Читать книгу Lives of Celebrated Women - Samuel G. Goodrich - Страница 11

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… … . …

“Launched forth on life’s uncertain path,

Its best and brightest gift denied,

No power to pluck its fragrant flowers,

Or turn its poisonous thorns aside;—

No ray to pierce the gloom within,

And chase the darkness with its light;

No radiant morning dawn to win

His spirit from the shades of night;—

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Nature, whose smile, so pure and fair,

Casts a bright glow on life’s dark stream—

Nature, sweet soother of our care,

Has not a single smile for him.

When pale disease, with blighting hand,

Crushes each budding hope awhile,

Our eyes can rest in sweet delight

On love’s fond gaze, or friendship’s smile.

Not so with him; his soul chained down

By doubt, and loneliness, and care,

Feels but misfortune’s chilling frown,

And broods in darkness and despair.

Favored by Heaven, O, haste thee on;

Thy blest Redeemer points the way;

Haste o’er the spirit’s gloom to pour

The light of intellectual day.

Thou canst not raise their drooping lids,

And wake them to the noonday sun;

Thou canst not ope, what God hath closed,

Or cancel aught his hands have done.

But, O, there is a world within,

More bright, more beautiful than ours;

A world which, nursed by culturing hands,

Will blush with fairest, sweetest flowers.

And thou canst make that desert mind

Bloom sweetly as the blushing rose;

Thou canst illume that rayless void

Till darkness like the day-gleam glows.

… … . …

Thus shalt thou shed a purer ray

O’er each beclouded mind within,

Than pours the glorious orb of day

On this dark world of care and sin.

… … . …

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And when the last dread day has come,

Which seals thine endless doom—

When the freed soul shall seek its home,

And triumph o’er the tomb—

When lowly bends each reverend knee,

And bows each heart in prayer—

A band of spirits, saved by thee,

Shall plead thy virtues there.”

Hitherto Margaret had sedulously avoided all conversations about her health, and seemed unwilling to let the feeling that disease had marked her for its victim take possession of her mind. But in the summer of 1838, she one day surprised her mother by asking her to tell her, without reserve, her opinion of her state. “I was,” says her mother, “wholly unprepared for this question; and it was put in so solemn a manner, that I could not evade it, were I disposed to do so. I knew with what strong affection she clung to life, and the objects and friends which endeared it to her; I knew how bright the world upon which she was just entering appeared to her young fancy—what glowing pictures she had drawn of future usefulness and happiness. I was now called upon at one blow to crush these hopes, to destroy the delightful visions; it would be cruel and wrong to deceive her. In vain I attempted a reply to her direct and solemn appeal; several times I essayed to speak, but the words died away on my lips; I could only fold her to my heart in silence; imprint a kiss upon her forehead, and leave the room, to avoid agitating her with feelings I had no power to repress.”

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But this silence was to Margaret as expressive as words. Religion had always been present with her, but from this period it engrossed a large portion of her thoughts. She regretted that so much of her time had been spent in light reading, and that her writings had not been of a more decidedly religious character. “Mamma,” said she one day, “should God spare my life, my time and talents shall, for the future, be devoted to a higher and holier end.” “O mother, how sadly have I trifled with the gifts of Heaven! What have I done which can benefit one human being?” The New Testament was now her daily study, and a portion of each day was devoted to private prayer and self-examination.

The closing scene of her life, which occurred on the 25th November, 1838, would lose much of its interest in the description, if given in other than the beautiful and touching language of her mother. It was night, and, at the entreaty of her husband, Mrs. Davidson had laid herself on the bed in a room adjoining that of her daughter. “Between three and four o’clock, the friend who watched came again, and said, ‘Margaret has asked for her mother.’ I flew. She held a bottle of ether in her hand, and pointed to her breast. I poured it on her head and chest. She revived. ‘I am better now,’ said she. ‘Mother, you tremble; you are cold; put on your clothes.’ I stepped to the fire, and put on a wrapper, when she stretched out both her arms, and exclaimed, ‘Mother, take me in your arms.’ I raised her, and, seating myself on the bed, passed both my arms around her waist; her head dropped on my bosom, and her expressive eyes were 48 raised to mine. That look I never shall forget; it said, ‘Tell me, mother, is this death?’ I answered the appeal as if she had spoken. I laid my hand upon her white brow; a cold dew had gathered there. I spoke—‘Yes, my beloved, it is almost finished; you will soon be with Jesus.’ She gave one more look, two or three short, fluttering breaths, and all was over; her spirit was with its God: not a struggle or a groan preceded her departure.”

Thus perished Margaret Davidson, at the early age of fifteen years and eight months. Her sister Lucretia had found in Miss Sedgwick a fitting biographer, and the memory of Margaret has been rendered more dear by the touching manner in which Irving has told her brief but wondrous story. We cannot better close our imperfect sketch, than to use the words of her biographer: “We shall not pretend to comment on these records; they need no comment, and they admit no heightening. Indeed, the farther we have proceeded with our subject, the more has the intellectual beauty and the seraphic purity of the little being we have endeavored to commemorate, broken upon us. To use one of her own exquisite expressions, she was ‘a spirit of heaven fettered by the strong affections of earth,’ and the whole of her brief sojourn here seems to have been a struggle to regain her native skies.”

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