The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal

‘Brightly the young moon is beaming
From her purple throne,
On my waveless breast is gleaming
Radiance all her own.
I have hushed each booming billow,
For her peerless royal brow
Resteth on my glistening pillow
Like a sleeping angel now.’

O Sea, glad and playful Sea! what meanest thou?
What do thy white-winged wavelets carol now?

‘Merrily they all are singing,
For with golden hand,
Silver fetters she is flinging
O'er my fairy band.
'Neath them blithely are they dancing,
And her jewels rare and bright
In their waving crests are glancing—
Liquid diamonds of light.’

O Sea, wild, raging Sea! what horrors dire
Have raised thy maniac wrath, thy frenzied ire?

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‘Seest thou not the lightning flashing
From yon lurid cloud?
Fiercely are my billows dashing,
Foaming, roaring loud,
For the frowning sky is veiling
Darkly o'er their beauteous Queen:
Fury mingleth with their wailing
Till her face again be seen.’

Two Points of View.

Terrible waves! In fierce, unearthly chorus
Ye threaten the frail vessel to entomb;
Still darker than the fearful storm-cloud o'er us,
Your yawning gulfs of death-portending gloom.

Beautiful waves! In joyous freedom dancing,
Ye burst like living things upon the strand;
Your snowy crests in the pure sunlight glancing,
Flash like a vision bright of fairy-land.

Oh, such are trials! All Earth's sons and daughters
Feel in them awful messengers of ire,
More dark and dread than ocean's troubled waters;
Death, and not Life, their horrors aye inspire.

Not so in Heaven! On that shore of gladness
Each past grief seems a blessing, and each pain
Hath lost the midnight hues of earthborn sadness,—
The once-dark waves gleam bright—each loss appears a gain.

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Morning Song.

[_]

(FROM THE GERMAN.)

The dawning day is beaming,
The long night flies away,
The gates of light are gleaming,
Oped by the rosy ray.
Thou beauteous light of earth, all hail!
Let not thy cheering presence fail!

Above all goodness dwelleth;
Where, at the fount of light,
The angel-chorus swelleth,
There it is ever bright!
Though here in darksome vale we stray,
'Tis lighted by that glorious ray.

Thy light and blessing sending
From Thine own radiant side,
While here our dark paths wending,
Be Thou our guard and guide.
Lift up the brightness of Thy face!
Forsake not, Lord, Thy chosen race!

Evening Song.

[_]

(FROM THE GERMAN.)

Evening now is closing
Over vale and hill;
Peacefully reposing,
All the world is still.

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But the brooklet, pouring
Where the tall rocks close,
With its restless roaring
Ever, ever flows.

Evening is not bringing
To its waters peace,
And no sweet bell ringing,
Bids its turmoil cease.

In its restless striving
I behold my own,—
True repose deriving
From my God alone.

Peace.

A shout of gladness is heard afar;
They are greeting a glowing triumphal car;
And the nations bend to the gentle sway
Of white-robed Peace, with her olive spray.
She is come! and the tongues of ten thousand bells
Re-echo the shout through our island dells.

She is come! Like a star from the darksome wave
Arising, o'er many an unknown grave;
Like the moon, when her sad eclipse is past,
Her silver fetters o'er earth doth cast;
Like the sun, dispelling with ardent might
The gloomy spectres and shades of night.

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She is come! Like the falling of cool, sweet dew,
Like a buried flower which Spring doth renew;
Like the burst of a rivulet's laughing waves
From the death-like glacier's awful caves;
As a pearl gleams forth from its dark, rough shell,
She is come! and her song is War's funeral knell.

She is come! with her lyre all newly strung
For the lay which the Bethlehem angels sung:
Glad harmony dwells in its every tone,
Triumphantly ruling the song alone;
For discord hath melted before her sway,
Like as snow-wreath yields to the warm spring ray.

She is come! with her diamond-gleaming zone,
To bind Earth's children before her throne,
And her flowing mantle, which every trace
Of War's wild fury shall soon erase;
Her golden crown is returning wealth,
And her balmy breath is the nation's health.

She is come! with blessings for each and all,
For the rich and poor, for the great and small,
For our own loved Queen, in her royal chair,
For the poor man toiling for daily fare,
For the senate-hall, for the busy mart,
For the striving mind, for the loving heart.

She is come! As an angel from Heaven above,
With her smile of joy and her look of love;
Each grim foreboding to chase away,
Each tenderly anxious fear to allay;

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To bid the death-thunder of War to cease:
Then hail to the long, long sighed for Peace!

She is come! But e'en 'neath her radiant sway
There are those who sorrow each weary day;
Who weep for the noble, the loved, the brave,
That are resting now in an Eastern grave:
Then oh! for them let our prayers ascend,
To the orphan's Father, the widow's Friend.

She is come! Then our anthems shall loudly rise
To the gracious Ruler of earth and skies,
Who hath poured on us from His chalice of love
A sparkling drop of the Peace above;
And hath stilled the dark billows of War with a word!
Yes! our grateful songs shall be widely heard.

She is come! But oh! she may pass away,
Like the fleeting brightness of April's ray,
And War's fierce tempest arise once more!
Then in faith let us ‘onward and upward’ soar,
Where the many jarrings of earth shall cease,
In the glorious reign of the Prince of Peace.

Fragments.

I wander in fancy far away
To scenes of many a summer day,
Beautiful even now
In the pale and wan November ray,
When Nature lays her cooling hand
On the hot and aching brow,

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And quiets the throbbing heart with a touch,
And whispers much,
In her own dear musical tone,
Of rest and calm,
And peace and balm,
Till the heart is tuned to her own sweet psalm,
And feels no more alone.
Oh, the healing she has brought!
Oh, the cures that she has wrought!
Only engage her as nurse and physician,
And let her fulfil her miraculous mission,
And you will find
That she leaves behind
All the wonders of homœopathy.
Oh! I could tell,
For I know so well,
How the unstrung nerves are tuned again,
And the load rolls off from the tirèd brain,
And strength comes back to the languid frame,
And existence hardly seems the same.
Her process is surer far and shorter,
When out of reach of bricks and mortar!
When all her gentle remedies
Are brought to bear, till the work is done.

Oh! give to me
A pierless and paradeless sea,
With a shore as God made it, grand and free,
And not a mere triumph of masonry;
Where the thundering shocks,
And the Titan play
Of the wild white spray,

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Which dies on the shingly beach,
With a golden reach
Of fair smooth sand,
Laid by the hand
Of the lulling tide,
Inviting many a stroll or ride.
Oh, for the pure and lovely shell!
Oh, for the crimson frond!
Witness of all fair forms that dwell
In the marvellous deep below and beyond,
Where living flowers
From mermaids' bowers,
Many a living star,
Many a crystal, many a spar,
Where Nature distributes all her treasures,
And all her special sea-side pleasures.

Oh! give me the rocks of Ilfracombe,
With their witchery of gleam and gloom,
With the crystal pools in the tide-swept cave,
Where myriad fairy forests wave,
And the delicate fringes of crimson and green,
Purple and amber, ruby and rose,
With snowy gleaming shells between,
And marvellous forms of life are seen,
While the musical tide still ebbs and flows;
Where not a step but brings to view
Something exquisite, something rare,
Something marvellously fair,
Always beautiful, always new.

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My heart is wandering still
At its strange and wayward will.
Oh, for the Glen of the Waters' Meet,
Where the merry Lyn leaps down so
To that loveliest vale below,
And hastens to join the Channel flow;
Where the Lynton cliffs, without a frown,
Majestically crown
This mingling of sublime and sweet.
And oh, for the mighty roar
At the foot of Penmaenmawr!
Or an autumn storm
On the Greater Orme,
Where the giant breakers hurl their spray
At the mountain's mighty breast,
And the wild wind, mingling in the fray,
Seizes and whirls it high and away
Over the proud rock's crest;
While the maddened waves
Rush into the caves
With thunder and growl, and rush back again,
As if the assault had been all in vain,
But only to gather in awful might
For a tenfold struggle of fiercer fight.
Who would have time for a thought of care,
Or a fit of the blues, if standing there!
Away! away! to the bracing North,
To the grand old seas
Of the Hebrides,
To the sunny Clyde, or the silver Forth,
Purple heather above, and shadowy loch below,
Golden glory of furze, and a far-off wealth of snow,

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Violet peaks afar, and dark green pines anear,
And long bright evenings so soft and clear,
And concert halls of birdies sweet
Trill and carol so blithely meet;—
Treasures untold, their myriad gleam
Is far beyond a poet's dream.

The Wandering Sunbeam.

It wandered far, that Sunbeam bright,
To mortal eyes of purest light,—
And, gladdening all o'er whom it beamed,
A seraph's smile of joy it seemed.
But farther yet it longed to soar,
Where earthly darkness dims no more,
To visit that abode of light,
Too dazzling far for human sight.
On glowing wing through space it flew,
Till Heaven's own glory was in view,
And through the pearly gates it passed,
Which only light, not shadow, cast.
Then burst upon the wondering Ray
The radiance fair of perfect Day.
A beauteous seraph passed along,
The Sunbeam heard the thrilling song;
But quickly ceased the gladsome lay,
The swift-winged seraph fled away!
What might that haste, that strange fear mean?
What dreaded spectre had he seen?
‘An earth-born cloud of darksome Night
Hath dared to scale the walls of light;

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O'er yon fair hill a shade is thrown,
Which only in those worlds is known
Which far from Heaven's pure boundaries lie,
To Chaos' gloomy realm more nigh.’
Thus spake he to a marvelling throng,
But gazed not on the Sunbeam long:
An angel's eye was far too pure
E'en that fair Sunray to endure.
Nor long remained it there to tell
In what strange darkness Earth must dwell,
Too gross with beams of heavenly birth
To mix, yet to return to Earth
Too glorious, since its joyful gaze
Had met those all-effulgent rays.
Half way to Earth it flew, and there,
While yet its wing Heaven's radiance bare,
It rested, and became a star,
To tell Earth's children from afar,
How infinitely pure and bright
Is Heaven's eternal shadeless light.

May Day.

O haste, O haste to the fields away!
For dawneth now the month of May;
O leave the city's crowded street,
And haste ye now sweet May to greet.

For May is come on fairy wings,
And thousand beauties with her brings;
The fairest month of all the year,
Oh, well can she the sad heart cheer.

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Nature her jewelry displays,
Unfolds her gems to meet our gaze;
Bright leaves and buds of emerald hue,
Forget-me-nots of sapphire blue.

The pearly lily's drooping bells,
Listen! a tale it sweetly tells:
‘If God so clothe the lilies fair,
Much more may ye trust in His care.’

The turquoise gentianella bright,
The shining king-cup's golden light,
Carnation's ruby hues behold,
And silvery daisy set with gold.

Of these we'll twine a garland gay,
Meet for the brow of beauteous May;
And see, they gain a brighter hue
By glittering drops of diamond dew.

Now hark! what sound so sweetly floats
Upon the breeze? The cuckoo's notes!
How far they come to welcome May,
And pour for us the simple lay!

Forest Voices.

The forest hath its voices,
Whose sweetness aye rejoices,
Or soothes the spirit wondrously;
Borne on their leafy wings,
They tell of quiet things
And mingle in strange harmony.

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There is a murmuring song,
A cadence soft and long,
Evoking dreams of still delight;
There is a clarion note,
Whose blithesome echoes float,
Chasing the darkling spells of grief and night.

There is a whispering sound
Within the forest-bound,
Telling the heart of things unseen;
That nameless holy thrill
Passeth o'er vale and hill
And through the dark and lone ravine.

It is a harp sublime
With ever-varying chime,
Awakening feelings ever new;
For, tuned by Him who made
The all-harmonious shade,
Each forest-voice is sweet and true.

The Shower.

On every budding leaf and flower,
The sweet, soft rain of spring
Comes down in a soft and gentle shower,
Like a whispering angel-wing.

The shower hath bow'd the proud red rose
With many a fragrant tear,
It hath wakened the harebell's long repose,
The wanderer now to cheer.

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It hath given the woodbine strength to cling
To the strong elm's rugged bough;
And the wakeful pimpernel folds its wing,
And quietly slumbers now.

It hath watered the seeds in their cold dark bed,
And they burst through the prisoning clay.
To the lingering buds it hath gently said,
‘Unfold to the bright sun-ray.’

Among the leaves of the forest-tree
Its gentle footsteps go,
And they murmur thanks so pleasantly
In an anthem soft and low.

Showers there are for the thirsty soul,
A sweet and refreshing dew,
The Spirit who makes the wounded whole,
And the evil heart makes new.

He will teach the trembling one to cling
To an Arm of love and might;
And the earth-stained soul 'neath His holy wing
Shall again be pure and white.

The weary heart with its wild unrest
He can hush to a trustful calm;
To the spirit crushed and sorely pressed
He comes with His healing balm.

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He comes to the soul in its sin-wrought tomb,
And rent are the chains of death!
Then His own sweet graces awake and bloom
Beneath His living breath.

Yes! the Spirit shall teach the heart to sing,
And shall tune its long silent lyre,
And He who shall meeten it prainse to bring
In the sinless, white-robed choir.

Come then, O Spirit, as once of yore,
Come in Thy quickening might!
Come, on Thy waiting Church to pour
Thy life, Thy grace, Thy light.

Tiny Tokens.

I

The murmur of a waterfall
A mile away,
The rustle when a robin lights
Upon a spray,
The lapping of a lowland stream
On dipping boughs,
The sound of grazing from a herd
Of gentle cows,
The echo from a wooded hill
Of cuckoo's call,
The quiver through the meadow grass
At evening fall:—

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Too subtle are these harmonies
For pen and rule,
Such music is not understood
By any school:
But when the brain is overwrought,
It hath a spell,
Beyond all human skill and power,
To make it well.

II

The memory of a kindly word
For long gone by,
The fragrance of a fading flower
Sent lovingly,
The gleaming of a sudden smile
Or sudden tear,
The warmer pressure of the hand,
The tone of cheer,
The hush that means ‘I cannot speak,
But I have heard!’
The note that only bears a verse
From God's own Word:—
Such tiny things we hardly count
As ministry;
The givers deeming they have shown
Scant sympathy:
But when the heart is everwrought,
Oh, who can tell
The power of such tiny things
To make it well!

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April.

O the wealth of pearly blossom, O the woodland's emerald gleam!
O the welcome, welcome sunshine on the diamond-sparkling stream!
O the carol from the hawthorn and the trill from dazzling blue!
O the glory of the spring-time, making all things bright and new!
O the rosy eve's surrender
To the Easter moonlight tender!
O the early morning splendour,
Fresh and fragrant, cool and clear,
In the rising of the year!
O the gladness of the children after all the dismal days,
In the freedom and the beauty and the heart-rejoicing rays!
Do we chill the gleeful spirit, check the pulses bounding fast,
By the mournful doubt suggested: ‘Ah, but, darling, will it last?’

Though we know there may be tempests, and we know there will be showers,
Yet we know they only hasten summer's richer crown of flowers.
Blossom leads to golden fruitage, bursting bud to foliage soon;
April's pleasant gleam shall strengthen to the glorious glow of June.

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April leads to joyous May-time,
With its ever-lengthening day-time:
This again to joyous hay-time,
When the harvest-home is near,
In the zenith of the year.
So we only tell the children of the sunnier days in store,
Of the treasures and the beauties that shall open more and more.
So the silver carol rises, for the winter-time is past!
When the summer days are coming, need we ask if spring shall last?

O the gladness of the spirit, when the true and Only Light
Pours in radiant resplendence, making all things new and bright!
When the love of Jesus shineth in its overcoming power,
When the secret sweet communion hallows every passing hour.
O the calm and happy resting,
Free from every fear molesting!
O the Christ-victorious breasting
Of the tempter's varied art,
In the spring-time of the heart!
O the freedom and the fervour after all the faithless days!
O the ever-new thanksgiving and the ever-flowing praise!
Shall we tempt the gaze from Jesus, and a doubting shadow cast,
Satan's own dark word suggesting by the whisper ‘“If” it last’?

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Though we know there must be trials and there will be tears below,
Yet we know His glorious purpose, and His promises we know!
Only ask — ‘What saith the Master?’ and believe His word alone,
That ‘from glory unto glory’ He shall lead, shall change His own.
Ever more and more bestowing,
Love and joy in riper glowing,
Faith increasing, graces growing—
Such His promises to you!
He is faithful, He is true!
Each Amen becomes an anthem, for we know He will fulfil
All the purpose of His goodness, all the splendour of His will.
Only trust the living Saviour, only trust Him all the way,
And your springtide path shall brighten to the perfect summer day!

The Song of a Summer Stream.

A few months ago
I was singing through the snow,
Though the dead brown boughs gave no hope of summer shoots,
And my persevering fall
Seemed to be no use at all,
For the hard, hard frost would not let me reach the roots.

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Then the mists hung chill
All along the wooded hill,
And the cold, sad fog through my lonely dingles crept;
I was glad I had no power
To awake one tender flower
To a sure, swift doom! I would rather that it slept.

Still I sang all alone
In the sweet old summer tone,
For the strong white ice could not hush me for a day;
Though no other voice was heard
But the bitter breeze that whirred
Past the gaunt, grey trunks on its wild and angry way.

So the dim days sped,
While everything seemed dead,
And my own poor flow seemed the only living sign;
And the keen stars shone
When the freezing night came on,
From the far, far heights, all so cold and crystalline.

A few months ago
I was singing through the snow!
But now the blessed sunshine is filling all the land,
And the memories are lost
Of the winter fog and frost,
In the presence of the Summer with her full and glowing hand.

Now the woodlark comes to drink
At my cool and pearly brink,

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And the ladyfern is bending to kiss my rainbow foam;
And the wild-rose buds entwine
With the dark-leaved bramble-vine,
And the centuried oak is green around the bright-eyed squirrel's home.

O the full and glad content,
That my little song is blent
With the all-melodious mingling of the choristers around!
I no longer sing alone
Through a chill surrounding moan,
For the very air is trembling with its wealth of summer sound.

Though the hope scemed long deferred,
Ere the south wind's whisper heard
Gave a promise of the passing of the weary winter days,
Yet the blessing was secure,
For the summer time was sure
When the lonely songs are gathered in the mighty choir of praise.

An Autumn Holiday.

I don't want to think about ‘the meaning,’
I don't want to think fine thoughts at all!
On the great heather cushions leaning,
I'm watching the sunset, that is all!

Why should I puzzle and tease with questions,
When Nature shows me her picture-book?

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I will leave her to make her own suggestions,
And just do nothing but sit and look.

I have finished the work of a busy season,
And I want to quiet a busy brain,
Now is the time for rest (in reason),
Before I begin a new campaign.

And oh it is rest, and most delicious,
To know that I need not speak a word;
By only the midges (most officious!)
Could anything here be overheard.

Isn't it nice! The bracken browning
Is almost gold in the autumn glow,
And the silver birch, with the same fair crowning,
Gleams like a streak of glistening snow.

The sweet south air is so soft and quiet,
Stealing along through the fern to me,
After the most uncivil riot
Of his cousin from over the western sea.

The broad blaze hides all the fresh-foldings,
Under the flood of sunset light,
And touches anew all the quarry mouldings
Of the eastern hills with its gilding bright.

The clouds are hanging a cool grey curtain,
Up in the north till the sun gets low;
Only biding their time, and certain
Then to flaunt in a crimson show.

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Slowly, slowly the sun is sinking,
Silence and glory are everywhere!
No more writing, and no more thinking!
Only rest in the golden air!

The Song of Love.

I passed along the meadows fair,
The lark's loud carol filled the air,
A living song up-soaring.
A wanderer passed along, and sang
A song that all the lark's outrang,
His very soul outpouring.
‘Still onward to my quiet home,
With yearning, glad endeavour,
Still singing all the way I roam
A song of love for ever.’

I passed along the forest green,
And heard a song ring out between
The leafy aisles o'erarching.
The music filled the silent shade,
The singer passed through glen and glade,
With steady footstep marching.
‘Still onward to my quiet home,
With yearning, glad endeavour,
Still singing all the way I roam
A song of love for ever.’

I lingered by the river side,
And watched a tiny vessel glide,
And saw the white sails glisten:

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The helm was in the wanderer's hand,
The same clear music reached the strand,
And bid my whole soul listen.
‘Still onward to my quiet home,
With yearning, glad endeavour,
Still singing all the way I roam
A song of love for ever.’

I passed the quiet churchyard bound,
And stood beside a new-made mound
In silent sunset glory;
The flowering grasses, fresh and fair,
Waved lightly in the golden air,
And softly told the story.
‘He resteth in his blessèd home,
Whence nothing now can sever,
Still singing, though no more to roam,
His song of love for ever.’

The Awakening.

So it has come to you, dear,
Come so soon!
Come in the sunshine early,
Come in the morning pearly,
Not in the blaze of noon.

Yes, it has come to you, dear,
Strange and sweet;
Come ere the merry May-time
Melts to the glowing hay-time,
Hushed in the sultry heat.

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Come—with mysterious shadow,
Weird and new,—
Come with a magic lustre
Hung on the shining cluster
Ripening fast for you.

Come! and the exquisite minor,
Rich and deep,
Swells with Æolian blending
Chords of the spirit, ending
Boyhood's enchanted sleep.

Sleep that is past for ever!
Is it gain?
What does the waking seem like?
Love that is only dream-like
Sings not a truthful strain.

Hearts that have roused and listened
Never more,
(Though they may miss the crossed tones,
Though they may mourn the lost tones,)
Sleep as they slept before.

Come! and the great transition
Now is past!
Never again the boy-life,
Only the pain—and joy-life,
More of the first than last.

Come! and they do not guess it,
Why such a change!

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Why should the mirth and riot
Tone into manly quiet!
Is it not passing strange?

Come! 'Tis a night of wonder
At this call.
Characters cabalistic,
Writings all dim and mystic
Tremble upon the wall.

Come! am I glad or sorry?
Wait and see!
Wait for God's silent moulding,
Wait for His full unfolding,
Wait for the days to be.

The Poet's Zenith.

Night is heavy on the valley where the river mist is chill,
Heavy, where the cloud pavilion closes round the silent hill;
Every tiny light that glimmered from the windows near and far,
One by one in sudden darkness has vanished like a lonely star.
All but one, and that is shining where the midnight air creeps in,
Cooling with its clammy touch a burning brow and fingers thin;
Brow inscribed by graving tool of thought in life's deep colours dipped,
Fingers that are resting proudly on unfinished manuscript.

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‘Finished! 'Tis my best, I take it,—best that bears my name as yet;
I am weary, but 'tis worth it, now my signature is set.
How the closing verses thrilled me! seemed that they were hardly mine,
Flashing up in bright succession at my summons line by line.
It has been as though my spirit leapt beyond herself, and left
Half her being yet entangled in a sombre earthly weft,
While her essence soared unfearing upward to the Infinite,
With a new and sudden power, with a new and sudden light.
Year by year have many listened to the truths I sought to teach,
But the work this night sees ended, many more shall surely reach.
It is farther, farther reaching, fond ideals nearing more
Than the last, yet that was stronger than the one that came before.
Finished! but I know my power, know that I have more to say,
Know that better work and deeper shall be done another day.’

Was it so? The hair grew greyer, but the eye retained its light;
Year by year his shining fire-notes fell into the human night,
And his audience grew larger, more and more the souls he stirred,
Till the Poet's name had risen to become a household word.

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Yet a whisper rose and mingled with the shoutings of his fame:
‘This or that is splendid, adding lustre to a lustrous name,
Some for tenderness and sweetness, some for favour and for force;
All his later works are fine, and so we read them—oh, of course!
But the focus of his power, in the poem we love best,
Stands alone for depth and beauty, far outweighing all the rest.
There's a vividness, a glory, something felt though not defined,
Making one forget the poet in that light and truth combined.
Not an old man, and experience adding treasure for his mint!
Yet his golden coin seems bearing less imperial imprint.
It is heresy, we know it, for his verse is all so good,
But why does he never write as once he did and surely could?’

Well, the fatal whisper reached him, floated like a seed of grief,
Thistle-down, that soon upspringing, wounded him with thorny leaf;
Slowly, surely, came the knowledge that the springtide of his power
All unknown had reached its zenith in the rapture of an hour;
That the ebbing and the flowing never reached the shining mark
Where the wave of life rose highest in that midnight still and dark.

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Mischief Making.

I.

Only a tiny dropping
From a tiny hidden leak;
But the flow is never stopping,
And the flaw is far to seek.

Only some trickling water,
Nothing at all at first;
But it grows to a valley-slaughter,
For the reservoir has burst!

The wild flood once in motion,
Who shall arrest its course?
As well restrain the ocean
As that ungoverned force!

Mourn for the desolations,
And help the ruined men,
Till next spring's fair creations
Make the valley smile again.

Help with a free, pure pity,
For your hands in this are clean,
You dwelt in the far-off city,
With many a mile between.

You did not watch the flowing
Of the treacherous, trickling rill;
You did not aid the growing
Of the tiny rifts in the hill.

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What if you had? I leave it,
It is too dark a thought;
How could the heart conceive it?
How came it, all unsought?

II.

A look of great affliction,
As you tell what one told you,
With a feeble contradiction,
Or a ‘hope it is not true!’

A story quite too meagre
For naming any more,
Only your friend seems eager
To know a little more.

No doubt of explanation,
If all was known, you see;
One might get information
From Mrs. A. or B.

Only some simple queries
Passed on from tongue to tongue,
Though the ever-growing series
Has out of nothing sprung.

Only a faint suggestion,
Only a doubtful hint,
Only a leading question
With a special tone or tint.

223

Only a low ‘I wonder!’
Nothing unfair at all;
But the whisper grows to thunder,
And a scathing bolt may fall;

And a good ship is dismasted,
And hearts are like to break,
And a Christian life is blasted,
For a scarcely-guessed mistake!

The Lorely.

Ah, where are the echoes of gladness
Which dwell in my listening mind?
What meaneth the whisper of sadness,
Like the moan of the autumn wind?

I am chained by an often told story,
Come down from the olden time
When fairydom saw its glory,
A haunting, saddening chime.

The air is still and darkling,
And silently flows the Rhine;
The mountain peaks are sparkling,
Where sunset rays yet shine.

A strangely beauteous maiden
Sits high on the grim rock there
Her arms are with rich gems laden,
She combeth her golden hair.

224

With a golden comb she is combing,
And sings an enchanted song,
And wondrously through the gloaming
That melody floats along.

Then a wild weird sorrow amazeth
The boatman in gliding skiff,
While upward alone he gazeth
He sees not the fatal cliff.

The wave-bells a knell are ringing,
For the Rhine his prey hath won,
And that with her syren-singing
Hath the Sprite of the Lorely done.

For Denmark, ho!

For Denmark, ho!
Is the cry, we know,
And the shout,—Arise, arise!
They are struggling long
'Gainst might and wrong,
The valiant weak, with the craven strong,
Their homes the invader's prize.

A fair fresh Rose,
From her northern snows,
Is worn on England's heart,
And shall England see
Her parent tree
Crushed by malice? It shall not be,—
Ours be the helper's part.

225

Let a voice of might
For the just and right
Resound o'er sea and land;
Let the olive fade
Ere we fail in aid,
And the far-seen gleams of a half-drawn blade
Flash from our ready hand.

My Singing Lesson.

ABSTRACT.

Here beginneth—chapter the first of a series,
To be followed by manifold notes and queries;
So novel the queries, so trying the notes,
I think I must have the queerest of throats,
And most notable dulness, or else long ago
The Signor had given up teaching, I trow.
I wonder if ever before he has taught
A pupil who can't do a thing as she ought!

The voice has machinery—(now to be serious),
Invisible, delicate, strange, and mysterious.
A wonderful organ-pipe firstly we trace,
Which is small in a tenor and wide in a bass;
Below an Æolian harp is provided,
Through whose fairy-like fibres the air will be guided.
Above is an orifice, larger or small
As the singer desires to rise or to fall;
Expand and depress it to deepen your roar,
But raise and contract it when high you would soar.

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Alas for the player, the pipes, and the keys,
If the bellows give out an inadequate breeze!
So this is the method of getting up steam,
The one motive power for song or for scream:
Slowly and deeply, and just like a sigh,
Fill the whole chest with a mighty supply;
Through the mouth only, and not through the nose,
And the lungs must condense it ere farther it goes
(How to condense it, I really don't know,
And very much hope the next lesson will show).
Then, forced from each side, through the larynx it comes,
And reaches the region of molars and gums,
And half of the sound will be ruined or lost
If by any impediment here it is crossed.
On the soft of the palate beware lest it strike,
The effect would be such as your ear would not like.
And arch not the tongue, or the terrified note
Will straightway be driven back into the throat.
Look well to your trigger, nor hasten to pull it:
Once hear the report and you've done with your bullet.
In the feminine voice there are registers three,
Which upper, and middle, and lower must be;
And each has a sounding-board all of its own,
The chest, lips, and head, to reverberate tone.
But in cavities nasal it never must ring,
Or no one is likely to wish you to sing.
And if on this subject you waver in doubt,
By listening and feeling the truth will come out.
The lips, by the bye, will have plenty to do
In forming the vowels Italian and true;
Eschewing the English, uncertain and hideous,
With an O and a U that are simply amphibious

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In flexible freedom let both work together,
And the under one must not be stiffened like leather.

Here endeth the substance of what I remember,
Indited this twenty-sixth day of November.

To the Choir of Llangryffyth.

(OR WHOMSOEVER IT MAY CONCERN.)

We nowadays hear of all sorts of progression
In science or politics, custom or view,
In business, or fashion. Perhaps the precession
Of equinoxes has something to do
With the rate at which we are going. 'T is true
That progress is now and then retrogression,
And the new is the old when the old is the new.
So they breakfast at one and they lunch at four,
And are sitting at dinner at half-past nine,
And go to bed when the night is o'er,
And get up when the day begins to decline.
If they only progress in the same direction,
A few more years will bring it all right;
They will rise in the morning, not dreading detection,
And return to the habit of sleeping at night.

Though the world of fashion progresses so fleetly,
The church at Llangryffyth outdoes it completely;
For at twelve o'clock, nay, ten minutes past,
By a watch that was certainly not too fast,
The choir exhorted our souls to awake,
And slumber and sleepiness off to shake,

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And then and there from our beds to rise,
Exactly as if we were rubbing our eyes.
A little bit later were more apropos,
For afternoon drowsiness lazy and slow
Might make an excuse for a timely suggestion.
Then, further, the sun was brought into the question,
As if he were rising at that time of day,
Instead of completing the half of his way.
Nor these incongruities only appeared:
We thought that good Welshmen the Sabbath revered,
And that ‘daily duties’ aside were laid
That respect to our Holy Day might be paid;
Resting, not ‘running’ the trodden ways
Of the cares and business of other days.
But here at Llangryffyth the choir advise,
With the Fourth Commandment plain under their eyes,
To ‘awake’ (ten minutes past twelve!) ‘with the sun,’
And our ‘daily stage of duty run.’
What would the good old Bishop have said
(Who sang the sweet verses upon his bed,
Day by day as the morning broke,
And the busy week-day world awoke)
Of the common sense of those who bring
Such meaningless praise to the Heavenly King!
O choir of Llangryffyth, your office high
Is to ‘teach and admonish,’ and edify,—
To wield an influence deep and strong,
The heart to touch and the soul to raise,—
In God's own temple to lift the song,
To bring a tribute of holy praise
Before the Lord, who entrusts to you
His gift of music, so high and true!

229

Be it yours the preacher's words to meet,
He choosing wisely, ye singing sweet
Of the bright inheritance kept above,
Of the Living Water, the Fount of love.
May He who gave you voice and skill
So tune your hearts that ye may indeed
Your ministry of song fulfil,
And ‘with understanding’ His praises lead.

P.S.—It might be as well if the whole congregation
Could join in the Canticles' grand adoration,
But the few that try at your speed, you will find,
Are speedily distanced and left behind.
It might be as well for the Kyrie to bear
Some slight resemblance to penitent prayer;
Not tripping it off in cheerful repeat
To a pretty tune with a lively beat.
It might be as well in the hymns if we could
Take breath where the writers intended we should,
Not hunting and racing the sense to death
By aiming at singing a verse in a breath.

The morning text—Pet. i. 5: ‘An inheritance reserved.’

The evening text—Rev. xxii. 17: ‘Let him take the Water of Life.’

The Turned Lesson.

‘I thought I knew it!’ she said,
‘I thought I had learnt it quite!’

230

But the gentle Teacher shook her head,
With a grave yet loving light
In the eyes that fell on the upturned face,
As she gave the book
With the mark still set in the self-same place.

‘I thought I knew it!’ she said;
And a heavy tear fell down,
As she turned away with bending head,
Yet not for reproof or frown,
Not for the lesson to learn again,
Or the play-hour lost;—
It was something else that gave the pain.

She could not have put it in words,
But the Teacher understood,
As God understands the chirp of the birds
In the depth of an autumn wood.
And a quiet touch on the reddening cheek
Was quite enough;
No need to question, no need to speak.

Then the gentle voice was heard,
‘Now I will try you again!’
And the lesson was mastered,—every word!
Was it not worth the pain?
Was it not kinder the task to turn,
Than to let it pass,
As a lost, lost leaf that she did not learn?

Is it not often so,
That we only learn in part,

231

And the Master's testing-time may show
That it was not quite ‘by heart’?
Then He gives, in His wise and patient grace,
That lesson again
With the mark still set in the self-same place.

Only, stay by His side
Till the page is really known,
It may be we failed because we tried
To learn it all alone.
And now that He would not let us lose
One lesson of love
(For He knows the loss)—can we refuse?

But oh! how could we dream
That we knew it all so well?
Reading so fluently, as we deem,
What we could not even spell!
And oh! how could we grieve once more
That patient One
Who has turned so many a task before?

That waiting One, who now
Is letting us try again;
Watching us with the patient brow
That bore the wreath of pain;
Thoroughly teaching what He would teach,
Line upon line,
Thoroughly doing His work in each.

Then let our hearts ‘be still,’
Though our task is turned to-day.

232

Oh let Him teach us what He will,
In His own gracious way,
Till, sitting only at Jesu's feet,
As we learn each line,
The hardest is found all clear and sweet!

Leaning over the Waterfall.

[_]

A young lady, aged 20, fell over the rocks at the Swallow Waterfall in the summer of 1873, and was lost to sight in a moment. The body was not recovered till four hours afterwards.

Leaning over the waterfall!
Lured by the fairy sight,
Heeding not the warning call,
Watching the foam and the flow,
Smooth and dark, or swift and bright,
Here in the shade and there in the light!
Oh, who could know
The coming sorrow, the nearing woe!

Leaning over the waterfall!
Only a day before
She had spoken of Jesu's wondrous call,
As He trod the waves of Galilee.
They asked, as she gazed from the sunset shore,
‘If He walked that water, what would you do?’
Then fell the answer, glad and true,
‘If He beckoned me,
I would go to Him on the pathless sea.’

Leaning over the waterfall
Only a moment before!

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And then the slip, the helpless call,
The plunge unheard in the pauseless roar
By the startled watchers on the shore;
And the feet that stood by the waterfall,
So fair and free,
Are standing with Christ by the crystal sea.

Leaning over the waterfall!
Have you not often leant
(What should hinder? or what appal?)
Freely, fearlessly, over the brink,
Merrily glancing adown the stream,
Or gazing wrapt in a musical dream
At the lovely waters? But pause and think—
Who kept your feet,
And suffered you not such death to meet?

Leaning over the waterfall!
What if your feet had slipped?
Never a moment of power to call,
Never a hand in time to save
From the terrible rush of the ruthless wave!
Hearken! would it be ill or well
If thus you fell?
Hearken! would it be heaven or hell?

Leaning over the waterfall!
Listen, and learn, and lean!
Listen to Him whose loving call
Soundeth deep in your heart to-day!
Learn of Jesus, the only way,
How to be holy, how to be blest!
Lean on His breast,
And yours shall be safety and joy and rest.

234

The Seed of Song.

The seed of a song was cast
On the listening hearts around,
And the sweetly winning sound
In a few short minutes passed.
But a song of perfect praise,
And a song of perfect love
Was the harvest after many days,
Beneath the everlasting rays
Of the summer-time above.

The seed of a single word
Fell among the furrows deep,
In their silent, wintry sleep,
And the sower never an echo heard.
But the ‘Come!’ was not in vain,
For that germ of Life and Love,
And the blessèd Spirit's quickening rain,
Made a golden sheaf of precious grain
For the Harvest Home above.

Will you not sow that song?
Will you not drop that word
Till the coldest hearts be stirred
From their slumber deep and long?
Then your harvest shall abound
With rejoicing full and grand,
Where the heavenly summer-songs resound,
And the fruits of faithful work are found,
In the Glorious Holy Land.

235

Finis.

I have filled my book,
In odds and ends of time,
With fancies and reveries
And careless scraps of rhyme.

It is,—and yet it is not
A transcript of my soul;
For the passing gleams of light,
And the passing clouds that roll—

Like an unwilled photograph,
Have printed their image clear;
And the echo of many a laugh
And of many a sigh is here.

But words are cold, dead things,
And little they tell of the heart,
Or the burning glow
Of the fount below,
Whence the glance and the cheek-flush start.

I feel there is more within
Than may lightly be revealed;
What the spirit itself hath but dimly seen
To the pen may well be sealed.

Yes, I have filled my book,
And another will soon begin:
But no venturous guess may say
What shall be traced within!

236

Shall its songs be all of joy,
Or of deepest and keenest woe?
I dare not anticipate,
And I'm glad that I do not know.

Shall its yet unwritten page
Be filled by my restless hand?
Or shall I be called away
To the shores of the Silent Land?

One thing I would hope and pray,
That its record may brighter shine,
That an onward and upward course
May be traced in every line.

And that some of its words may cheer
Some troubled and weary soul,
Or point as a waymark clear
To the distant yet nearing goal.

Then I shall not begrudge my thoughts
Their robing of careless rhyme;
Or deem them a useless waste
Of the priceless gift of Time.

University of Virginia Library

Miscellaneous Poems.

The Queen of the Sea.