Kitabı oku: «Mother's Dream and Other Poems», sayfa 2

THE PILGRIM’S WAY SONG

 
I ’m bound to the house of my Father;
O draw not my feet from the way;
Nor stop me these wild flowers to gather!
They droop at my touch, and decay.
I think of the flowers, that are blooming
In beauty unfading above,
The wings of the angels perfuming,
Who fly down on errands of love.
 
 
Of earth’s shallow waters the drinking
Is powerless my thirst to allay;
Their taste is of tears, while we ’re sinking
Beside them, where quicksands betray.
I long, from that fount ever-living,
That flows by my Father’s own door,
With waters so sweet and life-giving,
To drink, and to thirst never more.
 
 
The gold of his bright, happy dwelling
Makes all lower gold to look dim;
Its treasures, all treasures excelling,
Shine forth to allure me to Him.
The pearls of this world while I ’m treading
In dust, where as pebbles they lie,
I seek the rich pearl, that is shedding
Its lustre so pure from on high.
 
 
For pains my torn spirit is feeling,
No balsam from earth it receives:
I go to the tree, that hath healing
To drop on my wounds from its leaves.
A child that is weary with roaming,
Returning in gladness to see
A home and a parent, I ’m coming —
My Father, I hasten to thee!
 

THE RISING MONUMENT

 
Rise in thy solemn grandeur, calm and slow,
As well befits thy purpose and thy place:
Great Speaker! rise, not suddenly, to show
The earth forever sacred at thy base.
 
 
Strong as the rocky frame-work of the globe,
Proportioned fair, in altitude sublime,
With freedom’s glory round thee as a robe,
Rise gently – then defy the power of time.
 
 
To future ages, from thy lofty site,
Speak in thy mighty eloquence, and tell
That where thou art, on Bunker’s hallowed height,
Our Warren and his valiant brethren fell.
 
 
Say, it was here the vital current flowed,
Purpling the turf, amid the mortal strife
For man’s great birthright, from the breasts, that glowed
With love of country, more than love of life.
 
 
Thou hast thy growth of blood, that, gushing warm
From patriot bosoms, set their spirits free:
All, who behold, shall venerate thy form,
And bow before thy genius, Liberty.
 
 
Here fell the hero and his brave compeers,
Who fought and died to break a people’s chain:
The place is sacred to Columbia’s tears.
Poured o’er the victims for a nation slain.
 
 
Yet from her starry brow a glory streams,
Turning to gems those holy drops of grief,
As after evening showers, the morn’s clear beams
Show diamonds hung on grass, and flower and leaf.
 
 
Upright and firm, as were the patriot souls,
That from thy native spot arose to God,
Stand thou and hold, long as our planet rolls,
This last high place by Freedom’s martyrs trod.
 
 
Let thy majestic shadow walk the ground,
Calm as the sun, and constant as his light;
And by the moon, amid the dews, be found
The sentinel, who guards it through the night.
 
 
And may the air around thee ever be
To heaven-born Liberty as vital breath;
But, like the breeze that sweeps the Upas tree,
To Bondage and Oppression certain death!
 
 
A beauteous prospect spreads for thy survey;
City and dome, and spire look up to thee:
The solemn forest and the mountains gray
Stand distant to salute thy majesty.
 
 
And ocean, in his numbers deep and strong,
While the bright shore beneath thy ken he laves,
Will sing to thee an everlasting song
Of freedom, with his never-conquered waves.
 
 
Rise then, and stand unshaken, till the skies
Above thee are about to pass away;
But, when the dead around thee are to rise,
Melt in the burning splendors of the day!
 
 
For then will He, “whose right it is to reign,”
Who hath on earth a kingdom pure to save,
Come with his angels, calling up the slain
To freedom, and annihilate the grave.
 

A NAME IN THE SAND

 
Alone I walked the ocean strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand:
I stooped, and wrote upon the sand
My name – the year – the day.
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast:
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my lines away.
 
 
And so, methought, ’t will shortly be
With every mark on earth from me;
A wave of dark oblivion’s sea
Will sweep across the place,
Where I have trod the sandy shore
Of time, and been to be no more,
Of me – my day – the name I bore,
To leave nor track, nor trace.
 
 
And yet, with Him, who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in his hands,
I know a lasting record stands,
Inscribed against my name,
Of all, this mortal part has wrought;
Of all, this thinking soul has thought;
And from these fleeting moments caught
For glory, or for shame.
 

THE CHILD OF A YEAR AND A DAY

 
To grief the night-hours keeping,
A mournful mother lay
Upon her pillow, weeping —
Her babe had passed away.
 
 
When she had clasped her treasure
A year and yet a day,
Of time ’t was all its measure —
’T was gone, like morning’s ray!
 
 
The jewel, Heaven had shown her,
Of worth surpassing gold,
Was lent her, by its Owner —
’T was never earth’s to hold.
 
 
Then, fondly hovering o’er her,
A bright young angel hung;
And warm the love it bore her,
And sweet the song it sung:
 
 
“O mother, why this weeping?
Let all thy sorrow cease:
My infant form is sleeping,
Where nought can break its peace.
 
 
“And he, who once was blessing
Such little children here,
My spirit now possessing,
Will hold me ever dear.
 
 
“I never knew the dreading
Of death’s all-conquering blow;
My mortal raiment shedding,
I rose above the foe.
 
 
“Where sickness cannot pain me —
Where comes nor grief nor night —
Where sin shall never stain me,
I dwell, a child of light.
 
 
“While many a pilgrim hoary
Treads long earth’s weary way,
I have eternal glory
For one short year and day.”
 
 
Yet that sweet angel singing
Its mother could not hear,
For grief her heart was wringing —
She ’d but a mortal ear.
 
 
She could not see the beaming
Of his celestial crown;
For fast her tears were streaming;
Her soul to dust bowed down.
 
 
A voice from heaven then falling
In soothing tones to her,
As of a Father, calling,
Revealed the Comforter.
 
 
And, lifting up her lowly
And sorrow-laden eye,
She saw the King all holy
Upon the throne Most High.
 
 
Where shining hosts were pouring
Their praises forth to Him,
She saw her child adoring,
Amid the Seraphim.
 

THE BELIEVER’S MOUNTAINS

 
Not to the mount, where fire and smoke
Jehovah’s face concealed,
When loud to wandering man he spoke,
To make his law revealed —
Not to the awful splendor there
Can turn my fearful eye:
To hear its thunderings, and to dare
Its lightnings, were to die.
 
 
Not on the mount where Moses stood,
The promised land to see
Across the waves of Jordan’s flood,
Is yet the place for me.
My spirit could not bear to take
That fair and glorious view,
Nor dare her wondrous launch to make,
To try the waters through.
 
 
Not to the mount where Christ appeared
At once so heavenly bright;
While they, who heard the Father, feared,
And fell before the light —
Not there, my Saviour ever nigh,
Do I his footsteps trace:
His closer followers far, than I,
Attain that higher place.
 
 
But, to the mount without a name,
Where Jesus sat and taught,
I daily would assert my claim,
To share the bread he brought.
His words before that multitude
Dropt to his chosen few,
Are manna for my morning food,
My soul’s sweet evening dew.
 
 
If to Temptation’s mount I go,
That mount exceeding high,
My Lord, again rebuke our foe,
And bid the tempter fly.
No kingdom may I seek, but thine;
And let my glory be
A light, reflected pure from thine —
My portion, life with thee!
 
 
Oft to the mount of midnight shade,
Of solitude and prayer,
Ascend, my soul, be not afraid
Thy Guide to follow there.
The height and stillness of the scene,
When thou that path hast trod,
Forbids this world to rush between
A spirit and her God.
 
 
The mount whereon my Saviour stood,
And o’er the city wept —
Where fell his wo-wrung drops of blood,
While his disciples slept —
There may I go, yet not to sleep
Till Jesus be betrayed;
But, as he went, to pray and weep
O’er sufferings sin hath made.
 
 
And to the solemn, shuddering mount,
Where Christ received the cup
Of death, to offer us a fount
Of life, must I go up.
And I must look upon his wo,
On that empurpled tree,
To learn how vast a debt I owe,
By what he paid for me.
 
 
Thence to the mount of Galilee
May I the way pursue,
With joy my risen Lord to see,
Ere he ascends from view.
For lo! the heavens their gates unfold
To take their coming King:
His angels harp on strings of gold,
And “Hallelujah!” sing.
 
 
Now on Mount Zion may I seek
My shield – my strong, high tower;
And thence, though here so dark and weak,
Be clothed with light and power.
Then at that holy mountain’s top,
My soul, no more to roam,
Unfurl thy wings – thine ashes drop;
And gain thy glorious home.
 

THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING

 
A solemn night is o’er Jerusalem;
Nature astonished, shrouds herself in gloom;
For he, who was the babe of Bethlehem,
Is now a victim slain, and in the tomb!
 
 
The blood, which started with the agony
That in the garden forced his swelling veins,
In crimson streams has poured on Calvary;
A rocky cavern holds his pale remains.
 
 
He walked with men, serene in holiness,
The meek, the merciful, through taunts and strife;
The front of pride he met with lowliness,
And bowed to death to lift his foes to life.
 
 
Fast as their sins grew bold and multiplied,
His bitter cup was filling to the brim.
Here doth he lie, the pale, the crucified,
With damps and shadows gathered over him.
 
 
The dismal night moves on but heavily,
While they, who came the sepulchre to keep
With bristling spears, the Roman soldiery,
Would fain resign their glittering arms for sleep.
 
 
Yet they must wake or die; the sentinel
Must keep his constant vigils round the spot
Where he shall find the watch of Israel:
The life, the spirit moves, and heeds him not.
 
 
Within the grave, that power victorious
O’er death and darkness, far from mortal sight,
Hath wrought the body bright and glorious
For resurrection by the morning light.
 
 
And lo! the shades of night are vanishing;
The guard behold, as comes the dawning day,
Her dubious gloom and dimness banishing,
The stone that barred the tomb is rolled away.
 
 
But, where ’s the form that in the drapery,
Which wraps the dead, lay, spiritless and cold,
Within the vault so still and shadowy,
That, as a prison-guard, they came to hold?
 
 
That form is gone; its cast-off covering,
The sad habiliments of death, are here,
With burial odors round them hovering,
And white-robed angels calmly sitting near.
 
 
But, see the garden, fair and flowering,
Where new-born lilies worship from their stalks;
And boughs with blossoms bend, embowering
The dewy pathway! there the Saviour walks.
 
 
The guilty city still is slumbering,
While he is risen from the broken tomb;
As one his vines and fruit trees numbering,
He breathes the incense of their opening bloom.
 
 
The moon, now fading in the occident,
Is not so mild, so heavenly fair as he.
The sun, just rising in the orient,
Hath less of glory than in him we see.
 
 
Nature, that, for his death and burial,
Hath put on darkness, as a mourning weed,
Arrayed in light as for a festival,
Proclaims afar, “The Lord is risen indeed!”
 

I SHALL BE SATISFIED

“I shall be satisfied when I awake in thy likeness.”

 
May I in thy likeness, my Saviour, awake,
And rise, a fair image of thee;
Then I shall be satisfied, when I can break
This prison of clay, and be free.
 
 
Can I but come forth to eternity’s light,
With thy perfect features to shine,
In raiment unsullied from time’s dreary night,
What honor and joy will be mine!
 
 
Yes, I shall be satisfied then to have cast
The shadows of nature all by —
When, darkness and dust from the dull eyelid past,
My soul sees with full-opened eye.
 
 
How fain would I know the great morn drawing near,
When earth’s dreamy visions shall fade,
If I in thy semblance indeed may appear,
And stand in thy beauty arrayed!
 
 
To see thee in glory, O Lord, as thou art,
From this mortal, perishing clay
My spirit immortal, in peace would depart,
And, joyous, mount up her bright way.
 
 
When on thine own image in me thou hast smiled,
In thy holy mansion, and when
Thy fatherly arms have encircled thy child,
O I shall be satisfied then!
 

THE PENITENTIAL TEAR

 
Thou trembling, pure, and holy thing!
What skill from ocean’s depths can bring,
Or toil from out the mine —
What monarch in his diadem,
Or glittering garb, produce a gem,
Whose brightness equals thine?
 
 
Thy source is deeper than the caves
Of riven rock, or opening waves,
Invisible as air:
And, though the angel throng above
Behold thee with delight and love,
They ne’er can have thee there.
 
 
Nor change, nor age thy sheen can dim;
Thou ’rt now unstained as when with him,
Who dared, in olden time,
Thrice his dear, suffering Lord deny;
Then, melted at the Saviour’s eye,
And paid thee for his crime.
 
 
Called from the treasures of the soul
By power divine, when thou dost roll
Forth from the mourner’s eye,
Thy wearer thou dost then proclaim
The heir of life, who has his name
Writ in the Book on high.
 
 
Thou art a pearl, that all may own,
And when thy matchless worth is known
To those, who wear thee here,
They will be changed, and shall behold
The shining gates of heaven unfold,
Bright Penitential Tear!
 

TEACHINGS OF GOD

 
He reigns on high, a glorious King,
In ocean, earth, and air;
He moves and governs every thing,
For God is every where.
 
 
The waters at his bidding flow,
The mountain and its flower
Their majesty and beauty show,
As traces of his power.
 
 
The lilies by the meadow rills
Are leaning on his hand;
And so the cedar of the hills,
The palm and olive stand.
 
 
He formed the birds, that sport along
On light and brilliant wing;
And tuned them with the voice of song
And joy his praise to sing.
 
 
This earth is ours, so rich and fair
From him, who made it thus —
Who sends his angels down with care
To minister to us.
 
 
The rainbow, with its beauteous dies,
A pledge to man, is lent
By him, who spreads the shining skies
Around him, “as a tent.”
 
 
The heavens, my child, are full of him!
Yon radiant sun above
Is but an image, cold and dim,
Of his great power and love.
 
 
He placed that glorious orb on high,
In splendor there to roll,
To warm the world, to light the eye;
He lights and warms the soul.
 
 
And lest the night with sable shade
That azure vault should mar,
He moved his finger there, and made,
At every touch, a star.
 
 
With these the moon, his beaming gift,
Here lets her lustre fall,
Our thoughts to win, our hearts to lift
To him, who gave them all.
 
 
And he is ours – that Holy One,
Our Father, Guide, and Friend;
In ways untravelled by the sun,
In love that ne’er shall end.
 
 
’T is sweet to worship him below,
With his approving eye
To mark the way, our spirits go
To seek his face on high.
 

THE HERALD’S CRY IN THE DESERT

 
“He was not that Light; but was sent to bear witness of that Light.”
 

St. John i. 8.

 
Awake, O ye nations, and, shaking
The slumber of death from your eyes,
Behold the fair morn in its breaking,
The Sun of all glory arise.
 
 
He comes, mist and dimness dispelling;
The shadows and clouds flee away:
Ho! all, that in darkness are dwelling,
Spring up, and rejoice in the day!
 
 
Ye dying, life’s waters revealing,
He ’ll show you to fountain and streams:
Ye wounded, for you he brings healing;
Come out and repose in his beams.
 
 
Come, all ye disconsolate, hailing
Your King in his beauty and might;
His raiment mount Ebal is veiling;
Mount Gerizim shines with his light.
 
 
O praise him, ye weary, in wonder
To feel your hard burdens unbound!
Ye captives, your bars fall asunder;
With shoutings leap forth at the sound.
 
 
Your names on his breastplate he ’s wearing;
They ’re set as the seal of his ring;
Ye nations, your highways preparing,
Receive, and be glad in your King!
 

OUR FATHER’S WELL

 
Come, let ’s go back, my brother,
And, by our father’s well,
Sit down beside each other,
Life’s little dreams to tell.
 
 
For there we played together,
In childhood’s sunny hours;
Before life’s stormy weather
Had killed its morning flowers.
 
 
And since no draught we ’ve tasted,
Its weary journey through,
As we so far have hasted,
Like that our father drew;
 
 
I feel, as at a mountain,
I cannot pass nor climb,
Till from that distant fountain
I drink, as in my prime.
 
 
My spirit’s longing, thirsting,
No waters else can quell;
My heart seems near to bursting
To reach that good old well.
 
 
Though all be changed around it,
And though so changed are we,
Just where our father found it,
That pure well spring will be.
 
 
In earth, when deeply going,
He reached and smote the rock;
He set its fount to flowing —
It opened at his knock.
 
 
The way, he smoothed and stoned it,
A close, round, shadowy cell;
Whoever since has owned it,
It is our father’s well!
 
 
His prattling son and daughter,
With each an infant’s cup,
We waited for the water,
His steady hand drew up.
 
 
When we had paused and listened,
Till down the bucket dashed,
O how it, rising, glistened,
And to the sunlight flashed!
 
 
And since that moment, never
Has that cool deep been dry;
Its fount is living ever,
While man and seasons die.
 
 
Around its mouth is growing
The moss of many a year;
But from its heart is flowing
The water sweet and clear.
 
 
Fond memory near it lingers,
And, like a happy child,
She plucks, with busy fingers,
And wreathes the roses wild.
 
 
Yet many a lip, whose burning
Its limpid drops allayed,
Has since, to ashes turning,
Been veiled in silent shade.
 
 
Still we are here, and telling
About our infant play;
Where that free spring is welling,
So true, and far away.
 
 
But O! the change, my brother!
Our father’s head is hoar;
The tender name of mother
Is ours to call no more.
 
 
And now, around thee gather
Such little ones as we
Were then, beside our father,
And look to theirs in thee.
 
 
While fast our years are wasting,
Their numbers none can tell;
So let us hence be hasting
To find our Father’s well.
 
 
Come, we will speed us thither,
And from its mossy brink,
To flowers that ne’er shall wither
Look up to heaven and drink.
 
 
They spring beside the waters,
Our Father there will give
To all his sons and daughters,
Where they shall drink and live.
 

THE MOTHER’S DREAM

“And I will give him the morning star.”

Rev. ii. 28.

 
Methought, once more to my wishful eye
My beautiful boy had come:
My sorrow was gone, my cheek was dry,
And gladness around my home.
 
 
I saw the form of my dear, lost child!
All kindled with life he came;
And he spake in his own sweet voice, and smiled,
As soon as I called his name.
 
 
The garb he wore looked heavenly white,
As the feathery snow comes down,
And warm, as it shone in the softened light
That fell from his dazzling crown.
 
 
His eye was bright with a joy serene,
His cheek with a deathless bloom,
That only the eye of my soul hath seen,
When looking beyond the tomb.
 
 
The odors of flowers, from the thornless land
Where we deem that our blest ones are,
Seemed borne in his skirts; and his soft right hand
Was holding a radiant star.
 
 
His feet, unshod, looked tender and fair,
As the lily’s opening bell,
Half veiled in a cloud of glory, as there
Around him, in folds, it fell.
 
 
I asked him how he was clothed anew —
Who circled his head with light —
And whence he returned to meet my view
So calm and heavenly bright.
 
 
I asked him where he had been so long
Away from his mother’s care —
Again to sing me his infant song,
And to kneel by my side in prayer.
 
 
He said, “Sweet mother, the song I sing
Is not for an earthly ear:
I touch the harp with a golden string,
For the hosts of heaven to hear.
 
 
“It was but a gently fleeting breath,
That severed thy child from thee!
The fearful shadow, in time, called Death,
Hath ministered life to me.
 
 
“My voice in an angel choir I lift;
And high are the notes we raise:
I hold the sign of a priceless gift,
And the Giver, who hath our praise.
 
 
“‘The bright and the morning star’ is he,
Who bringeth eternal day!
And, mother, he giveth himself to thee,
To lighten thine earthly way.
 
 
“The race is short to a peaceful goal,
And He is never afar,
Who saith of the wise, untiring soul,
‘I will give him the morning star!’
 
 
“Thy measure of care for me was filled,
And pure to its crystal top;
For Faith, with a steady eye, distilled
And numbered every drop.
 
 
“While thou wast teaching my lips to move,
And my heart to rise in prayer,
I learned the way to a world above;
The home of thy child is there!
 
 
“The secret prayers, thou didst make for me,
That only thy God hath known,
Arose, like sweet incense, holy and free,
And gathered around his throne.
 
 
“My robe was filled with the perfume sweet
To shed upon this world’s air,
As I joyful knelt, at my Saviour’s feet,
For the glorious crown I wear.
 
 
“In that bright, blissful world of ours,
The waters of life I drink:
Behold my feet, as they ’ve pressed the flowers,
That grow by the fountain’s brink!
 
 
“No thorn is hidden to wound me there;
There ’s nothing of chill, or blight,
Or sighing to blend with the balmy air —
No sorrow – no pain – no night!”
 
 
“No parting?” I asked, with a burst of joy;
And the lovely illusion broke!
My rapture had banished my beauteous boy —
To a shadowy void I spoke.
 
 
But, O! that STAR of the morn still beams
With light to direct my feet
Where, when I have done with my earthly dreams,
The mother and child may meet.