Ah! the terrible farewells!Woe are they! woe are they!When last words sink into moans,While life's trembling vesper bells —O my God! woe are we!Ring the awful undertones!Not a sun in any day!In the night-time not a ray,And the dying pass away!
Dark! so dark! above — below —O my God! woe are we!Cowereth every human life.Wild the wailing; to and fro!Woe are all! woe are we!Death is victor in the strife:In the hut and in the hallHe is writing on the wallDooms for many — fears for all.
Thro' the cities burns a breath,Woe are they! woe are we!Hot with dread and deadly wrath;Life and love lock arms in death,Woe are they! woe are all!Victims strew the spectre's path;Shy-eyed children softly creepWhere their mothers wail and weep —In the grave their fathers sleep.
Mothers waft their prayers on high,O my God! woe are we!With their dead child on their breast.And the altars ask the sky —O my Christ! woe are we!"Give the dead, O Father, rest!Spare thy people! mercy! spare!"Answer will not come to prayer —Horror moveth everywhere.
And the temples miss the priest —O my God! woe are we!And the cradle mourns the child.Husband at your bridal feast —Woe are you! woe are you!Think how those poor dead eyes smiled;They will never smile again —Every tie is cut in twain,All the strength of love is vain.
Weep? but tears are weak as foam —Woe are ye! woe are we!They but break upon the shoreWinding between here and home —Woe are ye! woe are we!Wailing never! nevermore!Ah! the dead! they are so lone,Just a grave, and just a stone,And the memory of a moan.
Pray! yes, pray! for God is sweet —O my God! woe are we!Tears will trickle into prayersWhen we kneel down at His feet —Woe are we! woe are we!With our crosses and our cares.He will calm the tortured breast,He will give the troubled rest —And the dead He watcheth best.
When? (Death)
Some day in Spring,When earth is fair and glad,And sweet birds sing,And fewest hearts are sad —Shall I die then?Ah! me, no matter when;I know it will be sweetTo leave the homes of menAnd rest beneath the sod,To kneel and kiss Thy feetIn Thy home, O my God!
Some Summer mornOf splendors and of songs,When roses hide the thornAnd smile — the spirit's wrongs —Shall I die then?Ah! me, no matter when;I know I will rejoiceTo leave the haunts of menAnd lie beneath the sod,To hear Thy tender voiceIn Thy home, O my God!
Some Autumn eve,When chill clouds drape the sky,When bright things grieveBecause all fair things die —Shall I die then?Ah! me, no matter when,I know I shall be glad,Away from the homes of men,Adown beneath the sod,My heart will not be sadIn Thy home, O my God!
Some Wintry day,When all skies wear a gloom,And beauteous MaySleeps in December's tomb,Shall I die then?Ah! me, no matter when;My soul shall throb with joyTo leave the haunts of menAnd sleep beneath the sod.Ah! there is no alloyIn Thy joys, O my God!
Haste, death! be fleet;I know it will be sweetTo rest beneath the sod,To kneel and kiss Thy feetIn heaven, O my God!
The Conquered Banner
Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary;Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary;Furl it, fold it, it is best;For there's not a man to wave it,And there's not a sword to save it,And there's not one left to lave itIn the blood which heroes gave it;And its foes now scorn and brave it;Furl it, hide it — let it rest!
Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered;Broken is its staff and shattered;And the valiant hosts are scatteredOver whom it floated high.Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it;Hard to think there's none to hold it;Hard that those who once unrolled itNow must furl it with a sigh.
Furl that Banner! furl it sadly!Once ten thousands hailed it gladly,And ten thousands wildly, madly,Swore it should forever wave;Swore that foeman's sword should neverHearts like theirs entwined dissever,Till that flag should float foreverO'er their freedom or their grave!
Furl it! for the hands that grasped it,And the hearts that fondly clasped it,Cold and dead are lying low;And that Banner — it is trailing!While around it sounds the wailingOf its people in their woe.
For, though conquered, they adore it!Love the cold, dead hands that bore it!Weep for those who fell before it!Pardon those who trailed and tore it!But, oh! wildly they deplore it,Now who furl and fold it so.
Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory,Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,And 'twill live in song and story,Though its folds are in the dust:For its fame on brightest pages,Penned by poets and by sages,Shall go sounding down the ages —Furl its folds though now we must.
Furl that Banner, softly, slowly!Treat it gently — it is holy —For it droops above the dead.Touch it not — unfold it never,Let it droop there, furled forever,For its people's hopes are dead!
A Christmas Chant
They ask me to sing them a Christmas songThat with musical mirth shall ring;How know I that the world's great throngWill care for the words I sing?
Let the young and the gay chant the Christmas lay,Their voices and hearts are glad;But I — I am old, and my locks are gray,And they tell me my voice is sad.
Ah! once I could sing, when my heart beat warmWith hopes, bright as life's first spring;But the spring hath fled, and the golden charmHath gone from the songs I sing.
I have lost the spell that my verse could weaveO'er the souls of the old and young,And never again — how it makes me grieve —Shall I sing as once I sung.
Why ask a song? ah! perchance you believe,Since my days are so nearly past,That the song you'll hear on this Christmas eveIs the old man's best and last.
Do you want the jingle of rhythm and rhyme?Art's sweet but meaningless notes?Or the music of thought, that, like the chimeOf a grand cathedral, floats
Out of each word, and along each line,Into the spirit's ear,Lifting it up and making it pineFor a something far from here;
Bearing the wings of the soul aloftFrom earth and its shadows dim;Soothing the breast with a sound as softAs a dream, or a seraph's hymn;
Evoking the solemnest hopes and fearsFrom our being's higher part;Dimming the eyes with radiant tearsThat flow from a spell bound heart?
Do they want a song that is only a song,With no mystical meanings rife?Or a music that solemnly moves along —The undertone of a life!
Well, then, I'll sing, though I know no art,Nor the poet's rhymes nor rules —A melody moves through my aged heartNot learned from the books or schools:
A music I learned in the days long gone —I cannot tell where or how —But no matter where, it still sounds onBack of this wrinkled brow.
And down in my heart I hear it still,Like the echoes of far-off bells;Like the dreamy sound of a summer rillFlowing through fairy dells.
But what shall I sing for the world's gay throng,And what the words of the old man's song?
The world they tell me, is so giddy grownThat thought is rare;And thoughtless minds and shallow hearts aloneHold empire there;
That fools have prestige, place and power and fame;Can it be trueThat wisdom is a scorn, a hissing shame,And wise are few?
They tell me, too, that all is venal, vain,With high and low;That truth and honor are the slaves of gain;Can it be so?
That lofty principle hath long been deadAnd in a shroud;That virtue walks ashamed, with downcast head,Amid the crowd.
They tell me, too, that few they are who ownGod's law and love;That thousands, living for this earth alone,Look not above;
That daily, hourly, from the bad to worse,Men tread the path,Blaspheming God, and careless of the curseOf his dead wrath.
And must I sing for slaves of sordid gain,Or to the fewShall I not dedicate this Christmas strainWho still are true?
No; not for the false shall I strike the stringsOf the lyre that was mute so long;If I sing at all, the gray bard singsFor the few and the true his song.
And ah! there is many a changeful moodThat over my spirit steals;Beneath their spell, and in verses rude,Whatever he dreams or feels.
Whatever the fancies this Christmas eveAre haunting the lonely man,Whether they gladden, or whether they grieve,He'll sing them as best he can.
Though some of the strings of his lyre are brokeThis holiest night of the year,Who knows how its melody may wakeA Christmas smile or a tear?
So on with the mystic song,With its meaning manifold —Two tones in every word,Two thoughts in every tone;In the measured words that move alongOne meaning shall be heard,One thought to all be told;But under it all, to be alone —And under it all, to all unknown —As safe as under a coffin-lid,Deep meanings shall be hid.Find them out who can!The thoughts concealed and unrevealedIn the song of the lonely man.
* * * * *
I'm sitting alone in my silent roomThis long December night,Watching the fire-flame fill the gloomWith many a picture bright.Ah! how the fire can paint!Its magic skill, how strange!How every sparkOn the canvas darkDraws figures and forms so quaint!And how the pictures change!One moment how they smile!And in less than a little while,In the twinkling of an eye,Like the gleam of a summer sky,The beaming smiles all die.
From gay to grave — from grave to gay —The faces change in the shadows gray;And just as I wonder who they are,Over them all,Like a funeral pall,The folds of the shadows droop and fall,And the charm is gone,And every oneOf the pictures fade away.
Ah! the fire within my grateHath more than Raphael's power,Is more than Raphael's peer;It paints for me in a little hourMore than he in a year;And the pictures hanging 'round me hereThis holy Christmas eveNo artist's pencil could create —No painter's art conceive;
Ah! those cheerful faces,Wearing youthful graces!I gaze on them until I seemHalf awake and half in dream.There are brows without a mark,Features bright without a shade;There are eyes without a tear;There are lips unused to sigh.Ah! never mind — you soon shall die!All those faces soon shall fade,Fade into the dreary darkLike their pictures hanging here.— Lo! those tearful faces,Bearing age's traces!
I gaze on them, and they on me,Until I feel a sorrow stealThrough my heart so drearily;There are faces furrowed deep;There are eyes that used to weep;There are brows beneath a cloud;There are hearts that want to sleep;Never mind! the shadows creepFrom the death-land; and a shroud,Tenderly as mother's arm,Soon shall shield the old from harm,Soon shall wrap its robe of restRound each sorrow-haunted breastAh! that face of mother's,Sister's, too, and brother's —And so many others,Dear is every name —And Ethel! Thou art there,With thy child-face sweet and fair,And thy heart so brightIn its shroud so white;Just as I saw you lastIn the golden, happy past;And you seem to wearUpon your hair —Your waving, golden hair —The smile of the setting sun.Ah! me, how years will run!But all the years cannot effaceYour purest name, your sweetest grace,From the heart that still is trueOf all the world to you;The other faces shine,But none so fair as thine;And wherever they are to-night, I knowThey look the very sameAs in their pictures hanging hereThis night, to memory dear,And painted by the flames,With tombstones in the background,And shadows for their frames.
And thus with my pictures only,And the fancies they unweave,Alone, and yet not lonely,I keep my Christmas eve.I'm sitting alone in my pictured room —But, no! they have vanished all —I'm watching the fire-glow fade into gloom,I'm watching the ashes fall.And far away back of the cheerful blazeThe beautiful visions of by-gone daysAre rising before my raptured gaze.Ah! Christmas fire, so bright and warm,Hast thou a wizard's magic charmTo bring those far-off scenes so nearAnd make my past days meet me here?
Tell me — tell me — how is it?The past is past, and here I sit,And there, lo! there before me rise,Beyond yon glowing flame,The summer suns of childhood's skies,Yes — yes — the very same!I saw them rise long, long ago;I played beneath their golden glow;And I remember yet,I often cried with strange regretWhen in the west I saw them setAnd there they are again;The suns, the skies, the very daysOf childhood, just beyond that blaze!But, ah! such visions almost crazeThe old man's puzzled brain!I thought the past was past!But, no! it cannot be;'Tis here to-night with me!
How is it, then? the past of menIs part of one eternity —The days of yore we so deplore,They are not dead — they are not fled,They live and live for evermore.And thus my past comes back to meWith all its visions fair.
O past! could I go back to thee,And live forever there!But, no! there's frost upon my hair;My feet have trod a path of care;And worn and wearied here I sitI am too tired to go to it.
And thus with visions only,And the fancies they unweave,Alone, and yet not lonely,I keep my Christmas eve.
I am sitting alone in my fire-lit room;But, no! the fire is dying,And the weary-voiced winds, in the outer gloom,Are sad, and I hear them sighing.The wind hath a voice to pine —Plaintive, and pensive and low;Hath it a heart like mine or thine?Knoweth it weal or woe?How it wails in a ghost-like strain,Just against that window pane!As if it were tired of its long, cold flight,And wanted to rest with me to-night.Cease! night-winds, cease!Why should you be sad?This is a night of joy and peace,And heaven and earth are glad!But still the wind's voice grieves!Perchance o'er the fallen leaves,Which, in their summer bloom,Danced to the music of bird and breeze,But, torn from the arms of their parent trees,Lie now in their wintry tomb —Mute types of man's own doom.
And thus with the night winds only,And the fancies they unweave,Alone, and yet not lonely,I keep my Christmas eve.
How long have I been dreaming here?Or have I dreamed at all?My fire is dead — my pictures fled —There's nothing left but shadows drear —Shadows on the wall:
Shifting, flitting,Round me sittingIn my old arm chair —Rising, sinkingRound me, thinking,Till, in the maze of many a dream,I'm not myself; and I almost seemLike one of the shadows there.Well, let the shadows stay!I wonder who are they?I cannot say; but I almost believeThey know to-night is Christmas eve,And to-morrow Christmas day.
Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eveTo change life's bitter gall to sweet,And change the sweet to gall again;To take the thorns from out our feet —The thorns and all their dreary pain,Only to put them back again.
To take old stings from out our heart —Old stings that made them bleed and smart —Only to sharpen them the more,And press them back to the heart's own core.
Ah! no eve is like the Christmas eve!Fears and hopes, and hopes and fears,Tears and smiles, and smiles and tears,Cheers and sighs, and sighs and cheers,Sweet and bitter, bitter, sweet,Bright and dark, and dark and bright.All these mingle, all these meet,In this great and solemn night.
Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eveTo melt, with kindly glowing heat,From off our souls the snow and sleet,The dreary drift of wintry years,Only to make the cold winds blow,Only to make a colder snow;And make it drift, and drift, and drift,In flakes so icy-cold and swift,Until the heart that lies belowIs cold and colder than the snow.
And thus with the shadows only,And the dreamings they unweave,Alone, and yet not lonely,I keep my Christmas eve.
'Tis passing fast!My fireless, lampless roomIs a mass of moveless gloom;And without — a darkness vast,Solemn — starless — still!Heaven and earth doth fill.
But list! there soundeth a bell,With a mystical ding, dong, dell!Is it, say, is it a funeral knell?Solemn and slow,Now loud — now low;Pealing the notes of human woeOver the graves lying under the snow!Ah! that pitiless ding, dong, dell!Trembling along the gale,Under the stars and over the snow.Why is it? whence is it sounding so?Is it a toll of a burial bell?
Or is it a spirit's wail?Solemnly, mournfully,Sad — and how lornfully!Ding, dong, dell!Whence is it? who can tell?And the marvelous notes they sink and swell,Sadder, and sadder, and sadder still!How the sounds tremble! how they thrill!Every toneSo like a moan;As if the strange bell's stranger clangThrobbed with a terrible human pang.
Ding, dong, dell!Dismally, drearily,Ever so wearily.Far off and faint as a requiem plaintFloats the deep-toned voice of the mystic bellPiercingly — thrillingly,Icily — chillingly,Near — and more near,Drearer — and more drear,Soundeth the wild, weird, ding, dong, dell!
Now sinking lower,It tolleth slower!I list, and I hear its sound no more.And now, methinks, I know that bell,Know it well — know its knell —For I often heard it sound before.
It is a bell — yet not a bellWhose sound may reach the ear!It tolls a knell — yet not a knellWhich earthly sense may hear.In every soul a bell of doleHangs ready to be tolled;And from that bell a funeral knellIs often outward rolled;And memory is the sexton grayWho tolls the dreary knell;And nights like this he loves to swayAnd swing his mystic bell.'Twas that I heard and nothing more,This lonely Christmas eve;Then, for the dead I'll meet no more,At Christmas let me grieve.
Night, be a priest! put your star-stole onAnd murmur a holy prayerOver each grave, and for every oneLying down lifeless there!
And over the dead stands the high priest, Night,Robed in his shadowy stole;And beside him I kneel as his acolyte,To respond to his prayer of dole.
And list! he beginsThat psalm for sins,The first of the mournful seven;Plaintive and softIt rises aloft,Begging the mercy of HeavenTo pity and forgive,For the sake of those who live,The dead who have died unshriven.Miserere! Miserere!Still your heart and hush your breath!The voices of despair and deathAre shuddering through the psalm!Miserere! Miserere!Lift your hearts! the terror dies!Up in yonder sinless skiesThe psalms sound sweet and calm!Miserere! Miserere!Very low, in tender tones,The music pleads, the music moans,"I forgive and have forgiven,The dead whose hearts were shriven."De profundis! De profundis!Psalm of the dead and disconsolate!Thou hast sounded through a thousand years,And pealed above ten thousand biers;And still, sad psalm, you mourn the fateOf sinners and of just,When their souls are going up to God,Their bodies down to dust.Dread hymn! you wring the saddest tearsFrom mortal eyes that fall,And your notes evoke the darkest fearsThat human hearts appall!You sound o'er the good, you sound o'er the bad,And ever your music is sad, so sad,We seem to hear murmured in every tone,For the saintly a blessing; for sinners a curse.Psalm, sad psalm! you must pray and grieveOver our dead on this Christmas eve.De profundis! De profundis!And the night chants the psalm o'er the mortal clay,And the spirits immortal from far away,To the music of hope sing this sweet-toned lay.
You think of the dead on Christmas eve,Wherever the dead are sleeping,And we from a land where we may not grieveLook tenderly down on your weeping.You think us far, we are very near,From you and the earth, though parted;We sing to-night to console and cheerThe hearts of the broken-hearted.The earth watches over the lifeless clayOf each of its countless sleepers,And the sleepless spirits that passed awayWatch over all earth's weepers.We shall meet again in a brighter land,Where farewell is never spoken;We shall clasp each other in hand,And the clasp shall not be broken;We shall meet again, in a bright, calm clime,Where we'll never know a sadness,And our lives shall be filled, like a Christmas chime,With rapture and with gladness.The snows shall pass from our graves away,And you from the earth, remember;And the flowers of a bright, eternal May,Shall follow earth's December.When you think of us think not of the tombWhere you laid us down in sorrow;But look aloft, and beyond earth's gloom,And wait for the great to-morrow.And the pontiff, Night, with his star-stole on,Whispereth soft and low:Requiescat! Requiescat!
Peace! Peace! to every oneFor whom we grieve this Christmas eve,In their graves beneath the snow.
The stars in the far-off heavenHave long since struck eleven!And hark! from temple and from tower,Soundeth time's grandest midnight hour,Blessed by the Saviour's birth,And night putteth off the sable stole,Symbol of sorrow and sign of dole,For one with many a starry gem,To honor the Babe of Bethlehem,Who comes to men the King of them,Yet comes without robe or diadem,And all turn towards the holy east,To hear the song of the Christmas feast.
Four thousand years earth waited,Four thousand years men prayed,Four thousand years the nations sighed,That their King so long delayed.
The prophets told His coming,The saintly for Him sighed,And the star of the Babe of BethlehemShone o'er them when they died.
Their faces towards the future,They longed to hail the lightThat in the after centuriesWould rise on Christmas night.
But still the Saviour tarried,Within His father's homeAnd the nations wept and wondered whyThe promised had not come.
At last earth's hope was granted,And God was a child of earth;And a thousand angels chantedThe lowly midnight birth.
Ah! Bethlehem was granderThat hour than Paradise;And the light of earth that night eclipsedThe splendors of the skies.
Then let us sing the anthemThe angels once did sing;Until the music of love and praise,O'er whole wide world will ring.
Gloria in excelsis!Sound the thrilling song;In excelsis Deo!Roll the hymn along.Gloria in excelsis!Let the heavens ring;In excelsis Deo!Welcome, new-born KingGloria in excelsis!Over the sea and land,In excelsis Deo!Chant the anthem grand.Gloria in excelsis!Let us all rejoice;In excelsis Deo!Lift each heart and voice.Gloria in excelsis!Swell the hymn on high;In excelsis Deo!Sound it to the sky.Gloria in excelsis!Sing it, sinful earth,In excelsis Deo!For the Saviour's birth.
Thus joyfully and victoriously,Glad and ever so gloriously,High as the heavens, wide as the earth,Swelleth the hymn of the Saviour's birth.
Lo! the day is wakingIn the east afar;Dawn is faintly breaking,Sunk in every star.
Christmas eve has vanishedWith its shadows gray;All its griefs are banishedBy bright Christmas day.
Joyful chimes are ringingO'er the land and seas,And there comes glad singing,Borne on every breeze.
Little ones so merryBed-clothes coyly lift,And, in such a hurry,Prattle "Christmas gift!"
Little heads so curly,Knowing Christmas laws,Peep out very earlyFor old "Santa Claus".
Little eyes are laughingO'er their Christmas toys,Older ones are quaffingCups of Christmas joys.
Hearts are joyous, cheerful,Faces all are gay;None are sad and tearfulOn bright Christmas day.
Hearts are light and bounding,All from care are free;Homes are all resoundingWith the sounds of glee.
Feet with feet are meeting,Bent on pleasure's way;Souls to souls give greetingWarm on Christmas day.
Gifts are kept a-goingFast from hand to hand;Blessings are a-flowingOver every land.
One vast wave of gladnessSweeps its world-wide way,Drowning every sadnessOn this Christmas day.
Merry, merry Christmas,Haste around the earth;Merry, merry Christmas,Scatter smiles and mirth.
Merry, merry Christmas,Be to one and all!Merry, merry Christmas,Enter hut and hall.
Merry, merry Christmas,Be to rich and poor!Merry, merry ChristmasStop at every door.
Merry, merry Christmas,Fill each heart with joy!Merry, merry ChristmasTo each girl and boy.
Merry, merry Christmas,Better gifts than gold;Merry, merry ChristmasTo the young and old.
Merry, merry Christmas,May the coming yearBring as merry a ChristmasAnd as bright a cheer.
"Far Away"
"Far Away!" what does it mean?A change of heart with a change of place?When footsteps pass from scene to scene,Fades soul from soul with face from face?Are hearts the slaves or lords of space?
"Far Away!" what does it mean?Does distance sever there from here?Can leagues of land part hearts? — I weenThey cannot; for the trickling tearSays "Far Away" means "Far More Near".
"Far Away!" — the mournful milesAre but the mystery of spaceThat blends our sighs, but parts our smiles,For love will find a meeting placeWhen face is farthest off from face.
"Far Away!" we meet in dreams,As 'round the altar of the nightFar-parted stars send down their gleamsTo meet in one embrace of lightAnd make the brow of darkness bright.
"Far Away!" we meet in tears,That tell the path of weary feet;And all the good-byes of the yearsBut make the wanderer's welcome sweet,The rains of parted clouds thus meet.
"Far Away!" we meet in prayer,You know the temple and the shrine;Before it bows the brow of care,Upon it tapers dimly shine;'Tis mercy's home, and yours and mine.
"Far Away!" it falls betweenWhat is to-day and what has been;But ah! what is meet, what is not,In every hour and every spot,Where lips breathe on "I have forgot."
"Far Away!" there is no far!Nor days nor distance e'er can barMy spirit from your spirits — nay,Farewell may waft a face away,But still with you my heart will stay.
"Far Away!" I sing its song,But while the music moves along,From out each word an echo clearFalls trembling on my spirit's ear,"Far Away" means "Far More Near".
Listen
We borrow,In our sorrow,From the sun of some to-morrowHalf the light that gilds to-day;And the splendorFlashes tenderO'er hope's footsteps to defend herFrom the fears that haunt the way.
We neverHere can severAny now from the foreverInterclasping near and far!For each minuteHolds within itAll the hours of the infinite,As one sky holds every star.
Wrecked
The winds are singing a death-knellOut on the main to-night;The sky droops low — and many a barkThat sailed from harbors bright,Like many an one before,Shall enter port no more:And a wreck shall drift to some unknown shoreBefore to-morrow's light.
The clouds are hanging a death-pallOver the sea to-night;The stars are veiled — and the hearts that sailedAway from harbors bright,Shall sob their last for their quiet home —And, sobbing, sink 'neath the whirling foamBefore the morning's light.
The waves are weaving a death-shroudOut on the main to-night;Alas! the last prayer whispered thereBy lips with terror white!Over the ridge of gloom,Not a star will loom!God help the souls that will meet their doomBefore the dawn of light!
* * * * *
The breeze is singing a joy songOver the sea to-day;The storm is dead and the waves are redWith the flush of the morning's ray;And the sleepers sleep, but beyond the deepThe eyes that watch for the ships shall weepFor the hearts they bore away.
Dreaming
The moan of a wintry soulMelted into a summer song,And the words, like the wavelet's roll,Moved murmuringly along.
And the song flowed far and away,Like the voice of a half-sleeping rill —Each wave of it lit by a ray —But the sound was so soft and so still,
And the tone was so gentle and low,None heard the song till it had passed;Till the echo that followed its flowCame dreamingly back from the past.
'Twas too late! — a song never returnsThat passes our pathway unheard;As dust lying dreaming in urnsIs the song lying dead in a word.
For the birds of the skies have a nest,And the winds have a home where they sleep,And songs, like our souls, need a rest,Where they murmur the while we may weep.
* * * * *
But songs — like the birds o'er the foam,Where the storm wind is beating their breast,Fly shoreward — and oft find a homeIn the shelter of words where they rest.
A Thought
Hearts that are great beat never loud,They muffle their music when they come;They hurry away from the thronging crowdWith bended brows and lips half dumb,
And the world looks on and mutters — "Proud."But when great hearts have passed awayMen gather in awe and kiss their shroud,And in love they kneel around their clay.
Hearts that are great are always lone,They never will manifest their best;Their greatest greatness is unknown —Earth knows a little — God, the rest.
"Yesterdays"
Gone! and they return no more,But they leave a light in the heart;The murmur of waves that kiss a shoreWill never, I know, depart.
Gone! yet with us still they stay,And their memories throb through life;The music that hushes or stirs to-day,Is toned by their calm or strife.
Gone! and yet they never go!We kneel at the shrine of time:'Tis a mystery no man may know,Nor tell in a poet's rhyme.
"To-Days"
Brief while they last,Long when they are gone;They catch from the pastA light to still live on.
Brief! yet I weenA day may be an age,The poet's pen may screenHeart-stories on one page.
Brief! but in them,From eve back to morn,Some find the gem,Many find the thorn.
Brief! minutes passSoft as flakes of snow,Shadows o'er the grassCould not swifter go.
Brief! but alongAll the after-yearsTo-day will be a songOf smiles or of tears.
"To-Morrows"
God knows all things — but weIn darkness walk our ways;We wonder what will be,We ask the nights and days.
Their lips are sealed; at timesThe bards, like prophets, see,And rays rush o'er their rhymesFrom suns of "days to be".
They see To-morrow's heart,They read To-morrow's face,They grasp — is it by art —The far To-morrow's trace?
They see what is unseen,And hear what is unheard,And To-morrow's shade or sheenRests on the poet's word.
As seers see a starBeyond the brow of night,So poets scan the farProphetic when they write.
They read a human face,As readers read their page,The while their thought will traceA life from youth to age.
They have a mournful gift,Their verses oft are tears;And sleepless eyes they liftTo look adown the years.
To-morrows are to-days!Is it not more than art?When all life's winding waysMeet in the poet's heart?
The present meets the past,The future, too, is there;The first enclasps the lastAnd never folds fore'er.
It is not all a dream;A poet's thought is truth;The things that are — and seemFrom age far back to youth —
He holds the tangled threads,His hands unravel them;He knows the hearts and headsFor thorns, or diadem.
Ask him, and he will seeWhat your To-morrows are;He'll sing "What is to be"Beneath each sun and star.
To-morrows! Dread unknown!What fates may they not bring?What is the chord? the tone?The key in which they sing?
I see a thousand throngs,To-morrows for them wait;I hear a thousand songsIntoning each one's fate.
And yours? What will it be?Hush! song, and let me pray!God sees it all — I seeA long, lone, winding way;
And more! no matter what!Crosses and crowns you wear:My song may be forgot,But Thou shalt not, in prayer.
Inevitable
What has been will be,'Tis the under law of life;'Tis the song of sky and sea,To the key of calm and strife.
For guard we as we may,What is to be will be,The dark must fold each day —The shore must gird each sea.
All things are ruled by law;'Tis only in man's willYou meet a feeble flaw;But fate is weaving still
The web and woof of life,With hands that have no hearts,Thro' calmness and thro' strife,Despite all human arts.
For fate is master here,He laughs at human wiles;He sceptres every tear,And fetters any smiles.
What is to be will be,We cannot help ourselves;The waves ask not the seaWhere lies the shore that shelves.
The law is coldest steel,We live beneath its sway,It cares not what we feel,And so pass night and day.
And sometimes we may thinkThis cannot — will not — be:Some waves must rise — some sink,Out on the midnight sea.
And we are weak as wavesThat sink upon the shore;We go down into graves —Fate chants the nevermore;
Cometh a voice! Kneel down!'Tis God's — there is no fate —He giveth the Cross and Crown,He opens the jeweled gate.
He watcheth with such eyesAs only mothers own —"Sweet Father in the skies!Ye call us to a throne."
There is no fate — God's loveIs law beneath each law,And law all laws aboveFore'er, without a flaw.
Sorrow and the Flowers
A Memorial Wreath to C. F.
Sorrow:
A garland for a grave! Fair flowers that bloom,And only bloom to fade as fast away,We twine your leaflets 'round our Claudia's tomb,And with your dying beauty crown her clay.
Ye are the tender types of life's decay;Your beauty, and your love-enfragranced breath,From out the hand of June, or heart of May,Fair flowers! tell less of life and more of death.
My name is Sorrow. I have knelt at graves,All o'er the weary world for weary years;I kneel there still, and still my anguish lavesThe sleeping dust with moaning streams of tears.
And yet, the while I garland graves as now,I bring fair wreaths to deck the place of woe;Whilst joy is crowning many a living brow,I crown the poor, frail dust that sleeps below.
She was a flower — fresh, fair and pure, and frail;A lily in life's morning. God is sweet;He reached His hand, there rose a mother's wail;Her lily drooped: 'tis blooming at His feet.
Where are the flowers to crown the faded flower?I want a garland for another grave;And who will bring them from the dell and bower,To crown what God hath taken, with what heaven gave?
As though ye heard my voice, ye heed my will;Ye come with fairest flowers: give them to me,To crown our Claudia. Love leads memory still,To prove at graves love's immortality.
White Rose:
Her grave is not a grave; it is a shrine,Where innocence reposes,Bright over which God's stars must love to shine,And where, when Winter closes,Fair Spring shall come, and in her garland twine,Just like this hand of mine,The whitest of white roses.
Laurel:
I found it on a mountain slope,The sunlight on its face;It caught from clouds a smile of hopeThat brightened all the place.
They wreathe with it the warrior's brow,And crown the chieftain's head;But the laurel's leaves love best to graceThe garland of the dead.
Wild Flower:
I would not live in a garden,But far from the haunts of men;Nature herself was my warden,I lived in a lone little glen.A wild flower out of the wildwood,Too wild for even a name;As strange and as simple as childhood,And wayward, yet sweet all the same.
Willow Branch:
To sorrow's own sweet crown,With simple grace,The weeping-willow bends her branches downJust like a mother's arm,To shield from harm,The dead within their resting place.
Lily:
The angel flower of all the flowers:Its sister flowers,In all the bowersWorship the lily, for it brings,Wherever it blooms,On shrines or tombs,A dream surpassing earthly senseOf heaven's own stainless innocence.
Violet Leaves:
It is too late for violets,I only bring their leaves,I looked in vain for mignonettesTo grace the crown grief weaves;For queenly May, upon her way,Robs half the bowersOf all their flowers,And leaves but leaves to June.Ah! beauty fades so soon;And the valley grows lonely in spite of the sun,For flowerets are fading fast, one by one.Leaves for a grave, leaves for a garland,Leaves for a little flower, gone to the far-land.
Forget-Me-Not:
"Forget-me-not!" The sad words strangely quiverOn lips, like shadows falling on a river,Flowing away,By night, by day,Flowing away forever.The mountain whence the river springsMurmurs to it, "forget me not;"The little stream runs on and singsOn to the sea, and every spotIt passes byBreathes forth a sigh,"Forget me not!" "forget me not!"
A Garland:
I bring this for her mother; ah, who knowsThe lonely deeps within a mother's heart?Beneath the wildest wave of woe that flowsAbove, around her, when her children part,There is a sorrow, silent, dark, and lone;It sheds no tears, it never maketh moan.Whene'er a child dies from a mother's arms,A grave is dug within the mother's heart:She watches it alone; no words of artCan tell the story of her vigils there.This garland fading even while 'tis fair,It is a mother's memory of a grave,When God hath taken her whom heaven gave.
Sorrow:
Farewell! I go to crown the dead;Yet ye have crowned yourselves to-day,For they whose hearts so faithful loveThe lonely grave — the very clay;They crown themselves with richer gemsThan flash in royal diadems.
Hope
Thine eyes are dim:A mist hath gathered there;Around their rimFloat many clouds of care,And there is sorrow every — everywhere.
But there is God,Every — everywhere;Beneath His rodKneel thou adown in prayer.
For grief is God's own kissUpon a soul.Look up! the sun of blissWill shine where storm-clouds roll.
Yes, weeper, weep!'Twill not be evermore;I know the darkest deepHath e'en the brightest shore.
So tired! so tired!A cry of half despair;Look! at your side —And see Who standeth there!
Your Father! Hush!A heart beats in His breast;Now rise and rushInto His arms — and rest.
Farewells
They are so sad to say: no poem tellsThe agony of hearts that dwellsIn lone and last farewells.
They are like deaths: they bring a wintry chillTo summer's roses, and to summer's rill;And yet we breathe them still.
For pure as altar-lights hearts pass away;Hearts! we said to them, "Stay with us! stay!"And they said, sighing as they said it, "Nay."
The sunniest days are shortest; darkness tellsThe starless story of the night that dwellsIn lone and last farewells.
Two faces meet here, there, or anywhere:Each wears the thoughts the other face may wear;Their hearts may break, breathing, "Farewell fore'er."
Song of the River
A river went singing adown to the sea,A-singing — low — singing —And the dim rippling river said softly to me,"I'm bringing, a-bringing —While floating along —A beautiful songTo the shores that are white where the waves are so weary,To the beach that is burdened with wrecks that are dreary.A song sweet and calmAs the peacefulest psalm;And the shore that was sadWill be grateful and glad,And the weariest wave from its dreariest dreamWill wake to the sound of the song of the stream;And the tempests shall ceaseAnd there shall be peace."From the fairest of fountains,And farthest of mountains,From the stillness of snowCame the stream in its flow.
Down the slopes where the rocks are gray,Thro' the vales where the flowers are fair —Where the sunlight flashed — where the shadows layLike stories that cloud a face of care,The river ran on — and on — and on —Day and night, and night and day;Going and going, and never gone,Longing to flow to the "far away",Staying and staying, and never still;Going and staying, as if one willSaid, "Beautiful river, go to the sea;"And another will whispered, "Stay with me:"And the river made answer, soft and low —"I go and stay" — "I stay and go."
But what is the song, I said, at last?To the passing river that never passed;And a white, white wave whispered, "List to me,I'm a note in the song for the beautiful sea, —A song whose grand accents no earth-din may sever,And the river flows on in the same mystic keyThat blends in one chord the `forever and never'."
____ December 15, 1878.
Dreamland
Over the silent sea of sleep,Far away! far away!Over a strange and starlit deepWhere the beautiful shadows sway;Dim in the dark,Glideth a bark,Where never the waves of a tempest roll —Bearing the very "soul of a soul",Alone, all alone —Far away — far awayTo shores all unknownIn the wakings of the day;To the lovely land of dreams,Where what is meets with what seemsBrightly dim, dimly bright;Where the suns meet stars at night,Where the darkness meets the lightHeart to heart, face to face,In an infinite embrace.
* * * * *
Mornings break,And we wake,And we wonder where we wentIn the barkThro' the dark,But our wonder is misspent;For no day can cast a lightOn the dreamings of the night.
Lines ["Sometimes, from the far-away,"]
Sometimes, from the far-away,Wing a little thought to me;In the night or in the day,It will give a rest to me.
I have praise of many here,And the world gives me renown;Let it go — give me one tear,'Twill be a jewel in my crown.
What care I for earthly fame?How I shrink from all its glare!I would rather that my nameWould be shrined in some one's prayer.
Many hearts are all too much,Or too little in their praise;I would rather feel the touchOf one prayer that thrills all days.
A Song
Written in an Album.
Pure faced page! waiting so longTo welcome my muse and me;Fold to thy breast, like a mother, the songThat floats from my spirit to thee.
And song! sound soft as the streamlet sings,And sweet as the Summer's birds,And pure and bright and white be the wingsThat will waft thee into words.
Yea! fly as the sea-birds fly over the seaTo rest on the far-off beach,And breathe forth the message I trust to thee,Tear toned on the shores of speech.
But ere you go, dip your snowy wingIn a wave of my spirit's deep —In a wave that is purest — then haste and bringA song to the hearts that weep.
Oh! bring it, and sing it — its notes are tears;Its octaves, the octaves of grief;Who knows but its tones in the far-off yearsMay bring to the lone heart relief?
Yea! bring it, and sing it — a worded moanThat sweeps thro' the minors of woe,With mystical meanings in every tone,And sounds like the sea's lone flow.
* * * * *
And the thoughts take the wings of words, and floatOut of my spirit to thee;But the song dies away into only one note,And sounds but in only one key.
And the note! 'tis the wail of the weariest waveThat sobs on the loneliest shore;And the key! never mind, it comes out of a grave;And the chord! — 'tis a sad "nevermore".
And just like the wavelet that moans on the beach,And, sighing, sinks back to the sea,So my song — it just touches the rude shores of speech,And its music melts back into me.
Yea, song! shrink back to my spirit's lone deep,Let others hear only thy moan —But I — I forever shall hear the grand sweepOf thy mighty and tear-burdened tone.
Sweep on, mighty song! — sound down in my heartAs a storm sounding under a sea;Not a sound of thy music shall pass into art,Nor a note of it float out from me.
Parting
Farewell! that word has broken heartsAnd blinded eyes with tears;Farewell! one stays, and one departs;Between them roll the years.
No wonder why who say it think —Farewell! he may fare illNo wonder that their spirits sinkAnd all their hopes grow chill.
Good-bye! that word makes faces paleAnd fills the soul with fears;Good-bye! two words that wing a wailWhich flutters down the years.
No wonder they who say it feelSuch pangs for those who go;Good-bye they wish the parted weal,But ah! they may meet woe.
Adieu! such is the word for us,'Tis more than word — 'tis prayer;They do not part, who do part thus,For God is everywhere.
St. Stephen
First champion of the Crucified!Who, when the fight beganBetween the Church and worldly prideSo nobly fought, so nobly died,The foremost in the van;While rallied to your valiant sideThe red-robed martyr-band;To-night with glad and high acclaimWe venerate thy saintly name;Accept, Saint Stephen, to thy praiseAnd glory, these our lowly lays.
The chosen twelve with chrismed handAnd burning zeal within,Led forth their small yet fearless bandOn Pentecost, and took their standAgainst the world and sin —While rang aloud the battle-cry:"The hated Christians all must die!As died the Nazarene before,The God they believe in and adore."Yet Stephen's heart quailed not with fearAt persecution's cry;But loving, as he did, the causeOf Jesus and His faith and laws,Prepared himself to die.
He faced his foes with burning zeal,Such zeal as only saints can feel;He told them how the Lord had stoodWithin their midst, so great and good,How he had through Judea trod,How wonders marked his way — the God,How he had cured the blind, the lame,The deaf, the palsied, and the maimed,And how, with awful, wondrous might,He raised the dead to life and light;And how his people knew Him not —Had eyes and still had seen Him not,Had ears and still had heard Him not,Had hearts and comprehended not.Then said he, pointing to the right,Where darkly rose Golgotha's height:"There have ye slain the Holy One,Your Saviour and God's only Son."
They gnashed their teeth in raging ire,Those dark and cruel men;They vowed a vengeance deep and direAgainst Saint Stephen then.Yet he was calm; a radiant lightAround his forehead gleamed;He raised his eyes, a wondrous sightHe saw, so grand it was and bright,His soul was filled with such delightThat he an angel seemed.Then spoke the Saint: "A vision grandBursts on me from above:The doors of heaven open stand,And at the Father's own right handI see the Lord I love."
"Away with him," the rabble cry,With swelling rage and hate,But Stephen still gazed on the sky,His heart was with his Lord on high,He heeded not his fate.
The gathering crowd in fury wildRush on the 'raptured Saint,And seize their victim, mute and mild,Who, like his master, though reviled,Still uttered no complaint.
With angry shouts they rend the air;They drag him to the city gate;They bind his hands and feet and there,While whispered he for them a prayer,The martyr meets his fate.
First fearless witness to his beliefIn Jesus Crucified,The red-robed martyrs' noble chief,Thus for his Master died.And to the end of time his nameOur Holy Church shall e'er proclaim,And with a mother's pride shall tellHow her great proto-martyr fell.
A Flower's Song
Star! Star, why dost thou shineEach night upon my brow?Why dost thou make me dream the dreamsThat I am dreaming now?
Star! Star, thy home is high —I am of humble birth;Thy feet walk shining o'er the sky,Mine, only on the earth.
Star! Star, why make me dream?My dreams are all untrue;And why is sorrow dark for meAnd heaven bright for you?
Star! Star, oh, hide thy ray,And take it off my face;Within my lowly home I stay,Thou, in thy lofty place.
Star! Star, and still I dream,Along thy light afarI seem to soar until I seemTo be, like you, a star.
The Star's Song
Flower! Flower, why repine?God knows each creature's place;He hides within me when I shine,And your leaves hide His face.
And you are near as I to Him,And you reveal as muchOf that eternal soundless hymnMan's words may never touch.
God sings to man through all my raysThat wreathe the brow of night,And walks with me thro' all my ways —The everlasting light.
Flower! Flower, why repine?He chose on lowly earth,And not in heaven where I shine,His Bethlehem and birth.
Flower! Flower, I see Him passEach hour of night and day,Down to an altar and a MassGo thou! and fade away.
Fade away upon His shrine!Thy light is brighter farThan all the light wherewith I shineIn heaven, as a star.
Death of the Flower
I love my mother, the wildwood,I sleep upon her breast;A day or two of childhood,And then I sink to rest.
I had once a lovely sister —She was cradled by my side;But one Summer day I missed her —She had gone to deck a bride.
And I had another sister,With cheeks all bright with bloom;And another morn I missed her —She had gone to wreathe a tomb.
And they told me they had withered,On the bride's brow and the grave;Half an hour, and all their fragranceDied away, which heaven gave.
Two sweet-faced girls came walkingThro' my lonely home one day,And I overheard them talkingOf an altar on their way.
They were culling flowers around me,And I said a little prayerTo go with them — and they found me —And upon an altar fair,
Where the Eucharist was lyingOn its mystical death-bed,I felt myself a-dying,While the Mass was being said.
But I lived a little longer,And I prayed there all the day,Till the evening Benediction,When my poor life passed away.
Singing-Bird
In the valley of my lifeSings a "Singing-Bird",And its voice thro' calm and strifeIs sweetly heard.
In the day and thro' the nightSound the notes,And its song thro' dark and brightEver floats.
Other warblers cease to sing,And their voices rest,And they fold their weary wingIn their quiet nest.
But my Singing-Bird still singsWithout a cease;And each song it murmurs bringsMy spirit peace.
"Singing-Bird!" O "Singing-Bird!"No one knows,When your holy songs are heard,What repose
Fills my life and soothes my heart;But I fearThe day — thy songs, if we must part,I'll never hear.
But "Singing-Bird!" ah! "Singing-Bird!"Should this e'er be,The dreams of all thy songs I heardShall sing for me.
Now
Sometimes a single hourRings thro' a long life-time,As from a temple towerThere often falls a chimeFrom blessed bells, that seemsTo fold in Heaven's dreamsOur spirits round a shrine;Hath such an hour been thine?
Sometimes — who knoweth why?One minute holds a powerThat shadows every hour,Dialed in life's sky.A cloud that is a speckWhen seen from far awayMay be a storm, and wreckThe joys of every day.
Sometimes — it seems not much,'Tis scarcely felt at all —Grace gives a gentle touchTo hearts for once and all,Which in the spirit's strifeMay all unnoticed be.And yet it rules a life;Hath this e'er come to thee?
Sometimes one little word,Whispered sweet and fleet,That scarcely can be heard,Our ears will sudden meet.And all life's hours alongThat whisper may vibrate,And, like a wizard's song,Decide our ev'ry fate.