Chapter 12

And the life that I had almost despised As something to pity, so poor and low, Had already borne fruit that the Lord so prized He loved to come near and see it grow.

No sorrow for her that life was done: A few more days of the hut's unrest, A little while longer to sit in the sun,-- Then--He would be host, and she would be guest!

And up above, if an angel of light Should stop on his errand of love some day To ask, "Who lives in the mansion bright?" "Me and Jesus," Aunt Phillis will say.

* * * * *

A fancy, foolish and fond, does it seem? And things are not as Aunt Phillises dream?

Friend, surely so! For this I know,-- That our faiths are foolish by falling below, Not coming above, what God will show; That his commonest thing hides a wonder vast, To whose beauty our eyes have never passed; That his face in the present, or in the to-be, Outshines the best that we think we see.

WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT.

ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.

Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, And bear ye a' life's changes, wi' a calm and tranquil mind, Though pressed and hemmed on every side, ha'e faith and ye 'll win through, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Gin reft frae friends or crest in love, as whiles nae doubt ye've been, Grief lies deep hidden in your heart or tears flow frae your een, Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store for you, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and cloudless sky Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parched and dry, The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew, And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel owre proud and hie, And in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's ee, Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo, But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

JAMES BALLANTINE.

UNCHANGING.

In early days methought that all must last; Then I beheld all changing, dying, fleeting; But though my soul now grieves for much that's past, And changeful fortunes set my heart oft beating, I yet believe in mind that all will last, Because the old in new I still am meeting.

From the German of FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON BODENSTEDT.

I HOLD STILL.

Pain's furnace heat within me quivers, God's breath upon the flame doth blow, And all my heart in anguish shivers, And trembles at the fiery glow: And yet I whisper, As God will! And in his hottest fire hold still.

He comes and lays my heart, all heated, On the hard anvil, minded so Into his own fair shape to beat it With his great hammer, blow on blow: And yet I whisper, As God will! And at his heaviest blows hold still.

He takes my softened heart and beats it,-- The sparks fly off at every blow; He turns it o'er and o'er, and heats it, And lets it cool, and makes it glow: And yet I whisper, As God will! And, in his mighty hand, hold still.

Why should I murmur? for the sorrow Thus only longer-lived would be; Its end may come, and will, to-morrow, When God has done his work in me; So I say, trusting, As God will! And, trusting to the end, hold still.

He kindles for my profit purely Affliction's glowing fiery brand, And all his heaviest blows are surely Inflicted by a Master-hand: So I say, praying, As God will! And hope in him, and suffer still.

From the German of JULIUS STURM.

THE GOOD GREAT MAN.

How seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits Honor or wealth with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits. If any man obtain that which he merits, Or any merit that which he obtains.

* * * * *

For shame, dear Friend; renounce this canting strain! What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain? Place--titles--salary--a gilded chain-- Or throne of corses which his sword has slain? Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends!

Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man? three treasures,--love, and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath; And three firm friends, more sure than day and night-- Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN.

Somewhere, out on the blue seas sailing, Where the winds dance and spin; Beyond the reach of my eager hailing, Over the breakers' din; Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting, Out where the blinding fog is drifting, Out where the treacherous sand is shifting, My ship is coming in.

Oh, I have watched till my eyes were aching, Day after weary day; Oh, I have hoped till my heart was breaking, While the long nights ebbed away; Could I but know where the waves had tossed her, Could I but know what storms had crossed her, Could I but know where the winds had lost her, Out in the twilight gray!

But though the storms her course have altered, Surely the port she'll win; Never my faith in my ship has faltered, I know she is coming in. For through the restless ways of her roaming, Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming, Through the white crest of the billows combing, My ship is coming in.

Breasting the tides where the gulls are flying, Swiftly she's coming in; Shallows and deeps and rocks defying, Bravely she's coming in; Precious the love she will bring to bless me, Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me, In the proud purple of kings she will dress me. My ship that is coming in.

White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming, See, where my ship comes in; At mast-head and peak her colors streaming, Proudly she's sailing in; Love, hope, and joy on her decks are cheering. Music will welcome her glad appearing. And my heart will sing at her stately nearing, When my ship comes in.

ROBERT JONES BURDETTE.

NEVER DESPAIR.[6]

Never despair! Let the feeble in spirit Bow like the willow that stoops to the blast. Droop not in peril! 'T is manhood's true merit Nobly to struggle and hope to the last.

When by the sunshine of fortune forsaken Faint sinks the heart of the feeble with fear, Stand like the oak of the forest--unshaken, Never despair--Boys--oh! never despair.

Never despair! Though adversity rages,

Fiercely and fell as the surge on the shore, Firm as the rock of the ocean for ages, Stem the rude torrent till danger is o'er. Fate with its whirlwind our joys may all sever, True to ourselves, we have nothing to fear. Be this our hope and our anchor for ever-- Never despair--Boys--oh! never despair.

WILLIAM SMITH O'BRIEN.

[6] These lines were sent to me by William Smith O'Brien, the evening of Monday, October 8, 1848, the day on which sentence of death was passed upon him.

THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. October 12, 1848.

THE SADDEST FATE.

To touch a broken lute, To strike a jangled string, To strive with tones forever mute The dear old tunes to sing-- What sadder fate could any heart befall? _Alas! dear child, never to sing at all_.

To sigh for pleasures flown. To weep for withered flowers, To count the blessings we have known, Lost with the vanished hours-- What sadder fate could any heart befall? _Alas! dear child, ne'er to have known them all_.

To dream of love and rest, To know the dream has past, To bear within an aching breast Only a void at last-- What sadder fate could any heart befall? _Alas! dear child, ne'er to have loved at all_.

To trust an unknown good, To hope, but all in vain, Over a far-off bliss to brood, Only to find it pain-- What sadder fate could any soul befall? _Alas! dear child, never to hope at all_.

ANONYMOUS.

THE SONG OF THE SAVOYARDS.

Far poured past Broadway's lamps alight, The tumult of her motley throng. When high and clear upon the night Rose an inspiring song. And rang above the city's din To sound of harp and violin; A simple but a manly strain, And ending with the brave refrain-- Courage! courage, mon camarade!

And now where rose that song of cheer. Both old and young stood still for joy; Or from the windows hung to hear The children of Savoy: And many an eye with rapture glowed, And saddest hearts forgot their load, And feeble souls grew strong again, So stirring was the brave refrain-- Courage! courage, mon camarade!

Alone, with only silence there, Awaiting his life's welcome close, A sick man lay, when on the air That clarion arose; So sweet the thrilling cadence rang, It seemed to him an angel sang, And sang to him; and he would fain Have died upon that heavenly strain-- Courage! courage, mon camarade!

A sorrow-stricken man and wife, With nothing left them but to pray, Heard streaming over their sad life That grand, heroic lay: And through the mist of happy tears They saw the promise-laden years; And in their joy they sang again, And carolled high the fond refrain-- Courage! courage, mon camarade!

Two artists, in the cloud of gloom Which hung upon their hopes deferred, Resounding through their garret-room That noble chanson heard; And as the night before the day Their weak misgivings fled away; And with the burden of the strain They made their studio ring again-- Courage! courage, mon camarade!

Two poets, who in patience wrought The glory of an aftertime,-- Lords of an age which knew them not, Heard rise that lofty rhyme; And on their hearts it fell, as falls The sunshine upon prison-walls; And one caught up the magic strain And to the other sang again-- Courage! courage, mon camarade!

And unto one, who, tired of breath, And day and night and name and fame, Held to his lips a glass of death, That song a savior came; Beseeching him from his despair, As with the passion of a prayer; And kindling in his heart and brain The valor of its blest refrain-- Courage! courage, mon camarade!

O thou, with earthly ills beset, Call to thy lips those words of joy, And never in thy life forget The brave song of Savoy! For those dear words may have the power To cheer thee in thy darkest hour; The memory of that loved refrain Bring gladness to thy heart again!-- Courage! courage, mon camarade!

HENRY AMES BLOOD.

* * * * *

V. DEATH AND BEREAVEMENT.

LIFE.

We are born; we laugh; we weep; We love; we droop; we die! Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep? Why do we live or die? Who knows that secret deep? Alas not I!

Why doth the violet spring Unseen by human eye? Why do the radiant seasons bring Sweet thoughts that quickly fly? Why do our fond hearts cling To things that die?

We toil--through pain and wrong; We fight--and fly; We love; we lose; and then, ere long, Stone-dead we lie, O life! is all thy song "Endure and--die?"

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER _(Barry Cornwall)._

SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.

FROM "HAMLET," ACT III. SC. I.

HAMLET.--To be, or not to be,--that is the question Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them?--To die, to sleep;-- No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to,--'t is a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die,--to sleep;-- To sleep! perchance to dream:--ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pains of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death,-- The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns,--puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.

SHAKESPEARE.

SIC VITA.[7]

Like to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are, Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew,

Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood,--

E'en such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in, and paid to-night. The wind blows out, the bubble dies, The spring entombed in autumn lies, The dew dries up, the star is shot, The flight is past,--and man forgot!

HENRY KING.

[7] Claimed for Francis Beaumont by some authorities.

DEATH THE LEVELLER.

[These verses are said to have "chilled the heart" of Oliver Cromwell.]

The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and crown Must tumble down. And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late, They stoop to fate. And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

VIRTUE IMMORTAL.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridall of the earth and skie; The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. Sweet Rose, whose hue angrie and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And all must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, Thy musick shows ye have your closes, And all must die.

Onely a sweet and vertuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But, though the whole world, turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.

GEORGE HERBERT.

MAN'S MORTALITY.

Like as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on the tree, Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning of the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had,-- E'en such is man; whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.-- The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, The flower fades, the morning hasteth, The sun sets, the shadow flies, The gourd consumes,--and man he dies!

Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a tale that's new begun, Or like the bird that's here to-day, Or like the pearled dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan,-- E'en such is man; who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death.-- The grass withers, the tale is ended, The bird is flown, the dew's ascended. The hour is short, the span is long, The swan's near death,--man's life is done!

SIMON WASTELL.

MORTALITY.

O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The child that a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection that proved, The husband that mother and infant that blessed, Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.

The maid on whose cheek on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by; And the memory of those that beloved her and praised Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar that wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven, The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed That wither away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes, even those we behold, To repeat every tale that hath often been told.

For we are the same that our fathers have been; We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,-- We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, And we run the same course that our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink; To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling; But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but their story we cannot unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come; They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb.

They died, ay! they died! and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, Are mingled together like sunshine and rain; And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge, Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud;-- why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

WILLIAM KNOX.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set--but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer-- But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day of griefs overwhelming power, A time for softer tears--but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee--but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set--but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain-- But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? They have _one_ season--_all_ are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth--and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest-- Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set--but all. Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

THE TERM OF DEATH.

Between the falling leaf and rose-bud's breath; The bird's forsaken nest and her new song (And this is all the time there is for Death); The worm and butterfly--it is not long!

SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT.

A PICTURE OF DEATH.

FROM "THE GIAOUR."

He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) And marked the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose, that's there, The fixed yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And--but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, And but for that chill, changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Apalls the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Yes, but for these and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, The first, last look by death revealed! Such is the aspect of this shore; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb, Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling past away; Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth!

LORD BYRON.

THE TWO MYSTERIES.

["In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, the nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. She looked wonderingly at the spectacle of death, and then inquiringly into the old man's face. 'You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?' said he, and added, 'We don't, either.'"]

We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still; The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill; The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call; The strange white solitude of peace that settles over all.

We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain; This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again; We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go, Nor why we 're left to wonder still, nor why we do not know.

But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day-- Should come and ask us, "What is life?" not one of us could say. Life is a mystery, as deep as ever death can be; Yet, O, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see!

Then might they say--these vanished ones--and blessed is the thought, "So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may show you nought; We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death-- Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath."

The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent, So those who enter death must go as little children sent. Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead; And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead.

MARY MAPLES DODGE.

THANATOPSIS.