The Legend of the Golden Prayers and other poems ::

Let none rebuke our sorrow, vainly swelling,
Nor say we sin to taste, dishonour art,
Because the bareness of this poor low dwelling
Had grown entwined about our heart.

Because no show of cluster'd arches bending,
Nor slender shaft, nor storied window clear,
Nor fretted roof, on pillars proud ascending,
Can give the charm that linger'd here.

For what is taste, but the heart's earnest striving
After the beautiful in form and thought,
From the pure past a nicer sense deriving,
And ever by fair Nature taught;

A strong creative instinct, making real
Dreams framed from earth, or drawn down from above?
These barren walls could give one bright ideal,
And the heart's beautiful is love.

Here, where no thrill of rapturous emotion,
From impulse wrought by outward cause, might stir;
Only His shrine, who claim'd our first devotion,
And that calm, peaceful thought of her.

This was the casket where our hearts embalm'd her,
A reliquary fitting for a saint,
Here, where His love had met, His mercy calm'd her
When her poor human heart did faint.

True, we have other records; there are places
Rich with the fragrance of her hours most bright,
When, full of gladness, look'd into our faces
Those dark eyes, dancing in soft light.

There is the room where her sick presence lingers,
The couch whereon she lay, the book she read,

The last words traced by her weak, weary fingers;
But these are relics of the dead.

These tell us of the ear that could not hear us
In our worst anguish, of the close-seal'd eyes;
Here was the spiritual presence near us
Of the saved soul that never dies.

Still on her place, when a dim ray fell slanting,
There was a sound, known to our hearts alone,
Of angels' wings; still with the choir's low chanting
Mingled her gentle undertone.

So shall it be no more,—a crimson splendour
Shall break that wandering sunbeam's silver line,
And bid it fall in tinted radiance tender
On the pure pavement by the shrine.

Down the long nave, the deep, full organ pealing,
A hundred echoes, lingering, shall draw
From roof, and niche, and sculptured angel kneeling
In the fair fane she never saw.

Why are our hearts fill'd with so many yearnings
And adverse claims—that each to other call—

Admiring thought, and zeal, and inward burnings,
And this deep, mournful love through all?

We would not check the work of your adoring;
We love when art, and wealth, and fervour meet,
Their gifts most bright, most beautiful outpouring,
Sweet ointment for our Master's feet.

Still let us grieve—even as a mother weepeth
For some poor sickly child, in mercy ta'en;
Deep in her heart his little spot she keepeth,
But wishes him not back again.

And if there be who meet us with upbraiding,
Call back the lost lives of your early years,
The deep, sad thoughts that ask no outward aiding,
And leave us our few silent tears.

University of Virginia Library

IX. THE CHAPEL.