Part 3

Of the dumb, flying, soulless thing (So we with our souls dare to say), The being of sense and of sod, That will not, that will not defile The nature she took from her God.

And we, with the souls that we have, Go cheering the hunters on To a prey with that pleading eye. She cannot go into the mud! She can stay like the snow, and die!

The hunters come leaping on. She turns like a heart at bay. They do with her as they will. ... O thou who thinkest on this! Stand like a star, and be still,

Where the soil oozes under thy feet. Better, ah, better to die Than to take one step in the mire! Oh, blessed to die or to live, With garments of holy fire!

UNQUENCHED.[1]

I think upon the conquering Greek who ran (Brave was the racer!) that brave race of old-- Swifter than hope his feet that did not tire.

Calmer than love the hand which reached that goal; A torch it bore, and cherished to the end, And rescued from the winds the sacred fire.

O life the race! O heart the racer! Hush! And listen long enough to learn of him Who sleeps beneath the dust with his desire.

Go! shame thy coward weariness, and wail. Who doubles contest, doubles victory. Go! learn to run the race, and carry fire.

O Friend! The lip is brave, the heart is weak. Stay near. The runner faints--the torch falls pale. Save me the flame that mounteth ever higher!

Grows it so dark? I lift mine eyes to _thine_; Blazing within them, steadfast, pure, and strong, Against the wind there fights the eternal fire.

[1] At the Promethean and other festivals, young men ran with torches or lamps lighted from the sacrificial altar. "In this contest, only he was victorious whose lamp remained unextinguished in the race."

THE KING'S IMAGE.

Of iron were his arms; they could have held The need of half the kingdom up; and in His brow were iron atoms too. Thus was He built. His heart, observe, was wrought of gold, Burnished; it dazzled one to look at it. His feet were carved of clay--and so he fell.

Clay unto clay shall perish and return. The tooth of rust shall gnaw the iron down. The conqueror of time, gold must endure.

Thou great amalgam! Suffering in thyself, The while inflicting still the certain fate Of thy disharmony. From Nature's law, Unto her law, thy doom appeals; bids thee To fear the metal sinews of thy soul, And scorn the dust on which thou totterest; But save, oh, save the heart of gold for one Who did, beholding, trust in it.

IV.

AT THE PARTY.

Half a dozen children At our house! Half a dozen children Quiet as a mouse, Quiet as a moonbeam, You could hear a pin-- Waiting for the party To begin.

Such a flood of flounces! (Oh dear me!) Such a surge of sashes Like a silken sea. Little eyes demurely Cast upon the ground, Little airs and graces All around.

High time for that party To begin! To sit so any longer Were a sort of sin; As if you were n't acquainted With society. What a thing to tell of That would be!

Up spoke a little lady Aged five; "I 've tumbled up my over-dress, Sure as I 'm alive! _My_ dress came from Paris; We sent to Worth for it; Mother says she calls it Such a fit!"

Quick there piped another Little voice-- "_I_ did n't send for dresses, Though I had my choice; _I_ have got a doll that Came from Paris too; It can walk and talk as Well as you!"

Still, till now, there sat one Little girl; Simple as a snow-drop, Without flounce or curl. Modest as a primrose, Soft, plain hair brushed back, But the color of her dress was Black--all black.

Swift she glanced around with Sweet surprise; Bright and grave the look that Widened in her eyes. To entertain the party She must do her share, As if God had sent her Stood she there;

Stood a minute, thinking, With crossed hands How she best might meet the Company's demands. Grave and sweet the purpose To the child's voice given:-- "_I_ have a little brother Gone to Heaven!"

On the little party Dropped a spell; All the little flounces Rustled where they fell; But the modest maiden In her mourning gown, Unconscious as a flower, Looketh down.

Quick my heart besought her, Silently. "Happy little maiden, Give, O give to me The highness of your courage, The sweetness of your grace, To speak a large word, in a Little place."

A JEWISH LEGEND.

I like that old, kind legend Not found in Holy Writ, And wish that John or Matthew Had made Bible out of it.

But though it is not Gospel, There is no law to hold The heart from growing better That hears the story told:--

How the little Jewish children Upon a summer day, Went down across the meadows With the Child Christ to play.

And in the gold-green valley, Where low the reed-grass lay, They made them mock mud-sparrows Out of the meadow clay.

So, when these all were fashioned, And ranged in rows about, "Now," said the little Jesus, "We'll let the birds fly out."

Then all the happy children Did call, and coax, and cry-- Each to his own mud-sparrow: "Fly, as I bid you! Fly!"

But earthen were the sparrows, And earth they did remain, Though loud the Jewish children Cried out, and cried again.

Except the one bird only The little Lord Christ made; The earth that owned Him Master, --His earth heard and obeyed.

Softly He leaned and whispered: "Fly up to Heaven! Fly!" And swift, His little sparrow Went soaring to the sky,

And silent, all the children Stood, awestruck, looking on, Till, deep into the heavens, The bird of earth had gone.

I like to think, for playmate We have the Lord Christ still, And that still above our weakness He works His mighty will,

That all our little playthings Of earthen hopes and joys Shall be, by His commandment, Changed into heavenly toys.

Our souls are like the sparrows Imprisoned in the clay, Bless Him who came to give them wings Upon a Christmas Day!

V.

THE SONGS OF SEVENTY YEARS.

J. G. W.

Master! let stronger lips than these Turn melody to harmony, Poet! mine tremble as they crave A word alone with thee.

Thy songs melt on the vibrant air, The wild birds know them, and the wind; The common light hath claim on them, The common heart and mind.

And air, and light, and wind, shall be Thy fellow-singers, while they say How seventy years of music stir The common pulse to-day.

Hush, sweetest songs! Mine ears are deaf To all of ye save only one. Blind are the eyes that turn the leaf Against the Autumn sun.

Oh, blinder once were fading eyes, Close folded now from shine and rain, And duller were the dying ears That heard the chosen strain.

Stay, solemn chant! 'T is mine to sing Your notes alone below the breath. 'T is mine to bless the poet who Can bless the hour of death.

For once a spirit "sighed for home," A "longed-for light whereby to see," And "wearied," found the way to them, O Christian seer, through thee!

Passed--with thy words on paling lips, Passed--with thy courage to depart; Passed--with thy trust within the soul, Thy music in the heart.

Oh, calm above our restlessness, And rich beyond our dreaming, yet In heaven, I know, one owes to thee A glad and grateful debt.

From it may learn some tenderer art, May find and take some better way Than all our tenderest and best, To crown thy life to-day.

BIRTHDAY VERSES.

H. B. S.

Arise, and call her blessed,--seventy years! Each one a tongue to speak for her, who needs No poor device of ours to tell to-day The story of her glory in our hearts. Precede us all, ye quiet lips of love, Ye honors high of home--nobilities Of mother and of wife--the heraldry Of happiness; dearer to her than were The homage of the world. We yield unto The royal claims of tenderness. Speak thou Before all voices, ripened human life!

Arise, and call her blessed, dark-browed men! She put the silver lyre aside for you. She could not stroll across the idle strings Of fancy, while you wept uncomforted, But rang upon the fetters of a race Enchained, the awful chord which pealed along, And echoed in the cannon-shot that broke The manacle, and bade the bound go free. She brought a Nation on its knees for shame, She brought a world into a black slave's heart. Where are our lighter laurels? O my friends! Brothers and sisters of the busy pen, Five million freemen crown her birthday feast, Before whose feet our little leaf we lay.

Arise and call her blessed, fainting souls! For whom she sang the strains of holy hope. Within the gentle twilight of her days, Like angels, bid her own hymns visit her. Her life no ivy-tangled door, but wide And welcome to His solemn feet, who need Not knock for entrance, nor one ever ask "Who cometh there?" so still and sure the step, So well we know God doth "abide in her."

Oh, wait to make her blessed, happy world!-- To which she looketh onward, ardently. Lie in fair distance far, ye streets of gold, Where up and down light-hearted spirits walk, And wonder that they stayed so long away. Be patient for her coming, for our sakes, Who will love Heaven better, keeping her. This only ask we:--When from prayer to praise She moves, and when from peace to joy; be hers To know she hath the life eternal, since Her own heart's dearest wish did meet her there.

A TRIBUTE.

Blinded I groped--you gave me sight. Perplexed I turned--you sent me light. You speak unto a thousand ears: I pay you tribute in hid tears. I pay you homage in the hopes That rise to scale life's scathed slopes. I give you gratitude in this: That, midway on the precipice You never trod and never saw, Where air you never drank, strikes raw And wan upon the wasted breath, And gulfs you never passed, gape death, And crags you gained some sunlit way Frown threatening over me to-day,-- That here with bruised hand I cling, Because I heard you yonder sing With those who conquer. If through joy, Then deeper be our shame who toy And loiter in the scourging rain, And did not pass by strength of pain. Laggard below, I reach to bless You who are King of happiness; You are the victor, you the brave, Who could not stoop to be _her_ slave. Downward to me, rebuking, fling My privilege of suffering. I take and listen. Teach me. See! Nearer than you, I ought to be; Nearer the height man never trod, Nearer the veiled face of God. I ought, and am not. Comrade! be Unconscious captain unto me. Unknowing, beckon and command: I answer you with unseen hand. You read in vain these lines between, And smiling, wonder whom I mean.

TO O. W. H.

AUGUST 29, 1879.

I had no song so wise and sweet, As birthday songs, dear friend, should be. Silent, among a hundred guests, I only prayed for thee.

Such wishes held the speaking lip, Such mood of blessing took me, there, That music, like a bird to heaven, Flew, and was lost in prayer.

WHOSE SHALL THE WELCOME BE?

H. W. L.

The wave goes down, the wind goes down, The gray tide glitters on the sea, The moon seems praying in the sky. Gates of the New Jerusalem (A perfect pearl each gate of them) Wide as all heaven swing on high; Whose shall the welcome be?

The wave went down, the wind went down, The tide of life turned out to sea; Patience of pain and grace of deed, The glories of the heart and brain, Treasure that shall not come again; The human singing that we need, Set to a heavenly key.

The wave goes down, the wind goes down, All tides at last turn to the sea. We learn to take the thing we have. Thou who hast taught us strength in grief, As moon to shadow, high and chief, Shine out, white soul, beyond the grave, And light our loss of thee!

EXEAT.

To the hope that he has taught, To the beauty he has wrought, To the comfort he has been; To the dream that poets tell, To the land where Gabriel Can not lose Evangeline;-- Hush! let him go.

GEORGE ELIOT.[1]

At evening once, the lowly men who loved Our Master were found desolate, and grieved For Him whose eyes had been the glory of Their lives. He, silent, followed them, and joined Himself unto their sorrow; with the voice Of love that liveth past the end, and yearns Like empty arms across the sepulchre, Did comfort them. They heard, and knew Him not.

At eventide, O Lord, one trod for us The solitary way of a great Soul; Whereof the peril, pain, and debt, alone He knows, who marked the road. We watched, and held Her in our arms of prayer. We wept, and said: Our sister hath a heavy hurt. We bow, And cry: The crown is buried with the Queen.

At twilight, as she, groping, sought for rest, What solemn footfall echoed down the dark? What tenderness that would not let her go? And patience that Love only knoweth, paced Silent, beside her, to the last, faint step? What scarred Hand gently caught her as she sank? Thou being with her, though she knew Thee not.

[1] The last book which she read was Thomas a Kempis's _Imitation of Christ_.

HER JURY.

A lily rooted in a sacred soil, Arrayed with those who neither spin nor toil; Dinah, the preacher, through the purple air, Forever in her gentle evening prayer Shall plead for Her--what ear too deaf to hear?-- "As if she spoke to some one very near."

And he of storied Florence, whose great heart Broke for its human error; wrapped apart, And scorching in the swift, prophetic flame Of passion for late holiness; and shame Than untried glory grander, gladder, higher-- Deathless, for Her, he "testifies by fire."

A statue fair and firm on shining feet, Womanhood's woman, Dorothea, sweet As strength, and strong as tenderness, to make A "struggle with the dark" for white light's sake, Immortal stands, unanswered speaks. Shall they, Of Her great hand the moulded, breathing clay, Her fit, select, and proud survivors be? Possess the life eternal, and not _She_?

VI.

A PRAYER.

MATINS.

Lord, Thou hast promised. Lo! I give Thee back Thine own great Word. Keep it. I summon Thee. Keep it as God can, not as men do. See, Great God! who art to us the awful Truth Whereby we live, and move, and know the true-- I ask Thee to be true unto Thyself.

There is a soul that has not sinned unto The death. I pray for it. To such as seek For such a one, O Power invisible! O Mystery and Mercy! Thou hast said Thou hearkenest. I dare remind Thee, God.

I dare appeal unto Thine honor. Hear! Fulfill Thy pledge to me. God, God! Great God! I pour my soul out, dash it down awaste Like water, as I would my life, to save This other one. I light my words with fire, Like fagots scorching all my shrinking heart. So would I walk in fire with these my feet Of flesh, if that could melt this frozen heart I pray for. Thou who listenest! Dumb God! Had I Thy dreadful power to turn the souls Of men as they were rivers in Thy hand, Then would I have this noble one. I would Not lose its loyalty. I tell Thee, Lord, If I had made it, then it sure should love And honor me. Hearken to me! Oh, save! Give me mine answer! Save! Great God, I summon Thee! I summon Thee!

* * * * *

Father, I am Thy child. If I have asked too much, Or asked or longed amiss in any wise, Or read awry Thy Word mysterious, Or made one cry unworthy of a child, I pray Thee to deny me all I ask Unto my asking, and rebuke me so. And if Thou savest, Lord, dear Lord, _dear Lord_! Then let it be because some worthier Than I, did pray.....

AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT.

For the faith that is not broken

By the burden of the day; For the word that is not spoken (Dearest words are slow to say); For the golden draught unproffered To the thirst that thirsteth on; For the hand that is not offered When the struggling strength is gone; For the sturdy heart that will not Make a pauper of my need; Friend, I mean sometime to thank thee, From my soul, in truth and deed. Wait! Some day, when I am braver, I will do so--say so. Now (Oh! be tender!) I am tired; I have forgotten how.

HYMN.

FOR A BROTHER'S INSTALLATION.

Lord, are there any stones upon the way, That tear Thy bleeding feet? If our weak hands can move them from Thy path, Give us that duty sweet.

Is there, O patient and pathetic Face! One thorn upon Thy brow That we can pluck from out Thy cruel crown? For we would do it now.

Is there a deed so difficult for us That none but Thou canst ask? Thine asking be our answering. Lo! swift Be ours that happy task.

Lord, hast Thou left Thy hungry in the world For us to find, to feed? Sharper the hungers of the soul. Give us Nutrition for that need.

And hast Thou prisoners unvisited, Whose woes our care should tell? There is a deeper prison of the heart; Help us to find that cell.

Is there a mourner dear to Thee, whom we Have left uncomforted? Yet still through lonelier loneliness, the heart Bereft of Thee, is led.

O world of common, human cries! and calls Of souls in direst need! To meet ye, mighty were the love that sought To take the Master's speed.

Give us that love, dear God, who gave to us To bear His loving name. Give us that sacred speed to keep the step That strikes with His the same.

Waves of one tide, this people be! and flow Straight shoreward to Thy will. White as a dove, upon them, now descend Thy Spirit, strong and still.

Thy blessings on their future rest and brood, --The brightest, lip can tell,-- In home and heart, in faith and fact, O best Of daily mercy! dwell.

With those who summon--trusting it to lead Their feet to walk Christ's way-- The voice of him on whose bowed head, I call The grace of God to-day.

ANSWERED.

Why did I never sing a song to you? Dearest! To you again, behold the question start. To mine own pulses have I ever sung? Or do I read a rhyme unto my beating heart?

WESTWARD.

My thoughts like waves creep up, creep on, How patient is the sea! How shall we climb--the tide and I-- Up to the hills and thee?

Were waters free as winds, to go Where mood or need might be, They could but find the sky, above The canyon as the sea.

THREE FRIENDS.

Oh, not to you, my mentor sweet, And stern as only sweetness can, Whose grave eyes look out steadfastly Across my nature's plan,

And take unerring measure down Where'er that plan is failed or foiled, Thinking far less of purpose kept Than of a vision spoiled.

And tender less to what I am, Than sad for what I might have been; And walking softly before God For my soul's sake, I ween.

'T is not to you, my spirit leans, O grave, true judge! When spent with strife, And groping out of gloom for light, And out of death for life.

Nor yet to you, who calmly weigh And measure every grace and fault, Whose martial nature never turns From right to left, to halt

For any glamour of the heart, Or any glow that ever is, Grander than Truth's high noonday glare, In love's sweet sunrises;

Who know me by the duller hues Of common nights and common days, And in their sober atmospheres Find level blame and praise.

True hearts and dear! 't is not in you, This fainting, warring soul of mine Finds silver carven chalices, To hold life's choicest wine

Unto its thirsty lips, and bid It drink, and breathe, and battle on, Till all its dreams are deeds at last, And all its heights are won.

I turn to _you_, confiding love. O lifted eyes! look trustfully, Till Heaven shall lend you other light, Like kneeling saints--on me.

And let me be to you, dear eyes, The thing I am not, till I, too, Shall see as I am seen, and stand At last revealed to you.

And let me nobler than I am, And braver still, eternally, And finer, truer, purer, than My finest, purest, be

To your sweet vision. There I stand Transfigured fair in love's deceit, And while your soul looks up to mine, My heart lies at your feet.

Believe me better than my best, And stronger than my strength can hold, Until your magic faith transmute My pebbles into gold.

I'll _be_ the thing you hold me, Dear!-- After I 'm dead, if not before-- Nor, through the climbing ages, will I give the conflict o'er.

But if upon the Perfect Peace, And past the thing that was, and is, And past the lure of voices, in A world of silences,

A pain can crawl--a little one-- A cloud upon a sunlit land; I think in Heaven my heart must ache That you should understand.

A NEW FRIEND.

The sun is sinking on the sacred lands Wherein the grain ungarnered beckoning stands.

Who loses never finds, nor can, nor may, The common, human glory of the day.

Close, let us enter, tear-blind as we must; Reapers, not gleaners of a solemn trust.

AN ETCHING.

A true knight! Knowing neither worldly fear, Nor yet reproach of her unworldly faith; Fine eyes shall see, yet see not, on this page, A man, who from a woman's heart of hearts Could earn, and keep, the sacred name of Friend.

TO MY FATHER.

Tired with the little follies of the day, A child crept, sobbing, to your arms to say Her evening prayer; and if by God or you Forgiven and loved, she never asked or knew.

With life's mistake and care too early old, And spent with sorrow upon sorrow told, She finds the father's heart the surest rest; The earliest love shall be the last and best.

THE GATES BETWEEN.

Pearl-white, opaque and fixed fast, Flashing between the hands unclasped, Blinding between despairing eyes, The awful Gates shut to, at last, On comfort snatched, and anguish done, On every moan beneath the sun, Till we and ours, and joy are one.

This is your hour, Gates of God, Your solemn hour, bars of gold, But there shall come another yet. Like silken sails you shall be furled, Like melting mist you shall be set.

Oh, ye the dearest! vanished from Love's little inner, sheltered spot. To ye I whisper; not forgot, But loved the dearer, named not. Across the barrier old as life, Lean to us from the Silent World.

A PRAYER.

VESPERS.

Great God! Behold, I lie Beneath Thine awful eye, As the sea beneath the sky.

My God, What hope abides? Thine unknown purpose rides The torrent of my tides.

Dear God, I am not a shore, or hill, An ocean must take still The colors of the heavens' will.

Choose, God. Though days be blue, or gold, Though sorrows new, or cold, Though purple joy be there, Or gray of old despair, Give but Thyself to me, And let me be Thy sea. Thy storms have had their way. I pray now not to pray.

Writings of Elizabeth Stuart Phelps

THE GATES AJAR. 16mo, $1.50. BEYOND THE GATES. Twentieth Thousand. 16mo, $1.25. MEN, WOMEN, AND GHOSTS. Short Stories. 16mo, $1.50. HEDGED IN. 16mo, $1.50. THE SILENT PARTNER. 16mo, $1.50. THE STORY OF AVIS. 16mo, $1.50. SEALED ORDERS, AND OTHER STORIES. 16mo, $1.50. FRIENDS: A DUET. 16mo, $1.25. DOCTOR ZAY. 16mo, $1.25.

The above nine volumes, uniform, $12.50.