A Few More Verses

HERE AND THERE

WE sit beside the lower feast to-day;She at the higher.Our voices falter as we bend to pray;In the great choirOf happy saints she sings, and does not tire.We break the bread of patience, and the wineOf tears we share;She tastes the vintage of that glorious vineWhose branches fairSet for the healing of all nations are.I wonder is she sorry for our pain,Or if, grown wise,She wondering smiles, and counts them idle, vain, —These heavy sighs,These longings for her face and happy eyes.Smile on, then, darling! As God wills, is best.We loose our hold,Content to leave thee to the deeper rest,The safer fold,To joy’s immortal youth while we grow old;Content the cold and wintry day to bear,The icy wave,And know thee in immortal summer there,Beyond the grave;Content to give thee to the Love that gave.

FORWARD

LET me stand still upon the height of life;Much has been won, though much there is to win.I am a little weary of the strife;Let me stand still awhile, nor count it sinTo cool my hot brow, ease the travel pain,And then address me to the road again.Long was the way, and steep and hard the climb;Sore are my limbs, and fain I am to rest.Behind me lie long sandy tracks of time;Before me rises the steep mountain crest.Let me stand still; the journey is half done,And when less weary I will travel on.There is no standing still! Even as I pause,The steep path shifts and I slip back apace.Movement was safety; by the journey-lawsNo help is given, no safe abiding-place,No idling in the pathway hard and slow:I must go forward, or must backward go!I will go up then, though the limbs may tire,And though the path be doubtful and unseen;Better with the last effort to expireThan lose the toil and struggle that have been,And have the morning strength, the upward strain,The distance conquered, in the end made vain.Ah, blessed law! for rest is tempting sweet,And we would all lie down if so we might;And few would struggle on with bleeding feet,And few would ever gain the higher height,Except for the stern law which bids us knowWe must go forward or must backward go.

IN HER GARDEN

STILL swings the scarlet pentstemonLike threaded rubies on its stem,In the hid spot she loved so well;Still bloom wild roses brave and fair,And like a bubble borne in airFloats the shy Mariposa’s bell.Like torches lit for carnival,The fiery lilies, straight and tall,Burn where the deepest shadow is;Still dance the columbines cliff-hung,And like a broidered veil outflungThe mazy-blossomed clematis.Her garden! All is silent now,Save bell-note from some wandering cow,Or rippling lark-song far away,Or whisper from the wind-stirred leaves,Or mourning dove which grieves and grieves,And “Lost! lost! lost!” still seems to say.Where is the genius of the place, —The happy voice, the happy face,The feet whose light, unerring treadNeeded no guide in wildwood ways,But trod the rough and tangled mazeBy natural instinct taught and led?Upon the wind-blown mountain-spurChosen and loved as best by her,Watched over by near sun and star,Encompassed by wide skies, she sleeps,And not one jarring murmur creepsUp from the plain her rest to mar.Sleep on, dear heart! we would not breakThy slumber for our sorrow’s sake:The cup of life, with all its zest,Thy ardent nature quaffed at full;Now, in the twilight long and cool,Take thou God’s final gift of rest.And still below the grape-vine swings;The Mariposa’s fragile wingsFlutter, red lilies light their flame,Larks float, the dove still plains and grieves;But while one heart that loved thee lives,Still shall thy garden bear thy name.

ON EASTER DAY

WE light the Easter fire, and the Easter lamps we trim,And lilies rear their chaliced cups in churches rich and dim,And chapel low and Minster high the same triumphant strainsIn city and in village raise, and on the lonely plains.“Life” is the strain, and “endless life” the chiming bells repeat, —A word of victory over death, a word of promise sweet;And as the great good clasps the less, the sun a myriad rays,So do a hundred thoughts of joy cling round our Easter days.And one, which seems at times the best and dearest of them all,Is this: that all the many dead in ages past recall,With the friends who died so long ago that memory seeks in vainTo call the vanished faces back, and make them live again;And those so lately gone from us that still they seem to beBeside our path, beside our board, in viewless company, —A light for all our weary hours, a glory by the way, —All, all the dead, the near, the far, take part in Easter day!They share the life we hope to share, as once they shared in this;They hold in fast possession our heritage of bliss.Theirs is the sure, near Presence toward which we reach and strain;On Easter day, on Easter day, we all are one again.Oh, fairest of the fair, high thoughts that light the Easter dawn!Oh, sweet and true companionship which cannot be withdrawn!“The Lord is risen!” sealed lips repeat out of the shadows dim;“The Lord is risen,” we answer back, “and all shall rise in him!”

“DER ABEND IST DER BESTE.”

THE morning hours are joyful fair,With call of bird and scent of dew;And blent with shining gold and blueAnd glad the summer noontides are;The slow sun lingering seeks the west,As loath to leave and grieve so soonThe long and fragrant afternoon;But still the evening is the best.Day may be full as day may be, —Her hands all heaped with gifts, her eyesAlight with joyful prophecies;But still we turn where wistfullyThe veilèd evening, dimly fair,Stands in the shadow without speech,And holds her one gift out to each, —Her gift of rest, for all to share.Ah! sweetly falls the sunset glowOn silver hairs, all peaceful bentTo catch the last rays, and contentTo watch the twilight softly grow;Content to face the night and keepThe peaceful vigil of the eve,And like a little child to breatheA “Now I lay me down to sleep.”Ah, close of life! Ah, close of day!Which thinks of morn without regret;Which thinks of busy noon, and yetGrieves not to put its toils away;Which, calmed with thoughts of coming rest,Watches the sweet, still evening fade,Counting its hours all unafraid, —Surely the evening is the best.

OPTIMISM

YOU tell me, with a little scorn,A pitying blame in look and touch,Of conscious worldly-wisdom born,That I am hopeful over much;That all my swans are veriest geese,My cheerfulness an easy ventFor animal spirits, and my peaceA cheap, contemptible content;That it is shallow to be glad,Idle to hope and vain to trust,Because all good is mixed with bad,And men are liars, and flesh is dust;That wisdom grimly prophesies,And sits distrustful and alert,Peering with far, experienced eyesFor what may cheat and what may hurt.I do not know if you are right;But these I hold as certainties:That God made day as well as night,And joy as well as pain is his;That if philosophy means doubt,And wisdom boding discontents,Men may do better far withoutThese all-divine accomplishments!That souls are stronger to endureThe heavy woes which all may taste,If, holding to God’s promise sure,They wait his time, not making hasteTo grieve, anticipating ill;How shall they know what sweet, hid thingHe keeps in store for souls who stillFollow his beck unquestioning?Joy is the lesson set for some,For others pain best teacher is;We know not which for us shall come,But both are Heaven’s high ministries.The swollen torrent rages high;The path ahead is steep and wet.What then? We still are safe and dry;We need not cross that torrent yet!Perhaps the waters may subside;There may be paths which skirt the flood.God holds our hand. With him for guideWe need not fear; for he is good.Meanwhile there is the sun, the sky,And life the joy, and love the zest;And, spite of scorn and pity, IWill taste to-day, and trust the rest.

“HE SHALL DRINK OF THE BROOK BY THE WAY.”

THE way is hot, the way is long,’Tis weary hours to even-song,And we must travel though we tire;But all the time beside the roadTrickle the small, clear rills of God,At hand for our desire.Quick mercies, small amenities,Brief moments of repose and ease, —We stoop, and drink, and so fare on,Unpausing, but re-nerved in strengthFrom hour to hour, until at lengthNight falleth, and the day is done.The birds sip of the wayside rill,And raise their heads in praises, stillUpborne upon their flashing wings;So drinking thus along the way,Our little meed of thanks we payTo Him who fills the water-springs,And deals with equal tendernessThe larger mercies and the less:“O Lord, of good the fountain free,Close by our hard day’s journeyingBe thou the all-sufficing spring,And hourly let us drink of thee.”

THREE PICTURES

I

LOVE AND DEATH

UPON the threshold of his guarded homeStands Love the child.A thousand roses bloom above his headWith rain of dewy petals white and red;All fair and joyous things themselves arrayTo deck and soften for dear Love the way.He stands where often he has stood before;But now his face is pale, his eyes all wild,A strange and boding tread has caught his ear,An awful, hovering shape sweeps into view,And all his soul is rent with wrath and fear —What can Love do?Poor Love! brave Love! he nerves his feeble arm,He grasps his bow;The dreadful guest has seized the rainbow wings.In vain Love strives with tears and shudderings,In vain he lifts appealing eyes of prayer;There is no pity or relenting there.No power has Love to deprecate or charm,Vain are his puny wiles against this foe;The roses wither in the icy breathWhich eddies the defenceless portals through,And, brushing Love aside, in passes Death —What can Love do?

II

LOVE AND LIFE

The way is steep, and hard to tread, and drear;Piercing and bleak the icy atmosphere.My feet are bruised and bleeding, and my eyesCan only with dim questionings seek the skies.How could I walk a step without thine aid?How face the awful silence unafraid?How bear the star-rays and the moon-glance cold?Loose not thine hold!Earth and its kindly ways seem very far,And yet the shining skies no nearer are;Except for thee, dear Love, I could not goOver the hard rocks, the untrodden snow,But had sat down content with lower things,With scanty crumbs and waning water-springs, —A wingèd thing whose wings might not unfold:Loose not thine hold!Loose not thine hold! let me feel all the whileThe quickening impulse of thy tender smileLuring me on, and catch, as if in trance,The lovely reverence of thy downward glance,The pity and the splendor of thy face,The recognition like a soft embrace:Until my feet shall tread the streets of gold,Loose not thy hold!

III

PAOLO È FRANCESCA

The mighty blast which sweeps and girdles hellDrives us before it, whither none may tell.No pause, no goal, no time of respite, – well,We are together!Circling forever in a dark abyss,Linked by a fate as wild as passionless,One only thing is left us, – it is this:We are together!

THE TWO SHORES

UPON the river’s brink I standBeside the rushing water’s flow,And look from off the shore I know,The safe and dear familiar land,Unto another shore, which liesMist-veiled beneath the crimsoning skies.This is a shore, and that a shore.Does the earth cease, to rise once moreBeyond the river’s span?Ah no! the shores are clasped in one;The same firm earth goes on, goes on,Though hidden for a little spaceFrom eye or tread of man.Upon another shore we standBeside a darker water’s flow,And catch beyond the earth we knowFaint glimpses of another landDreaming in sunshine, half descriedBeyond the rushing river-tide.It is life here, and life is there:We look from fair things to most fair,The river rolls between;But held and bound and clasped in one,Immortal life goes on, goes on,Though only from the farther strandThe union can be seen.

“ARISE, SHINE, FOR THY LIGHT HAS COME.”

LONG time in sloth, long time in sin,Contented with thy dark estateHast thou abode, O soul of mine;Now dawns the morning, fair though late,Her sunny tides are sweeping in.Thy light has come; arise and shine!The sheathèd bud which all night longHas folded close its purple upUpon the morning-glory vine;At the first rose-flush, the first song,Unrolls its petals, rears its cup,And, light being come, makes haste to shine.It cannot clasp the whole bright day,Nor the wide-brimming sea of dewWithin its curve exact and fine.Of countless beams a single ray,One little freshening sip or two,It takes, and so is glad to shine.Make ready likewise, O my soul!God’s blessed day has dawned; partake!Anoint thy head with oil and wine;From the great sum, the mighty whole,Thy little crumb and portion break,And, giving thanks, arise and shine!

A WITHERED VIOLET

I PLUCKED a purple violet,Its petals were all dewy wet,I held it tightly for an hour,And then I dropped the faded flower;Dropped it and lost unconsciously,Scarce thinking of the how or why.’Twas hours since, but my fingers yetAre scented with the violet;The fragrant spell, invisible,Has caught and holds me in it’s sway.I would not flee if flight might be;The violet still rules my day.I plucked a flower when life was young,I chose it all the flowers among.It was so fresh, it was so fair,Heaven’s very dew seemed cradled there;A little while it smiled in morn,And then it withered and was gone.’Tis long years since, but every hourI taste the perfume of that flower.Still it endures, and all day poursA balm of fragrance on the way.I catch its breath high over death;A memory still rules my day.

DARKENED

HIGH in the windy lighthouse towerThe lamps are burning free,Each sending with good-will and powerIts message o’er the sea,Where ships are sailing out of sight,Hidden in storm and cloud and night.On the white waves that seethe and dashA ruddy gleam is shed;Above, the lighted windows flashAlternate gold and red,Save where one sad and blinded glassForbids the happy light to pass.The hungry sea entreats the light,The struggling light is fain,But obdurate and blank as nightRises the darkened pane,Casting a shadow long and blackAlong the weltering ocean track.Ah, who shall say what drowning eyesYearn for that absent ray;What unseen fleets and argosies,Ploughing a doubtful way,Seek through the night, and grope and strainFor guidance from that darkened pane?Ah, Light Divine, so full, so free!Ah, world that lies in night!Ah, guiding radiance! shine through meBrightly and still more bright,Nor ever be thy rays in vainBecause I am a “darkened pane.”

THE KEYS OF GRANADA

’TIS centuries since they were torn away,Those sad-faced Moors from their belovèd Spain;In long procession to the wind-swept bay,With sobs and muttered curses, fierce with pain,They took their woful road and never came again.Behind them lay the homes of their delight,The marble courtyards and cool palaces,Where fountains flashed and shimmered day and night’Neath dusk and silver blooms of blossoming trees.They closed the echoing doors, and bore away the keys.Palace and pleasure-garden are forgot;The marble walls have crumbled long ago;Their site, their ownership, remembered not,And helpless wrath alike and hopeless woeAre cooled and comforted by Time’s all-healing flow.But still the children of those exiled Moors,A sad transplanted stem on alien shore,Keep as their trust – and will while time endures —The rusty keys which their forefathers bore;The keys of those shut doors which ne’er shall open more.The doors are dust, but yet the hope lives on;The walls are dust, but memories cannot die;And still each sad-faced father tells his sonOf the lost homes, the blue Granadian sky,The glory and the wrong of those old days gone by.Ah, keys invisible of happy doorsWhich long ago our own hands fastened tight!We treasure them as do those hapless Moors,Though dust the palaces of our delight,Vacant and bodiless and vanished quite.Keys of our dear, dead hopes, we prize them still,Wet them with tears, embalm with useless sighs;And at their sight and touch our pulses stillWaken and throb, and under alien skiesWe taste the airs of home and gaze in long-closed eyes.

BEREAVED

WHEN Lazarus from his three days’ tombFronted with dazzled eyes the day,And all the amazèd crowd made room,As, wrapped in shroud, he went his way,His sisters daring scarce to touchHis hand, their wonderment was such;When friends and kindred met at meat,And in the midst the man just deadSat in his old-time wonted seat,And poured the wine and shared the breadWith the old gesture that they knew, —Were they all glad, those sisters two?Did they not guess a hidden painIn the veiled eyes which shunned their gaze;A dim reproach, a pale disdainFor human joys and human ways;A loneliness too deep for speech,Which all their love might never reach?And as the slowly ebbing daysWent by, and Lazarus went and cameStill with the same estrangèd gaze,His loneliness and loss the same,Did they not whisper as they grieved,“We are consoled – and he bereaved”?Oh, weeper by a new-heaped mound,Who vexes Heaven with outcries vain,That, if but for one short hour’s round,Thy heart’s desire might come again, —The buried form, the vanished face,The silent voice, the dear embrace, —Think if he came, as Lazarus did,But came reluctant, with surprise,And sat familiar things amidWith a new distance in his eyes,A distance death had failed to set, —If hearts met not when bodies met!If when you smiled you heard him sigh,And when you spoke he only heardAs men absorbed hear absentlyThe idle chirping of a bird,As, rapt in thoughts surpassing speech,His mind moved on beyond your reach;And still your joy was made his pain,And still the distance wider grew,His daily loss your daily gain,Himself become more strange to youThan when your following soul sought hisIn the vast secret distances; —If, death once tasted, life seemed vainTo please or tempt or satisfy,And all his longing was againTo be released and free to die,To get back to scarce-tasted bliss, —What grief could be so sharp as this?

“HOW CAN THEY BEAR IT UP IN HEAVEN?”

HOW can they bear it up in heaven,They who so loved, and love us yet,If they can see us still, and knowThe heavy hours that come and go,The fears that sting, the cares that fret,The hopes belied, the helps ungiven?Can they sit watching us all day,Measure our tears, and count our sighs,And mark each throb and stab of pain,The ungranted wish, the longing vain,And still smile on with happy eyes,Content on golden harps to play?Ah no! we will not do them wrong!When mothers hear their babies cryFor broken toy or trivial woe,They smile, for all their love, – they knowLaughter shall follow presently,And sighing turn to merry song.They are not cruel, that they smile;Their eyes, grown old, can farther see,Weighing the large thing and the lessWith wise, experienced tenderness, —The moment’s grief with joy to beIn such a little, little while.Just so the angels, starry-eyed,With vision cleared and made all-wise,Look past the storm-rack and the rainAnd shifting mists of mortal painTo where the steadfast sunshine lies,And everlasting summer-tide.They see, beyond the pang, the strife,(To us how long, to them how brief!)The compensation and the balm,The victor’s wreath, the conqueror’s palm —They see the healing laid to grief,They see unfold the perfect life.For all our blind, impatient pain,Our desolate and sore estate,They see the door that open isOf Heaven’s abundant treasuries,The comforts and the cures that waitThe bow of promise in the rain.And even as they watch, they smile,With eyes of love, as mothers may,Nor grieve too much although we cry,Because joy cometh presently,And sunshine, and the fair new day,When we have wept a little while.

WAVE AFTER WAVE

OUT of the bosom of the sea,From coasts where dim, rich treasures be,By vast and urging forces blent,Untired, untiring, and unspent,The glad waves speed them one by one;And, goal attained and errand done,They lap the sands and softly lave, —Wave after wave, wave after wave.As stirred by longing for reposeHigher and higher each wave goes,Striving to clasp with foam-white handsThe yielding and eluding sands;And still the sea, relentless, grim,Calls his wild truants back to him, —Recalls the liberty he gaveWave after wave, wave after wave.All sad at heart and desolateThey heed the call, they bow to fate;And outward swept, a baffled train,Each feels his effort was in vain.But fed by impulse lent by eachThe gradual tide upon the beachRises to full, and thunders brave,Wave after wave, wave after wave.Ah, tired, discouraged heart and head,Look up, and be thou comforted!Thy puny effort may seem vain,Wasted thy toil and naught thy pain,Thy brief sun quench itself in shade,Thy worthiest strength be weakness made,Caught up in one great whelming grave,Wave after wave, wave after wave.Yet still, though baffled and denied,Thy spended strength has swelled the tide.A feather’s weight where oceans roll —One atom in a mighty whole —God’s hand uncounted agenciesMarshals and notes and counts as his:His sands to bind, his threads to save,His tides to build, wave after wave.

THE WORD WITH POWER

HOW shall the Word be preached with power?Not with elaborate care and toil,With wastings of the midnight oil,With graceful gesture studied well,And full intonèd syllable;With trope and simile lending forceTo subdivisions of discourse,Or labored feeling framed to please —The word of power is not in these.How shall the Word be preached with power?Not by a separate holinessWhich stands aloof to warn and bless,Speaking as from a higher planeWhich common men may not attain;Which treats of sin and want and strifeAs things outside the priestly life,And only draws anigh to chide,Holding a saintly robe aside.How shall the Word be preached with power?Ah, needless to debate and plan!Heart answereth unto heart in man;Out of the very life of eachMust come the power to heal or teach.The life all eloquent may grieve,The brain may subtly work and weave,But if the heart take not its share,The word of power is wanting there.How shall the Word be preached with power?Go, preacher, search thy soul, and markEach want, each weakness, every darkAnd painful dint where life and sinHave beaten their hard impress in:Apply the balm, and test the cure,And heal thyself, and be thou sureThat which helps thee has power againTo help the souls of other men.How shall the Word be preached with power?Go ask the suffering and the poor,Go ask the beggar at thy door,Go to the sacred page and readWhat served the old-time want and need:The clasping hand, the kindling eye,Virtue given out unconsciously,The self made selfless hour by hour, —In these is preached the Word with power!

TO FELICIA SINGING

SHE sat where sunset shadows fell,And sunset rays, a miracleOf palest blue and rose and amber,Touched her and folded in their spell.Her golden head against the skyWas traced and outlined tenderly,And, lily-soft in the soft late sunshine,Her fair face blossomed to my eye.She sang of love with tuneful breath,Of sorrow, sweet as aught love saith;Of noble pain, immortal longing,And hope which stronger is than death.And every word and every toneSeemed born of something all my own.’Twas I who sang, ’twas I who suffered;Mine was the joyance, mine the moan.Each lovely, vibrant, rapturous strainFulfilled my passion and my pain.I was the instrument she played on;I was her prelude and refrain.And as dim echoes float and playThrough forests at the close of day,Farther and farther, breathed mysteriousFrom glades and copses far away,So echoed through my heart her song,Deeper and deeper borne along,Waking to life half-unsuspectedGrievings and hopes and yearnings strong.Ah! life and heart may weary beAnd youth may fail, and love may flee;But when I hear her, see her singing,The world grows beautiful to me.

EURYDICE

HIS prayer availed! Touched by the tuneful plea,The Lord of Death relaxed his iron hold,And out of the swart shadows, deep and cold,Stole the lost wife, the fair Eurydice.He felt her soft arms in the old embrace,He guessed the smile upon her unseen face,And joyful turned him from the dreadful place.A little patience, and all had been well;A little faith, and bale had changed to bliss:Was it too much that he should ask for this,Whose love had dared the steep descent of hell?Had faced the Furies and the tongues of fire,The reek of torment, rising high and higher,Proserpina’s sad woe and Pluto’s ire?It seemed a little thing to hope and askThat the glad wife, just rescued from the dead,Should go unquestioning where her Orpheus led.But no; for woman’s strength too hard the task.“Why dost thou turn thine eyes away from me?Am I grown ugly, then, unfit to see?Unkind! Thou lovest not Eurydice!”Was it because so short a time she stayedAmong the dead that she had not grown wise?Do petty doubts and fears and jealousies,Vanity, selfishness, the stain and shadeOn mortal love, survive the poignant thrustWhich, winnowing souls from out their hindering dust,Should wake the eyes to see, the heart to trust?If we came back to those who love us so,And fain would plead with Heaven for our recall,Should we come back having forgotten allThe wisdom which all spirits needs must know?Would the old faults revive, the old scars sting,The old capacities for sufferingQuicken to life even in our quickening?Oh, lovely myth, with just this marring stain!I will not think that such deep wrong can be.If ever it were given to one againEarthward to turn in answer to Love’s plea,Surely ’twould come in hushed and reverent guise,With gentlest wisdom in far-seeing eyes,Ripened for life by knowing Paradise.