Poems of the Heart and Home Part 27

"I know thy quest!" the old man said, "Leave here thy arrows and thy bow; Thy body, too, thou must forsake-- Thither thy soul alone can go.

Thou seest yon gulf, and far away Beyond, a region bright and fair, Whose blue hills in the distance rise, Warrior, the land of souls is there'

"My lodge the gate of entrance is,-- I'll guard whatever thou leav'st behind, And thou may'st hasten on thy way, A joyous spirit unconfined."

Thus saying, the aged man withdrew; And the freed traveller sped away-- As though his feet were changed to wings-- Upon his fair, but shadowy way.

Shadowy indeed, for all he pa.s.sed-- Trees, plants, and flowers no substance wore, And birds and beasts were but the souls Of those that dwelt on earth before;-- Yet birds swept by on joyous wing, And, pausing, gazed the timid deer With fearless look, as if to say, "We have no strife or bloodshed here!"

Onward he went, till, just before, A beauteous lake appeared in view; And at the water's edge he spied A snow-white, shining, stone canoe.

Lightly the warrior sprang within, And grasped the paddle by his side; When turning, lo, beside him sat The spirit of his beauteous bride

She sat within a light canoe, And sweetly beckoned him away To a green isle that, like a gem, Amidst the sparkling waters lay; High leaped the waves, yet on they pressed, Wreath after wreath of foam they pa.s.sed,-- Thus gliding o'er the water's breast They reached the wished-for sh.o.r.e at last.

Together o'er those verdant plains, 'Mid fadeless flowers the lovers walked; And of their native hills and streams, And forest-homes, they freely talked.

There were no storms, no chilling winds, No frost, no blight, to dim the flowers, But never-fading summer reigned Amid those calm and peaceful bowers.

None hungered there--no death, no pain, No blighted hope, no sleepless fear; No mourner sorrowed o'er the dead, And no bereaved one dropped a tear; Serenest skies were spread above, Bright flowers were blooming all around And every eye was filled with love, And music dwelt in every sound.

"Here let me stay!" the warrior cried, "On this secluded, happy sh.o.r.e; Here, with my loved and beauteous bride, Where bitter partings are no more!"

Thus spake the youth, but, ere the words Had died away upon the breeze, There came a low, sweet spirit-voice Murm'ring among the sheltering trees.

"Warrior!"--thus spake the breezy voice-- "Return unto thy native sh.o.r.e; Resume again thy mortal frame, And mingle with thy tribe once more.

Listen to him who keeps the gate, And he will tell thee what to do; Obey his voice, return to earth, And virtue's pleasant paths pursue.

"Thy time to die has not arrived; But let each gloomy thought be still, Thy maiden waits thee on this sh.o.r.e, Subject no more to pain or ill!

In never-fading youth arrayed.

Here shall ye dwell in peace at last, When thou hast done thy work on earth, And life's brief wanderings are past.

"Return!--thou yet must lead thy tribe Through many a wild, adventurous scene; But when a good old age is reached, And thou their leader long hast been, Then will I call thee to thy rest In this bright island of the skies, Where thou mayst mingle with the blest, While long, succeeding ages rise!"

The chieftain woke--'twas fancy all, The bright revealings of a dream;-- Around him still the forest stood Beneath the cold moon's placid beam.

Up from the ground he proudly rose, Took up his war-club and his bow, Quelled in his soul the bitter floods Of disappointment and of woe,--

And, turning from the grave of her Who erst was all the world to him, He wiped away the gathering tears That made his eagle-glances dim; And with a proud, majestic step He slowly from the grave withdrew, Resolved to hope and labor on, With better prospects in his view

[Footnote 1: Merciful Spirit.]

GONE BEFORE

(IN MEMORY OF A PUPIL)

Thou art but gone before-- Gone to that unknown sh.o.r.e Toward which _my_ feet are journeying swiftly on Thou hast but laid thy head _First_ with the dreamless dead, I, too, shall come, and share thy rest anon.

Methinks 'twas sweet to die, Ere childhood's purity Had been polluted by sin's withering breath; Ere Care's pale, haggard mien Thy laughing eye had seen, Or thou hadst wept beside the bed of death!

We weep--yet thou art blest!

We mourn--but thou'rt at rest!

Well may we weep, yet, lost one, not for thee!

Not that thy race is run, Thy brief life-journey done, And thou departed with thy Lord to be.

O no!--yet we may weep, That sin, so strong, so deep A root within our tempted souls should have; That we, with mortal fear, Still trembling, doubting here, Should cling to Earth in terror of the grave!

To Earth, whose very bloom Speaks of the dust, the tomb,-- Whose fairest blossoms round our footsteps die,-- Whose hopes are fraught with fears,-- Whose smiles are washed with tears,-- Whose sweetest songs are burdened with a sigh!

Sleep on, thou early blest!

No cares can mar thy rest, No years of grief and trial are for thee; No blighted hopes, no fears, No wasted, sin-cursed years-- Joy for thee, little one, thou'rt free-aye, free!

Now with the peaceful dead Lay we thy beauteous head, No mourner's dirge for thee shall chanted be!

So may we rest at last, When all our toils are past, And rise to tune an angel's harp with thee!

JOHANNA

(HIAWATHA MEASURE.)

'Twas a balmy day in Autumn, In the drowsy, dreamy Autumn, When from out the quiet woodland Sounds of rustling leaves came only-- Leaves that floated softly earthward-- And the streamlets had a murmur Such as wanders through our visions In the hushed and starry midnight-- Low, soft murmur, full of music.

With the small hand of her darling Clasped in her's, there came a mother To an Artist--fondly asking For the picture of her pet-lamb-- Winsome pet-lamb full of child-life, Full of merry, ringing laughter-- Laughter that went up unceasing Like the happy chime of streamlets Singing thro' some mountain valley,-- Like the bird-song in the forest In the time of early roses,-- Like the tinkle of sweet waters Dripping o'er a marble fountain.

And the child's glad eyes grew brighter As she saw her own sweet image From its little case look smiling Back upon her radiant features-- Saw the cl.u.s.tering curls fall softly Round the peach-blow neck and bosom,-- Saw the lips, two tiny rose-buds, And the scarce-shown pearls that edged them,-- And the quivering, laughing lashes Of the eager eyes were lifted In glad wonder, as she murmured "Oh, it's pretty!--ain't it, ma ma?"

Came another day in Autumn-- Gloomy, sad, tempestuous Autumn-- And from out the moaning forest Came the sound of rushing tempests As they dashed the sere leaves downward From the darkly tossing branches,-- And the turbid streams were chafing With the rush of swollen waters That, in tones all hoa.r.s.e and angry, To the rude winds made replying.

With the hot hand of her darling Clasped in hers, that same fond mother O'er a little couch was bending, Where her little lamb lay moaning In unquiet fevered slumbers.

Oft the blue-veined lids would tremble O'er the half-veiled eyes, and sadly-- Painfully the lips would quiver, As the sobbing breath came slowly From the scarcely heaving bosom

Ah! that little lamb was treading 'Mid the shadows of the valley!-- And her spirit-ear, affrighted, Just had caught the nearer murmur Of the death-stream cold and sullen Haply, wond'ring at the darkness That was slowly settling round her.

But it pa.s.sed, and o'er those features Slowly broke a smile, so holy That we deemed the angels gathered Round her in the gloomy valley.

Then the life-light gently faded From those eyes, as fades the sunset From the peaceful summer heavens,-- Stiller grew the little bosom,-- And the sobbing breath grew fainter,-- And the fading smile more sweetly Played around those lips, till slumber-- Strange, deep slumber slowly settled In its marble stillness o'er her.

Ah!--that little tear-stained image Now, is all that's left thee, mother, Of thy little, dark-eyed daughter!

Ever, as it smiles upon thee From its tiny case, how keenly Will thy heart-strings thrill with anguish.

As that voice again comes to thee, And again those sweet lips murmur-- "Oh it's pretty!--ain't it, ma-ma?"

SANZAS

"Whom have I in heaven but thee?"

'Twere nought to me, yon glorious arch of night, Decked with the gorgeous blazonry of heaven, If, to my faith, amid its splendors bright, No vision of the Eternal One were given; I could but view a dreary, soulless waste-- A vast expanse of solitude unknown;-- More cheerless for the splendors o'er it cast, For all its grandeur more intensely lone.