 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
SCENE I.
The summer sun was high and strong,
And dust was on the traveller's feet;
Oh, weary was the stage and long,
And burning was the early heat!
There was a pause. For Ernest stood
Upon the borders of a wood.
Between him and his home it lay,
Stretching in mystery away:
What might be there he could not tell
Of briery steep, or mossy dell,
Of bog or brake, of glen or glade,
All hidden by the dim green shade.
And dust was on the traveller's feet;
Oh, weary was the stage and long,
And burning was the early heat!
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Upon the borders of a wood.
Between him and his home it lay,
Stretching in mystery away:
What might be there he could not tell
Of briery steep, or mossy dell,
Of bog or brake, of glen or glade,
All hidden by the dim green shade.
He had not passed that way before,
And wonderingly he waited now,
While mystic voices, o'er and o'er,
Soft whispered on from bough to bough.
Oh, was it only wind and trees
That made such gentle whisperings?
Or was it some sweet spirit breeze
That bore a message on its wings,
And bid the traveller that day
Go forward on his woodland way?
And wonderingly he waited now,
While mystic voices, o'er and o'er,
Soft whispered on from bough to bough.
Oh, was it only wind and trees
That made such gentle whisperings?
Or was it some sweet spirit breeze
That bore a message on its wings,
And bid the traveller that day
Go forward on his woodland way?
How should he know? He had no clue,
And more than one fair opening lay
Before him, where the broad boughs threw
Cool, restful shade across the way.
Which should he choose? He could not trace
The onward track by vision keen;
The drooping branches interlace,
Not far the winding paths are seen.
Oh for a sign! Were choice not right,
Was no return, for well he knew
The hours were short, and swift the night;
Once entered, he must hasten through.
And more than one fair opening lay
Before him, where the broad boughs threw
Cool, restful shade across the way.
Which should he choose? He could not trace
The onward track by vision keen;
The drooping branches interlace,
Not far the winding paths are seen.
Oh for a sign! Were choice not right,
Was no return, for well he knew
The hours were short, and swift the night;
Once entered, he must hasten through.
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For what hath been can never be
As if it had not been at all;
We gaze, but never more can we
Retrace one footstep's wavering fall.
Oh, how we need from day to day
A guiding Hand for all the way!
Oh, how we need from hour to hour
That faithful, ever-present Power!
As if it had not been at all;
We gaze, but never more can we
Retrace one footstep's wavering fall.
Oh, how we need from day to day
A guiding Hand for all the way!
Oh, how we need from hour to hour
That faithful, ever-present Power!
Which should he choose? He pondered long,
And with the sounds of bird and bee
He blent an oft-repeated song,
A soft and suppliant melody:
And with the sounds of bird and bee
He blent an oft-repeated song,
A soft and suppliant melody:
‘Oh for a light from heaven,
Clear and divine,
Now on the paths before me
Brightly to shine!
Oh for a hand to beckon!
Oh for a voice to say,
“Follow in firm assurance—
This is the way!”
Clear and divine,
Now on the paths before me
Brightly to shine!
Oh for a hand to beckon!
Oh for a voice to say,
“Follow in firm assurance—
This is the way!”
‘Listening to mingling voices,
Seeking a guiding hand,
Watching for light from heaven,
Waiting I stand;
Onward and homeward pressing,
Nothing my feet should stay,
Might I but plainly hear it,—
“This is the way!”’
Seeking a guiding hand,
Watching for light from heaven,
Waiting I stand;
Onward and homeward pressing,
Nothing my feet should stay,
Might I but plainly hear it,—
“This is the way!”’
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Was it indeed an answer given,
That whisper through the tree-tops o'er him?
Was it indeed a light from heaven
That fell upon the path before him?
Or was it only that he met
The wayward playing of the breeze,
Parting the heavy boughs to let
The sunshine fall among the trees?
Again he listened—did it say,
‘This is the onward, homeward way?’
Perhaps it did. He would not wait,
But pressing towards a Mansion Gate
That, yet unseen, all surely stood
Beyond the untried, unknown wood,
And trusting that his prayer was heard,
Although he caught no answering word,
And gazing on with calm, clear eye
The straightest, surest path to spy
(Not seeking out the smooth and bright,
If he might only choose the right),
With hopeful heart and manly tread,
Into the forest depths he sped.
That whisper through the tree-tops o'er him?
Was it indeed a light from heaven
That fell upon the path before him?
Or was it only that he met
The wayward playing of the breeze,
Parting the heavy boughs to let
The sunshine fall among the trees?
Again he listened—did it say,
‘This is the onward, homeward way?’
Perhaps it did. He would not wait,
But pressing towards a Mansion Gate
That, yet unseen, all surely stood
Beyond the untried, unknown wood,
And trusting that his prayer was heard,
Although he caught no answering word,
And gazing on with calm, clear eye
The straightest, surest path to spy
(Not seeking out the smooth and bright,
If he might only choose the right),
With hopeful heart and manly tread,
Into the forest depths he sped.
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |