Part 4

Lo, as we wonder and worship, the night of the doubts that conceal Him, Rolls from the face of the dawn till His rays through the cloud-fissures slope; Vapours that hid are condensed to the dews of His grace that reveal Him, And shine with His light on the hills as we mount in the splendour of hope.

_AT LAUDS._

’Tis sweet to wake before the dawn, When all the cocks are crowing, And from my window on the lawn, To watch the veil of night withdrawn, And feel the fresh wind blowing.

The murmur of the falls I hear, Its night-long vigil keeping; And softly now, as if in fear To rouse their neighbours slumbering near, The trees wake from their sleeping.

Dear Lord, such wondrous thoughts of Thee My raptured soul are filling, That, like a bird upon the tree, With sweet yet wordless minstrelsy My inmost heart is thrilling.

_IN THE CHURCHYARD._

As now my feet are straying Where all the dead are lying, O trees, what are ye saying That sets my soul a-sighing?

Your sound is as the weeping Of one that dreads the morrow, Or sob of sad heart sleeping For fulness of its sorrow.

Methinks your rootlets, groping Beneath the dark earth’s layers, Have found the doubt and hoping, The blasphemies and prayers,

Of hearts that here are feeding The worm; and now, in pity, Ye storm with interceding The floor of God’s great city.

_THE CRIPPLE._

I met once, in a country lane, A little cripple, pale and thin, Who from my presence sought again The shadows she had hidden in.

Her wasted cheeks the sunset skies Had hallowed with their fading glow; And in her large and lustrous eyes There dwelt a child’s unuttered woe.

She crept into the autumn wood, The parted bushes closed behind; Poor little heart, I understood The shameless shame that filled her mind.

I understood, and loved her well For one sad face I loved of yore,-- And down the lane the dead leaves fell, Like dreams that pass for evermore.

_A NOCTURNE._

In the little French church at the bend of the river, When rainy and loud was the wind in the night, An altar-lamp burnt to the mighty Grace-giver, The Holy Child Jesus--the Light of the Light.

It was hung on a chain from the roof, and was swinging, As if the unseemly commotion to chide, Like the choir-master’s baton when hushing the singing, Or the tongue of the bell when its tollings subside.

It lit up the poor paper flowers on the altar, And odd were the shadows it scattered around On pulpit and lectern, on choir-seat and psalter, While the chains threw the ghost of a cross on the ground.

The people at home in their cabins were sleeping, The curé was tucked in his four-posted bed; While under the willows the river was creeping As if silent with fear of the wind overhead.

But the little dark church had its own congregation-- The shadows that swayed on the pews and the floor-- While the rafters that creaked were a choir whose laudation Had an organ for base in the hurricane’s roar.

The rusty gilt cock on the flèche was the preacher, And scolding and grumpy his voice was to hear, As he turned to the storm like some faithful old teacher Who prophesies hard things regardless of fear.

But the service reflected the state of the weather, For though each, I must say, did his part with a will, The preacher and choir spoke and sang all together, And the shapes on the benches would never sit still.

Yet there was the Host, in the midst of the altar, Where that little red curtain of damask was hung,-- The God whom King David has praised in the psalter, And to whom the whole choir of the ages has sung.

But so big is the heart of our God, the Life-giver, That in it life’s humour and pathos both meet; So I doubt not that night in the church by the river, The poor old storm’s service to Him sounded sweet.

SONNETS.

_TO MY WIFE._

Sweet Lady, queen-star of my life and thought, Whose honour, heart and name are one with mine, Who dost above life’s troubled currents shine With such clear beam as oftentimes hath brought The storm-tossed spirit into harbours wrought By love and peace on life’s rough margin-line; I wish no wish which is not wholly thine, I hope no hope but what thyself hast sought. Thou losest not, my Lady, in the wife, The golden love-light of our earlier days; Time dims it not, it mounteth like the sun, Till earth and sky are radiant. Sweet, my life Lies at thy feet, and all life’s gifts and praise, Yet are they nought to what thy knight hath won.

_A CYPRESS WREATH._

I.

Death met a little child beside the sea; The child was ruddy and his face was fair, His heart was gladdened with the keen, salt air, Full of the young waves’ laughter and their glee. Then Death stooped down and kissed him, saying: “Thee, My child, will I give summers rare and bright, And flowers, and morns with never noon or night, Or clouds to darken, if thou’lt come with me.” Then the child gladly gave his little hand, And walked with Death along the shining sand, And prattled gaily, full of hope, and smiled As a white mist curled round him on the shore And hid the land and sea for evermore-- Death hath no terrors for a little child.

II.

There lived two souls who only lived for love; The one a maiden, full of joy and youth, The other her young lord, a man of truth And very valiant. Them did God above Knit with those holy bands none may remove Save He that formed them. But next year there came God’s angel, with his face and wings of flame, And bore the young wife’s soul off like a dove. Then did her lord, disconsolate many years, Cry bitterly to God to make them one, And take his life, and silence the sweet past. So Death came tenderly and stilled his tears, Clad as a priest, and ’neath the winter’s sun In a white grave re-wedded them at last.

III.

Quoth Death to Life: “Behold what strength is mine, All others perish, yet I do not fail, Where life aboundeth most, I most prevail, I mete out all things with my measuring line.” Then answered Life: “O boastful Death, not thine The final triumph, what thy hands undo My busy anvil forgeth out anew, For one lamp darkened, I bring two to shine.” Then answered Death: “Thy handiwork is fair, But a slight breath will crumble it to dust.” “Nay, Death,” said Life, “for in the vernal air A sweeter blossom breaks the winter’s crust.” Then God called down and stopped the foolish strife; His servants both, for God made Death and Life.

_COLUMBUS._

He caught the words which ocean thunders hurled On heedless eastern coasts, in days gone by, And to his dreams the ever-westering sky The ensign of a glorious hope unfurled; So, onward to the line of mists which curled Around the setting sun, with steadfast eye, He pushed his course, and, trusting God on high, Threw wide the portals of a larger world.

The heart that watched through those drear autumn nights The wide, dark sea, and man’s new empire sought, Alone, uncheered, hath wrought a deed sublime, Which, like a star behind the polar lights, Will shine through splendours of man’s utmost thought, Down golden eras to the end of time.

1892.

_IDOLS._

In each man’s heart a secret temple stands For rites idolatrous of praise and prayer; And dusky idols through the incensed air, On single thrones, or grouped in curious bands, Gaze at the lamp which swings in memory’s hands,-- Some richly carved, with face of beauty rare, Some with brute heads and bosoms foul and bare, Yet crowned with gold and gems from distant lands.

Take now thy torch, descend the winding years, The silent stair-way to thy secret shrine, And see what Dagon crowns the topmost shelf With front aggressive, served through hopes and fears In ceaseless cult by love that counts divine His every blemish,--is not Dagon SELF?

_SOLOMON._

A double line of columns, white as snow, And vaulted with mosaics rich in flowers, Makes square this cypress grove where fountain showers From golden basins cool the grass below; While from that archway strains of music flow, And laughings of fair girls beguile the hours. But brooding, like one held by evil powers, The great King heeds not, pacing sad and slow.

His heart hath drained earth’s pleasures to the lees, Hath quivered with life’s finest ecstasies; Yet now some power reveals as in a glass The soul’s unrest and death’s dark mysteries, And down the courts the scared slaves watch him pass, Reiterating, “_Omnia Vanitas!_”

_OUT OF THE STORM._

The huge winds gather on the midnight lake, Shaggy with rain and loud with foam-white feet, Then bound through miles of darkness till they meet The harboured ships and city’s squares, and wake From steeples, domes and houses sounds that take A human speech, the storm’s mad course to greet; And nightmare voices through the rain and sleet Pass shrieking, till the town’s rock-sinews shake.

Howl, winds, around us in this gas-lit room! Wild lake, with thunders beat thy prison bars! A brother’s life is ebbing fast away, And, mounting on your music through the gloom, A pure soul mingles with the morning stars, And with them melts into the blaze of day.

ST. LUKE’S HOSPITAL, DULUTH, May 17th, 1894.