The Two Brothers, and other poems By Edward Henry Bickersteth |
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| THE THRESHOLD OF THINGS UNSEEN. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
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 | The Two Brothers, and other poems |  |
199
THE THRESHOLD OF THINGS UNSEEN.
I. THE BABE'S FIRST JOURNEY.
[Baby sleeps while the angel soars heavenward, singing.]
“My treasure, my blossom,
My blessing twice bless'd,
Folded close to my bosom,
Be still and at rest.
Winds and waters were rougher
Than wonted at last,
But no more shalt thou suffer,
No more—it is pass'd.
Not a sigh, not a sorrow
Shall grieve thee to-night,
And the dawn of to-morrow
Is cloudless delight.”
My blessing twice bless'd,
Folded close to my bosom,
Be still and at rest.
Winds and waters were rougher
Than wonted at last,
But no more shalt thou suffer,
No more—it is pass'd.
Not a sigh, not a sorrow
Shall grieve thee to-night,
And the dawn of to-morrow
Is cloudless delight.”
200
‘O mother, dear mother,
Who is this? where am I?”
[The angel continues singing.]
Who is this? where am I?”
“Thy guardian, thy brother:
Fear not, I am nigh.
See the star-lamps adorning
This beautiful dome;
See the smile of the morning;
I am bearing thee home.
Mansions there without number
For infants are built;
Awake from thy slumber,
Awake, if thou wilt.”
[Baby catches the first glimpse of heaven, and asks,—]
Fear not, I am nigh.
See the star-lamps adorning
This beautiful dome;
See the smile of the morning;
I am bearing thee home.
Mansions there without number
For infants are built;
Awake from thy slumber,
Awake, if thou wilt.”
“Oh, what is that glory
That shines on thy wings?
Brother, tell me a story
Of heavenly things.”
That shines on thy wings?
Brother, tell me a story
Of heavenly things.”
201
“There joy without measure,
There day without night,
And rivers of pleasure
Shall break on thy sight.
There are gold paths transparent
And gateways of pearl;
There the babe and the parent,
The boy and the girl,
With angels, are walking
And plucking the fruit,
And singing or talking
To sound of the lute.
No shadows can darken
Their blessed employ:
Hush, baby, and hearken
The sound of their joy.
See, the Lord of the garden
Our coming awaits.”
There day without night,
And rivers of pleasure
Shall break on thy sight.
There are gold paths transparent
And gateways of pearl;
There the babe and the parent,
The boy and the girl,
With angels, are walking
And plucking the fruit,
And singing or talking
To sound of the lute.
No shadows can darken
Their blessed employ:
Hush, baby, and hearken
The sound of their joy.
See, the Lord of the garden
Our coming awaits.”
So the babe and its warden
Pass'd in at the gates,
And stronger and stronger
The glory became;
And I saw them no longer:
I woke from my dream.
Pass'd in at the gates,
202
The glory became;
And I saw them no longer:
I woke from my dream.
1864.
II. THE CHILD'S HOME-CALL.
A FACT.
“And was carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom.”—Luke xvi. 22.
My eyes are very dim, mother,
I cannot see you right;
Sit near, and read my favourite hymn,
For I shall die to-night.
I cannot see you right;
Sit near, and read my favourite hymn,
For I shall die to-night.
“Jesus who lived,”—yes, that, mother,
I learn'd it on your knee;
Well I remember where you sate,
When first you taught it me.
I learn'd it on your knee;
Well I remember where you sate,
When first you taught it me.
203
Oh, yes, read on and on, mother,
The words that Jesus said:
And think, long after I am gone,
He bore our sins instead.
The words that Jesus said:
And think, long after I am gone,
He bore our sins instead.
Is the rush-candle out, mother?
For all is midnight dark;
Oh, take my hand—I will not doubt:
See mother—mother, hark!
For all is midnight dark;
Oh, take my hand—I will not doubt:
See mother—mother, hark!
Oh, bright and blessed things, mother,
My soul it is that sees;
Yet feel you not the rush of wings
Makes musical the breeze?
My soul it is that sees;
Yet feel you not the rush of wings
Makes musical the breeze?
Kind faces throng the room, mother,
And gentle loving eyes:
Do you not hear, “Come, sister, come,”
My welcome to the skies?
And gentle loving eyes:
Do you not hear, “Come, sister, come,”
My welcome to the skies?
Is this the happy land, mother?
My heart is almost still.—
The childless mother felt her hand
All in a moment chill.
My heart is almost still.—
The childless mother felt her hand
All in a moment chill.
Banningham, 1851.
204
III. TRANSLATED, NOT CONFIRMED.
TO ONE WHO WITH ME WATCHED THE PARTING HOURS OF A CANDIDATE FOR CONFIRMATION.
Together we leant
O'er her fragile form,
As her head she bent
To the long last storm.
O'er her fragile form,
As her head she bent
To the long last storm.
There was nothing of fear
In that dying room,
For Jesus was near
And chased its gloom.
In that dying room,
For Jesus was near
And chased its gloom.
We ask'd if she felt
His presence was nigh,
And the deep answer dwelt
In her up-lighted eye.
His presence was nigh,
And the deep answer dwelt
In her up-lighted eye.
“Have you cast on His cross
The weight of your sin?
Is the world but loss?
Is there peace within?”
The weight of your sin?
205
Is there peace within?”
On the calm of that hour,
Why further press,
When we knew the power
Of her gentle “Yes”?
Why further press,
When we knew the power
Of her gentle “Yes”?
She is gone—as a child
On its mother's breast;
She look'd up, and smiled,
And sank to rest.
On its mother's breast;
She look'd up, and smiled,
And sank to rest.
The waves are all pass'd,
The word has been given,
Though roughest at last,
They have borne her to heaven.
The word has been given,
Though roughest at last,
They have borne her to heaven.
But “a little while,”
And our summons will come—
Oh, then with her smile
To ascend to her home!
And our summons will come—
Oh, then with her smile
To ascend to her home!
Tunbridge Wells, 1852.
206
IV. THE PENITENT'S DEATH-BED.
“As many as touched the hem of His garment were made perfectly whole.”
A cold and wild autumnal sky: the sun was sinking fast,
And bleakly blew o'er wood and wold the wintry northern blast;
The chill rain fell in sudden gusts, still drifting on and on,
The day had pass'd in storms, and night would now be here anon.
Around the far horizon's skirts despairing roved the eye,
When lo! a rainbow-fragment stamp'd upon that stormy sky.
Broken and quivering it lay, one little fragment given
From some few flickering beams of light far in the western heaven:
The trembling colours came and went, and fainter, brighter grew
Amid that wild untender sky, so tender and so true.
I just had left the dying bed of one who once had been
A wanderer from the Saviour's fold in the gloomy paths of sin—
A wreck of sweetness and of grace, a shade of beauty now,
Though Death had set its awful seal too plainly on her brow.
Oh, surely life to her had been a life of guilt and tears,
Of blighted hopes and shatter'd dreams, and storms of guilty fears!
But, on a sudden, in the midst of youth and pleasure's prime,
The icy blast of death blew keen athwart that summer clime.
The world's allurements shrivell'd then, like leaves in wind and frost,
And all its lying blandishments their sometime glory lost.
Earth trembled, and the sky was gloom, and all within was wild,
And death full quickly now would claim its own unhappy child.
Stay, list!—a sudden ray from heaven gleam'd in upon her cell:
“The Saviour”—eagerly she caught the accents as they fell—
“The Saviour came to save the lost—Jesus for sinners died.”
“For sinners?—Oh, the worst am I of sinners,” she replied.
“Then cast on Him thy load of guilt—He bids thee come and live.”
“I cannot, yet I would,” she cried; “Lord, hear me, Lord, forgive!”
And bleakly blew o'er wood and wold the wintry northern blast;
The chill rain fell in sudden gusts, still drifting on and on,
The day had pass'd in storms, and night would now be here anon.
Around the far horizon's skirts despairing roved the eye,
When lo! a rainbow-fragment stamp'd upon that stormy sky.
Broken and quivering it lay, one little fragment given
From some few flickering beams of light far in the western heaven:
The trembling colours came and went, and fainter, brighter grew
Amid that wild untender sky, so tender and so true.
207
A wanderer from the Saviour's fold in the gloomy paths of sin—
A wreck of sweetness and of grace, a shade of beauty now,
Though Death had set its awful seal too plainly on her brow.
Oh, surely life to her had been a life of guilt and tears,
Of blighted hopes and shatter'd dreams, and storms of guilty fears!
But, on a sudden, in the midst of youth and pleasure's prime,
The icy blast of death blew keen athwart that summer clime.
The world's allurements shrivell'd then, like leaves in wind and frost,
And all its lying blandishments their sometime glory lost.
Earth trembled, and the sky was gloom, and all within was wild,
And death full quickly now would claim its own unhappy child.
208
“The Saviour”—eagerly she caught the accents as they fell—
“The Saviour came to save the lost—Jesus for sinners died.”
“For sinners?—Oh, the worst am I of sinners,” she replied.
“Then cast on Him thy load of guilt—He bids thee come and live.”
“I cannot, yet I would,” she cried; “Lord, hear me, Lord, forgive!”
It was not peace, it was not light, nor was it all despair,
And pointing her to Jesus still, I left her after prayer.
It was not sunshine, nor the joy of heaven's own glorious bow,
Yet surely one true little gleam of mercy amid woe,—
One fragmentary rainbow-spot that might grow brighter yet,
And faintly promised better things before the sun was set.
And pointing her to Jesus still, I left her after prayer.
It was not sunshine, nor the joy of heaven's own glorious bow,
Yet surely one true little gleam of mercy amid woe,—
One fragmentary rainbow-spot that might grow brighter yet,
And faintly promised better things before the sun was set.
Banningham, 1848.
209
V. IS IT WELL?
Never man spake like Him. His words of power
Fell like the healing dews of heaven. His looks
Breathed love: and round Him eagerly there press'd
The sick in body and the sick at heart.
Some clung in painful anguish to His hand;
Some cast themselves before His sacred feet;
Some cried aloud for mercy; and His grace
Was free to all. He cast out none who came.
But some there were of timid trembling faith,
Who stole behind Him in the press, and touch'd
The border of His garment; and there went
Such virtue from Him, all who touch'd were heal'd.
The feeblest touch was life. And He is still
Unchangeably, eternally the same.
Fell like the healing dews of heaven. His looks
Breathed love: and round Him eagerly there press'd
The sick in body and the sick at heart.
Some clung in painful anguish to His hand;
Some cast themselves before His sacred feet;
Some cried aloud for mercy; and His grace
Was free to all. He cast out none who came.
But some there were of timid trembling faith,
Who stole behind Him in the press, and touch'd
The border of His garment; and there went
Such virtue from Him, all who touch'd were heal'd.
The feeblest touch was life. And He is still
Unchangeably, eternally the same.
Then weep not for thy well-beloved, nor ask
Mistrustful, “Is it well with him I mourn?”
Was he not clinging to the Saviour's hand?
Was he not holding to the Saviour's feet?
Was he not hanging on the Saviour's grace?
Is love still anxious? Laid he not his finger
Upon the border of the Saviour's robe?
That trembling touch was everlasting life.
Mistrustful, “Is it well with him I mourn?”
Was he not clinging to the Saviour's hand?
210
Was he not hanging on the Saviour's grace?
Is love still anxious? Laid he not his finger
Upon the border of the Saviour's robe?
That trembling touch was everlasting life.
1863.
VI. THE UNKNOWN TO-MORROW.
So he is gone: it was but yesterday
He spent in piloting his cumbrous car
Through crowds of men and tangled thoroughfares
Of this great city. Evening came, and night;
And having done his duty he return'd,
Worn out and weary, to his quiet home.
There the sweet love of wife, a daughter's care,
The soft low breath of younger children sleeping,
And thoughts, that wander'd to his absent boy,
Refresh'd him. On his knees he sank in prayer,
Short, earnest, true,—and laid him down to rest.
He spent in piloting his cumbrous car
Through crowds of men and tangled thoroughfares
Of this great city. Evening came, and night;
And having done his duty he return'd,
Worn out and weary, to his quiet home.
There the sweet love of wife, a daughter's care,
The soft low breath of younger children sleeping,
And thoughts, that wander'd to his absent boy,
Refresh'd him. On his knees he sank in prayer,
Short, earnest, true,—and laid him down to rest.
It was his last day's work. Where is he now?
Where is he? Suddenly the message came;
And angels bare him on their wings of love
Into his Saviour's presence. No more toil;
No more the din and discord of the world;
No more the weary warfare of the heart.
He sleeps in Jesus: on his head a crown
Of glory; in his hand a harp of praise;
And music of the blessed spirits, who walk
The golden streets, about him echoing joy
And welcoming another traveller home.
211
And angels bare him on their wings of love
Into his Saviour's presence. No more toil;
No more the din and discord of the world;
No more the weary warfare of the heart.
He sleeps in Jesus: on his head a crown
Of glory; in his hand a harp of praise;
And music of the blessed spirits, who walk
The golden streets, about him echoing joy
And welcoming another traveller home.
1863.
VII. THE THREE BIRTHDAYS.
TO THE MEMORY OF ONE WHO, IN BLINDNESS AND SUFFERING, BUT IN THE FULL ASSURANCE OF FAITH, SAID, A FEW HOURS BEFORE HER DEATH, THAT SHE HAD ALWAYS HEARD THAT THREE BIRTHDAYS WERE OURS:—OUR NATURAL BIRTHDAY, OUR SPIRITUAL BIRTHDAY, AND OUR BIRTHDAY INTO GLORY: AND THAT SHE WAS SURE THE LAST WAS THE BRIGHTEST AND THE BEST.
Joy for thee, newborn child of heaven! once there was joy on earth,
What time from eager lip to lip ran tidings of thy birth,
And glad hearts beat more gladly, and quick steps more quickly trod
To tell that home was richer with another gift from God.
What time from eager lip to lip ran tidings of thy birth,
212
To tell that home was richer with another gift from God.
Years fleeted by; until beneath the brooding of the Dove,
Thy heart was warm'd and waken'd to the voice of heavenly love;
Then deeper waves of joy across their golden harp-strings stole,
As angels sang before the throne the birthday of thy soul.
Thy heart was warm'd and waken'd to the voice of heavenly love;
Then deeper waves of joy across their golden harp-strings stole,
As angels sang before the throne the birthday of thy soul.
Years fleeted by; and still thy path grew brighter and more bright,
And stars from daylight hidden gemm'd the clear sky of thy night.
Thy spirit drank of rivulets that never could run dry;
And suffering never seem'd to cloud the summer of thy sky.
And stars from daylight hidden gemm'd the clear sky of thy night.
Thy spirit drank of rivulets that never could run dry;
And suffering never seem'd to cloud the summer of thy sky.
And all who knew thee loved thee; and they loved thee most of all,
Who mark'd thy patient waiting for thy Master's long'd-for call:
It came, at last, that joy of joys, the latest and the best,
The birthday of a child of heaven,—the dawn of perfect rest.
Who mark'd thy patient waiting for thy Master's long'd-for call:
213
The birthday of a child of heaven,—the dawn of perfect rest.
Dear sainted sister, we rejoice, the more we weep our loss;
And while we think upon thy crown, more humbly bear our cross.
For in our heart of hearts is heard the calm prophetic warning,
The bridal of the Church is near, her glory's natal morning.
And while we think upon thy crown, more humbly bear our cross.
For in our heart of hearts is heard the calm prophetic warning,
The bridal of the Church is near, her glory's natal morning.
1861.
| The Two Brothers, and other poems | |