That promises release;
No solitude so drear but yields its store
Of thought and inward peace.
No night so wild but brings the constant sun
With love and power untold;
No time so dark but through its woof there run
Some blessèd threads of gold.
And through the long and storm-tost centuries burn
In changing calm and strife
The Pharos-lights of truth, where'er we turn,--
The unquenched lamps of life.
O Love supreme! O Providence divine!
What self-adjusting springs
Of law and life, what even scales, are thine,
What sure-returning wings
Of hopes and joys, that flit like birds away,
When chilling autumn blows,
But come again, long ere the buds of May
Their rosy lips unclose!
What wondrous play of mood and accident
Through shifting days and years;
What fresh returns of vigor overspent
In feverish dreams and fears!
What wholesome air of conscience and of thought
When doubts and forms oppress;
What vistas opening to the gates we sought
Beyond the wilderness;
Beyond the narrow cells, where self-involved,
Like chrysalids, we wait
The unknown births, the mysteries unsolved
Of death and change and fate!
O Light divine! we need no fuller test
That all is ordered well;
We know enough to trust that all is best
Where love and wisdom dwell.
CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.
THE CHANGED CROSS.
It was a time of sadness, and my heart,
Although it knew and loved the better part,
Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife,
And all the needful discipline of life.
And while I thought on these, as given to me,
My trial-tests of faith and love to be,
It seemed as if I never could be sure
That faithful to the end I should endure.
And thus, no longer trusting to his might
Who says, "We walk by faith and not by sight,"
Doubting, and almost yielding to despair,
The thought arose, "My cross I cannot bear.
"Far heavier its weight must surely be
Than those of others which I daily see;
Oh! if I might another burden choose,
Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose."
A solemn silence reigned on all around,
E'en Nature's voices uttered not a sound;
The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell,
And sleep upon my weary spirit fell.
A moment's pause,--and then a heavenly light
Beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight;
Angels on silvery wings seemed everywhere,
And angels' music thrilled the balmy air.
Then One, more fair than all the rest to see,
One to whom all the others bowed the knee,
Came gently to me, as I trembling lay,
And, "Follow me," he said; "I am the Way."
Then, speaking thus, he led me far above,
And there, beneath a canopy of love,
Grosses of divers shape and size were seen,
Larger and smaller than my own had been.
And one there was, most beauteous to behold,--
A little one, with jewels set in gold.
"Ah! this," methought, "I can with comfort wear,
For it will be an easy one to bear."
And so the little cross I quickly took,
But all at once my frame beneath it shook;
The sparkling jewels, fair were they to _see_,
But far too heavy was their _weight_ for me.
"This may not be," I cried, and looked again,
To see if there was any here could ease my pain;
But, one by one, I passed them slowly by,
Till on a lovely one I cast my eye.
Fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined,
And grace and beauty seemed in it combined.
Wondering, I gazed,--and still I wondered more,
To think so many should have passed it o'er.
But oh! that form so beautiful to see
Soon made its hidden sorrows known to me;
Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair;
Sorrowing, I said, "This cross I may not bear."
And so it was with each and all around,--
Not one to suit my _need_ could there be found;
Weeping, I laid each heavy burden down,
As my Guide gently said, "No cross,--no crown."
At length to him I raised my saddened heart;
He knew its sorrows, bade its doubts depart;
"Be not afraid," he said, "but trust in me;
My perfect love shall now be shown to thee."
And then, with lightened eyes and willing feet,
Again I turned my earthly cross to meet;
With forward footsteps, turning not aside,
For fear some hidden evil might betide;
And there--in the prepared, appointed way,
Listening to hear, and ready to obey--
A cross I quickly found of plainest form,
With only words of love inscribed thereon.
With thankfulness I raised it from the rest,
And joyfully acknowledged it the best,
The only one, of all the many there.
That I could feel was good for me to bear.
And, while I thus my chosen one confessed,
I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest;
And as I bent, my burden to sustain,
I recognized _my own old cross_ again.
But oh! how different did it seem to be,
Now I had learned its preciousness to see!
No longer could I unbelieving say
"Perhaps another is a better way."
Ah, no! henceforth my one desire shall be,
That he who knows me best should choose for me;
And so, whate'er his love sees good to send,
I'll trust it's best,--because he knows the end.
HON. MRS. CHARLES HOBART.
SOMETHING BEYOND.
Something beyond! though now, with joy unfound,
The life-task falleth from thy weary hand,
Be brave, be patient! In the fair beyond
Thou'lt understand.
Thou'lt understand why our most royal hours
Couch sorrowful slaves bound by low nature's greed;
Why the celestial soul's a minion made
To narrowest need.
In this pent sphere of being incomplete,
The imperfect fragment of a beauteous whole,
For yon rare regions, where the perfect meet,
Sighs the lone soul.
Sighs for the perfect! Far and fair it lies;
It hath no half-fed friendships perishing fleet,
No partial insights, no averted eyes,
No loves unmeet.
Something beyond! Light for our clouded eyes!
In this dark dwelling, in its shrouded beams,
Our best waits masked, few pierce the soul's disguise;
How sad it seems!
Something beyond! Ah, if it were not so,
Darker would be thy face, O brief To-day;
Earthward we 'd bow beneath life's smiting woe,
Powerless to pray.
Something beyond! The immortal morning stands
Above the night; clear shines her precious brow;
The pendulous star in her transfigured hands
Brightens the Now.
MARY CLEMMER AMES HUDSON.
DESPONDENCY REBUKED.
Say not, the struggle nought availeth,
The labor and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in you smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only.
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
GOD'S SURE HELP IN SORROW.
Leave all to God,
Forsaken one, and stay thy tears;
For the Highest knows thy pain,
Sees thy sufferings and thy fears;
Thou shalt not wait his help in vain;
Leave all to God!
Be still and trust!
For his strokes are strokes of love,
Thou must for thy profit bear;
He thy filial fear would move,
Trust thy Father's loving care,
Be still and trust!
Know, God is near!
Though thou think him far away,
Though his mercy long have slept,
He will come and not delay,
When his child enough hath wept,
For God is near!
Oh, teach him not
When and how to hear thy prayers;
Never doth our God forget;
He the cross who longest bears
Finds his sorrows' bounds are set;
Then teach him not!
If thou love him,
Walking truly in his ways,
Then no trouble, cross, or death
E'er shall silence faith and praise;
All things serve thee here beneath,
If thou love God.
From the German of ANTON ULEICH, DUKE OF BRUNSWICK, 1667.
Translation of CATHERINE WINKWORTH, 1855.
SONNET.
While yet these tears have power to flow
For hours for ever past away;
While yet these swelling sighs allow
My faltering voice to breathe a lay;
While yet my hand can touch the chords,
My tender lute, to wake thy tone;
While yet my mind no thought affords,
But one remembered dream alone,
I ask not death, whate'er my state:
But when my eyes can weep no more,
My voice is lost, my hand untrue.
And when my spirit's fire is o'er,
Nor can express the love it knew,
Come, Death, and cast thy shadows o'er my fate!
From the French of LOUISE LABÉ.
Translation of LOUISE STUART COSTELLO.
WAITING.
Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For, lo! my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day.
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.
The waters know their own and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height;
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delight.
The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.
JOHN BURROUGHS.
AUNT PHILLIS'S GUEST.
ST. HELENA ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA, IN 1863.
I was young and "Harry" was strong,
The summer was bursting from sky and plain,
Thrilling our blood as we bounded along,--
When a picture flashed, and I dropped the rein.
A black sea-creek, with snaky run
Slipping through low green leagues of sedge,
An ebbing tide, and a setting sun;
A hut and a woman by the edge.
Her back was bent and her wool was gray;
The wrinkles lay close on the withered face;
Children were buried and sold away,--
The Freedom had come to the last of a race!
She lived from a neighbor's hominy-pot;
And praised the Lord, if "the pain" passed by;
From the earthen floor the smoke curled out
Through shingles patched with the bright blue sky.
"Aunt Phillis, you live here all alone?"
I asked, and pitied the gray old head;
Sure as a child, in quiet tone,
"Me and Jesus, Massa," she said.
I started, for all the place was aglow
With a presence I had not seen before;
The air was full of a music low,
And the Guest Divine stood at the door!
Ay, it was true that the Lord of Life,
Who seeth the widow give her mite,
Had watched this slave in her weary strife,
And shown himself to her longing sight.
The hut and the dirt, the rags and the skin,
The grovelling want and the darkened mind,--
I looked on this; but the Lord, within:
I would what he saw was in me to find!
A childlike soul, whose faith had force
To see what the angels see in bliss:
She lived, and the Lord lived; so, of course,
They lived together,--she knew but this.
And the life that I had almost despised
As something to pity, so poor and low,
Had already borne fruit that the Lord so prized
He loved to come near and see it grow.
No sorrow for her that life was done:
A few more days of the hut's unrest,
A little while longer to sit in the sun,--
Then--He would be host, and she would be guest!
And up above, if an angel of light
Should stop on his errand of love some day
To ask, "Who lives in the mansion bright?"
"Me and Jesus," Aunt Phillis will say.
* * * * *
A fancy, foolish and fond, does it seem?
And things are not as Aunt Phillises dream?
Friend, surely so!
For this I know,--
That our faiths are foolish by falling below,
Not coming above, what God will show;
That his commonest thing hides a wonder vast,
To whose beauty our eyes have never passed;
That his face in the present, or in the to-be,
Outshines the best that we think we see.
WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT.
ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.
Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind,
And bear ye a' life's changes, wi' a calm and tranquil mind,
Though pressed and hemmed on every side, ha'e faith and ye 'll win through,
For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
Gin reft frae friends or crest in love, as whiles nae doubt ye've been,
Grief lies deep hidden in your heart or tears flow frae your een,
Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store for you,
For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and cloudless sky
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parched and dry,
The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew,
And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel owre proud and hie,
And in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's ee,
Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,
But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
JAMES BALLANTINE.
UNCHANGING.
In early days methought that all must last;
Then I beheld all changing, dying, fleeting;
But though my soul now grieves for much that's past,
And changeful fortunes set my heart oft beating,
I yet believe in mind that all will last,
Because the old in new I still am meeting.
From the German of
FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON BODENSTEDT.
I HOLD STILL.
Pain's furnace heat within me quivers,
God's breath upon the flame doth blow,
And all my heart in anguish shivers,
And trembles at the fiery glow:
And yet I whisper, As God will!
And in his hottest fire hold still.
He comes and lays my heart, all heated,
On the hard anvil, minded so
Into his own fair shape to beat it
With his great hammer, blow on blow:
And yet I whisper, As God will!
And at his heaviest blows hold still.
He takes my softened heart and beats it,--
The sparks fly off at every blow;
He turns it o'er and o'er, and heats it,
And lets it cool, and makes it glow:
And yet I whisper, As God will!
And, in his mighty hand, hold still.
Why should I murmur? for the sorrow
Thus only longer-lived would be;
Its end may come, and will, to-morrow,
When God has done his work in me;
So I say, trusting, As God will!
And, trusting to the end, hold still.
He kindles for my profit purely
Affliction's glowing fiery brand,
And all his heaviest blows are surely
Inflicted by a Master-hand:
So I say, praying, As God will!
And hope in him, and suffer still.
From the German of JULIUS STURM.
THE GOOD GREAT MAN.
How seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits
Honor or wealth with all his worth and pains!
It sounds like stories from the land of spirits.
If any man obtain that which he merits,
Or any merit that which he obtains.
* * * * *
For shame, dear Friend; renounce this canting strain!
What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain?
Place--titles--salary--a gilded chain--
Or throne of corses which his sword has slain?
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends!
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good great man? three treasures,--love, and light,
And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath;
And three firm friends, more sure than day and night--
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN.
Somewhere, out on the blue seas sailing,
Where the winds dance and spin;
Beyond the reach of my eager hailing,
Over the breakers' din;
Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting,
Out where the blinding fog is drifting,
Out where the treacherous sand is shifting,
My ship is coming in.
Oh, I have watched till my eyes were aching,
Day after weary day;
Oh, I have hoped till my heart was breaking,
While the long nights ebbed away;
Could I but know where the waves had tossed her,
Could I but know what storms had crossed her,
Could I but know where the winds had lost her,
Out in the twilight gray!
But though the storms her course have altered,
Surely the port she'll win;
Never my faith in my ship has faltered,
I know she is coming in.
For through the restless ways of her roaming,
Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming,
Through the white crest of the billows combing,
My ship is coming in.
Breasting the tides where the gulls are flying,
Swiftly she's coming in;
Shallows and deeps and rocks defying,
Bravely she's coming in;
Precious the love she will bring to bless me,
Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me,
In the proud purple of kings she will dress me.
My ship that is coming in.
White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming,
See, where my ship comes in;
At mast-head and peak her colors streaming,
Proudly she's sailing in;
Love, hope, and joy on her decks are cheering.
Music will welcome her glad appearing.
And my heart will sing at her stately nearing,
When my ship comes in.
ROBERT JONES BURDETTE.
NEVER DESPAIR.[6]
Never despair! Let the feeble in spirit
Bow like the willow that stoops to the blast.
Droop not in peril! 'T is manhood's true merit
Nobly to struggle and hope to the last.
When by the sunshine of fortune forsaken
Faint sinks the heart of the feeble with fear,
Stand like the oak of the forest--unshaken,
Never despair--Boys--oh! never despair.
Never despair! Though adversity rages,
Fiercely and fell as the surge on the shore,
Firm as the rock of the ocean for ages,
Stem the rude torrent till danger is o'er.
Fate with its whirlwind our joys may all sever,
True to ourselves, we have nothing to fear.
Be this our hope and our anchor for ever--
Never despair--Boys--oh! never despair.
WILLIAM SMITH O'BRIEN.
[6] These lines were sent to me by William Smith O'Brien, the evening of
Monday, October 8, 1848, the day on which sentence of death was passed
upon him.
THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. October 12, 1848.
THE SADDEST FATE.
To touch a broken lute,
To strike a jangled string,
To strive with tones forever mute
The dear old tunes to sing--
What sadder fate could any heart befall?
_Alas! dear child, never to sing at all_.
To sigh for pleasures flown.
To weep for withered flowers,
To count the blessings we have known,
Lost with the vanished hours--
What sadder fate could any heart befall?
_Alas! dear child, ne'er to have known them all_.
To dream of love and rest,
To know the dream has past,
To bear within an aching breast
Only a void at last--
What sadder fate could any heart befall?
_Alas! dear child, ne'er to have loved at all_.
To trust an unknown good,
To hope, but all in vain,
Over a far-off bliss to brood,
Only to find it pain--
What sadder fate could any soul befall?
_Alas! dear child, never to hope at all_.
ANONYMOUS.
THE SONG OF THE SAVOYARDS.
Far poured past Broadway's lamps alight,
The tumult of her motley throng.
When high and clear upon the night
Rose an inspiring song.
And rang above the city's din
To sound of harp and violin;
A simple but a manly strain,
And ending with the brave refrain--
Courage! courage, mon camarade!
And now where rose that song of cheer.
Both old and young stood still for joy;
Or from the windows hung to hear
The children of Savoy:
And many an eye with rapture glowed,
And saddest hearts forgot their load,
And feeble souls grew strong again,
So stirring was the brave refrain--
Courage! courage, mon camarade!
Alone, with only silence there,
Awaiting his life's welcome close,
A sick man lay, when on the air
That clarion arose;
So sweet the thrilling cadence rang,
It seemed to him an angel sang,
And sang to him; and he would fain
Have died upon that heavenly strain--
Courage! courage, mon camarade!
A sorrow-stricken man and wife,
With nothing left them but to pray,
Heard streaming over their sad life
That grand, heroic lay:
And through the mist of happy tears
They saw the promise-laden years;
And in their joy they sang again,
And carolled high the fond refrain--
Courage! courage, mon camarade!
Two artists, in the cloud of gloom
Which hung upon their hopes deferred,
Resounding through their garret-room
That noble chanson heard;
And as the night before the day
Their weak misgivings fled away;
And with the burden of the strain
They made their studio ring again--
Courage! courage, mon camarade!
Two poets, who in patience wrought
The glory of an aftertime,--
Lords of an age which knew them not,
Heard rise that lofty rhyme;
And on their hearts it fell, as falls
The sunshine upon prison-walls;
And one caught up the magic strain
And to the other sang again--
Courage! courage, mon camarade!
And unto one, who, tired of breath,
And day and night and name and fame,
Held to his lips a glass of death,
That song a savior came;
Beseeching him from his despair,
As with the passion of a prayer;
And kindling in his heart and brain
The valor of its blest refrain--
Courage! courage, mon camarade!
O thou, with earthly ills beset,
Call to thy lips those words of joy,
And never in thy life forget
The brave song of Savoy!
For those dear words may have the power
To cheer thee in thy darkest hour;
The memory of that loved refrain
Bring gladness to thy heart again!--
Courage! courage, mon camarade!
HENRY AMES BLOOD.
* * * * *
V. DEATH AND BEREAVEMENT.
LIFE.
We are born; we laugh; we weep;
We love; we droop; we die!
Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep?
Why do we live or die?
Who knows that secret deep?
Alas not I!
Why doth the violet spring
Unseen by human eye?
Why do the radiant seasons bring
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
Why do our fond hearts cling
To things that die?
We toil--through pain and wrong;
We fight--and fly;
We love; we lose; and then, ere long,
Stone-dead we lie,
O life! is all thy song
"Endure and--die?"
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER _(Barry Cornwall)._
SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.
FROM "HAMLET," ACT III. SC. I.
HAMLET.--To be, or not to be,--that is the question
Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them?--To die, to sleep;--
No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,--'t is a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die,--to sleep;--
To sleep! perchance to dream:--ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pains of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,--
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns,--puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
SHAKESPEARE.
SIC VITA.[7]
Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood,--
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past,--and man forgot!
HENRY KING.
[7] Claimed for Francis Beaumont by some authorities.
DEATH THE LEVELLER.
[These verses are said to have "chilled the heart" of Oliver Cromwell.]
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down.
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late,
They stoop to fate.
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
JAMES SHIRLEY.
VIRTUE IMMORTAL.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridall of the earth and skie;
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.
Sweet Rose, whose hue angrie and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And all must die.
Sweet Spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
Thy musick shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.
Onely a sweet and vertuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But, though the whole world, turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.
GEORGE HERBERT.