Songs Old and New :: :: University of Virginia Library

Weeping, weeping, on his bed at even,
Weary sobbed the boy,
“All the joy is gone from all my singing,
All the old, free joy!
Like a roof of stone, the people's praises
Shut me from the light!
Take, oh take the praise away, and give me,
Give the lost delight!
Soars my voice, my heart can soar no longer,
Now no longer free!
Like a discord grating through Thy praises
Jars the praise of me!
Oh! that like a little bird unnoticed,
I might sing to Thee!”

IV.

Weeping, weeping in his lone cell lowly
Till to sleep he wept!
Loving, loving, watched above the angels
Smiling as he slept.

(Never roof of stone, or stars, the Godhead
From their vision kept!)

Down the night on him from Choirs Celestial
Song and glory swept.

Singing, singing songs that speak Creation's
Speechless ecstasy,
All the worlds were looking up to listen,
He looked up to see.

Following upward songs and looks of angels
In his dream, the boy
Drank for one unutterable moment
Of the Well of Joy,

Gazed one moment on the Face whose Beauty
Wakes the world's great hymn,
Felt it, one unutterable moment
Bent in love o'er him;
In that look felt heaven, earth, men, and angels
Distant grow and dim;
In that look felt heaven, earth, men, and angels
Nearer grow in Him.

V.

On the morrow in the great Cathedral
Sang he, glad and free,

With the freedom of the bird who findeth
Worlds within one tree,
With the freedom of the holy angels
The face of God who see.

Singing, singing 'midst a wondering City
Rapturously alone!
Thousand thousands to the Song might listen,
He but sang for One!

In His joy, as in a light-sphere folded,
By His love made free;
Singing thus for One, for all was singing,
Lifting all to Thee!

THE ALPINE GENTIAN.

She 'mid ice mountains vast
Long had lain sleeping,
When she looked forth at last,
Timidly peeping.

Trembling she gazed around,
All round her slept;
O'er the dead icy ground
Cold shadows crept.

Wide fields of silent snow,
Still, frozen seas—
What could her young life do
'Mid such as these?

Not a voice came to her,
Not a warm breath;
What hope lay there for her
Living 'midst death?

Mournfully pondering
Gazed she on high;
White clouds were wandering
Through the blue sky.

There smiled the kindly sun,
Gentle beams kissed her;
On her the mild moon shone
Like a saint sister.

There twinkled many a star,
Danced in sweet mirth;
The warm heavens seemed nearer far
Than the cold earth.

So she gazed steadfastly
Loving on high;
Till she grew heavenly,
Blue as the sky.

And the cold icicles
Near which she grew,
Thawed in her skyey bells
Fed her with dew.

And the tired traveller
Gazing abroad,

Fixing his eyes on her,
Thinketh of God;

Thinks how, 'mid life's cold snow.
Hearts to God given
Breathe out where'er they go
Summer and heaven.

1849.

THE OLD STONE CRUCIFIX AT ROMSEY ABBEY.

[_]

Its characteristic is an open hand, reaching down out of the clouds above the Cross. This is said to be unique.

It stands in a quiet corner
Close to the old church door
And by the common pathway,—
Appealing evermore.

Low, that the dimmest vision
The features need not miss;
Low, that the lips of the children
May reach the feet to kiss.

That humble, simple Image
Wrought by the hands of old,—
(Good hands which so many ages
Have helpless grown and cold,)

That blessed, sacred Image
Born of the heart of old,

Which through the endless ages
Shall never more grow cold.

In the common stone rude carven
By no great artist's touch,—
Yet search the wide world over,
You will find no other such.

You may search the wide world over
From freezing to burning zone,
You will never find another
Quite like this only one.

Deep, deep the nails are driven
In the hands they crucified,
So deep you scarcely see them
But only the arms stretched wide,—

Wide, all God's will accepting,
Though it seem in lightnings hurled,
Wide as the sin HE beareth,
Wide to embrace the world.

And over the Head so weary,
Bowing itself to die,

An open Hand down reaching
Forth from the clouded sky.

The torturers' hands have finished,
HIS hands are nailëd fast,—
“Into Thy hands My spirit,
Father, Thy hands!”—at last!

Lord, ere Thou call our spirit
Within Thy hands to be,
Give us some such dear likeness
To leave behind of Thee.

A humble, simple Image
Cut in the common stone,
Poor, yet our best, we pray Thee
Our best and our very own.

Good Lord! our hearts grow bolder,
We dare to ask much more,
Knowing, the more we ask Thee,
Thou art but pleased the more.

Give us to be that Image,
By the common paths, like this;

Low, that the dimmest vision
The features may not miss;
Low, that the lips of the children
May reach to cling and kiss.

That the nails to the Cross which fix us
So deep in the wounds may hide,
That men see no more the anguish,
But only the arms stretched wide.

A humble, simple Image
Cut in the common stone;
Like Thee, yet like no other,
Because Thy very own.

ON A VASE OF ORIENTAL ALABASTER ILLUMINATED FROM WITHIN.

Look as thou may'st when dies the inward glow
All unillumined in the common day,
We know thee now, and evermore shall know,
Rose-alabaster, and no common clay.

The light within thee did not make thee fair,
It did but show thee as thou ever art,
The purple depths, the rose of dawn are there,
The glow and beauty of the fervent heart.

O Love, who ever in our lov'd dost rest,
Ever anoint our eyes that we may see;
The best we see in those we love the best,
They ever are, indwelling Love to Thee.

The best we see in those we love the best,
They ever are, O patient Love to Thee,
Who through each lingering pain and fiery test
Art making us what Thou wouldst have us be.

At Cobham Hall.

THE POET OF POETS.

We know there once was One on earth
Who penetrated all He saw,
To whom the lily had its worth,
And Nature bared her inmost law.
And when the mountain side He trod,
The universe before Him shone,
Translucent in the smile of God,
Like young leaves in the morning sun,
Glory which Phidias never won
To consecrate his Parthenon.

Had He but uttered forth in song
The visions of His waking sight,
The thoughts that o'er His soul would throng
Alone upon the hills at night;
What poet's loftiest ecstasies
Had stirred men with such rapturous awe
As would those living words of His,
Calm utterance of what He saw!

All earth had on those accents hung,
All ages with their echoes rung.

But He came not alone to speak,—
He came to live, He came to die;
Living a long lost race to seek;
Dying to raise the fallen high.
He came, Himself the living Word,
The Godhead in His person shone;
But few, and poor, were those who heard,
And wrote His words when He was gone;
Words children to their hearts can clasp
Yet angels cannot fully grasp.

But where those simple words were flung,
Like rain-drops on the parched green,
A living race of poets sprung,
Who dwelt among the things unseen;
Who loved the fallen, sought the lost,
Yet saw beneath earth's masks and shrouds;
Whose life was one pure holocaust,
Death but a breaking in the clouds;
His volume as the world was broad,
His Poem was the Church of God.

THE POET'S DAILY BREAD.

The Poet does not dwell apart, enshrined in golden beams;
He is not mailed from Time's rude blows in a panoply of dreams.

No Pegasus bears him aloft in pathways 'mid the clouds;
But he must tread the common earth, mingling in common crowds.

He dwells not in fair solitudes, a still and lone recluse;
But he must handle common tools to his diviner use.

He does not list in magic caves the music of life's ocean;
Borne freely on its winds and waves he feels their every motion.

The glory which around him shines is no fictitious ray;
It is the sun which shines on all, the light of common day.

But he has won an open eye to see things as they are,
A glory in God's meanest works which passeth fiction far.

His ear is open to discern stirrings of angel wings,
And angel whispers come to him from mute and common things.

And Nature ever meeting him with the same radiant face,
And filling still her daily round with the old quiet grace,

Is fresh and glorious as at first, and mightier far to bless,
His youth's strong passion growing ripe in deep home-tenderness.

And truths to which his childhood clung, like songs repeated often
By the sweet voice of one we love, do but the surer soften.

One thing he scorns with bitter scorn, the lived or spoken lie;
Yet knowing what a labyrinth life, how dim the inward eye,

Is slow to brand his fellow-man as false, or base, or mean,
Or aught which has fed human hearts as common or unclean.

Nature prepares no royal food for this her royal guest,
No special banquet is for him at life's full table dressed.

But all life's honest impulses, home joys, and cares, and tears,
The shower of cordial laughter which the clouded bosom clears;

All earnest voices of his kind, calm thoughts of solitude,
All of the world that is not husks,—this is the poet's food.

God's living poem speaks to him, God-like in every line;
Not all man's hackneyed renderings can make it less Divine.

TWO MEANINGS OF FAME.

I.

To be hunted by curious thousands
As something that ought to be seen,
A Crowned Head, without the sentries
Which vexatiously fence a Queen;
A foreign untamable creature,
Which will not be stared at, through bars,
By the eyes which pursue the meteors,
But heed not the steadfast stars.

To be set (some say by a Tempter,
Two thousand years wiser grown,)
On a pinnacle of the Temple,
With no power to cast yourself down;
No angels to keep your footsteps;
Human, unshaded, alone,

With a myriad eyes upon you,
And vainly wish yourself stone!

To find the day's labour doubled,
With its strength but as before,
For a soul ever craving perfection,
And a world ever clamouring “more.”

II.

'Tis a place in the homes of thousands
Where your feet will never tread,
Where your name is reverently spoken
As the name of their sacred dead.
'Tis a life in the hearts of thousands
You have struck to a living glow,
Who never hope to see you,
Whose names you will never know;

Who, if they met you to-morrow,
Could not utter their homage true,
Being but of the slow, dumb millions,
Whose thought wakes to music through you;
Who find the world wider and fairer,
Old truths made living and new,

And life in its humblest duties
Nobler for ever through you!

'Tis the living bond of the ages,
Deathless as Beauty and Truth,
As the old world still fondly cons over
The names she loved in her youth;
And finds the Founts of her Eden
Spring fresh, at your touch, as when first
At the rod of her first Diviners
To music and light they burst:

Fresh now when Science their sources
Traces deep in the ages afar,
When she fathoms and spans the Ocean,
And measures and weighs the star,
As when one Ocean-river
Bathed all the lands in its tide;
Since, at last, the world grown wider,
Finds a Poet with vision as wide.

For the Poem all poets interpret
Better known can but seem more fair!
Not light robs the world of its beauty,
But earth-fogs of pride and care!
'Tis a music whose ocean-thunders,
Sound they ever so long and loud,

Are fainter than summer breezes
At the height of a summer cloud.

'Tis a music which wakens echoes
Beyond heaven's farthest sun,
If at length earth's million voices
Die into one “Well done!”

To Lord Tennyson, after a morning at Farringford, April 26, 1867.

THE GOLDEN AGE IN THE PRESENT.

Why sigh we for the times of yore,
The “good old times” that come no more?
The oldest day was once to-day;
Each hour wore in its settled place
As every-day a garb and face
As those which glide from us away.

Nature grows never old;
On every dawning soul she dawns anew,
And grows and ripens with their growth:
Only to spirits which have lost their youth,
The heart of love and sense sincere and true.
Her living forms seem cold.

Sigh not for ancient days with poetry rife,
To poets is the poetic age not fled;
Go, let the dead inter their dead,
For to the living there is always life.

Nature has still fresh founts of art
To pour into the artist's heart;
To eyes fresh bathed in morning dew
The Golden Age shines ever new.

Do ocean billows foam less gladly now
Than when the sea-nymphs danced upon the wave?
Curve they less proudly 'neath the swift ship's prow,
Upheaving from the coral cave?

Sing they a song less syren-sweet,
At noon-tide bathing weary feet,
Languidly smiling,
Softly beguiling,
Like lips that faintly move
Murmuring words of love?

Do forest-streams less freshly well,
Dewing with green the grassy dell,
Giving the thirsty flowers to drink,
Filling their starry eyes with joy,
Shedding cool fragrance on the air,
Than when the wood-nymphs sported there?

Or does the waterfall's robe silver-pale,
Wave in the breeze less lightly
Than when the Naiad's moonlit veil
Streamed through the dark trees brightly?

Has evening a less golden sheen?
Has morning a less rosy glow?
Are noonday's arrowy rays less keen
Than when Apollo strung the bow?

And when at morn in spring
The sun with kisses wakes the earth,
And sun-born showers of golden rain
With floods of melody pour forth,—
Say, are not Light and Music one again?

Sigh not the old heroic ages back,
The heroes were but brave and earnest men;
Do thou but hero-like pursue thy track,
Striving, not sighing brings them back again!

The hero's path is straight, to do and say
God's words and works in spite of toil and shame;

Labours enough will meet thee in thy way,
So thou forsak'st it not to seek for them.

Canst thou no wrong with patient courage bear,
Strength to none weaker than thyself impart?
Rise! kindle in thyself the hero's heart,
And the heroic age is also there.

Sigh not for simple days of old,
The childish days of love and trust;
There never was an Age of Gold,
And faith makes gold of all earth's dust.
The Church's youthful strength grows never gray,
Herself a fadeless youth amidst the world's decay.
Canst thou not love? Has earth no room
For all thy heart would give,
With all the blessed depths of home,
And myriad hearts that weep and strive?
Are there no desolate and poor
To nourish from thy store?
No songs of joy and glowing praise
Thy voice might help to raise?
No heart long left alone
Till it grew stiff and chill
Thy voice might waken with a thrill
Of love long, long unknown?

Is earth too small to hold
The yearnings of thy love?
Is there not heaven above
As near thee as of old?

Does He Who came at Pentecost
His presence now withhold,
That the first works should e'er be lost,
Or the first love grow cold?
Oh, fill thy heart with God, and thou shalt prove
That there is left enough to trust and love!

For what is time past but to-day
Mirrored in still pools peacefully?
The future but the same to-day
Reflected in a heaving sea?
Only the present hour has life,
The home of work, the field of strife.

Choose not thy bride among the dead,
But press the Present to thy breast;
In her, thy soul shall find its bread,
Thy mind its sphere, thy heart its rest;
Till God shall speak another “Let there be,”
And Time, like darkness before light, shall be
Before the Now of His Eternity.

SUGGESTED BY THE PROMETHEUS BOUND.

Thy torturers made no lament,
No pity with their task was blent;
Thy cup of anguish was unmixed,
And human hands Thy hands transfixed,
O Thou who lovedst man!

No ocean beamed Thine eyes before,
With “countless laughter” dimpled o'er,
But heavings of an angry sea
Of human faces mocking Thee,
O Thou who lovedst man!

No “fragrant stir of heavenly wings,”
But mockeries and murmurings;
No depths divine of azure sky,
But darkness dread received Thy cry,
O Thou who lovedst man!

Yet was Thy cry of agony
Earth's first true peal of victory,
Hushing the world-old blasphemy
That God gives good reluctantly,
O God who lovedst man!

Since Thou thus sufferedst to fulfil
Willing the Father's loving will,
And lifting off the load of sin
Let the free tide of love flow in,
O Thou who lovedst man!

The Fount of Fire for us is won,
For Life and Light in Thee are one;
Thy bonds have made the fettered free,
And man unbound Love binds to Thee,
O Thou who lovest man!

THE BETRAYAL OF THE YUCATAN ISLANDERS.

“We have not followed cunningly devised fables.”

“When the Spaniards understood the simple opinion of the Yucatan Islanders concerning the souls of their departed, which, after their sins purged in the cold northern mountains, should pass into the south—to the intent that, leaving their own country of their own accord, they might suffer themselves to be brought to Hispaniola, they did persuade these poor wretches that they came from those places where they should see their parents and children, and all their kindred and friends that were dead, and enjoy all kinds of delights, with the embracement and fruition of all beloved beings. And they, being infected and possessed with these crafty and subtle imaginations, singing and rejoicing, left their country, and followed vain and idle hope. But when they saw that they were deceived, and neither met their parents nor any that they desired, but were compelled to undergo grievous sovereignty and command, and to endure cruel and extreme labour, they either slew themselves, or, choosing to famish, gave up their fair spirits, being persuaded by no reason or violence to take food. So these miserable Yucatans came to their end.” —Quoted in “Short Studies on Great Subjects,” by J. A Froude.

I.

“They came o'er the Eastern Sea;
None had ever seen its shore;
And living things,
With grand white wings,
Those white-limbed strangers bore.

“White wings on the purple sea,
Like the white-winged clouds o'erhead.
We said, ‘They come
From the far-off Home,
Where rest our happy dead.

“‘They know of the far white hills
Where our belovëd go,
Cleansing their souls
Where the thunder rolls
O'er the fields of ice and snow!

“‘They come from the sunlit shore
Where our belovëd rest;
Where they rest in light
All pure and white,
'Neath the morning's golden breast.’

“They landed on our isle,
Our reverent trust they won,
This Royal Race
From the Dawn's own place,
These Children of the Sun.

“Like lightnings flashed their swords;
They held the winds their slaves;

The thunders raged,
In their sea-towers caged;
They rode on the foaming waves.

“We saw they were strong and wise,
We thought they were good and true;
We said, ‘They will tell
Where our lost ones dwell,’
For we thought they all things knew.

“They saw how we yearned for our dead;
They answered grave and slow:—
‘Trust us; we come
From that far-off home;
With us to your Dead ye shall go.’

“We climbed their dread sea-towers,
For we trusted the words they said;
We feared not the thunder,
Caged, sullen, under;
For we went to rejoin our dead.

“Singing and glad we went,
Those treacherous billows o'er,
To those unknown strands,
For a clasp of the hands
We had feared to clasp no more;

“For a sound of the well-known voice
We had feared not to hear again:
For we thought, ‘Even thus
They are watching for us,
Watching across the main.

“‘Will they meet us one by one,
On lonely cliff or shore,
Or with flowers and song
In a festive throng,
To part from us never more?’

“So, singing and glad we went,
Trusting, across the main,
Till we reached the strand,
Where they drove us to land
With laughter, and lash, and chain.

“For the welcomes of our beloved,
The stranger's stripes and jeers;
For the promised Home,
The slave's dark doom,
And toil without time for tears.

“But they will not bind us long;
We are breaking their fetters fast;

No chains can keep
From that long, safe sleep,
Where we join our Dead at last.”

II.

Oh, Thou who camest from far,
From the shores none living know,
And over the sea
Biddest us with Thee
To our belovëd go;

Not Thine the thunder-sign;
Silent Thou trodd'st the wave,
Hushing its strife;
But Thy touch was life,
Death was Thy fettered slave.

His Sea grew a crystal Floor,
When Thou saidst, “Its shore I know;
Trust Me: I come
From that far-off Home;
Follow Me,—to your dead ye shall go.”

Thousands obeyed Thy call,
Left all for Thee, content;

Through fire and sword,
Trusting Thy word,
Singing and glad they went.

What feverish dream of doubt,
What terror of hearts death-cold,
Has raved that from Thee
Such wrong could be
As this base wrong of old!

God, by Thy goodness proved,
Infinite by Thine Heart;
The deeds Thou hast done
A world have won;
We trust Thee for what Thou art!

Little Thy lips have said
Of that mysterious shore;
But we seek not a Place,
We seek Thy face,
And we crave to know no more.

Thou hast promised no stormless course,
Yet singing and glad we go:
Faithful and True
Thou wilt bring us through;
If not, Thou hadst told us so.

1867.

THE PATHWAYS OF THE HOLY LAND.

The pathways of Thy land are little changed
Since Thou wert there;
The busy world through other ways has ranged,
And left these bare.

The rocky path still climbs the glowing steep
Of Olivet;
Though rains of two millenniums wear it deep,
Men tread it yet.

Still to the gardens o'er the brook it leads,
Quiet and low;
Before his sheep the shepherd on it treads,
His voice they know

The wild fig throws broad shadows o'er it still,
As once o'er Thee;

Peasants go home at evening up that hill
To Bethany.

And as when gazing Thou didst weep o'er them,
From height to height
The white roofs of discrowned Jerusalem
Burst on our sight.

These ways were strewn with garments once and palm
Which we tread thus;
Here through Thy triumph on Thou passedst, calm,
To death;—for us!

The waves have washed fresh sands upon the shore
Of Galilee;
But chiselled in the hill-sides evermore
Thy paths we see.

Man has not changed them in that slumbering land,
Nor time effaced;
Where Thou hast stood to heal, we still may stand;
All can be traced.

Yet we have traces of Thy footsteps far
Truer than these;—

Where'er the poor, and tried, and suffering are,
Thy steps faith sees.

Nor with fond, sad regrets Thy steps we trace;
Thou art not dead!
Our path is onward, till we see Thy face
And hear Thy tread.

And now, wherever meets Thy lowliest band
In praise and prayer,
There is Thy presence, there Thy Holy Land,—
Thou, Thou art there!

WAITING.

[_]

(Suggested by trees bending over a dry water-course near Como.)

It will come, it will not tarry! We shall not wait in vain!
With a burst of sudden thunder, or the trickling of quiet rain.

A tranquil stream of blessing will well around our roots,
And the thrill of life will vibrate to our utmost budding shoots;

Or when all the land is silent, lifeless, and sad, and dumb,
From the snowy mountain-ranges the sound of joy will come,

The shock of the ancient battle (for the storm, not the calm, comes first)
And from the unchained glaciers the river of life will burst;

Ringing new peals of triumph through all the sultry plain;
For the light and the life must conquer, and the dead must live again.

Therefore with loving patience we bend o'er these channels dumb,
Awaiting the vanished Presence, and the Life which is to come.

100

THE POWER OF LIFE.

“The spring is coming apace, Mother,
Yet the old leaves will not fall;
If they do not hasten, the young leaves
Will find no room at all.

“Shall I shake the beech-tree branches
Like the winds in their autumn-play,
Till the dead leaves fall in showers,
Together, all in a day?

“Shall I climb where they are clinging
And pluck them one by one,
That the baby leaves may stretch themselves,
And be glad, and feel the sun?”

“'Twere a weary task to pluck them
Thus singly, my child, away;
'Twould need a stronger arm than thine
To sweep them down in a day.

101

“Maybe since thus they linger,
They've something left to do;
Maybe the poor old withered leaves
Still cradle and shelter the new.”

“But, Mother, the world is waiting,
And the birds on every tree;
Will God send a mighty tempest
To set the young leaves free?”

Be patient, my child, be patient,
The old Earth knows her way;
And the Lord of Life is working,
He is working every day.

He sent His winds in autumn,
He will send them yet again;
The winds, and storms and lightnings,
With the sweeping floods of rain.

They are safe in His hands, the tempests,
In His, but not in ours;
No hand may wield the lightnings
But the hand that folds the flowers.

He is Lord of the winds and thunders,
But has stronger powers than they;

102

And the Lord of Life is working,
He is working every day.

Last year the tiny leaf-bud
Peeped from the old leaf's stalk,
And all through the noisy winter
It heard the wild winds talk.

It heard them fiercely boasting
How they swept the dead away,
But it only kept growing, growing;—
It could wait, it was stronger than they.

For the power of life was stirring
That shielding sheath within,
Growing, silently growing
Through all the storm and din;

Till now one fair spring morning
When the sunbeams all awake,
They will touch it, will softly kiss it,
And its last slight fetters break.

The old leaf will fall, and the leaf-sheath,
The young spread glad and green,

103

And gaze on the sun in his beauty
Without a veil between.

For the Lord of Life is working,
And His strongest force is life;
Ever with death it wageth
Silent, victorious strife.

Ever with death it weaveth
The warp and woof of the world,
The nights when the forces are gathered,
The dawns with their banners unfurled.

And Truth is stronger than Falsehood,
And needs but an open field;
And Love is stronger than Hatred,
And Love will never yield.

For God is love, and He liveth,
And life is His living breath,
And one breath of life is stronger
Than all the hosts of death.

Yes; God is love, and He liveth,
And life is His living breath,
And the pulses of life gain vigour
'Neath the shroud and the sleep of death.

104

THE LAST ENEMY.

An Enemy comes to me,
He is coming before the night;
Ere to-night the battle must be;
It may be while noon is bright.

Some few first morning hours
I knew not this Dread must come;
Then each dewy flower seemed a world
With its sun of joy impearled,
Yet the farthest star a home.

But he came near to me,
And the boundless bounded grew,
The countless stars seemed few;
For I felt the world's cold rim—
I saw where the light grew dim,
And I thought evermore as I went,
“At the next turn of the path,
So familiar, so like the last,

105

Where the old familiar trees,
And the homely thrifty bees,
And the birds to their nests flitting past,
Familiar shadows cast,
This strange new shadow may fall,
His shadow may shadow them all.
And ere I can lift my eyes,
Not only blossom and tree,
But the sun, and the earth, and the sea,
All I can hear or see
Like a shadow behind me lies:
Nor only the things I see;
But ye, beloved, ye!
Ye may grow shadows to me:
And I a shadow to you,
A shadow one hour or two;
Then less than a shadow, a dream,
Less than a dream I may be,—
A dream's faint memory.

“For though I know not the hour,
The end of the Fight I know.
He will conquer, not I;
He will come and lay me low.
To many I knew he drew nigh,
And with all it ended so.

106

Like them I shall fight to the last,
Confront him with hand and eye:
Perhaps I shall hope to the last;
But he will conquer, not I.

“Of all I have seen him strike,
He has stricken not one alike.
To some like a Beast of Prey
He has come in the still noon-day,
From the quiet reeds by the pool,
From the forest calm and cool,
With a sudden spring and a cry,
Swept in a breath away;
Or eagle-like from on high
With a sudden swoop and no cry,
From the calm of a cloudless sky.

“To some like the syren maids
Fabled by those of old,
Lulling them softly to sleep,
Lulling them down to the deep,
To the darkness and the cold.

“He may be now by my side,
As I sit at my work alone.

107

If I turn my head I may see
His terrible eyes on me,—
And my heart may turn to stone.”

Thus I waited and dreaded long.
But I do not dread him now;
I have seen the slave's chain on his hand,
The captive's brand on his brow.

I have felt the touch of the Hand,
The living, loving Hand,
The Hand that holds his chain!
I shall feel it yet again,—
Feel it all fetters burst,—
Only that cold touch first!

I know the look of the Eyes
Those terrible eyes obey;
I have seen them moist with tears,
For the weary, wandering, perplext;
But when I see them next,
They will smile all tears away.

And like a frightened child,
Led up to the shadow it feared,

108

Standing with Him on the height,
The mountain-height at His feet,
Where the earth and the heavens meet,
With His smile for the world's and my light;

Like a shadow, far down, I shall see,
Not the earth and the sea He upholds,
Not you, whom His love enfolds,
But far, far under me,
Like a shadow that flits o'er the sea,
Himself, the Last Enemy.

1867.

109

“TALITHA CUMI!”

“Talitha Cumi!”
The mother spoke;
And lightly from slumber
The child awoke.

In sweet dreams folded
At dawn of day,
As in dew a rosebud,
The maiden lay.

The fair lids rounded
In calm repose;
Long lashes shading
The cheek's soft rose.

The lips half parted,
As though she smiled,

110

When with kisses the mother
Awoke the child.

“Talitha Cumi!”
“Damsel, arise!”
And slowly opened
Those happy eyes.

In deep sleep buried,
At close of day,
Silent and pallid
The maiden lay.

In the heart no beating,
On the cheek no rose;
Placid but rigid
The pale lips close.

No gentle heavings
Of even breath!
And the mother sobbeth,—
“Not sleep, but death!”

No need for hushing
Her anguish now;

111

No wailings will trouble
That placid brow.

No wild lamentings
The mourners make,
No tumult of minstrels
That sleep can break.

Silence those death-wails
Of wild despair!
“Not dead, but sleeping!”
The Life is there.

Gentle His accents,
Mother, as thine;
Yet Galilee's tempests
Know them Divine.

Kingly, He chaseth
The mocking band;
Softly He toucheth
The clay-cold hand.

“Talitha Cumi!”
“Damsel arise!”

112

And slowly open
Those death-sealed eyes.

With a name of endearment
Tender and soft,
(Her mother had waked her
From sleep with it oft,)

He calls her spirit
Beyond the tombs,—
“Talitha Cumi!”
She hears and comes.

And the gates of Hades,
The gates of brass,
Which through the ages
None living pass,

Before those accents
Quake as with thunder,
Quiver like aspens,
And part asunder;

Open like flowers
Touched by the sun;—

113

Yet through the portals
Passeth but one.

Fearless came through them
The soul of the child;
Saw Him who called her,
Knew Him and smiled.

“Talitha Cumi!”
The Saviour spoke;
And as from light slumbers,
The dead awoke.

“Talitha, in the dialect of the people, a term of endearment used towards a young maiden.” —Dean Alford on St. Mark's Gospel.

114

THE CHILD ON THE JUDGMENT-SEAT.

Where hast been toiling all day, sweet heart,
That thy brow is burdened and sad?
The Master's work may make weary feet,
But it leaves the spirit glad.

Was thy garden nipped by the midnight frost,
Or scorched by the mid-day glare?
Were thy vines laid low, or thy lilies crushed,
That thy face is so full of care?

“No pleasant garden-toils were mine!
I have sate on the judgment-seat,
Where the Master sits at eve and calls
The children around His feet.”

How camest thou on the judgment-seat,
Sweet heart? Who set thee there?
'Tis a lonely and lofty seat for thee,
And well might fill thee with care.

115

“I climbed on the judgment-seat myself,
I have sate there alone all day,
For it grieved me to see the children around
Idling their life away.

“They wasted the Master's precious seed,
They wasted the precious hours;
They trained not the vines, nor gathered the fruits,
And they trampled the sweet, meek flowers.”

And what hast thou done on the judgment-seat,
Sweet heart? What didst thou there?
Would the idlers heed thy childish voice?
Did the garden mend by thy care?

“Nay, that grieved me more! I called and I cried,
But they left me there forlorn;
My voice was weak, and they heeded not,
Or they laughed my words to scorn.”

Ah, the judgment-seat was not for thee,
The servants were not thine!
And the eyes which adjudge the praise and the blame
See further than thine or mine.

The Voice that shall sound there at eve, sweet heart,
Will not raise its tones to be heard;

116

It will hush the earth, and hush the hearts,
And none will resist its word.

“Should I see the Master's treasures lost,
The stores that should feed His poor,
And not lift my voice, be it weak as it may,
And not be grievëd sore?”

Wait till the evening falls, sweet heart,
Wait till the evening falls;
The Master is near and knoweth all,
Wait till the Master calls.

But how fared thy garden-plot, sweet heart,
Whilst thou sat'st on the judgment-seat;
Who watered thy roses and trained thy vines,
And kept them from careless feet?

“Nay that is saddest of all to me!
That is saddest of all!
My vines are trailing, my roses parched,
My lilies droop and fall!”

Go back to thy garden-plot, sweet heart!
Go back till the evening falls!
And bind thy lilies, and train thy vines,
Till for thee the Master calls.

117

Go make thy garden fair as thou canst,
Thou workest never alone,
Perchance he whose plot is next to thine
Will see it, and mend his own.

And the next may copy his, sweet heart,
Till all grows fair and sweet;
And when the Master comes at eve,
Happy faces His coming will greet.

Then shall thy joy be full, sweet heart,
In the garden so fair to see,
In the Master's words of praise for all,
In a look of His own for thee!

118

“WHAT THOU WILT, O MY FATHER, AND WHEN.”

Said the roses, long drooping with drought,
Now shaken like snow from the tree,
By the gusts of the boisterous winds
That had learned their rough play on the sea:

“O winds, we are delicate flowers,
Queenly flowers! touch us gently, we pray;
For these light flakes ye scatter in jest
Do not gather again, like the spray.

“The waves break and gather, but we
Once broken, arise not again.”
But the winds frolicked wildly, and said,
“Never fear! we are bringing the rain.”

Said the corn, bending low as they passed,
“Take heed where your revels ye keep;

119

Ye are treading the fair fruitful Earth,
Not the salt barren wastes of the deep.”

But the winds laughed and swept on their way,
And said, “Children, never complain;
We are friends of your mother, the Earth,—
She has cried, and we bring her the rain.”

Said the sick child, in feverish unrest,
While the winds made rough riot about,
Whistling wildly where holes let them in,
Storming fiercely where walls kept them out:

“O winds, stop your gambols awhile,
Ye have frolicked and shouted all day;
Let me sleep, let me sleep in the night,—
Will ye never be tired of your play?”

Then the winds softly sighed, as they said,
“Dost thou too mistake and complain?
For thee we were sent o'er the sea,
For thee we are bringing the rain.”

But the roses still trembled and drooped,
And the sick child still murmured and wept,
Till a sultry calm fell on the land,
And the hushed winds all heavily slept.

120

Then the roses drooped lifeless and pale,
And the shrivelled corn parched as it grew,
And the sick child with burning lips sighed,
Tossing sleepless the sultry night through.

“Oh, why did I murmur and moan?
God sent His kind winds o'er the sea;
He sent them to bring us the rain,
They came for the earth and for me.

“God sent His kind winds o'er the sea,
And I murmured and moaned them away;
Come again! I would welcome you now,
Be your voices as rough as they may!”

Then the winds rose and cheerily sang,
“Fear not; He who sent, sends us still:
Your murmurs have marred your content,
But check not His merciful will.

“We come; He who sent us is good,
To your moans He gave sorrowful heed;
Yet paused not one hour in His care,
To provide you the help that you need.

“Now all things are ready, we come,
We come on his errands again;

121

His fountains are full, and o'erflow,
We have brought, we have brought you the rain!”

Then the showers poured melodiously down,
And the rose-tree drank deep to the roots,
And the parched Earth looked up and was glad,
And laughed through her flowers and her fruits.

And the Love that is stronger than all,
Like the showers of the life-giving rain
Sank deep in the heart of the child,
Till the incense of praise rose again.

And flooding her soul to the brim,
Flowed the calm of the angels' “Amen,”
As with clasped hands she prayed ere she slept,
“What Thou wilt, O my Father, and When.”

July 1865.

122

THE STILL WATERS OF THE VALLEY.

Their source is on the mountains,
The streams of which we drink;
But we must tread the valleys,
If we would reach their brink.
Their source is on the mountains,
Higher than feet can go;
Yet human lips but touch them
In the valleys, still and low.

Beyond the fields and forests,
Beyond the homes of men,
Beyond the wild-goat's refuge,
Beyond the eagle's ken,
Beyond the oldest glaciers,
Beyond the loftiest snows,
Beyond the furthest summit
Where earliest morning glows,

123

Still climbing, ever climbing
To reach the streams we love,
Their music ever with us,
Their source is still above,
Beyond Heaven's heights of glory,
As past earth's heights of snow;
Yet can our lips but taste them
In the valleys, still and low.

Once, when the heavenly voices
Seemed to call me on their track,
I wondered why some hindrance
Still drew my footsteps back;
Some feeble steps to succour,
Some childish feet to lead,
Some wandering lambs to gather,
Some hungered ones to feed;

Some call of lowly duty,
With low, resistless tone;
Some weight of others' burdens,
Some burden of my own.
But now, though heavenly voices
Still bid my spirit soar,
While my feet tread lowly places,
I wonder thus no more.

124

Their source is on the mountains,
The streams of which we drink;
But only in the valleys
Our lips can reach their brink.
Our hearts are on the mountains
Whither our feet shall go;
But our feet are in the valleys
Where the still waters flow.

125

TRIED BY FIRE.

What, what is tried in the fires of God?
And what are the fires that try?—
All, all is tried in the fires of God,
And many the fires that try.

And what is burnt in the fires of God?—
All but the fine, fine gold;
The treasures we offer for praise and pride
Or for pride and self withhold;
And we, as far as our souls are wrapt
In the raiment that waxeth old.

And when will the fires of God be lit?—
They are burning every day;
They are trying us all, within and without,
The gold and the potter's clay.

But what is lost in the fires of God?—
Nothing that is not dross;

126

No tiniest grain of the golden sands,
Or wood of the true, true Cross;

No smallest seed of the lowliest deed
Of faith and hope and love,
The precious things that abide earth's fires,
And for ever abide, above.

Yea, nought is lost in the fires of God
That is not waste or dross—
That we would not choose, could we see, to lose,
And say, this was gain not loss.

127

ON THE GRAVE OF A FAITHFUL DOG.

Three trees which stand apart upon
A sunny slope of meadow ground,
A shadow from the heat at noon,—
And, underneath, a grassy mound.

A little silent, grassy mound:—
And is this all is left of thee,
Whose feet would o'er the meadow bound,
So full of eager life and glee?

Of “thee!” And may I say e'en this
Of what so wholly passed away?
Or can such trust and tenderness
Be crushed entirely into clay?

The voice whose welcomes were so glad,
Feet pattering like summer showers,
The dark eyes which would look so sad
If gathering tears were dimming ours;

128

Those wistful, dark, inquiring eyes,
So fond and watchful, deep and true,
That made the thought so often rise—
What looks those crystal windows through?

Didst thou not watch for hours our track,
And for the absent seem to pine?
And when the well-known voice came back,
What ecstasy could equal thine?

Is it all lost in nothingness,
Such gladness, love, and hope, and trust,
Such busy thought our thought to guess,
All trampled into common dust?

Save memories round our hearts that twine,
Has all for ever passed away,
Like the dear home once thine and mine,
The home now silent as thy clay?

Or is there something yet to come,
From all our science still concealed,
About the patient creatures dumb
A secret yet to be revealed?

129

A happy secret yet behind,
Yet for the mute creation stored,
Which suffers though it never sinned,
And loves and hopes without reward?

1854.

130

TO OUR LITTLE DOG DOT.

O little loving heart
So gently laid asleep;
The traces of thy life in ours
How many and how deep!

The bark of eager glee,
Welcome, reproof, command,
The small foot knocking at the door
Laid gently in the hand.

The tender, answering eyes,
The planning, eager will,
The following steps—without them all
“Dot's house” seems very still.

Worlds of dear memories
Seem in thy grave to lie,

131

Of love and fun, dark days and bright—
We will not let them die!

Playmate “commander,” care,
Our little steadfast friend,
Thy life leaves legacies of love
On to its quiet end.

Loving us all so well,
With different love for each,
Unchanged through absences of years;—
Death wakes thy life to speech!

“Love more and more,” it says,
“For love alone is strong;
You made my little life so bright,
Your longest is not long.”

Such wealth of love behind,
Can nothing lie before?
Or has the future only this,
“Never again,” “no more?”

From darling childish lips
The answer comes to me,
With the sweet wisdom of the babes—
Dear little child of three!

132

“When Dot grows up,” he said,
“Then she will learn to speak.”
Bright vision of the children's heart,—
Further we need not seek!

For love alone is life,
And love alone is strong;
And love lives in eternal worlds
Beyond earth's poor “How long?”

Yes, only love is life,
And love means “thee” and “me,”—
God, who is love, will never let
Love cease to love, or be.

May 9, 1885.

Dot died in her sleep.

The name given to our house by a little girl of three.

133

ST. FRANCIS D'ASSISI'S CANTICUM SOLIS.

Altissimo omnipotente buon Signore, tue son le laudi, la gloria, lo honor e ogni benediction. A te solo se confanno e nullo homo è degno di nominarti.

Laudato sia mio Signore per tutte le creature, specialmente Messer lo Fratre Sole, il quale giorna illumina noi per lui. E alto e bello e radiante con grande splendore. Da Te Signore porta significazione.

Laudato sia mio Signore per Suora Luna e per le stelle le quali in cielo le hai formate chiare e belle.

Laudato sia mio Signore per fratre Vento e per la luce e nuvole e sereno e ogni tempo, per lo quale dai a tutte creature sustentamento.

Laudato sia mio Signore per Suora acqua la quale è molto utile e humile e pretiosa e casta.

Laudato sia mio Signore per Fratre Fuoco per lo quale tu allumini la notte, è bello e jocundo e robustissimo e forte.

Laudato sia mio Signore per nostra Madre Terra la quale ne sostenta, governa, e produce diversi frutte, e coloriti fiori e herbi.

Laudato sia mio Signore per quelli che perdonano per lo tuo amore e sosteneno infirmitade e tribulatione. Beati quelli che sostegneranno in pace che da Te Altissimo saranno incoronati.

I bless Thee, Father, that where'er I go
A brotherhood of blessed creatures goes
With me, and biddeth me God speed. For all
Thy mute and innocent creatures take my thanks;

134

To me they are child-brethren without speech
Or sin.

And first for him, the noblest of them all,
He who brings day and summer, disenchants
The ice-bound streams, and wakes the happy birds,
Pure choristers, to matins; at whose call
The young flowers, startled from their hiding-places,
Peep and laugh; who clothes the earth, and fills
The heavens with joy; and he is beautiful
And radiant with great splendour. Praise to Thee,
O Highest! for our royal Brother Sun;
For bears he not an impress, Lord, of Thee?

And praisëd be my Lord for Sister Moon.
All praise for her our holy white-veiled sister,
Dwelling on high in heavenly purity;
And for the radiant hosts that bear her company,
For they are bright and beautiful.
Praise for the Moon and Stars.

And praisëd be my Lord for Brother Wind,
For light and clouds, for weather fair or dark;
Through all Thou nourishest Thy creatures all.
Praise for our brother Wind; for though his voice
Is rough at times, and in his savage mood

135

He rends the earth, rousing the sea to fury,
Yet at Thy calm rebuke he layeth by
His lion nature, frisketh like a lamb
Beside the streams, and gently crisps with snow
The sapphire waves, and stirs the corn, and wakes
The languid flowers to life, and lays dead blossoms
Softly in their graves: for the strong winds,
The rough but kindly winds, we bless Thee, Lord,

For Sister Water praisëd be my Lord,
Our lowly sister, Water, mountain child
Whose happy feet make music on the hills;
For her who bounds so light from rock to rock,
Yet brings a blessing wheresoe'er she comes.
She spurns all fetters, laughs at all restraint,
Yet scorns no lowliest ministry of love,
Abiding peacefully in roadside wells,
And sparkling welcomes in the peasant's cup.
Nature's sweet almoner! all praise for her!
For she is useful, precious, meek, and chaste.
We bless Thee, Lord, for her.

And praise for Brother Fire!—fearful is he
When he goes forth exulting in his strength,
And all things quail and fly before his face!
Yet he will sit a patient minister

136

Of blessings on our hearth, and through the night
He cheers us. He is joyous, bold, robust,
And strong. Praise, Lord, for him!

And praisëd be my Lord for Mother Earth.
Our faithful mother Earth, who feedeth us
With such unwearied love, and strews our paths
With rainbow-tinted flowers and healing herbs;
Our gentle, generous, most beautiful,
And ever youthful mother.

And ever blessed be my Lord for those,
The blessed, who for Thy dear love forgive,
And for Thy love sustain weakness and woe.
Blessed are they who thus endure in peace;
For they by Thee, O Highest, shall be crowned.
Thus, blessed Christ, all praise to Thee for these
Thy creatures. They are all Thy ministers,
And to Thy reconciled speak nought but peace.
Children and servants are we in our household,
Dwelling before Thee in sweet harmony.
O bless us all! Father! we all bless Thee!