By the Sea and Other Verses Part 7
N. Kerlin.
A feeble, idiot boy, he stood Where Nature in her beauty grew, And over field and flowering wood Her summer mantle lightly threw.
The scene had met his eye before; The pleasant path he oft had trod; And one who sought in simple lore To teach him things of heaven and G.o.d
Had often wandered with him there, And pointed out each lovely spot,-- The sunlit cloud--the floweret fair-- But still he comprehended not.
For all his soul was void and still, And darkness held his mind in thrall; He recognized no Sovereign Will, Nor saw the hand of G.o.d in all.
In Nature's presence now alone He stood, and filled with silent awe, Beheld, before the coming sun, The curtained Night in haste withdraw.
And gazing there with vacant eye, All motionless and mute he waits, When lo! the chariot of the sky Rolls through the morning's crimson gates.
The orient beams with beauteous light-- Hath not his soul its radiance caught?
His being grasps a new delight; A deep, mysterious change is wrought.
A light is kindled in his breast; A temple-veil at length is riven; And in that hour of strange unrest A thought is born--of G.o.d in heaven.
In haste he seeks his tutor's side, For he who "bore in grief a part"
Will, in this happy hour of pride, Responsive hail his joy of heart.
The glowing cheek, the flashing eye, The parted lips--_not voiceless now_-- And, caught from that resplendent sky, The marvelous light upon his brow,--
While these, ere yet he speaks, attest The rapture which that thought has given; He lifts his finger toward the east And softly whispers, "_G.o.d, in Heaven!_"
O blessed hour! and happy he To whom, thro patient love 'twas given To set a fettered spirit free, And wake a hope of G.o.d in Heaven
NEAL DOW
WRITTEN FOR A MEMORIAL DAY SERVICE
A Soul was stirred as one thro' blinding tears Rehea.r.s.ed a tale of want and cruel wrong; Keen indignation banished doubts and fears; The purpose of imperial youth grew strong.
A Voice was heard: "Alas! that on the side Of sin and mad oppression there is power, But we will change all this, if G.o.d so aid":-- And Maine's new freedom dated from that hour.
A Life was given; fraught with n.o.ble deeds;-- Aflame with words of truth, and tireless zeal, And boldness for the right that gave no heed To threatening hate, or sycophant's appeal.
But men decried the fervor of that Soul, And would have hushed the Voice that pleaded still Against the oppressors' power, and such control As brought _them_ gain, all others loss and ill.
And men denounced that Life; and where it came Ofttimes their scoffings tainted the sweet air, As with malicious scorn they hailed a name That calumny itself left clean and fair.
And now that Soul hath entered into rest; That Voice is silent, and that peerless Life Hath crossed the threshold where the good and blest Enter, and cease from sorrow, toil and strife.
O Life and Voice and Soul! O princely one!
Our loyal hearts send greeting to thee now; Thy name has lighted near a century gone,-- 'Twill brighten ages yet to come, Neal Dow.
"PARADISE WILL PAY FOR ALL"
LAST WORDS OF SAMUEL A. PURDIE
From the charm of idle pleasure, From Ambition's siren song, From the rush for earthly treasure Of the busy, careless throng; In the dawn of life's fair morning He had heard the Master's call; "Yea, I come," his heart made answer, "Paradise will pay for all."
On through years of toil and struggle Walked he, faithful to his word; Blameless life and kind entreaty Leading many to the Lord.
Meeting dangers, bearing burdens Well might stoutest heart appal; But to every doubt replying, "Paradise will pay for all."
Now at eve, toil-spent and weary, Pierced with pain the pilgrim lay; Watching still with faith triumphant For the dawn of brighter day.
Then upon his ear there falleth Once again the Master's call: "Come up higher." "Yea," he answers, "Paradise will pay for all."
FORGIVENESS
Father in Heaven, I thank Thee for this hour, This blessed hour wherein my contrite soul Humbled and happy bows itself to Thee, Pleading that all its error and its sin May be forgiven--even as I forgive.
The cruel wrong swept o'er me like a flood; And my hurt soul in fierce defiance rose, And all forgetful that itself could sin Heaped heavy hatred on the offender's head.
There came a calmer hour in which I saw The strong temptation that had moved him thus To barter all his better life away-- Love, honor, principle--to gain the world.
And seeing this I learned to pity him.
For well I knew the bauble he had won Would only mock him with its faithless glare; And well I knew the golden fruit he grasped Would be but dust and ashes in his hand; And knowing this I learned to pity him.
And as my pity grew it turned to prayer-- That when the glitter of the gold was gone, And the sweet fruit was bitter to his taste; When the sad memory of the slighted past Came, and made deeper still the present gloom, The darkness might be lifted, and the Soul, Self-robbed and famishing, might find its way To the green pastures and the springs of life, That in the heart whence love and joy had fled, Whence hope was exiled, there might yet be peace.
But suddenly I queried in my heart What power had moved me that I should have prayed For him I counted as my life-long foe.
Greatly I marveled what it meant that thus I had called down such blessing upon him-- The kindliest boon of heaven, the peace of G.o.d.
Deep in my soul there came an answering voice: "O Child, _it is but this--thou hast forgiven_!"
Then thanks, O Father, for this plessed hour, Wherein my soul, by Thine own Spirit taught, Prays with no mockery of words Thy prayer: "Forgive my trespa.s.ses, _as I forgive_."
A LOST SONG?
Horror of combat, and tumult and dread; Thunder of cannon and bursting of bomb; Moans of the wounded (who envy the dead) Lost in the clamor of trumpet and drum.
O where is the song of the angels?
O when shall we hear it again?
"Peace on earth," rang the chorus seraphic, "And good will evermore among men."
Here is fierce anger and hatred and death, Pitiless slaughter of pitiless foe; Blessings and curses poured forth in a breath; Brave self-forgetting, and measureless woe.
But where is the song of the angels?
O when shall we hear it again?