A Hidden Life and Other Poems Part 12

Oh! the changing crowding green!

Oh my beating heart's response!

Down rejoicing to the strand, Where the sea-waves sh.o.r.e-ward lean, Curve their graceful heads, and stand Gleaming with ethereal green, Then in foam fall heavily-- This is what I saw at night!

Lo, a boat! I'll forth on thee, Dancing-floor for my delight.

From the bay, wind-winged, we glance; Sea-winds seize me by the hair!

What a terrible expanse!

How the ocean tumbles there!

I am helpless here afloat, For the wild waves know not me; Gladly would I change my boat For the snow wings of the sea!

Look below. Each watery whirl Cast in beauty's living mould!

Look above! Each feathery curl Faintly tinged with morning gold!-- Oh, I tremble with the gush Of an everlasting youth!

Love and fear together rush: I am free in G.o.d, the Truth!

PRAYER.

We doubt the word that tells us: Ask, And ye shall have your prayer; We turn our thoughts as to a task, With will constrained and rare.

And yet we have; these scanty prayers Yield gold without alloy: O G.o.d! but he that trusts and dares Must have a boundless joy.

REST.

When round the earth the Father's hands Have gently drawn the dark; Sent off the sun to fresher lands, And curtained in the lark; 'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day, To fade with faded light; To lie once more, the old weary way, Upfolded in the night.

A mother o'er the couch may bend, And rose-leaf kisses heap: In soothing dreams with sleep they blend, Till even in dreams we sleep.

And, if we wake while night is dumb, 'Tis sweet to turn and say, It is an hour ere dawning come, And I will sleep till day.

II.

There is a dearer, warmer bed, Where one all day may lie, Earth's bosom pillowing the head, And let the world go by.

Instead of mother's love-lit eyes, The church's storied pane, All blank beneath cold starry skies, Or sounding in the rain.

The great world, shouting, forward fares: This chamber, hid from none, Hides safe from all, for no one cares For those whose work is done.

Cheer thee, my heart, though tired and slow An unknown gra.s.sy place Somewhere on earth is waiting now To rest thee from thy race.

III.

There is a calmer than all calms, A quiet more deep than death: A folding in the Father's palms, A breathing in his breath; A rest made deeper by alarms And stormy sounds combined: The child within its mother's arms Sleeps sounder for the wind.

There needs no curtained bed to hide The world with all its wars, Nor gra.s.sy cover to divide From sun and moon and stars A window open to the skies, A sense of changeless life, With oft returning still surprise Repels the sounds of strife.

IV.

As one bestrides a wild scared horse Beneath a stormy moon, And still his heart, with quiet force, Beats on its own calm tune; So if my heart with trouble now Be throbbing in my breast, Thou art my deeper heart, and Thou, O G.o.d, dost ever rest.

When mighty sea-winds madly blow, And tear the scattered waves; As still as summer woods, below Lie darkling ocean caves: The wind of words may toss my heart, But what is that to me!

'Tis but a surface storm--Thou art My deep, still, resting sea.

TO A.J. SCOTT.

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM.

I walked all night: the darkness did not yield.

Around me fell a mist, a weary rain, Enduring long; till a faint dawn revealed

A temple's front, cloud-curtained on the plain.

Closed were the lofty doors that led within; But by a wicket one might entrance gain.

O light, and awe, and silence! Entering in, The blackness and chaotic rain were lost In hopeful s.p.a.ces. Then I heard a thin

Sweet sound of voices low, together tossed, As if they sought a harmony to find Which they knew once; but none of all that host

Could call the far-fled music back to mind.

Loud voices, distance-low, wandered along The pillared paths, and up the arches twined

With sister-arches, rising, throng on throng, Up to the roof's dim distance. If sometimes Self-gathered voices made a burst of song,

Straightway I heard again but as the chimes Of many bells through Sabbath morning sent, Each its own tale to tell of heavenly climes.

Yet such the hope, one might be well content Here to be low, and lowly keep a door; For like Truth's herald, solemnly that went,

I heard thy voice, and humbly loved it more, Walking the word-sea to this ear of mine, Than any voice of power I heard before.

Yet as the harp may, tremulous, combine Low ghostlike sounds with organ's loudest tone, Let not my music fear to come to thine:

Thy heart, with organ-tempests of its own, Will hear Aeolian sighs from thin chords blown.

LIGHT.

First-born of the creating Voice!