_FORESHADOWED_
My life has been a summer day complete,
Teeming with pleasures, tender, pure, and sweet.
But tiny clouds have ever dimmed the sky,
And they have quickly passed, and floated by.
Oh, seldom in this thorny world of ours,
Is mortal's pathway so bestrewn with flowers.
Fragrant and fair, they ever blow and bloom,
Untouched by chilling frosts, and wintry gloom.
And I thank God, for all his tenderness,
And from my very soul adore, and bless
Him who has cast my lines in pleasant ways,
And crowned with joy and happiness my days.
But sometimes, though the sun shines clear and bright,
And all the world seems full of joy and light,
A nameless shadow, none but I can see,
Falls on my heart, hushing its melody.
A nameless, voiceless shadow; but I know
It tells of future agony and woe.
Some mighty sorrow, vague and undefined,
But dark, and awful, waits for me, behind
That shadowy cloud. Something of woe and tears--
Of grief, and anguish, is the future years.
It floats away, and I rejoice again,
With all my warm young heart untouched by pain.
But ever and anon I see it loom,
Over my life, and feel its awful gloom.
Oh God! I know not what is hidden there.
But give me strength to suffer and to bear.
Oh, guide my soul! and teach me how to pray,
And make my spirit stronger every day.
Upon Thy mighty arm, oh! let me rest,
And lean. And when Thou deemest best,
Reveal, my Father, what is hid behind
The nameless shadow, vague, and undefined.
1869
_FORTUNE'S WHEEL_
My Love was a poor man's daughter,
And I was a poor man's son.
And oft we walked on the sea shore,
When the work of the day was done.
Hand in hand, on the gleaming strand,
And our two hearts beat as one.
My Love was meek, and gentle,
And she was wondrous fair;
With hazel dyes in her slumbrous eyes,
And chestnut shades in her hair.
And we raked hay on the meadow,
And I gave my heart in her care.
But the great, notched wheel of Fortune,
Kept turning on and on.
And she was a rich man's daughter,
And I was a poor man's son.
And she had a score of lovers, or more.
But I was the favored one.
And I passed hard by her window,
Nor turned my face to see
The lady fair, with gems in her hair,
As fine as fine could be.
Though I knew her heart was dying
For just one word from me.
My Love grew pale as the lily,
And faded day by day,
And I passed by, and heard her sigh,
And turned my face away.
For I was proud as the proudest--
And her gold between us lay.
And the great, notched wheel of Fortune
Kept rolling on and on.
And she was a poor man's daughter,
And I was a rich man's son.
And maids of grace smiled in my face,
But I saw only one.
I found my love in the cottage,
Where first I sought her side.
And I shall not tell _how_ I wooed--but well,
For she had not my pride.
And I gave my heart in her keeping,
And won her for my bride.
1870
_SEARCHING_
These quiet autumn days,
My soul, like Noah's dove, on airy wings
Goes out, and searches for the hidden things,
Beyond the hills of haze.
With mournful, pleading cries
Above the waters of the voiceless sea
That laps the shores of broad Eternity,
Day after day it flies.
Searching, but all in vain,
For some stray leaf that it may light upon,
And read the future as the days agone--
Its pleasure and its pain.
Listening, patiently,
For some voice speaking from the mighty deep,
Revealing all the secrets it doth keep,
In silence, there for me.
Come back and wait! my soul,
Day after day thy search has been in vain,
Voiceless and silent o'er the future's plain
Its mystic waters roll.
God seeing, knoweth best,
And in his time the waters shall subside,
And thou shalt know what lies beneath the tide.
Then wait, my soul, and rest.
1869
_DAFT_
In the warm yellow smile of the morning,
She stands at the lattice pane,
And watches the strong young binders
Stride down to the fields of grain;
And she counts them over and over
As they pass the cottage door:
Are they six? she counts them seven--
Are they seven? she counts one more.
When the sun swings high in the heavens,
And the reapers go shouting home,
She calls to the household, saying
"Make haste! for the binders have come!
And Johnnie will want his dinner--
He was always a hungry child;"
And they answer, "Yes, it is waiting;"
Then tell you, "Her brain is wild."
Again, in the hush of the evening,
When the work of the day is done,
And the binders go singing homeward
In the last red rays of the sun,
She will sit at the threshold waiting,
And her withered face lights with joy:
"Come, Johnnie," she says, as they pass her,
"Come in to the house, my boy."
Five summers ago, her Johnnie
Went out in the smile o' the morn,
Singing across the meadow,
Striding down through the corn:
He towered above the binders
Walking on either side,
And the mother's heart within her
Swelled with exultant pride.
For he was the light of the household;
His brown eyes were wells of truth,
And his face was the face of the morning,
Lit with its pure, fresh youth;
And his song rang out from the hill-tops,
Like the mellow blast of a horn,
As he strode o'er the fresh shorn meadows,
And down through the rows of corn.
But hushed were the voices of singing,
Hushed by the presence of death,
As back to the cottage they bore him--
In the noontide's scorching breath.
For the heat of the sun had slain him,
Had smitten the heart in his breast,
And he who had towered above them
Lay lower than all the rest.
The grain grows ripe in the sunshine,
And the summers ebb and flow,
And the binders stride to their labor,
And sing as they come and go;
But never again from the hill-tops
Echoes the voice like a horn;
Never up from the meadows,
Never back from the corn.
Yet the poor, crazed brain of the mother
Fancies him always near;
She is blest in her strange delusion,
For she knoweth no pain, no fear:
And always she counts the binders
As they pass her cottage door;
Are they six, she counts them seven:
Are they seven, she counts one more.
1870
_TRUST_
Once Pain beat on my heart,
And well-nigh killed it.
I shuddered at the smart,
But said, "God willed it."
And down and down again,
With awful power,
Fell the great hand of Pain,
Hour after hour.
While, like a mighty flail,
The fierce blows hurt me,
I cried, "God doth prevail:
He'll not desert me."
Blow upon cruel blow,
The great hand gave me,
Yet I cried, "He doth know,
And he will save me."
I did not loudly cry,
And ask God's reason;
I knew He'd tell me why,
In his own season.
"In His good time," I said,
In trusting blindness,
And I was not afraid
To wait his kindness.
I did not trust in vain.
God drew me nearer.
And whispered, "Smile again!
The way is clearer."
And lo! my mortal sight
Could reach to heaven,
My faith dispelled the night,
And light was given.
_THE COMMON LINK_
When on the crowded thoroughfare,
Amidst the motley throng I stray,
In all the stranger faces there,
I meet and pass from day to day,
Whether the face be young, or old,
Or wreathed in smiles, or calm, or cold,
On every brow I trace some line
That links the strangers' heart to mine.
Though a proud beauty rustles by,
With haughty mien, I smile and say,
"You have a heart-ache--so have I:
We both are hiding it to-day.
Though you are rich, I am poor,
We both have entered sorrow's door;
Grief comes alike to you and me,
So we are of one family."
The richest nabob that I meet,
The poorest delver that I see,
Youth and old age upon the street,
Are one and all the same to me.
No heart that beats, but has its grief;
Nor wealth, nor youth, gives full relief;
And through the tears that sometimes fall
I claim relationship to all.
So poor, and rich, and high, and low,
I meet upon this common plain.
Though far and wide our paths may lie,
We entertain the same guest--Pain.
The subtle threads of this strange cord,
Draw me to mankind, and the Lord,
And through the sorrows heaven sends,
I hold all men to be my friends.
1869
_BURIED TO-DAY_
Cold is the wind, that blows up from the river.
Cold is the blast that sweeps over the plain.
In the bleak breath of the morning, I shiver--
Shiver and weep, in my desolate pain.
She was so fair--like the beautiful lily--
Fair, oh too fair to be hidden away.
And the grave is so dark, and so damp, and so chilly,
And she--oh my love!--will be buried to-day.
White is the snow that is heaped on the meadow,
Whiter the face, in this desolate room.
Low in the valley lurk darkness and shadow--
Low lies my heart, in its sorrow and gloom.
How the spades scrape, on the sods they are breaking,
Breaking, and cutting the snowdrifts away.
How the men bend to the grave they are making,
Where she--oh my love!--will be buried to-day.
Thick are the walls! but the bleak wind will enter,
And chill her through all her long slumber, I know.
Rich are her robes! but the merciless Winter
Will beat on her breast, with its tempests of snow.
Oh, she was guarded, and shielded from sorrow--
Kept from the shadows, and darkness, alway.
But she will lie, as the beggar to-morrow--
My love--oh my love!--that is buried to-day.
1870
_WHEN I DIE_
Often, when I am alone,
Thinking of the "things unseen;"
Things to our eyes never shown,
Hidden by the veil between
This world and eternity--
To be lifted by and by,
Oft the thought has come to me,
"Who will robe me, when I die."
When the night-time swiftly nears,
And my last sleep comes apace,
And the mourners' bitter tears
Fall above my dying face;
When I pass out, white and still,
Where no mortal hand can save,
Out beyond the reach of skill--
Who will robe me, for the grave?
When my work is all complete,
And I have no more to do,
And I pass with willing feet,
From the old life, to the new;
While my dear ones numb with woe,
Weep above my pulseless heart,
Who, of all the friends I know,
Who will robe me to depart?
Who will fold my pallid hands,
On my quiet bosom; close
Eyes that gaze on other lands,
Clothe me for my last repose?
When soft fingers toy and play
With my tresses tenderly,
Oft the thought has come to me,
"Will _these_ robe me, when I die?"
_THE UNSEEN THORN_
"Cinnamon Roses!" she said, "how fair,"
Holding them out in her finger-tips.
"Yes," I whispered, "the hue they wear
Was borrowed out of thy cheeks, and lips.
Beautiful roses! and each supposes
Itself replete, with thy graces, Sweet.
Fair they may be, yet not like thee--
See! they fade at thy smile, dear maid!"
"Give me a Rose!" and nothing loth,
She tossed a beautiful bud to me.
But I gathered the maid and the flowers both--
Close to my breast. "Not that, but _thee!_
I most am wanting. The dear face haunting
My heart each hour, is the sweetest flower."
And I gathered close the face like a rose,
And kissed her lips and her finger-tips.
The leaves, from the roses in her hand,
Dropped one by one: but the _thorn_ was left.
(Fool, that I did not understand.)
Cheated, and jilted, and all bereft,
Of the fair, false blossom I held on my bosom
I stand to-day. But the _thorn_ alway
Pierces my heart like a cruel dart.
The rose is dead: and her love--has fled.
1870
_FATHER AND CHILD_
The New Year wedded the winter--
Winter, the harsh old king!
Whose head was a snow-capped mountain--
Whose breath was the North-Wind's sting.
But he wooed and wedded the maiden,
And gave her a robe of snow;
And hung on her breast bright jewels,
With a lace-work of frost below.
And the days flowed on like a river;
And the mother looked up and smiled,
When she laid in the arms of Winter,
Their beautiful first-born child.
"And what shall we name our infant?"
She said to the harsh old king.
And the old man kissed her softly,
And said, "we will call her Spring."
"And how shall we robe our darling?
I have always dressed in white!
But she must be clothed in colors--
With something soft, and bright."
And the old man smiled and answered,
"We will give her a robe of green;
Trimmed with the fairest flowers,
And buds, that were ever seen!"
And he kissed the beautiful infant,
Softly on cheek, and brow,
And he clasped the hand of the mother,
And said "I am going now!
The days of my life were numbered,
And the last is slipping away.
But I leave you to guard our darling,
Wherever her steps shall stray."
1870
_UNDER THE MOON_
Under the moon two lovers walked--
The silver moon--the round, full moon;
Under its beams they softly talked,
Of youth, and love, and June.
And they plighted their vows in the silvery light,
For their hearts, like the moon, were full, that night.
Under the moon they walked again--
The setting the moon--the waning moon.
And scarcely a word was said by the twain.
(Ah moon, you set too soon.)
For love, in one o' the hearts, like the rim
Of the waning moon, grew faint, and dim.
Under the skies a maiden stood--
The cold night skies--the moonless skies:
She heard the owl in the lonely wood,
And she heard her own deep sighs.
"Heart and skies devoid of light;
Oh God!" she cried, "what a dreary night!"
Under the skies is a narrow mound--
The watchful skies--the starry skies.
And the rays of the moon, so full and round,
Shine down, where the maiden lies.
And they shine on the fickle lover, who
Walks with another, and woos anew.
_SINGERS_
The sweetest songs that were ever sung,
And those that please the best,
Through sorrow, and grief, and tears were wrung
From some o'er-burdened breast.
Though the words breathe only of mirth, and bloom,
And the strains are the gladdest and lightest,
Remember that after a night of gloom,
The rays of the sun are brightest.
The rain must fall, ere the spring-time grass
Grows tender, and green, and sweet.
Through the pangs of travail, a soul must pass,
Ere a song is born complete.
After a winter of storm, and snow,
Blossom the buds in our bowers:
After a season of tears and woe,
Blossom the poet's flowers.
There are few who give the poet a thought,
When they read the pleasing strain.
There are few who know that a poem is wrought
Through sorrow, and tears, and pain.
The merriest song, and the blithest lay,
And those that are sweetest and gladdest,
Are woven in gloomy and cheerless days,
When the poet's heart is the saddest.
_TAKE MY HAND_
I am walking in the darkness:
All around me is the night.
I am groping in the shadows,
And I cannot see the light.
Every sunbeam has departed;
There is gloom throughout the land.
I am fainting by the wayside--
Heavenly Father, take my hand.
Oh, the paths are rough and thorny,
That my weary feet have trod.
I am bleeding--I am dying,
Take me by the hand, O God!
Let my gloomy way be lighted,
By the glory of Thy face!
And thy broad and mighty bosom,
Let it be my resting place.
Through this awful night of sorrow,
Father, let me hear thy voice.
Teach me how to sing in anguish--
How to suffer, and rejoice.
Take me by the hand, and guide me,
Lead me in the better way.
Through this vale of storm, and tempest,
To the land of perfect day.
Strengthen me for every contest:
Let my prayer be not in vain.
I would bless thee in my sorrow--
I would glory in my pain.
Make my spirit white, for heaven!
Let my soul be purified
In the blood that flowed so freely,
From the wound in Jesus' side.
Gird my soul, oh God, for battle!
I am weak, O make me strong.
Do not let my courage falter,
Though the strife be fierce, and long.
And upon Thy hand, my Father,
Let me keep a clinging hold,
Till I cross the pearly portal,
To the city built of gold.
1869
_DISINTERRED_
[Written after the attempt of Sensation Lovers to prove that
Shakespeare's plays were written by Lord Bacon.]
Lo! here's another corpse exhumed!
Another Poet disinterred!
Sensation cried, "Dig up the grave,
And let the dust be hoed and stirred;
And bring the bones of Shakespeare out!
'Twill edify the throng, no doubt.
"The Byron scandal has grown old!
That rare tit-bit is flat, and stale.
The throng is gaping for more food!
We need a new sensation tale.
Old Shakespeare sleeps too well, and sound.
Tear off the shroud--dig up the ground!
"We have exhumed poor 'Raven Poe'
And proved beyond the shade of doubt,
_He_ saw no raven, after all.
Now trot the bones of Shakespeare out!
Byron, and Poe, and Shakespeare--good!
Who shall we serve up next for food?"
And who, say I, oh seers of earth!
What corpse comes next? I daily look
To see if some sage hasn't proved
That Jones, or Smith, wrote Lalla Rook!
Or Blifkins lent his brains to Moore--
Who was a plagiarist, and boor.
Sensation, keep your servants out;
Let them be watchful, and alert!
We'll need a new discovery soon:
Tell them to dig about the dirt,
And tear off Keats', or Shelly's shroud,
To please and edify the crowd.
1870
_A LAWYER'S ROMANCE_
Into the mellow light of the cloudless autumn day,
Somehow, the vision slips, of a landscape, far away,
Wherever I turn my eyes, it hovers before them still,
The little, vine-wreathed cot, on the southerly slope of the hill,
The pasture at the left, the ducks a-swim in the pond,
And the straight, green rows of corn, with the wheat fields just beyond,
The sloping lawn on the right, that is always seeming to say
To the lake that lies below, "I will meet you just half way."
And over and over the cot, from th' ground to th' mossy eaves,
Cling, and twine, and clamber the vines, with their dark, green leaves;
The little mimic garden, with its simple flowers a-blow,
Larkspur, bleeding hearts, and the clumps of phlox, like snow;
Petunias, red and white, like drooping and fragile maids,
Rose trees hanging down, with roses of many shades,
Marigolds, bachelor-buttons, with clusters of evergreen,
On the two trim rows of beds, with the narrow path between,
And the setting rays of the sun, lending it all a flush,
That is given to sunset scenes, by the heavenly Artist's brush.
It is thus it rises to-day, and hovers before my eyes;
I have seen it softly lit, with the mornings' sweet surprise--
I have seen it when the dew glistened upon the grass--
In the hush of the summer noon, when the calm lake lay like glass--
In the ghostly rays o' the moon--in the quiet of the night--
But never half so fair as under that sunset light.
Ah! foolish, and weak old heart, must you live it over again?
Why reopen the book, whose final page was Pain!
But the picture rises before me, rises, and hovers there,
And the glory of the sunset falls on the maiden's hair;
The maid, who stood in that garden ten long summers ago.
Stood by the "bleeding hearts," and the clusters of phlox, like snow.
Ah! musty and dusty old heart, you were younger and lighter then!
Yet not young, for now you have beat, two score years and ten;
But that one summer holds the essence of all my life,
The forty years before were records of toil and strife,
And I opened the book again, when my holiday was o'er,
And began at the page I left, and plodded on as before.
Weary of law, of work, of the dust, and heat of th' town,
Ill, in body and mind, my heart went longing down
To the cool, green country meadows; and I followed it one day,
And there in the vine-wreathed cot, let the summer slip away;
Ay! and I let the heart I had guarded forty years--
The heart that had never been stirred by love's wild hopes and fears--
I let it slip away to the maid with amber eyes,
With tresses dusky brown, and cheeks like th' sunset skies.
Ah! secret I tried to keep, ah! love I strove to hide!
But in the July twilight, I lingered at her side,
And, leaning by the rose tree, her tresses swept my cheek!
"Ah! sweet," I cried in a tremor, "I love you--let me speak!"
And then, somehow the love I had thought to guard untold
Broke loose from the fetters of silence, and gathered strength, and rolled
Forth in a torrent of words; and I knelt at the maiden's feet,
Crying, "Grant me a token, as yea or nay, my sweet."
And then, with a shy, sweet smile, she gave me her finger-tips,
And, bolder grown, I said, as I raised them to my lips,
"'Twere a lesser love than mine, that were wholly satisfied,
With a touch of your fingertips, and farther than that denied."
The curtains of her eyes dropped low, and I drew her close,
And over and over again kissed the sweet face like a rose.
I said, "I have pleaded a case, and won it; do you see?
And now I take my pay! for a lawyer must have his fee."
Ah! summer over and gone, into the echoless past!
Oh! August afternoons, that drifted by too fast!
Oh! rows on the quiet lake, in the blissful moonlit eves,
When the harvesters sang their song, carrying home the sheaves.
I can hear it even now, the voices, strong and sweet,
Over the noise, and rattle, and roar of the busy street,
I can see the face of Mable, full lipped, ripe, and fair,
With the amber tints in her eyes, and the dusky shades on her hair.
Into my life's September, came the beauty I missed in June,
The glory lost in the morning, came in the afternoon.
The dream that belongs to youth, golden--complete--sublime,
I dreamed not, in the spring, but in the autumn time.
Ah! and the young heart wakes from the dream of love, and then,
Suffers a little while, and dreams it over again.
But never a second draught of the wine of love for me,
I drank it all at the first, and shattered the cup, you see.
I woke from the golden dream when I saw _her_ on the breast
Of a fair-faced, beardless youth--when I saw his red lips pressed
Over and over again to the mouth, like a rose half blown,
And I heard her whispered words--"My only love, my own."
Hush! censure them not! His heart she toyed with even as mine.
He suffered keenly, I think, then knelt at another's shrine.
And she--speak softly of her--she died: she is only dust;
Died repentant--forgiven--and entered Heaven--I trust.
And I--well my years drift on, as my two-score drifted away,
Only at times, this memory comes, as it came to-day,
Thrilling me through and through--and I live it all once more,
Though I shut the past away, and have striven to lock the door.
Have I lost all faith in woman? Nay, surely not: should we
Say that every heart is false because _one_ proves to be!
Because I find a worm in the petals of a rose,
Shall I say that worms are coiled in every flower that blows?
Nay, there are constant woman, and women as sweet and fair
As she with the amber eyes, and the shadows on her hair.
But I found the wine of love so late, that when I quaffed
I held none in reserve, but drank it all at a draught.
The future? I do not dread: it is neither dark nor bright.
I have had my day of joy--I have had my sorrow's night.
God helped me through the last--I do not know just how,
But He answered when I called Him, and why should I doubt him now?
Nor mortal eye can see, nor mortal heart conceive,
What He holdeth in His kingdom for the faithful that believe.
But I sometimes think the dream that was broken here for me,
I shall finish and complete by the shining Jasper sea.
1870
_A SUMMER DAY_
There's a gaping rent in the curtain
That longs for a needle and thread,
There's a garment that ought to be finished,
And a book that wants to be read.
There's a letter that needs to be answered,
There are clothes to fold away,
And I know these tasks are waiting,
And ought to be done to-day.
But how can I mend the curtain,
While watching this silvery cloud,
And how can I finish th' garment.
When the robin calls so loud.
And the whispering trees are telling
Such stories above my head,
That I can but lie and listen,
And the book is all unread.
If I try to write the letter,
I am sure one half the words
Will be in the curious language
Of my chattering friends, the birds.
The lilacs bloom in the sunshine,
The roses nod and smile,
And the clothes that ought to be folded
And ironed, must wait awhile.
I lie in the locust shadows,
And gaze at the summer sky,
Bidding the cares and troubles
And trials of life pass by.
The beautiful locust blossoms
Are falling about my feet,
And the dreamy air is laden
With their odors rare and sweet.
The honey-bees hum in the clover,
The grasses rise and fall,
The robin stops and listens,
As he hears the brown thrush call.
The humming-bird sings to me softly,
The butterfly flits away--
Oh, what could be sweeter than living,
This beautiful summer day!
1869
_SONG AND MAID_
A poet toiled over a song, for the maid
Who had plighted her troth to him.
And he leaned, and wrote, in the gathering shade,
Till his eyes were dim.
But the maiden strolled on the distant beach,
And listed another's tender speech.
The poet sang of her love-lit eye,
So softly, and deeply blue;
How its soulful glance--half arch, half shy,
He only knew.
But the maid's blue eyes were shedding their light
On the face of a tall, dark man, that night.
He sang of her hand, so white, and fair,
And soft as a hand could be.
"And the ring," he sang, "that is gleaming there
Binds her to me."
But the maid to her tall companion said,
"This ring? 'tis the gift of a friend, now dead."
He sang of her ripe and dewy lips--
"They are roses before they blow,
And the taste of the nectar that from them drips
I only know."
But the maid, as she walked in the moonlight mist,
Lifted her face, and was lovingly kissed.
He sang of her voice, "It is soft and clear
As the voice of a gentle dove.
So tender, that I alone can hear
Her words of love."
But the maiden whispered to one by the sea,
"I love thee, darling, and only thee."
Ah, poet! finish your last light strain:
Ah, maid! shall we give you praise, or blame?
You are wringing a heart, with bitter pain,
Yet helping to laurel a brow with fame.
For out of the depths of a master woe,
And through the valley of dark despair,
The soul of a singer must grope, and go,
Ere he wear the purple true poets wear.
_ASLEEP_
"Come closer," she said, "my sister,
For I can not see your face.
The day grows dim, and the shadows grim,
Are gathering on apace.
I am glad that the night is coming:
I am weary, and want to rest.
What! do you weep, that I fall asleep
Leaning upon your breast?
"Oh, Sister, I am _so_ tired:
How tired you can not know.
And a jarring pain, in my weary brain,
Beats like a cruel blow.
I think it will all have vanished,
After I sleep awhile.
How sweetly I rest, lying here on your breast.
In the warmth of your loving smile.
"Such a beautiful dream, my sister,
I dreamed while I slept last night.
I thought he was true: and he came with you,
And kissed me in love's delight.
And he said--. But I am so weary,
I will sleep ere I tell the rest."
But the sister wept, for the maiden slept
In the sleep of death, on her breast.
1869
_TWO COUNTS_
If I count my life by the ticking of clocks,
In the old methodical way,
If I count by the years, and the years' twelve blocks,
If I figure it out by the ceaseless flocks
Of hours that make a day,
If I count from the annual calendar,
And trust to the measured years in there,
Well, then I have turned, we'll say,
But a notch, or two, on the wheel of time;
I am still in the flush of my youths' glad prime;
My life is new,
As the count will say.
I am scarcely through
With the opening play.
I am, in truth.
In the flush of youth,
If I trust to ticking and striking of clocks,
And count by the years, and the years' twelve blocks.
If I count my life by the beat, throb, beat,
Of the weary heart in my breast,
If I count by the aims that have met defeat,
And the vain, vain search for rest,
If I count by tears,
And by haunting fears,
By hopes that were all in vain,
By dear trusts shattered,
And good ships battered,
And lost on the treacherous main,
By faith unfounded,
And love death-wounded,
If I reckon it thus, why then
Counting this way, I have lived, we'll say,
Full three-score years, and ten.
1870
_THE WATCHER_
"I think I hear the sound of horses' feet.
Beating upon the gravelled avenue.
Go to the window that looks on the street!
He would not let me die, alone, I knew!"
Back to the couch the patient watcher passed.
And said, "It is the wailing of the blast."
She turned upon her couch, and seeming, slept,
The long, dark lashes, shadowing her cheek.
And on, and on, the weary moments crept,
When suddenly the watcher heard her speak,
"I think I hear the sound of horses' hoofs!"
And answered, "'Tis the rain, upon the roofs."
Unbroken silence: quiet, deep, profound.
The restless sleeper turns. "How dark! how late!
What is it that I hear--that trampling sound?
I think there is a horseman at the gate!"
The watcher turns away her eyes, tear-blind.
"It is the shutter, beating in the wind."
The dread night passed. The patient clock ticked on.
The weary watcher moved not from her place.
The gray, dun shadows of the early dawn,
Caught sudden glory, from the sleeper's face.
"He comes! my love! I knew he would!" she cried,
And, smiling sweetly in her slumbers, died.
1870
_LIFE AND DEATH_
Three days agone, and she was here:
Her light step on the stair was springing.
Her sweet voice fell upon my ear;
(She mocked the thrushes in her singing.)
The billows of her long, bright hair
Fell round her, in a golden splendor.
Her face was young and fresh and fair;
Her eyes were innocent and tender.
Her presence filled the house: each room
Breathed of her pure and sweet existence.
She was like some rare plant in bloom,
Its fragrance reaching through the distance.
Here was her ribbon--there her book,
Beyond, her wreath, or faded flower.
A step, a voice, a laugh, a look,
Told of her presence, hour by hour.
"How strange is life!" I said, "From naught
God fashioned out this glowing creature.
Endowed with motion, feeling thought--
Perfect in symmetry, and feature.
Sweeter than any opening rose,
All grace and beauty hangs about her.
Though every flower were left that blows,
Earth would be bare and bleak, without her."
Three days agone! ay! life is strange,
But death is stranger, vaster, deeper.
It brings us tears, and gloom, and change.
_She_ was God's sheaf, and Death His reaper.
Three days! and now no voice is heard--
No light step on the stair is bounding.
In vain the tuneful-throated bird
Listens to hear her answer sounding.
I cannot find her, anywhere!
How vast and strange the mystic power,
That leaves but one soft strand of hair,
Of all that golden, shining shower.
In door, and out, in every place,
I search and seek; oh, vain endeavor!
The voice, the laugh, the form, the face,
Have vanished from the earth forever.
A spot of ground, a fresh-turned sod,
Hides what was beautiful and mortal.
Her spirit (fairer still) to God,
And life eternal, crossed the portal.
Frailer than any opening rose,
The winds of earth blew cold about her.
Fairer than any flower that grows,
Heaven was not complete without her.
1872
_AN AUTUMN REVERIE_
Through all the weary, hot midsummer time,
My heart has struggled with its awful grief.
And I have waited for these autumn days,
Thinking the cooling winds would bring relief.
For I remembered how I loved them once,
When all my life was full of melody.
And I have looked and longed for their return,
Nor thought but they would seem the same, to me.
The fiery summer burned itself away,
And from the hills, the golden autumn time
Looks down and smiles. The fields are tinged with brown--
The birds are talking of another clime.
The forest trees are dyed in gorgeous hues,
And weary ones have sought an earthy tomb.
But still the pain tugs fiercely at my heart--
And still my life is wrapped in awful gloom.
The winds I thought would cool my fevered brow,
Are bleak, and dreary; and they bear no balm.
The sounds I thought would soothe my throbbing brain,
Are grating discords; and they cannot calm
This inward tempest. Still, it rages on.
My soul is tossed upon a troubled sea,
I find no pleasure in the olden joys--
The autumn is not as it used to be.
I hear the children shouting at their play!
Their hearts are happy, and they know not pain.
To them the day brings sunlight, and no shade.
And yet I would not be a child again.
For surely as the night succeeds the day.
So surely will their mirth turn into tears.
And I would not return to happy hours,
If I must live again these weary years.
I would walk on, and leave it all behind:
will walk on; and when my feet grow sore,
The boatman waits--his sails are all unfurled--
He waits to row me to a fairer shore.
My tired limbs shall rest on beds of down,
My tears shall all be wiped by Jesus' hand;
My soul shall know the peace it long hath sought--
A peace too wonderful to understand.
1868
_TWO LIVES_
An infant lies in her cradle bed:
The hands of sleep, on her eyelids fall.
The moments pass, with a noiseless tread,
And the clock on the mantle counts them all.
The infant wakes, with a wailing cry,
But she does not heed, how her life slips by.
A child is sporting, in careless play:
She rivals the birds with her mellow song:
The clock, unheeded, ticks away,
And counts the moments that drift along.
But the child is chasing the butterfly,
And she does not heed how her life drifts by.
A maiden stands at her lover's side,
In the tender light of the setting sun.
Onward and onward the moments glide,
And the old clock counts them, one by one.
But the maiden's bridal is drawing nigh,
And she does not heed how her life drifts by.
A song of her youth the matron sings,
And she dreameth a dream, and her eye is wet.
And backward and forward the pendulum swings,
In the clock that never has rested yet.
And the matron smothers a half-drawn sigh,
As she thinks how her life is drifting by.
An old crone sits in her easy chair;
Her head is dropped on her aged breast.
The clock on the mantle ticketh there--
The clock that is longing now for rest.
And the old crone smiles, as the moments fly,
And thinks how her life is drifting by.
A shrouded form, in a coffin bed--
A waiting grave, in the fallow ground:
The moments pass with a noiseless tread,
But the clock on the mantle makes no sound.
The lives of the two have gone for ay,
And they do not heed, how the time drifts by.
1869
_IN MEMORIUM_
(Miss Jennie Blanchard, aged 21 )
Across the sodden field we gaze,
To woodlands, painted gold and brown;
To hills that hide in purple haze,
And proudly wear the autumn's crown.
Oh, lavish autumn! fair, we know,
And yet we cannot deem her so.
The blossoms had their little day;
The grasses, and the green-hung trees.
They lived, grew old, and passed away.
And yet, not satisfied with these,
The cruel autumn could not pass
Without this last fell stroke: alas!
"Alas," we cry, because God's ways
Seem so at variance with our own,
And grieving through the nights and days,
We see not that His love was shown
In gathering to the "Harvest Home,"
Our lost one, from the grief to come.
Oh, Tears! she will not have to weep!
Oh, Woes! she will not have to bear!
For her, who fell so soon asleep,
No furrowed face, no whitened hair.
And yet _we_ would have given her _these_,
In lieu of heavenly victories.
How weak the strongest mortal love!
How selfish in its tenderness!
How God's angelic host above
Must wonder at our blind distress!
_We_ see her still grave, dark and dim,
And _they_ see only Heaven and _Him_.
Perpetual youth! oh, priceless boon!
Forever youthful: never old!
How can we think she died too soon?
What though life's story _was_ half told?
Wiser than all earth's seers, to-day,
Is this fair soul, that passed away.
Magician, sage, philosopher,
With all their vast brain-wealth combined,
Are only babes, compared with her:
This soul, that left the "things behind,"
And, "reaching to the things before,"
Gained God, through Christ, forevermore.