 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
821
ILICET.
GOOD NIGHT.
And now for Death, the beautiful and strong,
With which so many years
This breaking heart hath lived, that turned to song
The sadness of its fears;
Known to me better far than child or wife,
And (may be) sweeter still
Than these, or the poor thin unliving life
Of anguish born and ill;
Why should I shrink from the appointed end,
That always was in sight—
From the dear face of a familiar friend?
Good night.
With which so many years
This breaking heart hath lived, that turned to song
The sadness of its fears;
Known to me better far than child or wife,
And (may be) sweeter still
Than these, or the poor thin unliving life
Of anguish born and ill;
Why should I shrink from the appointed end,
That always was in sight—
From the dear face of a familiar friend?
Good night.
Oh, I have loved, through my small humble span,
The suffering and the poor,
And in my measure tried to play the man,
At the dark cottage door;
This straining breast was stabbed by every pain,
If it a brother's thrilled,
And sacrifice I found a richer gain,
That more my coffers filled;
But was my work, in tears and travail done,
A desperate losing fight
Against tremendous odds, although Christ won;
Good night.
The suffering and the poor,
And in my measure tried to play the man,
At the dark cottage door;
This straining breast was stabbed by every pain,
If it a brother's thrilled,
And sacrifice I found a richer gain,
That more my coffers filled;
But was my work, in tears and travail done,
A desperate losing fight
Against tremendous odds, although Christ won;
Good night.
I do confess I feebly served my God,
Who here for mercy pray,
And with wild steps that stumbled oft, I trod
The stony upward way;
Though sure I am that under every mask
Which made my worship dim,
My heart of hearts was loyal in its task,
And pointed unto Him;
Perchance too much I valued human praise,
Or basked in earthly light,
But I have loved and others tried to raise—
Good night.
Who here for mercy pray,
And with wild steps that stumbled oft, I trod
The stony upward way;
Though sure I am that under every mask
Which made my worship dim,
My heart of hearts was loyal in its task,
And pointed unto Him;
Perchance too much I valued human praise,
Or basked in earthly light,
But I have loved and others tried to raise—
Good night.
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It is not death, to which I slowly drift
From this vain fevered strife,
But the great ocean Love, which me will lift
To true and living Life;
I am not going far, I only mount
Into a higher room,
One step, and then the fulness of the Fount,
Whose waters here were gloom;
And though my darlings I may sorely miss,
The parting must be right,
And now I feel the Father's evening kiss—
Good night.
From this vain fevered strife,
But the great ocean Love, which me will lift
To true and living Life;
I am not going far, I only mount
Into a higher room,
One step, and then the fulness of the Fount,
Whose waters here were gloom;
And though my darlings I may sorely miss,
The parting must be right,
And now I feel the Father's evening kiss—
Good night.
EPILOGUE.
[God, whom my spirit crowns the King]
God, whom my spirit crowns the King,
Whom it delights to serve,
Refulgent on the insect's wing,
As in the rose's curve;
To one has given a glorious thought,
That bridges heaven and earth,
And brightens with a grace unbought
The breast of homeless dearth;
To one a song, the solemn part
Of some eternal chord,
That echoes on in every heart;
To me, a sword.
Whom it delights to serve,
Refulgent on the insect's wing,
As in the rose's curve;
To one has given a glorious thought,
That bridges heaven and earth,
And brightens with a grace unbought
The breast of homeless dearth;
To one a song, the solemn part
Of some eternal chord,
That echoes on in every heart;
To me, a sword.
God girded it with thongs of flame
On this unequal side,
And whispered to me the dread Name
At which the tempests hide;
He breathed into this bosom fire,
From altars of His love,
With wings of infinite desire,
Trembling to Him above;
He bade me never sheathe the blade
Till sin confest Him Lord,
And fallen had ills that curse the shade
Under the sword.
On this unequal side,
And whispered to me the dread Name
At which the tempests hide;
He breathed into this bosom fire,
From altars of His love,
With wings of infinite desire,
Trembling to Him above;
He bade me never sheathe the blade
Till sin confest Him Lord,
And fallen had ills that curse the shade
Under the sword.
God drew it first, and sacred set
Its lightning in my hand,
With tears of child and woman wet,
And blood of prison band;
He bade me all its terrors beat
On vices veiled and hoar,
If sceptred in a royal seat,
Or in a people's roar;
To heed no odds, nor pity rank
That 'scaped the hangman's cord,
And fight till each injustice sank
Under the sword.
Its lightning in my hand,
With tears of child and woman wet,
And blood of prison band;
He bade me all its terrors beat
On vices veiled and hoar,
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Or in a people's roar;
To heed no odds, nor pity rank
That 'scaped the hangman's cord,
And fight till each injustice sank
Under the sword.
God held my hand, and blesséd made
The blow at tyrants hurl'd,
That was almighty when He bade,
Though one against a world;
And it has ever been its wont,
To wave at duty's call
For sufferers, flashing in the front,
Where lusts and liars fall;
But face I could not foemen massed,
Nor those wild torrents ford,
Till I myself had died, and passed
Under the sword.
The blow at tyrants hurl'd,
That was almighty when He bade,
Though one against a world;
And it has ever been its wont,
To wave at duty's call
For sufferers, flashing in the front,
Where lusts and liars fall;
But face I could not foemen massed,
Nor those wild torrents ford,
Till I myself had died, and passed
Under the sword.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |