Chapter VII: At Last

Far from its mountain home the fern
Has found a resting-place;
A maiden has begun to learn
To love its winsome face.

But when at night the north winds smite
Against the frosty pane,
The fern is listening with delight
To hear their voice again.

For in their solemn murmuring
The pine-trees chant once more,
The harebells chime, the thrushes sing,
The mountain torrents roar;

Again the dark-robed fir-trees stand
About its mossy bed,
And hold aloft with trembling hand
Their crosses o’er its head.

PAUSES AND CLAUSES.

TO MY LITTLE NIECE, KITTIE.

[With a Maltese Kitten.]

Kittie Mabel, will you take
This gift, for the giver’s sake?
Verse and song and roundelay
Will be yours this merry day;
Mine are all unfit to send,
Tattered rhymes, too poor to mend.

But, although I haven’t any
Songs, my thoughts are swift and many.
All are flying straight to you,
And your heart, so sweet and true,
I am sure, dear, won’t decline
This small, furry Valentine.

TO M----, WITH A COPY OF “THE PETERKIN PAPERS.”

A Boston girl prefers a set of volumes that are uniform,
In Syriac, Chaldaic, Sanskrit, Arabic, or Cuneiform,
For these will test her paleontological ability,
And not insult her culture by superfluous facility.
She loves a scientific pedant, or, to use a synonyme,
A specimen, with printed name and label fair to pin on him.
Alas! I fear she will despise a book without a mystery,
That never once alludes to Art, or Mediæval History;
But as she is compelled each day to recognize and meet her kin,
I trust she will accept at least this tale of Mrs. Peterkin.

MEMORIAL POEM.

READ AT THE ANNUAL DINNER OF THE BOSTON LATIN SCHOOL ASSOCIATION, APRIL 29, 1886.

A Latin-School poem? ’Twere easy to write
On a theme so suggestive an epic at sight,
An ode, full of fire, or, if that wouldn’t do,
An Eclogue, or even a Georgic or two,
With allusions to classical roots, and Greek ponies
Hard ridden and worn--I confess that my own is.
A poet could scarce fail of making a hit,
Inspired by the presence of beauty and wit!

Alas, for the days of our ancestors bold,
When the wassail was drunk, brave stories were told,
While the mirth of the feasters grew louder and higher,
And the bard struck the quivering chords of the lyre,
Without an apology, blush, or evasion,
Or stammering reference to--“this occasion,”
As raising his voice o’er the tumult and din,
He recounted in song all the fights they’d been in.

Let bygones be bygones, the past be the past;
We live in the world of to-day, and at last
Society calls for less noise, more decorum,
Remarks less akin to the street than the forum;
Nay, mounting in civilization still higher,
The bard soon must go--perhaps even the lyre!
And if things should be ever at sixes and sevens,
There lies an appeal to his Honor Judge Devens.[1]

And what, do you ask, is this tirade about?
Why not, as in Hunting the Snark, “leave that out”?
Ah, can I forget why we schoolmates are here?
How often we laugh when we’d fain hide a tear!
The ripples are bright on the waves of mid-ocean;
Eyes dance and smiles play over depths of emotion;
Oh, dear Alma Mater, be patient to-night,
Our hearts, misconstrued, thou canst translate aright!

How memory pictures bright scenes to us all!--
The old, shaky building, the school-room, the hall,
The way the grim doctor read Greek verbs and Latin,
The desk where he wrote and the chair that he sat in,
His upraised forefingers and forehead portentous,
The terror we felt when we found that he meant us;
Eyes gleaming below that great frontlet of hair,--
Ah, could we have known of what really was there,
And fathomed that grand heart, so gentle and true,
Beneath the stern front that bent o’er me and you!

Those lessons--how useless and tiresome they seemed,
While we “mulled” over Cæsar, drew pictures, and dreamed;
How Xenophon’s mighty Anabasis came
To cloud our young lives, till we hated his name,
The characters playing strange pranks on the pages,
While still we droned on, “He--advanced--thirteen--stages.”
We wished the Ten Thousand had all broken loose
Before they began on their endless σταθμοῦς;
We preferred that they wouldn’t get on quite so fast;
We wished that their leader had not ἀναβάσ-ed;
But Xenophon brought them all safe to the sea,
He got out of the woods, and, at last, so did we.

Did you march on the Common? How proud were we then
To be reckoned in newspapers “two hundred men”!
How the uniforms shone as we wheeled o’er the grass--
No koh-i-noor gleams like those buttons of brass!
Our scabbards and sashes were artfully dangled,
And if they at times in our ankles got tangled,
The terror to others was full compensation
For dangers attending our perambulation.

Was it fun? There are those within reach of my words
Who remember when ploughshares were cleft into swords;
When hushed was the voice of youth’s laughter and mirth,
As the flag, broken-winged, fluttered, bleeding, to earth.
Are there men who will cherish their country’s last breath?
Are there three hundred thousand who love--to the death?
Hark!--the answering cry to that agonized call--
And the Latin-School boys are the foremost of all!

We have proved we’ve a banner, a country, a God,
By thousands of arguments--under the sod!
Who knows if the dear boys who fell in the fight
May not hold their reunion, as we do, to-night?
From the morning-land fair, and a rest never ending,
Their voices, well-loved, with our own still are blending;
Hark!--can we not hear the sweet echoes to-day,
As from camp grounds afar comes the soft reveillé?

Oh, soldiers, still serving in ranks like their own,
But a little more quiet, more dignified, grown,
Still fighting from morning till set of the sun,
Each day new defeats or fresh victories won,
Pressing onward, undaunted still, shoulder to shoulder,
With our hearts growing young as our muskets grow older,
Let us take for our motto, emblazoned in light,
That stern old command of _Forward--Guide Right!_

FOOTNOTE:

[1] Presiding at the Dinner.

DANDELION.

A dandelion in a meadow grew
Among the waving grass and cowslips yellow;
Dining on sunshine, breakfasting on dew,
He was a right contented little fellow.

Each morn his golden head he lifted straight,
To catch the first sweet breath of coming day;
Each evening closed his sleepy eyes, to wait
Until the long, cool night had passed away.

One afternoon, in sad, unquiet mood,
I paused beside this tiny, bright-faced flower,
And begged that he would tell me, if he could,
The secret of his joy through sun and shower.

He looked at me with open eyes, and said:
“I know the sun is somewhere shining clear,
And when I cannot see him overhead,
I try to be a little sun, right here!”

MARJORIE.

“Oh, dear,” said Farmer Brown, one day,
“I never saw such weather!
The rain will spoil my meadow hay
And all my crops together.”
His little daughter climbed his knee;
“I guess the sun will shine,” said she.

“But if the sun,” said Farmer Brown,
“Should bring a dry September,
With vines and stalks all wilted down,
And fields scorched to an ember--”
“Why, then, ’twill rain,” said Marjorie,
The little girl upon his knee.

“Ah, me!” sighed Farmer Brown, that fall,
“Now, what’s the use of living?
No plan of mine succeeds at all--”
“Why, next month comes Thanksgiving!
And then, of course,” said Marjorie,
“We’re all as happy as can be.”

“Well, what should I be thankful for?”
Asked Farmer Brown. “My trouble
This summer has grown more and more,
My losses have been double,
I’ve nothing left--” “Why, you’ve got me!”
Said Marjorie, upon his knee.

PRIMROSE.

In the meadow, cool and sweet,
Where the cowslips bathe their feet,
On the banks of Scottish burns,
Down among the nodding ferns,
Where the shadows come and go,
Cheerful Primrose loves to grow.

Little flower she is, and meek;
And if she could only speak,
I am sure her words would be
Whispered very timidly.
Skylark, hush your joyous singing,
Bonnie harebells, cease your ringing,
Listen, listen, drowsy bee,--
Is the Primrose calling thee?

Tiny rootlets white and brown,
Leaves as soft as cygnet’s down,
Fringèd petals, dainty pink,
Peeping o’er the burnie’s brink,--
That is Primrose, sweet and true,
And I love her--do not you?

CONTENT.

“Little Herb Robert, what makes you so pink?
The daisy is taller and whiter.”
“The sun came along, and, what do you think?
It kissed me, and so I grew brighter.”

“Grasshopper, why are you merry to-day?”
“I always am glad, if you please, sir,
Because I can hop on the clover and hay,
Nor have to fly up in the trees, sir.”

“Sea-weed, poor creature! you’re left high and dry,
The tide has gone out; you are dying!”
“Ah, no, I am sure ’twill come back by and by.
I shall live, never fear; I’ll keep trying.”

“Song-sparrow, how can you sing all the day?”
“Sweet food to my young I am bringing,
And when I am working for them, in this way,
Of course I can never help singing.”

“Child, leave the hot, dusty roadside, and come.”
“I’d go, for I know that you love me;
But, please, I’d rather stay here, near my home,
For Papa’s in there, just above me.”

WITH A SMALL LETTER-OPENER.

TO W. B. W.

Once more ’tis the night before Christmas; once more
The Christ-child is entering each open door;
The holly-bough glistens, the earth is all white,
In the jubilant heavens the Star is a-light.
May I sit by your hearthstone once more, as of old?
My story--a brief one--shall quickly be told.

* * * * *

We bring you no Sèvres nor Japanese Kaga,
But only an innocent kind of a dagger.
(Allow me a few editorial “we’s,”
The plural is handy in rhymes such as these.)
The blade is no marvel, ’tis not Muramasa--
(“What’s that?” No one knows. Ask your daughter, from Vassar.)
Nay, we must admit, if perchance you should ask us,
’Twas forged in the States, and not at Damascus.
Too slim for a trinket, too large for a charm,
Too small for a weapon, too dull to do harm;
Too blunt for a bodkin, of life to deplete us,
’Twould not even serve for Hamlet’s _quietus._
Cur igitur tibi gladiolum dabo--
Quemadmodum hoc explicare parabo?
Sie können nicht ganz die Verwerrung verstehen,
Ich will zum Puncte deswegen nun gehen.
Ce poignard petit est une clef de mon cœur,
Que je donne quelquefois à mon ami, ma sœur,
A celui, enfin, qui reçoit, dans mes lettres,
Les mots le plus tendres que je puis y mettre.
κἀγὼ πρὸς ὑμᾶς τὴν κλεῖδα λαβεῖν
ἐθέλειν ἐλπίζω καί με νῦν φιλεῖν.
(If once on a jingle like this voi entrate,
You must finish, or--ogni speranza lasciate!)
I wish I knew Indian, but somehow nobody
Seems ever to learn more than “Passamaquoddy,”
Or “Mooselucmaguntic,” “Welokennebacook,”
“Oquossuc,” “Musketequid,” and “Quantibacook.”
To compose in that language you will not deny
Is difficult. If you don’t think so--just try.

* * * * *

’Tis nonsense, dear friend, but I feel sure that you
Good-naturedly smile, and yet see ’tis true.
Unconscious as Lady Macbeth in her walking,
We give in our letters more _self_ than in talking.
Perhaps when our Father looks lovingly down
On our wandering footsteps in country and town,
Our burdens, our hindrances all, He can see,
And read in His wisdom more surely than we.
Far more than when kneeling by altar or crypt,
Our deeds make the record, in broad, cursive script.
Thank God that the Reader and Father are one,
That the poor, blotted copy-book, hardly begun,
Is read by Him only who wrote on the sand,
And the torn covers folded at last by His hand.
Hark! Christmas bells ring for the birth of the Son--
Good-night! May He help us and bless us each one.

SEA-GIRLS.

A flutter of white
On Appledore’s shoulder,--
The prettiest sight!
A flutter of white,
One by one they a-light
On the dark, jutting bowlder;
A flutter of white
On Appledore’s shoulder.

Six girls in a flock
Where the white sea is breaking
Against the gray rock.
Six girls in a flock--
Their gay voices mock
The din it is making;
Six girls in a flock
Where the white sea is breaking.

Each flutters and clings
To the torn granite edges,--
The merriest things!
Each flutters and clings.
Have they feathers and wings,
As they perch on the ledges?
Each flutters and clings
To the torn granite edges.

HOMEWARD.

A TWILIGHT SONG OF THE WHEEL.

Away from the office and desk at last,
The business-haunted room,
The roar of a city, hurrying past,
The heat, the worry, the gloom,
To the glorious red of the sunset sky,
The sweet, cold wine of the air,
On the frozen road, my wheel and I,
A dusty, rusty pair!

Push--Push--
Two birds in a bush
Are laughing to see me hop;
On, with a bound
From the frozen ground,
With never a sway nor stop.
Over and over the pedals fly--
“Come on!” to the twittering bird I cry,
As over and over the wheels fly past her;
Over and over, still faster and faster,
On through the ice-cold stream of air,
On where the road is frozen and bare.

Roll--Roll--Roll--Roll--
Silent and swift as a death-freed soul.
Glide--Glide--
On the smooth, black tide
Of the ocean of night flowing in from the West,
Over and over, and on without rest,
Swifter and swifter, till over the crest
Of the hill, and down to the valley below,
Through the murk of the mist and the white of the snow--
Now my steed falters, as, breathless and slow,
Up the steep hillside he labors and grinds,
Grinds--Grinds--Grinds--Grinds--
Across and across he turns and winds,
Sand-clogged and rock-hindered, without hope or faith,
No longer a soul, but a sin-burdened wraith--
Till, reaching the summit, he spurns the dark hill,
And onward he plunges, for good or for ill,
Over and onward, and onward and over,
He reels and he spins like a jolly old rover.

Roll--Roll--Roll--Roll--
Backward he flies to our one dear goal,
Where the whirling shall cease, and the rider shall rest,
And soft, trembling lips to my own shall be pressed.
Slow--Slow--Slow,
Slowly--more slowly--we go--
What, darling, so far on the road to-night,
To welcome us both with your eyes’ sweet light!
The wheel no longer has need to roam--
Be quiet, old fellow! we’re safe, safe at home.

A NONSENSE-SONG FOR M----.

FROM THE BACK OF THE NORTH WIND.[2]

I.

Breathing, blowing,
The cool breeze is blowing,
High in the tree-tops,
Low in the grasses,
Softly it passes;
The daisies it kisses
And never one misses,
And laughs at the buttercups,
Breathing and blowing,
Its blessing bestowing
On all that it passes
Among the low grasses
And daisies and buttercups,
Never one misses,
But each one it kisses.
Softer and fainter it grows,
Faintly and softly it blows,
Breathing, sighing,
Dying,
Sweetly and softly it goes,
Goes--goes!

II.

Hark to the wind from the mountain-tops blowing!
Raining, snowing,
Scattering ice-drops and crimson leaves blowing!
Teasing the burnies
With all their soft fernies,
Bending and waving
Among the green mosses;
Roaring and raving,
The long hair it tosses
Of each little maiden
Beside the brown burnies
With crimson leaves laden
All bound for the sea,
With wee boaties laden,
All crimson to see,
And high in the tree-tops
It rushes and roars;
It leaps from the hill-tops
And hurls with its might on the long, rocky shores
The floods of the sea,
All the time roaring and shouting and blowing,
Icy drops throwing,
Blowing, snowing,
It roars!

III.

What shall the Soft Breeze do for thee?
What shall I do with my faint, sweet blowing,
Breathing, blowing,
My blessing bestowing?
I pray thee, Soft Breeze,
Do thou blow, for me!
Stir in the trees
And breathe in the grasses,
The soft, low grasses,
And when the tall buttercup,
Tall in the grasses,
Thy light foot passes,
Gather for me
A wee grain of gold from its treasures rare,
A ray of the sunlight it treasures there;
Then beg of the daisies a bit of their white,
Pure, pure white,
And two tiny petals, crimson tipped,
Because in God’s love they have just been dipped,
And bearing the sunlight, the whiteness and love,
Breathing, blowing,
Fair blessings bestowing,
Among the soft grasses
And tree-tops above,
High in the cloud-land’s silvery sheen,
Low in the winding valleys between,
Seek my wee girlie
Who’s just thirteen,
With hair so curly,--
The curliest hair you ever have seen,
The brownest hair you ever have seen,--
With eyes so blue,
Like skies so blue,
And hide thy gifts in her heart so true,
For to-day she’s just thirteen,
Thirteen.

IV.

What shall the Fierce Wind do for thee?
What shall I do, with my terrible roaring,
Raving, roaring,
Icy drops pouring?

I pray thee, Fierce Wind,
Do thou roar, for me!
Shatter the crags of the desolate mountain,
Scatter the drops of the trembling fountain,
Ride on the waves of the tossing sea,
Tossing and spouting,
Roaring and shouting;
Snatch a bright leaf from the burnie’s brink,
And a drop from the pool where the white lambs drink,
A wisp of hair from the maiden fern,
Bending over the laughing burn;
The health of the seas,
The life of the trees,
The beauty of fernies,
The faith of bright burnies,
Life and beauty and health and faith,
Whiteness and sunshine, love stronger than death,
These to the maidie that’s just thirteen
Shall all be given to-day, I ween,--
Shall all be given,
In blessing from Heaven,--
For now she’s just thirteen,
And her eyes are so blue,
Sweet skies so blue,
And her heart so true,
And to-day she’s just thirteen,
Thirteen.

FOOTNOTE:

[2] Suggested by George MacDonald’s little book of that name.

TRANSLATIONS.

SONGS FROM HEINE.

In the north-land standeth a pine-tree
Alone, on a hill-top bare.
It sleepeth beneath a mantle
Of snow and frost-work rare.

It dreameth long of a palm-tree
Which, silent as a star,
On the burning desert mourneth
In Orient lands afar.

* * * * *

A LOVELY flower thou seemest,
So tender, sweet, and true;
And, as I gaze, steals o’er me
A sadness strange and new.

Upon thy peaceful forehead
I’d lay my hands, in prayer
That God may ever keep thee
As tender, true, and fair.

* * * * *

Eagerly I cry, awaking,
“Cometh she to-day?”
Eventide--my sad heart, breaking,
Speaks the answer, Nay!

In the night I know but sorrow
Till the dawn’s faint beam;
Mist-enwrapped, in each to-morrow,
Agony of dream.

* * * * *

He who for the first time loveth,
Godlike, worlds of bliss doth rule;
He who twice that joy essayeth,
Luckless wight--he is a fool.

Loving where no love returneth,
Such a fool, alas!--am I;
Sun and moon and stars are laughing,
I laugh, too,--_and die_.

Little maid, with lips so rosy,
With thy blue eyes, sweet and clear,
All my thoughts to thee are flying,
All my life is with thee, dear!

Slowly pace the leaden-footed
Hours that mark the winter’s night;
Ah, that I were now beside thee,
Gazing, murmuring my delight!

Kisses would I press, my darling,
On thy little hand to-night;
Nay--a tear should fall, unbidden,
On thy little hand so white.

* * * * *

(EICHENDORFF.)

It was as if the heavens
Had kissed the earth to rest,
And she lay dreaming of them
With flowers upon her breast.

The fields and murmuring woodland
Were bathed in fairest light,
So soft the breeze’s whisper,
So starry-clear the night!

On outspread wings uplifted
My spirit fain would roam
Through cloudland realms unbounded,
To rest at last--at home.

IN MORNING-LAND.

In morning-land the radiant, rosy skies
Each moment gleam with some new-born surprise,
Or flush with dawning hope; the balmy air
Is laden with a thousand perfumes rare
And thrilled with chords of strange, sweet melodies.

On that blest shore, which all around us lies,
Peace reigns supreme, and joyous carols rise
From every shaded copse and pleasaunce fair
In Morning-land.

Knowst thou the land? Wherever friendly eyes
Beam faith and constancy; where true love flies,
Glad tidings of good-will and peace to bear;
Where service is divine, God everywhere,--
There dawns the perfect day that never dies
In Morning-land.

SIC ITUR AD ASTRA.

I stood in a valley; above me
Uprose a mighty hill;
The air was vibrant with music
Of insect, bird, and rill.

The flowers among the grasses
About my weary feet
Swung all their tiny censers,
Till perfume, heavy-sweet,

Was shed abroad in the sunlight
And wafted to and fro,
While droning bees at the altar
Their _Aves_ chanted low.

A soft breeze touched my forehead,
And whispered, “Peace, be still!”
But ever above me towered
That silent, awful hill,

Whose peaks in mists were hidden,
Whose slopes were brown and bare;
And yet, as I gazed, I murmured,
“O God! If I were there!”

For I knew that the peace of the valley
Was never meant for me;
And I longed for the mountain summit,--
Its pure winds blowing free,

Its life of strength and vigor,
Its thoughts of the good and true,
Its steadfast crags of granite
In the far-off, heavenly blue.

I stand in the valley, and ever
I gaze at the mountain bare,
And I long for a hand to help me--
O God! That I were there!

THE COMET; NOVEMBER, 1882.

Wondrous portent, set on high,
Moving through the silent sky,
Clothed in formless majesty,--

Who can read those words of light
On the star-lit wall of night?
“_Mene, Tekel_,” dost thou write?

Nay, thou bright Star in the East,
O’er no haughty monarch’s feast,
Prophet nor Chaldæan priest,

Doth thy gentle radiance shine;
Nobler resting-place is thine,
’Tis a Baby’s brow divine.

With the waning of the year
From afar thou dost appear,
Telling us that Christ is near.

“HIS STAR.”

Christmas Eve--and the mellow light
Of the Star in the East was aglow
O’er the Magi, hastening through the night,
In the desert, long ago.

Christmas Eve--and the gentle light
Of the Star in the East was aglow
O’er the lambs, asleep with their shepherds by night,
On the hillside, long ago.

Christmas Eve--and the golden light
Of the Star in the East was aglow
O’er a Baby’s brow, in the holy night,
In a manger, long ago.

Christmas Eve--and the blessèd light
Of the Star in the East is aglow,
As it shone of old, through the sweet, still night,
O’er Bethlehem, long ago.

“LICHT, MEHR LICHT!”

Sob, cold wind of the sky,
For the rest that never shall come!
The stars have gathered on high,
The moon’s white lips are dumb,
And over her face like a shroud
Lies the wrack of the drifting cloud.

Moan, dark sea of the night!
Fling up thine arms and implore
The heavens for light, sweet light,--
One sparkle along the shore
From the sun that left thee to moan
In the horror of darkness--alone.

Shudder, thou one human soul,
Forever alone in the night;
Whose billows unceasingly roll
In desolate seeking for light!
The moon’s white face is thine own,
Thine, thine the wind’s monotone.
Thyself art the night--
O God, light, light!

PSALM LXXX.

“Turn us again, O God of Hosts, and cause
Thy face to shine.”
When fades the light of day,
And night in silence steals across the sky,
We know it is not that the glorious sun
Has left his steadfast throne amid the heavens,
But that our little earth has turned away
And hid its face till morning shall appear.
So may we, in our blackest night of doubt
And troubled thought, return once more to Thee,
Till Thou hast risen, O Sun of Righteousness,
And all the evil things of darkness born
Have fled before the shining of Thy face.

UNTO THE PERFECT DAY.

A morning-glory bud, entangled fast
Amid the meshes of its winding stem,
Strove vainly with the coils about it cast,
Until the gardener came and loosened them.

A suffering human life entangled lay
Among the tightening coils of its own past;
The Gardener came, the fetters fell away,
The life unfolded to the sun at last.

HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS EVE.

A mighty world is hushed to-night
In sweet expectancy;
O’er snowy field and wood the stainless light
Of the clear moon
Shines broad and free;
While peacefully the earth--
A great white throne
Prepared for One who soon
Shall rise and claim it for His own--
Awaits His birth.

The hearts of all mankind are turned
Toward lowly Bethlehem;
For in the east the wondrous Star, that burned
In days of old,
Still beckons them.
Back o’er the centuries,
Storm-swept and bare,
It moves, until, behold!
It stands above the manger where
The Young Child lies.

O Christmas chimes, right joyfully
Ring out the tidings glad
To stars and frosty air and listening sky,--
“Good-will to men!”
Till all the sad,
The weary and oppressed,
Their gifts shall bring
To Him whose birth again
Sheds peace on earth, and, worshipping,
Shall be at rest.

BLIND.

Throughout the weary day an Eastern sun
Had poured his beams upon the whitened walls
Of Jericho, till e’en the drooping palms
Refused to comfort with their wonted shade
The passer-by. As in a furnace blast--
The glaring pavement spread beneath, o’erhead
A brazen, cloudless sky--all living things
Had gasped, with parching lips, and feebly prayed
For night.
’Twas eventide; the northern hills
Breathed forth a blessing on the multitude
That thronged incessant through the city gates.
Softly the mist crept forth, and o’er their heads
Her dewy wings unfolded. In the west
The molten brass of noontide turned to gold,
And shone like some fair missal’s page, with hymns
And promises illumined.
One there was
Among the restless souls beneath its glow,
For whom the heavenly message was not writ;
For whom no sunset gleamed, nor morning dawned.
Oft had he listened to the merry shout
And laughter of the children at their sports,
But ne’er had looked upon their sparkling eyes.
Alone, he walked in darkness through a life
Of nights, with never hope of day. But hark!
Upon his ear there falls a gentle voice,
Whose tones of strange and heavenly sweetness thrill
His very heart. “’Tis Jesus, ’tis the Christ
Of Nazareth!” The woes of heavy years,
The quick-born hope, the old-time, dull despair,
The agony of help so near at hand,
Yet passing, blend in one wild, bitter cry:
“Jesus, thou Son of David, I am blind!
Have mercy on me!”--and the Saviour hears.
Blind Bartimeus by the road-side waits
In anguish mute and trembling, when, O joy!
The bringer of glad tidings is at hand:
“Be of good comfort, rise, he calleth thee!”

O weary, heavy-laden one, whose eyes
Have long been sightless to behold the truth,--
Perchance in darkness walking even now,
And longing with an aching heart for light,--
The Master’s message echoes sweetly still:
“Be of good comfort, rise, He calleth thee.”
And humbly kneeling at His feet, the words
Of healing, spoken in the olden time
To him who prayed for help, thou too shalt hear:
“Receive thy sight, thy faith hath made thee
whole.”

REFUGE.

How bad I am, O Lord, Thou knowest,
Deserving naught that Thou bestowest,
But wandering each day
Astray.

Thy gifts are perfect, never ceasing,
The debt against me still increasing,
And yet I turn to flee
From Thee!

Oft when my path is dark and narrow
There flutters down some tiny sparrow
To tell me of that love
Above.

When daylight comes, I’m e’er forgetting
The message sweet; my sins besetting
Return, my soul to stain
Again.

And so I cling to Thee, my Saviour,
Despairing by my own behavior
To cleanse myself from sin
Within.

My cares I yield--for me Thou carest;
I take my cross--its weight Thou sharest
Henceforth my will be Thine,
Not mine.

GUIDO RENI’S “ECCE HOMO.”

O thorn-crowned head, the sins of all the world
Have pierced thy brow;
O gentle face, the woes of all the world
Thou bearest now!

O patient eyes, to heaven in meekness turned,
Meekness divine,
Within your suffering depths what wondrous light
Of love doth shine!

O faltering, parted lips, with anguish wrung,
Your words still live
And plead for us,--“They know not what they do--
Father, forgive!”

ON CHRISTMAS EVE.

The day’s loud footfalls die away,
And stealing forth from her retreat
Like a hooded nun, the twilight gray
Glides softly down the busy street.
With healing touch her gentle hand
Rests on the city’s fevered brow;
Its throbbing pulse is quiet now,
And peace descends on the weary land.
Since morn the dull December sky
Has wept and moaned incessantly;
The tall, gaunt forms of shivering trees
Have groaned and rattled their bony arms,
Till, startled by the restless breeze,
The withered sprites of summer leaves
Have gathered to whisper their vague alarms,
Now whirling aloft to the dripping eaves,
Now wavering slow to earth again,
Borne down by the pitiless, hopeless rain.
Upon my hearth the ruddy light
Dances and plays at the fire-dogs’ feet
Chasing the shadows out of sight;
Around the walls it follows them fast,
Hunts them into a corner at last,
Up the chimney, out into the night.
The blaze laughs loud with a music sweet,
My heart grows warm in its cheery glow,
And a thousand fancies come and go.
The perfumed breath of the birchen brand,
Rich with forest spices rare,
Bears heavenward many a hope and prayer
That only One can understand.
Oh that my life were sweet and pure
As the incense of this burning wood!
Oh that my faith were strong and sure
As the flame that ever strives toward God!
I hear the sound of the sleet and rain
Brushing against my window-pane;
The voice of the wind is sad and low,
The shadows return, and to and fro
They flit and hover uneasily,
Until at last they rest on me.
Heap high the sturdy fire-dogs’ backs
With boughs of hemlock, birch, and pine.
The crisp bark curls, and smokes, and cracks;
It comes at last, the spark divine,
And bursting forth in broad, free laughter,
The glorious blaze comes hurrying after,
Springs up the chimney with a roar,
Chasing the shadows away once more,
Shining far out upon the floor,
And sweeping away on its gladsome tide
The fears and doubts, o’er which I sighed,
To the depths of the sea, to the depths of the sea,--
The cares and sins that have haunted me!

I thank thee for thy help, sweet hour,
For thou hast helped me true and well;
I thank thee for the gentle spell
Beneath which thou dost wield thy power,
And when the twilight seeks at morn
Her convent walls within the west,
My soul shall know its truest rest,
And bless the day when Christ was born.

BY NIGHT.

O’er Judah’s dark hill-tops the starlight is shining;
In silence the silvery light
Falls soft on the white, sleeping lambs and their shepherds,
By night.

Sleep on, trustful flocks, while shepherds are watching;
Fear not, for soon shall be born
The dear Lamb of God, in a Bethlehem manger,
This morn.

Keep watch, faithful shepherds, through gathering shadows,
Though the hillside be lonely and drear;
For lo, in the darkness the Shepherd of shepherds
Is near!

Sing on, ye bright angels, repeat the glad tidings,--
Joy, peace, and good-will on the earth;
Proclaim to the weary, the sad, and the suffering,
His birth.

Shine, radiant Star in the East, till thy glory
O’er Wise Men and manger is poured,
For Mary’s dear babe is the blessèd Christ Jesus,
Our Lord.

“STAR OF BETHLEHEM.”

Gentle-Faced child-flower--
One of the least--
Dost thou remember
The Star in the East,
Bethlehem’s hill-tops
Flushing with morn,
When in a manger
The dear Christ was born?

Lambs on the hillside
Peacefully slept;
Shepherds, abiding near,
Faithful watch kept.
Bright in the heavens
Shone a new star,
Guiding o’er deserts
Wise Men from afar.

White Flower of Bethlehem,
Lo, it is morn!
Shine on the manger
Where Jesus was born.
We, too, shall find Him,
Though humblest and least,
Led by thy radiance,
Bright Star in the East.

“BLESSED.”

“Blessed are they that mourn.”
The gentle tones,
A moment faltering, then strong and sweet,
Ring out upon the morning air. The throng
Wait silently, lest by a whispered sigh
Or quick-drawn breath a word should fall unheard
From Him, the wonderful, the Prince of Peace.
“Blessed”--the widow, shuddering, draws more close
Her sombre draperies, and bows her head
In agony of dumb and hopeless grief.

--“Are they that mourn!” A dry, half-stifled sob
Bursts from a gray-haired man; ’twas yesterday
They buried all most dear to him on earth,
And sun and stars were blotted out. Hot tears
Fall thickly on his knotted, sunburnt hands,
And still he listens to that strange, sweet voice.

“Blessed are they that mourn.” What aching hearts
Among the eager, silent multitude
Cry out in bitter anguish that His words
Are vain and mocking!

Lo, the Saviour turns
With infinite compassion in His eye,
And stretching forth His hands as though to give
The blessing He has promised, speaks again:
“They shall be comforted!”

The morning sun
Breaks forth in triumph from the heavy clouds
That hid His face. The waves of Galilee,
Gleaming far distant in the misty east,
Cast off the shroud of night. The air is full
Of waking glory. But of all who feel
The gladness and the freshness of the morn,
Those only who have passed through deepest gloom
Receive the fulness of that new, sweet peace
His words have given,--and they are comforted!

A CHRISTMAS PASTORAL.

The shepherds were keeping their watch by night,
In the field with their flock abiding;
And soft on the fleece of the lambs fell the light
Of a new-risen star,
From deserts afar
The wise ones to Bethlehem guiding.

What startles the watchers? A rustle of wings,
And a radiant figure above them.
The lambs are afraid, and the white, woolly things,
With tremulous bleat,
Nestle close to the feet
Of the faithful shepherds who love them.

“Fear not!” comes the message, exultant and strong,
“Good tidings of joy I am bringing!”
And lo! with the song of a heavenly throng,
“Peace on earth! For this morn
A Saviour is born!”
The hillsides of Judah are ringing.

The bright ones are gone; over thicket and stone
The starlight of Christmas is falling;
But the lambs, without even an angel, alone
In the great silent night,
With sudden affright,
For their lost shepherds vainly are calling.

They knew not a tenderer Shepherd was near,
His flocks to deliver from danger,
And comfort all desolate lambs in their fear,--
For peacefully lay,
On that first Christmas day,
Lord Christ, in a Bethlehem manger.

THE FOURTH WATCH.

Midnight upon Gennesaret; the restless waves,
Like jewels on the troubled bosom of the sea,
Flash forth in rays of silvery light, or hide within
Her dark and flowing tresses. Soft, as in a dream,
The night-winds sigh and whisper o’er the little ship,
While from the far-off, shadowy hills of Galilee
Their cool breath gently fans the weary twelve, as rests
A loving hand upon a fevered, aching brow.
Deserted lies the quiet, moon-lit shore, but all
The air is heavy with the perfume of the grass,
Crushed into fragrance by the waiting multitude
Whom Jesus fed. The Giver of the bread of life
Has gone apart upon the mountain-side to pray,
Alone.
The night is dark, the Master is not come;
The sea arises, and on every side the waves
Gigantic, black, and topped with lurid crests of foam,
Leap madly through the gloom. Labors the little ship,
Hurled to and fro and beaten back upon her course.
With slow and stubborn stroke the rowers wearily
Are straining at the heavy oars. But hark! above
The sullen roar of wind and sea, a well-loved voice,
Vibrant and sweet with chords of heavenly music, speaks,
And they were sore afraid; but He saith unto them,
“Be of good cheer, ’tis I, be not afraid.”
And lo,
The tempest ceased! and when they had received their Lord,
The ship had come unto the haven they desired.

“WITH YOU ALWAY.”

Why seek ye for Jehovah
Mid Sinai’s awful smoke?
The burning bush now shelters
A sparrow’s humble folk;
The curve of God’s sweet heaven
Is the curve of the leaf of oak;
The Voice that stilled the tempest
To little children spoke,--
The bread of life eternal
Is the bread He blessed and broke.

DECEMBER 31.

Another year!
What is the story by the twelve-month told?
What treasure doth its memory enfold,--
Base coin, or gold?
Sternly hath it hard lessons taught,
Hath it new cares, new joys, new burdens brought?
Few smiles, and many a tear?

Another year!
What good and perfect gifts have gently come--
Knowing not whence, we have been blind and dumb!
We ate the crumb
Without the sparrow’s faith, but still,
Father of Lights, Thou shinest on, and will,
Thy frightened birds to cheer.

Another year!
The sunlight pours its blessings as of old,
Into the lap of each dear day,--its gold,
Its wealth untold.
As lessons new and sweet we gain,
Still hoping to the highest to attain,
We trust, and never fear.

Another year!
But to the brave and true, lo, time is not!
A thousand years are as a day, forgot
The hardest lot,
To those who walk beside their God,
Loving the path His patient feet have trod,
Knowing that He is near.

IN MY ARM-CHAIR.

Flickers the ruddy firelight on the wall;
Now here, now there, the shadows restlessly
Dance in and out among the gleaming bars
That prison many a glimpse of sea and sky
Upon the pictured canvas. Brightly falls
The cheerful light upon familiar forms
Of volumes clothed in sober garb and gay,
Whose very names, in golden characters,
Invite to solace sweet, and peace of mind.
Footfalls incessant in the rainy street
Mingle their dreary cadence with the roll
And rhythmic echo of the iron wheel,
Half muffled by the storm’s dull monotone.
Within, the gentle presence of the flame,
With its soft rustle ever and anon,
Serves but to take away the very pain
Of silence absolute.
It is the hour
For contemplation meet. The air is thronged
With thoughts innumerable, fancies light,
That flit about on airy wing, or play
Among the fireborn shadows on the wall;
Till, touched by the Promethean glow, they take
A seeming form substantial, animate.
From out their thin octavo cells pour forth
The shapes ethereal of poet, sage,
Philosopher, and man of God, whose words
Make wisdom beautiful, and beauty wise.
Silent they rise before me, one by one,
E’en as the fabled genius, close involved
Within the tiny casket, gained at last
His proper self, and towered high above
His liberator. But of other mien
Are these strange forms around my hearth to-night.
With aspect grave, yet kind, they gaze on me
As old companions might on one they loved,
Who loved them in return. I know each one,
And recognize the habit of his life.
Old Gilbert White--whose flowing locks, and dress
Of quaint antiquity, precise and neat,
Recall his quiet walks in Selborne wood--
Has paused with curious, meditative eye,
Before an owl upon my mantle shelf,
And rapidly, in shadowy script, records
The sapient bird’s presentment.
Near at hand,
A man of kindly countenance and mild,
Impressed with lines of pure and noble thought,
Bends low in prayer; ere long resumes his pen,
And adds one more sweet hymn to those that bear
George Herbert’s name. Anon appears a face
More gentle than the rest, it seems, with eyes
Of deep and tender yearning. Silently
The figure turns aside, and by the hearth
Remains aloof, with dreamy gaze intent
Upon the glowing coals. What fantasies
Are imaged there, reflected from his mind,
And striving for the elixir of his touch
And wondrous pen, that give eternal life
To such as they! Lo, built of candent fire
The Old Manse drops its Mosses at his feet;
Italia’s strange physician whispers now
Of potent herb and flower. The Puritan,
His wonted sternness softened, deigns to tell
Of old-time guilt--the Scarlet Letter’s brand--
Till, glancing up, he shudders at the approach
Of stricken Hester, with her demon child.

So wanes the night. In quick succession move
Shades of the mighty dead before my eyes.
Again is played the Comedy Divine,
And gloomily the awful form of him
Whose mind such Titan offspring bore, attends
The movement of each scene. The cowl and robe,
Close at his side, betray that zealous monk
Whose life was Imitation of the Christ.
Amid the still increasing throng, behold
Sage Izaak Walton, creel and rod in hand;
But while I gaze upon his visage mild,
Expectant half to hear his counsel how
The wily carp to ensnare, the fiery bridge
O’er which my fancy boldly trod, and found
Her way to realms unreal, topples down
With mimic crash, and lies a ruined mass
Upon the hearth. Yet by its waning glow
I see the hurried parting of my guests,
Retreating each within his narrow cell;
As when beneath a monastery roof
The low, sweet chant of vespers dies away,--
The last faint echoes lingering still within
The moonlit cloisters,--silently the forms
Of holy men glide to and fro among
The shadows, till the hush of night descends
With brooding wings, and gathers all to rest.

THE END.

=TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE=

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

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Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the
text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Some words with hyphens, or without them, have been silently
adjusted to be more consistent.