Religious Poems
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ST. CATHERINE BORNE BY ANGELS.1
SLOW through the solemn air, in silence sailing,Borne by mysterious angels, strong and fair,She sleeps at last, blest dreams her eyelids veiling,Above this weary world of strife and care.Lo how she passeth! – dreamy, slow, and calm:Scarce wave those broad, white wings, so silvery bright;Those cloudy robes, in star-emblazoned folding,Sweep mistily athwart the evening light.Far, far below, the dim, forsaken earth,The foes that threaten, or the friends that weep;Past, like a dream, the torture and the pain:For so He giveth his beloved sleep.The restless bosom of the surging oceanGives back the image as the cloud floats o'er,Hushing in glassy awe his troubled motion;For one blest moment he complains no more.Like the transparent golden floor of heaven,His charmed waters lie as in a dream,And glistening wings, and starry robes unfolding,And serious angel eyes far downward gleam.O restless sea! thou seemest all enchantedBy that sweet vision of celestial rest;Where are the winds and tides thy peace that haunted, —So still thou seemest, so glorified and blest!Ah, sea! to-morrow, that sweet scene forgotten,Dark tides and tempests shall thy bosom rear;And thy complaining waves, with restless motion,Shall toss their hands in their old wild despair.So o'er our hearts sometimes the sweet, sad storyOf suffering saints, borne homeward crowned and blest,Shines down in stillness with a tender glory,And makes a mirror there of breathless rest.For not alone in those old Eastern regionsAre Christ's beloved ones tried by cross and chain;In many a house are his elect ones hidden,His martyrs suffering in their patient pain.The rack, the cross, life's weary wrench of woe,The world sees not, as slow, from day to day,In calm, unspoken patience, sadly still,The loving spirit bleeds itself away.But there are hours when, from the heavens unfolding,Come down the angels with the glad release;And we look upward, to behold in gloryOur suffering loved ones borne away to peace.Ah, brief the calm! the restless wave of feelingRises again when the bright cloud sweeps by,And our unrestful souls reflect no longerThat tender vision of the upper sky.Espoused Lord of the pure saints in glory,To whom all faithful souls affianced are,Breathe down thy peace into our restless spirits,And make a lasting, heavenly vision there.So the bright gates no more on us shall close;No more the cloud of angels fade away;And we shall walk, amid life's weary strife,In the calm light of thine eternal day.THE CHARMER
"Socrates. However, you and Simmias appear to me as if you wished to sift this subject more thoroughly, and to be afraid, like children, lest, on the soul's departure from the body, winds should blow it away.
"Upon this Cebes said, 'Endeavor to teach us better, Socrates. Perhaps there is a childish spirit in our breast that has such a dread. Let us endeavor to persuade him not to be afraid of death, as of hobgoblins.'
"'But you must charm him every day,' said Socrates, 'until you have quieted his fears.'
"'But whence, O Socrates,' he said, 'can we procure a skilful charmer for such a case, now you are about to leave us.'
"'Greece is wide, Cebes,' he said, 'and in it surely there are skilful men; and there are many barbarous nations, all of which you should search, seeking such a charmer, sparing neither money nor toil.'" – Last words of Socrates, as narrated by Plato in the Phædo.
WE need that charmer, for our hearts are soreWith longings for the things that may not be,Faint for the friends that shall return no more,Dark with distrust, or wrung with agony."What is this life? and what to us is death?Whence came we? whither go? and where are thoseWho, in a moment stricken from our side,Passed to that land of shadow and repose?"And are they all dust? and dust must we become?Or are they living in some unknown clime?Shall we regain them in that far-off home,And live anew beyond the waves of time?"O man divine! on thee our souls have hung;Thou wert our teacher in these questions high;But ah! this day divides thee from our side,And veils in dust thy kindly-guiding eye."Where is that Charmer whom thou bidst us seek?On what far shores may his sweet voice be heard?When shall these questions of our yearning soulsBe answered by the bright Eternal Word?"So spake the youth of Athens, weeping round,When Socrates lay calmly down to die;So spake the sage, prophetic of the hourWhen earth's fair morning star should rise on high.They found Him not, those youths of soul divine,Long seeking, wandering, watching on life's shore;Reasoning, aspiring, yearning for the light,Death came and found them – doubting as before.But years passed on; and lo! the Charmer came,Pure, simple, sweet, as comes the silver dew,And the world knew him not, – he walked alone,Encircled only by his trusting few.Like the Athenian sage, rejected, scorned,Betrayed, condemned, his day of doom drew nigh;He drew his faithful few more closely round,And told them that his hour was come – to die."Let not your heart be troubled," then He said,"My Father's house hath mansions large and fair;I go before you to prepare your place,I will return to take you with me there."And since that hour the awful foe is charmed,And life and death are glorified and fair;Whither He went we know, the way we know,And with firm step press on to meet him there.KNOCKING
"Behold, I stand at the door and knock."
KNOCKING, knocking, ever knocking?Who is there?'Tis a pilgrim, strange and kingly,Never such was seen before; —Ah, sweet soul, for such a wonderUndo the door.No, – that door is hard to open;Hinges rusty, latch is broken;Bid Him go.Wherefore, with that knocking drearyScare the sleep from one so weary?Say Him, – no.Knocking, knocking, ever knocking?What! Still there?O, sweet soul, but once behold Him,With the glory-crownéd hair;And those eyes, so strange and tender,Waiting there;Open! Open! Once behold Him, —Him, so fair.Ah, that door! Why wilt Thou vex me,Coming ever to perplex me?For the key is stiffly rusty,And the bolt is clogged and dusty;Many-fingered ivy-vineSeals it fast with twist and twine;Weeds of years and years beforeChoke the passage of that door.Knocking! knocking! What! still knocking?He still there?What's the hour? The night is waning, —In my heart a drear complaining,And a chilly, sad unrest!Ah, this knocking! It disturbs me,Scares my sleep with dreams unblest!Give me rest,Rest, – ah, rest!Rest, dear soul, He longs to give thee;Thou hast only dreamed of pleasure,Dreamed of gifts and golden treasure,Dreamed of jewels in thy keeping,Waked to weariness of weeping; —Open to thy soul's one Lover,And thy night of dreams is over, —The true gifts He brings have seemingMore than all thy faded dreaming!Did she open? Doth she? Will she?So, as wondering we behold,Grows the picture to a sign,Pressed upon your soul and mine;For in every breast that livethIs that strange mysterious door; —Though forsaken and betangled,Ivy-gnarled and weed-bejangled,Dusty, rusty, and forgotten; —There the piercéd hand still knocketh,And with ever-patient watching,With the sad eyes true and tender,With the glory-crownéd hair, —Still a God is waiting there.THE OLD PSALM TUNE
YOU asked, dear friend, the other day,Why still my charméd earRejoiceth in uncultured toneThat old psalm tune to hear?I've heard full oft, in foreign lands,The grand orchestral strain,Where music's ancient masters live,Revealed on earth again, —Where breathing, solemn instruments,In swaying clouds of sound,Bore up the yearning, trancéd soul,Like silver wings around; —I've heard in old St. Peter's dome,Where clouds of incense rise,Most ravishing the choral swellMount upwards to the skies.And well I feel the magic power,When skilled and cultured artIts cunning webs of sweetness weavesAround the captured heart.But yet, dear friend, though rudely sung,That old psalm tune hath stillA pulse of power beyond them allMy inmost soul to thrill.Those halting tones that sound to you,Are not the tones I hear;But voices of the loved and lostThere meet my longing ear.I hear my angel mother's voice, —Those were the words she sung;I hear my brother's ringing tones,As once on earth they rung;And friends that walk in white aboveCome round me like a cloud,And far above those earthly notesTheir singing sounds aloud.There may be discord, as you say;Those voices poorly ring;But there's no discord in the strainThose upper spirits sing.For they who sing are of the blest,The calm and glorified,Whose hours are one eternal restOn heaven's sweet floating tide.Their life is music and accord;Their souls and hearts keep timeIn one sweet concert with the Lord, —One concert vast, sublime.And through the hymns they sang on earthSometimes a sweetness fallsOn those they loved and left below,And softly homeward calls, —Bells from our own dear fatherland,Borne trembling o'er the sea, —The narrow sea that they have crossed,The shores where we shall be.O sing, sing on, beloved souls!Sing cares and griefs to rest;Sing, till entrancéd we ariseTo join you 'mong the blest.THE OTHER WORLD
IT lies around us like a cloud,A world we do not see;Yet the sweet closing of an eyeMay bring us there to be.Its gentle breezes fan our cheek;Amid our worldly cares,Its gentle voices whisper love,And mingle with our prayers.Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,Sweet helping hands are stirred,And palpitates the veil betweenWith breathings almost heard.The silence, awful, sweet, and calm,They have no power to break;For mortal words are not for themTo utter or partake.So thin, so soft, so sweet, they glide,So near to press they seem,They lull us gently to our rest,They melt into our dream.And in the hush of rest they bring'Tis easy now to seeHow lovely and how sweet a passThe hour of death may be; —To close the eye, and close the ear,Wrapped in a trance of bliss,And, gently drawn in loving arms,To swoon to that – from this, —Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,Scarce asking where we are,To feel all evil sink away,All sorrow and all care.Sweet souls around us! watch us still;Press nearer to our side;Into our thoughts, into our prayers,With gentle helpings glide.Let death between us be as naught,A dried and vanished stream;Your joy be the reality,Our suffering life the dream.MARY AT THE CROSS
"Now there stood by the cross of Jesus his mother."
O WONDROUS mother! since the dawn of timeWas ever love, was ever grief, like thine?O highly favored in thy joy's deep flow,And favored, even in this, thy bitterest woe!Poor was that home in simple NazarethWhere, fairly growing, like some silent flower,Last of a kingly race, unknown and lowly,O desert lily, passed thy childhood's hour.The world knew not the tender, serious maiden,Who through deep loving years so silent grew,Full of high thought and holy aspiration,Which the o'ershadowing God alone might view.And then it came, that message from the highest,Such as to woman ne'er before descended,The almighty wings thy prayerful soul o'erspread,And with thy life the Life of worlds was blended.What visions then of future glory filled thee,The chosen mother of that King unknown,Mother fulfiller of all prophecyWhich, through dim ages, wondering seers had shown!Well did thy dark eye kindle, thy deep soulRise into billows, and thy heart rejoice;Then woke the poet's fire, the prophet's song,Tuned with strange burning words thy timid voice.Then, in dark contrast, came the lowly manger,The outcast shed, the tramp of brutal feet;Again behold earth's learned and her lowly,Sages and shepherds, prostrate at thy feet.Then to the temple bearing – hark againWhat strange conflicting tones of prophecyBreathe o'er the child foreshadowing words of joy,High triumph blent with bitter agony!O, highly favored thou in many an hourSpent in lone musings with thy wondrous Son,When thou didst gaze into that glorious eye,And hold that mighty hand within thine own.Blest through those thirty years, when in thy dwellingHe lived a God disguised with unknown power;And thou his sole adorer, his best love,Trusting, revering, waited for his hour.Blest in that hour, when called by opening heavenWith cloud and voice, and the baptizing flame,Up from the Jordan walked th' acknowledged stranger,And awe-struck crowds grew silent as he came.Blessed, when full of grace, with glory crowned,He from both hands almighty favors poured,And, though He had not where to lay his head,Brought to his feet alike the slave and lord.Crowds followed; thousands shouted, "Lo, our King!"Fast beat thy heart. Now, now the hour draws nigh:Behold the crown, the throne, the nations bend!Ah, no! fond mother, no! behold him die!Now by that cross thou tak'st thy final station,And shar'st the last dark trial of thy Son;Not with weak tears or woman's lamentation,But with high, silent anguish, like his own.Hail! highly favored, even in this deep passion;Hail! in this bitter anguish thou art blest, —Blest in the holy power with Him to sufferThose deep death-pangs that lead to higher rest.All now is darkness; and in that deep stillnessThe God-man wrestles with that mighty woe;Hark to that cry, the rock of ages rending, —"'Tis finished!" Mother, all is glory now!By sufferings mighty as his mighty soulHath the Redeemer risen forever blest;And through all ages must his heart-belovedThrough the same baptism enter the same rest.THE INNER VOICE
"Come ye yourselves into a desert place and rest awhile; for there were many coming and going, so that they had no time so much as to eat."
'MID the mad whirl of life, its dim confusion,Its jarring discords and poor vanity,Breathing like music over troubled waters,What gentle voice, O Christian, speaks to thee?It is a stranger, – not of earth or earthly;By the serene, deep fulness of that eye, —By the calm, pitying smile, the gesture lowly, —It is thy Saviour as he passeth by."Come, come," he saith, "O soul oppressed and weary,Come to the shadows of my desert rest,Come walk with me far from life's babbling discords,And peace shall breathe like music in thy breast."Art thou bewildered by contesting voices, —Sick to thy soul of party noise and strife?Come, leave it all, and seek that solitudeWhere thou shalt learn of me a purer life."When far behind the world's great tumult dieth,Thou shalt look back and wonder at its roar;But its far voice shall seem to thee a dream,Its power to vex thy holier life be o'er."There shalt thou learn the secret of a power,Mine to bestow, which heals the ills of living;To overcome by love, to live by prayer,To conquer man's worst evils by forgiving."ABIDE IN ME, AND I IN YOU
THE SOUL'S ANSWERTHAT mystic word of thine, O sovereign Lord,Is all too pure, too high, too deep for me;Weary of striving, and with longing faint,I breathe it back again in prayer to thee.Abide in me, I pray, and I in thee;From this good hour, O, leave me nevermore;Then shall the discord cease, the wound be healed,The lifelong bleeding of the soul be o'er.Abide in me; o'ershadow by thy loveEach half-formed purpose and dark thought of sin;Quench, e'er it rise, each selfish, low desire,And keep my soul as thine, calm and divine.As some rare perfume in a vase of clayPervades it with a fragrance not its own,So, when thou dwellest in a mortal soul,All heaven's own sweetness seems around it thrown.Abide in me: there have been moments blestWhen I have heard thy voice and felt thy power;Then evil lost its grasp, and passion, hushed,Owned the divine enchantment of the hour.These were but seasons, beautiful and rare;Abide in me, and they shall ever be.Fulfil at once thy precept and my prayer, —Come, and abide in me, and I in thee.THE SECRET
"Thou shalt keep them in the secret of thy presence from the strife of tongues."
WHEN winds are raging o'er the upper ocean,And billows wild contend with angry roar,'Tis said, far down beneath the wild commotion,That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.Far, far beneath, the noise of tempest dieth,And silver waves chime ever peacefully;And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he flieth,Disturbs the sabbath of that deeper sea.So to the soul that knows thy love, O Purest,There is a temple peaceful evermore!And all the babble of life's angry voicesDie in hushed stillness at its sacred door.Far, far away the noise of passion dieth,And loving thoughts rise ever peacefully;And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he fliethDisturbs that deeper rest, O Lord, in thee.O rest of rests! O peace serene, eternal!Thou ever livest and thou changest never;And in the secret of thy presence dwellethFulness of joy, forever and forever.THINK NOT ALL IS OVER
THINK not, when the wailing winds of autumnDrive the shivering leaflets from the tree, —Think not all is over: spring returneth,Buds and leaves and blossoms thou shalt see.Think not, when the earth lies cold and sealed,And the weary birds above her mourn, —Think not all is over: God still liveth,Songs and sunshine shall again return.Think not, when thy heart is waste and dreary,When thy cherished hopes lie chill and sere, —Think not all is over: God still loveth,He will wipe away thy every tear.Weeping for a night alone endureth,God at last shall bring a morning hour;In the frozen buds of every winterSleep the blossoms of a future flower.LINES
TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860"Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him." – John xx. 15.
IN the fair gardens of celestial peaceWalketh a Gardener in meekness clad;Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks,And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad.Fair are the silent foldings of his robes,Falling with saintly calmness to his feet;And when he walks, each floweret to his willWith living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart,In the mild summer radiance of his eye;No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost,Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh.And all our pleasant haunts of earthly loveAre nurseries to those gardens of the air;And his far-darting eye, with starry beam,Watcheth the growing of his treasures there.We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears,O'erwatched with restless longings night and day;Forgetful of the high, mysterious rightHe holds to bear our cherished plants away.But when some sunny spot in those bright fieldsNeeds the fair presence of an added flower,Down sweeps a starry angel in the night:At morn, the rose has vanished from our bower.Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave!Blank, silent, vacant, but in worlds above,Like a new star outblossomed in the skies,The angels hail an added flower of love.Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound,Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf,Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eyeBeyond the autumn mists of earthly grief.Thy garden rose-bud bore, within its breast,Those mysteries of color, warm and bright,That the bleak climate of this lower sphereCould never waken into form and light.Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence,Nor must thou ask to take her thence away;Thou shalt behold her in some coming hour,Full-blossomed in his fields of cloudless day.THE CROCUS
BENEATH the sunny autumn sky,With gold leaves dropping round,We sought, my little friend and I,The consecrated ground,Where, calm beneath the holy cross,O'ershadowed by sweet skies,Sleeps tranquilly that youthful form,Those blue unclouded eyes.Around the soft, green swelling moundWe scooped the earth away,And buried deep the crocus-bulbsAgainst a coming day."These roots are dry, and brown, and sere;Why plant them here?" he said,"To leave them, all the winter long,So desolate and dead.""Dear child, within each sere dead formThere sleeps a living flower,And angel-like it shall ariseIn spring's returning hour."Ah, deeper down – cold, dark, and chill —We buried our heart's flower,But angel-like shall he ariseIn spring's immortal hour.In blue and yellow from its graveSprings up the crocus fair,And God shall raise those bright blue eyes,Those sunny waves of hair.Not for a fading summer's morn,Not for a fleeting hour,But for an endless age of bliss,Shall rise our heart's dear flower.CONSOLATION
WRITTEN AFTER THE SECOND BATTLE OF BULL RUN"And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea."
AH, many-voiced and angry! how the wavesBeat turbulent with terrible uproar!Is there no rest from tossing, – no repose?Where shall we find a haven and a shore?What is secure from the loud-dashing wave?There go our riches, and our hopes fly there;There go the faces of our best beloved,Whelmed in the vortex of its wild despair.Whose son is safe? whose brother, and whose home?The dashing spray beats out the household fire;By blackened ashes weep our widowed soulsOver the embers of our lost desire.By pauses, in the fitful moaning storm,We hear triumphant notes of battle roll.Too soon the triumph sinks in funeral wail;The muffled drum, the death march, shakes the soul!Rocks on all sides, and breakers! at the helmWeak human hand and weary human eyes.The shout and clamor of our dreary strifeGoes up conflicting to the angry skies.But for all this, O timid hearts, be strong;Be of good cheer, for, though the storm must be,It hath its Master: from the depths shall riseNew heavens, new earth, where shall be no more sea.No sea, no tossing, no unrestful storm!Forever past the anguish and the strife;The poor old weary earth shall bloom again,With the bright foliage of that better life.And war, and strife, and hatred, shall be past,And misery be a forgotten dream.The Shepherd God shall lead his peaceful foldBy the calm meadows and the quiet stream.Be still, be still, and know that he is God;Be calm, be trustful; work, and watch, and pray,Till from the throes of this last anguish riseThe light and gladness of that better day."ONLY A YEAR."
ONE year ago, – a ringing voice,A clear blue eye,And clustering curls of sunny hair,Too fair to die.Only a year, – no voice, no smile,No glance of eye,No clustering curls of golden hair,Fair but to die!One year ago, – what loves, what schemesFar into life!What joyous hopes, what high resolves,What generous strife!The silent picture on the wall,The burial stone,Of all that beauty, life, and joyRemain alone!One year, – one year, – one little year,And so much gone!And yet the even flow of lifeMoves calmly on.The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,Above that head;No sorrowing tint of leaf or spraySays he is dead.No pause or hush of merry birds,That sing above,Tells us how coldly sleeps belowThe form we love.Where hast thou been this year, beloved?What hast thou seen?What visions fair, what glorious life,Where thou hast been?The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!'Twixt us and thee;The mystic veil! when shall it fall,That we may see?Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,But present still,And waiting for the coming hourOf God's sweet will.Lord of the living and the dead,Our Saviour dear!We lay in silence at thy feetThis sad, sad year!BELOW
LOUDLY sweep the winds of autumnO'er that lone, beloved grave,Where we laid those sunny ringlets,When those blue eyes set like stars,Leaving us to outer darkness.O the longing and the aching!O the sere deserted grave!Let the grass turn brown upon thee,Brown and withered like our dreams!Let the wind moan through the pine-treesWith a dreary, dirge-like whistle,Sweep the dead leaves on its bosom, —Moaning, sobbing through the branches,Where the summer laughed so gayly.He is gone, our boy of summer, —Gone the light of his blue eyes,Gone the tender heart and manly,Gone the dreams and the aspirings, —Nothing but the mound remaineth,And the aching in our bosoms,Ever aching, ever throbbing:Who shall bring it unto rest?ABOVE
A VISIONCOMING down a golden streetI beheld my vanished one,And he moveth on a cloud,And his forehead wears a star;And his blue eyes, deep and holy,Fixed as in a blessed dream,See some mystery of joy,Some unuttered depth of love.And his vesture is as blueAs the skies of summer are,Falling with a saintly sweep,With a sacred stillness swaying;And he presseth to his bosomHarp of strange and mystic fashion,And his hands, like living pearls,Wander o'er the golden strings.And the music that ariseth,Who can utter or divine it?In that strange celestial thrilling,Every memory of sorrow,Every heart-ache, every anguish,Every fear for the to-morrow,Melt away in charméd rest.And there be around him many,Bright with robes like evening clouds, —Tender green and clearest amber,Crimson fading into rose,Robes of flames and robes of silver, —And their hues all thrill and trembleWith a living light of feeling,Deepening with each heart's pulsation,Till in vivid trance of colorThat celestial rainbow glows.How they float and wreathe and brighten,Bending low their starry brows,Singing with a tender cadence,And their hands, like spotless lilies,Folded on their prayerful breasts.In their singing seem to mingleTender airs of by-gone days; —Mother-hymnings by the cradle,Mother-moanings by the grave,Songs of human love and sorrow,Songs of endless love and rest; —In the pauses of that musicEvery throb of sorrow dies.O my own, my heart's belovéd,Vainly have I wept above thee?Would I call thee from thy gloryTo this world's impurity? —Lo! it passeth, it dissolveth,All the vision melts away;But as if a heavenly lilyDropped into my aching breast,With a healing sweetness laden,With a mystic breath of rest,I am charmed into forgettingAutumn winds and dreary grave.