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Poems
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At first to fill
That waking with a love that steady turns
To God; a hope that ever upward yearns,
Bowed to His will.
"Years had passed o'er thy broken household band,
When angels beckoned me to this bright land,
With thee to meet.
She that has wept o'er thee, kissed my cold brow,
Rears the sad marble to our memory now,
In lone retreat.
"By the remembrance of her loyal life,
And parting prayer, I only know my wife,
Thy child, shall come —
Where farewells cloud not o'er our ransomed rest —
Hither to reap, with all the crowned and blest,
Of bliss the sum.
"When Love's rapt sense the heartstrings gently sweep
With joy divinely fair, the high and deep,
To call her home,
She shall mount upward unto purer skies;
We shall be waiting, in what glad surprise,
Our spirits' own!"
ISLE OF WIGHT
On receiving a painting of the Isle.
Isle of beauty, thou art singing
To my sense a sweet refrain;
To my busy mem'ry bringing
Scenes that I would see again.
Chief, the charm of thy reflecting,
Is the moral that it brings;
Nature, with the mind connecting,
Gives the artist's fancy wings.
Soul, sublime 'mid human débris,
Paints the limner's work, I ween,
Art and Science, all unweary,
Lighting up this mortal dream.
Work ill-done within the misty
Mine of human thoughts, we see
Soon abandoned when the Master
Crowns life's Cliff for such as we.
Students wise, he maketh now thus
Those who fish in waters deep,
When the buried Master hails us
From the shores afar, complete.
Art hath bathed this isthmus-lordling
In a beauty strong and meek
As the rock, whose upward tending
Points the plane of power to seek.
Isle of beauty, thou art teaching
Lessons long and grand, tonight,
To my heart that would be bleaching
To thy whiteness, Cliff of Wight.
SPRING
Come to thy bowers, sweet spring,
And paint the gray, stark trees,
The bud, the leaf and wing —
Bring with thee brush and breeze.
And soft thy shading lay
On vale and woodland deep;
With sunshine's lovely ray
Light o'er the rugged steep.
More softly warm and weave
The patient, timid grass,
Till heard at silvery eve
Poor robin's lonely mass.
Bid faithful swallows come
And build their cozy nests,
Where wind nor storm can numb
Their downy little breasts.
Come at the sad heart's call,
To empty summer bowers,
Where still and dead are all
The vernal songs and flowers.
It may be months or years
Since joyous spring was there.
O come to clouds and tears
With light and song and prayer!
JUNE
Whence are thy wooings, gentle June?
That waking with a love that steady turns
To God; a hope that ever upward yearns,
Bowed to His will.
"Years had passed o'er thy broken household band,
When angels beckoned me to this bright land,
With thee to meet.
She that has wept o'er thee, kissed my cold brow,
Rears the sad marble to our memory now,
In lone retreat.
"By the remembrance of her loyal life,
And parting prayer, I only know my wife,
Thy child, shall come —
Where farewells cloud not o'er our ransomed rest —
Hither to reap, with all the crowned and blest,
Of bliss the sum.
"When Love's rapt sense the heartstrings gently sweep
With joy divinely fair, the high and deep,
To call her home,
She shall mount upward unto purer skies;
We shall be waiting, in what glad surprise,
Our spirits' own!"
ISLE OF WIGHT
On receiving a painting of the Isle.
Isle of beauty, thou art singing
To my sense a sweet refrain;
To my busy mem'ry bringing
Scenes that I would see again.
Chief, the charm of thy reflecting,
Is the moral that it brings;
Nature, with the mind connecting,
Gives the artist's fancy wings.
Soul, sublime 'mid human débris,
Paints the limner's work, I ween,
Art and Science, all unweary,
Lighting up this mortal dream.
Work ill-done within the misty
Mine of human thoughts, we see
Soon abandoned when the Master
Crowns life's Cliff for such as we.
Students wise, he maketh now thus
Those who fish in waters deep,
When the buried Master hails us
From the shores afar, complete.
Art hath bathed this isthmus-lordling
In a beauty strong and meek
As the rock, whose upward tending
Points the plane of power to seek.
Isle of beauty, thou art teaching
Lessons long and grand, tonight,
To my heart that would be bleaching
To thy whiteness, Cliff of Wight.
SPRING
Come to thy bowers, sweet spring,
And paint the gray, stark trees,
The bud, the leaf and wing —
Bring with thee brush and breeze.
And soft thy shading lay
On vale and woodland deep;
With sunshine's lovely ray
Light o'er the rugged steep.
More softly warm and weave
The patient, timid grass,
Till heard at silvery eve
Poor robin's lonely mass.
Bid faithful swallows come
And build their cozy nests,
Where wind nor storm can numb
Their downy little breasts.
Come at the sad heart's call,
To empty summer bowers,
Where still and dead are all
The vernal songs and flowers.
It may be months or years
Since joyous spring was there.
O come to clouds and tears
With light and song and prayer!
JUNE
Whence are thy wooings, gentle June?
