CHAPTER XI
POEMS
Come Thou
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And true hearts greet, | |||
And all is morn and May. | |||
Come Thou! and now, anew, | |||
To thought and deed | |||
Give sober speed, | |||
Thy will to know, and do. | |||
Stay! till the storms are o'er — | |||
The cold blasts done, | |||
The reign of heaven begun, | |||
And Love, the evermore. | |||
Be patient, waiting heart: | |||
Light, Love divine | |||
Is here, and thine; | |||
You therefore cannot part. | |||
“The seasons come and go: | |||
Love, like the sea, | |||
Rolls on with thee, — | |||
But knows no ebb and flow. | |||
“Faith, hope, and tears, triune, | |||
Above the sod | |||
Find peace in God, | |||
And one eternal noon.” | |||
Oh, Thou hast heard my prayer; | |||
And I am blest! | |||
This is Thy high behest: | |||
Thou, here and everywhere. |
Meeting of My Departed Mother and Husband
“Joy for thee, happy friend! thy bark is past |
The dangerous sea, and safely moored at last — |
Beyond rough foam. |
Soft gales celestial, in sweet music bore — |
Spirit emancipate for this far shore — |
Thee to thy home. |
“You've travelled long, and far from mortal joys, |
To Soul's diviner sense, that spurns such toys, |
Brave wrestler, lone. |
Now see thy ever-self; Life never fled; |
Man is not mortal, never of the dead: |
The dark unknown. |
“When hope soared high, and joy was eagle-plumed, |
Thy pinions drooped; the flesh was weak, and doomed |
To pass away. |
But faith triumphant round thy death-couch shed |
Majestic forms; and radiant glory sped |
The dawning day. |
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“Intensely grand and glorious life's sphere, — |
Beyond the shadow, infinite appear |
Life, Love divine, — |
Where mortal yearnings come not, sighs are stilled, |
And home and peace and hearts are found and filled, |
Thine, ever thine. |
“Bearest thou no tidings from our loved on earth, |
The toiler tireless for Truth's new birth |
All-unbeguiled? |
Our joy is gathered from her parting sigh: |
This hour looks on her heart with pitying eye, — |
What of my child?" |
“When, severed by death's dream, I woke to Life, |
She deemed I died, and could not know the strife |
At first to fill |
That waking with a love that steady turns |
To God; a hope that ever upward yearns, |
Bowed to His will. |
“Years had passed o'er thy broken household band, |
When angels beckoned me to this bright land, |
With thee to meet. |
She that has wept o'er thee, kissed my cold brow, |
Rears the sad marble to our memory now, |
In lone retreat. |
“By the remembrance of her loyal life, |
And parting prayer, I only know my wife, |
Thy child, shall come — |
Where farewells cloud not o'er our ransomed rest — |
Hither to reap, with all the crowned and blest, |
Of bliss the sum. |
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“When Love's rapt sense the heart-strings gently sweep, |
With joy divinely fair, the high and deep, |
To call her home. |
She shall mount upward unto purer skies; |
We shall be waiting, in what glad surprise, |
Our spirits' own!” |
Love
Brood o'er us with Thy sheltering wing, |
'Neath which our spirits blend |
Like brother birds, that soar and sing, |
And on the same branch bend. |
The arrow that doth wound the dove |
Darts not from those who watch and love. |
If thou the bending reed wouldst break |
By thought or word unkind, |
Pray that his spirit you partake, |
Who loved and healed mankind: |
Seek holy thoughts and heavenly strain, |
That make men one in love remain. |
Learn, too, that wisdom's rod is given |
For faith to kiss, and know; |
That greetings glorious from high heaven, |
Whence joys supernal flow, |
Come from that Love, divinely near, |
Which chastens pride and earth-born fear. |
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Through God, who gave that word of might |
Which swelled creation's lay: |
“Let there be light, and there was light.” |
What chased the clouds away? |
'T was Love whose finger traced aloud |
A bow of promise on the cloud. |
Thou to whose power our hope we give, |
Free us from human strife. |
Fed by Thy love divine we live, |
For Love alone is Life; |
And life most sweet, as heart to heart |
Speaks kindly when we meet and part. |
Woman's Rights
Grave on her monumental pile: |
She won from vice, by virtue's smile, |
Her dazzling crown, her sceptred throne, |
Affection's wreath, a happy home; |
The right to worship deep and pure, |
To bless the orphan, feed the poor; |
Last at the cross to mourn her Lord, |
First at the tomb to hear his word: |
To fold an angel's wings below; |
And hover o'er the couch of woe; |
To nurse the Bethlehem babe so sweet, |
The right to sit at Jesus' feet; |
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To form the bud for bursting bloom, |
The hoary head with joy to crown; |
In short, the right to work and pray, |
“To point to heaven and lead the way.” |
The Mother's Evening Prayer
O gentle presence, peace and joy and power; |
O Life divine, that owns each waiting hour, |
Thou Love that guards the nestling's faltering flight! |
Keep Thou my child on upward wing to-night. |
Love is our refuge; only with mine eye |
Can I behold the snare, the pit, the fall: |
His habitation high is here, and nigh, |
His arm encircles me, and mine, and all. |
O make me glad for every scalding tear, |
For hope deferred, ingratitude, disdain! |
Wait, and love more for every hate, and fear |
No ill, — since God is good, and loss is gain. |
Beneath the shadow of His mighty wing; |
In that sweet secret of the narrow way, |
Seeking and finding, with the angels sing: |
“Lo, I am with you alway,” — watch and pray. |
No snare, no fowler, pestilence or pain; |
No night drops down upon the troubled breast, |
When heaven's aftersmile earth's tear-drops gain, |
And mother finds her home and heavenly rest. |
June
Whence are thy wooings, gentle June? |
Thou hast a Naiad's charm; |
Thy breezes scent the rose's breath; |
Old Time gives thee her palm. |
The lark's shrill song doth wake the dawn: |
The eve-bird's forest flute |
Gives back some maiden melody, |
Too pure for aught so mute. |
The fairy-peopled world of flowers, |
Enraptured by thy spell, |
Looks love unto the laughing hours, |
Through woodland, grove, and dell; |
And soft thy footstep falls upon |
The verdant grass it weaves; |
To melting murmurs ye have stirred |
The timid, trembling leaves. |
When sunshine beautifies the shower, |
As smiles through teardrops seen, |
Ask of its June, the long-hushed heart, |
What hath the record been? |
And thou wilt find that harmonies, |
In which the Soul hath part, |
Ne'er perish young, like things of earth, |
In records of the heart. |
Wish and Item
Written to the Editor of the “Item,” Lynn, Mass.
I hope the heart that's hungry |
For things above the floor, |
Will find within its portals |
An item rich in store; |
That melancholy mortals |
Will count their mercies o'er, |
And learn that Truth and wisdom |
Have many items more; |
That when a wrong is done us, |
It stirs no thought of strife; |
And Love becomes the substance, |
As item, of our life; |
That every ragged urchin, |
With bare feet soiled or sore, |
Share God's most tender mercies, — |
Find items at our door. |
Then if we've done to others |
Some good ne'er told before, |
When angels shall repeat it, |
'T will be an item more. |
The Oak on the Mountain's Summit
Oh, mountain monarch, at whose feet I stand, — |
Clouds to adorn thy brow, skies clasp thy hand, — |
Nature divine, in harmony profound, |
With peaceful presence hath begirt thee round. |
And thou, majestic oak, from yon high place |
Guard'st thou the earth, asleep in night's embrace, — |
And from thy lofty summit, pouring down |
Thy sheltering shade, her noonday glories crown? |
Whate'er thy mission, mountain sentinel, |
To my lone heart thou art a power and spell; |
A lesson grave, of life, that teacheth me |
To love the Hebrew figure of a tree. |
Faithful and patient be my life as thine; |
As strong to wrestle with the storms of time; |
As deeply rooted in a soil of love; |
As grandly rising to the heavens above. |
Isle of Wight
Written on receiving a painting of the Isle
Isle of beauty, thou art singing |
To my sense a sweet refrain; |
To my busy memory bringing |
Scenes that I would see again. |
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Chief, the charm of thy reflecting, |
Is the moral that it brings; |
Nature, with the mind connecting, |
Gives the artist's fancy wings. |
Soul, sublime 'mid human débris, |
Paints the limner's work, I ween, |
Art and Science, all unweary, |
Lighting up this mortal dream. |
Work ill-done within the misty |
Mine of human thoughts, we see |
Soon abandoned when the Master |
Crowns life's Cliff for such as we. |
Students wise, he maketh now thus |
Those who fish in waters deep, |
When the buried Master hails us |
From the shores afar, complete. |
Art hath bathed this isthmus-lordling |
In a beauty strong and meek |
As the rock, whose upward tending |
Points the plane of power to seek. |
Isle of beauty, thou art teaching |
Lessons long and grand, to-night, |
To my heart that would be bleaching |
To thy whiteness, Cliff of Wight. |
Hope
'Tis borne on the zephyr at eventide's hour; |
It falls on the heart like the dew on the flower, — |
An infinite essence from tropic to pole, |
The promise, the home, and the heaven of Soul. |
Hope happifies life, at the altar or bower, |
And loosens the fetters of pride and of power; |
It comes through our tears, as the soft summer rain, |
To beautify, bless, and make joyful again, |
The harp of the minstrel, the treasure of time; |
A rainbow of rapture, o'erarching, divine; |
The God-given mandate that speaks from above, — |
No place for earth's idols, but hope thou, and love. |
Rondelet
“The flowers of June |
The gates of memory unbar: |
The flowers of June |
Such old-time harmonies retune, |
I fain would keep the gates ajar, — |
So full of sweet enchantment are |
The flowers of June.” |
James T. White.
To Mr. James T. White
Who loves not June |
Is out of tune |
With love and God; |
The rose his rival reigns, |
The stars reject his pains, |
His home the clod! |
And yet I trow, |
When sweet rondeau |
Doth play a part, |
The curtain drops on June; |
Veiled is the modest moon — |
Hushed is the heart. |
Autumn
Written in childhood, in a maple grove
Quickly earth's jewels disappear; |
The turf, whereon I tread, |
Ere autumn blanch another year, |
May rest above my head. |
Touched by the finger of decay |
Is every earthly love; |
For joy, to shun my weary way, |
Is registered above. |
The languid brooklets yield their sighs, |
A requiem o'er the tomb |
Of sunny days and cloudless skies, |
Enhancing autumn's gloom. |
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The wild winds mutter, howl, and moan, |
To scare my woodland walk, |
And frightened fancy flees, to roam |
Where ghosts and goblins stalk. |
The cricket's sharp, discordant scream |
Fills mortal sense with dread; |
More sorrowful it scarce could seem; |
It voices beauty fled. |
Yet here, upon this faded sod, |
happy hours and fleet, |
When songsters' matin hymns to God |
Are poured in strains so sweet, |
My heart unbidden joins rehearse; |
I hope it's better made, |
When mingling with the universe, |
Beneath the maple's shade. |
Christ My Refuge
O'er waiting harpstrings of the mind |
There sweeps a strain, |
Low, sad, and sweet, whose measures bind |
The power of pain, |
And wake a white-winged angel throng |
Of thoughts, illumed |
By faith, and breathed in raptured song, |
With love perfumed. |
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Then his unveiled, sweet mercies show |
Life's burdens light. |
I kiss the cross, and wake to know |
A world more bright. |
And o'er earth's troubled, angry sea |
I see Christ walk, |
And come to me, and tenderly, |
Divinely talk. |
Thus Truth engrounds me on the rock, |
Upon Life's shore, |
'Gainst which the winds and waves can shock, |
Oh, nevermore! |
From tired joy and grief afar, |
And nearer Thee, — |
Father, where Thine own children are, |
I love to be. |
My prayer, some daily good to do |
To Thine, for Thee; |
An offering pure of Love, whereto |
God leadeth me. |
“Feed My Sheep”
Shepherd, show me how to go |
O'er the hillside steep, |
How to gather, how to sow, — |
How to feed Thy sheep;
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I will listen for Thy voice, |
Lest my footsteps stray; |
I will follow and rejoice |
All the rugged way. |
Thou wilt bind the stubborn will, |
Wound the callous breast, |
Make self-righteousness be still, |
Break earth's stupid rest. |
Strangers on a barren shore, |
Lab'ring long and lone, |
We would enter by the door, |
And Thou know'st Thine own; |
So, when day grows dark and cold, |
Tear or triumph harms, |
Lead Thy lambkins to the fold, |
Take them in Thine arms; |
Feed the hungry, heal the heart, |
Till the morning's beam; |
White as wool, ere they depart, |
Shepherd, wash them clean. |
Communion Hymn
Saw ye my Saviour? Heard ye the glad sound? |
Felt ye the power of the Word? |
'T was the Truth that made us free, |
And was found by you and me |
In the life and the love of our Lord. |
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Mourner, it calls you, — “Come to my bosom, |
Love wipes your tears all away, |
And will lift the shade of gloom, |
And for you make radiant room |
Midst the glories of one endless day.” |
Sinner, it calls you, — “Come to this fountain, |
Cleanse the foul senses within; |
'T is the Spirit that makes pure, |
That exalts thee, and will cure |
All thy sorrow and sickness and sin.” |
Strongest deliverer, friend of the friendless, |
Life of all being divine: |
Thou the Christ, and not the creed; |
Thou the Truth in thought and deed; |
Thou the water, the bread, and the wine. |
Laus Deo!
Written on laying the corner-stone of The Mother Church
Laus Deo, it is done! |
Rolled away from loving heart |
Is a stone. |
Lifted higher, we depart, |
Having one. |
Laus Deo, on this rock |
(Heaven chiselled squarely good) |
Stands His church, — |
God is Love, and understood |
By His flock. |
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Laus Deo, night star-lit |
Slumbers not in God's embrace; |
Be awake; |
Like this stone, be in thy place: |
Stand, not sit. |
Grave, silent, steadfast stone, |
Dirge and song and shoutings low |
In thy heart |
Dwell serene, — and sorrow? No, |
It has none, |
Laus Deo! |
A Verse
Mother's New Year Gift to the Little Children
Father-Mother God, |
Loving me, — |
Guard me when I sleep; |
Guide my little feet |
Up to Thee. |
To the Big Children
Father-Mother good, lovingly |
Thee I seek, — |
Patient, meek, |
In the way Thou hast, — |
Be it slow or fast, |
Up to Thee. |