Bradford reporter. [volume] (Towanda, Pa.) 1844-1884, 1856-06-14

1
| the breeze that rustled in the loosened ringlets
or the wing of an angel unseen by mortal eyes
Who is it whispers to her faintng spirit, anC
bids her rise and go forward on her fathers
mission Like Mary, she has been weepino
over the grave of her earthly hopes like Ma
| ry, she hears the voice of the master and sbe
goes forth to meet him. Trembling and falter
ing, she goes forth obedient to the divine be
hest ; she passes into the shadows of night
The sun will shine no more for her, but one by
one, the stars come out and hold their silver
lamps over the wanderers path She had
bowed her frail shoulder to the burden of the
cross, and the promise Of the crotcn sustains
her sinking rest Not golden crown" she
cries, ".but one of unfading howers-one leaf
embalmed with the breath of immortal love
were worth all the gold that paves the streets
Of the New Jerusalem. Adieu, We blossoms of
earth Never more shall my hand gather
your glowing clusters your beauty hath turn
ed to ashes, and your fragrance to poisonous
charlottesville rose of Sharon, the lily of
the valley, shall replace your perishing bloom y
Like a pale moonbeam the young maiden
parted the shadows of night, as her still foot
steps left their print on the dewy grass. Her
steps had been as light as the summer breeze,
but the burden of the cross pressed her down
wards and those who followed could tell that
a weary foot had preceded theirs. BY and by
the moon lifted her angel face above q bed of
white fleecy clouds, and mingled her soft, holy
light with the inner light dawning in the maid
ems soul. Long and lonely was the path she
trod-sometimes through woods, dark and
dense, impervious to the heavenly rays, where
the melancholy notes of the midnight bird alone
were heard over rugged hills and solitary
wales, through cold streams and wild dreary
wastes she passed, watching for the day-spring
on high. Not to the gorgeous temple on the
mountain hight was her glance uplifted. 1t
was turned to green field, where still waters
smiled-to a bower where the dove made it's
nest, and Rose of Sharon boomed Exhaus-
ted nature rallied, as bathed in mornings rosy
light she beheld the borders of the promised
land. She pressed forward with painting breath
and failing limbs, but fell PROSTATE beneath
the crushing weight she had upborne so brave
ly and enduringly. Poor wanderer poor for
saken wanderer hast thou followed thy Mas
terS steps in vain is there no rest for the
tempest-tossed and world-weary spirit has
God forgotten to be gracious, and are his pro-
misses void
NO! One approaches and lifts her drOop-
ing form. " His head is wet with dew, and
his locks are heavy with the drops of night"
Unseen, he has been the companion of her
journey, her protector and her guide He has
not forsaken her, who has put her trust in him.
Immortal joy thrills through her frame, glows
on her cheeks, and beams in her eyes. Her
robes are as white as those of the bood-wash-
ed throng that surround the throne of God
and wreath of unfading roses redolent with
divine love, the only crown she sought, encir-
cles her browS She stands upon the cross, her
stepping stone to heaven triumphant, adoring
and looks back upon the clouds rclIing behind
her, with a smile that illumines their dark
ness.
No cross-no crown " From the tongue
of angel choirs sounds the motto for the pill
grims in the journey of life. From the bed of
pain, the couch of languishment, the dungeon
of despair-from the blighted heart of youth,
and the frozen breast of age, amid disappoint-
ment, and sorrow, and agony, this sublime APP
peal to the immortal spirit struggling for VIC
tory or release is uttered and its echo may be
heard in the remoteSt abodes of suffering hui
manity. No cross-no crown" 1t is the slo-
gan of life, the victor anthem of death, the
chorus of eternity.