FRIAR ANSELMO AND OTHER POEMS |
FRIAR ANSELMO Friar Anselmo for a secret sin Sat bowed with grief the convent cell within; Nor dared, such was his shame, to lift his eyes To the low wall whereon, in dreadful guise, The dead Christ hung upon the cursÈd tree, Frowning, he thought, upon his misery. What was his sin it matters not to tell. But he was young and strong, the records say: Perhaps he wearied of his narrow cell; Perhaps he longed to work, as well as pray; Perhaps his heart too warmly beat that day! Perhaps—for life is long—the weary road That he must travel, bearing as a load The slow, monotonous hours that, one by one, Dragged in a lengthening chain from sun to sun, Appalled his eager spirit, and his vow Pressed like an iron hand upon his brow. Perhaps some dream of love, of home, of wife, Had stirred this tumult in his lonely life, Tempting his soul to barter heavenly bliss, And sell its birthright for a woman’s kiss! At all events, the struggle had been hard; And as a bird from the glad ether barred, So had he beat his wings till, bruised and torn, He wished that night he never had been born! And still the dead Christ on the cursÈd tree Seemed but to mock his hopeless misery; Still Mary mother turned her eyes away, Nor saint nor angel bent to hear him pray! The calm, cold moonlight through the casement shone; Weird shadows darkened on the floor of stone; Without, what solemn splendors! and within What fearful wrestlings with despair and sin! Sudden and loud the cloister bell outrang; Afar a door swung to with sullen clang; And overhead he heard the rhythmic beat, The measured monotone of many feet Seeking the chapel for the midnight prayer. Black wings seemed hovering round him in the air, Beating him back when with a stifled moan He would have sought the holy altar stone. Then with a swift, sharp cry, prostrate he fell Before the crucifix. “The gates of hell Shall not prevail against me!” loud he cried, Stretching his arms to Christ, the crucified. “By Thy dread cross, Thy dying agony, Thine awful passion, Lord, deliver me!” Was it a dream? The taunting demons fled; Through the dim cell a wondrous glory spread; And all the air was filled with rare perfumes Wafted from censers rich with heavenly blooms. Transfigured stood the Christ before his eyes, Clothed in white samite, woven in Paradise, And from the empty cross upon the wall Streamed a wide splendor that encompassed all! Was it a dream? Anselmo’s sight grew dim; The cloistered chamber seemed to reel and swim; Yet well his spirit knew the glorious guest, And all his manhood rose to meet the test. “What wilt Thou have me, Lord, to do?” he cried With pallid lips, and kissed the sacred feet. And then in accents strangely calm, yet sweet, These words he heard from Christ, the crucified, The pitying Christ his inmost soul who read, With all its wild unrest, its doubt and dread: “Make thou a copy of My Holy Word!” Then mystic presences about him stirred; The vision faded. At the dawn of day Prostrate and pallid in the dusk he lay. Was it a dream? God knows! The narrow cell Wore the old aspect he had learned so well, And from the crucifix upon the wall No glory streamed illuminating all! Yet still a subtile fragrance filled the room; And looking round him in the soft, gray gloom, Anselmo saw upon the fretted floor An eagle’s quill that this grave legend bore: “He works most nobly for his fellow-men Who gives My word to them, by tongue or pen!” Henceforth Anselmo prayed, but worked as well, Nor felt the bondage of his cloister cell; For all his soul was filled with high intent, He had no dream since its accomplishment— To make a copy of the Holy Word, Fairer than eye had seen, or ear had heard, Or heart conceived of! Day by day he wrought, His fingers guided by a single thought; Forming each letter with the tenderest care, With points of richest color here and there; With birds on swaying boughs, and butterflies Poised on gay wings o’er sprays of eglantine; With tangled tracery of flower and vine Through which gleamed cherub faces, half divine; With fading leaves that drift when summer dies, And angels floating down the evening skies— Each word an orison, each line a prayer! Slowly the work went on from day to day; The seasons came and went; May followed May; Year after year passed by with stately tread To join the countless legions of the dead, Till Fra Anselmo, wan and bowed with age, Bent, a gray monk, above the parchment page. Death waited till he wrote the last fair line, Then touched his hand and closed the Book Divine!
The world has grown apace since then. He who would give God’s word to men, In cloistered cell, o’er parchment page, No longer bends from youth to age. Countless as leaves by autumn strewn The leaves of His great Book are blown Over the earth as wide and far As seeds by wandering breezes are! Yet none the less He speaks to-day As to Anselmo in his cell; Bidding men speed upon their way His later messages as well. For not alone in Holy Book, In revelations dim and old, In sweetest stories simply told, In grand, prophetic strains that reach The loftiest heights of human speech, In martial hymn, or saintly psalm, In fiery threat, or logic calm, God’s messages are writ to-day— And He whose voice Mount Sinai shook Still bids men hearken and obey! He writes His name upon the hills; He whispers in the mountain rills; He speaks through every flower that blows, In breath of lily, tint of rose; In sultry calms; in furious beat Of the wild storm’s tempestuous feet; In starlit night, and dewy morn, And splendor of the day new-born! He uttereth His thunders where The shock of battle rends the air; He guides the fiery steeds of War; He rules unseen the maddening jar, The hate and din of party strife, And bids it serve the nation’s life; He leads fair Science, where she walks With stately tread among the stars, Or where, with reverent voice, she talks With Nature through the eternal bars! His Word is uttered wheresoe’er A human soul has ears to hear. The royal message never errs; God send it true interpreters! THE KING’S ROSEBUD Only a blushing rosebud, folding up Such wealth of sweetness in its dewy cup That the whole air was like rare incense flung From golden censers round high altars swung! One day the king passed by with stately tread, And, reaching forth his hand, he lightly said, “All sweets are mine; therefore this rose I take, And wear it in my bosom for Love’s sake.” Then, while the king passed on with smiling face, The sweet rose gloried in its pride of place. But ah! the deeds that in Love’s name are done! The woeful wrack wrought underneath the sun! Still with that smile upon his lip, the king Laid his rash hand upon the beauteous thing; In hot haste tore the crimson leaves apart, And drained the sweetness from its glowing heart; Seared the soft petals with its fiery breath, Then tossed it from him to ignoble death! When next with idle steps I passed that way, Prone in the mire the king’s fair rosebud lay. SOMEWHERE How can I cease to pray for thee? Somewhere In God’s great universe thou art to-day: Can He not reach thee with His tender care? Can He not hear me when for thee I pray? What matters it to Him, who holds within The hollow of His hand all worlds, all space, That thou art done with earthly pain and sin? Somewhere within His ken thou hast a place. Somewhere thou livest and hast need of Him: Somewhere thy soul sees higher heights to climb; And somewhere still there may be valleys dim That thou must pass to reach the hills sublime. Then all the more, because thou canst not hear Poor human words of blessing, will I pray, O true, brave heart! God bless thee, whereso’er In His great universe thou art to-day! PERADVENTURE I am thinking to-night of the little child That lay on my breast three summer days, Then swiftly, silently, dropped from sight, While my soul cried out in sore amaze. It is fifteen years ago to-night; Somewhere, I know, he has lived them through, Perhaps with never a thought or dream Of the mother-heart he never knew! Is he yet but a babe? or has he grown To be like his brothers, fair and tall, With a clear, bright eye, and a springing step, And a voice that rings like a bugle call? I loved him. The rose in his waxen hand Was wet with the dew of my falling tears; I have kept the thought of my baby’s grave Through all the length of these changeful years. Yet the love I gave him was not like that I give to-day to my other boys, Who have grown beside me, and turned to me In all their griefs and in all their joys. Do you think he knows it? I wonder much If the dead are passionless, cold, and dumb; If into the calm of the deathless years No thrill of a human love may come! Perhaps sometimes from the upper air He has seen me walk with his brothers three; Or felt in the tender twilight hour The breath of the kisses they gave to me! Over his birthright, lost so soon, Perhaps he has sighed as the swift years flew; O child of my heart! you shall find somewhere The love that on earth you never knew! RENA
(A LEGEND OF BRUSSELS) I. St. Gudula’s bells were chiming for the midnight, sad and slow, In the ancient town of Brussels, many and many a year ago, And St. Michael, poised so grandly on his lofty, airy height, Seemed transfigured in the glory of the full moon’s tender light, When, a fair and saintly maiden crowned with locks of palest gold, Rena stood beside her lover, son of Hildebrand the Bold. She with grief and tears was pallid; but his face was hard and stern: All the passion of his being in his dark eyes seemed to burn. “Never dream that I will give thee back thy plighted faith,” he cried, “By St. Michael’s sword I swear it, thou, my love, shalt be my bride!” “Nay, but hear me,” she responded; “hear the words that I must speak; I must speak, and thou must hearken, though my heart is like to break. Yestermorn, as I sat spinning blithely at my cottage door, Straightway fell a stately shadow in the sunshine on the floor; And a figure stood before me, so majestic and so grand, That I knew it in a moment for the mighty Hildebrand— Stood and gazed on me till downward at my feet the distaff dropped, And in all my veins the pulsing of the swift life-current stopped. ‘Thou art Rena,’ then he uttered, and he swore a dreadful oath, And the tempest of his anger beat on me and on us both. ‘She who thinks to wed with Volmar must have lands and gold,’ said he, ‘Or must come of noble lineage, fit to mate with mine and me! Thou art but a peasant maiden, empty-handed, lowly born; All the ladies of my castle would look down on thee with scorn. Even he will weary of thee when his passion once is spent, Vainly cursing her who doomed him to an endless discontent!’ Then I, trembling, rose up slowly, and I looked him in the face, Though the dreadful frown it wore seemed to darken all the place. ‘Sir, I thank you for this warning,’ said I, speaking low and clear, ‘But the laughter of your ladies I must teach my heart to bear. For the rest—your son is noble—and my simple womanhood He will hold in loving honor, as a saint the holy rood!’ Oh! then his stern face whitened, and a bitter laugh laughed he: ‘Truly this my son is noble, and he shall not wed with thee. Hear my words now, and remember! for by this good sword I swear, And by Michael standing yonder, watching us from upper air, If he dares to place a wedding-ring upon your dowerless hand, On his head shall fall a father’s curse—the curse of Hildebrand!’ O, my Volmar! Then the earth rocked, and I fell down in a swoon; When I woke the room was silent; it was past the hour of noon; And I waited for thy coming, as the captive waits for death, With a mingled dread and longing, and a half-abated breath!” Straight the young man bowed before her, as before a holy shrine: “Never hand of high-born lady was more richly dowered than thine! What care I for gold or honors, or—my—father’s—curse?” he said; But the words died out in shudders, and his face grew like the dead. Then she twined her white arms round him, and she murmured, sweet and low, As the night wind breathing softly over banks where violets blow: “‘He who is accursed of father, he shall be accursed of God,’ Long ago said one who followed where the holy prophets trod. Kiss me once, then, O my Volmar! just once more, my Volmar dear, Even as you would kiss my white lips if I lay upon my bier! For a gulf as dark as death has opened wide ’twixt thee and me; Neither thou nor I can cross it, and thy wife I may not be!” II. Once again the bells of midnight chimed from St. Gudula’s towers, While St. Michael watched the city slumbering through the ghostly hours. But no slumber came to Rena where she moaned in bitter pain, For the anguish of that parting wrought its work on heart and brain. Suddenly the air grew heavy as with magical perfume, And a weird and wondrous splendor filled the dim and silent room. In the middle of the chamber stood a lady fair and sweet, With bright tresses falling softly to her small and sandalled feet. Flushed her cheeks were as a wild rose, and the glory of her eyes Was the laughing light and glory of the kindling morning skies. Airy robes of lightest tissue from her white arms floated free; They seemed woven of the mist that curls above the azure sea, Wrought in curious devices, star and wheel and leaf and flower, That, like frost upon a window-pane, might vanish in an hour. In her hands she bore a cushion, quaintly fashioned, strangely set With small silver pins that spanned it like a branching coronet; And from threads of finest texture swung light bobbins to and fro, As the lady stood illumined in the weird and wondrous glow. Not a single word she uttered; but, as silent as a shade, Down the room she swiftly glided and beside the startled maid Knelt, a radiant vision, smiling into Rena’s wondering eyes, Giving arch yet gracious answer to her tremulous surprise. Then she laid the satin cushion on the wondering maiden’s knee, And to all her mute bewilderment, no syllable spake she. But, as in and out and round about, the silver pins among, Flashed the white hand of the lady, and the shining bobbins swung, Lo! a web of fairy lightness like the misty robe she wore, Swiftly grew beneath her fingers, drifting downward to the floor! And as Rena looked and wondered, inch by inch the marvel grew, Till the eastern windows brightened as the gray dawn struggled through. Then the lady’s hand touched Rena’s, and she pointed far away, Where the palace towers were gleaming in the first red light of day. But when once again the maiden turned her glance within the room, With the lady fair had vanished all the splendor and perfume. Still the satin cushion lay there, quaintly fashioned, strangely set With the silver pins that spanned it like a branching coronet; Still the light web she had woven lay in drifts upon the floor, Like the mist wreaths resting softly on some lone, enchanted shore! III. Slowly Rena raised the cushion, with her sweet eyes shining clear, Lightly tossed the fairy bobbins, half in gladness, half in fear. Ah! not vain had been her watching as the lovely lady wrought; All the magic of her fingers her own cunning hand had caught! Many a day above the cushion Rena’s peerless head was bent, And through many a solemn night she labored on with sweet intent. For, mayhap, the mystic marvels that she wove might bring her gold— A fair dowry fit to match the pride of Hildebrand the Bold! Then she braided up her long hair, and put on her russet gown, And with wicker basket laden passed she swiftly through the town, To the palace where Queen Ildegar, with dames of high degree, In a lofty oriel window sat, the beauteous morn to see. In the door-way she stood meekly, till the queen said, “Maiden fair, What have you in yonder basket that you carry with such care?” Eagerly she raised her blue eyes, hovering smiles and tears between, Then across the room she glided, and knelt down before the queen. Lifting up the wicker cover, “Saints in heaven!” cried Ildegar, “Here are tissues fit for angels, wrought with wreath and point and star, In most curious devices! Never saw I aught so rare— Where found you these frail webs woven of the lightest summer air?” “Well they may be fit for angels,” said she, underneath her breath; “O my lady, hear a story that is strange and true as death.” But ere yet the tale was ended, up rose good Queen Ildegar, And she sent her knights and pages to the castle riding far. “Bring me Hildebrand and Volmar, ere the sun goes down!” she cried, “Ho! my ladies, for a wedding, and your queen shall bless the bride! I will buy these airy wonders, and this maiden in her hand Shall a dowry hold as royal as the noblest in the land.” So they combed her shining tresses, and they brought her robes of silk, Broidered thick with gold and silver, on a ground as white as milk. But she whispered, “Sweetest ladies, let me wear my russet gown, That I wore this happy morning walking blithely through the town. I am but a peasant maiden, all unused to grand estate, And for robes of silken splendor, dearest ladies, let me wait!” Then the good queen, smiling brightly, from the wicker basket took Lightest web of quaintest pattern, and its filmy folds out-shook. With her own white hand she laid it over Rena’s golden hair, And she cried, “Oh, look, my ladies! Ne’er before was bride so fair!” A SECRET It is your secret and mine, love! Ah, me! how the dreary rain With a slow persistence, all day long Dropped on the window-pane! The chamber was weird with shadows And dark with the deepening gloom Where you in your royal womanhood, Lay waiting for the tomb. They had robed you all in white, love; In your hair was a single rose— A marble rose it might well have been In its cold and still repose! O, paler than yonder carven saint, And calm as the angels are, You seemed so near me, my beloved, Yet were, alas, so far! I do not know if I wept, love; But my soul rose up and said— “My heart shall speak unto her heart, Though here she is lying—dead! I will give her a last love-token That shall be to her a sign In the dark grave—or beyond it— Of this deathless love of mine.” So I sought me a little scroll, love; And thereon, in eager haste, Lest another’s eye should read them Some mystic words I traced. Then close in your claspÈd fingers, Close in your waxen hand, I placed the scroll for an amulet, Sure you would understand! The secret is yours and mine, love! Only we two may know What words shine clear in the darkness, Of your grave so green and low. But if when we meet hereafter, In the dawn of some fairer day, You whisper those mystical words, love, It is all I would have you say! THIS DAY I wonder what is this day to you, Looking down from the upper skies! Is there a pang at your gentle heart? Is there a shade in your tender eyes? Do you think up there of the whispered words That thrilled your soul long years ago? Does ever a haunting undertone Blend with the chantings sweet and low? When this day dawned (if where you are Skies grow red when the morn is near) Did you know that before its close The love once yours would be on its bier? Did you know that another’s lip Would redden with kisses once your own, And the golden cup of a younger life O’erflow with the wine once yours alone? Do you remember? Ah, my saint, Bend your ear from the ether blue! Have you risen to heights so far That earth and its loves are nought to you? Do you care that your place is filled? Does it matter that now at last The turf above you has grown so deep That its shadow overlies your past? O, belovÈd, I may not know! Heaven is afar, and the grave is dumb, And out of the silence so profound Neither token nor voice may come! We try to think that we understand; But whether you wake, or whether you sleep, Or whether our deeds are aught to you, Is still a mystery strange and deep! “CHRISTUS!”
listens, unaware, Through all the children’s laughter, For a footfall on the stair.I know the woman who sits there; Time hath been kind to her, And the years have brought her treasures Of frankincense and myrrh Richer, perhaps, and rarer, Than Life’s young roses were. But I doubt if ever her spirit Hath known, or yet shall know, The bliss of a happier hour, As the swift years come and go, Than this in the shadowy chamber Lit by the hearth-fire’s glow! MY LOVERS I have four noble lovers, Young and gallant, blithe and gay, And in all the land no maiden Hath a goodlier troupe than they! And never princess, guarded By knights of high degree, Knew sweeter, purer homage Than my lovers pay to me! One of my noble lovers Is a self-poised, thoughtful man, Gravely gay, serenely earnest, Strong to do, and bold to plan. And one is sweet and sunny, Pure as crystal, true as steel, With a soul responding ever When the truth makes high appeal. And another of my lovers, Bright and debonair is he, Brave and ardent, strong and tender, And the flower of courtesie. Last of all, an eager student, Upon lofty aims intent: Manly force and gentle sweetness In his nature rarely blent. But when of noble lovers All alike are dear and true, And her heart to choose refuses, Pray, what can a woman do? Ah, my sons! For this I bless ye, Even as I myself am blest, That I know not which is dearest, That I care not which is best! THE LEGEND OF THE ORGAN-BUILDER Day by day the Organ-Builder in his lonely chamber wrought; Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought; Till at last the work was ended, and no organ voice so grand Ever yet had soared responsive to the master’s magic hand. Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom or bride Who in God’s sight were well pleasing in the church stood side by side, Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play, And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray. He was young, the Organ-Builder, and o’er all the land his fame Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame. All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled, By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled. So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set: Happy day—the brightest jewel in the glad year’s coronet! But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride— Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride. “Ah!” thought he, “how great a master am I! When the organ plays, How the vast cathedral arches will re-echo with my praise!” Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar, With its every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star. But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer, For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there. All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest’s low monotone, And the bride’s robe trailing softly o’er the floor of fretted stone. Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim? Whose the fault, then? Hers—the maiden standing meekly at his side! Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him—his bride. Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth; On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth.
Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name. For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame. Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray— Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good; Thought of his relentless anger that had cursed her womanhood; Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete, And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet.
Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night, Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight! Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread; There he met a long procession—mourners following the dead. “Now, why weep ye so, good people? and whom bury ye to-day? Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way? Has some saint gone up to Heaven?” “Yes,” they answered, weeping sore: “For the Organ-Builder’s saintly wife our eyes shall see no more; And because her days were given to the service of God’s poor, From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door.” No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain; No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain. “’Tis someone whom she has comforted who mourns with us,” they said, As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin’s head. Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle, Set it down be[Cyrus M. and Mary Ripley Fisher,
lost on steamship Atlantic, April 1, 1873.] Once, long ago, with trembling lips I sung Of one who, when the earliest flowers were seen, So sweet, so dear, so beautiful and young, Came home to sleep where kindred graves were green. Soft was the turf we raised to give her room; Clear were the rain-drops, shining as they fell; Sweet the arbutus, with its tender bloom Brightening the couch of her who loved it well. Yet, in our blindness, how we wept that day, When the earth fell upon her coffin-lid! O, ye beloved whom I sing this day, Could we but know where your dear forms lie hid! Could we but lay you down by her dear side, Wrapped in the garments of eternal rest, Where the still hours in slow succession glide, And not a dream may stir the pulseless breast— Where all day long the shadows come and go, And soft winds murmur and sweet song-birds sing— Where all night long the starlight’s tender glow Falls where the flowers you loved are blossoming— Then should the tempest of our grief grow calm; Then moaning gales should vex our souls no more; And the clear swelling of our thankful psalm Should drown the beat of surges on the shore. But the deep sea will not give up its dead. O, ye who know where your belovÈd sleep, Bid heart’s-ease bloom on each love-guarded bed, And bless your God for graves whereon to weep! WEAVING THE WEB “This morn I will weave my web,” she said, As she stood by her loom in the rosy light, And her young eyes, hopefully glad and clear, Followed afar the swallow’s flight. “As soon as the day’s first tasks are done, While yet I am fresh and strong,” said she, “I will hasten to weave the beautiful web Whose pattern is known to none but me! I will weave it fine, I will weave it fair, And ah! how the colors will glow!” she said; “So fadeless and strong will I weave my web That perhaps it will live after I am dead.” But the morning hours sped on apace; The air grew sweet with the breath of June; And young Love hid by the waiting loom, Tangling the threads as he hummed a tune. “Ah, life is so rich and full!” she cried, “And morn is short though the days are long! This noon I will weave my beautiful web, I will weave it carefully, fine and strong.” But the sun rode high in the cloudless sky; The burden and heat of the day she bore And hither and thither she came and went, While the loom stood still as it stood before. “Ah! life is too busy at noon,” she said; “My web must wait till the eventide, Till the common work of the day is done, And my heart grows calm in the silence wide.” So, one by one, the hours passed on Till the creeping shadows had longer grown; Till the house was still, and the breezes slept, And her singing birds to their nests had flown. “And now I will weave my web,” she said, As she turned to her loom ere set of sun, And laid her hand on the shining threads To set them in order one by one. But hand was tired, and heart was weak: “I am not as strong as I was,” sighed she, “And the pattern is blurred, and the colors rare Are not so bright, or so fair to see! I must wait, I think, till another morn; I must go to my rest with my work undone; It is growing too dark to weave!” she cried, As lower and lower sank the sun. She dropped the shuttle; the loom stood still; The weaver slept in the twilight gray. Dear heart! Will she weave her beautiful web In the golden light of a longer day? THE “CHRISTUS” OF THE PASSION PLAY OF OBERAMMERGAU How does life seem to thee? I long to look Into thine inmost soul, and see if thou Art even as other men! Oh, set apart And consecrate so long to purpose high, Canst thou take up again our common lot, And live as we live? Canst thou buy and sell, Stoop to small needs, and petty ministries, Work and get gain, eat, drink, and soundly sleep, Sin and repent, as these thy brethren do? Unto what name less sacred answerest thou Who hast been called the Christ of Nazareth? Thou who hast worn the awful crown of thorns, Hanging like Him upon the dreadful Tree, Canst thou, uncrowned, forget thy royalty? RABBI BENAIAH Rabbi Benaiah at the close of day, When the low sun athwart the level sands Shot his long arrows, from far Eastern lands Homeward across the desert bent his way. Behind him trailed the lengthening caravan— The slow, weird camels, with monotonous pace; Before him, lifted in the clear, far space, From east to west the towers of his city ran! Impatiently he scanned the darkening sky; Then girding in hot haste, “What ho!” cried he, “Bring the swift steed Abdallah unto me! As rode his Bedouin master, so will I!” Soon like a bird across the waste he flew, Nor drew his rein till at the massive gate That guards the citadel’s supremest state He paused a moment, slowly entering through. Then down the shadowy, moonlit streets he sped; The city slept; but like a burning star, Where his own turret-chamber rose afar, A clear, strong light its steady radiance shed! Into his court he rode with sudden clang. The startled slaves bowed low, but spake no word; By no quick tumult was the midnight stirred, No shouts of welcome on the night air rang! But with slow footsteps down the turret-stairs, With trembling lips that hardly breathed his name, And sad, averted eyes, his fair wife came— The lady Judith—wan with tears and prayers. Then swift he cried out, less in wrath than fear, “Now, by my beard! is this the way ye keep My welcome home? Go! wake my sons from sleep, And let their glad tongues break the silence here!” “Not so, my dear lord! Let them rest,” she said. “Young eyes need slumber. But come thou with me. I have a trouble to make known to thee Ere I before thee can lift up my head.” Into an inner chamber led she him, And with her own hands brought him meat and wine, A purple robe, and linen pure and fine. He half forgot that her sweet eyes were dim! “Now for thy trouble!” cried he, laughing loud. “Hast torn thy kirtle? Are thy pearls astray? What! Tears? My camels o’er yon desert way Bring treasures that had made Queen Esther proud!” Slowly she spake, nor in his face looked she. “My lord, long years ago a friend of mine Left with me jewels, costly, rare, and fine, Bidding me guard them carefully till he Again should call for them. The other day He sent his messenger. But I have learned To prize them as my own! Have I not earned A right to keep them? Speak, my lord, I pray!” “Strange sense of honor hath a woman’s heart!” The rabbi answered hotly. “Now, good lack! Where are the jewels? I will send them back Ere yet the sun upon his course may start! Show me the jewels!” Up she rose as white As any ghost, and mutely led the way Into the turret-chamber whence the ray Seen from afar had blessed the rabbi’s sight. Then with slow, trembling hands she drew aside The silken curtain from before the bed Whereon, in snowy calm, their boys lay dead. “There are the jewels, O, my lord!” she cried. A CHILD’S THOUGHT Softly fell the twilight; In the glowing west Purple splendors faded; Birds had gone to rest; All the winds were sleeping; One lone whip-poor-will Made the silence deeper, Calling from the hill. Silently, serenely, From his mother’s knee, In the gathering darkness, Still as still could be, A young child watched the shadows; Saw the stars come out; Saw the weird bats flitting Stealthily about; Saw across the river How the furnace glow, Like a fiery pennant, Wavered to and fro; Saw the tall trees standing Black against the sky, And the moon’s pale crescent Swinging far and high. Deeper grew the darkness; Darker grew his eyes As he gazed around him, In a still surprise. Then intently listening, “What is this I hear All the time, dear mother, Sounding in my ear?” “I hear nothing,” said she, “Earth is hushed and still.” But he hearkened, hearkened, With an eager will, Till at length a quick smile O’er the child-face broke, And a kindling lustre In his dark eyes woke. “Listen, listen, mother! For I hear the sound Of the wheels, the great wheels That move the world around!” Oh, ears earth has dulled not! In your purer sphere, Strains from ours withholden Are you wise to hear? “GOD KNOWS” Wild and dark was the winter night When the emigrant ship went down, But just outside of the harbor bar, In the sight of the startled town. The winds howled, and the sea roared, And never a soul could sleep, Save the little ones on their mothers’ breasts, Too young to watch and weep. No boat could live in the angry surf, No rope could reach the land: There were bold, brave hearts upon the shore, There was many a ready hand— Women who prayed, and men who strove When prayers and work were vain; For the sun rose over the awful void And the silence of the main. All day the watchers paced the sands, All day they scanned the deep, All night the booming minute-guns Echoed from steep to steep. “Give up thy dead, O cruel sea!” They cried athwart the space; But only an infant’s fragile form Escaped from its stern embrace. Only one little child of all Who with the ship went down That night when the happy babies slept So warm in the sheltered town. Wrapped in the glow of the morning light, It lay on the shifting sand, As fair as a sculptor’s marble dream, With a shell in its dimpled hand. There were none to tell of its race or kin. “God knoweth,” the pastor said, When the wondering children asked of him The name of the baby dead. And so, when they laid it away at last In the church-yard’s hushed repose, They raised a stone at the baby’s head, With the carven words, “God knows.” THE MOUNTAIN ROAD Only a glimpse of mountain road That followed where a river flowed; Only a glimpse—then on we passed Skirting the forest dim and vast. I closed my eyes. On rushed the train Into the dark, then out again, Startling the song-birds as it flew The wild ravines and gorges through. But, heeding not the dangerous way O’erhung by sheer cliffs, rough and gray, I only saw, as in a dream, The road beside the mountain stream. No smoke curled upward in the air, No meadow-lands stretched broad and fair; But towering peaks rose far and high, Piercing the clear, untroubled sky. Yet down the yellow, winding road That followed where the river flowed, I saw a long procession pass As shadows over bending grass. The young, the old, the sad, the gay, Whose feet had worn that narrow way, Since first within the dusky glade Some Indian lover wooed his maid; Or silent crept from tree to tree— Spirit of stealthy vengeance, he! Or breathless crouched while through the brake The wild deer stole his thirst to slake. The barefoot school-boys rushing out, An eager, crowding, roisterous rout; The sturdy lads; the lassies gay As bobolinks in merry May; The farmer whistling to his team When first the dawn begins to gleam; The loaded wains that one by one Drag slowly home at set of sun; Young lovers straying hand in hand Within a fair, enchanted land; And many a bride with lingering feet; And many a matron calm and sweet; And many an old man bent with pain; And many a solemn funeral train; And sometimes, red against the sky, An army’s banners waving high! All mysteries of life and death To which the spirit answereth, Are thine, O lonely mountain road, That followed where the river flowed! ENTERING IN The church was dim and silent With the hush before the prayer, Only the solemn trembling Of the organ stirred the air; Without, the sweet, still sunshine; Within, the holy calm Where priest and people waited For the swelling of the psalm. Slowly the door swung open, And a trembling baby girl, Brown-eyed, with brown hair falling In many a wavy curl, With soft cheeks flushing hotly, Shy glances downward thrown, And small hands clasped before her, Stood in the aisle alone. Stood half abashed, half frightened, Unknowing where to go, While like a wind-rocked flower, Her form swayed to and fro, And the changing color fluttered In the little troubled face, As from side to side she wavered With a mute, imploring grace. It was but for a moment; What wonder that we smiled, By such a strange, sweet picture From holy thoughts beguiled? Then up rose someone softly: And many an eye grew dim, As through the tender silence He bore the child with him. And I—I wondered (losing The sermon and the prayer) If when sometime I enter The “many mansions” fair, And stand, abashed and drooping, In the portal’s golden glow, Our God will send an angel To show me where to go! A FLOWER FOR THE DEAD You placed this flower in her hand, you say? This pure, pale rose in her hand of clay? Could she but lift her sealÈd eyes, They would meet your own with a grieved surprise! She has been your wife for many a year, When clouds hung low and when skies were clear; At your feet she laid her life’s glad spring, And her summer’s glorious blossoming. Her whole heart went with the hand you won; If its warm love waned as the years went on, If it chilled in the grasp of an icy spell, What was the reason? I pray you tell! You cannot? I can; and beside her bier My soul must speak and your soul must hear. If she was not all that she might have been, Hers was the sorrow, yours the sin. Whose was the fault if she did not grow Like a rose in the summer? Do you know? Does a lily grow when its leaves are chilled? Does it bloom when its root is winter-killed? For a little while, when you first were wed, Your love was like sunshine round her shed; Then a something crept between you two, You led where she could not follow you. With a man’s firm tread you went and came; You lived for wealth, for power, for fame; Shut in to her woman’s work and ways, She heard the nation chant your praise. But ah! you had dropped her hand the while; What time had you for a kiss, a smile? You two, with the same roof overhead, Were as far apart as the sundered dead! You, in your manhood’s strength and prime; She, worn and faded before her time. ’Tis a common story. This rose, you say, You laid in her pallid hand to-day? When did you give her a flower before? Ah, well!—what matter when all is o’er? Yet stay a moment; you’ll wed again. I mean no reproach; ’tis the way of men. But I pray you think when some fairer face Shines like a star from her wonted place, That love will starve if it is not fed; That true hearts pray for their daily bread. THOU KNOWEST Thou knowest, O my Father! Why should I Weary high heaven with restless prayers and tears? Thou knowest all! My heart’s unuttered cry Hath soared beyond the stars and reached Thine ears. Thou knowest—ah, Thou knowest! Then what need, O, loving God, to tell Thee o’er and o’er, And with persistent iteration plead As one who crieth at some closÈd door? “Tease not!” we mothers to our children say— “Our wiser love will grant whate’er is best.” Shall we, Thy children, run to Thee alway, Begging for this and that in wild unrest? I dare not clamor at the heavenly gate, Lest I should lose the high, sweet strains within; O, Love Divine! I can but stand and wait Till Perfect Wisdom bids me enter in! WINTER O my roses, lying underneath the snow! Do you still remember summer’s warmth and glow? Do you thrill, remembering how your blushes burned When the Day-god on you ardent glances turned? Great tree, wildly stretching bare arms up to heaven, Do you think how softly, on some warm June even, All your young leaves whispered, all your birds sang low, As with rhythmic motion boughs swayed to and fro? River, lying whitely in a frozen sleep, Know you how your pulses used to throb and leap? How you danced and sparkled on your happy way, In the summer mornings when the world was gay? Dear Earth, dumbly waiting God’s appointed time, Are you faint with longing for the voice sublime? Wrapped in stony silence, does your great heart beat, Listening in the darkness for the coming of His feet? FIVE “But a week is so long!” he said, With a toss of his curly head. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven!— Seven whole days! Why, in six you know (You said it yourself—you told me so) The great God up in heaven Made all the earth and the seas and skies, The trees and the birds and the butterflies! How can I wait for my seeds to grow!” “But a month is so long!” he said, With a droop of his boyish head. “Hear me count—one, two, three, four— Four whole weeks, and three days more; Thirty-one days, and each will creep As the shadows crawl over yonder steep. Thirty-one nights, and I shall lie Watching the stars climb up the sky! How can I wait till a month is o’er?” “But a year is so long!” he said, Uplifting his bright young head. “All the seasons must come and go Over the hills with footsteps slow— Autumn and winter, summer and spring; Oh, for a bridge of gold to fling Over the chasm deep and wide, That I might cross to the other side, Where she is waiting—my love, my bride!” “Ten years may be long,” he said, Slow raising his stately head, “But there’s much to win, there is much to lose; A man must labor, a man mus
t choose, And he must be strong to wait! The years may be long, but who would wear The crown of honor, must do and dare! No time has he to toy with fate Who would climb to manhood’s high estate!” “Ah! life is not long!” he said, Bowing his grand white head. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven! Seven times ten are seventy. Seventy years! as swift their flight As swallows cleaving the morning light, Or golden gleams at even. Life is short as a summer night— How long, O God! is eternity?” UNSOLVED ’Tis the old unanswered question! Since the stars together sung, In the glory of the morning, when the earth was fair and young, Man hath asked it o’er and over, of the heavens so far and high, And from out the mystic silence never voice hath made reply! Yet again to-night I ask it, though I know, O friend of mine, There will come, to all my asking, never answering voice of thine. Ah! how many times the grasses have grown green above thy grave, And how many times above it have we heard the cold winds rave! Thou hast solved the eternal problem that the ages hold in fee; Thou dost know what we but dream of; where we marvel, thou dost see. What is truth, and what is fable; what the prophets saw who trod In their rapt, ecstatic visions up the holy mount of God! Not of these high themes I question—but, O friend, I fain would know How beyond the silent river all the long years come and go! Where they are, our well-belovÈd, who have vanished from our sight, As the stars fade out of heaven at the dawning of the light; How they live and how they love there, in the “somewhere” of our dreams; In the “city lying four-square” by the everlasting streams! Oh, the mystery of being! Which is better, life or death? Thou hast tried them both, O comrade, yet thy voice ne’er answereth! Hast thou grown as grow the angels? Doth thy spirit still aspire As the flame that soareth upward, mounting higher still, and higher? In the flush of early manhood all thy earthly days were done; Short thy struggle and endeavor ere the peace of heaven was won. But for us who stayed behind thee—oh! our hands are worn with toil, And upon our souls, it may be, are the stains of earthly moil. Hast thou kept the lofty beauty and the glory of thy youth? Dost thou see our temples whitening, smiling softly in thy ruth? But for us who bear the burdens that you dropped so long ago, All the cares you have forgotten, and the pains you missed, we know. Yet—the question still remaineth! Which is better, death or life? The not doing, or the doing? Joy of calm, or joy of strife? Which is better—to be saved from temptation and from sin, Or to wrestle with the dragon and the glorious fight to win? Ah! we know not, but God knoweth! All resolves itself to this— That He gave to us the warfare, and to thee the heavenly bliss. It was best for thee to go hence in the morning of the day; Till the evening shadows lengthen it is best for us to stay! QUIETNESS I would be quiet, Lord, Nor tease, nor fret; Not one small need of mine Wilt Thou forget. I am not wise to know What most I need; I dare not cry too loud Lest Thou shouldst heed: Lest Thou at length shouldst say, “Child, have thy will; As thou hast chosen, lo! Thy cup I fill!” What I most crave, perchance Thou wilt withhold, As we from hands unmeet Keep pearls, or gold; As we, when childish hands Would play with fire, Withhold the burning goal Of their desire. Yet choose Thou for me—Thou Who knowest best; This one short prayer of mine Holds all the rest! THE DIFFERENCE Only a week ago and thou wert here! I touched thy hand, I saw thy dear, dark eyes, I kissed thy tender lips, I felt thee near, I spake, and listened to thy low replies. To-day what leagues between us! Hill and vale, The rolling prairies and the mighty seas; Gray forest reaches where the wild winds wail, And mountain crests uplifted to the breeze! So far thou art, who wert of late so near! The stars we watched have changed not in the skies; Still do thy hyacinth bells their beauty wear, Yet half a continent between us lies! But swift as thought along the “singing wires” There flies a message like a bright-winged bird— “All’s well! All’s well!” and ne’er from woodland choirs By gladder music hath the air been stirred!
But thou, O thou, who but a week ago Passed calmly out beyond our yearning gaze, As some grand ship, all solemnly and slow, Sails out of sight beyond the gathering haze— Oh, where art thou? In what far distant realm, What star in yon resplendent fields of light, On what fair isle that no rude seas may whelm, Dost thou, O brother, find thy home to-night? Or art thou near us? There are those who say That but a breath divides our world from thine; A little cloud that may be blown away— |
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