A SPRING PARABLE

“GOOD-NIGHT, Beloved,” I softly cryAcross the chill immensity,The unmeasurable star-hung spaceWhich hides the smiling of thy face.The echoless air is all unstirred,But yet I feel that thou hast heard,Somehow, somewhere, the old-time word,And smiled, perhaps, that I should say“Good-night,” when all with thee is Day.“Good-night, Beloved,”—for near and farAnd separate and together areBut mortal phrases, little worthExcept in the dull speech of earth,The ignorant speech which doubts and fears.God is the sun of all the spheres,The source and centre of our years.Our little lives, so brief, so dim,Are only lit when lit by him.His ear can catch the lightest callWho heedeth even the sparrow’s fall;As clear to him the sobbing prayerOf grief, as heavenly praises areWhen angels veil their eyes and bow.Through him I reach to thee, and thouThrough him art nearer to me nowThan in the days of lost delightWhen each to each could say, “Good-night.”Oh, comfort of the sorrowing heart!Where’er I am, where’er thou art,Linked in this heavenly unisonWe still are near, we still are one!God is our meeting-place and goal,The safe, sure shelter of the soul.Let the wide heavens between us roll;Still fearlessly, though out of sight,I still may say, “Beloved, good-night.”

“GOOD-NIGHT, Beloved,” I softly cry

Across the chill immensity,

The unmeasurable star-hung space

Which hides the smiling of thy face.

The echoless air is all unstirred,

But yet I feel that thou hast heard,

Somehow, somewhere, the old-time word,

And smiled, perhaps, that I should say

“Good-night,” when all with thee is Day.

“Good-night, Beloved,”—for near and farAnd separate and together areBut mortal phrases, little worthExcept in the dull speech of earth,The ignorant speech which doubts and fears.God is the sun of all the spheres,The source and centre of our years.Our little lives, so brief, so dim,Are only lit when lit by him.

“Good-night, Beloved,”—for near and far

And separate and together are

But mortal phrases, little worth

Except in the dull speech of earth,

The ignorant speech which doubts and fears.

God is the sun of all the spheres,

The source and centre of our years.

Our little lives, so brief, so dim,

Are only lit when lit by him.

His ear can catch the lightest callWho heedeth even the sparrow’s fall;As clear to him the sobbing prayerOf grief, as heavenly praises areWhen angels veil their eyes and bow.Through him I reach to thee, and thouThrough him art nearer to me nowThan in the days of lost delightWhen each to each could say, “Good-night.”

His ear can catch the lightest call

Who heedeth even the sparrow’s fall;

As clear to him the sobbing prayer

Of grief, as heavenly praises are

When angels veil their eyes and bow.

Through him I reach to thee, and thou

Through him art nearer to me now

Than in the days of lost delight

When each to each could say, “Good-night.”

Oh, comfort of the sorrowing heart!Where’er I am, where’er thou art,Linked in this heavenly unisonWe still are near, we still are one!God is our meeting-place and goal,The safe, sure shelter of the soul.Let the wide heavens between us roll;Still fearlessly, though out of sight,I still may say, “Beloved, good-night.”

Oh, comfort of the sorrowing heart!

Where’er I am, where’er thou art,

Linked in this heavenly unison

We still are near, we still are one!

God is our meeting-place and goal,

The safe, sure shelter of the soul.

Let the wide heavens between us roll;

Still fearlessly, though out of sight,

I still may say, “Beloved, good-night.”

TILL yesterday one tree was brown,—One only, mid the green of spring;Wearing her dead leaves like a crownShe stood, and seemed to gloom and frownOn every glad rejoicing thing,Till yesterday! When, touched at last,The slow buds quickened and uncurled,And the poor tree forgave her past,And learned to hope, and thick and fastShowered her dry leaves on the world.Swift sudden hope replaced despair;The brown leaves dropped, the green leaves grew,And clothed upon, and fresh and fair,The happy boughs swung all in air,And drank the sunshine and the dew.Souls have their dead leaves, sere and dry,Dead hopes, dead visions, dead delight,Relics of gladder days gone by,Worthless to every human eye;But yet we clasp the poor things tight,And feel that life were bare indeedIf we should lose them, or let fall,And all the old-time hurts would bleed,And we unwrapped from sorrowing weedLike mourners dragged to carnival.Then in a moment suddenlyGod’s blessed sunshine, all unguessed,Reaches and heals our hearts, and we,Tasting its sweetness, know that heBids us be happy with the rest.

TILL yesterday one tree was brown,—One only, mid the green of spring;Wearing her dead leaves like a crownShe stood, and seemed to gloom and frownOn every glad rejoicing thing,

TILL yesterday one tree was brown,—

One only, mid the green of spring;

Wearing her dead leaves like a crown

She stood, and seemed to gloom and frown

On every glad rejoicing thing,

Till yesterday! When, touched at last,The slow buds quickened and uncurled,And the poor tree forgave her past,And learned to hope, and thick and fastShowered her dry leaves on the world.

Till yesterday! When, touched at last,

The slow buds quickened and uncurled,

And the poor tree forgave her past,

And learned to hope, and thick and fast

Showered her dry leaves on the world.

Swift sudden hope replaced despair;The brown leaves dropped, the green leaves grew,And clothed upon, and fresh and fair,The happy boughs swung all in air,And drank the sunshine and the dew.

Swift sudden hope replaced despair;

The brown leaves dropped, the green leaves grew,

And clothed upon, and fresh and fair,

The happy boughs swung all in air,

And drank the sunshine and the dew.

Souls have their dead leaves, sere and dry,Dead hopes, dead visions, dead delight,Relics of gladder days gone by,Worthless to every human eye;But yet we clasp the poor things tight,

Souls have their dead leaves, sere and dry,

Dead hopes, dead visions, dead delight,

Relics of gladder days gone by,

Worthless to every human eye;

But yet we clasp the poor things tight,

And feel that life were bare indeedIf we should lose them, or let fall,And all the old-time hurts would bleed,And we unwrapped from sorrowing weedLike mourners dragged to carnival.

And feel that life were bare indeed

If we should lose them, or let fall,

And all the old-time hurts would bleed,

And we unwrapped from sorrowing weed

Like mourners dragged to carnival.

Then in a moment suddenlyGod’s blessed sunshine, all unguessed,Reaches and heals our hearts, and we,Tasting its sweetness, know that heBids us be happy with the rest.

Then in a moment suddenly

God’s blessed sunshine, all unguessed,

Reaches and heals our hearts, and we,

Tasting its sweetness, know that he

Bids us be happy with the rest.

STRONG are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!They rise, a bulwark to the guarded land,Which foes pass not, nor traitors undermine;For children’s children’s safety they shall stand;And so, O Lord, thou standest unto thine,A mighty guardian, a defence divine.Strong are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!Where beats the tempest on the hither side,Beneath their shelter blooms the vine and rose;So do thy chosen ones in thee abide,Nor fear the storm-wind though it wildly blows,All undisturbed in their secure repose.Strong are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!Their far, fair snowy summits fountains are,Whence fertilizing streams begin their race;So, from thy might of mercy stream afarThe over-brimming rivers of thy grace,Gladdening the wilderness and desert place.Strong are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!Immutable they stand from age to ageThough the world rock and empires shift and pale;So, though the people war and heathen rage,The safety of thy promise shall prevail,Nor ever once thy love and goodness fail.

STRONG are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!

They rise, a bulwark to the guarded land,

Which foes pass not, nor traitors undermine;

For children’s children’s safety they shall stand;

And so, O Lord, thou standest unto thine,

A mighty guardian, a defence divine.

Strong are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!Where beats the tempest on the hither side,Beneath their shelter blooms the vine and rose;So do thy chosen ones in thee abide,Nor fear the storm-wind though it wildly blows,All undisturbed in their secure repose.

Strong are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!

Where beats the tempest on the hither side,

Beneath their shelter blooms the vine and rose;

So do thy chosen ones in thee abide,

Nor fear the storm-wind though it wildly blows,

All undisturbed in their secure repose.

Strong are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!Their far, fair snowy summits fountains are,Whence fertilizing streams begin their race;So, from thy might of mercy stream afarThe over-brimming rivers of thy grace,Gladdening the wilderness and desert place.

Strong are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!

Their far, fair snowy summits fountains are,

Whence fertilizing streams begin their race;

So, from thy might of mercy stream afar

The over-brimming rivers of thy grace,

Gladdening the wilderness and desert place.

Strong are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!Immutable they stand from age to ageThough the world rock and empires shift and pale;So, though the people war and heathen rage,The safety of thy promise shall prevail,Nor ever once thy love and goodness fail.

Strong are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!

Immutable they stand from age to age

Though the world rock and empires shift and pale;

So, though the people war and heathen rage,

The safety of thy promise shall prevail,

Nor ever once thy love and goodness fail.

THEY are not dead to us, who keepTheir long, unvexed, reposeful sleep’Neath grassy coverlets, flower-bespread:For love abides though graves are deep,And those who love are never dead.They are not dead while heart to heartStill hold communion though apart,The visible with the unseen,And faith and longing know the artOf bridging the wide space between.They are not dead who, folded fairIn the kind Shepherd’s steadfast care,Await our coming in sure faith,When we shall see them as they are,Made yet more beautiful by death.But theyaredead whose love has grownTo be the ghost of love alone,Who meet us with averted eyes,And air constrained and altered tone,And chill and alien courtesies.They move, they accost us, and they seemLike creatures of some weary dream;So dead, so lost, so all-estranged,The fire which cheered us with its gleamInto the veriest ashes changed.While if our dear and living dead,With soft, still smiles and noiseless tread,Should come, some day, to the old place,There would not be a thought of dreadIn their first rapture of embrace!Oh, strangely blended joy and pain!Death turned to naught, and life made vain,Love’s shade and substance still at strife,Who shall decide between the twain,Or which is death, and which is life?

THEY are not dead to us, who keepTheir long, unvexed, reposeful sleep’Neath grassy coverlets, flower-bespread:For love abides though graves are deep,And those who love are never dead.

THEY are not dead to us, who keep

Their long, unvexed, reposeful sleep

’Neath grassy coverlets, flower-bespread:

For love abides though graves are deep,

And those who love are never dead.

They are not dead while heart to heartStill hold communion though apart,The visible with the unseen,And faith and longing know the artOf bridging the wide space between.

They are not dead while heart to heart

Still hold communion though apart,

The visible with the unseen,

And faith and longing know the art

Of bridging the wide space between.

They are not dead who, folded fairIn the kind Shepherd’s steadfast care,Await our coming in sure faith,When we shall see them as they are,Made yet more beautiful by death.

They are not dead who, folded fair

In the kind Shepherd’s steadfast care,

Await our coming in sure faith,

When we shall see them as they are,

Made yet more beautiful by death.

But theyaredead whose love has grownTo be the ghost of love alone,Who meet us with averted eyes,And air constrained and altered tone,And chill and alien courtesies.

But theyaredead whose love has grown

To be the ghost of love alone,

Who meet us with averted eyes,

And air constrained and altered tone,

And chill and alien courtesies.

They move, they accost us, and they seemLike creatures of some weary dream;So dead, so lost, so all-estranged,The fire which cheered us with its gleamInto the veriest ashes changed.

They move, they accost us, and they seem

Like creatures of some weary dream;

So dead, so lost, so all-estranged,

The fire which cheered us with its gleam

Into the veriest ashes changed.

While if our dear and living dead,With soft, still smiles and noiseless tread,Should come, some day, to the old place,There would not be a thought of dreadIn their first rapture of embrace!

While if our dear and living dead,

With soft, still smiles and noiseless tread,

Should come, some day, to the old place,

There would not be a thought of dread

In their first rapture of embrace!

Oh, strangely blended joy and pain!Death turned to naught, and life made vain,Love’s shade and substance still at strife,Who shall decide between the twain,Or which is death, and which is life?

Oh, strangely blended joy and pain!

Death turned to naught, and life made vain,

Love’s shade and substance still at strife,

Who shall decide between the twain,

Or which is death, and which is life?

AWAKE, awake, dull heart, and singThe praises of thy Lord and King,Who gives the new day and the sun,Hope, health, and every pleasant thing.He scatters all the shades of night,Out of the darkness builds the light,And on man’s ignorance and wrongFounds his eternal law of right.If he one hour withdrew his careThe Earth would stagger in blind air,And laughter would give place to wail,And hope to horror, everywhere.Angels and saints, the white-robed choir,Praise God all day, and never tire,And weaker voices from belowMay join and swell the chorus higher.For praise is privilege there as here,And each in his own place and sphere,Angel or man, or high or low,May take his share and count it dear.Then wake, my heart, remembering this,That truest praise true service is,And take thy new day from God’s hands,And work therein for him and his.

AWAKE, awake, dull heart, and singThe praises of thy Lord and King,Who gives the new day and the sun,Hope, health, and every pleasant thing.

AWAKE, awake, dull heart, and sing

The praises of thy Lord and King,

Who gives the new day and the sun,

Hope, health, and every pleasant thing.

He scatters all the shades of night,Out of the darkness builds the light,And on man’s ignorance and wrongFounds his eternal law of right.

He scatters all the shades of night,

Out of the darkness builds the light,

And on man’s ignorance and wrong

Founds his eternal law of right.

If he one hour withdrew his careThe Earth would stagger in blind air,And laughter would give place to wail,And hope to horror, everywhere.

If he one hour withdrew his care

The Earth would stagger in blind air,

And laughter would give place to wail,

And hope to horror, everywhere.

Angels and saints, the white-robed choir,Praise God all day, and never tire,And weaker voices from belowMay join and swell the chorus higher.

Angels and saints, the white-robed choir,

Praise God all day, and never tire,

And weaker voices from below

May join and swell the chorus higher.

For praise is privilege there as here,And each in his own place and sphere,Angel or man, or high or low,May take his share and count it dear.

For praise is privilege there as here,

And each in his own place and sphere,

Angel or man, or high or low,

May take his share and count it dear.

Then wake, my heart, remembering this,That truest praise true service is,And take thy new day from God’s hands,And work therein for him and his.

Then wake, my heart, remembering this,

That truest praise true service is,

And take thy new day from God’s hands,

And work therein for him and his.

“HOW shall the stone be rolled away?”Thus questioned they, the women three,Who at dim dawn went forth to seeThe sealed and closely guarded cellWhere slept the Lord they loved so well.First of all Easter sacrifice,The linen and the burial spice,They carried, as with anxious speechThey sadly questioned, each to each:Still, as they near and nearer drewThe puzzle and the terror grew,And none had word of cheer to say;But lo, the stone was rolled away!“How shall the stone be rolled away?”So, like the Marys, question we,As looking on we dimly seeSome mighty barrier raise its headTo bar the path we needs must tread.Our little strength seems weakness made,Our hearts are faint and sore afraid;Drooping we journey on alone.We only mark the heavy stone,We do not see the helping LoveWhich moves before us as we move,Which chides our faithless, vain dismay,And rolls for us the stone away!“How shall the stone be rolled away?”Ah, many a heart, with terrors pent,Has breathed the question as it went,With faltering feet and failing breath,In the chill company of death,Adown the narrow path and straight,Which all must traverse soon or late,And nearing thus the dreaded tomb,Just in the thickest, deepest gloom,Has heard the stir of angel wings,Dear voices, sweetest welcomings,And, as on that first Easter day,Has found the dread stone rolled away!

“HOW shall the stone be rolled away?”

Thus questioned they, the women three,

Who at dim dawn went forth to see

The sealed and closely guarded cell

Where slept the Lord they loved so well.

First of all Easter sacrifice,

The linen and the burial spice,

They carried, as with anxious speech

They sadly questioned, each to each:

Still, as they near and nearer drew

The puzzle and the terror grew,

And none had word of cheer to say;

But lo, the stone was rolled away!

“How shall the stone be rolled away?”So, like the Marys, question we,As looking on we dimly seeSome mighty barrier raise its headTo bar the path we needs must tread.Our little strength seems weakness made,Our hearts are faint and sore afraid;Drooping we journey on alone.We only mark the heavy stone,We do not see the helping LoveWhich moves before us as we move,Which chides our faithless, vain dismay,And rolls for us the stone away!

“How shall the stone be rolled away?”

So, like the Marys, question we,

As looking on we dimly see

Some mighty barrier raise its head

To bar the path we needs must tread.

Our little strength seems weakness made,

Our hearts are faint and sore afraid;

Drooping we journey on alone.

We only mark the heavy stone,

We do not see the helping Love

Which moves before us as we move,

Which chides our faithless, vain dismay,

And rolls for us the stone away!

“How shall the stone be rolled away?”Ah, many a heart, with terrors pent,Has breathed the question as it went,With faltering feet and failing breath,In the chill company of death,Adown the narrow path and straight,Which all must traverse soon or late,And nearing thus the dreaded tomb,Just in the thickest, deepest gloom,Has heard the stir of angel wings,Dear voices, sweetest welcomings,And, as on that first Easter day,Has found the dread stone rolled away!

“How shall the stone be rolled away?”

Ah, many a heart, with terrors pent,

Has breathed the question as it went,

With faltering feet and failing breath,

In the chill company of death,

Adown the narrow path and straight,

Which all must traverse soon or late,

And nearing thus the dreaded tomb,

Just in the thickest, deepest gloom,

Has heard the stir of angel wings,

Dear voices, sweetest welcomings,

And, as on that first Easter day,

Has found the dread stone rolled away!

SOME pine with wistful hunger all their years,Watering their scanty crumb of joy with tears;And some there are who, feasting long lives through,Frighted at over-happiness, weep too.The sense of undesert, a constant sting,Pierces and stabs through every pleasant thing,They shrink before the cup filled to the brim,Lest through God’s very gift they forfeit him.Ah! dear hearts, heavy with this nobler woe,This pain divine, which even saints may know,There is this thought to balm and still your pain:“God gives to us that we may give again.”“I am unworthy!” do you, trembling, say?Strive to be worthier, then, and day by dayHeap corn and wine, and stand with open door,—A granary of heaven to feed the poor.Put of your sweet into each bitterer cup;Halve every loaf, that some one else may sup,—Till in the crumbs and fragments of your goodThe miracle of old shall seem renewed.And so, all fearless of the gift of heaven,Give gladly out that which to you is given,Sure that to be God’s cup-bearer is meantFor privilege, and not for punishment.

SOME pine with wistful hunger all their years,Watering their scanty crumb of joy with tears;And some there are who, feasting long lives through,Frighted at over-happiness, weep too.

SOME pine with wistful hunger all their years,

Watering their scanty crumb of joy with tears;

And some there are who, feasting long lives through,

Frighted at over-happiness, weep too.

The sense of undesert, a constant sting,Pierces and stabs through every pleasant thing,They shrink before the cup filled to the brim,Lest through God’s very gift they forfeit him.

The sense of undesert, a constant sting,

Pierces and stabs through every pleasant thing,

They shrink before the cup filled to the brim,

Lest through God’s very gift they forfeit him.

Ah! dear hearts, heavy with this nobler woe,This pain divine, which even saints may know,There is this thought to balm and still your pain:“God gives to us that we may give again.”

Ah! dear hearts, heavy with this nobler woe,

This pain divine, which even saints may know,

There is this thought to balm and still your pain:

“God gives to us that we may give again.”

“I am unworthy!” do you, trembling, say?Strive to be worthier, then, and day by dayHeap corn and wine, and stand with open door,—A granary of heaven to feed the poor.

“I am unworthy!” do you, trembling, say?

Strive to be worthier, then, and day by day

Heap corn and wine, and stand with open door,—

A granary of heaven to feed the poor.

Put of your sweet into each bitterer cup;Halve every loaf, that some one else may sup,—Till in the crumbs and fragments of your goodThe miracle of old shall seem renewed.

Put of your sweet into each bitterer cup;

Halve every loaf, that some one else may sup,—

Till in the crumbs and fragments of your good

The miracle of old shall seem renewed.

And so, all fearless of the gift of heaven,Give gladly out that which to you is given,Sure that to be God’s cup-bearer is meantFor privilege, and not for punishment.

And so, all fearless of the gift of heaven,

Give gladly out that which to you is given,

Sure that to be God’s cup-bearer is meant

For privilege, and not for punishment.

INTO the banquet-hall of all delightsGrimly he forced his way,Amid the perfumes and the fairy lights,And trickling fountain-spray,Where mandolins were sounding low and sweet,And on the marble tilesTwinkled and shone the dancers’ slender feet,And all was joy and smiles.One dark blot on the joyous life and stir,There stood he, fierce and still,Holding his token out as messengerOf the stern Caliph’s will—A loosened bow-string from the bow untied.Laughter was changed to wail,And all the happy song in silence diedOn lips grown mute and pale.Death’s sudden summons! Still the flowers fairProffered their cups of bloom;Still rose the mazy fountain in the air,Scattering its soft perfume;But in one moment, though these bright things stayed,Death’s shape, all grimly gray,Entered the hall with soundless step and laidA shadow on the day.Into our summer palace of delight,Flower-hung and fairy-fanned,Entered the ghastly messenger last night,The bow-string in his hand.Amid the fulness of full life he stood,A spectral form to see,And held the signal out with gesture rudeAnd beckoned silently.Still smile the late pink roses on their stem,And heliotropes, thick set,Woo every passing hand to gather them;The brown, sweet mignonetteStill spreads a fragrant carpet, and the gayNasturtiums flaunt and soar,Making a mimic sunshine on the gray;But death is at the door!O messenger! have patience for a space.Summer is fresh and strong;Never so beautiful her radiant face,Never so sweet her song.Wait but a little, till our shivering soulsAre strong to bear. He standsSpeechless, unheedful, answers not, and holdsThe bow-string in his hands.

INTO the banquet-hall of all delights

Grimly he forced his way,

Amid the perfumes and the fairy lights,

And trickling fountain-spray,

Where mandolins were sounding low and sweet,

And on the marble tiles

Twinkled and shone the dancers’ slender feet,

And all was joy and smiles.

One dark blot on the joyous life and stir,There stood he, fierce and still,Holding his token out as messengerOf the stern Caliph’s will—A loosened bow-string from the bow untied.Laughter was changed to wail,And all the happy song in silence diedOn lips grown mute and pale.

One dark blot on the joyous life and stir,

There stood he, fierce and still,

Holding his token out as messenger

Of the stern Caliph’s will—

A loosened bow-string from the bow untied.

Laughter was changed to wail,

And all the happy song in silence died

On lips grown mute and pale.

Death’s sudden summons! Still the flowers fairProffered their cups of bloom;Still rose the mazy fountain in the air,Scattering its soft perfume;But in one moment, though these bright things stayed,Death’s shape, all grimly gray,Entered the hall with soundless step and laidA shadow on the day.

Death’s sudden summons! Still the flowers fair

Proffered their cups of bloom;

Still rose the mazy fountain in the air,

Scattering its soft perfume;

But in one moment, though these bright things stayed,

Death’s shape, all grimly gray,

Entered the hall with soundless step and laid

A shadow on the day.

Into our summer palace of delight,Flower-hung and fairy-fanned,Entered the ghastly messenger last night,The bow-string in his hand.Amid the fulness of full life he stood,A spectral form to see,And held the signal out with gesture rudeAnd beckoned silently.

Into our summer palace of delight,

Flower-hung and fairy-fanned,

Entered the ghastly messenger last night,

The bow-string in his hand.

Amid the fulness of full life he stood,

A spectral form to see,

And held the signal out with gesture rude

And beckoned silently.

Still smile the late pink roses on their stem,And heliotropes, thick set,Woo every passing hand to gather them;The brown, sweet mignonetteStill spreads a fragrant carpet, and the gayNasturtiums flaunt and soar,Making a mimic sunshine on the gray;But death is at the door!

Still smile the late pink roses on their stem,

And heliotropes, thick set,

Woo every passing hand to gather them;

The brown, sweet mignonette

Still spreads a fragrant carpet, and the gay

Nasturtiums flaunt and soar,

Making a mimic sunshine on the gray;

But death is at the door!

O messenger! have patience for a space.Summer is fresh and strong;Never so beautiful her radiant face,Never so sweet her song.Wait but a little, till our shivering soulsAre strong to bear. He standsSpeechless, unheedful, answers not, and holdsThe bow-string in his hands.

O messenger! have patience for a space.

Summer is fresh and strong;

Never so beautiful her radiant face,

Never so sweet her song.

Wait but a little, till our shivering souls

Are strong to bear. He stands

Speechless, unheedful, answers not, and holds

The bow-string in his hands.

ONLY a few short weeks ago,All icy bound and packed with snow,This rocky cleft, through which to-dayRuns the glad brooklet on its way;The merry brook which leaps and flows,Flashing and singing as it goes,To find and join and make a partOf the great river’s urgent heart.Could it have dreamed so sweet a thingIn all those months of prisoning?O happy brook! made glad, made free,Shall you not find at last the sea?Only a few short months ago,A harder frost, a deeper snow,Lay on my soul and held it tightAway from hope, away from light.Now God’s sweet sun has entered inAnd melted all the chains of sin,And led by his dear hand to-dayMy soul goes singing on its way,To link its little thread of goodWith the vast, over-brimming flood!O happy soul! made glad, made free,Shalt thou not find at last thy sea?

ONLY a few short weeks ago,

All icy bound and packed with snow,

This rocky cleft, through which to-day

Runs the glad brooklet on its way;

The merry brook which leaps and flows,

Flashing and singing as it goes,

To find and join and make a part

Of the great river’s urgent heart.

Could it have dreamed so sweet a thing

In all those months of prisoning?

O happy brook! made glad, made free,

Shall you not find at last the sea?

Only a few short months ago,A harder frost, a deeper snow,Lay on my soul and held it tightAway from hope, away from light.Now God’s sweet sun has entered inAnd melted all the chains of sin,And led by his dear hand to-dayMy soul goes singing on its way,To link its little thread of goodWith the vast, over-brimming flood!O happy soul! made glad, made free,Shalt thou not find at last thy sea?

Only a few short months ago,

A harder frost, a deeper snow,

Lay on my soul and held it tight

Away from hope, away from light.

Now God’s sweet sun has entered in

And melted all the chains of sin,

And led by his dear hand to-day

My soul goes singing on its way,

To link its little thread of good

With the vast, over-brimming flood!

O happy soul! made glad, made free,

Shalt thou not find at last thy sea?

THE day was hot, the way was long, the feet were tired, so tired;The goal is won toward which we strove, the goal so long desired,The eyes which sought the distant hope through wavering mists of care,See it at last, oh close, so close in Paradise the Fair.The black, black night through which we groped is turned to radiant day,The doubt to certainty more glad than song or speech can say;The baffling winds which buffeted beyond our strength to bear,Blew us along the blessed way to Paradise the Fair.We doubted and we fainted, and we seemed to miss the roadAs, stumbling on and painfully, we toiled beneath our load;And the uphill left us breathless, and the tempest stripped us bare;—What matter, since they bore us up to Paradise the Fair?We who were lonely once and found the silence very sore,Companioned round by our beloved are lonely never more;The puzzles all are now explained, and the griefs which grieved us thereAre proved to be the Lord’s sure path to Paradise the Fair.

THE day was hot, the way was long, the feet were tired, so tired;

The goal is won toward which we strove, the goal so long desired,

The eyes which sought the distant hope through wavering mists of care,

See it at last, oh close, so close in Paradise the Fair.

The black, black night through which we groped is turned to radiant day,The doubt to certainty more glad than song or speech can say;The baffling winds which buffeted beyond our strength to bear,Blew us along the blessed way to Paradise the Fair.

The black, black night through which we groped is turned to radiant day,

The doubt to certainty more glad than song or speech can say;

The baffling winds which buffeted beyond our strength to bear,

Blew us along the blessed way to Paradise the Fair.

We doubted and we fainted, and we seemed to miss the roadAs, stumbling on and painfully, we toiled beneath our load;And the uphill left us breathless, and the tempest stripped us bare;—What matter, since they bore us up to Paradise the Fair?

We doubted and we fainted, and we seemed to miss the road

As, stumbling on and painfully, we toiled beneath our load;

And the uphill left us breathless, and the tempest stripped us bare;—

What matter, since they bore us up to Paradise the Fair?

We who were lonely once and found the silence very sore,Companioned round by our beloved are lonely never more;The puzzles all are now explained, and the griefs which grieved us thereAre proved to be the Lord’s sure path to Paradise the Fair.

We who were lonely once and found the silence very sore,

Companioned round by our beloved are lonely never more;

The puzzles all are now explained, and the griefs which grieved us there

Are proved to be the Lord’s sure path to Paradise the Fair.

HOW does the Spring come? With many mischances.Now the frost pricketh sore, then the sun glances;Now the rain beateth down, then the snow falleth,Nothing the cheery, brave Springtime appalleth.Bravely she smiles through the somber chill weather,Smiles on the blight and the promise together;And at the end of the long sufferingAll the world over is ruled by the Spring.How does the tide come? Not all in one rising,Daunting the land and the heavens surprising;Here a wave, there a wave, rising and falling,Billow to billow still beckoning and calling,Heaving, receding, now farther, now nigher,Now it is lower, and now it is higher;Now it seems spent and tired; then, with insistence,Gaily and strongly it comes from the distance;Till, at the end of the plunge and the roar,It is full tide, and the sea rules the shore.How does the soul grow? Not all in a minute:Now it may lose ground, and now it may win it;Now it resolves, and again the will faileth;Now it rejoiceth, and now it bewaileth;Now its hopes fructify, then they are blighted;Now it walks sunnily, now gropes benighted;Fed by discouragements, taught by disaster,So it goes forward, now slower, now faster,Till, all the pain past, and failures made whole,It is full grown, and the Lord rules the soul.

HOW does the Spring come? With many mischances.

Now the frost pricketh sore, then the sun glances;

Now the rain beateth down, then the snow falleth,

Nothing the cheery, brave Springtime appalleth.

Bravely she smiles through the somber chill weather,

Smiles on the blight and the promise together;

And at the end of the long suffering

All the world over is ruled by the Spring.

How does the tide come? Not all in one rising,Daunting the land and the heavens surprising;Here a wave, there a wave, rising and falling,Billow to billow still beckoning and calling,Heaving, receding, now farther, now nigher,Now it is lower, and now it is higher;Now it seems spent and tired; then, with insistence,Gaily and strongly it comes from the distance;Till, at the end of the plunge and the roar,It is full tide, and the sea rules the shore.

How does the tide come? Not all in one rising,

Daunting the land and the heavens surprising;

Here a wave, there a wave, rising and falling,

Billow to billow still beckoning and calling,

Heaving, receding, now farther, now nigher,

Now it is lower, and now it is higher;

Now it seems spent and tired; then, with insistence,

Gaily and strongly it comes from the distance;

Till, at the end of the plunge and the roar,

It is full tide, and the sea rules the shore.

How does the soul grow? Not all in a minute:Now it may lose ground, and now it may win it;Now it resolves, and again the will faileth;Now it rejoiceth, and now it bewaileth;Now its hopes fructify, then they are blighted;Now it walks sunnily, now gropes benighted;Fed by discouragements, taught by disaster,So it goes forward, now slower, now faster,Till, all the pain past, and failures made whole,It is full grown, and the Lord rules the soul.

How does the soul grow? Not all in a minute:

Now it may lose ground, and now it may win it;

Now it resolves, and again the will faileth;

Now it rejoiceth, and now it bewaileth;

Now its hopes fructify, then they are blighted;

Now it walks sunnily, now gropes benighted;

Fed by discouragements, taught by disaster,

So it goes forward, now slower, now faster,

Till, all the pain past, and failures made whole,

It is full grown, and the Lord rules the soul.

THE Old Year knew him, but the New knows not,And all our joy and welcome for the NewIs clouded by the thought, which, like a blotStains and obscures the gladness through and through.Old Year, which barely touched him as he passed,This grace abides with thee now thou art dead,Of Time’s brief vanished heirs thou wert the lastTo lay a blessing on his honored head.We saw thee greet him with mysterious smile,We did not mark how sad the smile and strange,But deemed all well, then in a little whileThe skies grew dark with swift tempestuous change.Led by thy hand he vanished from our eyes,And thou fulfilled thy date day after day,And still to grief and question and surmiseMade never answer, keeping on thy way.But still we love thee, for thou wert the lastTo see the face which we no longer see,And all the grace and glory of his pastCompletes and ends and culminates in thee.The New Year’s hands with good gifts may be full,The New Year’s heart with love and peace may brim,He cannot be to us as beautifulAs the old years which caught their best from him.

THE Old Year knew him, but the New knows not,And all our joy and welcome for the NewIs clouded by the thought, which, like a blotStains and obscures the gladness through and through.

THE Old Year knew him, but the New knows not,

And all our joy and welcome for the New

Is clouded by the thought, which, like a blot

Stains and obscures the gladness through and through.

Old Year, which barely touched him as he passed,This grace abides with thee now thou art dead,Of Time’s brief vanished heirs thou wert the lastTo lay a blessing on his honored head.

Old Year, which barely touched him as he passed,

This grace abides with thee now thou art dead,

Of Time’s brief vanished heirs thou wert the last

To lay a blessing on his honored head.

We saw thee greet him with mysterious smile,We did not mark how sad the smile and strange,But deemed all well, then in a little whileThe skies grew dark with swift tempestuous change.

We saw thee greet him with mysterious smile,

We did not mark how sad the smile and strange,

But deemed all well, then in a little while

The skies grew dark with swift tempestuous change.

Led by thy hand he vanished from our eyes,And thou fulfilled thy date day after day,And still to grief and question and surmiseMade never answer, keeping on thy way.

Led by thy hand he vanished from our eyes,

And thou fulfilled thy date day after day,

And still to grief and question and surmise

Made never answer, keeping on thy way.

But still we love thee, for thou wert the lastTo see the face which we no longer see,And all the grace and glory of his pastCompletes and ends and culminates in thee.

But still we love thee, for thou wert the last

To see the face which we no longer see,

And all the grace and glory of his past

Completes and ends and culminates in thee.

The New Year’s hands with good gifts may be full,The New Year’s heart with love and peace may brim,He cannot be to us as beautifulAs the old years which caught their best from him.

The New Year’s hands with good gifts may be full,

The New Year’s heart with love and peace may brim,

He cannot be to us as beautiful

As the old years which caught their best from him.

WHEN stern occasion calls for war,And the trumpets shrill and peal,Forges and armories ring all dayWith the fierce clash of steel.The blades are heated in the flame,And cooled in icy flood,And beaten hard, and beaten well,To make them firm and pliable,Their edge and temper good;Then tough and sharp with discipline,They win the fight for fighting men.When God’s occasions call for men,His chosen souls he takes,In life’s hot fire he tempers them,With tears he cools and slakes;With many a heavy, grievous strokeHe beats them to an edge,And tests and tries, again, again,Till the hard will is fused, and painBecomes high privilege;Then strong, and quickened through and through,They ready are his work to do.Like an on-rushing, furious hostThe tide of need and sin,Unless the blades shall tempered be,They have no chance to win;God trusts to no untested swordWhen he goes forth to war;Only the souls that, beaten longOn pain’s great anvil, have grown strong,His chosen weapons are.Ah souls, on pain’s great anvil laid,Remember this, nor be afraid!

WHEN stern occasion calls for war,

And the trumpets shrill and peal,

Forges and armories ring all day

With the fierce clash of steel.

The blades are heated in the flame,

And cooled in icy flood,

And beaten hard, and beaten well,

To make them firm and pliable,

Their edge and temper good;

Then tough and sharp with discipline,

They win the fight for fighting men.

When God’s occasions call for men,His chosen souls he takes,In life’s hot fire he tempers them,With tears he cools and slakes;With many a heavy, grievous strokeHe beats them to an edge,And tests and tries, again, again,Till the hard will is fused, and painBecomes high privilege;Then strong, and quickened through and through,They ready are his work to do.

When God’s occasions call for men,

His chosen souls he takes,

In life’s hot fire he tempers them,

With tears he cools and slakes;

With many a heavy, grievous stroke

He beats them to an edge,

And tests and tries, again, again,

Till the hard will is fused, and pain

Becomes high privilege;

Then strong, and quickened through and through,

They ready are his work to do.

Like an on-rushing, furious hostThe tide of need and sin,Unless the blades shall tempered be,They have no chance to win;God trusts to no untested swordWhen he goes forth to war;Only the souls that, beaten longOn pain’s great anvil, have grown strong,His chosen weapons are.Ah souls, on pain’s great anvil laid,Remember this, nor be afraid!

Like an on-rushing, furious host

The tide of need and sin,

Unless the blades shall tempered be,

They have no chance to win;

God trusts to no untested sword

When he goes forth to war;

Only the souls that, beaten long

On pain’s great anvil, have grown strong,

His chosen weapons are.

Ah souls, on pain’s great anvil laid,

Remember this, nor be afraid!

DEAR eyes, so full of kindness for us all,Of sympathy’s sweet cheer, of glinting fun,Of tenderness for creatures weak and small,And welcomes never failing any one:—Dear busy hands, to which all work seemed play,Defeat impossible, and taste a dower,Making the common things of every dayUnfold to beauty like an opening flower;Dear heart, whose every beat until the endWas quick and ardent with affection’s thrill;Whose ample chambers sheltered many a friend,And opened at a touch for others still,—The world seems colder than it used to beSince those sweet hands were folded on her breast,Since the eyes closed in death’s deep mysteryAnd that great loving heart was stilled to rest.But like a star she hovers through our tears,And the Eternal world, so dim, so fair,Which holds the secret of our mortal years,Nearer and friendlier seems now she is there.

DEAR eyes, so full of kindness for us all,Of sympathy’s sweet cheer, of glinting fun,Of tenderness for creatures weak and small,And welcomes never failing any one:—

DEAR eyes, so full of kindness for us all,

Of sympathy’s sweet cheer, of glinting fun,

Of tenderness for creatures weak and small,

And welcomes never failing any one:—

Dear busy hands, to which all work seemed play,Defeat impossible, and taste a dower,Making the common things of every dayUnfold to beauty like an opening flower;

Dear busy hands, to which all work seemed play,

Defeat impossible, and taste a dower,

Making the common things of every day

Unfold to beauty like an opening flower;

Dear heart, whose every beat until the endWas quick and ardent with affection’s thrill;Whose ample chambers sheltered many a friend,And opened at a touch for others still,—

Dear heart, whose every beat until the end

Was quick and ardent with affection’s thrill;

Whose ample chambers sheltered many a friend,

And opened at a touch for others still,—

The world seems colder than it used to beSince those sweet hands were folded on her breast,Since the eyes closed in death’s deep mysteryAnd that great loving heart was stilled to rest.

The world seems colder than it used to be

Since those sweet hands were folded on her breast,

Since the eyes closed in death’s deep mystery

And that great loving heart was stilled to rest.

But like a star she hovers through our tears,And the Eternal world, so dim, so fair,Which holds the secret of our mortal years,Nearer and friendlier seems now she is there.

But like a star she hovers through our tears,

And the Eternal world, so dim, so fair,

Which holds the secret of our mortal years,

Nearer and friendlier seems now she is there.

Discouragement is an act of unbelief.—Henri Amiel.

THE spent nerve and the lowered pulse,The sluggish current of the bloodWhich feels no glad abounding flow,No bound or joyousness, but slow,And, as it were, reluctantly,Fills the dull veins,—all these may beReasons why life should not seem good.Happiness is an easy thingWhen summer airs fan summer skies,And birds in all the branches sing;Or in the budding days of spring,When life springs up renewed and fair,And joy is in the very air,And laughter readier is than sighs.But in the ebb-times of the soul,When Hope’s bright tide has turned and fled,Leaving bare sands and thirsting shells,When dried are the sweet water-wells,And leaden moments, slow with pain,Pass, and the wave turns not again,And life seems all uncomforted,—Then is the time of test, when FaithCries to the heart which inly fails:“Courage! nor let thy forces dim.Although He slay thee, trust in HimWho giveth good and tempereth ill,And never fails, and never will,To be the refuge of his saints.“To yield to grief without a blowIs to doubt God: with him for guide,The pleasant pathway, and no lessThe hot and thorn-set wilderness,Alike are roads to heaven, and He,Even where thou waitest beside the sea,Can with a word recall the tide.”

THE spent nerve and the lowered pulse,

The sluggish current of the blood

Which feels no glad abounding flow,

No bound or joyousness, but slow,

And, as it were, reluctantly,

Fills the dull veins,—all these may be

Reasons why life should not seem good.

Happiness is an easy thingWhen summer airs fan summer skies,And birds in all the branches sing;Or in the budding days of spring,When life springs up renewed and fair,And joy is in the very air,And laughter readier is than sighs.

Happiness is an easy thing

When summer airs fan summer skies,

And birds in all the branches sing;

Or in the budding days of spring,

When life springs up renewed and fair,

And joy is in the very air,

And laughter readier is than sighs.

But in the ebb-times of the soul,When Hope’s bright tide has turned and fled,Leaving bare sands and thirsting shells,When dried are the sweet water-wells,And leaden moments, slow with pain,Pass, and the wave turns not again,And life seems all uncomforted,—

But in the ebb-times of the soul,

When Hope’s bright tide has turned and fled,

Leaving bare sands and thirsting shells,

When dried are the sweet water-wells,

And leaden moments, slow with pain,

Pass, and the wave turns not again,

And life seems all uncomforted,—

Then is the time of test, when FaithCries to the heart which inly fails:“Courage! nor let thy forces dim.Although He slay thee, trust in HimWho giveth good and tempereth ill,And never fails, and never will,To be the refuge of his saints.

Then is the time of test, when Faith

Cries to the heart which inly fails:

“Courage! nor let thy forces dim.

Although He slay thee, trust in Him

Who giveth good and tempereth ill,

And never fails, and never will,

To be the refuge of his saints.

“To yield to grief without a blowIs to doubt God: with him for guide,The pleasant pathway, and no lessThe hot and thorn-set wilderness,Alike are roads to heaven, and He,Even where thou waitest beside the sea,Can with a word recall the tide.”

“To yield to grief without a blow

Is to doubt God: with him for guide,

The pleasant pathway, and no less

The hot and thorn-set wilderness,

Alike are roads to heaven, and He,

Even where thou waitest beside the sea,

Can with a word recall the tide.”

Susan Coolidge’s WorksPOETRYA FEW VERSES. 16mo. $1.00. White and gold, $1.25.A FEW MORE VERSES, 16mo. $1.00. White and gold, $1.25.LAST VERSES, 16mo. $1.00 net. White and gold, $1.25 net.SELECTIONS, ETC.THE DAY’S MESSAGE. 16mo. $1.00. White and Gold, $1.25.THE OLD CONVENT SCHOOL IN PARIS, and Other Papers. 12mo. $1.50.THE KATY DID SERIES5 vols. Illustrated. 12mo. Uniformly bound in box. $6.251. WHAT KATY DID. 12mo. $1.25.2. WHAT KATY DID AT SCHOOL. 12mo. $1.25.3. WHAT KATY DID NEXT. 12mo. $1.25.4. CLOVER. 12mo. $1.25.5. IN THE HIGH VALLEY. 12mo. $1.25.OTHER STORIES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE1. THE NEW-YEAR’S BARGAIN. 12mo. $1.25.2. MISCHIEF’S THANKSGIVING, and Other Stories. 12mo. $1.25.3. NINE LITTLE GOSLINGS. 12mo. $1.25.4. EYEBRIGHT. A Story. 12mo. $1.25.5. CROSS PATCH, and Other Stories. Adapted from the Myths of Mother Goose. 12mo. $1.25.6. A ROUND DOZEN. 12mo. $1.25.7. A LITTLE COUNTRY GIRL. 12mo. $1.25.8. JUST SIXTEEN. 12mo. $1.25.9. A GUERNSEY LILY. 12mo. $1.25.10. THE BARBERRY BUSH, and Other Stories. 12mo. $1.25.11. NOT QUITE EIGHTEEN. 12mo. $1.25.12. A SHEAF OF STORIES. 12mo. $1.25.Not even Miss Alcott apprehends child nature with finer sympathy or pictures its nobler traits with more skill.—Boston Daily Advertiser.————LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY,Publishers254 Washington Street, Boston

Susan Coolidge’s Works

POETRY

SELECTIONS, ETC.

THE KATY DID SERIES5 vols. Illustrated. 12mo. Uniformly bound in box. $6.25