Part 3
You see for yourself that I don’t care much-- Thank God, health’s a thing the law can’t touch!
Why! the happiest man I ever knew Was born a beggar--and died one too.”
And so wisely nodding each yellow head The sunflowers they listened to what was said,
As Nan in her careful and easy way, In the old farmhouse kitchen that summer day,
Set a great and a mighty problem forth-- “Tell me the truth, John, how much am I worth?”
The question has stood since the world began With Adam, a lone and a lonesome man.
Now the sunbeams kissing her golden hair, Her cheeks, and her round arms dimpled and bare,
Seemed stamping a value of mighty wealth On youth and love, and the bloom of health.
John looked, and looked, till his eyes grew dim, Then tilted the hat with the worthless brim,
To hide what he would not have her see, “You’re--you’re just worth the whole world, Nan,” said he.
“Then you are no beggar”--O sweet, bold Nan! “You’re _the whole world richer than any man_.”
Now, a girl queen wearing a crown of gold Did something like this, so the tale is told;
But no royal prince that the world has seen Ever felt quite so proud as John, I ween,
As he clasped both her hands with new-born hope-- Hands all crinkley with water and soap.
Only the sunflowers, now looking on, So--he kissed the maiden, O foolish John!
As he hastened out through the garden gate, Ned Brown was just coming to learn his fate.
He was riding a handsome chestnut mare But, somehow, our John didn’t seem to care.
Ned thought of the acres he’d won from John, “Poor beggar,” he said, and rode slowly on;
John thought of all he had won from Ned, “O you poor, poor beggar,” was what he said.
Why? Under the heavens smiling and blue, Only John and the yellow sunflowers knew.
As it Began to Dawn
MARY MAGDALENE.
A coward heart I carry in my breast, Think you the soldiers stern will let us put These spices that we carry, in his grave, Or will they drive us hence? See how I start If but the breeze shakes on my head, From limb or vine, the heavy drops of dew-- Art weary Mary, weary and afraid?
MARY.
Nay, but so heavy-hearted, and so lost To hope, so full of horrors was that day, So full of grief, the mem’ry of it all Will weigh upon me till my life is done. And if I close my eyes, I see in dreams His arms stretched out upon that cross so wide, His head, His kingly head, crowned with the thorns.
MARY MAGDALENE.
Hush, Mary, Or I drop upon the ground in weakness. My friend! my tender, and my faithful friend! When down thy forehead crept those crimson drops The agony was more than I could bear. ’Tis said that Peter and the rest did sleep, Did sleep and take their rest that last night in Gethsemane, leaving Him there to keep His watch alone. O, poverty of love! Think, Mary, had we heard that sobbing prayer Could we have slept and our Lord sorrowful?
MARY.
Nay, we would but have had one thought, to share His grief, to comfort and to cheer, But man Is dull at conning tasks of tenderness, He is well qualified to guard with sword, But not to keep long watches in the night; His, is the strength to fight, ours, is the strength To wait, and waiting, hold our faith In love. They loved Him well, but being men they slept. A loneliness Grows on me as the dawn Lights hill and valley, and the fertile plain. His feet have pressed the paths, oft has He gone Down this way to the gate, oft has He sought The stillness, and the quiet of that mount Lifting its head to heaven--Mount Olivet-- And always will there be on Calvary The heavy shadow of a cross of wood, And if a hardy flower blossomed there, Blood red its hue would be.
MARY MAGDALENE.
Surely it shuddered as it felt His weight, That heavy cross on which He hung till eve! How could they plunge the spear into His side, And mock at Him with all their cruel tongues? O, Mary, When I think of His dear hands That ever held out succor to the lost,-- That ever touched to heal the sons of men,-- That ever took the burden and the pain From heavy hearts--His strong and tender hands That lifted up the fallen and the weak, That dwelt in blessing on the little ones, That broke the bread to feed a multitude,-- Wounded and hurt, the sharp nails through each palm, My heart, it breaks with pity and with woe!
MARY.
I wonder if he saw us standing there, So weak, and helpless, and so buffeted. One soldier pulled the covering from my head, Another scoffed, ‘O woman ye are fools!’ And yet another, ‘Look now at your King!’ I cared not, nay, was glad to feel that we Shared in his trial, feared not their contempt, I hope He saw us, that He understood That love and faith were one with such as we. When He cried out, I thought upon a day When He did come to rest Himself with us, The harvest fields were yellow, and the sun Beat down so fiercely that it hurt the head Of Ruth’s fair little one. ‘The pain!’ he cried, ‘The pain! the pain!!’ with hot tears on his cheek, And Ruth did lift him up and run with him To where the Master was, who pushed the curls Back with His hands and touched the forehead white, The crying ceased, the quiver left the eyes, The pallor crept away from off the cheek-- He fell asleep, a smiling, healthy child.
MARY MAGDALENE.
And I thought of a day when He did meet A woman, in her youth, but lost to all The joys of innocence. Love she had known, Such love as leaves the life filled full of shame, Passion was hers, hate and impurity, The gnawing of remorse, the longing vain To lose the mark of sin, the scarlet flush Of fallen womanhood, the hatred of The spotless, the desire that they might sink Low in the mire as she. O, what a soul She carried on that day! The women drew Their robes back from her touch, men leered, And little children seemed afraid to meet The devilish beauty of her form and face. Shunned and alone, Till One came to her side, And took her hand in His, and what He said Is past the telling; there are things the soul Knows well, but cannot blazon to the world. And when He went His way, upon her brow Where shame had lain, set the sweet word, _Forgiveness_. And Mary Magdalene Did follow Him, led by a wondrous love, Did wash His tender feet with grateful tears, And wipe them with the soft hairs of her head.
MARY.
Joseph of Arimathea laid his form In a new tomb. I tremble as we come So near! and tell me, do you note a light, Fairer than dawn, is cast on all things here. Behold! one sits upon the stone, robed all In white, a wondrous radiance on His face, I fear and am perplexed. Let us go back.
MARY MAGDALENE.
Nay, we must put these spices in His grave-- My fears have gone and left me strong and bold, Let us advance and question him, for he Is some good angel keeping watch and ward, It may be he has caused the heavy stone To roll away that we might enter in With love’s last offering. What doth he say?
MARY.
He says that Jesus is alive to-day, And bids us come and see the empty grave, O, what a joy, if this were only true! But, ’tis too great a mystery. Come hence, Someone hath borne away our Lord, To wrest from us the sorrowful delight Of looking on His face, dead, with the lines Of mortal agony on brow and lips, Oh, Mary Magdalene, the world’s strong hate Might well have spared us this last cruel blow!
MARY MAGDALENE.
But it may be The angel tells us true, And that He has arisen from the grave, And is alive to love and keep His own-- O, blessed hope! which all my being yearns To grasp and hold--for if He is alive, It means that you, and I, and all that love And hold their faith in Him, can never die.
MARY.
I never understood what He did mean By Life Eternal. So many things I had Hid in my heart to ask Him.
MARY MAGDALENE.
Look how the sunshine sweeps down on the world! There never was a yesterday so fair, Something within me answers to the glow-- And answers to the glad songs of the birds-- And something seems to call out sweet and clear The night is gone--is gone! the night is gone!!
MARY.
I am amazed! the tears have quickly dried upon your cheek. I thought your grief was strong, Too strong to lose itself in Nature’s smile, The dazzling sunlight, and the song of birds, The fair----
MARY MAGDALENE.
Hush! ’tis our Lord himself who comes this way, The wounds made by the thorns still on His brow, His hands and feet marked with the cruel nails.
MARY.
It is the Master and my fears are gone-- O, hark! He speaks. How often have we heard That voice so filled with peace and tenderness? Dear Lord, we fall and worship at Thy feet.
MARY MAGDALENE.
O risen Son of God! Give me one hand pierced on the cross for me, That I may place it on my heart and say, For my transgression was He wounded sore, Bruised, shamed, and hurt for my iniquity.
MARY.
We walked, O Master, in a maze of doubt, Misgiving, grief, and great perplexity, Knowing not where to turn, what to believe, Then, through the tumult did we hear Thee say, ‘All Hail!’ O, words of cheer! O, greeting, glad!
MARY MAGDALENE.
These words shall be a song--a song of joy For a sad world to sing, a glorious song Of triumph, and immortality, The glad notes shall ring clearly up to heaven, And echo down through hell. All Hail! The Son of God Hath left the grave and given us Life, All Hail!
Her Lesson
Someone had told her that a sea-nymph dwelt Within a murmuring shell, she called her own, And she did love to hold it to her ear, And always she could catch the meaning of Its song.
When she was gay the nymph she thought Sang joyously, when she was sad at heart The murmuring voice seemed full of plaint and tears. One day, when longings softly stirred her breast, She took the shell down to the shore and sat Listening to all the things it had to tell, Till, by-and-by, so homesick grew the voice That called back to the waves when they did call, A pity for its loneliness did make Her suddenly resolve to set it free, So with a stone she brake the shell in twain, _’Twas empty as the air._
Who was it told Her such a fair untruth--a pretty lie? A mist fell down upon the wooded hills, And crept from thence out over all the sea, Her soft eyes caught it in their depth and held It prisoner, till presently it grew Too strong and subtle for the wide white lids Which made but timid trembling sentinels, And let it slip to liberty unchallenged. The light unfeeling waves about her feet Laughed at her grieving over such a thing-- Laughed, calling to her as they rushed and ran, “O pretty little one! That one bright day Didst think thyself so wise--didst count thyself So rich? O foolish, foolish child, to weep And break thy little heart o’er something that Is not--has never been, save, in thy thought!”
Until We Meet
Dear one, who crossed the border land Into a world of love and song, One of the tender white-robed band To whom eternal joys belong! Thy memory lives within my heart, Will live until thy face I see; The two worlds lie not far apart, I soon will be at home with thee.
His Care
Gracious the sceptre that He wields, Heart! do you understand? All, all is His--His great arm shields That which is bare, and that which yields, Lord is He of the harvest fields, And of the barren land.
With Her Sunshine, Breeze and Dew
Joyous May has come again With her sunshine, breeze and dew, Holding up her silken train, See the blossoms, sweet and new. Here a yellow primrose shows All the world a heart of gold, There a scarlet tulip glows, By the breeze made overbold.
Joyous May, we welcome you, Welcome you and all you bring, Skies so shining and so blue, Birds to twitter and to sing, Children on the green to play, Blushing maid, and eager swain, At your coming, joyous May, All the world grows young again.
What the Poppies Said
“We have to-day,” so the poppies said To the west wind softly blowing, “To-day to hold, in our bosom red, The great white tears that the night has shed And the sunbeams warm and glowing.”
“We have to-day,” said the lover bold, “To spell out the sweet old story, My heart for thine, and the tale is told-- O, be not, sweetheart, so shy and cold, See, the world is filled with glory!”
The west wind sighed to the sea that night, “’Tis a thought to give one sorrow, The poppy boasts of her pearls of white, The lover his store of dear delight, But neither whispers _to-morrow_.”
Eve
She is an ideal daughter--mind you, friend, You must not from my words infer she has No faults. No angel is my Eve, not she, But just a faulty fair thing, sweet of face, And warm of heart, and with a tender flame In her true eyes so innocent of guile, With laughter on her lips, and loving words, With something in each mood to draw One’s soul the closer to her. Wondrous big Her nature is--she’s something _more_ than kind.
If sorrow touches me in any way It is to her I turn for comforting; If sickness stretches me upon my bed, And steals my strength and spirits quite away, I want her near me with her slim cool hands, Her zeal to nurse me back to health again, Her smoothing of the pillows underneath My head, that I may rest the easier; To her this world is such a pretty place She likes no one to leave it ere he must.
So plies her remedies with wondrous skill, And talks the while of pleasant homely things-- The tasks that tarry for my getting well, The garden showing plainly my neglect, The swarming bees, the apple trees in bloom, The lonesome collie blinking in the sun, The filly being broken for the plough, My southdown sheep, the green of barley fields, My neighbors, and the daily wish that I Might soon be out among them as of old.
This is the sort of nurse a sick man needs, Not one who is forever breathing sighs, And talking of the emptiness of life, And urging one to wean his thoughts from earth, Nor care a jot for life, since it is such An empty, barren, disappointing thing. Life! why, ’tis God’s good gift to each of us, And some, I think, show much ingratitude By slurring it forever with the wish That they were rid of it for good and all.
Now, you have mortgages, and deeds, and bonds, You have a lordly mansion of your own, While I--I have a big old-fashioned house, And a few fields. You sometimes look at me And sigh to think I am not better off In this world’s goods. Old friend I like you well And would not have you waste your pity so; Why, man, I’m all amazed that you are not Quite envious of me, since I have got-- What you do lack--a daughter of my own.
It makes a man feel rich to have a girl Like mine to pet and make ado of him, To come about him with her tender ways, And cozening, and pretty tricks of speech, To cry a little when he goes away, To watch for his return with eager eyes, To come to him with laughter on her lips-- Ay, and sometimes a pout that shows itself But to be kissed away--to keep his heart From growing old with all the years that pass.
I would not give this little Eve of mine For _twenty_ times her weight in solid gold, ’Tis a good world--you do not wonder now That I’m so jolly and content alway; You’re sighing like a furnace--’tis too bad! I wish, old friend, you were as rich as I-- With such a glad young thing to come and lay Her rosy cheek to yours when you are sad! The man who has no daughter of his own Is such a pauper, I could cry for him.
Ring Out Glad Song.
(A Diamond Jubilee Ode, 1897)
A perfect joy, the sages say, Is more contagious than a grief; A joy exceeding all belief Is reigning in the world to-day. Joy! See it spread on every side The sea-girt Isles, so grand and proud, Joy! Hear its paean sweet and loud Go swelling--swelling--far and wide; _It is the YEAR of JUBILEE! Ring out glad song o’er land and sea; God Save our Good Victoria!_
Old England warms now, through and through, The rugged thing is full of love, And pregnant with the thoughts that move The great soul of a nation true, Whom God’s hand hath been leading on Through all the centuries dim and grey, From ages dark, to dusk of dawn, And then to full and perfect day. _It is the YEAR of JUBILEE! Ring out glad song o’er land and sea; God save our Good Victoria!_
And green-clad Erin lifts her voice-- Full sweet the words ring on her tongue-- She will be always fair and young-- And always ready to rejoice. The lochs, the streams, the granite hills, Of bonnie Scotland are aglow, (Stronghold of loyalty you know) And to the sky the paean thrills: _It is the YEAR of JUBILEE! Ring out glad song o’er land and sea; God save our Good Victoria!_
East, West, North, South, it seems to float, And pulses stir, and mem’ries wake, “For God and merrie England’s sake,” How oft has rung that battle note! But ah, a grander measure moves This glad old world of ours to-day, Rings through the wilds--through palm tree groves And rugged north lands far away: _It is the YEAR of JUBILEE! Ring out glad song o’er land and sea; God save our Good Victoria!_
Rings through the solitudes so lone, Through places all aglow with bloom, Through dim, waste tracts where lurks the gloom-- From Southern shores to Arctic Zone. O mighty Empire, stretching far, On solid, grand, foundations laid, In love with peace, yet not afraid To meet, if needs, grim visaged war. _It is the YEAR of JUBILEE! Ring out glad song o’er land and sea: God save our Good Victoria!_
Australia hears it as she stands Fanned by the sea-winds all around, And sends a voice to swell the sound From fertile fields and pasture lands. In Canada--blest spot of earth-- Joy revels on this perfect day, And all aflame with pride of birth, She sings out in her lusty way; _It is the YEAR of JUBILEE; Ring out glad song o’er land and sea; God save our Good Victoria!_
The shadows long ago have fled, Her song goes ringing clear and sweet, From the Atlantic at her feet, To the Pacific at her head; From meadow wide, from forest tall, From hill-top high and valley deep, From rapids with their whirling sweep, From river, lake, and waterfall: _It is the YEAR of JUBILEE! Ring out glad song o’er land and sea; God save our Good Victoria!_
O Queen! we could not give thee less, Well hast thou earned by noble thought, By noble deeds thy hand hath wrought, Our homage--and our tenderness. Thy mother heart must thrill and move To note the gladness of the time, Hear thy name sung in every clime By voices solemn--sweet with love. _It is the YEAR of JUBILEE! Ring out glad song o’er land and sea; God save our Good Victoria!_
In the Conservatory
We came out of the dusk and gloom, Into the glowing fragrant room, Walled in and carpeted with bloom.
A merry group we made that day-- Our laughter rang out clear and gay, For we were young, and it was May.
My cousin Dora walked with me-- Late from her home across the sea, And fair as any flower was she.
Each pansy lifted up its face, The slim fern shook her gown of lace, A glory spread through all the place.
My lady, Lily’s waxen bell, Bent down, ashamed to hear us tell How sweet her color, and her smell.
The palms stood up like courtiers tall, The smilax crept along the wall, A sunbeam stole and kissed it all.
“Now Dora, we shall see,” I said, “The Persian violet lift her head, Blaze out in purple and in red!
The people seek her eagerly, A rare aristocrat is she, Proud of her fame as proud can be.”
“So many tongues, her praises sing,” Said Dora, “through the world they ring, She looks a heartless haughty thing.”
“Her country cousins sweet and shy, That get their color from the sky, Are fairer than herself,” said I.
And last of all we came to where The lilac and the primrose fair Their breath threw on the heavy air.
My cousin slipped the rows between, Where yellow blossoms made a screen Of their own foliage thick and green.
“Ah! this,” she said, “is a surprise, An English primrose”--soft her eyes, “Mark what a beauty in it lies!”
“O, primroses!” in careless tone, Said Nell, “I’ve often seen them grown Much prettier than this small pale one.”
My cousin bent her soft white cheek Against the blossoms, pale and meek, And still she stood and did not speak.
I think a tear or two she shed, Ere lifted was the golden head, “Poor little homesick flowers!” she said.
“I wonder do you droop, and dream Of fleecy cloud, and sunny gleam, Of meadow wide, and laughing stream.
I wonder if you wait to hear The children’s voices, shrill and clear-- Sweet! homesickness is hard to bear.”
Then, gave us all a half-shamed look, Ah, I could read her like a book, Her heart was in some old world nook.
“It wants to feel,” she said, “the touch Of dew, and sunlight, and all such-- Of wind that fondles overmuch.
But by-and-by it will get bold, And show you people all the gold Its pretty heart does surely hold.”
Back at my side she took her place, And looking at her, I could trace An added sweetness in her face.
We came into the dusk and gloom, Out of the glowing fragrant room, Walled in and carpeted with bloom.
A Bud
Did the angel pluck thee, my blossom fair, Ere the morning sun had spent its glow, While the dew of heaven lay bright and clear In each folded leaf? Ah, the angels know, They gather our sweetest, our heart’s delight To bloom where there cometh not frost nor blight.
Envy
When Satan sends--to vex the mind of man And urge him on to meanness and to wrong-- His satellites, there is not one that can Acquit itself like Envy. Not so strong As lust, so quick as fear, so big as hate-- A pigmy thing, the twin of sordid greed-- Its work, all noble things to under-rate, Decry fair face, fair form, fair thought, fair deed, A sneer it has for what is highest, best, For love’s soft voice, and virtue’s robe of white; Truth is not true, and pity is not kind, A great task done is but a pastime light. Tormented, and tormenting is the mind That grants to Envy room to make its nest.