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 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
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.
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.
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.
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!
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?
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!
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?
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.
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.
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;
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!’
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
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?
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?
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |