The Project Gutenberg eBook of Stray Pebbles From The Shores of Thought, by Elizabeth Porter Gould.

The heroes on the battlefield are calm in death,
Their fighting o'er;
They feel no more the fevered breath
Of battle's war;
They hear at last the voice that saith
"Fight on no more."

But oh, the heroes on the grander field of peace,
Who know no rest!
Whose hearts ne'er feel the full release
From mortal quest,
Nor breathe the air where struggles cease
The soul to test.

For such we mourn, O purifying soul of life,
For such we pray.
Let Nature free them from the strife
Of falsehood's way,
And Love through every struggle rife
Have free, full play.

In the different mansions of heavenly space
Prepared for the faithful and pure,
(Ah me, for the faithful and pure!)
Can I dare hope to find e'en a small resting place
Free from sin and all earthly allure?

Can a soul such as mine, that has wasted life's wealth
On the baubles and gewgaws of time,
(Ah me, on the baubles of time!)
Have a fitting strength left to regain needed health
For the life of a heavenly clime?

For a life where the laws of the spirit, not sense,
Bring their perfect eternal reward,
(Ah me, their eternal reward!)
And the pleasures obtained with such fever intense
Can find nowhere a vibrating chord?

Oh, woe is me, woe is me, this Easter day!
No hope riseth up in my soul.
(Ah me, my poor sin-laden soul!)
I have only the dregs of my pleasure to pay,
And such wrong, bitter thoughts of life's whole.

But, listen! What's that? What's that message I hear
Bearing down on my sad troubled heart?
(Ah me, on my sad troubled heart!)
"Christ is risen indeed. He is risen to cheer,
And His strength to the weakest impart."

O Christ, can it be that Thine own risen strength
Can give life, added life, to my soul,
To my sin-laden, weak, starving soul?
Yes, 'tis true. I'll believe, and rejoice now at length
To feel Easter's sweet joy o'er me roll.

"'Tis beautiful," she faintly cried,
Then closed her weary eyes and died.

So stands plain fact on history's page,
Attested to by friend and sage.

But in our hearts the fact grows bright,
Illumined with immortal light.

For open eyes saw heaven's shores,
And life, not death, revealed its stores.

"'Tis beautiful!" It must be so,
If such a soul 'midst parting's woe,

Could with truth's perfect clearness see
The secret of life's mystery;

Could know that fullest life of man
Needs heaven's light to round God's plan.

O woman-soul without a peer,
We thank thee more and more each year

For this sweet proof of Beauty's power
Beyond earth's transitory hour.

It calms our hours of doubt and pain,
And beautifies earth's troubled reign,

To feel that thou art sending still
This same sweet message of God's will,

Born of fruition's grander sight,
Of perfect beauty, peace, and light.

"A peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast.
O thou soul of my soul, I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!"

—Prospice.

Oh, the blessed fruition
Of peace out of pain!
Of a light without darkness,
A clasping again!
Of a full soul reunion
In Love's endless reign!

Sing, O earth, with new joy
At this victory won!
For the faith that endured
Till the setting of sun!

For the hope that shone clear
Through the mighty work done!
For the love that sought God
To guide love here begun!
Sing, O earth, with new joy
For such victory won!

O Neptune, in thy vast survey
Of all the ships that sail,
Watch lovingly the well-known way
Of one we wait to hail.

The Cephalonia is her name—
But why need I tell more?
Thou knowest indeed the well earned fame
She bears from shore to shore.

But since among her company's band
Is one who's life to me,
O Neptune, bear her in thy hand
E'en yet more tenderly,

O'er gentle waves, 'neath fair blue sky,
'Midst winds that only blow
To make the time more swiftly fly
For hearts that hunger so.

Beautiful pansies, ye must know
Your sacred mission here,
For how could otherwise ye grow
So sweet and full of cheer?

Your watchful love we can't o'errate,
As, lingering here in tears,
Fond memory brings the precious weight
Of friendship's golden years.

Ye are the symbols, pure and sweet,
Of heartsease and of life,
Through which our thought may dare retreat
From pain and death so rife,

To realms of light and peace above,
From earth's alloy set free,
Wherein abide immortal love
And deathless ministry.

But still, while we your comfort seek,
Our hearts will wildly yearn
To hear once more the loved one speak,
Once more the form discern.

Must I always look for sorrow
On the morrow?
Must I never have the hope
That a life of larger scope
Will before my vision ope?

Ah, 'tis true there is but sorrow
On the morrow
For the broken hearts that wait,
Bearing secretly their fate.
Yet the opening of the gate
To the blessed heaven's morrow,
When the aching, longing heart
Shall be free from pain and sorrow,
Comes before my tired eyes
With a wondrous sweet surprise.

But this joy is not for me,
Not for me.
Alas! for my poor broken heart,
With its poisoned arrow's dart.
Without hope, alone, apart.

I hear in the ocean's restless moan
My soul's lament.
Will it ever cease?

I feel in the rumbling earthquake's groan
Deep anguish spent.
Shall I now know peace?

I see in the smallest heaven's loan
Enough for content—
But is that release?

O no!
My release is but found in the pure undertone,
Coming nearer and dearer to me,

Of a great human love beyond Nature at best,
Eternal, inspiring, and free.
Oh, that's my release.
Happy me, happy me!

Out from the depths of silence
The god of music came,
To echo heavenly cadence
On earth's fair shores of fame.

Full-orbed, with heavenly glory,
He met the lords of earth.
But 'twas the old, old story,
They blind were to his worth.

So back to depths of silence
He flew on wings of light,
"To bide their time of nonsense,"
He sang when out of sight.

And as rolled on the ages,
He ever and anon
Sent down to earth his pages
The lords to breathe upon.

At length he felt vibrations,
From Germany's fair clime,
Of sweetest modulations
E'er heard in realms of time.

So forth he flew in rapture
To that dear father-land,
To seize—ere earth could capture—
A spirit pure and grand,

To which he could surrender
Himself with perfect ease,
And weave the music tender,
Of heaven's own harmonies.

He found the child Beethoven;
On him his blessing fell.
And in his soul was woven
The sounds we know so well.

Great poets can without the aid
Of kindred mind
Reveal to us the secrets laid
On them to find;
But music-kings need ministries
To sound their hidden harmonies.

For showing us the inmost heart
Of these great kings,
And making clear with wondrous art
Their wanderings,
We thank thee, while we tender here
A "bon voyage" to home's loved sphere.

I'd rather hear my baby's coo,
That little gurgling coo,
Than rarest song or symphony
Born out of music's mystery
Which once did woo.

I'd rather see my baby's face,
That lovely dimpled face,
Than all the choicest works of art,
Inspired by loving hand or heart,
Contained in space.

I'd rather feel my baby's eyes,
Such deep blue heavenly eyes,
Than all the world's delighted gaze,
Proclaiming with continued praise
My power to rise.

O yes, 'tis true, my baby dear,
My precious baby dear,
Is more than music, art, or fame,
Or anything that bears the name
Of pleasure here.

For in this joy I find a rest,
A soul-inspiring rest,
Beyond the wealth of fame or art,
To satisfy my woman-heart,
Or make it blest.

And as I live in this my gift,
My heaven-sent, blessed gift,
Thoughts such as Mary pondered o'er
Deep in her heart in days of yore
Come to uplift,

And make the claims of motherhood,
Dear sacred motherhood,
Become creation's mountain height,
Whereon e'er shines the beacon-light
Of womanhood.

Would I could see my baby's face,
That lovely dimpled face,—
O God, how can I bear the pain
Of never seeing it again,
My baby's face;

Of never seeing in those eyes,
Those deep blue heavenly eyes,
The wondrous glimpses of soul-light
Which filled my heart with strange delight
And sweet surprise;

Of never hearing baby's coo,
That little gurgling coo—
O God, how can I bear the pain
Of never hearing it again,
My baby's coo.

Alas! "Thy will, not mine, be done."
Not mine, but Thine, be done.
I can but breathe again this prayer,
As in the days of past despair,
When peace was won.

With reverent touch and grateful heart,
Dear thoughtful friend,
I hold this precious bit of green
You kindly send
From Cheyenne's holy, lonely grave,
Where pilgrims tend.

It touches springs of tenderest life
Inspired by her,
Who, child of poetry and ease,
Did not demur
From sacrificing all to be
Wrong's arbiter.

That rare mosaic it suggests
Made by the hand
Of those who seek this favored spot
In chosen land,
Where, oft in life, she penned her soul
At Truth's command.

'Tis true, she wished no monument
To mark the place;
But must she not be satisfied
To see the space
Thus blessed and open to the heart
Of every race?

O brain of power and heart of fire,
America's pride,
No wonder that the mountain height,
Above sin's tide,
Was chosen as the resting place
With death to hide;

For such could give the needed rest
On earth denied,
Could satisfy the poet's thought,
Unsatisfied,
And symbolize the soul's true rest
When glorified.

And is time marked in heaven? Dost know, O spirit friend,
'Tis just a year ago to-day
Thou went so suddenly away,
And left me in my loneliness the weary days to spend?—
Ah, weary days,
Denied thy praise
And all thy many helpful ways!

And is earth known in heaven? Dost see, O clear-eyed soul,
The present changing life of man
Still working out the wondrous plan
Of making even broken lives add to the complete whole?—
Ah, broken lives
That death deprives
Of help like thine that heavenward strives!

And are we known in heaven? Do I, thy once fond care,
Still have that patient yearning love
Which longed to lift my soul above
The sweet though transitory joys of even earth's best fare?—
Ah, earth's best fare
Cannot compare
With thy ideal of me laid bare!

I have sowed in tears,—
Shall I reap in joy?
Shall my human heart be satisfied,
And sorrow and pain be justified?
Shall full fruition free my soul
From limitation's sad control,
And all my faculties of mind
Their perfect rest and freedom find?

"They that sow in tears
Shall reap in joy,"
Sang a poet-heart in the long ago,
'Midst depths of sorrow, pain, and woe;
And what to him was truth and life
Has shone through all the ages' strife,
To be at last our beacon-light
Of comfort in the darkest night.

The autumn tints of these loved hills
Outlined against the sky,
Are dearer far to me this year
Than in the years gone by;

For they are colors Nature wears
To celebrate the time
When her pet child changed life on earth
For that of heavenly clime.

She thus rejoices, while our hearts
Wear not their flowers of joy.
Alas! could she but give us back
Our gifted artist boy!

But then she sees that it was best
That he, like her, should know
Death, and the Resurrection too,
The fullest life to show.

Thou priestess of pure childhood's heart,
Wherein God's spirit lies,
Thou willing priestess of the art
Of true self-sacrifice,

Ere thy rare spirit takes its flight
To realms beyond our praise,
Where childhood's pure eternal light
Shines through the blessed days,

We thank thee for thy legacy
Of thought wrought out in deed,
By which love's sweet supremacy
Becomes man's potent need.

******

Our nation must thy secret share,
Ere it can fully rise
To heights of truth and insight where
True wisdom's glory lies.

Put your arms around me.
There—like that.
I want a little petting
At life's setting.
For 'tis harder to be brave
When feeble age comes creeping,
And finds me weeping
(Dear ones gone),
Or brings before my tired eyes
Sweet visions of my youth's fair prize
(There is a pain in sacrifice),
Denied me then and ever.
Left me alone? No, never.
For in God's love I nestled,
While with deep thought I wrestled,
Till all my busy life at length
Was spent in giving others strength,
In making others' homes more bright,
In making others' burdens light.

But now, alone and weary,
I am hungry
For a human love's sweet petting
At life's setting.
Keep your arms around me,
Kiss my fevered brow,
Whisper that you love me
I can bear it now.

Oh, how this does rest me
Now my work is done!
I've all my life loved others,
Now I want love, dear one.
Just a little petting
At life's setting;
For I'm old, alone, and tired,
And my long life's work is done.

"Still waiting, dear good grandma, for the blessed angel Death?"

"Yes waiting, only waiting to be borne across the sea,
To the home my soul's been building all these years of mystery,
Through ninety years and over now of deep and wondrous change,
Wherein I've known the heights and depths of human feeling's range,
And tried to solve the problems old of human life so strange.

******

You want to know my history, because I am so good?
Ah, child, no human life can here be fully understood.
You call me good, and what is more, a 'true and blessed saint.'
(There is illusion sweet indeed in what you child-souls paint
Before you know too much of life and feel its evil taint.)
You even picture beauties of my home across the sea
Which I never dared to hope for e'en on heights of ecstasy.
You see me sitting helpless here, blind now for many years,
Apparently so full of peace, so free from doubts and fears,—
Though never free from Memory's thought which often brings the tears,—
And you wonder where's the passion and the energy of youth,
The power that even dared to sway to evil ways forsooth.
Ah, you but see the blessed fruit of what God planted sure,
When in my years of sorrow He was whispering, 'Endure.'
You cannot see the dreadful scars which naught on earth can cure.
You cannot see the passion wild, when, 'neath the coffin lid,
Among the flowers, my children three, my precious all, were hid.

Nor can you see my conflict sore, when I went almost mad
Before the dying form of him who had loved me from a lad,
A loving husband, kind and true, as ever woman had.
But still, before my dear one died, more children came to me:
Two lovely boys, who seemed at last a recompense to be.
For sometimes it does seem as if God sends a special gift,
To be a special help and strength, the selfish clouds to lift,
Or—what, perhaps, we need as much—the wheat from chaff to sift.
Through all my lonely, widowed life I lived in their sweet ways,
And found no sacrifice too great in work for future days.
At length they were my crowning joy. I'd come again to know
The blessings of a married life—the happiest here below—
When, lo! Death seized the oldest one, my boy that I loved so.
This opened fresh the old deep wounds; but still I had much left,
For then I was not, as before, of every child bereft.
So on I went in daily life, determined to be true
To blessings that were left to me. That does one's life renew,—
Remember this, my dear one, when your grandma's gone from you.

The years went on. I felt I'd had my share of sorrow's pain,
So I banished every lingering thought that Death could come again.
But when we are the surest, child, 'tis then he seems to be
More vigilant than ever to proclaim his mystery,
As if he envied us an hour of joy's sweet company.
My husband first was stricken down; then came the added blow:
Two grown up sons, all settled with as fine a business show
As ever comes to mortals, were cut down in prime of life,
Having just begun to free me from the circumstances rife,
Which boded of the bitterness of poverty's dread strife.
My soul was then so mystified, so dazed before God's will,
That I could only find my voice in His calm words, 'Be still.'
Oh, could I not been spared this stroke, known one less bitter pain,
And been as good for duties here, as fit for heaven's reign?
Was this the way, the only way, eternal life to gain?

It cannot be much longer. I shall soon have crossed the sea,
To the home my soul's been building all these years of mystery.
I've had my share of sorrow, but I've done the best I could.
God knows I've tried through all to grow more patient, wise, and good;
To get at least this out of life, as every mortal should.
But, though I've had his comfort, and still hear his sweet 'Endure,'
I feel the bitter heartache which no time or sense can cure.
My friends have all been laid away, my work long since was o'er,
And now I'm only waiting for Death's landing on the shore.
I hope 'twill be at sunset when he knocks at my soul's door;
For, somehow, it much easier seems to go the unknown way
Attended by the beauty of the sun's last glorious ray.
But as I calmly wait and think, it does seem rather queer
That what you 'blessed angel' call has seemed my chief curse here.
Alas! how much we suffer before God's ways appear."

Does it pay—all this burden and worry,
All the learning acquired with pain,
All the planning and nervous wild action,
The restlessness following gain,
Does it pay?

To be free from this burden and worry,
To have knowledge without fear and pain,
To be peaceful, far-seeing, sweet tempered,
And calm in the presence of gain,
We must know the pure secret of Nature,
Like her be obedient to law,
And work in the light of the promise
Of blessed results Christ foresaw.
Then each day,
And alway,
Life will pay.

The poet young e'er finds a tongue
To tell the joys of love.
The poet bold e'en dares behold
The mystery above.

The poet brave e'er loves to rave
Of wars and victories gained.
The poet sweet e'en dares repeat
The angels' songs unfeigned.

And to each one we say, "Well done,
Go on and do thy best."
Though still we feel each doth but seal
A part of life's bequest.

But yet we cry, "O goddess high,
Must thou thy wealth so share?
America feign would have the reign
Of one thy gift to bear.

She needs such one to help her shun
The dangerous shoals of thought,
Which in this age of clown and sage
Her progress gained hath wrought.

She needs such one to help her shun
The deeper shoals of wrong,
Which in these days of doubt's fond lays
Tempt e'en her favored strong.

Oh, send such one to say, 'Well done,'
And tell in truth God's plan,
While he declares as well as shares
The fullest life of man."

"Would that my acts could equal the noble acts I've told.
Would that I could but master myself as visions bold!"

So cried a famous artist, in agony of soul,
As waves of great temptation before him high did roll.

"Oh, would that I could body the thoughts that govern me.
Oh, would that I could picture the visions I foresee!"

So cried a saintly woman, in ecstasy of pain,
As waves of sad depression rolled on her soul to gain.

Clio, with her flickering light
And book of valued lore,
Comes down the ages, dark and bright,
Our interest to implore.

She walks with glad majestic mien,
Proud of her knowledge gained;
Though mourning oft at having seen
Man's life so dulled and pained.

Her face with lines of care is wrought,
From searching mystery's cause,
And dealing with the hidden thought
Of nature's subtle laws.

Yet still she blushes with new life
At sight of actions fine,
And pales with anguish at the strife
Of evil's dread design.

She stops to sing her grandest lays
When, in creation's heat,
She sees evolved a higher phase
Of life's fruition sweet.

'Twas thus in days of Genesis,
When man came forth supreme.
'Twas thus in days of Nemesis,
When Love did dare redeem.

And thus 'twill be in future days,
When out from spirit laws,
Shall be brought forth for lasting praise
The ever great First Cause.

Oh, gladly know this wondrous muse
Who walks the aisles of Time,
And not so thoughtlessly refuse
Her book of lore sublime;

For in it is the precious force
Of spirit-life divine,
Which even through a winding course
Leads in to Wisdom's shrine.

A MAGDALEN'S EASTER CRY.

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF MRS. BROWNING'S DEATH.

ROBERT BROWNING.

TO NEPTUNE, IN BEHALF OF S. C. G.

TO THE PANSIES GROWING ON THE GRAVE OF A. S. D.

A BROKEN HEART.

MY RELEASE.

THE GOD OF MUSIC.

TO WILHELM GERICKE.

FOR E. T. F.

TO C. H. F.

AN ANNIVERSARY POEM.

A COMFORT.

AN ANNIVERSARY.

A THANK-OFFERING.

AT LIFE'S SETTING.

GRANDMA WAITING.

DOES IT PAY?

AUXILIUM AB ALTO.

LIMITATIONS.

THE MUSE OF HISTORY.

AN IMPROMPTU.