PS 
 1721 
 
 F9I7
 
 SONGS OF SORROW.
 
 SONGS OF SORROW 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 REV. A. L. FRISBI E. 
 
 DES MOINES: 
 MULLS & 
 
 1873.
 
 DES MOINES! 
 MILLS & COMPANY, PRINTERS.
 
 -ps 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 TO 
 
 MY ANGEL WIFE. 
 'Volo ut ubi sum, et illi sint mecum." 
 
 762873
 
 SONGS OF SORROW. 
 
 DARKNESS AND SILENCE. 
 
 Into the gladness of our happy dwelling 
 Came first a fear and then a grievous pain ; 
 
 Came first sad prophecy, then sad fulfilling, 
 As love's blent life was rudely rent in twain ; 
 
 And she who was the very soul and center 
 
 Of home and hope through sweet and sunlit years, 
 
 Before us passed the shadowed door to enter, 
 The unknown life of unseen higher spheres. 
 
 She passed before us and our eyes were holden ; 
 
 An utter darkness fell upon our sight ; 
 What light she saw, what forms, what gate- way golden, 
 
 We knew not, saw not in our heavy night.
 
 SONGS OF SORROW. 
 
 And still that sea of darkness rolls behind her ; 
 
 Still veils and hides the place of her abode ; 
 No patient, prayerful, tearful quest can find her; 
 
 She has become a mystery of God. 
 
 Into a silence awful and confounding, 
 
 Deep as the stillness with which night comes down, 
 Dumb as the Sphinx her problem still propounding, 
 
 Death swept away our loved and loving one. 
 
 O could this cruel silence but be broken, 
 
 The cloud dispelled that shuts her from our sight, 
 
 O could she give of present love some token, 
 How would our hearts stand still with strange delight. 
 
 O could she give some sign to our inquiring, 
 Shine in a star-beam, whisper in a breeze ; 
 
 How would it soothe us in our long desiring 
 If only we might say, "She knows and sees! " 
 
 Could she but speak from out the heavenly places, 
 Could she but say, " I live and think of you, 
 
 In glory e'en I miss your dear embraces, 
 
 I'll give you welcome when your journey's through;
 
 DARKNESS AND SILENCE. 
 
 How would our souls rise up with glad assurance 
 Of what we must believe through joy or pain ; 
 
 Enclued with strong and resolute endurance 
 Till we shall take her to our hearts again. 
 
 But now, alas, with no such guerdon gifted, 
 And faith too often under deep eclipse, 
 
 The silence voiceless and the dark unlifted, 
 The cup so bitter pressing at our lips, 
 
 We move bewildered toward the heavenly city 
 To meet our Darling when the morn shall come. 
 
 Patience, O Father, grant ; O Jesus, pity ! 
 
 Till Thy dear hand bring us to her and home.
 
 A PRAYER FOR LIGHT. 
 
 Through darkened days the sky hung low, 
 The wind wailed mournfully, and slow 
 Went on the hours. A wild storm poured 
 Its wrathful vials, fully stored. 
 Upon the earth, until, dismayed, 
 Men, prayerless long, bowed down and prayed 
 For sight of heaven's fair face again, 
 For the clear shining after rain. 
 
 And just at evening from the west 
 There shot a golden promise blest ; 
 A rich and ruddy sunset ray 
 A splendor of that perfect day 
 Which shines above the clouds alway 
 One moment broke into our sight, 
 And died in swift-descending night. 
 
 But men who saw the parted sky, 
 The flash that gleamed so gloriously, 
 Smiled at the hopeful prophecy. 
 
 Is it not light O God, with Thee ?
 
 A PR A YER FOR LIGHT. 
 
 Casts e'er a rising cloud between 
 Thee and Thy works impervious screen ? 
 I stand, I hope, I hold by this, 
 With God all light, no darkness is. 
 
 But over me the shadow bends ; 
 On me the blinding storm descends; 
 'Tis darkness all. My God, I cry, 
 Where is my hopeful prophecy ? 
 Where shall I find the bright-edged rift 
 That lets light in? O when shall lift 
 The chilling, cheerless, crushing pall 
 That wraps, obscures and stifles all? 
 
 But change will come. Trust is not vain ; 
 There must be sunshine after rain ; 
 After the darkness and distress 
 Must come the dawning day of peace. 
 Sweet voices tell me that so sure 
 As God is light enduring, pure, 
 Sometime from partings in the west 
 Shall come illumination blest. 
 Some gleam of God shall yet break through 
 To fire my struggling soul anew 
 With hope and courage. I believe,
 
 SONGS OF SORRO W. 
 
 An.d yet 'tis dark. Thou who did'st give 
 Thyself to be of men the light, 
 Shine through this envelope of night; 
 Guide Thou my darkened, troubled eye 
 Toward some window in the sky 
 Where I may see Thy blessed face, 
 And seeing, enter into peace.
 
 THE GRAVES VICTORY. 
 
 O how her faithful hand we miss 
 From all the gentle ministries 
 
 Of home and love ; 
 
 Dear hand, laid down so still and cold, 
 The heavy mass of clay and mold 
 
 Piled deep above. 
 
 As though she talked with One divine, 
 Love saw her face that it did shine ; 
 
 Now that is hid, 
 
 Dear face, beneath a mound of mold 
 And clay so dense and dark and cold, 
 
 And coffin-lid. 
 
 Her heart so true in every beat, 
 So womanly and strong and sweet, 
 
 We sadly laid, 
 
 Dear heart, so quiet, changed and cold, 
 Near other hearts hid in the mold, 
 
 Of other dead.
 
 I 4 SONGS OF SOXX O W. 
 
 And how from life her life we miss, 
 Her holy woman-ministries, 
 
 None know but God ; 
 Dear life, of helpfulness untold, 
 Now quenched and lost beneath the cold 
 
 Concealing sod.
 
 NATURE AND SORROW. 
 
 Appalled and desolate I stood, 
 
 When my great sorrow fell, 
 Beneath a dense and rayless cloud ; 
 
 Amazed as in a spell. 
 My hope and very life were gone ; 
 I faced that awful blank ALONE ! 
 
 It was so great and terrible, 
 
 That giant grief of mine, 
 It seemed that earth and air might feel 
 
 A sympathy divine ; 
 That soulless things my hurt might see, 
 And give some sign they pitied me. 
 
 But day came up with joy and cheer ; 
 
 With light the world did flame ; 
 And overhead their matins clear 
 
 The birds sang just the same ; 
 Just as in happy days they'd sung, 
 When all my joys and hopes were young ;
 
 SONGS OF SORROW. 
 
 When to my glad bewildered thought 
 
 Nature rejoiced with me; 
 Bird-song and flowers and sunshine brought 
 
 Their eager sympathy : 
 All knew and felt my joy it seemed ; 
 Ah, simple child I was, who dreamed ! 
 
 And when so swift and grievously 
 
 My day of bruising came, 
 And midst the May-leaves over me 
 
 The birds sang just the same, 
 And light and gladness in the air 
 Proclaimed that nature did not care, 
 
 It seemed to me a cruel wrong ; 
 
 For, foolish egotist, 
 I could not bear the gush of song, 
 
 The flowers by sunlight kissed. 
 " These gloried in my joy," I said ; 
 " They mock me now beside my dead." 
 
 But if, in gladness or in tears, 
 
 Love moves in my behoof, 
 Then is it best that nature wears 
 
 This garment sorrow-proof,
 
 NATURE AND SORROW. 17 
 
 Best that there be no change, no sign 
 Of pain for anguish such as mine. 
 
 For when on human grief or bliss 
 
 The sun pours cheerful flame, 
 When flowery petals dew-drops kiss, 
 
 And birds sing just the same, 
 Do they not say, " Whate'er befall, 
 God's one great thought is love in all?" 
 
 They bid us lay our sore hearts down 
 
 On the paternal breast 
 Of Him whose mighty thoughts move on 
 
 The highway of the Best ! 
 Whose gifts may bring the shroud and pall 
 But whose one thought is love in all.
 
 MA RAH, ELIM, BOCHIM. 
 
 Up rose the race God purposed to deliver, 
 
 With wives and children, in the night, in haste, 
 
 Threw off their servitude by Egypt's river, 
 The blessings of their promised land to taste. 
 
 Then came swift flight and followed swift pursuing; 
 
 Crying of women and despair of men ; 
 Hope of escape, foreboding of undoing ; 
 
 The Red Sea passage and the triumph then. 
 
 Through dreary wilderness and desert places, 
 Looking for palm-trees round perennial springs, 
 
 Homeless and worn, but with expecting faces, 
 Journeyed the chosen of the King of kings. 
 
 Did not the Lord, His mighty presence lending, 
 Go on before them in the cloud and flame ? 
 
 How blessed the journey, to what glorious ending! 
 How glad beneath the shelter of His name !
 
 MAR AH, ELIM, BOCHIM. i 
 
 So came they on to shade and water cooling, 
 Through dust of desert and the glare ot sun, 
 
 Singing fit praise to Him who, overruling, 
 
 Gave them refreshing, when the march was done. 
 
 But hark, a burst of loud and stormy wailing ! 
 
 Had Abraham's God enticed them with a lie? 
 Led them along till strong men's strength was failing, 
 
 And then withdrawn to see them slowly die ? 
 
 The place was Marah and the springs were bitter, 
 And bitter speech came fast from lips of men ; 
 
 * Was this the promise to the fathers ? fitter 
 The bondage with the food of Egypt then. ' 
 
 And so the God who forth had called them led them 
 To Marah now, and thence to Elims' palms ; 
 
 Taught them severely smote them- while he fed them, 
 Gave storm an.d tempest after peaceful calms. 
 
 He gave them victory and great rejoicing, 
 The ringing timbrel and the dancing feet ; 
 
 He too gave Bochim with its plaintive voicing, 
 With tears and shame and penitence replete.
 
 3 SONGS OF SORROW. 
 
 So seems it still that whom He loves and chooses, 
 
 Whom He inspires to seek a better land, 
 He leads by rugged desert paths, and uses 
 The rod of chastening with a heavy hand. 
 
 He sends great pain to raptured joy succeeding, 
 First freedom's transport and then Marah's springs, 
 
 Elim and Bochim lie the way He's leading ; 
 The blessing and the bitterness He brings. 
 
 In some alembic, strange and secret blending, 
 Sorrow and gladness one rich blessing grow ; 
 
 To highest good not every joy is tending, 
 To deepest harm not every crushing woe. 
 
 And God gives both ; we sing or weep before Him 
 Stand up exulting bend like bruised reeds ; 
 
 And ever for that clear-eyed faith implore Him 
 To see the pillar or the flame that leads: 
 
 To know at Marah that our God is loving, 
 
 Tenderly loving as at Elim blest ; 
 Midst Bochim' s tears to feel Him gently moving 
 
 Our hearts toward Him for pure and trusting rest.
 
 ' ' THO U KNO WEST NO T NO W, ' ' 
 
 Do not I know ? What means the Lord ? 
 'Tis not like Him, not like His word, 
 Who makes our countless troubles His, 
 And feels our oft infirmities ! 
 He surely would not, could not say, 
 When sorrow drinks my life away 
 When my best hope and joy and pride 
 Go down into the grave beside 
 The form so precious to my love 
 In grief all other griefs above 
 He would not say : " Thou dost not know 
 The dark, mysterious thing I do. ' ' 
 
 Do not I know ? I, hurt and sore, 
 Yearning for joys that come no more, 
 For heart-communings and embrace, 
 For sound of voice and sight of face, 
 That, once to hear again and see, 
 Would fill my soul with ecstacy ? 
 Is my whole nature dull and slow ?
 
 SONGS OF SORROW. 
 
 Can I not feel when falls a blow ? 
 
 What means the Lord, " Thou dost not know ?' 
 
 I marked, for days, a summer-bird 
 Busy with hopeful cares ; and heard 
 Her sing, as if entirely blessed, 
 Around the deep and crowded nest. 
 
 But soon and swift a storm-burst came, 
 With wind and rain and lightning flame, 
 And crashing 'mid the swinging trees ; ' 
 And when it passed no vestiges 
 Of nest or tender young were found 
 On broken bough or littered ground. 
 
 Did not she know, that parent bird, 
 Whose seeking, sorrowing note I heard, 
 That all her labor had been vain ? 
 That blooming hope had fruit in pain ? 
 
 Writing upon the beaten sand 
 Of the sea's edge, with slender hand, 
 I saw a graceful girl. A thing 
 Of idle, aimless dallying 
 It seemed ; but anxious prophecies, 
 And hopes, and maiden's purposes 
 That filled her heart, but all unsaid,
 
 1 ' THO U KNO WEST NO T NOW." 
 
 On the hard sand were deftly spread. 
 Thus wrought she, all intent, alone ; 
 Then long on what her hand had done, 
 She silent looked and mused and sighed. 
 
 One forward wave from flowing tide 
 Came sliding up the smooth incline, 
 And dashed out every meaning sign. 
 
 Did not she know that what her hand 
 Unconscious wrote on vacant sand 
 Had gone forever from her view, 
 As vanishes the early dew ? 
 
 So do I know what has been done ; 
 From mid-day sky has dropped the sun ; 
 My hope, appalled and tempest-tost, 
 Looks up no more, her anchor lost. 
 O, I do know; I feel and see 
 The heavy hurt that crushes me ! 
 So, Lord, in pain, I answered Thee. 
 
 I slept ; and whiles, I knew not how, 
 The buds upon the apple-bough 
 Burst in each close and sharded fold, 
 , And freed the leaves they had inrolled. 
 
 I knew not how, but where the seed
 
 [ SONGS OF SORROW. 
 
 Had fallen for the future's need, 
 I saw, on sharp and slender blade, 
 The hastening prophecy of bread. 
 
 How wrought He these ? I could not tell ; 
 His ministers invisible 
 Had moved in light and dark and air, 
 In secret working to prepare 
 The way before the living King 
 The beauty, bloom, and hope of Spring. 
 His work I saw ; but not the way 
 Each worker went. The under-play 
 Of power was hid from sight like mine ; 
 The work disclosed the hid design. 
 
 So, if He say: "Thou doest not know 
 The dark, mysterious thing I do, 
 But thou shalt know, " I wait until 
 His unseen powers their task fulfill ; 
 I wait, and, groping, pass through these 
 His strange and voiceless processes, 
 To learn with rapture at their end, 
 To what of good these bruisings tend. 
 I wait on Him who hides His thought 
 Sometimes, until the wonder wrought 
 Appears to our new-opening eyes,
 
 " THOU KNO WEST NOT NOW. 
 
 God's love made clear, without disguise. 
 I wait, and bear the lingering smart 
 He knows is burning at my heart. 
 
 I do believe Thee, Lord, and rest 
 On Thee my burden. Sore oppressed, 
 Not knowing all Thou doest now, 
 Help me to wait my time to know ; 
 To wait until the blind shall see ! 
 So, Lord, in faith, I answer Thee.
 
 NOT DEAD. 
 
 I think her living yet ; 
 It cannot, ought not, must not be 
 That death hath conquered utterly; 
 That in the swift and fell surprise 
 That stilled her heart and sealed her eyes, 
 All died that we had loved and known, 
 All died that knew and loved her own ; 
 
 I think her living yet. 
 
 I think her living yet 
 Somewhere in God's infinity ; 
 Somewhere, though hidden quite from me, 
 She being has she walks in white, 
 She knows the joy, she sees the light 
 Of those who reach the higher planes, 
 By secret ways of mortal pains ; 
 
 I think her living yet. 
 
 I think her living yet 
 An angel bright, God's minister
 
 NOT DEAD. 
 
 All-beautiful, I think of her. 
 She so divinely formed to bless, 
 So rich in woman's tenderness, 
 God's hand might be to wipe a tear, 
 His voice, with words of holy cheer. 
 I think her living yet. 
 
 I think her living yet. 
 Two little ones her mother-love 
 Asks for and finds and clasps above. 
 Their infant spirit-speech she hears, 
 And on her mother-heart she bears 
 Them fondly where the Shepherd leads, 
 Where by still streams His flock He feeds. 
 
 I think her living yet. 
 
 I think her living yet. 
 In glad rejoicings round the Throne 
 She serves and sings she, still my own, 
 Goes with the shining companies, 
 The Great King in His beauty sees, 
 A child gone home, she is not dead ! 
 Her portion she's inherited. 
 
 I think her living yet.
 
 50VGS OP SORROW. 
 
 I think her living yet. 
 And when, in God's time, I pass on 
 To the good land where she has gonCj 
 She'll meet me at the portal bright, 
 She'll lead to Him who is the light 
 Of the King's city, ever mine, 
 She'll walk with me the ways divine 
 
 Where she is living yet.
 
 SONG IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 Night is here and veiling thickly 
 Mountain, valley, plain and river ; 
 But its shade shall vanish quickly, 
 Shafts of golden light shall quiver 
 Soon along the eastern sky, 
 Telling that the day is nigh. 
 
 Night is here, but not forever 
 
 Is dominion to it given ; 
 
 Light must rule, but darkness never, 
 
 So is pledged the might of Heaven. 
 
 Light shall reign and darkness fly ; 
 
 Light shall haste to victory. 
 
 Night of evil, hateful, cruel, 
 Hence thy shadows shall be driven ; 
 Never shalt thou have renewal, 
 So is pledged the might of Heaven. 
 
 Shines there now the prophet-ray, 
 
 Eloquent of perfect day.
 
 SONGS OF SORROW. 
 
 Night of sorrow, bitter, cheerless, 
 
 Soon thy terrors shall be lifted : 
 
 Faith looks through thee strong and fearless, 
 
 With the might of Heaven gifted ; 
 
 Knowing that thy gloom shall fade, 
 
 Waiting, watching, hot afraid. 
 
 Night of death thy morning cometh, 
 Yes, to thee shall light be given ; 
 Jesus Christ thy fading doometh, 
 He has pledged the might of Heaven. 
 
 Day shall soon begin with Him, 
 
 Without night or twilight dim.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS- POEMS.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 IMMANUEL. 
 
 Read at the Christmas Festival of the Plymouth Church of 
 Des Moines, Christmas Eve, 1872. 
 
 Round resting flocks a shepherd guard 
 Through the still night kept watch and ward, 
 As, 'neath the sky in open field, 
 The shepherd-men from days of eld 
 Had kept their flocks. No sign was seen 
 Foretelling change from what had been. 
 
 As when from old Chaldaic Ur 
 Abraham came forth a wanderer, 
 The stars looked down with lambent flame; 
 All things continuing the same 
 As at the world's beginning. Men 
 For what had long been looked again.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Still are ihe shepherds ; round their camp 
 Stands the thick wall of midnight damp; 
 Still is the constellations' march 
 Along the firmamental arch ; 
 All things are hid but heaven ; as when 
 There comes to crushed, disheartened men, 
 Of dearest good and hopes bereft, 
 The thought that only God is left, 
 So now, night hides from human eyes 
 All but the heavenly mysteries. 
 
 Sudden there bursts a strange surprise, . 
 Sudden, awe-struck, the shepherds rise, 
 The deeps of heaven are open flung, 
 Peals through the night an angel-song, 
 Shine, through the dark, supernal fires 
 Flashing on robes of heavenly choirs, 
 Who, with the shout of God's good will, 
 Proclaim the Prince Immanuel. 
 
 Celestial spirits joyful, thus 
 Announce His coming, God with us. 
 
 To Bethlehem then, glad, wondering, 
 The shepherds go to hail a King. 
 They find no glittering, gorgeous train, 
 For royal state they look in vain,
 
 1MMANUEL. 
 
 They see no swift-built palace towers, 
 Nor throne nor pride of kingly powers; 
 But in a manger, lighted .dim, 
 Where only earth has room for Him, 
 They see an infant child, for thus 
 Came our Immanuel, God with us. 
 
 O holy, gracious infancy, 
 God ever comes to man in thee ! 
 Comes near us in a little child, 
 Near us, with hands and hearts defiled, 
 To say, /Tut off thy shoes, for round 
 An infant's couch is holy ground ! " 
 Comes near, the heart's best life to stir 
 As by an angel messenger; 
 To teach us solemnly to say, 
 "God standeth near our souls to-day." 
 
 So does the Highest earthward turn, 
 So into human households born, 
 He comes to us with advent sweet, 
 To turn to Him our wandering feet. 
 
 The Word made flesh, Immanuel came, 
 Still God with us in sin and shame,
 
 3 6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Not with hard blows to smite us down, 
 
 To blast us with indignant frown, 
 
 But with dear pity to proclaim 
 
 That Love is the almighty name ! 
 
 To show each sinning, fearful child 
 
 God's face, already reconciled ; 
 
 As, penitent, we bow the knee, 
 
 To say to each, "I- pardon thee; 
 
 I ask not tears and long distress ; 
 
 I, God's revealed forgivingness, 
 
 Bid thee arise and go in peace." 
 
 Our hopes take hold on glorious things, 
 Soaring with quick, ambitious wings; 
 They promise that we too shall rise, 
 Like God's great saints, to victories 
 O'er sins and oft infirmities. 
 We dare to hope that on the heights 
 Our feet shall walk, 'midst the delights 
 By valorous overcoming won, 
 With those who blessed, obtaining, run. 
 
 Feet are not wings. We stumble, fall 
 As we go on. The weak and small
 
 IMMANUEL. 37 
 
 Affright, dismay and cast us down ; 
 
 Far off appears the victor's crown ; 
 
 And oft the foolish soul avers 
 
 That they who more than conquerors 
 
 Went on before, had grace from Heaven 
 
 Only to favored mortals given. 
 
 And so we pant and fear and sigh, 
 
 Know not the joy of victory, 
 
 And, full of shame and deep distrust, 
 
 Turn clouded faces toward the dust. 
 
 To men o'erwhelmed, discouraged thus, 
 He comes, Immanuel, God with us, 
 Breaking no slender, bruised reed, 
 A patient, pitying friend indeed, 
 To say to each, "O downcast soul, 
 I am thy helper toward the goal. 
 Dost crave some shining victory ? 
 'Tis victory to walk with me 
 In valleys low and modest shade. 
 Take courage then lift up thy head. 
 The saints who joyous highways trod 
 Could do no more than walk with God ! 
 Thy heart, so troubled, rest on mine 
 And fear no more God's strength is thine. "
 
 38 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 About us gathers mystery ; 
 What is this being, and to be ? 
 Offspring of God's creating power 
 Does He care for and love us more? 
 Is Father-hood reality? 
 Stoops it to find and succor me? 
 
 Immanuel conies, a human form, 
 With all divinest passions warm; 
 Our human needs and pains and cares 
 He on his loving bosom bears. 
 No man so much a man as He, 
 God perfecting humanity. 
 
 O questioning heart and vision dim, 
 The Eternal Father see in Him, 
 Who from our weakness, sins and shames, 
 Exalts, delivers and redeems. 
 
 Broken before the God we bless 
 We sink and surfer, comfortless. 
 A hurt is ours no heart can share, 
 Which we can neither shun nor bear ; 
 From deepest depths for help we cry; 
 Help in a life's extremity.
 
 IMMANUEL. 39 
 
 And He draws near and goes with us 
 Who wept o'er buried Lazarus: 
 He walks on gently by our side 
 Who for the love He bore us died : 
 No friend comes near us as does He, 
 No heart so pours its sympathy. 
 To Him we turn from fear and dread; 
 In His dear love are comforted ; 
 The bitterness He understands; 
 We feel the soothing of His hands; 
 In Him who seeks and helps us thus, 
 We see Immanuel, God with us. 
 
 Sing then to Him of Bethlehem ! 
 Crown Him with love's pure diadem. 
 Ye children praise Him with the voice 
 Of childish gratitude rejoice 
 In Him the manger held, 
 In Him who God to man revealed. 
 All people praise Him, all hearts sing 
 To Him God gave a child a King. 
 Give thanks aloud for God's good will 
 Proclaimed in our Immanuel.
 
 THE MOTHER'S SONG. 
 
 Nestling so gracefully, 
 Sleeping so peacefully 
 
 My darling,. my dove : 
 Dear Lord approvingly, 
 Tenderly, lovingly, 
 
 Look from above. 
 
 Eyes that so merrily, 
 Pleasantly, cheerily, 
 
 Sparkled and shone; 
 Eyes that all tearfully, 
 Wonderingly, fearfully, 
 
 Viewed the unknown. 
 
 Tongue that so wittily, 
 Saucily, prettily, 
 
 Prattled at will 
 Prattled untiringly, 
 Mother admiringly 
 
 Listening still.
 
 THE MOTHER'S SONG. 
 
 Mouth that appealingly, 
 Touchmgly, feelingly, 
 
 Trouble did tell; 
 Mouth which so speedily 
 Laughing right readily, 
 
 Rang like a bell ; 
 
 Lips where in cosiness, 
 Beauty and rosiness, 
 
 Sweet kisses hide ; 
 Lips where disdainfully, 
 Pettishly, painfully, 
 
 Passion did bide ; 
 
 Hands that all beautiful, 
 Teachable, dutiful, 
 
 Fondled and played; 
 Hands that so skilfully, 
 Secretly, wilfully, 
 
 Law disobeyed ; 
 
 Feet that so lightsomely, 
 
 Trippingly, blithesomely, 
 
 Sported and danced ;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Feet whose sweet cheeriness 
 Wore into weariness 
 As they advanced ; 
 
 All nestling gracefully, 
 Slumbering peacefully 
 
 Are ye to-night ; 
 Quietly, trustfully, 
 Silently, restfully, 
 
 Waiting for light. 
 
 O, best benefaction 
 And dearest attraction, 
 
 Fairest that lives ! 
 In sleep so beautiful, 
 All that's undutiful 
 
 Mother forgives. 
 
 Now rest thee securely, 
 Sleeping so purely, 
 
 My darling, my dove : 
 God's angels descending. 
 About thee attending, 
 
 Keep thee in love.
 
 SYLVANUS OF MT. SINAI. 
 
 Time was when good men from all scenes defiled 
 Fled into caves and dens and deserts wild 
 To keep themselves from sin ; gave up the fight 
 With Satan for the world; for God's dear right 
 To hold and rule the souls he made, gave o'er 
 The contest beaten ; sadly fled before 
 Rough handed might and craft and lies and all 
 The infernal powers which held the world in thrall ; 
 They fled from sin they would themselves be pure ; 
 They fled from vengeance hastening at the door ; 
 They saw the sign of near prophetic doom, 
 And sought for shelter from the wrath to come. 
 
 Now in that fearful time of flight and haste, 
 When fittest covert was the wildest waste, 
 There came a band of Monks to Sinai. Sin 
 Drove them out to fight in solitude. In 
 That rugged wilderness of rock and earth 
 They hoped the new life might in them have birth 
 And grow. Surrendering all they had, they came
 
 4 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 To worship there the dear Christ's blessed name ; 
 The outward man with toils and fasts subdue, 
 The inward man by prayer and faith renew. 
 
 The good Sylvanus was their Abbot. He, 
 Full both of wisdom and simplicity, 
 A worthy Father, ordered all their ways, 
 And pattern set in discipline and praise. 
 They worked to live ; their simple wants supplied 
 By patient culture of the mountain-side. 
 The wilderness and solitary place 
 Gladdened around them with unwonted grace; 
 The rule held sway in that severe retreat, 
 11 If none will work, then neither shall he eat." 
 With early morning, while the east was dim, 
 Up rose the incense of their matin hymn 
 And simple prayers. Then forth they sped 
 To wrest from barrenness their daily bread. 
 
 And while, one morn, they wrought beneath the sun 
 There came to them a priestly stranger : one 
 Who lived by faith, not works; a monk whose care 
 And glory were to keep himself by prayer. 
 Well kept he was, and saintly was his mien ; 
 His rosary lay his unsoiled hands between.
 
 SYLVAN US OF MT. SINAI. 45 
 
 Of salt sweat on his brow he liked no trace ; 
 But what by sweat of brow was won, with grace 
 And pious air in cool resort could eat, 
 Thanking the Lord who sends his servants meat. 
 To them this stranger : 
 
 " Know ye not who saith 
 Ye may not toil for meat that perisheth ? 
 I have that gospel written in my heart ; 
 I follow Mary choosing the .good part ! " 
 Sylvanus meekly said : 
 
 "Thou choosest well. 
 Go, Brother Paulus, show this monk a cell 
 And book. Give him naught more." 
 
 Their task went on ; 
 
 The sun rose higher, neared his going down. 
 The monks of Sinai rested from the strain 
 Of work, ate their plain fare, then wrought again 
 Until the vesper hour was nigh. None said, 
 "Where's the strange brother? Should he not be fed ?" 
 All left him to the Abbot. 
 
 In the cell 
 
 The monk constrained himself to read j then fell 
 Upon his face and prayed ; his sins confessed ;
 
 46 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Penance revolved and smote upon his breast ; 
 
 Then read again the book ; his soul alert 
 
 To give no vantage to the mass inert 
 
 Of his vile body, despicable, base, 
 
 Of countless sins the nurse and hiding place. 
 
 But as time flew his thoughts likewise took wing 
 
 And wandered widely ; a forbidden thing, v 
 
 He thought of food : reproved himself and prayed. 
 
 "A noble fashion have these monks," he said. 
 
 "They mortify the flesh; fast sin away; 
 
 Shall I not equal them? Oh, let me pray."' 
 
 He fought a losing fight. His fleshly foes 
 To greater insolence each hour arose. 
 The carnal trampled the superior soul ; 
 The body urgent clamored for control. 
 The book, the prayer, the penance lost the power 
 To hold his mind to duty. Every hour 
 Spirit grew faint and feeble, flesh grew strong; 
 Devotion vanished as the day waxed long. 
 
 And in despair he cried : 
 
 "Shall these men win 
 Their crowns by such heroic discipline, 
 And I lose mine? They work and fast ; while I
 
 SYLVANL-S OF MT. SINAI. 4; 
 
 Pray the day long, but gain not mastery. 
 These Sinai monks seem made of sternest stuff; 
 Their discipline is like their mountain, rough ! " 
 
 The monk was hungry, and his hunger made 
 His cell a cage, his prayers pretense : it played 
 With carnal thoughts of more than Lenten fare 
 A Devil's tempter to the man of prayer. 
 
 At length he yielded j sought the Abbot ; said ; 
 " Do not you ask the Lord for daily bread ? 
 Do not you eat it daily when 'tis given, 
 And, eating, bless the generous grace of Heaven ? 
 Do not the brethren eat at all to-day?" 
 
 " Yes," said the Abbot. 
 
 " Why not call me, pray?" 
 And then Sylvanus said : 
 
 " Thou dost not need, 
 As others do, on fruits and bread to feed. 
 We all are carnal. We must eat because 
 We work. To earth this earthy nature draws. 
 But thou, so blessed with faith, so rich in heart^ 
 Need'st not to eat ! Thou'st chosen the good part." 
 
 Whereat the stranger was ashamed, 'tis said, 
 That he should only pray, not work, for bread.
 
 JOHN OF MT. SLVAf. 
 
 Among the Sinai monks the brother John, 
 A shrunk and dwarfish man, was numbered; one 
 Who winced beneath the burden of the cross; 
 And while he claimed to count his gain but loss 
 For Christ, he counted grudgingly the gain 
 He lost, and gave it up for Christ with pain. 
 
 And when to labors till the evening damp 
 Were added vigils by the midnight lamp, 
 Abundant hardships after meager fare, 
 Of sleep o'er little, and o'er much of prayer, 
 The monk's vocation seemed no easy yoke 
 And burden light, of which the Master spoke. 
 He bore it with impatience. Poor, unwise, 
 He dwelt upon the pain of sacrifice 
 And lost its blessing. In his troubled breast 
 His wrung soul cried a bitter cry for rest. 
 
 " Behold," said he, " the lilies, how they grow! 
 They toil not, spin not, yet I surely know
 
 JOHN OF MT. SINAI. 49 
 
 They give God glory which He pleased receives, 
 And them His easy service never grieves. 
 
 "The angels, too, in their celestial spheres, 
 
 No flagellations have, nor fasts, nor tears 
 
 To make their service bitter. Only men 
 
 Serve God with utter wretchedness." And then 
 
 He vowed to break the chains the brothers wore, 
 
 And run their toilsome treadmill round no more j 
 
 To give himself away to God, and free 
 
 His soul from care. As angels live, so he 
 
 Would live thereafter by God's grace sustained, 
 
 The world become his paradise regained. 
 
 He turned from Sinai and the monks away, 
 Threw off as needless his rough cloak of gray, 
 (For Angel life could ask no mortal gear) 
 And sought, far off, the Presence ever near. 
 
 Into the desert waste, the solitude 
 Which girt the mountain round, where scanty food 
 Or drink or cooling shade existed, went 
 The eager man, to rest with God intent. 
 To be as the white angels are, his prayer ;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 To walk with them their easy service shaie. 
 So seven days went by. The brotherhood 
 Surprised, amazed at John's exalted mood, 
 Spoke little of the wanderer ; and when 
 They mentioned him, those simple monkish men 
 Devoutly crossed themselves on breast and brow 
 And said, " Our brother's with the angels now! 
 He rose up with a simple, daring faith 
 And cast himself on God, not waiting death." 
 
 But those few days sore trial brought to John, 
 Shelterless, friendless, in the desert lone. 
 From the forgetful heaven no manna fell. 
 No spring leaped out of rock. No visible 
 Appearance proved that God took kindly note 
 Of his pressed servant. From fat lands remote 
 No raven came his daily bread to bring. 
 In their strong arms no angels ministering 
 Bore up the wanderer lest his weary feet 
 Against the sharp, injurious stones should beat. 
 The sun smote him by day. By night the wind 
 Shriveled and pierced him with its. blasts unkind . 
 The desert scared him with its aspect rude ;
 
 JOHN OF MT. SINAI. 51 
 
 Not that way lay the path to angelhood 
 And beatific joys. The monk a man 
 Remained a mortal pinched, forlorn and wan. 
 He could not cast himself on God. In vain 
 With tears he strove desired release to gain 
 From the sore burden that his life had been ; 
 From toil and care and cross as well as sin. 
 
 And as the seventh day went darkly down, 
 And all his brother monks were housed, poor John 
 Came stumbling in the night, seeking the door 
 He left with highest hope one week before. 
 He knocked. The Abbot heard within and cried, 
 " Who knocks?" " 'Tis I, 'tis John," a voice replied. 
 "Nay," said the Abbot, " John no more with men 
 Hath part or lot. He comes not here again 
 From his high company. With shining throngs 
 Of angels now he walks to them belongs." 
 
 The door was shut. Nor earth nor man had place, 
 Angels nor God, for one who had not grace 
 To serve the Lord with patience. Down John fell 
 Along the threshold weeping. The strong swell
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Of his sore spirit shook him. Long he cried 
 For the forgiveness of the crucified, 
 The suffering Christ who, patient, bore the cross 
 That men for Hirn might count all gain but loss. 
 
 And then the angels came to John ; while he 
 Essayed no more as angels are to be, 
 Nor sought them, lo, they came to him; and peace 
 New-found, poured through his soul its blessedness. 
 
 And in the morning, when the door stood wide, 
 John took his place close at the Abbot's side, 
 And said, "Forgive me that I went astray. 
 Forget my foolish weakness. As I lay 
 Last night without, the pitying Master came ; 
 He spoke me tenderly, called me by name, 
 And said to me, 'Serve me content as man. 
 For man, not angel, was the Gospel plan. 
 Give me a patient human love. Obey 
 My rule ; for my sake bear the cross ; then may 
 The angels see and wonder at above 
 The beauty of a soul renewed by love.' " 
 
 And thenceforth John, until the day he died,
 
 JOHN OF MT. SINAI. 53 
 
 Served in his place with patience ; mortified 
 The flesh, and as a true, repentant man, 
 Gave Christ the service that no angel can.
 
 THE RIVER TO THE NIGHT* 
 
 O welcome, yes welcome, thou blessed night ! 
 Thrice welcome art thou to me ; 
 
 In thee I may go with a peaceable flow 
 Far on to the measureless sea, 
 The sea that is waiting for me. 
 
 O cruel and galling the yoke I wear ; 
 
 Dark night I murmur to thee ; 
 In bondage I go with laborious flow 
 
 To rest in the welcoming sea, 
 
 The sea that is calling to me. 
 
 O freedom, dear freedom, no longer mine, 
 
 My thoughts are ever of thee : 
 Ne'er again shall I know the rapturous flow 
 
 * This piece was composed while the writer was residing in the valley 
 of one of those hard-worked New England rivers, of which so much is 
 exacted on the way to the ocean.
 
 THE RIVER TO THE NIGHT. 55 
 
 That once marked my way to the sea, 
 The sea that was asking for me. 
 
 music, sweet music, merciful night, 
 Is thy deep silence to me ; 
 
 A story of woe is my turbulent flow 
 
 Down, down to the sheltering sea, 
 The sea that is refuge for me. 
 
 The story is long of my bondage to wrong ; 
 
 1 cannot portray the half in my song. 
 
 Far, far to the north into light I leaped forth 
 
 As free as the bird to sing through the earth ; 
 
 To the hills with my voice I shouted, " Rejoice ! " 
 
 And echo caught up the jubilant noise, 
 
 And the hail of the rill to each answering hill 
 
 Repeated, in shouts that never were still. 
 
 The trees, as in love, waved their banners above, 
 
 And laughed as I kissed the feet of the grove ; 
 
 Over me in my bed their branches they spread, 
 
 A shield from the sun that blazed overhead. 
 
 I gathered the brooks from inviolate nooks 
 
 Of mountain recess and sentinel rocks, 
 
 To journey with me as unbridled and free,
 
 56 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 A child of delight, I rolled to the sea. 
 
 The grasses that grew on my either bank drew 
 
 Their life from my depths, their delicate hue. 
 
 The birds dipped the bill, quickly drinking their fill, 
 
 And rendered their thanks with warble and trill. 
 
 I bore the lillies sweet-scented flotillas, 
 
 Wafting afar to hamlets and villas 
 
 Breath sweetly laden for lover and maiden, 
 
 Incense like that of morning in Eden. 
 
 I mirrored the grace and the sportive embrace 
 
 Of children, down-looking into my face. 
 
 My will I obeyed" as I loitered in shade, 
 
 Still lying and dark in thicket and glade, 
 
 Creeping through sedges, mad darting down ledges: 
 
 Swirling I dashed midst boulders and wedges 
 
 Of rough, riven rock, as, with laughter and mock, 
 
 I burst away aught my progress would block. 
 
 No hard master ruled me glad, triumphing, free, 
 
 I joyfully journeyed on to the sea. 
 
 But alas for the days, alas for the ways 
 I sadly recall regretfully praise. 
 My freedom is gone now a master I own,
 
 THE RIVER TO THE NIGHT. 57 
 
 And wearing his yoke I murmur and moan. 
 
 I grind in the mill ; I am broke on the wheel ; 
 
 I beat out my life on copper and steel ; 
 
 The oak, mountain giant, gnarled, defiant, 
 
 I cut and shape to all uses pliant. 
 
 The spindles I drive and the looms, in that hive 
 
 Where man and machine seem both all alive. 
 
 From dawn's early gray till the light fades away, 
 
 Like Samson, I in the prison-house play. 
 
 Afar I am led from my own chosen bed ; 
 
 Am beaten to foam to tatters am shred. 
 
 Once all the day long the bright birds blent their song 
 
 In chorus above as I stole along; 
 
 Now I scarcely can hear their melodies clear, 
 
 So loud whir the wheels and rattle their gear ; 
 
 And I painfully go, bruised, broken and slow, 
 
 To rest after toil in the ocean below. 
 
 Then welcome, yes welcome thou blessed night, 
 
 The rest thou bringest to me ; 
 In darkness I know brief repose as I go 
 
 On, on to my home in the sea, 
 
 The sea that is thirsting for me.
 
 58 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 A vision, stern vision, thou tyrant man, 
 Of fate that hangs over thee : 
 
 Time's river doth go, with hurrying flow, 
 On, on to the infinite sea, 
 The sea that is waiting for thee.
 
 DREAM-LAND. 
 
 When the mind is worn and weary, 
 With the strain of thought oppressed, 
 When the body spent with toiling 
 Languishes for quiet rest, ^, 
 
 Grateful is the glowing setting 
 Of the sun behind the west. 
 Welcome are the sunset shadows, 
 Lengthened by the level beams 
 Till the child looms up a giant, 
 Till the mound a mountain seems. 
 Welcome is the solemn darkness, 
 So each weary laborer deems, 
 As he floats on sleep's soft pinions 
 Toward the mystic land of dreams. 
 
 Once within the enchanted border, 
 Enters he another life 
 Strangely colored and fantastic, 
 With a new experience rife ;
 
 MISCELLANE O US POEMS. 
 
 He, no unconcerned spectator 
 
 Of its scenes of joy or strife. 
 
 Wandering forth from sleep's still prison 
 
 While the body silent lies, 
 
 Close before his crowded vision 
 
 Forms of beauty thronging rise, 
 
 And he, earnest, gazes on them 
 
 With his ravished spirit-eyes. 
 
 Gladly too, he goes among them, 
 
 With a bright and kindly band 
 
 Of the dream-folk, who stand ready, 
 
 Taking his freed spirit-hand, 
 
 To conduct him midst the wonders 
 
 Of their wonder-teeming land; 
 
 Of the land where no conception 
 
 So unreal is or wild 
 
 That it may not be embodied ; 
 
 Where existence is beguiled 
 
 By a fairer ministration 
 
 Than on waking man has smiled ; 
 
 Where for each disturbing sorrow 
 
 Flows the soft Lethean spring, 
 
 And the hurt heart, for the moment
 
 DREAM-LAND. 61 
 
 Feels no touch of suffering; 
 Where no forms of coming evil 
 Their ill-omened shadows fling. 
 There our cherished air-built castles 
 From their shapeless ruins rise, 
 Standing sure, though unsupported, 
 Till they touch the vaulted skies, 
 And we see each rising wonder 
 Without question or surprise. 
 
 Now these flitting dream-land spirits 
 Memory's treasures open throw, 
 And her dearest, costliest riches 
 Gilt with dream-land sunlight glow. 
 Now they summon our companions, 
 Cherished friends of long ago, 
 Scattered earth-wide, gone forever, 
 Gone on that returnless flow 
 Of the life-stream, going, going 
 Fast, but whither none may know. 
 These come back to glad re-unions, 
 Come their love for us to show; 
 Come with all their charm and beauty, 
 Losing no remembered grace,
 
 62 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Lay their sweet touch on our forehead, 
 Lay upon our own their face, 
 Speak the deep things of the spirit, 
 And the lost so long replace. 
 
 Or these dream-folk act the prophet 
 Of a joy that soon shall be, 
 Light the coming days with promise, 
 Bid us lift our eyes and see 
 That the best things we have hoped for 
 Have become reality ; 
 That they bring the treasured future 
 With each good it has in store 
 Backward to the living present, 
 With the joy which lies before 
 Mingling that already tasted, 
 Joy, when waking, known no more. 
 
 Very beautiful is dream-land 
 With its gladsome forms of light ; 
 Clouds need there no silver lining, 
 For they are as silver bright ; 
 But I think of the awaking, 
 When all dreams shall take their flight, 
 And I ask "what now is coming?"
 
 DREAM-LAND. 
 
 With a hush akin to fright, 
 
 For I sec these glib-tongued prophets 
 
 Seldom prophesy aright.
 
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