EUDOXIA.
FIRST PICTURE.
SWEETEST my sister, my sister that sits in the sun, Her lap full of jewels, and roses in showers on her hair;
Soft smiling and counting her riches up slow, one by one,
Cool-browed, shaking dew from her garlands—those garlands so fair,
Many gasp, climb, snatch, struggle, and die for—her every-day wear!
O beauteous my sister, turn downwards those mild eyes of thine,
Lest they stab with their smiling, and blister or scorch where they shine.
Young sister who never yet sat for an hour in the cold,
Whose cheek scarcely feels half the roses that throng to caress,
Whose light hands hold loosely these jewels and silver and gold,
Remember thou those in the world who forever on press
In perils and watchings, and hunger and nakedness,
While thou sit'st content in the sunlight that round thee doth shine.
Take heed! these have long borne their burthen—now lift thou up thine.
Whose cheek scarcely feels half the roses that throng to caress,
Whose light hands hold loosely these jewels and silver and gold,
Remember thou those in the world who forever on press
In perils and watchings, and hunger and nakedness,
While thou sit'st content in the sunlight that round thee doth shine.
Take heed! these have long borne their burthen—now lift thou up thine.
Be meek—as befits one whose cup to the brim is love-crowned,
While others in dry dust drop empty—What, what canst thou know
Of the wild human tide that goes sweeping eternally round
The isle where thou sit'st pure and calm as a statue of snow,
Around which good thoughts like kind angels continually go?
Be pitiful. Whose eyes once turned from the angels to shine
Upon publicans, sinners? sister, 't will not pollute thine.
While others in dry dust drop empty—What, what canst thou know
Of the wild human tide that goes sweeping eternally round
The isle where thou sit'st pure and calm as a statue of snow,
Around which good thoughts like kind angels continually go?
Be pitiful. Whose eyes once turned from the angels to shine
Upon publicans, sinners? sister, 't will not pollute thine.
Who, even-eyed, looks on His children, the black and the fair,
The loved and the unloved, the tempted, untempted—marks all,
And metes—not as man metes? If thou with weak tender hand dare
To take up His balances—say where His justice should fall,
Far better be Magdalen dead at the gate of thy hall—
Dead, sinning, and loving, and contrite, and pardoned, to shine
Midst the saints high in heaven, than thou, angel sister of mine!
The loved and the unloved, the tempted, untempted—marks all,
And metes—not as man metes? If thou with weak tender hand dare
To take up His balances—say where His justice should fall,
Far better be Magdalen dead at the gate of thy hall—
Dead, sinning, and loving, and contrite, and pardoned, to shine
Midst the saints high in heaven, than thou, angel sister of mine!
EUDOXIA.
SECOND PICTURE.
DEAREST my sister, my sister who sits by the hearth,With lids softly drooping, or lifted up saintly and calm,
With household hands folded, or opened for help and for balm,
And lips, ripe and dewy, or ready for innocent mirth,—
Thy life rises upwards to heaven every day like a psalm
Which the singer sings sleeping, and waked, would half wondering say—
"I sang not. Nay, how could I sing thus?—I only do pray."
O gentlest my sister, who walks in at every dark door
Whether bolted or open, unheedful of welcome or frown;
But entering silent as sunlight, and there sitting down,
Illumines the damp walls and shines pleasant shapes on the floor,
And unlocks dim chambers where low lies sad Hope, without crown,
Uplifts her from sackcloth and ashes and black mourning weeds,
Re-crowns and re-clothes her.—Then, on to the next door that needs.
Whether bolted or open, unheedful of welcome or frown;
But entering silent as sunlight, and there sitting down,
Illumines the damp walls and shines pleasant shapes on the floor,
And unlocks dim chambers where low lies sad Hope, without crown,
Uplifts her from sackcloth and ashes and black mourning weeds,
Re-crowns and re-clothes her.—Then, on to the next door that needs.
O blessed my sister, whose spirit so wholly dost live
In loving, that even the word " loved/' with its rapturous sound,
Rings faintly, like earth-tunes when angels are hymning around:
Whose eyes say: "Less happy methinks to receive than to give."—
So whatsoever we give, may One give to thee without bound,
All best gifts—all dearest gifts—whether His right hand do close
Or open—He holds it forever above thee;—He knows!
In loving, that even the word " loved/' with its rapturous sound,
Rings faintly, like earth-tunes when angels are hymning around:
Whose eyes say: "Less happy methinks to receive than to give."—
So whatsoever we give, may One give to thee without bound,
All best gifts—all dearest gifts—whether His right hand do close
Or open—He holds it forever above thee;—He knows!
EUDOXIA.
THIRD PICTURE.
SILENT my sister, who stands by my side at the shore,Back gazing with me on those waves which we mortals call years,
That rose, grew, and threatened, and climaxed, and broke, and were o'er,
While we still sit watching and watching, our cheeks free from tears—
O sister, with looks so familiar, yet strange, flitting by,
Say, say, hast thou been to those dead years as faithful as I?
Have they cast at thy feet also, jewels and whitening bones,
Gold, silver, and wreck-wood, dank sea-weed and treasures of cost?
Hast thou buried thy dead, sought thy jewels 'midst shingle and stones,
And learnt how the lost is the found, and the found is the lost?
Or stood with clear eyes upturned placid 'twixt sorrow and mirth,
As asking deep questions that cannot be answered on earth?—
Gold, silver, and wreck-wood, dank sea-weed and treasures of cost?
Hast thou buried thy dead, sought thy jewels 'midst shingle and stones,
And learnt how the lost is the found, and the found is the lost?
Or stood with clear eyes upturned placid 'twixt sorrow and mirth,
As asking deep questions that cannot be answered on earth?—
I know not. Who knoweth? Our own souls we scarcely do know,
And none knows his brother's. Who judges, contemns, or bewails,
Or mocketh, or praiseth? In this world's strange vanishing show,
The one truth is loving. O sister, the dark cloud that veils
All life, lets this rift through to glorify future and past.
"Love ever—love only—love faithfully—love to the last."
And none knows his brother's. Who judges, contemns, or bewails,
Or mocketh, or praiseth? In this world's strange vanishing show,
The one truth is loving. O sister, the dark cloud that veils
All life, lets this rift through to glorify future and past.
"Love ever—love only—love faithfully—love to the last."