Kitabı oku: «Last Verses», sayfa 2

COR CORDIUM

 
ALL diamonded with glittering stars
The vast blue arch of air;
Pent in behind these mortal bars
We strain our eyes to where,
Oh noblest heart, thou walkest apart
Amid thy heavenly kin.
Though blinded with the veils of sense,
We may not look within.
 
 
Oh eyes so tender with command!
Oh eloquent lips and true,
Whose speech fell like a quickening fire,
Fell like a healing dew!
Oh zeal so strong to right the wrong,
Oh rich, abounding heart!
Oh stintless, tireless, kindest hand, —
God bless thee where thou art!
 
 
Not thine the common fate to live
Through life’s long weary days,
And give all that thou had’st to give
Uncheered by love and praise.
Men did not wait to call thee great
Till death had sealed thy brow.
They crowned thy living head with bays;
What does it matter now?
 
 
Thy grave mound is a shrinèd place,
Where pilgrim hearts may go,
With loving thoughts and thankful prayers,
Soft passing to and fro.
Seldom with word the air is stirred,
Seldom with sob or sigh;
All silently and ceaselessly
The march of hearts goes by.
 
 
Now half our lives seems lived on earth,
And half in heaven with thee.
Our heart-beats measure out the road
To where we fain would be, —
Beyond this strife of mortal life,
This lonely ache and pain,
Where we who miss and mourn thee so
May find thee once again.
 

MARTHA

 
HOT on the pavement burns the summer sun,
In the deep shadow of the ilex tree
The Master rests, while gathering one by one
The neighbors enter, crowding silently
To hear His words, which drop like honey-dew;
I may not hear, there is too much to do.
 
 
How can I pause? I seem the only one
To take a thought about this multitude
Who, the day past and all the preaching done,
Will need to be refreshed with wine and food;
We cannot send the people home unfed —
What words were those? “I am the living bread.”
 
 
There is my sister sitting the day long
Close to His side, serene and free from care,
Helping me not; and surely it is wrong
To leave to me the task that she should share.
Master, rebuke her, just and true Thou art —
What do I hear? “She hath the better part.”
 
 
If all chose thus then all would go unfed —
Souls hunger, yes! but bodies have their need.
Some one must grind and mix the daily bread,
Some one wake early that the rest may feed,
Some one bear burdens, face the summer sun —
But must I always, always be the one?
 
 
“Cumbered with serving,” thus the Master spake;
But ’twas to serve Him that I worked so hard
(And I would serve the year long for His sake).
I dare not take the rest which is reward
Lest He should suffer while I stay my hand.
How hard it is, how hard to understand!
 
 
What does a voice say? “He whose power divine
Could feed the thousands on the mountain side
Needeth no fretting, puny aid like thine.
One thing is needful, trust him to provide;
The Heavenly Chance comes once nor tarries long” —
Master, forgive me, teach me, I was wrong!
 

CAEN

1894

 
IN the quaint Norman city, far apart,
A width of humming distance set between,
They rest who once lived closely heart to heart,
William the conquering Duke and his fair Queen.
 
 
Too near of kin to wed, the Church averred,
And barred the way which joy was fain to tread;
But hearts spoke louder than the priestly word,
And youth and love o’erleaped the barrier dread.
 
 
No will of wax had England’s future King;
With iron hand he brushed the curse aside,
As ’twere a slight and disregarded thing,
And asking leave of no man, claimed his bride.
 
 
And they were happy, spite of ban and blame,
Rich in renown, estate, in valiant deed;
And the sweet Duchess at her broidery frame
Wrought her lord’s victories for all men to read.
 
 
But as the years of wedlock ebbed and flowed,
And still the Church averted her stern face,
The royal pair grew weary of the load
Of unrepented sin and long disgrace,
 
 
And bought a peace from late relenting Rome.
Two stately abbeys built they, and endowed,
With carven pinnacle and tower and dome,
And soaring spire and bell-chimes pealing loud.
 
 
Within the crypt of one they buried her,
True wife and queen, when her time came to die;
And when strong death conquered the Conqueror,
He slept beneath the other’s altar high.
 
 
Was it of love’s devising that to-day,
With all the wide-grown city space to bar,
Across the roofs and towers from far away
St. Etienne looks upon La Trinita?
 
 
Was it some subtle prescience of the heart,
Which laid on time and change resistless spell,
Forbidding both to hide or hold apart
The resting-place of those who loved so well?
 
 
For still defying distance, day and night
The spires like beckoning fingers seem to rise,
The bells to call, as perished voices might,
“Love is not dead, Beloved; love never dies!”
 

TEMPERAMENTS

 
JACOB BOEHME, Sage and Mystic, wert thou right or wert thou wrong,
In believing and upholding that all human souls belong
To some elemental structure, be they weak or be they strong?
 
 
That each separate spirit made is of one element, and shows,
By its power or by its weakness, its unrest or its repose,
Whether earth, air, fire, or water is the Source from which it flows?
 
 
’Tis a difficult conclusion; but, as in the jewel’s blue,
Red and rose and green and amber flash and leap and sparkle through,
Through your speculative fancy seems to scintillate the true.
 
 
For the variance of the creature whom we call our fellow-man,
Framed alike in needs and passions, on the self-same human plan,
Grows more wide, more past believing, as we study it and scan.
 
 
Ah, the temperaments, the fateful, how they front us and surprise,
Looking with bewildering distance out of wistful, alien eyes,
Never drawing any nearer, or to hate or sympathize.
 
 
Eager, dominant, all unresting are the spirits born of Fire,
Burning with a fitful fever, ever reaching high and higher,
Shrivelling weaker wills before them in the heat of their desire.
 
 
Cool, elusive, fluctuating, hard to fix and strangely fair
Are the difficult, grievous, grieving souls which born of Water are —
Ours to-day, not ours to-morrow; never ours to hold and wear.
 
 
Vainly love and passion battle ’gainst their unresisting chill,
Like the oar-stroke in the water which the drops make haste to fill,
The impression melts and wavers, the cool surface fronts us still.
 
 
But the souls of Air! ah, sweetest, rarest of the human kind,
They the poets are, the singers, making music for the mind,
Lifting up the weight of living like a fresh and rushing wind.
 
 
And the souls of Earth, dear, steadfast, firm of root and sure of stay,
Not disdaining commonplaces, not afraid of every day,
Taking from the air and water and the sunshine what they may.
 
 
Theirs the dower of happy giving, theirs the heritage of Fate
Which, when faith has grown to fulness, and the little is made great,
Brings to love its true rewarding, harvested or soon or late.
 
 
Jacob Boehme, by-gone mystic, gifted with a strange insight,
As I read your yellowed pages, which in former times were white,
And review my men and women, half I deem that you were right.
 

THE HOLY NAME

 
’TIS said when pious Moslem walk abroad,
If on the path they spy a floating bit
Of paper, reverently they turn aside
And shun the scrap, nor set a foot on it,
Lest haply thereupon the awful name
Of mighty Allah should by chance be writ.
 
 
We smile at the vain dread; but blind and dull
The soul that only smiles, and cannot see
A thought of perfect beauty folded in
The zealot’s reverent fear, as in some free
And flaunting flower-cup may be hived and held
One drop of precious honey for the bee.
 
 
Small wind-blown things there are, which any day
Float by in air or on our pathway lie,
Swift-winged moments speeding on their way,
Brief opportunities, which we pass by
Heedless and smiling, little subtle threads
Of influence – intimations soft and sly.
 
 
Careless we tread them down, as, pressing on,
Our eager inconsiderate feet we set
On the unvalued treasures where they lie.
We are too blind to prize or to regret,
Too dull to recognize the mystic Name
Graven upon them as on amulet.
 
 
Ah! dears, let us no longer do this thing,
And thus the sweeter life lose and let fall;
But with anointed eyes and reverent feet
Pass on our way, noting and prizing all,
Knowing that God’s great token-sign is set,
Not on the large things only, but the small.
 

“I AM THE WAY”

 
ART Thou the way, Lord? Yet the way is steep!
And hedged with cruel thorns and set with briars;
We stumble onward, or we pause to weep,
And still the hard road baffles our desires,
And still the hot noon beats, the hours delay,
The end is out of sight, – Art Thou the way?
 
 
Art Thou the way, Lord? Yet the way is blind!
We grope and guess, perplexed with mists and suns;
We only see the guide-posts left behind,
Invisible to us the forward ones;
The chart is hard to read, we wind and stray,
Beset with hovering doubts, – Art Thou the way?
 
 
Art Thou the way, Lord? Yet the way is long!
Year follows year while we are journeying still,
The limbs are feeble grown which once were strong,
Dimmed are the eyes and quenched the ardent will,
The world is veiled with shadows sad and gray;
Yet we must travel on, – Art Thou the way?
 
 
Art Thou the way, Lord? Then the way is sweet,
No matter if it puzzle or distress,
Though winds may scourge, or blinding suns may beat,
The perfect rest shall round our weariness,
Cool dews shall heal the fevered pulse of day;
We shall find home at last through thee, the way.
 

HER HEART WAS LIKE A GENEROUS
FIRE

(S. P. C.)

 
HER heart was like a generous fire,
Round which a hundred souls could sit
And warm them in the unstinted blaze.
Those who held nearest place to it
Had cheer and comfort all their days;
Those who, perforce, were further still
Yet felt her radiance melt their chill,
Their darkness lightened by her rays.
 
 
Her heart was like a generous fire!
The trivial dross of thought and mind
Shrivelled when brought too near its heat,
The hidden gold was caught, refined;
A subtle effluence keen and sweet
From every creature drew its best;
Gave inspiration, strength, and rest,
Quickened the moral pulse’s beat.
 
 
Her heart was like a generous fire!
Circled by smaller fires in ring,
Each lit by her infectious spark
To send forth warmth and comforting
Into hard paths and by-ways dark.
The little fires, they still burn on;
But the great kindling flame is gone,
Caught up past our imagining.
 
 
Her heart was like a generous fire!
How changed the summer scenes, how chill,
How coldly do the mornings break,
Since that great heart is quenched and still,
Which kept so many hearts awake!
O Lord the Light! shine Thou instead,
Quicken and trim the fires she fed,
And make them burn for her dear sake.
 

THE LEGEND OF THE ALMOST SAVED

FROM THE RUSSIAN

 
ONCE a poor soul, reft from a dull, hard lot
(Which yet was dear, as even dull life may be),
Found herself bodiless in that dread spot
Which mortals know as “Hell” and fearfully
Name in a whisper, while the Saints name not.
 
 
“I was not wicked; they have told God lies
To make him send me here,” she moaned in pain,
Then suddenly her wan, reproachful eyes,
Raised to the Pity never sought in vain,
Beheld a hovering shape in aureoled guise.
 
 
It was Saint Peter, guardian of the gate,
The shining gate where blessed ones go in.
“Why thus,” demanded he, “bewail your fate?
What good deed did you in your life to win
The right to Heaven? Speak ere it be too late!”
 
 
Then the poor soul, – all downcast and dismayed,
Scanning the saint’s face and his austere air,
In vain reviewed her life, in vain essayed
To think of aught accomplished which might bear
Heaven’s scrutiny. At length she answer made.
 
 
“Poor was I,” faltered she, “so very poor!
Little I had to spare, yet once I gave
A carrot from my scanty garden store
To one more poor than I was.” Sad and grave
Saint Peter questioned, “Didst thou do no more?”
 
 
“No,” said the trembling soul. He bent his head.
“Wait thou until I bear thy plea on high;
The angel there who judges quick and dead
Shall weigh thee in his scales, and rightfully
Decide thy final place and doom,” he said.
 
 
So the soul waited till Hell’s doors should ope.
It opened never, but adown the sky
There swung a carrot from a slender rope,
And a voice reached her, sounding from on high,
Saying, “If the carrot bear thee, there is hope.”
 
 
She clutched the rescue by the Heavens sent.
The carrot held – small good has mighty strength;
But one, and then another, as she went
Caught at her flying garments, till at length
Four of the lost rose with her, well content.
 
 
The smoke of Hell curled darkly far beneath,
The blue of Heaven gleamed fair and bright in view,
Life quivered in the balance over Death.
Almost had life prevailed when, “Who are you,”
The soul cried out with startled, jealous breath,
 
 
“Who hang so heavily, going where I go?
God never meant to save you! It is I,
I whom he sent for from the Place of Wo.
Loosen your hold at once!” Then suddenly
The carrot yielded, and all fell below.
 
 
The pitiful, grieved angels overhead
Watched the poor souls shoot wailing through the air
Toward the lurid shadows darkly red,
And sadly sighed. “Heaven was so near, so fair,
Almost we had them safely here,” they said.
 

TWO ANGELS

 
BESIDE a grave two Angels sit,
Set there to guard and hallow it;
With grave sweet eyes and folded wings
They watch it all the day and night,
And dress the place and keep it bright,
And drive away all hurtful things.
 
 
And one is called in heavenly speech,
Used by the Blessed each to each,
“The Angel of the Steadfast Heart”:
Those hearts which still through storm and stress,
Strong in a perfect faithfulness,
Keep the firm way and better part.
 
 
Unto the other has been given
The loveliest name is known in Heaven,
“The Guardian of the Selfless Soul,” —
Those dear souls who through joy and pain
Lose their own lives to find again,
Bearing the weight of other’s dole.
 
 
A crown of roses snowy white
Surrounds one Angel’s brow of light, —
Sweet, sweet the odor that it breathes;
A starry band of asphodels,
Which shake out dim, mysterious smells,
The other’s statelier forehead wreathes.
 
 
“She is of mine,” one Angel saith;
“Her heart was faithful unto death,” —
His voice has a triumphant tone.
“Mine, too,” the other soft replies;
“By her whole life’s self-sacrifice
I mark and claim her as mine own.”
 
 
And then the voices blend and vie
In clear, celestial harmony:
“Both in the task may rightly share,
For she whose gentle rest we tend
Was brave and constant to the end,
With never a selfish thought or care.
 
 
“The quiet earth wherein she lies
Is holy-ground in heavenly eyes;
It well befits for such as she
That we should quit all other task;
Nor better could an angel ask
Than be the guard of such as she.”
 
 
Beside a grave two Angels sit,
Set there to tend and hallow it;
Unseen by men they sit alway;
With folded wings and eyes of light
They make it dewy-sweet all day,
And balm it subtly every night.