I think my mind is fixedOn one point and made up:To accept my lot unmixed; 530Never to drug the cupBut drink it by myself.I'll not be wooed for pelf;I'll not blot out my shameWith any man's good name;But nameless as I stand,My hand is my own hand,And nameless as I cameI go to the dark land.
'All equal in the grave'— 540I bide my time till then:'All equal before God'—To-day I feel His rod,To-morrow He may save:Amen.
My sun has set, I dwellIn darkness as a dead man out of sight;And none remains, not one, that I should tellTo him mine evil plightThis bitter night.I will make fast my doorThat hollow friends may trouble me no more.
'Friend, open to Me.'—Who is this that calls?Nay, I am deaf as are my walls:Cease crying, for I will not hear 10Thy cry of hope or fear.Others were dear,Others forsook me: what art thou indeedThat I should heedThy lamentable need?Hungry should feed,Or stranger lodge thee here?
'Friend, My Feet bleed.Open thy door to Me and comfort Me.'I will not open, trouble me no more. 20Go on thy way footsore,I will not rise and open unto thee.
'Then is it nothing to thee? Open, seeWho stands to plead with thee.Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thouOne day entreat My FaceAnd howl for grace,And I be deaf as thou art now.Open to Me.'
Then I cried out upon him: Cease, 30Leave me in peace:Fear not that I should craveAught thou mayst have.Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more,Lest I arise and chase thee from my door.What, shall I not be letAlone, that thou dost vex me yet?
But all night long that voice spake urgently:'Open to Me.'Still harping in mine ears: 40'Rise, let Me in.'Pleading with tears:'Open to Me that I may come to thee.'While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold:'My Feet bleed, see My Face,See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace,My Heart doth bleed for thee,Open to Me.'
So till the break of day:Then died away 50That voice, in silence as of sorrow;Then footsteps echoing like a sighPassed me by,Lingering footsteps slow to pass.On the morrowI saw upon the grassEach footprint marked in blood, and on my doorThe mark of blood for evermore.
Thou who didst hang upon a barren tree,My God, for me;Though I till now be barren, now at lengthLord, give me strengthTo bring forth fruit to Thee.
Thou who didst bear for me the crown of thorn,Spitting and scorn;Though I till now have put forth thorns, yet nowStrengthen me ThouThat better fruit be borne. 10
Thou Rose of Sharon, Cedar of broad roots,Vine of sweet fruits,Thou Lily of the vale with fadeless leaf,Of thousands Chief,Feed Thou my feeble shoots.
If I might only love my God and die!But now He bids me love Him and live on,Now when the bloom of all my life is gone,The pleasant half of life has quite gone by.My tree of hope is lopped that spread so high,And I forget how summer glowed and shone,While autumn grips me with its fingers wanAnd frets me with its fitful windy sigh.When autumn passes then must winter numb,And winter may not pass a weary while, 10But when it passes spring shall flower again;And in that spring who weepeth now shall smile,Yea, they shall wax who now are on the wane,Yea, they shall sing for love when Christ shall come.
I love and love not: Lord, it breaks my heartTo love and not to love.Thou veiled within Thy glory, gone apartInto Thy shrine, which is above,Dost Thou not love me, Lord, or careFor this mine ill?—I love thee here or there,I will accept thy broken heart, lie still.
Lord, it was well with me in time gone byThat cometh not again, 10When I was fresh and cheerful, who but I?I fresh, I cheerful: worn with painNow, out of sight and out of heart;O Lord, how long?—I watch thee as thou art,I will accept thy fainting heart, be strong.
'Lie still,' 'be strong,' to-day; but, Lord, to-morrow,What of to-morrow, Lord?Shall there be rest from toil, be truce from sorrow,Be living green upon the sward 20Now but a barren grave to me,Be joy for sorrow?—Did I not die for thee?Did I not live for thee? Leave Me to-morrow.
I would have gone; God bade me stay:I would have worked; God bade me rest.He broke my will from day to day,He read my yearnings unexpressedAnd said them nay.
Now I would stay; God bids me go:Now I would rest; God bids me work.He breaks my heart tossed to and fro,My soul is wrung with doubts that lurkAnd vex it so. 10
I go, Lord, where Thou sendest me;Day after day I plod and moil:But, Christ my God, when will it beThat I may let alone my toilAnd rest with Thee?
We meet in joy, though we part in sorrow;We part to-night, but we meet to-morrow.Be it flood or blood the path that's trod,All the same it leads home to God:Be it furnace-fire voluminous,One like God's Son will walk with us.
What are these that glow from afar,These that lean over the golden bar,Strong as the lion, pure as the dove,With open arms and hearts of love? 10They the blessed ones gone before,They the blessed for evermore.Out of great tribulation they wentHome to their home of Heaven-content;Through flood, or blood, or furnace-fire,To the rest that fulfils desire.
What are these that fly as a cloud,With flashing heads and faces bowed,In their mouths a victorious psalm,In their hands a robe and palm? 20Welcoming angels these that shine,Your own angel, and yours, and mine;Who have hedged us, both day and nightOn the left hand and the right,Who have watched us both night and dayBecause the devil keeps watch to slay.
Light above light, and Bliss beyond bliss,Whom words cannot utter, lo, Who is This?As a King with many crowns He stands,And our names are graven upon His hands; 30As a Priest, with God-uplifted eyes,He offers for us His sacrifice;As the Lamb of God for sinners slain,That we too may live He lives again;As our Champion behold Him stand,Strong to save us, at God's Right Hand.
God the Father give us graceTo walk in the light of Jesus' Face.God the Son give us a partIn the hiding-place of Jesus' Heart: 40God the Spirit so hold us upThat we may drink of Jesus' cup;
Death is short and life is long;Satan is strong, but Christ more strong.At His Word, Who hath led us hither.The Red Sea must part hither and thither.As His Word, Who goes before us too,Jordan must cleave to let us through.
Yet one pang searching and sore,And then Heaven for evermore; 50Yet one moment awful and dark,Then safety within the Veil and the Ark;Yet one effort by Christ His grace,Then Christ for ever face to face.
God the Father we will adore,In Jesus' Name, now and evermore:God the Son we will love and thankIn this flood and on the further bank:God the Holy Ghost we will praiseIn Jesus' Name, through endless days: 60God Almighty, God Three in One,God Almighty, God alone.
As eager homebound traveller to the goal,Or steadfast seeker on an unsearched main,Or martyr panting for an aureole,My fellow-pilgrims pass me, and attainThat hidden mansion of perpetual peaceWhere keen desire and hope dwell free from pain:That gate stands open of perennial ease;I view the glory till I partly long,Yet lack the fire of love which quickens these.O passing Angel, speed me with a song, 10A melody of heaven to reach my heartAnd rouse me to the race and make me strong;Till in such music I take up my partSwelling those Hallelujahs full of rest,One, tenfold, hundredfold, with heavenly art,Fulfilling north and south and east and west,Thousand, ten thousandfold, innumerable,All blent in one yet each one manifest;Each one distinguished and beloved as wellAs if no second voice in earth or heaven 20Were lifted up the Love of God to tell.Ah, Love of God, which Thine own Self hast givenTo me most poor, and made me rich in love,Love that dost pass the tenfold seven times seven,Draw Thou mine eyes, draw Thou my heart above,My treasure ad my heart store Thou in Thee,Brood over me with yearnings of a dove;Be Husband, Brother, closest Friend to me;Love me as very mother loves her son,Her sucking firstborn fondled on her knee: 30Yea, more than mother loves her little one;For, earthly, even a mother may forgetAnd feel no pity for its piteous moan;But thou, O Love of God, remember yet,Through the dry desert, through the waterflood(Life, death) until the Great White Throne is set.If now I am sick in chewing the bitter cudOf sweet past sin, though solaced by Thy graceAnd ofttimes strengthened by Thy Flesh and Blood,How shall I then stand up before Thy face 40When from Thine eyes repentance shall be hidAnd utmost Justice stand in Mercy's place:When every sin I thought or spoke or didShall meet me at the inexorable bar,And there be no man standing in the midTo plead for me; while star fallen after starWith heaven and earth are like a ripened shock,And all time's mighty works and wonders areConsumed as in a moment; when no rockRemains to fall on me, no tree to hide, 50But I stand all creation's gazing-stockExposed and comfortless on every side,Placed trembling in the final balancesWhose poise this hour, this moment, must be tried?—Ah Love of God, if greater love than thisHath no man, that a man die for his friend,And if such love of love Thine Own Love is,Plead with Thyself, with me, before the end;Redeem me from the irrevocable past;Pitch Thou Thy Presence round me to defend; 60Yea seek with piercèd feet, yea hold me fastWith piercèd hands whose wounds were made by love;Not what I am, remember what Thou wastWhen darkness hid from Thee Thy heavens above,And sin Thy Father's Face, while thou didst drinkThe bitter cup of death, didst taste thereofFor every man; while Thou wast nigh to sinkBeneath the intense intolerable rod,Grown sick of love; not what I am, but thinkThy Life then ransomed mine, my God, my God. 70
Am I a stone and not a sheepThat I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,And yet not weep?
Not so those women lovedWho with exceeding grief lamented Thee;Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and MoonWhich hid their faces in a starless sky, 10A horror of great darkness at broad noon—I, only I.
Yet give not o'er,But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;Greater than Moses, turn and look once moreAnd smite a rock.
Give me the lowest place: not that I dareAsk for that lowest place, but Thou hast diedThat I might live and shareThy glory by Thy side.
Give me the lowest place: or if for meThat lowest place too high, make one more lowWhere I may sit and seeMy God and love Thee so.
(Athenaeum, October 14, 1848)
Chide not; let me breathe a little,For I shall not mourn him long;Though the life-cord was so brittle,The love-cord was very strong.I would wake a little spaceTill I find a sleeping-place.
You can go,—I shall not weep;You can go unto your rest.My heart-ache is all too deep,And too sore my throbbing breast. 10Can sobs be, or angry tears,Where are neither hopes nor fears?
Though with you I am aloneAnd must be so everywhere,I will make no useless moan,—None shall say 'She could not bear:'While life lasts I will be strong,—But I shall not struggle long.
Listen, listen! EverywhereA low voice is calling me, 20And a step is on the stair,And one comes ye do not see,Listen, listen! EvermoreA dim hand knocks at the door.
Hear me; he is come again,—My own dearest is come back.Bring him in from the cold rain;Bring wine, and let nothing lack.Thou and I will rest together,Love, until the sunny weather. 30
I will shelter thee from harm,—Hide thee from all heaviness.Come to me, and keep thee warmBy my side in quietness.I will lull thee to thy sleepWith sweet songs:—we will not weep.
Who hath talked of weeping?—YetThere is something at my heart,Gnawing, I would fain forget,And an aching and a smart. 40—Ah! my mother, 'tis in vain,For he isnotcome again.
(Athenaeum, October 21, 1848)
I did not chide him, though I knewThat he was false to me.Chide the exhaling of the dew,The ebbing of the sea,The fading of a rosy hue,—But not inconstancy.
Why strive for love when love is o'er?Why bind a restive heart?—He never knew the pain I boreIn saying: 'We must part; 10Let us be friends and nothing more.'—Oh, woman's shallow art!
But it is over, it is done,—I hardly heed it now;So many weary years have runSince then, I think not howThings might have been,—but greet each oneWith an unruffled brow.
What time I am where others be,My heart seems very calm— 20Stone calm; but if all go from me,There comes a vague alarm,A shrinking in the memoryFrom some forgotten harm.
And often through the long, long night,Waking when none are near,I feel my heart beat fast with fright,Yet know not what I fear.Oh how I long to see the light,And the sweet birds to hear! 30
To have the sun upon my face,To look up through the trees,To walk forth in the open spaceAnd listen to the breeze,—And not to dream the burial-placeIs clogging my weak knees.
Sometimes I can nor weep nor pray,But am half stupefied:And then all those who see me sayMine eyes are opened wide 40And that my wits seem gone away—Ah, would that I had died!
Would I could die and be at peace,Or living could forget!My grief nor grows nor doth decrease,But ever is:—and yetMethinks, now, that all this shall ceaseBefore the sun shall set.
(Art and Poetry[The Germ, No. 3], March 1850)
She sat alway thro' the long daySpinning the weary thread away;And ever said in undertone:'Come, that I be no more alone.'
From early dawn to set of sunWorking, her task was still undone;And the long thread seemed to increaseEven while she spun and did not cease.She heard the gentle turtle-doveTell to its mate a tale of love; 10She saw the glancing swallows fly,Ever a social company;She knew each bird upon its nestHad cheering songs to bring it rest;None lived alone save only she;—The wheel went round more wearily;She wept and said in undertone:'Come, that I be no more alone.'
Day followed day, and still she sighedFor love, and was not satisfied; 20Until one night, when the moonlightTurned all the trees to silver white,She heard, what ne'er she heard before,A steady hand undo the door.The nightingale since set of sunHer throbbing music had not done,And she had listened silently;But now the wind had changed, and sheHeard the sweet song no more, but heardBeside her bed a whispered word: 30'Damsel, rise up; be not afraid;For I am come at last,' it said.
She trembled, tho' the voice was mild;She trembled like a frightened child;—Till she looked up, and then she sawThe unknown speaker without awe.He seemed a fair young man, his eyesBeaming with serious charities;His cheek was white but hardly pale;And a dim glory like a veil 40Hovered about his head, and shoneThro' the whole room till night was gone.
So her fear fled; and then she said,Leaning upon her quiet bed:'Now thou art come, I prithee stay,That I may see thee in the day,And learn to know thy voice, and hearIt evermore calling me near.'
He answered: 'Rise, and follow me.'But she looked upwards wonderingly: 50'And whither would'st thou go, friend? stayUntil the dawning of the day.'But he said: 'The wind ceaseth, Maid;Of chill nor damp be thou afraid.'
She bound her hair up from the floor,And passed in silence from the door.
So they went forth together, heHelping her forward tenderly.The hedges bowed beneath his hand;Forth from the streams came the dry land 60As they passed over; evermoreThe pallid moonbeams shone before;And the wind hushed, and nothing stirred;Not even a solitary bird,Scared by their footsteps, fluttered byWhere aspen-trees stood steadily.
As they went on, at length a soundCame trembling on the air around;The undistinguishable humOf life, voices that go and come 70Of busy men, and the child's sweetHigh laugh, and noise of trampling feet.
Then he said: 'Wilt thou go and see?'And she made answer joyfully:'The noise of life, of human life,Of dear communion without strife,Of converse held 'twixt friend and friend;Is it not here our path shall end?'He led her on a little wayUntil they reached a hillock: 'Stay.' 80
It was a village in a plain.High mountains screened it from the rainAnd stormy wind; and nigh at handA bubbling streamlet flowed, o'er sandPebbly and fine, and sent life upGreen succous stalk and flower-cup.
Gradually, day's harbinger,A chilly wind began to stir.It seemed a gentle powerless breezeThat scarcely rustled thro' the trees; 90And yet it touched the mountain's headAnd the paths man might never tread.But hearken: in the quiet weatherDo all the streams flow down together?—
No, 'tis a sound more terribleThan tho' a thousand rivers fell.The everlasting ice and snowWere loosened then, but not to flow;—With a loud crash like solid thunderThe avalanche came, burying under 100The village; turning life and breathAnd rest and joy and plans to death.
'Oh! let us fly, for pity fly;Let us go hence, friend, thou and I.There must be many regions yetWhere these things make not desolate.'He looked upon her seriously;Then said: 'Arise and follow me.'The path that lay before them wasNigh covered over with long grass; 110And many slimy things and slowTrailed on between the roots below.The moon looked dimmer than before;And shadowy cloudlets floating o'erIts face sometimes quite hid its light,And filled the skies with deeper night.
At last, as they went on, the noiseWas heard of the sea's mighty voice;And soon the ocean could be seenIn its long restlessness serene. 120Upon its breast a vessel rodeThat drowsily appeared to nodAs the great billows rose and fell,And swelled to sink, and sank to swell.
Meanwhile the strong wind had come forthFrom the chill regions of the North,The mighty wind invisible.And the low waves began to swell;And the sky darkened overhead;And the moon once looked forth, then fled 130Behind dark clouds; while here and thereThe lightning shone out in the air;And the approaching thunder rolledWith angry pealings manifold.How many vows were made, and prayersThat in safe times were cold and scarce.Still all availed not; and at lengthThe waves arose in all their strength,And fought against the ship, and filledThe ship. Then were the clouds unsealed, 140And the rain hurried forth, and beatOn every side and over it.
Some clung together, and some keptA long stern silence, and some wept.Many half-crazed looked on in wonderAs the strong timbers rent asunder;Friends forgot friends, foes fled to foes;—And still the water rose and rose.
'Ah woe is me! Whom I have seenAre now as tho' they had not been. 150In the earth there is room for birth,And there are graves enough in earth;Why should the cold sea, tempest-torn,Bury those whom it hath not borne?'
He answered not, and they went on.The glory of the heavens was gone;The moon gleamed not nor any star;Cold winds were rustling near and far,And from the trees the dry leaves fellWith a sad sound unspeakable. 160The air was cold; till from the SouthA gust blew hot, like sudden drouth,Into their faces; and a lightGlowing and red, shone thro' the night.
A mighty city full of flameAnd death and sounds without a name.Amid the black and blinding smoke,The people, as one man, awoke.Oh! happy they who yesterdayOn the long journey went away; 170Whose pallid lips, smiling and chill,While the flames scorch them smile on still;Who murmur not; who tremble notWhen the bier crackles fiery hot;Who, dying, said in love's increase:'Lord, let thy servant part in peace.'
Those in the town could see and hearA shaded river flowing near;The broad deep bed could hardly holdIts plenteous waters calm and cold. 180Was flame-wrapped all the city wall,The city gates were flame-wrapped all.
What was man's strength, what puissance then?Women were mighty as strong men.Some knelt in prayer, believing still,Resigned unto a righteous will,Bowing beneath the chastening rod,Lost to the world, but found of God.Some prayed for friend, for child, for wife;Some prayed for faith; some prayed for life; 190While some, proud even in death, hope gone,Steadfast and still, stood looking on.
'Death—death—oh! let us fly from death;Where'er we go it followeth;All these are dead; and we aloneRemain to weep for what is gone.What is this thing? thus hurriedlyTo pass into eternity;To leave the earth so full of mirth;To lose the profit of our birth; 200To die and be no more; to cease,Having numbness that is not peace.Let us go hence; and, even if thusDeath everywhere must go with us,Let us not see the change, but seeThose who have been or still shall be.'
He sighed and they went on together;Beneath their feet did the grass wither;Across the heaven high overheadDark misty clouds floated and fled; 210And in their bosom was the thunder,And angry lightnings flashed out under,Forked and red and menacing;Far off the wind was muttering;It seemed to tell, not understood,Strange secrets to the listening wood.
Upon its wings it bore the scentOf blood of a great armament:Then saw they how on either sideFields were down-trodden far and wide. 220That morning at the break of dayTwo nations had gone forth to slay.
As a man soweth so he reaps.The field was full of bleeding heaps;Ghastly corpses of men and horsesThat met death at a thousand sources;Cold limbs and putrifying flesh;Long love-locks clotted to a meshThat stifled; stiffened mouths beneathStaring eyes that had looked on death. 230
But these were dead: these felt no moreThe anguish of the wounds they bore.Behold, they shall not sigh again,Nor justly fear, nor hope in vain.What if none wept above them?—isThe sleeper less at rest for this?Is not the young child's slumber sweetWhen no man watcheth over it?These had deep calm; but all aroundThere was a deadly smothered sound, 240The choking cry of agonyFrom wounded men who could not die;Who watched the black wing of the ravenRise like a cloud 'twixt them and heaven,And in the distance flying fastBeheld the eagle come at last.
She knelt down in her agony:'O Lord, it is enough,' said she:'My heart's prayer putteth me to shame;Let me return to whence I came. 250Thou for who love's sake didst reprove,Forgive me for the sake of love.'
(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1864.)
Like flowers sequestered from the sunAnd wind of summer, day by dayI dwindled paler, whilst my hairShowed the first tinge of grey.
'Oh what is life, that we should live?Or what is death, that we must die?A bursting bubble is our life:I also, what am I?'
'What is your grief? now tell me, sweet,That I may grieve,' my sister said; 10And stayed a white embroidering handAnd raised a golden head:
Her tresses showed a richer mass,Her eyes looked softer than my own,Her figure had a statelier height,Her voice a tenderer tone.
'Some must be second and not first;All cannot be the first of all:Is not this, too, but vanity?I stumble like to fall. 20
'So yesterday I read the actsOf Hector and each clangorous kingWith wrathful great Aeacides:—Old Homer leaves a sting.'
The comely face looked up again,The deft hand lingered on the thread:'Sweet, tell me what is Homer's sting,Old Homer's sting?' she said.
'He stirs my sluggish pulse like wine,He melts me like the wind of spice, 30Strong as strong Ajax' red right hand,And grand like Juno's eyes.
'I cannot melt the sons of men,I cannot fire and tempest-toss:—Besides, those days were golden days,Whilst these are days of dross.'
She laughed a feminine low laugh,Yet did not stay her dexterous hand:'Now tell me of those days,' she said,'When time ran golden sand.' 40
'Then men were men of might and right,Sheer might, at least, and weighty swords;Then men in open blood and fire,Bore witness to their words,
'Crest-rearing kings with whistling spears;But if these shivered in the shockThey wrenched up hundred-rooted trees,Or hurled the effacing rock.
'Then hand to hand, then foot to foot,Stern to the death-grip grappling then, 50Who ever thought of gunpowderAmongst these men of men?
'They knew whose hand struck home the death,They knew who broke but would not bend,Could venerate an equal foeAnd scorn a laggard friend.
'Calm in the utmost stress of doom,Devout toward adverse powers above,They hated with intenser hateAnd loved with fuller love. 60
'Then heavenly beauty could allayAs heavenly beauty stirred the strife:By them a slave was worshipped moreThan is by us a wife.'
She laughed again, my sister laughed,Made answer o'er the laboured cloth:'I would rather be one of usThan wife, or slave, or both.'
'Oh better then be slave or wifeThan fritter now blank life away: 70Then night had holiness of night,And day was sacred day.
'The princess laboured at her loom,Mistress and handmaiden alike;Beneath their needles grew the fieldWith warriors armed to strike.
'Or, look again, dim Dian's faceGleamed perfect through the attendant night;Were such not better than those holesAmid that waste of white? 80
'A shame it is, our aimless life:I rather from my heart would feedFrom silver dish in gilded stallWith wheat and wine the steed—
'The faithful steed that bore my lordIn safety through the hostile land,The faithful steed that arched his neckTo fondle with my hand.'
Her needle erred; a moment's pause,A moment's patience, all was well. 90Then she: 'But just suppose the horse,Suppose the rider fell?
'Then captive in an alien house,Hungering on exile's bitter bread,—They happy, they who won the lotOf sacrifice,' she said.
Speaking she faltered, while her lookShowed forth her passion like a glass:With hand suspended, kindling eye,Flushed cheek, how fair she was! 100
'Ah well, be those the days of dross;This, if you will, the age of gold:Yet had those days a spark of warmth,While these are somewhat cold—
'Are somewhat mean and cold and slow,Are stunted from heroic growth:We gain but little when we proveThe worthlessness of both.'
'But life is in our hands,' she said:'In our own hands for gain or loss: 110Shall not the Sevenfold Sacred FireSuffice to purge our dross?
'Too short a century of dreams,One day of work sufficient length:Why should not you, why should not IAttain heroic strength?
'Our life is given us as a blank;Ourselves must make it blest or curst:Who dooms me I shall only beThe second, not the first? 120
'Learn from old Homer, if you will,Such wisdom as his books have said:In one the acts of Ajax shine,In one of Diomed.
'Honoured all heroes whose high deedsThro' life, till death, enlarge their span:Only Achilles in his rageAnd sloth is less than man.'
'Achilles only less than man?He less than man who, half a god, 130Discomfited all Greece with rest,Cowed Ilion with a nod?
'He offered vengeance, lifelong griefTo one dear ghost, uncounted price:Beasts, Trojans, adverse gods, himself,Heaped up the sacrifice.
'Self-immolated to his friend,Shrined in world's wonder, Homer's page,Is this the man, the less than men,Of this degenerate age?' 140
'Gross from his acorns, tusky boarDoes memorable acts like his;So for her snared offended youngBleeds the swart lioness.'
But here she paused; our eyes had met,And I was whitening with the jeer;She rose: 'I went too far,' she said;Spoke low: 'Forgive me, dear.
'To me our days seem pleasant days,Our home a haven of pure content; 150Forgive me if I said too much,So much more than I meant.
'Homer, tho' greater than his gods,With rough-hewn virtues was sufficedAnd rough-hewn men: but what are suchTo us who learn of Christ?'
The much-moved pathos of her voice,Her almost tearful eyes, her cheekGrown pale, confessed the strength of loveWhich only made her speak: 160
For mild she was, of few soft words,Most gentle, easy to be led,Content to listen when I spokeAnd reverence what I said;
I elder sister by six years;Not half so glad, or wise, or good:Her words rebuked my secret selfAnd shamed me where I stood.
She never guessed her words reprovedA silent envy nursed within, 170A selfish, souring discontentPride-born, the devil's sin.
I smiled, half bitter, half in jest:'The wisest man of all the wiseLeft for his summary of life"Vanity of vanities."
'Beneath the sun there's nothing new:Men flow, men ebb, mankind flows on:If I am wearied of my life,Why so was Solomon. 180
'Vanity of vanities he preachedOf all he found, of all he sought:Vanity of vanities, the gistOf all the words he taught.
'This in the wisdom of the world,In Homer's page, in all, we find:As the sea is not filled, so yearnsMan's universal mind.
'This Homer felt, who gave his menWith glory but a transient state: 190His very Jove could not reverseIrrevocable fate.
'Uncertain all their lot save this—Who wins must lose, who lives must die:All trodden out into the darkAlike, all vanity.'
She scarcely answered when I paused,But rather to herself said: 'OneIs here,' low-voiced and loving, 'Yea,Greater than Solomon.' 200
So both were silent, she and I:She laid her work aside, and wentInto the garden-walks, like spring,All gracious with content,
A little graver than her wont,Because her words had fretted me;Not warbling quite her merriest tuneBird-like from tree to tree.
I chose a book to read and dream:Yet half the while with furtive eyes 210Marked how she made her choice of flowersIntuitively wise,
And ranged them with instinctive tasteWhich all my books had failed to teach;Fresh rose herself, and daintierThan blossom of the peach.
By birthright higher than myself,Tho' nestling of the self-same nest:No fault of hers, no fault of mine,But stubborn to digest. 220
I watched her, till my book unmarkedSlid noiseless to the velvet floor;Till all the opulent summer-worldLooked poorer than before.
Just then her busy fingers ceased,Her fluttered colour went and came;I knew whose step was on the walk,Whose voice would name her name.
* * * * * * *
Well, twenty years have passed since then:My sister now, a stately wife 230Still fair, looks back in peace and seesThe longer half of life—
The longer half of prosperous life,With little grief, or fear, or fret:She loved, and, loving long ago,Is loved and loving yet.
A husband honourable, brave,Is her main wealth in all the world:And next to him one like herself,One daughter golden-curled; 240
Fair image of her own fair youth,As beautiful and as serene,With almost such another loveAs her own love has been.
Yet, tho' of world-wide charity,And in her home most tender dove,Her treasure and her heart are storedIn the home-land of love:
She thrives, God's blessed husbandry;She like a vine is full of fruit; 250Her passion-flower climbs up toward heavenTho' earth still binds its root.
I sit and watch my sister's face:How little altered since the hoursWhen she, a kind, light-hearted girl,Gathered her garden flowers;
Her song just mellowed by regretFor having teased me with her talk;Then all-forgetful as she heardOne step upon the walk. 260
While I? I sat alone and watchedMy lot in life, to live alone,In mine own world of interests,Much felt but little shown.
Not to be first: how hard to learnThat lifelong lesson of the past;Line graven on line and stroke on stroke;But, thank God, learned at last.
So now in patience I possessMy soul year after tedious year, 270Content to take the lowest place,The place assigned me here.
Yet sometimes, when I feel my strengthMost weak, and life most burdensome,I lift mine eyes up to the hillsFrom whence my help shall come:
Yea, sometimes still I lift my heartTo the Archangelic trumpet-burst,When all deep secrets shall be shown,And many last be first. 280
(Macmillan's Magazine, Dec. 1864.)
Two days ago with dancing glancing hair,With living lips and eyes:Now pale, dumb, blind, she lies;So pale, yet still so fair.
We have not left her yet, not yet alone;But soon must leave her whereShe will not miss our care,Bone of our bone.
Weep not; O friends, we should not weep:Our friend of friends lies full of rest; 10No sorrow rankles in her breast,Fallen fast asleep.
She sleeps below,She wakes and laughs above:To-day, as she walked, let us walk in love;To-morrow follow so.
(Macmillan's Magazine, May 1865.)
Where were you last night? I watched at the gate;I went down early, I stayed down late.Were you snug at home, I should like to know,Or were you in the coppice wheedling Kate?
She's a fine girl, with a fine clear skin;Easy to woo, perhaps not hard to win.Speak up like a man and tell me the truth:I'm not one to grow downhearted and thin.
If you love her best speak up like a man;It's not I will stand in the light of your plan: 10Some girls might cry and scold you a bit,And say they couldn't bear it; but I can.
Love was pleasant enough, and the days went fast;Pleasant while it lasted, but it needn't last;Awhile on the wax and awhile on the wane,Now dropped away into the past.
Was it pleasant to you? To me it was;Now clean gone as an image from glass,As a goodly rainbow that fades away,As dew that steams upward from the grass, 20
As the first spring day, or the last summer day,As the sunset flush that leaves heaven grey,As a flame burnt out for lack of oil,Which no pains relight or ever may.
Good luck to Kate and good luck to you:I guess she'll be kind when you come to woo.I wish her a pretty face that will last,I wish her a husband steady and true.
Hate you? not I, my very good friend;All things begin and all have an end. 30But let broken be broken; I put no faithIn quacks who set up to patch and mend.
Just my love and one word to Kate:Not to let time slip if she means to mate;—For even such a thing has been knownAs to miss the chance while we weigh and wait.
(Macmillan's Magazine, Jan. 1866.)
ConsiderThe lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:—We are as they;Like them we fade away,As doth a leaf.
ConsiderThe sparrows of the air of small account:Our God doth viewWhether they fall or mount,—He guards us too. 10
ConsiderThe lilies that do neither spin nor toil,Yet are most fair:—What profits all this careAnd all this coil?
ConsiderThe birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks;God gives them food:—Much more our Father seeksTo do us good. 20
(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1866.)
Because one loves you, Helen Grey,Is that a reason you should pout,And like a March wind veer about,And frown, and say your shrewish say?Don't strain the cord until it snaps,Don't split the sound heart with your wedge,Don't cut your fingers with the edgeOf your keen wit; you may, perhaps.
Because you're handsome, Helen Grey,Is that a reason to be proud? 10Your eyes are bold, your laugh is loud,Your steps go mincing on their way;But so you miss that modest charmWhich is the surest charm of all:Take heed, you yet may trip and fall,And no man care to stretch his arm.
Stoop from your cold height, Helen Grey,Come down, and take a lowlier place;Come down, to fill it now with grace;Come down you must perforce some day: 20For years cannot be kept at bay,And fading years will make you old;Then in their turn will men seem cold,When you yourself are nipped and grey.
(Macmillan's Magazine, October 1866.)
Here where I dwell I waste to skin and bone;The curse is come upon me, and I wasteIn penal torment powerless to atone.The curse is come on me, which makes no hasteAnd doth not tarry, crushing both the proudHard man and him the sinner double-faced.Look not upon me, for my soul is bowedWithin me, as my body in this mire;My soul crawls dumb-struck, sore-bested and cowed.As Sodom and Gomorrah scourged by fire, 10As Jericho before God's trumpet-peal,So we the elect ones perish in His ire.Vainly we gird on sackcloth, vainly kneelWith famished faces toward Jerusalem:His heart is shut against us not to feel,His ears against our cry He shutteth them,His hand He shorteneth that He will not save,His law is loud against us to condemn:And we, as unclean bodies in the graveInheriting corruption and the dark, 20Are outcast from His presence which we crave.Our Mercy hath departed from His Ark,Our Glory hath departed from His rest,Our Shield hath left us naked as a markUnto all pitiless eyes made manifest.Our very Father hath forsaken us,Our God hath cast us from Him: we oppressedUnto our foes are even marvellous,A hissing and a butt for pointing hands,Whilst God Almighty hunts and grinds us thus; 30For He hath scattered us in alien lands,Our priests, our princes, our anointed king,And bound us hand and foot with brazen bands.Here while I sit my painful heart takes wingHome to the home-land I must see no more,Where milk and honey flow, where waters springAnd fail not, where I dwelt in days of yoreUnder my fig-tree and my fruitful vine,There where my parents dwelt at ease before:Now strangers press the olives that are mine, 40Reap all the corners of my harvest-field,And make their fat hearts wanton with my wine;To them my trees, to them my garden yieldTheir sweets and spices and their tender green,O'er them in noontide heat outspread their shield.Yet these are they whose fathers had not beenHoused with my dogs, whom hip and thigh we smoteAnd with their blood washed their pollutions clean,Purging the land which spewed them from its throat;Their daughters took we for a pleasant prey, 50Choice tender ones on whom the fathers doat.Now they in turn have led our own away;Our daughters and our sisters and our wivesSore weeping as they weep who curse the day,To live, remote from help, dishonoured lives,Soothing their drunken masters with a song,Or dancing in their golden tinkling gyves:Accurst if they remember through the longEstrangement of their exile, twice accursedIf they forget and join the accursèd throng. 60How doth my heart that is so wrung not burstWhen I remember that my way was plain,And that God's candle lit me at the first,Whilst now I grope in darkness, grope in vain,Desiring but to find Him Who is lost,To find Him once again, but once again.His wrath came on us to the uttermost,His covenanted and most righteous wrath:Yet this is He of Whom we made our boast,Who lit the Fiery Pillar in our path, 70Who swept the Red Sea dry before our feet,Who in His jealousy smote kings, and hathSworn once to David: One shall fill thy seatBorn of thy body, as the sun and moon'Stablished for aye in sovereignty complete.O Lord, remember David, and that soon.The Glory hath departed, Ichabod!Yet now, before our sun grow dark at noon,Before we come to nought beneath Thy rod,Before we go down quick into the pit, 80Remember us for good, O God, our God:—Thy Name will I remember, praising it,Though Thou forget me, though Thou hide Thy face,And blot me from the Book which Thou hast writ;Thy Name will I remember in my praiseAnd call to mind Thy faithfulness of old,Though as a weaver Thou cut off my days,And end me as a tale ends that is told.
(Macmillan's Magazine, Dec. 1866.)
Oh the cheerful Budding-time!When thorn-hedges turn to green,When new leaves of elm and limeCleave and shed their winter screen;Tender lambs are born and 'baa,'North wind finds no snow to bring,Vigorous Nature laughs 'Ha, ha,'In the miracle of spring.
Oh the gorgeous Blossom-days!When broad flag-flowers drink and blow, 10In and out in summer-blazeDragon-flies flash to and fro;Ashen branches hang out keys,Oaks put forth the rosy shoot,Wandering herds wax sleek at ease,Lovely blossoms end in fruit.
Oh the shouting Harvest-weeks!Mother earth grown fat with sheavesThrifty gleaner finds who seeks;Russet-golden pomp of leaves 20Crowns the woods, to fall at length;Bracing winds are felt to stir,Ocean gathers up her strength,Beasts renew their dwindled fur.
Oh the starving Winter-lapse!Ice-bound, hunger-pinched and dim;Dormant roots recall their saps,Empty nests show black and grim,Short-lived sunshine gives no heat,Undue buds are nipped by frost, 30Snow sets forth a winding-sheet,And all hope of life seems lost.
(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1868.)
Oh what is that countryAnd where can it be,Not mine own country,But dearer far to me?Yet mine own country,If I one day may seeIts spices and cedars,Its gold and ivory.
As I lie dreamingIt rises, that land: 10There rises before meIts green golden strand,With its bowing cedarsAnd its shining sand;It sparkles and flashesLike a shaken brand.
Do angels lean nearerWhile I lie and long?I see their soft plumageAnd catch their windy song, 20Like the rise of a high tideSweeping full and strong;I mark the outskirtsOf their reverend throng.
Oh what is a king here,Or what is a boor?Here all starve together,All dwarfed and poor;Here Death's hand knockethAt door after door, 30He thins the dancersFrom the festal floor.
Oh what is a handmaid,Or what is a queen?All must lie down togetherWhere the turf is green,The foulest face hidden,The fairest not seen;Gone as if never,They had breathed or been. 40
Gone from sweet sunshineUnderneath the sod,Turned from warm flesh and bloodTo senseless clod,Gone as if neverThey had toiled or trod,Gone out of sight of allExcept our God.
Shut into silenceFrom the accustomed song, 50Shut into solitudeFrom all earth's throng,Run down tho' swift of foot,Thrust down tho' strong;Life made an end ofSeemed it short or long.
Life made an end of,Life but just begun,Life finished yesterday,Its last sand run; 60Life new-born with the morrow,Fresh as the sun:While done is done for ever;Undone, undone.
And if that life is life,This is but a breath,The passage of a dreamAnd the shadow of death;But a vain shadowIf one considereth; 70Vanity of vanities,As the Preacher saith.
(Macmillan's Magazine, May 1868.)
A smile because the nights are short!And every morning brings such pleasureOf sweet love-making, harmless sport:Love, that makes and finds its treasure;Love, treasure without measure.
A sigh because the days are long!Long long these days that pass in sighing,A burden saddens every song:While time lags who should be flying,We live who would be dying.
(Macmillan's Magazine, May 1868.)
Hope new born one pleasant mornDied at even;Hope dead lives nevermore.No, not in heaven.
If his shroud were but a cloudTo weep itself away;Or were he buried undergroundTo sprout some day!But dead and gone is dead and goneVainly wept upon. 10
Nought we place above his faceTo mark the spot,But it shows a barren placeIn our lot.Hope has birth no more on earthMorn or even;Hope dead lives nevermore,No, not in heaven.
(Macmillan's Magazine, November 1868.)
Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring:Of if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves,Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves,Their own, and others dropped down withering;For violets suit when home birds build and sing,Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves;Not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves,But when the green world buds to blossoming.Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope:Or if a later sadder love be born,Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,But give itself, nor plead for answering truth—A grateful Ruth tho' gleaning scanty corn.