Chapter 11

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless,-- That only men incredulous of despair, Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air Beat upwards to God's throne in loud access Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness, In souls as countries lieth silent-bare Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death; Most like a monumental statue set In everlasting watch and moveless woe, Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. Touch it: the marble eyelids are not wet-- If it could weep, it could arise and go.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

IV. COMFORT AND CHEER.

TO MYSELF.

Let nothing make thee sad or fretful, Or too regretful; Be still; What God hath ordered must be right; Then find in it thine own delight, My will.

Why shouldst thou fill to-day with sorrow About to-morrow. My heart? _One_ watches all with care most true; Doubt not that he will give thee too Thy part.

Only be steadfast; never waver, Nor seek earth's favor, But rest: Thou knowest what God wills must be For all his creatures, so for thee, The best.

From the German of PAUL FLEMING. Translation of CATHERINE WINKWORTH.

THE FLOWER.

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring; To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivelled heart Could have recovered greenness? It was gone Quite underground; as flowers depart To see their mother root, when they have blown; Where they together All the hard weather, Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power, Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell And up to heaven in an houre; Making a chiming of a passing-bell. We say amisse This or that is: Thy word is all, if we could spell.

O that I once past changing were, Fast in thy paradise, where no flower can wither! Many a spring I shoot up fair, Off'ring at heav'n, growing and groning thither; Nor doth my flower Want a spring-showre, My sinnes and I joining together.

But, while I grow in a straight line, Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine own, Thy anger comes, and I decline: What frost to that? what pole is not the zone Where all things burn, When thou dost turn, And the least frown of thine is shown?

And now in age I bud again; After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing: O my only light, It cannot be That I am he On whom thy tempests fell all night!

These are thy wonders, Lord of love, To make us see we are but flowers that glide; Which when we once can finde and prove, Thou hast a garden for us where to bide. Who would be more, Swelling through store, Forfeit their paradise by their pride.

GEORGE HERBERT.

SONNET.

TO CYRIACK SKINNER.

Cyriack, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear, To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot: Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or stars, throughout the year, Or man or woman, yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied In Liberty's defence, my noble task, Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask, Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

MILTON.

INVICTUS.

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud; Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY.

AFAR IN THE DESERT.

Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, And, sick of the present, I cling to the past; When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, From the fond recollections of former years; And shadows of things that have long since fled Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead,-- Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon; Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon; Attachments by fate or falsehood reft; Companions of early days lost or left; And my native land, whose magical name Thrills to the heart like electric flame; The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime; All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time When the feelings were young, and the world was new, Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view; All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone! And I, a lone exile remembered of none, My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone, Aweary of all that is under the sun, With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, I fly to the desert afar from man.

Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side! When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife, The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear, The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear, And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly, Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy; When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh,-- O, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, Afar in the desert alone to ride! There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, And to bound away with the eagle's speed, With the death-fraught firelock in my hand,-- The only law of the Desert Land!

Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, Away, away from the dwellings of men, By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen; By valleys remote where the oribi plays, Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartèbeest graze, And the kudu and eland unhunted recline By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with wild vine; Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill.

Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively; And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray; Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane. With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain; And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, Hieing away to the home of her rest, Where she and her mate have scooped their nest, Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view In the pathless depths of the parched karroo.

Afar in the desert I love to ride. With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, Away, away, in the wilderness vast Where the white man's foot hath never passed, And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan,-- A region of emptiness, howling and drear, Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear; Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, With the twilight bat from the yawning stone; Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot; And the bitter-melon, for food and drink, Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink; A region of drought, where no river glides, Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, Appears, to refresh the aching eye; But the barren earth and the burning sky, And the blank horizon, round and round, Spread,--void of living sight or sound. And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, As I sit apart by the desert stone, Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, "A still small voice" comes through the wild (Like a father consoling his fretful child), Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, Saying,--Man is distant, but God is near!

THOMAS PRINGLE.

SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS EVER GOING.

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, Crumbling away beneath our very feet; Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing In current unperceived, because so fleet; Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing,-- But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat; Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing, And still, O, still their dying breath is sweet; And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us A nearer good to cure an older ill; And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them, Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them!

AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE.

MY WIFE AND CHILD.[5]

The tattoo beats,--the lights are gone, The camp around in slumber lies, The night with solemn pace moves on, The shadows thicken o'er the skies; But sleep my weary eyes hath flown, And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.

I think of thee, O darling one, Whose love my early life hath blest-- Of thee and him--our baby son-- Who slumbers on thy gentle breast. God of the tender, frail, and lone, O, guard the tender sleeper's rest!

And hover gently, hover near To her whose watchful eye is wet,--

To mother, wife,--the doubly dear, In whose young heart have freshly met Two streams of love so deep and clear, And cheer her drooping spirits yet.

Now, while she kneels before thy throne, O, teach her, Ruler of the skies, That, while by thy behest alone Earth's mightiest powers fall and rise, No tear is wept to thee unknown, No hair is lost, no sparrow dies!

That thou canst stay the ruthless hands Of dark disease, and soothe its pain; That only by thy stern commands The battle's lost, the soldier's slain; That from the distant sea or land Thou bring'st the wanderer home again.

And when upon her pillow lone Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, May happier visions beam upon The brightened current of her breast, No frowning look or angry tone Disturb the Sabbath of her rest!

Whatever fate these forms may show, Loved with a passion almost wild, By day, by night, in joy or woe, By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled, From every danger, every foe, O God, protect my wife and child!

HENRY R. JACKSON.

[5] Written in the year 1846, in Mexico, the writer being at that time Colonel of the 1st regiment of Georgia Volunteers.

THE RAINY DAY.

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the moldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

TIMES GO BY TURNS.

The lopped tree in time may grow again; Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moist'ning shower; Times go by turns and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, She draws her favors to the lowest ebb; Her time hath equal times to come and go, Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web; No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring, No endless night yet not eternal day; The saddest birds a season find to sing, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay; Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost; The well that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are crossed, Few all they need, but none have all they wish; Unmeddled joys here to no man befall, Who least hath some, who most hath never all.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

COMPENSATION.

Tears wash away the atoms in the eye That smarted for a day; Rain-clouds that spoiled the splendors of the sky The fields with flowers array.

No chamber of pain but has some hidden door That promises release; No solitude so drear but yields its store Of thought and inward peace.

No night so wild but brings the constant sun With love and power untold; No time so dark but through its woof there run Some blessèd threads of gold.

And through the long and storm-tost centuries burn In changing calm and strife The Pharos-lights of truth, where'er we turn,-- The unquenched lamps of life.

O Love supreme! O Providence divine! What self-adjusting springs Of law and life, what even scales, are thine, What sure-returning wings

Of hopes and joys, that flit like birds away, When chilling autumn blows, But come again, long ere the buds of May Their rosy lips unclose!

What wondrous play of mood and accident Through shifting days and years; What fresh returns of vigor overspent In feverish dreams and fears!

What wholesome air of conscience and of thought When doubts and forms oppress; What vistas opening to the gates we sought Beyond the wilderness;

Beyond the narrow cells, where self-involved, Like chrysalids, we wait The unknown births, the mysteries unsolved Of death and change and fate!

O Light divine! we need no fuller test That all is ordered well; We know enough to trust that all is best Where love and wisdom dwell.

CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.

THE CHANGED CROSS.

It was a time of sadness, and my heart, Although it knew and loved the better part, Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife, And all the needful discipline of life.

And while I thought on these, as given to me, My trial-tests of faith and love to be, It seemed as if I never could be sure That faithful to the end I should endure.

And thus, no longer trusting to his might Who says, "We walk by faith and not by sight," Doubting, and almost yielding to despair, The thought arose, "My cross I cannot bear.

"Far heavier its weight must surely be Than those of others which I daily see; Oh! if I might another burden choose, Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose."

A solemn silence reigned on all around, E'en Nature's voices uttered not a sound; The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell, And sleep upon my weary spirit fell.

A moment's pause,--and then a heavenly light Beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight; Angels on silvery wings seemed everywhere, And angels' music thrilled the balmy air.

Then One, more fair than all the rest to see, One to whom all the others bowed the knee, Came gently to me, as I trembling lay, And, "Follow me," he said; "I am the Way."

Then, speaking thus, he led me far above, And there, beneath a canopy of love, Grosses of divers shape and size were seen, Larger and smaller than my own had been.

And one there was, most beauteous to behold,-- A little one, with jewels set in gold. "Ah! this," methought, "I can with comfort wear, For it will be an easy one to bear."

And so the little cross I quickly took, But all at once my frame beneath it shook; The sparkling jewels, fair were they to _see_, But far too heavy was their _weight_ for me.

"This may not be," I cried, and looked again, To see if there was any here could ease my pain; But, one by one, I passed them slowly by, Till on a lovely one I cast my eye.

Fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined, And grace and beauty seemed in it combined. Wondering, I gazed,--and still I wondered more, To think so many should have passed it o'er.

But oh! that form so beautiful to see Soon made its hidden sorrows known to me; Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair; Sorrowing, I said, "This cross I may not bear."

And so it was with each and all around,-- Not one to suit my _need_ could there be found; Weeping, I laid each heavy burden down, As my Guide gently said, "No cross,--no crown."

At length to him I raised my saddened heart; He knew its sorrows, bade its doubts depart; "Be not afraid," he said, "but trust in me; My perfect love shall now be shown to thee."

And then, with lightened eyes and willing feet, Again I turned my earthly cross to meet; With forward footsteps, turning not aside, For fear some hidden evil might betide;

And there--in the prepared, appointed way, Listening to hear, and ready to obey-- A cross I quickly found of plainest form, With only words of love inscribed thereon.

With thankfulness I raised it from the rest, And joyfully acknowledged it the best, The only one, of all the many there. That I could feel was good for me to bear.

And, while I thus my chosen one confessed, I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest; And as I bent, my burden to sustain, I recognized _my own old cross_ again.

But oh! how different did it seem to be, Now I had learned its preciousness to see! No longer could I unbelieving say "Perhaps another is a better way."

Ah, no! henceforth my one desire shall be, That he who knows me best should choose for me; And so, whate'er his love sees good to send, I'll trust it's best,--because he knows the end.

HON. MRS. CHARLES HOBART.

SOMETHING BEYOND.

Something beyond! though now, with joy unfound, The life-task falleth from thy weary hand, Be brave, be patient! In the fair beyond Thou'lt understand.

Thou'lt understand why our most royal hours Couch sorrowful slaves bound by low nature's greed; Why the celestial soul's a minion made To narrowest need.

In this pent sphere of being incomplete, The imperfect fragment of a beauteous whole, For yon rare regions, where the perfect meet, Sighs the lone soul.

Sighs for the perfect! Far and fair it lies; It hath no half-fed friendships perishing fleet, No partial insights, no averted eyes, No loves unmeet.

Something beyond! Light for our clouded eyes! In this dark dwelling, in its shrouded beams, Our best waits masked, few pierce the soul's disguise; How sad it seems!

Something beyond! Ah, if it were not so, Darker would be thy face, O brief To-day; Earthward we 'd bow beneath life's smiting woe, Powerless to pray.

Something beyond! The immortal morning stands Above the night; clear shines her precious brow; The pendulous star in her transfigured hands Brightens the Now.

MARY CLEMMER AMES HUDSON.

DESPONDENCY REBUKED.

Say not, the struggle nought availeth, The labor and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in you smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only. When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

GOD'S SURE HELP IN SORROW.

Leave all to God, Forsaken one, and stay thy tears; For the Highest knows thy pain, Sees thy sufferings and thy fears; Thou shalt not wait his help in vain; Leave all to God!

Be still and trust! For his strokes are strokes of love, Thou must for thy profit bear; He thy filial fear would move, Trust thy Father's loving care, Be still and trust!

Know, God is near! Though thou think him far away, Though his mercy long have slept, He will come and not delay, When his child enough hath wept, For God is near!

Oh, teach him not When and how to hear thy prayers; Never doth our God forget; He the cross who longest bears Finds his sorrows' bounds are set; Then teach him not!

If thou love him, Walking truly in his ways, Then no trouble, cross, or death E'er shall silence faith and praise; All things serve thee here beneath, If thou love God.

From the German of ANTON ULEICH, DUKE OF BRUNSWICK, 1667. Translation of CATHERINE WINKWORTH, 1855.

SONNET.

While yet these tears have power to flow For hours for ever past away; While yet these swelling sighs allow My faltering voice to breathe a lay; While yet my hand can touch the chords, My tender lute, to wake thy tone; While yet my mind no thought affords, But one remembered dream alone, I ask not death, whate'er my state: But when my eyes can weep no more, My voice is lost, my hand untrue. And when my spirit's fire is o'er, Nor can express the love it knew, Come, Death, and cast thy shadows o'er my fate!

From the French of LOUISE LABÉ. Translation of LOUISE STUART COSTELLO.

WAITING.

Serene, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea; I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, For, lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays, For what avails this eager pace? I stand amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day. The friends I seek are seeking me; No wind can drive my bark astray, Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone? I wait with joy the coming years; My heart shall reap where it has sown, And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own and draw The brook that springs in yonder height;

So flows the good with equal law Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky; The tidal wave unto the sea; Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, Can keep my own away from me.

JOHN BURROUGHS.

AUNT PHILLIS'S GUEST.

ST. HELENA ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA, IN 1863.

I was young and "Harry" was strong, The summer was bursting from sky and plain, Thrilling our blood as we bounded along,-- When a picture flashed, and I dropped the rein.

A black sea-creek, with snaky run Slipping through low green leagues of sedge, An ebbing tide, and a setting sun; A hut and a woman by the edge.

Her back was bent and her wool was gray; The wrinkles lay close on the withered face; Children were buried and sold away,-- The Freedom had come to the last of a race!

She lived from a neighbor's hominy-pot; And praised the Lord, if "the pain" passed by; From the earthen floor the smoke curled out Through shingles patched with the bright blue sky.

"Aunt Phillis, you live here all alone?" I asked, and pitied the gray old head; Sure as a child, in quiet tone, "Me and Jesus, Massa," she said.

I started, for all the place was aglow With a presence I had not seen before; The air was full of a music low, And the Guest Divine stood at the door!

Ay, it was true that the Lord of Life, Who seeth the widow give her mite, Had watched this slave in her weary strife, And shown himself to her longing sight.

The hut and the dirt, the rags and the skin, The grovelling want and the darkened mind,-- I looked on this; but the Lord, within: I would what he saw was in me to find!

A childlike soul, whose faith had force To see what the angels see in bliss: She lived, and the Lord lived; so, of course, They lived together,--she knew but this.