Chapter 3

Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled; When vanishes each prospect fair, When the last flickering ray has sped, And naught remains but mute despair; When inky blackness doth enshroud The hopes the heart once held in store, As some tall pine, by great winds bowed, Doth snap, and when the tempest's o'er, Its noble form, magnificent and proud, Doth prostrate lie, nor ever riseth more; Thus breaks the heart, which sees no hope before.

Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled; That heart is as some ruin old, With ancient arch and wall, o'erspread With moss, and desolating mold; Whose banquet halls, where once the sound Of revelry rang unconfined, Now, with the hoot of owls resound, Or echo back the mournful wind; In whose foul nooks the gruesome bat is found. The heart a ruin is, when unresigned; No hope before, and but regret behind.

Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled; That heart, to fate unreconciled, Though throbbing, is as truly dead As though by foul decay defiled; That heart is as a grinning skull, With smiling mockery, and stare Of eyeless sockets, or the hull Of shipwrecked vessel, bleached and bare, Derelict, morbid, apathetic, dull, As drowning men, who clutch the empty air, The heart goes down, which feels but blind despair.

Hidden Sorrows.

For some the river of life would seem Free from the shallow, the reef, or bar, As they gently glide down the silvery stream With scarcely a ripple, a lurch, or jar; But under the surface, calm and fair, Lurk the hidden snags, and the secret care; The waters are deepest where still, and clear, And the sternest anguish forbids a tear.

For others, the pathway of life is strewn With many a thorn, for each rose or bud; And their journey o'er mountain, o'er moor, and dune, Can be plainly tracked by footprints of blood; But deeper still lies the hidden smart Of some secret sorrow, which gnaws the heart, And rankles under a surface clear; For the sternest anguish forbids a tear.

But, when the journey's end we see, At the bar of the Judge of quick and dead, The cross, which the one bore silently May outweigh his of the bloodstained tread. The cross unseen, and the cross of light, May balance in that Judge's sight; O'er the heart that is breaking a smile may appear, For the sternest anguish forbids a tear.

O, a Beautiful Thing Is the Flower That Fadeth!

O, a beautiful thing is the flower that fadeth, And perishing, smiles on the chill autumn wind; A sweet desolation its ruin pervadeth, A fragrant remembrance still lingers behind.

O, a beautiful thing is the glad consummation Of a life that is upright, untarnished and pure; That spirit, when freed from this earth's animation, Shall live, as the heavens eternal endure!

Smiles.

There is the warm, congenial smile, Benign, and honest, too, Free from deception, fraud, and guile; The smile of friendship true.

There is the smile most fair to see, Which wreathes the modest glance Of spotless maiden purity; The smile of innocence.

There is the smile of woman's love, That potent, siren spell, Which uplifts men to heaven above, Or lures them down to hell!

There is the vain, derisive smile, Of cynical conceit; The drunken leer, the grimace vile, Of lives with crime replete.

There is the smile of vacancy, Expressionless, we find On idiot physiognomy, The vacuum of a mind.

There is a smile, which more than tears Or language can express; The grim disguise which anguish wears, The mask of dire distress

There is a smile of practiced art, More false than treason's kiss; But penetrate that dual heart, And hear the serpent's hiss.

A smile, the visage shall embrace, When nature's cup is full; Behind the stern and frowning face There lies a grinning skull.

A Request.

When close by my bed the Death Angel shall stand And deliver his summons, at last; When my brow feels the chill of his cold, clammy hand, And mortality's struggles are past; When my pain throbbing temples, with death sweat are cold, And the spirit its strivings shall cease, As with muscular shrug, it relaxes its hold, And the suffering clay is at peace;

E'er my spirit shall plunge through the shadowy vale, My lips shall this wish have expressed, That all which remains of mortality frail, In some fair enclosure may rest; Where disorganized, this pale form shall sustain The fragrant and beautiful flowers, And reproduce beauty, again and again, Through nature's grand organic powers.

Battle Hymn.

Almighty Power! Who through the past Our Nation's course has safely led; Behold again the sky o'ercast, Again is heard the martial tread! Our stay in each contingency, Our Father's God, we turn to thee!

For lo! The bugle note of war Is wafted from a southern strand! O Lord of Battles! we implore The guidance of Thy mighty hand, While as of yore, the hero draws His sword in Freedom's sacred cause!

And when at last the oaken wreath Shall crown afresh the victor's brow; And Peace the conquering sword resheath, Be with us then, as well as now! Our stay in each contingency, In peace or war, we turn to Thee!

The Nations Peril.

_Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay. --Goldsmith._

I fear the palace of the rich, I fear the hovel of the poor; Though fortified by moat and ditch, The castle strong could not endure; Nor can the squalid hovel be A source of strength, and those who cause This widening discrepancy Infringe on God's eternal laws.

The heritage of man, the earth, Was framed for homes, not vast estates; A lowering scale of human worth Each generation demonstrates, Which feels the landlord's iron hand, And hopeless, plod with effort brave; Who love no home can love no land; These own no home, until the grave.

The nation's strongest safeguards lie In free and unencumbered homes; Not in its hordes of vagrancy, Nor in its proud, palatial domes; Nor can the mercenary sword E'er cross with that the freeman draws. Nor oil upon the waters poured Perpetuate an unjust cause.

Eternal Justice, still prevail And stay this menace ere too late! Ere sturdy manhood droop and fail, The law, immutable, of fate; No foe can daunt the stalwart heart Of him who guards that sacred ground Where every hero owns a part, Where each an ample home has found.

No more shall battle's lurid gleam The cloudless sky of peace obscure; Nor blood becrimson field, or stream, Nor avarice grind down the poor; But onward let thy progress be A pageant, beautiful and grand; May He who e'er has guided thee Protect thee still, my native land!

Echoes from Galilee.

What means this gathering multitude, Upon thy shores, O, Galilee, As various as the billows rude That sweep thy ever restless sea? Can but the mandate of a King So varied an assemblage bring?

Behold the noble, rich, and great, From Levite, Pharisee and Priest, Down to the lowest dregs of fate, From mightiest even to the least; Yes, in this motley throng we find The palsied, sick, mute, halt, and blind.

Is this some grand affair of state, A coronation, or display, By some vainglorious potentate,-- Or can this concourse mark the day Of some victorious hero's march Homeward, through triumphal arch?

Or, have they come to celebrate Some sacred sacerdotal rite; By civic feast, to emulate Some deed, on history's pages bright? Or can this grand occasion be Some battle's anniversary?

But wherefore come the halt and blind? What comfort can the pain-distressed In such a tumult hope to find? What is there here, to offer rest To those, whom adverse fate has hurled, Dismantled, on a hostile world?

Let us approach! A form we see, Fairest beyond comparison; For such an heavenly purity, From other eyes, hath never shown; Nor such a calm, majestic brow On earth hath ne'er appeared, till now.

Draw nearer. Lo! a voice we hear, Resonant, soft, pathetic, sweet; In ringing accents, calm and clear, He sways the thousands at his feet, With more than mortal eloquence, Or man's compassion, in his glance.

Ah! Strange, that such a form should stand In raiment soiled, and travel stained; Yes, mark the contour of that hand, A hand by menial toil profaned. Can one from such a station reach All classes by sheer force of speech?

Can eloquence from mortal tongue Break through the barriers, which divide The toiling and down-trodden throng From affluence, and official pride? Then how can yonder speaker hold An audience so manifold?

He spake as never orator Before, or since, with burning thought, In parable, and metaphor; Each simple illustration taught Some sacred truth, some truth which could By sage, or fool, be understood.

With similes of common things, The lilies of the field, the salt Which lost its savour; gently brings A lesson, from the common fault Of self-admiring Pharisee, Of ostentatious piety.

And from the prostrate penitent, The Publican, who beat his breast, Remorsefully his garment rent, And thus, with tears, his sin confessed; "Lord, Lord, a sinner vile am I, Be merciful, and hear my cry!"

And from that man, beset by thieves, And left upon the road, to die; No aid or comfort he receives From Priest, or Levite, passing by; How the despised Samaritan Proved the true neighbor to that man.

Yes, finished with such fervency Of gesture, and similitude; Such depths of love, and purity His hearers marvelled, as they stood; Nor through his discourse, was there heard, Abusive, vain, or idle word.

Who may this wondrous speaker be? Is he some judge, or orator? Some one in high authority? Physician, prince, or conqueror? Answer, thou ever restless sea, Who may this wondrous person be?

With echoes soft, the sea replies, This is a Judge, and Orator; A Judge, beyond all judges wise, And eloquent, as none before; A Judge, majestic, calm, serene; And yet, an humble Nazarene.

He is a Ruler, whose command The myriads of the skies obey, As in the hollow of His hand He holds all human destiny. The tempest wild concedes his will, And calms before His "Peace, be still."

A great Physician, too, is He, Whose word, the leper purifies; The mute converse, the blind ones see; At his command, the dead arise; He cures the ravages of sin, And makes the foulest sinner clean.

He is a Prince, a Prince whose power Knows neither limit nor degree, Whose glory, not the passing hour, Nor cycles of futurity, Can augment, alter, or decrease-- Prince is He, the Prince of Peace.

He is earth's greatest Conqueror, But conquers not with crimson sword; Love is the weapon of His war, Forgiveness, and gentle word; But, greatest of all victories, O'er the dark grave, His banner flies.

Go, And Sin No More.

When the poor, erring woman sought In tears the Master's feet, Her breast, with deep contrition fraught, Repentance, full, complete, Divine compassion filled His eyes, He spake, says Sacred Lore,-- "O, erring heart, forgiven, rise, Go, thou, and sin no more."

The tear of contrite sorrow, shed By penitence, cast down, Shall flash, when solar rays have fled, In an eternal crown; That tear shall scintillate, and shine, When comets cease to soar; If thou would'st wear that gem divine, Go, thou, and sin no more!

Gently Lead Me, Star Divine.

Gently lead me, Star Divine, Lead with bright unchanging ray; O'er my lowly pathway shine, I shall never lose my way; Though uncertain be my tread, Pitfalls deep, and mountains high, Safely shall my feet be led, By Thy beacon, in the sky.

Long ago, while journeying Westward, o'er the desert wild, Sages sought a promised King In the person of a child; By Thy bright illuminings, To that manger, in the fold, Thou did'st lead those shepherd kings; Lead me, as Thou lead'st of old.

Dying Hymn.

The hour-glass speeds its final sands, In splendor sinks the golden sun, So men must yield to death's demands When human life its course has run.

We view the ruins of the past, We stand surrounded by decay, Our transient hours are speeding fast And, e'er we think, have passed away.

Weep not, nor mourn with idle tear That hour, inevitable and sure; We move, our sojourn finished here, To nobler realms which shall endure.

In Mortem Meditare.

DYING THOUGHTS.

As Life's receding sunset fades And night descends, I calmly watch the gathering shades, As darkness stealthily invades And daylight ends.

Earth's span is drawing to its close, With every breath; My pain-racked brain no respite knows, Yet shrinks it, from the grim repose It feels in death.

The curtain falls on Life's last scene, The end is neared; At last I face death's somber screen, The fleeting joys which intervene Have disappeared.

And as a panoramic scroll The past unreels; The mocking past, beyond control, Though buried, as a parchment roll, Its tale reveals.

I stand before the dread, unknown, Yet solemn fact; I see the seeds of folly sown In wayward years, maturely grown, Nor can retract.

My weaknesses rise to my sight; And now, too late, I fain would former actions right, Which years have buried in their flight; Now sealed by fate.

My frailties and iniquities I plainly see; Committed acts accusive rise, Omitted duties criticise In mockery.

I feel I have offended oft, E'en at my best Have failed to guide my course aloft; Perhaps in trival hour, have scoffed With idle jest.

Prone to misgiving, prone to doubt, And frail from birth; More light and frivolous than devout; With life's brief candle flickering out, I speed from earth.

Can grief excuse indifference With groan or tear? Can deep remorse and penitence, Or anguish mitigate offense With pang sincere?

Ah! Tears can ne'er unlock the past Which opens not; And what is done is welded fast, Through all eternity to last, Nor change one jot.

Whate'er may lie beyond the veil I calmly face, And sink, as grievous tears bewail My faults and imperfections frail, In death's embrace.

And as I think the matter o'er, Pensive and sad, While its shortcomings I deplore, The fruits which my existence bore Were not all bad.

From all which can rejoice or grieve I shortly go, And now, in life's declining eve I wonder, hope, try to believe-- Soon I shall know!

My spirit flees, as night enwraps, To its reward; The earth recedes, I feel it lapse; I sink as dissolution snaps The silver cord.

O, Thou whose presence I can feel Each hour I live, While passing through death's stern ordeal, Wilt Thou Thy mercy still reveal, And still forgive?

Deprive This Strange and Complex World.

Deprive this strange and complex world Of all the charms of art; Deprive it of those sweeter joys Which music doth impart; But oh, preserve that smile, which tells The secret of the heart!

The world may lose its massive piles Which point their spires above; May spare the tuneful nightingale And gently cooing dove; But woe betide it, if it lose The sentiment of love!

The Legend of St. Regimund.

St. Regimund, e'er he became a saint, Was much imbued with vulgar earthly taint; E'er he renounced the honors of a Knight And doffed his coat of mail and helmet bright, For sober cassock and monastic hood, Leaving the castle for the cloister rude, And changed the banquet's sumptuous repast For frugal crusts and the ascetic fast; Forsook his charger and equipments for The crucifix and sacerdotal war; While yet with valiant sword and blazoned shield He braved the dangers of the martial field, Or sought the antlered trophies of the chase In forest and sequestered hunting place; Or, tiring of the hunt's exciting sport, Enjoyed the idle pleasures of the court, Whiling away the time with games of chance, With music and the more voluptuous dance, The hollow paths of vanity pursued, Laughed, jested, swore, drank, danced, and even wooed; No tongue more prone to questionable wit, Nor chaste, when time and place demanded it; His basso voice, both voluble and strong, Excelled in wassail mirth and ribald song; He swore with oaths most impious and unblest; Ate much, drank more, on these lines did his best; Caroused by day, caroused by candle light, In fact behaved like any other knight.

This medieval knight (the legend saith) For months would scarcely draw a sober breath; But as his appetite grew more and more Drank each day worse than on the day before; Was drunk all night, all day continued so, Indulged in every vice he chanced to know. But long debauch and riotous excess Reduce their strongest votaries to distress; When nature can the strain no longer stand She chastens with a sure and irate hand, So when the day of reckoning had come, She smote with fever and delirium This valiant knight whom we have tried to paint; A very slim foundation for a saint!

The crisis reached, his fever stricken brain Surrendered reason to excessive pain; Nor moment's respite, comatose and kind, Relieved the raging furnace of his mind; And gruesome spectres, awful and unreal, Through his disordered vagaries would steal; When last his scorching temples sought repose In hasty nap or intermittent doze, His eyes beheld, though starting from his head, A grizzly figure leaning o'er his bed, With aspect foul beyond descriptive word, As one for months in sepulchre interred, Restored again to animated breath, A weird composite type of life and death; With countenance most hideous and vile, Leering with ghastly and unearthly smile; Pointing its shriveled finger, as in scorn, Of mockery and accusation born.

As he beheld in terror and surprise This gruesome shape which mocked before his eyes He could distinguish in its haughty mien A bearing, something as his own had been; Nor had its withered visage quite the look Of vampire, ghoul or evanescent spook; And as the apparition o'er him bent, He saw that every seam or lineament, Contour of feature, prominence of bone, Bore all a striking semblance to his own.

The horror stricken knight essayed to speak, But words responded tremulous and weak, And mustering his dissipated strength, A sitting posture he assumed at length,-- "Whate'er thou art, thou harbinger of gloom, Thou fiend or ghoul, fresh from the new made tomb, Thou vampire, diabolical and fell, Thou stygian shade or denizen of hell, I charge thee, thing of evil, to confess Why thou hast thus disturbed my sore distress. Why hast thou burst my chamber's bolted door Where guest unbidden never trod before? Break this suspense, so horrible and still! Declare thy tidings, be they good or ill, Be thou from Heaven or from the realms below. I charge thee speak, be thou a friend or foe; Break thou thy silence, ominous and deep, Or hence! Pursue thy way and let me sleep!"

The grizzly spectre, still more ghastly grown, Surveyed with visage obdurate as stone, Then smiled with grimace of derisive craft, And in a most repugnant manner, laughed, But all the knight discerned with eye and ear, Was his own maudlin laugh and drunken leer. "Breathe thou thy message," shrieked the frantic knight "Discharge thy purpose, though it blast and blight, I charge thee, speak, by all that is most fair. By all most foul, I charge thee to declare; By my bright armor and my trusty sword; I charge thee, speak, by Holy Rood and Word!" He sank exhausted, in such pallid fright The snowy sheets looked dark beside such white. The spectre paused in silence for awhile, Then broke into a most repulsive smile, And answered in a weird and hollow tone, Enough to freeze the marrow in the bone: "I am thy blasted spirit's counterpart, A body fit for thy most evil heart, I am thy life, its psychic image sent To bear thee company, till thou repent."

'Tis said, for forty days the spectre stayed. For forty days the knight incessant prayed; With scourge, with vigil and ascetic rite, With fast, with groan remorseful and contrite, He cleansed his blackened spirit by degrees, And purified it from its vanities; And as he prayed, the spectre's gruesome scowl Grew day by day less hideous and foul, As he waxed holy, it became more bright; And after forty days, arrayed in white It spread its spotless arms, devoid of taint Above this erstwhile knight and henceforth saint In benediction, as he knelt in prayer,-- Then vanished instantly to empty air.

Such is the tale, embellished by the Muse, 'Tis true or false, believe it as you choose; Some folks accept the story out and out, While some prefer to entertain a doubt. But if it be fictitious and unreal, 'Tis not subscribed and sworn, and bears no seal; It points a moral, as the legend old, If it conveys it, 'twas not vainly told, For should I such an apparition see-- I think t'would almost make a monk of me.

As The Indian.

_Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored mind Sees God in the clouds and hears Him in the wind. --Pope._

Within the wind, my untaught ear The voice of Deity can hear, And in the fleeting cloud discern His movements, vast and taciturn; For in the universe I trace The wondrous grandeur of His face.

I see him in each blade of grass, Each towering peak and mountain pass; Each forest, river, lake and fen Reveals the God of worlds and men; His works of wisdom prove to me, A wise, creative Deity.

The Fragrant Perfume of the Flowers.

The fragrant perfume of the flowers, Exuding in the summer hours, E'en as the altar's incense rare Disseminated through the air, May never reach the azure skies, Yet can the earth aromatize.

And so the voice of secret prayer, Ascending on the wings of air, Though it should reach no listening ear, Of Deity inclined to hear, Still soothes the anguish of the mind, And leaves a tranquil peace behind.

An Answer.

When passing years have streaked with frost These tresses now as jet, When life's meridian is crossed And beauty's sun has set, When youth's last fleeting charm is lost, Wilt thou be constant yet, Nor time thy sentiment exhaust And cause thee to forget? If so-- My answer, I confess, Shall be a calm, decided "Yes"; But otherwise a "No"!

Fame.

There is a cliff, no matter where, Which softened by the agencies Of rain, exposure to the air, And alternating thaw and freeze, Most readily admits the edge Of chisel, or the sharpened wedge.

The travelers, while passing by, Within its shade find welcome rest; And one of them mechanically, As is a custom in the west, Upon its surface stern and gray Carved out his name, and went his way.

Though inartistic and uncouth, That effort of a novice hand Exemplifies a striking truth, And may Time's ravages withstand, To be by future ages read, When years and centuries have fled.

So on life's mighty thoroughfare, The multitude of every class Leave no inscriptions chiseled, where Their transient footsteps chanced to pass, And waft to each succeeding age No echoes from their pilgrimage.

Though many pass, yet few record Their names in characters sublime, By grand achievement, work or word Upon the monolith of Time; But few inscribe a lasting name On the eternal cliffs of Fame.

The First Storm.