Memorials of Theophilus Trinal, Student :: :: University of Virginia Library

Dark with unutter'd Thought and Love,
Oft is the heart a clouded sky;
Come rains of speech, and then above
Hope shows its bright infinity:
Then fall the showers on the earth,
Then fall the showers on the sea;
Aiding in Use' and Beauty's birth,
Lost in the dark immensity.

So, Heaven above thee is the lighter,
O Book! if honour'd thou to yield
Such drops as shall make earth the brighter,
By help to thirsting flower and field;
Such drops as like a shower may fall
Into Truth's oceanic All:
And thus wilt thou the bounties of the Main,
By work and reverence, return again.

PRELUDE OF POEMS.

[RESEMBLANCES.]

Like the stars that show their grouping
When the Dusk subdues the Day,
Are the Truths that shine together
When Thought has quiet sway.

Like the sunshine on the waters,
Like the light within the dew,
To our Heart and to our Hoping
Is an old truth utter'd new.

Like the rich and heavy bunches,
Like the bright and strengthening wine,
Are the weighty words of Wisdom,
And the Poet's loving line.

And the Powers that play in Fancy
Can a holy earnest show,
As the colours of the Bubble
Shine serenely in the Bow.

[BEAN-BLOSSOM.]

Oh, sweetest flower of darkest spot,
Bean-blossom, favourite of the fields,
The heart that solemn sorrow shades,
Like thee the richest fragrance yields.

Bean-blossom, private to the bee,
But public on the summer wind;
The heart whose hidden store is most,
Has freest gift for all mankind.

Bean-blossom, dying, thou wilt leave
A legacy of wholesome food;
So, tender, thoughtful hearts bequeath
A wisdom plain, for daily good.

[THREE CROWNS.]

Thought and Sorrow are akin,
Of Sorrow, Sanctity is born:
Sanctity outcasteth Sin,
Welcome Hope it bringeth in,
Crown'd with blossoming thorn.

Musing, I grieved at close of day,
Grieved, and my soul would purify:
I stood till golden clouds were grey,
Hills melted into mist away,
Alone with stars was I.

“Draw near, and I will nearer draw,”
Thus hath He spoke, I said, and wept:
I felt the glory that I saw,
I felt the ancient love and awe;
The promise: it was kept.

With flowers upon a bleeding brow,
Hope at morning came to me:
Sweet tender Hope, unknown till now:
O Hope! the thorn has bloom'd, and thou
Comest, and strength with thee.

Thorn without flowers; flowers on the thorn;
Then thornless everlasting bloom.
Three crowns: the first when Faith hath worn,
And Hope, the next, with brow still torn,
Love shall the last assume.

[CHILDREN.]

While little boys, with merry noise,
In the meadows shout and run;
And little girls—sweet woman-buds—
Brightly open in the Sun;
I may not of the world despair.
Our God despaireth not, I see,
For blithesomer in Eden's air
These lads and maidens could not be.

Why were they born, if hope must die?
Wherefore this health, if truth shall fail?
And why such joy, if misery
Is conquering us, and must prevail?
Arouse! our spirit may not droop,
These young ones fresh from heaven are;
Our God hath sent another troop,
And means to carry on the war.

CHAPTER I.

MAN AND THE BIRD.

Oh! what would it avail to have
The heart of bird, without his wing?
It were a woe to view the height,
Yet powerless be to rise and sing.

And what were it a wing to have,
Without an eye far-seeing, bright?
The spaciousness of ample heaven
Were but a prison, without light.

And what, without the heart of bird,
Were it to have both wing and eye?
The love must be as is the life,
To use its powers rejoicingly.

Truth for the bird his eye discerns;
By birdly hope his wing is strong;
And full delight in birdly good,
Makes utterance for itself in song.

Man hath a large unresting heart—
His good he is pursuing still;
And reason is his wondrous eye—
His mighty wing, it is his will.

Like down by lightest breezes stirr'd
Would be his heart, if he were blind;
But, reason-guided, he can soar,
And free-adventuring breast the wind.

And though the heart may prisoner seem,
When man is weak for flight and song;
Yet soon aloft on rested wing
He sweeps exultingly along.

Self-active, wisely, and in love,
Man greater grows, already great;
His heart will swell, his wing expand,
His eye will brighten and dilate.

But vain alike were wing and eye,
Could eye and wing be found alone;
What is it but the heart of love
That differences man and stone?

Of thinking, acting, loving, vain
Were any two without the third;
But by the union of the three
Man soareth heavenward, like the bird.

THOUGHTS.

How comes a Thought?—
Even as the dew,
Which falls not in a visible drop,
But the still night through
Gathers upon the flower-cup,
Life to renew.

How unfolds a Thought?—
As a bud of spring,
Which in itself contains a branch,
Leaf, and blossoming—
A bough on which a happy bird
May rest and sing.

How abides a Thought?—
As a heavenly star,
Which seen by us, but not controll'd,
Burns in its sphere;
Veil'd often, but by passing clouds,
Our own eye near.

Hath a Thought a voice?—
As sweet as bird,
Whose melody, in a dusky wood
With wind unstirr'd,
Spreading, like brightness from a lamp,
All around is heard.

Will a Thought leave us?—
Even as the moon,
Which from fullest beauty failing,
For a while is gone—
To come again in softest light,
Surely and soon.

Doth Thought propagate?—
Like polyp of the sea,
Fashion'd of buds into a form
Of strangest beauty;
Each bud in stillness opens—each
May parent be.

What power has a Thought?—
The power of an eye,
Whose expression the soul changes,
As the sun the sky;
There are sudden lights, a slow dawn,
Shadows that fly.

Can a Thought be lost?—
Lost but as rain,
Some of which falls on a lily
Without a stain;
While some anew, dispersed in air,
Will fall again.

What is Thought to life?—
As air to a tree,
Which, through summer and through winter,
Works invisibly;
Building up the trunk and branches
With solidity.

ON MEDITATION.

I saw a cloud
Passing the moon;
It brighten'd and it darken'd,
And vanish'd soon.

It came on my sight
From the southern heaven;
By one wind into light
And into darkness driven.

Dimly from the deep
It uprose on high;
Then it shone far and wide,
Then it melted in the sky.

Thus it is that man
Comes to wisdom's noon;
Brightening as this cloud,
He vanishes as soon.

His beauty is upon him
While light is given;
Swiftly forward is he speeded
By the breath of heaven.

From darkness of the deep
He comes forth on high;
Then in silence he departs—
But it is into the sky.

CHAPTER II.

HYMN AT EVENING.

I sat at evening in the shade,
A Bible on my knee;
Still heaven beautiful above,
Cool air around me free.

And thoughts upon my spirit moved,
Stirr'd by the evening's charm,
Softly as clouds that floated by
Upon the heaven calm.

And turning Godward, every thought
Found beauty and a rest,
As grey clouds sunward travelling
Grow golden in the west.

Then like the Maker seem'd His work,
So beautiful, so strong;
As grand as old eternity—
Pure as a maiden young.

Man's early love, the earth and heavens,
Has charms that cannot tire;
Beauty in movement and in rest—
What change would we desire?

Oh! who is he would wish the stars
New-scatter'd in the sky—
No more Orion and the Bear
On winter night to spy?

Who would new vest the green-robed earth,
Or crave of Heaven, as boon,
A bluer sky, a brighter sun,
Or a serener moon?

While tiny-handed little ones
Are fashioning a bower,
Age with his sorrow-whiten'd head
Stoops to a budding flower.

Then said my heart, “This word of Christ,
The word of love and truth,
Is fresh and sweet to young and old,
For in itself is youth.

The story is a deep-cupp'd flower,
Of richest inward dye;
The truths are as the midnight stars,
That speak immensity;

And He, an ever-beaming sun,
Whose beauty and whose might,
Red-rising from its cloudy dawn,
Makes a creation bright.

So, Lord, Thy Word, even as Thy work,
We love until we die;
And added truth and wonder fresh
Thou wilt disclose on high.”

CHAPTER III.

[Again I wake]

Again I wake,
O living One! in Thee
Newly I am, and move:
Wilt Thou not make
My heart a garden be,
Thy presence unto me
Soft, sunny air of love?

Forth shall I go,
Pursuing without fear
My work of life begun;
If Thee I know
As great, yet very dear,
Far off, but very near,
A sunshine, and a Sun.

SUNSHINE.

At sunny morning, when the eye
Is on a plant directed,
Not only from each bloom and leaf
A soft light is reflected;
The space between the eye and flower
The sunshine seems to fill,
As if the light a water were,
Lying very clear and still.

The form-full world so various,
In light-full air reposes,
And in the fresh-flowing sunshine bathed,
Each form its grace discloses;
And thus the wonder-world of Truth
Its myriad forms doth show,
When fresh its fairer light of Love
From God its sun doth flow.

Our thought it is the air; and when
Our mind its eye directeth,
At dawn of love, upon some truth,
What soft light it reflecteth!
And not alone the truth we see,
In fairness doth appear,
But Love which brightens, shows itself
All sunny-rich, and clear.

THOUGH TRANSIENT, NOT VAIN.

At early morning, on a flower
A dewdrop rested, large and cool;
The sun arose, and in an hour
The blossom open'd fair and full:
But the dewdrop, child of dawn and night,
Erewhile rejoicing in the light,
Already it had vanish'd quite.

At early morning, on a heart
Joy rested, pure, and fresh, and still;
The world awoke, and part by part
Unfolded strength, and thought, and will:

But the joy, the child of night and dawn,
One hour but pass'd since it was born,
Brief-lived, it had already gone.

But the noon came, and heart and flower
Fronted the light, each strong and fair,
Nor dew nor joy in one short hour
Breathed forth a vain life to the air;
From each an offering rose to heaven,
By each true nourishment was given,
And thus both man and plant have thriven.

THE SKY OF OUR HEART.

Oh! how soft and exquisite,
On a morning vapoury,
When the weather clears
After long, dark rain,
Is the blue behind the white
And delicate mist-drapery,
In which the sky appears
Attired again;
And cloud-robed heaven in the windiness
Shows like a lady beautiful in her undress!

It is the rain the heaven clears;
Then the pure blue, pale
Or deep, in glimpse is seen
The clouds above:
So the heart is brighter for its tears,
And return of peace we hail,
Showing as if between
Words of hope and love:
Then how beautiful the spirit is in this undress—
The mild heart-utterance of uncarefulness!

DEPENDENCE.

Is there a lily or a thought
That in thy heart or garden grows?
By patient carefulness and skill
Each into beauty rose;
But alike the lily and the thought
Has life, that from the Maker flows.

Knowest thou not that dim and bare
Thy spirit garden may become;
And for the sun-loved summer bright,
With peacefulness and bloom,
Be darkening and heavy mists,
Winter rigidity and gloom?

Know also that creating God
Rules every life as every land;
A spirit-energizing power
Goes forth at his command;
That thought may bloom, desire breathe,
Delight as opening heaven stand.

When pass thy Joys as summer flowers,
Thy Being endures as winter tree,
Which sleeps disrobed, dreaming of growth,
That shall enlarged be,
When Time, the low-fallen winter sun,
Ascends again revivingly.

CHANGE.

Loud winds bluster,
The long rains fall;
Yet ripen'd fruits will cluster
Upon tree and wall;
For wind and darkness passing,
Come flowers and perfume;
And in peace and light that follow
Open foliage and bloom;
Then the corn to full ear, fruit to ripeness,
In order due shall come.

Gusts howl and sweep,
The bitter waters foam;
Yet the mariners on the deep
Shall rest in their home;
For the blue of ocean and of air
Will both again be bright,
And waves and stars will sparkle
In the cool, still night;
And steady winds blowing,
Bring the shore in sight.

Big clouds darken,
The lightnings shoot;
Yet again shall we hearken
To the birds' glad note;
For the heavy drops fallen,
The hidden sun will beam;

The clouds will melt and vanish,
The golden light will stream,
And the freshen'd earth with fragrance
And melody will teem.

All change changing,
Works and brings good;
And though frequent storms, ranging,
Carry fire and flood;
And the growing corn is beaten down,
The young fruits fall and moulder,
The vessels reel, the mariners drown,
Awing the beholder;
Yet in evil to men is good for man,
Then let our heart be bolder;
For more and more shall appear the plan,
As the world and we grow older.

THE FUTURE.

Founded upon the cloudy dark,
God builds a palace bright,
And many watching spirits mark
Its progress with delight:

But thinnest mists of curtaining Time
Conceal from man the sight;
Although the lofty pillars are
Of coruscating light:
So many and so fair as those
That fill the northern night,
Upstretching from the horizon's verge
Even to the zenith's height:
And this shall be the home of man,
When it is finish'd quite,
If that he now endure and work,
So spending life aright.

CHAPTER IV.

POOR, YET POSSESSING.

Thy garden may seem poor and small,
Of flowers scanty the supply;
But go and gather them, and then
The blossom-bunch shows handsomely.
Sweet and many are they found,
These the products of thy ground.

Thoughts and fancies that arise
Beautiful and true;
Actions serviceable, kind,
In our power to do;
Gifts and mercies we receive
May scanty seem and few;
But, gathering them, we find
Something we have and something are.
Poor they look dispersed;
Cluster'd, very fair.
And this wealth we may increase
By diligence and care.
Hope is born of thankfulness;
But of palsying despair
Thou the ready victim art,
Viewing good things but apart.

[Thoughts of work without attempting]

Thoughts of work without attempting
Bring moodiness and despair;
For a man may swim in the waters,
But he cannot swim in air.

TRUST.

The truth that thou dost Feel to-day,
Thou mayest only Know to-morrow;
Love with thy joy may pass away,
And doubt may come with sorrow.

Then thou with Truth affronted art;
Yet wilt thou say, when sorrows heal,
From confidence why did I part?—
Behold, again I Feel!

Then loving much, as one forgiven,
Thou believest Truth, thy present friend;
Saying, I will serve and trust thee even
Until my life shall end.

But thou in change again wilt fail—
Doubting again, and angry be;
Then comforted, thy fault bewail
In sad humility.

More is thy friend than what he gives,
Though by his gift his heart he proves;
And thou must learn, The absent lives,
And unforgetting loves.

In confidence hold on thy way,
Patient endure the allotted sorrow;
The truth is Known to thee to-day—
It will be Felt to-morrow.

WISDOM.

I sigh,
And while I am musing—
Wishing, but not choosing—
The hours pass by.

Time! Time!
Why is life so brief?
The world is a tree,
Man but a leaf,
So the world flourishes—
But man dies.

Time heard me as he pass'd,
And his deep, quiet eye
Abash'd me when he spoke,
Moving gravely by:

“For culture, not waste,
Each life is born;
But hours pass alike
Over sands and corn.”

But I replied:
Why is good denied?
Thou, Time, art unkind;
The world not to my mind,
And gusty fortune brings vexations
Like sleet on a winter wind.
Then he said with a smile:
“How doth folly beguile!

“Even the little fishes,
That sport by the river-side,
Must have their wishes
Sometimes ungratified;
When the ripple above them darkens
As the sun doth hide,
Great Nature's disregard of them
May touch their pride;—
Why must a little fish
Of sunbeams be denied?”

But said I: Life passes
As we ask, How spend it?
And, before we can determine,
We perhaps must end it.

But Time replied, compassionate,
As he is old and grey:
“A minute may be the entrance Gate
Of a Path to wisdom's Way.’

And I said:
I repent
Of folly and discontent;
I will turn to-day.
Then deep and soft as Sabbath chime,
Fell on my ears these words of Time:

“Change is hopefully begun
When something is in heart-truth done.
Musing only, all is dark;
Act, and you will strike a spark;
From the spark a taper light;
Soon a lamp is burning bright.
In every spark is power of fire;
Another strike, if one expire.

“In love the Maker made each man—
In love for all devised His plan;
But the wisdom of His love
Is the creature's thought above.
Though thy heart, the reasons shown
Which have satisfied his own,
Darkest methods of that love
Would adoringly approve.

“Oft Event thou wilt not tell,
When Duty yet thou knowest well;
Finding oft thy will, though free,
Like striving ship upon the sea.

But the wind of stormiest hour
Is a wisdom-guided power;
And for that in heart-truth done,
God doth care—not thou alone.

“A stedfast star, serene and high,
A torch that flares unsteadily,
Are the human will, the will Divine—
A thought of God's, a thought of thine:
As a cloud that dims the day,
Evil for a while hath sway;
But the bright, undarkening sun
Ever hath the victory won.

“Labours will thy spirit bless
With daily bread of cheerfulness;
Failures will reveal to thee
God's powers of recovery—
From dark necessity shall rise
The life-tree of thy Paradise;
For the black, uncomely root
Hath power of beauty and of fruit.

“Endure, believing on the Son—
He the Father's heart hath shown;
Then, as swallow in the dark,
Still thou journeyest to a mark;
Light alone may prove the key,
When darkness makes the mystery.
Living is a mingled dream;
Dying is the morning beam.

“Since of present things the love
Hath been given thee from above,
The sensuous let thy spirit have
As a body, not a grave;
Worldly thoughts and joys should be
As rivers running to the sea—
Not as rivulets lost in sand,
Which begin and end on land.”

CHAPTER V.

[The young they laugh: Laughs not the sky?]

The young they laugh: Laughs not the sky?
The winds they laugh as they pass by;
The sun he laughs; and nature's face
Beams with a joyous, laughing grace.
Yes, laughing; ever she renews
Her verdant fields, her morning dews;
Is ever young—the same to-day
As ages past; and when away
From earth to heaven we are gone,
Our dust beneath the turf or stone,
The moon will smile, the dews distil,
Dance to the winds the flowers will;
And round our grave the kindly spring
Will the cheerful daisies bring.

WISDOM.

A mellow wisdom is an autumn sky,
The blue of which is very pure and pale,
While oft the clouds, rainful and golden rich,
Follow the course of the leaf-strewing gale,
Or of shadowy moon-white, builded loftily
Like ships, away into the dimness sail.

For wisdom hath a pure, unsensual love;
Calm sees the wreck of fading loveliness.

From heart-illumined thoughts its sweetness melts,
For future strength and fairness earth to bless;
While thoughts, dream-beautiful and stately, move
New joy in sky-havens distant to possess.

GIRL'S EVENING WISH AND SONG.

I would that I might sit
On that white cloud yonder;
The sunset light around me,
And the darkening earth under;

A star quite near me,
The tree-tops far away:
I would kindly look on all the world,
And for all would pray.

For my heart would larger grow,
Like the sun in setting;
And my love—its light—would softer be
Every moment getting.

I would wait till the moon-rise
Should new beauty bring,
And then in the lonely air
Thus aloud would sing:—

Oh! the moon in the sky,
With her deep, quiet eye,
She gazes fixedly,
Down, down.

For Noah in his ark
She lighted the dark,
And did quietly mark
The world drown.

On the pale-faced dead
Was her pale light shed,
As around they floated
On the muddy water.

All the trouble that has been
Has the pale moon seen;
And well may we ween
It has pity taught her.

While the world sleeps under,
And the old seas thunder,
Full of love and wonder
Is her serious face.

And whether her beams come
To a night-mantled home,
Or a ship amid the foam,
They fall, like a blessing, in every place.

Moon! when our heart is as the sun,
Fair, like to thee, our thought we find;
Thou shinest seeing the hidden one—
His mellow'd beam thy lustre kind.
And what is contemplation calm?
Is it not heart-light from the mind!

[Many hours wet and dull]

Many hours wet and dull
Bring on an hour beautiful.
This winter day in darkness rose,
Yet hath it beauty at its close.
Fairest colours now we see,
Because the rains fell heavily.
And thus it is that present gloom
Prepares a beauty that shall come—
Beauty which, in one bright hour,
Of long dark countervails the power.
Soon stirrings of delight begin,
And back its peace the heart doth win.
Thus, too, a life's rain-troubled day
May glorious grow in its decay;
Familiar earth, now partly hidden,
Partly reveal'd the higher heaven—
Of sorrow and of care the traces
An evening loveliness effaces;
And as the full-starr'd darkness nears,
The twilight calmest beauty wears.
Soft grows the heart, because it sadden'd,
And with a hope in joy is gladden'd;
For hope within a joy hath place,
As star within a skyey space;
And hope as star, to heart as eye,
Beams from a far reality.

Now, gradual, earth withdraws from view,
As fades a bloom each evening hue
Dims, but to reveal on high
A lofty templed majesty.
In love, and with a calm delight,
We meet the still and solemn night.

EVENING.

Trees grow dark against the sky,
Darkly runs the river by,
Mists upon the meadows lie.

Half seen the cattle browse or rest,
The lark has fallen to his nest,
Cloudy curtains fold the west.

Above, along the unfurrow'd deep,
Racks of clouds slowly sweep,
New-born stars begin to peep.

The fragrant haystack, high and wide,
Finish'd is—the men with pride
Descend the ladder by the side.

The pony views with eye askance
The man with stealthy steps advance,
Fearing lest he begin to prance.

The bird now houses in the thatch,
Many a hand is on the latch,
And dogs begin their nightly watch.

Gnats unseen near us hum,
Bats like timid spectres come,
Black-bodied beetles boom.

Fish within their margin pool,
Of flowing river-water full,
Floating rest, asleep and cool.

A shutting gate, voices clear,
Then a heavy tread we hear,
Then a light foot passing near.

Now day is dead, and dews weep,
Sable shadows round us creep;
And the night is queen, her empire sleep.

105

MODULATIONS.

My God, I love the world,
I love it well—
Its wonder, and fairness, and delight—
More than my tongue can tell;
And ever in my heart, like morning clouds,
New earth-loves rise and swell.

Lilies I love, and stars,
Dewdrops, and the great sea;
Colour, and form, and sound,
Combining variously;
The rush of the wind, and the overhanging vast—
Voiceless immensity.

Thou world-creator art,
World-lover too;
In delight didst found the deep,
In delight uprear the blue;
And with an infinite love and carefulness
The wide earth furnish through.

My God, I am afraid of Thee, I am afraid—
Thou art so silent, and so terrible;
And oft I muse upon Thee in the deep night dead,
Listening as for a voice that shall my spirit tell,
To be of comfort and of courage, for that all is well.

106

Of thoughts uncounted as the stars,
Which burn undimm'd from old eternity,
Oh, everlasting God!
Thy Spirit is a sky—
A brighten'd dark, enrounding every world
With stillness of serenest majesty:
Fit several forms of the same splendour
Thou to beholding worlds dost render,
In starry wonder of a thousand skies,
Beheld by creature-eyes:
Who in the glorious part have symbol bright
Of the uncomprehended Infinite.

But if as the great dark art Thou, unknown,
Thou, God reveal'd, art as the sweet noon blue;
Soft canopying mercy in the Christ is shown,
And the azure of His love Thy face beams through,
Looking forth, like the sun, to comfort and to bless,
And with beauty over-lighting the rough wilderness.

107

CHAPTER VI.

[The butterfly hides, the snail homes in his shell]

The butterfly hides, the snail homes in his shell,
And closed is the eye of the bright pimpernel,

108

[Oft on sunny days espying]

Oft on sunny days espying,
On the nurse or mother's arm,
A draperied babe serenely lying
Bosom-shelter'd, warm;
Half in smiles, and half in sighing,
I bless the babe from harm.

This dimpled, innocent beginner,
Who hath yet no evil done,
And of tenderest smiles the winner,
Hath no sorrow known;
Like the rest will prove a sinner,
Boy or maiden grown.

110

THE MOTHER.

A babe doth rest upon her breast,
It is her latest bloom;
A hidden bud she cherisheth,
That soon to light will come.

And lovely is the open flower,
Freshly sweet and fair;
And wondrous is the forming bud,
Warm-shrouded from the air.

Dear as to Eve the stainless blooms
Of Eden's central tree,
Are, Mother! to thy heart the babes
That blossom forth from thee.

The clustering valley-lilies white
Have soft broad leaves above;
And safely grow the innocents,
Shielded by mother's love.

117

THE SAILOR AND HIS MOTHER.

A widow mother had a lad,
Now sixteen years was he;
And nothing would content his heart,
But he must go to sea.
Then said the widow, “God is great
Upon both sea and land;
And sailor people he must have,
And lives are in his hand.”

So, with many thoughts of waves and rocks,
She put a Bible in his box;
And as he took the key,
She gave him in her tears a kiss,
Saying, “William, when you read in this,
You'll often think of me.”

To comfort her at home were left
Two daughters and a son:
She loved them much, but often thought
About her sailor one.
Sometimes she said, “He's surely lost,”
When soon a letter came by post,
With William's writing on;
And as they all the letter read,
The widow raised her eyes and said,
“How very thankful we should be
To hear good news from one at sea!”

118

Sometimes, with hope that all was well,
There came a curious bird or shell
From some far place at sea;
Sometimes a letter money bore—
He sent it, wishing it was more,
To help the family;
And then around the times would come
When he left his ship to visit home,
With his mother dear to be:
And when she saw him tall and strong,
The widow thought no more how long
She had waited patiently;
But she said, “How quickly time has flown!
And William, boy, how much you've grown
Since first you went to sea!”

Now his brother James, the carpenter,
Was rising by degrees,
And both the sisters married were,
With little families—
When home came William with a wife;
Born far away was she;
Her accent foreign, dark her face;
She had a woman's truth and grace,
And loved him tenderly.
And he kiss'd her, and call'd her “Dearest life!”
And said, “Mother, she has shared with me
In many perils of the sea.”

The pitying mother hears a tale
Of dangers on the sea;
How dark the night, how strong the gale,
How nearly drown'd was he:

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And then she says, “God bless thee, lad!
It makes my old heart very glad
Your face once more to see.”

The widow now was growing grey—
Warm-hearted still was she;
And William's wife she often told
How good a son was he.
And then she said, “This weary head
Soon in its rest will be.”

And sickness came, and death drew near;
And once, when all around her were,
As William from the Scripture read,
She on the pillow raised her head,
Saying, “William, give it me.”
Then in her trembling hand she took
An old and well-worn little book;
And said, with a tear, “Why, William, this
Is the Bible I gave you with my kiss
When first you went to sea.”

Soon William stood by his mother's grave,
His tears as salt as any wave,
His breast heaved like the sea;
And the years of voyage he had known,
Came all at once, not one by one,
Back to his memory.

Then sadly home to his wife he went,
And, with head upon her bosom bent,
He said, “Oh, never was a man—
No, never since the world began—

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With a better mother blest!”
And she answer'd, with her tenderest kiss,
“It is true, it is true, I know it is;
But William, dearest, think of this—
She's quietly at rest.”

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THE VINE.

Prune ye the vine, and carefully
Despoil it of its leafy show;
More rich and full the streams of life
Will to the enlarging clusters flow;
And as the days to autumn darken,
Into ripeness these will darken too.

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But curse not the luxuriance,
The leafiness of early spring:
In power of leaf is power of life,
And when to swell the grapes begin.
Each leaf will from the rains and air,
Material for sweetness win.

Early within the leafy shades,
The uncolour'd, modest flowers appear;
From far, unscented and unseen,
Of delicate, sweet fragrance near,
And deck'd for the wise examining eye,
In organic orderliness fair.

A vine-blossom is an early love,
An early thought or purpose good:
Mid leafy screens of common hours
It grows unmark'd in solitude,
Fragrant and fair, though unobserved,
And of rich fruits the cluster-bud.

And in the years and months of Life,
That branching vine, with ragged bark,
The ripe expansion of the fruit,
In utterances and deeds we mark,
As large, and sweet, and numerous,
As grapes of rounded beauty dark.

The wise, the young heart's leafiness
Will prune with care, not angrily;
Note indications half-reveal'd
Of what and where the fruit will be;
See miniature grapes in cluster-buds,
From the fragrance learn their quality.

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CHAPTER VII.

133

THE FIVE FLOWERS.

“Look, love, on your bosom
Are flowers five;
But one has droop'd its head—
Four alone live.”

“So, late, in our nursery
Were children five:
One rests in grassy darkness—
Four alone live.”

“Your four flowers bloom freshly, love;
The fifth, not as they—
Its colour, and form, and odour,
Have passed away.
Take, then, from your bosom
The withered one:
Can the air now nourish it?
Can it feel the sun?”

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“I have bound the five together
With a fresh willow leaf,
That grew large by a river,
As by flowing love, grief;
And they all will fall asunder
If I loose the tie;
So a love-clasp for living babes
Is a dead one's memory.”

“Let the five flowers in your bosom, love,
Its sweet shelter share;
As bound in one, within your heart,
Our five darlings are.
The dead make the living dearer;
And we will joy the more,
That the Giver, who has taken one,
Has left us four.”

137

THE WORLD.

Without hills around,
Cannot be valley found
Solitary and still;
To inclose valleys low,

138

Must rise many a hill;
On which winds blow,
Whence streams flow,
Pure and free;
And often will the hill-tops brighten'd be.

Can there then be one
Valley alone
Named “Valley of Tears;”
Round which solitary
No hill uprears;
Towards heaven high,
Clothed with beauty,
Having wind and streams:
And peaks cloud-haunted from which sun-light beams?

Many hills of Hope,
With weather-fronting top,
Around this valley are;
Having slope and steep,
Spaces flower'd and bare;
Climb, do not weep,
Nor for ease of pain sleep;
When mounted high,
Lands beyond beautiful thou shalt descry,
And the valley will seem sacred to the down-gazing eye.

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TRUTH.

Upon a lake broad and still,
Beneath a summer sky,
Tones of music
Are sounding cheerfully;
Many hearts are glad,
Praising the melody;
Many vessels
Sweep on peacefully.

Clouds of gloom up-gather
In the darkening air;
Battling wind and thunders
Fill the broad heavens fair.
Fearfully roll the waters—
None for music care;
Can melodies still terror?
Soothe despair?

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See man to Truth's voice listening
As to music on still lakes;
Most rich, most various
The melodies it makes:
In the vessel of his spirit
Each sail gently shakes;
All the joy and hope within him
Into full life wakes.

But the quiet time-breeze changing,
Becomes a furious wind;
Gathering mist and darkness
Shadow all his mind.
Danger's lightnings glare upon him—
He is deaf, is blind;
Let the music cease; his agony,
Can it comfort find?

Woe to man, who of Truth seeking,
Asks alone for melody;
What he loves on quiet waters,
He will hate with dangers nigh:
Truth, a mighty trumpet ringing,
Sounds for war and victory;
Life on earth is for a battle—
Not for rest or revelry.

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WINTER.

A first snow-flake from the sky,
Like a first violet of spring,
Trembling downwards loiteringly,
Heart delight can with it bring;
And beautiful is snow to see,
As the blossom of the apple-tree.

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On mornings chilly-blue but fair,
When footsteps on the frost-clean ground,
Through the spirit-freshening air
Ringing echo all around;
With winter joy the households come
To the comfortable breakfast-room.

As falls the night, the waters freeze,
Icy fibres shoot slow;
Soon the tall and silent trees
In the dusk like spectres show;
Sheeted by winter power in white,
A hazy robe of frost-work light.

The sunset has its winter charm,
A glowing tint of ruddy brown;
While birds with joy and effort warm,
As sinks the western brightness down,
The skeleton woods with gladness fill,
Loud chirping in the twilight still.

And music-spirits black and white,
Evoked by power of skilful fingers,
Guide into regions of delight,
Where still the bloom of summer lingers;
When at evening lamps are found
Shedding domestic moonlight round.

To the city, labyrinth of homes,
Where the people many-hearted dwells;
Various winter pleasure comes,
And beautiful as summer dells
Are rooms where, in warmth and ease,
Gather friends and families.

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Beauty its own has Desolation,
Yet welcome is the spring's return;
To the strong a joy is in privation,
Yet soon for change the heart will yearn;
And to the joyless, love must bring
In winter comfort of the spring.

154

CHAPTER VIII.

156

HYMN AT DARK.

O Lord! most wise, most good, most true,
This host of stars, so large and fair,
Poised in the unfathomable blue,
Lamps of thy distant city are;

157

Wherein, in many mansions rich and wide,
Dwellers and guests discoursing rest or move;
Wherein are found the bridegroom and the bride,
Sweet changing voices of continuing love.

Also, O Lord! most great, most strong,
Thy distant stars are ships of flame;
And voyaging spirits, unseen, prolong
An unheard melody to Thy name:
Sounding it forth ever with soul-filling strain,
Soft or most mighty, as earth's varying wind;
They float the illimitable, stormless main,
Wide, deep, and still, as Thine unchanging mind.

And, Lord, thou eternal, only fair,
In hollow heaven, a valley deep,
As shining tent each fixèd star
Doth its appointed station keep;
But tent-filled spaces thou canst change, O Lord!
And at Thy will another heaven may be;
As Israel moved and rested at Thy word,
So journey spirits from nothingness to Thee.

Lord God! these solemn heavens of night,
A darkened Vast, are like to Thee;
For every where great beams of light
Break forth from Thine immensity;
And as waves shine when mighty vessels move,
So Time the wave, Eternity the deep,
Shines starful, as the vessel of Thy love
Doth in its course majestic onward sweep.

159

THE TWO WINDS.

Oh! how chill the weather is,
Oh! how dreary and how dry,
When across the plains of land
East winds coming, cloud the sky:
So coldly comes the darkening air
From word-wastes of theology.

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But Wisdom is the western wind
That traverses Life's ancient Sea,
Its breath is very soft and mild,
Very warm and showery:
Now blooms the heart, for now we feel
Christ's own Christianity.

171

HYMN OF FAITH AND HOPE.

Maker of worlds! of spirits Father!
Hear Thou our utterance!
We live from Thee:
And this to know and feel, oh, grant us! rather
Than that, in folly, we
Should joy in favouring chance,
Or curse harsh destiny.

O God! Thy great thoughts are as mountains
Dark in their loftiness,
Mist-veiled they stand;

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Far up, the trading rivers have their fountains,
The life-streams of the land;
Discovering winds we bless,
Which show the outline grand.

Time is a dawn, for ever brightening
To its day of million years,
Thou, God, the sun;
Swift as the impetuous, divided lightning
Our vain thought hurries on;
But to change all cloudy fears
The gold light hath begun.

Slow, but sure-prospering her salvation,
Earth works out mediately,
Thy love the power;
And wisdom intricate, a fold each nation,
Each man, and every hour,
Is opening silently
Smooth beauty of its flower.

Man still is dark and dead in sinning,
Wintry his heart and life;
But Thy Son dear,
As the mild spring-power his strong way is winning,
The heaven of thought grows clear;
Winds make a gusty strife,
But buds all round appear.

The river of the peoples, onward going,
Bright-waved, but dark below,
Its sea-course takes;

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Now rough, now still, this spirit-stream, deep-flowing,
Strange windings makes;
Swiftly it moves, then slow,
Oft eddying as in lakes.

Like a fugue chorus is creation,
Framed of proportions vast;
Each voice is found;
And ever newly some arising nation
Swells the great tide of sound,
Till in oneness grand at last
The full song shall resound.

Grant that in faith we may be willing
At the end to be full blest;
That patiently
Our part appointed in Thy thought fulfilling,
Day-builded life may be
Both temple and home of rest,
Each finished wondrously.

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CHAPTER IX.

TRINAL'S DIARIUM.

SUNDAY.

Day melts into the night,
The night into the morning;
Darkness swallowing the light,
Light from the dark dawning;
So melts knowledge into Mystery,
The solemn dark of stars;
So from the Obscure arises wisdom,
With dewy fragrant airs;
Be there for us to-day these twilights two,
That we may view,
As the earth darkens, heavenly hopes appear;
As the heaven brightens, earthly things grow clear.

MONDAY.

The Difficult, like the cocoa-nut,
Rich milk it hath within;
Through husk and shell, by labouring well,
An entrance you may win;

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You hear the flowing of the milk
If angrily you shake it;
But if you would the sweetness taste,
Try patiently and break it.

TUESDAY.

Love hath the power of chemist rare,
For into many sorrow cups
He smiling drops
His dewy, radiant tear;
Changing into sweet and bright,
Draughts that were salt as seas, black as the night.

WEDNESDAY.

Sometimes to man is given
A thought from heaven!
Coming softly, as the falling snow
Comes from the skies;
And resting pure upon the silent spirit
As on the earth snow lies;
But quickly as the snow in spring
It passes away:
And the heart darkens as the ground
Where the whiteness lay.

THURSDAY.

Seek thou thy God alone by prayer,
And thou wilt doubt, perhaps despair;
But seek Him also by endeavour,
And gracious thou wilt find Him ever.

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Seek thou thy God alone by work,
And prospering, thou wilt not bless;
For pride will in thy doings lurk,
And in thine heart unthankfulness.

FRIDAY.

My wish was a bubble
Large and fair:
Coloured and bright, but hollow and light,
It burst with a breath, and vanished in air.
My hope was a flower
Large and fair;
The winds blew rough, the blossom fell off,
But slowly and securely a fruit grew there.

SATURDAY.

Our spirit is a temple, and a home,
Time is for worship, and a time for mirth:
Hours solemn and sportive may to each man come,
Earth loves the heaven, and the heaven loves earth.
Firesides as firmaments are Divine, for One
Kindles a log-blaze and the glorious sun;
Gabriel, perhaps, when he from toil reposes,
White-winged disports himself, becrown'd with roses.

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THE SEA AND THE RAINS.

Fresh-water rains
Come from the salt and bitter sea;
And the sunny shower
Was once a dark wave heaving stormily.

Vast spreading Time,
Is a wind-aroused unshelter'd ocean;
Wave following wave
Of bitter and dark Event in endless motion.

But the saltness gone
High in our spirit as the air,
Ascending mists
Into the clouds of thought collected are.

Then fall fresh showers
Upon all plains, all mountain-tops;
Pure uttered words,
Many, electric, large as summer drops.

And new clouds ever,
To wander are rising from this sea;
With a blessing stored,
Rich influence of truth and poetry.

And the heart possessing
Its power of purpose and of deed;
This sweet from bitter
Wakens for bloom and fruit the holy seed.

188

LOVE AND SPRING.

The black trees shall green clothing have,
Upon the dark lands corn shall wave,
And rain from the bright clouds of spring
Beauty of budding life shall bring;
The heaven put on change of blue,
The earth be garmented anew,
And thus the mild and virgin year
Be clad in maiden-raiment fair;
Then early radiance shall beam through
Myriad drops of morning dew,
And birds rejoicingly shall sing,
Ascending with sleep-freshened wing;
Bright-wall'd heaven re-echoing.
And soft, and sweet, and pure, and free,
As maiden's breath, the air shall be,
Hushing the soul entrancingly:
And from the hush, as birth of power,
Come Love, like wind-attended shower;
Making the heart as rain-swell'd brook,
Which narrowing limits has forsook;
When bright and varying, swift and free,
The waters stream on eddyingly.
Love can give to life the sense
Of being, thousandfold intense;
In heart and thought, as earth and air,
Create a universal stir;
With a new eye, the spirit bless
Upbeaming into boundlessness.

189

Laws of light may tell me why
Such colour hath the sea and sky;
But only Love explains to me,
Why I look on both delightedly.
Clear-voiced science makes me know
Of summer rains and winter snow;
Why the winds rush, the rivers flow;
But Love from waters, weather, wind,
Brings changing joy of heart and mind
Love a triple crown shall wear,
It governs sea, and land, and air;
By triple star shall emblem'd be,
Its power, joy, eternity.
Love has sorrows with delight,
Wildly clouded, lustrous-bright;
But like winter-conquering spring,
By storm advances blossoming.
When the sapphire-builded sky
Dims and totters tremblingly;
Earnest, everlasting Love,
Shall its storm-swept heaven remove.

SPRING VERSES.

I.

From vapoury folds with glorious edges,
Liberal clouds pour forth the rain;
The plenteous gift makes bright the hedges,
Bright the fields, and bright the plain.

190

The happy wind this bounty shaketh
Down on the earth with kindly power;
And each sweet leafy smell it taketh
To fill with healthier force the shower.

And oh! the sun in glory beaming,
And oh! the widening wing of blue,
And oh! the hush: and oh! the gleaming
Of the rain-drops fallen new.

And oh! the buds, and oh! the voices,
And oh! the first white butterfly:
Our heart, so strangely it rejoices,
Needs it must both sing and sigh.

Thousand million buds are rounding,
Million little leaves expand;
From woody depths deep tones are sounding,
A first flower trembles in our hand.

Life with thrill of new emotion
Pulses to the spring-tide rule,
Like a wide, breeze-trembling ocean,
All astir, all beautiful.

Love sways: colours are her vesture,
Every sound, it is her voice:
Every movement is her gesture;
Oh! rejoice with her, rejoice.

191

II.

Spring is but a longer morning
For its day of summer dawning,
Awake! Awake!
From the dark and sodden earth
Beauty every where has birth,
All slumbers break.

No longer roars the foaming stream,
Like one that crieth in his dream,
Softly it flows:
Heavy no more and dark the sky,
The vaulted Heaven, clear and high,
Its morning knows.

Awake! thou winter-weary heart,
And in the general joy have part,
Dream thou no more;
Taller and fairer every hour
Stems uplift their folded flower,
Dear Summer's store.

And hearts must bloom that hearts may fruit.
Safe abides the ancient root
Through winter's pain;
No heart so eldered by its care,
But may anew its blossom bear
And fruit again.

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Forth-pushing with a gentle strength,
Each new shoot of thy heart at length
Firmly may stand:
Show thou by early love and praise—
Feeling the force of coming days—
Summer at hand.

Spring is but a longer morning
For its day of summer dawning,
Oh! welcome day:
Morning comes, a lesser spring,
New energy of life to bring
Morrow! be May.

193

CHAPTER X.

FLORA AND THE FLOWERS.

Oh! if the rose be hailed the queen,
A princess is the lily,
And modest violets, I ween,
And humble daffodilly;
The primroses and pansies fair,
Sweet-William and the daisies,
Beautiful Flora's children are—
Their loveliness her joy and care:
And every summer hour
Some blooming flower
Its bright face raises,
And in its silent beauty Flora praises.

Flora! should'st thou appear
Thy starry family among,
Upon a white cloud, on a morning clear,
Borne by a soft wind strong;
Scarfed with the rainbow thou would'st be,
Zoned with hue-changing mother-of-pearl;
And o'er thy forest-tinted robe
Deep golden maiden-hair would curl;

194

And on thy open bosom would rest,
Most blest,
The queen-flower, Rose;
Giving to the beauty lily-bright,
Hair-shadowed, as the hills by Night,
The rosy-tinted sunset light
Of Alpine snows.

O Flora!
Thou dost minister
Ever in tenderness,
Ever in truth.
To thee the flower-spirit, kindest heaven
This work of love in charge hath given,
To adorn and to bless,
To teach and to soothe;
And every budding, blooming flower,
Every flower fading,
With a spiritual power
In the work is aiding;
Whilst thou, still-faced, and with love-lighted eye,
Apparell'd all divinely,
Oft wandering near invisibly,
Dost smiling watch benignly.
Whilst by a flower some heart is healed,
Or by a flower some truth revealed,
Or in a garden, wood, or field,
Or by a stream,
Some heart love-tranced, shadowed by visions fearful,
Wakes from its dream,
Flower-disenchanted, to a hope-dawn cheerful.

195

Thee, Flora! every maiden,
Herself a flower,
Most warmly blesses;
Because in lonely and forsaken hour
Thou comfortest distresses.
Full oft her heart is heavy-laden,
As by honey stored within,
Which none may win
But he who comes as delicately
As to a flower comes the bee.

Imogen—Una—Marion fair—
Susan, and Grace, and Eleanor—
Louisa, Jane, and Mary—
The heaven has bless'd you every one;
Ye each have blossom of your own,
And, like the flowers, vary.
Ye live not for yourselves alone,
Compassionate and tender;
And even as the flowers are,
O Flora! cherished by thy care,
Of maidens delicate, and pure, and fair
Our love shall be defender.

Flora, beautiful and wise,
Skill'd in human mysteries!
Hearts there are to hymn thy praises,
Many and lowly as the daisies—
Daisies, which embellish spring
With half-hidden blossoming.
Hearts there are, deep and pondering,
Flower-filled with love and wondering;

196

Every when and every where
Sweetest flowers welcome are.
At sight of some fresh-blossoming flower,
The curtain'd sick receive a power;
To him that sorroweth and striveth,
The flower-cup wine of comfort giveth;
Wine medicinal and pure,
Wine to cheerfulize and cure.
The little one, too early blest,
Hath flowers in his coffin'd rest;
New-gathered blooms their odours shed,
Sweet as the memory of the dead.
At festivals and seasons holy,
Times of mirth and melancholy;
In solitude, in joy, and care,
Sweetest flowers welcome are.
The maiden changing to the wife,
Now in the bloom-hour of her life,
Hath flowers in her hand and hair;
Flowers upon her bosom are.
Oh! gather from the rough hill-side
Some flower to adorn the bride!
It shall fade, let love endure
Strong as the hill, its flower as pure.
Like white blooms in the thick, black tresses,
'Mid fortunes dark are love's caresses,
And light or dark, as flowers with hair,
Love and life enwoven are.
When griefs, Time's roaming archery,
Scattering arrows wantonly,
Wound in unexpected hour,
Then for healing touch a flower;

197

Nature is the robe of God—
God the merciful and good:
Flowers are the embroider'd hem,
Virtue he hath given them;
Tremulous and blushing sorrow,
Unrebuked, may healing borrow;
Welcome as flowers, so welcome we
To the blessings of their ministry.

Flora! when the eastern flush
Doth the coming sun betoken,
Stillest morning's sacred hush
As yet all unbroken;
Dewed nourishingly, every flower
In joy awaits the hour
When, sun-touched, it shall brightly open.

Then, as pass the hours,
Freshly work the flowers;
And ever some one, stooping sadly,
Culls an opening blossom gladly;
And looking long within,
As in a glass sees there,
Something of his spirit, undefiled with sin,
And yet undimmed with care.

But different in their ministry
These flowers of the dawn;
For some shall grace festivity,
Some comfort the forlorn;
And some shall please the poor and sick,
And some the fair adorn;
But all shall work most lovingly,
For therefore were they born.

198

The green earth hath its flower, the sky—
That mighty flower of blue;
And whilst it still blooms bright and high,
Shall lesser flowers bloom too.
Work, Flora, then, rejoicingly,
And give us blossoms new.

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THE TWO MAIDENS.

A little maiden light and bright
As bubble on a river,
Declared she loved, and love she would
For ever: yes, for ever:
But when a wind of change arose,
And waves began to quiver,
This bubble light, although so bright,
It melted in the river.

A maiden pure, and purer was
No water lily ever,
Said: Time will flow, but love may grow
And bloom anew for ever:
Her heart, like lily in the stream,
The wild winds made it quiver;
But as they blew, the lily grew
And rooted in the river.

LOVE.

Oh! Love is not a nectar fine,
With woman for the bowl,
Madly to be tossed aside
In drunkenness of soul.

Love, it is both bread and wine,
A sacrament of hearts;
And while you toil to win the bread,
Due strength the wine imparts.

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By mutual labours, mine and thine,
A household bread we eat;
And inward tenderness and joy
Are still a cordial sweet.

Oh! care with comfort will combine
For those the happiest wed;
But if we never want for wine
We'll never fail of bread.

205

THE NEW WIFE'S INTRODUCTION TO THE OLD STUDY.

Come hither with me, lady dear,
Love, come and see;
Alone you cannot enter here,
For I have got the key.
Now, if you ever want, my love,
Any thing with me,
Hither you must gently come
To know if I am free:
Busy indeed must be the hour
I cannot rise for thee.

This is my study, lady dear,
Its uses are most plain.
The night has often found me here,
My zeal could not refrain;
So hours of darkness I have pass'd
In all a student's pain.
Most studiously studying
The way your love to gain;
And well you know, my darling one,
I laboured not in vain.

206

A man of letters, lady dear,
I am, you are aware;
And this a packet is, of yours,
Close fastened up with care;
Of different sizes, like the stars,
That make the evening fair;
Love in the writing peeps and hides,
Like stars in twilight air;
So modest my sweet star of life,
Sweet fixèd star you were.

These are the poets, lady dear,
And that an old divine,
And yonder ragged-coated books
Are full of wisdom fine;
And well you know these volumes bright
That in their binding shine—
Beauty without and truth within,
Fitly they combine;
You gave them, love, and like thyself
Should be a gift of thine.

Upon this sofa, lady dear,
I often used to lie;
Watching intent the quiet moon,
Slow pacing in the sky;
And still her beauty seem'd like yours,
For grace and dignity;
And looking long, this thought would bring
A tear into my eye;
What were the earth without the moon?
Without you what were I?

207

Books are my flowers, lady dear;
That open one you see,
Is one at which I am at work
As earnest as a bee;
My study is my garden, love,
A place of toil for me,
But many of the flowers sweet
Will give delight to thee;
So as a sipping butterfly,
Most welcome shall you be.

Your household wisdom, lady dear,
I value not the less,
That you a heart and intellect
Cultured well possess;
So all the woman in the wife
Unites my home to bless.
Sweet are thy face and form, and sweet
Thy conjugal caress;
And sweet thy piety and sense,
And sweet thy gentleness.

Here much and often, lady dear,
I hope to work for you;
And for my God, and for the world,
In careful studies true.
And you shall ever help me, love,
To keep the right in view,
And ever to my growing thought
Your word shall be as dew:
And He who join'd us heart and hand
Will bless as hitherto.

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THE WORLD'S MARRIAGE.

The rough World, weary with his work,
One evening sat alone;
And said—Oh that I had a wife!
Purer then would be my life,
What follies have I done!
Stubborn and fierce, I'm full of sin,
Yet tenderness I feel within.

Sweet Poetry, love-worthiest maid,
Even then was wandering near,
And with her clear and silent eye
Fix'd on the clear and silent sky,
Watch'd for the earliest star;
And stood before the rough World's face
In majesty of bloom and grace.

Straight from his heart the morning broke,
Spread on each cheek a flush;
And as she turning saw him stand
In bearded beauty close at hand,
Love robed her in a blush;
She was the pale red moon at full,
Fronting the bright sun powerful.

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They wedded, and a son was born,
His name they call'd—the New;
His earliest infancy was blest
With milk, and smiles, and bosom rest;
And as the nursling grew,
Father and mother in the boy
Saw themselves, with wondering joy.

His young heart was a morning heaven,
Broad, pure, and still;
Soon thoughts upbreathèd by desire,
Swelling, blending, mounting higher,
Like clouds his spirit fill;
Dark-bright the towering masses range,
Boding showery wind and change.

The father frowns, the mother sweet
Smiles upon her son;
'Mid freaks and waywardness of youth,
She marks his energy and truth;
And for new follies done,
Wise and gentle, well she knows
Some plea of love to interpose.

The rough World, ever comforted
And softened by his wife,
For her dear sake will much endure,
Himself he knows has not been pure,
And equal in his life;
His strength, her spirit, he would see,
Her thought, his practicalness, she.

212

Thus waiting long, they watch and hope,
The boy in power grows;
His streaming energy the while,
Still spreading like the waves of Nile,
As widely overflows;
And not for spoil the waters rise,
Retiring, they shall fertilize.

“His blossoms first, now leaves he hath
Needful, though not so fair.”
Said Poetry, “So is our son
Like the almond and mezereon,
And ripe fruits he will bear:
This middle leafy strength hath he,
That flower in fruit may perfect be.”

ONE GREAT AMONG THE MOTHERS.

We'll thank our God for every birth,
And bless with love each mother pure;
Rejoicing in the peopled earth,
And Lives that ever may endure.

For one did nourish at her breast
The world's Redeemer, meek and strong;
In her are all the mothers blest
Since He so blest the babes among.

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The dewy lilies opening shine
With the fresh morning sweet above;
So shone the baby face divine
Turned mother-wards for beams of love.

The world's great Friend then loved but one,
With thoughts of Him her heart was stored;
Soon as her joy her griefs begun,
Oh, honour her, while He's adored!

For sweeter than the spikenard given
By her whose love all earth shall hear,
That love which nursed the Child from Heaven,
With sanctity of hope and fear.

When veiling darkness is withdrawn
That Day may break the powers of Night;
How beautiful the lowly dawn,
Whence issues forth the Sun in might!

Mother of Christ! so lovely thou
Hast to the generations been;
And, Sister, we will love thee now,
Pure Sister, of deep heart serene.

214

CHAPTER XI.

REST.

The day is over,
The feverish, careful day:
Can I recover
Strength that has ebbed away?
Can even sleep such freshness give,
That I again shall wish to live?

Let me lie down,
No more I seek to have
A heavenly crown,
Give me a quiet grave;
Release and not reward I ask,
Too hard for me life's heavy task.

Now let me rest,
Hushed be my striving brain,
My beating breast;
Let me put off my pain,
And feel me sinking, sinking deep
Into an abyss of sleep.

215

The morrow's noise,
Its aguish hope and fear,
Its empty joys,
Of these I shall not hear;
Call me no more, I cannot come;
I'm gone to be at rest, at home.

Earth undesired,
And not for heaven meet;
For one so tired
What's left but slumber sweet,
Beneath a grassy mound of trees,
Or at the bottom of the seas?

Yet let me have,
Once in a thousand years,
Thoughts in my grave,
To know how free from fears
I sleep, and that I there shall lie
Through undisturbed eternity.

And when I wake,
Then let me hear above
The birds that make
Songs not of human love:
Or muffled tones my ears may reach
Of storms that sound from beach to beach.

But hark! what word
Breathes through this twilight dim?
“Rest in the Lord,
Wait patiently for Him;
Return, O soul, and thou shalt have
A better rest than in thy grave.”

216

My God, I come;
But I was sorely shaken:
Art Thou my home?
I thought I was forsaken:
I know Thou art a sweeter rest
Than earth's soft side or ocean's breast.

Yet this my cry!—
“I ask no more for heaven,
Now let me die,
For I have vainly striven.”
I had, but for that word from Thee,
Renounced my immortality.

Now I return;
Return, O Lord, to me:
I cannot earn
That Heaven I'll ask of Thee;
But with Thy Peace amid the strife,
I still can live in hope of Life.

The careful day,
The feverish day is over;
Strength ebbed away,
I lie down to recover;
With sleep from Him I shall be blest,
Whose word has brought my sorrows rest.

219

PURPOSE.

I had an out-blown crocus, and as yet but one,
It opened early when the sun first shone;
But a hailstone smote it, and its life is done.

220

I had an uttered thought, my cherished one,
I spread it out freely, dewed with joy begun;
But cold words bowed it, and my hope was gone.

Yet it folded to re-open, for with life is power:
The crocus it was severed from the stalk that bore;
But my heart still bears my thought, and I can hope once more.

224

THE DARK DOCTOR.

With sad appropriateness termed D.D.,
Some may like Dr. Dimsoul Darkman be:
So learned he can quite dispense
With vision and intelligence.
He hath a creed, he hath a tongue,
He had a heart when he was young;
But—very melancholy fact!—
'Tis like a bell that time hath crackt;
Which by this certain mark is known—
His speech is clatter without tone.
His creed is sound as any post,
A growth which former life has lost;
And though his manner polished be
As shiny, new mahogany,
His sermons one another follow
Like echoes in a cavern hollow.
The truth from him is mouldy crust,
His word a wind with blinding dust;

225

And in his fog of speech you fumble
Till at the plainest things you stumble.
His character may thus be told:
Nor good nor bad, nor hot nor cold;
Spotless, perhaps, as downy goose,
But to the world as little use.

Like wind from an old tomb,
On a chilly winter's day,
Where bones of generations
Are mouldering away;
Is the voice of Dr. Darkman,
Cold and dull,
And the body of his doctrine
No soul makes beautiful.

He and his people
Are a corpse stiff and stark,
Silently decaying
In its death-chamber dark.
And to veil the ghastliness
From head to feet,
Exterior decency
Is the woven white sheet.

Oh! Dr. Dimsoul,
Reason try and Love;
Remember thou art earthly—
There is one God above:
In his pity he hath given us
His well-beloved Son;
With whose Word and whose sorrows
You may thrill each one.

226

Religion is as ointment,
Most choice, most pure;
Of costliness and fragrance,
For comfort and for cure;
But dead flies are in it—
The dead creeds are they—
They give to it their savour,
Take its own away.

The heavens most ancient
No new God declare;
Though a changing astronomy
Beams on each star;
And in love-bright glory
Still the Christ hath sway;
He, the Truth, is eternal,
Creeds for a day.

Each new time its new thought
Must in new words tell;
And the old primary heart tones
In new music swell;
And in grander theologies,
Higher truth be shown;
But unchanged 'mid all changes,
God's heart and our own.

Words of warmth and brightness
We in vain desire;
Ye give us dull words—the ashes
Of a nigh-quenched fire.

227

Oh! the mouth-man and the heart-man!
Different they be,
As death and life, light and dark,
Ice and charity!

The great human heart
Is a world-covering vine;
And ever in new seasons
The new clusters shine;
But ye feed us with the raisins
Of another century's sun,
Whilst around hang in sweetness
The grapes of our own.

228

SATURDAY EVE.

As mother stoops to kiss her child
Before she takes the light away,
And leaves him to his rest: so mild
The heaven over earth is bending,
So lovingly withdraws the day.

'Tis Saturday's dusk that darkens now,
How calmly kind the heaven is!
So mother a more serious brow,
Assumes because the week is ending,
And gives her child a tenderer kiss.

HYMN FOR SUNDAY.

The Lord is rich and merciful!
The Lord is very kind!
Oh! come to Him, come now to Him,
With a believing mind.

229

His comforts they shall strengthen thee,
Like flowing waters cool;
And He shall for thy spirit be
A fountain ever full.

The Lord is glorious and strong,
Our God is very high;
Oh! trust in Him, trust now in Him,
And have security.
He shall be to thee like the sea,
And thou shalt surely feel
His wind, that bloweth healthily
Thy sicknesses to heal.

The Lord is wonderful and wise,
As all the ages tell:
Oh! learn of Him, learn now of Him,
Then with thee it is well.
And with his light thou shalt be blest,
Therein to work and live;
And He shall be to thee a rest
When evening hours arrive.

232

SATURDAY NIGHT.

Come, cheer your heart and clear your eyes,
Look into the flowers, look up to the skies;
There is love in the God of mysteries.

Body and brain, I am weary quite;
As the clock must tick, so I must write—
Wound up in the morning to go till night.

But smiles and hopes should shine through woe,
For green leaves peep even through the snow;—
Remember, my love, you told me so.

God knows the events of our hidden lives,
And to temper sorrows comfort gives.
If William is weak, yet Mary thrives.

Thanks, love, for those tears, though I wished them gone,
They were shed for my pain that you make your own;
Now, smile me a rainbow, your heart the sun.

233

True treasure for me is this face of thine;
Shall I fret for a house that is large and fine,
With furniture gay, and pictures, and wine?

Far better be poor, than a heart to own
Like a sour small cherry, mostly stone;
Being rich, but rich for one's self alone.

Yet money is good: it is bread for life,
It nurtures the babes, it comforts the wife,
Brings plenty and rest for want and strife.

Earned shillings are sweet as drops of rain;
And sad hearts, bowed with care and pain,
Bedewed with money, grow bright again.

A time shall come—is it near at hand?—
When the heart and head shall for good command
The gathered wealth of the labouring hand.

When whoso will work may hope and enjoy,
When man shall man as his brother employ,
And love shall the gold-glutton wholly destroy.

Meanwhile the world, that grinds on and on,
Like a barrel-organ, its Mammon tune,
Now ceases a little—the week is done.

And, my love, my wife, if the morrow be fair,
We will see the fresh fields, will breathe fresh air,
Be with God in His house, and every where.

242

REASONING WITH GOD.

O hidden Lord, most wise and rich,
Whom oft I love, but often fear;
Of light and dark, oft doubting which,
Doth most upon Thy works appear:
Why, if in Thee no darkness is,
So deep a shade on human kind?
If Thou be Father, tell me this,
Why the sad heart, the troubled mind?

Then said a voice, “This truth within thee store,
And wait, believing, ere thou askest more:
Earth is a cloud which Time shall puff away,
Then shalt thou see the heaven and feel the day.”

WISH AND RESPONSE.

The Heart said, Oh that thou wouldst hide me in the grave! The Truth said, He that endureth to the end shall be saved.

243

THE WISH.

He hath lain down to rest
In the churchyard old;
He fears not the morrow,
He feels not the cold.

At morning and at midnight
And at evening chill,
The clock strikes loud,
But he sleeps on still.

Hour passes hour,
Yet he stirs not a limb:
The chimes in the tower
Call in vain to him.

He will not turn and listen
To the thunder in the sky;
At his little children's voices
Will not start nor sigh.

Not once his head he raises,
He will never know
Whether over him are daisies
Or over him is snow.

He is hidden from calamities,
Free from care and labour:
Oh, how quiet and how safe he is!
I wish I were his neighbour.

THE RESPONSE.

But if thou art a Christian,
why fearest thou the morrow?
And if thou art a soldier,
why shrinkest thou from cold?

244

Bright as morning after rain
shall thy heart be after sorrow;
And at solitary midnight
thy song shall make thee bold.

And if thou art a workman,
oh, listen to the hour
As it strikes for thee in tones that break
and tremble in the wind;
Like a voice of love still crying
with tenderness and power,—
“Be thou neither of presuming
nor despairing mind.”

Wouldst thou wrap thee in thy dulness,
and lie thee down and sleep,
When the chime of truths and mercies
ever calls to worship new;
Or, so long and so strong,
and of such an ample sweep,
Strange event affrights thy country
like a thunder rolling through?

Dost thou ask for day a lighter load,
for night a softer rest,
Wish that smiles were meat for children,
and kisses could be bread;
Say, Oh that man might build a home
as bird provides a nest,
And that touch of loving hand
could heal an aching head?

245

Oh, traveller, still travel on,
though sore of foot and slow;
Let thy burden and thy company
make heart and shoulder strong;
Thou art guide to those thou lovest,
through the summer and the snow,
And art carrying the gold
for thy heavenly harp of song.

Thou'lt be neighbour to the dead
when thou fallest in the fight;
Now thou'rt neighbour to the living,
who would help and counsel borrow;
And even till the chimes of heaven
call thee to the light,
A neighbour thou shalt find in Him
who was the Man of Sorrow.

250

THE SCRIBE.

What, Scribe! darest thou to write
“God is love” upon the wall—
Thou, for truth, who wilt not fight
Even at Love's saddest call?
Scribe, thou hast in that brief line
Written the doom of thee and thine.

At thy neighbour thou dost cry
“Heretic!” with pucker'd brow;
“God is love” then smilingly
On the plaster writest thou.
Scribe, thou hast in that brief line
Written the doom of thee and thine.

Hast thou sap within thy roots,
Though thy branch is sere and dry?
“God is love”—the verdant shoots
That thou callest heresy,
On thyself, O Scribe, shall shine;
Happy doom for thee and thine!

251

Art thou full of sapless death?
“God is love”—when He hath found,
Vain for thee his gentlest breath,
He will pluck thee from the ground;
Through thy wood his fire shall shine,
Woeful doom for thee and thine!

AN EXCHANGE.

If the love of truth abate,
Faith can only work by hate;
Souls will sicken, churches die,
Faith supplanting charity;
An exchange the simple rue,
For this false faith flouts the true.

Sweet Charity, that pretty bird,
Her nest with feathers lined,
And far around her song was heard,
“Come, let us all be kind.”

But Faith, the wicked Cuckoo came,
And dropp'd an egg therein,
A naughty bird, too strong for shame,
And very bold in sin.

And so among the nurslings hatch'd
By Charity's warm breast,
Was one, alas! that little match'd
In temper with the rest.

252

And, ah! upon a cruel day,
In wilful, wicked mood,
He, while the mother was away,
Thrust out her tender brood.

Sweet Charity, her song grew sad,
Though soft and varied, too;
But Faith felt very proud and glad,
And cried aloud, “Cuckoo!”

To call out this the whole day long,
Was all that he could do;
And ever hoarser grew his song,—
“Cuckoo, Cuckoo-oo, Cuckoo-oo-oo!”

A CHURCH WITH BELLS.

“Bells,” said a child, “I want to go,
Sir, to a church with bells.”
And whether high, or broad, or low,
With hope my spirit swells,
When such a church as this I find,
And hear the heavenly chime;
Oh, then I have a holy mind,
Oh, then a happy time.
And though my hours are weak and sad,
I feel my life sublime;
Of Love the first, and Love the last,
If any service tells,
All my anxiety is past,
I've found a church with bells.

253

I to an ancient abbey went,
And sat beside a tomb;
'Twas on a showery day in Lent,
But near the Day of Bloom.
Along with me a blind man knelt,
No glories could he see;
But, oh! the music how he felt—
“Have mercy, Lord!” sang we;
And angels from the window smiled
Upon both him and me.
Said I, “Antiquity and grace
Blend here their holy spells;
In truth this is a noble place,
This is a church with bells.”

Whitewash'd, upon a windy hill,
There stood a building square;
I enter'd gently, hoping still
That bells there might be there.
“Come, weary folks,” an old man said,
“You have come—come again,
'Tis every night you need your bed,
Not only now and then.
Lord, give us better, safer rest.”
The people said, “Amen.”
And when the kindly talk I heard,
That angry sorrow quells,
“Here sounds,” said I, “the inviting word,
This is a church with bells.”

I went the silent Friends to see,
And there no bells could ring;
For how can any music be
Where nobody will sing?

254

But as we all were sitting hush'd,
Up rose a sister grey,
And said with face a little flush'd,
“This is a sunny day,
And Jesus is our inward light
To guide us on our way.”
“Ah, yes,” said I, “this Sister pure
The old glad tidings tells;
And here, too, I am very sure
I've found a church with bells.”

Then by a door I heard men say,
“He is not ‘sound,’ we fear.”
Thought I, before I turn away
I'll try if bells are here.
“Quit you like men,” a strong voice cried,
“Not hang the bulrush head;
Our fathers' God is by our side,
For truth our fathers bled.
Let no man sell his liberty,
For butter or for bread.”
Said I, “That's no unholy note,
How loud and clear it swells;
St. Paul's a stirring man to quote,—
This, too 's, a church with bells.”

Oh, I have got of sweet bells eight,
And you may have the same;
I ring them early, ring them late,
And know them each by name:—
There's Faith, and Hope, and Love, and Peace,
And Joy, and Liberty,
And then, before the chime can cease,
Patience and Victory;

255

Come, neighbour, listen to the bells
That ring for you and me.
When windy skies are all aflame,
Of rest their chiming tells;
We've never been since Jesus came,
In want of Heavenly Bells.

THE MOUNTAIN CITY.

High o'er the mountains shines the Mount of Blessing,
On which the Saviour hath His city builded;
A highest height, high heaven itself caressing,
Crown'd with bright clouds, with wealth of sunbeams gilded.
Beautiful refuge, hush'd in safe repose,
Fountains of comfort still from thee are flowing;
Within thee spring the heavenly lily and rose,
Around, new corn, new grass are ever growing.

Ascend, ye Poor! still cries the King of nations,
Rich in the bounty of unfailing pity;
Your sighs and tears have been no vain oblations,
Come, eat the fat things of the royal city.
For you the Kingdom-gate is ever open,
The King's heart is the gate into His favour,—
Humble beneath your burdens ye have spoken,
Still rather of your love than of your labour.

Come up and rest, ye blessed of my Father,
And with you bring the timid Mourners too;
Rouse them from grief with gentle words, for rather
Will mourners lie and weep, than to pursue

256

The comfort that they need, rise and begird
Their failing loins with strength; so help the faint,
Ye humble ones beloved, for God hath heard
Your simple prayer and their sad complaint.

Come hither, too, ye Hungry and Athirst,
Who love no husks nor the earth's meat of stone;
From the great deeps of righteousness there burst,
Piercing as yet this happy hill alone,
The sweet, clear founts of truth, whose streams beside,
The juicy bread-fruits of forgotten heaven,
Grow bounteously, their leaves no serpent hide,
They flower anew for each day of the seven.

Ye Meek, come forward, ye who stand behind,
This bread, this water, they are both for you;
Oh, be no longer of a doubting mind!
Heavy the cross is, but the promise true.
Stronger is he who meekly bears his pain
Than he who cleaves his foe and rules the earth;
The earth is yours, patience the fight shall gain,
Sharp is the pain, but happy is the birth.

And with the meek, ye Merciful climb up,
Mount to the light together, hand in hand;
Ye who have strew'd your corn and shared your cup,
Look with your friends down on the widening land,
That yet shall be meek Mercy's favour'd realm,
Nourish'd by waters freely flowing hence;
No need of sword to smite, of shield and helm,
For glorious peace shall be her own defence.

Far in the valleys, hidden from the noise
Of crowds that lust and strive, your Lord descries

257

You, too, ye Pure in heart, and sends his joys
Into the sorrow of your waiting eyes.
What look ye for, ye simple ones and sad?
Why gaze ye still so earnestly above?
I hear your sudden song, your heart is glad,
Far off ye see the City of His Love.

Yes, this is God, this long'd-for Light is He,
And every beam is like his touch and kiss;
Come, from your valleys climb, the city see,
And bring the Men of Peace to home and bliss.
Oft in the vale ye soothe their wounded heart,
Then forth they go to quench the wanton fires,
Whose forky tongues strike with a serpent's dart,
Whose grimy smoke infects the world's desires.

Ye children of the Highest, come, refresh
Your torn and tired hearts in that true home,
Where spirit, loosed from the unpeaceful flesh,
Rests on the sea of light, nor fears the foam
Of breakers that the dark and rocky world
Throws off and up in restless fear and hate;
Towards, but not unto, this height are hurl'd
Passions, that with themselves, themselves must sate.

Oh, blest are ye who, Peaceful, Meek, and Pure,
Yet calmly front the Persecutor's rage;
Brief is your rest, for ye must yet endure
The world's attack, and all its might engage.
Descend anew, refresh'd with heavenly wine,
Bear the great banner of God's righteousness;
Through His Son's heart, the holy gate Divine,
He sends you forth to suffer and to bless.

258

For bless'd are ye, and therefore can ye bless,
Lovers of good eternal, undefiled;
Be sure the opposing world ye shall possess,
Though still by false and cruel tongues reviled.
Pierce ye the foe with salted words of fire,
The pure, bright fire of love celestial,
And your reward shall be as your desire;
With all the righteous prophets ye shall dwell.

Unscathed, though burnt; whole, although sawn asunder;
Bright, though bemired; and powerful, though despised;
God's glory and his adversary's wonder,
His love your own, that great reward ye prized.
Rejoice in hope, be glad exceedingly,
Know ye not Him who builded hath this city?
Mighty the mount, but mightier far is He,
His power is like His patience and His pity.

O'er the broad earth far shines the coming morning,
Long hath the dawn upon this hill-top rested;
How long, O Lord, how long must still the scorning,
The darkness with which earth is yet invested,
And quarrel of the wrestling winds endure,
And hurtful fires from the confronting clouds?
Come from the city, come, with radiance pure,
Descend the mountain, draw to Thee the crowds,

Bring the broad day: lo, leprous darkness kneeling,
Says, “Lord, Thou wilt and Thou canst make me clean.”
Earth's palsied servants all have need of healing;
And our Proud Power knows that itself hath been
In office only for a heavenly king.
Speak, and thy word shall every strength recruit,
Whose service fails us in the very thing,
We hoped would yield us long-desired fruit.

259

Come, Lord, to Peter's house, our House of Faith,
Where heavenly Love, mother of Charity,
By which Faith works his good, as Wisdom saith,
Fever'd with weakness lies, ready to die;
Raise her—the whole earth needs her ministry;
Thee first, and then her daughter, and her son
She will salute, and then look round and see
What for us all may be most kindly done.

I wake!—what music wakes me from my vision?
The joyful strain sinks to a wailing minor;
Must hope be still the common world's derision?
No, hope returns, the song is louder, finer;
The major sank into the minor's sorrow,
The minor rises to the major's glory;
So peace to-day changes to war to-morrow,
Then triumph stands upon the field so gory.

Lord, does the way unto the Mount of Blisses,
Not for a visit, but for lasting ease,
Lie across Calvary, where still there hisses
The Serpent old, whose victim when he sees,
For him he weaves the folds of agony,
Nor spares the Pure, the Peacemaker, the Meek,
The Merciful, the Poor,—so hungry he,—
Upon the Just that mourn his hate to wreak?

E'en so, did not the Saviour speak the blessing,
And then descend that He might bear the curse;
And then ascend once more, the throne possessing,
To conquer which in pain he did immerse
His holy love, all the dark anguish bearing,
That out of sorrow might be born the joy,
His fully then, when all those foes are sharing,
Whose angry enmity he would destroy?

260

Oh, heart, look up, for, see, aloft is shining
The great prophetic City of His Love;
Saints with Himself the Saviour is combining,
That by one work below, one rest above
For people and king may be for ever gained;
Into its joy each saddened song returns,
Nor friend nor foe need any more be pained,
When heaven's one fire in every bosom burns.

261

CHAPTER XIII.

SPIRITUAL HINTS.

A curtain Difficulty is,
Meeting and hindering the gaze;
Rise, and lift it with your hand,
Then the eye may look beyond:
What to Thought a veil must prove,
That an action may remove;
Thus by Doing you shall know
What it is you have to do.

[If thy mind be like a tree, which roots as it grows]

If thy mind be like a tree, which roots as it grows,
And thy heart be like a river, which widens as it flows,
Then thy will may be a wind, which strengthens as it blows.

290

CHAPTER XIV.

291

CHESTNUT ROASTING.

A boyish sort of a papa,
I roasted chestnuts on the bar;
Just dark enough to see a star
It was: and Margaret by my side.

We heard the pat of baby feet,
And then our lamb began to bleat
“Mamma! Mamma!” “The little sweet!
I'll go and fetch him down,” she cried.

The firelight flickering on her chair,
Her gentle footfall on the stair,
More loving made the silent air,
And hush'd my heart to Memory.

Just then a chestnut split apart,
And sent a quiver through my heart;
So quick there came—it made me start—
A vision of the days gone by.

I saw myself and little brother
Off'ring a chestnut to our mother;
Two sisters, kissing one another,
Were near, and it was Christmastide.

And then I saw all these but one—
The fire and candlelight were gone—
I was my mother's only son,
And we were on a common wide.

Dark garments on a sunny day
We wore, and staidly paced our way,
Not wholly sad, and yet not gay,
Till to a country home we came.

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Strange medley now!—A wedding bell,
A ship, a family farewell—
A curtain'd bed, a funeral knell—
A night awaked with ruddy flame.

Home of my mother's widow'd years!
Home sweeter for her sacred tears,
And safer for her many fears!
I saw thee; saw my sisters leave.

One went to live 'neath India's sky,
Home brighter still one found on high;
My mother then had none but I
Always to love her—oft to grieve.

But oh! that hasty, fiery night—
The cry, the effort, the affright,
My mother saved, my fierce delight—
I saw it, felt it all again!

Her dear, revered, familiar face,
Her tremulous but firm embrace,
Our last look at the blacken'd place,
And thanks, forgetting loss and pain.

And now—a treeless town, and days
Laborious, economic ways,
A little gold, still scantier praise,
Through all how rapidly I pass'd!

Thanks first to mother's piety,
Thanks then to steadfast industry,
The treeless city bloom'd for me,
And love and Margaret came at last!

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Came? Memory, give place to Fact—
Fly, sorrowy Past!—That chestnut crack'd,
My Margaret caught me in the act
Of lifting it from out the ashes;

For, as into the room they came,
My Margaret and her Monkey-lamb—
That is our little darling's name!—
The fire sent out its cheeriest flashes.

“Hush, noisy one! there's Grandmamma;
I heard her knock, I'm sure she's there;
Now see if you can set a chair;
And, Margaret, ring the bell for tea.”

Old greetings, ever dear and new—
“How are you all?” and “How are you?”
Were given, and down the blinds I drew,
Mid Margaret's bantering pleasantry;

For I had broke her household law—
My soil'd and smoky hands she saw!
Alas! I'm boyish, rude, and raw
In many things, I fear, as yet.

Then on a plate the nuts I piled,
As Margaret cried, “Hark! there's the child
Saying, ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild;
Grand'ma has coax'd her little pet.”

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THE TRAVELLER'S CHRISTMAS REVERIE.

I've a jest for the evening,
A story, a song;
I laugh when they tell me
I'm rough and I'm strong;
But thoughts of my childhood
When nobody's by,
Like wells in a desert,
Bring tears to my eye.

I've toss'd on the waters,
I've roam'd in the wood,
The force and the cunning
Of foes have withstood:
I've swum in the rapid,
I've hurl'd the harpoon,
Borne the heats of the sun
And the frosts of the moon.

Yet I feel but a baby
Whenever I pass,
And, turning, I see
In the old chimney-glass,
That the round little face
Which used to peep in
Has lines on the brow,
And a beard on the chin.

Where are you, dear mother
Come, look at your child,
Who has fought up to manhood
Through chances so wild.

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Where are you, dear father?
Come round to the door,
Come, bring me the pony—
Come, kiss me once more.

My life is a battle,
I wish it was won!
My life is a labour,
I wish it was done!
I feel but a coward,
Though looking so brave;
I wish I was either
In cradle or grave!

I've nieces and nephews,
A dozen or more;
They've never seen me,
But I've seen them, before;
For, to my eyes, they've all
But come back from the ground
Where Harry and Mary
Are sleeping so sound.

Ah! Time is a robber,
And Death is his sword;
The grave is his den,
And our dear ones his hoard;
He skulks in the darkness,
And counts up his gain,—
So many are dead,
And so many in pain.

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But why am I talking
Such infidel stuff?
I'll be like Old Christmas,
Both tender and rough;
But I will not fear Time,
For if Christ is my Lord,
Time must give up his gains,
And surrender his sword.

Then hail to Old Christmas!
So tender and rough;
His fires and cold weather,
So genial, so bluff:
We'll mingle together—
For such are our years,
Our feasting and worship,
Our fun and our tears.

I'll not be too anxious
For comfort and pelf,
I'll not waste my pity
Too much on myself:
I know that our dear ones
In heaven are stored;
I'll fight my way thither,
I'll follow the Lord.

THE WIFE'S BIRTHDAY.

Heart! have you any thing of verse
To greet the birthday of a wife?
Tender the words must be, but terse
Suiting the common sense of life;

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Rank'd in an honest, steady line,
With nothing false and nothing fine:

But plain and sweet, to please a soul
Of true love's own simplicity;
The parts consistent with the whole,
The whole such as may company
Or with a prayer, or a kiss—
Heart! can you give me verse like this?

Affection's strength you need not prove—
An overproof suggests pretence—
By warm elaborate words of love,
But with a modest confidence,
Enough, if you will for me say,
“We are more wedded every day.”

Count the full years we've been together,
And lest she cry, “Ah, full of care!”
Tell her that soon the winter weather
Will soften now, and spring's repair
Bring back to cheer the wayside places
Primroses with their golden faces.

Speak of the sure immortal light,
And say the mortal heart resembles
Unsteady water, which, though bright,
Is bright but with a beam that trembles;
That faith must tremulously shine,
And yet it is a light divine.

Hint piously that souls akin
Shall some day one another meet,
And that an early-parted twin
More blest may be, in heaven sweet,

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For gentle, secret service kind,
Done to the brother left behind.

Say, too, that though Time drives the years,
God rules the paces and the path,
Oft checks the course for human fears,
And garments warm provided hath:
And as we through the stages come,
We near the gate of distant home.

O Heart! can you provide me verse
To say this, and the day to bless?
And better health, a fuller purse,
Some unexpected happiness,
These wish, too, for the day's return—
Then, Heart, my gratitude you earn.

“These very words of your request,”
My heart replied, “these offer her;
To verse the choicest and the best
Such words of love she will prefer;
In husband's talk unto his heart
The true wife ever would have part.”

THE SINGER.

“Sing praises unto God, sing praises.”

I heard the winter weep and sob
Through hours of a moonless night,
When the blank fields and naked trees
Were suffering the wind's despite:
And yet, as on my bed I lay,
My heart, she sang in her delight.

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With change of weeks now shone the moon,
Her beam of double pureness bright
Shining on self-illumined snows
That help'd her beautify the night:
And still, as on my bed I lay,
My heart, she sang in her delight.

So sings she on calm summer days,
When even the very grass is still;
And when the winds that herald showers
Sound from the woods, she singeth still.
All times, she saith, their music have;
And sing she must, and sing she will!

She finds a glory in the dark,
Another glory in the sun;
A glory in the ending year,
A glory in the spring begun;
And thus her changeful, steady song
She sings, as round the seasons run.

JANUARY VERSES.

The rough, dark-visaged winter,
Lord of each icy wind,
Is a lover of the beautiful,
And has a warm heart kind.

He fashions snow-flakes delicate,
He gives the drift its curl;
He breathes a charm, and magic winds
Make the black trees bright with pearl.

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His icy-finger'd frost-power—
Gentle as it is strong—
Fetters the river flow, and weaves
Ice-lace the sides along.

In a solemn muse he paces
The silence-haunted pole,
And thoughts of wonder and pity and love
Make music in his soul.

Then he besweeps the world with wind
Of soft and sorrowful tone,
That the listening heart of man may hear
A music like his own.

And oft he comes where families
In the fire-shine circle round,
Telling the tale of wonder and hope,
And love that sought and found.

And frost-forms on his fancy crowd
Even as he stops to listen;
Then of story-breath he weaves the flowers
That on the windows glisten.

He stands with the lonely student,
Up-gazing through the air,
At solemn heaven circling slow
Round the ever-fixèd star.

The north sky he makes merry bright,
Light upon light advances
To change and vanish, as in a heart,
Bright bewildering fancies.

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With cold snow the world he whitens,
Spreads clearest blue above,
Earth and the heaven agreeing fair,
Like purity and love.

And winter looks for coming spring,
As age for a daughter mild;
And hopes to die with his old white head
Reposed upon his child.

THE PRAISE OF NOVEMBER.

November, honour'd by the few,
Though hated by the unthinking many,
'Tis hard that all the months but you
Should have their praise, and you not any!

Fine things they say of April showers,
April, who hailstones at us throws;
Her blue skies and her blue-bell flowers;
Pshaw!—nothing's blue except one's nose.

There's March will only snarl and fret;
Instead of rushing like a warrior
To drive off February's wet,
He cheats our hopes and leaves us sorrier.

The blooming May is sleety too,
And June as cold as any beauty;
Indeed, there's scarce a month but you
That can be found to do its duty.

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Thus if we want a Christmas snow,
In vain we trust to old December;
'Tis seen in picture-books, I know—
Who can a real white day remember?

January's frosts are all pretences,
Two days or three, and then a thaw;
You lose your temper and your senses
At such a fickle month and raw.

Poor February gets much abuse,
Yet is of early months the best;
Does dirty work that's full of use,
And finishes before the rest.

July? Oh! yes, July is bright—
A passionate and selfish lover,
Who, kind for days of brief delight,
Can frown and thunder when they're over.

August is good, but rather dull,
Brings sometimes weeks of mopy weather;
September's harvest's seldom full,
But fails in part, or altogether.

October is serene and fair,
But being fair, deceit attends her;
She's fine awhile, then soon the air
Grows damp, and brings the influenza.

Let other months then—praised enough!
Own tardy justice to their brother;
And blamed for once, accept reproof,
And mend and comfort one another.

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His wind, perhaps, is sometimes rough,
For that a coat will make provision;
His fog is wholesome kind of stuff,
And suits an English disposition.

In balminess, his finer days
Exceed the finest days of June;
Lights softer than the summer's blaze,
Soun s quieter than autumn's tune

Has he; and skies so pale, so tender,—
Like violets which in lonely places
Appealingly their beauty render,
And bring our love into our faces.

A pathos is there in November;
With many an hour hush'd and clear
He heals the wounds we long remember,
And mourns the battle of the year.

Healing he speaks of conflict yet,
And mourns, but whispering still of peace,
Hope sympathises with regret,
Life sacredly defies decease.

A WARNING.

Woe to her, whoe'er she be,
That next an Album brings to me;
About the room I'll fiercely stalk,
And make my tongue a tomahawk:
For eyes and cheeks and shining hair,
And soft entreaties I'll not care;

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But, perhaps, in honourable rage,
Upset my inkstand on the page,
And of Album nigrum make,
That my foes may warning take.

MR. SIMPLE AND THE LADY.

An Album is the one thing white
Of which I cannot bear the sight,
Although a person most polite.

Bold in ability to tease,
The crafty owner, quite at ease,
Says, “Mr. Simple, if you please,

“I hope you'll be so very kind,
At the first leisure that you find,
To write just what you feel inclined,

“In my poor book: I'll only plead
For a few verses, so you need
Not the least trouble take, indeed.”

Does Madam think that verses grow
Coolly as snowdrops in the snow,
Whether the season smiles or no?

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Can I, industrious or lazy,
Bloom any where, just like a daisy,
Whether the days be bright or hazy?

Or poems yield when ladies beg,
Each perfect as a new-laid egg,
By screwing up my brains a peg?

Or is my head a thistle-crown,
The prickly thoughts that make me frown,
To soften into floating down?

Lady, if verse I must compose,
Then I will tell you of a rose
That sometimes in my garden grows.

Red is it when it opens first,
But scarce has into blossom burst,
When, like a heart in cares immersed,

Its blushing hues become less bright,
And soon the red has faded quite,
And left it like an Album—white.

But, oh! how sweet its leaves, no sweeter
A lady's Album leaves that greet her,
When old affections come to meet her.

The blush that on the flower shone
Has paled, while still the rose blooms on,
But fragrance lasts when both are gone.

So life outlives its own decays;
But goodness has yet higher praise,
For through, and after, life it stays.

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WORDS.

Oh! sweet, sweet words, that tenderly besprinkle
Our best affections with a sunny rain,
Gentle as winds that scarce the waters wrinkle,
Or bend the grasses on the meadowy plain.
Wise is the lady that can add your sweetness
To the pure quiet of her smiling eyes,
And all the household forms of graceful neatness
That her ingenious busy hand supplies:
Still from her heart, the flower, her voice, the bee
Brings honey forth, and murmurs pleasantly.

THE HERMIT SPEAKS AT LAST.

For nineteen years the Hermit walk'd
In places sweet and shady;
And much he thought, but never talk'd,
Until there came a lady;
And then he said—what could he say
To one as bright as Cytherea,
Who sweeter made his shady way?
He said—that he was pleased to see her.

“And pleased to say so, too,” said she—
Saucy she was, though good and kind;
“Ah! Hermit, beards may whiter be,
And yet no wiser grow the mind:
These nineteen years the birds have sung,
The roots have yielded flowers;
And you, with unproductive tongue,
Have lost the fruitful hours.

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“The horse that never caracoles,
The goat that never capers,
Are emblems of the silly souls
That silent live, in vapours;
And speak not lest they should offend,
Nor ever laugh lest they should err;
Not knowing that mirth is wisdom's friend,
And only malice angers her.”

The reverend hermit cried, “Alack!”
And heaved a very mournful sigh—
He wish'd his tawny beard was black,
And youthful yet his faded eye:
In love he fell; and soon his love
Held a permitted sway,
For, by his side, “Papa,” she cried,
“I'm twenty-one to-day!”

“My daughter Susan! Susan dear,
My daughter! is it you?”
Said he, in joy, and half in fear.
Said she, “Papa, 'tis true:
I've tongue enough for both, Papa,
I know, but now I've broke the spell;
You'll talk to show how wise you are,
I'll listen to the tale you tell.”

THE POET'S HOUSE.

A happy poet built a house of glass,
And light from every side stream'd gently in,

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But, ah! I saw a cloud of censure pass,
Which from its cold breast shot with clattering din
Hailstones, that, beating on the house, alas!
It fell to ruin, for it was too thin.

No thoughts consoling could his woe beguile,
Till to his succour came wise Diotima;
“Arise!” cried she, with a half angry smile,
“Arise at once, and build a house sublimer;
A fabric lasting for so short a while
Is not a Poet's—only suits a rhymer.

“Arise, I say, the rocky crystal take,
As clear as wisdom and as strong as love,
And through it the congenial beams will make
Their noiseless way, each like a tender dove;
The hail may buffet, but it cannot shake
A house as stable as heaven's dome above.”

HEAR THE WEATHERCOCK!

A weathercock perch'd up on high,
While turning in the gusty sky,
Spake thus, in loud soliloquy,
“Fickle is all the world but I:

“Even the very clock below
Is sometimes fast and sometimes slow;
But look at me and you will know
Exactly how the wind may blow.

“Why, all the stars begin to fly
When little fleecy clouds run by;
But steadfast through the night am I,
And serve my master faithfully.

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“Obedient, I turn any way,
At any hour of night or day,
And never mind what people say
Who wish the wind to go or stay;

“No, not the girls so nicely drest,
Nor farmers, for the crops distrest,
Who always fancy they know best,
And will look north, though I look west.

“Old Hodge, that hobbles on his stick,
Old Susan, of the ague sick,
Old Lady Grumbles, with the tick,
Would like the warmest winds to pick;

“But storms I neither seek nor shun,
I glisten in the evening sun,
Or darken ere the day is done—
And down by me the lightnings run.

“I'm wet with rain or white with snow,
Or ruddy with the morning glow;
I love the gales that noisiest grow,
And clouds that darkest shadows throw.

“The sun his brightest smiles may try—
I shall not turn for him, not I!
The Wind's my Master, and that's why
I wait upon his lightest sigh:

“And let him bluster from the sea,
Or whisper from the grassy lea—
Come as he will he pleases me,
I am the pink of constancy!”

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PROVIDENCE.

The very hairs upon our head are number'd,
And noticed in the change from bright to gray;
For God with multitude is not encumber'd,
Well knows each atom what his voice doth say;
Why then so fearful are we, ever counting
Our cares, our enemies, our troubles over;
Perplexing silly self with sums amounting
Unto a total only God can cover?

Who from the dusty road would miss a sparrow,
Or in a garden hear one chirp the less?
Kind as our hearts may be our views are narrow,
But God each thing can notice and can bless:
With careful love He gives the humblest creatures
Their tiny cups of brimful happiness,
And makes them in their turns impressive preachers
Of faith, hope, charity, and good success.

He clothes the rugged rocks with tender mosses,
He floats the lilies on the water's brim;
He is chief Shepherd, and each lamb that crosses
The mountain steep is led and fed by Him;
He gives the butterfly and flower their beauty—
His promise in a parable they speak
To all who will fulfil the simple duty
Of trusting Him, and heavenly glory seek.

There is no searching of His understanding,
From stars to grasses He extends His care;
And weary spirits on the bright shore landing,
Find all they want is known and ready there:

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We live for heaven, but earth, too, has its blessing;
If more in worth the jewel than the casket,
Yet God keeps both: our soul His grace possessing,
Corn for the body will not fail our basket.

PROOFS.

The man that can and will
In the rough waters swim,
And calmly keep his courage still—
We know the proof of him.

The man by praise unbought,
And free from haste and whim,
Who speaks aloud his inward thought—
We know the proof of him.

The man who hails the morn,
While yet with dazzling rim
The day's new monarch is unborn—
We know the proof of him.

The man who not for gold
His way will wind and trim,
But rich or poor is just and bold—
We know the proof of him.

The man who will not plead
His weary head and limb,
When love is at its sorest need—
We know the proof of him.

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The man who hates excess,
Yet fills up to the brim
His every cup of kindliness—
We know the proof of him.

The man who fears no cry
Of party-bigot grim,
But meekly stands, and sturdily—
We know the proof of him.

The man whose laughter rings
A puzzle to the prim;
Yet who no witty poison flings—
We know the proof of him.

The man who plunging dives
Where others only skim,
And so at real truth arrives—
We know the proof of him.

The man who brightly shines,
Not flickering and dim,
But steady as the heavenly signs—
We know the proof of him.

This man for our behoof,
In body stout or slim,
Hath manfully wrought out the proof—
That God hath wrought in him.

KING CRAS.

King Cras on his deceitful throne
Sits gravely hearing cases;
But judgment he will still postpone
Amid the moral faces

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Of courtiers, who every one
Can logically say,
Why what is pleading to be done
Should not be done to-day.

King Cras, though he is threaten'd oft
With certain deposition,
By always speaking people soft
Can change their disposition:
He promises them much and well,
Proposes novel schemes;
If they begin their woes to tell,
King Cras, he tells his dreams.

King Cras, he likes to hear the cries
Of any one aspirant,
“Rebellion let us organize,
Our king, he is a tyrant!”
Full well he knows he is exempt
From cause of fear and sorrow,
When told the rebels their attempt
Have put off till to-morrow.

King Cras has his peculiar way
Of valuing time present;
He eats and drinks and laughs to-day,
Does all that he finds pleasant:
He has besides his daily work;
This work, it is—to borrow;
But other busi ess he will shirk—
He leaves it till to-morrow.

King Cras, he has a palace vast,
So rapid was the building,

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That from the rougher work they pass'd
At once unto the gilding.
To-day must every nerve be strain'd
To make the gilding grand;
To-morrow might be ascertain'd
Whether the walls would stand.

King Cras is so magnificent,
Expensive is his budget;
But when he meets his Parliament
They're never found to grudge it:
His dearest project is their pet,
They feel no hesitation,
Pleased to increase the public debt—
The sole wealth of the nation.

Approach the city of King Cras,
And strange is the illusion,
All fair and stately seems, whereas
All's ruin and confusion;
Mansions have but a gate and tower,
A church is but a steeple;
And roofless houses every hour
Come tumbling on the people.

King Cras has many travellers
To visit his dominions,
With whom he readily confers,
And gives them his opinions;
Their interests he'll make his own,
He says, and they believe him,
And very few of them are known
Who ever after leave him.

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King Cras, he swaggers and cajoles,
But, it must be confest,
Rules over miserable souls,
Tormented with unrest;
Some with a cureless palsy sigh,
Some of despair are dying;
The bitterer the wish to fly
The less the power of flying.

No land there is, nor any seven—
Oh, terrible to tell!—
Where people talk so much of heaven
And feel so much of hell;
No land like Crasland in the earth,
Where ruinously scatter'd,
Lie minds and hearts of choicest worth
All broken and bespatter'd.

Crasland, the land of wealth and waste,
Of laziness and action,
Of mad delay, and madder haste,
Of boast and of distraction:
Where schemes of plenty and of peace
In war and famine finish;
And as the nation's hopes increase,
The grounds of them diminish.

Though all is finery atop,
All's wretchedness beneath;
Of pleasure there is not a drop
But is a drop of death:
Each hour as it dribbles past
A darker sadness tinges;

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And there are cruel pangs at last,
Where first were only twinges.

King Cras, he boldly perseveres
In promising and sinning;
His remedy for tears and fears
Is—something new beginning.
“All things,” he says, with royal smile,
“To-morrow will be better.”
The more with hope he can beguile,
The heavier will he fetter.

King Cras, he has been oft assail'd
With Resolutions banded;
But over millions has prevail'd
Most doughtily commanded:
His flag of truce possesses charms
To foil the bold endeavour;
Captains and men throw down their arms,
And cry, “King Cras for ever!”

King Cras was crown'd in ancient days,
And it is doubtful whether
Until the last consuming blaze,
He'll vanish altogether:
The sanguine say, “He's ruled so long
That realm of wreck and sorrow,
His health must now be far from strong,
Perhaps he'll die—to-morrow!”

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CHAPTER XV.

A RETURN FROM MUSIC.

How dreamily we walk, at night,
Home from a music sweet!
A ghostly sound the foot arouses,
As you pass the shadowy houses—
There's no one in the street;
But, perhaps, a woman all alone,
The music of whose life is done.

From some window shines a light;
Is there one who sleeps,
While a sister or a mother,
Or a father or a brother,
Tender watching keeps;
And sweet hope, as the hours pass by,
Makes low and distant melody?

In that room where shadows move,
A mother new may be;
While he who is a father made,
With feeling very strange and glad,
His little one may see:

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And now are baby, man, and wife,
The three-part harmony of life.

Farther on, from high above,
A student's lamp will beam;
Night-silence is, as if a wind,
Filling the organ of his mind;
And, like music in a dream,
With many a change of stop and key,
Thought advances wanderingly.

Wakeful, within their silent rooms,
Some still may musing lie;
And in this middle hush of night,
Perhaps a thought of old delight
Jars the harp of memory;
And startles every slumbering string,
Sad sounds confused awakening.

But round you, in the darken'd rooms,
Are families at rest;
Gradual and gentle came repose,
Silently deepening, like the snows;
And now in many a breast
Rules dream-power, with musician's skill,
Guiding the spirit as he will.

The young man of the maiden dreams,
The maiden dreams of man;
Her treble airiness and grace,
His powerful supporting bass,
Complete each other can:
Each heart has its peculiar tone,
But none were meant to sound alone.

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Your house now in the lamp-shine gleams,
And, entering, you soon
With head upon your pillow are,
Where, scarcely listening, you hear
Thought faintly hum its tune;
Like mother who sings child asleep,
Singing on to make the slumber deep.

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THE HEAVEN.

Call not the heaven Vacancy—
Whose colour, soft and deep,
Compels a tear to every eye
That gazing long will keep;
Whose beauty rests so silently,
Like a maiden's in a sleep.

O Father great! this heaven high
Is of Thy love the token;
As sweet and deep as anciently,
Of stillness yet unbroken;
A love is imaged in the sky,
Too great to be outspoken.

Our earth, the featured Definite,
Has meanings all Divine;
But oneness of the Infinite
Doth in the azure shine;
We seem to see Thee in the height,
Around we look on Thine.

By works for uses and delight
We learn Thee part by part;
Thy world reveals to gradual sight
How manifold Thou art;
But read at once in heaven bright
Is the fulness of Thy heart.

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When gazing on the open blue,
Our heart and Thine seem near;
Thy love in ours is imaged true,
As skies in water clear;
Clouds come and pass, but still in view
The depths of heart appear.

We feel—and all our spirit through,
As through the air a bell,
Or odour of a blossom new
Through all a hidden dell,
Spreads joy as deep as heaven's hue,
Which utterance cannot tell.

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“HOPE THAT MAKETH NOT ASHAMED.”

O wondrous Lord of earth and heaven!
The ever-living One,
From Whom perpetual life streams forth,
As light doth from the sun;
In Thee we ever will rejoice,
In darken'd hours and bright—
Thou changest silence to a voice,
And bringest day from night.

The years unbrokenly march on,
And each is crown'd by Thee;
Then enters as a music hall
Thy vast eternity.
And when the years all gather'd are
The music shall begin,
And sound shall vanquish silence there,
As love doth vanquish sin.

And as a valley dim and dark,
When now above each hill
The sun has risen in the sky,
A golden light doth fill;
The past shall all illumin'd be,
When hindering time above
Into Thy thought, which is the sky,
Hath risen the sun, Thy love.

Lord, in a valley here we dwell,
The aged mountains round,
As storms that echo, showers that fall,
Thy varying footsteps sound;

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And as the wind from mountains high,
So comes Thy truth from Thee;
Strong as Thy power, fresh as Thy joy,
Sweet as Thy love can be.

And when we the sun-gilded brow
Of the distant future see,
As stately palm-trees wave in air,
Our spirits bend to Thee;
Need-rooted here on earth we are,
As trees we move, we rise;
But we would be as stars that sweep
Unhinder'd through the skies.

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LIFE.

What if each world be as a seed,
Unquicken'd till it die?
Then strike we, as we sin and bleed,
Roots for eternity.
And the earth, as a mighty tree,
Slow rises to the sky,
With ripening fruits, fair blossoming boughs,
And spreading majesty.

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The giant ship, Life, traverses
A tempest-girdled deep,
And over big, cloud-darken'd waves
Its stately course must keep;
But far above the cloud and surge
Blue-beaming heavens sleep,
And often on the waters dark
To brighten them will peep.

August and solemn is Thy love,
O God, even as Thy fear;
Thy works oft slow as storm-clouds move,
As terrible appear.
From dark sky-mountains breaks the fire,
The hush'd lands thunders hear;
In hail-noise and the roaring wind
Doom-wrath seems drawing near.

Through storm and dark Thou workest long,
Dost good in evil see,
And must be loved, in courage strong,
With depth and sanctity.
Thou honourest man by strifes and pains,
Sin-conqueror to be;
And sternest disciplines prepare
Most full felicity.

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HYMN OF BLESSING.

“I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth.”

Thee will we bless when morning bright
Doth new create our world and heart,
Sleep-changed, now from the dreamful night
As from a chrysalid-vest we part;
In evening's valley closed our eyes,
We wake as on a mountain high;
Vales now beneath, in front sunrise,
Wide earth around, above the sky.

Thee will we bless when evening dusk
With trembling flowers of light is hung;
Now seems the world a buried husk,
Whence starry majesty hath sprung:
Now with a solemn, wondering heart,
Fix'd, gazing up with deep desires,
Men stand, then soon in peace depart
For wife, and child, and household fires.

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Thee will we bless when noon is high,
Earth's work, a ship with full-set sails,
Through waters striving heavily,
By skill-bought power of wind prevails.
That great work-governor, the sun,
Illumines now the countries wide;
Nor know we till hath rest begun,
How many suns there are beside.

Be Thou, Lord, by the cities blest,
Life-seas with sleeping waves of power,
Upon whose bosom so wide may rest
Noon and dark night at one same hour.
As spirit-nebulæ, cloudy, dim,
Full-peopled cities distant are;
Near-by each spirit hath its beam,
And, separate, brightens to a star.

Thee will we bless from off the sea,
Thine ancient water-empire wide:
Far-thundering waves unrestingly
Lift to the light, in darkness hide.
They hear the mighty wind-king's voice,
Thy captain-winds their force control,
In swelling vastness they rejoice
When Thou commandest them to roll.

Thee will we bless upon the land,
The embellish'd earth, complete and fair;
To all the creatures of Thine hand
Thy love is an encircling air.

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The forest dark, the mountain strong,
Thou didst prepare in deeps of time;
Of energy and beauty young,
Thy works appear in every clime.

Thou, Lord, art by the seasons blest—
The hoary-headed Winter old—
Spring, with her green flower-border'd vest—
Autumn in many-shaded gold—
The Summer clothed in richest blue,
Her seamless robe the heaven pure;
These changing rule, all countries through,
Their beauty and Thy praise endure.

Thee bless we for the sun-bright name—
Christ, which on earth's great heart we trace,
Love-written, a word of burning flame,
Which He may darken or efface,
Who with His breath shall quench the sun
As easily as a quivering spark;
And circling worlds plunge every one
Deep back into the wintry dark.

O God! when from the darken'd sky
Wind-broken clouds the sun doth melt,
Sweet rains and rainbows' majesty,
Thy powers of Life and Hope, are felt;
Then bless we Good which evil sways,
In fathomless wisdom all Divine:
Above our weather-changing days
Still doth Thy Mercy's heaven shine.

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THE END.