Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky,Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,For thou must die.Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,My music shows you have your closes,And all must die.Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like seasoned timber, never gives;But when the whole world turns to coal,Then chiefly lives.George Herbert.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky,Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,My music shows you have your closes,And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like seasoned timber, never gives;But when the whole world turns to coal,Then chiefly lives.
George Herbert.
Go, Soul, the body's guest,Upon a thankless errand;Fear not to touch the best;The truth shall be thy warrant:Go, since I needs must die,And give them all the lie.Go tell the Court it glowsAnd shines like rotten wood;Go tell the Church it showsWhat's good, but does no good:If Court and Church reply,Give Court and Church the lie.Tell Potentates they liveActing, but oh! their actions;Not loved, unless they give,Nor strong but by their factions:If Potentates reply,Give Potentates the lie.Tell men of high condition,That rule affairs of state,Their purpose is ambition;Their practice only hate:And if they do reply,Then give them all the lie.Tell those that brave it mostThey beg for more by spending,Who in their greatest costSeek nothing but commending:And if they make reply,Spare not to give the lie.Tell Zeal it lacks devotion;Tell Love it is but lust;Tell Time it is but motion;Tell Flesh it is but dust:And wish them not reply,For thou must give the lie.Tell Age it daily wasteth;Tell Honor how it alters;Tell Beauty that it blasteth;Tell Favor that she falters:And as they do reply,Give every one the lie.Tell Wit how much it wranglesIn fickle points of niceness;Tell Wisdom she entanglesHerself in over-wiseness:And if they do reply,Then give them both the lie.Tell Physic of her boldness;Tell Skill it is pretension;Tell Charity of coldness;Tell Law it is contention:And if they yield reply,Then give them all the lie.Tell Fortune of her blindness;Tell Nature of decay;Tell Friendship of unkindness;Tell Justice of delay:And if they do reply,Then give them still the lie.Tell Arts they have no soundness,But vary by esteeming;Tell Schools they lack profoundness,And stand too much on seeming:If Arts and Schools reply,Give Arts and Schools the lie.Tell Faith it's fled the city;Tell how the country erreth;Tell, Manhood shakes off pity;Tell, Virtue least preferreth:And if they do reply,Spare not to give the lie.So when thou hast, as ICommanded thee, done blabbing;Although to give the lieDeserves no less than stabbing:Yet stab at thee who will,No stab the Soul can kill!Sir Walter Raleigh.
Go, Soul, the body's guest,Upon a thankless errand;Fear not to touch the best;The truth shall be thy warrant:Go, since I needs must die,And give them all the lie.
Go tell the Court it glowsAnd shines like rotten wood;Go tell the Church it showsWhat's good, but does no good:If Court and Church reply,Give Court and Church the lie.
Tell Potentates they liveActing, but oh! their actions;Not loved, unless they give,Nor strong but by their factions:If Potentates reply,Give Potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition,That rule affairs of state,Their purpose is ambition;Their practice only hate:And if they do reply,Then give them all the lie.
Tell those that brave it mostThey beg for more by spending,Who in their greatest costSeek nothing but commending:And if they make reply,Spare not to give the lie.
Tell Zeal it lacks devotion;Tell Love it is but lust;Tell Time it is but motion;Tell Flesh it is but dust:And wish them not reply,For thou must give the lie.
Tell Age it daily wasteth;Tell Honor how it alters;Tell Beauty that it blasteth;Tell Favor that she falters:And as they do reply,Give every one the lie.
Tell Wit how much it wranglesIn fickle points of niceness;Tell Wisdom she entanglesHerself in over-wiseness:And if they do reply,Then give them both the lie.
Tell Physic of her boldness;Tell Skill it is pretension;Tell Charity of coldness;Tell Law it is contention:And if they yield reply,Then give them all the lie.
Tell Fortune of her blindness;Tell Nature of decay;Tell Friendship of unkindness;Tell Justice of delay:And if they do reply,Then give them still the lie.
Tell Arts they have no soundness,But vary by esteeming;Tell Schools they lack profoundness,And stand too much on seeming:If Arts and Schools reply,Give Arts and Schools the lie.
Tell Faith it's fled the city;Tell how the country erreth;Tell, Manhood shakes off pity;Tell, Virtue least preferreth:And if they do reply,Spare not to give the lie.
So when thou hast, as ICommanded thee, done blabbing;Although to give the lieDeserves no less than stabbing:Yet stab at thee who will,No stab the Soul can kill!
Sir Walter Raleigh.
The shadows lay along Broadway,'Twas near the twilight-tide,And slowly there a lady fairWas walking in her pride.Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,Walked spirits at her side.Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,And Honor charmed the air;And all astir looked kind on her,And called her good as fair,—For all God ever gave to herShe kept with chary care.She kept with care her beauties rareFrom lovers warm and true,For her heart was cold to all but gold,And the rich came not to woo,—But honored well are charms to sell,If priests the selling do.Now walking there was one more fair,—A slight girl, lily-pale;And she had unseen companyTo make the spirit quail,—'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,And nothing could avail.No mercy now can clear her browFor this world's peace to pray;For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,Her woman's heart gave way!—But the sin forgiven by Christ in heavenBy man is cursed alway!Nathaniel Parker Willis.
The shadows lay along Broadway,'Twas near the twilight-tide,And slowly there a lady fairWas walking in her pride.Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,Walked spirits at her side.
Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,And Honor charmed the air;And all astir looked kind on her,And called her good as fair,—For all God ever gave to herShe kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rareFrom lovers warm and true,For her heart was cold to all but gold,And the rich came not to woo,—But honored well are charms to sell,If priests the selling do.
Now walking there was one more fair,—A slight girl, lily-pale;And she had unseen companyTo make the spirit quail,—'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her browFor this world's peace to pray;For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,Her woman's heart gave way!—But the sin forgiven by Christ in heavenBy man is cursed alway!
Nathaniel Parker Willis.
Tread softly,—bow the head,—In reverent silence bow,—No passing-bell doth toll,Yet an immortal soulIs passing now.Stranger, however great,With lowly reverence bow;There's one in that poor shed—One by that paltry bed—Greater than thou.Beneath that beggar's roof,Lo! Death doth keep his state.Enter, no crowds attend;Enter, no guards defendThispalace gate.That pavement, damp and cold,No smiling courtiers tread;One silent woman stands,Lifting with meagre handsA dying head.No mingling voices sound,—An infant wail alone;A sob suppressed,—againThat short deep gasp, and then—The parting groan.O change! O wondrous change!Burst are the prison bars,—This momentthereso low,So agonized, and nowBeyond the stars.O change! stupendous change!There lies the soulless clod;The sun eternal breaks,The new immortal wakes,—Wakes with his God.Caroline Bowles Southey.
Tread softly,—bow the head,—In reverent silence bow,—No passing-bell doth toll,Yet an immortal soulIs passing now.
Stranger, however great,With lowly reverence bow;There's one in that poor shed—One by that paltry bed—Greater than thou.
Beneath that beggar's roof,Lo! Death doth keep his state.Enter, no crowds attend;Enter, no guards defendThispalace gate.
That pavement, damp and cold,No smiling courtiers tread;One silent woman stands,Lifting with meagre handsA dying head.
No mingling voices sound,—An infant wail alone;A sob suppressed,—againThat short deep gasp, and then—The parting groan.
O change! O wondrous change!Burst are the prison bars,—This momentthereso low,So agonized, and nowBeyond the stars.
O change! stupendous change!There lies the soulless clod;The sun eternal breaks,The new immortal wakes,—Wakes with his God.
Caroline Bowles Southey.
I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile!Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:I saw thee every day; and all the whileThy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.So pure the sky, so quiet was the air,So like, so very like was day to day,Whene'er I looked, thy image still was there;It trembled, but it never passed away.How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep,No mood which season takes away or brings:I could have fancied that the mighty deepWas even the gentlest of all gentle things.Ah! then if mine had been the painter's handTo express what then I saw, and add the gleam,The light that never was on sea or land,The consecration and the poet's dream,—I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,Amid a world how different from this!Beside a sea that could not cease to smile,On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.A picture had it been of lasting ease,Elysian quiet without toil or strife;No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,Such picture would I at that time have made,And seen the soul of truth in every part,A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed.So once it would have been,—'tis so no more.I have submitted to a new control;A power has gone which nothing can restore,A deep distress hath humanized my soul.Not for a moment could I now beholdA smiling sea, and be what I have been;The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.Then, Beaumont, friend, who would have been the friend,If he had lived, of him whom I deplore,This work of thine I blame not, but commend,This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.O, 'tis a passionate work! yet wise and well,Well chosen is the spirit that is here;That hulk which labors in the deadly swell,This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear.And this huge castle, standing here sublime,I love to see the look with which it braves,Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time,The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.Farewell, farewell, the heart that lives alone,Housed in a dream at distance from the kind!Such happiness, wherever it be known,Is to be pitied, for 'tis surely blind.But welcome, fortitude and patient cheer,And frequent sights of what is to be borne,Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.William Wordsworth.
I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile!Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:I saw thee every day; and all the whileThy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
So pure the sky, so quiet was the air,So like, so very like was day to day,Whene'er I looked, thy image still was there;It trembled, but it never passed away.
How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep,No mood which season takes away or brings:I could have fancied that the mighty deepWas even the gentlest of all gentle things.
Ah! then if mine had been the painter's handTo express what then I saw, and add the gleam,The light that never was on sea or land,The consecration and the poet's dream,—
I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,Amid a world how different from this!Beside a sea that could not cease to smile,On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
A picture had it been of lasting ease,Elysian quiet without toil or strife;No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,Such picture would I at that time have made,And seen the soul of truth in every part,A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed.
So once it would have been,—'tis so no more.I have submitted to a new control;A power has gone which nothing can restore,A deep distress hath humanized my soul.
Not for a moment could I now beholdA smiling sea, and be what I have been;The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
Then, Beaumont, friend, who would have been the friend,If he had lived, of him whom I deplore,This work of thine I blame not, but commend,This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
O, 'tis a passionate work! yet wise and well,Well chosen is the spirit that is here;That hulk which labors in the deadly swell,This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear.
And this huge castle, standing here sublime,I love to see the look with which it braves,Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time,The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
Farewell, farewell, the heart that lives alone,Housed in a dream at distance from the kind!Such happiness, wherever it be known,Is to be pitied, for 'tis surely blind.
But welcome, fortitude and patient cheer,And frequent sights of what is to be borne,Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
William Wordsworth.
What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main!—Pale glistening pearls and rainbow-colored shells,Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain!—Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!We ask not such from thee.Yet more, the depths have more!—what wealth untold,Far down and shining through their stillness lies!Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,Won from ten thousand royal argosies!—Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!Earth claims not these again.Yet more, the depths have more!—thy waves have rolledAbove the cities of a world gone by!Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.—Dash o'er them, Ocean, in thy scornful play!Man yields them to decay.Yet more, the billows and the depths have more!High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!They hear not now the booming waters roar,The battle-thunders will not break their rest.—Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!Give back the true and brave!Give back the lost and lovely!—those for whomThe place was kept at board and hearth so long,The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,And the vain yearning woke midst festal song!Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,—But all is not thine own.To thee the love of woman hath gone down,Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown;Yet must thou hear a voice,—Restore the dead!Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!—Restore the dead, thou sea!Felicia Hemans.
What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main!—Pale glistening pearls and rainbow-colored shells,Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain!—Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!We ask not such from thee.
Yet more, the depths have more!—what wealth untold,Far down and shining through their stillness lies!Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,Won from ten thousand royal argosies!—Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!Earth claims not these again.
Yet more, the depths have more!—thy waves have rolledAbove the cities of a world gone by!Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.—Dash o'er them, Ocean, in thy scornful play!Man yields them to decay.
Yet more, the billows and the depths have more!High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!They hear not now the booming waters roar,The battle-thunders will not break their rest.—Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!Give back the true and brave!
Give back the lost and lovely!—those for whomThe place was kept at board and hearth so long,The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,And the vain yearning woke midst festal song!Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,—But all is not thine own.
To thee the love of woman hath gone down,Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown;Yet must thou hear a voice,—Restore the dead!Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!—Restore the dead, thou sea!
Felicia Hemans.
A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;Long had I watched the glory moving on,O'er the still radiance of the lake below:Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow,E'en in its very motion there was rest,While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west.Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,And by the breath of mercy made to rollRight onward to the golden gates of heaven,While to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,And tells to man his glorious destinies.John Wilson.
A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;Long had I watched the glory moving on,O'er the still radiance of the lake below:Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow,E'en in its very motion there was rest,While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west.Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,And by the breath of mercy made to rollRight onward to the golden gates of heaven,While to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,And tells to man his glorious destinies.
John Wilson.
This is the ship of pearl which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purple wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cellWhere its dim-dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed.Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil:Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year's dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathéd horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
This is the ship of pearl which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purple wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cellWhere its dim-dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed.
Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil:Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year's dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathéd horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Deep on the convent-roof the snowsAre sparkling to the moon:My breath to heaven like vapor goes:May my soul follow soon!The shadows of the convent-towersSlant down the snowy sward,Still creeping with the creeping hoursThat lead me to my Lord:Make Thou my spirit pure and clearAs are the frosty skies,Or this first snowdrop of the yearThat in my bosom lies.As these white robes are soiled and dark,To yonder shining ground;As this pale taper's earthly spark,To yonder argent round;So shows my soul before the Lamb,My spirit before Thee;So in mine earthly house I am,To that I hope to be.Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,Through all yon starlight keen,Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,In raiment white and clean.He lifts me to the golden doors;The flashes come and go;All heaven bursts her starry floors,And strews her lights below,And deepens on and up! the gatesRoll back, and far withinFor me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,To make me pure of sin.The sabbaths of Eternity,One sabbath deep and wide,—A light upon the shining sea,—The Bridegroom with his bride!Alfred Tennyson.
Deep on the convent-roof the snowsAre sparkling to the moon:My breath to heaven like vapor goes:May my soul follow soon!The shadows of the convent-towersSlant down the snowy sward,Still creeping with the creeping hoursThat lead me to my Lord:Make Thou my spirit pure and clearAs are the frosty skies,Or this first snowdrop of the yearThat in my bosom lies.
As these white robes are soiled and dark,To yonder shining ground;As this pale taper's earthly spark,To yonder argent round;So shows my soul before the Lamb,My spirit before Thee;So in mine earthly house I am,To that I hope to be.Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,Through all yon starlight keen,Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,In raiment white and clean.
He lifts me to the golden doors;The flashes come and go;All heaven bursts her starry floors,And strews her lights below,And deepens on and up! the gatesRoll back, and far withinFor me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,To make me pure of sin.The sabbaths of Eternity,One sabbath deep and wide,—A light upon the shining sea,—The Bridegroom with his bride!
Alfred Tennyson.
It was the calm and silent night!Seven hundred years and fifty-threeHad Rome been growing up to might,And now was queen of land and sea.No sound was heard of clashing wars,—Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain:Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and MarsHeld undisturbed their ancient reign,In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago.'Twas in the calm and silent night!The senator of haughty Rome,Impatient, urged his chariot's flight,From lordly revel rolling home;Triumphal arches, gleaming, swellHis breast with thoughts of boundless sway;What recked the Roman what befellA paltry province far away,In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago?Within that province far awayWent plodding home a weary boor;A streak of light before him lay,Fallen through a half-shut stable-doorAcross his path. He passed,—for naughtTold what was going on within;How keen the stars, his only thought,—The air how calm, and cold, and thin,In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago!O, strange indifference! low and highDrowsed over common joys and cares;The earth was still,—but knew not why;The world was listening, unawares.How calm a moment may precedeOne that shall thrill the world forever!To that still moment, none would heed,Man's doom was linked no more to sever,—In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago!It is the calm and solemn night!A thousand bells ring out, and throwTheir joyous peals abroad, and smiteThe darkness,—charmed and holy now!The night that erst no name had worn,To it a happy name is given;For in that stable lay, new-born,The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven,In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago!Alfred Domett.
It was the calm and silent night!Seven hundred years and fifty-threeHad Rome been growing up to might,And now was queen of land and sea.No sound was heard of clashing wars,—Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain:Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and MarsHeld undisturbed their ancient reign,In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago.
'Twas in the calm and silent night!The senator of haughty Rome,Impatient, urged his chariot's flight,From lordly revel rolling home;Triumphal arches, gleaming, swellHis breast with thoughts of boundless sway;What recked the Roman what befellA paltry province far away,In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago?
Within that province far awayWent plodding home a weary boor;A streak of light before him lay,Fallen through a half-shut stable-doorAcross his path. He passed,—for naughtTold what was going on within;How keen the stars, his only thought,—The air how calm, and cold, and thin,In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago!
O, strange indifference! low and highDrowsed over common joys and cares;The earth was still,—but knew not why;The world was listening, unawares.How calm a moment may precedeOne that shall thrill the world forever!To that still moment, none would heed,Man's doom was linked no more to sever,—In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago!
It is the calm and solemn night!A thousand bells ring out, and throwTheir joyous peals abroad, and smiteThe darkness,—charmed and holy now!The night that erst no name had worn,To it a happy name is given;For in that stable lay, new-born,The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven,In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago!
Alfred Domett.
This sweet child which hath climbed upon my knee,This amber-haired, four-summered little maid,With her unconscious beauty troubleth me,With her low prattle maketh me afraid.Ah, darling! when you cling and nestle soYou hurt me, though you do not see me cry,Nor hear the weariness with which I sigh,For the dear babe I killed so long ago.I tremble at the touch of your caress;I am not worthy of your innocent faith;I who with whetted knives of worldlinessDid put my own child-heartedness to death,Beside whose grave I pace forevermore,Like desolation on a shipwrecked shore.There is no little child within me now,To sing back to the thrushes, to leap upWhen June winds kiss me, when an apple boughLaughs into blossoms, or a buttercupPlays with the sunshine, or a violetDances in the glad dew. Alas! alas!The meaning of the daisies in the grassI have forgotten; and if my cheeks are wetIt is not with the blitheness of the child,But with the bitter sorrow of sad years.O moaning life, with life irreconciled;O backward-looking thought, O pain, O tears,For us there is not any silver soundOf rhythmic wonders springing from the ground.Woe worth the knowledge and the bookish loreWhich makes men mummies, weighs out every grainOf that which was miraculous before,And sneers the heart down with the scoffing brain.Woe worth the peering, analytic daysThat dry the tender juices in the breast,And put the thunders of the Lord to test,So that no marvel must be, and no praise,Nor any God except Necessity.What can ye give my poor, starved life in lieuOf this dead cherub which I slew for ye?Take back your doubtful wisdom, and renewMy early foolish freshness of the dunce,Whose simple instincts guessed the heavens at once.Richard Realf.
This sweet child which hath climbed upon my knee,This amber-haired, four-summered little maid,With her unconscious beauty troubleth me,With her low prattle maketh me afraid.Ah, darling! when you cling and nestle soYou hurt me, though you do not see me cry,Nor hear the weariness with which I sigh,For the dear babe I killed so long ago.I tremble at the touch of your caress;I am not worthy of your innocent faith;I who with whetted knives of worldlinessDid put my own child-heartedness to death,Beside whose grave I pace forevermore,Like desolation on a shipwrecked shore.
There is no little child within me now,To sing back to the thrushes, to leap upWhen June winds kiss me, when an apple boughLaughs into blossoms, or a buttercupPlays with the sunshine, or a violetDances in the glad dew. Alas! alas!The meaning of the daisies in the grassI have forgotten; and if my cheeks are wetIt is not with the blitheness of the child,But with the bitter sorrow of sad years.O moaning life, with life irreconciled;O backward-looking thought, O pain, O tears,For us there is not any silver soundOf rhythmic wonders springing from the ground.
Woe worth the knowledge and the bookish loreWhich makes men mummies, weighs out every grainOf that which was miraculous before,And sneers the heart down with the scoffing brain.Woe worth the peering, analytic daysThat dry the tender juices in the breast,And put the thunders of the Lord to test,So that no marvel must be, and no praise,Nor any God except Necessity.What can ye give my poor, starved life in lieuOf this dead cherub which I slew for ye?Take back your doubtful wisdom, and renewMy early foolish freshness of the dunce,Whose simple instincts guessed the heavens at once.
Richard Realf.
Could we but knowThe land that ends our dark, uncertain travel,Where lie those happier hills and meadows low,—Ah, if beyond the spirit's inmost cavilAught of that country could we surely know,Who would not go?Might we but hearThe hovering angels' high imagined chorus,Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear,One radiant vista of the realm before us,—With one rapt moment given to see and hear,Ah, who would fear?Were we quite sureTo find the peerless friend who left us lonely,Or there, by some celestial stream as pure,To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only,—This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure,Who would endure?Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Could we but knowThe land that ends our dark, uncertain travel,Where lie those happier hills and meadows low,—Ah, if beyond the spirit's inmost cavilAught of that country could we surely know,Who would not go?
Might we but hearThe hovering angels' high imagined chorus,Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear,One radiant vista of the realm before us,—With one rapt moment given to see and hear,Ah, who would fear?
Were we quite sureTo find the peerless friend who left us lonely,Or there, by some celestial stream as pure,To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only,—This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure,Who would endure?
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
I mourn no more my vanished years;Beneath a tender rain,An April rain of smiles and tears,My heart is young again.The west-winds blow, and, singing low,I hear the glad streams run:The windows of my soul I throwWide open to the sun.No longer forward nor behindI look in hope and fear;But grateful take the good I find,The best of now and here.I plough no more a desert land,To harvest weed and tare;The manna dropping from God's handRebukes my painful care.I break my pilgrim-staff, I layAside the toiling oar;The angel sought so far awayI welcome at my door.The airs of spring may never playAmong the ripening corn,Nor freshness of the flowers of MayBlow through the autumn morn;Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian lookThrough fringéd lids to heaven;And the pale aster in the brookShall see its image given;The woods shall wear their robes of praise,The south-wind softly sigh,And sweet calm days in golden hazeMelt down the amber sky.Not less shall manly deed and wordRebuke an age of wrong:The graven flowers that wreathe the swordMake not the blade less strong.But smiting hands shall learn to heal,To build as to destroy;Nor less my heart for others feel,That I the more enjoy.All as God wills, who wisely heedsTo give or to withhold,And knoweth more of all my needsThan all my prayers have told!Enough that blessings undeservedHave marked my erring track;That wheresoe'er my feet have swervedHis chastening turned me back;That more and more a ProvidenceOf love is understood,Making the springs of time and sense,Sweet with eternal good;That death seems but a covered wayWhich opens into light,Wherein no blinded child can strayBeyond the Father's sight;That care and trial seem at last,Through Memory's sunset air,Like mountain ranges overpast,In purple distance fair;That all the jarring notes of lifeSeem blending in a psalm,And all the angles of its strifeSlow rounding into calm.And so the shadows fell apart,And so the west-winds play;And all the windows of my heartI open to the day.John Greenleaf Whittier.
I mourn no more my vanished years;Beneath a tender rain,An April rain of smiles and tears,My heart is young again.
The west-winds blow, and, singing low,I hear the glad streams run:The windows of my soul I throwWide open to the sun.
No longer forward nor behindI look in hope and fear;But grateful take the good I find,The best of now and here.
I plough no more a desert land,To harvest weed and tare;The manna dropping from God's handRebukes my painful care.
I break my pilgrim-staff, I layAside the toiling oar;The angel sought so far awayI welcome at my door.
The airs of spring may never playAmong the ripening corn,Nor freshness of the flowers of MayBlow through the autumn morn;
Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian lookThrough fringéd lids to heaven;And the pale aster in the brookShall see its image given;
The woods shall wear their robes of praise,The south-wind softly sigh,And sweet calm days in golden hazeMelt down the amber sky.
Not less shall manly deed and wordRebuke an age of wrong:The graven flowers that wreathe the swordMake not the blade less strong.
But smiting hands shall learn to heal,To build as to destroy;Nor less my heart for others feel,That I the more enjoy.
All as God wills, who wisely heedsTo give or to withhold,And knoweth more of all my needsThan all my prayers have told!
Enough that blessings undeservedHave marked my erring track;That wheresoe'er my feet have swervedHis chastening turned me back;
That more and more a ProvidenceOf love is understood,Making the springs of time and sense,Sweet with eternal good;
That death seems but a covered wayWhich opens into light,Wherein no blinded child can strayBeyond the Father's sight;
That care and trial seem at last,Through Memory's sunset air,Like mountain ranges overpast,In purple distance fair;
That all the jarring notes of lifeSeem blending in a psalm,And all the angles of its strifeSlow rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fell apart,And so the west-winds play;And all the windows of my heartI open to the day.
John Greenleaf Whittier.
I.With what clear guile of gracious love enticed,I follow forward, as from room to room,Through doors that open into light from gloom,To find, and lose, and find again the Christ!He stands and knocks, and bids me ope the door;Without he stands, and asks to enter in:Why should he seek a shelter sad with sin?Will he but knock and ask, and nothing more?He knows what ways I take to shut my heart,And if he will he can himself undoMy foolish fastenings, or by force break through,Nor wait till I fulfil my needless part.But nay, he will not choose to enter so,—He will not be my guest without consent,Nor, though I say "Come in," is he content;I must arise and ope, or he will go.He shall not go; I do arise and ope,—"Come in, dear Lord, come in and sup with me,O blesséd guest, and let me sup with thee,"—Where is the door? for in this dark I grope,And cannot find it soon enough; my hand,Shut hard, holds fast the one sure key I need,And trembles, shaken with its eager heed;No other key will answer my demand.The door between is some command undone;Obedience is the key that slides the bar,And lets him in, who stands so near, so far;The doors are many, but the key is one.Which door, dear Lord? knock, speak, that I may know;Hark, heart, he answers with his hand and voice,—O, still small sign, I tremble and rejoice,Nor longer doubt which way my feet must go.Full lief and soon this door would open too,If once my key might find the narrow slitWhich, being so narrow, is so hard to hit,—But lo! one little ray that glimmers through,Not spreading light, but lighting to the light,—Now steady, hand, for good speed's sake be slow,One straight right aim, a pulse of pressure, so,—How small, how great, the change from dark to bright!II.Now he is here, I seem no longer here!This place of light is not my chamber dim,It is not he with me, but I with him,And host, not guest, he breaks the bread of cheer.I was borne onward at his greeting,—heEarthward had come, but heavenward I had gone;Drawing him hither, I was thither drawn,Scarce welcoming him to hear him welcome me!I lie upon the bosom of my Lord,And feel his heart, and time my heart thereby;The tune so sweet, I have no need to try,But rest and trust, and beat the perfect chord.A little while I lie upon his heart,Feasting on love, and loving there to feast,And then, once more, the shadows are increasedAround me, and I feel my Lord depart.Again alone, but in a farther placeI sit with darkness, waiting for a sign;Again I hear the same sweet plea divine,And suit, outside, of hospitable grace.This is his guile,—he makes me act the hostTo shelter him, and lo! he shelters me;Asking for alms, he summons me to beA guest at banquets of the Holy Ghost.So, on and on, through many an opening doorThat gladly opens to the key I bring,From brightening court to court of Christ, my King,Hope-led, love-fed, I journey evermore.At last I trust these changing scenes will cease;There is a court, I hear, where he abides;No door beyond, that further glory hides.—My host at home, all change is changed to peace.William C. Wilkinson.
I.
With what clear guile of gracious love enticed,I follow forward, as from room to room,Through doors that open into light from gloom,To find, and lose, and find again the Christ!
He stands and knocks, and bids me ope the door;Without he stands, and asks to enter in:Why should he seek a shelter sad with sin?Will he but knock and ask, and nothing more?
He knows what ways I take to shut my heart,And if he will he can himself undoMy foolish fastenings, or by force break through,Nor wait till I fulfil my needless part.
But nay, he will not choose to enter so,—He will not be my guest without consent,Nor, though I say "Come in," is he content;I must arise and ope, or he will go.
He shall not go; I do arise and ope,—"Come in, dear Lord, come in and sup with me,O blesséd guest, and let me sup with thee,"—Where is the door? for in this dark I grope,
And cannot find it soon enough; my hand,Shut hard, holds fast the one sure key I need,And trembles, shaken with its eager heed;No other key will answer my demand.
The door between is some command undone;Obedience is the key that slides the bar,And lets him in, who stands so near, so far;The doors are many, but the key is one.
Which door, dear Lord? knock, speak, that I may know;Hark, heart, he answers with his hand and voice,—O, still small sign, I tremble and rejoice,Nor longer doubt which way my feet must go.
Full lief and soon this door would open too,If once my key might find the narrow slitWhich, being so narrow, is so hard to hit,—But lo! one little ray that glimmers through,
Not spreading light, but lighting to the light,—Now steady, hand, for good speed's sake be slow,One straight right aim, a pulse of pressure, so,—How small, how great, the change from dark to bright!
II.
Now he is here, I seem no longer here!This place of light is not my chamber dim,It is not he with me, but I with him,And host, not guest, he breaks the bread of cheer.
I was borne onward at his greeting,—heEarthward had come, but heavenward I had gone;Drawing him hither, I was thither drawn,Scarce welcoming him to hear him welcome me!
I lie upon the bosom of my Lord,And feel his heart, and time my heart thereby;The tune so sweet, I have no need to try,But rest and trust, and beat the perfect chord.
A little while I lie upon his heart,Feasting on love, and loving there to feast,And then, once more, the shadows are increasedAround me, and I feel my Lord depart.
Again alone, but in a farther placeI sit with darkness, waiting for a sign;Again I hear the same sweet plea divine,And suit, outside, of hospitable grace.
This is his guile,—he makes me act the hostTo shelter him, and lo! he shelters me;Asking for alms, he summons me to beA guest at banquets of the Holy Ghost.
So, on and on, through many an opening doorThat gladly opens to the key I bring,From brightening court to court of Christ, my King,Hope-led, love-fed, I journey evermore.
At last I trust these changing scenes will cease;There is a court, I hear, where he abides;No door beyond, that further glory hides.—My host at home, all change is changed to peace.
William C. Wilkinson.
O little feet! that such long yearsMust wander on through hopes and fears,Must ache and bleed beneath your load;I, nearer to the wayside Inn,Where toil shall cease and rest begin,Am weary, thinking of your road!O little hands! that weak or strongHave still to serve or rule so long,Have still so long to give or ask;I, who so much with book and penHave toiled among my fellow-men,Am weary, thinking of your task.O little hearts! that throb and beatWith such impatient feverish heat,Such limitless and strong desires;Mine that so long has glowed and burned,With passions into ashes turned,Now covers and conceals its fires.O little souls! as pure and whiteAnd crystalline as rays of lightDirect from heaven, their source divine;Refracted through the mist of years,How red my setting sun appears,How lurid looks this soul of mine!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
O little feet! that such long yearsMust wander on through hopes and fears,Must ache and bleed beneath your load;I, nearer to the wayside Inn,Where toil shall cease and rest begin,Am weary, thinking of your road!
O little hands! that weak or strongHave still to serve or rule so long,Have still so long to give or ask;I, who so much with book and penHave toiled among my fellow-men,Am weary, thinking of your task.
O little hearts! that throb and beatWith such impatient feverish heat,Such limitless and strong desires;Mine that so long has glowed and burned,With passions into ashes turned,Now covers and conceals its fires.
O little souls! as pure and whiteAnd crystalline as rays of lightDirect from heaven, their source divine;Refracted through the mist of years,How red my setting sun appears,How lurid looks this soul of mine!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin,At what age does love begin?Your blue eyes have scarcely seenSummers three, my fairy queen,But a miracle of sweets,Soft approaches, sly retreats,Show the little archer there,Hidden in your pretty hair;When didst learn a heart to win?Prithee tell me, Dimple Chin!"Oh!" the rosy lips reply,"I can't tell you if I try.'Tis so long I can't remember:Ask some younger lass than I."Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face,Do your heart and head keep pace?When does hoary Love expire,When do frosts put out the fire?Can its embers burn belowAll that chill December snow?Care you still soft hands to press,Bonny heads to smooth and bless?When does Love give up the chase?Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,"Youth may pass and strength may die;But of Love I can't foretoken:Ask some older sage than I!"Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin,At what age does love begin?Your blue eyes have scarcely seenSummers three, my fairy queen,But a miracle of sweets,Soft approaches, sly retreats,Show the little archer there,Hidden in your pretty hair;When didst learn a heart to win?Prithee tell me, Dimple Chin!"Oh!" the rosy lips reply,"I can't tell you if I try.'Tis so long I can't remember:Ask some younger lass than I."
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face,Do your heart and head keep pace?When does hoary Love expire,When do frosts put out the fire?Can its embers burn belowAll that chill December snow?Care you still soft hands to press,Bonny heads to smooth and bless?When does Love give up the chase?Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,"Youth may pass and strength may die;But of Love I can't foretoken:Ask some older sage than I!"
Edmund Clarence Stedman.