Chapter VI: Front Matter (6)

A soul in want and restless and bereft To whom all life hath lied, shall it too lie? Saying, "I yield Thee thanks, most mighty God, Thou hast been pleased to make me thus and thus. I do submit me to Thy sovereign will That I full oft should hunger and not have, And vainly yearn after the perfect good, Gladness and peace"?

No, rather dare think thus: "Ere chaos first had being, earth, or time, My Likeness was apparent in high heaven, Divine and manlike, and his dwelling place Was the bosom of the Father. By His hands Were the worlds made and filled with diverse growths And ordered lives. Then afterward they said, Taking strange counsel, as if he who worked Hitherto should not henceforth work alone, 'Let us make man;' and God did look upon That Divine Word which was the form of God, And it became a thought before the event. There they foresaw my face, foreheard my speech, God-like, God-loved, God-loving, God-derived.

"And I was in a garden, and I fell Through envy of God's evil son, but Love Would not be robbed of me for ever--Love For my sake passed into humanity, And there for my first Father won me home. How should I rest then? I have NOT gone home; I feed on husks, and they given grudgingly, While my great Father--Father--O my God, What shall I do?"

Ay, I will dare think thus: "I cannot rest because He doth not rest In whom I have my being. THIS is GOD-- My soul is conscious of His wondrous wish, And my heart's hunger doth but answer His Whose thought has met with mine.

"I have not all; He moves me thus to take of Him what lacks. My want is God's desire to give,--He yearns To add Himself to life and so for aye Make it enough." A thought by night, a wish After the morning, and behold it dawns Pathetic in a still solemnity, And mighty words are said for him once more, "Let there be light." Great heaven and earth have heard, And God comes down to him, and Christ doth rise.

THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN.

There are who give themselves to work for men,-- To raise the lost, to gather orphaned babes And teach them, pitying of their mean estate, To feel for misery, and to look on crime With ruth, till they forget that they themselves Are of the race, themselves among the crowd Under the sentence and outside the gate, And of the family and in the doom. Cold is the world; they feel how cold it is, And wish that they could warm it. Hard is life For some. They would that they could soften it; And, in the doing of their work, they sigh As if it was their choice and not their lot; And, in the raising of their prayer to God, They crave his kindness for the world he made, Till they, at last, forget that he, not they, Is the true lover of man.

* * * * *

Now, in an ancient town, that had sunk low,-- Trade having drifted from it, while there stayed Too many, that it erst had fed, behind,-- There walked a curate once, at early day.

It was the summer-time; but summer air Came never, in its sweetness, down that dark And crowded alley,--never reached the door Whereat he stopped,--the sordid, shattered door.

He paused, and, looking right and left, beheld Dirt and decay, the lowering tenements That leaned toward each other; broken panes Bulging with rags, and grim with old neglect; And reeking hills of formless refuse, heaped To fade and fester in a stagnant air. But he thought nothing of it: he had learned To take all wretchedness for granted,--he, Reared in a stainless home, and radiant yet With the clear hues of healthful English youth, Had learned to kneel by beds forlorn, and stoop Under foul lintels. He could touch, with hand Unshrinking, fevered fingers; he could hear The language of the lost, in haunt and den,-- So dismal, that the coldest passer-by Must needs be sorry for them, and, albeit They cursed, would dare to speak no harder words Than these,--"God help them!"

Ay! a learned man The curate in all woes that plague mankind,-- Too learned, for he was but young. His heart Had yearned till it was overstrained, and now He--plunged into a narrow slough unblest, Had struggled with its deadly waters, till His own head had gone under, and he took Small joy in work he could not look to aid Its cleansing.

Yet, by one right tender tie, Hope held him yet. The fathers coarse and dull, Vile mothers hard, and boys and girls profane, His soul drew back from. He had worked for them,-- Work without joy: but, in his heart of hearts, He loved the little children; and whene'er He heard their prattle innocent, and heard Their tender voices lisping sacred words That he had taught them,--in the cleanly calm Of decent school, by decent matron held,-- Then would he say, "I shall have pleasure yet, In these."

But now, when he pushed back that door And mounted up a flight of ruined stairs, He said not that. He said, "Oh! once I thought The little children would make bright for me The crown they wear who have won many souls For righteousness; but oh, this evil place! Hard lines it gives them, cold and dirt abhorred,-- Hunger and nakedness, in lieu of love, And blows instead of care.

"And so they die, The little children that I love,--they die,--They turn their wistful faces to the wall, And slip away to God."

With that, his hand He laid upon a latch and lifted it, Looked in full quietly, and entered straight.

What saw he there? He saw a three-years child, That lay a-dying on a wisp of straw Swept up into a corner. O'er its brow The damps of death were gathering: all alone, Uncared for, save that by its side was set A cup, it waited. And the eyes had ceased To look on things at hand. He thought they gazed In wistful wonder, or some faint surmise Of coming change,--as though they saw the gate Of that fair land that seems to most of us Very far off. When he beheld the look, He said, "I knew, I knew how this would be! Another! Ay, and but for drunken blows And dull forgetfulness of infant need, This little one had lived." And thereupon The misery of it wrought upon him so, That, unaware, he wept. Oh! then it was That, in the bending of his manly head, It came between the child and that whereon He gazed, and, when the curate glanced again, Those dying eyes, drawn back to earth once more, Looked up into his own, and smiled. He drew More near, and kneeled beside the small frail thing, Because the lips were moving; and it raised Its baby hand, and stroked away his tears, And whispered, "Master! master!" and so died.

Now, in that town there was an ancient church, A minster of old days which these had turned To parish uses: there the curate served. It stood within a quiet swarded Close, Sunny and still, and, though it was not far From those dark courts where poor humanity Struggled and swarmed, it seemed to wear its own Still atmosphere about it, and to hold That old-world calm within its precincts pure And that grave rest which modern life foregoes.

When the sad curate, rising from his knees, Looked from the dead to heaven,--as, unaware, Men do when they would track departed life,--He heard the deep tone of the minster-bell Sounding for service, and he turned away So heavy at heart, that, when he left behind That dismal habitation, and came out In the clear sunshine of the minster-yard, He never marked it. Up the aisle he moved, With his own gloom about him; then came forth, And read before the folk grand words and calm,--Words full of hope; but into his dull heart Hope came not. As one talketh in a dream, And doth not mark the sense of his own words, He read; and, as one walketh in a dream, He after walked toward the vestment-room, And never marked the way he went by,--no, Nor the gray verger that before him stood, The great church-keys depending from his hand, Ready to follow him out and lock the door.

At length, aroused to present things, but not Content to break the sequence of his thought, Nor ready for the working day that held Its busy course without, he said, "Good friend, Leave me the keys: I would remain a while." And, when the verger gave, he moved with him Toward the door distraught, then shut him out, And locked himself within the church alone. The minster-church was like a great brown cave, Fluted and fine with pillars, and all dim With glorious gloom; but, as the curate turned, Suddenly shone the sun,--and roof and walls, Also the clustering shafts from end to end, Were thickly sown all over, as it were, With seedling rainbows. And it went and came And went, that sunny beam, and drifted up Ethereal bloom to flush the open wings And carven cheeks of dimpled cherubim, And dropped upon the curate as he passed, And covered his white raiment and his hair.

Then did look down upon him from their place, High in the upper lights, grave mitred priests, And grand old monarchs in their flowered gowns And capes of miniver; and therewithal (A veiling cloud gone by) the naked sun Smote with his burning splendor all the pile, And in there rushed, through half-translucent panes, A sombre glory as of rusted gold, Deep ruby stains, and tender blue and green, That made the floor a beauty and delight, Strewed as with phantom blossoms, sweet enough To have been wafted there the day they dropt On the flower-beds in heaven. The curate passed Adown the long south aisle, and did not think Upon this beauty, nor that he himself-- Excellent in the strength of youth, and fair With all the majesty that noble work And stainless manners give--did add his part To make it fairer. In among the knights That lay with hands uplifted, by the lute And palm of many a saint,--'neath capitals Whereon our fathers had been bold to carve With earthly tools their ancient childlike dream Concerning heavenly fruit and living bowers, And glad full-throated birds that sing up there Among the branches of the tree of life-- Through all the ordered forest of the shafts, Shooting on high to enter into light, That swam aloft,--he took his silent way, And in the southern transept sat him down, Covered his face, and thought. He said, "No pain, No passion, and no aching, heart o' mine, Doth stir within thee. Oh! I would there did: Thou art so dull, so tired. I have lost I know not what. I see the heavens as lead: They tend no whither. Ah! the world is bared Of her enchantment now: she is but earth And water. And, though much hath passed away, There may be more to go. I may forget The joy and fear that have been: there may live No more for me the fervency of hope Nor the arrest of wonder.

"Once I said, 'Content will wait on work, though work appear Unfruitful.' Now I say, 'Where is the good? What is the good? A lamp when it is lit Must needs give light; but I am like a man Holding his lamp in some deserted place Where no foot passeth. Must I trim my lamp, And ever painfully toil to keep it bright, When use for it is none? I must; I will. Though God withhold my wages, I must work, And watch the bringing of my work to nought,-- Weed in the vineyard through the heat o' the day, And, overtasked, behold the weedy place Grow ranker yet in spite of me.

"Oh! yet My meditated words are trodden down Like a little wayside grass. Castaway shells, Lifted and tossed aside by a plunging wave, Have no more force against it than have I Against the sweeping, weltering wave of life, That, lifting and dislodging me, drives on, And notes not mine endeavor."

Afterward, He added more words like to these; to wit, That it was hard to see the world so sad: He would that it were happier. It was hard To see the blameless overborne; and hard To know that God, who loves the world, should yet Let it lie down in sorrow, when a smile From him would make it laugh and sing,--a word From him transform it to a heaven. He said, Moreover, "When will this be done? My life Hath not yet reached the noon, and I am tired; And oh! it may be that, uncomforted By foolish hope of doing good and vain Conceit of being useful, I may live, And it may be my duty to go on Working for years and years, for years and years."

But, while the words were uttered, in his heart There dawned a vague alarm. He was aware That somewhat touched him, and he lifted up His face. "I am alone," the curate said,-- "I think I am alone. What is it, then? I am ashamed! My raiment is not clean. My lips,--I am afraid they are not clean. My heart is darkened and unclean. Ah me, To be a man, and yet to tremble so! Strange, strange!" And there was sitting at his feet-- He could not see it plainly--at his feet A very little child. And, while the blood Drave to his heart, he set his eye on it, Gazing, and, lo! the loveliness from heaven Took clearer form and color. He beheld The strange, wise sweetness of a dimpled mouth,-- The deep serene of eyes at home with bliss, And perfect in possession. So it spoke, "My master!" but he answered not a word; And it went on: "I had a name, a name. He knew my name; but here they can forget." The curate answered: "Nay, I know thee well. I love thee. Wherefore art thou come?" It said, "They sent me;" and he faltered, "Fold thy hand, O most dear little one! for on it gleams A gem that is so bright I cannot look Thereon." It said, "When I did leave this world, That was a tear. But that was long ago; For I have lived among the happy folk, You wot of, ages, ages." Then said he, "Do they forget us, while beneath the palms They take their infinite leisure?" And, with eyes That seemed to muse upon him, looking up In peace the little child made answer, "Nay;" And murmured, in the language that he loved, "How is it that his hair is not yet white; For I and all the others have been long Waiting for him to come." "And was it long?" The curate answered, pondering. "Time being done, Shall life indeed expand, and give the sense, In our to-come, of infinite extension?" Then said the child, "In heaven we children talk Of the great matters, and our lips are wise; But here I can but talk with thee in words That here I knew." And therewithal, arisen, It said, "I pray you take me in your arms." Then, being afraid but willing, so he did; And partly drew about the radiant child, For better covering its dread purity, The foldings of his gown. And he beheld Its beauty, and the tremulous woven light That hung upon its hair; withal, the robe, "Whiter than fuller of this world can white," That clothed its immortality. And so The trembling came again, and he was dumb, Repenting his uncleanness: and he lift His eyes, and all the holy place was full Of living things; and some were faint and dim, As if they bore an intermittent life, Waxing and waning; and they had no form, But drifted on like slowly trailèd clouds, Or moving spots of darkness, with an eye Apiece. And some, in guise of evil birds, Came by in troops, and stretched their naked necks, And some were men-like, but their heads hung down; And he said, "O my God! let me find grace Not to behold their faces, for I know They must be wicked and right terrible." But while he prayed, lo! whispers; and there moved Two shadows on the wall. He could not see The forms of them that cast them: he could see Only the shadows as of two that sat Upon the floor, where, clad in women's weeds, They lisped together. And he shuddered much: There was a rustling near him, and he feared Lest they should touch him, and he feel their touch.

"It is not great," quoth one, "the work achieved. We do, and we delight to do, our best: But that is little; for, my dear," quoth she, "This tower and town have been infested long With angels."--"Ay," the other made reply, "I had a little evil-one, of late, That I picked up as it was crawling out O' the pit, and took and cherished in my breast. It would divine for me, and oft would moan, 'Pray thee, no churches,' and it spake of this. But I was harried once,--thou know'st by whom,-- And fled in here; and, when he followed me, I crouching by this pillar, he let down His hand,--being all too proud to send his eyes In its wake,--and, plucking forth my tender imp, Flung it behind him. It went yelping forth; And, as for me, I never saw it more. Much is against us,--very much: the times Are hard." She paused: her fellow took the word, Plaining on such as preach and them that plead. "Even such as haunt the yawning mouths of hell," Quoth she, "and pluck them back that run thereto." Then, like a sudden blow, there fell on him The utterance of his name. "There is no soul That I loathe more, and oftener curse. Woe's me, That cursing should be vain! Ay, he will go Gather the sucking children, that are yet Too young for us, and watch and shelter them. Till the strong Angels--pitiless and stern, But to them loving ever--sweep them in, By armsful, to the unapproachable fold.

"We strew his path with gold: it will not lie. 'Deal softly with him,' was the master's word. We brought him all delights: his angel came And stood between them and his eyes. They spend Much pains upon him,--keep him poor and low And unbeloved; and thus he gives his mind To fill the fateful, the impregnable Child-fold, and sow on earth the seed of stars.

"Oh! hard is serving against love,--the love Of the Unspeakable; for if we soil The souls He openeth out a washing-place; And if we grudge, and snatch away the bread, Then will He save by poverty, and gain By early giving up of blameless life; And if we shed out gold, He even will save In spite of gold,--of twice-refinèd gold."

With that the curate set his daunted eyes To look upon the shadows of the fiends. He was made sure they could not see the child That nestled in his arms; he also knew They were unconscious that his mortal ears Had new intelligence, which gave their speech Possible entrance through his garb of clay.

He was afraid, yet awful gladness reached His soul: the testimony of the lost Upbraided him; but while he trembled yet, The heavenly child had lifted up its head And left his arms, and on the marble floor Stood beckoning.

And, its touch withdrawn, the place Was silent, empty; all that swarming tribe Of evil ones concealed behind the veil, And shut into their separate world, were closed From his observance. He arose, and paced After the little child,--as half in fear That it would leave him,--till they reached a door; And then said he,--but much distraught he spoke, Laying his hand across the lock,--"This door Shuts in the stairs whereby men mount the tower. Wouldst thou go up, and so withdraw to heaven?" It answered, "I will mount them." Then said he, "And I will follow."--"So thou shalt do well," The radiant thing replied, and it went up, And he, amazed, went after; for the stairs, Otherwhile dark, were lightened by the rays Shed out of raiment woven in high heaven, And hair whereon had smiled the light of God.

With that, they, pacing on, came out at last Into a dim, weird place,--a chamber formed Betwixt the roofs: for you shall know that all The vaulting of the nave, fretted and fine, Was covered with the dust of ages, laid Thick with those chips of stone which they had left Who wrought it; but a high-pitched roof was reared Above it, and the western gable pierced With three long narrow lights. Great tie-beams loomed Across, and many daws frequented there, The starling and the sparrow littered it With straw, and peeped from many a shady nook; And there was lifting up of wings, and there Was hasty exit when the curate came. But sitting on a beam and moving not For him, he saw two fair gray turtle-doves Bowing their heads, and cooing; and the child Put forth a hand to touch his own, but straight He, startled, drew it back, because, forsooth, A stirring fancy smote him, and he thought That language trembled on their innocent tongues, And floated forth in speech that man could hear. Then said the child, "Yet touch, my master dear." And he let down his hand, and touched again; And so it was. "But if they had their way," One turtle cooed, "how should this world go on?"

Then he looked well upon them, as he stood Upright before them. They were feathered doves, And sitting close together; and their eyes Were rounded with the rim that marks their kind. Their tender crimson feet did pat the beam,-- No phantoms they; and soon the fellow-dove Made answer, "Nay they count themselves so wise, There is no task they shall be set to do But they will ask God why. What mean they so? The glory is not in the task, but in The doing it for Him. What should he think, Brother, this man that must, forsooth, be set Such noble work, and suffered to behold Its fruit, if he knew more of us and ours?" With that the other leaned, as if attent: "I am not perfect, brother, in his thought." The mystic bird replied. "Brother, he saith, 'But it is nought: the work is overhard.' Whose fault is that? God sets not overwork. He saith the world is sorrowful, and he Is therefore sorrowful. He cannot set The crooked straight;--but who demands of him, O brother, that he should? What! thinks he, then, His work is God's advantage, and his will More bent to aid the world than its dread Lord's? Nay, yet there live amongst us legions fair, Millions on millions, who could do right well What he must fail in; and 'twas whispered me, That chiefly for himself the task is given,-- His little daily task." With that he paused.

Then said the other, preening its fair wing, "Men have discovered all God's islands now, And given them names; whereof they are as proud, And deem themselves as great, as if their hands Had made them. Strange is man, and strange his pride. Now, as for us, it matters not to learn What and from whence we be: How should we tell? Our world is undiscovered in these skies, Our names not whispered. Yet, for us and ours, What joy it is,--permission to come down, Not souls, as he, to the bosom of their God, To guide, but to their goal the winged fowls, His lovely lower-fashioned lives to help To take their forms by legions, fly, and draw With us the sweet, obedient, flocking things That ever hear our message reverently, And follow us far. How should they know their way, Forsooth, alone? Men say they fly alone; Yet some have set on record, and averred, That they, among the flocks, had duly marked A leader." Then his fellow made reply: "They might divine the Maker's heart. Come forth, Fair dove, to find the flocks, and guide their wings, For Him that loveth them." With that, the child Withdrew his hand, and all their speech was done. He moved toward them, but they fluttered forth And fled into the sunshine. "I would fain," Said he, "have heard some more. And wilt thou go?" He added to the child, for this had turned. "Ay," quoth he, gently, "to the beggar's place; For I would see the beggar in the porch."

So they went down together to the door, Which, when the curate opened, lo! without The beggar sat; and he saluted him: "Good morrow, master." "Wherefore art thou here?" The curate asked: "it is not service time, And none will enter now to give thee alms." Then said the beggar, "I have hope at heart That I shall go to my poor house no more." "Art thou so sick that thou dost think to die?" The curate said. With that the beggar laughed, And under his dim eyelids gathered tears, And he was all a-tremble with a strange And moving exaltation. "Ay," quoth he, And set his face toward high heaven: "I think The blessing that I wait on must be near." Then said the curate, "God be good to thee." And, straight, the little child put forth his hand, And touched him. "Master, master, hush! You should not, master, speak so carelessly In this great presence." But the touch so wrought, That, lo! the dazzled curate staggered back, For dread effulgence from the beggar's eyes Smote him, and from the crippled limbs shot forth Terrible lights, as pure long blades of fire. "Withdraw thy touch! withdraw thy touch!" he cried, "Or else shall I be blinded." Then the child Stood back from him; and he sat down apart, Recovering of his manhood: and he heard The beggar and the child discourse of things Dreadful for glory, till his spirits came Anew; and, when the beggar looked on him, He said, "If I offend not, pray you tell Who and what are you--I behold a face Marred with old age, sickness, and poverty,-- A cripple with a staff, who long hath sat Begging, and ofttimes moaning, in the porch, For pain and for the wind's inclemency. What are you?" Then the beggar made reply, "I was a delegate, a living power; My work was bliss, for seeds were in my hand To plant a new-made world. O happy work! It grew and blossomed; but my dwelling-place Was far remote from heaven. I have not seen; I knew no wish to enter there. But lo! There went forth rumors, running out like rays, How some, that were of power like even to mine, Had made request to come and find a place Within its walls. And these were satisfied With promises, and sent to this far world To take the weeds of your mortality, And minister, and suffer grief and pain, And die like men. Then were they gathered in. They saw a face, and were accounted kin To Whom thou knowest, for he is kin to men.

"Then I did wait; and oft, at work, I sang, 'To minister! oh, joy, to minister!' And, it being known, a message came to me: 'Whether is best, thou forest-planter wise, To minister to others, or that they Should minister to thee?' Then, on my face Low lying, I made answer: 'It is best, Most High, to minister;' and thus came back The answer,--'Choose not for thyself the best: Go down, and, lo! my poor shall minister, Out of their poverty, to thee; shall learn Compassion by thy frailty; and shall oft Turn back, when speeding home from work, to help Thee, weak and crippled, home. My little ones, Thou shalt importune for their slender mite, And pray, and move them that they give it up For love of Me.'" The curate answered him, "Art thou content, O great one from afar! If I may ask, and not offend?" He said, "I am. Behold! I stand not all alone, That I should think to do a perfect work. I may not wish to give; for I have heard 'Tis best for me that I receive. For me, God is the only giver, and His gift Is one." With that, the little child sighed out, "O master! master! I am out of heaven Since noonday, and I hear them calling me. If you be ready, great one, let us go:-- Hark! hark! they call." Then did the beggar lift His face to heaven, and utter forth a cry As of the pangs of death, and every tree Moved as if shaken by a sudden wind. He cried again, and there came forth a hand From some invisible form, which, being laid A little moment on the curate's eyes, It dazzled him with light that brake from it, So that he saw no more. "What shall I do?" The curate murmured, when he came again To himself and looked about him. "This is strange! My thoughts are all astray; and yet, methinks, A weight is taken from my heart. Lo! lo! There lieth at my feet, frail, white, and dead, The sometime beggar. He is happy now. There was a child; but he is gone, and he Is also happy. I am glad to think I am not bound to make the wrong go right; But only to discover, and to do With cheerful heart, the work that God appoints."

With that, he did compose, with reverent care, The dead; continuing, "I will trust in Him, THAT HE CAN HOLD HIS OWN; and I will take His will, above the work He sendeth me, To be my chiefest good." Then went he forth, "I shall die early," thinking: "I am warned, By this fair vision, that I have not long To live." Yet he lived on to good old age;-- Ay, he lives yet, and he is working still.

* * * * *

It may be there are many in like case: They give themselves, and are in misery Because the gift is small, and doth not make The world by so much better as they fain Would have it. 'Tis a fault; but, as for us, Let us not blame them. Maybe, 'tis a fault More kindly looked on by The Majesty Than our best virtues are. Why, what are we? What have we given, and what have we desired To give, the world? There must be something wrong Look to it: let us mend our ways. Farewell.

THE SHEPHERD LADY.

I.

Who pipes upon the long green hill,
Where meadow grass is deep?
The white lamb bleats but followeth on--
Follow the clean white sheep.
The dear white lady in yon high tower,
She hearkeneth in her sleep.

All in long grass the piper stands,
Goodly and grave is he;
Outside the tower, at dawn of day,
The notes of his pipe ring free.
A thought from his heart doth reach to hers:
"Come down, O lady! to me."

She lifts her head, she dons her gown:
Ah! the lady is fair;
She ties the girdle on her waist,
And binds her flaxen hair,
And down she stealeth, down and down,
Down the turret stair.

Behold him! With the flock he wons
Along yon grassy lea.
"My shepherd lord, my shepherd love,
What wilt thou, then, with me?
My heart is gone out of my breast,
And followeth on to thee."

II.

"The white lambs feed in tender grass:
With them and thee to bide,
How good it were," she saith at noon;
"Albeit the meads are wide.
Oh! well is me," she saith when day
Draws on to eventide.

Hark! hark! the shepherd's voice. Oh, sweet!
Her tears drop down like rain.
"Take now this crook, my chosen, my fere,
And tend the flock full fain;
Feed them, O lady, and lose not one,
Till I shall come again."

Right soft her speech: "My will is thine,
And my reward thy grace!"
Gone are his footsteps over the hill,
Withdrawn his goodly face;
The mournful dusk begins to gather,
The daylight wanes apace.

III.

On sunny slopes, ah! long the lady
Feedeth her flock at noon;
She leads it down to drink at eve
Where the small rivulets croon.
All night her locks are wet with dew,
Her eyes outwatch the moon.

Beyond the hills her voice is heard,
She sings when light doth wane:
"My longing heart is full of love,
Nor shall my watch be vain.
My shepherd lord. I see him not,
But he will come again."

POEMS

WRITTEN ON THE DEATHS OF THREE LOVELY CHILDREN WHO WERE TAKEN FROM THEIR PARENTS WITHIN A MONTH OF ONE ANOTHER.

HENRY,

AGED EIGHT YEARS.

Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter--woodland hollows thickly strewing,
Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the mid-day win,
While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in saddened hues imbuing
All without and all within!

All within! but winds of autumn, little Henry, round their dwelling
Did not load your father's spirit with those deep and burdened sighs;--
Only echoed thoughts of sadness, in your mother's bosom swelling,
Fast as tears that dim her eyes.

Life is fraught with many changes, checked with sorrow and mutation,
But no grief it ever lightened such a truth before to know:--
I behold them--father, mother--as they seem to contemplation,
Only three short weeks ago!

Saddened for the morrow's parting--up the stairs at midnight stealing--
As with cautious foot we glided past the children's open door,--
"Come in here," they said, the lamplight dimpled forms at last revealing,
"Kiss them in their sleep once more."

You were sleeping, little Henry, with your eyelids scarcely closing,
Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded arms entwined:--
And the rose-bud lips were moving, as if stirred in their reposing
By the movements of the mind!

And your mother smoothed the pillow, and her sleeping treasures numbered,
Whispering fondly--"He is dreaming"--as you turned upon your bed--
And your father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, as you slumbered,
With his hand upon your head!

Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing? No! he never
Heard afar the summons uttered--"Come up hither"--Never knew
How the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy for ever,
And for ever in their view.

Awful Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were by us,
Shrouding wings--majestic beings--hidden by this earthly veil--
Such as we have called on, saying, "Praise the Lord, O Ananias,
Azarias and Misael!"

But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the missioned Spirits taught him,
To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left him to their will?
While he slumbered, who can answer for what dreams they may have brought
him,
When at midnight all was still?

Father! Mother! must you leave him on his bed, but not to slumber?
Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, but not to pray?
When you count your children over, must you tell a different number,
Since that happier yesterday?

Father! Mother! weep if need be, since this is a "time" for weeping,
Comfort comes not for the calling, grief is never argued down--
Coldly sounds the admonition, "Why lament? in better keeping
Rests the child than in your own."

"Truth indeed! but, oh! compassion! Have you sought to scan my sorrow?"
(Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that common tale)
"Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow-feeling borrow
Even a tone that might avail?

"Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart-warm affection?
Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond words to combine?
Surely no! I will be silent, in your soul is no reflection
Of the care that burdens mine!"

When the winter twilight gathers, Father, and your thoughts shall wander,
Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your listless reveries,
Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon you ponder
From its place upon your knees--

With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful wonder,
Of itself the heart shall question, "Art Thou then no longer here?
Is it so, my little Henry? Are we set so far asunder
Who were wont to be so near?"

While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened shades are meeting,
To itself the heart shall answer, "He shall come to me no more:
I shall never hear his footsteps nor the child's sweet voice entreating
For admission at my door."

But upon _your_ fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor griefs are dwelling,
Neither sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful features know;
Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their sad hearts to be telling,
"Daylight breaketh, let me go!"

Daylight breaketh, little Henry; in its beams your soul awaketh--
What though night should close around us, dim and dreary to the view--
Though _our_ souls should walk in darkness, far away that morning breaketh
Into endless day for you!

SAMUEL,

AGED NINE YEARS.

They have left you, little Henry, but they have not left you lonely--
Brothers' hearts so knit together could not, might not separate dwell.
Fain to seek you in the mansions far away--One lingered only
To bid those behind farewell!

Gentle Boy!--His childlike nature in most guileless form was moulded,
And it may be that his spirit woke in glory unaware,
Since so calmly he resigned it, with his hands still meekly folded,
Having said his evening prayer.

Or--if conscious of that summons--"Speak, O Lord, Thy servant heareth"--
As one said, whose name they gave him, might his willing answer be,
"Here am I"--like him replying--"At Thy gates my soul appeareth,
For behold Thou calledst me!"

A deep silence--utter silence, on his earthly home descendeth:--
Reading, playing, sleeping, waking--he is gone, and few remain!
"O the loss!"--they utter, weeping--every voice its echo lendeth--
"O the loss!"--But, O the gain!

On that tranquil shore his spirit was vouchsafed an early landing,
Lest the toils of crime should stain it, or the thrall of guilt control--
Lest that "wickedness should alter the yet simple understanding,
Or deceit beguile his soul!"

"Lay not up on earth thy treasure"--they have read that sentence duly,
Moth and rust shall fret thy riches--earthly good hath swift decay--
"Even so," each heart replieth--"As for me, my riches truly
Make them wings and flee away!"

"O my riches!--O my children!--dearest part of life and being, Treasures looked to for the solace of this life's declining years,-- Were our voices cold to hearing--or our faces cold to seeing, That ye left us to our tears?"

"We inherit conscious silence, ceasing of some merry laughter,
And the hush of two sweet voices--(healing sounds for spirits bruised!)
Of the tread of joyous footsteps in the pathway following after,
Of two names no longer used!"

Question for them, little Sister, in your sweet and childish fashion--
Search and seek them, Baby Brother, with your calm and asking eyes--
Dimpled lips that fail to utter fond appeal or sad compassion,
Mild regret or dim surprise!

There are two tall trees above you, by the high east window growing,
Underneath them, slumber sweetly, lapt in silence deep, serene;
Save, when pealing in the distance, organ notes towards you flowing
Echo--with a pause between!

And that pause?--a voice shall fill it--tones that blessed you daily,
nightly,
Well beloved, but not sufficing, Sleepers, to awake you now,
Though so near he stand, that shadows from your trees may tremble lightly
On his book and on his brow!

Sleep then ever! Neither singing of sweet birds shall break your slumber,
Neither fall of dew, nor sunshine, dance of leaves, nor drift of snow,
Charm those dropt lids more to open, nor the tranquil bosoms cumber
With one care for things below!

It is something, the assurance, that _you_ ne'er shall feel like sorrow,
Weep no past and dread no future--know not sighing, feel not pain--
Nor a day that looketh forward to a mournfuller to-morrow--
"Clouds returning after rain!"

No, far off, the daylight breaketh, in its beams each soul awaketh:
"What though clouds," they sigh, "be gathered dark and stormy to the
view,
Though the light our eyes forsaketh, fresh and sweet behold it breaketh
Into endless day for you!"

KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS.

(ASLEEP IN THE DAYTIME.)

All rough winds are hushed and silent, golden light the meadow steepeth,
And the last October roses daily wax more pale and fair;
They have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of one who sleepeth
With a sunbeam on her hair.

Calm, and draped in snowy raiment she lies still, as one that dreameth,
And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips that may not speak;
Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of glory gleameth
On the sainted brow and cheek.

There is silence! They who watch her, speak no word of grief or wailing,
In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and cannot cease,
Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink back, and hope be
failing,
They, like Aaron, "hold their peace."

While they gaze on her, the deep bell with its long slow pauses soundeth;
Long they hearken--father--mother--love has nothing more to say:
Beating time to feet of Angels leading her where love aboundeth
Tolls the heavy bell this day.

Still in silence to its tolling they count over all her meetness
To lie near their hearts and soothe them in all sorrows and all fears;
Her short life lies spread before them, but they cannot tell her
sweetness,
Easily as tell her years.

Only daughter--Ah! how fondly Thought around that lost name lingers,
Oft when lone your mother sitteth, she shall weep and droop her head,
She shall mourn her baby-sempstress, with those imitative fingers,
Drawing out her aimless thread.

In your father's Future cometh many a sad uncheered to-morrow,
But in sleep shall three fair faces heavenly-calm towards him lean--
Like a threefold cord shall draw him through the weariness of sorrow,
Nearer to the things unseen.

With the closing of your eyelids close the dreams of expectation,
And so ends the fairest chapter in the records of their way:
Therefore--O thou God most holy--God of rest and consolation,
Be Thou near to them this day!

Be Thou near, when they shall nightly, by the bed of infant brothers,
Hear their soft and gentle breathing, and shall bless them on their
knees;
And shall think how coldly falleth the white moonlight on the others,
In their bed beneath the trees.

Be Thou near, when they, they _only_, bear those faces in remembrance,
And the number of their children strangers ask them with a smile;
And when other childlike faces touch them by the strong resemblance
To those turned to them erewhile.

Be Thou near, each chastened Spirit for its course and conflict nerving,
Let Thy voice say, "Father--mother--lo! thy treasures live above!
Now be strong, be strong, no longer cumbered over much with serving
At the shrine of human love."

Let them sleep! In course of ages e'en the Holy House shall crumble,
And the broad and stately steeple one day bend to its decline,
And high arches, ancient arches bowed and decked in clothing humble,
Creeping moss shall round them twine.

Ancient arches, old and hoary, sunny beams shall glimmer through them,
And invest them with a beauty we would fain they should not share,
And the moonlight slanting down them, the white moonlight shall imbue them
With a sadness dim and fair.

Then the soft green moss shall wrap you, and the world shall all forget
you,
Life, and stir, and toil, and tumult unawares shall pass you by;
Generations come and vanish: but it shall not grieve nor fret you,
That they sin, or that they sigh.

And the world, grown old in sinning, shall deny her first beginning,
And think scorn of words which whisper how that all must pass away;
Time's arrest and intermission shall account a vain tradition,
And a dream, the reckoning day!

Till His blast, a blast of terror, shall awake in shame and sadness
Faithless millions to a vision of the failing earth and skies,
And more sweet than song of Angels, in their shout of joy and gladness,
Call the dead in Christ to rise!

Then, by One Man's intercession, standing clear from their transgression,
Father--mother--you shall meet them fairer than they were before,
And have joy with the Redeemèd, joy ear hath not heard heart dreamèd,
Ay for ever--evermore!

THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT (IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL).

Marvels of sleep, grown cold!
Who hath not longed to fold
With pitying ruth, forgetful of their bliss,
Those cherub forms that lie,
With none to watch them nigh,
Or touch the silent lips with one warm human kiss?

What! they are left alone
All night with graven stone,
Pillars and arches that above them meet;
While through those windows high
The journeying stars can spy,
And dim blue moonbeams drop on their uncovered feet?

O cold! yet look again,
There is a wandering vein
Traced in the hand where those white snowdrops lie.
Let her rapt dreamy smile
The wondering heart beguile,
That almost thinks to hear a calm contented sigh.

What silence dwells between
Those severed lips serene!
The rapture of sweet waiting breathes and grows.
What trance-like peace is shed
On her reclining head,
And e'en on listless feet what languor of repose!

Angels of joy and love
Lean softly from above
And whisper to her sweet and marvellous things;
Tell of the golden gate
That opened wide doth wait,
And shadow her dim sleep with their celestial wings.

Hearing of that blest shore
She thinks on earth no more,
Contented to forego this wintry land.
She has nor thought nor care
But to rest calmly there,
And hold the snowdrops pale that blossom in her hand.

But on the other face
Broodeth a mournful grace,
This had foreboding thoughts beyond her years,
While sinking thus to sleep
She saw her mother weep,
And could not lift her hand to dry those heart-sick tears.

Could not--but failing lay,
Sighed her young life away.
And let her arm drop down in listless rest,
Too weary on that bed
To turn her dying head,
Or fold the little sister nearer to her breast.

Yet this is faintly told
On features fair and cold,
A look of calm surprise, of mild regret,
As if with life oppressed
She turned her to her rest,
But felt her mother's love and looked not to forget.

How wistfully they close,
Sweet eyes, to their repose!
How quietly declines the placid brow!
The young lips seem to say,
"I have wept much to-day,
And felt some bitter pains, but they are over now."

Sleep! there are left below
Many who pine to go,
Many who lay it to their chastened souls,
That gloomy days draw nigh,
And they are blest who die,
For this green world grows worse the longer that she rolls.

And as for me I know
A little of her woe,
Her yearning want doth in my soul abide,
And sighs of them that weep,
"O put us soon to sleep,
For when we wake--with Thee--we shall be satisfied."

HYMNS.

THE MEASURELESS GULFS OF AIR ARE FULL OF THEE.

"_In Him we live, and move, and have our being._"

The measureless gulfs of air are full of Thee:
Thou Art, and therefore hang the stars; they wait,
And swim, and shine in God who bade them be,
And hold their sundering voids inviolate.

A God concern'd (veil'd in pure light) to bless,
With sweet revealing of His love, the soul;
Toward things piteous, full of piteousness;
The Cause, the Life, and the continuing Whole.

He is more present to all things He made
Than anything unto itself can be;
Full-foliaged boughs of Eden could not shade
Afford, since God was also 'neath the tree.

Thou knowest me altogether; I knew not
Thy likeness till Thou mad'st it manifest.
There is no world but is Thy heaven; no spot
Remote; Creation leans upon Thy breast.

Thou art beyond all stars, yet in my heart
Wonderful whisperings hold Thy creature dumb;
I need no search afar; to me Thou art
Father, Redeemer, and Renewer--come.

THOU WERT FAR OFF AND IN THE SIGHT OF HEAVEN.

"_And fell on his neck, and kissed him._"

Thou wert far off, and in the sight of heaven
Dead. And thy Father would not this should be;
And now thou livest, it is all forgiven;
Think on it, O my soul, He kissèd thee!

What now are gold and gear? thou canst afford To cast them from thee at His sacred call, As Mary, when she met her living Lord, The burial spice she had prepared let fall.

O! what is death to life? One dead could well
Afford to waste his shroud, if he might wake;
Thou canst afford to waste the world, and sell
Thy footing in it, for the new world's sake.

What is the world? it is a waiting place,
Where men put on their robes for that above.
What is the new world? 'tis a Father's face
Beholden of His sons--the face of love.

THICK ORCHARDS ALL IN WHITE.

"_The time of the singing of birds is come._"

Thick orchards, all in white,
Stand 'neath blue voids of light,
And birds among the branches blithely sing,
For they have all they know;
There is no more, but so,
All perfectness of living, fair delight of spring.

Only the cushat dove
Makes answer as for love
To the deep yearning of man's yearning breast;
And mourneth, to his thought,
As in her notes were wrought
Fulfill'd in her sweet having, sense of his unrest.

Not with possession, not
With fairest earthly lot,
Cometh the peace assured, his spirit's quest;
With much it looks before,
With most it yearns for more;
And 'this is not our rest,' and 'this is not our rest.'

Give Thou us more. We look
For more. The heart that took
All spring-time for itself were empty still;
Its yearning is not spent
Nor silenced in content,
Till He that all things filleth doth it sweetly fill.

Give us Thyself. The May
Dureth so short a day;
Youth and the spring are over all too soon;
Content us while they last,
Console us for them past,
Thou with whom bides for ever life, and love, and noon.

SWEET ARE HIS WAYS WHO RULES ABOVE.

"_Though I take the wings of the morning_."

Sweet are His ways who rules above,
He gives from wrath a sheltering place;
But covert none is found from grace,
Man shall not hide himself from love.

What though I take to me the wide
Wings of the morning and forth fly,
Faster He goes, whoso care on high
Shepherds the stars and doth them guide.

What though the tents foregone, I roam
Till day wax dim lamenting me;
He wills that I shall sleep to see
The great gold stairs to His sweet home.

What though the press I pass before,
And climb the branch, He lifts his face;
I am not secret from His grace
Lost in the leafy sycamore.

What though denied with murmuring deep
I shame my Lord,--it shall not be;
For He will turn and look on me,
Then must I think thereon and weep.

The nether depth, the heights above,
Nor alleys pleach'd of Paradise,
Nor Herod's judgment-halls suffice:
Man shall not hide himself from love.

O NIGHT OF NIGHTS!

"_Let us now go even unto Bethlehem_."

O Night of nights! O night
Desired of man so long!
The ancient heavens fled forth in light
To sing thee thy new song;
And shooting down the steep,
To shepherd folk of old,
An angel, while they watch'd their sheep,
Set foot beside the fold.

Lo! while as like to die
Of that keen light he shed,
They look'd on his pure majesty,
Amazed, and sore bestead;
Lo! while with words of cheer
He bade their trembling cease,
The flocks of God swept sweetly near,
And sang to them of peace.

All on the hillside grass
That fulgent radiance fell,
So close those innocents did pass,
Their words were heard right well;
Among the sheep, their wings
Some folding, walk'd the sod
An order'd throng of shining things,
White, with the smile of God.

The waits of heaven to hear,
Oh! what it must have been!
Think, Christian people, think, and fear
For cold hearts, for unclean;
Think how the times go by,
How love and longing fail,
Think how we live and how we die,
As this were but a tale.

O tender tale of old,
Live in thy dear renown;
God's smile was in the dark, behold
That way His hosts came down;
Light up, great God, Thy Word,
Make the blest meaning strong,
As if our ears, indeed, had heard
The glory of their song.

It was so far away,
But Thou could'st make it near,
And all its living might display
And cry to it, "Be here,"
Here, in th' unresting town,
As once remote to them,
Who heard it when the heavens came down,
On pastoral Bethlehem.