THE SENTINEL

THE SENTINELdecorativeEACH flower is a sentinel of God,And ev'ry tree and ev'ry grassblade. NotAn unseen little stem, but that will standAnd wait and shine, and never ask whereforeIt came and why it has to wither. ThouArt such a sentinel, O Heart! Thou hastTo stand and bloom and love beside the others,And wither when thy work is done, the spotBeing given to another, whereuponThou standest. And that other heart is growingAnd blooming into life beneath thy shade,As strong as thine, as ruby-red as thine,To wither and to fall beneath the scythe,As thine has done. Why ask and why despair?Why not be happy with the sun, the dew,The other flowery hearts that, full of lifeUnfold their petals, which are deep like thine,And rich as thine? Ye are to be a gloriousAnd many-coloured meadow. Is it notEnough? And must ye grumble? Must ye striveTo take away the light and dew, that fallNot to your share? Behold the scythe! And sowThy seed and ask not where it falls. The windOf fate has carried it away, to placeAnother sentinel, as unknown, asUnsought for as thyself, in a far land,To live when thou art gone, to bloom intoSome unexpected beauty with thy strength,Thy blood, the thoughts that were companions onceTo thee and that the wind hath blown so farAway. Thou shalt not say unto thy seed:"Fly thither!" It obeyeth not thy will.Thou shalt not long to be another plant;Thy tragedy is useless, and thy willIs nought. With all thy strength thou art but whatIs wanted—tree or grassblade—never askWherefore? Here is no answer. Fate itselfKnows not wherefore it blows, or tells thee not,But takes thy noblest self to other climesAnd leaves thee to the scythe. Complain not! Mourn not!Long not to live another day, when thouArt called, but bow thy head without a sigh,In gentle acquiescence, sentinel!

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EACH flower is a sentinel of God,And ev'ry tree and ev'ry grassblade. NotAn unseen little stem, but that will standAnd wait and shine, and never ask whereforeIt came and why it has to wither. ThouArt such a sentinel, O Heart! Thou hastTo stand and bloom and love beside the others,And wither when thy work is done, the spotBeing given to another, whereuponThou standest. And that other heart is growingAnd blooming into life beneath thy shade,As strong as thine, as ruby-red as thine,To wither and to fall beneath the scythe,As thine has done. Why ask and why despair?Why not be happy with the sun, the dew,The other flowery hearts that, full of lifeUnfold their petals, which are deep like thine,And rich as thine? Ye are to be a gloriousAnd many-coloured meadow. Is it notEnough? And must ye grumble? Must ye striveTo take away the light and dew, that fallNot to your share? Behold the scythe! And sowThy seed and ask not where it falls. The windOf fate has carried it away, to placeAnother sentinel, as unknown, asUnsought for as thyself, in a far land,To live when thou art gone, to bloom intoSome unexpected beauty with thy strength,Thy blood, the thoughts that were companions onceTo thee and that the wind hath blown so farAway. Thou shalt not say unto thy seed:"Fly thither!" It obeyeth not thy will.Thou shalt not long to be another plant;Thy tragedy is useless, and thy willIs nought. With all thy strength thou art but whatIs wanted—tree or grassblade—never askWherefore? Here is no answer. Fate itselfKnows not wherefore it blows, or tells thee not,But takes thy noblest self to other climesAnd leaves thee to the scythe. Complain not! Mourn not!Long not to live another day, when thouArt called, but bow thy head without a sigh,In gentle acquiescence, sentinel!

LETHEdecorativeWHEN dark thy childhood, tears and grief have filledThy swelling heart, that understood too much,Yet not enough to be forgiving, whenThe sun was pale, and darkness lonely, whenThe fear of unknown evil made thy lipsTurn cold, and wonder changed to horror, thenTo dumb despair, to childhood's hopelessness,More hopeless than old age's iron clutchOf unbelief, the shadow of the pastWill cast a pall o'er all thy life, then say:Go down, Remembrance, into Lethe, go!When work was hard and sacrifice in vain,And stones were hurled at thee, thy flowers troddenInto the soil, that, soaked with all thy blood,Could not resist, and giving way would swallowThy noblest thoughts, and teach thee to undoThyself, gainsay thyself, as if a cowardWere crouching on thy shoulders, making theeBelieve that all thy heroism wasA sham—then say: Go down to Lethe, Thought,And darken not the hour when I riseOut of myself, out of the past, intoThe open day of wide forgetfulness.When shame has crept into the rocky strength,Into the pure recess a spotless soulHad lent thee, and with fiery coals has burntA mark no rivers wash away, no windsCan cool, that sends a shudder through thy heart,Like snakes of cold disgust, then say again:Go down to Lethe, not to rise and sting.But when those eyes, that were thy sun, are shut,When blind with tears thy gaze hath yet beholdThe angel wings that carried through unknownUntold of space thy life, thy heart, thy hope—No Lethe then! And no forgetfulness!But open wide thy soul: It is the sun,The sun that sends its beauteous rays intoThe dark, into the cold, into the nightAnd terror of thy life. If grief hath ploughedThe soil, fear not! The corn is rising, youngAnd green and full of hope; the sun hath called;The sun shines full into that heart that wasSo torn, so weak, that could not lift itselfUnto the heavens. They are open now,Flooded with light; take not thine eyes away,Bend not thy look unto the earth again,But rise on shining wings toward the raysThat draw thee, call thee, bear thee to the light!

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WHEN dark thy childhood, tears and grief have filledThy swelling heart, that understood too much,Yet not enough to be forgiving, whenThe sun was pale, and darkness lonely, whenThe fear of unknown evil made thy lipsTurn cold, and wonder changed to horror, thenTo dumb despair, to childhood's hopelessness,More hopeless than old age's iron clutchOf unbelief, the shadow of the pastWill cast a pall o'er all thy life, then say:Go down, Remembrance, into Lethe, go!When work was hard and sacrifice in vain,And stones were hurled at thee, thy flowers troddenInto the soil, that, soaked with all thy blood,Could not resist, and giving way would swallowThy noblest thoughts, and teach thee to undoThyself, gainsay thyself, as if a cowardWere crouching on thy shoulders, making theeBelieve that all thy heroism wasA sham—then say: Go down to Lethe, Thought,And darken not the hour when I riseOut of myself, out of the past, intoThe open day of wide forgetfulness.When shame has crept into the rocky strength,Into the pure recess a spotless soulHad lent thee, and with fiery coals has burntA mark no rivers wash away, no windsCan cool, that sends a shudder through thy heart,Like snakes of cold disgust, then say again:Go down to Lethe, not to rise and sting.But when those eyes, that were thy sun, are shut,When blind with tears thy gaze hath yet beholdThe angel wings that carried through unknownUntold of space thy life, thy heart, thy hope—No Lethe then! And no forgetfulness!But open wide thy soul: It is the sun,The sun that sends its beauteous rays intoThe dark, into the cold, into the nightAnd terror of thy life. If grief hath ploughedThe soil, fear not! The corn is rising, youngAnd green and full of hope; the sun hath called;The sun shines full into that heart that wasSo torn, so weak, that could not lift itselfUnto the heavens. They are open now,Flooded with light; take not thine eyes away,Bend not thy look unto the earth again,But rise on shining wings toward the raysThat draw thee, call thee, bear thee to the light!

A DEBTORdecorativeOH, do not say that thanklessness has beenThy sole reward! What? Wouldst thou be rewarded?When God had laid the gift into thy heart,Thy hand, upon the road thou hadst to tread?Lay all thy thanks before the feet of himWho did not shun thy help, thy gift, thy love,But bore the humiliation and the weakness,And bared his heart before thy human gaze,The heart where none but God e'er read the truth,The burning record of despair. Be humble,Thyself, and touch not roughly, where the woundIs open, see the beads of anguish onThe furrowed brow, the tightdrawn lips, and hearThe tremor in the whispered words, that rollSo heavily from off the heart, and leaveIt crushed, sometimes for ever. Dost thou knowWhat lifeblood it hath cost to speak to thee,What tortured nights have gone before, what cryOf anguish rose towards that God, who seemedSo merciless to him and overkindTo thee, allowing thee to be his angel,To answer when a living word of loveHad to be spoken, and a hand put out to help.Make him forget what he has told thee,Let him not feel that thou hast not forgotten,But make him help thee in his turn, when thineThe pain, the care, the fear; allow him thenTo tend thee, and to pay his debt to thyHumility, and to thy thankfulness.

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OH, do not say that thanklessness has beenThy sole reward! What? Wouldst thou be rewarded?When God had laid the gift into thy heart,Thy hand, upon the road thou hadst to tread?Lay all thy thanks before the feet of himWho did not shun thy help, thy gift, thy love,But bore the humiliation and the weakness,And bared his heart before thy human gaze,The heart where none but God e'er read the truth,The burning record of despair. Be humble,Thyself, and touch not roughly, where the woundIs open, see the beads of anguish onThe furrowed brow, the tightdrawn lips, and hearThe tremor in the whispered words, that rollSo heavily from off the heart, and leaveIt crushed, sometimes for ever. Dost thou knowWhat lifeblood it hath cost to speak to thee,What tortured nights have gone before, what cryOf anguish rose towards that God, who seemedSo merciless to him and overkindTo thee, allowing thee to be his angel,To answer when a living word of loveHad to be spoken, and a hand put out to help.Make him forget what he has told thee,Let him not feel that thou hast not forgotten,But make him help thee in his turn, when thineThe pain, the care, the fear; allow him thenTo tend thee, and to pay his debt to thyHumility, and to thy thankfulness.

"VENGEANCE IS MINE," SAITH THE LORDdecorativeTHOU wouldst not be avenged if thou hadst butInsight enough into the human heart,Into its frailty and its cowardice.Thou wouldst not be avenged if thou but sawestHow mad, how childish and how selfish areThe helpless ones, that did thee harm becauseThey thought—Ah! What then thought they! That perchanceYou hated them, or trod them down, or tookTheir sun away; and e'en for love will theyDestroy thee, meaning well with thee—so well,That they as lief would see thee dead, not toBelong to what they hate—thy work, thy friend,Thy strong ambition, or the gift that GodHath put into thy soul, that calleth theeAway to other heights and other temples,Then where they long have worshipped. They dislikeThy road, thy word, they call it strange and dark,And they would lead thee back to where they startedSo long ago with thee, and show the wrongThou doest quite unwittingly. A sigh,A smile is all thine answer, but thy wayIs chosen; then the hue and cry is raisedAgainst thee, and thy staunchest friends will pileWith eager hands the wood on which to burnThy very soul, and not a tear will quenchThat fire, not a hand will save thee, forThou art misunderstood, misjudged, despised,And hated by the friends, who once believedIn thee as in their God. And what revengeCould help thee? Falling back on thee, thy armStruck to the ground, thy heart a desert, notDevastated to bloom again, but burntTo lava by your heart's own flame of vengeance.And if forgiveness be too great for thee,Go past, turn not thy head, speak not a wordThat cannot be recalled, and that will barThe road for ever, that will cut the clothBetween thy foes and thee. The present hourHath made that foe, who may come back to thee,And see thy truth. Be great and say: I haveNo foe! I smile, and they are nought! A breathMay lay them low, so low that they must callTo me for help! Then is thy vengeance ripe!Give help with gentle pity. Feel that thouArt ready with a well of living waters,With flowers still more lovely than before.Keep down the flames that make thee a volcano.Let lovely warmth be all their strength. For thouArt called upon to love and not to hate,To help and not to punish, as thine eyesAre far too weak to see the consequenceOf human anger. Even the volcanoIs aimless, powerless, like Fate itself,And thou canst not be Fate. Ah! Be thou thenA human heart amongst poor human hearts!

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THOU wouldst not be avenged if thou hadst butInsight enough into the human heart,Into its frailty and its cowardice.Thou wouldst not be avenged if thou but sawestHow mad, how childish and how selfish areThe helpless ones, that did thee harm becauseThey thought—Ah! What then thought they! That perchanceYou hated them, or trod them down, or tookTheir sun away; and e'en for love will theyDestroy thee, meaning well with thee—so well,That they as lief would see thee dead, not toBelong to what they hate—thy work, thy friend,Thy strong ambition, or the gift that GodHath put into thy soul, that calleth theeAway to other heights and other temples,Then where they long have worshipped. They dislikeThy road, thy word, they call it strange and dark,And they would lead thee back to where they startedSo long ago with thee, and show the wrongThou doest quite unwittingly. A sigh,A smile is all thine answer, but thy wayIs chosen; then the hue and cry is raisedAgainst thee, and thy staunchest friends will pileWith eager hands the wood on which to burnThy very soul, and not a tear will quenchThat fire, not a hand will save thee, forThou art misunderstood, misjudged, despised,And hated by the friends, who once believedIn thee as in their God. And what revengeCould help thee? Falling back on thee, thy armStruck to the ground, thy heart a desert, notDevastated to bloom again, but burntTo lava by your heart's own flame of vengeance.And if forgiveness be too great for thee,Go past, turn not thy head, speak not a wordThat cannot be recalled, and that will barThe road for ever, that will cut the clothBetween thy foes and thee. The present hourHath made that foe, who may come back to thee,And see thy truth. Be great and say: I haveNo foe! I smile, and they are nought! A breathMay lay them low, so low that they must callTo me for help! Then is thy vengeance ripe!Give help with gentle pity. Feel that thouArt ready with a well of living waters,With flowers still more lovely than before.Keep down the flames that make thee a volcano.Let lovely warmth be all their strength. For thouArt called upon to love and not to hate,To help and not to punish, as thine eyesAre far too weak to see the consequenceOf human anger. Even the volcanoIs aimless, powerless, like Fate itself,And thou canst not be Fate. Ah! Be thou thenA human heart amongst poor human hearts!

NIGHTdecorativeONIGHT! Thou friend of Thought, of Song, of wingedInspiration! So gentle is thy tread,Thy hand so soft, thy look so deep, the seaIs not so deep as thy mysterious gaze.Revealest thou what worlds have thought in distant,Unfathomable dream? Thou knowest wonders,And tellest them in whispers to the dreamer.Thou art alive with silence, gentle Night,The silence of the Past and of the Future,Of things untold, but not forgotten, dreamsUnreal, yet full of burning truth, and cladIn image, that they startle not our heart,Nor wake its nerveless beating till it sounds.In silence, wondrous Night, thou teachest whatThe noisy Day would never understand:Thou makest us descend into the mineYet unexplorèd of our soul, that hoardsThe many destinies of thousand yearsAnd other thousand years it wandered through.Search in the darkness of that mine, behold!The gold that shineth forth into thine eyes,The treasures of those other lives that deathTransformed and left them unremembered. InThe stillness that surrounds thy search thy soulWill show thee all its strength and weakness, allThose errors that condemned it to anotherAnd yet another life, to die again,And rise again and wander, yet a stranger,Into the changing world, but laden withThe knowledge of the past it seems to learnAnd calls it history, perchance its ownForgotten past, the very person thatIt seemed to be. And now it wonders whyThat person acted so and erred and wroughtSuch destinies. And all the time it isItself that learns itself. Neglect not dreamsNor call them worthless. Great the truths they bring,Revealed in sights and legendary lore.When understood they are a blessing. LearnTo understand the vision's soul, the thoughtWhich it conveys, the future it reveals,The past it fetches out of yonder mineThy brain was far too tired or far too weakTo search. When plunged in sleep that brain that nowIs thine will listen and may learn such thingsThy soul will tell, as never book or schoolOr present life will teach. Oh, blessed Night!Spread o'er my soul thy wings and carry meInto those worlds my brain can never reach!Fathom not memories, but let me feelAt one with all those lights that lie uponThy bosom, breathing, shining there in silence.

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ONIGHT! Thou friend of Thought, of Song, of wingedInspiration! So gentle is thy tread,Thy hand so soft, thy look so deep, the seaIs not so deep as thy mysterious gaze.Revealest thou what worlds have thought in distant,Unfathomable dream? Thou knowest wonders,And tellest them in whispers to the dreamer.Thou art alive with silence, gentle Night,The silence of the Past and of the Future,Of things untold, but not forgotten, dreamsUnreal, yet full of burning truth, and cladIn image, that they startle not our heart,Nor wake its nerveless beating till it sounds.In silence, wondrous Night, thou teachest whatThe noisy Day would never understand:Thou makest us descend into the mineYet unexplorèd of our soul, that hoardsThe many destinies of thousand yearsAnd other thousand years it wandered through.Search in the darkness of that mine, behold!The gold that shineth forth into thine eyes,The treasures of those other lives that deathTransformed and left them unremembered. InThe stillness that surrounds thy search thy soulWill show thee all its strength and weakness, allThose errors that condemned it to anotherAnd yet another life, to die again,And rise again and wander, yet a stranger,Into the changing world, but laden withThe knowledge of the past it seems to learnAnd calls it history, perchance its ownForgotten past, the very person thatIt seemed to be. And now it wonders whyThat person acted so and erred and wroughtSuch destinies. And all the time it isItself that learns itself. Neglect not dreamsNor call them worthless. Great the truths they bring,Revealed in sights and legendary lore.When understood they are a blessing. LearnTo understand the vision's soul, the thoughtWhich it conveys, the future it reveals,The past it fetches out of yonder mineThy brain was far too tired or far too weakTo search. When plunged in sleep that brain that nowIs thine will listen and may learn such thingsThy soul will tell, as never book or schoolOr present life will teach. Oh, blessed Night!Spread o'er my soul thy wings and carry meInto those worlds my brain can never reach!Fathom not memories, but let me feelAt one with all those lights that lie uponThy bosom, breathing, shining there in silence.

ROUSEDdecorativeSLUMBER not! Rest not! Dream not! Thou art called!The blast has rung out o'er thy living grave;The clouds that hung so low above thy headPoured out their flame into thy soul, and yetLeft more, much more alive there than thou knewest of.Awake! the years stand at thy gate, and knockTo call thee forth, the dead past comes to life,And drives thee, with its flood of whirling waters,Onward to action, not to idle dreaming.Arise! walk on those waves, for they will bear thee.Trust thine own strength, and tread the flakes of foamLightly, with wingèd feet, with wingèd soul!And thou shalt see that gales have left untouchedThe springtime in thy heart, still breaking forthIn admiration, thankfulness and love.Yes, not even love is quenched, and still undimmedEnthusiasm's banner waves on high above thee.Thou fearest the world? And what then is the world?The shadow of a cloud—no more. Thou wouldst notSuffer it to become a stone to crush thee?Up! Shake thy shining wings upon the Dawn,And laugh the world to shame. 'Tis but a pageant,A mockery; give up thy heart to lifeIn all its fulness—never to the world!And though the world should crush thine heart and say"Behold! 'tis dust and ashes!"—though it scatterThose ashes to the winds—yet art thou stillPure and unconquerable, O my heart!Thou art of those to whom an open foeIs but a friend disguised; to whom each blowServes as a force to send thee ever higher,Far above yawning gulf and raging whirlpool.O heart of mine, be strong! Doubt not, for doubtWas ever the one deadly foe, whose toilsMight strangle thee. Up! fight that monster, trampleIts venom under foot. The hour has comeFor thee to step forth, young again and free,A new Sir Galahad, brave, pure and strong,Around whom angels hover as he stretchesHis spotless shield to meet the early raysOf Heaven's bright, cloudless, joyous Morning-sun!

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SLUMBER not! Rest not! Dream not! Thou art called!The blast has rung out o'er thy living grave;The clouds that hung so low above thy headPoured out their flame into thy soul, and yetLeft more, much more alive there than thou knewest of.Awake! the years stand at thy gate, and knockTo call thee forth, the dead past comes to life,And drives thee, with its flood of whirling waters,Onward to action, not to idle dreaming.Arise! walk on those waves, for they will bear thee.Trust thine own strength, and tread the flakes of foamLightly, with wingèd feet, with wingèd soul!And thou shalt see that gales have left untouchedThe springtime in thy heart, still breaking forthIn admiration, thankfulness and love.Yes, not even love is quenched, and still undimmedEnthusiasm's banner waves on high above thee.Thou fearest the world? And what then is the world?The shadow of a cloud—no more. Thou wouldst notSuffer it to become a stone to crush thee?Up! Shake thy shining wings upon the Dawn,And laugh the world to shame. 'Tis but a pageant,A mockery; give up thy heart to lifeIn all its fulness—never to the world!And though the world should crush thine heart and say"Behold! 'tis dust and ashes!"—though it scatterThose ashes to the winds—yet art thou stillPure and unconquerable, O my heart!Thou art of those to whom an open foeIs but a friend disguised; to whom each blowServes as a force to send thee ever higher,Far above yawning gulf and raging whirlpool.O heart of mine, be strong! Doubt not, for doubtWas ever the one deadly foe, whose toilsMight strangle thee. Up! fight that monster, trampleIts venom under foot. The hour has comeFor thee to step forth, young again and free,A new Sir Galahad, brave, pure and strong,Around whom angels hover as he stretchesHis spotless shield to meet the early raysOf Heaven's bright, cloudless, joyous Morning-sun!

SADNESSdecorativeTHY sadness is a leaden shroud, a rockOf Sisyphus, which thou must upward rollBy night and day, on, on. Its downward rushIs no relief, no help, since it but seemsHeavier at each fresh start. And still thy strengthIs waning, and thy heart aches with the tears—The unshed tears that lie like stones upon it,While those that flowed are rivers in thy path—Unfathomable, fordless, dark and deep.These thou must wade, with all thy burdens—wadeAnd sink with every step as 'twere thy last,And feel such deadly weakness seize on theeAs though some raging fever laid thee low.Thy sadness is a Nessus robe, that clingsIn burning folds about thee, sears thy flesh,And eats into thy bones. 'Tis like a weaponA man turns on himself, whose wound nought heals,Since it is dealt against his inmost soul.If, then, through clouds of sadness, thou perceivestThe world, well mayst thou say of it: 'Tis hell!For spring itself is dark, the birds' sweet carolCheerless and dull, thy life a very desert,Where human faces pass like spectral visions,And gladness is a thing so clean forgotten,As if it ne'er had been—its very nameBecome a soundless word, a ghostly whisper!

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THY sadness is a leaden shroud, a rockOf Sisyphus, which thou must upward rollBy night and day, on, on. Its downward rushIs no relief, no help, since it but seemsHeavier at each fresh start. And still thy strengthIs waning, and thy heart aches with the tears—The unshed tears that lie like stones upon it,While those that flowed are rivers in thy path—Unfathomable, fordless, dark and deep.These thou must wade, with all thy burdens—wadeAnd sink with every step as 'twere thy last,And feel such deadly weakness seize on theeAs though some raging fever laid thee low.Thy sadness is a Nessus robe, that clingsIn burning folds about thee, sears thy flesh,And eats into thy bones. 'Tis like a weaponA man turns on himself, whose wound nought heals,Since it is dealt against his inmost soul.If, then, through clouds of sadness, thou perceivestThe world, well mayst thou say of it: 'Tis hell!For spring itself is dark, the birds' sweet carolCheerless and dull, thy life a very desert,Where human faces pass like spectral visions,And gladness is a thing so clean forgotten,As if it ne'er had been—its very nameBecome a soundless word, a ghostly whisper!

WHEN JOY IS DEADdecorativeBE still! A corpse lies there, a poor dead thing,With upturned face, white-lipped, the haggard features,Whereon once played a smile that gladdened hearts,Now set and cold. Circled with black and sunkenAre now the eyes where stars were wont to sparkle,And Fate has drawn deep lines between the brows,That but a short time since seemed arched for mischief,And full of childish mirth. Close to the templesThe hair clings straight and dull and colourless.And it was golden once, like living rays,And waved about the head, a sunrise-halo!The hands are folded—rigid, waxen, cold,They that were once like rose-leaves, in whose veinsThe blood coursed swiftly, full of generous warmthAnd loving gifts, and flowers, and balm for sorrow.Cold are they now, as had they never yetClasped children to the heart, nor with deft touchBroidered such fairy work, nor scattered broadcastSuch fairy gifts. The feet that danced along,Leaving no trace upon the flower-petals,Lie stiff out-stretched, and round about them hangIn heavy folds, as were they carved in marble,The robes that fluttered lightly in the breeze,Like opalescent wings.Ah! cold and darkThe grave to thee, thou Sun-child! ray of brightness!Beloved messenger of God! Arise!Canst thou be dead? and canst thou look so stern?Ah, no! not stern, but martyred! Cruel handsHave rent thy garments, dragged thee by the hair,Burnt out thine eyes, and filled thy cup with poison,As fit requital of thy priceless gifts,Kind Joy, true friend! And now they see thee deadWith careless eyes, and point, and feign to thinkThou ne'er hast been! Ah, Joy! sweet Joy! arise!Be stronger than thy foes! But no! 'tis vain!Poor Joy was deadly tired, and now she sleeps!

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BE still! A corpse lies there, a poor dead thing,With upturned face, white-lipped, the haggard features,Whereon once played a smile that gladdened hearts,Now set and cold. Circled with black and sunkenAre now the eyes where stars were wont to sparkle,And Fate has drawn deep lines between the brows,That but a short time since seemed arched for mischief,And full of childish mirth. Close to the templesThe hair clings straight and dull and colourless.And it was golden once, like living rays,And waved about the head, a sunrise-halo!The hands are folded—rigid, waxen, cold,They that were once like rose-leaves, in whose veinsThe blood coursed swiftly, full of generous warmthAnd loving gifts, and flowers, and balm for sorrow.Cold are they now, as had they never yetClasped children to the heart, nor with deft touchBroidered such fairy work, nor scattered broadcastSuch fairy gifts. The feet that danced along,Leaving no trace upon the flower-petals,Lie stiff out-stretched, and round about them hangIn heavy folds, as were they carved in marble,The robes that fluttered lightly in the breeze,Like opalescent wings.Ah! cold and darkThe grave to thee, thou Sun-child! ray of brightness!Beloved messenger of God! Arise!Canst thou be dead? and canst thou look so stern?Ah, no! not stern, but martyred! Cruel handsHave rent thy garments, dragged thee by the hair,Burnt out thine eyes, and filled thy cup with poison,As fit requital of thy priceless gifts,Kind Joy, true friend! And now they see thee deadWith careless eyes, and point, and feign to thinkThou ne'er hast been! Ah, Joy! sweet Joy! arise!Be stronger than thy foes! But no! 'tis vain!Poor Joy was deadly tired, and now she sleeps!

A ROOMdecorativeWHITEWASHED or panelled, filled with books, with light,With flowers, with trifles sacred to the heart,And work so pure and sweet that morning-dewMight settle there and feel itself at homeAs though 'mid garden fragrance; while the carolOf birds streams through the window joyously,Mistaking that abode of peace and loveFor their own woodland haunts! And in that roomA woman's dainty hands ever at work,A woman's loving heart ever awakeFor others' happiness, a woman's thoughtAlive in tender memories that embalmThe past in mute forgiveness. Enter thenAs 'twere a sanctuary, lay asideThy load of care, and yield thy weary soulTo the deep sense of comfort reigning there.Not many words—nay, not a single word—Need tremble through the stillness, not a sighWith untoward avowal break the peaceThat folds thee to its heart and asks no question.Such perfect peace pervades a room like this,'Twould seem the raging storm, the roaring sea,Might lay themselves to rest upon its threshold.The ghosts that haunt it come in guise of angels,With rosy finger-tips laid on their lips,To hush our voices to the whispered tonesOf children's prayers. Enter, thou weary wanderer,Enter! and have no fear, for pain and anguishHave long been wept away, and have but leftTheir precious perfume and the healing balmOf self-forgetfulness to comfort thee!

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WHITEWASHED or panelled, filled with books, with light,With flowers, with trifles sacred to the heart,And work so pure and sweet that morning-dewMight settle there and feel itself at homeAs though 'mid garden fragrance; while the carolOf birds streams through the window joyously,Mistaking that abode of peace and loveFor their own woodland haunts! And in that roomA woman's dainty hands ever at work,A woman's loving heart ever awakeFor others' happiness, a woman's thoughtAlive in tender memories that embalmThe past in mute forgiveness. Enter thenAs 'twere a sanctuary, lay asideThy load of care, and yield thy weary soulTo the deep sense of comfort reigning there.Not many words—nay, not a single word—Need tremble through the stillness, not a sighWith untoward avowal break the peaceThat folds thee to its heart and asks no question.Such perfect peace pervades a room like this,'Twould seem the raging storm, the roaring sea,Might lay themselves to rest upon its threshold.The ghosts that haunt it come in guise of angels,With rosy finger-tips laid on their lips,To hush our voices to the whispered tonesOf children's prayers. Enter, thou weary wanderer,Enter! and have no fear, for pain and anguishHave long been wept away, and have but leftTheir precious perfume and the healing balmOf self-forgetfulness to comfort thee!

UNRESTdecorativeTO toss with fevered brain and throbbing pulsesUpon thy bed at night—thine aching eyes,Straining into the darkness, hot and weary,Thy heart like lead, yet ever wildly boundingWithin thee, like a gun made loose in shipwreck,That rolls from side to side, an unchained danger,Thy pillows fire, thy couch a rack, whereonThy tortured limbs seem cords strung by the storm,Thy thoughts a tangled skein, unclear, disordered,And all the past that should have been forgottenRising up ghostly, in fantastic guise,To make the present worse, to slay all hope,To quench the beacon that till now has beenThy only stay in night's deep gloom and horror!This, O my soul! is Unrest, and thou knowestIts misery but too well! All the old scarsOf former battles bleed once more within thee,As if thy life were oozing, drop by drop.And thou wert fain with trembling fingers seizeThat foolish heart, and fling it in thy pathTo trample under foot, or, further still,Sink it in sea-depths, and then turn awayCalm and indifferent, deeming all were wellWere but its restlessness thus stilled, and thouFree from its tumult.Yet that heart of thineHas weathered may a gale, and still might standUnshaken at the helm of life's wrecked craft,A gallant pilot, waiting for the signThat bids the clouds disperse, hushes the winds,And, having calmed the waves, shall guide thy courseTo sun-lit shores, sweet with immortal flowers.Be brave, poor heart, for thou drawest near the haven,And though thy beacon be extinguished, thoughThy rudder has been snapped, thy compass lost,Thou still art safe, for the same Mighty HandThat sent thee forth upon the stormy seaShall lead thee home and give thee rest at last!

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TO toss with fevered brain and throbbing pulsesUpon thy bed at night—thine aching eyes,Straining into the darkness, hot and weary,Thy heart like lead, yet ever wildly boundingWithin thee, like a gun made loose in shipwreck,That rolls from side to side, an unchained danger,Thy pillows fire, thy couch a rack, whereonThy tortured limbs seem cords strung by the storm,Thy thoughts a tangled skein, unclear, disordered,And all the past that should have been forgottenRising up ghostly, in fantastic guise,To make the present worse, to slay all hope,To quench the beacon that till now has beenThy only stay in night's deep gloom and horror!This, O my soul! is Unrest, and thou knowestIts misery but too well! All the old scarsOf former battles bleed once more within thee,As if thy life were oozing, drop by drop.And thou wert fain with trembling fingers seizeThat foolish heart, and fling it in thy pathTo trample under foot, or, further still,Sink it in sea-depths, and then turn awayCalm and indifferent, deeming all were wellWere but its restlessness thus stilled, and thouFree from its tumult.Yet that heart of thineHas weathered may a gale, and still might standUnshaken at the helm of life's wrecked craft,A gallant pilot, waiting for the signThat bids the clouds disperse, hushes the winds,And, having calmed the waves, shall guide thy courseTo sun-lit shores, sweet with immortal flowers.Be brave, poor heart, for thou drawest near the haven,And though thy beacon be extinguished, thoughThy rudder has been snapped, thy compass lost,Thou still art safe, for the same Mighty HandThat sent thee forth upon the stormy seaShall lead thee home and give thee rest at last!

Colston & Coy. Limited, Printers, Edinburgh

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