A Hidden Life and Other Poems Part 21

O loved if known! in dull December's day One scarce believes there is a month of June; But up the stairs of April and of May The dear sun climbeth to the summer's noon.

Dear mourner! I love G.o.d, and so I rest; O better! G.o.d loves thee, and so rest thou: He is our spring-time, our dim-visioned Best, And He will help thee--do not fear the _How._

LONGING.

My heart is full of inarticulate pain, And beats laboriously. Ungenial looks Invade my sanctuary. Men of gain, Wise in success, well-read in feeble books, Do not come near me now, your air is drear; 'Tis winter and low skies when ye appear.

Beloved, who love beauty and love truth!

Come round me; for too near ye cannot come; Make me an atmosphere with your sweet youth; Give me your souls to breathe in, a large room; Speak not a word, for see, my spirit lies Helpless and dumb; s.h.i.+ne on me with your eyes.

O all wide places, far from feverous towns!

Great s.h.i.+ning seas! pine forests! mountains wild!

Rock-bosomed sh.o.r.es! rough heaths! and sheep-cropt downs!

Vast pallid clouds! blue s.p.a.ces undefiled!

Room! give me room! give loneliness and air!

Free things and plenteous in your regions fair.

White dove of David, flying overhead, Golden with sunlight on thy snowy wings, Outspeeding thee my longing thoughts have fled To find a home afar from men and things; Where in his temple, earth o'erarched with sky, G.o.d's heart to mine may speak, my heart reply.

O G.o.d of mountains, stars, and boundless s.p.a.ces!

O G.o.d of freedom and of joyous hearts!

When thy face looketh forth from all men's faces, There will be room enough in crowded marts; Brood thou around me, and the noise is o'er; Thy universe my closet with shut door.

Heart, heart, awake! the love that loveth all Maketh a deeper calm than h.o.r.eb's cave.

G.o.d in thee, can his children's folly gall?

Love may be hurt, but shall not love be brave?-- Thy holy silence sinks in dews of balm; Thou art my solitude, my mountain-calm.

A BOY'S GRIEF.

Ah me! in ages far away, The good, the heavenly land, Though unbeheld, quite near them lay, And men could understand.

The dead yet find it, who, when here, Did love it more than this; They enter in, are filled with cheer, And pain expires in bliss.

Oh, fairly s.h.i.+nes the blessed land!

Ah, G.o.d! I weep and pray-- The heart thou holdest in thy hand Loves more this sunny day.

I see the hundred thousand wait Around the radiant throne: To me it is a dreary state, A crowd of beings lone.

I do not care for singing psalms; I tire of good men's talk; To me there is no joy in palms, Or white-robed solemn walk.

I love to hear the wild winds meet, The wild old winds at night; To watch the starlight throb and beat, To wait the thunder-light.

I love all tales of valiant men, Of women good and fair; If I were rich and strong, ah then, I would do something rare.

I see thy temple in the skies On pillars strong and white; I cannot love it, though I rise And try with all my might.

Sometimes a joy lays hold on me, And I am speechless then; Almost a martyr I could be, And join the holy men.

But soon my heart is like a clod, My spirit wrapt in doubt-- "_A pillar in the house of G.o.d, And never more go out!_"

No more the sunny, breezy morn; No more the speechless moon; No more the ancient hills, forlorn, A vision, and a boon.

Ah, G.o.d! my love will never burn, Nor shall I taste thy joy; And Jesus' face is calm and stern-- I am a hapless boy.

THE CHILD-MOTHER.

Heavily lay the warm sunlight Upon the green blades s.h.i.+ning bright, An outspread gra.s.sy sea: She through the burnished yellow flowers Went walking in the golden hours That slept upon the lea.

The bee went past her with a hum; The merry gnats did go and come In complicated dance; Like a blue angel, to and fro, The splendid dragon-fly did go, Shot like a seeking glance.

She never followed them, but still Went forward with a quiet will, That got, but did not miss; With gentle step she pa.s.sed along, And once a low, half-murmured song Uttered her share of bliss.

It was a little maiden-child; You see, not frolicsome and wild, As such a child should be; For though she was just nine, no more, Another little child she bore, Almost as big as she.

With tender care of straining arms, She kept it circled from all harms, With face turned from the sun; For in that perfect tiny heart, The mother, sister, nurse, had part, Her womanhood begun.

At length they reach an ugly ditch, The slippery sloping bank of which Flowers and long gra.s.ses line; Some ragged-robins baby spied, And spread his little arms out wide, As he had found a mine.

What baby wants, that baby has: A law unalterable as-- The poor shall serve the rich; She kneeleth down with eager eyes, And, reaching far out for the prize, Topples into the ditch.

And slanting down the bank she rolled, But in her little bosom's fold She clasps the baby tight; And in the ditch's muddy flow, No safety sought by letting go, At length she stands upright.

Alas! her little feet are wet; Her new shoes! how can she forget?

And yet she does not cry.

Her scanty frock of dingy blue, Her petticoat wet through and through!

But baby is quite dry.

And baby laughs, and baby crows; And baby being right, she knows That nothing can be wrong; And so with troubled heart, yet stout, She plans how ever to get out, With meditations long.

The bank is higher than her head, And slippery too, as I have said; And what to do with baby?

For even the monkey, when he goes, Needs both his fingers and his toes.-- She is perplexed as may be.

But all her puzzling was no good, Though staring up the bank she stood, Which, as she sunk, grew higher; Until, invaded with dismay, Lest baby's patience should give way, She frees her from the mire.

And up and down the ditch, not glad, But patient, she did promenade; Splas.h.!.+ splas.h.!.+ went her poor feet.

And baby thought it rare good fun, And did not want it to be done; And the ditch flowers were sweet.