My darling once lived by my side,She scarcely ever went away;We shared our studies and our play,Nor did she care to walk or rideUnless I did the same that day.
Now she is gone to some far place;I never see her any more,The pleasant play-times all are o'er;I come from school, there is no faceTo greet me at the open door.
At first I cried all day, all night;I could not bear to eat or smile,I missed her, missed her, all the whileThe brightest day did not look bright,The shortest walk was like a mile.
Then some one came and told me this:"Your playmate is but gone from view,Close by your side she stands, and youCan almost hear her breathe, and kissHer soft cheek as you used to do.
"Only a little veil between,—A slight, thin veil; if you could seePast its gray folds, there she would be,Smiling and sweet, and she would leanAnd stretch her hands out joyfully.
"All the day long, and year by year,She will go forward as you go;As you grow older, she will grow;As you grow good, she with her clearAnd angel eyes, will mark and know.
"Think, when you wake up every day,That she is standing by your bed,Close to the pillow where her head,Her little curly head, once lay,With a 'Good-morning' smiled, not said.
"Think, when the hooks seem dull and tame,The sports no longer what they were,That there she sits, a shape of air,And turns the leaf or joins the gameWith the same smile she used to wear.
"So, moving on still, hand in hand,One of these days your eyes will clear,The hiding veil will disappear,And you will know and understandJust why your playmate left you here."
This made me happier, and I tryTo think each day that it may be.Sometimes I do so easily;But then again I have to cry,Because I want so much to SEE!
"Entre deux amants il y a toujours l'an qui baise et l'autre qui tend la joue."
I says he loves me well, and IBelieve it; in my hands, to makeOr mar, his life lies utterly,Nor can I the strong plea deny.Which claims my love for his love's sake.
He says there is no face so fairAs mine; when I draw near, his eyesLight up; each ripple of my hairHe loves; the very clunk I wearHe touches fondly where it lies.
And roses, roses all the way,Upon my path fall, strewed by him;His tenderness by night, by day,Keeps faithful watch to heap alwayMy cup of pleasure to the brim.
The other women, full of spite,Count me the happiest woman bornTo be so worshipped; I delightTo flaunt his homage in their sight,—For me the rose, for them its thorn.
I love him—or I think I do;Sure one MUST love what is so sweet.He is all tender and all true,All eloquent to plead and sue,All strength—though kneeling at my feet.
Yet I had visions once of yore,Girlish imaginings of a zest,A possible thrill,—but why run o'erThese fancies?—idle dreams, no more;I will forget them, this is best.
So let him take,—the past is past;The future, with its golden key,Into his outstretched hands I cast.I shall love him—perhaps—at last,As now I love his love for me.
Nor as all other women may,Love I my Love; he is so great,So beautiful, I dare essayNo nearness but in silence layMy heart upon his path,—and wait.
Poor heart! its healings are so lowHe does not heed them passing by,Save as one heeds, where violets grow,A fragrance, caring not to knowWhere the veiled purple buds may lie.
I sometimes think that it is dead,It lies so still. I bend and lean,Like mother over cradle-head,Wondering if still faint breaths are shedLike sighs the parted lips between.
And then, with vivid pulse and thrill,It quickens into sudden blissAt sound of step or voice, nor willBe hushed, although, regardless still,He knows not, cares not, it is his.
I would not lift it if I could;The little flame, though faint and dimAs glow-worm spark in lonely wood,Shining where no man calls it good,May one day light the path for him,—
May guide his way, or soon or late,Through blinding mist or wintry rain;And, so content, I watch and wait.Let others share his happier fate,I only ask to share his pain!
And if some day, when passing by,My dear Love should his steps arrest,Should mark the poor heart waiting nigh,Should know it his, should lift it,—why,Patience is good, but joy is best!
My morn was all dewy rose and pearl,Peace brimmed the skies, a cool and fragrant airCaressed my going forth, and everywhereThe radiant webs, by hope and fancy spun,Stretched shining in the sun.
Then came a noon, hot, breathless, still,—No wind to visit the dew-thirsty flowers,Only the dust, the road, the urging hours;And, pressing on, I never guessed or knewThat day was half-way through.
And when the pomp of purple lit the sky,And sheaves of golden lances tipped with redDanced in the west, wondering I gazed, and said,"Lo, a new morning comes, my hopes to crown!"Sudden the sun dropped down
Like a great golden ball into the sea,Which made room, laughing, and the serried rankOf yellow lances flashed, and, turning, sankAfter their chieftain, as he led the way,And all the heaven was gray.
Startled and pale, I stood to see them go;Then a long, stealing shadow to me crept,And laid his cold hand on me, and I weptAnd hid my eyes, and shivered with affrightAt thought of coming night.
But as I wept and shuddered, a warm thrillSmote on my sense. I raised my eyes, and lo!The skies, so dim but now, were all aglowWith a new flush of tender rose and gold,Opening fold on fold.
Higher and higher soared the gracious beam,Deeper and deeper glowed the heavenly hues,Nor any cowering shadow could refuseThe beautiful embrace which clasped and kissedIts dun to amethyst.
A little longer, and the lovely light,Draining the last drops from its wondrous urn,Departed, and the swart shades in their turn,Impatient of the momentary mirth,Crowded to seize the earth.
No longer do I shudder. With calm eyeI front the night, nor wish its hours away;For in that message from my banished dayI read his pledge of dawn, and soon or lateI can endure to wait.
Hope stood one morning by the way,And stretched her fair right hand to me,And softly whispered, "For this dayI'll company with thee."
"Ah, no, dear Hope," I sighing said;"Oft have you joined me in the morn,But when the evening came, you fledAnd left me all forlorn.
"'Tis better I should walk aloneThan have your company awhile,And then to lose it, and go onFor weary mile on mile,"
She turned, rebuked. I went my way,But sad the sunshine seemed, and chill;I missed her, missed her all the day,And O, I miss her still.
We started in the morning, a morning full of glee,All in the early morning, a goodly company;And some were full of merriment, and all were kind and dear:But the others have pursued their way, and left me sitting here.
My feet were not so fleet as theirs, my courage soon was gone,And so I lagged and fell behind, although they cried "Come on!"They cheered me and they pitied me, but one by one went by,For the stronger must outstrip the weak; there is no remedy.
Some never looked behind, but smiled, and swiftly, hand in hand,Departed with, a strange sweet joy I could not understand;I know not by what silver streams their roses bud and blow,Rut I am glad—O very glad—they should be happy so.
And some they went companionless, yet not alone, it seemed;For there were sounds of rustling wings, and songs,—or else wedreamed;And a glow from lights invisible to us lit up the place,And tinged, as if with glory, each dear and parting face.
So happy, happy did they look, as one by one they went,That we, who missed them sorely, were fain to be content;And I, who sit the last of all, left far behind, alone,Cannot be sorry for their sakes, but only for my own.
My eyes seek out the different paths by which they went away,And oft I wish to follow, but oftener wish to stay;For fair as may the new things be, the farther things they know,This is a pleasant resting-place, a pleasant place also.
There are flowers for the gathering, which grow my path anear,The skies are fair, and everywhere the sun is warm and clear:I may have missed the wine of life, the strong wine and the new,But I have my wells of water, my sips of honey-dew.
So when I turn my thoughts from those who shared my dawn of day,My fresh and joyous morning prune, and now are passed away,I can see just how sweet all is, how good, and be resignedTo sit thus in the afternoon, alone and left behind.
Myriad rivers seek the sea,The sea rejects not any one;A myriad rays of light may beClasped in the compass of one sun;And myriad grasses, wild and free,Drink of the dew which faileth none.
A myriad worlds encompass ours;A myriad souls our souls enclose;And each, its sins and woes and powers,The Lord He sees, the Lord He knows,And from the Infinite Knowledge flowersThe Infinite Pity's fadeless rose.
Lighten our darkness, Lord, most wise;All-seeing One, give us to see;Our judgments are profanities,Our ignorance is cruelty,While Thou, knowing all, dost not despiseTo pardon even such things as we.
O word and thing most beautiful!Our yesterday was cold and dull,Gray mists obscured the setting sun,Its evening wept with sobbing rain;But to and fro, mid shrouding night,Some healing angel swift has run,And all is fresh and fair again.
O, word and thing most beautiful!The hearts, which were of cares so full,The tired hands, the tired feet,So glad of night, are glad of morn,—Where are the clouds of yesterday?The world is good, the world is sweet,And life is new and hope re-born.
O, word and thing most beautiful!O coward soul and sorrowful,Which sighs to note the ebbing lightGive place to evening's shadowy gray!What are these things but parables,—That darkness heals the wrongs of day,And dawning clears all mists of night.
O, word and thing most beautiful!The little sleep our cares to lull,The long, soft dusk and then sunrise,To waken fresh and angel fair,Lite all renewed and cares forgot,Ready for Heaven's glad surprise.So Christ, who is our Light, be there.
In covert of a leafy porch,Where woodbine clings,And roses drop their crimson leaves,He sits and sings;With soft brown crest erect to hear,And drooping wings.
Shut in a narrow cage, which barsHis eager flight,Shut in the darker prison-houseOf blinded sight,Alike to him are sun and stars,The day, the night.
But all the fervor of high noon,Hushed, fragrant, strong,And all the peace of moonlit nightsWhen nights are long,And all the bliss of summer eves,Breathe in his song.
The rustle of the fresh green woods,The hum of bee,The joy of flight, the perfumed waftOf blossoming tree,The half-forgotten, rapturous thrillOf liberty,—
All blend and mix, while evermore,Now and again,A plaintive, puzzled cadence comes,A low refrain,Caught from some shadowy memoryOf patient pain.
In midnight black, when all men sleep,My singer wakes,And pipes his lovely melodies,And trills and shakes.The dark sky bends to listen, butNo answer makes.
O, what is joy? In vain we graspHer purple wings;Unwon, unwooed, she flits to dwellWith humble things;She shares my sightless singer's cage,And so—he sings.
The drowsy summer in the flowering limesHad laid her down at ease,Lulled by soft, sportive winds, whose tinkling chimesSummoned the wandering beesTo feast, and dance, and hold high carnivalWithin that vast and fragrant banquet-hall.
She stood, my Mary, on the wall below,Poised on light, arching feet,And drew the long, green branches down to showWhere hung, mid odors sweet,—A tiny miracle to touch and view,—The humming-bird's, small nest and pearls of blue.
Fair as the summer's self she stood, and smiled,With eyes like summer sky,Wistful and glad, half-matron and half-child,Gentle and proud and shy;Her sweet head framed against the blossoming bough,She stood a moment,—and she stands there now!
'Tis sixteen years since, trustful, unafraid,In her full noon of light,She passed beneath the grass's curtaining shade,Out of our mortal sight;And springs and summers, bearing gifts to men,And long, long winters have gone by since then.
And each some little gift has brought to dressThat unforgotten bed,—Violet, anemone, or lady's-tress,Or spray of berries red,Or purpling leaf, or mantle, pure and cold,Of winnowed snow, wrapped round it, fold on fold.
Yet still she stands, a glad and radiant shape,Set in the morning fair,—That vanished morn which had such swift escape.I turn and see her there,—The arch, sweet smile, the bending, graceful head;And, seeing thus, why do I call her dead?
What whispered Love the day he fled?Ah! this was what Love whispered;"You sought to hold me with a chain;I fly to prove such holding vain.
"You bound me burdens, and I boreThe burdens hard, the burdens sore;I bore them all unmurmuring,For Love can bear a harder thing.
"You taxed me often, teased me, wept;I only smiled, and still I keptThrough storm and sun and night and day,My joyous, viewless, faithful way.
"But, dear, once dearest, you and IThis day have parted company.Love must be free to give, defer,Himself alone his almoner.
"As free I freely poured my all,Enslaved I spurn, renounce my thrall,Its wages and its bitter bread."Thus whispered Love the day he fled!
"Insomuch that they brought forth the sick into the streets, and laid them on beds and couches, that at the least the shadow of Peter, passing by, might overshadow some of them."
Mid the thronged bustle of the city street,In the hot hush of noon,I wait, with folded hands and nerveless feet.Surely He will come soon.Surely the Healer will not pass me by,But listen to my cry.
Long are the hours in which I lie and wait,Heavy the load I bear;But He will come ere evening. Soon or lateI shall behold Him there;Shall hear His dear voice, all the clangor through;"What wilt thou that I do?"
"If Thou but wilt, Lord, Thou canst make me clean."Thus shall I answer swift.And He will touch me, as He walks serene;And I shall rise and liftThis couch, so long my prison-house of pain,And be made whole again.
He lingers yet. But lo! a hush, a hum.The multitudes press onAfter some leader. Surely He is come!He nears me; He is gone!Only His shadow reached me, as He went;Yet here I rest content.
In that dear shadow, like some healing spell,A heavenly patience lay;Its balm of peace enwrapped me as it fell;My pains all fled away,—The weariness, the deep unrest of soul;I am indeed "made whole."
It is enough, Lord, though Thy face divineWas turned to other men.Although no touch, no questioning voice was mine,Thou wilt come once again;And, if Thy shadow brings such bliss to me,What must Thy presence be?
They know the time to go!The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hourIn field and woodland, and each punctual flowerBows at the signal an obedient headAnd hastes to bed.
The pale AnemoneGlides on her way with scarcely a good-night;The Violets tie their purple nightcaps tight;Hand clasped in hand, the dancing Columbines,In blithesome lines,
Drop their last courtesies,Flit from the scene, and couch them for their rest;The Meadow Lily folds her scarlet vestAnd hides it 'neath the Grasses' lengthening green;Fair and serene,
Her sister Lily floatsOn the blue pond, and raises golden eyesTo court the golden splendor of the skies,—The sudden signal comes, and down she goesTo find repose,
In the cool depths below,A little later, and the Asters blueDepart in crowds, a brave and cheery crew;While Golden-rod, still wide awake and gay,Turns him away,
Furls his bright parasol,And, like a little hero, meets his fate.The Gentians, very proud to sit up late,Next follow. Every Fern is tucked and set'Neath coverlet,
Downy and soft and warm.No little seedling voice is heard to grieveOr make complaints the folding woods beneath;No lingerer dares to stay, for well they knowThe time to go.
Teach us your patience, brave,Dear flowers, till we shall dare to part like you,Willing God's will, sure that his clock strikes true,That his sweet day augurs a sweeter morrow,With smiles, not sorrow.
Lonely and cold and fierce I keep my way,Scourge of the lands, companioned by the storm,Tossing to heaven my frontlet, wild and gray,Mateless, yet conscious ever of a warmAnd brooding presence close to mine all day.
What is this alien thing, so near, so far,Close to my life always, but blending never?Hemmed in by walls whose crystal gates unbarNot at the instance of my strong endeavorTo pierce the stronghold where their secrets are?
Buoyant, impalpable, relentless, thin,Rise the clear, mocking walls. I strive in vainTo reach the pulsing heart that beats within,Or with persistence of a cold disdain,To quell the gladness which I may not win.
Forever sundered and forever one,Linked by a bond whose spell I may not guess,Our hostile, yet embracing currents run;Such wedlock lonelier is than loneliness.Baffled, withheld, I clasp the bride I shun.
Yet even in my wrath a wild regretMingles; a bitterness of jealous strifeTinges my fury as I foam and fretAgainst the borders of that calmer life,Beside whose course my wrathful course is set.
But all my anger, all my pain and woe,Are vain to daunt her gladness; all the whileShe goes rejoicing, and I do not know,Catching the soft irradiance of her smile,If I am most her lover or her foe.
As purely white as is the drifted snow,More dazzling fair than summer roses are,Petalled with rays like a clear rounded star,When winds pipe chilly, and red sunsets glow,Your blossoms blow.
Sweet with a freshening fragrance, all their own,In which a faint, dim breath of bitter lies,Like wholesome breath mid honeyed flatteries;When other blooms are dead, and birds have flown,You stand alone.
Fronting the winter with a fearless grace,Flavoring the odorless gray autumn chill,Nipped by the furtive frosts, but cheery still,Lifting to heaven from the bare garden placeA smiling face.
Roses are fair, but frail, and soon grow faint,Nor can endure a hardness; violets blue,Short-lived and sweet, live but a day or two;The nun-like lily bows without complaint,And dies a saint.
Each following each they hasten them away,And leave us to our winter and our rue,Sad and uncomforted; you, only you,Dear, hardy lover, keep your faith and stayLong as you may.
And so we choose you out from all the rest,For that most noble word of "Loyalty,"Which blazoned on your petals seems to be;Winter is near,—stay with us; be our guest,The last and best.
Why should I weary you, dear heart, with words,Words all discordant with a foolish pain?Thoughts cannot interrupt or prayers do wrong,And soft and silent as the summer rainMine fall upon your pathway all day long.
Giving as God gives, counting not the costOf broken box or spilled and fragrant oil,I know that, spite of your strong carelessness,Rest must be sweeter, worthier must be toil,Touched with such mute, invisible caress.
One of these days, our weary ways quite trod,Made free at last and unafraid of men,I shall draw near and reach to you my hand.And you? Ah! well, we shall be spirits then,I think you will be glad and understand.
Who is this who gently slipsThrough my door, and stands and sighs,Hovering in a soft eclipse,With a finger on her lipsAnd a meaning in her eyes?
Once she came to visit meIn white robes with festal airs,Glad surprises, songs of glee;Now in silence cometh she,And a sombre garb she wears.
Once I waited and was tired,Chid her visits as too few;Crownless now and undesired,She to seek me is inspiredOftener than she used to do.
Grave her coming is and still,Sober her appealing mien,Tender thoughts her glances fill;But I shudder, as one willWhen an open grave is seen.
Wherefore, friend,—for friend thou art,—Should I wrong thee thus and grieve?Wherefore push thee from my heart?Of my morning thou wert part;Be a part too of my eve.
See, I hold my hand to meetThat cool, shadowy hand of thine;Hold it firmly, it is sweetThus to clasp and thus to greet,Though no more in full sunshine.
Come and freely seek my door,I will open willingly;I will chide the past no more,Looking to the things before,Led by pathways known to thee.
The baby Summer lies asleep and dreaming—Dreaming and blooming like a guarded rose;And March, a kindly nurse, though rude of seeming,Is watching by the cradle hung with snows.
Her blowing winds but keep the rockers swinging,And deepen slumber in the shut blue eyes,And the shrill cadences of her high singingAre to the babe but wonted lullabies.
She draws the coverlet white and tucks it trimly,She folds the little sleeper safe from harm;Or bends to lift the veil, and, peering inly,Makes sure it lies all undisturbed and warm.
And so she sits, till in the still, gray dawningTwo fairer nurses come, her place to take,And smiling, beaming, with no word of warning,Draw off the quilt, and kiss the babe awake.
The day was hot and the day was dumb,Save for cricket's chirr or the bee's low hum,Not a bird was seen or a butterfly,And ever till noon was over, the sunGlared down with a yellow and terrible eye;
Glared down in the woods, where the breathless boughsHung heavy and faint in a languid drowse,And the ferns were curling with thirst and heat;Glared down on the fields where the sleepy cowsStood munching the grasses, dry and sweet.
Then a single cloud rose up in the west,With a base of gray and a white, white crest;It rose and it spread a mighty wing.And swooped at the sun, though he did his bestAnd struggled and fought like a wounded thing.
And the woods awoke, and the sleepers heard,Each heavily hanging leaflet stirredWith a little expectant quiver and thrill,As the cloud bent over and uttered a word,—One volleying, rolling syllable.
And once and again came the deep, low toneWhich only to thunder's lips is known,And the earth held up her fearless faceAnd listened as if to a signal blown,—A signal-trump in some heavenly place.
The trumpet of God, obeyed on high,His signal to open the granaryAnd send forth his heavily loaded wainsRambling and roaring down the skyAnd scattering the blessed, long-harvested rains.
The angel opened the doorA little way,And she vanished, as melts a star,Into the day,And, for just a second's space,Ere the bar he drew,The pitying angel paused,And we looked through.
What did we see within?Ah! who can tell?What glory and glow of lightIneffable;What peace in the very air,What hush and calm,Soothing each tired soulLike healing balm!
Was it a dream we dreamed,Or did we hearThe harping of silver harps,Divinely clear?A murmur of that "new song,"Which, soft and low,The happy angels sing,—Sing as they go?
And, as in the legend old,The good monk heard,As he paced his cloister dim,A heavenly bird,And, rapt and lost in the joyOf the wondrous song,Listened a hundred years,Nor deemed them long,
So chained in sense and limb,All blind with sun,We stood and tasted the joyOf our vanished one;And we took no note of time,Till soon or lateThe gentle angel sighed,And shut the gate.
The vision is closed and sealed.We are come backTo the old, accustomed earth,The well-worn track,—Back to the daily toil,The daily pain,—But we never can be the same,Never again.
We who have bathed in noon,All radiant white,Shall we come back contentTo sit in night?Content with self and sin,The stain, the blot?To have stood so near the gateAnd enter not?
O glimpse so swift, so sweet,So soon withdrawn!Stay with us; light our dusksTill day shall dawn;Until the shadows flee,And to our viewAgain the gate unbars,And we pass through.
After the earthquake shock or lightning dartComes a recoil of silence o'er the lands,And then, with pulses hot and quivering hands,Earth calls up courage to her mighty heart,Plies every tender, compensating art,Draws her green, flowery veil above the scar,Fills the shrunk hollow, smooths the riven plain,And with a century's tendance heals againThe seams and gashes which her fairness mar.So we, when sudden woe like lightning sped,Finds us and smites us in our guarded place,After one brief, bewildered moment's space,By the same heavenly instinct taught and led,Adjust our lives to loss, make friends with pain,Bind all our shattered hopes and bid them bloom again.
"For behold, the kingdom of God is within you."
Thy kingdom here?Lord, can it be?Searching and seeking everywhereFor many a year,"Thy kingdom come" has been my prayer.Was that dear kingdom all the while so near?
Blinded and dullWith selfish sin,Have I been sitting at the gatesCalled Beautiful,Where Thy fair angel stands and waits,With hand upon the lock to let me in?
Was I the wallWhich barred the way,Darkening the glory of Thy grace,Hiding the rayWhich, shining out as from Thy very face,Had shown to other men the perfect day?
Was I the barWhich shut me outFrom the full joyance which they tasteWhose spirits areWithin Thy Paradise embraced,—Thy blessed Paradise, which seemed so far?
The vision swells:I seem to catchCelestial breezes, rustling low,The asphodels,Where, singing softly ever to and fro,Moves each fair saint who in Thy presence dwells.
Let me not sitAnother hour,Idly awaiting what is mine to win,Blinded in wit,Lord Jesus, rend these walls of self and sin;Beat down the gate, that I may enter it.
What is a home? A guarded space,Wherein a few, unfairly blest,Shall sit together, face to face,And bask and purr and be at rest?
Where cushioned walls rise up betweenIts inmates and the common air,The common pain, and pad and screenFrom blows of fate or winds of care?
Where Art may blossom strong and free,And Pleasure furl her silken wing,And every laden moment beA precious and peculiar thing?
And Past and Future, softly veiledIn hiding mists, shall float and lieForgotten half, and unassailedBy either hope or memory,
While the luxurious Present weavesHer perfumed spells untried, untrue,Broiders her garments, heaps her sheaves,All for the pleasure of a few?
Can it be this, the longed-for thingWhich wanderers on the restless foam,Unsheltered beggars, birds on wing,Aspire to, dream of, christen "Home"?
No. Art may bloom, and peace and bliss;Grief may refrain and Death forget;But if there be no more than this,The soul of home is wanting yet.
Dim image from far glory caught,Fair type of fairer things to be,The true home rises in our thought,A beacon set for men to see.
Its lamps burn freely in the night,Its fire-glows unchidden shedTheir cheering and abounding lightOn homeless folk uncomforted.
Each sweet and secret thing withinGives out a fragrance on the air,—A thankful breath, sent forth to winA little smile from others' care.
The few, they bask in closer heat;The many catch the farther ray.Life higher seems, the world more sweet,And hope and Heaven less far away.
So the old miracle anewIs wrought on earth and proved good,And crumbs apportioned for a few,God-blessed, suffice a multitude.
When earth was young and men were few,And all things freshly born and newSeemed made for blessing, not for ban,Kintu, the god, appeared as man.Clad in the plain white priestly dress,He journeyed through the wilderness,His wife beside. A mild-faced cowThey drove, and one low-bleating lamb;He bore a ripe banana-bough,And she a root of fruitful yam:This was their worldly worth and store,But God can make the little more.The glad earth knew his feet; her mouldTrembled with quickening thrills, and stirred.Miraculous harvests spread and rolled,The orchards shone with ruddy gold;The flocks increased, increased the herd,And a great nation spread and grewFrom the swift lineage of the two,Peopling the solitary place;A fair and strong and fruitful race,Who knew not pain nor want nor grief,And Kintu reigned their lord and chief.
So sped three centuries along,Till Kintu's sons waxed fierce and strong;They learned to war, they loved to slay;Cruel and dark grew all their faces;Discordant death-cries scared the day,Blood stained the green and holy places;And drunk with lust, with anger hot,His sons mild Kintu heeded not.At last the god arose in wrath,His sandals tied, and down the path,His wife beside him, as of yore,He went. A cow, a single lambThey took; one tuber of the yam;One yellow-podded branch they boreOf ripe banana,—these, no more,Of all the heaped-up harvest store.They left the huts, they left the tent,Nor turned, nor cast a backward look:Behind, the thick boughs met and shook.They vanished. Long with wild lamentMourned all the tribe, in vain, in vain;The gift once given was given no more,The grieved god came not again.
To what far paradise they fared,That heavenly pair, what wildernessTheir gentle rule next owned and shared,Knoweth no man,—no man can guess.On secret roads, by pathways blind,The gods go forth, and none may find;But sad the world where God is not!By man was Kintu soon forgot,Or named and held as legend dim,But the wronged earth, remembering him,By scanty fruit and tardy grainAnd silent song revealed her pain.So centuries came, and centuries went,And heaped the graves and filled the tent.Kings rose, and fought their royal wayTo conquest over heaps of slain,And reigned a little. Then, one day,They vanished into dust again.And other kings usurped their place,Who called themselves of Kintu's race,And worshipped Kintu; not as he,The mild, benignant deity,Who held all life a holy thing,Be it of insect or of king,Would have ordained, but with wild rite,With altars heaped, and dolorous cries,And savage dance, and bale-fires light,An unaccepted sacrifice.At last, when thousand years were flown,The great Ma-anda filled the throne:A prince of generous heart and high,Impetuous, noble, fierce, and true;His wrath like lightning hurtling by,His pardon like the healing dew.And chiefs and sages swore each oneHe was great Kintu's worthiest son.
One night, in forests still and deep,A shepherd sat to watch his sheep,And started, as through darkness dimA strange voice rang and calmed to him:"Wake! there are wonders waiting thee!Go where the thick mimosas be,Fringing a little open plain,Honor and power wouldest thou gain?Go, foolish man, to fortune blind;Follow the stream, and thou shall find."Three several nights the voice was heard,Louder and more emphatic grown.Then, at the thrice-repeated word,The shepherd rose and went alone,Threading the mazes of the streamLike one who wanders in a dream.Long miles he ran, the stream beside,Which this way, that way, turned and sped,And called and sang, a noisy guide.At last its vagrant dances ledTo where the thick mimosas' shadeCircled and fringed an open glade;There the wild streamlet danced away,The moon was shining strangely white,And by its fitful, gleaming rayThe shepherd saw a wondrous sight;In the glade's midst, each on his mat,A group of armed warriors sat,White-robed, majestic, with deep eyesFixed on him with a stern surprise;And in their midst an aged chiefEnthroned sat, whose beard, like foam,Caressed his mighty knees. As leafShakes in the wind the shepherd shook,And veiled his eyes before that look,And prayed, and thought upon his home,Nor spoke, nor moved, till the old man,In voice like waterfall, began:"Shepherd, how names himself thy king?""Ma-anda," answered, shuddering,The shepherd. "Good, thou speakest well.And now, my son, I bid thee tellThy first king's name." "It was Kintu.""'Tis rightly said, thou answerest true.Hark! To Ma-anda, Kintu's son,Hasten, and bid him, fearing naught,Come hither, taking thee for guide;Thou and he, not another one,Not even a dog may run beside!Long has Ma-anda Kintu soughtWith spell and conjuration dim,Now Kintu has a word for him.Go, do thy errand, haste thee hence,Kintu insures thy recompense."All night the shepherd ran, star-led,All the hot day he hastened straight,Nor stopped for sleep, nor stopped for bread,Until he reached the city gate,And saw red rays of evening fallOn the leaf-hutted capital.He sought the king, his tale he told.Ma-anda faltered not, nor stayed.He seized his spear, he left the tent:Shook off the brown arms of his queens,Who clasped his knees with wailing screams;On pain of instant death forbadeThat man should spy or follow him;And down the pathway, arching dim,Fearless and light of heart and boldFollowed the shepherd where he went.
But one there was who loved his kingToo well to suffer such strange thing,—The chieftain of the host was he,Next to the monarch in degree;And, fearing wile or stratagemMenaced the king, he followed themWith noiseless tread and out of sight.So on they fared the forest through,From evening shades to dawning light,From damning to the dusk and dew,—The unseen follower and the two.Ofttimes the king turned back to scanThe path, but never saw he man.At last the forest-guarded spaceThey reached, where, ranged in order, sat,Each couched upon his braided mat,The white-robed warriors, face to faceWith their majestic chief. The king,Albeit unused to fear or awe,Bowed down in homage, wondering,And bent his eyes, as fearing to beBlinded by rays of deity.Then asked the mighty voice and calm,"Art thou Ma-anda called?" "I am.""And art thou king?" "The king am I,"The bold Ma-anda made reply."Tis rightly spoken; but, my son,Why hast thou my command forgot,That no man with thee to this spotShould come, except thy guide alone?""No man has come," Ma-anda said.
"Alone we journeyed, he and I;And often have I turned my head,And never living thing could spy.None is there, on my faith as king.""A king's word is a weighty thing,"The old man answered. "Let it be,—But still a man HAS followed thee!Now answer, Ma-anda, one more thing:Who, first of all thy line, was king?""Kintu the god." "'Tis well, my son,All creatures Kintu loved,—not oneToo pitiful or weak or small;He knew them and he loved them all;And never did a living thing,Or bird in air or fish in lake,Endure a pang for Kintu's sake.Then rose his sons, of differing mind,Who gorged on cruel feasts each day,And bathed in blood, and joyed to slay,And laughed at pain and suffering.Then Kintu sadly went his way.The gods long-suffering are and kind,Often they pardon, long they wait;But men are evil, men are blind.After much tarriance, much debate,The good gods leave them to their fate;So Kintu went where none may find.
Each king in turn has sought since then,From Chora down, the first in line,To win lost Kintu back to men.Vain was his search, and vain were thine,Save that the gods have special graceTo thee, Ma-anda. Face to faceWith Kintu thou shall stand, and heShall speak the word of power to thee;Clasped to his bosom, thou shall shareHis knowledge of the earth, the air,And deep things, secret things, shall learn.But stay,"—the old man's voice grew stern,—"Before I further speak, declareWho is that man in ambush there!""There is no man,—no man I see.""Deny no longer, it is vain.Within the shadow of the treeHe lurketh; lo, behold him plain!"And the king saw;—for at the wordFrom covert stole the hidden spy,And sought his monarch's side. One cry,A lion's roar, Ma-anda gave,Then seized his spear, and poised and drave.Like lightning bolt it hissed and whirred,A flash across the midnight blue.A single groan, a jet of red,And, pierced and stricken through and through,Upon the ground the chief fell dead;But still with love no death could chase,His eyes sought out his master's face.
Blent with Ma-anda's a wild cryOf many voices rose on high,A shriek of anguish and despair.Which shook and filled the startled air;And when the king, his wrath still hot,Turned him, the little grassy plainAll lonely in the moonlight lay:The chiefs had vanished all awayAs melted into thin, blue wind;Gone was the old man. Stunned and blind,For a long moment stood the king;He tried to wake; he rubbed his eyes,As though some fearful dream to end.It was no dream, this fearful thing:There was the forest, there the skies,The shepherd—and his murdered friend.With feverish haste, bewildered, mazed,This way and that he vainly sped,Beating the air like one half crazed;With prayers and cries unnumbered,Searching, imploring,—vain, all vain.Only the echoing woods replied,With mocking booms their long aisles through,"Come back, Kintu, Kintu, Kintu!"And pitiless to all his painThe unanswering gods his suit denied.At last, as dawning slowly creptTo day, the king sank down and weptA space; then, lifting as they couldThe lifeless burden, once a man,He and the shepherd-guide beganTheir grievous journey through the wood,The long and hard and dreary way,Trodden so lightly yesterday;And the third day, at evening's fall,Gained the leaf-hutted capital.There burial rites were duly paid:
Like bridegroom decked for banqueting,The chief adorned his funeral-pyre;Rare gums and spices fed the fire,Perfumes and every precious thing;And songs were sung, and prayers were prayed,And priests danced jubilant all day.But prone the king Ma-anda lay,With ashes on his royal crest,And groaned, and beat upon his breast,And called on Kintu loud and wild:"Father, come back, forgive thy child!"Bitter the cry, but vain, all vain;The grieved god came not again.
When dawns on earth the Easter sunThe dear saints feel an answering thrill.With whitest flowers their hands they fill;And, singing all in unison,
Unto the battlements they press—The very marge of heaven—how near!And bend, and look upon us hereWith eyes that rain down tenderness.
Their roses, brimmed with fragrant dew,Their lilies fair they raise on high;"Rejoice! The Lord is risen!" they cry;"Christ is arisen; we prove it true!
"Rejoice, and dry those faithless tearsWith which your Easter flowers are stained;Share in our bliss, who have attainedThe rapture of the eternal years;
"Have proved the promise which endures,The Love that deigned, the Love that died;Have reached our haven by His side—Are Christ's, but none the less are yours;
"Yours with a nearness never knownWhile parted by the veils of sense;Infinite knowledge, joy intense,A love which is not love alone,
"But faith perfected, vision free,And patience limitless and wise—Beloved, the Lord is risen, arise!And dare to be as glad as we!"
We do rejoice, we do give thanks,O blessed ones, for all your gain,As dimly through these mists of painWe catch the gleaming of your ranks.
We will arise, with zeal increased,Blending, the while we strive and grope,Our paler festival of HopeWith your Fruition's perfect feast.
Bend low beloved, against the blue;Lift higher still the lilies fair,Till, following where our treasures are,We come to join the feast with you.
In the deep shadow of the porchA slender bind-weed springs,And climbs, like airy acrobat,The trellises, and swingsAnd dances in the golden sunIn fairy loops and rings.
Its cup-shaped blossoms, brimmed with dew,Like pearly chalices,Hold cooling fountains, to refreshThe butterflies and bees;And humming-birds on vibrant wingsHover, to drink at ease.
And up and down the garden-bed,Mid box and thyme and yew,And spikes of purple lavender,And spikes of larkspur blue,The bind-weed tendrils win their way,And find a passage through.
With touches coaxing, delicate,And arts that never tire,They tie the rose-trees each to each,The lilac to the brier,Making for graceless things a grace,With steady, sweet desire.
Till near and far the garden growths.The sweet, the frail, the rude,Draw close, as if with one consent,And find each other good,Held by the bind-weed's pliant loops,In a dear brotherhood.
Like one fair sister, slender, arch,A flower in bloom and poise,Gentle and merry and beloved,Making no stir or noise,But swaying, linking, blessing allA family of boys.
Hark! upon the east-wind, piping, creeping,Comes a voice all clamorous with despair;It is April, crying sore and weeping,O'er the chilly earth, so brown and bare.
"When I went away," she murmurs, sobbing,"All my violet-banks were starred with blue;Who, O, who has been here, basely robbingBloom and odor from the fragrant crew?
"Who has reft the robin's hidden treasure,—All the speckled spheres he loved so well?And the buds which danced in merry measureTo the chiming of the hyacinth's bell?
"Where are all my hedge-rows, flushed with Maying?And the leafy rain, that tossed so fair,Like the spray from silver fountains playing,Where the elm-tree's column rose in air?
"All are vanished, and my heart is breaking;And my tears they slowly drip and fall;Only death could listen without wakingTo the grief and passion of my call!"
Thus she plaineth. Then ten million voices.Tiny, murmurous, like drops of rain,Raised in song as when the wind rejoices,Ring the answer, "We are here again.
"We were hiding, April. Did you miss us?None of us were really gone away;Stoop thy pretty head and gently kiss usOnce before we all come out to play.
"Here are all the clustering burls of roses,And the dandelion's mimic sun;Of thy much-beloved and vanished posiesNone are missing, not a single one!"
Little points of green push out to greet her,Little creepers grasp her garment's hem,Hidden sweetnesses grow ever sweeterAs she bends and brightly smiles at them.
Every tear is answered by a blossom,Every high with songs and laughter blent,Apple-blooms upon the breezes toss them.April knows her own, and is content.
New flowery scents strewed everywhere,New sunshine poured in largesse fair,"We shall be happy now," we say.A voice just trembles through the air,And whispers, "May."
Nay, but we MUST! No tiny budBut thrills with rapture at the floodOf fresh young life which stirs to-day.The same wild thrill irradiates our blood;Why hint of "May"?
For us are coming fast and soonThe delicate witcheries of June;July, with ankles deep in hay;The bounteous Autumn. Like a mocking tuneAgain sounds, "May."
Spring's last-born darling, clear-eyed, sweet,Pauses a moment, with white twinkling feet,And golden locks in breezy play,Half teasing and half tender, to repeatHer song of "May."
Ah, month of hope! all promised glee,All merry meanings, lie in thee;Surely no cloud can daunt thy day.The ripe lips part in smiling mockery,And murmur, "May."
Still from the smile a comfort may we glean;Although our "must-be's," "shall-be's," idle seem,Close to our hearts one little word we lay:We may not be as happy as we dream,But then we—may.
In the long, bright summer, dear to bird and bee,When the woods are standing in liveries green and gay,Merry little voices sound from every tree,And they whisper secrets all the day.
If we knew the language, we should hear strange things;Mrs. Chirry, Mrs. Flurry, deep in private chat."How are all your nestlings, dear? Do they use their wings?What was that sad tale about a cat?"
"Where is your new cottage?" "Hush! I pray you, hush".Please speak very softly, dear, and make no noise.It is on the lowest bough of the lilac bush.And I am so dreadfully afraid of boys.
"Mr. Chirry chose the spot, without consulting me;Such a very public place, and insecure for it,I can scarcely sleep at night for nervousness; but heSays I am a silly thing and doesn't mind a bit."
"So the Bluebirds have contracted, have they, for a house?And a nest is under way for little Mr. Wren?Hush, dear, hush! Be quiet, dear; quiet as a mouse.These are weighty secrets, and we must whisper them."
Close the downy dowagers nestle on the boughWhile the timorous voices soften low with dread,And we, walking underneath, little reckon theirMysteries are couching in the tree-tops overhead.
Ah, the pretty whisperers! It was very wellWhen the leaves were thick and green, awhile ago—Leaves are secret-keepers; but since the last leaf fellThere is nothing hidden from the eyes below.
Bared are the brown tenements, and all the world may seeWhat Mrs. Chirry, Mrs. Flurry, hid so close that day.In the place of rustling wings, cold winds rustling be,And thickly lie the icicles where once the warm brood lay.
Shall we tease the birdies, when they come back in spring,—Tease and tell them we have fathomed all their secrets small,Every secret hiding-place and dear and precious, thing,Which they left behind the leaves, the red leaves, in the fall?
They would only laugh at us and wink their saucy eyes,And answer, "Last year's secrets are all past and told.New years bring new happenings and fresh mysteries,You are very welcome to the stale ones of the old!"