Chapter II: Part 2

But the frightened hind dares not approach
To touch that form of eld,
And laid instead in the mailed grasp
The iron bar he held.
Like wax the iron bent and snapped,
And the grim lips moved to smile.
“Ha! There are men in Denmark still;
I may rest me yet a while.”

Never since then has mortal man
Trod the forgotten stair,
Or lifted the bar of the hidden vault
To rouse the sleeper there.
But whenever the Danish blood is hot,
Or the land for a hero cries,
Men think of Holger Danske,
And they look to see him rise.

For the runes have read and the sagas sung
That whenever the worst shall be,
And the Raven standard flutter low
Above the Northern Sea,
And the Danish blade be broken short,
And the land be rent with grief,
The genius of the Danes shall wake
And come to his relief.

Before his cold and frozen look,
Before his blasting blade,
The armies of the foe shall flee,
The alien shrink, afraid;
And the Paladin of ancient days
Shall rule with the ancient might,
And all the bitter be made sweet,
And all the wrong made right.

Out of the throes of the heaviest pain
This new peace shall be born,
Out of the very heart of night
Break the unlooked-for morn,
When the nation’s need shall answer
In one deep, according chime,
To the voice of Holger Danske,
Demanding, “Is it time?”

VASSOS

SILENT he sits upon the Cretan height,
A girdling ring of fleets and forts below;
He sees the war-ships gliding to and fro,
Hears distant, summoning trumpets through the night.
Far off is Greece, the enemy is near;
To her he speaks, to him he nothing says;
Borrowing the lightning’s language for his phrase,
With fiery flash he talks, in utterance clear.
In the old time a monarch through the murk
Stared shuddering, and watched while fiery lines
Traced on the wall a word of destiny;
And so the “Christian” kings who serve the Turk
May read like message in those flashing signs:
“Weighed, wanting, lo! thy power is taken from thee.”

MUTINY

THE heart of the world beats slow,
And the pulse of life is low,
And the shrunk earth powerless lies, and prone in the clutches of
the frost;
And the short, short days go by,
And the sun in the wintry sky
Shoots a cold ray into the noon as if its heat were lost.

But put your ear to the ground,
And a stir of dim-heard sound
Will reach it,—a murmur of slow revolt, like the hiss of a rising
tide.
No rootlet faint and chill
But shares the quivering thrill;
And mutinous whispers come and go where the thralls of the winter
hide.

Ah, despot, hoary and old!
Your fetters are strong and cold,
But stronger the slender slaves they bind, and they shall conquer
thee.
A little longer still
You may urge your cruel will,
Then the dungeon-doors shall open wide and the prisoners go free.

Bluebird and robin then
Shall sing your requiem.
The moon shall laugh at your defeat, the teasing winds deride;
For your icicles on eaves
Shall dance the happy leaves
And the bayonets of the daffodils thrust all your frosts aside.

For while the stars endure
This sweet truth standeth sure,—
That life is ever lord of death, and love o’ercometh hate.
So, though the months seem long,
And the icy fetters strong,
We will abide in patience, come the springtime soon or late.

UNFORGOTTEN

WHERE the long pastures skirt the bay
And sober-eyed New England keeps
The leisure of its old-time way,
Among her buried kin, she sleeps.

Blown o’er by winds or heaped with snow,
That little mound and headstone rude
Is all that marks for us below
A flower of sweetest womanhood.

Twenty swift years of sun and shade
Have fleeted past, half unperceived,
Since her delightful presence made
Our lives seem worthier to be lived.

The dust of days, the sands of years
Have hidden her fair memory deep,
And eyes once blind with bitterest tears
Have long forgotten how to weep;

And death and love and life have whirled
To orbits new and strange since she
Who was the heart of that old world
Made room for these changed things to be.

Past her still resting-place all day,
With rush and flash and resonant roar,
The tide of travel takes its way
Along the bay-indented shore.

Shrill sounds the flying clamor, blent
With softer surge of dim-heard surf,
Across the orchard closes sent
To break upon her graving turf.

And hearts that loved her once speed fast,
Idly intent on shore and skies,
Nor turn to give a look or cast
A thought toward her where she lies!

It is the usual lot! We live
Too strenuously for long regret,
Too occupied and taxed to give
Our minds to perished pain; but yet,

Borne on the vibrant, clanging wheels,
I never pass that half-seen place,
But flashing o’er my memory steals
The vision of that sweet, lost face;

And my heart whispers low to her,
Across the distance dim and chill:
“Sleep softly, dearest, do not stir,
I love you—I remember still.”

DENIAL

NOT only Peter in the judgment-hall,
Not only in the centuries gone by,
Did coward hearts deny Thee, Lord of all,
But even in our time, and constantly;
For feeble wills, and the mean fear of men,
And selfish dread, are with us now as then.

To-day we vow allegiance to Thy name;
To-day our souls, ourselves, we pledge to Thee,
Yet if a storm-wind of reproach or blame
Rises and beats upon us suddenly,
Faltering and fearful, we deny our Lord,
By traitorous silence or by uttered word.

We close our lips when speech would wake a sneer;
We turn aside and shirk the rougher path;
We gloss and blink as if we did not hear
The scoffing word which calls for righteous wrath.
All unrebuked we let the scoffer go,
And we deny our Lord and Master so.

Come Thou, as once of old Thou camest in
And “looked on Peter” in the judgment-hall;
Let that deep, grievéd gaze rebuke our sin,
Questioning, recalling, wakening, pardoning all,
Till we go out and weep the whole night long,
Made strong by sorrow as He was made strong.

ASTORIA BY TWILIGHT

ALL pale the daffodil-tinted sky;
The dusky shores that ’neath it lie
Are set like an etching against the color,
As the great steamship plunges by.

There is the road I used to know,
There are the windows still aglow,
As when in those old days of welcome
They lit the visitants to and fro.

There are the gates I used to pass,
The belts of flowers, the shaven grass,
The casements behind which well-known faces
Smiled softly at me through the glass.

No other eye than mine could see
If that dim shape be house or tree;
The true heart hath its inner vision,
It is all clear as day to me.

I see the forms so long unseen,
Stately in age, of reverend mien,
Gay youth, and flower-like baby faces,
And manhood’s aspect grave and keen.

And, beautiful beyond compare,
Mysteriously, strangely fair,
Like some clear star high-hung in heaven
And sweet as summer roses are,—

One dear face hovers o’er the spot,
Which knew her once and knows her not;
And still from out the deathly shadows,
Looks forth, beloved and unforgot.

All vain are beauty, worth, and wit,
The hours come, the hours flit;
Time’s wheel inexorably turneth,
And carries all our hopes with it.

It is life’s common end and way;
Nothing abides and naught may stay;
And strangers in the kinsmen’s places
Front us with alien eyes to-day.

If Grief were not Joy’s earthly stem,
And Time Eternity’s brief hem,
I could not bear it to sit in shadow
And watch that shore—remembering them!

THE PRICE OF FREYA

[Freya, in the Scandinavian mythology, was the goddess of
Youth and Hope. While she remained with the gods and fed
them daily with her golden apples they were all-powerful;
but when Wodin parted with her as the price for the building
of Walhalla, they suddenly became weak and weary, and a
shadow rested over the world. Walhalla was of no worth
without Freya.]

THE towers are strong and the towers are fair
As they rise and gleam in the sunlit air,
With bastion and battlement and spire
Built for one rule and one desire;
Fain would we enter there and sway,
But the giant builder the door secures,
And mutters his price as he bars the way:
“Give up Freya, and all is yours.”

There in the citadel fancy built
Are the riches of ages heaped and spilt;
Diamonds glitter and rubies gleam,
And moon-like pearls front the pale moonbeam.
Golden the roof and gold the floor;
The glittering splendor woos and lures;
And the tempting voice repeats once more:
“Give up Freya, and all is yours.”

What! give up hope with its rainbow sheen,
Give up the sparkle, the song, the jest,
The vision of something dreamed, not seen,
Which is sweeter by far than the thing possessed?
The flowers of May and the roses of June,
The sweet spring-breath of the April breeze,
The dew of morn and the light of noon—
When we give up Freya, must we give all these?

But we give; and we enter the towers of pride,
And we thread our gems and we count our gold;
And we bid our hearts to be satisfied
With so much to have and so much to hold.
But the smile is faded from the day;
Our drink is bitter, our bread is stone—
And amid the shadows we sit and say:
“Nothing is worth with Freya gone.”

A SUMMER SONG

SING thyself out, sweet summer, leave not a note unsung;
Smile to the end, dear summer, dimpling on land and sea,
Voice all the praise of the roses, O bells of the lily which rung
The holiday signal for the world, heard by my heart and me!

The earth it was weary of winter, of the frost and the tingling snow,
Of winds which blew from the icy Pole, daunting the faint sun-ray;
And the pulse of life beat fainter, and the fire of hope burned low,
And we yearned for thy coming, summer, and thou wert so far away.

Then the shy, cool noon shone warmer, and the shrunken veins of earth
Pulsed with a quicker current which glowed in the willow’s stem,
And the frozen graves were opened, and death gave place to birth,
And the drowsy flowers reared their heads, and called the birds to them.

Back they came trooping blithely, the oriole and the wren,
Robin and jay and hermit-thrush, to twilight-haunted grove;
New nests, new music, and new hopes, in upland and in glen,
And all the winter discords turned to harmonies of love.

O hearts that failed and doubted, and eyes that were blind and wet,
And dared not trust the heavenly love which giveth each good thing,
The Lord he never forgets his world, and he never will forget,
And year by year from the graving snows he builds his blessed spring!

Tell thyself out then, summer, leave not a word unsaid,
Give sun to sky, and dew to earth, and moon to silver sea;
Give faith to sore and sorrowing hearts who grieve beside their dead,
And tell them God can bring them back, even as he brought back thee.

AN EVENING PRIMROSE

WHEN all the west is red at set of sun,
And cool airs waken which were hushed at noon,
And crickets chirr and trill, and one by one
The birds’ songs die away to sleepy croon,
And each white lily on the garden walk,
Dew-heavy, hangs its head upon its stalk;

When dawning soft and faint upon the blue,
The vague, mysterious, dreamy blue of night,
The first dim planet glimmers into view,
’Tis then it opens with a shy delight
Its pale gold, wayside blossoms near and far,
Holding them up to greet the evening star.

The freshness of the morning tempts it not,
Nor fervid noon, nor the warm wind’s caress;
It envies not the royal rose’s lot,
Choosing, as background for its loveliness,
The dewy shadows and the twilight lone;
Making the hush of eventide its own.

The blaze and sunshine of the summer hours
Know not nor prize the blooms they never see;
None of the jubilant and day-lit flowers
Hail it as sister, but the drowsy bee
And the night-moth, just roused from his repose,
They love it better than the fair, proud rose.

A type it seems of some shy human hearts,
Which palely shrink from joy and shun renown,
But when the sun grows colder and departs,
And the dim, hovering night shuts darkly down
And all the happy things which feed on day
Shiver and shrink and hide themselves away—

Then, like the primrose with its pale gold star,
They open sudden blooms of love and cheer,
Giving out fragrance where no others are,
Gilding the heavy hours of doubt and fear,
Fronting the shadows, till with dawn ends pain,
Then folding silently their buds again.

A ROSE IN A GLASS

ONLY a rose in a glass,
Set by a sick man’s bed;
The day was weary, the day was long,
But the rose it spoke with a voice like song,
And this is what it said:

“I know that the wind is keen,
And the drifted snows lie deep;
I know that the cruel ice lies spread
O’er the laughing brook and the lake’s blue bed,
And the fountain’s rush and leap.

“I know, I know all this;
Yet here I sit—a rose!
Smiling I sit, and I feel no fear,
For God is good and the Spring is near,
Couched in the shrouding snows.

“Canst thou not smile with me?
Art thou less strong than I?
Less strong at heart than a feeble flower
Which lives and blossoms but one brief hour,
And then must droop and die?

“Surely, thou canst endure
Thy little pains and fears,
Before whose eyes, all fair and bright,
In endless vistas of delight
Stretch the Eternal Years!”

Then over the sick man’s heart
Fell a deep and hushed repose.
He turned on his pillow and whispered low,
That only the listening flower might know:
“I thank thee, Rose, dear Rose.”

SNOWBOUND

IT looks so cold, this drifted snow,
So cruelly, deadly cold, and yet
The hidden bulbs and roots below
Deem it their friendliest coverlet.

Wrapped warmly in its fleecy veil
They hear, unshuddering where they lie,
The patter and the hiss of hail,
The angry storm-wind whirling by.

Above, the world is tempest-tossed;
Buried too deep for doubts and fears,
The detonations of the frost
Come dumbed and softened to their ears.

Sleeping, they smile as children do,
Secure of shield and covering,
And trust the Promise, proved and true,
The unforgetting pledge of spring.

Their veins a slumbering pulse informs,
The life within them stirs and grows,
And fed and sheltered so by storms,
They wait content beneath the snows.

Life has its storms; its hard, cold days,
When blasts of grief and frosts of care
Drift in upon the happy ways,
And blight the blooms that made them fair.

Cheerless we scan the wastes of white
Which seem of Hope the high-heaped grave,
Nor guess that hidden far from sight
Lie germs of joy, secure and brave;

And that, when comes God’s blessed spring,
(As surely it shall come at last
To every grieved and patient thing!)
And all the winter-time is past,—

And the snow melts, and hands unseen
Set buds and blossoms on each stem,
We shall note growths which had not been
If Sorrow had not sheltered them!

SHELTERED

“FEAR no more the heat of the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages.”

THE piercing blast blows from the pole,
The panes are glazed with ice,
All etched and freaked in fairy lines,
With many a strange device;
The hard snow echoes underfoot
To tread of hurrying feet,
And every freezing breath is charged
With particles of sleet.

But thou, my darling, who till late
Endured the winter’s sting,
And faded yearly with the flowers,
And shared their suffering,
Out of the storm wind and the frost,
Like birds which southward soar,
From the chill world which hurt thee so
Hast flown forevermore.

In sheltered and eternal spring,
Where never cold wind blew,
Amid the all-contented saints,
Thou sittest, contented too.
The hard things are forgotten quite,
The heavenly rest is fair,
And we who shiver still on earth
Are glad that thou art there.

THE OLD PINE

UPON the lonely, wind-swept crest,
Where the hill-summit fronts the west,
Set like gaunt sentinels in row
To watch the seasons come and go,
In stalwart and unbending lines,
There stands a row of hoary pines.

Long have they stood, and much have seen,
Deer couched once in their coverts green,
The Indian paused his bow to string,
The wild cat crouched before its spring,
And from deep hollows far below
The wolf’s long howl rang o’er the snow.

Sleek kine and browsing sheep now stray
Where once was heard the wolves’ wild bay,
The red man fading slow made place
For an encroaching, stronger race,
And on the once lonely, rocky height
A church uprears its steeple white.

Scorning such human accidents,
Broadening their green circumference,
Each year made taller, statelier still,
The pine trees topped the wind-swept hill,
And surged responsive melodies
Like simulated sounds of seas.

Till yesterday their century long
Companionship held firm and strong,
Then a wild bolt of lightning sped
And smote their leader’s lofty head,
Plunging a ghastly deep-scarred line
Down the brown trunk of the old pine.

Still does he rear his head on high,
Still stanchly fronts the sun and sky,
Still do his needles in soft tunes
Make sea songs for the summer moons,
Veiling the deadly wound and blight;
But all the same he died last night.

For a brief space his stricken form
May bide the buffet of the storm,
While the deep rift within his heart
Widens and tears his trunk apart,
Then, with a crash from overhead,
He falls, and all men know him dead.

Ah, gallant heart, so firm to bear,
So resolute to face despair,
Hiding the grievous hurt away
Which saps thy being day by day,
And simulating with hard strife
The bearing and the look of life.

Patience is strong, and strong is faith,
But mightier still the power of death;
Thy flesh is weaker than thy pain,
Vain is the struggle, all in vain.
Heaven’s bolt of doom was surely sped,
And even to-day we count thee dead.

IN THE FOREFRONT

ONCE a small, childish dancing company,
We ran behind the ranks of older ones
Half seen, half noticed, very proud to be
Part of the grown procession with the drums;
Each manly stride they covered cost us three
Of our small steps,—that was small price to pay
For sharing in the glory of the day.

Where are the ranks that seemed to us so tall,
So full of fire and force and valor brave,
So full of wisest wisdom, knowing all
That man can know, or children dumbly crave
To understand with their weak powers, and small?
It seems a little time since thus we ran,
Yet we, the children then, now lead the van.

The stately forms which towered like forest trees,
The limbs which never tired, (as we supposed!)
The wills which ruled our infant destinies,
The strength beneath whose shadow we reposed,
Authority, love, shelter,—all of these,
Yielding like straws in tempest to the brunt
Of Time’s fierce wind, have left us in the front.

’Tis we who are the stalwart leaders now
(Or seem so to the little ones behind),
The tireless marchers whom the gods endow
With the keen vision, the all-judging mind,
The will, which questions not of why or how,
But rules and dominates all lesser fates,
Regardless of their puny loves or hates!

How strange it seems to lead, who once were led!
To feel the pressure of the quick young race
Following and urging on behind our tread,
Ready and eager to usurp our place,
Crowding us forward,—though no word be said!
’Tis but the natural law which stars obey,
Following in order due through night, through day.

O march which seemed so long and is so brief!
Whether by rough ways led or smooth greensward,
Under clear sun or hovering clouds of grief,
What matter, so they end in thee, O Lord!
Who art of mortal toils the full reward?
We will keep on content and fearlessly,
Nor seek for rest until we rest in Thee.

INTERRUPTED

I PLANNED a plan, and duly made
A plan to fill one little day.
Pleasure and toil were gauged and weighed,
This hour for work and that for play,
And each for each made room and way.

I set my wilful feet to tread
The wilful path self-chosen as right,
Resolved to walk unhinderèd,
Nor turn to left, nor turn to right,
Until the coming of the night.

But interruptions all day long,
And little vexing hindrances,
Each weak, but all together strong,
Came one by one to fret and tease,
And balk my purpose, and displease.

Friendship laid fetters on the noon,
And fate threw sudden burdens down,
And hours were short and strength failed soon,
And darkness came the day to drown,
Hope changed to grief and smile to frown.

Then I said sadly: “All is vain;
No use there is in planning aught,
Labor is wasted once again,
And wisdom is to folly brought,
And all the day has gone for naught.”

Then spoke a voice within my soul:
“The day was yours, and will was free,
And self was guide and self was goal,
Each hour was full as hour could be—
What space was left, my child, for _Me_?

“Where was the moment in your plan
For work of Mine which might not wait?
The need, the wish of fellow man,
The little threads of mutual fate
Which touch and tangle soon or late?

“These ‘hindrances’ which made you fret,
These ‘interruptions,’ one by one,
They were but sudden tasks I set,
My errands for your feet to run,
Will you disdain them, child, or shun?”

Oh, blind of heart and dull of soul!
I only felt, the long day through,
That I was thwarted of my goal,
And chafed rebelliously, nor knew
The Lord had aught for me to do!

Forgive me, Lord, my selfish day,
Touch my sealed eyes, and bid them wake
To see Thy tasks along the way,
Thy errands, which my hands may take,
And do them gladly for Thy sake.

SAINT CHRISTOPHER

Not only in the legend does he stand
Beside the river current rushing fast,
A dim-drawn giant figure, strong and vast,
His staff within his hand;

But in our own day visible, beside
The darker stream of human pain and sin,
Our eyes have watched him, battling hard to win
For weaker souls a pathway through the tide.

Upheld by him and safely carried o’er
The waves which else had overwhelmed and drowned,
How many a faint and doubting heart hath found
Glad footing on the unhoped-for, distant shore!

And still as his strong, tireless arm again
And yet again their burden raised and took,
You read in the deep reverence of his look
He did the work for God and not for men.

Christophorus our saint, named now with tears.
The deeds he did were Christ’s, the words he said,
All his strong, vital, splendid strength he laid
At the Lord’s feet through the unstinting years.

And now beside that Lord in highest Heaven,
Past the dark stream of Death, which all must tread,
He rests secure, with joy upon his head,
And a “New Name” which hath to him been given.

But still to memory’s eye he stands the same,
A stalwart shape where the deep waters run,
Upbearing, aiding, strengthening every one,
Carrying them onward in his Lord’s dear name.

CONQUEROR

J. S. W.

THE voice of Duty, low, but clarion clear,
Found her, safe seated in the golden haze
Of youth and ease, living luxurious days.
She roused to listen; her enchanted ear
Heard nevermore the music of the earth—
The dancing measure, or the reveler’s call,
Or flute note of Apollo, nor the fall
Of Orphic melodies. As nothing worth
She counted them; in vain her ear to please
They rang their varied changes, urged and wooed,
Following swift Duty, leader to all good,
She went thenceforward;—so she conquered Ease.

Then fell her tender feet on harder road,
With stones beset and briers and many a thorn;
And there, her woman’s strength all overborne,
She sank at length, fainting beneath her load.
And time went by, while helpless still she lay,
Shackled by weakness, vexed with hopes and fears,
Watching the long and tantalizing years
Built from the salt sands of her every day;
But still she bravely smiled through loss and gain;
Through the slow ebb of cheer and fortune’s frown,
Her quenchless soul no chilling waves could drown,
No fires exhaust;—and so she conquered Pain.

And, last, the dim, mysterious shape drew near,
Whom men name “Death,” with pale, averted eyes;
(But whom the Heavenly ones call otherwise!)
She met his hovering presence without fear.
Long time they strove; and as the Patriarch cried,
“Except thou bless, I will not let thee go”!
So she; until at dawn the vanquished foe
Utterly blessed, and left her satisfied.
Oh, sweet to her the first, long, rapturous breath
Of Heaven, after life’s pent and prisoning air;
Freedom unstinted, power to will and dare
The victory won from Life and over Death.

THE YEAR AND THE CENTURY

THE New Year came surrounded with Hope and Joy and Song,
And he smiled like dawning sunrise as he stood amid the throng.
The hopeful months they followed expectantly and slow;
But the Old Year went companionless, as all the Old Years go.

All sad and stern the Old Year went, along the unknown way;
His heart was full of bitterness, he had no word to say.
Then wonder seized upon his heart, for he was not alone;
A mighty shadow step by step was gliding by his own!

He turned to face a vast dark shape with eyes like clouded day,
And, “Who art thou, O wondrous one?” the Old Year, awed, did say.
“I am thy fellow pilgrim up the pathway of the sky;
Together bound, thou the dead year, I the dead century.”

The Old Year bared his forehead, and bent his feeble knee.
“I am unworthy of such grace, such august company.”
The other raised him gently. “Kneel not to me,” he said;
“The less, the larger, are as one when numbered with the dead.

“A hundred of thy fellows have gone to swell my tale;
A hundred centuries such as I, poured in the mighty scale
In which God swings eternity, shall count for nothing more
Than the dust borne by the wind away, the fleet foam on the shore.

“Centuries or years or cycles, we fleet and disappear;
But the Lord who is the source of time, and builds each growing year,
Abides. Within His sight you and I are shadows dim;
Yet He made us both, He loves us both, and now we go to Him.”

The Old Year shivered as he heard these words of lofty cheer;
Then light came to his faded eyes, and courage chased his fear.
He felt a strong hand clasp his own, and, held and guided so,
He went forth with the Century to where the dead Years go.

A. V. C.

[JUNE, 1898]

IT did not seem unmeet that she whose heart
Had doors wide open always for each friend,
And held no lonely corners set apart,
Should go, companioned closely, to the end.

It was not strange she left without farewell;
That was a word she never loved to say.
Her gentle lips, whatever fate befell,
Parted more readily for glad “Good-day.”

Heart of the home wherein her presence made
Perpetual sunshine for each shady place,
Centre of kindly thought, of kindly aid,
And hospitality’s long practised grace.

Dear friend, who did not tarry for good-byes
But swiftly trod the heavenward path of air,
God keep thee in His safe, sure Paradise,
And let us, following, find thy welcome there.

“THE LAND THAT IS VERY FAR OFF”

SO far! Is it so far then, that dear country
Which homesick hearts expectant claim as theirs,
Chiding the years as slow which patient come and go,
And make no answer to reproach or prayers?

Is it so far then? For at times it seemeth
More dear, familiar, close than aught beside,
Bounding our mortal day, lying beside our way,
Only the little veil of flesh to hide.

Is it so far? When those who have gone thither
Seem so near always, always near and sure,
Loving and aiding still, sharing our joy and ill,
Lifting our burdens, helping to endure.

Is it so far then? I cannot believe it.
When the veil parts and rends and lets us through,
The first surprise of bliss, I think, will be in this,
That the far off was nearer than we knew;

That what we mourned as lost was close beside us,
Touching us every day in every spot,
While, blinded with dull tears, groping through faithless years,
We were upheld and led and knew it not.

Let us not call it far—the heavenly country;
It bounds our little space like viewless air,
And while we sorrowing say that it is far away
We touch it, all unknowing, everywhere.

THE HEAVENLY AIRS

WORK is the fresh air of the soul!
It clears the heavy brain,
Quickens the pulses of the mind,
Warms thought to action, and the blind
And sluggish will sunk into ease
Of ineffective lethargies
It stirs to life again.

Grief is the cold air of the soul!
It chills and blights the flowers,
In urgent gusts it sways and smites,
Freezing the source of all delights;
But roots grow strong by dint of storm,
And, when the spring awakes, they form
The growth of happier hours.

Love is the warm air of the soul!
It reacheth far and wide,
Clasping all life with healing touch,
Wooing the little into much,
Making brown branch and buried root
To bud and blossom and bear fruit
Like the sweet summer-tide.

Blow, heavenly winds, on every soul!
And stir them constantly;
Sting us and quicken us and bless,
Relax not in thy urgent stress,
Till out of toil and love and pain
Full strength and stature we attain,
And are led home by thee.

IN THE FOG

VEILS of pallid mist and gray
Wrap the world of yesterday;
Fir-fringed island, rocky cape,
Yellow sands, and mountain shape,
Sun and sky, and waters blue,
All are blotted from the view.
Out to sea we blindly stare;
Did we dream that such things were?

No; untouched, and safe and sure,
All these lovely things endure;
Underneath that hovering mist,
All the blue and amethyst,
All the rocky cliffs and sea,
All the surf-lines rippling free,
Mountain forms and islands green,—
All are there, although unseen.

If we bravely bide and wait
Through this brief eclipse of Fate,
Smile through the unsmiling noon,
Keeping heart and hope in tune,—
Shadow shall give place to sun,
And, out-stealing, one by one,
All the fair things mourned in vain
Shall be made our own again.

Dear heart, faint heart, who in shade
Sitteth, pale, perplexed, afraid,
At the brief evanishment
Of thy yesterday’s content,—
Courage take; for hope endures,
Though a little mist obscures,
And behind the fog-wreaths dun
Brightens the eternal sun.

THE PORCH OF LIFE

WITHIN the Porch of Life we sit,
The access to the heavenly door,
The shadowy porch where cold rains pour,
And every bleak wind blows on it.
And those who crowd to stand thereon
Smiling with youth grow grave anon.

We sit among our fellows so,
Shivering a little in the wind,
And still our eyes reach out to find
The faint beam of an inward glow—
A home-like ray, which through the door
Steals, softly beckoning, evermore.

There in sure comfort, safe and warm;
They sit who have an entrance won,
Smiling and glad; each dearest one
Who once endured the bitter storm,
And shared our patience and our pain,
But come not forth to share again.

Dear door, which never is shut tight,
And knows no bolt and needs no bar,
But through all ages stands ajar
To bless the eyes which yearn for sight,
And keep the souls that wait without
From the slow desolate death of doubt!

The Porch of Life is hard and bare,
And long the waiting sometimes seems.
But while we catch the out-reaching beams,
Making the darkness subtly fair,
And know the door is open still,
We can endure it with goodwill.

THE LIGHTHOUSE

HIGH lifted on the island cliff
Its lantern fronts the sea,
And sendeth forth a fine, straight ray
Of dazzling light to me—
A slender line of shimmering shine
Across night’s mystery.

It is the path set for my eyes
To travel to the light,
And warm their darkness in the blaze,
And be made glad and bright.
None other may catch just that ray,
Or have the self-same sight.

And yet, a hundred other eyes,
Bent on that central blaze,
Find each its separate, shining path,
Its line of guiding rays;
And all eyes meet in concord sweet
By all these differing ways.

No voice shall say: “The Light is mine,
All other eyes are dim!”
No hand the glory hold or hide
Which streams to ocean’s rim,
None claim or seize one ray as his
More than belongs to him.

O Light of Truth, which lighteneth all,
And shineth all abroad,
What favored soul or souls shall say,
“Mine is the only road?”
Each hath his own, to him made known,
And all lead up to God.

ONCE AND FOREVER

OUR own are our own forever, God taketh not back his gift.
They may pass beyond our vision, but our souls shall find them out,
When the waiting is all accomplished, and the deathly shadows lift,
And glory is given for grieving, and the surety of God for doubt.

We may find the waiting bitter, and count the silence long,
God knoweth we are dust, and he pitieth our pain;
And when faith has grown to fulness, and the silence changed to song,
We shall eat the fruit of patience, and shall hunger not again.

So sorrowing hearts who dumbly in darkness and all alone
Sit missing a dear lost presence and the joy of a vanished day,
Be comforted with this message that our own are forever our own,
And God, who gave the gracious gift, he takes it never away.

LIGHTS

A LITTLE lamp can send but a brief and feeble ray,
The great lights bravely beam, and their radiance far away
Is the comfort of the nations and the furtherance of the day.

All men remember when the great lights were lit,
The day is kept in honor, and they name it as they sit
And watch the guiding flame, thanking and blessing it.

But the small and struggling lights which a breath of storm might kill,
Each fain to light a continent, but doomed to smallness still,
Is there no one to praise them for their service of goodwill?

Yes, one, the Lord of all, who is the source of Light;
He sees them where they burn in the blackness of Earth’s night,
And the larger and the less alike are precious in his sight.

He is the secret source by which their flames are fed,
From the beacon’s wide, white ray which flashes overhead,
To the intermittent ray which the half-spent tapers shed;

And to each he says, “Well done,” which has bravely sought to burn.
And when the dawn ariseth, and each is quenched in turn,
Absorbed into the perfect day for which pure spirits yearn;—

Each little flame that struggled to make the night more fair
Shall find its place in Paradise and burn in heavenly air,
And the Father of all Lights shall be its welcome there.

ON THE LAWN

ON the half-frozen lawn, where the early grass was springing,
In the sunny days just over, and where now the frost is lying,
I hear a happy chorus of little voices singing,
A hopeful, cheery call and a hopefuller replying.

’Tis the bluebird and the robin,—what brings them back so early
From the sunny southern meadows, and the fields of honeyed clover,
From the stately tall magnolias, hung with blossoms sweet and pearly,
And the starry yellow jasmine which the wood-bee hovers over?

And now that they have come, beguiled and led a-straying
By Mother Nature, who would seem to joy in such deceiving,
How can they sing so blithely, with frost and famine playing,
As if the world were never meant to be a place for grieving?
What is the secret of the hope that bears them up so bravely
In the shelterless unfed to-day, the unprovided morrow?
Oh, would that I might learn it,—I who sit here looking gravely
With an apprehensive shiver for the shape of coming sorrow!

Say, bluebird, and say, robin? They answer but by singing,
As with a whirr of fluttering wings the small shapes dart and fly;
But my sadness rises with them, and all my cares seem winging,
And leaving me as glad as they, but I cannot tell you why.

IF ONLY

IF only—shadow did not follow sun,
If only—tempests lurked not in blue weather,
If only—life did not so swiftly run
And dreams need not be waked from altogether.

If only—hearts were not attuned to ache,
If only—joy and mirth turned not to grieving,
If only—we could seize and overtake
The rainbow Hope which lures us on deceiving!

If only—love were not poured out to waste,
If only—discord spared sweet music’s closes,
If only—blight and canker did not haste
To mar the lily’s white, the stainless roses!

If only—sentinels beside the ways,
Death, suffering, and sin stood not to daunt us,
If shadows from the vanished yesterdays
And fears for the to-morrows did not haunt us.

If only!—human grief unceasingly
Repeats in myriad tongues the wistful sighing.
Mighty and mournful is the mingled cry,
But never comes there any full replying,

Except when, o’er the tumult and the pain,
Above the upraised, questioning, tear-stained faces,
We catch at times a half heard, answering strain,
An antiphone from the high, heavenly places.

“If only, Lord,” the happy voices sing,
“If only—we have Thee, who faileth never,
Nor life, nor death, nor any other thing
Can hurt our joy forever and forever.

“If men could know how quickly pain is spent,
What compensations heaven has in keeping,
What home means after earth’s bleak banishment,
If only—they would smile instead of weeping.”

Sing louder, radiant host, wake our dull ears,
Till, though the path be hard and the day lonely,
We, too, shall answer through the mists of tears,
“If only—we have Thee, Lord, have Thee only.”

PRELUDE

A FEW notes, half harmonious
And half discordant, subtly blent,
The master sounds and touches, thus
To test and try his instrument.

Not music’s self, but its presage;
Not tune, but hint of tune it is;
Of better things the pledge and gage,
And prized for what it promises.

Just so the sweet musician, Spring,
’Mid blowing winds and dropping rains,
Tightens and sounds each vagrant string,
In odd, capricious, sudden strains.

It is not music she essays,
But just a hint of what shall be
When earth and sky and nights and days
Join in the summer harmony.

And do we dream, or is it true,
The grass so brown but yester-morn
Has caught a subtly greener hue
In sheltered corners of the lawn?

Can there be buds upon the hedge—
Wee, starry pointlets half unrolled?
And were we blind to read the pledge
Written in the willow’s pencilled gold?

And is it fancy that there breathes
A vagrant perfume in the air,
A scent of freshly opened leaves?
There are no leaves yet anywhere.

Ah, dear Spring, stay thy flying feet;
Try all thy chords; play leisurely;
Though if thy preludes are so sweet
What will the finished music be?

WHOM NO MAN HATH HIRED

EACH soul must serve some master. Everywhere,
Alike in wilderness and market places,
They stand and wait all the long hours of day.
They wait with expectation in their faces
And mutely question each new wayfarer,
And “Art thou he?” their asking glances say.

Then some with downcast aspect take their wage
And follow after shapes of darksome mien,
Evil and doubtful, leading from the light;
And some with radiant eyes alight are seen,
Crowding, as bound on common pilgrimage,
Behind a peaceful Leader robed in white.

And Pain calls one to serve him at his will,
And cloudy Doubt another claims for slave,
And wingéd Riches offer specious fees
And brightly gild a pathway to the grave,
And Patience, with a forehead veiled and still,
Enrols a few, making no promises.

Some at the early dawning go their way,
Some when the suntides wave the morning sky,
And some at heat of noon and harvest-tide,
While others with dull, disappointed eyes
Watch the long shadows creep and dim the day,
And still unhired and unemployed abide.

Lord of the vintage, recompensing Lord,
Behold these waiting ones and call them in,
Let them not choose another Lord than Thee,
Made the despairing thralls of self and sin,
Losing the joy of toil and full reward
Which make Thy service perfect liberty.

Send forth the servants of Thy love and power,
These whom no man hath hired make Thine own.
Before the spent sun vanish in the west
Let the brief toil the ill-spent day atone,
And though not called till the eleventh hour,
Give them like blessed wages with the rest.

ON EASTER EVEN

WHEN the sun sets, let me say,
“Each day is an Easter day,
When the Lord may rise in me,
Bringing life and victory;
Every eve an Easter eve,
When my heart a glorious guest
Must make ready to receive,
Swept and cleansed and duly dressed.

“On its altar there shall lie
Lilies white of purity;
Roses white and roses red
Shall their grateful odors shed;
Passion flowers with cross on breast,
Violet purple sweet, I’ll lay
Where my Lord’s dear feet may rest,
Haply—on this Easter day.”

No long waiting need we know,
While the slow months come and go;
No set Lent observe, if we
Make all time our Lent to be;
Not one festal, brief and bright,
But a year, where every morn
Hearts made ready over night
Wake to find an Easter dawn.

So each night, O faithful heart,
Keep thy vigil, draw apart,
Dress thy altar fair and fit,
Sure the Lord will hallow it!
Death in vain forbids Him rise,
Sin in vain would bar His way,
And, each morrow, in the skies,
There shall dawn an Easter day!

PALM SUNDAY

THE King is coming! All the road
With branches of the palm is strewed;
The multitudes are thronging fast
To see him as he rideth past.
They look for pomp and sovereignty,
Purple and gold and crown to see,
They bring the sick, the halt, the dumb.
The King is coming! Let him come.

The Christ is coming! Coarsely dressed
With sandalled feet and fisher’s vest,
His steed the lowly ass’s foal,
His crown the viewless aureole;
No sword, no seal, no royal cloak;
Twelve tired and dusty working folk
Make of his court the tale and sum.
The Christ is coming! Let him come.

The King is coming! Every year
He comes for hearts that hold him dear,
Borne in as on that by-gone day
With palm-boughs strewed along his way,
No longer clad in lowly guise,
But King of Kings to faithful eyes.
To every heart that gives him room
The Lord of Love vouchsafes to come.

The Christ is coming! Heart of mine,
What fitting gift, of love the sign,
Hast thou to lay as offering
Upon the pathway of the King?
No palm-branch hast thou? Nothing meet?
Then lay thyself before his feet.
His smile can make thy dryness bloom.
The Christ is coming! Let him come!

THE PASCHAL FEAST

IN travelling guise they held the Paschal Feast
In olden days.
With loins girt about, and shoes on feet,
And staves in hand, they met and shared the meat,
And gave God praise.

No lingering at the banquet; each man took
His portion due,
And swiftly hied him forth, even as did
His fathers, worn slaves of the pyramid,
Zion in view.

A single morsel might suffice for some,
Snatched as they went;
On promise and on type their souls were fed,
So, though their bodies lacked a little bread,
They were content.

And even thus, my soul, be it with thee,
This Easter Day.
With loins girt about, and staff in hand,
As one made ready for the Promised Land,
Who may not stay;

Come, then. The feast is spread which angels still
Desire to taste;
Take thou thy crumb, nor wait for farther good,
To bask and batten on immortal food,
But rise in haste;

And get thee forth to the hard-trodden way,
The toil and tire,
The wilderness with many thorns beset,
O’er which the cloudy pillar hovers yet,
The guiding fire.

The Promised Land it beckons fair and far,
Beyond thy view.
And though the foe be fierce, and travail long,
The Lord shall hold thee up, and keep thee strong,
And guide thee through.

Then, at the upper table, safely set,
Thou mayst abide
In full security and rest at last,
With all the thirst and hunger of the past
Quite satisfied.

A NEW YEAR PRAYER

THE Christmas moon rides bravely in the skies,
The young and untried year is at the gate.
We tremble at his aspect grave with fate,
At his inscrutable, unsmiling eyes,
Subtle with hope and full of prophecies.
Lord, he is all unknown, but Thou art true;
As in the old year, guide us in the new.

The clock has struck—with the last clanging knell
Comes in the new year, goeth out the old;
To-morrow is to-day, to have and hold;
The future binds us with her mystic spell.
For bliss? for bale? what man shall ask or tell?
Forward we look with wistful, questioning eyes;
Lord, who art wisdom’s fountain, make us wise.

The old year’s love shall live on in the new.
But love is weak and ignorant and blind,
Led by each wandering fancy of the mind,
Enticed by song of bird and scent of dew,
Misleading still where fain it would be true.
O Lord, whose love fails never night or day,
Teach us to love in Thine own perfect way.

That comes to end which now is just begun.
To wax, to wane, it is the common fate,
The new year must be old year; soon or late
The hovering shadow wrappeth every one,
And hides him from the day and from the sun.
Darkness and light are Thine, O Lord, Most High;
Make us content to live and glad to die.

HOW SHALL I PRAY?

FATHER, how can I thus be bold to pray
That thou shalt grant me that or spare me this?
How should my ignorance not go astray,
How should my foolish lips not speak amiss
And ask for woe when fain they would ask bliss?

How shall I dare to prompt thee, the All-wise,
To show me kindness? Thou art ever kind.
What is my feeble craving in thine eyes
Which view the centuries vast, before, behind,
And sweep unnumbered worlds like viewless wind?

Thy goodness ordereth what thing shall be,
The wisdom knoweth even my inmost want;
Why should I raise a needless prayer to thee,
Or importune Omnipotence to grant
My wishes, dim, short-sighted, ignorant?

And yet I come,—for thou hast bidden and said,
But not to weary thee, or specify
A wish, but rather with this prayer instead:
“O Lord, thou knowest:—give it or deny,
Fill up the cup of joy, or pass me by.”

Just as thou wilt is just what I would will;
Give me but this, the heart to be content,
And if my wish is thwarted to lie still,
Waiting till puzzle and till pain are spent,
And the sweet thing made plain which the Lord meant.

GOOD-NIGHT

“GOOD-NIGHT, Beloved,” I softly cry
Across the chill immensity,
The unmeasurable star-hung space
Which hides the smiling of thy face.
The echoless air is all unstirred,
But yet I feel that thou hast heard,
Somehow, somewhere, the old-time word,
And smiled, perhaps, that I should say
“Good-night,” when all with thee is Day.

“Good-night, Beloved,”—for near and far
And separate and together are
But mortal phrases, little worth
Except in the dull speech of earth,
The ignorant speech which doubts and fears.
God is the sun of all the spheres,
The source and centre of our years.
Our little lives, so brief, so dim,
Are only lit when lit by him.

His ear can catch the lightest call
Who heedeth even the sparrow’s fall;
As clear to him the sobbing prayer
Of grief, as heavenly praises are
When angels veil their eyes and bow.
Through him I reach to thee, and thou
Through him art nearer to me now
Than in the days of lost delight
When each to each could say, “Good-night.”

Oh, comfort of the sorrowing heart!
Where’er I am, where’er thou art,
Linked in this heavenly unison
We still are near, we still are one!
God is our meeting-place and goal,
The safe, sure shelter of the soul.
Let the wide heavens between us roll;
Still fearlessly, though out of sight,
I still may say, “Beloved, good-night.”

A SPRING PARABLE

TILL yesterday one tree was brown,—
One only, mid the green of spring;
Wearing her dead leaves like a crown
She stood, and seemed to gloom and frown
On every glad rejoicing thing,

Till yesterday! When, touched at last,
The slow buds quickened and uncurled,
And the poor tree forgave her past,
And learned to hope, and thick and fast
Showered her dry leaves on the world.

Swift sudden hope replaced despair;
The brown leaves dropped, the green leaves grew,
And clothed upon, and fresh and fair,
The happy boughs swung all in air,
And drank the sunshine and the dew.

Souls have their dead leaves, sere and dry,
Dead hopes, dead visions, dead delight,
Relics of gladder days gone by,
Worthless to every human eye;
But yet we clasp the poor things tight,

And feel that life were bare indeed
If we should lose them, or let fall,
And all the old-time hurts would bleed,
And we unwrapped from sorrowing weed
Like mourners dragged to carnival.

Then in a moment suddenly
God’s blessed sunshine, all unguessed,
Reaches and heals our hearts, and we,
Tasting its sweetness, know that he
Bids us be happy with the rest.

“THY RIGHTEOUSNESS IS LIKE THE STRONG MOUNTAINS”

STRONG are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!
They rise, a bulwark to the guarded land,
Which foes pass not, nor traitors undermine;
For children’s children’s safety they shall stand;
And so, O Lord, thou standest unto thine,
A mighty guardian, a defence divine.

Strong are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!
Where beats the tempest on the hither side,
Beneath their shelter blooms the vine and rose;
So do thy chosen ones in thee abide,
Nor fear the storm-wind though it wildly blows,
All undisturbed in their secure repose.

Strong are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!
Their far, fair snowy summits fountains are,
Whence fertilizing streams begin their race;
So, from thy might of mercy stream afar
The over-brimming rivers of thy grace,
Gladdening the wilderness and desert place.

Strong are the mountains, Lord, but stronger thou!
Immutable they stand from age to age
Though the world rock and empires shift and pale;
So, though the people war and heathen rage,
The safety of thy promise shall prevail,
Nor ever once thy love and goodness fail.

LIVING OR DEAD

THEY are not dead to us, who keep
Their long, unvexed, reposeful sleep
’Neath grassy coverlets, flower-bespread:
For love abides though graves are deep,
And those who love are never dead.

They are not dead while heart to heart
Still hold communion though apart,
The visible with the unseen,
And faith and longing know the art
Of bridging the wide space between.

They are not dead who, folded fair
In the kind Shepherd’s steadfast care,
Await our coming in sure faith,
When we shall see them as they are,
Made yet more beautiful by death.

But they _are_ dead whose love has grown
To be the ghost of love alone,
Who meet us with averted eyes,
And air constrained and altered tone,
And chill and alien courtesies.

They move, they accost us, and they seem
Like creatures of some weary dream;
So dead, so lost, so all-estranged,
The fire which cheered us with its gleam
Into the veriest ashes changed.

While if our dear and living dead,
With soft, still smiles and noiseless tread,
Should come, some day, to the old place,
There would not be a thought of dread
In their first rapture of embrace!