To kiss the rivulet, "say not so!
Daily and hourly I draw from thee
The grace and beauty that dwell with me!"
And the rustling reeds in the marge that stood
Reproachfully murmured--"'no good!--no good!'"
"'No good,' indeed!"--cried a dainty bird,
And she sprang from her nest as the sound she heard,
And fluttered her wings o'er the sorrowing stream,
While her bright plumes flashed in the morning beam.
"Peace, peace, my brook!"--and the young leaves stirred
At the gushing notes of the happy bird--
"Do you not nourish the dear beech tree
That spreads its shelter for mine and me?
You give yon wild rose its beauteous hue,--
And yonder violet its tender blue,--
And yonder willow its foliage fair,--
And yonder lily its fragrance rare!
The sun is gracious and kind, we think,
But to you, my brooklet, we come _to drink!_
His beams with glory and warmth are rife,
But you afford us _the cup of life!_
Gentle rivulet, cease to pine!--
Sing, and be happy for me and mine!"
"And me!" said the lily, "and me!"--"and me!"
Said violet, and rose-bud, and willow tree;
And rustling reeds, and the gray, old beech
Tossing his arms high out of reach,--
Fluttering insect, and waving tree,
Murmured and rustled "for me!"--"and me!"
Then the rivulet brightening, sped along,
With a freer step and a gladder song,
Through many a valley and meadow green
Making her flowery foot-prints seen,--
Deepening ever and broadening out,
Greeting the hills with a joyous shout,--
Greeting the rocks with a soft caress,
And singing still in her joy's excess,
Till her song swelled out to an anthem free,
As she caught the flash of the distant Sea--
The glorious Sea that, with answering tone,
Welcomed his guest from the hill-side lone.
Then the Stream shook hands with the kingly main,
And, glancing back to her source again,
Beheld each place where her steps had been
Glowing in tenderest, loveliest green,--
Saw beauty and fruitfulness fresh and fair
Wherever her gladdening footsteps were,
And caught from the green hills far away
The echo of many a woodland lay,
And the perfume of many a wild flower borne
On the scented wings of the dewy morn.
And then the rivulet understood
That all along she'd been doing good;--
That a rich green belt on Earth's sunny breast
Was left to tell of her mission blest;--
That Earth with lovelier flowers was rife
For her calm footsteps and patient life;--
That giving much, she had gathered more,
Winning an ever-increasing store;--
And, at length, unfettered, and strong, and free,
A home she had found with the glorious Sea!
HAIL, RISEN LORD!
Hail, risen Lord, upon whose brow
The crown of victory resteth now,
Unfading as the sun!
Hail, vanquisher of every foe,
Of Sin, dread source of all our woe,
And Death--the last undone!
Hail, risen Lord,--the empty grave
Proclaims aloud thy power to save,--
Thy high, victorious might!
Hail, Lord of life, and peace, and love,
On thy exalted throne above,
In uncreated light!
Hail, risen Lord,--we bend the knee,
And lift the adoring eye to thee,
And yield thee worship meet!--
And, while the angelic hosts on high
Shout their hosannas through the sky,
We breathe them at thy feet
For here, 'mid darkness, sin, and death,
Our loudest praise is but a breath,--
An infant's feeble sigh!
Yet, haply, to thy gracious ear
Our weak hosannas are as dear,
As those that swell on high!
Hail, risen Lord,--exalted King,
Well may the highest heavens ring
With rapture's sweetest lays!
Be ours to add our feeble sigh
To the full chorus of the sky,
In reverential praise!
LINES
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MOTHER
A voice missed by the dear home-hearth--
A voice of music and gentle mirth--
A voice whose lingering sweetness long
Will float through many a Sabbath song,
And many a hallowed, evening hymn,
Tenderly breathed in the twilight dim!
--But that missing voice, with a richer tone,
Is heard in the anthems before the throne;
And another voice and another lyre,
Are added now to the angel-choir!
There's a missing face when the board is spread--
There's a vacant seat at the table's head,--
A watchful eye and a helpful hand
That will come no more to that broken band.
--But she sits to-day at the board above,
In the tender light of a holier love;
And the kindling eye and the beaming face
At the feast on high hold a nobler place!
A form is missed in the hour of prayer,
At the altar, now, there's an empty chair,
Where one lonely pleader hath scarcely won
Strength, e'en yet, for "_Thy will be done!_"
--But that missing form in its saintly dress
Of Christ's unsullied righteousness,
Bows with worshipful accents sweet,
Where angels bow at the Saviour's feet
A step is missed by the cradle bed
Where an infant nestles its sleeping head--
Smiling, perchance, in his baby rest,
Deeming his pillow her gentle breast
--But the feet that moved with a soundless tread
In the calm still night by that cradle bed,
Beyond the waters of death now stand
Mid the fadeless flowers of the Heavenly land
O heart, sore pierced by the fatal dart--
O, wounded, suffering, bleeding heart--
More than all others doomed to miss
The glance, the accent, the smile, the kiss,--
Nothing is lost that you miss to day--
Not even the beautiful, death cold clay
But Jesus guards it with watchful eye,
Soon to restore it no more to die,
Clothed in the bloom of immortal life,
The sinless mother, the sainted wife!
PATIENCE
I.
I saw how the patient Sun
Hasted untiringly
The self-same old race to run;
Never aspiringly
Seeking some other road
Through the blue heaven
Than the one path which God
Long since had given;--
And I said;--"Patient Sun,
Teach me my race to run,
Even as thine is done,
Steadfastly ever;
Weakly, impatiently
Wandering never!"
II.
I saw how the patient Earth
Sat uncomplainingly,
While, in his boisterous mirth,
Winter disdainingly
Mocked at her steadfast trust,
That, from its icy chain,
Spring her imprisoned dust
Soon would release again;--
And I said;--"Patient Earth,
Biding thy hour of dearth,
Waiting the voice of mirth
Soon to re-waken,
Teach me like thee to trust,
Steadfast, unshaken!"
III.
I saw how the patient Stream
Hasted unceasingly,
Mindless of shade or gleam,
Onward increasingly,--
Widening, deepening
Its rocky bed ever,
That it might thus take in
River by river;--
And I said,--"Patient Stream,
Hasting through shade and gleam,
Careless of noontide beam,
Loitering never,
So teach thou me to press
Onward forever!"
IV.
I saw how the Holiest One
Sat in the Heaven,
Watching each earth-born son
Sin-tossed and driven,--
Watching war's mad'ning strife--
Brother 'gainst brother,
Reckless of love and life,
Slaying each other;--
And I said;--"Patient One,
On thy exalted throne,
Never impatient grown
With our dark sinning,
Though all its depth thou'st known
From the beginning--
V.
"Though thy fair Earth has been
Blood-dyed for ages,
Though in her valleys green,
Carnage still rages,
Thou, o'er whose brow serene,
Calmest and Holiest!
Angel has never seen,
E'en toward Earth's lowliest,
Shadows impatient sweep
Teach me, like thee, to keep
In my soul, still and deep,
Wavering never,
Patience--a steady light,
Burning forever!"
A PARTING HYMN.
Father in Heaven, to thee,
Guardian and friend,
Lowly the suppliant knee
Here would we bend!--
Blessing thee ere we part,
Each with a grateful heart,
For all thy love doth send--
Plenteous and free!
Thanks for thy hand outspread
Ever in power
O'er each defenceless head
In danger's hour!
Thanks for the light arid love,
From thy full fount above--
A rich and constant shower,
O'er us still shed!
Go thou with us, we pray,
Whom duties call
To our high tasks away,
Each one, and all,--
Go, with thy Spirit's might,
Go, with thy Gospel's light
--Whatever may befall--
With us alway
Now let thy blessing rest
On us anew--
Brother, and friend, and guest,
Tried ones and true--
Till, all Our pirtings o'er,
Meeting, to part no more,
In Heaven we renew
Friendships so blest
THE DANCE OF THE WINDS
The Wind god, Eolus, sat one morn
In his cavern of tempests, quite forlorn,
He'd been ill of a fever a month and a day,
And the sun had been having things all his own way,
Pouring o'er earth such a torrent of heat
That the meadows were dry as the trampled street,
And people were panting, and ready to die
Of the fire that blazed from the pitiless sky
But the King felt better that hot June day,
So he said to himself "I will get up a play
Among the children by way of a change,
No doubt they are feeling, like me, very strange
At this dreary confinement--a month and more,
And never once stirring at all out of door!
It is terribly wearisome keeping so still--
They all shall go out for a dance on the hill."
Then aloud he spake, and the dreary hall
Re-echoed hoarsely his hollow call:
"Ho! Boreas, Auster, Eurus, ho!
And you, too, dainty-winged Zephyrus, go
And have a dance on the hills to-day,
And I'll sit here and enjoy your play."
Then Boreas started with such a roar
That the King, his father, was troubled sore,
And peevishly muttered within himself--
"He'll burst his throat, the unmannerly elf!"
But Auster, angry at seeing his brother
Astart of him, broke away with another
As fearful a yell from the opposite side
Of the wind-cave, gloomy, and long, and wide.
One from the South, and one from the North,
The rough-tempered brothers went shrieking forth;
And faster, and faster, and faster still,
They swept o'er valley, and forest, and hill.
The clouds affrighted before them flew,
From white swift changing to black or blue;
But, failing to 'scape the assailants' ire,
Fell afoul of each other in conflict dire.
Now hot, now cold--what a strife was there!
Till the crashing hailstones smote the air,
And men and women in country and town
Were hastily closing their windows down,
And shutting doors with a crash and a bang,
While the raindrops beat, and the hailstones rang,
And the lightnings glared from the fiery eyes
Of the furious combatants up in the skies,
And burst in thunder-claps far and near,
Making the timorous shake with fear.
Then Eolus with affright grew cold,
For his blood, you'll remember, is thin and old,
And his turbulent sons such an uproar made,
That, watching the conflict, he grew afraid
Lest in the rage of their desperate fight,
The pair should finish each other outright.
So he shouted to Eurus; "Away! away!
Come up from the East by the shortest way,
And try and part them; and you, too, go,
Zephyrus!--why are you loitering so?"
Then away sped Eurus shrieking so loud
That he startled a lazy, half-slumbering cloud,
That fled before him white in the face,
And dashed away at a furious pace.
But he drove it fiercely betwixt the two,
Who parted, and, scarce knowing what to do,
Descended, and each from an opposite place
Began to fling dirt in the other one's face.
Then round, and round, and round again,
They raced and chased over valley and plain,
Catching up, in their mischievous whirls,
The hats of boys and the bonnets of girls,--
Tossing up feathers, and leaves, and sticks,
Knocking down chimneys, and scattering bricks,
Levelling fences and pulling up trees,
Till Eolus--oftentimes hard to please--
Clapped his hands as his wine he quaffed,
And laughed as he never before had laughed
Cried Eurus;--"Ho, ho!--so this furious fight
Ends up in a romp and a frolic!--all right--
I am in for a share!" Then away went he,
And joined with a will in the boisterous glee,
Till, out of breath, ere the sun went down,
They all fell asleep in the forest brown.
A full hour afterwards, ambling along,
Came dainty Zephyrus humming a song,
And pausing--the truant--to kiss each flower
That blushed in garden, or field, or bower.
But no one was left to be merry with him,
So he danced with the leaves till the light grew dim,
And, as Twilight was going to sleep in the west,
He, too, fell asleep on a rose's breast.
STRIKE THE CHORDS SOFTLY
Strike the chords softly with tremulous fingers,
While, on the threshold of happiest years,
For a brief moment fond memory lingers,
Ere we go forth to life's conflicts and fears!
Strike the chords softly!--yet no, as we tarry,
Swiftly the morning is gliding away;
Weary ones droop 'neath the burdens they carry,
Toiling ones faint in the heat of the day.
Let us not linger!--Earth's millions are crying
"Come to us, aid us, we grope in the night!
Come to us, aid us, we're perishing, dying--
Give us, oh, give us, the heavenly Light!"
Let us not linger!--our brethren are calling,--
"Aid us, the harvest increases each day;--
Some have grown weary, alas, of their toiling!--
Others have passed from their labors away."
Gracious Redeemer we go at thy bidding,
Gladly encountering peril and loss;
Take us--ourselves to thy work we are giving,
Give us--'tis more than we merit--_thy cross!_
AT HOME
I thought it pleasant when a manly sire
Weary of foreign travel, at the door
Of his own cottage left his dusty staff,
And entering in, sat down with those he loved
Beside the hearth of home;--and pleasant, too,
When a fond mother, absent for a day,
At eve returning, from the sunset hill
That overlooked her cot, descried her boys
Flying with joyous feet along the path
To greet her coming; and, with clasping hands
Of baby welcome, lead her through the gate
Of her sweet home.
Pleasant I deemed it, too,
When a young man, a wanderer for years
From those he loved, at length sat down again
With sire and mother in the twilight hour
At home;--and when a gentle daughter, long
From mother's kiss and father's blessing far,
Heard once again their ne'er forgotten tones
Giving her joyous welcome home again,
I felt that life had few such joys as that.
And yet, methought there was--canst tell me why--
Thou, who in Earth alone hast found thy bliss?--
A higher, sweeter, purer joy than those,
When, free from sin and Earth's encumb'ring cares,
A ransomed soul went home to be with Christ.
I knew a man in life's strong; healthful prime--
Aye more, the flush of youth was on his brow,
And all his bounding pulses were astir
With the great joy of work for God, while hope--
Such hope as only Heaven-taught manhood fires
To loftiest ambition--pointed down
The radiant vista of the coming years
To deeds immortal. But the Master called,
And, in mid-race he heard--"Come home, my child!"--
And paused, and listened in surprise and doubt.
"Come home my child!" Then, listening, I heard
The pale lips murmur, while the head was bent
In reverent submission--"Oh, so soon?--
So soon, my Lord? Thou knowest there is much
I fain would do for thee!--thy precious lambs
To gather and to feed--thy sheep to lead
In quiet pastures, and thy name beloved
To herald forth, till Earth's remotest shore
Shall thrill with rapture, and send up to thee
The new-born utterance of love's great joy!"
"Come home, dear child!"--again the Master's voice--
And eagerly he flung his robe aside,
Ungirt his loins, and cast his sandals by;
And while he sweetly sang--"I love the Lord!"--
Entered the peaceful river, and went o'er,
To be forever with the Lord he loved.
----------------------I knew an aged man,
Yet one scarce bent, with fresh, luxuriant hair
So beautifully white, and clear, blue, loving eyes;--
We almost worshipped that most princely man
In his pure, patriarchal beauty. But one day
A whisper came to him. It was so low
We heard it not, nor knew till he was gone--
Gone home! Our sun was set on earth,
Yet risen in Heaven; and through our falling tears
We saw our loved at home, thenceforth to be
Forever with the Lord--Oh, highest bliss--
Forever with his Lord!
Our mother slept
At eve in a poor, earthly home. At dawn
She stood upon the golden shore, a sainted one,
A victor crowned. We wept, as well we might,
When we looked down upon those folded hands
Whose tender touch had often thrilled along
Our baby temples,--those pale, patient hands
That toiled for us what time sweet slumber lay
On our young eyelids, and in sunny dreams
We gathered wild flowers on the hill-side green,
Or chased the butterfly 'mid orchard blooms,
While she, till the night waned, toiled bravely on--
Not for herself, but us, then knelt and prayed
For each young sleeper, ere herself might sleep.
This morn she slept, and every line that grief
Had ever left on her pale, settled face,
And every furrow care had ever traced
Upon her brow had faded in the calm
Of that blest slumber. Did we softly tread,
And hold our breath suspended, in vague fear
Of breaking the sweet spell, or all too soon
Rousing those tired feet to tread again
Their round of daily toil?--or did we check
Our rising grief, lest one o'er-lab'ring sob
From hearts so full, should banish the sweet smile
Which the glad vision of her Lord's dear face
Had left upon her lips? It may be so,--
And yet the hour of weeping was not long;
For, 'mid the light by mortal eyes unpierced,
We caught the gleam of her unsullied robe,
And we rejoiced, beholding her _at home_!
A little babe, a tiny, broken bud,
A snow-white, breathless lamb lay still and cold
Upon its mother's knees. She did not weep--
She did not pray; but with white, trembling lips
And stony gaze looked down upon her child,
And only moaned in gasping accents--"dead!
My tender babe, my lamb, my own sweet boy!--
Dead, silent, dead!"
Then sweet, as borne
O'er silver seas, there came a voice that said,
"_Do not their angels evermore behold
My Father's face in Heaven?_"--and, swift as thought,
Faith overswept the bounds of space, and caught
A glimpse of her beloved on Jesus' breast
Then tears gushed forth--a precious, healing flood--
And the lips murmured--"Safe, oh, safe at home!--
My bright boy waits at home, thank God, for me!"
Then let us ever when the righteous die
Speak of them joyously as gone before;
Not dead, but sweetly drawn within the veil
To the blest home we're nearing--to the house
Of Christ our Elder Brother, mansion fair,
Prepared and set in order by His hand,--
Their home, and ours to be; forevermore
SABBATH MEMORIES.
I love thee, Sabbath morn!--I cannot say
But 'tis because my father loved thee so,--
Because my mother's care-worn face would grow
So sweetly placid in thy peaceful ray;--
It may be, _that_ is part of what endears
Thee, Sabbath, to my soul; for memory stirs
Old buried thoughts of his voice and of hers--
Heard never more on Earth--till sudden tears
So sadly sweet well up, I bid them flow,
They leave a Sabbath in the soul when past;
As when the sky, by April clouds o'ercast,
Shows fairer in the sun's returning glow.
I see the grass-grown lane we trod of old,
Dear father, sainted mother! while
The Sabbath sun looked down with loving smile,
And touched the hills and streams with rippling gold.
I hear your voices as ye talked, what time
In childish pride I walked before, and thought
This world a paradise, and Earth full-fraught
With blessedness and love,--a summer clime
Of changeless beauty!--Ah! those streams flow on,
Blue are those skies, as green the woods, as still
The Sabbath hush that foldeth vale and hill
In sweet embrace, but ye, beloved, are gone!
She sleeps in stranger dust.--He, old and lone,
Long waited by the river, staff in hand,
Till a voice called him, and he sought that land
Where age takes on fresh youth to change unknown.
And we are parted, brothers, sisters dear--
Alas, the band is broken!--One by one
Ye left the hill-side green,--the Sabbath sun
Finds those old paths to-day, forsaken, drear.
And Mem'ry paints me yet another scene--
A home, love-lighted by an earnest eye--
A home, of fellowship so pure, so high.
I pause, and ask myself, have such things been?--
Or have I dreamed?--Was it a blessed dream?--
A dream of peace, and rest, and hallowed calm,--
The skies all sunshine, and the air all balm,--
The tranquil hours aglow with Heaven's own beam?--
A dream?--a dream?--the long, long, clouded day
That ended in a longer, sadder night,
When, in my home went out that blessed light,
And Love from its hushed chambers passed away?
O no!--oh no! 'Tis but the old, old tale
Of human bliss and human agony,--
Of morning's joy-bells ringing full and free,--
And evening's hollow winds and funeral wail!
Yet thou art left me, Sabbath! In thy light
I sit and muse, this sweet, June morning, till
The past, with all its varied scenes of good and ill,
Fades from my thought--fades, with the bliss and blight,
The short-lived transports of those buried years,--
The summer flowers I gathered with such pains,--
The gold I hoarded in slow-gathered grains,--
All lost,--the summer chilled by Autumn's tears,--
The long, lone, flowerless autumn--when the sun,
Hurled from his zenith, shivered cold and pale
On the horizon's verge--the funeral wail
O! tempest-burdened winds through forests dim,
And desolate, and drear,--all pass away
This morn, O Sabbath, in thy hallowed light,
And, glancing far beyond the infinite
Of thy blue heavens, where a clearer day
Lights the Eternal hills, I seem to see
The Heavenly City, whence the radiant gleam
Of a fair Temple, and a crystal stream
Of living water wanders down to me
In changeless light! O Home!--O Rest!-O Heaven!
Thus to thy hallowed calm I'd look away,
Sabbath of God!--Eternal Sabbath day!
Till to my soul thy tranquil rest is given.
THE EYE THAT NEVER SLEEPS
When the heavy, midnight shadows
Gather o'er a slumbering world,
And the banner folds of darkness
Are in gloomy pomp unfurled,--
Think, lone watcher, pale and tearful,
In thy sad, unpitied lot,
By the death couch waking, weeping,
There is One who slumbers not!--
One who, though no mourning brother
Share thy vigils lone and drear,
Loving, pitying, as no other
Loves or pities, watches near!
When the waves, o'erwrought by tempest,
Lift their strong arms to the skies,
And amid the inky darkness
Shrieks of winds and waters rise,--
Mariner, 'mid doubt and danger,
Wildly tossed upon the deep,
Think, o'er all in power presiding
There is One who does not sleep--
One who holds the risen tempest
In obedience to His will,
Who, to still its wildest fury,
Need but whisper--"Peace, be still"
When, weighed down by heavy anguish,
Waking, sad, at midnight lone,
Sorrowing mourner, thou dost languish
For affection's missing tone,--
When thy heart o'er buried treasures
In its uncheered misery weeps,
Think, that gently watching o'er thee,
Is an eye that never sleeps!
And, above the mournful shadows,
Lift thy heart so lone and riven,
Up to Him who 'mid thy sorrows
Wooes thee still to hope and Heaven
BY AND BY
_God will not let His bright gifts die
If I may not sing my songs just now
I shall sing them by and by_
A young man with a Poet's soul,
And a Poet's kindling eye--
Dark, dreamy, full of unvoiced thought--
And forehead calm and high,
Toiled wearily at his heavy task
Till his soul grew sick with pain,
And the pent up fires that burned within
Seemed withering heart and brain
"Work, work, work!" he murmured low,
Glancing up at the golden west--
Work, with the sunset heavens aglow
By the hands of angels dressed,
Work for this perishing, human clay,
While the soul, like a prisoned bird,
Flutters its helpless wings always
By passionate longings stirred
"I hear in the wandering zephyr's song
Tones that no others hear,
And alien melodies all day long
Are murmuring in my ear,--
Phantoms of beauty in cloud and flower
Haunt me where'er I stray,
And flit thro' the green of the summer bower,
At the close of each toil spent day
"There are voices that sigh in the wind's low sigh,
Or wail in the tempest's roar,--
That sing in the brooklets that wander by,
Or sob along ocean's shore;--
I hear them ever, yet may not stay,
To list to the rhythmic strain;
And the unvoiced melodies die away,
Never to come again.
"Something I see in the lightning's flash
That my fellows may not see,
And something hear in the thunder's crash,
That cometh alone to me;--
But the glory fades ere I gather it in,
And fix it in brain or heart;
And the strains I caught thro' the elements' din,
Are lost in Toil's crowded mart.
"O haunting strains of unuttered song!
O tenderest melodies lost!
O sweet, stray notes of the heavenly throng
On the wing of the tempest tossed!
O spirit-harp that, untouched, untuned,
To each subtle influence thrills,
As thrills some wild, Aeolian harp,
To the breezes that sweep the hills!--
"I thirst, I pant, to be free to list
To the voices that call to me,
From flood and fountain, from vale and height,
From forest, and shore, and sea,--
To gaze on the Beauty whose subtle fire
Breaks on me thro' Nature's eyes,
And pour from the strings of my unused lyre
All tenderest harmonies!"
Ah, thirsty spirit! the day will come,
When, the sway of this mortal o'er,
Thou shall strike thy lyre with a fearless hand
On a brighter, calmer shore;
For God, who giveth the breath of Song,
Will not let His bright gifts die;
And though thy harp-strings be silent long,
Thou shalt waken them by and by.
Aye! and the Music that seemeth lost
Shall linger in Memory's cells,
As lingers along the Alpine heights
The echo of vesper-bells;--
Not lost, but waiting the freer pulse
Of the life thou yet shalt know,
To blend with the tides of enraptured song
That the Heavenly heights o'erflow.
And the Beauty that, lost to thee, seemeth now
Sealed in thy heart shall stay,
As the sun-ray sealed in the diamond's heart,
Burns on with unchanging ray,
Then take with gladness the joy that steals
The sting of thy toil away,
And wait in hope for the higher joy
That shall crown thee another day.