Part 4
Sometimes we mortals, writhing in bitter anguish, Crushed by great griefs, that seem too hard to bear, And led to doubt God's goodness and his wisdom, And will not lift our burdened hearts in prayer. I think these moments are the very darkest, The blackest and the coldest that we know, And I think God, and Christ, and all the angels, Pity us most, in this phase of our woe.
I had a little child I fondly cherished; A winsome, playful, tender-hearted boy, Strong willed, yet gentle, gay, yet mild and loving. He was our household idol and our joy. We lavished on him stores of pure affection; We gave him the best love our hearts possessed, We dressed him in rich robes of finest texture, And gazing on him, felt this earth life-blest.
We taught him all things good, and true, and noble; We told him of the dear Lord crucified; We planned for him a bright and happy future; We guarded him from danger--yet he died. Not all the gold and riches we might lavish, Not all our gold could save him from the tomb. He died! and when the sweet eyes closed forever, They shut the sunshine in, and left but gloom.
To-day I saw a drunkard's child--a vagrant; Ill-clad, ill-fed, uncombed, unwashed, and wild; His home the street--his lessons vice and sorrow-- His garments rags--his youthful lips defiled With rum, tobacco, lies and loud blaspheming; What can his future be, but one of crime? And thinking of this, and of my boy who slumbered, My heart felt hard, just for a little time.
It seemed so strange, that he, a homeless vagrant, Unloved, unloving, treading the road to sin, That he was spared; and mine so fondly cherished-- Mine so beloved, whose life seemed so twined in And round our heart strings, that when he was taken, It left them torn and bleeding--he should die; Ah me, it seemeth strange; and yet God's wisdom I can not doubt, nor must I question why.
He, being all-wise, Father, King, Creator, It would be strange, if you, or I should know All that He knows, or understand His wisdom, All things He does, or why He does them so. Were all this plain, unto our mortal vision, There would be nothing new to learn above; So, though the cross be great, and the prize hidden, I need not doubt His wisdom or His love.
1871
_AT SUNSET_
I sit at my cottage window, In the light of the sun's last rays, And the hill-tops glow with splendor, And the west is all ablaze. My room is flooded with glory, My soul, with a wild delight, And my heart is filled with poems, That I can not speak, or write.
O, darker, and deeper, and grander, The glory flames on high, And I trace the walls of a city. In that beautiful western sky: A city all gold and crimson-- All purple and amber red; And the streets are paved with crystal, Where the feet of angels tread.
O, soulless pen and pencil. Thy efforts are weak and vain; The pen of the poet falters. And his heart is full of pain: And the artist drops his pencil, And weeps in mute despair, For he cannot paint the glory That lies in the sunset there.
But the city fadeth--fadeth; The glory turns to grey; The golden lights are dying, And the splendor melts away. And I know it was only the shadow Of the city built on high-- Only the poor, pale shadow, That I saw in the sunset sky.
And I long for that other city-- The city that God hath made, Where the glory never paleth. And the splendors never fade. O, there at the feet of Jesus, In anthems of praise, I know My soul shall utter the poems That fill it to overflow.
1869
_A TWILIGHT THOUGHT_
The sweet maid, Day, has pillowed her head On the breast of her dusky lover Night; The sun has made her a couch of red, And woven a cover of dim twilight; And the lover kisses the maiden's brow, As low on her couch she sleepeth now.
Here at my window, above the street, I sit, as the day lies in repose; And I list to the ceaseless tramp of feet. And I watch this human tide that flows, Upward and downward, to and fro. As the waves of an ocean, ebb and flow.
Over and over the busy town, Hither and thither, through all the day; One goes up, and another down-- Each in his own allotted way. Strangers and kinsmen pass and meet, And jar, and jostle upon the street.
People that never met before-- People that never will meet again: A careless glance of the eye--no more, And both are lost in the sea of men. Strangers, divided by _miles_ in heart, Under my window meet and part.
But whether their feet pass up, or down, Over the river, east or west, Whether it's in or out of the town, To a haunt of sin, or a home of rest, We are journeying to a common goal-- There is one last point for every soul.
Strangers and kinsmen, friend and foe, Whether their aims are great or small, Whether their paths lie high, or low-- There is one last resting place for all. Then upward, and downward, go surging by-- Under my window--you _all_ must die.
1870
_TRUE WARRIORS_
Not always those who walk on steadily, In the straight path, where martyr's feet have trod, Whose raiments seem of spotless purity, Not always are they most beloved of God. Although he sees, and knows their righteousness, And from his throne, with loving eyes, looks down, And hovers near, to comfort and to bless, And holds for each fair brow a starry crown--
Yet there are those, who sometimes wander out Into forbidden paths of sin, and grief, Who sometimes hover on the brink of doubt, Crying, "Oh, God, help thou mine unbelief!" Whose lives are one long battle with their sins, Who long for righteousness, yet cling to earth; And he who battles thus, and battling wins, God holds, and prizes, as of truer worth.
For greater is he, fighting this good fight, Falling repeatedly, and prone to wrong, Than he who walketh calmly in the light, And never falls, because he is so strong. Who never sins, because sin tempts him not. To him who fights temptation one by one, How sweet God's words when the last fight is fought, "Beloved servant, well, and nobly done."
1870
_ONE OF THESE_
Some have robes, of silk and velvet, Cast like manna, down; Others toil through wind and weather, For a homespun gown. Some are born to ride in coaches, Sitting at their ease; Others plod foot-sore and weary. (I am one of these.)
Some have sounding name and title, Here upon the earth; Others dwell apart from glory-- No one knows their worth. Some have wealth, and fame, and beauty, All the things that please; Some are poor, and plain and lonely. (I am one of these.)
Some complain, in midst of pleasures, Of a hard, sad lot, Doubting God, denying heaven, Loving, trusting not. Others, hedged about with sorrows, Do, on bended knees, Praise and bless the Lord forever. (I am one of these.)
_A FANCY_
Drop down the crimson curtains, And shut out the dazzling snow, The cold white mantle that covers The hills, where the grasses should grow; And stir up the fire till it burneth, With a heat like the midsummer sun. And hang up the cage by the window, And bring in the plants, one by one.
Till they perfume the air with a fragrance As rare as the summer can bring. And call to the bird, till he trilleth The sweetest of notes he can sing. And let me lie here, while you fan me, Till the lazy air stirs, like a breeze. That comes o'er the hills in the summer, And rustles the tops of the trees.
Then sing me a song of the summer, A song full of warmth and sunlight, And I will forget that the winter Stalks over the earth in his might. I will dream that I lie in the clover, And your voice is the voice of the breeze, And the bird in the cage is the robin, That sends down his song from the trees.
1871
_TIRED_
My heart and soul are all too tired to tell; So weary, Lord, Of this long, ceaseless work of doing well, Without reward.
Oh, I have been thy servant now for years, Nor made complaint, Though my life cup has been abrim with tears, But now I faint.
And I have worked for thee, with all my strength, In pain and woe. My Master, canst thou chide me, if at length I ask to go?
Oh, if the soul is purified by fire, Then I am blest. The laborer is worthy of his hire-- Lord, give me rest.
I know that I have sinned in many ways-- A sinner made. But I have _tried_ to serve thee all my days-- I'm not afraid.
I know full well my record is not clear, Nor white as snow; But better meet it than to linger here. Lord, let me go.
_NEVER_
I said, last winter, When the grasses grow, And there are flowers abloom in every place, And soft south winds have melted all the snow, Then I shall meet my darling face to face; And I shall clasp, and hold her hand in mine, And I shall see her blue eyes glow and shine.
And now the grass is green on moor and lea; The snow has vanished, and the spring is here, The robins shout from every forest tree, The meadow larks are singing loud and clear, And there are flowers abloom in every place-- And yet I do not see my darling's face.
All soft and mild, the gentle south wind blew, The snow clouds vanished, and the sunshine fell Upon the meadow, and the daisies grew, And violets and pansies graced the dell. The bees are busy, while they softly hum, And yet--and yet--my darling does not come.
Alas! for never will she come again, She sleepeth, sleepeth, still and silent now; Her couch is hollowed from the grassy plain, And daisies bloom and blow above her brow; And I can never hold her hand in mine, And I can never see her blue eyes shine.
1869
_TRUE LOVE_
I think true love is something like a tree; The oak, that lifts its branches to the sky. The woodman's axe may strike it fatally, Or it may fall, when mighty winds sweep by. And where it grew, the flowers may bloom instead, And all may seem as though the tree were dead.
But underneath the grass, and flowers, there lies, Hid from the gaping world, a tiny root, A little living germ, that never dies; And ever and anon its branches shoot Up through the earth, and mock, and strive to be The mighty forest king--the parent tree.
So love may wither, at the hand of Fate, Or fall beneath the killing winds that blow; And other loves may spring up, soon or late, And flowers of forgetfulness may grow, Over the spot where love once grew instead, And we may think the old-time passion dead.
And still the little germ lies in the heart, So closely hidden that it is not known; And ever and anon its branches start-- Vain mimics of the passion that has flown. Though love, once slain, can live not, as of yore, I think its ghost will haunt us evermore.
1871
_HIS SONG_
A poet wandered the city street, With tattered garments, and aching feet; Want and hunger had dimmed his eye, And the children jeered him, as he passed by.
But one of the children sang, at play, A song his mother had sung that day. The poet listened, with cheeks aflame, For the song was his own, and this was fame!
But his heart was lightened. The song of the boy Had thrilled the strings, with a strange, sweet joy. "Though I may lie with the nameless dead, The songs I have written will live," he said.
1872
_WHEN YOU GO AWAY_
When you go away, my friend, When we say our last good-bye, Then the summer time will end, And the winter will be nigh. Though the green grass decks the heather, And the birds sing all the day, There will be no summer weather, After you have gone away.
When I look into your eyes, I shall thrill with sharpest pain; Thinking that beneath the skies, I may never look again. You will feel a moment's sorrow-- I shall feel a lasting grief; You forgetting on the morrow-- I, to mourn with no relief
When we say the last, sad words, And you are no longer near, All the winds, and all the birds, Can not keep the summer here. Life will lose its full completeness, Lose it, not for you, but me; All the beauty and the sweetness Earth can hold, I shall not see.
1870
_BLEAK WEATHER_
Dear love, where the red lilies blossomed and grew, The white snows are falling; And all through the wood, where I wandered with you, The loud winds are calling; And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune, Neath the elm--you remember, Over tree-top and mountain has followed the June, And left us--December.
Has left, like a friend that is true in the sun, And false in the shadows. He has found new delights, in the land where he's gone, Greener woodlands and meadows. What care we? let him go! let the snow shroud the lea, Let it drift on the heather! We can sing through it all; I have you--you have me, And we'll laugh at the weather.
The old year may die, and a new one be born That is bleaker and colder; But it cannot dismay us; we dare it--we scorn, For love makes us bolder. Ah Robin! sing loud on the far-distant lea, Thou friend in fair weather; But here is a song sung, that's fuller of glee, By two warm hearts together.
1870
_THE TALE THE ROBIN TOLD_
I walked to-day, in the grassy dell, Where the cunning ground-bird hides her nest, And just where the plum-tree's shadow fell, I sat me down for a while to rest. And a robin came, and sat in the tree, And told a long-lost tale to me.
Of a maiden, pure as the morning light, And fresh as a white rose, bathed in dew. Of a youth with eyes like a stormy night, And a heart that nothing of candor knew. And all through the valley, green and fair, The youth and the maiden wandered there.
He plucked the violets, blue and pale, The lily white, and the roses red, With every flower that decked the vale-- But the maid was fairest of all, he said. And the robin saw him kiss her cheek, And the maiden blushed, but did not speak.
And he held her hand, in a lover's way, And he saw the blush that his glance awoke, And with eye, and tone, he seemed to say The words that his false lips never spoke. And of her strength, and her life a part, Was the love that grew in the maiden's heart.
But the summer died, and the autumn came, And the maiden walked in the vale alone; And the hopeless love, like a scorching flame, Burned out her life, but she made no moan. And she drooped, and died, as the year grew old, And this was the tale that the robin told.
_A MEMORY_
Oh, do you remember that night, long ago, When I gave you the rose from my hair? And you whispered, "I'll wear it close over my heart, As I cherish the sweet giver there?"
'Twas a long time ago? you've forgotten, perhaps, That such a thing ever occurred. But to-night, as I sit in the firelight's glow, My heart's with the memory stirred.
And I seem to live over my girlhood again, When my life was as warm as the spring: Before it had read the sharp lesson of pain, And when you were my hero, arid king.
Oh! you were not worthy the love that I gave, Like the sun in midsummer, it burned; While a passionless fancy, an idle day-dream, Was the poor, shallow thing you returned.
Long ago--long ago! time has softened the pain, That threatened to shadow my life. I am older, and wiser I think, now, than then, And you have a beautiful wife--
As pure as the angels, as fair, too, they say, With her blue eyes and snowy-white lid. But I cannot help wondering, here to myself, If she loves you as well as I did.
Ah me! it can never harm you, or your bride, For me to dream over that night, When you whispered sweet words o'er the rose from my hair. And my foolish heart throbbed in delight.
1868
_WAITING_
The days flow on, and on, And never one comes back. Another year has vanished and gone, As the waves of the sea wash out the track On the shining sands o' th' shore. And patience waneth, and hope is spent, As I wait and watch for the one who went, And cometh to me no more.
The spring-time lived and died, And the summer followed fast; And I watched through both, with a heart that cried, For the one who vanished into the past, Like a beautiful star from the sky; Who sailed in a good ship over the sea, And the ship came back: But "where is he, Oh, treacherous ship," I cry?
The autumn, gold and brown, Rose from the summer's grave, And the rain and my tears fell down and down, As day by day, I stood by the wave. And cried aloud in my pain. But what cares the sea for a tortured soul! It mocks at grief, and the breakers roll, Singing a loud refrain.
And never a word from thee, But a silence deep as death; Though the winter gleameth on moor and lea, And the cold, cold wind, with its cruel breath, Blows over the angry sea. Yet alway and ever, till life is done, Shall I watch, and wait, and weep for one Who cometh never, to me.
1869
_DRIFTING APART_
Farther apart, each day, our lives are drifting; Farther apart at every set of sun. The clouds between us show no signs of lifting, But droop, and gather shadows, one by one.
Drifting apart! the visions that I've cherished, Within my loving, foolish heart for years, At those two meaning words, have rudely perished, And in their place is naught but bitter tears.
I do not weep--I do not sigh, and languish, And murmur at the hard decree of fate. I walk my way, in silent, smiling anguish, Knowing remorse, and tears, are all too late.
But oh, my darling! I am only human, And though 'tis weakness, I do love you yet. Mine is the heart, of clinging, constant woman, Whose lot it is to love, and not forget.
I know that we can never stem the current, That bore the sunshine of my life away; Our feet can never cross the unbridged torrent That flows between us, wider every day.
Perhaps, when we have passed the heavenly portal, And all our tears are dried by Christ, the Friend, And we have entered on the life immortal, Perhaps our path ways There may meet, and blend.
I cannot tell; the mystic, grand To-morrow Was never meant for earthly, mortal eyes. But it is sweet, to think all tears and sorrow, Will vanish at the dawn of heavenly skies.
1868.
_ONCE MORE TOGETHER_
[To H. A. M.]
What sounds so sweet as the glad words of greeting? And what starts the tears, Like the warm kiss that is given at meeting After long years.
Friend of my heart, we are once more together; Hand clasped in hand. We sit and we walk in the beautiful weather That gladdens the land.
Oh, rare golden days, in the heart of September; Days more than sweet-- Days that my heart will forever remember, Ye are too fleet!
Why haste away! the greedy "Past's" measure Already runs o'er; But like a miser who hoards up rare treasure, He cries out for "more."
Oh, bright Autumn days! If you only would linger And loiter, and stay! Too soon old time shall be pointing his finger And bidding me say.
That word "Good-bye," that's so hard to be spoken. Hearts have been stirred Almost to breaking; and fond hearts _have_ broken At that last word.
Away with these sad thoughts! this rare golden weather Shall not find me sad, Because we cannot _always_ wander together, But I will be glad
Of the days that are left. No foreboding of sorrow Shall darken my sky. Nor To-day be o'erclouded, because some To-morrow, I must say good-bye.
1871
_ONCE IN A WHILE_
Once in a while, in this world so strange, To lighten our sad regrets, We find a heart that is true through change-- A heart that never forgets. Oh, rare as a blossoming rose in December-- As a bird in an Arctic clime, Is a heart, a _heart_ that can remember Through sorrow and change and time.
Once in a while we find a love That will live through life and death, Ay! that will follow the soul above. Not passing away with the breath. But rarer, Oh, rarer by far and stranger Than a spring in the desert sand, Is a love that will last, with toil, and danger, And strife on every hand.
Once in a while we find a friend That will cling through good or ill, Whose friendship follows us e'en to the end, Be it up or adown the hill, But the heart so true, and the love so tender, And friendship's faithful smile, Whether we dwell in squalor or splendor, We find but "once in a while."
1872
_BEAUTY_
Though thy cheek be fair, as the roses are, Thy brow like the drifted snow, And thine eye as bright, as the diamonds light, Yet if in thy heart doth grow But noxious weeds, and selfish deeds Follow thy steps alway, What in the end availeth it, friend, If thy face is fair, I pray.
For the smoothest brow, old Time will plow, And he dimmeth the brightest eye; And the fairest face, and the form of grace, In the lowly grave must lie. But our deeds live on, when life is done. Nor Time, nor death destroy; And the words we say, will make their way With sorrow, or with joy.
And even the thought, that we utter not, In heaven is like a shout. And bad or good, it is understood, And the angels write it out But they do not care, if the face be fair, Or what the world deems plain. They look to the heart, and the deathless part, For the rest is poor and vain.
1870
_A PLEA FOR FAME_
Let those slander fame who will-- Call her cheat and blame her ways. It may all be true; and still I shall give her words of praise. She has been my faithful friend, True and constant to the end.
Since I saw her hand first beckon Far above my lowly plain, I have had no need to reckon What my loss, or what my gain. She has made sweet blossoms blow In whatever path I go; She hath made the dark ways light. Made the somber places bright; She has filled my empty cup Full to overflow with pleasure, And, though I may drink it up, She again refills the measure.
She has never promised aught That she has not more than brought. She has stood by me in danger, Made a friend of many a stranger-- Made a welcome warm for me Whereso'er my lot may be; Thrown wide open many a door That was closed to me before; Given me every boon and blessing-- Almost--that is worth possessing.
All my life, I never knew Any other friend so true. Youth and Love are fleeting things; Wealth has light and airy wings-- Fame, once mine, will never flee, She has been a friend to me. Let who will condemn her ways, I shall always sing her praise.
1872
_SOMEWHERE_
Somewhere there is a spot of ground, Covered with grass, or snow, may-be, That one day will be spaded 'round And dug up to make room for me.
And I unconsciously have trod, Perhaps, and so again may tread Upon the very voiceless sod, That will be roof above my head.
Somewhere upon the earth to-day Are dwelling men, who yet shall spade And cut and dig the earth away, Until my narrow house is made.
Perchance they have clasped hands with me; Those hands, that, after I am dead, Shall measure me so reverently, To find how long to make my bed.
How strangely, solemn thoughts like these Will come, when life seems blithe and gay; Like voices of the passing breeze, Saying "All things must pass away-"
_OUR ANGEL_
Upon a couch all robed by careful hands For her repose, the maiden Mable lies, Her long bright hair is braided in smooth bands-- A mass of stranded gold, that mortal eyes May, wondering, gaze upon a little while; That mortal hands may touch a few times more.
Her placid lips part in a sweet, faint smile, As if the glories of that mystic shore, When first they fell upon her spirit eyes-- All the rare splendors of that unseen way Had touched her with a wondering, glad surprise, And left the pleased expression on her clay.
Her two fair hands are crossed upon her breast-- Two shapes of wax upon a drift of snow. And they have robed her for her peaceful rest. Not in the hateful shroud--that sign of woe, But in that garb we loved to see her wear; A dark blue robe, fashioned by her own hand.