The Poems of Emma Lazarus - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Yet myriad serious blessings with grave grace Arise on every side to fill their place.
For much abides in her so lonely life,-- The dear companions.h.i.+p of her own kind, Love where least looked for, quiet after strife, Whispers of promise upon every wind, A quickened insight, in awakened eyes, For the new meaning of the earth and skies.
The nameless charm about all things hath died, Subtle as aureole round a shadow's head, Cast on the dewy gra.s.s at morning-tide; Yet though the glory and the joy be fled, 'T is much her own endurance to have weighed, And wrestled with G.o.d's angels, unafraid.
XIII. Faith.
She feels outwearied, as though o'er her head A storm of mighty billows broke and pa.s.sed.
Whose hand upheld her? Who her footsteps led To this green haven of sweet rest at last?
What strength was hers, unreckoned and unknown?
What love sustained when she was most alone?
Unutterably pathetic her desire, To reach, with groping arms outstretched in prayer, Something to cling to, to uplift her higher From this low world of coward fear and care, Above disaster, that her will may be At one with G.o.d's, accepting his decree.
Though by no reasons she be justified, Yet strangely brave in Evil's very face, She deems this want must needs be satisfied, Though here all slips from out her weak embrace.
And in blind ecstasy of perfect faith, With her own dream her prayer she answereth.
XIV. Work.
Yet life is not a vision nor a prayer, But stubborn work; she may not shun her task.
After the first compa.s.sion, none will spare Her portion and her work achieved, to ask.
She pleads for respite,--she will come ere long When, resting by the roadside, she is strong.
Nay, for the hurrying throng of pa.s.sers-by Will crush her with their onward-rolling stream.
Much must be done before the brief light die; She may not loiter, rapt in the vain dream.
With unused trembling hands, and faltering feet, She staggers forth, her lot a.s.signed to meet.
But when she fills her days with duties done, Strange vigor comes, she is restored to health.
New aims, new interests rise with each new sun, And life still holds for her unbounded wealth.
All that seemed hard and toilsome now proves small, And naught may daunt her,--she hath strength for all.
XV. Victory.
How strange, in some brief interval of rest, Backward to look on her far-stretching past.
To see how much is conquered and repressed, How much is gained in victory at last!
The shadow is not lifted,--but her faith, Strong from life's miracles, now turns toward death.
Though much be dark where once rare splendor shone, Yet the new light has touched high peaks unguessed In her gold, mist-bathed dawn, and one by one New outlooks loom from many a mountain crest.
She breathes a loftier, purer atmosphere, And life's entangled paths grow straight and clear.
Nor will Death prove an all-unwelcome guest; The struggle has been toilsome to this end, Sleep will be sweet, and after labor rest, And all will be atoned with him to friend.
Much must be reconciled, much justified, And yet she feels she will be satisfied.
XVI. Peace.
The calm outgoing of a long, rich day, Checkered with storm and suns.h.i.+ne, gloom and light, Now pa.s.sing in pure, cloudless skies away, Withdrawing into silence of blank night.
Thick shadows settle on the landscape bright, Like the weird cloud of death that falls apace On the still features of the pa.s.sive face.
Soothing and gentle as a mother's kiss, The touch that stopped the beating of the heart.
A look so blissfully serene as this, Not all the joy of living could impart.
With dauntless faith and courage therewithal, The Master found her ready at his call.
On such a golden evening forth there floats, Between the grave earth and the glowing sky In the clear air, unvexed with hazy motes, The mystic-winged and flickering b.u.t.terfly, A human soul, that drifts at liberty, Ah! who can tell to what strange paradise, To what undreamed-of fields and lofty skies!
HOW LONG?
How long, and yet how long, Our leaders will we hail from over seas, Master and kings from feudal monarchies, And mock their ancient song With echoes weak of foreign melodies?
That distant isle mist-wreathed, Mantled in unimaginable green, Too long hath been our mistress and our queen.
Our fathers have bequeathed Too deep a love for her, our hearts within.
She made the whole world ring With the brave exploits of her children strong, And with the matchless music of her song.
Too late, too late we cling To alien legends, and their strains prolong.
