The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal

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

The Moonlight Sonata.

Introduction.