Part 7

I was with her there, and with tender care I folded her close to my breast, Till the heart’s wild throb, and the bursting sob, Were silenced and soothed to rest. O human love! there is nought above, That ever will rudely part The sacred tie, or the union high, Of those who are one in heart.

A bridge leads o’er from the heavenly shore, Where the happy spirits pass, And the angels that stand with the harp in the hand, On the “sea, as it were, of glass,” Play so soft and clear that the human ear, And the spirits who love the Lord, Can catch the sound through the space profound, And join in the sweet accord.

O, what is death? ’Tis a fleeting breath-- A simple but blesséd change-- ’Tis rending a chain, that the soul may gain A higher and broader range. Unbounded space is its dwelling-place, Where no human foot hath trod, But everywhere doth it feel the care And the changeless love of God.

O, then, though you weep when your loved ones sleep, When the rose on the cheek grows pale, Yet their forms of light, just concealed from sight, Are only behind the vail. With their faces fair, and their shining hair With blossoms of beauty crowned, They will also stand, with a helping hand, When you shall be Outward Bound.

THE WANDERER’S WELCOME HOME.

A WOMAN, with weary heart and hand, Wasted and worn by the rude world’s strife, Prayed for the peace of the better land, And the mansions fair of the higher life. She prayed at night in the churchyard lone, Resting her brow on a cold, white stone.

All of that day in the public street, She had played on her harp and patiently sung, Till the cold wind palsied her weary feet, And chilled the words on her faltering tongue. And but one penny to meet her need Had the cold world spared from its selfish greed.

O, the mocking words of “Home, sweet home,” Had she sung for that paltry, pitiful fee, She who thus lonely was doomed to roam, While never a home on earth had she; But often the lips must perform a part That is foreign and false to the aching heart.

At night, by her sorrowful longings led, She had turned from the dwellings of men away, And sought the place of the sleeping dead, In silence and darkness alone to pray. While her harp, as it sighed in the wintry air, Seemed to echo the tone of her lone heart’s prayer.

Her face was white as the drifted snows, And her eyes were fixed in a dull despair, As if the chilling tide of her woes Had swelled from her heart, and had frozen there. She lifted her hands to the wintry sky, And prayed in her anguish, “Lord, let me die!”

Then soft and clear to her quickened sense A vision of heavenly beauty came; Her spirit thrilled with a joy intense, And her heart grew warm with a heavenly flame. Sweet voices were singing, “No longer roam, But haste to the joys of thy ‘home, sweet home.’”

The stars looked down from the wintry skies In solemn beauty, undimmed and clear, But the vision that greeted her eager eyes Was unto her spirit both warm and near. Again those voices poured forth the lay, “To thy ‘home, sweet home,’ O, haste away.”

She seized her harp, and her white hand swept With a full accord o’er its trembling strings, Waking the echoes that round her slept, Like the swan, which in dying so sweetly sings, As she answered them back, “No more to roam, Lo! I come, I come to my ‘home, sweet home.’”

The watchman who went on his lonely round Felt his stout heart thrill with a sense of dread, When he heard that strange and unwonted sound Come forth from the place of the silent dead. He listened, and breathed a fervent prayer For the rest of the dreamless sleepers there.

The watchman who went on his lonely round Remembered that sound at break of day, And he turned aside to the hallowed ground, Where the dead in their quiet slumbers lay. And there he found, by the cold, white stone, The lifeless form whence the soul had flown.

With white lips parted, and eyes upraised, And her hands to the harp-strings frozen cold, The warm blood chilled in his veins as he gazed, And he thought of the weight of her woes untold. “Great God!” he said, “is our faith a lie, That thus, unheeded, thy children die!”

“Hush, murmuring spirit!” the Truth replied; “Loss ever walks hand in hand with gain; Life hath its sunny and shady side, Its major, as well as its minor strain. And she who thus lonely was doomed to roam Now rests at peace in her ‘home, sweet home.’”

“The pilgrims of earth, in their homeward way, Full often in danger and doubt must stand; But out of the darkness shall come the day, And strength and healing from God’s right hand. And the scales of life, as they rise and fall, Full measures of justice shall mete to all.”

LABOR AND WAIT.

ALL green, and bitter, and hard, and sour, The fruit on the Tree of Life is growing; But the genial sunshine, with quickening power, Will sweeten its juices like nectar flowing. For the full, fair growth of its perfect state There is only needed the right condition. Then labor and wait, both early and late, Till the ripening future shall bring fruition.

Far out in the harvest fields of Time, The grain for the reaper is standing ready, And they who come to the work sublime Must toil with a patience calm and steady. Truth never was subject to Chance or Fate-- Its sickle, so sharp, cuts clean and even. Then labor and wait, both early and late, For the seed-field of Earth yields the harvest of Heaven.

In their quiet graves, on the green hill-side, The sacred dust of your loved is sleeping; And the homes where the light of their smile has died Are filled with the sorrowful sounds of weeping. But over the gloomy clouds of Fate, The light of the better land is shining; Then labor and wait, both early and late, For the cloud of Death has a silver lining.

There are fair, sweet faces, and gentle eyes, That look through the shadows and mists above you; And the fond affection that never dies, Still speaks from the lips of the blest who love you. They call you up from your low estate, To the boundless bliss of the life supernal. Then labor and wait, both early and late, For Time is short, but Life is Eternal.

FRAE RHYMING ROBIN.

The following poem was given under the inspiration of Robert Burns, at the close of a lecture on “The Immaculate Conception.”

GUID FRIENDS:

I WILL na’ weave my rhymes to-night In winsome measure, Or strive your fancies to delight Wi’ songs o’ pleasure; But gin[6] ye hae na’ heard too much O’ solemn preachin’, I’ll gie ye just anither touch O’ useful teachin’.

But, aiblins,[7] when ye hear my verse, Ye may be thinkin’ That I hae sunk frae bad to warse, And still am sinkin’; But though I seem to fa’ from grace, In man’s opinion, Auld Hornie ne’er will see my face In his dominion.

An unco[8] change will come, ere lang, O’er all your dreamin’, And ye shall see that right and wrang Are much in seemin’. Man shall na’ langer perjure love, Nor think it treason Anent[9] the mighty King above, To use his reason.

Ay, love and nature, frae the first, Hae been perverted, And man, frae Adam, will be cursed, Till he’s converted: For Nature will avenge her cause On ilka[10] creature, Who will na’ take her, wi’ her laws, For guide and teacher.

Auld Custom is a sleekit[11] saint, And sae is Fashion, And baith will watch till sinners faint, To lay the lash on; Men follow them wi’ ane accord, Led by their noses, Because they cry, “Thus saith the Lord, The God o’ Moses.”

The time will come when man will ken God’s word far better; He’ll live mair in the spirit then, Less in the letter; And that which man ance called impure, Through partial seein’, He’ll find for it baith cause and cure, In his ain bein’.

Man needna’ gae to auld lang syne For truth to guide him, For if he seeks, he sure will fin’ Truth close beside him. Each gowan[12] is ordained o’ grace To be his teacher, And ilka toddlin’ weanie’s[13] face Is text and preacher.

Man was na’ born a child o’ hell Frae his creation: The love that made him will itsel’ Be his salvation. Each child that’s born o’ perfect love Can be man’s saviour: Love is his warrant frae above, For guid behavior.

His mither may be high or low, A Miss or Madam; The God within him will outgrow The sin o’ Adam; His only bed may be the earth, His hame a shealin’;[14] It will na’ change his real worth, Or inward feelin’.

Though born beneath the Church’s ban, Or man’s displeasure, He will na’ be the less a man In mind or measure. God’s image, stamped upon his brow, Is his defender, And makes him--as ye hae it now-- “Guid legal tender.”

But ilka child that’s born o’ hate-- However lawful-- Will be the victim, sune or late, O’ passions awful; Will hirple[15] o’er the ways o’ life, Wi’ friends scarce ony, And in the dour[16] warld’s angry strife, Find faes full mony.

The Power aboon, sae kind and guid, Who ever sees us, Will gie to men, whene’er they need, A John or Jesus. The sin o’ Adam will na’ cause His love to vary, Nor need he change creation’s laws[17] To form a Mary.

Man’s sympathies must largely share In what is human, And he will love the truth the mair, That’s born o’ woman. The De’il himsel’, at last, through love Will be converted, And, reckoned wi’ the saunts above, Leave hell deserted.

The One who laid Creation’s plan Knows how to end it, Nor need he ever call on man To help him mend it. Then, syne[18] this Being is your friend, And man your brither, Gae on rejoicing to the end, Wi’ ane anither.

AN ELEGY ON THE DEVIL.

Given under the inspiration of Robert Burns.

MEN say the De’il is dead at last, And that his course is ended, Which sure must be an unco loss To those whom he befriended. No doubt he managed to evade The sinner’s awful sentence, By that last trick, so often played, Of a death-bed repentance.

Alas! alas! we dinna ken What will be done without him, For all the pious sons of men Made such a rant about him. Whene’er they chanced to gang agley, Or did a deed of evil, Or winked at sin upon “the sly,” ’Twas all laid to the Deevel.

But henceforth they must bear their sin, And come to the confession, Without a single hope to win A pardon for transgression; Unless, indeed, they try the plan Of wise old Orthodoxy, Invented for puir sinful man, O’ saving souls by proxy.

But hoolie! what a grand mistake Was made at the creation, That God should e’er a De’il make, To peril men’s salvation. He might have made puir man, nae doubt, To grace a greater debtor, Had he but left the De’il out, Or only made man better.

I wad na mock at honest faith, Or utter thought profanely, But then ’tis better for us baith, That truth be spoken plainly. The great, guid God, who loves us a’, Is sure misrepresented, Whene’er men say he cursed us a’ In what he could prevented.

And as for Hornie--Nickie-ben-- Auld cloven-foot or Deevil,-- I dinna think that he has been, The cause o’ all man’s evil. Now that the puir old soul is gone, He does na’ seem so hateful, And those who live, his loss to mourn, Should speak na’ word ungrateful.

The clergy, sure, have lost a friend Who never had a rival-- And henceforth all their hopes must end, O’ raising a revival. For when a rout and rant they made, To turn puir souls frae error, The De’il was half their stock in trade, To fill men’s hearts wi’ terror.

The politicians might as weel Gie o’er each vain endeavor-- What unco sorrow must they feel, Now he is gone forever! In all their dealings, hand in hand, They went with him thegither, They executed what he planned, And each helped on the ither.

And then the long-faced, praying saints, Who worshiped God on Sunday, And set aside their pious feints, To serve the De’il on Monday-- They evermore, with empty word, Professed their hate of evil; But while they cried “Guid Lord! Guid Lord,” They said aside, “Guid Devil!”

We dinna ken what caused his death, Or ended his probation, Whether it was that he lacked breath, Or lacked appreciation. Perhaps the “origin o’ Sin” Has proved too tough a question; He took it for his meat within, And died o’ indigestion.

Farewell! farewell! auld Nickie-ben; We trust ye are forgiven, For doubtless ye made haste to men’,[19] And make your peace wi’ heaven. We leave your burial, guid or bad, To Truth, as undertaker, And your puir soul, such as ye had, Commend unto its Maker.

FRATERNITY.

COULD ye but ken, ye sons o’ men, How truly ye are brithers, Ye’d make guid speed to stand agreed, Tho’ born o’ various mithers. Ane common breath, ane common death, Ane hame in Heaven above ye-- Ye are the fruit frae one great root In the guid God who lo’es ye.

All high and low, all empty show, All envious differences, Will fade from sight and vanish quite, When men come to their senses. Each living man works out the plan For which he was intended, And he does best, who will na’ rest Until his work is ended.

Your neebors’ blame, or sinful shame, Should gie your soul na’ pleasure, For while ye judge, wi’ cruel grudge, You fill your ain sad measure. The De’il himsel’ could scarcely tell Which o’ ye was the better; He wad be laith to leave ye baith, While either was his debtor.

Here in life’s school wi’ pain and dool,[20] You get your education, While mony a trip and sinful slip Helps on the soul’s salvation. The unco skeigh,[21] wi’ heads full high, Wha feel themselves maist holy, Oft learn through sin how to begin _True_ life amang the lowly.

Baith you and I may gang agley,[22] For ’tis a common failin’; But hauld away! we need na’ stay A weepin’ and a wailin’. The God aboon cares not how soon We leave our sins behind us; He does not hate us in that state, Nor set the De’il to mind us.

And as for Hell, o’ which men tell, I’m sure o’ the opinion, There’s na’ such place o’ “saving grace” In all the Lord’s dominion. And those who rave, puir souls to save, Wi’ long-faced, pious fleechin’,[23] Will find far hence, that _common sense_ Is better than _such_ preachin’.

That which ye ca’ the power o’ law, Is but a puir invention; It counts the deed as evil seed, But winks at the intention. Could men but be mair truly free, In some things less restrickéd, The world wad find the human kind Wad na’ be half sae wicked.

The pent-up steed kept short o’ feed Is wildest in his roamin’; And dammed-up streams, wi’ angry gleams, Dash o’er each hindrance foamin’. Therefore (I pray take what I say In spirit, not in letter) Mankind should be like rivers, free-- The less they’re damned the better.

You need na’ heed the grousome creed Which tells ye o’ God’s anger; On Nature’s page frae age to age, His love is written stranger. God’s providence, in ony sense, Has never been one-sided, And for the weal o’ chick, or chiel, He amply has provided.

The winter’s snaw, the birken shaw,[24] The gowans[25] brightly springing, The murky night, the rosy light, The laverocks[26] gayly singing, The spring’s return, the wimplin burn,[27] The cushat[28] fondly mated, All join to tell how unco well God lo’es all things created.

Then dinna strive to live and thrive Sae selfish and unthinkin’, But firmly stand, and lend a hand To keep the weak frae sinkin’. ’Tis love can make, for love’s sweet sake, A trusty fier[29] in sorrow, Wha spends his gear[30] wi’out a fear O’ what may be to-morrow.

The preachers say, there’s far awa’ A land o’ milk and honey, Where all is free as barley brie, And wi’out price or money; But _here_ the meat o’ love is sweet, For souls in sinful blindness, And there’s a milk that’s guid for ilk[31]-- “The milk o’ human kindness.”

The lift aboon[32] will welcome sune The wayworn and the weary, And angels fair will greet them there, Sae winsome and sae cheery. But while they stay, make smooth the way, Through all life’s wintry weather, Until ane bield[33] and common shield, Shall hauld ye all thegither.

OWEENA.

ONCE, when Death, the mighty hunter, Bent his bow and sent an arrow Through the shadows of the forest, Harming not the Bear or Panther, Harming not the Owl or Raven, In the bosom of Oweena, Fairest of the Indian maidens, Was the fatal arrow hidden.

On the lodge of Massa-wam-sett Fell a deep and dreadful shadow; He, the wise and warlike Sachem, Mourned in silence for Oweena; But the mother, Nah-me-o-ka, Like a tall pine in the tempest, Tossed her arms in wildest anguish, Pouring forth her lamentation:

“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su![34] O my darling! my Oweena! Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men--[35] I shall never see thee more!

“Ho-bo-mo-co, evil Spirit, Hiding darkly in the forest, Making shadow in the sunshine, You have stolen her away.

“She was like the flowers in spring time, She was like the singing waters, She was like the summer sunshine, Neen wo-ma-su! She is dead!

“Hear me! Hear me, O Great Spirit! I will bring thee Bear and Bison, I will bring thee Beads and Wampum; Wilt thou give her back to me?

“Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su! O my darling! My Oweena! Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men, I shall never see thee more!”

Ceaseless was her plaintive wailing, Even when the fair Oweena Slept beneath the pine trees’ shadow, In the green and silent forest, Where the birds sang in the branches, Where the roses of the summer, And the vines, with slender fingers, Clasped their loving hands above her.

From the lodge of Massa-wam-sett, While the brave old chieftain slumbered, In the silence of the midnight, To the grave stole Nah-me-o-ka, Pouring forth her lamentations: “Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su! Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men, I shall never see thee more!”

Once, the tempest, on its war-path, Painted all the sky with blackness, Sped the arrows of the lightning, And the war-whoop of the thunder, Made the mighty forest tremble. But it moved not Nah-me-o-ka, Only moaning, “Neen wo-ma-su! I shall never see thee more!”

All the forest leaves were weeping, And the black wings of the darkness, Brooding over Nah-me-o-ka, Filled her with a chilling shudder: And the thunder seemed to mutter With a cruel exultation, “You shall never see her more.” But thereafter came a whisper--

“I am with you, O my mother! For I cannot turn my footsteps To the land of the Great Spirit, While I hear your mournful wailing, Calling, calling me again.

“In the hunting-grounds beyond me There are sunshine, peace and plenty, But I wander, sad and lonely, In the land of death and darkness, Listening only to your cry.

“Let me go to the Great Spirit, To the lodge of peace and plenty, To the land of summer sunshine, That with life and strength and gladness, I may meet you yet again.”

Then the soft hand of Oweena Gently lifted Nah-me-o-ka, Who with wondering eyes beheld her, Like a light amid the darkness. And Oweena safely led her Through the tempest and the midnight, To the lodge of Massa-wam-sett, Kissed her tenderly--and vanished.

From that time did Nah-me-o-ka Dry her tears, and cease her moaning, For she said, “I will not keep her From the land of summer sunshine, From the home of peace and plenty, From the lodge of the Great Spirit. Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su! In the land of the Hereafter I shall meet her yet again.”

GONE IS GONE, AND DEAD IS DEAD.

“On returning to the inn, he found there a wandering minstrel--a woman--singing, and accompanying her voice with the music of a harp. The burden of her song was, ‘Gone is gone, and dead is dead.’ The utter hopelessness of these words filled his soul with anguish. ‘O,’ he exclaimed, ‘thou loved and lost one! patient and long-suffering, would that I could call thee back again, not to forgive me--O, no!--but rather that I might have the consolation of showing thee, by my repentance, how differently I would conduct towards thee now.”--JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

“Gone is gone, and dead is dead!” Words to hopeless sorrow wed-- Words from deepest anguish wrung, Which a lonely wand’rer sung, While her harp prolonged the strain, Like a spirit’s cry of pain When all hope with life is fled: “Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”

Mournful singer! hearts unknown Thrill responsive to that tone; By a common weal and woe, Kindred sorrows all must know. Lips all tremulous with pain Oft repeat that sad refrain When the fatal shaft is sped-- “Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”

Pain and death are everywhere-- In the earth, and sea, and air; And the sunshine’s golden glance, And the heaven’s serene expanse, With a silence calm and high, Seem to mock that mournful cry Wrung from hearts by hope unfed-- “Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”

O, ye sorrowing ones, arise; Wipe the tear-drops from your eyes; Lift your faces to the light; Read Death’s mystery aright. Life unfolds from life within, And with death does life begin. Of the soul can ne’er be said, “Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”

As the stars, which, one by one, Lit their torches at the sun, And across ethereal space Swept each to its destined place, So the soul’s Promethean fire, Kindled never to expire, On its course immortal sped, Is not gone, and is not dead.

By a Power to thought unknown, Love shall ever seek its own. Sundered not by time or space, With no distant dwelling-place, Soul shall answer unto soul, As the needle to the pole. Leaving grief’s lament unsaid, “Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”