THE VILLAGE CHURCH.
Lo! mid yon vale's secluded green,
Through clustering thickets dimly seen,
The village church, whose walls of snow,
Column, nor arch, nor buttress show,
Nor taper spire, nor tuneful bell,
With echoing chime, or funeral knell,
To pour upon the balmy air
Sweet warning to the house of prayer.
Yet from their humble homes the train
As duly wind o'er hill and plain,
As faithful heed the hallowed day,
As gladly press, their vows to pay,
And hear God's word with trust as fair
As though Religion's pomp were there.
Bent o'er his staff, with temples gray,
The aged Pastor takes his way,
Through shady lanes, where dew-drops bright,
Exulting, shun the blaze of light;
And pondering calm, those holy themes
That win the soul from earthly dreams,
Thinks of his flock, with shepherd's care,
And hears them on his voiceless prayer.
Here, in this rustic glebe, content,
The vigor of his prime he spent;
Here found the bride who cheered his breast,
And here his children's children blest.
And sooth to say, had wealth or power
Broke with their wiles his musing hour,
The richer meed, the wider fame,
The tinkling cymbal of a name,
Perchance had checked devotion's sway,
Or stolen its heaven-born zeal away.
An upright man he was, and kind,
A model for the virtuous mind;
No envious eye, nor gossip's tongue
A shadow o'er his name had flung;
Still to his board, though scantly drest,
He freely led the entering guest,
Nor bade, beside his lowly gate
The unrequited suppliant wait;
Though like the Levite, who of old
Nor lands might claim, nor hoarded gold,
He held, amid the soil he trod
No heritage, save Israel's God.
See, round the simple porch, a train
With greeting smile, his step detain,
Whose kindling eye, and reverent air,
Their love and gratitude declare,
For him, who long with fervent tone
Had made their joys and woes his own.
Nor he that honest warmth restrains
Meet payment for his toils and pains;
Unskilled with cold or formal art
To freeze the current of the heart,
Or frown on even an infant's zeal
The pressure of his hand to feel.
As o'er the sacred desk he bends
Each glance toward him confiding bends,
For though in quaint or homely phrase
The great salvation he displays,
Yet thoughts of holy love and zeal
Some touch of eloquence reveal,
And changing brow, and starting tear,
Bespeak that eloquence sincere.
Meanwhile, with well-uplifted heart,
The old precentor bears a part;
And waking loud the ancient chime,
His hand high raised to beat the time,
Calls forth no wild Italian trill,
But childhood's accents, sweetly shrill,
And quavering age, with tresses white,
In one full burst of praise unite.
There sits the farmer, brown with toil,
Whose hardened hands have tilled the soil,
Since first an urchin, strong and gay,
He gambolled mid the new-mown hay.
And by his side his faithful wife
Unspoiled by pomps or gauds of life,
Who mid her hardy offspring blest,
Her slumbering infant on her breast,
Deems not that aught of scorn or shame
Blends with a nursing mother's name,
Even though in Heaven's own temple, she
Essays its tenderest ministry.
Still, through the casement's humble screen,
A consecrated spot is seen,
Where peaceful laid in lowly bed,
With springing turf and daisies spread,
The fathers, 'neath that hallowed shade
Serenely sleep, where once they prayed.
And pensive are the thoughts that stray
To dear ones wrapped in mouldering clay,
And fervent is the love, and free,
That clings, sequestered church, to thee,
Who thus dost rear a guardian head,
To bless the living and the dead.
The churches that spring up on every village green, are pleasing and peculiar features of the scenery of New England. They are often seen side by side with the small school house, in loving brotherhood, teachers for this life and the next.
The simplicity of the appearance of many of their congregations, might be an object of curious observation to those accustomed only to the fashionably dressed throngs of city worshippers. I once attended divine service, many years since, with some friends, in an exceedingly secluded village, at the distance of a few miles from the spot where we were spending a part of the summer. The church was small and antique, and remote from other buildings. The interior was divided into square pews, the unpainted wood around the top of each, being wrought into a row of small banisters; while over the pulpit, was suspended a cumbrous sounding-board, which might seem, like the sword of Damocles, to menace the head beneath it.
The audience was almost entirely composed of practical agriculturalists and their families. They were attired with perfect neatness, though with little conformity to the reigning modes. Their bronzed cheeks and toil-hardened hands, showed that the physical comfort of a day of rest might be appreciated, while their intelligent and serious countenances evinced that they aspired to its higher privileges.
The weather being warm, many of the farmers removed their coats, depositing them on the back of their seats, and seemed much to enjoy the additional coolness, while they thus disclosed the snowy whiteness of their coarse, homemade linen; that now almost obsolete branch of manufacture, which had such close affinity with habits of domestic industry and comfort. Their wives were evidently inured to toil, nor of that toil ashamed. A few of the mothers bore in their arms healthful and ruddy infants, leaving probably no person at home, with whom they could safely intrust so precious a charge. They seemed to make no trouble, or if any was anticipated, the mother withdrew with them. Here and there, one might be seen in a quiet slumber, entirely releasing the attention of the careful parent. Sleeping innocence is always beautiful, and the guileless spirit of the babe need not be counted an unfitting, though an unwonted guest, in the temple of a God of truth.
The form of the aged pastor was bent with time, and his thin hair of a silvery whiteness. For more than fifty years he had been the guide and friend of his people:—
"And ne'er had changed, nor wished to change his place."
The affection was reciprocal, and it was touching to see with what attention they listened to every word that fell from his lips. His voice was tremulous, and the involuntary movement of his hand paralytic, but he spoke to them of sacred themes, and they loved them the better because he uttered them, and him the better because his life had so long been in harmony with what he taught. For two generations he had been with them, at bridal, and at burial, at the christening-carol, and at the death-wail. He had rejoiced in their prosperity, and at their last conflict with the Spoiler, had armed himself with prayer, and stood by, until there was no more breath. He had shed the baptismal dew on infant brows, that, now mottled with grey, bent over their children's children. His flock had not been so numerous, but that every part of their history was familiar to him, and kept its place in his memory. Such an intercourse had created, as it ought, no common attachment. They saw that his step was feeble, and that time had taken from him somewhat of manhood's glory; but they remembered that he had grown old in their service, that his eye had become dim, while he cared for their souls, and every infirmity was a new bond of sympathy. If there were any of the young, who might have taken pride in a modern preacher, one less prolix, or more after the fashion of the day, they checked the thought ere it was spoken, for they had learned to venerate their faithful pastor, from the patriarchs who had gone to rest. Little children imitated their parents, and gathered around him, treasuring all he said to them, and the love that thus came down from other generations, seemed not to have decayed at the root, or to have ceased from fruit-bearing.
The intermission between the services was short, as most of the congregation, coming from quite a distance, did not return home at noon. Their horses were sheltered by sheds, constructed for that purpose, while they, seated in groups, amid clumps of lofty forest trees, partook such refreshments as they had brought for the occasion.
On the banks of a transparent, winding stream, we had our coach-cushions spread, and enjoyed the quietness of the hour. It was pleasant to see families gathering together, with their healthful children, upon the green turf, beneath canopies of shade.
In an interesting group near us, the hoary grandsire, with lifted hands, besought the Divine blessing on their simple repast. Here and there, the young walked by themselves, on the margin of the fair stream, but there seemed in their deportment or conversation nothing unworthy of the consecrated day. We returned home from the little Village Church cheered, and I hope edified by its devotion, and the beautiful and time-tried love of the white-haired shepherd and his confiding flock.
It would seem that the religious sentiment was indigenous to an agricultural people. The formality and coldness of fashionable life do not check its aspirings, or absorb its nutriment. They have fewer temptations to those immoralities which stamp it with hypocrisy; while habitual toil restrains the effervescence of the spirit, and chastises its hurtful imaginings. Their business is among His works, and with Him who deals the sunbeam and the shower, and without whose smile their harvest-hope is vain.
The patience, and prudence, and simplicity of their mode of life apparently involves some preparatory discipline for the ritual of the lowly Redeemer. Every season has in itself some work or forethought for the comfort of another season, so that the year brings no period in which they can rest with pride on the agency of second causes, and forget their reliance on the Supreme. They might say with an old writer, "when the tulip fades we must shear our sheep for the winter," and when the corn ripens we select our seeds for the spring-furrow. The toils of the whole year are as a dial-plate, pointing the thoughtful mind to Him who has promised, that "summer and winter, and seed-time and harvest, shall not cease."
The contentment of a life of agriculture, with moderate gains, and its freedom from the restless visions of sudden, unlaborious accumulation, are both a protection to its purity, and a positive wealth. An emphatic writer has said, "The herdsman in his clay shealing, where his very cow and dog are friends to him, not a falling stream but carries memories for him, not a mountain but nods old recognition, his life all encircled as in a blessed mother's arms,—is it poorer than the man's with ass-loads of yellow metal?"
If there are truly, as there would appear to be, tendencies in a life of agriculture to the principles and practice of piety, we may well rejoice in the immense expanse of land which our country offers for this profession, and echo the sentiment of the bard of Rydal-Mount:—
"Praise to the sturdy spade,
And patient plough, and shepherd's simple crook."