THE SENTINEL
EACH flower is a sentinel of God,
And ev'ry tree and ev'ry grassblade. Not
An unseen little stem, but that will stand
And wait and shine, and never ask wherefore
It came and why it has to wither. Thou
Art such a sentinel, O Heart! Thou hast
To stand and bloom and love beside the others,
And wither when thy work is done, the spot
Being given to another, whereupon
Thou standest. And that other heart is growing
And blooming into life beneath thy shade,
As strong as thine, as ruby-red as thine,
To wither and to fall beneath the scythe,
As thine has done. Why ask and why despair?
Why not be happy with the sun, the dew,
The other flowery hearts that, full of life
Unfold their petals, which are deep like thine,
And rich as thine? Ye are to be a glorious
And many-coloured meadow. Is it not
Enough? And must ye grumble? Must ye strive
To take away the light and dew, that fall
Not to your share? Behold the scythe! And sow
Thy seed and ask not where it falls. The wind
Of fate has carried it away, to place
Another sentinel, as unknown, as
Unsought for as thyself, in a far land,
To live when thou art gone, to bloom into
Some unexpected beauty with thy strength,
Thy blood, the thoughts that were companions once
To thee and that the wind hath blown so far
Away. Thou shalt not say unto thy seed:
"Fly thither!" It obeyeth not thy will.
Thou shalt not long to be another plant;
Thy tragedy is useless, and thy will
Is nought. With all thy strength thou art but what
Is wanted—tree or grassblade—never ask
Wherefore? Here is no answer. Fate itself
Knows not wherefore it blows, or tells thee not,
But takes thy noblest self to other climes
And leaves thee to the scythe. Complain not! Mourn not!
Long not to live another day, when thou
Art called, but bow thy head without a sigh,
In gentle acquiescence, sentinel!
And ev'ry tree and ev'ry grassblade. Not
An unseen little stem, but that will stand
And wait and shine, and never ask wherefore
It came and why it has to wither. Thou
Art such a sentinel, O Heart! Thou hast
To stand and bloom and love beside the others,
And wither when thy work is done, the spot
Being given to another, whereupon
Thou standest. And that other heart is growing
And blooming into life beneath thy shade,
As strong as thine, as ruby-red as thine,
To wither and to fall beneath the scythe,
As thine has done. Why ask and why despair?
Why not be happy with the sun, the dew,
The other flowery hearts that, full of life
Unfold their petals, which are deep like thine,
And rich as thine? Ye are to be a glorious
And many-coloured meadow. Is it not
Enough? And must ye grumble? Must ye strive
To take away the light and dew, that fall
Not to your share? Behold the scythe! And sow
Thy seed and ask not where it falls. The wind
Of fate has carried it away, to place
Another sentinel, as unknown, as
Unsought for as thyself, in a far land,
To live when thou art gone, to bloom into
Some unexpected beauty with thy strength,
Thy blood, the thoughts that were companions once
To thee and that the wind hath blown so far
Away. Thou shalt not say unto thy seed:
"Fly thither!" It obeyeth not thy will.
Thou shalt not long to be another plant;
Thy tragedy is useless, and thy will
Is nought. With all thy strength thou art but what
Is wanted—tree or grassblade—never ask
Wherefore? Here is no answer. Fate itself
Knows not wherefore it blows, or tells thee not,
But takes thy noblest self to other climes
And leaves thee to the scythe. Complain not! Mourn not!
Long not to live another day, when thou
Art called, but bow thy head without a sigh,
In gentle acquiescence, sentinel!
LETHE
WHEN dark thy childhood, tears and grief have filled
Thy swelling heart, that understood too much,
Yet not enough to be forgiving, when
The sun was pale, and darkness lonely, when
The fear of unknown evil made thy lips
Turn cold, and wonder changed to horror, then
To dumb despair, to childhood's hopelessness,
More hopeless than old age's iron clutch
Of unbelief, the shadow of the past
Will cast a pall o'er all thy life, then say:
Go down, Remembrance, into Lethe, go!
When work was hard and sacrifice in vain,
And stones were hurled at thee, thy flowers trodden
Into the soil, that, soaked with all thy blood,
Could not resist, and giving way would swallow
Thy noblest thoughts, and teach thee to undo
Thyself, gainsay thyself, as if a coward
Were crouching on thy shoulders, making thee
Believe that all thy heroism was
A sham—then say: Go down to Lethe, Thought,
And darken not the hour when I rise
Out of myself, out of the past, into
The open day of wide forgetfulness.
When shame has crept into the rocky strength,
Into the pure recess a spotless soul
Had lent thee, and with fiery coals has burnt
A mark no rivers wash away, no winds
Can cool, that sends a shudder through thy heart,
Like snakes of cold disgust, then say again:
Go down to Lethe, not to rise and sting.
But when those eyes, that were thy sun, are shut,
When blind with tears thy gaze hath yet behold
The angel wings that carried through unknown
Untold of space thy life, thy heart, thy hope—
No Lethe then! And no forgetfulness!
But open wide thy soul: It is the sun,
The sun that sends its beauteous rays into
The dark, into the cold, into the night
And terror of thy life. If grief hath ploughed
The soil, fear not! The corn is rising, young
And green and full of hope; the sun hath called;
The sun shines full into that heart that was
So torn, so weak, that could not lift itself
Unto the heavens. They are open now,
Flooded with light; take not thine eyes away,
Bend not thy look unto the earth again,
But rise on shining wings toward the rays
That draw thee, call thee, bear thee to the light!
Thy swelling heart, that understood too much,
Yet not enough to be forgiving, when
The sun was pale, and darkness lonely, when
The fear of unknown evil made thy lips
Turn cold, and wonder changed to horror, then
To dumb despair, to childhood's hopelessness,
More hopeless than old age's iron clutch
Of unbelief, the shadow of the past
Will cast a pall o'er all thy life, then say:
Go down, Remembrance, into Lethe, go!
When work was hard and sacrifice in vain,
And stones were hurled at thee, thy flowers trodden
Into the soil, that, soaked with all thy blood,
Could not resist, and giving way would swallow
Thy noblest thoughts, and teach thee to undo
Thyself, gainsay thyself, as if a coward
Were crouching on thy shoulders, making thee
Believe that all thy heroism was
A sham—then say: Go down to Lethe, Thought,
And darken not the hour when I rise
Out of myself, out of the past, into
The open day of wide forgetfulness.
When shame has crept into the rocky strength,
Into the pure recess a spotless soul
Had lent thee, and with fiery coals has burnt
A mark no rivers wash away, no winds
Can cool, that sends a shudder through thy heart,
Like snakes of cold disgust, then say again:
Go down to Lethe, not to rise and sting.
But when those eyes, that were thy sun, are shut,
When blind with tears thy gaze hath yet behold
The angel wings that carried through unknown
Untold of space thy life, thy heart, thy hope—
No Lethe then! And no forgetfulness!
But open wide thy soul: It is the sun,
The sun that sends its beauteous rays into
The dark, into the cold, into the night
And terror of thy life. If grief hath ploughed
The soil, fear not! The corn is rising, young
And green and full of hope; the sun hath called;
The sun shines full into that heart that was
So torn, so weak, that could not lift itself
Unto the heavens. They are open now,
Flooded with light; take not thine eyes away,
Bend not thy look unto the earth again,
But rise on shining wings toward the rays
That draw thee, call thee, bear thee to the light!
A DEBTOR
OH, do not say that thanklessness has been
Thy sole reward! What? Wouldst thou be rewarded?
When God had laid the gift into thy heart,
Thy hand, upon the road thou hadst to tread?
Lay all thy thanks before the feet of him
Who did not shun thy help, thy gift, thy love,
But bore the humiliation and the weakness,
And bared his heart before thy human gaze,
The heart where none but God e'er read the truth,
The burning record of despair. Be humble,
Thyself, and touch not roughly, where the wound
Is open, see the beads of anguish on
The furrowed brow, the tightdrawn lips, and hear
The tremor in the whispered words, that roll
So heavily from off the heart, and leave
It crushed, sometimes for ever. Dost thou know
What lifeblood it hath cost to speak to thee,
What tortured nights have gone before, what cry
Of anguish rose towards that God, who seemed
So merciless to him and overkind
To thee, allowing thee to be his angel,
To answer when a living word of love
Had to be spoken, and a hand put out to help.
Make him forget what he has told thee,
Let him not feel that thou hast not forgotten,
But make him help thee in his turn, when thine
The pain, the care, the fear; allow him then
To tend thee, and to pay his debt to thy
Humility, and to thy thankfulness.
Thy sole reward! What? Wouldst thou be rewarded?
When God had laid the gift into thy heart,
Thy hand, upon the road thou hadst to tread?
Lay all thy thanks before the feet of him
Who did not shun thy help, thy gift, thy love,
But bore the humiliation and the weakness,
And bared his heart before thy human gaze,
The heart where none but God e'er read the truth,
The burning record of despair. Be humble,
Thyself, and touch not roughly, where the wound
Is open, see the beads of anguish on
The furrowed brow, the tightdrawn lips, and hear
The tremor in the whispered words, that roll
So heavily from off the heart, and leave
It crushed, sometimes for ever. Dost thou know
What lifeblood it hath cost to speak to thee,
What tortured nights have gone before, what cry
Of anguish rose towards that God, who seemed
So merciless to him and overkind
To thee, allowing thee to be his angel,
To answer when a living word of love
Had to be spoken, and a hand put out to help.
Make him forget what he has told thee,
Let him not feel that thou hast not forgotten,
But make him help thee in his turn, when thine
The pain, the care, the fear; allow him then
To tend thee, and to pay his debt to thy
Humility, and to thy thankfulness.
"VENGEANCE IS MINE," SAITH THE LORD
THOU wouldst not be avenged if thou hadst but
Insight enough into the human heart,
Into its frailty and its cowardice.
Thou wouldst not be avenged if thou but sawest
How mad, how childish and how selfish are
The helpless ones, that did thee harm because
They thought—Ah! What then thought they! That perchance
You hated them, or trod them down, or took
Their sun away; and e'en for love will they
Destroy thee, meaning well with thee—so well,
That they as lief would see thee dead, not to
Belong to what they hate—thy work, thy friend,
Thy strong ambition, or the gift that God
Hath put into thy soul, that calleth thee
Away to other heights and other temples,
Then where they long have worshipped. They dislike
Thy road, thy word, they call it strange and dark,
And they would lead thee back to where they started
So long ago with thee, and show the wrong
Thou doest quite unwittingly. A sigh,
A smile is all thine answer, but thy way
Is chosen; then the hue and cry is raised
Against thee, and thy staunchest friends will pile
With eager hands the wood on which to burn
Thy very soul, and not a tear will quench
That fire, not a hand will save thee, for
Thou art misunderstood, misjudged, despised,
And hated by the friends, who once believed
In thee as in their God. And what revenge
Could help thee? Falling back on thee, thy arm
Struck to the ground, thy heart a desert, not
Devastated to bloom again, but burnt
To lava by your heart's own flame of vengeance.
And if forgiveness be too great for thee,
Go past, turn not thy head, speak not a word
That cannot be recalled, and that will bar
The road for ever, that will cut the cloth
Between thy foes and thee. The present hour
Hath made that foe, who may come back to thee,
And see thy truth. Be great and say: I have
No foe! I smile, and they are nought! A breath
May lay them low, so low that they must call
To me for help! Then is thy vengeance ripe!
Give help with gentle pity. Feel that thou
Art ready with a well of living waters,
With flowers still more lovely than before.
Keep down the flames that make thee a volcano.
Let lovely warmth be all their strength. For thou
Art called upon to love and not to hate,
To help and not to punish, as thine eyes
Are far too weak to see the consequence
Of human anger. Even the volcano
Is aimless, powerless, like Fate itself,
And thou canst not be Fate. Ah! Be thou then
A human heart amongst poor human hearts!
Insight enough into the human heart,
Into its frailty and its cowardice.
Thou wouldst not be avenged if thou but sawest
How mad, how childish and how selfish are
The helpless ones, that did thee harm because
They thought—Ah! What then thought they! That perchance
You hated them, or trod them down, or took
Their sun away; and e'en for love will they
Destroy thee, meaning well with thee—so well,
That they as lief would see thee dead, not to
Belong to what they hate—thy work, thy friend,
Thy strong ambition, or the gift that God
Hath put into thy soul, that calleth thee
Away to other heights and other temples,
Then where they long have worshipped. They dislike
Thy road, thy word, they call it strange and dark,
And they would lead thee back to where they started
So long ago with thee, and show the wrong
Thou doest quite unwittingly. A sigh,
A smile is all thine answer, but thy way
Is chosen; then the hue and cry is raised
Against thee, and thy staunchest friends will pile
With eager hands the wood on which to burn
Thy very soul, and not a tear will quench
That fire, not a hand will save thee, for
Thou art misunderstood, misjudged, despised,
And hated by the friends, who once believed
In thee as in their God. And what revenge
Could help thee? Falling back on thee, thy arm
Struck to the ground, thy heart a desert, not
Devastated to bloom again, but burnt
To lava by your heart's own flame of vengeance.
And if forgiveness be too great for thee,
Go past, turn not thy head, speak not a word
That cannot be recalled, and that will bar
The road for ever, that will cut the cloth
Between thy foes and thee. The present hour
Hath made that foe, who may come back to thee,
And see thy truth. Be great and say: I have
No foe! I smile, and they are nought! A breath
May lay them low, so low that they must call
To me for help! Then is thy vengeance ripe!
Give help with gentle pity. Feel that thou
Art ready with a well of living waters,
With flowers still more lovely than before.
Keep down the flames that make thee a volcano.
Let lovely warmth be all their strength. For thou
Art called upon to love and not to hate,
To help and not to punish, as thine eyes
Are far too weak to see the consequence
Of human anger. Even the volcano
Is aimless, powerless, like Fate itself,
And thou canst not be Fate. Ah! Be thou then
A human heart amongst poor human hearts!
NIGHT
O NIGHT! Thou friend of Thought, of Song, of winged
Inspiration! So gentle is thy tread,
Thy hand so soft, thy look so deep, the sea
Is not so deep as thy mysterious gaze.
Revealest thou what worlds have thought in distant,
Unfathomable dream? Thou knowest wonders,
And tellest them in whispers to the dreamer.
Thou art alive with silence, gentle Night,
The silence of the Past and of the Future,
Of things untold, but not forgotten, dreams
Unreal, yet full of burning truth, and clad
In image, that they startle not our heart,
Nor wake its nerveless beating till it sounds.
In silence, wondrous Night, thou teachest what
The noisy Day would never understand:
Thou makest us descend into the mine
Yet unexplorèd of our soul, that hoards
The many destinies of thousand years
And other thousand years it wandered through.
Search in the darkness of that mine, behold!
The gold that shineth forth into thine eyes,
The treasures of those other lives that death
Transformed and left them unremembered. In
The stillness that surrounds thy search thy soul
Will show thee all its strength and weakness, all
Those errors that condemned it to another
And yet another life, to die again,
And rise again and wander, yet a stranger,
Into the changing world, but laden with
The knowledge of the past it seems to learn
And calls it history, perchance its own
Forgotten past, the very person that
It seemed to be. And now it wonders why
That person acted so and erred and wrought
Such destinies. And all the time it is
Itself that learns itself. Neglect not dreams
Nor call them worthless. Great the truths they bring,
Revealed in sights and legendary lore.
When understood they are a blessing. Learn
To understand the vision's soul, the thought
Which it conveys, the future it reveals,
The past it fetches out of yonder mine
Thy brain was far too tired or far too weak
To search. When plunged in sleep that brain that now
Is thine will listen and may learn such things
Thy soul will tell, as never book or school
Or present life will teach. Oh, blessed Night!
Spread o'er my soul thy wings and carry me
Into those worlds my brain can never reach!
Fathom not memories, but let me feel
At one with all those lights that lie upon
Thy bosom, breathing, shining there in silence.
Inspiration! So gentle is thy tread,
Thy hand so soft, thy look so deep, the sea
Is not so deep as thy mysterious gaze.
Revealest thou what worlds have thought in distant,
Unfathomable dream? Thou knowest wonders,
And tellest them in whispers to the dreamer.
Thou art alive with silence, gentle Night,
The silence of the Past and of the Future,
Of things untold, but not forgotten, dreams
Unreal, yet full of burning truth, and clad
In image, that they startle not our heart,
Nor wake its nerveless beating till it sounds.
In silence, wondrous Night, thou teachest what
The noisy Day would never understand:
Thou makest us descend into the mine
Yet unexplorèd of our soul, that hoards
The many destinies of thousand years
And other thousand years it wandered through.
Search in the darkness of that mine, behold!
The gold that shineth forth into thine eyes,
The treasures of those other lives that death
Transformed and left them unremembered. In
The stillness that surrounds thy search thy soul
Will show thee all its strength and weakness, all
Those errors that condemned it to another
And yet another life, to die again,
And rise again and wander, yet a stranger,
Into the changing world, but laden with
The knowledge of the past it seems to learn
And calls it history, perchance its own
Forgotten past, the very person that
It seemed to be. And now it wonders why
That person acted so and erred and wrought
Such destinies. And all the time it is
Itself that learns itself. Neglect not dreams
Nor call them worthless. Great the truths they bring,
Revealed in sights and legendary lore.
When understood they are a blessing. Learn
To understand the vision's soul, the thought
Which it conveys, the future it reveals,
The past it fetches out of yonder mine
Thy brain was far too tired or far too weak
To search. When plunged in sleep that brain that now
Is thine will listen and may learn such things
Thy soul will tell, as never book or school
Or present life will teach. Oh, blessed Night!
Spread o'er my soul thy wings and carry me
Into those worlds my brain can never reach!
Fathom not memories, but let me feel
At one with all those lights that lie upon
Thy bosom, breathing, shining there in silence.
ROUSED
SLUMBER not! Rest not! Dream not! Thou art called!
The blast has rung out o'er thy living grave;
The clouds that hung so low above thy head
Poured out their flame into thy soul, and yet
Left more, much more alive there than thou knewest of.
Awake! the years stand at thy gate, and knock
To call thee forth, the dead past comes to life,
And drives thee, with its flood of whirling waters,
Onward to action, not to idle dreaming.
Arise! walk on those waves, for they will bear thee.
Trust thine own strength, and tread the flakes of foam
Lightly, with wingèd feet, with wingèd soul!
And thou shalt see that gales have left untouched
The springtime in thy heart, still breaking forth
In admiration, thankfulness and love.
Yes, not even love is quenched, and still undimmed
Enthusiasm's banner waves on high above thee.
Thou fearest the world? And what then is the world?
The shadow of a cloud—no more. Thou wouldst not
Suffer it to become a stone to crush thee?
Up! Shake thy shining wings upon the Dawn,
And laugh the world to shame. 'Tis but a pageant,
A mockery; give up thy heart to life
In all its fulness—never to the world!
And though the world should crush thine heart and say
"Behold! 'tis dust and ashes!"—though it scatter
Those ashes to the winds—yet art thou still
Pure and unconquerable, O my heart!
Thou art of those to whom an open foe
Is but a friend disguised; to whom each blow
Serves as a force to send thee ever higher,
Far above yawning gulf and raging whirlpool.
O heart of mine, be strong! Doubt not, for doubt
Was ever the one deadly foe, whose toils
Might strangle thee. Up! fight that monster, trample
Its venom under foot. The hour has come
For thee to step forth, young again and free,
A new Sir Galahad, brave, pure and strong,
Around whom angels hover as he stretches
His spotless shield to meet the early rays
Of Heaven's bright, cloudless, joyous Morning-sun!
The blast has rung out o'er thy living grave;
The clouds that hung so low above thy head
Poured out their flame into thy soul, and yet
Left more, much more alive there than thou knewest of.
Awake! the years stand at thy gate, and knock
To call thee forth, the dead past comes to life,
And drives thee, with its flood of whirling waters,
Onward to action, not to idle dreaming.
Arise! walk on those waves, for they will bear thee.
Trust thine own strength, and tread the flakes of foam
Lightly, with wingèd feet, with wingèd soul!
And thou shalt see that gales have left untouched
The springtime in thy heart, still breaking forth
In admiration, thankfulness and love.
Yes, not even love is quenched, and still undimmed
Enthusiasm's banner waves on high above thee.
Thou fearest the world? And what then is the world?
The shadow of a cloud—no more. Thou wouldst not
Suffer it to become a stone to crush thee?
Up! Shake thy shining wings upon the Dawn,
And laugh the world to shame. 'Tis but a pageant,
A mockery; give up thy heart to life
In all its fulness—never to the world!
And though the world should crush thine heart and say
"Behold! 'tis dust and ashes!"—though it scatter
Those ashes to the winds—yet art thou still
Pure and unconquerable, O my heart!
Thou art of those to whom an open foe
Is but a friend disguised; to whom each blow
Serves as a force to send thee ever higher,
Far above yawning gulf and raging whirlpool.
O heart of mine, be strong! Doubt not, for doubt
Was ever the one deadly foe, whose toils
Might strangle thee. Up! fight that monster, trample
Its venom under foot. The hour has come
For thee to step forth, young again and free,
A new Sir Galahad, brave, pure and strong,
Around whom angels hover as he stretches
His spotless shield to meet the early rays
Of Heaven's bright, cloudless, joyous Morning-sun!
SADNESS
THY sadness is a leaden shroud, a rock
Of Sisyphus, which thou must upward roll
By night and day, on, on. Its downward rush
Is no relief, no help, since it but seems
Heavier at each fresh start. And still thy strength
Is waning, and thy heart aches with the tears—
The unshed tears that lie like stones upon it,
While those that flowed are rivers in thy path—
Unfathomable, fordless, dark and deep.
These thou must wade, with all thy burdens—wade
And sink with every step as 'twere thy last,
And feel such deadly weakness seize on thee
As though some raging fever laid thee low.
Thy sadness is a Nessus robe, that clings
In burning folds about thee, sears thy flesh,
And eats into thy bones. 'Tis like a weapon
A man turns on himself, whose wound nought heals,
Since it is dealt against his inmost soul.
If, then, through clouds of sadness, thou perceivest
The world, well mayst thou say of it: 'Tis hell!
For spring itself is dark, the birds' sweet carol
Cheerless and dull, thy life a very desert,
Where human faces pass like spectral visions,
And gladness is a thing so clean forgotten,
As if it ne'er had been—its very name
Become a soundless word, a ghostly whisper!
Of Sisyphus, which thou must upward roll
By night and day, on, on. Its downward rush
Is no relief, no help, since it but seems
Heavier at each fresh start. And still thy strength
Is waning, and thy heart aches with the tears—
The unshed tears that lie like stones upon it,
While those that flowed are rivers in thy path—
Unfathomable, fordless, dark and deep.
These thou must wade, with all thy burdens—wade
And sink with every step as 'twere thy last,
And feel such deadly weakness seize on thee
As though some raging fever laid thee low.
Thy sadness is a Nessus robe, that clings
In burning folds about thee, sears thy flesh,
And eats into thy bones. 'Tis like a weapon
A man turns on himself, whose wound nought heals,
Since it is dealt against his inmost soul.
If, then, through clouds of sadness, thou perceivest
The world, well mayst thou say of it: 'Tis hell!
For spring itself is dark, the birds' sweet carol
Cheerless and dull, thy life a very desert,
Where human faces pass like spectral visions,
And gladness is a thing so clean forgotten,
As if it ne'er had been—its very name
Become a soundless word, a ghostly whisper!
WHEN JOY IS DEAD
BE still! A corpse lies there, a poor dead thing,
With upturned face, white-lipped, the haggard features,
Whereon once played a smile that gladdened hearts,
Now set and cold. Circled with black and sunken
Are now the eyes where stars were wont to sparkle,
And Fate has drawn deep lines between the brows,
That but a short time since seemed arched for mischief,
And full of childish mirth. Close to the temples
The hair clings straight and dull and colourless.
And it was golden once, like living rays,
And waved about the head, a sunrise-halo!
The hands are folded—rigid, waxen, cold,
They that were once like rose-leaves, in whose veins
The blood coursed swiftly, full of generous warmth
And loving gifts, and flowers, and balm for sorrow.
Cold are they now, as had they never yet
Clasped children to the heart, nor with deft touch
Broidered such fairy work, nor scattered broadcast
Such fairy gifts. The feet that danced along,
Leaving no trace upon the flower-petals,
Lie stiff out-stretched, and round about them hang
In heavy folds, as were they carved in marble,
The robes that fluttered lightly in the breeze,
Like opalescent wings.
Ah! cold and dark
The grave to thee, thou Sun-child! ray of brightness!
Beloved messenger of God! Arise!
Canst thou be dead? and canst thou look so stern?
Ah, no! not stern, but martyred! Cruel hands
Have rent thy garments, dragged thee by the hair,
Burnt out thine eyes, and filled thy cup with poison,
As fit requital of thy priceless gifts,
Kind Joy, true friend! And now they see thee dead
With careless eyes, and point, and feign to think
Thou ne'er hast been! Ah, Joy! sweet Joy! arise!
Be stronger than thy foes! But no! 'tis vain!
Poor Joy was deadly tired, and now she sleeps!
With upturned face, white-lipped, the haggard features,
Whereon once played a smile that gladdened hearts,
Now set and cold. Circled with black and sunken
Are now the eyes where stars were wont to sparkle,
And Fate has drawn deep lines between the brows,
That but a short time since seemed arched for mischief,
And full of childish mirth. Close to the temples
The hair clings straight and dull and colourless.
And it was golden once, like living rays,
And waved about the head, a sunrise-halo!
The hands are folded—rigid, waxen, cold,
They that were once like rose-leaves, in whose veins
The blood coursed swiftly, full of generous warmth
And loving gifts, and flowers, and balm for sorrow.
Cold are they now, as had they never yet
Clasped children to the heart, nor with deft touch
Broidered such fairy work, nor scattered broadcast
Such fairy gifts. The feet that danced along,
Leaving no trace upon the flower-petals,
Lie stiff out-stretched, and round about them hang
In heavy folds, as were they carved in marble,
The robes that fluttered lightly in the breeze,
Like opalescent wings.
Ah! cold and dark
The grave to thee, thou Sun-child! ray of brightness!
Beloved messenger of God! Arise!
Canst thou be dead? and canst thou look so stern?
Ah, no! not stern, but martyred! Cruel hands
Have rent thy garments, dragged thee by the hair,
Burnt out thine eyes, and filled thy cup with poison,
As fit requital of thy priceless gifts,
Kind Joy, true friend! And now they see thee dead
With careless eyes, and point, and feign to think
Thou ne'er hast been! Ah, Joy! sweet Joy! arise!
Be stronger than thy foes! But no! 'tis vain!
Poor Joy was deadly tired, and now she sleeps!
A ROOM
WHITEWASHED or panelled, filled with books, with light,
With flowers, with trifles sacred to the heart,
And work so pure and sweet that morning-dew
Might settle there and feel itself at home
As though 'mid garden fragrance; while the carol
Of birds streams through the window joyously,
Mistaking that abode of peace and love
For their own woodland haunts! And in that room
A woman's dainty hands ever at work,
A woman's loving heart ever awake
For others' happiness, a woman's thought
Alive in tender memories that embalm
The past in mute forgiveness. Enter then
As 'twere a sanctuary, lay aside
Thy load of care, and yield thy weary soul
To the deep sense of comfort reigning there.
Not many words—nay, not a single word—
Need tremble through the stillness, not a sigh
With untoward avowal break the peace
That folds thee to its heart and asks no question.
Such perfect peace pervades a room like this,
'Twould seem the raging storm, the roaring sea,
Might lay themselves to rest upon its threshold.
The ghosts that haunt it come in guise of angels,
With rosy finger-tips laid on their lips,
To hush our voices to the whispered tones
Of children's prayers. Enter, thou weary wanderer,
Enter! and have no fear, for pain and anguish
Have long been wept away, and have but left
Their precious perfume and the healing balm
Of self-forgetfulness to comfort thee!
With flowers, with trifles sacred to the heart,
And work so pure and sweet that morning-dew
Might settle there and feel itself at home
As though 'mid garden fragrance; while the carol
Of birds streams through the window joyously,
Mistaking that abode of peace and love
For their own woodland haunts! And in that room
A woman's dainty hands ever at work,
A woman's loving heart ever awake
For others' happiness, a woman's thought
Alive in tender memories that embalm
The past in mute forgiveness. Enter then
As 'twere a sanctuary, lay aside
Thy load of care, and yield thy weary soul
To the deep sense of comfort reigning there.
Not many words—nay, not a single word—
Need tremble through the stillness, not a sigh
With untoward avowal break the peace
That folds thee to its heart and asks no question.
Such perfect peace pervades a room like this,
'Twould seem the raging storm, the roaring sea,
Might lay themselves to rest upon its threshold.
The ghosts that haunt it come in guise of angels,
With rosy finger-tips laid on their lips,
To hush our voices to the whispered tones
Of children's prayers. Enter, thou weary wanderer,
Enter! and have no fear, for pain and anguish
Have long been wept away, and have but left
Their precious perfume and the healing balm
Of self-forgetfulness to comfort thee!
UNREST
TO toss with fevered brain and throbbing pulses
Upon thy bed at night—thine aching eyes,
Straining into the darkness, hot and weary,
Thy heart like lead, yet ever wildly bounding
Within thee, like a gun made loose in shipwreck,
That rolls from side to side, an unchained danger,
Thy pillows fire, thy couch a rack, whereon
Thy tortured limbs seem cords strung by the storm,
Thy thoughts a tangled skein, unclear, disordered,
And all the past that should have been forgotten
Rising up ghostly, in fantastic guise,
To make the present worse, to slay all hope,
To quench the beacon that till now has been
Thy only stay in night's deep gloom and horror!
This, O my soul! is Unrest, and thou knowest
Its misery but too well! All the old scars
Of former battles bleed once more within thee,
As if thy life were oozing, drop by drop.
And thou wert fain with trembling fingers seize
That foolish heart, and fling it in thy path
To trample under foot, or, further still,
Sink it in sea-depths, and then turn away
Calm and indifferent, deeming all were well
Were but its restlessness thus stilled, and thou
Free from its tumult.
Yet that heart of thine
Has weathered may a gale, and still might stand
Unshaken at the helm of life's wrecked craft,
A gallant pilot, waiting for the sign
That bids the clouds disperse, hushes the winds,
And, having calmed the waves, shall guide thy course
To sun-lit shores, sweet with immortal flowers.
Be brave, poor heart, for thou drawest near the haven,
And though thy beacon be extinguished, though
Thy rudder has been snapped, thy compass lost,
Thou still art safe, for the same Mighty Hand
That sent thee forth upon the stormy sea
Shall lead thee home and give thee rest at last!
Upon thy bed at night—thine aching eyes,
Straining into the darkness, hot and weary,
Thy heart like lead, yet ever wildly bounding
Within thee, like a gun made loose in shipwreck,
That rolls from side to side, an unchained danger,
Thy pillows fire, thy couch a rack, whereon
Thy tortured limbs seem cords strung by the storm,
Thy thoughts a tangled skein, unclear, disordered,
And all the past that should have been forgotten
Rising up ghostly, in fantastic guise,
To make the present worse, to slay all hope,
To quench the beacon that till now has been
Thy only stay in night's deep gloom and horror!
This, O my soul! is Unrest, and thou knowest
Its misery but too well! All the old scars
Of former battles bleed once more within thee,
As if thy life were oozing, drop by drop.
And thou wert fain with trembling fingers seize
That foolish heart, and fling it in thy path
To trample under foot, or, further still,
Sink it in sea-depths, and then turn away
Calm and indifferent, deeming all were well
Were but its restlessness thus stilled, and thou
Free from its tumult.
Yet that heart of thine
Has weathered may a gale, and still might stand
Unshaken at the helm of life's wrecked craft,
A gallant pilot, waiting for the sign
That bids the clouds disperse, hushes the winds,
And, having calmed the waves, shall guide thy course
To sun-lit shores, sweet with immortal flowers.
Be brave, poor heart, for thou drawest near the haven,
And though thy beacon be extinguished, though
Thy rudder has been snapped, thy compass lost,
Thou still art safe, for the same Mighty Hand
That sent thee forth upon the stormy sea
Shall lead thee home and give thee rest at last!
Colston & Coy. Limited, Printers, Edinburgh