"Have you no smile to welcome love with, Liebhaid?Why should you tremble?Prince, I am afraid!Afraid of my own heart, my unfathomed joy,A blasphemy against my father's grief,My people's agony!
"What good shall come, forswearing kith and God,To follow the allurements of the heart?"
asks the distracted maiden, torn between her love for he princely wooer and her devotion to the people among whom her lot has been cast.
"O God!How shall I pray for strength to love him lessThan mine own soul!No more of that,I am all Israel's now. Till this cloud pass,I have no thought, no passion, no desire,Save for my people."
Individuals perish, but great ideas survive,—fortitude and courage, and that exalted loyalty and devotion to principle which alone are worth living and dying for.
The Jews pass by in procession—men, women, and children—on their way to the flames, to the sound of music, and in festal array, carrying the gold and silver vessels, the roll of the law, the perpetual lamp and the seven branched silver candle-stick of the synagogue. The crowd hoot and jeer at them.
"The misers! they will take their gems and goldDown to the grave!"
"Let us rejoice"
sing the Jewish youths in chorus; and the maidens:—
"Our feet stand within thy gates, O Zion!Within thy portals, O Jerusalem!"
The flames rise and dart among them; their garments wave, their jewels flash, as they dance and sing in the crimson blaze. The music ceases, a sound of crashing boards is heard and a great cry,—"Hallelujah!" What a glory and consecration of the martyrdom! Where shall we find a more triumphant vindication and supreme victory of spirit over matter?
"I see, I see,How Israel's ever-crescent glory makesThese flames that would eclipse it dark as blotsOf candle-light against the blazing sun.We die a thousand deaths,—drown, bleed, and burn.Our ashes are dispersed unto the winds.Yet the wild winds cherish the sacred seed,The fire refuseth to consume.. . . . . . . . .Even as we die in honor, from our deathShall bloom a myriad heroic lives,Brave through our bright example, virtuousLest our great memory fall in disrepute."
The "Dance to Death" was published, along with other poems and translations from the Hebrew poets of mediaeval Spain, in a small column entitled "Songs of a Semite." The tragedy was dedicated, "In profound veneration and respect to the memory of George Eliot, the illustrious writer who did most among the artists of our day towards elevating and ennobling the spirit of Jewish nationality."
For this was the idea that had caught the imagination of Emma Lazarus, —a restored and independent nationality and repatriation in Palestine. In her article in "The Century" of February, 1883, on the "Jewish Problem," she says:—
"I am fully persuaded that all suggested solutions otherthan this are but temporary palliatives.... The ideaformulated by George Eliot has already sunk into the mindsof many Jewish enthusiasts, and it germinates with miraculousrapidity. 'The idea that I am possessed with,' says Deronda,'is that of restoring a political existence to my people;making them a nation again, giving them a national centre,such as the English have, though they, too, are scatteredover the face of the globe. That task which presents itselfto me as a duty.... I am resolved to devote my life toit. AT THE LEAST, I MAY AWAKEN A MOVEMENT IN OTHER MINDSSUCH HAS BEEN AWAKENED IN MY OWN.' Could the nobleprophetess who wrote the above words have lived but tillto-day to see the ever-increasing necessity of adopting herinspired counsel,... she would have been herself astonishedat the flame enkindled by her seed of fire, and the practicalshape which the movement projected by her poetic vision isbeginning to assume."
In November of 1882 appeared her first "Epistle to the Hebrews,"—one of a series of articles written for the "American Hebrew," published weekly through several months. Addressing herself now to a Jewish audience, she sets forth without reserve her views and hopes for Judaism, now passionately holding up the mirror for the shortcomings and peculiarities of her race. She says:—
"Every student of the Hebrew language is aware that we havein the conjugation of our verbs a mode known as the 'intensivevoice,' which, by means of an almost imperceptible modificationof vowel-points, intensifies the meaning of the primitive root.A similar significance seems to attach to the Jews themselvesin connection with the people among whom they dwell. They arethe 'intensive form' of any nationality whose language andcustoms they adopt.... Influenced by the same causes, theyrepresent the same results; but the deeper lights and shadowsof the Oriental temperament throw their failings, as well astheir virtues, into more prominent relief."
In drawing the epistles to a close, February 24, 1883, she thus summarizes the special objects she has had in view:—
"My chief aim has been to contribute my mite towards arousingthat spirit of Jewish enthusiasm which might manifest itself:First, in a return to varied pursuits and broad system ofphysical and intellectual education adopted by our ancestors;Second, in a more fraternal and practical movement towardsalleviating the sufferings of oppressed Jews in countries lessfavored than our own; Third, in a closer and wider study ofHebrew literature and history and finally, in a truer recognitionof the large principals of religion, liberty, and law uponwhich Judaism is founded, and which should draw into harmoniousunity Jews of every shade of opinion."
Her interest in Jewish affairs was at its height when she planned a visit abroad, which had been a long-cherished dream, and May 15, 1883, she sailed for England, accompanied by a younger sister. We have difficulty in recognizing the tragic priestess we have been portraying in the enthusiastic child of travel who seems new-born into a new world. From the very outset she is in a maze of wonder and delight. At sea she writes:—
"Our last day on board ship was a vision of beauty frommorning till night,—the sea like a mirror and the skydazzling with light. In the afternoon we passed a shipin full sail, near enough to exchange salutes and cheers.After tossing about for six days without seeing a humanbeing, except those on our vessel, even this was a sensation.Then an hour or two before sunset came the great sensationof—land! At first, nothing but a shadow on the far horizon,like the ghost of a ship; two or three widely scattered rockswhich were the promontories of Ireland, and sooner than weexpected we were steaming along low-lying purple hills."
The journey to Chester gives her "the first glimpse of mellow England,"—a surprise which is yet no surprise, so well known and familiar does it appear. Then Chester, with its quaint, picturesque streets, "like the scene of a Walter Scott novel, the cathedral planted in greenness, and the clear, gray river where a boatful of scarlet dragoons goes gliding by." Everything is a picture for her special benefit. She "drinks in, at every sense, the sights, sounds, and smells, and the unimaginable beauty of it all." Then the bewilderment of London, and a whirl of people, sights, and impressions. She was received with great distinction by the Jews, and many of the leading men among them warmly advocated her views. But it was not alone from her own people that she met with exceptional consideration. She had the privilege of seeing many of the most eminent personages of the day, all of whom honored her with special and personal regard. There was, no doubt, something that strongly attracted people to her at this time,—the force of her intellect at once made itself felt, while at the same time the unaltered simplicity and modesty of her character, and her readiness and freshness of enthusiasm, kept her still almost like a child.
She makes a flying visit to Paris, where she happens to be on the 14th of July, the anniversary of the storming of the Bastile, and of the beginning of the republic; she drives to Versailles, "that gorgeous shell of royalty, where the crowd who celebrate the birth of the republic wander freely through the halls and avenues, and into the most sacred rooms of the king.... There are ruins on every side in Paris," she says; "ruins of the Commune, or the Siege, or the Revolution; it is terrible—it seems as if the city were seared with fire and blood."
Such was Paris to her then, and she hastens back to her beloved London, starting from there on the tour through England that has been mapped out for her. "A Day in Surrey with William Morris," published in "The Century Magazine," describes her visit to Merton Abbey, the old Norman monastery, converted into a model factory by the poet-humanitarian, who himself received her as his guest, conducted her all over the picturesque building and garden, and explained to her his views of art and his aims for the people.
She drives through Kent, "where the fields, valleys, and slopes are garlanded with hops and ablaze with scarlet poppies." Then Canterbury, Windsor, and Oxford, Stratford, Warwick, the valley of the Wye, Wells, Exeter, and Salisbury,—cathedral after cathedral. Back to London, and then north through York, Durham, and Edinburgh, and on the 15th of September she sails for home. We have merely named the names, for it is impossible to convey an idea of the delight and importance of this trip, "a crescendo of enjoyment," as she herself calls it. Long after, in strange, dark hours of suffering, these pictures of travel arose before her, vivid and tragic even in their hold and spell upon her.
The winter of 1883-84 was not especially productive. She wrote a few reminiscences of her journey and occasional poems on the Jewish themes, which appeared in the "American Hebrew;" but for the most part gave herself up to quiet retrospect and enjoyment with her friends of the life she had had a glimpse of, and the experience she had stored,—a restful, happy period. In August of the same year she was stricken with a severe and dangerous malady, from which she slowly recovered, only to go through a terrible ordeal and affliction. Her father's health, which had long been failing, now broke down completely, and the whole winter was one long strain of acute anxiety, which culminated in his death, in March, 1885. The blow was a crushing one for Emma. Truly, the silver cord was loosed, and the golden bowl broken. Life lost its meaning and charm. Her father's sympathy and pride in her work had been her chief incentive and ambition, and had spurred her on when her own confidence and spirit failed. Never afterwards did she find complete and spontaneous expression. She decided to go abroad as the best means of regaining composure and strength and sailed once more in May for England, where she was welcomed now by the friends she had made, almost as to another home. She spent the summer very quietly at Richmond,an ideally beautiful spot in Yorkshire, where she soon felt the beneficial influence of her peaceful surroundings. "The very air seems to rest one here," she writes; and inspired by the romantic loveliness of the place, she even composed the first few chapters of a novel, begun with a good deal of dash and vigor, but soon abandoned, for she was still struggling with depression and gloom.
"I have neither ability, energy, nor purpose," she writes. "It is impossible to do anything, so I am forced to set it aside for the present; whether to take it up again or not in the future remains to be seen."
In the autumn she goes on the Continent, visiting the Hague, which "completely fascinates" her, and where she feels "stronger and more cheerful" than she has "for many a day." Then Paris, which this time amazes her "with its splendor and magnificence. All the ghosts of the Revolution are somehow laid," she writes, and she spends six weeks here enjoying to the full the gorgeous autumn weather, the sights, the picture galleries, the bookshops, the whole brilliant panorama of the life; and early in December she starts for Italy.
And now once more we come upon that keen zest of enjoyment, that pure desire and delight of the eyes, which are the prerogative of the poet,—Emma Lazarus was a poet. The beauty of the world,—what a rapture and intoxication it is, and how it bursts upon her in the very land of beauty, "where Dante and Petrarch trod!" A magic glow colours it all; no mere blues and greens anymore, but a splendor of purple and scarlet and emerald; "each tower, castle, and village shining like a jewel; the olive, the fig, and at your feet the roses, growing in mid-December." A day in Pisa seems like a week, so crowded is it with sensations and unforgettable pictures. Then a month in Florence, which is still more entrancing with its inexhaustible treasures of beauty and art; and finally Rome, the climax of it all,—
"wiping out all other places and impressions, and openinga whole new world of sensations. I am wild with theexcitement of this tremendous place. I have been here aweek, and have seen the Vatican and the Capitoline Museums,and the Sistine Chapel, and St. Peter's, besides the ruinson the streets and on the hills, and the graves of Shelleyand Keats."It is all heart-breaking. I don't only mean those beautifulgraves, overgrown with acanthus and violets, but the mutilatedarches and columns and dumb appealing fragments looming up inthe glowing sunshine under the Roman blue sky."
True to her old attractions, it is pagan Rome that appeals to her most strongly,—
"and the far-away past, that seems so sad and strange andnear. I am even out of humor with pictures; a bit of brokenstone or a fragment of a bas-relief, or a Corinthian columnstanding out against this lapis-lazuli sky, or a tremendousarch, are the only things I can look at for the moment,—except the Sistine Chapel, which is as gigantic as the rest,and forces itself upon you with equal might."
Already, in February, spring is in the air; "the almond-trees are in bloom, violets cover the grass, and oh! the divine, the celestial, the unheard-of beauty of it all!" It is almost a pang for her, "with its strange mixture of longing and regret and delight," and in the midst of it she says, "I have to exert all my strength not to lose myself in morbidness and depression."
Early in March she leaves Rome, consoled with the thought of returning the following winter. In June she was in England again, and spent the summer at Malvern. Disease was no doubt already beginning to prey upon her, for she was oppressed at times by a languor and heaviness amounting almost to lethargy. When she returned to London, however, in September, she felt quite well again, and started for another tour in Holland, which she enjoyed as much as before. She then settled in Paris, to await the time when she could return to Italy. But she was attacked at once with grave and alarming symptoms, that betokened a fatal end to her malady. Entirely ignorant, however, of the danger that threatened her, she kept up courage and hope, made plans for the journey, and looked forward to setting out at any moment. But the weeks passed and the months also; slowly and gradually the hope faded. The journey to Italy must be given up; she was not in condition to be brought home, and she reluctantly resigned herself to remain where she was and "convalesce," as she confidently believed, in the spring. Once again came the analogy, which she herself pointed out now, to Heine on his mattress-grave in Paris. She, too, the last time she went out, dragged herself to the Louvre, to the feet of the Venus, "the goddess without arms, who could not help." Only her indomitable will and intense desire to live seemed to keep her alive. She sunk to a very low ebb, but, as she herself expressed it, she "seemed to have always one little window looking out into life," and in the spring she rallied sufficiently to take a few drives and to sit on the balcony of her apartment. She came back to life with a feverish sort of thirst and avidity. "No such cure for pessimism," she says, "as a severe illness; the simplest pleasures are enough,—to breathe the air and see the sun."
Many plans were made for leaving Paris, but it was finally decided to risk the ocean voyage and bring her home, and accordingly she sailed July 23rd, arriving in New York on the last day of that month.
She did not rally after this; and now began her long agony, full of every kind of suffering, mental and physical. Only her intellect seemed kindled anew, and none but those who saw her during the last supreme ordeal can realize that wonderful flash and fire of the spirit before its extinction. Never did she appear so brilliant. Wasted to a shadow, and between acute attacks of pain, she talked about art, poetry, the scenes of travel, of which her brain was so full, and the phases of her own condition, with an eloquence for which even those who knew her best were quite unprepared. Every faculty seemed sharpened and every sense quickened as the "strong deliveress" approached, and the ardent soul was released from the frame that could no longer contain it.
We cannot restrain a feeling of suddenness and incompleteness and a natural pang of wonder and regret for a life so richly and so vitally endowed thus cut off in its prime. But for us it is not fitting to question or repine, but rather to rejoice in the rare possession that we hold. What is any life, even the most rounded and complete, but a fragment and a hint? What Emma Lazarus might have accomplished, had she been spared, it is idle and even ungrateful to speculate. What she did accomplish has real and peculiar significance. It is the privilege of a favored few that every fact and circumstance of their individuality shall add lustre and value to what they achieve. To be born a Jewess was a distinction for Emma Lazarus, and she in turn conferred distinction upon her race. To be born a woman also lends a grace and a subtle magnetism to her influence. Nowhere is there contradiction or incongruity. Her works bear the imprint of her character, and her character of her works; the same directness and honesty, the same limpid purity of tone, and the same atmosphere of things refined and beautiful. The vulgar, the false, and the ignoble,—she scarcely comprehended them, while on every side she was open and ready to take in and respond to whatever can adorn and enrich life. Literature was no mere "profession" for her, which shut out other possibilities; it was only a free, wide horizon and background for culture. She was passionately devoted to music, which inspired some of her best poems; and during the last years of her life, in hours of intense physical suffering, she found relief and consolation in listening to the strains of Bach and Beethoven. When she went abroad, painting was revealed to her, and she threw herself with the same ardor and enthusiasm into the study of the great masters; her last work (left unfinished) was a critical analysis of the genius and personality of Rembrandt.
And now, at the end, we ask, Has the grave really closed over all these gifts? Has that eager, passionate striving ceased, and "is the rest silence?"
Who knows? But would we break, if we could, that repose, that silence and mystery and peace everlasting?
"The epochs of our life are not in the facts, but in thesilent thought by the wayside as we walk."—Emerson
I. Youth.
Sweet empty sky of June without a stain,Faint, gray-blue dewy mists on far-off hills,Warm, yellow sunlight flooding mead and plain,That each dark copse and hollow overfills;The rippling laugh of unseen, rain-fed rills,Weeds delicate-flowered, white and pink and gold,A murmur and a singing manifold.
The gray, austere old earth renews her youthWith dew-lines, sunshine, gossamer, and haze.How still she lies and dreams, and veils the truth,While all is fresh as in the early days!What simple things be these the soul to raiseTo bounding joy, and make young pulses beat,With nameless pleasure finding life so sweet.
On such a golden morning forth there floats,Between the soft earth and the softer sky,In the warm air adust with glistening motes,The mystic winged and flickering butterfly,A human soul, that hovers giddilyAmong the gardens of earth's paradise,Nor dreams of fairer fields or loftier skies.
II. Regret.
Thin summer rain on grass and bush and hedge,Reddening the road and deepening the greenOn wide, blurred lawn, and in close-tangled sedge;Veiling in gray the landscape stretched betweenThese low broad meadows and the pale hills seenBut dimly on the far horizon's edge.
In these transparent-clouded, gentle skies,Wherethrough the moist beams of the soft June sunMight any moment break, no sorrow lies,No note of grief in swollen brooks that run,No hint of woe in this subdued, calm toneOf all the prospect unto dreamy eyes.
Only a tender, unnamed half-regretFor the lost beauty of the gracious morn;A yearning aspiration, fainter yet,For brighter suns in joyous days unborn,Now while brief showers ruffle grass and corn,And all the earth lies shadowed, grave, and wet;
Space for the happy soul to pause againFrom pure content of all unbroken bliss,To dream the future void of grief and pain,And muse upon the past, in reveriesMore sweet for knowledge that the present isNot all complete, with mist and clouds and rain.
III. Longing.
Look westward o'er the steaming rain-washed slopes,Now satisfied with sunshine, and beholdThose lustrous clouds, as glorious as our hopes,Softened with feathery fleece of downy gold,In all fantastic, huddled shapes uprolled,Floating like dreams, and melting silently,In the blue upper regions of pure sky.
The eye is filled with beauty, and the heartRejoiced with sense of life and peace renewed;And yet at such an hour as this, upstartVague myriad longing, restless, unsubdued,And causeless tears from melancholy mood,Strange discontent with earth's and nature's best,Desires and yearnings that may find no rest.
IV. Storm.
Serene was morning with clear, winnowed air,But threatening soon the low, blue mass of cloudRose in the west, with mutterings faint and rareAt first, but waxing frequent and more loud.Thick sultry mists the distant hill-tops shroud;The sunshine dies; athwart black skies of leadFlash noiselessly thin threads of lightning red.
Breathless the earth seems waiting some wild blow,Dreaded, but far too close to ward or shun.Scared birds aloft fly aimless, and belowNaught stirs in fields whence light and life are gone,Save floating leaves, with wisps of straw and down,Upon the heavy air; 'neath blue-black skies,Livid and yellow the green landscape lies.
And all the while the dreadful thunder breaks,Within the hollow circle of the hills,With gathering might, that angry echoes wakes,And earth and heaven with unused clamor fills.O'erhead still flame those strange electric thrills.A moment more,—behold! yon bolt struck home,And over ruined fields the storm hath come!
V. Surprise.
When the stunned soul can first lift tired eyesOn her changed world of ruin, waste and wrack,Ah, what a pang of aching sharp surpriseBrings all sweet memories of the lost past back,With wild self-pitying grief of one betrayed,Duped in a land of dreams where Truth is dead!
Are these the heavens that she deemed were kind?Is this the world that yesterday was fair?What painted images of folk half-blindBe these who pass her by, as vague as air?What go they seeking? there is naught to find.Let them come nigh and hearken her despair.
A mocking lie is all she once believed,And where her heart throbbed, is a cold dead stone.This is a doom we never preconceived,Yet now she cannot fancy it undone.Part of herself, part of the whole hard scheme,All else is but the shadow of a dream.
VI. Grief.
There is a hungry longing in the soul,A craving sense of emptiness and pain,She may not satisfy nor yet control,For all the teeming world looks void and vain.No compensation in eternal spheres,She knows the loneliness of all her years.
There is no comfort looking forth nor back,The present gives the lie to all her past.Will cruel time restore what she doth lack?Why was no shadow of this doom forecast?Ah! she hath played with many a keen-edged thing;Naught is too small and soft to turn and sting.
In the unnatural glory of the hour,Exalted over time, and death, and fate,No earthly task appears beyond her power,No possible endurance seemeth great.She knows her misery and her majesty,And recks not if she be to live or die.
VII. Acceptance.
Yea, she hath looked Truth grimly face to face,And drained unto the lees the proffered cup.This silence is not patience, nor the graceOf recognition, meekly offered up,But mere acceptance fraught with keenest pain,Seeing that all her struggles must be vain.
Her future clear and terrible outlies,—This burden to be borne through all her days,This crown of thorns pressed down above her eyes,This weight of trouble she may never raise.No reconcilement doth she ask nor wait;Knowing such things are, she endures her fate.
No brave endeavor of the broken willTo cling to such poor stays as will abide(Although the waves be wild and angry still)After the lapsing of the swollen tide.No fear of further loss, no hope of gain,Naught but the apathy of weary pain.
VIII. Loneliness.
All stupor of surprise hath passed away;She sees, with clearer vision than before,A world far off of light and laughter gay,Herself alone and lonely evermore.Folk come and go, and reach her in no wise,Mere flitting phantoms to her heavy eyes.
All outward things, that once seemed part of her,Fall from her, like the leaves in autumn shed.She feels as one embalmed in spice and myrrh,With the heart eaten out, a long time dead;Unchanged without, the features and the form;Within, devoured by the thin red worm.
By her own prowess she must stand or fall,This grief is to be conquered day by day.Who could befriend her? who could make this small,Or her strength great? she meets it as she may.A weary struggle and a constant pain,She dreams not they may ever cease nor wane.
IX. Sympathy.
It comes not in such wise as she had deemed,Else might she still have clung to her despair.More tender, grateful than she could have dreamed,Fond hands passed pitying over brows and hair,And gentle words borne softly through the air,Calming her weary sense and wildered mind,By welcome, dear communion with her kind.
Ah! she forswore all words as empty lies;What speech could help, encourage, or repair?Yet when she meets these grave, indulgent eyes,Fulfilled with pity, simplest words are fair,Caressing, meaningless, that do not dareTo compensate or mend, but merely sootheWith hopeful visions after bitter Truth.
One who through conquered trouble had grown wise,To read the grief unspoken, unexpressed,The misery of the blank and heavy eyes,—Or through youth's infinite compassion guessedThe heavy burden,—such a one brought rest,And bade her lay aside her doubts and fears,While the hard pain dissolved in blessed tears.
X. Patience.
The passion of despair is quelled at last;The cruel sense of undeserved wrong,The wild self-pity, these are also past;She knows not what may come, but she is strong;She feels she hath not aught to lose nor gain,Her patience is the essence of all pain.
As one who sits beside a lapsing stream,She sees the flow of changeless day by day,Too sick and tired to think, too sad to dream,Nor cares how soon the waters slip away,Nor where they lead; at the wise God's decree,She will depart or bide indifferently.
There is deeper pathos in the mildAnd settled sorrow of the quiet eyes,Than in the tumults of the anguish wild,That made her curse all things beneath the skies;No question, no reproaches, no complaint,Hers is the holy calm of some meek saint.
XI. Hope.
Her languid pulses thrill with sudden hope,That will not be forgot nor cast aside,And life in statelier vistas seems to ope,Illimitably lofty, long, and wide.What doth she know? She is subdued and mild,Quiet and docile "as a weaned child."
If grief came in such unimagined wise,How may joy dawn? In what undreamed-of hour,May the light break with splendor of surprise,Disclosing all the mercy and the power?A baseless hope, yet vivid, keen, and bright,As the wild lightning in the starless night.
She knows not whence it came, nor where it passed,But it revealed, in one brief flash of flame,A heaven so high, a world so rich and vast,That, full of meek contrition and mute shame,In patient silence hopefully withdrawn,She bows her head, and bides the certain dawn.
XII. Compensation.
'T is not alone that black and yawning voidThat makes her heart ache with this hungry pain,But the glad sense of life hath been destroyed,The lost delight may never come again.Yet myriad serious blessings with grave graceArise on every side to fill their place.
For much abides in her so lonely life,—The dear companionship of her own kind,Love where least looked for, quiet after strife,Whispers of promise upon every wind,A quickened insight, in awakened eyes,For the new meaning of the earth and skies.
The nameless charm about all things hath died,Subtle as aureole round a shadow's head,Cast on the dewy grass at morning-tide;Yet though the glory and the joy be fled,'T is much her own endurance to have weighed,And wrestled with God's angels, unafraid.
XIII. Faith.
She feels outwearied, as though o'er her headA storm of mighty billows broke and passed.Whose hand upheld her? Who her footsteps ledTo this green haven of sweet rest at last?What strength was hers, unreckoned and unknown?What love sustained when she was most alone?
Unutterably pathetic her desire,To reach, with groping arms outstretched in prayer,Something to cling to, to uplift her higherFrom this low world of coward fear and care,Above disaster, that her will may beAt one with God's, accepting his decree.
Though by no reasons she be justified,Yet strangely brave in Evil's very face,She deems this want must needs be satisfied,Though here all slips from out her weak embrace.And in blind ecstasy of perfect faith,With her own dream her prayer she answereth.
XIV. Work.
Yet life is not a vision nor a prayer,But stubborn work; she may not shun her task.After the first compassion, none will spareHer portion and her work achieved, to ask.She pleads for respite,—she will come ere longWhen, resting by the roadside, she is strong.
Nay, for the hurrying throng of passers-byWill crush her with their onward-rolling stream.Much must be done before the brief light die;She may not loiter, rapt in the vain dream.With unused trembling hands, and faltering feet,She staggers forth, her lot assigned to meet.
But when she fills her days with duties done,Strange vigor comes, she is restored to health.New aims, new interests rise with each new sun,And life still holds for her unbounded wealth.All that seemed hard and toilsome now proves small,And naught may daunt her,—she hath strength for all.
XV. Victory.
How strange, in some brief interval of rest,Backward to look on her far-stretching past.To see how much is conquered and repressed,How much is gained in victory at last!The shadow is not lifted,—but her faith,Strong from life's miracles, now turns toward death.
Though much be dark where once rare splendor shone,Yet the new light has touched high peaks unguessedIn her gold, mist-bathed dawn, and one by oneNew outlooks loom from many a mountain crest.She breathes a loftier, purer atmosphere,And life's entangled paths grow straight and clear.
Nor will Death prove an all-unwelcome guest;The struggle has been toilsome to this end,Sleep will be sweet, and after labor rest,And all will be atoned with him to friend.Much must be reconciled, much justified,And yet she feels she will be satisfied.
XVI. Peace.
The calm outgoing of a long, rich day,Checkered with storm and sunshine, gloom and light,Now passing in pure, cloudless skies away,Withdrawing into silence of blank night.Thick shadows settle on the landscape bright,Like the weird cloud of death that falls apaceOn the still features of the passive face.
Soothing and gentle as a mother's kiss,The touch that stopped the beating of the heart.A look so blissfully serene as this,Not all the joy of living could impart.Patient to bide, yet willing to depart,With dauntless faith and courage therewithal,The Master found her ready at his call.
On such a golden evening forth there floats,Between the grave earth and the glowing skyIn the clear air, unvexed with hazy motes,The mystic-winged and flickering butterfly,A human soul, that drifts at liberty,Ah! who can tell to what strange paradise,To what undreamed-of fields and lofty skies!
HOW LONG?
How long, and yet how long,Our leaders will we hail from over seas,Master and kings from feudal monarchies,And mock their ancient songWith echoes weak of foreign melodies?
That distant isle mist-wreathed,Mantled in unimaginable green,Too long hath been our mistress and our queen.Our fathers have bequeathedToo deep a love for her, our hearts within.
She made the whole world ringWith the brave exploits of her children strong,And with the matchless music of her song.Too late, too late we clingTo alien legends, and their strains prolong.
This fresh young world I see,With heroes, cities, legends of her own;With a new race of men, and overblownBy winds from sea to sea,Decked with the majesty of every zone.
I see the glittering topsOf snow-peaked mounts, the wid'ning vale's expanse,Large prairies where free herds of horses prance,Exhaustless wealth of crops,In vast, magnificent extravagance.
These grand, exuberant plains,These stately rivers, each with many a mouth,The exquisite beauty of the soft-aired south,The boundless seas of grains,Luxuriant forests' lush and splendid growth.
The distant siren-songOf the green island in the eastern sea,Is not the lay for this new chivalry.It is not free and strongTo chant on prairies 'neath this brilliant sky.
The echo faints and fails;It suiteth not, upon this western plain,Out voice or spirit; we should stir againThe wilderness, and make the valesResound unto a yet unheard-of strain.