The Portage County Democrat. [volume] (Ravenna, Ohio) 1854-1868, 1863-06-24
for the 3ireside Chair, lll'aai,
E L L e N .

Behind yonder close-drawn curtain knos
a still form lies. '7 o. ss"' ''
For warmth, coldness-for song, silence
for mirth, mourning-for life, death.
/ War has reaped his red harvests on man
a battlefield. Sorrow has stalked through
the land, scattering broadcast his seeds of woe
But no breadth of grief dminishes its depth
A desolated hearth is just as zdesolate as i
desolated hearths were not shivering al
around it.
There are tears for heroes fallen, for state
ly homes laid waste; but none the less there
shall be tears for a lowly life departed, lamp
gone out in cottage chamber. s-,4 .r
/ Irish Ellen. Good and faithful soul, with
/ the warm, rich. island blood leaping in every
pulse. Brown hair as, deep, as glossy, aue
abundant as ever lay parted over royal brows
brown eyes full of the soft light of love
and laughter-the sunshine ,nestles there nc
more. They have gone down to darkness
and the grave
/ | hear little cooing voice that eannotf vel
even speak the mothers name, but only purrs
out blind, ignorant joy. I hear the waver-
| ing, unsteady tread of little feet that have
but just learned their uses, and go stumbling
and falling with keen delightina a new found
power. BntI / hear no more the old sound
the mothers embracing voice that wrapped
around the baby-gurgling with its caressing
tones. Always heard that sound responsive
to the -voice-never failing, never tired,
never less full of goodness and freshness than
at the frst-a dear duet sweet as the song of
the new creation when the morning stars sang
together; joyful as that old acclaim when all
the sons of God shouted for joy &i3 f' 90
0, the unfathomable depth of the mother
heart that lies now all unheedipg TIE un-
utterable love that no pain could terrify, no
care, no work, nor watching tire War and
poverty, and taxation were nothing. .Weari-
ness, impotence, ambition, found no entrance
there. Love-pure, clear, full perfect con-
tent IN baby-lifc, made the evening and the
morning the first and the eternal day. Even
old Ireland beckoned in vain. All the music
of the spheres was drowned in that little COO
ing voice. All the motion of. the universe
centered in those little stumbling feet
- And the baby will forget his mother Now
his little heart feebly recalls her. } Now and
then faint wall moans over his lips for the
EllIs, the voice, the bosom that he vaguely
misses. Now his blind hands. tumble at the
door, cropping for the mother that lies within
mother 10 mora statue, stone, death
Sad is the dim sorrow of that tiny life, but
saddest of all to me, the certainty that it will
SO quickly pass away. Tomorrow and to-
morrow it will be less. In a week there will
be no trace. All that boundless love, that
mexhaustible treasure-trove of tenderness,
will be as if it had never been. Is it not a
waste? He will grow up and never know it.
NO memory will recall. no inspiration will
reveal to him that ocean of love in which his
young life was Tapped and lullcd to dreamless
ecstacy. Was it not a waste? o, Ellen on
whatever far-of world you walk in white, in
whatever garments of praise your soul has
robed herself, do you not miss and mourn this
little cooling voice, these little stumbling feet?
Even in the heaven of heavens can YOU find
any JOY that can quite atone for this? O.
falthless heart ! what words are these? Eve
hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have en-
tered into the heart of man, the things which
God hath prepared. He hath made man.
male and female in his own image Father
hood, motherhood, meet in God. He will
satisfy the wants which He has created q 3ga
1t was but homely life that Ellen led. and
homely virtues those with which she adorned
it. A short and happy life scanned with sor-
rows-a life spent in the kitchen, at the wash
tub and the ironing -table-such life has lit
tie to commend it to the worlds regard. Yet
many and many man lives in the full blaze
and bray OF renown, and his passing away
will be commemorated with the varied pomp
OF dlrge and requiem, and the slow-creeping
procession, and the stately ma1soleum, who
will deserve less of his country than this
young Irish exile. A humble work well done
shall find better-but not a surer-guerdon.
than the indulgence of a magnificent intellect
ual, aesthetic, or sensual selfshness, calling it.
self by whatever name it choose. Ellen
stood at the wash-tub and the ironing-table,
and neither crease nor stain marred the purity
OF the white folds that passed under her hands,
ohe ordered the table, and every spoon knew.
us place. She went. through the chambers.
and no falry's wand everdid completer work
than mop and broom in those stout red arms
of hers. Speck and spot fled before her, Civ
ing up the battle half fought from sheer faint
heartedness. And She wrought eheerily.-
Her work was song. Nothing was too much
for her. The day was never too long, nor the
task too hard. She never gave short meas