The Poems of Mackenzie Bell

We pray that all our troubles here
May help to give the needed strength
To keep our watch-fires burning clear
Till Life's last halt we reach at length.

BY-AND-BY.

Ofttimes our path seems smooth, and bright as May,
And full of joyance still from day to day;
Yet by-and-by
Comes Grief to cast chill shadows on the way.

Soon fair Content, our sun, is lost to sight;
Now shrouded is the track in fearsome night;
Yet by-and-by
Kind Time will bring once more the welcome light.

Ever we journey on; through weal, through woe;
Though rough the path even there the wild-flowers grow,
And by-and-by
Gleam God's high bastions, afar, aglow.

A SONG OF COMFORT.

Not always have we sorrow, there are seasons
When buoyant joy dispels all dreams of ruth—
Times when our thoughts of sorrow seem but treasons
To king-like Truth.

Not always are we vext by cares and troubles,—
Often the griefs of life appear no more—
Vanished, as on a lake the rain-drop bubbles,
When showers are o'er.

Not always feel we that our hopes are blighted;
A glad fruition will they often gain,
When we perceive the good are aye requited
Who conquer pain.

Not always should we grieve, each tribulation
Is sent to purify—to raise the soul,
To fit it for its glorious destination—
A heavenly goal.

BORROWED LIGHT.

'Tis night; and darkness as a pall
Enwraps the sable scene,
Nor doth one glimmering ray recall
Where sunshine late hath been.

Until the moon 'neath yonder cloud
Shall bring a borrowed light,
And, piercing through the landscape's shroud,
Dispel the gloom of night.

So 'tis in life; 'mid deepest woe,
Oft drawing nigh despair,
God-borrowed beams alone still show
That joy abideth there.

THE TRUEST TREASURE.

Life may bring us bitter sorrow
When our hearts refuse submission,
When we long for a to-morrow
Bringing balm as Hope's fruition.

Love may bring us bitter sadness
When we know our love can never
Give anew the sense of gladness
That we thought it would for ever.

Joy may bring us bitter trouble:
Faith may die in voiceless anguish;
Hope may seem an empty bubble
When bereft of hope we languish.

Worldly peace may bring us only,
In our heart of hearts, disquiet;
Leaving us—will leave us lonely
Battling in the world's rude riot.

Trust in man may bring delusion;
Often, often hath it perished,
And we feel, in dim confusion,
'Twas a phantom that we cherished.

Trust in God in fullest measure
Holds of earthly change no leaven,
And it is the truest treasure,
For it makes of earth a heaven.

A MEMORY AND A PRESENCE.

When clasping in mine own the hand
Of him I loved the best,
Whose converse cheered, as sight of land
Cheers mariners distressed,
How once I loved the darkening hour
Of Summer's happy day,
As gently from each leaf and flower
The daylight passed away.

For he had learnt to bear his part
In Earth's unending strife,
To labour with unflinching heart
Amid the ills of life—
To feel adversity and pain,
Hopes blighted, bitter wrong,
And yet, ere long, to find again
God's peace which makes men strong.

So would he talk of bygone years
In that hush'd eventide,
Of former hopes, delights, and fears,
Of early friends who died,
And wisely would my future trace,
Then leaving things of Time,
In raptured tones, with upturned face,
Would speak of themes sublime.

He had that wordless eloquence,
That strange, that wondrous power,
Which sways the soul with force intense
In calm of such an hour;
And walking where the shadows steal
Across the garden here,
Alone with memory still I feel
His spirit ever near.

THE BALANCE OF LIFE.

'Tis false to say the world, though sad,
Hath no redeeming feature,
'Tis false to say the world, though glad,
Can hold no hopeless creature.

The darkest life has oft a ray
Of sunshine on the morrow,
The brightest life has many a day
Whose hours are filled with sorrow.

No life with ceaseless grief is fraught,
None with all bliss and beauty,
By varied teaching are we taught
The way to walk in duty.

If happy be our earthly lot,
And free from Sorrow's burden,
Greater the need to linger not;—
Our work shall have its guerdon:

Yet richer guerdon comes to those
Whom heav'n hath not exempted
From pain, who quell the self-same foes
Although more sorely tempted.

Each grief that sweeps across the heart,
If sinless be its sadness,
In Life's long lesson bears a part
And yields us future gladness.

MIRACLES.

Christ's wondrous miracles were signs indeed
Of wondrous power; yet every miracle
Of His had moral purpose, and was wrought
To show this moral purpose: and perchance
Thus is it that no longer we possess
The power to do such deeds. Had you or I
Such gifts, we still should heal unceasingly,
Nor judge of the effects were cures but made.
Where then would be God's discipline of pain?
Where His just government of all His world?
Where then would be His discipline of sorrow?

TO CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

Great as a Poet, greater as a Woman. (Died December 29th, 1894.)

I marvel not that God hath called away
Thy peerless soul to where His saints abide;
Rather I praise Him that He bade thee stay
On earth so long—to be a heavenward guide.

GOD'S PEACE.

“The peace of God which passeth all understanding.” —Phil. iv. 7.

How oft amid the griefs of life—
Perplexed, misjudged, distressed—
O God, I waver in the strife,
And long and cry for rest.
How oft I feel—so great my need,
My courage so outworn—
As though my griefs were now indeed
Greater than could be borne.

Yet oft will come in times like these—
Come like a gracious balm—
A sense of peace, of joy, of ease,
A sense of heaven's own calm.
Ah! then my heart would fain express
What I have felt before—
'Tis not I feel my griefs are less—
I feel Thy love is more.

And some are here, O God, to-day,
Here with their voiceless grief,
O give the aid for which they pray,
O give such sweet relief,
O give Thy peace, Thy calm, Thy joys,
Here as they humbly bow—
Such gifts nor Time nor Change destroys,
Give them, and give them now.

HOLY QUIETUDE.

Spirit of holy quietude,
For thee my soul is sighing—
For thee in many a mournful mood
My soul is blindly crying—
But still a voice comes softly clear,
“That spirit seldom cometh here.”

Spirit of holy quietude,
While, weary, I am breasting
Life's waves, bring with thee all things good—
Deep peace, and joy, and resting:—
Yet still the voice—“No, never here
Doth she thy soul would find appear.”

Spirit of holy quietude,
Grant me a single token—
Show me that Life's long conflict rude
By gleams of peace is broken;
But the voice whispers in mine ear,
“That spirit never dwelleth here.”

Spirit of holy quietude,
Mine earthly course is ending,
Now let thy peace within me brood,
Sin's strongest fetters rending;
“In heaven,” the voice says at my side—
“In heaven alone doth she abide.”

A SUNRISE IN EARLY SUMMER.

I

Now lagging black-browed Night at last is gone,
And fair and happy Dawn at length is here.
How sweet the sights which now I look upon—
The sights of summer beauty growing clear!
The meadows yonder and the lawn appear
Glittering with dewdrops—dewdrops silvery, white,
Touched by the sun's first beams; while far and near
Each bird, each flower awakes, and hails the sight
Of coming morn: to them like me it brings delight.

II

To eastward lies a mass of sable cloud
Made glorious by the rising sun, who flings
His rays athwart its depths. I hear the loud
Yet mellow thrush's note—a blackbird sings
With sudden burst of song—a lark up-springs
From that wide field of wheat; so more and more
Sounds Nature's orchestra of myriad strings.
I watch the apple-bloom, while May-buds pour
On all the gentle air their matchless, fragrant store.

III

O, who at sunrise could be aught but glad—
Sunrise, the prototype of perfect day,
When we shall wake to bliss, nor weak nor sad,
And, feeling swiftly the seraphic ray
From God's effulgence, cast the fears away
Which still cleave to us, and with rapturous soul
Know that black Trouble can no longer stay
In His blest presence—know the precious goal
Where all Earth's grievous wounds are made for ever whole.

“LORD, TEACH US TO PRAY.”

Luke xi. I.

A dark enigma is our life
Without Thy guiding ray;
Then calm, O Christ, its sordid strife
By teaching us to pray.
Prayer is Heaven's torch when doubts and fears
With darkness cloud our way,—
Its holy radiance guides and cheers,—
What peace it brings to pray!

Oft lies our path through pain and woe
While in Earth's night we dwell,
Yet prayer is still a light to show
That aye Thou leadest well;

So when Life's mysteries distress,
And Sorrow bars our way,
We plead that Thou wouldst make it less
By teaching us to pray.

A RALLYING SONG.

Sometimes trustful, often fearful,
In this world of shifting wrong;
Sometimes joyful, often tearful,
Still be this our rallying song—
Aye, in sadness
And in gladness,
Nobly act, for God is strong.

When, oppressed by deep soul-sorrow,
Life beneath the darkest skies
Seems so drear that no to-morrow
Holds a threat of worse surprise—
In such sadness
As in gladness
Nobly act, for God is wise.

When our souls are tried, and tempted
Some ignoble end to buy,
From the coward's bonds exempted,
Let us resolutely cry—
Evil sow not,
That it grow not,
Nobly act, for God is nigh.

MORNING THOUGHTS.

Sweet-voiced songsters softly singing
Tell me of a day begun,
Its appointed portion bringing
Of the duty to be done.

Last day's deeds are gone for ever,—
Seems it not most passing strange
Their results remain, and never
Can be touched by time or change?

Like a child, his pebble throwing
From the streamlet's sedgy marge,
Marking not the ripples growing
Though they one by one enlarge—

So, with influence still increasing,
Widening o'er Life's mystic sea,
Man deals out his actions,—ceasing
Only with Eternity.

Many yesterday, unthinking,
Chose the road which leads to night,—
While a few, with souls unshrinking,
Chose the pathway of the light.

Thus I muse with deep emotion
Whilst the moments melt away—
Muse upon the boundless ocean
Of the issues of to-day.

ON A PRESENT CRISIS IN THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND.

Who would have deemed the days would come
When Superstition's blighting force
In this our land would take its course
Unchecked, condoned, no longer dumb?

This land where many a Smithfield fire
Blazed three short centuries ago,
And where “the Babylonian woe”
Milton denounced with thunderous lyre.

Three centuries ago our race
Saw God-like Truth, and loved her well;
No visitant, she came to dwell
With us; and England took her place

First of the nations; glorious youth
Her dower, and on her queenly brow
God's seal of peace. God grant her now
Once more a sight of God-like Truth.

London, February 26th, 1899.

HER BOY JUST DEAD.

(A Mother Speaks.)

My darling dead! Is all the long endeavour
To vanquish Death in vain? These wistful eyes,
So Truth-illumed and loving, will they never
Check by a look again my futile sighs?

And shall I weep—although for him the gladness
Of this world's many pleasures now is o'er,
And I am left with this my load of sadness,
Which here on earth is mine for evermore?

A cripple's lot were his, had he remaining,
Here ta'en his part where grief and care are rife—
Little of sinless happiness obtaining,
Feeling all miseries of earthly life.

To shorten that hard period of probation
Given to such as he so often here—
To raise him soon to an immortal station
Where comes no thoughtless word, no taunt, no jeer—

The Master, in His mercy, gently made him
Fitter among His ransomed ones to be—
And day by day more perfectly arrayed him
In His own peerless robe of purity.

Then shall I cherish an abiding sorrow
For him whom God in goodness calls away?
Nay, rather let me muse on that blest morrow
Which joins in bliss our severed souls for aye.

JOHN CLIFFORD: God's Soldier.

[_]

[In October, 1908, Fohn Clifford completed his fifty Years' Ministry to One Congregation.]

Born of the people, with a scorn of wrong
Bequeathed from Puritans—persistent, strong,
Eager to serve God's folk, while more and more
In this our London, vast, and grim, and hoar,
You skilled yourself in academic lore.
Noble and selfless was each thought; each aim
Pure as a snow-flake, pure as is the flame
From Truth's undying torch that burns to show
Ever an upward path, through weal, through woe.

Often you walked through many a London street—
Saw many a man who paused with way-worn feet—
And saw the wrinkled furrows on his brow
Proclaim that he was well-nigh agèd now—
And this, before stern Time, with ruthless sway,
Touching, had turned his sunny locks to grey.
You saw how trembling was his nerveless hand,
His fingers scarcely under due command;
You saw how devious was his tottering tread,
How bent, though not with weight of years, his head;
You saw how his whole face, his gait, his air
Showed sad, though all too common, signs of care.

Often you walked through many a London street—
Saw many a girl who paused with way-worn feet,
And dreamt of her a happy rose-lipped child
In some far country home where dear ones smiled.
Haply you saw her shaping daisy-chains
While little sisters help, and for their pains,
Receiving, on the sward, as payment meet,
The pretty chaplet from her, when complete.
And as you gazed upon her saddened face,
Where sin, or want, or sorrow you could trace;
Alas, alas, how mournful in their birth,
Rose dimly, thoughts of these dead days of mirth.
Dreams such as these, amid the sounds that jar
Our civic music, made you what you are—
The matchless leader who, by pen or word,
Against unnumbered odds at last has stirred
Our civic Conscience to take up her task
Towards her sons and daughters, and to ask
For those who toil, more light, more joy, more air,
And homes more clean and spacious everywhere.

'Tis only when a lake is calm and clear
It well reflects the landscape that is near,
And thus men's quiet deeds from day to day
With best fidelity their minds display;
So when you pass among us, with your look
Or hand-shake kindly, or your shrewd rebuke,
Or when we see you in some homely hour
Of talk, we feel the secret of your power.

Great orator in gesture, voice, and word,
Whose lofty eloquence none hear unstirred,
You roused our people to take earnest heed
Unto their children's teaching: there was need.
Passing for fifty years “from strength to strength”
Your power for good increases, till at length
On every problem that confronts the State,
On all the things which make our nation great,
To you we look for counsel, for we share
Your heritage of hope, of faith, of prayer.
True ever is the music of your life,
Your soul safe anchored, though near shoals of strife.
Wise thought on such as you uplifts the heart;
Now lie your years before us, like a chart,
Thereon is shown a way whereby each one,
Though sore the toil, and scorching be Life's sun,
Elated, shall receive God's glad “Well done.”

Forward you move with that eternal youth
They only know, who drink from wells of Truth,
Your warmth enkindles many an arctic soul
To more and more self-conquest, more control.
God's soldier, 'tis your calling still to fight,
Till dawns, with Heav'n's own peace, Heav'n's own calm light.

A PLEA FOR FAITH.

Life! How mysterious does it seem, how strange
Its grief, its happiness, its shame, its sin!
How hard its changes are! Can we believe
In a great God of kindness infinite
Who yet can daily leave His hapless world
To be—for so it seems—the home of pain,
Pain often useless, often showered on those
Who seem to need it least? Can we believe
In Perfect Goodness and Omniscient Power
Permitting Evil to possess and spoil
His fair dominions, and to bring a curse—
An ageless and unceasing curse—upon them?

Alas, to our poor minds our futile years
Seem but a clueless maze. When happiness
Is ours, a hidden canker-worm reveals
Its hateful presence, and too soon there comes
Something to vex the spirit, or to jar,
Something to cloud or check our perfect joy.

One man has buoyant health, and feels delight
In living merely, yet he finds how hard
Is poverty to bear; it oftentimes
Hangs round him as a changeless destiny.
Too rich is he to rank among the poor,
Too poor is he to rank among the rich;
Of neither class, he knows the ills of both.

Another man has ample wealth, and friends
Who love to do him honour, and to give
To him the zest in living which such friends
Alone can give. Yet look!—alas, 'tis clear

Disease's curse is on him, fell disease
For which weak human skill affords no cure
And scarce alleviation. He is doomed
To pass a joyless life despite the joys
Surrounding him.

Another man we see
With riches and with pulse of flawless health.
With steadfast, cheerful face he fronts the world,
And all seems well; yet could we look within,
Some grief we should perceive which saps his life
And makes it full of care—a grief that springs
Not from his fault; or oftentimes we see
Innocent children suffer for the sake
Of guilty parents, or a mother's heart
Guileless and pure, that bleeds for some loved son
Or daughter who, alas, has gone astray.
Not seldom in despondency we feel
As though the wrong is victor o'er the right,
As though our life were but a flake of foam
Cast by some cruel sea on some bleak shore,
A moment seen, and then for ever lost.

And yet, if we deny that God exists
As perfect in His goodness as His power,
If we deny that Death, God's angel, brings
To man a nobler life, what do we gain
To compensate us for the hopes we lose?
For still we must endure the woes of life,
Still must we feel the longings which arise
For rest and peace amid our daily toil.
These we must still endure, and yet perceive

Beyond the grave no gleam of gathering light,
Nought save the gloom of nothingness before us.
But if we greet kind Faith, and let her hand
Lead us through all our years, though at the last
We find that hope of happier life is vain
(That 'twere so would not change the argument)
Faith's guidance will have given a mighty boon
To us, in gladdening all our days on earth.
So even if we wholly set aside
Faith's fervent pleading with the intellect—
A pleading ever present, ever strong,
'Tis wiser far to guide our minds to view
The problem still in some such wise as this,
'Tis true amid our earthly life there runs
A tangled thread of strange perplexity
And much injustice; yet comes by-and-by
A nobler state of being, when that which seems
Unjust will be explained or set aright.
'Tis best to hold that there exists a God
Who made Man's mind with marvellous powers, though He,
In His deep wisdom limited the scope
Of what He made, wherefore our reason's sphere
Of thought is swiftly reached, and so it seems
To us so frequently that human life
Hath such injustice in its fleeting years;
That He decrees that it is well for us
In humble trust to tread “The path of sorrow,”
Perchance as discipline for some high scheme
Of joy hereafter, or perchance to show
To others how the brave can conquer pain;

That Life's dark mysteries do but transcend,
Not contradict our reason, and when soon
Our earthly life shall close, there dawns a life
When He endows us with new gifts of mind.
Then chief among the pleasures it can give
Will be the thrill of joy when first we feel
That now we understand those mysteries
Which vexed our souls before—when first we find
That many “themes with which we cannot cope”
Grow clear, and “Earth's worst phrenzies” are at length
Forgotten in the joy of Hope's fruition.

TO A WORKER AMONG THE POOR.

Courage like yours has still a mighty power
To purify the mind from hour to hour,
To permeate with thrilling force the soul,
To give new confidence, new self-control,
To make each faulty faculty so clear
That, though you plainly see the danger near,
You scorn to dread it—scorn to turn aside,
Duty your first, your chief, your only guide.

The soldier 'mid the scenes of deadly strife
Thinks of his country—thinks not of his life;
And shall we then in these degenerate days
Speak of him lightly, cease to give him praise?
Yet Glory has for him her ancient charm,
Excitement nerves for him his stalwart arm;

When bullets whistle in the dread advance,
For him there comes the touch of old Romance.
War has its use: sometimes it keeps alive
Those qualities that make a nation thrive;
In certain minds it checks the love of self;
It teaches self-control, and scorn of pelf;
Once and again it seems to make for good,
By teaching patriotism and fortitude—
That love of country flippant scribes deride
As but a foible—but a foolish pride—
That love of country which a nation's fame
Exalts; whose absence brings a nation's shame.
Yet War, alas! not seldom seems to be
Only a form of licensed butchery—
One of the ills that from our passions spring—
The warrior's courage but a puny thing.

Yes; yours is truer courage, for it comes
Not from the fife's shrill note, nor roll of drums,
Not from the maddening energy of pain
Where Horror, heedless, stalks among the slain,
But from that hidden strength which has its birth
In some sublimer sphere beyond this earth.
That bravery is not yours which men acclaim;
That bravery is not yours which gives men fame;
Yours is the courage which but few suspect;
Yours is the courage which can bear neglect;
Yours is the courage which can suffer long,
The courage of the man whose soul is strong,
Who labours on, still doing silent good,
Nor stays his hand for Man's ingratitude.

Although you seem to till a thankless soil,
Your prayers are never vain, nor vain your toil;
Some fruit you yet may have to cheer your heart,
In some new epoch you may bear a part;
But ev'n if now, through your short span of years
Your work be weary, and no fruit appears,—
Though, in humility, you look within,
Deeming your failure the result of sin,—
It is not so; for still our Father knows
What each requires—on each He still bestows
The discipline most needed; still He weighs
Our work with heavenly scales; our purblind gaze
Finds failure often where He knows success.

All are His instruments, and so the less
His need of one man for the world's great need;
Righteous He is, to all He gives their meed
Of praise or blame; yet not like us He scans—
We see results, by them we make our plans,
And trust or trust not men. Men's character
He reads with searching glance that cannot err,
And thinks not of results, but values still
Patience and faith, and will to do His will.

So to His best beloved oft gives He trial,
As to His Blessèd Son, of base denial,
And haply most will honour near His throne
Some humble follower by the world unknown.
Blurred is perspective by our earthly view—
To God perspective aye is clear and true.

Effort like yours ever to do the right
Will raise your soul from height to nobler height,
And gives at last that guerdon, full, unpriced,
The “Well done” of your life-long master, Christ.

University of Virginia Library

POEMS OF CONSOLATION AND OF RELIGION.

JOY AND SORROW.