OUR little one was sick, and the sickness pressed her sore.
We sat beside her bed, and we felt her hands and head,
And in our hearts we prayed this one prayer o’er and o’er:
“Come to us, Christ the Lord; utter thine old-time word,
‘Talitha cumi!’”
And as the night wore on, and the fever flamed more high,
And a new look burned and grew in the eyes of tender blue,
Still louder in our hearts uprose the voiceless cry,
“O Lord of love and might, say once again to-night,
‘Talitha cumi!’”
And then, and then – he came; we saw him not, but felt.
And he bent above the child, and she ceased to moan, and smiled;
And although we heard no sound, as around the bed we knelt,
Our souls were made aware of a mandate in the air,
“Talitha cumi!”
And as at dawn’s fair summons faded the morning star,
Holding the Lord’s hand close, the child we loved arose,
And with him took her way to a country far away;
And we would not call her dead, for it was his voice that said,
“Talitha cumi!”
WHO serves his country best?
Not he who, for a brief and stormy space,
Leads forth her armies to the fierce affray.
Short is the time of turmoil and unrest,
Long years of peace succeed it and replace:
There is a better way.
Who serves his country best?
Not he who guides her senates in debate,
And makes the laws which are her prop and stay;
Not he who wears the poet’s purple vest,
And sings her songs of love and grief and fate:
There is a better way.
He serves his country best,
Who joins the tide that lifts her nobly on;
For speech has myriad tongues for every day,
And song but one; and law within the breast
Is stronger than the graven law on stone:
There is a better way.
He serves his country best
Who lives pure life, and doeth righteous deed,
And walks straight paths, however others stray,
And leaves his sons as uttermost bequest
A stainless record which all men may read:
This is the better way.
No drop but serves the slowly lifting tide,
No dew but has an errand to some flower,
No smallest star but sheds some helpful ray,
And man by man, each giving to all the rest,
Makes the firm bulwark of the country’s power:
There is no better way.
THEY sat together in the sun,
And Youth and Hope stood hovering near;
Like dropping bell-notes one by one
Chimed the glad moments soft and clear;
And still amid their happy speech
The lovers whispered each to each,
“Forever!”
Youth spread his wings of rainbow light,
“Farewell!” he whispered as he went;
They heeded not nor mourned his flight,
Wrapped in their measureless content;
And still they smiled, and still was heard
The confidently uttered word,
“Forever!”
Hope stayed, her steadfast smile was sweet, —
Until the even-time she stayed;
Then with reluctant, noiseless feet
She stole into the solemn shade.
A graver shape moved gently by,
And bent, and murmured warningly,
“Forever!”
And then – where sat the two, sat one!
No voice spoke back, no glance replied.
Behind her, where she rested lone,
Hovered the spectre, solemn-eyed;
She met his look without a thrill,
And, smiling faintly, whispered still,
“Forever!”
Oh, sweet, sweet Youth! Oh, fading Hope!
Oh, eyes by tearful mists made blind!
Oh, hands which vainly reach and grope
For a familiar touch and kind!
Time pauseth for no lover’s kiss;
Love for its solace has but this, —
“Forever!”
OH! not in strange portentous way
Christ’s miracles were wrought of old,
The common thing, the common clay,
He touched and tinctured, and straightway
It grew to glory manifold.
The barley loaves were daily bread,
Kneaded and mixed with usual skill;
No care was given, no spell was said,
But when the Lord had blessed, they fed
The multitude upon the hill.
The hemp was sown ’neath common sun,
Watered by common dews and rain,
Of which the fishers’ nets were spun;
Nothing was prophesied or done
To mark it from the other grain.
Coarse, brawny hands let down the net
When the Lord spake and ordered so;
They hauled the meshes, heavy-wet,
Just as in other days, and set
Their backs to labor, bending low;
But quivering, leaping from the lake
The marvellous, shining burdens rise
Until the laden meshes break,
And, all amazèd, no man spake,
But gazed with wonder in his eyes.
So still, dear Lord, in every place
Thou standest by the toiling folk
With love and pity in thy face,
And givest of thy help and grace
To those who meekly bear the yoke.
Not by strange sudden change and spell,
Baffling and darkening Nature’s face;
Thou takest the things we know so well
And buildest on them thy miracle, —
The heavenly on the commonplace.
The lives which seem so poor, so low,
The hearts which are so cramped and dull,
The baffled hopes, the impulse slow,
Thou takest, touchest all, and lo!
They blossom to the beautiful.
We need not wait for thunder-peal
Resounding from a mount of fire,
While round our daily paths we feel
Thy sweet love and thy power to heal,
Working in us thy full desire.
ORCHID, chance-sown among the moorland heather,
Scarce seen or tasted by the infrequent bee,
Set mid rough mountain growths, lashed by wild weather,
With none to foster thee.
We watch thee fronting all the blasts of heaven,
Thy slender rootlets grappled fast to rock,
Enduring from thy morning to thy even
The buffet and the shock.
Never thy sun vouchsafed a cloudless shining,
Never the wind was tempered to thy pain;
No cloud turned out for thee its silver lining,
No rainbow followed rain.
Nourished mid hardness, learning patience slowly
As hearts must do which know no other food,
Duty and Memory, companions holy,
Shared thy bleak solitude.
Cold touch of Memory, strong chill hand of Duty,
These held thee fast and ruled thee to the end,
Until, with smile mysterious in its beauty,
Came Death, rewarding friend.
Earth gave thee scanty cheer, but earth is ended,
Finished the years of thwarted sacrifice.
We see thee walking forward, well attended,
Led into Paradise!
Heaven is twice Heaven to one who, hungry-hearted,
Goes thither knowing no satisfaction here;
And when we thank the Lord for those departed
In this sure faith and fear,
We think of thee, lonely no more forever,
And tasting, while the eternal years unroll,
That joy of Heaven, which like a flowing river
Satisfies every soul.
WE spend our strength in labor day by day,
We find new strength replacing old alway;
And still we cheat ourselves, and still we say:
“No man would work except to win some prize;
We work to turn our hopes to certainties, —
For gold, or gear, or favor in men’s eyes.”
And all the while the goal toward which we strain —
Up hill and down, in sunshine and in rain,
Heedless of toil, if so we may attain —
Is but a lure, a heavenly-set decoy
To exercised endeavor, full employ
Of every power, which is man’s highest joy.
And work becomes the end, reward the means,
To woo us from our idleness and dreams;
And each is truly what the other seems.
So, Lord, with such poor service as we do,
Thy full salvation is our prize in view,
For which we long, and which we press unto.
Like a great star on which we fix our eyes,
It dazzles from the high, blue distances,
And seems to beckon and to say, “Arise!”
And we arise and follow the hard way,
Winning a little nearer day by day,
Our hearts going faster than our footsteps may;
And never guess the secret sweet device
Which lures us on and upward to the skies,
And makes each toil its own reward and prize.
To give our little selves to thee, to blend
Our weakness with thy strength, O Lord our Friend,
This is life’s truest privilege and end.
THE last sweet flowers are dying,
The last green leaves are red;
The wild geese southward flying,
By law mysterious led,
Scream noisily o’erhead;
The honey-bees have hived them,
The butterflies have shrived them;
All hushed the song and twitter
And flutter of glad wing; —
How could we bear the autumn
If t’were not for the spring?
To see the summer banished,
Nor dare to bid her stay;
To mourn o’er beauty vanished
And joyance driven away;
To mark the shortening day;
To note the sad winds plaining,
The storm cloud and the raining;
To see the frost lance stabbing
Each faint and wounded thing; —
Oh, we should hate the autumn
Excepting for the spring!
To know that life is failing
And pulses beating slow;
To catch the unavailing
Sad monotones of woe
All the earth over go;
To know that snows must cover
The grave of friend and lover,
To hide them from the eyes and hands
That still caress and cling; —
The heart would break in autumn
If there were not a spring!
For every sleep a waking,
For every shade a sun,
A balm for each heart breaking,
A rest for labor done,
A life by death begun;
And so in wintry weather,
With smile and sigh together,
We look beyond the present pain,
The daily loss and sting,
And welcome in the autumn
For the sure hope of spring.
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