep timeIn one sweet concert with the Lord, —One concert vast, sublime.And through the hymns they sang on earthSometimes a sweetness fallsOn those they loved and left below,And softly homeward calls, —Bells from our own dear fatherland,Borne trembling o'er the sea, —The narrow sea that they have crossed,The shores where we shall be.O sing, sing on, belovèd souls!Sing cares and griefs to rest;Sing, till entrancèd we ariseTo join you 'mong the blest

THE OTHER WORLD

It lies around us like a cloud,A world we do not see;Yet the sweet closing of an eyeMay bring us there to be.Its gentle breezes fan our cheek;Amid our worldly cares,Its gentle voices whisper love,And mingle with our prayers.Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,Sweet helping hands are stirred,And palpitates the veil betweenWith breathings almost heard.The silence, awful, sweet, and calm,They have no power to break;For mortal words are not for themTo utter or partake.So thin, so soft, so sweet, they glide,So near to press they seem,They lull us gently to our rest,They melt into our dream.And in the hush of rest they bring'Tis easy now to seeHow lovely and how sweet a passThe hour of death may be; —To close the eye, and close the ear,Wrapped in a trance of bliss,And, gently drawn in loving arms,To swoon to that – from this, —Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,Scarce asking where we are,To feel all evil sink away,All sorrow and all care.Sweet souls around us! watch us still;Press nearer to our side;Into our thoughts, into our prayers,With gentle helpings glide.Let death between us be as naught,A dried and vanished stream;Your joy be the reality,Our suffering life the dream.

MARY AT THE CROSS

"Now there stood by the cross of Jesus his mother."

O wondrous mother! since the dawn of timeWas ever love, was ever grief, like thine?O highly favored in thy joy's deep flow,And favored, even in this, thy bitterest woe!Poor was that home in simple NazarethWhere, fairly growing, like some silent flower,Last of a kingly race, unknown and lowly,O desert lily, passed thy childhood's hour.The world knew not the tender, serious maiden,Who through deep loving years so silent grew,Full of high thought and holy aspiration,Which the o'ershadowing God alone might view.And then it came, that message from the highest,Such as to woman ne'er before descended,The almighty wings thy prayerful soul o'erspread,And with thy life the Life of worlds was blended.What visions then of future glory filled thee,The chosen mother of that King unknown,Mother fulfiller of all prophecyWhich, through dim ages, wondering seers had shown!Well did thy dark eye kindle, thy deep soulRise into billows, and thy heart rejoice;Then woke the poet's fire, the prophet's song,Tuned with strange burning words thy timid voice.Then, in dark contrast, came the lowly manger,The outcast shed, the tramp of brutal feet;Again behold earth's learnèd and her lowly,Sages and shepherds, prostrate at thy feet.Then to the temple bearing – hark againWhat strange conflicting tones of prophecyBreathe o'er the child foreshadowing words of joy,High triumph blent with bitter agony!O highly favored thou in many an hourSpent in lone musings with thy wondrous Son,When thou didst gaze into that glorious eye,And hold that mighty hand within thine own.Blest through those thirty years, when in thy dwellingHe lived a God disguised with unknown power;And thou his sole adorer, his best love,Trusting, revering, waited for his hour.Blest in that hour, when called by opening heavenWith cloud and voice, and the baptizing flame,Up from the Jordan walked th' acknowledged stranger,And awe-struck crowds grew silent as He came.Blessèd, when full of grace, with glory crowned,He from both hands almighty favors poured,And, though He had not where to lay his head,Brought to his feet alike the slave and lord.Crowds followed; thousands shouted, "Lo, our King!"Fast beat thy heart. Now, now the hour draws nigh:Behold the crown, the throne, the nations bend!Ah, no! fond mother, no! behold Him die!Now by that cross thou tak'st thy final station,And shar'st the last dark trial of thy Son;Not with weak tears or woman's lamentation,But with high, silent anguish, like his own.Hail! highly favored, even in this deep passion;Hail! in this bitter anguish thou art blest, —Blest in the holy power with Him to sufferThose deep death-pangs that lead to higher rest.All now is darkness; and in that deep stillnessThe God-man wrestles with that mighty woe;Hark to that cry, the rock of ages rending, —"'Tis finished!" Mother, all is glory now!By sufferings mighty as his mighty soulHath the Redeemer risen forever blest;And through all ages must his heart-belovèdThrough the same baptism enter the same rest.