They knock! I come! yet ere on the way To the night of the grave I am pressing, Thou Angel of Death, give me yet one lay-- One hymn of thanksgiving and blessing.

Have thanks, O Father! in heaven high, For thy gift, all gifts exceeding; For life! and that grieved or glad I could fly To thee, nor find thee unheeding.

Oh thanks for life, and thanks too for death, The bound of all trouble and sighing; How bitter! yet sweet 't is to yield our breath When thine is the heart of the dying!

By our path of trial thou plantest still Thy lilies of consolation; But the loveliest of all--to do thy will-- Be it done in resignation!

Farewell, lovely earth, on whose bosom I lay; Farewell, all ye dear ones, mourning; Farewell, and forgive all the faults of my day: My heart now in death is burning!

"It is burning!" repeated Henrik in a voice of suffering. "It is terrible! Mother! Mother!" said he, looking for her with a restless glance.

"Your mother is here!" said she, bending over him.

"Ah! then all is right!" said he again, calmly. "Sing, my mother," added he, again closing his eyes--"I am weary."

She sang--

We part! but in parting our steps we bend Alone towards that glorious morrow, Where friend no more shall part from friend, Where none knoweth heart-ache or sorrow!

Farewell! all is dark to my failing sight, Your loved forms from my faint gaze rending, 'T is dark, but oh!--far beyond the night I see light o'er the darkness ascending!

"Oh! if you only knew how serene it is! It is divine!" said the dying one, as he stretched forth his arms, and then dropped them again.

A change pa.s.sed over the countenance of the young man; death had touched his heart gently, and its pulsations ceased. At the same moment a wonderful inspiration animated the mother; her eyes beamed brightly, and never before had her voice had so beautiful, so clear a tone as whilst she sang

Thou callest, O Father! with glad accord I come!--Ye dear ones we sever!-- Now the pang is past!--now behold I the Lord-- Praise be thine, O Eternal, for ever!

Judge Frank was awoke out of his uneasy sleep by the song, whose tone seemed to have a something supernatural in it. A few moments pa.s.sed before he could convince himself that the voice which he heard was really that of his wife.

He hastened with indescribable anxiety to the sick room; Elise yet sang the last verse as he entered, and casting his eyes on her countenance, he exclaimed "My G.o.d!" and clasped his hands together.

The song ceased: a dreadful consciousness thrust itself like a sword through the heart of the mother. She saw before her the corpse of her son, and with a faint cry of horror she sank, as if lifeless, upon the bed of death.

FOOTNOTES:

[18] Eric Stagnelius, who was born in 1793, and died in 1823, would have been, it is probable, had a longer life been granted to him, one of the most distinguished poets of the age. His poems, epic, dramatic, and lyric, fill three volumes. "Liljor i Saron"--Lilies of Sharon, is the general t.i.tle of his lyrics.

CHAPTER VIII.

ELISE TO CECILIA.

_Two months later._

"When I last wrote to you, my Cecilia, it was winter. Winter, severe icy winter, had also gathered itself about my heart--my life's joy was wrapped in his winding-sheet, and it seemed to me as if no more spring could bloom, no more life could exist; and that I should never again have the heart to write a cheerful or hopeful word. And now--now it is spring! The lark sings again the ascension-song of the earth; the May sun diffuses his warming beams through my chamber, and the gra.s.s becomes already green upon the grave of my first-born, my favourite! And I----Oh Lord! thou who smitest, thou also healest, and I will praise thee! for every affliction which thou sendest becomes good if it be only received with patience. And if thou concealest thyself for a season--as it appears to our weak vision--thou revealest thyself yet soon again, kinder and more glorious than before! For a little while and we see thee not, and again for a little while and we see thee, and our hearts rejoice and drink strength and enjoyment out of the cup which thou, Almighty One! fillest eternally. Yes, every thing in life becomes good, if that life be only spent in G.o.d!

"But in those dark wintry hours it was often gloomy and tumultuous within me. Ah, Cecilia, I would not that he should die! He was my only son, my first-born child. I suffered most at his birth; I sang most beside his cradle; my heart leapt up first and highest with maternal joy at his childish play. He was my summer child, born in the midsummer of nature and of my life and my strength, and then--he was so full of life, so beautiful and good! No, I would not that he should die, or that my beautiful son should be laid in the black earth! And as the time drew nearer and nearer, and I saw that it must be--then it was dark in me.

But the last night--Oh, it was a most wonderful night!--then it was otherwise. Do you know, Cecilia, that I sung gaily, triumphantly, by the death-bed of my first-born! Now I cannot comprehend it. But this night--he had during the foregoing day suffered much, and his sufferings had reconciled me to his death. They abated as death approached, and he besought of me, as he had often done in the years of his childhood, to sing him to sleep. I sang--I was able to sing. He received pleasure from the song, which increased in power, and with a heavenly smile, whilst heavenly pictures seemed to float before his eyes, he said, 'Ah, it is divine!' and I sang better and ever clearer. I saw his eyes change themselves, his breath become suspended, and I knew that then was the moment of separation between soul and body--between me and him! but I did not then feel it, and I sang on. It seemed to me as if the song sustained the spirit and raised it to heaven. In that moment I was happy; for even I, as well as he, was exalted above every earthly pain.

"The exclamation of my name awoke me from my blessed dream, and I saw the dead body of my son--after this I saw nothing more.

"There was a long, deep stupor. When I recovered consciousness, I felt a heart beating against my temples. I raised my eyes and saw my husband; my head was resting on his breast, and with the tenderest words he was calling me back to life. My daughters stood around me weeping, and kissing my hands and my clothes. I also wept, and then I felt better. It was then morning, and the dawn came into my chamber. I threw my arms around my husband's neck, and said, 'Ernst, love me! I will endeavour----'

"I could say no more, but he understood me, thanked me warmly, and pressed me close to his bosom.

"I did endeavour to be calm, and with G.o.d's help I succeeded. For several hours of the day I lay still on my bed. Eva, whose voice is remarkably sweet, read aloud to me. I arose for tea, and endeavoured to be as usual; my husband and my daughters supported me, and all was peace and love.

"But when the day was ended, and Ernst and I were alone in our chamber, a fear of the night, of bed, and a sleepless pillow, seized hold of me; I, therefore, seated myself on the sofa, and prayed Ernst to read to me, for I longed for the consolations of the Gospel. He seated himself by me and read; but the words, although spoken by his manly, firm voice, pa.s.sed at this time impressionless over my inward sense. I understood nothing, and all within me was dark and vacant. All at once some one knocked softly at the door, and Ernst, not a little astonished, said, 'Come in;' the door was opened, and Eva entered. She was very pale, and appeared excited; but yet at the same time firm and determined. She approached us softly, and sinking down on her knees between us, took our hands between hers. I would have raised her, but Ernst held me back, and said, mildly but gravely, 'Let her alone!'

"'My father, my mother!' said Eva, with tremulous voice, 'I have given you uneasiness--pardon me! I have grieved you--I will not do it again.

Ah! I will not now lay a stone on your burden. See, how disobedient I have been--this ring, and these letters, I have received against your will and against my promises from Major R. I will now send them back.

See here! read what I have written to him. Our acquaintance is for ever broken! Pardon me, that I have chosen these hours to busy you with my affairs, but I feared my own weakness when the force of this hour shall have pa.s.sed. Oh, my parents! I feel, I know, that he is not worthy to be your son! But I have been as it were bewitched--I have loved him beyond measure;--ah, I love him still--nay, do not weep, mother! You shall never again shed a tear of grief over me--you have wept already enough on my account. Since Henrik's death every thing in me is changed. Fear nothing more for me; I will conquer this, and will become your obedient, your happy child. Only require not from me that I should give my hand to another--never will I marry, never belong to another! But for you, my parents, will I live; I will love you, and with you be happy! Here, my father, take this, and send it back to him whom I will no more see!

And--Oh, love me! Love me!'

"Tears bedewed the face which she bowed down to her father's knee. Never had she looked so lovely, so attractive! Ernst was greatly affected; he laid his hand as if in blessing upon her head, which he raised, and said:

"'When you were born, Eva, you lay long as if dead; in my arms you first opened your eyes to the light, and I thanked G.o.d. But I thank him manifold more for you in this moment, in which I see in you the joy and blessing of our age--in which you have been able to combat with your own heart, and to do that which is right! G.o.d bless you! G.o.d reward you!'

"He held her for a long time to his bosom, and his tears wetted her forehead. I also clasped her in my arms, and let her feel my love and my grat.i.tude, and then, with a look which beamed through tears, she left us.

"We called her 'our blessed child' at that time, for she had blessed us with a great consolation. She had raised again our sunken hearts.

"Ernst went to the window and looked silently into the star-lighted night; I followed him, and my glance accompanied his, which in this moment was so beautiful and bright, and laying his arm around me he spoke thus, as if to himself:

"'It is good! It is so intended--and that is the essential thing! He is gone! What more? We must all go; all, sooner or later. He might not perfect his work; but he stood ready, ready in will and ability when he was called to the higher work-place! Lord and Master, thou hast taken the disciple to thyself. Well for him that he was ready! That is the most important for us all!'

"Ernst's words and state of mind produced great effect upon me. Peace returned to my spirit. In the stillness of the night I did not sleep, but I rested on his bosom. It was calm around me and in me. And in the secret of my soul I wished that it might ever remain so, that no more day might dawn upon me, and no more sun shine upon my weary, painful eyes.

"How the days creep on! On occasions of great grief it always appears as if time stood still. All things appear to stand still, or slowly and painfully to roll on, in dark circles; but it is not so! Hours and days go on in an interminable chain; they rise and sink like the waves of the sea; and carry along with them the vessel of our life: carry it from the islands of joy it is true, but carry it also away from the rocky sh.o.r.es of grief. Hours came for me in which no consolation would appease my heart, in which I in vain combated with myself, and said--'Now I will read, and then pray, and then sleep!' But yet anguish would not leave me, but followed me still, when I read; prevented me from prayer, and chased away sleep; yes, many such hours have been, but they too are gone; some such may perhaps come yet, but I know also that they too will go. The tenderness of my husband and of my children--the peace of home--the many pleasures within it--the relief of tears--the eternal consolation of the Eternal Word--all these have refreshed and strengthened my soul. It is now much, much better. And then--he died pure and spotless, the youth with the clear glance and the warm heart!

He stood, as his father said, ready to go into the higher world. Oh!

more than ever have I acknowledged, in the midst of my deep pain, that there is pain more bitter than this; for many a living son is a greater grief to his mother than mine--the good one there, under the green mound!

"We have planted fir-trees and poplars around the grave, and often will it be decorated with fresh flowers. No dark grief abides by the grave of the friendly youth.--Henrik's sisters mourn for him deep and still--perhaps Gabriele mourns him most of all. One sees it not by day, for she is generally gay as formerly; a little song, a gay jest, a little adornment of the house, all goes on just as before to enliven the spirits of her parents. But in the night, when all rest in their beds, she is heard weeping, often so painfully--it is a dew of love on the grave of her brother; but then every morning is the eye again bright and smiling.

"On the first tidings of our loss Jacobi hastened to us. He took from Ernst and me, in this time of heavy grief, all care upon himself, and was to us as the tenderest of sons. Alas! he was obliged very soon to leave us, but the occasion for this was the most joyful. He is about to be nominated to the living of T----; and his promotion, which puts him in the condition soon to marry, affords him also a respectable income, and a sphere of action agreeable to his wishes and accordant with his abilities, and altogether makes him unspeakably happy. Louise also looks forward towards this union and establishment for life with quiet satisfaction, and that, I believe, as much on account of her family as for herself.

"The family affection appears, through the late misfortune, to have received a new accession: my daughters are more amiable than ever in their quiet care to sweeten the lives of their parents. Mrs. Gunilla has been like a mother to me and mine during this time; and many dear evidences of sympathy, from several of the best and n.o.blest in Sweden, have been given to Henrik's parents;--the young poet's pure glory has brightened their house of mourning. 'It is beautiful to have died as he has died,' says our good a.s.sessor, who does not very readily find any thing beautiful in this world.

"And I, Cecilia, should I shut my heart against so many occasions for joy and grat.i.tude, and sit with my sorrow in darkness? Oh no! I will gladden the human circle in which I live; I will open my heart to the gospel of life and of nature; I will seize hold on the moments, and the good which they bring. No friendly glance, no spring-breeze, shall pa.s.s over me unenjoyed or unacknowledged; out of every flower will I suck a drop of honey, and out of every pa.s.sing hour a drop of eternal life.

"And then--I know it truly--be my life's day longer or shorter, bear it a joyful or a gloomy colour,

The day will never endure so long But at length the evening cometh.

The evening in which I may go home--home to my son, my summer-child! And then--Oh then shall I perhaps acknowledge the truth of that prophetic word which has so often animated my soul: 'For behold I create new heavens and a new earth; and the former shall not be remembered nor come into mind. But be ye glad and rejoice for ever in that which I create.'