Czcionka:Mniejsze АаWiększe Aa
EARLY POEMS
LONGING
Away from the city's herds!
Away from the noisy street!
Away from the storm of words,
Where hateful and hating meet!
Away from the vapour grey,
That like a boding of ill
Is blotting the morning gay,
And gathers and darkens still!
Away from the stupid book!
For, like the fog's weary rest,
With anger dull it fills each nook
Of my aching and misty breast.
Over some shining shore,
There hangeth a space of blue;
A parting 'mid thin clouds hoar
Where the sunlight is falling through.
The glad waves are kissing the shore
Rejoice, and tell it for ever;
The boat glides on, while its oar
Is flashing out of the river.
Oh to be there with thee!
Thou and I only, my love!
The sparkling, sands and the sea!
And the sunshine of God above!
MY EYES MAKE PICTURES
"My eyes make pictures, when they are shut."
COLERIDGE.
Fair morn, I bring my greeting
To lofty skies, and pale,
Save where cloud-shreds are fleeting
Before the driving gale,
The weary branches tossing,
Careless of autumn's grief,
Shadow and sunlight crossing
On each earth-spotted leaf.
I will escape their grieving;
And so I close my eyes,
And see the light boat heaving
Where the billows fall and rise;
I see the sunlight glancing
Upon its silvery sail,
Where a youth's wild heart is dancing,
And a maiden growing pale.
And I am quietly pacing
The smooth stones o'er and o'er,
Where the merry waves are chasing
Each other to the shore.
Words come to me while listening
Where the rocks and waters meet,
And the little shells are glistening
In sand-pools at my feet.
Away! the white sail gleaming!
Again I close my eyes,
And the autumn light is streaming
From pale blue cloudless skies;
Upon the lone hill falling
'Mid the sound of heather-bells,
Where the running stream is calling
Unto the silent wells.
Along the pathway lonely,
My horse and I move slow;
No living thing, save only
The home-returning crow.
And the moon, so large, is peering
Up through the white cloud foam;
And I am gladly nearing
My father's house, my home.
As I were gently dreaming
The solemn trees look out;
The hills, the waters seeming
In still sleep round about;
And in my soul are ringing
Tones of a spirit-lyre,
As my beloved were singing
Amid a sister-choir.
If peace were in my spirit,
How oft I'd close my eyes,
And all the earth inherit,
And all the changeful skies!
Thus leave the sermon dreary,
Thus leave the lonely hearth;
No more a spirit weary—
A free one of the earth!
DEATH
When, like a garment flung aside at night,
This body lies, or sculpture of cold rest;
When through its shaded windows comes no light,
And the white hands are folded on its breast;
How will it be with Me, its tenant now?
How shall I feel when first I wander out?
How look on tears from loved eyes falling? How
Look forth upon dim mysteries round about?
Shall I go forth, slow-floating like a mist,
Over the city with its crowded walls?
Over the trees and meadows where I list?
Over the mountains and their ceaseless falls?
Over the red cliffs and fantastic rocks;
Over the sea, far-down, fleeting away;
White sea-birds shining, and the billowy shocks
Heaving unheard their shore-besieging spray?
Or will a veil, o'er all material things
Slow-falling; hide them from the spirit's sight;
Even as the veil which the sun's radiance flings
O'er stars that had been shining all the night?
And will the spirit be entranced, alone,
Like one in an exalted opium-dream—
Time space, and all their varied dwellers gone;
And sunlight vanished, and all things that seem;
Thought only waking; thought that doth not own
The lapse of ages, or the change of place;
Thought, in which only that which is, is known;
The substance here, the form confined to space?
Or as a child that sobs itself to sleep,
Wearied with labour which the grown call play,
Waking in smiles as soon as morn doth peep,
Springs up to labour all the joyous day,
Shall we lie down, weary; and sleep, until
Our souls be cleansed by long and dreamless rest;
Till of repose we drink our thirsting fill,
And wake all peaceful, smiling, pure, and blest?
I know not—only know one needful thing:
God is; I shall be ever in His view;
I only need strength for the travailing,
Will for the work Thou givest me to do.
LESSONS FOR A CHILD
I
There breathes not a breath of the morning air,
But the spirit of Love is moving there;
Not a trembling leaf on the shadowy tree
Mingles with thousands in harmony;
But the Spirit of God doth make the sound,
And the thoughts of the insect that creepeth around.
And the sunshiny butterflies come and go,
Like beautiful thoughts moving to and fro;
And not a wave of their busy wings
Is unknown to the Spirit that moveth all things.
And the long-mantled moths, that sleep at noon,
And dance in the light of the mystic moon—
All have one being that loves them all;
Not a fly in the spider's web can fall,
But He cares for the spider, and cares for the fly;
And He cares for each little child's smile or sigh.
How it can be, I cannot know;
He is wiser than I; and it must be so.
II
The tree-roots met in the spongy ground,
Looking where water lay;
Because they met, they twined around,
Embraced, and went their way.
Drop dashed on drop, as the rain-shower fell,
Yet they strove not, but joined together;
And they rose from the earth a bright clear well,
Singing in sunny weather.
Sound met sound in the wavy air;
They kissed as sisters true;
Yet, jostling not on their journey fair,
Each on its own path flew.
Wind met wind in a garden green;
Each for its own way pled;
And a trampling whirlwind danced between,
Till the flower of Love lay dead.
III
To C.C.P.
The bird on the leafy tree,
The bird in the cloudy sky,
The fish in the wavy sea,
The stag on the mountain high,
The albatross asleep
On the waves of the rocking deep,
The bee on its light wing, borne
Over the bending corn,—
What is the thought in the breast
Of the little bird at rest?
What is the thought in the songs
Which the lark in the sky prolongs?
What mean the dolphin's rays,
Winding his watery ways?
What is the thought of the stag,
Stately on yonder crag?
What doth the albatross think,
Dreaming upon the brink
Of the mountain billow, and then
Dreaming down in its glen?
What is the thought of the bee
Fleeting so silently,
Flitting from part to part,
Speedily, gently roving,
Like the love of a thoughtful heart,
Ever at rest, and moving?
What is the life of their thought?
Doth praise their souls employ?
I think it can be nought
But the trembling movement to and fro
Of a bright, life-giving joy.
And the God of cloudless days,
Who souls and hearts doth know,
Taketh their joy for praise,
And biddeth its fountains flow.
And if, in thy life on earth,
In the chamber, or by the hearth,
Mid the crowded city's tide,
Or high on the lone hill-side,
Thou canst cause a thought of peace,
Or an aching thought to cease,
Or a gleam of joy to burst
On a soul in gladness nurst;
Spare not thy hand, my child;
Though the gladdened should never know
The well-spring amid the wild
Whence the waters of blessing flow.
Find thy reward in the thing
Which thou hast been blest to do;
Let the joy of others cause joy to spring
Up in thy bosom too.
And if the love of a grateful heart
As a rich reward be given,
Lift thou the love of a grateful heart
To the God of Love in Heaven.
HOPE DEFERRED
Summer is come again. The sun is bright,
And the soft wind is breathing. We will joy;
And seeing in each other's eyes the light
Of the same joy, smile hopeful. Our employ
Shall, like the birds', be airy castles, things
Built by gay hopes, and fond imaginings,
Peopling the land within us. We will tell
Of the green hills, and of the silent sea,
And of all summer things that calmly dwell,
A waiting Paradise for you and me.
And if our thoughts should wander upon sorrow,
Yet hope will wait upon the far-off morrow.
Look on those leaves. It was not Summer's mouth
That breathed that hue upon them. And look there—
On that thin tree. See, through its branches bare,
How low the sun is in the mid-day South!
This day is but a gleam of gladness, flown
Back from the past to tell us what is gone.
For the dead leaves are falling; and our heart,
Which, with the world, is ever changing so,
Gives back, in echoes sad and low,
The rustling sigh wherewith dead leaves depart:
A sound, not murmuring, but faint and wild;
A sorrow for the Past that hath no child,—
No sweet-voiced child with the bright name of Hope.
We are like you, poor leaves! but have more scope
For sorrow; for our summers pass away
With a slow, year-long, overshadowing decay.
Yea, Spring's first blossom disappears,
Slain by the shadow of the coming years.
Come round me, my beloved. We will hold
All of us compassed thus: a winter day
Is drawing nigh us. We are growing old;
And, if we be not as a ring enchanted,
About each other's heart, to keep us gay,
The young, who claim that joy which haunted
Our visions once, will push us far away
Into the desolate regions, dim and grey,
Where the sea hath no moaning, and the cloud
No rain of tears, but apathy doth shroud
All being and all time. But, if we keep
Together thus, the tide of youth will sweep
Round us with thousand joyous waves,
As round some palmy island of the deep;
And our youth hover round us like the breath
Of one that sleeps, and sleepeth not to death.
Thus onward, hand in hand, to parted graves,
The sundered doors into one palace home,
Through age's thickets, faltering, we will go,
If He who leads us, wills it so,
Believing in our youth, and in the Past;
Within us, tending to the last
Love's radiant lamp, which burns in cave or dome;
And, like the lamps that ages long have glowed
In blessed graves, when once the weary load
Of tomb-built years is heaved up and cast,
For youth and immortality, away,
Will flash abroad in open day,
Clear as a star in heaven's blue-vaulted night;
Shining, till then, through every wrinkled fold,
With the Transfiguration's conquering might;
That Youth our faces wondering shall behold,
And shall be glad, not fearing to be old.
THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR
The weary Old Year is dead at last;
His corpse 'mid the ruins of Time is cast,
Where the mouldering wrecks of lost Thought lie,
And the rich-hued blossoms of Passion die
To a withering grass that droops o'er his grave,
The shadowy Titan's refuge cave.
Strange lights from pale moony Memory lie
On the weedy columns beneath its eye;
And strange is the sound of the ghostlike breeze,
In the lingering leaves on the skeleton trees;
And strange is the sound of the falling shower,
When the clouds of dead pain o'er the spirit lower;
Unheard in the home he inhabiteth,
The land where all lost things are gathered by Death.
Alone I reclined in the closing year;
Voice, nor breathing, nor step was near;
And I said in the weariness of my breast:
Weary Old Year, thou art going to rest;
O weary Old Year, I would I might be
One hour alone in thy dying with thee!
Would thou wert a spirit, whose low lament
Might mix with the sighs from my spirit sent;
For I am weary of man and life;
Weary of restless unchanging strife;
Weary of change that is ever changing;
Weary of thought that is ever ranging,
Ever falling in efforts vain,
Fluttering, upspringing from earth again,
Struggling once more through the darkness to wing
That hangs o'er the birthplace of everything,
And choked yet again in the vapour's breast,
Sinking once more to a helpless rest.
I am weary of tears that scarce are dry,
Ere their founts are filled as the cloud goes by;
Weary of feelings where each in the throng
Mocks at the rest as they crowd along;
Where Pride over all, like a god on high,
Sits enshrined in his self-complacency;
Where Selfishness crawls, the snake-demon of ill,
The least suspected where busiest still;
Where all things evil and painful entwine,
And all in their hate and their sorrow are mine:
O weary Old Year, I would I might be
One hour by thy dying, to weep with thee!
Peace, the soul's slumber, was round me shed;
The sleep where thought lives, but its pain is dead;
And my musings led me, a spirit-band,
Through the wide realms of their native land;
Till I stood by the couch of the mighty dying,
A lonely shore in the midnight lying.
He lay as if he had laid him to sleep,
And the stars above him their watch did keep;
And the mournful wind with the dreamy sigh,
The homeless wanderer of the sky,
Was the only attendant whose gentle breath
Soothed him yet on the couch of death;
And the dying waves of the heedless sea
Fell at his feet most listlessly.
But he lay in peace, with his solemn eye
Looking far through the mists of futurity.
A smile gleamed over the death-dew that lay
On his withered cheek as life ebbed away.
A darkness lay on his forehead vast;
But the light of expectancy o'er it was cast,—
A light that shone from the coming day,
Travelling unseen to the East away.
In his cloudy robes that lay shadowing wide,
I stretched myself motionless by his side;
And his eyes with their calm, unimpassioned power,
Soothing my heart like an evening shower,
Led in a spectral, far-billowing train,
The hours of the Past through my spirit again.
There were fears of evil whose stony eyes
Froze joy in its gushing melodies.
Some floated afar on thy tranquil wave,
And the heart looked up from its search for a grave;
While others as guests to the bosom came,
And left its wild children more sorrow, less shame;
For the death-look parts from their chilling brow,
And they bless the heads that before them bow;
And floating away in the far-off gloom.
Thankfulness follows them to their tomb.
There were Hopes that found not a place to rest
Their foot 'mid the rush of all-ocean's breast;
And home to the sickening heart flew back,
But changed into sorrows upon their track;
And through the moan of the darkening sea
Bearing no leaf from the olive-tree.
There were joys that looked forth with their maiden eyes,
And smiled, and were gone, with a sad surprise;
And the Love of the Earthly, whose beauteous form
Beckoned me on through sunshine and storm;
But when the bounding heart sprang high,
Meeting her smile with a speechless sigh,
The arms sunk home with a painful start,
Clasping a vacancy to the heart.
And the voice of the dying I seem to hear
But whether his breathing is in mine ear,
Or the sounds of the breaking billows roll
The lingering accents upon my soul,
I know not; but thus they seem to bear
Reproof to my soul for its faint despair:—
Blame not life, it is scarce begun;
Blame not mankind, thyself art one.
And change is holy, oh! blame it never;
Thy soul shall live by its changing ever;
Not the bubbling change of a stagnant pool,
But the change of a river, flowing and full;
Where all that is noble and good will grow
Mightier still as the full tides flow;
Till it joins the hidden, the boundless sea,
Rolling through depths of Eternity.
Blame not thy thought that it cannot reach
That which the Infinite must teach;
Bless thy God that the Word came nigh
To guide thee home to thy native sky,
Where all things are homely and glorious too,
And the children are wondering, and glad, and true.
And he pointed away to an Eastern star,
That gleamed through his robes o'er the ocean afar;
And I knew that a star had looked o'er the rim
Of my world that lay all dreary and dim;
And was slowly dissolving the darkness deep
Which, like evil nurse, had soothed me to sleep;
And rising higher, and shining clearer,
Would draw the day-spring ever nearer,
Till the sunshine of God burst full on the morn,
And every hill and valley would start
With the joy of light and new gratitude born
To Him who had led me home to His heart;
And all things that lived in my world within
With the gladness of tears to His feet come in;
And the false Self be banished with fiends to dwell
In the gloomiest haunts of his native hell;
And Pride, that ruled like a god above,
Be trod 'neath the feet of triumphant Love.
And again he pointed across the sea,
And another vision arose in me:
And I knew I walked an ocean of fear,
Yet of safety too, for the Master was near;
And every wave of sorrow or dread,
O'er which strong faith should upraise my head,
Would show from the height of its troubled crest
Still nearer and nearer the Land of Rest.
And when the storm-spray on the wind should arise,
And with tears unbidden should blind mine eyes,
And hide from my vision the Home of Love,
I knew I must look to the star above,
And the mists of Passion would quickly flee,
And the storm would faint to serenity.
And again it seemed as if words found scope,
The sorrowing words of a farewell Hope:
"I will meet thee again in that deathless land,
Whenever thy foot shall imprint the strand;
And the loveliest things that have here been mine,
Shall there in eternal beauty shine;
For there I shall live and never die,
Part of a glorious Eternity;
For the death of Time is To be forgot,
And I go where oblivion entereth not."
He was dead. He had gone to the rest of his race,
With a sad smile frozen upon his face.
Deadness clouded his eyes. And his death-bell rung,
And my sorrowing thoughts his low requiem sung;
And with trembling steps his worn body cast
In the wide charnel-house of the dreary Past.
Thus met the noble Old Year his end:
Rest him in peace, for he was my friend.
As my thoughts returned from their wandering,
A voice in my spirit was lingering;
And its sounds were like Spring's first breeze's hum,
When the oak-leaves fall, and the young leaves come:
Time dieth ever, is ever born:
On the footsteps of night so treadeth the morn;
Shadow and brightness, death and birth,
Chasing each other o'er the round earth.
But the spirit of Time from his tomb is springing,
The dust of decay from his pinions flinging;
Ever renewing his glorious youth,
Scattering around him the dew of Truth.
Oh, let it raise in the desert heart
Fountains and flowers that shall never depart!
This spirit will fill us with thought sublime;
For the End of God is the spirit of Time.
A SONG IN A DREAM
I dreamed of a song, I heard it sung;
In the ear that sleeps not its music rung.
And the tones were upheld by harmonies deep,
Where the spirit floated; yea, soared, on their sweep
With each wild unearthly word and tone,
Upward, it knew not whither bound,
In a calm delirium of mystic sound—
Up, where the Genius of Thought alone
Loveth in silence to drink his fill
Of dews that from unknown clouds distil.
A woman's voice the deep echoes awoke,
In the caverns and solitudes of my soul;
But such a voice had never broke
Through the sea of sounds that about us roll,
Choking the ear in the daylight strife.
There was sorrow and triumph, and death and life
In each chord-note of that prophet-song,
Blended in one harmonious throng:
Such a chant, ere my voice has fled from death,
Be it mine to mould of the parting breath.
A THANKSGIVING
I Thank Thee, boundless Giver,
That the thoughts Thou givest flow
In sounds that like a river
All through the darkness go.
And though few should swell the pleasure,
By sharing this my wine,
My heart will clasp its treasure,
This secret gift of Thine.
My heart the joy inherits,
And will oft be sung to rest;
And some wandering hoping spirits
May listen and be blest.
For the sound may break the hours
In a dark and gloomy mood,
As the wind breaks up the bowers
Of the brooding sunless wood.
For every sound of gladness
Is a prophet-wind that tells
Of a summer without sadness,
And a love without farewells;
And a heart that hath no ailing,
And an eye that is not dim,
And a faith that without failing
Shall be complete in Him.
And when my heart is mourning,
The songs it lately gave,
Back to their fount returning,
Make sweet the bitter wave;
And forth a new stream floweth,
In sunshine winding fair;
And through the dark wood goeth
Glad laughter on the air.
For the heart of man that waketh,
Yet hath not ceased to dream,
Is the only fount that maketh
The sweet and bitter stream.
But the sweet will still be flowing
When the bitter stream is dry,
And glad music only going
On the breezes of the sky.
I thank Thee, boundless Giver,
That the thoughts Thou givest flow
In sounds that like a river
All through the darkness go.
And though few should swell the pleasure
By sharing this my wine,
My heart will clasp its treasure,
This secret gift of Thine.
THE GOSPEL WOMEN
I.
THE MOTHER MARY
1.
Mary, to thee the heart was given
For infant hand to hold,
Thus clasping, an eternal heaven,
The great earth in its fold.
He seized the world with tender might,
By making thee his own;
Thee, lowly queen, whose heavenly height
Was to thyself unknown.
He came, all helpless, to thy power,
For warmth, and love, and birth;
In thy embraces, every hour,
He grew into the earth.
And thine the grief, O mother high,
Which all thy sisters share,
Who keep the gate betwixt the sky
And this our lower air;
And unshared sorrows, gathering slow;
New thoughts within thy heart,
Which through thee like a sword will go,
And make thee mourn apart.
For, if a woman bore a son
That was of angel brood,
Who lifted wings ere day was done,
And soared from where he stood;
Strange grief would fill each mother-moan,
Wild longing, dim, and sore:
"My child! my child! he is my own,
And yet is mine no more!"
And thou, O Mary, years on years,
From child-birth to the cross,
Wast filled with yearnings, filled with fears,
Keen sense of love and loss.
His childish thoughts outsoared thy reach;
His childish tenderness
Had deeper springs than act or speech
To eye or ear express.
Strange pangs await thee, mother mild!
A sorer travail-pain,
Before the spirit of thy child
Is born in thee again.
And thou wilt still forbode and dread,
And loss be still thy fear,
Till form be gone, and, in its stead,
The very self appear.
For, when thy Son hath reached his goal,
His own obedient choice,
Him thou wilt know within thy soul,
And in his joy rejoice.
2.
Ah, there He stands! With wondering face
Old men surround the boy;
The solemn looks, the awful place,
Restrain the mother's joy.
In sweet reproach her joy is hid;
Her trembling voice is low,
Less like the chiding than the chid:
"How couldst Thou leave us so?"
Ah, mother! will thy heart mistake,
Depressed by rising fear,
The answering words that gently break
The silence of thine ear?
"Why sought ye me? Did ye not know
My father's work I do?"
Mother, if He that work forego,
Not long He cares for you.
"Why sought ye me?" Ah, mother dear!
The gulf already opes,
That soon will keep thee to thy fear,
And part thee from thy hopes.
A greater work He hath to do,
Than they can understand;
And therefore mourn the loving few,
With tears throughout the land.
3.
The Lord of life beside them rests;
They quaff the merry wine;
They do not know, those wedding guests,
The present power divine.
Believe, on such a group He smiled,
Though He might sigh the while;
Believe not, sweet-souled Mary's child
Was born without a smile.
He saw the pitchers high upturned,
The last red drops to pour;
His mother's cheek with triumph burned,
And expectation wore.
He knew the prayer her bosom housed,
He read it in her eyes.
Her hopes in Him sad thoughts have roused,
Before her words arise.
"They have no wine," the mother said,
And ceased while scarce begun;
Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head,
Show what Thou art, my Son!"
A vision rose before his eyes,
The cross, the early tomb,
The people's rage, the darkened skies,
His unavoided doom.
"Ah, woman-heart! what end is set
Common to thee and me?
My hour of honour is not yet,—
'Twill come too soon for thee."
And yet his eyes so sweetly shined,
His voice so gentle grew,
The mother knew the answer kind—
"Whate'er He sayeth, do."
The little feast more joyous grew,
Fast flowed the grapes divine;
Though then, as now, not many knew
Who made the water wine.
4.
"He is beside himself," they said;
His days, so lonely spent,
Him from the well-known path have led
In which our fathers went."
"Thy mother seeks thee." Cried aloud,
The message finds its way;
He stands within, amidst a crowd,
She in the open day.
A flush of light o'erspreads his face,
And pours from forth his eyes;
He lifts that head, the home of grace,
Looks round Him, and replies.
"My mother? brothers? who are they?"
Hearest thou, Mary mild?
This is a sword that well may slay—
Disowned by thy child!
Not so. But, brothers, sisters, hear!
What says our human Lord?
O mother, did it wound thy ear?
We thank Him for the word.
"Who are my friends?" Oh! hear Him say,
And spread it far and broad.
"My mother, sisters, brothers, they
Who keep the word of God."
My brother! Lord of life and me,
I am inspired with this!
Ah! brother, sister, this must be
Enough for all amiss.
Yet think not, mother, He denies,
Or would thy claim destroy;
But glad love lifts more loving eyes
To Him who made the joy.
Oh! nearer Him is nearer thee:
With his obedience bow,
And thou wilt rise with heart set free,
Yea, twice his mother now.
5.
The best of life crowds round its close,
To light it from the door;
When woman's art no further goes,
She weeps, and loves the more.
Howe'er she doubted, in his life,
And feared his mission's loss,
The mother shares the awful strife,
And stands beside the cross.
Mother, the hour of tears is past;
The sword hath reached thy soul;
No veil of swoon is round thee cast,
No darkness hides the whole.
Those are the limbs which thou didst bear;
Thy arms, they were his rest;
And now those limbs the irons tear,
And hold Him from thy breast.
He speaks. With torturing joy the sounds
Drop burning on thine ear;
The mother-heart, though bleeding, bounds
Her dying Son to hear.
Ah! well He knew that not alone
The cross of pain could tell;
That griefs as bitter as his own
Around it heave and swell.
And well He knew what best repose
Would bring a true relief:
He gave, each to the other, those
Who shared a common grief.
"Mother, behold thy son. O friend,
My mother take for thine."
"Ah, son, he loved thee to the end."
"Mother, what honour mine!"
Another son instead, He gave,
Her crying heart to still.
For him, He went down to the grave,
Doing his Father's will.