The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1852-04-08

heart of q poet and the eye of prophet Of
their future home, apd the mighty destiny that
should vet wait on their humble efforts
Maude listened long, and in silence then,
summoning all her God-giyen strength, she
smoke TO him of the home that awaited her. not
with him, on the banks of the beautiful Con-
necticut, but by that river of life whose stream
makes glad the city of God.
She did not need 10 look up in his face for
the trembling of the arm that encircled her,
and the large, burning tear-drop that fell on
her forehead spoke plainly of the agony her
words had awoke within him. They seemed
to have changed natures-that high-hearted,
calm, grave man, and the yielding, fragile
maiden; but as she kept on, there was some
thing 80 serene in her faith SO holy in the calm
resignation with which she spoke of death, so
exalting in her views of the life beyond, that
he was lifted above himself: and, leaning his
head on those golden locks, he poured out all
his selfish struggles, and told how for weeks
past he had been ready to struggle with God
to retain her still on earth
earth! what is earth, my husband ~ she
rcptied, "but a few short years of troubled joy
at best and what is this, compared to that rest
which remaineth for the children of God That
YOU You will not fail to meet me there, be-
lovedn
God aiding me- will not In this hope,
and with this aim, | shall live and die, he re-
piled fervently.
For few moments there was silence be-
tween them, while the grateful evening breeze
stirred the leafy covering of their hut. and let
in the soft June moonlight, that fell like halo
of glory over the golden locks of the invalid.
A smile huttered round her mouth then a
strange tremor for brief second shook her
whole frame, and struck an icy chill to her
husbands heart; for, with that passing moon
beam, the spirit of Maude Winstanley swept
upward from the earth.
Oh, death death! death! thou masked angel,
whom our tear-dimmed eyes cannot unveil
thou fearful void which reason cannot fathom
thou icy silence, which love cannot break
thou dread pause, which no earthly power can
fll-bessed, thrice blessed, is he who can hear
through the darkness and desolation the sor-
row and the anguish that wait upon thy foot
steps, the voice of Him, who, by that fresh
grave in Bethany, crst sanctified human grief,
whispering, "Lo! it is l-bc not afraid !"
Not thereof, not there, with that beloved
form stiffening in his arms, and that heavy,
benumblng sense OF sorrow weighing down
upon his heart--not when, with kiss after kiss
upon that cold brow. he resigned her TO the
care of the weeping women who had gathered
round, and rushed out into the night-not
when the hand of Mr. Hooker grasped his in
true and silent sympathy, could Godfrey Win
stanley hear that voice. But when, in the deep
watches of the night, he knelt alone by the
side of his dead, then it fell upon his heart like
an echo of her voice. only far sweeter and
more heavenly, and that icy silence grew trem
ulous, as with the slow beat of an angels
wings
They buried her "by the way as Jacol
buried Rachel; but they set up no pillar upor
her grave" Her initials, cut in the smooth
bark of young birch that overhung her grave
were the only memorial that marked the spo
where slept all that was mortal Of Maude Win
stanley