Poems of the Heart and Home Part 13

_The man of men!_--'twas so I thought Just fifty years ago, When you and I joined hands for life; And yet, I did not know Half--half as well as I do now, How dear you were that day; And ever dearer still you've grown As years have rolled away!

And still this fiftieth wedding-day I have thee by my side-- An old man, weary, bent, and grey, My tall tree tempest tried.

And yet I do aver that thou Art fairer in my sight, As in thy face I gaze just now, Than on our wedding night!

And husband--oh, the best of all, We'll soon be young again, And free to tread with buoyant feet A brighter, holier plain;-- We'll soon have done with pain and age, And weariness and strife, Soon end our earthly pilgrimage In new, exultant life.

For you and I, dear, have a home-- A mansion of our own-- Where change and blight can never come, And sorrow is unknown; And soon we're going to enter in, And with our Lord sit down,-- Heirs of His glory and His bliss, His kingdom and His crown!

Many we love have thither gone, And soon we'll be there too,-- And, children, you will follow on, We shall look out for you Oh, may we, in that blessed throng Of saved ones robed in white, Not miss a single dear loved face That smiles on ours to night!

Just fifty years of wedded life In the dear past I see, Before us spreads--not fifty years-- But all Eternity And while, 'mid ever deepening bliss, The tranquil ages glide, Still, hand in hand and heart in heart, With Christ we shall abide!

THE EARTH VOICE AND ITS ANSWER

I plucked a fair flower that grew In the shadow of summer's green trees-- A rose petalled flower, Of all in the bower, Best beloved of the bee and the breeze I plucked it, and kissed it, and called it my own-- This beautiful, beautiful flower That alone in the cool, tender shadow had grown, Fairest and first in the bower

Then a murmur I heard at my feet-- A pensive and sorrowful sound, And I stooped me to hear, While tear after tear Rained down from my eyes to the ground, As I, listening, heard This sorrowful word, So breathing of anguish profound:--

"I have gathered the fairest and best, I have gathered the rarest and sweetest, My life-blood I've given As an off'ring to Heaven In this flower, of all flowers the completest Through the long, quiet night, With the pale stars in sight,-- Through the sun-lighted day Of the balm-breathing May, I have toiled on, in silence, to bring To perfection this beautiful flower, The pride of the blossoming bower-- The queenliest blossom of spring.

"But I am forgotten;--none heed Me--the brown soil where it grew, That drank in by day The sun's blessed ray, And gathered at twilight the dew;-- That fed it by night and by day With nectar drops slowly distilled In the secret alembic of earth, And diffused through each delicate vein Till the sunbeams were charmed to remain, Entranced in a dream of delight, Stealing in with their arrows of light Through the calyx of delicate green, The close-folded petals between, Down into its warm hidden heart-- Until, with an ecstatic start At the rapture, so wondrous and new, That throbbed at its innermost heart, Wide opened the beautiful eyes, And lo! with a sudden surprise Caught the glance of the glorious sun-- The ardent and wors.h.i.+pful one-- Looking down from his heavenly place, And the blush of delighted surprise Remained in its warm glowing dyes, Evermore on that radiant face

"Then mortals, in wors.h.i.+pful mood, Bent over my wonderful flower, And called it 'the fairest,'

The richest, the rarest, The pride of the blossoming bower But I am forgotten. Ah me!

I, the brown soil where it grew, That cherished and nourished The stem where it flourished, And fed it with suns.h.i.+ne and dew

"O Man! will it always be thus?-- Will you take the rich gifts that are given By the tireless workers of earth, By the bountiful Father in heaven, And, intent on the worth of the gift, Never think of the maker, the giver?-- Of the long patient effort,--the thought That secretly grew in the brain Of the Poet to measure and strain, Till it burst on your ear, richly fraught With the rapturous sweetness of song?--

What availeth it, then, that ye toil, You, thought's patient producers, to be Unloved and unprized, Trodden down and despised By those whom you toil for, like me-- Forgotten and trampled like me?--"

Then my heart made indignant reply, In spite of my fast falling tears-- In spite of the wearisome years Of toil unrequited that lay In the track of the past, and the way Thorn-girded I'd trod in those years--

"So be it, if so it _must_ be!-- May I know that the thing I so patiently bring From the depths of the heart and the brain, A creature of _beauty_ goes forth, Midst the hideous phantoms that press And crowd the lone paths of this work-weary life, Midst the labor and care, the temptation and strife, To gladden and comfort and bless!

"So be it, if so it _must_ be!-- May I know that the thing I so patiently bring From the depths of the heart and the brain, Goes forth with a conquerors might, Through the gloom of this turbulent world, Potent for truth and for right, Where truth has so often been hurled 'Neath the feet of the throng-- The hurrying, pa.s.sionate throng!--

"What matter though I _be_ forgot, Since toil is itself a delight?-- Since the _power_ to do, To the soul that is true, Is the uttered command of the Lord To labor and faint not, but still To pursue and achieve, And ever believe.

That ACHIEVEMENT ALONE IS REWARD!"

BEYOND THE SHADOWS.

Thou hast entered the land without shadows, Thou who, 'neath the shadow, so long Hast sat with thy white hands close-folded, And lips that could utter no song; Through a rift in the cloud, for an instant, Thine eyes caught a glimpse of that sh.o.r.e, And Earth with its gloom was forgotten, And Heaven is thine own evermore!

We see not the glorious vision, Nor the welcoming melodies hear, That, from bowers of beauty Elysian, Float tenderly sweet to thine ear; Round us, lie Earth's desolate midnight, Her winter-plains bare and untrod,-- Round thee, is the glad, morning sunlight That beams from the City of G.o.d!

Our eyes have grown heavy with weeping,-- Thine, "the King in his beauty" behold And thou leanest thy head on His bosom, Like him, the beloved, of old; The days of thy weeping are ended, Thy sorrow and suffering done, And angels thy flight have attended To the side of the Crucified One.

On thy hearth-stone the ashes are fireless, In thy dark home the lights never burn, In thy garden the sweet flowers have perished, To thy bower no song-birds return!

Yet a mansion of bliss glory-lighted, Where anguish and death are unknown, Where beauty and bloom are unblighted, Henceforth is forever thine own!

Oh! joy for thee, glorified spirit!

With Jesus forever to be, And with sinless and sainted companions The bliss of His Paradise see!

Joy, joy!--for thy warfare is finished, Thy perilous journeying o'er, And, above the deep gloom of Earth's shadows, Thou art dwelling in Light evermore!

AUTUMN AND WINTER.

I.

Beautiful Autumn is dead and gone-- Weep for her!

Calm, and gracious, and very fair, With sunny robe and with s.h.i.+ning hair, And a tender light in her dreamy eye, She came to earth but to smile and die-- Weep for her!

Nay, nay, I will not weep!

She came with a smile, And tarried awhile, Quieting Nature to sleep;-- Then went on her way O'er the hill-tops grey, And yet--and yet, _she is dead_, you say!

Nay!--she brought us blessings, and left us cheer, And alive and well sh.e.l.l return next year!-- Why should I weep?

II.

Desolate Winter has come again-- Frown on him!

He comes with a withering breath, With a gloomy scowl, With a shriek and a howl, Freezing Nature to death!

He stamps on the hills, He fetters the rills, And every hollow with snow he fills!

Frown on the monster grim and old, With snowy robes and with fingers cold, And a gusty breath!

Nay, nay! I shall give him a smile!-- For I know by the sleet, And the snow in the street, He has come to tarry awhile.

Ho, for the sleigh-bells merrily ringing!

Ho, for the skaters joyously singing-- Over the ice-fields gliding, swinging!-- So let the Winter-king whiten the plain!

Fetter the fountains and frost the pane, His greeting shall be-- Not a frown from me, But a smile--a smile!

TILL TO-MORROW.

Good night! good night!--the golden day Has veiled its sunset beam, And twilight's star its beauteous ray Has mirrored in the stream;-- Low voices come from vale and height, And murmur soft, good night! good night!