SINGING IN THE DARK

Grown to man’s stature! O my little child!My bird that sought the skies so long ago!My fair, sweet blossom, pure and undefiled,How have the years flown since we laid thee low!What have they been to thee? If thou wert hereStanding beside thy brothers, tall and fair,With bearded lip, and dark eyes shining clear,And glints of summer sunshine in thy hair,I should look up into thy face and say,Wavering, perhaps, between a tear and smile,“O my sweet son, thou art a man to-day!”—And thou wouldst stoop to kiss my lips the while.But—up in heaven—how is it with thee, dear?Art thou a man—to man’s full stature grown?Dost thou count time as we do, year by year?And what of all earth’s changes hast thou known?Thou hadst not learned to love me. Didst thou takeAny small germ of love to heaven with thee,That thou hast watched and nurtured for my sake,Waiting till I its perfect flower may see?What is it to have lived in heaven always?To have no memory of pain or sin?Ne’er to have known in all the calm, bright days,The jar and fret of earth’s discordant din?Thy brothers—they are mortal—they must treadOfttimes in rough, hard ways, with bleeding feet;Must fight with dragons, must bewail their dead,And fierce Apollyon face to face must meet.I, who would give my very life for theirs,I cannot save them from earth’s pain or loss;I cannot shield them from its griefs or cares;Each human heart must bear alone its cross!Was God, then, kinder unto thee than them,O thou whose little life was but a span?—Ah, think it not! In all his diademNo star shines brighter than the kingly man,Who nobly earns whatever crown he wears,Who grandly conquers, or as grandly dies;And the white banner of his manhood bears,Through all the years uplifted to the skies!What lofty pæans shall the victor greet!What crown resplendent for his brow be fit!O child, if earthly life be bitter-sweet,Hast thou not something missed in missing it?

Grown to man’s stature! O my little child!My bird that sought the skies so long ago!My fair, sweet blossom, pure and undefiled,How have the years flown since we laid thee low!

What have they been to thee? If thou wert hereStanding beside thy brothers, tall and fair,With bearded lip, and dark eyes shining clear,And glints of summer sunshine in thy hair,

I should look up into thy face and say,Wavering, perhaps, between a tear and smile,“O my sweet son, thou art a man to-day!”—And thou wouldst stoop to kiss my lips the while.

But—up in heaven—how is it with thee, dear?Art thou a man—to man’s full stature grown?Dost thou count time as we do, year by year?And what of all earth’s changes hast thou known?

Thou hadst not learned to love me. Didst thou takeAny small germ of love to heaven with thee,That thou hast watched and nurtured for my sake,Waiting till I its perfect flower may see?

What is it to have lived in heaven always?To have no memory of pain or sin?Ne’er to have known in all the calm, bright days,The jar and fret of earth’s discordant din?

Thy brothers—they are mortal—they must treadOfttimes in rough, hard ways, with bleeding feet;Must fight with dragons, must bewail their dead,And fierce Apollyon face to face must meet.

I, who would give my very life for theirs,I cannot save them from earth’s pain or loss;I cannot shield them from its griefs or cares;Each human heart must bear alone its cross!

Was God, then, kinder unto thee than them,O thou whose little life was but a span?—Ah, think it not! In all his diademNo star shines brighter than the kingly man,

Who nobly earns whatever crown he wears,Who grandly conquers, or as grandly dies;And the white banner of his manhood bears,Through all the years uplifted to the skies!

What lofty pæans shall the victor greet!What crown resplendent for his brow be fit!O child, if earthly life be bitter-sweet,Hast thou not something missed in missing it?

O ye little warblers, flying fast and farFrom the balmy south-land, where the roses are,Robins red and blue-birds, do ye faint to seeHow the chill snow-blossoms whiten shrub and tree?Through the snowy valley cold the north winds sweep;Mother earth, half-wakened, turns again to sleep;Silent lies the river in an icy trance,And the frozen meadows wait the sun’s hot glance.Dull and gray the skies are. Soft and blue were thoseThat so late above you bent at daylight’s close;Do ye grieve, remembering all the balm and bloom,All the warmth and sweetness of the starlit gloom?Do ye sadly wonder what strange impulse drewAll your flashing pinions the far ether through?Do ye count it madness that so wide ye strayedFrom the starry jasmine and the orange shade?Yet this morn I heard ye singing in the dark,Songs of such rare sweetness that the world might hark!O ye blessed minstrels, silent not for pain,God is in the heavens, and your sun shall shine again!

O ye little warblers, flying fast and farFrom the balmy south-land, where the roses are,Robins red and blue-birds, do ye faint to seeHow the chill snow-blossoms whiten shrub and tree?

Through the snowy valley cold the north winds sweep;Mother earth, half-wakened, turns again to sleep;Silent lies the river in an icy trance,And the frozen meadows wait the sun’s hot glance.

Dull and gray the skies are. Soft and blue were thoseThat so late above you bent at daylight’s close;Do ye grieve, remembering all the balm and bloom,All the warmth and sweetness of the starlit gloom?

Do ye sadly wonder what strange impulse drewAll your flashing pinions the far ether through?Do ye count it madness that so wide ye strayedFrom the starry jasmine and the orange shade?

Yet this morn I heard ye singing in the dark,Songs of such rare sweetness that the world might hark!O ye blessed minstrels, silent not for pain,God is in the heavens, and your sun shall shine again!

Hush! O be ye silent, all ye birds of May!Cease the high, clear trilling of your roundelay!Be the merry minstrels mute in vale, on hill,And in every tree-top let the song be still!O ye winds, breathe softly! Let your voices dieIn a low, faint whisper, sweet as love’s first sigh;O ye zephyrs, blowing over beds of flowers,Be ye still as dews are in the starry hours!O ye laughing waters, leaping here and there,Filling with sweet clamor all the summer air,Can ye not be quiet? Hush, ye mountain streams,Dancing to glad music from the world of dreams!And thou, mighty ocean, beating on the shore,Bid thy angry billows stay their thunderous roar!O ye waves, lapse softly, in such slumberous calmAs ye know when circling isles of crested palm!Bells in tower and steeple, be ye mute to-dayAs the bell-flowers rocking in the winds of May!Cease awhile, ye minstrels, though your notes be clearAs the strains that soar in heaven’s high atmosphere!Earth, bid all thy children hearken—for a voice,Sweeter than a seraph’s, bids their hearts rejoice;Floating down the silence of a hundred years,Lo! its deathless music thrills our listening ears!’Tis the voice our fathers loved so long ago,Songs to which they listened warbling clear and low;Hark, “Ye Disconsolate!” while the minstrel pureSings—“Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot cure!”Sings of love’s wild rapture triumphing o’er pain,Glorying in giving, counting loss but gain;Sings the warrior’s passion and the patriot’s pride,And the brave, unshrinking, who for glory died—Sings of Erin smiling through a mist of tears;Of her patient waiting all the weary years;Sings the pain of parting, and the joy divineWhen the bliss of meeting stirs the heart like wine;Sings of memories waking in “the stilly night;”Of the “young dreams” fading in the morning light;Of the “rose of summer” perishing too soon;Of the early splendors waning ere the noon!O thou tender singer! All the air to-dayTrembles with the burden of thy “farewell” lay;Crowns and thrones may crumble, into darkness hurled,Yet is song immortal; song shall rule the world!

Hush! O be ye silent, all ye birds of May!Cease the high, clear trilling of your roundelay!Be the merry minstrels mute in vale, on hill,And in every tree-top let the song be still!

O ye winds, breathe softly! Let your voices dieIn a low, faint whisper, sweet as love’s first sigh;O ye zephyrs, blowing over beds of flowers,Be ye still as dews are in the starry hours!

O ye laughing waters, leaping here and there,Filling with sweet clamor all the summer air,Can ye not be quiet? Hush, ye mountain streams,Dancing to glad music from the world of dreams!

And thou, mighty ocean, beating on the shore,Bid thy angry billows stay their thunderous roar!O ye waves, lapse softly, in such slumberous calmAs ye know when circling isles of crested palm!

Bells in tower and steeple, be ye mute to-dayAs the bell-flowers rocking in the winds of May!Cease awhile, ye minstrels, though your notes be clearAs the strains that soar in heaven’s high atmosphere!

Earth, bid all thy children hearken—for a voice,Sweeter than a seraph’s, bids their hearts rejoice;Floating down the silence of a hundred years,Lo! its deathless music thrills our listening ears!

’Tis the voice our fathers loved so long ago,Songs to which they listened warbling clear and low;Hark, “Ye Disconsolate!” while the minstrel pureSings—“Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot cure!”

Sings of love’s wild rapture triumphing o’er pain,Glorying in giving, counting loss but gain;Sings the warrior’s passion and the patriot’s pride,And the brave, unshrinking, who for glory died—

Sings of Erin smiling through a mist of tears;Of her patient waiting all the weary years;Sings the pain of parting, and the joy divineWhen the bliss of meeting stirs the heart like wine;

Sings of memories waking in “the stilly night;”Of the “young dreams” fading in the morning light;Of the “rose of summer” perishing too soon;Of the early splendors waning ere the noon!

O thou tender singer! All the air to-dayTrembles with the burden of thy “farewell” lay;Crowns and thrones may crumble, into darkness hurled,Yet is song immortal; song shall rule the world!

Where will it go to reach thine earsMy father, thou dost wearSomewhere beyond the stars to-nightThy crown of silver hair.Somewhere thouart. No wandering ghostIn vast, vague realms of space—But thine own self, majestic, fair,In thine appointed place.By one long look thy soul repliedWhen last I cried to thee,As thou wert drifting out of sightUpon the unknown sea;And well I know that thou wouldst turnEven from joys divine,If but thy listening ears could hearOne faltering word of mine.Yet, knowing this, I cannot layMy book upon thy knee,Saying, “O father, once againI bring my sheaves to thee!”

Where will it go to reach thine earsMy father, thou dost wearSomewhere beyond the stars to-nightThy crown of silver hair.

Somewhere thouart. No wandering ghostIn vast, vague realms of space—But thine own self, majestic, fair,In thine appointed place.

By one long look thy soul repliedWhen last I cried to thee,As thou wert drifting out of sightUpon the unknown sea;

And well I know that thou wouldst turnEven from joys divine,If but thy listening ears could hearOne faltering word of mine.

Yet, knowing this, I cannot layMy book upon thy knee,Saying, “O father, once againI bring my sheaves to thee!”

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“It is but cunning artifice,” you say?“To it no throb of nature answereth?It hath no living pulse, no vital breath,This puppet, fashioned in an elder day,Through whose strait lips no heart can cry or pray?”O deaf and blind of soul, these words that saith!If that thine ear is dull, what hinderethThat quicker ears should hear the bugles playAnd the trump call to battle? Since the starsFirst sang together, and the exulting skiesThrilled to their music, earth hath never heard,Above the tumult of her worldly jars,Or loftier songs or prayers than those that riseWhere the high sonnet soareth like a bird!

Thou who wouldst wake the sonnet’s silver lyre,Make thine hands clean! Then, as on eagles’ wings,Above the soiling touch of sordid things,Bid thy soul soar till, mounting high and higher,It feels the glow of pure celestial fire,Bathes in clear light, and hears the song that ringsThrough heaven’s high arches when some angel bringsGifts to the Throne, on wings that never tire!It hath a subtile music, strangely sweet,Yet all unmeet for dance or roundelay,Or idle love that fadeth like a flower.It is the voice of hearts that strongly beat,The cry of souls that grandly love and pray,The trumpet-peal that thrills the battle-hour!

“‘When Greek meets Greek,’ you know,” he sadly said,“‘Then comes the tug of war.’ I deem him great,And own him wise and good. Yet adverse fateHath made us enemies. If I were dead,And buried deep with grave-mould on my head,I still believe that, came he soon or lateWhere I was lying in my last estate,My dust would quiver at his lightest tread!”The slow years passed; and one fair summer night,When the low sun was reddening all the west,I saw two grave-mounds, where the grass was bright,Lying so near each other that the crestOf the same wave touched each with amber light.But, ah, dear hearts! how undisturbed their rest!

O mighty Earth, thou art too wide, to wide!Too vast thy continents, too broad thy seas,Too far thy prairies stretching fair as theseNow reddening in the sunset’s crimson tide!Sundered by thee how have thy children criedEach to some other, until every breezeHas borne a burden of fond messagesThat all unheard in thy lone wastes have died!Draw closer, O dear Earth, thy hills that soarUp to blue skies such countless leagues apart!Bid thou thine awful spaces smaller grow!Compass thy billows with a narrower shore,That yearning lips may meet, heart beat to heart,And parted souls forget their lonely woe!

O fair young queen, who liest dead to-dayIn thy proud palace o’er the moaning sea,With still, white hands that never more may beLifted to pluck life’s roses bright with May—Little is it to you that, far away,Where skies you knew not bend above the free,Hearts touched with tender pity turn to thee,And for thy sake a shadow dims the day!But youth and love and womanhood are one,Though across sundering seas their signals fly;Young Love’s pure kiss, the joy but just begun,The hope of motherhood, thy people’s cry—O thou fair child! was it not hard to dieAnd leave so much beneath the summer sun?

Grass grows at last above all graves, you say?Why, therein lies the sharpest sting of all!To think that stars will rise and dews will fall,Hills flush with purple splendor, soft winds playWhere roses bloom and violets of May,Robin to robin in the tree-tops call,And all sweet sights and sounds the senses thrall,Just as they did before that strange, sad day!Does that bring comfort? Are we glad to knowThat our eyes sometime must forget to weep,Even as June forgets December’s snow?Over the graves where our belovèd sleep,We charge thee, Time, let not the green grass grow,Nor your relentless mosses coldly creep!

Sometimes my heart grows faint with longing, dear—Longing to see thy face, to touch thy hand.But mountains rise between us; leagues of landStretch on and on where mighty lakes lie clearIn the far spaces, and great forests rearTheir sombre crowns on many a lonely strand!Yet, O my fair child, canst thou understand,Thou whose dear place was once beside me here,How yet I dare not pray that thou and IAgain may dwell together as of old?There is a gate between us, locked and barred,Over which we may not climb; and standing nighIs the white angel Sorrow, who doth holdThe only key that may unlock its ward!

Yet think not I would have it otherwise!Our God, who knoweth women’s hearts, knows best—And every little bird must build its nestFrom whence it soareth, singing, to the skies.What though the one that thou hast builded liesWhere sinks the sun to its enchanted rest,If, on each breeze that bloweth east or west,To thee, on swiftest wing, my spirit flies?We are not far apart, and ne’er shall be!For Love, like God, knoweth not time, nor space,And it is freer than the viewless air;And well I know, belovèd, that if weTrod different planets in yon starry spaceWe should reach out, and find each other there!

Who calls thee “gentle Sleep?” O! rare coquette,Who comest crowned with poppies, thou shouldst wearNettles instead, or thistles, in thine hair;For thou ’rt the veriest elf that ever yetMade weary mortals sigh and toss and fret!Thou dost float softly through the drowsy airHovering as if to kiss my lips and shareMy restless pillow; but ere I can setMy arms to clasp thee, without sign or speech,Save one swift, mocking smile thou ’rt out of reach!Yet, sometime, thou, or one as like to theeAs sister is to sister, shalt draw nearWith such soft lullabies for my dull ear,That neither life nor love shall waken me!

O, Lord of Hosts, how sacred is this place,Where, though the tides of time resistless flow,And the long generations come and go,Thou still abidest! In this holy spaceThe very airs are hushed before Thy face,And wait in reverent calm, as voices lowBlend in the prayers and chantings, soft and slow,And the gray twilight stealeth on apace.Hark! There are whispers from the time-worn walls;The mighty dead glide up the shadowy aisle;And there are rustlings as of angels’ wingsWhile from the choir the heavenly music falls!Well may we bow in grateful praise the while—In the King’s Chapel reigns the King of Kings!

What dost thou bring to me, O fair To-day,That comest o’er the mountains with swift feet?All the young birds make haste thy steps to greet,And all the dewy roses of the MayTurn red and white with joy. The breezes playOn their soft harps a welcome low and sweet;All nature hails thee, glad thy face to meet,And owns thy presence in a brighter ray.But my poor soul distrusts thee! One as fairAs thou art, O To-day, drew near to me,Serene and smiling, yet she bade me wearThe sudden sackcloth of a great despair!O, pitiless! that through the wandering airSent no kind warning of the ill to be!

When upon eyes long dim, to whom the lightOf sun and stars had unfamiliar grown—Eyes that so long in deepening shades had knownThe mystic visions of the inner sight—Day broke, at last, after the weary night,I cannot think its sudden glory shoneIn pitiless brightness, dazzling, clear, and white—A piercing splendor on the darkness thrown!Softly as moonlight steals upon the skies,Slowly as shadows creep at set of sun,Gently as falls a mother’s tender kiss,So softly stole the light upon his eyes;So slowly passed the shadows one by one;So gently dawned the morning of his bliss!

When I awake at morn, refreshed, renewed,Glad with the gladness of the jocund dayAnd jubilant with all the birds of May,My spirit shrinks from Night’s dull quietude.With it and Sleep I have a deadly feud.I hear the young winds in the maples play,The river singing on its happy way,The swallows twittering to their callow brood.The fresh, fair earth is full of joyous life;The tree-tops toss in billowy unrest;The very mountain shadows are astir!With eager heart I thrill to join the strife;Doing, not dreaming, to my soul seems best,And I am lordly Day’s true worshipper!

But when with Day’s long weariness oppressed,With folded hands I watch the sun go down,Lighting far torches in the steepled town,And kindling all the glowing, reddening west;When every sleepy bird has sought its nest;When the long shadows from the hills are thrown,And Night’s soft airs about the world are blown,Thou heart of mine, how sweet it is to rest!O, Israfil! Thou of the tuneful voice!It will be nightfall when thy voice I hear,Summoning me to slumber soft and low!Day will be done. Then will I not rejoiceThat all my tasks are o’er and rest is near,And, like a tired child, be glad to go?

What matters it what men may call Thee, Thou,The Eternal One, who reign’st supreme, alone,The boundless universe Thy mighty throne?When souls before Thee reverently bow,Oh, carest Thou what name the lips breathe lowJove, or Osiris, or the God UnknownTo whom the Athenians raised their altar stone,Or Thine, O Holiest, unto whom we vow?The sun hath many names in many lands;Yet upon all its golden splendors fall,Where’er, from age to age entreating still,The adoring earth uplifts its waiting hands.Love knows all names and answereth to all—Who worships Thee may call Thee what he will!

What though we sleep a thousand leagues apart,I by my mountains, you beside your sea?What though our moss-grown graves divided beBy the wide reaches of a continent’s heart?When from long slumber we at length shall startWakened to stronger life, exultant, free,This mortal clothed in immortality,Where shall I find my heaven save where thou art?Straight as a bird that hasteth to its nest,Glad as an eagle soaring to the light,Swift as the thought that bears my soul to thineWhen yon lone star hangs trembling in the west,So straight, so glad, so swift to thee my flight,Led on through farthest space by love divine!

O Soul! rememberest thou how Mary wentIn the gray dawn to weep beside the tombWhere one she loved lay buried? Through the gloom,Pallid with pain, and with long anguish spent,Still pressed she on with solemn, high intent,Bearing her costly gifts of rare perfumeAnd spices odorous with eastern bloom,Unto the Master’s sepulchre! But rentWas the great stone from its low door away;And when she stooped to peer with startled eyesInto the dark where slept the pallid clay,Lo, it was gone! And there in heavenly guise,So grandly calm, so fair in morn’s first ray,She found an angel from the upper skies!

What shall I bring to lay upon thy bierO Yesterday! thou day forever dead?With what strange garlands shall I crown thy head,Thou silent One? For rose and rue are nearWhich thou thyself didst bring me; heart’s-ease clearAnd dark in purple opulence that shedRare odors round; wormwood, and herbs that fedMy soul with bitterness—they all are here!When to the banquet I was called by theeThou gavest me rags and royal robes to wear;Honey and aloes mingled in the cupOf costly wine that thou didst pour for me;Thy throne, thy footstool, thou didst bid me share;On crusts and heavenly manna bade me sup!

Thou art no dreamer, O thou stern To-day!The dead past had its dreams; the real is thine.An armored knight, in panoply divine,It is not thine to loiter by the way,Though all the meads with summer flowers be gay,Though birds sing for thee, and though fair stars shine,And every god pours for thee life’s best wine!Nor friend nor foe hath strength to bid thee stay.Gleaming beneath thy brows with smouldering fireThine eyes look out upon the eternal hillsAs forth thou ridest with thy spear in rest.From the far heights a voice cries, “Come up higher!”And in swift answer all thy being thrills,When lo! ’tis night—thy sun is in the west!

But thou, To-morrow! never yet was bornIn earth’s dull atmosphere a thing so fair—Never yet tripped, with footsteps light as air,So glad a vision o’er the hills of morn!Fresh as the radiant dawning—all unwornBy lightest touch of sorrow, or of care,Thou dost the glory of the morning shareBy snowy wings of hope and faith upborne!O fair To-morrow! what our souls have missedArt thou not keeping for us, somewhere, still?The buds of promise that have never blown—The tender lips that we have never kissed—The song whose high, sweet strain eludes our skill—The one white pearl that life hath never known!

Come, blessed Darkness, come, and bring thy balmFor eyes grown weary of the garish Day!Come with thy soft, slow steps, thy garments gray,Thy veiling shadows, bearing in thy palmThe poppy-seeds of slumber, deep and calm!Come with thy patient stars, whose far-off raySteals the hot fever of the soul away,Thy stillness, sweeter than a chanted psalm!O blessed Darkness, Day indeed is fair,And Light is dear when summer days are long,And one by one the harvesters go by;But so is rest sweet, and surcease from care,And folded palms, and hush of evensong,And all the unfathomed silence of the sky!

O golden Silence, bid our souls be still,And on the foolish fretting of our careLay thy soft touch of healing unaware!Once, for a half hour, even in heaven the thrillOf the clear harpings ceased the air to fillWith soft reverberations. Thou wert there,And all the shining seraphs owned thee fair—A white, hushed Presence on the heavenly hill.Bring us thy peace, O Silence! Song is sweet;Tuneful is baby laughter, and the lowMurmur of dying winds among the trees,And dear the music of Love’s hurrying feet;Yet only he who knows thee learns to knowThe secret soul of loftiest harmonies.

A holy presence hath been here, and, lo,The place is sanctified! From off thy feetPut thou thy shoes, my soul! The air is sweetEven yet with heavenly odors, and I knowIf thou dost listen, thou wilt hear the flowOf most celestial music, and the beatOf rhythmic pinions. It is then most meetThat thou shouldst watch and wait, lest to and froShould pass the heavenly messengers and thou,Haply, shouldst miss their coming. O my soul,Count this fair room a temple from whose shrine,Led by an angel, though we know not how,Thy friend and lover dropped the cup of dole,And passed from thy love to the Love Divine!

I bid thee sing the song I would have sung—The high, pure strain that since my soul was born,Clearer and sweeter than the bells of morn,Through all its chambers hath divinely rung!In thee let my whole being find a tongue;Pluck thou the rose where I have plucked the thorn,Nor leave the perfect flower to fade forlorn.Youth holds the world in fee—and thou art young!O my glad singer of the tuneful voice,Where my wing falters be thou strong to soar,Striking the deep, clear notes beyond my reach,Beyond the plummet of a woman’s speech.Sing my songs for me, and from some far shoreMy happy soul shall hear thee and rejoice!

When lesser loves by the relentless flowOf mighty currents from my arms were tornAnd swept, unheeding, to that silent bournWhose mystic shades no living man may know,By night, by day, I sang my songs; and so,Out of the sackcloth that my soul had worn,Weaving my purple, I forgot to mourn,Pouring my grief out in melodious woe!Now am I dumb, dear heart. My lips are mute.Yet if from yonder blue height thou dost leanEarthward, remembering love’s last wordless kiss,Know thou no trembling thrills of harp or lute,Dying soft wails and tender songs between,Were half so voiceful as this silence is!

Pass on, O world, and leave her to her rest!Brothers, be silent while the drifting snowWeaves its white pall above her, lying lowWith empty hands crossed idly on her breast.O sisters, let her sleep! while unrepressedYour pitying tears fall silently and slow,Washing her spotless, in their crystal flow,Of that one stain whereof she stands confessed.Are we so pure that we should scoff at her,Or mock her now, low lying in her tomb?God knows how sharp the thorn her roses wore,Even what time their petals were astirIn the warm sunshine, odorous with perfume.Leave her to Him who weighed the cross she bore!

One summer day, to a young child I said,“Write to thy mother, boy.” With earnest face,And laboring fingers all unused to traceThe mystic characters, he bent his head(That should have danced amid the flowers instead)Over the blurred page for a half-hour’s space;Then with a sigh that burdened all the placeCried, “Mamma knows!” and out to sunshine sped.O soul of mine, when tasks are hard and long,And life so crowds thee with its stress and strainThat thou, half fainting, art too tired to pray,Drink thou this wine of blessing and be strong!God knows! What though the lips be dumb with pain,Or the pen drops? He knows what thou wouldst say.

Oh, thou supreme, all-wise, eternal One,Thou who art Lord of lords, and King of kings,In whose high praise each flaming seraph sings;Thou at whose word the morning stars begunWith song and shout their glorious course to run;Thou unto whom the great sea lifts its wings,And earth, with laden hands, rich tribute bringsFrom every shore that smiles beneath the sun;Thou who didst write thy name upon the hillsAnd bid the mountains speak for thee alway,Yet gave sweet messages to murmuring rills,And to each flower that breathes its life away—Oh! dost thou smile, or frown, when man’s conceitSeeks in this pile of stone the impress of thy feet?

Mysterious One, inscrutable, unknown,A silent Presence, with averted faceWhose lineaments no mortal eye can trace,And robes of trailing darkness round thee thrown,Over the midnight hills thou comest alone!What thou dost bring to me from farthest space,What blessing or what ban, what dole, what grace,I may not know. Thy secrets are thine own!Yet, asking not for lightest word or signTo tell me what the hidden fate may be,Without a murmur, or a quickened breath,Unshrinkingly I place my hand in thine,And through the shadowy depths go forth with theeTo meet, as thou shalt lead, or life, or death!

Then, if I fear not thee, thou veilèd OneWhose face I know not, why fear I to meetBeyond the everlasting hills her feetWho cometh when all Yesterdays are done?Shall I, who have proved thee good, thy sister shun?O thou To-morrow, who dost feel the beatOf life’s long, rhythmic pulses, strong and sweet,In the far realm that hath no need of sun—Thou who art fairer than the fair To-dayThat I have held so dear, and loved so much—When, slow descending from the hills divine,Thou summonest me to join thee on thy way,Let me not shrink nor tremble at thy touch,Nor fear to break thy bread and drink thy wine!

O Earth! art thou not weary of thy graves?Dear, patient mother Earth, upon thy breastHow are they heaped from farthest east to west!From the dim north, where the wild storm-wind ravesO’er the cold surge that chills the shore it laves,To sunlit isles by softest seas caressed,Where roses bloom alway and song-birds nest,How thick they lie—like flecks upon the waves!There is no mountain-top so far and high,No desert so remote, no vale so deep,No spot by man so long untenanted,But the pale moon, slow marching up the sky,Sees over some lone grave the shadows creep!O Earth! art thou not weary of thy dead?

There was a man whom all men called The Great.Low lying on his death-bed, we are told,He bade his courtiers (when he should be cold,Breathless, and silent in his last estate,And they who were to bury him should waitOutside the palace) that no cerecloth’s foldOr winding-sheet should round his hands be rolled:Those helpless hands that once had ruled the state!Thus spake he: “On the black pall let them lie,Empty and lorn, that all the world may seeHow of his riches there was nothing leftTo Alexander when he came to die.”Lord of two worlds, as treasureless was heAs any beggar of his crust bereft!

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