s, rest. For the
weariest, rest. For you who, just awakened, tremble in doubt, rest. For
you, young woman, who despairest of heaven, rest. For you, young man, so
long in the bondage of sin, rest. Oh! that I had the wings of a dove,
for then would I fly away and be at rest. Brother, sister, it shall be
so. To your weary soul those wings shall be fitted. Far from the world of
grief and sin, of death and disappointment, you shall fly away. Deep in
the bosom of your God, you shall be at rest. That dove is his holy grace.
Those wings are his tender promises. That rest is the peace of heaven.

"Come, O thou all-victorious Lord,
Thy power to us make known;
Strike with the hammer of thy word,
And break these hearts of stone.

"Oh that we all might now begin
Our foolishness to mourn;
And turn at once from every sin,
And to the Saviour turn.

"Give us ourselves and thee to know,
In this our gracious day:
Repentance unto life bestow,
And take our sins away.

"Convince us first of unbelief,
And freely then release;
Fill every soul with sacred grief,
And then with sacred peace."

CHAPTER XLVII.

DEATH.

The clover-blossom perfumed the summer air. The scythe and the sickle
still hung in the barn. Grass and grain swayed and whispered and sparkled
in the sun and wind. June loitered upon all the gentle hills, and
peaceful meadows, and winding brook sides. June breathed in the
sweet-brier that climbed the solid stone posts of the gate-way, and
clustered along the homely country stone wall. June blossomed in the
yellow barberry by the road-side, and in the bright rhodora and the pale
orchis in the dark woods. June sang in the whistle of the robin swinging
on the elm and the cherry, and the gushing warble of the bobolink
tumbling, and darting, and fluttering in the warm meadow. June twinkled
in the keen brightness of the fresh green of leaves, and swelled in the
fruit buds. June clucked and crowed in the cocks and hens that stepped
about the yard, followed by the multitudinous peep of little chickens.
June lowed in the cattle in the pasture. June sprang, and sprouted, and
sang, and grew in all the sprouting and blooming, in all the sunny new
life of the world.

White among the dark pine-trees stood the old house of Pinewood--a temple
of silence in the midst of the teeming, overpowering murmur of new life;
of silence and darkness in the midst of jubilant sunshine and universal
song, that