 | Mercy Philbrick's Choice |  |
167
Mercy Philbrick's Choice.
169
I.
To one who found us on a starless night,All helpless, groping in a dangerous way,
Where countless treacherous hidden pitfalls lay,
And, seeing all our peril, flashed a light
To show to our bewildered, blinded sight,
By one swift, clear, and piercing ray,
The safe, sure path,—what words could reach the height
Of our great thankfulness? And yet, at most,
The most he saved was this poor, paltry life
Of flesh, which is so little worth its cost,
Which eager sows, but may not stay to reap,
And so soon breathless with the strain and strife,
Its work half-done, exhausted, falls asleep.
II.
But unto him who finds men's souls astrayIn night that they know not is night at all,
Walking, with reckless feet, where they may fall
Each moment into deadlier deaths than slay
The flesh,—to him whose truth can rend away
From such lost souls their moral night's black pall,—
Oh, unto him what words can hearts recall
Which their deep gratitude finds fit to say?
No words but these,—and these to him are best:—
That, henceforth, like a quenchless vestal flame,
His words of truth shall burn on Truth's pure shrine;
His memory be truth worshipped and confessed;
Our gratitude and love, the priestess line,
Who serve before Truth's altar, in his name.
171
“HOW WAS IT?”
Why ask, dear one? I think I cannot tell,More than I know how clouds so sudden lift
From mountains, or how snowflakes float and drift,
Or springs leave hills. One secret and one spell
All true things have. No sunlight ever fell
With sound to bid flowers open. Still and swift
Come sweetest things on earth.
So comes true gift
Of Love, and so we know that it is well.
Sure tokens also, like the cloud, the snow,
And silent flowing of the mountain-springs,
The new gift of true loving always brings.
In clearer light, in purer paths, we go:
New currents of deep joy in common things
We find. These are the tokens, dear, we know!
189
A MOMENT.
Lightly as an insect floating
In the sunny summer air,
Waved one tiny snow-white blossom,
From a hidden crevice growing,
Dainty, fragile-leaved, and fair,
Where great rocks piled up like mountains,
Well-nigh to the shining heavens,
Rose precipitous and bare,
With a pent-up river rushing,
Foaming as at boiling heat
Wildly, madly, at their feet.
In the sunny summer air,
Waved one tiny snow-white blossom,
From a hidden crevice growing,
Dainty, fragile-leaved, and fair,
Where great rocks piled up like mountains,
Well-nigh to the shining heavens,
Rose precipitous and bare,
With a pent-up river rushing,
Foaming as at boiling heat
Wildly, madly, at their feet.
Hardly with a ripple stirring
The sweet silence by its tone,
Fell a woman's whisper lightly,—
“Oh, the dainty, dauntless blossom!
What deep secret of its own
Keeps it joyous and light-hearted,
O'er this dreadful chasm swinging,
Unsupported and alone,
With no help or cheer from kindred?
Oh, the dainty, dauntless thing,
Bravest creature of the spring!”
The sweet silence by its tone,
Fell a woman's whisper lightly,—
“Oh, the dainty, dauntless blossom!
What deep secret of its own
Keeps it joyous and light-hearted,
O'er this dreadful chasm swinging,
Unsupported and alone,
With no help or cheer from kindred?
Oh, the dainty, dauntless thing,
Bravest creature of the spring!”
Then the woman saw her lover,
For one instant saw his face,
Down the precipice slow sinking,
Looking up at her, and sending
Through the shimmering, sunny space
Look of love and subtle triumph,
As he plucked the tiny blossom
In its airy, dizzy place,—
Plucked it, smiling, as if danger
Were not danger to the hand
Of true lover in love's land.
For one instant saw his face,
Down the precipice slow sinking,
Looking up at her, and sending
Through the shimmering, sunny space
Look of love and subtle triumph,
As he plucked the tiny blossom
In its airy, dizzy place,—
Plucked it, smiling, as if danger
Were not danger to the hand
Of true lover in love's land.
190
In her hands her face she buried,
At her heart the blood grew chill;
In that one brief moment crowded
The whole anguish of a lifetime,
Made her every pulse stand still.
Like one dead she sat and waited,
Listening to the stirless silence,
Ages in a second, till,
Lightly leaping, came her lover,
And, still smiling, laid the sweet
Snow-white blossom at her feet.
At her heart the blood grew chill;
In that one brief moment crowded
The whole anguish of a lifetime,
Made her every pulse stand still.
Like one dead she sat and waited,
Listening to the stirless silence,
Ages in a second, till,
Lightly leaping, came her lover,
And, still smiling, laid the sweet
Snow-white blossom at her feet.
“O my love! my love!” she shuddered,
“Bloomed that flower by Death's own spell?
Was thy life so little moment,
Life and love for that one blossom
Wert thou ready thus to sell?
O my precious love! for ever
I shall keep this faded token
Of the hour which came to tell,
In such voice I scarce dared listen,
How thy life to me had grown
So much dearer than my own!”
“Bloomed that flower by Death's own spell?
Was thy life so little moment,
Life and love for that one blossom
Wert thou ready thus to sell?
O my precious love! for ever
I shall keep this faded token
Of the hour which came to tell,
In such voice I scarce dared listen,
How thy life to me had grown
So much dearer than my own!”
220
“COULEUR DE ROSE.”
All things to-day “Couleur de rose,”
I see,—oh, why?
I know, and my dear love she knows,
Why, oh, why!
On both my eyes her lips she set,
All red and warm and dewy wet,
As she passed by.
The kiss did not my eyelids close,
But like a rosy vapor goes,
Where'er I sit, where'er I lie,
Before my every glance, and shows
All things to-day “Couleur de rose.”
I see,—oh, why?
I know, and my dear love she knows,
Why, oh, why!
On both my eyes her lips she set,
All red and warm and dewy wet,
As she passed by.
The kiss did not my eyelids close,
But like a rosy vapor goes,
Where'er I sit, where'er I lie,
Before my every glance, and shows
All things to-day “Couleur de rose.”
Would it last thus? Alas, who knows?
Men ask and sigh:
They say it fades, “Couleur de rose.”
Why, oh, why?
Without swift joy and sweet surprise,
Surely those lips upon my eyes
Could never lie,
Though both our heads were white as snows,
And though the bitterest storm that blows,
Of trouble and adversity,
Had bent us low: all life still shows
To eyes that love “Couleur de rose.”
Men ask and sigh:
They say it fades, “Couleur de rose.”
Why, oh, why?
Without swift joy and sweet surprise,
Surely those lips upon my eyes
Could never lie,
221
And though the bitterest storm that blows,
Of trouble and adversity,
Had bent us low: all life still shows
To eyes that love “Couleur de rose.”
LOVERS' THOUGHTS.
“How feels the earth when, breaking from the night,The sweet and sudden Dawn impatient spills
Her rosy colors all along the hills?
How feels the sea, as it turns sudden white,
And shines like molten silver in the light
Which pours from eastward when the full moon fills
Her time to rise?”
“I know not, love, what thrills
The earth, the sea, may feel. How should I know?
Except I guess by this,—the joy I feel
When sudden on my silence or my gloom
Thy presence bursts and lights the very room?
Then on my face doth not glad color steal
Like shining waves, or hill-tops' sunrise glow?”
222
THE OUTCAST.
O sharp, cold wind, thou art my friend!
And thou, fierce rain, I need not dread
Thy wonted touch upon my head!
On, loving brothers! Wreak and spend
Your force on all these dwellings. Rend
These doors so pitilessly locked,
To keep the friendless out! Strike dead
The fires whose glow hath only mocked
By muffled rays the night where I,
The lonely outcast, freezing lie!
And thou, fierce rain, I need not dread
Thy wonted touch upon my head!
On, loving brothers! Wreak and spend
Your force on all these dwellings. Rend
These doors so pitilessly locked,
To keep the friendless out! Strike dead
The fires whose glow hath only mocked
By muffled rays the night where I,
The lonely outcast, freezing lie!
Ha! If upon those doors to-night
I knocked, how well I know the stare,
The questioning, the mingled air
Of scorn and pity at the sight,
The wonder if it would be right
To give me alms of meat and bread!
And if I, reckless, standing there,
For once the truth imploring said,
That not for bread or meat I longed,
That such an alms my real need wronged,
I knocked, how well I know the stare,
The questioning, the mingled air
Of scorn and pity at the sight,
The wonder if it would be right
To give me alms of meat and bread!
And if I, reckless, standing there,
For once the truth imploring said,
That not for bread or meat I longed,
That such an alms my real need wronged,
That I would fain come in, and sit
Beside their fire, and hear the voice
Of children; yea, and if my choice
Were free, and I dared mention it,
And some sweet child should think me fit,—
To hold a child upon my knee
One moment, would my soul rejoice,
More than to banquet royally,
And I the pulses of its wrist
Would kiss, as men the cross have kissed.
Beside their fire, and hear the voice
Of children; yea, and if my choice
Were free, and I dared mention it,
And some sweet child should think me fit,—
223
One moment, would my soul rejoice,
More than to banquet royally,
And I the pulses of its wrist
Would kiss, as men the cross have kissed.
Ha! Well the haughty stare I know
With which they 'd say, “The man is mad!”
“What an impostor's face he had!”
“How insolent these beggars grow!”
Go to, ye happy people! Go!
My yearning is as fierce as hate.
Must my heart break, that yours be glad?
Will your turn come at last, though late?
I will not knock, I will pass by;
My comrades wait,—the wind, the rain.
Comrades, we'll run a race to-night!
The stakes may not seem much to gain:
The goal is not marked plain in sight;
But, comrades, understand,—if I
Drop dead, 't will be a victory!
With which they 'd say, “The man is mad!”
“What an impostor's face he had!”
“How insolent these beggars grow!”
Go to, ye happy people! Go!
My yearning is as fierce as hate.
Must my heart break, that yours be glad?
Will your turn come at last, though late?
I will not knock, I will pass by;
My comrades wait,—the wind, the rain.
Comrades, we'll run a race to-night!
The stakes may not seem much to gain:
The goal is not marked plain in sight;
But, comrades, understand,—if I
Drop dead, 't will be a victory!
239
TO E. B.
At night, the stream came to the sea.
“Long leagues,” it cried, “this drop I bring,
O beauteous, boundless sea!
What is the meagre, paltry thing
In thine abundance unto thee?
No ripple, in thy smallest wave, of me
Will know! No thirst its suffering
Shall better slake for my surrendering
My life! O sea, in vain
My leagues of toil and pain!”
“Long leagues,” it cried, “this drop I bring,
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What is the meagre, paltry thing
In thine abundance unto thee?
No ripple, in thy smallest wave, of me
Will know! No thirst its suffering
Shall better slake for my surrendering
My life! O sea, in vain
My leagues of toil and pain!”
At night, wayfarers reached the sea.
“Long weary leagues we came,” they cried,
“O beauteous, boundless sea!
The swelling waves of thy swift tide
Break on the shores where souls are free:
Through lonely wildernesses, unto thee
One tiny stream has been our guide,
And in the desert we had died,
If its oases sweet
Had not refreshed our feet.”
“Long weary leagues we came,” they cried,
“O beauteous, boundless sea!
The swelling waves of thy swift tide
Break on the shores where souls are free:
Through lonely wildernesses, unto thee
One tiny stream has been our guide,
And in the desert we had died,
If its oases sweet
Had not refreshed our feet.”
O tiny stream, lost in the sea,
Close symbol of a lifetime's speech!
O beauteous, boundless sea,
Close fitting symbol of the reach
Of measureless Eternity!
Be glad, O stream, O sea, blest equally!
And thou whose words have helped to teach
Me this,—my unknown friend,—for each
Kind thought, warm thanks.
Only the stream can know
How at such words the long leagues lighter grow.
Close symbol of a lifetime's speech!
O beauteous, boundless sea,
Close fitting symbol of the reach
Of measureless Eternity!
Be glad, O stream, O sea, blest equally!
And thou whose words have helped to teach
Me this,—my unknown friend,—for each
Kind thought, warm thanks.
Only the stream can know
How at such words the long leagues lighter grow.
283
DIED.
Not by the death that kills the body. Nay,By that which even Christ bade us to fear
Hath died my dead.
Ah, me! if on a bier
I could but see him lifeless stretched to-day,
I 'd bathe his face with tears of joy, and lay
My cheek to his in anguish which were near
To ecstasy, if I could hold him dear
In death as life. Mere separations weigh
As dust in balances of love. The death
That kills comes only by dishonor. Vain
To chide me! vain! And weaker to implore,
O thou once loved so well, loved now no more!
There is no resurrection for such slain,
No miracle of God could give thee breath!
| Mercy Philbrick's Choice | |