Of his chimney, reading an ancient book,
Old, and yellow, and sadly worn,
With covers faded, and soiled, and torn;--
And the tallow candle would flicker and flare
As the wind, which tumbled the old man's hair,
Swept drearily in through a broken pane,
Damp and chilling with sleet and rain.
Yet still, unheeding the changeful light,
Old Aleck read on and on that night;
Sometimes lifting his eyes, as he read,
To the cob-webb'd rafters overhead;--
But at length he laid the book away,
And knelt by his broken stool to pray;
And something, I fancied, the old man said
About "_treasures in Heaven_" of which he'd read.
A wealthy merchant over the way
Sat in his lamp-light's steady ray,
Where many a volume richly bound
And heavily gilded was lying round.
One, with glittering clasps was there,
Embossed, and pictured, and wondrous fair;
But the printed words were the very same
As those I read by the flickering flame
That gave me light as I stooped to look
Into the old man's tattered book,
And I knew by the page's spotless white,
No hand had opened it yet to the light.
"_Treasures In Heaven_"!--what, rich man, heir
To countless thousands, your thoughts are--where?
With these _he_ read of?--No; ah, no!--
Over the storm-vexed waters they go,
Where stout ships buffet the blast to-night,
With never a glimmering star in sight!
Day fretted the east with its stormy gold,
But the turbulent ocean raged and rolled,
And dashed on many a rock girt shore
The wrecks of ships that would sail no more,--
Lifting, at times, to the topmost wave
Ghastly faces no hand could save,--
And then, far down with his treasures vain,
Burying each in the depths again.
And the merchant looked from his mansion fair,
Over the ocean, with troubled air;
And thought of his treasures, in one short night
Whelmed in the deep by the tempest's might;--
Ah,--I knew by that pale brow's deepening gloom,
That he owned no treasure beyond the tomb.
Day fretted the east with its stormy gold,
Creeping slow through a casement old,
And stealing sadly with faint, cold ray
Into the hut where the old man lay.
White and still was the scattered hair,
And the hands were crossed with a reverent air;--
Calm and stirless the eyelids lay,
Pale as marble and cold as clay,
But the lips were tenderly wreathed, the while,
With the beautiful light of a saintly smile;
And I knew he had passed from that desolate room
To a fadeless treasure beyond the tomb.
PALMER.
THREE YEARS OLD.
A light departed from the hearth of home,
Leaving a shadow where its radiance shone,--
A flower just bursting into life and bloom,
Lopped from its stem, the bower left sad and lone,--
A golden link dropped from love's precious chain,--
Gem from affection's sacred casket riven,--
Of music's richest tones a missing strain,--
A bird-note hushed in the blue summer heaven!
That light is gathered to its Source again,
Though long its radiance will be missed on earth,
That flower, transplanted to a sunnier plain,
Bloometh immortal where no blight has birth;
That missing link gleams in Love's chain above,--
That lost gem sparkles on the Saviour's breast,--
That music-uttrance, tuned to holier love,
Swells richly 'mid the anthems of the blest.
Thank God! there's nothing lost! A little while,
And what ye miss will be your own again
E'en the dear clay once more will on you smile
With life immortal throbbing in each vein
Tis well to leave your treasure with the Lord--
With One so tender your beloved to see,--
Back to the Source of life a life restored--
Then _where your treasure is let your affections be!_
BALMY MORNING
Balmy morning! blessed morning!
Dew-drops bright
All the emerald glade adorning
In thy light--
In thy golden glowing beam
With an ever-changeful gleam
Flashing sparkling deeply glowing
Varying tints of beauty showing
Everywhere
Radiant are
In thy welcome light!
Balmy morning! blessed morning!
Flowers look up,
With a precious, pearly off'ring,
In each cup--
Dewy off'ring gleaned by night,
As a tribute to the light,--
Far more precious than the gem
Of a monarch's diadem,
Is the gift
Which they lift
To thy welcome light!
Balmy morning! blessed morning!
Sounds of mirth,
From the vocal vales ascending,
Hail thy birth.
Happy birds in echoing bowers,
Waken all their tuneful powers,
And spontaneous music springs
From all animated things,--
Verdant hills,
Tuneful rills,
Joyful greet thy light!
Balmy morning! blessed morning!
How serene,
In thy calm and cloudless dawning
Smiles the scene!
Even man, by care oppressed,
Feels thy gladness thrill his breast,
Hails thee as a source of bliss,
Precious in a world like this,
Gratefully
Blessing thee--
Welcome, morning light!
SONG
Oh, take me where the wild flowers bloom!
Oh, take me where the wild flowers bloom!
I'm dying, mother dear!
And shades of ever deepening gloom
Are round, and o'er me here,--
The city's din is in my ear,
Its glitter mocks my eye,--
Oh, take me where the skies are clear.
And the hills are green, to die!
I do not dread the shadowy vale,
The river deep and chill,--
For, leaning on my Saviour's arm,
My soul shall fear no ill,--
But oh, to pass from Earth away
Where skies are blue above,
Where glad birds sing, and streamlets play,
And soft winds breathe of love!
And oh, within these fevered hands,
To clasp my flowers again!
To lay them on my weary breast,
And round my throbbing brain!
Then, feel the South wind o'er me pass
As long ago it swept,
When, 'mid the scented summer grass,
I laid me down and slept!
Oh, ever, in my fevered dreams,
The fountain's play I hear,--
The sighing winds, the rippling streams,
The robin's music clear,--
Old pleasant sounds are in my ear,
Sweet visions meet my eye--
Oh take me, take me, mother dear,
To the summer hills, to die!
THE PLOUGHMAN
Tearing up the stubborn soil,
Trudging, drudging, toiling, moiling,
Hands, and feet, and garments soiling--
Who would grudge the ploughman's toil?
Yet there's lustre in his eye,
Borrowed from yon glowing sky,
And there's meaning in his glances
That bespeak no dreamer's fancies;
For his mind has precious lore
Gleaned from Nature's sacred store.
Toiling up yon weary hill,
He has worked since early morning,
Ease, and rest, and pleasure scorning,
And he's at his labor still,
Though the slanting, western beam
Quivering on the glassy stream,
And yon old elm's lengthened shadow
Flung athwart the verdant meadow,
Tell that shadowy twilight grey
Cannot now be far away.
See! he stops and wipes his brow,--
Marks the rapid sun's descending--
Marks his shadow far-extending--
Deems it time to quit the plough.
Weary man and weary steed
Welcome food and respite need
'Tis the hour when bird and bee
Seek repose, and why not he?
Nature loves the twilight blest,
Let the toil worn ploughman rest
Ye, who nursed upon the breast
Of ease and pleasure enervating,
Ever new delights creating,
Which not long retain their zest
Ere upon your taste they pall,
What avail your pleasures all?
In his hard, but pleasant labor,
He, your useful, healthful neighbor,
Finds enjoyment, real, true,
Vainly sought by such as you
Nature's open volume lies,
Richly tinted, brightly beaming,
With its varied lessons teeming,
All outspread before his eyes.
Dewy glades and opening flowers,
Emerald meadows, vernal bowers,
Sun and shade, and bird and bee,
Fount and forest, hill and lea,--
All things beautiful and fair,
His benignant teachers are
Tearing up the stubborn soil,
Trudging, drudging, toiling, moiling,
Hands, and feet, and garments soiling--
Who would grudge the ploughman's toil?
Yet 'tis health and wealth to him,
Strength of nerve, and strength of limb,
Light and fervor in his glances,
Life and beauty in his fancies,
Learned and happy, brave and free,
Who so proud and blest as he?
"HE HATH DONE ALL THINGS WELL."
AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO A DEAR FRIEND ON THE DEATH OF
A BELOVED FATHER.
The dawn-light wakes, and brightens to the day,
And the slow sun climbs the far eastern skies,
Then, down the western slopes pursues his way,
Till shadows deepen and the twilight dies;--
And still I muse, and wait, and list in vain
For feet that never, never will return,--
For loving words I may not hear again,
Howe'er with ear attent I wait and yearn.
O love that never wavered, never changed!
How shall I miss thee as the years go by?
O tenderest heart that could be estranged!--
O fount that age and suffring could not dry!--
O guiding hand to earliest thought endeared--
O hand that after clung so long to me!--
O patient Father, honored, loved, revered!
How shall I hear life's burden wanting thee?
Be still, fond heart!--another Father, thine--
Both _his_ and thine--still on thee bends His eye;
Thou canst not walk alone, for Love Divine,
Unseen, yet near, each starting tear will dry.
Lean on the strong, true breast, of Love more deep,
More constant far than earthly love may be,
Who gently soothed his pain, and gave him sleep,
And shall enfold, uplift, and comfort thee!
So lay thy burden in His hands, and rest!
Thy Lord hath fathomed every earthly woe;
With patient feet Earth's thorniest pathway pressed,
And left the tomb with Heaven's light aglow;--
For, what them seest not now, some other day,
In lands unreached by sorrow's dreary knell,
Thou in His light shalt read, and meekly say,
"E'en so, dear Lord, Thou hast done all things well."
SOMEWHERE
"For he looked for a city that hath foundations, whose Maker and
Builder is God."
I.
Somewhere, I know, there waits for me
A home that mocks the pomp of Earth,
Eye hath not seen its majesty,
Nor heart conceived its priceless worth,--
Talk not of crystal, gems, or gold,
Or towers that flame in changeless light,
Imagination, weak and cold,
Faints far below the unmeasured height!
And through its open doors for aye,
As ages after ages glide,
Without a moment's pause or stay,
Flows grandly in the living tide--
Brothers, redeemed ones, pressing home
From every clime, from every shore,
Beneath that fair celestial dome
Meet to be parted nevermore!
II.
Somewhere, I know, there waits for me
A holy, tranquillized repose,
Calmer than summer noontides be,
Softer than twilight's tenderest close--
Peace, deeper than the peace that stole
O'er the vexed Galilean flood,
When One, Almighty to control,
Breathed o'er it the still "peace" of God.
To break that calm, no throbbing pain
May ever come, no chilling fears,
No hopes unreached, no yearnings vain,
No love-light quenched in sorrow's tears;
But, while eternal ages glide,
That hallowed peace without alloy
Shall still increase, and still abide,
A deepening fount of holiest joy.
III.
Somewhere, I know, there wait for me
Sweet tones that wander back betimes
Through the charmed gates of Memory,
Like far-off swell of Sabbath chimes;
And fair, sweet faces, dimly seen
In the uncertain light of dreams,
And glances, tender and serene
As star-beams mirrored soft in streams;--
They wait for me who long have missed,
From the lone paths I since have pressed,
The hands I clasped, the lips I kissed,
The loves that life's young morning blessed,--
Wait long, while still, through mist and tears
I darkly wend my pilgrim way,
Until for me the dawn appears
And night gives place to perfect day
IV.
Somewhere, I know, in brighter lands,
ONE waits--"the Fairest of the Fair"--
With loving words and gentle hands,
To welcome all who gather there.
"Father, I will," we heard Him say,
"That those whom thou hast given me
Be with me where I am, that they
My glory evermore may see!"
And there, without a veil between,
The sweetness of His face to hide,
Him whom I've loved yet never seen,
I shall behold well satisfied--
And, viewing Him, shall sweetly be
Transformed into His image bright,
And through a glad Eternity
Walk in His love's unclouded light!
THE TIDE.
Landward the tide setteth buoyantly breezily,--
Landward the waves ripple sparkling and free,--
Ho, the proud ship, like a thing of life, easily,
Gracefully sweeps o'er the white-crested sea!
In from the far-away lands she is steering now,
Straight for her anchorage, fearless and free,--
Lo, as I gaze, how she seems to be nearing now,
Sun-lighted shores, a still haven, _and me_!
Landward the tide setteth!--mark my proud argosy
As the breeze flutters her pennons of snow,
Wafting from far the glad mariner's melody
O'er the blue waters in rhythmical flow!
Tell me, oh, soul of mine, what is the freightage fair
'Neath her white wings that she beareth to thee?
Treasures of golden ore, gems from Golconda's shore,
Lo, she is bringing me over, the sea!
* * * * *
Seaward the tide setteth hoarsely and heavily,--
Seaward the tide setteth steady and stern;--
Oh, my proud ship!--she has missed the still haven! see,
Baffled and drifting, far out she is borne!--
Far from the shore, and the weak arms that helplessly,
Wildly, are stretched toward the lessening sail!--
Far, far from shore, and the white hands that hopelessly
Flutter in vain in the loud shrieking gale!
Seaward the tide setteth--oh my rich argosy,
Freighted with treasures ungrasped and unwon!--
Oh, the dark rocks!--the dread crash!--the fierce agony!--
And seaward more madly the tide rushes on!
Gems and red gold won from Earth's richest treasury
Straw the dark floor of the pitiless sea,
Buried for aye--and my wealth-freighted argosy
Fades like the mist from the ocean _and me_!
ELOISE.
Eloise! Eloise!
It is morn on the seas,
And the waters are curling and flashing;
And our rock-sheltered seat,
Where the waves ever beat
With a cadenced and rhythmical dashing,
Is here--just here,
But I miss thee, dear!
And the sun-beams around me are flashing
O seat, by the lonely sea,
O seat, that she shared with me,
Thou art all unfilled to day!
And the plaintive, grieving main
Hath a moan of hopeless pain
That it had not yesterday.
Eloise! Eloise!
It is noon; and the breeze
Through the shadowy woodland is straying;
And our green, mossy seat,
Where the flowers kissed thy feet
While the zephyrs around thee were playing,
Is here--just here;
But I miss thee, dear!
And the breezes around me are straying.
O seat, by the greenwood tree,
O seat, that she shared with me,
Thou art all unfilled to-day!
And the sighing, shivering leaves
Have a voice like one that grieves
That they had not yesterday.
Eloise! Eloise!
It is eve; and the trees
With the gold of the sunset are glowing;
And our low, grassy seat,
With the brook at its feet
Ever singing, and rippling, and flowing,
Is here--just here;
But I miss thee, dear!
And the sunset is over me glowing.
O seat, by the brooklet free,
O seat, that she shared with me,
Thou art all unfilled to-day!
And the brook, to me alone,
Hath a tender, grieving tone,
That it had not yesterday.
Eloise! Eloise!
It is night on the seas,
And the winds and the waters are sleeping;
And the seat where we prayed,
'Neath our home's blessed shade,
With the soft shadows over us creeping,
Is here-just here;
But I miss thee, dear!
And the drear night around me is sleeping.
O seat, where she prayed of yore,
O seat, where she prays no more,
I am kneeling alone to-night!
And the stern, unyielding grave
Will restore not the gift I gave
To its bosom yesternight.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
No martyr-blood hath ever flowed in vain!--
No patriot bled, that proved not freedom's gain!
Those tones, which despots heard with fear and dread
From living lips, ring sterner from the dead;
And he who dies, lives, oft, more truly so
Than had he never felt the untimely blow.
And so with him thus, in an instant, hurled
From earthly hopes and converse with the world.
Each trickling blood-drop shall, with sudden power
Achieve the work of years in one short hour,
And his faint death-sigh more strong arms unite
In stern defence of Freedom and of Right,
Than all he could have said by word or pen,
In a whole life of threescore years and ten!
Dead! fell assassin! did you think him _dead_,
When, with unmurmuring lips, he bowed his head,
While round him bent pale, stricken-hearted men?
Never more grandly did he live than then!
Never that voice had such unmeasured power
To fire men's souls, as in that solemn hour,
When, on a startled world's affrighted ear,
"_E'er so with tyrants!_" rang out wildly clear.
And the red bolt that pierced his quiv'ring brain
Maddened a million hearts with burning pain!
Dead?--frenzied demon of the lash and whip,
What time you let your dogs of ruin slip
At his unguarded throat with murd'rous cry,
And passion-howl of rage and agony?--
Nay:--in that deathful hour, from shore to shore,
Men heard his voice who never heard before;
And, pale with horror by his bloody clay,
Vowed from that hour his mandate to obey,--
Nor rest till all your fiends of Crime and Lust,
'Neath Freedom's heel, lie weltering in the dust!
Dead? dead?--Nay!--'tis not thus that good men _die_!
Tis thus they win fame's immortality!
Thus does their every utt'rance grow sublime,--
A voice of power,--a watchword for all time!--
And the dead arm a mightier scepter sways,
Than his, who, living, half a world obeys!
Sleep, uncorrupted Patriot! faithful one!
Friend of the friendless! Freedom's martyred son!
Henceforth no land shall call thee all its own,--
The World, Humanity, the bruised and lone,--
The oppressed and burdened ones of every clime
Shall claim thee theirs, and bless thee thro' all time,
And "_are, and shall be free!_" from shore to shore
Speed grandly on till serfdom is no more,
And gentle brotherhood our sorrowing race
Link man to man in warm and true embrace!
GOD'S BLESSINGS.
"For thou, Lord, wilt bless the righteous; with favour wilt thou
compass him as with a shield."
Like the dew-drops that fall
Through the chill, midnight hours,
Unheeded by all,
On the close-folded flowers,--
E'en so, on thy chosen,
Grief stricken that bend,
Thy tenderest blessings
In silence descend.
Like the showers that moisten
The tree's shrivelled root,
And quicken its branches
To flower and fruit,
E'en thus, on thy people
Descend from above,
In richest abundance
The showers of thy love
Like the glad light that never
Our sad Earth forsakes,
But, as day fadeth, ever
In the star beam awakes,
So certain and constant,
So rich and unspent,
Thy blessings unstinted
From Heaven are sent.
Like the waters that fail not
Their course to fulfil,
Like the wind's tireless pinions
That never are still,
Like the day in its rising,
The night in its fall,
Thus constant thy blessing,
Great Father of all!
THE SILENT MESSENGER
I sat beside a bed of pain,
And all the muffled hours were still;
The breeze that bent the summer grain,
Scarce sighed along the pine-clad hill;
The pensive stars, the silvery moon
Seemed sleeping in a sea of calm.
And all the leafy bowers of June
Were steeped in midnight's dewy balm.
She seemed to sleep, for lull of pain
Had calmed the fevered pulse a while,
But, as I watched, she woke again,
With wondering glance and eager smile.
The pale lips moved as if to speak,
The thin hand trembled in my own,
Then, with a sigh for words too weak,
The eyelids closed, and she was gone.
Gone! gone!--but where, or how, or when?
I had not seen or form or face;
Unmarked God's messenger had been
Beside me in that sacred place--
No sound of footsteps as he came,
No gleam of glory as he went,
Swift as the lightning's arrowy flame,
Still as the dew the flowers that bent.
Yet she had heard the coming feet,
Had seen the glory of that face,
And, with unuttered raptures sweet,
Had sprung to welcome his embrace
As the swift arrow leaves the string,--
As the glad lark ascends the sky;--
And 'neath that soft o'ershadowing wing,
Swept past the radiant spheres on high.
O track of light! O car of flame!
The calm sky bears no trace of you;
The tranquil orbs sleep on the same,
In heaven's unclouded fields of blue;
And yet, upon this placid clay,
There lingers still that radiance blest,--
Sweet token that her untracked way
Led up to bowers of heavenly rest!
UNDER THE SNOW
Over the mountains, under the snow
Lieth a valley cold and low,
'Neath a white, immovable pall,
Desolate, dreary, soulless all,
And soundless, save when the wintry blast
Sweeps with funeral music past.
Yet was that valley not always so,
For I trod its summer-paths long ago;
And I gathered flowers of fairest dyes
Where now the snow-drift heaviest lies;
And I drank from rills that, with murmurous song,
Wandered in golden light along
Through bowers, whose ever-fragrant air
Was heavy with perfume of flowrets fair,--
Through cool, green meadows where, all day long,
The wild bee droned his voluptuous song;
While over all shone the eye of Love
In the violet-tinted heavens above.
And through that valley ran veins of gold,
And the rivers o'er beds of amber rolled;--
There were pearls in the white sands thickly sown,
And rocks that diamond-crusted shone;--
All richest fruitage, all rarest flowers,
All sweetest music of summer-bowers,
All sounds the softest, all sights most fair,
Made Earth a paradise everywhere.
Over the mountains, under the snow
Lieth that valley cold and low;
There came no slowly-consuming blight,
But the snow swept silently down at night,
And when the morning looked forth again,
The seal of silence was on the plain;
And fount and forest, and bower and stream,
Were shrouded all from his pallid beam.
And there, deep-hidden under the snow,
Is buried the wealth of the long-ago--
Pearls and diamonds, veins of gold,
Priceless treasures of worth untold,
Harps of wonderful sweetness stilled
While yet the air was with music filled,--
Hands that stirred the resounding string
To melodies such as the angels sing,--
Faces radiant with smile and tear
That bent enraptured the strains to hear,--
And high, calm foreheads, and earnest eyes
That came and went beneath sunset skies.
There they are lying under the snow,
And the winds moan over them sad and low.
Pale, still faces that smile no more,
Calm, closed eyelids whose light is o'er,
Silent lips that will never again,
Move to music's entrancing strain,
White hands folded o'er marble breasts,
Each under the mantling snow-drift rests;
And the wind their requiem sounds o'er and o'er,
In the oft-repeated "no more--_no more_"
"No more--no more!" I shall ever hear
That funeral dirge in its meanings drear,
But I may not linger with faltering tread
Anear my treasures--anear my dead.
On, through many a thorny maze,
Up slippery rocks, and through tangled ways,
Lieth my cloud-mantled path, afar
From that buried vale where my treasures are.
But there bursts a light through the heavy gloom,
From the sun-bright towers of my distant home;
And fainter the wail of the sad "no more"
Is heard as slowly I near that shore;
And sweet home-voices come soft and low,
Half drowning that requiem's dirge-like flow.
I know it is Sorrow's baptism stern
That hath given me thus for my home to yearn,--
That has quickened my ear to the tender call
That down from the jasper heights doth fall,--
And lifted my soul from the songs of Earth
To music of higher and holier birth,
Turning the tide of a yearning love
To the beautiful things that are found above;--
And I bless my Father, through blinding tears,
For the chastening love of departed years,--
For hiding my idols so low--_so low_--
Over the mountains, under the snow.
LONGINGS
Sleep, gentle, mysterious healer,
Come down with thy balm-cup to me!
Come down, O thou mystic revealer
Of glories the day may not see!
For dark is the cloud that is o'er me,
And heavy the shadows that fall,
And lone is the pathway before me,
And far-off the voice that doth call--
Faintly, yet tenderly ever,
From over the dark river, call.
Let me bask for an hour in the sun-ray
That wraps him forever in light;
Awhile tread his flowery pathway
Through bowers of unfailing delight;--
Again clasp the hands I lost sight of
In the chill mist that hung o'er the tide,
What time, with the pale, silent boatman,
I saw him away from me glide--
Out into the fathomless myst'ry,
All silent and tranquillized, glide!
Let me look in those eyes so much brighter
For the years they have gazed on the Son,--
On that pure brow grown purer and whiter
In the smile of God's glorified One;--
Let me rest for a while with closed eyelids,
On the bank of Life's river, to hear
The song he has learned since he left me,
Breathed tenderly sweet in my ear--
The song he has learned of the angels
And saved ones, breathed soft in my ear!