Bitter-Sweet: A Poem Part 7

The finny armies clog the twine That sweeps the lazy river, But pearls come singly from the brine, With the pale diver.

G.o.d gives no value unto men Unmatched by meed of labor; And Cost of Worth has ever been The closest neighbor.

Wide is the gate and broad the way That opens to perdition, And countless mult.i.tudes are they Who seek admission.

But strait the gate, the path unkind, That lead to life immortal, And few the careful feet that find The hidden portal.

All common good has common price; Exceeding good, exceeding; Christ bought the keys of Paradise By cruel bleeding;

And every soul that wins a place Upon its hills of pleasure, Must give its all, and beg for grace To fill the measure.

Were every hill a precious mine, And golden all the mountains; Were all the rivers fed with wine By tireless fountains;

Life would be ravished of its zest, And shorn of its ambition, And sinks into the dreamless rest Of inanition.

Up the broad stairs that Value rears Stand motives beckoning earthward, To summon men to n.o.bler spheres, And lead them worthward.

_Ruth_.

I'm afraid to show you anything more; For parsnips and art are so very long, That the pa.s.sage back to the cellar-door Would be through a mile of song.

But Truth owns me for an honest teller; And, if the honest truth be told, I am indebted to you and the cellar For a lesson and a cold.

And one or the other cheats my sight; (O silly girl! for shame!) Barrels are hooped with rings of light, And stopped with tongues of flame.

Apples have conquered original sin, Manna is pickled in brine, Philosophy fills the potato bin, And cider will soon be wine.

So crown the basket with mellow fruit, And brim the pitcher with pearls; And we'll see how the old-time dainties suit The old-time boys and girls.

[_They ascend the stairs_.]

SECOND MOVEMENT.

LOCALITY--_A chamber_.

PRESENT--GRACE, MARY, _and the_ BABY.

THE QUESTION ILl.u.s.tRATED BY EXPERIENCE.

_Grace_.

[_Sings_.]

Hither, Sleep! A mother wants thee!

Come with velvet arms!

Fold the baby that she grants thee To thy own soft charms!

Bear him into Dreamland lightly!

Give him sight of flowers!

Do not bring him back till brightly Break the morning hours!

Close his eyes with gentle fingers!

Cross his hands of snow!

Tell the angels where he lingers They must whisper low!

I will guard thy spell unbroken If thou hear my call; Come then, Sleep! I wait the token Of thy downy thrall.

Now I see his sweet lips moving; He is in thy keep; Other milk the babe is proving At the breast of sleep!

_Mary_.

Sleep, babe, the honeyed sleep of innocence!

Sleep like a bud; for soon the sun of life With ardors quick and pa.s.sionate shall rise, And, with hot kisses part the fragrant lips-- The folded petals of thy soul! Alas!

What feverish winds shall tease and toss thee, then!

What pride and pain, ambition and despair, Desire, satiety, and all that fill With misery life's fretful enterprise, Shall wrench and blanch thee, till thou fall at last, Joy after joy down fluttering to the earth, To be apportioned to the elements!

I marvel, baby, whether it were ill That He who planted thee should pluck thee now, And save thee from the blight that comes on all.

I marvel whether it would not be well That the frail bud should burst in Paradise, On the full throbbing of an angel's heart!

_Grace_.

Oh, speak not thus! The thought is terrible.

He is my all; and yet, it sickens me To think that he will grow to be a man.

If he were not a boy!

_Mary_.

Were not a boy?

That wakens other thoughts. Thank G.o.d for that!

To be a man, if aught, is privilege Precious and peerless. While I bide content The modest lot of woman, all my soul Gives truest manhood humblest reverence.

It is a great and G.o.d-like thing to do!

'Tis a great thing, I think, to be a man.

Man fells the forests, plows and tills the fields, And heaps the granaries that feed the world.

At his behest swift Commerce spreads her wings, And tires the sinewy sea-birds as she flies, Fanning the solitudes from clime to clime.

Smoke-crested cities rise beneath his hand, And roar through ages with the din of trade.

Steam is the fleet-winged herald of his will, Joining the angel of the Apocalypse 'Mid sound and smoke and wond'rous circ.u.mstance, And with one foot upon the conquered sea And one upon the subject land, proclaims That s.p.a.ce shall be no more. The lightnings veil Their fiery forms to wait upon his thought, And give it wing, as unseen spirits pause To bear to G.o.d the burden of his prayer.

G.o.d crowns him with the gift of eloquence, And puts a harp into his tuneful hands, And makes him both his prophet and his priest.

'Twas in his form the great Immanuel Revealed himself; the Apostolic Twelve, Like those who since have ministered the Word, Were men. 'Tis a great thing to be a man.

_Grace_.

And fortunate to have an advocate Across whose memory convenient clouds Come floating at convenient intervals.

The harvest fields that man has honored most Are those where human life is reaped like grain.

There never rose a mart, nor shone a sail, Nor sprang a great invention into birth, By other motive than man's love of gold.

It is for wrong that he is eloquent; For l.u.s.t that he indites his sweetest songs.

Christ was betrayed by treason of a man, And scourged and hung upon a tree by men; And the sad women who were at his cross, And sought him early at the sepulcher, And since that day, in gentle mult.i.tudes Have loved and followed him, have been man's slaves,-- The victims of his power and his desire.

_Mary_.