UC-NRLF 
 
 B M IDE 
 
POEMS BY JONES VERY 
 
 WITH 
 
 31ntroUucton? 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM P. ANDREWS 
 
 And all their motions upward be, 
 
 And ever as they mount, like larks they sing. 
 
 The note is sad, yet music for a king. 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street 
 
 1883 
 
Copyright, 1883, 
 Br HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge : 
 Printed by H. 0. Houghton and Company. 
 
M 
 
 Inscribed 
 
 To the Beloved Memory of the Author s dear Brother, 
 WASHINGTON VERY. 
 
Iprcfacc, 
 
 THE first edition of Mr. Very s writings was 
 prepared by Mr. Emerson, and published at his 
 request by Messrs. Little & Brown, at Boston in 
 1839, under the title of " Essays and Poems." 
 It was long since exhausted, though never re 
 printed, and consisted of three essays in prose 
 and something less than half of the poetical 
 pieces here given. 
 
 The essays received high praise from eminent 
 sources, though it is thought best not to include 
 them in the present collection of the poetry, 
 whose pure, bird-like note of unpremeditated 
 song was at that time, if not still, a unique pro 
 duction here ; and stood (as Mr. Dana remarked 
 of it) quite " apart " in American literature. 
 It was hailed with delight by the leading literary 
 men then on this side of the Atlantic (vide Me 
 moir, pp. 9-11), whose feeling for this genu 
 ine, underived voice of New England piety finds 
 
vi PREFACE. 
 
 expression, it is hoped, in the lines which Mr. 
 Very s literary friends have desired should stand 
 as an introduction to this collection of his poetry. 
 
 If the verse alluded to seems to overestimate 
 the value of that poetry, it is to be remembered 
 that it applies only to the condition of poetical 
 literature in this country half a century ago ; 
 and it is to be noted that it understates the im 
 pression which Mr. Very s remarkable originality 
 and fervor of pure devotion made upon his con 
 temporaries. 
 
 The present collection has been arranged with 
 a view of showing the development of the Au 
 thor s religious idea connectedly ; and has been 
 divided into such groupings and sequences as the 
 subject naturally assumes by headings, taken 
 from his writings, which serve to denote the 
 character of the group so inclosed. Though not 
 including all the verse even produced during the 
 period of Mr. Very s remarkable exaltation, it 
 presents throughout a closely connected sequence 
 of thought, and a complete picture of a deep and 
 unusual religious experience, that colors all of 
 the writer s work ; some of which, of earlier and 
 later origin, is included for general literary 
 reasons. 
 
PREFACE. vii 
 
 Into it all he poured his inmost soul ; whose 
 history is here written with an intensity which 
 varied with the writer s spiritual and mental 
 condition. All of Mr. Very s verse is absolutely 
 composed without a thought of literary form, 
 though it has an unstudied grace of its own, 
 and with a spontaneity which is almost as rare 
 as it is conceded to be admirable in literary art. 
 
 WM. P. ANDREWS. 
 
 SALEM, MASS., February, 1883. 
 
Contents. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 MEMOIR . 1 
 
 POEMS. 
 THE CALL. 
 
 The Tent 37 
 
 To Him that Hath shall be Given .... 37 
 
 Who hath Ears to Hear, let him Hear . . 38 
 
 The Son 39 
 
 In Him we Live 39 
 
 Time 40 
 
 The Star 41 
 
 The Idler ........ 41 
 
 The Hand and Foot 42 
 
 The Disciple 43 
 
 The Clay 43 
 
 The Earth . . . . . . . . 44 
 
 The River ........ 45 
 
 The House 45 
 
 Day unto Day uttereth Speech .... 46 
 THE NEW BIKTH. 
 
 The New Birth 49 
 
 The New World ....... 50 
 
 The Garden 50 
 
 The Presence 51 
 
 The Spirit Land 52 
 
 The Ark . .52 
 
 The Living God 53 
 
 Life 54 
 
 Change ........ 54 
 
 Night 55 
 
 Morning ........ 56 
 
 The Journey 56 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Day 57 
 
 Humility 58 
 
 THE MESSAGE. 
 
 Yourself 61 
 
 The Eye and Ear 61 
 
 The Lost 62 
 
 The Narrow Way 63 
 
 The Created 63 
 
 The Apostles 64 
 
 The Slaveholder . .-. . . . . 65 
 
 The Slave 65 
 
 The Morning Watch 66 
 
 The Dead 67 
 
 The Graveyard 67 
 
 The Prison ......... 68 
 
 He was acquainted with Grief . . . .69 
 
 Faith 70 
 
 Enoch , . .70 
 
 Worship * 71 
 
 Thy Brother s Blood 72 
 
 The Jew 72 
 
 The Poor 73 
 
 He gave me no Meat ....... 74 
 
 Bread . 74 
 
 The Heart . . . . . . . . . 75 
 
 Jacob s Well 76 
 
 The Prophet ....... 76 
 
 Christmas . .. . . . . 77 
 
 The Mountain , 78 
 
 The Things Before 78 
 
 The Soul s Rest 79 
 
 Praise 80 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 Nature 83 
 
 The Song 83 
 
 To the Pure all Things are Pure .... 84 
 
 Nature 85 
 
 The Robe . 85 
 
CONTENTS. xi 
 
 PACK 
 
 The Leafless Tree 86 
 
 The Winter Rain 87 
 
 The Spirit 87 
 
 The Desert 88 
 
 Labor and Rest 89 
 
 The Tree 89 
 
 The April Snow 90 
 
 The True Light . . 91 
 
 The Wind-Flower ...... 91 
 
 The Violet 92 
 
 The Columbine 93 
 
 The Wild Rose of Plymouth 93 
 
 The Sabbatia . . . . . . . 94 
 
 The Robin 95 
 
 To the Canary-Bird 95 
 
 The Stranger s Gift . .... . .96 
 
 The Rose .... .... 97 
 
 The Acorn 97 
 
 I was sick and in Prison . . . . 98 
 The Trees of Life . . . ... .99 
 
 The Clouded Morning 99 
 
 The Fair Morning 100 
 
 The Ramble 101 
 
 The Invitation .101 
 
 The Field and Wood 102 
 
 The Barberry-Bush 103 
 
 The Fruit 104 
 
 The Harvest . . . . . . . .104 
 
 The Latter Rain . ... . . . 105 
 
 The Frost 106 
 
 Autumn Days ....... 106 
 
 Autumn Leaves . . . . . . . 107 
 
 SONG AND PRAISE. 
 
 The Prayer . Ill 
 
 The Coming of the Lord 112 
 
 The Call 113 
 
 The Cottage . . 114 
 
 The Tenant 115 
 
 Faith and Sight 116 
 
xii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Silent 117 
 
 The Immortal 118 
 
 The Gifts of God . . . . . . .119 
 
 The Sight of the Ocean . 
 
 The Morn . .... 
 
 The Shepherd s Life ... . -.. 
 
 Nature ... . . . . 
 
 The Swift . . . 
 
 The Hour . . .... 
 
 To-day . . . 
 
 The Voice of God . . . ... .127 
 
 To the Painted Columbine ..... 
 
 Autumn Flowers . . . . . 
 
 To the Fossil Flower 
 
 The Old Road ....... 
 
 The Worm 
 
 The Winter Bird . . . 
 
 To the Humming-Bird . ... 
 
 Lines ......... 
 
 Lines 
 
 Dedication ........ 
 
 Memory 
 
 The Bunch of Flowers ...... 
 
 Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, Labuntur 
 Anni . . . 
 
 The World 
 
 My Mother s Voice . ... 
 
 Forevermore ........ 
 
 THE BEGINNING AND THE END. 
 
 The Word . 
 
 The. Rock . . " 
 
 The Soldier 
 
 The War 
 
 The Railroad 
 
 Love 
 
 Thy Beauty Fades 
 
 Beauty 
 
 The Hours 
 
 The Beginning and the End .... 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
" A n extra-mundane character with reference to this 
 globe, and though not a native of the moon, not made of 
 the dust of this planet " COWPER. 
 
MEMOIR, 
 
 JONES VERY, the poet, was born at Salem, on 
 Massachusetts Bay, on the 28th of August, 1813. 
 He was the eldest of six children, two of whom 
 died in infancy. His brother, the Rev. Wash 
 ington Very, who died in early manhood, and 
 Miss L. L. A. Very, the younger of his two sis 
 ters, who still survive him, exhibited also a de 
 cided talent for versification, which they seem to 
 have inherited from their parents, both of whom 
 were fond of composing verses, and sometimes 
 included them in their letters to the children. 
 
 Mr. Very s father, " Capt." Jones Very, a son 
 of " Capt." Isaac Very of Spencer, Mass., and 
 his third wife Rachel (Jones) Very, was, like his 
 father before him, a shipmaster, and followed the 
 sea from early life. He was one of the ship 
 masters whose intelligence and gentlemanly bear 
 ing made the name of New England honored on 
 all seas. Married early in life to his cousin, 
 Lydia Very of Salem, he seems to have been a 
 highly respected and useful citizen, and was soon 
 given command of a vessel. He made many 
 successful voyages, on the last two of which, in 
 
4 MEMOIR. 
 
 1823 to Cronstadt, and in 1824 to New Orleans, 
 he was accompanied by his son Jones, then a boy 
 of nine. 1 
 
 While in New Orleans young Jones was sent 
 to school, and on his return to Salem he went 
 
 1 By the following genealogical note, for which we are indebted 
 to the researches of Dr. Henry Wheatland, President of the Essex 
 Institute in Salem, in the publications of which Society it was first 
 printed, it appears that the family is traced back to Bridget Very, 1 
 who came from England with her two sons and a daughter, and 
 was a member of the First Church in Salem in 1G48. She and 
 her son Samuel 2 lived on the north side of Cedar Pond, near the 
 Danvers almshouse, where they owned a large tract of land, and 
 where her descendants resided for a century or more. Many of 
 them removed to Salem and became shipmasters. 
 
 Samuel Fen/, 2 born in England about 1G19, married Alice, daugh 
 ter of John Woodis, Woodhouse or Woodice, had : 
 
 Benjamin Very, 3 married Jemima, daughter of Joseph Newhall 
 of Lynn ; had : 
 
 Isaac Very,* born July 30, 1715 ; married Elizabeth Giles in 1736 ; 
 a corporal under Colonel Ichabod Plaisted in 1756 ; died at Sandy 
 Hook in the army, 1778 ; had sons Isaac and Samuel. 
 
 Samuel Very," born in Salem, December 10, 1755 ; married, in 
 1776, Hannah Putney. She died February 4, 1799. He was a mas 
 ter and owner of a vessel, but kept a store many years in Salem at 
 the corner of Essex and Boston streets ; died in 1824, aged 69 ; had : 
 Lydia, born June 14, 1792 ; married her cousin, Jones Very, and was 
 the mother of the subject of this sketch. 
 
 Isaac Very, r > born in Salem, 1745 ; married, for his third wife, 
 Rachel Jones of Charlton. He resided some years in Charlton and 
 Spencer, the later part of his life in Salem ; was master of a vessel 
 and an officer of the customs, Salem. He died in 1831, aged 86 ; 
 had: 
 
 Jones Very, G the father of the poet, born in Spencer, Mass., No 
 vember 17, 1790, and followed the seas from early life. As a ship 
 master he sailed in the employ of the Hon. William Gray from 1817 
 to 1821, in the brig Concord ; from 1821 to September, 1824, in the 
 barque Aurelia. He married his cousin, Lydia Very, above men 
 tioned. He resided at the corner of Essex and Boston streets in 
 Salem. He died December 22, 1824. 
 
MEMOIR. 5 
 
 back to the Public Grammar School, where he 
 was remarked as a shy, modest lad, who took 
 little part in the boyish sports of his fellows. 
 This fact, and a certain diffidence and reserve of 
 manner, tended to limit the number of his school 
 intimates, though he was respected and beloved 
 by all who came in contact with him. 
 
 In December, 1824, his father died, and his 
 mother, a woman of much decision of character, 
 was left to bring up her young family alone. To 
 her the poet was indebted for his ardent love of 
 flowers, and his graceful lines, entitled "My 
 Mother s Voice," show the warm affection and 
 harmonious relation that existed between them. 
 Mrs. Very was inclined to be skeptical of the 
 shallower religious pretensions and conventions, 
 but reverenced her son s lofty self-abnegation ; 
 and in the height of his religious ecstasy she 
 shielded him from much annoyance incident to 
 the reception of his exalted views of human duty 
 and conduct, opinions that shocked the serene 
 contentment of the conventional clergymen and 
 respectable pillars of the churches ; who declared 
 that Very and his friend Emerson were danger 
 ous persons, and that they should be indicted, or 
 at least incarcerated in an asylum for the insane. 
 
 Young Very was a devoted student, and his 
 great desire was to lead a literary life, and to go, 
 as he expressed it, " to the depths of literature." 
 He was unusually mature for his age, and passed 
 
6 MEMOIR. 
 
 the larger part of his time in study, but the care 
 of his father s family had devolved upon him, 
 and when he was fourteen years old he went into 
 an auction room in Salem as errand and store 
 boy. He as conscientiously discharged these new 
 and distasteful duties as he did the more con 
 genial tasks of the school-room ; but occupied all 
 his well-earned moments of leisure in perfecting 
 his education. He seized with avidity on all 
 books that passed through his employer s hands, 
 and purchased such as his slender means would 
 allow. In exchange for a rare copy of Shake 
 speare which he procured in this way, he ob 
 tained from a student the books necessary to fit 
 him for college, and with the kindly assistance of 
 Mr. J. Fox Worcester, a gentleman engaged in 
 preparing young men for the university, he 
 fitted himself to become a tutor in a private Latin 
 school in Salem, then presided over by Mr. 
 Henry K. Oliver. He assisted Mr. Oliver in 
 preparing boys for entrance in the freshman 
 class, and pursued the studies of the first col 
 legiate year meantime with that gentleman. In 
 1834 an uncle of young Very furnished what 
 pecuniary aid he needed, and he entered Har 
 vard College, Cambridge, Mass., in the last term 
 of the sophomore year. He graduated in 1836 
 with the second honors (the first being given to 
 a scholar of the same rank who had pursued the 
 entire course within the university), and was ap- 
 
MEMOIR. 7 
 
 pointed a tutor in Greek, studying Theology at 
 the same time in the Divinity School. 
 
 In college, as in school, he was too sedate to 
 be widely and generally popular, but all who 
 knew him reverenced the lofty purity of his 
 character, and he soon gathered around him a 
 small circle of warmly attached friends. He was 
 sensitive and reserved, but the cordiality of his 
 tone and the sweet naturalness of his smile of 
 welcome at once attracted whoever made his 
 acquaintance, though the uniform gravity of his 
 daily walk and conversation prevented the many 
 from approaching him as an intimate. 
 
 He diligently followed his studies in the Di 
 vinity School, but found time to devote more 
 than the then usual attention to his pupils in the 
 Greek class. 
 
 He has since been spoken of, by those under 
 his charge, as an ideal instructor; "one who 
 fairly breathed the spirit of the Greek language 
 and its literature, surrounding the study with a 
 charm which," his pupils declare, " vanished from 
 Harvard with him." He, however, disclaimed 
 any especial merit as an instructor, saying, in 
 answer to a compliment on his success, that he 
 "only let the Greek grow." He visited the 
 students in their rooms also, and asked them to 
 walk with him ; talking meanwhile of the highest 
 spiritual themes, but in a tone so devout and so 
 far removed from cant as to command the at- 
 
8 MEMOIR. 
 
 tention of even the most thoughtless ; a striking 
 proof of his power. Forty-four years afterward 
 the hilarities of a class supper were suspended, 
 that each member present might bear loving 
 testimony to his individual sense of obligation to 
 Mr. Very s instruction and the force of his per 
 sonal influence. 
 
 The verse? which flowed from his pen often 
 first appeared 011 the backs of the young men s 
 Greek exercises as incentives toward a nobler 
 life ; and his best literary work was produced at 
 this time (1836-38). His intense application, 
 and the excitement of his exalted spiritual con 
 dition proved too much for his health, and in 
 1838 he retired to Salem in search of needed 
 rest. 
 
 There the stream of poetry flowed on uninter 
 ruptedly, and it is a noticeable fact that all his 
 more important work was produced in this spon 
 taneous, unstudied way. He, with Milton, re 
 garded its accomplishment as lying not with him, 
 " but in a Power above him ; " as proceeding 
 directly from what Milton speaks of, in alluding 
 to his own great projected work, as " that Eter 
 nal Spirit, who can enrich with all utterance and 
 knowledge, and sends out his seraphim with the 
 hallowed fire of his altar, to touch and purify the 
 lips of whom He pleases." 
 
 He had become intensely interested in the sub 
 ject of religion, and was inclined to carry this 
 
MI-.U01R. 9 
 
 Miltonic view of inspiration to its last results. 
 He was therefore thought by many persons to be 
 insane, but Rev. Dr. Clarke, who saw him at this 
 time, declared it to be a case of "MOXO-SANIA 
 rather than mono-mania ; " and Mr. Emerson 
 wrote that he regarded him as " profoundly sane," 
 and "ivished the whole world were as mad as he" 
 Dr. Clarke said he failed to find evidence of de 
 rangement, and "saw only the workings of a 
 mind absorbed in the loftiest contemplations of 
 religious truth, and which utterly disregarded all 
 which did not come into that high sphere of 
 thought." He said : " Mr. Very s views in re 
 gard to religion were not different from those 
 heretofore advocated by many pure and earnestly 
 religious persons. He maintains, as did Fenelon, 
 Mme. Guion, and others, that all sin consists in 
 self-will, all holiness in unconditional surrender 
 of our own will to the will of God. He believes 
 that one whose object is not to do his own will in 
 anything, but constantly to obey God, is led by 
 Him, and taught of Him in all things. He is a 
 son of God as Christ was THE Sox, because he 
 always did the things which pleased his Father." 
 
 Mr. Very said that every man would attain to 
 this when he made the final sacrifice in filial 
 obedience ; and he believed himself to have done 
 so. 
 
 Miss E. P. Peabody, who was then intimate 
 with both Mr. Very and Rev. Dr. Channing, re- 
 
10 MEMOIR. 
 
 ports the latter as being " immensely impressed 
 and touched with his union of gentleness and 
 modesty, and yet complete sense of his word 
 being the utterance of the Holy Spirit; " and as 
 saying that " he had not lost his reason, but only 
 held his senses, his lower faculties in abeyance." 
 "Men in general," said Dr. Channing, "have 
 lost or never found this higher mind, their in 
 sanity is profound, Mr. Very s is only superficial. 
 To hear him talk was like looking into the purely 
 spiritual world, into truth itself. He had nothing 
 of self-exaggeration, but seemed to have attained 
 self-annihilation and become an oracle of God." 
 Dr. Channing repeated that he had "not lost 
 his reason," and quoted some of his sayings, 
 identical with many parts of his sonnets, as proofs 
 of the " iron sequence of his thought." " Wells 
 of thought, clear and pellucid, and coming up 
 from profound depths," Dr. Clarke had called 
 them in the notice of Mr. Very before quoted 
 from ; and Hawthorne has embalmed them in the 
 album of his "Virtuoso s Collection," as the 
 utterances of "a poet whose voice is scarcely 
 heard among us as yet by reason of its depth." 
 Referring to an interview in which Very had 
 delivered his mission to him, Hawthorne speaks 
 of his (Very s) limitations as arising from want 
 of a sense of the ludicrous ; but regarded his 
 views as sanctified by his real piety and good 
 ness. He added, however, that " he had better 
 
MEMOIR. 11 
 
 remain as he is one organ in the world of im 
 personal spirit at least as long as he can write 
 such good sonnets." Our elder poet, Mr. Richard 
 H. Dana, spoke of them in one of his friendly 
 notes to Mr. Very, as " so deeply and poetically 
 thoughtful ; so true in language, so complete as 
 a whole." He also wrote to his other poet 
 friend, Mr. Bryant, that he regarded them as 
 " standing apart here in those qualities ; " and 
 with this judgment Mr. Bryant cordially agreed ; 
 often commenting upon their " extraordinary 
 grace and originality," and formally pronouncing 
 them " among the finest in the language." 
 
 Mr. R. W. Emerson hailed them as " bearing 
 the unquestionable stamp of grandeur." " They 
 are," he says, " the breathings of a certain en 
 tranced devotion ; as sincere a litany as the He 
 brew songs of David or Isaiah, and only less 
 than they, because they are indebted to the 
 Hebrew Muse for their tone and genius. They 
 have the sublime unity of the Decalogue or the 
 Code of Menu; and if as monotonous, yet are 
 they almost as pure as the sounds of surrounding 
 Nature." Mr. George William Curtis has lately 
 remarked, "it is plain that they are gems of 
 purest ray serene ; " and another competent 
 critic has happily characterized them as " a 
 soul s liistory written with a pen of light." As 
 pure literature they are highly interesting, amid 
 the present flood of secondary and derived work ; 
 
12 MEMOIR. 
 
 and, as Goethe said of another genuine poet of a 
 single note : " the true test of all literary great 
 ness dwells with him, that the more intimately 
 you know him, the more you love and admire 
 him." 
 
 Mr. Very regarded these sonnets as containing 
 a " message " which had been " given him " to 
 deliver ; for he was infinitely modest about his 
 own part in their production, and thought him 
 self but a reed through which the Spirit might 
 breathe a music of its own. It was a perfectly 
 natural consequence, he believed, of his submis 
 sion to the Divine Will ; and would always fol 
 low if man offered no selfish obstruction to the 
 movement of that Holy Spirit, ever striving to 
 manifest itself in the human soul. 
 
 In this earlier period of his most remarkable 
 production, during the years 1837-38 and 39, 
 these verses poured forth from him with ex 
 traordinary rapidity, and were penciled down as 
 they " came " to him, on a great sheet of paper 
 which he had folded to pages of small note size. 
 Miss Peabody says they were produced at the 
 rate of one or two a day. When the sheet was 
 full Mr. Very brought it to her, and she trans 
 mitted it to Mr. Emerson at Concord, who after 
 ward printed these verses with others, which Mr. 
 Very himself gave him, substantially unaltered. 
 
 Mr. Emerson says in his private journal, of 
 Very : " Our Saint was very unwilling to allow 
 
MEMOIR. 13 
 
 correction" (of his verses), "but his friend said, 
 I supposed you were too high in your thought to 
 mind such trifles." He replied, " I value these 
 verses not because they are mine, but because 
 they are not" 
 
 Mr. Emerson s notes on Mr. Very, made in 
 his journals of the time, are so valuable as ex 
 hibiting the character of Mr. Very s thought, 
 that they may well be given here as originally 
 jotted down. The first entry occurs under date 
 of October 26, 1838, and it and the others, made 
 apparently about the same time, are as follows : 
 
 Jones Very came hither two days since. His 
 position accuses society as much as society names 
 that false and morbid. And much of his discourse 
 concerning society, church, and college was abso 
 lutely just. 
 
 He says it is with him a day of hate : that he dis 
 cerns the bad element in every person whom he 
 meets, which repels him: he even shrinks a little to 
 give the hand, that sign of receiving. The institu 
 tions, the cities which men have built the world over, 
 look to him like a huge ink-blot. Ilis only guard in 
 going to see men is, that he goes to do them good, 
 else they would injure him spiritually. He lives in 
 the sight that He who made him, made the things he 
 sees. He would as soon embrace a black Egyptian 
 mummy as Socrates. He would obey, obey. He 
 is not disposed to attack religions or charities, though 
 false. The bruised reed he would not break, smok 
 ing flax not quench. 
 
14 MEMOIR. 
 
 He answered L., " your thought speaks there, and 
 not your life ; " and he is very sensible of interference 
 in thought and act. A very accurate discernment of 
 spirits belongs to his state, and he detects at once 
 the presence of an alien element, though he cannot 
 tell whence, how, or whereto it is. 
 
 He thinks me covetous in my hold of truth, of 
 seeing truth separate, and of receiving or taking it, 
 instead of merely obeying. The will is to him all ; 
 as to me, after my own showing, truth. He is 
 sensible in one of a little colder air than that he 
 breathes. He says, " You do not disobey because 
 you do the wrong act, but you do the wrong act be 
 cause you first disobey. And you do not obey be 
 cause you do the good action, but you do the good 
 action because you first obey." 
 
 He has nothing to do with time, because he obeys. 
 A man who is busy has no time, he does not recog 
 nize that element. A man who is idle says he does 
 not know what to do with his time. Obedience is in 
 eternity. 
 
 He says it is the necessity of the Spirit to speak 
 with authority. 
 
 He had the manners of a man, one, that is, 
 to whom life was more than meat. He felt it, he 
 said, an honor to wash his face, being, as it was, the 
 temple of the Spirit. 
 
 I ought not to omit to record the astonishment 
 which seized all the company when our brave Saint 
 the other day fronted the presiding Preacher. The 
 Preacher began to tower and dogmatize with many 
 words. Then I foresaw that his doom was fixed; 
 and, as soon as he had ceased speaking, the Saint set 
 
MEMOIR. 15 
 
 him right, and blew away all his words in an instant, 
 unhorsed him, I may say, and tumbled him along 
 the ground in utter dismay, like my angel of Heli- 
 odorus; never was discomfiture more complete. In 
 tones of genuine pathos, he bid him wonder at the 
 Love which suffered him to speak there in his chair 
 of things he knew nothing of ; one might expect to 
 see the book taken from his hands and him thrust 
 out of the room, and yet he was allowed to sit and 
 talk, whilst every word he spoke was a step of de 
 parture from the truth; and of this he commanded 
 himself to bear witness. 
 
 In the woods, he said to me, " One might forget 
 here that the world was desert and empty, and all 
 the people wicked." 
 
 When he is in the room with other persons, speech 
 stops, as if there were a corpse in the apartment. 
 
 At Walden Pond, when the water was much dis 
 turbed by the wind, he said : " See how each wave 
 rises from the midst with an original force, at the 
 same time that it partakes of an original movement." 
 
 In our walk Jones Very said that he had been to 
 Cambridge and that he had there found his brother 
 in his chamber reading Livy. "I asked him," he 
 continued, " if the Romans were masters of the 
 world ? My brother said they had been ; I told him 
 they were still. Then I went into the room of a 
 senior, who lived opposite, and found him writing a 
 theme; I asked him what was his subject? and he 
 said, Cicero s Vanity; I asked him if the Romans 
 were masters of the world. He said they had been; 
 I told him they were still. This was in the garret 
 of Mr. Ware s house where my brother s room was. 
 
 
16 MEMOIR. 
 
 Then I went down into Mr. Ware s study, and found 
 him reading Bishop Butler, and I asked him if the 
 Romans were masters of the world ? He said they 
 had been ; I told him they were still." 
 
 What led him to study Shakespeare was the fact 
 that all young men say, Shakespeare was no saint 
 yet see what Genius. He wished to solve that prob 
 lem. When he was asked, What was the difference 
 between wisdom and genius ? he replied : "Wisdom 
 was of God," but he had left genius, and could 
 not speak of it. He was pressed further, and said, 
 * Genius was the decay of Wisdom." He added: 
 " To the preexistent Shakespeare, Wisdom was of- 
 ered; but he did not accept it, and so he died away 
 into Genius. When his Vineyard was given him, 
 God looked that he should bring forth grapes, but 
 he brought forth sour grapes." "But," said the in 
 terrogator, u My grapes tasted sweet." He replied : 
 * That was because you knew not the sweet. All 
 things are sweet, untiL there comes a sweeter." 
 
 When Jones Very was in Concord, he had said to 
 me: " I always felt when I heard you spt-ak, or read 
 your writings, that you saw the truth better than 
 others; yet I felt that your spirit was not quite right. 
 It was as if a vein of colder air blew across me." He 
 seemed to expect from me, once especially in Wai- 
 den wood, a full acknowledgment of his mission, 
 and a participation in the same. Seeing this, I asked 
 him if he did not see that my thoughts and my po 
 sition were constitutional, that it would be false and 
 impossible for me to say his things or try to occupy his 
 ground as for him to usurp mine ? After some frank 
 and full explanation he conceded this. When I met 
 
MEMOIR. 17 
 
 him afterwards, one evening at my lecture in Boston, 
 I invited him to go home to Mr. A. s with me and 
 sleep ; which he did. He slept in the room adjoining 
 mine. Early next day, in the gray dawn, he came 
 into my room, and talked whilst I dressed. He 
 said : " When I was in Concord, I tried to say you 
 were also right; but the Spirit said you were not 
 right. It is just as if I should say, It is not morning, 
 but the Morning says, It is the Morning." 
 
 His words were loaded with his fact. What he 
 said, he held, was not personal to him, was no more 
 disputable than the shining of yonder sun, or the 
 blowing of this south wind. 
 
 At the McLean Asylum the patients severally 
 thanked him when he came away, and told him that 
 he had been of great service to them. 
 
 Jones Very is gone into the multitude as solitary 
 as Jesus. In dismissing him, I seem to have dis 
 charged an arrow into the heart of Society. Wher 
 ever that young enthusiast goes, he will astonish and 
 disconcert men by dividing for them the cloud that 
 covers the gulf in man. 
 
 The astonishment in the minds of the staid 
 citizens of Salem was already apparent, and as 
 his enthusiasm increased, he quickly proceeded 
 to disconcert the somewhat formal clergymen of 
 that peaceful city, by dividing for them the cloud 
 which covered the gulf between the usual con 
 ventional observance of religious forms and the 
 tremendous demands involved in a literal and 
 unhesitating acceptance of the precepts of Christ 
 and the Christian example. He finally called on 
 2 
 
18 MEMOIR. 
 
 the different members of the profession and 
 offered to pray with them, that they too might 
 submit themselves wholly to the Divine Will and 
 be baptized with the Holy Ghost. He was gen 
 erally received with courtesy and consideration ; 
 but this view of the clerical duty was rather too 
 much for the good-nature of some of the breth 
 ren, and they demanded that Mr. Very be shut 
 up in an insane asylum. His mother, however, 
 stood between him and any forcible removal, 
 though he put himself for a while under the care 
 of Dr. Bell at the Asylum in Somerville, who 
 shortly sent him home, freed from physical ex 
 haustion and the excitement incident to the vi 
 olent opposition his fearless " bearing of testi 
 mony " had naturally enough aroused. 
 
 While under Dr. Bell s care he finished the 
 paper on Shakespeare, included in the collection 
 made by Mr. Emerson, together with the other 
 admirable papers on Hamlet and on Epic Poetry. 
 This latter he had delivered in Salem the winter 
 before as a lecture, and Miss Peabody was so 
 deeply impressed with its unusual merit that she 
 wrote at once to Mr. Emerson, suggesting his 
 inviting Mr. Very to lecture in Concord, and the 
 advisability of his making the acquaintance of 
 this remarkable young man. This Mr. Emerson 
 did, and wrote to Miss Peabody under date of 
 April 5, 1838 : 
 
 " But what I write for is to thank again your sa- 
 
19 
 
 parity that detects such wise men as Mr. Very, from 
 whose conversation and lecture I have had a true 
 and high satisfaction. I heartily congratulate my 
 self on being, as it were, anew in such company." 
 
 Several times in the course of this year Mr. 
 Emerson writes to Miss Peabody of the satisfac 
 tion he has had in visits from Mr. Very, and in 
 November he writes to Mr. Very thanking him 
 for lectures and sonnets which he " loves," and 
 has had copied, and reads " to all who have ears 
 to hear." " Do not," Mr. Emerson adds, " Do 
 not, I beg of you, let a whisper or a sigh of the 
 Muse go unattended to, or unrecorded. The 
 sentiment which inspires your poetry is so deep 
 and true, and the expression so simple, that I am 
 sure you will find your audience very large." 
 
 In the following June Mr. Emerson writes to 
 Miss Peabody : 
 
 "I cannot persuade Mr. Very to remain with me 
 another day. He says he is not permitted, and no 
 assurances that his retirement shall be secured are 
 of any avail. He has been serene, intelligent, and 
 true in all the conversation I have had with him. 
 He gives me pleasure and much relief, after all I had 
 heard concerning him." 
 
 Mr. Emerson adds he shall himself go to 
 town and attend to the publication of Mr. Very s 
 book. 
 
 From Mr. Very s letters of this period to Mr. 
 Emerson we can see how truly his verses reflect 
 
20 MEMOIR. 
 
 his mental condition at that time. He writes to 
 Mr. Emerson in September, 1838 : 
 
 "I am glad at last to be able to transmit what 
 has been told me of Shakespeare t is but the faint 
 echo of that which speaks to you now. . . . You 
 hear not mine own words, but the teachings of the 
 Holy Ghost. ... My friend, I tell you these things 
 as they are told me, and hope soon for a day or two 
 of leisure, when I may speak to you face to face as 
 I now write." 
 
 In November of the same year he writes : 
 
 I was glad to hear that my stay with you was 
 improving, and that you love that which is spoken 
 by the Word. If you love it aright, in the spirit of 
 obedience, it shall be unto you given to hear and 
 speak of the Father in Christ. . . . You must pass 
 out of that world in which you are, naked (that is, 
 willess) as you came in. Then shall you have a 
 new will born of the Spirit, and when this also is 
 submitted to the Father s you shall be one with 
 Him; that is, be prepared to see Him as a spirit. 
 Every scribe instructed in the Kingdom shall bring 
 forth, as a householder, new and old; that is, he 
 himself shall hear the word of the Father, and anew 
 interpret for men the old. But so far have the false 
 Christs failed in this life, that they do not even 
 claim to hear of themselves the Word, and vainly 
 attempt to bring forth that once spoken." 
 
 He sends some poems of his own Mr. Emer 
 son has asked for, and says : 
 
 " I was wearied much by a few days stay in Cam- 
 
MEMOIR. 21 
 
 bridge, but am now as if with you again and well ; 
 waiting for that daily direction which is a path un 
 seen through the world and its visible evils ; in 
 which that we all may walk forever and ever I pray 
 always." 
 
 Again he writes, with more poems : 
 
 " I send you these by letter that they may come 
 earlier to hand. I hardly dared to write them, and 
 that will excuse me from a letter. They are the 
 true letter, as I am true. There is more joy and free 
 dom as I advance, yet still I long to be clothed upon 
 with my house from heaven. In you, too, may more 
 of the old pass away, and the new and abiding be 
 more and more felt. This I pray forever, as 
 
 "lam J. VERY." 
 
 Among Mr. Emerson s papers were also some 
 formal epistles of Mr. Very s, setting forth his 
 ideas more at length. In one, on the subject of 
 Prayer, he says : 
 
 "lie who is born " [he means by this, born anew 
 into this spirit of utter self-abnegation] " is alone said 
 by God, or in Scripture language, to deny himself. 
 This is prayer ! And by it you show that you love 
 the brethren, because you cannot love more than 
 this, that you accomplish the entire denial of the life 
 you have attained unto by being born. . . . This 
 is prayer, in sincerity ever to love your neighbor as 
 yourself. It [that is, the new birth in the Spirit] 
 has not really begun till then. When you, who are 
 unborn, are using words to which you give that 
 name, there is no agency at work benefiting those for 
 
22 MEMOIR. 
 
 whom you thus speak. ... It is your words which 
 are proceeding from your inward growth or back 
 wardness that convey this influence to others. Use 
 what language you will, you can never say any 
 thing but what you are. Whoever lives better than 
 you knows what you are really saying, whatever the 
 sounds of your lips. The Spirit will always work, 
 whether it be good, or whether it be evil." 
 
 Again he says, in the epistle on " Miracles : " 
 
 " One may forward you who is living the same life, 
 or passing toward the same life as yourself; he alone 
 can raise you, or act upon you wl h a power different 
 from your own, who lives that other life, and has al 
 ready passed before you into it. ... As in a glass 
 face answers to face, so will my heart then answer 
 to yours. Now you see me, if sight it may be called, 
 externally, with an unchanged spirit; then face to 
 face. Now you make me what I am to you; then 
 you shall see me as I AM ; for you yourself will be 
 made like unto me. Then shall you know that it 
 was / who called you forth from the grave ; it was / 
 who raised you from the bed of sickness; and you 
 will arise and minister unto me." 
 
 It is not to be wondered at that gentlemen 
 engaged in plodding along pleasant ministerial 
 highways did not relish this sort of light in their 
 quiet studies of a Monday morning, and declared 
 the presumptuous young person to be hopelessly 
 insane, and in league with the Arch Enemy. 
 
 Mr. Very s own life as a minister, when he 
 recovered his health, and, in 1843, was licensed 
 
MEMOIR. 23 
 
 to preach by the Cambridge Association of 
 Ministers, was never a " popular " success ; but 
 after his death the truth of what he here says of 
 the strength of this unseen influence was forcibly 
 illustrated in many unsought testimonials to the 
 inspiration his life had been to all sorts and con 
 ditions of men. "To have walked with Very," 
 said a brother clergyman, " was truly to have 
 walked with God." So filled was his spirit with 
 the immanence of the encircling Power Divine. 
 " I told my people," said a singularly eloquent 
 preacher, " that to see Very for half an hour in 
 my pulpit, and know that such a man existed in 
 the world, was a far greater sermon than any 
 ever preached to them from the lips of an ora 
 tor." And a sportsman remarked to the writer : 
 " I don t set up to be a religious man ; but you 
 could n t meet Very in the fields without feeling 
 better for it somehow." It is a noticeable fact 
 that this feeling for Mr. Very knew no bounds 
 of sect, or of intellectual attainment. It was 
 indeed an " o erflowing well," of whose cool 
 waters all men gladly drank, and "owned its 
 source Divine." 
 
 " He was as good," said his life-long friend, 
 the Rev. Robert C. Waterston, " as goodness it 
 self, true as truth. With his knowledge and 
 wisdom, he was as simple as a child, transparent, 
 artless. He was the extremest possible distance 
 from pomposity or pretension. When he be- 
 
24 MEMOIR. 
 
 lieved that the poetry, which came to him like 
 the breath of heaven, did actually come from 
 Heaven, it was so naturally and simply said, 
 that you felt it was his profoundest conviction. 
 He believed fully and intensely that the Lord of 
 Life gave it to him. It was a sacred idea, a 
 Divine Reality." 
 
 This nearness of the Divine Presence was to 
 Mr. Very the great fact of life. He felt it to be 
 so intensely real and vital that he was inexpress 
 ibly grieved, as he looked around among his fel 
 lows for men who thus " walked with God," to 
 find how much alone he stood ; and he breaks out 
 into a wail of lamentation that men are dead to 
 the glory round them, and in a bondage worse 
 than slavery. He " cannot tell the sorrows that 
 he feels " for his brethren dying in the hideous 
 darkness of a prison, when they should be work 
 ing with and enjoying with the Father. 
 
 His own intense, contemplative piety had lifted 
 him out of what he regarded as "the grave " of 
 the senses, above the world, into that condition of 
 " inward peace, the sweet patience " which the 
 Buddhist calls Nirvana. In the height of his 
 ecstasy he would sit for hours wrapt in thought 
 and gazing off into the Infinite. Like the saintly 
 Buddhs, he seemed long since to have slain the 
 "love of self, false faith, and doubt/ and, con 
 queror over "the love of life on earth, desire for 
 heaven, self-praise, error, and pride," he had be 
 come 
 
MEMOIR. 25 
 
 " As one who stands on yonder snowy horn, 
 Having naught o er him but the boundless blue, 
 For, these sins being slain, the man had come 
 Nirvana s verge unto." 
 
 The considerate and tender manner in which 
 everything was done for Mr. Very removed this 
 undue exhilaration under which he was acting, 
 and restored the ordinary balance of his faculties. 
 Yet he retained to the last, though he ceased 
 to go about promulgating it, his great idea : 
 that every man who made the complete sacrifice 
 of self necessary to the identification with, the 
 hiding in Christ, would become the voice of the 
 Holy Ghost. He believed himself to have done 
 so. He, however, never assumed the role of a 
 proselyter. His whole duty was to utter the 
 words " given " him ; he was not responsible for 
 their effect or non-effect on others. He printed 
 his verses in the columns of the local papers pub 
 lished in his native town ; but was in no hurry to 
 get them before the world. As we have seen, he 
 did not feel at liberty even to correct them for 
 the press, but allowed Mr. Emerson s repeated 
 solicitation to prevail, in want of any direct " lead 
 ing to publish them himself ; and the first and, 
 except the present, the only collection of Mr. 
 Very s writings fifty sonnets in the Shakespear 
 ean form, a few lyrics, and three prose essays 
 accordingly appeared, at the request of Mr. 
 Emerson, from the house of Messrs. Little & 
 Brown in 1839. 
 
26 MEMOIR. 
 
 That edition was never reprinted, though it 
 was long since exhausted ; and among Mr. Very s 
 letters many requests from Mr. Dana and other 
 friends were found for more copies, for which 
 they had searched the bookstores in vain. 
 
 The present collection has been compiled with 
 a view of showing the history of this remarkable 
 spiritual experience connectedly ; and the selec 
 tions in this volume are, therefore, mainly such 
 as seem moved by this Divine afflatus, this unique 
 exaltation of spirit, which made so profound an 
 impression upon his contemporaries. This lasted, 
 however, only during the limited period described 
 (i. e. 1838 and parts of 1837-39), though he 
 continued to the end of his life to write and print 
 new verses as before. Some of these later pro 
 ductions are included in the present volume, and 
 all have the same outward excellence of form 
 which marked his earlier, more inspired meas 
 ures, though they are quite unimpassioned, and 
 simple to a degree. Yet in all that he has done, 
 however unattractive it may prove to the 
 purely literary critic, AVC find the same delicate 
 aroma of his gentle and gracious spirit, and it is 
 always an unconscious utterance of devout and 
 pure aspiration. 
 
 After this excessive exhilaration had subsided 
 into the serene calm of his later existence, he lived 
 on very quietly in the family home with his sis 
 ters, his mother and brother having died many 
 
MEMOIR. 27 
 
 years before his own death. He was not married, 
 and seems to have found his domestic happiness 
 in the original family circle. Occasionally he 
 would go from home for a short time to supply 
 some Unitarian pulpit, but he was not perma 
 nently settled, and he remained, as he says, " a 
 laborer but in heart." That labor was, however, 
 so sincere, that his influence, as we have seen, 
 was much deeper and more wide-spread than that 
 of many shepherds whose sheep are gathered 
 together into close-barred and visible folds. He 
 was always the still, small voice apart from the 
 bustle of humanity, and but that his intense 
 love of Nature and ever-present sense of Deity 
 peopled the loneliest solitudes with his friends 
 his life must have been somewhat monotonous 
 and dreary. That he did at times feel the want 
 of a vital human sympathy near at hand, is evi 
 dent from a letter to his friend Mr. Waterston, 
 written in 1868, in which he says : 
 
 " Those were indeed pleasant and precious days, 
 when we enjoyed so much each other s companionship 
 at Cambridge. Then thoughts and feelings were 
 freely interchanged and our lives were blended in 
 one. There is nothing," he adds, " which we miss 
 more in our manhood than that delightful commun 
 ion which we enjoyed with early friends. Such an 
 intercourse and communion it is we are toiling all 
 our lives to find, not perhaps to be renewed here, 
 but which we hope is reserved to continue forever in 
 heaven. * 
 
28 MEMOIR. 
 
 His life was, indeed, peculiarly uneventful; 
 though never that of an intentional recluse. His 
 mornings were spent in study and a somewhat 
 general course of scientific and literary reading ; 
 and his afternoons in rambles over the rocky 
 hills and through the mossy dells of the wild 
 pasture land surrounding the upper portion of 
 his native city. These wanderings were gener 
 ally unaccompanied ; for, though all sorts of men 
 liked to walk with him, his contemplative, in 
 trospective habit of mind kept him rather apart 
 from his fellows; albeit every one was sure of 
 the kindliest welcome, from the little boys, with 
 whom he was indeed " a child again," to the 
 gravest of his clerical brethren. His love of 
 Nature was a passion " deeper far than strength 
 of words can tell ; " or rather it was more truly 
 a devotion, since it was the Divinity behind her 
 outward beauty which made her all in all to him, 
 and attuned his soul in accord with her inmost 
 harmonies. He would return from these rambles 
 and put into manuscript the words there " given " 
 him, the bird-like strains of his wholly unpre 
 meditated art ; and if they were not, as he 
 thought them, the utterances of the Holy Ghost, 
 they certainly were the melodies of Nature. 
 
 Though at times somewhat disheartened and 
 inclined to lament the blindness of mankind, he 
 in the end is always hopeful and cheerful, because 
 always filled with unswerving faith and childlike 
 
MEMOIR. 29 
 
 trust. So he went about his daily routine, of 
 reading alike from books and from nature of 
 the Father s wonders and goodness ; composing 
 verses, as Wordsworth did, out of doors ; preach 
 ing when asked to, and always striving to exert 
 in an unobtrusive way an influence for good. 
 However careless, light-hearted, or bad-hearted 
 might be those about him, he greeted them all 
 with the same grave courtesy and benign, sweet 
 smile ; and always invisibly clothed in his spot 
 less singing-robes, wandered alike with God 
 through the busy market-place or over the loved 
 hill-side. 
 
 His brother poet and clergyman, the Rev. 
 Charles T. Brooks, also a Salem boy, speaks 
 of Mr. Very s " peculiarly sweet smile, lighting 
 up that face so singularly expressive of saintly 
 simplicity and unselfish translucency of soul," 
 and says " he recalled the ideal preacher in the 
 Task ; or Uhland s Country Parson. " Izaak 
 Walton s description of saintly George Herbert 
 exactly pictures Mr. Very as he appeared in 
 later life. 1 "He was," says Walton, "for his 
 person, of a stature inclining towards tallness ; 
 his body was very straight, and so far from being 
 
 1 In a note on a letter of Emerson s to Carlyle (Correspondence, 
 vol. i. p. 333), accompanying a copy of Very s Essays and Poems, 
 which Emerson requests Carlyle to show to Sterling " and ask him 
 if they have not a grandeur," Mr. Charles Eliot Norton observes : 
 "A little volume, the work of an exquisite spirit. Some of the 
 poems it contains are as if written by a George Herbert who had 
 studied Shakespeare, read Wordsworth, and lived in America." 
 
30 MEMOIR. 
 
 cumbered with too much flesh, that he was lean 
 to an extremity. His aspect was cheerful, and 
 his speech and motion did both declare him a 
 gentleman ; for they were all so meek and oblig 
 ing, that they purchased love and respect from 
 all that knew him." 
 
 There was something in his personal appear 
 ance and manner, as well as in the inspired ca 
 dences of his Saxon verse, which always reminded 
 one of a more gracious and tranquil past. Not 
 that he was more conservative in his dress than 
 many of his contemporaries in the quiet old town 
 in which he lived and died; yet, when one saw 
 the tall, slight figure outlined against a glowing 
 twilight sky, gazing off from some of the craggy 
 hill-tops over which he loved to ramble ; or per 
 haps disappearing down a distant valley mellowed 
 with the golden afternoon sunlight, 
 
 " Rapt, twirling in his hand a withered spray, 
 And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall," 
 
 it seemed, indeed, as if a gentle presence had 
 wandered here, from another world than ours. 
 
 " To look at him, to know him," said his friend 
 and admirer, Mr. E. A. Silsbee, "was to see 
 Genius. He moved in Salem like Dante among 
 the Florentines : a man who had seen God ; . . . 
 and drew his inspiration from the Spirit itself, 
 far away in the soul, where no ambition comes, 
 but only lowliness, humility, and seeking." 
 
MEMOIR. 31 
 
 On the 8th of May, Anno Domini 1880, in 
 the home where so much of his simple existence 
 had been passed, his weary eyes closed for the 
 last time in sleep, and he fully entered that " New 
 Birth " which he had long since sung in some of 
 his noblest numbers. 
 
 " The flower that on the lovely hill-side grows " 
 
 in vain expects him there when Spring has given 
 its bloom again ; but many a tree and bush his 
 wanderings know, and, as the sweet birds sing 
 on, their spirit-songs, 
 
 " And e en the clouds and silent stars of heaven " 
 repeat his solemn story. 
 
 WILLIAM P. ANDREWS. 
 
 SALEM, MASS., March, 1883. 
 
POEMS. 
 
JONES VERY. 
 
 We thought : the morning birds have ceased to sing. 
 
 We hear but songs from out a gilded cage ; 
 When to our August noon a breath of Spring 
 
 Brought us a strain from out another age; 
 The sultry airs no longer round us blew, 
 
 The whole wide earth took on a living green, 
 Flowers bloomed again where erst in Spring they grew. 
 
 And beckoned where but sun-dried heath had been. 
 
 Saint and Poet ! on our world-worn time, 
 Thy waiting spirit breathed that quick ning lay; 
 
 Thy rapt soul heard the harmonies sublime. 
 And sang the music of a loftier day ; 
 
 The Soul of all things in thy pulses stirred, 
 
 And soared in praises like the morning bird. 
 
 W.P. A. 
 
l)e Call, 
 
POEMS. 
 
 THOU springest from the ground, and may not I 
 From Him who spreads thy branches high and 
 
 wide ; 
 
 And from the scorching sun and stormy sky 
 May I not too with friendly shelter hide ? 
 There is no shade like thine to shield the poor 
 From the hot scorching words that meet the ear ; 
 The snowy, frozen flakes they must endure 
 Of those whose hearts have never shed a tear ; 
 Yet He who shoots thy leafy fabric high, 
 Shall in my verse spread wide a tempering screen, 
 And when oppressed with heat his sons pass by, 
 With hastening feet they 11 seek its arches green, 
 And bless the Father who has o er them spread 
 A tent of verdure for each aching head. 
 
 (0 (Jim t&at |)at& gjjall be 
 
 WHY readest thou ? thou canst not gain the life 
 The spirit leads, but by the spirit s toil ; 
 The labor of the body is not strife 
 Such as will give to thee the wine and oil ; 
 
38 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 To him who hath, to him my verse shall give, 
 And he the more from all he does shall gain ; 
 The spirit s life he too shall learn to live, 
 And share on earth in hope the spirit s pain ; 
 Be taught of God; none else can teach thee aught; 
 He will thy steps forever lead aright ; 
 The life is all that He his sons has taught ; 
 Obey within, and thou shalt see its light, 
 And gather from its beams a brighter ray, 
 To cheer thee on along thy doubtful way. 
 
 ears to !j)ear, let Jim J)ear. 
 
 THE sun doth not the hidden place reveal, 
 Whence pours at morn his golden flood of light ; 
 But what the night s dark breast would fain con 
 ceal, 
 
 In its true colors stands before our sight ; 
 The bird doth not betray the secret springs, 
 Whence note on note her music sweetly pours ; 
 Yet turns the ear attentive while she sings, 
 The willing heart, while falls the strain, adores. 
 So shall the Spirit tell not whence its birth, 
 But in its light thine untold deeds lay bare ; 
 And while it walks with thee, flesh-clothed, the 
 
 earth, 
 
 Its words shall of the Father s love declare ; 
 And happy those whose ears shall hail its voice, 
 And clean within the day it gives rejoice. 
 
THE CALL. 39 
 
 FATHER, I wait thy word. The sun doth stand 
 Beneath the mingling line of night and day, 
 A listening servant, waiting thy command 
 To roll rejoicing on its silent way ; 
 The tongue of time abides the appointed hour, 
 Till on our ear its solemn warnings fall; 
 The heavy cloud withholds the pelting shower, 
 Then every drop speeds onward at thy call ; 
 The bird reposes on the yielding bough, 
 With breast unswollen by the tide of song ; 
 So does my spirit wait thy presence now 
 To pour thy praise in quickening life along, 
 Chiding with voice divine man s lengthened sleep, 
 While round the Unuttered Word and Love their 
 vigils keep. 
 
 3fn J)tm toe itoe. 
 
 FATHER ! I bless thy name that I do live, 
 And in each motion am made rich with Thee, 
 That when a glance is all that I can give, 
 It is a kingdom s wealth, if I but see ; 
 This stately body cannot move, save I 
 Will to its nobleness my little bring ; 
 My voice its measured cadence will not try, 
 
40 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 Save I with every note consent to sing ; 
 I cannot raise my hands to hurt or bless, 
 But I with every action must conspire 
 To show me there how little I possess, 
 And yet that little more than I desire ; 
 May each new act my new allegiance prove, 
 Till in thy perfect love I ever live and move. 
 
 THERE is no moment but whose flight doth bring 
 Bright clouds and fluttering leaves to deck my 
 
 bower ; 
 
 And I, within, like some sweet bird must sing 
 To tell the story of the passing hour ; 
 For time has secrets that no bird has sung, 
 Nor changing leaf with changing season told ; 
 They wait the utterance of some nobler tongue 
 Like that which spoke in prophet tones of old ; 
 Then day and night, and month and year shall 
 
 tell 
 The tale that speaks but faint from bird and 
 
 bough ; 
 
 In spirit-songs their praise shall upward swell, 
 Nor longer pass heaven s gate unheard as now, 
 But cause e en angels ears to catch the strain, 
 And send it back to earth in joy again. 
 
THE CALL. 41 
 
 THOU mak st nie poor that I enriched by Thee 
 May tell thy love to those who know it not ; 
 And rise within thy heavens a star to be, 
 When they, thine earthly suns, are all forgot ; 
 Grant that my light may through their darkness 
 
 shine 
 With increased splendor from the parent 
 
 source, 
 
 A diamond fashioned by the hand divine 
 To hold forever on its measured course ; 
 But I am dark as yet, but soon the light 
 Of thy bright morning star on me shall dawn, 
 Sure herald that the curtain of the night 
 Forever from my orb shall be withdrawn, 
 And its pure beams thy rays shall ever boast, 
 Shining accepted mid the starry host. 
 
 I IDLE stand that I may find employ, 
 Such as my Master when He comes will give ; 
 I cannot find in mine own work my joy, 
 But wait, although in waiting I must live ; 
 My body shall not turn which way it will, 
 But .stand till I the appointed road can find, 
 
42 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 And journeying so his messages fulfill, 
 
 And do at every step the work designed. 
 
 Enough for me, still day by day to wait 
 
 Till Thou who form st me find st me too a task ; 
 
 A cripple lying at the rich man s gate, 
 
 Content for the few crumbs I get to ask ; 
 
 A laborer but in heart, while bound my hands 
 
 Hang idly down still waiting thy commands. 
 
 |)antJ anil foot. 
 
 THE hand and foot that stir not, they shall find 
 Sooner than all the rightful place to go : 
 Now in their motion free as roving wind, 
 Though first no snail so limited and slow ; 
 I mark them full of labor all the day, 
 Each active motion made in perfect rest ; 
 They cannot from their path mistaken stray, 
 Though t is not theirs, yet in it they are blest ; 
 The bird has not their hidden track found out, 
 The cunning fox though full of art he be ; 
 It is the way unseen, the certain route, 
 Where ever bound, yet thou art ever free ; 
 The path of Him, whose perfect law of love 
 Bids spheres and atoms in just order move. 
 
THE CALL. 43 
 
 (ZT&e Disciple, 
 
 THOU wilt my hands employ, though others find 
 No work for those who praise thy name aright ; 
 And in their worldly wisdom call them blind, 
 Whom Thou hast blest with thine own Spirit s 
 
 sight. 
 
 But while they find no work for Thee to do, 
 And blindly on themselves alone rely ; 
 The child must suffer what Thou sufferest too, 
 And learn from him Thou send st e en so to die ; 
 Thou art my Father, Thou wilt give me aid 
 To bear the wrong the spirit suffers here ; 
 Thou hast thy help upon the mighty laid ; 
 In Thee I trust, nor know to want or fear, 
 But ever onward walk, secure from sin, 
 For Thou hast conquered every foe within. 
 
 Clap, 
 
 THOU shalt do what Thou wilt with thine own 
 
 hand, 
 
 Thou form st the spirit like the moulded clay; 
 For those who love Thee keep thy just command, 
 And in thine image grow as they obey ; 
 New tints and forms with every hour they take 
 Whose life is fashioned by thy Spirit s power ; 
 
44 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 The crimson dawn is round them when they 
 
 wake, 
 
 And golden triumphs wait the evening hour ; 
 The queenly-sceptred night their souls receives, 
 And spreads their pillows neath her sable tent ; 
 Above them Sleep their palm with poppy weaves, 
 Sweet rest Thou hast to all who labor lent ; 
 That they may rise refreshed to light again 
 And with Thee gather in the whitening grain. 
 
 I WOULD lie low the ground on which men 
 
 tread 
 
 Swept by thy Spirit like the wind of heaven ; 
 An earth, where gushing springs and corn for 
 
 bread 
 
 By me at every season should be given ; 
 Yet not the water or the bread that now 
 Supplies their tables with its daily food, 
 But they should gather fruit from every bough, 
 Such as Thou givest me, and call it good ; 
 And water from the stream of life should flow, 
 By every dwelling that thy love has built, 
 Whose taste the ransomed of thy Son shall know, 
 Whose robes are washed from every stain of 
 
 guilt ; 
 
 And men would own it was thy hand that blest, 
 And from my bosom find a surer rest. 
 
THE CALL. 45 
 
 (ZT&e Btoer. 
 
 OH ! swell my bosom deeper with thy love, 
 That I some river s widening mouth may be ; 
 And ever on, for many a mile above, 
 May flow the floods that enter from thy sea ; 
 And may they not retreat as tides of earth, 
 Save but to show from Thee that they have 
 
 flown, 
 
 Soon may my spirit find that better birth, 
 Where the retiring wave is never known ; 
 But Thou dost flow through every channel wide, 
 With all a Father s love in every soul ; 
 A stream that knows no ebb, a swelling tide 
 That rolls forever on and finds no goal, 
 Till in the hearts of all shall opened be 
 The ocean depths of thine eternity. 
 
 I BUILD a house, but in this t will appear 
 That I have built it not, a shining forth 
 Of that bright palace that from year to year 
 New pillars has and domes from mine own worth ; 
 The wondrous hand that forms it, in the sea, 
 In crystal depths fashions the coral pile, 
 The sun-lit roof that o er our heads we see, 
 
46 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 Earth s grassy plain that stretches many a mile ; 
 
 J T is round me like the morning s presence, felt 
 
 As that in which apart I live from all ; 
 
 A zone that girds me like Orion s belt, 
 
 That I be seen the more on that bright wall, 
 
 Where all as golden constellations shine 
 
 With their own light, yet lit with Light Divine. 
 
 unto Dap titteretl) 
 
 I WOULD adorn the day and give it voice, 
 That it should sing with praises meet for Thee ; 
 For none but man can bid it so rejoice, 
 That it shall seem a joyful day to me ; 
 Break forth ye hearts that frozen winters bind 
 In icy chains more strong than close the year ! 
 Look up ! the day, the day, ye suffering blind ! 
 Ye deaf, its notes of welcome come and hear ! 
 Bid it the joy your hearts have long supprest 
 Give back to you in new awakening strains ; 
 To rouse the sinful from their guilty rest, 
 And break the captive s more than iron chains ; 
 It shall arise with healing in its beams, 
 And wake the nations from their lengthened 
 dreams. 
 
CJje 
 
T is a new life ; thoughts move not as they 
 
 did, 
 
 With slow uncertain steps across my mind ; 
 In thronging haste fast pressing on they bid 
 The portals open to the viewless wind, 
 That comes not save when in the dust is laid 
 The crown of pride that gilds each mortal brow, 
 And from before man s vision melting fade 
 The heavens and earth ; their walls are falling 
 
 now. / 
 Fast crowding on, each thought asks utterance 
 
 strong ; 
 
 Storm-lifted waves swift rushing to the shore, 
 On from the sea they send their shouts along, 
 Back through the cave-worn rocks their thunders 
 
 roar ; 
 
 And I, a child of God by Christ made free, 
 Start from death s slumbers to eternity. 
 
50 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 JBeto 
 
 THE night that has no star lit up by God, 
 
 The day that round men shines who still ar< 
 
 blind, 
 
 The earth their grave-turned feet for ages trod, 
 And sea swept over by His mighty wind, 
 All these have passed away ; the melting drean 
 That flitted o er the sleeper s half-shut eye, 
 When touched by morning s golden-darting 
 
 beam ; 
 
 And he beholds around the earth and sky 
 That ever real stands, the rolling shores 
 And heaving billows of the boundless main, 
 That show, though time is past, no trace of years 
 And earth restored he sees as his again, 
 The earth that fades not and the heavens tha 
 
 stand, 
 Their strong foundations laid by God s righ 
 
 hand. 
 
 <0artren. 
 
 I SAW the spot where our first parents dwelt ; 
 And yet it wore to me no face of change, 
 For while amid its fields and groves, I felt 
 As if I had not sinned, nor thought itstrange ; 
 
THE NEW BIRTH. 51 
 
 My eye seemed but a part of every sight, 
 My ear heard music in each sound that rose ; 
 Each sense forever found a new delight, 
 Such as the spirit s vision only knows ; 
 Each act some new and ever-varying joy 
 Did by my Father s love for me prepare ; 
 To dress the spot my ever fresh employ, 
 And in the glorious whole with Him to share ; 
 No more without the flaming gate to stray, 
 No more for sin s dark stain the debt of death to 
 pay. 
 
 (ZT&e Presence. 
 
 I SIT within my room, and joy to find 
 That Thou, who always lov st, art with me here ; 
 That I am never left by Thee behind, 
 But by thyself Thou keep st me ever near. 
 The fire burns brighter when with Thee I look, 
 And seems a kinder servant sent to me ; 
 With gladder heart I read thy holy book, 
 Because Thou art the eyes by which I see ; 
 This aged chair, that table, watch, and door 
 Around in ready service ever wait ; 
 Nor can I ask of Thee a menial more 
 To fill the measure of my large estate, 
 For Thou thyself, with all a Father s care, 
 Where er I turn, art ever with me there. 
 
52 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 C&e Spirit lanfc. 
 
 FATHER ! thy wonders do not singly stand, 
 
 Nor far removed where feet have seldom strayed 
 
 Around us ever lies the enchanted land, 
 
 In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed. 
 
 In finding Thee are all things round us found ; 
 
 In losing Thee are all things lost "beside : 
 
 Ears have we, hut in vain strange voices sound, 
 
 And to our eyes the vision is denied ; 
 
 We wander in a country far remote, 
 
 Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell ; 
 
 Or on the records of past greatness dote, 
 
 And for a buried soul the living sell ; 
 
 While on our path bewildered falls the night 
 
 That ne er returns us to the fields of light. 
 
 THERE is no change of time and place wit! 
 
 Thee; 
 
 Where er I go, with me t is still the same ; 
 Within thy presence I rejoice to be, 
 And always hallow thy most holy name. 
 The world doth ever change ; there is no peace 
 Among the shallows of its storm-vexed breast ; 
 
THE NEW EIRTIL 53 
 
 "With every breath the frothy waves increase, 
 They toss up mire and dirt, they cannot rest. 
 I thank Thee that within thy strong-built ark 
 My soul across the uncertain sea can sail, 
 And though the night of death be long and dark, 
 My hopes in Christ shall reach within the vail ; 
 And to the promised haven steady steer, 
 Whose rest to those who love is ever near. 
 
 THERE is no death with Thee ! each plant and 
 
 tree 
 
 In living haste their stems push onward still, 
 The pointed blade, each rooted trunk we see, 
 In various movement all attest thy will. 
 The vine must die when its long race is run ; 
 The tree must fall when it no more can rise, 
 The worm has at its root his task begun, 
 And hour by hour his steady labor plies. 
 Nor man can pause, but in thy will must grow, 
 And, as his roots within more deep extend, 
 He shall o er sons of sons his branches throw, 
 And to the latest born his shadows lend ; 
 Nor know in Thee disease nor length of days, 
 But lift his head forever in thy praise. 
 
54 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 life. 
 
 IT is not life upon Thy gifts to live, 
 
 But to grow fixed with deeper roots in Thee ; 
 
 And when the sun and shower their bounties 
 
 give, 
 
 To send out thick-leaved limbs, a fruitful tree, 
 Whose green head meets the eye for many a 
 
 mile, 
 Whose moss-grown arms their rigid branches 
 
 rear, 
 
 And full-faced fruits their blushing welcome smile, 
 As to its goodly shade our feet draw near ; 
 Who tastes its gifts shall never hunger more, 
 For t is the Father spreads the pure repast, 
 Who, while we eat, renews the ready store, 
 Which at his bounteous board must ever last ; 
 For all the bridegroom s supper shall attend, 
 Who humbly hear and make his Word their 
 
 friend. 
 
 e. 
 
 FATHER ! there is no change to live with Thee, 
 Save that in Christ I grow from day to day, 
 In each new word I hear, each thing I see, 
 I but rejoicing hasten on the way. 
 
THE NEW BIRTH. 55 
 
 The morning comes with blushes overspread, 
 And I new-wakened find a morn within ; 
 And in its modest dawn around me shed, 
 Thou hear st the prayer and the ascending hymn. 
 Hour follows hour, the lengthening shades de 
 scend, 
 
 Yet they could never reach as far as me, 
 Did not thy love its kind protection lend, 
 That I a child might rest awhile on Thee, 
 Till to the light restored by gentle sleep, 
 With new-found zeal I might thy precepts keep. 
 
 I THANK thee, Father, that the night is near 
 When I this conscious being may resign, 
 Whose only task thy words of love to hear, 
 And in thy acts to find each act of mine ; 
 A task too great to give a child like me, 
 The myriad-handed labors of the day, 
 Too many for my closing eyes to see, 
 Thy words too frequent for my tongue to say. 
 Yet when Thou see st me burthened by thy love, 
 Each other gift more lovely then appears, 
 For dark-robed Night comes hovering from above, 
 And all thine other gifts to me endears ; 
 And while within her darkened couch I sleep, 
 Thine eyes untired above will constant vigils 
 keep. 
 
56 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 THE light will never open sightless eyes, 
 It comes to those who willingly would see ; 
 And every object hill, and stream, and 
 
 skies 
 
 Rejoice within th encircling line to be. 
 T is day, the field is filled with busy hands, 
 The shop resounds with noisy workmen s din, 
 The traveler with his staff already stands 
 His yet unmeasured journey to begin ; 
 The light breaks gently, too, within the breast, 
 Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn, 
 The forge and noisy anvil are at rest, 
 Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn, 
 Nor pilgrim lifts his staff, it is no day 
 To those who find on earth their place to stay. 
 
 To tell my journeys, where I daily walk, 
 These words thou hear st me use were given me ; 
 Give heed, then, when with thee my soul would 
 
 talk, 
 
 That thou the path of peace it goes may see. 
 I know nowhere to turn, each step is new, 
 No wish before me flies to point the way ; 
 
THE NEW BIRTH. 57 
 
 But on I travel, with no end in view, 
 Save that from Him who leads I may not stray. 
 He knows it all ; the turning of the road, 
 Where this way leads and that, He knows it 
 
 well, 
 
 And finds for me at night a safe abode, 
 Though I all houseless know not where to dwell. 
 And can st thou tell then where my journeying 
 
 lies? 
 If so, thou tread st with me the same blue skies. 
 
 DAY ! I lament that none can hymn thy praise 
 In fitting strains, of all thy riches bless ; 
 Though thousands sport them in thy golden rays, 
 Yet none like thee their Maker s name confess. 
 Great fellow of my being ! woke with me 
 Thou dost put on thy dazzling robes of light, 
 And onward from the east go forth to free 
 Thy children from the bondage of the night. 
 I hail thee, pilgrim ! on thy lonely way, 
 "Whose looks on all alike benignant shine ; 
 A child of light, like thee, I cannot stay, 
 But on the world I bless must soon decline, 
 New rising still, though setting to mankind, 
 And ever in the eternal West my dayspring find. 
 
58 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 OH, humble me ! I cannot bide the joy 
 That in my Saviour s presence ever flows ; 
 May I be lowly, lest it may destroy 
 The peace his childlike spirit ever knows. 
 I would not speak thy word, but by Thee stand, 
 While Thou dost to thine erring children speak ; 
 Oh, help me but to keep his own command, 
 And in my strength to feel me ever weak ; 
 Then in thy presence shall I humbly stay, 
 Nor lose the life of love He came to give ; 
 And find at last the life, the truth, the way 
 To where with Him thy blessed servants live ; 
 And walk forever in the path of truth 
 A servant yet a son ; a sire and yet a youth. 
 
Cfje 
 
T is to yourself I speak ; you cannot know 
 Him whom I call in speaking such a one, 
 For you beneath the earth lie buried low, 
 Which he alone as living walks upon : 
 You may at times have heard him speak to you, 
 And often wished perchance that you were he ; 
 And I must ever wish that it were true, 
 For then you could hold fellowship with me : 
 But now you hear us talk as strangers, met 
 Above the room wherein you lie abed ; 
 A word perhaps loud spoken you may get, 
 Or hear our feet when heavily they tread ; 
 But he who speaks, or him who s spoken to, 
 Must both remain as strangers still to you. 
 
 C&e (Kpe anti (Kar. 
 
 THOU readest, but each lettered word can give 
 Thee but the sound that thou first gave to it ; 
 Thou lookest on the page, things move and live, 
 In light thine eye, and thine alone, has lit ; 
 Ears are there yet unstopped, and eyes unclosed, 
 That see and hear as in one common day, 
 
62 VERT S POEMS. 
 
 When they which present see have long reposed, 
 And he who hears has mouldered, too, to clay : 
 These ever see and hear ; they are in Him 
 Who speaks, and all is light ; how dark before ! 
 Each object throws aside its mantle dim, 
 Which hid the starry robe that once it wore, 
 And shines full born, disclosing all that is, 
 Itself by all things seen and owned as His. 
 
 THE fairest day that ever yet has shone, 
 Will be when thou the day within shalt see ; 
 The fairest rose that ever yet has blown, 
 When thou the flower thou lookest on shalt be. 
 But thou art far away among Time s toys ; 
 Thyself the day thou lookest for in them, 
 Thyself the flower that now thine eye enjoys, 
 But wilted now thou hang st upon thy stem. 
 The bird thou hearest on the budding tree, 
 Thou hast made sing with thy forgotten voice ; 
 But when it swells again to melody, 
 The song is thine in which thou wilt rejoice ; 
 And thou new risen midst these wonders live, 
 That now to them dost all thy substance give. 
 
THE MESSAGE. 63 
 
 Barroto 
 
 WHERE this one dwells and that, thou know st 
 
 it well, 
 
 Each earthly neighbor and each earthly friend ; 
 But He who calls thee has no place to dwell, 
 And canst thou then thine all unto Him lend ? 
 Canst thou a stranger he, where now well 
 
 known ; 
 
 Where now thou oftenest go st, go nevermore, 
 But walk the world thenceforth thy way alone, 
 Broadening the path but little worn before ? 
 Then may st thou find me, when thou t faint and 
 
 weak, 
 
 And the strait road seems narrower still to grow ; 
 For I will words of comfort to thee speak, 
 And onward with thee to my home I 11 go, 
 Where thou shalt find a rest in labor sweet, 
 No friend and yet a friend in all to greet. 
 
 Created, 
 
 THERE is naught for thee by thy haste to gain ; 
 T is not the swift with Me that win the race ; 
 Through long endurance of delaying pain, 
 Thine opened eye shall see thy Father s face ; 
 Nor here nor there, where now thy feet would 
 turn, 
 
64 VERT S POEMS. 
 
 Thou wilt find Him who ever seeks for thee ; 
 But let obedience quench desires that burn, 
 And where thou art thy Father, too, will be. 
 Behold ! as day by day the spirit grows, 
 Thou see st by inward light things hid before ; 
 Till what God is, thyself, his image, shows ; 
 And thou wilt wear the robe that first thou wore. 
 When bright with radiance from his forming 
 
 hand, 
 He saw the lord of all his creatures stand. 
 
 Apostles* 
 
 THE words that come unuttered by the breath, 
 Looks without eyes, these lighten all the globe ; 
 They are the ministering angels, sent where 
 
 Death 
 
 Has walked the earth so long in seraph s robe ; 
 See crowding to their touch the groping blind ! 
 And ears long shut to sound are bent to hear, 
 Quick as they speak the lame new vigor find, 
 And language to the dumb man s lips is near ; 
 Hail, sent to us, ye servants of high heaven ! 
 Unseen, save by the humble and the poor ; 
 To them glad tidings have your voices given ; 
 For them their faith has wrought the wished-for 
 
 cure ; 
 
 And ever shall they witness bear of you, 
 That He who sent you forth to heal was true. 
 
THE MESSAGE. 65 
 
 comes the sun to visit thee at morn, 
 Art thou prepared to give him welcome then ; 
 Or is the day that with his light is born, 
 With thee a day that has already been ; 
 Hast thou filled up its yet unnumbered hours 
 With thy heart s thoughts, and made them now 
 
 thine own ? 
 
 Then for thee cannot bloom its budding flowers ; 
 The day to thee hast past, and onward flown ; 
 The noon may follow with its quickening heat, 
 The grain grow yellow in its ripening rays, 
 And slow-paced evening mark the noon s retreat, 
 Yet thou as dead to them live all thy days ; 
 For thou hast made of God s free gifts a gain, 
 And would st the sovereign day a slave in bonds 
 
 retain. 
 
 I SAW him forging link by link his chain, 
 Yet while he felt its length he thought him free, 
 And sighed for those borne o er the barren main 
 To bondage that to his would freedom be ; 
 Yet on he walked with eyes far-gazing still 
 On wrongs that from his own dark bosom flowed, 
 5 
 
66 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 And while he thought to do his master s will 
 
 He but the more his disobedience showed. 
 
 I heard a wild rose by the stony wall, 
 
 Whose fragrance reached me in the passing gale, 
 
 A lesson give it gave alike to all 
 
 And I repeat the moral of its tale, 
 
 "That from the spot where deep its dark roots 
 
 grew 
 Bloomed forth the fragrant rose that all delight 
 
 to view." 
 
 T is near the morning watch : the dim lamp burns, 
 But scarcely shows how dark the slumbering 
 
 street ; 
 
 No sound of life the silent mart returns ; 
 No friends from house to house their neighbors 
 
 greet. 
 
 It is the sleep of death, a deeper sleep 
 Than e er before on mortal eyelids fell ; 
 No stars above the gloom their places keep ; 
 No faithful watchmen of the morning tell ; 
 Yet still they slumber on, though rising day 
 Hath through their windows poured the awaken 
 
 ing light ; 
 
 Or, turning in their sluggard trances, say, 
 " There yet are many hours to fill the night." 
 They rise not yet; while on the Bridegroom goes 
 Till He the day s bright gates forever on them 
 
 close. 
 
THE MESSAGE. 67 
 
 I SEE them, crowd on crowd they walk the 
 
 earth, 
 
 Dry leafless trees no autumn wind laid bare ; 
 And in their nakedness find cause for mirth, 
 And all unclad would winter s rudeness dare ; 
 No sap doth through their clattering branches 
 
 flow, 
 Whence springing leaves and blossoms bright 
 
 appear ; 
 
 Their hearts the living God have ceased to know 
 Who gives the spring-time to th expectant year. 
 They mimic life, as if from Him to steal 
 His glow of health to paint the livid cheek ; 
 They borrow words for thoughts they cannot 
 
 feel, 
 That with a seeming heart their tongue may 
 
 speak ; 
 
 And in their show of life more dead they live 
 Than those that to the earth with many tears 
 
 they give. 
 
 MY heart grows sick before the wide-spread 
 
 death 
 That walks and speaks in seeming life around ; 
 
68 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 And I would love the corpse without a breath, 
 That sleeps forgotten neath the cold, cold 
 
 ground ; 
 
 For these do tell the story of decay, 
 The worm and rotten flesh hide not nor lie ; 
 But this, though dying, too, from day to day, 
 With a false show doth cheat the longing eye, 
 And hide the worm that gnaws the core of life, 
 With painted cheek and smooth, deceitful skin ; 
 Covering a grave with sights of darkness rife, 
 A secret cavern filled with death and sin ; 
 And men walk o er these graves and know it not, 
 For in the body s health the soul s forgot. 
 
 &\>t Prison* 
 
 THE prison-house is full; there is no cell 
 But hath its prisoner laden with his chains ; 
 And yet they live as though their life was well, 
 Nor of its burdening sin the soul complains ; 
 Thou dost not see where thou hast lived so 
 
 long, - 
 The place is called the skull where thou dost 
 
 tread. 
 Why laugh st thou, then, why sing the sportive 
 
 song, 
 
 As if thou livest, and know st not thou art dead. 
 Yes, thou art dead, the morn breaks o er thee 
 
 now, 
 
THE MESSAGE. 69 
 
 TThore is thy Father, He who gave thee birth ? 
 Thou art a severed limb, a barren bough, 
 Thou sleepest in deep caverns of the earth. 
 Awake ! thou hast a glorious race to run ; 
 Put on thy strength, thou hast not yet begun. 
 
 f)e tons acquainted toitj <5nef 
 
 I CANNOT tell the sorrows that I feel 
 
 By the night s darkness, by the prison s gloom ; 
 
 There is no sight that can the death reveal 
 
 The spirit suffers in a living tomb ; 
 
 There is no sound of grief that mourners raise, 
 
 No moaning of the wind, or dirge-like sea, 
 
 Nor hymns, though prophet tones inspire the lays, 
 
 That can the Spirit s grief awake in thee. 
 
 Thou, too, must suffer, as it suffers here, 
 
 The death in Christ to know the Father s love ; 
 
 Then in the strains that angels love to hear 
 
 Thou, too, shalt hear the Spirit s song above, 
 
 And learn in grief what these can never tell, 
 
 A note too deep for earthly voice to swell. 
 
70 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 fait!). 
 
 THERE is no faith: the mountain stands within 
 Still unrebuked, its summit reaches heaven ; 
 And every action adds its load of sin, 
 For every action wants the little leaven. 
 There is no prayer : it is but empty sound, 
 That stirs with frequent breath the yielding air, 
 With every pulse they are more strongly bound, 
 Who make the blood of goats the voice of prayer ; 
 Oh, heal them, heal them, Father, with thy 
 
 word, 
 
 Their sins cry out to Thee from every side : 
 From son and sire, from slave and master heard, 
 Their voices fill the desert country wide ; 
 And bid Thee hasten to relieve and save, 
 By Him who rose triumphant o er the grave. 
 
 I LOOKED to find a man who walked with God, 
 Like the translated patriarch of old ; 
 Though gladdened millions on his footstool trod, 
 Yet none with Him did such sweet converse hold. 
 I heard the wind in low complaint go by 
 That none its melodies like him could hear ; 
 Day unto day spoke wisdom from on high, 
 
THE MESSAGE. 71 
 
 Yet none like David turned a willing ear : 
 
 God walked alone, tmhonored, through the earth. 
 
 For Him no heart-built temple open stood ; 
 
 The soul, forgetful of her nobler birth, 
 
 Had hewn Him lofty shrines of stone and wood, 
 
 And left unfinished, and in ruins still, 
 
 The only temple He delights to fill. 
 
 THERE is no worship now : the idol stands 
 Within the Spirit s holy resting-place ! 
 Millions before it bend with upraised hands, 
 And with their gifts God s purer shrine disgrace. 
 The prophet walks unhonored mid the crowd 
 That to the idol s temple daily throng ; 
 His voice unheard above their voices loud, 
 His strength too feeble gainst the torrent strong ; 
 But there are bounds that ocean s rage can stay 
 When wave on wave leaps madly to the shore : 
 And soon the prophet s word shall men obey, 
 And hushed to peace the billows cease to roar ; 
 For He who spake and warring winds kept 
 
 peace, 
 Commands again and man s wild passions 
 
 cease. 
 
72 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 I HAVE no brother. They who meet me now 
 
 Offer a hand with their own wills defiled, 
 
 And, while they wear a smooth, unwrinkled brow, 
 
 Know not that Truth can never be beguiled. 
 
 Go wash the hand that still betrays thy guilt ; 
 
 Before the Spirit s gaze what stain can hide ? 
 
 Abel s red blood upon the earth is spilt, 
 
 And by thy tongue it cannot be denied. 
 
 I hear not with the ear, the heart doth tell 
 
 Its secret deeds to me untold before ; 
 
 Go, all its hidden plunder quickly sell, 
 
 Then shalt thou cleanse thee from thy brother s 
 
 gore, 
 
 Then will I take thy gift ; that bloody stain 
 Shall not be seen upon thy hand again. 
 
 THOU art more deadly than the Jew of old : 
 
 Thou hast his weapons hidden in thy speech ; 
 
 And though thy hand from me thou dost with 
 hold, 
 
 They pierce where sword and spear could never 
 reach. 
 
 Thou hast me fenced about with thorny talk, 
 
THE MESSAGE. 73 
 
 To pierce my soul with anguish while I hear ; 
 And while amid thy populous streets I walk, 
 I feel at every step the entering spear. 
 Go, cleanse thy lying mouth of all its guile 
 That from the will within thee ever flows ; 
 Go, cleanse the temple thou dost now defile, 
 Then shall I cease to feel thy heavy blows ; 
 And come and tread with me the path of peace, 
 And from thy brother s harm forever cease. 
 
 I WALK the streets, and though not meanly drest, 
 Yet none so poor as can with me compare ; 
 For none, though weary, call me in to rest, 
 And though I hunger, none their substance 
 
 share. 
 
 I ask not for my stay the broken reed, 
 That fails when most I want a friendly arm ; 
 I cannot on the loaves and fishes feed 
 That want the blessing that they may not harm. 
 I only ask the living word to hear 
 From tongues that now but speak to utter death ; 
 I thirst for one cool cup of water clear, 
 But drink the riled stream of lying breath ; 
 And wander on, though in my Fatherland, 
 Yet hear no welcome voice and see no beckoning 
 
 hand. 
 
74 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 ge gabe me no ;peat. 
 
 MY brother, I am hungry : give me food 
 
 Such as my Father gives me at his board ; 
 
 He has for many years been to thee good, 
 
 Thou canst a morsel, then, to me afford. 
 
 I do not ask of thee a grain of that 
 
 Thou offerest when I call on thee for bread ; 
 
 This is not of the wine nor olive fat, 
 
 But those who eat of this like thee are dead. 
 
 I ask the love the Father has for thee, 
 
 That thou should st give it back to me again ; 
 
 This shall my soul from pangs of hunger free, 
 
 And on my parched spirit fall like rain ; 
 
 Then thou wilt prove a brother to my need, 
 
 For in the cross of Christ thou, too, canst bleed. 
 
 LONG do we live upon the husks of corn, 
 While neath untasted lie the kernels still ; 
 Heirs of the kingdom, but in Christ unborn, 
 Fain with swine s food would we our hunger fill. 
 We eat, but t is not of the bread from heaven ; 
 We drink, but t is not from the stream of life ; 
 Our swelling actions want the little leaven 
 To make them with the sighed-f or blessing rife ; 
 
THE MESSAGE. 75 
 
 We wait unhappy on a stranger s board, 
 
 While we the master s friend by right should 
 
 live, 
 
 Enjoy with him the fruits our labors stored, 
 And to the poor with him the pittance give ; 
 No more to want, the long expected heir 
 With Christ the Father s love forevermore to 
 
 share. 
 
 Ipeart. 
 
 THERE is a cup of sweet or bitter drink, 
 Whose waters ever o er the brim must well, 
 Whence flow pure thoughts of love as angels 
 
 think, 
 
 Or of its daemon depths the tongue will tell. 
 That cup can ne er be cleansed from outward 
 
 stains 
 
 While from within the tide forever flows ; 
 And soon it wearies out the fruitless pains 
 The treacherous hand on such a task bestows ; 
 But ever bright its crystal sides appear, 
 While runs the current from its outlet pure ; 
 And pilgrims hail its sparkling waters near, 
 And stoop to drink the healing fountain sure, 
 And bless the cup that cheers their fainting soul 
 While through this parching waste they seek 
 
 their heavenly goal. 
 
76 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 THOU pray st not, save when in thy soul thou 
 
 pray st, 
 
 Disrobing of thyself to feed the poor ; 
 The words thy lips shall utter then, thou say st, 
 They are as marble, and they shall endure. 
 Pray always, for on prayer the hungry feed ; 
 Its sound is hidden music to the soul, 
 From low desires its rising strains shall lead, 
 And willing captives own thy just control. 
 Draw not too often on the gushing spring, 
 But rather let its own o erflowings tell 
 Where the cool waters rise, and thither bring 
 Those who more gladly then will hail the well ; 
 When, gushing from within, new streams like 
 
 thine 
 Shall bid them ever drink and own its source 
 
 divine. 
 
 THE Prophet speaks, the world attentive stands ! 
 The voice that stirs the people s countless host, 
 Issues again the Living God s commands ; 
 And who before the King of kings can boast ? 
 At his rebuke behold a thousand flee, 
 
THE MESSAGE. 77 
 
 Their hearts the Lord hath smitten with his fear ; 
 Bow to the Christ, ye nations ! bow the knee ! 
 Repent ! the kingdom of the Son is near ! 
 Deep on their souls the mighty accents fall, 
 Like lead that pierces through the walls of clay ; 
 Pricked to the heart the guilty spirits call 
 To know of Him the new, the living way ; 
 They bow ; for He can loose, and He can bind ; 
 And in his path the promised blessing find. 
 
 AWAKE, ye dead ! The summons has gone forth 
 That bids ye leave the dark inclosing grave ; 
 From east to west tis heard, from south to 
 
 north 
 
 The word goes forth imprisoned souls to save : 
 Though ye have on the garments of the dead, 
 And the fourth day have slept within the earth, 
 Come forth ! you shall partake the living bread, 
 And be a witness of the Spirit s birth. 
 Awake, ye faithful ! throw your grave-clothes by, 
 He whom ye seek is risen, bids ye rise ; ^ 
 The cross again on earth is lifted high ; 
 Turn to its healing sight your closing eyes ; 
 And you shall rise and gird your armor on, 
 And fight till you a crown in Christ have won. 
 
78 VERY S POEMS. 
 
 THOU shalt the mountain move ; be strong in me, 
 And I will pluck it from its rocky base, 
 And cast it headlong in the rolling sea, 
 And men shall seek but shall not find its place. 
 Be strong ; thou shalt throw down the numerous 
 
 host 
 
 That rises now against thee o er the earth ; 
 Against thy Father s arm they shall not boast, 
 In sorrow shall grow dark their day of mirth. 
 Lift up the banner, bid the trumpets sound ; 
 Gather, ye nations, on the opposing hill ! 
 I will your wisest councils now confound, 
 And all your ranks with death and slaughter fill. 
 I come for judgment, and for victory now, 
 Bow down, ye nations ! at my footstool bow ! 
 
 I WOULD not tarry. Look ! the things before 
 Call me along my path with beckoning love ; 
 The things I gain wear not the hues they wore, 
 For brighter glories gild the heavens above. 
 Still on, I seek the peace the Master sought, 
 The world cannot disturb his joy within ; 
 It is not with its gold and silver bought, 
 
THE MESSAGE. 79 
 
 It is the victory over death and sin. 
 
 .But those who enter the bright city s gates, 
 
 Ride low on one the marked and scorned of 
 
 earth ; 
 
 For there the ready mansion open waits 
 For those who live rejected from their birth; 
 And He who went before them bids, all hail ! 
 To those who o er the world in Him prevail. 
 
 a Best, 
 
 REJOICE, ye weary ! ye whose spirits mourn, 
 There is a rest which shall not be removed ; 
 Press on and reach within the heavenly bourne, 
 By Christ, the King of your salvation proved. 
 There is a rest ! Rejoice, ye silent stars, 
 Roll on no more all voiceless on your way : 
 Thou Sun ! No more dark cloud thy triumph 
 
 bars, 
 
 Speak thou to every land the coming/day. 
 And thou, my soul, that feel st the rest within, 
 That greater art than star or burning sun, 
 Rejoice! for thou hast known the rest from sin, 
 And hast the eternal life in God begun ; 
 Praise thou the Lord with every living thing, 
 And for his grace with saints and angels sing. 
 
80 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 Praise* 
 
 OH praise the Lord ! Let every heart be glad ! 
 The day has come when He will be our God ; 
 No fears can come to make his children sad, 
 His joy is theirs who in his ways have trod. 
 Oh praise, ye hills ! Praise Him, ye rivers 
 
 wide ! 
 
 Ye people own his love ! revere his power ! 
 He makes his peace in one full current glide, 
 It shall flow on unbroken from this hour. 
 Shout ! shout, ye saints ! the triumph day is 
 
 near, 
 
 The King goes forth Himself his sons to save ; 
 The habitations of the poor to rear, 
 And bid the palm and myrtle round them wave ! 
 Open your gates, ye heaven-uplifted walls ! 
 The King of kings for entrance at them calls. 
 
^attire. 
 
JSature. 
 
 NATURE ! my love for thee is deeper far 
 
 Than strength of words, though spirit-born, can 
 
 tell; 
 
 For while I gaze they seem my soul to bar, 
 That in thy widening streams would onward 
 
 swell, 
 
 Bearing thy mirrored beauty on its breast, 
 Now, through thy lonely haunts unseen to glide, 
 A motion that scarce knows itself from rest, 
 "With pictured flowers and branches on its tide ; 
 Then, by the noisy city s frowning wall, 
 Whose armed heights within its waters gleam, 
 To rush with answering voice to ocean s call, 
 And mingle with the deep its swollen stream, 
 Whose boundless bosom s calm alone can hold 
 That heaven of glory in thy skies unrolled. 
 
 WHEN I would sing of crooked streams and 
 
 fields, 
 
 On, on from me they stretch too far and wide, 
 
 And at their look my song all powerless yields, 
 
 (83) 
 
84 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 And down the river bears me with its tide. 
 
 Amid the fields I am a child again, 
 
 The spots that then I loved I love the more, 
 
 My fingers drop the strangely-scrawling pen, 
 
 And I remember nought but Nature s lore. 
 
 I plunge me in the river s cooling wave, 
 
 Or on the embroidered bank admiring lean, 
 
 Now some endangered insect life to save, 
 
 Now watch the pictured flowers and grasses 
 
 green ; 
 
 Forever playing where a boy I played, 
 By hill and grove, by field and stream delayed. 
 
 Co t&e Pure all Swings are Pure* 
 
 THE flowers I pass have eyes that look at me, 
 The birds have ears that hear my spirit s voice, 
 And I am glad the leaping brook to see, 
 Because it does at my light step rejoice. 
 Come, brothers, all who tread the grassy hill, 
 Or wander thoughtless o er the blooming fields, 
 Come learn the sweet obedience of the will ; 
 Thence every sight and sound new pleasure 
 
 yields. 
 
 Nature shall seem another house of thine, 
 When He who formed thee, bids it live and play. 
 And in thy rambles e en the creeping vine 
 Shall keep with thee a jocund holiday, 
 And every plant, and bird, and insect be 
 Thine own companions born for harmony. 
 
NATURE. 85 
 
 Bature. 
 
 THE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, 
 Because my feet find measure with its call ; 
 The birds know when the friend they love is 
 
 nigh, 
 
 For I am known to them both great and small ; 
 The flowers that on the lovely hill-side grow 
 Expect me there when Spring their bloom has 
 
 given ; 
 
 And many a tree and bush my wanderings know, 
 And e en the clouds and silent stars of heaven : 
 For he who with his Maker walks aright 
 Shall be their lord, as Adam was before ; 
 His ear shall catch each sound with new delight, 
 Each object wear the dress which then it wore ; 
 And he, as when erect in soul he stood, 
 Hear from his Father s lips, that all is good. 
 
 Hofce. 
 
 EACH naked branch, the yellow leaf or brown, 
 The rugged rock, and death-deformed plain, 
 Lie wliite beneath the winter s feathery down, 
 Nor doth a spot unsightly now remain. 
 
 On sheltering roof, on man himself, it falls ; 
 But him no robe, not spotless snow, makes clean ; 
 
86 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 Beneath, his corse-like spirit ever calls, 
 
 That on it too may fall the heavenly screen. 
 
 But all in vain : its guilt can never hide 
 
 From the quick Spirit s heart-deep searching eye ; 
 
 There barren plains and caverns yawning wide 
 
 Lie ever naked to the passer-by ; 
 
 Nor can one thought deformed the presence 
 
 shun, 
 But to the Spirit s gaze stands bright as in the 
 
 sun. 
 
 I TOO will wait with thee returning Spring, 
 When thick the leaves shall cling on every 
 
 bough, 
 
 And birds within their new-grown arbor sing, 
 Unmindful of the storms that tear me now ; 
 For I have stript me naked to the blast 
 That now in triumph through my branches rides : 
 But soon the winter s bondage shall be past 
 To him who in the Saviour s love abides ; 
 And as his Father to thy limbs returns, 
 Blossom and bloom to sprinkle o er thy dress, 
 So shall Christ call from out their funeral urns, 
 Those who in patience still their souls possess ; 
 And clothe in raiment never to wax old, 
 All whom his Father gave him for his fold. 
 
NATURE. 87 
 
 fZT&e SMtntcr Hain. 
 
 THE rain comes down, it comes without our call, 
 Each pattering drop knows well its destined 
 
 place, 
 
 And soon the fields whereon the blessings fall 
 Shall change their frosty look for Spring s sweet 
 
 face ; 
 
 So fall the words thy Holy Spirit sends, 
 Upon the heart where Winter s robe is flung ; 
 They shall go forth as certain of their ends, 
 As the wet drops from out thy vapors wrung : 
 Spring will not tarry, though more late its rose 
 Shall bud and bloom upon the sinful heart ; 
 Yet when it buds, forever there it blows, 
 And hears no Winter bid its bloom depart ; 
 It strengthens with his storms, and grows more 
 
 bright 
 When o er the earth is cast his mantle white. 
 
 C(je Spirit. 
 
 I WOULD not breathe, when blows thy mighty 
 
 wind 
 
 O er desolate hill and winter-blasted plain, 
 But stand, in waiting hope, if I may find 
 Each flower recalled to newer life again, 
 
88 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 That now unsightly hides itself from Thee, 
 Amid the leaves or rustling grasses dry, 
 With ice-cased rock and snowy-mantled tree, 
 Ashamed lest Thou its nakedness should spy ; 
 But Thou shalt breathe, and every rattling bough 
 Shall gather leaves ; each rock with rivers flow ; 
 And they that hide them from thy presence now, 
 In new-found robes along thy path shall glow, 
 And meadows at thy coming fall and rise, 
 Their green waves sprinkled with a thousand 
 eyes. 
 
 Desert 
 
 OH, bid the desert blossom as the rose, 
 For there is not one flower that meets me now ; 
 On all thy fields lie heaped the wintry snows, 
 And the rough ice encrusts the fruitful bough. 
 Oh, breathe upon thy ruined vineyard still ; 
 Though like the dead it long unmoved has lain, 
 Thy breath can with the bloom of Eden fill, 
 The lifeless clods in verdure clothe again. 
 Awake, ye slothful ! open wide the earth 
 To the new sun and Spirit s quickening rain ; 
 They came to bid the furrows heave in birth, 
 And strew with roses thick the barren plain. 
 Awake ! be early in your untilled field, 
 And it to you the crop of peace shall yield. 
 
NATURE. 89 
 
 labor antJ Heat. 
 
 THOU need st not rest : the shining spheres are 
 
 thine 
 
 That roll perpetual on their silent way, 
 And Thou dost breathe in me a voice divine, 
 That tells more sure of thine eternal sway ; 
 Thine the first starting of the early leaf, 
 The gathering green, the changing autumn hue ; 
 To Thee the world s long years are but as brief 
 As the fresh tints that Spring will soon renew. 
 Thou needest not man s little life of years, 
 Save that he gather wisdom from them all ; 
 That in thy fear he lose all other fears, 
 And in thy calling heed no other call. 
 Then shall he be thy child to know thy care, 
 And in thy glorious Self the eternal Sabbath 
 
 share. 
 
 I LOVE thee when thy swelling buds appear 
 And one by one their tender leaves unfold, 
 As if they knew that warmer suns were near, 
 Nor longer sought to hide from Winter s cold ; 
 And when with darker growth thy leaves are 
 seen 
 
90 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 To veil from view the early robin s nest, 
 
 I love to lie beneath thy waving screen 
 
 With limbs by summer s heat and toil opprest ; 
 
 And when the autumn winds have stript thee 
 
 bare, 
 
 And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow, 
 When nought is thine that made thee once so 
 
 fair, 
 
 I love to watch thy shadowy form below, 
 And through thy leafless arms to look above 
 On stars that brighter beam when most we need 
 
 their love. 
 
 g>noto, 
 
 IT will not stay ! the robe so pearly white, 
 Which fell in folds in Nature s bosom bare, 
 And sparkled in the winter moonbeams light, 
 A vesture such as sainted spirits wear. 
 It will not stay. Look, from the open plain, 
 It melts beneath the glance of April s sun ; 
 Nor can the rock s cool shade the snow detain, 
 It feeds the brooks, which down the hillside run. 
 Why should it linger ? Many tinted flowers 
 And the green grass its place will quickly fill, 
 And, with new life from sun and kindly showers, 
 With beauty deck the meadow and the hill, 
 Till we regret to see the earth resume 
 This snowy mantle for her robe of bloom. 
 
NATURE. 91 
 
 dTrue Li 
 
 THE morning s brightness cannot make thee 
 
 glad, 
 
 If thou art not more bright than it within ; 
 And nought of evening s peace hast thou e er 
 
 had, 
 
 If evening first did not with thee begin. 
 Full many a sun I saw first set and rise, 
 Before my day had found a rising too ; 
 And I with Nature learned to harmonize, 
 And to her times and seasons made me true. / 
 How fair that new May morning when I rose 
 Companion of the sun for all the day ; 
 O er every hill and field where now he goes, 
 With him to pass, nor fear again to stray ; 
 But neath the full-orbed moon s reflected light 
 Still onward keep my way till latest night. 
 
 (ZT&e 
 
 THOU lookest up with meek, confiding eye, 
 Upon the clouded smile of April s face, 
 Unharmed, though Winter stands uncertain by 
 Eying with jealous glance each opening grace. 
 Thou trustest wisely ! In thy faith arrayed, 
 More glorious thou than Israel s wisest King. 
 
92 VEBY S POEMS. 
 
 Such faith was His whom men to death betrayed, 
 As thine, who hear st the timid voice of Spring, 
 While other flowers still hide them from her call 
 Along the river s brink and meadow bare. 
 Thee will I seek beside the stony wall, 
 And in thy trust with childlike heart would 
 
 share, 
 
 O er joyed that in thy early leaves I find 
 A lesson taught by Him who loved all human 
 
 kind. 
 
 Ftoiet 
 
 THOU tellest truths unspoken yet by man, 
 By this thy lonely home and modest look ; 
 For he has not the eyes such truths to scan, 
 Nor learns to read from such a lowly book. 
 With him it is not life firm-fixed to grow 
 Beneath the outspreading oaks and rising pines, 
 Content this humble lot of thine to know, 
 The nearest neighbor of the creeping vines ; 
 Without fixed root he cannot trust, like thee, 
 The rain will know the appointed hour to fall, 
 But fears lest sun or shower may hurtful be, 
 And would delay or speed them with his call ; 
 Nor trust like thee when wintry winds blow cold, 
 Whose shrinking form the withered leaves enfold, 
 
NATURE. 93 
 
 (T|)c Columbine. 
 
 STILL, still my eye will gaze long fixed on thee, 
 
 Till I forget that I am called a man, 
 
 And at thy side fast-rooted seem to be, 
 
 And the breeze comes my cheek with thine to 
 
 fan. 
 
 Upon this craggy hill our life shall pass, 
 A life of summer days and summer joys, 
 Nodding our honey-bells mid pliant grass 
 In which the bee, half-hid, his time employs ; 
 And here we 11 drink with thirsty pores the rain, 
 And turn dew-sprinkled to the rising sun, 
 And look when in the flaming west again 
 His orb across the heaven its path has run ; 
 Here left in darkness on the rocky steep, 
 My weary eyes shall close like folding flowers in 
 
 sleep. 
 
 Hose of ppmoutji. 
 
 UPON the Plymouth shore the wild rose blooms, 
 As when the Pilgrims lived beside the bay, 
 And scents the morning air with sweet perfumes ; 
 Though new this hour, more ancient far than 
 
 they; 
 More ancient than the wild, yet friendly race, 
 
94 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 That roved the land before the Pilgrims came, 
 And here for ages found a dwelling-place, 
 Of whom our histories tell us but a name ! 
 Though new this hour, out from the past it 
 
 springs, 
 
 Telling this summer morning of earth s prime ; 
 And happy visions of the future brings, 
 That reach beyond, e en to the verge of time ; 
 Wreathing earth s children in one flowery chain 
 Of love and beauty, ever to remain. 
 
 THE sweet-briar rose has not a form more fair, 
 Nor are its hues more beauteous than thine own, 
 Sabbatia, flower most beautiful and rare ! 
 In lonely spots blooming unseen, unknown. 
 So spiritual thy look, thy stem so light, 
 Thou seemest not from the dark earth to grow ; 
 But to belong to heavenly regions bright, 
 Where night comes not, nor blasts of winter 
 
 blow. 
 
 To me thou art a pure, ideal flower, 
 So delicate that mortal touch might mar ; 
 Not born, like other flowers, of sun and shower, 
 But wandering from thy native home afar 
 To lead our thoughts to some serener clime, 
 Beyond the shadows and the storms of time. 
 
NATURE. 95 
 
 CT&e Bobin. 
 
 THOU need st not flutter from thy half-built nest, 
 Whene er thou hear st man s hurrying feet go by, 
 Fearing his eye for harm may on thee rest, 
 Or he thy young s unfinished cottage spy ; 
 All will not heed thee on that swinging bough, 
 Nor care that round thy shelter spring the leaves, 
 Nor watch thee on the pool s wet margin now 
 For clay to plaster straws thy cunning weaves ; 
 All will not hear thy sweet, outpouring joy, 
 That with morn s stillness blends the voice of 
 
 song, 
 
 For over-anxious cares their souls employ, 
 That else upon thy music borne along 
 And the light wings of heart-ascending prayer 
 Had learned that Heaven is pleased thy simple 
 
 joys to share. 
 
 (0 t(je 
 
 I CANNOT hear thy voice with others ears, 
 Who make of thy lost liberty a gain ; 
 And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears 
 Feel not that every note is born with pain. 
 Alas ! that with thy music s gentle swell 
 Past days of joy should through thy memory 
 throng, 
 
96 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 And each to thee their words of sorrow tell, 
 While ravished sense forgets thee in thy song. 
 The heart that on the past and future feeds, 
 And pours in human words its thoughts divine, 
 Though at each birth the spirit inly bleeds, 
 Its songs may charm the listening ear like thine ; 
 And men with gilded cage and praise will try 
 To make the bard like thee forget his native sky. 
 
 s <S5tft. 
 
 I FOUND, far culled from fragrant field and grove, 
 Each flower that makes our Spring a welcome 
 
 guest ; 
 
 In one sweet bond of brotherhood inwove 
 An osier band their leafy stalks compressed ; 
 A stranger s hand had made their bloom my 
 
 own, 
 
 And fresh their fragrance rested on the air ; 
 His gift was mine but he who gave unknown, 
 And my heart sorrowed though the flowers were 
 
 fair. 
 
 Now oft I grieve to meet them on the lawn, 
 As sweetly scattered round my path they grow, 
 By One who on their petals paints the dawn, 
 And gilt with sunset splendors bids them glow, 
 For I ne er asked "who steeps them in per 
 fume ? " 
 
 Nor anxious sought His love who crowns them 
 all with bloom. 
 
NATURE. 97 
 
 Edge, 
 
 THE rose thou show st me has lost all its hue, 
 For thou dost seem to me than it less fair ; 
 For when I look I turn from it to you, 
 And feel the flower has been thine only care. 
 Thou could st have grown as freely by its side 
 As spring these buds from out the parent stem, 
 But thou art from thy Father severed wide, 
 And turnest from thyself to look at them. 
 Thy words do not perfume the summer air, 
 Nor draw the eye and ear like this thy flower ; 
 No bees shall make thy lips their daily care, 
 And sip the sweets distilled from hour to hour ; 
 Nor shall new plants from out thy scattered seed, 
 O er many a field the eye with beauty feed. 
 
 THE seed has started, who can stay it ? See, 
 The leaves are sprouting high above the ground ; 
 Already o er the flowers, its head ; the tree 
 That rose beside it and that on it frowned, 
 Behold ! is but a small bush by its side. 
 Still on ! it cannot stop ; its branches spread ; 
 It looks o er all the earth in giant pride : 
 The nations find upon its limbs their bread, 
 7 
 
98 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 Its boughs their millions shelter from the heat, 
 Beneath its shade see kindreds, tongues, and all 
 That the wide world contains, they all retreat 
 Beneath the shelter of that acorn small 
 That late thou flung st away ; t was the best gift 
 That Heaven e er gave ; its head the low shall 
 lift. 
 
 sick anfc in Prison, 
 
 THOU hast not left the rough-barked tree to grow 
 Without a mate upon the river s bank ; 
 Nor dost Thou on one flower the rain bestow, 
 But many a cup the glittering drops has drank. 
 The bird must sing to one who sings again, 
 Else would her note less welcome be to hear ; 
 Nor hast Thou bid thy word descend in vain, 
 But soon some answering voice shall reach my 
 
 ear. 
 
 Then shall the brotherhood of peace begin, 
 And the new song be raised that never dies, 
 That shall the soul from death and darkness win, 
 And burst the prison where the captive lies ; 
 And one by one, new-born, shall join the strain, 
 Till earth restores her sons to heaven again. 
 
NATURE. 99 
 
 of life* 
 
 FOR those who worship Thee there is no death, 
 For all they do is but with Thee to dwell : 
 Now while I take from Thee this passing breath, 
 It is but of thy glorious name to tell ; 
 Nor words nor measured sounds have I to find, 
 But in them both my soul doth ever flow ; 
 They come as viewless as the unseen wind, 
 And tell thy noiseless steps where er I go ; 
 The trees that grow along thy living stream, 
 And from its springs refreshment ever drink, 
 Forever glittering in thy morning beam 
 They bend them o er the river s grassy brink, 
 And, as more high and wide their branches grow, 
 They look more fair within the depths below. 
 
 THE morning comes ; and thickening fogs pre 
 vail, 
 
 Hanging like curtains all the horizon round, 
 And o er the head in heavy stillness sail, 
 So still is day it seems like night profound. 
 But see ! the mists are stirring, rays of light 
 Pierce through the haze as struggling to be free ; 
 The circle round grows every moment bright, 
 
100 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 The sun is breaking forth ; t is he, t is he ! 
 Quick from before him flies each sluggish cloud, 
 His rays have touched the stream, have climbed 
 
 the hill ; 
 
 The sounds of life increase, all blending loud, 
 The hum of men, nor smallest thing is still ; 
 But all have found a voice, and hail their king, 
 The words of man s high praise, and bird with 
 
 fluttering wing. 
 
 Qtyt Jair 
 
 THE clear bright morning, with its scented air 
 And gayly waving flowers, is here again ; 
 Man s heart is lifted with the voice of prayer, 
 And peace descends as falls the gentle rain. 
 The tuneful birds that all night long have slept, 
 Take up at dawn the evening s dying lay, 
 When sleep upon their eyelids gently crept, 
 And stole with stealthy craft their song away. 
 High overhead the forest s swaying boughs 
 Sprinkle with drops of dew the whistling boy, 
 As to the field he early drives his cows, 
 More than content with this his low employ. 
 And shall not joy uplift me when I lead 
 The flocks of Christ by the still streams to feed ? 
 
NATURE. 101 
 
 &!)e Hamble, 
 
 THE plants that careless grow shall bloom and 
 
 bud, 
 
 When wilted stands man s nicely tended flower ; 
 E en on the unsheltered waste, or pool s dark 
 
 mud, 
 
 Spring bells and lilies fit for lady s bower. 
 Come with me, I will show you where they grow ; 
 The tangled vines and boughs come push aside ; 
 O er yonder hill-top s craggy side we go, 
 Then by the path beyond we downward slide. 
 See, by yond pond where few but travelers pass, 
 Each lily opens wide its curious cup, 
 And here where now we track the unmown grass, 
 The wild-heath bell, surprised, is looking up 
 To view the strangers that thus far have sought 
 The flowers that in fair Nature s robe are 
 
 wrought. 
 
 fftjie 
 
 STAY where thou art, thou need st not further 
 
 go, 
 
 The flower with me is pleading at thy feet ; 
 The clouds, the silken clouds, above me flow, 
 And fresh the breezes come thy cheek to greet. 
 
102 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 Why hasten on ; hast thou a fairer home ? 
 Has God more richly blest the world than here, 
 That thou in haste would st from thy country 
 
 roam, 
 
 Favored by every month that fills the year ? 
 Sweet showers shall on thee here, as there, de 
 scend ; 
 
 The sun salute thy morn and gild thy eve : 
 Come, tarry here, for Nature is thy friend, 
 And we an arbor for ourselves will weave ; 
 And many a pilgrim, journeying on as thou, 
 Will grateful bless its shade, and list the wind- 
 struck bough. 
 
 Jteltr an* OTootr. 
 
 WHENCE didst thou spring, or art thou yet un 
 born; 
 
 Who treadst with slighting foot so swift along, 
 Where near thee rises green the bladed corn, 
 And from the tree pours forth the birds new 
 
 song ? 
 
 Thy heart is ever flutt ring, ne er at rest ; 
 A bird that e er would soar with wily art, 
 Yet when she seems of what she wished possest, 
 She feels the strength from out her wings de 
 part. 
 
 Learn wisdom from the sweet, delaying voice, 
 And from its melody turn not thine ear ; 
 
NATURE. 103 
 
 With springing grain in slow decay rejoice, 
 And thou at one shall be with all things here ; 
 And thy desires, that now o ertop the grain, 
 Shall with its growth a life like theirs sustain. 
 
 THE hush that has most briars and bitter fruit, 
 Wait till the frost has turned its green leaves 
 
 red, 
 
 Its sweetened berries will thy palate suit, 
 And thou may st find e en there a homely bread. 
 Upon the hills of Salem, scattered wide, 
 Their yellow blossoms gain the eye in Spring ; 
 And straggling e en upon the turnpike s side, 
 Their ripened branches to your hand they bring. 
 I Ve plucked them oft in boyhood s early hour, 
 That then I gave such name and thought it true ; 
 But now I know that other fruit as sour 
 Grows on what now thou callest Me and You / 
 Yet, wilt thou wait the Autumn that I see, 
 Will sweeter taste than these red berries be. 
 
104 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 (Pe jFrtttt 
 
 THOU ripenest the fruits with warmer air 
 That Summer brings around thy goodly trees, 
 And Thou wilt grant a summer to my prayer, 
 And fruit shall glisten from these fluttering 
 
 leaves ; 
 
 A fruit that shall not with the winter fail, 
 He knows 110 winter who of it shall eat, 
 But on it lives, though outward storms assail, 
 Till it becomes in time his daily meat : 
 Then he shall in the fruit I give abound, 
 And hungry pilgrims hasten to the bough, 
 Where the true bread of life shall then be found, 
 Though nought they spy to give upon it now ; 
 But pass it by, with sorrowing hearts that there 
 But leaves have grown where they the fruit 
 
 would share. 
 
 THEY love me not who at my table eat ; 
 They live not on the bread that Thou hast given ; 
 The word Thou giv st is not their daily meat, 
 The bread of life that cometh down from heaven. 
 They drink, but from their lips the waters dry, 
 There is no well that gushes up within ; 
 
NATURE. 105 
 
 And for the meat that perishes they cry, 
 When Thou has vexed their souls because of sin. 
 Oh, send thy laborers ! Every hill and field 
 With the ungathered crop is whitened o er ; 
 To those who reap it shall rich harvests yield, 
 In full-eared grain all ripened for thy store ; 
 No danger can they fear who reap with Thee, 
 Though thick with storms the autumn sky may 
 be. 
 
 Cjje latter Bain* 
 
 THE latter rain, it falls in anxious haste 
 Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, 
 Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste, 
 As if it would each root s lost strength repair ; 
 But not a blade grows green as in the spring, 
 No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves ; 
 The robins only mid the harvests sing, 
 Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves : 
 The rain falls still, the fruit all ripened drops, 
 It pierces chestnut burr and walnut shell, 
 The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops, 
 Each bursting pod of talents used can tell, 
 And all that once received the early rain 
 Declare to man it was not sent in vain. 
 
106 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 C&e frost 
 
 THE frost is out, and in the open fields, 
 And late within the woods, I marked his track ; 
 The unwary flower his icy fingers feels, 
 And at their touch the crisped leaf rolls back ; 
 Look, how the maple o er a sea of green 
 Waves in the autumnal wind his flag of red ! 
 First struck of all the forest s spreading screen, 
 Most beauteous, too, the earliest of her dead. 
 Go on : thy task is kindly meant by Him 
 Whose is each flower and richly covered bough ; 
 And though the leaves hang dead on every limb, 
 Still will I praise his love, that early now 
 Has sent before this herald of decay 
 To bid me heed the approach of Winter s sterner 
 day. 
 
 Sltttumn 
 
 THE winds are out with loud increasing shout, 
 Where late before them walked the biting frost, 
 Whirling the leaves in their wild sport about, 
 And twig and limb athwart our path are tost. 
 But still the sun looks kindly on the year, 
 And days of summer warmth will linger yet ; 
 And still the birds amid the fields we hear, 
 
NATURE. 107 
 
 For the ripe grain and scattered seeds they get. 
 The shortening days grow slowly less and less, 
 And Winter comes with many a warning on ; 
 And still some day with kindly smile will bless, 
 Till the last hope s deceit is fledged and gone, 
 Before the deepening snows block up the way, 
 And the sweet fields are made of howling blasts 
 the prey. 
 
 Autumn Leabe0. 
 
 THE leaves, though thick, are falling : one by one 
 Decayed they drop from off their parent tree ; 
 Their work with Autumn s latest day is done, 
 Thou see st them borne upon the breezes free. 
 They lie strewn here and there, their many dyes 
 That yesterday so caught thy passing eye ; 
 Soiled by the rain each leaf neglected lies, 
 Upon the path where now thou hurriest by. 
 Yet think thee not their beauteous tints less fair 
 Than when they hung so gayly o er thy head ; 
 But rather find thee eyes, and look thee there 
 Where now thy feet so heedless o er them tread, 
 And thou shalt see, where wasting now they lie, 
 The unseen hues of immortality. 
 
JDraper. 
 
 WILT Thou not visit me ? 
 The plant beside me feels thy gentle dew, 
 
 And every blade of grass I see 
 From thy deep earth its quickening moisture 
 drew. 
 
 Wilt Thou not visit me ? 
 Thy morning calls on me with cheering tone ; 
 
 And every hill and tree 
 Lend but one voice, the voice of Thee alone. 
 
 Come, for I need thy love, 
 More than the flower the dew or grass the rain ; 
 
 Come, gently as thy holy dove ; 
 And let me in thy sight rejoice to live again. 
 
 I will not hide from them 
 
 When thy storms come, though fierce may be 
 their wrath, 
 
 But bow with leafy stem, 
 And strengthened follow on thy chosen path. 
 
 Yes, Thou wilt visit me : 
 Nor plant nor tree thine eye delights so well, 
 
 As, when from sin set free, 
 My spirit loves with thine in peace to dwell. 
 (Ill) 
 
112 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 (&e Coming: of t&e lortr. 
 
 " Take ye heed, watch and pray : for ye know not when the time 
 is." MARKxiii. 33. 
 
 COME suddenly, O Lord, or slowly come : 
 I wait thy will ; thy servant ready is : 
 Thou hast prepared thy follower a home, 
 The heaven in which Thou dwellest, too, is his. 
 
 Come in the morn, at noon, or midnight deep ; 
 Come, for thy servant still doth watch and pray : 
 E en when the world around is sunk in sleep, 
 I wake and long to see thy glorious day. 
 
 I would not fix the time, the day, nor hour, 
 When Thou w r ith all thine angels shalt appear ; 
 When in thy kingdom Thou shalt come with 
 
 power, 
 E en now, perhaps, the promised day is near ! 
 
 For though in slumber deep the world may lie, 
 And e en thy Church forget thy great command ; 
 Still, year by year, thy coming draweth nigh, 
 And in its power thy kingdom is at hand. 
 
 Not in some future world alone t will be, 
 Beyond the grave, beyond the bounds of time ; 
 But on the earth thy glory we shall see, 
 And share thy triumph, peaceful, pure, sublime. 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 113 
 
 Lord, help me that I faint not, weary grow, 
 Nor at thy coming slumber, too, and sleep ; 
 For Thou hast promised, and full well I know 
 Thou wilt to us thy word of promise keep. 
 
 &&e Call. 
 
 WHY art thou not awake, my son ? 
 The morning breaks I formed for thee ; 
 And I thus early by thee stand, 
 Thy new-awakening life to see. 
 
 Why art thou not awake, my son ? 
 The birds upon the bough rejoice ; 
 And I thus early by thee stand, 
 To hear with theirs thy tuneful voice. 
 
 Why sleep st thou still ? The laborers all 
 Are in my vineyard : hear them toil, 
 As for the poor, with harvest song 
 They treasure up the wine and oil. 
 
 8 
 
114 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 C&e Cottage. 
 
 THE house my earthly parent left 
 My heavenly parent still throws down, 
 For t is of air and sun bereft, 
 Nor stars its roof with beauty crown. 
 
 He gave it me, yet gave it not 
 As one whose gifts are wise and good ; 
 T was but a poor and clay-built cot, 
 And for a time the storms withstood. 
 
 But lengthening years and frequent rain 
 O ercame its strength : it tottered, fell, 
 And left me homeless here again, 
 And where to go I could not tell. 
 
 But soon the light and open air 
 Received me as a wandering child, 
 And I soon thought their house more fair, 
 And all my grief their love beguiled. 
 
 Mine was the grove, the pleasant field 
 Where dwelt the flowers I daily trod ; 
 And there beside them, too, I kneeled 
 And called their friend, my Father, God. 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 115 
 
 C&e ((Tenant, 
 
 TREES shall rise around thy dwelling, 
 When thy house from heaven appears. 
 Art thou that thou liv st in selling, 
 As are numbered up thy years ? 
 
 Thou canst ne er have leave to enter 
 That new dwelling s open door ; 
 Where thy hopes and wishes centre, 
 Where thy friend has gone before ; 
 
 Till the hut where now thou livest 
 Low is leveled with the ground ; 
 Then thy prayer to Him who givest 
 Has at length acceptance found. 
 
 Then, though poor, yet He will cherish, 
 Whose high mansion is the sky ; 
 Houseless left, thou shalt not perish 
 Neath its wide-spread canopy. 
 
 Quick, then, leave some poorer dweller 
 That wherein thou livest now; 
 Better far awaits the seller, 
 Richer lands his oxen plough. 
 
116 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 antf 
 
 THE comings on of Faith, 
 
 The goings out of Sight, 
 
 Are as the brightening of the morn 
 
 And dying of the night. 
 
 Man tells not of the hour, 
 
 By Him alone t is told, 
 
 Who day and night with certain bounds 
 
 Marked out for him of old. 
 
 The singing of the bird, 
 
 And sinking of her strain ; 
 
 The roar of ocean s storm-lashed waves 
 
 And lull the date retain. 
 
 The fading of the leaf, 
 
 And blending of each hue ; 
 
 The coming hour still hold in truth, 
 
 When change the old and new. 
 
 There s nought in Nature s hymn, 
 Of earth, or sea, or sky, 
 But is prophetic of the time 
 When birth to death is nigh. 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 117 
 
 Silent. 
 
 THERE is a sighing in the wood, 
 A murmur in the beating wave, 
 The heart has never understood 
 To tell in words the thoughts they gave. 
 
 Yet oft it feels an answering tone, 
 When wandering on the lonely shore ; 
 And could the lips its voice make known, 
 T would sound as does the ocean s roar. 
 
 And oft beneath the wind-swept pine, 
 Some chord is struck the strain to swell; 
 Nor sounds nor language can define, 
 T is not for words or sounds to tell. 
 
 T is all unheard, that Silent Voice, 
 Whose goings forth, unknown to all, 
 Bids bending reed and bird rejoice, 
 And fills with music Nature s hall. 
 
 And in the speechless human heart 
 It speaks, where er man s feet have trod ; 
 Beyond the lips deceitful art, 
 To teU of Him, the Unseen God. 
 
118 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 T is not that Thou hast given to me 
 A form which mortals cannot see, 
 
 That I rejoice ; 
 
 But that I know Thou art around, 
 And though there comes to me no sound, 
 
 I hear thy voice. 
 
 T is not that Thou hast given me place 
 Among a new and happy race, 
 
 I serve thee, Lord ; 
 But that thy mercies never fail, 
 And shall o er all my sins prevail, 
 
 Through thine own word. 
 
 Its praise has gone abroad ; who hears, 
 He casts aside all earthly fears, 
 
 By it he lives ; 
 
 It bids him triumph o er the grave, 
 And him o er death dominion gave, 
 
 Thy joy and peace it gives. 
 
 Hear it, ye poor ! and ye who weep ! 
 Arise, who lie in sin s long sleep ! 
 
 T is strong to free ; 
 Give ear and it shall lead you on, 
 Till you the crown again have won, 
 
 And me and mine can see. 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 119 
 
 of 
 
 THE light that fills thy house at morn, 
 Thou canst not for thyself retain ; 
 But all who with thee here are born, 
 It bids to share an equal gain. 
 
 The wind that blows thy ship along, 
 Her swelling sails cannot confine ; 
 Alike to all the gales belong, 
 Nor canst thou claim a breath as thine. 
 
 The earth, the green out-spreading earth, 
 Why hast thou fenced it off from me ? 
 Hadst thou than I a nobler birth, 
 Who callest thine a gift so free. 
 
 The wave, the blue encircling wave, 
 No chains can bind, no fetters hold ! 
 Its thunders tell of Him w r ho gave 
 What none can ever buy for gold. 
 
120 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 g>ts!)t of t&e 
 
 I GAZED afar from the rocky hill, 
 As if I never could drink my fill 
 Of the prospect fair, the ocean wide, 
 The blue bright ocean on every side. 
 
 For with the prospect grew my mind, 
 And seemed in the vast expanse to find 
 A space for its flight, without shore or bound, 
 Save the sky above and the shore around. 
 
 But soon o er my spirit a feeling stole, 
 A sad, lonely feeling I could not control, 
 Which the sight of the ocean doth ever bring, 
 As if, like the soul, t were a living thing. 
 
 The plaintive wave, as it broke on the shore, 
 Seemed sighing foi^rest for evermore, 
 And glad at length the land to reach, 
 And tell its tale to the silent beach. 
 
 So seemed it then to my wandering thought, 
 That in the vast prospect a home had sought ; 
 The ship o er the waters a port may find, 
 But never the longing and restless mind. 
 
 As night o er the ocean its shadow threw, 
 And homeward the weary sea-bird flew, 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 121 
 
 I turned from the dark and rocky height, 
 With grateful heart to my hearth-stone bright. 
 
 WHENCE came this morn, this glorious morn, 
 That hill and valley love so well ? 
 From Thee who gave me voice to sing, 
 For they, too, of thy bounty tell. 
 
 Look ! how each leaf and grassy blade 
 Return the glances of the morn ; 
 There is no beauty in the stream 
 Bat of its beauty, too, is born. 
 
 But none can tell how fair they are, 
 Who do not with the morning live ; 
 And in its light find life with them, 
 And like them always praises give. 
 
 This morn, this brightly-beaming morn, 
 Then shall they know it came from Thee ; 
 For they shall in its light rejoice, 
 And own that they thy children be. 
 
122 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 life, 
 
 MY flocks, had st thou e er seen them, where they 
 
 feed 
 
 Upon the hills and flowery vestured plains, 
 And heard me pipe to them on shepherd s reed, 
 Then would st thou leave fore er thy sordid gains, 
 
 And haste thee where the streams so gently flow, 
 Where sounding pines and rocks above me rise, 
 And seek this quiet life of mine to know, 
 And learn with me its simple joys to prize. 
 
 How quietly the morning melts away 
 Into the noon, while on the grass I lie ; 
 And noon fades quickly into evening gray, 
 When troop the stars across the o erhanging 
 sky. 
 
 Here day by day I know nor want nor care, 
 For all I need has Love Paternal given ; 
 And bid me, bounteous, all its blessings share, 
 And know on earth the bliss of those in heaven. 
 
 Thine be the shepherd s life, his cot be thine, 
 And may st thou sit beside him at his board ; 
 Then wilt thou cease to sorrow or repine, 
 And to the peace Christ gave him be restored. 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 123 
 
 Batute. 
 
 I LOVE to sit on the green hill s side, 
 
 That looks around on a prospect wide, 
 
 And send my mind far away to rove 
 
 O er flowery meadow, and bending grove 
 
 That looks in the silent depths below 
 
 At the stranger woods that downward grow ; 
 
 And fly o er the face of the winding stream 
 
 With the beach bird that starts with a suddert 
 
 scream ; 
 
 Or skim with the gull the still, calm sea, 
 Where the white sail sleeps so peacefully ; 
 Till I all forget in that waking dream, 
 But the sky, grove, sea, and winding stream. 
 
 And I hie me to the wood s green breast, 
 On the bird s light wing that seeks her nest, 
 With a swifter flight than she sprang away 
 To meet the bright steps of new-born day. 
 Hark ! from the spot to mother so dear, 
 Break sweet the cries of young on mine ear. 
 See ! on the sable pine grove afar 
 Rains silver light from Dian s bright car ; 
 And stars steal downward with lovely ray, 
 As if from earth to call me away 
 To groves where the flowers of a deathless bloom 
 Breathe o er a land unsullied by a tomb. 
 
124 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 Oh, grant me an hour, an hour like this, 
 To drink from far purer streams of bliss 
 Than flow near the dusty paths of life, 
 Uptost by mad ning passion and strife ; 
 For my mind comes back with a lighter spring 
 Than the bird from her weary wandering, 
 With a calm more deep than the still, bright sea, 
 Where the white sail sleeps so peacefully, 
 To join the world of care again, 
 And look on the struggles and strife of men 
 With an eye that beams with as pure a ray 
 As called my soul from these scenes away. 
 
 C&e Stoitt. 
 
 MEN tell how many blossoms will appear 
 On every tree they plant and hope to thrive ; 
 How many kernels fill the yellow ear, 
 How many bees shall swarm in every hive. 
 
 When Springs but come, t is Autumn here with 
 
 them; 
 
 And Summer but of Winter s cold can tell ; 
 And when they see the fruit on laden stem, 
 With them its early buds begin to swell. 
 
 T is all too slow, fair Nature s gentle growth, 
 Their hopes are ripe when hers but bud and 
 bloom, 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 125 
 
 And they accuse her equal pace of sloth, 
 And cast on her the shadow of their gloom. 
 
 But she, kind mother of her children all, 
 With voice of dove-like meekness gently chides : 
 " I care for e en the humble sparrow s fall, 
 Alike with yon bright orb that o er thee glides." 
 
 I ASK not what the bud may be 
 
 That hangs upon the green-sheathed stem ; 
 
 But love with every leaf I see, 
 
 To lie unfolded there like them. 
 
 I ask not what the tree may bear 
 When whitened by the hand of Spring ; 
 But with its blossoms on the air, 
 Would far around my perfume fling. 
 
 The infant s joy is mine, is mine ; 
 I join its infant sports in glee, 
 And would not for a world resign 
 The look of love it casts on me. 
 
 Leave not the bird upon the wing, 
 But with her seek her shaded nest, 
 And then with voice like hers thou It sing, 
 When life s last sunbeam gilds the west. 
 
126 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 I LITE but in the present, where art thou ? 
 Hast thou a home in some past, future year ? 
 I call to thee from every leafy bough, 
 But thou art far away and canst not hear. 
 
 Each flower lifts up its red or yellow head, 
 And nods to thee as thou art passing by : 
 Hurry not on, but stay thine anxious tread, 
 And thou shalt live with me, for there am I. 
 
 The stream that murmurs by thee heeds its voice, 
 Nor stop thine ear, t is I that bid it flow ; 
 And thou with its glad waters shalt rejoice, 
 And of the life I live within them know. 
 
 And hill, and grove, and flowers, and running 
 
 stream, 
 "When thou dost live with them shall look more 
 
 fair; 
 
 And thou awake as from a cheating dream, 
 The life to-day with me and mine to share. 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 127 
 
 dTie Uoue of 
 
 THEY told me, when my heart was glad, 
 And all around but said, rejoice, 
 They told me, and it made me sad, 
 The thunder was God s angry voice. 
 
 And then I thought that from the sky, 
 Throned monarch o er a guilty world, 
 His glance the lightning flashing by 
 His hand the bolts of ruin hurled. 
 
 But now I learn a holier creed 
 Than that my infancy was taught : 
 T is from the words of love I read 
 That the sweet lips of Nature caught. 
 
 Yes, t was my Father s voice I feared : 
 It fills the heaven, the wide-spread earth ; 
 It called in every tone that cheered 
 Those rosy hours of childhood s mirth. 
 
 T is only on the heedless ear 
 It breaks in thunder s pealing wrath, 
 Winging the wanderer s feet with fear 
 To fly destruction s flaming path. 
 
 God dwells no more afar from me, 
 In all that lives his voice is heard ; 
 
128 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 From the loud shout of rolling sea 
 To warbled song of morning s bird. 
 
 In all that stirs the human breast, 
 That wakes to mirth or draws the tear, 
 In passion s storm or soul s calm rest, 
 Alike the voice of God I h ear 
 
 (0 tje Paintefc Columbine* 
 
 BRIGHT image of the early years, 
 When glowed my cheek as red as thou, 
 And life s dark throng of cares and fears 
 Were swift-winged shadows o er my sunny brow ! 
 
 Thou blushest from the painter s page, 
 Robed in the mimic tints of art ; 
 But Nature s hand in youth s green age 
 With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart. 
 
 The morning s blush, she made it thine, 
 The morn s sweet breath, she gave it thee, 
 And in thy look, my Columbine, 
 Each fond-remembered spot she bade me see. 
 
 I see the hill s far-gazing head, 
 Where gay thou noddest in the gale ; 
 I hear light-bounding footsteps tread 
 The grassy path that winds along the vale. 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 129 
 
 I hear the voice of woodland song 
 Break from each bush and well-known tree, 
 And on light pinions borne along, 
 Comes back the laugh from childhood s heart of 
 glee. 
 
 O er the dark rock the dashing brook, 
 With look of anger, leaps again, 
 And, hastening to each flowery nook, 
 Its distant voice is heard far down the glen. 
 
 Fair child of art ! thy charms decay, 
 Touched by the withered hand of Time ; 
 And hushed the music of that day, 
 When my voice mingled with the streamlet s 
 chime ; 
 
 But on my heart thy cheek of bloom 
 Shall live when Nature s smile has fled ; 
 And, rich with memory s sweet perfume, 
 Shall o er her grave thy tribute incense shed. 
 
 There shalt thou live and wake the glee 
 That echoed on thy native hill ; 
 And when, loved flower, I think of thee, 
 My infant feet will seem to seek thee still. 
 
130 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 Sttttttmn 
 
 STILL blooming on, when Summer flowers all 
 
 fade, 
 
 The golden-rods and asters fill the glade ; 
 The tokens they of an Exhaustless Love 
 That ever to the end doth constant prove. 
 
 To one fair tribe another still succeeds, 
 As still the heart new forms of beauty needs ; 
 Till these bright children of the waning year, 
 Its latest born, have come our souls to cheer. 
 
 They glance upon us from their fringed eyes, 
 And to their look our own in love replies ; 
 Within our hearts we find for them a place, 
 As for the flowers which early spring-time grace. 
 
 Despond not, traveler ! On life s lengthened way, 
 When all thy early friends have passed away ; 
 Say not, "No more the beautiful doth live, 
 And to the earth a bloom and fragrance give." 
 
 To every season has our Father given 
 Some tokens of his love to us from heaven ; 
 Nor leaves us here, uncheered, to walk alone, 
 When all we loved and prized in youth have 
 gone. 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 131 
 
 Let but thy heart go forth to all around, 
 Still by thy side the beautiful is found ; 
 Along thy path the autumn flowers shall smile, 
 And to its close life s pilgrimage beguile. 
 
 (ZTn tj)e fossil jFlotoer* 
 
 DARK fossil flower ! I see thy leaves unrolled, 
 With all thy lines of beauty freshly marked, 
 As when the eye of Morn beamed on thee first, 
 And thou first turn dst to meet its welcome smile. 
 And sometimes in the coals bright rainbow 
 
 hues 
 
 I dream I see the colors of thy prime, 
 And for a moment robe thy form again 
 In splendor not its own. Flower of the past ! 
 Now, as I look on thee, life s echoing tread 
 Falls noiseless on my ear, the present dies ; 
 And o er my soul the thoughts of distant time, 
 In silent waves, like billows from the sea, 
 Come rolling on and on, with ceaseless flow, 
 Innumerable. Thou may st have sprung un 
 sown 
 
 Into thy noon of life, when first earth heard 
 Its Maker s sovereign voice ; and laughing flowers 
 Waved o er the meadows, hung on mountain 
 
 crags, 
 
 And nodded in the breeze on every hill. 
 Thou may st have bloomed unseen, save by the 
 stars 
 
132 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 That sang together o er thy rosy birth, 
 And came at eve to watch thy folded rest. 
 None may have sought thee on thy fragrant 
 
 home, 
 Save light-voiced winds that round thy dwelling 
 
 played, 
 
 Or seemed to sigh, as oft their winged haste 
 Compelled their feet to roam. Thou may st have 
 
 lived 
 
 Beneath the light of later days, when man, 
 With feet free-roving as the homeless wind, 
 Scaled the thick-mantled height, coursed plains 
 
 unshorn, 
 
 Breaking the solitude of nature s haunt 
 With voice that seemed to blend, in one sweet 
 
 strain, 
 
 The mingled music of the elements. 
 And when against his infant frame they rose, 
 Uncurbed, unawed by his yet feeble hand, 
 And when the muttering storm, and shouting 
 
 wave, 
 
 And rattling thunder, mated, round him raged, 
 And seemed at times like demon foes to gird, 
 Thou may st have won with gentle look his 
 
 heart, 
 
 And stirred the first warm prayer of gratitude, 
 And been his first, his simplest altar-gift. 
 For thee, dark flower, the kindling sun can 
 
 bring 
 No more the colors that it gave, nor morn, 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 133 
 
 With kindly kiss, restore thy breathing sweets : 
 Yet may the mind s mysterious touch recall 
 The bloom and fragrance of thy early prime : 
 For He who to the lowly lily gave 
 A glory richer than to proudest king, 
 He painted not those darkly-shining leaves, 
 With blushes like the dawn, in vain ; nor gave 
 To thee its sweetly-scented breath, to waste 
 Upon the barren air. E en though thou stood 
 Alone in nature s forest-home untrod, 
 The first-love of the stars and sighing winds, 
 The mineral holds with faithful trust thy form, 
 To wake in human hearts sweet thoughts of love, 
 Now the dark past hangs round thy memory. 
 
 Itr Boafc. 
 
 THE road is left that once was trod 
 By man and heavy-laden beast ; 
 And new ways opened, iron-shod, 
 That bind the land from west to east. 
 
 I asked of Him, who all things knows, 
 Why none who lived now passed that way ; 
 Where rose the dust the grass now grows ? 
 A still, low voice was heard to say : 
 
 " Thou know st not why I change the course 
 Of him who travels, learn to go ; 
 
134 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 Obey the Spirit s gentle force, 
 
 Nor ask thee where the stream may flow. 
 
 " Man shall not walk in his own ways, 
 For he is blind and cannot see ; 
 But let him trust, and lengthened days 
 Shall lead his feet to heaven and Me. 
 
 " Then shall the grass the path grow o er, 
 That his own wilfulness has trod ; 
 And man nor beast shall pass it more, 
 But he shall walk with Me, his God." 
 
 I SAW a worm, with many a fold 
 He spun himself a silken tomb ; 
 And there in winter-time enrolled, 
 He heeded not the cold nor gloom. 
 
 Within a small snug nook he lay, 
 
 Nor snow nor sleet could reach him there, 
 
 Nor wind was felt in gusty day, 
 
 Nor biting cold of frosty air. 
 
 Spring comes with bursting buds and grass, 
 Around him stirs a warmer breeze ; 
 The chirping insects by him pass, 
 His liiding-place not yet he leaves. 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 135 
 
 But Summer came, its fervid breath 
 Was felt within the sleeper s cell ; 
 And waking from his sleep of death, 
 I saw him crawl from out his shell. 
 
 Slow and with pain he first moved on, 
 And of the dust he seemed to be ; 
 A day passed by, the worm was gone, 
 He soared on golden pinions free. 
 
 (E&e 
 
 THOU sing st alone on the bare wintry bough, 
 As if Spring with its leaves were around thee 
 
 now ; 
 And its voice that was heard in the laughing 
 
 rill, 
 And the breeze as it whispered o er meadow and 
 
 hill, 
 
 Still fell on thine ear, as it murmured along 
 To join the sweet tide of thine own gushing 
 
 song. 
 Sing on though its sweetness was lost on the 
 
 blast, 
 And the storm has not heeded thy song as it 
 
 passed, 
 
 Yet its music awoke in a heart that was near, 
 A thought whose remembrance will ever prove 
 
 dear; 
 
136 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 Though the brook may be frozen, though silent 
 
 its voice, 
 And the gales through the meadows no longer 
 
 rejoice, 
 Still I felt, as my ear caught thy glad note of 
 
 glee, 
 That my heart in life s winter might carol like 
 
 thee. 
 
 Co t&e |)umnuna; -33tr&. 
 
 I CANNOT heal thy green gold breast, 
 Where deep those cruel teeth have prest, 
 Nor bid thee raise thy ruffled crest 
 
 And seek thy mate, 
 Who sits alone within thy nest, 
 
 Nor sees thy fate. 
 
 No more with him in summer hours 
 Thou It hum amid the leafy bowers, 
 Nor hover round the dewy flowers, 
 
 To feed thy young ; 
 Nor seek, when evening darkly lowers, 
 
 Thy nest high hung. 
 
 No more thou It know a mother s care 
 Thy honeyed spoils at eve to share, 
 Nor teach thy tender brood to dare, 
 With upward spring, 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 137 
 
 Their path through fields of sunny air, 
 On new-fledged wing. 
 
 For thy return in vain shall wait 
 
 Thy tender young, thy fond, fond mate, 
 
 Till night s last stars beam forth full late 
 
 On their sad eyes : 
 Unknown, alas, thy cruel fate, 
 
 Unheard thy cries ! 
 
 lined 
 
 TO A WITHERED LEAF SEEN ON A POET S TABLE. 
 
 POET S hand has placed thee there, 
 Autumn s brown and withered scroll ! 
 Though to outward eye not fair, 
 Thou hast beauty for the soul, 
 
 Though no human pen has traced 
 On that leaf its learned lore, 
 Love Divine the page has graced, 
 What can words discover more ? 
 
 Not alone dim Autumn s blast 
 Echoes from yon tablet sear, 
 Distant music of the Past 
 Steals upon the poet s ear. 
 
138 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 Voices sweet of summer hours, 
 Spring s soft whispers murmur by ; 
 Feathered songs from leafy bowers 
 Draw his listening soul on high. 
 
 lines 
 
 TO ON THE DEATH OF HIS FRIEND. 
 
 "Then shall the dust return to earth as it was, and the spirit 
 unto God who gave it." 
 
 SHE sleeps not where the gladsome earth 
 Its dark green growth of verdure waves, 
 And where the winds low-whispering mirth 
 Steals o er the silent graves. 
 
 She sleeps not where the wild rose lends 
 Its fragrance to the morning air, 
 And where thy form at evening bends 
 To raise the voice of prayer. 
 
 She sleeps not where the wandering wing 
 Of weary bird will oft repose, 
 And bid Death s lonely dwelling ring 
 When shades around it close. 
 
 She sleeps not there the wild-flowers blush 
 Would kindle up her closed eye ; 
 She could not hear sweet music s gush 
 Pass all unheeded by. 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 139 
 
 Vain, vain would earth call forth again 
 Her children from their narrow bed ; 
 The soul that loved her joyous strain 
 Has fled forever fled. 
 
 The spirit s robe earth gave is there, 
 Where leans yon wild-flower s cheek of bloom, 
 "Where rises oft thy voice of prayer, 
 The S2)irit has no tomb. 
 
 THE weight of years is on the pile 
 Our fathers raised to Thee, O God : 
 On this, our temple, rest thy smile, 
 Till bent with days its tower shall nod. 
 
 Thy word awoke, O Power Divine ! 
 The hymn of praise in Nature s hall : 
 T is man s high gift to rear thy shrine, 
 And on Thee as his Father call. 
 
 To pour in music s solemn strain 
 The heart s deep tide of grateful love ; 
 And kindle in thine earthly fane 
 A spirit for his home above. 
 
 Thou bad st him on thine altar lay 
 The holy thought, the pure desire ; 
 
 i For the Dedication of the Church of the North Society in Salem, 
 June 22, 1836. 
 
140 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 That light within, a brighter ray 
 Than sunbeam s glance, or vestal fire. 
 
 T will burn when Heaven s high altar flame 
 On yon blue height has ceased to glow ; 
 And o er earth s dark, dissolving frame 
 The sunlight of the Spirit throw. 
 
 Father ! within thy courts we bow, 
 To ask thy blessing, seek thy grace : 
 Oh, smile upon thy children now ! 
 Look down on this, thy hallowed place ! 
 
 And when its trembling walls shall feel 
 Time s heavy hand upon them rest, 
 Thy nearer presence, Lord, reveal, 
 And make thy children wholly blest. 
 
 JHetnorp. 
 
 SOON the waves so lightly bounding 
 All forget the tempest blast ; 
 
 Soon the pines so sadly sounding 
 
 Cease to mourn the storm that s past. 
 
 Soon is hushed the voice of gladness 
 Heard within the green wood s breast ; 
 
 Yet come back no notes of sadness, 
 No remembrance breaks its rest. 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 141 
 
 But the heart, how fond t will treasure 
 
 Every note of grief and joy ! 
 Oft come back the notes of pleasure, 
 
 Grief s sad echoes oft annoy. 
 
 There still dwell the looks that vanish 
 
 Swift as brightness of a dream ; 
 Time in vain earth s smiles may banish, 
 
 There undying still they beam. 
 
 C&e 33unc& of f lotocrc. 
 
 I SAW a bunch of flowers, and Time 
 With withered hand was plucking one ; 
 I wondering asked him, as I passed, 
 For what the thing I saw was done. 
 
 "My gifts are these, the flowers you see, 
 For her who comes I hold this rose ; " 
 I looked : the nurse held out her child, 
 Just wakened from its sweet repose. 
 
 Its small hand clasped the prize with joy, 
 Each seemed the other to the eye ; 
 But soon the flowers bright leaves were strown, 
 And while I gazed a youth passed by. 
 
 The flower Time gave to him he held, 
 And more admired ; and kept awhile ; 
 
142 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 Yet as I watched him on his way, 
 
 T was dropped ere he had paced a mile. 
 
 Man kept it longer : t was to him a gift, 
 And with it long was loath to part ; 
 But as he journeyed on, I saw 
 The rose lay withered on his heart. 
 
 One aged came : still he received Time s gift ; 
 But as he took it heaved a sigh : 
 It dropped from out his trembling grasp, 
 And at Time s feet his offerings lie. 
 
 Then knew I none could bear away the flower 
 That Time on each and all bestows ; 
 Nor would I take his gift when he 
 To me in turn held out a rose. 
 
 <|)ett, fttsacea, Pofitjume, Postjume, lafctmtttr 
 
 FLEETING years are ever bearing, 
 In their silent course away, 
 
 All that in our pleasures sharing 
 Lent to life a cheering ray. 
 
 Beauty s cheek but blooms to wither, 
 Smiling hours but come to fly ; 
 
 They are gone : Time s but the giver 
 Of whate er is doomed to die. 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 143 
 
 Thou may st touch with blighting finger 
 All that sense can here enjoy ; 
 
 Yet within my soul shall linger 
 
 That which thou canst not destroy. 
 
 Love s sweet voice shall there awaken 
 Joys that earth cannot impart : 
 
 Joys that live when thou hast taken 
 All that here can charm the heart. 
 
 As the years come gliding by me, 
 
 Fancy s pleasing visions rise ; 
 Beauty s cheek, ah ! still I see thee, 
 
 Still your glances, soft blue eyes ! 
 
 QTije SMorft. 
 
 T is all a great show 
 
 The world that we re in : 
 None can tell when t was finished, 
 
 None saw it begin ; 
 Men wander and gaze through 
 
 Its courts and its halls, 
 Like children whose love is 
 
 The picture-hung walls. 
 
 There are flowers in the meadow, 
 There are clouds in the sky, 
 
 Songs pour from the woodland, 
 The waters glide by : 
 
144 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 Too many, too many 
 
 For eye or for ear, 
 The sights that we see 
 
 And the sounds that we hear. 
 
 A weight as of slumber 
 
 Comes down on the mind ; 
 So swift is Life s train 
 
 To its objects we re blind ; 
 I, myself, am but one 
 
 In the fleet gliding show ; 
 Like others I walk, 
 
 But know not where I go. 
 
 One saint to another 
 
 I heard say, " How long? " 
 I listened, but nought more 
 
 I heard of his song. 
 The shadows are walking 
 
 Through city and plain 
 How long shall the night 
 
 And its shadow remain ? 
 
 How long ere shall shine, 
 
 In this glimmer of things, 
 The Light of which prophet 
 
 In prophecy sings ; 
 And the gates of that city 
 
 Be open, whose sun 
 No more to the west 
 
 Its circuit shall run ! 
 
SONG AND PRAISE. 145 
 
 Uoice* 
 
 MY mother s voice ! I hear it now ; 
 I feel her hand upon my brow, 
 
 As when in heartfelt joy 
 She raised her evening hymn of praise, 
 And called down blessings on the days 
 
 Of her loved boy. 
 
 My mother s voice ! I hear it now ; 
 Her hand is on my burning brow, 
 
 As in that early hour 
 
 "When fever throbbed through all my veins, 
 And that fond hand first soothed my pains 
 
 With healing power. 
 
 My mother s voice ! It sounds as when 
 She read to me of holy men, 
 
 The Patriarchs of old : 
 And, gazing downward in my face, 
 She seemed each infant thought to trace 
 
 My young eyes told. 
 
 It comes when thoughts unhallowed throng, 
 Woven in sweet deceptive song, 
 %j And whispers round my heart ; 
 As when at eve it rose on high 
 10 
 
146 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 I hear, and think that she is nigh, 
 And they depart. 
 
 Though round my heart all, all beside, 
 The voice of Friendship, Love had died, 
 
 That voice would linger there ; 
 As when, soft pillowed on her breast, 
 Its tones first lulled my infant rest, 
 Or rose in prayer. 
 
 jForebermore* 
 
 A SAD refrain I heard, from poet sad, 
 
 Which on my soul with deadening weight did 
 
 fall; 
 
 But quick another word, which made me glad, 
 Did from the heavens above me seem to call. 
 The first was Nevermore ; which, like a knell, 
 Struck on my ear with dull funereal sound ; 
 The last was Evermore ; which, like a bell, 
 In waves of music filled the air around. 
 Forevermore with loved and lost to be, 
 No more to suffer change, nor grief, nor pain ; 
 From partings sad to be forever free, 
 Such was that sweet bell s music : its refrain 
 Blended with voices from the heavenly shore, 
 Each whispering to my heart, Forevermore. 
 
Cfjc Beginning anb tlje <Cn&* 
 
WHAT is the word ? I often hear men say, 
 Greeting each other in the mart or street ; 
 Seeking for something new, from day to day, 
 Of friend or neighbor whom they chance to 
 
 meet. 
 
 The question wakes in me the thoughtful mind ; 
 Do they receive the word they ask to hear ? 
 Or is it only like the passing wind, 
 Or empty echo dying on the ear ? 
 The Word, O Man, is not some idle sound, 
 Lost on the ear almost as soon as heard: 
 Unto the wise life-giving it is found, 
 And by its voice the inmost soul is stirred : 
 It falls not on the ground a barren seed, 
 But springeth up in fruitful thought and deed. 
 
 II. 
 
 The voice that speaks when thou art in thy tomb, 
 And spoke before thou saw st the morning light ; 
 This is The Word ! of all that is the womb, 
 Of all that see, the never-failing sight ; 
 Speechless, yet ever speaking, none can hear 
 The man grown silent in the praise of God ; 
 (149) 
 
150 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 For they within Him live, to hope and fear ; 
 They walk and speak ; but He, the grass- 
 grown sod. 
 
 Its presence round them calls them forth to It, 
 A voice too great for murmur or reproof ; 
 A sun that shines till they of It are lit, 
 Itself the utterance of Eternal Truth : 
 Perfect, without a blemish ; never found 
 Save through the veil that wraps thy being 
 round. 
 
 (ZTJe Horiu 
 
 THOU art : there is no stay but in thy love ; 
 Thy strength remains ; it built the eternal hills ; 
 It speaks the Word forever heard above, 
 And all creation with its presence fills ; 
 Upon it let me stand, and I shall live ; 
 Thy strength shall fasten me forever fixed, 
 And to my soul its sure foundations give, 
 When earth and sky thy Word in one has mixed. 
 Rooted in Thee no storm my branch shall tear, 
 But with each day new sap shall upward flow ; 
 And still thy vine the clustering fruit shall bear, 
 That with each rain the lengthening shoots may 
 
 grow, 
 
 Till o er thy Rock its leaves spread far and wide, 
 And in its green embrace its Parent hide. 
 
THE BEGINNING AND THE END. 151 
 
 dT&e loftier. 
 
 HE was not armed like those of eastern clime, 
 Whose heavy axes felled their heathen foe ; 
 Nor was he clad like those of later time, 
 Whose breast-worn cross betrayed no cross be 
 low ; 
 
 Nor was he of the tribe of Levi born, 
 Whose pompous rites proclaim how vain their 
 
 prayer ; 
 Whose chilling words are heard at night and 
 
 morn, 
 Who rend their robes, but still their hearts would 
 
 spare. 
 
 But he nor steel nor sacred robe had on, 
 Yet went he forth in God s almighty power : 
 He spoke the Word whose will is ever done 
 From day s first dawn till earth s remotest hour ; 
 And mountains melted from his presence down, 
 And hell, affrighted, fled before his frown. 
 
 I SAW a war : yet none the trumpet blew, 
 
 Nor in their hands the steel-wrought weapons 
 
 bare ; 
 And in that conflict armed there fought but few, 
 
152 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 And none that in the world s loud tumults share ; 
 
 They fought against their wills, the stubborn 
 foe 
 
 That mail-clad warriors left unfought within, 
 
 And wordy champions left unslain below, 
 
 The ravening wolf though drest in fleecy skin. 
 
 They fought for peace, not that the world can 
 give; 
 
 Whose tongue proclaims the war its hands have 
 ceased, 
 
 And bids us as each other s neighbor live, 
 
 Ere haughty Self within us has deceased ; 
 
 They fought for Him whose kingdom must in 
 crease, 
 
 Good will to men, on earth forever peace. 
 
 Hatltoatr. 
 
 THOU great proclaimer to the outward eye 
 Of what the Spirit, too, would seek to tell : 
 Onward thou go st, appointed from on high 
 The other warnings of the Lord to swell. 
 Thou art the voice of one that through the world 
 Proclaims in startling tones, " Prepare the way ; " 
 The lofty mountain from its seat is hurled, 
 The flinty rocks thine onward march obey ; 
 The valleys, lifted from their lowly bed, 
 O ertop the hills that on them frowned before ; 
 Thou passest where the living seldom tread, 
 
THE BEGINNING AND THE END. 153 
 
 Through forests dark, where tides beneath thee 
 roar ; 
 
 And bid st man s dwelling from thy track re 
 move, 
 
 And would st with warning voice his crooked 
 paths reprove. 
 
 lobe. 
 
 I ASKED of Time to tell me where was Love : 
 He pointed to her footsteps on the snow, 
 Where first the angel lighted from above, 
 And bid me note the way and onward go. 
 Through populous streets of cities spreading 
 
 wide, 
 
 By lonely cottage rising on the moor, 
 Where bursts from sundered cliff the struggling 
 
 tide, 
 
 To where it hails the sea with answering roar, 
 She led me on ; o er mountain s frozen head, 
 Where mile on mile still stretches on the plain, 
 Then homeward whither first my feet she led, 
 I traced her path along the snow again ; 
 But there the sun had melted from the earth 
 The prints where first she trod, a child of mortal 
 
 birth. 
 
154 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 THY beauty fades, and with it, too, my love ; 
 For t was the self-same stock that bore its 
 
 flower. 
 
 Soft fell the rain, and, breaking from above, 
 The sun looked out upon our nuptial hour ; 
 And I had thought forever by thy side 
 With bursting buds of hope in youth to dwell, 
 But one by one Time strewed thy petals wide, 
 And every hope s wan look a grief can tell : 
 For I had thoughtless lived beneath his sway, 
 Who like a tyrant dealeth with us all, 
 Crowning each rose, though rooted on decay, 
 With charms that shall the Spirit s love enthrall, 
 And for a season turn the soul s pure eyes 
 From virtue s changeless bloom that time and 
 
 death defies. 
 
 I GAZED upon thy face, and beating life 
 Once stilled its sleepless pulses in my breast, 
 And every thought w r hose being was a strife 
 Each in its silent chamber sank to rest. 
 I was not, save it were a thought of thee ; 
 The world was but a spot where thou hadst trod ; 
 
THE BEGINNING AND THE END. 155 
 
 From every star thy glance seemed fixed on me ; 
 Almost I loved thee better than my God. 
 And still I gaze, but t is a holier thought 
 Than that in which my spirit lived before, 
 Each star a purer ray of love has caught, 
 Earth wears a lovelier robe than then it wore, 
 And every lamp that burns around thy shrine 
 Is fed with fire whose fountain is divine. 
 
 THE minutes have their trusts as they go by, 
 To bear thy love who wings their viewless 
 
 flight ; 
 
 To Thee they bear their record as they fly, 
 And never from their ceaseless round alight. 
 Rich with the life Thou liv st they come to me, 
 Oh ! may I all that life to others show ; 
 That they from strife may rise and rest in Thee, 
 And all thy peace in Christ by me may know. 
 Then shall the morning call me from my rest, 
 With joyful hope that I thy child may live ; 
 And when the evening comes, t will make me 
 
 blest 
 
 To know that Thou wilt peaceful slumbers give ; 
 Such as Thou dost to weary laborers send, 
 Whose sleep from Thee doth with the dews de 
 scend. 
 
156 VERTS POEMS. 
 
 (ZTjje 33ecs;tnntnE antr tjje 
 
 THOU art the First and Last, the End of all 
 The wandering spirit seeks of earth to know ; 
 Thee first it left, a Parent, at its fall ; 
 To Thee again thy wilful child must go : 
 With awe I read the promise of thy grace, 
 To all that disobey so freely given ; 
 The child shall see again his Father s face, 
 And through thy love return to Thee and 
 
 heaven. 
 
 Ye spirits that around your Maker stand, 
 Rejoice ! the world is ransomed from its woe. 
 O earth ! obey your Sovereign s wise command, 
 T was He who bade for you his mercy flow ; 
 It is for you his love descends like rain, 
 That you through Him may rise to life again. 
 
of f htft 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A sad refrain I heard, from poet sad 146 
 
 Awake, ye dead ! The summons has gone forth ... 77 
 
 Bright image of the early years .3 
 
 Come suddenly, O Lord, or slowly come 112 
 
 Dark fossil flower ! I see thy leaves unrolled .... 131 
 
 Day ! I lament that none can hymn thy praise ... 57 
 
 Each naked branch, the yellow leaf or brown .... 85 
 
 Father! I bless thy name that I do live 39 
 
 Father, I wait thy word. The sun doth stand . . 
 
 Father ! there is no change to live with Thee .... 54 
 
 Father! thy wonders do not singly stand 52 
 
 Fleeting years are ever bearing 1*2 
 
 For those who worship Thee there is no death .... 99 
 
 He was not armed like those of eastern clime .... 151 
 
 I asked of Time to tell me where was Love .... 153 
 
 I ask not what the bud may be 125 
 
 I build a house, but in this twill appear 45 
 
 I cannot heal thy green gold breast 136 
 
 I cannot hear thy voice with others ears 95 
 
 I cannot tell the sorrows that I feel 69 
 
 I found, far culled from fragrant field and grove . . 96 
 
 I gazed afar from the rocky hill 120 
 
 I gazed upon thy face, and beating life 154 
 
 I have no brother. They who meet me now .... 72 
 
 I idle stand that I may find employ 41 
 
 I live but in the present, where art thou 126 
 
 I looked to find a man who walked with God .... 70 
 
 I love thee when thy swelling buds appear .... 89 
 
 I love to sit on the green hill s side 123 
 
 I saw a bunch of flowers, and Time HI 
 
158 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I saw a war : yet none the trumpet blew 151 
 
 I saw a worm, with many a fold 134 
 
 I saw him forging link by link his chain 65 
 
 I saw the spot where our first parents dwelt .... 50 
 
 I see them, crowd on crowd they walk the earth . 67 
 
 I sit within my room, and joy to find 51 
 
 I thank Thee, Father, that the night is near .... 55 
 
 It is not life upon thy gifts to live 54 
 
 I too will wait with thee returning Spring 86 
 
 It will not stay ! the robe so pearly white 90 
 
 I walk the street", and though not meanly drest ... 73 
 
 I would adorn the day and give it voice 46 
 
 I would lie low the ground on which men tread . . 44 
 
 I would not breathe, when blows thy mighty wind . . 87 
 
 I would not tarry. Look ! the things before .... 78 
 
 Long do we live upon the husks of corn 74 
 
 Men tell how many blossoms will appear 124 
 
 My brother, I am hungry: give me food 74 
 
 My flocks, had st thou e er seen them, where they feed 122 
 
 My heart grows sick before the wide-spread death . . 67 
 
 My mother s voice ! I hear it now 145 
 
 Nature ! my love for thee is deeper far 83 
 
 Oh, bid the desert blossom as the rose 88 
 
 Oh, humble me! I cannot bide the joy 58 
 
 Oh praise the Lord ! Let every heart be glad ... 80 
 
 Oh ! swell my bosom deeper with thy love .... 45 
 
 Poet s hand has placed thee there 137 
 
 Rejoice, ye weary ! ye whose spirits mourn .... 79 
 
 She sleeps not where the gladsome earth 138 
 
 Soon the waves so lightly bounding 140 
 
 Stay where thou art, thou need st not further go . . 101 
 
 Still blooming on, when Summer flowers all fade . . 130 
 
 Still, still my eye will gaze long fixed on thee ... 93 
 
 The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by ... 85 
 
 The bush that has most briars and bitter fruit . . . 103 
 
 The clear bright morning, with its scented air ... 100 
 
 The comings on of Faith 116 
 
 The fairest day that ever yet has shone 62 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 159 
 
 PACK 
 
 The flowers I pass have eyes that look at me . . . . 84 
 
 The frost is out, and in the open fields 106 
 
 The hand and foot that stir not, they shall find ... 42 
 
 The house my earthly parent left 114 
 
 The latter rain, it falls in anxious haste 105 
 
 The leaves, though thick, are falling: one by one . . 107 
 
 The light that fills thy house at morn 119 
 
 The light will never open sightless eyes 56 
 
 The minutes have their trusts as they go by . . . . 155 
 
 The morning comes; and thickening fogs prevail . . 99 
 
 The morning s brightness cannot make thee glad . . 91 
 
 The night that has no star lit up by God 50 
 
 The plants that careless grow shall bloom and bud . . 101 
 
 The prison-house is full; there is no cell 68 
 
 The Prophet speaks, the world attentive stands ... 76 
 
 The rain comes down, it comes without our call . . . 87 
 
 There is a cup of sweet or bitter drink 75 
 
 There is a sighing in the wood 117 
 
 There is naught for thee by thy haste to gain .... 63 
 
 There is no change of time and plate with Thee ... 52 
 
 There is no death with Thee ! each plant and tree . . 53 
 
 There is no faith : the mountain stands within ... 70 
 
 There is no moment but whose flight doth bring ... 40 
 
 There is no worship now: the idol stands 71 
 
 The road is left that once was trod 133 
 
 The rose thou show st me has lost all its hue .... 97 
 
 The seed has started, who can stay it? See ... 97 
 
 The sun doth not the hidden place reveal 38 
 
 The sweet-briar rose has not a form more fair .... 94 
 
 The weight of years is on the pile 139 
 
 The winds are out with loud increasing shout .... 106 
 
 The words that come unuttered by the breath ... 64 
 
 They love me not who at my table eat 104 
 
 They told me, when my heart was glad 127 
 
 Thou art more deadly than the Jew of old 72 
 
 Thou art the First and Last, the End of all .... 156 
 
 Thou art: there is no stay but in thy love 150 
 
 Thou great proclaimer to the outward eye 152 
 
160 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Thou hast not left the rough-barked tree to grow . . 98 
 
 Thou lookest up with meek, confiding eye 91 
 
 Thou mak st me poor that I enriched by Thee ... 41 
 
 Thou need st not flutter from thy half-built nest ... 95 
 
 Thou need st not rest : the shining spheres are thine . 89 
 
 Thou pray st not, save when in thy soul thou pray st . 76 
 
 Thou readest, but each lettered word can giv r e ... 61 
 
 Thou ripenest the fruits with warmer air 104 
 
 Thou shalt do what Thou wilt with thine own hand. . 43 
 
 Thou shalt the mountain move; be strong in me . . 78 
 
 Thou sing st alone on the bare wintry bough .... 135 
 
 Thou springest from the ground, and may not I ... 37 
 
 Thou tellest truths unspoken yet by man 92 
 
 Thou wilt my hands employ, though others find ... 43 
 
 Thy beauty fades, and with it too my love 154 
 
 T is all a great show 143 
 
 T is a new life; thoughts move not as they did . . 49 
 
 Tis near the morning watch: the dim lamp burns . . 66 
 
 T is not that Thou hast given to me 118 
 
 T is to yourself I speak; you cannot know .... 61 
 
 To tell my journeys, where I daily walk 56 
 
 Trees shall rise around thy dwelling 115 
 
 Upon the Plymouth shore the wild rose blooms ... 93 
 
 What is the word ? I often hear men say 149 
 
 Whence came this morn, this glorious morn .... 121 
 
 Whence didst thou spring, or art thou yet unborn . . 102 
 
 When comes the sun to visit thee at morn 65 
 
 When I would sing of crooked streams and fields . . 83 
 
 Where this one dwells and that, thou know st it well . 63 
 
 Why art thou not awake, my son 113 
 
 Why readest thou? thou canst not gain the life ... 37 
 
 Wilt Thou not visit me . , 111 
 
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