The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal

‘Tempted and tried!’
Oh! the terrible tide
May be raging and deep, may be wrathful and wide!
Yet its fury is vain,
For the Lord shall restrain;
And for ever and ever Jehovah shall reign.

‘Tempted and tried!’
There is One at thy side,
And never in vain shall His children confide!
He shall save and defend,
For He loves to the end,
Adorable Master and glorious Friend!

‘Tempted and tried!’
Whate'er may betide,
In His secret pavilion His children shall hide!
'Neath the shadowing wing
Of Eternity's King
His children shall trust and His servants shall sing.

125

‘Tempted and tried!’
Yet the Lord shall abide
Thy faithful Redeemer, thy Keeper and Guide,
Thy Shield and thy Sword,
Thine exceeding Reward!
Then enough for the servant to be as his Lord!

‘Tempted and tried!’
The Saviour who died
Hath called thee to suffer and reign by His side.
His cross thou shalt bear,
And His crown thou shalt wear,
And for ever and ever His glory shalt share.

Not Forsaken.

[_]

(Answer to an extremely beautiful but utterly melancholy sonnet, entitled ‘Forsaken.’)

Oh, not forsaken! God gives better things
Than thou hast asked in thy forlornest hour.
Love's promises shall be fulfilled in power.
Not death, but life; not silence, but the strings
Of angel-harps; no deep, cold sea, but springs
Of living water; no dim, wearied sight,
Nor time- nor tear-mist, but the joy of light;
Not sleep, but rest that happy service brings;
And no forgotten name thy lot shall be
But God's remembrance. Thou canst never drift
Beyond His love. Would I could reach thee where
The shadows droop so heavily, and lift
The cold weight from thy life!—And if I care
For one unknown, oh, how much more doth He!

126

Listening in Darkness—Speaking in Light.

‘What I tell you in darkness, that speak ye in light.’— Matt. x. 27.

He hath spoken in the darkness,
In the silence of the night,
Spoken sweetly of the Father,
Words of life and love and light.
Floating through the sombre stillness
Came the loved and loving Voice,
Speaking peace and solemn gladness,
That His children might rejoice.
What He tells thee in the darkness,
Songs He giveth in the night—
Rise and speak it in the morning,
Rise and sing them in the light!

He hath spoken in the darkness,
In the silence of thy grief,
Sympathy so deep and tender,
Mighty for thy heart relief;
Speaking in thy night of sorrow
Words of comfort and of calm,
Gently on thy wounded spirit
Pouring true and healing balm.
What He tells thee in the darkness,
Weary watcher for the day,
Grateful lip and life should utter
When the shadows flee away.

He is speaking in the darkness,
Though thou canst not see His face,

127

More than angels ever needed,
Mercy, pardon, love, and grace.
Speaking of the many mansions,
Where, in safe and holy rest,
Thou shalt be with Him for ever,
Perfectly and always blest.
What He tells thee in the darkness,
Whispers through Time's lonely night,
Thou shalt speak in glorious praises,
In the everlasting light!

Evening Tears and Morning Songs.

‘Weeping may endure in the evening, but singing cometh in the morning.’ —Ps. xxx. 5 (Margin).

In the evening there is weeping,
Lengthening shadows, failing sight;
Silent darkness slowly creeping
Over all things dear and bright.

In the evening there is weeping,
Lasting all the twilight through;
Phantom shadows, never sleeping,
Wakening slumbers of the true.

In the morning cometh singing,
Cometh joy and cometh sight,
When the sun ariseth, bringing
Healing on his wings of light.

128

In the morning cometh singing,
Songs that ne'er in silence end,
Angel minstrels ever bringing
Praises new with thine to blend.

Are the twilight shadows casting
Heavy glooms upon thy heart?
Soon in radiance everlasting
Night for ever shall depart.

Art thou weeping, sad and lonely,
Through the evening of thy days?
All thy sighing shall be only
Prelude of more perfect praise.

Darkest hour is nearest dawning,
Solemn herald of the day;
Singing cometh in the morning,
God shall wipe thy tears away!

Peaceable Fruit.

‘Nevertheless, afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness.’ —Heb. xii. 11.

What shall Thine ‘afterward’ be, O Lord,
For this dark and suffering night?
Father, what shall Thine ‘afterward’ be?
Hast Thou a morning of joy for me,
And a new and joyous light?

129

What shall Thine ‘afterward’ be, O Lord,
For the moan that I cannot stay?
Shall it issue in some new song of praise,
Sweeter than sorrowless heart could raise,
When the night hath passed away?

What shall Thine ‘afterward’ be, O Lord,
For this helplessness of pain?
A clearer view of my home above,
Of my Father's strength and my Father's love?
Shall this be my lasting gain?

What shall Thine ‘afterward’ be, O Lord?
How long must Thy child endure?
Thou knowest! 'Tis well that I know it not!
Thine ‘afterward’ cometh, I cannot tell what,
But I know that Thy word is sure.

What shall Thine ‘afterward’ be, O Lord?
I wonder and wait to see,
(While to Thy chastening hand I bow,)
What ‘peaceable fruit’ may be ripening now,
Ripening fast for me!

Right!

SCENE I.

The summer sun was high and strong,
And dust was on the traveller's feet;
Oh, weary was the stage and long,
And burning was the early heat!

130

There was a pause. For Ernest stood
Upon the borders of a wood.
Between him and his home it lay,
Stretching in mystery away:
What might be there he could not tell
Of briery steep, or mossy dell,
Of bog or brake, of glen or glade,
All hidden by the dim green shade.

He had not passed that way before,
And wonderingly he waited now,
While mystic voices, o'er and o'er,
Soft whispered on from bough to bough.
Oh, was it only wind and trees
That made such gentle whisperings?
Or was it some sweet spirit breeze
That bore a message on its wings,
And bid the traveller that day
Go forward on his woodland way?

How should he know? He had no clue,
And more than one fair opening lay
Before him, where the broad boughs threw
Cool, restful shade across the way.
Which should he choose? He could not trace
The onward track by vision keen;
The drooping branches interlace,
Not far the winding paths are seen.
Oh for a sign! Were choice not right,
Was no return, for well he knew
The hours were short, and swift the night;
Once entered, he must hasten through.

131

For what hath been can never be
As if it had not been at all;
We gaze, but never more can we
Retrace one footstep's wavering fall.
Oh, how we need from day to day
A guiding Hand for all the way!
Oh, how we need from hour to hour
That faithful, ever-present Power!

Which should he choose? He pondered long,
And with the sounds of bird and bee
He blent an oft-repeated song,
A soft and suppliant melody:

‘Oh for a light from heaven,
Clear and divine,
Now on the paths before me
Brightly to shine!
Oh for a hand to beckon!
Oh for a voice to say,
“Follow in firm assurance—
This is the way!”

‘Listening to mingling voices,
Seeking a guiding hand,
Watching for light from heaven,
Waiting I stand;
Onward and homeward pressing,
Nothing my feet should stay,
Might I but plainly hear it,—
“This is the way!”’

132

Was it indeed an answer given,
That whisper through the tree-tops o'er him?
Was it indeed a light from heaven
That fell upon the path before him?
Or was it only that he met
The wayward playing of the breeze,
Parting the heavy boughs to let
The sunshine fall among the trees?
Again he listened—did it say,
‘This is the onward, homeward way?’
Perhaps it did. He would not wait,
But pressing towards a Mansion Gate
That, yet unseen, all surely stood
Beyond the untried, unknown wood,
And trusting that his prayer was heard,
Although he caught no answering word,
And gazing on with calm, clear eye
The straightest, surest path to spy
(Not seeking out the smooth and bright,
If he might only choose the right),
With hopeful heart and manly tread,
Into the forest depths he sped.

SCENE II.

Hours flit on, and the sunshine fails in the zenith of day;
Hours flit on, and the loud wind crashes and moans o'er the ridge;
Heavily beateth the strong rain, lashing the miry clay,
Hoarsely roareth the torrent under the quivering bridge.

133

Under the shivering pine-trees, over the slippery stone,
Over the rugged boulder, over the cold wet weed,
Ernest the traveller passeth, storm-beaten, weary and lone,
Only following faintly whither the path may lead.

Leading down to the valleys, dank in the shadow of death,
Leading on through the briers, poisonous, keen, and sore;
Leading up to the grim rocks, mounted with panting breath,
Only to gain a glimpse of sterner toil before.

Faint and wounded and bleeding, hungry, thirsty, and chill,
Hardly a step before him seen through the tangled brake,
Rougher and wilder the storm-blast, steeper the thorn-grown hill,
Brave heart and bright eye and strong limb, well may they quiver and ache!

Was it indeed the right way? Was it a God-led choice,
Followed in faith and patience, and chosen not for ease?
Was it a false, false gleam, and a mocking, mocking voice
That fell on the woodland pathway, and murmured among the trees?

Oh the dire mistake! fatal freedom to choose!
Had he but taken a fair path, sheltered, level, and straight,
Never a thorn to wound him, never a stone to bruise,
Leading safely and softly on to the Mansion Gate!

Was it the wail of a wind-harp, cadencing weird and long,
Pulsing under the pine-trees, dying to wake again?
Is it the voice of a brave heart striving to utter in song
Agony, prayer, and reliance, courage and wonder and pain?

134

‘Onward and homeward ever,
Battling with dark distress,
Faltering, but yielding never,
Still shall my faint feet press.
Why was no beckoning hand
Sent in my doubt and need?
Why did no true guide stand
Guiding me right indeed?
Why? They will tell me all
When I have reached the gate,
Where, in the shining hall,
Many my coming wait.

‘Oh the terrible night,
Falling without a star!
Darkness anear, but light—
Glorious light afar!
Oh the perilous way!
Oh the pitiless blast!
Long though I suffer and stray,
There will be rest at last.
Perhaps I have far to go,
Perhaps but a little way!
Well that I do not know!
Onward! I must not stay.

‘Splinter and thorn and brier
Yet may be sore and keen;
Rocks may be rougher and higher,
Hollows more chill between.
There may be torrents to cross,
Bridgeless, and fierce with foam;

135

Rest in the wild wood were loss,
There will be rest at home.
Battling with dark distress,
Faltering, but yielding never,
Still shall my faint feet press
Onward and homeward ever!’

Pulsing under the pine-trees, dying, dying,—and gone,—
Gone that Æolian cadence, silent the firm refrain;
Only the howl of the storm-wind rages cruelly on:
Has the traveller fallen, vanquished by toil and pain?

SCENE III.

Morning, morning on the mountains, golden-vestured, snowy-browed!
Morning light of clear resplendence, shining forth without a cloud;
Morning songs of jubilation, thrilling through the crystal air;
Morning joy upon all faces, new and radiant, pure and fair.

At the portals of the mansion, Ernest stands and gazes back.
There is light upon the river, light upon the forest track;
Light upon the darkest valley, light upon the sternest height;
Light upon the brake and bramble, everywhere that glorious light!

136

Strong and joyous stands the traveller, in the morning glory now,
Not a shade upon the brightness of the cool and peaceful brow;
Not a trace of weary faintness, not a touch of lingering pain,
Not a scar to wake the memory of the suffering hours again.

Onward by the winding pathway, many another journeyed fast,
Hastening to the princely mansion by the way that he had passed;
Spared the doubting and the erring by those footsteps bravely placed
In the clogging mire, or trampling on the wounding bramble-waste.

Some had followed close behind him, pressing to the self-same mark,
Cheered and guided by the refrain of that singer in the dark;
Some were near him in the tempest, while he thought himself alone,
And regained a long-lost pathway, following that beckoning tone.

Some who patiently, yet feebly, sought to reach that mansion too,
Caught the unseen singer's courage, battled on with vigour new;

137

Some, exhausted in the struggle, sunk in slumber chill and deep,
Started at that strange voice near them, rousing from their fatal sleep.

Now they meet and gather round him, and together enter in,
Where the rest is consummated and the joys of home begin,
Where the tempest cannot reach them, where the wanderings are past,
Where the sorrows of the journey not a single shadow cast.

Singing once in dismal forest, singing once in cruel storm,
Singing now at home in gladness in the sunshine bright and warm,
Once again the voice resoundeth, pouring forth a happy song,
While a chorus of rejoicing swells the sweet notes full and long:

‘Light after darkness,
Gain after loss,
Strength after suffering,
Crown after cross.
Sweet after bitter,
Song after sigh,
Home after wandering,
Praise after cry.

138

‘Sheaves after sowing,
Sun after rain,
Sight after mystery,
Peace after pain.
Joy after sorrow,
Calm after blast,
Rest after weariness,
Sweet rest at last.

‘Near after distant,
Gleam after gloom,
Love after loneliness,
Life after tomb.
After long agony,
Rapture of bliss!
Right was the pathway
Leading to this!’

The Col de Balm.

Sunshine and silence on the Col de Balm!
I stood above the mists, above the rush
Of all the torrents, when one marvellous hush
Filled God's great mountain temple, vast and calm,
With hallelujah light, a seen though silent psalm;—

Crossed with one discord, only one. For Love
Cried out, and would be heard: ‘If ye were here,
O friends, so far away and yet so near,
Then were the anthem perfect!’ And the cry
Threaded the concords of that Alpine harmony.

139

Not vain the same fond cry, if first I stand
Upon the mountain of our God, and long,
Even in the glory, and with His new song
Upon my lips, that you should come and share
The bliss of heaven, imperfect still till all are there.

Dear ones! shall it be mine to watch you come
Up from the shadows and the valley mist,
To tread the jacinth and the amethyst,
To rest and sing upon the stormless height,
In the deep calm of love and everlasting light?

‘Eye hath not Seen.’

‘You never write of heaven,
Though you write of heavenly themes;
You never paint the glory
But in reflected gleams!’
My pencil only pictures
What I have known and seen:
How can I tell the joys that dwell
Where I have never been?

I sing the songs of Zion,
But I would never dare
To imitate the chorus,
Like many waters, there.
I sketch the sunny landscape,
But can I paint the sun?
Can that by art, which human heart
Conceiveth not, be won?

140

The Laplander, that never
Hath left his flowerless snows,
Might make another realize
The fragrance of the rose:
The blind might teach his brother
Each subtle tint to know,
Of lovely lights and summer sights,
Of shadow and of glow.

To whom all sound is silence,
The dumb man might impart
The spirit-winging marvels
Of Handel's sacred art.
But never, sister, never
Was told by mortal breath
What they behold, o'er whom hath rolled
The one dark wave of death.

Yet angel-echoes reach us,
Borne on from star to star,
And glimpses of our purchased home,
Not always faint and far.
No harp seraphic brings them,
No poet's glowing word,
By One alone revealed and known—
The Spirit of the Lord.

Have we not bent in sadness
Before the mercy-seat,
And longed with speechless longing
To kiss the Master's feet?

141

And though for precious ointment
We had but tears to bring,
We let them flow, and could not go
Till we had seen our King.

Then came a flash of seeing
How every cloud should pass,
And vision should be perfect,
Undimmed by darkling glass.
The glory that excelleth
Shone out with sudden ray,
We seemed to stand so near ‘the land’
No longer ‘far away,’—

The glisten of the white robe,
The waving of the palm,
The ended sin and sorrow,
The sweet eternal calm,
The holy adoration
That perfect love shall bring,
And, face to face, in glorious grace,
The beauty of the King!

Oh, this is more than poem,
And more than the highest song;
A witness with our spirit,
Though hidden, full and strong.
'Tis no new revelation
Vouchsafed to saint or sage,
But light from God cast bright and broad
Upon the sacred page.

142

Our fairest dream can never
Outshine that holy light,
Our noblest thought can never soar
Beyond that word of might.
Our whole anticipation,
Our Master's best reward,
Our crown of bliss, is summed in this—
‘For ever with the Lord!’

University of Virginia Library

VI. Now and Afterward.

Now and Afterward.

‘Tempted and Tried!’