PART X.

" O H leave us not, sweet Marien? "
The little children spake;
" For if thou leave us here, alone,
Our wretched hearts will break. "

She left them not — kind Marien?
And in a noisome room,
Day after day, week after week,
They labored at the loom.

The while they thought with longing souls
Upon the breezy strand,
The flying shuttles, to and fro,
Passed through each little hand.

The while they thought with aching hearts,
Upon them parents dear,
The growing web was watered
With many a bitter tear.

And the sweet memory of the past, —
The white sands stretching wide;
Their father's boat wherein they played,
Upon the rocking tide;

The sandy shells; the sea-mew's scream;
The ocean's ceaseless boom;
Came to them like a troubling dream,
Within the noisy loom.

Wo-worth those children, hard bested,
A weary life they knew;
Their hands were thin, their cheeks were pale,
That were of rosy hue.

The miser kinsman in and out
Passed ever and anon;
Nor ever did he speak a word,
Except to urge them on.

Wo-worth those children, hard bested,
They worked the livelong day;
Nor was there one, save Marien,
A soothing word to say: —
So, amid toil and pam of heart,
The long months wore away.

The long, the weary months passed on,
And the hard kinsman told
Over his profits; every loom
Increased the hoard of gold;
" 'Tis well! " said he, " let more be spun,
That more may yet be sold! "

So passed the time; and with the toil
Of children weak and poor,
The sordid kinsman's treasure-hoards
Increased more and more.

But ere a year was come and gone,
The spirit of the boy
Was changed; with natures fierce and rude
He found his chiefest joy.

The hardness of the kinsman's soul
Wrought on him like a spell,
Exciting in his outraged heart,
Revenge and hatred fell;
The will impatient to control;
The spirit to rebel.

Hence was there warfare 'twixt the two
The weak against the strong; —
A hopeless, miserable strife
That could not last for long;
How can the young, the poor, contend
Against the rich man's wrong!

The tender trouble of his eye,
Was gone; his brow was cold;
His speech, like that of desperate men,
Was reckless, fierce, and bold.

No more he kissed his sister's cheek;
Nor soothed her as she wept;
No more he said at Marien's knee
His prayers before he slept.

But they, the solitary pair,
Like pitying angels poured
Tears for the sinner; and with groans
His evil life deplored.

Man knew not of that secret grief,
Which in their bosoms lay;
And for their sinful brother's sin,
Yet harder doom had they.

But God, who trieth hearts; who knows
The springs of human will;
Who is a juster judge than man,
Of mortal good and ill;

He saw those poor despised ones,
And willed them still to mourn;
He saw the wandering prodigal,
Yet bade him not return.

In his good time that weak one's wo,
Would do its work of grace;
And the poor prodigal, himself,
Would seek the father's face;
Meantime man's judgment censured them,
As abject, mean, and base.

The erring brother was away,
And none could tell his fate;
And the young sister at the loom
Sate drooping, desolate.

She mourned not for her parents dead,
Nor for the breezy shore:
And now the weary, jangling loom
Distracted her no more.

Like one that worketh in a dream,
So worked she day by day,
Intent upon the loving grief,
Which on her spirit lay;
And as she worked and as she grieved,
Her young life wore away.

And they who saw her come and go,
Oft said, with pitying tongue,
" Alas, that labor is the doom
Of aught so weak and young! "

Alone the kinsman pitied not;
He chid her, that no more
The frame was strong, the hand was swift,
As it had been before.

— All for the child was dark on earth,
When holy angels bright
Unbarred the golden gates of heaven
For her one winter's night.

Within a chamber poor and low,
Upon a pallet bed
She lay, and " Hold my hand, sweet friend, "
With feeble voice she said.

" Oh hold my hand, sweet Marien, "
The dying child spake low;
" And let me hear thy blessed voice,
To cheer me as I go!

" 'Tis darksome all — Oh, drearly dark!
When will this gloom pass by?
Is there no comfort for the poor,
And for the young who die! "

Down by her side knelt Marien,
And kissed her fading cheek,
Then of the loving Saviour,
In low tones 'gan to speak.

She told of Lazarus, how he lay,
A beggar mean and poor,
And died, in misery and want,
Beside the rich man's door.

Yet how the blessed angels came,
To bear his soul on high,
Within the glorious courts of heaven,
On Abraham's breast to lie.

She told how children, when they die,
Yet higher glory win,
And see the Father face to face,
Unsoiled by tainting sin.

" Blessed be God! " the child began,
" I doubt not, neither fear,
All round about the bed, behold,
The angel-bands appear!

" I go! — yet still, dear Marien,
One last boon let me win! —
Seek out the poor lost prodigal,
And bring him back from sin!

" I go! I go! " and angels bright,
The spirit bare away: —
On earth 'twas darksome, dreary night,
In heaven 'twas endless day!

— And now, upon that selfsame night,
Within a carved bed,
Lay the rich kinsman wrapt in lawn,
With pillows 'neath his head.

Scheming deep schemes of gold, he lay
All in that lordly room;
Blessing himself that he had stores
For many years to come.

Just then an awful form spake low,
A form that none might see:
" Thou fool, this very night, thy soul
Shall be required of thee! "

And when into that chamber fair
Stole in the morning ray,
A lifeless corpse, upon his bed,
The miser kinsman lay.

— Beside his door stood solemn mutes;
And chambers high and dim,
Where hung was pall, and mourning lights
Made show of grief for him.

Full fifty muffled mourners stood,
Around the scutcheoned bed,
That held the corse, as if, indeed,
A righteous man were dead.

Within a tomb, which he had built,
Of costly marble-stone,
They buried him, and plates of brass
His name and wealth made known.

A coffin of the meanest wood,
The little child received;
And o'er that humble, nameless grave,
No hooded mourner grieved.

Only kind Marien wept such tears,
As the dear Saviour shed,
When in the house of Bethany.
He mourned for Lazarus dead.