Stray Pebbles from the Shores of Thought

SONNETS

THE KNOWN GOD

(Suggested by Arlo Bates' sonnet, "The Unknown God," published in the Boston Courier of August 21, 1887.)If Paul in Athens' street left nothing moreThan what he found when deep in sacred thought,He stood and marvelled o'er what had been wrought, —The To the Unknown God of heathen lore, —Then were he only one on thought's wide shoreTo lose his name in others. But, heaven-taught,Undaunted, and in words experienced-fraught,Declared he God as known forevermore.Paul's words, made deep and strong by martyred life,Are more than vision deified. They areLove's balm to permeate true mental strife,And bring to sin-sick weary souls a starOf hope born of temptation's struggles rife.To the Known God. Through Paul we dare thus far.

August, 1887.

TO PHILLIPS BROOKS

O type of manhood, strong, serene, and chaste,Attuned to law of man as well as God,We hail thee as a guide, who, having trodWith Christ the spirit-fields, in eager hasteMakes glad return to give us blessed tasteOf fruit there found. Through thee our feet are shodWith gospel-peace, while thy imperial rodBecomes our need in times of drought or waste.How can we thank thee for thy helpful cheer,O master-spirit of the priests of earth?By daily doing penance without fear,Or resting satisfied in deeds of worth?O no! 'Tis when we breathe love's atmosphere,And live like thee the life of heavenly birth.

Boston, 1890.

AT THE "PORTER MANSE."

[That part of the Porter Manse containing the room referred to was built early in the last half of the seventeenth century. It was the house which Wenham (the first distinct township set off – in 1639 – from Salem) gave to the second pastor of its church, Rev. Antipas Newman, who married, while living there, Governor Winthrop's daughter. It was bought by John Porter in 1703, and has remained in his family name without alienation to this day.]

Before a smouldering fire at twilight hourI muse alone. The ancient room, low-beamed,Holds for my ear thoughts voiced by forms that teemedTwo hundred years ago with life and power.I breathe the essence of sweet joys that flowerIn light of home; while life that only seemedOn history's page becomes the real, redeemedFrom all the chaff that time fails not to shower.Ah, such old places, holding through the yearsContinuous life of man's activity,Reveal a wealth beyond that which appearsIn modern homes built e'er so lovingly.Imbued so long with human hopes and fears,Have they not claim to personality?

OUR LADY OF THE MANSE

Of all those born into the name to shareThe charming freedom of the Porter Manse,None were more worthy of inheritanceThan she who now presides as lady there.Her gracious calm makes hospitality wearA beauteous crown of peace. Kind toleranceAnd wide-embracing sympathy enhanceHer power to please and lighten daily care.'Tis only such rare souls who pierce the truthOf home-life secrets, and through tact and grace,Make growing years reflect the joys of youth.They lose not hope, though sorrow leave a traceIn all their joy. Such cannot fail, forsooth,Of making home a loved abiding place.

TO B. P. SHILLABER

July 12, 1888When lingering Day at last recedes from sight,And Night comes slowly forth to fill her place,Preceded by a twilight-hour's loved faceReflecting glorious rays of sunset light,'Tis then my thoughts go wandering with delightThrough oft-frequented avenues of spaceTo those dear souls – the dearest of the race —Who've dwelt with me on friendship's purest height.From this old mountain-top I come to you,My large souled trusted friend of many a year,With birthday greetings of the roseate hueLeft by a perfect Day just lingering here.Oh, may life's twilight hold a peace as true,And be as filled with hope of dawn's sweet cheer!

Mount Wachusett, Mass.

TO OUR MARY

Sweet sister, thoughtful ever of our need,Forgetting self, if only we be served,How oft thy loving sympathy has nervedOur fainting hearts to kinder, nobler deed,Or brought to being thoughts that intercedeFor others' progress. We, all undeserved,Cannot forget that life to ends thus curvedMade time for us to plant our own pet seed.The world owes much to many a sister dear,Who, banishing with tears in midnight hourA fond desire for larger, happier sphere,Strives faithfully in lowly life to showerRich daily blessings. Such may know e'en hereA Christ-like joy unknown to worldly power.

Chelsea, Mass., 1887.

A BIRTHDAY REMEMBRANCE

TO F. D. LSeptember 26Time brings to thee from out his storehouse oldAnother year, which graciously awaitsThy fair soul's bidding, as it estimatesThe wealth the parting year has left untold.Clothed in chameleon garments, which unfoldThe fresh new days thine eye ne'er underrates,It brings continued hope of life that datesMan's finest being. Thou its secrets hold!Are not such birthdays restful stepping stones,To aid the growing soul pick out the wayTo life eternal? Not earth's bitterest moansOr wildest joys can man's true progress stay,If, in these pauses, he but hear the tonesOf immortality's soothing, deathless lay.

1887.

JOSEF HOFMANN

(After hearing him play at Boston Music Hall in 1888.)O marvellous child, a temple where in easeExpectant Genius dwells, while lingering hereOn earth to fit us for the heavenly sphere,Dost feel awe-struck to know thou hast the keysTo new and wondrous unheard harmonies?O favored boy, marked out to be the peerOf those who in all ages God's voice hear,Hushed are our souls before what thy soul sees!Guard tenderly, O earth, O sky, O fates,This precious earthly temple of Art's shrine!May chilling poverty, or sin that datesSoul loss, ne'er hinder Genius' wise designTo have full sway – as she anticipates —In working out, in time, her laws divine.

I

AFTER THE DENIALJohn 21: 15–18When fast was broken on Tiberias' shore,The risen Lord, still anxious that his ownShould know love's secret as to him 'twas known,Thrice asked of Peter, "Lovest thou me moreThan these?" The third time Peter's heart was sore.Must even love divine have doubt's sad tone?"Thou knowest, Lord, I love thee," was his moan.Then, "Feed my sheep," Christ answered as before.Still in these days the risen Lord bends o'erThe shores of time, and longs for human love;The love that hears his voice, awake, asleep,And makes response as Peter did of yore."Lovest thou me?" O Christ, from heights above,Thou knowest that we love thee. "Feed my sheep."

II

GETHSEMANEMatthew 26:36–46"Could ye not watch with me one hour?" O heartOf Christ, still longing in the bitterest hourFor human sympathy and love to showerA needed strength beyond words to impart!Humanity is richer for this artOf seeing in poor finite man a power —Before which even ministering angels cower —To know all truth, e'en dread Gethsemane's smart.Alas! the power to know will bring the pain.But through the pain of wisdom's true insightIs Christ's own perfect sympathy made plain.Possessed of this, we see in tenderest lightHis sorrowing heart in failing to obtainThe longed-for love in hour of darkest night.

ON LAKE MEMPHREMAGOG

By old Owl's Head on Memphremagog's side,In hammock-nook 'midst scenery wild and bold,The spirit of the waters, as of old,Broods o'er my soul, its secrets to confide,It whispers of the anguish, joy, and pride,The heart of man has on its bosom told;And hails as conqueror Him who once did holdIts heart in peace when tempest-tossed and tried.Loved spirit of the waters, we too hailThe power of Him who walked the holy seaOf Galilee. Capacity to failWere harder to believe than victory.May He who conquered wildest Nature's heartHis infinite power and rest to us impart!

August, 1891.

LUKE 23:24

From holy depths he to the Father prayed,"Forgive them, for they know not what they do."His heart, pierced then with anguish through and through,Cried out "'Tis finished," as he death obeyed.In bitterest wrong this marvellous soul was weighedWith tenderest love and longing towards those who,Through ignorance of what they might be too,Were now the slaves of evil passion's raid."They know not what they do." O blessed sightInto the heart of sin's great mystery.Forgiveness here is shown in sweetest light,Clothed in her garment of sincerity.Blest are those souls who reach this precious height;They know the secret of Christ's victory.

TO THE MEMBERS OF MY HOME CLUB.3

While dwelling in sweet wisdom's fruitful ways,In company with poets grand and goodWho met our human nature's every mood,What life was ours, beyond our words to praise!In seeking for the secret of the laysWhich clothed in art pure Nature's daily food,Or brought to light a Christian brotherhood,Did we not garner thoughts for future days?'Tis one of wisdom's joys, while lingering hereTo plant her seeds of righteousness and peace,To give a sweet companionship and cheerTo those who seek from her their soul's increase.This, friends, we've felt in our Club atmosphere.May its sweet memory linger till life cease!

Chelsea, Mass., 1888.

FOR MY LITTLE NEPHEWS AND NIECES

A MAMMA'S LULLABY

Dream of loveliest beauty in thine hour of sleep,Harold, baby boy.Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby.Catch the sweetest glimpses of the heavenly bliss,While the holy angels bless thee with a kiss.Lullaby, lullaby.So shall mamma feel a breathOf celestial power,To beautify the ministry,Of baby's waking hour.Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby,Harold, baby boy.Lullaby, lullaby.

WARREN'S SONG

How I love you, baby dear,Sister Rosamond!I must kiss you,I must hug you,I must be your little beau,To protect youOr to rescueFrom the faults of friend or foe.I must grow more wise and gracefulEvery way,That I may be true and helpfulFor the dayWhen, as lovely fair young woman,You will need my stay.Darling Rosebud,How I love you,How I love you, sister dear!Oh, I will be good and pure,Striving always to endureWhat will make me honest, kind,Generous, manly, strong in mind,Worthy of my Rosebud.Darling Rosebud,Sweetest Rosebud,How I love you, sister dear!

BABY MILDRED

Darling baby Mildred, playing on the floor —I see!Creeping here and creeping there,Into mischief everywhere,Mamma's little pet and care —I see!Fearless baby Mildred, on her rocking horse —I see!Never slipping from her place,Joyous laughter keeping paceWith a motion full of grace —I see!Thoughtful baby Mildred, papa's pet and pride —I know!Lighting up the passing daysWith such happy, winsome ways,Joy of household life that pays —I know!Tired baby Mildred, lovely eyes all closed —Sleep on!Waking, heaven will be more nearFor the angels' presence here,Whispering secrets in her ear —Sleep on! Sleep on!

ROSAMOND AND MILDRED

Rosamond and Mildred, playing on the floor —I see!Laughing blue eyes, dimpled face,Laughing brown eyes, ways of grace,Chubby hands that interlace —I see!Rosamond and Mildred, trying hard to walk —I see!Clinging now to mamma's dress,Trembling in new happiness,Then at last a sweet success —I see!Rosamond and Mildred, born the same glad year —I know!Cousins; each in her own wayGrowing wiser every day,Full of promise as of play —I know!Rosamond and Mildred, parting to go home —Good-bye!Each a little picture fair,Carrying blessing everywhere.Grateful are we for our share —Good-bye! Good-bye!

'CHILLA

Chinchilla? Come, 'Chilla! —Ah, here she comes bounding,So quickly responding,Oh, who could but love her!Her fur like chinchilla —Her movements all grace —Such a wise little face —What kitty is like her?Oh, who could but love her,Our dear pretty 'Chilla!

CHILDISH FANCIES

(A FACT.)My little nephew, four years old,A sweet-faced, blue-eyed boy,Was one day playing by my sideWith this and that pet toy,When all at once he said to me, —As, laying down my book,I paused a while to watch with joyHis bright, expressive look, —"If Mac and I should plant todaySome paper in the ground,Say, would it grow to be a bookLike yours, with leaves all bound?"These were the same two little boysWhose nurse searched far and wideFor little sister's rubber shoes;"Where can they be?" she cried."I know," replied Mac, eagerly,"We planted them last night,To see if they would bigger growTo fit our feet all right."Dear little boys! These fancies hintOf future questions deep,When evolution's grand ideaShall o'er their vision sweep.God grant that when these come to them,As at Truth's shrine they bow,A childlike faith and earnestnessMay fill them then as now.

WHAT LITTLE BERTRAM DID

(A FACT)Our little Bertram, six years old,Sat on his grandpa's knee,Enjoying to the full the loveThat grandpa gave so free,When, looking up bewitchingly,He said, – the little teaze, —"Will grandpa give me just one centTo buy some candy, please?"Who could resist such loveliness?This grandpa could not, sure.So with a kiss he gave the cent —Ah, how such things allure!No sooner was the cent in hand,Than off the fair boy ranTo buy his candy, "'lasses kind,"Or little "candy-man."Now on his way, in scanning wellA window full of toys,He spied a ring with big red stone,O'erlooked by other boys.All thought of candy was forgot.He'd buy that ring so fineFor his new sister, Rosamond —Oh, how his eyes did shine!How could he stop to calculateThe size of such a thing;His only care was for the price —Would one cent buy the ring?Ah yes, it would. The ring was bought;And never girl or boyWent tripping homeward through the streetsWith greater wealth or joy.

"DEAR LITTLE MAC."4

(A FACT.)When nearly eight years old, dear little MacWas called from out his happy home-life hereTo that blest sphereBeyond earth's dearest power to call him back."His questions wise will now sure answer find,"Said one who'd loved to watch his eager face,In happy chaseOf many a thought which flitted through his mind."Yes, he knows more than we," another said,"Instead of guiding him, he'll be our guideTo where abideThe things we need most to be comforted."While thus the older ones their comfort sought,Two of the children paused in midst of play,To have their sayConcerning this great mystery Death had brought."Dear little Mac," said Miriam, with a sigh,"He's gone way up to heaven where angels are,Way up so farThat we can't ever see him till we die.""He's not up there," said Bertram. "He can't be.I saw them put him in the cold dark ground,And I went roundAnd threw some flowers in for him to see.""He isn't there," replied the four-year old,"He's up in heaven. My mamma told me so.He is, I know.He isn't in the ground all dark and cold."A moment Bertram sat absorbed in thought,While Miriam felt the joy of victory.Then suddenlyThe lovely six-year-old this idea caught:"I tell you what, Mac's body's in the ground;His head, his feet, and every other part,But just his heart —And that's gone up to heaven, and angels found."The child thus solved the thought that troubled so.And as I overheard this earnest talk, —Which might some shock, —I wondered if we could more wisdom show.As each seemed satisfied, their play went on.But Bertram's thought sank deep in sister's mind,And left behindThe wonder how dear Mac to heaven had gone.At last, when ready for their sweet "Good Night,"She softly said, "It can't be very dark,Not very darkFor Mac, I know, 'cause God will make it light."Oh, lovely faith of childhood's trusting days,Sent fresh from heaven to be our loving guide,When sadly triedBy doubt or sorrow's strange, mysterious ways.

WILLARD AND FLORENCE ON MOUNT WACHUSETT

July, 1888Happy little girl and boy,Dancing hand in handOver hill and valley land,Filled with summer joy;Climbing up the steep path sideTo Wachusett's top,With that graceful skip and hopBorn where fairies hide;Seeing Holyoke from the height,Old Monadnock clear,While Washacum twin-lakes nearSparkle in sun-light;Tripping down the mountain-roadBack to cottage home,Only pausing there to roamWhere laurel finds abode;Jumping on the new-mown hay,Sitting under trees,Feeling every mountain breeze,Hearing birds' sweet lay;Lying on the mossy stoneBy the brook's cascade,Listening 'neath the sylvan shadeTo its rippling tone;Down at pretty Echo Lake,Plucking maiden-hair,Gathering glistening "sundew" thereFor "dear mamma's sake";Picking in the pastures nearBerries red and blue;Spying where the mayflowers grewEarlier in the year;Watching for the sun to rise,Following sunset-cloud,Singing low and singing loudWhile the swift day flies;Waiting for the "Tally-Ho,"With its looked-for mails,Hearing strangers tell their talesAs they come and go;Happy little girl and boy,Dancing hand in handOver hill and valley land,Filled with summer joy.

A LITTLE BRAZILIAN

(A FACT.)'Twas in Brazil last Christmas day,While at a family feast,A little girl of five years oldThe merriment increased,By crying out, – as glasses heldThe ice she ne'er had seen, —"Oh see! what pretty little stones.What for? Where have they been?""Here, give her one," the host exclaimed,Pleased with her childish glee."'Twill show her as no words could showWhat ice is, and must be."She grasped the "white stone" in her hand,All watching eagerly,When suddenly she let it fall,And cried, "It's burning me."But, anxious still to see it more,She asked a servant nearTo hand it in a napkin wrapped —Then there would be no fear.Again the ice was in her hand,Her plaything for the day,When all at once she cried aloud,"The stone is running away."A glass of water now was used,Sure that would keep it hers.But no! with all her loving watchThe same result occurs.The plaything gone, at evening hourShe sat on uncle's knee."Who makes those white stones, you or God?"She asked, inquiringly."In Miss Brown's land [a Boston friend]God makes them," answered he."But in Brazil a factory-manMakes them for you and me."A moment's pause. Then said the child, —Heaven's blessing on her fall, —"Why doesn't God get from BrazilA man to make them all?"

THE LITTLE DOUBTER

"Mamma, where is the sun to-day,While all this rain comes down?"Ah, little girlOf flaxen curl,Who has not asked beforeThis question o'er and o'er?"Behind the clouds so thick and blackThe sun is shining still,"The mother quickly answered back,Her child with faith to fill.The child looked up in strange surprise,In doubt almost a pain,Then turned again her wistful eyesTo watch the pouring rain."I don't believe 'tis shining still,"She muttered to herself.Ah, little girlOf flaxen curl,Why doubt e'en mother's word,Because of feelings stirred?"I won't believe it till I seeThe sun behind that cloud,"She still went on, defiantly,To say in accents loud.Now, while she gazed as if to seeThe truth made known by sight,Behold the cloud did suddenlyBecome imbued with light."There, there, mamma, the sun, the sun!"The little doubter cried.And, full of joy at victory won,She danced with childish pride.The mother watched with tearful eyesHer child's transparent joy,But dared not quench the glad surprise,Or victory's power destroy."Perhaps she'll need this proof," she sighed,"Of hidden things made plain,When in the depths of life she's tried,And all fond hopes are slain."While thus she mused, as mothers will,The little daughter fairRushed to her arms, all smiling still,And said, while nestling there,"Behind the clouds the sun does shine,E'en while the rain comes down."Ah, little girlOf flaxen curl,This wisdom is indeedFor future hours of need.

OUR KITTY'S TRICK.5

I know that all the boys and girlsWould be so glad to seeOur kitty do the little trickShe often does for me.When asked, "O kitty, where's the ball?"She to my shoulder leaps,And looks directly to the shelf,Where from a box it peeps.She will not cease to look and beg,Until I find the placeWhere she can take between her teethThe ball with easy grace.Then quickly to the floor she jumps;When, dropping first the ball,She runs behind the open doorThat leads into the hall.She waits, with only head in sight,The ball to see me throw;Then after it she scampers wellSome forty feet or so.She never fails to bring it back;Then lifts with wondrous graceHer velvet paw to take the ballFrom out its hiding place.This done, she nestles by my side,And purrs while I caress,Unconscious of the trick she's done,Since three months old or less.She thus will lie in calm reposeSo long as I am still;But if I move to touch the ball,Then all her nerves will thrill,Her eyes will shine, she'll quickly findHer place behind the door,And wait again to see the ballRoll on the long hall floor.Ah, kitty dear, who told you howTo join thought, act, and sight?Must not we think that in you dwellsThe germ of mental light,The germ that makes you kin to usIn kind though not degree,But which was quickened by His touchFor our supremacy?

A MESSAGE

A mountain hides within itselfThis message grand and true,Which at my bidding came to-dayFor me to give to you:"Drink deep of Nature's sweetest life,While learning how to wait.Stand strong against the tempest's strife,Not questioning the fate.Then shalt thou live above the dinOf petty things below,Absorbing depths of life within,The future to o'erflow."

At the foot of Mount Holyoke.

1

"Fairfields" is but another name for "Porter Manse."

2

"Song at Sunset." —W. W.

3

For an account of this Home Club, see the Boston Literary World, of July 9, 1887, and June 9, 1888; also, Lend a Hand, for September, 1889.

4

MacLaurin Cooke Gould, died in Maplewood, Mass., November 8, 1887.

5

These verses, true in every detail, are only preserved in remembrance of a pet cat of our family for many years.