Poems of the Heart and Home Part 23

We met one fresh June-morn, Chlodine, Where two roads came together; I'd travelled far through storm and rain, And you, through pleasant weather.

I loved you for the light, Chlodine, Of summer all around you,-- I loved you foil the sweet June-flowers, Whose dewy garlands bound you!

You loved me not, Chlodine, because The storms had beat upon me; Because there was no breath of flowers, No summer suns.h.i.+ne on me;-- You could not see, Chlodine, that deep Within my soul were growing Fresh flowers that evermore would keep The fragrance of their blowing.

And so we parted--you and I-- Your ways all fresh and flowering; Mine, rocky steeps up mountains high, 'Neath skies with tempests lowering; And yet the suns.h.i.+ne spoilt your flowers,-- Mine, bitter grief-drops nourished, And while yours withered day by day, Mine bloomed the more, and flourished

And now we're met again, Chlodine, You love me for my flowers, Their perfume scenting all the air.

Like breath of Eden-bowers;-- I love you not, Chlodine, alas!

You're changed since those old mornings, Your regal summer-robes are lost, With all their rare adornings!

We stand together side by side, And yet, at farthest, never, Before stretched out so far and wide The distance that did sever Us, as to-day it does, Chlodine, Though hand touch hand in greeting, And never again shall we know, Chlodine, Another June-day meeting.

THE BIRD AND THE STORM-CLOUD

Little bird, is that thy sphere, Yonder threat'ning cloud so near?

Sunbeams blaze along its brow, Yet what darkness reigns below!

There the sullen thunder mutt'ring, Wrathful sounds is sternly utt'ring;-- There the red-eyed lightning gleameth, Where no more the sunlight beameth, And the strong wind, fiercely waking, Wings of fearful might is taking;-- Creature of the calmer air, Wherefore art thou soaring there?

Wert thou weary of the vale, With its blossom-scented gale?-- Weary of thy breezy bowers?-- Weary of thy wild-wood flowers?-- Weary of thy wind-rocked nest In the bright, green willow's breast?-- Didst thou sigh, on daring wing, Up in heaven's blue depths to sing?-- Claim with storms companions.h.i.+p, And in clouds thy free wings dip?-- And, where rus.h.i.+ng winds are strong, Pour thy melody of song?

Bird, thy wing is all too weak Such adventurous heights to seek; In the bower thou seem'dst to be Trembling with timidity; Now, with proud, unshrinking glance Thou art daring yon expanse, And, with wild, exultant singing, Upward thy free flight art winging;-- Creature of the calmer air, Wherefore art thou sporting there?

Bird, that cannot be thy sphere, Yonder threatening cloud so near!-- With thy bright, unfearing eye, Wherefore seek that troubled sky?

Ah! a hand is o'er thee spread, To defend thy beauteous head; Sheltering arms are round thee cast, 'Mid the lightning and the blast; G.o.d doth s.h.i.+eld thee, and shall He _Thine_, and not _my_ guardian be?

No: He, who guards thy fragile form Midst the dread, o'erwhelming storm, Will His kind protection spread O'er His child's defenceless head,-- Temper every blast severe,-- Mingle hope with every fear,-- Pour into the bleeding heart Balm for sorrow's keenest smart, And will gift the feeblest form With a might to brave each storm!

Bird, thou well mayst soar and sing High in heaven on raptured wing!

Thou hast never learned to fear Blighting change, in thy bright sphere; 'Tis to us, and us alone, Faith's mysterious might is known: We, that tremble at the blast, Shall o'ersweep the storms at last!

Though around us tempests lower, We shall know our triumph-hour; And on glad exultant wing Soar, and with the angels sing

NO SOLITUDE

"Whither shall I go from thy Spirit?"

I stood where ocean lashed the sounding sh.o.r.e With his unresting waves, and gazed far out Upon the billowy strife. I saw the deep Lifting his watery arms to grasp the clouds, While the black clouds stooped from the sable arch Of the storm-darkened heavens, and deep to deep Answered responsive in the ceaseless roar Of thunders and of floods.

"Here, then, I am alone, And this is solitude, "I murmured low, As in the presence of the risen storm I bowed my head abashed. "Alone?"-- The echoing concave of the skies replied,-- "Alone?"--the waves responded, and the winds In hollow murmurs answered back--"Alone?"

"Thou canst not be alone, _for G.o.d is here!_ Yon mighty waste of waters, whose deep voice Goes up unceasingly to heaven, He holds E'en as a drop within His hollow hand!

He makes His dark pavillion stormy clouds; The winds and thunders are His uttered voice; And the red flames that blaze athwart the sky Are but the lightnings of His awful glance!"

I stood at eve, where, high in upper air, A mountain reared its solitary head, Bathing its forehead in the ruddy light Of cloudless sunset. Like a snowy veil The white mist gathered o'er the distant plain, While, over all, the sunset heavens shone In burning glory, and the blus.h.i.+ng West Gathered all gorgeous hues into a wreath Of wondrous radiance to twine around The temples of her monarch, ere he sought The chambers of his rest.

Full-orbed the moon Rode slowly up the east; while, one by one, Spirits of night lighted the lamps of heaven.

"This is to be alone!"--I whispered low, For nature's solemn beauty had a spell To awe my soul to silence.

"What, alone?"-- Murmured the mountain wind, as round my brow It waved its rustling pinions. "What, alone?"-- Low voices questioned from the sighing pines,-- "Alone?"--the stars repeated to my soul-- "In the Eternal's presence, canst thou stand, While, from above, His awful glories look,-- While all, around, beneath thee, and within, Attest His presence, and thus idly deem Thou art alone? No; thou art _not_ alone, _For G.o.d is here!_"

It was a summer noon.

The soft, south wind made music 'mid the boughs Of the cool forest, whence glad bursts, of song Floated unceasing. On a mossy bank Starred with pale flowers, I laid me down to rest, Yet not to slumber. Tenderly, the sky Glanced like a loving spirit through the leaves; And, ever and anon, like fleecy gold, The yellow sunbeams dropped amid the gloom Startling the shadows. Twas a hallowed scene!

Each waving leaf seemed Instinct with glad life, And every sound was richly freighted with The wealth of harmony.

"Is this to be alone?"

I inly questioned, yet my secret soul Needed from Nature no responsive voice; For my whole being, with a thrill of joy.

Replied;--"In all the universe of G.o.d, There is no solitude!"

O soul of mine, Joy in thy wealth of being!--in the power To grasp the Infinite where'er thou turn'st;-- To see Him, feel Him near, yet most of all, Him to adore and love;--to hear His voice In every breeze, in every gentle chime Of the sweet waters, in the song of birds, The hum of insects, and all deeper tones Of Nature's wondrous music;--yet, far more, To recognize His Spirit's gentle voice Unto thy spirit, whisp'ring tenderly-- "I am thy Father, thy Redeemer, thine Amid the devious paths that checker earth, And thine in Heaven!"

THE STRAY LAMB.

A GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.

We had finished our pitiful morsel, And both sat in silence a while; At length we looked up at each other.

And I said, with the ghost of a smile,-- "Only two little potatoes And a very small crust of bread-- And then?"--"G.o.d will care for us, Lucy!"

John, quietly answering, said.

"Yes, G.o.d _will_ provide for us, Lucy!"

He said, after musing a while-- I'd been quietly watching his features With a feeble attempt at a smile-- "For, '_trust in the Lord, and do good_,'

Our Father in Heaven has said, '_So shalt thou dwell in the land, And verily thou shalt be fed!_'"

Scarcely the words had he spoken, When a faint, little tap at the door Surprised us,--for all the long morning The rain had continued to pour.

I am sure I shall never remember The pelting and pitiless rain Of that desolate day in November, Without a dull heart-throb of pain.

For work had grown scarcer and scarcer, Till there seemed not a job to be done; We had paid out our very last sixpence, And of fuel and food we had none.

John had tried--no one ever tried harder-- For work, but his efforts were vain; And I wondered all faith had not failed him That morning when out in the rain.

"Come in!" said John, speaking quite softly.

And opening the door a small s.p.a.ce, For there stood a thin, little beggar With such a blue, pitiful face!

"O sir, if you please sir, I'm hungry, Do give me a small bit of bread!"

"Come in, then, you poor, little woman, I am sure you are freezing!" John said.