Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXII No. 4, April 1848. Various
her in its ruddy fold —
Have lands and tenements to hold:
"She might be poor – it were the same
If lofty, or of lowly name,
If famous, or unknown to fame:
"But she must feel the brotherhood
I feel for man – the love of good; —
Life is at best an interlude,
"And we must act our parts so here,
That, when we reach a loftier sphere,
Our memories shall not shed a tear.
"With such a one, if fair or brown —
Gracing a cottage, or a throne —
Soul, I could live and love unknown!
"Yes, gazing upward in her eye,
Scan what was passing in its sky,
And swoon, and dream, and, dreaming, die."
"There is none such," my spirit sighed.
"Seek glory: woo her for thy bride.
And perish, and be deified!"
"Why, Soul," I said, "the thought of fame,
Of winning an exalted name,
Might woo me, but my heart would blame
"The coldness that compelled me forth.
No: somewhere on this lower earth
The angel that I seek has birth.
"If not, I will so worship here
Her type, that I shall joy, not fear—
To meet her in her holier sphere."
MARY WARNER.
OR THE HEAD AND THE HEART.
MRS. E. L. B. COWDERY
"What a happy girl is Mary Warner," said an elderly lady, as a bright laughing girl turned into another room.
"And so exceedingly lively and cheerful, for one of her years," rejoined another.
"Years! How old is she?"
"About twenty-four," said a third, who had hitherto been silent, "and yet no one, to see her, would think it."
So thought the world, who in their most scrutinizing glance could detect no indication of care or gloom, in this, the object of their observations, who was one of those bright, intelligent beings, ever ready for conversation, and whose sallies of wit, never failed to excite the attention of those around her. "Little did they know of my aching heart," said Mary, that evening, to one in whom she had confided much of her former history; for years had passed since she had left the grave of her mother, and her native home, on "New England's rocky shore," to wander forth with her father to the western wilds. "Little did they know of the bitterness of soul I felt while making merriment for them."
"How can you so control your feelings, while endeavoring to conceal them, with such an excess of gayety?" eagerly inquired Ella.
"Ah! that is the work of time and necessity. Time has schooled my heart to hide behind the covering I might think best to wear. Were my history known, my name would be the theme of every tongue, the derision of the stoical, the pity of the simple, and exposed to the ridicule of a heartless and unfeeling world. The head must dictate and govern my actions, all else submitting. Yet nothing can equal the wretchedness of trying to conceal with smiles the bitter struggles of a wounded spirit, whose every hope hath perished. Eye may not pierce through the laughing cover, or ear catch the breathing of a sigh. Even sympathy seems like those cold blasts of a November night, seeking the hidden recess only to chill its peace forever."
"But do you not," said Ella, "enjoy something of that mirth which you inspire in others?"
"Sometimes the excitement is sufficient to make me forget, for a moment, the past, but then it is followed by such a depression that the feeble clay well nigh sinks beneath it. Misery pays her tribute to all my revelry."
"Then never will I again wish for Mary Warner's light and joyous air," said Ella, her cheek flushed with agitation, for being one of those sober ones, whose words were ever the thoughts of her heart, she had often wished for Mary's power to charm.
Weeks and months had rolled away, until they had numbered years. The friends had parted. Ella's calm face still cheered the domestic fireside, and Mary was gliding in crowded halls, the gayest of the gay. No voice more musical than hers, or tones more sprightly; she moved as a creature of enchantment, her image fastening upon the minds and memories of all. But Ella was not forgotten or neglected; they often corresponded. Mary's letters told but too truly how much those scenes were enjoyed by her. In answer to an invitation to come and spend the summer in the retirement of Ella's home, she says, "Even in this giddy place my heart is full to bursting; should I allow myself more time for meditation it would surely break, and pour forth its lava streams on the thirsty dust of human pride. In the dark, cheerless hour of midnight, my burning, throbbing brain still keeps its restless beating, scarce bestowing the poor refreshment of a feverish dream to strengthen the earthly tenement. My health is failing; there will soon be nothing left for me but the drifts of thought and memory, which gather around a weary past and blighted future."
It was in vain that Ella tried to place on parchment words of soothing and consolation – to draw her thoughts from lingering around the ruined wreck of her affections, and direct them to the "hope set before" her, of obtaining through the merits of the Savior a home "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." Every letter she received came burthened with its own weight of wo.
The summer passed – its roses bloomed and died. Another autumn came and whistled by; but ere the winter's snow had melted, there were anxious thoughts concerning Mary Warner. Never before had so long a time elapsed without a letter from her to Ella. The first crocuses of spring had just begun to smile when a letter came, written by a stranger's hand! It told of Mary's being sick even unto death, and begged of Ella, as she loved her friend, to come and remain with her while yet life's taper burned. It was a fearful summons thus to break the suspending spell. That evening saw Ella sitting in the cabin of one of those large steamers which ply the western waters, anxiously wending her way to a retired yet pleasant village near the Ohio, for Mary's sadly declining health could no more mingle in the excitement of the city, and she had retreated to this lonely place to lay down her shattered frame in peace. The night of the second day brought Ella to the place of destination. She entered the house where Mary was, almost unconscious of the manner in which she introduced herself as Mary Warner's friend. That was enough; an elderly lady clasped her hand and bade her welcome. "Oh!" said she, "'tis a strange sight to be in her sick room. Poor thing! she is nearly gone, and still so lively; and, too, this morning when I went in, I know she had been weeping."
"Did she ever mention me?" said Ella.
"Last night she said if you would come, that she could die contented."
"Then lead me to her quickly."
They silently bent their steps to the sick chamber, and coming to the door, both made an involuntary pause.
"She is sleeping," said the old lady, softly; but Ella was too much struck to make reply. She was thinking of the dreadful changes which had come over that frail being since last they met. Worn down to a skeleton, her lips compressed, as if in agony, her dark hair thrown back upon her shoulders, while her cheeks were pale as the marble so soon to be raised in her memory, which, with the glimmering of the lights, served to make it a too dismal scene. Staggering forward to a chair, she sat down quickly, but in the agitation there was a slight noise – it awakened the sleeper; a moment passed – they were in each others arms. When the first wild burst of joy had passed away, Mary spoke.
"Sit down here, Ella – I want to be alone with you; I feared that I might die before you came;" a convulsive shuddering passing over her, as she spoke of death. "I want to give you my history. 'T is? a dark picture, and yet it has all been