Part 4

O weary, heavy-laden one, whose eyes Have long been sightless to behold the truth,-- Perchance in darkness walking even now, And longing with an aching heart for light,-- The Master’s message echoes sweetly still: “Be of good comfort, rise, He calleth thee.” And humbly kneeling at His feet, the words Of healing, spoken in the olden time To him who prayed for help, thou too shalt hear: “Receive thy sight, thy faith hath made thee whole.”

REFUGE.

How bad I am, O Lord, Thou knowest, Deserving naught that Thou bestowest, But wandering each day Astray.

Thy gifts are perfect, never ceasing, The debt against me still increasing, And yet I turn to flee From Thee!

Oft when my path is dark and narrow There flutters down some tiny sparrow To tell me of that love Above.

When daylight comes, I’m e’er forgetting The message sweet; my sins besetting Return, my soul to stain Again.

And so I cling to Thee, my Saviour, Despairing by my own behavior To cleanse myself from sin Within.

My cares I yield--for me Thou carest; I take my cross--its weight Thou sharest Henceforth my will be Thine, Not mine.

GUIDO RENI’S “ECCE HOMO.”

O thorn-crowned head, the sins of all the world Have pierced thy brow; O gentle face, the woes of all the world Thou bearest now!

O patient eyes, to heaven in meekness turned, Meekness divine, Within your suffering depths what wondrous light Of love doth shine!

O faltering, parted lips, with anguish wrung, Your words still live And plead for us,--“They know not what they do-- Father, forgive!”

ON CHRISTMAS EVE.

The day’s loud footfalls die away, And stealing forth from her retreat Like a hooded nun, the twilight gray Glides softly down the busy street. With healing touch her gentle hand Rests on the city’s fevered brow; Its throbbing pulse is quiet now, And peace descends on the weary land. Since morn the dull December sky Has wept and moaned incessantly; The tall, gaunt forms of shivering trees Have groaned and rattled their bony arms, Till, startled by the restless breeze, The withered sprites of summer leaves Have gathered to whisper their vague alarms, Now whirling aloft to the dripping eaves, Now wavering slow to earth again, Borne down by the pitiless, hopeless rain. Upon my hearth the ruddy light Dances and plays at the fire-dogs’ feet Chasing the shadows out of sight; Around the walls it follows them fast, Hunts them into a corner at last, Up the chimney, out into the night. The blaze laughs loud with a music sweet, My heart grows warm in its cheery glow, And a thousand fancies come and go. The perfumed breath of the birchen brand, Rich with forest spices rare, Bears heavenward many a hope and prayer That only One can understand. Oh that my life were sweet and pure As the incense of this burning wood! Oh that my faith were strong and sure As the flame that ever strives toward God! I hear the sound of the sleet and rain Brushing against my window-pane; The voice of the wind is sad and low, The shadows return, and to and fro They flit and hover uneasily, Until at last they rest on me. Heap high the sturdy fire-dogs’ backs With boughs of hemlock, birch, and pine. The crisp bark curls, and smokes, and cracks; It comes at last, the spark divine, And bursting forth in broad, free laughter, The glorious blaze comes hurrying after, Springs up the chimney with a roar, Chasing the shadows away once more, Shining far out upon the floor, And sweeping away on its gladsome tide The fears and doubts, o’er which I sighed, To the depths of the sea, to the depths of the sea,-- The cares and sins that have haunted me!

I thank thee for thy help, sweet hour, For thou hast helped me true and well; I thank thee for the gentle spell Beneath which thou dost wield thy power, And when the twilight seeks at morn Her convent walls within the west, My soul shall know its truest rest, And bless the day when Christ was born.

BY NIGHT.

O’er Judah’s dark hill-tops the starlight is shining; In silence the silvery light Falls soft on the white, sleeping lambs and their shepherds, By night.

Sleep on, trustful flocks, while shepherds are watching; Fear not, for soon shall be born The dear Lamb of God, in a Bethlehem manger, This morn.

Keep watch, faithful shepherds, through gathering shadows, Though the hillside be lonely and drear; For lo, in the darkness the Shepherd of shepherds Is near!

Sing on, ye bright angels, repeat the glad tidings,-- Joy, peace, and good-will on the earth; Proclaim to the weary, the sad, and the suffering, His birth.

Shine, radiant Star in the East, till thy glory O’er Wise Men and manger is poured, For Mary’s dear babe is the blessèd Christ Jesus, Our Lord.

“STAR OF BETHLEHEM.”

Gentle-Faced child-flower-- One of the least-- Dost thou remember The Star in the East, Bethlehem’s hill-tops Flushing with morn, When in a manger The dear Christ was born?

Lambs on the hillside Peacefully slept; Shepherds, abiding near, Faithful watch kept. Bright in the heavens Shone a new star, Guiding o’er deserts Wise Men from afar.

White Flower of Bethlehem, Lo, it is morn! Shine on the manger Where Jesus was born. We, too, shall find Him, Though humblest and least, Led by thy radiance, Bright Star in the East.

“BLESSED.”

“Blessed are they that mourn.” The gentle tones, A moment faltering, then strong and sweet, Ring out upon the morning air. The throng Wait silently, lest by a whispered sigh Or quick-drawn breath a word should fall unheard From Him, the wonderful, the Prince of Peace. “Blessed”--the widow, shuddering, draws more close Her sombre draperies, and bows her head In agony of dumb and hopeless grief.

--“Are they that mourn!” A dry, half-stifled sob Bursts from a gray-haired man; ’twas yesterday They buried all most dear to him on earth, And sun and stars were blotted out. Hot tears Fall thickly on his knotted, sunburnt hands, And still he listens to that strange, sweet voice.

“Blessed are they that mourn.” What aching hearts Among the eager, silent multitude Cry out in bitter anguish that His words Are vain and mocking!

Lo, the Saviour turns With infinite compassion in His eye, And stretching forth His hands as though to give The blessing He has promised, speaks again: “They shall be comforted!”

The morning sun Breaks forth in triumph from the heavy clouds That hid His face. The waves of Galilee, Gleaming far distant in the misty east, Cast off the shroud of night. The air is full Of waking glory. But of all who feel The gladness and the freshness of the morn, Those only who have passed through deepest gloom Receive the fulness of that new, sweet peace His words have given,--and they are comforted!

A CHRISTMAS PASTORAL.

The shepherds were keeping their watch by night, In the field with their flock abiding; And soft on the fleece of the lambs fell the light Of a new-risen star, From deserts afar The wise ones to Bethlehem guiding.

What startles the watchers? A rustle of wings, And a radiant figure above them. The lambs are afraid, and the white, woolly things, With tremulous bleat, Nestle close to the feet Of the faithful shepherds who love them.

“Fear not!” comes the message, exultant and strong, “Good tidings of joy I am bringing!” And lo! with the song of a heavenly throng, “Peace on earth! For this morn A Saviour is born!” The hillsides of Judah are ringing.

The bright ones are gone; over thicket and stone The starlight of Christmas is falling; But the lambs, without even an angel, alone In the great silent night, With sudden affright, For their lost shepherds vainly are calling.

They knew not a tenderer Shepherd was near, His flocks to deliver from danger, And comfort all desolate lambs in their fear,-- For peacefully lay, On that first Christmas day, Lord Christ, in a Bethlehem manger.

THE FOURTH WATCH.

Midnight upon Gennesaret; the restless waves, Like jewels on the troubled bosom of the sea, Flash forth in rays of silvery light, or hide within Her dark and flowing tresses. Soft, as in a dream, The night-winds sigh and whisper o’er the little ship, While from the far-off, shadowy hills of Galilee Their cool breath gently fans the weary twelve, as rests A loving hand upon a fevered, aching brow. Deserted lies the quiet, moon-lit shore, but all The air is heavy with the perfume of the grass, Crushed into fragrance by the waiting multitude Whom Jesus fed. The Giver of the bread of life Has gone apart upon the mountain-side to pray, Alone. The night is dark, the Master is not come; The sea arises, and on every side the waves Gigantic, black, and topped with lurid crests of foam, Leap madly through the gloom. Labors the little ship, Hurled to and fro and beaten back upon her course. With slow and stubborn stroke the rowers wearily Are straining at the heavy oars. But hark! above The sullen roar of wind and sea, a well-loved voice, Vibrant and sweet with chords of heavenly music, speaks, And they were sore afraid; but He saith unto them, “Be of good cheer, ’tis I, be not afraid.” And lo, The tempest ceased! and when they had received their Lord, The ship had come unto the haven they desired.

“WITH YOU ALWAY.”

Why seek ye for Jehovah Mid Sinai’s awful smoke? The burning bush now shelters A sparrow’s humble folk; The curve of God’s sweet heaven Is the curve of the leaf of oak; The Voice that stilled the tempest To little children spoke,-- The bread of life eternal Is the bread He blessed and broke.

DECEMBER 31.

Another year! What is the story by the twelve-month told? What treasure doth its memory enfold,-- Base coin, or gold? Sternly hath it hard lessons taught, Hath it new cares, new joys, new burdens brought? Few smiles, and many a tear?

Another year! What good and perfect gifts have gently come-- Knowing not whence, we have been blind and dumb! We ate the crumb Without the sparrow’s faith, but still, Father of Lights, Thou shinest on, and will, Thy frightened birds to cheer.

Another year! The sunlight pours its blessings as of old, Into the lap of each dear day,--its gold, Its wealth untold. As lessons new and sweet we gain, Still hoping to the highest to attain, We trust, and never fear.

Another year! But to the brave and true, lo, time is not! A thousand years are as a day, forgot The hardest lot, To those who walk beside their God, Loving the path His patient feet have trod, Knowing that He is near.

IN MY ARM-CHAIR.

Flickers the ruddy firelight on the wall; Now here, now there, the shadows restlessly Dance in and out among the gleaming bars That prison many a glimpse of sea and sky Upon the pictured canvas. Brightly falls The cheerful light upon familiar forms Of volumes clothed in sober garb and gay, Whose very names, in golden characters, Invite to solace sweet, and peace of mind. Footfalls incessant in the rainy street Mingle their dreary cadence with the roll And rhythmic echo of the iron wheel, Half muffled by the storm’s dull monotone. Within, the gentle presence of the flame, With its soft rustle ever and anon, Serves but to take away the very pain Of silence absolute. It is the hour For contemplation meet. The air is thronged With thoughts innumerable, fancies light, That flit about on airy wing, or play Among the fireborn shadows on the wall; Till, touched by the Promethean glow, they take A seeming form substantial, animate. From out their thin octavo cells pour forth The shapes ethereal of poet, sage, Philosopher, and man of God, whose words Make wisdom beautiful, and beauty wise. Silent they rise before me, one by one, E’en as the fabled genius, close involved Within the tiny casket, gained at last His proper self, and towered high above His liberator. But of other mien Are these strange forms around my hearth to-night. With aspect grave, yet kind, they gaze on me As old companions might on one they loved, Who loved them in return. I know each one, And recognize the habit of his life. Old Gilbert White--whose flowing locks, and dress Of quaint antiquity, precise and neat, Recall his quiet walks in Selborne wood-- Has paused with curious, meditative eye, Before an owl upon my mantle shelf, And rapidly, in shadowy script, records The sapient bird’s presentment. Near at hand, A man of kindly countenance and mild, Impressed with lines of pure and noble thought, Bends low in prayer; ere long resumes his pen, And adds one more sweet hymn to those that bear George Herbert’s name. Anon appears a face More gentle than the rest, it seems, with eyes Of deep and tender yearning. Silently The figure turns aside, and by the hearth Remains aloof, with dreamy gaze intent Upon the glowing coals. What fantasies Are imaged there, reflected from his mind, And striving for the elixir of his touch And wondrous pen, that give eternal life To such as they! Lo, built of candent fire The Old Manse drops its Mosses at his feet; Italia’s strange physician whispers now Of potent herb and flower. The Puritan, His wonted sternness softened, deigns to tell Of old-time guilt--the Scarlet Letter’s brand-- Till, glancing up, he shudders at the approach Of stricken Hester, with her demon child.

So wanes the night. In quick succession move Shades of the mighty dead before my eyes. Again is played the Comedy Divine, And gloomily the awful form of him Whose mind such Titan offspring bore, attends The movement of each scene. The cowl and robe, Close at his side, betray that zealous monk Whose life was Imitation of the Christ. Amid the still increasing throng, behold Sage Izaak Walton, creel and rod in hand; But while I gaze upon his visage mild, Expectant half to hear his counsel how The wily carp to ensnare, the fiery bridge O’er which my fancy boldly trod, and found Her way to realms unreal, topples down With mimic crash, and lies a ruined mass Upon the hearth. Yet by its waning glow I see the hurried parting of my guests, Retreating each within his narrow cell; As when beneath a monastery roof The low, sweet chant of vespers dies away,-- The last faint echoes lingering still within The moonlit cloisters,--silently the forms Of holy men glide to and fro among The shadows, till the hush of night descends With brooding wings, and gathers all to rest.

THE END.

=TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE=

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

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Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Some words with hyphens, or without them, have been silently adjusted to be more consistent.