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126 SONGS |
GIRLHOOD. |
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And now, what time ye all may read through dim�ming tears his story,
How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory,
And bow when, one by one, sweet sounds and wan�dering lights departed,
He wore no less a loving face because so broken�hearted.
He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vo�cation,
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration ;
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken,
Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken.
With quiet sadness, and no gloom, I learn to think
upon him, With meekness that is gratefulness to God, whose
heaven hath won him, Who suffered once the madness-cloud to his own
love to blind him, But gently led the blind along where breath and
bird could find him;
And wrought within bis shattered brain such
quick poetic senses As hills have language for, and stars harmonious
influences: The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within
its number, And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him
like a slumber.
Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share bis home-caresses,
Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tender�nesses ;
The very world, by God's constraint, from false�hood's ways removing,
Its women and its men became, beside him, true and loving.
And though, in blindness, he remained unconscious of that guiding,
And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing,
He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy deso�lated�
Nor man nor nature satisfies whom only God cre�ated. |
Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother
while she blesses, And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of
her kisses; That turns his fevered eyes around, " My mother!
where's my mother ?" As if such tender words and deeds could come from
any other!
The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her
bending o'er him, Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary
love she bore him. Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long
fever gave him, Beneath those deep pathetic eyes which closed in
death to save him.
Thus, oh, not thus! no type of earth can image
that awaking, Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs
round him breaking, Or felt tbe new immortal throb of soul from body
parted, But felt those eyes alone, and knew "My Saviour!
not deserted!"
Deserted! Who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested,
Upon the victim's hidden face no love was mani�fested ?
What frautic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops averted ?
Wrhat tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted ?
Deserted! God could separate from his owu es�sence rather;
And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and Father:
Yea, once Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe hath shaken�
It went up single, echoless, " My God, I am for�saken !"
It went up from the Holy's lips amid his last cre�ation,
That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation !
That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, should mar not hope's fruition ;
And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in a vision. |
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