I go beyond the commandment.' So be it. Then mine be the blame,The loss, the lack, the yearning, till life's last sand be run,—I go beyond the commandment, yet honour stands fast with her claim,And what I have rued I shall rue; for what I have done—I have done.
Hush, hush! for what of the future; you cannot the base exalt,There is no bridging a chasm over, that yawns with so sheer incline;I will not any sweet daughter's cheek should pale for this mother's fault,Nor son take leave to lower his life a-thinking on mine.
'Will I tell you all?' So! this, e'en this, will I do for your greatlove's sake;Think what it costs. 'Then let there be silence—silence you'll countconsent.'No, and no, and for ever no: rather to cross and to break,And to lower your passion I speak—that other it was I meant.
That other I meant (but I know not how) to speak of, nor April days,Nor a man's sweet voice that pleaded—O (but I promised this)—He never talked of marriage, never; I grant him that praise;And he bent his stately head, and I lost, and he won with a kiss.
He led me away—O, how poignant sweet the nightingale's note that noon—I beheld, and each crisped spire of grass to him for my sake was fair,And warm winds flattered my soul blowing straight from the soul of June,And a lovely lie was spread on the fields, but the blue was bare.
When I looked up, he said: 'Love, fair love! O rather look in these eyesWith thine far sweeter than eyes of Eve when she stepped the valleyunshod'—For ONE might be looking through it, he thought, and he would not in anywiseI should mark it open, limitless, empty, bare 'neath the gaze of God.
Ah me! I was happy—yes, I was; 't is fit you should know it all,While love was warm and tender and yearning, the rough winds troubledme not;I heard them moan without in the forest; heard the chill rains fall—But I thought my place was sheltered with him—I forgot, I forgot.
After came news of a wife; I think he was glad I should know.To stay my pleading, 'take me to church and give me my ring';'You should have spoken before,' he had sighed, when I prayed him so,For his heart was sick for himself and me, and this bitter thing.
But my dream was over me still,—I was half beguiled,And he in his kindness left me seldom, O seldom, alone,And yet love waxed cold, and I saw the face of my little child,And then at the last I knew what I was, and what I had done.
'YOUwill give me the name of wife. YOUwill give me a ring.'—Opeace!You are not let to ruin your life because I ruined mine;You will go to your people at home. There will be rest and release;The bitter now will be sweet full soon—ay, and denial divine.
But spare me the ending. I did not wait to be quite cast away;I left him asleep, and the bare sun rising shone red on my gown.There was dust in the lane, I remember; prints of feet in it lay,And honeysuckle trailed in the path that led on to the down.
I was going nowhere—I wandered up, then turned and dared to look back,Where low in the valley he careless and quiet—quiet and careless slept.'Did I love him yet?' I loved him. Ay, my heart on the upland trackCried to him, sighed to him out by the wheat, as I walked, and I wept.
I knew of another alas, one that had been in my place,Her little ones, she forsaken, were almost in need;I went to her, and carried my babe, then all in my satins and laceI sank at the step of her desolate door, a mourner indeed.
I cried, ''T is the way of the world, would I had never been born!''Ay, 't is the way of the world, but have you no sense to seeFor all the way of the world,' she answers and laughs me to scorn,'The world is made the world that it is by fools like you, like me.'
Right hard upon me, hard on herself, and cold as the cold stone,But she took me in; and while I lay sick I knew I was lost,Lost with the man I loved, or lost without him, making my moanBlighted and rent of the bitter frost, wrecked, tempest tossed, lost,lost!
How am I fallen:—we that might make of the world what we would,Some of us sink in deep waters. Ah! 'you would raise me again?'No true heart,—you cannot, you cannot, and all in my soul that is goodCries out against such a wrong. Let be, your quest is for ever in vain.
For I feel with another heart, I think with another mind,I have worsened life, I have wronged the world, I have lowered the light;But as for him, his words and his ways were after his kind,He did but spoil where he could, and waste where he might.
For he was let to do it; I let him and left his soulTo walk mid the ruins he made of home in remembrance of love's despairs,Despairs that harden the hearts of men and shadow their heads with dole,And woman's fault, though never on earth, may be healed,—but what oftheirs.
'T was fit you should hear it all—What, tears? they comfort me; now you will go, Nor wrong your life for the nought you call 'a pair of beautiful eyes,''I will not say I love you.'Truly I will not, no.'Will, I pity you?'Ay, but the pang will be short, you shall wake and be wise.
'Shall we meet?We shall meet on the other side, but not before.I shall be pure and fair, I shall hear the sound of THE NAME,And see the form of His face. You too will walk on that shore,In the garden of the Lord God, where neither is sorrow nor shame.
Farewell, I shall bide alone, for God took my one white lamb,I work for such as she was, and I will the while I last,But there's no beginning again, ever I am what I am,And nothing, nothing, nothing, can do away with the past.
(First of a Series.)
They said "Too late, too late, the work is done;Great Homer sang of glory and strong menAnd that fair Greek whose fault all these longyearsWins no forgetfulness nor ever can;For yet cold eyes upon her frailty bend,For yet the world waits in the victor's tentDaily, and sees an old man honourable,His white head bowed, surprise to passionate tearsAwestruck Achilles; sighing, 'I have endured,The like whereof no soul hath yet endured,To kiss the hand of him that slew my son.'"
They said: "We, rich by him, are rich by more;One Aeschylus found watchfires on a hillThat lit Old Night's three daughters to their work;When the forlorn Fate leaned to their red lightAnd sat a-spinning, to her feet he cameAnd marked her till she span off all her thread.
"O, it is late, good sooth, to cry for more:The work once done, well done," they said, "forbear!A Tuscan afterward discovered stepsOver the line of life in its mid-way;He climbed the wall of Heaven, beheld his loveSafe at her singing, and he left his foesIn a vale of shadow weltering, unassoiledImmortal sufferers henceforth in both worlds.
"Who may inherit next or who shall matchThe Swan of Avon and go float with himDown the long river of life aneath a sunNot veiled, and high at noon?—the river of lifeThat as it ran reflected all its lapseAnd rippling on the plumage of his breast?
"Thou hast them, heed them, for thy poets now,Albeit of tongue full sweet and majestyLike even to theirs, are fallen on evil days,Are wronged by thee of life, wronged of the world.Look back they must and show thee thy fair past,Or, choosing thy to-day, they may but chantAs they behold.
"The mother-glowworm broodsUpon her young, fast-folded in the eggAnd long before they come to life they shine—The mother-age broods on her shining thoughtThat liveth, but whose life is hid. He comesHer poet son, and lo you, he can seeThe shining, and he takes it to his breastAnd fashions for it wings that it may flyAnd show its sweet light in the dusky world.
"Mother, O Mother of our dusk to-day,What hast thou lived for bards to sing of thee?Lapsed water cannot flow above its source;'The kid must browse,'" they said, "'where she is tied.'"
Son of to-day, rise up, and answer them.What! wilt thou let thy mother sit ashamedAnd crownless?—Set the crown on her fair head:She waited for thy birth, she cries to thee"Thou art the man." He that hath ears to hear,To him the mother cries "Thou art the man."
She murmurs, for thy mother's voice is low—"Methought the men of war were even as godsThe old men of the ages. Now mine eyesRetrieve the truth from ruined city wallsThat buried it; from carved and curious homesFull of rich garments and all goodly spoil,Where having burned, battered, and wasted them,They flung it. Give us, give us better godsThan these that drink with blood upon their hands,For I repent me that I worshipped them.O that there might be yet a going up!O to forget—and to begin again!"
Is not thy mother's rede at one with theirsWho cry "The work is done"? What though to thee,Thee only, should the utterance shape itself"O to forget, and to begin again,"Only of thee be heard as that keen cryRending its way from some distracted heartThat yields it and so breaks? Yet list the cryBegin for her again, and learn to sing;But first, in all thy learning learn to be.Is life a field? then plough it up—re-sowWith worthier seed—Is life a ship? O heedThe southing of thy stars—Is life a breath?Breathe deeper, draw life up from hour to hour,Aye, from the deepest deep in thy deep soul.
It may be God's first work is but to breatheAnd fill the abysm with drifts of shining airThat slowly, slowly curdle into worlds.A little space is measured out to usOf His long leisure; breathe and grow therein,For life, alas! is short, and "When we dieIt is not for a little while."
They said,"The work is done," and is it therefore done?Speak rather to thy mother thus: "All-fair,Lady of ages, beautiful To-dayAnd sorrowful To-day, thy children setThe crown of sorrow on their heads, their lossIs like to be the loss of all: we hearLamenting, as of some that mourn in vainLoss of high leadership, but where is heThat shall be great enough to lead thee now?Where is thy Poet? thou hast wanted him.Where? Thou hast wakened as a child in the nightAnd found thyself alone. The stars have set,There is great darkness, and the dark is voidOf music. Who shall set thy life afreshAnd sing thee thy new songs? Whom wilt thou loveAnd lean on to break silence worthily—Discern the beauty in thy goings—feelThe glory of thy yearning,—thy self-scornMatter to dim oblivion with a smile—Own thy great want, that knew not its great name?O who shall make to thee mighty amendsFor thy lost childhood, joining two in one,Thyself and Him? Behold Him, He is near:God is thy Poet now.
"A King sang onceLong years ago 'My soul is athirst for God,Yea for the living God'—thy thirst and hisAre one. It is thy Poet whom thy handsGrope for, not knowing. Life is not enough,Nor love, nor learning,—Death is not enoughEven to them, happy, who forecast new life;But give us now and satisfy us now,Give us now, now, to live in the life of God,Give us now, now, to be at one with Him."
Would I had words—I have not words for her,Only for thee; and thus I tell them out:For every man the world is made afresh;To God both it and he are young. There areWho call upon Him night, and morn, and night"Where is the kingdom? Give it us to-day.We would be here with God, not there with God.Make Thine abode with us, great Wayfarer,And let our souls sink deeper into Thee"—There are who send but yearnings forth, in questThey know not why, of good they know not what.
The unknown life, and strange its stirring is.The babe knows nought of life, yet clothed in itAnd yearning only for its mother's breastFeeds thus the unheeded thing—and as for thee,That life thou hast is hidden from thine eyes,And when it yearns, thou, knowing not for what,Wouldst fain appease it with one grand, deep joy,One draught of passionate peace—but wilt thou knowThe other name of joy, the better nameOf peace? It is thy Father's name. Thy lifeYearns to its Source. The spirit thirsts for God,Even the living God.
But "No," thou sayest,"My heart is all in ruins with pain, my feetTread a dry desert where there is no wayNor water. I look back, and deep through timeThe old words come but faintly up the trackTrod by the sons of men. The man He sent,The Prince of life, methinks I could have lovedIf I had looked once in His deep man's eyes.But long ago He died, and long agoIs gone."
He is not dead, He cannot go.Men's faith at first was like a mastering stream,Like Jordan "the descender" leaping downPure from his snow; and warmed of tropic heatHiding himself in verdure: then at lastIn a Dead Sea absorbed, as faith of doubt.But yet the snow lies thick on Hermon's breastAnd daily at his source the stream is born.Go up—go mark the whiteness of the snow—Thyfaith is not thy Saviour, not thy God,Though faith waste fruitless down a desert old.The living God is new, and He is near.
What need to look behind thee and to sigh?When God left speaking He went on beforeTo draw men after, following up and on;And thy heart fails because thy feet are slow;Thou think'st of Him as one that will not wait,A Father and not wait!—He waited longFor us, and yet perchance He thinks not longAnd will not count the time. There are no datesIn His fine leisure.
Speak then as a son:"Father, I come to satisfy Thy loveWith mine, for I had held Thee as remote,The background of the stars—Time's yesterday—Illimitable Absence. Now my heartCommunes, methinks, with somewhat teaching meThou art the Great To-day. God, is it so?Then for all love that WAS, I thank Thee, God,It is and yet shall hide. And I have partIn all, for in Thine image I was made,To Thee my spirit yearns, as Thou to mine.If aught be stamped of Thy Divine on me,And man be God-like, God is like to man.
"Dear and dread Lord, I have not found it hardTo fear Thee, though Thy love in visible formBled 'neath a thorny crown—but since indeed,For kindred's sake and likeness, Thou dost thirstTo draw men nigh, and make them one with Thee,My soul shall answer 'Thou art what I want:I am athirst for God, the living God.'"
Then straightway flashes up athwart the words:"And if I be a son I am very farFrom my great Father's house; I am not clean.I have not always willed it should be so,And the gold of life is rusted with my tears."
It is enough. He never said to men,"Seek ye My face in vain." And have they sought—Beautiful children, well-beloved sons,Opening wide eyes to ache among the moonsAll night, and sighing because star multitudesFainted away as to a glittering haze,And sparkled here and there like silver wings,Confounding them with nameless, numberless,Unbearable, fine flocks? It is not wellFor them, for thee. Hast thou gone forth so farTo the unimaginable steeps on highTrembling and seeking God? Yet now come home,Cry, cry to Him: "I cannot search Thee out,But Thou and I must meet. O come, come down,Come." And that cry shall have the mastery.Ay, He shall come in truth to visit thee,And thou shalt mourn to Him, "Unclean, unclean,"But never more "I will to have it so."From henceforth thou shalt learn that there is loveTo long for, pureness to desire, a mountOf consecration it were good to scale.
Look you, it is to-day as at the first.When Adam first was 'ware his new-made eyesAnd opened them, behold the light! And breathOf God was misting yet about his mouth,Whereof they had made his soul. Then he looked forthAnd was a part of light; also he sawBeautiful life, and it could move. But Eve—Evewas the child of midnight and of sleep.Lo, in the dark God led her to his side;It may be in the dark she heard him breatheBefore God woke him. And she knew not light,Nor life but as a voice that left his lips,A warmth that clasped her; but the stars were out,And she with wide child-eyes gazed up at them.
Haply she thought that always it was night;Haply he, whispering to her in that reachOf beauteous darkness, gave her unworn heartA rumour of the dawn, and wakened itTo a trembling, and a wonder, and a wantKin to his own; and as he longed to gazeOn his new fate, the gracious mysteryHis wife, she may have longed, and felt not why,After the light that never she had known.
So doth each age walk in the light beheld,Nor think on light, if it be light or no;Then comes the night to it, and in the nightEve.
The God-given, the most beautifulEve. And she is not seen for darkness' sake;Yet, when she makes her gracious presence felt,The age perceives how dark it is, and fain,Fain would have daylight, fain would see her well,A beauty half revealed, a helpmeet sentTo draw the soul away from valley clods;Made from itself, yet now a better self—Soul in the soulless, arrow tipped with fireLet down into a careless breast; a pangSweeter than healing that cries out with itFor light all light, and is beheld at length—The morning dawns.
Were not we born to light?Ay, and we saw the men and women as saintsWalk in a garden. All our thoughts were fair;Our simple hearts, as dovecotes full of doves,Made home and nest for them. They fluttered forth.And flocks of them flew white about the world.And dreams were like to ships that floated usFar out on silent floods, apart from earth,From life—so far that we could see their lightsIn heaven—and hear the everlasting tide,All dappled with that fair reflected gold,Wash up against the city wall, and sobAt the dark bows of vessels that drew onHeavily freighted with departed soulsTo whom did spirits sing; but on that songMight none, albeit the meaning was right plain,Impose the harsh captivity of words.
Afterward waking, sweet was early air,Full excellent was morning: whether deepThe snow lay keenly white, and shrouds of hailBlurred the grey breaker on a long foreshore,And swarming plover ran, and wild white mewsAnd sea-pies printed with a thousand feetThe fallen whiteness, making shrill the storm;Or whether, soothed of sunshine, throbbed and hummedThe mill atween its bowering maple trees,And churned the leaping beck that reared, and urgedA diamond-dripping wheel.
The happy findEquality of beauty everywhereTo feed on. All of shade and sheen is theirs,All the strange fashions and the fair wise waysOf lives beneath man's own. He breathes delightWhose soul is fresh, whose feet are wet with dewAnd the melted mist of morning, when at watchSunk deep in fern he marks the stealthy roe,Silent as sleep or shadow, cross the glade,Or dart athwart his view as August starsShoot and are out—while gracefully pace onThe wild-eyed harts to their traditional treeTo clear the velvet from their budded horns.There is no want, both God and life are kind;It is enough to hear, it is enoughTo see; the pale wide barley-field they love,And its weird beauty, and the pale wide moonThat lowering seems to lurk between the sheaves.So in the rustic hamlet at high noonThe white owl sailing drowsed and deaf with sleepTo hide her head in turrets browned of mossThat is the rust of time. Ay so the pinksAnd mountain grass marked on a sharp sea-cliffWhile far below the northern diver feeds;She having ended settling while she sits,As vessels water-logged that sink at seaAnd quietly into the deep go down.
It is enough to wake, it is enoughTo sleep:—With God and time he leaves the rest.But on a day death on the doorstep sitsWaiting, or like a veilèd woman walksDogging his footsteps, or athwart his pathThe splendid passion-flower love unfoldsBuds full of sorrow, not ordained to knowAppeasement through the answer of a sigh,The kiss of pity with denial given,The crown and blossom of accomplishment.Or haply comes the snake with subtlety,And tempts him with an apple to know all.
So,—Shut the gate; the story tells itselfOver and over; Eden must be lostIf after it be won. He stands at fault,Not knowing at all how this should be—he feelsThe great bare barrenness o' the outside world.He thinks on Time and what it has to say;He thinks on God, but God has changed His hand,Sitting afar. And as the moon draws onTo cover the day-king in his eclipse,And thin the last fine sickle of light, till allBe gone, so fares it with his darkened soul.
The dark, but not Orion sparkling thereWith his best stars; the dark, but not yet Eve.And now the wellsprings of sweet natural joyLie, as the Genie sealed of Solomon,Fast prisoned in his heart; he hath not learnedThe spell whereby to loose and set them forth,And all the glad delights that boyhood lovedSmell at Oblivion's poppy, and lie still.
Ah! they must sleep—"The mill can grind no moreWith water that hath passed." Let it run on.For he hath caught a whisper in the night;This old inheritance in darkness given,The world, is widened, warmed, it is alive,Comes to his beating heart and bids it wake,Opens the door to youth, and bids it forth,Exultant for expansion and release,And bent to satisfy the mighty wish,Comfort and satisfy the mighty wish,Life of his life, the soul's immortal childThat is to him as Eve.
He cannot win,Nor earn, nor see, nor hear, nor comprehend,With all the watch, tender, impetuous,That wastes him, this, whereof no less he feelsInfinite things; but yet the night is fullOf air-beats and of heart-beats for her sake.Eve the aspirer, give her what she wants,Or wherefore was he born?
O he was bornTo wish—then turn away:—to wish againAnd half forget his wish for earthlier joy;He draws the net to land that brings red gold;His dreams among the meshes tangled lie,And learning hath him at her feet;—and love,The sea-born creature fresh from her sea foam,Touches the ruddiest veins in his young heart,Makes it to sob in him and sigh in him,Restless, repelled, dying, alive and keen,Fainting away for the remorseless ALLGone by, gone up, or sweetly gone before,But never in his arms. Then pity comes,Knocks at his breast, it may be, and comes in,Makes a wide wound that haply will not heal,But bleeds for poverty, and crime, and pain,Till for the dear kin's sake he grandly daresOr wastes him, with a wise improvidence;But who can stir the weighty world; or whoCan drink a sea of tears?
O love, and life,O world, and can it be that this is all?Leave him to tread expectance underfoot;Let him alone to tame down his great hopeBefore it breaks his heart: "Give me my shareThat I foresaw, my place, my draught of life.This that I bear, what is it?—me no lessIt binds, I cannot disenslave my soul."
There is but halting for the wearied foot.The better way is hidden; faith hath failed—One stronger far than reason mastered her.It is not reason makes faith hard, but life.The husks of his dead creed, downtrod and dry,Are powerless now as some dishonoured spell,Some aged Pythia in her priestly clothes,Some widow'd witch divining by the dead.Or if he keep one shrine undesecrateAnd go to it from time to time with tears,What lies there? A dead Christ enswathed and cold,A Christ that did not rise. The linen clothIs wrapped about His head, He lies embalmedWith myrrh and spices in His sepulchre,The love of God that daily dies;—to themThat trust it the One Life, the all that lives.
O mother Eve, who wert beguiled of old,Thy blood is in thy children, thou art yetTheir fate and copy; with thy milk they drewThe immortal want of morning; but thy dayDawned and was over, and thy children knowContentment never, nor continuance long.For even thus it is with them: the dayWaxeth, to wane anon, and a long nightLeaves the dark heart unsatisfied with stars.
A soul in want and restless and bereftTo whom all life hath lied, shall it too lie?Saying, "I yield Thee thanks, most mighty God,Thou hast been pleased to make me thus and thus.I do submit me to Thy sovereign willThat I full oft should hunger and not have,And vainly yearn after the perfect good,Gladness and peace"?
No, rather dare think thus:"Ere chaos first had being, earth, or time,My Likeness was apparent in high heaven,Divine and manlike, and his dwelling placeWas the bosom of the Father. By His handsWere the worlds made and filled with diverse growthsAnd ordered lives. Then afterward they said,Taking strange counsel, as if he who workedHitherto should not henceforth work alone,'Let us make man;' and God did look uponThat Divine Word which was the form of God,And it became a thought before the event.There they foresaw my face, foreheard my speech,God-like, God-loved, God-loving, God-derived.
"And I was in a garden, and I fellThrough envy of God's evil son, but LoveWould not be robbed of me for ever—LoveFor my sake passed into humanity,And there for my first Father won me home.How should I rest then? I have NOT gone home;I feed on husks, and they given grudgingly,While my great Father—Father—O my God,What shall I do?"
Ay, I will dare think thus:"I cannot rest because He doth not restIn whom I have my being. THIS is GOD—My soul is conscious of His wondrous wish,And my heart's hunger doth but answer HisWhose thought has met with mine.
"I have not all;He moves me thus to take of Him what lacks.My want is God's desire to give,—He yearnsTo add Himself to life and so for ayeMake it enough."A thought by night, a wishAfter the morning, and behold it dawnsPathetic in a still solemnity,And mighty words are said for him once more,"Let there be light." Great heaven and earth have heard,And God comes down to him, and Christ doth rise.
There are who give themselves to work for men,—To raise the lost, to gather orphaned babesAnd teach them, pitying of their mean estate,To feel for misery, and to look on crimeWith ruth, till they forget that they themselvesAre of the race, themselves among the crowdUnder the sentence and outside the gate,And of the family and in the doom.Cold is the world; they feel how cold it is,And wish that they could warm it. Hard is lifeFor some. They would that they could soften it;And, in the doing of their work, they sighAs if it was their choice and not their lot;And, in the raising of their prayer to God,They crave his kindness for the world he made,Till they, at last, forget that he, not they,Is the true lover of man.
* * * * *
Now, in an ancient town, that had sunk low,—Trade having drifted from it, while there stayedToo many, that it erst had fed, behind,—There walked a curate once, at early day.
It was the summer-time; but summer airCame never, in its sweetness, down that darkAnd crowded alley,—never reached the doorWhereat he stopped,—the sordid, shattered door.
He paused, and, looking right and left, beheldDirt and decay, the lowering tenementsThat leaned toward each other; broken panesBulging with rags, and grim with old neglect;And reeking hills of formless refuse, heapedTo fade and fester in a stagnant air.But he thought nothing of it: he had learnedTo take all wretchedness for granted,—he,Reared in a stainless home, and radiant yetWith the clear hues of healthful English youth,Had learned to kneel by beds forlorn, and stoopUnder foul lintels. He could touch, with handUnshrinking, fevered fingers; he could hearThe language of the lost, in haunt and den,—So dismal, that the coldest passer-byMust needs be sorry for them, and, albeitThey cursed, would dare to speak no harder wordsThan these,—"God help them!"
Ay! a learned manThe curate in all woes that plague mankind,—Too learned, for he was but young. His heartHad yearned till it was overstrained, and nowHe—plunged into a narrow slough unblest,Had struggled with its deadly waters, tillHis own head had gone under, and he tookSmall joy in work he could not look to aidIts cleansing.
Yet, by one right tender tie,Hope held him yet. The fathers coarse and dull,Vile mothers hard, and boys and girls profane,His soul drew back from. He had worked for them,—Work without joy: but, in his heart of hearts,He loved the little children; and whene'erHe heard their prattle innocent, and heardTheir tender voices lisping sacred wordsThat he had taught them,—in the cleanly calmOf decent school, by decent matron held,—Then would he say, "I shall have pleasure yet,In these."
But now, when he pushed back that doorAnd mounted up a flight of ruined stairs,He said not that. He said, "Oh! once I thoughtThe little children would make bright for meThe crown they wear who have won many soulsFor righteousness; but oh, this evil place!Hard lines it gives them, cold and dirt abhorred,—Hunger and nakedness, in lieu of love,And blows instead of care.
"And so they die,The little children that I love,—they die,—Theyturn their wistful faces to the wall,And slip away to God."
With that, his handHe laid upon a latch and lifted it,Looked in full quietly, and entered straight.
What saw he there? He saw a three-years child,That lay a-dying on a wisp of strawSwept up into a corner. O'er its browThe damps of death were gathering: all alone,Uncared for, save that by its side was setA cup, it waited. And the eyes had ceasedTo look on things at hand. He thought they gazedIn wistful wonder, or some faint surmiseOf coming change,—as though they saw the gateOf that fair land that seems to most of usVery far off.When he beheld the look,He said, "I knew, I knew how this would be!Another! Ay, and but for drunken blowsAnd dull forgetfulness of infant need,This little one had lived." And thereuponThe misery of it wrought upon him so,That, unaware, he wept. Oh! then it wasThat, in the bending of his manly head,It came between the child and that whereonHe gazed, and, when the curate glanced again,Those dying eyes, drawn back to earth once more,Looked up into his own, and smiled.He drewMore near, and kneeled beside the small frail thing,Because the lips were moving; and it raisedIts baby hand, and stroked away his tears,And whispered, "Master! master!" and so died.
Now, in that town there was an ancient church,A minster of old days which these had turnedTo parish uses: there the curate served.It stood within a quiet swarded Close,Sunny and still, and, though it was not farFrom those dark courts where poor humanityStruggled and swarmed, it seemed to wear its ownStill atmosphere about it, and to holdThat old-world calm within its precincts pureAnd that grave rest which modern life foregoes.
When the sad curate, rising from his knees,Looked from the dead to heaven,—as, unaware,Men do when they would track departed life,—Heheard the deep tone of the minster-bellSounding for service, and he turned awaySo heavy at heart, that, when he left behindThat dismal habitation, and came outIn the clear sunshine of the minster-yard,He never marked it. Up the aisle he moved,With his own gloom about him; then came forth,And read before the folk grand words and calm,—Wordsfull of hope; but into his dull heartHope came not. As one talketh in a dream,And doth not mark the sense of his own words,He read; and, as one walketh in a dream,He after walked toward the vestment-room,And never marked the way he went by,—no,Nor the gray verger that before him stood,The great church-keys depending from his hand,Ready to follow him out and lock the door.
At length, aroused to present things, but notContent to break the sequence of his thought,Nor ready for the working day that heldIts busy course without, he said, "Good friend,Leave me the keys: I would remain a while."And, when the verger gave, he moved with himToward the door distraught, then shut him out,And locked himself within the church alone.The minster-church was like a great brown cave,Fluted and fine with pillars, and all dimWith glorious gloom; but, as the curate turned,Suddenly shone the sun,—and roof and walls,Also the clustering shafts from end to end,Were thickly sown all over, as it were,With seedling rainbows. And it went and cameAnd went, that sunny beam, and drifted upEthereal bloom to flush the open wingsAnd carven cheeks of dimpled cherubim,And dropped upon the curate as he passed,And covered his white raiment and his hair.
Then did look down upon him from their place,High in the upper lights, grave mitred priests,And grand old monarchs in their flowered gownsAnd capes of miniver; and therewithal(A veiling cloud gone by) the naked sunSmote with his burning splendor all the pile,And in there rushed, through half-translucent panes,A sombre glory as of rusted gold,Deep ruby stains, and tender blue and green,That made the floor a beauty and delight,Strewed as with phantom blossoms, sweet enoughTo have been wafted there the day they droptOn the flower-beds in heaven.The curate passedAdown the long south aisle, and did not thinkUpon this beauty, nor that he himself—Excellent in the strength of youth, and fairWith all the majesty that noble workAnd stainless manners give—did add his partTo make it fairer.In among the knightsThat lay with hands uplifted, by the luteAnd palm of many a saint,—'neath capitalsWhereon our fathers had been bold to carveWith earthly tools their ancient childlike dreamConcerning heavenly fruit and living bowers,And glad full-throated birds that sing up thereAmong the branches of the tree of life—Through all the ordered forest of the shafts,Shooting on high to enter into light,That swam aloft,—he took his silent way,And in the southern transept sat him down,Covered his face, and thought.He said, "No pain,No passion, and no aching, heart o' mine,Doth stir within thee. Oh! I would there did:Thou art so dull, so tired. I have lostI know not what. I see the heavens as lead:They tend no whither. Ah! the world is baredOf her enchantment now: she is but earthAnd water. And, though much hath passed away,There may be more to go. I may forgetThe joy and fear that have been: there may liveNo more for me the fervency of hopeNor the arrest of wonder.
"Once I said,'Content will wait on work, though work appearUnfruitful.' Now I say, 'Where is the good?What is the good? A lamp when it is litMust needs give light; but I am like a manHolding his lamp in some deserted placeWhere no foot passeth. Must I trim my lamp,And ever painfully toil to keep it bright,When use for it is none? I must; I will.Though God withhold my wages, I must work,And watch the bringing of my work to nought,—Weed in the vineyard through the heat o' the day,And, overtasked, behold the weedy placeGrow ranker yet in spite of me.
"Oh! yetMy meditated words are trodden downLike a little wayside grass. Castaway shells,Lifted and tossed aside by a plunging wave,Have no more force against it than have IAgainst the sweeping, weltering wave of life,That, lifting and dislodging me, drives on,And notes not mine endeavor."
Afterward,He added more words like to these; to wit,That it was hard to see the world so sad:He would that it were happier. It was hardTo see the blameless overborne; and hardTo know that God, who loves the world, should yetLet it lie down in sorrow, when a smileFrom him would make it laugh and sing,—a wordFrom him transform it to a heaven. He said,Moreover, "When will this be done? My lifeHath not yet reached the noon, and I am tired;And oh! it may be that, uncomfortedBy foolish hope of doing good and vainConceit of being useful, I may live,And it may be my duty to go onWorking for years and years, for years and years."
But, while the words were uttered, in his heartThere dawned a vague alarm. He was awareThat somewhat touched him, and he lifted upHis face. "I am alone," the curate said,—"I think I am alone. What is it, then?I am ashamed! My raiment is not clean.My lips,—I am afraid they are not clean.My heart is darkened and unclean. Ah me,To be a man, and yet to tremble so!Strange, strange!"And there was sitting at his feet—He could not see it plainly—at his feetA very little child. And, while the bloodDrave to his heart, he set his eye on it,Gazing, and, lo! the loveliness from heavenTook clearer form and color. He beheldThe strange, wise sweetness of a dimpled mouth,—The deep serene of eyes at home with bliss,And perfect in possession. So it spoke,"My master!" but he answered not a word;And it went on: "I had a name, a name.He knew my name; but here they can forget."The curate answered: "Nay, I know thee well.I love thee. Wherefore art thou come?" It said,"They sent me;" and he faltered, "Fold thy hand,O most dear little one! for on it gleamsA gem that is so bright I cannot lookThereon." It said, "When I did leave this world,That was a tear. But that was long ago;For I have lived among the happy folk,You wot of, ages, ages." Then said he,"Do they forget us, while beneath the palmsThey take their infinite leisure?" And, with eyesThat seemed to muse upon him, looking upIn peace the little child made answer, "Nay;"And murmured, in the language that he loved,"How is it that his hair is not yet white;For I and all the others have been longWaiting for him to come.""And was it long?"The curate answered, pondering. "Time being done,Shall life indeed expand, and give the sense,In our to-come, of infinite extension?"Then said the child, "In heaven we children talkOf the great matters, and our lips are wise;But here I can but talk with thee in wordsThat here I knew." And therewithal, arisen,It said, "I pray you take me in your arms."Then, being afraid but willing, so he did;And partly drew about the radiant child,For better covering its dread purity,The foldings of his gown. And he beheldIts beauty, and the tremulous woven lightThat hung upon its hair; withal, the robe,"Whiter than fuller of this world can white,"That clothed its immortality. And soThe trembling came again, and he was dumb,Repenting his uncleanness: and he liftHis eyes, and all the holy place was fullOf living things; and some were faint and dim,As if they bore an intermittent life,Waxing and waning; and they had no form,But drifted on like slowly trailèd clouds,Or moving spots of darkness, with an eyeApiece. And some, in guise of evil birds,Came by in troops, and stretched their naked necks,And some were men-like, but their heads hung down;And he said, "O my God! let me find graceNot to behold their faces, for I knowThey must be wicked and right terrible."But while he prayed, lo! whispers; and there movedTwo shadows on the wall. He could not seeThe forms of them that cast them: he could seeOnly the shadows as of two that satUpon the floor, where, clad in women's weeds,They lisped together. And he shuddered much:There was a rustling near him, and he fearedLest they should touch him, and he feel their touch.
"It is not great," quoth one, "the work achieved.We do, and we delight to do, our best:But that is little; for, my dear," quoth she,"This tower and town have been infested longWith angels."—"Ay," the other made reply,"I had a little evil-one, of late,That I picked up as it was crawling outO' the pit, and took and cherished in my breast.It would divine for me, and oft would moan,'Pray thee, no churches,' and it spake of this.But I was harried once,—thou know'st by whom,—And fled in here; and, when he followed me,I crouching by this pillar, he let downHis hand,—being all too proud to send his eyesIn its wake,—and, plucking forth my tender imp,Flung it behind him. It went yelping forth;And, as for me, I never saw it more.Much is against us,—very much: the timesAre hard." She paused: her fellow took the word,Plaining on such as preach and them that plead."Even such as haunt the yawning mouths of hell,"Quoth she, "and pluck them back that run thereto."Then, like a sudden blow, there fell on himThe utterance of his name. "There is no soulThat I loathe more, and oftener curse. Woe's me,That cursing should be vain! Ay, he will goGather the sucking children, that are yetToo young for us, and watch and shelter them.Till the strong Angels—pitiless and stern,But to them loving ever—sweep them in,By armsful, to the unapproachable fold.
"We strew his path with gold: it will not lie.'Deal softly with him,' was the master's word.We brought him all delights: his angel cameAnd stood between them and his eyes. They spendMuch pains upon him,—keep him poor and lowAnd unbeloved; and thus he gives his mindTo fill the fateful, the impregnableChild-fold, and sow on earth the seed of stars.
"Oh! hard is serving against love,—the loveOf the Unspeakable; for if we soilThe souls He openeth out a washing-place;And if we grudge, and snatch away the bread,Then will He save by poverty, and gainBy early giving up of blameless life;And if we shed out gold, He even will saveIn spite of gold,—of twice-refinèd gold."
With that the curate set his daunted eyesTo look upon the shadows of the fiends.He was made sure they could not see the childThat nestled in his arms; he also knewThey were unconscious that his mortal earsHad new intelligence, which gave their speechPossible entrance through his garb of clay.
He was afraid, yet awful gladness reachedHis soul: the testimony of the lostUpbraided him; but while he trembled yet,The heavenly child had lifted up its headAnd left his arms, and on the marble floorStood beckoning.
And, its touch withdrawn, the placeWas silent, empty; all that swarming tribeOf evil ones concealed behind the veil,And shut into their separate world, were closedFrom his observance. He arose, and pacedAfter the little child,—as half in fearThat it would leave him,—till they reached a door;And then said he,—but much distraught he spoke,Laying his hand across the lock,—"This doorShuts in the stairs whereby men mount the tower.Wouldst thou go up, and so withdraw to heaven?"It answered, "I will mount them." Then said he,"And I will follow."—"So thou shalt do well,"The radiant thing replied, and it went up,And he, amazed, went after; for the stairs,Otherwhile dark, were lightened by the raysShed out of raiment woven in high heaven,And hair whereon had smiled the light of God.
With that, they, pacing on, came out at lastInto a dim, weird place,—a chamber formedBetwixt the roofs: for you shall know that allThe vaulting of the nave, fretted and fine,Was covered with the dust of ages, laidThick with those chips of stone which they had leftWho wrought it; but a high-pitched roof was rearedAbove it, and the western gable piercedWith three long narrow lights. Great tie-beams loomedAcross, and many daws frequented there,The starling and the sparrow littered itWith straw, and peeped from many a shady nook;And there was lifting up of wings, and thereWas hasty exit when the curate came.But sitting on a beam and moving notFor him, he saw two fair gray turtle-dovesBowing their heads, and cooing; and the childPut forth a hand to touch his own, but straightHe, startled, drew it back, because, forsooth,A stirring fancy smote him, and he thoughtThat language trembled on their innocent tongues,And floated forth in speech that man could hear.Then said the child, "Yet touch, my master dear."And he let down his hand, and touched again;And so it was. "But if they had their way,"One turtle cooed, "how should this world go on?"
Then he looked well upon them, as he stoodUpright before them. They were feathered doves,And sitting close together; and their eyesWere rounded with the rim that marks their kind.Their tender crimson feet did pat the beam,—No phantoms they; and soon the fellow-doveMade answer, "Nay they count themselves so wise,There is no task they shall be set to doBut they will ask God why. What mean they so?The glory is not in the task, but inThe doing it for Him. What should he think,Brother, this man that must, forsooth, be setSuch noble work, and suffered to beholdIts fruit, if he knew more of us and ours?"With that the other leaned, as if attent:"I am not perfect, brother, in his thought."The mystic bird replied. "Brother, he saith,'But it is nought: the work is overhard.'Whose fault is that? God sets not overwork.He saith the world is sorrowful, and heIs therefore sorrowful. He cannot setThe crooked straight;—but who demands of him,O brother, that he should? What! thinks he, then,His work is God's advantage, and his willMore bent to aid the world than its dread Lord's?Nay, yet there live amongst us legions fair,Millions on millions, who could do right wellWhat he must fail in; and 'twas whispered me,That chiefly for himself the task is given,—His little daily task." With that he paused.
Then said the other, preening its fair wing,"Men have discovered all God's islands now,And given them names; whereof they are as proud,And deem themselves as great, as if their handsHad made them. Strange is man, and strange his pride.Now, as for us, it matters not to learnWhat and from whence we be: How should we tell?Our world is undiscovered in these skies,Our names not whispered. Yet, for us and ours,What joy it is,—permission to come down,Not souls, as he, to the bosom of their God,To guide, but to their goal the winged fowls,His lovely lower-fashioned lives to helpTo take their forms by legions, fly, and drawWith us the sweet, obedient, flocking thingsThat ever hear our message reverently,And follow us far. How should they know their way,Forsooth, alone? Men say they fly alone;Yet some have set on record, and averred,That they, among the flocks, had duly markedA leader."Then his fellow made reply:"They might divine the Maker's heart. Come forth,Fair dove, to find the flocks, and guide their wings,For Him that loveth them."With that, the childWithdrew his hand, and all their speech was done.He moved toward them, but they fluttered forthAnd fled into the sunshine."I would fain,"Said he, "have heard some more. And wilt thou go?"He added to the child, for this had turned."Ay," quoth he, gently, "to the beggar's place;For I would see the beggar in the porch."
So they went down together to the door,Which, when the curate opened, lo! withoutThe beggar sat; and he saluted him:"Good morrow, master." "Wherefore art thou here?"The curate asked: "it is not service time,And none will enter now to give thee alms."Then said the beggar, "I have hope at heartThat I shall go to my poor house no more.""Art thou so sick that thou dost think to die?"The curate said. With that the beggar laughed,And under his dim eyelids gathered tears,And he was all a-tremble with a strangeAnd moving exaltation. "Ay," quoth he,And set his face toward high heaven: "I thinkThe blessing that I wait on must be near."Then said the curate, "God be good to thee."And, straight, the little child put forth his hand,And touched him. "Master, master, hush!You should not, master, speak so carelesslyIn this great presence."But the touch so wrought,That, lo! the dazzled curate staggered back,For dread effulgence from the beggar's eyesSmote him, and from the crippled limbs shot forthTerrible lights, as pure long blades of fire."Withdraw thy touch! withdraw thy touch!" he cried,"Or else shall I be blinded." Then the childStood back from him; and he sat down apart,Recovering of his manhood: and he heardThe beggar and the child discourse of thingsDreadful for glory, till his spirits cameAnew; and, when the beggar looked on him,He said, "If I offend not, pray you tellWho and what are you—I behold a faceMarred with old age, sickness, and poverty,—A cripple with a staff, who long hath satBegging, and ofttimes moaning, in the porch,For pain and for the wind's inclemency.What are you?" Then the beggar made reply,"I was a delegate, a living power;My work was bliss, for seeds were in my handTo plant a new-made world. O happy work!It grew and blossomed; but my dwelling-placeWas far remote from heaven. I have not seen;I knew no wish to enter there. But lo!There went forth rumors, running out like rays,How some, that were of power like even to mine,Had made request to come and find a placeWithin its walls. And these were satisfiedWith promises, and sent to this far worldTo take the weeds of your mortality,And minister, and suffer grief and pain,And die like men. Then were they gathered in.They saw a face, and were accounted kinTo Whom thou knowest, for he is kin to men.
"Then I did wait; and oft, at work, I sang,'To minister! oh, joy, to minister!'And, it being known, a message came to me:'Whether is best, thou forest-planter wise,To minister to others, or that theyShould minister to thee?' Then, on my faceLow lying, I made answer: 'It is best,Most High, to minister;' and thus came backThe answer,—'Choose not for thyself the best:Go down, and, lo! my poor shall minister,Out of their poverty, to thee; shall learnCompassion by thy frailty; and shall oftTurn back, when speeding home from work, to helpThee, weak and crippled, home. My little ones,Thou shalt importune for their slender mite,And pray, and move them that they give it upFor love of Me.'"The curate answered him,"Art thou content, O great one from afar!If I may ask, and not offend?" He said,"I am. Behold! I stand not all alone,That I should think to do a perfect work.I may not wish to give; for I have heard'Tis best for me that I receive. For me,God is the only giver, and His giftIs one." With that, the little child sighed out,"O master! master! I am out of heavenSince noonday, and I hear them calling me.If you be ready, great one, let us go:—Hark! hark! they call."Then did the beggar liftHis face to heaven, and utter forth a cryAs of the pangs of death, and every treeMoved as if shaken by a sudden wind.He cried again, and there came forth a handFrom some invisible form, which, being laidA little moment on the curate's eyes,It dazzled him with light that brake from it,So that he saw no more."What shall I do?"The curate murmured, when he came againTo himself and looked about him. "This is strange!My thoughts are all astray; and yet, methinks,A weight is taken from my heart. Lo! lo!There lieth at my feet, frail, white, and dead,The sometime beggar. He is happy now.There was a child; but he is gone, and heIs also happy. I am glad to thinkI am not bound to make the wrong go right;But only to discover, and to doWith cheerful heart, the work that God appoints."
With that, he did compose, with reverent care,The dead; continuing, "I will trust in Him,THAT HE CAN HOLD HIS OWN; and I will takeHis will, above the work He sendeth me,To be my chiefest good."Then went he forth,"I shall die early," thinking: "I am warned,By this fair vision, that I have not longTo live." Yet he lived on to good old age;—Ay, he lives yet, and he is working still.
* * * * *
It may be there are many in like case:They give themselves, and are in miseryBecause the gift is small, and doth not makeThe world by so much better as they fainWould have it. 'Tis a fault; but, as for us,Let us not blame them. Maybe, 'tis a faultMore kindly looked on by The MajestyThan our best virtues are. Why, what are we?What have we given, and what have we desiredTo give, the world?There must be something wrongLook to it: let us mend our ways. Farewell.
Who pipes upon the long green hill,Where meadow grass is deep?The white lamb bleats but followeth on—Follow the clean white sheep.The dear white lady in yon high tower,She hearkeneth in her sleep.
All in long grass the piper stands,Goodly and grave is he;Outside the tower, at dawn of day,The notes of his pipe ring free.A thought from his heart doth reach to hers:"Come down, O lady! to me."
She lifts her head, she dons her gown:Ah! the lady is fair;She ties the girdle on her waist,And binds her flaxen hair,And down she stealeth, down and down,Down the turret stair.
Behold him! With the flock he wonsAlong yon grassy lea."My shepherd lord, my shepherd love,What wilt thou, then, with me?My heart is gone out of my breast,And followeth on to thee."
"The white lambs feed in tender grass:With them and thee to bide,How good it were," she saith at noon;"Albeit the meads are wide.Oh! well is me," she saith when dayDraws on to eventide.
Hark! hark! the shepherd's voice. Oh, sweet!Her tears drop down like rain."Take now this crook, my chosen, my fere,And tend the flock full fain;Feed them, O lady, and lose not one,Till I shall come again."
Right soft her speech: "My will is thine,And my reward thy grace!"Gone are his footsteps over the hill,Withdrawn his goodly face;The mournful dusk begins to gather,The daylight wanes apace.
On sunny slopes, ah! long the ladyFeedeth her flock at noon;She leads it down to drink at eveWhere the small rivulets croon.All night her locks are wet with dew,Her eyes outwatch the moon.
Beyond the hills her voice is heard,She sings when light doth wane:"My longing heart is full of love,Nor shall my watch be vain.My shepherd lord. I see him not,But he will come again."
Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter—woodland hollows thickly strewing,Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the mid-day win,While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in saddened hues imbuingAll without and all within!
All within! but winds of autumn, little Henry, round their dwellingDid not load your father's spirit with those deep and burdened sighs;—Only echoed thoughts of sadness, in your mother's bosom swelling,Fast as tears that dim her eyes.
Life is fraught with many changes, checked with sorrow and mutation,But no grief it ever lightened such a truth before to know:—I behold them—father, mother—as they seem to contemplation,Only three short weeks ago!
Saddened for the morrow's parting—up the stairs at midnight stealing—As with cautious foot we glided past the children's open door,—"Come in here," they said, the lamplight dimpled forms at last revealing,"Kiss them in their sleep once more."
You were sleeping, little Henry, with your eyelids scarcely closing,Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded arms entwined:—And the rose-bud lips were moving, as if stirred in their reposingBy the movements of the mind!
And your mother smoothed the pillow, and her sleeping treasures numbered,Whispering fondly—"He is dreaming"—as you turned upon your bed—And your father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, as you slumbered,With his hand upon your head!
Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing? No! he neverHeard afar the summons uttered—"Come up hither"—Never knewHow the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy for ever,And for ever in their view.
Awful Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were by us,Shrouding wings—majestic beings—hidden by this earthly veil—Such as we have called on, saying, "Praise the Lord, O Ananias,Azarias and Misael!"
But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the missioned Spirits taught him,To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left him to their will?While he slumbered, who can answer for what dreams they may have broughthim,When at midnight all was still?
Father! Mother! must you leave him on his bed, but not to slumber?Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, but not to pray?When you count your children over, must you tell a different number,Since that happier yesterday?
Father! Mother! weep if need be, since this is a "time" for weeping,Comfort comes not for the calling, grief is never argued down—Coldly sounds the admonition, "Why lament? in better keepingRests the child than in your own."
"Truth indeed! but, oh! compassion! Have you sought to scan my sorrow?"(Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that common tale)"Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow-feeling borrowEven a tone that might avail?
"Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart-warm affection?Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond words to combine?Surely no! I will be silent, in your soul is no reflectionOf the care that burdens mine!"
When the winter twilight gathers, Father, and your thoughts shall wander,Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your listless reveries,Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon you ponderFrom its place upon your knees—
With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful wonder,Of itself the heart shall question, "Art Thou then no longer here?Is it so, my little Henry? Are we set so far asunderWho were wont to be so near?"
While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened shades are meeting,To itself the heart shall answer, "He shall come to me no more:I shall never hear his footsteps nor the child's sweet voice entreatingFor admission at my door."
But uponyourfair, fair forehead, no regrets nor griefs are dwelling,Neither sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful features know;Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their sad hearts to be telling,"Daylight breaketh, let me go!"
Daylight breaketh, little Henry; in its beams your soul awaketh—What though night should close around us, dim and dreary to the view—Thoughoursouls should walk in darkness, far away that morning breakethInto endless day for you!
They have left you, little Henry, but they have not left you lonely—Brothers' hearts so knit together could not, might not separate dwell.Fain to seek you in the mansions far away—One lingered onlyTo bid those behind farewell!
Gentle Boy!—His childlike nature in most guileless form was moulded,And it may be that his spirit woke in glory unaware,Since so calmly he resigned it, with his hands still meekly folded,Having said his evening prayer.
Or—if conscious of that summons—"Speak, O Lord, Thy servant heareth"—As one said, whose name they gave him, might his willing answer be,"Here am I"—like him replying—"At Thy gates my soul appeareth,For behold Thou calledst me!"
A deep silence—utter silence, on his earthly home descendeth:—Reading, playing, sleeping, waking—he is gone, and few remain!"O the loss!"—they utter, weeping—every voice its echo lendeth—"O the loss!"—But, O the gain!
On that tranquil shore his spirit was vouchsafed an early landing,Lest the toils of crime should stain it, or the thrall of guilt control—Lest that "wickedness should alter the yet simple understanding,Or deceit beguile his soul!"
"Lay not up on earth thy treasure"—they have read that sentence duly,Moth and rust shall fret thy riches—earthly good hath swift decay—"Even so," each heart replieth—"As for me, my riches trulyMake them wings and flee away!"
"O my riches!—O my children!—dearest part of life and being,Treasures looked to for the solace of this life's declining years,—Were our voices cold to hearing—or our faces cold to seeing,That ye left us to our tears?"
"We inherit conscious silence, ceasing of some merry laughter,And the hush of two sweet voices—(healing sounds for spirits bruised!)Of the tread of joyous footsteps in the pathway following after,Of two names no longer used!"
Question for them, little Sister, in your sweet and childish fashion—Search and seek them, Baby Brother, with your calm and asking eyes—Dimpled lips that fail to utter fond appeal or sad compassion,Mild regret or dim surprise!
There are two tall trees above you, by the high east window growing,Underneath them, slumber sweetly, lapt in silence deep, serene;Save, when pealing in the distance, organ notes towards you flowingEcho—with a pause between!
And that pause?—a voice shall fill it—tones that blessed you daily,nightly,Well beloved, but not sufficing, Sleepers, to awake you now,Though so near he stand, that shadows from your trees may tremble lightlyOn his book and on his brow!
Sleep then ever! Neither singing of sweet birds shall break your slumber,Neither fall of dew, nor sunshine, dance of leaves, nor drift of snow,Charm those dropt lids more to open, nor the tranquil bosoms cumberWith one care for things below!
It is something, the assurance, thatyoune'er shall feel like sorrow,Weep no past and dread no future—know not sighing, feel not pain—Nor a day that looketh forward to a mournfuller to-morrow—"Clouds returning after rain!"
No, far off, the daylight breaketh, in its beams each soul awaketh:"What though clouds," they sigh, "be gathered dark and stormy to theview,Though the light our eyes forsaketh, fresh and sweet behold it breakethInto endless day for you!"
All rough winds are hushed and silent, golden light the meadow steepeth,And the last October roses daily wax more pale and fair;They have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of one who sleepethWith a sunbeam on her hair.
Calm, and draped in snowy raiment she lies still, as one that dreameth,And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips that may not speak;Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of glory gleamethOn the sainted brow and cheek.