Part 2

Was it of love’s devising that to-day, With all the wide-grown city space to bar, Across the roofs and towers from far away St. Etienne looks upon La Trinita?

Was it some subtle prescience of the heart, Which laid on time and change resistless spell, Forbidding both to hide or hold apart The resting-place of those who loved so well?

For still defying distance, day and night The spires like beckoning fingers seem to rise, The bells to call, as perished voices might, “Love is not dead, Beloved; love never dies!”

TEMPERAMENTS

JACOB BOEHME, Sage and Mystic, wert thou right or wert thou wrong, In believing and upholding that all human souls belong To some elemental structure, be they weak or be they strong?

That each separate spirit made is of one element, and shows, By its power or by its weakness, its unrest or its repose, Whether earth, air, fire, or water is the Source from which it flows?

’Tis a difficult conclusion; but, as in the jewel’s blue, Red and rose and green and amber flash and leap and sparkle through, Through your speculative fancy seems to scintillate the true.

For the variance of the creature whom we call our fellow-man, Framed alike in needs and passions, on the self-same human plan, Grows more wide, more past believing, as we study it and scan.

Ah, the temperaments, the fateful, how they front us and surprise, Looking with bewildering distance out of wistful, alien eyes, Never drawing any nearer, or to hate or sympathize.

Eager, dominant, all unresting are the spirits born of Fire, Burning with a fitful fever, ever reaching high and higher, Shrivelling weaker wills before them in the heat of their desire.

Cool, elusive, fluctuating, hard to fix and strangely fair Are the difficult, grievous, grieving souls which born of Water are— Ours to-day, not ours to-morrow; never ours to hold and wear.

Vainly love and passion battle ’gainst their unresisting chill, Like the oar-stroke in the water which the drops make haste to fill, The impression melts and wavers, the cool surface fronts us still.

But the souls of Air! ah, sweetest, rarest of the human kind, They the poets are, the singers, making music for the mind, Lifting up the weight of living like a fresh and rushing wind.

And the souls of Earth, dear, steadfast, firm of root and sure of stay, Not disdaining commonplaces, not afraid of every day, Taking from the air and water and the sunshine what they may.

Theirs the dower of happy giving, theirs the heritage of Fate Which, when faith has grown to fulness, and the little is made great, Brings to love its true rewarding, harvested or soon or late.

Jacob Boehme, by-gone mystic, gifted with a strange insight, As I read your yellowed pages, which in former times were white, And review my men and women, half I deem that you were right.

THE HOLY NAME

’TIS said when pious Moslem walk abroad, If on the path they spy a floating bit Of paper, reverently they turn aside And shun the scrap, nor set a foot on it, Lest haply thereupon the awful name Of mighty Allah should by chance be writ.

We smile at the vain dread; but blind and dull The soul that only smiles, and cannot see A thought of perfect beauty folded in The zealot’s reverent fear, as in some free And flaunting flower-cup may be hived and held One drop of precious honey for the bee.

Small wind-blown things there are, which any day Float by in air or on our pathway lie, Swift-winged moments speeding on their way, Brief opportunities, which we pass by Heedless and smiling, little subtle threads Of influence—intimations soft and sly.

Careless we tread them down, as, pressing on, Our eager inconsiderate feet we set On the unvalued treasures where they lie. We are too blind to prize or to regret, Too dull to recognize the mystic Name Graven upon them as on amulet.

Ah! dears, let us no longer do this thing, And thus the sweeter life lose and let fall; But with anointed eyes and reverent feet Pass on our way, noting and prizing all, Knowing that God’s great token-sign is set, Not on the large things only, but the small.

“I AM THE WAY”

ART Thou the way, Lord? Yet the way is steep! And hedged with cruel thorns and set with briars; We stumble onward, or we pause to weep, And still the hard road baffles our desires, And still the hot noon beats, the hours delay, The end is out of sight,—Art Thou the way?

Art Thou the way, Lord? Yet the way is blind! We grope and guess, perplexed with mists and suns; We only see the guide-posts left behind, Invisible to us the forward ones; The chart is hard to read, we wind and stray, Beset with hovering doubts,—Art Thou the way?

Art Thou the way, Lord? Yet the way is long! Year follows year while we are journeying still, The limbs are feeble grown which once were strong, Dimmed are the eyes and quenched the ardent will, The world is veiled with shadows sad and gray; Yet we must travel on,—Art Thou the way?

Art Thou the way, Lord? Then the way is sweet, No matter if it puzzle or distress, Though winds may scourge, or blinding suns may beat, The perfect rest shall round our weariness, Cool dews shall heal the fevered pulse of day; We shall find home at last through thee, the way.

HER HEART WAS LIKE A GENEROUS FIRE

(S. P. C.)

HER heart was like a generous fire, Round which a hundred souls could sit And warm them in the unstinted blaze. Those who held nearest place to it Had cheer and comfort all their days; Those who, perforce, were further still Yet felt her radiance melt their chill, Their darkness lightened by her rays.

Her heart was like a generous fire! The trivial dross of thought and mind Shrivelled when brought too near its heat, The hidden gold was caught, refined; A subtle effluence keen and sweet From every creature drew its best; Gave inspiration, strength, and rest, Quickened the moral pulse’s beat.

Her heart was like a generous fire! Circled by smaller fires in ring, Each lit by her infectious spark To send forth warmth and comforting Into hard paths and by-ways dark. The little fires, they still burn on; But the great kindling flame is gone, Caught up past our imagining.

Her heart was like a generous fire! How changed the summer scenes, how chill, How coldly do the mornings break, Since that great heart is quenched and still, Which kept so many hearts awake! O Lord the Light! shine Thou instead, Quicken and trim the fires she fed, And make them burn for her dear sake.

THE LEGEND OF THE ALMOST SAVED

FROM THE RUSSIAN

ONCE a poor soul, reft from a dull, hard lot (Which yet was dear, as even dull life may be), Found herself bodiless in that dread spot Which mortals know as “Hell” and fearfully Name in a whisper, while the Saints name not.

“I was not wicked; they have told God lies To make him send me here,” she moaned in pain, Then suddenly her wan, reproachful eyes, Raised to the Pity never sought in vain, Beheld a hovering shape in aureoled guise.

It was Saint Peter, guardian of the gate, The shining gate where blessed ones go in. “Why thus,” demanded he, “bewail your fate? What good deed did you in your life to win The right to Heaven? Speak ere it be too late!”

Then the poor soul,—all downcast and dismayed, Scanning the saint’s face and his austere air, In vain reviewed her life, in vain essayed To think of aught accomplished which might bear Heaven’s scrutiny. At length she answer made.

“Poor was I,” faltered she, “so very poor! Little I had to spare, yet once I gave A carrot from my scanty garden store To one more poor than I was.” Sad and grave Saint Peter questioned, “Didst thou do no more?”

“No,” said the trembling soul. He bent his head. “Wait thou until I bear thy plea on high; The angel there who judges quick and dead Shall weigh thee in his scales, and rightfully Decide thy final place and doom,” he said.

So the soul waited till Hell’s doors should ope. It opened never, but adown the sky There swung a carrot from a slender rope, And a voice reached her, sounding from on high, Saying, “If the carrot bear thee, there is hope.”

She clutched the rescue by the Heavens sent. The carrot held—small good has mighty strength; But one, and then another, as she went Caught at her flying garments, till at length Four of the lost rose with her, well content.

The smoke of Hell curled darkly far beneath, The blue of Heaven gleamed fair and bright in view, Life quivered in the balance over Death. Almost had life prevailed when, “Who are you,” The soul cried out with startled, jealous breath,

“Who hang so heavily, going where I go? God never meant to save _you_! It is I, I whom he sent for from the Place of Wo. Loosen your hold at once!” Then suddenly The carrot yielded, and all fell below.

The pitiful, grieved angels overhead Watched the poor souls shoot wailing through the air Toward the lurid shadows darkly red, And sadly sighed. “Heaven was so near, so fair, Almost we had them safely here,” they said.

TWO ANGELS

BESIDE a grave two Angels sit, Set there to guard and hallow it; With grave sweet eyes and folded wings They watch it all the day and night, And dress the place and keep it bright, And drive away all hurtful things.

And one is called in heavenly speech, Used by the Blessed each to each, “The Angel of the Steadfast Heart”: Those hearts which still through storm and stress, Strong in a perfect faithfulness, Keep the firm way and better part.

Unto the other has been given The loveliest name is known in Heaven, “The Guardian of the Selfless Soul,”— Those dear souls who through joy and pain Lose their own lives to find again, Bearing the weight of other’s dole.

A crown of roses snowy white Surrounds one Angel’s brow of light,— Sweet, sweet the odor that it breathes; A starry band of asphodels, Which shake out dim, mysterious smells, The other’s statelier forehead wreathes.

“She is of mine,” one Angel saith; “Her heart was faithful unto death,”— His voice has a triumphant tone. “Mine, too,” the other soft replies; “By her whole life’s self-sacrifice I mark and claim her as mine own.”

And then the voices blend and vie In clear, celestial harmony: “Both in the task may rightly share, For she whose gentle rest we tend Was brave and constant to the end, With never a selfish thought or care.

“The quiet earth wherein she lies Is holy-ground in heavenly eyes; It well befits for such as she That we should quit all other task; Nor better could an angel ask Than be the guard of such as she.”

Beside a grave two Angels sit, Set there to tend and hallow it; Unseen by men they sit alway; With folded wings and eyes of light They make it dewy-sweet all day, And balm it subtly every night.

LIMITATION

“Let us accept from God even our own nature, and treat it charitably.”—HENRI AMIEL.

GREATER than Fate ordains we fain would be; Wiser and purer, strung with life and power And insight and compelling energy; But with the first breath of our first faint hour The limit line is set, vain our endeavor, Our longing and our hope; we pass it never.

Since this is so, since this indeed is so, Let us accept ourselves as God has made,— The lagging zest, the pulse which beats too slow, Dull wit, and scanty joy,—nor be afraid That we shall thwart the purpose of our living By such self-tolerance and such forgiving;

For the least spark which fires the mortal clod, And wakes the hunger and the thirst divine In the least soul, as truly is of God As the great flame which burns a beaconing sign To light the nations when their hope is dim, Set in the darkness as a type of Him.

Take courage then, poor soul, so little worth In thine own eyes, so puny and afraid, And all unfit to combat the fierce earth; Forgive thyself because the Master made And meant thee meeker than thy wish and will, And knows, and understands, and loves thee still.

THE MIRACLE OF FRIENDSHIP

OUT of the width of the world, out of the womb of Fate, The souls that are meant for each other shall meet, and shall know and embrace. Age or youth are nothing, are nothing or soon or late, When the heart to heart makes answer and joyful face to face.

Where hast thou tarried, my Love, while I waited and missed thee long, One of the two shall question, and the other shall make reply, In a voice of gladness and triumph, less like unto speech than song, “I knew not that I was a hungered till God sent thee as supply.”

The world may crowd and question, but friends are always alone, Set in bright atmosphere, like a planet in far-off skies; A touch, a glance, a sigh, love comprehends its own, And words are feeble and poor compared with the spark of the eyes.

The undug gold in the mine, the pearl in the deep, deep seas, The gem which lies undiscovered, are the daydreams of the earth; But the love unreckoned, unhoped for, which is mightier far than these, Is the miracle of Heaven for the souls which it counts as worth.

ROSE TERRY COOKE

OUT of the life that was so hard to bear, Clouded by sorrow and perplexed by care, Out of the long watch and the heavy night, She has gone forth into the light of light.

A tropic-blossom, warm with sun and scent, Set in New England’s chill environment; Through beat of storm and stress of winter’s cold, She kept the summer in her heart of gold.

Love was the life which pulsed her being through; No task too hard if set by Love to do, No pain too sharp if Love called to endure, No weariness she knew if Love was sure.

Her rose of Love was set with many a thorn, Clouds veiled and hid the promise of her morn; Thirsting and spent, she journeyed on unfed, While Love, too often, gave her stones for bread.

But still ’mid waning hopes and deepening fears And brave, hard strivings through the ebbing years, Lifting her up when she was like to fall, Love led her to the land where Love is all.

Heaven has received her as a welcome guest, Balming earth’s tire with compensating rest, Healing earth’s grievous wound with sure content,— The sense of home after long banishment.

But more to her than smile of vanished kin, Or hands outstretched to greet and draw her in, Or “Bonded Walls” of amethyst unpriced, Is the clear vision of the Face of Christ!

That Face Divine, which, in her girlhood’s day Seeing, she loved, and never looked away, Which, like a star in the dim firmament, Guided her steps and moved where’er she went.

Out of the life that was not always sweet, Out of the puzzle and the day’s defeat, Out of earth’s hindering and alien zone, The Lord of Love has led her to her own.

INTO THE DEEP

“LORD, we have toiled all day and taken naught.” Thus spoke the fishers by the darkling sea, While the dusk deepened, and the shadows drew Over the desert sand-dunes and the blue Waters of Galilee.

“What shall we do, Lord?” And the Master said: “Spread sail, and let the breeze of evening waft To the deep seas; quit the familiar shore, And let your nets down fearlessly once more, As for a certain draught.”

Lord, _we_ have toiled in vain, even as these, Dragging our nets unfruitful waters through; Not one poor fish rewards our pains all day, And, like the twelve of old, we come and say, “Master, what shall we do?”

And still for us, as then, the answer sounds, Making the very hearts within us leap: “Leave the safe shallows where the ripples play, The sluggish inlet and confining bay— Push out into the deep.

“Strain toward the mighty ocean of God’s love, His great Love’s all unfathomed energies, Where never plummet reached or bound was set. Quit ye like valiant fishermen, and let Your nets down in deep seas.

“Those rich, rewarding waters shall not fail, Till the nets break the fish shall crowd therein; And I, the Master, waiting other where, Will lend My strength to land the precious fare Which ye have toiled to win.”

Lord, Thou hast spoken, and we trust Thy word; We will push out and leave the safe, known land, And count it full reward if, coming back Laden at nightfall, o’er the waters black We see Thee on the strand.

THROUGH THE CLOUD

THE morning was chill and misty, And a white and drifting veil Hid all the mountain passes And the elm-fringed intervale.

We gazed in a puzzled wonder, And looked to the left and the right, For it seemed that some spell had seized the world And had changed it during the night.

Was there ever a mountain yonder, We asked, or a pine-clad stream? Or red-gold trees in the hollow? Or were all these things a dream?

Then suddenly as we questioned The mists turned thin and blue, And up in the far, high heaven A mountain outline grew.

Like a vision it gleamed and vanished, But its beckon was seen and caught, And one peak after another Flashed out with the speed of thought;

And the mist wreaths floated higher, And drifted off one by one, And the wet, green autumn meadows Shone out in the yellow sun;

And the scarlet and dun of the hillsides Had borrowed a fresher hue, And the purple gate of the notch swung wide, And a pink cloud floated through.

And I thought of some heavy-hearted ones Whose world had suddenly changed To a whirl of mist and driving cloud From all fair things estranged,

And who sat and wearily wondered If ever the world seemed bright, And half believed that joy was a dream Which fled with the flying night;

And how, by little and little, The clouds were tinged with sun, And the former joys of living Dawned out of them one by one,—

The hope and the work and the loving, The zest of thought and plan, The old-time strength of friendship, The old-time need of man.

And the world which was changed for a morning Was the same dear world again, With only an added ripeness, caught From its brief eclipse of pain.

NEARER HOME

THE wind is like an armèd foe, Drawn up to bar the way, The strong seas smite us blow on blow, The decks are lashed with spray; High-crested tower above the ship The waves with lips afoam, But welcome every plunge and dip Which brings us nearer home.

The dear West beckons from afar With gold gleams in her eyes, The glinting stars familiar are High hung in clear cool skies; We send an answering smile for smile Up to the airy dome, And welcome every weary mile So it but bring us home.

Sweet hope which lifts the dull, long hour And makes it light to bear, Sweet waiting welcome which has power To make the dark seem fair, Sweet hands held out across the sea To reach us where we roam,— We can bear hardest things since we Have turned our face toward home.

ROOTED

WE rail at fate which holds us bound To duty’s dull and narrow round, To face as bravely as we may The common cares of every day.

Our wandering wishes urge and fret, But circumstance is mightier yet, And curbs and checks the restless will, And bids the impatient heart be still.

And while we vainly strive and chide, Little by little, undescried, The tiny roots of life take hold, Anchoring their fibres in the mould.

The roots of habit, tough and long, Of deathless love, than death more strong, Of order measuring out the days, And duty’s sweet, recurrent ways,—

They bind us when we fain would fly, They check and thwart till, by and by, The narrow plot which they control Becomes the home-ground of the soul;

And stormy, mutinous youth, grown wise, Looks out and in, with older eyes, And in his limitations sees His helpers, not his hindrances.

THE BURIED STATUE

DEEP in the earth long years it lay; Its marble eyes were sealed to day, Its marble ears were deaf and dull, Yet it was wondrous beautiful.

A vineyard grew above its head; The grapes they knew, and whisperèd Each unto each, as evening fell: “Brothers, keep counsel, nothing tell!”

There was no record left, or trace Of sculptor or of hiding-place; The hand that shaped it lay in dust, His cunning chisel turned to rust.

The hands that dug the grave so deep, And laid the statue to its sleep, While hearts beat quick with haste and fear, And ears were strained a step to hear;

The foe who threatened them that day— All, all were dead and passed away. The world had turned and turned it o’er; Nothing was as it was before.

Still through all change of war or peace, New men, new laws, new dynasties, The buried statue kept its place, With the same smile upon its face.

The years to centuries gave birth; Heavier and heavier pressed the earth; Autumn and spring enriched the vine Whose purple grapes were crushed for wine;

And then, in search of gain or spoil, Men came to dig the aged soil; And after half a thousand years In silence spent, the statue hears!

How did it feel when, fine and thin, The first long ray of light broke in, And gilt the gloom with glory new, And let the imprisoned beauty through?

Say, did it tremble, as a heart Long pent in darkness and apart Trembles, with fear and rapture stirred At love’s low signal long unheard?

Or did it blench as, sharp and clear, The urgent spade-strokes drew more near, Blindly directed, fraught with harm To marble breast and marble arm?

No answer, save the subtle smile, Baffling and tempting in its guile, Which seems all wordlessly to say: “Darkness was safe, but fairer, day.”

FAR AND NEAR

“From every point on earth we are equally near to heaven and the infinite.”—HENRI AMIEL.

OUT of the depths that are to us so deep, Up to the heights so hopelessly above, Past storms that intervene and winds that sweep, Unto thine ear, O pitying Lord of love, We send our cry for aid, doubtful and half afraid If thou, so very far, canst hear us or canst aid.

Out of the dull plane of our common life, Beset with sordid, interrupting cares, And petty motives and ignoble strife, We dimly raise our hesitating prayers, And question fearfully if such a thing can be That the great Lord can care for creatures such as we.

Up from the radiant heights of just-won bliss, Achieved through pain and toil and struggle long, We raise our thanks, nor fear that God will miss One least inflection of the happy song. Heaven seems so very near, the earth so bright and dear, The Lord so close at hand, that surely he must hear!

But the great depth that was to us so dark, And the dull place that was to us so dull, And the glad height where, singing like a lark, We stood, and felt the world all-beautiful, Seen by the angels’ eyes, bent downward from the skies, Were just as near to heaven and heaven’s infinities.

So out of sunshine as of deepest shade, Out of the dust of sordid every-days, We may look up, and, glad and unafraid, Call on the Lord for help, and give him praise; No time nor fate nor space can bar us from his face, Or stand between one soul and his exhaustless grace.

GREECE