Chapter I: KNEEL before thine altar, Lord, and fain a gift would bring,

But all I have is worthless and unfit for offering;
A foolish heart, a foolish dream, a foolish, fruitless pain,—
Such are my all; O Love of Love, do not the gift disdain!

And even as earthly monarchs do, who take the tribute given,
And quick restore, by royal grace increased to seven times seven,
So take, O Lord, my offering, and vouchsafe me presently,
For emptiness thy fulness, for my hunger thy supply.

I lay my heart down at thy feet, that tired heart and old,
Whose youthful throb has grown so faint, whose youthful fire so cold;
Heart of the world’s heart, Lord of joy, and mighty Lord of pain,
Take thou the gift, and quicken it, and give it back again.

My foolish dream, so dear, so prized, baptized in many tears,
Loved even as sickly children are, the more for doubts and fears,
O Lord, whose word is faithfulness eternal to endure,
Take it; and give me, in its stead, the Hope that standeth sure.

The pain, that half was baffled will, which could not bear to die,
And, stilled by day, would stir by night and wake me with its cry,
That pain so close, so intimate, that Death could scarce destroy,
I leave it, Lord, before thy feet; give me instead thy joy.

All empty-handed came I in, full-handed forth I go;
Go thou beside me, Lord of Grace, and keep me ever so.
Thanks are poor things for such wide good, but all my life is thine,—
Thou who hast turned my stones to bread, my water into wine.

ETERNITY.

O LITTLE waves, which kiss the sands
With cool, caressing lips of foam,
And murmurs soft, and outstretched hands,
Like glad, tired children nearing home,
O little waves, so soft, so small,
How are you linked, if linked at all,
To those mid-ocean billows strong,
By fierce winds scourged and driven along,
Tossed up to heaven, and then again
Sucked in black gulfs of whelming main;
Never at rest and never spent?
Urged by a speeding discontent,
A seething strife which knows not ease,
Are you akin to such as these?
The little waves they flash and rise,
And lisp this answer wonderingly,
With laughter in their glancing eyes:
“They are the sea—we are the sea.”
O small, spent waves of surging time,
Which break and fall upon life’s shore
With soft and intermittent chime,
A moment seen, then seen no more,
How are you linked, if linked you be,
To that great dark eternity
Which stretches far beyond our gaze,
And rounds our nights and rounds our days?
We see its darkling billows flow,
But dare not follow where they go,
Nor guess what distance dim and vast
They span to find a shore at last.
O little waves, what share have ye
In this great dim eternity?
The fleet waves answer as they run:
“Or near, or far, one name have we,
Time and eternity are one;
It is the sea—we are the sea.”

RESTFULNESS.

LONG time my restless wishes fought and strove,
Long time I bent me to the heavy task
Of winning such full recompense of love
As dream could paint, importunate fancy ask.

Morning and night a hunger filled my soul;
Ever my eager hands went out to sue;
And still I sped toward a shifting goal,
And still the horizon widened as I flew.

There was no joy in love, but jealous wrath;
I walked athirst all day, and did not heed
The wayside brooks which followed by my path
And held their cooling threadlets to my need.

But now, these warring fancies left behind,
I sit in clear air with the sun o’erhead,
And take my share, repining not, and find
Perpetual feast in just such daily bread:

Asking no more than what unasked is sent;
Freedom is dearer still than love may be;
And I, my dearest, am at last content,
Content to love thee and to leave thee free.

Love me then not, for pity nor for prayer,
But as the sunshine loveth and the rain,
Which speed them gladly through the upper air
Because the gracious pathway is made plain.

And as we watch the slant lines, gold and dun,
Bridge heaven’s distance all intent to bless,
And cavil not if we or other one
Shall have the larger portion or the less,

So with unvexèd eye I mark and see
Where blessed and blessing your sweet days are spent;
And though another win more love from thee,
Having my share I am therewith content.

IN AND ON.

_On_ earth as _in_ heaven.—_The Lord’s Prayer._

ON earth we take but feeble hold;
Joy is not confident or bold;
We dare not strike deep roots and stay,
Nor trust to-morrow or to-day.
We scatter grain beneath frail skies,
And note its shoot and watch its rise,
And do not know or guess a whit
What other hands shall garner it.
We raise our songs, but fast and soon
Our voices unto silence die,
And other voices end the tune
Which, too, shall falter presently.
“Forever” is our idle oath;
But while the word is on our lip
Night falls, and past and future both
Out of our hold and keeping slip.
We dare not love as angels may,
Lest love should fail us or betray;
And life goes on and we go hence,
Nor never know continuance.

In heaven is safety and sure peace;
There is no waning nor decrease.
The endless ages ebb and flow,
The endless harvests riper grow;
Fast in the rich eternal mould
The heart’s deep roots take hold, take hold
With the strong joy of permanence,
Never to be transplanted thence.
Sweet songs are sung to very close,
Sweet closes recommence and blend;
And still as rose-bud answers rose
The new strains grow, the old strains end.
Forever means forever there;
New joy past sorrow reconciles,
And hung in clear and golden air
An undeceiving morrow smiles.
While Love the law and Love the sun
Blesses and warms and saves each one;
And God’s dear will, our earthly prayer,
Is made quite plain and perfect there.

A DAY-TIME MOON.

UP in the shining and sun-lighted blue,
Where foam-white clouds sail like a fairy fleet,
The pale moon hovers, glimmering wanly through,
Like a sad chord in chorus gay and sweet.

Frailer than cloud she seems, and torn and frayed;
A little wandering fragment, drifting slow,
Of that brave golden summer moon which made
Midnight so beautiful awhile ago.

Why comes she back at this untimely hour,
When noon is nigh and birds are singing clear,
And the fierce sun, her rival, burns with power?—
What can the poor, the pretty moon want here?

Does she feel lonely in the peopled sky,
The only moon among a starry host;
They all together in brave company,
She wandering solitary as a ghost?

Or does she grieve that we so soon forget
The perfect beauty of her tempered ray,
Drowsily praising her sweet beams, but yet
Keeping our real joyance for the day?

Poor, pallid moon, with a reproachful face
She eyes the humming world as on it moves,
Yearning through the vast intervening space
For some one who remembers her and loves.

And like a homesick spirit, sad at heart,
To heaven’s happy ways not wonted yet,
She seems to murmur when she strays apart:
“I still am faithful; but you all forget.”

A MIDNIGHT SUN.

FEARFUL of rivalry thou canst not be.
How should the pure, pale moon dispute the sun;
Or the innumerable company
Of scintillant stars, though banded all as one?

One glance of thy hot anger can dismay
The boldest planet till he fades and flees,
And hastes to bury his affrighted ray
In far, uncalculated distances.

Why linger then to rule the midnight sky,
Baffling celestial rule, and vexing men
Who watched thy sinking but an hour gone by
Only to see thee turn thy steps again?

The drowsy birds are drooping on the trees,
The cock’s faint crow but dimly prophesies;
The weary peasant slumbers ill at ease,
And blinks and winks, half wakes and rubs his eyes.

The east it flushes wanly, as in doubt;
Foams with unrest the roused and wrathful sea;
The scared moon peeped, then turned her round about,
And fled across the heavens at sight of thee.

Sovereign of day thou art by law divine,
None shall thy rulership or sway divide;
The dawning and the rosy morn are thine,
The busy afternoon and hot noontide.

But dusk of breezy twilight firefly-lit,
With chirp of drowsy bird and flash of dew,
And children clasping sleep while shunning it,
And midnight, with its deep, mysterious blue,—

These are the properties and appanage
Of sovereign Night, thy equal and thy foe;
And when she cometh and flings down her gage
And claims her kingdom, ’tis thy time to go.

And when in turn thou comest she must flee.
Each has a realm, and each must reign alone;
And not for her remains and not for thee
To seize and claim an undivided throne.

The sky it loves thee, but it loves the moon;
The world it needs thee, but it needs the night.
Blind us not, then, with thine inopportune,
Bewildering, and unexpected light.

Leave us to sleep, and duly take thy rest.
Vain is the plea; the king is on his way,
And, following his tossing golden crest,
Comes the long train of hours, and it is Day.

HER VOICE.

K. R. J.

WHERE is the voice gone which so many years,
Each year grown sweeter, rose in glorious song,
Interpreting to all our hearts and ears
Ecstasy, passion, pain, the yearning strong
Of baffled love, the patience stronger yet,
The pang of hope, the sweetness of regret?

How should that perish which seemed born of heaven
And framed to breathe the meaning of the skies?
Can music render back such gift once given;
Or bear to know some subtlest harmonies
Must evermore go half expressed, perceived,
Forever thwarted and forever grieved?

Heaven did not need her voice; its courts are full
Of choristers angelic trained for praise.
No note is lacking in the wonderful
According chorus, which, untired, always
Sings, “Holy, holy, holy!” round the throne;
But earth seems dumb to us now it is gone!

God does not grudge us anything of good!
And I will dare to fancy when she died,
And on the sweet lips which so featly wooed
Music, the guest, to enter and abide,
Death laid his hand, and with insistence strong
Shut in the secret of their power of song,—

That the dear voice, thus sadly dispossessed
And reft of home, sped forth upon its road,
And like a lost and lonely child, in quest
Of shelter, sought another warm abode
In human shape,—some gentle, new-born thing,
Where it might fold its torn and beaten wing.

And if, long years from now, we catch a strain
Which has the old, familiar, rapturous thrill,
We shall smile, saying, “There it is again!
It is not dead, it wakes in music still.
Hark! how the lovely accents soar and float,
A skylark singing from a woman’s throat!”

A FLORENTINE JULIET.

WHAT is it, my Renzo? What is thy desire?
To hear my story, hear the whole of it?
And with a shamefaced air and reddened cheek
That “others know it all, and why not thou?”
Who has been talking to thee of me, then;
Setting thee on to question and suspect?
Ah, boy, with eyes still full of childish dreams,
And yet with manhood on the firm young lip,
’Tis a hard thing to ask me, and a strange!
A woman does not easily lay bare
Her history, which is her very heart,
Even to that piece of her she calls her son!
Son he may be, but still he is a man,
And she, though mother, is a woman still;
And men and women are made different,
And vainly ’gainst the barrier of sex
They beat and beat,—all their lives long they beat,
And never pass, never quite understand!
Yet must I do this hard thing for thy sake,
Since who shall do it for thee, if not I?
Thy father, who had else more fitly told,
Is at the wars, the weary, wasting wars;—
Long years ago he sailed unto the wars,
And, dead or living, comes not back to us.
Unhappy is the son who, woman-bred,
Knows not the firm feel of a father’s hand;
And I, widow or wife, I know not which,
Wofulest widow, still more woful wife!
Must frame my faltering tongue to tell the tale,
And snatch my thoughts back from their present pain
To the old days, the hard and cruel days,
Full of sharp hatred and stern vengeances,
Which yet were beautiful to him and me
Who lived and loved each other and were young;
But unto thee, born in a softer hour,
Come as dim echoes of some warlike peal.

Thou bearest an honorable name, my son,
Two mighty houses meet and blend in thee;
For I, thy mother, of the warlike line
Of Bardi, lords of Florence in past time,
Was daughter, and thy sire Ippolito
Sprang from the Buondelmonti, their sworn foes;
For we were Guelph and they were Ghibelline,
And centuries of wrong, and seas of blood,
And old traditional hatreds sundered us.
Even in my babyhood I heard the name
Of Buondelmonti uttered ’twixt set teeth
And coupled with a curse, and I would pout,
And knit my brows, and clench my tiny fist
And whimper at the very sound of it;
Whereat my father, stout Amérigo,
Would catch me up and toss me overhead,
And swear I was best Bardi of them all;
And if his sons but matched his only maid
They’d make quick work of the black Ghibellines
And of the Buondelmonti!

So I grew
To woman’s stature, and men called me fair,
And suitors, like a flight of bees, began
To hum and cluster wheresoe’er I moved;
And then there came the day,—that fateful day,
When little Gian, my father’s latest born,
Was carried for chrism to the baptistery;
And standing, all unaware, beside the font,
I looked across the dim and crowded church
And saw a face—a dazzling, youthful face!
A face that smote my vision like a star;
With golden locks, and eyes divinely bright
Like San Michele in the picture there—
Fixed upon mine.

Had any whispered then
It was Ippolito, our foeman’s son,
At whom I gazed, I should have turned away,
My father’s daughter sure had turned away.
But nothing warned me, nothing hindered him;
We looked upon each other, Fate so willed,
And with our eyes our hearts met!

“Cursed cur,”
My brother muttered, fingering at his sword,
“I’ll teach you to ogle us when this is done!”
“Who is it, then?” I whispered, and he told;
And with the name I felt my heart like lead
Turn cold and cold and suddenly sink down.

And still that tender, radiant gaze wooed mine,
And still I felt the enchantment burn and burn,
But would not turn my head or look again;
And all that night I lay and felt those eyes,
And day by day they seemed to follow me,
Like unknown planets of some strange new heaven
Whose depths I dared not question or explore;
And love and hate so strove for mastery
Within my girl’s heart, made their battle-field,
That all my forces failed and life grew faint.

He, for his part, set forth with heart afire
To learn my name,—sad knowledge, easy gained,
Leaving the learner stricken with a chill!
And after that, whenever I might go
To ball or feast, I saw him, only him!
And while the other cavaliers pressed round
To praise my face or dress, or hold my fan,
Or bid me to the dance, he stood aloof
With passionate eyes, but never might draw near.
For still my brother Piero or my sire
Were close behind, with dark set brows intent
To watch him that he did not dare to speak.
Only his eyes met mine, and in my cheeks
I felt the guilty color grow and grow;
And once, when all were masqued, amid the crowd
A hand touched mine, and oh, I knew ’twas his!
At last, with baffling of his heart-sick hope
And long suspense and sorrow, he fell ill;
And in a moment when life’s tide ran low
He told his mother all; she, loving him well
And loath to see him perish thus forlorn,
Became his ally, spoke him words of cheer,
And with my cousin Contessa, her sworn friend,
She counsel took; and so, betwixt the two,
It came about that on a day of spring
When almond blossoms whitened the brown boughs
And olives were in bud and all birds sang,
We met,—a meeting cunningly contrived,
In an old villa garden past the walls.
My mother had led me thither, knowing naught,
And I, naught knowing, had wandered for a space
Among the boskage and the fragrant vines,
And, standing by a water-fount of stone
Listening the tinkle and the cool, wet splash
Of the thin drip, and thinking still of him
(For I went thinking of him all the day),
I heard the soft throb of a mandolin,
And next a voice, divinely sweet it seemed,
A voice unheard till then, and yet I knew
The voice for his; and this the song it sang:—

“Ah, thorns so sharp, so strong!
Ah, path so hard, so long!
What do I care? Thither I fare!
My Rose is there!

“Ah, life so dear, so brief!
Ah, death, the end of grief!
All I can bear, all will I dare!
My Rose is there!”

The music ceased, the while spell-bound I stayed;
Then came a rustle,—he was at my feet!

Few moments might we stay, and few words speak;
But love is swift of tongue! all was arranged,—
The plan of our escape, the hour, the place,
And that Ippolito, next night but two,
With a rope-ladder hidden ’neath his cloak,
Should stand beneath my window. Once on ground
A priest should wait to bind us quickly one.
Then a mad gallop, ere the dawn of day,
Would set us safely forth beyond the rule
Of the Black Lily. Next, as hand in hand
We stood, our lips met in a first long kiss,
And then we parted.

With his vanishing
The thing grew like a dream, and as in dream
I seemed to walk the next day and the next;
For all my thoughts were of that coming night,
And all my fear was lest it should not come.
And all the old-time animosities,
And all the hates bred in me from a child,
And feudal faiths and loyalties were dead,—
I was no more a Bardi; Love ruled all.

It came, the night, and on the stroke of twelve
I stood at casement, wrapped in veil, with mask
And muffling cloak laid ready close beside;
And there I stood and watched, and heard the bells
Strike one, two, three, and saw the rose of dawn
Deepen to day, and still my love came not.

Then, fearing to be spied, I crept to bed;
And lying in a weary trance, half sleep,
Heard shouts and cries and noise of joyful stir
Run through the palace, and quick echoing feet,
And little Cosmo thundering at my door.
“Wake, Dianora, here is glorious news!
Ippolito, our foeman’s only son,
Is caught red-handed on some midnight raid,
Taken with a rope-ladder ’neath his cloak,
Bound for some theft or felony, no doubt;
And as he offers neither excuse nor plea,
He is to suffer at the hour of noon,
In spite of his proud father’s threats and cries.
All that the criminal asks by way of boon
Is he may pass our palace as he goes
Unto the scaffold. A queer fancy that!
But all the better sport it makes for us,
And we need neither pity nor deny!
So rise, sweet sister, don your bravest gear,
For all the household on the balcony
Will sit to jeer the fellow as he wends,
And in the midst of us one Bardi Rose
Must be to grace and enjoy the spectacle,
The best that ever Florence saw!”

My boy,
Look not so startled! Those were bitter days,
I said, and blood had flowed and hearts grown hard,
And hatred is contagious as disease.
Cosmo, my brother, was but as the rest.
He died at nine, ere ever thou wast born,
And I have paid for masses for his soul,—
For many, many masses have I paid;
Heaven will not be hard with a babe like that,
The Frate tells me so, and I am sure.

What was I saying? So I rose that day
A traitor unsuspected mid his foes,
Who were my friends, hiding ’neath feignèd smiles
A purpose desperate as was my hope.
I rose, and let them deck me as they would,
Put on my jewels, star my hair with pearls,
And all the while a voice like funeral dirge
Sang in my half-crazed ears, or seemed to sing,
The fragment and the cadence of a song.
“Ah, death, the end of grief, what do I care?”
Then I stood up among my tiring-maids,
And saw myself in the long Venice glass
A vision of pale splendor, as I moved
To take my station on the balcony,
In the mid place, the very front of all,
Set like a bride in festival array,
Among the laughing, chattering, peering throng,
To see the hated foeman of our race
Led past the palace on his way to die!
My love, my husband, my Ippolito,
Led past our palace on his way to die!
Long time we waited, till the fear began
To stir that some mischance had marred the plan,
And the procession by another street
Might pass, and so we miss the spectacle,
This was their fear, and my fear was the same;
And still I sat and smiled, and while the bells
Tolled, and they talked and buzzed, I only prayed.
“How if he did not come? Saints, let him come!
O pitying Virgin, only grant he come!”

They came at last, the Bargello and his troop,
And in the midst my love with hands fast tied,
And golden locks uncurled and face all wan,
But still with gallant bearing, and his eyes
Fixed upon mine,—me, for whose sake he died,
For whose sweet honor’s sake he silent died.
There was a little halt, and then a cry
Of fierce joy rang from out our balcony.
Now was my time; all sudden sprang I up,
And while the astonished crowd kept silence deep,
And they, my kin, amazed, sat silent too,
I loudly told our tale, our woful tale,
And made avowal that ’twas for my sake
Ippolito his noble silence kept!
Then, while my brother strove to stop my mouth,
And fierce hands clutched my gown and seized my arms,
I clung and pleaded: “Find the holy Friar,
Good people, only send to find the Friar,—
Find him, for pity’s sake! He will confirm
All I have said, and prove my truth and his,
And save my dear Love, slain for love of me.”

Then a great cry arose, some this way ran,
Some that, and suddenly amid the press
A cowl was seen, and Fra Domenico,
Breathless with haste, just conscious of our need,
Ran in the midst, and then, I know not what,—
For all was tumult,—but my love stood free!
Free and unbound! and all the populace
Shouted our twofold names, “Ippolito
And Dianora,” and the bells broke out,
And with the bells the sun and all the air
Seemed full of interlaced and tangled sounds,—
Cries and glad pealings and our blended names
On one side; on the other stormy words,
Reproach, and curses.

Then the Podestá
And many great lords came, and all passed in,
And up the stairs, and filled the palace full;
And high and low joined in an equal plea
That the long feud be stanched, and as a pledge
Of lasting peace we two be wedded straight.
But still my father frowned and closed his ears,
And still my brothers fumbled at their swords;
But when Count Buondelmonti, aged and gray,
And shattered with the horror just escaped
Suspense and heavy sickness, hurried in,
And kissed my hands, and knelt before my feet
And blessèd me, the savior of his son,
While with redoubled zeal the Podestá
Urged, and the noble lords,—Heaven touched their hearts,—
They gave consent; and so the feud was healed,
And the next day my Love and I were wed.

And twenty glad years came and fleetly sped.
Each like a separate rose which buds and falls
Duly and fragrantly and is not missed.
’Twas then he carved as a memorial
On the façade of the old Sta. Maria
Sopr’ Arno, “_Fuccio mi fecé_” and the date—
“I made myself a robber;” and he laughed,
And said I was the treasure that he stole;
Ah me! and then he sailed unto the wars,
And all the years that have gone by since then
Are as sad night shades steeped in deadly dews.
Death hath been busy with us, as thou knowest;
Thou art the youngest of my six fair sons,
Thou art the only one to close my eyes
When time shall come and puzzles be explained.
How did the old song run? “My Rose is there.”
If I shall wake in Paradise one day
And find him safe, and safely still my own,
Not won away from me by some new face,
And see his eyes with the old steadfast look,
Why, that will be enough, that will be heaven!
But if, instead, I find another there
Close to his side where once I used to rest,
No matter who it be, angel or saint,
I must cry “Shame!” whate’er the penalty.
God will not need to send me down to fires,
But only bid me stay in heaven and look!

HERE AND THERE.

WE sit beside the lower feast to-day;
She at the higher.
Our voices falter as we bend to pray;
In the great choir
Of happy saints she sings, and does not tire.

We break the bread of patience, and the wine
Of tears we share;
She tastes the vintage of that glorious vine
Whose branches fair
Set for the healing of all nations are.

I wonder is she sorry for our pain,
Or if, grown wise,
She wondering smiles, and counts them idle, vain,—
These heavy sighs,
These longings for her face and happy eyes.

Smile on, then, darling! As God wills, is best.
We loose our hold,
Content to leave thee to the deeper rest,
The safer fold,
To joy’s immortal youth while we grow old;

Content the cold and wintry day to bear,
The icy wave,
And know thee in immortal summer there,
Beyond the grave;
Content to give thee to the Love that gave.

FORWARD.

LET me stand still upon the height of life;
Much has been won, though much there is to win.
I am a little weary of the strife;
Let me stand still awhile, nor count it sin
To cool my hot brow, ease the travel pain,
And then address me to the road again.

Long was the way, and steep and hard the climb;
Sore are my limbs, and fain I am to rest.
Behind me lie long sandy tracks of time;
Before me rises the steep mountain crest.
Let me stand still; the journey is half done,
And when less weary I will travel on.

There is no standing still! Even as I pause,
The steep path shifts and I slip back apace.
Movement was safety; by the journey-laws
No help is given, no safe abiding-place,
No idling in the pathway hard and slow:
I must go forward, or must backward go!

I will go up then, though the limbs may tire,
And though the path be doubtful and unseen;
Better with the last effort to expire
Than lose the toil and struggle that have been,
And have the morning strength, the upward strain,
The distance conquered, in the end made vain.

Ah, blessed law! for rest is tempting sweet,
And we would all lie down if so we might;
And few would struggle on with bleeding feet,
And few would ever gain the higher height,
Except for the stern law which bids us know
We must go forward or must backward go.

IN HER GARDEN.

STILL swings the scarlet pentstemon
Like threaded rubies on its stem,
In the hid spot she loved so well;
Still bloom wild roses brave and fair,
And like a bubble borne in air
Floats the shy Mariposa’s bell.

Like torches lit for carnival,
The fiery lilies, straight and tall,
Burn where the deepest shadow is;
Still dance the columbines cliff-hung,
And like a broidered veil outflung
The mazy-blossomed clematis.

Her garden! All is silent now,
Save bell-note from some wandering cow,
Or rippling lark-song far away,
Or whisper from the wind-stirred leaves,
Or mourning dove which grieves and grieves,
And “Lost! lost! lost!” still seems to say.

Where is the genius of the place,—
The happy voice, the happy face,
The feet whose light, unerring tread
Needed no guide in wildwood ways,
But trod the rough and tangled maze
By natural instinct taught and led?

Upon the wind-blown mountain-spur
Chosen and loved as best by her,
Watched over by near sun and star,
Encompassed by wide skies, she sleeps,
And not one jarring murmur creeps
Up from the plain her rest to mar.

Sleep on, dear heart! we would not break
Thy slumber for our sorrow’s sake:
The cup of life, with all its zest,
Thy ardent nature quaffed at full;
Now, in the twilight long and cool,
Take thou God’s final gift of rest.

And still below the grape-vine swings;
The Mariposa’s fragile wings
Flutter, red lilies light their flame,
Larks float, the dove still plains and grieves;
But while one heart that loved thee lives,
Still shall thy garden bear thy name.

ON EASTER DAY.

WE light the Easter fire, and the Easter lamps we trim,
And lilies rear their chaliced cups in churches rich and dim,
And chapel low and Minster high the same triumphant strains
In city and in village raise, and on the lonely plains.

“Life” is the strain, and “endless life” the chiming bells repeat,—
A word of victory over death, a word of promise sweet;
And as the great good clasps the less, the sun a myriad rays,
So do a hundred thoughts of joy cling round our Easter days.

And one, which seems at times the best and dearest of them all,
Is this: that all the many dead in ages past recall,
With the friends who died so long ago that memory seeks in vain
To call the vanished faces back, and make them live again;

And those so lately gone from us that still they seem to be
Beside our path, beside our board, in viewless company,—
A light for all our weary hours, a glory by the way,—
All, all the dead, the near, the far, take part in Easter day!

They share the life we hope to share, as once they shared in this;
They hold in fast possession our heritage of bliss.
Theirs is the sure, near Presence toward which we reach and strain;
On Easter day, on Easter day, we all are one again.

Oh, fairest of the fair, high thoughts that light the Easter dawn!
Oh, sweet and true companionship which cannot be withdrawn!
“The Lord is risen!” sealed lips repeat out of the shadows dim;
“The Lord is risen,” we answer back, “and all shall rise in him!”

“DER ABEND IST DER BESTE.”

THE morning hours are joyful fair,
With call of bird and scent of dew;
And blent with shining gold and blue
And glad the summer noontides are;
The slow sun lingering seeks the west,
As loath to leave and grieve so soon
The long and fragrant afternoon;
But still the evening is the best.

Day may be full as day may be,—
Her hands all heaped with gifts, her eyes
Alight with joyful prophecies;
But still we turn where wistfully
The veilèd evening, dimly fair,
Stands in the shadow without speech,
And holds her one gift out to each,—
Her gift of rest, for all to share.

Ah! sweetly falls the sunset glow
On silver hairs, all peaceful bent
To catch the last rays, and content
To watch the twilight softly grow;
Content to face the night and keep
The peaceful vigil of the eve,
And like a little child to breathe
A “Now I lay me down to sleep.”

Ah, close of life! Ah, close of day!
Which thinks of morn without regret;
Which thinks of busy noon, and yet
Grieves not to put its toils away;
Which, calmed with thoughts of coming rest,
Watches the sweet, still evening fade,
Counting its hours all unafraid,—
Surely the evening is the best.

OPTIMISM.

YOU tell me, with a little scorn,
A pitying blame in look and touch,
Of conscious worldly-wisdom born,
That I am hopeful over much;

That all my swans are veriest geese,
My cheerfulness an easy vent
For animal spirits, and my peace
A cheap, contemptible content;

That it is shallow to be glad,
Idle to hope and vain to trust,
Because all good is mixed with bad,
And men are liars, and flesh is dust;

That wisdom grimly prophesies,
And sits distrustful and alert,
Peering with far, experienced eyes
For what may cheat and what may hurt.

I do not know if you are right;
But these I hold as certainties:
That God made day as well as night,
And joy as well as pain is his;

That if philosophy means doubt,
And wisdom boding discontents,
Men may do better far without
These all-divine accomplishments!

That souls are stronger to endure
The heavy woes which all may taste,
If, holding to God’s promise sure,
They wait his time, not making haste

To grieve, anticipating ill;
How shall they know what sweet, hid thing
He keeps in store for souls who still
Follow his beck unquestioning?

Joy is the lesson set for some,
For others pain best teacher is;
We know not which for us shall come,
But both are Heaven’s high ministries.

The swollen torrent rages high;
The path ahead is steep and wet.
What then? We still are safe and dry;
We need not cross that torrent yet!

Perhaps the waters may subside;
There may be paths which skirt the flood.
God holds our hand. With him for guide
We need not fear; for he is good.

Meanwhile there is the sun, the sky,
And life the joy, and love the zest;
And, spite of scorn and pity, I
Will taste to-day, and trust the rest.

“HE SHALL DRINK OF THE BROOK BY THE WAY.”

THE way is hot, the way is long,
’Tis weary hours to even-song,
And we must travel though we tire;
But all the time beside the road
Trickle the small, clear rills of God,
At hand for our desire.

Quick mercies, small amenities,
Brief moments of repose and ease,—
We stoop, and drink, and so fare on,
Unpausing, but re-nerved in strength
From hour to hour, until at length
Night falleth, and the day is done.

The birds sip of the wayside rill,
And raise their heads in praises, still
Upborne upon their flashing wings;
So drinking thus along the way,
Our little meed of thanks we pay
To Him who fills the water-springs,

And deals with equal tenderness
The larger mercies and the less:
“O Lord, of good the fountain free,
Close by our hard day’s journeying
Be thou the all-sufficing spring,
And hourly let us drink of thee.”

THREE PICTURES.

I.

LOVE AND DEATH.

UPON the threshold of his guarded home
Stands Love the child.
A thousand roses bloom above his head
With rain of dewy petals white and red;
All fair and joyous things themselves array
To deck and soften for dear Love the way.
He stands where often he has stood before;
But now his face is pale, his eyes all wild,
A strange and boding tread has caught his ear,
An awful, hovering shape sweeps into view,
And all his soul is rent with wrath and fear—
What can Love do?

Poor Love! brave Love! he nerves his feeble arm,
He grasps his bow;
The dreadful guest has seized the rainbow wings.
In vain Love strives with tears and shudderings,
In vain he lifts appealing eyes of prayer;
There is no pity or relenting there.
No power has Love to deprecate or charm,
Vain are his puny wiles against this foe;
The roses wither in the icy breath
Which eddies the defenceless portals through,
And, brushing Love aside, in passes Death—
What can Love do?

II.

LOVE AND LIFE.

THE way is steep, and hard to tread, and drear;
Piercing and bleak the icy atmosphere.
My feet are bruised and bleeding, and my eyes
Can only with dim questionings seek the skies.
How could I walk a step without thine aid?
How face the awful silence unafraid?
How bear the star-rays and the moon-glance cold?
Loose not thine hold!

Earth and its kindly ways seem very far,
And yet the shining skies no nearer are;
Except for thee, dear Love, I could not go
Over the hard rocks, the untrodden snow,
But had sat down content with lower things,
With scanty crumbs and waning water-springs,—
A wingèd thing whose wings might not unfold:
Loose not thine hold!

Loose not thine hold! let me feel all the while
The quickening impulse of thy tender smile
Luring me on, and catch, as if in trance,
The lovely reverence of thy downward glance,
The pity and the splendor of thy face,
The recognition like a soft embrace:
Until my feet shall tread the streets of gold,
Loose not thy hold!

III.

PAOLO È FRANCESCA.

THE mighty blast which sweeps and girdles hell
Drives us before it, whither none may tell.
No pause, no goal, no time of respite,—well,
We are together!

Circling forever in a dark abyss,
Linked by a fate as wild as passionless,
One only thing is left us,—it is this:
We are together!

THE TWO SHORES.

UPON the river’s brink I stand
Beside the rushing water’s flow,
And look from off the shore I know,
The safe and dear familiar land,
Unto another shore, which lies
Mist-veiled beneath the crimsoning skies.
This is a shore, and that a shore.
Does the earth cease, to rise once more
Beyond the river’s span?
Ah no! the shores are clasped in one;
The same firm earth goes on, goes on,
Though hidden for a little space
From eye or tread of man.

Upon another shore we stand
Beside a darker water’s flow,
And catch beyond the earth we know
Faint glimpses of another land
Dreaming in sunshine, half descried
Beyond the rushing river-tide.
It is life here, and life is there:
We look from fair things to most fair,
The river rolls between;
But held and bound and clasped in one,
Immortal life goes on, goes on,
Though only from the farther strand
The union can be seen.

“ARISE, SHINE, FOR THY LIGHT HAS COME.”

LONG time in sloth, long time in sin,
Contented with thy dark estate
Hast thou abode, O soul of mine;
Now dawns the morning, fair though late,
Her sunny tides are sweeping in.
Thy light has come; arise and shine!

The sheathèd bud which all night long
Has folded close its purple up
Upon the morning-glory vine;
At the first rose-flush, the first song,
Unrolls its petals, rears its cup,
And, light being come, makes haste to shine.

It cannot clasp the whole bright day,
Nor the wide-brimming sea of dew
Within its curve exact and fine.
Of countless beams a single ray,
One little freshening sip or two,
It takes, and so is glad to shine.

Make ready likewise, O my soul!
God’s blessed day has dawned; partake!
Anoint thy head with oil and wine;
From the great sum, the mighty whole,
Thy little crumb and portion break,
And, giving thanks, arise and shine!

A WITHERED VIOLET.