Part 10
It is the calm and solemn night! A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness,--charmed and holy now! The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given; For in that stable lay, new-born, The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!
_Alfred Domett._
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MY SLAIN.
This sweet child which hath climbed upon my knee, This amber-haired, four-summered little maid, With her unconscious beauty troubleth me, With her low prattle maketh me afraid. Ah, darling! when you cling and nestle so You hurt me, though you do not see me cry, Nor hear the weariness with which I sigh, For the dear babe I killed so long ago. I tremble at the touch of your caress; I am not worthy of your innocent faith; I who with whetted knives of worldliness Did put my own child-heartedness to death, Beside whose grave I pace forevermore, Like desolation on a shipwrecked shore.
There is no little child within me now, To sing back to the thrushes, to leap up When June winds kiss me, when an apple bough Laughs into blossoms, or a buttercup Plays with the sunshine, or a violet Dances in the glad dew. Alas! alas! The meaning of the daisies in the grass I have forgotten; and if my cheeks are wet It is not with the blitheness of the child, But with the bitter sorrow of sad years. O moaning life, with life irreconciled; O backward-looking thought, O pain, O tears, For us there is not any silver sound Of rhythmic wonders springing from the ground.
Woe worth the knowledge and the bookish lore Which makes men mummies, weighs out every grain Of that which was miraculous before, And sneers the heart down with the scoffing brain. Woe worth the peering, analytic days That dry the tender juices in the breast, And put the thunders of the Lord to test, So that no marvel must be, and no praise, Nor any God except Necessity. What can ye give my poor, starved life in lieu Of this dead cherub which I slew for ye? Take back your doubtful wisdom, and renew My early foolish freshness of the dunce, Whose simple instincts guessed the heavens at once.
_Richard Realf._
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THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY.
Could we but know The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel, Where lie those happier hills and meadows low,-- Ah, if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil Aught of that country could we surely know, Who would not go?
Might we but hear The hovering angels' high imagined chorus, Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear, One radiant vista of the realm before us,-- With one rapt moment given to see and hear, Ah, who would fear?
Were we quite sure To find the peerless friend who left us lonely, Or there, by some celestial stream as pure, To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only,-- This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure, Who would endure?
_Edmund Clarence Stedman._
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MY PSALM.
I mourn no more my vanished years; Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, My heart is young again.
The west-winds blow, and, singing low, I hear the glad streams run: The windows of my soul I throw Wide open to the sun.
No longer forward nor behind I look in hope and fear; But grateful take the good I find, The best of now and here.
I plough no more a desert land, To harvest weed and tare; The manna dropping from God's hand Rebukes my painful care.
I break my pilgrim-staff, I lay Aside the toiling oar; The angel sought so far away I welcome at my door.
The airs of spring may never play Among the ripening corn, Nor freshness of the flowers of May Blow through the autumn morn;
Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringéd lids to heaven; And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given;
The woods shall wear their robes of praise, The south-wind softly sigh, And sweet calm days in golden haze Melt down the amber sky.
Not less shall manly deed and word Rebuke an age of wrong: The graven flowers that wreathe the sword Make not the blade less strong.
But smiting hands shall learn to heal, To build as to destroy; Nor less my heart for others feel, That I the more enjoy.
All as God wills, who wisely heeds To give or to withhold, And knoweth more of all my needs Than all my prayers have told!
Enough that blessings undeserved Have marked my erring track; That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved His chastening turned me back;
That more and more a Providence Of love is understood, Making the springs of time and sense, Sweet with eternal good;
That death seems but a covered way Which opens into light, Wherein no blinded child can stray Beyond the Father's sight;
That care and trial seem at last, Through Memory's sunset air, Like mountain ranges overpast, In purple distance fair;
That all the jarring notes of life Seem blending in a psalm, And all the angles of its strife Slow rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fell apart, And so the west-winds play; And all the windows of my heart I open to the day.
_John Greenleaf Whittier._
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ENTICED.
I.
With what clear guile of gracious love enticed, I follow forward, as from room to room, Through doors that open into light from gloom, To find, and lose, and find again the Christ!
He stands and knocks, and bids me ope the door; Without he stands, and asks to enter in: Why should he seek a shelter sad with sin? Will he but knock and ask, and nothing more?
He knows what ways I take to shut my heart, And if he will he can himself undo My foolish fastenings, or by force break through, Nor wait till I fulfil my needless part.
But nay, he will not choose to enter so,-- He will not be my guest without consent, Nor, though I say "Come in," is he content; I must arise and ope, or he will go.
He shall not go; I do arise and ope,-- "Come in, dear Lord, come in and sup with me, O blesséd guest, and let me sup with thee,"-- Where is the door? for in this dark I grope,
And cannot find it soon enough; my hand, Shut hard, holds fast the one sure key I need, And trembles, shaken with its eager heed; No other key will answer my demand.
The door between is some command undone; Obedience is the key that slides the bar, And lets him in, who stands so near, so far; The doors are many, but the key is one.
Which door, dear Lord? knock, speak, that I may know; Hark, heart, he answers with his hand and voice,-- O, still small sign, I tremble and rejoice, Nor longer doubt which way my feet must go.
Full lief and soon this door would open too, If once my key might find the narrow slit Which, being so narrow, is so hard to hit,-- But lo! one little ray that glimmers through,
Not spreading light, but lighting to the light,-- Now steady, hand, for good speed's sake be slow, One straight right aim, a pulse of pressure, so,-- How small, how great, the change from dark to bright!
II.
Now he is here, I seem no longer here! This place of light is not my chamber dim, It is not he with me, but I with him, And host, not guest, he breaks the bread of cheer.
I was borne onward at his greeting,--he Earthward had come, but heavenward I had gone; Drawing him hither, I was thither drawn, Scarce welcoming him to hear him welcome me!
I lie upon the bosom of my Lord, And feel his heart, and time my heart thereby; The tune so sweet, I have no need to try, But rest and trust, and beat the perfect chord.
A little while I lie upon his heart, Feasting on love, and loving there to feast, And then, once more, the shadows are increased Around me, and I feel my Lord depart.
Again alone, but in a farther place I sit with darkness, waiting for a sign; Again I hear the same sweet plea divine, And suit, outside, of hospitable grace.
This is his guile,--he makes me act the host To shelter him, and lo! he shelters me; Asking for alms, he summons me to be A guest at banquets of the Holy Ghost.
So, on and on, through many an opening door That gladly opens to the key I bring, From brightening court to court of Christ, my King, Hope-led, love-fed, I journey evermore.
At last I trust these changing scenes will cease; There is a court, I hear, where he abides; No door beyond, that further glory hides.-- My host at home, all change is changed to peace.
_William C. Wilkinson._
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WEARINESS.
O little feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the wayside Inn, Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road!
O little hands! that weak or strong Have still to serve or rule so long, Have still so long to give or ask; I, who so much with book and pen Have toiled among my fellow-men, Am weary, thinking of your task.
O little hearts! that throb and beat With such impatient feverish heat, Such limitless and strong desires; Mine that so long has glowed and burned, With passions into ashes turned, Now covers and conceals its fires.
O little souls! as pure and white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine; Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine!
_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._
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TOUJOURS AMOUR.
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, At what age does love begin? Your blue eyes have scarcely seen Summers three, my fairy queen, But a miracle of sweets, Soft approaches, sly retreats, Show the little archer there, Hidden in your pretty hair; When didst learn a heart to win? Prithee tell me, Dimple Chin! "Oh!" the rosy lips reply, "I can't tell you if I try. 'Tis so long I can't remember: Ask some younger lass than I."
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, Do your heart and head keep pace? When does hoary Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow? Care you still soft hands to press, Bonny heads to smooth and bless? When does Love give up the chase? Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face! "Ah!" the wise old lips reply, "Youth may pass and strength may die; But of Love I can't foretoken: Ask some older sage than I!"
_Edmund Clarence Stedman._
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THE VOICELESS.
We count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? A few can touch the magic string, And noisy Fame is proud to win them; Alas for those who never sing, But die with all their music in them!
Nay, grieve not for the dead alone Whose song has told their hearts' sad story; Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep O'er nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.
O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his cordial wine, Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,-- If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!
_Oliver Wendell Holmes._
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EPILOGUE.
'Tis pleasant business making books, When other people furnish brains; Like finding them in running brooks,-- The pleasure, minus all the pains! They tell us Wordsworth once declared That he could, if he had the mind, Write plays like those of Avon's bard; Whereat the stammering Lamb rejoined, "S-s-s-s-s-so you see, That all he wanted was the mind!" O gentle Wordsworth, to deride Thy simple speech I'm not inclined; For these good friends, and thou beside, Have freely lent me of their mind. I've Shakespeare's point, and Burns's fire, And Bulwer's own gentility, And Elia's meekness, yet aspire To Pope's infallibility. I've made myself at home with Holmes; I'm in two Taylors' garments dressed; Campbell has told his rhymes for me, And Shelley shelled out like the rest, And Hood put on his thinking-cap, And Goldsmith beaten out his best. I've pilfered Alfred's laureate strains, And boldly counted Henry's chickens, And drained Harte's blood from his best veins, And stol'n from Dickens like the dickens; Of Hogg I have not gone the whole, But of three Proctors tithes demanded, And from a Miller taken toll, And plucked a Reade, to do as Pan did. I've beaten Beattie like a tree That sheds its fruit for every knocker, Nor let Sir Walter go Scott free, And filched a shot from Frederick's Locker. The ladies, too--God bless them all!-- What pieces of their minds I've taken! It would Achilles' self appall, If hiding here to save his bacon. By Hawthorne's genius hedged about, And deep in Browning's brownest study, This is the sure retreat, no doubt, From critics' favors, fair or muddy. Ah, How it Reads, How well it looks!-- What one May call a death to pains!-- This pleasant way of making books, With clever folks to furnish brains!
NEW YORK, July, 1875.
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES.