Part 10

“Now for thy trouble!” cried he, laughing loud. “Hast torn thy kirtle? Are thy pearls astray? What! Tears? My camels o’er yon desert way Bring treasures that had made Queen Esther proud!”

Slowly she spake, nor in his face looked she. “My lord, long years ago a friend of mine Left with me jewels, costly, rare, and fine, Bidding me guard them carefully till he

Again should call for them. The other day He sent his messenger. But I have learned To prize them as my own! Have I not earned A right to keep them? Speak, my lord, I pray!”

“Strange sense of honor hath a woman’s heart!” The rabbi answered hotly. “Now, good lack! Where are the jewels? I will send them back Ere yet the sun upon his course may start!

Show me the jewels!” Up she rose as white As any ghost, and mutely led the way Into the turret-chamber whence the ray Seen from afar had blessed the rabbi’s sight.

Then with slow, trembling hands she drew aside The silken curtain from before the bed Whereon, in snowy calm, their boys lay dead. “There are the jewels, O, my lord!” she cried.

A CHILD’S THOUGHT

Softly fell the twilight; In the glowing west Purple splendors faded; Birds had gone to rest; All the winds were sleeping; One lone whip-poor-will Made the silence deeper, Calling from the hill.

Silently, serenely, From his mother’s knee, In the gathering darkness, Still as still could be, A young child watched the shadows; Saw the stars come out; Saw the weird bats flitting Stealthily about;

Saw across the river How the furnace glow, Like a fiery pennant, Wavered to and fro; Saw the tall trees standing Black against the sky, And the moon’s pale crescent Swinging far and high.

Deeper grew the darkness; Darker grew his eyes As he gazed around him, In a still surprise. Then intently listening, “What is this I hear All the time, dear mother, Sounding in my ear?”

“I hear nothing,” said she, “Earth is hushed and still.” But he hearkened, hearkened, With an eager will, Till at length a quick smile O’er the child-face broke, And a kindling lustre In his dark eyes woke.

“Listen, listen, mother! For I hear the sound Of the wheels, the great wheels That move the world around!” Oh, ears earth has dulled not! In your purer sphere, Strains from ours withholden Are you wise to hear?

“GOD KNOWS”

Wild and dark was the winter night When the emigrant ship went down, But just outside of the harbor bar, In the sight of the startled town. The winds howled, and the sea roared, And never a soul could sleep, Save the little ones on their mothers’ breasts, Too young to watch and weep.

No boat could live in the angry surf, No rope could reach the land: There were bold, brave hearts upon the shore, There was many a ready hand— Women who prayed, and men who strove When prayers and work were vain; For the sun rose over the awful void And the silence of the main.

All day the watchers paced the sands, All day they scanned the deep, All night the booming minute-guns Echoed from steep to steep. “Give up thy dead, O cruel sea!” They cried athwart the space; But only an infant’s fragile form Escaped from its stern embrace.

Only one little child of all Who with the ship went down That night when the happy babies slept So warm in the sheltered town. Wrapped in the glow of the morning light, It lay on the shifting sand, As fair as a sculptor’s marble dream, With a shell in its dimpled hand.

There were none to tell of its race or kin. “God knoweth,” the pastor said, When the wondering children asked of him The name of the baby dead. And so, when they laid it away at last In the church-yard’s hushed repose, They raised a stone at the baby’s head, With the carven words, “God knows.”

THE MOUNTAIN ROAD

Only a glimpse of mountain road That followed where a river flowed; Only a glimpse—then on we passed Skirting the forest dim and vast.

I closed my eyes. On rushed the train Into the dark, then out again, Startling the song-birds as it flew The wild ravines and gorges through.

But, heeding not the dangerous way O’erhung by sheer cliffs, rough and gray, I only saw, as in a dream, The road beside the mountain stream.

No smoke curled upward in the air, No meadow-lands stretched broad and fair; But towering peaks rose far and high, Piercing the clear, untroubled sky.

Yet down the yellow, winding road That followed where the river flowed, I saw a long procession pass As shadows over bending grass.

The young, the old, the sad, the gay, Whose feet had worn that narrow way, Since first within the dusky glade Some Indian lover wooed his maid;

Or silent crept from tree to tree— Spirit of stealthy vengeance, he! Or breathless crouched while through the brake The wild deer stole his thirst to slake.

The barefoot school-boys rushing out, An eager, crowding, roisterous rout; The sturdy lads; the lassies gay As bobolinks in merry May;

The farmer whistling to his team When first the dawn begins to gleam; The loaded wains that one by one Drag slowly home at set of sun;

Young lovers straying hand in hand Within a fair, enchanted land; And many a bride with lingering feet; And many a matron calm and sweet;

And many an old man bent with pain; And many a solemn funeral train; And sometimes, red against the sky, An army’s banners waving high!

All mysteries of life and death To which the spirit answereth, Are thine, O lonely mountain road, That followed where the river flowed!

ENTERING IN

The church was dim and silent With the hush before the prayer, Only the solemn trembling Of the organ stirred the air; Without, the sweet, still sunshine; Within, the holy calm Where priest and people waited For the swelling of the psalm.

Slowly the door swung open, And a trembling baby girl, Brown-eyed, with brown hair falling In many a wavy curl, With soft cheeks flushing hotly, Shy glances downward thrown, And small hands clasped before her, Stood in the aisle alone.

Stood half abashed, half frightened, Unknowing where to go, While like a wind-rocked flower, Her form swayed to and fro, And the changing color fluttered In the little troubled face, As from side to side she wavered With a mute, imploring grace.

It was but for a moment; What wonder that we smiled, By such a strange, sweet picture From holy thoughts beguiled? Then up rose someone softly: And many an eye grew dim, As through the tender silence He bore the child with him.

And I—I wondered (losing The sermon and the prayer) If when sometime I enter The “many mansions” fair, And stand, abashed and drooping, In the portal’s golden glow, Our God will send an angel To show me where to go!

A FLOWER FOR THE DEAD

You placed this flower in her hand, you say? This pure, pale rose in her hand of clay? Could she but lift her sealèd eyes, They would meet your own with a grieved surprise!

She has been your wife for many a year, When clouds hung low and when skies were clear; At your feet she laid her life’s glad spring, And her summer’s glorious blossoming.

Her whole heart went with the hand you won; If its warm love waned as the years went on, If it chilled in the grasp of an icy spell, What was the reason? I pray you tell!

You cannot? I can; and beside her bier My soul must speak and your soul must hear. If she was not all that she might have been, Hers was the sorrow, yours the sin.

Whose was the fault if she did not grow Like a rose in the summer? Do you know? Does a lily grow when its leaves are chilled? Does it bloom when its root is winter-killed?

For a little while, when you first were wed, Your love was like sunshine round her shed; Then a something crept between you two, You led where she could not follow you.

With a man’s firm tread you went and came; You lived for wealth, for power, for fame; Shut in to her woman’s work and ways, She heard the nation chant your praise.

But ah! you had dropped her hand the while; What time had you for a kiss, a smile? You two, with the same roof overhead, Were as far apart as the sundered dead!

You, in your manhood’s strength and prime; She, worn and faded before her time. ’Tis a common story. This rose, you say, You laid in her pallid hand to-day?

When did you give her a flower before? Ah, well!—what matter when all is o’er? Yet stay a moment; you’ll wed again. I mean no reproach; ’tis the way of men.

But I pray you think when some fairer face Shines like a star from her wonted place, That love will starve if it is not fed; That true hearts pray for their daily bread.

THOU KNOWEST

Thou knowest, O my Father! Why should I Weary high heaven with restless prayers and tears? Thou knowest all! My heart’s unuttered cry Hath soared beyond the stars and reached Thine ears.

Thou knowest—ah, Thou knowest! Then what need, O, loving God, to tell Thee o’er and o’er, And with persistent iteration plead As one who crieth at some closèd door?

“Tease not!” we mothers to our children say— “Our wiser love will grant whate’er is best.” Shall we, Thy children, run to Thee alway, Begging for this and that in wild unrest?

I dare not clamor at the heavenly gate, Lest I should lose the high, sweet strains within; O, Love Divine! I can but stand and wait Till Perfect Wisdom bids me enter in!

WINTER

O my roses, lying underneath the snow! Do you still remember summer’s warmth and glow? Do you thrill, remembering how your blushes burned When the Day-god on you ardent glances turned?

Great tree, wildly stretching bare arms up to heaven, Do you think how softly, on some warm June even, All your young leaves whispered, all your birds sang low, As with rhythmic motion boughs swayed to and fro?

River, lying whitely in a frozen sleep, Know you how your pulses used to throb and leap? How you danced and sparkled on your happy way, In the summer mornings when the world was gay?

Dear Earth, dumbly waiting God’s appointed time, Are you faint with longing for the voice sublime? Wrapped in stony silence, does your great heart beat, Listening in the darkness for the coming of His feet?

FIVE

“But a week is so long!” he said, With a toss of his curly head. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven!— Seven whole days! Why, in six you know (You said it yourself—you told me so) The great GOD up in heaven Made all the earth and the seas and skies, The trees and the birds and the butterflies! How can I wait for my seeds to grow!”

“But a month is so long!” he said, With a droop of his boyish head. “Hear me count—one, two, three, four— Four whole weeks, and three days more; Thirty-one days, and each will creep As the shadows crawl over yonder steep. Thirty-one nights, and I shall lie Watching the stars climb up the sky! How can I wait till a month is o’er?”

“But a year is so long!” he said, Uplifting his bright young head. “All the seasons must come and go Over the hills with footsteps slow— Autumn and winter, summer and spring; Oh, for a bridge of gold to fling Over the chasm deep and wide, That I might cross to the other side, Where she is waiting—my love, my bride!”

“Ten years may be long,” he said, Slow raising his stately head, “But there’s much to win, there is much to lose; A man must labor, a man must choose, And he must be strong to wait! The years may be long, but who would wear The crown of honor, must do and dare! No time has he to toy with fate Who would climb to manhood’s high estate!”

“Ah! life is not long!” he said, Bowing his grand white head. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven! Seven times ten are seventy. Seventy years! as swift their flight As swallows cleaving the morning light, Or golden gleams at even. Life is short as a summer night— How long, O GOD! is eternity?”

UNSOLVED

’Tis the old unanswered question! Since the stars together sung, In the glory of the morning, when the earth was fair and young,

Man hath asked it o’er and over, of the heavens so far and high, And from out the mystic silence never voice hath made reply!

Yet again to-night I ask it, though I know, O friend of mine, There will come, to all my asking, never answering voice of thine.

Ah! how many times the grasses have grown green above thy grave, And how many times above it have we heard the cold winds rave!

Thou hast solved the eternal problem that the ages hold in fee; Thou dost know what we but dream of; where we marvel, thou dost see.

What is truth, and what is fable; what the prophets saw who trod In their rapt, ecstatic visions up the holy mount of God!

Not of these high themes I question—but, O friend, I fain would know How beyond the silent river all the long years come and go!

Where they are, our well-belovèd, who have vanished from our sight, As the stars fade out of heaven at the dawning of the light;

How they live and how they love there, in the “somewhere” of our dreams; In the “city lying four-square” by the everlasting streams!

Oh, the mystery of being! Which is better, life or death? Thou hast tried them both, O comrade, yet thy voice ne’er answereth!

Hast thou grown as grow the angels? Doth thy spirit still aspire As the flame that soareth upward, mounting higher still, and higher?

In the flush of early manhood all thy earthly days were done; Short thy struggle and endeavor ere the peace of heaven was won.

But for us who stayed behind thee—oh! our hands are worn with toil, And upon our souls, it may be, are the stains of earthly moil.

Hast thou kept the lofty beauty and the glory of thy youth? Dost thou see our temples whitening, smiling softly in thy ruth?

But for us who bear the burdens that you dropped so long ago, All the cares you have forgotten, and the pains you missed, we know.

Yet—the question still remaineth! Which is better, death or life? The not doing, or the doing? Joy of calm, or joy of strife?

Which is better—to be saved from temptation and from sin, Or to wrestle with the dragon and the glorious fight to win?

Ah! we know not, but God knoweth! All resolves itself to this— That He gave to us the warfare, and to thee the heavenly bliss.

It was best for thee to go hence in the morning of the day; Till the evening shadows lengthen it is best for us to stay!

QUIETNESS

I would be quiet, Lord, Nor tease, nor fret; Not one small need of mine Wilt Thou forget.

I am not wise to know What most I need; I dare not cry too loud Lest Thou shouldst heed:

Lest Thou at length shouldst say, “Child, have thy will; As thou hast chosen, lo! Thy cup I fill!”

What I most crave, perchance Thou wilt withhold, As we from hands unmeet Keep pearls, or gold;

As we, when childish hands Would play with fire, Withhold the burning goal Of their desire.

Yet choose Thou for me—Thou Who knowest best; This one short prayer of mine Holds all the rest!

THE DIFFERENCE

Only a week ago and thou wert here! I touched thy hand, I saw thy dear, dark eyes, I kissed thy tender lips, I felt thee near, I spake, and listened to thy low replies.

To-day what leagues between us! Hill and vale, The rolling prairies and the mighty seas; Gray forest reaches where the wild winds wail, And mountain crests uplifted to the breeze!

So far thou art, who wert of late so near! The stars we watched have changed not in the skies; Still do thy hyacinth bells their beauty wear, Yet half a continent between us lies!

But swift as thought along the “singing wires” There flies a message like a bright-winged bird— “All’s well! All’s well!” and ne’er from woodland choirs By gladder music hath the air been stirred!

* * * * *

But thou, O thou, who but a week ago Passed calmly out beyond our yearning gaze, As some grand ship, all solemnly and slow, Sails out of sight beyond the gathering haze—

Oh, where art _thou_? In what far distant realm, What star in yon resplendent fields of light, On what fair isle that no rude seas may whelm, Dost thou, O brother, find thy home to-night?

Or art thou near us? There are those who say That but a breath divides our world from thine; A little cloud that may be blown away— A gossamer veil than spider’s web more fine.

Dost thou, a shadowy presence, linger near The happy paths that thou wert wont to tread, Where woods were still, and shining brooks ran clear, And waving boughs arched greenly overhead?

Oh! be thou far or near, it is the same! From thee there floats no message thro’ the air; No glad “All’s well” comes to us in thy name That we the joy of thy new life may share!

MY BIRTHDAY

My birthday!—“How many years ago? Twenty or thirty?” Don’t ask me! “Forty or fifty?”—How can I tell? I do not remember my birth, you see!

It is hearsay evidence—nothing more! Once on a time, the legends say, A girl was born—and that girl was I. How can I vouch for the truth, I pray?

I know I am here, but when I came Let some one wiser than I am tell! Did this sweet flower you plucked for me Know when its bud began to swell?

How old am I? You ought to know Without any telling of mine, my dear! For when I came to this happy earth Were you not waiting for me here?

A dark-eyed boy on the northern hills, Chasing the hours with flying feet, Did you not know your wife was born, By a subtile prescience, faint yet sweet?

Did never a breath from the south-land come, With sunshine laden and rare perfume, To lift your hair with a soft caress, And waken your heart to richer bloom?

Not one? O mystery strange as life! To think that we who are now so dear Were once in our dreams so far apart, Nor cared if the other were far or near!

But—how old am I? You must tell. Just as old as I seem to you! Nor shall I a day older be While life remaineth and love is true!

A RED ROSE

O Rose, my red, red Rose, Where has thy beauty fled? Low in the west is a sea of fire, But the great white moon soars high and higher, As my garden walks I tread.

Thy white rose-sisters gleam Like stars in the darkening sky; They bend their brows with a sudden thrill To the kiss of the night-dews soft and still, When the warm south wind floats by.

And the stately lilies stand Fair in the silvery light, Like saintly vestals, pale in prayer; Their pure breath sanctifies the air, As its fragrance fills the night.

But O, my red, red Rose! My Rose with the crimson lips! So bright thou wert in the sunny morn, Yet now thou art hiding all forlorn, And thy soul is in drear eclipse!

Dost thou mourn thy lover dead— Thy lover, the lordly Sun? Didst thou see him sink in the glowing west With pomp of banners above his rest? He shall rise again, sweet one!

He shall rise with his eye of fire— And thy passionate heart shall beat, And thy radiant blushes burn again, With the joy of rapture after pain At the coming of his feet!

TWENTY-ONE

Grown to man’s stature! O my little child! My bird that sought the skies so long ago! My fair, sweet blossom, pure and undefiled, How have the years flown since we laid thee low!

What have they been to thee? If thou wert here Standing beside thy brothers, tall and fair, With bearded lip, and dark eyes shining clear, And glints of summer sunshine in thy hair,

I should look up into thy face and say, Wavering, perhaps, between a tear and smile, “O my sweet son, thou art a man to-day!”— And thou wouldst stoop to kiss my lips the while.

But—up in heaven—how is it with thee, dear? Art thou a man—to man’s full stature grown? Dost thou count time as we do, year by year? And what of all earth’s changes hast thou known?

Thou hadst not learned to love me. Didst thou take Any small germ of love to heaven with thee, That thou hast watched and nurtured for my sake, Waiting till I its perfect flower may see?

What is it to have lived in heaven always? To have no memory of pain or sin? Ne’er to have known in all the calm, bright days, The jar and fret of earth’s discordant din?

Thy brothers—they are mortal—they must tread Ofttimes in rough, hard ways, with bleeding feet; Must fight with dragons, must bewail their dead, And fierce Apollyon face to face must meet.

I, who would give my very life for theirs, I cannot save them from earth’s pain or loss; I cannot shield them from its griefs or cares; Each human heart must bear alone its cross!

Was God, then, kinder unto thee than them, O thou whose little life was but a span?— Ah, think it not! In all his diadem No star shines brighter than the kingly man,

Who nobly earns whatever crown he wears, Who grandly conquers, or as grandly dies; And the white banner of his manhood bears, Through all the years uplifted to the skies!

What lofty pæans shall the victor greet! What crown resplendent for his brow be fit! O child, if earthly life be bitter-sweet, Hast thou not something missed in missing it?

SINGING IN THE DARK

O ye little warblers, flying fast and far From the balmy south-land, where the roses are, Robins red and blue-birds, do ye faint to see How the chill snow-blossoms whiten shrub and tree?

Through the snowy valley cold the north winds sweep; Mother earth, half-wakened, turns again to sleep; Silent lies the river in an icy trance, And the frozen meadows wait the sun’s hot glance.

Dull and gray the skies are. Soft and blue were those That so late above you bent at daylight’s close; Do ye grieve, remembering all the balm and bloom, All the warmth and sweetness of the starlit gloom?

Do ye sadly wonder what strange impulse drew All your flashing pinions the far ether through? Do ye count it madness that so wide ye strayed From the starry jasmine and the orange shade?

Yet this morn I heard ye singing in the dark, Songs of such rare sweetness that the world might hark! O ye blessed minstrels, silent not for pain, God is in the heavens, and your sun shall shine again!

THOMAS MOORE MAY 28, 1779-1879

Hush! O be ye silent, all ye birds of May! Cease the high, clear trilling of your roundelay! Be the merry minstrels mute in vale, on hill, And in every tree-top let the song be still!

O ye winds, breathe softly! Let your voices die In a low, faint whisper, sweet as love’s first sigh; O ye zephyrs, blowing over beds of flowers, Be ye still as dews are in the starry hours!