Poems by Marietta Holley Part 16

Then softly downward falling, If we listen, we can hear, From a purer atmosphere, A warning and a calling.

'Tis not uttered to our ear, To our spirit it is spoken, In the wonderful, unbroken Heavenly speech that spirits hear.

Strange and solemn doth it roll Downward like a yearning cry, From that belfry far on high, Warning, calling to our soul.

Ever, ever, doth it roll, Our angel guards the tower, Ringing, ringing, every hour, Warning, calling to our soul.

GENIEVE TO HER LOVER.

I turn the key in this idle hour Of an ivory box, and looking, lo-- See only dust--the dust of a flower; The waters will ebb, the waters will flow, And dreams will come, and dreams will go, Forever.

Oh, friend, if you and I should meet Beneath the boughs of the bending lime, Should you in the same low voice repeat The tender words of the old love rhyme, It could not bring back the same old time, Never.

When you laid this rose against my brow, I was quite unused to the ways of men, With my trusting heart; I am wiser now, So I smile, remembering my heart-throbs then, The dust of a rose cannot blossom again, Never.

The brow that you praised has colder grown, And hearts will change, I suppose they must, A rose to be lasting, should blossom in stone, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Dead are the rose, the love, and the trust, Forever.

THE WILD ROSE.

In a waste of yellow sand, on the brow of a dreary hill, A slight little slip of a rose struggled up to the light, The seed maybe was sown there by the south wind's idle will, But there it grew and blossomed, pale and white.

Only one flower it bore, and that was frail and small, But I think it was brave to try to grow at all.

In groves of fair Cashmere, or sheltered garden of kings, Sweet with a thousand flowers, with birds of paradise Fanning her blus.h.i.+ng cheeks with their glowing wings, Praising her deepening bloom with their great bright eyes, Life would have been a pleasure instead of a toil, To my pale little patient rose of the sandy soil.

Did she ever sadly think of her wasted life, Folding her wan weak hands so helpless and still; And the great oak by her sheltering glad bird life, And the thirsty meadows praising the running rill; She could hear the happy work-day song of the busy brook, While she, poor thing, could only stand and look.

Did the wee white rose ever think of her lonely life, That there were none to care if she tried to grow; None to care if the cloud that hung in the west Should burst, and scatter her pale leaves far and low?

Did she ever wish that the heavy cloud would fall And hide her, so unblest, from the sight of all?

One sky bends o'er rich garden flowers, and those That dwell in barren soil, untended and unblest; And I think that G.o.d was pleased with the small white rose, That tried so patiently to live and do its best; That bravely kept its small leaves pure and fair On the waste of dreary sand, and the desert air.

OUR BIRD.

She lay asleep, and her face shone white As under a snowy veil, And the waxen hands clasped on her breast Were full of snowdrops pale; But a holy calm touched the baby lips, The brow, and the sleeping eyes, The look of an angel pitying us From the peace of Paradise.

And now though she lies 'neath the coffin-lid, We cannot think her dead; But we think of her as of some delicate bird To a milder country fled.

'Twas a long, dark flight for our gentle dove, Our bird so tender and fair; But we know she has reached the summer land And folded her white wings there.

THE TIME THAT IS TO BE.

I am thinking of fern forests that once did towering stand, Crowning all the barren mountains, shading all the dreary land.

Oh, the dreadful, quiet brooding, the solitude sublime, That reigned like shadowy spectres o'er the third great day of time.

In long, low lines the tideless seas on dull gray sh.o.r.es did break, No song of bird, no gleam of wing, o'er wood or reedy lake--

No flowers perfumed the pulseless air, no stars, no moon, no sun To tell in silver language, night was past, or day was done.

Only silence rising with the ghostly morning's misty light, Silence, silence, settling down upon the moonless, starless night.

And the ferns, and giant mosses, noiseless sentinels did stand, Looking o'er the tideless ocean, watching o'er the dreary land.

Ferns gave place to glowing olives, and cl.u.s.ters dropping wine, Mosses changed to oaken tissues, and cleft to fragrant pine.

Deft and noiseless fingers toiled, and wrought the great Creator's plan, Through countless ages moulding earth for the abode of man.

Till each imperial day was bound by sunset's crimson bars, The purple columns of the night crowned with the s.h.i.+ning stars.

The ripe fruit seeks the sunlight through all the cl.u.s.tering leaves The earth is decked with golden maize, and costly yellow sheaves.

Countless silent centuries pa.s.sed in fas.h.i.+oning good that doth appear, Shall we weary and grow hopeless, waiting for the Golden Year?

Thy kingdom come, in which Thy will is done, From myriad souls rises the yearning cry; Scatter palm-boughs--behold, a brighter sun Shall dawn in splendor, in a clearer sky; Upon the distant hills a glow we see, That tells us of the Time that is to be.

The desert then shall blossom like the rose, The almond flourish on the rocky slopes; Wisdom and beauty in rare union close, Making earth beautiful beyond our hopes.

High in the dusky east a star we see, A herald of the Time that is to be.

The free-born soul shall not be captive then, Bound by decaying cords of narrow creeds, G.o.d's image shall more clearly s.h.i.+ne in men, Divinely shaped by holy aims and deeds.

Gleam, golden star, oh gleam o'er earth and sea, A herald of the Time that is to be.

Fetters are broken, so the fern-leaves fall, A richer growth is budding, wondrous fair, The flower of liberty shall bloom for all, And all shall breathe the healing of the air; The blessed air that wraps a people free, Within that glorious Time that is to be.

For what is slavery but woe and crime, And freedom is but liberty from these; Oh perfect hours, ye come, fair and sublime, Bearing the sweet form of the baby, Peace, s.h.i.+ne, golden star, oh s.h.i.+ne o'er earth and sea, A herald of the Time that is to be.