Last Verses

THE LEGEND OF THE ALMOST SAVED

FROM THE RUSSIANONCE a poor soul, reft from a dull, hard lot(Which yet was dear, as even dull life may be),Found herself bodiless in that dread spotWhich mortals know as “Hell” and fearfullyName in a whisper, while the Saints name not.“I was not wicked; they have told God liesTo make him send me here,” she moaned in pain,Then suddenly her wan, reproachful eyes,Raised to the Pity never sought in vain,Beheld a hovering shape in aureoled guise.It was Saint Peter, guardian of the gate,The shining gate where blessed ones go in.“Why thus,” demanded he, “bewail your fate?What good deed did you in your life to winThe right to Heaven? Speak ere it be too late!”Then the poor soul, – all downcast and dismayed,Scanning the saint’s face and his austere air,In vain reviewed her life, in vain essayedTo think of aught accomplished which might bearHeaven’s scrutiny. At length she answer made.“Poor was I,” faltered she, “so very poor!Little I had to spare, yet once I gaveA carrot from my scanty garden storeTo one more poor than I was.” Sad and graveSaint Peter questioned, “Didst thou do no more?”“No,” said the trembling soul. He bent his head.“Wait thou until I bear thy plea on high;The angel there who judges quick and deadShall weigh thee in his scales, and rightfullyDecide thy final place and doom,” he said.So the soul waited till Hell’s doors should ope.It opened never, but adown the skyThere swung a carrot from a slender rope,And a voice reached her, sounding from on high,Saying, “If the carrot bear thee, there is hope.”She clutched the rescue by the Heavens sent.The carrot held – small good has mighty strength;But one, and then another, as she wentCaught at her flying garments, till at lengthFour of the lost rose with her, well content.The smoke of Hell curled darkly far beneath,The blue of Heaven gleamed fair and bright in view,Life quivered in the balance over Death.Almost had life prevailed when, “Who are you,”The soul cried out with startled, jealous breath,“Who hang so heavily, going where I go?God never meant to save you! It is I,I whom he sent for from the Place of Wo.Loosen your hold at once!” Then suddenlyThe carrot yielded, and all fell below.The pitiful, grieved angels overheadWatched the poor souls shoot wailing through the airToward the lurid shadows darkly red,And sadly sighed. “Heaven was so near, so fair,Almost we had them safely here,” they said.

TWO ANGELS

BESIDE a grave two Angels sit,Set there to guard and hallow it;With grave sweet eyes and folded wingsThey watch it all the day and night,And dress the place and keep it bright,And drive away all hurtful things.And one is called in heavenly speech,Used by the Blessed each to each,“The Angel of the Steadfast Heart”:Those hearts which still through storm and stress,Strong in a perfect faithfulness,Keep the firm way and better part.Unto the other has been givenThe loveliest name is known in Heaven,“The Guardian of the Selfless Soul,” —Those dear souls who through joy and painLose their own lives to find again,Bearing the weight of other’s dole.A crown of roses snowy whiteSurrounds one Angel’s brow of light, —Sweet, sweet the odor that it breathes;A starry band of asphodels,Which shake out dim, mysterious smells,The other’s statelier forehead wreathes.“She is of mine,” one Angel saith;“Her heart was faithful unto death,” —His voice has a triumphant tone.“Mine, too,” the other soft replies;“By her whole life’s self-sacrificeI mark and claim her as mine own.”And then the voices blend and vieIn clear, celestial harmony:“Both in the task may rightly share,For she whose gentle rest we tendWas brave and constant to the end,With never a selfish thought or care.“The quiet earth wherein she liesIs holy-ground in heavenly eyes;It well befits for such as sheThat we should quit all other task;Nor better could an angel askThan be the guard of such as she.”Beside a grave two Angels sit,Set there to tend and hallow it;Unseen by men they sit alway;With folded wings and eyes of lightThey make it dewy-sweet all day,And balm it subtly every night.

LIMITATION

“Let us accept from God even our own nature, and treat it charitably.” – Henri AmielGREATER than Fate ordains we fain would be;Wiser and purer, strung with life and powerAnd insight and compelling energy;But with the first breath of our first faint hourThe limit line is set, vain our endeavor,Our longing and our hope; we pass it never.Since this is so, since this indeed is so,Let us accept ourselves as God has made, —The lagging zest, the pulse which beats too slow,Dull wit, and scanty joy, – nor be afraidThat we shall thwart the purpose of our livingBy such self-tolerance and such forgiving;For the least spark which fires the mortal clod,And wakes the hunger and the thirst divineIn the least soul, as truly is of GodAs the great flame which burns a beaconing signTo light the nations when their hope is dim,Set in the darkness as a type of Him.Take courage then, poor soul, so little worthIn thine own eyes, so puny and afraid,And all unfit to combat the fierce earth;Forgive thyself because the Master madeAnd meant thee meeker than thy wish and will,And knows, and understands, and loves thee still.

THE MIRACLE OF FRIENDSHIP

OUT of the width of the world, out of the womb of Fate,The souls that are meant for each other shall meet, and shall know and embrace.Age or youth are nothing, are nothing or soon or late,When the heart to heart makes answer and joyful face to face.Where hast thou tarried, my Love, while I waited and missed thee long,One of the two shall question, and the other shall make reply,In a voice of gladness and triumph, less like unto speech than song,“I knew not that I was a hungered till God sent thee as supply.”The world may crowd and question, but friends are always alone,Set in bright atmosphere, like a planet in far-off skies;A touch, a glance, a sigh, love comprehends its own,And words are feeble and poor compared with the spark of the eyes.The undug gold in the mine, the pearl in the deep, deep seas,The gem which lies undiscovered, are the daydreams of the earth;But the love unreckoned, unhoped for, which is mightier far than these,Is the miracle of Heaven for the souls which it counts as worth.

ROSE TERRY COOKE

OUT of the life that was so hard to bear,Clouded by sorrow and perplexed by care,Out of the long watch and the heavy night,She has gone forth into the light of light.A tropic-blossom, warm with sun and scent,Set in New England’s chill environment;Through beat of storm and stress of winter’s cold,She kept the summer in her heart of gold.Love was the life which pulsed her being through;No task too hard if set by Love to do,No pain too sharp if Love called to endure,No weariness she knew if Love was sure.Her rose of Love was set with many a thorn,Clouds veiled and hid the promise of her morn;Thirsting and spent, she journeyed on unfed,While Love, too often, gave her stones for bread.But still ’mid waning hopes and deepening fearsAnd brave, hard strivings through the ebbing years,Lifting her up when she was like to fall,Love led her to the land where Love is all.Heaven has received her as a welcome guest,Balming earth’s tire with compensating rest,Healing earth’s grievous wound with sure content, —The sense of home after long banishment.But more to her than smile of vanished kin,Or hands outstretched to greet and draw her in,Or “Bonded Walls” of amethyst unpriced,Is the clear vision of the Face of Christ!That Face Divine, which, in her girlhood’s daySeeing, she loved, and never looked away,Which, like a star in the dim firmament,Guided her steps and moved where’er she went.Out of the life that was not always sweet,Out of the puzzle and the day’s defeat,Out of earth’s hindering and alien zone,The Lord of Love has led her to her own.

INTO THE DEEP

“LORD, we have toiled all day and taken naught.”Thus spoke the fishers by the darkling sea,While the dusk deepened, and the shadows drewOver the desert sand-dunes and the blueWaters of Galilee.“What shall we do, Lord?” And the Master said:“Spread sail, and let the breeze of evening waftTo the deep seas; quit the familiar shore,And let your nets down fearlessly once more,As for a certain draught.”Lord, we have toiled in vain, even as these,Dragging our nets unfruitful waters through;Not one poor fish rewards our pains all day,And, like the twelve of old, we come and say,“Master, what shall we do?”And still for us, as then, the answer sounds,Making the very hearts within us leap:“Leave the safe shallows where the ripples play,The sluggish inlet and confining bay —Push out into the deep.“Strain toward the mighty ocean of God’s love,His great Love’s all unfathomed energies,Where never plummet reached or bound was set.Quit ye like valiant fishermen, and letYour nets down in deep seas.“Those rich, rewarding waters shall not fail,Till the nets break the fish shall crowd therein;And I, the Master, waiting other where,Will lend My strength to land the precious fareWhich ye have toiled to win.”Lord, Thou hast spoken, and we trust Thy word;We will push out and leave the safe, known land,And count it full reward if, coming backLaden at nightfall, o’er the waters blackWe see Thee on the strand.

THROUGH THE CLOUD

THE morning was chill and misty,And a white and drifting veilHid all the mountain passesAnd the elm-fringed intervale.We gazed in a puzzled wonder,And looked to the left and the right,For it seemed that some spell had seized the worldAnd had changed it during the night.Was there ever a mountain yonder,We asked, or a pine-clad stream?Or red-gold trees in the hollow?Or were all these things a dream?Then suddenly as we questionedThe mists turned thin and blue,And up in the far, high heavenA mountain outline grew.Like a vision it gleamed and vanished,But its beckon was seen and caught,And one peak after anotherFlashed out with the speed of thought;And the mist wreaths floated higher,And drifted off one by one,And the wet, green autumn meadowsShone out in the yellow sun;And the scarlet and dun of the hillsidesHad borrowed a fresher hue,And the purple gate of the notch swung wide,And a pink cloud floated through.And I thought of some heavy-hearted onesWhose world had suddenly changedTo a whirl of mist and driving cloudFrom all fair things estranged,And who sat and wearily wonderedIf ever the world seemed bright,And half believed that joy was a dreamWhich fled with the flying night;And how, by little and little,The clouds were tinged with sun,And the former joys of livingDawned out of them one by one, —The hope and the work and the loving,The zest of thought and plan,The old-time strength of friendship,The old-time need of man.And the world which was changed for a morningWas the same dear world again,With only an added ripeness, caughtFrom its brief eclipse of pain.

NEARER HOME

THE wind is like an armèd foe,Drawn up to bar the way,The strong seas smite us blow on blow,The decks are lashed with spray;High-crested tower above the shipThe waves with lips afoam,But welcome every plunge and dipWhich brings us nearer home.The dear West beckons from afarWith gold gleams in her eyes,The glinting stars familiar areHigh hung in clear cool skies;We send an answering smile for smileUp to the airy dome,And welcome every weary mileSo it but bring us home.Sweet hope which lifts the dull, long hourAnd makes it light to bear,Sweet waiting welcome which has powerTo make the dark seem fair,Sweet hands held out across the seaTo reach us where we roam, —We can bear hardest things since weHave turned our face toward home.

ROOTED

WE rail at fate which holds us boundTo duty’s dull and narrow round,To face as bravely as we mayThe common cares of every day.Our wandering wishes urge and fret,But circumstance is mightier yet,And curbs and checks the restless will,And bids the impatient heart be still.And while we vainly strive and chide,Little by little, undescried,The tiny roots of life take hold,Anchoring their fibres in the mould.The roots of habit, tough and long,Of deathless love, than death more strong,Of order measuring out the days,And duty’s sweet, recurrent ways, —They bind us when we fain would fly,They check and thwart till, by and by,The narrow plot which they controlBecomes the home-ground of the soul;And stormy, mutinous youth, grown wise,Looks out and in, with older eyes,And in his limitations seesHis helpers, not his hindrances.

THE BURIED STATUE

DEEP in the earth long years it lay;Its marble eyes were sealed to day,Its marble ears were deaf and dull,Yet it was wondrous beautiful.A vineyard grew above its head;The grapes they knew, and whisperèdEach unto each, as evening fell:“Brothers, keep counsel, nothing tell!”There was no record left, or traceOf sculptor or of hiding-place;The hand that shaped it lay in dust,His cunning chisel turned to rust.The hands that dug the grave so deep,And laid the statue to its sleep,While hearts beat quick with haste and fear,And ears were strained a step to hear;The foe who threatened them that day —All, all were dead and passed away.The world had turned and turned it o’er;Nothing was as it was before.Still through all change of war or peace,New men, new laws, new dynasties,The buried statue kept its place,With the same smile upon its face.The years to centuries gave birth;Heavier and heavier pressed the earth;Autumn and spring enriched the vineWhose purple grapes were crushed for wine;And then, in search of gain or spoil,Men came to dig the aged soil;And after half a thousand yearsIn silence spent, the statue hears!How did it feel when, fine and thin,The first long ray of light broke in,And gilt the gloom with glory new,And let the imprisoned beauty through?Say, did it tremble, as a heartLong pent in darkness and apartTrembles, with fear and rapture stirredAt love’s low signal long unheard?Or did it blench as, sharp and clear,The urgent spade-strokes drew more near,Blindly directed, fraught with harmTo marble breast and marble arm?No answer, save the subtle smile,Baffling and tempting in its guile,Which seems all wordlessly to say:“Darkness was safe, but fairer, day.”

FAR AND NEAR

“From every point on earth we are equally near to heaven and the infinite.” – Henri AmielOUT of the depths that are to us so deep,Up to the heights so hopelessly above,Past storms that intervene and winds that sweep,Unto thine ear, O pitying Lord of love,We send our cry for aid, doubtful and half afraidIf thou, so very far, canst hear us or canst aid.Out of the dull plane of our common life,Beset with sordid, interrupting cares,And petty motives and ignoble strife,We dimly raise our hesitating prayers,And question fearfully if such a thing can beThat the great Lord can care for creatures such as we.Up from the radiant heights of just-won bliss,Achieved through pain and toil and struggle long,We raise our thanks, nor fear that God will missOne least inflection of the happy song.Heaven seems so very near, the earth so bright and dear,The Lord so close at hand, that surely he must hear!But the great depth that was to us so dark,And the dull place that was to us so dull,And the glad height where, singing like a lark,We stood, and felt the world all-beautiful,Seen by the angels’ eyes, bent downward from the skies,Were just as near to heaven and heaven’s infinities.So out of sunshine as of deepest shade,Out of the dust of sordid every-days,We may look up, and, glad and unafraid,Call on the Lord for help, and give him praise;No time nor fate nor space can bar us from his face,Or stand between one soul and his exhaustless grace.

GREECE

AH, little David! least of all thy kin,Fresh from the thyme-sweet meads of Thessaly,Where the cool pastures overhang the sea,Leaving thy sheep to join the battle’s din:Here is Philistia, here the chosen hostsWavering half-hearted on the unfought plain,Chiding thy zeal as “premature” and “vain,”The while the turbaned giant struts and boasts.We catch the shining of thy brave young face,We watch thee fit the pebble to the slingWith straight, true aim and heart that knows no fear,And turn to see, O wonder of disgrace,The serried soldiery of Christ the KingSkulking, protesting, squabbling in the rear!

IF YOUTH COULD KNOW

IF youth could know, what age knows without teaching,Hope’s instability and Love’s dear folly,The difference between practising and preaching,The quiet charm that lurks in melancholy;The after-bitterness of tasted pleasure;That temperance of feeling and of wordsIs health of mind, and the calm fruits of leisureHave sweeter taste than feverish zeal affords;That reason has a joy beyond unreason;That nothing satisfies the soul like truth;That kindness conquers in and out of season, —If youth could know – why, youth would not be youth.If age could feel the uncalculating urgence,The pulse of life that beats in youthful veins,And with its swift, resistless ebb and surgenceMakes light of difficulties, sport of pains;Could once, just once, retrace the path and find it,That lovely, foolish zeal, so crude, so young,Which bids defiance to all laws to bind it,And flashes in quick eye and limb and tongue,Which, counting dross for gold, is rich in dreaming,And, reckoning moons as suns, is never cold,And, having naught, has everything in seeming, —If age could do all this – age were not old!

THE SOUL’S CLIMATE

“Every soul has a climate of its own, or rather is a climate.” – Henri AmielO HEART beloved, O kindest heart!Balming like summer and like sunThe sting of tears, the ache of sorrow,The shy, cold hurts which sting and smart,The frets and cares which underrunThe dull day and the dreaded morrow —How when thou comest all turns fair,Hard things seem possible to bear,Dark things less dark, if thou art there.Thou keepest a climate of thine own’Mid earth’s wild weather and gray skies,A soft, still air for human healing,A genial, all-embracing zoneWhere frosts smite not nor winds arise;And past the tempest-storm of feelingEach grieved and weak and weary thing,Each bird with numbed and frozen wing,May sink to rest and learn to sing.Like some cathedral stone begirt,Which keeps through change of cold and heatStill temperature and equal weather,Thy sweetness stands, untouched, unhurtBy any mortal storms that beat,Calm, helpful, undisturbed forever.Dear heart, to which we all repairTo bask in sunshine and sweet air,God bless thee ever, everywhere.

THE BETTER PRAYER

WHEN I sit and think of heaven so beautiful and dear,Think of the sweet peace reigning there and the contentions here,Think of the safe, sure justice beside the earthly wrong,And set our ringing discords against celestial song,And all the full securities beside “O Lord, how long?”Oh, then I long to be there, and in my heart I pray,“Lord, open thou the pearly gates, and let me in to-day.”And then I turn to earth again, and in my thoughts I seeThe small, unnoted corner given in charge to me,The work that needs be done there which no one else will do,The briars that rend, the tares that spring, the heartease choked with rue,The plants that must be trained and set to catch the sun and dew;And there seems so much to do there, that in my heart I pray,“Lord, shut thy gate, and call me not, and let me work to-day.”

SUPPLY

“Why does all heaven move toward beseeching souls?”

Nathaniel Burton.EMPTY the brook-fed basin high on the mountain side,Drain it drop by drop, and make it dry as you will,The forces that guide the waters no vacuum can abide;They rush, they join, they link their threads in a foaming tide,And down they hurry and hasten the spent pool to re-fill.Empty the sphere of glass, exhaust its last spent air,Seal it and make it sure, and deem your work complete,Let but a pin pierce through the fabric anywhere,And the urgent and crowding ether, for all your guarding care,Will enter and fill the space, and laugh at your swift defeat.So to the empty chambers of these craving souls of oursComes the invisible grace which breathes from the Lord of heaven,Comes as comes to the sand the tide with its freshening powers,Comes as come to the harvest the solacing summer showers,As to thirst of the desert the draft which is life is given.Only be ready and wait, and Heaven shall haste to bless.Empty thy old wine out and make a place for the new;Swifter than rushing wind shall the force divine down press,And the pitiful Lord, instead of the want and the loneliness,Shall give the peace of peace and the fulness of joy to you.

A THOUGHT

“It is better to be lost than to be saved all alone.”

Henri Amiel.WHAT! heaven all to one’s self and the rest of men shut out?Better were hell than that, with a share in the common doom,Than to bask and smile content, with never a fear and doubt,In the vast, vast Paradise space with the countless flowers abloom.To lie by the River of Life and see it run to waste,To eat of the Tree of Heaven while the nations go unfed,To taste the full salvation – the only one to taste —To live while the rest are lost, – oh, better by far be dead!For to share is the bliss of heaven, as it is the joy of earth,And the unshared bread lacks savor, and the wine unshared lacks zest,And the joy of the soul redeemed would be little, little worth,If, content with its own security, it could forget the rest.

HOLGER DANSKE

WHERE the mighty walls of KronbergTower o’er the cold blue tides,Like a couching lion set to guardA treasure which he hides,  In a deep, deep vault shut out from day,In the heart of the dungeon place,There sleepeth Holger Danske,The noblest of his race.There sleeps he in his rusted mail,With his sword across his knees,His snowy beard has grown ell longThrough the long centuries.And if ever a faint, far murmur stirs,Or the sound of a bell’s dim chime,He moves, and fumbles at the hilt,And mutters, “Is it time?”A peasant once of old, ’tis said,Lost in the labyrinth ways,Chanced on the door and raised the bar,And stared with a wild amaze.And, “Is it time?” he heard the shapeIn an awful voice demand;Trembling he answer made, “Not yet!”“Then reach to me thy hand.”But the frightened hind dares not approachTo touch that form of eld,And laid instead in the mailed graspThe iron bar he held.Like wax the iron bent and snapped,And the grim lips moved to smile.“Ha! There are men in Denmark still;I may rest me yet a while.”Never since then has mortal manTrod the forgotten stair,Or lifted the bar of the hidden vaultTo rouse the sleeper there.But whenever the Danish blood is hot,Or the land for a hero cries,Men think of Holger Danske,And they look to see him rise.For the runes have read and the sagas sungThat whenever the worst shall be,And the Raven standard flutter lowAbove the Northern Sea,And the Danish blade be broken short,And the land be rent with grief,The genius of the Danes shall wakeAnd come to his relief.Before his cold and frozen look,Before his blasting blade,The armies of the foe shall flee,The alien shrink, afraid;And the Paladin of ancient daysShall rule with the ancient might,And all the bitter be made sweet,And all the wrong made right.Out of the throes of the heaviest painThis new peace shall be born,Out of the very heart of nightBreak the unlooked-for morn,When the nation’s need shall answerIn one deep, according chime,To the voice of Holger Danske,Demanding, “Is it time?”

VASSOS

SILENT he sits upon the Cretan height,A girdling ring of fleets and forts below;He sees the war-ships gliding to and fro,Hears distant, summoning trumpets through the night.Far off is Greece, the enemy is near;To her he speaks, to him he nothing says;Borrowing the lightning’s language for his phrase,With fiery flash he talks, in utterance clear.In the old time a monarch through the murkStared shuddering, and watched while fiery linesTraced on the wall a word of destiny;And so the “Christian” kings who serve the TurkMay read like message in those flashing signs:“Weighed, wanting, lo! thy power is taken from thee.”

MUTINY

THE heart of the world beats slow,And the pulse of life is low,And the shrunk earth powerless lies, and prone in the clutches of the frost;And the short, short days go by,And the sun in the wintry skyShoots a cold ray into the noon as if its heat were lost.But put your ear to the ground,And a stir of dim-heard soundWill reach it, – a murmur of slow revolt, like the hiss of a rising tide.No rootlet faint and chillBut shares the quivering thrill;And mutinous whispers come and go where the thralls of the winter hide.Ah, despot, hoary and old!Your fetters are strong and cold,But stronger the slender slaves they bind, and they shall conquer thee.A little longer stillYou may urge your cruel will,Then the dungeon-doors shall open wide and the prisoners go free.Bluebird and robin thenShall sing your requiem.The moon shall laugh at your defeat, the teasing winds deride;For your icicles on eavesShall dance the happy leavesAnd the bayonets of the daffodils thrust all your frosts aside.For while the stars endureThis sweet truth standeth sure, —That life is ever lord of death, and love o’ercometh hate.So, though the months seem long,And the icy fetters strong,We will abide in patience, come the springtime soon or late.