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قراءة كتاب Memoirs of Mrs. Rebecca Steward, Containing: A Full Sketch of Her Life With Various Selections from Her Writings and Letters ...
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Memoirs of Mrs. Rebecca Steward, Containing: A Full Sketch of Her Life With Various Selections from Her Writings and Letters ...
resplendent glory held in her full view;—an angelic hand guiding her as she slowly pursues her way, sometimes weeping but often singing, through the inspiration of the hope set before her.
In presenting a sketch of this life I attempt to fulfill a threefold duty. First, it is an act of obedience to the feelings of my own heart. An imperious sentiment forces me to the task. This book is the tribute I bring to cast upon the tomb of a loved mother! Secondly, I essay to discharge this duty in obedience to the wish of many relatives and dear friends. I feel myself honored in a very high degree in being thus called to so delicate a responsibility, and I can but deeply feel my inabilities. Knowing, however, their sincere regard for the person whose name I endeavor to commemorate, I feel somewhat encouraged to entrust to their generosity my best efforts. Lastly, the interests of Christianity seem to demand this at my hands. A voice from above which I regard as that of the Master urges me to lay before the Christian world this life, as a help and solace to the many struggling ones. Reverently bowing to this call, and imploring His blessings upon the humble effort, I assume the pen. May the Lord own the work! And here I desire also to express my profound thanks to those distinguished Christians, who have contributed most essentially to this volume, and to the many more, whose letters of sympathy and love have furnished inspiration to the performance of this sad, yet pleasing duty.
In Memoriam.
BY
WILLIAM STEWARD
("WILL.")
"They are love's last gifts, bring ye flowers, pale flowers."—Mrs. Hemans.
The dull, cold earth beneath me, and the sky
Dark blue o'er head.—The spacious hills around
Nor charms the gaze of my grief wearied eye;
Sad, tired, forlorn, I sink upon the sod,
With rev'rent awe and mournful bareéd head,
I try to raise my thoughts to mother's God,
And with affection contemplate the dead.
With sunny face and merry prattling tongue;
I totter forth with joyous fancy wild,
And sing the lullaby we last night sung;
My young heart bounds with radiant happiness
As some new toy my angel-mother gives,
Or stoops to pat my head with sweet caress,
And my glad lips her cherished kiss receives.
And thorns of life 'gin prick me one by one,—
Now aspiration's hopes, my thoughts elate,
And now by disappointments am cast down;
The daily avocations of the farm
Bring each in turn their elements of woe,
But mother's heart, its beatings always warm,
Is a sure haven where I ever go.
Or vicious cattle wear my patience bare,
Each is recounted of in evening hours,
In boyhood's confidence in mother's ear,—
Ah! we six childish ones with each our cares—
Bespeak we each ones place, in mother's heart,
Where we each pour our trouble, hopes and fears,
And mother, tenderly takes each one's part.
His day's work o'er, prompt, day and day the same,
Then happiest ours of all the happy homes
Our lessons coning, or with sportive game,—
Oh would those days of childhood linger still—
The ev'ning game prolong—e'en daily task
Is welcomed linger! youthful years ye will
Be vanished and your stay in vain we ask!
Bring manhood's strength—our childhood all outgrown
And then for life we take our sep'rate ways,
Each son and daughter choose a course their own;
Too soon, alas! the shadowy curtain falls
And sorrows, real, begin to cast their gloam,
Our consciences' tickle with increasing galls
As each new silv'ry hair comes to our home.
Since we are grown, and see thy waning years,
Thy daily walks we would see fair and brighter,
But ev'ry effort still augments thy cares;
Affliction's hand, spares not the burdened mother,
But suff'rings, long, great, are thy constant lot;
Nor stintless hand divides it with another
Who'd die for thee and for thee be forgot.
And fain would bring renown to thy dear name—
Pride to thy heart, and comfort to thy leisure
By some good noble deeds, and worthy fame,
Alas, how short we've come! When thou complaisant
Looked on expectant for some virtuous act,
How Self appeared like some fierce tigress couchant,
And we with evil motive seemed impact!
Our childhood's days again—I'd live them o'er—
When chilly blasts of sleeting, bleak December
Kept us, long ev'nings, close within the door,
We stories begged and then some Bible tale—
Of David's valor, or Saul's treachery
Of Moses meekness or Methus'lah hale—
Of Abraham's faith or Esau's jealousy.
Of Joseph, sold a slave; of Egypt's kings,
Of Pharaoh's plagues, and Moses' wond'rous rod,
And of the Psalms which ev'ry Christian sings,
Of John the Baptist, Christ the