Part 49

Yea! I ween the star spaces are teeming With the gladness of life and of love. No! no! I am not at all dreaming -- The Below's hands enclasp the Above. 'Tis a truth that is more than a seeming -- Creation is many, tho' one, And we are the last of its creatures. This earth bears the sign of our sin (From the highest the evil came in); Yet ours are the same human features That veiled long agone the Divine. How comes it, O holy Creator! That we, not the first, but the latter Of varied and numberless beings Springing forth in Thy loving decreeings, That we are, of all, the most Thine?

Yea! we are the least and the lowly, The half of our history gone, We look up the Infinite slope In faith, and we walk on in hope; But think ye from here to the "Holy Of Holies" beyond yon still sky, O'er the stars that forever move on, I' the heavens beyond the bright Third, In glory's ineffable light; Where the Father, and Spirit, and Word Reign circled by angels all bright -- Ah! think you 'tween Here and that Yonder There is naught but the silence of death? There's naught of love's wish or life's wonder, And naught but an infinite night? No! no! the great Father is fonder Of breathing His life-giving breath Into beings of numberless races. And from here on and up to His throne The Trinity's beautiful faces, In countlessly various traces, Are seen in more stars than our own. This earth telleth not half the story Of the infinite heart of our God -- The heavens proclaim of His glory The least little part, and His power Broke not its sceptre when earth Was beckoned by Him into birth. Is He resting, I wonder, to-night? Can He rest when His love sways His will? Will He rest ere His glory shall fill All spaces below and above With beings to know and to love?

Creation -- when was it begun? Who knows its first day? Nay, none. And then, what ken among men Can tell when the last work is done? Is He resting, I wonder, to-night? Doth He ever grow weary of giving To Darknesses rays of His light? Doth He ever grow weary of giving To Nothings the rapture of living And waiting awhile for His sight? If His will rules His glorious power, And if love sways His beautiful will, Is He not, e'en in this very hour, Going on with love's wonder-work still?

* * * * *

Let me pray just awhile, for betimes My spirit is clouded; and then Strange darknesses creep o'er my rhymes, Till prayer lendeth light to my pen. And then shall I better unfold The story to me that was told, Of the unfallen star far away, In the noon of the night 'mid of May, By the beautiful Being who came, With the pure and the beautiful name. "Call me Zeila," the bright spirit said, And passed from my vision afar. With rapture I bowed down my head, And dreamed of that unfallen star.

Better than Gold

Better than grandeur, better than gold, Than rank and titles a thousand fold, Is a healthy body and a mind at ease, And simple pleasures that always please A heart that can feel for another's woe, With sympathies large enough to enfold All men as brothers, is better than gold.

Better than gold is a conscience clear, Though toiling for bread in an humble sphere, Doubly blessed with content and health, Untried by the lusts and cares of wealth, Lowly living and lofty thought Adorn and ennoble a poor man's cot; For mind and morals in nature's plan Are the genuine tests of a gentleman.

Better than gold is the sweet repose Of the sons of toil when the labors close; Better than gold is the poor man's sleep, And the balm that drops on his slumbers deep. Bring sleeping draughts on the downy bed, Where luxury pillows its aching head, The toiler simple opiate deems A shorter route to the land of dreams.

Better than gold is a thinking mind, That in the realm of books can find A treasure surpassing Australian ore, And live with the great and good of yore. The sage's lore and the poet's lay, The glories of empires passed away; The world's great dream will thus unfold And yield a pleasure better than gold.

Better than gold is a peaceful home Where all the fireside characters come, The shrine of love, the heaven of life, Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife. However humble the home may be, Or tried with sorrow by heaven's decree, The blessings that never were bought or sold, And centre there, are better than gold.

Sea Dreamings

To-day a bird on wings as white as foam That crests the blue-gray wave, With the vesper light upon its breast, flew home Seaward. The God who gave To the birds the virgin-wings of snow Somehow telleth them the ways they go.

Unto the Evening went the white-winged bird -- Gray clouds hung round the West -- And far away the tempest's tramp was heard. The bird flew for a rest Away from the grove, out to the sea -- Is it only a bird's mystery?

Nay! nay! lone bird! I watched thy wings of white That cleft thy waveward way -- Past the evening and swift into the night, Out of the calm, bright day -- And thou didst teach me, bird of the sea, More than one human heart's history.

Only men's hearts -- tho' God shows each its way That leadeth hence to home -- Unlike the wild sea-birds, somehow go astray, Seeking in the far foam Of this strange world's tempest-trampled main A resting place -- but they seek in vain.

Only the bird can rest upon the deep, And sleep upon the wave, And dream its peaceful dreams where wild winds sweep. And sweet the God who gave The birds a rest place on the restless sea -- But this, my heart, is not His way with thee.

Over the world, ah! passion's tempests roll, And every fleck of foam Whitens the place where sank some sin-wrecked soul That never shall reach home. Ah! the tranquil shore of God's sweet, calm grace, My heart, is thy only resting place.

Sea Rest

Far from "where the roses rest", Round the altar and the aisle, Which I loved, of all, the best -- I have come to rest awhile By the ever-restless sea -- Will its waves give rest to me?

But it is so hard to part With my roses. Do they know (Who knows but each has a heart?) How it grieves my heart to go? Roses! will the restless sea Bring, as ye, a rest for me?

Ye were sweet and still and calm, Roses red and roses white; And ye sang a soundless psalm For me in the day and night. Roses! will the restless sea Sing as sweet as ye for me?

Just a hundred feet away, Seaward, flows and ebbs the tide; And the wavelets, blue and gray, Moan, and white sails windward glide O'er the ever restless sea From me, far and peacefully.

And as many feet away, Landward, rise the moss-veiled trees; And they wail, the while they sway In the sad November breeze, Echoes in the sighing sea To me, near and mournfully.

And beside me sleep the dead, In the consecrated ground; Blessed crosses o'er each head. O'er them all the Requiem sound, Chanted by the moaning sea, Echoed by each moss-veiled tree.

Roses! will you miss my face? Do you know that I have gone From your fair and restful place, Far away where moveth on Night and day the restless sea? But I saw eternity

In your faces. Roses sweet! Ye were but the virgin veils, Hiding Him whose holy feet Walked the waves, whose very wails Bring to me from Galilee Rest across the restless sea.

And who knows? mayhap some wave, From His footstep long ago, With the blessing which He gave After ages ebb and flow, Cometh in from yonder sea, With a blessing sweet for me.