 | Poems |  |
66
CONSOLATION.
“They have healed also the hurt of the daughter of my
people slightly, saying, Peace, peace; when there is no peace.
. . . Is there no balm in Gilead? is there no physician there?”
—Jer. viii. 11, 22.
Yea! trouble springs not from the ground, yet must it ever be,
Man knows that he is born to care, so seeks his remedy;
And he hath found out store of charms and spells to give it rest,
Yet grief turns from human comforters, the Highest is the best!
Man knows that he is born to care, so seeks his remedy;
And he hath found out store of charms and spells to give it rest,
Yet grief turns from human comforters, the Highest is the best!
One saith, “Be comforted, for grief is idle and is vain,
It never hath brought back the smile to Joy's dead face again,
It only fixes there the look it wore when Hope took leave;
Yes, grief is vain, I know it well, and therefore will I grieve.”
It never hath brought back the smile to Joy's dead face again,
It only fixes there the look it wore when Hope took leave;
Yes, grief is vain, I know it well, and therefore will I grieve.”
67
One saith, “Be comforted, for thus how many say with dawn,
‘Would God that it were eve!’ at eve, ‘Would God that it were morn!’”
But then more noble in its woe spake out the grieving heart,
“Nay! rather would I all were blest and bear alone my smart.”
‘Would God that it were eve!’ at eve, ‘Would God that it were morn!’”
But then more noble in its woe spake out the grieving heart,
“Nay! rather would I all were blest and bear alone my smart.”
“And yet,” saith one, “be comforted, for grieving is a sin,
Thy tears may stain Heaven's goodly floors yet there be trodden in;
This is a grief that Heaven hath sent, a grief that thou must bear,”—
And Patience smiled so cold, so cold, I took her for Despair!
Thy tears may stain Heaven's goodly floors yet there be trodden in;
This is a grief that Heaven hath sent, a grief that thou must bear,”—
And Patience smiled so cold, so cold, I took her for Despair!
Yet these were simple reasoners; I said, “I will arise,
I will seek out counsel from the sage and wisdom from the wise;
They shall show me of their merchandise who trade for hidden things,
Who go down to the heart's great deep to track its secret springs.
I will seek out counsel from the sage and wisdom from the wise;
They shall show me of their merchandise who trade for hidden things,
Who go down to the heart's great deep to track its secret springs.
Then with calm brow, one answered me in measured tones and brief,
That we are stronger through our pain, and nobler for our grief,
And when I looked on him, I saw he spoke what he believed,
And I talked no more of grief to him who ne'er himself had grieved,
That we are stronger through our pain, and nobler for our grief,
68
And I talked no more of grief to him who ne'er himself had grieved,
Or he had known that spoke of Will, how vain its strong control
When Deep is calling unto Deep within the wavetost soul;
Yea! happy are they that endure! yet never was the tide
Of nature's agony stemmed back by high, o'ermastering Pride;
When Deep is calling unto Deep within the wavetost soul;
Yea! happy are they that endure! yet never was the tide
Of nature's agony stemmed back by high, o'ermastering Pride;
But then with kindlier mien, one said, “Go forth unto the fields,
For there, and in the woods, are balms that nature freely yields;
Let Nature take thee to her heart! she hath a bounteous breast
That yearns o'er all her sorrowing sons, and She will give thee rest.”
For there, and in the woods, are balms that nature freely yields;
Let Nature take thee to her heart! she hath a bounteous breast
That yearns o'er all her sorrowing sons, and She will give thee rest.”
But Nature on the spirit-sick as on the spirit-free
Smiled, like a fair unloving face too bright for sympathy;
Sweet, ever sweet, are whispering leaves, are waters in their flow,
But never on them breathed a tone to comfort human woe!
Smiled, like a fair unloving face too bright for sympathy;
Sweet, ever sweet, are whispering leaves, are waters in their flow,
But never on them breathed a tone to comfort human woe!
69
Small solace for the deer that hath the arrow in its side,—
And only seeks the woods to die,—that o'er his dappled hide
Spread purple blooms of bedded heath, and ferny branchings tall—
A deadly hurt must have strong cure, or it hath none at all;
And only seeks the woods to die,—that o'er his dappled hide
Spread purple blooms of bedded heath, and ferny branchings tall—
A deadly hurt must have strong cure, or it hath none at all;
And the old warfare from within that had gone on so long,
The wasting of the inner strife, the sting of outward wrong,
Went with me o'er the breezy hill, went with me up the glade—
I found not God among the trees, and yet I was afraid!
The wasting of the inner strife, the sting of outward wrong,
Went with me o'er the breezy hill, went with me up the glade—
I found not God among the trees, and yet I was afraid!
I mused, and fire that smouldered long within my breast brake free,
I said, “O God, Thy works are good, and yet they are not Thee;
Still greater to the sense is that which breathes through every part,
Still sweeter to the heart than all is He who made the heart!
I said, “O God, Thy works are good, and yet they are not Thee;
Still greater to the sense is that which breathes through every part,
Still sweeter to the heart than all is He who made the heart!
I will seek Thee, not Thine, O Lord! for (now I mind me) still
Thou sendest us for soothing not to fountain, nor to hill;
Yet is there comfort in the fields if we walk in them with Thee,
Who saidest, “Come, ye burdened ones, ye weary, unto Me.”
Thou sendest us for soothing not to fountain, nor to hill;
70
Who saidest, “Come, ye burdened ones, ye weary, unto Me.”
Yet is there comfort, not in Pride that spends its strength in vain,
But in casting all our care on Thee—on Thee who wilt sustain;
Not in dull Patience, saying, “This I bear, for it must be,”
But in knowing that howe'er Grief comes, it comes to us from Thee!
But in casting all our care on Thee—on Thee who wilt sustain;
Not in dull Patience, saying, “This I bear, for it must be,”
But in knowing that howe'er Grief comes, it comes to us from Thee!
Thou, Lord! who teachest how to pray, O teach us how to grieve!
For Thou hast learned the task we find so hard, yet may not leave;
For Thou hast grown acquaint with Grief—Thou knowest what we feel,
Thou smitest and Thou bindest up, we look to Thee to heal!
For Thou hast learned the task we find so hard, yet may not leave;
For Thou hast grown acquaint with Grief—Thou knowest what we feel,
Thou smitest and Thou bindest up, we look to Thee to heal!
| Poems | |