Chapter XVI: Part III

The eve whereon the captain died
I turned the ship about,
And said unto the seamen good,
“We’ll find the island out.”

So back unto the place we came,
Where we the child had found;
And two full days with anxious watch,
We sailed it all around.

And on the third, at break of day,
A far-off peak was seen;
And then the low-lands rose to view,
All woody, rich, and green.

Down on his knees the child he fell,
When the mountains came in view,
And tears ran streaming from his eyes,--
For his own isle he knew.

And, with a wildly-piercing tone,
He cried, “Oh mother dear,
Weep not,--I come, my mother!”
Long, long ere she could hear.

And soon we saw a mountain-top
Whereon a beacon burned;
Then as the good ship neared the land,
An answer was returned.

“Oh give to me my boat!” he cried,
“And give to me mine oar!”
Just then we saw another boat
Pushed from the island-shore.

A carved boat of sandal-wood,
Its sail a silken mat,
All richly wrought in rainbow-dyes,
And three within her sat.

Down from the ship into the sea
The little boy he sprung;
And the mother gave a scream of joy,
With which the island rung.

Like some sea-creature beautiful
He swam the ocean-tide,
And ere we wondered at his skill
He clomb the shallop’s side.

Next moment in his mother’s arms
He lay, O sweet embrace!
Looking from her dear bosom up
Into her loving face.

The happiest and the sweetest sight
That e’er mine eyes will see,
Was the coming back of this poor child
Unto his family!

--Now wot ye of his parentage?
Sometime I’ll tell you it;
Of meaner matter many a time
Has many a book been writ.

’Twould make a pleasant history
Of joy scarce touched by woe,
Of innocence and love; but now
This only must you know.

His mother was of English birth,
Well-born, and young, and fair;
In the wreck of an East-Indiaman
She had been saved there.

His father was the island’s chief,
Goodly as man can be;
Adam, methinks, in Paradise
Was such a one as he.

’Tis not for my weak speech to tell
The joy so sweet and good,
Of these kind, simple islanders,
Nor all their gratitude.

Whate’er the island held they gave;
Delicious fruits and vines,
Rich-tinted shells from out the sea,
And ore from out their mines.

But I might not stay; and that same day
Again we turned about,
And, with the wind that changed then
Went from the harbour out.

--’Tis joy to do an upright deed;
’Tis joy to do a kind;
And the best rewards of virtuous deeds
Is the peace of one’s own mind.

But a blessing great went with the ship,
And with the frieght she bore;
The pearl-shells turned to great account,
So did the island’s ore;--
But I someway lost my reckoning,
Nor found the island more.

And how the child became a man,
Or what to him befel,
As I never trod the island more;
Is not for me to tell.

EASTER HYMNS.

HYMN I.

THE TWO MARYS.

Oh dark day of sorrow,
Amazement and pain;
When the promise was blighted
The given was ta’en!

When the master no longer
A refuge should prove;
And evil was stronger
Than mercy and love!

Oh dark day of sorrow,
Abasement and dread,
When the Master beloved
Was one with the dead!

We sate in our anguish
Afar off to see,
For we surely believed not
This sorrow could be!

But the trust of our spirits
Was all overthrown;
And we wept, in our anguish,
Astonished, alone!

At even they laid him
With aloes and myrrh,
In fine linen wound, in
A new sepulchre.

There, there will we seek him:
Will wash him with care;
Anoint him with spices:
And mourn for him there.

Oh strangest of sorrow!
Oh vision of fear!
New grief is around us--
The Lord is not here!

HYMN II.

THE ANGEL.

Women, why shrink ye
With wonder and dread?--
Seek not the living
Where slumbers the dead!

Weep not, nor tremble;
And be not dismayed;
The Lord hath arisen!
See where he was laid!

The grave-clothes, behold them;
The spices; the bier;
The napkin that bound him;
But he is not here!

Death could not hold him;
The grave is a prison
That keeps not the living;
The Christ has arisen!

HYMN III.

THE LORD JESUS.

Why are ye troubled?
Why weep ye and grieve?
What the prophets have written
Why slowly believe?

’Tis I, be not doubtful!
Why ponder ye so?
Behold in my body
The marks of my woe!

The willing hath suffered;
The chosen been slain;
The end is accomplished!
Behold me again!

Death has been conquered--
The grave has been riven--
For sin a remission
Hath freely been given!

Fearless in spirit,
Yet meek as the dove,
Go preach to the nations
This gospel of love.

For the might of the mighty
Shall o’er you be cast;
And I will be with you,
My friends, to the last.

I go to the Father,
But I will prepare
Your mansions of glory,
And welcome you there.

There life never-ending;
There bliss that endures;
There love never changing,
My friends, shall be yours!

But the hour is accomplished!
My children, we sever--
But be ye not troubled,
I am with you forever!

HYMN IV.

THE ELEVEN.

The Lord is ascending!--
Rich welcomes to give him:
See, angels descending!--
The heavens receive him!

See, angels, archangels
Bend down to adore!--
The Lord hath ascended,
We see him no more!

The Master is taken;
The friend hath departed;
Yet we are not forsaken,
Nor desolate-hearted!

The Master is taken;
The holy, the kind;
But the joy of his presence,
Remaineth behind!

Our hearts burned within us
To hear but the word
Which he spake, ere our spirits
Acknowledged the Lord!

The Lord hath ascended!
Our hope is secure,
We trusted not lightly;--
The promise is sure;

The Lord hath ascended;
And we his true-hearted,
Go forth with rejoicing,
Though he hath departed!

THE TWO ESTATES.

The children of the rich old man no carking care they know,
Like lilies in the sunshine how beautiful they grow!

And well may they be beautiful; in raiment of the best,
In velvet, gold, and ermine, their little forms are drest.

With a hat and jaunty feather set lightly on their head,
And golden hair, like angels’ locks, over their shoulders spread.

And well may they be beautiful; they toil not, neither spin,
Nor dig, nor delve, nor do they ought their daily bread to win.

They eat from gold and silver all luxuries wealth can buy;
They sleep on beds of softest down, in chambers rich and high.

They dwell in lordly houses, with gardens round about,
And servants to attend them if they go in or out.

They have music for the hearing, and pictures for the eye,
And exquisite and costly things each sense to gratify.

No wonder they are beautiful! and if they chanceto die,
Among dead lords and ladies, in the chancel vault they lie.

With marble tablets on the wall inscribed, that all may know,
The children of the rich man are mouldering below.

* * * * *

The children of the poor man, around the humble doors
They throng of city alleys and solitary moors.

In hot and noisy factories they turn the ceaseless wheel,
And eat with feeble appetite their coarse and joyless meal.

They rise up in the morning, ne’er dreaming of delight;
And weary, spent, and heart-sore, they go to bed at night.

They have no brave apparel, with golden clasp and gem;
So their clothes keep out the weather they’re good enough for them.

Their hands are broad and horny; they hunger, and are cold;
They learn what toil and sorrow mean ere they are five years old.

--The poor man’s child must step aside if the rich man’s child go by;
And scarcely aught may minister to his little vanity.

And of what could he be vain?--his most beautiful array
Is what the rich man’s children have worn and cast away.

The finely spun, the many-hued, the new, are not for him,
He must clothe himself, with thankfulness, in garments soiled and
dim.

He sees the children of the rich in chariots gay go by,
And “what a heavenly life is their’s,” he sayeth with a sigh.

Then straightway to his work he goeth, for feeble though he be,
His daily toil must still be done to help the family.

Thus live the poor man’s children; and if they chance to die,
In plain, uncostly coffins, ’mong common graves they lie;

Nor monument nor head-stone their humble names declare:--
But thou, O God, wilt not forget the poor man’s children there!

LIFE’S MATINS.

At that sweet hour of even,
When nightingales awake,
Low bending o’er her first-born son,
An anxious mother spake.

“Thou child of prayer and blessing,
Would that my soul could know,
What the unending future holds
For thee of joy or woe.

“Thy life, will it be gladness,
A sunny path of flowers;--
Or strift, with sorrow dark as death,
Through weary, wintry hours?

“Oh child of love and blessing,
Young blossom of life’s tree--
My spirit trembles but to think
What time may make of thee!

“Yet of the unveiled future
Would knowledge might be given!”
Then voices of the unseen ones
Made answer back from heaven.

FIRST VOICE.

“Tears he must shed unnumbered;
And he must strive with care,
As strives in war the armed men:
And human woe must bear.

“Must learn that joy is mockery;
That man doth mask his heart;
Must prove the trusted faithless;
And see the loved depart!

“Must feel himself alone, alone;
Must weep when none can see;
Then lock his grief, like treasure up,
For lack of sympathy.

“Must prove all human knowledge
A burden, a deceit;
And many a flattering friendship find
A dark and hollow cheat.

“Well may’st thou weep, fond mother;--
For what can life bequeath,
But tears and sighs unnumbered,
But watching, change, and death!”

SECOND VOICE.

“Rejoice, rejoice, fond mother,
Thou hast given birth,
To this immortal being,
To this sweet child of earth!

“The pearl within the ocean,
The gold within the mine,
Have not a thousandth part the worth
Of this fair child of thine!

“Oh fond and anxious mother,
Look up with joyful eyes,
For a boundless wealth of love and power
In that young spirit lies!

“Love to enfold all natures
In one benign embrace;
Power to diffuse a blessing wide
O’er all the human race!

“Bless God both night and morning;
Be thine a joyful heart;
For the child of mortal parents hath
With the Eternal part.

“The stars shall dim their brightness;
And as a parched scroll
The earth shall fade, but ne’er shall fade
The undying human soul!

“Oh then rejoice fond mother,
That thou hast given birth
To this immortal being,
To this fair child of earth?”

A LIFE’S SORROW.

AN OLD MAN’S NARRATIVE.

My life hath had its curse; and I will tell
To you its dark and troubled history.
Brethren you are; oh then as brethren dwell,
Linked soul to soul in blessed unity;
Like the rejoicing branches of a tree,
All braving storm, all sharing sunny weather,
All putting on their leaves, and withering all together.

I had a brother. As a spring of joy
Was he unto the gladness of my youth;
And in our guileless confidence, each boy,
Vowed a sweet vow of everlasting truth,
All sympathetic love, all generous ruth;
Alas! that years the noble heart should tame,
And the boy’s virtue put the man to shame!

I was the elder; and as years passed on
Men paid invidious homage to the heir;
And pride, which was the sin of angels, won
Our human hearts; their guilt I will not spare;
If I was proud, the boy began to wear
A lip of scorn, and paid me back my pride,
With arrowy wit that wounded and defied.

Still he was dear to me, and I would gaze
With yearning heart upon him as he went
Past me in silent pride, and inly praised
His godlike form, and the fair lineament
Of his fine countenance, as eloquent
As if it breathed forth music; and his voice
Oh how its tones could soften and rejoice!

Strange was it, that a brother, thus my pride,
Grew to my friendship so estranged and cold;
Strange was it, that kind spirits erst allied
By kindred fellowship, so proved of old,
Were sundered and to separate interests sold!
I know not how it was! but pride was strong
In either breast, and did the other wrong.

There was another cause--we fiercely strove
In an ambitious race;--but worse than all
We met, two rival combatants in love;
My brother was the victor, and my fall,
Maddening my jealous pride, turned love to gall,
There was no lingering kindness more. We parted,
Each on his separate way, the severed-hearted.

For years we met not: met not till we stood,
Silent and moody, by our father’s bed,
Each with his hatred seemingly subdued
Whilst in the presence of that reverend head:
Surely our steadfast rancour might have fled
When that good father joined our hands and smiled,
And died believing we were reconciled!

And so we might have been; but there were those
Who found advantage in our longer hate;
Who stepped between our hearts and kept us foes,
And taught that hatred was inviolate:--
Fools to be duped by such! But ah, too late
True knowledge and repentance come; and back
I look in woe upon life’s blighted track!

We were the victims of the arts we scorned;
We were like clay within the potter’s hand:
And so again we parted. He adorned
The courtly world: his wit and manners bland
The hearts of men and women could command.
I too ran folly’s round, till tired of pleasure,
I sought repose in tranquil, rural leisure.

Ere long he left his native land, and went
Into the East with pomp and power girt round.
And so years past: the morn of life was spent,
And manhood’s noon advanced with splendour crowned;
They said ’mid kingly luxury without bound,
He dwelt in joy; and that his blessing ever
Flowed like that land’s unmeasured, bounteous river.

And the world worshipped him, for he was great--
Great in the council, greater in the field,
And I too had my blessings, for I sate
Amid my little ones: the fount unsealed
Of my heart’s wronged affections seemed to yield
A tenfold current: and my babes, like light
Unto the captive’s gaze, rejoiced my sight.

I dwelt within my home an altered man;
Again all tenderness and love was sweet,
’Twas as if fresh existence had began,
Since pleasant welcomes were sent forth to greet
My coming, and the sound of little feet
Was on my floor, and bright and loving eyes
Beamed on me without feigning a disguise.

As the chill snows of winter melt away
Before the genial spring, so from my heart
Passed hatred and revenge; and I could pray
For pardon, pardoning all; my soul was blessed
With answered love, and hopes whereon to rest
My joy in years to come; I asked no more,
The cup of that rich blessedness ran o’er.

Alas! even then the brightness of my life
Again grew dim; my fount of joy was dried;
My soul was doomed to bear a heavier strife
Than it had borne!--my children at my side
In their meek, loving beauty, drooped and died--
First they, and then their mother! Did I weep?
No, tears are not for griefs intense and deep!

Ah me! those weary days, those painful nights,
When voices from the dead were in mine ear,
And I had visions of my lost delights,
And saw the lovely and the loving near,
Then woke and knew my home so dim and drear!
What marvel if I prayed that I might die,
In my soul’s great, unchastened misery!

I had known sorrow, and remorse, and shame,
But never knew I misery till that time;
And in my soul sprang up the torturing blame,
That they had died for my unpardoned crime!
Then madness followed; and my manhood’s prime
Passed like a dark and hideous dream away,
Without a memory left of night or day.

I dwelt within my childhood’s home, and yet
I wist not of each dear familiar place;
My soul was in a gloomy darkness set,
Engulphed in deadness for a season’s space.
At length light beamed; a ray of heavenly grace
Upon my bowed and darkened spirit lay,
Healing its wounds and giving power to pray.

I rose a sorrowing man, and yet renewed;
Resigned, although abashed to the dust;
I felt that God was righteous, true, and good,
And though severe in awful judgment, just;
Therefore in him I put undoubting trust,
And walked once more among my fellow-men,
Yet in their vain joys mingling not again.

My home was still a solitude; none sought
Nor found in me companion; yet I pined
For something which might win my weary thought
From its deep anguish; some strong, generous mind,
Round which my lorn affections might be twined:
Some truthful heart on which mine own might lean,
And still from life some scattered comfort glean.

The dead, alas! I sorrowed for the dead,
Until well-nigh my madness had returned;
Till memory of them grew a thing of dread,
And therefore towards a living friend I yearned,
My brother! then my soul unto thee turned;
Then pined I for thy spirit’s buoyant play,
Like the chained captive for the light of day!

The kindness of his youth came back to me;
I saw his form in visions of the night;
I seemed to hear his footsteps light and free
Upon my floors; the memoried delight
Of his rich voice came back with sweeter might!
Perchance ’twas madness--so I often thought,
For with insatiate zeal in me it wrought.

“I will arise,” I cried, like him of yore,
“The conscience-stricken prodigal, and lay
Myself, as in the dust, his face before,
And, ‘I have sinned, my brother!’ I will say--
‘Forgive, forgive!’ The clouds shall pass away,
And I will banquet on his love; and rest
My weary soul on his sustaining breast!”

I gathered up my strength; I asked of none
Council or aid; I crossed the desert sea;
The purpose of my soul, to all unknown,
Was yet supporting energy to me.
I was like one from cruel bonds set free,
Who walks exulting on, yet telleth not
The all-sufficing gladness of his lot.

Through the great cities of the East I passed
Into the kingdom where he reigned supreme;
I came unto a gorgeous palace, vast
As the creation of a poet’s dream:--
My strength gave way, how little did I seem!
I felt like Joseph’s brethren, mean and base,
I turned aside and dared not meet his face.

Hard by there was a grove of cypress trees;
A place, as if for mourning spirits made;
Thither I sped, my burdened heart to ease,
And weep unseen within the secret shade,--
A mighty woe that cypress grove displayed!
Oh let me weep! you will not say that tears
Wrung by that sorrow can be stanched by years.

There was a tomb; a tomb as of a king;
A gorgeous palace of the unconscious dead.
My heart died in me, like the failing wing
Of the struck bird, as on that wall I read
My brother’s name! Feeling and memory fled;
The flood-gates of my misery gave way,
And senseless on the marble floor I lay.

I lay for hours; and when my sense returned
The day was o’er; no moon was in the sky,
But the thick-strewn, eternal planets burned
In their celestial beauty steadfastly;--
It seemed each star was as a heavenly eye
Looking upon my sorrow;--thus I deemed,
And sate within the tomb till morning beamed.

--For this I crossed the sea; in those far wilds,
Through perils numberless, for this I went!
What followed next I tell not; as a child’s
Again my soul was feeble; too much spent
To suffer as of old, or to lament,
I came back to the scenes where life began,
By griefs, not years, a bowed and aged man.

I murmur not; but with submissive will
Resign to woe the evening of my day;
On the great morrow love will have its fill;
God will forgive our poor repentant clay,
Nor thrust us from his paradise away!
But brethren, be ye warned! Oh do not sever
Your kindred hearts, which should be linked For ever!

THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW.

My old friend, he was a good old friend,
And I thought, like a fool, his face to mend;
I got another; but ah! to my cost.
I found him unlike the one I had lost!
I and my friend, we were bred together:--
He had a smile like the summer weather;
A kind warm heart; and a hand as free:--
My friend, he was all the world to me!

I could sit with him and crack many a joke,
And talk of old times and the village folk;
He had been with us at the Christmas time;
He knew every tree we used to climb;
And where we played; and what befell,
My dear old friend remembered well.
It did me good but to see his face;
And I’ve put another friend in his place!
I wonder how such a thing could be,
For my old friend would not have slighted me!

Oh my fine new friend, he is smooth and bland,
With a jewelled ring or two on his hand;
He visits my lord and my lady fair;
He hums the last new opera air.
He takes not the children on his knee;
My faithful hound reproacheth me,
For he snarls when my new friend draweth near,
But my good old friend to the brute was dear!
I wonder how I such a thing could do,
As change the old friend for the new!

My rare old friend, he read the plays,
That were written in Master Shakspeare’s days;
He found in them wit and moral good:--
My new friend thinks them coarse and rude:--
And many a pleasant song he sung,
Because they were made when we were young;
He was not too grand, not he, to know
The merry old songs made long ago.
He writ his name on the window-pane;--
It was cracked by my new friend’s riding-cane!

My good old friend, “he tirled at the pin,”
He opened the door and entered in;
We all were glad to see his face
As he took at the fire his ’customed place,
And the little children, loud in glee,
They welcomed him as they welcomed me.
He knew our griefs, our joys he shared;
There cannot be friend with him compared;
We had tried him long, had found him true!
Why changed I the old friend for the new?

My new friend cometh in lordly state;
He peals a startling ring at the gate;
There’s hurry and pomp, there’s pride and din,
And my new friend bravely entereth in.
I bring out the noblest wines for cheer,
I make him a feast that costeth dear;
But he knows not what in my heart lies deep;--
He may laugh with me, but never shall weep,
For there is no bond between us twain;
And I sigh for my dear old friend again;
And thus, too late, I bitterly rue
That I changed the old friend for the new!

MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.

A STORY OF THE OLDEN TIME.