Chapter II: After the Death of R. A. F

_February 5, 1888._

Would I could see my baby's face,
That lovely dimpled face,--
O God, how can I bear the pain
Of never seeing it again,
My baby's face;

Of never seeing in those eyes,
Those deep blue heavenly eyes,
The wondrous glimpses of soul-light
Which filled my heart with strange delight
And sweet surprise;

Of never hearing baby's coo,
That little gurgling coo--
O God, how can I bear the pain
Of never hearing it again,
My baby's coo.

Alas! "Thy will, not mine, be done."
Not mine, but Thine, be done.
I can but breathe again this prayer,
As in the days of past despair,
When peace was won.

TO C. H. F.

(_Upon receiving a twig of green from the grave of Helen Hunt
Jackson, October, 1888._)

With reverent touch and grateful heart,
Dear thoughtful friend,
I hold this precious bit of green
You kindly send
From Cheyenne's holy, lonely grave,
Where pilgrims tend.

It touches springs of tenderest life
Inspired by her,
Who, child of poetry and ease,
Did not demur
From sacrificing all to be
Wrong's arbiter.

That rare mosaic it suggests
Made by the hand
Of those who seek this favored spot
In chosen land,
Where, oft in life, she penned her soul
At Truth's command.

'Tis true, she wished no monument
To mark the place;
But must she not be satisfied
To see the space
Thus blessed and open to the heart
Of every race?

O brain of power and heart of fire,
America's pride,
No wonder that the mountain height,
Above sin's tide,
Was chosen as the resting place
With death to hide;

For such could give the needed rest
On earth denied,
Could satisfy the poet's thought,
Unsatisfied,
And symbolize the soul's true rest
When glorified.

AN ANNIVERSARY POEM.

And is time marked in heaven? Dost know, O spirit friend,
'Tis just a year ago to-day
Thou went so suddenly away,
And left me in my loneliness the weary days to spend?--
Ah, weary days,
Denied thy praise
And all thy many helpful ways!

And is earth known in heaven? Dost see, O clear-eyed soul,
The present changing life of man
Still working out the wondrous plan
Of making even broken lives add to the complete whole?--
Ah, broken lives
That death deprives
Of help like thine that heavenward strives!

And are we known in heaven? Do I, thy once fond care,
Still have that patient yearning love
Which longed to lift my soul above
The sweet though transitory joys of even earth's best fare?--
Ah, earth's best fare
Cannot compare
With thy ideal of me laid bare!

A COMFORT.

TO S. R. H.

I have sowed in tears,--
Shall I reap in joy?
Shall my human heart be satisfied,
And sorrow and pain be justified?
Shall full fruition free my soul
From limitation's sad control,
And all my faculties of mind
Their perfect rest and freedom find?

"They that sow in tears
Shall reap in joy,"
Sang a poet-heart in the long ago,
'Midst depths of sorrow, pain, and woe;
And what to him was truth and life
Has shone through all the ages' strife,
To be at last our beacon-light
Of comfort in the darkest night.

AN ANNIVERSARY.

The autumn tints of these loved hills
Outlined against the sky,
Are dearer far to me this year
Than in the years gone by;

For they are colors Nature wears
To celebrate the time
When her pet child changed life on earth
For that of heavenly clime.

She thus rejoices, while our hearts
Wear not their flowers of joy.
Alas! could she but give us back
Our gifted artist boy!

But then she sees that it was best
That he, like her, should know
Death, and the Resurrection too,
The fullest life to show.

A THANK-OFFERING.

TO MISS ELIZABETH P. PEABODY.

Thou priestess of pure childhood's heart,
Wherein God's spirit lies,
Thou willing priestess of the art
Of true self-sacrifice,

Ere thy rare spirit takes its flight
To realms beyond our praise,
Where childhood's pure eternal light
Shines through the blessed days,

We thank thee for thy legacy
Of thought wrought out in deed,
By which love's sweet supremacy
Becomes man's potent need.

* * * * *

Our nation must thy secret share,
Ere it can fully rise
To heights of truth and insight where
True wisdom's glory lies.

AT LIFE'S SETTING.

Put your arms around me.
There--like that.
I want a little petting
At life's setting.
For 'tis harder to be brave
When feeble age comes creeping,
And finds me weeping
(Dear ones gone),
Or brings before my tired eyes
Sweet visions of my youth's fair prize
(There is a pain in sacrifice),
Denied me then and ever.
Left me alone? No, never.
For in God's love I nestled,
While with deep thought I wrestled,
Till all my busy life at length
Was spent in giving others strength,
In making others' homes more bright,
In making others' burdens light.

But now, alone and weary,
I am hungry
For a human love's sweet petting
At life's setting.
Keep your arms around me,
Kiss my fevered brow,
Whisper that you love me
I can bear it now.

Oh, how this does rest me
Now my work is done!
I've all my life loved others,
Now I want love, dear one.
Just a little petting
At life's setting;
For I'm old, alone, and tired,
And my long life's work is done.

GRANDMA WAITING.

A TRUE EXPERIENCE.

"Still waiting, dear good grandma, for the blessed angel Death?"

"Yes waiting, only waiting to be borne across the sea,
To the home my soul's been building all these years of mystery,
Through ninety years and over now of deep and wondrous change,
Wherein I've known the heights and depths of human feeling's range,
And tried to solve the problems old of human life so strange.

* * * * *

You want to know my history, because I am so good?
Ah, child, no human life can here be fully understood.
You call me good, and what is more, a 'true and blessed saint.'
(There is illusion sweet indeed in what you child-souls paint
Before you know too much of life and feel its evil taint.)
You even picture beauties of my home across the sea
Which I never dared to hope for e'en on heights of ecstasy.
You see me sitting helpless here, blind now for many years,
Apparently so full of peace, so free from doubts and fears,--
Though never free from Memory's thought which often brings the
tears,--
And you wonder where's the passion and the energy of youth,
The power that even dared to sway to evil ways forsooth.
Ah, you but see the blessed fruit of what God planted sure,
When in my years of sorrow He was whispering, 'Endure.'
You cannot see the dreadful scars which naught on earth can cure.
You cannot see the passion wild, when, 'neath the coffin lid,
Among the flowers, my children three, my precious all, were hid.

Nor can you see my conflict sore, when I went almost mad
Before the dying form of him who had loved me from a lad,
A loving husband, kind and true, as ever woman had.
But still, before my dear one died, more children came to me:
Two lovely boys, who seemed at last a recompense to be.
For sometimes it does seem as if God sends a special gift,
To be a special help and strength, the selfish clouds to lift,
Or--what, perhaps, we need as much--the wheat from chaff to sift.
Through all my lonely, widowed life I lived in their sweet ways,
And found no sacrifice too great in work for future days.
At length they were my crowning joy. I'd come again to know
The blessings of a married life--the happiest here below--
When, lo! Death seized the oldest one, my boy that I loved so.
This opened fresh the old deep wounds; but still I had much left,
For then I was not, as before, of every child bereft.
So on I went in daily life, determined to be true
To blessings that were left to me. That does one's life renew,--
Remember this, my dear one, when your grandma's gone from you.

The years went on. I felt I'd had my share of sorrow's pain,
So I banished every lingering thought that Death could come again.
But when we are the surest, child, 'tis then he seems to be
More vigilant than ever to proclaim his mystery,
As if he envied us an hour of joy's sweet company.
My husband first was stricken down; then came the added blow:
Two grown up sons, all settled with as fine a business show
As ever comes to mortals, were cut down in prime of life,
Having just begun to free me from the circumstances rife,
Which boded of the bitterness of poverty's dread strife.
My soul was then so mystified, so dazed before God's will,
That I could only find my voice in His calm words, 'Be still.'
Oh, could I not been spared this stroke, known one less bitter
pain,
And been as good for duties here, as fit for heaven's reign?
Was this the way, the only way, eternal life to gain?

It cannot be much longer. I shall soon have crossed the sea,
To the home my soul's been building all these years of mystery.
I've had my share of sorrow, but I've done the best I could.
God knows I've tried through all to grow more patient, wise, and
good;
To get at least this out of life, as every mortal should.
But, though I've had his comfort, and still hear his sweet
'Endure,'
I feel the bitter heartache which no time or sense can cure.
My friends have all been laid away, my work long since was o'er,
And now I'm only waiting for Death's landing on the shore.
I hope 'twill be at sunset when he knocks at my soul's door;
For, somehow, it much easier seems to go the unknown way
Attended by the beauty of the sun's last glorious ray.
But as I calmly wait and think, it does seem rather queer
That what you 'blessed angel' call has seemed my chief curse here.
Alas! how much we suffer before God's ways appear."

DOES IT PAY?

Does it pay--all this burden and worry,
All the learning acquired with pain,
All the planning and nervous wild action,
The restlessness following gain,
Does it pay?

To be free from this burden and worry,
To have knowledge without fear and pain,
To be peaceful, far-seeing, sweet tempered,
And calm in the presence of gain,
We must know the pure secret of Nature,
Like her be obedient to law,
And work in the light of the promise
Of blessed results Christ foresaw.
Then each day,
And alway,
Life will pay.

AUXILIUM AB ALTO.

The poet young e'er finds a tongue
To tell the joys of love.
The poet bold e'en dares behold
The mystery above.

The poet brave e'er loves to rave
Of wars and victories gained.
The poet sweet e'en dares repeat
The angels' songs unfeigned.

And to each one we say, "Well done,
Go on and do thy best."
Though still we feel each doth but seal
A part of life's bequest.

But yet we cry, "O goddess high,
Must thou thy wealth so share?
America feign would have the reign
Of _one_ thy gift to bear.

She needs such one to help her shun
The dangerous shoals of thought,
Which in this age of clown and sage
Her progress gained hath wrought.

She needs such one to help her shun
The deeper shoals of wrong,
Which in these days of doubt's fond lays
Tempt e'en her favored strong.

Oh, send such one to say, 'Well done,'
And tell in truth God's plan,
While he declares as well as shares
The fullest life of man."

LIMITATIONS.

"Would that my acts could equal the noble acts I've told.
Would that I could but master myself as visions bold!"

So cried a famous artist, in agony of soul,
As waves of great temptation before him high did roll.

"Oh, would that I could body the thoughts that govern me.
Oh, would that I could picture the visions I foresee!"

So cried a saintly woman, in ecstasy of pain,
As waves of sad depression rolled on her soul to gain.

THE MUSE OF HISTORY.

Clio, with her flickering light
And book of valued lore,
Comes down the ages, dark and bright,
Our interest to implore.

She walks with glad majestic mien,
Proud of her knowledge gained;
Though mourning oft at having seen
Man's life so dulled and pained.

Her face with lines of care is wrought,
From searching mystery's cause,
And dealing with the hidden thought
Of nature's subtle laws.

Yet still she blushes with new life
At sight of actions fine,
And pales with anguish at the strife
Of evil's dread design.

She stops to sing her grandest lays
When, in creation's heat,
She sees evolved a higher phase
Of life's fruition sweet.

'Twas thus in days of Genesis,
When man came forth supreme.
'Twas thus in days of Nemesis,
When Love did dare redeem.

And thus 'twill be in future days,
When out from spirit laws,
Shall be brought forth for lasting praise
The ever great First Cause.

Oh, gladly know this wondrous muse
Who walks the aisles of Time,
And not so thoughtlessly refuse
Her book of lore sublime;

For in it is the precious force
Of spirit-life divine,
Which even through a winding course
Leads in to Wisdom's shrine.

AN IMPROMPTU.

(_Written for G. H. T., on the death of W. S. T., March, 1889._)

As brothers here we've shared the smiles,
The tears of boyhood's hour,
And felt the sweet companionship
Of manhood's love and power.

But now the tie is snapped. He's fled
Beyond the mortal sight.
The grave with all its mystery
Asserts Death's power to blight.

Alas! Death seems the cruel thing
In this bright world of ours.
The bravest soul shrinks from its hold
Though loving faith empowers.

But, hark! Is 't not his voice I hear,
With comfort as of yore?
"Dear brother, Death is but more Life,
The grave is heaven's door."

TO MRS. PARTINGTON.

_July 12, 1886._

Another birthday here?
It hardly seems a year
Since I these words did hear,--
When three score years and one did crown thee,--
"Not till I am an octagon,
Or, worse still, a centurion,
Shall I be old, with factories gone
All idiomatic and forlorn."

But thou art still a "membrane" dear
Of what we call society's cheer;
"Ordained beforehand, in advance."
('Twas "foreordained," that does enhance,)

To hurl not "epitaphs" which sting,
But a new "Erie's" dawn to bring,
Of "fluid" thoughts which counteract
The "bigamies" of fate and fact.

Alas! thy crutch of many years
Still hints "romantic" pains and fears;
A "Widow Cruise's oil jug" say,
To keep "plumbago" still at bay!

Its helpful mission has a share
In "Lines of Pleasant Places" rare.
And, by the way, not crutch alone
Finds in that book its value shown.

There in the depths of friendship's mines
Are seen thy tenderest, purest lines;
Impromptus born at love's command
To deck occasion's wise demand.

One finds no "Sarah's desert" there,
No "reprehensible" despair;
But teeming thoughts on Mounds and Press
Poured out in pure unselfishness.

This brings to mind thy _Knitting-Work_,
Wherein that "plaguey Ike" does lurk,
And other books with humor rife,
Done in the priming of thy life.

"Contusion of ideas." O no;
What "Angular Saxon" would say so?
"Congestive thoughts then so inane
They'd decompose the soundest brain."

Yes, there it is, thy humor still,
Not seventy years and two can kill.
'Tis free from all "harmonious" lore,
A "wholesome" not a "ringtail" store.

LINES

SENT TO THE DINNER GIVEN IN HONOR OF WALT WHITMAN'S SEVENTIETH
BIRTHDAY, AT CAMDEN, N.J., MAY 31, 1889, AT 5 O'CLOCK P.M.

"Splendor of ended day floating and filling me,"[B]
Comes to my mind as I think of the hour
When our poet and friend will be lovingly drinking
The mystical cup of the seventy years' power.

Were I the man-of-war bird he has pictured
Nothing could keep me from flying that way.
But, though absent in body, there's nothing can hinder
My tasting the joys of that festive birthday;

For on the swift wings of the ending day's splendor
My soul will glide in to drink deep the cup's wealth.
Who knows but the poet's keen sense of pure friendship
Will feel, 'midst the joy, what I drink to his health?--
Splendor of ended day
Be but the door
Opening the endless way
Life evermore.

[B] "Song at Sunset."--_W. W._

SONNETS.

THE KNOWN GOD.

(_Suggested by Arlo Bates' sonnet, "The Unknown God," published
in the_ BOSTON COURIER _of August 21, 1887_.)

If Paul in Athens' street left nothing more
Than what he found when deep in sacred thought,
He stood and marvelled o'er what had been wrought,--
The _To the Unknown God_ of heathen lore,--
Then were he only one on thought's wide shore
To lose his name in others. But, heaven-taught,
Undaunted, and in words experienced-fraught,
Declared he God as known forevermore.

Paul's words, made deep and strong by martyred life,
Are more than vision deified. They are
Love's balm to permeate true mental strife,
And bring to sin-sick weary souls a star
Of hope born of temptation's struggles rife.
_To the Known God._ Through Paul we dare thus far.

_August, 1887._

TO PHILLIPS BROOKS.

O type of manhood, strong, serene, and chaste,
Attuned to law of man as well as God,
We hail thee as a guide, who, having trod
With Christ the spirit-fields, in eager haste
Makes glad return to give us blessed taste
Of fruit there found. Through thee our feet are shod
With gospel-peace, while thy imperial rod
Becomes our need in times of drought or waste.

How can we thank thee for thy helpful cheer,
O master-spirit of the priests of earth?
By daily doing penance without fear,
Or resting satisfied in deeds of worth?
O no! 'Tis when we breathe love's atmosphere,
And live like thee the life of heavenly birth.

_Boston, 1890._

AT THE "PORTER MANSE."

[That part of the Porter Manse containing the room referred to
was built early in the last half of the seventeenth century.
It was the house which Wenham (the first distinct township set
off--in 1639--from Salem) gave to the second pastor of its
church, Rev. Antipas Newman, who married, while living there,
Governor Winthrop's daughter. It was bought by John Porter in
1703, and has remained in his family name without alienation to
this day.]

Before a smouldering fire at twilight hour
I muse alone. The ancient room, low-beamed,
Holds for my ear thoughts voiced by forms that teemed
Two hundred years ago with life and power.
I breathe the essence of sweet joys that flower
In light of home; while life that only _seemed_
On history's page becomes the real, redeemed
From all the chaff that time fails not to shower.

Ah, such old places, holding through the years
Continuous life of man's activity,
Reveal a wealth beyond that which appears
In modern homes built e'er so lovingly.
Imbued so long with human hopes and fears,
Have they not claim to personality?

OUR LADY OF THE MANSE.

Of all those born into the name to share
The charming freedom of the Porter Manse,
None were more worthy of inheritance
Than she who now presides as lady there.
Her gracious calm makes hospitality wear
A beauteous crown of peace. Kind tolerance
And wide-embracing sympathy enhance
Her power to please and lighten daily care.

'Tis only such rare souls who pierce the truth
Of home-life secrets, and through tact and grace,
Make growing years reflect the joys of youth.
They lose not hope, though sorrow leave a trace
In all their joy. Such cannot fail, forsooth,
Of making home a loved abiding place.

TO B. P. SHILLABER.

_July 12, 1888._

When lingering Day at last recedes from sight,
And Night comes slowly forth to fill her place,
Preceded by a twilight-hour's loved face
Reflecting glorious rays of sunset light,
'Tis then my thoughts go wandering with delight
Through oft-frequented avenues of space
To those dear souls--the dearest of the race--
Who've dwelt with me on friendship's purest height.
From this old mountain-top I come to you,
My large souled trusted friend of many a year,
With birthday greetings of the roseate hue
Left by a perfect Day just lingering here.
Oh, may life's twilight hold a peace as true,
And be as filled with hope of dawn's sweet cheer!

_Mount Wachusett, Mass._

TO OUR MARY.

Sweet sister, thoughtful ever of our need,
Forgetting self, if only we be served,
How oft thy loving sympathy has nerved
Our fainting hearts to kinder, nobler deed,
Or brought to being thoughts that intercede
For others' progress. We, all undeserved,
Cannot forget that life to ends thus curved
Made time for us to plant our own pet seed.

The world owes much to many a sister dear,
Who, banishing with tears in midnight hour
A fond desire for larger, happier sphere,
Strives faithfully in lowly life to shower
Rich daily blessings. Such may know e'en here
A Christ-like joy unknown to worldly power.

_Chelsea, Mass., 1887._

A BIRTHDAY REMEMBRANCE.

TO F. D. L.

_September 26._

Time brings to thee from out his storehouse old
Another year, which graciously awaits
Thy fair soul's bidding, as it estimates
The wealth the parting year has left untold.
Clothed in chameleon garments, which unfold
The fresh new days thine eye ne'er underrates,
It brings continued hope of life that dates
Man's finest being. Thou its secrets hold!
Are not such birthdays restful stepping stones,
To aid the growing soul pick out the way
To life eternal? Not earth's bitterest moans
Or wildest joys can man's true progress stay,
If, in these pauses, he but hear the tones
Of immortality's soothing, deathless lay.

_1887._

JOSEF HOFMANN.

(_After hearing him play at Boston Music Hall in 1888._)

O marvellous child, a temple where in ease
Expectant Genius dwells, while lingering here
On earth to fit us for the heavenly sphere,
Dost feel awe-struck to know thou hast the keys
To new and wondrous unheard harmonies?
O favored boy, marked out to be the peer
Of those who in all ages God's voice hear,
Hushed are our souls before what thy soul sees!

Guard tenderly, O earth, O sky, O fates,
This precious earthly temple of Art's shrine!
May chilling poverty, or sin that dates
Soul loss, ne'er hinder Genius' wise design
To have full sway--as she anticipates--
In working out, in time, her laws divine.