Songs Old and New ... Collected Edition [by Elizabeth Charles] |
Songs of Many Seasons.
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Songs Old and New | ||
Songs of Many Seasons.
THE BIRD, THE CHORISTER, AND THE ANGELS.
I.
Brimful of delight.
For his joy the bird found day too narrow,—
Poured it into night.
For one little nest,
Filling all the region with its sweetness,
Floated East and West.
Dullest hearts were stirred;—
Hidden in his own light-sphere of rapture
Little recked the bird.
Rapturously alone,
He but sang for one.
II.
Clothed within with joy,
As without in whitest raiment festal,
Carolled, glad, the boy.
Rose that one pure voice,
Clear as church-bells through a city's murmurs
Pealed “Rejoice, rejoice!”
Free as any bird,
Raining thence in showers of rapturous music,—
Dullest hearts were stirred.
In a spell-bound throng.
While the child sang praise to God Eternal
Men but praised the song.
III.
Weeping, weeping, on his bed at even,Weary sobbed the boy,
“All the joy is gone from all my singing,
All the old, free joy!
Like a roof of stone, the people's praises
Shut me from the light!
Take, oh take the praise away, and give me,
Give the lost delight!
Soars my voice, my heart can soar no longer,
Now no longer free!
Like a discord grating through Thy praises
Jars the praise of me!
Oh! that like a little bird unnoticed,
I might sing to Thee!”
IV.
Till to sleep he wept!
Loving, loving, watched above the angels
Smiling as he slept.
From their vision kept!)
Song and glory swept.
Speechless ecstasy,
All the worlds were looking up to listen,
He looked up to see.
In his dream, the boy
Drank for one unutterable moment
Of the Well of Joy,
Wakes the world's great hymn,
Felt it, one unutterable moment
Bent in love o'er him;
In that look felt heaven, earth, men, and angels
Distant grow and dim;
In that look felt heaven, earth, men, and angels
Nearer grow in Him.
V.
Sang he, glad and free,
Worlds within one tree,
With the freedom of the holy angels
The face of God who see.
Rapturously alone!
Thousand thousands to the Song might listen,
He but sang for One!
By His love made free;
Singing thus for One, for all was singing,
Lifting all to Thee!
THE ALPINE GENTIAN.
Long had lain sleeping,
When she looked forth at last,
Timidly peeping.
All round her slept;
O'er the dead icy ground
Cold shadows crept.
Still, frozen seas—
What could her young life do
'Mid such as these?
Not a warm breath;
What hope lay there for her
Living 'midst death?
Gazed she on high;
White clouds were wandering
Through the blue sky.
Gentle beams kissed her;
On her the mild moon shone
Like a saint sister.
Danced in sweet mirth;
The warm heavens seemed nearer far
Than the cold earth.
Loving on high;
Till she grew heavenly,
Blue as the sky.
Near which she grew,
Thawed in her skyey bells
Fed her with dew.
Gazing abroad,
Thinketh of God;
Hearts to God given
Breathe out where'er they go
Summer and heaven.
THE OLD STONE CRUCIFIX AT ROMSEY ABBEY.
Its characteristic is an open hand, reaching down out of the clouds above the Cross. This is said to be unique.
Close to the old church door
And by the common pathway,—
Appealing evermore.
The features need not miss;
Low, that the lips of the children
May reach the feet to kiss.
Wrought by the hands of old,—
(Good hands which so many ages
Have helpless grown and cold,)
Born of the heart of old,
Shall never more grow cold.
By no great artist's touch,—
Yet search the wide world over,
You will find no other such.
From freezing to burning zone,
You will never find another
Quite like this only one.
In the hands they crucified,
So deep you scarcely see them
But only the arms stretched wide,—
Though it seem in lightnings hurled,
Wide as the sin HE beareth,
Wide to embrace the world.
Bowing itself to die,
Forth from the clouded sky.
HIS hands are nailëd fast,—
“Into Thy hands My spirit,
Father, Thy hands!”—at last!
Within Thy hands to be,
Give us some such dear likeness
To leave behind of Thee.
Cut in the common stone,
Poor, yet our best, we pray Thee
Our best and our very own.
We dare to ask much more,
Knowing, the more we ask Thee,
Thou art but pleased the more.
By the common paths, like this;
The features may not miss;
Low, that the lips of the children
May reach to cling and kiss.
So deep in the wounds may hide,
That men see no more the anguish,
But only the arms stretched wide.
Cut in the common stone;
Like Thee, yet like no other,
Because Thy very own.
ON A VASE OF ORIENTAL ALABASTER ILLUMINATED FROM WITHIN.
All unillumined in the common day,
We know thee now, and evermore shall know,
Rose-alabaster, and no common clay.
It did but show thee as thou ever art,
The purple depths, the rose of dawn are there,
The glow and beauty of the fervent heart.
Ever anoint our eyes that we may see;
The best we see in those we love the best,
They ever are, indwelling Love to Thee.
They ever are, O patient Love to Thee,
Who through each lingering pain and fiery test
Art making us what Thou wouldst have us be.
THE POET OF POETS.
Who penetrated all He saw,
To whom the lily had its worth,
And Nature bared her inmost law.
And when the mountain side He trod,
The universe before Him shone,
Translucent in the smile of God,
Like young leaves in the morning sun,
Glory which Phidias never won
To consecrate his Parthenon.
The visions of His waking sight,
The thoughts that o'er His soul would throng
Alone upon the hills at night;
What poet's loftiest ecstasies
Had stirred men with such rapturous awe
As would those living words of His,
Calm utterance of what He saw!
All ages with their echoes rung.
He came to live, He came to die;
Living a long lost race to seek;
Dying to raise the fallen high.
He came, Himself the living Word,
The Godhead in His person shone;
But few, and poor, were those who heard,
And wrote His words when He was gone;
Words children to their hearts can clasp
Yet angels cannot fully grasp.
Like rain-drops on the parched green,
A living race of poets sprung,
Who dwelt among the things unseen;
Who loved the fallen, sought the lost,
Yet saw beneath earth's masks and shrouds;
Whose life was one pure holocaust,
Death but a breaking in the clouds;
His volume as the world was broad,
His Poem was the Church of God.
THE POET'S DAILY BREAD.
He is not mailed from Time's rude blows in a panoply of dreams.
But he must tread the common earth, mingling in common crowds.
But he must handle common tools to his diviner use.
Borne freely on its winds and waves he feels their every motion.
It is the sun which shines on all, the light of common day.
A glory in God's meanest works which passeth fiction far.
And angel whispers come to him from mute and common things.
And filling still her daily round with the old quiet grace,
His youth's strong passion growing ripe in deep home-tenderness.
By the sweet voice of one we love, do but the surer soften.
Yet knowing what a labyrinth life, how dim the inward eye,
Or aught which has fed human hearts as common or unclean.
No special banquet is for him at life's full table dressed.
The shower of cordial laughter which the clouded bosom clears;
All of the world that is not husks,—this is the poet's food.
Not all man's hackneyed renderings can make it less Divine.
TWO MEANINGS OF FAME.
I.
As something that ought to be seen,
A Crowned Head, without the sentries
Which vexatiously fence a Queen;
A foreign untamable creature,
Which will not be stared at, through bars,
By the eyes which pursue the meteors,
But heed not the steadfast stars.
Two thousand years wiser grown,)
On a pinnacle of the Temple,
With no power to cast yourself down;
No angels to keep your footsteps;
Human, unshaded, alone,
And vainly wish yourself stone!
With its strength but as before,
For a soul ever craving perfection,
And a world ever clamouring “more.”
II.
Where your feet will never tread,
Where your name is reverently spoken
As the name of their sacred dead.
'Tis a life in the hearts of thousands
You have struck to a living glow,
Who never hope to see you,
Whose names you will never know;
Could not utter their homage true,
Being but of the slow, dumb millions,
Whose thought wakes to music through you;
Who find the world wider and fairer,
Old truths made living and new,
Nobler for ever through you!
Deathless as Beauty and Truth,
As the old world still fondly cons over
The names she loved in her youth;
And finds the Founts of her Eden
Spring fresh, at your touch, as when first
At the rod of her first Diviners
To music and light they burst:
Traces deep in the ages afar,
When she fathoms and spans the Ocean,
And measures and weighs the star,
As when one Ocean-river
Bathed all the lands in its tide;
Since, at last, the world grown wider,
Finds a Poet with vision as wide.
Better known can but seem more fair!
Not light robs the world of its beauty,
But earth-fogs of pride and care!
'Tis a music whose ocean-thunders,
Sound they ever so long and loud,
At the height of a summer cloud.
Beyond heaven's farthest sun,
If at length earth's million voices
Die into one “Well done!”
THE GOLDEN AGE IN THE PRESENT.
The “good old times” that come no more?
The oldest day was once to-day;
Each hour wore in its settled place
As every-day a garb and face
As those which glide from us away.
On every dawning soul she dawns anew,
And grows and ripens with their growth:
Only to spirits which have lost their youth,
The heart of love and sense sincere and true.
Her living forms seem cold.
To poets is the poetic age not fled;
Go, let the dead inter their dead,
For to the living there is always life.
To pour into the artist's heart;
To eyes fresh bathed in morning dew
The Golden Age shines ever new.
Than when the sea-nymphs danced upon the wave?
Curve they less proudly 'neath the swift ship's prow,
Upheaving from the coral cave?
At noon-tide bathing weary feet,
Languidly smiling,
Softly beguiling,
Like lips that faintly move
Murmuring words of love?
Dewing with green the grassy dell,
Giving the thirsty flowers to drink,
Filling their starry eyes with joy,
Shedding cool fragrance on the air,
Than when the wood-nymphs sported there?
Wave in the breeze less lightly
Than when the Naiad's moonlit veil
Streamed through the dark trees brightly?
Has morning a less rosy glow?
Are noonday's arrowy rays less keen
Than when Apollo strung the bow?
The sun with kisses wakes the earth,
And sun-born showers of golden rain
With floods of melody pour forth,—
Say, are not Light and Music one again?
The heroes were but brave and earnest men;
Do thou but hero-like pursue thy track,
Striving, not sighing brings them back again!
God's words and works in spite of toil and shame;
So thou forsak'st it not to seek for them.
Strength to none weaker than thyself impart?
Rise! kindle in thyself the hero's heart,
And the heroic age is also there.
The childish days of love and trust;
There never was an Age of Gold,
And faith makes gold of all earth's dust.
The Church's youthful strength grows never gray,
Herself a fadeless youth amidst the world's decay.
Canst thou not love? Has earth no room
For all thy heart would give,
With all the blessed depths of home,
And myriad hearts that weep and strive?
Are there no desolate and poor
To nourish from thy store?
No songs of joy and glowing praise
Thy voice might help to raise?
No heart long left alone
Till it grew stiff and chill
Thy voice might waken with a thrill
Of love long, long unknown?
The yearnings of thy love?
Is there not heaven above
As near thee as of old?
His presence now withhold,
That the first works should e'er be lost,
Or the first love grow cold?
Oh, fill thy heart with God, and thou shalt prove
That there is left enough to trust and love!
Mirrored in still pools peacefully?
The future but the same to-day
Reflected in a heaving sea?
Only the present hour has life,
The home of work, the field of strife.
But press the Present to thy breast;
In her, thy soul shall find its bread,
Thy mind its sphere, thy heart its rest;
Till God shall speak another “Let there be,”
And Time, like darkness before light, shall be
Before the Now of His Eternity.
SUGGESTED BY THE PROMETHEUS BOUND.
No pity with their task was blent;
Thy cup of anguish was unmixed,
And human hands Thy hands transfixed,
O Thou who lovedst man!
With “countless laughter” dimpled o'er,
But heavings of an angry sea
Of human faces mocking Thee,
O Thou who lovedst man!
But mockeries and murmurings;
No depths divine of azure sky,
But darkness dread received Thy cry,
O Thou who lovedst man!
Earth's first true peal of victory,
Hushing the world-old blasphemy
That God gives good reluctantly,
O God who lovedst man!
Willing the Father's loving will,
And lifting off the load of sin
Let the free tide of love flow in,
O Thou who lovedst man!
For Life and Light in Thee are one;
Thy bonds have made the fettered free,
And man unbound Love binds to Thee,
O Thou who lovest man!
THE BETRAYAL OF THE YUCATAN ISLANDERS.
I.
None had ever seen its shore;
And living things,
With grand white wings,
Those white-limbed strangers bore.
Like the white-winged clouds o'erhead.
We said, ‘They come
From the far-off Home,
Where rest our happy dead.
Where our belovëd go,
Cleansing their souls
Where the thunder rolls
O'er the fields of ice and snow!
Where our belovëd rest;
Where they rest in light
All pure and white,
'Neath the morning's golden breast.’
Our reverent trust they won,
This Royal Race
From the Dawn's own place,
These Children of the Sun.
They held the winds their slaves;
In their sea-towers caged;
They rode on the foaming waves.
We thought they were good and true;
We said, ‘They will tell
Where our lost ones dwell,’
For we thought they all things knew.
They answered grave and slow:—
‘Trust us; we come
From that far-off home;
With us to your Dead ye shall go.’
For we trusted the words they said;
We feared not the thunder,
Caged, sullen, under;
For we went to rejoin our dead.
Those treacherous billows o'er,
To those unknown strands,
For a clasp of the hands
We had feared to clasp no more;
We had feared not to hear again:
For we thought, ‘Even thus
They are watching for us,
Watching across the main.
On lonely cliff or shore,
Or with flowers and song
In a festive throng,
To part from us never more?’
Trusting, across the main,
Till we reached the strand,
Where they drove us to land
With laughter, and lash, and chain.
The stranger's stripes and jeers;
For the promised Home,
The slave's dark doom,
And toil without time for tears.
We are breaking their fetters fast;
From that long, safe sleep,
Where we join our Dead at last.”
II.
From the shores none living know,
And over the sea
Biddest us with Thee
To our belovëd go;
Silent Thou trodd'st the wave,
Hushing its strife;
But Thy touch was life,
Death was Thy fettered slave.
When Thou saidst, “Its shore I know;
Trust Me: I come
From that far-off Home;
Follow Me,—to your dead ye shall go.”
Left all for Thee, content;
Trusting Thy word,
Singing and glad they went.
What terror of hearts death-cold,
Has raved that from Thee
Such wrong could be
As this base wrong of old!
Infinite by Thine Heart;
The deeds Thou hast done
A world have won;
We trust Thee for what Thou art!
Of that mysterious shore;
But we seek not a Place,
We seek Thy face,
And we crave to know no more.
Yet singing and glad we go:
Faithful and True
Thou wilt bring us through;
If not, Thou hadst told us so.
THE PATHWAYS OF THE HOLY LAND.
Since Thou wert there;
The busy world through other ways has ranged,
And left these bare.
Of Olivet;
Though rains of two millenniums wear it deep,
Men tread it yet.
Quiet and low;
Before his sheep the shepherd on it treads,
His voice they know
As once o'er Thee;
To Bethany.
From height to height
The white roofs of discrowned Jerusalem
Burst on our sight.
Which we tread thus;
Here through Thy triumph on Thou passedst, calm,
To death;—for us!
Of Galilee;
But chiselled in the hill-sides evermore
Thy paths we see.
Nor time effaced;
Where Thou hast stood to heal, we still may stand;
All can be traced.
Truer than these;—
Thy steps faith sees.
Thou art not dead!
Our path is onward, till we see Thy face
And hear Thy tread.
In praise and prayer,
There is Thy presence, there Thy Holy Land,—
Thou, Thou art there!
WAITING.
With a burst of sudden thunder, or the trickling of quiet rain.
And the thrill of life will vibrate to our utmost budding shoots;
From the snowy mountain-ranges the sound of joy will come,
And from the unchained glaciers the river of life will burst;
For the light and the life must conquer, and the dead must live again.
Awaiting the vanished Presence, and the Life which is to come.
THE POWER OF LIFE.
Yet the old leaves will not fall;
If they do not hasten, the young leaves
Will find no room at all.
Like the winds in their autumn-play,
Till the dead leaves fall in showers,
Together, all in a day?
And pluck them one by one,
That the baby leaves may stretch themselves,
And be glad, and feel the sun?”
Thus singly, my child, away;
'Twould need a stronger arm than thine
To sweep them down in a day.
They've something left to do;
Maybe the poor old withered leaves
Still cradle and shelter the new.”
And the birds on every tree;
Will God send a mighty tempest
To set the young leaves free?”
The old Earth knows her way;
And the Lord of Life is working,
He is working every day.
He will send them yet again;
The winds, and storms and lightnings,
With the sweeping floods of rain.
In His, but not in ours;
No hand may wield the lightnings
But the hand that folds the flowers.
But has stronger powers than they;
He is working every day.
Peeped from the old leaf's stalk,
And all through the noisy winter
It heard the wild winds talk.
How they swept the dead away,
But it only kept growing, growing;—
It could wait, it was stronger than they.
That shielding sheath within,
Growing, silently growing
Through all the storm and din;
When the sunbeams all awake,
They will touch it, will softly kiss it,
And its last slight fetters break.
The young spread glad and green,
Without a veil between.
And His strongest force is life;
Ever with death it wageth
Silent, victorious strife.
The warp and woof of the world,
The nights when the forces are gathered,
The dawns with their banners unfurled.
And needs but an open field;
And Love is stronger than Hatred,
And Love will never yield.
And life is His living breath,
And one breath of life is stronger
Than all the hosts of death.
And life is His living breath,
And the pulses of life gain vigour
'Neath the shroud and the sleep of death.
THE LAST ENEMY.
He is coming before the night;
Ere to-night the battle must be;
It may be while noon is bright.
I knew not this Dread must come;
Then each dewy flower seemed a world
With its sun of joy impearled,
Yet the farthest star a home.
And the boundless bounded grew,
The countless stars seemed few;
For I felt the world's cold rim—
I saw where the light grew dim,
And I thought evermore as I went,
“At the next turn of the path,
So familiar, so like the last,
And the homely thrifty bees,
And the birds to their nests flitting past,
Familiar shadows cast,
This strange new shadow may fall,
His shadow may shadow them all.
And ere I can lift my eyes,
Not only blossom and tree,
But the sun, and the earth, and the sea,
All I can hear or see
Like a shadow behind me lies:
Nor only the things I see;
But ye, beloved, ye!
Ye may grow shadows to me:
And I a shadow to you,
A shadow one hour or two;
Then less than a shadow, a dream,
Less than a dream I may be,—
A dream's faint memory.
The end of the Fight I know.
He will conquer, not I;
He will come and lay me low.
To many I knew he drew nigh,
And with all it ended so.
Confront him with hand and eye:
Perhaps I shall hope to the last;
But he will conquer, not I.
He has stricken not one alike.
To some like a Beast of Prey
He has come in the still noon-day,
From the quiet reeds by the pool,
From the forest calm and cool,
With a sudden spring and a cry,
Swept in a breath away;
Or eagle-like from on high
With a sudden swoop and no cry,
From the calm of a cloudless sky.
Fabled by those of old,
Lulling them softly to sleep,
Lulling them down to the deep,
To the darkness and the cold.
As I sit at my work alone.
His terrible eyes on me,—
And my heart may turn to stone.”
But I do not dread him now;
I have seen the slave's chain on his hand,
The captive's brand on his brow.
The living, loving Hand,
The Hand that holds his chain!
I shall feel it yet again,—
Feel it all fetters burst,—
Only that cold touch first!
Those terrible eyes obey;
I have seen them moist with tears,
For the weary, wandering, perplext;
But when I see them next,
They will smile all tears away.
Led up to the shadow it feared,
The mountain-height at His feet,
Where the earth and the heavens meet,
With His smile for the world's and my light;
Not the earth and the sea He upholds,
Not you, whom His love enfolds,
But far, far under me,
Like a shadow that flits o'er the sea,
Himself, the Last Enemy.
“TALITHA CUMI!”
The mother spoke;
And lightly from slumber
The child awoke.
At dawn of day,
As in dew a rosebud,
The maiden lay.
In calm repose;
Long lashes shading
The cheek's soft rose.
As though she smiled,
Awoke the child.
“Damsel, arise!”
And slowly opened
Those happy eyes.
At close of day,
Silent and pallid
The maiden lay.
On the cheek no rose;
Placid but rigid
The pale lips close.
Of even breath!
And the mother sobbeth,—
“Not sleep, but death!”
Her anguish now;
That placid brow.
The mourners make,
No tumult of minstrels
That sleep can break.
Of wild despair!
“Not dead, but sleeping!”
The Life is there.
Mother, as thine;
Yet Galilee's tempests
Know them Divine.
The mocking band;
Softly He toucheth
The clay-cold hand.
“Damsel arise!”
Those death-sealed eyes.
Tender and soft,
(Her mother had waked her
From sleep with it oft,)
Beyond the tombs,—
“Talitha Cumi!”
She hears and comes.
The gates of brass,
Which through the ages
None living pass,
Quake as with thunder,
Quiver like aspens,
And part asunder;
Touched by the sun;—
Passeth but one.
The soul of the child;
Saw Him who called her,
Knew Him and smiled.
The Saviour spoke;
And as from light slumbers,
The dead awoke.
“Talitha, in the dialect of the people, a term of endearment used towards a young maiden.” —Dean Alford on St. Mark's Gospel.
THE CHILD ON THE JUDGMENT-SEAT.
That thy brow is burdened and sad?
The Master's work may make weary feet,
But it leaves the spirit glad.
Or scorched by the mid-day glare?
Were thy vines laid low, or thy lilies crushed,
That thy face is so full of care?
I have sate on the judgment-seat,
Where the Master sits at eve and calls
The children around His feet.”
Sweet heart? Who set thee there?
'Tis a lonely and lofty seat for thee,
And well might fill thee with care.
I have sate there alone all day,
For it grieved me to see the children around
Idling their life away.
They wasted the precious hours;
They trained not the vines, nor gathered the fruits,
And they trampled the sweet, meek flowers.”
Sweet heart? What didst thou there?
Would the idlers heed thy childish voice?
Did the garden mend by thy care?
But they left me there forlorn;
My voice was weak, and they heeded not,
Or they laughed my words to scorn.”
The servants were not thine!
And the eyes which adjudge the praise and the blame
See further than thine or mine.
Will not raise its tones to be heard;
And none will resist its word.
The stores that should feed His poor,
And not lift my voice, be it weak as it may,
And not be grievëd sore?”
Wait till the evening falls;
The Master is near and knoweth all,
Wait till the Master calls.
Whilst thou sat'st on the judgment-seat;
Who watered thy roses and trained thy vines,
And kept them from careless feet?
That is saddest of all!
My vines are trailing, my roses parched,
My lilies droop and fall!”
Go back till the evening falls!
And bind thy lilies, and train thy vines,
Till for thee the Master calls.
Thou workest never alone,
Perchance he whose plot is next to thine
Will see it, and mend his own.
Till all grows fair and sweet;
And when the Master comes at eve,
Happy faces His coming will greet.
In the garden so fair to see,
In the Master's words of praise for all,
In a look of His own for thee!
“WHAT THOU WILT, O MY FATHER, AND WHEN.”
Now shaken like snow from the tree,
By the gusts of the boisterous winds
That had learned their rough play on the sea:
Queenly flowers! touch us gently, we pray;
For these light flakes ye scatter in jest
Do not gather again, like the spray.
Once broken, arise not again.”
But the winds frolicked wildly, and said,
“Never fear! we are bringing the rain.”
“Take heed where your revels ye keep;
Not the salt barren wastes of the deep.”
And said, “Children, never complain;
We are friends of your mother, the Earth,—
She has cried, and we bring her the rain.”
While the winds made rough riot about,
Whistling wildly where holes let them in,
Storming fiercely where walls kept them out:
Ye have frolicked and shouted all day;
Let me sleep, let me sleep in the night,—
Will ye never be tired of your play?”
“Dost thou too mistake and complain?
For thee we were sent o'er the sea,
For thee we are bringing the rain.”
And the sick child still murmured and wept,
Till a sultry calm fell on the land,
And the hushed winds all heavily slept.
And the shrivelled corn parched as it grew,
And the sick child with burning lips sighed,
Tossing sleepless the sultry night through.
God sent His kind winds o'er the sea;
He sent them to bring us the rain,
They came for the earth and for me.
And I murmured and moaned them away;
Come again! I would welcome you now,
Be your voices as rough as they may!”
“Fear not; He who sent, sends us still:
Your murmurs have marred your content,
But check not His merciful will.
To your moans He gave sorrowful heed;
Yet paused not one hour in His care,
To provide you the help that you need.
We come on his errands again;
We have brought, we have brought you the rain!”
And the rose-tree drank deep to the roots,
And the parched Earth looked up and was glad,
And laughed through her flowers and her fruits.
Like the showers of the life-giving rain
Sank deep in the heart of the child,
Till the incense of praise rose again.
Flowed the calm of the angels' “Amen,”
As with clasped hands she prayed ere she slept,
“What Thou wilt, O my Father, and When.”
THE STILL WATERS OF THE VALLEY.
The streams of which we drink;
But we must tread the valleys,
If we would reach their brink.
Their source is on the mountains,
Higher than feet can go;
Yet human lips but touch them
In the valleys, still and low.
Beyond the homes of men,
Beyond the wild-goat's refuge,
Beyond the eagle's ken,
Beyond the oldest glaciers,
Beyond the loftiest snows,
Beyond the furthest summit
Where earliest morning glows,
To reach the streams we love,
Their music ever with us,
Their source is still above,
Beyond Heaven's heights of glory,
As past earth's heights of snow;
Yet can our lips but taste them
In the valleys, still and low.
Seemed to call me on their track,
I wondered why some hindrance
Still drew my footsteps back;
Some feeble steps to succour,
Some childish feet to lead,
Some wandering lambs to gather,
Some hungered ones to feed;
With low, resistless tone;
Some weight of others' burdens,
Some burden of my own.
But now, though heavenly voices
Still bid my spirit soar,
While my feet tread lowly places,
I wonder thus no more.
The streams of which we drink;
But only in the valleys
Our lips can reach their brink.
Our hearts are on the mountains
Whither our feet shall go;
But our feet are in the valleys
Where the still waters flow.
TRIED BY FIRE.
And what are the fires that try?—
All, all is tried in the fires of God,
And many the fires that try.
All but the fine, fine gold;
The treasures we offer for praise and pride
Or for pride and self withhold;
And we, as far as our souls are wrapt
In the raiment that waxeth old.
They are burning every day;
They are trying us all, within and without,
The gold and the potter's clay.
Nothing that is not dross;
Or wood of the true, true Cross;
Of faith and hope and love,
The precious things that abide earth's fires,
And for ever abide, above.
That is not waste or dross—
That we would not choose, could we see, to lose,
And say, this was gain not loss.
ON THE GRAVE OF A FAITHFUL DOG.
A sunny slope of meadow ground,
A shadow from the heat at noon,—
And, underneath, a grassy mound.
And is this all is left of thee,
Whose feet would o'er the meadow bound,
So full of eager life and glee?
Of what so wholly passed away?
Or can such trust and tenderness
Be crushed entirely into clay?
Feet pattering like summer showers,
The dark eyes which would look so sad
If gathering tears were dimming ours;
So fond and watchful, deep and true,
That made the thought so often rise—
What looks those crystal windows through?
And for the absent seem to pine?
And when the well-known voice came back,
What ecstasy could equal thine?
Such gladness, love, and hope, and trust,
Such busy thought our thought to guess,
All trampled into common dust?
Has all for ever passed away,
Like the dear home once thine and mine,
The home now silent as thy clay?
From all our science still concealed,
About the patient creatures dumb
A secret yet to be revealed?
Yet for the mute creation stored,
Which suffers though it never sinned,
And loves and hopes without reward?
TO OUR LITTLE DOG DOT.
So gently laid asleep;
The traces of thy life in ours
How many and how deep!
Welcome, reproof, command,
The small foot knocking at the door
Laid gently in the hand.
The planning, eager will,
The following steps—without them all
“Dot's house” seems very still.
Seem in thy grave to lie,
We will not let them die!
Our little steadfast friend,
Thy life leaves legacies of love
On to its quiet end.
With different love for each,
Unchanged through absences of years;—
Death wakes thy life to speech!
“For love alone is strong;
You made my little life so bright,
Your longest is not long.”
Can nothing lie before?
Or has the future only this,
“Never again,” “no more?”
The answer comes to me,
With the sweet wisdom of the babes—
Dear little child of three!
“Then she will learn to speak.”
Bright vision of the children's heart,—
Further we need not seek!
And love alone is strong;
And love lives in eternal worlds
Beyond earth's poor “How long?”
And love means “thee” and “me,”—
God, who is love, will never let
Love cease to love, or be.
ST. FRANCIS D'ASSISI'S CANTICUM SOLIS.
Altissimo omnipotente buon Signore, tue son le laudi, la gloria, lo honor e ogni benediction. A te solo se confanno e nullo homo è degno di nominarti.
Laudato sia mio Signore per tutte le creature, specialmente Messer lo Fratre Sole, il quale giorna illumina noi per lui. E alto e bello e radiante con grande splendore. Da Te Signore porta significazione.
Laudato sia mio Signore per Suora Luna e per le stelle le quali in cielo le hai formate chiare e belle.
Laudato sia mio Signore per fratre Vento e per la luce e nuvole e sereno e ogni tempo, per lo quale dai a tutte creature sustentamento.
Laudato sia mio Signore per Suora acqua la quale è molto utile e humile e pretiosa e casta.
Laudato sia mio Signore per Fratre Fuoco per lo quale tu allumini la notte, è bello e jocundo e robustissimo e forte.
Laudato sia mio Signore per nostra Madre Terra la quale ne sostenta, governa, e produce diversi frutte, e coloriti fiori e herbi.
Laudato sia mio Signore per quelli che perdonano per lo tuo amore e sosteneno infirmitade e tribulatione. Beati quelli che sostegneranno in pace che da Te Altissimo saranno incoronati.
A brotherhood of blessed creatures goes
With me, and biddeth me God speed. For all
Thy mute and innocent creatures take my thanks;
Or sin.
He who brings day and summer, disenchants
The ice-bound streams, and wakes the happy birds,
Pure choristers, to matins; at whose call
The young flowers, startled from their hiding-places,
Peep and laugh; who clothes the earth, and fills
The heavens with joy; and he is beautiful
And radiant with great splendour. Praise to Thee,
O Highest! for our royal Brother Sun;
For bears he not an impress, Lord, of Thee?
All praise for her our holy white-veiled sister,
Dwelling on high in heavenly purity;
And for the radiant hosts that bear her company,
For they are bright and beautiful.
Praise for the Moon and Stars.
For light and clouds, for weather fair or dark;
Through all Thou nourishest Thy creatures all.
Praise for our brother Wind; for though his voice
Is rough at times, and in his savage mood
Yet at Thy calm rebuke he layeth by
His lion nature, frisketh like a lamb
Beside the streams, and gently crisps with snow
The sapphire waves, and stirs the corn, and wakes
The languid flowers to life, and lays dead blossoms
Softly in their graves: for the strong winds,
The rough but kindly winds, we bless Thee, Lord,
Our lowly sister, Water, mountain child
Whose happy feet make music on the hills;
For her who bounds so light from rock to rock,
Yet brings a blessing wheresoe'er she comes.
She spurns all fetters, laughs at all restraint,
Yet scorns no lowliest ministry of love,
Abiding peacefully in roadside wells,
And sparkling welcomes in the peasant's cup.
Nature's sweet almoner! all praise for her!
For she is useful, precious, meek, and chaste.
We bless Thee, Lord, for her.
When he goes forth exulting in his strength,
And all things quail and fly before his face!
Yet he will sit a patient minister
He cheers us. He is joyous, bold, robust,
And strong. Praise, Lord, for him!
Our faithful mother Earth, who feedeth us
With such unwearied love, and strews our paths
With rainbow-tinted flowers and healing herbs;
Our gentle, generous, most beautiful,
And ever youthful mother.
The blessed, who for Thy dear love forgive,
And for Thy love sustain weakness and woe.
Blessed are they who thus endure in peace;
For they by Thee, O Highest, shall be crowned.
Thus, blessed Christ, all praise to Thee for these
Thy creatures. They are all Thy ministers,
And to Thy reconciled speak nought but peace.
Children and servants are we in our household,
Dwelling before Thee in sweet harmony.
O bless us all! Father! we all bless Thee!
Songs Old and New | ||