The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal

‘Good-bye, my mother!’
The brown-haired boy, with merry reverence,
Turned from the window where she leant, to meet
His holiday companions, blithely bound,
With bat and ball for healthy English sport.
She watched his lithesome form, so slight yet strong,
Till, passing from the gate, he waved his cap
And vanished. Then she sighed.

Beside her sat
A friend of years. A different portrait each
Who knew her would have drawn, for different traits
Shone out in turns as sympathetic gleams
Fell on them or flashed out. And few could tell
The colour of her eyes, or grey or brown,
Because the hue was lost in light or shade;
Nor if her mouth were large or small, because
The play of thought made visible was there,
Like shifting rainbows on white foam. Her hair
Was dark, and she was rather tall: and this
Was all in which most people would agree.

Not always sigh for sigh or smile for smile
She gave; for now and then fine tact of heart
Suggests an opposite as best response,
Completing by contrasting, like a scarlet flower

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With soft green leaves. So with her rippling voice,
Like waters that now murmur low, now leap
In spray-like laughter, Beatrice replied
To Eleanor's slow sigh:

‘When he comes home,
How full of cricket stories he will be!
'T is most amusing when he gives accounts,
Sparkling with boyish wit, yet earnestly,
As if an empire hung upon the match:
Only one needs a glossary of terms!
How well he knows the interest with which
You hear! I mark, he intersperses all
With rough pet names, shy veils of tenderness
For his dear mother. Eleanor, I think
Your Hubert has not merely head and hand,
As all his comrades know, but true heart too,
As you alone know fully. Well for him
That he has such a heart to meet his own,
And well for you; for 'tis a blessèd gift,
Not shared by all alike—the power to love;
And not less blessèd for proportioned pain,
Its fiery seal, its royal crown of thorns.’

‘So seems it, Beatrice, to you, who find
No lurking danger in its concentration,
Because you have so many near and dear.
Not so to me. I tremble when I think
How much I love him; but I turn away
From thinking of it, just to love him more;—
Indeed, I fear, too much.’

‘Dear Eleanor,
Do you love him as much as Christ loves us?
Let your lips answer me.’

157

‘Why ask me, dear?
Our hearts are finite, Christ is infinite.’

‘Then, till you reach the standard of that love,
Let neither fears nor well-meant warning voice
Distress you with “too much.” For He hath said—
How much—and who shall dare to change His measure?—
“That ye should love as I have lovèd you.”
Oh, sweet command, that goes so far beyond
The mightiest impulse of the tenderest heart!
A bare permission had been much; but He,
Who knows our yearnings and our fearfulness,
Chose graciously to bid us do the thing
That makes our earthly happiness, and set
A limit that we need not fear to pass,
Because we cannot. Oh the breadth, and length,
And depth, and height of love that passeth knowledge!
Yet Jesus said, “AS I have lovèd you.”’

‘O Beatrice, I long to feel the sunshine
That this should bring; but there are other words
Which fall in chill eclipse. 'Tis written, “Keep
Yourselves from idols.” How shall I obey?’

‘Dear, not by loving less, but loving more.
It is not that we love our precious ones
Too much, but God too little. As the lamp
A miner bears upon his shadowed brow,
Is only dazzling in the grimy dark
And has no glare against the summer sky
So, set the tiny torch of our best love
In the great sunshine of the Love of God,
And, though full fed and fanned, it casts no shade
And dazzles not, o'erflowed with mightier light.’

She watched in hope to see the pale lips curve

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More peacefully in answer to her words.
But Eleanor's quick spirit bridged too soon
The gap between one ridge of anxious thought
And that beyond, to see the glen between,
Where pastures green and waters still were spread.
So, answering not her friend's thought, but her own,
She said, ‘'Tis but half true that love is power,
'Tis sometimes weakness.’

‘Nay! You have not found
It thus at all. See how the bold bright boy,
Wilful and wayward else, will follow prompt
The magnet of your wish, with sudden swerve
From his own bent or fancy.’

‘That is true,
And oh, so sweet to me! But by the power
I gauge the weakness. Beatrice, your heart
Has ached with longing for some stranger soul
That it might flee from danger to the One,
The Only Refuge; you have felt keen pain
In calling those who will not come to Him
Who waits to give them life; but I, I strive
For one far more than all the world to me,—
My boy, my only one, and fatherless,
Just entering the labyrinth of life
Without its only clue, with nothing but
My feeble hand to shield from powers of ill.

‘His mind is opening fast, and I have tried
To show the excellency of the knowledge
Of Jesus Christ our Lord; he listens well,
To please his mother, whom he would not grieve;
But never pulse of interest I feel,
And echoless the name of Jesus falls,

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While classic heroes stir him with delight.
My boy, my only one! I taught him words,
When years ago his tiny feet peeped out
From the white nightgown in the nursery hush;
And folding firm the busy little hands,
He lisped “Our Father.” But words are not prayer.
I put the lamp of life in his small hand,
Filling his memory with shining truths
And starry promises. He learnt them all
For love of me, just as he would have learnt
Some uncouth string of barbarous names,
Had I so wished: no more. They are no light
To him, no strength, no joy. O Beatrice,
'Tis this that presses on my weary heart,
And makes it more than widowed. For I know
That he who is not lost, but gone before,
Is only waiting till I come; for death
Has only parted us a little while,
And has not severed e'en the finest strand
In the eternal cable of our love:
The very strain has twined it closer still,
And added strength. The music of his life
Is nowise stilled, but blended so with songs
Around the throne of God, that our poor ears
No longer hear it. Hubert's life is mute
As yet; and what if all my tuning fail!’

And Eleanor looked up among the clouds
With weary, wistful eyes, while Beatrice
Sent a far-passing glance beyond them all,
Beyond the sunshine too.

A sudden smile
Rose from within and overflowed her lips

160

And made them beautiful. Poor Eleanor
Deemed it the herald of some happy thought,
Some message, it might be, from God to her,
Wrapped in the simple words of friend to friend.
We do not always know it when we have
The privilege to be God's messengers,
Nor who shall be His messengers to us.
Unconsciously a pale responsive smile
Gleamed out to welcome it, and hardly waned
As unexpected change of subject came.

‘I did not tell you, did I, of my gift,
My beautiful Æolian harp?’

‘Oh no!
I was too full of mine, my boy, and you
Too full of ready sympathy with me.’

‘Nay, do not say “too full,” that could not be,
Yours is so great a gift, so great a care!
I shall not tire of thinking with you thus,
Until I do not love you, which means never.
But as we turn from gazing on the sea
To lift admiringly a tiny shell,
So you shall turn from your great interest
To hear of my Æolian treasure now.
Say, have you ever seen one?’

‘Never, dear;
But visible, and almost audible,
Your words shall make it.’

‘There's not much to see:
Two plain smooth boards, one thick, one very thin,
With seven tensioned strings upon the under,
Just covered by the upper, and a space
That you might lay a finger in between.

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Yet one can almost reverence the thing
For very marvel at its spirit tones
And mysteries of music, that we love
But cannot understand.’

‘But tell me more,
Dear Beatrice: what is its music like?
Whence comes it? and what does it say to you?’

‘'Tis easier to answer what and whence
Than your third question, for not twice
I hear the same soul-message from its strings.
But I will tell you of the first it brought;
Your heart will follow mine, and trace the under-thought.

I

‘A friend, a kind, dear friend
Gave me this harp, that should be all my own,
That it might speak to me in twilight lone
When other sounds were fled; that it might send
Sweet messages of calming, cheering might,
Sweet sudden thrills of strange and exquisite delight.

II

‘Upon the strings I laid my hand,
And all were tuned in unison; one tone
Was yielded by the seven, one alone,
In quick obedience to my touch-command.
It could not be that this was all he meant
Of promised music, when my little harp was sent.

162

III

‘To win the tones I found the way
In his own letter, mine before the gift:
“You cannot wake its music till you lift
The closèd sash. Take up and gently lay
Your harp where it may meet the freshening air,
Then wait and listen.” This I did, and left it there.

IV

‘I waited till the sun had set,
And twilight fell upon the autumn sea;
I watched, and saw the north wind touch a tree,
Dark outlined on the paling gold, and yet
My harp was mute. I cried, “Awake, O north!
Come to my harp, and call its answering music forth.”

V

‘Like stars that tremble into light
Out of the purple dark, a low, sweet note
Just trembled out of silence, antidote
To any doubt; for never finger might
Produce that note, so different, so new:
Melodious pledge that all he promised should come true.

VI

‘It seemed to die; but who could say
Whether or when it passed the border-line
'Twixt sound and silence? for no ear so fine
That it can trace the subtle shades away;
Like prism-rays prolonged beyond our ken,
Like memories that fade, we know not how or when.

163

VII

‘Then strange vibrations rose and fell,
Like far sea-murmurs blending in a dream
With madrigals, whose fairy singers seem
Now near, now distant; and a curfew bell,
Whose proper tone in one air-filling crowd
Of strong harmonics hides, as in a dazzling cloud.

VIII

‘Then delicately twining falls
Of silvery chords, that quiver with sweet pain,
And melt in tremulous minors, mount again,
Brightening to fullest concords, calm recalls,
And measured pulsings, soft and sweet and slow,
Which emphasizing touch love's quiet under-glow.

IX

‘A silence. Then a solemn wail,
Swelling far up among the harmonies,
And shattering the crystal melodies
To fleeting fragments glisteringly pale,
Yet only to combine them all anew
By resolutions strange, yet always sweet and true.

X

‘Anon a thrill of all the strings;
And then a flash of music, swift and bright,
Like a first throb of weird Auroral light;
Then crimson coruscations from the wings
Of the Pole-Spirit; then ecstatic beat,
As if an angel-host went forth on shining feet.

164

XI

‘Soon passed the sounding starlit march,
And then one swelling note grew full and long,
While, like a far-off old cathedral song,
Through dreamy length of echoing aisle and arch,
Float softest harmonies around, above,
Like flowing chordal robes of blessing and of love.

XII

‘Thus, while the holy stars did shine
And listen, these Æolian marvels breathed;
While love and peace and gratitude enwreathed
With rich delight in one fair crown were mine.
The wind that bloweth where it listeth brought
This glory of harp-music,—not my skill or thought.’

She ceased. Then Eleanor looked up,
And said, ‘O Beatrice, I too have tried
My finger-skill in vain. But opening now
My window, like wise Daniel, I will set
My little harp therein, and listening wait
The breath of heaven, the Spirit of our God.’

Baby's Turn.

Tiny feet so busy in a tiny patter out of sight,
Little hands escaping from protecting doily white,
One in lifted eagerness, and one that grasps the baby chair,—
All impatient! Baby darling, must not sister have a share?

165

Only just a moment, dearie; coming, coming! don't be vexed!
Only just a moment, darling; then we'll see whose turn is next!
Ah, she knows as well as we do! Baby's turn is come at last;
Now the little mouth may open; gently, gently, not too fast.

Baby's turn! To-day 'tis only for the fruit so nice and sweet,
But a far-away to-morrow hastens on with silent feet;
When the yesterdays of life are clearest in our dimming gaze,
Baby's vision will be filled with brightly realized to-days.

Baby's turn for fair unfolding in the sunny girlhood time,
For the blossom and the breezes, for the carol and the chime;
Baby's turn to wear the crown of womanhood upon her brow,
Heavier but nobler than the fairy gold which glitters now.

Baby's turn to care for others, and to kiss away the tear,
For the joy of ministration to the suffering or the dear,
For the happiness of giving help and comfort, love and life,
Whether walking all alone, or as a blessed and blessing wife.

Baby's turn for this and more, if God should give her length of days;—
For the calmness of experience and the retrospect of praise,

166

For the silver trace of sorrows glistening in the sunset ray,
For the evening stillness falling on the turmoil of the day.

What though Baby's turn may come for bitter griefs and wearing fears!
Love shall lighten every trial,—love that prays and love that hears.
See! she watches and she wonders till the reverie is o'er;
Did she think she was forgotten? Now 'tis Baby's turn once more!

The Children's Triumph.

The Sunbeams came to my window,
And said, ‘Come out and see
The sparkle on the river,
The blossom on the tree!’
But never a moment parleyed I
With the bright-haired Sunbeams' call!
Though their dazzling hands on the leaf they laid,
I drew it away to the curtain-shade,
Where a sunbeam could not fall.

The Robins came to my window,
And said, ‘Come out and sing!
Come out and join the chorus
Of the festival of the Spring!’
But never a carol would I trill
In the festival of May;
But I sat alone in my shadowy room,
And worked away in its quiet gloom,
And the Robins flew away.

167

The Children came to my window,
And said, ‘Come out and play!
Come out with us in the sunshine,
'Tis such a glorious day!’
Then never another word I wrote,
And my desk was put away!
When the Children called me, what could I do?
The Robins might fail, and the Sunbeams too,
But the Children won the day.

The First Smile.

A smile, a smile, my darling!
After the weeks of pain;
The restless eye, the shaded brow
Lit with a welcome brightness now—
The first sweet smile again!

A smile, a smile, my darling!
Not many days ago
We hailed the first fair snowdrop, white,
Pale, and sweet in the early light,
After the frost and snow.

More welcome than the snowdrop,
More gladdening than the sun,
The pale sweet smile that dawned at last,
Although so faint, and fleeting fast,
Although the only one.

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We hail it as the herald
Of sunny summer days,
Of blessings for our darling boy,
Of peaceful love, and thankful joy,
And fuller note of praise.

The Sunday Book.

Read to him, Connie, read as you sit,
Cosy and warm in the great arm-chair,
Let your hand press lovingly, lightly there,
Let the gentle touch of your sunny hair
Over his cheek like a soft breeze flit.

Read to him, Connie! The house is still,
The week-day lessons, the week-day play,
And the week-day worries are hushed away
In the golden calm of the Holy Day;
He will listen now if ever he will.

Read to him, Connie, read while you may!
For the years will pass, and he must go
Out in the cold world's treacherous flow,
Danger and trial and evil to know,—
He may drift in the dark, far, far away!

Now he is happy and safe in the nest,
Teach him to warble the songs of home,
Teach him to soar but never to roam,
Only to soar to a starry dome,
Linking with heaven the hearts he loves best.

169

Read to him, Connie! Read what you love,
Holy and sweet be your Sabbath choice;
And the music that dwells in a sister's voice
Shall lure him to listen while angels rejoice,
As the soft tones blend with the harps above.

Read to him, Connie! Read of the One
Who loves him most, yes, more than you!
Read of that love, so great, so true,
Love everlasting, yet ever new;
For who can tell but his heart may be won!

Read to him, Connie! For it may be
That your Sunday book, like a silver bar
Of steady light from a guiding star,
May gleam in memory, clear and far,
Across the waves of a wintry sea.

Amy.

[_]

This poem is an acrostic.

‘I have loved you, saith the Lord.’— Mal. i. 2.

Amy, this thy promise be,
Marvellous and sweet and free,
‘Yea, the Lord hath lovèd thee.’
He hath loved thee, and He knows
All thy fears and all thy foes;
Victor thou shalt surely be
Ever through His love to thee.
Rest in quiet joy on this,—
Greater love hath none than His:
And may this thy life-song be,
Love to Him that loveth thee!

170

‘It is well with the Child.’

Only one dark December time,
With chill and gloomy hours;
And now—the ‘everlasting spring,’
The ‘never-withering flowers.’

Only one week of weary pains,
With suffering oppressed;
And now—the Sabbath that remains,
God's everlasting rest.

Only one word of earthly speech,
The sweetest and the first;
And now—the songs that angels sing
From baby lips have burst.

Only one journey, fondly borne
In arms of tenderest love;
And now—no wanderings more for him,
Safe in the home above.

Yes, safe for ever, safe and blest,
Where they ‘go no more out;’
With Jesus, whom he never grieved
By any sin or doubt.

171

Not preluded by tearful prayer,
His happy praise shall swell,
And joy of ‘welcome’ shall be his
Who never knew ‘farewell.’

In memory of J. S., who fell asleep December 6, 1870, aged seven months. The day before his death he fixed his eyes upon his mother with a long gaze of wonderful intelligence and love, and after repeated effort, uttered distinctly the ‘one word’—‘Mamma!’

At Home To-night.

I.

The lessons are done and the prizes won,
And the counted weeks are past;
O the holiday joys of the girls and boys
Who are ‘home to-night’ at last!
O the ringing beat of the springing feet,
As into the hall they rush!
O the tender bliss of the first home kiss,
With its moment of fervent hush!
So much to tell and to hear as well,
As they gather around the glow!
Who would not part, for the joy of heart
That only the parted can know—
At home to-night!

II.

But all have not met, there are travellers yet
Speeding along through the dark,
By tunnel and bridge, past river and ridge,
To the distant, yet nearing mark.
But hearts are warm, for the winter storm
Has never a chill for love:

172

And faces are bright in the flickering light
Of the small dim lamp above.
And voices of gladness rise over the madness
Of the whirl and the rush and the roar,
For rapid and strong it bears them along
To a home and an open door—
Yes, home to-night!

III.

Oh, home to-night, yes, home to-night,
Through the pearly gate and the open door!
Some happy feet on the golden street
Are entering now to ‘go out no more.’
For the work is done and the rest begun,
And the training time is for ever past,
And the home of rest in the mansions blest
Is safely, joyously reached at last.
O the love and light in that home to-night!
O the songs of bliss and the harps of gold!
O the glory shed on the new-crowned head!
O the telling of love that can ne'er be told—
O the welcome that waits at the shining gates,
For those who are following far, yet near;
When all shall meet at His glorious feet
In the light and the love of His home so dear!
Yes, ‘home to-night!’

Note.—These verses, written a few days before Christmas, were suggested by the remark of a young friend, after picturing the merry ‘breaking up’ of her old schoolfellows,—‘They will all be at home to-night.’ The thought arose—‘Perhaps some of Christ's little ones, who have been learning in His school, may be reaching His home to-night!’ And while the third stanza was being written, a telegram came bearing the sad and unexpected tidings that a dear little girl of twelve years old had indeed just reached home, after a short illness, and entered the presence of the Saviour whom she had early learnt to love. The coincidence of the thought with the very hour of her departure, being unconnected with any idea of her illness, was remarkable.

173

Two Rings.

She stood by the western window,
In the midsummer twilight fair;
And the sunset breeze leaped from the trees
To lift her heavy hair.

Loving and lingering that good-night,
Which again and again was said,
As ever a fresh excuse was found
To ‘put off going to bed.’

She took a ring from the table,
Blue, with a diamond eye;
A forget-me-not that would never fade
'Neath any wintry sky.

She placed it on her little hand,
And danced with sudden glee;
‘Look at my ring, my pretty ring!
It is mine just now, you see!’

She laughed her merry ringing laugh,
I answered with a sigh,
Strange echo to my darling's mirth,
Though scarcely knowing why.

174

Her childish beauty touched my heart,
And rose to a vision fair
Of far-off days, when another ring
That little hand might wear.

And mine—it might be pulseless then
Under the churchyard tree;
So I drew her gently to my side,
And took her on my knee.

‘It shall be yours, my darling,’
I said; ‘but not to-day;
It shall be yours, my darling,
When I am gone away.’

She glanced up quickly in my face,
Not sure that she heard aright;
And the shadow that fell in the sweet brown eyes
Was sweeter than any light.

Then she bent her head and kissed the ring,
With a kiss both grave and long;
Hardly the kiss of a little child,
So fervent and so strong.

And hardly the tones of a little child,
That spoke so earnestly,—
‘Yes; I will always wear it,
Mine it shall always be.

175

‘But oh!’ (and the eyes, love-brightened,
Shone with a sudden tear),
‘I hope I shall never wear it,
Never, oh never, dear!’

Five summers smoothly passed away,
And the sixth was drawing nigh,
While herald glory woke the earth,
And filled the dazzling sky.

An April morning, radiant
With June-like gleam and glow,
Arose as fair as if the world
No shade of grief could know.

A tiny packet came for me,
With many a dark-edged fold,
And safe within it lay a ring,—
A little ring of gold.

Oh, well I knew its carving quaint
Of old ancestral days;
Last seen upon a waving hand
In slanting autumn rays.

O fair young hand, that waved good-bye
With passing grace and glee!
We knew not that it was farewell,—
The last farewell for me.

176

The sweet bright spring that touched the earth
With all-renewing might,
For her eternal beauty brought,
Eternal life and light.

All through the solemn Passion week
She lay so still and sweet,
A carven lily, white and pure,
For God's own temple meet;—

Until the day when Jesus died,
The Saviour whom she knew,
The Shepherd whom she followed home
The shadowy portal through.

And when the evening gently closed
That sad and sacred day,
They left the last kiss on her brow,
And took the ring away.

Two rings are always on my hand,
The azure and the gold,
And they shall gleam together till
My tale of life is told.

University of Virginia Library

VIII. Lights and Shadows of Spring-time.

The Message of an Aeolian Harp.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII