POEMS OF NATURE POEMS SUBJECTIVE AND REMINISCENT RELIGIOUS POEMS BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER CONTENTS: RELIGIOUS POEMS: THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN THE CALL OF THE CHRISTIAN THE CRUCIFIXION PALESTINE HYMNS FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE I. ENCORE UN HYMNE II. LE CRI DE L'AME THE FAMILIST'S HYMN EZEKIEL WHAT THE VOICE SAID THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE THE WIFE OF MANOAH TO HER HUSBAND MY SOUL AND I WORSHIP THE HOLY LAND THE REWARD THE WISH OF TO-DAY ALL'S WELL INVOCATION QUESTIONS OF LIFE FIRST-DAY THOUGHTS TRUST TRINITAS THE SISTERS "THE ROCK" IN EL GHOR THE OVER-HEART THE SHADOW AND THE LIGHT THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL ANDREW RYKMAN'S PRAYER RELIGIOUS POEMS THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM Where Time the measure of his hoursBy changeful bud and blossom keeps, And, like a young bride crowned with flowers, Fair Shiraz in her garden sleeps; Where, to her poet's turban stone, The Spring her gift of flowers imparts, Less sweet than those his thoughts have sownIn the warm soil of Persian hearts: There sat the stranger, where the shadeOf scattered date-trees thinly lay, While in the hot clear heaven delayedThe long and still and weary day. Strange trees and fruits above him hung, Strange odors filled the sultry air, Strange birds upon the branches swung, Strange insect voices murmured there. And strange bright blossoms shone around, Turned sunward from the shadowy bowers, As if the Gheber's soul had foundA fitting home in Iran's flowers. Whate'er he saw, whate'er he heard, Awakened feelings new and sad, --No Christian garb, nor Christian word, Nor church with Sabbath-bell chimes glad, But Moslem graves, with turban stones, And mosque-spires gleaming white, in view, And graybeard Mollahs in low tonesChanting their Koran service through. The flowers which smiled on either hand, Like tempting fiends, were such as theyWhich once, o'er all that Eastern land, As gifts on demon altars lay. As if the burning eye of BaalThe servant of his Conqueror knew, From skies which knew no cloudy veil, The Sun's hot glances smote him through. "Ah me!" the lonely stranger said, "The hope which led my footsteps on, And light from heaven around them shed, O'er weary wave and waste, is gone! "Where are the harvest fields all white, For Truth to thrust her sickle in?Where flock the souls, like doves in flight, From the dark hiding-place of sin? "A silent-horror broods o'er all, --The burden of a hateful spell, --The very flowers around recallThe hoary magi's rites of hell! "And what am I, o'er such a landThe banner of the Cross to bear?Dear Lord, uphold me with Thy hand, Thy strength with human weakness share!" He ceased; for at his very feetIn mild rebuke a floweret smiled;How thrilled his sinking heart to greetThe Star-flower of the Virgin's child! Sown by some wandering Frank, it drewIts life from alien air and earth, And told to Paynim sun and dewThe story of the Saviour's birth. From scorching beams, in kindly mood, The Persian plants its beauty screened, And on its pagan sisterhood, In love, the Christian floweret leaned. With tears of joy the wanderer feltThe darkness of his long despairBefore that hallowed symbol melt, Which God's dear love had nurtured there. From Nature's face, that simple flowerThe lines of sin and sadness swept;And Magian pile and Paynim bowerIn peace like that of Eden slept. Each Moslem tomb, and cypress old, Looked holy through the sunset air;And, angel-like, the Muezzin toldFrom tower and mosque the hour of prayer. With cheerful steps, the morrow's dawnFrom Shiraz saw the stranger part;The Star-flower of the Virgin-BornStill blooming in his hopeful heart!1830. THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN "Get ye up from the wrath of God's terrible day!Ungirded, unsandalled, arise and away!'T is the vintage of blood, 't is the fulness of time, And vengeance shall gather the harvest of crime!" The warning was spoken--the righteous had gone, And the proud ones of Sodom were feasting alone;All gay was the banquet--the revel was long, With the pouring of wine and the breathing of song. 'T was an evening of beauty; the air was perfume, The earth was all greenness, the trees were all bloom;And softly the delicate viol was heard, Like the murmur of love or the notes of a bird. And beautiful maidens moved down in the dance, With the magic of motion and sunshine of glanceAnd white arms wreathed lightly, and tresses fell freeAs the plumage of birds in some tropical tree. Where the shrines of foul idols were lighted on high, And wantonness tempted the lust of the eye;Midst rites of obsceneness, strange, loathsome, abhorred, The blasphemer scoffed at the name of the Lord. Hark! the growl of the thunder, --the quaking of earth!Woe, woe to the worship, and woe to the mirth!The black sky has opened; there's flame in the air;The red arm of vengeance is lifted and bare! Then the shriek of the dying rose wild where the songAnd the low tone of love had been whispered along;For the fierce flames went lightly o'er palace and bower, Like the red tongues of demons, to blast and devour! Down, down on the fallen the red ruin rained, And the reveller sank with his wine-cup undrained;The foot of the dancer, the music's loved thrill, And the shout and the laughter grew suddenly still. The last throb of anguish was fearfully given;The last eye glared forth in its madness on Heaven!The last groan of horror rose wildly and vain, And death brooded over the pride of the Plain!1831. THE CALL OF THE CHRISTIAN Not always as the whirlwind's rushOn Horeb's mount of fear, Not always as the burning bushTo Midian's shepherd seer, Nor as the awful voice which cameTo Israel's prophet bards, Nor as the tongues of cloven flame, Nor gift of fearful words, -- Not always thus, with outward signOf fire or voice from Heaven, The message of a truth divine, The call of God is given!Awaking in the human heartLove for the true and right, --Zeal for the Christian's better part, Strength for the Christian's fight. Nor unto manhood's heart aloneThe holy influence stealsWarm with a rapture not its own, The heart of woman feels!As she who by Samaria's wallThe Saviour's errand sought, --As those who with the fervent PaulAnd meek Aquila wrought: Or those meek ones whose martyrdomRome's gathered grandeur sawOr those who in their Alpine homeBraved the Crusader's war, When the green Vaudois, trembling, heard, Through all its vales of death, The martyr's song of triumph pouredFrom woman's failing breath. And gently, by a thousand thingsWhich o'er our spirits pass, Like breezes o'er the harp's fine strings, Or vapors o'er a glass, Leaving their token strange and newOf music or of shade, The summons to the right and trueAnd merciful is made. Oh, then, if gleams of truth and lightFlash o'er thy waiting mind, Unfolding to thy mental sightThe wants of human-kind;If, brooding over human grief, The earnest wish is knownTo soothe and gladden with reliefAn anguish not thine own; Though heralded with naught of fear, Or outward sign or show;Though only to the inward earIt whispers soft and low;Though dropping, as the manna fell, Unseen, yet from above, Noiseless as dew-fall, heed it well, ---Thy Father's call of love! THE CRUCIFIXION. Sunlight upon Judha's hills!And on the waves of Galilee;On Jordan's stream, and on the rillsThat feed the dead and sleeping sea!Most freshly from the green wood springsThe light breeze on its scented wings;And gayly quiver in the sunThe cedar tops of Lebanon! A few more hours, --a change hath come!The sky is dark without a cloud!The shouts of wrath and joy are dumb, And proud knees unto earth are bowed. A change is on the hill of Death, The helmed watchers pant for breath, And turn with wild and maniac eyesFrom the dark scene of sacrifice! That Sacrifice!--the death of Him, --The Christ of God, the holy One!Well may the conscious Heaven grow dim, And blacken the beholding, Sun. The wonted light hath fled away, Night settles on the middle day, And earthquake from his caverned bedIs waking with a thrill of dread! The dead are waking underneath!Their prison door is rent away!And, ghastly with the seal of death, They wander in the eye of day!The temple of the Cherubim, The House of God is cold and dim;A curse is on its trembling walls, Its mighty veil asunder falls! Well may the cavern-depths of EarthBe shaken, and her mountains nod;Well may the sheeted dead come forthTo see the suffering son of God!Well may the temple-shrine grow dim, And shadows veil the Cherubim, When He, the chosen one of Heaven, A sacrifice for guilt is given! And shall the sinful heart, alone, Behold unmoved the fearful hour, When Nature trembled on her throne, And Death resigned his iron power?Oh, shall the heart--whose sinfulnessGave keenness to His sore distress, And added to His tears of blood--Refuse its trembling gratitude!1834. PALESTINE Blest land of Judaea! thrice hallowed of song, Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng;In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea, On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee. With the eye of a spirit I look on that shoreWhere pilgrim and prophet have lingered before;With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sodMade bright by the steps of the angels of God. Blue sea of the hills! in my spirit I hearThy waters, Gennesaret, chime on my ear;Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down, And thy spray on the dust of His sandals was thrown. Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green, And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene;And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to seeThe gleam of thy waters, O dark Galilee! Hark, a sound in the valley! where, swollen and strong, Thy river, O Kishon, is sweeping along;Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain, And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain. There down from his mountains stern Zebulon came, And Naphthali's stag, with his eyeballs of flame, And the chariots of Jabin rolled harmlessly on, For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam's son! There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rangTo the song which the beautiful prophetess sang, When the princes of Issachar stood by her side, And the shout of a host in its triumph replied. Lo, Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen, With the mountains around, and the valleys between;There rested the shepherds of Judah, and thereThe song of the angels rose sweet on the air. And Bethany's palm-trees in beauty still throwTheir shadows at noon on the ruins below;But where are the sisters who hastened to greetThe lowly Redeemer, and sit at His feet? I tread where the twelve in their wayfaring trod;I stand where they stood with the chosen of God--Where His blessing was heard and His lessons were taught, Where the blind were restored and the healing was wrought. Oh, here with His flock the sad Wanderer came;These hills He toiled over in grief are the same;The founts where He drank by the wayside still flow, And the same airs are blowing which breathed on His brow! And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet, But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her feet;For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone, And the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone. But wherefore this dream of the earthly abodeOf Humanity clothed in the brightness of God?Were my spirit but turned from the outward and dim, It could gaze, even now, on the presence of Him! Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when, In love and in meekness, He moved among men;And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the seaIn the hush of my spirit would whisper to me! And what if my feet may not tread where He stood, Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood, Nor my eyes see the cross which he bowed Him to bear, Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer. Yet, Loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is nearTo the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here;And the voice of Thy love is the same even nowAs at Bethany's tomb or on Olivet's brow. Oh, the outward hath gone! but in glory and power. The spirit surviveth the things of an hour;Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flameOn the heart's secret altar is burning the same1837. HYMNS. FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE I. "Encore un hymne, O ma lyre Un hymn pour le Seigneur, Un hymne dans mon delire, Un hymne dans mon bonheur. " One hymn more, O my lyre! Praise to the God above, Of joy and life and love, Sweeping its strings of fire! Oh, who the speed of bird and windAnd sunbeam's glance will lend to me, That, soaring upward, I may findMy resting-place and home in Thee?Thou, whom my soul, midst doubt and gloom, Adoreth with a fervent flame, --Mysterious spirit! unto whomPertain nor sign nor name! Swiftly my lyre's soft murmurs go, Up from the cold and joyless earth, Back to the God who bade them flow, Whose moving spirit sent them forth. But as for me, O God! for me, The lowly creature of Thy will, Lingering and sad, I sigh to Thee, An earth-bound pilgrim still! Was not my spirit born to shineWhere yonder stars and suns are glowing?To breathe with them the light divineFrom God's own holy altar flowing?To be, indeed, whate'er the soulIn dreams hath thirsted for so long, --A portion of heaven's glorious wholeOf loveliness and song? Oh, watchers of the stars at night, Who breathe their fire, as we the air, --Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light, Oh, say, is He, the Eternal, there?Bend there around His awful throneThe seraph's glance, the angel's knee?Or are thy inmost depths His own, O wild and mighty sea? Thoughts of my soul, how swift ye go!Swift as the eagle's glance of fire, Or arrows from the archer's bow, To the far aim of your desire!Thought after thought, ye thronging rise, Like spring-doves from the startled wood, Bearing like them your sacrificeOf music unto God! And shall these thoughts of joy and loveCome back again no more to me?Returning like the patriarch's doveWing-weary from the eternal sea, To bear within my longing armsThe promise-bough of kindlier skies, Plucked from the green, immortal palmsWhich shadow Paradise? All-moving spirit! freely forthAt Thy command the strong wind goesIts errand to the passive earth, Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose, Until it folds its weary wingOnce more within the hand divine;So, weary from its wandering, My spirit turns to Thine! Child of the sea, the mountain stream, From its dark caverns, hurries on, Ceaseless, by night and morning's beam, By evening's star and noontide's sun, Until at last it sinks to rest, O'erwearied, in the waiting sea, And moans upon its mother's breast, --So turns my soul to Thee! O Thou who bidst the torrent flow, Who lendest wings unto the wind, --Mover of all things! where art Thou?Oh, whither shall I go to findThe secret of Thy resting-place?Is there no holy wing for me, That, soaring, I may search the spaceOf highest heaven for Thee? Oh, would I were as free to riseAs leaves on autumn's whirlwind borne, --The arrowy light of sunset skies, Or sound, or ray, or star of morn, Which melts in heaven at twilight's close, Or aught which soars unchecked and freeThrough earth and heaven; that I might loseMyself in finding Thee! II. LE CRI DE L'AME. "Quand le souffle divin qui flotte sur le monde. " When the breath divine is flowing, Zephyr-like o'er all things going, And, as the touch of viewless fingers, Softly on my soul it lingers, Open to a breath the lightest, Conscious of a touch the slightest, --As some calm, still lake, whereonSinks the snowy-bosomed swan, And the glistening water-ringsCircle round her moving wingsWhen my upward gaze is turningWhere the stars of heaven are burningThrough the deep and dark abyss, Flowers of midnight's wilderness, Blowing with the evening's breathSweetly in their Maker's pathWhen the breaking day is flushingAll the east, and light is gushingUpward through the horizon's haze, Sheaf-like, with its thousand rays, Spreading, until all aboveOverflows with joy and love, And below, on earth's green bosom, All is changed to light and blossom: When my waking fancies overForms of brightness flit and hoverHoly as the seraphs are, Who by Zion's fountains wearOn their foreheads, white and broad, "Holiness unto the Lord!"When, inspired with rapture high, It would seem a single sighCould a world of love create;That my life could know no date, And my eager thoughts could fillHeaven and Earth, o'erflowing still! Then, O Father! Thou alone, From the shadow of Thy throne, To the sighing of my breastAnd its rapture answerest. All my thoughts, which, upward winging, Bathe where Thy own light is springing, --All my yearnings to be freeAre at echoes answering Thee! Seldom upon lips of mine, Father! rests that name of Thine;Deep within my inmost breast, In the secret place of mind, Like an awful presence shrined, Doth the dread idea restHushed and holy dwells it there, Prompter of the silent prayer, Lifting up my spirit's eyeAnd its faint, but earnest cry, From its dark and cold abode, Unto Thee, my Guide and God!1837 THE FAMILIST'S HYMN. The Puritans of New England, even in their wilderness home, were not exempted from the sectarian contentions which agitated the mother country after the downfall of Charles the First, and of the established Episcopacy. The Quakers, Baptists, and Catholics were banished, on pain of death, from the Massachusetts Colony. One Samuel Gorton, a bold and eloquent declaimer, after preaching for a time in Boston against the doctrines of the Puritans, and declaring that their churches were mere human devices, and their sacrament and baptism an abomination, was driven out of the jurisdiction of the colony, and compelled to seek a residence among the savages. He gathered round him a considerable number of converts, who, like the primitive Christians, shared all things in common. His opinions, however, were so troublesome to the leading clergy of the colony, that they instigated an attack upon his "Family" by an armed force, which seized upon the principal men in it, and brought them into Massachusetts, where they were sentenced to be kept at hard labor in several towns (one only in each town), during the pleasure of the General Court, they being forbidden, under severe penalties, to utter any of their religious sentiments, except to such ministers as might labor for their conversion. They were unquestionably sincere in their opinions, and, whatever may have been their errors, deserve to be ranked among those who have in all ages suffered for the freedom of conscience. Father! to Thy suffering poorStrength and grace and faith impart, And with Thy own love restoreComfort to the broken heart!Oh, the failing ones confirmWith a holier strength of zeal!Give Thou not the feeble wormHelpless to the spoiler's heel! Father! for Thy holy sakeWe are spoiled and hunted thus;Joyful, for Thy truth we takeBonds and burthens unto usPoor, and weak, and robbed of all, Weary with our daily task, That Thy truth may never fallThrough our weakness, Lord, we ask. Round our fired and wasted homesFlits the forest-bird unscared, And at noon the wild beast comesWhere our frugal meal was shared;For the song of praises thereShrieks the crow the livelong day;For the sound of evening prayerHowls the evil beast of prey! Sweet the songs we loved to singUnderneath Thy holy sky;Words and tones that used to bringTears of joy in every eye;Dear the wrestling hours of prayer, When we gathered knee to knee, Blameless youth and hoary hair, Bowed, O God, alone to Thee. As Thine early children, Lord, Shared their wealth and daily bread, Even so, with one accord, We, in love, each other fed. Not with us the miser's hoard, Not with us his grasping hand;Equal round a common board, Drew our meek and brother band! Safe our quiet Eden layWhen the war-whoop stirred the landAnd the Indian turned awayFrom our home his bloody hand. Well that forest-ranger saw, That the burthen and the curseOf the white man's cruel lawRested also upon us. Torn apart, and driven forthTo our toiling hard and long, Father! from the dust of earthLift we still our grateful song!Grateful, that in bonds we shareIn Thy love which maketh free;Joyful, that the wrongs we bear, Draw us nearer, Lord, to Thee! Grateful! that where'er we toil, --By Wachuset's wooded side, On Nantucket's sea-worn isle, Or by wild Neponset's tide, --Still, in spirit, we are near, And our evening hymns, which riseSeparate and discordant here, Meet and mingle in the skies! Let the scoffer scorn and mock, Let the proud and evil priestRob the needy of his flock, For his wine-cup and his feast, --Redden not Thy bolts in storeThrough the blackness of Thy skies?For the sighing of the poorWilt Thou not, at length, arise? Worn and wasted, oh! how longShall thy trodden poor complain?In Thy name they bear the wrong, In Thy cause the bonds of pain!Melt oppression's heart of steel, Let the haughty priesthood see, And their blinded followers feel, That in us they mock at Thee! In Thy time, O Lord of hosts, Stretch abroad that hand to saveWhich of old, on Egypt's coasts, Smote apart the Red Sea's waveLead us from this evil land, From the spoiler set us free, And once more our gathered band, Heart to heart, shall worship Thee!1838. EZEKIEL Also, thou son of man, the children of thy people still are talking against thee by the walls and in the doors of the houses, and speak one to another, every one to his brother, saying, Come, I pray you, and hear what is the word that cometh forth from the Lord. And they come unto thee as the people cometh, and they sit before thee as my people, and they hear thy words, but they will not do them: for with their mouth they skew much love, but their heart goeth after their covetousness. And, lo, thou art unto them as a very lovely song of one that hath a pleasant voice, and can play well on an instrument: for they hear thy words, but they do them not. And when this cometh to pass, (lo, it will come, ) then shall they know that a prophet hath been among them. --EZEKIEL, xxxiii. 30-33. They hear Thee not, O God! nor see;Beneath Thy rod they mock at Thee;The princes of our ancient lineLie drunken with Assyrian wine;The priests around Thy altar speakThe false words which their hearers seek;And hymns which Chaldea's wanton maidsHave sung in Dura's idol-shadesAre with the Levites' chant ascending, With Zion's holiest anthems blending! On Israel's bleeding bosom set, The heathen heel is crushing yet;The towers upon our holy hillEcho Chaldean footsteps still. Our wasted shrines, --who weeps for them?Who mourneth for Jerusalem?Who turneth from his gains away?Whose knee with mine is bowed to pray?Who, leaving feast and purpling cup, Takes Zion's lamentation up? A sad and thoughtful youth, I wentWith Israel's early banishment;And where the sullen Chebar crept, The ritual of my fathers kept. The water for the trench I drew, The firstling of the flock I slew, And, standing at the altar's side, I shared the Levites' lingering pride, That still, amidst her mocking foes, The smoke of Zion's offering rose. In sudden whirlwind, cloud and flame, The Spirit of the Highest came!Before mine eyes a vision passed, A glory terrible and vast;With dreadful eyes of living things, And sounding sweep of angel wings, With circling light and sapphire throne, And flame-like form of One thereon, And voice of that dread Likeness sentDown from the crystal firmament! The burden of a prophet's powerFell on me in that fearful hour;From off unutterable woesThe curtain of the future rose;I saw far down the coming timeThe fiery chastisement of crime;With noise of mingling hosts, and jarOf falling towers and shouts of war, I saw the nations rise and fall, Like fire-gleams on my tent's white wall. In dream and trance, I--saw the slainOf Egypt heaped like harvest grain. I saw the walls of sea-born TyreSwept over by the spoiler's fire;And heard the low, expiring moanOf Edom on his rocky throne;And, woe is me! the wild lamentFrom Zion's desolation sent;And felt within my heart each blowWhich laid her holy places low. In bonds and sorrow, day by day, Before the pictured tile I lay;And there, as in a mirror, sawThe coming of Assyria's war;Her swarthy lines of spearmen passLike locusts through Bethhoron's grass;I saw them draw their stormy hemOf battle round Jerusalem;And, listening, heard the Hebrew wail! Blend with the victor-trump of Baal!Who trembled at my warning word?Who owned the prophet of the Lord?How mocked the rude, how scoffed the vile, How stung the Levites' scornful smile, As o'er my spirit, dark and slow, The shadow crept of Israel's woeAs if the angel's mournful rollHad left its record on my soul, And traced in lines of darkness thereThe picture of its great despair! Yet ever at the hour I feelMy lips in prophecy unseal. Prince, priest, and Levite gather near, And Salem's daughters haste to hear, On Chebar's waste and alien shore, The harp of Judah swept once more. They listen, as in Babel's throngThe Chaldeans to the dancer's song, Or wild sabbeka's nightly play, --As careless and as vain as they. . . . . . And thus, O Prophet-bard of old, Hast thou thy tale of sorrow toldThe same which earth's unwelcome seersHave felt in all succeeding years. Sport of the changeful multitude, Nor calmly heard nor understood, Their song has seemed a trick of art, Their warnings but, the actor's part. With bonds, and scorn, and evil will, The world requites its prophets still. So was it when the Holy OneThe garments of the flesh put onMen followed where the Highest ledFor common gifts of daily bread, And gross of ear, of vision dim, Owned not the Godlike power of Him. Vain as a dreamer's words to themHis wail above Jerusalem, And meaningless the watch He keptThrough which His weak disciples slept. Yet shrink not thou, whoe'er thou art, For God's great purpose set apart, Before whose far-discerning eyes, The Future as the Present lies!Beyond a narrow-bounded ageStretches thy prophet-heritage, Through Heaven's vast spaces angel-trod, And through the eternal years of GodThy audience, worlds!--all things to beThe witness of the Truth in thee!1844. WHAT THE VOICE SAID MADDENED by Earth's wrong and evil, "Lord!" I cried in sudden ire, "From Thy right hand, clothed with thunder, Shake the bolted fire! "Love is lost, and Faith is dying;With the brute the man is sold;And the dropping blood of laborHardens into gold. "Here the dying wail of Famine, There the battle's groan of pain;And, in silence, smooth-faced MammonReaping men like grain. "'Where is God, that we should fear Him?'Thus the earth-born Titans say'God! if Thou art living, hear us!'Thus the weak ones pray. " "Thou, the patient Heaven upbraiding, "Spake a solemn Voice within;"Weary of our Lord's forbearance, Art thou free from sin? "Fearless brow to Him uplifting, Canst thou for His thunders call, Knowing that to guilt's attractionEvermore they fall? "Know'st thou not all germs of evilIn thy heart await their time?Not thyself, but God's restraining, Stays their growth of crime. "Couldst thou boast, O child of weakness!O'er the sons of wrong and strife, Were their strong temptations plantedIn thy path of life? "Thou hast seen two streamlets gushingFrom one fountain, clear and free, But by widely varying channelsSearching for the sea. "Glideth one through greenest valleys, Kissing them with lips still sweet;One, mad roaring down the mountains, Stagnates at their feet. "Is it choice whereby the ParseeKneels before his mother's fire?In his black tent did the TartarChoose his wandering sire? "He alone, whose hand is boundingHuman power and human will, Looking through each soul's surrounding, Knows its good or ill. "For thyself, while wrong and sorrowMake to thee their strong appeal, Coward wert thou not to utterWhat the heart must feel. "Earnest words must needs be spokenWhen the warm heart bleeds or burnsWith its scorn of wrong, or pityFor the wronged, by turns. "But, by all thy nature's weakness, Hidden faults and follies known, Be thou, in rebuking evil, Conscious of thine own. "Not the less shall stern-eyed DutyTo thy lips her trumpet set, But with harsher blasts shall mingleWailings of regret. " Cease not, Voice of holy speaking, Teacher sent of God, be near, Whispering through the day's cool silence, Let my spirit hear! So, when thoughts of evil-doersWaken scorn, or hatred move, Shall a mournful fellow-feelingTemper all with love. 1847. THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN. To weary hearts, to mourning homes, God's meekest Angel gently comesNo power has he to banish pain, Or give us back our lost again;And yet in tenderest love, our dearAnd Heavenly Father sends him here. There's quiet in that Angel's glance, There 's rest in his still countenance!He mocks no grief with idle cheer, Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear;But ills and woes he may not cureHe kindly trains us to endure. Angel of Patience! sent to calmOur feverish brows with cooling palm;To lay the storms of hope and fear, And reconcile life's smile and tear;The throbs of wounded pride to still, And make our own our Father's will. O thou who mournest on thy way, With longings for the close of day;He walks with thee, that Angel kind, And gently whispers, "Be resignedBear up, bear on, the end shall tellThe dear Lord ordereth all things well!"1847. THE WIFE OF MANOAH TO HER HUSBAND. Against the sunset's glowing wallThe city towers rise black and tall, Where Zorah, on its rocky height, Stands like an armed man in the light. Down Eshtaol's vales of ripened grainFalls like a cloud the night amain, And up the hillsides climbing slowThe barley reapers homeward go. Look, dearest! how our fair child's headThe sunset light hath hallowed, Where at this olive's foot he lies, Uplooking to the tranquil skies. Oh, while beneath the fervent heatThy sickle swept the bearded wheat, I've watched, with mingled joy and dread, Our child upon his grassy bed. Joy, which the mother feels aloneWhose morning hope like mine had flown, When to her bosom, over-blessed, A dearer life than hers is pressed. Dread, for the future dark and still, Which shapes our dear one to its will;Forever in his large calm eyes, I read a tale of sacrifice. The same foreboding awe I feltWhen at the altar's side we knelt, And he, who as a pilgrim came, Rose, winged and glorious, through the flame. I slept not, though the wild bees madeA dreamlike murmuring in the shade, And on me the warm-fingered hoursPressed with the drowsy smell of flowers. Before me, in a vision, roseThe hosts of Israel's scornful foes, --Rank over rank, helm, shield, and spear, Glittered in noon's hot atmosphere. I heard their boast, and bitter word, Their mockery of the Hebrew's Lord, I saw their hands His ark assail, Their feet profane His holy veil. No angel down the blue space spoke, No thunder from the still sky broke;But in their midst, in power and awe, Like God's waked wrath, our child I saw! A child no more!--harsh-browed and strong, He towered a giant in the throng, And down his shoulders, broad and bare, Swept the black terror of his hair. He raised his arm--he smote amain;As round the reaper falls the grain, So the dark host around him fell, So sank the foes of Israel! Again I looked. In sunlight shoneThe towers and domes of Askelon;Priest, warrior, slave, a mighty crowdWithin her idol temple bowed. Yet one knelt not; stark, gaunt, and blind, His arms the massive pillars twined, --An eyeless captive, strong with hate, He stood there like an evil Fate. The red shrines smoked, --the trumpets pealedHe stooped, --the giant columns reeled;Reeled tower and fane, sank arch and wall, And the thick dust-cloud closed o'er all! Above the shriek, the crash, the groanOf the fallen pride of Askelon, I heard, sheer down the echoing sky, A voice as of an angel cry, -- The voice of him, who at our sideSat through the golden eventide;Of him who, on thy altar's blaze, Rose fire-winged, with his song of praise. "Rejoice o'er Israel's broken chain, Gray mother of the mighty slain!Rejoice!" it cried, "he vanquisheth!The strong in life is strong in death! "To him shall Zorah's daughters raiseThrough coming years their hymns of praise, And gray old men at evening tellOf all be wrought for Israel. "And they who sing and they who hearAlike shall hold thy memory dear, And pour their blessings on thy head, O mother of the mighty dead!" It ceased; and though a sound I heardAs if great wings the still air stirred, I only saw the barley sheavesAnd hills half hid by olive leaves. I bowed my face, in awe and fear, On the dear child who slumbered near;"With me, as with my only son, O God, " I said, "Thy will be done!"1847. MY SOUL AND I Stand still, my soul, in the silent darkI would question thee, Alone in the shadow drear and starkWith God and me! What, my soul, was thy errand here?Was it mirth or ease, Or heaping up dust from year to year?"Nay, none of these!" Speak, soul, aright in His holy sightWhose eye looks stillAnd steadily on thee through the night"To do His will!" What hast thou done, O soul of mine, That thou tremblest so?Hast thou wrought His task, and kept the lineHe bade thee go? Aha! thou tremblest!--well I seeThou 'rt craven grown. Is it so hard with God and meTo stand alone? Summon thy sunshine bravery back, O wretched sprite!Let me hear thy voice through this deep and blackAbysmal night. What hast thou wrought for Right and Truth, For God and Man, From the golden hours of bright-eyed youthTo life's mid span? What, silent all! art sad of cheer?Art fearful now?When God seemed far and men were near, How brave wert thou! Ah, soul of mine, thy tones I hear, But weak and low, Like far sad murmurs on my earThey come and go. I have wrestled stoutly with the Wrong, And borne the RightFrom beneath the footfall of the throngTo life and light. "Wherever Freedom shivered a chain, God speed, quoth I;To Error amidst her shouting trainI gave the lie. " Ah, soul of mine! ah, soul of mine!Thy deeds are well:Were they wrought for Truth's sake or for thine?My soul, pray tell. "Of all the work my hand hath wroughtBeneath the sky, Save a place in kindly human thought, No gain have I. " Go to, go to! for thy very selfThy deeds were doneThou for fame, the miser for pelf, Your end is one! And where art thou going, soul of mine?Canst see the end?And whither this troubled life of thineEvermore doth tend? What daunts thee now? what shakes thee so?My sad soul say. "I see a cloud like a curtain lowHang o'er my way. "Whither I go I cannot tellThat cloud hangs black, High as the heaven and deep as hellAcross my track. "I see its shadow coldly enwrapThe souls before. Sadly they enter it, step by step, To return no more. "They shrink, they shudder, dear God! they kneelTo Thee in prayer. They shut their eyes on the cloud, but feelThat it still is there. "In vain they turn from the dread BeforeTo the Known and Gone;For while gazing behind them evermoreTheir feet glide on. "Yet, at times, I see upon sweet pale facesA light beginTo tremble, as if from holy placesAnd shrines within. "And at times methinks their cold lips moveWith hymn and prayer, As if somewhat of awe, but more of loveAnd hope were there. "I call on the souls who have left the lightTo reveal their lot;I bend mine ear to that wall of night, And they answer not. "But I hear around me sighs of painAnd the cry of fear, And a sound like the slow sad dropping of rain, Each drop a tear! "Ah, the cloud is dark, and day by dayI am moving thitherI must pass beneath it on my way--God pity me!--whither?" Ah, soul of mine! so brave and wiseIn the life-storm loud, Fronting so calmly all human eyesIn the sunlit crowd! Now standing apart with God and meThou art weakness all, Gazing vainly after the things to beThrough Death's dread wall. But never for this, never for thisWas thy being lent;For the craven's fear is but selfishness, Like his merriment. Folly and Fear are sisters twainOne closing her eyes. The other peopling the dark inaneWith spectral lies. Know well, my soul, God's hand controlsWhate'er thou fearest;Round Him in calmest music rollsWhate'er thou Nearest. What to thee is shadow, to Him is day, And the end He knoweth, And not on a blind and aimless wayThe spirit goeth. Man sees no future, --a phantom showIs alone before him;Past Time is dead, and the grasses grow, And flowers bloom o'er him. Nothing before, nothing behind;The steps of FaithFall on the seeming void, and findThe rock beneath. The Present, the Present is all thou hastFor thy sure possessing;Like the patriarch's angel hold it fastTill it gives its blessing. Why fear the night? why shrink from Death;That phantom wan?There is nothing in heaven or earth beneathSave God and man. Peopling the shadows we turn from HimAnd from one another;All is spectral and vague and dimSave God and our brother! Like warp and woof all destiniesAre woven fast, Linked in sympathy like the keysOf an organ vast. Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar;Break but oneOf a thousand keys, and the paining jarThrough all will run. O restless spirit! wherefore strainBeyond thy sphere?Heaven and hell, with their joy and pain, Are now and here. Back to thyself is measured wellAll thou hast given;Thy neighbor's wrong is thy present hell, His bliss, thy heaven. And in life, in death, in dark and light, All are in God's careSound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night, And He is there! All which is real now remaineth, And fadeth neverThe hand which upholds it now sustainethThe soul forever. Leaning on Him, make with reverent meeknessHis own thy will, And with strength from Him shall thy utter weaknessLife's task fulfil; And that cloud itself, which now before theeLies dark in view, Shall with beams of light from the inner gloryBe stricken through. And like meadow mist through autumn's dawnUprolling thin, Its thickest folds when about thee drawnLet sunlight in. Then of what is to be, and of what is done, Why queriest thou?The past and the time to be are one, And both are now!1847. WORSHIP. "Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this. To visit the fatherless and widows in, their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world. "--JAMES I. 27. The Pagan's myths through marble lips are spoken, And ghosts of old Beliefs still flit and moanRound fane and altar overthrown and broken, O'er tree-grown barrow and gray ring of stone. Blind Faith had martyrs in those old high places, The Syrian hill grove and the Druid's wood, With mother's offering, to the Fiend's embraces, Bone of their bone, and blood of their own blood. Red altars, kindling through that night of error, Smoked with warm blood beneath the cruel eyeOf lawless Power and sanguinary Terror, Throned on the circle of a pitiless sky; Beneath whose baleful shadow, overcastingAll heaven above, and blighting earth below, The scourge grew red, the lip grew pale with fasting, And man's oblation was his fear and woe! Then through great temples swelled the dismal moaningOf dirge-like music and sepulchral prayer;Pale wizard priests, o'er occult symbols droning, Swung their white censers in the burdened air As if the pomp of rituals, and the savorOf gums and spices could the Unseen One please;As if His ear could bend, with childish favor, To the poor flattery of the organ keys! Feet red from war-fields trod the church aisles holy, With trembling reverence: and the oppressor there, Kneeling before his priest, abased and lowly, Crushed human hearts beneath his knee of prayer. Not such the service the benignant FatherRequireth at His earthly children's handsNot the poor offering of vain rites, but ratherThe simple duty man from man demands. For Earth He asks it: the full joy of heavenKnoweth no change of waning or increase;The great heart of the Infinite beats even, Untroubled flows the river of His peace. He asks no taper lights, on high surroundingThe priestly altar and the saintly grave, No dolorous chant nor organ music sounding, Nor incense clouding tip the twilight nave. For he whom Jesus loved hath truly spokenThe holier worship which he deigns to blessRestores the lost, and binds the spirit broken, And feeds the widow and the fatherless! Types of our human weakness and our sorrow!Who lives unhaunted by his loved ones dead?Who, with vain longing, seeketh not to borrowFrom stranger eyes the home lights which have fled? O brother man! fold to thy heart thy brother;Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there;To worship rightly is to love each other, Each smile a hymn, each kindly deed a prayer. Follow with reverent steps the great exampleOf Him whose holy work was "doing good;"So shall the wide earth seem our Father's temple, Each loving life a psalm of gratitude. Then shall all shackles fall; the stormy clangorOf wild war music o'er the earth shall cease;Love shall tread out the baleful fire of anger, And in its ashes plant the tree of peace!1848. THE HOLY LAND Paraphrased from the lines in Lamartine's _Adieu to Marseilles_, beginning "Je n'ai pas navigue sur l'ocean de sable. " I have not felt, o'er seas of sand, The rocking of the desert bark;Nor laved at Hebron's fount my hand, By Hebron's palm-trees cool and dark;Nor pitched my tent at even-fall, On dust where Job of old has lain, Nor dreamed beneath its canvas wall, The dream of Jacob o'er again. One vast world-page remains unread;How shine the stars in Chaldea's sky, How sounds the reverent pilgrim's tread, How beats the heart with God so nighHow round gray arch and column loneThe spirit of the old time broods, And sighs in all the winds that moanAlong the sandy solitudes! In thy tall cedars, Lebanon, I have not heard the nations' cries, Nor seen thy eagles stooping downWhere buried Tyre in ruin lies. The Christian's prayer I have not saidIn Tadmor's temples of decay, Nor startled, with my dreary tread, The waste where Memnon's empire lay. Nor have I, from thy hallowed tide, O Jordan! heard the low lament, Like that sad wail along thy sideWhich Israel's mournful prophet sent!Nor thrilled within that grotto loneWhere, deep in night, the Bard of KingsFelt hands of fire direct his own, And sweep for God the conscious strings. I have not climbed to Olivet, Nor laid me where my Saviour lay, And left His trace of tears as yetBy angel eyes unwept away;Nor watched, at midnight's solemn time, The garden where His prayer and groan, Wrung by His sorrow and our crime, Rose to One listening ear alone. I have not kissed the rock-hewn grotWhere in His mother's arms He lay, Nor knelt upon the sacred spotWhere last His footsteps pressed the clay;Nor looked on that sad mountain head, Nor smote my sinful breast, where wideHis arms to fold the world He spread, And bowed His head to bless--and died!1848. THE REWARD Who, looking backward from his manhood's prime, Sees not the spectre of his misspent time?And, through the shadeOf funeral cypress planted thick behind, Hears no reproachful whisper on the windFrom his loved dead? Who bears no trace of passion's evil force?Who shuns thy sting, O terrible Remorse?Who does not castOn the thronged pages of his memory's book, At times, a sad and half-reluctant look, Regretful of the past? Alas! the evil which we fain would shunWe do, and leave the wished-for good undoneOur strength to-dayIs but to-morrow's weakness, prone to fall;Poor, blind, unprofitable servants allAre we alway. Yet who, thus looking backward o'er his years, Feels not his eyelids wet with grateful tears, If he hath beenPermitted, weak and sinful as he was, To cheer and aid, in some ennobling cause, His fellow-men? If he hath hidden the outcast, or let inA ray of sunshine to the cell of sin;If he hath lentStrength to the weak, and, in an hour of need, Over the suffering, mindless of his creedOr home, hath bent; He has not lived in vain, and while he givesThe praise to Him, in whom he moves and lives, With thankful heart;He gazes backward, and with hope before, Knowing that from his works he nevermoreCan henceforth part. 1848. THE WISH OF TO-DAY. I ask not now for gold to gildWith mocking shine a weary frame;The yearning of the mind is stilled, I ask not now for Fame. A rose-cloud, dimly seen above, Melting in heaven's blue depths away;Oh, sweet, fond dream of human LoveFor thee I may not pray. But, bowed in lowliness of mind, I make my humble wishes known;I only ask a will resigned, O Father, to Thine own! To-day, beneath Thy chastening eyeI crave alone for peace and rest, Submissive in Thy hand to lie, And feel that it is best. A marvel seems the Universe, A miracle our Life and Death;A mystery which I cannot pierce, Around, above, beneath. In vain I task my aching brain, In vain the sage's thought I scan, I only feel how weak and vain, How poor and blind, is man. And now my spirit sighs for home, And longs for light whereby to see, And, like a weary child, would come, O Father, unto Thee! Though oft, like letters traced on sand, My weak resolves have passed away, In mercy lend Thy helping handUnto my prayer to-day!1848. ALL'S WELL The clouds, which rise with thunder, slakeOur thirsty souls with rain;The blow most dreaded falls to breakFrom off our limbs a chain;And wrongs of man to man but makeThe love of God more plain. As through the shadowy lens of evenThe eye looks farthest into heavenOn gleams of star and depths of blueThe glaring sunshine never knew!1850. INVOCATION Through Thy clear spaces, Lord, of old, Formless and void the dead earth rolled;Deaf to Thy heaven's sweet music, blindTo the great lights which o'er it shined;No sound, no ray, no warmth, no breath, --A dumb despair, a wandering death. To that dark, weltering horror cameThy spirit, like a subtle flame, --A breath of life electrical, Awakening and transforming all, Till beat and thrilled in every partThe pulses of a living heart. Then knew their bounds the land and sea;Then smiled the bloom of mead and tree;From flower to moth, from beast to man, The quick creative impulse ran;And earth, with life from thee renewed, Was in thy holy eyesight good. As lost and void, as dark and coldAnd formless as that earth of old;A wandering waste of storm and night, Midst spheres of song and realms of light;A blot upon thy holy sky, Untouched, unwarned of thee, am I. O Thou who movest on the deepOf spirits, wake my own from sleepIts darkness melt, its coldness warm, The lost restore, the ill transform, That flower and fruit henceforth may beIts grateful offering, worthy Thee. 1851. QUESTIONS OF LIFE And the angel that was sent unto me, whose name was Uriel, gave me an answer and said, "Thy heart hath gone too far in this world, and thinkest thou to comprehend the way of the Most High?" Then said I, "Yea, my Lord. " Then said he unto me, "Go thy way, weigh me the weight of the fire or measure me the blast of the wind, or call me again the day that is past. "--2 ESDRAS, chap. Iv. A bending staff I would not break, A feeble faith I would not shake, Nor even rashly pluck awayThe error which some truth may stay, Whose loss might leave the soul withoutA shield against the shafts of doubt. And yet, at times, when over allA darker mystery seems to fall, (May God forgive the child of dust, Who seeks to know, where Faith should trust!)I raise the questions, old and dark, Of Uzdom's tempted patriarch, And, speech-confounded, build againThe baffled tower of Shinar's plain. I am: how little more I know!Whence came I? Whither do I go?A centred self, which feels and is;A cry between the silences;A shadow-birth of clouds at strifeWith sunshine on the hills of life;A shaft from Nature's quiver castInto the Future from the Past;Between the cradle and the shroud, A meteor's flight from cloud to cloud. Thorough the vastness, arching all, I see the great stars rise and fall, The rounding seasons come and go, The tided oceans ebb and flow;The tokens of a central force, Whose circles, in their widening course, O'erlap and move the universe;The workings of the law whence springsThe rhythmic harmony of things, Which shapes in earth the darkling spar, And orbs in heaven the morning star. Of all I see, in earth and sky, --Star, flower, beast, bird, --what part have I?This conscious life, --is it the sameWhich thrills the universal frame, Whereby the caverned crystal shoots, And mounts the sap from forest roots, Whereby the exiled wood-bird tellsWhen Spring makes green her native dells?How feels the stone the pang of birth, Which brings its sparkling prism forth?The forest-tree the throb which givesThe life-blood to its new-born leaves?Do bird and blossom feel, like me, Life's many-folded mystery, --The wonder which it is to be?Or stand I severed and distinct, From Nature's "chain of life" unlinked?Allied to all, yet not the lessPrisoned in separate consciousness, Alone o'erburdened with a senseOf life, and cause, and consequence? In vain to me the Sphinx propoundsThe riddle of her sights and sounds;Back still the vaulted mystery givesThe echoed question it receives. What sings the brook? What oracleIs in the pine-tree's organ swell?What may the wind's low burden be?The meaning of the moaning sea?The hieroglyphics of the stars?Or clouded sunset's crimson bars?I vainly ask, for mocks my skillThe trick of Nature's cipher still. I turn from Nature unto men, I ask the stylus and the pen;What sang the bards of old? What meantThe prophets of the Orient?The rolls of buried Egypt, hidIn painted tomb and pyramid?What mean Idumea's arrowy lines, Or dusk Elora's monstrous signs?How speaks the primal thought of manFrom the grim carvings of Copan? Where rests the secret? Where the keysOf the old death-bolted mysteries?Alas! the dead retain their trust;Dust hath no answer from the dust. The great enigma still unguessed, Unanswered the eternal quest;I gather up the scattered raysOf wisdom in the early days, Faint gleams and broken, like the lightOf meteors in a northern night, Betraying to the darkling earthThe unseen sun which gave them birth;I listen to the sibyl's chant, The voice of priest and hierophant;I know what Indian Kreeshna saith, And what of life and what of deathThe demon taught to Socrates;And what, beneath his garden-treesSlow pacing, with a dream-like tread, --The solemn-thoughted Plato said;Nor lack I tokens, great or small, Of God's clear light in each and all, While holding with more dear regardThe scroll of Hebrew seer and bard, The starry pages promise-litWith Christ's Evangel over-writ, Thy miracle of life and death, O Holy One of Nazareth! On Aztec ruins, gray and lone, The circling serpent coils in stone, --Type of the endless and unknown;Whereof we seek the clue to find, With groping fingers of the blind!Forever sought, and never found, We trace that serpent-symbol roundOur resting-place, our starting boundOh, thriftlessness of dream and guess!Oh, wisdom which is foolishness!Why idly seek from outward thingsThe answer inward silence brings?Why stretch beyond our proper sphereAnd age, for that which lies so near?Why climb the far-off hills with pain, A nearer view of heaven to gain?In lowliest depths of bosky dellsThe hermit Contemplation dwells. A fountain's pine-hung slope his seat, And lotus-twined his silent feet, Whence, piercing heaven, with screened sight, He sees at noon the stars, whose lightShall glorify the coining night. Here let me pause, my quest forego;Enough for me to feel and knowThat He in whom the cause and end, The past and future, meet and blend, --Who, girt with his Immensities, Our vast and star-hung system sees, Small as the clustered Pleiades, --Moves not alone the heavenly quires, But waves the spring-time's grassy spires, Guards not archangel feet alone, But deigns to guide and keep my own;Speaks not alone the words of fateWhich worlds destroy, and worlds create, But whispers in my spirit's ear, In tones of love, or warning fear, A language none beside may hear. To Him, from wanderings long and wild, I come, an over-wearied child, In cool and shade His peace to find, Lice dew-fall settling on my mind. Assured that all I know is best, And humbly trusting for the rest, I turn from Fancy's cloud-built scheme, Dark creed, and mournful eastern dreamOf power, impersonal and cold, Controlling all, itself controlled, Maker and slave of iron laws, Alike the subject and the cause;From vain philosophies, that tryThe sevenfold gates of mystery, And, baffled ever, babble still, Word-prodigal of fate and will;From Nature, and her mockery, Art;And book and speech of men apart, To the still witness in my heart;With reverence waiting to beholdHis Avatar of love untold, The Eternal Beauty new and old!1862. FIRST-DAY THOUGHTS. In calm and cool and silence, once againI find my old accustomed place amongMy brethren, where, perchance, no human tongueShall utter words; where never hymn is sung, Nor deep-toned organ blown, nor censer swung, Nor dim light falling through the pictured pane!There, syllabled by silence, let me hearThe still small voice which reached the prophet's ear;Read in my heart a still diviner lawThan Israel's leader on his tables saw!There let me strive with each besetting sin, Recall my wandering fancies, and restrainThe sore disquiet of a restless brain;And, as the path of duty is made plain, May grace be given that I may walk therein, Not like the hireling, for his selfish gain, With backward glances and reluctant tread, Making a merit of his coward dread, But, cheerful, in the light around me thrown, Walking as one to pleasant service led;Doing God's will as if it were my own, Yet trusting not in mine, but in His strength alone!1852. TRUST. The same old baffling questions! O my friend, I cannot answer them. In vain I sendMy soul into the dark, where never burnThe lamps of science, nor the natural lightOf Reason's sun and stars! I cannot learnTheir great and solemn meanings, nor discernThe awful secrets of the eyes which turnEvermore on us through the day and nightWith silent challenge and a dumb demand, Proffering the riddles of the dread unknown, Like the calm Sphinxes, with their eyes of stone, Questioning the centuries from their veils of sand!I have no answer for myself or thee, Save that I learned beside my mother's knee;"All is of God that is, and is to be;And God is good. " Let this suffice us still, Resting in childlike trust upon His willWho moves to His great ends unthwarted by the ill. 1853. TRINITAS. At morn I prayed, "I fain would seeHow Three are One, and One is Three;Read the dark riddle unto me. " I wandered forth, the sun and airI saw bestowed with equal careOn good and evil, foul and fair. No partial favor dropped the rain;Alike the righteous and profaneRejoiced above their heading grain. And my heart murmured, "Is it meetThat blindfold Nature thus should treatWith equal hand the tares and wheat?" A presence melted through my mood, --A warmth, a light, a sense of good, Like sunshine through a winter wood. I saw that presence, mailed completeIn her white innocence, pause to greetA fallen sister of the street. Upon her bosom snowy pureThe lost one clung, as if secureFrom inward guilt or outward lure. "Beware!" I said; "in this I seeNo gain to her, but loss to theeWho touches pitch defiled must be. " I passed the haunts of shame and sin, And a voice whispered, "Who thereinShall these lost souls to Heaven's peace win? "Who there shall hope and health dispense, And lift the ladder up from thenceWhose rounds are prayers of penitence?" I said, "No higher life they know;These earth-worms love to have it so. Who stoops to raise them sinks as low. " That night with painful care I readWhat Hippo's saint and Calvin said;The living seeking to the dead! In vain I turned, in weary quest, Old pages, where (God give them rest!)The poor creed-mongers dreamed and guessed. And still I prayed, "Lord, let me seeHow Three are One, and One is Three;Read the dark riddle unto me!" Then something whispered, "Dost thou prayFor what thou hast? This very dayThe Holy Three have crossed thy way. "Did not the gifts of sun and airTo good and ill alike declareThe all-compassionate Father's care? "In the white soul that stooped to raiseThe lost one from her evil ways, Thou saw'st the Christ, whom angels praise! "A bodiless Divinity, The still small Voice that spake to theeWas the Holy Spirit's mystery! "O blind of sight, of faith how small!Father, and Son, and Holy CallThis day thou hast denied them all! "Revealed in love and sacrifice, The Holiest passed before thine eyes, One and the same, in threefold guise. "The equal Father in rain and sun, His Christ in the good to evil done, His Voice in thy soul;--and the Three are One!" I shut my grave Aquinas fast;The monkish gloss of ages past, The schoolman's creed aside I cast. And my heart answered, "Lord, I seeHow Three are One, and One is Three;Thy riddle hath been read to me!"1858. THE SISTERS A PICTURE BY BARRY The shade for me, but over theeThe lingering sunshine still;As, smiling, to the silent streamComes down the singing rill. So come to me, my little one, --My years with thee I share, And mingle with a sister's loveA mother's tender care. But keep the smile upon thy lip, The trust upon thy brow;Since for the dear one God hath calledWe have an angel now. Our mother from the fields of heavenShall still her ear incline;Nor need we fear her human loveIs less for love divine. The songs are sweet they sing beneathThe trees of life so fair, But sweetest of the songs of heavenShall be her children's prayer. Then, darling, rest upon my breast, And teach my heart to leanWith thy sweet trust upon the armWhich folds us both unseen!1858 "THE ROCK" IN EL GHOR. Dead Petra in her hill-tomb sleeps, Her stones of emptiness remain;Around her sculptured mystery sweepsThe lonely waste of Edom's plain. From the doomed dwellers in the cleftThe bow of vengeance turns not back;Of all her myriads none are leftAlong the Wady Mousa's track. Clear in the hot Arabian dayHer arches spring, her statues climb;Unchanged, the graven wonders payNo tribute to the spoiler, Time! Unchanged the awful lithographOf power and glory undertrod;Of nations scattered like the chaffBlown from the threshing-floor of God. Yet shall the thoughtful stranger turnFrom Petra's gates with deeper awe, To mark afar the burial urnOf Aaron on the cliffs of Hor; And where upon its ancient guardThy Rock, El Ghor, is standing yet, --Looks from its turrets desertward, And keeps the watch that God has set. The same as when in thunders loudIt heard the voice of God to man, As when it saw in fire and cloudThe angels walk in Israel's van, Or when from Ezion-Geber's wayIt saw the long procession file, And heard the Hebrew timbrels playThe music of the lordly Nile; Or saw the tabernacle pause, Cloud-bound, by Kadesh Barnea's wells, While Moses graved the sacred laws, And Aaron swung his golden bells. Rock of the desert, prophet-sung!How grew its shadowing pile at length, A symbol, in the Hebrew tongue, Of God's eternal love and strength. On lip of bard and scroll of seer, From age to age went down the name, Until the Shiloh's promised year, And Christ, the Rock of Ages, came! The path of life we walk to-dayIs strange as that the Hebrews trod;We need the shadowing rock, as they, --We need, like them, the guides of God. God send His angels, Cloud and Fire, To lead us o'er the desert sand!God give our hearts their long desire, His shadow in a weary land!1859. THE OVER-HEART. "For of Him, and through Him, and to Him are all things, to whom be glory forever! "--PAUL. Above, below, in sky and sod, In leaf and spar, in star and man, Well might the wise Athenian scanThe geometric signs of God, The measured order of His plan. And India's mystics sang arightOf the One Life pervading all, --One Being's tidal rise and fallIn soul and form, in sound and sight, --Eternal outflow and recall. God is: and man in guilt and fearThe central fact of Nature owns;Kneels, trembling, by his altar-stones, And darkly dreams the ghastly smearOf blood appeases and atones. Guilt shapes the Terror: deep withinThe human heart the secret liesOf all the hideous deities;And, painted on a ground of sin, The fabled gods of torment rise! And what is He? The ripe grain nods, The sweet dews fall, the sweet flowers blow;But darker signs His presence showThe earthquake and the storm are God's, And good and evil interflow. O hearts of love! O souls that turnLike sunflowers to the pure and best!To you the truth is manifest:For they the mind of Christ discernWho lean like John upon His breast! In him of whom the sibyl told, For whom the prophet's harp was toned, Whose need the sage and magian owned, The loving heart of God behold, The hope for which the ages groaned! Fade, pomp of dreadful imageryWherewith mankind have deifiedTheir hate, and selfishness, and pride!Let the scared dreamer wake to seeThe Christ of Nazareth at his side! What doth that holy Guide require?No rite of pain, nor gift of blood, But man a kindly brotherhood, Looking, where duty is desire, To Him, the beautiful and good. Gone be the faithlessness of fear, And let the pitying heaven's sweet rainWash out the altar's bloody stain;The law of Hatred disappear, The law of Love alone remain. How fall the idols false and grim!And to! their hideous wreck aboveThe emblems of the Lamb and Dove!Man turns from God, not God from him;And guilt, in suffering, whispers Love! The world sits at the feet of Christ, Unknowing, blind, and unconsoled;It yet shall touch His garment's fold, And feel the heavenly AlchemistTransform its very dust to gold. The theme befitting angel tonguesBeyond a mortal's scope has grown. O heart of mine! with reverence ownThe fulness which to it belongs, And trust the unknown for the known. 1859. THE SHADOW AND THE LIGHT. "And I sought, whence is Evil: I set before the eye of my spirit the whole creation; whatsoever we see therein, --sea, earth, air, stars, trees, moral creatures, --yea, whatsoever there is we do not see, --angels and spiritual powers. Where is evil, and whence comes it, since God the Good hath created all things? Why made He anything at all of evil, and not rather by His Almightiness cause it not to be? These thoughts I turned in my miserable heart, overcharged with most gnawing cares. " "And, admonished to return to myself, I entered even into my inmost soul, Thou being my guide, and beheld even beyond my soul and mind the Light unchangeable. He who knows the Truth knows what that Light is, and he that knows it knows Eternity! O--Truth, who art Eternity! Love, who art Truth! Eternity, who art Love! And I beheld that Thou madest all things good, and to Thee is nothing whatsoever evil. From the angel to the worm, from the first motion to the last, Thou settest each in its place, and everything is good in its kind. Woe is me!--how high art Thou in the highest, how deep in the deepest! and Thou never departest from us and we scarcely return to Thee. " --AUGUSTINE'S Soliloquies, Book VII. The fourteen centuries fall awayBetween us and the Afric saint, And at his side we urge, to-day, The immemorial quest and old complaint. No outward sign to us is given, --From sea or earth comes no reply;Hushed as the warm Numidian heavenHe vainly questioned bends our frozen sky. No victory comes of all our strife, --From all we grasp the meaning slips;The Sphinx sits at the gate of life, With the old question on her awful lips. In paths unknown we hear the feetOf fear before, and guilt behind;We pluck the wayside fruit, and eatAshes and dust beneath its golden rind. From age to age descends uncheckedThe sad bequest of sire to son, The body's taint, the mind's defect;Through every web of life the dark threads run. Oh, why and whither? God knows all;I only know that He is good, And that whatever may befallOr here or there, must be the best that could. Between the dreadful cherubimA Father's face I still discern, As Moses looked of old on Him, And saw His glory into goodness turn! For He is merciful as just;And so, by faith correcting sight, I bow before His will, and trustHowe'er they seem He doeth all things right. And dare to hope that Tie will makeThe rugged smooth, the doubtful plain;His mercy never quite forsake;His healing visit every realm of pain; That suffering is not His revengeUpon His creatures weak and frail, Sent on a pathway new and strangeWith feet that wander and with eyes that fail; That, o'er the crucible of pain, Watches the tender eye of LoveThe slow transmuting of the chainWhose links are iron below to gold above! Ah me! we doubt the shining skies, Seen through our shadows of offence, And drown with our poor childish criesThe cradle-hymn of kindly Providence. And still we love the evil cause, And of the just effect complainWe tread upon life's broken laws, And murmur at our self-inflicted pain; We turn us from the light, and findOur spectral shapes before us thrown, As they who leave the sun behindWalk in the shadows of themselves alone. And scarce by will or strength of oursWe set our faces to the day;Weak, wavering, blind, the Eternal PowersAlone can turn us from ourselves away. Our weakness is the strength of sin, But love must needs be stronger far, Outreaching all and gathering inThe erring spirit and the wandering star. A Voice grows with the growing years;Earth, hushing down her bitter cry, Looks upward from her graves, and hears, "The Resurrection and the Life am I. " O Love Divine!--whose constant beamShines on the eyes that will not see, And waits to bless us, while we dreamThou leavest us because we turn from thee! All souls that struggle and aspire, All hearts of prayer by thee are lit;And, dim or clear, thy tongues of fireOn dusky tribes and twilight centuries sit. Nor bounds, nor clime, nor creed thou know'st, Wide as our need thy favors fall;The white wings of the Holy GhostStoop, seen or unseen, o'er the heads of all. O Beauty, old yet ever new!Eternal Voice, and Inward Word, The Logos of the Greek and Jew, The old sphere-music which the Samian heard! Truth, which the sage and prophet saw, Long sought without, but found within, The Law of Love beyond all law, The Life o'erflooding mortal death and sin! Shine on us with the light which glowedUpon the trance-bound shepherd's way. Who saw the Darkness overflowedAnd drowned by tides of everlasting Day. Shine, light of God!--make broad thy scopeTo all who sin and suffer; moreAnd better than we dare to hopeWith Heaven's compassion make our longings poor!1860. THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL. Lieutenant Herndon's Report of the Exploration of the Amazon has a striking description of the peculiar and melancholy notes of a bird heard by night on the shores of the river. The Indian guides called it "The Cry of a Lost Soul"! Among the numerous translations of this poem is one by the Emperor of Brazil. In that black forest, where, when day is done, With a snake's stillness glides the AmazonDarkly from sunset to the rising sun, A cry, as of the pained heart of the wood, The long, despairing moan of solitudeAnd darkness and the absence of all good, Startles the traveller, with a sound so drear, So full of hopeless agony and fear, His heart stands still and listens like his ear. The guide, as if he heard a dead-bell toll, Starts, drops his oar against the gunwale's thole, Crosses himself, and whispers, "A lost soul!" "No, Senor, not a bird. I know it well, --It is the pained soul of some infidelOr cursed heretic that cries from hell. "Poor fool! with hope still mocking his despair, He wanders, shrieking on the midnight airFor human pity and for Christian prayer. "Saints strike him dumb! Our Holy Mother hathNo prayer for him who, sinning unto death, Burns always in the furnace of God's wrath!" Thus to the baptized pagan's cruel lie, Lending new horror to that mournful cry, The voyager listens, making no reply. Dim burns the boat-lamp: shadows deepen round, From giant trees with snake-like creepers wound, And the black water glides without a sound. But in the traveller's heart a secret senseOf nature plastic to benign intents, And an eternal good in Providence, Lifts to the starry calm of heaven his eyes;And to! rebuking all earth's ominous cries, The Cross of pardon lights the tropic skies! "Father of all!" he urges his strong plea, "Thou lovest all: Thy erring child may beLost to himself, but never lost to Thee! "All souls are Thine; the wings of morning bearNone from that Presence which is everywhere, Nor hell itself can hide, for Thou art there. "Through sins of sense, perversities of will, Through doubt and pain, through guilt and shame and ill, Thy pitying eye is on Thy creature still. "Wilt thou not make, Eternal Source and Goal!In Thy long years, life's broken circle whole, And change to praise the cry of a lost soul?"1862. ANDREW RYKMAN'S PRAYER Andrew Rykman's dead and gone;You can see his leaning slateIn the graveyard, and thereonRead his name and date. "_Trust is truer than our fears_, "Runs the legend through the moss, "_Gain is not in added years, Nor in death is loss_. " Still the feet that thither trod, All the friendly eyes are dim;Only Nature, now, and GodHave a care for him. There the dews of quiet fall, Singing birds and soft winds stray:Shall the tender Heart of allBe less kind than they? What he was and what he isThey who ask may haply find, If they read this prayer of hisWhich he left behind. . . . . Pardon, Lord, the lips that dareShape in words a mortal's prayer!Prayer, that, when my day is done, And I see its setting sun, Shorn and beamless, cold and dim, Sink beneath the horizon's rim, --When this ball of rock and clayCrumbles from my feet away, And the solid shores of senseMelt into the vague immense, Father! I may come to TheeEven with the beggar's plea, As the poorest of Thy poor, With my needs, and nothing more. Not as one who seeks his homeWith a step assured I come;Still behind the tread I hearOf my life-companion, Fear;Still a shadow deep and vastFrom my westering feet is cast, Wavering, doubtful, undefined, Never shapen nor outlinedFrom myself the fear has grown, And the shadow is my own. Yet, O Lord, through all a senseOf Thy tender providenceStays my failing heart on Thee, And confirms the feeble knee;And, at times, my worn feet pressSpaces of cool quietness, Lilied whiteness shone uponNot by light of moon or sun. Hours there be of inmost calm, Broken but by grateful psalm, When I love Thee more than fear Thee, And Thy blessed Christ seems near me, With forgiving look, as whenHe beheld the Magdalen. Well I know that all things moveTo the spheral rhythm of love, --That to Thee, O Lord of all!Nothing can of chance befallChild and seraph, mote and star, Well Thou knowest what we areThrough Thy vast creative planLooking, from the worm to man, There is pity in Thine eyes, But no hatred nor surprise. Not in blind caprice of will, Not in cunning sleight of skill, Not for show of power, was wroughtNature's marvel in Thy thought. Never careless hand and vainSmites these chords of joy and pain;No immortal selfishnessPlays the game of curse and blessHeaven and earth are witnessesThat Thy glory goodness is. Not for sport of mind and forceHast Thou made Thy universe, But as atmosphere and zoneOf Thy loving heart alone. Man, who walketh in a show, Sees before him, to and fro, Shadow and illusion go;All things flow and fluctuate, Now contract and now dilate. In the welter of this sea, Nothing stable is but Thee;In this whirl of swooning trance, Thou alone art permanence;All without Thee only seems, All beside is choice of dreams. Never yet in darkest moodDoubted I that Thou wast good, Nor mistook my will for fate, Pain of sin for heavenly hate, --Never dreamed the gates of pearlRise from out the burning marl, Or that good can only liveOf the bad conservative, And through counterpoise of hellHeaven alone be possible. For myself alone I doubt;All is well, I know, without;I alone the beauty mar, I alone the music jar. Yet, with hands by evil stained, And an ear by discord pained, I am groping for the keysOf the heavenly harmonies;Still within my heart I bearLove for all things good and fair. Hands of want or souls in painHave not sought my door in vain;I have kept my fealty goodTo the human brotherhood;Scarcely have I asked in prayerThat which others might not share. I, who hear with secret shamePraise that paineth more than blame, Rich alone in favors lent, Virtuous by accident, Doubtful where I fain would rest, Frailest where I seem the best, Only strong for lack of test, --What am I, that I should pressSpecial pleas of selfishness, Coolly mounting into heavenOn my neighbor unforgiven?Ne'er to me, howe'er disguised, Comes a saint unrecognized;Never fails my heart to greetNoble deed with warmer beat;Halt and maimed, I own not lessAll the grace of holiness;Nor, through shame or self-distrust, Less I love the pure and just. Lord, forgive these words of mineWhat have I that is not Thine?Whatsoe'er I fain would boastNeeds Thy pitying pardon most. Thou, O Elder Brother! whoIn Thy flesh our trial knew, Thou, who hast been touched by theseOur most sad infirmities, Thou alone the gulf canst spanIn the dual heart of man, And between the soul and senseReconcile all difference, Change the dream of me and mineFor the truth of Thee and Thine, And, through chaos, doubt, and strife, Interfuse Thy calm of life. Haply, thus by Thee renewed, In Thy borrowed goodness good, Some sweet morning yet in God'sDim, veonian periods, Joyful I shall wake to seeThose I love who rest in Thee, And to them in Thee alliedShall my soul be satisfied. Scarcely Hope hath shaped for meWhat the future life may be. Other lips may well be bold;Like the publican of old, I can only urge the plea, "Lord, be merciful to me!"Nothing of desert I claim, Unto me belongeth shame. Not for me the, crowns of gold, Palms, and harpings manifold;Not for erring eye and feetJasper wall and golden street. What thou wilt, O Father, give IAll is gain that I receive. If my voice I may not raiseIn the elders' song of praise, If I may not, sin-defiled, Claim my birthright as a child, Suffer it that I to TheeAs an hired servant be;Let the lowliest task be mine, Grateful, so the work be Thine;Let me find the humblest placeIn the shadow of Thy graceBlest to me were any spotWhere temptation whispers not. If there be some weaker one, Give me strength to help him onIf a blinder soul there be, Let me guide him nearer Thee. Make my mortal dreams come trueWith the work I fain would do;Clothe with life the weak intent, Let me be the thing I meant;Let me find in Thy employPeace that dearer is than joy;Out of self to love be ledAnd to heaven acclimated, Until all things sweet and goodSeem my natural habitude. . . . . So we read the prayer of himWho, with John of Labadie, Trod, of old, the oozy rimOf the Zuyder Zee. Thus did Andrew Rykman pray. Are we wiser, better grown, That we may not, in our day, Make his prayer our own?