Chapter 4
THOUGHTS AT EVENTIDE.
"I hold it true, with one who sings To one clear lute of divers tunes. That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things."--TENNYSON
Lo! the sunset fire is burning in the roseate sky of evening Where grand in dying glory sinks the god of day to rest And wide o'er the dewy meadows lie the golden lights and shadows, Like gleams that come to cheer us from the regions the blest! Slow the fiery orb is sinking down below the purple mountains; Still the splendour of his radiance lingers round us for a while; And the peaceful country bowers, and the stately run towers, Are rejoicing in the beauty of the glad, refulgent smiles.
From the trees and from the meadows the bird-song wild and tender, In sweet and mingled chorus, like vesper songs, arise With the evening zephyrs blending, on their airy wings ascending, Like anthems of thanksgiving they are ringing thro' the skies.
The children's happy voices from the village playground stealing, With the cadence of their laughter, come floating through the air; And the face of Nature smiling, every thought of care beguiling, Soothes my restless soul to musing in the twilight calm and fair,--
Keeps my soul in peaceful musing, 'mid the tranquil summer gloaming, When the cares of day are ended, and its labours all are done; When the Dove of Peace is stealing o'er the valleys, bringing healing On her white wings to the weary, with the rest that they have won.
Here let me sit and ponder on life's long and varied story, On the things that are, and have been, and the times that are to be; Of the past and of the present, of the darksome days and pleasant, And the future years, still hidden, that are kept in store for me.
But, the past--should I deplore it? All my longing can't restore it; Still it lies beyond my reaching, to come back to me no more; It is right to keep and cherish, or to let its memory perish, Like a dream to be forgotten, when the hours of sleep are o'er?
Like a dream to be forgotten, like a phantom, a delusion That but lured away our moments with its subtle, witching powers, Till it sinks our souls in sadness with the dreams of gladness, And the thoughts of vanished pleasures that can ne'er again be ours.
Let me cease this idle longing for the days that have departed, It is worse than useless wishing for a light grown dim and dead: For joy so lovely seeming, when we clasp them in our dreaming, And know we must awaken and remember all is fled.
Let past failures be our beacon through the breakers spread around us, To show where danger meets us on life's rough and troubled main-- Where earth's joys like billows meeting, on the rock's care are beating, And we see them dashed and shattered where they can not rise again.
Let me wake, and cease repining; let me learn life's sternest lesson-- Joys when born of earth are earthy, and must therefore fade and die; Let me feel new knowledge glowing, on my opening eye bestowing The experience that will lead me to a fairer, by-and-by.
'Tis our past has made our present, so our present makes our future, Let us work, and cease of wishing--let us _do_, not _dream_ through life; Ever mindful, never straying, with our earnest hearts still praying For the guerdon of the worker, and the winner in the strife.
LIFE.
Life is a day. In its morning bright We frolic and scamper, free and light. 'Tis a happy path that we have to run, The way is pleasant when new-begun. The sky of our youth is clear and blue, With no clouds to impede our raptured view; There's a prize to win in its golden hours-- Let us work with zeal, and that prize is ours. There's a laurel crown for the victor's brow, And a time to win it--that time is now! Now, when our hearts are young and gay, Ere the light of our morning fades away. It is hard to work 'neath the noon-day sun, But the rest shall be sweet when the work is done; It is hard to struggle and fight alone, But the prize we win shall be all our own.
The noontide fades, and the evening grey Overtakes us soon on our weary way; But our day of working will soon be o'er, And the rest is nearer us than before.
Life is a night, to watch and pray For the coming dawn of a brighter day; But our lamps are trimmed--we have nought to fear, The darkness is fleeting--the dawn is near.
And now we see through a darkened glass The shadowy scenes of the future pass; But then, in a morn of unclouded light, It shall break in glory upon our sight. The Master shall come when the night is o'er, And bid us to work and watch no more; He shall tell His servants their work is done, And bestow the crown they have nobly won!
A SUMMER SONG.
The summer flowers in regal bloom Make field and garden fair, Their fragrance in the dreamy noon Perfumes the balmy air; The river murmurs through the vale Upon its sea-bound way, And o'er the pleasant hill and dale The birds sing blythe and gay,-- And river, flowers, and birds to me Are ever bringing thoughts of Thee!
The woods at eve are cool and lone; And when I linger there, There's something in the wind's soft moan That whispers Thou art near. My thoughts by Fancy's chains are bound As by a magic spell, And strange, sweet visions wrap me round While in the lonely dell,-- And rustling leaves and murmuring streams To me are bringing sweetest dreams.
The sunset saddens in the West, The stars peep through the skies; The weary day is hush'd to rest By gentlest zephyr sighs; The wavelets break upon the shore. The moon shines o'er the sea, The sandy beech I wander o'er Alone to dream of Thee,-- And stars, and sky, and moonlit sea, All, all are bringing thoughts of Thee!
EVENING.
Red shines the sunset in the evening sky, And paints the cloud-ranks in rich crimson glow, Till every varying tint in rival splendour burns, And earth and ocean catch the gleam, and smile In new-born glory for a time, and then, As the enraptured gaze absorbs the scene, It fades, and, growing dim and dimmer, dies. It is a glimpse from worlds unseen--a light from the Invisible, Foreshadowing things the brighter yet to be. A soft wind-whisper wanders thro' the boughs, And wakes a thousand harps in forest lands, That all the sultry day were hushed, till now, When the fair twilight spreads her dreamy spell: They wake to melody so softly sweet that one might think An angel's wing had stirr'd the varied leaves. And swept the woodlands with ethereal song. Now the great sea, with all its restless waves, Seems calmer grown, as forth the stars appear, And smile upon us from the silent skies, Where nightly, looking down the azure depths, Like guardian angels o'er a sinning world, In their grand, silent eloquence, they show The marvels of their great Creator's power. This is the time when dreams will come, and bring Days which have fled, and we would fain recall. A shadow thrown across the moonlit walk-- A breeze that, sighing, lifts the woodbine leaves, and strays In through the open lattice, may restore The scenes that long in memory have slept. Ah, me! stern Time can take out youth away-- Whiten our hair and mark our brows with age; But Memory, kind Memory, that holds the past, He cannot claim. Remembrance still is ours, And we may grasp her magic wand and touch The secret spring that hides our bygone years. The murmur of a brook that flowing glides Between its violet banks, can call a sigh From that far time when we could roam at eve. To hear the birds that sang the sunset down, With wild, glad vesper-songs by Nature taught. The earnest face and tender eyes, that beamed With a whole world of deep, undying love, Rises again before my tear-dimm'd sight. Then came a time when, with slow steps, and voices low and sad, They laid _her_ down to rest. Then life grew dark, And all that I had left on earth to love Was but a grave, beneath the churchyard trees, Where I could sit for dreary hours and weep. Years fly apace. The wildest grief grows calm-- As storm-clouds lowering in the noonday sky, Seem darkest when they hang above our heads-- So we most feel the stroke of sorrow when it falls; But Hope draws near, and, pointing to the Future, whispers- "Wait:" Yes, wait awhile; and for a few short years Struggle, and fight, and bear the burden well. The sun that sank below the purple hills, Leaving the earth to darkness and to night, Shall bring new glory to the morning sky. Death's night of gloom shall have its morn of bliss, And we shall find within the golden gates Our flowers that withered, in eternal bloom!
TO "W. C. T."
Oh, sad one, who wails for thy love that is slighted Left lone and forsaken, all joy fled away; Thy day-dream of beauty o'ershadowed and blighted, Thy sky once so rosy now clouded and gray. Thine idol was earthly, and earth-like must perish; The casket was doubtlessly faultless and fair; But 'tis only the soul-gem the poet can cherish, And blend with, his dreamings in gladness or care.
The glory that shone like the East in the morning On the radiant ideal was sweet to behold; But, alas! 'twas thy fancy had wrought its adorning, And without it the real is worthless and cold. And the poet's high soul ever craves for that beauty That must be arrayed in the white robe of Truth; The Love, Heaven-born, that walks hand-clasped with Duty, That thro' life's changing years keeps the heart in its youth.
Then shall Truth at the shrine of the False linger pining No! Nature rebels, and Hope whispers, Arise! There are regions unknown in the glad sunlight shining-- In the paths of thy calling where happiness lies! Oh, linger not weeping, in gloom and in sadness, The days that are coming thy healing shall bring; And a love, brighter far, horn of Truth and of Gladness, Shall Phoenix-like up from the dead ashes spring!
SUMMER LONGINGS.
There's a sound of woe in the forest lands, A wailing sigh in the wild wind's breath; The woods are waving their naked hands As they mourn fair Summer's death.
Through the leafless groves in the twilight hours Come gusts of music that sink and swell, And I cry, "Come back, with your light and flowers, Fair Queen of the year that I love so well!"
Come back to gladden the earth again, For the woods are grim in their winter woe, There's a dreary look on the lonely plain, And the hills and mountains are crowned with snow.
And I fancy I hear from the distant hills A blast of wind sweeping o'er the lea, From the gray old hawthorns and foam-clad rills, To tell a word of their woe to me.
Oh, Summer so lovely, lost and dead, I miss your sunshine and balmy hours, And blissful calms, when the noontide shed Its dreamy radiance on fields and flowers!
I miss your bird-songs that called me up To welcome the blush of the golden morn, When the dew-pearls gleamed in the harebell's cup, And the lark soared high o'er the fields of corn.
I miss the hush of the quiet eves, When the gloaming stole through the silent wood, And the low-toned zephyrs that stirred the leaves Were like elfin harps in the solitude.
Oh! Spring, return with your tender buds, And thousand splendours to deck the earth; Come back and reign in the grand old woods, And Winter shall fly at your welcome birth.
Come back, and wide o'er the hills and vales, The birds your welcome in glee shall sing; And their songs shall float on the gentle gales Till the earth in gladness and joy shall ring!
MY TREASURES.
Yes, I have treasures--not of gold or silver, Yet they are hoarded with a miser's care; Cherished and loved more tenderly and fondly Than purest gems, or jewels rich and rare.
Only a scrap of paper, old and faded, Only some withered rose-leaves, sere and dry; And one long tress of hair, all bright and golden, Dear relics of the happy days gone by.
Well I remember that long, dreamy summer, With all its sunshine and its cloudless days; The pleasant rambles through the lanes at even, When earth was glowing in the sunset rays.
And when the Autumn, in his mellow splendour, Clothed field and forest in autumnal dyes, 'Twas sweet to wander in the still, weird twilight, And watch the moon ascend the eastern skies.
Oh! blissful hours! ah, vows so softly spoken, Ye held a subtle witchery for me; I dreamed a heart of love and trust unbroken Was mine--and mine alone--through time to be.
Alas! not mine that blossom that I cherished, And hoped would bloom through all the coming years; Death's chill hand fell upon it, and it perished, And left with me but memory and tears!
Oh, woods! though Autumn left you bare and leafless, Spring has returned, and brought you life and mirth; But the dead dream of youth's bright golden morning Of love and beauty, can it wake to birth?
It cannot be; the times that have departed, The days of gladness, can return no more; And I am lonely left and broken-hearted, Like some sad exile on a foreign shore,--
Who, gazing backwards, through the years can picture A time when love and friendship were his own; Then turning to the present, lone and cheerless, Finds all his happiness in life is gone.
So, now, life's evening shadows, grim and dreary, In deepest gloom, are round my pathway shed; The beams of hope are growing dim and weary, And all that once was bright is cold and dead!
Oh, long-lost love! the gloomy years are fleeting, Through life's dark dream they ever hurry fast; Great waves upon the brink of Time they're meeting, And, mingling, rush to form the shadowy Past!
THE GIFTED.
Say, are the gifted born the sons of woe-- The favoured ones on whom kind Heaven hath smiled, And dowered so richly with its priceless store; The lords of earth, the monarchs of the soil-- Men who are bless'd with minds that angels have: Are these to bear the jibe of vulgar tongues, To feel the taunts fell Envy madly hurls, Or brook the scorn gaunt Jealousy may show? To them such things are but the angry blast That mars the bosom of the placid lake, Which smiles in dimpling ripples at its wrath! They _have_ their "world of flower, and song, and gem," The land of beauty where the poet dwells-- His green Parnassus where the muses reign: _Not_ hidden nor unseen; oh! look abroad, And tell me if thine eye no beauty sees. The solemn grandeur of the Autumn woods, Bright-crimsoned with the dying Summer's blood; The mountains in their hoary splendour drest, The valleys with their fields of golden grain, The glens deep hidden, where a thousand flowers In modest beauty shun the noontide glare; The wild-birds' song, the murmur of the streams That through their heathery banks of fragrance glide. All these are theirs--their solace, their delight; Each with its charm of mystic beauty fraught; The gleams that pierce the clouds of common life, And let the light of Heaven's own sunshine in! They have their dreams in twilight's shadowy hour, When they can strike their golden lyre, and feel The holy joy the poet calls his own. And the soft breeze that sings among the boughs In numbers like the famed Æolian harp Seems blending with its tones, till earthly cares Melt, as beneath the syren's spell, and die!
Thus lightly o'er the waves his bark goes on, Hope for a beacon shining bright above. While firmly at the helm stands fair Content To steer him safely till he reach the shore. And then, when Death's grim portals open wide, And he has reached the Land he dreamed and sung, Oh! bliss to wander o'er the streets of gold, _His_ harp-notes mingling with the choirs of Heaven! His hopes all realized, "faith lost in sight"-- His life a poem which God Himself hath read!
MORNING.
The gladsome Morning looked across the hills, Clad in his richly tinted robes; the opal dawn, Faint blushing in the East, grew clear and brighter, Till the resplendent sunrise decked the sky. It shone upon the woods--the birds awoke To chant their welcome to the god of day. It shone upon the meadows, and the flowers Ope'd their eyes, where the bright dew-tears glistened As they had wept thro' the long hours of night, Heedless of how the star-beams smiled and played; And the pale, tender moon, with pitying ray, Looked down upon their lowly, drooping heads, Now lifted gladly to the morning light, Till the warm sunshine kissed their tears away. And clouds of fragrance from their beds arose, That amorous zephyrs, as they wandered by, Wafted, like sweetest incense, to the sky! It shone upon the rivers, as they flowed Through fertile meadow-lands, so rich in loveliness; Sweet streams, that, rippling on in restful song, Took up a tone more joyous in that hour; And whispering leaves, and birds that, far and near, From grove and hedgerow, warbling clear and sweet In blending music, trembled in the air-- Like matin hymns, that on Creation's wings Were upwards borne to the Creator's Throne!
ANOTHER YEAR.
Another year has well nigh passed, With all its smiles and tears, And joys and sorrows that are cast In Time's great stream, whose waters vast Roll to the ocean of the Past, Bearing our hopes and fears, Where 'neath its waves they mingle fast With all our vanished years.
Another year! a span of Time, That tells of lifework done; A book, some pages dark with crime-- Some grand, and holy, and sublime; A trumpet, telling every clime Of battles lost and won: A knell of woe--a joy-bell's chime, Hope dead, and bliss begun!
Another year! In Spring's sweet hours What blissful thoughts we knew! What hopes, that came with opening flowers, What visions, nurse in spring-wreathed bowers, When Fancy lent her magic powers To trace in brilliant hue Castles of air, and dream-built towers Too soon to fade from view!
Another year! and I can trace Footprints o'er Summer's way, But turn to find a vacant place, Where once I met a cherished face, And well-loved form of youth and grace, Now pass'd from earth away-- This year the goal of one bright race, The close of one fair day.
Autumn is dead. The year is old, The dull November days are chill; The bare woods dreary to behold; The northern blast blows keen and cold, Far sighing over waste and world, O'er wintry vale and hill; And in its moan are requiems told For true hearts dead and still!
So must it be. Each passing year Still bears some joy away; Some darling treasure, held too dear, In trembling bliss, in hope and fear, Which we would fancy safe and near, Departs, and seems to say-- "We have no lasting city here, Earth's life is but a day!"
But Christmas, coming round again, Shall bring his wonted cheer; And Pleasure, in his jovial train, With rosy mirth and glee shall reign, To chase these thoughts of gloom and pain That haunt the dying year; And grief-parched lips the cup shall drain Of "Peace and good-will here!"
WITH A SHAMROCK.
Here, in these triple leaves, oh! read from me, What I, for _thee_, have dreamed their mystic spell, Faith, Hope and Love, joined hand in hand, I see, And this the message that they seem to tell:--
Love, for the present, and the time to he, Faith, that its might and truth can never die; Hope, that beyond the future clouds and mystery Points to a smiling scene, and cloudless sky.
"WAITING FOR THE MAY,"
"Ah! my heart is weary waiting, waiting for the May!" Old thoughts come back from the old time, Where, at even, the sunset light Gilds wood and world, ere the glory dies, And darkness gathers along the skies And the world is left in night.
Old songs float round in the gloaming, Sweet fragments that come and go; They are echoes, I know, from the olden times, Holy, as music vesper chimes, In the days of "Long Ago!"
And faces shine in the firelight; And laughter rings through the rooms; And memories of bygone springtime eves Come back to my lone heart that aches and grieves In the chill of life's winter glooms,
Then, the May of love that I longed-for Was hid in the future haze; I dreamed it a land of joy unknown, Where bliss and beauty would be my own Through the length of life's fair days.
So in hope for the May I waited As gay as the joyous hours That sped so fast, on their lightsome wings Thro' flowers, and sunlight, and glorious things That lived in youth's fairy bowers;
But the hopes I nursed in that springtime-- Ah! me, but those times were bright! Are withered now, and no fruit I see, Though the blossoms were fair on every tree In the glow of their promise-light!
Yet, when by the grave where I buried Those hopes, I stand and weep, I hear Faith say, as the storm-winds blow,-- "If in patience, and sorrow, and tears ye sow, The guerdon of joy ye shall reap!"
AWAKENED.
The glories of fair April's pride Are smiling round on every hand, And springtide beauties, far and wide, As with a garment clothe the land.
In shady nooks, in lonely glades, In forest alleys wild flowers spring, In budding stalls, in twilight shades, In lonely woods the birdies sing.
The violet's bloom on many a bank Is mirror'd in the waters sheen; And 'mong the grasses long and rank The yellow primrose flower is seen.
In yon dim wood the trestle sings 'Mong boughs that clasp hands overhead, And through the air his glad song rings, As in that April long since dead.
The brook has still the same soft flow, Whose murmur filled the evening air In those old days of long ago, Though I may never wander there.
I shut my eyes, and see no more The hurrying throng of city ways And call to life that dream of yore, And feel the thrall of bygone days.
The passion'd yearning for the time, The glorious time that was to be, The restless young heart's dreams sublime, Of all the future held for me.
Ah! fair the blossoms Hope's tree bore! I dreamed of Autumn's golden grain-- Oh! fatal blooms! ye brought a store Of deep remorse, of life-long pain!
Oh! dream of youth, I see you now With calmer eyes, and world-taught mind, And know these care-lines on my brow My waking hour has left behind.
All false the glow that round you shone, Though fair as Fancy's dream-land light:-- With all your rainbow decking gone I view your naked wreck to-night.
I look and bless the sudden blast That tore my idol from its throne; And bless the keen pain of the past-- If pain for error could atone.
False love! bereft of all your wiles Dead dream whose sweetness all is o'er, The memories of your tears or smiles Can touch my wakened heart no more.
I lay you in your grave to-night And seal the stone without a sigh, Rejoicing that your gloom and blight No more can cloud my brightening sky.
"ONLY."