Part 8

And he who clings to sorrow overmuch, Weeping for withered grief, has cause to bless, More than all cries of pity and distress,-- Dear tranquil Habit, thy consoling touch!

V

THE OLD BRIDGE

On the old, old bridge, with its crumbling stones All covered with lichens red and gray, Two lovers were talking in sweet low tones: And we were they!

As he leaned to breathe in her willing ear The love that he vowed would never die, He called her his darling, his dove most dear: And he was I!

She covered her face from the pale moonlight With her trembling hands, but her eyes looked through, And listened and listened with long delight: And she was you!

On the old, old bridge, where the lichens rust, Two lovers are learning the same old lore; He tells his love, and she looks her trust: But we,--no more!

VI

EYES AND LIPS

1

Our silent eyes alone interpreted The new-born feeling in the heart of each: In yours I read your sorrow without speech, Your lonely struggle in their tears unshed. Behind their dreamy sweetness, as a veil, I saw the moving lights of trouble shine; And then my eyes were brightened as with wine, My spirit reeled to see your face grow pale!

Our deepening love, that is not yet allowed Another language than the eyes, doth learn To speak it perfectly: above the crowd Our looks exchange avowals and desires,-- Like wave-divided beacon lights that burn, And talk to one another by their fires.

2

When I embrace her in a fragrant shrine Of climbing roses, my first kiss shall fall On you, sweet eyes, that mutely told me all,-- Through you my soul will rise to make her mine. Upon your drooping lids, blue-veined and fair, The touch of tenderness I first will lay, You springs of joy, lights of my gloomy day, Whose dear discovered secret bade me dare!

And when you open, eyes of my fond dove, Your look will shine with new delight, made sure By this forerunner of a faithful love. Tis just, dear eyes, so pensive and so pure, That you should bear the sealing kisses true Of love unhoped that came to me through you.

3

This was my thought; but when beneath the rose That hides the lonely bench where lovers rest, In friendly dusk I held her on my breast For one brief moment,--while I saw you close, Dear, yielding eyes, as if your lids, blue-veined And pure, were meekly fain at last to bear The proffered homage of my wistful prayer,-- In that high moment, by your grace obtained,

Forgetting your avowals, your alarms, Your anguish and your tears, sweet weary eyes, Forgetting that you gave her to my arms, I broke my promise; and my first caress, Ungrateful, sought her lips in sweet surprise,-- Her lips, which breathed a word of tenderness!

VII

AN EVOCATION

When first upon my brow I felt your kiss, A sudden splendour filled me, like the ray That promptly runs to crown the hills with bliss Of purple dawn before the golden day, And ends the gloom it crosses at one leap. My brow was not unworthy your caress; For some foreboding joy had bade me keep From all affront the place your lips would bless.

Yet when your mouth upon my mouth did lay The royal touch, no rapture made me thrill, But I remained confused, ashamed, and still. Beneath your kiss, my queen without a stain, I felt,--like ghosts who rise at Judgment Day,-- A throng of ancient kisses vile and vain!

VIII

RESIGNATION

1

Well, you will triumph, dear and noble friend! The holy love that wounded you so deep Will bring you balm, and on your heart asleep The fragrant dew of healing will descend. Your children,--ah, how quickly they will grow Between us, like a wall that fronts the sun, Lifting a screen with rosy buds o'errun, To hide the shaded path where I must go.

You'll walk in light; and dreaming less and less Of him who droops in gloom beyond the wall, Your mother-soul will fill with happiness When first you hear your grandchild's babbling call, Beneath the braided bloom of flower and leaf That We has wrought to veil your vanished grief.

2

Then I alone shall suffer! I shall bear The double burden of our grief alone, While I enlarge my soul to take your share Of pain and hold it close beside my own. Our love is torn asunder; but the crown Of thorns that love has woven I will make My relic sacrosanct, and press it down Upon my bleeding heart that will not break.

Ah, that will be the depth of solitude! For my regret, that evermore endures, Will know that new-born hope has conquered yours; And when the evening comes, no gentle brood Of wondering children, gathered at my side, Will soothe away the tears I cannot hide.

_Freely rendered from the French_, 1911.

RAPPEL D'AMOUR

Come home, my love, come home! The twilight is falling, The whippoorwill calling, The night is very near, And the darkness full of fear, Come home to my arms, come home!

Come home, my love, come home! In folly we parted, And now, lonely hearted, I know you look in vain For a love like mine again; Come home to my arms, come home!

Come home, dear love, come home! I've much to forgive you, And more yet to give you. I'll put a little light In the window every night,-- Come home to my arms, come home.

THE RIVER OF DREAMS

The river of dreams runs quietly down From its hidden home in the forest of sleep, With a measureless motion calm and deep; And my boat slips out on the current brown, In a tranquil bay where the trees incline Far over the waves, and creepers twine Far over the boughs, as if to steep Their drowsy bloom in the tide that goes By a secret way that no man knows, Under the branches bending, Under the shadows blending, And the body rests, and the passive soul Is drifted along to an unseen goal, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs gently down, With a leisurely flow that bears my bark Out of the visionless woods of dark, Into a glory that seems to crown Valley and hill with light from far, Clearer than sun or moon or star, Luminous, wonderful, weird, oh, mark How the radiance pulses everywhere, In the shadowless vault of lucid air! Over the mountains shimmering, Up from the fountains glimmering,-- Tis the mystical glow of the inner light, That shines in the very noon of night, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs murmuring down, Through the fairest garden that ever grew; And now, as my boat goes drifting through, A hundred voices arise to drown The river's whisper, and charm my ear With a sound I have often longed to hear,-- A magical music, strange and new, The wild-rose ballad, the lilac-song, The virginal chant of the lilies' throng, Blue-bells silverly ringing, Pansies merrily singing,-- For all the flowers have found their voice; And I feel no wonder, but only rejoice, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs broadening down, Away from the peaceful garden-shore, With a current that deepens more and more, By the league-long walls of a mighty town; And I see the hurrying crowds of men Gather like clouds and dissolve again; But never a face I have seen before. They come and go, they shift and change, Their ways and looks are wild and strange,-- This is a city haunted, A multitude enchanted! At the sight of the throng I am dumb with fear, And never a sound from their lips I hear, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs darkly down Into the heart of a desolate land, With ruined temples half-buried in sand, And riven hills, whose black brows frown Over the shuddering, lonely wave. The air grows dim with the dust of the grave; No sign of life on the dreary strand; No ray of light on the mountain's crest; And a weary wind that cannot rest Comes down the valley creeping, Lamenting, wailing, weeping,-- I strive to cry out, but my fluttering breath Is choked with the clinging fog of death, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs trembling down, Out of the valley of nameless fear, Into a country calm and clear, With a mystical name of high renown,-- A name that I know, but may not tell,-- And there the friends that I loved so well, Old companions forever dear, Come beckoning down to the river shore, And hail my boat with the voice of yore. Fair and sweet are the places Where I see their unchanged faces! And I feel in my heart with a secret thrill, That the loved and lost are living still, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs dimly down By a secret way that no man knows; But the soul lives on while the river flows Through the gardens bright and the forests brown; And I often think that our whole life seems To be more than half made up of dreams. The changing sights and the passing shows, The morning hopes and the midnight fears, Are left behind with the vanished years; Onward, with ceaseless motion, The life-stream flows to the ocean, While we follow the tide, awake or asleep, Till we see the dawn on Love's great deep, And the shadows melt, and the soul is free,-- The river of dreams has reached the sea.

1900.

SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR

A HOME SONG

I read within a poet's book A word that starred the page: "Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage!"

Yes, that is true, and something more: You'll find, where'er you roam, That marble floors and gilded walls Can never make a home.

But every house where Love abides, And Friendship is a guest, Is surely home, and home-sweet-home: For there the heart can rest.

"LITTLE BOATIE"

A SLUMBER-SONG FOR THE FISHERMAN'S CHILD

Furl your sail, my little boatie; Here's the haven still and deep, Where the dreaming tides in-streaming Up the channel creep. Now the sunset breeze is dying; Hear the plover, landward flying, Softly down the twilight crying; Come to anchor, little boatie, In the port of Sleep.

Far away, my little boatie, Roaring waves are white with foam; Ships are striving, onward driving, Day and night they roam. Father's at the deep-sea trawling, In the darkness, rowing, hauling, While the hungry winds are calling,-- God protect him, little boatie, Bring him safely home!

Not for you, my little boatie, Is the wide and weary sea; You're too slender, and too tender, You must bide with me. All day long you have been straying Up and down the shore and playing; Come to harbour, no delaying! Day is over, little boatie, Night falls suddenly.

Furl your sail, my little boatie, Fold your wings, my weary dove. Dews are sprinkling, stars are twinkling Drowsily above. Cease from sailing, cease from rowing; Rock upon the dream-tide, knowing Safely o'er your rest are glowing, All the night, my little boatie, Harbour-lights of love.

1897.

A MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY

Lord Jesus, Thou hast known A mother's love and tender care: And Thou wilt hear, While for my own Mother most dear I make this birthday prayer.

Protect her life, I pray, Who gave the gift of life to me; And may she know, From day to day, The deepening glow Of joy that comes from Thee.

As once upon her breast Fearless and well content I lay, So let her heart, On Thee at rest, Feel fear depart And trouble fade away.

Ah, hold her by the hand, As once her hand held mine; And though she may Not understand Life's winding way, Lead her in peace divine.

I cannot pay my debt For all the love that she has given; But Thou, love's Lord, Wilt not forget Her due reward,-- Bless her in earth and heaven.

TRANSFORMATION

Only a little shrivelled seed, It might be flower, or grass, or weed; Only a box of earth on the edge Of a narrow, dusty window-ledge; Only a few scant summer showers; Only a few clear shining hours; That was all. Yet God could make Out of these, for a sick child's sake, A blossom-wonder, fair and sweet As ever broke at an angel's feet.

Only a life of barren pain, Wet with sorrowful tears for rain, Warmed sometimes by a wandering gleam Of joy, that seemed but a happy dream; A life as common and brown and bare As the box of earth in the window there; Yet it bore, at last, the precious bloom Of a perfect soul in that narrow room; Pure as the snowy leaves that fold Over the flower's heart of gold.

RENDEZVOUS

I count that friendship little worth Which has not many things untold, Great longings that no words can hold, And passion-secrets waiting birth.

Along the slender wires of speech Some message from the heart is sent; But who can tell the whole that's meant? Our dearest thoughts are out of reach.

I have not seen thee, though mine eyes Hold now the image of thy face; In vain, through form, I strive to trace The soul I love: that deeper lies.

A thousand accidents control Our meeting here. Clasp hand in hand, And swear to meet me in that land Where friends hold converse soul to soul.

GRATITUDE

"Do you give thanks for this?--or that?" No, God be thanked I am not grateful In that cold, calculating way, with blessings ranked As one, two, three, and four,--that would be hateful.

I only know that every day brings good above My poor deserving; I only feel that in the road of Life true Love Is leading me along and never swerving.

Whatever gifts and mercies to my lot may fall, I would not measure As worth a certain price in praise, or great or small; But take and use them all with simple pleasure.

For when we gladly eat our daily bread, we bless The Hand that feeds us; And when we tread the road of Life in cheerfulness, Our very heart-beats praise the Love that leads us.

PEACE

With eager heart and will on fire, I strove to win my great desire. "Peace shall be mine," I said; but life Grew bitter in the barren strife.

My soul was weary, and my pride Was wounded deep; to Heaven I cried, "God grant me peace or I must die;" The dumb stars glittered no reply.

Broken at last, I bowed my head, Forgetting all myself, and said, "Whatever comes, His will be done;" And in that moment peace was won.

SANTA CHRISTINA

Saints are God's flowers, fragrant souls That His own hand hath planted, Not in some far-off heavenly place, Or solitude enchanted, But here and there and everywhere,-- In lonely field, or crowded town, God sees a flower when He looks down.

Some wear the lily's stainless white, And some the rose of passion, And some the violet's heavenly blue, But each in its own fashion, With silent bloom and soft perfume, Is praising Him who from above Beholds each lifted face of love.

One such I knew,--and had the grace To thank my God for knowing: The beauty of her quiet life Was like a rose in blowing, So fair and sweet, so all-complete And all unconscious, as a flower, That light and fragrance were her dower.

No convent-garden held this rose, Concealed like secret treasure; No royal terrace guarded her For some sole monarch's pleasure. She made her shrine, this saint of mine, In a bright home where children played; And there she wrought and there she prayed.

In sunshine, when the days were glad, She had the art of keeping The clearest rays, to give again In days of rain and weeping; Her blessed heart could still impart Some portion of its secret grace, And charity shone in her face.

In joy she grew from year to year; And sorrow made her sweeter; And every comfort, still more kind; And every loss, completer. Her children came to love her name,-- "Christina,"--'twas a lip's caress; And when they called, they seemed to bless.

No more they call, for she is gone Too far away to hear them; And yet they often breathe her name As if she lingered near them; They cannot reach her with love's speech, But when they say "Christina" now 'Tis like a prayer or like a vow:

A vow to keep her life alive In deeds of pure affection, So that her love shall find in them A daily resurrection; A constant prayer that they may wear Some touch of that supernal light With which she blossoms in God's sight.

THE BARGAIN

What shall I give for thee, Thou Pearl of greatest price? For all the treasures I possess Would not suffice.

I give my store of gold; It is but earthly dross: But thou wilt make me rich, beyond All fear of loss.

Mine honours I resign; They are but small at best: Thou like a royal star wilt shine Upon my breast.

My worldly joys I give, The flowers with which I played; Thy beauty, far more heavenly fair, Shall never fade.

Dear Lord, is that enough? _Nay, not a thousandth part._ Well, then, I have but one thing more: Take Thou my heart.

TO THE CHILD JESUS

I

THE NATIVITY

Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again, A happy human child, among the homes of men, The age of doubt would pass,--the vision of Thy face Would silently restore the childhood of the race.

II

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT

Thou wayfaring Jesus, a pilgrim and stranger, Exiled from heaven by love at thy birth, Exiled again from thy rest in the manger, A fugitive child 'mid the perils of earth,-- Cheer with thy fellowship all who are weary, Wandering far from the land that they love; Guide every heart that is homeless and dreary, Safe to its home in thy presence above.

BITTER-SWEET

Just to give up, and trust All to a Fate unknown, Plodding along life's road in the dust, Bounded by walls of stone; Never to have a heart at peace; Never to see when care will cease; Just to be still when sorrows fall-- This is the bitterest lesson of all.

Just to give up, and rest All on a Love secure, Out of a world that's hard at the best, Looking to heaven as sure; Ever to hope, through cloud and fear, In darkest night, that the dawn is near; Just to wait at the Master's feet-- Surely, now, the bitter is sweet.

HYMN OF JOY

TO THE MUSIC OF BEETHOVEN'S NINTH SYMPHONY

Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, God of glory, Lord of love; Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee, Praising Thee their sun above. Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; Drive the dark of doubt away; Giver of immortal gladness, Fill us with the light of day!

All Thy works with joy surround Thee, Earth and heaven reflect Thy rays, Stars and angels sing around Thee, Centre of unbroken praise: Field and forest, vale and mountain, Blooming meadow, flashing sea, Chanting bird and flowing fountain, Call us to rejoice in Thee.

Thou art giving and forgiving, Ever blessing, ever blest, Well-spring of the joy of living, Ocean-depth of happy rest! Thou our Father, Christ our Brother,-- All who live in love are Thine: Teach us how to love each other, Lift us to the Joy Divine.

Mortals join the mighty chorus, Which the morning stars began; Father-love is reigning o'er us, Brother-love binds man to man. Ever singing march we onward, Victors in the midst of strife; Joyful music lifts us sunward In the triumph song of life.

1908.

SONG OF A PILGRIM-SOUL

March on, my soul, nor like a laggard stay! March swiftly on. Yet err not from the way Where all the nobly wise of old have trod,-- The path of faith, made by the sons of God.

Follow the marks that they have set beside The narrow, cloud-swept track, to be thy guide: Follow, and honour what the past has gained, And forward still, that more may be attained.

Something to learn, and something to forget: Hold fast the good, and seek the better yet: Press on, and prove the pilgrim-hope of youth: The Creeds are milestones on the road to Truth.

ODE TO PEACE

I

IN EXCELSIS

Two dwellings, Peace, are thine. One is the mountain-height, Uplifted in the loneliness of light Beyond the realm of shadows,--fine, And far, and clear,--where advent of the night Means only glorious nearness of the stars, And dawn unhindered breaks above the bars That long the lower world in twilight keep. Thou sleepest not, and hast no need of sleep, For all thy cares and fears have dropped away; The night's fatigue, the fever-fret of day, Are far below thee; and earth's weary wars, In vain expense of passion, pass Before thy sight like visions in a glass,-- Or like the wrinkles of the storm that creep Across the sea and leave no trace Of trouble on that immemorial face,-- So brief appear the conflicts, and so slight The wounds men give, the things for which they fight! Here hangs a fortress on the distant steep,-- A lichen clinging to the rock. There sails a fleet upon the deep,-- A wandering flock Of snow-winged gulls. And yonder, in the plain, A marble palace shines,--a grain Of mica glittering in the rain. Beneath thy feet the clouds are rolled By voiceless winds: and far between The rolling clouds, new shores and peaks are seen, In shimmering robes of green and gold, And faint aerial hue That silent fades into the silent blue. Thou, from thy mountain-hold, All day in tranquil wisdom looking down On distant scenes of human toil and strife, All night, with eyes aware of loftier life Uplifted to the sky where stars are sown, Dost watch the everlasting fields grow white Unto the harvest of the sons of light, And welcome to thy dwelling-place sublime The few strong souls that dare to climb The slippery crags, and find thee on the height.

II

DE PROFUNDIS