Poor Scholar. Most precious words! Now go your way

Poor Scholar. Most precious words! Now go your way; The summer fields are green and bright; Your tasks are done.—Why do you stay? Christ gave his peace to you: Good night!

Boy. You look so pale, Sir! you are worse; Let me remain, and be your nurse! Sir, when my mother has been ill, I’ve kept her chamber neat and still, And waited on her all the day!

Schol. Thank you! but yet you must not stay; Still, still my boy, before we part Receive my blessing—’tis my last! I feel Death’s hand is on my heart, And my life’s sun is sinking fast; Yet mark me, child, I have no fear,— ’Tis thus the Christian meets his end: I know my work is finished here, And God—thy God too—is my friend! The joyful course has just began; Life is in thee a fountain strong; Yet look upon a dying man, Receive his words and keep them long! Fear God, all-wise, omnipotent, In him we live and have our being; He hath all love, all blessing sent— Creator—Father—All-decreeing! Fear him, and love, and praise, and trust, Yet have of man no slavish fear; Remember kings, like thee, are dust, And at one judgment must appear. But virtue, and its holy fruits, The poet’s soul, the sage’s sense, These are exalted attributes; And these demand thy reverence. But, boy, remember this, e’en then Revere the gifts, but not the men! Obey thy parents; they are given To guide our inexperienced youth; Types are they of the One in heaven, Chastising but in love and truth! Keep thyself pure—sin doth efface The beauty of our spiritual life: Do good to all men—live in peace And charity, abhorring strife! The mental power which God has given, As I have taught thee, cultivate; Thou canst not be too wise for heaven, If thou dost humbly consecrate Thy soul to God! and ever take In his good book delight; there lies The highest knowledge, which will make Thy soul unto salvation wise! My little boy, thou canst not know How strives my spirit fervently, How my heart’s fountains overflow With yearning tenderness for thee! God keep and strengthen thee from sin! God crown thy life with peace and joy, And give at last to enter in The city of his rest! My boy Farewell—I have had joy in thee; I go to higher joy—oh, follow me! But now farewell!

Boy. Kind sir, good night! I will return with morning light. [He goes out.

[The Poor Scholar sits for some time as in meditation, then rising and putting away all his books, except the Bible, he sits down again.

Schol. Now, now I need them not, I’ve done with them. I need not blind philosophy, nor dreams Of speculating men, entangling truth In cobweb sophistry, away with them— One word read by that child is worth them all! —The business of my life is finished now With this day’s work. I have dismissed the class For the last time—I am alone with death! To-morrow morn, they will inquire for me, And learn that I have solved the last, great problem. This pale, attenuate frame they may behold, But that which loves, and hopes, and speculates, They will perceive no more. Mysterious being! Life cannot comprehend thee, though thou showest Thyself by all the functions of our life— ’Tis death—death only, which is the great teacher! Awful instructor! he doth enter in The golden rooms of state, and all perforce Teach there its proud, reluctant occupant; He doth inform in miserable dens The locked-up soul of sordid ignorance With his sublimest knowledge! He hath stolen Gently, not unawares, into the chamber Of the Poor Scholar, like a sober friend Who doth give time for ample preparation! He hath dealt kindly with me, giving first Yearnings for unimaginable good, Which the world’s pleasure could not satisfy; And lofty aspiration, that lured on The ardent soul as the sun lures the eagle; Next came a drooping of the outward frame, Paleness and feebleness, and wasted limbs, Which said, “prepare! thy days are numbered!” And thus for months had this poor frame declined, Wasting and wasting; yet the spirit intense Growing more clear, more hourly confident, As if its disenthralment had begun! Oh, I should long to die! To be among the stars, the glorious stars; To have no bounds to knowledge; to drink deep Of living fountains—to behold the wise, The good, the glorified! to be with God, And Christ, who passed through death that I might live! Oh I should long for death, but for one tie, One lingering tie that binds me to the earth! My mother! dearest, kindest, best of mothers! What do I owe her not? all that is great, All that is pure—all that I have enjoyed Of outward pleasure, or of spiritual life, I have derived from her! has she not labored Early and late for me? first through the years Of sickly infancy—then by her toil Maintained the ambitious scholar—overpaid By what men said of him! Oh thou untired, True heart of love, for thee I hoped to live; To pay thee back thy never spent affection; To fill my father’s place, and make thine age As joyful as thou mad’st my passing youth! Alas! it may not be! thou hast to weep— Thou hast to know that sickness of the heart Which bows it to the dust, when some unlooked-for, Some irremediable woe befals! ——Surely ere long thou wilt be at my side, For I did summon thee, and thy strong love Brooks not delay! Alas, thou knowest not It was to die within thy holy arms That I have asked thy presence! Oh! come, come, Thou most beloved being, bless thy son, And take one comfort in his peaceful death!

[A slight knocking is heard at the door, and the Philosopher enters.

Philos. Well, my young friend, I’ve looked in to enquire After your health. I saw your class depart, And would have conference with you once again.

Schol. To-night I must decline your friendship, sir. I am so weak I cannot talk with you On controversial points ever again. Besides, my faith brings such a holy joy, Such large reward of peace, why would you shake it? Or is it now a time for doubts and fears, When my soul’s energy should be concentrated For one great trial? See you not, e’en now, The spectre death is with me?

Philos. Cheer up, friend. It is the nature of all sickness thus To bring death near to the imagination, Even as a telescope doth show the moon Just at our finger-ends without decreasing The actual distance. Come, be not so gloomy;— You have no business to be solitary; A cheerful friend will bring back cheerfulness. Have you perused the books I left with you?

Schol. I have, and like them not!

Philos. Indeed! indeed! Are they not full of lofty argument And burning eloquence? For a strong soul, Baptized in the immortal wells of thought, They must be glorious food!

Schol. Pardon me, sir, They are too specious;—they gloss over error With tinsel covering which is not like truth. Oh! give them not to young and ardent minds, They will mislead, and baffle and confound: Besides, among the sages whom you boast of, With their proud heathen virtues, can ye find A purer, loftier, nobler character; More innocent, and yet more filled with wisdom, Fuller of high devotion—more heroic Than the Lord Jesus—dignified yet humble; Warring ’gainst sin, and yet for sinners dying?

Philos. Well; pass the men, what say you to the morals?

Schol. And where is the Utopian code of morals Equal to that which a few words set forth Unto the Christian, “do ye so to others As ye would they should do unto yourselves.” And where, among the fables of their poets, Which you pretend veil the divinest truths, Find you the penitent prodigal coming back Unto his father’s bosom; thus to show God’s love, and our relationship to him? Where do they teach us in our many needs To lift up our bowed, broken hearts to God, And call him “Father?” Leave me as I am! I am not ignorant, though my learning lie In this small book—nor do I ask for more!

Philos. But have you read the parchments?

Schol. All of them.

Philos. And what impression might they make upon you? For knowing as I do your graceful mind, And your profound research beyond your years, I am solicitous of your approval.

Schol. I cannot praise—I cannot say one word In commendation of your misspent labors. Oh, surely it was not a friendly part To hold these gorgeous baits before a soul Just tottering on eternity! Delusion, ’Tis all delusion! while my soul abhorred, My heart was wounded at the traitorous act!

Philos. Come, come, my friend, this is mere declamation; You have misunderstood both them and me! Point out the errors—you shall find me ever Open unto conviction.

Schol. See my state— A few short hours, and I must be with God; And yet you ask me to evolve that long Entanglement of subtlest sophistry! This is no friendly part: but I conjure you, Give not your soul to vain philosophy: The drooping Christian at the hour of death Needs other, mightier wisdom than it yields. Oh, though I am but young, and you are old, Grant me the privilege of a dying man, To counsel you in love!

Philos. Enough, enough! I see that you are spent. I have too long Trespassed upon your time. But is there nought That I can serve you in? Aspire you not To win esteem by study? I will speak Unto the primest scholars throughout Europe In your behalf. All universities Will heap upon you honors at my asking.

Schol. There was a time these things had been a snare; But the near prospect of eternity Takes from the gauds of earth their temptingest lure; No, no—it was a poor unmeet ambition Which then was hot within me, and, thank God, Affecteth me no more!

Philos. Nay, but my friend, For your dear mother’s sake would you not leave A noble name emblazoned on your tomb?

Schol. Can such poor, empty honors compensate Unto a childless mother for her son? You know her not, and me you know not either!

Philos. But think you, my young friend, learning is honored By every honor paid to its disciples: Your tomb would be a shrine, to learning sacred.

Schol. There is more comfort, sir, unto my soul To feel the smallest duty not neglected, And my day’s work fulfilled, than if I knew This perishable dust would be interred In kingly marble, and my name set forth In pompous blazonry.

Philos. Not to be great— You do mistake my drift—but greatly useful; Surely you call not this unmeet ambition!

Schol. Sir, had the will of God ordained a wider, A nobler sphere of usefulness on earth, He would have given me strength, and health, and power For its accomplishment. I murmur not That little has been done, but rather bless Him Who has permitted me to do that little; And die content in his sufficient mercy, Which has vouchsafed reward beyond my merit.

Philos. Nay, I must serve you! Let me but contribute Unto your body’s ease. This wretched room, And its poor pallet—would you not desire A lighter, airier, more commodious chamber, Looking out to the hills; and where the shine Of the great sun might enter—where sweet odours, And almost spiritual beauty of fair flowers Might gratify the sense—and you might fall Gracefully into death, in downy ease? Speak, and all this is yours!

Schol. Here will I die! Here have I lived—here from my boyhood lived; These naked walls are like familiar faces, And that poor pallet has so oft given rest To my o’erwearied limbs, there will I die!

Philos. But you do need physicians—here is gold, I know the scholar’s fee is scant enough! I will go hence, and send you an attendant.

Schol. I cannot take your gold, I want it not. My sickness is beyond the aid of man; And soon, even now, I did expect my mother.

Philos. [affecting sorrow.] My dear young friend, I have to ask your pardon; The letter that I promised to deliver, I did forget—indeed I gave it not!

Schol. How have I trusted to a broken reed! Oh mock me not with offers of your friendship, Say not that thou would serve me! Oh my mother— Poor, broken-hearted one, I shall not see thee!

[He covers his face for a moment, then, rises up with sudden energy.

Whoe’er you are, and for what purpose come, I know not—you have troubled me too long— But something in my spirit, from the first, Told me that you were evil; and my thought Has often inly uttered the rebuke, “Get thee behind me, Satan!” Leave me now— Leave me my lonely chamber to myself, And let me die in peace!

[The Philosopher goes out, abashed. The scholar falls back into his chair, exhausted; after some time recovering, he faintly raises himself.

’Tis night fall now—and through the uncurtained window I see the stars; there is no moon to-night. Here then I light my lamp for the last time; And ere that feeble flame has spent itself, A soul will have departed! Let me now Close my account with life; and to affection, And never-cancelled duty, give their rights:

[He opens his Bible and inscribes it.

This I return to thee, my dearest mother, Thy gift at first, and now my last bequest; And these poor earnings, dust upon the balance Compared with the great debt I owe to thee, Are also thine—would I had more to give! There lie you, side by side.

[He lays a small sum of money with the Bible.

Thou blessed book, Full of redeeming knowledge, making wise Unto salvation, and the holy spring Of all divine philosophy—and thou poor dust, For which the soul of man is often sold; Yet wast thou not by evil traffic won, Nor got by fraud, nor wrung from poverty— God blessed the labourer while he toiled for thee, And may’st thou bless the widow!—lie thou there— I shall not need you more. I am departing To the fruition of the hope of one, And where the other cannot get admittance! And now a few words will explain the rest:—

[He writes a few words, which he incloses with them, and making all into a packet, seals them up.

God comfort her poor heart, and heal its wounds, Which will bleed fresh when she shall break this seal.

[Shortly after this is done, he becomes suddenly paler—a convulsive spasm passes over him; when he recovers, he slowly rises, and kneels upon his pallet-bed.

Schol. Almighty God! look down Upon thy feeble servant! strengthen him! Give him the victor’s crown, And let not faith be dim! Oh, how unworthy of thy grace, How poor, how needy, stained with sin! How can I enter in Thy kingdom, and behold thy face! Except thou hadst redeemed me, I had gone Without sustaining knowledge to the grave! For this I bless thee, oh thou Gracious One, And thou wilt surely save! I bless thee for the life which thou hast crowned With never-ending good; For pleasures that were found Like wayside flowers in silent solitude. I bless thee for the love that watched o’er me Through the weak years of infancy, That has been, like thine everlasting truth. The guide, the guardian-angel of my youth. Oh, Thou that didst the mother’s heart bestow Sustain it in its woe, For mourning give it joy, and praise for heaviness!

[He falls speechless upon the bed. His mother enters hurriedly.

Mother. Alas, my son! and am I come too late? Oh, Christ! can he be dead?

Schol. [looking up faintly.]. Mother, is’t thou? It is! who summoned thee, dear mother?

Mother. A little boy, the latest of thy class; He left these walls at sunset, and came back With me e’en now. He told me of thy words, And of thy pallid cheek and trembling hand;— Sorrowing for all; but sorrowing more because Thou saidst he would behold thy face no more!

Schol. My soul doth greatly magnify the Lord For his unmeasured mercies!—and for this Great comfort, thy dear presence! I am spent— The hand of death is on me! Ere the sun Lightens the distant mountains, I shall be Among the blessed angels! Even now I see as t’were heaven opened, and a troop Of beautiful spirits waiting my release!

Mother. My son! my son! and thou so young, so wise, So well-beloved, alas, must thou depart! Oh, rest thy precious head within mine arms, My only one!—Thou wast a son indeed!

Schol. Mother, farewell! I hear the heavenly voices, They call!—I cannot stay: farewell—farewell!