Kitobni o'qish: «Last Verses», sahifa 6

A. V. C

[June, 1898]

 
IT did not seem unmeet that she whose heart
Had doors wide open always for each friend,
And held no lonely corners set apart,
Should go, companioned closely, to the end.
 
 
It was not strange she left without farewell;
That was a word she never loved to say.
Her gentle lips, whatever fate befell,
Parted more readily for glad “Good-day.”
 
 
Heart of the home wherein her presence made
Perpetual sunshine for each shady place,
Centre of kindly thought, of kindly aid,
And hospitality’s long practised grace.
 
 
Dear friend, who did not tarry for good-byes
But swiftly trod the heavenward path of air,
God keep thee in His safe, sure Paradise,
And let us, following, find thy welcome there.
 

“THE LAND THAT IS VERY FAR OFF”

 
SO far! Is it so far then, that dear country
Which homesick hearts expectant claim as theirs,
Chiding the years as slow which patient come and go,
And make no answer to reproach or prayers?
 
 
Is it so far then? For at times it seemeth
More dear, familiar, close than aught beside,
Bounding our mortal day, lying beside our way,
Only the little veil of flesh to hide.
 
 
Is it so far? When those who have gone thither
Seem so near always, always near and sure,
Loving and aiding still, sharing our joy and ill,
Lifting our burdens, helping to endure.
 
 
Is it so far then? I cannot believe it.
When the veil parts and rends and lets us through,
The first surprise of bliss, I think, will be in this,
That the far off was nearer than we knew;
 
 
That what we mourned as lost was close beside us,
Touching us every day in every spot,
While, blinded with dull tears, groping through faithless years,
We were upheld and led and knew it not.
 
 
Let us not call it far – the heavenly country;
It bounds our little space like viewless air,
And while we sorrowing say that it is far away
We touch it, all unknowing, everywhere.
 

THE HEAVENLY AIRS

 
WORK is the fresh air of the soul!
It clears the heavy brain,
Quickens the pulses of the mind,
Warms thought to action, and the blind
And sluggish will sunk into ease
Of ineffective lethargies
It stirs to life again.
 
 
Grief is the cold air of the soul!
It chills and blights the flowers,
In urgent gusts it sways and smites,
Freezing the source of all delights;
But roots grow strong by dint of storm,
And, when the spring awakes, they form
The growth of happier hours.
 
 
Love is the warm air of the soul!
It reacheth far and wide,
Clasping all life with healing touch,
Wooing the little into much,
Making brown branch and buried root
To bud and blossom and bear fruit
Like the sweet summer-tide.
 
 
Blow, heavenly winds, on every soul!
And stir them constantly;
Sting us and quicken us and bless,
Relax not in thy urgent stress,
Till out of toil and love and pain
Full strength and stature we attain,
And are led home by thee.
 

IN THE FOG

 
VEILS of pallid mist and gray
Wrap the world of yesterday;
Fir-fringed island, rocky cape,
Yellow sands, and mountain shape,
Sun and sky, and waters blue,
All are blotted from the view.
Out to sea we blindly stare;
Did we dream that such things were?
 
 
No; untouched, and safe and sure,
All these lovely things endure;
Underneath that hovering mist,
All the blue and amethyst,
All the rocky cliffs and sea,
All the surf-lines rippling free,
Mountain forms and islands green, —
All are there, although unseen.
 
 
If we bravely bide and wait
Through this brief eclipse of Fate,
Smile through the unsmiling noon,
Keeping heart and hope in tune, —
Shadow shall give place to sun,
And, out-stealing, one by one,
All the fair things mourned in vain
Shall be made our own again.
 
 
Dear heart, faint heart, who in shade
Sitteth, pale, perplexed, afraid,
At the brief evanishment
Of thy yesterday’s content, —
Courage take; for hope endures,
Though a little mist obscures,
And behind the fog-wreaths dun
Brightens the eternal sun.
 

THE PORCH OF LIFE

 
WITHIN the Porch of Life we sit,
The access to the heavenly door,
The shadowy porch where cold rains pour,
And every bleak wind blows on it.
And those who crowd to stand thereon
Smiling with youth grow grave anon.
 
 
We sit among our fellows so,
Shivering a little in the wind,
And still our eyes reach out to find
The faint beam of an inward glow —
A home-like ray, which through the door
Steals, softly beckoning, evermore.
 
 
There in sure comfort, safe and warm;
They sit who have an entrance won,
Smiling and glad; each dearest one
Who once endured the bitter storm,
And shared our patience and our pain,
But come not forth to share again.
 
 
Dear door, which never is shut tight,
And knows no bolt and needs no bar,
But through all ages stands ajar
To bless the eyes which yearn for sight,
And keep the souls that wait without
From the slow desolate death of doubt!
 
 
The Porch of Life is hard and bare,
And long the waiting sometimes seems.
But while we catch the out-reaching beams,
Making the darkness subtly fair,
And know the door is open still,
We can endure it with goodwill.
 

THE LIGHTHOUSE

 
HIGH lifted on the island cliff
Its lantern fronts the sea,
And sendeth forth a fine, straight ray
Of dazzling light to me —
A slender line of shimmering shine
Across night’s mystery.
 
 
It is the path set for my eyes
To travel to the light,
And warm their darkness in the blaze,
And be made glad and bright.
None other may catch just that ray,
Or have the self-same sight.
 
 
And yet, a hundred other eyes,
Bent on that central blaze,
Find each its separate, shining path,
Its line of guiding rays;
And all eyes meet in concord sweet
By all these differing ways.
 
 
No voice shall say: “The Light is mine,
All other eyes are dim!”
No hand the glory hold or hide
Which streams to ocean’s rim,
None claim or seize one ray as his
More than belongs to him.
 
 
O Light of Truth, which lighteneth all,
And shineth all abroad,
What favored soul or souls shall say,
“Mine is the only road?”
Each hath his own, to him made known,
And all lead up to God.
 

ONCE AND FOREVER

 
OUR own are our own forever, God taketh not back his gift.
They may pass beyond our vision, but our souls shall find them out,
When the waiting is all accomplished, and the deathly shadows lift,
And glory is given for grieving, and the surety of God for doubt.
 
 
We may find the waiting bitter, and count the silence long,
God knoweth we are dust, and he pitieth our pain;
And when faith has grown to fulness, and the silence changed to song,
We shall eat the fruit of patience, and shall hunger not again.
 
 
So sorrowing hearts who dumbly in darkness and all alone
Sit missing a dear lost presence and the joy of a vanished day,
Be comforted with this message that our own are forever our own,
And God, who gave the gracious gift, he takes it never away.
 

LIGHTS

 
A LITTLE lamp can send but a brief and feeble ray,
The great lights bravely beam, and their radiance far away
Is the comfort of the nations and the furtherance of the day.
 
 
All men remember when the great lights were lit,
The day is kept in honor, and they name it as they sit
And watch the guiding flame, thanking and blessing it.
 
 
But the small and struggling lights which a breath of storm might kill,
Each fain to light a continent, but doomed to smallness still,
Is there no one to praise them for their service of goodwill?
 
 
Yes, one, the Lord of all, who is the source of Light;
He sees them where they burn in the blackness of Earth’s night,
And the larger and the less alike are precious in his sight.
 
 
He is the secret source by which their flames are fed,
From the beacon’s wide, white ray which flashes overhead,
To the intermittent ray which the half-spent tapers shed;
 
 
And to each he says, “Well done,” which has bravely sought to burn.
And when the dawn ariseth, and each is quenched in turn,
Absorbed into the perfect day for which pure spirits yearn; —
 
 
Each little flame that struggled to make the night more fair
Shall find its place in Paradise and burn in heavenly air,
And the Father of all Lights shall be its welcome there.
 

ON THE LAWN

 
ON the half-frozen lawn, where the early grass was springing,
In the sunny days just over, and where now the frost is lying,
I hear a happy chorus of little voices singing,
A hopeful, cheery call and a hopefuller replying.
 
 
’Tis the bluebird and the robin, – what brings them back so early
From the sunny southern meadows, and the fields of honeyed clover,
From the stately tall magnolias, hung with blossoms sweet and pearly,
And the starry yellow jasmine which the wood-bee hovers over?
 
 
And now that they have come, beguiled and led a-straying
By Mother Nature, who would seem to joy in such deceiving,
How can they sing so blithely, with frost and famine playing,
As if the world were never meant to be a place for grieving?
 
 
What is the secret of the hope that bears them up so bravely
In the shelterless unfed to-day, the unprovided morrow?
Oh, would that I might learn it, – I who sit here looking gravely
With an apprehensive shiver for the shape of coming sorrow!
 
 
Say, bluebird, and say, robin? They answer but by singing,
As with a whirr of fluttering wings the small shapes dart and fly;
But my sadness rises with them, and all my cares seem winging,
And leaving me as glad as they, but I cannot tell you why.
 

IF ONLY

 
IF only – shadow did not follow sun,
If only – tempests lurked not in blue weather,
If only – life did not so swiftly run
And dreams need not be waked from altogether.
 
 
If only – hearts were not attuned to ache,
If only – joy and mirth turned not to grieving,
If only – we could seize and overtake
The rainbow Hope which lures us on deceiving!
 
 
If only – love were not poured out to waste,
If only – discord spared sweet music’s closes,
If only – blight and canker did not haste
To mar the lily’s white, the stainless roses!
 
 
If only – sentinels beside the ways,
Death, suffering, and sin stood not to daunt us,
If shadows from the vanished yesterdays
And fears for the to-morrows did not haunt us.
 
 
If only! – human grief unceasingly
Repeats in myriad tongues the wistful sighing.
Mighty and mournful is the mingled cry,
But never comes there any full replying,
 
 
Except when, o’er the tumult and the pain,
Above the upraised, questioning, tear-stained faces,
We catch at times a half heard, answering strain,
An antiphone from the high, heavenly places.
 
 
“If only, Lord,” the happy voices sing,
“If only – we have Thee, who faileth never,
Nor life, nor death, nor any other thing
Can hurt our joy forever and forever.
 
 
“If men could know how quickly pain is spent,
What compensations heaven has in keeping,
What home means after earth’s bleak banishment,
If only – they would smile instead of weeping.”
 
 
Sing louder, radiant host, wake our dull ears,
Till, though the path be hard and the day lonely,
We, too, shall answer through the mists of tears,
“If only – we have Thee, Lord, have Thee only.”
 

PRELUDE

 
A FEW notes, half harmonious
And half discordant, subtly blent,
The master sounds and touches, thus
To test and try his instrument.
 
 
Not music’s self, but its presage;
Not tune, but hint of tune it is;
Of better things the pledge and gage,
And prized for what it promises.
 
 
Just so the sweet musician, Spring,
’Mid blowing winds and dropping rains,
Tightens and sounds each vagrant string,
In odd, capricious, sudden strains.
 
 
It is not music she essays,
But just a hint of what shall be
When earth and sky and nights and days
Join in the summer harmony.
 
 
And do we dream, or is it true,
The grass so brown but yester-morn
Has caught a subtly greener hue
In sheltered corners of the lawn?
 
 
Can there be buds upon the hedge —
Wee, starry pointlets half unrolled?
And were we blind to read the pledge
Written in the willow’s pencilled gold?
 
 
And is it fancy that there breathes
A vagrant perfume in the air,
A scent of freshly opened leaves?
There are no leaves yet anywhere.
 
 
Ah, dear Spring, stay thy flying feet;
Try all thy chords; play leisurely;
Though if thy preludes are so sweet
What will the finished music be?
 

WHOM NO MAN HATH HIRED

 
EACH soul must serve some master. Everywhere,
Alike in wilderness and market places,
They stand and wait all the long hours of day.
They wait with expectation in their faces
And mutely question each new wayfarer,
And “Art thou he?” their asking glances say.
 
 
Then some with downcast aspect take their wage
And follow after shapes of darksome mien,
Evil and doubtful, leading from the light;
And some with radiant eyes alight are seen,
Crowding, as bound on common pilgrimage,
Behind a peaceful Leader robed in white.
 
 
And Pain calls one to serve him at his will,
And cloudy Doubt another claims for slave,
And wingéd Riches offer specious fees
And brightly gild a pathway to the grave,
And Patience, with a forehead veiled and still,
Enrols a few, making no promises.
 
 
Some at the early dawning go their way,
Some when the suntides wave the morning sky,
And some at heat of noon and harvest-tide,
While others with dull, disappointed eyes
Watch the long shadows creep and dim the day,
And still unhired and unemployed abide.
 
 
Lord of the vintage, recompensing Lord,
Behold these waiting ones and call them in,
Let them not choose another Lord than Thee,
Made the despairing thralls of self and sin,
Losing the joy of toil and full reward
Which make Thy service perfect liberty.
 
 
Send forth the servants of Thy love and power,
These whom no man hath hired make Thine own.
Before the spent sun vanish in the west
Let the brief toil the ill-spent day atone,
And though not called till the eleventh hour,
Give them like blessed wages with the rest.
 

ON EASTER EVEN

 
WHEN the sun sets, let me say,
“Each day is an Easter day,
When the Lord may rise in me,
Bringing life and victory;
Every eve an Easter eve,
When my heart a glorious guest
Must make ready to receive,
Swept and cleansed and duly dressed.
 
 
“On its altar there shall lie
Lilies white of purity;
Roses white and roses red
Shall their grateful odors shed;
Passion flowers with cross on breast,
Violet purple sweet, I’ll lay
Where my Lord’s dear feet may rest,
Haply – on this Easter day.”
 
 
No long waiting need we know,
While the slow months come and go;
No set Lent observe, if we
Make all time our Lent to be;
Not one festal, brief and bright,
But a year, where every morn
Hearts made ready over night
Wake to find an Easter dawn.
 
 
So each night, O faithful heart,
Keep thy vigil, draw apart,
Dress thy altar fair and fit,
Sure the Lord will hallow it!
Death in vain forbids Him rise,
Sin in vain would bar His way,
And, each morrow, in the skies,
There shall dawn an Easter day!