Year: 1859

~S~


My daughter, go and pray. See the
night is come. Yonder, one golden planet
glimmers through the clouds. The wavy,
trembling mist is gathering around the
hills. Now and then some lonely wagon
glides through the distant shadows. All
is silence and repose, and the trees along
the road shake off to the vesper breeze
the dust of the day.


The twilight hath heralded the queenly
Night, with her crown of stars, and one
by one they burst upon the sight in glow
ing sparkles. The crimson fringe in the
west is fading out. The surface of the
waters in the shade grows silvery in the
starlight. The furrows, paths and thick
cts all mingle and blend together, and
lose themselves in the shadows, so that
the passing wanderer is doubtful of his
way.


The day is for toll, for care and for
hatred. But the night-the solemn and
serene night-for prayer and peace. The
old herdsman, the wind amid the ruins of
the tower, the restless waters and the
focks all seem weary, and with their
broken voices all complain. Tired Ma
ture hath need Of sleep, and prayer and
love.


1t is the hour when children talk with
angels. While we pursue our strange
pleasure, all the little children, their eyes
raised to heaven, their hands clasped, and
their feet bare, kneel and say at the same
time the same prayer, asking mercy and
love for us of the universal Father.


And then they will sleep. Golden
dreams, born in the last sounds of the
declining day, and swarming without
number amidst the shadows, breathing
from afar their honied breath, and seeing
their rosy mouths, shall fly as bees fly to
the sweet flowers, and pass in through
the folds of their linen curtains.


o cradle-slumber! o prayer of infancy!
voice which always soothes and never
offends-sweet religion, which smiles and
rejoices, fitting prelude to the great con-
cert of the solemn night! AS the bird
puts its head under its wing, so the child
in prayer puts its young spirit to rest.


Ny daughter, so and pray. First and
above all, for her who so many nights nath
rocked thy cradle-for her who brought
thy spirit from heaven, and put it upon
earth; and who, since then, tender mother!
taking to herself the bitter of both lives,
hath always drank the wormwood, and
left thee the honeyl


Then pray for me. l need it more than
she. She is Just like thee-good, peace
full, supplemented and trustful. She
hath transparent soul, and peace is mir
rored in her countenance. Many have
her pity and none bear her envy. Gen.
tie and sweet, she takes life patiently, and
if she ever suffers wrong she asks not
who does it.


In culling flowers, never hath her mex
perienced hand touched the poisonous
ones. Evil could not allure her with its
most beguiling enticements. She is all
forgetfulness to what is past, and knows
nothing of those evil thoughts which pass
over the mind like dark shadows over the
waters.


She is ignorant-oh, may'st thou be
ever as ignorant as she is!-of those mis-
cries of the world in which our souls
mingle-false pleasures, vanities. remorse,
anxious cares, passions floating like foam
on the heart-deep remembrances OF
shame and of bitterness which make the
sudden flush mantle the cheeks.


For me, know life better; and can
tell thee, when thou shalt be larger, and
shalt need the instruction, that to follow
empire and fortune and art is folly and
nothingness; that the changing urn of
Fortune often gives us shame where we
looked for glory; and the soul itself may
be lost in this game of hazard.


In passing through such life the soul
becomes changed and though we may
think all things transparent to us, and we
can trace causes to their results, yet we
grow old in combating error and wrong.
In the march of life there is no halting.
One must press ever onward, though his
spirit doubts and his feet err. All leave
something to the bushes along the way
the sheep Of their fleece and man of his
virtue.


Go, then, and pray for me! And pray
for all. o God, thou art our Father. Be
merciful, for thou art great!-be merciful
for thou art good.


Thy words, my daughter, will go where
the soul sends them. Fear not, for all
things have path of their own. Fear
not, the soulin its upward fight will find
its way.


There is nc thing here below which does
not find its true place. The rivers find
the sea, though they have to wander
through distant plains The bee finds the
flower which conceals the honey. All
things wing their unceasing flight to the
chosen aim. The eagle flies to the sun;
the vultures hover around the tombs; the
swallows take their flight to regions of
spring, and prayer scars to heaven.


While for me thy gentle voice is float
ing up towards God, am, like the slave,
resting in the vale, who has thrown down
his burden for while. 1 feel myself
lighter, for this load of pain, of faults and
Of errors, under which I falter, is lifted
from my shoulders and borne away on the
soft arms of thy chanted prayer


Go. then, and pray for thy father!-so
that may be worthy to see pass in my