Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,When all nature hails the Lord of light,And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning,Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright?
Other hands may grasp the field and forest,Proud proprietors in pomp may shine;But with fervent love if thou adorest,Thou art wealthier,—all the world is thine.
Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,Sighing that they are not thine alone.Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest,And their beauty and thy wealth are gone.
Nature wears the color of the spirit;Sweetly to her worshipper she sings;All the glow, the grace she doth inherit,Round her trusting child she fondly flings.
* * * * *
O God, I cannot walk the Way,—The thorns, the thirst, the darkness,And bleeding feet and aching heart!I hear the songs and revels of the throng,—They sneer upon my downcast face with scorn,—Yet, O my God, Imustand shall walk with Thee!
O God, I cannot take the Truth!Far easier honeyed hopes and falsehoods fair,But Truth,—the Truth is stern and strong and awful.It ploughs my soul with ploughshares flaming hot—Yet give me Truth. I must have Truth, O God!
O God, I cannot live the Life,—The flinging all to death that life may come;The surging of Thy Spirit in my heartIn fire and flame will all consume me,—Yet, O my God, I cannot live without Thee!
And as I agonized in dust and shameWith tears and sighs in all the bitter prayer,I felt, as 't were, an arm that stole around me,And raised me to my feet.And at the touch, hope blossomed in my heart,And new-found strength in flood-tides thrilled and throbbed
Through soul and limbs. I looked to see….O tender lordly Face!It was Himself,—the Way, the Truth, the Life!
* * * * *
O thou who lovest not aloneThe swift success, the instant goal,But hast a lenient eye to markThe failures of th' inconstant soul,
Consider not my little worth,—The mean achievement, scamped in act,The high resolve and low result,The dream that durst not face the fact.
But count the reach of my desire.Let this be something in Thy sight:—I have not, in the slothful dark,Forgot the Vision and the Height.
Neither my body nor my soulTo earth's low ease will yield consent.I praise Thee for my will to strive.I bless Thy goad of discontent.
* * * * *
Thou hidden love of God, whose height,Whose depth unfathomed no man knows,I see from far thy beauteous light,Inly I sigh for thy repose.My heart is pained, nor can it beAt rest till it finds rest in thee.
Thy secret voice invites me stillThe sweetness of thy yoke to prove,And fain I would; but though my willBe fixed, yet wide my passions rove.Yet hindrances strew all the way;I aim at thee, yet from thee stray.
'T is mercy all that thou hast broughtMy mind to seek her peace in thee.Yet while I seek but find thee notNo peace my wand'ring soul shall see.Oh! when shall all my wand'rings end,And all my steps to-thee-ward tend?
Is there a thing beneath the sunThat strives with thee my heart to share?Ah! tear it thence and reign alone,The Lord of every motion there.Then shall my heart from earth be free,When it has found repose in thee.
Oh! hide this self from me, that INo more, but Christ in me, may live.My vile affections crucify,Nor let one darling lust survive.In all things nothing may I see,Nothing desire or seek but thee.
O Love, thy sovereign aid impart,To save me from low-thoughted care;Chase this self-will through all my heart,Through all its latent mazes there.Make me thy duteous child, that ICeaseless may Abba, Father, cry.
Ah! no; ne'er will I backward turn:Thine wholly, thine alone I am.Thrice happy he who views with scornEarth's toys, for thee his constant flame.Oh! help, that I may never moveFrom the blest footsteps of thy love.
Each moment draw from earth awayMy heart, that lowly waits thy call.Speak to my inmost soul, and say,"I am thy Love, thy God, thy All."To feel thy power, to hear thy voice,To taste thy love is all my choice.
From the German of GERHARD TERSTEEGEN.
Translation of JOHN WESLEY.
* * * * *
Away, haunt thou not me,Thou vain Philosophy!Little hast thou bestead,Save to perplex the head,And leave the spirit dead.Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go.While from the secret treasure-depths below,Fed by the skyey shower,And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops high,Wisdom at once, and Power,Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly?Why labor at the dull mechanic oar,When the fresh breeze is blowing,And the strong current flowing,Right onward to the Eternal Shore?
* * * * *
From the recesses of a lowly spirit,Our humble prayer ascends; O Father! hear it.Upsoaring on the wings of awe and meekness,Forgive its weakness!
We see thy hand,—it leads us, it supports us;We hear thy voice,—it counsels and it courts us;And then we turn away; and still thy kindnessForgives our blindness.
O, how long-suffering, Lord! but thou delightestTo win with love the wandering: thou invited,By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors,Man from his errors.
Father and Saviour! plant within each bosomThe seeds of holiness, and bid them blossomIn fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal,And spring eternal.
* * * * *
Father, I will not ask for wealth or fame,Though once they would have joyed my carnal sense:I shudder not to bear a hated name,Wanting all wealth, myself my sole defence.But give me, Lord, eyes to behold the truth;A seeing sense that knows the eternal right;A heart with pity filled, and gentlest ruth;A manly faith that makes all darkness light:Give me the power to labor for mankind;Make me the mouth of such as cannot speak;Eyes let me be to groping men, and blind;A conscience to the base; and to the weakLet me be hands and feet; and to the foolish, mind;And lead still further on such as thy kingdom seek.
* * * * *
O thou who hast beneath Thy handThe dark foundations of the land,—The motion of whose ordered thoughtAn instant universe hath wrought,—
Who hast within Thine equal heedThe rolling sun, the ripening seed,The azure of the speedwell's eye.The vast solemnities of sky,—
Who hear'st no less the feeble noteOf one small bird's awakening throat,Than that unnamed, tremendous chordArcturus sounds before his Lord,—
More sweet to Thee than all acclaimOf storm and ocean, stars and flame,In favor more before Thy faceThan pageantry of time and space.
The worship and the service beOf him Thou madest most like Thee,—Who in his nostrils hath Thy breath,Whose spirit is the lord of death!
* * * * *
O Master, let me walk with theeIn lowly paths of service free;Tell me thy secret; help me bearThe strain of toil, the fret of care;Help me the slow of heart to moveBy some clear winning word of love;Teach me the wayward feet to stay,And guide them in the homeward way.
O Master, let me walk with theeBefore the taunting Pharisee;Help me to bear the sting of spite,The hate of men who hide thy light,The sore distrust of souls sincereWho cannot read thy judgments clear,The dulness of the multitudeWho dimly guess that thou art good.
Teach me thy patience; still with theeIn closer, dearer company,In work that keeps faith sweet and strong,In trust that triumphs over wrong,In hope that sends a shining rayFar down the future's broadening way,In peace that only thou canst give,With thee, O Master, let me live!
* * * * *
O world, thou choosest not the better part!It is not wisdom to be only wise,And on the inward vision close the eyes,But it is wisdom to believe the heart.Columbus found a world, and had no chart,Save one that faith deciphered in the skies;To trust the soul's invincible surmiseWas all his science and his only art.Our knowledge is a torch of smoky pineThat lights the pathway but one step aheadAcross a void of mystery and dread.Bid, then, the tender light of faith to shineBy which alone the mortal heart is ledUnto the thinking of the thought divine.
* * * * *
[The author of this poem, one of the victims of thepersecuting Henry VIII., was burnt to death at Smithfieldin 1546. It was made and sung by her while a prisoner inNewgate.]
Like as the armèd Knighte,Appointed to the fielde.With this world wil I fight,And faith shal be my shilde.
Faith is that weapon stronge,Which wil not faile at nede;My foes therefore amonge,Therewith wil I precede.
As it is had in strengthe,And forces of Christes waye,It wil prevaile at lengthe,Though all the devils sayenaye.
Faithe of the fathers oldeObtainèd right witness,Which makes me verye boldeTo fear no worldes distress.
I now rejoice in harte,And hope bides me do so;For Christ wil take my part,And ease me of my we.
Thou sayst, Lord, whoso knocke,To them wilt thou attende;Undo, therefore, the locke,And thy stronge power sende.
More enemies now I haveThan heeres upon my head;Let them not me deprave,But fight thou in my steade.
On thee my care I cast,For all their cruell spight;I set not by their hast,For thou art my delight.
I am not she that listMy anker to let fallFor every drislinge mist;My shippe's substancial.
Not oft I use to wrightIn prose, nor yet in ryme;Yet wil I shewe one sight,That I sawe in my time:
I sawe a royall throne,Where Justice shulde have sitte;But in her steade was OneOf moody cruell witte.
Absorpt was rightwisness,As by the raginge floude;Sathan, in his excess,Sucte up the guiltlesse bloude.
Then thought I,—Jesus, Lorde,When thou shalt judge us all,Harde is it to recordeOn these men what will fall.
Yet, Lorde, I thee desire,For that they doe to me,Let them not taste the hireOf their iniquitie.
* * * * *
You say, but with no touch of scorn,Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyesAre tender over drowning flies,You tell me, doubt is Devil-born.
I know not: one indeed I knewIn many a subtle question versed,Who touched a jarring lyre at first,But ever strove to make it true:
Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds,At last he beat his music out.There lives more faith in honest doubt,Believe me, than in half the creeds.
He fought his doubts and gathered strength,He would not make his judgment blind,He faced the spectres of the mindAnd laid them: thus he came at length
To find a stronger faith his own;And Power was with him in the night,Which makes the darkness and the light,And dwells not in the light alone,
But in the darkness and the cloud,As over Sinai's peaks of old,While Israel made their gods of gold,Although the trumpet blew so loud.
* * * * *
My times are in thy hand!I know not what a dayOr e'en an hour may bring to me,But I am safe while trusting thee,Though all things fade away.All weakness, IOn him relyWho fixed the earth and spread the starry sky.
My times are in thy hand!Pale poverty or wealth.Corroding care or calm repose.Spring's balmy breath or winter's snows.Sickness or buoyant health,—Whate'er betide,If God provide,'T is for the best; I wish no lot beside.
My times are in thy hand!Should friendship pure illumeAnd strew my path with fairest flowers,Or should I spend life's dreary hoursIn solitude's dark gloom,Thou art a friend.Till time shall endUnchangeably the same; in thee all beauties blend.
My times are in thy hand!Many or few, my daysI leave with thee,—this only pray,That by thy grace, I, every dayDevoting to thy praise,May ready beTo welcome theeWhene'er thou com'st to set my spirit free.
My times are in thy hand!Howe'er those times may end,Sudden or slow my soul's release,Midst anguish, frenzy, or in peace,I'm safe with Christ my friend.If he is nigh,Howe'er I die,'T will be the dawn of heavenly ecstasy.
My times are in thy hand!To thee I can intrustMy slumbering clay, till thy commandBids all the dead before thee stand,Awaking from the dust.Beholding thee,What bliss 't will beWith all thy saints to spend eternity!
To spend eternityIn heaven's unclouded light!From sorrow, sin, and frailty free,Beholding and resembling thee,—O too transporting sight!Prospect too fairFor flesh to bear!Haste! haste! my Lord, and soon transport me there!
* * * * *
E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks,That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,And having ranged and searched a thousand nooks,Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,Where in a greater current they conjoin:So I my Best-Belovèd's am; so He is mine.
E'en so we met; and after long pursuit,E'en so we joined; we both became entire;No need for either to renew a suit,For I was flax and he was flames of fire:Our firm-united souls did more than twine:So I my Best-Belovèd's am; so He is mine.
If all those glittering Monarchs that commandThe servile quarters of this earthly ball,Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land,I would not change my fortunes for them all:Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:The world's but theirs; but my Belovèd's mine.
* * * * *
Ah! I shall kill myself with dreams!These dreams that softly lap me roundThrough trance-like hours in which meseemsThat I am swallowed up and drowned;Drowned in your love, which flows o'er meAs o'er the seaweed flows the sea.
In watches of the middle night,'Twixt vesper and 'twist matin bell,With rigid arms and straining sight,I wait within my narrow cell;With muttered prayers, suspended will,I wait your advent—statue-still.
Across the convent garden wallsThe wind blows from the silver seas;Black shadow of the cypress fallsBetween the moon-meshed olive-trees;Sleep-walking from their golden bowers,Flit disembodied orange flowers.
And in God's consecrated house,All motionless from head to feet,My heart awaits her heavenly Spouse,As white I lie on my white sheet;With body lulled and soul awake,I watch in anguish for your sake.
And suddenly, across the gloom,The naked moonlight sharply swings;A Presence stirs within the room,A breath of flowers and hovering wings:—Your presence without form and void,Beyond all earthly joys enjoyed.
My heart is hushed, my tongue is mute,My life is centred in your will;You play upon me like a luteWhich answers to its master's skill,Till passionately vibrating,Each nerve becomes a throbbing string.
Oh, incommunicably sweet!No longer aching and apart,As rain upon the tender wheat,You pour upon my thirsty heart;As scent is bound up in the rose,Your love within my bosom glows.
* * * * *
Come, my way, my truth, my life—Such a way as gives us breath;Such a truth as ends all strife;Such a life as killeth death.
Come my light, my feast, my strength—Such a light as shows a feast;Such a feast as mends in length;Such a strength as makes His guest.
Come my joy, my love, my heart!Such a joy as none can move;Such a love as none can part;Such a heart as joys in love.
* * * * *
Unfading Hope! when life's last embers burn,When soul to soul, and dust to dust return!Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour!O, then thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power!What though each spark of earth-born rapture flyThe quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!Bright to the soul thy seraph hands conveyThe morning dream of life's eternal day,—Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin,And all the phoenix spirit burns within!
* * * * *
Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illumeThe dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb;Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that rollCimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul!Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay,Chased on his night-steed by the star of day!The strife is o'er,—the pangs of Nature close,And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes.Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze,On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hailBethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight stillWatched on the holy towers of Zion hill!
* * * * *
Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublimePealed their first notes to sound the march of Time,Thy joyous youth began,—but not to fade.When all the sister planets have decayed;When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow,And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below;Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile,And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile.
[Footnote A: This poem was written when the author was but twenty-one years of age.]
* * * * *
Oh the wonder of our life,Pain and pleasure, rest and strife,Mystery of mysteries,Set twixt two eternities!
Lo, the moments come and go,E'en as sparks, and vanish so;Flash from darkness into light,Quick as thought are quenched in night.
With an import grand and strangeAre they fraught in ceaseless changeAs they post away; each oneStands eternally alone.
The scene more fair than words can say,I gaze upon and go my way;I turn, another glance to claim—Something is changed, 't is not the same.
The purple flush on yonder fell,The tinkle of that cattle-bell,Came, and have never come before,Go, and are gone forevermore.
Our life is held as with a vice,We cannot do the same thing twice;Once we may, but not again;Only memories remain.
What if memories vanish too,And the past be lost to view;Is it all for nought that IHeard and saw and hurried by?
Where are childhood's merry hours,Bright with sunshine, crossed with showers?Are they dead, and can they neverCome again to life forever?
No—'t is false, I surely trow;Though awhile they vanish now;Every passion, deed, and thoughtWas not born to come to nought!
Will the past then come again,Rest and pleasure, strife and pain,All the heaven and all the hell?Ah, we know not: God can tell.
* * * * *
The bird that soars on highest wingBuilds on the ground her lowly nest;And she that doth most sweetly singSings in the shade, where all things rest;In lark and nightingale we seeWhat honor hath humility.
When Mary chose "the better part,"She meekly sat at Jesus' feet;And Lydia's gently opened heartWas made for God's own temple meet:Fairest and best adorned is sheWhose clothing is humility.
The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown,In deepest adoration bends:The weight of glory bows him downThen most, when most his soul ascends:Nearest the throne itself must beThe footstool of humility.
* * * * *
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope UrbaneAnd Valmond, emperor of Allemaine,Apparelled in magnificent attire,With retinue of many a knight and squire,On Saint John's eve, at vespers, proudly satAnd heard the priests chant the Magnificat.And as he listened o'er and o'er againRepeated, like a burden or refrain,He caught the words, "Deposuit potentesDe sede, et exaltavit humiles;"And slowly lifting up his kingly head,He to a learned clerk beside him said,"What mean these words?" The clerk made answer meet,"He has put down the mighty from their seat,And has exalted them of low degree."Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully,"'T is well that such seditious words are sungOnly by priests and in the Latin tongue;For unto priests and people be it known,There is no power can push me from my throne!"And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.
When he awoke, it was already night;The church was empty, and there was no light,Save where the lamps that glimmered, few and faint,Lighted a little space before some saint.He started from his seat and gazed around,But saw no living thing and heard no sound.He gropèd towards the door, but it was locked;He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,And uttered awful threatenings and complaints,And imprecations upon men and saints.The sounds reëchoed from the roof and wallsAs if dead priests were laughing in their stalls.
At length the sexton, hearing from withoutThe tumult of the knocking and the shout,And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer,Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?"Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said,"Open: 'tis I, the king! Art thou afraid?"The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse,"This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!"Turned the great key and flung the portal wide;A man rushed by him at a single stride,Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak,Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke.But leaped into the blackness of the night,And vanished like a spectre from his sight.
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope UrbaneAnd Valmond, emperor of Allemaine,Despoiled of his magnificent attire,Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire,With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,Strode on and thundered at the palace gate:Bushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rageTo right and left each seneschal and page,And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed:Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,Until at last he reached the banquet-room,Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume.There on the dais sat another king,Wearing his rotes, his crown, his signet-ring.King Robert's self in features, form, and height,But all transfigured with angelic light!It was an angel; and his presence thereWith a divine effulgence filled the air,An exaltation, piercing the disguise,Though none the hidden angel recognize.
A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,The throneless monarch on the angel gazed,Who met his looks of anger and surpriseWith the divine compassion of his eyes;Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?"To which King Robert answered with a sneer,"I am the king, and come to claim my ownFrom an impostor, who usurps my throne!"And suddenly, at these audacious words,Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords;The angel answered with unruffled brow,"Nay, not the king, but the king's jester; thouHenceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape,And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape:Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!"
Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers,They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;A group of tittering pages ran before,And as they opened wide the folding-door,His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms,The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms,And all the vaulted chamber roar and ringWith the mock plaudits of "Long live the king!"Next morning, waking with the day's first beam,He said within himself, "It was a dream!"But the straw rustled as he turned his head,There were the cap and bells beside his bed;Around him rose the bare, discolored walls.Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls,And in the corner, a revolting shape,Shivering and chattering, sat the wretched ape.It was no dream; the world he loved so muchHad turned to dust and ashes at his touch!
Days came and went; and now returned againTo Sicily the old Saturnian reign;Under the angel's governance benignThe happy island danced with corn and wine,And deep within the mountain's burning breastEnceladus, the giant, was at rest.Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate,Sullen and silent and disconsolate.Dressed in the motley garb that jesters wear,With looks bewildered and a vacant stare,Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn,By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn,His only friend the ape, his only foodWhat others left,—he still was unsubdued.And when the angel met him on his way,And half in earnest, half in jest, would say,Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feelThe velvet scabbard held a sword of steel,"Art thou the king?" the passion of his woeBurst from him in resistless overflow,And lifting high his forehead, he would flingThe haughty answer back, "I am, I am the king!"
Almost three years were ended; when there cameAmbassadors of great repute and nameFrom Valmond, emperor of Allemaine,Unto King Robert, saying that Pope UrbaneBy letter summoned them forthwith to comeOn Holy Thursday to his city of Rome.The angel with great joy received his guests,And gave them presents of embroidered vests,And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined,And rings and jewels of the rarest kind.Then he departed with them o'er the seaInto the lovely land of Italy,Whose loveliness was more resplendent madeBy the mere passing of that cavalcade,With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stirOf jewelled bridle and of golden spur.
And lo! among the menials, in mock state,Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait,His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind,The solemn ape demurely perched behind,King Robert rode, making huge merrimentIn all the country towns through which they went.
The pope received them with great pomp, and blareOf bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square,Giving his benediction and embrace,Fervent, and full of apostolic grace.While with congratulations and with prayersHe entertained the angel unawares,Robert, the jester, bursting through the crowd,Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud:"I am the king! Look and behold in meRobert, your brother, king of Sicily!This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes,Is an impostor in a king's disguise.Do you not know me? does no voice withinAnswer my cry, and say we are akin?"The pope in silence, but with troubled mien.Gazed at the angel's countenance serene;The emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sportTo keep a madman for thy fool at court!"And the poor, baffled jester in disgraceWas hustled back among the populace.
In solemn state the holy week went by,And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky;The presence of an angel, with its light,Before the sun rose, made the city bright,And with new fervor filled the hearts of men,Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again.Even the Jester, on his bed of straw,With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw;He felt within a power unfelt before,And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor,He heard the rustling garments of the LordSweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.
And now the visit ending, and once moreValmond returning to the Danube's shore,Homeward the angel journeyed, and againThe land was made resplendent with his train,Flashing along the towns of ItalyUnto Salerno, and from there by sea.And when once more within Palermo's wall,And, seated on his throne in his great hall,He heard the Angelus from convent towers,As if the better world conversed with ours,He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,And with a gesture bade the rest retire;And when they were alone, the angel said,"Art thou the king?" Then bowing down his head,King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best!My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence,And in some cloister's school of penitence,Across those stones that pave the way to heavenWalk barefoot till my guilty soul is shriven!"The angel smiled, and from his radiant faceA holy light illumined all the place,And through the open window, loud and clear,They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,Above the stir and tumult of the street:"He has put down the mighty from their seat,And has exalted them of low degree!"And through the chant a second melodyRose like the throbbing of a single string:"I am an angel, and thou art the king!"
King Robert, who was standing near the throne,Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone!But all apparelled as in days of old,With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold;And when his courtiers came they found him thereKneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.
* * * * *
All service ranks the same with God:If now, as formerly he trodParadise, his presence fillsOur earth, each only as God willsCan work—God's puppets, best and worst,Are we; there is no last nor first.
Say not "a small event"! Why "small"?Costs it more pain than this, ye callA "great event," should come to pass,Than that? Untwine me from the massOf deeds which make up life, one deedPower shall fall short in or exceed!
* * * * *
God called the nearest angels who dwell with Him above:The tenderest one was Pity, the dearest one was Love.
"Arise," He said, "my angels! a wail of woe and sinSteals through the gates of heaven, and saddens all within.
"My harps take up the mournful strain that from a lost world swells,The smoke of torment clouds the light and blights the asphodels.
"Fly downward to that under world, and on its souls of pain,Let Love drop smiles like sunshine, and Pity tears like rain!"
Two faces bowed before the Throne, veiled in their golden hair;Four white wings lessened swiftly down the dark abyss of air.
The way was strange, the flight was long; at last the angels cameWhere swung the lost and nether world, red-wrapped in rayless flame.
There Pity, shuddering, wept; but Love, with faith too strong for fear,Took heart from God's almightiness and smiled a smile of cheer.
And lo! that tear of Pity quenched the flame whereon it fell,And, with the sunshine of that smile, hope entered into hell!
Two unveiled faces full of joy looked upward to the Throne,Four white wings folded at the feet of Him who sat thereon!
And deeper than the sound of seas, more soft than falling flake,Amidst the hush of wing and song the Voice Eternal spake:
"Welcome, my angels! ye have brought a holier joy to heaven;Henceforth its sweetest song shall be the song of sin forgiven!"
* * * * *
There came a soul to the gate of HeavenGliding slow—A soul that was ransomed and forgiven,And white as snow:And the angels all were silent.
A mystic light beamed from the faceOf the radiant maid,But there also lay on its tender graceA mystic shade:And the angels all were silent.
As sunlit clouds by a zephyr borneSeem not to stir,So to the golden gates of mornThey carried her:And the angels all were silent.
"Now open the gate, and let her in,And fling It wide,For she has been cleansed from stain of sin,"Saint Peter cried:And the angels all were silent.
"Though I am cleansed from stain of sin,"She answered low,"I came not hither to enter in,Nor may I go:"And the angels all were silent.
"I come," she said, "to the pearly door,To see the ThroneWhere sits the Lamb on the Sapphire Floor,With God alone:"And the angels all were silent.
"I come to hear the new song they singTo Him that died,And note where the healing waters springFrom His piercèd side:"And the angels all were silent.
"But I may not enter there," she said,"For I must goAcross the gulf where the guilty deadLie in their woe:"And the angels all were silent.
"If I enter heaven I may not passTo where they be,Though the wail of their bitter pain, alas!Tormenteth me:"And the angels all were silent.
"If I enter heaven I may not speakMy soul's desireFor them that are lying distraught and weakIn flaming fire:"And the angels all were silent.
"I had a brother, and also anotherWhom I loved well;What if, in anguish, they curse each otherIn the depths of hell?"And the angels all were silent.
"How could I touch the golden harps,When all my praiseWould be so wrought with grief-full warpsOf their sad days?"And the angels all were silent.
"How love the loved who are sorrowing,And yet be glad?How sing the songs ye are fain to sing,While I am sad?"And the angels all were silent.
"Oh, clear as glass in the golden streetOf the city fair,And the tree of life it maketh sweetThe lightsome air:"And the angels all were silent.
"And the white-robed saints with their crowns and palmsAre good to see,And oh, so grand are the sounding psalms!But not for me:"And the angels all were silent.
"I come where there is no night," she said,"To go away,And help, if I yet may help, the deadThat have no day."And the angels all were silent.
Saint Peter he turned the keys about,And answered grim:"Can you love the Lord and abide without,Afar from Him?"And the angels all were silent.
"Can you love the Lord who died for you,And leave the placeWhere His glory is all disclosed to view,And tender grace?"And the angels all were silent.
"They go not out who come in here;It were not meet:Nothing they lack, for He is here,And bliss complete."And the angels all were silent.
"Should I be nearer Christ," she said,"By pitying lessThe sinful living or woful deadIn their helplessness?"And the angels all were silent.
"Should I be liker Christ were ITo love no moreThe loved, who in their anguish lieOutside the door?"And the angels all were silent.
"Did He not hang on the cursèd tree,And bear its shame,And clasp to His heart, for love of me,My guilt and blame?"And the angels all were silent.
"Should I be liker, nearer Him,Forgetting this,Singing all day with the Seraphim,In selfish bliss?"And the angels all were silent.
The Lord Himself stood by the gate,And heard her speakThose tender words compassionate,Gentle and meek:And the angels all were silent.
Now, pity is the touch of GodIn human hearts,And from that way He ever trodHe ne'er departs:And the angels all were silent.
And He said, "Now will I go with you,Dear child of love,I am weary of all this glory, too,In heaven above:"And the angels all were silent.
"We will go seek and save the lost,If they will hear,They who are worst but need me most,And all are dear:"And the angels were not silent.
* * * * *
'T is a little thingTo give a cup of water; yet its draughtOf cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips,May give a shock of pleasure to the frameMore exquisite than when nectarean juiceRenews the life of joy in happier hours.It is a little thing to speak a phraseOf common comfort which by daily useHas almost lost its sense, yet on the earOf him who thought to die unmourned 't will fallLike choicest music, fill the glazing eyeWith gentle tears, relax the knotted handTo know the bonds of fellowship again;And shed on the departing soul a sense,More precious than the benison of friendsAbout the honored death-bed of the rich,To him who else were lonely, that anotherOf the great family is near and feels.
* * * * *
My good blade carves the casques of men,My tough lance thrusteth sure,My strength is as the strength of ten,Because my heart is pure.The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,The hard brands shiver on the steel,The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly,The horse and rider reel:They reel, they roll in clanging lists,And when the tide of combat stands,Perfume and flowers fall in showers,That lightly rain from ladies' hands.
How sweet are looks that ladies bendOn whom their favors fall!For them I battle till the end,To save from shame and thrall:But all my heart is drawn above,My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine:I never felt the kiss of love,Nor maiden's hand in mine.More bounteous aspects on me beam,Me mightier transports move and thrill;So keep I fair thro' faith and prayerA virgin heart in work and will.
When down the stormy crescent goes,A light before me swims.Between dark stems the forest glows,I hear a noise of hymns:Then by some secret shrine I ride;I hear a voice, but none are there;The stalls are void, the doors are wide,The tapers burning fair.Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,The silver vessels sparkle clean,The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,And solemn chaunts resound between.
Sometimes on lonely mountain-meresI find a magic bark;I leap on board: no helmsman steers:I float till all is dark.A gentle sound, an awful light!Three angels bear the holy Grail:With folded feet, in stoles of white,On sleeping wings they sail.Ah, blessèd vision! blood of God!My spirit beats her mortal bars,As down dark tides the glory slides,And star-like mingles with the stars.
When on my goodly charger borneThro' dreaming towns I go,The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,The streets are dumb with snow.The tempest crackles on the leads,And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;But o'er the dark a glory spreads,And gilds the driving hail.I leave the plain, I climb the height;No branchy thicket shelter yields;But blessèd forms in whistling stormsFly o'er waste fens and windy fields.
A maiden knight—to me is givenSuch hope, I know not fear;I yearn to breathe the airs of heavenThat often meet me here.I muse on joy that will not cease,Pure spaces clothed in living beams,Pure lilies of eternal peace,Whose odors haunt my dreams;And, stricken by an angel's hand,This mortal armor that I wear.This weight and size, this heart and eyes,Are touched, and turned to finest air.
The clouds are broken in the sky,And thro' the mountain-wallsA rolling organ-harmonySwells up, and shakes and falls.Then move the trees, the copses nod,Wings flutter, voices hover clear:"O just and faithful knight of God!Ride on! the prize is near."So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;By bridge and ford, by park and pale,All-armed I ride, whate'er betide,Until I find the holy Grail.
* * * * *
Prune thou thy words; the thoughts controlThat o'er thee swell and throng;—They will condense within thy soul,And change to purpose strong.
But he who lets his feelings runIn soft luxurious flow,Shrinks when hard service must be done,And faints at every woe.
Faith's meanest deed more favor bears,Where hearts and wills are weighed,Than brightest transports, choicest prayers,Which bloom their hour, and fade.
* * * * *
Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,Our hearts, in glad surprise,To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper soulsInto our inmost being rolls,And lifts us unawaresOut of all meaner cares.
Honor to those whose words or deedsThus help us in our daily needs,And by their overflowRaise us from what is low!
Thus thought I, as by night I readOf the great army of the dead,The trenches cold and damp,The starved and frozen camp,
The wounded from the battle-plain,In dreary hospitals of pain,The cheerless corridors,The cold and stony floors.
Lo! in that house of miseryA lady with a lamp I seePass through the glimmering gloom,And flit from room to room.
And slow, as in a dream of bliss,The speechless sufferer turns to kissHer shadow, as it fallsUpon the darkening walls.
As if a door in heaven should beOpened and then closed suddenly,The vision came and went,The light shone and was spent.
On England's annals, through the longHereafter of her speech and song,That light its rays shall castFrom portals of the past.
A Lady with a Lamp shall standIn the great history of the land,A noble type of good,Heroic womanhood.
Nor even shall be wanting hereThe palm, the lily, and the spear,The symbols that of yoreSaint Filomena bore.
* * * * *
A little stream had lost its wayAmid the grass and fern;A passing stranger scooped a well,Where weary men might turn;He walled it in and hung with careA ladle at the brink;He thought not of the deed he did,But judged that all might drink.He passed again, and lo! the well,By summer never dried,Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues,And saved a life beside.
A nameless man, amid a crowdThat thronged the daily mart,Let fall a word of hope and love,Unstudied, from the heart;A whisper on the tumult thrown,A transitory breath—It raised a brother from the dust,It saved a soul from death.O germ! O fount! O word of love!O thought at random cast!Ye were but little at the first,But mighty at the last.
* * * * *
Am I the slave they say,Soggarth aroon?[A]Since you did show the way,Soggarth aroon,Their slave no more to be,While they would work with meOld Ireland's slavery,Soggarth aroon.
Why not her poorest man,Soggarth aroon,Try and do all he can,Soggarth aroon,Her commands to fulfilOf his own heart and will,Side by side with you still,Soggarth aroon?
Loyal and brave to you,Soggarth aroon,Yet be not slave to you,Soggarth aroon,Nor, out of fear to you,Stand up so near to you—Och! out of fear toyou,Soggarth aroon!
Who, in the winter's night,Soggarth aroon,When the cold blasts did bite,Soggarth aroon,Came to my cabin-door,And on my earthen-floorKnelt by me, sick and poor,Soggarth aroon?
Who, on the marriage day,Soggarth aroon,Made the poor cabin gay,Soggarth aroon,And did both laugh and sing,Making our hearts to ringAt the poor christening,Soggarth aroon?
Who, as friends only met,Soggarth aroon,Never did flout me yet,Soggarth aroon;And when my heart was dim,Gave, while his eye did brim,What I should give to him,Soggarth aroon?
Och! you, and only you,Soggarth aroon!And for this I was true to you,Soggarth aroon!Our love they'll never shake,When for ould Ireland's sakeWe a true part did take,Soggarth aroon!
[Footnote A: Priest, dear.]
* * * * *
Over his keys the musing organist,Beginning doubtfully and far away,First lets his fingers wander as they list,And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay;Then, as the touch of his loved instrumentGives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme,First guessed by faint auroral flushes sentAlong the wavering vista of his dream.
* * * * *
Not only around our infancyDoth heaven with all its splendors lie;Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,We Sinais climb and know it not.
Over our manhood bend the skies;Against our fallen and traitor livesThe great winds utter prophecies;With our faint hearts the mountain strives;Its arms outstretched, the druid woodWaits with its Benedicite;And to our age's drowsy bloodStill shouts the inspiring sea.
Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us:The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in.The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,We bargain for the graves we lie in;At the devil's booth are all things sold,Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
For a cap and bells our lives we pay,Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking:'Tis heaven alone that is given away,'Tis only God may be had for the asking;No price is set on the lavish summer;June may be had by the poorest comer.
And what is so rare as a day in June?Then, if ever, come perfect days;Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,And over it softly her warm ear lays;Whether we look, or whether we listen,We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;Every clod feels a stir of might,An instinct within it that reaches and towers,And groping blindly above it for light,Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;The flush of life may well be seenThrilling back over hills and valleys;The cowslip startles in meadows green,The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,And there's never a leaf nor a blade too meanTo be some happy creature's palace;The little bird sits at his door in the sun,Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,And lets his illumined being o'errunWith the deluge of summer it receives;His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,—In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
Now is the high tide of the year,And whatever of life hath ebbed awayComes flooding back with a ripply cheer,Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it;We are happy now because God wills it;No matter how barren the past may have been,'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green;We sit in the warm shade and feel right wellHow the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowingThat skies are clear and grass is growing;The breeze comes whispering in our earThat dandelions are blossoming near,That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing.That the river is bluer than the sky,That the robin is plastering his house hard by:And if the breeze kept the good news back,For other couriers we should not lack;We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,—And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,Warmed with the new wine of the year,Tells all in his lusty crowing!
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;Everything is happy now,Everything is upward striving;'T is as easy now for the heart to be trueAs for grass to be green or skies to be blue,—'Tis the natural way of living:Who knows whither the clouds have fled?In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake;And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;The soul partakes the season's youth,And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woeLie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.What wonder if Sir Launfal nowRemember the keeping of his vow?
"My golden spurs now bring to me,And bring to me my richest mail,For to-morrow I go over land and seaIn search of the Holy Grail:Shall never a bed for me be spread,Nor shall a pillow be under my head,Till I begin my vow to keep;Here on the rushes will I sleep,And perchance there may come a vision trueEre day create the world anew."Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim;Slumber fell like a cloud on him,And into his soul the vision flew.
The crows flapped over by twos and threes,In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees,The little birds sang as if it wereThe one day of summer in all the year,And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees:The castle alone in the landscape layLike an outpost of winter, dull and gray;'T was the proudest hall in the North Countree,And never its gates might opened be,Save to lord or lady of high degree;Summer besieged it on every side,But the churlish stone her assaults defied;She could not scale the chilly wall,Though around it for leagues her pavilions tallStretched left and right.Over the hills and out of sight;Green and broad was every tent,And out of each a murmur wentTill the breeze fell off at night.
The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,And through the dark arch a charger sprang,Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight,In his gilded mail, that flamed so brightIt seemed the dark castle had gathered allThose shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wallIn his siege of three hundred summers long,And binding them all in one blazing sheaf,Had cast them forth; so, young and strong,And lightsome as a locust leaf,Sir Launfal flashed forth in his maiden mail,To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.
It was morning on hill and stream and tree,And morning in the young knight's heart;Only the castle moodilyRebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free,And gloomed by itself apart;The season brimmed all other things upFull as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup.