Farewell, oh dream of mine!I dare not stay;The hour is come, and timeWill not delay:Pleasant and dear to meWilt thou remain;No future hourBrings thee again.
She stands, the Future dim,And draws me on,And shows me dearer joys—But thou art gone!Treasures and Hopes more fair,Bears she for me,And yet I linger,Oh dream, with thee!
Other and brighter days,Perhaps she brings;Deeper and holier songs,Perchance she sings;But thou and I, fair time,We too must sever—Oh dream of mine,Farewell for ever!
Sow with a generous hand;Pause not for toil or pain;Weary not through the heat of summer,Weary not through the cold spring rain;But wait till the autumn comesFor the sheaves of golden grain.
Scatter the seed, and fear not,A table will be spread;What matter if you are too wearyTo eat your hard-earned bread:Sow, while the earth is broken,For the hungry must be fed.
Sow;—while the seeds are lyingIn the warm earth’s bosom deep,And your warm tears fall upon it—They will stir in their quiet sleep;And the green blades rise the quicker,Perchance, for the tears you weep.
Then sow;—for the hours are fleeting,And the seed must fall to-day;And care not what hands shall reap it,Or if you shall have passed awayBefore the waving corn-fieldsShall gladden the sunny day.
Sow; and look onward, upward,Where the starry light appears—Where, in spite of the coward’s doubting,Or your own heart’s trembling fears,You shall reap in joy the harvestYou have sown to-day in tears.
The tempest rages wild and high,The waves lift up their voice and cryFierce answers to the angry sky,—Miserere Domine.
Through the black night and driving rain,A ship is struggling, all in vainTo live upon the stormy main;—Miserere Domine.
The thunders roar, the lightnings glare,Vain is it now to strive or dare;A cry goes up of great despair,—Miserere Domine.
The stormy voices of the main,The moaning wind, and pelting rainBeat on the nursery window pane:-Miserere Domine.
Warm curtained was the little bed,Soft pillowed was the little head;“The storm will wake the child,” they said:-Miserere Domine.
Cowering among his pillows whiteHe prays, his blue eyes dim with fright,“Father, save those at sea to-night!”Miserere Domine.
The morning shone all clear and gay,On a ship at anchor in the bay,And on a little child at play,—Gloria tibi Domine!
Words are lighter than the cloud-foamOf the restless ocean spray;Vainer than the trembling shadowThat the next hour steals away.By the fall of summer raindropsIs the air as deeply stirred;And the rose-leaf that we tread onWill outlive a word.
Yet, on the dull silence breakingWith a lightning flash, a Word,Bearing endless desolationOn its blighting wings, I heard:Earth can forge no keener weapon,Dealing surer death and pain,And the cruel echo answeredThrough long years again.
I have known one word hang starlikeO’er a dreary waste of years,And it only shone the brighterLooked at through a mist of tears;While a weary wanderer gatheredHope and heart on Life’s dark way,By its faithful promise, shiningClearer day by day.
I have known a spirit, calmerThan the calmest lake, and clearAs the heavens that gazed upon it,With no wave of hope or fear;But a storm had swept across it,And its deepest depths were stirred,(Never, never more to slumber,)Only by a word.
I have known a word more gentleThan the breath of summer air;In a listening heart it nestled,And it lived for ever there.Not the beating of its prisonStirred it ever, night or day;Only with the heart’s last throbbingCould it fade away.
Words are mighty, words are living:Serpents with their venomous stings,Or bright angels, crowding round us,With heaven’s light upon their wings:Every word has its own spirit,True or false, that never dies;Every word man’s lips have utteredEchoes in God’s skies.
Do you grieve no costly offeringTo the Lady you can make?One there is, and gifts less worthyQueens have stooped to take.
Take a Heart of virgin silver,Fashion it with heavy blows,Cast it into Love’s hot furnaceWhen it fiercest glows.
With Pain’s sharpest point transfix it,And then carve in letters fair,Tender dreams and quaint devices,Fancies sweet and rare.
Set within it Hope’s blue sapphire,Many-changing opal fears,Blood-red ruby-stones of daring,Mixed with pearly tears.
And when you have wrought and labouredTill the gift is all complete,You may humbly lay your offeringAt the Lady’s feet.
Should her mood perchance be gracious—With disdainful smiling pride,She will place it with the trinketsGlittering at her side.
I am footsore and very weary,But I travel to meet a Friend:The way is long and dreary,But I know that it soon must end.
He is travelling fast like the whirlwind,And though I creep slowly on,We are drawing nearer, nearer,And the journey is almost done.
Through the heat of many summers,Through many a springtime rain,Through long autumns and weary winters,I have hoped to meet him, in vain.
I know that he will not fail me,So I count every hour chime,Every throb of my own heart’s beating,That tells of the flight of Time.
On the day of my birth he plightedHis kingly word to me:-I have seen him in dreams so often,That I know what his smile must be.
I have toiled through the sunny woodland,Through fields that basked in the light;And through the lone paths in the forestI crept in the dead of night.
I will not fear at his coming,Although I must meet him alone;He will look in my eyes so gently,And take my hand in his own.
Like a dream all my toil will vanish,When I lay my head on his breast—But the journey is very weary,And he only can give me rest!
You have taken back the promiseThat you spoke so long ago;Taken back the heart you gave me—I must even let it go.Where Love once has breathed, Pride dieth:So I struggled, but in vain,First to keep the links together,Then to piece the broken chain.
But it might not be—so freelyAll your friendship I restore,And the heart that I had takenAs my own for evermore.No shade of reproach shall touch you,Dread no more a claim from me—But I will not have you fancyThat I count myself as free.
I am bound by the old promise;What can break that golden chain?Not even the words that you have spoken,Or the sharpness of my pain:Do you think, because you fail meAnd draw back your hand to-day,That from out the heart I gave youMy strong love can fade away?
It will live. No eyes may see it;In my soul it will lie deep,Hidden from all; but I shall feel itOften stirring in its sleep.So remember, that the friendshipWhich you now think poor and vain,Will endure in hope and patience,Till you ask for it again.
Perhaps in some long twilight hour,Like those we have known of old,When past shadows gather round you,And your present friends grow cold,You may stretch your hands out towards me,—Ah! you will—I know not when—I shall nurse my love and keep itFaithfully, for you, till then.
What lack the valleys and mountainsThat once were green and gay?What lack the babbling fountains?Their voice is sad to-day.Only the sound of a voice,Tender and sweet and low,That made the earth rejoice,A year ago!
What lack the tender flowers?A shadow is on the sun:What lack the merry hours,That I long that they were done?Only two smiling eyes,That told of joy and mirth:They are shining in the skies,I mourn on earth!
What lacks my heart, that makes itSo weary and full of pain,That trembling Hope forsakes it,Never to come again?Only another heart,Tender and all mine own,In the still grave it lies;I weep alone!
My Life you ask of? why, you knowFull soon my little Life is told;It has had no great joy or woe,For I am only twelve years old.Ere long I hope I shall have beenOn my first voyage, and wonders seen.Some princess I may help to freeFrom pirates, on a far-off sea;Or, on some desert isle be left,Of friends and shipmates all bereft.
For the first time I venture forth,From our blue mountains of the north.My kinsman kept the lodge that stoodGuarding the entrance near the wood,By the stone gateway grey and old,With quaint devices carved about,And broken shields; while dragons boldGlared on the common world without;And the long trembling ivy sprayHalf hid the centuries’ decay.In solitude and silence grandThe castle towered above the land:The castle of the Earl, whose name(Wrapped in old bloody legends) cameDown through the times when Truth and RightBent down to armèd Pride and Might.He owned the country far and near;And, for some weeks in every year,(When the brown leaves were falling fastAnd the long, lingering autumn passed,)He would come down to hunt the deer,With hound and horse in splendid pride.The story lasts the live-long year,The peasant’s winter evening fills,When he is gone and they abideIn the lone quiet of their hills.
I longed, too, for the happy night,When, all with torches flaring bright,The crowding villagers would stand,A patient, eager, waiting band,Until the signal ran like flame—“They come!” and, slackening speed, they came.Outriders first, in pomp and state,Pranced on their horses through the gate;Then the four steeds as black as night,All decked with trappings blue and white,Drew through the crowd that opened wide,The Earl and Countess side by side.The stern grave Earl, with formal smileAnd glistening eyes and stately pride,Could ne’er my childish gaze beguileFrom the fair presence by his side.The lady’s soft sad glance, her eyes,(Like stars that shone in summer skies,)Her pure white face so calmly bent,With gentle greetings round her sentHer look, that always seemed to gazeWhere the blue past had closed againOver some happy shipwrecked days,With all their freight of love and pain:She did not even seem to seeThe little lord upon her knee.And yet he was like angel fair,With rosy cheeks and golden hair,That fell on shoulders white as snow:But the blue eyes that shone belowHis clustering rings of auburn curls,Were not his mother’s, but the Earl’s.
I feared the Earl, so cold and grim,I never dared be seen by him.When through our gate he used to ride,My kinsman Walter bade me hide;He said he was so stern.So, when the hunt came past our way,I always hastened to obey,Until I heard the bugles playThe notes of their return.But she—my very heart-strings stirWhene’er I speak or think of her—The whole wide world could never seeA noble lady such as she,So full of angel charity.
Strange things of her our neighbours toldIn the long winter evenings cold,Around the fire. They would draw nearAnd speak half-whispering, as in fear;As if they thought the Earl could hearTheir treason ’gainst his name.They thought the story that his prideHad stooped to wed a low-born bride,A stain upon his fame.Some said ’twas false; there could not beSuch blot on his nobility:But others vowed that they had heardThe actual story word for word,From one who well my lady knew,And had declared the story true.
In a far village, little known,She dwelt—so ran the tale—alone.A widowed bride, yet, oh! so bright,Shone through the mist of grief, her charms;They said it was the loveliest sight—She with her baby in her arms.The Earl, one summer morning, rodeBy the sea-shore where she abode;Again he came—that vision sweetDrew him reluctant to her feet.Fierce must the struggle in his heartHave been, between his love and pride,Until he chose that wondrous part,To ask her to become his bride.Yet, ere his noble name she bore,He made her vow that nevermoreShe would behold her child again,But hide his name and hers from men.The trembling promise duly spoken,All links of the low past were broken;And she arose to take her standAmid the nobles of the land.Then all would wonder—could it beThat one so lowly born as she,Raised to such height of bliss, should seemStill living in some weary dream?’Tis true she bore with calmest graceThe honours of her lofty place,Yet never smiled, in peace or joy,Not even to greet her princely boy.She heard, with face of white despair,The cannon thunder through the air,That she had given the Earl an heir.Nay, even more, (they whispered low,As if they scarce durst fancy so,)That, through her lofty wedded life,No word, no tone, betrayed the wife.Her look seemed ever in the past;Never to him it grew more sweet;The self-same weary glance she castUpon the grey-hound at her feet,As upon him, who bade her claimThe crowning honour of his name.
This gossip, if old Walter heard,He checked it with a scornful word:I never durst such tales repeat;He was too serious and discreetTo speak of what his lord might do;Besides, he loved my lady too.And many a time, I recollect,They were together in the wood;He, with an air of grave respect,And earnest look, uncovered stood.And though their speech I never heard,(Save now and then a louder word,)I saw he spake as none but oneShe loved and trusted, durst have done;For oft I watched them in the shadeThat the close forest branches made,Till slanting golden sunbeams cameAnd smote the fir-trees into flame,A radiant glory round her lit,Then down her white robes seemed to flit,Gilding the brown leaves on the ground,And all the waving ferns around.While by some gloomy pine she leantAnd he in earnest talk would stand,I saw the tear-drops, as she bent,Fall on the flowers in her hand.—Strange as it seemed and seems to be,That one so sad, so cold as she,Could love a little child like me—Yet so it was. I never heardSuch tender words as she would say,And murmurs, sweeter than a word,Would breathe upon me as I lay.While I, in smiling joy, would rest,For hours, my head upon her breast.Our neighbours said that none could seeIn me the common childish charms,(So grave and still I used to be,)And yet she held me in her arms,In a fond clasp, so close, so tight—I often dream of it at night.She bade me tell her all—no otherMy childish thoughts e’er cared to know:For I—I never knew my mother;I was an orphan long ago.And I could all my fancies pour,That gentle loving face before.She liked to hear me tell her all;How that day I had climbed the tree,To make the largest fir-cones fall;And how one day I hoped to beA sailor on the deep blue sea—She loved to hear it all!
Then wondrous things she used to tell,Of the strange dreams that she had known.I used to love to hear them well,If only for her sweet low tone,Sometimes so sad, although I knewThat such things never could be true.One day she told me such a taleIt made me grow all cold and pale,The fearful thing she told!Of a poor woman mad and wildWho coined the life-blood of her child,And tempted by a fiend, had soldThe heart out of her breast for gold.But, when she saw me frightened seem,She smiled, and said it was a dream.When I look back and think of her,My very heart-strings seem to stir;How kind, how fair she was, how goodI cannot tell you. If I couldYou, too, would love her. The mere thoughtOf her great love for me has broughtTears in my eyes: though far away,It seems as it were yesterday.And just as when I look on highThrough the blue silence of the sky,Fresh stars shine out, and more and more,Where I could see so few before;So, the more steadily I gazeUpon those far-off misty days,Fresh words, fresh tones, fresh memories startBefore my eyes and in my heart.I can remember how one day(Talking in silly childish way)I said how happy I should beIf I were like her son—as fair,With just such bright blue eyes as he,And such long locks of golden hair.A strange smile on her pale face broke,And in strange solemn words she spoke:“My own, my darling one—no, no!I love you, far, far better so.I would not change the look you bear,Or one wave of your dark brown hair.The mere glance of your sunny eyes,Deep in my deepest soul I prizeAbove that baby fair!Not one of all the Earl’s proud lineIn beauty ever matched with thine;And, ’tis by thy dark locks thou artBound even faster round my heart,And made more wholly mine!”And then she paused, and weeping said,“You are like one who now is dead—Who sleeps in a far-distant grave.Oh may God grant that you may beAs noble and as good as he,As gentle and as brave!”Then in my childish way I cried,“The one you tell me of who died,Was he as noble as the Earl?”I see her red lips scornful curl,I feel her hold my hand againSo tightly, that I shrink in pain—I seem to hear her say,“He whom I tell you of, who died,He was so noble and so gay,So generous and so brave,That the proud Earl by his dear sideWould look a craven slave.”She paused; then, with a quivering sigh,She laid her hand upon my brow:“Live like him, darling, and so die.Remember that he tells you now,True peace, real honour, and content,In cheerful pious toil abide;That gold and splendour are but sentTo curse our vanity and pride.”One day some childish fever painBurnt in my veins and fired my brain.Moaning, I turned from side to side;And, sobbing in my bed, I cried,Till night in calm and darkness creptAround me, and at last I slept.When suddenly I woke to seeThe Lady bending over me.The drops of cold November rainWere falling from her long, damp hair;Her anxious eyes were dim with pain;Yet she looked wondrous fair.Arrayed for some great feast she came,With stones that shone and burnt like flame;Wound round her neck, like some bright snake,And set like stars within her hair,They sparkled so, they seemed to makeA glory everywhere.I felt her tears upon my face,Her kisses on my eyes;And a strange thought I could not traceI felt within my heart arise;And, half in feverish pain, I said:“Oh if my mother were not dead!”And Walter bade me sleep; but sheSaid, “Is it not the same to theeThatIwatch by thy bed?”I answered her, “I love you, too;But it can never be the same;She was no Countess like to you,Nor wore such sparkling stones of flame.”Oh the wild look of fear and dread!The cry she gave of bitter woe!I often wonder what I saidTo make her moan and shudder so.Through the long night she tended meWith such sweet care and charity.But should weary you to tellAll that I know and love so well:Yet one night more stands out aloneWith a sad sweetness all its own.
The wind blew loud that dreary night:Its wailing voice I well remember:The stars shone out so large and brightUpon the frosty fir-boughs white,That dreary night of cold December.I saw old Walter silent stand,Watching the soft white flakes of snowWith looks I could not understand,Of strange perplexity and woe.At last he turned and took my hand,And said the Countess just had sentTo bid us come; for she would fainSee me once more, before she wentAway—never to come again.We came in silence through the wood(Our footfall was the only sound)To where the great white castle stood,With darkness shadowing it around.Breathless, we trod with cautious careUp the great echoing marble stair;Trembling, by Walter’s hand I held,Scared by the splendours I beheld:Now thinking, “Should the Earl appear!”Now looking up with giddy fearTo the dim vaulted roof, that spreadIts gloomy arches overhead.Long corridors we softly past,(My heart was beating loud and fast)And reached the Lady’s room at last:A strange faint odour seemed to weighUpon the dim and darkened air;One shaded lamp, with softened ray,Scarce showed the gloomy splendour there.The dull red brands were burning low,And yet a fitful gleam of light,Would now and then, with sudden glow,Start forth, then sink again in night.I gazed around, yet half in fear,Till Walter told me to draw near:And in the strange and flickering light,Towards the Lady’s bed I crept;All folded round with snowy white,She lay; (one would have said she slept;)So still the look of that white face,It seemed as it were carved in stone,I paused before I dared to placeWithin her cold white hand my own.But, with a smile of sweet surprise,She turned to me her dreamy eyes;And slowly, as if life were pain,She drew me in her arms to lie:She strove to speak, and strove in vain;Each breath was like a long-drawn sigh.The throbs that seemed to shake her breast,The trembling clasp, so loose and weak,At last grew calmer, and at rest;And then she strove once more to speak:“My God, I thank thee, that my painOf day by day and year by year,Has not been suffered all in vain,And I may die while he is near.I will not fear but that Thy graceHas swept away my sin and woe,And sent this little angel face,In my last hour to tell me so.”(And here her voice grew faint and low,)“My child, where’er thy life may go,To know that thou art brave and true,Will pierce the highest heavens through,And even there my soul shall beMore joyful for this thought of thee.”She folded her white hands, and stayed;All cold and silently she lay:I knelt beside the bed, and prayedThe prayer she used to make me say.I said it many times, and thenShe did not move, but seemed to beIn a deep sleep, nor stirred again.No sound woke in the silent room,Or broke the dim and solemn gloom,Save when the brands that burnt so low,With noisy fitful gleam of light,Would spread around a sudden glow,Then sink in silence and in night.How long I stood I do not know:At last poor Walter came, and said(So sadly) that we now must go,And whispered, she we loved was dead.He bade me kiss her face once more,Then led me sobbing to the door.I scarcely knew what dying meant,Yet a strange grief, before unknown,Weighed on my spirit as we wentAnd left her lying all alone.
We went to the far North once more,To seek the well-remembered home,Where my poor kinsman dwelt before,Whence now he was too old to roam;And there six happy years we past,Happy and peaceful till the last;When poor old Walter died, and heBlessed me and said I now might beA sailor on the deep blue sea.And so I go; and yet in spiteOf all the joys I long to know,Though I look onward with delight,With something of regret I go;And young or old, on land or sea,One guiding memory I shall take—Of what She prayed that I might be,And what I will be for her sake!
A Sorrow, wet with early tearsYet bitter, had been long with me;I wearied of this weight of years,And would be free.
I tore my Sorrow from my heart,I cast it far away in scorn;Right joyful that we two could part—Yet most forlorn.
I sought, (to take my Sorrow’s place,)Over the world for flower or gem—But she had had an ancient graceUnknown to them.
I took once more with strange delightMy slighted Sorrow; proudly now,I wear it, set with stars of light,Upon my brow.
The feast is spread through EnglandFor rich and poor to-day;Greetings and laughter may be there,But thoughts are far away;Over the stormy ocean,Over the dreary track,Where some are gone, whom EnglandWill never welcome back.
Breathless she waits, and listensFor every eastern breezeThat bears upon its bloody wingsNews from beyond the seas.The leafless branches stirringMake many a watcher start;The distant tramp of steed may sendA throb from heart to heart.
The rulers of the nation,The poor ones at their gate,With the same eager wonderThe same great news await.The poor man’s stay and comfort,The rich man’s joy and pride,Upon the bleak Crimean shoreAre fighting side by side.
The bullet comes—and eitherA desolate hearth may see;And God alone to-night knows whereThe vacant place may be!The dread that stirs the peasantThrills nobles’ hearts with fear—Yet above selfish sorrowBoth hold their country dear.
The rich man who reposesIn his ancestral shade,The peasant at his ploughshare,The worker at his trade,Each one his all his perilled,Each has the same great stake,Each soul can but have patience,Each heart can only break!
Hushed is all party clamour;One thought in every heart,One dread in every household,Has bid such strife depart.England has called her children;Long silent—the word cameThat lit the smouldering ashesThrough all the land to flame.
Oh you who toil and suffer,You gladly heard the call;But those you sometimes envyHave they not given their all?Oh you who rule the nation,Take now the toil-worn hand—Brothers you are in sorrow,In duty to your land.Learn but this noble lessonEre Peace returns again,And the life-blood of Old EnglandWill not be shed in vain.
Last night, when weary silence fell on all,And starless skies arose so dim and vast,I heard the Spirit of the Present callUpon the sleeping Spirit of the Past.Far off and near, I saw their radiance shine,And listened while they spoke of deeds divine.
The Spirit of the Past.
My deeds are writ in iron;My glory stands alone;A veil of shadowy honourUpon my tombs is thrown;The great names of my heroesLike gems in history lie;To live they deemed ignoble,Had they the chance to die!
The Spirit of the Present.
My children, too, are honoured;Dear shall their memory beTo the proud lands that own them;Dearer than thine to thee;For, though they hold that sacredIs God’s great gift of life,At the first call of dutyThey rush into the strife!
The Spirit of the Past.
Then, with all valiant preceptsWoman’s soft heart was fraught;“Death, not dishonour,” echoedThe war-cry she had taught.Fearless and glad, those mothers,At bloody deaths elate,Cried out they bore their childrenOnly for such a fate!
The Spirit of the Present.
Though such stern laws of honourAre faded now away,Yet many a mourning mother,With nobler grief than they,Bows down in sad submission:The heroes of the fightLearnt at her knee the lesson,“For God and for the Right!”
The Spirit of the Past.
No voice there spake of sorrow:They saw the noblest fallWith no repining murmur;Stern Fate was lord of all.And when the loved ones perished,One cry alone arose,Waking the startled echoes,“Vengeance upon our foes!”
The Spirit of the Present.
Grief dwells in France and EnglandFor many a noble son;Yet louder than the sorrow,“Thy will, Oh God, be done!”From desolate homes is risingOne prayer, “Let carnage cease!On friends and foes have mercy,Oh Lord, and give us peace!”
The Spirit of the Past.
Then, every hearth was honouredThat sent its children forth,To spread their country’s glory,And gain her south or north.Then, little recked they numbers,No band would ever fly,But stern and resolute they stoodTo conquer or to die.
The Spirit of the Present.
And now from France and EnglandTheir dearest and their bestGo forth to succour freedom,To help the much oppressed;Now, let the far-off FutureAnd Past bow down to-day,Before the few young hearts that holdWhole armaments at bay.
The Spirit of the Past.
Then, each one strove for honour,Each for a deathless name;Love, home, rest, joy, were offeredAs sacrifice to Fame.They longed that in far agesTheir deeds might still be told,And distant times and nationsTheir names in honour hold.
The Spirit of the Present.
Though nursed by such old legends,Our heroes of to-dayGo cheerfully to battleAs children go to play;They gaze with awe and wonderOn your great names of pride,Unconscious that their own will shineIn glory side by side!
Day dawned; and as the Spirits passed away,Methought I saw, in the dim morning grey,The Past’s bright diadem had paled beforeThe starry crown the glorious Present wore.
A little longer yet—a little longer,Shall violets bloom for thee, and sweet birds sing;And the lime branches where soft winds are blowing,Shall murmur the sweet promise of the Spring!
A little longer yet—a little longer,Thou shalt behold the quiet of the morn;While tender grasses and awakening flowersSend up a golden mist to greet the dawn!
A little longer yet—a little longer,The tenderness of twilight shall be thine,The rosy clouds that float o’er dying daylight,Nor fade till trembling stars begin to shine.
A little longer yet—a little longer,Shall starry night be beautiful for thee;And the cold moon shall look through the blue silence,Flooding her silver path upon the sea.
A little longer yet—a little longer,Life shall be thine; life with its power to will;Life with its strength to bear, to love, to conquer,Bringing its thousand joys thy heart to fill.
A little longer yet—a little longer,The voices thou hast loved shall charm thine ear;And thy true heart, that now beats quick to hear them,A little longer yet shall hold them dear.
A little longer yet—joy while thou mayest;Love and rejoice! for time has nought in store;And soon the darkness of the grave shall bid theeLove and rejoice and feel and know no more.
* * *
A little longer still—Patience, Belovèd:A little longer still, ere Heaven unrollThe Glory, and the Brightness, and the Wonder,Eternal, and divine, that waits thy Soul!
A little longer ere Life true, immortal,(Not this our shadowy Life,) will be thine own;And thou shalt stand where winged Archangels worship,And trembling bow before the Great White Throne.
A little longer still, and Heaven awaits thee,And fills thy spirit with a great delight;Then our pale joys will seem a dream forgotten,Our Sun a darkness, and our Day a Night.
A little longer, and thy Heart, Belovèd,Shall beat for ever with a Love divine;And joy so pure, so mighty, so eternal,No creature knows and lives, will then be thine.
A little longer yet—and angel voicesShall ring in heavenly chant upon thine ear;Angels and Saints await thee, and God needs thee:Belovèd, can we bid thee linger here!
An ancient enemy have I,And either he or I must die;For he never leaveth me,Never gives my soul relief,Never lets my sorrow cease,Never gives my spirit peace—For mine enemy is Grief!
Pale he is, and sad and stern;And whene’er he cometh nigh,Blue and dim the torches burn,Pale and shrunk the roses turn;While my heart that he has piercedMany a time with fiery lance,Beats and trembles at his glance:Clad in burning steel is he,All my strength he can defy;For he never leaveth me—And one of us must die!
I have said, “Let ancient sagesCharm me from my thoughts of pain!”So I read their deepest pages,And I strove to think—in vain!Wisdom’s cold calm words I tried,But he was seated by my side:-Learning I have won in vain;She cannot rid me of my pain.
When at last soft sleep comes o’er me,A cold hand is on my heart;Stern sad eyes are there before me;Not in dreams will he depart:And when the same dreary visionFrom my weary brain has fled,Daylight brings the living phantom,He is seated by my bed,Bending o’er me all the while,With his cruel, bitter smile,Ever with me, ever nigh;—And either he or I must die!
Then I said, long time ago,“I will flee to other climes,I will leave mine ancient foe!”Though I wandered far and wide—Still he followed at my side.
And I fled where the blue watersBathe the sunny isles of Greece;Where Thessalian mountains riseUp against the purple skies;Where a haunting memory livethIn each wood and cave and rill;But no dream of gods could help me—He went with me still!
I have been where Nile’s broad riverFlows upon the burning sand;Where the desert monster broodeth,Where the Eastern palm-trees stand;I have been where pathless forestsSpread a black eternal shade;Where the lurking panther hidingGlares from every tangled glade;But in vain I wandered wide,He was always by my side!Then I fled where snows eternalCold and dreary ever lie;Where the rosy lightnings gleam,Flashing through the northern sky;Where the red sun turns againBack upon his path of pain;—But a shadowy form was with me—I had fled in vain!
I have thought, “If I can gazeSternly on him he will fade,For I know that he is nothingBut a dim ideal shade.”As I gazed at him the more,He grew stronger than before!
Then I said, “Mine arm is strong,I will make him turn and flee:”I have struggled with him long—But that could never be!
Once I battled with him soThat I thought I laid him low;Then in trembling joy I fled,While again and still againMurmuring to myself I said,“Mine old enemy is dead!”And I stood beneath the stars,When a chill came on my frame,And a fear I could not name,And a sense of quick despair,And, lo! mine enemy was there!
Listen, for my soul is weary,Weary of its endless woe;I have called on one to aid meMightier even than my foe.Strength and hope fail day by day;I shall cheat him of his prey;Some day soon, I know not when,He will stab me through and through;He has wounded me before,But my heart can bear no more;Pray that hour may come to me,Only then shall I be free;Death alone has strength to take meWhere my foe can never be;Death, and Death alone, has powerTo conquer mine old enemy!
The tender delicate Flowers,I saw them fanned by a warm western wind,Fed by soft summer showers,Shielded by care, and yet, (oh Fate unkind!)Fade in a few short hours.
The gentle and the gay,Rich in a glorious Future of bright deeds,Rejoicing in the day,Are met by Death, who sternly, sadly leadsThem far away.
And Hopes, perfumed and bright,So lately shining, wet with dew and tears,Trembling in morning light;I saw them change to dark and anxious fearsBefore the night!
I wept that all must die—“Yet Love,” I cried, “doth live, and conquer death—”And Time passed by,And breathed on Love, and killed it with his breathEre Death was nigh.
More bitter far than allIt was to know that Love could change and die—Hush! for the ages call“The Love of God lives through eternity,And conquers all!”
Without one bitter feeling let us part—And for the years in which your love has shedA radiance like a glory round my head,I thank you, yes, I thank you from my heart.
I thank you for the cherished hope of years,A starry future, dim and yet divine,Winging its way from Heaven to be mine,Laden with joy, and ignorant of tears.
I thank you, yes, I thank you even moreThat my heart learnt not without love to live,But gave and gave, and still had more to give,From an abundant and exhaustless store.
I thank you, and no grief is in these tears;I thank you, not in bitterness but truth,For the fair vision that adorned my youthAnd glorified so many happy years.
Yet how much more I thank you that you toreAt length the veil your hand had woven away,Which hid my idol was a thing of clay,And false the altar I had knelt before.
I thank you that you taught me the stern truth,(None other could have told and I believed,)That vain had been my life, and I deceived,And wasted all the purpose of my youth.
I thank you that your hand dashed down the shrine,Wherein my idol worship I had paid;Else had I never known a soul was madeTo serve and worship only the Divine.
I thank you that the heart I cast awayOn such as you, though broken, bruised and crushed,Now that its fiery throbbing is all hushed,Upon a worthier altar I can lay.
I thank you for the lesson that such loveIs a perverting of God’s royal right,That it is made but for the Infinite,And all too great to live except above.
I thank you for a terrible awaking,And if reproach seemed hidden in my pain,And sorrow seemed to cry on your disdain,Know that my blessing lay in your forsaking.
Farewell for ever now:- in peace we part;And should an idle vision of my tearsArise before your soul in after years—Remember that I thank you from my heart!
Dim shadows gather thickly round, and up the misty stair they climb,The cloudy stair that upward leads to where the closèd portals shine,Round which the kneeling spirits wait the opening of the Golden Gate.
And some with eager longing go, still pressing forward, hand in hand,And some with weary step and slow, look back where their Belovèd stand—Yet up the misty stair they climb, led onward by the Angel Time.
As unseen hands roll back the doors, the light that floods the very airIs but the shadow from within, of the great glory hidden there—And morn and eve, and soon and late, the shadows pass within the gate.
As one by one they enter in, and the stern portals close once more,The halo seems to linger round those kneeling closest to the door:The joy that lightened from that place shines still upon the watcher’s face.
The faint low echo that we hear of far-off music seems to fillThe silent air with love and fear, and the world’s clamours all grow still,Until the portals close again, and leave us toiling on in pain.
Complain not that the way is long—what road is weary that leads there?But let the Angel take thy hand, and lead thee up the misty stair,And then with beating heart await, the opening of the Golden Gate.
Back, ye Phantoms of the Past;In your dreary caves remain:What have I to do with memoriesOf a long-forgotten pain?
For my Present is all peaceful,And my Future nobly planned:Long ago Time’s mighty billowsSwept your footsteps from the sand.
Back into your caves; nor haunt meWith your voices full of woe;I have buried grief and sorrowIn the depths of Long-ago.
See the glorious clouds of morningRoll away, and clear and brightShine the rays of cloudless daylight—Wherefore will ye moan of night?
Never shall my heart be burthenedWith its ancient woe and fears;I can drive them from my presence,I can check these foolish tears.
Back, ye Phantoms; leave, oh leave meTo a new and happy lot;Speak no more of things departed;Leave me—for I know ye not.
Can it be that ’mid my gladnessI must ever hear you wail,Of the grief that wrung my spirit,And that made my cheek so pale?
Joy is mine; but your sad voicesMurmur ever in mine ear:Vain is all the Future’s promise,While the dreary Past is here.
Vain, oh worse than vain, the VisionsThat my heart, my life would fill,If the Past’s relentless phantomsCall upon me still!
My God, I thank Thee who hast madeThe Earth so bright;So full of splendour and of joy,Beauty and light;So many glorious things are here,Noble and right!
I thank Thee, too, that Thou hast madeJoy to abound;So many gentle thoughts and deedsCircling us round,That in the darkest spot of EarthSome love is found.
I thank Theemorethat all our joyIs touched with pain;That shadows fall on brightest hours;That thorns remain;So that Earth’s bliss may be our guide,And not our chain.
For Thou who knowest, Lord, how soonOur weak heart clings,Hast given us joys, tender and true,Yet all with wings,So that we see, gleaming on high,Diviner things!
I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou hast keptThe best in store;We have enough, yet not too muchTo long for more:A yearning for a deeper peace,Not known before.
I thank Thee, Lord, that here our souls,Though amply blest,Can never find, although they seek,A perfect rest—Nor ever shall, until they leanOn Jesus’ breast!
Where I am, the halls are gilded,Stored with pictures bright and rare;Strains of deep melodious musicFloat upon the perfumed air:-Nothing stirs the dreary silenceSave the melancholy sea,Near the poor and humble cottage,Where I fain would be!
Where I am, the sun is shining,And the purple windows glow,Till their rich armorial shadowsStain the marble floor below:-Faded Autumn leaves are trembling,On the withered jasmine tree,Creeping round the little casement,Where I fain would be!
Where I am, the days are passingO’er a pathway strewn with flowers;Song and joy and starry pleasuresCrown the happy smiling hours:-Slowly, heavily, and sadly,Time with weary wings must flee,Marked by pain, and toil, and sorrow,Where I fain would be!
Where I am, the great and nobleTell me of renown and fame,And the red wine sparkles highest,To do honour to my name:-Far away a place is vacant,By a humble hearth, for me,Dying embers dimly show it,Where I fain would be!
Where I am, are glorious dreaminess,Science, genius, art divine;And the great minds whom all honourInterchange their thoughts with mine:-A few simple hearts are waiting,Longing, wearying, for me,Far away where tears are falling,Where I fain would be!
Where I am, all think me happy,For so well I play my part,None can guess, who smile around me,How far distant is my heart—Far away, in a poor cottage,Listening to the dreary sea,Where the treasures of my life are,Where I fain would be!
All the fluttering wishesCaged within thy heartBeat their wings against it,Longing to depart,Till they shake their prisonWith their wounded cry;Open wide thy heart to-day,And let the captives fly.
Let them first fly upwardThrough the starry air,Till you almost lose them,For their home is there;Then, with outspread pinions,Circling round and round,Wing their way, whereverWant and woe are found.
Where the weary stitcherToils for daily bread;Where the lonely watcherWatches by her dead;Where with thin weak fingers,Toiling at the loom,Stand the little children,Blighted ere they bloom.
Where, by darkness blinded,Groping for the light,With distorted conscienceMen do wrong for right;Where, in the cold shadow,By smooth pleasure thrown,Human hearts by hundredsHarden into stone.
Where on dusty highways,With faint heart and slow,Cursing the glad sunlight,Hungry outcasts go:Where all mirth is silenced,And the hearth is chill,For one place is empty,And one voice is still.
Some hearts will be lighterWhile your captives roamFor their tender singing,Then recal them home;When the sunny hoursInto night depart,Softly they will nestleIn a quiet heart.
We ask for Peace, oh Lord!Thy children ask Thy Peace;Not what the world calls rest,That toil and care should cease,That through bright sunny hoursCalm Life should fleet away,And tranquil night should fadeIn smiling day;—It is not for such Peace that we would pray.
We ask for Peace, oh Lord!Yet not to stand secure,Girt round with iron Pride,Contented to endure:Crushing the gentle stringsThat human hearts should know,Untouched by others’ joyOr others’ woe;—Thou, oh dear Lord, wilt never teach us so.
We ask Thy Peace, oh Lord!Through storm, and fear, and strife,To light and guide us on,Through a long struggling life:While no success or gainShall cheer the desperate fight,Or nerve, what the world calls,Our wasted might:-Yet pressing through the darkness to the light.
It is Thine own, oh Lord,Who toil while others sleep;Who sow with loving careWhat other hands shall reap:They lean on Thee entranced,In calm and perfect rest:Give us that Peace, oh Lord,Divine and blest,Thou keepest for those hearts who love Thee best.
I.
If the dread day that calls thee hence,Through a red mist of fear should loom,(Closing in deadliest night and gloomLong hours of aching dumb suspense,)And leave me to my lonely doom.
I think, belovèd, I could seeIn thy dear eyes the loving lightGlaze into vacancy and night,And still say, “God is good to me,And all that He decrees is right.”
That, watching thy slow struggling breath,And answering each imperfect sign,I still could pray thy prayer and mine,And tell thee, dear, though this was death,That God was love, and love divine.
Could hold thee in my arms, and layUpon my heart thy weary head,And meet thy last smile ere it fled;Then hear, as in a dream, one say,“Now all is over,—she is dead.”
Could smooth thy garments with fond care,And cross thy hands upon thy breast,And kiss thine eyelids down to rest,And yet say no word of despair,But, through my sobbing, “It is best.”
Could stifle down the gnawing pain,And say, “We still divide our life,She has the rest, and I the strife,And mine the loss, and hers the gain:My ill with bliss for her is rife.”
Then turn, and the old duties take—Alone now—yet with earnest willGathering sweet sacred traces stillTo help me on, and, for thy sake,My heart and life and soul to fill.
I think I could check vain weak tears,And toil,—although the world’s great spaceHeld nothing but one vacant place,And see the dark and weary yearsLit only by a vanished grace.
And sometimes, when the day was o’er,Call up the tender past again:Its painful joy, its happy pain,And live it over yet once more,And say, “But few more years remain.”
And then, when I had striven my best,And all around would smiling say,“See how Time makes all grief decay,”Would lie down thankfully to rest,And seek thee in eternal day.
II.
But if the day should ever rise—It could not and it cannot be—Yet, if the sun should ever see,Looking upon us from his skies,A day that took thy heart from me;
If loving thee still more and more,And still so willing to be blind,I should the bitter knowledge find,That Time had eaten out the coreOf love, and left the empty rind;
If the poor lifeless words, at last,(The soul gone, that was once so sweet,)Should cease my eager heart to cheat,And crumble back into the past,And show the whole a vain deceit;
If I should see thee turn away,And know that prayer, and time, and pain,Could no more thy lost love regain,Than bid the hours of dying dayGleam in their mid-day noon again;
If I should loose thy hand, and knowThat henceforth we must dwell apart,Since I had seen thy love depart,And only count the hours flowBy the dull throbbing of my heart;
If I should gaze and gaze in vainInto thine eyes so deep and clear,And read the truth of all my fearHalf mixed with pity for my pain,And sorrow for the vanished year;
If not to grieve thee overmuch,I strove to counterfeit disdain,And weave me a new life again,Which thy life could not mar, or touch,And so smile down my bitter pain;
The ghost of my dead Past would riseAnd mock me, and I could not dareLook to a future of despair,Or even to the eternal skies,For I should still be lonely there.
All Truth, all Honour, then would seemVain clouds, which the first wind blew by;All Trust, a folly doomed to die;All Life, a useless empty dream;All Love—since thine had failed—a lie.
But see, thy tender smile has castMy fear away: this thought of mineIs treason to my Love and thine;For Love is Life, and Death at lastCrowns it eternal and divine!
As strangers, you and I are here;We both as aliens stand,Where once, in years gone by, I dweltNo stranger in the land.Then while you gaze on park and stream,Let me remain apart,And listen to the awakened soundOf voices in my heart.
Here, where upon the velvet lawnThe cedar spreads its shade,And by the flower-beds all around,Bright roses bloom and fade;Shrill merry childish laughter rings,And baby voices sweet,And by me, on the path, I hearThe tread of little feet.
Down the dark avenue of limes,Whose perfume loads the air,Whose boughs are rustling overhead,(For the west wind is there,)I hear the sound of earnest talk,Warnings and counsels wise,And the quick questioning that broughtSuch gentle calm replies.
Still the light bridge hangs o’er the lake,Where broad-leaved lilies lie,And the cool water shows againThe cloud that moves on high;—And one voice speaks, in tones I thoughtThe past for ever kept;But now I know, deep in my heartIts echoes only slept.
I hear, within the shady porch,Once more, the measured soundOf the old ballads that were read,While we sat listening round;The starry passion-flower stillUp the green trellice climbs;The tendrils waving seem to keepThe cadence of the rhymes.
I might have striven, and striven in vain,Such visions to recall,Well known and yet forgotten; nowI see, I hear, them all!The Present pales before the Past,Who comes with angel wings;As in a dream I stand, amidstStrange yet familiar things!
Enough; so let us go, mine eyesAre blinded by their tears;A voice speaks to my soul to-dayOf long forgotten years.And yet the vision in my heart,In a few hours more,Will fade into the silent past,Silently as before.
Where the golden corn is bending,And the singing reapers pass,Where the chestnut woods are sendingLeafy showers upon the grass,
The blue river onward flowingMingles with its noisy strife,The murmur of the flowers growing,And the hum of insect life.
I, from that rich plain was gazingTowards the snowy mountains high,Who their gleaming peaks were raisingUp against the purple sky.
And the glory of their shining,Bathed in clouds of rosy light,Set my weary spirit piningFor a home so pure and bright!
So I left the plain, and weary,Fainting, yet with hope sustained,Toiled through pathways long and drearyTill the mountain top was gained.
Lo! the height that I had taken,As so shining from below,Was a desolate, forsakenRegion of perpetual snow.
I am faint, my feet are bleeding,All my feeble strength is worn,In the plain no soul is heeding,I am here alone, forlorn.
Lights are shining, bells are tolling,In the busy vale below;Near me night’s black clouds are rolling,Gathering o’er a waste of snow.
So I watch the river windingThrough the misty fading plain,Bitter are the tear-drops blinding,Bitter useless toil and pain—Bitterest of all the findingThat my dream was false and vain!
Gloomy and black are the cypress trees,Drearily waileth the chill night breeze.The long grass waveth, the tombs are white,And the black clouds flit o’er the chill moonlight.Silent is all save the dropping rain,When slowly there cometh a mourning train,The lone churchyard is dark and dim,And the mourners raise a funeral hymn:
“Open, dark grave, and take her;Though we have loved her so,Yet we must now forsake her,Love will no more awake her:(Oh, bitter woe!)Open thine arms and take herTo rest below!
“Vain is our mournful weeping,Her gentle life is o’er;Only the worm is creeping,Where she will soon be sleeping,For evermore—Nor joy nor love is keepingFor her in store!”
Gloomy and black are the cypress trees,And drearily wave in the chill night breeze.The dark clouds part and the heavens are blue,Where the trembling stars are shining through.Slowly across the gleaming sky,A crowd of white angels are passing by.Like a fleet of swans they float along,Or the silver notes of a dying song.Like a cloud of incense their pinions rise,Fading away up the purple skies.But hush! for the silent glory is stirred,By a strain such as earth has never heard:
“Open, oh Heaven! we bear her,This gentle maiden mild,Earth’s griefs we gladly spare her,From earthly joys we tear her,Still undefiled;And to thine arms we bear her,Thine own, thy child.
“Open, oh Heaven! no morrowWill see this joy o’ercast,No pain, no tears, no sorrow,Her gentle heart will borrow;Sad life is past;Shielded and safe from sorrow,At home at last.”
But the vision faded and all was still,On the purple valley and distant hill.No sound was there save the wailing breeze,The rain, and the rustling cypress trees.
What is it you ask me, darling?All my stories, child, you know;I have no strange dreams to tell you,Pictures I have none to show.
Tell you glorious scenes of travel?Nay, my child, that cannot be,I have seen no foreign countries,Marvels none on land or sea.
Yet strange sights in truth I witness,And I gaze until I tire,Wondrous pictures, changing ever,As I look into the fire.
There, last night, I saw a cavern,Black as pitch; within it layCoiled in many folds a dragon,Glaring as if turned at bay.
And a knight in dismal armourOn a wingèd eagle came,To do battle with this dragon;And his crest was all of flame.
As I gazed the dragon faded,And, instead, sate Pluto crowned,By a lake of burning fire;Spirits dark were crouching round.
That was gone, and lo! before me,A cathedral vast and grim;I could almost hear the organPeal alone the arches dim.
As I watched the wreathèd pillars,Groves of stately palms arose,And a group of swarthy IndiansStealing on some sleeping foes.
Stay; a cataract glancing brightly,Dashed and sparkled; and besideLay a broken marble monster,Mouth and eyes were staring wide.
Then I saw a maiden wreathingStarry flowers in garlands sweet;Did she see the fiery serpentThat was wrapped about her feet?
That fell crashing all and vanished;And I saw two armies close—I could almost hear the clarions,And the shouting of the foes.
They were gone; and lo! bright angels,On a barren mountain wild,Raised appealing arms to Heaven,Bearing up a little child.
And I gazed, and gazed, and slowlyGathered in my eyes sad tears,And the fiery pictures bore meBack through distant dreams of years.
Once again I tasted sorrow,With past joy was once more gay,Till the shade had gathered round me—And the fire had died away.