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With queenly motions of a bridal mood,
through the wide spaces of infinitude.
I Sat in a darkened chamber,
Near by sang a tiny bird; Through all my deep pain and sadness,
A wonderful song I heard.
The birdling bright sang in the sunlight
From out of a golden throat;
I opened my casement wider
Straight into my waiting bosom
No longer I now am sighing;
The reason canst thou divine? The birdling with me abideth,
And sunshine and song are mine.
Tim, the slow daylight pale, A willing slave, fast bound to one above,
I wait; he seems to speed, and change, and fail; I know he will not move.
I lift my golden orb To his, unsmittcn when the roses die, And in my broad and burning disk absorb
The splendors of his eye.
His eye is like a clear Keen flame that searches through
me; I must drop Upon my stalk, I cannot reach his sphere; To mine he cannot stoop.
I win not my desire, And yet I fail not of my guerdon; lo! A thousand flickering darts and tongues of fire
Around me spread and glow;
All rayed and crowned, I miss No queenly state until the summer wane,
The hours flit by; none knoweth of my bliss, And none has guessed my pain;
I follow one alone, I track the shadow of his steps, I grow
Most like to him I love,
Of all that shines below.
Frances Ridley Havergal.
Autoriography! So you say,
So do I not believe! For no men or women that live today,
Be they as good or as bad as they may,
Ever would dare to leave In faintest pencil or boldest ink, All they truly and really think; What they have said and what they
have done. What they have lived and what they have felt, Under the stars or under the sun. At the touch of a pen the dewdrops melt, And the jewels are lost in the grass. Though you count the blades as you pass.
At the touch of a pea the lightning is fixed,
An innocent streak on a broken
And the thunder that pealed so fierce and loud, With musical echo is softly mixed. Autobiography? No! It never was written yet, I trow. Grant that they try! Still they must fail! Words are too pale. For the fervor and glow of the lavaflow.
Can they paint the flash of an
How much less the flash of a heart,
Crimson and gold tints, exquisite
soul-tin ts, Changing like dawn-flush touching a dream! Where is the art That shall give the play of blending lights
From the porphyry rock on the pool below? Or the bird-shadow traced on the sunlit heights Of golden rose and snow?
You say 'tis a fact that the books exist,
Printed and published in Mudie's list,
Some in two volumes, and some in one —
Autobiographies plenty. But look!
They cut little pieces out of their lives
And join them together. Making them up as a readable book,
And call it an autobiography, Though little enough of the life survives.
What if we went in the sweet May weather
To a wood that I know which hangs on a hill,
And reaches down to a tinkling brook,
That sings the flowers to sleep at night,
And calls them again with the earliest light.
Under the delicate flush of green.
Hardly shading the bank below, Pale anemones peep between The mossy slumps where the violets grow; Wide clouds of bluebells stretch away,
And primrose constellations rise,—
Turn where we may, Some new loveliness meets our eyes.
The first white butterflies flit around. Bees are murmuring close to the ground,
The cuckoo's happy shout is heard.
Hark again! Was it echo, or was it bird? All the air is full of song, A carolling chorus around and above: From the w ocd-pigtcn's call so soft
and long, To merriest twitter and marvellous trill,
Every one sings at his own sweet will.
True to the key-note of joyous love.
Well, it is lovely! is it not? But we must not stay on the fairy spot,
So we gather a nosegay with care: A primrose here and a bluebell there,
And something that we have never seen,
Probably therefore a specimen rare;
Stitchwort, with stem of transparent green,
The white-veined woodsorrel, and a spray
Of tender-leaved and budding May. We carry home the fragrant load. In a close, warm hand, by a dusty road;
The sun grows hotter every hour; Already the woodsorrel pines for the shade;
We watch it fade, And throw away the fairy little flower;
We forgot that it could not last an hour
Away from the cool moss where it grows.
Then the stitch worts droop and close; There is nothing to show but a tangle of green,
For the white-rayed stars will no more be seen.
Then the anemones, can they survive?"
Even now they are hardly alive.
Dropped on the way! Perhaps we shall never find one again.
At last we come in with the few that are left,
Of freshness and fragrance bereft; A sorry display. Now, do we say, "Here is the wood where we rambled to-day?
See, we have brought it to you;
So much for the bright and pleasant side.
There is another. We did not bring
We never tried
What have we seen?
Hush, ah, hush!
Thick and damp. A clammy feather,
Grimly guarding a hawthorn crown.
Dying in darkness, with none to see. The rotting trunk of a willow tree, Leafless, ready to fall from the bank; A poisonous fungus, cold and white, And a hemlock growing strong and rank.
A tuft of fur and a ruddy stain,
Ah no! We write our lives indeed,
For evermore, And find the records strange and true,
Bring wisdom old and new;
Till then, the secrets of our lives are ours and God's alone.
SONG FROM "RIGHT.".
Light after darkness,
Gain after loss. Strength after suffering,
Crown after cross. Sweet after bitter,
Song after sigh, Home after wandering,
Praise after cry.
Sheaves after sowing,
Sun after rain, Sigh after mystery,
Peace after pain. Joy after sorrow,
Calm after blast, Rest after weariness,
Sweet rest at last.
Near after distant.
Gleam after gloom, Love after loneliness,
Life after tomb. After long agony.
Rapture of bliss! Riyht was the pathway
Leading to this!
FROM "MAKING POETRY."
'Tis not stringing rhymes together
In a pleasant true accord; Not the music of the metre, Not the happy fancies, sweeter Than a flower-bell, honey-stored.
'T is the essence of existence,
Rarely rising to the light; And the songs of echo longest, Deepest, fullest, truest, strongest, With your life-blood you will write.
With your life-blood. None will know it,
You will never tell them how. Smile! and they will never guess it: Laugh! and you will not confess it
By your paler cheek and brow.
There must be the tightest tension
Ere the tone be full and true;
Every lesson you shall utter,
If the charge indeed be yours. First is gained by earnest learning, Carved in letters deep and burning On a heart that long endures.
Day by day that wondrous tablet
By the hand of Joy or Sorrow;
But the pen can never borrow
You will only give a transcript
Still, if you but copy truly.
'T will be poetry indeed. Echoing many a heart's vibration; Rather love than admiration
Earning as your priceless meed.
THE COL DE BALM.
Sunshine and silence on the Col de Balm!
I stood above the mists, above the rush
Of all the torrents, when one marvellous hush
Filled God's great mountain temple, vast and calm.
With hallelujah light, as seen through silent psalm: —
Crossed with one discord, only one. For love
Cried out, and would be heard.
"If ye were here, O friends, so far away and yet so
Then were the anthem perfect!"
And the cry Threaded the concords of that Alpine
Not vain the same fond cry if first I
Upon the mountain of our God, and long.
Even in the glory and with His
new song Upon my lips, that you should come
and share The bliss of heaven, imperfect still
till all are there.
Dear ones! shall it be mine to watch you come Up from the shadows and the valley mist.
To tread the jacinth and the amethyst;
To rest and sing upon the stormless height.
In the deep calm of love and everlasting light?
Paul Hamilton Hayne.
LYRIC OF ACTION.
'Tis the part of a coward to brood O'er the past that is withered and dead:
What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust? What though the heart's music be fled?
Still shine the grand heavens o'erhead,
whence the voice of an angel thrills
clear on the soul, "Gird about thee thine armor, press
on to the goal!"
If the faults or the crimes of thy youth
Are a burden too heavy to bear, What hope can rebloom on the desolate waste
Of a jealous and craven despair?
Down! down with the fetters of fear!
In the strength of thy valor and manhood arise,
With the faith that illumes and the will that defies.
Too late! through God's infinite world,
From His throne to life's nethermost fires, Too late is a phantom that flies at the dawn
Of the soul that repents and aspires.
If pure thou hast made thy desires.
There's no height the strong wings of immortals may ga!n
Which in striving to reach, thou shalt strive for in vain.
Then up to the contest with fate. Unbound by the past which is dead!
What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust? What though the hearts music be fled?
Still shine the fair heavens o'erhead;
And sublime as the angel that rules
in the sun Beams the promise of peace when the
conflict is won!
FROM THE "ELIXIR."
Teach me, my God and King,
In all things Thee to see, And what I do in anything,
To do it as for Thee.
All may of Thee partake;
Nothing can be so mean which with this tincture, for Thy sake,
Will not grow bright and clean.
A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery divine: Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws,
Makes that and the action fine.
HOW TO DEAL WITH COMMON NA TURKS.
TENDEK-handed stroke a nettle,
Grasp it like a man of mettle,
'Tis the same with common natures:
But be rough as nutmeg-graters,
F. A. HlLLARD.
THE POET'S PEN.
I Am an Idle reed;
I bear my stalk and seed Through spring-time's glow and summer's glare.