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diff --git a/33486-8.txt b/33486-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8e3f610 --- /dev/null +++ b/33486-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3152 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Songs of the Silent World, by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Songs of the Silent World + And Other Poems + +Author: Elizabeth Stuart Phelps + +Release Date: November 23, 2010 [EBook #33486] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THE SILENT WORLD *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + +[Frontispiece: Elizabeth Stuart Phelps] + + + + + +SONGS OF THE SILENT WORLD + +_AND OTHER POEMS_ + + +BY + +ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS + + + + +BOSTON + +HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY + +New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street + +The Riverside Press, Cambridge + +1885 + + + + +Copyright, 1884, + +BY ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. + +_All rights reserved._ + + + + +_The Riverside Press, Cambridge:_ + +Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. + + + + + _Dear! Is the distance vast? I cross it here. + The chasm fathomless? I span it thus. + The silence dread? I break it. What is fear? + When only our own hearts can sever us._ + + _The gold and frankincense I should have given, + Envy the myrrh I lay within your hand; + Dearer to me than fame of earth or heaven + It is, to know that you will understand._ + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + I. + + Afterward + Released + The Room's Width + The First Christmas Apart + The Angel Joy + "Absent!" + The Unseen Comrades + Stronger than Death + + + II. + + Vittoria + New Neighbors + By the Hearth + Told in Confidence + What the Violins Said + Won + Spent + Parted + An April Gust + The Answer + Thorns + The Indian Girl + Sealed + Guinevere + Sung to a Friend + Incompletion + Rafe's Chasm + Galatea + Part of the Price + Eurydice + Elaine and Elaine + + + III. + + The Poet and the Poem + Overtasked + Stranded + Gloucester Harbor + The Terrible Test + My Dreams are of the Sea + Song + An Interpretation + The Sphinx + Victoræ Salutamus + The Ermine + Unquenched + The King's Image + + + IV. + + At the Party + A Jewish Legend + + + V. + + The Songs of Seventy Years + Birthday Verses + A Tribute + To O. W. H. + Whose shall the Welcome be? + Exeat + George Eliot + Her Jury + + + VI. + + A Prayer. (Matins.) + An Acknowledgment + Hymn + Answered + Westward + Three Friends + A New Friend + An Etching + To my Father + The Gates Between + A Prayer. (Vespers.) + + + + + I. + + + SONGS OF THE SILENT WORLD. + + + + AFTERWARD. + + There _is_ no vacant chair. The loving meet-- + A group unbroken--smitten, who knows how? + One sitteth silent only, in his usual seat; + We gave him once that freedom. Why not now? + + Perhaps he is too weary, and needs rest; + He needed it too often, nor could we + Bestow. God gave it, knowing how to do so best. + Which of us would disturb him? Let him be. + + There is no vacant chair. If he will take + The mood to listen mutely, be it done. + By his least mood we crossed, for which the heart must ache, + Plead not nor question! Let him have this one. + + Death is a mood of life. It is no whim + By which life's Giver mocks a broken heart. + Death is life's reticence. Still audible to Him, + The hushed voice, happy, speaketh on, apart. + + There is no vacant chair. To love is still + To have. Nearer to memory than to eye, + And dearer yet to anguish than to comfort, will + We hold him by our love, that shall not die. + + For while it doth not, thus he cannot. Try! + Who can put out the motion or the smile? + The old ways of being noble all with him laid by? + Because we love, he is. Then trust awhile. + + + + + RELEASED. + + Oh, joy of the dying! + At last thou art mine. + And leaping to meet thee, + Impatient to greet thee, + A rapid and rapturous, sensitive, fine + Gayety steals through my pulses to-day, + Daring and doubting like pleasure + Forbidden, or Winter looking at May. + + Oh, sorrow of living! + Make way for the thrill + Of the soul that is starting-- + Onlooking--departing + Across the threshold of clay. + Bend, bow to the will + Of the soul that is up and away! + + + + + THE ROOM'S WIDTH. + + I think if I should cross the room, + Far as fear; + Should stand beside you like a thought-- + Touch you, Dear! + + Like a fancy. To your sad heart + It would seem + That my vision passed and prayed you, + Or my dream. + + Then you would look with lonely eyes-- + Lift your head-- + And you would stir, and sigh, and say-- + "She is dead." + + Baffled by death and love, I lean + Through the gloom. + O Lord of life! am I forbid + To cross the room? + + + + + THE FIRST CHRISTMAS APART. + + The shadows watch about the house; + Silent as they, I come. + Oh, it is true that life is deaf, + And not that death is dumb. + + The Christmas thrill is on the earth, + The stars throb in the sky. + Love listens in a thousand homes,-- + The Christmas bells ring by. + + I cross the old familiar door + And take the dear old chair. + You look with desolated eyes + Upon me sitting there. + + You gaze and see not, though the tears + In gazing burn and start. + Believe, the living are the blind, + Not that the dead depart. + + A year ago some words we said + Kept sacred 'twixt us twain, + 'T is you, poor Love, who answer not, + The while I speak again. + + I lean above you as before, + Faithful, my arms enfold. + Oh, could you know that life is numb, + Nor think that death is cold! + + Senses of earth, how weak ye are! + Joys, joys of Heaven how strong! + Loves of the earth, how short and sad, + Of Heaven how glad and long! + + Heart of my heart! if earth or Heaven + Had speech or language fine + Enough, or death or life could give + Me symbol, sound, or sign + + To reach you--thought, or touch, or eye, + Body or soul--I 'd die + Again, to make you understand: + _My darling_! This is _I!_ + + + + + THE ANGEL JOY. + + Oh, was it a death-dream not dreamed through, + That eyed her like a foe? + Or only a sorrow left over from life, + Half-finished years ago? + + How long was it since she died--who told? + Or yet what was death--who knew? + She said: "I am come to Heaven at last, + And I 'll do as the blessed do." + + But the custom of earth was stronger than Heaven, + And the habit of life than death, + How should an anguish as old as thought + Be healed by the end of breath? + + Tissue and nerve and pulse of her soul + Had absorbed the disease of woe. + The strangest of all the angels there + Was Joy. (Oh, the wretched know!) + + "I am too tired with earth," she said, + "To rest me in Paradise. + Give me a spot to creep away, + And close my heavy eyes. + + "I must learn to be happy in Heaven," she said, + "As we learned to suffer below."-- + "Our ways are not your ways," he said, + "And ours the ways you go." + + As love, too wise for a word, puts by + All a woman's weak alarms, + Joy hushed her lips, and gathered her + Into his mighty arms. + + He took her to his holy heart, + And there--for he held her fast-- + The saddest spirit in the world, + Came to herself at last. + + + + + "ABSENT!"[1] + + You do not lift your eyes to watch + Us pass the conscious door; + Your startled ear perceiveth not + Our footfall on the floor; + No eager word your lips betray + To greet us when we stand; + We throng to meet you, but you hold + To us no beckoning hand. + + Faint as the years in which we breathed, + Far as the death we died, + Dim as the faded battle-smoke, + We wander at your side; + Cold as a cause outlived, or lost, + Vague as the legends told + At twilight, of a mystic band + Circling an Age of Gold. + + Unseen, unheard, unfelt--and yet, + Beneath the army blue + Our heart-beats sounded real enough + When we were boys like you. + We turned us from your fabled lore, + With ancient passion rife; + No myth, our solemn laying down + Of love, and hope, and life. + + No myth, the clasped and severed hands, + No dream, the last replies. + Upon the desolated home + To-day, the sunlight lies. + Take, sons of peace, your heritage-- + Our loss, your legacy; + Our action be your fables fair, + Our facts, your poetry. + + O ye who fall on calmer times! + The perils of the calm + Are yours--the swell, the sloth, the sleep, + The carelessness of harm, + The keel that rides the gale, to strike + Where the warm waves are still; + Ours were the surf, the stir, the shock, + The tempest and the thrill. + + Comrades, be yours that vigor old, + Be yours the elected power + That fits a man, like rock to tide, + To his appointed hour; + Yours to become all that we were, + And all we might have been; + Yours the fine eye that separates + The unseen from the seen. + + +[1] Written for the Centennial Celebration at Andover Phillips Academy. + + + + + THE UNSEEN COMRADES.[1] + + Last night I saw an armèd band, whose feet + Did take the martial step, although they trod + Soundless as waves of light upon the air. + (Silent from silent lips the bugle fell.) + The wind was wild; but the great flag they bore, + Hung motionless, and glittered like a god + Above their awful faces while they marched. + And when I saw, I understood and said-- + "If these are they whom we did love, and give, + What seek they?" But one sternly answered me,-- + "We seek our comrades whom we left to thee: + The weak, who were thy strength; the poor, who had + Thy pride; the faint and few who gave to thee + One supreme hour from out the day of life, + One deed majestic to their century. + These were thy trust: how fare they at thy hands? + Thy saviors then--are they thy heroes now? + Our comrades still; we keep the step with them, + _Behold! As thou unto the least of them + Shalt do, so dost thou unto us. Amen._" + + +[1] Written for the benefit of the Soldiers' Home at Chelsea, +Massachusetts. + + + + + STRONGER THAN DEATH + + Who shall tell the story + As it was? + Write it with the heart's blood? + (Pale ink, alas!) + Speak it with the soul's lips, + Or be dumb? + Tell me, singers fled, and + Song to come! + + No answer; like a shell the silence curls, + And far within it leans a whisper out, + Breathless and inarticulate, and whirls + And dies as dies an ailing dread or doubt. + + And I--since there is found none else than I, + No stronger, sweeter voice than mine, to tell + This tale of love that cannot stoop to die-- + Were fain to be the whisper in the shell; + + Were fain to lose and spend myself within + The sacred silence of one mighty heart, + And leaning from it, hidden there, to win + Some finer ear that, listening, bends apart. + + "Fly for your lives!" The entrails of the earth + Trembled, resounding to the cry, + That, like a chasing ghost, around the mine + Crept ghastly: "The pit 's on fire! Fly!" + + * * * * * + + The shaft, a poisoned throat whose breath was death, + Like hell itself grown sick of sin, + Hurled up the men; haggard and terrible; + Leaping upon us through the din + + That all our voices made; and back we shrank + From them as from the starting dead; + Recoiling, shrieked, but knew not why we shrieked; + And cried, but knew not what we said. + + And still that awful mouth did toss them up: + "The last is safe! The last is sound!" + We sobbed to see them where they sunk and crawled, + Like beaten hounds, upon the ground. + + Some sat with lolling, idiot head, and laughed; + One reached to clutch the air away + His gasping lips refused; some cursed; and one + Knelt down--but he was old--to pray. + + We huddled there together all that night, + Women and men from the wild Town; + I heard a shrill voice cry, "We all are up, + But some--ye have forgot--are down!" + + "Who is forgot?" We stared from face to face; + But answering through the dark, she said + (It was a woman): "Eh, ye need not fret; + None is forgot except the dead. + + "The buried dead asleep there in the works-- + Eh, Lord! It must be hot below! + Ye 'll keep 'em waking all the livelong night, + To set the mine a-burning so!" + + And all the night the mine did burn and burst, + As if the earth were but a shell + Through which a child had thrust a finger-touch, + And, peal on dreadful peal, the bell, + + The miner's 'larum, wrenched the quaking air; + And through the flaring light we saw + The solid forehead of the eternal hill + Take on a human look of awe; + + As if it were a living thing, that spoke + And flung some protest to the sky, + As if it were a dying thing that saw, + But could not tell, a mystery. + + The bells ran ringing by us all that night. + The bells ceased jangling with the morn. + About the blackened works,--sunk, tossed, and rent,-- + We gathered in the foreign dawn; + + Women and men, with eyes askance and strange, + Fearing, we knew not what, to see. + Against the hollowed jaws of the torn hill, + Why creep the miners silently? + + From man to man, a whisper chills: "See, see, + The sunken shaft of Thirty-one! + The earth, a traitor to her trust, has fled + And turned the dead unto the sun. + + "And here--O God of life and death! Thy work, + Thine only, this!" With foreheads bare, + We knelt, and drew him, young and beautiful, + Thirty years dead, into the air. + + Thus had he perished; buried from the day; + By the swift poison caught and slain; + By the kind poison unmarred, rendered fair + Back to the upper earth again-- + + The warm and breathing earth that knew him not; + And men and women wept to see-- + For kindred had he none among us all-- + How lonely even the dead may be. + + We wept, I say; we wept who knew him not; + But sharp, a tearless woman sprang + From out the crowd (that quavering voice I knew), + And terrible her cry outrang: + + "I pass, I pass ye all! Make way! Stand back! + Mine is the place ye yield," she said. + "He was my lover once--my own, my own; + Oh, he was mine, and he is dead!" + + Women and men, we gave her royal way; + Proud as young joy the smile she had. + We knew her for a neighbor in the Town, + Unmated, solitary, sad. + + Youth, hope, and love, we gave her silent way, + Calm as a sigh she swept us all; + Then swiftly, as a word leans to a thought, + We saw her lean to him, and fall + + Upon the happy body of the dead-- + An aged woman, poor and gray. + Bright as the day, immortal as young Love, + And glorious as life, he lay. + + Her shrunken hands caressed his rounded cheek, + Her white locks on his golden hair + Fell sadly. "O love!" she cried with shriveled lips, + "O love, my love, my own, my fair! + + "See, I am old, and all my heart is gray. + They say the dead are aye forgot-- + There, there, my sweet! I whisper, leaning low, + That all these women hear it not. + + "Deep in the darkness there, didst think on me? + High in the heavens, have ye been true? + Since I was young, and since you called me fair, + I never loved a man but you. + + And here, my boy, you lie, so safe, so still"-- + But there she hushed; and in the dim, + Cool morning, timid as a bride, but calm + As a glad mother, gathered him + + Unto her heart. And all the people then, + Women and men, and children too, + Crept back, and back, and back, and on, + Still as the morning shadows do. + + And left them in the lifting dawn--they two, + On her sad breast, his shining head + Stirred softly, as were he the living one, + And she had been the moveless dead. + + And yet we crept on, back, and back, and on. + The distance widened like the sky, + Between our little restlessness, + And Love so godlike that it could not die. + + + + + II. + + + + VITTORIA. + + Wise was the word the wise man spake, who said, + "Angelo was the only man to whom God gave + Four souls,"--the soul of sculpture and of song, + Of architecture and of art; these all. + For so God loved him, as if he were + His only child, and grouped about those brows + Ideals of Himself--not angels mild + As those that flit and beckon other lives, + But cherubim and seraphim; tall, strong, + Unsleeping, terrible; with wings across + Their mighty feet; and eyes--if we would look + Upon their blazing eyes, these too are hid-- + Some angels are all wings! Oh, shine and fly! + Were ye not angels, ye would strike us blind. + + And yet they did not, could not dazzle her-- + That one sweet woman unto whom he bent + As pliant as the quarried marble turned + To life immortal in his own great hand. + Steadfast, Vittoria looked on Angelo. + She lifted lonely eyes. The years trod slow. + Fourfold the reverence which he gave to her, + Fourfold the awful tenderness, fourfold + The loyalty, the trust. And oh, fourfold + The comfort, beyond all power of comforting, + Whereby a lesser man may heal the hurt + Of widowhood! + + Pescara had one soul-- + A little one; and it was stained. And he-- + It too, perhaps (God knows!)--was dead. + The dead are God's. + + Vittoria had one heart. + The woman gave it, and the woman gives + Once. Angelo was too late. And one who dared + To shed a tear for him, has dropped it here. + + + + + NEW NEIGHBORS. + + Within the window's scant recess, + Behind a pink geranium flower, + She sits and sews, and sews and sits, + From patient hour to patient hour. + + As woman-like as marble is, + Or as a lovely death might be-- + A marble death condemned to make + A feint at life perpetually. + + Wondering, I watch to pity her; + Wandering, I go my restless ways; + Content, I think the untamed thoughts + Of free and solitary days, + + Until the mournful dusk begins + To drop upon the quiet street, + Until, upon the pavement far, + There falls the sound of coming feet: + + A happy, hastening, ardent sound, + Tender as kisses on the air-- + Quick, as if touched by unseen lips + Blushes the little statue there; + + And woman-like as young life is, + And woman-like as joy may be, + Tender with color, lithe with love, + She starts, transfigured gloriously. + + Superb in one transcendent glance-- + Her eyes, I see, are burning black-- + My little neighbor, smiling, turns, + And throws my unasked pity back. + + I wonder, is it worth the while, + To sit and sew from hour to hour-- + To sit and sew with eyes of black, + Behind a pink geranium flower? + + + + + BY THE HEARTH. + + You come too late; + 'Tis far on in November. + The wind strikes bleak + Upon the cheek + That careth rather to keep warm, + (And where 's the harm?) + Than to abate + One jot of its calm color for your sake. + Watch! See! I stir the ember + Upon my lonely hearth and bid the fire wake. + + And think you that it will? + 'T is burned, I say, to ashes. + It smoulders cold + As grave-yard mould. + I wish indeed you would not blow + Upon it so! + The dead to kill. + I say, the ghosts of fires will never stir, + Nor woman lift the lashes + Of eyes wept dim, howe'er yours shine for love of her! + + Ah, sweet surprise! did not think such shining + Upon the gloom + Of this cold room + Could fall. Your even, strong, calm breath + Calls life from death. + The warm light lies + At your triumphant feet, faint with desire + To reach you. See! The lining + Of violet and of silver in that sheath of fire! + + If you would care-- + Although it is November-- + I will not say + A bitter nay + To such a gift for building fires. + And though it tires + Me to think of it--I 'll own to you + (If you can stir the ember) + It may be found at last, just warm enough for two! + + + + + TOLD IN CONFIDENCE. + + Vow you 'll never, never tell him! + Freezing stars now glittering farthest, fairest on the winter sky; + If he woo me, + Not your coldest, cruel ray + Or can or may + Be found more chill and still to him than I. + + Swear you 'll never, never tell him! + Warm, red roses lifting your shy faces to the summer dew; + If he win me, + Blush your sweetest in his sight + For his delight, + But I can be as warm and sweet as you. + + + + + WHAT THE VIOLINS SAID. + + SONG. + + "We 're all for love," the violins said.--SIDNEY LANIER. + + Do I love you? Do I love you? + Ask the heavens that bend above you + To find language and to prove you + If they love the living sun. + Ask the burning, blinded meadows + If they love the falling shadows, + If they hold the happy shadows + When the fervid day is done. + + Ask the blue-bells and the daisies, + Lost amid the hot field-mazes, + Lifting up their thirsty faces, + If they love the summer rains. + Ask the linnets and the plovers, + In the nest-life made for lovers, + Ask the bees and ask the clovers-- + Will they tell you for your pains? + + Do I, Darling, do I love you? + What, I pray, can that behoove you? + How in Love's name can I move you? + When for Love's sake I am dumb! + If I told you, if I told you, + Would that keep you, would that hold you, + Here at last where I enfold you? + If it would-- Hush! Darling, come! + + + + + WON. + + Oh, when I would have loved you, Dear, + The sun of winter hung more near; + Yet not so sweet, so sweet, so sweet, + The wild-rose reddening at my feet. + + Your lips had learned a golden word, + You sang a song that all men heard, + Oh, love is fleet, the strain is long. + Who stays the singer from her song? + + Across my path the red leaves whirled. + Dared I to kneel with all the world? + How came I, then, to clasp you, Sweet, + And find a woman at my feet? + + + + + SPENT. + + Heart of iron, smile of ice, + Oh! the rock. + See him stand as dumb as death. + If you could, + Would you care to stir or shock + Him, think you, by a blow or breath, + From his mood? + + Arms of velvet, lips of love, + Oh! the wave. + See her creeping to his feet + Trustfully. + None shall know the sign he gave. + Death since then, were all too sweet. + Let her die. + + Lift thine eyes upon the sea, + Soul of stone. + Rather (wouldst thou breathe or move?) + I would be + A warm wave, faithful, wasted, thrown, + Spent and rent and dead with love, + Than be thee. + + + + + PARTED. + + Oh, never a word he answered, + And never a word spake she! + They turned their faces each from each, + And looked upon the sea. + + The hands that cannot clasp for life, + Must quickly severed be. + The love that is not large enough + To live eternally, + + In true love's name, for fair love's fame, + Must die before its bloom; + For it, in all God's earth or heaven, + There is no garden-room. + + Though all the wine of life be lost, + Try well the red grape's hue. + Holy the soul that cannot taste + The false love for the true. + + And blessed aye the fainting heart + For such a thirst shall be-- + Yet never a word they spoke, and looked + Upon the bitter sea. + + + + + AN APRIL GUST. + + It shall be as it hath been. + All the world is glad and green-- + Hush! Ah, hush! There cannot be + April now for you and me. + + Put your finger on the lips + Of your soul; the wild rain drips; + The wind goes diving down the sea; + Tell the wind, but tell not me. + + Yet if I had aught to tell, + High as heaven, or deep as hell, + Bent the fates awry or fit, + I would find a word for it. + + Oh, words that neither sea nor land + Can lift their ears to understand! + Wild words, as dumb as death or fear, + I dare to die, but not to hear! + + + + + THE ANSWER. + + "That we together may sail, + Just as we used to do." + Carleton's Ballads. + + And what if I should be kind? + And what if you should be true? + The old love could never go on, + Just as it used to do. + + The wan, white hands of the waves + That smote us swift apart, + Will never enclasp again, + And draw us heart to heart. + + The cold, far feet of the tides + That trod between us two, + Can never retrace their steps, + And fall where they used to do. + + Oh, well the ships must remember, + That go down to the awful sea, + No keel that chisels the current + Can cut where it used to be. + + Not a throb of the gloom or the glory + That stirs in the sun or the rain, + Will ever be _that_ gloom or glory + That dazzled or darkened--again. + + Not a wave that stretches its arms, + And yearns to the breast of the shore, + Is ever the wave that came trusting, + And yearning, and loving, before. + + The hope that is high as the heavens, + The joy that is keen as pain, + The faith that is free as the morning, + Can die--but can live not again. + + And though I should step beside you, + And hand should reach unto hand, + We should walk mutely--stifled-- + Ghosts in a breathless land. + + And what if I should be kind? + And though you should be true? + The old love could never, never + Love on as it used to do. + + + + + THORNS. + + As we pass by the roses, + Into your finger-tip + Bruise you the thorn. + Quick at the prick you start, + Crying, "Alas, the smart! + Farewell, my pleasant friend, + Wisely our way we wend + Out of the reach of roses." + + Oh, we pass by the roses! + Where does the red drop drip? + Where is the thorn? + What though 'tis hid and pressed + Piercing into my breast? + Scathless, I stretch my hand; + Strong as their roots I stand, + And dare to trust the roses. + + + + + THE INDIAN GIRL. + + A PICTURE BY WALTER SHIRLAW. + + She standeth silent as a thought + Too sacred to be uttered; all + Her face unfurling like a flower + That at a breath too near will shut. + Her life a little golden clock + Whose shining hands, arrested, stay + Forever at the hour of Love. + + She doubts, she dares, she dreams--of what? + I ask; she, shrinking, answers not, + She swims before me, dim, a cup + Of waste, untasted tenderness. + I drink, I dread, until I seem + (Myself unto myself) to be + He whom she chose, and charmed--and missed, + On some faint Asiatic day + Of languorous summer, ages since. + + + + + SEALED. + + "Shall I pour you the wine," she said, + "The wine that is rare and red? + Sweeter the cup for the drop."-- + "But why do you shrink and stop?" + + "The seal of the wine + Has a sacred sign; + I am afraid," she said. + + "I love and revere + You more for your fear, + Than I do for your wine," he said. + + + + + GUINEVERE. + + Of Guinevere from Arthur separate, + And separate from Launcelot and the world, + And shielded in the convent with her sin, + As one draws fast a veil upon a face + That 's marred, but only holds the scar more close + Against the burning brain--I read to-day + This legend; and if other yet than I + Have read, or said, how know I? for the text + Was written in the story we have learned, + Between the ashen lines, invisible, + In hieroglyphs that blazed and leaped like light + Unto the eyes. A thousand times we read; + A thousand turn the page and understand, + And think we know the record of a life, + When lo! if we will open once again + The awful volume, hid, mysterious, + Intent, there lies the unseen alphabet-- + Re-reads the tale from breath to death, and spells + A living language that we never knew. + + This that I read was one short song of hers, + A fragment, I interpret, or a lost + Faint prelude to another--missing too. + She sang it (says the text) one summer night, + After the vespers, when the Abbess passed + And blessed her; when the nuns were gone, and when + She, kneeling in her drowsy cell, had said + Her prayers (poor soul!), her sorrowful prayers, in which + She had besought the Lord, for His dear sake, + And love and pity of His Only Son, + To wash her of her stain, and make her fit + On summer nights, behind the convent bars + And on stone-floors, with bruisèd lips, to pray + Away all vision but repentance from her soul. + + When, kneeling as she was, her limbs + Refused to bear her, and she fell afaint + From weariness and striving to become + A holy woman, all her splendid length + Upon the ground, and groveled there, aghast + That buried nature was not dead in her, + But lived, a rebel through her fair, fierce youth; + Aghast to find that clasped hands would clench; + Aghast to feel that praying lips refused + Like saints to murmur on, but shrank + And quivered dumb. "Alas! I cannot pray!" + Cried Guinevere. "I cannot pray! I will + Not lie! God is an honest God, and I + Will be an honest sinner to his face. + Will it be wicked if I sing? Oh! let + Me sing a little, of I know not what; + Let me just sing, I know not why. For lips + Grow stiff with praying _all_ the night. + Let me believe that I am happy, too. + A blessèd blessèd woman, who is fit + To sing because she did not sin; or else + That God forgot it for a little while + And does not mind me very much. + Dear Lord," + (Said Guinevere), "wilt thou not listen while + I sing, as well as while I pray? I shall + Feel safer so. For I have naught to say + God should not hear. The song comes as the prayer + Doth come. Thou listenest. I sing." ... + + _Purple the night, and high were the skies, and higher + The eyes that leaned like the stars of my soul, to me. + Whom loveth the Queen? Him who hath right to crown her. + Who but the King is he?_ + + _Sultry the day, and gold was the hair, and golden + The mist that blinded my soul away from me. + Dethroned for a dream, for a gleam, for a glance, for a color, + How could the crownèd be?_ + + _Life goeth by like a deed, nor returneth forever. + Death cometh on, fleet-footed as pity should be. + Hush! When she waketh at last and looketh about her, + Whom will a woman see?_ + + Thus in her cell, + Deep in the summer night, sang Guinevere-- + A little, broken, blind, sweet melody-- + And then she kneeled upon the convent floor, + And, peaceful, finished all her prayer and slept; + For she had naught to say God might not hear. + + + + + SUNG TO A FRIEND. + + The tide is rising, rising + Out of the infinite sea; + From ripple, to wave, to billow, + Past beryl and gold and crimson, + A prism of perfect splendor; + What shall the white surf be? + + The sacred tide is rising, + Rising for you and me. + Defiant across the breaker, + Wave unto wave must answer, + The sea to the shore will follow; + When shall the great flood be? + + The tide must turn falling, falling + Back to the awful sea. + Thus far shalt thou go, no farther. + The color sinks to the shadow, + The pæan sobs into silence, + Where shall the ebb-line be? + + By the weeds left blazing, beating + Like heart-throbs of the sea, + By the law of the land and the ocean, + By the Hand that holdeth the torrent, + I summon the tide eternal + To flow for you and me! + + + + + INCOMPLETION. + + Perhaps the bud lost from the loaded tree + The sweetest blossom of the May would be; + + Or wildest song that summer could have heard + Is dumb within the throat of the dead bird. + + The perfect statue that all men have sought + May in some crippled hand be hid, unwrought. + + Which of our dearest dead betook his flight + Into the rose-red star that fell last night? + + The words forever by thy lips unsaid + Had been the crown of life upon thy head. + + The splendid sun of all my days might be + The love that I shall never give to thee. + + + + + RAFE'S CHASM. + + CAPE ANN, SEPTEMBER SURF. 1882. + + White fire upon the gray-green waste of waves, + The low light of the breaker flares. Ah, see! + Outbursting on a sky of steel and ice, + The baffled sun stabs wildly at the gale. + The water rises like a god aglow, + Who all too long hath slept, and dreamed too sure, + And finds his goddess fled his empty arms. + Silent, the mighty cliff receives at last + That rage of elemental tenderness, + The old, omnipotent caress she knows. + Yet once the solid earth did melt for her + And, pitying, made retreat before her flight; + Would she have hidden her forever there? + Or did she, wavering, linger long enough + To let the accustomed torrent chase her down? + Over the neck of the gorge, + I cling. Lean desperately! + He who feared a chasm's edge + Were never the one to see + The torment and the triumph hid + Where the deep surges be. + I pierce the gulf; I sweep the coast + Where wide the tide swings free; + I search as never soul sought before. + There is not patience enough in all the shore, + There is not passion enough in all the sea, + To tell my love for thee. + + + + + GALATEA. + + A moment's grace, Pygmalion! Let me be + A breath's space longer on this hither hand + Of fate too sweet, too sad, too mad to meet. + Whether to be thy statue or thy bride-- + An instant spare me! Terrible the choice, + As no man knoweth, being only man; + Nor any, saving her who hath been stone + And loved her sculptor. Shall I dare exchange + Veins of the quarry for the throbbing pulse? + Insensate calm for a sure-aching heart? + Repose eternal for a woman's lot? + Forego God's quiet for the love of man? + To float on his uncertain tenderness, + A wave tossed up the shore of his desire, + To ebb and flow whene'er it pleaseth him; + Remembered at his leisure, and forgot, + Worshiped and worried, clasped and dropped at mood, + Or soothed or gashed at mercy of his will, + Now Paradise my portion, and now Hell; + And every single, several nerve that beats + In soul or body, like some rare vase, thrust + In fire at first, and then in frost, until + The fine, protesting fibre snaps? + + Oh, who + Foreknowing, ever chose a fate like this? + What woman out of all the breathing world + Would be a woman, could her heart select, + Or love her lover, could her life prevent? + Then let me be that only, only one; + Thus let me make that sacrifice supreme, + No other ever made, or can, or shall. + Behold, the future shall stand still to ask, + What man was worth a price so isolate? + And rate thee at its value for all time. + + For I am driven by an awful Law. + See! while I hesitate, it mouldeth me, + And carves me like a chisel at my heart. + 'T is stronger than the woman or the man; + 'T is greater than all torment or delight; + 'T is mightier than the marble or the flesh. + Obedient be the sculptor and the stone! + Thine am I, thine at all the cost of all + The pangs that woman ever bore for man; + Thine I elect to be, denying them; + Thine I elect to be, defying them; + Thine, thine I dare to be, in scorn of them; + And being thine forever, bless I them! + + Pygmalion! Take me from my pedestal, + And set me lower--lower, Love!--that I + May be a woman, and look up to thee; + And looking, longing, loving, give and take + The human kisses worth the worst that thou + By thine own nature shalt inflict on me. + + + + + PART OF THE PRICE. + + Take back, my friend, the gifts once given. + No fairer find I this side Heaven + With which to bless thee, than thine own + Resource of blessing. Mine alone + To render what is mine to lose. + No niggard am I with it. Choose! + Lavish, I keep not any part + Of that great price within my heart. + Wilt thou the quiet comfort have? + Thine be it, daily, to the grave! + The courage, shining down from one + Whose answering eyes put out the sun? + The tenderness that touched the nerve + Like music? Oh, I bid these serve + Thee, soothe thee, watchful of thy need + While mine is unattended; feed + Thy heart while mine goes famished. Glad, + I give the dearest thing I had. + Impoverished, can I find or spare + Aught else to thee of rich or rare? + Sweet thoughts that through the soul do sing, + And deeds like loving hands that cling, + And loyal faith--a sentry--nigh, + And prayers all rose-clouds hovering high? + Nay, nay; I keep not any. Hold + The wealth I leave with fingers cold + And trembling in thine own. One thing + Alone I do deny to bring + And give again to thee. Not now, + Nor ever, Dear, shalt thou learn how + To wrest it from me. Test thy strength! + By the world's measures, height or length-- + Too weak art thou, too weak to gain, + By sleight of tenderness or snatch of pain + --At thine own most or least--to take from me + Mine own ideal lost--and saved--of thee. + + + + + EURYDICE. + + _Listening._ + + A PICTURE BY BURNE JONES. + + I. + + As sentient as a wedding-bell, + The vibrant air throbs calling her + Whose eager body, earwise curved, + Leans listening at the heart of hell. + She is one nerve of hearing, strained + To love and suffer, hope and fear-- + Thus, hearkening for her Love, she waits, + Whom no man's daring heart has gained. + + II. + + Oh, to be sound to such an ear! + Song, carol, vesper, comfort near, + Sweet words, at sweetest, whispered low, + Or dearer silence, happiest so. + By little languages of love + Her finer audience to prove; + A tenderness untried, to fit + To soul and sense so exquisite; + The blessed Orpheus to be + At last, to such Eurydice! + + * * * * * + + III. + + I listened in hell! I listened in hell! + Down in the dark I heard your soul + Singing mine out to the holy sun. + Deep in the dark I heard your feet + Ringing the way of Love in hell. + Into the flame you strode and stood. + Out of the flame you bore me well, + As I listened in hell. + + IV. + + I listen in hell! I listen in hell! + Who trod the fire? Where was the scorch? + Clutched, clasped, and saved, what a tale was to tell + ----Heaven come down to hell! + Oh, like a spirit you strove for my sake! + Oh, like a man you looked back for your own! + Back, though you loved me heavenly well, + Back, though you lost me. The gods did decree, + And I listen in hell. + + + + + ELAINE AND ELAINE. + + I. + + Dead, she drifted to his feet. + Tell us, Love, is Death so sweet? + + Oh! the river floweth deep. + Fathoms deeper is her sleep. + + Oh! the current driveth strong. + Wilder tides drive souls along. + + Drifting, though he loved her not, + To the heart of Launcelot, + + Let her pass; it is her place. + Death hath given her this grace. + + Let her pass; she resteth well. + What her dreams are, who can tell? + + Mute the steersman; why, if he + Speaketh not a word, should we? + + II. + + Dead, she drifteth to his feet. + Close, her eyes keep secrets sweet. + + Living, he had loved her well. + High as Heaven and deep as Hell. + + Yet that voyage she stayeth not. + Wait you for her, Launcelot? + + Oh! the river floweth fast. + Who is justified at last? + + Locked her lips are. Hush! If she + Sayeth nothing, how should we? + + + + + III. + + + + THE POET AND THE POEM. + + Upon the city called the Friends' + The light of waking spring + Fell vivid as the shadow thrown + Far from the gleaming wing + Of a great golden bird, that fled + Before us loitering. + + In hours before the spring, how light + The pulse of heaviest feet! + And quick the slowest hopes to stir + To measures fine and fleet. + And warm will grow the bitterest heart + To shelter fancies sweet. + + Securely looks the city down + On her own fret and toil; + She hides a heart of perfect peace + Behind her veins' turmoil-- + A breathing-space removed apart + From out their stir and soil. + + Our reverent feet that golden day + Stood in a quiet place, + That held repressed--I know not what + Of such a poignant grace + As falls, if dumb with life untold, + Upon a human face. + + To fashion silence into words + The softest, teach me how! + I know the place is Silence caught + A-dreaming, then and now. + I only know 't was blue above, + And it was green below. + + And where the deepening sunshine found + And held a holy mood, + Lowly and old, of outline quaint, + In mingled brick and wood, + Clasped in the arms of ivy vines + A nestling cottage stood: + + A thing so hidden and so fair, + So pure that it would seem + Hewn out of nothing earthlier + Than a young poet's dream, + Of nothing sadder than the lights + That through the ivies gleam. + + "Tell me," I said, while shrill the birds + Sang through the garden space, + To her who guided me--"tell me + The story of the place." + She lifted, in her Quaker cap, + A peaceful, puzzled face, + + Surveyed me with an aged, calm, + And unpoetic eye; + And peacefully, but puzzled half, + Half tolerant, made reply: + "The people come to see that house-- + Indeed, I know not why, + + "Except thee know the poem there-- + 'T was written long since, yet + His name who wrote it, now--in fact-- + I cannot seem to get-- + His name who wrote that poetry + I always do forget. + + "_Hers_ was Evangeline; and here + In sound of Christ Church bells + She found her lover in this house, + Or so I 've heard folks tell. + But most I know is, that's her name, + And his was Gabriel. + + "I 've heard she found him dying, in + The room behind that door, + (One of the Friends' old almshouses, + Perhaps thee 've heard before;) + Perhaps thee 've heard about her all + That I can tell, and more. + + "Thee can believe she found him here, + If thee do so incline. + Folks have their fashions in belief-- + That may be one of thine. + I 'm sure his name was Gabriel, + And hers Evangeline." + + She turned her to her common work + And unpoetic ways, + Nor knew the rare, sweet note she struck + Resounding to your praise, + O Poet of our common nights, + And of our care-worn days! + + Translator of our golden mood, + And of our leaden hour! + Immortal thus shall poet gauge + The horizon of his power. + Wear in your crown of laurel leaves, + The little ivy flower! + + And happy be the singer called + To such a lofty lot! + And ever blessed be the heart + Hid in the simple spot + Where Evangeline was loved and wept, + And Longfellow forgot. + + O striving soul! strive quietly, + Whate'er thou art or dost, + Sweetest the strain, when in the song + The singer has been lost; + Truest the work, when 't is the deed, + Not doer, counts for most! + + The shadow of the golden wing + Grew deep where'er it fell. + The heart it brooded over will + Remember long and well + Full many a subtle thing, too sweet + Or else too sad to tell. + + Forever fall the light of spring + Fair as that day it fell, + Where Evangeline, led by your voice, + O solemn Christ Church bell! + For lovers of all springs, all climes, + At last found Gabriel. + + + + + OVERTASKED. + + It was a weary hour, + I looked in the lily-bell. + How holy is the flower! + It leaned like an angel against the light; + "O soul!" it said, sighing, "be white, be white!" + + I stretched my arms for rest, + I turned to the evening cloud-- + A vision how fair, how blest! + "Low heart," it called, softly, "arise and fly. + It were yours to reach levels as high as I." + + I stooped to the hoary wave + That wept on the darkening shore. + It sobbed to me: "Oh, be brave! + Whatever you do, or dare, or will, + Like me to go striving, unresting still." + + + + + STRANDED. + + O busy ships! that smile in sailing + In a glory + Like a dream, + From the colors of the harbor to the colors of the sea. + In singing words or in bewailing, + Tell the story + As you gleam, + Tell the story, guess the language of my idle hours for me. + + O busy waves! so blest in bruising + Your white faces + On the shore. + So happy to be wasted with the purpose of the sea, + Content to leave with it the choosing + Of your places + Evermore, + Whisper but the far sea-meaning of my stranded life for me. + + Gray the sails grow in departing + Like fleet swallows + To the South. + Stern the tide turns in its parting, + As it follows + With dumb mouth. + In the stillness and the sternness God makes answer unto me. + + + + + GLOUCESTER HARBOR. + + One shadow glides from the dumb shore, + And one from every silent sail. + One cloud the averted heavens wear, + A soft mask, thin and frail. + + Oh, silver is the lessening rain, + And yellow was the weary drouth. + The reef her warning finger puts + Upon the harbor's mouth. + + Her thin, wan finger, stiff and stark, + She holds by night, she holds by day. + Ask, if you will. No answer makes + The sombre, guarded bay. + + The fleet, with idle canvas hung, + Like a brute life, sleeps patiently. + The headlights nod across the cliff, + The fog blows out to sea. + + There is no color on the tide, + No color on the helpless sky; + Across the beach,--a safe, small sound-- + The grass-hid crickets cry. + + And through the dusk I hear the keels + Of home-bound boats grate low and sweet. + O happy lights! O watching eyes! + Leap out the sound to greet. + + O tender arms that meet and clasp! + Gather and cherish while ye may. + The morrow knoweth God. Ye know + Your own are yours to-day. + + Forever from the Gloucester winds + The cries of hungry children start. + There breaks in every Gloucester wave + A widowed woman's heart. + + + + + THE TERRIBLE TEST. + + Separate, upon the folded page + Of myth or marvel, sad or glad, + The test that gave the Lord to thee, + And thee to us, O Galahad! + + "Found pure in deed, and word, and thought," + The creature of our dream and guess, + The vision of the brain thou art, + The eidolon of holiness. + + Man with the power of the God, + Man with the weaknesses of men, + Whose lips the Sangreal leaned to feed, + "Whose strength was the strength of ten," + + We read--and smile; no man thou wast; + No human pulses thine could be; + With downcast eyes we read--and sigh; + So terrible is purity! + + ---------- + + O fairest legend of the years, + With folded wings, go, silently! + O flower of knighthood, yield your place + To One who comes from Galilee! + + To wounded feet that shrink and bleed, + But press and climb the narrow way,-- + The same old way our own must step, + Forever, yesterday, to-day. + + For soul can be what soul hath been, + And feet can tread where feet have trod. + Enough, to know that once the clay + Hath worn the features of the God. + + + + + MY DREAMS ARE OF THE SEA. + + My dreams are of the Sea. + All night the living waters stepped + Stately and steadily. All night the wind + Conducted them. With forehead high, a rock, + Glittering with joy, stood to receive the shock + Of the flood-tide. I saw it in the mind + Of sleep and silence. When I woke, I wept. + + My dreams are of the Sea. + But oh, it is the Sea of Glass! + I met that other tide as I desired. + Alone, the rock and I leaned to the wave,-- + A foolish suicide, that scooped its grave + Within the piteous sand. Now I am tired. + It died and it was buried. Let me pass. + + + + + SONG. + + The firelight listens on the floor + To hear the wild winds blow. + Within, the bursting roses burn, + Without, there slides the snow. + + Across the flower I see the flake + Pass mirrored, mystic, slow. + Oh, blooms and storms must blush and freeze, + While seasons come and go! + + I lift the sash--and live, the gale + Comes leaping to my call. + The rose is but a painted one + That hangs upon the wall. + + + + + AN INTERPRETATION. + + CHOPIN. + + Prelude in C Minor, Opus 28. + + From whirlwind to shower, + From noon-glare to shadow, + From the plough to the vesper, + A day is gone. + From passion to purpose, + From turmoil to rest, + From discord to harmony, + Life moveth on. + + From terror and heartbreak, + From anger of anguish, + From vigil and famine, + A soul has gone. + By mercy of mystery, + Through trust which is best, + To feasting and sleeping now, + God calleth on. + + + + + THE SPHINX.[1] + + O glad girls' faces, hushed and fair! how shall I sing for ye? + For the grave picture of a sphinx is all that I can see. + + Vain is the driving of the sand, and vain the desert's art; + The years strive with her, but she holds the lion in her heart. + + Baffled or fostered, patient still, the perfect purpose clings; + Flying or folded, strong as stone, she wears the eagle's wings. + + Eastward she looks; against the sky the eternal morning lies; + Silent or pleading, veiled or free, she lifts the woman's eyes. + + O grave girls' faces, listening kind! glad will I sing for ye, + While the proud figure of the sphinx is all that I can see. + + +[1] Written for a graduating class at Abbott Academy. + + + + + VICTURÆ SALUTAMUS.[1] + + Shall we who are about to live, + Cry like a clarion on the battle-field? + Or weep before 't is fought, the fight to yield? + Thou that hast been and yet that art to be + Named by our name, that art the First and Last! + Womanhood of the future and the past! + Thee we salute, below the breath. Oh, give + To us the courage of our mystery. + ... Pealing, the clock of Time + Has struck the Woman's Hour.... + We hear it on our knees. For ah, no power + Is ours to trip too lightly to the rhyme + Of idle words that fan the summer air, + Of bounding words that leap the years to come. + Ideal of ourselves! We dream and dare. + Victuræ salutamus! _Thou_ art dumb. + + + [1] Written for the first commencement at Smith College. + + + + + THE ERMINE. + + I read of the ermine to-day, + Of the ermine who will not step + By the feint of a step in the mire,-- + The creature who will not stain + Her garment of wild, white fire; + + Of the dumb, flying, soulless thing + (So we with our souls dare to say), + The being of sense and of sod, + That will not, that will not defile + The nature she took from her God. + + And we, with the souls that we have, + Go cheering the hunters on + To a prey with that pleading eye. + She cannot go into the mud! + She can stay like the snow, and die! + + The hunters come leaping on. + She turns like a heart at bay. + They do with her as they will. + ... O thou who thinkest on this! + Stand like a star, and be still, + + Where the soil oozes under thy feet. + Better, ah, better to die + Than to take one step in the mire! + Oh, blessed to die or to live, + With garments of holy fire! + + + + + UNQUENCHED.[1] + + I think upon the conquering Greek who ran + (Brave was the racer!) that brave race of old-- + Swifter than hope his feet that did not tire. + + Calmer than love the hand which reached that goal; + A torch it bore, and cherished to the end, + And rescued from the winds the sacred fire. + + O life the race! O heart the racer! Hush! + And listen long enough to learn of him + Who sleeps beneath the dust with his desire. + + Go! shame thy coward weariness, and wail. + Who doubles contest, doubles victory. + Go! learn to run the race, and carry fire. + + O Friend! The lip is brave, the heart is weak. + Stay near. The runner faints--the torch falls pale. + Save me the flame that mounteth ever higher! + + Grows it so dark? I lift mine eyes to _thine_; + Blazing within them, steadfast, pure, and strong, + Against the wind there fights the eternal fire. + + +[1] At the Promethean and other festivals, young men ran with torches +or lamps lighted from the sacrificial altar. "In this contest, only he +was victorious whose lamp remained unextinguished in the race." + + + + + THE KING'S IMAGE. + + Of iron were his arms; they could have held + The need of half the kingdom up; and in + His brow were iron atoms too. Thus was + He built. His heart, observe, was wrought of gold, + Burnished; it dazzled one to look at it. + His feet were carved of clay--and so he fell. + + Clay unto clay shall perish and return. + The tooth of rust shall gnaw the iron down. + The conqueror of time, gold must endure. + + Thou great amalgam! Suffering in thyself, + The while inflicting still the certain fate + Of thy disharmony. From Nature's law, + Unto her law, thy doom appeals; bids thee + To fear the metal sinews of thy soul, + And scorn the dust on which thou totterest; + But save, oh, save the heart of gold for one + Who did, beholding, trust in it. + + + + + IV. + + + + AT THE PARTY. + + Half a dozen children + At our house! + Half a dozen children + Quiet as a mouse, + Quiet as a moonbeam, + You could hear a pin-- + Waiting for the party + To begin. + + Such a flood of flounces! + (Oh dear me!) + Such a surge of sashes + Like a silken sea. + Little eyes demurely + Cast upon the ground, + Little airs and graces + All around. + + High time for that party + To begin! + To sit so any longer + Were a sort of sin; + As if you were n't acquainted + With society. + What a thing to tell of + That would be! + + Up spoke a little lady + Aged five; + "I 've tumbled up my over-dress, + Sure as I 'm alive! + _My_ dress came from Paris; + We sent to Worth for it; + Mother says she calls it + Such a fit!" + + Quick there piped another + Little voice-- + "_I_ did n't send for dresses, + Though I had my choice; + _I_ have got a doll that + Came from Paris too; + It can walk and talk as + Well as you!" + + Still, till now, there sat one + Little girl; + Simple as a snow-drop, + Without flounce or curl. + Modest as a primrose, + Soft, plain hair brushed back, + But the color of her dress was + Black--all black. + + Swift she glanced around with + Sweet surprise; + Bright and grave the look that + Widened in her eyes. + To entertain the party + She must do her share, + As if God had sent her + Stood she there; + + Stood a minute, thinking, + With crossed hands + How she best might meet the + Company's demands. + Grave and sweet the purpose + To the child's voice given:-- + "_I_ have a little brother + Gone to Heaven!" + + On the little party + Dropped a spell; + All the little flounces + Rustled where they fell; + But the modest maiden + In her mourning gown, + Unconscious as a flower, + Looketh down. + + Quick my heart besought her, + Silently. + "Happy little maiden, + Give, O give to me + The highness of your courage, + The sweetness of your grace, + To speak a large word, in a + Little place." + + + + + A JEWISH LEGEND. + + I like that old, kind legend + Not found in Holy Writ, + And wish that John or Matthew + Had made Bible out of it. + + But though it is not Gospel, + There is no law to hold + The heart from growing better + That hears the story told:-- + + How the little Jewish children + Upon a summer day, + Went down across the meadows + With the Child Christ to play. + + And in the gold-green valley, + Where low the reed-grass lay, + They made them mock mud-sparrows + Out of the meadow clay. + + So, when these all were fashioned, + And ranged in rows about, + "Now," said the little Jesus, + "We'll let the birds fly out." + + Then all the happy children + Did call, and coax, and cry-- + Each to his own mud-sparrow: + "Fly, as I bid you! Fly!" + + But earthen were the sparrows, + And earth they did remain, + Though loud the Jewish children + Cried out, and cried again. + + Except the one bird only + The little Lord Christ made; + The earth that owned Him Master, + --His earth heard and obeyed. + + Softly He leaned and whispered: + "Fly up to Heaven! Fly!" + And swift, His little sparrow + Went soaring to the sky, + + And silent, all the children + Stood, awestruck, looking on, + Till, deep into the heavens, + The bird of earth had gone. + + I like to think, for playmate + We have the Lord Christ still, + And that still above our weakness + He works His mighty will, + + That all our little playthings + Of earthen hopes and joys + Shall be, by His commandment, + Changed into heavenly toys. + + Our souls are like the sparrows + Imprisoned in the clay, + Bless Him who came to give them wings + Upon a Christmas Day! + + + + + V. + + + + THE SONGS OF SEVENTY YEARS. + + J. G. W. + + + Master! let stronger lips than these + Turn melody to harmony, + Poet! mine tremble as they crave + A word alone with thee. + + Thy songs melt on the vibrant air, + The wild birds know them, and the wind; + The common light hath claim on them, + The common heart and mind. + + And air, and light, and wind, shall be + Thy fellow-singers, while they say + How seventy years of music stir + The common pulse to-day. + + Hush, sweetest songs! Mine ears are deaf + To all of ye save only one. + Blind are the eyes that turn the leaf + Against the Autumn sun. + + Oh, blinder once were fading eyes, + Close folded now from shine and rain, + And duller were the dying ears + That heard the chosen strain. + + Stay, solemn chant! 'T is mine to sing + Your notes alone below the breath. + 'T is mine to bless the poet who + Can bless the hour of death. + + For once a spirit "sighed for home," + A "longed-for light whereby to see," + And "wearied," found the way to them, + O Christian seer, through thee! + + Passed--with thy words on paling lips, + Passed--with thy courage to depart; + Passed--with thy trust within the soul, + Thy music in the heart. + + Oh, calm above our restlessness, + And rich beyond our dreaming, yet + In heaven, I know, one owes to thee + A glad and grateful debt. + + From it may learn some tenderer art, + May find and take some better way + Than all our tenderest and best, + To crown thy life to-day. + + + + + BIRTHDAY VERSES. + + H. B. S. + + Arise, and call her blessed,--seventy years! + Each one a tongue to speak for her, who needs + No poor device of ours to tell to-day + The story of her glory in our hearts. + Precede us all, ye quiet lips of love, + Ye honors high of home--nobilities + Of mother and of wife--the heraldry + Of happiness; dearer to her than were + The homage of the world. We yield unto + The royal claims of tenderness. Speak thou + Before all voices, ripened human life! + + Arise, and call her blessed, dark-browed men! + She put the silver lyre aside for you. + She could not stroll across the idle strings + Of fancy, while you wept uncomforted, + But rang upon the fetters of a race + Enchained, the awful chord which pealed along, + And echoed in the cannon-shot that broke + The manacle, and bade the bound go free. + She brought a Nation on its knees for shame, + She brought a world into a black slave's heart. + Where are our lighter laurels? O my friends! + Brothers and sisters of the busy pen, + Five million freemen crown her birthday feast, + Before whose feet our little leaf we lay. + + Arise and call her blessed, fainting souls! + For whom she sang the strains of holy hope. + Within the gentle twilight of her days, + Like angels, bid her own hymns visit her. + Her life no ivy-tangled door, but wide + And welcome to His solemn feet, who need + Not knock for entrance, nor one ever ask + "Who cometh there?" so still and sure the step, + So well we know God doth "abide in her." + + Oh, wait to make her blessed, happy world!-- + To which she looketh onward, ardently. + Lie in fair distance far, ye streets of gold, + Where up and down light-hearted spirits walk, + And wonder that they stayed so long away. + Be patient for her coming, for our sakes, + Who will love Heaven better, keeping her. + This only ask we:--When from prayer to praise + She moves, and when from peace to joy; be hers + To know she hath the life eternal, since + Her own heart's dearest wish did meet her there. + + + + + A TRIBUTE. + + Blinded I groped--you gave me sight. + Perplexed I turned--you sent me light. + You speak unto a thousand ears: + I pay you tribute in hid tears. + I pay you homage in the hopes + That rise to scale life's scathèd slopes. + I give you gratitude in this: + That, midway on the precipice + You never trod and never saw, + Where air you never drank, strikes raw + And wan upon the wasted breath, + And gulfs you never passed, gape death, + And crags you gained some sunlit way + Frown threatening over me to-day,-- + That here with bruisèd hand I cling, + Because I heard you yonder sing + With those who conquer. If through joy, + Then deeper be our shame who toy + And loiter in the scourging rain, + And did not pass by strength of pain. + Laggard below, I reach to bless + You who are King of happiness; + You are the victor, you the brave, + Who could not stoop to be _her_ slave. + Downward to me, rebuking, fling + My privilege of suffering. + I take and listen. Teach me. See! + Nearer than you, I ought to be; + Nearer the height man never trod, + Nearer the veiled face of God. + I ought, and am not. Comrade! be + Unconscious captain unto me. + Unknowing, beckon and command: + I answer you with unseen hand. + You read in vain these lines between, + And smiling, wonder whom I mean. + + + + + TO O. W. H. + + AUGUST 29, 1879. + + I had no song so wise and sweet, + As birthday songs, dear friend, should be. + Silent, among a hundred guests, + I only prayed for thee. + + Such wishes held the speaking lip, + Such mood of blessing took me, there, + That music, like a bird to heaven, + Flew, and was lost in prayer. + + + + + WHOSE SHALL THE WELCOME BE? + + H. W. L. + + The wave goes down, the wind goes down, + The gray tide glitters on the sea, + The moon seems praying in the sky. + Gates of the New Jerusalem + (A perfect pearl each gate of them) + Wide as all heaven swing on high; + Whose shall the welcome be? + + The wave went down, the wind went down, + The tide of life turned out to sea; + Patience of pain and grace of deed, + The glories of the heart and brain, + Treasure that shall not come again; + The human singing that we need, + Set to a heavenly key. + + The wave goes down, the wind goes down, + All tides at last turn to the sea. + We learn to take the thing we have. + Thou who hast taught us strength in grief, + As moon to shadow, high and chief, + Shine out, white soul, beyond the grave, + And light our loss of thee! + + + + + EXEAT. + + To the hope that he has taught, + To the beauty he has wrought, + To the comfort he has been; + To the dream that poets tell, + To the land where Gabriel + Can not lose Evangeline;-- + Hush! let him go. + + + + + GEORGE ELIOT.[1] + + At evening once, the lowly men who loved + Our Master were found desolate, and grieved + For Him whose eyes had been the glory of + Their lives. He, silent, followed them, and joined + Himself unto their sorrow; with the voice + Of love that liveth past the end, and yearns + Like empty arms across the sepulchre, + Did comfort them. They heard, and knew Him not. + + At eventide, O Lord, one trod for us + The solitary way of a great Soul; + Whereof the peril, pain, and debt, alone + He knows, who marked the road. + We watched, and held + Her in our arms of prayer. We wept, and said: + Our sister hath a heavy hurt. We bow, + And cry: The crown is buried with the Queen. + + At twilight, as she, groping, sought for rest, + What solemn footfall echoed down the dark? + What tenderness that would not let her go? + And patience that Love only knoweth, paced + Silent, beside her, to the last, faint step? + What scarred Hand gently caught her as she sank? + Thou being with her, though she knew Thee not. + + +[1] The last book which she read was Thomas à Kempis's _Imitation of +Christ_. + + + + + HER JURY. + + A lily rooted in a sacred soil, + Arrayed with those who neither spin nor toil; + Dinah, the preacher, through the purple air, + Forever in her gentle evening prayer + Shall plead for Her--what ear too deaf to hear?-- + "As if she spoke to some one very near." + + And he of storied Florence, whose great heart + Broke for its human error; wrapped apart, + And scorching in the swift, prophetic flame + Of passion for late holiness; and shame + Than untried glory grander, gladder, higher-- + Deathless, for Her, he "testifies by fire." + + A statue fair and firm on shining feet, + Womanhood's woman, Dorothea, sweet + As strength, and strong as tenderness, to make + A "struggle with the dark" for white light's sake, + Immortal stands, unanswered speaks. Shall they, + Of Her great hand the moulded, breathing clay, + Her fit, select, and proud survivors be? + Possess the life eternal, and not _She_? + + + + + VI. + + + + A PRAYER. + + MATINS. + + Lord, Thou hast promised. Lo! I give Thee back + Thine own great Word. Keep it. I summon Thee. + Keep it as God can, not as men do. See, + Great God! who art to us the awful Truth + Whereby we live, and move, and know the true-- + I ask Thee to be true unto Thyself. + + There is a soul that has not sinned unto + The death. I pray for it. To such as seek + For such a one, O Power invisible! + O Mystery and Mercy! Thou hast said + Thou hearkenest. I dare remind Thee, God. + + I dare appeal unto Thine honor. Hear! + Fulfill Thy pledge to me. + God, God! Great God! + I pour my soul out, dash it down awaste + Like water, as I would my life, to save + This other one. I light my words with fire, + Like fagots scorching all my shrinking heart. + So would I walk in fire with these my feet + Of flesh, if that could melt this frozen heart + I pray for. + Thou who listenest! Dumb God! + Had I Thy dreadful power to turn the souls + Of men as they were rivers in Thy hand, + Then would I have this noble one. I would + Not lose its loyalty. I tell Thee, Lord, + If I had made it, then it sure should love + And honor me. + Hearken to me! Oh, save! + Give me mine answer! Save! + Great God, + I summon Thee! I summon Thee! + + * * * * * + + Father, + I am Thy child. If I have asked too much, + Or asked or longed amiss in any wise, + Or read awry Thy Word mysterious, + Or made one cry unworthy of a child, + I pray Thee to deny me all I ask + Unto my asking, and rebuke me so. + And if Thou savest, Lord, dear Lord, _dear Lord_! + Then let it be because some worthier + Than I, did pray..... + + + + + AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT. + + For the faith that is not broken + + By the burden of the day; + For the word that is not spoken + (Dearest words are slow to say); + For the golden draught unproffered + To the thirst that thirsteth on; + For the hand that is not offered + When the struggling strength is gone; + For the sturdy heart that will not + Make a pauper of my need; + Friend, I mean sometime to thank thee, + From my soul, in truth and deed. + Wait! Some day, when I am braver, + I will do so--say so. Now + (Oh! be tender!) I am tired; + I have forgotten how. + + + + + HYMN. + + FOR A BROTHER'S INSTALLATION. + + Lord, are there any stones upon the way, + That tear Thy bleeding feet? + If our weak hands can move them from Thy path, + Give us that duty sweet. + + Is there, O patient and pathetic Face! + One thorn upon Thy brow + That we can pluck from out Thy cruel crown? + For we would do it now. + + Is there a deed so difficult for us + That none but Thou canst ask? + Thine asking be our answering. Lo! swift + Be ours that happy task. + + Lord, hast Thou left Thy hungry in the world + For us to find, to feed? + Sharper the hungers of the soul. Give us + Nutrition for that need. + + And hast Thou prisoners unvisited, + Whose woes our care should tell? + There is a deeper prison of the heart; + Help us to find that cell. + + Is there a mourner dear to Thee, whom we + Have left uncomforted? + Yet still through lonelier loneliness, the heart + Bereft of Thee, is led. + + O world of common, human cries! and calls + Of souls in direst need! + To meet ye, mighty were the love that sought + To take the Master's speed. + + Give us that love, dear God, who gave to us + To bear His loving name. + Give us that sacred speed to keep the step + That strikes with His the same. + + Waves of one tide, this people be! and flow + Straight shoreward to Thy will. + White as a dove, upon them, now descend + Thy Spirit, strong and still. + + Thy blessings on their future rest and brood, + --The brightest, lip can tell,-- + In home and heart, in faith and fact, O best + Of daily mercy! dwell. + + With those who summon--trusting it to lead + Their feet to walk Christ's way-- + The voice of him on whose bowed head, I call + The grace of God to-day. + + + + + ANSWERED. + + Why did I never sing a song to you? + Dearest! To you again, behold the question start. + To mine own pulses have I ever sung? Or do + I read a rhyme unto my beating heart? + + + + + WESTWARD. + + My thoughts like waves creep up, creep on, + How patient is the sea! + How shall we climb--the tide and I-- + Up to the hills and thee? + + Were waters free as winds, to go + Where mood or need might be, + They could but find the sky, above + The cañon as the sea. + + + + + THREE FRIENDS. + + Oh, not to you, my mentor sweet, + And stern as only sweetness can, + Whose grave eyes look out steadfastly + Across my nature's plan, + + And take unerring measure down + Where'er that plan is failed or foiled, + Thinking far less of purpose kept + Than of a vision spoiled. + + And tender less to what I am, + Than sad for what I might have been; + And walking softly before God + For my soul's sake, I ween. + + 'T is not to you, my spirit leans, + O grave, true judge! When spent with strife, + And groping out of gloom for light, + And out of death for life. + + ---------- + + Nor yet to you, who calmly weigh + And measure every grace and fault, + Whose martial nature never turns + From right to left, to halt + + For any glamour of the heart, + Or any glow that ever is, + Grander than Truth's high noonday glare, + In love's sweet sunrises; + + Who know me by the duller hues + Of common nights and common days, + And in their sober atmospheres + Find level blame and praise. + + ---------- + + True hearts and dear! 't is not in you, + This fainting, warring soul of mine + Finds silver carven chalices, + To hold life's choicest wine + + Unto its thirsty lips, and bid + It drink, and breathe, and battle on, + Till all its dreams are deeds at last, + And all its heights are won. + + ---------- + + I turn to _you_, confiding love. + O lifted eyes! look trustfully, + Till Heaven shall lend you other light, + Like kneeling saints--on me. + + And let me be to you, dear eyes, + The thing I am not, till I, too, + Shall see as I am seen, and stand + At last revealed to you. + + And let me nobler than I am, + And braver still, eternally, + And finer, truer, purer, than + My finest, purest, be + + To your sweet vision. There I stand + Transfigured fair in love's deceit, + And while your soul looks up to mine, + My heart lies at your feet. + + Believe me better than my best, + And stronger than my strength can hold, + Until your magic faith transmute + My pebbles into gold. + + I'll _be_ the thing you hold me, Dear!-- + After I 'm dead, if not before-- + Nor, through the climbing ages, will + I give the conflict o'er. + + But if upon the Perfect Peace, + And past the thing that was, and is, + And past the lure of voices, in + A world of silences, + + A pain can crawl--a little one-- + A cloud upon a sunlit land; + I think in Heaven my heart must ache + That you should understand. + + + + + A NEW FRIEND. + + The sun is sinking on the sacred lands + Wherein the grain ungarnered beckoning stands. + + Who loses never finds, nor can, nor may, + The common, human glory of the day. + + Close, let us enter, tear-blind as we must; + Reapers, not gleaners of a solemn trust. + + + + + AN ETCHING. + + A true knight! Knowing neither worldly fear, + Nor yet reproach of her unworldly faith; + Fine eyes shall see, yet see not, on this page, + A man, who from a woman's heart of hearts + Could earn, and keep, the sacred name of Friend. + + + + + TO MY FATHER. + + Tired with the little follies of the day, + A child crept, sobbing, to your arms to say + Her evening prayer; and if by God or you + Forgiven and loved, she never asked or knew. + + With life's mistake and care too early old, + And spent with sorrow upon sorrow told, + She finds the father's heart the surest rest; + The earliest love shall be the last and best. + + + + + THE GATES BETWEEN. + + Pearl-white, opaque and fixed fast, + Flashing between the hands unclasped, + Blinding between despairing eyes, + The awful Gates shut to, at last, + On comfort snatched, and anguish done, + On every moan beneath the sun, + Till we and ours, and joy are one. + + This is your hour, Gates of God, + Your solemn hour, bars of gold, + But there shall come another yet. + Like silken sails you shall be furled, + Like melting mist you shall be set. + + Oh, ye the dearest! vanished from + Love's little inner, sheltered spot. + To ye I whisper; not forgot, + But loved the dearer, namèd not. + Across the barrier old as life, + Lean to us from the Silent World. + + + + + A PRAYER. + + VESPERS. + + Great God! + Behold, I lie + Beneath Thine awful eye, + As the sea beneath the sky. + + My God, + What hope abides? + Thine unknown purpose rides + The torrent of my tides. + + Dear God, + I am not a shore, or hill, + An ocean must take still + The colors of the heavens' will. + + Choose, God. + Though days be blue, or gold, + Though sorrows new, or cold, + Though purple joy be there, + Or gray of old despair, + Give but Thyself to me, + And let me be Thy sea. + Thy storms have had their way. + I pray now not to pray. + + + + + Writings of Elizabeth Stuart Phelps + + + THE GATES AJAR. 16mo, $1.50. + BEYOND THE GATES. Twentieth Thousand. 16mo, $1.25. + MEN, WOMEN, AND GHOSTS. Short Stories. 16mo, $1.50. + HEDGED IN. 16mo, $1.50. + THE SILENT PARTNER. 16mo, $1.50. + THE STORY OF AVIS. 16mo, $1.50. + SEALED ORDERS, AND OTHER STORIES. 16mo, $1.50. + FRIENDS: A DUET. 16mo, $1.25. + DOCTOR ZAY. 16mo, $1.25. + + The above nine volumes, uniform, $12.50. + + + THE TROTTY BOOK. For Young Folks. Illustrated. Small 4to, $1.25. + TROTTY'S WEDDING TOUR AND STORY BOOK. Illustrated. Small 4to, $1.25. + WHAT TO WEAR. 16mo, $1.00. + POETIC STUDIES. Square 16mo, $1.50. + SONGS OF THE SILENT WORLD. Poems. With Portrait. 16mo, $1.25. + + *** For sale by all Booksellers. 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