Part 5

* * * * *

From each act, however small, Some result must ever fall; Drop a pebble in the wave Distant shores its ripples lave.

* * * * *

Give gladness to childhood! ’twill brighten life’s years; Pour hydromel for it, unmingled with tears, So fondly, caressingly, memory clings To youth’s every joy, forgetting its stings.

* * * * *

Experience teaches some lessons of worth— That wealth is not always of lordliest birth, That duty makes labor, tho’ humble, sublime— That crucial trial gives strength to the soul:— There’s no royal road to Life’s coveted goal, Earth’s throngs must all pass the same doorway of Time.

* * * * *

If Heaven’s light beam on your tears, Hope’s bright bow will span the cloud, While God’s own promise, calming fears, Will lift the soul by sorrow bowed.

* * * * *

Mystery deep, thy doors unbar, And let us look within!— Thought goes ranging far—afar, On webs our fancies spin.

* * * * *

The life I live is not my own— ’Tis subterfuge and dross, The yearning soul makes hidden moan, With secret sense of loss.

* * * * *

O, dear Savior, I am weary— Let me rest my soul with Thee! Mansions bright, Thou art preparing— Wilt thou, Jesus, welcome me?

* * * * *

For the bright, warm joys, once cherished, There’s a withered rose and a brown, sere leaf; Ah! dear were the hopes that perished, Yet there’s wealth of life, in the golden sheaf.

* * * * *

When a gleam of the sun, thro’ a rift in the storm, Throws a light on our path, that was shadowed before, We look to the cloud, for the beautiful form Of the bow, that is promise to us, evermore.

* * * * *

The rose is girt with thorns about, The berries sweet, with briars— Thus Fate doth ever hedge us from Our heart’s supreme desires.

* * * * *

Tossing, rolling, restless sea, Picture thou of Life to me—Shadow-clouds now floating o’er, Foam and drift-wood on the shore:— Depths of dark and billowy waves, Wrecking hopes and hollowing graves— Breaking on the beach in moans, Seem thy cavern’s echoed groans.

Prosperous winds, and thou wilt bear, On thy heaving bosom fair, Snowy sails, with treasures laden From the distant, sun-kissed Aden,— Costly fabrics—richest stores, For their own, dear, home-lit shores, Where Love’s altars brightly burn, While she waits their glad return.

* * * * *

In all this beauteous world of ours What gift, of Love, so sweet as flowers!

* * * * *

O, sweet is the fountain of soothing That ever is found in His Word— Drink deeply when heart-wounds are bleeding And the peace of the spirit is stirred.

Words.

O, words may be loving and mellow in tone, Sweet as the dew on the flowers of Hermon, Gently imparting a blessing their own, Precious with promise, as Olivet’s sermon.

Words may be careless, and cruel and coarse— Be tauntingly hurled, or so bitterly spoken, Resistless as lightning’s destroying force, They scar with their scathing the heart they have broken.

Words may have edge that is keener than steel— May pierce with their points like the swift-flying arrow; They hurt with these stings while the victim will feel, Then tear through the heart like a torturing harrow.

Words may be venomed with malice and spite, May wither with scorn, with contempt and derision— Be dreaded like adders when coiling to bite Or hiss out their poison in whispered suspicion.

Aye, words may be vile as a basilisk’s breath— A falsehood the germ—an ovum of evil, Impregnate with calumny’s virus innate, Then heated and hovered by envy and hate; Thus “brooded by serpents,” like the monster medieval, Come forth with his powers of blasting with death.

But words that are warmed in the sunlight of love Will soothe with their feeling a brother’s affliction; ’Tis the Spirit from heaven that comes like a dove, So gently descending in sweet benediction.

’Tis blessed receiving what kindness imparts, How trifling so ever the token, Thrice blessed, the giving of solace to hearts That words of injustice have blighted and broken. There’s comfort and balm for life’s various smarts In words of true sympathy, tenderly spoken.

Mother.

Oh! mother, mine, mother, mine, come to me now, With a touch of thy hand sweep the care from my brow; Oh, come, on the wings of the silences come, Dear mother, my own, as you reigned in our home.

Oh! mother, mine, mother, mine, come now at eve. I sit in the gloaming, in loneliness grieve; The world is so selfish, so cold and unkind, Sweet solace for pain in thy love I would find.

Oh! mother, mine, mother, mine, hear me, I pray! In the silence of night, blot the sorrows of day; And point me away from the earth and its care. To the beautiful dwelling—that mansion so fair,

Where mother, mine, mother mine, waiteth for me, With loved ones who’re watching my barque on life’s sea— Who’ll stretch out their welcoming hands from the shore, When I reach the glad haven, all buffetings o’er.

Hands.

There are hands we fondly cherish Not alone for form and grace, But the loving deeds that mold them, Place them next a sainted face.

They can soothe as if with magic, When the fever-furies rage; Their caresses, unobstrusive, E’en a heartache can assuage.

Hands can emphasize a welcome, Far beyond the gifts of speech, And their language, plain and truthful, Doubt did never yet impeach.

Aye! there’s feeling warm and tender, Ever pulsing in the palm, In whose kindly, silent pressure Sorrow finds a healing balm.

Love’s sweet mysteries course their fingers, For their lightest touch of tips Has the secret gift of thrilling, Like affection’s clinging lips.

They can knit with mystic flosses Such a net about the heart— Earth has naught so near a heaven As this thraldom doth impart.

Hands have heart-beats throbbing through them And the lightning flash of thought; ’Tis by such that grand impulsions Into living deeds are wrought.

Hands may be a sculptor’s pattern, Tipped with smooth, shell-tinted nails, Yet convey a touch, repulsive As of scaly serpent trails.

If the soul is gross and selfish, There’s no art the trait conceals, But the hand in mold or clasping, To the sentient heart reveals.

Idle hands are limp and nerveless, Lack expression, fervor, grasp— They receive nor give sensation, Simply lie within your clasp.

Hands may flash a wealth of jewels, Yet display a pauper soul— God inscribes these outspread tablets From the spirit’s hidden scroll.

Endymion.

When the noble son of Zeus Asked the gift of youth immortal, Little wot he of the ages Stretching onward from life’s portal; Tho’ he walked with gods, he wearied, Wished for rest, intense and deep,— Asked another gift of Zeus; That of everlasting sleep.

And his thoughtless wish was granted; Glad he hushed his soul’s repining In the winged god’s misty vapors And, on Latmos’ height reclining, Laid down all earth’s cares and trials— All its wearying heat and strife, Yet within his dormant being, Held the essences of life.

Fair Selene, robed in beauty, Wandering forth in loneliness, Bent above the youth admiring— Touched him with a light caress; And her gazing woke his spirit To a dream’s ecstatic bliss, As her lips, with tender fondness, Snatched from his that holy kiss.

And her heart’s new, quickened pulsing Thrilled along love’s unseen wires,— Stirred in him responsive passion,— Lit his soul’s electric fires. Then the roused, enrapt Endymion, Shaking off the slumbrous air, Cried,—“Ye gods, take back your giving, All life’s perils I will dare; Wake my soul to keenest feeling, Let its sense of pleasure reign, Tho’ my path were paved with spear-points I would count the waking gain.”

Glad he left the heights so longed for, Sought the lowland’s balmy air, Leading her, the loved Selene, Thro’ the flowery valleys fair, Where the paths all flash with diamonds From the jewelled crown of Night,— Where the lake upon his bosom Rocks the sleeping lillies white, And his lullaby in whispers Floating thro’ the leafy dell, Mingling with perfume and zephyr Wove a sweet entrancing spell.

And ’twas there at Sylva’s altar, With the gazing stars above, Soul to soul, by mute impulsion, That they pledged eternal love; Ay, ’twas then the spheric paean, Through the great expanses spread, When in Beauty’s listening stillness, Peace and Purity were wed.

And tonight I see them roaming Thro’ the flowery paths of eld— Thro’ the valley, by the lakelet, Where their nuptial feast was held; Where the moon-beams dance with shadows, In the hushed, half-hidden glen, Shunning Mammon’s crowded cities And the busy walks of men.

But linger not too long, Selene,— Hasten from thy lover’s side, Or, in fleecy cloud-wrought vesture From the gaze of Eos hide; Else like darkly mantled Pleiad, Wailing robes of forfeit glory, Thou wilt find thy charms are stolen By the jealous, fair Aurora.

Hasten, hasten, for she cometh,— Venus bright doth herald now, All Jove’s pageantry attends her, Erse’s gems bedeck her brow, And her royal robes are ’broidered Rich with rose and amethyst;— Hasten, but with thine Endymion Keep the holy evening tryst.

Calypso—The Lover’s Pocket.

Erastes saw with vain regret A hedge of guards was thickly set Around the fair one he would woo; For Flora’s aid he quick applied— “Be art of yours with Love’s allied And Cupid’s throng shall kneel to you.”

Then Flora wrought that mystic flower And graced with it Love’s Sylvan bower, And there a wildling still it grows; The hue she gave was pearly white, But Love would add one more delight And mingled in a blush of rose.

T’was given such an artless guise That e’en suspicion’s prying eyes Doth no intriguing plan suppose: And there within, securely hid, Beneath the blossom’s fringy lid The lover’s missive finds repose.

* * * * *

“Wilt thou, dear maid, thy wealth resign And drink with me love’s ruby wine— In weal or woe my fortune’s share?” She wrote and hid—“I will be thine— With love’s devotion ever mine There’s naught but I could dare.”

A closely folded plan for flight (That marked the nearest moonless night,) The Orchid in its heart concealed. While vigilance unconscious slept, Two dusky steeds thro’ darkness swept Across an unfrequented field And brought the lovers quickly where A waiting priest, with pledge and prayer, The sacred bonds of wedlock sealed.

Paternal pride aroused, irate, With bluster came, a moment late,— The holy rite had joined their hands, The vows were made, the pledges given That bound the twain as one in heaven, Despite his wrath and stern commands.

“How could you thus,” he cried in rage, “Defy my will, disgrace my age! I’ll disinherit and disown—And you shall have eternal scorn For wedding with that lowly born— Aye, you shall reap as you have sown.”

* * * * *

“O, woman! thou art gall and wine— Deceit’s worst name, to me, is thine! I thought her will succumbed to mine, So cheerful, happy, she had seemed. I felt within a conscious pride In power to hold, subdue and guide— That she was conquered, fondly dreamed.”

“Along the wood she walked with me, Among the wild flowers, gay and free, (I guarded her with watchful eye,) With eager hand she plucked and smiled As guileless as a happy child— No love-lorn look—no sob or sigh.”

“Aye, woman’s ways and woman’s wiles Are knitted in with looks and smiles By which man’s wisdom oft is foiled. She’ll seem so gently yielding _will_ While scheming for her own way, still— With sweet deceits will blind us, till Our dearest hopes have been despoiled.”

“But, ’tis senseless nursing helpless wrath,— Shall I strew thorns along her path Whose only dower’s a father’s curse?— Drive them out with want to roam? I think I’ll take the couple home— In truth, her parents did much worse.”

* * * * *

Calypso, still with winning grace, Adorns the ferny, sedgey place By purling brook or shaded dell, And only Cupid knows its art Of hiding in its fragrant heart The secret, sweet, that Love would tell.

What Is Love?

Not the fierce-destroying power Of the hot sirocco’s breath, Withering every tender flower, Strewing all its path with death Or helpless, silent sorrow.

’Tis a strength that holds each feeling But a slave to do its will— Every wish, abjectly kneeling, Waits its mandate to fulfill Or creeps, by stealth, in shadow.

’Tis Life’s sacred, golden chalice, From as rich a vintage filled For the cottage, as the palace— Sweetest draughts have been distilled With want upon the lever.

’Tis a tender, true devotion, Never soiled by thoughts of pelf, But with gladsome, sweet emotion To its altar bringing _self_, A sacrificial offering.—

Joy’s bell whose silver ringing Down the ages has been borne Ever since in Eden, singing, Wedded love hailed rosy morn— Still the tones fall sweet as ever.

’Tis the Horeb of the spirit, Where no coarse-shod thought may tread, The part divine, which souls inherit From love’s holy Fountain-Head, Influent with our being.

Sleighing.

Hear the bells, distant bells! How the merry music swells, As the steed, with noble speed, Nearer, nearer, nearer comes, Strength doth wing his flying feet; Onward, onward, onward going, With a strong and rythmic beat; Youth, with health and beauty glowing, Blends a rippling, laughter peal With the ringing hoofs of steel— How the mingling music hums!

Hear the bells, joyous bells! Love’s sweet tale their music tells, As they go o’er glistening snow; Wildly, wildly, rushing by, Fainter grow the hoof-beats now, Fainter, fainter, fainter growing; Venus shines on evening’s brow, Moonlight floods o’er earth are flowing; O, the reckless wild delights Of a sparkling, winter night’s Sleighing, ’neath a moonlit sky!

Ho, the bells, merry bells! Rapture in their music dwells; Raptures sweet, in bliss repeat, Gliding, gliding, o’er the snow. Every pulse with pleasure thrills; To the heart new joys revealing. As when springtime, bird-note trills Stir the sweetest fount of feeling, Welling with all tender thought, From the dulcet music caught, Blending all in joyous flow!

* * * * *

Hark, the bells—homeward bells! Something now their music quells, For they go, tinkling—so— Tinkle—tinkle—seem to wait; Why that steed such lagging feet, When returning, homeward going? (’Mong the furs their faces meet)— Ah! that nag is very knowing, Stepping lightly o’er the snow— Have their whispers, soft and low, Changed his mood and changed his gait?

First Love.

Tender and true as the starlight of heaven, Sweet as the heart of a bud when it opes, Swift as the flash of the cloud-leaping levin, Rich as the springtime in promise and hopes, Pure as the gleam of the dew on the flowers Is love’s first awakening in youth’s dreamy hours.

It sings in the heart like a forest-hid rill— Runs over its rim like a rock-basined spring; Strong, it o’erpowers cold reason with will, Impulsively binding two lives with a ring. It goes where it listeth, unreined as the wind, So reckless, ’tis said, that the love god is blind.

Joyful, yet trembling like a zephyr-kissed rose, Flushing and paling like skies of the dawn, Silent, lest speech shall the secret disclose, Wayward and shy as a mountain-bred fawn, Flying the bosom where yearning to rest, Hushing the tenderness, thrilling the heart, Palpitant tempests disturbing the breast; Enjoying—enduring the sweet and the smart That comes of the wounding with Cupid’s first dart.

Man.

O, grand and worshipful that being MAN, As fashioned by a maiden’s dream-lit mind! To her, his soul has nobleness enshrined— ’Tis pure—Love’s altar-place, where God began, ’Neath Eden’s flow’ry groves, the household plan. In rose-mist wreathed, by sweet enchantment blind, How oft she’s worshiped, wedded, but to find The real, no more her dream, than piping Pan.

Some “noble deeds” bear cold ambition’s stain, And chaff is found among Love’s golden grain. ’Tis well the rose-mist lifts and clearer beams Show man’s real self, e’en tho’ it give her pain, Else, so idolatrous, she might, it seems, Forget her God, if he were all she dreams.

Trust of Childhood.

An angel comes down from the realms of light, To guard me in slumber, thro’ hours of the night; Her presence is gentle, I feel she is there, As soon as I’ve uttered my evening prayer; So tenderly watching she stays in my room Till darkness has folded his mantle of gloom. I’ve felt on my forehead her soft finger tips And the touch of her kiss, lightly pressed on my lips, To waken me gently, ere leaving my bed, When morning’s bright beauties o’er earth had been spread.

Forbearing to open my earth-gazing eyes To look on the guardian sent from the skies, I’ve listened and heard, e’en the rustle of wings; And then at the casement, where mocking bird swings, A sweeping of roses and jasmines I’ve heard, And knew that their beauty and perfume were stirred By her gossamer robes, as she hastened away, To the rose-tinted gateway that opens to day; (For Heaven, I know, is but little beyond, Where glories of morn, in its borders have dawned); And then by the holiness left in the room, Afloat, like the fragrance from violet bloom, I knew that a presence had surely been there, Had left with me blessing, and wafted my prayer To the throne of the Father for guidance and care.

* * * * *

O, trust of my childhood! bright halo of youth! Come, veil for tonight the stern visage of truth; With faith that’s elysian, I’d drift down the stream To imagery islands, with beauty agleam, And hear, as I heard in the far away years, (Ere fancy’s young dream had been melted in tears), A strain from a harp, floating over to me, From a cloud-bannered sky, bending down to the sea, Where golden-crowned angels could plainly be seen With robings of white, in the glimmering sheen.

Then Heaven was near, and the curtain of blue So thin, that at sunset the glory shone through; Those silken illusions, inflated with joy, Phylosophy’s hand has been swift to destroy; And reason’s keen steel, that’s so cruelly cold, Has cut thro’ the shimmer of heavenly gold, And left but the hard-featured science of light That will not be veiled for a dream of tonight.

Alone.

“Laugh and the world laughs with you; Weep and you weep alone.”

In her soul’s secret temple she’s standing alone: Her being’s real self, in the silence will bow; O’er that altar, once glowing, cold ashes are strown— Where sunshine once flooded, the shadows fall now.

Away from the world, and alone with her God, She kneels in this consecrate place and may weep; This temple, by coarse sandaled grossness, untrod, Is never unbarred till the world is asleep.

She leaves there her grief, with its shadowy stole, Concealing her anguish, with trembling and fear;—Must laugh, tho’ it lines a black scath on her soul, For the world will not _pay_ for the sigh and the tear.

Aye, leaves there her sackcloth and shuts to the door; She puts on the mask for the frivolous world Her frail barque is launched ’mid its tumult and roar— Unhelmed, thro’ its mammon-cut channels ’tis hurled.

The laugh, the world echoes, grows empty and hard When the jingle of gold is the mirth-stirring power; The soul is, by Avarice, shrivelled and scarred When it barters for pottage, a heavenly dower.

God fits us, thro’ suffering, for Sympathy’s needs; ’Tis warring with wrong that will win for the Right; Oft Sorrow’s lone path, to His ripe vineyard, leads— Christ gave us, through Gethsame, heavenly light.

Go work in His vineyard wherever ’tis needed And earnestly work for the sake of the need; Be Fame’s fickle promise forever unheeded, Unknown, in thy labor, the miser’s low greed.

Night.

Thro’ azure paths fair Venus comes with golden bars To close the gates of Day. The twilight’s dusky stole Is lightly spangled o’er with heaven’s brightest stars; Soon Night will bring her countless ones whose ceaseless roll Thro’ boundless depths of space, repeat creation’s song. Thus canopied by God’s omnipotence, outspread, The earth doth lull and soothe her surging, restless throng With brooding calm. Sleep’s poppied sweets for toil are shed.

When strife is hushed to rest, by Nature’s drowsy hum And barter’s dins are stilled—its flaunting ensigns furled, When, drugged with Somnus’ wines, earth’s noisy crowds are dumb And stillness spreads her slumber-robe, so softly o’er the world, ’Tis joy to watch Night’s queenly orb, climb up the eastern stair, And pour her flood of silver light o’er hills and bowers, That in the sacred silence gleam, so radiant and fair, In glistening robes of green and dewy, fragrant flowers.

All hail, blest hour of cool repose, when Labor’s chains That bind the mind, thro’ all the day, to weary tasks Are loosed! Ay, now, the soul, in freedom from their pains, May drink from founts of pure supernal joy. It basks In glories which the night o’er earth and sky hath strown. Compassion sweet, the dewy coolness doth impart And dreamy perfumes, by the balmy breezes blown, Are evening’s sweet acopic, when she folds us to her heart.

Disappointment.

We plant sometimes a tender flower— Watch and wait through sun and shower; Mark its tiny leaflets, green, Then, the upward shoot between,— Springing, springing, tendrils clinging, Hopes like cherubs round it winging Whispering of the blooming time.

Watch the buds burst thro’ their sheathing, Beauty’s promise, round them wreathing, Dream of fragrance they enfold, Lovely blooms, almost, behold, Reach an eager hand for grasping— Find the tendrils all unclasping— Withered, ere the blooming time.

Love’s Ideal.

Was there ever a love like the love of my dream? Love, holy, unselfish, devoted and pure, Unfailing and sweet as the flow of a stream Whose source is a spring, that God made to endure.

A love that is LOVE, with no blending of dross; Where soul, unto soul, giveth strength of its own— A love that knows never of languor or loss, Or silently grieves that its _spirit_ has flown.

A love with its possibles nobly fulfilled, Where heart unto heart is e’er loyal and true, Where blessing for each, is thro’ kindness distilled— A rodomel never embittered with rue.

A love that the angels, rejoicing to see, Would guard in life’s paths from the harpies that roam; Peace, Happiness, Charity,—loveliest three— Would make, for such lovers, a Heaven of Home.

A Legend of the Lily.

Abroad, June moon was brightly beaming In the depths of heaven’s blue, While the asphodels were bending With the clinging beads of dew, When the silver rays in silence, Glinting thro’ the swaying trees, Saw a modest flower turning To a roving, balmy breeze.—

Heard the zephyr softly whisper: “Ah! my Lily, charming, sweet— Sure the god of love has led us In this bowery place to meet; Richest odors I will bring you From the islands of the sea; Aye, your beauty has enchained me— Will you give your heart to me?”

With a touch exquisite, subtile, Then he turned to his, her face; In her blush of deeper crimson, That she faltered, he could trace. “I have sought you—will you trust me? Faithful as the stars I’ll be— With your fragrant breathings, answer, Will you give your love to me?”

Frail the flower, tranced enraptured By the lover’s soft caress, To his tender wooing answered, With impulsive rashness,—“yes.” Then, exultant, zephyr gloried In the treasure he had won— Deftly stole her sparkling jewels, Sharing with the rising sun.