Mother's Dream and Other Poems

THE CHILD OF A YEAR AND A DAY

To grief the night-hours keeping,A mournful mother layUpon her pillow, weeping —Her babe had passed away.When she had clasped her treasureA year and yet a day,Of time ’t was all its measure —’T was gone, like morning’s ray!The jewel, Heaven had shown her,Of worth surpassing gold,Was lent her, by its Owner —’T was never earth’s to hold.Then, fondly hovering o’er her,A bright young angel hung;And warm the love it bore her,And sweet the song it sung:“O mother, why this weeping?Let all thy sorrow cease:My infant form is sleeping,Where nought can break its peace.“And he, who once was blessingSuch little children here,My spirit now possessing,Will hold me ever dear.“I never knew the dreadingOf death’s all-conquering blow;My mortal raiment shedding,I rose above the foe.“Where sickness cannot pain me —Where comes nor grief nor night —Where sin shall never stain me,I dwell, a child of light.“While many a pilgrim hoaryTreads long earth’s weary way,I have eternal gloryFor one short year and day.”Yet that sweet angel singingIts mother could not hear,For grief her heart was wringing —She ’d but a mortal ear.She could not see the beamingOf his celestial crown;For fast her tears were streaming;Her soul to dust bowed down.A voice from heaven then fallingIn soothing tones to her,As of a Father, calling,Revealed the Comforter.And, lifting up her lowlyAnd sorrow-laden eye,She saw the King all holyUpon the throne Most High.Where shining hosts were pouringTheir praises forth to Him,She saw her child adoring,Amid the Seraphim.

THE BELIEVER’S MOUNTAINS

Not to the mount, where fire and smokeJehovah’s face concealed,When loud to wandering man he spoke,To make his law revealed —Not to the awful splendor thereCan turn my fearful eye:To hear its thunderings, and to dareIts lightnings, were to die.Not on the mount where Moses stood,The promised land to seeAcross the waves of Jordan’s flood,Is yet the place for me.My spirit could not bear to takeThat fair and glorious view,Nor dare her wondrous launch to make,To try the waters through.Not to the mount where Christ appearedAt once so heavenly bright;While they, who heard the Father, feared,And fell before the light —Not there, my Saviour ever nigh,Do I his footsteps trace:His closer followers far, than I,Attain that higher place.But, to the mount without a name,Where Jesus sat and taught,I daily would assert my claim,To share the bread he brought.His words before that multitudeDropt to his chosen few,Are manna for my morning food,My soul’s sweet evening dew.If to Temptation’s mount I go,That mount exceeding high,My Lord, again rebuke our foe,And bid the tempter fly.No kingdom may I seek, but thine;And let my glory beA light, reflected pure from thine —My portion, life with thee!Oft to the mount of midnight shade,Of solitude and prayer,Ascend, my soul, be not afraidThy Guide to follow there.The height and stillness of the scene,When thou that path hast trod,Forbids this world to rush betweenA spirit and her God.The mount whereon my Saviour stood,And o’er the city wept —Where fell his wo-wrung drops of blood,While his disciples slept —There may I go, yet not to sleepTill Jesus be betrayed;But, as he went, to pray and weepO’er sufferings sin hath made.And to the solemn, shuddering mount,Where Christ received the cupOf death, to offer us a fountOf life, must I go up.And I must look upon his wo,On that empurpled tree,To learn how vast a debt I owe,By what he paid for me.Thence to the mount of GalileeMay I the way pursue,With joy my risen Lord to see,Ere he ascends from view.For lo! the heavens their gates unfoldTo take their coming King:His angels harp on strings of gold,And “Hallelujah!” sing.Now on Mount Zion may I seekMy shield – my strong, high tower;And thence, though here so dark and weak,Be clothed with light and power.Then at that holy mountain’s top,My soul, no more to roam,Unfurl thy wings – thine ashes drop;And gain thy glorious home.

THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING

A solemn night is o’er Jerusalem;Nature astonished, shrouds herself in gloom;For he, who was the babe of Bethlehem,Is now a victim slain, and in the tomb!The blood, which started with the agonyThat in the garden forced his swelling veins,In crimson streams has poured on Calvary;A rocky cavern holds his pale remains.He walked with men, serene in holiness,The meek, the merciful, through taunts and strife;The front of pride he met with lowliness,And bowed to death to lift his foes to life.Fast as their sins grew bold and multiplied,His bitter cup was filling to the brim.Here doth he lie, the pale, the crucified,With damps and shadows gathered over him.The dismal night moves on but heavily,While they, who came the sepulchre to keepWith bristling spears, the Roman soldiery,Would fain resign their glittering arms for sleep.Yet they must wake or die; the sentinelMust keep his constant vigils round the spotWhere he shall find the watch of Israel:The life, the spirit moves, and heeds him not.Within the grave, that power victoriousO’er death and darkness, far from mortal sight,Hath wrought the body bright and gloriousFor resurrection by the morning light.And lo! the shades of night are vanishing;The guard behold, as comes the dawning day,Her dubious gloom and dimness banishing,The stone that barred the tomb is rolled away.But, where ’s the form that in the drapery,Which wraps the dead, lay, spiritless and cold,Within the vault so still and shadowy,That, as a prison-guard, they came to hold?That form is gone; its cast-off covering,The sad habiliments of death, are here,With burial odors round them hovering,And white-robed angels calmly sitting near.But, see the garden, fair and flowering,Where new-born lilies worship from their stalks;And boughs with blossoms bend, emboweringThe dewy pathway! there the Saviour walks.The guilty city still is slumbering,While he is risen from the broken tomb;As one his vines and fruit trees numbering,He breathes the incense of their opening bloom.The moon, now fading in the occident,Is not so mild, so heavenly fair as he.The sun, just rising in the orient,Hath less of glory than in him we see.Nature, that, for his death and burial,Hath put on darkness, as a mourning weed,Arrayed in light as for a festival,Proclaims afar, “The Lord is risen indeed!”

I SHALL BE SATISFIED

“I shall be satisfied when I awake in thy likeness.”

May I in thy likeness, my Saviour, awake,And rise, a fair image of thee;Then I shall be satisfied, when I can breakThis prison of clay, and be free.Can I but come forth to eternity’s light,With thy perfect features to shine,In raiment unsullied from time’s dreary night,What honor and joy will be mine!Yes, I shall be satisfied then to have castThe shadows of nature all by —When, darkness and dust from the dull eyelid past,My soul sees with full-opened eye.How fain would I know the great morn drawing near,When earth’s dreamy visions shall fade,If I in thy semblance indeed may appear,And stand in thy beauty arrayed!To see thee in glory, O Lord, as thou art,From this mortal, perishing clayMy spirit immortal, in peace would depart,And, joyous, mount up her bright way.When on thine own image in me thou hast smiled,In thy holy mansion, and whenThy fatherly arms have encircled thy child,O I shall be satisfied then!

THE PENITENTIAL TEAR

Thou trembling, pure, and holy thing!What skill from ocean’s depths can bring,Or toil from out the mine —What monarch in his diadem,Or glittering garb, produce a gem,Whose brightness equals thine?Thy source is deeper than the cavesOf riven rock, or opening waves,Invisible as air:And, though the angel throng aboveBehold thee with delight and love,They ne’er can have thee there.Nor change, nor age thy sheen can dim;Thou ’rt now unstained as when with him,Who dared, in olden time,Thrice his dear, suffering Lord deny;Then, melted at the Saviour’s eye,And paid thee for his crime.Called from the treasures of the soulBy power divine, when thou dost rollForth from the mourner’s eye,Thy wearer thou dost then proclaimThe heir of life, who has his nameWrit in the Book on high.Thou art a pearl, that all may own,And when thy matchless worth is knownTo those, who wear thee here,They will be changed, and shall beholdThe shining gates of heaven unfold,Bright Penitential Tear!

TEACHINGS OF GOD

He reigns on high, a glorious King,In ocean, earth, and air;He moves and governs every thing,For God is every where.The waters at his bidding flow,The mountain and its flowerTheir majesty and beauty show,As traces of his power.The lilies by the meadow rillsAre leaning on his hand;And so the cedar of the hills,The palm and olive stand.He formed the birds, that sport alongOn light and brilliant wing;And tuned them with the voice of songAnd joy his praise to sing.This earth is ours, so rich and fairFrom him, who made it thus —Who sends his angels down with careTo minister to us.The rainbow, with its beauteous dies,A pledge to man, is lentBy him, who spreads the shining skiesAround him, “as a tent.”The heavens, my child, are full of him!Yon radiant sun aboveIs but an image, cold and dim,Of his great power and love.He placed that glorious orb on high,In splendor there to roll,To warm the world, to light the eye;He lights and warms the soul.And lest the night with sable shadeThat azure vault should mar,He moved his finger there, and made,At every touch, a star.With these the moon, his beaming gift,Here lets her lustre fall,Our thoughts to win, our hearts to liftTo him, who gave them all.And he is ours – that Holy One,Our Father, Guide, and Friend;In ways untravelled by the sun,In love that ne’er shall end.’T is sweet to worship him below,With his approving eyeTo mark the way, our spirits goTo seek his face on high.

THE HERALD’S CRY IN THE DESERT

“He was not that Light; but was sent to bear witness of that Light.”St. John i. 8.Awake, O ye nations, and, shakingThe slumber of death from your eyes,Behold the fair morn in its breaking,The Sun of all glory arise.He comes, mist and dimness dispelling;The shadows and clouds flee away:Ho! all, that in darkness are dwelling,Spring up, and rejoice in the day!Ye dying, life’s waters revealing,He ’ll show you to fountain and streams:Ye wounded, for you he brings healing;Come out and repose in his beams.Come, all ye disconsolate, hailingYour King in his beauty and might;His raiment mount Ebal is veiling;Mount Gerizim shines with his light.O praise him, ye weary, in wonderTo feel your hard burdens unbound!Ye captives, your bars fall asunder;With shoutings leap forth at the sound.Your names on his breastplate he ’s wearing;They ’re set as the seal of his ring;Ye nations, your highways preparing,Receive, and be glad in your King!

OUR FATHER’S WELL

Come, let ’s go back, my brother,And, by our father’s well,Sit down beside each other,Life’s little dreams to tell.For there we played together,In childhood’s sunny hours;Before life’s stormy weatherHad killed its morning flowers.And since no draught we ’ve tasted,Its weary journey through,As we so far have hasted,Like that our father drew;I feel, as at a mountain,I cannot pass nor climb,Till from that distant fountainI drink, as in my prime.My spirit’s longing, thirsting,No waters else can quell;My heart seems near to burstingTo reach that good old well.Though all be changed around it,And though so changed are we,Just where our father found it,That pure well spring will be.In earth, when deeply going,He reached and smote the rock;He set its fount to flowing —It opened at his knock.The way, he smoothed and stoned it,A close, round, shadowy cell;Whoever since has owned it,It is our father’s well!His prattling son and daughter,With each an infant’s cup,We waited for the water,His steady hand drew up.When we had paused and listened,Till down the bucket dashed,O how it, rising, glistened,And to the sunlight flashed!And since that moment, neverHas that cool deep been dry;Its fount is living ever,While man and seasons die.Around its mouth is growingThe moss of many a year;But from its heart is flowingThe water sweet and clear.Fond memory near it lingers,And, like a happy child,She plucks, with busy fingers,And wreathes the roses wild.Yet many a lip, whose burningIts limpid drops allayed,Has since, to ashes turning,Been veiled in silent shade.Still we are here, and tellingAbout our infant play;Where that free spring is welling,So true, and far away.But O! the change, my brother!Our father’s head is hoar;The tender name of motherIs ours to call no more.And now, around thee gatherSuch little ones as weWere then, beside our father,And look to theirs in thee.While fast our years are wasting,Their numbers none can tell;So let us hence be hastingTo find our Father’s well.Come, we will speed us thither,And from its mossy brink,To flowers that ne’er shall witherLook up to heaven and drink.They spring beside the waters,Our Father there will giveTo all his sons and daughters,Where they shall drink and live.

THE MOTHER’S DREAM

“And I will give him the morning star.”

Rev. ii. 28.Methought, once more to my wishful eyeMy beautiful boy had come:My sorrow was gone, my cheek was dry,And gladness around my home.I saw the form of my dear, lost child!All kindled with life he came;And he spake in his own sweet voice, and smiled,As soon as I called his name.The garb he wore looked heavenly white,As the feathery snow comes down,And warm, as it shone in the softened lightThat fell from his dazzling crown.His eye was bright with a joy serene,His cheek with a deathless bloom,That only the eye of my soul hath seen,When looking beyond the tomb.The odors of flowers, from the thornless landWhere we deem that our blest ones are,Seemed borne in his skirts; and his soft right handWas holding a radiant star.His feet, unshod, looked tender and fair,As the lily’s opening bell,Half veiled in a cloud of glory, as thereAround him, in folds, it fell.I asked him how he was clothed anew —Who circled his head with light —And whence he returned to meet my viewSo calm and heavenly bright.I asked him where he had been so longAway from his mother’s care —Again to sing me his infant song,And to kneel by my side in prayer.He said, “Sweet mother, the song I singIs not for an earthly ear:I touch the harp with a golden string,For the hosts of heaven to hear.“It was but a gently fleeting breath,That severed thy child from thee!The fearful shadow, in time, called Death,Hath ministered life to me.“My voice in an angel choir I lift;And high are the notes we raise:I hold the sign of a priceless gift,And the Giver, who hath our praise.“‘The bright and the morning star’ is he,Who bringeth eternal day!And, mother, he giveth himself to thee,To lighten thine earthly way.“The race is short to a peaceful goal,And He is never afar,Who saith of the wise, untiring soul,‘I will give him the morning star!’“Thy measure of care for me was filled,And pure to its crystal top;For Faith, with a steady eye, distilledAnd numbered every drop.“While thou wast teaching my lips to move,And my heart to rise in prayer,I learned the way to a world above;The home of thy child is there!“The secret prayers, thou didst make for me,That only thy God hath known,Arose, like sweet incense, holy and free,And gathered around his throne.“My robe was filled with the perfume sweetTo shed upon this world’s air,As I joyful knelt, at my Saviour’s feet,For the glorious crown I wear.“In that bright, blissful world of ours,The waters of life I drink:Behold my feet, as they ’ve pressed the flowers,That grow by the fountain’s brink!“No thorn is hidden to wound me there;There ’s nothing of chill, or blight,Or sighing to blend with the balmy air —No sorrow – no pain – no night!”“No parting?” I asked, with a burst of joy;And the lovely illusion broke!My rapture had banished my beauteous boy —To a shadowy void I spoke.But, O! that STAR of the morn still beamsWith light to direct my feetWhere, when I have done with my earthly dreams,The mother and child may meet.

THE WAR-SPIRIT ON BUNKER’S HEIGHT

The sun walked the skies in the splendor of June,O’er earth full of promise, and air full of tune;The broad azure streams calmly rolled to the deep,Whose waves on its breast stirred like babes in their sleep.The turf heaved its green to the white vestured flock,That fed, or reposed in the shade of the rock;The birds sang their songs by their nests in the bowers;And the bee hummed with sweets from the fresh opened flowers.The humming-bird glittered, and whirred o’er the cell,Where her nectar was stored, from the hill to the dell;’Mid the bloom and the perfume, that passed on the breeze,From the rose, and the vine, and the fruit-bearing trees.It seemed like a gala, when Nature, arrayedIn festival robes, with her treasures displayed,Reflected the smile of her Maker above,And offered up hymns of her thanksgiving love.And yet, in the bosom of man there were firesFierce, quenchless and fearful – consuming desiresFor right unpossessed, and for lawless domain,That burned to the soul, and that flamed to the brain.In the streets there was clanging and gleaming of arms;In the dwellings, resolve, preparation, alarms;In the eye of the wife, mother, sister, a tear;In the face of their soldier, no semblance of fear.The patriot chieftain had marked out his ground,To hold, or to fall, if his foe passed the bound:And now was the hero to close in the strife,For death as a bondman, or freedom with life.The war-spirit hovered, and frowned on the height,His eye flashing lightning – his wings shedding night!From his wide fiery nostrils rolled volumes of smoke,And the rocks roared afar, as in thunder he spoke.At his dread shock of nature, the lamb from its play,The bee and the bird, in affright fled away;The branch, flower, and grass, felt the crush and the scath,And the winds passing by, snuffed the heat of his wrath.With blood, that, in torrents, he poured down like rain,He drenched the green turf, that he strewed with the slain,Till the eminence groaned with the carnage it bore,And its heart heaved and shuddered at drinking the gore.While the breath of the war-spirit scented the air,The rivers looked wild in reflecting his glare;And ocean’s cold bosom was torn, as he gaveThe flap of his pinion to trouble its wave.The village besieged, wrapped in flames from his breath,Looked up to the hill, where he revelled with death,And swelled with the essence of life he had shed,To sweeten their cup, and the banquet to spread.O War-spirit! War-spirit, when didst thou bringSuch trophies of beauty before the pale king,Since walking on Gilboa’s height, in thy power,Of Israel’s valiant to mow down the flower?Mourn, wail, O ye people! and spread wide the pall,Whose deep sable fringe down the hill-sides shall fall!Your brethren’s warm blood cries aloud from the ground,That hosts, like Philistia’s, in triumph surround.The lovely, the pleasant have perished! Alas!Where they fell may there hence be no dew on the grass!Let a monument there, towards the heavens rear its head,From a base, that shall cover the spot where they bled!Ah, War-spirit! War-spirit, deep was the gloom,Though heaven was unclouded, and earth all in bloom,When thou, at the onset, that young summer’s day,Didst strike so much valor to darkness away!And yet, by that thunder, the land is awake:’T was the crack of her yoke when beginning to break!And out of that gloom is her glory to spread;Her living be franchised, immortal her dead.For up from that summit an eagle shall rise,To breast the thick clouds, till he sails the blue skies;And drop, while he bathes at the fountain of light,A plume from his pinion their story to write.It shall fall where they fell, on the still purple sward,Full and warm with the sunbeams their deeds to record;And move o’er the scroll in the hand of the free,While the wing where it grew spans the earth and the sea.

THE INNER SELF

While others lie composed in sleep,Close wrapped in shade and silence deep,And starry hosts and angels keepTheir vigils o’er the night,I have a curious work to do,A secret door to venture through,A wondrous being then to view;If I can stand the sight.I now take up the sacred key,Unlock my breast, and pass to seeThe inmost, true, essential ME:And lo! I here have found,Enclosed within its shrine, the heart,Myself, my thinking, reasoning part:But say, my spirit, what thou art,And whence, and whither bound!’T is but with wonder, reverence, fearAnd shrinking, that I thus draw nearThe majesty, that meets me here,My soul, unveiled, in thee!I cannot give thy form, or hue,Or measure, or proportions true;But feel myself myself subdue,Thou deepening mystery.Not all the earth, nor air, nor seaCould furnish food to nourish thee;Nor welling founts, nor rivers free,The spirit’s thirst allay:Nor silver web, nor cloth of gold,Nor stuffs, that time can e’er unfold,Nor pearls, nor gems this world may hold,Compose thee an array.Yet all the fibres of my frameOwn that from thee their feeling came;And, at the slightest touch, will claimThy closest sympathy.Thou art their life, their light, their spring,Informing them in every thing,But how they are allied, and cling,My nobler self, to thee.And do I thus the power survey,Whom all my meaner powers obey?Hand, foot and tongue and eye – are theyThe servants of thy will?And when they pause, repose to take,Dost thou, untiring and awake,Thy pinions spread, and swiftly makeThy wide excursions still?What art thou, never slumbering soul,To stretch thy wings from pole to pole —To span the globe – to mark its roll —Its elements to see,Conspiring thus, to prophesyIts end to come before thine eye,Whilst thou canst fire and flood defy,Nor ever cease to be?And, swifter than an eagle flies,Or arrows dart, dost thou ariseThrough air and space, and scale the skies,’Mid shining spheres to roam:And with thy conscious rank elate,Dost stand and watch at heaven’s bright gate,For glimpses of that rich estateWhere thou may’st claim thy home.Thence, near the pit dost thou go down,To spy the difference ’twixt the crownOf life, and that dread withering frown,Which blights a spirit there.Then, on eternity’s dark brink,Between them dost thou pause, and think,And ask, if thou shalt soar or sink —To joy or wo the heir.Too blind to trace thy being’s plan,Too small my nobler part to span,I end my quest where it began,And from myself retire.I hence must own within my breastA power of unknown powers possessed —A flame, not long to be repressed,Of clear immortal fire.

TIME

Time, with thy kind and never-wearying powers,Giving whate’er we fondly count as ours;Life, love, hope, faith, the sun, the stars and flowers;All that to man is dear to thee we owe!Yet does he call thee, slayer, robber, thief,And stern, as of his foes thou wert the chief,Filling his path with ruins, pain and grief,Without one tender blessing to bestow!Nature we laud, when thou, paternal Time,Hast given maturity, as well as prime,To all her works, in every age and clime,Since the first floweret on her bosom grew.Light from the darkness doth thy hand unfold:Beauty from dust we in thy deeds behold:The frail, the dimmed, the withered, worn and oldThy breath dissolves, that they may shine anew.The city flames, and melts the tottering wall;Again she rises fairer for the fall.Thou beckonest back the flood! and at thy call,From crust-capped mounts, volcanic splendors pour.The absent sun his way to morning bends;The waning star to thy command attends,Fills out and burns; and man to dust descends,In hope to live, when thou shalt be no more.The leaves are scattered, yet the waiting treeShall have them brought, in verdure, back by thee;The flower has vanished, but the trusting beeWill find her cell again with sweetness stored.The seed may perish, yet the germ will rise;The grain is ripened while its sheathing dies.The fruits of earth, the glories of the skiesForth by thy bounteous hand to man are poured.We owe thee still for gifts far more divine —The key to joys it never can be thineTo give or take; and heavenly light to shineWhen we must enter that dark, shadowy vale,Where nought of earth the pathway can illume,Or lend one ray to shoot across the gloom,That gathers round the threshold of the tomb,When thou must there, first and forever, fail.Then, why does man so oft forget that heOwes all he is, and all he hopes to be,When thou and he are severed, but to thee?Why does he slay thee piecemeal, day by day?Shut out in exile from thine empire, there,In that unknown, dread, boundless country, whereIs no retreat, no inn, how will he bearTo have thy spectre haunt the endless way?Man’s wisest study is to know thy worthAnd his relations to thee from his birth;To bring his course o’er this uneven earth,In a clear sunset, to a quiet close.Then, as a weary traveller is undressed,While gently thou the spirit may’st divestOf her worn garment, there remains a rest,And she goes franchised to that blest repose.And now, O Time, as one more hasty yearOf thine is gone, thou hast another here!Grateful we hail it, though the bitter tearMay have put out the light of joy that shoneOn many a face; though tender, sundered tiesHave changed to chords that vibrate but with sighs,In many a stricken breast where sorrow lies,Draining the life-stream, while that year has flown.Countless the blessings showered in its flight;And seeming evils, turned and viewed aright,May prove but passing clouds, and lined with light.Our trust, deceived in earthly things, may teachThe restless, eager spirit to foregoHer crushing grasp on hollow hopes, that growLike fragile reeds, to mock her hold below;And after higher, holier joys to reach.Time, then our nobler aspirations raise!Since few, and short, and fleeting are our days;And since, so peaceful are her pleasant ways,Teach us to wisdom to apply the heart:So that, when thou hast safely led us throughThy kingdom, with a brighter land in view,Calm at thy bourn, and with a kind adieu,We may, as friends, shake hands with thee and part.