Voices from the Lakes, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh, not unclothed, my heart recoils from this,
And turns all trembling from the loathsome grave!
But to be clothed upon, ah, this were bliss,
And this, O God, I crave!

I love this happy life and all its joys,
I love the sunshine, and the warmth, and light,—
The summer woods, the river's rippling voice,
And all things fair and bright.

I love the song of birds in leafy trees,
That sit and warble sweetly all the day;
I love to catch the whispers of the breeze
As through the boughs they play.

I love the bleat of lambs amongst the hills,
The hum upon the wind of passing bee;
To hear the lark which all the silence fills
With thrilling melody.

113

'Tis sweet to stray through fields where flowrets blow,
Or wander thro' the meadows, cool and green,
To watch the shadows as they come and go
Across the starlight keen.

'Tis sweet to see affection's beaming look,
The smile of ready love, unbribed, unbought;
To read as in a fair and open book,
Each pure and holy thought.

I still would feel a wife's and child's embrace,
The clasp of friendly hand strong, staunch, and true;
And gaze into a loving, gentle face,
As now I fondly do.

I would not be unclothed; I would not die,
Wept for a space, perhaps, with bitter tear;
Then mouldering in the lonely grave, to lie
Forgotten, tho' so near;

Out in the cold, when warm fires burn and glow,
And happy faces gather round the hearth,
And peals of merry laughter come and go,
Whilst I lie deep in earth.

114

Oh, not unclothed! my God, save me, I pray,
From the dire sting and bitterness of death!
O come Thyself, and bring the Advent day,
Whilst yet I draw my breath!

Oh, not unclothed, but rather clothed upon,
With that immortal house Thou hast in store,
When the frail earthly tent is taken down,
And laid by evermore!

Oh, for the lot of that great Saint of old,
Who in the body went to be with Thee,
Rapt on a sudden to the heavenly fold,
From death set ever free!

Take me like him for whom the burning car
Swept down the firmament with splendour bright,
Gliding along the sky like some fair star,
And flashing on the sight.

But if this may not be, and die I must,—
If over me the solemn words be said,
“Ashes to ashes, dust to kindred dust,”
Then, Lord, be with Thy dead! Amen.

118

A DIRGE.

Why sleepeth she? Are there not voices calling,
Bidding her to them as they used of yore,
In loving tones and sweetest accents falling
Along the sounding shore?

Why stayeth she? The starlight softly lieth—
The starlight which she loved on mead and hill;
While through the depths of heaven the white moon hieth,
And all is calm and still.

Why lingereth she? Her step once lightly bounded,
Brushing the dew-drop from the opening flower;
Her voice amidst the gay, all gayest sounded,
Rich in its youthful power.

Then say, why sleepeth she? She's gone for ever;
Oh, she is dead! our breaking hearts are sore;
We call her, but at our fond bidding, never
Shall she awaken more.

119

Alas! that she, who filled our home with gladness,
And made earth blessèd, should thus early die;
Turning our life in blank and dreary sadness,
Into one long-drawn sigh.

And yet, why murmer we? She has been taken
Far from the evil which is yet to come;
And not a tear can from her eyes be shaken
In her Elysian home.

There, with her Father in yon radiant heaven—
There, with her Saviour, pillow'd on His breast;
All gifts that God can give to her are given,
And peaceful is her rest.

Let us not weep, then, with a hopeless sorrow,
Nor cherish thoughts of an unmingled pain;
But rather wait the dawning of that morrow,
When we shall meet again.

The glorious morn, when clothed in radiant lustre,
The saints that sleep in Christ, to life shall rise,
And far outshine the brightest stars that cluster
Upon the sapphire skies.

120

LIFE OR DEATH.

The people thro' the Churchyard go,
The Living thro' the Dead—
The Dead that sleep so calm below,
Each in his narrow bed.
The Living, full of hopes and fears,
The Dead, so quiet and so still;
The Living, weeping bitter tears;
The Dead, beyond the reach of ill.
The Living, needing cure and balm,
With weariness within their eyes;
The Dead, with faces all so calm,
Not vexed with sorrow or surprise;
Their lot removed from loss and pain,
And aching thoughts and throbbing brain.
Ah, which is best—to live and weep,
Or in the grave with Christ to sleep,
No scorn or wrong to wring the breast,
Or break the tranquil spirit's rest!

125

SONNET. A DYING WISH.

“That is what I should like—serving continually. Oh, I trust there will be work for me where I am going!”—Lady Augusta Stanley.

They gathered round her on her dying bed,
Where she was placed death-stricken, where she lay
In pain and anguish, many a weary day,
After all hope of health had ever fled.
The tide of life was ebbing fast away,
Nor had she any wish on earth to stay;
To what God pleased at once she bowed her head,—
“His will, not mine, be done,” she meekly said;
She had not lived for self and selfish gain,
But for the sick, the troubled, and the poor;
Her hands had ministered to soothe their pain,
Her lips had gently taught them to endure;
It was her joy to comfort and sustain,
And staunch the bleeding wounds she could not cure.

126

SONNET. THE SAME.

She long had yearned for perfect rest and peace;
Her heart had gone before her to the skies,
To which she turned uplifted, wistful eyes,
Hoping that God would give her quick release;
For there the pangs of anguish ever cease,
Sin is no more, nor bitter tears, nor sighs,
But joys and pleasures of God's Paradise,
Which thro' the ages ever shall increase.
But most of all because her love was true,
Ardent and deep, longed she to be with Christ;
And with this strong desire another grew,
And nought but this her craving soul sufficed,
Hence her last words, “When all things are made new,
Will there be work for Him that I can do?”

127

LAST WORDS.

“That is what I should like—serving continually. Oh, I trust there will be work for me where I am going!”—Lady Augusta Stanley.

You speak of “rest,” this will indeed be sweet,
Ease for the aching heart and throbbing brain;
No more the sickness, or the fever's heat,
The bitter anguish, or the wasting pain.
Oh, to lie ever in my Saviour's breast!
Never to weep, or feel a pang again!
Nothing to mar, nothing to break my rest!
But, to content me, “rest” itself were vain;
Nay, even streams of pleasure ever flowing,
“I trust there will be work for me where I am going.”

You speak of “glory,” and it will be bliss
To see the City shining in God's light;
And lying here, I often think of this,—
The gates of pearl, the walls of jasper bright;
But were this all, a something I should lose;
In endless service is my true delight,

128

And this the blessedness that I would choose;
For what, tho' splendours flashed upon my sight,
And heaven to me was all its wonders shewing,
“Were there no work for me to do where I am going!”

You speak of “joy,” and rapture it will be
To take the harp and celebrate His praise;
To stand where flames the bright and crystal sea,
And sing the new sweet song—its notes to raise
Beneath the shadow of the rainbow'd throne;
To magnify my Saviour's works and ways,
And all His mercies and His love to own;
But not with song would I fill all my days.
Burns there a wish, like flame within me glowing,
“I trust there will be work for me where I am going.”

It has been dear, God knows how dear to me,
The blessedness of serving Him to prove,
A lowly handmaiden of His to be,
And by thy side in service sweet to move,
So, day by day, to do His holy will.
Pleasant to us these ministries of love,
Pleasant the happy hours with work to fill,
Ah, this was joy all other joys above!

129

Canst wonder then this thought is in me growing,
“Will there be work for me to do where I am going?”

Sweet work we had, Beloved. To tend the poor,
To soothe the sorrowful, console the sad;
To bind up broken hearts, the sick to cure,
To dry the weeping eye, make mourners glad;
To guide the sinful and the wandering home,
Stoop to the fallen, deeming none too bad
For Him who bids the very worst to come,
And who for deepest sores a balsam had.
And as there was a reaping after sowing,
“God give me work to do for Him where I am going!’

What ministries are there—ah, who can say!
What possibilities of work for those
Who never weary, “rest not night or day,”
Whose labour is not toil, nor needs repose.
Ah, as they climb new heights of glory still,
And heaven upon their vision ever grows,
And fresh unveilings of the Father's will,
What forms of service shall not God disclose!
The current of my hopes to this is flowing,
“I trust there will be work to do where I am going.”

130

SONNET. RESIGNATION.

I ask, O Father, in this hour of woe,
Not to escape the anguish and the pain,
The breaking heart, the aching wearied brain,
The wasting grief,—not this I ask, —Oh, no!
I only pray that Thou wilt mould me so
As Thou wouldst have me—fashion me again;
Yea, keep me in the furnace till each stain
Be burnt away, and till within my heart
My Saviour sees His own fair counterpart.
I pray that I may meekly kiss the rod
That cuts into the flesh with bitter smart;
And bow me humbly at Thy feet, O God!
Yea, bow till I can say with Thine own Son,
“Not mine, O Father, but Thy will be done!”

136

THE WELL OF BETHLEHEM.

I

It was the golden harvest-time,
The fields stood thick with corn;
The valley blushed with clustered vines,
Purple and red as morn.
But though the vintage ripened stood,
And harvest fields were white,
No hand was placed amongst the grapes,
Nor flashed the sickle bright.

II

No song was heard from field or fold,
Nor echoed from the hill;
The land was silent all as death,
As gloomy and as still.
The Philistine was in the land,
And kept it far and wide;
His armies seized fair Bethlehem,
And held it in their pride.

137

III

They roamed about in armèd bands,
And pillaged far and near;
And in the homes of Israel
Was bitter dread and fear.
They drove the oxen from the stall,
The cattle from the plain;
And in the dark and deadly fray
Left many a brave man slain.

IV

The king knew well the fearful straits
In which the people stood,
And how in terror they had fled
To den, and cave, and wood.
So David leaves his royal state
To help his trembling men;
He hopes his presence will recal
Their courage back again.

V

He marches onward to the fight
With a lion-heart and bold;
His noble eye has still the light
That it had in days of old.

138

He summons to Adullam's cave,
With trumpet loud and clear,
The noble and the gallant souls
To whom the right is dear.

VI

He buckles on his sword and shield,
And dons his armour bright;
And, trusting in the living God,
Comes down to head the fight.
He dares to stand against a host,
Nor turns his face away;
The Lord Jehovah is his boast,
No foe can him dismay.

VII

He fears not man, nor living thing,
Nor shrinks from battle-field;
He loves to hear the clash and ring
Of broadsword and of shield.
And so against the Philistine
He mingles in the strife,
And, in the ghastly battle, strikes
For honoured death or life.

139

VIII

And now he gives the signal,
Is first to hurl the dart;
And sweeping onward with his men,
Like rush of river through a glen,
Or tiger springing from his den,
Cleaves many to the heart.
The deadly conflict thus begins,
Commences thus the fray;
And the king, from break of morning,
Fights bravely through the day.

IX

Nor backs he from the battle,
Nor draws he from the fight;
His arm is nerved with vigour,
And his eye is full of light.
Many champions fall before him,
Many warriors bite the ground;
The slain are piled in ghastly heaps,
And the dying lie around.

X

See how grand he looks and stately,
See what courage on his brow;

140

Not a man that he encounters
But before his feet doth bow.
Mark you how he stands so proudly,
Firm as any towering rock;
On his shield, unmoved, receiving
All the foemen's fiercest shock.

XI

Hear ye how his voice is lifted,
Clear as any trumpet's tone,—
“Strike for God, and strike for Jewry,
For your country, king, and throne.”
Loudly then his men make answer,
Quick responding to his call;
And his words wake noble echoes
In the hearts of one and all.

XII

Not for all the gold of Ophir
Would a man who heard him speak,
Have retreated from the battle,
Life or safety thus to seek.
No! they bravely rallied round him,
With a kindling cheek and eye,

141

Each resolved to win the conquest,
This their purpose—or to die!”

XIII

For their hearts beat high within them,
Theirs is valour strong as death;
Clenched their teeth and set their faces,
Firmly now they draw their breath.
Then, as some wild tempest rushes
Down the wintry mountain's side,
Dash they onward in their fury,
Nought can stem the furious tide.

XIV

Onward press these noble soldiers
In a goodly, gallant band,
Till they meet the armèd foemen
Foot to foot, and hand to hand.
Many knights and many captains
Go down in the bitter fray;
Many soldiers, stout and manly,
Close their eyes upon the day.

142

XV

But at noon the battle slackened,
In the heaven the sun was high,
Pouring down his rays upon them
From a fierce and burning sky.
Then there came a pause in fighting
All along the battle-field;
And each warrior loosed his helmet,
And unlaced his buckler-shield.

XVI

Then their slain they quickly bury,
Laying them in bloody grave;
And with words of bitter sorrow,
Mourn the valiant and the brave.
Soon the hurried rites are over;
And the men who fought so well
Are laid down in peace and honour
In the places where they fell.

XVII

Then the weary soldiers stretch them
By the hill, and rock, and plain,
Waiting till the trumpet shrilling
Calls them to the fight again.

143

And the king, with fight exhausted,
Fainting is, and sick with thirst;
From no spring the waters trickle,
From no rock the fountains burst.

XVIII

Comes there now before his vision,
Bubbling up a limpid pool,
Which, near Bethlehem's Eastern portal,
Gushes clear, and sweet, and cool.
In this weary hour of langour
Throbs his heart and burns his brain;
And he yearns with passionate yearning,
Fain would taste that well again.

XIX

Grows up in his heart a longing,
As of one about to die;
And the passion of his anguish
Takes shape in a thrilling cry,—
“God! that one would give me water
From fair Bethlehem's sparkling well,
Which lieth near to the city's gate,
Where my fathers used to dwell!”

144

XX

And then he paused; in haste he spake,
He knew that this fond wish was vain;
Those cooling waters might not slake
The fever of his heart and brain.
The Philistine kept all the town,
And held the Eastern gate;
He that would force this garrison,
Must meet a bloody fate.

XXI

But still there passed before his eyes
Fair dreams of pastures green,
Where once he kept his father's flock,
When a shepherd he had been.
And the sound of a trickling streamlet
Fell like music on his ear,
And mocked his hot and burning thirst
With dreams of water clear.

XXII

Three mighty men of David's band
Were standing at his head;
Not one of them or felt or knew
A thought of craven dread.

145

They heard King David's deep desire,
They saw his longing glance;
And each man's bosom burned with fire,
And each man grasped his lance.

XXIII

They will themselves to Bethlehem go,
And from the bubbling pool
Will bring their weary master back
Some water fresh and cool.
But how can three, however great,
Break through a host of men?
How, matched against such fearful odds,
Can they return again?

XXIV

Surely they hasten to their death,
These noble men and brave;
O'erpowered by numbers, they will fill
A stark and bloody grave.
But, see! like whirlwind on they dash
Across the spreading plain;
Their path is marked by stir and crash,
And hundreds of the slain.

146

XXV

The foe gives way, they speed right on,
They reach the city's gate;
Before their swords the garrison,
Meets with a bloody fate.
Onward they dash, and all the way
Is marked by heaps of slain
Who fall, as to the sickle falls
The ripe and bearded grain.

XXVI

So pass they onward to the place
Where the Well of Bethlehem lay;
Each step upon a foeman's corse,
Whose body marks the way.
Now, quickly stooping down, each takes
The helmet from his brow,
And dips the great and hollow casque
Where the cooling waters flow.

XXVII

They fill the helmet from the spring,
But not a drop themselves they taste;
No time there is to lose or waste,
They hurry back in hottest haste

147

To bear it to the king.
Now march they on, nor does the foe
Place hand on sword or spear;
They all fall back to let them pass,
Held fast in coward fear.

XXVIII

But they curse them by their father's gods,
Cursing beneath their breath;
And on their brows sits scowling
A hate as grim as death.
And their craven souls are daunted,
And they dare not lift a hand
'Gainst the valiant three, who scorn them
In the places where they stand.

XXIX

Now all this time king David
Knew what his warriors dared;
And anxious for their safety,
Prays God their lives be spared.
Now feels he all his rashness,
Now sees he was to blame;
And his face it glows like scarlet,
With a blush that owns his shame.

148

XXX

What if these men should perish—
Fall o'erpowered by the foe?
Can he e'er forget his folly
That wrought them such a woe?
As the king is rapt in silence,
Rings a shout throughout the tent—
Thrilling shout of men who conquer,
And the air around is rent.

XXXI

'Tis the welcome of the soldiers,
As the chiefs return again;
All their armour stained and gory
From the life-blood of the slain.
With joy the three draw near the king,
And at his feet themselves they fling;
While again the shouting thousands
Make the sounding welkin ring.

XXXII

They place the helmet in his hand,
Filled with the waters cool,
Which at risk of life, in the deadly strife,
They bring from Bethlehem's pool.

149

What! will the king not taste them?
Will he not quench his thirst?
No, his heart grows hot within him,
And it swells as though 'twould burst.

XXXIII

Silently he takes the helmet,
Reverently looks up to God;
And the casque he turneth downward,
Pours the waters on the sod.
For though burning thirst consumes him,
And the fever fills each vein,
Yet the waters fresh and cooling,
Won at such cost and pain,

XXXIV

Look like the blood of the mighty men,
The chieftains three, who bravely burst
Thro' the serried ranks of the foe accurst,
And daring all to do their worst,
Stormed the foeman in his den.
So he pours the dear-won waters
Upon the grassy sward;
And he offers them in solemn prayer
An oblation to the Lord.

150

XXXV

“Far from me, Lord, be such a thing,
That I should drink so dear a draught,
'Twere all unworthy of a king;
'Twould be as tho' hot blood I quaffed—
Blood flowing from the hearts' warm spring.
This water is the very life—
The life of those who in the strife
Did jeopardise their all for me;
Did risk their life and liberty.
Forbid it, God, in Thy good grace,
That I should do a thing so base!”

XXXVI

He turned to thank the captains
Who braved so much for him;
Who, at his lightest wishes,
Had faced the battle grim.
To them he gives the station,
The nearest to his throne;
That they well deserve such guerdon,
The people freely own.

151

XXXVII

And the king himself men honour—
Honour more than e'er before,
Since in his hour of trial
So well himself he bore.
And David holds for ever dear,
These warriors true and bold—
These men who, scorning craven fear,
Stormed Bethlehem's mighty hold.

XXXVIII

Their names were woven into song,
Men kindle at their deeds;
And e'en the strong man grows more strong
As he the story reads.
God in His book records their name,
And ranks them with the great and brave,
To whom belongs eternal fame,
Who dead, yet speak from out their grave.

XXXIX

The world has heroes, whom it gives
A niche within the house of fame;
The record of their prowess lives
From age to age the same.

152

But God has His own heroes too:
Men strong to suffer, great to do—
Men who are able to control
All impulses of flesh and soul.

XL

Great men who live, yet daily die,
Who noble conquests win;
Their worser self who mortify,
Their body's deeds who crucify,
Triumphant over sin.
No greater men, I trow, than these,
Who never seek themselves to please,
Obedient to a higher will.

XLI

Who count their gain but utter loss,
Content to bear the shameful cross,
And when God speaks are still;
And they who their own spirits rein,
Who keep their selfish passions down,
Are greater far than those who gain
Battles, at cost of many slain,
Or take a fortress'd town.

153

THE LAW OF LOVE.

“Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.”— Gal. vi. 2.

“Bear ye one another's burdens,”
And fulfil Christ's law of love,
That divinest law which brought Him
From the spheres of light above.

“Bear ye one another's burdens,”
Take up something of the load;
Seek to cheer a fainting brother,
Help him kindly on the road.

Soothe the weary and the troubled,
As heart-sick they toil along;
Hush the bitter cry of sorrow,
Change its wailing to a song.

As ye pass yourselves to heaven,
Pause to bind some bleeding wound;
And with words of grace and mercy
Lift the fallen from the ground.

154

You can speak a word in season
In some sad and hopeless ear,
And revive the failing courage,
By inspiring hope for fear.

You can dry the tear of sorrow,
From the lids of weeping eyes;
You can ease the burdened spirit,
Draw forth music from its sighs.

You can watch the bed of sickness,
Take the fevered hand in thine;
Smooth the pillow, cheer the suffering,
With a cordial strong as wine.

You can bring a gleam of sunshine
To some poor and lonely home,
And be welcomed as an angel
When across the door you come.

You can check the hasty answer,
Press the word beneath your breath,
So as not to hurt a brother
With what pierces sharp as death.

155

You can share another's gladness,
With the weeping you can weep;
And if thus you sow in mercy,
You in mercy too shall reap.

Think of Him who came from Heaven,
Left God's bosom for the Cross;
Came in tears and nameless anguish,
To redeem us from our loss.

Not with light and glory came He,
Not with pomp, and song, and state;
Not to courtly hall or palace,
Not to mansions of the great.

Not a voice was raised in welcome,
No one hailed Him at His birth;
Every door was closed against Him,
When love drew Him down to earth.

Oh, what goodness! Oh, what mercy!
He our burdens came to bear;
Drank the cup of God's sore anger,
Left no drop for us to share.

156

Love of Christ, that law so noble,
Love so tender, so divine,
Law so Godlike, love so perfect;
Let that love be yours and mine.

Love of all laws is the greatest;
“Love fulfils the law,” Paul saith,—
Crowns her Queen of all the graces,
Thrones her 'bove both Hope and Faith.

Love is duty's full completeness,
Substance of all goodness, Love;
Love is true, and only meetness
For the saintly life above.

Then fulfil this law so Christ-like;
Nought is higher; nought is more;
Love will last when time has perished;
Law of Heaven for evermore.

157

LIFE.

The shuttle flashing quickly thro' the loom,
The shadow of a cloud upon the hills,
The flowers that perish almost ere the bloom,
The sparkle and the gleam on summer rills,
The lightning, flame-like, leaping thro' the gloom,
The foaming cataract which rainbows span,
The falcon, poising in its airy flight,
The sudden darkness of a southern night,—
All these are emblems of the life of man.

158

DEATH.

The shadows lengthening on the level lea,
The darkness gathering round the closing day,
The sun that setting sinks into the sea,
The workman wending homewards on his way,
The birds that sit all mute upon the tree,
Sere leaves that shrivel 'neath the wind's sharp breath,
The stillness of a world fast locked in sleep,
When not a murmur breaks the silence deep,—
All these are Nature's parables of Death.

160

SONNET. ASPIRATIONS.

“Oh, for the swift wings of the rapid dove,
That, piercing thro' the depths of yonder sky,
I might at once attain the realms above,
And taste the joys of immortality!
I yearn to reach the angel-choirs—I long
To mingle with their bright and happy throng!
I thirst to gain that fair and distant home,
Where sin and sadness never more may come!
The weary heart would leave this world of night,
And cast aside the burthen of its woes,
It fain would bask within the living light,
Which from the throne of God for ever flows;
For sorrow's wave may break—O never more,
Upon the marge of heaven's eternal shore!”

161

SONNET. RIZPAH.

Oh, mother's love, how strong thou art, how true!
Five weary months sat Rizpah by her dead,
The sackcloth-covered rock her only bed,
From which she rose her watching to renew,
And cared not whether fell the evening dew,
Or burning sun beat hotly on her head,
So long as her two sons, exposed to view,
Hung on the cross. With quick, unsleeping eye,
She drove the lions from their hoped for prey,
And scared the vultures, swooping in the sky;
And ever thro' the lonely night and day
She, at life's risk, chased bird and beast away,
For love's sake, willing she herself should die;
On her crushed heart such burden did she lay.

162

SONNET. A PENITENT.

“Godly sorrow worketh repentance unto salvation, not to be repented of.”

Where but to Thee, O Jesu, can I fly!
My guilt is like a sea without a shore,
Which none can fathom and no eye explore.
I smite upon my breast, with many a sigh,
And feel like one almost at point to die.
My heart is bruised, it bleeds at every pore;
Sick unto death, wounded and aching, sore,
What can I do but weep, as here I lie?
Yet, oh, how sweet, how bitter, bitter-sweet,
If with these copious, ever-flowing tears,
I could, like Mary, wash Thy blessed feet,
And feel a hope that trembled thro' my fears!
To touch Thee, hold Thee, this were joy complete—
The joy of saints in yonder happy spheres.

163

NAOMI.

Two sad-faced women, haggard, worn, and wan,
Passed wearily thro' Bethlehem's sun-scorched street;
The city, moved to pity, round them ran,
And some with wondering cry the strangers greet,
“What! Is this Naomi?” She quickly broke
Upon them trembling, as they thus began,—
“Call me not Naomi,” she weeping spoke,
“For Naomi is numbered with the dead;
My name is Mara, for, O friends, with me
The Lord hath dealt exceeding bitterly!

The hand of God has touched me, and I mourn,
Has robbed me both of husband and of son,
Woe worth the bitter day that I was born!
My prop, my stay, my life of life is gone;
I went out full, empty come back to you,
A widow, childless, desolate, forlorn,

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The graves in Moab hold my dead heart too,
I left it with them where they sleep in peace.
So from my years has gone the sun, the light,
I grope as one thro' some dark dreary night.”

165

HEART-STRUGGLES.

I know I must be patient, so I try
To say, His holy will, not mine, be done!
But if in mercy I might only die,
And hide away in darkness from the sun,
Which hurts me with its hot and garish light,
I should be happy; for I do but sigh
To bid the world a long and last good night
Before another morrow hath begun;
To front the sad and woeful coming years,
'Tis this unseals the fountain of my tears.

'Tis this I feel so hard—so hard to bear,
To die were easy, yea, to die were gain;
To walk the valley, with His presence near,
This were no bitterness—'twere bliss, not pain,
Smiling I'd creep into my lowly bed,
And say to all “Farewell,” without a tear.

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But to live on, when dearest hopes are dead,
To gather up life's broken threads again,
When Death on Love, with cruel foot hath trod,
This, this is bitter, O my God, my God!”

177

LIGHT AT EVENTIDE.

“At evening-time there shall be light.”—Zech. xiv. 7.

O words of hope! they fall upon the ear
Like holy music floating from a Psalm,
Sweet as are far off bells that ring out clear,
Healing as was of old fair Gilead's balm.
What can the unknown future be but bright,
If thus, “At evening-time there shall be light.”

I feared the morrow, what the coming years,
Of trouble on my lonely life might shed,
And how the end might come, with peace or tears,
Yea, coward-like, I shrank with nameless dread
From what the day might bring, from what the night,
Oh shame! “At evening-time there shall be light.”

For late in gloom and mist had lain my way,
Through gathering storms, and wildly driving rain,
And clouds had darkened o'er my happy day,
And I had trembled with foreboding pain.

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Fearing to face what must and would be right,
Since thus, “At evening-time there shall be light.”

O faithless heart! What fearest thou? Be still,
The future is with Him who guides thy way,
Whose promises with peace thy soul should fill,—
“According to thy strength shall be thy day.”
Then walk by faith, soon shalt thou walk by sight,
Fear not: “At evening-time there shall be light.”

I do believe, O Father! Saviour! God!
Though troubled oft, I will not be distrest;
Nor will I faint, but boldly face the road,
And on Thy love my weary head shall rest,
Thy Word each fear and care shall put to flight,
I know “At evening-time there shall be light.”

The sun that often struggles all the day,
With clouds that darken o'er the dull grey sky,
At setting poureth forth a golden ray,
And floods the heavens with glory far and nigh,
So all my fears shall vanish—hope be bright,
And at my “evening-time there shall be light.”

179

NIGHT AND MORNING.

“Watchman, what of the night? The watchman said, The morning cometh, and also the night.”—Isa. xxi. 11, 12.

“Watchman, what of the night?” he cries,
Who, stretched on a bed of pain,
Worn, and weary, and restless lies,
With fevered heart and brain.
When will the dreary hours go past?
Oh, when will the night be gone?
Would God that the morning might come at last!
Would God the day might dawn!
The Watchman says—“No signs as yet of day are in the sky,
But morning comes; a little while, and the darkness passeth by.

“Watchman, what of the night?” he sighs,
Who, sick with a hope deferred,
Looks eagerly up through weeping eyes,
To catch the Watchman's word.

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When will it come, the joyous day,
And bring with it peace and rest?
When will the darkness speed away,
And light return to the breast?
The Watchman says—“Night lingers still, but soon the morn shall dawn.
Be patient yet, and hope in God, for the daybreak hasteneth on.”

“Watchman, what of the night?” he moans,
Who, pierced with a rankling dart,
Wails for his sin with weeping and groans,
And the cry of one sick at heart.
Is there no medicine to heal the soul?
No balm that will give it peace?
No charm that can charm away its dole?
And bide the sharp anguish cease?
The Watchman says—“Weep on, weep on; such sorrows healing bring.
God loves to see such holy tears; thou yet shalt laugh and sing.”

“Watchman, what of the night?” he cries,
Who, in the long ages of woe,

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Sees the shadows ever gather and rise,
And knows they never shall go.
“What of the night?” is his cry of pain,
As he looks through the coming years,
Looking for comfort, but all in vain!
For nothing shall staunch his tears.
The Watchman says—“No ray of light shall ever reach thy soul,
But ever and ever shall deepen the night, and its shadows round thee roll.”

“Watchman, what of the night?” he says,
Who longs for his Lord's return,
Waiting until the Day of Days
On the mountain tops shall burn.
Oh, say when on my yearning sight
The Day Star shall arise,
And banish away the gloom of night
With splendours of Paradise?
The Watchman says—“The morning comes, the hills are all aglow;
Prepare, prepare thy Bridal Song, for soon the darkness will go.”