Green-Mountain freeman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1844-1884, 1858-09-02

" Now lay me down to sleep,
pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If should die before l wake,
j nraY the I.nrd my soul To lie .,


pray the Lord my soul to take.''
Who are you, man or woman, for whom
this prayer has not old, sweet associations
who hearing its words, hear not, too, the
"memory bells ringing up from the golden
plains Of your childhood and feel not the soft
gales from the morning land of your life
sweeping over your soul You may be a
man now, in the pride and strength of your
years; you may have carved out for yourself
anzhoaorable name and destiny in this world
-mayhap you are the owner of broad lands
and proud homes, and your heart has grown
hard in its battle with the world. But stop
moment, and listen to this little verse, so
simple that the merest babe who learns to lisp
the words can comprehend them, so grand in
its sublime sig ifcance and faith that the
wisest sage shall only have learned fully the
true lesson of life when his soul can utter
them as it uttered them in his infancy.
Let's see! how many years ago was it !!
twenty, Thirty, forty; no matter, at the old
sound of "Now lay me-" they have all roll
ed back their massive doors, and you 60 down
through them to the old red one story house,
where your life first took on its morning.
You see the little window on the right side,
close under the rattcrs ah you slept sound
er slumber, and dreamed sweeter dreams in
that old garnet, than you ever have in your
lofty chambers, and gilded ceilings, and snowy
draperies; and what matter if your bed was
straw one, and your coverlet made OF red
and yellow "patches of calico, you never
snugged down so contentedly upon youl
spring mattresses and under Marseilles coun,
terpanes.
"Now lay me; y how softly sleep would
come and weigh down your eyelids, as you
repeated the word after her; ah you cal
hear her very tones now, stealing across your
heart, though it is SO many, many years since
death silenced them; and you feel too, the
soft touch of her hand on your pillow, and
the tender lingering of her kiss on your lips
t-you break down here, proud man as you
are, the memory Of your mother is more thar
you can bear. If she had only lived, you
would not be what you are now but blessed
be God, she left you something holy and bless
ed beyond all naming; something that csn,
not grow old or dim, not even in the sun.
speakable brightness" beyond the shining
gates--the memory of a loving, praying
Christian mother
Reader, it may be many years since you
prayed this prayer; or, alas may be that ii
the din and struggle of life you have forgot
ten to pray at all and night after night yor
have lain down on your pillow, never think
ing of the shining ranks of angels that Gods
mercy stationed around you, Or thanking hin
for the day and for the night-But como
back we beseech you, to the old prayer o
your childhood. You cannot have outgrowr
that no matter if your hair is frosted witt
the SHOWS of lifes December and if YOU
years are three-score-and-ten. Knee dowI
by your bedside, and utter these words. SCI
if something Of the old peace and faith o
your childhood does not come back to you
if something Of its dews and its blessings ial
not upon your slumber! And remember tina
sooner or later you must "lie down to sleep,
when this prayer will be all your soul can
take, all that will avail of your rank, o
wealth, or fame, whatsoever you most prize il
this world which is but the shadow of eerni
ty. All! we shall soon pass the
"Green thresholds of our common graves"
but this little prayer, the first, it may be
that we took upon our childish lips, shall fol
low us as we sail out under the solemn arch
es of the "River of Death"-follow us,
sweet, faint, tender air from the shores, an
when we shall cast anchor
q The Lord souls shall take.'