The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal

Take it, O Father! This new book be Thine,
Filled only with Thy teachings, only filled
For Thee, and for the pilgrims to Thy home.
I know not what bright impulses of song
May come upon my waiting soul, nor when;
Or whether years of silence yet may fall
In still parenthesis as once before;
Or whether tighter tension must be laid
By Thy unerring Hand, that so the tone
May be more true to that immortal key
Which reaches loneliest depth of human heart
With echoes from Thine own. I would not shrink
From suffering, if I may but sing for Thee.
Father, Thou knowest how this gift hath seemed
Thine own direct sweet answer to the prayer
For peace and patience in the silent grief
Thy Hand, Thine own, has portioned out for me.
And I have felt Thy call, not loud, but clear,
To praise Thee with my song, as, it may be,
I had not done had all my heart's desire
Been granted me.

Thou knowest how (so often) I have laid
An aching heart upon Thy heart of love,

And wept out all my sorrow, till at last
Thou gavest Thy belovèd sleep. And then
Came singing in the morning some glad thought
That, wafted over land and sea, has put
New songs in silent mouths, and come again
With harvest of rejoicing back to me.
Let not Thy blessing fail! I long for this,
I ask it for the sake of Him whose Name
Is my sure plea. O send it, gracious Lord!
As Thou hast spared me to begin to-day
The seventh small volume of these leaves of life,
So let a sevenfold blessing rest upon
All that shall fill these pages. Give me thoughts,
But quicken them with power; give me words,
But wing them with Thy love; give music too,
But let it ring all beautiful and sweet
With holiness; yea, give to me, if such
Thy holy will, far better and far more
Than heretofore, but only add this gift,
Without which all were worthless and in vain,
Thy Blessing. So the glory and the praise
Shall all be Thine for evermore. Amen.

Under the Surface.

I.

On the surface, foam and roar,
Restless heave and passionate dash,
Shingle rattle along the shore,
Gathering boom and thundering crash.

Under the surface, soft green light,
A hush of peace and an endless calm,
Winds and waves from a choral height,
Falling sweet as a far-off psalm.

On the surface, swell and swirl,
Tossing weed and drifting waif,
Broken spars that the mad waves whirl,
Where wreck-watching rocks they chafe.

Under the surface, loveliest forms,
Feathery fronds with crimson curl,
Treasures too deep for the raid of storms,
Delicate coral and hidden pearl.

II.

On the surface, lilies white,
A painted skiff with a singing crew,
Sky-reflections soft and bright,
Tremulous crimson, gold and blue.

Under the surface, life in death,
Slimy tangle and oozy moans,
Creeping things with watery breath,
Blackening roots and whitening bones.

On the surface, a shining reach,
A crystal couch for the moonbeams' rest,
Starry ripples along the beach,
Sunset songs from the breezy west.

Under the surface, glooms and fears,
Treacherous currents swift and strong,
Deafening rush in the drowning ears:
Have ye rightly read my song?

Autobiography.

Autobiography! So you say,
So do I not believe!
For no men or women that live to-day,
Be they as good or as bad as they may,
Ever would dare to leave
In faintest pencil or boldest ink
All they truly and really think,
What they have said and what they have done,
What they have lived and what they have felt,
Under the stars or under the sun.
At the touch of a pen the dewdrops melt,
And the jewels are lost in the grass,
Though you count the blades as you pass.
At the touch of a pen the lightning is fixed,
An innocent streak on a broken cloud;
And the thunder that pealed so fierce and loud,
With musical echo is softly mixed.
Autobiography? No!
It never was written yet, I trow.
Grant that they try!
Still they must fail!
Words are too pale
For the fervour and glow of the lava-flow.
Can they paint the flash of an eye?

How much less the flash of a heart,
Or its delicate ripple and glitter and gleam,
Swift and sparkling, suddenly darkling,
Crimson and gold tints, exquisite soul-tints,
Changing like dawn-flush touching a dream!
Where is the art
That shall give the play of blending lights
From the porphyry rock on the pool below?
Or the bird-shadow traced on the sunlit heights
Of golden rose and snow?

You say 'tis a fact that the books exist,
Printed and published in Mudie's list,
Some in two volumes, and some in one—
Autobiographies plenty. But look!
I will tell you what is done
By the writers, confidentially!
They cut little pieces out of their lives
And join them together,
Making them up as a readable book,
And call it an autobiography,
Though little enough of the life survives.

What if we went in the sweet May weather
To a wood that I know which hangs on a hill,
And reaches down to a tinkling brook,
That sings the flowers to sleep at night,
And calls them again with the earliest light.
Under the delicate flush of green,
Hardly shading the bank below,
Pale anemones peep between
The mossy stumps where the violets grow;

Wide clouds of bluebells stretch away,
And primrose constellations rise,—
Turn where we may,
Some new loveliness meets our eyes.
The first white butterflies flit around,
Bees are murmuring close to the ground,
The cuckoo's happy shout is heard.
Hark again!
Was it echo, or was it bird?
All the air is full of song,
A carolling chorus around and above;
From the wood-pigeon's call so soft and long,
To merriest twitter and marvellous trill,
Every one sings at his own sweet will,
True to the key-note of joyous love.

Well, it is lovely! is it not?
But we must not stay on the fairy spot,
So we gather a nosegay with care:
A primrose here and a bluebell there,
And something that we have never seen,
Probably therefore a specimen rare;
Stitchwort, with stem of transparent green,
The white-veined woodsorrel, and a spray
Of tender-leaved and budding May.
We carry home the fragrant load
In a close, warm hand, by a dusty road;
The sun grows hotter every hour;
Already the woodsorrel pines for the shade
We watch it fade,
And throw away the fair little flower;
We forgot that it could not last an hour

Away from the cool moss where it grows.
Then the stitchworts droop and close;
There is nothing to show but a tangle of green,
For the white-rayed stars will no more be seen.
Then the anemones, can they survive?
Even now they are hardly alive.
Ha! where is it, our unknown spray?
Dropped on the way!
Perhaps we shall never find one again.
At last we come in with the few that are left,
Of freshness and fragrance bereft;
A sorry display.
Now, do we say,
‘Here is the wood where we rambled to-day;
See, we have brought it to you;
Believe us, indeed it is true.
This is the wood!’ do we say?

So much for the bright and pleasant side.
There is another. We did not bring
All that was hidden under the wing
Of the radiant-plumaged Spring.
We never tried
To spy, or watch, or away to bear,
Much that was just as truly there.
What have we seen?
Hush, ah, hush!
Curled and withered fern between,
And dead leaves under the living green
Thick and damp. A clammy feather,
All that remains of a singing thrush

Killed by a weasel long ago,
In the hungry winter weather.
Nettles in unfriendly row,
And last year's brambles, sharp and brown,
Grimly guarding a hawthorn crown.
A pale leaf trying to reach the light
By a long weak stem, but smothered down,
Dying in darkness, with none to see.
The rotting trunk of a willow tree,
Leafless, ready to fall from the bank;
A poisonous fungus, cold and white,
And a hemlock growing strong and rank.
A tuft of fur and a ruddy stain,
Where a wounded hare has escaped the snare,
Only perhaps to be caught again.
No specimens we bring of these,
Lest they should disturb our ease,
And spoil the story of the May,
And make you think our holiday
Was far less pleasant than we say.

Ah no! We write our lives indeed,
But in a cipher none can read,
Except the author. He may pore
The life-accumulating lore
For evermore,
And find the records strange and true,
Bring wisdom old and new.
But though he break the seal,
No power has he to give the key,
No licence to reveal.

We wait the all-declaring day,
When love shall know as it is known.
Till then, the secrets of our lives are ours and
God's alone.

Compensation.

O the compensating springs! O the balance-wheels of life,
Hidden away in the workings under the seeming strife!
Slowing the fret and the friction, weighting the whirl and the force,
Evolving the truest power from each unconscious source.

How shall we gauge the whole, who can only guess a part?
How can we read the life, when we cannot spell the heart?
How shall we measure another, we who can never know
From the juttings above the surface the depth of the vein below?

Even our present way is known to ourselves alone,
Height and abyss and torrent, flower and thorn and stone;
But we gaze on another's path as a far-off mountain scene,
Scanning the outlined hills, but never the vales between.

How shall we judge their present, we who have never seen
That which is past for ever, and that which might have been?
Measuring by ourselves, unwise indeed are we,
Measuring what we know by what we can hardly see.

Ah! if we knew it all, we should surely understand
That the balance of sorrow and joy is held with an even hand,
That the scale of success or loss shall never overflow,
And that compensation is twined with the lot of high and low.

The easy path in the lowland hath little of grand or new,
But a toilsome ascent leads on to a wide and glorious view;
Peopled and warm is the valley, lonely and chill the height,
But the peak that is nearer the storm-cloud is nearer the stars of light.

Launch on the foaming stream that bears you along like a dart,—
There is danger of rapid and rock, there is tension of muscle and heart;
Glide on the easy current, monotonous, calm, and slow,
You are spared the quiver and strain in the safe and quiet flow.

O the sweetness that dwells in a harp of many strings,
While each, all vocal with love, in tuneful harmony rings!
But O, the wail and the discord, when one and another is rent
Tensionless, broken, or lost, from the cherished instrument.

For rapture of love is linked with the pain or fear of loss,
And the hand that takes the crown must ache with many a cross;

Yet he who hath never a conflict hath never a victor's palm,
And only the toilers know the sweetness of rest and calm.

Only between the storms can the Alpine traveller know
Transcendent glory of clearness, marvels of gleam and glow;
Had he the brightness unbroken of cloudless summer days,
This had been dimmed by the dust and the veil of a brooding haze.

Who would dare the choice, neither or both to know,
The finest quiver of joy or the agony-thrill of woe?
Never the exquisite pain, then never the exquisite bliss,
For the heart that is dull to that can never be strung to this.

Great is the peril or toil if the glory or gain be great;
Never an earthly gift without responsible weight;
Never a treasure without a following shade of care;
Never a power without the lurk of a subtle snare.

For the swift is not the safe, and the sweet is not the strong;
The smooth is not the short, and the keen is not the long;
The much is not the most, and the wide is not the deep;
And the flow is never a spring, when the ebb is only neap.

Then hush! oh, hush! for the Father knows what thou knowest not,
The need and the thorn and the shadow linked with the fairest lot;

Knows the wisest exemption from many an unseen snare,
Knows what will keep thee nearest, knows what thou could'st not bear.

Hush! oh, hush! for the Father portioneth as He will,
To all His beloved children, and shall they not be still?
Is not His will the wisest, is not His choice the best?
And in perfect acquiescence is there not perfect rest?

Hush! oh, hush! for the Father, whose ways are true and just,
Knoweth and careth and loveth, and waits for thy perfect trust;
The cup He is slowly filling shall soon be full to the brim,
And infinite compensations for ever be found in Him.

Hush! oh, hush! for the Father hath fulness of joy in store,
Treasures of power and wisdom, and pleasures for evermore;
Blessing and honour and glory, endless, infinite bliss;—
Child of His love and His choice, oh, canst thou not wait for this?

The Moonlight Sonata.

Introduction.

The ills we see,—
The mysteries of sorrow deep and long,
The dark enigmas of permitted wrong,—
Have all one key:
This strange, sad world is but our Father's school;
All chance and change His love shall grandly overrule.

How sweet to know
The trials which we cannot comprehend
Have each their own divinely-purposed end!
He traineth so
For higher learning, ever onward reaching
For fuller knowledge yet, and His own deeper teaching.

He traineth thus
That we may teach the lessons we are taught;
That younger learners may be further brought,
Led on by us:
Well may we wait, or toil, or suffer long,
For His dear service so to be made fit and strong.

He traineth so
That we may shine for Him in this dark world,
And bear His standard dauntlessly unfurled:
That we may show
His praise, by lives that mirror back His love,—
His witnesses on earth, as He is ours above.

Nor only here
The rich result of all our God doth teach
His scholars, slow at best, until we reach
A nobler sphere:
Then, not till then, our training is complete,
And the true life begins for which He made us meet.

Are children trained
Only that they may reach some higher class?
Only for some few school-room years that pass
Till growth is gained?
Is it not rather for the years beyond
To which the father looks with hopes so fair and fond?

Bold thought, flash on
Into the far depths of Eternity;
When Time shall be a faint star-memory,
So long, long gone!
Only not lost to our immortal sight,
Because it ever bears Redemption's quenchless light.

Flash on, and stand
Among thy bright companions,—spirits blest,
Inhabiting through ages of glad rest
The Shining Land!
Each singing bliss into each other's hearts,—
Outpouring mighty joy that God's full hand imparts.

If sweet below
To minister to those whom God doth love,
What will it be to minister above!
His praise to show
In some new strain amid the ransomed choir,
To touch their joy and love with note of living fire;

With perfect praise,
With interchange of rapturous revelation
From Christ Himself, the burning adoration
Yet higher to raise,
For ever and for ever so to bring
More glory and still more to Him, our gracious King.

Look on to this
Through all perplexities of grief and strife,—
To this, thy true maturity of life,
Thy coming bliss;
That such high gifts thy future dower may be,
And for such service high thy God prepareth thee.

What though to-day
Thou canst not trace at all the hidden reason
For His strange dealings through the trial-season,—
Trust and obey:
And, like the child whose story follows here,
In after life and light all shall be plain and clear.

Alice's Story.

PART I.

The firelight softly glanced upon
Dark braids and sunny curls,
Where, in a many-windowed room,
Yet dim with late November gloom,
Were busy groups of girls.

Some sat apart to learn alone;
Some studied side by side;
Some gathered round a master's chair
In reverent silence; others there
For readiest answer tried.

For one young name a summons came,
And Alice quickly rose:
The rapid pen aside is laid;
The call once heard must be obeyed
At once,—as well she knows.

Yet with no joyous step or smile
She hastens now away,

A teacher's earnest look to meet,
Whose hand is filled with music sweet,
As hers shall be one day.

Beside her at the instrument
A place her teacher takes,
With patient eye, yet keenest ear;
And Alice knows that he will hear
The slightest fault she makes.

Oh, such a music-task as this
Was never hers before!
So long and hard, so strange and stern,—
A piece she thinks she cannot learn,
Though practised o'er and o'er.

It is not beautiful to her,—
She cannot grasp the whole:
The Master's thought was great and deep,—
A mighty storm, to seize and sweep
The wind-harp of the soul.

She only plays it note by note,
With undeveloped heart;
She does not glimpse the splendour through
Each chord, so difficult and new,
Of veiled and varied art.

Unwonted beat and weird repeat
She cannot understand;
She stumbles on with clouded brow,—
Her cheek is flushed, and aching now
The weary little hand.

She looked up in her teacher's face;
Tears were not far away:
‘Must I go on till it is done?
Oh, let me change it, sir, for one
That I can better play.

‘I cannot make it beautiful,—
It has no tune to sing;
And when I am at home, I fear
My friends will never care to hear
This long and dreary thing.’

He said, ‘If you might freely choose,
My child, what would you learn?’
‘Oh, I would have the “Shower of Pearls,”
Or “Soldiers’ March,” like other girls,
And quick approval earn;

‘Or sweet Italian melodies,
With brilliant run and shake:
If you would only give me such,
I think that I could please you much,—
Such progress I should make.’

‘Learn this, and it will please me more,’
Said he, with kindest voice:
‘And though 'tis now so hard to play,
Trust me, you will be glad some day
That I have ruled your choice.’

Tears trembled on the lash, and now
His face she could not see;

Once more she pleaded, as they fell,
‘But I shall never play it well:
It is too hard for me!’

‘One thing I grant,’ he said: ‘that you
May fully, freely tell
Your father, who is kind and wise:
And, Alice, what he shall advise,
Say, will it not be well?’

Again she came, and stumblingly
The hard sonata played:
Another week had passed away,
With toilsome practice every day,
Yet small the progress made.

Her father's writing, bold and clear,
Lay on the instrument:
‘Your letter safely came to me,
And now shall answer lovingly
To my dear child be sent.

‘The hardest gained is best retained;
You learn not for to-day:
I cannot grant your fond request;
Your teacher certainly knows best,—
So trust him and obey.’

The teacher spoke; she listened well,
No word of his to miss:
‘Alice, I want to make of you
An artist, noble, high, and true;
And no light thing is this.

‘There's happier, better work in store
Than merry tunes to play:
You have a mission to fulfil,—
You do not know it; but I will
Prepare you as I may.

‘Will you believe that I know best,
And persevere, my child?’
She answered, with a little sigh,
‘Yes: I will trust, and I will try;’
And then her teacher smiled.

PART II.

Long has the school been left behind,
For years have passed away:
We find her now where evening light
Fades not into the darksome night,
But melts into the day.

There, in an arched and lofty room,
She stands, in fair white dress;
Where grace and colour and sweet sound
Combine and cluster all around,
And rarest taste express.

'Tis Alice still, but woman grown
In hand and head and heart:
And those who now around her throng
Are skilled in music and in song,
In learning and in art.

It was an evening of delight
To be remembered long,
With many a reach of vivid thought,
And many a vision artist-wrought,
And—crown of all that friendship brought—
The eloquence of song.

The North is bright, with lingering light
To Northern summers given,—
A tender loveliness that stays
When twilight falls upon the days,
As silence falls in heaven.

‘Now, Alice: now the time is come!
Sweet music you have poured;
But, in this gentle twilight fall,
Give now the very best of all
That in your heart is stored.

‘Give now the Master's masterpiece;
All silent we will be:
And you shall stir our inmost souls,
While, like a fiery river, rolls
Beethoven's harmony.’

An instrument was by her side,—
A new and glad possession,
Whose perfect answering conveyed
Each delicate and subtle shade
Of varying expression.

She needed no reminding score,
For memory was true:
And what is learnt in childish years,
Deep graven on the mind appears
Our life's whole journey through.

And so she only had to let
The long-known music flow
From happy heart and steady hand,
As with a magic flame-command,
Enkindling in the listening band
A full responsive glow.

Through shade more beautiful than light,
Through hush of softest word,
Through calm and silence, still and deep
As angel-love or seraph sleep,
The opening notes were heard.

The Sonata.

I. PART I. (ADAGIO).

Soft and slow,
Ever a gentle underflow;
Soft and slow,
Murmuring peacefully on below.
A twilight song; while the shadows sleep
Dusk and deep,
Over the fountain, under the fern,

Solemn and still:
Waiting for moonlight over the hill
To touch the bend of the lulling burn,
And make it show
As a diamond bow,
Shooting arrows of glancing light
In luminous flight
To the gloomy head of the waterfall;
Again to break,
In silvery flake,
Under the wild and grim rock-wall.
A twilight song, a song of love,
Softer than nightingale, sweeter than dove;
Loving and longing, loving and yearning,
With a hidden flow of electric burning
Ever returning;
Melting again in calm repeat,
Slow and sweet,
Sweet and slow;
While ever the gentle underflow
Murmurs lovingly on below,
In notes that seem to come from far,—
From the setting star
In the paling west,
Faint and more faint,
Like the parting hymn of a dying saint
Sinking to rest.

A moment of deep hush; then wakes again
With sudden sparkle of delight,—a new and joyous strain.

II. PART II.—(ALLEGRETTO.)

Awake! awake!
For life is sweet:
Awake! awake!
New hopes to greet.
The shadows are fleeting,
The substance is sure;
The joys thou art meeting
Shall ever endure.
Awake! awake!
For twilight now
That veiled the lake
Where dark woods bow,
In moonlight resplendent
Is passing away;
For brightness ascendant
Turns night into day.
Oh, listen! yet listen!
The moonlight song
Where still waters glisten
Is floating along:
A melodious ripple of silver sound
In golden rhythm of light-bars bound,
Linked with the loveliness all around.
A song of hope,
That soars beyond
The farthest scope
Of a vision fond;

While the loneliest silence of solemn night,
And the depth of shadow beneath our feet,
Only make the song more sweet,—
Only make the sacred light
Yet more tender, yet more bright;
And song and radiance both entwining
In radiant singing and musical shining
Float on and on
Till the night is gone,
Ever for rest
Far too blest.
Then wake, then wake
From slumberous leisure!
Arise and take
Thy truest pleasure!
A life is before thee which cannot decay;
A glimpse and an echo are given to-day
Of glory and music not far away.
Take the bliss that is offered thee:
Hope on, hope ever, and thou shalt be
Blest for aye!

Once more a pause is made:
While deeper still the silence, deeper yet the shade.

III. PART III.—(PRESTO AGITATO.)

Now in awful tempest swelling,
Fallen hosts anew rebelling,
Battle shout and lava torrent
Mingle in a strife abhorrent,

Fiery cataracts are leaping,
Passion-driven stars are sweeping
In a labyrinth of courses;
Space is torn with clashing forces:
'Tis a fearful new rehearsal
Of old chaos universal.

Hush! and hark! and hear aright,
And you shall know
It is not so!
'Tis the roar of chariot wheels,
That nothing hinders, nothing bars,
Whose flint-sparkles are the stars
Flashing bright;
And the mighty thunder-peals
Are the trampling of its steeds.
On it speeds,
Crushing wrongs like river-reeds,
By the grandly simple might
Of Eternal Right.

'Tis a song—a battle song—
And a shout of victory,
Darting through the conflict strong
Terror to the enemy.
Rising, while the moon is setting
That beheld the struggle sore;
Rising still, while not forgetting
That the battle is not o'er;
Rising, while the day is breaking
O'er the hills, serene and strong;
Rising, while the birds are waking
With their myriad-throated song;

Rising! yet with much to do
Ere the strife be ended!
For loud confusion
And wild delusion
Are rampant still, and still are blended
With the song of triumph bursting through.
It rises to fall again;
Falls, but to rise;
Hushed, but to call again
Loud to the skies.
Resounding like thunder
In conquering march,
That reverberates under
The resonant arch.

Sternly triumphant o'er wrongful might,
In whirlwind of battle, in tempest of fight,
See the singers before us,
In warrior chorus,
Never despairing,
Never yielding:
Ever preparing
And faithfully wielding
Weapons kept bright,
And armour of light;
Shattering barriers that seemed adamantine,
Spurning the depth and scaling the height
While over all the turmoil and fray
Shines, in the dawn that heralds the day
Star-lit, a crown amaranthine.

Yea: a mighty song,
Of joy and triumph strong;

Magnificent in madness,
And glorious in gladness.
Every obstacle is hurled
To an infinite abyss;
Giant standards are unfurled,—
Banners of a far-off world
Calling followers from this;
Calling, calling: shall it be
To noble failure and heroic death?
Lifted with a parting breath,
Is the shout of victory
Failing fast?
Is the only crown at last
Death—death?
No!
'Tis not so!
For light and life
End the war and crown the strife.
Joy to the faithful one full shall be given!
Rising in splendour that never shall set,
The morning of triumph shall dawn on thee yet
When gladness and love for ever have met
In heaven.

She ended. For a little space
The music still seemed swelling;
As it were too sweet and rare
Like common sound to leave the air
As a deserted dwelling.

Then, through the flow of loving thanks
And murmuring delight,

And marvel at the Master's art,
One rich approval reached her heart
More than all else that night.

One who had also freely brought
His own high gift of song,
Drew near and spoke: ‘For many a year
That marvellous work has been most dear,—
Known, loved, and studied long.

‘I own, like you, allegiance true,
And deemed my insight clear;
But never guessed until to-night
The depths of meaning and the might
Of what you rendered here.

‘The Master has been much to me;
But more than ever now I see
That there is none above him.
You have been his interpreter:
To you it has been given to stir
The souls of all who love him.’

Then swift up-flashed a memory,—
A long-forgotten day;
A memory of tears once shed,
Of aching hand and puzzled head,
And of the father's word that said,
‘Trust and obey.’

The lesson learnt in patience then
Was lit by love and duty:

The toiling time was quickly past,
The trusting time had fleeted fast,
And Alice understood at last
Its mysteries of beauty.

O glad, perpetual harvest-time
After the sowing days!
For all her life rich joy of sound,
And deep delight to loved ones round,
And to the Master,—praise!

Conclusion.

Ye read her story.
Take home the lesson with a spirit-smile:
Darkness and mystery a little while,
Then—light and glory,
And ministry 'mid saint and seraph band,
And service of high praise in the Eternal Land!

University of Virginia Library

I Under the Surface.

Prelude