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Read Ebook: The Coast of Bohemia by Page Thomas Nelson
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Ebook has 269 lines and 14496 words, and 6 pages
ently upon the spot Had laid a blue forget-me-not: A message sent across the years, Of Lovers' sighs and Lovers' tears: A messenger left there to tell They too had loved each other well. The centuries had glided by Since Love had heaved that tender sigh; The tiny spray that spoke her trust, Had like herself long turned to dust.
I felt a sudden sorrow stir My heart across the years for her, Who, reading how Francesca loved, Had found her heart so deeply moved: Who, hearing poor Francesca's moan, Had felt her sorrow as her own. I hope where e 'er her grave may be, Forget-me-nots bloom constantly: That somewhere in yon distant skies He who is Love hath heard her sighs: And her hath granted of His Grace, Ever to see her Lover's face.
THE NEEDLE'S EYE
They bade me come to the House of Prayer, They said I should find my Saviour there: I was wicked enough, God wot, at best, And weary enough to covet rest.
The Bishop was there in his lace and lawn, And the cassocked priest,--I saw him yawn,-- The rich and great and virtuous too, Stood smug and contented each in his pew.
The music was grand,--the service fine, The sermon was eloquent,--nigh divine. The subject was, Pride and the Pharisee, And the Publican, who was just like me.
I smote my breast in an empty pew, But an usher came and looked me through And bade me stand beside the door In the space reserved for the mean and poor.
I left the church in my rags and shame: In the dark without, One called my name. "They have turned me out as well," quoth He, "Take thou my hand and come fare with me.
"We may find the light by a narrow gate, The way is steep and rough and strait; But none will look if your clothes be poor, When you come at last to my Father's door."
I struggled on where 'er He led: The blood ran down from His hand so red! The blood ran down from His forehead torn. "'Tis naught," quoth He, "but the prick of a thorn!"
"You bleed," I cried, for my heart 'gan quail. "'Tis naught, 'tis naught but the print of a nail." "You limp in pain and your feet are sore." "Yea, yea," quoth He, "for the nails they were four."
"You are weary and faint and bent," I cried. "'Twas a load I bore up a mountain side." "The way is steep, and I faint." But He: "It was steeper far upon Calvary."
And forth there streamed a radiance More bright than is the noon-sun's glance; And harps and voices greeted Him-- The music of the Seraphim.
I knew His face where the light did fall: I had spat in it, in Herod's Hall, I knew those nail-prints now, ah, me!-- I had helped to nail Him to a tree.
I fainting fell before His face, Imploring pardon of His grace. He stooped and silencing my moan, He bore me near to His Father's throne.
He wrapt me close and hid my shame, And touched my heart with a cleansing flame. "Rest here," said He, "while I go and try To widen a little a Needle's Eye."
THE CLOSED DOOR
Lord, is it Thou who knockest at my door? I made it fast and 't will not open more; Barred it so tight I scarce can hear Thy knock, And am too feeble now to turn the lock, Clogged with my folly and my grievous sin: Put forth Thy might, O Lord, and burst it in.
CONVENTION
At the Judgment-bar stood spirits three: A thief, a fool and a man of degree, To whom spake the Judge in his Majesty.
To the shivering thief: "Thy sins are forgiven, For that to repent thou hast sometime striven; There be other penitent thieves in Heaven."
To the fool: "Poor fool, thou art free from sin; To My light thou, too, mayest enter in, Where Life and Thought shall for thee begin."
To the mirror of others, smug and neat, With the thoughts and sayings of others replete, This Judgment rolled from the Judgment-seat:
"Remain thou thyself, a worm to crawl. Thou, doubly damned, canst not lower fall Than ne'er to have thought for thyself at all."
THE MAGDALEN
He flaunted recklessly along, With hollow laugh and mocking song;
In tawdry garb and painted mirth, The sorrowfulest thing on earth.
Time runs apace: the fleeting years Left but her misery and her tears.
The very brothel-door was barred Against a wretch so crook'd and marred.
She knocked at every gate in vain, The cast-out harlot black with stain--
At all save one,--when this she tried,-- 'T was His, the High Priest crucified.
He heard her tears, flung wide His door And said, "Come in, and sin no more."
THE REQUIREMENT
To the Steward of his vineyard spake the Lord, When he handed him over His Keys and Sword: "See that you harken unto my word:
"There be three chief things that I love," quoth He, "That bear a sweet savor up to me: They be Justice, Mercy and Purity."
Justice was sold at a thief's behest; Purity went for a harlot's jest, And Mercy was slain with a sword in her breast.
THE LISTENER
A sparrow sang on a weed, Sprung from an upturned sod, And no one gave him heed Or heard the song, save God.
CONTRADICTION
A bishop preached Sunday on Dives forsaken: How he was cast out and Lazarus taken; The very next day he rejoiced he was able To dine that evening at Dives' table. While wretched Lazarus, sick and poor, Was called an impostor and turned from the door.
THE QUESTION
Why may I not step from this empty room, Where heavy round me hangs the curtained gloom, And passing through a little darkness there, Even as one climbs to bed an unlit stair, Find that I know is but one step above, And that I hunger for: my Life: my Love?
'T is but a curtain doth our souls divide, A veil my eager hand might tear aside-- One step to take, one thrill, one throb, one bound, And I have gained my Heaven, the Lost have found-- Have solved the riddle rare, the secret dread: The vast, unfathomable secret of the Dead.
It seems but now that as I yearning stand, I might put forth my hand and touch her hand; That I might lift my longing eyes and trace But for the darkness there the gracious face; That could I hush the grosser sounds, my ear The charm?d music of her voice might hear.
She may not come to me, Alas! I know, Else had she surely come, long, long ago. The Conqueror Death, who save One conquers all, Had never power to hold that soul in thrall; No narrowest prison-house; no piled up stone Had held her heart a captive from my own.
No, 't is not these: Hell's might nor Heaven's charms, Had never power to hold her from my arms;-- 'T is that by some inscrutable, fixed Law, Vaster than mortal vision ever saw, Whose sweep is worlds; whose track Eternity, Somewhere her soul angelic waits for me:--
Waits patiently His Wisdom, whose decree Is Wisdom's self veiled in Infinity: Who gives us Life divine with mortal breath, Yet in its pathway, lo! hath planted Death; Who grants us Love our dull souls to uplift Nearer to Him; yet tears away His Gift;
Crowns us with Reason in His image made, Yet blinds our eyes with never lifting shade. Who may the mystery solve? 'T is His decree! Can Mortal understand Infinity? Prostrate thyself before His feet, dull clod, Who saith, "Be still, and know that I am God."
Ah! did we surely know the joys that wait Beyond the portal of the silent gate, Who would a moment longer here abide, The spectre, Sorrow, stalking at his side? Who would not daring take the leap and be Unbound, unfettered clean, a slave set free!
OUR DEAD
We bury our dead, We lay them to sleep With the earth for their bed, With stones at their head: We leave them and weep When we bury our dead.
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