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| II. |
 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
Evelyn.
Dying? Evelyn, darling!
Dying? can it be?
Spring so joyous all around,
Such a spring, so early crowned,
Heralding all summer glee,
Life for everything but thee!
Evelyn, darling, dying?
Yet it is no phantom sound,
Though the word is haunting me;
Thou art lying
Now where life and death do meet,
Thorny path and golden street.
I thought I had no heart to write,
But the pencil near me lay,
Which has traced me many a day,
Dipped in colours dark or bright,
Lays I guessed would meet the sight
Of at least some loving eye,
And perchance be heard again,
Winning echoes far and nigh,
Touching chords of sympathy
In the weary souls of men.
And I took it in my hand,
For it seemed to be relief,
After this long week of grief,
Just to let the thought expand,
And the word that haunted me
Just to write; though none shall see
What is written, only He
Who is gently leading thee,
Evelyn, darling, without fears,
Through the vale of death,—and me
Through the vale of tears.
Dying? can it be?
Spring so joyous all around,
Such a spring, so early crowned,
Heralding all summer glee,
Life for everything but thee!
Evelyn, darling, dying?
Yet it is no phantom sound,
Though the word is haunting me;
Thou art lying
Now where life and death do meet,
Thorny path and golden street.
I thought I had no heart to write,
But the pencil near me lay,
Which has traced me many a day,
Dipped in colours dark or bright,
Lays I guessed would meet the sight
Of at least some loving eye,
And perchance be heard again,
Winning echoes far and nigh,
Touching chords of sympathy
In the weary souls of men.
And I took it in my hand,
435
After this long week of grief,
Just to let the thought expand,
And the word that haunted me
Just to write; though none shall see
What is written, only He
Who is gently leading thee,
Evelyn, darling, without fears,
Through the vale of death,—and me
Through the vale of tears.
All so calm;—a hazy veil
Falling on the golden west;
Silence, like a minstrel pale,
Preluding the Sabbath rest.
There is night before the dawn
Rise for us of Sabbath morn:
Is there any night for thee
Ere thine eyes the glory see?
Are the angels, bright and strong,
Bearing thy free soul away,
Teaching thee the glad new song,
On the grand star-paven way?
Art thou even now at rest,
Lying on the Saviour's breast?
Evelyn, darling, is it so?
Would, oh, would that I could know!
I can only wait in sorrow
For the tidings of the morrow.
Falling on the golden west;
Silence, like a minstrel pale,
Preluding the Sabbath rest.
There is night before the dawn
Rise for us of Sabbath morn:
Is there any night for thee
Ere thine eyes the glory see?
Are the angels, bright and strong,
Bearing thy free soul away,
Teaching thee the glad new song,
On the grand star-paven way?
Art thou even now at rest,
Lying on the Saviour's breast?
Evelyn, darling, is it so?
Would, oh, would that I could know!
I can only wait in sorrow
For the tidings of the morrow.
Evelyn, darling, laid so low!
Only three short months ago
Thou wert full of life and glee,
Round the laden Christmas tree;
Foremost in the carol-singing,
Fun and frolic gaily flinging.
Tallest, fairest of the troop,
Opening rose on slender stem,
Reigning 'mid the bright-eyed group,
Queen without a diadem;
In thy robe of snowy sheen,
Decked with silken emerald green.
Few there are who ever knew
Merrier holidays than thine,
Whether summer breezes blew,
Or the winter stars did shine.
Evelyn, darling, can it be,
Was that Christmas tree the last?
How believe it, that for thee
Christmas holidays are past!
And that summer leaves will wave,
And the Easter moon will shine,
Over the first household grave,
First,—and thine!
Only three short months ago
436
Round the laden Christmas tree;
Foremost in the carol-singing,
Fun and frolic gaily flinging.
Tallest, fairest of the troop,
Opening rose on slender stem,
Reigning 'mid the bright-eyed group,
Queen without a diadem;
In thy robe of snowy sheen,
Decked with silken emerald green.
Few there are who ever knew
Merrier holidays than thine,
Whether summer breezes blew,
Or the winter stars did shine.
Evelyn, darling, can it be,
Was that Christmas tree the last?
How believe it, that for thee
Christmas holidays are past!
And that summer leaves will wave,
And the Easter moon will shine,
Over the first household grave,
First,—and thine!
I am not praying,—prayer is hushed,
God's hand is laid upon my heart;
The earthly hope for ever crushed,
The heavenly answered, not in part,
But fully, perfectly! I prayed
For life, and He hath given the life
Which triumphs o'er the grave's cold shade;
For peace, and He hath ended strife
And spoken love. There have been tears
And earnest pleadings through long years;
But He is faithful to His word,
I know at last that He has heard.
But not, oh not as I had thought
In ignorant and selfish love,
The Master calls,—she tarries not,
For He hath need of her above.
The lambs He gathers with His arm
No grief, no sin, no death can harm,
So safely folded on His breast,
For ever and for ever blest.
Could God Himself give more? His will
Is best, though we are weeping still.
God's hand is laid upon my heart;
The earthly hope for ever crushed,
The heavenly answered, not in part,
But fully, perfectly! I prayed
For life, and He hath given the life
Which triumphs o'er the grave's cold shade;
For peace, and He hath ended strife
And spoken love. There have been tears
437
But He is faithful to His word,
I know at last that He has heard.
But not, oh not as I had thought
In ignorant and selfish love,
The Master calls,—she tarries not,
For He hath need of her above.
The lambs He gathers with His arm
No grief, no sin, no death can harm,
So safely folded on His breast,
For ever and for ever blest.
Could God Himself give more? His will
Is best, though we are weeping still.
Yet the old cry comes again,
Evelyn, darling, dying!
Is it true, or is it dreaming?
Is it only ghastly seeming
Of a sorrow far away,
Not to fall for many a day?
If I saw thee lying,
I might realize it so!
Last I saw thee in the glow
Of thy brightest health and bloom;
Was it only for the tomb?
Then the sorrow grows with this—
Not a word of fond good-bye,
Not one tender parting kiss,
Not one glance of loving eye!
Well I know it could not be!
God's appointed way for me
Was assuredly—‘Be still,
Wait in silence for His will.’
Father, I have said Amen,
Said it often, now again!
Father, strengthen it and seal!
Let my weary spirit feel
I am very near to Thee,
For Thy hand is laid on me,—
Though the shadows gather deep,
Thou canst calm and aid and keep.
Evelyn, darling, dying!
Is it true, or is it dreaming?
Is it only ghastly seeming
Of a sorrow far away,
Not to fall for many a day?
If I saw thee lying,
I might realize it so!
Last I saw thee in the glow
Of thy brightest health and bloom;
Was it only for the tomb?
Then the sorrow grows with this—
Not a word of fond good-bye,
Not one tender parting kiss,
Not one glance of loving eye!
Well I know it could not be!
God's appointed way for me
Was assuredly—‘Be still,
438
Father, I have said Amen,
Said it often, now again!
Father, strengthen it and seal!
Let my weary spirit feel
I am very near to Thee,
For Thy hand is laid on me,—
Though the shadows gather deep,
Thou canst calm and aid and keep.
Father, where the shadows fall
Deeper yet, deepest of all,
Send Thy peace, and show Thy power
In affliction's direst hour;
To each mourning heart draw near,
Soothe and bless, sustain and cheer.
Thou wilt hear, I know not how!
Thou canst help, ‘and only Thou.’
This my prayer I leave with Thee.
Father! hear and answer me
For the sake of Him who knows
All our love and all our woes.
Deeper yet, deepest of all,
Send Thy peace, and show Thy power
In affliction's direst hour;
To each mourning heart draw near,
Soothe and bless, sustain and cheer.
Thou wilt hear, I know not how!
Thou canst help, ‘and only Thou.’
This my prayer I leave with Thee.
Father! hear and answer me
For the sake of Him who knows
All our love and all our woes.
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |