Chapter 18

Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain.

Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!

ROBERT BROWNING.

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.

I would not live alway--live alway below! Oh no, I'll not linger when bidden to go: The days of our pilgrimage granted us here Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer: Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of God, Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod? Like a spirit unblest, o'er the earth would I roam, While brethren and friends are all hastening home?

I would not live alway: I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; Where seeking for rest we but hover around, Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found; Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air. Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair, And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away.

I would not live alway--thus fettered by sin, Temptation without and corruption within; In a moment of strength if I sever the chain, Scarce the victory's mine, ere I'm captive again; E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears: The festival trump calls for jubilant songs, But my spirit her own _miserere_ prolongs.

I would not live alway--no, welcome the tomb, Since Jesus hath lain there I dread not its gloom; Where he deigned to sleep, I'll too bow my head, All peaceful to slumber on that hallowed bed. Then the glorious daybreak, to follow that night, The orient gleam of the angels of light, With their clarion call for the sleepers to rise. And chant forth their matins, away to the skies.

Who, who would live alway? away from his God, Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, And the noontide of glory eternally reigns; Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet, While the songs of salvation exultingly roll And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul.

That heavenly music! what is it I hear? The notes of the harpers ring sweet in mine ear! And see, soft unfolding those portals of gold, The King all arrayed in his beauty behold! Oh give me, oh give me, the wings of a dove, To adore him--be near him--enwrapt with his love; I but wait for the summons, I list for the word-- Alleluia--Amen--evermore with the Lord!

WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MÜHLENBERG.

FAREWELL.

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife; Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of life,-- It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

LOVE AND DEATH.

Alas! that men must see Love, before Death! Else they content might be With their short breath; Aye, glad, when the pale sun Showed restless day was done, And endless Rest begun.

Glad, when with strong, cool hand Death clasped their own, And with a strange command Hushed every moan; Glad to have finished pain, And labor wrought in vain, Blurred by Sin's deepening stain.

But Love's insistent voice Bids self to flee-- "Live that I may rejoice, Live on, for me!" So, for Love's cruel mind, Men fear this Rest to find, Nor know great Death is kind!

MARGARETTA WADE DELAND.

TO DEATH.

Methinks it were no pain to die On such an eve, when such a sky O'er-canopies the west; To gaze my fill on yon calm deep, And, like an infant, fall asleep On Earth, my mother's breast.

There's peace and welcome in yon sea Of endless blue tranquillity: These clouds are living things; I trace their veins of liquid gold, I see them solemnly unfold Their soft and fleecy wings.

These be the angels that convey Us weary children of a day-- Life's tedious nothing o'er-- Where neither passions come, nor woes, To vex the genius of repose On Death's majestic shore.

No darkness there divides the sway With startling dawn and dazzling day; But gloriously serene Are the interminable plains: One fixed, eternal sunset reigns O'er the wide silent scene.

I cannot doff all human fear; I know thy greeting is severe To this poor shell of clay: Yet come, O Death! thy freezing kiss Emancipates! thy rest is bliss! I would I were away!

From the German of GLUCK.

ASLEEP, ASLEEP.

"And so saying, he fell asleep."

MARTYRDOM OF SAINT STEPHEN.

Asleep! asleep! men talk of "sleep," When all adown the silent deep The shades of night are stealing; When like a curtain, soft and vast, The darkness over all is cast, And sombre stillness comes at last, To the mute heart appealing.

Asleep! asleep! when soft and low The patient watchers come and go, Their loving vigil keeping; When from the dear eyes fades the light, When pales the flush so strangely bright, And the glad spirit takes its flight, We speak of death as "sleeping."

Or when, as dies the orb of day, The aged Christian sinks away, And the lone mourner weepeth; When thus the pilgrim goes to rest, With meek hands folded on his breast, And his last sigh a prayer confessed-- We say of such, "He sleepeth."

But when amidst a shower of stones, And mingled curses, shrieks, and groans, The death-chill slowly creepeth; When falls at length the dying head, And streams the life-blood dark and red, A thousand voices cry, "He's dead"; But who shall say, "He sleepeth"?

"He fell asleep." A pen divine Hath writ that epitaph of thine; And though the days are hoary, Yet beautiful thy rest appears-- Unsullied by the lapse of years-- And still we read, with thankful tears, The tale of grace and glory.

Asleep! asleep! though not for thee The touch of loving lips might be, In sadly sweet leave-taking: Though not for thee the last caress, The look of untold tenderness, The love that dying hours can press From hearts with silence breaking.

LUCY A. BENNETT.

REST.

I lay me down to sleep, With little care Whether my waking find Me here, or there.

A bowing, burdened head That only asks to rest, Unquestioning, upon A loving breast.

My good right-hand forgets Its cunning now; To march the weary march I know not how.

I am not eager, bold, Nor strong,--all that is past; I am ready not to do, At last, at last.

My half-day's work is done, And this is all my part,-- I give a patient God My patient heart;

And grasp his banner still, Though all the blue be dim; These stripes as well as stars Lead after him.

MARY WOOLSEY HOWLAND.

IN HARBOR.

I think it is over, over, I think it is over at last: Voices of foemen and lover, The sweet and the bitter, have passed: Life, like a tempest of ocean Hath outblown its ultimate blast: There's but a faint sobbing seaward While the calm of the tide deepens leeward, And behold! like the welcoming quiver Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, Those lights in the harbor at last, The heavenly harbor at last!

I feel it is over! over! For the winds and the waters surcease; Ah, few were the days of the rover That smiled in the beauty of peace, And distant and dim was the omen That hinted redress or release! From the ravage of life, and its riot, What marvel I yearn for the quiet Which bides in the harbor at last,-- For the lights, with their welcoming quiver That throb through the sanctified river, Which girdle the harbor at last, This heavenly harbor at last?

I know it is over, over, I know it is over at last! Down sail! the sheathed anchor uncover, For the stress of the voyage has passed: Life, like a tempest of ocean, Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast: There's but a faint sobbing seaward, While the calm of the tide deepens leeward; And behold! like the welcoming quiver Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, Those lights in the harbor at last, The heavenly harbor at last!

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

HUSH!

Oh, hush thee, Earth! Fold thou thy weary palms! The sunset glory fadeth in the west; The purple splendor leaves the mountain's crest; Gray twilight comes as one who beareth alms, Darkness and silence and delicious calms. Take thou the gift, O Earth! On Night's soft breast Lay thy tired head and sink to dreamless rest, Lulled by the music of her evening psalms. Cool darkness, silence, and the holy stars, Long shadows when the pale moon soars on high, One far lone night-bird singing from the hill, And utter rest from Day's discordant jars; O soul of mine! when the long night draws nigh Will such deep peace thine inmost being fill?

JULIA C.R. DORR.

LIFE.

"Animula, vagula, blandula."

Life! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met I own to me's a secret yet. But this I know, when thou art fled, Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, No clod so valueless shall be, As all that then remains of me. O, whither, whither dost thou fly, Where bend unseen thy trackless course, And in this strange divorce, Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I?

To the vast ocean of empyreal flame, From whence thy essence came, Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed From matter's base uncumbering weed? Or dost thou, hid from sight, Wait, like some spell-bound knight, Through blank, oblivious years the appointed hour To break thy trance and reassume thy power? Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be? O, say what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee?

Life! we've been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,-- Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear: Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning.

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.

* * * * *

VI. CONSOLATION.

THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE.

A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN.

To weary hearts, to mourning homes, God's meekest Angel gently comes: No power has he to banish pain, Or give us back our lost again; And yet in tenderest love our dear And heavenly Father sends him here.

There's quiet in that Angel's glance, There's rest in his still countenance! He mocks no grief with idle cheer, Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear; But ills and woes he may not cure He kindly trains us to endure.

Angel of Patience! sent to calm Our feverish brows with cooling palm; To lay the storms of hope and fear, And reconcile life's smile and tear; The throbs of wounded pride to still, And make our own our Father's will!

O thou who mournest on thy way, With longings for the close of day; He walks with thee, that Angel kind, And gently whispers, "Be resigned: Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell The dear Lord ordereth all things well!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

THEY ARE ALL GONE.

They are all gone into the world of light, And I alone sit lingering here! Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear;

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove,-- Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days,-- My days which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy hope! and high humility,-- High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have showed them me To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous death,--the jewel of the just,-- Shining nowhere but in the dark! What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown.

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep.

If a star were confined into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there, But when the hand that locked her up gives room, She'll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under thee! Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass; Or else remove me hence unto that hill Where I shall need no glass.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

THE BOTTOM DRAWER.

In the best chamber of the house, Shut up in dim, uncertain light, There stood an antique chest of drawers, Of foreign wood, with brasses bright. One day a woman, frail and gray, Stepped totteringly across the floor-- "Let in," said she, "the light of day, Then, Jean, unlock the bottom drawer."

The girl, in all her youth's loveliness, Knelt down with eager, curious face; Perchance she dreamt of Indian silks, Of jewels, and of rare old lace. But when the summer sunshine fell Upon the treasures hoarded there, The tears rushed to her tender eyes, Her heart was solemn as a prayer.

"Dear Grandmamma," she softly sighed, Lifting a withered rose and palm; But on the elder face was naught But sweet content and peaceful calm. Leaning upon her staff, she gazed Upon a baby's half-worn shoe; A little frock of finest lawn; A hat with tiny bows of blue;

A ball made fifty years ago; A little glove; a tasselled cap; A half-done "long division" sum; Some school-books fastened with a strap. She touched them all with trembling lips-- "How much," she said, "the heart can bear! Ah, Jean! I thought that I should die The day that first I laid them there.

"But now it seems so good to know That through these weary, troubled years Their hearts have been untouched by grief, Their eyes have been unstained by tears. Dear Jean, we see with clearer sight When earthly love is almost o'er; Those children wait me in the skies, For whom I locked that sacred drawer."

AMELIA EDITH BARR.

OVER THE RIVER.

Over the river they beckon to me, Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side, The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there, The gates of the city we could not see: Over the river, over the river, My brother stands waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale Carried another, the household pet; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, Darling Minnie! I see her yet. She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; We felt it glide from the silver sands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark; We know she is safe on the farther side, Where all the ransomed and angels be: Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none returns from those quiet shores, Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts, They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold Is flushing river and hill and shore, I shall one day stand by the water cold, And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, To the better shore of the spirit land. I shall know the loved who have gone before, And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river, The angel of death shall carry me.

NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST.

GRIEF FOR THE DEAD.

O hearts that never cease to yearn! O brimming tears that ne'er are dried! The dead, though they depart, return As though they had not died!

The living are the only dead; The dead live,--nevermore to die; And often, when we mourn them fled, They never were so nigh!

And though they lie beneath the waves, Or sleep within the churchyard dim, (Ah! through how many different graves God's children go to him!)--

Yet every grave gives up its dead Ere it is overgrown with grass; Then why should hopeless tears be shed, Or need we cry, "Alas"?

Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom, And like a sorrowing mourner craped, Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb, Whose captives have escaped?

'Tis but a mound,--and will be mossed Whene'er the summer grass appears; The loved, though wept, are never lost; We only lose--our tears!

Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead By bending forward where they are; But Memory, with a backward tread, Communes with them afar.

The joys we lose are but forecast, And we shall find them all once more; We look behind us for the Past, But lo! 'tis all before!

ANONYMOUS.

THE TWO WAITINGS.

I.

Dear hearts, you were waiting a year ago For the glory to be revealed; You were wondering deeply, with bated breath, What treasure the days concealed.

O, would it be this, or would it be that? Would it be girl or boy? Would it look like father or mother most? And what should you do for joy?

And then, one day, when the time was full, And the spring was coming fast, The tender grace of a life outbloomed, And you saw your baby at last.

Was it or not what you had dreamed? It was, and yet it was not; But O, it was better a thousand times Than ever you wished or thought.

II.

And now, dear hearts, you are waiting again, While the spring is coming fast; For the baby that was a future dream Is now a dream of the past:

A dream of sunshine, and all that's sweet; Of all that is pure and bright; Of eyes that were blue as the sky by day, And as clear as the stars by night.

You are waiting again for the fulness of time, And the glory to be revealed; You are wondering deeply with aching hearts What treasure is now concealed.

O, will she be this, or will she be that? And what will there be in her face That will tell you sure that she is your own, When you meet in the heavenly place?

As it was before, it will be again, Fashion your dream as you will; When the veil is rent, and the glory is seen, It will more than your hope fulfil.

JOHN WHITE CHADWICK.

FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE.

The night is late, the house is still; The angels of the hour fulfil Their tender ministries, and move From couch to couch in cares of love. They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, The happiest smile of Charlie's life, And lay on baby's lips a kiss, Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss; And, as they pass, they seem to make A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake."

My listening heart takes up the strain, And gives it to the night again, Fitted with words of lowly praise, And patience learned of mournful days, And memories of the dead child's ways. His will be done, His will be done! Who gave and took away my son, In "the far land" to shine and sing Before the Beautiful, the King, Who every day does Christmas make, All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.

For Charlie's sake I will arise; I will anoint me where he lies, And change my raiment, and go in To the Lord's house, and leave my sin Without, and seat me at his board, Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. For wherefore should I fast and weep, And sullen moods of mourning keep? I cannot bring him back, nor he, For any calling, come to me. The bond the angel Death did sign, God sealed--for Charlie's sake, and mine.

I'm very poor--this slender stone Marks all the narrow field I own; Yet, patient husbandman, I till With faith and prayers, that precious hill, Sow it with penitential pains, And, hopeful, wait the latter rains; Content if, after all, the spot Yield barely one forget-me-not-- Whether or figs or thistle make My crop content for Charlie's sake.

I have no houses, builded well-- Only that little lonesome cell, Where never romping playmates come, Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb-- An April burst of girls and boys, Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joys Born with their songs, gone with their toys; Nor ever is its stillness stirred By purr of cat, or chirp of bird, Or mother's twilight legend, told Of Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold, Or fairy hobbling to the door, Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor, To bless the good child's gracious eyes, The good child's wistful charities, And crippled changeling's hunch to make Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake.

How is it with the child? 'Tis well; Nor would I any miracle Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance, Or plague his painless countenance: I would not any seer might place His staff on my immortal's face. Or lip to lip, and eye to eye, Charm back his pale mortality. No, Shunamite! I would not break God's stillness. Let them weep who wake.

For Charlie's sake my lot is blest: No comfort like his mother's breast, No praise like hers; no charm expressed In fairest forms hath half her zest. For Charlie's sake this bird's caressed That death left lonely in the nest; For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed, As for its birthday, in its best; For Charlie's sake we leave the rest. To Him who gave, and who did take, And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake.

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

WATCHING FOR PAPA.

She always stood upon the steps Just by the cottage door, Waiting to kiss me when I came Each night home from the store. Her eyes were like two glorious stars, Dancing in heaven's own blue-- "Papa," she'd call like a wee bird, "_I's looten out for oo!_"

Alas! how sadly do our lives Change as we onward roam! For now no birdie voice calls out To bid me welcome home. No little hands stretched out for me, No blue eyes dancing bright, No baby face peeps from the door When I come home at night.

And yet there's comfort in the thought That when life's toil is o'er, And passing through the sable flood I gain the brighter shore, My little angel at the gate, With eyes divinely blue, Will call with birdie voice, "Papa, _I's looten out for oo!_"

ANONYMOUS.

MY CHILD.

I cannot make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; Yet when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes,--he is not there!

I walk my parlor floor, And, through the open door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; I'm stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call; And then bethink me that--he is not there!

I thread the crowded street; A satchelled lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that--he is not there!