On the funeral hemlock-trees Many a scalp the totem sees. "Blood for blood! But evermore Squando's heart is såd and sore; And his poor squaw waits at home For the feet that never come! "Waldron of Cocheco, hear! As the words died on his tongue, And, like Israel passing free One alone, a little maid, Then his hand the Indian laid "Gift or favor ask I none; "Yet for her who waits at home, "Mishanock, my little star! Wequashim, my moonlight, say, Slowly, sadly, half afraid, Not a word the Indian spoke, Silence-shod, as phantoms seem Doubting, trembling, sore amazed, Years went and came. At close of day Pride was in the mother's look, Unabashed, the maid began : "Chip!' went squirrel on the wall, "Where the hemlocks grew so dark "Then I cried, and ran away; MY PLAYMATE. Straight the mother stooped to see Well she knew its graven sign, Flashed the roof the sunshine through, Cool she felt the west-wind blow, From the outward toil and din, Called the birds, and winds, and floods. Well, O painful minister! Blame her not, as to her soul When, that night, the Book was read, 233 For, more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring, The music and the bloom. She kissed the lips of kith and kin, She left us in the bloom of May: I walk, with noiseless feet, the round She lives where all the golden year There haply with her jewelled hands The wild grapes wait us by the brook, And still the May-day flowers make sweet The woods of Follymill. The lilies blossom in the pond, The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill I wonder if she thinks of them, I see her face, I hear her voice: Does she remember mine? And what to her is now the boy Who fed her father's kine? What cares she that the orioles build "And I sought, whence is Evil: I set before the eye of my spirit the whole creation; whatsoever we see therein, -sea, earth, air, stars, trees, moral creatures, yea, whatsoever there is we do not see,- - angels and spiritual powers. Where is evil, and whence comes it, since God the Good hath created all things? Why made He anything at all of evil, and not rather by His Almightiness cause it not to be? These thoughts I turned in my miserable heart, overcharged with most gnawing cares." 66 And, admonished to return to myself, I entered even into my inmost soul, Thou being my guide, and beheld even beyond my soul and mind the Light unchangeable. He who knows the Truth knows what that Light is, and he that knows it knows Eternity! O Truth, who art Eternity! Love, who art Truth! Eternity, who art Love! And I beheld that Thou madest all things good, and to Thee is nothing whatsoever evil. From the angel to the worm, from the first motion to the last, Thou settest each in its place, and everything is good in its kind. Woe is me! how high art Thou in the highest, how deep in the deepest! and Thou never departest from us and we scarcely return to Thee." -Augustine's Soliloquies, Book VII. THE fourteen centuries fall away Between us and the Afric saint, And at his side we urge, to-day, The immemorial quest and old complaint. No outward sign to us is given, From sea or earth comes no reply; Hushed as the warm Numidian heaven He vainly questioned bends our frozen sky. No victory comes of all our strife, From all we grasp the meaning slips; The Sphinx sits at the gate of life, With the old question on her awful lips. In paths unknown we hear the feet Of fear before, and guilt behind; We pluck the wayside fruit, and eat Ashes and dust beneath its golden rind. From age to age descends unchecked The sad bequest of sire to son, The body's taint, the mind's defect, Through every web of life the dark threads run. O, why and whither? - God knows all; I only know that he is good, And that whatever may befall Or here or there, must be the best that could. Between the dreadful cherubim A Father's face I still discern, As Moses looked of old on him, And saw his glory into goodness turn! For he is merciful as just; And so, by faith correcting sight, I bow before his will, and trust Howe'er they seem he doeth all things right. And dare to hope that he will make The rugged smooth, the doubtful His mercy never quite forsake ; That suffering is not his revenge Upon his creatures weak and frail, Sent on a pathway new and strange With feet that wander and with eyes that fail; That, o'er the crucible of pain, Watches the tender eye of Love The slow transmuting of the chain Whose links are iron below to gold above! Our weakness is the strength of sin, But love must needs be stronger far, Outreaching all and gathering in The erring spirit and the wandering star. A Voice grows with the growing years; Earth, hushing down her bitter cry, Looks upward from her graves, and hears, "The Resurrection and the Life am I." O Love Divine !-whose constant beam Shines on the eyes that will not see, And waits to bless us, while we dream Thou leavest us because we turn from thee ! All souls that struggle and aspire, All hearts of prayer by thee are lit; And, dim or clear, thy tongues of fire On dusky tribes and twilight centuries sit. Nor bounds, nor clime, nor creed thou know'st, Wide as our need thy favors fall; The white wings of the Holy Ghost Stoop, seen or unseen, o'er the heads of all. O Beauty, old yet ever new! 67 Eternal Voice, and Inward Word, 235 The Logos of the Greek and Jew, The old sphere-music which the Samian heard! Truth which the sage and prophet saw, Long sought without, but found within, The Law of Love beyond all law, The Life o'erflooding mortal death and sin! Shine on us with the light which glowed Upon the trance-bound shepherd's way, Who saw the Darkness overflowed And drowned by tides of everlasting Day 68 Shine, light of God!thy scope make broad To all who sin and suffer; more And better than we dare to hope With Heaven's compassion make our longings poor! THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS. TRITEMIUS OF HERBIPOLIS, one day, While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray, Alone with God, as was his pious choice, As of a lost soul crying out of hell. Thereat the Abbot paused; the chain whereby His And, looking from the casement, saw below thoughts went upward broken by that cry; A wretched woman, with gray hair a-flow, And withered hands held up to him, who cried For alms as one who might not be denied. She cried, "For the dear love of Him who gave His life for ours, my child from bondage save, My beautiful, brave first-born, chained with slaves THE EVE OF ELECTION. FROM gold to gray In the Moor's galley, where the sun-smit Lap the white walls of Tunis!" waves "What I can "O man 66 Our mild sweet day I give," Tritemius said: my prayers." Of Indian Summer fades too soon ; Of God!" she cried, for grief had made her bold, "Mock me not thus; I ask not prayers, but gold. Words will not serve me, alms alone suffice; Even while I speak perchance my firstborn dies." sped, But tenderly Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's Along the street The shadows meet The moulds of fate That shape the State, Or he can give you golden ones instead." And make or mar the common weal. |