Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Within an ancient Hall
Where oft I love to wander, once I found
An antique casket, that without a sound
Flew open quick, and as a Rose will fall
To pieces at a touch when overblown,
So was the floor around me thickly strown
With yellow leaves, the letters of the Dead:
Oh, hands that wrote these words, oh, loving eyes
That brightened over them, oh, hearts whose prize
And treasure once were these, by Time made Heir
To this your sometime wealth, with pious care
I gather in my hoards; for this is dust
Of human hearts that now I hold in trust,
And while I muse above it, spirits flown
Come back and commune with me, till the fled
Pale ink reveals two names that now have grown
Familiar to my soul, as I had known
And pitied them in Youth; in parley soft
I win their secrets forth from them, and oft
Make question of their Past! Did Love find rest
And fold its wing where it had made its nest

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So warm and deep, or were these of the strong
And patient souls, condemned, though wedded long,
To serve for the other duteously, and wait
Upon a harsher Laban,—Life, that proves
With grievous, stern delays each heart that loves?
O gentle spirits, all your lives on high
Are written fair, but mortal history
Is traced upon the sand that may not keep
The dint of wave, so quick the dash and leap
That follows on—a picture on the wall—
A name upon the stone—a leaf whose green
Less quickly fades, because it once hath been
Within the Dove's soft beak, and this is all.

156

I.

I write to thee in cypher, even so
Doth not the heart write ever? being proud,
It careth not to boast its wealth, nor show
Where lie its precious things by speaking loud.
And here, upon my page an uncouth sign
Would say, “I love thee;” further down this mark
Shows plain, “for ever,” yet the sense is dark
To every eye that looks on it but thine.
So is it even with my heart, thine ear
Can catch each broken whisper it hath used;
So even with my life; thou makest clear
Its meaning, oft-times to myself confused;
The souls that use one mother-tongue are free
To mould their rapid speech, but when from thee
I turn to others, straight I have to choose
My words, as one who in a foreign dress
Must clothe his thought, speaks slow in fear to err,
Interpreting himself;

We do but guess
At one another darkly 'mid the stir
That thickens round us; in this life of ours
We are like players, knowing not the powers
Nor compass of the instruments we vex,
And by one rash, unskilful touch, perplex

157

To straining discord, needing still the key
To seek, and all our being heedfully
To tune to one another's:

Ours were set
Together at the first; each hand could move
Like a skilled Master's, knowing well each fret
And chord of the sweet viol he doth love,
All up and down each other's soul, and yet,
Call forth new concords,—now with softer kiss
I move o'er other souls in fear to miss
Their latent charm; these too, if better known,
Were worthier prizing;

“Though I love my friends dearly, and though they are good, I have, however, much to pardon, except in the single Klopstock alone. He is good, really good—good in all the foldings of his heart. I know him, and sometimes I think if we knew others in the same manner, the better we should find them. For it may be that an action displeases us which would please us if we knew its true aim and whole extent.”—From the Letters of Meta Klopstock.

Love's great charity
Hath taught this lesson, as beside her knee
I stand, and child-like con it o'er and o'er,
“Through loving one so much love all the more.”

158

II.

Oft have I bent my gaze
Adown our Life's steep edge with eye-balls dim
And thirsting soul, a-weary of the day's
Hot parching dust and glare; this Well is deep,
Too seldom rise the waters to its brim,
And I had nought to draw with! oft in sleep
I felt them touch my very lips, and flow
All o'er my forehead and my hands, but, lo!
I waked and thirsted; looking down, I knew
Each pebble lying at the base, that drew
A glimmer from the sunbeam; round the rim
I knew each flower, each forkéd fern that through
The stone did thrust its tongue, each moss that grew
Far down its cool and slippery sides—I knew
All but the water's freshness.

Now I yearn
No more in vain, no longer need I stoop
So wistful o'er the well, for like an urn
Is thy pure soul to me, wherein I scoop
The waters as I list, and still return.

159

III.

We broke no piece of gold,
We took no pledge of lock nor picture slid
Within the breast, our faith was not so cold
That it should ask for any sign! we date
Our marriage from our meeting day, and hold
These spousals of the soul inviolate
As they are secret; for no friends were bid
To grace our banquet, yet a guest Divine
Was there Who from that hour did consecrate
Life's water, turning it for us to wine.

160

IV.

Stern voices say, “Too much
Thou givest unto one thy soul in trust;
To frame such covenants with things of dust
Is but idolatry, that to decay
Doth quickly tend.” I answer not to such,
But turning from them proudly, I appeal
Unto my equals,

“Perhaps love and grief may make me speak more than many will think fit. But though some passion blind the judgment, some doth but excite it to duty, and God made it to that end. And I will not be judged by any that never felt the like.” —Richard Baxter on his Wife's Death.

none but those that feel
Shall be my judges in this question; nay!
I will not unto these my cause unseal,
But bear it to a Court where I shall find
A yet more patient hearing; far more kind
The Father than the Brethren! He who made
The heart doth know its need, but what are we,
And whence have we our wisdom, unafraid
With hands unskilled to vex a mystery
We cannot disentangle?

Yet I speak
Too harshly in this matter, silence best
Becometh happy spirits; hearts at rest;—
O Love, thy gentleness hath made me meek!

161

V.

Upon thy lips this name
Of mine so softly taken, first became
That which it is in very deed, the name
Most Christian and most kind, by which I claim
A wide inheritance;—and I have borne
This name so long, and only yester morn
Have learned its sweetness! so doth life—our field
Redeemed for us—but slowly, slowly yield
The treasure hid within it! all our less
Would grow to more, and this our Earth to Heaven,
Might we but pierce unto the blessedness
That lies so near us, might we but possess
The things that are our own—as they were given!

162

VI.

I turn from things behind;
They lose their savour! now that on the core
Of Life content I feed, I fling the rind,
That once looked fair, aside for evermore,
For I have pierced beneath it. Since my eyes
Have looked upon thy face, to all things wise,
And pure, and noble, they have clearer grown;
But careless are they to the vanities
That once could hold them chained. I stood alone
To watch the long procession that yestreen
Moved through our city stately to the flow
Of martial music; then I saw thee lean
From out a balcony, and all the show
Went by unmarked of me, as we had been
Alone beside the river winding slow;—
So doth this world's fair Pageant pass me by,
I see but thee! yet do not therefore grow
Unmindful of its goodly company:
I tracked those glittering ranks until they stayed
Within the square, and passing through the door
Of the great Minster, took within its shade
The sunshine after them; like One that prayed
In silence, seemed that multitude, before
So bright and jubilant, now only made

163

The stiller for its vastness, as the sea
Doth soothe the sense with wide monotony
Of quiet waves unstirred. I saw thee kneel
Afar; the organ, as it were the Soul
Of many human souls, that did reveal
Their secrets, sighed, as on its stormy roll
It gathered them; my silent spirit drew
More close to those who prayed with me; I knew
That each of these still faces, where I see
No charm to bid me look again, doth make
The sunshine of some eye, and for its sake
The heavens and earth look fairer: each that here
Doth kneel, is loved of some, or hath been dear—
The treasure of some heart beneath the sod.
Oh, we are held unto the other near
When each is dear to one—and all to God!