230 THE TYRANT AND THE CAP TIVE.
It is not marred by outward strife,
It is not lost in calm repose,
It heedeth neither joys nor woes,
Is not disturbed by death or life;
Through, and beyond them, lies our Rest:
Then cease, O Heart, thy longing quest !
And thou, my Dove, with silver pinions
Flutter again to thy quiet nest!
THE TYRANT AND THE CAPTIVE.
T was midnight when I listened,
And I heard two Voices speak ;
One was harsh, and stern, and cruel,
And the other soft and weak:
Yet I saw no Vision enter,
And I heard no steps depart,
Of this Tyrant and his Captive,
Thus the stern Voice spake in triumph:-
"I have shut your life away
From the radiant world of nature,
And the perfumed light of day.
You, who loved to steep your spirit
In the charm of Earth's delight,
See no glory of the daytime,
And no sweetness of the night."
But the soft Voice answered calmly:-
Nay, for when the March winds bring
Just a whisper to my window,
I can dream the rest of Spring; And to-day I saw a swallow Flitting past my prison bars, And my cell has just one corner Whence at night I see the stars.
But its bitter taunt repeating,
Cried the harsh Voice:
All the friends of former hours,
Who forget your name to-day?
All the links of love are shattered,
Which you thought so strong before;
And your very heart is lonely,
And alone since loved no more.
But the low Voice spoke still lower:
"Nay, I know the golden chain
Of my Love is purer, stronger,
For the cruel fire of pain :
They remember me no longer,
But I, grieving here alone,
Bind their souls to me for ever
By the love within my own."
But the Voice cried: "Once remember
You devoted soul and mind
To the welfare of your brethren,
And the service of your kind.
Now, what sorrow can you comfort?
You, who lie in helpless pain,
With an impotent compassion
Fretting out your life in vain."
"Nay"; and then the gentle answer
Rose more loud, and full, and clear:
"For the sake of all my brethren
I thank God that I am here!
Poor had been my Life's best efforts,
Now I waste no thought or breath,
For the prayer of those who suffer
Has the strength of Love and Death."
RUST me, no mere skill of subtle tracery,
No mere practice of a dexterous hand,
Will suffice, without a hidden spirit,
That we may, or may not, understand.
And those quaint old fragments that are left us
Have their power in this,
Earnest care, and reverent patience, only
Worthily to clothe some noble thought.
Shut then in the petals of the flowers,
Round the stems of all the lilies twine,
Hide beneath each bird's or angel's pinion,
"Some wise meaning or some thought divine.
Place in stony hands that pray forever
Tender words of peace, and strive to wind Round the leafy scrolls and fretted niches Some true, loving message to your kind.
Some will praise, some blame, and, soon forgetting,
Come and go, nor even pause to gaze;
Only now and then a passing stranger
Just may loiter with a word of praise.
But I think, when years have floated onward,
And the stone is gray, and dim, and old,
And the hand forgotten that has carved it,
And the heart that dreamt it still and cold;
There may come some weary soul, o'erladen
With perplexed struggle in his brain,
Or, it may be, fretted with life's turmoil,
Or made sore with some perpetual pain.
Then, I think those stony hands will open,
And the gentle lilies overflow,
With the blessing and the loving token
That you hid there many years ago.
And the tendrils will unroll, and teach him
How to solve the problem of his pain;
And the birds' and angels' wings shake downward
On his heart a sweet and tender rain.
While he marvels at his fancy, reading
Meaning in that quaint and ancient scroll,
Little guessing that the loving Carver
Left a message for his weary soul.
JUST when the red June Roses blow
She gave me one, - a year ago.
A Rose whose crimson breath revealed
The secret that its heart concealed,
And whose half shy, half tender grace
Blushed back upon the giver's face.
A year ago a year ago
To hope was not to know.
Just when the red June Roses blow
I plucked her one, - a month ago :
Its half-blown crimson to eclipse,
I laid it on her smiling lips;
The balmy fragrance of the south
Drew sweetness from her sweeter mouth.
Swiftly do golden hours creep,
To hold is not to keep.
The red June Roses now are past,
This very day I broke the last,
And now its perfumed breath is hid,
With her, beneath a coffin-lid;
There will its petals fall apart,
And wither on her icy heart :
At three red Roses' cost
My world was gained and lost.
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