Poems of the Heart and Home Part 26

In vain!--In vain!--What matters it now How honored was once its place!

It is broken, and old, and the hearts are cold That cherished the old stone vase-- Throw it away!

III.

Broken!

It's only a promise--as light as air-- Though earnestly, solemnly given, Made to be broken--yet who should care?-- Do you think it was heard in Heaven?-- Break it to day!

Yet stay!--that breath Is a blast of death To an innocent human heart!

Unsay the word, For G.o.d has heard!

And He taketh the wronged one's part--- Break it _not_ to-day!

In vain!--in vain!--What matters it now?

It was only a breath--no more!

A faithless promise--a traitor's vow-- Such things have happened before-- It's broken to-day!

IV.

Broken!

It's only a heart--a human heart-- That has throbbed for years and years, With the burning pain and the cruel smart Whose agony knows no tears-- Cast it away'

Yet stay!--oh stay!

A father, grey And sorrowful, prayed for her long And a mother's love Bore to G.o.d above The tale of her poor childs wrong!-- Cast it _not_ away!

In vain!--'Tis a story old and worn-- This story of falsehood's art-- Of the harsh world's withering blight and scorn,-- Who cares for the broken heart That's been cast away?

"TO OUR PARENTS"

WRITTEN BY REQUEST, FOR A GOLDEN WEDDING

Full fifty years together-- Father and mother dear-- Through pleasant summer weather, Or wintry tempests drear,-- Thro' sunshine and thro' shadow, Oft travel sore and tried, Yet strong to aid each other, You've journeyed side by side

A few brief years of climbing,-- One glad, exultant glance At the sun bright world around you, At the smiling heaven's expanse,-- And then, the slow descending Into the vale below, Where the light with shade is blending, And the deamy waters flow

Full fifty years of travel-- Then, on your worn staves rest, And welcome home your children, And many an honored guest,-- We come to give you greeting,-- We come to bring you cheer,-- To hail with glad rejoicing This fiftieth wedded year!

We know your hearts are asking For _one_ who is not here-- Whose voice was sweetest music, Whose smile was very dear, But the blessed Heaven that holds him Is very near to you, And the warm love that enfolds him, Enfolds his parents too.

Then let the tears we're shedding Have naught of grief's alloy;-- And let this GOLDEN WEDDING Be one of tranquil joy.

G.o.d bless our honored father G.o.d bless our mother dear!

And a thousand, thousand welcomes To this fiftieth wedded year.

UNDER THE ROD

"Be Still, and know that I am G.o.d!"

Be silent, Soul!--though dark thy path and dreary, And wild with storm, yet what is that to thee?

Though thou art faint, and desolate, and weary, Thy G.o.d hath willed thus,--so let it be!

Murmurs the mountain oak when storms a.s.sail it, And warring tempests wildly shake its form?

Firmer within the earth its root it striketh, And gathers strength and vigor from the storm.

Be silent, Soul!--the hand of G.o.d is on thee!

And, as a skillful gard'ner, from the vine Doth lop away each worthless branch and barren, So He would lop each fruitless bough of thine.

Ah! thou art earth-bound, p.r.o.ne, and lowly creeping, clinging to things too frail to be thy stay; Jesus, with watchful care His vineyard keeping, Would lift thee up to sunshine and the day.

Be silent, Soul!--thou'rt not thy own;--the Saviour With blood and anguish bought thee on the tree!

Why murmur, then, that He should seek to make thee Holy, and pure, and fit with Him to be?

This world is not thy home!--cease thy weak clinging To its frail reeds, O thou whose mansion blest Is where Life's river flows with ceaseless singing Through the fair Paradise where angels rest.

Be silent, Soul--in the great heavenly Temple, The Master-Builder hath a niche for thee; And thou must pa.s.s beneath His forming chisel, If thou a goodly, polished stone wouldst be.

Bless G.o.d for every stroke that severs from thee The gross and earthy, bringing to the light The intrinsic worth His Spirit hath wrought in thee,-- The gem His hand would polish and make bright

Be silent, Soul!--thy G.o.d is ever near thee, Whether thy path 'mid storm or sunshine lie,-- Whether the morning's tender radiance cheer thee, Or rayless darkness veil the midnight sky!

What matter though thy pathway lone and dreary Should _all_ with weary, trembling feet be trod?

Enough for thee to know, thy Lord is near thee, And the rough road leads up to Heaven and G.o.d!

THE WHITE STONE CANOE

AN INDIAN TRADITION; VERSIFIED FROM SCHOOLCRAFT

It was a day of festive-mirth, And bright the Indian wigwams shone, For 'twas a chieftain's bridal-day, And gladness dwelt in every tone; But ere the glow of sunset hours Upon the western hills was shed, Deep sadness rested on those bowers-- The bride was numbered with the dead.

Days pa.s.sed; and still beside her tomb The stricken lover bowed his head; And-nightly, through the forest's gloom The stars beheld him with his dead.

In vain did grey-haired chieftains urge The youthful hunter to the chase;-- He heard, yet heeded not their words, For grief had chained him to the place.

They laid his war-club by his side, His bow and arrows, too, they brought, And sang of glorious deeds of might That stately chiefs of yore had wrought; But listlessly he heard their songs, Flung back his bow with sullen pride, And by the silent grave sat down Where they had laid his youthful bride.

But pleasant memories came at length Of what he learned in boyhood's day, Of a bright path that led from earth O'er the blue mountains far away To the best land where spirits dwell, The home of GHEEZHA MONEDO, [1]

Where parted loved ones meet again Beyond the reach of pain and woe.

Then from the ground the warrior rose, And bade the sleeping dust adieu, And started for the spirit-sh.o.r.e With the bright southern skies in view;-- Forests, and hills, and vales, and streams, In his quick flight he left behind;-- Earth's stores of rare and lovely things Had nought to charm the wand'rer's mind.

The snow, that lay upon the earth When he forsook his native hills, Had slowly melted from his path, And sought the bed of crystal rills; The woods a.s.sumed a gayer hue, The flowers put on the bloom of spring, The clear sky shone with brighter blue, And birds sped by on joyous wing.

By these blest signs the warrior knew That he was travelling aright; For old Tradition taught him so, And on he pressed with fresh delight.

At length the shining path he spied Winding amid a beauteous grove, Up to the summit of a hill That rose the verdant plain above.

High on the summit stood a lodge To which this mystic pathway led;-- Thither, with undeclining zeal And ardent hopes, the warrior sped.

An old man met him at the door, With piercing eyes and long, white hair, Who took the wand'rer by the hand, And kindly bade him welcome there.