God pity the wretched prisoners,In their lonely cells to-day!Whatever the sins that tripped them,God pity them! still I say.
Only a strip of sunshine,Cleft by rusty bars;Only a patch of azure,Only a cluster of stars;
Only a barren future,To starve their hope upon;Only stinging memoriesOf a past that's better gone;
Only scorn from women.Only hate from men,Only remorse to whisperOf a life that might have been.
Once they were little children.And perhaps their unstained feetWere led by a gentle motherToward the golden street;
Therefore, if in life's forestThey since have lost their way,For the sake of her who loved them,God pity them! still I say.
O mothers gone to heaven!With earnest heart I askThat your eyes may not look earthwardOn the failure of your task.
For even in those mansionsThe choking tears would rise,Though the fairest hand in heavenWould wipe them from your eyes!
And you, who judge so harshly,Are you sure the stumbling-stoneThat tripped the feet of othersMight not have bruised your own?
Are you sure the sad-faced angelWho writes our errors downWill ascribe to you more honorThan him on whom you frown?
Or, if a steadier purposeUnto your life is given;A stronger will to conquer,A smoother path to heaven;
If, when temptations meet you,You crush them with a smile;If you can chain pale passionAnd keep your lips from guile;
Then bless the hand that crowned you,Remembering, as you go,'T was not your own endeavorThat shaped your nature so;
And sneer not at the weaknessWhich made a brother fall,For the hand that lifts the fallen,God loves the best of all!
And pray for the wretched prisonersAll over the land to-day,That a holy hand in pityMay wipe their guilt away.
* * * * *
"Good-bye," I said to my Conscience—"Good-bye for aye and aye;"And I put her hands off harshly,And turned my face away:And Conscience, smitten sorely,Returned not from that day.
But a time came when my spiritGrew weary of its pace:And I cried, "Come back, my Conscience,I long to see thy face;"But Conscience cried, "I cannot,—Remorse sits in my place."
* * * * *
Belshazzar had a letter,—He never had but one;Belshazzar's correspondentConcluded and begunIn that immortal copyThe conscience of us allCan read without its glassesOn revelation's wall.
* * * * *
Wallenstein(in soliloquy). Is it possible?Is't so? Icanno longer what Iwould!No longer draw back at my liking! IMustdothe deed, because Ithoughtof it,And fed this heart here with a dream! BecauseI did not scowl temptation from my presence,Dallied with thought of possible fulfilment,Commenced no movement, left all time uncertain,And only kept the road, the access open!By the great God of Heaven! It was notMy serious meaning, it was ne'er resolve.I but amused myself with thinking of it.The free-will tempted me, the power to doOr not to do it.—Was it criminalTo make the fancy minister to hope,To fill the air with pretty toys of air,And clutch fantastic sceptres moving t'ward me?Was not the will kept free? Beheld I notThe road of duty clear beside me—butOne little step and once more I was in it!Where am I? Whither have I been transported?No road, no track behind one, but a wall,Impenetrable, insurmountable,Rises obedient to the spells I mutteredAnd meant not—my own doings tower behind me.
* * * * *
Easy to drift to the open sea,The tides are eager and swift and strong,And whistling and free are the rushing winds,—But O, to get back is hard and long.
Easy as told in Arabian tale,To free from his jar the evil spriteTill he rises like smoke to stupendous size,—But O, nevermore can we prison him tight.
Easy as told in an English tale,To fashion a Frankenstein, body and soul,And breathe in his bosom a breath of life,—But O, we create what we cannot control.
Easy to drift to the sea of doubt,Easy to hurt what we cannot heal,Easy to rouse what we cannot soothe,Easy to speak what we do not feel,Easy to show what we ought to conceal,Easy to think that fancy is fate,—And O, the wisdom that comes too late!
* * * * *
O God! O God! that it were possibleTo undo things done; to call back yesterday!That time could turn up his swift sandy glass,To untell the days, and to redeem these hours!Or that the sunCould, rising from the West, draw his coach backward,—Take from the account of time so many minutes.Till he had all these seasons called again,These minutes and these actions done in them.
* * * * *
The Spartan rogue who, boldly bent on fraud,Dared ask the god to sanction and applaud,And sought for counsel at the Pythian shrine,Received for answer from the lips divine,—"That he who doubted to restore his trust,And reasoned much, reluctant to be just,Should for those doubts and that reluctance proveThe deepest vengeance of the powers above."The tale declares that not pronounced in vainCame forth the warning from the sacred fane:Ere long no branch of that devoted raceCould mortal man on soil of Sparta trace!Thus but intended mischief, stayed in time,Had all the mortal guilt of finished crime.If such his fate who yet but darkly dares,Whose guilty purpose yet no act declares,What were it, done! Ah! now farewell to peace!Ne'er on this earth his soul's alarms shall cease!Held in the mouth that languid fever burns,His tasteless food he indolently turns;On Alba's oldest stock his soul shall pine!Forth from his lips he spits the joyless wine!Nor all the nectar of the hills shall nowOr glad the heart, or smooth the wrinkled brow!While o'er the couch his aching limbs are cast,If care permit the brief repose at last,Lo! there the altar and the fane abused!Or darkly shadowed forth in dream confused,While the damp brow betrays the inward storm,Before him flits thy aggravated form!Then as new fears o'er all his senses press,Unwilling words the guilty truth confess!These, these be they whom secret terrors try.When muttered thunders shake the lurid sky;Whose deadly paleness now the gloom concealsAnd now the vivid flash anew reveals.No storm as Nature's casualty they hold.They deem without an aim no thunders rolled;Where'er the lightning strikes, the flash is thoughtJudicial fire, with Heaven's high vengeance fraught.Passes this by, with yet more anxious earAnd greater dread, each future storm they fear;In burning vigil, deadliest foe to sleep,In their distempered frame if fever keep,Or the pained side their wonted rest prevent,Behold some incensed god his bow has bent!All pains, all aches, are stones and arrows hurledAt bold offenders in this nether world!From them no crested cock acceptance meets!Their lamb before the altar vainly bleats!Can pardoning Heaven on guilty sickness smile?Or is there victim than itself more vile?Where steadfast virtue dwells not in the breast,Man is a wavering creature at the best!
From the Latin of JUVENAL.
* * * * *
The Queen looked up, and said,"O maiden, if indeed you list to sing,Sing, and unbind my heart, that I may weep."Whereat full willingly sang the little maid:
"Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now.
"No light had we: for that we do repent;And learning this, the bridegroom will relent.Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now.
"No light; so late! and dark and chill the night!O, let us in, that we may find the light!Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now.
"Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet?O, let us in, though late, to kiss his feet!No, no, too late! Ye cannot enter now."
So sang the novice, while full passionately,Her head upon her hands, wept the sad Queen.
* * * * *
Does the road wind up hill all the way?Yes, to the very end.Will the day's journey take the whole long day?From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.May not the darkness hide it from my face?You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?Those who have gone before.Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?Of labor you shall find the sum.Will there be beds for me and all who seek?Yea, beds for all who come.
* * * * *
I do not ask, O Lord, that life may beA pleasant road;I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from meAught of its load;
I do not ask that flowers should always springBeneath my feet;I know too well the poison and the stingOf things too sweet.
For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead,Lead me aright—Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed—Through Peace to Light.
I do not ask, O Lord, that thou shouldst shedFull radiance here;Give but a ray of peace, that I may treadWithout a fear.
I do not ask my cross to understand,My way to see;Better in darkness just to feel Thy handAnd follow Thee.
Joy is like restless day; but peace divineLike quiet night:Lead me, O Lord,—till perfect Day shall shine,Through Peace to Light.
* * * * *
When I consider how my light is spentEre half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one talent, which is death to hide,Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest he returning chide;"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"I fondly ask. But Patience, to preventThat murmur, soon replies, "God doth not needEither man's work or his own gifts; who bestBear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his stateIs kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,And post o'er land and ocean without rest;They also serve who only stand and wait."
* * * * *
Flung to the heedless winds,Or on the waters cast,The martyrs' ashes, watched,Shall gathered be at last;And from that scattered dust,Around us and abroad,Shall spring a plenteous seedOf witnesses for God.
The Father hath receivedTheir latest living breath;And vain is Satan's boastOf victory in their death;Still, still, though dead, they speak,And, trumpet-tongued, proclaimTo many a wakening landThe one availing name.
From the German of MARTIN LUTHER.
Translation of W.J. FOX.
* * * * *
Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,My staff of faith to walk upon,My scrip of joy, immortal diet,My bottle of salvation,My gown of glory, hope's true gauge;And thus I'll take my pilgrimage!
Blood must be my body's balmer,No other balm will there be given;Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,Travelleth towards the land of Heaven,Over the silver mountainsWhere spring the nectar fountains:There will I kissThe bowl of bliss,And drink mine everlasting fillUpon every milken hill.My soul will be a-dry before,But after, it will thirst no more.
Then by that happy, blissful day,More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,That have cast off their rags of clay,And walk apparelled fresh like me.I'll take them firstTo quench their thirst,And taste of nectar's sucketsAt those clear wellsWhere sweetness dwellsDrawn up by saints in crystal buckets.
And when our bottles and all weAre filled with immortality,Then the blest paths we'll travel,Strewed with rubies thick as gravel,—Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors.High walls of coral, and pearly bowers.From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall,Where no corrupted voices brawl;No conscience molten into gold,No forged accuser, bought or sold,No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey,For there Christ is the King's Attorney;Who pleads for all without degrees,And he hath angels, but no fees;And when the grand twelve-million juryOf our sins, with direful fury,'Gainst our souls black verdicts give,Christ pleads his death, and then we live.Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder!Thou giv'st salvation even for alms,—Not with a bribed lawyer's palms.And this is mine eternal pleaTo Him that made heaven, earth, and sea',That, since my flesh must die so soon,And want a head to dine next noon,Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread.Set on my soul an everlasting head:Then am I, like a palmer, fitTo tread those blest paths which before I writ.
Of death and judgment, heaven and hell,Who oft doth think, must needs die well.
* * * * *
In the still air the music lies unheard;In the rough marble beauty hides unseen:To make the music and the beauty, needsThe master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen.
Great Master, touch us with thy skilful hand;Let not the music that is in us die!Great Sculptor, hew and polish us; nor let,Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie!
Spare not the stroke! do with us as thou wilt!Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred;Complete thy purpose, that we may becomeThy perfect image, thou our God and Lord!
* * * * *
The seraph Abdiel, faithful foundAmong the faithless, faithful only he;Among innumerable false, unmoved,Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified,His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal;Nor number, nor example with him wroughtTo swerve from truth, or change his constant mind,Though single. From amidst them forth he passed,Long way through hostile scorn, which he sustainedSuperior, nor of violence feared aught;And with retorted scorn his back he turnedOn those proud towers to swift destruction doomed.
* * * * *
Fever and fret and aimless stirAnd disappointed strife,All chafing, unsuccessful things,Make up the sum of life.
Love adds anxiety to toil,And sameness doubles cares.While one unbroken chain of workThe flagging temper wears.
The light and air are dulled with smoke:The streets resound with noise;And the soul sinks to see its peersChasing their joyless joys.
Voices are round me; smiles are near;Kind welcomes to be had;And yet my spirit is alone,Fretful, outworn, and sad.
A weary actor, I would fainBe quit of my long part;The burden of unquiet lifeLies heavy on my heart.
Sweet thought of God! now do thy workAs thou hast done before;Wake up, and tears will wake with thee,And the dull mood be o'er.
The very thinking of the thoughtWithout or praise or prayer,Gives light to know, and life to do,And marvellous strength to bear.
Oh, there is music in that thought,Unto a heart unstrung,Like sweet bells at the evening time,Most musically rung.
'Tis not his justice or his power,Beauty or blest abode,But the mere unexpanded thoughtOf the eternal God.
It is not of his wondrous works,Not even that he is;Words fail it, but it is a thoughtWhich by itself is bliss.
Sweet thought, lie closer to my heart!That I may feel thee near,As one who for his weapon feelsIn some nocturnal fear.
Mostly in hours of gloom thou com'st,When sadness makes us lowly,As though thou wert the echo sweetOf humble melancholy.
I bless thee. Lord, for this kind checkTo spirits over free!More helpless need of thee!And for all things that make me feel
* * * * *
"When thou wast under the fig-tree, I saw thee."
I Saw thee when, as twilight fell,And evening lit her fairest star,Thy footsteps sought yon quiet dell,The world's confusion left afar.
I saw thee when thou stood'st alone,Where drooping branches thick o'erhung,Thy still retreat to all unknown,Hid in deep shadows darkly flung.
I saw thee when, as died each soundOf bleating flock or woodland bird,Kneeling, as if on holy ground,Thy voice the listening silence heard.
I saw thy calm, uplifted eyes,And marked the heaving of thy breast,When rose to heaven thy heartfelt sighsFor purer life, for perfect rest.
I saw the light that o'er thy faceStole with a soft, suffusing glow,As if, within, celestial graceBreathed the same bliss that angels know.
I saw—what thou didst not—aboveThy lowly head an open heaven;And tokens of thy Father's loveWith smiles to thy rapt spirit given.
I saw thee from that sacred spotWith firm and peaceful soul depart;I, Jesus, saw thee,—doubt it not,—And read the secrets of thy heart!
* * * * *
Shun delayes, they breed remorse,Take thy time while time doth serve thee,Creeping snayles have weakest force,Flie their fault, lest thou repent thee.Good is best when soonest wrought,Lingering labours come to nought.
Hoyse up sayle while gale doth last,Tide and winde stay no man's pleasure;Seek not time when time is past,Sober speede is wisdome's leasure.After-wits are dearely bought,Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.
Time weares all his locks before,Take thou hold upon his forehead;When he flies, he turnes no more,And behind his scalpe is naked.Workes adjourned have many stayes,Long demurres breed new delayes.
Seeke thy salve while sore is greene,Festered wounds aske deeper launcing;After-cures are seldome seene,Often sought, scarce ever chancing.Time and place gives best advice.Out of season, out of price.
Crush the serpent in the head,Breake ill eggs ere they be hatched:Kill bad chickens in the tread;Fledged, they hardly can be catched:In the rising stifle ill,Lest it grow against thy will.
Drops do pierce the stubborn flint,Not by force, but often falling;Custome kills with feeble dint.More by use than strength prevailing:Single sands have little weight,Many make a drowning freight.
Tender twigs are bent with ease,Aged trees do breake with bending;Young desires make little prease,Growth doth make them past amending.Happie man that soon doth knocke,Babel's babes against the rocke.
* * * * *
Dear, secret greenness! nurst belowTempests and winds and winter nights!Vex not, that but One sees thee grow;That One made all these lesser lights.
What needs a conscience calm and brightWithin itself, an outward test?Who breaks his glass, to take more light,Makes way for storms into his rest.
Then bless thy secret growth, nor catchAt noise, but thrive unseen and dumb;Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watchTill the white-winged reapers come!
* * * * *
She hath no beauty in her faceUnless the chastened sweetness there,And meek long-suffering, yield a graceTo make her mournful features fair:—
Shunned by the gay, the proud, the young,She roams through dim, unsheltered ways;Nor lover's vow, nor flatterer's tongueBrings music to her sombre days:—
At best her skies are clouded o'er,And oft she fronts the stinging sleet,Or feels on some tempestuous shoreThe storm-waves lash her naked feet.
Where'er she strays, or musing standsBy lonesome beach, by turbulent mart,We see her pale, half-tremulous handsCrossed humbly o'er her aching heart!
Within, a secret pain she bears,—pain too deep to feel the balmAn April spirit finds in tears;Alas! all cureless griefs are calm!
Yet in her passionate strength supreme,Despair beyond her pathway flies,Awed by the softly steadfast beamOf sad, but heaven-enamored eyes!
Who pause to greet her, vaguely seemTouched by fine wafts of holier air;As those who in some mystic dreamTalk with the angels unaware!
* * * * *
Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned,And sun and stars forevermore have set,The things o'er which our weak judgments here have spurned,The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet,Will flash before us, out of life's dark night,As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue;And we shall see how all God's plans are right,And how what seems reproof was love most true.
And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh,God's plans go on as best for you and me;How, when we called, he heeded not our cry,Because his wisdom to the end could see.And e'en as prudent parents disallowToo much of sweet to craving babyhood,So God, perhaps, is keeping from us nowLife's sweetest things, because it seemeth good.
And if sometimes, commingled with life's wine,We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink,Be sure a wiser hand than yours or minePours out this potion for our lips to drink.And if some friend we love is lying low,Where human kisses cannot reach his face,Oh, do not blame the loving Father so,But wear your sorrow with obedient grace!
And you shall shortly know that lengthened breathIs not the sweetest gift God sends his friend,And that, sometimes, the sable pall of deathConceals the fairest bloom his love can send.If we could push ajar the gates of life,And stand within, and all God's workings see,We could interpret all this doubt and strife,And for each mystery could find a key.
But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart!God's plans like lilies pure and white unfold.We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart,Time will reveal the calyxes of gold.And if, through patient toil, we reach the landWhere tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest,When we shall clearly know and understand,I think that we will say, "God knew the best!"
* * * * *
He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower,Alike they're needful for the flower;And joys and tears alike are sentTo give the soul fit nourishment:As comes to me or cloud or sun,Father, thy will, not mine, be done!
Can loving children e'er reproveWith murmurs whom they trust and love?Creator, I would ever beA trusting, loving child to thee:As comes to me or cloud or sun,Father, thy will, not mine, be done!
Oh, ne'er will I at life repine;Enough that thou hast made it mine;When falls the shadow cold of death,I yet will sing with parting breath:As comes to me or shade or sun,Father, thy will, not mine, be done!
* * * * *
Methinks we do as fretful children do,Leaning their faces on the window-paneTo sigh the glass dim with their own breath's stain,And shut the sky and landscape from their view;And, thus, alas! since God the maker drewA mystic separation 'twixt those twain,—The life beyond us and our souls in pain,—We miss the prospect which we are called untoBy grief we are fools to use. Be still and strong,O man, my brother! hold thy sobbing breath,And keep thy soul's large windows pure from wrong;That so, as life's appointment issueth,Thy vision may be clear to watch alongThe sunset consummation-lights of death.
* * * * *
Not in the sky,Where it was seen,Nor on the white tops of the glistening wave,Nor in the mansions of the hidden deep,—Though green,And beautiful, its caves of mystery;—Shall the bright watcher haveA place, and as of old high station keep.
Gone, gone!Oh, never more to cheerThe mariner who holds his course aloneOn the Atlantic, through the weary night,When the stars turn to watchers, and do sleep,Shall it appear,With the sweet fixedness of certain light,Down-shining on the shut eyes of the deep.
Vain, vain!Hopeless most idly then, shall he look forth,That mariner from his bark.Howe'er the northDoes raise his certain lamp, when tempests lower—He sees no more that perished light again!And gloomier grows the hourWhich may not, through the thick and crowding dark,Restore that lost and loved one to her tower.
He looks,—the shepherd of Chaldea's hillsTending his flocks,—And wonders the rich beacon does not blaze,Gladdening his gaze;—And from his dreary watch along the rocks,Guiding him safely home through perilous ways!Still wondering as the drowsy silence fillsThe sorrowful scene, and every hour distilsIts leaden dews.—How chafes he at the night,Still slow to bring the expected and sweet light,So natural to his sight!
And lone,Where its first splendors shone,Shall be that pleasant company of stars:How should they know that deathSuch perfect beauty mars?And like the earth, its crimson bloom and breath;Fallen from on high,Their lights grow blasted by its touch, and die!—All their concerted springs of harmonySnapped rudely, and the generous music gone.
A strain—a mellow strain—A wailing sweetness filled the sky;The stars, lamenting in unborrowed pain,That one of their selectest ones must die!Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest!Alas! 'tis evermore our destiny,The hope, heart-cherished, is the soonest lost;The flower first budden, soonest feels the frost:Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest?And, like the pale star shooting down the sky,Look they not ever brightest when they flyThe desolate home they blessed?
* * * * *
Was it the chime of a tiny bellThat came so sweet to my dreaming ear,Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shellThat he winds, on the beach, so mellow and clear,When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,And the Moon and the Fairy are watching the deep,She dispensing her silvery light.And he his notes as silvery quite.While the boatman listens and ships his oar,To catch the music that comes from the shore?Hark! the notes on my ear that playAre set to words; as they float, they say,"Passing away! passing away!"
But no; it was not a fairy's shell.Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear;Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell,Striking the hour, that filled my ear,As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chimeThat told of the flow of the stream of time.For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ringThat hangs in his cage, a canary-bird swing);And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say,"Passing away! passing away!"
Oh, how bright were the wheels, that toldOf the lapse of time, as they moved round slow;And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold,Seemed to point to the girl below.And lo! she had changed: in a few short hoursHer bouquet had become a garland of flowers,That she held in her outstretched hands, and flungThis way and that, as she, dancing, swungIn the fulness of grace and of womanly pride,That told me she soon was to be a bride;Yet then, when expecting her happiest day,In the same sweet voice I heard her say,"Passing away! passing away!"
While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shadeOf thought or care stole softly over,Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flushHad something lost of its brilliant blush;And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels,That marched so calmly round above her,Was a little dimmed,—as when evening stealsUpon noon's hot face. Yet one couldn't but love her,For she looked like a mother whose first babe layRocked on her breast, as she swung all day;And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to say,"Passing away! passing away!"
While yet I looked, what a change there came!Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan;Stooping and staffed was her withered frame,Yet just as busily swung she on;The garland beneath her had fallen to dust;The wheels above her were eaten with rust:The hands, that over the dial swept,Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they keptAnd still there came that silver toneFrom the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone(Let me never forget till my dying dayThe tone or the burden of her lay),"Passing away! passing away!"
* * * * *
E'en such is time; that takes in trustOur youth, our joys, our all we have,And pays us but with earth and dust;Who in the dark and silent grave,When we have wandered all our ways,Shuts up the story of our days:But from this earth, this grave, this dust,My God shall raise me up, I trust.
* * * * *
"But now they desire a better country, that is, anheavenly."—HEBREWS xi. 16.
I'm far frae my hame, an' I'm weary aftenwhiles,For the langed-for hame-bringing, an' my Father's welcome smiles;I'll never be fu' content, until mine een do seeThe shining gates o' heaven an' my ain countree.
The earth is flecked wi' flowers, mony-tinted, fresh, an' gay,The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae;But these sights an' these soun's will as naething be to me,When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.
I've his gude word of promise that some gladsome day, the KingTo his ain royal palace his banished hame will bring:Wi' een an' wi' hearts runnin' owre, we shall seeThe King in his beauty in our ain countree.
My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair,But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair;His bluid has made me white, his hand shall dry mine e'e,When he brings me hame at last, to my ain countree.
Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my Saviour's breast;For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like me,And carries them himse' to his ain countree.
He's faithfu' that hath promised, he'll surely come again,He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken;But he bids me still to wait, an' ready aye to be,To gang at ony moment to my ain countree.
So I'm watching aye, an' singin' o' my hame as I wait,For the soun'ing o' his footfa' this side the shining gate;God gie his grace to ilk ane wha listens noo to me,That we a' may gang in gladness to our ain countree.
* * * * *
"At even, or at midnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in themorning."—Mark xiii. 35.
"It may be in the evening,When the work of the day is done,And you have time to sit in the twilightAnd watch the sinking sun,While the long bright day dies slowlyOver the sea,And the hour grows quiet and holyWith thoughts of me;While you hear the village childrenPassing along the street,Among those thronging footstepsMay come the sound ofmyfeet.Therefore I tell you: Watch.By the light of the evening star,When the room is growing duskyAs the clouds afar;Let the door be on the latchIn your home,For it may be through the gloamingI will come.
"It may be when the midnightIs heavy upon the land,And the black waves lying dumblyAlong the sand;When the moonless night draws close,And the lights are out in the house;When the fires burn low and red,And the watch is ticking loudlyBeside the bed:Though you sleep, tired out, on your couch,Still your heart must wake and watchIn the dark room,For it may be that at midnightI will come.
"It may be at the cock-crow,When the night is dying slowlyIn the sky,And the sea looks calm and holy,Waiting for the dawnOf the golden sunWhich draweth nigh;When the mists are on the valleys, shadingThe rivers chill,And my morning-star is fading, fadingOver the hill:Behold I say unto you: Watch;Let the door be on the latchIn your home;In the chill before the dawning,Between the night and morning,I may come.
"It may be in the morning,When the sun is bright and strong,And the dew is glittering sharplyOver the little lawn;When the waves are laughing loudlyAlong the shore,And the little birds are singing sweetlyAbout the door;With the long day's work before you,You rise up with the sun,And the neighbors come in to talk a littleOf all that must be done.But remember thatImay be the nextTo come in at the door,To call you from all your busy workForevermore:As you work your heart must watch,For the door is on the latchIn your room,And it may be in the morningI will come."
So He passed down my cottage garden,By the path that leads to the sea,Till he came to the turn of the little roadWhere the birch and laburnum treeLean over and arch the way;There I saw him a moment stay,And turn once more to me,As I wept at the cottage door,And lift up his hands in blessing—Then I saw his face no more.
And I stood still in the doorway,Leaning against the wall,Not heeding the fair white roses,Though I crushed them and let them fall.Only looking down the pathway,And looking toward the sea,And wondering, and wonderingWhen he would come back for me;Till I was aware of an angelWho was going swiftly by,With the gladness of one who goethIn the light of God Most High.
He passed the end of the cottageToward the garden gate;(I suppose he was come downAt the setting of the sunTo comfort some one in the villageWhose dwelling was desolate)And he paused before the doorBeside my place,And the likeness of a smileWas on his face."Weep not," he said, "for unto you is givenTo watch for the coming of his feetWho is the glory of our blessed heaven;The work and watching will be very sweet,Even in an earthly home;And in such an hour as you think notHe will come."
So I am watching quietlyEvery day.Whenever the sun shines brightly,I rise and say:"Surely it is the shining of his face!"And look unto the gates of his high placeBeyond the sea;For I know he is coming shortlyTo summon me.And when a shadow falls across the windowOf my room,Where I am working my appointed task,I lift my head to watch the door, and askIf he is come;And the angel answers sweetlyIn my home:"Only a few more shadows,And he will come."
* * * * *
Methinks, when on the languid eyeLife's autumn scenes grow dim;When evening's shadows veil the sky;And pleasure's siren hymnGrows fainter on the tuneless ear,Like echoes from another sphere,Or dreams of seraphim—It were not sad to cast awayThis dull and cumbrous load of clay.
It were not sad to feel the heartGrow passionless and cold;To feel those longings to departThat cheered the good of old;To clasp the faith which looks on high,Which fires the Christian's dying eye,And makes the curtain-foldThat falls upon his wasting breast,The door that leads to endless rest.
It seems not lonely thus to lieOn that triumphant bed,Till the pure spirit mounts on highBy white-winged seraphs led:Where glories, earth may never know,O'er "many mansions" lingering glow,In peerless lustre shed.It were not lonely thus to soarWhere sin and grief can sting no more.
And though the way to such a goalLies through the clouded tomb,If on the free, unfettered soulThere rest no stains of gloom,How should its aspirations riseFar through the blue unpillared skies,Up to its final home,Beyond the journeyings of the sun,Where streams of living waters run!
* * * * *
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,The Sun himself must die,Before this mortal shall assumeIts immortality!I saw a vision in my sleep,That gave my spirit strength to sweepAdown the gulf of time!I saw the last of human mouldThat shall creation's death behold,As Adam saw her prime!
The sun's eye had a sickly glare,The skeletons of nations wereAround that lonely man!Some had expired in fight,—the brandsStill rusted in their bony hands,In plague and famine some!Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;And ships were drifting with the deadTo shores where all was dumb!
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,With dauntless words and high,That shook the sear leaves from the wood,As if a storm passed by,Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun!Thy face is cold, thy race is run,'Tis Mercy bids thee go;For thou ten thousand thousand yearsHast seen the tide of human tears,That shall no longer flow.
What though beneath thee man put forthHis pomp, his pride, his skill;And arts that made fire, flood, and earthThe vassals of his will?Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,Thou dim, discrowned king of day;For all those trophied artsAnd triumphs that beneath thee sprang,Healed not a passion or a pangEntailed on human hearts.
Go, let oblivion's curtain fallUpon the stage of men.Nor with thy rising beams recallLife's tragedy again:Its piteous pageants bring not back,Nor waken flesh, upon the rackOf pain anew to writhe;Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,Or mown in battle by the sword,Like grass beneath the scythe.
Even I am weary in yon skiesTo watch thy fading fire;Test of all sumless agonies,Behold not me expire.My lips, that speak thy dirge of death,—Their rounded gasp and gurgling breathTo see thou shalt not boast.The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,The majesty of darkness shallReceive my parting ghost!
This spirit shall return to HimWho gave its heavenly spark;Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dimWhen thou thyself art dark!No! it shall live again, and shineIn bliss unknown to beams of thine,By Him recalled to breath,Who captive led captivity,Who robbed the grave of victory,And took the sting from death!
Go, Sun, while mercy holds me upOn Nature's awful wasteTo drink this last and bitter cupOf grief that man shall taste,—Go, tell the night that hides thy face,Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,On earth's sepulchral clod,The darkening universe defyTo quench his immortality,Or shake his trust in God!
* * * * *
If I were told that I must die to-morrow,That the next sunWhich sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrowFor any one,All the fight fought, all the short journey through.What should I do?
I do not think that I should shrink or falter,But just go on,Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alterAught that is gone;But rise and move and love and smile and prayFor one more day.
And, lying down at night for a last sleeping,Say in that earWhich hearkens ever: "Lord, within thy keepingHow should I fear?And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still,Do thou thy will."
I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender,My soul would lieAll the night long; and when the morning splendorFlushed o'er the sky,I think that I could smile—could calmly say,"It is his day."
But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonderHeld out a scroll,On which my life was writ, and I with wonderBeheld unrollTo a long century's end its mystic clew,What should I do?'
WhatcouldI do, O blessed Guide and Master,Other than this;Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,Nor fear to missThe road, although so very long it be,While led by thee?
Step after step, feeling thee close beside me,Although unseen,Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide thee,Or heavens serene,Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray,Thy love decay.
I may not know; my God, no hand revealethThy counsels wise;Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth,No voice repliesTo all my questioning thought, the time to tell;And it is well.
Let me keep on, abiding and unfearingThy will always,Through a long century's ripening fruitionOr a short day's;Thou canst not come too soon; and I can waitIf thou come late.
SARAH WOOLSEY (Susan Coolidge).
* * * * *
"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."—DEUTERONOMY xxxiv. 6.
By Nebo's lonely mountain,On this side Jordan's wave,In a vale in the land of Moab,There lies a lonely grave;But no man built that sepulchre,And no man saw it e'er;For the angels of God upturned the sod,And laid the dead man there.
That was the grandest funeralThat ever passed on earth;Yet no man heard the trampling,Or saw the train go forth:Noiselessly as daylightComes back when night is done,And the crimson streak on ocean's cheekGrows into the great sun;
Noiselessly as the spring-timeHer crown of verdure weaves,And all the trees on all the hillsUnfold their thousand leaves:So without sound of musicOr voice of them that wept,Silently down from the mountain's crownThe great procession swept.
Perchance the bald old eagleOn gray Beth-peor's heightOut of his rocky eyryLooked on the wondrous sight;Perchance the lion stalkingStill shuns that hallowed spot;For beast and bird have seen and heardThat which man knoweth not.
But, when the warrior dieth.His comrades of the war.With arms reversed and muffled drums,Follow the funeral car:They show the banners taken;They tell his battles won;And after him lead his masterless steed,While peals the minute-gun.
Amid the noblest of the landMen lay the sage to rest,And give the bard an honored place,With costly marbles drest,In the great minster transeptWhere lights like glories fall,And the sweet choir sings, and the organ ringsAlong the emblazoned hall.
This was the bravest warriorThat ever buckled sword;This the most gifted poetThat ever breathed a word;And never earth's philosopherTraced with his glorious penOn the deathless page truths half so sageAs he wrote down for men.
And had he not high honor?—The hillside for a pall!To lie in state while angels wait,With stars for tapers tall!And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,Over his bier to wave,And God's own hand, in that lonely land,To lay him in his grave!—
In that strange grave without a name,Whence his uncoffined clayShall break again—O wondrous thought!—Before the judgment day,And stand, with glory wrapped aroundOn the hills he never trod,And speak of the strife that won our lifeWith the incarnate Son of God.
O lonely tomb in Moab's land!O dark Beth-peor's hill!Speak to these curious hearts of ours,And teach them to be still:God hath his mysteries of grace,Ways that we cannot tell,He hides them deep, like the secret sleepOf him he loved so well.
* * * * *
O God, whose thunder shakes the sky,Whose eye this atom globe surveys,To thee, my only rock, I fly,Thy mercy in thy justice praise.
The mystic mazes of thy will,The shadows of celestial light,Are past the power of human skill;But what the Eternal acts is right.
Oh, teach me in the trying hour,When anguish swells the dewy tear,To still my sorrows, own my power,Thy goodness love, thy Justice fear.
If in this bosom aught but theeEncroaching sought a boundless sway,Omniscience could the danger see,And Mercy look the cause away.
Then why, my soul, dost thou complain,Why drooping seek the dark recess?Shake off the melancholy chain,For God created all to bless.
But ah! my breast is human still;The rising sigh, the falling tear,My languid vitals' feeble rill,The sickness of my soul declare.
But yet, with fortitude resigned,I'll thank the inflicter of the blow;Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,Nor let the gush of misery flow.
The gloomy mantle of the night,Which on my sinking spirit steals,Will vanish at the morning light,Which God, my east, my sun, reveals.
* * * * *
[A very aged man in an almshouse was asked what he was doingnow. He replied, "Only waiting."]
Only waiting till the shadowsAre a little longer grown,Only waiting till the glimmerOf the day's last beam is flown;Till the night of earth is fadedFrom the heart, once full of day;Till the stars of heaven are breakingThrough the twilight soft and gray.
Only waiting till the reapersHave the last sheaf gathered home,For the summer time is faded,And the autumn winds have come.Quickly, reapers! gather quicklyThe last ripe hours of my heart,For the bloom of life is withered,And I hasten to depart.
Only waiting till the angelsOpen wide the mystic gate,At whose feet I long have lingered,Weary, poor, and desolate.Even now I hear the footsteps,And their voices far away;If they call me, I am waiting,Only waiting to obey.
Only waiting till the shadowsAre a little longer grown,Only waiting till the glimmerOf the day's last beam is flown.Then from out the gathered darkness,Holy, deathless stars shall rise,By whose light my soul shall gladlyTread its pathway to the skies.
* * * * *
"Blessed are they who are homesick, for they shall come atlast to their Father's house."—HEINRICH STILLING.
Not as you meant, O learned man, and good!Do I accept thy words of truth and rest;God, knowing all, knows what for me is best,And gives me what I need, not what he could,Nor always as I would!I shall go to the Father's house, and seeHim and the Elder Brother face to face,—What day or hour I know not. Let me beSteadfast in work, and earnest in the race,Not as a homesick child who all day longWhines at its play, and seldom speaks in song.
If for a time some loved one goes away,And leaves us our appointed work to do,Can we to him or to ourselves be trueIn mourning his departure day by day,And so our work delay?Nay, if we love and honor, we shall makeThe absence brief by doing well our task,—Not for ourselves, but for the dear One's sake.And at his coming only of him askApproval of the work, which most was done,Not for ourselves, but our Beloved One.
Our Father's house, I know, is broad and grand;In it how many, many mansions are!And, far beyond the light of sun or star,Four little ones of mine through that fair landAre walking hand in hand!Think you I love not, or that I forgetThese of my loins? Still this world is fair,And I am singing while my eyes are wetWith weeping in this balmy summer air:Yet I'm not homesick, and the childrenhereHave need of me, and so my way is clear.
I would be joyful as my days go by,Counting God's mercies to rue. He who boreLife's heaviest cross is mine forever-more,And I who wait his coming, shall not IOn his sure word rely?And if sometimes the way be rough and steep,Be heavy for the grief he sends to me,Or at my waking I would only weep,Let me remember these are things to be,To work his blessed will until he comesTo take my hand, and lead me safely home.
* * * * *
Sit down, sad soul, and countThe moments flying;Come, tell the sweet amountThat's lost by sighing!How many smiles?—a score?Then laugh, and count no more;For day is dying!
Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,And no more measureThe flight of time, nor weepThe loss of leisure;But here, by this lone stream,Lie down with us, and dreamOf starry treasure!
We dream: do thou the same;We love,—forever;We laugh, yet few we shame,—The gentle never.Stay, then, till sorrow dies;Then—hope and happy skiesAre thine forever!