Canadian Wild Flowers | Page 4

holy purpose. I was not born to pass a few moments on the
stage of life and then disappear forever.... With a shudder I turn away
and would gladly forget to think. O thought, thought! thou wilt distract
me,--thou hast almost hurled reason from her throne. Thou bitter
tormentor! depart, if but for a moment, and let me once more find peace.
But no; the more I seek to elude still nearer the demon pursues. O
thought, thought! it rushes forth from my soul like the wild outpourings
of the volcanic mountains and overwhelms me with its burning tide till
body, mind and soul--all, all are exhausted and lie like a straw upon the
roaring bosom of the deep. Oh, that I could arise, mingle with the gay,
and forget my own deep and overpowering thoughts. But no; such
thoughts, like the soul which gave them birth, can never die. O thought,

what art thou? A blessing to angels, a curse to me. Distracted soul, sink
into repose: others are happy, and wast thou born to be more wretched
than they? Truly thou wast, and why? Because thou livest only in the
regions of thought--thought which is burning my brain and piercing my
lacerated heart. And yet a thought freighted with light beams through
the dark clouds which its darker sisters have thrown around me, and the
only inscription which it bears is, _'Live for others.'_ And another
thought follows in rapid succession,--like a far-off echo it repeats the
words of its predecessor, 'Live for others,' and then adds (while a vivid
flash of the lightning of truth lights up the darkness of error), 'Live for
God and for heaven.' A loud crash follows. Peals of thunder shake the
atmosphere of my soul! Self has fallen: _I will live for others, for God
and for heaven._"
This was a grand resolve; but not yet was the soul to be out of prison,
the pilgrim to be freed from the Slough of Despond. Once more she has
to write:--
"Everything is beautiful, and all nature is glad and rejoicing. Arise, my
soul, and be thou glad likewise. Cast off thy gloomy fears. The God
who made all the beautiful things by which thou art surrounded is not
unmindful of thee. Oh, wondrous condescension! God is not forgetful
of me. He gazes upon me with an eye of compassion; he pities my
distress and my weakness. Amazing love! Oh, that I were more worthy
of it; Oh, that I loved him as fervently as I ought! But my heart is
callous, and I am nothing but a poor, cold, vile and helpless sinner:
nothing but sin dwells hi my heart. It is the seat of every vice, every
evil thought, and every depraved passion. [Jer. 17:9, 10; Mark 7:21-23].
Dark and gloomy clouds envelope my soul. A weight of sorrow presses
upon my heart, and I vainly strive to free myself from its influence.
Everything looks dark. 'My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
why art thou so far from helping me?' 'How long wilt thou forget me, O
Lord? forever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?' 'Mine
iniquities are gone over my head: as a heavy burden they are too heavy
for me. Lord, all my desire is before thee; and my groaning is not hid
from thee. Make haste to help me.' 'My soul fainteth for thy salvation,
but I hope in thy word.' O my God, hear my cry, and answer my
petition."
"Tuesday, June 29, 1852. The sultry fires of the day have yielded to the

cool breezes of evening. A misty cloud hangs over the once azure sky,
and the deep, heavy roar of thunder shakes the quiet air. Nearer and
nearer still it rolls its deep-toned voice, and all nature seems to reply.
The vivid lightnings flash. The fountains on high are opened, and the
rain pours down in torrents. Wilder grows the storm: the winds are
released from their 'prison-cave,' and armed with fury they rush madly
forth; brighter the lightnings glare, louder the thunders roar. The whole
fabric of nature seems in commotion! Oh, who can gaze upon such a
scene without emotions of awe, wonder and admiration? Surely such an
one must possess a stony heart and a cold nature. There is beauty for
me in the lightning's glare--there is music in the thunder's peal! God
grant that there may be beauty and glory for me in the day when the
thundering notes of the last trumpet shall shake the heavens and
awaken the sleeping dead,--when 'the elements shall melt with fervent
heat,' and every soul of every tribe, and tongue and nation shall stand
before the judgment-seat to receive their final doom! O grant that the
Judge may be