ONE year ago, – a ringing voice, A clear blue eye, And clustering curls of sunny hair, Too fair to die.
Only a year, – no voice, no smile, No glance of eye, No clustering curls of golden hair, Fair but to die!
One year ago, – what loves, what schemes Far into life! What joyous hopes, what high resolves, What generous strife!
The silent picture on the wall, The burial stone, Of all that beauty, life, and joy Remain alone!
One year, – one year, – one little year, And so much gone! And yet the even flow of life Moves calmly on.
The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, Above that head; No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray Says he is dead.
No pause or hush of merry birds, That sing above, Tells us how coldly sleeps below The form we love.
Where hast thou been this year, beloved? What hast thou seen? What visions fair, what glorious life, Where thou hast been?
The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong! 'Twixt us and thee; The mystic veil! when shall it fall, That we may see?
Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, But present still, And waiting for the coming hour Of God's sweet will.
Lord of the living and the dead, Our Saviour dear! We lay in silence at thy feet This sad, sad year!
BELOW
LOUDLY sweep the winds of autumn O'er that lone, beloved grave, Where we laid those sunny ringlets, When those blue eyes set like stars, Leaving us to outer darkness. O the longing and the aching! O the sere deserted grave!
Let the grass turn brown upon thee, Brown and withered like our dreams! Let the wind moan through the pine-trees With a dreary, dirge-like whistle, Sweep the dead leaves on its bosom, — Moaning, sobbing through the branches, Where the summer laughed so gayly.
He is gone, our boy of summer, — Gone the light of his blue eyes, Gone the tender heart and manly, Gone the dreams and the aspirings, — Nothing but the mound remaineth, And the aching in our bosoms, Ever aching, ever throbbing: Who shall bring it unto rest?
ABOVE
A VISION
COMING down a golden street I beheld my vanished one, And he moveth on a cloud, And his forehead wears a star; And his blue eyes, deep and holy, Fixed as in a blessed dream, See some mystery of joy, Some unuttered depth of love.
And his vesture is as blue As the skies of summer are, Falling with a saintly sweep, With a sacred stillness swaying; And he presseth to his bosom Harp of strange and mystic fashion, And his hands, like living pearls, Wander o'er the golden strings.
And the music that ariseth, Who can utter or divine it? In that strange celestial thrilling, Every memory of sorrow, Every heart-ache, every anguish, Every fear for the to-morrow, Melt away in charméd rest.
And there be around him many, Bright with robes like evening clouds, — Tender green and clearest amber, Crimson fading into rose, Robes of flames and robes of silver, — And their hues all thrill and tremble With a living light of feeling, Deepening with each heart's pulsation, Till in vivid trance of color That celestial rainbow glows.
How they float and wreathe and brighten, Bending low their starry brows, Singing with a tender cadence, And their hands, like spotless lilies, Folded on their prayerful breasts. In their singing seem to mingle Tender airs of by-gone days; — Mother-hymnings by the cradle, Mother-moanings by the grave, Songs of human love and sorrow, Songs of endless love and rest; — In the pauses of that music Every throb of sorrow dies.
O my own, my heart's belovéd, Vainly have I wept above thee? Would I call thee from thy glory To this world's impurity? — Lo! it passeth, it dissolveth, All the vision melts away; But as if a heavenly lily Dropped into my aching breast, With a healing sweetness laden, With a mystic breath of rest, I am charmed into forgetting Autumn winds and dreary grave.
LINES
SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF MRS. PROFESSOR STUART OF ANDOVER, MASS
HOW quiet, through the hazy autumn air, The elm-boughs wave with many a gold-flecked leaf! How calmly float the dreamy mantled clouds Through these still days of autumn, fair and brief!
Our Andover stands thoughtful, fair, and calm, Waiting to lay her summer glories by E'er the bright flush shall kindle all her pines, And her woods blaze with autumn's heraldry.
By the old mossy wall the golden-rod Waves as aforetime, and the purple sprays Of starry asters quiver to the breeze, Rustling all stilly through the forest ways.
No voice of triumph from those silent skies Breaks on the calm, and speaks of glories near, Nor bright wings flutter, nor fair glistening robes Proclaim that heavenly messengers are here.
Yet in our midst an angel hath come down, Troubling the waters in a peaceful home; And from that home, of life's long sickness healed, A saint hath risen, where pain no more may come.
Christ's fair elect one, from a hidden life Of loving deeds and words of gentleness, Hath passed where all are loving and beloved, Beyond all weariness and all distress.
Calm, like a lamb in shepherd's bosom borne, Quiet and trustful hath she sunk to rest; God breathed in tenderness the sweet "Well done!" That scarce awoke a trance so still and blest.
Ye who remember the long loving years, The patient mother's hourly martyrdom, The self-renouncing wisdom, the calm trust, Rejoice for her whose day of rest is come!
Father and mother, now united, stand Waiting for you to bind the household chain; The tent is struck, the home is gone before, And tarries for you on the heavenly plain.
By every wish repressed and hope resigned, Each cross accepted and each sorrow borne, She dead yet speaketh, she doth beckon you To tread the path her patient feet have worn.
Each year that world grows richer and more dear With the bright freight washed from life's stormy shore; O goodly clime, how lovely is thy strand, With those dear faces seen on earth no more!
The veil between this world and that to come Grows tremulous and quivers with their breath; Dimly we hear their voices, see their hands, Inviting us to the release of death.
O Thou, in whom thy saints above, below, Are one and undivided, grant us grace In patience yet to bear our daily cross, — In patience run our hourly shortening race!
And while on earth we wear the servant's form, And while life's labors ever toilful be, Breathe in our souls the joyful confidence We are already kings and priests with thee.
SUMMER STUDIES
WHY shouldst thou study in the month of June In dusky books of Greek and Hebrew lore, When the Great Teacher of all glorious things Passes in hourly light before thy door?
There is a brighter book unrolling now; Fair are its leaves as is the tree of heaven, All veined and dewed and gemmed with wondrous signs, To which a healing mystic power is given.
A thousand voices to its study call, From the fair hill-top, from the waterfall, Where the bird singeth, and the yellow bee, And the breeze talketh from the airy tree.
Now is that glorious resurrection time When all earth's buried beauties have new birth: Behold the yearly miracle complete, — God hath created a new heaven and earth!
No tree that wants its joyful garments now, No flower but hastes his bravery to don; God bids thee to this marriage feast of joy, Let thy soul put the wedding garment on.
All fringed with festal gold the barberry stands; The ferns, exultant, clap their new-made wings; The hemlock rustles broideries of fresh green, And thousand bells of pearl the blueberry rings.
The long, weird fingers of the old white-pines Do beckon thee into the flickering wood, Where moving spots of light show mystic flowers, And wavering music fills the dreamy hours.
Hast thou no time for all this wondrous show, — No thought to spare? Wilt thou forever be With thy last year's dry flower-stalk and dead leaves, And no new shoot or blossom on thy tree?
See how the pines push off their last year's leaves. And stretch beyond them with exultant bound: The grass and flowers, with living power, o'ergrow Their last year's remnants on the greening ground.
Wilt thou, then, all thy wintry feelings keep, The old dead routine of thy book-writ lore, Nor deem that God can teach, by one bright hour, What life hath never taught to thee before?
See what vast leisure, what unbounded rest, Lie in the bending dome of the blue sky: Ah! breathe that life-born languor from thy breast, And know once more a child's unreasoning joy.
Cease, cease to think, and be content to be; Swing safe at anchor in fair Nature's bay; Reason no more, but o'er thy quiet soul Let God's sweet teachings ripple their soft way.
Soar with the birds, and flutter with the leaf; Dance with the seeded grass in fringy play; Sail with the cloud, wave with the dreaming pine, And float with Nature all the livelong day.
Call not such hours an idle waste of time, — Land that lies fallow gains a quiet power; It treasures, from the brooding of God's wings, Strength to unfold the future tree and flower.
And when the summer's glorious show is past, Its miracles no longer charm thy sight, The treasured riches of those thoughtful hours Shall make thy wintry musings warm and bright.
