Poems of the Heart and Home Part 20

Where the willow weepeth By a fountain lone,-- Where the ivy creepeth O'er a mossy stone,-- With pale flowers above her, In a quiet dell.

Far from those who love her, Slumbers Minniebel.

There thy bed I made thee, By that fountain side, And in anguish laid thee Down to rest, my bride!

Tenderest and fairest, Who thy worth may tell!

Flower of beauty rarest, Saintly Minniebel!

Weary years have borrowed From my eye its light, Time my cheek has furrowed, And these locks are white; But my heart will ever Mid its memories dwell, Fondly thine forever, Angel Minniebel!

WEARY.

Weary of dreaming what never comes true, Weary of thinking what never is new, Of endeav'ring, yet never succeeding to do.

Weary of walking the dusty, old ways, Weary of saying what every one says, Weary of singing old, obsolete lays.

Weary of laughing, to make others laugh, Weary of gleaning for nothing but chaff, Of giving the whole, and receiving but half.

Weary of making, so shortly to mend, Weary of patching, to turn round and rend, Weary of earning only to spend.

Weary of weeping when tears are so cheap, Weary of waking when longing to sleep, Of giving what n.o.body wishes to keep.

Weary of drinking to thirst ere I've done, Weary of eating what satisfies none, Weary of doing what still is undone.

Weary of glitter without any gold, Weary of ashes grown fireless and cold, Weary!--the half of it cannot be told!

THE BODY TO THE SOUL

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO AN OVERWORKED STUDENT.

O tyrant soul of mine, What's the use Of this never-ceasing toil, Of this struggle, this turmoil, This abuse Of the body and the brain, Of this labor and this pain, Of this never-ceasing strain On the cords that bind us twain Each to each?

O tyrant soul of mine, Is it well Thus to waste and wear away The poor, fragile walls of clay Where you dwell?

Was I made your slave to be-- I the abject, you the free, That you task me ceaselessly?-- Tyrant soul, come, answer me, _Is_ it well?

O tyrant soul of mine, Don't you know That in slow, but sure decay, I am wasting day by day, While you grow None the better for the strain On my nerves and on my brain, For my head's incessant pain, And my sick heart's longings vain For repose?

O tyrant soul of mine, G.o.d, the good, Joined together you and me In a wondrous unity, That we should Work together,-not that I, You degrade and stupefy, Nor that you His laws defy By maltreating ceaselessly Hapless me!

O tyrant soul of mine, By and by, Weary of your cruel reign, Quite worn out with toil and pain, I shall die Then, when I have pa.s.sed away, And you're asked whose hand did slay Your companion of the clay, Much I wonder what you'll say, Soul of mine!

NOT YET

"Go thy way, and when I have a more convenient season I will call for thee."

"The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."

Not yet, not yet, O Saviour, Although thou callest me In life's unclouded morning Why should I follow thee?

The world and all its pleasures Outspread before me lie, When I have grasped its treasures I'll hear thee, by and by.

Not yet, not yet, O Saviour!-- True, thou hast called me long, Yet, almost more than ever, I love the world's glad song!

Say not the years are hasting With rapid footsteps by,-- Say not life's sands are wasting, But call me by and by!

Not yet, not yet, O Saviour!

I have no time to stay; The goal tow'rd which I hasten Is now not far away.

Another day--and haply The triumph I shall see, And grasp my crown of vic'try,-- Then, I will call for thee!

No more, no more, O sinner, The Saviour's call is o'er!

The door is shut forever, To be unclosed no more!-- So late the hour and lonely, So dark the night and drear, And He who called thee only To bless thee, will not hear!

Past is the harvest-gladness, The summer-bloom is o'er, Thy sun has set in sadness, To rise-oh, nevermore!

So late the hour and lonely, So dark the night and drear, And He who called thee only To bless thee, will not hear!

MARGUERITE

Lightly the shadows Play through the trees, Green are the meadows, Soft is the breeze,-- June's early roses, Pensive and sweet, Droop where reposes Lost Marguerite!

Meeting thee never In the green bowers,-- Missing thee ever 'Mid the fresh flowers,-- Till the long hours die-- Hours once so fleet-- Hopelessly wait I, Lost Marguerite!

Day has grown weary In the blue sky, Summer is dreary, Melodies die; Lowly the willow Droopeth to meet And kiss thy pillow, Lost Marguerite!

Flower the fairest Of sweet summer time, Rosebud the rarest Plucked ere its prime, Mine to weep ever Where the wares beat, Meeting thee never, Lost Marguerite!

"COME UNTO ME."