 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE SECRET OF THE PRESENCE.
With the glow of the last dying ember,
As it flushed and flickered on the hearth,
And the cricket cried, I well remember,
When the snow's white robe enwrapt the earth;
When the fire made shadows dance and darken,
With their figures weird across the wall,
And the straining ear would fain not harken,
At the ghostly sounds that seemed to call;
In the boding darkness before morning,
In the cold of a wild winter March,
That had stript the heaven of stars adorning,
And with sackcloth hung its glorious arch;
While I could not sleep, and strove to number
The feeble sparks of the sputtering flame,
From the world within the world of slumber,
It came.
As it flushed and flickered on the hearth,
And the cricket cried, I well remember,
When the snow's white robe enwrapt the earth;
When the fire made shadows dance and darken,
With their figures weird across the wall,
And the straining ear would fain not harken,
At the ghostly sounds that seemed to call;
In the boding darkness before morning,
In the cold of a wild winter March,
That had stript the heaven of stars adorning,
And with sackcloth hung its glorious arch;
While I could not sleep, and strove to number
The feeble sparks of the sputtering flame,
From the world within the world of slumber,
It came.
638
What it was I cannot utter,
For our human words are weak,
And the heart would vainly flutter,
That the wonder tried to speak;
But appeared at once a portal,
In eternity to ope,
From the fetters of the mortal,
And beyond the dreams of hope;
I was conscious of a Being,
That yet mingled with my own,
And a sight far more than seeing,
Into mysteries unknown;
What below is the most pleasant,
And what is most pure above,
All their rapture then seemed present,
And was Love.
For our human words are weak,
And the heart would vainly flutter,
That the wonder tried to speak;
But appeared at once a portal,
In eternity to ope,
From the fetters of the mortal,
And beyond the dreams of hope;
I was conscious of a Being,
That yet mingled with my own,
And a sight far more than seeing,
Into mysteries unknown;
What below is the most pleasant,
And what is most pure above,
All their rapture then seemed present,
And was Love.
And whatever now attend my fortunes,
I must yet be alway sure of this,
While the grief besets and pain impórtunes,
That my soul has tasted Heavenly bliss;
And whatever leaves me, this is certain—
I have Love Almighty seen and known,
And He drew aside the cloudy curtain,
Which divides His dwelling from my own;
There has passed between us something solemn,
Like a consecration's covenant seal,
And before me goes the fiery column,
That the path of Duty doth reveal;
I have drunk of joy the awful essence,
And I now can never be the same,
Since with all the Secret of the Presence,
He came.
I must yet be alway sure of this,
While the grief besets and pain impórtunes,
That my soul has tasted Heavenly bliss;
And whatever leaves me, this is certain—
I have Love Almighty seen and known,
And He drew aside the cloudy curtain,
Which divides His dwelling from my own;
There has passed between us something solemn,
Like a consecration's covenant seal,
And before me goes the fiery column,
That the path of Duty doth reveal;
I have drunk of joy the awful essence,
And I now can never be the same,
Since with all the Secret of the Presence,
He came.
It is whispered by the forest,
It is murmured by the stream,
When the troubled heart is sorest,
Thou shalt catch the gracious gleam;
In the mist upon the mountain,
When bestridden by the storm,
In the plashing of the fountain,
Breathes the beauty of that Form;
It is He and not another,
In each earthly tone and tide,
The sweet Man who is a Brother,
And who suffers at our side;
In the clamours that enfold us,
In the cooing of the dove,
He is present to uphold us,
And is Love.
It is murmured by the stream,
When the troubled heart is sorest,
Thou shalt catch the gracious gleam;
In the mist upon the mountain,
When bestridden by the storm,
In the plashing of the fountain,
Breathes the beauty of that Form;
It is He and not another,
In each earthly tone and tide,
The sweet Man who is a Brother,
And who suffers at our side;
In the clamours that enfold us,
In the cooing of the dove,
He is present to uphold us,
And is Love.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |