Lays from the West Part 13

"ONLY."

Only relics, yet precious and pure Are the dreams of the days of old, Though they tell of wounds that no charm can cure, And of bright hopes, dead and cold.

Only visions of forest ways, Only thoughts of happier days, Only the glow of Life's sunrise haze When the morning sun was s.h.i.+ning.

Only, it may be, a lock of hair, Or a flower sere and dry; Only a pictured face, how fair In the light of the times gone by!

Only a sigh for what may not be, Only a yearning wish to see The light beyond the mystery That for weary souls is s.h.i.+ning.

Only thoughts of the gladsome time When the world of youth was bright; Only memories of joys sublime-- The gleams of youth's fairy light, Only sweet flashes that come and go, Only the thrall that sets heart aglow, Only the spells we were wont to know When Fancy's rays were s.h.i.+ning.

Only voices we hear no more, But the echoes haunt our ears; Only dreams that are past and o'er That we mourn through the lonely years Only to find that the sunny gleam Of earth's love fades like a pa.s.sing dream, Only to wait for that deathless beam That "beyond the tide" is s.h.i.+ning.

Only the clasp of a parting hand On the silent rivers' sh.o.r.e, As the dear one sails for the unseen Land And we see his face no more,-- Only to gaze o'er the waters drear, Only to wait till the call we hear, "Come over now, for rest is near Where the true life light is s.h.i.+ning."

Only the burden all must bear, Only earth's weight of woe; Only to learn from each dreary care The patience the pure must know.

Only this:--but what welcomes wait To hail us home at the pearly gate; Only to toil until night is late And awake where the Morn is s.h.i.+ning.

FIRST PSALM.

How blessed are they who turn their steps From paths the wicked choose, Who stand not in the sinners ways, And scorners' seats refuse.

Who take their solace and delight In meditation pure-- The law of G.o.d--its depth and height, Its wisdom, might, and power.

They, like the trees on verdant banks Whereby sweet rivers flow, Shall bring forth fruit, and fadeless leaves, And prosperously grow.

But such is not the sinners' end-- Like the light chaff are they, Which when the softest winds arise, Are quickly swept away.

They shall not in the judgment stand, Nor sinners, scorning grace Be in the congregation found Where righteous men find place.

The Lord himself the righteous knows-- He marks them from their birth, But G.o.dless ways of sinful men Shall perish from the earth.

HER NAME.

The purple heather on the brae Was all abloom; by glen and weld The wild birds sang the live-long day, The corn-fields ripened into gold.

The garden blooms were wonderous fair; Red roses blushed in regal glow; Carnations scented all the air, Pure was the lilies' virgin snow.

But fairer than the garden flowers, Or all the summer blooms, wean Was she, whose smiles beguiled the hours-- Was she, whose presence charmed the scene.

Oh! pleasant were the sylvian glades, Oh! sweet the hush of summer noon; Roaming 'neath tangled green-wood shades We deemed _that_ twilight came too soon!

Our home-ward way lay through the wood, We lingered by the streamlet's side,-- False vows were made what time we stood There, 'neath the elms, that eventide.

I carved her name upon a tree,-- A gnarled old ash-tree, gaunt and grey; "The name may stay," she said to me, "When I, perchance, am far away!"

Swiftly the summers come and go, And life grows stern, and love grows cold; Dim are the days of long ago-- Their joys a story long since told.

But, sometimes, at the close of day, I dream of that dim wood, and see, A name upon an ash-tree grey-- 'Tis all the past has left to me!

MEMORY.

"And other days come back to me With recollected music."--BYRON.

How memory's boundless store is fraught With wonders, mystic and sublime!

Bright gleams, that oft we set at nought; Sweet messengers from Heaven's own clime.

The wind that stirs the boughs at eve-- A star that glimmers in the blue Of nights gemm'd crown, oftimes may wreathe A halo, strangely sweet and new.

Round hopes and fears we used to know In life's young morning, long ago.

The cadence of the sighing waves That break in song along the sh.o.r.e, The winds that sigh thro', hidden caves Are echoes from the days of yore.

The moonlight, stealing o'er the sea, So calm, above the restless tide, Is like the light that used to be In many a by-gone eventide, As memory comes, and paints each scene, Of loves and joys that once have been.

We feel the power, and own the spell, That bid the lonely spirit stray, In thought, to where our lost ones dwell, Now from our paths so far away We say "'tis dreams that Fancy brings,"

And go our way, forgetting still; But on the winds are angels' wings, And spirit power, our souls that thrill With yearning for that life unseen, Hid far behind this mortal screen.

For Memory still with subtle art Unfolds the bygone to our eyes, And still the lonely, longing heart Would soar beyond earth's mysteries, Till wearied grown of useless tears, And longing for the olden days, We turn to see the future years Lie smiling 'neath hope's rosy haze, And view the past with hopeful love, Made sure our life is "hid above."--

Hid far away from mortal ken,-- These wonderous gleams that round us stray, These meteors, 'mong the haunts of men, These holy thoughts, that day by day, s.h.i.+ne in their light of Heavenly hue O'er chequered paths of work and love, Refres.h.i.+ng as the tender dew, Are stray-beams from the light above Men call it Memory, but we know 'Tis Heaven's warm light on earth's cold snow!

TWILIGHT.

Twilight's shades are round me creeping, Nature dons her robe of gray; Through the blue the stars are peeping, Sunset's last, faint streaks decay.

Visions come of bygone hours, Ere these eyes were dimmed by tears, Youth's bright scenes unwreathed with flowers Dimly seen through mist of years.

Softly through the summer gloaming Steals this picture of the past; Through the wood the breeze is roaming Moon beams round their shadows cast.

By the murmuring, flowing river, Sits a maiden waiting there; Graven on my heart forever Is that form of beauty rare!

Vows are plighted, love is given, Trusting love without alloy, And the calm, blue, starry heaven Whispers but of truth and joy!

By the murmuring, flowing river, Where the sh.o.r.e the waters lave, Now the moon beams fall and quiver On a green and lonely grave!

Token sad of fond love slighted, Of a rose cut down in bloom, Of a fair young blossom blighted All too lovely for the tomb.

Softly through the summer gloaming Sighs the breeze a requiem low, And my sad heart, ever moaning Answers to its tones of woe!