A SONG OF LIFE.
In the rapture of life and of living, I lift up my heart and rejoice, And I thank the great Giver for giving The soul of my gladness a voice.
In the glow of the glorious weather, In the sweet-scented sensuous air, My burdens seem light as a feather-- They are nothing to bear.
In the strength and the glory of power, In the pride and the pleasure of wealth, (For who dares dispute me my dower Of talents and youth-time and health?) I can laugh at the world and its sages-- I am greater than seers who are sad, For he is most wise in all ages Who knows how to be glad.
I lift up my eyes to Apollo, The G.o.d of the beautiful days, And my spirit soars off like a swallow And is lost in the light of its rays.
Are you troubled and sad? I beseech you Come out of the shadows of strife-- Come out in the sun while I teach you The secret of life.
Come out of the world--come above it-- Up over its crosses and graves, Though the green earth is fair and I love it, We must love it as masters, not slaves.
Come up where the dust never rises-- But only the perfume of flowers-- And your life shall be glad with surprises Of beautiful hours.
Come up where the rare golden wine is Apollo distills in my sight, And your life shall be happy as mine is, And as full of delight.
WARNING.
High in the heavens I saw the moon this morning, Albeit the sun shone bright; Unto my soul it spoke, in voice of warning, "Remember Night!"
THE CHRISTIAN"S NEW YEAR PRAYER.
Thou Christ of mine, thy gracious ear low bending Through these glad New Year days, To catch the countless prayers to Heaven ascending-- For e"en hard hearts do raise Some secret wish for fame, or gold, or power, Or freedom from all care-- Dear, patient Christ, who listeneth hour on hour, Hear now a Christian"s prayer.
Let this young year that, silent, walks beside me, Be as a means of grace To lead me up, no matter what betide me, Nearer the Master"s face.
If it need be that ere I reach the fountain Where Living waters play, My feet should bleed from sharp stones on the mountain, Then cast them in my way.
If my vain soul needs blows and bitter losses To shape it for thy crown, Then bruise it, burn it, burden it with crosses, With sorrows bear it down.
Do what thou wilt to mold me to thy pleasure, And if I should complain, Heap full of anguish yet another measure Until I smile at pain.
Send dangers--deaths! but tell me how to dare them; Enfold me in thy care.
Send trials, tears! but give me strength to bear them-- This is a Christian"s prayer.
IN THE NIGHT.
Sometimes at night, when I sit and write, I hear the strangest things,-- As my brain grows hot with burning thought, That struggles for form and wings, I can hear the beat of my swift blood"s feet, As it speeds with a rush and a whir From heart to brain and back again, Like a race-horse under the spur.
With my soul"s fine ear I listen and hear The tender Silence speak, As it leans on the breast of Night to rest, And presses his dusky cheek.
And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns For something that is kin; And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss, As it folds and fondles Sin.
In its hurrying race through leagues of s.p.a.ce, I can hear the Earth catch breath, As it heaves and moans, and shudders and groans, And longs for the rest of Death.
And high and far, from a distant star, Whose name is unknown to me, I hear a voice that says, "Rejoice, For I keep ward o"er thee!"
Oh, sweet and strange are the sounds that range Through the chambers of the night; And the watcher who waits by the dim, dark gates, May hear, if he lists aright.
G.o.d"S MEASURE.
G.o.d measures souls by their capacity For entertaining his best Angel, Love.
Who loveth most is nearest kin to G.o.d, Who is all Love, or Nothing.
He who sits And looks out on the palpitating world, And feels his heart swell in him large enough To hold all men within it, he is near His great Creator"s standard, though he dwells Outside the pale of churches, and knows not A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line Of Scripture even. What G.o.d wants of us Is that outreaching bigness that ignores All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds, And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace.
A MARCH SNOW.
Let the old snow be covered with the new: The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden.
Let it be hidden wholly from our view By pure white flakes, all trackless and untrodden.
When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring"s feet, Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet.
Let the old life be covered by the new: The old past life so full of sad mistakes, Let it be wholly hidden from the view By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes.
Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring Let the white mantle of repentance, fling Soft drapery about it, fold on fold, Even as the new snow covers up the old.
AFTER THE BATTLES ARE OVER.
[Read at Re-union of the G. A. T., Madison, Wis., July 4, 1872.]
After the battles are over, And the war drums cease to beat, And no more is heard on the hillside The sound of hurrying feet, Full many a n.o.ble action, That was done in the days of strife, By the soldier is half forgotten, In the peaceful walks of life.
Just as the tangled gra.s.ses, In Summer"s warmth and light, Grow over the graves of the fallen And hide them away from sight, So many an act of valor, And many a deed sublime, Fade from the mind of the soldier, O"ergrown by the gra.s.s of time.
Not so should they be rewarded, Those n.o.ble deeds of old; They should live forever and ever, When the heroes" hearts are cold.
Then rally, ye brave old comrades, Old veterans, re-unite!
Uproot Time"s tangled gra.s.ses-- Live over the march, and the fight.
Let Grant come up from the White House, And clasp each brother"s hand, First chieftain of the army, Last chieftain of the land.
Let him rest from a nation"s burdens, And go, in thought, with his men, Through the fire and smoke of Shiloh, And save the day again.
This silent hero of battles Knew no such word as defeat.
It was left for the rebels" learning, Along with the word--retreat.
He was not given to talking, But he found that guns would preach In a way that was more convincing Than fine and flowery speech.
Three cheers for the grave commander Of the grand old Tennessee!
Who won the first great battle-- Gained the first great victory.
His motto was always "Conquer,"