Thou of the soaring wing!--
And I fear lest the angels that sit on high,
In the calm, still depths of the upper sky,
Will love with a tenderer love than I,
As they stoop to hear thee sing
Come down from the heights, my bird,
And warble thy lays to me!
I shall pine and droop in my grassy nook
For the passionate song that my spirit shook,
And the low, sad voice of the grieving brook
Will murmur all night of thee!
I shall sit alone--_alone_,
While the noontide hour steals by;
And mournful the woodland's music will be,--
Mournful the blue, calm heavens to me,--
Mournful the glory on earth and sea,--
And mournful the sunset sky!
O voice of exulting song!--
O bright, unwavering eye!--
O free wing soaring in fetterless flight
Up to the Fountain of quenchless Light!--
O, Earth that darken'st in sudden night,
I shudder, and faint, and die!
SKY-LARK'S SONG
II.
From the dewy grass upspringing--
From my wing the pearl-drops flinging--
Upward, with exultant singing,
Let me--let me fly!
Sun, with gemmed and flashing banners,
List my rapturous hosannas--
As I mount, on circling wing,
Higher, o'er the fragrant meadow,--
O'er the forest's broken shadow,--
O'er the hill-tops green and golden,--
Where the ivied ruins olden
Echo out with sudden gladness
As I break their brooding sadness
With the lays I sing!
Joy, joy!--I have caught the song
Of the angels that sit above!--
And warble in musical chorus alway
Those notes that oftentimes earthward stray
So tenderly sweet at the fall of day,
What time the rose-bud's trembling spray
Thrills with their lays of love!--
Joy, joy!--I have caught the song
Of bright ones that sit above!--
And the far-off Earth's a forgotten thing,
As I mount on free and fetterless wing,
Up to the sun-fields where they sing,
Drawn on by their soul of love!
Hush! is it a voice of Earth--
Of the far-away Earth, I hear?
Breathing of the fragrant meadow,--
Of the drooping willow's shadow,--
Of the breezes' gentle sighing,--
Of the brooklet's low replying,--
Of the blue, o'er-arching heaven,--
Of the violet-curtained even,--
Of the tender, dreamy starlight,--
Of the hushed, majestic midnight?--
And through all that murmur so sad and low,
Meanings of passionate anguish flow,
Till I feel a weight on my glancing wing
Bearing me earthward while yet I sing,
With its burden of heavy woe.
VIOLET'S SONG
III.
Bird, I am drooping in tears alone,
Pressing my cheek 'gainst the cold, grey stone,
And looking upward with aching eye,
Through the tender depths of the morning sky;--
But thy form fades out in that glorious sea
That lieth so calmly 'twixt thee and me;
A speck--it is lost in the azure deep!
And I droop in the deepening gloom, and weep
My sorrowful life away!
O voice of passionate song!--
O bright, unwavering eye!--
O free wing soaring in limitless flight
Beyond the stretch of my aching sight!
How the cold earth darkens in sudden night!
How I shudder, and faint, and die!
SKY-LARK'S SONG
IV.
Fainter and fainter--'tis heard no more--
That plaintive strain from Earth's lessening shore--
And I fling its weight from my fetterless wing,
Higher and higher in heaven to sing,
Afar from Earth's faded shore!
I shall take my seat in the clouds,
I shall sit beside the Sun,--
I shall gaze with calm, unfaltering eye
On the face of the radiant one!
O glorious, kingly Sun!--
O brightly beautiful one!--
O Monarch, sitting serenely bright,
In thy quenchless glory on heaven's height,
I am upward drawn to thee!--
And thy fiery spirit's ardent flame
Is downward-drawn to me!
Sun, with gemmed and flashing banners,
List my rapturous hosannas,
As I circle nearer,--nearer,--
Where your rays burn brighter, clearer,--
Up, on wings of strong desire,
Higher still, and ever higher!
VIOLET'S SONG
V.
I droop by the cold, grey stone!--
I faint in the smitten day!--
I hear not the song of my own free bird
Whose joyous music my glad heart stirred
But yester-morn! I can see no more
The humming-bird's wing as it flutters o'er
The fragrant clover-bloom!
The brook, with a far-off, sorrowful tone,
Seemeth in measureless grief to moan
As it hurrieth on its way--
The breath of my lost perfume
Floats on the wandering breeze,
Over the meadow's perishing bloom,
Over the cold, blue seas!
I would not gather it back,
I would not fill anew
With love's pure incense my broken urn,
For the lost can never more return
From the sky's encompassing blue!
It is well!--I would not hang
A weight on his fetterless wing;
For was he not made for the sun-bright sky?--
To face the glories that burn on high?--
And I, to sit 'mid Earth's fading bloom,
And waste my life in the faint perfume
I fling to the thankless breeze?--
Let him cleave the azure infinite!--
Let him pour his soul out in song's free might!--
Till the white-robed seraphs that dwell in light
Shall stoop to hear him sing!--
Be it mine to fade ere the day-beams die,
And alone in the sighing grass to lie,
With my dull face turned to the tearless sky,
A faded, forgotten thing!
THE GRACIOUS PROVIDER.
_"They need not go away!"_ the Master said,
_"Give ye to them."_ Ah, Lord, behold our store--
These loaves, these fishes,--see, we have no more!
How shall this fainting throng with these be fed?
_"Make them sit down!"_--and the disciples sped
To do His will. He blessed, and brake, and gave
And as they ate, each heart grew strong and brave,
Filled, till they craved no more, with hallowed bread.
Thus, when our hearts grow faint, and stores are small,
And thou demandest all that we possess,
O, help us, Lord, to bring that little all,
Knowing shouldst thou the gift accept and bless,
Our worthless store, so changed and glorified,
Ourselves shall feed, and fainting throngs beside.
REST IN HEAVEN
When tossed on time's tempestuous tide,
By angry storms resistless driven,
One hope can bid our fears subside--
It is the hope of rest in Heaven.
With trusting heart we lift our eyes
Above the dark clouds, tempest-driven,
And view, beyond those troubled skies,
The peaceful, stormless rest of Heaven.
No more to shed the exile's tears,--
No more the heart by anguish riven,--
No longer bent 'neath toilful years,--
How sweet will be the rest of Heaven
GOOD NIGHT
Good night, good night!--the day
Slowly has borne away,
Music and light;
Once more the starry train
Sweeps over vale and plain,
Soft falls the dews again--
Good night-good night!
Day's weary toils are done,
Set is the glorious sun,
Faded the light;--
Now, to the weary breast
Ever a welcome guest,--
Comes the sweet hour of rest--
Good night--good night!
Evening's cool shadows lie
Calmly o'er earth and sky;
And, from the height
Of the far, wooded hill,
Sends the lone whip-poor-will,
Softer and sweeter still,
Plaintive good night.
Gently let slumber lie
On every weary eye
Tired of the light!
E'en as the folded flowers
Sleep in the forest bowers,
Rest, through the silent hours--
Good night--good night!
THE OLD CHURCH CHOIR
I am slowly treading the mazy track
That leadeth, through sunshine and shadows, back--
Through freshest meads where the dews yet cling
As erst they did to each lowly thing,
Where flowers bloom and where streamlets flow
With the tender music of long ago--
To the far-off past that, through mists of tears,
In its spring time loveliness still appears,
And wooes me back to the gleaming shore
Of sunny years that return no more.
And to night, all weary, and sad, and lone,
I return in thought to those bright years flown,
Whose lingering sweetness, e'en yet, I feel
Like the breath of flower-scents over me steal
I am treading o'er mounds where the dead repose,--
I am stirring the dust of life's perished rose,--
I am rustling the withered leaves that lie
Thick in the pathway of Memory,--
And calling out from each lonely hill
Echoes of voices forever still.
And I pause again where I stood of yore
In the Sabbath light at an old church door,
And, ling'ring a moment, I turn to view
The green hills leaning against the blue
As erewhile they stood in the golden calm
Of morning's sunlight and breath of balm,
With clustering verdure, and blossoming trees,
And gush of bird song and hum of bees,
And glancing shadows that came and went
Of soft clouds high in the firmament,
Floating away in their robes of white
On snowy pinions through realms of light.
And I see again through the azure sky
The same white cloudlets still floating by;
And a greener line through the meadow shows
Where a little streamlet still, singing, flows;
And out from a woodland there floats again
Of joyous warblers the old, sweet strain;
While still, with serious, reverent air,
Aged and young seek the house of prayer.
And with them I enter the narrow door
That open stands as it stood of yore;
And look up again at the windows tall,--
At the narrow aisles and the naked wall,--
At the high, straight pulpit with cushion red,
And its worn, old Bible still open spread,--
At the pews where, unhindered, the slant rays fall,--
At the long, plain gallery over all
Where maid and matron, and son and sire,
Together sang in the old church-choir.
And again, as I listen, I seem to hear
The strains of old, half-forgotten Mear,
And solemn China, and grave Dundee,
And stately Rockingham, calm and free,
And rare Old-Hundred's majestic swell,
And tender Hebron we loved so well,
And tuneful Stonefield's melodies sweet,
Bridgewater, Windham, and Silver-street,
And rich St. Martin, and yet again
Old Coronation's exultant strain,
And sweet Devizes' slow, warbled tone,
Resounding Lenox and Arlington,
And gentle Boyleston, and many more
Which Memory holds in her treasured store,
That rise and fall on the tranquil air,
As they did of old, in this house of prayer;
Where, Sabbath by Sabbath, for many a year,
Often and often we sang them here.
For many a year--but they all are flown,
The band is broken, and hushed each tone,
And voices that mingled in tuneful breath,
Are silent now in the hush of death!
Scattered like Autumn-leaves far and near
Are those who clustered together here,--
Gone, like flowers in the swift stream cast,
Like wandering birds when the summer's past,
Like perfume shed in the tempest's track,
Never again to be gathered back!
I am thinking now of a young, fair face,
A brow of beauty, a form of grace,
The tender tones of whose sweet voice long
Swelled richly forth in our Sabbath-song;
But she laid her own, in a loved one's hand,
And he led her forth to a distant land,
Where a home, all radiant with love's pure beam,
Fulfilled her girlhood's enraptured dream;--
Yet she only pined 'neath the stranger's sky,
And he brought her back to her own--to die!
The breath of Spring-time was on the plain,
And flowers were bursting to life again,
And birds were carolling full and free
On the leafy boughs of the forest tree,
When the sweetest voice in our tuneful throng
Faltered and failed from our choral song,
And we laid her down at her pure life's close,
Peaceful and pale in her last repose.
The silvery Thames, as it glides along,
Murmurs anear her its old, sweet song;--
The tuneful robin sings still, as when
He warbled for her in the woodland glen;--
The star she loved, through the long, still night
Keeps his old, calm watch 'mid the planets bright;--
Her favorite flowers are still as fair
As when twined 'mid the braids of her raven hair;--
But the voice we missed in that far-off Spring
Is only heard where the angels sing!
And yet another,--I see him now,
With his manly bearing and noble brow--
Who turned away from our old church-choir,
To sing with the angels in worship higher
--As an alien bird 'neath inclement skies
Foldeth its pinions to earth and dies,
So he, o'erwearied with life's unrest,
Folded his mantle around his breast,
And, meekly bowing his weary head,
Went down to rest with the quiet dead,
And long were the hearts that had loved him lone
For the absent form and the missing tone!
There was still another. I yet behold
That form as I saw it in days of old,
As we stood in the calm of those Sabbath days,
And mingled our voices in hymns of praise.
--Ah! little we dreamed as we saw him there
In his proud, young beauty, with brow so fair,
And eye so lustrous, and tones so clear,
That the cruel spoiler was then so near;--
We dreamed it not, till we saw the light
Of his clear eyes growing so strangely bright.
And the flush of health on his cheek give place
To the deadly hectic's burning trace!
There's a tranquil isle amid Southern seas--
A fair isle, swept by no wintry breeze--
Where the wandering zephyr through long, bright hours
Gathers the perfume of orange bowers,
And roses droop in the fragrant bloom
Of their summer life o'er a nameless tomb,
--In that nameless tomb he is laid to rest,
And the dust of the stranger is on his breast,
And the breath of the South sweeps its viewless lyre
O'er another lost from our old church-choir
One dreamt of wealth on a distant shore,
And he wandered far to return no more,
For the deadly pestilence swept his path,
And the strong man drooped 'neath its burning wrath,
And he sleeps alone in the shining dust
Whose golden promises mocked his trust!
By a lonely lake in the boundless West,
Another reposes in dreamless rest,--
And yet another--her pure life done--
Slumbers far off toward the setting sun,
And the youngest voice in our old church-choir
Is to-day attuned to a seraph's lyre
That old church choir--I am standing lone
Where we stood together in days by gone,
But the tranquil air by no voice is stirred
Save the lonely call of a distant bird.
The grey, old church is no longer seen,
But the rank grass over its site grows green,
And, 'mid the tomb-stones, with sighing breath,
The sad wind whispers of change and death
Hush! is it fancy?--or do I hear
A far-off melody, faint yet clear,
Of gentle voices, sweet tones of yore,
Tenderly borne from an unseen shore?
--Ah! loved, long parted, ye're joined once more
In the Sabbath light of a changeless shore!
And there, with never a jarring note,
Your joyous anthems forever float
In sweet accord with the seraph strains
That sweep unchecked o'er celestial plains;
And I long to rejoin you in regions higher,
Loved ones, long lost from our old church-choir!
NO OTHER NAME
"For there is none other name under heaven, given among
men, whereby we must be saved."
Jesus! the only name that's given,
Through which salvation we may claim;
This, this alone, we breathe to Heaven,
For God accepts no other name.
No other name when skies are bright.
And sunshine glows on field and flower;
No other name when, dark as night,
The heavy clouds tempestuous lower.
No other name when, drooping low,
O'erburdened by sin's heavy load,
The contrite spirit pines to know
The way to hope, to Heaven, to God.
No other name when, like a flood,
Temptations beat upon the soul;
Faith, breathing that one name to God,
The raging billows shall control.
In peace or conflict, toil or rest,
In wealth or want, in praise or blame,
Still wear it graven on thy breast,
And, dying, plead _no other name!_
HEART-PICTURES
Two pictures, strangely beautiful, I hold
In Mem'ry's chambers, stored with loving care
Among the precious things I prized of old,
And hid away with tender tear and prayer
The first, an aged woman's placid face
Full of the saintly calm of well spent years,
Yet bearing in its pensive lines the trace
Of weariness, and care, and many tears.
We sat together in our Sabbath-place,
Through the hushed hours of many a holy day,
And sweet it was to watch the gentle grace
Of that bowed form with those who knelt to pray,
And lifted face, when swelled the sacred psalm,
And the rich promise of God's word was shed
Upon her waiting heart like heavenly balm,
And all our souls with angels' meat were fed.
There came a day when missing was that face,--
The form so meekly bent in prayer was gone,--
Those lifted eyes, so radiant with praise,
Beyond the spheres in saintly beauty shone!--
Another crowned one swelling Heaven's high train--
Another loved one missed from our low shrine,--
Hers, the rich wealth of Heaven's eternal gain,--
A tearful trust, a tender memory, mine!
The other picture is a young, fair child--
A gentle boy, with curls of clustered gold,
And calm, dark eyes that seldom more than smiled
As though his life had grown too grave and old--
Too full of earnest thought, and anxious quest,
And silent searchings after things unseen;--
And yet, the quiet child seemed strangely blest,
As one who inly feels Heaven's peace serene.
So close beside me, in his Sabbath-place,
He sat or stood, my hand I might have laid
Upon his rippling curls, or dropped a kiss
Upon his fair, white forehead while he prayed.
Frail, beauteous boy!--upon his little feet--
Though all unheard by love's quick ear attent--
E'en then Death's chilling waters sternly beat,
And with his sweet child-hymns their murmurs blent.
One Sabbath day there was an empty seat--
I could not see for blinding tears that hour--
But by and by, where Living waters meet
In God's fair Paradise, I saw my flower,
And ceased to weep!-Henceforth with loving care,
These precious pictures in my heart I shrine--
Food for sweet thought, incentive to sweet prayer--
My own, until I reach _their_ home and _mine!_
FELLOWSHIP WITH CHRIST
To pray as Jesus prayed,
When faithless brethren sleep,--
To weep the ruin sin has made--
The only ones that weep,--
To bear the heavy cross,--
To toil, yet murmur not,--
To suffer pain, reproach, and loss,--
Be such our earthly lot.
Yet oh, how richly blest
The Master's cup to share,--
The aching grief that wrung His breast,--
His broken-hearted prayer,--
If thus we may but gain
One sheaf of golden wheat
Gleaned from Earth's sultry harvest-plain,
To lay at His dear feet!--
If thus we may but win
One precious earthly gem
Snatched from the mire of vice and sin,
For His rich diadem!--
Here, sorrow, patience, prayer;
In Heaven, the rich reward!
Here, the sharp thorns, the cross,--and there
"Forever with the Lord"!
AN ALLEGORY
AN OLD LESSON IN A NEW DRESS.
"Here is a lantern, my little boy,"
Said a father to his child,
"And yonder's a wood, a lonely wood,
Tangled, and rough, and wild;
And now, this night,--this very hour,
Though gloomy and dark it be,
By the single light of this lamp alone,
You must cross the wild to me!
"I'll be on the farther side, my son,
So follow the path you see,
And at the end of this narrow way,
Awaiting you, I will be!"
Thus bidden, the child set out, but soon,
With the gloomy waste ahead,
Oppressed with terror and doubt he stopped,
Shaking with fear and dread.
"Father!--father!--I cannot see!--
The forest is thick and black,
I'm sure there is danger ahead of me,
Please, father, call me back!"
But the father's voice through the gloomy wild,
In answering accents said,--
_"Just keep in the light of your lamp, my child,
And don't look too far ahead!"_
Thus cheered, the child pressed trustingly on,
Though trembling much with fear,
For around, beyond, and overhead,
The forest was dark and drear,
And ever, to keep his courage up,
To himself he softly said,--
"He told me to keep in the light of my lamp,
And not look too far ahead!"
At length the other side was gained,
And lo, the father was there!
To welcome his child from the dreary wild,
Where darkness and danger were;
And, "why did you fear, my son?" he said,
"You had plenty of light, you see,
Though it lit but a step at a time, enough
To guide you safely to me!
"And besides, I was just ahead in the dark--
Though you did not see me at all--
To be sure that no evil or accident
Should my darling child befall;
Then remember, my son, in life's darkest ways
The simple words that I said,--
_'Just keep in the light of your lamp, my child,
And not look too far ahead?'_"
THE CRY OF THE KARENS
Lines written after hearing a returned missionary relate some of the
traditions, and speak of the long-cherished hopes of this interesting
people.
A voice from the distant East--
A voice from a far-off shore--
A voice from the perishing tribes of Earth
Has wandered the blue seas o'er!
It comes with a lingering cry,
With a wail of anguish and pain,--
"O brothers,--our brothers!--why
Do we look for you still in vain?
"We are weary,--we droop,--we die!
We grope in the deepening gloom!
We look above with despairing eye!
We drop in the yawning tomb!
Our children stretch their hands
Far over the waters blue,
And vainly cry from our darkened lands--
Alas, how long--for you!
"Brothers! do ye not keep
_Our law_ of the olden time,
For which, through ages of woe, we weep
In darkness, and sin, and crime?
There are sails from the distant West
Dotting our waters blue,
And the feet of strangers our shores have pressed,
But they came not, alas, from you!
"We know there's a God above,
We know there's a land of rest,--
But there's naught that whispers of pard'ning love
To our spirits by guilt oppressed!
We call to the earth below,--
To the calm, unanswering heaven,--
But no voice replies to our cry of woe
That can tell us of sins forgiven!
"And yet we look and wait,
With sorrowing hearts and sore,
If haply we may behold, though late,
Your sails from the western shore;--
O, come with that precious word
We lost in the far-off years,
And tell us the voice of woe is heard,
And God has beheld our tears!"
ALONE
Alone, alone!--the night is very silent,
Voiceless the stars are, and the pallid moon
Through the unknown sends down no tone, no utt'rance
To break the hush of midnight's solemn noon!
I stretch my arms toward the unanswering heavens,
'Tis empty space,--no form, no shape is here!
I call,--no answer to my cry is given,
Powerless my voice falls on Night's leaden ear!
Alone, alone!--I thought the dead were near me,--
The holy dead. E'en now, methought I heard
Low tones whose music long ago did cheer me,
That shadowy hands the parting branches stirred
'Twas but the night wind's mournful sigh above me,--
'Twas but the lonely streamlet's grieving tone,
No voice comes back from those who once did love me,--
No white hand beckons--I am all alone!
Alone?--not so! One sacred, unseen Presence
Fills the far depths, broods round me and above,
Enfolding all in His own Omnipresence,
Pervading all with His unstinted love,
In Him I live, and move, and have my being,
My soul's deep yearnings all to Him are known,
On me in kindness rests His eye all seeing,
His arm upholds me,--I am not alone!
MARY
Thus early with the dead--
Thou of the young, fair brow, the laughing eye,
The light and joyous tread,--
Mary, we little thought thou would'st be first to die!
A little while ago
We saw thee first in girlhood's early bloom;
Now thou art lying low,
Thy pale hands crossed in slumber, silent in the tomb!
Ah me! 'tis hard to speak
Of thee as of the dead--the pale, still dead!--
'Tis hard to think the bleak,
Stern blast of winter sweeps above thy low, cold bed!
* * * * *
Thus early with thy God!
'Twas a rich boon He sent whose loving voice
Called thee to His abode,
'Mid the sweet bowers of Heaven forever to rejoice!
Mary! thy feet have passed
The silent valley;--on thy placid brow
Heaven's sunlight falls at last,--
Thou'rt with God's shining ones--thyself an angel now!
Thank God! the dreary tomb
Has lost its sting! The Saviour broke death's reign,
Clothing with fadeless bloom
Frail human dust! In Heaven, Mary, we'll meet again!
"I AM DOING NO GOOD!"
"I am doing no good!" said a little rill,
As it rippled along at the foot of a hill,
"I am doing no good with my babbling here,
No one is listening,--no one is near!"
"'No good!--no good!'" said a violet blue,
As it shook from its petals the sparkling dew,
And opened its wondering, azure eyes
To the soft, clear light of the morning skies.