Which soonest failed. The attachment was in him
A boyish sympathy with her excess
Of energy, and pity as she drooped.
But when from Wilydale, at fourteen years,
He sought a distant hamlet, there to learn The wheelwright's craft, through an apprenticeship Of seven long summers, though he dearly liked The tender-hearted girl, his kinswoman, Beloved as such, he carried not away The warm affection which invisibly
Was glowing in the depths of Esther's heart. From time to time was fuel, as it happ'd, Cast on the flame, by tidings of his worth. He was a dutiful son; his mother's life
Had a bright sunset, through his virtuous pains To cheer it. Apt and steady at his trade, There needed not the master's eye to watch His daily task-work. Yet no drudge was he, To whom prospective gain is all in all; When the time suited, foremost he in sports And manly relaxations from his toil.
Few with this agile champion of the green Might vie at cricket; few could toss the quoit With such precision and well-governed strength. The flute obeyed his breath; his practised touch Drew forth the viol's tones; the angler's fly Fell from his hand with such a natural flight, 'T was scarce illusion. His the lightest foot
At the blithe revel; his, beyond compare, The merriest voice of all at tale or song, While in the ingle-nook the Christmas log Flashed bright on every face. Yet, over all He had a reverence for holy things; Nor that a Sunday-suit, merely put on At sound of sermon-bell, and loosely worn Through the long work-day week; it was his garb On every day,-conspicuous more, perhaps, When he was wending to the house of prayer, But not forgotten in his secular hours Of toil or merriment. Labour got from him Its dues; and pastime knew its proper bounds.
Six months have passed since back to Wilydale The youth returned, entitled to profess Full mastery of his craft; and his small means Expended on the outfit, promise fair To yield a home and honest maintenance. And now beneath the cheerful morning sun The old church belfry trembles with the din Which hails a married pair. Few minutes since Did Stephen Berwick place the wedding ring On the dear hand of one who is to be
Henceforth his bosom's charge, through weal, through woe, While life and breath are granted. This fair bride
Was Esther's sister, and beloved by her
With warm affection, more than sisterly.
But was not here the passion-smitten maid Wronged and supplanted? Nay, she judged not so;She knew herself the victim of a wound All unsuspected by its innocent cause; And rather than reveal it, she would wrap Gladly her failing limbs within a shroud, And still her heart beneath the coffin lid.
When Stephen's term of pupilage was past, And to his native place, on lightest foot He had hastened back to root himself for life, Warmly he greeted Esther with the kiss Which early fondness, consanguinity, And cherished recollections of old days Well justified. He loved her still; still loved To hear her artless songs, or sit by her
At nightfall, when the assembled household group Resumed some quiet, sedentary task
Around the hearth. But his approach was frank, Hearty and gladsome, void of all reserve,
And unembarrassed with the tremulous doubt Which marks the lover. Yet while Esther saw Only the cousin, warm of heart indeed
And ready at her 'hest, few weeks fled on In that blithe cottage, ere the ardent youth Felt that on Lucy Ashton all his thoughts Were strangely centred; that her every tone Dwelt in his ear like music; that her step,
Her light familiar footstep, thrilled his heart; And when with maiden modesty she turned Her bright blue eyes on him, the current rushed Faster beneath his breast. And so he passed A time of troublous transport. Mutual soon The innocent passion.-He avowed himself, And all approved. Poor Esther from her dream Awakening, roused the virtuous spirit within, And by a strong resolve controlled her grief And disappointment,—yea, even Esther gave Cordial approval! But the effort was
Above the bodily strength; the mind, indeed, and modest mind, sustained itself, Nor ever wandered from the plain straight path.
Little remains unsaid. Suns rose and set, And saw from Esther's cheek the bloom recede, While she was calm and happy. She pursued Her usual avocations, till the foe Who mined within, signalled that this world's work Was no more hers. Still no complaint evinced
She thought hard measure had been dealt her,—no ; The Book, the peerless Book which guides to heaven, Had always been her manual, and she found Balm there for every ill. Chiefly she joyed
To reperuse one glowing narrative,
"The Gospel of Compassion," that which John (Whom painters love to limn with angel face
And locks of sunshine) in his age composed, His green old age, which kept his energies And seraph's ardours bright and unimpaired As when accompanied by Love Divine.
A piteous sight it would have been, to one Who knew not that her hopes had upward fled, And there had settled ere the spirit was freed, To see that lovely sufferer. Spring long since Had flushed each thicket, and the wilding rose Began to shew its streak, a tender hue, Like that which lingered yet on Esther's lips, While the poor hectic patient, pillow-propt, Sat in the doorway to inhale the breeze. Calmly she looked on death, as on a cloud Behind whose folds the Sun of Righteousness Is hidden from terrestrials, and whose gloom We all must enter; but once past, by those To whom the Scripture utters words of hope, Then comes the perfect Day. So she prepared In calmness for the grave,—she chose the spot Where she would lie; she named the friendly band Whose last sad office was to bear her forth; Portioned her little store of worldly goods,
That each beloved one might retain of her Some valued keepsake; evidenced her faith By joining in the sacred offices
The church prescribes, and then, in patient hope
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