BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING.Beyond the smiling and the weepingI shall be soon;Beyond the waking and the sleeping,Beyond the sowing and the reaping,I shall be soon.Love, rest, and home!Sweet hope!Lord, tarry not, but come.Beyond the blooming and the fadingI shall be soon;Beyond the shining and the shading,Beyond the hoping and the dreading,I shall be soon.Love, rest, and home!etc.Beyond the rising and the settingI shall be soon;Beyond the calming and the fretting,Beyond remembering and forgetting,I shall be soon.Love, rest, and home!etc.Beyond the gathering and the strowingI shall be soon;Beyond the ebbing and the flowing.Beyond the coming and the going,I shall be soon.Love, rest, and home!etc.Beyond the parting and the meetingI shall be soon;Beyond the farewell and the greeting,Beyond this pulse's fever beating,I shall be soon.Love, rest, and home!etc.Beyond the frost chain and the feverI shall be soon;Beyond the rock waste and the river,Beyond the ever and the never,I shall be soon.Love, rest, and home!Sweet hope!Lord, tarry not, but come.HORATIUS BONAR.
BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING.
Beyond the smiling and the weepingI shall be soon;Beyond the waking and the sleeping,Beyond the sowing and the reaping,I shall be soon.Love, rest, and home!Sweet hope!Lord, tarry not, but come.
Beyond the blooming and the fadingI shall be soon;Beyond the shining and the shading,Beyond the hoping and the dreading,I shall be soon.Love, rest, and home!etc.
Beyond the rising and the settingI shall be soon;Beyond the calming and the fretting,Beyond remembering and forgetting,I shall be soon.Love, rest, and home!etc.
Beyond the gathering and the strowingI shall be soon;Beyond the ebbing and the flowing.Beyond the coming and the going,I shall be soon.Love, rest, and home!etc.
Beyond the parting and the meetingI shall be soon;Beyond the farewell and the greeting,Beyond this pulse's fever beating,I shall be soon.Love, rest, and home!etc.
Beyond the frost chain and the feverI shall be soon;Beyond the rock waste and the river,Beyond the ever and the never,I shall be soon.Love, rest, and home!Sweet hope!Lord, tarry not, but come.
HORATIUS BONAR.
THE LAND O' THE LEAL.I'm wearing awa', Jean,Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean;I'm wearing awa',To the land o' the leal.There's nae sorrow there, Jean,There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,The day is aye fairIn the land o' the leal.Ye were aye leal and true, Jean;Your task 's ended noo, Jean,And I'll welcome youTo the land o' the leal.Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean,She was baith guid and fair, Jean:O, we grudged her right sairTo the land o' the leal!Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean,My soul langs to be free, Jean,And angels wait on meTo the land o' the leal!Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,This warld's care is vain, Jean;We'll meet and aye be fainIn the land o' the leal.CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE.
THE LAND O' THE LEAL.
I'm wearing awa', Jean,Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean;I'm wearing awa',To the land o' the leal.There's nae sorrow there, Jean,There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,The day is aye fairIn the land o' the leal.
Ye were aye leal and true, Jean;Your task 's ended noo, Jean,And I'll welcome youTo the land o' the leal.Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean,She was baith guid and fair, Jean:O, we grudged her right sairTo the land o' the leal!
Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean,My soul langs to be free, Jean,And angels wait on meTo the land o' the leal!Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,This warld's care is vain, Jean;We'll meet and aye be fainIn the land o' the leal.
CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE.
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA."I am dying, Egypt, dying."—SHAKESPEARE'SAntony and Cleopatra, Act iv. Sc. 13.I am dying, Egypt, dying.Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,And the dark Plutonian shadowsGather on the evening blast;Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me,Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear;Listen to the great heart-secrets,Thou, and thou alone, must hear.Though my scarred and veteran legionsBear their eagles high no more.And my wrecked and scattered galleysStrew dark Actium's fatal shore,Though no glittering guards surround me,Prompt to do their master's will,I must perish like a Roman,Die the great Triumvir still.Let not Cæsar's servile minionsMock the lion thus laid low;'T was no foeman's arm that felled him,'T was his own that struck the blow:His who, pillowed on thy bosom,Turned aside from glory's ray,His who, drunk with thy caresses,Madly threw a world away.Should the base plebeian rabbleDare assail my name at Rome,Where my noble spouse, Octavia,Weeps within her widowed home,Seek her; say the gods bear witness—Altars, augurs, circling wings—That her blood, with mine commingled,Yet shall mount the throne of kings.As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian!Glorious sorceress of the Nile!Light the path to Stygian horrorsWith the splendors of thy smile.Give the Cæsar crowns and arches,Let his brow the laurel twine;I can scorn the Senate's triumphs,Triumphing in love like thine.I am dying, Egypt, dying;Hark! the insulting foeman's cry.They are coming—quick, my falchion!Let me front them ere I die.Ah! no more amid the battleShall my heart exulting swell;Isis and Osiris guard thee!Cleopatra—Rome—farewell!WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE.
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.
"I am dying, Egypt, dying."—SHAKESPEARE'SAntony and Cleopatra, Act iv. Sc. 13.
I am dying, Egypt, dying.Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,And the dark Plutonian shadowsGather on the evening blast;Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me,Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear;Listen to the great heart-secrets,Thou, and thou alone, must hear.
Though my scarred and veteran legionsBear their eagles high no more.And my wrecked and scattered galleysStrew dark Actium's fatal shore,Though no glittering guards surround me,Prompt to do their master's will,I must perish like a Roman,Die the great Triumvir still.
Let not Cæsar's servile minionsMock the lion thus laid low;'T was no foeman's arm that felled him,'T was his own that struck the blow:His who, pillowed on thy bosom,Turned aside from glory's ray,His who, drunk with thy caresses,Madly threw a world away.
Should the base plebeian rabbleDare assail my name at Rome,Where my noble spouse, Octavia,Weeps within her widowed home,Seek her; say the gods bear witness—Altars, augurs, circling wings—That her blood, with mine commingled,Yet shall mount the throne of kings.
As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian!Glorious sorceress of the Nile!Light the path to Stygian horrorsWith the splendors of thy smile.Give the Cæsar crowns and arches,Let his brow the laurel twine;I can scorn the Senate's triumphs,Triumphing in love like thine.
I am dying, Egypt, dying;Hark! the insulting foeman's cry.They are coming—quick, my falchion!Let me front them ere I die.Ah! no more amid the battleShall my heart exulting swell;Isis and Osiris guard thee!Cleopatra—Rome—farewell!
WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE.
HABEAS CORPUS.*My body, eh? Friend Death, how now?Why all this tedious pomp of writ?Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slowFor half a century, bit by bit.In faith thou knowest more to-dayThan I do, where it can be found!This shrivelled lump of suffering clay,To which I now am chained and bound,Has not of kith or kin a traceTo the good body once I bore;Look at this shrunken, ghastly face:Didst ever see that face before?Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art;Thy only fault thy lagging gait,Mistaken pity in thy heartFor timorous ones that bid thee wait.Do quickly all thou hast to do,Nor I nor mine will hindrance make;I shall be free when thou art through;I grudge thee naught that thou must take!Stay! I have lied: I grudge thee one,Yes, two I grudge thee at this last,—Two members which have faithful doneMy will and bidding in the past.I grudge thee this right hand of mine;I grudge thee this quick-beating heart;They never gave me coward sign,Nor played me once a traitor's part.I see now why in olden daysMen in barbaric love or hateNailed enemies' hands at wild crossways,Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state:The symbol, sign, and instrumentOf each soul's purpose, passion, strife,Of fires in which are poured and spentTheir all of love, their all of life.O feeble, mighty human hand!O fragile, dauntless human heart!The universe holds nothing plannedWith such sublime, transcendent art!Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee minePoor little hand, so feeble now;Its wrinkled palm, its altered line,Its veins so pallid and so slow—(Unfinished here)Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art:I shall be free when thou art through.Take all there is—take hand and heart:There must be somewhere work to do.HELEN HUNT JACKSON.* Her last poem: 7 August, 1885.
HABEAS CORPUS.*
My body, eh? Friend Death, how now?Why all this tedious pomp of writ?Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slowFor half a century, bit by bit.
In faith thou knowest more to-dayThan I do, where it can be found!This shrivelled lump of suffering clay,To which I now am chained and bound,
Has not of kith or kin a traceTo the good body once I bore;Look at this shrunken, ghastly face:Didst ever see that face before?
Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art;Thy only fault thy lagging gait,Mistaken pity in thy heartFor timorous ones that bid thee wait.
Do quickly all thou hast to do,Nor I nor mine will hindrance make;I shall be free when thou art through;I grudge thee naught that thou must take!
Stay! I have lied: I grudge thee one,Yes, two I grudge thee at this last,—Two members which have faithful doneMy will and bidding in the past.
I grudge thee this right hand of mine;I grudge thee this quick-beating heart;They never gave me coward sign,Nor played me once a traitor's part.
I see now why in olden daysMen in barbaric love or hateNailed enemies' hands at wild crossways,Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state:
The symbol, sign, and instrumentOf each soul's purpose, passion, strife,Of fires in which are poured and spentTheir all of love, their all of life.
O feeble, mighty human hand!O fragile, dauntless human heart!The universe holds nothing plannedWith such sublime, transcendent art!
Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee minePoor little hand, so feeble now;Its wrinkled palm, its altered line,Its veins so pallid and so slow—
(Unfinished here)
Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art:I shall be free when thou art through.Take all there is—take hand and heart:There must be somewhere work to do.
HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
* Her last poem: 7 August, 1885.
FAREWELL, LIFE.WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS, APRIL, 1845.Farewell, life! my senses swim.And the world is growing dim;Thronging shadows cloud the light,Like the advent of the night,—Colder, colder, colder still,Upward steals a vapor chill;Strong the earthly odor grows,—I smell the mold above the rose!Welcome, life! the spirit strives!Strength returns and hope revives;Cloudy fears and shapes forlornFly like shadows at the morn,—O'er the earth there comes a bloom;Sunny light for sullen gloom,Warm perfume for vapor cold,—I smell the rose above the mold!THOMAS HOOD.
FAREWELL, LIFE.
WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS, APRIL, 1845.
Farewell, life! my senses swim.And the world is growing dim;Thronging shadows cloud the light,Like the advent of the night,—Colder, colder, colder still,Upward steals a vapor chill;Strong the earthly odor grows,—I smell the mold above the rose!
Welcome, life! the spirit strives!Strength returns and hope revives;Cloudy fears and shapes forlornFly like shadows at the morn,—O'er the earth there comes a bloom;Sunny light for sullen gloom,Warm perfume for vapor cold,—I smell the rose above the mold!
THOMAS HOOD.
FOR ANNIE.Thank Heaven! the crisis,—The danger is past,And the lingering illnessIs over at last,—And the fever called "Living"Is conquered at last.Sadly, I know,I am shorn of my strength,And no muscle I moveAs I lie at full length,—But no matter!—I feelI am better at length.And I rest so composedlyNow, in my bed,That any beholderMight fancy me dead,—Might start at beholding me,Thinking me dead.The moaning and groaning,The sighing and sobbing,Are quieted now,With that horrible throbbingAt heart,—ah, that horrible,Horrible throbbing!The sickness, the nausea,The pitiless pain,Have ceased, with the feverThat maddened my brain,—With the fever called "Living"That burned in my brain.And O, of all torturesThattorture the worstHas abated,—the terribleTorture of thirstFor the naphthaline riverOf Passion accurst!I have drunk of a waterThat quenches all thirst,Of a water that flows,With a lullaby sound.From a spring but a very fewFeet under ground,From a cavern not very farDown under ground.And ah! let it neverBe foolishly saidThat my room it is gloomyAnd narrow my bed;For man never sleptIn a different bed,—And, tosleepyou must slumberIn just such a bed.My tantalized spiritHere blandly reposes,Forgetting, or neverRegretting, its roses,—Its old agitationsOf myrtles and roses:For now, while so quietlyLying, it fanciesA holier odorAbout it, of pansies,—A rosemary odor,Commingled with pansies,With rue and the beautifulPuritan pansies.And so it lies happily,Bathing in manyA dream of the truthAnd the beauty of Annie,—Drowned in a bathOf the tresses of Annie.She tenderly kissed me,She fondly caressed,And then I fell gentlyTo sleep on her breast,—Deeply to sleepFrom the heaven of her breast.When the light was extinguished,She covered me warm,And she prayed to the angelsTo keep me from harm,—To the queen of the angelsTo shield me from harm.And I lie so composedlyNow in my bed,(Knowing her love,)That you fancy me dead;—And I rest so contentedlyNow in my bed,(With her love at my breast,)That you fancy me dead,—That you shudder to look at me,Thinking me dead:But my heart it is brighterThan all of the manyStars in the sky;For it sparkles with Annie,—It glows with the lightOf the love of my Annie,With the thought of the lightOf the eyes of my Annie.EDGAR ALLAN POE
FOR ANNIE.
Thank Heaven! the crisis,—The danger is past,And the lingering illnessIs over at last,—And the fever called "Living"Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know,I am shorn of my strength,And no muscle I moveAs I lie at full length,—But no matter!—I feelI am better at length.
And I rest so composedlyNow, in my bed,That any beholderMight fancy me dead,—Might start at beholding me,Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,The sighing and sobbing,Are quieted now,With that horrible throbbingAt heart,—ah, that horrible,Horrible throbbing!
The sickness, the nausea,The pitiless pain,Have ceased, with the feverThat maddened my brain,—With the fever called "Living"That burned in my brain.
And O, of all torturesThattorture the worstHas abated,—the terribleTorture of thirstFor the naphthaline riverOf Passion accurst!I have drunk of a waterThat quenches all thirst,
Of a water that flows,With a lullaby sound.From a spring but a very fewFeet under ground,From a cavern not very farDown under ground.
And ah! let it neverBe foolishly saidThat my room it is gloomyAnd narrow my bed;For man never sleptIn a different bed,—And, tosleepyou must slumberIn just such a bed.
My tantalized spiritHere blandly reposes,Forgetting, or neverRegretting, its roses,—Its old agitationsOf myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietlyLying, it fanciesA holier odorAbout it, of pansies,—A rosemary odor,Commingled with pansies,With rue and the beautifulPuritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,Bathing in manyA dream of the truthAnd the beauty of Annie,—Drowned in a bathOf the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,She fondly caressed,And then I fell gentlyTo sleep on her breast,—Deeply to sleepFrom the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,She covered me warm,And she prayed to the angelsTo keep me from harm,—To the queen of the angelsTo shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedlyNow in my bed,(Knowing her love,)That you fancy me dead;—And I rest so contentedlyNow in my bed,(With her love at my breast,)That you fancy me dead,—That you shudder to look at me,Thinking me dead:
But my heart it is brighterThan all of the manyStars in the sky;For it sparkles with Annie,—It glows with the lightOf the love of my Annie,With the thought of the lightOf the eyes of my Annie.
EDGAR ALLAN POE
THALATTA! THALATTA!CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND.I stand upon the summit of my life,Behind, the camp, the court, the field, the grove,The battle, and the burden: vast, afarBeyond these weary ways. Behold! the Sea!The sea o'erswept by clouds and winds and wings;By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breathIs freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace.Palter no question of the horizon dim—Cut loose the bark! Such voyage itself is rest,Majestic motion, unimpeded scope,A widening heaven, a current without care,Eternity!—deliverance, promise, course!Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore.JOSEPH BROWNLEE BROWN.
THALATTA! THALATTA!
CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND.
I stand upon the summit of my life,Behind, the camp, the court, the field, the grove,The battle, and the burden: vast, afarBeyond these weary ways. Behold! the Sea!The sea o'erswept by clouds and winds and wings;By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breathIs freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace.Palter no question of the horizon dim—Cut loose the bark! Such voyage itself is rest,Majestic motion, unimpeded scope,A widening heaven, a current without care,Eternity!—deliverance, promise, course!Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore.
JOSEPH BROWNLEE BROWN.
THE SLEEP."He giveth his belovèd sleep."—PSALM cxxvii. 2.Of all the thoughts of God that areBorne inward unto souls afar,Among the Psalmist's music deep,Now tell me if that any is,For gift or grace, surpassing this,—"He giveth his belovèd sleep "?What would we give to our beloved?The hero's heart, to be unmoved,—The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,—The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,—The monarch's crown, to light the brows?"He givethhisbelovèd sleep."What do we give to our beloved?A little faith, all undisproved,—A little dust to overweep,And bitter memories, to makeThe whole earth blasted for our sake,"He givethhisbelovèd sleep.""Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say,But have no tune to charm awaySad dreams that through the eyelids creep;But never doleful dream againShall break the happy slumber when"He givethhisbeloved sleep."O earth, so full of dreary noise!O men, with wailing in your voice!O delved gold the wailers heap!O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!God strikes a silence through you all,"He giveth his beloved sleep."His dews drop mutely on the hill,His cloud above it saileth still.Though on its slope men sow and reap;More softly than the dew is shed,Or cloud is floated overhead,"He giveth his beloved sleep."For me, my heart, that erst did goMost like a tired child at a show.That sees through tears the mummers leap,Would now its wearied vision close,Would childlike on his love reposeWho "giveth his beloved sleep."ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
THE SLEEP.
"He giveth his belovèd sleep."—PSALM cxxvii. 2.
Of all the thoughts of God that areBorne inward unto souls afar,Among the Psalmist's music deep,Now tell me if that any is,For gift or grace, surpassing this,—"He giveth his belovèd sleep "?
What would we give to our beloved?The hero's heart, to be unmoved,—The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,—The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,—The monarch's crown, to light the brows?"He givethhisbelovèd sleep."
What do we give to our beloved?A little faith, all undisproved,—A little dust to overweep,And bitter memories, to makeThe whole earth blasted for our sake,"He givethhisbelovèd sleep."
"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say,But have no tune to charm awaySad dreams that through the eyelids creep;But never doleful dream againShall break the happy slumber when"He givethhisbeloved sleep."
O earth, so full of dreary noise!O men, with wailing in your voice!O delved gold the wailers heap!O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!God strikes a silence through you all,"He giveth his beloved sleep."
His dews drop mutely on the hill,His cloud above it saileth still.Though on its slope men sow and reap;More softly than the dew is shed,Or cloud is floated overhead,"He giveth his beloved sleep."
For me, my heart, that erst did goMost like a tired child at a show.That sees through tears the mummers leap,Would now its wearied vision close,Would childlike on his love reposeWho "giveth his beloved sleep."
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
PROSPICEFear death? to feel the fog in my throat,The mist in my face,When the snows begin, and the blasts denoteI am nearing the place,The power of the night, the press of the storm,The post of the foe;Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,Yet the strong man must go:For the journey is done and the summit attained,And the barriers fall,Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,The reward of it all.I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,The best and the last!I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,And bade me creep past.No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peersThe heroes of old,Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrearsOf pain, darkness and cold.For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,The black minute's at end,And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,Shall dwindle, shall blend,Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain.Then a light, then thy breast,O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,And with God be the rest!ROBERT BROWNING.
PROSPICE
Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat,The mist in my face,When the snows begin, and the blasts denoteI am nearing the place,The power of the night, the press of the storm,The post of the foe;Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,Yet the strong man must go:For the journey is done and the summit attained,And the barriers fall,Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,The reward of it all.I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,The best and the last!I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,And bade me creep past.No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peersThe heroes of old,Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrearsOf pain, darkness and cold.For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,The black minute's at end,And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,Shall dwindle, shall blend,Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain.Then a light, then thy breast,O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,And with God be the rest!
ROBERT BROWNING.
I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.I would not live alway—live alway below!Oh no, I'll not linger when bidden to go:The days of our pilgrimage granted us hereAre enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer:Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of God,Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod?Like a spirit unblest, o'er the earth would I roam,While brethren and friends are all hastening home?I would not live alway: I ask not to stayWhere storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;Where seeking for rest we but hover around,Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found;Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air.Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair,And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray,Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away.I would not live alway—thus fettered by sin,Temptation without and corruption within;In a moment of strength if I sever the chain,Scarce the victory's mine, ere I 'm captive again;E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears,And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears:The festival trump calls for jubilant songs,But my spirit her ownmiserereprolongs.I would not live alway—no, welcome the tomb,Since Jesus hath lain there I dread not its gloom;Where he deigned to sleep, I'll too bow my head,All peaceful to slumber on that hallowed bed.Then the glorious daybreak, to follow that night,The orient gleam of the angels of light,With their clarion call for the sleepers to rise.And chant forth their matins, away to the skies.Who, who would live alway? away from his God,Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode,Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,And the noontide of glory eternally reigns;Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet,While the songs of salvation exultingly rollAnd the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul.That heavenly music! what is it I hear?The notes of the harpers ring sweet in mine ear!And see, soft unfolding those portals of gold,The King all arrayed in his beauty behold!Oh give me, oh give me, the wings of a dove,To adore him—be near him—enwrapt with his love;I but wait for the summons, I list for the word—Alleluia—Amen—evermore with the Lord!WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MÜHLENBERG.
I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.
I would not live alway—live alway below!Oh no, I'll not linger when bidden to go:The days of our pilgrimage granted us hereAre enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer:Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of God,Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod?Like a spirit unblest, o'er the earth would I roam,While brethren and friends are all hastening home?
I would not live alway: I ask not to stayWhere storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;Where seeking for rest we but hover around,Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found;Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air.Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair,And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray,Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away.
I would not live alway—thus fettered by sin,Temptation without and corruption within;In a moment of strength if I sever the chain,Scarce the victory's mine, ere I 'm captive again;E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears,And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears:The festival trump calls for jubilant songs,But my spirit her ownmiserereprolongs.
I would not live alway—no, welcome the tomb,Since Jesus hath lain there I dread not its gloom;Where he deigned to sleep, I'll too bow my head,All peaceful to slumber on that hallowed bed.Then the glorious daybreak, to follow that night,The orient gleam of the angels of light,With their clarion call for the sleepers to rise.And chant forth their matins, away to the skies.
Who, who would live alway? away from his God,Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode,Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,And the noontide of glory eternally reigns;Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet,While the songs of salvation exultingly rollAnd the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul.
That heavenly music! what is it I hear?The notes of the harpers ring sweet in mine ear!And see, soft unfolding those portals of gold,The King all arrayed in his beauty behold!Oh give me, oh give me, the wings of a dove,To adore him—be near him—enwrapt with his love;I but wait for the summons, I list for the word—Alleluia—Amen—evermore with the Lord!
WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MÜHLENBERG.
FAREWELL.I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;I warmed both hands before the fire of life,—It sinks, and I am ready to depart.WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
FAREWELL.
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;I warmed both hands before the fire of life,—It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
LOVE AND DEATH.Alas! that men must seeLove, before Death!Else they content might beWith their short breath;Aye, glad, when the pale sunShowed restless day was done,And endless Rest begun.Glad, when with strong, cool handDeath clasped their own,And with a strange commandHushed every moan;Glad to have finished pain,And labor wrought in vain,Blurred by Sin's deepening stain.But Love's insistent voiceBids self to flee—"Live that I may rejoice,Live on, for me!"So, for Love's cruel mind,Men fear this Rest to find,Nor know great Death is kind!MARGARETTA WADE DELAND.
LOVE AND DEATH.
Alas! that men must seeLove, before Death!Else they content might beWith their short breath;Aye, glad, when the pale sunShowed restless day was done,And endless Rest begun.
Glad, when with strong, cool handDeath clasped their own,And with a strange commandHushed every moan;Glad to have finished pain,And labor wrought in vain,Blurred by Sin's deepening stain.
But Love's insistent voiceBids self to flee—"Live that I may rejoice,Live on, for me!"So, for Love's cruel mind,Men fear this Rest to find,Nor know great Death is kind!
MARGARETTA WADE DELAND.
TO DEATH.Methinks it were no pain to dieOn such an eve, when such a skyO'er-canopies the west;To gaze my fill on yon calm deep,And, like an infant, fall asleepOn Earth, my mother's breast.There's peace and welcome in yon seaOf endless blue tranquillity:These clouds are living things;I trace their veins of liquid gold,I see them solemnly unfoldTheir soft and fleecy wings.These be the angels that conveyUs weary children of a day—Life's tedious nothing o'er—Where neither passions come, nor woes,To vex the genius of reposeOn Death's majestic shore.No darkness there divides the swayWith startling dawn and dazzling day;But gloriously sereneAre the interminable plains:One fixed, eternal sunset reignsO'er the wide silent scene.I cannot doff all human fear;I know thy greeting is severeTo this poor shell of clay:Yet come, O Death! thy freezing kissEmancipates! thy rest is bliss!I would I were away!From the German of GLUCK.
TO DEATH.
Methinks it were no pain to dieOn such an eve, when such a skyO'er-canopies the west;To gaze my fill on yon calm deep,And, like an infant, fall asleepOn Earth, my mother's breast.
There's peace and welcome in yon seaOf endless blue tranquillity:These clouds are living things;I trace their veins of liquid gold,I see them solemnly unfoldTheir soft and fleecy wings.
These be the angels that conveyUs weary children of a day—Life's tedious nothing o'er—Where neither passions come, nor woes,To vex the genius of reposeOn Death's majestic shore.
No darkness there divides the swayWith startling dawn and dazzling day;But gloriously sereneAre the interminable plains:One fixed, eternal sunset reignsO'er the wide silent scene.
I cannot doff all human fear;I know thy greeting is severeTo this poor shell of clay:Yet come, O Death! thy freezing kissEmancipates! thy rest is bliss!I would I were away!
From the German of GLUCK.
ASLEEP, ASLEEP."And so saying, he fell asleep."MARTYRDOM OF SAINT STEPHEN.Asleep! asleep! men talk of "sleep,"When all adown the silent deepThe shades of night are stealing;When like a curtain, soft and vast,The darkness over all is cast,And sombre stillness comes at last,To the mute heart appealing.Asleep! asleep! when soft and lowThe patient watchers come and go,Their loving vigil keeping;When from the dear eyes fades the light,When pales the flush so strangely bright,And the glad spirit takes its flight,We speak of death as "sleeping."Or when, as dies the orb of day,The aged Christian sinks away,And the lone mourner weepeth;When thus the pilgrim goes to rest,With meek hands folded on his breast,And his last sigh a prayer confessed—We say of such, "He sleepeth."But when amidst a shower of stones,And mingled curses, shrieks, and groans,The death-chill slowly creepeth;When falls at length the dying head,And streams the life-blood dark and red,A thousand voices cry, "He's dead";But who shall say, "He sleepeth"?"He fell asleep." A pen divineHath writ that epitaph of thine;And though the days are hoary,Yet beautiful thy rest appears—Unsullied by the lapse of years—And still we read, with thankful tears,The tale of grace and glory.Asleep! asleep! though not for theeThe touch of loving lips might be,In sadly sweet leave-taking:Though not for thee the last caress,The look of untold tenderness,The love that dying hours can pressFrom hearts with silence breaking.LUCY A. BENNETT.
ASLEEP, ASLEEP.
"And so saying, he fell asleep."
MARTYRDOM OF SAINT STEPHEN.
Asleep! asleep! men talk of "sleep,"When all adown the silent deepThe shades of night are stealing;When like a curtain, soft and vast,The darkness over all is cast,And sombre stillness comes at last,To the mute heart appealing.
Asleep! asleep! when soft and lowThe patient watchers come and go,Their loving vigil keeping;When from the dear eyes fades the light,When pales the flush so strangely bright,And the glad spirit takes its flight,We speak of death as "sleeping."
Or when, as dies the orb of day,The aged Christian sinks away,And the lone mourner weepeth;When thus the pilgrim goes to rest,With meek hands folded on his breast,And his last sigh a prayer confessed—We say of such, "He sleepeth."
But when amidst a shower of stones,And mingled curses, shrieks, and groans,The death-chill slowly creepeth;When falls at length the dying head,And streams the life-blood dark and red,A thousand voices cry, "He's dead";But who shall say, "He sleepeth"?
"He fell asleep." A pen divineHath writ that epitaph of thine;And though the days are hoary,Yet beautiful thy rest appears—Unsullied by the lapse of years—And still we read, with thankful tears,The tale of grace and glory.
Asleep! asleep! though not for theeThe touch of loving lips might be,In sadly sweet leave-taking:Though not for thee the last caress,The look of untold tenderness,The love that dying hours can pressFrom hearts with silence breaking.
LUCY A. BENNETT.
REST.I lay me down to sleep,With little careWhether my waking findMe here, or there.A bowing, burdened headThat only asks to rest,Unquestioning, uponA loving breast.My good right-hand forgetsIts cunning now;To march the weary marchI know not how.I am not eager, bold,Nor strong,—all that is past;I am ready not to do,At last, at last.My half-day's work is done,And this is all my part,—I give a patient GodMy patient heart;And grasp his banner still,Though all the blue be dim;These stripes as well as starsLead after him.MARY WOOLSEY HOWLAND.
REST.
I lay me down to sleep,With little careWhether my waking findMe here, or there.
A bowing, burdened headThat only asks to rest,Unquestioning, uponA loving breast.
My good right-hand forgetsIts cunning now;To march the weary marchI know not how.
I am not eager, bold,Nor strong,—all that is past;I am ready not to do,At last, at last.
My half-day's work is done,And this is all my part,—I give a patient GodMy patient heart;
And grasp his banner still,Though all the blue be dim;These stripes as well as starsLead after him.
MARY WOOLSEY HOWLAND.
IN HARBOR.I think it is over, over,I think it is over at last:Voices of foemen and lover,The sweet and the bitter, have passed:Life, like a tempest of oceanHath outblown its ultimate blast:There's but a faint sobbing seawardWhile the calm of the tide deepens leeward,And behold! like the welcoming quiverOf heart-pulses throbbed through the river,Those lights in the harbor at last,The heavenly harbor at last!I feel it is over! over!For the winds and the waters surcease;Ah, few were the days of the roverThat smiled in the beauty of peace,And distant and dim was the omenThat hinted redress or release!From the ravage of life, and its riot,What marvel I yearn for the quietWhich bides in the harbor at last,—For the lights, with their welcoming quiverThat throb through the sanctified river,Which girdle the harbor at last,This heavenly harbor at last?I know it is over, over,I know it is over at last!Down sail! the sheathed anchor uncover,For the stress of the voyage has passed:Life, like a tempest of ocean,Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast:There's but a faint sobbing seaward,While the calm of the tide deepens leeward;And behold! like the welcoming quiverOf heart-pulses throbbed through the river,Those lights in the harbor at last,The heavenly harbor at last!PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.
IN HARBOR.
I think it is over, over,I think it is over at last:Voices of foemen and lover,The sweet and the bitter, have passed:Life, like a tempest of oceanHath outblown its ultimate blast:There's but a faint sobbing seawardWhile the calm of the tide deepens leeward,And behold! like the welcoming quiverOf heart-pulses throbbed through the river,Those lights in the harbor at last,The heavenly harbor at last!
I feel it is over! over!For the winds and the waters surcease;Ah, few were the days of the roverThat smiled in the beauty of peace,And distant and dim was the omenThat hinted redress or release!From the ravage of life, and its riot,What marvel I yearn for the quietWhich bides in the harbor at last,—For the lights, with their welcoming quiverThat throb through the sanctified river,Which girdle the harbor at last,This heavenly harbor at last?
I know it is over, over,I know it is over at last!Down sail! the sheathed anchor uncover,For the stress of the voyage has passed:Life, like a tempest of ocean,Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast:There's but a faint sobbing seaward,While the calm of the tide deepens leeward;And behold! like the welcoming quiverOf heart-pulses throbbed through the river,Those lights in the harbor at last,The heavenly harbor at last!
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWEHARRIET BEECHER STOWEFrom an engraving after the drawing by George Richmond.
HUSH!Oh, hush thee, Earth! Fold thou thy weary palms!The sunset glory fadeth in the west;The purple splendor leaves the mountain's crest;Gray twilight comes as one who beareth alms,Darkness and silence and delicious calms.Take thou the gift, O Earth! On Night's soft breastLay thy tired head and sink to dreamless rest,Lulled by the music of her evening psalms.Cool darkness, silence, and the holy stars,Long shadows when the pale moon soars on high,One far lone night-bird singing from the hill,And utter rest from Day's discordant jars;O soul of mine! when the long night draws nighWill such deep peace thine inmost being fill?JULIA C.R. DORR.
HUSH!
Oh, hush thee, Earth! Fold thou thy weary palms!The sunset glory fadeth in the west;The purple splendor leaves the mountain's crest;Gray twilight comes as one who beareth alms,Darkness and silence and delicious calms.Take thou the gift, O Earth! On Night's soft breastLay thy tired head and sink to dreamless rest,Lulled by the music of her evening psalms.Cool darkness, silence, and the holy stars,Long shadows when the pale moon soars on high,One far lone night-bird singing from the hill,And utter rest from Day's discordant jars;O soul of mine! when the long night draws nighWill such deep peace thine inmost being fill?
JULIA C.R. DORR.
LIFE."Animula, vagula, blandula."Life! I know not what thou art,But know that thou and I must part;And when, or how, or where we metI own to me's a secret yet.But this I know, when thou art fled,Where'er they lay these limbs, this head,No clod so valueless shall be,As all that then remains of me.O, whither, whither dost thou fly,Where bend unseen thy trackless course,And in this strange divorce,Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I?To the vast ocean of empyreal flame,From whence thy essence came,Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freedFrom matter's base uncumbering weed?Or dost thou, hid from sight,Wait, like some spell-bound knight,Through blank, oblivious years the appointed hourTo break thy trance and reassume thy power?Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be?O, say what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee?Life! we've been long together,Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,—Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear:Then steal away, give little warning,Choose thine own time;Say not Good Night,—but in some brighter climeBid me Good Morning.ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.
LIFE.
"Animula, vagula, blandula."
Life! I know not what thou art,But know that thou and I must part;And when, or how, or where we metI own to me's a secret yet.But this I know, when thou art fled,Where'er they lay these limbs, this head,No clod so valueless shall be,As all that then remains of me.O, whither, whither dost thou fly,Where bend unseen thy trackless course,And in this strange divorce,Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I?
To the vast ocean of empyreal flame,From whence thy essence came,Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freedFrom matter's base uncumbering weed?Or dost thou, hid from sight,Wait, like some spell-bound knight,Through blank, oblivious years the appointed hourTo break thy trance and reassume thy power?Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be?O, say what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee?
Life! we've been long together,Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,—Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear:Then steal away, give little warning,Choose thine own time;Say not Good Night,—but in some brighter climeBid me Good Morning.
ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.
THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE.A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN.To weary hearts, to mourning homes,God's meekest Angel gently comes:No power has he to banish pain,Or give us back our lost again;And yet in tenderest love our dearAnd heavenly Father sends him here.There's quiet in that Angel's glance,There's rest in his still countenance!He mocks no grief with idle cheer,Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear;But ills and woes he may not cureHe kindly trains us to endure.Angel of Patience! sent to calmOur feverish brows with cooling palm;To lay the storms of hope and fear,And reconcile life's smile and tear;The throbs of wounded pride to still,And make our own our Father's will!O thou who mournest on thy way,With longings for the close of day;He walks with thee, that Angel kind,And gently whispers, "Be resigned:Bear up, bear on, the end shall tellThe dear Lord ordereth all things well!"JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE.
A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN.
To weary hearts, to mourning homes,God's meekest Angel gently comes:No power has he to banish pain,Or give us back our lost again;And yet in tenderest love our dearAnd heavenly Father sends him here.
There's quiet in that Angel's glance,There's rest in his still countenance!He mocks no grief with idle cheer,Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear;But ills and woes he may not cureHe kindly trains us to endure.
Angel of Patience! sent to calmOur feverish brows with cooling palm;To lay the storms of hope and fear,And reconcile life's smile and tear;The throbs of wounded pride to still,And make our own our Father's will!
O thou who mournest on thy way,With longings for the close of day;He walks with thee, that Angel kind,And gently whispers, "Be resigned:Bear up, bear on, the end shall tellThe dear Lord ordereth all things well!"
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
THEY ARE ALL GONE.They are all gone into the world of light,And I alone sit lingering here!Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear;It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,Like stars upon some gloomy grove,—Or those faint beams in which this hill is drestAfter the sun's remove.I see them walking in an air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days,—My days which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmering and decays.O holy hope! and high humility,—High as the heavens above!These are your walks, and you have showed them meTo kindle my cold love.Dear, beauteous death,—the jewel of the just,—Shining nowhere but in the dark!What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,Could man outlook that mark!He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,At first sight, if the bird be flown;But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.And yet, as angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul when man doth sleep,So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.If a star were confined into a tomb,Her captive flames must needs burn there,But when the hand that locked her up gives room,She'll shine through all the sphere.O Father of eternal life, and allCreated glories under thee!Resume thy spirit from this world of thrallInto true liberty.Either disperse these mists, which blot and fillMy perspective still as they pass;Or else remove me hence unto that hillWhere I shall need no glass.HENRY VAUGHAN.
THEY ARE ALL GONE.
They are all gone into the world of light,And I alone sit lingering here!Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear;
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,Like stars upon some gloomy grove,—Or those faint beams in which this hill is drestAfter the sun's remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days,—My days which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmering and decays.
O holy hope! and high humility,—High as the heavens above!These are your walks, and you have showed them meTo kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous death,—the jewel of the just,—Shining nowhere but in the dark!What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,At first sight, if the bird be flown;But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.
And yet, as angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul when man doth sleep,So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.
If a star were confined into a tomb,Her captive flames must needs burn there,But when the hand that locked her up gives room,She'll shine through all the sphere.
O Father of eternal life, and allCreated glories under thee!Resume thy spirit from this world of thrallInto true liberty.
Either disperse these mists, which blot and fillMy perspective still as they pass;Or else remove me hence unto that hillWhere I shall need no glass.
HENRY VAUGHAN.
THE BOTTOM DRAWER.In the best chamber of the house,Shut up in dim, uncertain light,There stood an antique chest of drawers,Of foreign wood, with brasses bright.One day a woman, frail and gray,Stepped totteringly across the floor—"Let in," said she, "the light of day,Then, Jean, unlock the bottom drawer."The girl, in all her youth's loveliness,Knelt down with eager, curious face;Perchance she dreamt of Indian silks,Of jewels, and of rare old lace.But when the summer sunshine fellUpon the treasures hoarded there,The tears rushed to her tender eyes,Her heart was solemn as a prayer."Dear Grandmamma," she softly sighed,Lifting a withered rose and palm;But on the elder face was naughtBut sweet content and peaceful calm.Leaning upon her staff, she gazedUpon a baby's half-worn shoe;A little frock of finest lawn;A hat with tiny bows of blue;A ball made fifty years ago;A little glove; a tasselled cap;A half-done "long division" sum;Some school-books fastened with a strap.She touched them all with trembling lips—"How much," she said, "the heart can bear!Ah, Jean! I thought that I should dieThe day that first I laid them there."But now it seems so good to knowThat through these weary, troubled yearsTheir hearts have been untouched by grief,Their eyes have been unstained by tears.Dear Jean, we see with clearer sightWhen earthly love is almost o'er;Those children wait me in the skies,For whom I locked that sacred drawer."AMELIA EDITH BARR.
THE BOTTOM DRAWER.
In the best chamber of the house,Shut up in dim, uncertain light,There stood an antique chest of drawers,Of foreign wood, with brasses bright.One day a woman, frail and gray,Stepped totteringly across the floor—"Let in," said she, "the light of day,Then, Jean, unlock the bottom drawer."
The girl, in all her youth's loveliness,Knelt down with eager, curious face;Perchance she dreamt of Indian silks,Of jewels, and of rare old lace.But when the summer sunshine fellUpon the treasures hoarded there,The tears rushed to her tender eyes,Her heart was solemn as a prayer.
"Dear Grandmamma," she softly sighed,Lifting a withered rose and palm;But on the elder face was naughtBut sweet content and peaceful calm.Leaning upon her staff, she gazedUpon a baby's half-worn shoe;A little frock of finest lawn;A hat with tiny bows of blue;
A ball made fifty years ago;A little glove; a tasselled cap;A half-done "long division" sum;Some school-books fastened with a strap.She touched them all with trembling lips—"How much," she said, "the heart can bear!Ah, Jean! I thought that I should dieThe day that first I laid them there.
"But now it seems so good to knowThat through these weary, troubled yearsTheir hearts have been untouched by grief,Their eyes have been unstained by tears.Dear Jean, we see with clearer sightWhen earthly love is almost o'er;Those children wait me in the skies,For whom I locked that sacred drawer."
AMELIA EDITH BARR.
OVER THE RIVER.Over the river they beckon to me,Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side,The gleam of their snowy robes I see,But their voices are lost in the dashing tide.There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.We saw not the angels who met him there,The gates of the city we could not see:Over the river, over the river,My brother stands waiting to welcome me.Over the river the boatman paleCarried another, the household pet;Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,Darling Minnie! I see her yet.She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;We felt it glide from the silver sands,And all our sunshine grew strangely dark;We know she is safe on the farther side,Where all the ransomed and angels be:Over the river, the mystic river,My childhood's idol is waiting for me.For none returns from those quiet shores,Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;We hear the dip of the golden oars,And catch a gleam of the snowy sail;And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts,They cross the stream and are gone for aye.We may not sunder the veil apartThat hides from our vision the gates of day;We only know that their barks no moreMay sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.And I sit and think, when the sunset's goldIs flushing river and hill and shore,I shall one day stand by the water cold,And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,To the better shore of the spirit land.I shall know the loved who have gone before,And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,When over the river, the peaceful river,The angel of death shall carry me.NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST.
OVER THE RIVER.
Over the river they beckon to me,Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side,The gleam of their snowy robes I see,But their voices are lost in the dashing tide.There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.We saw not the angels who met him there,The gates of the city we could not see:Over the river, over the river,My brother stands waiting to welcome me.
Over the river the boatman paleCarried another, the household pet;Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,Darling Minnie! I see her yet.She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;We felt it glide from the silver sands,And all our sunshine grew strangely dark;We know she is safe on the farther side,Where all the ransomed and angels be:Over the river, the mystic river,My childhood's idol is waiting for me.
For none returns from those quiet shores,Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;We hear the dip of the golden oars,And catch a gleam of the snowy sail;And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts,They cross the stream and are gone for aye.We may not sunder the veil apartThat hides from our vision the gates of day;We only know that their barks no moreMay sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.
And I sit and think, when the sunset's goldIs flushing river and hill and shore,I shall one day stand by the water cold,And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,To the better shore of the spirit land.I shall know the loved who have gone before,And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,When over the river, the peaceful river,The angel of death shall carry me.
NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST.
GRIEF FOR THE DEAD.O hearts that never cease to yearn!O brimming tears that ne'er are dried!The dead, though they depart, returnAs though they had not died!The living are the only dead;The dead live,—nevermore to die;And often, when we mourn them fled,They never were so nigh!And though they lie beneath the waves,Or sleep within the churchyard dim,(Ah! through how many different gravesGod's children go to him!)—Yet every grave gives up its deadEre it is overgrown with grass;Then why should hopeless tears be shed,Or need we cry, "Alas"?Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom,And like a sorrowing mourner craped,Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb,Whose captives have escaped?'Tis but a mound,—and will be mossedWhene'er the summer grass appears;The loved, though wept, are never lost;We only lose—our tears!Nay, Hope may whisper with the deadBy bending forward where they are;But Memory, with a backward tread,Communes with them afar.The joys we lose are but forecast,And we shall find them all once more;We look behind us for the Past,But lo! 'tis all before!ANONYMOUS.
GRIEF FOR THE DEAD.
O hearts that never cease to yearn!O brimming tears that ne'er are dried!The dead, though they depart, returnAs though they had not died!
The living are the only dead;The dead live,—nevermore to die;And often, when we mourn them fled,They never were so nigh!
And though they lie beneath the waves,Or sleep within the churchyard dim,(Ah! through how many different gravesGod's children go to him!)—
Yet every grave gives up its deadEre it is overgrown with grass;Then why should hopeless tears be shed,Or need we cry, "Alas"?
Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom,And like a sorrowing mourner craped,Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb,Whose captives have escaped?
'Tis but a mound,—and will be mossedWhene'er the summer grass appears;The loved, though wept, are never lost;We only lose—our tears!
Nay, Hope may whisper with the deadBy bending forward where they are;But Memory, with a backward tread,Communes with them afar.
The joys we lose are but forecast,And we shall find them all once more;We look behind us for the Past,But lo! 'tis all before!
ANONYMOUS.
THE TWO WAITINGS.I.Dear hearts, you were waiting a year agoFor the glory to be revealed;You were wondering deeply, with bated breath,What treasure the days concealed.O, would it be this, or would it be that?Would it be girl or boy?Would it look like father or mother most?And what should you do for joy?And then, one day, when the time was full,And the spring was coming fast,The tender grace of a life outbloomed,And you saw your baby at last.Was it or not what you had dreamed?It was, and yet it was not;But O, it was better a thousand timesThan ever you wished or thought.II.And now, dear hearts, you are waiting again,While the spring is coming fast;For the baby that was a future dreamIs now a dream of the past:A dream of sunshine, and all that's sweet;Of all that is pure and bright;Of eyes that were blue as the sky by day,And as clear as the stars by night.You are waiting again for the fulness of time,And the glory to be revealed;You are wondering deeply with aching heartsWhat treasure is now concealed.O, will she be this, or will she be that?And what will there be in her faceThat will tell you sure that she is your own,When you meet in the heavenly place?As it was before, it will be again,Fashion your dream as you will;When the veil is rent, and the glory is seen,It will more than your hope fulfil.JOHN WHITE CHADWICK.
THE TWO WAITINGS.
I.
Dear hearts, you were waiting a year agoFor the glory to be revealed;You were wondering deeply, with bated breath,What treasure the days concealed.
O, would it be this, or would it be that?Would it be girl or boy?Would it look like father or mother most?And what should you do for joy?
And then, one day, when the time was full,And the spring was coming fast,The tender grace of a life outbloomed,And you saw your baby at last.
Was it or not what you had dreamed?It was, and yet it was not;But O, it was better a thousand timesThan ever you wished or thought.
II.
And now, dear hearts, you are waiting again,While the spring is coming fast;For the baby that was a future dreamIs now a dream of the past:
A dream of sunshine, and all that's sweet;Of all that is pure and bright;Of eyes that were blue as the sky by day,And as clear as the stars by night.
You are waiting again for the fulness of time,And the glory to be revealed;You are wondering deeply with aching heartsWhat treasure is now concealed.
O, will she be this, or will she be that?And what will there be in her faceThat will tell you sure that she is your own,When you meet in the heavenly place?
As it was before, it will be again,Fashion your dream as you will;When the veil is rent, and the glory is seen,It will more than your hope fulfil.
JOHN WHITE CHADWICK.
FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE.The night is late, the house is still;The angels of the hour fulfilTheir tender ministries, and moveFrom couch to couch in cares of love.They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife,The happiest smile of Charlie's life,And lay on baby's lips a kiss,Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss;And, as they pass, they seem to makeA strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake."My listening heart takes up the strain,And gives it to the night again,Fitted with words of lowly praise,And patience learned of mournful days,And memories of the dead child's ways.His will be done, His will be done!Who gave and took away my son,In "the far land" to shine and singBefore the Beautiful, the King,Who every day does Christmas make,All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.For Charlie's sake I will arise;I will anoint me where he lies,And change my raiment, and go inTo the Lord's house, and leave my sinWithout, and seat me at his board,Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.For wherefore should I fast and weep,And sullen moods of mourning keep?I cannot bring him back, nor he,For any calling, come to me.The bond the angel Death did sign,God sealed—for Charlie's sake, and mine.I'm very poor—this slender stoneMarks all the narrow field I own;Yet, patient husbandman, I tillWith faith and prayers, that precious hill,Sow it with penitential pains,And, hopeful, wait the latter rains;Content if, after all, the spotYield barely one forget-me-not—Whether or figs or thistle makeMy crop content for Charlie's sake.I have no houses, builded well—Only that little lonesome cell,Where never romping playmates come,Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb—An April burst of girls and boys,Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joysBorn with their songs, gone with their toys;Nor ever is its stillness stirredBy purr of cat, or chirp of bird,Or mother's twilight legend, toldOf Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold,Or fairy hobbling to the door,Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor,To bless the good child's gracious eyes,The good child's wistful charities,And crippled changeling's hunch to makeDance on his crutch, for good child's sake.How is it with the child? 'Tis well;Nor would I any miracleMight stir my sleeper's tranquil trance,Or plague his painless countenance:I would not any seer might placeHis staff on my immortal's face.Or lip to lip, and eye to eye,Charm back his pale mortality.No, Shunamite! I would not breakGod's stillness. Let them weep who wake.For Charlie's sake my lot is blest:No comfort like his mother's breast,No praise like hers; no charm expressedIn fairest forms hath half her zest.For Charlie's sake this bird's caressedThat death left lonely in the nest;For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed,As for its birthday, in its best;For Charlie's sake we leave the rest.To Him who gave, and who did take,And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake.JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.
FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE.
The night is late, the house is still;The angels of the hour fulfilTheir tender ministries, and moveFrom couch to couch in cares of love.They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife,The happiest smile of Charlie's life,And lay on baby's lips a kiss,Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss;And, as they pass, they seem to makeA strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake."
My listening heart takes up the strain,And gives it to the night again,Fitted with words of lowly praise,And patience learned of mournful days,And memories of the dead child's ways.His will be done, His will be done!Who gave and took away my son,In "the far land" to shine and singBefore the Beautiful, the King,Who every day does Christmas make,All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.
For Charlie's sake I will arise;I will anoint me where he lies,And change my raiment, and go inTo the Lord's house, and leave my sinWithout, and seat me at his board,Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.For wherefore should I fast and weep,And sullen moods of mourning keep?I cannot bring him back, nor he,For any calling, come to me.The bond the angel Death did sign,God sealed—for Charlie's sake, and mine.
I'm very poor—this slender stoneMarks all the narrow field I own;Yet, patient husbandman, I tillWith faith and prayers, that precious hill,Sow it with penitential pains,And, hopeful, wait the latter rains;Content if, after all, the spotYield barely one forget-me-not—Whether or figs or thistle makeMy crop content for Charlie's sake.
I have no houses, builded well—Only that little lonesome cell,Where never romping playmates come,Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb—An April burst of girls and boys,Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joysBorn with their songs, gone with their toys;Nor ever is its stillness stirredBy purr of cat, or chirp of bird,Or mother's twilight legend, toldOf Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold,Or fairy hobbling to the door,Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor,To bless the good child's gracious eyes,The good child's wistful charities,And crippled changeling's hunch to makeDance on his crutch, for good child's sake.
How is it with the child? 'Tis well;Nor would I any miracleMight stir my sleeper's tranquil trance,Or plague his painless countenance:I would not any seer might placeHis staff on my immortal's face.Or lip to lip, and eye to eye,Charm back his pale mortality.No, Shunamite! I would not breakGod's stillness. Let them weep who wake.
For Charlie's sake my lot is blest:No comfort like his mother's breast,No praise like hers; no charm expressedIn fairest forms hath half her zest.For Charlie's sake this bird's caressedThat death left lonely in the nest;For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed,As for its birthday, in its best;For Charlie's sake we leave the rest.To Him who gave, and who did take,And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake.
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.
WATCHING FOR PAPA.She always stood upon the stepsJust by the cottage door,Waiting to kiss me when I cameEach night home from the store.Her eyes were like two glorious stars,Dancing in heaven's own blue—"Papa," she'd call like a wee bird,"I's looten out for oo!"Alas! how sadly do our livesChange as we onward roam!For now no birdie voice calls outTo bid me welcome home.No little hands stretched out for me,No blue eyes dancing bright,No baby face peeps from the doorWhen I come home at night.And yet there's comfort in the thoughtThat when life's toil is o'er,And passing through the sable floodI gain the brighter shore,My little angel at the gate,With eyes divinely blue,Will call with birdie voice, "Papa,I's looten out for oo!"ANONYMOUS.
WATCHING FOR PAPA.
She always stood upon the stepsJust by the cottage door,Waiting to kiss me when I cameEach night home from the store.Her eyes were like two glorious stars,Dancing in heaven's own blue—"Papa," she'd call like a wee bird,"I's looten out for oo!"
Alas! how sadly do our livesChange as we onward roam!For now no birdie voice calls outTo bid me welcome home.No little hands stretched out for me,No blue eyes dancing bright,No baby face peeps from the doorWhen I come home at night.
And yet there's comfort in the thoughtThat when life's toil is o'er,And passing through the sable floodI gain the brighter shore,My little angel at the gate,With eyes divinely blue,Will call with birdie voice, "Papa,I's looten out for oo!"
ANONYMOUS.