The Two Brothers, and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Suffering for thee, sweet sister—and sharp pain—
For thee, the gentlest of earth's gentle ones?
Does the cloud gather o'er thy heart and brain
So darkly, and yet no repining tones?
Oh, hush! my own sad heart, thy faithless fears,
And quell or dry thy quick, rebellious tears.

II

She, as a babe upon a mother's breast,
A child within a father's sheltering arms,
Unconsciously is lying;—the unrest,
Brother, is thine—thine all those rude alarms.
Still thy heart's beatings where she hers hath still'd,
Believing all is best that He hath will'd.

159

III

Yet was our home so bright, so passing fair,
Some faint, dim semblance of a home above;
And she the tenderest loveliest angel there,
Around whom cluster'd all our dreams of love:
We thought that grief might never shadow long
What seem'd the fittest haunt for praise and song.

IV

And was it but a dream? and has the cloud
Once and again pass'd by us, threatening woe
And shedding tears? and has its darkness bow'd
Our hearts once more in struggling sorrow low?
And has the sunshine of affection's mirth
Pass'd ever, sleep-like, from this beautiful earth?

V

Nay, check your tears, sad sisters, pause and linger,
And check, sad brother, thy wild wayward words;
Grief takes thy lyret from thee, and her finger
Sweeps somewhat rudely o'er the trembling chords.
Ye must not, when beneath the cloud, forget
That He, whose love is sunshine, loves ye yet.

160

VI

Methinks I hear His voice of pity saying,—
“Ye clung too closely to your lovely home;
Your sister's spirit, dear children, is delaying,
To teach ye of a better rest to come:
Where grief is not nor sighing, pain nor tears,
But life, light, love, for everlasting years.”

Watton, 1846.

II. “HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP.”

I

Oh, tread lightly—she is weary,
She hath suffer'd all day through,
And the night is somewhat dreary
If she wake and suffer too:
Silently the stars are keeping
Their sweet vigils o'er her,
And she dreams not in her sleeping
That to-morrow is before her.

161

II

Break it not, that spell of slumber,
Waveless, beautiful as heaven,
'Mid the sharp gusts without number,
And the clouds, of tempests driven.
Weep not, sister; sister, cheer thee;
Yet she will not hear thee weep:
She is weary, very weary,
Only let her sleep.

III

I could fancy, gazing on her,
She had pass'd her night of sighs;
And that heaven's own light upon her,
Waits to greet her opening eyes.
Silence on each word of sorrow,
On a thought that would repine;
For there shall be such a morrow,
And for thee, sweet sister mine.

IV

Ah! I know it, that reposing—
'Tis her Father bade it come—

162

Emblem, when life's day is closing
Of the deep repose of home;
Storms the joy of calm redoubling
In the mansions of the blest;
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

Watton, 1847.

III. “AND SO HE BRINGETH THEM TO THE HAVEN WHERE THEY WOULD BE.”

Yes, billow after billow—see they come
Faster and rougher, as her little boat
Nears evermore the haven. Oftentimes
It seems to sink and fall adown the wave,
As if borne backward by the struggling tide:
Yet mounting billow after billow, wave
On wave o'er-riding, tempest-tost and shatter'd,
Still, still it nears the haven evermore.

163

“Poor mariner, art thou not sadly weary?”
Dear brother, rest is sweeter after toil.
“Grows not thine eye confused and dim with sight
“Of nothing but the wintry waters?” True,
But then my pole-star, constant and serene,
Above the changing waters changes not.
“But what if clouds, as often, veil the sky?”
Oh, then, an unseen hand hath ever ta'en
The rudder from my feeble hands the while—
And I cling to it. “Answer me once more,
“Mariner, what think'st thou when the waters bear
“Thy frail boat backward from the long'd-for harbour?”
Oh, brother, though innumerable waves
Still seem to rise betwixt me and my home—
Still billow after billow, wave on wave—
I know that they are number'd: not one less
Should bear me homeward if I had my will;
For One who knows what tempests are to weather,
O'er whom there broke the wildest billows once,
He bids these waters swell. In His good time
The last rough wave shall bear me on its bosom
Into the haven of eternal peace.

164

No billows after—they are number'd, brother.
“Oh, gentle mariner, steer on, steer on:
“My tears shall flow for thee, but they are tears
“In which faith strives with grief, and overcomes.”

Watton, 1847.