 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
AT GEORGES'.
The children call out from the gate,
“Why is father staying so late?
We have almost forgotten his song,
So long since we heard it—so long!
The wind whistles after him over the sea;
We watch for him, shout for him; where can he be?
Oh, what is he doing at George's?
And why does he tarry at George's?”
“Why is father staying so late?
We have almost forgotten his song,
So long since we heard it—so long!
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We watch for him, shout for him; where can he be?
Oh, what is he doing at George's?
And why does he tarry at George's?”
The children have heard, through their sleep,
At nightfall, the sad mother weep:
“He will never, no, never again,
Come singing through sunshine and rain:
They are cruel at George's as cruel can be;
A desolate widow and orphans are we.
He sleeps his last sleep at George's;
He will never come home from George's.”
At nightfall, the sad mother weep:
“He will never, no, never again,
Come singing through sunshine and rain:
They are cruel at George's as cruel can be;
A desolate widow and orphans are we.
He sleeps his last sleep at George's;
He will never come home from George's.”
Dreary indeed had been our fathers' lot—
Slain by their nurse, the Sea—had they been poor
In faith as fortune! But they trusted Him
Who taketh up the isles, and holds the waves
In the deep hollow of His hand; and so,
Bereft, they were not friendless. Men went forth
Warmed by a benediction in God's name
Breathed through His minister. The meeting-house,
That saw a wanderer in his place again
Upon a Sabbath-day, resounded thanks.
And when dread tidings came, of vessels lost
And crews gone down, words writ in widows' tears,
Through silence thick with heart-throbs, asked the prayers
Of all who loved them, that love's loss might bring
A “spiritual and everlasting good:”—
Always the same desire, the same strong phrase.
Slain by their nurse, the Sea—had they been poor
In faith as fortune! But they trusted Him
Who taketh up the isles, and holds the waves
In the deep hollow of His hand; and so,
Bereft, they were not friendless. Men went forth
Warmed by a benediction in God's name
Breathed through His minister. The meeting-house,
That saw a wanderer in his place again
Upon a Sabbath-day, resounded thanks.
And when dread tidings came, of vessels lost
And crews gone down, words writ in widows' tears,
Through silence thick with heart-throbs, asked the prayers
Of all who loved them, that love's loss might bring
A “spiritual and everlasting good:”—
Always the same desire, the same strong phrase.
Are we, in our great churches, nearer God
Than they, that we have now no need to ask,
As persons, of a Person, of a Friend,
The help no human sympathy can give,
When sudden sorrow blinds us, and we see
Only a darkness, with His light behind?
Than they, that we have now no need to ask,
As persons, of a Person, of a Friend,
The help no human sympathy can give,
When sudden sorrow blinds us, and we see
Only a darkness, with His light behind?
Those dwellers by the sea believed in God:
Out of her need the widow heard Him say,
“Thy Maker is thy husband;” and was sure
Her orphans would be cared for.
Nothing strange
That where Death wrought so ruthlessly his work
Men grew to think of His as tenderer love
Than Calvin taught. And yet, the stern beliefs
That underlay the sinewy manliness
Of our dear State's first builders,—no great State
Had ever arisen without them. “Righteousness
Thy people's strength shall be,” they wrote upon
Her fair foundation-stones—yet uneffaced;
Never to be effaced—so let us pray!
Out of her need the widow heard Him say,
“Thy Maker is thy husband;” and was sure
Her orphans would be cared for.
Nothing strange
That where Death wrought so ruthlessly his work
Men grew to think of His as tenderer love
Than Calvin taught. And yet, the stern beliefs
That underlay the sinewy manliness
Of our dear State's first builders,—no great State
Had ever arisen without them. “Righteousness
Thy people's strength shall be,” they wrote upon
Her fair foundation-stones—yet uneffaced;
Never to be effaced—so let us pray!
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The psalms of David in the singing-seats
Of the old meeting-house;—bass-viol, flute,
And tuning-fork,—and rows of village-girls,
With lips half-open,—treble clashed with bass
In most melodious madness,—voices shrill
Climbing for unreached keys, grave burying soft
In solemn thunders;—fugues that rush and wait
Till lagging notes find the accordant goal,—
Who never heard has forfeited, through youth,
A rare experience. Since the untrained choir
Could lift the congregation, as one soul,
Their singing was true worship; and what more
Ask we of any ministry of song?
The hymns themselves (men call them tedious now)
Made their own music in the reverent heart
That never criticised when it could praise.
The voice of an unnumbered multitude,
A sound of many waters,—echoes swept
From age to age,—the universal Church
Uttering her glad thanksgivings unto Him
Who saves her for Himself, a spotless Bride,
Are in them—harmonies of deep to deep—
The children with the fathers praising God.
Of the old meeting-house;—bass-viol, flute,
And tuning-fork,—and rows of village-girls,
With lips half-open,—treble clashed with bass
In most melodious madness,—voices shrill
Climbing for unreached keys, grave burying soft
In solemn thunders;—fugues that rush and wait
Till lagging notes find the accordant goal,—
Who never heard has forfeited, through youth,
A rare experience. Since the untrained choir
Could lift the congregation, as one soul,
Their singing was true worship; and what more
Ask we of any ministry of song?
The hymns themselves (men call them tedious now)
Made their own music in the reverent heart
That never criticised when it could praise.
The voice of an unnumbered multitude,
A sound of many waters,—echoes swept
From age to age,—the universal Church
Uttering her glad thanksgivings unto Him
Who saves her for Himself, a spotless Bride,
Are in them—harmonies of deep to deep—
The children with the fathers praising God.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |