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222
A New England Girlhood, Outlined from Memory (Beverly, MA)
·
Lucy Larcom
46
When
the
choir
sang
of
"Seas
of
heavenly
rest,"
a
breath
of
salt
wind
came
in
with
the
words
through
the
open
door,
from
the
sheltered
waters
of
the
bay,
so
softly
blue
and
so
lovely,
I
always
wondered
how
a
world
could
be
beautiful
where
"there
was
no
more
sea."
I
concluded
that
the
hymn
and
the
text
could
not
really
contradict
other;
that
there
must
be
something
like
the
sea
in
heaven,
after
all.
One
stanza
that
I
used
to
croon
over,
gave
me
the
feeling
of
being
rocked
in
a
boat
on
a
strange
and
beautiful
ocean,
from
whose
far-off
shores
the
sunrise
beckoned:--
"At
anchor
laid,
remote
from
home,
Toiling
I
cry,
Sweet
Spirit,
come!
Celestial
breeze,
no
longer
stay!
But
spread
my
sails,
and
speed
my
way!"
Some
of
the
chosen
hymns
of
my
infancy
the
world
recognizes
among
its
noblest
treasures
of
sacred
song.
That
one
of
Doddridge's,
beginning
with
"Ye
golden
lamps
of
heaven,
farewell!"
made
me
feel
as
if
I
had
just
been
gazing
in
at
some
window
of
the
"many
mansions"
above:--
"Ye
stars
are
but
the
shining
dust
Of
my
divine
abode-"
Had
I
not
known
that,
ever
since
I
was
a
baby?
But
the
light
does
not
stream
down
even
into
a
baby's
soul
with
equal
brightness
all
the
time.
Earth
draws
her
dark
curtains
too
soon
over
the
windows
of
heaven,
and
the
little
children
fall
asleep
in
her
dim
rooms,
and
forget
their
visions.
That
majestic
hymn
of
Cowper's,--
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