Last Verses

UNFORGOTTEN

WHERE the long pastures skirt the bayAnd sober-eyed New England keepsThe leisure of its old-time way,Among her buried kin, she sleeps.Blown o’er by winds or heaped with snow,That little mound and headstone rudeIs all that marks for us belowA flower of sweetest womanhood.Twenty swift years of sun and shadeHave fleeted past, half unperceived,Since her delightful presence madeOur lives seem worthier to be lived.The dust of days, the sands of yearsHave hidden her fair memory deep,And eyes once blind with bitterest tearsHave long forgotten how to weep;And death and love and life have whirledTo orbits new and strange since sheWho was the heart of that old worldMade room for these changed things to be.Past her still resting-place all day,With rush and flash and resonant roar,The tide of travel takes its wayAlong the bay-indented shore.Shrill sounds the flying clamor, blentWith softer surge of dim-heard surf,Across the orchard closes sentTo break upon her graving turf.And hearts that loved her once speed fast,Idly intent on shore and skies,Nor turn to give a look or castA thought toward her where she lies!It is the usual lot! We liveToo strenuously for long regret,Too occupied and taxed to giveOur minds to perished pain; but yet,Borne on the vibrant, clanging wheels,I never pass that half-seen place,But flashing o’er my memory stealsThe vision of that sweet, lost face;And my heart whispers low to her,Across the distance dim and chill:“Sleep softly, dearest, do not stir,I love you – I remember still.”

DENIAL

NOT only Peter in the judgment-hall,Not only in the centuries gone by,Did coward hearts deny Thee, Lord of all,But even in our time, and constantly;For feeble wills, and the mean fear of men,And selfish dread, are with us now as then.To-day we vow allegiance to Thy name;To-day our souls, ourselves, we pledge to Thee,Yet if a storm-wind of reproach or blameRises and beats upon us suddenly,Faltering and fearful, we deny our Lord,By traitorous silence or by uttered word.We close our lips when speech would wake a sneer;We turn aside and shirk the rougher path;We gloss and blink as if we did not hearThe scoffing word which calls for righteous wrath.All unrebuked we let the scoffer go,And we deny our Lord and Master so.Come Thou, as once of old Thou camest inAnd “looked on Peter” in the judgment-hall;Let that deep, grievéd gaze rebuke our sin,Questioning, recalling, wakening, pardoning all,Till we go out and weep the whole night long,Made strong by sorrow as He was made strong.

ASTORIA BY TWILIGHT

ALL pale the daffodil-tinted sky;The dusky shores that ’neath it lieAre set like an etching against the color,As the great steamship plunges by.There is the road I used to know,There are the windows still aglow,As when in those old days of welcomeThey lit the visitants to and fro.There are the gates I used to pass,The belts of flowers, the shaven grass,The casements behind which well-known facesSmiled softly at me through the glass.No other eye than mine could seeIf that dim shape be house or tree;The true heart hath its inner vision,It is all clear as day to me.I see the forms so long unseen,Stately in age, of reverend mien,Gay youth, and flower-like baby faces,And manhood’s aspect grave and keen.And, beautiful beyond compare,Mysteriously, strangely fair,Like some clear star high-hung in heavenAnd sweet as summer roses are, —One dear face hovers o’er the spot,Which knew her once and knows her not;And still from out the deathly shadows,Looks forth, beloved and unforgot.All vain are beauty, worth, and wit,The hours come, the hours flit;Time’s wheel inexorably turneth,And carries all our hopes with it.It is life’s common end and way;Nothing abides and naught may stay;And strangers in the kinsmen’s placesFront us with alien eyes to-day.If Grief were not Joy’s earthly stem,And Time Eternity’s brief hem,I could not bear it to sit in shadowAnd watch that shore – remembering them!

THE PRICE OF FREYA

[Freya, in the Scandinavian mythology, was the goddess of Youth and Hope. While she remained with the gods and fed them daily with her golden apples they were all-powerful; but when Wodin parted with her as the price for the building of Walhalla, they suddenly became weak and weary, and a shadow rested over the world. Walhalla was of no worth without Freya.]

THE towers are strong and the towers are fairAs they rise and gleam in the sunlit air,With bastion and battlement and spireBuilt for one rule and one desire;Fain would we enter there and sway,But the giant builder the door secures,And mutters his price as he bars the way:“Give up Freya, and all is yours.”There in the citadel fancy builtAre the riches of ages heaped and spilt;Diamonds glitter and rubies gleam,And moon-like pearls front the pale moonbeam.Golden the roof and gold the floor;The glittering splendor woos and lures;And the tempting voice repeats once more:“Give up Freya, and all is yours.”What! give up hope with its rainbow sheen,Give up the sparkle, the song, the jest,The vision of something dreamed, not seen,Which is sweeter by far than the thing possessed?The flowers of May and the roses of June,The sweet spring-breath of the April breeze,The dew of morn and the light of noon —When we give up Freya, must we give all these?But we give; and we enter the towers of pride,And we thread our gems and we count our gold;And we bid our hearts to be satisfiedWith so much to have and so much to hold.But the smile is faded from the day;Our drink is bitter, our bread is stone —And amid the shadows we sit and say:“Nothing is worth with Freya gone.”

A SUMMER SONG

SING thyself out, sweet summer, leave not a note unsung;Smile to the end, dear summer, dimpling on land and sea,Voice all the praise of the roses, O bells of the lily which rungThe holiday signal for the world, heard by my heart and me!The earth it was weary of winter, of the frost and the tingling snow,Of winds which blew from the icy Pole, daunting the faint sun-ray;And the pulse of life beat fainter, and the fire of hope burned low,And we yearned for thy coming, summer, and thou wert so far away.Then the shy, cool noon shone warmer, and the shrunken veins of earthPulsed with a quicker current which glowed in the willow’s stem,And the frozen graves were opened, and death gave place to birth,And the drowsy flowers reared their heads, and called the birds to them.Back they came trooping blithely, the oriole and the wren,Robin and jay and hermit-thrush, to twilight-haunted grove;New nests, new music, and new hopes, in upland and in glen,And all the winter discords turned to harmonies of love.O hearts that failed and doubted, and eyes that were blind and wet,And dared not trust the heavenly love which giveth each good thing,The Lord he never forgets his world, and he never will forget,And year by year from the graving snows he builds his blessed spring!Tell thyself out then, summer, leave not a word unsaid,Give sun to sky, and dew to earth, and moon to silver sea;Give faith to sore and sorrowing hearts who grieve beside their dead,And tell them God can bring them back, even as he brought back thee.

AN EVENING PRIMROSE

WHEN all the west is red at set of sun,And cool airs waken which were hushed at noon,And crickets chirr and trill, and one by oneThe birds’ songs die away to sleepy croon,And each white lily on the garden walk,Dew-heavy, hangs its head upon its stalk;When dawning soft and faint upon the blue,The vague, mysterious, dreamy blue of night,The first dim planet glimmers into view,’Tis then it opens with a shy delightIts pale gold, wayside blossoms near and far,Holding them up to greet the evening star.The freshness of the morning tempts it not,Nor fervid noon, nor the warm wind’s caress;It envies not the royal rose’s lot,Choosing, as background for its loveliness,The dewy shadows and the twilight lone;Making the hush of eventide its own.The blaze and sunshine of the summer hoursKnow not nor prize the blooms they never see;None of the jubilant and day-lit flowersHail it as sister, but the drowsy beeAnd the night-moth, just roused from his repose,They love it better than the fair, proud rose.A type it seems of some shy human hearts,Which palely shrink from joy and shun renown,But when the sun grows colder and departs,And the dim, hovering night shuts darkly downAnd all the happy things which feed on dayShiver and shrink and hide themselves away —Then, like the primrose with its pale gold star,They open sudden blooms of love and cheer,Giving out fragrance where no others are,Gilding the heavy hours of doubt and fear,Fronting the shadows, till with dawn ends pain,Then folding silently their buds again.

A ROSE IN A GLASS

ONLY a rose in a glass,Set by a sick man’s bed;The day was weary, the day was long,But the rose it spoke with a voice like song,And this is what it said:“I know that the wind is keen,And the drifted snows lie deep;I know that the cruel ice lies spreadO’er the laughing brook and the lake’s blue bed,And the fountain’s rush and leap.“I know, I know all this;Yet here I sit – a rose!Smiling I sit, and I feel no fear,For God is good and the Spring is near,Couched in the shrouding snows.“Canst thou not smile with me?Art thou less strong than I?Less strong at heart than a feeble flowerWhich lives and blossoms but one brief hour,And then must droop and die?“Surely, thou canst endureThy little pains and fears,Before whose eyes, all fair and bright,In endless vistas of delightStretch the Eternal Years!”Then over the sick man’s heartFell a deep and hushed repose.He turned on his pillow and whispered low,That only the listening flower might know:“I thank thee, Rose, dear Rose.”

SNOWBOUND

IT looks so cold, this drifted snow,So cruelly, deadly cold, and yetThe hidden bulbs and roots belowDeem it their friendliest coverlet.Wrapped warmly in its fleecy veilThey hear, unshuddering where they lie,The patter and the hiss of hail,The angry storm-wind whirling by.Above, the world is tempest-tossed;Buried too deep for doubts and fears,The detonations of the frostCome dumbed and softened to their ears.Sleeping, they smile as children do,Secure of shield and covering,And trust the Promise, proved and true,The unforgetting pledge of spring.Their veins a slumbering pulse informs,The life within them stirs and grows,And fed and sheltered so by storms,They wait content beneath the snows.Life has its storms; its hard, cold days,When blasts of grief and frosts of careDrift in upon the happy ways,And blight the blooms that made them fair.Cheerless we scan the wastes of whiteWhich seem of Hope the high-heaped grave,Nor guess that hidden far from sightLie germs of joy, secure and brave;And that, when comes God’s blessed spring,(As surely it shall come at lastTo every grieved and patient thing!)And all the winter-time is past, —And the snow melts, and hands unseenSet buds and blossoms on each stem,We shall note growths which had not beenIf Sorrow had not sheltered them!

SHELTERED

“Fear no more the heat of the sun,

Nor the furious winter’s rages.”

THE piercing blast blows from the pole,The panes are glazed with ice,All etched and freaked in fairy lines,With many a strange device;The hard snow echoes underfootTo tread of hurrying feet,And every freezing breath is chargedWith particles of sleet.But thou, my darling, who till lateEndured the winter’s sting,And faded yearly with the flowers,And shared their suffering,Out of the storm wind and the frost,Like birds which southward soar,From the chill world which hurt thee soHast flown forevermore.In sheltered and eternal spring,Where never cold wind blew,Amid the all-contented saints,Thou sittest, contented too.The hard things are forgotten quite,The heavenly rest is fair,And we who shiver still on earthAre glad that thou art there.

THE OLD PINE

UPON the lonely, wind-swept crest,Where the hill-summit fronts the west,Set like gaunt sentinels in rowTo watch the seasons come and go,In stalwart and unbending lines,There stands a row of hoary pines.Long have they stood, and much have seen,Deer couched once in their coverts green,The Indian paused his bow to string,The wild cat crouched before its spring,And from deep hollows far belowThe wolf’s long howl rang o’er the snow.Sleek kine and browsing sheep now strayWhere once was heard the wolves’ wild bay,The red man fading slow made placeFor an encroaching, stronger race,And on the once lonely, rocky heightA church uprears its steeple white.Scorning such human accidents,Broadening their green circumference,Each year made taller, statelier still,The pine trees topped the wind-swept hill,And surged responsive melodiesLike simulated sounds of seas.Till yesterday their century longCompanionship held firm and strong,Then a wild bolt of lightning spedAnd smote their leader’s lofty head,Plunging a ghastly deep-scarred lineDown the brown trunk of the old pine.Still does he rear his head on high,Still stanchly fronts the sun and sky,Still do his needles in soft tunesMake sea songs for the summer moons,Veiling the deadly wound and blight;But all the same he died last night.For a brief space his stricken formMay bide the buffet of the storm,While the deep rift within his heartWidens and tears his trunk apart,Then, with a crash from overhead,He falls, and all men know him dead.Ah, gallant heart, so firm to bear,So resolute to face despair,Hiding the grievous hurt awayWhich saps thy being day by day,And simulating with hard strifeThe bearing and the look of life.Patience is strong, and strong is faith,But mightier still the power of death;Thy flesh is weaker than thy pain,Vain is the struggle, all in vain.Heaven’s bolt of doom was surely sped,And even to-day we count thee dead.

IN THE FOREFRONT

ONCE a small, childish dancing company,We ran behind the ranks of older onesHalf seen, half noticed, very proud to bePart of the grown procession with the drums;Each manly stride they covered cost us threeOf our small steps, – that was small price to payFor sharing in the glory of the day.Where are the ranks that seemed to us so tall,So full of fire and force and valor brave,So full of wisest wisdom, knowing allThat man can know, or children dumbly craveTo understand with their weak powers, and small?It seems a little time since thus we ran,Yet we, the children then, now lead the van.The stately forms which towered like forest trees,The limbs which never tired, (as we supposed!)The wills which ruled our infant destinies,The strength beneath whose shadow we reposed,Authority, love, shelter, – all of these,Yielding like straws in tempest to the bruntOf Time’s fierce wind, have left us in the front.’Tis we who are the stalwart leaders now(Or seem so to the little ones behind),The tireless marchers whom the gods endowWith the keen vision, the all-judging mind,The will, which questions not of why or how,But rules and dominates all lesser fates,Regardless of their puny loves or hates!How strange it seems to lead, who once were led!To feel the pressure of the quick young raceFollowing and urging on behind our tread,Ready and eager to usurp our place,Crowding us forward, – though no word be said!’Tis but the natural law which stars obey,Following in order due through night, through day.O march which seemed so long and is so brief!Whether by rough ways led or smooth greensward,Under clear sun or hovering clouds of grief,What matter, so they end in thee, O Lord!Who art of mortal toils the full reward?We will keep on content and fearlessly,Nor seek for rest until we rest in Thee.

INTERRUPTED

I PLANNED a plan, and duly madeA plan to fill one little day.Pleasure and toil were gauged and weighed,This hour for work and that for play,And each for each made room and way.I set my wilful feet to treadThe wilful path self-chosen as right,Resolved to walk unhinderèd,Nor turn to left, nor turn to right,Until the coming of the night.But interruptions all day long,And little vexing hindrances,Each weak, but all together strong,Came one by one to fret and tease,And balk my purpose, and displease.Friendship laid fetters on the noon,And fate threw sudden burdens down,And hours were short and strength failed soon,And darkness came the day to drown,Hope changed to grief and smile to frown.Then I said sadly: “All is vain;No use there is in planning aught,Labor is wasted once again,And wisdom is to folly brought,And all the day has gone for naught.”Then spoke a voice within my soul:“The day was yours, and will was free,And self was guide and self was goal,Each hour was full as hour could be —What space was left, my child, for Me?“Where was the moment in your planFor work of Mine which might not wait?The need, the wish of fellow man,The little threads of mutual fateWhich touch and tangle soon or late?“These ‘hindrances’ which made you fret,These ‘interruptions,’ one by one,They were but sudden tasks I set,My errands for your feet to run,Will you disdain them, child, or shun?”Oh, blind of heart and dull of soul!I only felt, the long day through,That I was thwarted of my goal,And chafed rebelliously, nor knewThe Lord had aught for me to do!Forgive me, Lord, my selfish day,Touch my sealed eyes, and bid them wakeTo see Thy tasks along the way,Thy errands, which my hands may take,And do them gladly for Thy sake.

SAINT CHRISTOPHER

NOT only in the legend does he standBeside the river current rushing fast,A dim-drawn giant figure, strong and vast,His staff within his hand;But in our own day visible, besideThe darker stream of human pain and sin,Our eyes have watched him, battling hard to winFor weaker souls a pathway through the tide.Upheld by him and safely carried o’erThe waves which else had overwhelmed and drowned,How many a faint and doubting heart hath foundGlad footing on the unhoped-for, distant shore!And still as his strong, tireless arm againAnd yet again their burden raised and took,You read in the deep reverence of his lookHe did the work for God and not for men.Christophorus our saint, named now with tears.The deeds he did were Christ’s, the words he said,All his strong, vital, splendid strength he laidAt the Lord’s feet through the unstinting years.And now beside that Lord in highest Heaven,Past the dark stream of Death, which all must tread,He rests secure, with joy upon his head,And a “New Name” which hath to him been given.But still to memory’s eye he stands the same,A stalwart shape where the deep waters run,Upbearing, aiding, strengthening every one,Carrying them onward in his Lord’s dear name.

CONQUEROR

J. S. WTHE voice of Duty, low, but clarion clear,Found her, safe seated in the golden hazeOf youth and ease, living luxurious days.She roused to listen; her enchanted earHeard nevermore the music of the earth —The dancing measure, or the reveler’s call,Or flute note of Apollo, nor the fallOf Orphic melodies. As nothing worthShe counted them; in vain her ear to pleaseThey rang their varied changes, urged and wooed,Following swift Duty, leader to all good,She went thenceforward; – so she conquered Ease.Then fell her tender feet on harder road,With stones beset and briers and many a thorn;And there, her woman’s strength all overborne,She sank at length, fainting beneath her load.And time went by, while helpless still she lay,Shackled by weakness, vexed with hopes and fears,Watching the long and tantalizing yearsBuilt from the salt sands of her every day;But still she bravely smiled through loss and gain;Through the slow ebb of cheer and fortune’s frown,Her quenchless soul no chilling waves could drown,No fires exhaust; – and so she conquered Pain.And, last, the dim, mysterious shape drew near,Whom men name “Death,” with pale, averted eyes;(But whom the Heavenly ones call otherwise!)She met his hovering presence without fear.Long time they strove; and as the Patriarch cried,“Except thou bless, I will not let thee go”!So she; until at dawn the vanquished foeUtterly blessed, and left her satisfied.Oh, sweet to her the first, long, rapturous breathOf Heaven, after life’s pent and prisoning air;Freedom unstinted, power to will and dareThe victory won from Life and over Death.

THE YEAR AND THE CENTURY

THE New Year came surrounded with Hope and Joy and Song,And he smiled like dawning sunrise as he stood amid the throng.The hopeful months they followed expectantly and slow;But the Old Year went companionless, as all the Old Years go.All sad and stern the Old Year went, along the unknown way;His heart was full of bitterness, he had no word to say.Then wonder seized upon his heart, for he was not alone;A mighty shadow step by step was gliding by his own!He turned to face a vast dark shape with eyes like clouded day,And, “Who art thou, O wondrous one?” the Old Year, awed, did say.“I am thy fellow pilgrim up the pathway of the sky;Together bound, thou the dead year, I the dead century.”The Old Year bared his forehead, and bent his feeble knee.“I am unworthy of such grace, such august company.”The other raised him gently. “Kneel not to me,” he said;“The less, the larger, are as one when numbered with the dead.“A hundred of thy fellows have gone to swell my tale;A hundred centuries such as I, poured in the mighty scaleIn which God swings eternity, shall count for nothing moreThan the dust borne by the wind away, the fleet foam on the shore.“Centuries or years or cycles, we fleet and disappear;But the Lord who is the source of time, and builds each growing year,Abides. Within His sight you and I are shadows dim;Yet He made us both, He loves us both, and now we go to Him.”The Old Year shivered as he heard these words of lofty cheer;Then light came to his faded eyes, and courage chased his fear.He felt a strong hand clasp his own, and, held and guided so,He went forth with the Century to where the dead Years go.

A. V. C

[June, 1898]IT did not seem unmeet that she whose heartHad doors wide open always for each friend,And held no lonely corners set apart,Should go, companioned closely, to the end.It was not strange she left without farewell;That was a word she never loved to say.Her gentle lips, whatever fate befell,Parted more readily for glad “Good-day.”Heart of the home wherein her presence madePerpetual sunshine for each shady place,Centre of kindly thought, of kindly aid,And hospitality’s long practised grace.Dear friend, who did not tarry for good-byesBut swiftly trod the heavenward path of air,God keep thee in His safe, sure Paradise,And let us, following, find thy welcome there.

“THE LAND THAT IS VERY FAR OFF”

SO far! Is it so far then, that dear countryWhich homesick hearts expectant claim as theirs,Chiding the years as slow which patient come and go,And make no answer to reproach or prayers?Is it so far then? For at times it seemethMore dear, familiar, close than aught beside,Bounding our mortal day, lying beside our way,Only the little veil of flesh to hide.Is it so far? When those who have gone thitherSeem so near always, always near and sure,Loving and aiding still, sharing our joy and ill,Lifting our burdens, helping to endure.Is it so far then? I cannot believe it.When the veil parts and rends and lets us through,The first surprise of bliss, I think, will be in this,That the far off was nearer than we knew;That what we mourned as lost was close beside us,Touching us every day in every spot,While, blinded with dull tears, groping through faithless years,We were upheld and led and knew it not.Let us not call it far – the heavenly country;It bounds our little space like viewless air,And while we sorrowing say that it is far awayWe touch it, all unknowing, everywhere.

THE HEAVENLY AIRS

WORK is the fresh air of the soul!It clears the heavy brain,Quickens the pulses of the mind,Warms thought to action, and the blindAnd sluggish will sunk into easeOf ineffective lethargiesIt stirs to life again.Grief is the cold air of the soul!It chills and blights the flowers,In urgent gusts it sways and smites,Freezing the source of all delights;But roots grow strong by dint of storm,And, when the spring awakes, they formThe growth of happier hours.Love is the warm air of the soul!It reacheth far and wide,Clasping all life with healing touch,Wooing the little into much,Making brown branch and buried rootTo bud and blossom and bear fruitLike the sweet summer-tide.Blow, heavenly winds, on every soul!And stir them constantly;Sting us and quicken us and bless,Relax not in thy urgent stress,Till out of toil and love and painFull strength and stature we attain,And are led home by thee.