Chapter 9

And list! he begins That psalm for sins, The first of the mournful seven; Plaintive and soft It rises aloft, Begging the mercy of Heaven To pity and forgive, For the sake of those who live, The dead who have died unshriven. Miserere! Miserere! Still your heart and hush your breath! The voices of despair and death Are shuddering through the psalm! Miserere! Miserere! Lift your hearts! the terror dies! Up in yonder sinless skies The psalms sound sweet and calm! Miserere! Miserere! Very low, in tender tones, The music pleads, the music moans, "I forgive and have forgiven, The dead whose hearts were shriven." De profundis! De profundis! Psalm of the dead and disconsolate! Thou hast sounded through a thousand years, And pealed above ten thousand biers; And still, sad psalm, you mourn the fate Of sinners and of just, When their souls are going up to God, Their bodies down to dust. Dread hymn! you wring the saddest tears From mortal eyes that fall, And your notes evoke the darkest fears That human hearts appall! You sound o'er the good, you sound o'er the bad, And ever your music is sad, so sad, We seem to hear murmured in every tone, For the saintly a blessing; for sinners a curse. Psalm, sad psalm! you must pray and grieve Over our dead on this Christmas eve. De profundis! De profundis! And the night chants the psalm o'er the mortal clay, And the spirits immortal from far away, To the music of hope sing this sweet-toned lay.

You think of the dead on Christmas eve, Wherever the dead are sleeping, And we from a land where we may not grieve Look tenderly down on your weeping. You think us far, we are very near, From you and the earth, though parted; We sing to-night to console and cheer The hearts of the broken-hearted. The earth watches over the lifeless clay Of each of its countless sleepers, And the sleepless spirits that passed away Watch over all earth's weepers. We shall meet again in a brighter land, Where farewell is never spoken; We shall clasp each other in hand, And the clasp shall not be broken; We shall meet again, in a bright, calm clime, Where we'll never know a sadness, And our lives shall be filled, like a Christmas chime, With rapture and with gladness. The snows shall pass from our graves away, And you from the earth, remember; And the flowers of a bright, eternal May, Shall follow earth's December. When you think of us think not of the tomb Where you laid us down in sorrow; But look aloft, and beyond earth's gloom, And wait for the great to-morrow. And the pontiff, Night, with his star-stole on, Whispereth soft and low: Requiescat! Requiescat!

Peace! Peace! to every one For whom we grieve this Christmas eve, In their graves beneath the snow.

The stars in the far-off heaven Have long since struck eleven! And hark! from temple and from tower, Soundeth time's grandest midnight hour, Blessed by the Saviour's birth, And night putteth off the sable stole, Symbol of sorrow and sign of dole, For one with many a starry gem, To honor the Babe of Bethlehem, Who comes to men the King of them, Yet comes without robe or diadem, And all turn towards the holy east, To hear the song of the Christmas feast.

Four thousand years earth waited, Four thousand years men prayed, Four thousand years the nations sighed, That their King so long delayed.

The prophets told His coming, The saintly for Him sighed, And the star of the Babe of Bethlehem Shone o'er them when they died.

Their faces towards the future, They longed to hail the light That in the after centuries Would rise on Christmas night.

But still the Saviour tarried, Within His father's home And the nations wept and wondered why The promised had not come.

At last earth's hope was granted, And God was a child of earth; And a thousand angels chanted The lowly midnight birth.

Ah! Bethlehem was grander That hour than Paradise; And the light of earth that night eclipsed The splendors of the skies.

Then let us sing the anthem The angels once did sing; Until the music of love and praise, O'er whole wide world will ring.

Gloria in excelsis! Sound the thrilling song; In excelsis Deo! Roll the hymn along. Gloria in excelsis! Let the heavens ring; In excelsis Deo! Welcome, new-born King Gloria in excelsis! Over the sea and land, In excelsis Deo! Chant the anthem grand. Gloria in excelsis! Let us all rejoice; In excelsis Deo! Lift each heart and voice. Gloria in excelsis! Swell the hymn on high; In excelsis Deo! Sound it to the sky. Gloria in excelsis! Sing it, sinful earth, In excelsis Deo! For the Saviour's birth.

Thus joyfully and victoriously, Glad and ever so gloriously, High as the heavens, wide as the earth, Swelleth the hymn of the Saviour's birth.

Lo! the day is waking In the east afar; Dawn is faintly breaking, Sunk in every star.

Christmas eve has vanished With its shadows gray; All its griefs are banished By bright Christmas day.

Joyful chimes are ringing O'er the land and seas, And there comes glad singing, Borne on every breeze.

Little ones so merry Bed-clothes coyly lift, And, in such a hurry, Prattle "Christmas gift!"

Little heads so curly, Knowing Christmas laws, Peep out very early For old "Santa Claus".

Little eyes are laughing O'er their Christmas toys, Older ones are quaffing Cups of Christmas joys.

Hearts are joyous, cheerful, Faces all are gay; None are sad and tearful On bright Christmas day.

Hearts are light and bounding, All from care are free; Homes are all resounding With the sounds of glee.

Feet with feet are meeting, Bent on pleasure's way; Souls to souls give greeting Warm on Christmas day.

Gifts are kept a-going Fast from hand to hand; Blessings are a-flowing Over every land.

One vast wave of gladness Sweeps its world-wide way, Drowning every sadness On this Christmas day.

Merry, merry Christmas, Haste around the earth; Merry, merry Christmas, Scatter smiles and mirth.

Merry, merry Christmas, Be to one and all! Merry, merry Christmas, Enter hut and hall.

Merry, merry Christmas, Be to rich and poor! Merry, merry Christmas Stop at every door.

Merry, merry Christmas, Fill each heart with joy! Merry, merry Christmas To each girl and boy.

Merry, merry Christmas, Better gifts than gold; Merry, merry Christmas To the young and old.

Merry, merry Christmas, May the coming year Bring as merry a Christmas And as bright a cheer.

"Far Away"

"Far Away!" what does it mean? A change of heart with a change of place? When footsteps pass from scene to scene, Fades soul from soul with face from face? Are hearts the slaves or lords of space?

"Far Away!" what does it mean? Does distance sever there from here? Can leagues of land part hearts? -- I ween They cannot; for the trickling tear Says "Far Away" means "Far More Near".

"Far Away!" -- the mournful miles Are but the mystery of space That blends our sighs, but parts our smiles, For love will find a meeting place When face is farthest off from face.

"Far Away!" we meet in dreams, As 'round the altar of the night Far-parted stars send down their gleams To meet in one embrace of light And make the brow of darkness bright.

"Far Away!" we meet in tears, That tell the path of weary feet; And all the good-byes of the years But make the wanderer's welcome sweet, The rains of parted clouds thus meet.

"Far Away!" we meet in prayer, You know the temple and the shrine; Before it bows the brow of care, Upon it tapers dimly shine; 'Tis mercy's home, and yours and mine.

"Far Away!" it falls between What is to-day and what has been; But ah! what is meet, what is not, In every hour and every spot, Where lips breathe on "I have forgot."

"Far Away!" there is no far! Nor days nor distance e'er can bar My spirit from your spirits -- nay, Farewell may waft a face away, But still with you my heart will stay.

"Far Away!" I sing its song, But while the music moves along, From out each word an echo clear Falls trembling on my spirit's ear, "Far Away" means "Far More Near".

Listen

We borrow, In our sorrow, From the sun of some to-morrow Half the light that gilds to-day; And the splendor Flashes tender O'er hope's footsteps to defend her From the fears that haunt the way.

We never Here can sever Any now from the forever Interclasping near and far! For each minute Holds within it All the hours of the infinite, As one sky holds every star.

Wrecked

The winds are singing a death-knell Out on the main to-night; The sky droops low -- and many a bark That sailed from harbors bright, Like many an one before, Shall enter port no more: And a wreck shall drift to some unknown shore Before to-morrow's light.

The clouds are hanging a death-pall Over the sea to-night; The stars are veiled -- and the hearts that sailed Away from harbors bright, Shall sob their last for their quiet home -- And, sobbing, sink 'neath the whirling foam Before the morning's light.

The waves are weaving a death-shroud Out on the main to-night; Alas! the last prayer whispered there By lips with terror white! Over the ridge of gloom, Not a star will loom! God help the souls that will meet their doom Before the dawn of light!

* * * * *

The breeze is singing a joy song Over the sea to-day; The storm is dead and the waves are red With the flush of the morning's ray; And the sleepers sleep, but beyond the deep The eyes that watch for the ships shall weep For the hearts they bore away.

Dreaming

The moan of a wintry soul Melted into a summer song, And the words, like the wavelet's roll, Moved murmuringly along.

And the song flowed far and away, Like the voice of a half-sleeping rill -- Each wave of it lit by a ray -- But the sound was so soft and so still,

And the tone was so gentle and low, None heard the song till it had passed; Till the echo that followed its flow Came dreamingly back from the past.

'Twas too late! -- a song never returns That passes our pathway unheard; As dust lying dreaming in urns Is the song lying dead in a word.

For the birds of the skies have a nest, And the winds have a home where they sleep, And songs, like our souls, need a rest, Where they murmur the while we may weep.

* * * * *

But songs -- like the birds o'er the foam, Where the storm wind is beating their breast, Fly shoreward -- and oft find a home In the shelter of words where they rest.

A Thought

Hearts that are great beat never loud, They muffle their music when they come; They hurry away from the thronging crowd With bended brows and lips half dumb,

And the world looks on and mutters -- "Proud." But when great hearts have passed away Men gather in awe and kiss their shroud, And in love they kneel around their clay.

Hearts that are great are always lone, They never will manifest their best; Their greatest greatness is unknown -- Earth knows a little -- God, the rest.

"Yesterdays"

Gone! and they return no more, But they leave a light in the heart; The murmur of waves that kiss a shore Will never, I know, depart.

Gone! yet with us still they stay, And their memories throb through life; The music that hushes or stirs to-day, Is toned by their calm or strife.

Gone! and yet they never go! We kneel at the shrine of time: 'Tis a mystery no man may know, Nor tell in a poet's rhyme.

"To-Days"

Brief while they last, Long when they are gone; They catch from the past A light to still live on.

Brief! yet I ween A day may be an age, The poet's pen may screen Heart-stories on one page.

Brief! but in them, From eve back to morn, Some find the gem, Many find the thorn.

Brief! minutes pass Soft as flakes of snow, Shadows o'er the grass Could not swifter go.

Brief! but along All the after-years To-day will be a song Of smiles or of tears.

"To-Morrows"

God knows all things -- but we In darkness walk our ways; We wonder what will be, We ask the nights and days.

Their lips are sealed; at times The bards, like prophets, see, And rays rush o'er their rhymes From suns of "days to be".

They see To-morrow's heart, They read To-morrow's face, They grasp -- is it by art -- The far To-morrow's trace?

They see what is unseen, And hear what is unheard, And To-morrow's shade or sheen Rests on the poet's word.

As seers see a star Beyond the brow of night, So poets scan the far Prophetic when they write.

They read a human face, As readers read their page, The while their thought will trace A life from youth to age.

They have a mournful gift, Their verses oft are tears; And sleepless eyes they lift To look adown the years.

To-morrows are to-days! Is it not more than art? When all life's winding ways Meet in the poet's heart?

The present meets the past, The future, too, is there; The first enclasps the last And never folds fore'er.

It is not all a dream; A poet's thought is truth; The things that are -- and seem From age far back to youth --

He holds the tangled threads, His hands unravel them; He knows the hearts and heads For thorns, or diadem.

Ask him, and he will see What your To-morrows are; He'll sing "What is to be" Beneath each sun and star.

To-morrows! Dread unknown! What fates may they not bring? What is the chord? the tone? The key in which they sing?

I see a thousand throngs, To-morrows for them wait; I hear a thousand songs Intoning each one's fate.

And yours? What will it be? Hush! song, and let me pray! God sees it all -- I see A long, lone, winding way;

And more! no matter what! Crosses and crowns you wear: My song may be forgot, But Thou shalt not, in prayer.

Inevitable

What has been will be, 'Tis the under law of life; 'Tis the song of sky and sea, To the key of calm and strife.

For guard we as we may, What is to be will be, The dark must fold each day -- The shore must gird each sea.

All things are ruled by law; 'Tis only in man's will You meet a feeble flaw; But fate is weaving still

The web and woof of life, With hands that have no hearts, Thro' calmness and thro' strife, Despite all human arts.

For fate is master here, He laughs at human wiles; He sceptres every tear, And fetters any smiles.

What is to be will be, We cannot help ourselves; The waves ask not the sea Where lies the shore that shelves.

The law is coldest steel, We live beneath its sway, It cares not what we feel, And so pass night and day.

And sometimes we may think This cannot -- will not -- be: Some waves must rise -- some sink, Out on the midnight sea.

And we are weak as waves That sink upon the shore; We go down into graves -- Fate chants the nevermore;

Cometh a voice! Kneel down! 'Tis God's -- there is no fate -- He giveth the Cross and Crown, He opens the jeweled gate.

He watcheth with such eyes As only mothers own -- "Sweet Father in the skies! Ye call us to a throne."

There is no fate -- God's love Is law beneath each law, And law all laws above Fore'er, without a flaw.

Sorrow and the Flowers

A Memorial Wreath to C. F.

Sorrow:

A garland for a grave! Fair flowers that bloom, And only bloom to fade as fast away, We twine your leaflets 'round our Claudia's tomb, And with your dying beauty crown her clay.

Ye are the tender types of life's decay; Your beauty, and your love-enfragranced breath, From out the hand of June, or heart of May, Fair flowers! tell less of life and more of death.

My name is Sorrow. I have knelt at graves, All o'er the weary world for weary years; I kneel there still, and still my anguish laves The sleeping dust with moaning streams of tears.

And yet, the while I garland graves as now, I bring fair wreaths to deck the place of woe; Whilst joy is crowning many a living brow, I crown the poor, frail dust that sleeps below.

She was a flower -- fresh, fair and pure, and frail; A lily in life's morning. God is sweet; He reached His hand, there rose a mother's wail; Her lily drooped: 'tis blooming at His feet.

Where are the flowers to crown the faded flower? I want a garland for another grave; And who will bring them from the dell and bower, To crown what God hath taken, with what heaven gave?

As though ye heard my voice, ye heed my will; Ye come with fairest flowers: give them to me, To crown our Claudia. Love leads memory still, To prove at graves love's immortality.

White Rose:

Her grave is not a grave; it is a shrine, Where innocence reposes, Bright over which God's stars must love to shine, And where, when Winter closes, Fair Spring shall come, and in her garland twine, Just like this hand of mine, The whitest of white roses.

Laurel:

I found it on a mountain slope, The sunlight on its face; It caught from clouds a smile of hope That brightened all the place.

They wreathe with it the warrior's brow, And crown the chieftain's head; But the laurel's leaves love best to grace The garland of the dead.

Wild Flower:

I would not live in a garden, But far from the haunts of men; Nature herself was my warden, I lived in a lone little glen. A wild flower out of the wildwood, Too wild for even a name; As strange and as simple as childhood, And wayward, yet sweet all the same.

Willow Branch:

To sorrow's own sweet crown, With simple grace, The weeping-willow bends her branches down Just like a mother's arm, To shield from harm, The dead within their resting place.

Lily:

The angel flower of all the flowers: Its sister flowers, In all the bowers Worship the lily, for it brings, Wherever it blooms, On shrines or tombs, A dream surpassing earthly sense Of heaven's own stainless innocence.

Violet Leaves:

It is too late for violets, I only bring their leaves, I looked in vain for mignonettes To grace the crown grief weaves; For queenly May, upon her way, Robs half the bowers Of all their flowers, And leaves but leaves to June. Ah! beauty fades so soon; And the valley grows lonely in spite of the sun, For flowerets are fading fast, one by one. Leaves for a grave, leaves for a garland, Leaves for a little flower, gone to the far-land.

Forget-Me-Not:

"Forget-me-not!" The sad words strangely quiver On lips, like shadows falling on a river, Flowing away, By night, by day, Flowing away forever. The mountain whence the river springs Murmurs to it, "forget me not;" The little stream runs on and sings On to the sea, and every spot It passes by Breathes forth a sigh, "Forget me not!" "forget me not!"

A Garland:

I bring this for her mother; ah, who knows The lonely deeps within a mother's heart? Beneath the wildest wave of woe that flows Above, around her, when her children part, There is a sorrow, silent, dark, and lone; It sheds no tears, it never maketh moan. Whene'er a child dies from a mother's arms, A grave is dug within the mother's heart: She watches it alone; no words of art Can tell the story of her vigils there. This garland fading even while 'tis fair, It is a mother's memory of a grave, When God hath taken her whom heaven gave.

Sorrow:

Farewell! I go to crown the dead; Yet ye have crowned yourselves to-day, For they whose hearts so faithful love The lonely grave -- the very clay; They crown themselves with richer gems Than flash in royal diadems.

Hope

Thine eyes are dim: A mist hath gathered there; Around their rim Float many clouds of care, And there is sorrow every -- everywhere.

But there is God, Every -- everywhere; Beneath His rod Kneel thou adown in prayer.

For grief is God's own kiss Upon a soul. Look up! the sun of bliss Will shine where storm-clouds roll.

Yes, weeper, weep! 'Twill not be evermore; I know the darkest deep Hath e'en the brightest shore.

So tired! so tired! A cry of half despair; Look! at your side -- And see Who standeth there!

Your Father! Hush! A heart beats in His breast; Now rise and rush Into His arms -- and rest.

Farewells

They are so sad to say: no poem tells The agony of hearts that dwells In lone and last farewells.

They are like deaths: they bring a wintry chill To summer's roses, and to summer's rill; And yet we breathe them still.

For pure as altar-lights hearts pass away; Hearts! we said to them, "Stay with us! stay!" And they said, sighing as they said it, "Nay."

The sunniest days are shortest; darkness tells The starless story of the night that dwells In lone and last farewells.

Two faces meet here, there, or anywhere: Each wears the thoughts the other face may wear; Their hearts may break, breathing, "Farewell fore'er."

Song of the River

A river went singing adown to the sea, A-singing -- low -- singing -- And the dim rippling river said softly to me, "I'm bringing, a-bringing -- While floating along -- A beautiful song To the shores that are white where the waves are so weary, To the beach that is burdened with wrecks that are dreary. A song sweet and calm As the peacefulest psalm; And the shore that was sad Will be grateful and glad, And the weariest wave from its dreariest dream Will wake to the sound of the song of the stream; And the tempests shall cease And there shall be peace." From the fairest of fountains, And farthest of mountains, From the stillness of snow Came the stream in its flow.

Down the slopes where the rocks are gray, Thro' the vales where the flowers are fair -- Where the sunlight flashed -- where the shadows lay Like stories that cloud a face of care, The river ran on -- and on -- and on -- Day and night, and night and day; Going and going, and never gone, Longing to flow to the "far away", Staying and staying, and never still; Going and staying, as if one will Said, "Beautiful river, go to the sea;" And another will whispered, "Stay with me:" And the river made answer, soft and low -- "I go and stay" -- "I stay and go."

But what is the song, I said, at last? To the passing river that never passed; And a white, white wave whispered, "List to me, I'm a note in the song for the beautiful sea, -- A song whose grand accents no earth-din may sever, And the river flows on in the same mystic key That blends in one chord the `forever and never'."

____ December 15, 1878.

Dreamland

Over the silent sea of sleep, Far away! far away! Over a strange and starlit deep Where the beautiful shadows sway; Dim in the dark, Glideth a bark, Where never the waves of a tempest roll -- Bearing the very "soul of a soul", Alone, all alone -- Far away -- far away To shores all unknown In the wakings of the day; To the lovely land of dreams, Where what is meets with what seems Brightly dim, dimly bright; Where the suns meet stars at night, Where the darkness meets the light Heart to heart, face to face, In an infinite embrace.

* * * * *

Mornings break, And we wake, And we wonder where we went In the bark Thro' the dark, But our wonder is misspent; For no day can cast a light On the dreamings of the night.

Lines ["Sometimes, from the far-away,"]

Sometimes, from the far-away, Wing a little thought to me; In the night or in the day, It will give a rest to me.

I have praise of many here, And the world gives me renown; Let it go -- give me one tear, 'Twill be a jewel in my crown.

What care I for earthly fame? How I shrink from all its glare! I would rather that my name Would be shrined in some one's prayer.

Many hearts are all too much, Or too little in their praise; I would rather feel the touch Of one prayer that thrills all days.

A Song

Written in an Album.