The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal

The Sabbath morn dawns o'er the mountain brow,
And lights the earth with glory soft and mild:
Oh, think'st thou, dearest mother, even now
Of me, thy youngest and most wayward child?

For this, my mother, is the sacred hour
When thou didst bid me ever think of thee:
Oh, surely nothing earthly could have power
To break the spell which hallows it to me.

Thy loving look, thy feeble voice, I seem,
Though years have passed, to see and hear again;
Not as the shadowy fancies of a dream,
But as distinct, as vivid now as then.

‘When in my Saviour's glorious home I dwell,
Forget not this my last request to thee:
When soundeth forth the early Sabbath bell,
Where'er thou art, my Fanny, think of me!’

Oh, why was this thy dying wish—thy last?
Thou would'st not think that I should e'er forget
My mother's love, that passing years might cast
A cloudy veil, where that bright star did set;

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Thou could'st not wish to wake the grief anew
Which Time's dark poppies might have lulled awhile;
'T was not that tear-drops might again bedew
My cheek for aye, and chase again each smile.

Oh no! were death an endless, joyless sleep,
Thou hadst not bid me on thy memory dwell;
This hour for thee thou hadst not bid me keep,
To grieve thy child, thou lovedst her too well.

But well thou knew'st I could not think of thee
Without remembering Him with whom thou art,
To whom thou oft didst pray so fervently
That I might give my wandering, wilful heart.

I must remember too the joyful faith
Which filled thy soul e'en in thy dying hour,
And led thee calmly through the vale of death;
There I must ever see its wondrous power.

I could not but fulfil thy last desire,
The last sweet echo of thy loving voice,
Calling my mind each Sabbath morning higher,
Where thou in endless Sabbath dost rejoice.

So if my heart should tempt me to forget
To watch and pray, and Jesu's love to seek,
This quiet hour might break for me the net,
And free my feet afresh each opening week.

Oft when I wavered, slipped, and nearly fell,
Yet stunned and giddy heeded not my fate,
The fatal charm was broken by that bell,
Thy memory oped my eyes ere yet too late.

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And oft when sad and hopeless seemed my way,
Its sweet sound told me of the victory
Which thy bright faith hath gained, and then a ray
Of hope hath whispered, ‘Such may be for thee.’

Oh, 'twas a mother's love which did devise
This gentle way of helping her child's soul;
Not on earth only, but from yon bright skies
To aid her steps towards the heavenly goal.

Oh, Thou who dwellest with Thy ransomed, where
The one long Sabbath ne'er may darkly close,
By Thy rich mercy grant this earliest prayer,
Which oft for me from her dear lips arose.

Bring me, oh, bring me to Thy house of light,
That there with my loved mother I may dwell,
And e'er rejoicing in Thy presence bright,
May praise Thy love, who doest all things well.

May Dirge.

I welcome not thy coming now,
For sorrow darkeneth my brow,
And but for glad hearts wakest thou,
Fair May.

When, years ago, thou dawnedst bright,
With thy first hours blest my sight
The fairest child that e'er saw light
Of May.

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She grew a gladder, blither thing
Than butterfly on purple wing,
Or happy birds which sweetly sing
In May.

'Twas she who brought my sunniest hours,
For she was lovelier than the flowers
Which bloom amid thy emerald bowers,
Bright May.

How oft, when grief had touched my heart,
She chased it with her fairy art;
Thy charms to her thou didst impart,
Glad May.

But oh! there is a treacherous smile,
Which Spring assumeth to beguile,
And many rue thy sunny wile,
False May.

A flush in her loved cheek arose,
More rich than ruby tint that glows
In western cloud when evenings close
In May.

Her dark eye brightly, strangely gleamed,
More beautiful than e'er she seemed;
Oh, who of evil nigh had dreamed
That May?

But when the snowdrop came again,
I saw that tenderest care was vain;
My Ella passed from all her pain
In May.

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That precious life no skill could save;
I laid her in a quiet grave,
Where now the snowy blossoms wave
Of May.

Once more they shed their sweet perfume,
As incense o'er my darling's tomb,
Though soon departs their fragile bloom
With May.

Thou hast my child! Thy sparkling dew
Is glittering on her grave anew;
Soon thou wilt deck her father's too,
O May!

I cannot live without her here,
For earth is desolate and drear,
E'en when thy morning shineth clear,
Blithe May.

To cheer me thou canst weave no spell,
Deep sadness in my heart doth dwell,
And I must bid my last farewell
To May.

Speed, speed thy slow return, for when
Once more thou comest, then, oh then,
I shall be with my child again,
Sweet May!

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To F. M. G. on her Brother's Death.

Stay not the current of thy tears, for they
Must flow, and 'tis a sad relief to weep
For one who, having brightened long the way,
Now lies in death's long sleep.

A brother's love! I know it is a treasure
Which may by nothing earthly be replaced;
I know that this filled up the bounteous measure
Of joy which thou didst taste.

I know that sadness fills thy youthful heart
E'en to o'erflowing; and it well may seem
That nought to thee remaineth but the smart;
Of happiness no gleam.

And Jesus knows it. Oh, He did not call
Thy brother from his loving sister's side
Without remembering thee, thy sorrows all;
He knows the heart He tried.

But He would have thee turn thy weeping eye
To gaze on Him, who suffered all for thee,
That the effulgence every tear may dry
Which beams from Calvary.

All earthly love is as a thread of gold,
Most fair, but what the touch of death may sever:
But His a cable sure, of strength untold:
Oh! His love lasteth ever.

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And this sweet love He would on thee bestow,
The fulness of His grace to thee make known,
A glimpse of heaven grant thee here below,
And thou shouldst be His own.

Thou wilt not sigh, if this one Pearl thou gain,
O'er earthly treasures, costly though they be.
Short is the night of weeping and of pain;
Endless the joy for thee!

Thy brother striketh now his harp of gold,
And singeth joyously his first ‘new song;’
The echo of his melody hath rolled
The aisles of heaven along.

He weareth raiment white, which angel hands
From the full vestry of the Lamb have brought;
With palm and crown, before His throne he stands
Who him by blood hath bought.

Gladness unspeakable his soul doth fill,
He hath forgotten pain, and grief, and sorrow;
Eternal bliss hath dawned on him, he will
See no woe-bringing morrow.

He might have passed through many a weary year
Of sickness, trouble, or perplexity,
And as an autumn leaf, all brown and sere,
Been shaken from the tree;

He might have forfeited the heavenly prize,
Had he lived longer on the Tempter's ground:
Then gaze no longer where his body lies
Beneath the new formed mound.

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Yes, look up from the scene of mourning, where
Nought but a dreary blank thine eyes can see:
Thou hast a brother now in heaven, and there
He waits to welcome thee!

Evelyn.

Dying? Evelyn, darling!
Dying? can it be?
Spring so joyous all around,
Such a spring, so early crowned,
Heralding all summer glee,
Life for everything but thee!
Evelyn, darling, dying?
Yet it is no phantom sound,
Though the word is haunting me;
Thou art lying
Now where life and death do meet,
Thorny path and golden street.
I thought I had no heart to write,
But the pencil near me lay,
Which has traced me many a day,
Dipped in colours dark or bright,
Lays I guessed would meet the sight
Of at least some loving eye,
And perchance be heard again,
Winning echoes far and nigh,
Touching chords of sympathy
In the weary souls of men.
And I took it in my hand,

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For it seemed to be relief,
After this long week of grief,
Just to let the thought expand,
And the word that haunted me
Just to write; though none shall see
What is written, only He
Who is gently leading thee,
Evelyn, darling, without fears,
Through the vale of death,—and me
Through the vale of tears.

All so calm;—a hazy veil
Falling on the golden west;
Silence, like a minstrel pale,
Preluding the Sabbath rest.
There is night before the dawn
Rise for us of Sabbath morn:
Is there any night for thee
Ere thine eyes the glory see?
Are the angels, bright and strong,
Bearing thy free soul away,
Teaching thee the glad new song,
On the grand star-paven way?
Art thou even now at rest,
Lying on the Saviour's breast?
Evelyn, darling, is it so?
Would, oh, would that I could know!
I can only wait in sorrow
For the tidings of the morrow.

Evelyn, darling, laid so low!
Only three short months ago

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Thou wert full of life and glee,
Round the laden Christmas tree;
Foremost in the carol-singing,
Fun and frolic gaily flinging.
Tallest, fairest of the troop,
Opening rose on slender stem,
Reigning 'mid the bright-eyed group,
Queen without a diadem;
In thy robe of snowy sheen,
Decked with silken emerald green.
Few there are who ever knew
Merrier holidays than thine,
Whether summer breezes blew,
Or the winter stars did shine.
Evelyn, darling, can it be,
Was that Christmas tree the last?
How believe it, that for thee
Christmas holidays are past!
And that summer leaves will wave,
And the Easter moon will shine,
Over the first household grave,
First,—and thine!

I am not praying,—prayer is hushed,
God's hand is laid upon my heart;
The earthly hope for ever crushed,
The heavenly answered, not in part,
But fully, perfectly! I prayed
For life, and He hath given the life
Which triumphs o'er the grave's cold shade;
For peace, and He hath ended strife
And spoken love. There have been tears

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And earnest pleadings through long years;
But He is faithful to His word,
I know at last that He has heard.
But not, oh not as I had thought
In ignorant and selfish love,
The Master calls,—she tarries not,
For He hath need of her above.
The lambs He gathers with His arm
No grief, no sin, no death can harm,
So safely folded on His breast,
For ever and for ever blest.
Could God Himself give more? His will
Is best, though we are weeping still.

Yet the old cry comes again,
Evelyn, darling, dying!
Is it true, or is it dreaming?
Is it only ghastly seeming
Of a sorrow far away,
Not to fall for many a day?
If I saw thee lying,
I might realize it so!
Last I saw thee in the glow
Of thy brightest health and bloom;
Was it only for the tomb?
Then the sorrow grows with this—
Not a word of fond good-bye,
Not one tender parting kiss,
Not one glance of loving eye!
Well I know it could not be!
God's appointed way for me
Was assuredly—‘Be still,

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Wait in silence for His will.’
Father, I have said Amen,
Said it often, now again!
Father, strengthen it and seal!
Let my weary spirit feel
I am very near to Thee,
For Thy hand is laid on me,—
Though the shadows gather deep,
Thou canst calm and aid and keep.

Father, where the shadows fall
Deeper yet, deepest of all,
Send Thy peace, and show Thy power
In affliction's direst hour;
To each mourning heart draw near,
Soothe and bless, sustain and cheer.
Thou wilt hear, I know not how!
Thou canst help, ‘and only Thou.’
This my prayer I leave with Thee.
Father! hear and answer me
For the sake of Him who knows
All our love and all our woes.

Starlight through the Shadows.

I.

Thy dear one is with jesus now!
Seeing Him face to face,
Gazing upon His own belovèd brow,
Watching His smile of grace;
Hearing the Master's voice in all its sweetness,
Knowing Him now in all His own completeness;

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With Jesus now, with Him for ever!
Never to leave Him—grieve Him never!
Could God Himself give more? His will
Is best, though we are weeping still.

II.

He knows!
Yes, Jesus knows! just what you cannot tell
He understands so well!
The silence of the heart is heard,
He does not need a single word,
He thinks of you;
He watcheth, and He careth too,
He pitieth, He loveth! All this flows
In one sweet word: ‘He knows!’

III.

There shall be no more pain! Not any more!
All weariness, all faint exhaustion o'er,
No quivering nerve, no aching unconfessed,
No memory of misery to cast
One shadow from the past
Upon the unshadowed splendour of His rest!
Beloved! God is leading thee to this,
Preparing thee for thy preparing bliss.

IV.

When thou passest through the waters,
I will be with thee!
Sure and sweet and all-sufficient
Shall His Presence be.

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All God's billows overwhelmed Him
In the great Atoning Day;
Now He only leads thee through them,
With thee all the way.

In Loyal and Loving Remembrance of H.R.H. the Princess Alice.

Two nations mourn! The same great grief is known
By human hearts on either side the sea,
Mourning with those who yet must mourn alone
Upon the silent height where only He
Can come and whisper comfort, who hath worn
The lonely diadem of cruel thorn.

Mourning for her whose royal love hath shown
Secrets of comfort in the darkest days;
Who, like her Master, stooping from a throne
The suffering or the lost could heal or raise;
Leaving, like Him, example pure and bright,
For court or cottage home a starry light.

Two nations mourn; a hand from each would lay
Fair flowers and simple verse upon her tomb to-day.

Written to accompany a memorial wreath of white roses and palm leaves, painted by the Baroness Helga von Cramm.

University of Virginia Library

In Memoriam.

My Mother's Request.

(SUNDAY MORNING, 8 O'CLOCK.)