Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe
Page 656
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 goldflecked 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 flowerstalk 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.
HOURS OF THE NIGHT; OR, WATCHES OF SORROW.
MIDNIGHT.
“He hath made me to dwell in darkness as those that have been long dead.”
ALL dark! — no light, no ray!
Sun, moon, and stars, all gone!
Dimness of anguish! — utter void! —
Crushed, and alone!
One waste of weary pain,
One dull, unmeaning ache,
A heart too weary even to throb,
Too bruised to break.
No longer anxious thoughts,
No longer hopes and fears,
No strife, no effort, no desire,
No tears.
Daylight and leaves and flowers,
Summer and song of bird! —
All vanished! — dreams forever gone,
Unseen, unheard!
Love, beauty, youth, — all gone!
The high, heroic vow,
The buoyant hope, the fond desire, —
All ashes now!
The words they speak to me
Far off and distant seem,
As voices we have known and loved
Speak in a dream.
They bid me to submit;
I do, — I cannot strive;
I do not question, — I endure,
Endure and live.
I do not struggle more,
Nor pray, for prayer is vain;
I but lie still the weary hour,
And bear my pain.
A guiding God, a Friend,
A Father’s gracious cheer,
Once seemed my own; but now even faith
Lies buried here.
This darkened, deathly life
Is all remains of me,
And but one conscious wish, —
To cease to be!
FIRST HOUR.
“There was darkness over all the land from the sixth hour unto the ninth hour.
“And Jesus cried and said, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”
THAT cry hath stirred the deadness of my soul;
I feel a heart-string throb, as throbs a chord
When breaks the master chord of some great harp;
My heart responsive answers, “Why?” O Lord.
O cross of pain! O crown of cruel thorns!
O piercing nails! O spotless Sufferer there!
Wert thou forsaken in thy deadly strife?
Then canst thou pity me in my despair.
Take my dead heart, O Jesus, down with thee
To that still sepulchre where thou didst rest;
Lay it in the fair linen’s spicy folds,
As a dear mother lays her babe to rest.
I am so worn, so weary, so o’erspent,
To lie with thee in that calm trance were sweet;
The bitter myrrh of long-remembered pain
May work in me new strength to rise again.
This dark and weary mystery of woe,
This hopeless struggle, this most useless strife, —
Ah, let it end! I die with thee, my Lord,
To all I ever hoped or wished from life.
I die with thee: thy fellowship of grief,
Thy partnership with mortal misery,
The weary watching and the nameless dread, —
Let them be mine to make me one with thee.
Thou hast asked, “Why?” and God will answer thee,
Therefore I ask not, but in peace lie down,
For the three days of mystery and rest,
Till comes the resurrection and the crown.
SECOND HOUR.
“They laid hold upon one Simon a Cyrenian, and on him they laid the cross, that he might bear it after Jesus.”
ALONG the dusty thoroughfare of life,
Upon his daily errands walking free,
Came a brave, honest man, untouched by pain,
Unchilled by sight or thought of misery.
But lo! a crowd: — he stops, — with curious eye
A fainting form all pressed to earth he sees;
The hard, rough burden of the bitter cross
Hath bowed the drooping head and feeble knees.
Ho! lay the cross upon yon stranger there,
For he hath breadth of chest and strength of limb.
Straight it is done; and heavy laden thus,
With Jesus’ cross, he turns and follows him.
Unmurmuring, patient, cheerful, pitiful,
Prompt with the holy sufferer to endure,
Forsaking all to follow the dear Lord, —
Thus did he make his glorious calling sure.
O soul, whoe’er thou art, walking life’s way,
As yet from touch of deadly sorrow free,
Learn from this story to forecast the day
When Jesus and his cross shall come to thee.
O, in that fearful, that decisive hour,
Rebel not, shrink not, seek not thence to flee,
But, humbly bending, take thy heavy load,
And bear it after Jesus patiently.
His cross is thine. If thou and he be one,
Some portion of his pain must still be thine;
Thus only mayst thou share his glorious crown,
And reign with him in majesty divine.
Master in sorrow! I accept my share
In the great anguish of life’s mystery.
No more, alone, I sink beneath my load,
But bear my cross, O Jesus, after thee.
THIRD HOUR.
THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.
“Let my heart calm itself in thee. Let the great sea of my heart, that swelleth with waves, calm itself in thee.” ST. AUGUSTINE’S MANUAL.
LIFE’S mystery — deep, restless as the ocean —
Hath surged and wailed for ages to and fro;
Earth’s generations watch its ceaseless motion,
As in and out its hollow moanings flow.
Shivering and yearning by that unknown sea,
Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in thee!
Life’s sorrows, with inexorable power,
Sweep desolation o’er this mortal plain;
And human loves and hopes fly as the chaff
Borne by the whirlwind from the ripened grain.
Ah! when before that blast my hopes all flee,
Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in thee!
Between the mysteries of death and life
Thou standest, loving, guiding, not explaining;
We ask, and thou art silent; yet we gaze,
And our charmed hearts forget their drear complaining.
No crushing fate, no stony destiny,
O Lamb that hast been slain, we find in thee!
The many waves of thought, the mighty tides,
The ground-swell that rolls up from other lands,
From far-off worlds, from dim, eternal shores,
Whose echo dashes on life’s wave-worn strands,
This vague, dark tumult of the inner sea
Grows calm, grows bright, O risen Lord, in thee!
Thy pierced hand guides the mysterious wheels;
Thy thorn-crowned brow now wears the crown of power;
And when the dread enigma presseth sore,
Thy patient voice saith, “Watch with me one hour.”
As sinks the moaning river in the sea
In silver peace, so sinks my soul in thee!
FOURTH HOUR.
THE SORROWS OF MARY.
DEDICATED TO THE MOTHERS WHO HAVE LOST SONS IN THE LATE WAR.
I SLEPT, but my heart was waking,
And out in my dreams I sped,
Through the streets of an ancient city,
Where Jesus, the Lord, lay dead.
He was lying all cold and lowly,
And the sepulchre was sealed,
And the women that bore the spices
Had come from the holy field.
There is feasting in Pilate’s palace,
There is revel in Herod’s hall,
Where the lute and the sounding instrument
To mirth and merriment call.
“I have washed my hands,” said Pilate,
“And what is the Jew to me?”
“I have missed my chance,” said Herod,
“One of his wonders to see.
“But why should our courtly circle
To the thought give further place?
All dreams, save of pleasure and beauty,
Bid the dancers’ feet efface.”
* * * * *
I saw a light from a casement,
And entered a lowly door,
Where a woman, stricken and mournful,
Sat in sackcloth on the floor.
There Mary, the mother of Jesus,
And John, the belovéd one,
With a few poor friends beside
them,
Were mourning for Him that was gone.
And before the mother was lying
That crown of cruel thorn,
Wherewith they crowned that gentle brow
In mockery that morn.
And her ears yet ring with the anguish
Of that last dying cry, —
That mighty appeal of agony
That shook both earth and sky.
O God, what a shaft of anguish
Was that dying voice from the tree! —
From Him the only spotless, —
“Why hast Thou forsaken me?”
And was he of God forsaken?
They ask, appalled with dread;
Is evil crowned and triumphant,
And goodness vanquished and dead?
Is there, then, no God in Jacob?
Is the star of Judah dim?
For who would our God deliver,
If he would not deliver him?
If God could not deliver, — what hope then?
If he would not, — who ever shall dare
To be firm in his service hereafter?
To trust in his wisdom or care?
So darkly the Tempter was saying,
To hearts that with sorrow were dumb;
And the poor souls were clinging in darkness to
God,
With hands that with anguish were numb.
* * * * *
In my dreams came the third day morning,
And fairly the day-star shone;
But fairer, the solemn angel,
As he rolled away the stone.
In the lowly dwelling of Mary,
In the dusky twilight chill,
There was heard the sound of coming feet,
And her very heart grew still.
And in the glimmer of dawning,
She saw him enter the door,
Her Son, all living and real,
Risen, to die no more!
Her Son, all living and real,
Risen no more to die, —
With the power of an endless life in his face,
With the light of heaven in his eye.
O mourning mothers, so many,
Weeping o’er sons that are dead,
Have ye thought of the sorrows of Mary’s heart,
Of the tears that Mary shed?
Is the crown of thorns before you?
Are there memories of cruel scorn?
Of hunger and thirst and bitter cold
That your beloved have borne?
Had ye ever a son like Jesus
To give to a death of pain?
Did ever a son so cruelly die,
But did he die in vain?
Have ye ever thought that all the hopes
That make our earth-life fair