Long years ago, many long years ago,
Life, like a burden grievous to be borne,
Was laid upon a stricken human heart,
Which long since slept the welcome sleep of death.
It matters little in what spot of earth
His weary years were passed, or what the name
He bore among the living; his was not
A woe so grand, a sorrow so sublime,
That but to gaze on its white face might awe
To silence the vain laughter of the crowd;
Or, with electric thrill, awake to life
The sluggish sympathy of selfish hearts.
I tell his simple story but as one
Of thousands, in all ages and all lands,
Who live and suffer, die, and are forgot.
I call him Lazarus, for at the last,
As one of old lay at the rich man's gate,
Desiring to be fed; so he, o'er worn
With life's unequal struggle, when the night
Closed darkly on his sad life's weary day,
Meekly awaited in his helplessness
Such alms as ease and wealth might choose to give.
Boside his cradle, love with patient toil
Waited and watched, with gentle touch to soothe
The restless fever that with life began;
And vainly strove to brace to healthful life
The feeble little frame. No joy or pride
Stirred in the father's heart, when on his boy
His grave eyes rested; but a silent thrill
Of gentle pity melted all his love
To tenderest compassion for the child,
Who never should with bounding footsteps run
To meet him at his coming; whose young life
Should never know the healthful joy of youth;
Whose manhood, if to riper years he grew,
Was manhood shorn of vigor, and foredoomed
To forced inaction, and a weariness
No healthful toil might bring, no rest make sweet;
To hopeless aspirations, vain regrets,
And patient waiting for a slow release.
Before the open door, her younger babes
Frolicked like lambs upon the daisied sward,
While yet with careful hand the mother led
The faltering footsteps of her feeble boy.
Not his with gleeful shout and buoyant steps
To chase the trundling hoop or flying ball;
To pluck from topmost bough the orchard fruit,
Or shake the ripe nuts from the forest trees;
Or scale the tangled cordage of the vine,
Where the wild grape its purple clusters lift
To the October sun. Not his to plunge
With wild halloo and merriest uproar
Through whirling snow-drifts, or with slow steps climb,
With dragging sledge, the steep hill's slippery side,
Patiently toiling upward, but to feel
The breathless pleasure of the swift descent;
Only in quiet nooks to sit and listen
To sound of merry laugh, and whistled tune,
And see the active sports he might not share.
Perhaps his childhood did not comprehend
The greatness of his loss; for Nature offers
Some partial compensation for the good
That she denies to us; but as the bird
That flutters only in its gilded cage,
And never felt the joy of breezy flight
On sinewy pinions through the summer air,
Yet beats its breast against its prison bars,
And pines for freedom that it never knew;
So the child's soul, from its enfeebling bonds,
Looked out upon a fresher, happier life,
And sorrowed for the joys it had not known.
Then came the years of youth, and still he looked
Sadly on pleasures that he could not share.
He watched the graceful figures, lightly floating
Through the swift changes of the mazy dance,
And felt the rythmic harmony of motion
And joyful music, throbbing in his veins
When smart young men and merry maidens went
For a day's ramble in some forest glen,
Where down the rocky steep, in bright cascades,
Some mountain brook its sparkling waters flung;
He saw the gathering of the gay procession,
And prancing steeds, and riders lightly poised,
And tossing plumes, and tresses floating free,
And sparkling eyes, and cheeks with health aglow,
Like a swift vision vanished from his sight;
And left but gay good-bye and merry laugh
To haunt the silence of his lonely hours.
He heard afar the merry skaters shout
With bell-like clearness through the wintry morn,
As o'er the crystal ice with ringing steel
They sped like swallows darting through the air;
Then by the fireside sat him down to con
Some legend wild from ancient song or story,
Of daring rude, or conflict fierce and stern,
Or fearful retribution; wild, wierd tales,
That sent through all his faint and fevered veins
A thrill of horror, mingled with delight.
The sturdy woodmen from their forest toils,
The stalwart reapers from the harvest fields,
Flocked homeward as the summer day declined
And laughed and froliced as if toil were play.
Some lighter share of work he sometimes wrought,
Or in some quiet pastime took a part;
But in those vigorous sports and active toils,
The restless heart of youth forever craves,
Pastimes and labors that brace up the nerves,
And keep in healthful channels flowing free
The warm, quick blood of youth, he bore no part.
He saw his young companions going forth
To broader fields of labor, higher schools
Of art and science, to the crowded marts
Of the great, busy world, to distant wilds
To plant new households in more favored lands.
For him no wider fields of enterprise,
No broader culture, and no skillful hand;
No fertile fields, no frugal little home,
Wherein might happy wife and children share
The cares and joys of manhood's fuller life.
Through all his lonely days his task must be
Never to do, but always to endure.
So passed his years away, a long, sad youth,
Feeble as childhood, weary as old age;
And added years but added to the load
Of the sad burden that his life must bear;
A deeper consciousness of all his loss,
Consuming thirst for sweeter draughts of life,
And hunger unappeased of heart and brain.
He saw far out on the broad sea of life
The stately ships with their white sails outspread,
Making the trackless billows of the deep
A highway to all lands. His little bark
Lay stranded on a low and barren shore,
Never to float upon the restless waves,
That mocked him with their brightness. Oh, what joy
To float far out upon those billows blue,
He looked abroad o'er all the peopled earth,
And found some strong to do, some brave to dare,
Some pitiful to save; but found not one
With power to grant the boon he wildly craved.
Time healeth many sorrows; but for him
Time had no healing balm, for him no cure..
What was it that his years might be prolonged
To hoary-headed age; the hand of Death
Alone could set his fettered spirit free,
And lay the poor, worn body in the grave,
At last in peace to rest. And what was death?
If the tired soul might tranquilly lie down
In that low bed, and sleep to wake no more,
He well might die. But to go forth alone
Into that dread hereafter, knowing not
If good or ill awaits, but only knowing
That whether good or evil be that life,
The soul must still live on. Ah! who shall dare
To hope for such release from earthly woe!
If the great God, all powerful and all wise,
Were but indeed a father; if he looked
Upon his suffering children pityingly,
Even as an earthly father loves and pities
His suffering little child; how gladly then
Would he go home into his father's house,
Sure of a father's welcome; but alas!
Does He indeed so love us? Does he not forget
His helpless little ones; nor from his height
Bend down to listen to their plaintive cries?
Can he not give, and can he not withhold?
And if he loved us, would he give us life,
Knowing that life a burden and a curse?
Has he not favored children, even on earth,
Whose days are passed in sunshine, through whose veins
The warm blood courses with an even flow,
Keeping the wondrous mechanism of life
In smooth, harmonious play? No sudden shock
Of dire misfortune, or great sorrow, breaks
The calm contentment of their placid hearts.
No deadly conflict of contending passions
Disturbs their deep serenity of soul.
And in the life to come, are we not told
God will his best beloved children gather
Into one happy household? never more
To suffer pain or sorrow, but to dwell
Forever in the sunlight of his smile;
While millions of his unbeloved shall stray
Exiled forever from his light and love;
Sinning and suffering ever, unforgiven;
Homeless and hopeless, wandering evermore
Through drear abysses of the dread unknown,
Seeking in vain for rest; bewildered, lost,
Forsaken and forgotten of the Lord;
Eternal life to them an endless death.
And such was God, all-powerful, in whose hand
He was as less than nothing! Should he fall
Prostrate and suppliant, with vain tears to plead
For pity in his woe? No craven fear
Palsied his fainting heart. The smouldering fire
Of the slow fever latent in his veins
Flashed into lurid flame. Wild, maddening thoughts
Shot like the lightnings through his dizzy brain.
Within his very soul he seemed to hear
The audible voice of the arch tempter, breathing
Reproaches fierce, and impious maledictions;
Yet 'mid the deepening gloom he fought the foe,
And though the storm of angry passions raged,
He "sinned not with his lips." The very faith
That should have helped him cheerfully to bear
The heavy sorrow of his present life,
But laid a curse upon the life to come;
And as his "light was darkness," who shall say
How dark the blackness of his fierce despair!
Then came a friend, a gentle, thoughtful friend,
One fair and young, and blest with many graces,
Not proudly worn, but thankfully accepted
As God's good gifts to her. Her clear, calm eyes
Looked pityingly upon his mournful fate;
Not with the pity born of selfish hearts,
That is akin to scorn, but tenderly
As one might look upon a brother's pain;
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