A MAGDALEN'S EASTER CRY.

The heroes on the battlefield are calm in death,Their fighting o'er;They feel no more the fevered breathOf battle's war;They hear at last the voice that saith"Fight on no more."But oh, the heroes on the grander field of peace,Who know no rest!Whose hearts ne'er feel the full releaseFrom mortal quest,Nor breathe the air where struggles ceaseThe soul to test.For such we mourn, O purifying soul of life,For such we pray.Let Nature free them from the strifeOf falsehood's way,And Love through every struggle rifeHave free, full play.

The heroes on the battlefield are calm in death,Their fighting o'er;They feel no more the fevered breathOf battle's war;They hear at last the voice that saith"Fight on no more."

But oh, the heroes on the grander field of peace,Who know no rest!Whose hearts ne'er feel the full releaseFrom mortal quest,Nor breathe the air where struggles ceaseThe soul to test.

For such we mourn, O purifying soul of life,For such we pray.Let Nature free them from the strifeOf falsehood's way,And Love through every struggle rifeHave free, full play.

In the different mansions of heavenly spacePrepared for the faithful and pure,(Ah me, for the faithful and pure!)Can I dare hope to find e'en a small resting placeFree from sin and all earthly allure?Can a soul such as mine, that has wasted life's wealthOn the baubles and gewgaws of time,(Ah me, on the baubles of time!)Have a fitting strength left to regain needed healthFor the life of a heavenly clime?For a life where the laws of the spirit, not sense,Bring their perfect eternal reward,(Ah me, their eternal reward!)And the pleasures obtained with such fever intenseCan find nowhere a vibrating chord?Oh, woe is me, woe is me, this Easter day!No hope riseth up in my soul.(Ah me, my poor sin-laden soul!)I have only the dregs of my pleasure to pay,And such wrong, bitter thoughts of life's whole.But, listen! What's that? What's that message I hearBearing down on my sad troubled heart?(Ah me, on my sad troubled heart!)"Christ is risen indeed. He is risen to cheer,And His strength to the weakest impart."O Christ, can it be that Thine own risen strengthCan give life, added life, to my soul,To my sin-laden, weak, starving soul?Yes, 'tis true. I'll believe, and rejoice now at lengthTo feel Easter's sweet joy o'er me roll.

Can a soul such as mine, that has wasted life's wealthOn the baubles and gewgaws of time,(Ah me, on the baubles of time!)Have a fitting strength left to regain needed healthFor the life of a heavenly clime?

For a life where the laws of the spirit, not sense,Bring their perfect eternal reward,(Ah me, their eternal reward!)And the pleasures obtained with such fever intenseCan find nowhere a vibrating chord?

Oh, woe is me, woe is me, this Easter day!No hope riseth up in my soul.(Ah me, my poor sin-laden soul!)I have only the dregs of my pleasure to pay,And such wrong, bitter thoughts of life's whole.

But, listen! What's that? What's that message I hearBearing down on my sad troubled heart?(Ah me, on my sad troubled heart!)"Christ is risen indeed. He is risen to cheer,And His strength to the weakest impart."

O Christ, can it be that Thine own risen strengthCan give life, added life, to my soul,To my sin-laden, weak, starving soul?Yes, 'tis true. I'll believe, and rejoice now at lengthTo feel Easter's sweet joy o'er me roll.

June 29, 1861.

"'Tis beautiful," she faintly cried,Then closed her weary eyes and died.So stands plain fact on history's page,Attested to by friend and sage.But in our hearts the fact grows bright,Illumined with immortal light.For open eyes saw heaven's shores,And life, not death, revealed its stores."'Tis beautiful!" It must be so,If such a soul 'midst parting's woe,Could with truth's perfect clearness seeThe secret of life's mystery;Couldknowthat fullest life of manNeeds heaven's light to round God's plan.O woman-soul without a peer,We thank thee more and more each yearFor this sweet proof of Beauty's powerBeyond earth's transitory hour.It calms our hours of doubt and pain,And beautifies earth's troubled reign,To feel that thou art sending stillThis same sweet message of God's will,Born of fruition's grander sight,Of perfect beauty, peace, and light.

"'Tis beautiful," she faintly cried,Then closed her weary eyes and died.

So stands plain fact on history's page,Attested to by friend and sage.

But in our hearts the fact grows bright,Illumined with immortal light.

For open eyes saw heaven's shores,And life, not death, revealed its stores.

"'Tis beautiful!" It must be so,If such a soul 'midst parting's woe,

Could with truth's perfect clearness seeThe secret of life's mystery;

Couldknowthat fullest life of manNeeds heaven's light to round God's plan.

O woman-soul without a peer,We thank thee more and more each year

For this sweet proof of Beauty's powerBeyond earth's transitory hour.

It calms our hours of doubt and pain,And beautifies earth's troubled reign,

To feel that thou art sending stillThis same sweet message of God's will,

Born of fruition's grander sight,Of perfect beauty, peace, and light.

"A peace out of pain,Then a light, then thy breast.O thou soul of my soul, I shall clasp thee again,And with God be the rest!"—Prospice.

"A peace out of pain,Then a light, then thy breast.O thou soul of my soul, I shall clasp thee again,And with God be the rest!"

—Prospice.

Fulfilled December 12, 1889.

Oh, the blessed fruitionOf peace out of pain!Of a light without darkness,A clasping again!Of a full soul reunionIn Love's endless reign!Sing, O earth, with new joyAt this victory won!For the faith that enduredTill the setting of sun!For the hope that shone clearThrough the mighty work done!For the love that sought GodTo guide love here begun!Sing, O earth, with new joyFor such victory won!

Oh, the blessed fruitionOf peace out of pain!Of a light without darkness,A clasping again!Of a full soul reunionIn Love's endless reign!

Sing, O earth, with new joyAt this victory won!For the faith that enduredTill the setting of sun!

For the hope that shone clearThrough the mighty work done!For the love that sought GodTo guide love here begun!Sing, O earth, with new joyFor such victory won!

O Neptune, in thy vast surveyOf all the ships that sail,Watch lovingly the well-known wayOf one we wait to hail.The Cephalonia is her name—But why need I tell more?Thou knowest indeed the well earned fameShe bears from shore to shore.But since among her company's bandIs one who's life to me,O Neptune, bear her in thy handE'en yet more tenderly,O'er gentle waves, 'neath fair blue sky,'Midst winds that only blowTo make the time more swiftly flyFor hearts that hunger so.

O Neptune, in thy vast surveyOf all the ships that sail,Watch lovingly the well-known wayOf one we wait to hail.

The Cephalonia is her name—But why need I tell more?Thou knowest indeed the well earned fameShe bears from shore to shore.

But since among her company's bandIs one who's life to me,O Neptune, bear her in thy handE'en yet more tenderly,

O'er gentle waves, 'neath fair blue sky,'Midst winds that only blowTo make the time more swiftly flyFor hearts that hunger so.

Boston, September 4, 1886.

Beautiful pansies, ye must knowYour sacred mission here,For how could otherwise ye growSo sweet and full of cheer?Your watchful love we can't o'errate,As, lingering here in tears,Fond memory brings the precious weightOf friendship's golden years.Ye are the symbols, pure and sweet,Of heartsease and of life,Through which our thought may dare retreatFrom pain and death so rife,To realms of light and peace above,From earth's alloy set free,Wherein abide immortal loveAnd deathless ministry.But still, while we your comfort seek,Our hearts will wildly yearnTo hear once more the loved one speak,Once more the form discern.

Beautiful pansies, ye must knowYour sacred mission here,For how could otherwise ye growSo sweet and full of cheer?

Your watchful love we can't o'errate,As, lingering here in tears,Fond memory brings the precious weightOf friendship's golden years.

Ye are the symbols, pure and sweet,Of heartsease and of life,Through which our thought may dare retreatFrom pain and death so rife,

To realms of light and peace above,From earth's alloy set free,Wherein abide immortal loveAnd deathless ministry.

But still, while we your comfort seek,Our hearts will wildly yearnTo hear once more the loved one speak,Once more the form discern.

At Woodlawn Cemetery, May, 1886.

Must I always look for sorrowOn the morrow?Must I never have the hopeThat a life of larger scopeWill before my vision ope?

II.

Ah, 'tis true there is but sorrowOn the morrowFor the broken hearts that wait,Bearing secretly their fate.Yet the opening of the gateTo the blessed heaven's morrow,When the aching, longing heartShall be free from pain and sorrow,Comes before my tired eyesWith a wondrous sweet surprise.

III.

But this joy is not for me,Not for me.Alas! for my poor broken heart,With its poisoned arrow's dart.Without hope, alone, apart.

I hear in the ocean's restless moanMy soul's lament.Will it ever cease?I feel in the rumbling earthquake's groanDeep anguish spent.Shall I now know peace?I see in the smallest heaven's loanEnough for content—But is that release?O no!My release is but found in the pure undertone,Coming nearer and dearer to me,Of a great human love beyond Nature at best,Eternal, inspiring, and free.Oh, that's my release.Happy me, happy me!

I hear in the ocean's restless moanMy soul's lament.Will it ever cease?

I feel in the rumbling earthquake's groanDeep anguish spent.Shall I now know peace?

I see in the smallest heaven's loanEnough for content—But is that release?

O no!My release is but found in the pure undertone,Coming nearer and dearer to me,

Of a great human love beyond Nature at best,Eternal, inspiring, and free.Oh, that's my release.Happy me, happy me!

TO E. T. G.

Out from the depths of silenceThe god of music came,To echo heavenly cadenceOn earth's fair shores of fame.Full-orbed, with heavenly glory,He met the lords of earth.But 'twas the old, old story,They blind were to his worth.So back to depths of silenceHe flew on wings of light,"To bide their time of nonsense,"He sang when out of sight.And as rolled on the ages,He ever and anonSent down to earth his pagesThe lords to breathe upon.At length he felt vibrations,From Germany's fair clime,Of sweetest modulationsE'er heard in realms of time.So forth he flew in raptureTo that dear father-land,To seize—ere earth could capture—A spirit pure and grand,To which he could surrenderHimself with perfect ease,And weave the music tender,Of heaven's own harmonies.He found the child Beethoven;On him his blessing fell.And in his soul was wovenThe sounds we know so well.

Out from the depths of silenceThe god of music came,To echo heavenly cadenceOn earth's fair shores of fame.

Full-orbed, with heavenly glory,He met the lords of earth.But 'twas the old, old story,They blind were to his worth.

So back to depths of silenceHe flew on wings of light,"To bide their time of nonsense,"He sang when out of sight.

And as rolled on the ages,He ever and anonSent down to earth his pagesThe lords to breathe upon.

At length he felt vibrations,From Germany's fair clime,Of sweetest modulationsE'er heard in realms of time.

So forth he flew in raptureTo that dear father-land,To seize—ere earth could capture—A spirit pure and grand,

To which he could surrenderHimself with perfect ease,And weave the music tender,Of heaven's own harmonies.

He found the child Beethoven;On him his blessing fell.And in his soul was wovenThe sounds we know so well.

(On the completion of his conductorship of the Boston Symphony Orchestra.)

1884–1889.

Great poets can without the aidOf kindred mindReveal to us the secrets laidOn them to find;But music-kings need ministriesTo sound their hidden harmonies.For showing us the inmost heartOf these great kings,And making clear with wondrous artTheir wanderings,We thank thee, while we tender hereA "bon voyage" to home's loved sphere.

Great poets can without the aidOf kindred mindReveal to us the secrets laidOn them to find;But music-kings need ministriesTo sound their hidden harmonies.

For showing us the inmost heartOf these great kings,And making clear with wondrous artTheir wanderings,We thank thee, while we tender hereA "bon voyage" to home's loved sphere.

AFTER THE BIRTH OF HER SON, R. A. F.

May 28, 1887.

I'd rather hear my baby's coo,That little gurgling coo,Than rarest song or symphonyBorn out of music's mysteryWhich once did woo.I'd rather see my baby's face,That lovely dimpled face,Than all the choicest works of art,Inspired by loving hand or heart,Contained in space.I'd rather feel my baby's eyes,Such deep blue heavenly eyes,Than all the world's delighted gaze,Proclaiming with continued praiseMy power to rise.O yes, 'tis true, my baby dear,My precious baby dear,Is more than music, art, or fame,Or anything that bears the nameOf pleasure here.For in this joy I find a rest,A soul-inspiring rest,Beyond the wealth of fame or art,To satisfy my woman-heart,Or make it blest.And as I live in this my gift,My heaven-sent, blessed gift,Thoughts such as Mary pondered o'erDeep in her heart in days of yoreCome to uplift,And make the claims of motherhood,Dear sacred motherhood,Become creation's mountain height,Whereon e'er shines the beacon-lightOf womanhood.

I'd rather hear my baby's coo,That little gurgling coo,Than rarest song or symphonyBorn out of music's mysteryWhich once did woo.

I'd rather see my baby's face,That lovely dimpled face,Than all the choicest works of art,Inspired by loving hand or heart,Contained in space.

I'd rather feel my baby's eyes,Such deep blue heavenly eyes,Than all the world's delighted gaze,Proclaiming with continued praiseMy power to rise.

O yes, 'tis true, my baby dear,My precious baby dear,Is more than music, art, or fame,Or anything that bears the nameOf pleasure here.

For in this joy I find a rest,A soul-inspiring rest,Beyond the wealth of fame or art,To satisfy my woman-heart,Or make it blest.

And as I live in this my gift,My heaven-sent, blessed gift,Thoughts such as Mary pondered o'erDeep in her heart in days of yoreCome to uplift,

And make the claims of motherhood,Dear sacred motherhood,Become creation's mountain height,Whereon e'er shines the beacon-lightOf womanhood.

Chelsea, Mass.

II.

AFTER THE DEATH OF R. A. F.

February 5, 1888.

Would I could see my baby's face,That lovely dimpled face,—O God, how can I bear the painOf never seeing it again,My baby's face;Of never seeing in those eyes,Those deep blue heavenly eyes,The wondrous glimpses of soul-lightWhich filled my heart with strange delightAnd sweet surprise;Of never hearing baby's coo,That little gurgling coo—O God, how can I bear the painOf never hearing it again,My baby's coo.Alas! "Thy will, not mine, be done."Not mine, but Thine, be done.I can but breathe again this prayer,As in the days of past despair,When peace was won.

Would I could see my baby's face,That lovely dimpled face,—O God, how can I bear the painOf never seeing it again,My baby's face;

Of never seeing in those eyes,Those deep blue heavenly eyes,The wondrous glimpses of soul-lightWhich filled my heart with strange delightAnd sweet surprise;

Of never hearing baby's coo,That little gurgling coo—O God, how can I bear the painOf never hearing it again,My baby's coo.

Alas! "Thy will, not mine, be done."Not mine, but Thine, be done.I can but breathe again this prayer,As in the days of past despair,When peace was won.

(Upon receiving a twig of green from the grave of Helen Hunt Jackson, October, 1888.)

With reverent touch and grateful heart,Dear thoughtful friend,I hold this precious bit of greenYou kindly sendFrom Cheyenne's holy, lonely grave,Where pilgrims tend.It touches springs of tenderest lifeInspired by her,Who, child of poetry and ease,Did not demurFrom sacrificing all to beWrong's arbiter.That rare mosaic it suggestsMade by the handOf those who seek this favored spotIn chosen land,Where, oft in life, she penned her soulAt Truth's command.'Tis true, she wished no monumentTo mark the place;But must she not be satisfiedTo see the spaceThus blessed and open to the heartOf every race?O brain of power and heart of fire,America's pride,No wonder that the mountain height,Above sin's tide,Was chosen as the resting placeWith death to hide;For such could give the needed restOn earth denied,Could satisfy the poet's thought,Unsatisfied,And symbolize the soul's true restWhen glorified.

With reverent touch and grateful heart,Dear thoughtful friend,I hold this precious bit of greenYou kindly sendFrom Cheyenne's holy, lonely grave,Where pilgrims tend.

It touches springs of tenderest lifeInspired by her,Who, child of poetry and ease,Did not demurFrom sacrificing all to beWrong's arbiter.

That rare mosaic it suggestsMade by the handOf those who seek this favored spotIn chosen land,Where, oft in life, she penned her soulAt Truth's command.

'Tis true, she wished no monumentTo mark the place;But must she not be satisfiedTo see the spaceThus blessed and open to the heartOf every race?

O brain of power and heart of fire,America's pride,No wonder that the mountain height,Above sin's tide,Was chosen as the resting placeWith death to hide;

For such could give the needed restOn earth denied,Could satisfy the poet's thought,Unsatisfied,And symbolize the soul's true restWhen glorified.

And is time marked in heaven? Dost know, O spirit friend,'Tis just a year ago to-dayThou went so suddenly away,And left me in my loneliness the weary days to spend?—Ah, weary days,Denied thy praiseAnd all thy many helpful ways!And is earth known in heaven? Dost see, O clear-eyed soul,The present changing life of manStill working out the wondrous planOf making even broken lives add to the complete whole?—Ah, broken livesThat death deprivesOf help like thine that heavenward strives!And are we known in heaven? Do I, thy once fond care,Still have that patient yearning loveWhich longed to lift my soul aboveThe sweet though transitory joys of even earth's best fare?—Ah, earth's best fareCannot compareWith thy ideal of me laid bare!

And is earth known in heaven? Dost see, O clear-eyed soul,The present changing life of manStill working out the wondrous planOf making even broken lives add to the complete whole?—Ah, broken livesThat death deprivesOf help like thine that heavenward strives!

And are we known in heaven? Do I, thy once fond care,Still have that patient yearning loveWhich longed to lift my soul aboveThe sweet though transitory joys of even earth's best fare?—Ah, earth's best fareCannot compareWith thy ideal of me laid bare!

TO S. R. H.

I have sowed in tears,—Shall I reap in joy?Shall my human heart be satisfied,And sorrow and pain be justified?Shall full fruition free my soulFrom limitation's sad control,And all my faculties of mindTheir perfect rest and freedom find?"They that sow in tearsShall reap in joy,"Sang a poet-heart in the long ago,'Midst depths of sorrow, pain, and woe;And what to him was truth and lifeHas shone through all the ages' strife,To be at last our beacon-lightOf comfort in the darkest night.

"They that sow in tearsShall reap in joy,"Sang a poet-heart in the long ago,'Midst depths of sorrow, pain, and woe;And what to him was truth and lifeHas shone through all the ages' strife,To be at last our beacon-lightOf comfort in the darkest night.

The autumn tints of these loved hillsOutlined against the sky,Are dearer far to me this yearThan in the years gone by;For they are colors Nature wearsTo celebrate the timeWhen her pet child changed life on earthFor that of heavenly clime.She thus rejoices, while our heartsWear not their flowers of joy.Alas! could she but give us backOur gifted artist boy!But then she sees that it was bestThat he, like her, should knowDeath, and the Resurrection too,The fullest life to show.

The autumn tints of these loved hillsOutlined against the sky,Are dearer far to me this yearThan in the years gone by;

For they are colors Nature wearsTo celebrate the timeWhen her pet child changed life on earthFor that of heavenly clime.

She thus rejoices, while our heartsWear not their flowers of joy.Alas! could she but give us backOur gifted artist boy!

But then she sees that it was bestThat he, like her, should knowDeath, and the Resurrection too,The fullest life to show.

TO MISS ELIZABETH P. PEABODY.

Thou priestess of pure childhood's heart,Wherein God's spirit lies,Thou willing priestess of the artOf true self-sacrifice,Ere thy rare spirit takes its flightTo realms beyond our praise,Where childhood's pure eternal lightShines through the blessed days,We thank thee for thy legacyOf thought wrought out in deed,By which love's sweet supremacyBecomes man's potent need.******Our nation must thy secret share,Ere it can fully riseTo heights of truth and insight whereTrue wisdom's glory lies.

Thou priestess of pure childhood's heart,Wherein God's spirit lies,Thou willing priestess of the artOf true self-sacrifice,

Ere thy rare spirit takes its flightTo realms beyond our praise,Where childhood's pure eternal lightShines through the blessed days,

We thank thee for thy legacyOf thought wrought out in deed,By which love's sweet supremacyBecomes man's potent need.

******

Our nation must thy secret share,Ere it can fully riseTo heights of truth and insight whereTrue wisdom's glory lies.

Put your arms around me.There—like that.I want a little pettingAt life's setting.For 'tis harder to be braveWhen feeble age comes creeping,And finds me weeping(Dear ones gone),Or brings before my tired eyesSweet visions of my youth's fair prize(There is a pain in sacrifice),Denied me then and ever.Left me alone? No, never.For in God's love I nestled,While with deep thought I wrestled,Till all my busy life at lengthWas spent in giving others strength,In making others' homes more bright,In making others' burdens light.But now, alone and weary,I am hungryFor a human love's sweet pettingAt life's setting.Keep your arms around me,Kiss my fevered brow,Whisper that you love meI can bear it now.Oh, how this does rest meNow my work is done!I've all my life loved others,Now I want love, dear one.Just a little pettingAt life's setting;For I'm old, alone, and tired,And my long life's work is done.

But now, alone and weary,I am hungryFor a human love's sweet pettingAt life's setting.Keep your arms around me,Kiss my fevered brow,Whisper that you love meI can bear it now.

Oh, how this does rest meNow my work is done!I've all my life loved others,Now I want love, dear one.Just a little pettingAt life's setting;For I'm old, alone, and tired,And my long life's work is done.

A TRUE EXPERIENCE.

"Still waiting, dear good grandma, for the blessed angel Death?""Yes waiting, only waiting to be borne across the sea,To the home my soul's been building all these years of mystery,Through ninety years and over now of deep and wondrous change,Wherein I've known the heights and depths of human feeling's range,And tried to solve the problems old of human life so strange.******You want to know my history, because I am so good?Ah, child, no human life can here be fully understood.You call me good, and what is more, a 'true and blessed saint.'(There is illusion sweet indeed in what you child-souls paintBefore you know too much of life and feel its evil taint.)You even picture beauties of my home across the seaWhich I never dared to hope for e'en on heights of ecstasy.You see me sitting helpless here, blind now for many years,Apparently so full of peace, so free from doubts and fears,—Though never free from Memory's thought which often brings the tears,—And you wonder where's the passion and the energy of youth,The power that even dared to sway to evil ways forsooth.Ah, you but see the blessed fruit of what God planted sure,When in my years of sorrow He was whispering, 'Endure.'You cannot see the dreadful scars which naught on earth can cure.You cannot see the passion wild, when, 'neath the coffin lid,Among the flowers, my children three, my precious all, were hid.Nor can you see my conflict sore, when I went almost madBefore the dying form of him who had loved me from a lad,A loving husband, kind and true, as ever woman had.But still, before my dear one died, more children came to me:Two lovely boys, who seemed at last a recompense to be.For sometimes it does seem as if God sends a special gift,To be a special help and strength, the selfish clouds to lift,Or—what, perhaps, we need as much—the wheat from chaff to sift.Through all my lonely, widowed life I lived in their sweet ways,And found no sacrifice too great in work for future days.At length they were my crowning joy. I'd come again to knowThe blessings of a married life—the happiest here below—When, lo! Death seized the oldest one, my boy that I loved so.This opened fresh the old deep wounds; but still I had much left,For then I was not, as before, of every child bereft.So on I went in daily life, determined to be trueTo blessings that were left to me. That does one's life renew,—Remember this, my dear one, when your grandma's gone from you.The years went on. I felt I'd had my share of sorrow's pain,So I banished every lingering thought that Death could come again.But when we are the surest, child, 'tis then he seems to beMore vigilant than ever to proclaim his mystery,As if he envied us an hour of joy's sweet company.My husband first was stricken down; then came the added blow:Two grown up sons, all settled with as fine a business showAs ever comes to mortals, were cut down in prime of life,Having just begun to free me from the circumstances rife,Which boded of the bitterness of poverty's dread strife.My soul was then so mystified, so dazed before God's will,That I could only find my voice in His calm words, 'Be still.'Oh, could I not been spared this stroke, known one less bitter pain,And been as good for duties here, as fit for heaven's reign?Was this the way, the only way, eternal life to gain?It cannot be much longer. I shall soon have crossed the sea,To the home my soul's been building all these years of mystery.I've had my share of sorrow, but I've done the best I could.God knows I've tried through all to grow more patient, wise, and good;To get at least this out of life, as every mortal should.But, though I've had his comfort, and still hear his sweet 'Endure,'I feel the bitter heartache which no time or sense can cure.My friends have all been laid away, my work long since was o'er,And now I'm only waiting for Death's landing on the shore.I hope 'twill be at sunset when he knocks at my soul's door;For, somehow, it much easier seems to go the unknown wayAttended by the beauty of the sun's last glorious ray.But as I calmly wait and think, it does seem rather queerThat what you 'blessed angel' call has seemed my chief curse here.Alas! how much we suffer before God's ways appear."

"Still waiting, dear good grandma, for the blessed angel Death?"

"Yes waiting, only waiting to be borne across the sea,To the home my soul's been building all these years of mystery,Through ninety years and over now of deep and wondrous change,Wherein I've known the heights and depths of human feeling's range,And tried to solve the problems old of human life so strange.

******

You want to know my history, because I am so good?Ah, child, no human life can here be fully understood.You call me good, and what is more, a 'true and blessed saint.'(There is illusion sweet indeed in what you child-souls paintBefore you know too much of life and feel its evil taint.)You even picture beauties of my home across the seaWhich I never dared to hope for e'en on heights of ecstasy.You see me sitting helpless here, blind now for many years,Apparently so full of peace, so free from doubts and fears,—Though never free from Memory's thought which often brings the tears,—And you wonder where's the passion and the energy of youth,The power that even dared to sway to evil ways forsooth.Ah, you but see the blessed fruit of what God planted sure,When in my years of sorrow He was whispering, 'Endure.'You cannot see the dreadful scars which naught on earth can cure.You cannot see the passion wild, when, 'neath the coffin lid,Among the flowers, my children three, my precious all, were hid.

Nor can you see my conflict sore, when I went almost madBefore the dying form of him who had loved me from a lad,A loving husband, kind and true, as ever woman had.But still, before my dear one died, more children came to me:Two lovely boys, who seemed at last a recompense to be.For sometimes it does seem as if God sends a special gift,To be a special help and strength, the selfish clouds to lift,Or—what, perhaps, we need as much—the wheat from chaff to sift.Through all my lonely, widowed life I lived in their sweet ways,And found no sacrifice too great in work for future days.At length they were my crowning joy. I'd come again to knowThe blessings of a married life—the happiest here below—When, lo! Death seized the oldest one, my boy that I loved so.This opened fresh the old deep wounds; but still I had much left,For then I was not, as before, of every child bereft.So on I went in daily life, determined to be trueTo blessings that were left to me. That does one's life renew,—Remember this, my dear one, when your grandma's gone from you.

The years went on. I felt I'd had my share of sorrow's pain,So I banished every lingering thought that Death could come again.But when we are the surest, child, 'tis then he seems to beMore vigilant than ever to proclaim his mystery,As if he envied us an hour of joy's sweet company.My husband first was stricken down; then came the added blow:Two grown up sons, all settled with as fine a business showAs ever comes to mortals, were cut down in prime of life,Having just begun to free me from the circumstances rife,Which boded of the bitterness of poverty's dread strife.My soul was then so mystified, so dazed before God's will,That I could only find my voice in His calm words, 'Be still.'Oh, could I not been spared this stroke, known one less bitter pain,And been as good for duties here, as fit for heaven's reign?Was this the way, the only way, eternal life to gain?

It cannot be much longer. I shall soon have crossed the sea,To the home my soul's been building all these years of mystery.I've had my share of sorrow, but I've done the best I could.God knows I've tried through all to grow more patient, wise, and good;To get at least this out of life, as every mortal should.But, though I've had his comfort, and still hear his sweet 'Endure,'I feel the bitter heartache which no time or sense can cure.My friends have all been laid away, my work long since was o'er,And now I'm only waiting for Death's landing on the shore.I hope 'twill be at sunset when he knocks at my soul's door;For, somehow, it much easier seems to go the unknown wayAttended by the beauty of the sun's last glorious ray.But as I calmly wait and think, it does seem rather queerThat what you 'blessed angel' call has seemed my chief curse here.Alas! how much we suffer before God's ways appear."

Does it pay—all this burden and worry,All the learning acquired with pain,All the planning and nervous wild action,The restlessness following gain,Does it pay?To be free from this burden and worry,To have knowledge without fear and pain,To be peaceful, far-seeing, sweet tempered,And calm in the presence of gain,We must know the pure secret of Nature,Like her be obedient to law,And work in the light of the promiseOf blessed results Christ foresaw.Then each day,And alway,Life will pay.

Does it pay—all this burden and worry,All the learning acquired with pain,All the planning and nervous wild action,The restlessness following gain,Does it pay?

To be free from this burden and worry,To have knowledge without fear and pain,To be peaceful, far-seeing, sweet tempered,And calm in the presence of gain,We must know the pure secret of Nature,Like her be obedient to law,And work in the light of the promiseOf blessed results Christ foresaw.Then each day,And alway,Life will pay.

The poet young e'er finds a tongueTo tell the joys of love.The poet bold e'en dares beholdThe mystery above.The poet brave e'er loves to raveOf wars and victories gained.The poet sweet e'en dares repeatThe angels' songs unfeigned.And to each one we say, "Well done,Go on and do thy best."Though still we feel each doth but sealA part of life's bequest.But yet we cry, "O goddess high,Must thou thy wealth so share?America feign would have the reignOfonethy gift to bear.She needs such one to help her shunThe dangerous shoals of thought,Which in this age of clown and sageHer progress gained hath wrought.She needs such one to help her shunThe deeper shoals of wrong,Which in these days of doubt's fond laysTempt e'en her favored strong.Oh, send such one to say, 'Well done,'And tell in truth God's plan,While he declares as well as sharesThe fullest life of man."

The poet young e'er finds a tongueTo tell the joys of love.The poet bold e'en dares beholdThe mystery above.

The poet brave e'er loves to raveOf wars and victories gained.The poet sweet e'en dares repeatThe angels' songs unfeigned.

And to each one we say, "Well done,Go on and do thy best."Though still we feel each doth but sealA part of life's bequest.

But yet we cry, "O goddess high,Must thou thy wealth so share?America feign would have the reignOfonethy gift to bear.

She needs such one to help her shunThe dangerous shoals of thought,Which in this age of clown and sageHer progress gained hath wrought.

She needs such one to help her shunThe deeper shoals of wrong,Which in these days of doubt's fond laysTempt e'en her favored strong.

Oh, send such one to say, 'Well done,'And tell in truth God's plan,While he declares as well as sharesThe fullest life of man."

"Would that my acts could equal the noble acts I've told.Would that I could but master myself as visions bold!"So cried a famous artist, in agony of soul,As waves of great temptation before him high did roll."Oh, would that I could body the thoughts that govern me.Oh, would that I could picture the visions I foresee!"So cried a saintly woman, in ecstasy of pain,As waves of sad depression rolled on her soul to gain.

"Would that my acts could equal the noble acts I've told.Would that I could but master myself as visions bold!"

So cried a famous artist, in agony of soul,As waves of great temptation before him high did roll.

"Oh, would that I could body the thoughts that govern me.Oh, would that I could picture the visions I foresee!"

So cried a saintly woman, in ecstasy of pain,As waves of sad depression rolled on her soul to gain.

Clio, with her flickering lightAnd book of valued lore,Comes down the ages, dark and bright,Our interest to implore.She walks with glad majestic mien,Proud of her knowledge gained;Though mourning oft at having seenMan's life so dulled and pained.Her face with lines of care is wrought,From searching mystery's cause,And dealing with the hidden thoughtOf nature's subtle laws.Yet still she blushes with new lifeAt sight of actions fine,And pales with anguish at the strifeOf evil's dread design.She stops to sing her grandest laysWhen, in creation's heat,She sees evolved a higher phaseOf life's fruition sweet.'Twas thus in days of Genesis,When man came forth supreme.'Twas thus in days of Nemesis,When Love did dare redeem.And thus 'twill be in future days,When out from spirit laws,Shall be brought forth for lasting praiseThe ever great First Cause.Oh, gladly know this wondrous museWho walks the aisles of Time,And not so thoughtlessly refuseHer book of lore sublime;For in it is the precious forceOf spirit-life divine,Which even through a winding courseLeads in to Wisdom's shrine.

Clio, with her flickering lightAnd book of valued lore,Comes down the ages, dark and bright,Our interest to implore.

She walks with glad majestic mien,Proud of her knowledge gained;Though mourning oft at having seenMan's life so dulled and pained.

Her face with lines of care is wrought,From searching mystery's cause,And dealing with the hidden thoughtOf nature's subtle laws.

Yet still she blushes with new lifeAt sight of actions fine,And pales with anguish at the strifeOf evil's dread design.

She stops to sing her grandest laysWhen, in creation's heat,She sees evolved a higher phaseOf life's fruition sweet.

'Twas thus in days of Genesis,When man came forth supreme.'Twas thus in days of Nemesis,When Love did dare redeem.

And thus 'twill be in future days,When out from spirit laws,Shall be brought forth for lasting praiseThe ever great First Cause.

Oh, gladly know this wondrous museWho walks the aisles of Time,And not so thoughtlessly refuseHer book of lore sublime;

For in it is the precious forceOf spirit-life divine,Which even through a winding courseLeads in to Wisdom's shrine.

(Written for G. H. T., on the death of W. S. T., March, 1889.)

Back to Index Next