Papers from Overlook-House

He dreamt that he came near to his solitary dwelling-place. He was all alone on the path of the forest. He heard the unending sounds which are in the great wilderness, none of which ever removes the lonely shadow from the heart, – the shadow that has fallen on endless generations, that speaks of countless graves amid the trees, and of countless hosts that are out of sight in the spirit land.

That I could hear, he thought, one voice breaking the stillness of my way! That I could look to the end of the thick trees and know that when I issued from their darkness, as the light would be above me, so the light would be in my home.

As he was thus borne away by the fancies of the night he murmured the name of Mahanara.

By his side was her brother, who loved him more than his life. He heard the name, and rejoiced in the assurance which it taught him. When he spoke of the murmur of the dream the next day, as they were alone on the great prairie, he received the open confession. And then the brother uttered words which filled the heart with hope.

When they returned from the hunting-grounds he directed his steps to the dwelling of her father, – crossing to reach it, the little stream that she loved to watch as it foamed amid the white stones that rested in its bed.

Around the walls were trophies of the chase and of the battle. But the wild songs and the stories of former days were no more heard from his lips. He seldom spoke but of the Spirit-land, and in strange words for the home of the Indian, prayed that the Great One would teach the tribes to love peace. He said he was going to new hunting grounds, but not to new war paths. The people of the wilderness that he would meet in the sky would speak in voices that never would utter the cry of strife.

When the evening came upon them, and the old man sat silent, looking gladly on the stars, Awaha said to Mahanara, "Walk with me to these fir-trees that echo murmurs to yon stream."

"Mahanara's place is here," she said gently. "Here she can prepare the corn and the venison, and spread the skins for her guest. But in the fir-grove there is no door for her to open. There she cannot say, Welcome. There she cannot throw the pine-knot on the flames to brighten the home for thy presence. Stay here and say some words of the Spirit-land to my father. I will sew the beads, and weave the split quills, and the voices I shall hear shall be pleasant like the mingling of the murmurs of the rill and of the wind when the leaves that we see not are in motion, sounds which I so love, for they were among the first sounds I heard by the side of my mother."

Then he replied, "I must say here what I would have said to thee under the stars and the night. Why was it not said in the days that are past? The stream could not come to the water-flower, for it was frozen. The sun came the other day, and the winter-power took off its bonds from the stream. Long have I loved thee – loved thee here as I wandered in the village – loved thee far off on the prairies – loved thee when the shout told that the vanquished fled from our onset. Be my bride, and the Great Spirit will know where is the Indian whose step on earth is the lightest."

He saw that the tears were falling fast as he spoke, and that she did move as a maiden at the plea of her lover.

"Thou hast waited," she said, "to move thy flower until the winter has hold of its roots in the ground hard as the rock. Hadst thou come before the snow had melted, then Mahanara had gone with thee. Then together we had cared for him who can go out on the hunt no more. But seest thou these links of the bleached bone carved with these secret symbols? Seest thou the fragment of the broken arrow-head? Thou knowest how these bind me to another. I will pray for thee to the Great Spirit. A warrior's wife may pray for a warrior. Seek thou another and a better bride among the daughters of our tribe."

"It cannot be," he said. "I shall go away from the land where the sun shines, like the lone tree amid the rocks. It shall wither and die, and who will know that it ever cast its shade for the hunter."

"Ah not so," she said, "it is the shadow of to-day. Seek the wife that is on the earth for thee. If she has sorrow send for me and I will hold up her fainting head. If I comfort her, then shall I also comfort thee. I will speak the praises of thy tribe and she will love me."

Awaha sat in his lonely house day after day, and friends looked on him in sorrow and said that the Great Spirit was calling him, for his last path was trodden. They sought me in their sorrow, not regarding the long weary journey. My home is in a deep dark cave on the side of the mountain. The great horn from the monster that has never roamed the forest since the Indian began to hand down the story of his day hangs on the huge oak at the entrance. The blasts shake the forest, and I hear it far down below the springs in the earth where I burn my red fires.

In vain I tried all my arts to drive from him the deep and lasting sorrow. So I sought the aid of my mother whose home is near the great river that pours its waters from the clouds – over which the storm of heaven seems to rage in silence. She heard my story, and she arrayed herself in her strange robe bright with the skins of snakes from a land where the sun always keeps the earth green and warm. On her head were the feathers of the eagle and of the hawk.

She kindled her fire on the stones that were heaped together and threw in them bones and matted hair.

Then she drank of the cup, death to all but for her lips, and poured that which was left on the flame. The fire told her the story of days that were to come. She said that Awaha must live. When three winters had come and gone Mahanara would be alone, for wrapped in his hunting skins, the braves would lay her husband in his grave. Let him live – let Awaha live – for he and Mahanara shall yet dwell among their people. The vine shall fall. It can twine around another tree. Let Awaha live.

So I sought him – and his eye was dim – he scarce knew the voices of those around him. I gave him the precious elixir which my mother alone on earth could draw from roots such as no eye of man has ever seen. The young men placed him on a litter and bore him to a far off river. There we made the raft, covered it with leaves, and we floated gently onward to my cave. Then I said leave him with me. In a few days he will have strength and shall go down these waters to his canoe. A new home shall he seek where there are no paths ever trodden by Mahanara. There he shall not look round as the breeze moves the bushes, as though she was near him. He shall not see flowers there which shall say, you gathered such for her in the warm days when the Indian village was full of hearts as bright as the sun shining down upon it. The woods everywhere has a place for the warrior. There are no mountains where the battle-cry cannot echo. There are no red men where the great man shall not be great. I then gave him strange food that a hunter from the spirit land once threw down at the tent of my mother when she had healed his little child that he left to the care of his tribe. I then compounded in the cup which was white and shining, as it had been on a high rock for ages to be bleached in the moonbeams, the draught that he was to drink that he might sleep for three years. I laid him gently in the clift in the rock above my cave. The warm spring ran winter and summer beneath the place of his rest. I covered him with light bruised roots that would add to his strength. I placed over him the cedar boughs, matted, so that the rain could reach him. Over these, folds of leaves well dried in the heat of the cavern. I laid the loose stones over all and scattered the dust there which the beasts flee from, waking the echo of the forest. There he slept until the great stillness come over the husband of Mahanara, and the great song had told of his wisdom, of his battles, as the warriors stood by his grave.

One day she sat by the side of the stream, – and not on the bank where she had often chanted the wild song to Awaha. Her hands were forming the beautiful wampum belt. I came to her, and as we spoke of past days, her eye rested on the chain of Awaha, that I wound and unwound as if I thought not of it, before her eyes that rested on it for a moment only to look away, and to look far down into the deep water.

I laid it secretly near her, – and left her, crossing on the white stones of the stream, and passing into the deep forest.

When the dark night came over all the village, I crept silently to her wigwam. There she sat by the fire and pressed the chain to her heart, and looked sadly on the flames that rose and fell, and gleamed on one who was near and unknown.

He must live. So I sought him when the red star was over the mountain. Three moons more could he have slept, and have yet been called from his sleep to see the bright sunbeams.

Oh how beautiful the warrior, when all the coverings were taken away, and I saw him again as on the day when he first fell into his slumber.

As I waked him, he said, "yesterday you said that I should live. I feel strange strength after the sleep of the night that is past."

When he fell asleep a great night had crept up to his eye, – and he saw not the hunting-ground, – the fierce battle, – the wigwam, – but darkness, – and beyond it darkness, – and beyond that the land of all spirits. Now his eye was sad, – but he looked as one who heard voices call him to go forth, and be not as the stone that lies on the hill-side.

I sought Mahanara, and told her that he would come back from far, and would seek her as the bride of a warrior. I sent him to her home, and he trod the forest paths as the sunshine sweeps from wave-crest to wave-crest in the brook that hurries on, leaving the sound of peace in its murmurs. So out of the years they met, as the breeze so sweet from over the wild-flowers and trees of the valley, and the wind that carried strength from the sides of the mountain.

"Can you marvel that they call me the great medicine man among the tribes? Thou art a great brother. Thy fire-water is good. The white men honor thee. Thou keepest the sod that is wet with tears from being turned over. They call thee the very great man of thy tribe." I will not tell you all that he said of me. Let others learn that of him, and speak of it. Then he said, – "Brother tell thou me more of thy wonderful powers. I will teach thee how to mingle the cup for the sleep of many years." "So he told me," said the doctor, "how to compound the mixture. And the secret no one shall hear from my lips. If you will, I will put you to sleep for as long a time as you can desire. Put your money out at interest. Go to sleep until all you have has been doubled. Then let me wake you, and you can enjoy it."

This desire to put a fellow-creature into this sleep took possession of the doctor, and it was his dream by day and night, when he was tipsy, or half ready to become so. He tried to persuade a good-natured negro, Jack, who lived near his premises, to indulge in the luxury. But Jack assured him that he was as much obliged to him as if he had done it.

At last he formed his plan, and attempted to carry it into execution. There was Job Jones, who lived, nobody knew how, and nobody cared whether he lived or not. When he could gain a few coppers, he was a great and independent statesman at the tavern. And when he had no pence, he walked along in the sun as if he had no business in its light, and with a cast-down look as if he thanked the world for not drowning him, like supernumerary kittens.

So one evening the doctor easily enticed Job to his office. Then he partook of whisky until he lost all sense of all that occurred around him. The poor fellow soon fell asleep. The great experimenter dragged him to a box prepared for him in the cellar. Then he poured down his throat the final draught, and covered him with great boughs of cedar. He then ascended to his office. His first thought was that of triumph. "There," he said, "was that shallow Doctor Pinch, the practitioner at the next village, who had called him an ignoramus, and said that he was not fit to be the family physician of a rabbit. He had written the account of the boy who had fallen down and indented his skull, and that some of his brains had to be removed, – all done so skilfully by Doctor Pinch, that he was ever after, a brighter fellow than ever before. His mother always boasted of the manner in which the doctor had 'japanned' his skull. But what will he be when I wake up Job? Sleep away, Job! You will have for years to come, the easiest life of any man in these United States. No want of shoes, or clothes, or whisky. When you wake you shall have a new suit, after the fashion of that coming time. Doctor Pinch! Pooh! what is Doctor Pinch to Doctor Benson?"

After a little while a cry of murder rang through his half intoxicated brain. A great chill crept over his frame. The night became horrible in its stillness.

He must try the old resource. It never failed, whisky must restore the energy. He took up the glass from the table. It fell from his hands as if he was paralyzed.

He had made a fearful mistake. The cup of whisky which he had poured out for himself was the last drink which he had ministered to Job. He had taken the sleeping draught by mistake.

When they came, he thought and found him so still, so senseless, and that for days he never moved, would they not bury him! Then he might smother in the grave! Or waking some twenty years hence, he would wake in some tomb, some vile epitaph over him, written by that Pinch, and call for aid, and die, and die.

He saw himself in his coffin. The neighbors were all around him. The clergyman was ready to draw an awful moral against intemperance from his history. He was about to assure his hearers that no one could doubt what had become of such a man in another world.

His brain became more and more confused. He sank on the floor senseless. So Job slumbered in the box, and the doctor on the floor of the office.

Twenty years have elapsed. Dr. Benson wakes. It is a clear morning. How has the world changed! There, out of his window he sees the village. That row of neat dwellings is his property. He has a pleasant home to wake in. His wife is the very personification of happiness and prosperity. The clothes in which he arrays himself are a strange contrast to the miserable habiliments in which he fell down to sleep on the office floor twenty years ago. There is the spire of the church – and thank God, he loves to enter there as a sincere and humble worshipper.

What a change in this lapse of years! What an awakening! How is the world altered!

If the doctor's voice reached the ear of the intemperate man, he said, "Friend, better the fang of the rattlesnake than your cup. The bands that you think to be threads, are iron bands that are clasping you not only for your grave, but forever. Awake! and see if the good Lord will not give you a world changed, as the world has thus been to Dr. Benson."

II.

THE GHOST AT FORD INN – NESHAMONY

PART FIRSTThere, where the time-worn bridge at School House Run,Spans o'er the stream unquiet as our lives,You find a place where few will pause at night;Where the foot-fall is quick, and all press onAs if a winter's blast had touched the frame,And men drew to themselves. Oft there is seen,So men aver, the quiet gliding ghost.Descend yon hill, near woods so desolate,With upward gloom, and tangled undergrowths,And shadows mouldering in the brightest day.Near is the Indian spring's unmurmuring flow.The summit now is gladdened by the Church.You leave all village sounds, and are alone,On grass-worn paths your feet emit no sound.The thick damp air is full of dreary rest,And stillness there spreads out like the great night.Upon the left, hidden by aged oaks,Is a small cedar grove; where broken windsAre organ-like with requiem o'er some graves.A low stone wall, and never-opened gateProtect the marble records of the dead.To stand at sunny noon, or starry nightUpon the arch, where you can yield the soul,Captive to nature's impress, power with peace,Is stillness from afar. The solitudeSeems linked with some far distant, distant spaceIn the broad universe, where worlds are not.Unrest with rest is there. We often callThat peace, where thoughts are deep, but where the soulMoves as the great, great sea, in mighty waves.Here memories for tears, forgotten thoughtsCome without seeking. Just as the winds of MayBring with unlaboring wings, from unknown fields,Sweet scents from flowers, and from the early grass.The fearful man, who left the village store,Near to the cross roads, where the untutored tongueSupplies the gossip of the printed sheet,Has here beheld the mist-like, awful ghost.The rustic lover under midnight stars,Detained so long by Phebe's sorceries,His little speech taking so long to say,Has had his faith sore tried, as he has asked,Will I, next week, pass here alone, again?Far the most haunted spot lies yet beyond,Follow the road until you reach the Ford,There at the mouldering pile of wall and logs,Where once the floating raft was as a bridge,A pure white spirit oftentimes is seen.She sometimes wanders all along the shore;Sometimes from off the rocks, she seems to lookFor something in the waters. Then againWhere the trees arch the road that skirts the bank,And night is like the darkness of a cave,This gentle spirit glides. Earth's sorrow yet,Its burden, weary burden, borne alone.Sad is the story of her earthly life.You see that lonely house upon the green,With its broad porch beneath that sycamore.'Tis now a pleasant undisturbed abode.There lingereth much of ancient time within:Long may it cling there in these days of change!Quaint are the rooms, irregular. The bright fireGlows from the corner fire-place. Often thereI sit, and marvel o'er the shadowy past.It is a place of welcome. Loving heartsExtend the welcome. Angels welcome thus.Dear sisters, reading there the purest page,Planning some act of gentleness to wo,The selfishness of solitary life,Not finding place amid your daily thoughts,For you commune with that activityOf love most infinite, that once came downFrom the far Heaven, to human form on earth.The music of the true, the harmonyOf highest thoughts, that have enthroned as kingsThe best in heart, and head of all our race,Have their great kindred echoes as you read.O as your prayers ascend, pray oft for me,And then I shall not lose the name of friend.The golden link that bindeth heart to heartForever, is the Love and prayer in Christ.Since the Great Being gives me love at home,The Diamond payment for my worth of dust,Gives me that bright and daily light of earth,I'm bold, and covetous of Christian love.This house, in ancient days a wayside inn,Has sheltered men of mark. Here WashingtonRested his weary head without despair,Before the sinking tide rose with bright wavesAt Trenton, and the spot where Mercer fell.Here youthful La Fayette was also seen,Whose smile, benign in age, was joy to me,As my loved Father, at our fire-side spakeTo him, as the true Patriot speaks to thoseWho win a nation's homage by their toils.Here even now, on an age-colored pane,The letters, diamond-cut, show Hancock's name.The war had found the host of the Ford InnA happy man; no idler round a bar;For his chief calling was upon his farm,With rich fields open to the sun, amidThe dense surrounding forests, where the deerStill lingered by the homes of laboring men.He bore arms for his country. And he heardThe last guns fired at Yorktown for the free.One little daughter played around his hearth;Oft tracked his steps far in the furrowed field;Looked up with guileless eye in his true face.After each absence short, her merry shoutOf greeting at his coming, rose as sureAs sounds from those dark cedars on the shore,When the winds rise and break their mirror there.Oh happy child! She also learned the loveThat places underneath her the strong armsOf Him who held the children when on earth,Journeying along his pathway to the cross.She opened all her gentle Heaven-touched heartTo all the unknown teachings of her home.The wild-flower's beauty passed into her thoughts,And as she gazed, and saw in earth and sky,In every form the love of God stream forth,She knew of beauty that could never fade.For He, from whom these emanations came,Will never cease to be a God revealed.Happy the child, for her fond parents bothHad souls to kindle with her sympathies.They learned anew with her the blessed love,Which makes the pure like children all their days.With her pure mind repassed the former way,Their age and youth blended at once in her.There was a small church in the little townOf Bristol, some miles distant, over whichA loving pastor ruled with watchful care.He came from England, – and but few had knownThat he was bishop, of that secret lineWhich Ken, and other loyalists prolonged,Prepared for any changes in the realm.The good man loved his people at the ford.The child's expanding mind had ample sealsOf his kind guidance. From his store of booksHe culled the treasures for her thoughtful eye.Another memorable influence,To add refining grace, came from the town.One, whose sweet beauty threw a woman's charmOver a household, seeking health in air,That rustles forest leaves, that sweeps the fields,Came to their home, and was not useless there.She threw round Ellen, in resplendent light,What Ellen knew before, in fainter day.The lady was so true in all her grace,Such open nature, that the child, all heart,Could think, could love, could be as one with her.How sad, that the refinement of the world,Should often be the cost of all that's true!From the volcano's side the dreadful stream,That buried the great city, pressed its way,To every room of refuge. Prison ne'erGave bondage like those dark and awful homes.Around each form came the encrusting clay:Death at the moment. Dying ne'er so still.In passing ages all the form was gone:The dark clay held the shapes of what had been,And when the beauteous city was exhumed,Into those hollows, moulds of former life,They poured the plaster, and regained the form,Of men, or women, as they were at death.So all that lives in nature, in the heart,Is often, living, buried by the world,By its dead stream. Dust only can remain.And in its place the statue – outward allThe form of beauty – the pretense of soul.How the child basked in all her loveliness!Unconscious, she was moulded day by day,Sweet buds that in her heart strove to unfold,Had waited for that sun. And Ellen sawHer mother in changed aspect. The soft charmsOf her new friend, revealed at once in her,More of the woman's natural tenderness.The gentle child, had not a single loveFor all the varied scenes of bank and stream —And these to her were almost all the earth,But as each glory centered round her home.If the descending sun threw down the lightTinged with the mellow hues of autumn leaves,Upon the waters till they shone as gold,And yet diminished not the million flamesThat burnt upon the trees, all unconsumed,It was to her a joy. But deeper joyCame with the thought, that all her eye surveyed,Was but a repetition of the scene,When her fond mother, at some former day,Had by her side blessed God for these his works.And all the softest murmurs of the airRecalled her father's step, and his true voice.Thus home entwined itself with every thought,As that great vine with all that wide-branched oak.PART SECONDAnd in this quiet scene, the child grew up,To know not inequalities of lot,Of any rank dissevering man from man.Once from the splendid coach, the city dameAnd her young daughter entered the Ford Inn.As Ellen gazed upon the little oneWhose eye recalled the dove, and then the gleamThat morning threw upon her much loved waves,And on the tresses, like the chesnut fringeIn full luxuriance, she came forth and stoodWith such a guileless, and admiring love,That tenderness was won. And then they strolledO'er Ellen's favorite haunts. She asked the child,Have you such waters, and such trees besideYour home far off? The little languid eyeGazed vacantly on all the beauty there,And then, as one who had not heard the words,And least of all could give forth a responseTo nature's loving call, even as it passedTo her, through Ellen's eyes, and Ellen's voice,And from her kindled soul, – she turned again,Absorbed in the small wagon which they drew,And to the stones they skimmed upon the stream.Just for a brief space, down there seemed to fallA veil between the two – a veil like night.All Ellen's greater, deeper swell of tidesOf soul, forever dashing on the cliffsOn which mind's ocean-great forever beatTheir swell of thunder, here could find no heightThat could reverberate. And yet her heartWas all too noble, high, serenely pure,Too Christ-taught ever thus to stand apart.The tender gentleness, the laughing eye,The soul responsive to the moment's joy,The power to love, the softening sympathyWith every bird or squirrel that appeared,Or rabbit, scarce afraid, with wondering eye,The love of parents, her sweet talk of friends,And above all, a heart to beat so trueTo all that One in heaven had said to her,Were most alluring powers. Ellen forgotWherein they differed: And their souls then chimedAs sounds of bells, blended in summer's wind.So, as if sunbeams faltering on the bank,The cloud departing, creep o'er all the green,Her brightening interest rested on the child.And when they parted at the bridge of logs,Though the child's dress was gorgeous, and the pompOf city livery from the chariot shone,While the soft tear was in our Ellen's eye,There still dwelt all unknown in her sweet mind,All free from pride, the deep inspiring wish,That she could raise this merry-hearted oneAbove herself: and then there came the thought,Unconscious, causing sorrows – higher aims —That the one gone was poor, and she was rich.There was a loneliness, and so she soughtHer mother; whose companionship was peace:Who ever won her to her wonted rest.There is a poetry in many heartsWhich only blends with thought through tenderness:It never comes as light within the mindCreating forms of beauty for itself.It has an eye, and ear for all the worldCan have of beauty. You will see it bendOver the cradle, sorrow o'er the grave.It knows of every human tie below,The vast significance. Unto its GodIt renders homage, giving incense cloudsTo waft its adorations. By the cross,It hears the voice, "How holy all is here!"It speaks deep mysteries, and yet the clueIs most apparent to the common mind.Its sayings fall like ancient memories;We so accept them. Natures such as theseAre often common-place, until the heartIs touched, and then the tones from gates of heaven.Such are the blessed to brighten human life —To give a glory to our earth-born thoughts —To teach us how to act our deeds as kings,Which we might else perform as weary slaves.They give us wings, not sandals, for the roadFull of dry dust. And such the mother was.So as we tell you of the child, there needsNo voice to say, and such the woman was.One day she sought her father in the field,Just before sunset, ready for his home.And as they reached the rocks along the shore,Where the road turns, to meet the deep ravine,Nigh unto Farley, a faint cry for helpRang in their ears. It was a manly voiceGrieving through pain. They turned aside, and foundA stranger, who had fallen, as he leaptFrom out his boat. His fallen gun and dressProclaimed the sportsman. Aid was soon at hand,And in their dwelling he found friends, and care.Days past. His mother came, and soon she foundHe spake to Ellen, Ellen unto him;As they spake not to others. And it seemed,Such a perpetual reference in his talk,As if he had not now a single thought,Which had not been compared with thought of hers.At first her pride was moved. And while she stoodIrresolute, the spell was fixed: as whenThe power of spring thaws winter to itself.She knew her son was worthy: and she knewHere, in the wide-world must he seek a wife.And in due time she was his fair-haired wife.They had a rural home across the stream.Their lights at night answered the cheerful lightOf her paternal home. Their winter's firesMingled their gleam upon the dark night wave,Or on the ice. By summer's winds her voiceWas wafted o'er the waters, as she sang:And loving hearers blessed her in their hearts.Oh! what a joy, when in her arms they placedHer son – ah doomed to be her only born!Her cup of happiness seemed now so full.And then the Father, knowing all to come,Gave her more grace, and so she loved him more,And had no Idol. But, as days rolled onSuch sorrow came, I scarce can tell the tale.She saw her husband's manly strength all gone.There was a withering tree, in the spring time,Which on the lawn, seemed struggling to assumeThe Autumn's hues amid the world's full green.He faintly smiled, and said, "So do I fade."Soon it was dead. He lingered slowly on.Hopes came: hopes faded. From the early world'Tis the same story. It was well for her,In this her sorrow, she had learned to weepIn days of bliss, as she had read the pageWhich tells of Jesus bearing his own cross.His mother came, but Ellen was repelledBy the stern brow of one who met the shockAnd would not quail. That hard and iron willWas so unlike her firmness. She was oneWho had ruled abjects. Sorrow seemed a wrong.The parting time drew near. And then as oneWho asked as one gives law. "This little boyShould dwell with me. Thereby shall he attainAll discipline to form the noble man.Even as I made his Father what he was,So will I now, again, care for the child.Let him with me. And he shall often comeAnd visit you. This surely will be wise."We need not say that Ellen too was firm.A mother's love! In all the world a power,To educate as this! Could any wealthOf other learning recompense this loss!Would this stern woman ripen in his heartFruits, that angelic eyes beheld with joy?"When the boy grew, at times she'd gladly sendWith thanks, the child to all this proffered care."But now – to send him now! Why at the thoughtA darkness gathered over all the world.From all things came a voice, "All, all alone,The husband is not – the child far away."There was strange meaning in the angry eye;A strange defiance, and an unknown threat,Enmity and a triumph. As if a triumph gained.A nation crushed, her husband's mother looked,No flush was on her face – her voice the same.Coldly she said, farewell. And Ellen heldThe child with firmer grasp, when she was gone.Then she had sorrow that they thus should part;For she felt all the reverence death made due,And also mourned rejection of her love.As the child slept one night, watched by his nurse,She crossed the river on the bridge of logs,To reach her parents. Under the bright starsThe Neshamony, and its hurried waves,Rising and falling all around her path.No peace in all the Heavens that she could seeWas like her peace. "I suffer here," she said,"But suffering, I shall learn more love for all."She had returned. Her footsteps died away,Her parents stood yet in the open air,Where they had parted with her for the night.Then o'er the stream there came an awful cry.It was her cry. Oh agony to hear!It stilled all sounds besides. It seemed to makeThe wide-arched Heavens one call to echo it.Parents and others rushed there with affright,In breathless terror. Nurse and child were gone.Each wood around, and every forest roadGleamed all the night with torches. But no cheerRose to proclaim a trace of faintest hope.One traveler said, that on a distant roadHe met a carriage, hurrying with strange speed,And heard, in passing, cries of a young child.In vain they follow. Hopeless they return.Oh wondrous, the ingenious plan devisedBy that poor mother to regain her child!Her parents tried, as if for life and deathTo give her aid: and saw that she must die:For patience such as hers was all too grandTo linger long on earth. She day by dayTrod her old haunts. But never did she seeThe Heaven, or beauteous world. Her pallid lipsMoved with perpetual prayer. And when she leanedOn those who loved her, the storm-tossed at rest,She was as quiet as in days, when sheWas but an infant. When they spoke of hopeShe smiled. It was a smile of love, not hope.It was indeed simplicity to one,Just on the threshold where His people pass,And where, forever, they have more than hope.All saw that she attained a mystic life,That was not of the earth. What might she hadTo love the sorrowing! By the dying bedShe seemed as if she had not known a pang,Her voice so peaceful. Little children roundGazed sorrowful: and in their confused thoughtDeemed that the anguish of her little childWeeping its mother, was her dying pain;And thought how desolate fond hearts would beIf they were gone, as was her little one.One sweet Lord's Day she knelt down at the rail,In her loved Church, and had forgot all grief,Receiving there the hallowed Bread and Wine,And the one shadowed forth had strengthened her,So that she fed on food come down from Heaven.The others moved. But she was in her place.The Pastor came, and found that she was dead.Oh how the tears of Christians fell that day!Oh how they thanked God for her good release!And so she went to her eternal rest.But men, unreasoning, said they saw her form,Oft in the night, along the river shore —Oft at the Ford, which now is crossed no more.And men will say, in firmness of belief,That when the Inn was closed, and no man dweltIn its forsaken walls, a light was seenIn Ellen's room. And then they also say,That pure while flowers which never grew before,Now come with Spring, where her bright spirit walks.My children say, that if you hear the owlAlong her pathway, you may hasten onSure that her spirit will not meet you there.But should you hear a bird of plaintive song,Break the night's stillness, then go far aroundBy field and wood – for you may see her formAlong the shore she gladdened with her life —A shore of many sorrows at the last.