UNIVERSITY o CALIFORNIA SAN DIE60 ?s A MEMORIAL. Br HIS FATHER. CAMBRIDGE: PRINTED AT THE RIVERSIDE PRESS. 1*67. Entered according to Act of Congress, lu She year 18G3, BY C. THURBER, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York RIVERSIDE. CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. 0. HOUQHTON. ZDeOicatcD TO MRS. CAROLINE ESTEY THURBER, THE MOTHER OF "OUR CHARLIE," BY HER AFFECTIONATE HUSBAND. PREFACE. THIS volume owes its origin to the death of my only beloved son CHARLES THURBER, Junior. He died August 5, 1861, at the age of five years and seven months. The frontispiece presents a faithful likeness of him. He was a boy of unusual promise and sweet ness of disposition. His biography is very brief, and I have tried that what I say of him shall not be mere panegyric and the creation of parental parti ality. I have given the title of " Our Charlie " to the book, that it might be a memorial of my boy, and because from him as from the seed the work ger- O minated. The death of children seems, primd facie, unnat ural. On mature reflection, it seems eminently natu ral. The analogy pervades all nature. In so far as the unnaturalness of death consists in taking the vi PREFA CE. living away in the progress of development and use fulness, it pervades all ages. We can find reasons more or less satisfactory why God should take away the living, but none that seem to serve as a law by which He acts. His sovereign will seems to be the only law. This ought to satisfy us. We may be sure that it is a perfectly wise, just, and benevolent rule of action. ' * r , " ; ' The stories in the first part of the book are all facts. Of most of them I have personal knowledge, many of them I have heard related by parties interested; some of them I have read in the papers, and one, " The Artist and his Ideals," is founded on an old story. I I have taken no liberties with the main facts, but have dressed them up in my own language and sup plied what seemed to be the natural links in the chain of events. I have gone to fact, rather than fiction, because, although truth may be illustrated as well and some times better by the latter than by the former, I think the afflicted find illustrations from the former far more impressive than from the latter. PREFA CE. vii In the latter part of the book will be found the reflections to which the sad event has directed my mind. I think they have been beneficial to me, and that I have found in them many sources of comfort and profit. Perhaps some of my readers may find their own hearts in sympathy with them and find comfort and profit also. The speculations, not to call them views, of spiritual things may not commend themselves to all my readers, but I cannot avoid thinking them somewhat natural and not wholly erroneous. The anecdotes and incidents of Charlie might have been placed by themselves, but I preferred to place them in the order in which they suggested themselves to my mind. The book is not published. It is printed for pri vate distribution. It is not for sale. It is not to take its place with the literature of the day. It is a memorial of my beloved son. It is to show others my sources of consolation in the midst of affliction. It is to be given to relatives and friends and such others as I may happen to know from time to time who have passed through the deep waters and may be supposed to be in sympathy with the subject. viii PREFACE. I should tremble to publish this volume. I do not tremble to put it into the hands of the afflicted. If, as an intellectual effort, it is rejected, as the outgush of a wounded heart, I am sure it will be respected. CHARLES THUKBER. Brooklyn, N. F., June, 1863. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. THE present edition of " Oar Charlie " is published by and for the Sabbath - school connected with the Pierrepont Street Baptist Church of Brooklyn, of which school my dear boy was a member. Whatever profits may accrue from its sale belong wholly and exclusively to the school. It will not be on general sale, but may be had on appli cation to T. T. Sheffield, Esq., of Brooklyn. It is not because I think the first edition a success in a literary point of view that it is succeeded by a second. Few commendations have been bestowed upon it except by the afflicted, many of whom have assured me that they have sympathized in its thoughts and have been profited and comforted by them. By far the greater number of those to whom I have given it, have never t ~ * intimated that it was acceptable to them even as a gift. The reader therefore can see that neither vanity nor ambition could have prompted me to consent to a second edition. x PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. The warm and hearty thanks of the afflicted who have read the book and assured me that it has been a source of comfort and profit to them, and the earnestly expressed wish of very many of this class of readers that I would publish a second edition, and a desire to contribute, if I could, to the pecuniary interest of the Sabbath-school, are the sole reasons why I have given my assent to its being published. I think I have found consolation in my sorrow in the thought that the blow was given me by a loving Father. Perhaps the thoughts and suggestions contained in these pages may aid the reader in obtaining like con solation. God help the mourner, and prevent His loving chas tisements from being sent in vain. C. T. BROOKLYN. N. T., 1867. CONTENTS. PART FIRST Do SPIRITS VISIT EARTH? 20 DEATH SELDOM COMES AT THE RIGHT TIME . . .21 . * . . . . . . THE YOUNG STUDENT 22 THE STATESM-AN AND CHRISTIAN . .-' . 25 THE WIDOW'S SON -..-..-. . . 28 THE ONLY SON.; -.'-' v" , V :!: ' : '' '''' 31 No STRANGER THAT THE YOUNG DIE THAN THE OLD 41 THE OLD SAGE . . . . :v /:;:-;- :'f; *'.:.% 41 THE AGED DIVINE .' '<.''"-'!' -.' 'i ' . . 43 GALLERY AT THE VATICAN . . . '.-.=.. :. 44 RESCUE OF THE IDIOT BOY . . . . . .46 THE MISSIONARY . . . . . . . . 48 THE YOUNG HERALD . . . . . . .53 THE HAPPY FAMILY . . . . 57 THE RICH AND POOR BOY . . .61 THE ARTIST AND HIS IDEAL . . 67 DEATH SELDOM COMES AT THE RIGHT TIME :--j'. : . 75 THE SAILOR . . . . . . . . . 76 THE INVENTOK . . . . . '.:'." v ''-' .' : . 82 THE RIGHT TIME TO DIE . : . ... 87 THE LITTLE MARTYR . . . . . . '.. I i : 89 X CONTENTS. PAGE THE Two BROTHERS 95 THE LITTLE GENIUS 101 THE ONLY SON 106 BENEFIT OF AFFLICTIONS 109 THE MERCHANT . . . . . . . .112 THE PASTOR 120 THE HAPPY FAMILY 132 THE ENGLISH FAMILY ..*.... 142 THE GENIAL CHRISTIAN 153 THE YOUNG PATRIOT . . ... . .157 PART SECOND 165 WHY SHOULD THE YOUNG DIE? 166 THE NEW SONG . . . 185 EACH NKW-BORN SPIRIT APPEARS AT THE RIGHT TIME 186 EACH HAS HIS MISSION EVEN IN HEAVEN' . . .188 HEAVEN'S REVEALINGS . 190 EACH FINDS ins PROPER PLACE IN HEAVEN . .192 Do THE SPIRITS OF THE DEPARTED ONES VISIT us HKRE? 194 HEAVEN . . . 199 WHY WAS HE TAKEN ? . . 205 How GOD AFFLICTS . 220 FAITH . . . 236 THE PAST 249 TKARS . . . 251 SABBATH-SCHOOL INCIDENT 254 INCIDENT . . . . .... . . 258 CHARLIE AT THE COMMUNION 260 CHARLIE AT ST. PETER'S 264 WHERE is HEAVEN? . 267 CONTENTS. xi PAGE STUDIES OF HEAVEN 272 Is IT A BLESSING TO HAVE HAD SUCH A BOY AND THEN LOST HIM ? 291 THE BLESSING . .292 FRUITS OF AFFLICTION . 296 Do SPIRITS VISIT us HERE ? 298 ALL MYSTERIES EXPLAINED IN HEAVEN . . . 305 STAY IN LONDON 310 PARIS 316 THE VOYAGE 319 THE RETURN 324 DOUBTS 329 THE PRAYER 336 WHAT is A SPIRIT? 337 How DOES A SPIRIT LOOK? 341 LlFE NEVER ENDS 344 THE CHRISTIAN'S PATMOS 346 THE PUKE IN HEART LIVE ON THE VERY CONFINES OF HEAVEN 348 UPON WHAT MISSIONS DO SPIRITS VISIT EARTH? AND HOW DO THEY DISCHARGE THEM ? 349 WORCESTER 354 DEATH .... 357 THE GRANDMOTHERS 363 OUR PHYSICIAN 367 THE VOLUNTEER WATCHER 370 THE FUNERAL 372 THE CONCLUSION . . . .375 OUR CHARLIE. PART FIRST. OUR CHARLIE. PART FIRST. TIT HERE is the home, where is the sweet retreat. Where some fond bosom has not ceased to beat ? Where their gay feasts are not less rich and rare, O .- Because the feasters see some vacant chair ? Where their fond bosoms do not feel a smart At the sad absence of a loving heart ? Such homes must be, if they are ever seen, Like angels' visits, few and far between. " All men must die " has never been denied Since Adam lived and the first martyr died ; Yet the word " mystery " drops from every tongue, Whene'er our loved ones droop and perish young ; And though earth's babes scarce entering on their years Fill more than half of earth's funereal biers, When fond affection is compelled to part With some sweet nursling idoled in its heart, It sits down sad with many a tear and sigh, And says, How strange our little ones should die ! 1 2 OUR CHARLIE. When Love bends o'er its little cherub boy, All lit with hope and brimming o'er with joy, And, breathless, watches every day and hour Each ne\v-born gush of loveliness and power, And daily sees, as fond Affection can, The first young kindlings of the coming man, And deems these proofs as plain as aught can give, That the dear idol of its heart will live ; And as these proofs before its fancy play, And each grows stronger each succeeding day, Though thousands fall as young and bright and fair, ' Tis manhood's signet has its impress there. But lo ! he droops, and Love, that could not save, Bends o'er and wets the little hero's grave, And shrieks aloud with sorrow's shrillest cry, Strange that a boy as sweet as ours should die. Strange that a bud that has the magic power, While yet a bud, to deck its native bower, Should, ere one petal shows us half its charms, Fade like a vision in Affection's arms, And full of perfume, waste its rosy breath In the damp, fetid charnel-house of death. Strange that a being of mysterious birth, Sent on its mission to this checkered earth, Whose fresh young spirit in its earliest spring OUR CHARLIE. Shows 'tis a godlike and mysterious thing, Before it plies its wondrous powers and arts, Except in sporting or enchanting hearts, Should, like a dew-drop 'neath a scorching sky, Melt and mount upward to its home on high. Some years ago, one cold December day, A little stranger came along our way, And, of all places on this good round earth, Be^o-ed for admission to our home and hearth, I9O And, quick as lightning through yon azure darts, We took him in and shrined him in our hearts. He was a stranger whom we'd never seen, But yet we gladly took the stranger in ; The mild blue eyes that shot their beams about, Showed the sweet spirit that was looking out ; The spacious head and high arched brow bespoke The dread machinery of a soul new woke. O ! day by day we watched with purest joy The young revealings of that little boy. Affection tender as an angel's filled His little heart and every other thrilled ; His gentle spirit, if it flashed, was brought Mild as a lamb's at one calm hint from thought; And though e'en prouder than a lord or earl, At being a boy instead of being a girl, Yet not the purest and most charming miss 4 OUR CHARLIE. E'er gave a sweeter or a heartier kiss. His manly manners, manly looks and airs, And business ways of aping man's aftairs ; His wise remarks, precocious thoughts and views, And reasonings often such as sages use ; All these things told us, with a prophet tongue, That so much promise could not perish young. O manly boy! yet tender, sweet, and mild, The hero almost, yet the trusting child; The little traveller gathering up the lore Of his own land and many a foreign shore ; The little linguist, who, without alloy, Could gibber French like any Gallic boy ; Who talked of Paris, Florence, London, Rome, Familiar almost as of home, sweet home ! And with his blocks made coliseums stand, And reared St. Peter's with his cunning hand ; And talked of strolls through London parks so green, Where rode the princes, princesses, and queen ; And how, in Paris, our pro tempore home, He went with Helen and his nurse to roam Through parks and gardens, the most charming ones, Brimful of children with their white -capped lonnes ; And how at Florence he was wont to rove That gay Cascine that a nymph might love, And thread the walks of Boboli's parterre, OUR CHARLIE. 5 Or Pitti Palace midst the wonders there ; And how at Rome, at old imperial Rome, He walked St. Peter's 'neath its lofty dome, Saw coliseums with their huge high walls, Old ruined temples, columns, arches, halls ; And where he oft drank gladness to the fill, 'Midst walks and flowers upon the Pincian Hill, Where the elite from earth's remotest bounds Walk in gay groups all o'er the fairy grounds ; And often saw, upon its flowery slope, The gaudy Cardinals and the poor old Pope ; And how, at Naples, roving day by day, He saw the beauties of that charming bay; Or walked Pompeii's ancient streets exhumed, Which twenty centuries almost had entombed ; Or saw Vesuvius, black with lava strown, Throw sulphurous smoke up from its swelling cone ; Or saw, when night wrapped all in gloom below, Her spacious sea of red hot lava glow. O blessed boy, who all these gems had shrined Within the memory for his opening mind : The little flowerets clipped by childhood's knife, To strew the pathway of his future life. O ! as we watched his first expanding thought, Out of the lore of rich experience wrought, 6 OUR CHARLIE. And saw his mind, far, far beyond his years, By his own skill forge almost man's ideas, And how his heart breathed sweeter every hour, As fields and gardens with each new-blown flower ! O ! then we thought, indeed we seemed to know, That Charlie had a mission here below ; And from the way that mission had begun, We fondly thought 'twould be no common one. When five short years, and seven fleet months beside, Had rolled away, the little fellow died ; Died, while the buds of intellectual power Were forming, swelling, opening, every hour ; Died, while his heart, e'en in a world like this, Was gathering honey for a feast of bliss ; Died when, poor boy, he daily seemed to give New proofs and promise he would surely live. Then we bent down above his little bier, And wet his grave with sorrow's gushing tear, And said, alas ! with many a tear and sigh, O ! 'tis a mystery such a boy should die ! When Spring steps forth, and with inspiring breath, Bursts the sere pall of Nature's wintry death, And herb and tree start gayly up, and fling Their sweetest offerings in the lap of Spring : OUR CHARLIE. 1 The leafless orchards with their naked brows First string their leaflets on their Gothic boughs, Then in the train gay Flora brings her gems, With lavish kindness for the countless steins, Go to that orchard clad in beauty now, And count the blossoms on the smallest bough. When Winter shaking all her clouds of snow In fleecy showers upon chill earth below, Though every flake should on the branches light, That fruit-tree could not be more gay and white. O ! one as well might rove by yonder sea, And count the sands as blossoms on that tree. But go when Autumn, with her yellow foot, Calls from that bloom the ruddy ripened fruit, One moment's eifort will suffice to show How many apples on the branches grow, And 'twill appear that most of all that bloom Went to the silence of an early tomb. But very few within that lovely bower Reached, in life's course, the manhood of a flower. How few the flowers of Flora's royal blood Have reared their offspring farther than the bud ! Though full of beauty, full of sweet perfume, They pass unopened to the fetid tomb. Or if they burst and throw their beauties out, And sweetly breathe upon the bowers about, 8 OUR CHARLIE. Earth, sea, and air, brimful of fiendish foes, Crush more than half with their unfriendly blows, And few there are, just like their masters, men, That reach a floweret's threescore years and ten. How grand the schemes ambitious mortals lay, And yet how poor the several parts they play ! Like earth's cathedrals, we can find scarce one, On which is carved the magic motto " Done." That " dream of beauty," decking Milan's street, Will reel and tumble ere 'tis quite complete ; And that huge pile, the magic of Cologne, Will fall, ere Art has laid the topmost stone ; And human progress, while in mid career, Will join the crash of this terraqueous sphere. The studious sage, charged high with learning's lore. And all inspired to go and gather more, Spares no expense, no labor, pains, or toil, And lights up research with the midnight oil. And when the spade, thrust in the cumbrous mould, Strikes on a vein of purest virgin gold, And but a few poor worthless spades-full more Must be removed to reach the virgin ore, ~ * The insatiate archer, with malicious thrust, Strikes down the sage to mix in vulgar- dust, The spade drops down, the chasm disappears, OUR CHARLIE. 9 Filled with the debris of succeeding years, And " labor lost " is chiselled on the stones That mark the pillow of his crumbling bones, And ages more must send the sage again, Who'll ope the chasm and work the virgin vein. Invention, looking with a prescient eye, Sees unformed magic all in embryo lie ; And though gaunt want stand frowning at the door, And toil and hardship hedge the way before, And lordly wealth, to princely fortune born, Points its gemmed finger with disdain and scorn, It toils and toils in \vant, neglect, and pain, Encouraged, thwarted, yet resolved again, Till just as it has bidden doubts " Good-night," And formed and grouped the magic agents right, And there is now but just one day between The imperfect model and complete machine, And earth's applause almost begins to start, And fill the inventor's long, long burdened heart, The load of ills, 'neath which he's staggered so, Deals its dark work and lays the victim low. He reels, he falls, and as he gasps and dies, With his last grasp unloosing from the prize, The wise, wise world declares it and believes, " How little, usaful, genius e'er achieves." 10 OUR CHARLIE. Some lucky wight who saw the victim reel, And the last blow that he designed to deal, Just strikes that blow, the magic to evoke, And genius' dream stands marshalled from the stroke. The chance-made genius, more than hero noAv, Wears the blight wreath meant for another's brow. In fortune's race, though all contend and run, O ! by how few the glittering prize is won ! Rags flaunt and flutter o'er the rolling globe, Ten thousand times to one e'en decent robe ; And if one, ever upon land or wave, Gained all he hoped and all he wished to have, He must have been, if not a mythic thing, Some richer rich man than the Lydian king. Hopes crushed in myriads perish at the root, To one bright hope that blossoms into fruit. In yonder wood, the scene of many a chase, Young saplings start up of surpassing grace. O ! when they've grown up high and broad as these, Those that come here will see unblemished trees, And this green wood, now shapeless and defaced, Will be a scene of faultless Gothic taste. Alas ! the world, when this old wood was young, The siren song that we are singing, sung ; The saplings then were like the saplings now, OUR CHARLIE. 11 Without a blemish in a limb or bough. But thousands, when but tender nurslings, died, As many maimed or ruined at their side ; And these old trees that now the forest deck- Are all that really have survived the wreck, And of all these that in this maze we see, Not one old veteran is a perfect tree, And tortuous shrubs in every tangled nook Give to the graceful many an ugly crook ; As a fair boy, sweet, lovely, beauteous, mild, Grows a rough man, unlovely, wicked, wild, So these young plants, symmetric as can be, Are dead or maimed, or such as these we see. There's nothing here that has the skill or power To make life certain for a single hour, Nor has the potence to detain one breath, That stands between it and the monster, death. Though toward success the wisest project speeds, It oftener stops or stumbles than succeeds ; And beauty's germs will, into being warmed, Oft die or grow up ugly and deformed. The matchless diamond in the womb of earth, Must pass along through centuries to its birth, Yet for each gem in all its charms arrayed, Unnumbered perish by the hoe and spade ; 12 OUR CHARLIE. And unknown thousands, to perfection brought, Lie in the earth unvalued and unsought. And, when earth dies, within her hills and moors, There'll sleep unnumbered unformed Koh-i-noors. Earth, meant to till, and be at length subdued, Will melt at last, half sterile, rough, and rude. 'Twas meant that skill should train our fruits and flowers, To rival those that grow in heavenly bowers ; Yet skill, when striving to her latest WOAV, Will ne'er plant gardens such as Heaven's below. Progress on earth, however swiftly driven, Will ne'er reach half way to the gates of heaven ; The prancing steeds that draw her chariot fret, And lose much time in many a gay curvet ; And although upward is their general bent, The path oft suffers an abrupt descent. Exhumed creations, daily brought to view, Show men have done what moderns cannot do ; And as in rocks, as plain as Saxon words, We read of known and unknown beasts and birds, So midst the debris of old time we sit, And see "lost arts" all o'er the rubbish writ. Invention never gives us something new, Till we've some mission for the thine; to do : OUR CHARLIE. 13 Want goes ahead, and wit behind it hies, And brings the rear up with its fresh supplies. In Eden's ground, a Fulton with his steam Had found its mission useless as a dream ; And all earth's navies, were they all afloat, Had been as useless as a schoolboy's boat, Had Galileo, with capacious soul, Ne'er made the needle show the unseen pole ; And the fierce Congos, with a hearty laugh, Would hail the approach of Morse's telegraph ; Though it were stretched around earth's broad do main, Till it should enter Congo's fields again, No friend would e'er send greeting to a friend. Nor merchant have one short dispatch to send. Hard, earnest labor is the price we pay For every inch of Progress' upward way ; Rest but an instant, and the cortege stops, Her horses falter, and the chariot drops, And not till man gives labor heart and brain, Will Progress ever rise aloft again. Peace reigns, and labor plies its merry blows, And Progress upward like an eagle goes ; War marches forward with an angry frown, Toil stops, and Progress drives its chariot down ; 14 OUR CHARLIE. War spends its wrath and labor works amain, And then the chariot mounts aloft again. Ah, casualties, too great to number, play In Progress' track, and block the upward way : Half of man's powers at every fresh attack Must lose much time in clearing off the track. Old Ocean is not, of all things below, The sole creation made to ebb and flow : Earth's history has, down from its earliest age, Mutation written upon every page. When man grows perfect, Progress will arise, And both together be in Paradise ; Because, when man has to perfection striven, That place must be, where'er it is, a heaven ; But as perfection ne'er existed here, Progress must stop e'en while in mid career. Each moral plant, though nurtured here in lovo, Will bear its blossoms and its fruits above ; We catch some glimpses oftentimes below Of charms to come when they shall ope and blow, And oft a foretaste of that fruit is given, That we shall eat if we e'er mount to heaven ; But the full harvest of the fruits and flowers Can ne'er, this side of Paradise, be ours. OUR CHARLIE. 15 Our olive plants, that in our homesteads grow, And make them almost Edens here below, Bear fruits enough to fill them full of love, But the ripe fruit grows nowhere but above. Earth's but the nursery from whose verdant grove The plants spring up to set in fields above, And life's the school where young immortals come, And train their hearts for their unending home ; And if prepared before ourselves to go, Could we detain them one short hour below ? God's plans are countless, yet they smoothly run, And twine themselves in one harmonious one, Forever twining, never wholly twined, 'Tis perfect only in the omniscient mind. The noblest life, the noblest ever spent, Is but a thread for that grand purpose meant. The hearty patriot sees the foeman stand, And threat destruction to his native land ; His swelling bosom full to bursting nigh, He girds his sword upon his manly thigh ; And while his spirit burning high inspires His gathering hosts with kindred hopes and fires, He leads them on with heart that will not quail, Amidst the screaming of the leaden hail. O ! God will shield him, God will spare the brave, 16 OUR CHARLIE. Nor let young hope go bleeding to the grave ! 'Tis but for freedom, but for human rights, For all that's sacred that the hero fights. On, warriors, on ; rush to the combat now, And victory's wreaths shall deck the victor's brow ; Raise high the standard, let the banners wave ; O ! rush to victory or the martyr's grave. The grave, O, yes, the gallant hero reels, And Lyon falls beneath his horse's heels, Falls while the banner to the breeze is flung, Falls while the war-shout lingers on his tongue. O ! how it made the patriot's life-blood chill, When martyred Warren fell on Bunker Hill ; And how each good heart throbbed the funeral knell, When Winthrop bled and gallant Baker fell ! And thousands, thousands in our country's fight, For Justice, Union, Liberty, and Right, Fall ere the prize for which they fight is won, Fall when their mission has but just begun, Fall while the Nation, looking at the brave, Feel they're the ones that Heaven has sent to save. A little being of mysterious birth, Pure as a dew-drop, comes to visit earth ; With eager haste, the little foundling's pressed, Among the down of fond Affection's breast, OUR CHARLIE. 17 And bonds of love too strong for aught to part Twine in an instant every throbbing heart. Ha ! manhood's stamped, not indistinct and dim, On every feature, lineament, and limb, And through those eyes that timid look about, The new-waked soul is slyly looking out, And with a power and majesty unseen, It sets in play the marvellous machine. At first mere play, and then the mimic strife, Made by mere fancy aping genuine life. In each new feat, new skill and potence lurk, The pleasant transit out of play to work. Ah, little one, God surely has for you Some lofty mission in this world to do ; He is too wise to send a sage below, And smite before he strikes one earnest blow, And far too good to crush a noble boy, Just entering o'er the threshold of employ. But Charlie dies ; the little hero falls ; The One that sent him to the earth recalls. Heaven has another ransomed one to bless, And home, our home, one little cherub less ; And that high mission to our Charlie given Is so divine, it must be done in heaven. Were man omniscient, seeing near and far, And found in Nature one discordant jar, 2 18 OUR CHARLIE. Well might he boldly, proudly, walk abroad, And play stern critic of the works of God. Till we can trace our little martyr's doom, Forever onward, e'en beyond the tomb, And find how much life's fleetness here below Affects the future of his weal or woe, 'Twere worse than folly, worse than impious even, To say, " 'Tis strange," of any act of Heaven. The very thought implies a lack of trust, And that we almost think kind Heaven unjust. If, like chastising, as the Hebrew sung, 'Tis God's " strange work," this cutting down our young, 'Tis passing strange, this self-same feature lurks In all God's actions and through all his works ; And either God is wicked and unwise, Or finite optics are our mortal eyes, And of all demons he would be the worst, Who dares to say the truthful is the first. O ! when promoted to the school above, Where the Great Teacher is the God of love, All seeming jars that sound so harshly here Will be all harmony in a ransomed ear ; All seeming wrong, illumed by heavenly light, OUR CHARLIE. 19 Will prove the essence of the true and right ; Our little ones, snatched from a mother's care In all their beauty, are more beauteous there, And, although severed to their new employ, Act loftier parts in that pure world of joy, And though they seem an injury to sustain, Death in life's morning brings a world of gain. Come, faith, pure envoy, to this world below, The heaven of rest to mortal eyes to show, O ! let the truth upon our hearts be graven, That our lost Charlie is at home in heaven ; That God knows well what moment would be best, To call his dear ones to be loved and blest. And though the tear will oft unbidden start, And sighs come bursting from the aching heart, Let us thank God that when our dear ones die, Relief comes gushing in a tear or sigh, And that life's path, though ending soon or late, Is long enough to reach the pearly gate, And sundered ties, though seeming formed in vain, Are sure hereafter to reknit again. & O ! Charlie, Charlie ! thy sweet image yet Lives in our hearts too vivid to forget, And ne'er will fade till life itself departs, And tliou, once more, art nestling in our hearts. 20 OUR ' CHARLIE. 'Tis sweet to think, dear, darling little boy, That thou'rt a cherub in that home of joy; Yet, midst that sweetness, shoot the pangs of woe, To think we're lingering without thee below; And then we bid the gushing tear-drops sleep, And end it all by sitting down to weep. Dear little boy ! when thou wast here below, Thy heart with sweetness used to overflow, And, like a rose, send its aroma round, To every heart within its magic ground ; And it must be, that, planted up above, Your spotless bosom must o'erflow with love. DO SPIRITS VISIT EARTH ? Do little spirits in your upper sphere, E'er come to earth and visit loved ones here? We've sometimes thought a little fairy thing Was hovering o'er us with its outspread wing, And while it poised on sparkling wings above, Dropped down some honey of o'erflowing love. Then we felt pure, and then we harbored not One impure feeling or unhallowed thought ; And had grim death at that sweet moment come, He had been welcome to our pleasant home. OUR CHARLIE. 21 Was Charlie there ? We've asked the question oft, And then our hearts in gladness rose aloft ; Earth then seemed nothing but the eyry given, Where spirits stop to plume their wings for heaven. O ! if pure spirits from heaven's realms depart, "Tis on some errand to the pure in heart ; They ne'er hold converse in the realms below, But with the pure or panting to be so. When Charlie lived, it made him doubly blest, To sit and nestle in a parent's breast ; He only knew those pillows were his own : He read that truth, and read that truth alone. God grant he loves them as he did before, Now that he reads them to the very core ; Then will his loss, that filled our souls with pain, Prove both our present and eternal gain, And we shall have some thrills of heavenly joy, From converse sometimes with our darling boy. DEATH SELDOM COMES AT THE RIGHT TIME. 'Tis very hard when, with a tearful eye, We have to stand and see our darlings die ; And harder yet to lay their little heads 22 OUR CHARLIE. 'Neath the green velvet of their mouldering beds ; But bitterest woe when we, home's threshold, cross, And in dread earnest feel the bitter loss ; The widowed heart, all smarting 'neath the rod, Can't feel the wisdom of an all-wise God, And half thinks somehow 'tis injustice done, Both to home's circle and its little one. Alas ! alas ! in every age and clime, Death comes but seldom at the proper time ; Too soon to meet the trembling victim's views, The monster comes with his unwelcome news. If it seem strange God takes away our young, Just as life's banner to the breeze is flung, Or when, perhaps, the little hero's blows Begin to play on Progress' stubborn foes, Just armed, equipped, and fitted for the strife Man always finds in the rough path of life ; If it seem strange, mysterious, or unjust, That dust so early should return to dust, The same three words with equal truth apply To all that die, and whensoe'er they die. THE YOUNG STUDENT. HE was a boy, I knew him well, whilom, A fair, young hope-bud in the bowers- of home ; OUR CHARLIE. 23 Among the group that filled the sweet parterre^ He was the sweetest of the blossoms there ; Mild as the blue of yonder cloudless sky, The soul looked laughing from his beaming eyo. Or if sometimes, beneath the auburn lash, The soul looked outward with an angry flash, The storm soon hushed, the rainbow spanned the plain, And the clear sky spread out its blue again. His mind, capacious, vigorous, clear, and strong, Saw truth and grasped it in the way along, With his keen wit shot folly as it flew, And caught at error where the rank weeds grew ; Then, with the game well basted and well done, He gave his friends a generous feast of fun; And all within his sphere of friendship found Felt happier far when Warren was around. At length, a youth, he hasted to explore The pure, rich fields of Greek and Roman lore, And pluck the fruits the goddess Learning yields, On the broad acres of her charming fields. At length, a student, he began to rove Within his honored Alma Mater's grove, And then, dear fellow, almost at the start, 24 OUR CHARLIE. The Saviour came, and touched his generous heart. His soul was full, his bosom leaped with love, And his glad spirit meekly looked above, And then we thought of nothing else to add, For all he wanted in the world he had; Then life seemed nothing with its witching scenes, Weighed as an end against it as a means, And all earth's luxuries were but pauper food, Compared with that which comes from doing good. O ! what high hopes were centred in that boy ! What buds of promise and what germs of joy ! All loved that met him, all admired that knew, And all felt sure he'd some good work to do, And all prophetic felt 'twas very plain, That so much promise was not given in vain. O ! how devout the scholar used to rove, In thought profound, his Alma Mater's grove ; And while he dug for Learning's classic ore, He went to Calvary for its holier lore, And mind and heart in sweetest harmony grew, And linked in beauty all he felt and knew, And truth and goodness lent the sword and shield To their young champion, soon to take the field. But lo ! he died, died like a new-lit star ; Died, while yet arming for the coming war; OUR CHARLIE. 25 Died, while hope's sun shone brightest in its sphere ; Died, while all thought he had a mission here ; Died, while encircled in the arms of love, Promoted to a higher school above. How strange ! love deemed it when the dear youth died ; Love prayed in faith, but found the prayer denied; Skill tried its best from Science' healing store, And friendship nursed, till it could do no more. He died, and all said, with a tear and sigh, How strange it seemed that such a youth should die ! THE STATESMAN AND CHRISTIAN. THERE was a boy, and God had cast his lot, Not in a prince's, but a peasant's cot ; Not wealth or honor greeted him at birth, But health and virtue, his ancestral worth ; The world showed splendors wheresoe'er he turned, With none for him untoiled for and unearned, And life, to wealth a scene of mirth and play, To him a rugged and an up-hill way; But, nothing daunted, the young tyro rose, And at the nigged dealt Herculean blows, And every effort in the hearty strife 26 OUR CHARLIE. Made the way smoother in the path of life, And the same blcws that made the rugged smooth, Brought up bright gems of virtue and of truth, And between blows made recreation even, The school to aid him on to truth and heaven. Grace, in life's morning, dropping from above, Filled his young bosom with a Saviour's love, And life, whatever fortune it might bring, Seemed from that hour a consecrated thing. He sought not honors, honors sought him now, And piled the garlands on his noble brow, And at length placed him, at his country's call, In Freedom's highest legislative hall. Then his State, panting for his skill and care, Called him and set him in her highest chair; Then uncorrupt, sound, honest, and discreet, Gave him at length a high judicial seat, Where innocence ne'er asked his aid in vain, And guilt, once there, ne'er wished to go again. And never, midst official toil and strife, Did he forget the ills and woes of life : Vice at his presence hid its hideous head, And Want's gaunt children looked to him for bread, And no sweet deed, howe'er unknown or dim, Appeared too humble or too small for him. Whatever act had potence to impart OUR CHARLIE. 27 One thrill of joy to sorrow's shivering heart ; Whatever deed had magic to implant One germ of plenty in the home of want; Whatever words, spoke kindly in the ear, Could vice rebuke or modest virtue cheer, Those acts and words he fitted to eacli case, And just adapted to the time and place. 'Twas on a mission to some sufferers near, He was that morn to aid, instruct, and cheer, He rose to go, and passing through the hall, Swept by a gun that rested 'gainst the wall ; It fell, exploded, and the good man stood In a red pool of his own precious blood. " 'Tis come," said he, w T hile all around were awed, " 'Tis come ; be still, and know that I am God ! " His country called, his Henry had obeyed, And led his hosts where her gay banners played, And at the moment when his father fell, Thought of sweet home, and fancied all was well. Love bent and whispered in the father's ear, Shall Henry come, to aid you and to cheer? Shall he come home, and at your bedside stand, To take the blessing and the parting hand ? Shall Henry come, to kneel once more beside So kind a father and so wise a guide ? 28 OUR CHARLIE. " No ! as I look, I see on either hand A. bleeding father and a bleeding land ; Let him not come, but to the rescue fly, His country needs him far, far more than I ; So like a soldier's is this death of mine, God may accept it, gallant boy, for thine ! " And thus he died, just as experience' lore Had filled his bosom full to running o'er, And head and heart knit with a well-earned fame, Backed by the magic of a spotless name, Made him that moment where he proudly stood, Most ripe for fame, most fit for doing good. The world looked on, and, with a tearful eye, Said, how mysterious such a man should die, While at each turn in common life are found Myriads who're only cumberers of the ground, Whom had God's thunders long ago destroyed, The world had been far better for the void ! THE WIDOWS SON. THERE was a boy, a widowed mother's son, Her sweet heart-blossom, 'twas her only one ; 'Neath Love's soft wing he felt a mother's care, And wished no Eden but the sweet one there. OUR CHARLIE. 29 'Twas no weak mother, with a doating pride, Had that young boy to counsel and to guide ; Her heart all chastened by Affliction's rod, And calmly leaning on the arm of God, She felt that boy was, in her bosom, given, To train for honor, usefulness, and heaven. What need of aid that Christian mother felt, The altar witnessed where she daily knelt ; What counsel asked she of her heavenly guide, Her closet witnessed no one else beside. Her prayers were heard, and counsel from above Came down to aid and consecrate her love ; And, while a boy, the Friend of childhood bent, And the pure spirit of adoption sent. O ! what a future seemed for him to ope To the fond heart and eager eye of hope ; His was a mind that seemed, in earliest youth, To feast itself upon the richest truth ; His was a heart where virtue's germ was set, And all the graces of the Christian met, And when at length he went away to rove, And thread the paths in Academus' grove, Each little learner with ambition fired, Looked up to him and wondered and admired, And the dear centre of the love and joy Of those young tyros was that youthful boy. O ! how they'd cluster round him in their sports, 30 OUR CHARLIE. Their mimic gatherings, and their mimic courts ! And the bright sky of that gay school was dim, Without the presence and the smiles of him. The green, high mountains that begirt his home, The rough-tilled fields o'er which he loved to roam, The babbling brooks that leaped adown the hill, The mimic lakes the brooklets came to fill, All had a charm so potent, 'twould entice The little rovers from the haunts of vice. A mimic lake, scooped by the hand of art, Lay in a grove encircled and apart ; Its glassy face, without a ripple, sprea'l, A crystal sheet above the pebbly bed, And oft attracted thither to the wave, The merry tyros used to come ;u d lave. The sky was clear, and Sol's solstitial r.iy Streamed down to earth and made a pleasant day ; The merry youth went out with nimble feet, Within the shadow of the green retreat, And with his comrades, with their heyday cheered, Plunged in the flood, and quickly disappeared; Ah ! disappeared,, for when their sports were done, Among the throng there was no widow's son. OUR CHARLIE. 31 On yonder couch behold him sleeping now, That boy of promise with the noble brow, That widow's son, brought up and trained with care, Wrapped in a sleep that knows no waking there. That mother see her mildly drawing nigh Calm as her lost one, with a tearless eye, Parts the bright locks upon his manly brow, And plants a kiss upon the mimic snow, And says, My son, gone, gone to thy reward ; Well, long ago, I gave thee to the Lord. Alas ! how strange, since death might take but one, His dreaded bolt should strike the widow's son ; Strange it should be at such a victim hurled, That it should wound the widow and the world. THE ONLY SON. THERE'S a fair city on New England's Thames, One of her sweetest architectural gems, Where stately mansions, filled with beauty, lift, And lovely dwellings, reared by toil and thrift, And where home-bliss, in like profusion, comes To stately mansions and to humble homes, And few, how few, of all her thousands dwell In want's chill cot or vice's gloomy cell, 32 OUR CHARLIE. And church and school impart their aid before The little traveller reaches manhood's door, And thus he enters on life's active field, Armed cap-a-pie with helmet, spear, and shield; Where spacious streets, smooth as Macadam's roads, Conduct the traveller to her grand abodes, And huge old trees, that form one Gothic arch, Make marching through them one triumphant march ; Where Nature's features all in harmony chime, The charming, fair, and rugged and sublime. The smooth Shetucket, that in beauty glides, And gayly mingles in the briny tides ; The foaming Yantic, whirling mill-wheels round, Then leaping cataracts seaward at a bound ; The Thames, where Commerce her white sails un furls, And joins Tier interests with the outer world's, These make that city on the river Thames One of the sweetest of New England's gems. Well, in that city, so like Eden decked, Two bosoms throb at sorrow's retrospect. Once their glad hearts, and their beloved boy's, Beat in a house full of domestic joys, So blent together, sorrow, in one breast, "Shot the same pang of anguish through the rest ; And thus that trio, as they daily roved OUR CHARLIE. 33 Along life's pathway, labored, lived, and loved. Where is the spot beneath yon spreading dome So much like heaven as a New England home ? Where fond affection knit with thrift and health, Though gold it bring not, brings enough of wealth, And crown and throne and glory's loftiest niche Might make more wealthy, not a whit more rich. O, yes, of bliss, the sweetest fruitage comes From plants well trained in our New England homes. They had one boy it was their only one An only child as well as only son. They loved that boy, yet 'twas their daily prayer To make no idol of their darling there ; They loved their Saviour with a love so true, They wished their son to love and serve him too. With them religion was a pleasant plant ; Who can be cheerful, if the Christian can't ? No sour, morose, or chilling look or air Was ever mingled with parental care ; By nature genial, God's redeeming grace, Ne'er swept the sunbeams from the merry face ; And so Religion, to that merry boy, Came robed in beauty, innocence, and joy, And seemed to him, e'en in a world like this, A thing of love, a synonyme of bliss ; And those fond parents saw with faith's clear eye, 3 34 OUR CHARLIE. That boy would be a Christian, by and by ; And, in old age, when earthly charms grew dim, They fondly hoped that they might lean on him. O ! if there was beneath yon azure dome One unspoiled Eden, 'twas that happy home ; They scarcely dreamed, or seemed to quite forget, That their small circle might be smaller yet, And laid their plans, as if their plans would stay Throughout life's changes to its closing day. 'Tis ever thus, till blessings take their flight, We very seldom look upon them right ; We toil for wealth and then so firmly clasp, We feel that nothing can unloose the grasp : We pant for honor with unslaking thirst, Grasp it, and see the empty bubble burst ; And though all things are fragile as the flowers, We think, alas ! 'twill not be so with ours ; And though earth's setting, every day, new stones Above the ashes of our little ones, Each parent thinks God will his darling save, To plant the stones above his adult grave. 'Twas winter now, and Nature slept below A funeral pall of chilly ice and snow ; The little rills that sumrner waked around, Were fettered firmly as a prisoner bound ; OUR CHARLIE. 35 The leafy trees and flowers, with balmy breath, Slept still as if within the embrace of death ; The Thames was screened with glittering crystal round, Which spread far onward toward the treacherous sound ; The frantic Yantic, down the rapids tossed, Ran to the Thames unfettered by the frost; The gay Shetucket, down its native pass, Moved 'neath a screen as smooth and clear as o-lass ; O And to his eye, who midst the scenery roams, All would seem gloom outside the genial homes. But hark ! the bells, and lo ! the merry sleigh, With merrier spirits, glides along the way, And round the streets the gay and joyous shout Shows plain as day that all the boys are out, And each, a radius of the merry scene, Flies toward Shetucket with its crystal screen ; And there was Herbert and his merry mates, All gliding gayly on their glittering skates ; Swift as an arrow shoots across the sky, The skaters dart, and seem almost to fly, Now in platoons, and moving side by side, They o'er the ice in graceful movements glide, Then, like a rocket bursting in the sky, They start, and off at different angles fly ; Forward or backward, on one foot or two, 36 OUR CHARLIE. Bent like a crescent or inverted U, They leap and fly, and lines and circles trace, And do it all with faultless ease and grace ; The laugh, the shout, flushed cheek, and flashing eye, Show health's the boon the merry skaters buy. O, yes ! there's pleasure, with no taint of vice, This flying, sailing, o'er the crystal ice ; And we exclaim, as we behold the joy, " O ! once again who would not be a boy ? " The brittle ice, it bends, it breaks, and lo ! The little urchins in the waters go, Then rise again, and many, in a trice, Seize hold, and gayly leap upon the ice ; But one, still in, clings to the ice's brink, Holds bravely on, resolving not to sink. Cheer up, my boy, hold on a little more, We'll bring thee succor, and 'twill all be o'er. Men from the city hasten at the cry ; Men from the cars, for they were passing by. The poor boy feels benumbed, and chilled with frost, 'Twill soon be over, and his grasp be lost, And cries, " Good-by, boys ; it is almost o'er ; Tell mother" What? Alas ! he said no more ; The blue waves oped, and on the pebbly bed, Death calmly pillowed little Herbert's- head. OUR CHARLIE. 37 Alas ! alas ! who will the tidings bear To that sweet home, and plant the anguish there ? Who'll tell the mother, who'll inform the sire, That one chair's vacant at their winter fire ? Who'll plant the dagger that till life departs Will ne'er cease rankling in their wounded hearts ? Can nothing come to modify the pain When the dear idols of our hearts are slain ? When the kind mother, at the sick one's bed, Spreads the down softly 'neath his weary head, Turns his tired frame, his couch to rearrange, To bring relief and comfort by the change, Lists every sigh, hears every little groan, And whispers comfort to the weary one, And when pain racks and sorrow overflows, Speaks some kind word to win him from his woes, And when she can do nothing more than this, Bends down above him and imprints a kiss, 'Tis sweet to think when all at length is past, She tried to aid him to the very last. But when the mother sees her darling boy Go out for sport all brimming o'er with joy, She feels e'en glad that where her boy resorts He joins his fellows in their manly sports, 38 OUR CHARLIE. And pride perhaps her little hero can Go out and in, self-guided like a man. No anxious cares or sad forebodings swell That mother's heart that all may not be well ; She never thinks, or deems the thought is vain, Her darling boy may not come home again, And waits as calm and undisturbed as though He'd only stepped within a room below. But the bell rings, and through the opening door The tidings come, her darling is no more ; And tramping feet just on the threshold bring Her poor dead boy, a cold and lifeless thing. Calm as a statue stands the mother there, The type of woe, the symbol of despair ; She cannot yet take in the tide of woe Poured in her bosom by the fiendish foe. The human heart has power to feel and bear Life's common ills, that meet us everywhere ; But when woe sends her deadliest and her worst, The stoutest cannot bear it all at first, And so kind nature gives the human heart Woe in instalments, when too keen the smart. And as the eye, first opening in the gloom, Expands ere seeing what is in the room, So the heart, staggering at a sudden blow, OUR CHARLIE. c9 Feels not at first the full, full tide of woe ; The little wavelets first the rush begin, Until at last the mighty flood comes in. Dead ? he's but sleeping, O ! how calm and still ! Ha ! ha ! that forehead, O ! how pale and chill ! Dead ? God of mercy, that my boy should die, And no one near him, no kind watcher by, Not even I, to bathe his aching head, To smooth his pillow and arrange his bed, To watch, and wait, and soothe, and aid, and cheer, And let him feel a tender mother near, And let him see, if the poor boy must die, The tear of sorrow from a mother's eye, And at the last, when all is done, do this : Embrace my boy and give the parting kiss. O ! then, methinks, I could have borne with joy The loss, though bitter, of my darling boy. " Tell mother" what? 'tis hard he could not tell. Perhaps, I love you, or perhaps, farewell ; Perhaps, I thank you for your love and care ; Perhaps, I hope, or, God forbid, despair. Whate'er it was, dear little fellow, I Shall know it all and hear it by and by. And thus that mother thinks it o'er and o'er, 40 OUR CHARLIE. And daily sees and feels it more and more, Until at length the full, the boundless whole Thrills every living fibre of the soul. Then will that sorrow be her daily care Till 'tis a burden she will love to bear ; And should you wipe it off from memory's leaf 'Twould be no solace, but a source of grief: The merchant long a crushing burden bears Till 'tis his life to battle with his cares ; Let him retire with fortune's highest prize, And ten to one he's wretched or he dies. Then let her weep, and let her ne'er forget, Nor cease to feel till life's last sun shall set ; 'Twill do her good to mourn her buried boy, 'Twill lighten sorrow and 'twill chasten joy ; And when death comes, faith will, with cloudless eye, See the lost boy, and make it sweet to die. When the grim Monster deals the deadly blow, And lays the victim in life's heyday low, When new ties daily fasten heart to heart, Without one dream that they may have to part, 'Tis then that parting seems a bitterer thing, And death's keen sting becomes a keener sting, And bleeding sorrow with full many a sigh Thinks 'tis so strange its little one should die. OUR CHARLIE. 41 NO STRANGER THAT THE YOUNG DIE THAN THE OLD. MOST of earth's graves are very little ones, And short the stories chiselled on the stones, And if 'tis strange when death inflicts the blow That lays the tender and the youthful low, Is it not strange when death's keen dart is sped, And useful age lies numbered with the dead ? THE OLD SAGE. I KNOW a sage, almost a century old, Whose name is with earth's noble names enrolled. At fourscore years, when life has fewer joys, His heart was young and buoyant as a boy's ; His mind, more full of life's and learning's lore, 1 o ' Was ne'er so vigorous and so strong before ; A heartier champion or a doughtier knight Ne'er toiled or fought for justice, truth, and right ; And eloquence O ! 'twas a feast to sit And list the outbursts of his polished wit. At seventy-five he saw, from all concealed, The spot where fortune had a golden field; And to the city, in whose curule chair He was oft called to sit and act as mayor, 42 OUR CHARLIE. Threw off the veil, showed where the treasures were, And begged her guardians get the gems for her; But they, more wise, chose rather to refuse, And said " fantastic " of the old man's views. Well, said the sage, helped by a hand divine, I'll take the field, and make the treasure mine. The field was his, and with the riches there, Within five years he was a millionnaire. Now had he died at the full age of men, At threescore years or threescore years and ten, No one had thought 'twould heaven's pure plan de range, Or called his death mysterious, wrong, or strange ; Yet that old man has, since that 'moment, won What very few through longest lives have done. If it seem strange life's morning sun should set While but just rising in the orient yet, And the young pilgrim find his race is run Before one act of .earnest work is done, 'Tis just as strange that death should strike the blow Before one does the whole he can below, And stranger yet one lingers on the shore, When so near nothing he can do no more, And perhaps strangest, God not always gives Power to act even while the creature lives. OUR CHARLIE. 43 THE AGED DIVINE. THERE is a man who has, a giant, stood Almost a century 'mong the wise and good, Who, to old age, with all the fire of youth, Was the wise teacher of the purest truth ; Men flocked to listen where his logic rung, And caught the accents dropping from his tongue ; His thoughts ne'er varied in their shape and hue, To stand in harmony with the current view ; He did his thinking, uttered what he thought, And acted always in the way he taught ; Who's still erect as when a buoyant youth Or stalwart man he hurled the bolts of truth, But whose mind now, once vigorous, keen, and clear, Too weak to grapple with a child's idea, And that fine form in which whilom was shrined The grand machinery of a noble mind, Seems like a casket of the purest gold Robbed of the jewels that it used to hold. Strange, the mind's powers should hasten to decay, And leave the body all in vigorous play ; Or body linger year by year behind, In disobedience to its master-mind. We think it strange that men so often should 44: OUR CHARLIE. Live till too helpless to do any good, But far more strange that millions can be found Who all through life are cumberers of the ground. It seems mysterious that the noblest here Oft drop while marching in their full career; But history's leaves are filled with marvels o'er, That untold thousands did not die before. Had the same ball that maimed an Arnold slain, Earth had not cursed him as a worse than Cain ; And had Burr died in boyhood's early bloom, One villain less had found an earthly tomb. GALLERY AT THE VATICAN. i WITHIN one gallery at imperial Rome, Where Art, long buried, finds at last a home, There is one bust that, as he's passing by, Is pretty sure to catch the traveller's eye ; Its plump, fair face, and gentle, modest mien, And genial air, so peaceful and serene, All furnish proof without the least alloy, 'Twas of a lovely and enchanting boy, One whom a mother might be proud to choose, And whom 'twould break her heart' of hearts to lose. OUR CHARLIE. 45 In that same gallery, farther on, is seen, A marble demon, both in form and mien ; The gross and vulgar in each feature twine, The fierce and cruel live in every line ; And then you feel no marvel in the ease, When you read Nero chiselled on the base. But turn again, and a few steps retrace, And gaze once more upon that cherub's face. O ! what a contrast, so surpassing fair, An angel here, a very demon there. Who is that cherub ? Look and read and know That vile name Nero's chiselled down below. Great Jove ! why was that little angel screened From thy red bolts to grow a heartless fiend ? The blackest wretch that ever cursed the Avorld Had never cursed it had the bolt been hurled ; And Rome's heart-tears in rivers would have run At the sad death of Agrippina's son, And the sad mother shed affection's tear While bending o'er her little Nero's bier. But the boy lived, the imperial purple wore, And Rome was deluged in her children's gore, Until her blood, that monster mother's, run, Pierced by the dagger of her fiendish son. Strange that God lets a little cherub grow Till 'tis a demon ripe for endless woe, 46 OUR CHARLIE. No less a marvel than to hurl the dart, And pierce a heart pure as our Charlie's heart. RESCUE OF THE IDIOT BOY. I KNEW a man, a good old country 'squire, An honest farmer and indulgent sire ; Among his children patriarch-like he moved, And all the circle felt the old man loved, And 'mongst them all it was their chief employ To care for one, his little idiot boy. The father felt that, with a mind so dim, That helpless boy must go for aid to him ; And so he watched him when unwell and well, And guessed the wants he had no power to tell, And so unbroken was the vigil kept, 'Twas on his heart both when lie waked and slept, Until so yearning for his poor weak son, Himself and boy became entirely one : The woe or joy that thrilled his throbbing breast Made the fond father's as unblest or blest, And as he walked along life's rugged road, Care pressed upon him with a double load ; Yet the same blow that should, alas ! destroy One half his cares, would crush one half his joy. OUR CHARLIE. 47 One summer day, with heat and toil oppressed, He laid him down as was his wont to rest, And, as he slept, his thoughts from habit run, Without volition, on his helpless son. He thought he saw him where he'd often seen, Roving around and straying o'er the green ; And then he saw him at the river's brink, Then plunging in, then struggling not to sink. The old man waked, and, with excitement wild, Rushed just in time to save his idiot child ; His heart was full, and the glad father wept For joy, that God had watched him while he slept. Then the world said, O ! strangest of events ! Untoward chance, mysterious Providence ! Thus to detain a guiltless idiot boy, Where there's for him not one sweet thrill of joy ; A deathless spirit to detain below, And where it never could expand and grow, And where its wants ne'er drink of plenty's bowl, Save through the medium of another's soul. And though that sire would feel full many a pain, He ne'er should see nor aid that boy again, Reason and time would heal the fleeting smart, And bring relief to his o'erburdened heart ; And wisdom almost would have sought in vain The slightest cause to sorrow or complain, 48 OUR CHARLIE. But could have found unnumbered reasons why A drivelling idiot, lingering here, should die. THE MISSIONARY. THE last command the Man of Sorrows gave Was, preach my gospel where there's one to save ; Let the glad tidings that I bring be rung In every land, by every tribe and tongue ; Let the good news be told in eveiy ear, Where there's a sinner in the world to hear: Do this, and I, your Lord and God, will bless And crown your labors with complete success. The time will come, you'll reap the full reward When all the nations know and fear the Lord, When peace shall reign, and concord knit all lands, Love fill all hearts, and friendship join all hands, Earth's dreary deserts shall be filled with flowers. And white-robed virtue rove among the bowers. glorious thought ! the earnest Christian said, Be mine the bliss the glorious news to spread. 1 have a treasure shrined within my heart, Which grows more precious as I spare a part; A treasure which, as long as I shall live, The more I give will leave me more to give ; A heavenly treasure, dropped in kindness, which OUR CHARLIE. 49 Will make the giver and receiver rich, And which if spread will lift a world like this Up to the realms of pure and fadeless bliss. Where is the Christian that would hide the prize, AVitli this great truth all blazoned to his eyes ? Go preach my gospel wheresoe'er there's one Whom sin has stained, or guilt or crime undone : This great command for twenty centuries near Has rolled its thunders into every ear, And all men heard, where'er the summons went, But few, how few, felt what the summons meant ! But now its import flashed on every one, Clear as the lightnings through mid-ether run, And one by one the Christian bosom felt, And one by one began to warm and melt, And one by one, as each began to see, Cried out in triumph, " Here am I ; send me." And many came, and many a one was sent, And many a soldier to the combat went ; Home, friends, possessions, comforts, country, all, Compared with this, appeared surpassing small, And hardship, suffering, pain, and death, to meet, Seemed in the pathway of obedience sweet. Then with the prayers and fond adieus of all, He went, obedient to his Master's call, Left home and friends, and social charms and joys, 4 50 OUR CHARLIE. And sweet refinements, pleasures, and employs, And 'neath the banner of the cross unfurled, Pluno-ed in the midnight of a heathen world. C* " Not the gay steamer, that in calm or blow Can through the waves with equal fleetness go, Bears the poor herald toward an eastern sky, Where he must go, to toil, and droop, and die ; Not the gay steamer, 'tis the snail-paced ship, Where he embarks, in which he takes the trip. Wealth has its gold, to purchase at its worth The costly luxury of a steamer's berth, But the poor herald of the cross must be, For weary months, a sufferer on the sea, And worn and weary, when he comes to land, No friend will smile and give the welcome hand, No well known face he'll see on that dark shore, Nor one fair object he e'er saw before. The trip was o'er, the white-winged ship, that day, Rode out at anchor in that Eastern bay, And the young herald, leaping on the strand, Knelt and thanked God he saw the promised land. A boat, a boat, behold the yellow rowers ! They're in the boat, already at the oars. Aboard, aboard, and now they turn tne prow, OUR CHARLIE. 51 And row the herald up the river now. For days and nights before the boat will reach The lonely jungle, where he's sent to preach. How strange the scene ! the river, wood$ and skies, All, all seem strangers to his youthful eyes ; And home, sweet home, with all its loves and joys. Its social pleasures and its sweet employs, Loved forms and faces graven on his heart, On memory's canvas every moment start. Life, all of life, by mind and heart amassed, Sleep in the graveyard of the buried past ; Friends, home, and country, all he'd loved before, These all are objects he shall see no more ; And had his Master not beside him stood, And fed his spirit with angelic food, The lonely youth had sought the gallant ship, And taken passage for a homeward trip ; But his kind Master still was hovering near, And whispered comfort in the herald's ear. And then he prayed, O Thou who bad'st me come To this dark land that I must call my home, Keep at my side, my close companion be, I have no friend to Avhom to go but Thee ; Help, for I'm powerless, help, for I am dumb, To speak the errand upon which I come ; Bi^t at Thy side, whatever may befall, 52 OUR CHARLIE. I'll toil for Thee, my God, my friend, my all. He rose refreshed, and, brimming o'er with love, Cried, " Toil is here, but rest and bliss above ; This is my home, and 'neath my Master's eye I'll toil and suffer, and, if need be, die." The day was bi'ight, the sky was blue and clear, Beauty the eye, and music charmed the ear ; And, as they rowed him up the sacred stream, Life seemed a mystery, earth appeared a dream ; And then he cried, glad-hearted that he'd come, I thank Thee, Father, that I'm almost home. But as he spoke God's tempest, fierce and strong, Brought desolation in its path along, Pagodas fell beneath its vengeful wrath, And Indian homes lay scattered in its path, And trees, like pipe-stems, shattered at a blow, Flew through the air like arrows from a bow, And, like a demon, made the bark a wreck, With a dead herald lying on the deck. Ah ! stranger things, it may not be denied, Full oft occur than that our Charlie died ; And the world said, while pointing to his bier, God frowns on missions, it is written here, While e'en the Christian scarce could understand How God could thwart His own divine command. OUR CHARLIE. 53 Yes, stranger things, it cannot be denied, Are happening here than that our Charlie died ; And then we think, and O ! 'it soothes our woe, What now we know not we shall sometime know ; What now seems dark will, in heaven's clearer light, Seem all in harmony with unspotted right ; And every pang on earth that can annoy Will end in heaven in one sweet thrill of joy. THE YOUNG HERALD. A CHOSEN vessel, so they used to say Of their young pastor every Sabbath-day ; A pious heart, a highly cultured mind, And all the graces of the Christian twined, With all the charms of polished rhetoric strung, With grace of person, eloquence of tongue, All these appeared in harmony to produce A chosen vessel for the Master's use. Alas ! so young, yet, in his high employ, He was a man, and not a whit a boy. Deep-steeped in learning's, deep in heavenly, lore, From truth's pure mine he dug the purest ore, And, unalloyed by vanity and pride, He was a safe, a most persuasive guide. Crowds flocked to hear him, every Sabbath-day, 54 OUR CHARLIE. And ne'er unfed the hearers went away ; And willing converts to the Saviour flew, At his entreaty, thick 1 as drops of dew. He sought not honors, sought not praise or fame, For all unsought they clustered round his name ; And Christians called him, whatsoe'er their views, A chosen vessel for the Master's use ; And if so young, so mighty he appears, What will his might be in maturer years ? And his own sect looked to the youthful guide With fondest hope and, it may be, with pride. Schisms had oft wrought havoc with that flock, That oft had served the wheels of truth to block ; But at his advent storm and tempest hushed, And perfect union every discord crushed, And all harmonious flock and shepherd strove, To work together in the bonds of love. God blessed the union, for He blessed the truth, And blessed with man's the influence of the youth. Not four full months had, in their lingering flight, To pass before the new-sown fields were white ; The plough and sickle both together plied, The sower and reaper labored side by side ; It was a scene o'er which the spirit bent, And while faith prayed, the heavenly blessing sent. OUR CHARLIE. 55 'Twas summer now, and from the sweltering streets The busy cits were seeking cool retreats ; Some down the bay, some up the river run, Some down to Greenwood from the scorching sun, Some to the mountain, some to merry spas, Some farther northward in the dusty cars, While some, too busied for a longer stay, Sought the cool beach, to pass the current day, Where the fresh sea-breeze its inspirings gave, And weary limbs might in the waters lave. And thus refreshed the crowded city seek For life's stern duties for another week. So the young servant of his Master, too, Went, worn and tired, his vigor to renew, Not to the mountain for its bracing air, Not to the Spa, where pleasure's throngs repair, Nor some sweet village in some rural clime, Where he at ease could spend the summer-time ; He simply sailed across the narrow bay, To pass a few hot summer hours away, To walk the beach, by the cool breezes fanned, Or watch the surges rushing on the sand, Or plunge within and dash the waves aside, And midst the surges in gay triumph ride. The youthful pastor could the waters skim, And 'midst the waves, with graceful movements, swim. 56 OUR CHARLIE. For from his boyhood he'd been wont to lave Within the flood, and skim the yeasty wave. And so he went along the beach's verge, And boldly plunged within the angry surge, And, with an easy and a graceful sweep, Swam boldly out upon the briny deep ; With ease and grace he sailed as lightly there As any bird that flits athwart the air ; He swam and floated, buoyant as a cork, It was all play, without a bit of work ; And danger felt there was no work for him O Where the young pastor gayly went to swim. But, strange event, his mission was all o'er, That chosen vessel never reached the shore ; The bonds that bound him to his home and flock, The ties of friendship sundered by the shock, The seeds that hope expected him to sow, The yellow harvest from the seed to grow, All were o'erwhelmed beneath the briny deep, Where the young shepherd laid him down to sleep. Such hopes to blast, such plans to disarrange, The world beheld, and called it " passing strange." Ah, yes ! more ties, but not more sweet, are rent Sometimes than those when our dear Charlie went. OUR CHARLIE. 57 THE HAPPY FAMILY. IF in this world there is a home, sweet home, Where earth's chill winter never dares to come, It is that home that never, never shares The poor man's sufferings or the rich man's cares, Where harvests spring up from its gay employ, And thrift converts them into home-felt joy, Where Agur's prayer from home's pure altar flies, And the sweet boon comes dropping from the skies. 'Twas such a home, one of earth's happiest ones, That held within two parents and two sons ; Love, virtue, vigor, competence, and health Were to that homestead all its hoarded wealth, And 'twas enough, with all these blessings given, That home had many an element of heaven. Their wants were few, but all they wished was theirs, Without the rich man's panics, fears, and cares ; Banks, railroads, factories, prosperous or adverse, Had no effect on person, place, or purse, And Wall or State Street might be down or up, Without affecting its o'erflowing cup ; The outside world might be all noise and din And that sweet home be all at peace within. There is no Eden in this world of ours, But some blight's found among the lovely flowers, 58 OUR CHARLIE. The glorious sun, with all his golden rays, Has many a spot upon his burnished face ; And is it strange, that, in that fairy ground, One drooping gem, one blasted bud, was found ? They had two sons, one was as bright a lad As ever made a loving parent glad ; The other blasted in life's early spring, Was a poor idiot, was a drivelling thing. This was the bud that wasted with the blight, This was the blot amidst the bower of light ; But with a love unmingled with alloy, The other three clung to that idiot boy. And as a vacuum must be first supplied By the freed air that's resting at its side, So the poor idiot always, from the rest, Got the first cupful of delight and best. The blighted bud among the blooming flowers Was, it is true, a blemish in the bowers, But love all blazoned with a holier light C3 Shone midst the scene, and blotted out the blight. And that home, maybe, felt more genuine joy Because it held that helpless idiot boy. The father died, and let the idiot be, And then men said, " God help the other three ! ' And the first grief-gush seemed all hope to sweep, OUR CHARLIE. 59 And leave that home no solace but to weep. But mother's love, there's nought so strong below, Save what she'll suffer, what she'll dare to do. Roused from the stupor that the blow had given, She bowed submissive to the stroke of Heaven, Then kissed her children both, her little ones, And smiling sweetly on her little sons, She said to him and took his tiny hand, Who only could her meaning understand, Your father's dead, from whom there used to come All that made ours a sweet and happy home ; Now there's no arm this side of the Divine That we can lean on but on yours and mine, And we, since Willie's is so weak and dim, Must use our own for both ourselves and him. And so they wrought, she and her bright-eyed boy, . And both felt happy in their new employ. And home was happy, for the mother knew If she would try, that God would help her too. And little George kept longing for the day When he could aid by work as well as play ; And little Willie's shallow cup of bliss Was running o'er in such a home as this. And they both felt although home's sun was set, 60 OUR CHARLIE. Bright sunlight streamed within their homestead yet. O O t' But God now stepped within that home of joy, And smote to dust that little bright-eyed boy ; The mother, awe-struck, said " Thy will be done," And sat down calmly by her idiot son. Strange, said the world, that God should deal a blow o 7 ' That spared the fool but laid the bright boy low ; That took the one that could her burdens share, And left the one who'd be a constant care. And human reason, wiser than Divine, Would fain reverse it, every word and line ; And human kindness, had it had the rule, Had spared the bright boy and recalled the fool. Ah ! human reason, hast thou power to look And read man's futm'e, as we read a book, And trace, amidst their spiritual employs, The boundless future of those little boys ? And weigh how much an early death or late Gave shape and color to their changeless fate ? And how the death-blows, both the sire's and son's, Swayed the long fate of those surviving ones ? When thou canst read this panorama through, And see it plain as God and angels do, And feel each pulse, and see each light and snade Of future life, and why and how 'twas made, OUR CHARLIE. Gl Then if them seest among what God has done A seeming blemish, thou canst call it one, Or aught inhuman dropping from above, Then say that God is not a God of love. Our hearts are bleeding that our boy was slain, But, thanks to God, we never dared complain, It may be, will be, if we e'er reach Heaven, And thence look back to where this blow was given, We'll feel and know whatever grief it cost, 'Twas just the blessing that we needed most, And it may be the very thing was this That sealed our title to unending bliss. THE RICH AND POOR BOY. 'TwAS in New York, where, mingled and combined, Are all the grades of matter and of mind ; Where shivering want in scantiest raiment goes, Chill as cold winter with its frosts and snows, And muffled wealth, arranged with taste and care, Goes warm as if in summer's genial air ; And every tint of social state between Is daily mingling in the motley scene ; And in that city there is seen displayed One panorama of each human grade. 62 OUR CHARLIE. One winter day, when through the swarming street, The shivering crowds sped on with hurrying feet, The cold, cold wind, in many an angry gust, Swept on through Broadway in a cloud of dust, And great and small, as the fierce whirlwind passed, Turned round to 'scape the fury of the blast, And muffling closer, shielding face and form Against the fury of the wind and storm, And all New York, the well and scanty clad, Said of the day, 'twas very, very bad. Among the crowd two little boys were seen Of equal age, to judge by size and mien : One, warmly clad, went boldly on his way, Nor seemed to feel that 'twas a blustering day. His splendid dress betrayed a home of wealth, His ruddy cheeks betokened perfect health ; His pleasant face and genial manners quite Sufficed to prove him, although rich, polite ; And though within a home of luxury bred, With not a want unanswered or unfed, Wise heads had taught him, gentle spirits fired, And generous hearts, his generous heart inspired. And common sense had breathed within his soul, And formed his powers in one harmonious whole. The pride of wealth had never thrilled his mind : His heart was generous, liberal, loving, kind. OUR CHARLIE. 63 And want and sorrow, and disease and pain, Whene'er they asked him never asked in vain. And that sweet boy, that loved to aid and give, Was just the boy that one would wish to live, One of those sweet ones coming from above, That all beholding watch, admire, and love. The boy beside him was a child of want, A ragged, thieving, vicious mendicant. Amidst old ruins, in a filthy den, His home had been with vile and vicious men, Who'd only taught him that the good and great Were simply made for him to rob and hate ; And all the wealth and splendor, round him strown, Belonged to him no less than those that own ; And 'twas his right, for blessings unpossessed, To beg a portion, and to steal the rest. And that poor boy, while yet so very young, Lied, begged, swore, stole, nor dreamed of doing wrong, For conscience ne'er upon his moral leaf Had put one thought to check the little thief. So while he walked beside that noble lad, Who loved to see and make all others glad, He, cold and shivering, 'midst the dusty storm, And with a whine that roo-ues know how to form. G4 OUR CHARLIE. Begged for a trifla to procure a crumb For his poor mother without bread at home. And the boy gave the poor and shivering lad, Glad he'd the power to make another glad ; Yet that young villain, though he cried and whined, Had no starved mother, who with hunger pined ; He took the shilling with a thankful look, And then adroitly stole his pocket-book ; Then falling back he mixed among the train, To find a chance to beg and rob again. Just at that instant passing near the wall Of an old building tottering to its fall, A fiercer blast against the pile was sent, And down the building into ruin went. Beneath the weight the passers-by were crushed, And all again was into silence hushed. A few were killed, the most were mangled found. But that young beggar came out safe and sound. That generous boy who just had given relief, And then been robbed by that unfeeling thief, Was walking on, wreathed in a genial smile, Out of the reach of that old crumbling pile, When lo ! a fragment like a leaden ball, Shot far ahead out of the crumbling wall, o And that sweet boy, although so far before, Was struck, and there lay weltering in his gore. OUR CHARLIE. 65 Strange, said the world, that God a blow should give, That smote that boy, and let the villain live, E'en when the thief was in the very path Where the fierce wind-god swept along in wrath, And that sweet boy had gone so far alas, That he seemed safe beyond the falling mass. How human wisdom in its pride will seize And criticise such casualties as these, And prove how much more natural to destroy The little wretch, and spare the noble boy, And show by proofs as plain as noonday light, Had God reversed it 'twould have been all right. Like that young thief had that bright boy escaped, With such a heart for virtue formed and shaped, No tongue can tell of what surpassing worth His life had been to this revolted earth, And the best instincts of the heart had then Cried, in a transport of delight, " Amen ! " And had the thief been, like the good boy, crushed, Those same good instincts had each murmur hushed, The world had said that God had acted best, And lofty reason kindly acquiesced ; For that young rogue, while waxing worse and worse, Would have been nothing but a social curse, And to himself a constant source of woe, Been through all life his own most deadly foe. 66 OUR CHARLIE. When in our streets we've seen those wretched ones Begging for bread and half-denuded bones, And by feigned tears and simulated cries, Make them pass current, their deceit and lies, Then thought how Charlie, our dear, darling boy, Had all he needed for his cup of joy, Had food, and clothes, and all that he required, To be well fed and tidily attired, And had a home, if not earth's very best, With all but luxury furnished and possessed, Where those that loved him clasped him to the breast, And would have died to make their Charlie blest ; Yet Charlie died, with all these things to cheer, 7 o While thousands live without one comfort here ; And our poor hearts will sometimes think and sigh, Strange these should live and our dear Charlie die. Was it a weakness with presumption fraught ? No matter what, our hearts will feel the thought, And sometimes forced by such sad thoughts to melt, Our hearts will whisper what they sadly felt, Just as the world could not suppress its grief When fell that good boy and survived the thief. OUR CHARLIE. 67 THE ARTIST AND HIS IDEAL. THERE was an artist, had his humble home Within the bosom of imperial Rome ; Midst her old ruins he had daily walked, With Art's old masters he had daily talked, Till, so in love .with Nature's myriad charms, He threw himself within her twining arms, And, like a child, within her warm embrace, Watched every change upon her lovely face. He'd seen her mirrored midst the crumbling wrecks And modern piles of earth's best architects ; He'd seen her springing from the shapeless block, Riven from the quarries of the Parian rock ; He'd seen her gayly from dead canvas gush, And live and breathe obedient to his brush, And her own scenery of all tints and dyes, In the mild azure of Italian skies, And all the varying and bewitching miens She takes to form her rich Italian scenes. But still unsated with the luxury placed Among the viands for his cultured taste, There was one viand, one voluptuous dish, That ne'er had sprung obedient to( his wish: He longed to see, and yet he knew not whence, A perfect type of spotless innocence, 68 OUR CHARLIE. For he'd not seen the faultless picture yet, Although he'd watched each form and face he met ; He'd seen the Pope, and tried in vain to trace Its lineaments beneath those folds of lace, He'd seen the Cardinals, clad in scarlet, rolled Through Roman streets in chariots dressed in gold ; He'd seen the priests, old Rome's most common nouns, In ugly hats and most ungraceful gowns, And loathsome monks, in filthiest garments clad, To show the world they're solemn, sour, and sad, But 'mong them all, though sought with utmost care, He did not find the gem he wanted there. He'd seen the nuns in all their neat costumes, Like lovely lilies in their snow-white blooms ; But howe'er fair, the picture was not fraught With that sweet thing, the object that he sought ; The beau ideal that he wished to paint Was not the child of penance and constraint ; The innocence that he was seeking there Must come from love and be as free as air, Not merely known by badges and costumes, But, like flowers, also by its rich perfumes ; And badge and costume, howe'er true, must be, Like blossoms, outbursts of the parent tree. He dreamed by night and he inquired by day, Where is the jewel ? Whither is the way ? OUR CHARLIE. 69 He roved the halls of science and of art, But did not find the vision of his heart ; He looked at Nature, earth, and sea, and air, But did not find the bright creation there. He roved beyond his usual rounds one day, Among the tombs that skirt the Appian Way, And then within the still Campagna roved, But nowhere found the vision that he loved. Then toward Frascati bent his steps, until He reached the villa of the Alban Hill, And ere scarce conscious, found that he had come Up to the path that leads to Tusculum, Whence Cato sprang, the censor of old Rome, And Tulli wrote within his summer home. He took the path and mounted up the hill, Along where once was many a Roman ville, Till, with an instinct that can never err, He stood at Tusculuin's ruined theatre ; And there he stopped and viewed the dappled west Just at the hour red Phoebus sunk to rest : The broad Campagna, by old arches spanned, In endless lines, e'en though in ruins grand; And farther on the ruins of old Rome, And the huge grandeur of St. Peter's dome ; And farther west old Ostia's shimmering bay In the dim twilight of departing day, 70 OUR CHARLIE. 'Twas lovely all, but the poor son of art Found not the idol shrined within the heart. He turned to go, but where he had to pass An angel lay upon a tuft of grass : A beauteous boy, surpassing sweet and fair, Had lost his way, and thus lay sleeping there ; His little hands were crossed upon his breast, A fresh -plucked flower was on his bosom pressed, And unseen angels, bending o'er the child, Were talking with him, and the cherub smiled. Some little tear-drops on his sweet cheeks lay, That he'd been shedding when he lost his way, And tears and smiles in all their witchery wove, Like shower and sunshine, made a thing to love ; And still he smiled, for still the angels talked, And through the bowers of Paradise they walked ; And his lips moved, for round among the flowers He walked and talked with angels in their bowers ; And fear and care bade not a ripple roll Across the peaceful current of the soul, And like a being newly winged above, Where each pulsation is a throb of love, The sweet young spirit of that gentle boy Was a pure gem of peace and love and joy ; So gazed the artist, for the beau ideal Of his chaste fancy had become the real ; For innocence, he'd sought with sleepless care, OUR CHARLIE. 71 But never found, true to his dreams, was there ; And so he gazed, until the charming whole Daguerreotyped his image on the soul ; And when again before his easel placed, Out of his soul he drew the thing he traced, Till on the canvas he beheld, with joy, The mirrored image of that little boy, The pure quintessence, not obscure and dim, Of innocence's perfect synonyme. "Eureka!" cried he, "for the victory's mine," And hung it up within his studio's shrine. Long years had passed, and Innocence still hung Within his home, extolled by every tongue, And his own heart had daily feasts of joy, Oft as he gazed upon that little boy ; But from the hour his magic pencil run O'er the last line, and left the picture done, His soul had yearned, with all an artist's pride, To see Guilt's picture hanging at its side, And he had roved by land and sea to find The beau ideal cherished in his mind ; And though he'd found in many a face he'd seen Some lineaments that mark the monster's mien, And although some seemed demons black as night, The blackest had some little gleams of light, And 'twas, in fancy only, he had built The loathsome fabric of unbroken guilt. 72 OUR CHARLIE. 'Twas at a time when Nature's lovers stroll, For feasts of reason and for flows of soul, The artist left his studio and his care, And walked abroad, it scarcely mattered where, Till, having reached the Duke Colonna's lands, He found himself where Paliano stands. The dark old prison, the lion of the town, Appeared to wear a more demoniac frown, And guilt's dread children, from their gloomy cells, Sent fiercely out their curses, shrieks, and yells, And to fill full the harmony of their strains, The clash of fetters and the clank of chains. And soon he passed through the unbolted door, The scenes within to study and explore ; From cell to cell he passed along, and leaned 'Gainst grated doors to see each prisoned fiend, And his brain reeled as he beheld the trace Of blackest guilt on every fiendish face ; Yet every one, howe'er of good bereft, Had some slight trace of human nature left, Some little marks that faintly seemed to tell, 'Twas not a demon, nor his prison a hell. But there was one, whose cell was farther on, From whom all human seemed forever gone ; The bloodshot eye, fierce brow, and matted hair, Told but too plainly 'twas a demon there, OUR CHARLIE. 73 Not one pale beam or faintest tint of light Shot through the darkness of his moral night, But all was dark, and midnight round about Had seemed to blot each trace of manhood out. The artist viewed him with an earnest eye, And scanned this demon of the darkest dye, And shuddering cried, Whate'er the creature be, 'Tis just the monster that I've longed to see. Few were the suns that ran their daily round, Before the monster on the canvas frowned, And then he saw, with all an artist's pride, The fiend and cherub hanging side by side, The perfect types, in contrast so immense, Of blackest guilt and brightest innocence, Where good and bad had left their typic trace, To deck and mar the human form and face. And then he'd daily look and study each, And learn the lesson they were meant to teach. Can such a cherub no, he never can Become a creature like that monster man ? Or such a monster, when his race begun, Have ever been that little cherub one ? And yet that monster was a boy whilom, And he had parents and a pleasant home, 74 OUR CHARLIE. And those fond parents loved their cherub boy, And that sweet home he filled with light and joy, And love, blind love, predicted that his name Would one day shine upon the scroll of fame. He might have seemed in childhood's earliest spring An innocent and very charming thing ; But had he then for his young portrait sat, It could not sure have been a thing like that. Mistaken artist, will it mar thy joy To know that monster Avas that cherub boy ? And that the cherub, so angelic miened, Became in manhood such a hideous fiend ? But so it is, that boy, who first begun So fair, so sweet, became that fiendish one. God help our children, if tlie dear ones can Become as loathsome as that hideous man, And God help us, if culture or neglect Can make them wrecks, as that sweet boy was wrecked. We think of this, and if it does not cheer, It seems to dry up many and many a tear ; For though our Charlie surely never could Have been aught else than sweet and kind and good, Much less as hideous and deformed become OUR CHARLIE. As that sweet boy that slept at Tusculum, 'Twas sweet to think that ere with cunning art Guilt dropped a stain upon his spotless heart, The Saviour came, and with a look of love, Bore him in triumph to his home above, Where not a stain can ever touch our boy, And not a sorrow ever mar his joy. O ! Charlie, Charlie, though our bosoms bleed, We love to think that thou art blest indeed, And that although we're sundered now in twain, We soon shall meet our beauteous child again ; Meet, not as now, to spend a few fleet years, And part in sorrow, groans, and sighs, and tears, But meet and sweetly mingle heart with heart, Live, learn, and love, and never, never part ; And then it sometimes gives us sweet relief To think life here is so exceeding brief; And hope's pulsations beat more full and strong, To think hereafter life will be so long. DEATH SELDOM COMES AT THE RIGHT TIME. How seldom 'tis, in any age or clime, Death claims his victims at the proper time. Whate'er man is, whate'er he might have been, 76 OUR CHARLIE. Too soon or late Death thrusts his sickle in ; While on the road to honor and renown, Death often comes and strikes the victim down, Just freed from care, with boundless wealth in store, The arrow flies, and it is his no more. The warm-souled herald to the rescue flies, When sorrow shrieks and trembling ignorance cries, But in mid passage or but just ashore, Expires or founders, and his mission's o'er ; The hale old man scarce reaching to decline, Receives his summons when at ninety-nine, And thinks 'tis hard, unfeeling, and severe, God did not spare him to live out the year. THE SAILOR. I KNEW him well, a rover of the sea, A braver tar you never saw than he, At first a sailor, then in many a trip, The gallant captain of a gallant ship ; Tears wet all faces when he went to roam, And tears of joy whenever he came home. A sparkling girl, who, in our social joys, Was warmth and sunshine to the girls and boys, Smiled on the sailor from the very start, OUR CHARLIE. 77 And sweetly gave him all he wished, her heart ; And soon in gladness friends and kindred met To see them tangled in the silken net ; And ne'er were seen a bridegroom and a bride More full of joy than Ben and Zealide. They lived and loved, united heart and heart, Both when together and when far apart, The bond of love from that domestic hearth Oft stretched unbroken all around the earth. Like olive plants their little prattlers sprung, And sweetest perfumes o'er the homestead flung; And each new cherub given them from above, Gave added potence to the bond of love. When the fierce wind-god swept along in wrath, And carried death and havoc in his path, How their hearts chilled to think that storm might be Sweeping in anger o'er the troubled sea, '. And he they loved, o'ertaken in his way, Might be that moment in the deadly fray ; And how joy kindled in their bosoms when Word came, " all safe," the vessel and the men ! And how sweet home run over with delight At the glad tidings of " a sail in sight ! " And love grew lovelier when it looked to see That manly form, and hear the word " 'Tis he." 78 OUR CHARLIE. Then came the presents, beauteous, rich, and rare, Things to display and eat and drink and wear; And more than these, those things that unpossessed, Prevent e'en love from making households blest. Three years had passed since, with hrs sails unfurled, He had been cruising round and round the world ; And love was watching every hour at home To see the lover and the father come. At length it came, the tidings came one day, The gallant ship was coming up the Bay, And o'er the Sound the steamer gliding hence Bore the glad tidings on to Providence. Home was astir, all wore a merry air ; For in two days the rover would be there ; How oft they wished, and said it with a smile, That Providence were on Manhattan Isle ! Then when the vessel into port had come, The gallant captain would have been at home ; But ah ! two days ! it seemed an age before They should behold his pleasant face once more. But time does fly, though snail-like to the mind, That flies so swift it leaves old Time behind ; Hope will, so swiftly, towards the guerdon go, OUR CHARLIE. 79 It chides the hours and calls them very slow ; And when we sit at pleasure's sweet repast, We chide old Time, and think he moves too fast. Between the murderer and the fatal day Days are but moments, but an inch of way ; But placed between the lover and his home, It seems long ages in the time to come. But time will move, the captain, with his freight, Leaped on the steamer, buoyant and elate ; And then he said, while looking round and round, " Why was Long Island made so long a Sound ? Twelve, fourteen hours, it may be many more, Ere I shall land on dear Rhode Island's shore ; Still 'tis no matter, I'll my state-room keep, And spend the moments in unconscious sleep, Then, though 'tis long ere those dear ones I see, 'Twill be a moment, only that, to me." He slept and dreamed, arrayed in all her charms, His wife had rushed within his circling arms, The children gabbled like so many geese, And kissed and kissed him twenty times apiece, And he and they kept wondering o'er and o'er Why 'twas each other had not altered more ; Then came the presents, brilliant, rich, and rare, Designed for each, and sought with nicest care ; And last the treasures after which he'd roved 80 OUR CHARLIE. And earned, to bless the little ones he loved. " Enough," said he, " I've gained enough and more 1 , I'll stay henceforth with those I love on shore ; Farewell old ocean, with thy restless main, I ne'er shall battle with your waves again ; Howl, howl, mad tempest, lash the waves and roar, You'll no more harm me, high and dry ashore ; Ye winds blow, blow, snap off the shrouds and spars, Toss up the billows till they quench the stars, 'Tis nought to me, I care not for your strife, I'm with my children, living with my wife, I've now enough for life's entire supply, 'Tis all I wish for tilji the day I die." Fire ! fire ! He wakes, the flames are flashing O high, And the red tempest lights the ebon sky; Groans, cries, and tears, from terror and affright, Fill the grand chorus of that awful night ; And ere the echo of that chorus died, Ship, cargo, all lay silent 'neath the tide ; Some, for a moment, struggled with the wave, But baffled sunk to their unhonored grave. The home-bound captain, with the wealth he'd won, Slept midst the ashes of the Lexington. OUR CHARLIE. 81 But at his home, nor sleep nor dreams had they, They all sat watching for the break of day ; Aurora first sent up her saffron streams, Red Phoebus followed with his ruddy beams ; Hour after hour of broad and open day, In quick succession came and went away, Till the bright daylight into twilight grew, And night threw o'er her dome of stars and blue, When tidings came, first whispered faintly round, The ship is lost and all on board are drowned. Next came the news : the ship is tempest tossed, Burned and disabled, but not wholly lost; Now good, now bad, the flying rumors came, First, she was safe, then, perished in the flame, Till the dread message proved, alas ! too true, The ship was lost, and all were drowned but two. But two ? the names ! O no ! the deed is done, But two are saved, but he, alas ! not one ; Bat still hope flickered, and could not go out, Till time passed on and brushed away the doubt. Ah, human wisdom, how much more divine Thou wouldst have done it, had the work been thine ! For three long years he'd suffered, toiled, and roved. To bless the group that he so dearly loved, And thou wouldst sure have wafted safe along Him and his treasures to the little throng. 6 82 OUR CHARLIE. Yes, human reason sees with half an eye, 'Twas not the time for such an one to die. Ah! noble reasoner, should the bolt have come, While he was feeling the first thrill of home ? If not, tell when the arrow should have sped, Wise seer, who canst not see an inch ahead. THE INVENTOR. A FEW years since, within a country ville, There lived a youth of splendid taste and skill. 'Twas his delight, absorbed in thought profound, To rove invention's yet untrodden ground ; He loved to pierce the pall of moral night, And by his fiat bring out rays of light ; He loved to soar on thought's far-spreading wing, And out of chaos, perfect order bring, And of rude matter, at his plastic will, Bring out creations of consummate skill ; He- loved to watch the great world's ceaseless buzz, And all the phases of the work it does, Then, from the mysteries that in matter lurk, Bring out the witcheries that can do the work ; He sometimes dreamed of that millennial day When, matter working, men should only play. OUR CHARLIE. 83 His was a soul whose living cords were found In harmony always with the charms of sound ; The soft piano, touched with well-trained art, Thrilled every fibre of his tuneful heart, e cheerful even, And speak of him as our sweet boy in heaven, And tell how much it swells our present joy, To think we have had such a darling boy. The burdened heart, though often it conceals, Sometimes betrays the sorrow that it feels ; Grief, all unconscious of its tears and sighs, Tells its tale oft to other people's eyes, And one sad spirit midst the gay and glad, May, without meaning, make the circle sad. When we laid Charlie in our funeral bowers. The sympathetic mingled tears with ours, And friendship kindly gathered at our side, And shared the griefs we had not power to hide ; And 'twas a solace mourners only know, And many a pang was taken from our woe. But the first gush, when sorrow calls for aid, Has passed away, and the due offering made ; Henceforth, our hearts must, as the woe's our own. Know their own sorrows and must bear alone. Then let us weep, it shall be silent grief, Its history's written on no open leaf. We'll try our best, no thrill of woe shall dart OUR CHARLIE. 131 Outside ourselves, to pierce another's heart ; And in all circles it shall be our care, No gloom shall enter from our presence there. Grief seldom injures, from its normal flow, And tears but smooth the rugged path of woe ; They never injure, ne'er inflict a wrong, Save when intruders where they don't belong; But where they do, they're angels in disguise, That bring down manna kindly from the skies, And although weeping may endure a night, Joy comes in bounding with the morning light. Although we weep till we with Charlie sleep, 'Twill do no injury, 'twill do good, to weep; The danger comes not, our own histories tell, From loving earth too little, but too well. We know" Heaven has, within e'en earthly bowers, Set all along the purest, sweetest flowers ; Home has its charms, though of one source bereft, And little ones are in its precincts left, And sure as Phoebus rises in the east, We have an oftener than a daily feast ; And heartiest thanks we, to our Father, give, That He still lets us with our dear ones live ; But O ! methinks, when looking down below, He says, " Come up, 'twill be no cross to go." 132 OUR CHARLIE. THE HAPPY FAMILY. I HAVE two friends I feel they're friendly yet, Although for years we have not even met, The nicest culture, both of heart and mind, Has made them genial, erudite, refined; Their home is decked with beauty, tastG, and thought, And made by them a most enchanting spot, And social life gets many and many a gem, And many a thrill of purest joy from them. In public life, not giddy and elate, He served with honor his old native state, And that old state, out of her loyal hosts, Called him to many of her highest posts ; And, wheresoe'er consenting to embark On any duty, always left his mark ; And like a Goldsmith, with a skill inborn, Attempted nothing he did not adorn. She was a lady, not by courtesy one, The fact beamed out like sunshine from the sun ; Intelligence from every feature beamed, And the soul's magic through each avenue streamed ; In form and feature, act and speech and air, The graces clustered sweetly everywhere ; OUR CHARLIE. 133 For culture seemed to shape each thought that stirred, And then to shape each pure expressive word ; And taste, oiitspringing from the cultured soul, Shed its bland influence and adorned the whole ; And harmless humor, in its merry play, Tinged e'en the sombre often with the gay, And gave to converse, when she bore a part, So sweet a zest, it always reached the heart. And they were Christians, both the man and wife, Pure Christians, both in theory and in life. He was devout, in word and thought and air, Without one tinge of the ascetic there ; She, ever smiling, shed good cheer about, Without one glimmer of the undevout. Young spirits flitted from yon azure dome, And gayly lighted in this happy home : One came and carolled many a roundelay, Knit to their hearts, and then it flew away. Another came, a little cherub thing, To chant the lays the first had ceased to sing. Love, writhing yet with sad bereavement's smart, Took the young comer to its opening heart ; And when at length the new-formed ties had twined, And the new cherub in its heart was shrined, The little stranger sang its farewell strain, And left home writhinc with its woes a Among the untold witcheries that on the planet live, OUR CHARLIE. 179 Each little inch of time would have its representative. Just on the eastern edge of life our little ones would peep, And on their tiny feet and hands among the minutes creep, Like those two cherubs Raphael's brush 'neath that Madonna traced, That Dresden has, with pious care, within her gal lery placed. And far upon the western edge, close on existence' brink, Old age would walk on tottering feet and just about to sink, And all between the two extremes, at every inch from both, We should behold each moment's true development and growth ; And all transition's lights and shades in all the dis tance through, And everything that time with man has power on earth to do ; In fine, see every changing phase of size and hue and mould That human nature can assume and into which unfold ; O ! where's the bosom does not feel how fair and fresh and new The lovely panorama is of such a charming view ? 180 OUR CHARLIE. But look again at yonder scene and see how wonders start, Take off' your vision from the whole and fix it on a part. See how the same variety has left its magic trace, Yet all in perfect harmony, upon the human face ; However strong resemblances the gazer's eye may strike, There are no two in everything in all the world alike. In yonder artist's studio, the products of his art Are not unfrequent just the same alike in every part, But Nature always unconstrained throws her crea tions out, So that each thing's identity, though sometimes brought in doubt, Though sometimes dim and indistinct as if about to die, It never wholly can escape the expert's practised eye. O ! yes, methinks that bliss above and happiness below Must, since in essence so alike, from kindred foun tains flow, OUR CHARLIE. 181 And if we seek the sources whence our sweetest earthly feast, Our hearts would fondly testify the social not the least. 'Tis said the blessed ones above find added rapture even, Whene'er they see a lost one start upon the road to heaven ; And 'twould be strange if it awoke no added thrill to this, When that new spirit safe arrived within a home of bliss ; But stranger yet, if when that guest unites in Heaven's employ, The happy spirits do not feel an extra thrill of O ! heaven, methinks, must be a place where just such charms appear As fill the ransomed soul with joy e'en while it lin gers here, And that the sweet variety, that all so dearly love, To please the ransomed spirits there must deck the realms above. And so God speaks, and tender ties are every mo ment riven, 182 OUR CHARLIE. And those we love so much below are taken up to heaven ; Sometimes He takes the hoary sage whose work is nobly done, Sometimes, in duty's mid career, the strong and vigorous one, Sometimes He smites the ripened youth just entering manhood's door, And full of heart and full of hope he falls to rise no more, Sometimes he smites, in childhood's days, our daugh ters and our sons, But oftener, far, than all the rest, He takes our lit tle ones ; And as He takes them one by one to holier courts above, They give to heaven's variety, new beauty, bliss, and love, And when He wants to fill a place unfilled among the blest, He's always sure to take the one that will adorn it best. Then is it strange, since children are the sweetest blessings given, That God should take our little ones and place them safe in heaven ? OUR CHARLIE. 183 Or that, to make the world above most beautiful and blest, Should call our little ones away far oftener than the rest, Or should, to make heaven seem to us most charming and most fair, Transport our little ones above to help attract us there ? Dear Charlie, we accept the thought, and shrine it in our breast : God would not sure have taken thee, had he not known 'twas best, The best for us, the best for thee, and best for all above, For now the happy ones in heaven have one more thing to love. For in that glorious world above, as surely as in this, 'Tis true, that added things to love give added thrills to bliss ; And, Charlie, though nor eye nor ear, nor heart of man, can know What things the Father has prepared for those he loves below, We do know now what spirits live within that happy sphere, 184 OUR CHARLIE. Because they're just the little ones we loved and fondled here ; And as we know what joy they caused in home's divine retreat, We feel the bliss of heaven must be, beyond con ception, sweet. Methinks, dear Charlie, thine must be intenser thrills of jy> Since thou didst go to Paradise while yet a spotless boy. And could I cease to feel the weight of this sad O crushing cross, And wipe away, from memory's page, the record of that loss, Had 1 the power to bury self beneath oblivion's wave, And all self-interest sweep away from little Charlie's grave, And, without weighing in love's scales how much the loss may be, Weigh, in the scales of faith, how much the gain has been to thee, x Methinks, instead of shedding tears of sorrow for our boy, We should be shedding, every day, the gushing tears of joy. OUR CHARLIE. 185 O ! sometimes, when the vision opes and flings the real out, And shows the triumphs of our boy uncloucTed by a doubt, The tears of sorrow for our boy e'en while they're dropping stop, Or turn to tears of gladness when the little crystals drop ; And until self steps in again and breaks the magic spell, We think of our dear boy in heaven and feel that all is well. And thus alternate day by day we write, leaf after leaf: To-day we write a page of joy, to-morrow one of grief; And oftentimes we long to have the glorious morn ing come, When self itself shall have a feast with Charlie at his home. THE NEW SONG. THERE is a song the ransomed sing, a song of love and joy, The fresh spontaneous outburst of their heavenly employ. 186 OUR CHARLIE. 'Tis called the " new," for as the charms of love and truth unfold, The song takes in fresh harmonies and so it can't grow old. 'Tis called the " new," because as oft as new-born raptures start, The fresh performer comes attuned exactly for the part ; 'Tis called the " new," because, as long as endless ages roll, The ransomed ones will sing the song and never sing the whole ; 'Tis called the "new," for truth and love of every shape and hue Are ever twining in the song and keep it always new, And until truth and grace and love shall all their stores unfold, That same "New Song" shall still be fresh and never shall grow old. EACH NEW-BORN SPIRIT APPEARS AT THE RIGHT TIME. METHINKS, 'twas when the ransomed, ones within their courts above Were singing, and they chanced to touch a tenderer strain of love, OUR CHARLIE. 187 The tender notes, like drops of dew, were quivering into play, All ready for some cherub's throat to mingle in the %, When Charlie oped the pearly gate and with his new-strung lyre, Stepped sweetly up and took his place among the heavenly choir. 'Twas just the part for Charlie's voice, the part for Charlie's heart, And O ! how sweet the darling boy performed his .destined part ! ! then, how sweet the strain was played, how doubly sweet 'twas sung, When sounded on his little harp and carolled by his tongue ! For if there Avas among the charms in his pure na ture wove, A grace more sweet than all the rest, it was the purest love. Sing on, my darling boy, sing on, I'll not disturb a note, 1 almost hear the melody from thy melodious throat. Perhaps, when we are done with earth, and life's short journey through, We may, beside our Charlie, stand and join the chorus too. 188 OUR CHARLIE. E'en now, in spirit, we are there beside thee every day, And hear thee sing, and sing ourselves less sweet than thou, the lay; And then we feel, while listening to the music from thy tongue, How sweet it is and blest it is to be transplanted young. 'Tis not the titled and the proud, the learned and the wise, That learn the easiest and the best the language of the skies : The babe that never spoke a word while in its brief sojourn, Goes right to speaking there, because there's nothing to unlearn ; And that dear boy, who never ceased to love his mother best, Is almost fitted, at the first, to mingle with the blest. EACH HAS HIS MISSION EVEN IN HEAVEN. METHINKS, that Reason shows the fact without the fancy's aid, God has a mission in this world for everything that's made ; OUR CHARLIE. 189 And 'twere absurd exceedingly to think it can be so, That though man lives beyond the tomb, his mission ends below. The tome of God tells everywhere of heaven's un fading joys, But side by side it tells about its pure and blest employs. O ! yes, me thinks, when we have passed life's fitful journey through, We shall have thrilling joys to feel and pleasant work to do. The bliss of heaven, however rest may in its essence lurk, Would lose full many a thrill of bliss without a touch of work ; Of all the forms of punishment inflicted here below, 'Tis solitude, pure solitude, inflicts the deepest woe, But still it drops full half its pangs and half its ter rors too, By giving to the solitaire a little work to do. The spirit, when it mounts on high, must grow a different one, If that can be a blissful spot where nothing's to be done. And if, for it would seem absurd to have one doubt of this, 19 J OUR CHARLIE. The social is in paradise an element of bliss, The beings there must be engaged in some divine employ, Whose products are the elements of one another's joy, A.nd fond Affection, with itself, the question will dis cuss, If our dear lost ones e'er extend their ministries to us. HEAVEN'S REVEA LINGS. WHEN God reveals the mysteries He wishes us to know, He does not fill the picture up and every feature show, He gives the outlines only oft, because He deems it best That our own powers and faculties may try to find the rest. Methinks, He never would reveal a hidden truth or doubt, That we, with our own innate skill, had power to solve without. He always helps the weakest mind in every trial made, OUR CHARLIE. 191 And hearty effort everywhere is sure to get his aid. He's told us much about the heaven where He for ever dwells, But 'tis by symbols He portrays the most of what He tells ; He leaves to us, with all the powers that He himself has given, Out of the symbols He has shown, to form our views of heaven ; And though we may not group them right, however wise and shrewd, We always, in the effort, find enough to do us good. He's given us hints, nay, more than hints, revealings meant to show Our angel ones have ministries that reach sometimes below ; And then He leaves the precious truth in all its rainbow hues, For us to group, as fancy bids, and for our profit use, And fond Affection seldom fails, when contemplating here, To feel the fact and find enough to comfort and to cheer. 192 OUR CHARLIE. EACH FINDS HIS PROPER PLACE IN HEAVEN. HOWE'ER alike we mortals are upon a hasty view, We've powers and tastes and aptitudes of every shade and hue ; And thus in all the walks of life, of every changing phase, There always is some person found just fitted for the place. And half the ills and half the crimes and half the sorrows here Arise because so many a man gets jostled from his sphere ; For he's the surest to succeed and surest to be blest, Who's in the place and does the work for which he's fitted best ; But when we leave this mortal coil and on new pinions fly, Alighting midst the happy ones in mansions in the sky, There'll be no veil about us then, though it be ne'er so thin, To help us seem to be without what we are not within. For nothing but our characters, developed while we're here, OUR CHARLIE. 193 Will prove our own identity within that happy sphere, And like the needle to the pole, the spirit of the blest Is sure to find the mission there for which he's fitted best ; And so no jar or discord can in any corner lurk, But perfect harmony unites the actor and his work. I love to think what mission is to our dear boy assigned, I think it must be something sweet, exceeding sweet and kind ; I know just what he was below, he's just the same above, And it must be, I feel it must, his ministry is love. When sorrow sighs with broken heart and tears O begin to play, We know he'd go with sunny smiles and kiss the tears away ; And if a honeyed drop of love could melt some heartless one, That honeyed drop would sure distil and so the deed be done. II 194 OUR CHARLIE. DO THE SPIRITS OF THE DEPARTED ONES VISIT US HERE ? As, when the boy, while yet a lad, goes gayly out to roam, And seeks in some far-distant clime a fortune and a home, However rich or learned or wise or honored be his lot, He ne'er forgets, however small, his humble native cot, He recollects his playmates there, the rustic girls and boys, And never ceases to retaste their rude and simple joys; And childhood's reminiscences make his old native hearth The sweetest spot, the purest spot, the holiest spot on earth. And young life's pleasing retrospects appear so pass ing fair, He'd leave a palace to sit down in that domestic chair ; And earth's elite, he'd bid good-by, with heart brim ful of joy, To meet again the rustic friends he played with when a boy. OUR CHARLIE. 195 And none but he who has no heart or has a lack of brain, But loves to think of early scenes and visit them again. It is this truth that makes us feel, when earthly ties are riven, Our dear ones love to think of us when they are safe in heaven ; And if they love to think of us, they'll dearly love to come, And visit friends and scenes they knew, when in an earthly home. O ! such a faith, although it were on airy nothing built, Would keep the heart in which 'tis shrined from many a stain of guilt ;* But if 'tis built on heavenly truth, the faith and fact combined Would pour more sweetness in the heart, more brightness in the mind. O ! it must be that our dear boy, who used to love us so, Does sometimes come on angel-wings and visit us below. 196 OUR CHARLIE. Perhaps he drops a pleasant thought to soothe the grief we feel, Or brings a sweet and healing balm our wounded hearts to heal ; Perhaps he brings a floweret plucked the other side the tomb, That gives a pleasant hue to death and robs it of its gloom ; Or whispers, with his angel-tongue, Dear Mother, I am near, And fondly thinks, because she smiles, she must his whispers hear. And then, perhaps, he flies around and visits all the rest, And whispers some enchanting thought in every throbbing breast : o * And then, perhaps, we smile because we feel an inner j7> And then he thinks, because we smile, we know our darling boy ; And then, perhaps, he kisses us, as was his merry way, When he went either off to bed or went away to play. Perhaps our hearts did know our boy, and by mys terious thought, Communed with him, and talked with him, and yet we knew him not. OUR CHARLIE. 197 We cannot, with these eyes of ours, however keen and sound, Behold a spirit as we see material objects round, And it may be that spirits, when commissioned here below, See nothing but the spirits of the ones to whom they e> u> Howe'er this be, one thing is true, if spirits do ap pear Among old scenes and with old friends, to hold sweet converse here, It is not through the senses they their messages impart : They whisper them within the mind, they tell them to the heart; And though we catch new thrills of joy and many a pleasant thought, We know not whence, by whom, or why, the pleas ant things were brought ; And self-communings, out of which such pleasant fruitage starts, May be but converse going on between them and our hearts. And when we think of those we loved all safe en throned in bliss, And feel that Jordan's farther bank is lovelier far than this, 198 OUR CHARLIE. 'Tis not perverting common sense or lowering Fan cy's powers, To think the scenes from yonder world, the spirits bring to ours. If, while on earth, 'tis such a feast to be with those we love, Perhaps we can a greater have when they are throned above. While here encumbered with the flesh, with sorrows, doubts, and fears, Bewitching us with smiles sometimes and saddening us with tears, 'Twas not all honey that distilled, sometimes a sting was born, Nor all were roses in the way, sometimes there was a thorn ; And so the pleasant feast of love, like every earthly one, Was sometimes of a dainty short, or sometimes badly done. But O ! how pure, how peaceful now are our dear ones above ! If we have converse now with them, it must be one of love ; And if it prove not one of joy, when on our table placed, OUR CHARLIE. 199 The fault is a corrupted heart or a perverted taste. But O ! the banquet of delight that he, unceasing, shares, Who keeps his heart and keeps his mind in harmony with theirs ! No tongue can tell what pure delight would be to mortals given, If they were more in harmony with those who live in heaven ; Those bright celestial visitants would in our pathway fly, Or we should walk and talk with them along the starry sky, And heaven and earth would be so near, and like each other then, The angels would be, every day, the visitants of men. HEAVEN. O ! WHAT is Heaven ? the anxious heart full often says and sighs, And Echo, in her covert hid, O ! what is 'Heaven ? replies ; And yet from Heaven's own Delphic shrine responses come to show 200 OUR CHARLIE. That 'tis a holy, happy place, where sorrows never grow, And tell us, too, that in the midst of its unbounded The spirits keep their rapture up by sweet and pure employs. But all the rest, the filling up, all gently touched and traced, God has not in that lofty tome of heavenly wisdom placed ; Imagination takes her brush and traces vale and hill And tree and flower and happy ones, according to her skill. But had the God who made it deigned the picture to portray, We might have seen upon what plan he takes our friends away, And understand, it may be, what His providences mean, By cutting down the old and young and every age between. Perhaps the different grades of work in yonder holy sphere Need actors who've reached every grade of earthly training here. O The babe, one little moment old, the sage, a hun dred years, OUR CHARLIE. 201 May work the best of all the rest in their allotted spheres. If Christ must needs have lived and died and suffered want and woe, Ere he could feel and sympathize with mortals here below, So we, if we shall work with them when we're trans ferred above, Must here have just the discipline to do the work of love ; No more or less, but just enough, of discipline pos sessed, To help the actor do the work that God assigns him best. A tender babe may win a heart as gentle as a dove, While, if a man, he could not fire that stubborn heart with love. Full many a boy has spoke so sweet and looked so mildly up, The beastliest father was subdued and dashed away his cup ; But had that boy but been a man, with logic's keen est art, He had not swayed that father's mind or ever reached his heart. To train the young idea right and teach it how to shoot, 202 OUR CHARLIE. Requires the powers and aptitudes exactly made to suit ; The hoary sage, however learned or good or wise or kind, Is quite unfitted now to train the young and tender mind. 'Tis not because he would disdain to do an act so small, But that he cannot do it right or cannot do at all. The velvet touch of childhood's hands upon the mother's cheeks, A thousand tender thrills of love to her fond bosom speaks ; Let forty years of stubborn time its velvet softness kill, That hand upon the mother's cheeks would wake no gentle thrill. We think of Moses in his ark so beauteous, sweet, and fair, And think of tenderness and love in perfect harmony there ; But when a man on Sinai's brow, we stand and look with awe, And fancy paints around his brow the thunders of the law ; And now the foundling is a sage, the boy a hero grown, OUR CHARLIE. 2C3 And Amram's babe is now the heir to haughty Pharaoh's throne ; And although trained with royal care in Egypt's richest lore, He cannot win affection now as easy as before. The stalwart father tries to soothe his sick and suf fering boy, And lifts him gently in his arms and tries to give him joy ; But in his mother's warm embrace he loves to lie the best, For there's more softness in her arms, more down within her breast. The stalwart arm and iron nerve make no soft downy bed, For that poor suffering languid boy to lay his aching head. If love could win a stubborn soul that is on mischief bent, Not Peter, John would surely be the helping spirit sent ; If ponderous logic only could the sceptic's doubts o'erthrow, Not sceptic Thomas, reasoning Paul would be the one to go. And when the timid Christian shrinks at power's demoniac frown, 204 OUR CHARLIE. 'Twould be a Luther's ministry to come in kindness down ; And if the truth in sweetest tones would aid the trembler best, Melancthon's spirit would glide down and whisper in the breast. And since there are uncounted grades of mind and heart below, To which, upon their ministries, the happy spirits go, 'Twould seem there should be grades like these, among the blest above, To fit them to discharge the best those ministries of love. Yes, it must be that God assigns to my beloved boy Some lovely mission that secures and gives the purest jy; And when we come to see it all and understand it right, And read his histoiy, line by line, in heaven's clear crystal light, 'Twill only seem a magic thrill 'twixt Charlie's birth and death, Or inspiration wafted down upon an angel's breath ; And had it been more short or long, or gentle or intense, So sweet a bud of paradise had never sprung from thence. OUR CHARLIE. 205 WHY WAS HE TAKEN ? ALAS ! why was so dear a boy, so loving and be loved, From our fond hearts and arms and home at such an age removed ? We ask these questions every day along life's weaiy way, And contemplation furnishes new answers every day ; And every hour's experience brings something new to light, That serves to show that Charlie's death, e'en when so young, was right. This world was never meant to be, with all its fruits and flowers, So very, very dear to us, to make us call it ours ; 'Tis but a life estate we have in anything below, And we must leave it any hour the owner bids us go. And all we really gain of earth with all our magic powers, Is what we weave to character, and that is really ours ; It matters little what the world may offer or refuse, It only matters how the gifts that God has given we use. 203 OUR CHARLIE. If life were all, and after death, in lifeless dust we blend, Our lives would not be then as now, a simple means, but end. 'T would be the voice of Wisdom then with all our skill and powers, To - get earth's sweetest cup of bliss and cull her loveliest flowers, And always keep before our eyes this very simple plan, That if we can't get all the world, get all the world we can. But since this is not all of life of which we're here so fond, And all that's really worth the name is that which lies beyond, And could we see and weigh this life through all its changing scenes, 'Twould serve to prove 'tis not an end but only just a means. And all the harvests that we reap of gladness and delight Are incidents of doing things and using things aright ; For if this life were meant for joy and nothing but for this, OUR CHARLIE. 207 God gives the rough material which we're to change to bliss, And e'en the purest, sweetest things, that on our planet grow, We may convert, just as we please, to pleasure or to woe. The farmer ploughs and plants and sows and tills the fertile plain, His object is not ease and joy, but 'tis a crop of grain ; But though the harvest is the end and object of employ, Yet, at each honest blow he strikes, he gets a feast f joy. And when the harvest crowns his toils, the honest fanner still, Who tries to turn it all to joy, will turn it all to ill ; Because the harvest's chief design is not for fun and glee, But life s support, while we prepare for immortality. And if, while feasting on the fruits and drinking from the bowl, We had a feast of reason too and had a flow of soul, 'Twas not alone or chiefly that the viands tasted good, But 'twas because we used them as our father meant we should, 208 OUR CHARLIE. To feed these natures we possess, the earthly and divine, And make them both in harmony grow, develop and combine. But just suppose, among the rest, a savory dish is placed, We dearly love, because it is in harmony with oiu taste ; And though the dish were nutritive and healthful, and combined, In due proportion with the rest for body and for mind, But feast upon that favorite dish too freely and alone, Until a slave to appetite, and health is overthrown, And if the ills that slavery brings break not the oppressor's sway, The last resort of wisdom is to take the dish away. The gifts of God, to bless our race, are every mo ment new, As genial as the beams of heaven and gentle as the dew ; And yet not one of all the train, since this round earth has stood, Has e'er produced, when used by man, its full amount of good, OUR CHARLIE. 209 Till 'tis a truth that man has placed in verity's loft iest niche, That there's more safety in the world in being poor than rich, For human greatness is so weak and human nature such, We always love the things we have, too little or too much ; And when too little, we, alas ! neglect them or abuse, And when too much, we worship them and all the blessing lose ; And when the wisdom that inspects, and never, never errs, Sees what effect each blessing has upon our characters, Sometimes it takes the things away whene'er it deems it best, Sometimes it leaves to let it sting and rankle in the breast ; And blest is he who, having found his dearest idol slain, So acts that from the dreadful loss, he gets a world of gain ; But doubly blest the man who sees his errors and amends, Ere yet the fiat's spoken and the dreadful blow de scends. 14 210 OUR CHARLIE. We loved our children, love them still, and shall for ever love, And hope when parting here below to meet them all above ; And since those snatched from our embrace are safe on yonder shore, We shall not love our children less, but Him who gave them more. Indeed, we cannot love too much, provided it be wise, For in a weak and doating love the real danger lies; The only love for things below that wisdom would applaud, Is that embracing what He gives and reaching up to God. Methinks, we should love everything that God to us has given, Not only for its real worth, but that it came from heaven. If friendship gives, and we despise, whatever the gift is worth, Because we say we should not love the grovelling things of earth, We show a lack of common sense too silly to de fend, OUR CHARLIE. 211 And lack of common gratitude to that kind-hearted friend. The earth was given to us by God to foster and to use, But e'en Religion oft steps up to slander and abuse, And says that earth and everything upon this good round earth : Are only bubbles that will burst and prove they're nothing worth ; O * Nay, worse than that, they're but a load 'neath which the pilgrim bends, And often falls e'en in the path that straight to heaven ascends, And God is told, who gave us earth so perfect and complete, We do not deem it worth a sou and stamp it 'neath our feet ; True, as an end 'tis vanity, the whole there is of earth, But as a means, Eternity can only tell its worth. Earth has enough to show us heaven and teach us o how to win, And life's the time and time enough for us to do it in. O ! then I'll love this beauteous earth, that God has deigned to give, 212 OUR CHARLIE. And love this life as long as God shall deign to let me live ; And whether feasting on his gifts or writhing 'neath His rod, I'll try to love whatever comes, because it comes from God, For O ! I know, if wisely loved, whatever here is given, 'Twill bring a joyous harvest here and blissful one in heaven ; And O ! the more intense we love the blessings He imparts, Intenser love for Him who gave will thrill our grate ful hearts. This theme we ponder day by day, though dimly understood, And ah ! the more we think of it, the more it does us good ; For each successive look emits an extra ray of light, And more and more it serves to show that Provi dence was right ; And when we sigh, " Our boy is gone ! " as we full often sigh, Our faith and thoughts by mutual aid find many a reason why. OUR CHARLIE. 213 The world has grown unnatural now, and he that passes through With comfort and success, alas ! must grow unnatural O too. The social strings that nature made and into harmony wrought Have been by self all disarranged and into discord brought ; The governor of this strange world, with all its light, is self, And pretty much the whole he wants of those he rules is pelf; And were the bonds of social love to keep him from his prey, 'T would take them in its ruthless hands and rend the bonds away, And ravage earth with fire and sword for that old O Tyrant Self, And fill his gaping coffers up with plunder and with pelf, Or on his altar sacrifice e'en happiness and health, To gain that grossest, poorest gift that fortune gives us, wealth. And 'tis to such a world as this, our children must belong, If they are left us long enough to join the motley throng ; 214 OUR CHARLIE. And they must always be with them in all theii tastes and ways, Or else, while mingling with the world, be martyrs all their days ; For though there are who're happy here, who live above the race, They're only those who've giant wills and thrilled by sovereign grace. O ! then when our beloved ones are called away so young, And our sad hearts, at every pulse, in agony are wrung, Some reasons might, at every search, start up before the eye, To show 'twas best, and how 'twas best, our little ones should die ; And though full many a reason be ideal, dim, and crude, 'Tw r ill always do the mourning one a wondrous deal of good. Our blue-eyed boys and black-eyed girls so trusting, pure, and sweet, How would they this unnatural world with all its vagaries meet? How would they battle with the world amidst its noise and strife, OUR CHARLIE. 215 And cut a smooth and pleasant path through rouo-h and stubborn life ? That honeyed sweetness, that distils and captures every heart, Must first grow acid, ere it stands the ferment of life's mart ; That simple trust that in our breasts feels ne'er a throb of fear Must sceptic grow to meet the world so false and insincere ; The guileless heart that loves so well, without one selfish thought, Must love less ardent where it loves, and feign where it does not, And that which Nature made to act so delicate a part Must drop all Nature's pretty ways and use the wiles of art, And for that little tender thing so loving, pure, and sweet, Must be a hardy Ishmaelite in cunning and deceit, Or bundle of affected wit and elegance and grace, And gain by some sly ruse de guerre a victory o'er the race, In fine, to gain the most below and at the least ex- o pense, Must grow far worse than now in fact arid better in pretence. 216 OUR CHARLIE. O ! how the questions will within the weeping bosom start, And throw a shadow or a gleam of sunshine o'er the heart : Would those dear ones, at whom Death's lance has been so rudely hurled, Have e'er been rude and coarse enough to battle with the world ? Or if they would and gained, beside, success's high est prize, Would not the boon have been obtained at too much sacrifice ? Or was there not some unseen taint within the dear one's vein, That would have plagued him all his life and caused a life of pain ? Or moral idiosyncrasy, whose care and cure would ask More thought and skill than we should e'er have given to the task? Were we to search, who've seen cut down our loved ones in their bloom, And laid away like loathsome things within the silent tomb, We might behold the sunlight play among the tears we shed, OUR CHARLIE. 217 And wreathing many a rainbow round the little sleeper's bed ; And should full many a reason find and many a cause espy, Why 'twas a blessed, blessed thing, our little ones should die. * That dAvarf on whom deformity has left so many a trace, We scarce could recognize him as belonging to the race ; That weary cripple tugging on, with crutches or with canes, And who must step and hobble on, with greatest care and pains ; That pallid youth, whom Phthisis now has robbed almost of breath, And kills by inches, dying on a lingering, living death ; That beggar-boy, in filth and rags, the badges that he wears, Who lies and cheats and begs and steals and for the dessert swears ; The tourist in mid-ocean wrecked, beneath an open sky, Where thirst and hunger wring his soul until 'tis sweet to die ; 218 OUR CHARLIE. The soldier, maimed and hacked and bruised, with little left behind, Except a torso with, alas I a shattered heart and mind ; Like those of whom I've sung above and those I might below, Of every grade and every shade of vice and want and woe, Our little ones, had they but lived, might, in the lapse of time, Have been the children of disease and woe and want and crime ; But now love's hand, love's velvet hand, has all in kindness come, And lifted up the tender ones, in all their sweetness, home, Where want and woe, disease and crime, can never more annoy, Nor anything can change or check a single thrill of And if with faith's unclouded eye we take an up ward view, And see as plain as aught on earth the glorious fact is true, The tear would dry, the sigh would hush, and sor row light to joy, To think about our angel girl or more than angel boy. OUR CHARLIE. 219 But when poor weeping self comes in all staggering 'neath the cross, And thinks, with all the pangs it brings, about the dreadful loss, The sigh would swell and heave again, the tears begin to flow, And all the fresh-born happiness be changed again to woe. 'Tis ever thus, when God afflicts to make his own obey, 'Tis self that feels the blow the most, for self has led astray. He never robs the industrious to give the lazy food, And ne'er afflicts the innocent to do the guilty good ; And though He crush our little ones 'neath His almighty arm, He does it often for our good and never for their O harm ; 'Tis but uprooting tender plants in nurseries here below, To set them in a sunnier clime to strengthen, bud, and blow. 'Tis true, God sometimes chastens men not for their good alone, 220 OUR CHARLIE. To plant reform in other hearts as well as in their own ; So kind is He, because He sees the unknown future through, He never chastens more than one, where only one will do. The curses heaped on Arnold's name, with earth's contempt and hate, Have doubtless saved full many a one from both his fame and fate. HOW GOD AFFLICTS. WHEN God afflicts, the blow he deals is very seldom dealt In such a way that 'tis by none but by the victim felt; He seems to want the healing balm affliction can impart, To heal the one at whom He aims and many a kin dred heart ; It seems to be the essence of our Heavenly Father's plan, To strike the blow and use the rod as little as He can ; But when He strikes, 'tis His desire the blessing from the blow OUR CHARLIE. 221 Should do as much and go as far as it can do and go- He made the mind with enginery of plastic power and skill, To spread the healing balm abroad in harmony with His will. Old History takes the record up of folly, tyranny, crime, And hands it on from sire to son adown the course of time ; The social heart takes up the sigh from sorrow's gloomy hearth, And bears the dreadful telegram about the listening earth ; And most of all, the ties of kin, the sweetest here below, Bear on the saddening thrill and melt the hearts to which they go. And thus by all these magic means, and countless thousands more, He sends the balm from heart to heart and wafts from shore to shore ; And all the fruits of Right and Wrong, and good and evil lie As beacon-lights which men and states can guide their actions by ; x And so but one correcting rod and one paternal blow 222 OUR CHARLIE. Suffices to induce reform in many a heart below ; And though chastising, evermore, in Providence will lurk, 'Twill ever be, while time shall last, our Heavenly friend's " strange work." Why should He snatch our little ones from fond affection's arms, When just beginning to put on their most bewitch ing charms? How oft the question will come up, Why should our children die ? And gleams of sunshine often flash and show some reasons why. The little ones so pure and sweet were sent us from above, Dependent for their all below on faithful earthly love ; If faithful, theirs is earthly joy as well as heavenly bliss, If faithless, then the dear ones lose the world to come and this. And then the weeping parent feels, and says it with a sigh, O ! if their all depends on me, 'tis better they should die. There's so much, in my case, of self to censure and condemn, OUR CHARLIE. 223 It shows how much I might have wronged or failed to do for them ; This head of mine and heart of mine and body that I wear, All show the tokens of abuse or lack of skill and care. The honest parent oftentimes, however much he tries, Knows well his vigils will relax and culture grow umvise ; And almost fears, e'en when he tries the very best he can, To train his girl for womanhood, or boy to be a man. 'Tis fearful to receive a soul that God has made and given, And train it so 'tis wretched here and fails to get to Heaven. Why should He take our little ones just sent us from above, Whom we have just begun to aid and just begun to love, And who, themselves, have just begun their infantile employ, To make their little cup of life a little cup of joy ; And while reclining midst the down of love's divine embrace, 224 OUR CHARLIE. Have just begun to think the world a very charming place ? If those dear ones could always in that downy bosom rest, And every breast on which they'll lean would be affection's breast, If fortune would forever smile and never wear a frown, And sickness never plant a pang within that bed of down, And if this world of ours would seem, all through its brief career, As pleasant and as sweet a spot as we esteem it here, Far fewer glimpses of the truth would meet the inquirer's eye, To make the thing a little plain and tell the reason why. The broken fortunes that succeed the hasty heels of gain, The shattered hearts and ruined minds that mingle in the train, The perjured bosoms that invite within their pleasant nests The aching head, and plant a sting within the trust ing breasts, OUR CHARLIE. 225 And countless throngs of ills b aside whose venomed curses ope, And crush the flowers of human joy and blast the buds of hope, All these things come up, every day, to fond Affec tion's eye, And whisper in its listening ear a thousand reasons why. Why should He take our little ones, who've just begun to live The lovely lives that He has deigned mysteriously to give ? If life were all, designed for us, and Jordan's farther bank Were nothing but a gloomy spot or nothing but a blank, We might, indeed, the question ask, and ask it with a sigh, How can a God, whose name is love, bid little chil dren die ? And lesser light than now appears would aid us from above, To show a God who thus decrees can be a God of love. 15 226 OUR CHARLIE. When faith has vital power enough to show our little ones, Just as they are in Paradise upon their little thrones, And see what rapture thrills their hearts within those realms of joy, Without a single moment's pause or tincture of alloy, And see what fair and beautiful and sweet and lovely things, That move around so gracefully upon their golden wings ; Methinks, we should not heave a sigh nor shed a single tear, Nor wish the darlings back again to spend a moment here. Or if a sigh, or if a tear, or if a wish, arise, 'Twould be to have the time arrive to meet them in the skies. If life is but the nursery that God has kindly given, To train up souls, immortal souls, for happiness and Heaven, Why should He snatch our little ones who've just begun to grow To show so much of loveliness and charm our home steads so, OUR CHARLIE. 227 And show in every little bud and every little shoot The infant germs of loveliness and sweetest moral fruit ? If earth were all the paradise where deathless plants may grow, And Heaven were not so genial as this dimmer Heaven below ; Nay, if it were not brighter far and sunnier far than this, For deathless spirits to expand and ripen into bliss, When we stand weeping round their beds to see our dear ones die, We might with reason look to Heaven and ask the reason why. Behold the little infant plants that in their nurseries stand, And shoot aloft so prettily all o'er their native land, 'Tis not the loftiest of these plants, transplanted out of these, That grow the best and look the best and make the nicest trees. The little tender infant plants whose roots are only threads, That cling with but the slightest hold within their native beds, 228 OUR CHARLIE. Uprooted and transported where they're meant to grow to trees, The loveliest, fairest, fertilest, of all the rest, are these. And though a tree may sometimes thrive, removed and set with care, And grow as well as smaller trees, 'tis very, very rare ; And in this moral nursery, Earth, where little spirits come, And form that jewel character and go to Heaven, their home, 'Tis not the loftiest spirits here, most erudite and wise, That make . the brightest, happiest ones, transplanted to the skies. The little one that only lights within this world of ours, And plucks a little gem or, two within its thorny bowers, Flies gayly up to paradise, God's image yet com plete, Untouched by anything below, excepting what is sweet ; For that unsullied excellence that pleases Heaven is not So much the product of how much we gain on earth as what OUR CHARLIE. 229 Achievement, hoAve'er great or small, has merit or has none, Weighed not alone by what we do, but what we might have done. The widow's mite, though so minute, was worthier of regard, Than all the gorgeous charity of any rich Girard; For although millions measured his, the princely gift was small, When weighed against the widow's mite, because she gave her all. And when the little child goes up before the great white throne, With but its little nosegay decked, its little moral one, He'll look as fair and be as sweet and have as much of love As he who wears the proudest wreath of moral flow ers above. With all that wafts a mortal up to yonder realms of light, There's much that presses down again and checks the upward flight; And while we're gathering flowers below to weave our heavenly crown, We're gathering more of earth each day that serves to press us down ; 230 OUR CHARLIE. And though long life cull heavenly flowers, each moment in the way, 'Tis just as sure to find earth's thorns and pluck them every day ; And nought but grace, abounding grace, that guides and checks and warns, Prevents a man from gathering here, instead of flow erets, thorns. O ! yes, methinks, to enter Heaven, for which the ransomed yearn, The aged veteran has much more he must unlearn than learn ; And when he goes to taste the joys that thrill all hearts above, And midst the pure inhabitants to do the work of love, The ugly moral knots and twists, an earthly growth has given, Must be untied and straightened out to enter into Heaven ; But when the little child goes up, all tender, pure, and sweet, And roves the fields of paradise and walks the golden street, A single breath of heavenly love, a single touch of grace, Would every little spot remove and every stain efface ; OUR CHARLIE. 231 No ugly spot or tortuous growth is left on heart or mind, Nor e'en the slightest touch of ill leaves any trace behind. And when to Heaven's pure studies there the new born spirits turn, The little ones have nought to do but set them down and learn, While age so long to errors wed, to earth-born habits given, Must first unlearn and shake them off, ere studying truth in Heaven. The ransomed soul that stays on earth for threescore years and ten, And mingles in the scenes of life among his fellow- men, Must carry through yon, pearly gate, to Heaven's un fading plains, Some little faint dissolving views of moral spots and stains ; Or if not so, if spots and stains that gate forever bars, The ransomed ones, though pure and clear, must carry in the scars. The Man of Sorrows even yet his bleeding wounds displays, The loveliest sight in paradise on which the blessed gaze, 232 OUR CHARLIE. And shall the ransomed, who have been by sovereign love forgiven, Bear no memorial of its power when they appear in Heaven ? O ! yes ; for though in Paradise, that pure and holy place, There'll be no spot or wrinkle there on any child of grace, Methinks, the shadow of the past upon the golden floor Will show, though so angelic now, just what they were before, And then portrayed in all its truth the contrast serves to prove What love has done and at each glance awakes new thrills of love ; But when the little child goes up so pure and fair and sweet, If there's a little shadow falls beneath his merry feet, It must be very faint indeed, it must be very fair, And on the golden pave of Heaven be scarce a blemish there. Beside the rainbow oft is seen a secondary glow, Almost as bright and gay and pure and beautiful a bow, And if beneath our Charlie's feet a shadowy image lies, OUR CHARLIE. 233 It must be like a cherub boy who roves in Para dise; For O ! dear Charlie, though removed to yonder spotless sphere, Thou canst not be much sweeter there and purer there than here. Of all the truths in truth's domain, the richest and the best Is this, that God desires to make his erring children blest ; And as He knows each vital thread of which the soul is wove, And which the one that thrills with hate and which the one with love, And which the little quivering thread that, by His touch inspired, Will call out from the human heart the moral fruit desired, If gold's the weight that keeps us down, the glitter ing prize is riven, And then we plume our lightened wings and sail away to Heaven ; If pleasure is the polar star by which life's tide we stem, He clouds our sky and then we take the star of Bethlehem ; 234 OUR CHARLIE. If children are our idols, O ! He lays them 'neath the sod, And then we have no idol ones between ourselves and God ; And if poor earth is all we want, some pleasant thing is riven, That makes earth seem with all its charms a little less like Heaven ; And .if a single chastisement that God has ever sent Has failed of wakening in the heart the sweet emo tion meant, 'Twas never that He touched a cord unsuited to the thing, But we had got it out of tune or paralyzed the string. The fruit-tree springing from the earth, and from a vigorous root, Will surely bear, if there's no foe to intercept the fruit. The goodness of our God, that drops so sweetly from above, Wakes in the heart, when 'tis in tune, the finest thrills of love ; And yet, though feasting every hour upon his boun ties given, Man is a rebel and a foe to all that's dear to Heaven. OUR CHARLIE. 235 And then, to catch the untuned heart, He wakes a harsher strain, Till the poor sufferer feels the pang and tunes the strings again. Ah ! mourner for a darling child, whom God has called to die, Is there no light from all these thoughts that tells some reasons why? Ah ! look within and read your heart and all its his tory scan, And weigh the changing lights and shades impartial as you can, You'll find, perhaps, since kindness failed to give the blessing sought, He sends, alas ! some chastisement by which the boon was brought; And if this fail, like those before, to bring the golden grain, Beware lest, out of purest love, your Father smite again ; And each successive providence in love's alembic pass j -I May grow r more frequent and intense and crushing to the last. 236 OUR CHARLIE. FAITH. A VOICE from Nature's mellow tongue, a message from above, In accents plain as angels use, proclaim that " God is love," And yet from many and many a crash in Nature's grand career, And many and many a providence that brings a sob and tear, There comes a harsh, discordant voice, there comes a mournful wail, That whisper to the sorrowing heart a very different tale, And Reason, with its boasted skill and boasted power of thought, Is powerless, with its two-edged sword, to cut the Gordian knot. 'Tis true, we feel He must be kind in so much good He's given, And that love sometimes shows its face in His af flictions even, But oftener far, when sorrow comes and wraps us in its pall, We cannot see a hand of love or heart of love at all. OUR CHARLIE. 237 We cannot feel, at such an hour, without the aid of grace, " Behind a frowning providence He shows a smiling face." 'Tis only Faith can purge the heart and make us really feel, The dreadful blow that makes us writhe was only meant to heal, 'Tis only Faith can clear the eye and help us look above, And see through all earth's clouds and storms the truth that " God is love." Until Faith aid, however bright the distant prospect seem, 'Tis but a dim Apocalypse, a very pleasant dream ; But when Faith comes in all its power, and sets its beams in play, The mists disperse, the gloom dissolves, and all is bright as day ; The Heaven to which the pathway leads, in which it bids us go, Seems real, as if just ahead within these realms below. When dear ones die and we, alas! are staggering 'neath the cross, There's nothing in this weary world alleviates the loss ; 238 OUR CHARLIE. The dreadful truth, daguerreotyped in every act and thought, Is that we had an angel once, but now we have him not ; And every act and every look and every vision come And bring the lovely image back, in all its witchery, home ; And then we sit and weep and sigh and ponder and reflect, And call up all the pleasant scenes in life's short retrospect, And howe'er sweet, they've lost the power to make us gay and glad, And ah ! the sweeter they were once, the more they make us sad. We think of days and months and years, all brim ming o'er with joy, Because so filled with sweetness by our darling girl or boy ; But now time lags with snail-like pace, and all looks dark and drear, Because those little messengers of gladness are not here ; And then we think how we were wont to wait and watch and pray, To see new buds of promise swell and blossom every day, OUR CHARLIE. 239 And how \ve daily, fondly hoped, our dear one's pretty name Would sometime stand upon the roll of usefulness and fame ; And then we say, ah ! Halcyon days ! and feel, be cause so bright, Their setting sun has left us 'neath a pall of darkest night ; And then we think of home, sweet home, so Eden- like before, When the young prattlers sang and laughed and scooted round the floor. The song is hushed, the laugh is o'er, and prattler- less each room, And, save poor sorrow's sighs and groans, 'tis silent as the tomb, Far gloomier than it would have been, had it ne'er brimmed with joy, From that enchanting little girl or love-bud of a boy; And then we think of all we did to aid and guide and cheer, To make him good and wise and kind and merry- hearted here, And sometimes fear, however much we tried to aid our son, There mio-ht be acts we did not do, but which we O might have done. 240 OUR CHARLIE. We think how much we watched his health, and fancied all along The course we took to aid and train would make him firm and strong ; But, looking back, we shudder now to think of many a way, By which we might have saved our boy to cheer our home to-day, And sometimes think of many an act in purest kind ness done, We then thought wise, but now we fear it was an unwise one, Or some ungentle deed we did that sudden passion woke, Or some unkind rebuke we made or hasty word we spoke, Or sweet request we thoughtlessly refused our little That might have thrilled with many a sweet, his little cup of joy, Or some indulgence we allowed because he begged us so, We were not wise or firm enough to kindly tell him no ; And so all through the buried past we bid the fancy run, OUR CHARLIE. 241 And gather up the memories of our dear, darling son, And whether to the gay or sad the fancy chance to go, It always brings a keener pang to thrill our cup of w T oe. There's nothing comforts, nothing cheers, and nothing soothes our grief, And silence, like a raven, sits upon life's current leaf; And then AVC call for Reason's aid and bid it look about, And try to make the matter plain and solve each lingering doubt. We think how short is human life, how swift the moments fly, And had he lived however long, how soon he'd have to die, And since time first began to take our daughters and our sons, By far the most of all our graves have been our little ones ; That children drop like Autumn leaves and strew the velvet ground, But Time, that slew, comes like a friend and heals the ghastly wound, That we can see the havoc made by vice, where'er we go, 16 242 OUR CHARLIE. Arid life all pleasant at the first becomes a life of woe ; That ruin, in unnumbered ways, like its great author, roams, And with its heedless chariot-wheels, rides over hearts and homes ; That friendship, the divinest boon that God has sent below, Oft, Judas-like, betrays its friends, and grows our deadliest foe ; That health, that rosy messenger from Heaven, its native bower, Though sent to all, scarce visits one with all its bliss and power ; For when we're breaking Nature's laws, the ruddy goddess flees, For in the train of broken laws there always comes disease, And rebels against Nature will, in one continual strife, Be murdered, piecemeal, inch by inch, at every step through life ; And 'tis a truth exceptionless that never had a pause, That every man's a sufferer from breaking Nature's laws ; That wild Ambition fires the soul to gain the glit tering prize, OUR CHARLIE. 243 It fails, or gaining, finds the joy Ambition promised lies ; That Avarice, unsated fiend, whose rallying cry is " More ! " Makes most, grown richer, every hour feel poorer than before, Till the poor miser, having grown so hollow-eyed and gaunt, Pines on from lack of care and food and dies at length from want ; And appetites and passions swarm like locusts here below, Destroying every pleasant thing and scattering want and woe ; And that gross despot, grovelling sense, with his de basing train, Stands keeping vigil, everywhere, to rivet on his chain. All these, alas ! and myriads more too numerous to be sung, All must encounter every hour who're not promoted young. Thus while with Reason's eagle eye we're passing in review These Scyllas and Charybdes, strown life's fitful journey through, 244 OUR CHARLIE. A momentary thrill of joy is for our solace given, To think our boy escaped them all and landed safe in Heaven ; But O ! 'tis but one ray of light that flashes through the gloom, Unbroken night rebounds again from little Charlie's tomb. The little face that smiled so sweet and made all bright before, Lives but on faithful memory's leaf and in this bosom's core No magic, Reason can bestow, or potence lend the sight, Can make his Heaven seem real gain and make his loss seem right ; 'Tis not till Faith comes kindly in, and with her magic wand, Parts the dim veil 'twixt Heaven and earth and shows us all beyond, And makes us feel so plain we know, without the sense of sight, O ' That what God does, whate'er it be, is good and just and right ; And more than this, when gauged and tried by love's divinest test, Whate'er he does, severe or kind, it must be for the best ; OUR CHARLIE. 245 And when, with faith to aid and guide, we've looked the vision through, Till all the film of doubt is gone and we can feel 'tis true, And God's unerring sovereignty and Heaven's un fading bliss, And that there is an endless life awaits us after this, And when the ties that bind us here shall one by one be riven, The good will feast forever on the endless bliss of Heaven When all these truths, ideal now, shall into real grow, And seem as destitute of doubt as things we see and know, The pang of sorrow that we feel at losing such a boy, When touched by grace, will be but thrills of purest heavenly joy. When captured by the charms of faith, the head and heart unite, And both can banquet at her board with profit and delight, And life and death, disease and health, and loss and gain shall be 246 OUR CHARLIE. The perfect notes when all combined that make Heaven's harmony; Then, when our prattling innocents fly off to yonder shore, And shed the sunshine of their love on home, sweet home, no more, The only sigh of sorrow then from feeling's fount to start, The only pang of anguish then to rend the aching heart, Would be the sigh, would be the tear, would be the pang of pain, That we should never see or hear our darling ones again ; And when we take in all the truth, the sorrow for our boy Is more than paid, a thousand times, with little Char lie's joy ; And when we can lay self aside, though staggering 'neath the rod, And feel the deed was done in love, because 'twas done by God, The God that spread yon dome of blue and pinned it up with stars, That move around in magic dance without mistakes or jars, Who traced the shrubs and trees of earth and beau tified the gems, OUR CHARLIE. 247 By stringing richest jewelry upon their boughs and stems, Who made the boundless universe around, below, above, And wrote upon it everywhere the beauteous motto, "Love;" Or if His wrath, instead of love, appears our hopes to scathe, 'Tis but another formula of heavenly love to faith, Who made these wondrous frames we wear so curi ously wove, These minds of ours to meditate, these hearts of ours to love, And these undying souls within, which, when the body dies, Will live and seek companionship above the starry skies, 'Tis such a God who did the deed, who took our Charlie home, To sing the song and rove the fields above yon starry dome, To study all his wondrous works as spirits do above, And most of all and best of all, the lessons of His love. While thus we look and thus we think and ponder on the act, 248 OUR CHARLIE. And read it with the eye of faith and feel it as a fact; Our bosoms heave with wild delight that He whose name is love Should deem it best that our dear boy should live with Him above, And that 'twould add new thrills of bliss to Heaven's unbounded joy, That Charlie should an angel be, instead of little boy; And that to make e'en Heaven itself, more beautiful and fair, He came to us and took from us our little Charlie there. And now no longer sweetening earth, by his bewitch ing love, He draws us up and makes it sweet to lift our thoughts above, And when we quite forget the past and cast our eyes before, To look with faith's unclouded eye to yonder " shin ing shore," A.nd feel the truth in all its power that it portrays so plain, That there's the spot where we shall meet our little boy again ; Our struggling bosoms leap for joy and we'i-e com pelled to say, OUR CHARLIE. 249 " Fly swifter round ye wheels of time and bring the welcome day." O ! when on prospects such as these our meditations run, The heart looks up brimful of love and says, " Thy will be done." THE PAST. HA ! restless spirit, dost thou yet stand shuddering at the cross, And rove around and weep among the memories of thy loss ? O ! linger still, for much of all the good that we've amassed Has come from lessons that we learned by talking with the past; Success and failure both alike have choicest things to give, And good and bad have wit enough to teach us how to live ; For though along tb.e buried past the wisest ones will throng, There's such a thing as lingering there and studying there too long. The limit of our stay should be to get but just the lore 250 OUR CHARLIE. That may suffice to help us live more nobly than before ; All else were lumber from the past except the moral food, To strengthen minds, to sweeten hearts, and do the spirit good ; But he that lingers in the past, where no sweet floweret blooms, Is sure to be like him at length who dwelt among the tombs. But yet, methinks, the danger is that earth's unthink ing throng Will linger there not long enough far oftener than too long ; And while they're there, their thoughts, alas ! Avill be so vague and crude, They scarcely get a single thing that really does them good, And so there is a double loss that pierces through and through, They lose the darling of their hearts and lose the blessing too. O ! yes, till weary life goes out with all its days and years, We shall go back to Charlie's grave and water it with tears, OUR CHARLIE. 251 And so 'twill keep remembrance fresh and let it not grow dim, For although he's so far from us, we're fast ap proaching him. TEARS. YES, mourning parents bend above your lost one's little bier, There is a spell from Paradise that quivers in a tear, For O ! the tear the heart sends out, all pure and bright and warm, Will melt the soul in tenderness and never do you harm. The struggling soul that finds at last its sins are all forgiven, Ne'er starts, without a flood of tears, upon the road to Heaven. The new-born bliss forgiveness brings, the crystal flood employs, To show the depth and loveliness of its diviner joys, 'Tis better far, our Father says, in his unerring tome, To, be within the mourner's cot than in the revel ler's home ; The haughtiest heart, the proudest heart, the guiltiest heart will melt, 252 OUR CHARLIE. If anywhere where tears are shed and keenest anguish felt; Though Sorrow has a shaft to wound, she has a balm to heal, She has a dreadful pang to bear and pleasant thrills to feel, But never till she's tried her powers and every trial failed, And every bulwark round the heart she could assail, assailed, Does she the sword of justice draw and in the cul prit thrust, Or e'en beneath her vengeful heels she tramples him to dust. O ! Sorrow has a mission here, the sweetest ever given, To melt the heart till it will take the signet seal of Heaven ; But if she fail, with all her powers, to cause the heart to feel, Or fail to soften it enough to take the signet seal, Or if the bosom still remains un thrilled and un de vout, 'Tis that it takes in other things and leaves poor Sorrow out ; O ! then let us let Sorrow in until her mission's through. OUR CHARLIE. 253 And she has done us all the good she has the power to do. Ah! mourner, do not dry your tears, but let them freely flow, For from so pure a crystal fount the sweetest flower ets grow ; O ! check them not, the tears will cease when Sor row's work is o'er, And 'twould not benefit the heart to stay a moment more. 'Tis true she tarries longer where she's kindly asked to stay, And where the heart communes with her and hears her every day, But, then, she'll plat a crown for him and take away the cross, And leave a gain enough to pay a thousand times the loss ; And round the wounded spirit's brow entwine a gar land, wove Of faith and hope, and that bright gem, the best and greatest, love. 254 OUR CHARLIE. SABBATH-SCHOOL INCIDENT. 'TwAS in the little Sabbath School where Charlie used to go, And he was seldom absent there, because he loved it so, And though as merry as a lark through all the live long day, And foremost in the merry ring whene'er they met for play ; And if in farce or comedy, whichever part he bore, He always acted well his part and always caused a roar; And when he wore his soldier-hat or took his sword or gun, He made, for one as small as he, a great amount of fun ; And old or young or grave or gay or lively or severe, Were always glad, exceeding glad, to see our boy appear ; For it was known to every one who knew our dar ling son, Where'er he came that there would be some pure good-natured fun ; For Charlie had a fund of sense and fund of mother wit, OUR CHARLIE. 255 And often made a sage remark and oft a happy hit, And home, our home, was never made so gayly to rejoice, As when it rung from room to room with little Charlie's voice ; But though a merrier boy than he you'd find not, if you search, He was a perfect model boy at Sabbath School and Church : His open manly countenance and smiling cheerful face Seemed always quite in harmony with business, time, and place, And never did our darling son, in act or word or air, Commit the slightest breach of right or strict decorum there ; And when he saw a boisterous boy or thoughtless girl depart From rules of strict propriety, it always pained his heart, And many a time his mild blue eye ran o'er with tears, alas ! When some rude girl or ruder boy disturbed the little class. It was the last fine Sabbath-day, when Charlie was to meet 250 OUR CHARLIE. The last fleet hour that he, alas ! would occupy that seat ; Intently as the busy bee the rosy nectar sips, He'd drunk in every thought and word that left the i/ teacher's lips ; He'd heard the girls their hymns repeat, the boys their lessons say, And when the teacher knelt in prayer, he knelt with her to pray ; And when the little boys and girls had sung their pleasant airs, He joined his rich and mellow voice in sweet accord with theirs, O ! never was a happier boy, we always used to say, And never was he happier than he was that Sabbath- day. Their business now was almost done, the session almost o'er, But 'twas their custom ere they went to sing a little more, When Charlie said, " Please let us sing, Miss Spear, before we go, ' I want to be an angel,' for I love to sing it. so." 'Twas sung, and his sweet mellow voice helped sing the favorite strain, OUR CHARLIE. 257 He sang, but with that little choir he never sang again ; He had his wish, a few weeks more and all earth's ties were riven, And Charlie was an angel-boy among the blest in Heaven. It is not strange a little child, who dearly loved to sing, Should choose that favorite little air, for 'tis a charm ing thing ; But when I think its words and thoughts and honeyed notes combined Were so in harmony with his pure and gentle heart and mind ; It is a very pleasant thought that when he took his flight From that retreat of innocence so brimming with delight, He went off singing, as he flew, the same sweet melody, "I want to be an angel," and he went to Heaven to be, And then, methought, on new-born wings, I saw our Charlie soar, And enter through the pearly gates upon the golden floor, 17 258 OUR CHARLIE. Still singing, but a little changed to suit the spirit- land, " I am a little angel-boy and with the angels stand." INCIDENT. His little sister and himself were at their usual play, And Charlie seemed more learned and wise than was his wont that day : He talked of secular affairs as wisely as before, And then began to show his fund of theologic lore ; He talked of earth and sea and air and of the starry sky, And how God hung the curtain up and pinned it up so high ; He told her how God made the world and told how long it took, And how, before 'twas finished quite, old chaos used to look; He told her how He scooped the bed and put the ocean there, And how He makes the lightnings flash and bellow through the air ; He told her how he formed the sun and made it look so bright, OUR CHARLIE. 259 And how He put in gas enough to furnish earth with light ; He told her how He made the moon and hung it in the air, And how and why He made the man who's always sitting there ; He cleared up all the mysteries how man was made and why, And what they'll be and where they'll go, when they shall come to die. For Charlie, in Theology, was just as orthodox In all his views of sacred truth as Calvin, Huss, or Knox, And when his logic failed to bring the true solution O O out, He always had another way by which to solve the doubt. He told her God had power enough to lift this world and all, And toss it in the air as we can toss a rubber ball ; He told her nothing here below was from his knowl edge hid, And God could see the smallest act that anybody did, And all the marvels he could tell or wondrous things could say, 260 OUR CHARLIE. He told his sister while she sat and listened on that day, And Helen heard him talk and talk, till she was almost awed, To hear him talk so learnedly about God's works and God, And said to Charlie, leaning on her elbow on the 7 O floor, As if she never even dreamed he knew so much before, " How is it, Charlie, that you know (and here she gave a nod) So much as you have told about the works of God and God?" And Charlie answered gravely as a judge upon the bench, "I do not know, except it be because I've studied French." CHARLIE AT THE COMMUNION. 'TWAS one of those sweet Sabbath-days when those that love the Lord Are wont to gather round His board obedient to His word, When none but those who think they've met a Saviour from above OUR CHARLIE. 261 Are wont to come and gladly take the symbols of His love, And Charlie to his mother said, as sweet as cherubs say, " Dear Mamma, let me go with you and sit with you to-day." " But 'tis Communion," she replied, " when children all retire ; No sermon's given nor organ played nor singing by the choir." " But let me go, for Christ, you know, bade little children come, And I'd much rather go with you than stay, alas ! at home." And so we went, and Charlie went, all sparkling with delight, And watching every word and act throughout the simple rite ; And when they prayed, he joined in prayer, and when they sung, he sung, And when the pastor rose and spoke, he on each accent hung. O ! how he watched the minister while breaking up the bread And pouring out the sacred wine which looked so pure and red ! 262 OUR CHARLIE. And when they took the bread and wine, how calm he looked to see, And seemed as if he wished to say, O ! is there none for me ? It seemed as if his little heart was perfectly in tune With what a Christian's ought to he when going to commune. And so delighted Charlie was, that when we went away, He said, " Dear Mamma, let me come on each Com munion-day, I love to sit with you, Mamma, upon that little seat, For everything appears so calm and everything so sweet ; I hope that you will always let your little Charlie come, 'Tis so much sweeter staying here than 'tis to stay at home." And when assured that he might come, I can't de scribe the joy That wreathed the face and lit the eye of our beloved boy. Ah ! little dreamed we, that when next around that festal board We should sit down to celebrate the sufferings of our Lord, OUR CHARLIE. 263 The little cherub at our side would from our hearts be riven, And sit down sweetly at the side of Him he loved in Heaven. We thank thee, Heavenly Father, for the honor Thou hast done, To let our only son sit down beside thine only Son. Seems this a trifle to our minds? it seems not so to ours, 'Tis one of sweet remembrance's enchanting little flowers ; It is a flower that never fades, but which unceasing gives A SAveet aroma to the heart as long as memory lives ; And this delightful incident will ever serve to show That Charlie's heart was tuned for Heaven, while he was here below ; And howe'er gay and full of fun when in a merry mood, He dearly loved to be among the gentle, pure, and good. And now on each Communion-day, when gathered at our place, 264 OUR CHARLIE. The little fellow seems to come and show his smiling face; And as we take the bread and wine that show a Saviour's love, We long sometimes to take them new with our dear boy above, And think if 'twere so sweet below to sit beside us even, What ecstasy 'twill be for us to sit with him in Heaven. CHARLIE AT ST. PETER'S. THE one who's been beyond the sea and travelled and explored The almost countless realms that deck old Europe's checker-board, Will ne'er forget how, everywhere as busily as bees, Officials used to hail him with "Your passports, if you please." And if a city was in sight or village came in view, A passport only oped the gate and let the traveller through ; And when he entered a hotel for food or sleep or ease, Ere getting either, he must hear, " Your passport, if you please." OUR CHARLIE. 265 And if beneath Italian skies and midst Italian scenes, He went to see with curious eye what all her magic means, He found almost at every turn official beggars stand, And crying, " Passport, if you please," thrust out the eager hand. And little Charlie had seen this repeated o'er and o'er, Since first he set his little foot upon a foreign shore, Until he almost thought that when two persons came in sight, A passport was the only thing to make the meeting right. 'Twas when our tour was lengthened out and reached as far as Rome, That we, one day, were roving round beneath' St. Peter's dome ; Our little boy and little girl were gayly running o'er From side to side, from end to end, upon the mar ble floor, While lookincr a t the wonders there, stood little O groups around, Who felt, if 'twas not holy, it was really magic ground. 266 OUR CHARLIE. A man of dignified address and very lofty mien, Apart, of course, from all the rest, was in the tran sept seen, And any one, with half an eye, would know him from that isle, Where 'tis a sin to crack a joke and ungenteel to smile, And worse than all a thousand times, where he might chance to go, To look at one or talk with one whose rank he did not know. But Charlie, never noticing such trivial things as these, Stepped up to him and gently said, " Your passport, if you please." Sir Dignity looked round surprised, but as he saw the child, With pleasure flashing in his eye, Sir Buckram really smiled, And, without knowing what he was, a peasant or a peer, He said, " My boy, to tell the truth, I have no pass port here." i Is this a trifling incident ? O ! nothing can be truer, But 'twas a pleasant beam of light that beautified our tour ; 267 And it will be a retrospect that ne'er will cease to give A thrill of pleasure to our hearts as long as we shall live, That, with his sunny, merry face, our Charlie could beguile, And melt a frigid Englishman until compelled to smile. WHERE IS HEAVEN? WHERE is that fadeless Paradise where God has built His throne ? ' And where He sits in majesty approachless and alone ? The contemplative soul looks up and, with a heart-felt sio;h, O ' Attempts to fancy where it is within the starry sk 7 And sad bereavement, with its tears all gushing down its eyes, Cries, Tell me where my dear ones are, O ! where is Paradise ? They tell me Heaven is full of love and running o'er with joy, And bliss ecstatic is the fruit of its divine employ, 268 OUR CHARLIE. And beauty reigns without alloy all o'er the happy place, And every form of loveliness and every form of grace, And they that rove around the realm are unre strained and free, And are as happy and content as blessed ones can be, And it may be that this and all God teaches should suffice, Till we get there, to know about the things of Paradise ; Yet wounded spirits, from whose hearts beloved ones are riven, And who have gone, they feel assured, to happiness and Heaven, Will ask themselves, will ask the learned, will ask the Book of Love, O ! where is Heaven, that blissful place, within the realms above ? The mother, when her only son has gone away to roam, Feels very anxious till she knows that he has found a home, And yet her anxious hopes and fears have not their mission done, OUR CHARLIE. 269 Until assured her son has found a sweet and happy- one, Nor then is free from anxious thought and many a fear and care, She wants to know not only what that sweet home is, but where ; Then with the map upon her knee, the mother ceases not, Until she's searched it through and through and found the very spot, And then one less uncertainty being left her to annoy, She plants herself upon that spot and looks upon her boy; So, when our dear ones flee away and we, with tear ful eyes, Look up and try, alas ! to trace the travellers to the skies, We feel intensest thrills of joy, if, in the starry air, We can select some azure spot and feel that Heaven is there; Then 'twould be easier with that point in yonder blue arch given, Upon imagination's wings to speed our flight to Heaven. The glittering hosts that gem the sky beneath the swelling arch 270 OUR CHARLIE. Are, day by day and night by night, forever on the march, And planets, stars, and satellites appear to shoot and % Around one common central point, far distant in the sky; And though around each central sun, its own fair planets move, And satellites their planets gird, each in its destined groove, Yet every bright and central star, with all its glit tering train, Is sailing round the centre of God's limitless do main, And there, methinks, (it must be so,) amidst the starry skies, Right in the centre of it all, must be that Paradise. And there Omnipotence sits down upon His great White Throne, And holds each globe within its orb unaided and alone, And though in millions far too great for finite minds to read, And sailing some at snail-like pace and some at light ning speed ; And though their orbs run every way, like huge eccentric things, OUR CHARLIE. 271 As though all space were rudely piled and filled with golden rings, Yet though these orbits cross and twine in countless shapes and ways, And form to every eye, but God's, a giddy, tangled maze, And though these heavenly travellers fly, within their several spheres, In rounds that take sometimes a month, sometimes ten thousand years, And comets, rocket-like, shoot out among those countless orbs, Without one jar, although their flight a thousand years absorbs, Yet not one single satellite, one planet, or one star Has e'er received, since they began, one unintended J ar > And beauty and sublimity, enchanting and divine, Start forth in all their loveliness, whene'er they sail or shine. And thus God sits in majesty within that happy place, The centre of uncounted worlds that fill unbounded space ; And that unfading Paradise is, O! how sweetly! wove 272 OUR CHARLIE. Of everything in all these worlds the happy dwell ers love, And whatsoe'er is beautiful and good and sweet and fair In all these worlds that sail around, its archetype is there ; And when the good from all these spheres go up to swell Heaven's host, They'll find the things they loved within their native planets most. And there the Triune God sits down, its centre and its soul, And sees each atom and each world throughout the boundless whole, While round him in ecstatic groups the white-robed spirits stand, His ransomed children, all safe home, within the promised land. STUDIES OF HEAVEN. COME, mourner, come, and let us on Imagination's wings Sail up, alighting midst this host, before the King of Kings ; OUR CHARLIE. 273 Where'er you look, above, below, or at each angle round, Majestic beauty, grandeur, grace, fill full the hallowed ground ; See how the globes in graceful curves of faultless beauty move, Each rolling on in majesty in its aerial groove, In curves of every shape and size that Mathematics sweeps, With speed as various in degree as wondrous Motion keeps. And yet, O ! how harmoniously they shoot and float and roll, Without a single jar or clash throughout the bound less whole ! And how the gorgeous spectacle, evolving something new, Brings out of this unbounded maze new mazes into O view ! And change on change shall never cease all through the magic whole, While long eternity shall through its endless cycles roll, And never through eternal years just such a scene as this Shall meet the gaze of those that look from that sweet home of bliss. 18 27 4 OUR CHARLIE. For lo ! the scene is shifting yet, e'en while we stand and gaze, And now and now and now and now evolves a new- formed maze ; And now the great Artificer, perhaps, holds out His hand, And out of nothing forms a world of air and sea and land, And hurls it out among the rest without endanger ing one, In graceful curve within the sphere of its predestined sun, In just the right direction sent and right momentum given, To have it lodge within the path designed for it in Heaven, And then, perhaps, a silver moon which, from his fingers hurled, Flies out and takes its destined path around its des tined world, Or. golden ring that sails away exactly where 'tis sent, Till it begirts, like Saturn's ring, the world for which 'twas meant ; And soon as these new bodies gain their stations in the sky, And in their new-born orbits have begun to sail and fly, OUR CHARLIE. 275 The starry hosts all o'er His realms the song of wel come sing, And all his children shout for joy till Heaven's old arches ring. And so the Godhead every day bids novel magic start, With some new thoughts to fill the mind, with some new thrills, the heart ; The groupings of created things, so changing to the view, Are constantly regrouping and producing something new, And new creations, every hour, meet their admiring gaze, Each, grand, and making still more grand the uni versal maze ; And when our lost ones leave poor earth, on angel- wings they soar, And love-attracted gayly light on that enchanting shore ; There everything Jehovah does His happy children view, Both when he groups created things and when creat ing new. He shows them how that wondrous power that New ton sought, and found 276 OUR CHARLIE. Draws everything to everything the universe around ; He shows them each phenomenon in Nature's wide domain, That sages sought and toiled to find, but sought and toiled in vain ; And how the little tiny seed, dropped heedless in the earth, Is made to warm and swell and burst and gayly start to birth ; And how all over Nature's face, in garden, field, and grove, Each little fibrous thread is spun and into foliage wove ; And how each thing that vegetates, whate'er the species be, Has just the leaf, in form and size, of such a plant or tree ; And how each opening bud, when kissed by air and sun and dew, Expands, like its own kindred flower, in fragrance, shape, and hue ; And how the tints awaked to life that on the petals blush, Are always just the tints and hues belonging to that bush; And how, although the queenly rose has countless tribes and castes, OUR CHARLIE. 277 The normal idiosyncrasy through each gradation lasts ; And how each plant and tree and flower, when touched by human skill, Grows fairer, lovelier, sweeter far, and healthier for each thrill ; And how it is that every blow that well-aimed effort gives, In fairer forms and lovelier charms and sweeter fruitage lives. He teaches all the lofty truths that learned chemists teach, And all those grander, loftier ones, that lie beyond their reach ; And what the powers in Nature's own great labor atory lurk, And what the wonders they produce and how the wonders work. He shows them all the higher truths the Mathe matics solve, And those, to us, high mysteries that Numbers can evolve ; And how the Science, so sublime when only viewed- as man's, Mounts up to those sublimer heights by which God acts and plans. 278 OUR CHARLIE. He shows them those mysterious frames they used on earth to fill, And all that seems so marvellous in beauty, strength, and skill ; And how, although so curious made, a sluggish lump of clay The living spirit entered in, and set it into play; And how the heart, with giant power, sends out the purple flood, To carry to each atom there its own appropriate food ; And how it is the unseen soul its own ideals sends. Until they come out real from the actor's finger- ends; And how the soul's imaginings are vitalized and flung, In all their vast variety, from off the plastic tongue ; And how one soul its magic flings like odors from a flower, Until another spirit, thrilled, obeys the charmer's power. He tells them why He let the fiend within young Eden go, And sow within its virgin bowers the seeds of sin and woe ; OUR CHARLIE. 279 And why as long as earth shall roll He lets the seed be sown, So that not one forevermore should get to Heaven alone. He tells them why His love permits a vicious squalid home To curse earth's unborn innocents for centuries yet to come ; And why the father's eating grapes should, like a stubborn wedge, Pierce down through future years and set the chil dren's teeth on edge; Why He permits the ignorant sire neglect the tender minds, And the poor children live and die, coarse and unlet tered hinds ; And why the vicious home has power, with its pes tiferous breath, To scatter 'mong the coming crowds disease and ~ < ~ J shame and death. He tells them how that sacred book, in which are kindly given The most we know of endless life and all we know of Heaven, Whose spirit must inspire before a single human breast 280 OUR CHARLIE. Can throb within that home of joy where all are good and blest, Is yet a Book unknown to most, unless 'tis kindly brought By those who very seldom do one duty as they ought ; And why it takes, to publish it to earth's remotest coast, The sacrifice of self and gold, two things we love the most. He shows them what the reason why the wealth and joys of earth Are scattered, it would almost seem, inversely as man's worth ; He shows them why earth's good and ill, like shower and sunshine fall, Without respect to character and equally on all ; And why the moral tares and wheat are left alike to grow, Although the yellow harvest be all dwarfed and blasted so ; And why He lets 'the monster death in freak and frenzy slay Whome'er he meets or wheresoe'er he meets them in the way ; And, like a maniac, fiercely hurl his poison-pointed lance, OUR CHARLIE. 281 As if entirely purposeless or hurling it by chance ; And why, lest human science should succeed to thwart His skill, He has a thousand, thousand ways, his mission to fulfil ; And why, unlike the serpent, which alarms before it springs, The monster oft gives no alarm until he plants his stings ; And like rude boys that club and stone the ripened fruits and green, He smites down infancy and age and at each hour between. He tells them why the world lived on with but a flickering flame, For full four thousand years and more before Messias came ; He shows the leaden power of guilt upon the fallen race, And how it is the weight drops off, when touched by sovereign grace ; He shows how Love can bring pure gold from only worthless dross, And make clear sunshine chase away all mystery from the cross ; And this must be - methinks it must the sweetest scene above, 282 OUR CHARLIE. The centre of the beautiful, the centre of all love, Round which the ransomed oftenest group, on which they oftenest gaze, And out of which draw deepest draughts of rapture and amaze. He tells them how the voice of prayer, when wafted up to Heaven, Brings down, to soothe the sorrowing heart, the welcome word " forgiven," And prayer, around whose workings here such mid night mysteries steal, Which human logic cannot solve but ransomed hearts can feel, Though hooted here by human wit, will prove the brightest gem Of all the bright and glittering ones in love's grand diadem ; An angel brighter than the train that on their mis sions wait, It takes the heart's petitions up and opes the pearly gate. There's mystery writ on all below, whate'er the object be, And there's no greater, mistier one in all the world than we ; OUR CHARLIE. 283 'Tis strown all o'er the outer world and in each sense that finds, And there's a mystery in the way it takes it into minds, And mystery in the processes by which we take the whole, And change it into nutriment to feed the deathless soul ; And mystery on mystery would all earth's joys derange, Were 't not that familiarity wears off whate'er is strange. But up in yonder world of bliss, as in this world below, There are, and always will be, things the spirits do not know, But fast as they can master truth and go to some thing more, The Heavenly Teacher lifts the veil and helps the truth explore, And long as God's eternal years shall through their cycles sail, Truth shall be ever throwing off her dark mysterious veil, And fast as spirits can move on in progress's swift career, The mists and clouds that veil the truth will melt and disappear. 284 OUR CHARLIE. Were I to paint a paradise in sucli a world as this, That would produce the sweetest kind and greatest sum of bliss, 'Twould be where all that walk its bowers are pol ished and refined, And there is one perpetual feast to feed the heart and mind ; Not one all smoking on the board, all ready and pre pared, Without one effort of a guest by whom 'tis to be shared, But which the guest must dig and reap, and gather, cull, and glean, And after doing all the rest attend to the cuisine. Where'er we mingle with the race, we always find it true, That they are not the happiest ones who have the least to do ; And human progress does not move so merrily and fleet, Where man has little else to do except to pluck and eat. 'Tis not beneath the warmest sun nor in the gayest zone, OUR CHARLIE. 285 Where Nature lias, with liberal hand, her choicest blessings strown, Where with the least amount of work and least amount of care, The dwellers have enough to eat and all they want to wear, 'Tis not in such a sunny clime, in such a gorgeous place, That we should seek and hope to find the noblest of the race. The chilly air and rocky shore and sterile vale and hill, Which Agriculture's hardy sons inspire, subdue, and till, - 'Tis there the one who goes and seeks by far the oftenest finds The healthiest frames, the purest hearts, the loftiest, strongest minds. The normal state of haughty man, though at crea tion's head, Is this, that every man below must work and earn his bread ; And not a man, from Adam down, whate'er his sta tion be, Has broke the law and yet escaped the solemn pen alty. The worker gets a feast from both, the banquet and o employ, 286 OUR CHARLIE, The idler, too, may get his bread, but lose the extra jy; No matter what the man possess, a hovel or a throne, God's choicest blessings never fall upon an idle drone. O ! in that upper Paradise where Charlie's living now, With his SAveet harp within his hand and crown upon his brow, I know there must be all they want for one per petual feast, Enough of what the loftiest want, enough of what the least; But yet I do not think the feast smokes on the table there, Without, upon the feaster's part, a single thought or care. I do not think that God permits a drivelling moral drone, To take a seat beside His board or bow before His throne, From that blest fund where all they need and all they wish is given, The spirits get a full supply to banquet on in Heaven ; OUR CHARLIE. 287 But yet, to get the richest feast in those enchanting bowers Requires the constant exercise of all the spirit's powers. I love to think that my dear boy, at every step above, Finds some ne\v truth to think about and some new thing to love, And, unlike China's Buddhist Priests, who think the height of joy Is where there's not one wave of thought nor ripple of employ, My Charlie, in his home of bliss, at every step and turn, Finds some new beauty to admire and some new truth to learn, And that his little crystal mind, so active and so bright, Is ceaselessly expanding there and gathering skill and might ; And that kind heart, so sweet below, grows sweeter far above, Where everything it feeds upon is beauty, goodness, love ; And as he goes from truth to truth and lifts the c5 sable pall, 288 OUR CHARLIE. That mystery throws o'er virgin ore, he understands it all; And from the crude materials in Beauty's circling arms, The sweet inventor hourly weaves fresh novelties and charms. Dear boy, while bee-like flitting round in Heaven from gem to gem, He gets the sweetest nectar from the Rose of Beth lehem ; He recollects the story well, without a comma's loss, About that wondrous, wondrous Babe that suffered on the cross ; He'd seen the little Jesus oft beneath St. Peter's dome, He'd seen Him in the Vatican and every church at Rome ; He'd seen him almost everywhere that He had been to search, In almost every gallery, and palace, tower, and church ; And when returning home again, our merry little one Still saw that same mysterious Madonna and her son ; OUR CHARLIE. 289 And now the very central charm of that enchanting scene Is that same Babe of Bethlehem, that humble Naz- arene. The Man of Sorrows, who alone the dreadful wine press trod, Is now the central point in Heaven, enthroned a very God ; And though His tender bosom here was wont to throb with joy, Whene'er he heard us tell the tale of Mary and her boy, Yet now that he beholds the child on glory's topmost height, His throbbing bosom overflows with wonder and O delight ; But when he sees that Heaven itself, that piire and happy place, Has not a charm, but lo ! it is the radiance from His face, And as, if yonder glorious sun were blotted from its sphere, 'Twould blot out every pleasant thing of love and beauty here, So should that Blest One veil His face or from the scene remove, There would be nothing left to charm and nothing left to love ; 19 290 OUR CHARLIE. And thus from Charlie's mild blue eyes the tears of rapture run, That he can rove that glorious place with Mary's spotless son. And so upon the wings of thought we daily mount and fly, And view the scenes of Paradise with .Faith's de lighted eye ; And if we find a ray of light from some undoubted v source, That might direct the mind aright in its aerial course, We take it with a grateful heart, all brimming o'er with joy, And fly on buoyant wings aloft to find our sainted boy. God has some shining rays of truth about Heaven's glories given, And out of these we try to weave our little Charlie's Heaven ; And as his pure and tender heart is graven on our mind, And every pleasant angel-trait is in our memories shrined, We have materials all supplied to paint his home of OUR CHARLIE. 291 And midst its groves and in its bowers, our little cherub boy ; And often as we think and gaze in meditative mood, It never seems to do us harm, it always does us good. IS IT A BLESSING TO HAVE HAD SUCH A BOY AND THEN LOST HIM? WHEN the pure love-flake fell from Heaven, what rapture filled the heart ! When it dissolved and rose again, how very keen the smart ! That smart is rankling in our hearts with all its anguish still, And has the rapture in our breasts forever ceased to thrill? We never shall forget the pangs while we remember aught, And shall the rapture at the gift be evermore for got? O ! no, the rapture that he gave, and still his mem ory gives, Will live and thrill our hearts as long as he that woke it lives. 292 OUR CHARLIE. But the keen anguish from the blow that rent the ties in twain Will only throb a few short years till we shall meet again ; And thus the bliss excels the woe from Charlie's birth and death, As much as long eternity exceeds a fleeting breath. THE BLESSING. THE gentle clews of eventide that sail so soft below, That light on every living thing and set it all aglow, That string with pearls the blades of grass and set the leaves with gems, And crown the velvet shrubs and trees with spar kling diadems ; And when the morning sun comes up and Nature looks as fair As if an angel had been down and scattered jewels there, The glittering dew-drops, solar-kissed, on new-born pinions rise, And while we're gazing, disappear and seek their native skies ; The day-god kissed, and up they rose on tender new born wing, OUR CHARLIE. 293 But did not bear the blessing off that they had come to bring, The velvet verdure, dew-kissed, has a greener man tle o'er, And every floweret wears a smile diviner than before ; And could that landscape tell its thanks, 'twould all the summer through Keep singing every day and night how much it owes the dew ; So, like a genial drop of dew sent sweetly from above, Our Charlie came, a precious gem, to fill our hearts with love, So sweet, the love-beams from his face made happi ness more bright, And fringed each cloud of sorrow with a more than golden light ; And most our hearts were thrilled by his, so pure and so refined, And our minds brightened daily with the brightness of his mind, And as the florist grows more pure by talking with the flowers, So from sweet converse, day by day, his spirit sweetened ours. 294 OUR CHARLIE. But God looked down, we thought He frowned, but now we know he smiled, And sent some little cherubs down to bear aloft our child ; And, like a crystal drop of dew, kissed by the morn ing sun, Unseen by all but angel-eyes, sailed up our darling one ; And so the love-beams from his face have vanished quite away, But not a single little thrill he ever set in play ; And home, e ? en now, though full of tears, has many a gem of joy, The fruits of those few fleeting years so hallowed by our boy ; And although frailties, errors, stains, will with our pleasures come, Among the dear and pleasant things that cluster in our home, Yet if a heavenly visitant should in our home ap pear, Methinks he'd say, from what he saw, " An angel has been here." Our very beings and our boy's have so together grown, He'd find, perhaps, some traits of his transplanted to our own ; OUR CHARLIE. 295 And as the air all odorless breathes through earth's lovely bowers, And then comes out and passes on all redolent of flowers, So would he find that our sweet home wears a more charming air, Because our little sainted boy left so much sweet ness there : He'd see in oil and photograph, in many a hallowed place, The picture of a little boy with just the sweetest face ; And v though its archetype not here in our domestic bowers, He'd, by its very features, know the little one was ours. He looks within our heart of hearts and on his little throne, Sees, midst the life-throbs fluttering there, our sainted little one ; And many a little pleasant thing that visitant would trace Back to that charming little boy that wore that pleasant face. O ! yes, as long as we shall live, 'twill be a source of joy, That God, though for so short a time, gave us so sweet a boy ; 296 OUR CHARLIE. And if we ever reach the skies with all our sins forgiven, And look to see what angel 'twas attracted us to Heaven, 'Twill be the one who came to earth and won us by His love, And then flew up attracting us to follow him above. FRUITS OF AFFLICTION. How sweet the fruits of grief can be within the humble breast, How Sorrow can, if used aright, make its recipient blest ! Affliction's rude, untender hand, if we but kiss the rod, Grows velvet, as we grasp it tight, and leads us up to God ; But e'en the softest hand she has grows calloused to the one Who will not say or try to say, " Thy will, O God, be done." God's yoke is easy to the neck, and burden it is light To those who freely take them up and wear and bear them right, OUR CHARLIE. 297 While those who will not take the yoke, nor yet the burden bear, Will have more crushing loads to take and galling chains to wear; For oftener upon sorrow's wings than gladness' wings we fly, And light among the ransomed ones above the starry sky. Prosperity, Calypso-like, with all its merry cheer, Oft captivates the noblest minds and firmly chains them here ; Affliction smites, and then we learn how impotent is earth, And then we feel that we must seek for things of nobler worth ; And then we find how wise He was, more plainly every day, Both when He gave the little gem and took the gem away, The giving and the taking both are tokens of His love, To show how charming, even here, the spirits are above ; And if so happy even here 'twas almost death to part, What bliss 'twill be in Heaven to live, united heart to heart. 298 OUR CHARLIE. DO SPIRITS VISIT US HERE? Is it a myth of some wild bard that unseen spirits walk Among old scenes, and with old friends in sweet communion talk ? And though we know not, while immersed in trials, toils, and cares, Our wearied spirits oftentimes are soothed and calmed by theirs ; And when, 'midst doubts and fears, alas! through devious ways we grope, They come unseen, but not unfelt, and whisper joy and hope. Time was, so says the Book of God, when spirits did appear, And held communion with their friends who still were lingering here ; And that the spirits come to earth and mix with mortal men Is not a whit more difficult in modern times than then. When through the senses that we use for all life's work below, A record's made on memory's scroll, it ne'er will let it go, OUR CHARLIE. 299 And when life's fitful dream is o'er, and we depart at last, 'Twill still, in every tracery, bear the record of the past. Each sense will die, whene'er the work of this fleet life is through, For in the life beyond the tomb there's nought for it to do ; For every power of all the powers that go to make a soul Will be as fresh and bright as now, while endless ages roll, Nay, more than that, more fresh and bright, more vigorous and devout, At every forward step it takes or problem it works out. God makes us social beings here with interests inter wove, I do not think 'twill be so here and not be so above ; This world would be a dreary place, if insulated each, And no electric spark of love from heart to heart could reach, And Heaven would be no Paradise and Paradise no Heaven, Were that electric current which unites the spirits riven ; 300 OUR CHARLIE. Communings here from soul to soul are made to ebb and flow Through those mysterious unseen ducts called senses here below, These, like the ducts of proud old Rome, all wrecked and ruined, spread O'er earth's campagna where repose her silent moul dering dead ; But when a spirit freed from earth a sister spirit meets, And holds sweet converse as they walk along the golden streets, They need no sense to go between to bring and carry thought, For truth is automatic where rude matter holds it not. The spirit here, within its clay, gets snugly out of view, And through the senses, sends abroad the false as well as true, But there, transparent as the air, if falsehood brings a mote, The dullest soul in Paradise can plainly see it float, And, therefore, 'tis a metaphor we utter when we say, That beings with each other talk within the realms of day ; OUR CHARLIE. 301 The spirits up in Paradise are what they seem to be, For character, and nothing else, those blessed beings see. If spirits have to tell their thoughts or others know them not, Then there, as here, there's such a thing as coun terfeiting thought; And so among those happy ones that through those mansions flit, There may be those, as here below, who play the hypocrite. If spirits are above the sky transparent as the light, And every moral lineament is all portrayed to sight, Will it not follow that among the good and great and blest, Whate'er one knows is known and seen and felt by all the rest ? Go to that wondrous thing of Art by Raphael's pen cil traced, The brightest, sweetest, richest gem of all earth's works of taste ; The slightest glance reveals the fact that 'tis a gem of Art, That, once imprinted, always charms and captivates the heart; 302 OUR CHARLIE. But he that drinks in all its charms must come and come and come, And new discoveries every day are added to the sum ; And though each charm was e'en at first as open to the view, We had to gaze, how oft ! and long before we saw it through. In Heaven, no less than on the earth, there must be different grades, And acquisitions even there of different hues and shades ; For though transparent as the air, e'en to its finest thread, They cannot learn the lesson there unless the les son's read, Like the chef d'oeuvre of Raphael's brush, or like a learned book, They can't be mastered by a glance or by a hasty look. One hour of social converse with the spirit of Saint Paul Would show a thousand, thousand charms, it would not show them all ; And though transparent as the light and open to the view, OUR CHARLIE. 303 It might consume a thousand years to read its beau ties through. O ! when our little cherub rose and soared to fields above, I know he must have looked for John and talked with him of love; And save with Him whom all adore, admire, and love the best, He talks with John and those like John, far oftener than the rest. But tell me, does our Charlie not sometimes come down below, And walk with us and talk with us who used to love him so ? Our thoughts go daily up to him while roving midst Heaven's bowers, And does he never come to us and rove with us in ours ? Our spirits daily mount to him within his happy sphere, And does his spirit ne'er come down and calmly join us here ? Who doubts the pure ones think of us ? and what is thinking there But going out and visiting the objects of their care ? 304 OUR CHARLIE. God fills all space and, therefore, nought where'er the objects lie Can ever be beyond the reach of His all-seeing eye, But disembodied spirits, like embodied ones below, Must list, to hear, must look, to see, and learn a thing, to know; And everything on memory's map inwoven and in wrought, Whene'er they wish, they go to see upon the wings of thought ; The laws of mind are always like, whate'er the actor be, Both when encumbered with the flesh and when entirely free. When thoughts like these come o'er our minds, we feel it must be so, And Charlie does come home to see the ones he loved below ; We think that Reason is not shamed, nor Common Sense abused, To say that spirits walk the earth exactly as they used. Nor do I think that 'tis a weak and superstitious thought, By dreamy musing conjured up or silly fancy wrought, OUR CHARLIE. 305 That, sometimes, in our tears we've felt an inner peace and joy, That must have been the heavenly fruit of converse with our boy. ALL MYSTERIES EXPLAINED IN HEAVEN. I LOVE to think that when I to my Father's house return, There'll be so many glorious truth;; that I shall have to learn ; There'll be so many mysteries unfathomed here below, That I shall have to fathom there and study till ] know; And things that here seemed strange or wrong, within Heaven's clearer light, Prove pure and faultless harmonies and all exactly right; And that the ills that checker life and shorten and annoy, Were but the seeds, the germs, the buds of Heaven's unending joy, And that had one been blotted out or one had never been, Life would have been a meaningless and inharmonious scene. 20 306 OUR CHARLIE. I love to think that every jar upon my heart-strings here, That caused my breast to heave a sigh or eye to drop a tear, Is but the tuning of those strings, so dissonant and wrong, That I might be prepared to sing Heaven's high and holy song. I love to think, in yonder world, one element of bliss Will be to fathom and unfold the mysteries seen in this ; And everything that pains us here and everything that grieves, And every blight and mildew dropped on hope's ex panding leaves, And every hoary frost that came to our domestic bowers, That nipped the buds or killed the leaves or scathed the merry flowers, Will prove to be the richest gifts our Father could have given, The seedlings of the sweetest charms attracting us to Heaven ; And all the good and ill of life, its pleastires and its pains, * OUR CHARLIE. 307 Its smiles and tears, its hopes and fears, its losses and its gains, That seemed so chance-directed here or meaningless O or wrong, Were but the prelude to prepare for joy's immortal song. I love to think, when I sit down, if I shall sit above, The good and ill of life will seem alike the gems of love j And I shall see exactly why, to draw my heart to jy My Father had to snatch from me my darling little boy. I love to think the time will come when I shall see and know, That it was best, and why 'twas best, that mysteries reigned below ; And that within the field of truth, spread out on every hand, So much we saw or could not see or could not understand ; And it may be that it will prove (the strangest thing of all) That, thouah with minds of so much power, our " o conquests were so small. 308 OUR CHARLIE. I love to think that I shall know how God, with err- less skill, Could harmony from discord bring and happiness from ill, And make the very wrath of man, howe'er demoniac even, Work out the kind designs of love in gathering souls to Heaven. I love to think that I may find our fimteness in this May work out joy, intenser joy, within the world of bliss ; The sweetest thrills of heavenly joy in bosoms up above Must be the thrill that flutters from the living pulse of love ; And filial love is ne'er so great and ne'er so pure and sweet, As when the child sits learning at the teaching father's feet. Could we the mysteries all explain and facts and truths discern, And all we've ever got to learn by thought and study learn, Methinks, 'twould wipe out faith entire, the sweet est viand given OUR CHARLIE. 309 To feed the deathless soul below and make it pant for Heaven. But whatsoe'er the reason be, though veiled from O human sight, Faith, that celestial beam from Heaven, shows 'tis entirely right; And sweet the thought, when we get home to man sions in the sky, We shall sit down among the blest and learn the reason why, And every sorrow that we shared, and anguish that we felt, Will into tokens of His love and boundless kindness melt. O ! yes, though mysteries throng my w r ay and truths conceal their mien, And pain and sorrow make poor earth a sad and dreary scene, So much intenser, purer joy will thrill my ransomed breast, When I shall see both that it was and how it was the best. O ! let me then, whate'er betide, without a doubt or fear, Believe our Heavenly Father guides our tottering footsteps here, 310 OUR CHARLIE. And that the humblest, trusting one, is surest to be right, Who walks among earth's dreariest scenes by faith and not by sight, Then, though our dear ones clearest ones are from our bosoms riven, And our young prattling innocents are summoned home to Heaven, I'll try to feel until the time when I shall see and know, That it was love and only love that dealt the stun ning blow. STAY IN LONDON. 'TwAS when we had our hasty home in that gigantic town, All gray with age and bright with youth, the pride of England's crown, Where Virtue stands where'er you go with blessings in her arms, And Vice, beside her, wooes her dupes with more than rival charms, Where wealth goes staggering 'neath the weight of its own money-bags, And want, gaunt starveling, begs its crusts in scant and fluttering rags, OUR CHARLIE. 311 And all extremes of good and bad within old London dwell, That make her seem sometimes a Heaven and seem sometimes a Hell ; And there we lived and passed the hours, midst beauties ever new, We wandered all her galleries and gardens throug' and through. We went to see her palaces and mounted her old towers, And travelled through her lovely parks and walked among her flow r ers ; We went to Kew and Sydenham, that brightest earthly gem, Excepting Chats worth that adorns old England's diadem ; We went to her old abbey where uncounted travel lers tread The marble aisles among the graves of England's honored dead; We went to that enchanting pile beneath whose graceful wings Her Lords and Commons congregate as well as Queens and Kings, And all these things on memory's leaf are written out so plain, The picture never can grow dim or e'er go out again, 812 OUR CHARLIE. But midst these charming retrospects, so full of genuine joy, The image always seems to stand of our enchanting boy; We hear his little pattering feet along the marble floor, We see him gayly darting round through every opening door, We hear him calling Helen, as he saw some work of art, Which chanced to catch his little eye and thrill his little heart ; For feasting was no feast to him, however well sup plied, If Helen did not share it too, delighted at his side ; No matter what, no matter how, no matter when or where Our retrospects, the little form of our dear boy is there. We go in memory back again to Madam Tussaud s court, Where London tourists always go for pastime or for spovt, And little Charlie's always there, as merry and as gay As when he asked a figure there to tell the time of O day, OUR CHARLIE. 313 And when the figure did not speak, he, with a little pause, Came up and told us what a boor the stupid fellow was ; "I asked the man what time it was, and thouo-h I 7 O know he heard, He did not even notice me nor say a single .word." We go in memory back again, and gayly rove around In Kensington, that beautiful and almost fairy ground, Around the lawn and through the grove and round the silver lake, All swarming with aquatic birds of every form and make ; But Charlie always seems to rove amidst the magic scene, With merry face and laughing eye and manly form and mien, And calling Helen, Helen, in his sweetest, manliest tone, Whene'er he found a pretty thing he would not have alone. There he and Helen and the nurse I see them plain as day Went out and spent the pleasant hours in merry sport and play ; 314 OUR CHARLIE. I see them with the drinking cup to dip from yonder spring, And basket with a liberal lunch of some delicious thing. Anon, I see him standing there with something in his hand, Among the noisy feathery tribes as thick as they could stand, When suddenly a hungry duck to little Charlie run, And seized from out his little hand, his but half-eaten bun, And off he waddled toward the lake with Charlie in his track, And gliding in the water, gave a self-complacent " quack ; " Then Charlie cried and then he laughed to see the creature run, And sail away so far from land to eat his stolen bun. It is a vision of the fact just as the fact occurred, When Charlie's bun within his hand was stolen by a bird, And ever after while he lived and spoke of Kensing ton, He used to tell about the duck that came and stole his bun. OUR CHARLIE. 315 t One day, while seated by a boy, an English boy, to look And see the pictures in a little English picture-book, From page to page they looked to see the reptiles, beasts, and birds, And called them all exactly like, the designating words : The Robin and Canary-Bird, the Serpent and the Fox, The Fish, the Lamb, the Cow, the Goat, the Buf falo and Ox; And Charlie and his little friend pronounced them all the same, Until Aey turned another leaf and to the Monkey came ; " Why that's ' a hape ' upon this leaf," said little Johnny Bull, But Charlie almost split his sides with laughter brim ming full, And looking toward his English friend, he, in a merry tone, Cried out, "Pray tell me what's 'a hape,' I never heard of one." And ever after, when he saw a monkey or an ape, He, with a merry smile, would say, " See, Helen, there's ' a hape.' " 316 OUR CHARLIE. PARIS. ENCHANTING Paris, where's the man that ever saw thy charms, Whose Memory did not always clasp the vision in its arms, And he who visits Europe's shores will always take good care To visit Paris oftenest and stay the longest there. Our home on rue de Rivoli was where we used to see Those gayest grounds this side the skies, the gay Tuileries ; And when the children wished to go within the grounds to play, 'Twas nothing that they had to do but go across the way; And, therefore, hours and hours they'd play, those happy little ones, Among the Gallic girls and boys and white-capped Gallic bonnes ; And there they used to study French among the merry throngs, Until they talked as well as they and sung their little songs ; And now when all these scenes come up on Mem ory's pages traced, OUR CHARLIE. 317 Our Charlie is the central charm upon the canvas placed ; The gay policeman knew him well when comino- o near his beat, And used to call him "Petit Sharl," whene'er they chanced to meet ; And on that same policeman's face you'd see a smile of joy, Whene'er he saw him cross the street, that little' Yankee boy ; And they would talk, and "Petit Sharl" declare it was his plan To be a bold policeman too, when he should be a man. But midst all these these splendid scenes of ele gance and joy Our little Charlie ne'er forgot he was a Yankee boy, And at their fetes and gay parades in streets or Champs de Mars, You'd see him marching 'neath our flag, the glorious stripes and stars ; And 'twas amusing very oft to see him marching there, Beneath his country's banner with a martial step and air; And when the Imperial Cortege rushed through rue de Rivoli, The little Yankee boy was there, among the rest, to see : 318 OUR CHARLIE. And when the Empress rode away, with splendid coach and four, Along that street as smoothly wrought as any palace floor, With Helen at his side, he'd stand with an uncov ered brow, Where he was sure to catch her eye and sure to get a bow ; For, unlike England's Royal Queen, she deigns to cast her eye, And bow to those who show respect when she is passing by ; And when the Prince Imperial dashed along the crowded way, With cavalcade caparisoned in splendidest array, Our Charlie dearly loved to see the little fellow ride, With all those splendid mounted men escorting at his side ; For envy never touched his heart with e'en its faintest tints 'Twould be as if a sovereign should be envious of a prince. How can, think you, these pleasant scenes in faith ful memory start, And Charlie not relive again within a parent's heart ? OUR CHARLIE. 319 ! when I'd seen the gray old world of which I'd read and dreamed, And memory had daguerreotypes of how its wonders seemed, 1 felt that I'd a double world instead of only this, From which to draw the viands for my feast of earthly bliss ; But since our Charlie left our arms and we were whelmed in grief, And he and Europe, side by side, are found on memory's leaf, The retrospects of foreign lands and foreign travel wear A hallowed charm, a chastened hue, because our boy is there ; And 'tis for this we fondly hope that travel with its lore May now appear a holier thing than it appeared before. THE VOYAGE. 'TwAS eighteen hundred fifty-eight, July the seventh, at four, With luggage placed on board the boat, we left Man hattan's shore ; 320 OUR CHARLIE. The little steamer took us on from Jersey's crowded slip, With many a friend who wished to see us safe on board the ship, And wafted off our little group as gayly as a dream, To where the Persia, gallant ship, was riding in the stream ; And hands were grasped and kisses given by fond Affection's lips, And warm adieus from friend to friend exchanged between the ships ; And when the little steamer turned and darted toward the shore, White handkerchiefs were waved from both till we could see no more. Good-by, good-by, dear friends, good-by; dear native land, adieu, O ! shall we e'er alive and well come back again to you? 'Twos thus we thought, perhaps, we said, as we pre pared to go, And gather in our little flock within our home below ; And ere we'd oped our drawing-room and gathered by ourselves, OUR CHARLIE. 321 And placed the children in their berths, (the children called them shelves,) Old night had gathered round the ship and hemmed the prospect so, We saw but moon and stars above and ship and sea below ; And then commending all to God upon the bended knee, We spent the night in gentle sleep, the first we spent at sea. And day and night for days and days, without a mo ment's rest, The gallant Persia ploughed the way upon the ocean's crest, Without a storm or boisterous wind, a single hour or day, Until within the Mersey moored, the ship at anchor lay. Who does not know how anxiously when people are at sea, They make the most of incidents to break monotony, And how invention does her best to call up some thing new, ~ * To see or hear or meditate or think about or do; And such were all, or almost all, occurring day by day, 21 322 OUR CHARLIE. That caused a ripple o'er the face of dull ennui to play : An iceberg of enormous size one evening hove in sight, And some few whales came up to spout far distant to the right, And one poor fellow, on the way to his affianced bride, Deceased and then was solemnly committed to the tide, And, saving these few incidents, the actors in the play All improvised the incidents they had to cheer the way. But what with incidents we made and those we found supplied, And voyage made so very brief by prosperous wind and tide, It was a very pleasant trip, which, till life's sun shall set, We shall delight to think about and never can forget ; But ah ! to me there's something more than what these scenes impart, That memory gathers from it all and shrines within my heart. OUR CHARLIE. 323 A little boy in sailor's dress and scarcely three years old," Whose thick red flannel coat and pants kept out the piercing cold, For e'en July npon the land may very scorching be, And still be cold as Greenland where we're far away at sea ; But cold, the bitterest sort, that comes from biting frosts and snows, Could scarcely get a nip at him within those flannel clothes ; And while the other boys and girls, and men and women too, Were shivering with the bitter cold and almost frozen O through, He, merry as the merriest lark that ever chirped a % Was never cold, but warm enough, through all the livelong day ; And so well known and loved by all was that mild, merry child, He carried pleasure where he went and sunshine where he smiled ; And ere he'd been a week at sea, so well he played his part, He'd gained respect of all on board and every sailor's heart ; 324 OUR CHARLIE. So that when disembarking from this gallantest of ships, A " Good-by, Charlie," gayly leaped from every sailor's lips. Now always as these pleasant scenes before my vision lie, All heard again by memory's ear and seen by mem ory's eye, I see within the tissued scenes before my eyes un rolled, Whate'er supplied the silver threads, 'twas Charlie formed the gold. THE RETURN. . Two years had passed and we'd each day been seeing something new, And home, sweet home, with all its charms, came up to memory's view ; That gallant ship, the Arago, and gallant Captain Lynes, 1 Were soon to come and bear us where the sun of freedom shines. 1 Captain Lynes perished by falling from the banks at Niagara in the summer of 1862. OUR CHARLIE. 32 Ah ! gallant Captain, so alike the kindly friend to all, Not cringing to the rich and great and crabbed to the small; Whoever ever sailed with thee but when he had to part, He bore away, where'er he went, thine image in his heart ? Old Ocean might not spread thy couch beneath his yesty waves, But old Niagara gave thee one of his sublimesjt graves. Farewell, Old Man, thou'lt live and live on yonder fadeless shore, When dread Niagara, with his waves, shall cease to rage and roar, And all that ever sailed with thee across -old Ocean's main Will love to meet and talk with thee and rove with thee again. The Arago, that gallant ship, the English channel ploughs, She's shot from Havre on her way and stops for us at Cowes, 326 OUR CHARLIE. And all on board the little boat, we, from Southamp ton glide, And soon are near the Arago and lying at her side The portal opes, the steps let down, and, joyous and elate, We gayly leave the little ship and get on board the great. For home, for home, how sweet the thought, for those who've been to roam, That they're at last on board the ship that's soon to bear them home ; And if the steamer stems the tide as she has done before, They soon shall be safe home again upon their native shore. But one day out and boisterous gales began, in furious spite, To roar and rave and lash the sea unceasing day and night ; The seething ocean boiled and heaved, and, like a dancing cork, The staggering steamer pitched and rolled until we hailed New York ; And scarce one day and scarce one hour and scarce one minute e'en, OUR CHARLIE. 327 The battling wind-god ceased to add new terrors to the scene. Through Switzerlands on Switzerlands, midst moun tains capped with snow, And through impervious passes oft the steamer seemed to go ; And how that steamer passed those gulfs and moun tains capped with snows, And shot among those jutting rocks, alas ! God only knows ; But she did stem the mountain waves, and yawning chasms spanned, Until, all safe, we'd set our feet upon our native land ; And not one friend who'd said adieu, when we went off to roam, But still was there alive and well to bid us welcome home. These scenes still live as fresh as when we saw and heard and felt, And never can the vision fade or in oblivion melt; And never shall we cease to see until life's curtain fall, The little one who hallowed it and sanctified it all, And spun the little golden threads that bound it tc the heart, 328 OUR CHARLIE. Too sweet and strong to burden or be ever rent apart ; For all throughout those weary weeks within that rocking ship, And through that lagging, weary, long, disgusting, filthy trip, When all declared, 'pon honor, if they ever got ashore, They'd never leave their homes again to tempt old Ocean more, Our little Charlie, midst the gloom, was like a ray of light, He gayly sported through the day and sweetly slept at night ; And every staggering sea-sick soul, whom nothing else could cheer, Imbibed a sunbeam of delight whenever he was near. Dear little bud of innocence, too sweet and pure to bloom, And waste thy fragrance in the fields this side the silent tomb, Why shouldst thou not have been so gay, so uncon cerned and free, When guilt had never dropped a stain or spoke a word to tliee ? OUR CHARLIE. 329 Yes, blessed boy, we'll ne'er forget, until our dying day, Whose little face amidst that scene could chase the gloorn away. DOUBTS. WHEN Love and Friendship find the ties of Love and Friendship riven, We try to think, and we may think, our dear ones are in Heaven, But doubts, like motes in Faith's clear eye, obscure its upward stare, Until, at last, it cannot see the loved and lost are there ; And then we cry, O ! can it be, that our lost friends to-day Are not among God's conscious ones, but dead, un conscious clay? And then the clouds begin to flit o'er Faith's un clouded sky, And every star is wrapped in gloom to her bewildered eye; And then the picture grows so dim and almost fades from view, The future meeting with our friends that chastened O fancy drew; 330 OUR CHARLIE. And then we try to wipe the mote from Faith's bewildered eye, That she may see with clearer gaze the vision in the sky; And tlien we go with chastened heart to Heaven's unerring tome, For light that shows as plain as day that there's a life to come ; And although He who cannot lie has made the truth so plain, That, though man dies and turns to dust, yet he shall live again, A fear will sometimes mar our joy, a doubt will shake our faith, And human nature weak and frail hope's brightest visions scathe ; And then we fly to any source that added light will give, To make more sure the glorious truth that our departed live. We catch at that important fact that wheresoe'er we roam, We find the faith, however gained, that there's a life to come ; And surely God would ne'er have given, His whole creation through, A faith or instinct in the mind to prove at last untrue, OUR CHARLIE. 331 That points us to a glorious world surpassing bright and fair, To prove a mirage to our faith on our arrival there. And then we to our altar go and leave our offering there, And try to mount to God's abode upon the wings of prayer ; And never do we go in vain, we ask and we receive, The light comes down and then. O! then, 'tis easy to believe. And then we sit and meditate and bring the prod ucts home, And group them till the picture is a very life to come ; Our loved and lost, alive and well, and happier than before, Are loving, roving, triumphing, where they will die no more ; And then we sigh, if spirits e'er from Paradise may roam, And visit this poor earth again they used to call " sweet home," O ! that the dear ones would come down and for a moment rest, 332 OUR CHARLIE. And plant pure thoughts and pleasant hopes within the throbbing breast ! And then we feel an inward peace, a sweet and holy calm, As if upon our wounded heart an Angel dropped a balm; No impure feeling, wish, or thought, could in on. hearts be found, Because a heavenly visitant had made it hallowed ground ; And O ! the odor of that scene, it was not driven away, But floated sweetly in our hearts for many and many a day. Ah ! no one knows but he who tries what heavenly fruitage springs From sitting down to meditate on high and holy things ; And every moment wisely spent will some new treas ure ope, To strengthen faith, to brighten joy, and cheer the heart of hope. And every day and every hour we find some little gem, To set within and sweetly deck Faith's beauteous diadem ; OUR CHARLIE. , 333 And though revealed in Heaven's own tome for mor tals to receive, And all are left without excuse who dare to disbe lieve, It aids the most undoubting faith when there is that will show, 'Tis backed and aided by a truth we understand and know. 'Tis God's command to all the world to keep His Sabbath-day, And every one who loves his Lord will cheerfully obey ; But when he finds that man and beast have natures suited best, Where one in seven, no more, no less, is made a day of rest, The good will feel an added thrill of reverence for O the day, And with devouter, gladder hearts, the sweet com mand obey. And so from all the gleams of light that meet us as O C- 1 we go, And all the truths already learned and all we come to know, And all the aid and all the light analogy supplies, 334 OUR CHARLIE. And all imagination gets from earth and sea and skies, And most of all and best of all, tlie noon-day sun shine there, That gathers round the human soul that seeks the place of prayer, From all these sources we can draw, and never need to fail Of giving Faith's pure eye a power to look beyond the veil ; And seeing Paradise so plain, no doubts or fears could scathe, And we've fruition almost here instead of wavering faith. O ! when our dear ones flee away to be with us no more, And all the rites that we can pay to sacred dust are o'er, And we return subdued and sad to our once cheer ful home, But now the saddest, gloomiest spot beneath the starry dome, There's nothing but the Christian's hope can shed a ray of light, There's nothing else but trust in God can make us feel 'tis right ; OUR CHARLIE. 335 And hope and trust and every help the mourner can employ Can scarcely give the wounded heart a genuine feast of joy ; And time must shed its healing balm in gentle dew- drops down, Before the sorrow change to joy or cross become a crown. 'Tis sweet that there's so many a source to which we've power to go, For that which takes foil many a pang away from want and woe ; And if to every furnished source we heartily re pair, And pick up every little thing to weave to gladness there, We all should gain, whoe'er we be, the greatest or the least, The crumbs of comfort quite enough to make a royal feast, And home itself would beam with bliss, although one tie is riven, That God should take its little one to be with Him in Heaven. 333 OUR CHARLIE. THE PRAYER. O THOU who didst the fiat speak and out of chaos sprung This beauteous earth, so nicely poised and in mid- ether hung, And at whose word the breath of life through inert matter ran, And waked its atoms into life all marshalled into man, To Thee we come, before Thee bow, and towards Thee lift the soul, For Thou who mad'st the Universe canst all its parts control. With two petitions we have come, they're all we bring to-day, Grant us, O Lord, a listening ear, and hear us while we pray : O ! give us power to fathom what Thy providences teach, And grace to study what they mean and practice what they preach, That when we take the cup of joy or feel the chas tening rod, We may be drawn with purer joy and wanner love to God, OUR CHARLIE. 337 Then though our eyes are daily wet, such ties were rent in twain, The smile shall glitter 'mongst the tears to think of Charlie's gain. WHAT IS A SPIRIT? WHAT is a spirit? sighs the soul that finds dear friends are riven, And tries to look beyond the vail and see them safe in Heaven ; But O I from wit's profoundest depth and fancy's loft iest height, No answer comes to tell it what or shed a ray of light. There's many a Plato who has tried, since time its course began, To give a definition which should tell us what is O man ; But never has a sage or seer, although he did his best, Succeeded yet in giving one that stood the final test. To tell exactly what is man, we must define the whole, Not only what the body is, but also what the soul; 22 338 OUR CHARLIE. And though we feel we know so well the bodies that we wear, I think we understand as well the spirits that we bear. Life is a mystery to ourselves e'en in our earthly home, There is no greater mystery in the spirit's life to come ; If spirits here not only live, but vitalize dead clay, And bear it round where'er they list until their dying day, Is it more strange that they can live without that weary load, When wafted upon new-born wings to their divine abode ? But although what we then shall ba mav now be O / dark and dim, No matter if, when we awake, we wake to be like Him. But still we puzzle o'er the thought how spirits, when above, Appear and act and talk and think and see and live and move ; My humble Muse presumes to think that in their higher sphere They are and act exactly as they were and acted here, OUR CHARLIE. 339 The difference being but this, methinks : a spirit here, though pure, Must fight its way and win the day or never be secure, But there, where nothing gross or vile can ever more annoy, Whate'er they do or think or feel are elements of jy; The house it lives in here below claims many a thought and care, Sometimes it needs a new costume, sometimes it needs repair, But there, no house demands its care, and in its high employ There's nothino- that can block its wav to truth and ~ / love and joy. Were not existence everywhere mysterious through and through, 'T would seem far less how spirits live than soul and body do ; The spirit is the vital thing, the body inert clay, Which that must vitalize or this can never live a day, And half the wonder seems to cease, when, from the body free, The vital spirit lives in its own immortality. 340 OUR CHARLIE. O ! when we ope the pearly gate, on golden hinges hung, And enter into Paradise and join the happy throng, I do not think that higher life within that home of bliss Will seem to us so new or strange or different from this, The spirit there will feel the same as in its earthly lot, 'Twill feel that its surroundings change, but that itself does not ; And when it moves or looks or learns or acts, whichever one, Volition sends the fiat out and lo ! the work is done. And if that spirit while on earth were thrilled with. Christian love, It finds the things that cheered it here are cheering it above ; When Paysons and when Judsons mount to yonder world of bliss, They find their happiness the same as they enjoyed in this ; And Heaven's employs as well as joys are just the same as they Had been pursuing in this world for many and many a day. OUR CHARLIE. 341 HOW DOES A SPIRIT LOOK? How shall we in the spirit land, when made im mortal, look? It is not writ on Nature's page nor in God's errless book ; But I've no doubt, to spirits' eyes, our spirits will appear, The very same that we appeared to eyes that saw us here ; And, therefore, those who knew us here will recog nize us there, For just the lineaments we wore when upon earth, we'll wear, And if we've doubts of some we knew or sometimes wholly err, It is because they seemed below not what they really were, But in that clear and piercing light to clear and piercing eyes, To seem and be are synonymes where no distinction lies ; But as, on earth, resemblances full oft the vision strike, That show the wearer one we knew or one exceed ing like, 342 OUR CHARLIE. We watch his motions, features, airs, and tones and accents long Before we're fully satisfied that we are right or wrong, So in the spirit land, methinks, the happy beings know, Full often at a single glance the ones they knew below ; But oftener far a single -glance suffices not to prove, That 'tis or is not one they knew whom they behold above, And so they have to look and watch again, again, again, Before the truth like sunlight breaks and makes the matter plain. Sometimes they see earth's poorest ones on highest seats above, And earth's elite on humbler seats at Heaven's pure feast of love ; And thousands there they often find whom they had never thought Of seeing there among the blest in that delightful spot; And thousands they expected there are sought, but never found, Among the pure and lofty ones within that hallowed ground. OUR CHARLIE. 343 The deathless spirit here below with all its sins for given, Is just the same as it will be when safe arrived in Heaven ; VVhate'er it likes, whate'er dislikes of earthly moral fare, Twill like or dislike, just as here, those very viands there, For earthly bliss and heavenly bliss must one in essence be, They're not diverse at all in kind, but only in degree. O ! yes, methinks, this world of ours and that which is to come, Are only different rooms within our Heavenly Father's home ; In this there are unnumbered foes assaulting every day, And he that would securely live must watch as well as pray; In that there never lurks a foe to injure or annoy, But work is play, and watching rest, and prayer is praise and joy ; In this, among the vile and gross, the spirit, though a saint's, 344 OUR CHARLIE. Like some rich gem, a casket needs, to keep it from attaints ; In that, the casket's thrown away, for one might look in vain For anything within that realm to mangle, scar, or stain. LIFE NEVER ENDS. 'Tis sweet to think that life begun can never, never end, Surpassing sweet, if we but make the One who gave, our friend. 'When we have passed our lives below and we are done with time, And we are borne from earth, our home, within a foreign clime, It is not on a stranger land that we are rudely thrown, Where people, language, customs, laws, are novel and unknown, Where life, by violence, turned awry, must in new channels flow, And every sweet pursuit must cease that we began below ; But on a bright and balmy land, a sweet and sunny shore, OUR CHARLIE. 34o Which we had read and thought about and visited before, Whose language we had studied here, whose customs we had learned, And whose pursuits and feasts of bliss we had by faith discerned, And all its bright inhabitants we long had learned to know, For some we'd heard and read about and some we knew below ; Some were our neighbors, kindred, friends, our chil dren, husbands, wives, And now we meet to part no more, but live immor tal lives. O ! when we mount, at God's command, above yon starry dome, And enter into Paradise, we all shall feel at home; The friends that knew shall know us there and wel come us above, And those we knew not, knit to us in bonds of warmest love, And long as long eternity through endless years extends, We shall be swelling every hour the number of our friends. 346 OUR CHARLIE THE CHRISTIAN'S PATMOS. THE hearty Christian, while he lives on earth's dim homestead even, Finds many a Patmos where he goes and gazes into Heaven, And if, vrith those inspirings fired, the Heavenly spirit gives, 'Twill be the faithful portraiture that in the bosom lives, And when he enters Paradise and walks the sweet parterre, He'll find the essence of it all upon his canvas there. The artist on the landscape looks until his bosom fires, And with its inspiration full, he to his home retires, And in his cluttered studio, among his works of taste, That landscape on his canvas lives, all true to Nature traced. Not every ruin, hill, and tower, and shrub, and flower, and tree, That we upon the landscape saw, we on the canvas see ; OUR CHARLIE. 347 And yet so like the landscape and its portraiture appear That he who'd ever seen the first would recognize it here. So, when the contemplative soul, that thrills with heavenly love, Looks from his Patmos here below to Paradise above, He takes upon his heart of hearts daguerreotypes of Heaven, And breathes its spirit fresh and warm within the portrait given, And when he mounts to Paradise and walks its flowery shore, A single glance attests the fact, he's seen the place before ; And thus the pure in heart may have, wherever they may go, E'en while within this vale of tears, a genuine Heaven below ; For ha who seeks the truth to know, and seeks it at the fount, Will, like the Hebrew, always find the pattern on the mount, And only when he does not ask, or when he asks amiss, Does he e'er fail to get the true apocalypse of bliss ; 348 OUR CHARLIE. And all we need to reach the skies, howe'er abstruse, is given, If, when exhausting all our powers, we ask for light from Heaven. THE PURE IN HEART LIVE ON THE VERY CONFINES OF HEAVEN. O ! 'TIS a sweet, transporting thought, that to the pure in heart, This earth of ours and yonder Heaven are but an inch apart, And we can live so near the line betwixt that world and this, That we can breathe the balmy air and pluck the fruits of bliss, And if our thoughts and joys and theirs harmoniously combine, Can talk with those we loved below but just across the line, Nay, more than that, can cross the line, our loved and lost to meet, And rove with them and talk with them along the golden street. O ! if we never meet again our sainted little boy, OUR CHARLIE. 349 Until, in our immortal robes, we're in his home of jy> 'Twill not be that, by stern decree, we're rudely kept apart, But that our bosoms do not throb in harmony with his heart. UPON WHAT MISSIONS DO SPIRITS VISIT EARTH? AND HOW DO THEY DISCHARGE THEM? WHEN spirits leave their homes of joy and to dim earth return, It must be on a mission of no trivial concern, And we in fancy try to find, surveying one by one, Not only what the mission is, but also how 'tis done. The senses those mysterious ducts, through which, with ceaseless flow, Comes all the knowledge that we get of anything below Must grapple matter and extract, like Hybla's bees, whate'er We choose to make, while here below, the deathless spirit's fare ; And whether gross or vulgar food upon its table lies, 353 OUR CHARLIE. Depends upon the soul for which the senses bring supplies ; And when the spirit mounts above, unfettered, pure, and free, And has put on its spotless robes of immortality, The breath of odors is not lost, the charms of beauty dimmed, Nor music's voice is silent where the song of love is hymned, Nor touch expires where contact is a source of bliss and love, Nor pure gustation quits the feast at which they sit above ; And so although the senses die, their pure ethereal parts Still live, the deathless ministers of gladness to their hearts ; And when the spirits roam the sky, they're never once remiss, But ceaselessly are bringing them fresh thrills of heavenly bliss ;. And when they come to visit earth, thesfi ministers of love Come down and serve the spirits here as sweetly as above ; And though rude matter fill the world, they never fly to this, OUR CHARLIE 361 For one sweet dew-drop of delight to swell their cup of bliss. The bee sometimes to poisonous plants on merry pinions flies, And bears its nectared sweetness home upon its yel low thighs, And when it seeks the loveliest flower, 'tis not its grace attracts, But 'tis the unseen nectar that it buries in its wax : So, when the spirit comes below among material things, And flits around from spot to spot upon its airy wings, 'Tis not gross matter, howe'er pure, that lures it to the earth, But that pure something all unseen that constitutes its worth. We have to do far coarser work than blessed spirits do, We see the bodies of our friends, but not their spirits too, While they in turn behold our souls as open as the day, Undimmed by e'en a shadow from their rude uncon scious clay; And when our dear ones visit us, their spirit-eyes behold 352 OUR CHARLIE. Not these frail frames, but that bright gem that these frail frames enfold ; And that AVC do not see them on their visits from the skies, Is that we do not cultivate the spirit's keener eyes; O ! if we did, how oft our hearts in ecstasy would greet Our living ones, our happy ones, that we should daily meet ! We know that truth has richest lore that mind un- helped can learn, But richer yet, that grace must help or mind can ne'er discern. If these are facts, how sweet the thought, when dear ones are no more, Their presence may be palpable and pleasant as before, Nay, more, if, in our heart of hearts, the grace of God o'erflow, We can hold sweeter converse now than when with us below. O ! thou sweet girl, my first-born child, so early summoned home, With all the pure in Paradise in fadeless bliss to roam, OUR CHARLIE. 353 And thou, companion of my youth, who, when thy work was done, Didst fly with joy to that same Heaven to join the little one, And thou, dear little blue-eyed boy, too pure and sweet and good To spend e'en six short fleeting years this side the swelling flood, Ye are not dead, ye are not lost, ye are not absent even, If I'm but living high enough and near enough to Heaven. O ! yes, kind Heaven is always kind e'en when it seems severe, A blessing quivers in a sigh and glistens in a tear, And, to the one who'll take the boon, a blessing trickles down, Not only from our Father's smile, but also from his frown. Our blessings are immortal, if we choose to make them so, They're ours, not only Avhile we hold, but when we let them go; A friend in Heaven, if we are w r ise, will far excel in worth, E'en while sojourning here below, a thousand friends on earth. 23 354 OUR CHARLIE. O ! may we then, whate'er befall, look trustingly above, And feel whate'er our Father does He always does in love, And say with filial confidence that He on yonder throne Has snatched our dear ones from our breasts to nestle in His own ! WORCESTER. DEAR Worcester, city of the vale, the good old Bay State's heart, If there's a spot most dear to me, of all on earth, thou art ; The most of all the structure built by study, toil, and care, That constitutes my humble life is genuine Worcester ware ; The dear companion of my youth here kindled first my hearth, Which, though so humble, was to us the brightest spot on earth ; And when her vigil ceased, and lo ! the vestal took her flight, OUR CHARLIE. 355 Her sweet successor came along and kept the fires as bright. o 'Twas there our little ones came down alighting from above, And filled " sweet home " to running o'er with sweetest earthly love. Thence flew to Heaven our little one, the first that God had given, So sweet ! she scarce could be more sweet when safe at home in Heaven ; And then the black-eyed mother rose to join her in the skies, As ripe for bliss as one could be, this side of Para dise ; And last flew up on cherub wings our little blue-eyed The Benjamin of home, sweet home, to realms of fadeless joy ; And now they're sleeping side by side, within yon green retreat, Which Worcester skill and Worcester taste have made so pure and sweet ; And now whene'er I think about my dear domestic flock, On which I'd built my happiness as on a solid rock, 356 OUR CHARLIE. But three are left, the other three, from my fond bosom riven, Are sleeping in yon verdant vale and praising God in Heaven ; And now whene'er on Fancy's wing among my flock I roam, The three bright spots to which I fly, are Worcester, Heaven, and home ; And when we all bid earth adieu, and dust returns to dust, And We're all sleeping side by side, as soon or late we must ; And when we gather, if we may, in mansions in the skies, And rove among the pleasant scenes that checker Paradise ; If spirits may a blessing drop on some sweet spot below, Replete with dear mementoes of events that thrilled them so, I'm sure we never should forget a blessing to impart, The best that we could find in Heaven to Massa chusetts' heart. OUR CHARLIE. 357 DEATH. DEATH! we sometimes call thee wretch, knave, demon, monster, fiend, And every loathsome epithet from Hatred's kingdom gleaned, Because thou tak'st these garments oft' our wearied spirits bear, That they may wear the glorious robes immortal beings wear; But when, from Jordan's farther bank, we look across the tide, And see the monster that we left upon the other side, He'll seem a Seraph snatching us from sorrow and disease, To seek the realms where bliss and health are borne on every breeze. The Surgeon seems a heartless wretch who flourishes his knife, So like a stoic 'mong the threads that form the web of life ; But when, from every throb of pain, the skilful sur geon wakes, Full many a throb of rosy health and merry vigor breaks ; 358 OUR CHARLIE. The stoic melts to tenderness and sunshine lights his brow, And that same surgeon has become a lovely being now. O Death ! whate'er thou really art, thou seem'st a fiend or friend, As vice or virtue sees thee o'er its restless pillow bend : The grace of God within the heart robs death of many a sting, And thou dost seem above its bed an angel on the wing ; But guilt implants unnumbered stings and barbs the stings beside, And makes thee seem a wretch indeed, the deepest, darkest dyed; And bad and good in character, at every depth and height, See death at different angles and in different rays of light. And so the veteran archer seems, no matter how demeaned, To be of every grade between the angel and the fiend; While at that height, that lofty height, by spotless Enoch trod, OUR CHARLIE. 359 The archer never throws a dart, the summons 's served by God. When these frail frames are racked and torn by anguish and disease, And skill has no more power to help and earth m more to please, It does not prove the being fiend, who clips its earthly ties, And lets the deathless spirit free to float to Para dise, Nor when, in buoyant health and strength, he calls the spirit home, To wing its way to Heaven before disease and an guish come. Death's charged with many a cruelty he never ought to bear, And clothed with many a ghastly look he does not really wear. The anguish gushing from disease ne'er issues from his sting, And sickness is the dreadful curse our crimes and follies bring. He ne'er employs Disease to work with its exhausting pangs, But takes the victim oft away from his envenomed fangs, 360 OUR CHARLIE. And often calls immortals home with all an angel's care, Before disease has touched their frames or sent its venom there ; And when age, tottering on its way, has almost reached the tomb, How kindly Death cones bending o'er and takes the old man home ! O ! when the sick man writhes upon his bed of agony, And friendship, round him, feels his pangs almost as much as he, When Death steps in, O ! what a change within that room appears ! The suffering's gone, the groans are hushed, and nought is left but tears, And every crystal, leaping out, lets in the heart relief, And carries out, from feeling's fount, a globule of its grief. O Death ! when stripped of everything that is not really thine, Thyself and mission both appear enchanting and divine, And none but they, with moral eyes, abnormal or obtuse, OUR CHARLIE. 361 Would call thee monster, or would load thy mission with abuse ; Thou dost not seem as thou wast wont in days and years whilom, Ere thou didst come and visit me three 'times within my home, For though I felt that dearest ties were at those visits riven, I knew the dear ones thou didst take were taken up to Heaven ; And whensoe'er I think of thee, I think of those I loA r e, Not mouldering in the silent tomb, but crowned and throned above ; For though the tear-drop wet the eye and sorrow thrill the heart, To think how very sweet the ties that thou didst rend apart ; The triumph of my sainted ones, thrilled by that touch of thine, Makes thee appear angelic and thy mission all divine. O ! let us then give Death his due, nor charge upon his head The ghastly train of loathsome ills that gird the sick man's bed ; He comes to break the thread of life now grown a weary bond, 362 OUR CHARLIE. To throw it over Jordan's stream to knit to life beyond ; He comes to cut the soul adrift from all its earthly ills, That it may float away, away among the heavenly hills ; He comes to its dim prison of clay and sets the spirit free, To breathe the air and rove the fields of immor- tality; And if, as Nurses take their wards what time they deem the best, E'en in the midst of sport and play, to seek a bed of rest, He comes to us in perfect health and kindly bids us come, While full of hope and full of joy, to our eternal home ; We, like those wards, may think it hard, but like them, at the test, Find that the hour the deed was done was e'en for us the best. O Death ! I do not pray thee haste, nor linger on thy way, Nor dare, alas ! prescribe for thee the fitting hour or day; OUR CHARLIE, 363 My chief concern shall only be, whene'er thou call'st me home, To be prepared to say with joy, I come, O Death! I come. THE GRANDMOTHERS. DEAR Charlie, could the memory fail, within your home above, To recollect a single one you used on earth to love, I'm sure 'tis not your dear Grandma who used to love you so, She's lingering just on Jordan's brink and dearly longs to go ; She loved you much, because she thought her Charlie was so smart, And had a sweet and pure and kind and warm and loving heart ; And when she felt that you must die, it pierced her bosom through, And O ! she wished with all her heart, that she could die for you. She'll soon be there, dear Charlie, soon, released from every care, And then she'll seek for you the first of all the others there ; 864 OUR CHARLIE. For though there be full many a one she loved as well as you, Who was as near and dear to her and full of prom ise too, I do not doubt, when she is gone and Jordan's stream is passed, She'll look for you the first of all because you left her last. Have you forgotten when you went, as you were wont to go, To see your Grandma and to say, "Dear Grandma, how d'ye do ? " And when you saw her hands and face, .you, in an undertone, Said softly to the nursery-maid, " How wrinkled she has grown ! " And then you said as if you felt a little touch of shame, No matter, Esther, for you know that Grandma's not to blame. Then you went back and kissed her cheeks and looking in her eye, You patted both her wrinkled hands, and gently said good-by, And then as if a load were off too heavy to sustain, Your fresh unburdened spirit rose on buoyant wing again, OUR CHARLIE. 365 And off you bounded through the streets, nor ceas'd until you'd come, And given the magic of your heart to those you loved at home. You'll not forget that dear Grandma, whose welcome was so sweet, When we went out to visit her within her green retreat, And although not so near the brink of Jordan's stream as she, The dear Grandma who lived so near, you daily went to see ; She yet may cross the stream before the other leaves the brink, And reunite, 'twixt you and her, the severed golden link ; She wept, dear boy, when first she heard that you and she must part, And still your little image bears in her remembering heart ; She'll meet you soon, ah! very soon, on yonder fadeless shore, To be reknit by ties so strong they'll never sunder * more ; . And when we all have passed the stream that you so early passed, 366 OUR CHARLIE. And meet with you and rove with you and talk witli you at last, O ! then how kind the blow will seem that smote you in our bowers, And O ! how short the time will seem between your death and ours ! The woe that wrung our bleeding hearts when we were rent in twain Will make the gladness more intense when we shall meet again. There'll be no wrinkles on the hands of reverend age as now, There'll be no furrows on the face that time has dared to plough ; There'll be no film to veil the eye nor bar to block the ear, Nor any weak and tottering limbs as we behold them here ; But all that reach that happy place, whatever here they be, Will waken with His likeness that is sweetly worn by thee. But why do I attempt to teach my little Charlie, who Knows more about the spirit land than all earth's sages do ? OUR CHARLIE. 367 But God has told us in that world where joys eter nal spring, There'll be no blot or wrinkle there or any kindred thing ; And since we cannot hear thee tell how things celestial be, It does our hearts good oftentimes to try to talk with thee. OUR PHYSICIAN. I LOVE not that physician, though an expert in his art, Who only has a cultured head and not a feeling heart ; There's quite enough surrounds the sick to make the bosom sad, Without a doctor's boorishness and sullenness to add. When Friendship sees its dearest ones on beds of anguish lie, And asks the surgeon every hour if they will live or die, 'Tis pleasant if a kindly word is spoken that reveals, That, if he thinks we're acting weak, he has a heart that feels, And such was ours, ana such is ours, intensely trained and taught, OUR CHARLIE. Not only in affliction's school, but in the school of thought. His three bright boys, the first a youth, and standing just before The well-known threshold that is passed on entering manhood's door, And two bright lads but just this side the pleasant moment, when They too should pass the boundary line betwixt them and young men, All these at one fell swoop were plunged beneath destruction's surge, By that disease that, in our land, is childhood's dreadest scourge ; And now they're sleeping side by side, in slumber, O ! how sweet ! Within three consecrated beds in Greenwood's green retreat ; And now, whene'er to childhood's bed he goes to bring relief, He lives these scenes all o'er again and feels anev/ his grief; And when fond love bends o'er its child for weary nights and days, And asks a thousand silly things a thousand different ways, He bears with weakness, nnd if safe, he drops a word to cheer, OUR CHARLIE. 369 But if lie must, he tells the worst, but tells it with a tear. Ah me ! if human care and skill had had the power to save, Our Charlie would not be to-day reposing in his grave ; That little spirit sweet arid pure with earth's fond ties unriven Would be not making Heaven his home, but making home a heaven. Ah ! Doctor, we have ne'er forgot how, in the sum mer heat, Although ill health required that you should seek some cool retreat, You staid and staid and watched his health in every light and shade, To see if aught within your power could comfort, cure, or aid; And sometimes at the midnight hour, the time to solace cares, We heard your feathery footfalls tap upon the cham ber stairs, And then you said that being awake, you scarcely knew the cause, You'd step around the corner here and see how Charlie was. 24 370 OUR CHARLIE. Alas ! we understood it all, and felt the proof it gave, That we, erelong, must go and stand at little Char lie's grave ; But yet your kindness, though it made our bleeding bosoms smart, Will live forever and be shrined in our remembering heart ; And when your care and skill had failed and you could do no more, And he had closed his mild blue eyes and sailed to yonder shore, The last sweet token that you gave how much your heart was here, We saw come quivering from your eye, it was a crystal tear. THE VOLUNTEER WATCHER. THERE was an angel daily came with soft and care ful tread, And hovered round the cherub boy upon his restless bed, And night and day, as sure as air to fill a vacuum stirs, OUR CHARLIE. 371 Whene'er the mother's vigil failed, the substitute was hers; And though no ties of kith and kin attracted to our home, The holier ties of sympathy compelled her heart to come, Scarce willing that another's hand should aid the little boy, Because she thought a stranger face might vex him or annoy ; And sleep and rest were quite forgot or their demands denied, While bending o'er his restless couch at little Char lie's side. i Ah ! Lady, there are hearts that keep these mem ories fresh and new, And warmly throb with heartiest prayers alike for yours and you, For could the kindest care secure what often it secures, Our little one had sure been saved by such sweet care as yours ; And there's a pair of mild blue eyes now lighted up above, That daily turn their gaze on yon with all a, cherub's love ; 372 OUR CHARLIE. And there's a pure and spotless heart within the realms of joy, Among whose vital threads are wrought your kind ness to our boy. Your sainted father knows it all, for, with celestial art, He reads your kindness written in our little Charlie's heart, And feels intenser thrills of bliss since he can see so plain His care to train your heart aright was not applied in vain. THE FUNERAL. THE sable hearse carne rumbling o'er the pavements to the door, And carriages, with sober steeds, were standing there before ; And friends had gathered in the rooms with serious mien and air, As if they felt in all its force that death was really there. And then the pastor of the flock within whose warm embrace, We'd found for many and many a day a sweet, warm resting-place ; OUR CHARLIE. 373 And where, with faith as sweet and pure as burned in Abraham, Among the flock our little boy had been a fairy lamb Took up the Book and opened it, and from its pages read Sweet thoughts the spirit dropped for those who're mourning for the dead ; And then he lifted heart and voice to little Charlie's God, To drop a blessing down on us while smarting 'neath the rod ; And then we took his body up, a precious, precious freight, And carried it away to sleep within its native State. 'Twas where, within yon hallowed grove, in richest verdure dressed, The wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest ; We stood with sympathizing friends beside our Char lie's bier, To take our last, fond, farewell look and shed the parting tear. The youthful pastor once our own, kind, studious, and devout, Whom Charlie never once forgot and loved to talk about, 374 OUR CHARLIE. Was there beside us with a heart almost as sad as ours, That death had come and nipped a bud in our do mestic bowers. And then he calmly oped the Book that heavenly love had given, That tells us of a future life for all the good in Heaven ; And there beneath that open sky and on that verdant sod, He lifted his petitions up commending us to God. Our Charlie needed not his prayers, for lo ! in fields above, He'd lighted and was roving now where all is bliss and love. Then towards that little sleeping boy the sympathetic drew, And gazed upon his angel face and looked their last adieu, And left him to the stricken ones who felt the keenest smart, Because the ties of heart and home were rudely torn apart. And as we bent above our boy with grief we could not hide, And felt how very sweet 'twould be to slumber at his side, OUR CHARLIE. 375 The fleecy clouds above our heads, too thin for copious showers, Looked down as if they pitied us and mingled tears with ours ; And then we gazed and then we wept, and till the scene was past, We could not feel that farewell look would really be the last ; And then the dear heart-stricken one, within whose fond embrace The little fellow, all through life, had found the sweetest place, Put three pure lilies, white as snow upon a moun tain's crest, Within his little tiny hands that rested on his breast ; And then we left him sound asleep unruffled by a care, With this fond hope that we some day should sleep beside him there. THE CONCLUSION. DEAR Charlie, I have done my task, nay, I'll not call it task, 'Twas a sweet duty from the first, my heart began to ask ; 376 OUR CHARLIE. I could not bear to think a boy that such sweet promise gave, Should die so young and then lie down forgotten in the grave ; I could not bear that death should come and ruth lessly destroy, Nor leave behind, except at home, memorials of my boy. Perhaps I should have done my task in other ways than song, Perhaps I have not sung enough, perhaps I've sung too long; But since but few will read the book, and few of these but those Who've passed, alas ! through kindred scenes and suffered kindred woes, With howe'er little skill and power I may have done my part, They'll take, instead, the breathings of a chastened, sorrowing heart. The critic may the volume read and ridicule my views, The stoic may the pages scan and cauterize my Muse ; But ridicule and cautery will reach no heart but mine, They cannot alter or disturb a single pulse of thine ; OUR CHARLIE. 377 Nor can they, with their powers combined, my pur pose e'er destroy, Of telling where my book may go about my darling boy. A few more years, a few more days or minutes it may be, Will waft us to the pearly gate to dwell in Heaven with thee ; And though I cannot even hope an offering poor as this Will add a single thrill of joy to Charlie's cup of bliss, I do not doubt that e'en in Heaven 'twill be a pleas ant thought, If I have kept thy pretty name from being quite forgot, Or caused thy sweetness like a flower's, when crushed in perfect blow, To linger longer than it would within these bowers O O below. THE END. CAM BRIDGE : PKINTED BY II. O. HOUGHTON. University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. JLOJN1JUKT> FUR CO. 224 W. F-^sctvvay Glendale, Calif. 91204 Phone: CI 4-0828 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000402897 3