THE THREE SONS. 1. I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould; That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years. I can not say how this may be-I know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air: I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency. 2. But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his mind; The food for grave inquiring speech he every where doth find: Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk; Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. 3. His little̟heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplex'd With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next; And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, 4. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee. I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been; But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling, And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. 5. When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street, Will shout with joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth, 6. I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I can not tell, For they reckon not by years or months where he is gone to dwell. To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given, And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in Heaven. I can not tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, Are number'd with the secret things which God will not reveal. 7. But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, Where other blesssed infants be, on their Savior's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy forever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things, I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I), When God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. 8. What'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease; When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be— LESSON XX. THE BLIND PREACHER. FROM WIRT'S BRITISH SPY. 1. Ir was one Sunday, as I was traveling through the county of Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied near a ruinous old wooden house, in the forest, not far from the road-side. Having frequently seen such objects before in traveling through these states, I had no difficulty in understanding that this was a place of religious worship. 2. Devotion alone should have stopped me to join in the duties of the congregation; but I must confess that curiosity to hear the preacher of such a wilderness was not the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with his preternatural1 appearance. He was a tall and very spare old man; his head, which was covered with a white linen cap, his shriveled2 hands, and his voice, were all shaking under the influence of a palsy ;3 and a few moments ascertained to me that he was perfectly blind. 3. The first emotions which touched my breast were those of mingled pity and veneration. But how soon were all my feelings changed! It was a day of the administration of the sacrament; and his subject, of course, was the passion of our Savior. I had heard the subject handled a thousand times. I had thought it exhausted long ago. 4. Little did I suppose that in the wild woods of America I was to meet with a man whose eloquence would give to this topic a new and more sublime pathos" than I had ever before witnessed. As he descended from the pulpit to distribute the mystic symbols, there was a peculiar—a more than human solemnity in his air and manner, which made my blood run cold, and my whole frame shiver. 5. He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Savior -his trial before Pilate-his ascent up Calvary-his crucifixion-and his death. I knew the whole history; but never, until then, had I heard the circumstances so selected, so arranged, so colored! It was all new; and I seemed to have heard it for the first time in my life. 6. His enunciation was so deliberate that his voice trembled on every syllable; and every heart in the assembly trembled in unison.10 His peculiar phrases had that force of description, that the original scene appeared to be, at that moment, acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews; the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage. We saw the buffet;11 my soul kindled with a flame of indignation; and my hands were involuntarily12 and convulsively clinched. 7. But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiving meekness of our Savior; when he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven; his voice breathing to God a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do," the voice of the preacher, which had all along faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until, his utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irrepressible flood of grief. The effect was inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the mingled groans, and sobs, and shrieks of the congregation. 8. It was some time before the tumult had subsided so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual but fallacious13 standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher; for I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audience down from the height to which he had wound11 them, without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of the fall. But the descent ,was as beautiful and sublime as the elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic. 9. The first sentence with which he broke the awful silence was a quotation from Rousseau. "Socrates died like philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God." I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before did I completely understand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery. 10. You are to call to mind the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation were raised; and then, the few minutes of portentous, 15 death-like silence which reigned throughout the house; the preacher removing his white handkerchief from his aged face (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears), and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which holds it, as he begins the sentence, "Socrates died like a philosopher," then pausing, raising his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, with warmth and energy to his breast, lifting his "sightless balls" to heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice as he continues, "but Jesus Christ-like a God!" If he had been in deed and in truth an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine. 1 PRE-TER-NAT'-U-RAL, unusual; extraordi- 9 E-NUN-CI-A'-TION, manner of speaking. 10 IN U-NI-SON," in agreement; in harmony. 11 BUF'-FET, a blow. 12 IN-VOL-UN-TA-RI-LY, without thought or 13 FAL-LA'-CIOUS, deceptive. 15 POR-TENT'-OUS, that which threatens LESSON XXI. FATHER WILLIAM. 1. "You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "The few locks that are left you are gray; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man, |