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diff --git a/old/44778.txt b/old/44778.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9c5d610 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/44778.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2294 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Religious Poems, by Harriet Beecher Stowe + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Religious Poems + +Author: Harriet Beecher Stowe + +Release Date: January 28, 2014 [EBook #44778] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RELIGIOUS POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by David Edwards, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + + + + + + + + + +RELIGIOUS POEMS. + + BY + HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. + + _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS._ + + [Illustration] + + BOSTON: + TICKNOR AND FIELDS. + 1867. + + + + + Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by + HARRIET BEECHER STOWE, + in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District + of Massachusetts. + + + UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO., + CAMBRIDGE. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + PAGE + ST. CATHERINE BORNE BY ANGELS 1 + THE CHARMER 6 + KNOCKING 10 + THE OLD PSALM TUNE 15 + THE OTHER WORLD 19 + MARY AT THE CROSS 22 + THE INNER VOICE 28 + ABIDE IN ME, AND I IN YOU 30 + THE SECRET 32 + THINK NOT ALL IS OVER 34 + LINES TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE" 36 + THE CROCUS 39 + CONSOLATION 41 + "ONLY A YEAR" 44 + BELOW 47 + ABOVE 49 + LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. STUART 53 + SUMMER STUDIES 57 + + +HOURS OF THE NIGHT. + + I. MIDNIGHT 65 + II. FIRST HOUR 68 + III. SECOND HOUR 71 + IV. THIRD HOUR 74 + V. FOURTH HOUR 77 + VI. DAY DAWN 85 + VII. WHEN I AWAKE I AM STILL WITH THEE 88 + + +PRESSED FLOWERS FROM ITALY. + + A DAY IN THE PAMFILI DORIA 93 + THE GARDENS OF THE VATICAN 102 + ST. PETER'S CHURCH 104 + THE MISERERE 106 + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +ST. CATHERINE BORNE BY ANGELS.[A] + + + SLOW through the solemn air, in silence sailing, + Borne by mysterious angels, strong and fair, + She sleeps at last, blest dreams her eyelids veiling, + Above this weary world of strife and care. + + Lo how she passeth!--dreamy, slow, and calm: + Scarce wave those broad, white wings, so silvery bright; + Those cloudy robes, in star-emblazoned folding, + Sweep mistily athwart the evening light. + + Far, far below, the dim, forsaken earth, + The foes that threaten, or the friends that weep; + Past, like a dream, the torture and the pain: + For so He giveth his beloved sleep. + + The restless bosom of the surging ocean + Gives back the image as the cloud floats o'er, + Hushing in glassy awe his troubled motion; + For one blest moment he complains no more. + + Like the transparent golden floor of heaven, + His charmed waters lie as in a dream, + And glistening wings, and starry robes unfolding, + And serious angel eyes far downward gleam. + + O restless sea! thou seemest all enchanted + By that sweet vision of celestial rest; + Where are the winds and tides thy peace that haunted,-- + So still thou seemest, so glorified and blest! + + Ah, sea! to-morrow, that sweet scene forgotten, + Dark tides and tempests shall thy bosom rear; + And thy complaining waves, with restless motion, + Shall toss their hands in their old wild despair. + + So o'er our hearts sometimes the sweet, sad story + Of suffering saints, borne homeward crowned and blest, + Shines down in stillness with a tender glory, + And makes a mirror there of breathless rest. + + For not alone in those old Eastern regions + Are Christ's beloved ones tried by cross and chain; + In many a house are his elect ones hidden, + His martyrs suffering in their patient pain. + + The rack, the cross, life's weary wrench of woe, + The world sees not, as slow, from day to day, + In calm, unspoken patience, sadly still, + The loving spirit bleeds itself away. + + But there are hours when, from the heavens unfolding, + Come down the angels with the glad release; + And we look upward, to behold in glory + Our suffering loved ones borne away to peace. + + Ah, brief the calm! the restless wave of feeling + Rises again when the bright cloud sweeps by, + And our unrestful souls reflect no longer + That tender vision of the upper sky. + + Espoused Lord of the pure saints in glory, + To whom all faithful souls affianced are, + Breathe down thy peace into our restless spirits, + And make a lasting, heavenly vision there. + + So the bright gates no more on us shall close; + No more the cloud of angels fade away; + And we shall walk, amid life's weary strife, + In the calm light of thine eternal day. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[A] According to this legend, Catherine was a noble maiden of +Alexandria, distinguished alike by birth, riches, beauty, and the +rarest gifts of genius and learning. In the flower of her life she +consecrated herself to the service of her Redeemer, and cheerfully +suffered for his sake the loss of wealth, friends, and the esteem of +the world. Banishment, imprisonment, and torture were in vain tried to +shake the constancy of her faith; and at last she was bound upon the +torturing-wheel for a cruel death. But the angels descended, so says +the story, rent the wheel, and bore her away, through the air, far over +the sea, to Mount Sinai, where her body was left to repose, and her +soul ascended with them to heaven. + + + + +THE CHARMER. + + "_Socrates._ However, you and Simmias appear to me as + if you wished to sift this subject more thoroughly, + and to be afraid, like children, lest, on the soul's + departure from the body, winds should blow it away. + + "Upon this Cebes said, 'Endeavor to teach us better, + Socrates. Perhaps there is a childish spirit in + our breast that has such a dread. Let us endeavor + to persuade him not to be afraid of death, as of + hobgoblins.' + + "'But you must charm him every day,' said Socrates, + 'until you have quieted his fears.' + + "'But whence, O Socrates,' he said, 'can we procure a + skilful charmer for such a case, now you are about to + leave us.' + + "'Greece is wide, Cebes,' he said, 'and in it surely + there are skilful men; and there are many barbarous + nations, all of which you should search, seeking such a + charmer, sparing neither money nor toil.'"--Last words + of Socrates, as narrated by Plato in the _Phaedo_. + + + WE need that charmer, for our hearts are sore + With longings for the things that may not be, + Faint for the friends that shall return no more, + Dark with distrust, or wrung with agony. + + "What is this life? and what to us is death? + Whence came we? whither go? and where are those + Who, in a moment stricken from our side, + Passed to that land of shadow and repose? + + "And are they all dust? and dust must we become? + Or are they living in some unknown clime? + Shall we regain them in that far-off home, + And live anew beyond the waves of time? + + "O man divine! on thee our souls have hung; + Thou wert our teacher in these questions high; + But ah! this day divides thee from our side, + And veils in dust thy kindly-guiding eye. + + "Where is that Charmer whom thou bidst us seek? + On what far shores may his sweet voice be heard? + When shall these questions of our yearning souls + Be answered by the bright Eternal Word?" + + So spake the youth of Athens, weeping round, + When Socrates lay calmly down to die; + So spake the sage, prophetic of the hour + When earth's fair morning star should rise on high. + + They found Him not, those youths of soul divine, + Long seeking, wandering, watching on life's shore; + Reasoning, aspiring, yearning for the light, + Death came and found them--doubting as before. + + But years passed on; and lo! the Charmer came, + Pure, simple, sweet, as comes the silver dew, + And the world knew him not,--he walked alone, + Encircled only by his trusting few. + + Like the Athenian sage, rejected, scorned, + Betrayed, condemned, his day of doom drew nigh; + He drew his faithful few more closely round, + And told them that his hour was come--to die. + + "Let not your heart be troubled," then He said, + "My Father's house hath mansions large and fair; + I go before you to prepare your place, + I will return to take you with me there." + + And since that hour the awful foe is charmed, + And life and death are glorified and fair; + Whither He went we know, the way we know, + And with firm step press on to meet him there. + + + + +KNOCKING. + + "Behold, I stand at the door and knock." + + + KNOCKING, knocking, ever knocking? + Who is there? + 'Tis a pilgrim, strange and kingly, + Never such was seen before;-- + Ah, sweet soul, for such a wonder + Undo the door. + + No,--that door is hard to open; + Hinges rusty, latch is broken; + Bid Him go. + Wherefore, with that knocking dreary + Scare the sleep from one so weary? + Say Him,--no. + +[Illustration] + + Knocking, knocking, ever knocking? + What! Still there? + O, sweet soul, but once behold Him, + With the glory-crowned hair; + And those eyes, so strange and tender, + Waiting there; + Open! Open! Once behold Him,-- + Him, so fair. + + Ah, that door! Why wilt Thou vex me, + Coming ever to perplex me? + For the key is stiffly rusty, + And the bolt is clogged and dusty; + Many-fingered ivy-vine + Seals it fast with twist and twine; + Weeds of years and years before + Choke the passage of that door. + + Knocking! knocking! What! still knocking? + He still there? + What's the hour? The night is waning,-- + In my heart a drear complaining, + And a chilly, sad unrest! + Ah, this knocking! It disturbs me, + Scares my sleep with dreams unblest! + Give me rest, + Rest,--ah, rest! + + Rest, dear soul, He longs to give thee; + Thou hast only dreamed of pleasure, + Dreamed of gifts and golden treasure, + Dreamed of jewels in thy keeping, + Waked to weariness of weeping;-- + Open to thy soul's one Lover, + And thy night of dreams is over,-- + The true gifts He brings have seeming + More than all thy faded dreaming! + + Did she open? Doth she? Will she? + So, as wondering we behold, + Grows the picture to a sign, + Pressed upon your soul and mine; + For in every breast that liveth + Is that strange mysterious door;-- + Though forsaken and betangled, + Ivy-gnarled and weed-bejangled, + Dusty, rusty, and forgotten;-- + There the pierced hand still knocketh, + And with ever-patient watching, + With the sad eyes true and tender, + With the glory-crowned hair,-- + Still a God is waiting there. + + + + +THE OLD PSALM TUNE. + + + YOU asked, dear friend, the other day, + Why still my charmed ear + Rejoiceth in uncultured tone + That old psalm tune to hear? + + I've heard full oft, in foreign lands, + The grand orchestral strain, + Where music's ancient masters live, + Revealed on earth again,-- + + Where breathing, solemn instruments, + In swaying clouds of sound, + Bore up the yearning, tranced soul, + Like silver wings around;-- + + I've heard in old St. Peter's dome, + Where clouds of incense rise, + Most ravishing the choral swell + Mount upwards to the skies. + + And well I feel the magic power, + When skilled and cultured art + Its cunning webs of sweetness weaves + Around the captured heart. + + But yet, dear friend, though rudely sung, + That old psalm tune hath still + A pulse of power beyond them all + My inmost soul to thrill. + + Those halting tones that sound to you, + Are not the tones I hear; + But voices of the loved and lost + There meet my longing ear. + + I hear my angel mother's voice,-- + Those were the words she sung; + I hear my brother's ringing tones, + As once on earth they rung; + + And friends that walk in white above + Come round me like a cloud, + And far above those earthly notes + Their singing sounds aloud. + + There may be discord, as you say; + Those voices poorly ring; + But there's no discord in the strain + Those upper spirits sing. + + For they who sing are of the blest, + The calm and glorified, + Whose hours are one eternal rest + On heaven's sweet floating tide. + + Their life is music and accord; + Their souls and hearts keep time + In one sweet concert with the Lord,-- + One concert vast, sublime. + + And through the hymns they sang on earth + Sometimes a sweetness falls + On those they loved and left below, + And softly homeward calls,-- + + Bells from our own dear fatherland, + Borne trembling o'er the sea,-- + The narrow sea that they have crossed, + The shores where we shall be. + + O sing, sing on, beloved souls! + Sing cares and griefs to rest; + Sing, till entranced we arise + To join you 'mong the blest. + + + + +THE OTHER WORLD. + + + IT lies around us like a cloud, + A world we do not see; + Yet the sweet closing of an eye + May bring us there to be. + + Its gentle breezes fan our cheek; + Amid our worldly cares, + Its gentle voices whisper love, + And mingle with our prayers. + + Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, + Sweet helping hands are stirred, + And palpitates the veil between + With breathings almost heard. + + The silence, awful, sweet, and calm, + They have no power to break; + For mortal words are not for them + To utter or partake. + + So thin, so soft, so sweet, they glide, + So near to press they seem, + They lull us gently to our rest, + They melt into our dream. + + And in the hush of rest they bring + 'Tis easy now to see + How lovely and how sweet a pass + The hour of death may be;-- + + To close the eye, and close the ear, + Wrapped in a trance of bliss, + And, gently drawn in loving arms, + To swoon to that--from this,-- + + Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, + Scarce asking where we are, + To feel all evil sink away, + All sorrow and all care. + + Sweet souls around us! watch us still; + Press nearer to our side; + Into our thoughts, into our prayers, + With gentle helpings glide. + + Let death between us be as naught, + A dried and vanished stream; + Your joy be the reality, + Our suffering life the dream. + + + + +MARY AT THE CROSS. + + "Now there stood by the cross of Jesus his mother." + + + O WONDROUS mother! since the dawn of time + Was ever love, was ever grief, like thine? + O highly favored in thy joy's deep flow, + And favored, even in this, thy bitterest woe! + + Poor was that home in simple Nazareth + Where, fairly growing, like some silent flower, + Last of a kingly race, unknown and lowly, + O desert lily, passed thy childhood's hour. + + The world knew not the tender, serious maiden, + Who through deep loving years so silent grew, + Full of high thought and holy aspiration, + Which the o'ershadowing God alone might view. + +[Illustration] + + And then it came, that message from the highest, + Such as to woman ne'er before descended, + The almighty wings thy prayerful soul o'erspread, + And with thy life the Life of worlds was blended. + + What visions then of future glory filled thee, + The chosen mother of that King unknown, + Mother fulfiller of all prophecy + Which, through dim ages, wondering seers had shown! + + Well did thy dark eye kindle, thy deep soul + Rise into billows, and thy heart rejoice; + Then woke the poet's fire, the prophet's song, + Tuned with strange burning words thy timid voice. + + Then, in dark contrast, came the lowly manger, + The outcast shed, the tramp of brutal feet; + Again behold earth's learned and her lowly, + Sages and shepherds, prostrate at thy feet. + + Then to the temple bearing--hark again + What strange conflicting tones of prophecy + Breathe o'er the child foreshadowing words of joy, + High triumph blent with bitter agony! + + O, highly favored thou in many an hour + Spent in lone musings with thy wondrous Son, + When thou didst gaze into that glorious eye, + And hold that mighty hand within thine own. + + Blest through those thirty years, when in thy dwelling + He lived a God disguised with unknown power; + And thou his sole adorer, his best love, + Trusting, revering, waited for his hour. + + Blest in that hour, when called by opening heaven + With cloud and voice, and the baptizing flame, + Up from the Jordan walked th' acknowledged stranger, + And awe-struck crowds grew silent as he came. + + Blessed, when full of grace, with glory crowned, + He from both hands almighty favors poured, + And, though He had not where to lay his head, + Brought to his feet alike the slave and lord. + + Crowds followed; thousands shouted, "Lo, our King!" + Fast beat thy heart. Now, now the hour draws nigh: + Behold the crown, the throne, the nations bend! + Ah, no! fond mother, no! behold him die! + + Now by that cross thou tak'st thy final station, + And shar'st the last dark trial of thy Son; + Not with weak tears or woman's lamentation, + But with high, silent anguish, like his own. + + Hail! highly favored, even in this deep passion; + Hail! in this bitter anguish thou art blest,-- + Blest in the holy power with Him to suffer + Those deep death-pangs that lead to higher rest. + + All now is darkness; and in that deep stillness + The God-man wrestles with that mighty woe; + Hark to that cry, the rock of ages rending,-- + "'Tis finished!" Mother, all is glory now! + + By sufferings mighty as his mighty soul + Hath the Redeemer risen forever blest; + And through all ages must his heart-beloved + Through the same baptism enter the same rest. + + + + +THE INNER VOICE. + + "Come ye yourselves into a desert place and rest + awhile; for there were many coming and going, so that + they had no time so much as to eat." + + + 'MID the mad whirl of life, its dim confusion, + Its jarring discords and poor vanity, + Breathing like music over troubled waters, + What gentle voice, O Christian, speaks to thee? + + It is a stranger,--not of earth or earthly; + By the serene, deep fulness of that eye,-- + By the calm, pitying smile, the gesture lowly,-- + It is thy Saviour as he passeth by. + + "Come, come," he saith, "O soul oppressed and weary, + Come to the shadows of my desert rest, + Come walk with me far from life's babbling discords, + And peace shall breathe like music in thy breast. + + "Art thou bewildered by contesting voices,-- + Sick to thy soul of party noise and strife? + Come, leave it all, and seek that solitude + Where thou shalt learn of me a purer life. + + "When far behind the world's great tumult dieth, + Thou shalt look back and wonder at its roar; + But its far voice shall seem to thee a dream, + Its power to vex thy holier life be o'er. + + "There shalt thou learn the secret of a power, + Mine to bestow, which heals the ills of living; + To overcome by love, to live by prayer, + To conquer man's worst evils by forgiving." + + + + +ABIDE IN ME, AND I IN YOU. + +THE SOUL'S ANSWER. + + THAT mystic word of thine, O sovereign Lord, + Is all too pure, too high, too deep for me; + Weary of striving, and with longing faint, + I breathe it back again in _prayer_ to thee. + + Abide in me, I pray, and I in thee; + From this good hour, O, leave me nevermore; + Then shall the discord cease, the wound be healed, + The lifelong bleeding of the soul be o'er. + + Abide in me; o'ershadow by thy love + Each half-formed purpose and dark thought of sin; + Quench, e'er it rise, each selfish, low desire, + And keep my soul as thine, calm and divine. + + As some rare perfume in a vase of clay + Pervades it with a fragrance not its own, + So, when thou dwellest in a mortal soul, + All heaven's own sweetness seems around it thrown. + + Abide in me: there have been moments blest + When I have heard thy voice and felt thy power; + Then evil lost its grasp, and passion, hushed, + Owned the divine enchantment of the hour. + + These were but seasons, beautiful and rare; + Abide in me, and they shall ever be. + Fulfil at once thy precept and my prayer,-- + Come, and abide in me, and I in thee. + + + + +THE SECRET. + + "Thou shalt keep them in the secret of thy presence + from the strife of tongues." + + + WHEN winds are raging o'er the upper ocean, + And billows wild contend with angry roar, + 'Tis said, far down beneath the wild commotion, + That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore. + + Far, far beneath, the noise of tempest dieth, + And silver waves chime ever peacefully; + And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he flieth, + Disturbs the sabbath of that deeper sea. + + So to the soul that knows thy love, O Purest, + There is a temple peaceful evermore! + And all the babble of life's angry voices + Die in hushed stillness at its sacred door. + + Far, far away the noise of passion dieth, + And loving thoughts rise ever peacefully; + And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he flieth + Disturbs that deeper rest, O Lord, in thee. + + O rest of rests! O peace serene, eternal! + Thou ever livest and thou changest never; + And in the secret of thy presence dwelleth + Fulness of joy, forever and forever. + + + + +THINK NOT ALL IS OVER. + + + THINK not, when the wailing winds of autumn + Drive the shivering leaflets from the tree,-- + Think not all is over: spring returneth, + Buds and leaves and blossoms thou shalt see. + + Think not, when the earth lies cold and sealed, + And the weary birds above her mourn,-- + Think not all is over: God still liveth, + Songs and sunshine shall again return. + + Think not, when thy heart is waste and dreary, + When thy cherished hopes lie chill and sere,-- + Think not all is over: God still loveth, + He will wipe away thy every tear. + + Weeping for a night alone endureth, + God at last shall bring a morning hour; + In the frozen buds of every winter + Sleep the blossoms of a future flower. + + + + +LINES + +TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860. + + "Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom + seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, + saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell + me where thou hast laid him."--JOHN xx. 15. + + + IN the fair gardens of celestial peace + Walketh a Gardener in meekness clad; + Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks, + And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad. + + Fair are the silent foldings of his robes, + Falling with saintly calmness to his feet; + And when he walks, each floweret to his will + With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat. + + Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart, + In the mild summer radiance of his eye; + No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost, + Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh. + + And all our pleasant haunts of earthly love + Are nurseries to those gardens of the air; + And his far-darting eye, with starry beam, + Watcheth the growing of his treasures there. + + We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears, + O'erwatched with restless longings night and day; + Forgetful of the high, mysterious right + He holds to bear our cherished plants away. + + But when some sunny spot in those bright fields + Needs the fair presence of an added flower, + Down sweeps a starry angel in the night: + At morn, the rose has vanished from our bower. + + Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave! + Blank, silent, vacant, but in worlds above, + Like a new star outblossomed in the skies, + The angels hail an added flower of love. + + Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound, + Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf, + Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eye + Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief. + + Thy garden rose-bud bore, within its breast, + Those mysteries of color, warm and bright, + That the bleak climate of this lower sphere + Could never waken into form and light. + + Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence, + Nor must thou ask to take her thence away; + Thou shalt behold her in some coming hour, + Full-blossomed in his fields of cloudless day. + + + + +THE CROCUS. + + + BENEATH the sunny autumn sky, + With gold leaves dropping round, + We sought, my little friend and I, + The consecrated ground, + Where, calm beneath the holy cross, + O'ershadowed by sweet skies, + Sleeps tranquilly that youthful form, + Those blue unclouded eyes. + + Around the soft, green swelling mound + We scooped the earth away, + And buried deep the crocus-bulbs + Against a coming day. + "These roots are dry, and brown, and sere; + Why plant them here?" he said, + "To leave them, all the winter long, + So desolate and dead." + + "Dear child, within each sere dead form + There sleeps a living flower, + And angel-like it shall arise + In spring's returning hour." + Ah, deeper down--cold, dark, and chill-- + We buried our heart's flower, + But angel-like shall he arise + In spring's immortal hour. + + In blue and yellow from its grave + Springs up the crocus fair, + And God shall raise those bright blue eyes, + Those sunny waves of hair. + Not for a fading summer's morn, + Not for a fleeting hour, + But for an endless age of bliss, + Shall rise our heart's dear flower. + + + + +CONSOLATION. + +WRITTEN AFTER THE SECOND BATTLE OF BULL RUN. + + "And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first + heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there + was no more sea." + + + AH, many-voiced and angry! how the waves + Beat turbulent with terrible uproar! + Is there no rest from tossing,--no repose? + Where shall we find a haven and a shore? + + What is secure from the loud-dashing wave? + There go our riches, and our hopes fly there; + There go the faces of our best beloved, + Whelmed in the vortex of its wild despair. + + Whose son is safe? whose brother, and whose home? + The dashing spray beats out the household fire; + By blackened ashes weep our widowed souls + Over the embers of our lost desire. + + By pauses, in the fitful moaning storm, + We hear triumphant notes of battle roll. + Too soon the triumph sinks in funeral wail; + The muffled drum, the death march, shakes the soul! + + Rocks on all sides, and breakers! at the helm + Weak human hand and weary human eyes. + The shout and clamor of our dreary strife + Goes up conflicting to the angry skies. + + But for all this, O timid hearts, be strong; + Be of good cheer, for, though the storm must be, + _It hath its Master:_ from the depths shall rise + New heavens, new earth, where shall be no more sea. + + No sea, no tossing, no unrestful storm! + Forever past the anguish and the strife; + The poor old weary earth shall bloom again, + With the bright foliage of that better life. + + And war, and strife, and hatred, shall be past, + And misery be a forgotten dream. + The Shepherd God shall lead his peaceful fold + By the calm meadows and the quiet stream. + + Be still, be still, and know that he is God; + Be calm, be trustful; work, and watch, and pray, + Till from the throes of this last anguish rise + The light and gladness of that better day. + + + + +"ONLY A YEAR." + + + ONE year ago,--a ringing voice, + A clear blue eye, + And clustering curls of sunny hair, + Too fair to die. + + Only a year,--no voice, no smile, + No glance of eye, + No clustering curls of golden hair, + Fair but to die! + + One year ago,--what loves, what schemes + Far into life! + What joyous hopes, what high resolves, + What generous strife! + + The silent picture on the wall, + The burial stone, + Of all that beauty, life, and joy + Remain alone! + + One year,--one year,--one little year, + And so much gone! + And yet the even flow of life + Moves calmly on. + + The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, + Above that head; + No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray + Says he is dead. + + No pause or hush of merry birds, + That sing above, + Tells us how coldly sleeps below + The form we love. + + Where hast thou been this year, beloved? + What hast thou seen? + What visions fair, what glorious life, + Where thou hast been? + + The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong! + 'Twixt us and thee; + The mystic veil! when shall it fall, + That we may see? + + Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, + But present still, + And waiting for the coming hour + Of God's sweet will. + + Lord of the living and the dead, + Our Saviour dear! + We lay in silence at thy feet + This sad, sad year! + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +BELOW. + + + LOUDLY sweep the winds of autumn + O'er that lone, beloved grave, + Where we laid those sunny ringlets, + When those blue eyes set like stars, + Leaving us to outer darkness. + O the longing and the aching! + O the sere deserted grave! + + Let the grass turn brown upon thee, + Brown and withered like our dreams! + Let the wind moan through the pine-trees + With a dreary, dirge-like whistle, + Sweep the dead leaves on its bosom,-- + Moaning, sobbing through the branches, + Where the summer laughed so gayly. + + He is gone, our boy of summer,-- + Gone the light of his blue eyes, + Gone the tender heart and manly, + Gone the dreams and the aspirings,-- + Nothing but the _mound_ remaineth, + And the aching in our bosoms, + Ever aching, ever throbbing: + Who shall bring it unto rest? + + + + +ABOVE. + +A VISION. + + + COMING down a golden street + I beheld my vanished one, + And he moveth on a cloud, + And his forehead wears a star; + And his blue eyes, deep and holy, + Fixed as in a blessed dream, + See some mystery of joy, + Some unuttered depth of love. + + And his vesture is as blue + As the skies of summer are, + Falling with a saintly sweep, + With a sacred stillness swaying; + And he presseth to his bosom + Harp of strange and mystic fashion, + And his hands, like living pearls, + Wander o'er the golden strings. + + And the music that ariseth, + Who can utter or divine it? + In that strange celestial thrilling, + Every memory of sorrow, + Every heart-ache, every anguish, + Every fear for the to-morrow, + Melt away in charmed rest. + + And there be around him many, + Bright with robes like evening clouds,-- + Tender green and clearest amber, + Crimson fading into rose, + Robes of flames and robes of silver,-- + And their hues all thrill and tremble + With a living light of feeling, + Deepening with each heart's pulsation, + Till in vivid trance of color + That celestial rainbow glows. + + How they float and wreathe and brighten, + Bending low their starry brows, + Singing with a tender cadence, + And their hands, like spotless lilies, + Folded on their prayerful breasts. + In their singing seem to mingle + Tender airs of by-gone days;-- + Mother-hymnings by the cradle, + Mother-moanings by the grave, + Songs of human love and sorrow, + Songs of endless love and rest;-- + In the pauses of that music + Every throb of sorrow dies. + + O my own, my heart's beloved, + Vainly have I wept above thee? + Would I call thee from thy glory + To this world's impurity?-- + Lo! it passeth, it dissolveth, + All the vision melts away; + But as if a heavenly lily + Dropped into my aching breast, + With a healing sweetness laden, + With a mystic breath of rest, + I am charmed into forgetting + Autumn winds and dreary grave. + + + + +LINES + +SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF MRS. PROFESSOR STUART OF ANDOVER, MASS. + + + HOW quiet, through the hazy autumn air, + The elm-boughs wave with many a gold-flecked leaf! + How calmly float the dreamy mantled clouds + Through these still days of autumn, fair and brief! + + Our Andover stands thoughtful, fair, and calm, + Waiting to lay her summer glories by + E'er the bright flush shall kindle all her pines, + And her woods blaze with autumn's heraldry. + + By the old mossy wall the golden-rod + Waves as aforetime, and the purple sprays + Of starry asters quiver to the breeze, + Rustling all stilly through the forest ways. + + No voice of triumph from those silent skies + Breaks on the calm, and speaks of glories near, + Nor bright wings flutter, nor fair glistening robes + Proclaim that heavenly messengers are here. + + Yet in our midst an angel hath come down, + Troubling the waters in a peaceful home; + And from that home, of life's long sickness healed, + A saint hath risen, where pain no more may come. + + Christ's fair elect one, from a hidden life + Of loving deeds and words of gentleness, + Hath passed where all are loving and beloved, + Beyond all weariness and all distress. + + Calm, like a lamb in shepherd's bosom borne, + Quiet and trustful hath she sunk to rest; + God breathed in tenderness the sweet "Well done!" + That scarce awoke a trance so still and blest. + + Ye who remember the long loving years, + The patient mother's hourly martyrdom, + The self-renouncing wisdom, the calm trust, + Rejoice for her whose day of rest is come! + + Father and mother, now united, stand + Waiting for you to bind the household chain; + The tent is struck, the home is gone before, + And tarries for you on the heavenly plain. + + By every wish repressed and hope resigned, + Each cross accepted and each sorrow borne, + She dead yet speaketh, she doth beckon you + To tread the path her patient feet have worn. + + Each year that world grows richer and more dear + With the bright freight washed from life's stormy shore; + O goodly clime, how lovely is thy strand, + With those dear faces seen on earth no more! + + The veil between this world and that to come + Grows tremulous and quivers with their breath; + Dimly we hear their voices, see their hands, + Inviting us to the release of death. + + O Thou, in whom thy saints above, below, + Are one and undivided, grant us grace + In patience yet to bear our daily cross,-- + In patience run our hourly shortening race! + + And while on earth we wear the servant's form, + And while life's labors ever toilful be, + Breathe in our souls the joyful confidence + We are already kings and priests with thee. + + + + +SUMMER STUDIES. + + + WHY shouldst thou study in the month of June + In dusky books of Greek and Hebrew lore, + When the Great Teacher of all glorious things + Passes in hourly light before thy door? + + There is a brighter book unrolling now; + Fair are its leaves as is the tree of heaven, + All veined and dewed and gemmed with wondrous signs, + To which a healing mystic power is given. + + A thousand voices to its study call, + From the fair hill-top, from the waterfall, + Where the bird singeth, and the yellow bee, + And the breeze talketh from the airy tree. + + Now is that glorious resurrection time + When all earth's buried beauties have new birth: + Behold the yearly miracle complete,-- + God hath created a new heaven and earth! + + No tree that wants its joyful garments now, + No flower but hastes his bravery to don; + God bids thee to this marriage feast of joy, + Let thy soul put the wedding garment on. + + All fringed with festal gold the barberry stands; + The ferns, exultant, clap their new-made wings; + The hemlock rustles broideries of fresh green, + And thousand bells of pearl the blueberry rings. + + The long, weird fingers of the old white-pines + Do beckon thee into the flickering wood, + Where moving spots of light show mystic flowers, + And wavering music fills the dreamy hours. + +[Illustration] + + Hast thou no _time_ for all this wondrous show,-- + No thought to spare? Wilt thou forever be + With thy last year's dry flower-stalk and dead leaves, + And no new shoot or blossom on thy tree? + + See how the pines push off their last year's leaves. + And stretch beyond them with exultant bound: + The grass and flowers, with living power, o'ergrow + Their last year's remnants on the greening ground. + + Wilt thou, then, all thy wintry feelings keep, + The old dead routine of thy book-writ lore, + Nor deem that God can teach, by one bright hour, + What life hath never taught to thee before? + + See what vast leisure, what unbounded rest, + Lie in the bending dome of the blue sky: + Ah! breathe that life-born languor from thy breast, + And know once more a child's unreasoning joy. + + Cease, cease to _think_, and be content _to be_; + Swing safe at anchor in fair Nature's bay; + Reason no more, but o'er thy quiet soul + Let God's sweet teachings ripple their soft way. + + Soar with the birds, and flutter with the leaf; + Dance with the seeded grass in fringy play; + Sail with the cloud, wave with the dreaming pine, + And float with Nature all the livelong day. + + Call not such hours an idle waste of time,-- + Land that lies fallow gains a quiet power; + It treasures, from the brooding of God's wings, + Strength to unfold the future tree and flower. + + And when the summer's glorious show is past, + Its miracles no longer charm thy sight, + The treasured riches of those thoughtful hours + Shall make thy wintry musings warm and bright. + + + + +HOURS OF THE NIGHT; + +OR, + +WATCHES OF SORROW. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +I. + +MIDNIGHT. + + "He hath made me to dwell in darkness as those that + have been long dead." + + + ALL dark!--no light, no ray! + Sun, moon, and stars, all gone! + Dimness of anguish!--utter void!-- + Crushed, and alone! + + One waste of weary pain, + One dull, unmeaning ache, + A heart too weary even to throb, + Too bruised to break. + + No longer anxious thoughts, + No longer hopes and fears, + No strife, no effort, no desire, + No tears. + + Daylight and leaves and flowers, + Summer and song of bird!-- + All vanished!--dreams forever gone, + Unseen, unheard! + + Love, beauty, youth,--all gone! + The high, heroic vow, + The buoyant hope, the fond desire,-- + All ashes now! + + The words they speak to me + Far off and distant seem, + As voices we have known and loved + Speak in a dream. + + They bid me to submit; + I do,--I cannot strive; + I do not question,--I endure, + Endure and live. + + I do not struggle more, + Nor pray, for prayer is vain; + I but lie still the weary hour, + And bear my pain. + + A guiding God, a Friend, + A Father's gracious cheer, + Once seemed my own; but now even faith + Lies buried here. + + This darkened, deathly life + Is all remains of me, + And but one conscious wish,-- + To cease to be! + + + + +II. + +FIRST HOUR. + + "There was darkness over all the land from the sixth + hour unto the ninth hour. + + "And Jesus cried and said, My God, my God, why hast + thou forsaken me?" + + + THAT cry hath stirred the deadness of my soul; + I feel a heart-string throb, as throbs a chord + When breaks the master chord of some great harp; + My heart responsive answers, "Why?" O Lord. + + O cross of pain! O crown of cruel thorns! + O piercing nails! O spotless Sufferer there! + Wert _thou_ forsaken in thy deadly strife? + Then canst thou pity me in my despair. + + Take my dead heart, O Jesus, down with thee + To that still sepulchre where thou didst rest; + Lay it in the fair linen's spicy folds, + As a dear mother lays her babe to rest. + + I am so worn, so weary, so o'erspent, + To lie with thee in that calm trance were sweet; + The bitter myrrh of long-remembered pain + May work in me new strength to rise again. + + This dark and weary mystery of woe, + This hopeless struggle, this most useless strife,-- + Ah, let it end! I die with thee, my Lord, + To all I ever hoped or wished from life. + + I die with thee: thy fellowship of grief, + Thy partnership with mortal misery, + The weary watching and the nameless dread,-- + Let them be mine to make me one with thee. + + Thou hast asked, "Why?" and God will answer thee, + Therefore I ask not, but in peace lie down, + For the three days of mystery and rest, + Till comes the resurrection and the crown. + + + + +III. + +SECOND HOUR. + + "They laid hold upon one Simon a Cyrenian, and on him + they laid the cross, that he might bear it after Jesus." + + + ALONG the dusty thoroughfare of life, + Upon his daily errands walking free, + Came a brave, honest man, untouched by pain, + Unchilled by sight or thought of misery. + + But lo! a crowd:--he stops,--with curious eye + A fainting form all pressed to earth he sees; + The hard, rough burden of the bitter cross + Hath bowed the drooping head and feeble knees. + + Ho! lay the cross upon yon stranger there, + For he hath breadth of chest and strength of limb. + Straight it is done; and heavy laden thus, + With Jesus' cross, he turns and follows him. + + Unmurmuring, patient, cheerful, pitiful, + Prompt with the holy sufferer to endure, + Forsaking all to follow the dear Lord,-- + Thus did he make his glorious calling sure. + + O soul, whoe'er thou art, walking life's way, + As yet from touch of deadly sorrow free, + Learn from this story to forecast the day + When Jesus and his cross shall come to thee. + + O, in that fearful, that decisive hour, + Rebel not, shrink not, seek not thence to flee, + But, humbly bending, take thy heavy load, + And bear it after Jesus patiently. + + His cross is thine. If thou and he be one, + Some portion of his pain must still be thine; + Thus only mayst thou share his glorious crown, + And reign with him in majesty divine. + + Master in sorrow! I accept my share + In the great anguish of life's mystery. + No more, alone, I sink beneath my load, + But bear my cross, O Jesus, after thee. + + + + +IV. + +THIRD HOUR. + +THE MYSTERY OF LIFE. + + "Let my heart calm itself in thee. Let the great sea + of my heart, that swelleth with waves, calm itself in + thee." + + ST. AUGUSTINE'S MANUAL. + + + LIFE'S mystery--deep, restless as the ocean-- + Hath surged and wailed for ages to and fro; + Earth's generations watch its ceaseless motion, + As in and out its hollow moanings flow. + Shivering and yearning by that unknown sea, + Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in thee! + + Life's sorrows, with inexorable power, + Sweep desolation o'er this mortal plain; + And human loves and hopes fly as the chaff + Borne by the whirlwind from the ripened grain. + Ah! when before that blast my hopes all flee, + Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in thee! + + Between the mysteries of death and life + Thou standest, loving, guiding, not explaining; + We ask, and thou art silent; yet we gaze, + And our charmed hearts forget their drear complaining. + No crushing fate, no stony destiny, + O Lamb that hast been slain, we find in thee! + + The many waves of thought, the mighty tides, + The ground-swell that rolls up from other lands, + From far-off worlds, from dim, eternal shores, + Whose echo dashes on life's wave-worn strands, + This vague, dark tumult of the inner sea + Grows calm, grows bright, O risen Lord, in thee! + + Thy pierced hand guides the mysterious wheels; + Thy thorn-crowned brow now wears the crown of power; + + And when the dread enigma presseth sore, + Thy patient voice saith, "Watch with me one hour." + As sinks the moaning river in the sea + In silver peace, so sinks my soul in thee! + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +V. + +FOURTH HOUR. + +THE SORROWS OF MARY. + +DEDICATED TO THE MOTHERS WHO HAVE LOST SONS IN THE LATE WAR. + + + I SLEPT, but my heart was waking, + And out in my dreams I sped, + Through the streets of an ancient city, + Where Jesus, the Lord, lay dead. + + He was lying all cold and lowly, + And the sepulchre was sealed, + And the women that bore the spices + Had come from the holy field. + + There is feasting in Pilate's palace, + There is revel in Herod's hall, + Where the lute and the sounding instrument + To mirth and merriment call. + + "I have washed my hands," said Pilate, + "And what is the Jew to me?" + "I have missed my chance," said Herod, + "One of his wonders to see. + + "But why should our courtly circle + To the thought give further place? + All dreams, save of pleasure and beauty, + Bid the dancers' feet efface." + + * * * * * + + I saw a light from a casement, + And entered a lowly door, + Where a woman, stricken and mournful, + Sat in sackcloth on the floor. + + There Mary, the mother of Jesus, + And John, the beloved one, + With a few poor friends beside them, + Were mourning for Him that was gone. + + And before the mother was lying + That crown of cruel thorn, + Wherewith they crowned that gentle brow + In mockery that morn. + + And her ears yet ring with the anguish + Of that last dying cry,-- + That mighty appeal of agony + That shook both earth and sky. + + O God, what a shaft of anguish + Was that dying voice from the tree!-- + From Him the only spotless,-- + "Why hast Thou forsaken me?" + + And was he of God forsaken? + They ask, appalled with dread; + Is evil crowned and triumphant, + And goodness vanquished and dead? + + Is there, then, no God in Jacob? + Is the star of Judah dim? + For who would our God deliver, + If he would not deliver him? + + If God _could_ not deliver,--what hope then? + If he _would_ not,--who ever shall dare + To be firm in his service hereafter? + To trust in his wisdom or care? + + So darkly the Tempter was saying, + To hearts that with sorrow were dumb; + And the poor souls were clinging in darkness to God, + With hands that with anguish were numb. + + * * * * * + + In my dreams came the third day morning, + And fairly the day-star shone; + But fairer, the solemn angel, + As he rolled away the stone. + + In the lowly dwelling of Mary, + In the dusky twilight chill, + There was heard the sound of coming feet, + And her very heart grew still. + + And in the glimmer of dawning, + She saw him enter the door, + Her Son, all living and real, + Risen, to die no more! + + Her Son, all living and real, + Risen no more to die,-- + With the power of an endless life in his face, + With the light of heaven in his eye. + + O mourning mothers, so many, + Weeping o'er sons that are dead, + Have ye thought of the sorrows of Mary's heart, + Of the tears that Mary shed? + + Is the crown of thorns before you? + Are there memories of cruel scorn? + Of hunger and thirst and bitter cold + That your beloved have borne? + + Had ye ever a son like Jesus + To give to a death of pain? + Did ever a son so cruelly die, + But did he die in vain? + + Have ye ever thought that all the hopes + That make our earth-life fair + Were born in those three bitter days + Of Mary's deep despair? + + O mourning mothers, so many, + Weeping in woe and pain, + Think on the joy of Mary's heart + In a Son that is risen again. + + Have faith in a third-day morning, + In a resurrection-hour; + For what ye sow in weakness, + He can raise again in power. + + Have faith in the Lord of that thorny crown, + In the Lord of the pierced hand; + For he reigneth now o'er earth and heaven, + And his power who may withstand? + + And the hopes that never on earth shall bloom, + The sorrows forever new, + Lay silently down at the feet of Him + Who died and is risen for you. + + + + +VI. + +DAY DAWN. + + + THE dim gray dawn, upon the eastern hills, + Brings back to light once more the cheerless scene; + But oh! no morning in my Father's house + Is dawning now, for there no night hath been. + + Ten thousand thousand now, on Zion's hills, + All robed in white, with palmy crowns, do stray, + While I, an exile, far from fatherland, + Still wandering, faint along the desert way. + + O home! dear home! my own, my native home! + O Father, friends! when shall I look on you? + When shall these weary wanderings be o'er, + And I be gathered back to stray no more? + + O Thou, the brightness of whose gracious face + These weary, longing eyes have never seen,-- + By whose dear thought, for whose beloved sake, + My course, through toil and tears, I daily take,-- + + I think of thee when the myrrh-dropping morn + Steps forth upon the purple eastern steep; + I think of thee in the fair eventide, + When the bright-sandalled stars their watches keep. + + And trembling hope, and fainting, sorrowing love, + On thy dear word for comfort doth rely; + And clear-eyed Faith, with strong forereaching gaze, + Beholds thee here, unseen, but ever nigh. + + Walking in white with thee, she dimly sees, + All beautiful, these lovely ones withdrawn, + With whom my heart went upward, as they rose, + Like morning stars, to light a coming dawn. + + All sinless now, and crowned and glorified, + Where'er thou movest move they still with thee, + As erst, in sweet communion by thy side, + Walked John and Mary in old Galilee. + + But hush, my heart! 'T is but a day or two + Divides thee from that bright, immortal shore. + Rise up! rise up! and gird thee for the race! + Fast fly the hours, and all will soon be o'er. + + Thou hast the new name written in thy soul; + Thou hast the mystic stone He gives his own. + Thy soul, made one with him, shall feel no more + That she is walking on her path alone. + + + + +VII. + +WHEN I AWAKE I AM STILL WITH THEE. + + + STILL, still with Thee, when purple morning breaketh, + When the bird waketh and the shadows flee; + Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight, + Dawns the sweet consciousness, _I am with Thee_! + + Alone with Thee, amid the mystic shadows, + The solemn hush of nature newly born; + Alone with Thee in breathless adoration, + In the calm dew and freshness of the morn. + + As in the dawning o'er the waveless ocean + The image of the morning star doth rest, + So in this stillness Thou beholdest only + Thine image in the waters of my breast. + + Still, still with Thee! as to each new-born morning + A fresh and solemn splendor still is given, + So doth this blessed consciousness, awaking, + Breathe, each day, nearness unto Thee and heaven. + + When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber, + Its closing eye looks up to Thee in prayer; + Sweet the repose beneath the wings o'ershading, + But sweeter still to wake and find Thee there. + + So shall it be at last, in that bright morning + When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee; + O, in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning, + Shall rise the glorious thought, _I am with Thee_! + + + + +PRESSED FLOWERS FROM ITALY. + + + + +[Illustration: A DAY IN THE PAMFILI DORIA.] + + + + +A DAY IN THE PAMFILI DORIA. + + + THOUGH the hills are cold and snowy, + And the wind drives chill to-day, + My heart goes back to a spring-time, + Far, far in the past away. + + And I see a quaint old city, + Weary and worn and brown, + Where the spring and the birds are so early, + And the sun in such light goes down. + + I remember that old-times villa, + Where our afternoons went by, + Where the suns of March flushed warmly, + And spring was in earth and sky. + + Out of the mouldering city, + Mouldering, old, and gray, + We sped, with a lightsome heart-thrill, + For a sunny, gladsome day,-- + + For a revel of fresh spring verdure, + For a race 'mid springing flowers, + For a vision of plashing fountains, + Of birds and blossoming bowers. + + There were violet banks in the shadows, + Violets white and blue; + And a world of bright anemones, + That over the terrace grew,-- + + Blue and orange and purple, + Rosy and yellow and white, + Rising in rainbow bubbles, + Streaking the lawns with light. + + And down from the old stone pine-trees, + Those far off islands of air, + The birds are flinging the tidings + Of a joyful revel up there. + + And now for the grand old fountains, + Tossing their silvery spray, + Those fountains so quaint and so many, + That are leaping and singing all day. + + Those fountains of strange weird sculpture, + With lichens and moss o'ergrown, + Are they marble greening in moss-wreaths? + Or moss-wreaths whitening to stone? + + Down many a wild, dim pathway + We ramble from morning till noon; + We linger, unheeding the hours, + Till evening comes all too soon. + + And from out the ilex alleys, + Where lengthening shadows play, + We look on the dreamy Campagna, + All glowing with setting day,-- + + All melting in bands of purple, + In swathings and foldings of gold, + In ribands of azure and lilac, + Like a princely banner unrolled. + + And the smoke of each distant cottage, + And the flash of each villa white, + Shines out with an opal glimmer, + Like gems in a casket of light. + + And the dome of old St. Peter's + With a strange translucence glows, + Like a mighty bubble of amethyst + Floating in waves of rose. + + In a trance of dreamy vagueness + We, gazing and yearning, behold + That city beheld by the prophet, + Whose walls were transparent gold. + + And, dropping all solemn and slowly, + To hallow the softening spell, + There falls on the dying twilight + The Ave Maria bell. + + With a mournful motherly softness, + With a weird and weary care, + That strange and ancient city + Seems calling the nations to prayer. + + And the words that of old the angel + To the mother of Jesus brought, + Rise like a new evangel, + To hallow the trance of our thought. + + With the smoke of the evening incense, + Our thoughts are ascending then + To Mary, the mother of Jesus, + To Jesus, the Master of men. + + O city of prophets and martyrs, + O shrines of the sainted dead, + When, when shall the living day-spring + Once more on your towers be spread? + + When He who is meek and lowly + Shall rule in those lordly halls, + And shall stand and feed as a shepherd + The flock which his mercy calls,-- + + O, then to those noble churches, + To picture and statue and gem, + To the pageant of solemn worship, + Shall the _meaning_ come back again. + + And this strange and ancient city, + In that reign of His truth and love, + Shall _be_ what it _seems_ in the twilight, + The type of that City above. + + + + +THE GARDENS OF THE VATICAN. + + + SWEET fountains, plashing with a dreamy fall, + And mosses green, and tremulous veils of fern, + And banks of blowing cyclamen, and stars, + Blue as the skies, of myrtle blossoming, + The twilight shade of ilex overhead + O'erbubbling with sweet song of nightingale, + With walks of strange, weird stillness, leading on + 'Mid sculptured fragments half to green moss gone, + Or breaking forth amid the violet leaves + With some white gleam of an old world gone by. + Ah! strange, sweet quiet! wilderness of calm, + Gardens of dreamy rest, I long to lay + Beneath your shade the last long sigh, and say, + Here is my home, my Lord, thy home and mine; + And I, having searched the world with many a tear, + At last have found thee and will stray no more. + But vainly here I seek the Gardener + That Mary saw. These lovely halls beyond, + That airy, sky-like dome, that lofty fane, + Is as a palace whence the king is gone + And taken all the sweetness with himself. + Turn again, Jesus, and possess thine own! + Come to thy temple once more as of old! + Drive forth the money-changers, let it be + A house of prayer for nations. Even so, + Amen! Amen! + + + + +ST. PETER'S CHURCH. + +HOLY WEEK, APRIL, 1860. + + + O FAIREST mansion of a Father's love, + Harmonious! hospitable! with thine arms + Outspread to all, thy fountains ever full, + And, fair as heaven, thy misty, sky-like dome + Hung like the firmament with circling sweep + Above the constellated golden lamps + That burn forever round the holy tomb. + Most meet art thou to be the Father's house, + The house of prayer for nations. Come the time + When thou shalt be so! when a liberty, + Wide as thine arms, high as thy lofty dome, + Shall be proclaimed, by thy loud singing choirs, + Like voice of many waters! Then the Lord + Shall come into his temple, and make pure + The sons of Levi; then, as once of old, + The blind shall see, the lame leap as an hart, + And to the poor the Gospel shall be preached, + And Easter's silver-sounding trumpets tell, + "The Lord is risen indeed," to die no more. + Hasten it in its time. Amen! Amen! + + + + +THE MISERERE. + + + NOT of the earth that music! all things fade; + Vanish the pictured walls! and, one by one, + The starry candles silently expire! + + And now, O Jesus! round that silent cross + A moment's pause, a hush as of the grave. + Now rises slow a silver mist of sound, + And all the heavens break out in drops of grief; + A rain of sobbing sweetness, swelling, dying, + Voice into voice inweaving with sweet throbs, + And fluttering pulses of impassioned moan,-- + Veiled voices, in whose wailing there is awe, + And mysteries of love and agony, + A yearning anguish of celestial souls, + A shiver as of wings trembling the air, + As if God's shining doves, his spotless birds, + Wailed with a nightingale's heart-break of grief, + In this their starless night, when for our sins + Their sun, their life, their love, hangs darkly there, + Like a slain lamb, bleeding his life away! + +[Illustration] + + + Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Religious Poems, by Harriet Beecher Stowe + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RELIGIOUS POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 44778.txt or 44778.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/4/7/7/44778/ + +Produced by David Edwards, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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