 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
MYRA.
Despair not thou of any fallen soul's fate,
Till thou hast knelt beside it in the mire,
And mingled with its moanings desolate
The heavenward whisper of thy heart's desire;
Till thou hast felt it thrill with thine own faith
In Him who looks not on us as we are,
But wakes the immortal in us by His breath,
And puts remembrance of our sins afar.
Till thou hast knelt beside it in the mire,
And mingled with its moanings desolate
The heavenward whisper of thy heart's desire;
Till thou hast felt it thrill with thine own faith
In Him who looks not on us as we are,
But wakes the immortal in us by His breath,
And puts remembrance of our sins afar.
The noblest creature of a human birth
Rose to its beauteous dignity of place
Not without many a lingering stain of earth,
Wherein all souls are set, a little space;
And thou into the haunts of shame and crime
Like an awakening breeze of Heaven mayest go,
Knowing that out of blackest depths of slime
May spring up lilies whiter than the snow.
Rose to its beauteous dignity of place
Not without many a lingering stain of earth,
Wherein all souls are set, a little space;
And thou into the haunts of shame and crime
Like an awakening breeze of Heaven mayest go,
Knowing that out of blackest depths of slime
May spring up lilies whiter than the snow.
It was a dreary, gusty day in March:
A motley group were gathered in a room
Of a vile street, where curses blurred the arch
Of bending heaven, and stained its azure bloom
With the foul breath of throats on fire with hell;
Yet here together had they come to pray,—
Wretches who knew the Name blasphemed too well,
And saints who leaned on it for staff and stay.
A motley group were gathered in a room
Of a vile street, where curses blurred the arch
Of bending heaven, and stained its azure bloom
With the foul breath of throats on fire with hell;
Yet here together had they come to pray,—
Wretches who knew the Name blasphemed too well,
And saints who leaned on it for staff and stay.
A dark-haired girl sat with bowed head alone,
Stifling the sobs that shook her slender frame,
When one arose, and told, in humbled tone,
How, tired and sick, to God's large house he came,
And as a son at once was made at home!
'T was agony to hear of Heaven's lost wealth;
They tortured her, those white souls, beckoning “Come!”
And she arose, and sought the door by stealth.
Stifling the sobs that shook her slender frame,
When one arose, and told, in humbled tone,
How, tired and sick, to God's large house he came,
And as a son at once was made at home!
'T was agony to hear of Heaven's lost wealth;
They tortured her, those white souls, beckoning “Come!”
And she arose, and sought the door by stealth.
Myra! Her young life's freshness trailed through sin,
Its perfume changed to stench and loathliness,
Soiled to thought's inmost vesture,—can she win
The heart of Him who hates unrighteousness?
Within, those pleading accents still went on;
Outside, unseemly mirth defiled the air;
Behind her, Life's closed gate; before, Death's yawn:
Whichever way she turned, some new despair!
Its perfume changed to stench and loathliness,
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The heart of Him who hates unrighteousness?
Within, those pleading accents still went on;
Outside, unseemly mirth defiled the air;
Behind her, Life's closed gate; before, Death's yawn:
Whichever way she turned, some new despair!
A woman's step approaches, undismayed;
A woman's voice is whispering, “Return!”
A woman's hand is on her shoulder laid;
And “Myra!” murmur stainless lips that yearn
To breathe their blessing through a sister's woe.
“Nay, let me be!” the wretched Myra cries;
“You would not touch my garments, could you know
How sunk I am; too low even to despise!
A woman's voice is whispering, “Return!”
A woman's hand is on her shoulder laid;
And “Myra!” murmur stainless lips that yearn
To breathe their blessing through a sister's woe.
“Nay, let me be!” the wretched Myra cries;
“You would not touch my garments, could you know
How sunk I am; too low even to despise!
“Hell seethes around me in this dreadful street:
Into it let me plunge, it is my place:
Heaven's pavement is too pure for my false feet,
And earth has nothing for me but disgrace.”
“But, Myra, think! It is not I that speak;
The message is from Christ, the Undefiled.
Behold His hand put forth through mine to seek
And lead you back! Come home to Him, poor child!”
Into it let me plunge, it is my place:
Heaven's pavement is too pure for my false feet,
And earth has nothing for me but disgrace.”
“But, Myra, think! It is not I that speak;
The message is from Christ, the Undefiled.
Behold His hand put forth through mine to seek
And lead you back! Come home to Him, poor child!”
And tenderly a warm white hand is laid
In outcast Myra's; and the eyes that bend
From blue serenity their proffered aid,—
She knows them for the true eyes of a friend;
And through them, in that moment, seems to break
A glimpse of her own purified womanhood;
Therein doth some divine suggestion make
Celestial possibilities understood.
In outcast Myra's; and the eyes that bend
From blue serenity their proffered aid,—
She knows them for the true eyes of a friend;
And through them, in that moment, seems to break
A glimpse of her own purified womanhood;
Therein doth some divine suggestion make
Celestial possibilities understood.
The eyes, the hand, remove not; and once more,
Following, she knows not how, the way they lead,
The threshold crossed, she is within the door;
She murmurs, “Is there hope for me, indeed?”
And every knee is by one impulse bowed,
And every heart goes up for her in prayer;
And Myra speaks her soul's resolve aloud,
Casting aside, with fear, her vast despair.
Following, she knows not how, the way they lead,
The threshold crossed, she is within the door;
She murmurs, “Is there hope for me, indeed?”
And every knee is by one impulse bowed,
And every heart goes up for her in prayer;
And Myra speaks her soul's resolve aloud,
Casting aside, with fear, her vast despair.
Crushed and ashamed, but now in her right mind,
She goes forth where those loving counsels guide,
Shelter and kindly ministries to find,
And strength to breast the mighty social tide
That surges with its currents pitiless
Against such tossed and helpless waifs as she.
Will she again drift wide from happiness?
Can peace in hearts like hers a tenant be?
She goes forth where those loving counsels guide,
Shelter and kindly ministries to find,
And strength to breast the mighty social tide
That surges with its currents pitiless
Against such tossed and helpless waifs as she.
Will she again drift wide from happiness?
Can peace in hearts like hers a tenant be?
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Listen! Far down the ages rings the Word:
“Scarlet with guilt, ye shall be white as snow!”
“Loving much, be forgiven much!” The dear Lord,
The Infinite Purity, spake to sinners so,
And speaketh still. O mortal, who art thou,
That darest to any soul His peace forbid,
Nor pardon to the erring wilt allow,
Heedless of stains in thine own bosom hid?
“Scarlet with guilt, ye shall be white as snow!”
“Loving much, be forgiven much!” The dear Lord,
The Infinite Purity, spake to sinners so,
And speaketh still. O mortal, who art thou,
That darest to any soul His peace forbid,
Nor pardon to the erring wilt allow,
Heedless of stains in thine own bosom hid?
Now Myra, sitting at her innocent work,
Like happier women, finds life grow so sweet!
If in her heart remorseful memories lurk,
She, face to face, may her accusers meet;
For Christ's seal on the closed book of the Past
Hath set forgiveness; Love's baptismal dew
Blends with her tears, and through them, falling fast,
She hears His voice: “Lo! I make all things new!”
Like happier women, finds life grow so sweet!
If in her heart remorseful memories lurk,
She, face to face, may her accusers meet;
For Christ's seal on the closed book of the Past
Hath set forgiveness; Love's baptismal dew
Blends with her tears, and through them, falling fast,
She hears His voice: “Lo! I make all things new!”
And what if she be drifted back again,
Toward the black whirlpool, by temptation's stress?
Say not that her repentance was in vain,
Nor stay thy hand from her in wretchedness,
Till she once more stand upright before Heaven,
Firm in humility, and so endure:
Seven times forgive her,—yea, and seven times seven,
Or till thyself art as an angel pure!
Toward the black whirlpool, by temptation's stress?
Say not that her repentance was in vain,
Nor stay thy hand from her in wretchedness,
Till she once more stand upright before Heaven,
Firm in humility, and so endure:
Seven times forgive her,—yea, and seven times seven,
Or till thyself art as an angel pure!
Her future is before her, so is thine:
Hers, with an evil blight upon her youth;
Thine, with all influences to guard, refine,
And lure thy spirit upward into truth.
We stand or fall together; whoso shuns
A suffering soul, must from God's way depart:
No stumbling-block before His little ones
Can hurt them like a cold, hard human heart.
Hers, with an evil blight upon her youth;
Thine, with all influences to guard, refine,
And lure thy spirit upward into truth.
We stand or fall together; whoso shuns
A suffering soul, must from God's way depart:
No stumbling-block before His little ones
Can hurt them like a cold, hard human heart.
Who sows for Heaven, with Heaven at last shall reap;
The sheaves bound up, the gleanings gathered in,
Sower and reaper harvest-home shall keep;
And all along the field—this world of sin—
Shall hope spring up and sweeten the wide air;
Love's holy breath scent every plant that grows;
Heaven's light burst from earth's darkness everywhere;
All wildernesses blossom as the rose!
The sheaves bound up, the gleanings gathered in,
Sower and reaper harvest-home shall keep;
And all along the field—this world of sin—
Shall hope spring up and sweeten the wide air;
Love's holy breath scent every plant that grows;
Heaven's light burst from earth's darkness everywhere;
All wildernesses blossom as the rose!
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |