Read Ebook: Across the Sea and Other Poems. by Chard Thomas S

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Thus to the soul of man there come alone Three sacred ones upon the Sea of Life; All others are as distant sails that fly Far from the ken, and so forever by: And he is blest whose faithful heart hath known And loved the name of Savior, Mother, Wife.

Thus o'er the Sea of Life my way I take, Not waveless have its waters been to me, For I have known, in many a fearful hour, The weight and fury of the tempest's power; But mercy e'er the sable clouds doth break And set the prisoned light of heaven free.

And oft, O sea, thy troubled waters cease, Save when they smile to hear the breeze at prayer; Thy calm so deep that he who glideth by May wonder which is sea and which is sky; So full thou art of stars, so sweet thy peace, We seem in heaven while on thy bosom fair.

My boat is old, for I have journeyed far, But still the Headland seems a weary way; My boatmen, too, are old, and oft an oar Slips from a feeble hand, but yet the shore Upon whose forehead beams the evening star, Is nearer still and nearer every day.

What matters that my boatmen now are old, Why should I grieve that with a feeble hand I hold the swaying helm? The waves no more Rise o'er the prow to keep me from the shore, The silken sail at last the breezes hold, The tide of Love sets toward the Heavenly Land.

O flowing tide that in our autumn time Ebbs from the world, and bears us on thy breast, I would to every human soul 'twere given To drift upon thy silver sheen to heaven; To fall asleep, and dream, and wake--SUBLIME, Within the crystal harbor of The Blest.

Dear are thy urging waters, starry tide, Forever gently flowing heavenward; Thine every dimple is a token sweet That rested there some beauteous angel's feet, Thy sheen, a radiant carpet for the Bride, Laid to the wedding Temple of her Lord.

L'ENVOY.

Hark! there is music on the lovelit sea. Music, sweet music falls upon mine ear, Soft as the sigh of June, when die the hours Crimsoned with sunset and the blush of flowers. Dost thou not hear it? O it seems to me No mother's cradle-song was e'er so dear.

The music ceases. From the eastern sky, Lo! the umbrageous clouds, whose gloomy frown Shadowed my youth, drift westward, dark no more, They float illumined o'er the heavenly shore. Behold, they part! and thro' their portals high The gleams of endless glory shimmer down.

Farewell, O Deep, nor be thy solemn bell Jarred as I go by grief's tumultuous blast. Farewell, ye winds, for me ye ne'er again Will fret the bosom of the restless main. To thee, O Barge of Time, a long farewell, Sweet voices call me. I am home at last.

Give ear, O Earth, the honeyed air again Swells with the rapture of the heavenly shore; And I am singing as I upward pass Upon the "sea of mingled fire and glass," To Him who Loved and gave Himself for Men, Be Glory, Honor, Power, Forevermore.

THE SEVEN SLEEPERS.

Inscribed to

Robert Collyer.

THE SEVEN SLEEPERS.

We seem within a pleasant vale to dwell, Whose boundary knows the early summer's spell, And where, in leafy tabernacle, June Hears not the mandate of the waning moon. The river bank and hill-side of the vale, And orchard fruitage streaked with morning pale, Grow rosy with the rosy summer hours. Green is the dewy turf and gay with flowers. The morning sky is azure; we behold The white clouds sleeping on the eastern hill, At eve--a fleecy flock--they follow still The shepherd sun upon his path of gold. Sweet is the air, and peace is everywhere: Save that in distant skies beyond our time We mark the vivid shafts of lightning fly, Shot from the twanging bow of thunder where The sky is bright with pale auroral light, Framed in by darkness; there we view The stern death-struggling of armed hosts-- The smoke of burning cities--martyr fires-- Towers toppling to ruin, palaces, Vast columned temples, and triumphal arch, Fair hanging gardens, walls magnificent, Resolved to dust by time--as summer's sun Resolves again a fleecy cloud to mist. Yet sometimes even here the spectral light Broadens and brightens into sunny day, And the soft winds blow thence to us Legends,-- Traditions fair of noble hearts as true, Of honor pure, of love as sacred--deep-- Of valor great--of homes as fair and dear, As fresher, better modern days have known. I love the Legend of the Sleepers Seven, Which comes from days so near the Manger--Cross, It seems to me a tale of Holy Writ.

When Decius sate upon the Roman Throne, And made his empire red with Christian blood, Seven noble youths who dwelt at Ephesus Refused to heed the Imperial will and bow Themselves in worship to the pagan gods, Preferring the reproach of Christ, to all The wealth and honor of the Court of Rome; And thus before the Royal Tyrant the youths Bore witness to the faith more dear than life. "The living God who made the earth and sky, And dwells in Temples never made by hands, Hath set within the Heaven of Heavens His Throne; He holdeth in His hands a thousand spheres, And hath created all that is create; Jehovah infinite, eternal, good, And wise, we humbly worship, serve, adore, We cannot bow, O monarch, to thy gods."

Behind a smile the Emperor hid his rage, And bade the youths consider well, and count The gain or loss which might to them befall. The Emperor's favor was a life of gain, His anger roused was like a scorching fire. And thus he sent them from his presence out, To think upon his words, till he again, And soon, should come in power to Ephesus.

So passed they from his presence, but the world Loves not the men who are unloved of kings. The silversmiths that made the idol shrines, Raised, as of old, a tumult, and the youths Fled secretly, and sought a refuge safe Among the mountain heights near Ephesus; And there within a hidden cave they dwelt, While Malchus brought food to them by night.

Ye deem their lives were sad? Oh they were blest, On wings of prayer the hours went lightly by; And oft, when day was spent, toward eventide Came one into their midst, who brake to them Celestial bread for their deep hungering. Till, lo! again with martial pomp and pride, The haughty Decius came to Ephesus, And by the whisper of a faithless spy, He learnt the guarded secret of the cave, 'Gainst which a massive wall the tyrant built, And so the hiding-place became a tomb.

I think we all are dreamers like the seven; The morning rises from her silver throne And smiles upon the hours we call our own. The minutes brim like drops of golden wine O'er Life's o'erflowing cup; we see the shine Of perfect day on every path we scan; And Fame's fair vaulted Temple on the span Of rainbow arches is upheld--and gleams In every future of our boyhood dreams. But while we follow every promise sweet, With buoyant hearts and lightly springing feet, To where some joy untasted yet awaits,-- We hear the solemn sound of closing gates; And driven by Care, we leave the City bright, To mount with aching feet some rocky height Where Time dispels the hopes that Fancy gave, And all life's prospect narrows to a cave. Less sweet we sleep than did the sleepers seven, Our dreams are shadows--theirs were bright with Heaven. Haply to every soul there comes an hour When Sorrow's hand smites in the wall with power, Or Love hath breathed a whisper soft and low, And wrought the miracle of Jericho.

And thus we come again or soon or late, To pass once more the mystic City's gate. Our hearts grow tender as we view again The dear remembered vistas of the plain, And as we draw the sun-lit portals near, The air is sweet to us with vesper prayer; While o'er the gate our lifted eyes behold The sacred sign--a cross of shining gold.

A LEGEND OF ST. JOHN.

Inscribed to

C. C. Bonney.

A LEGEND OF ST. JOHN.

Then Jesus answered unto Peter, "If I will That he shall tarry till I come again, What is it unto thee?" He spake of John.

When John to Patmos' isle was banished, He saw and heard unutterable things. The "Revelation" is a shadow poor, Of his most marvelous experience. But human language never can convey, And human intellect can never span, Things not of earth. When from his beauteous dream Unwillingly the loved disciple woke, His heart was burning with new zeal for God And therefore with more tender love for man. Down the steep mountain side, with ready feet, To preach the gospel to the Greeks, he ran, To tell of that fair city with its gates Of gleaming pearl, and streets of shining gold, Built for the people of the gracious Lord. But to the Greeks his words were foolishness. The Stoics cried, "What doth this babbler say? He seems a setter forth of unknown gods!" And thus they closed their ears against his words Of beauty, and went on their careless way.

'Twere long to tell how patiently he toiled; How some believed, and some refused to hear; Of all the cities that he visited; And how his words were always, "God is love;" How he was saved by miracle from death, When cast into a pot of boiling oil; How in a weary dungeon he was thrown, Yet counted it but gain, for in the dark The angels dwelt with him and made it light. At last he was released. Perhaps his face-- So full of holy love, so angel-sweet, He seemed Christ's brother--moved his cruel foes To pity; and they bade him go in peace. So from the rusty iron gates he passed, With a bowed form, and hair as white as snow.

John traversed Europe for the Lord. At last His pilgrim feet pressed Russia. Through its coast He preached with holy fervor, as was meet, The message of the Lord to erring men. But everywhere with cold indifference, Or anger, or contempt, his words were met: Until, at last, with bleeding feet, he came To bleak Siberia. A churlish crowd Received his message with a stupid stare; Which, as he gently told them of their need Of Him who came to save them from their sins, Changed to a glare of rage. So curst were they, They would have slain him; but on his calm face There fell a light supernal, and he passed In safety through their midst, and came at last To where the Arctic laves with icy wave The chill Siberian coast, and there a boat Filled with strong men received him, and they plied Their oars, and like a swift-winged bird, sped north.

Within the iceberg barricade which girds Impregnably the Northern Pole, 'tis said There is a Beulah Land surpassing fair, With beaming sky and soft delicious air, Rich with the perfume sweet of blossoms rare. Its trees have never turned to russet tinge; The girdling waves, warm as the summer, fringe Its golden sands with lace of foam, and die In soft accord with bird-song melody. No cruel heats nor chilling blasts invade, But the sweet quietude of twilight shade Brings ever to the mind a holy calm. And there, 'tis said, the Great Apostle waits Until the end of all things shall draw near, When he will come again, and preach to men With the old words of love, and move their hearts To penitence, and they will captive yield To the sweet words of truth, and give their lives With heartiness to deeds of charity.

Come, blest Apostle! from the icy North Haste thy departure, for the world is faint And weary for the music of thy feet. The earth is growing old. Two thousand years Have fled since thou and Jesus walked with men. Two thousand years of bitterness of creeds; Two thousand years of selfishness and crime.

THE BLESSED VALE.

Inscribed to

H. N. Powers.

THE BLESSED VALE.

PRELUDE.

Why should we journey to a distant star? For lo! we dwell within the Land of Dream; The walls of jasper round about us gleam, Beneath our feet the golden pavements are.

There is a Blessed Vale of beauty rare, Alas! I cannot find it when I would; Yet sometimes, in a meditative mood, My feet have wandered, how I know not, there.

On devious paths unseen by mortal eyes, O'er pleasant fields or shadowy by-ways drear, I draw in joy, perchance in sadness, near To where in peace the Blessed Valley lies.

Sometimes when thro' the sapphire arch of morn The tides of light and bird-song mingled roll, A softer radiance falls upon my soul, A sweeter music to mine ear is borne.

When day's last color like a star-tipt sail Has vanished o'er the western sea of night, The air grows mellow with a rosy light,-- And lo! I stand within the mystic vale.

And sometimes on the city's crowded street, Where avarice meets in never-ending fray, The roar of trafficking dies far away, And round me blooms the Blessed Valley sweet.

Bright dreams of Heaven! alas, how soon ye fail, And leave me to the empty ways of earth, Whose treasures seem to me of little worth, Since I have stood within the Blessed Vale.

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