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222
A New England Girlhood, Outlined from Memory (Beverly, MA)
·
Lucy Larcom
53
Ah,
that
word
"Hallelujah!"
It
seemed
to
express
all
the
joy
of
spring
mornings
and
clear
sunshine
and
bursting
blossoms,
blended
with
all
that
I
guessed
of
the
songs
of
angels,
and
with
all
that
I
had
heard
and
believed,
in
my
fledgling
soul,
of
the
glorious
One
who
was
born
in
a
manger
and
died
on
a
cross,
that
He
might
reign
in
human
hearts
as
a
king.
I
wondered
why
the
people
did
not
sing
"Hallelujah"
more.
It
seemed
like
a
word
sent
straight
down
to
us
out
of
heaven.
I
did
not
like
to
learn
the
sorrowful
hymns,
though
I
did
it
when
they
were
given
to
me
as
a
task,
such
as--
"Hark,
from
the
tombs,"
and
"Lord,
what
a
wretched
land
is
this,
That
yields
us
no
supply."
I
suppose
that
these
mournful
strains
had
their
place,
but
sometimes
the
transition
was
too
sudden,
from
the
outside
of
the
meeting-house
to
the
inside;
from
the
sunshine
and
bobolinks
and
buttercups
of
the
merry
May-day
world,
to
the
sad
strains
that
chanted
of
"this
barren
land,"
this
"vale
of
tears,"
this
"wilderness"
of
distress
and
woe.
It
let
us
light-hearted
children
too
quickly
down
from
the
higher
key
of
mirth
to
which
our
careless
thoughts
were
pitched.
We
knew
that
we
were
happy,
and
sorrow
to
us
was
unreal.
But
somehow
we
did
often
get
the
impression
that
it
was
our
duty
to
try
to
be
sorrowful;
and
that
we
could
not
be
entirely
good,
without
being
rather
miserable.
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