And, beating on their prison bars, Our spirits ask more room, And with unanswered questionings, They pierce beyond the tomb.
Then say thou not, oh, doubtful heart!
There is no life to come: That in some tearless, cloudless land; Thou shalt not find thy home.
=_Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1809-._= (Manual, pp. 478, 520.)
From his Poems.
=_378._= THE LAST LEAF.
I saw him once before, As he pa.s.sed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o"er the ground With his cane.
My grandmamma has said,-- Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago,-- That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow.
But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back.
And a melancholy crack In his laugh.
I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer!
And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring,-- Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.
From "The Professor at the Breakfast Table."
=_379._= A MOTHER"S SECRET.
They reach the holy place, fulfill the days To solemn feasting given, and grateful praise.
At last they turn, and far Moriah"s height Melts into southern sky and fades from sight.
All day the dusky caravan has flowed In devious trails along the winding road,-- (For many a step their homeward path attends, And all the sons of Abraham are as friends.) Evening has come,--the hour of rest and joy;-- Hush! hush! that whisper,--"Where is Mary"s boy?"
O weary hour! O aching days that pa.s.sed, Filled with strange fears, each wilder than the last: The soldier"s lance,--the fierce centurion"s sword,-- The crushing wheels that whirl some Roman lord,-- The midnight crypt that sucks the captive"s breath,-- The blistering sun on Hinnom"s vale of death!
Thrice on his cheek had rained the morning light, Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of night, Crouched by some porphyry column"s shining plinth, Or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth.
At last, in desperate mood, they sought once more The Temple"s porches, searched in vain before; They found him seated with the ancient men,-- The grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen,-- Their bald heads glistening as they cl.u.s.tered near, Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear, Lost In half-envious wonder and surprise That lips so fresh should utter words so wise.
And Mary said,--as one who, tried too long, Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong.-- "What is this thoughtless thing which thou hast done?
Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, O my son!"
Few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone,-- Strange words, their sense a mystery yet unknown; Then turned with them and left the holy hill, To all their mild commands obedient still.
The tale was told to Nazareth"s sober men, And Nazareth"s matrons told it oft again; The maids retold it at the fountain"s side; The youthful shepherds doubted or denied; It pa.s.sed around among the listening friends, With all that fancy adds and fiction lends, Till newer marvels dimmed the young renown Of Joseph"s son, who talked the Rabbies down.
But Mary, faithful to its lightest word, Kept in her heart the sayings she had heard, Till the dread morning rent the Temple"s veil, And shuddering Earth confirmed the wondrous tale.
Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall; A mother"s secret hope outlives them all.
=_Willis g.a.y.l.o.r.d Clark, 1810-1841._= (Manual, pp. 503, 523.)
From his "Literary Remains."
=_380._= AN INVITATION TO EARLY PIETY.
Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing-- Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die; Ere the gay spell which earth is round thee throwing, Fade like the sunset of a summer sky; Life hath but shadows, save a promise given, Which lights the future with a fadeless ray; O, touch the sceptre--win a hope in heaven-- Come--turn thy spirit from the world away.
Then will the crosses of this brief existence, Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul; And shining brightly in the forward distance, Will of thy patient race appear the goal; Home of the weary! where in peace reposing, The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss, Though o"er its dust the curtained grave is closing-- Who would not _early_ choose a lot like this?
=_James Russell Lowell, 1819-._= (Manual, p. 520.)
From his "Miscellaneous Poems," &c.
=_381._= A SONG.
Violet! sweet violet!
Thine eyes are full of tears; Are they wet Even yet, With the thought of other years?
Or with gladness are they full, For the night so beautiful, And longing for those far-off spheres?
Loved-one of my youth thou wast, Of my merry youth, And I see, Tearfully, All the fair and sunny past, All its openness and truth, Ever fresh and green in thee As the moss is in the sea.
Thy little heart, that hath with love Grown colored like the sky above, On which thou lookest ever,-- Can it know All the woe Of hope for what returneth never, All the sorrow and the longing To these hearts of ours belonging?
Out on it! no foolish pining For the sky Dims thine eye, Or for the stars so calmly shining; Like thee let this soul of mine Take hue from that wherefor I long, Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, Not satisfied with hoping--but divine.
Violet! dear violet!
Thy blue eyes are only wet With joy and love of him who sent thee, And for the fulfilling sense Of that glad obedience Which made thee all that Nature meant thee!
From "The Present Crisis."
=_382._= IMPORTANCE OF A n.o.bLE DEED.
When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth"s aching breast Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west, And the slave, where"er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime Of a century, bursts full-blossomed on the th.o.r.n.y stem of Time.
Once, to every man and nation, comes the moment to decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side; Some great cause, G.o.d"s new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight, Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right, And the choice goes by for ever, twist that darkness and that light.
We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great, Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate, But the soul is still oracular; amid the market"s din, List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within,-- "They enslave their children"s children, who make compromise with sin."