BY THE FIRESIDERESIGNATIONThere is no flock, however watched and tended,But one dead lamb is there!There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,But has one vacant chair!The air is full of farewells to the dying,And mournings for the dead;The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,Will not be comforted!Let us be patient! These severe afflictionsNot from the ground arise,But oftentimes celestial benedictionsAssume this dark disguise.We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;Amid these earthly dampsWhat seem to us but sad, funereal tapersMay be heaven's distant lamps.There is no Death! What seems so is transition;This life of mortal breathIs but a suburb of the life elysian,Whose portal we call Death.She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—But gone unto that schoolWhere she no longer needs our poor protection,And Christ himself doth rule.In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,By guardian angels led,Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,She lives, whom we call dead.Day after day we think what she is doingIn those bright realms of air;Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,Behold her grown more fair.Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbrokenThe bond which nature gives,Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,May reach her where she lives.Not as a child shall we again behold her;For when with raptures wildIn our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child;But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,Clothed with celestial grace;And beautiful with all the soul's expansionShall we behold her face.And though at times impetuous with emotionAnd anguish long suppressed,The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,That cannot be at rest,—We will be patient, and assuage the feelingWe may not wholly stay;By silence sanctifying, not concealing,The grief that must have way.THE BUILDERSAll are architects of Fate,Working in these walls of Time;Some with massive deeds and great,Some with ornaments of rhyme.Nothing useless is, or low;Each thing in its place is best;And what seems but idle showStrengthens and supports the rest.For the structure that we raise,Time is with materials filled;Our to-days and yesterdaysAre the blocks with which we build.Truly shape and fashion these;Leave no yawning gaps between;Think not, because no man sees,Such things will remain unseen.In the elder days of Art,Builders wrought with greatest careEach minute and unseen part;For the Gods see everywhere.Let us do our work as well,Both the unseen and the seen;Make the house, where Gods may dwell,Beautiful, entire, and clean.Else our lives are incomplete,Standing in these walls of Time,Broken stairways, where the feetStumble as they seek to climb.Build to-day, then, strong and sure,With a firm and ample base;And ascending and secureShall to-morrow find its place.Thus alone can we attainTo those turrets, where the eyeSees the world as one vast plain,And one boundless reach of sky.SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASSA handful of red sand, from the hot climeOf Arab deserts brought,Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,The minister of Thought.How many weary centuries has it beenAbout those deserts blown!How many strange vicissitudes has seen,How many histories known!Perhaps the camels of the IshmaeliteTrampled and passed it o'er,When into Egypt from the patriarch's sightHis favorite son they bore.Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare,Crushed it beneath their tread;Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the airScattered it as they sped;Or Mary, with the Christ of NazarethHeld close in her caress,Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faithIllumed the wilderness;Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palmsPacing the Dead Sea beach,And singing slow their old Armenian psalmsIn half-articulate speech;Or caravans, that from Bassora's gateWith westward steps depart;Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate,And resolute in heart!These have passed over it, or may have passed!Now in this crystal towerImprisoned by some curious hand at last,It counts the passing hour,And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand;Before my dreamy eyeStretches the desert with its shifting sand,Its unimpeded sky.And borne aloft by the sustaining blast,This little golden threadDilates into a column high and vast,A form of fear and dread.And onward, and across the setting sun,Across the boundless plain,The column and its broader shadow run,Till thought pursues in vain.The vision vanishes! These walls againShut out the lurid sun,Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain;The half-hour's sand is run!THE OPEN WINDOWThe old house by the lindensStood silent in the shade,And on the gravelled pathwayThe light and shadow played.I saw the nursery windowsWide open to the air;But the faces of the children,They were no longer there.The large Newfoundland house-dogWas standing by the door;He looked for his little playmates,Who would return no more.They walked not under the lindens,They played not in the hall;But shadow, and silence, and sadnessWere hanging over all.The birds sang in the branches,With sweet, familiar tone;But the voices of the childrenWill be heard in dreams alone!And the boy that walked beside me,He could not understandWhy closer in mine, ah! closer,I pressed his warm, soft hand!KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORNWitlaf, a king of the Saxons,Ere yet his last he breathed,To the merry monks of CroylandHis drinking-horn bequeathed,—That, whenever they sat at their revels,And drank from the golden bowl,They might remember the donor,And breathe a prayer for his soul.So sat they once at Christmas,And bade the goblet pass;In their beards the red wine glistenedLike dew-drops in the grass.They drank to the soul of Witlaf,They drank to Christ the Lord,And to each of the Twelve Apostles,Who had preached his holy word.They drank to the Saints and MartyrsOf the dismal days of yore,And as soon as the horn was emptyThey remembered one Saint more.And the reader droned from the pulpitLike the murmur of many bees,The legend of good Saint Guthlac,And Saint Basil's homilies;Till the great bells of the convent,From their prison in the tower,Guthlac and Bartholomaeus,Proclaimed the midnight hour.And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,And the Abbot bowed his head,And the flamelets flapped and flickered,But the Abbot was stark and dead.Yet still in his pallid fingersHe clutched the golden bowl,In which, like a pearl dissolving,Had sunk and dissolved his soul.But not for this their revelsThe jovial monks forbore,For they cried, "Fill high the goblet!We must drink to one Saint more!"GASPAR BECERRABy his evening fire the artistPondered o'er his secret shame;Baffled, weary, and disheartened,Still he mused, and dreamed of fame.'T was an image of the VirginThat had tasked his utmost skill;But, alas! his fair idealVanished and escaped him still.From a distant Eastern islandHad the precious wood been broughtDay and night the anxious masterAt his toil untiring wrought;Till, discouraged and desponding,Sat he now in shadows deep,And the day's humiliationFound oblivion in sleep.Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master!From the burning brand of oakShape the thought that stirs within thee!"And the startled artist woke,—Woke, and from the smoking embersSeized and quenched the glowing wood;And therefrom he carved an image,And he saw that it was good.O thou sculptor, painter, poet!Take this lesson to thy heart:That is best which lieth nearest;Shape from that thy work of art.PEGASUS IN POUNDOnce into a quiet village,Without haste and without heed,In the golden prime of morning,Strayed the poet's winged steed.It was Autumn, and incessantPiped the quails from shocks and sheaves,And, like living coals, the applesBurned among the withering leaves.Loud the clamorous bell was ringingFrom its belfry gaunt and grim;'T was the daily call to labor,Not a triumph meant for him.Not the less he saw the landscape,In its gleaming vapor veiled;Not the less he breathed the odorsThat the dying leaves exhaled.Thus, upon the village common,By the school-boys he was found;And the wise men, in their wisdom,Put him straightway into pound.Then the sombre village crier,Ringing loud his brazen bell,Wandered down the street proclaimingThere was an estray to sell.And the curious country people,Rich and poor, and young and old,Came in haste to see this wondrousWinged steed, with mane of gold.Thus the day passed, and the eveningFell, with vapors cold and dim;But it brought no food nor shelter,Brought no straw nor stall, for him.Patiently, and still expectant,Looked he through the wooden bars,Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape,Saw the tranquil, patient stars;Till at length the bell at midnightSounded from its dark abode,And, from out a neighboring farm-yardLoud the cock Alectryon crowed.Then, with nostrils wide distended,Breaking from his iron chain,And unfolding far his pinions,To those stars he soared again.On the morrow, when the villageWoke to all its toil and care,Lo! the strange steed had departed,And they knew not when nor where.But they found, upon the greenswardWhere his straggling hoofs had trod,Pure and bright, a fountain flowingFrom the hoof-marks in the sod.From that hour, the fount unfailingGladdens the whole region round,Strengthening all who drink its waters,While it soothes them with its sound.TEGNÉR'S DRAPAI heard a voice, that cried, "Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!" And through the misty air Passed like the mournful cry Of sunward sailing cranes.I saw the pallid corpse Of the dead sun Borne through the Northern sky. Blasts from Niffelheim Lifted the sheeted mists Around him as he passed.And the voice forever cried, "Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!" And died away Through the dreary night, In accents of despair.Balder the Beautiful, God of the summer sun, Fairest of all the Gods! Light from his forehead beamed, Runes were upon his tongue, As on the warrior's sword.All things in earth and air Bound were by magic spell Never to do him harm; Even the plants and stones; All save the mistletoe, The sacred mistletoe!Hoeder, the blind old God, Whose feet are shod with silence, Pierced through that gentle breast With his sharp spear, by fraud Made of the mistletoe, The accursed mistletoe!They laid him in his ship, With horse and harness, As on a funeral pyre. Odin placed A ring upon his finger, And whispered in his ear.They launched the burning ship! It floated far away Over the misty sea, Till like the sun it seemed, Sinking beneath the waves. Balder returned no more!So perish the old Gods! But out of the sea of Time Rises a new land of song, Fairer than the old. Over its meadows green Walk the young bards and sing.Build it again, O ye bards, Fairer than before! Ye fathers of the new race, Feed upon morning dew, Sing the new Song of Love!The law of force is dead! The law of love prevails! Thor, the thunderer, Shall rule the earth no more, No more, with threats, Challenge the meek Christ.Sing no more, O ye bards of the North, Of Vikings and of Jarls! Of the days of Eld Preserve the freedom only, Not the deeds of blood!SONNETON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKESPEAREO precious evenings! all too swiftly sped!Leaving us heirs to amplest heritagesOf all the best thoughts of the greatest sages,And giving tongues unto the silent dead!How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read,Interpreting by tones the wondrous pagesOf the great poet who foreruns the ages,Anticipating all that shall be said!O happy Reader! having for thy textThe magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caughtThe rarest essence of all human thought!O happy Poet! by no critic vext!How must thy listening spirit now rejoiceTo be interpreted by such a voice!THE SINGERSGod sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.The first, a youth, with soul of fire, Held in his hand a golden lyre; Through groves he wandered, and by streams, Playing the music of our dreams.The second, with a bearded face, Stood singing in the market-place, And stirred with accents deep and loud The hearts of all the listening crowd.A gray old man, the third and last, Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, While the majestic organ rolled Contrition from its mouths of gold.And those who heard the Singers three Disputed which the best might be; For still their music seemed to start Discordant echoes in each heart,But the great Master said, "I see No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach."These are the three great chords of might, And he whose ear is tuned aright Will hear no discord in the three, But the most perfect harmony."SUSPIRIATake them, O Death! and bear awayWhatever thou canst call thine own!Thine image, stamped upon this clay,Doth give thee that, but that alone!Take them, O Grave! and let them lieFolded upon thy narrow shelves,As garments by the soul laid by,And precious only to ourselves!Take them, O great Eternity!Our little life is but a gustThat bends the branches of thy tree,And trails its blossoms in the dust!HYMNFOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATIONChrist to the young man said: "Yet one thing more;If thou wouldst perfect be,Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor,And come and follow me!"Within this temple Christ again, unseen,Those sacred words hath said,And his invisible hands to-day have beenLaid on a young man's head.And evermore beside him on his wayThe unseen Christ shall move,That he may lean upon his arm and say,"Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?"Beside him at the marriage feast shall be,To make the scene more fair;Beside him in the dark GethsemaneOf pain and midnight prayer.O holy trust! O endless sense of rest!Like the beloved JohnTo lay his head upon the Saviour's breast,And thus to journey on!
There is no flock, however watched and tended,But one dead lamb is there!There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,But has one vacant chair!
The air is full of farewells to the dying,And mournings for the dead;The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,Will not be comforted!
Let us be patient! These severe afflictionsNot from the ground arise,But oftentimes celestial benedictionsAssume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;Amid these earthly dampsWhat seem to us but sad, funereal tapersMay be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no Death! What seems so is transition;This life of mortal breathIs but a suburb of the life elysian,Whose portal we call Death.
She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—But gone unto that schoolWhere she no longer needs our poor protection,And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,By guardian angels led,Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,She lives, whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she is doingIn those bright realms of air;Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbrokenThe bond which nature gives,Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her;For when with raptures wildIn our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child;
But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,Clothed with celestial grace;And beautiful with all the soul's expansionShall we behold her face.
And though at times impetuous with emotionAnd anguish long suppressed,The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,That cannot be at rest,—
We will be patient, and assuage the feelingWe may not wholly stay;By silence sanctifying, not concealing,The grief that must have way.
All are architects of Fate,Working in these walls of Time;Some with massive deeds and great,Some with ornaments of rhyme.
Nothing useless is, or low;Each thing in its place is best;And what seems but idle showStrengthens and supports the rest.
For the structure that we raise,Time is with materials filled;Our to-days and yesterdaysAre the blocks with which we build.
Truly shape and fashion these;Leave no yawning gaps between;Think not, because no man sees,Such things will remain unseen.
In the elder days of Art,Builders wrought with greatest careEach minute and unseen part;For the Gods see everywhere.
Let us do our work as well,Both the unseen and the seen;Make the house, where Gods may dwell,Beautiful, entire, and clean.
Else our lives are incomplete,Standing in these walls of Time,Broken stairways, where the feetStumble as they seek to climb.
Build to-day, then, strong and sure,With a firm and ample base;And ascending and secureShall to-morrow find its place.
Thus alone can we attainTo those turrets, where the eyeSees the world as one vast plain,And one boundless reach of sky.
A handful of red sand, from the hot climeOf Arab deserts brought,Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,The minister of Thought.
How many weary centuries has it beenAbout those deserts blown!How many strange vicissitudes has seen,How many histories known!
Perhaps the camels of the IshmaeliteTrampled and passed it o'er,When into Egypt from the patriarch's sightHis favorite son they bore.
Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare,Crushed it beneath their tread;Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the airScattered it as they sped;
Or Mary, with the Christ of NazarethHeld close in her caress,Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faithIllumed the wilderness;
Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palmsPacing the Dead Sea beach,And singing slow their old Armenian psalmsIn half-articulate speech;
Or caravans, that from Bassora's gateWith westward steps depart;Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate,And resolute in heart!
These have passed over it, or may have passed!Now in this crystal towerImprisoned by some curious hand at last,It counts the passing hour,
And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand;Before my dreamy eyeStretches the desert with its shifting sand,Its unimpeded sky.
And borne aloft by the sustaining blast,This little golden threadDilates into a column high and vast,A form of fear and dread.
And onward, and across the setting sun,Across the boundless plain,The column and its broader shadow run,Till thought pursues in vain.
The vision vanishes! These walls againShut out the lurid sun,Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain;The half-hour's sand is run!
The old house by the lindensStood silent in the shade,And on the gravelled pathwayThe light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery windowsWide open to the air;But the faces of the children,They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house-dogWas standing by the door;He looked for his little playmates,Who would return no more.
They walked not under the lindens,They played not in the hall;But shadow, and silence, and sadnessWere hanging over all.
The birds sang in the branches,With sweet, familiar tone;But the voices of the childrenWill be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walked beside me,He could not understandWhy closer in mine, ah! closer,I pressed his warm, soft hand!
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,Ere yet his last he breathed,To the merry monks of CroylandHis drinking-horn bequeathed,—
That, whenever they sat at their revels,And drank from the golden bowl,They might remember the donor,And breathe a prayer for his soul.
So sat they once at Christmas,And bade the goblet pass;In their beards the red wine glistenedLike dew-drops in the grass.
They drank to the soul of Witlaf,They drank to Christ the Lord,And to each of the Twelve Apostles,Who had preached his holy word.
They drank to the Saints and MartyrsOf the dismal days of yore,And as soon as the horn was emptyThey remembered one Saint more.
And the reader droned from the pulpitLike the murmur of many bees,The legend of good Saint Guthlac,And Saint Basil's homilies;
Till the great bells of the convent,From their prison in the tower,Guthlac and Bartholomaeus,Proclaimed the midnight hour.
And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,And the Abbot bowed his head,And the flamelets flapped and flickered,But the Abbot was stark and dead.
Yet still in his pallid fingersHe clutched the golden bowl,In which, like a pearl dissolving,Had sunk and dissolved his soul.
But not for this their revelsThe jovial monks forbore,For they cried, "Fill high the goblet!We must drink to one Saint more!"
By his evening fire the artistPondered o'er his secret shame;Baffled, weary, and disheartened,Still he mused, and dreamed of fame.
'T was an image of the VirginThat had tasked his utmost skill;But, alas! his fair idealVanished and escaped him still.
From a distant Eastern islandHad the precious wood been broughtDay and night the anxious masterAt his toil untiring wrought;
Till, discouraged and desponding,Sat he now in shadows deep,And the day's humiliationFound oblivion in sleep.
Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master!From the burning brand of oakShape the thought that stirs within thee!"And the startled artist woke,—
Woke, and from the smoking embersSeized and quenched the glowing wood;And therefrom he carved an image,And he saw that it was good.
O thou sculptor, painter, poet!Take this lesson to thy heart:That is best which lieth nearest;Shape from that thy work of art.
Once into a quiet village,Without haste and without heed,In the golden prime of morning,Strayed the poet's winged steed.
It was Autumn, and incessantPiped the quails from shocks and sheaves,And, like living coals, the applesBurned among the withering leaves.
Loud the clamorous bell was ringingFrom its belfry gaunt and grim;'T was the daily call to labor,Not a triumph meant for him.
Not the less he saw the landscape,In its gleaming vapor veiled;Not the less he breathed the odorsThat the dying leaves exhaled.
Thus, upon the village common,By the school-boys he was found;And the wise men, in their wisdom,Put him straightway into pound.
Then the sombre village crier,Ringing loud his brazen bell,Wandered down the street proclaimingThere was an estray to sell.
And the curious country people,Rich and poor, and young and old,Came in haste to see this wondrousWinged steed, with mane of gold.
Thus the day passed, and the eveningFell, with vapors cold and dim;But it brought no food nor shelter,Brought no straw nor stall, for him.
Patiently, and still expectant,Looked he through the wooden bars,Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape,Saw the tranquil, patient stars;
Till at length the bell at midnightSounded from its dark abode,And, from out a neighboring farm-yardLoud the cock Alectryon crowed.
Then, with nostrils wide distended,Breaking from his iron chain,And unfolding far his pinions,To those stars he soared again.
On the morrow, when the villageWoke to all its toil and care,Lo! the strange steed had departed,And they knew not when nor where.
But they found, upon the greenswardWhere his straggling hoofs had trod,Pure and bright, a fountain flowingFrom the hoof-marks in the sod.
From that hour, the fount unfailingGladdens the whole region round,Strengthening all who drink its waters,While it soothes them with its sound.
I heard a voice, that cried, "Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!" And through the misty air Passed like the mournful cry Of sunward sailing cranes.
I saw the pallid corpse Of the dead sun Borne through the Northern sky. Blasts from Niffelheim Lifted the sheeted mists Around him as he passed.
And the voice forever cried, "Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!" And died away Through the dreary night, In accents of despair.
Balder the Beautiful, God of the summer sun, Fairest of all the Gods! Light from his forehead beamed, Runes were upon his tongue, As on the warrior's sword.
All things in earth and air Bound were by magic spell Never to do him harm; Even the plants and stones; All save the mistletoe, The sacred mistletoe!
Hoeder, the blind old God, Whose feet are shod with silence, Pierced through that gentle breast With his sharp spear, by fraud Made of the mistletoe, The accursed mistletoe!
They laid him in his ship, With horse and harness, As on a funeral pyre. Odin placed A ring upon his finger, And whispered in his ear.
They launched the burning ship! It floated far away Over the misty sea, Till like the sun it seemed, Sinking beneath the waves. Balder returned no more!
So perish the old Gods! But out of the sea of Time Rises a new land of song, Fairer than the old. Over its meadows green Walk the young bards and sing.
Build it again, O ye bards, Fairer than before! Ye fathers of the new race, Feed upon morning dew, Sing the new Song of Love!
The law of force is dead! The law of love prevails! Thor, the thunderer, Shall rule the earth no more, No more, with threats, Challenge the meek Christ.
Sing no more, O ye bards of the North, Of Vikings and of Jarls! Of the days of Eld Preserve the freedom only, Not the deeds of blood!
O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped!Leaving us heirs to amplest heritagesOf all the best thoughts of the greatest sages,And giving tongues unto the silent dead!How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read,Interpreting by tones the wondrous pagesOf the great poet who foreruns the ages,Anticipating all that shall be said!O happy Reader! having for thy textThe magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caughtThe rarest essence of all human thought!O happy Poet! by no critic vext!How must thy listening spirit now rejoiceTo be interpreted by such a voice!
God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.
The first, a youth, with soul of fire, Held in his hand a golden lyre; Through groves he wandered, and by streams, Playing the music of our dreams.
The second, with a bearded face, Stood singing in the market-place, And stirred with accents deep and loud The hearts of all the listening crowd.
A gray old man, the third and last, Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, While the majestic organ rolled Contrition from its mouths of gold.
And those who heard the Singers three Disputed which the best might be; For still their music seemed to start Discordant echoes in each heart,
But the great Master said, "I see No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.
"These are the three great chords of might, And he whose ear is tuned aright Will hear no discord in the three, But the most perfect harmony."
Take them, O Death! and bear awayWhatever thou canst call thine own!Thine image, stamped upon this clay,Doth give thee that, but that alone!
Take them, O Grave! and let them lieFolded upon thy narrow shelves,As garments by the soul laid by,And precious only to ourselves!
Take them, O great Eternity!Our little life is but a gustThat bends the branches of thy tree,And trails its blossoms in the dust!
Christ to the young man said: "Yet one thing more;If thou wouldst perfect be,Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor,And come and follow me!"
Within this temple Christ again, unseen,Those sacred words hath said,And his invisible hands to-day have beenLaid on a young man's head.
And evermore beside him on his wayThe unseen Christ shall move,That he may lean upon his arm and say,"Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?"
Beside him at the marriage feast shall be,To make the scene more fair;Beside him in the dark GethsemaneOf pain and midnight prayer.
O holy trust! O endless sense of rest!Like the beloved JohnTo lay his head upon the Saviour's breast,And thus to journey on!