Read Ebook: Poems from the Inner Life by Doten Lizzie

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THE PRAYER OF THE SORROWING.

"And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven strengthening him."

God! hear my prayer! Thou who hast poured the essence of thy life Into this urn, this feeble urn of clay; Thou who amid the tempest's gloom and strife Art the lone star that guides me on my way; When my crushed heart, by constant striving torn, Flies shuddering from its own impurity, And my faint spirit, by its sorrows worn, Turns with a cry of anguish unto thee-- Hear me, O God! my God!

O, this strange mingling in of Life and Death, Of Soul and Substance! Let me comprehend The hidden secret of life's fleeting breath, My being's destiny, its aim and end. Show me the impetus that urged me forth, Upon my lone and burning pathway driven; The secret force that binds me down to earth, While my sad spirit yearns for home and heaven-- Hear me, O God! my God!

Peace! peace! O, wilful, wayward heart, be still! For, lo! the messenger of God is near; Bow down submissive to the Father's will, In "perfect love" that "casteth out all fear." O, pitying Spirit from the home above! No longer shall my chastened heart rebel; Fold me, O fold me in thine arms of love! I know my Father "doeth all things well;" I will not doubt his changeless love again. Amen! My heart repeats, Amen!

THE SONG OF TRUTH.

In the early years, when the youthful spheres, From the depths of Chaos sprung, When the heavens grew bright with the new-born light, And the stars in chorus sung-- To that holy sound, through the space profound, 'Mid their glittering ranks I trod; For I am a part of the Central Heart, Co-equal and one with God.

The world is my child. Though wilful and wild, Yet I know that she loves me still, For she thinks I fled with her holy dead, Because of her stubborn will; And she weeps at night, when the angels light Their watch-fires over the sky, Like a maid o'er the grave of her loved and brave; But the Truth can never die.

I only speak to the lowly and meek, To the simple and child-like heart, But I leave the proud to their glittering shroud, And the tricks of their cunning art. Like a white-winged dove from the home of love, Through the airy space untrod, I come at the cry which is heard on high,-- "Hear me, O God! my God!"

THE EMBARKATION.

The band of Pilgrim exiles in tearful silence stood, While thus outspake, in parting, John Robinson the good: "Fare thee well, my brave Miles Standish! thou hast a trusty sword, But not with carnal weapons shalt thou glorify the Lord. Fare thee well, good Elder Brewster! thou art a man of prayer; Commend the flock I give thee to the holy Shepherd's care. And thou, belov?d Carver, what shall I say to thee? I have need, in this my sorrow, that thou shouldst comfort me. In the furnace of affliction must all be sharply tried; But nought prevails against us, if the Lord be on our side. Farewell, farewell, my people!--go, and stay not the hand, But precious seed of Freedom sow ye broadcast through the land. Ye may scatter it in sorrow, and water it with tears, But rejoice for those who gather the fruit in after years; Ay! rejoice that ye may leave them an altar unto God, On the holy soil of Freedom, where no tyrant's foot hath trod. All honor to our sovereign, his majesty King James, But the King of kings above us the highest homage claims." Upon the deck together they knelt them down and prayed, The husband and the father, the matron and the maid; The broad blue heavens above them, bright with the summer's glow, And the wide, wide waste of waters, with its treacherous waves below; Around, the loved and cherished, whom they should see no more, And the dark, uncertain future stretching dimly on before. O, well might Edward Winslow look sadly on his bride! O, well might fair Rose Standish press to her chieftain's side! For with crucified affections they bowed the knee in prayer, And besought that God would aid them to suffer and to bear; To bear the cross of sorrow--a broader shield of love Than the Royal Cross of England, that proudly waved above. The balmy winds of summer swept o'er the glittering seas; It brought the sign of parting--the white sails met the breeze; One farewell gush of sorrow, one prayerful blessing more, And the bark that bore the exiles glided slowly from the shore. "Thus they left that goodly city," o'er stormy seas to roam; "But they knew that they were pilgrims," and this world was not their home.

There is a God in heaven, whose purpose none may tell; There is a God in heaven, who doeth all things well: And thus an infant nation was cradled on the deep, While hosts of holy angels were set to guard its sleep; No seer, no priest, or prophet, read its horoscope at birth, No bard in solemn saga sung its destiny to earth, But slowly,--slowly,--slowly as the acorn from the sod, It grew in strength and grandeur, and spread its arms abroad; The eyes of distant nations turned towards that goodly tree, And they saw how fair and pleasant were the fruits of Liberty! Like earth's convulsive motion before the earthquake's shock, Like the foaming of the ocean around old Plymouth Rock, So the deathless love of Freedom--the majesty of Right-- In all kindred, and all nations, is rising in its might; And words of solemn warning come from the honored dead-- "Woe, woe to the oppressor if righteous blood be shed! Rush not blindly on the future! heed the lessons of the past! For the feeble and the faithful are the conquerors at last."

KEPLER'S VISION.

Upon the clear, bright, northern sky, Aurora's rainbow arches gleamed, While, from their radiant source on high, The countless host of evening beamed; Each moving in its path of light-- Those paths by Science then untrod-- The silent guardians of the night, The watchers by the throne of God.

Far up above the gloomy wood,-- The wavy, murmuring wood of pine,-- Upon the mountain side, there stood A worshipper at Nature's shrine. His spirit, like a breathing lyre, At each celestial touch awoke, And burning with a sacred fire, His voice the solemn silence broke.

"O, glittering host! O, golden line! I would I had an angel's ken, Your deepest secrets to divine, And read your mysteries to men. The glorious truth is in my soul, The solemn witness in my heart-- Although ye move as one great whole, Each bears his own appointed part."

And o'er the vast area of space, And through the height and depth profound, Each starless void and shining place Was filled with harmony of sound. Now, swelling like the voice of seas, With the full, rushing tide of years, Then, sighing like an evening breeze, It died among the distant spheres.

Rich goblets filled with "Samian wine," Or "Life's elixir, sparkling high," Could not impart such joy divine As that full chorus of the sky. He might have heard the Orphean lute, Or caught the sound of Memnon's lyre, And yet his lips could still be mute, Nor feel one spark of kindred fire.

But now, o'er ravished soul and sense, Such floods of living music broke, That, filled with rapture too intense, His disenchanted spirit woke. Awoke! but not to lose the sound, The echo of that holy song; He breathed it to the world around, And others bore the strain along.

O, unto few the power is given To pass beyond the bounds of Time, And lift the radiant veil of Heaven, To view her mysteries sublime. Yet Thou, in whose majestic light The Source of Knowledge lies concealed, Prepare us to receive aright The truths that yet shall be revealed.

LOVE AND LATIN.

Amo--amare--amavi--amatum.

One night, as a sly innuendo, When Nature was mantled in snow, He wrote in the frost on the window, A sweet word in Latin--"amo." O, it needed no words for expression, For that I had long understood; But there was his written confession-- Present tense and indicative mood.

But O, how man's passion will vary! For scarcely a year had passed by, When he changed the "amo" to "amare," But instead of an "e" was a "y." Yes, a Mary had certainly taken The heart once so fondly my own, And I, the rejected, forsaken, Was left to reflection alone.

Since then I've a horror of Latin, And students uncommonly smart; True love, one should always put that in, To balance the head by the heart. To be a fine scholar and linguist Is much to one's credit, I know, But "I love" should be said in plain English, And not with a Latin "amo."

THE FATE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.

SONG OF THE NORTH.

"Away, away!" cried the stout Sir John, "While the blossoms are on the trees, For the summer is short, and the times speeds on As we sail for the northern seas. Ho! gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James! We will startle the world, I trow, When we find a way through the Northern seas That never was found till now! A good stout ship is the 'Erebus,' As ever unfurled a sail, And the 'Terror' will match with as brave a one As ever outrode a gale."

So they bade farewell to their pleasant homes, To the hills and the valleys green, With three hearty cheers for their native isle, And three for the English Queen. They sped them away, beyond cape and bay, Where the day and the night are one-- Where the hissing light in the heavens grew bright, And flamed like a midnight sun. There was nought below, save the fields of snow, That stretched to the icy pole; And the Esquimaux, in his strange canoe, Was the only living soul!

Along the coast, like a giant host, The glittering icebergs frowned, Or they met on the main, like a battle plain, And crashed with a fearful sound! The seal and the bear, with a curious stare, Looked down from the frozen heights, And the stars in the skies, with their great, wild eyes, Peered out from the Northern Lights. The gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James, And even the stout Sir John, Felt a doubt, like a chill, through their warm hearts thrill, As they urged the good ships on.

They sped them away, beyond cape and bay, Where even the tear-drops freeze, But no way was found, by a strait or sound, To sail through the Northern seas; They sped them away, beyond cape and bay, And they sought, but they sought in vain, For no way was found, through the ice around, To return to their homes again. Then the wild waves rose, and the waters froze, Till they closed like a prison wall; And the icebergs stood in the sullen flood, Like their jailers, grim and tall. O God! O God!--it was hard to die In that prison house of ice! For what was fame, or a mighty name, When life was the fearful price? The gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James, And even the stout Sir John, Had a secret dread, and their hopes all fled, As the weeks and the months passed on. Then the Ice King came, with his eyes of flame, And looked on that fated crew; His chilling breath was as cold as death, And it pierced their warm hearts through! A heavy sleep, that was dark and deep, Came over their weary eyes, And they dreamed strange dreams of the hills and streams, And the blue of their native skies.

The Christmas chimes, of the good old times, Were heard in each dying ear, And the dancing feet, and the voices sweet Of their wives and their children dear! But it faded away--away--away! Like a sound on a distant shore, And deeper and deeper grew the sleep, Till they slept to wake no more.

O, the sailor's wife, and the sailor's child, They will weep, and watch, and pray; And the Lady Jane, she will hope in vain, As the long years pass away! The gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James, And the good Sir John have found An open way, to a quiet bay, And a port where we all are bound! Let the waters roar on the ice-bound shore, That circles the frozen pole; But there is no sleep, and no grave so deep, That can hold a human soul.

THE BURIAL OF WEBSTER.

O Webster! thou wast mighty among thy fellow-men; And he who seeks to judge thee must be what thou hast been;-- Must feel thine aspirations for higher aims in life, And know the stern temptations that urged thee in the strife; Must let his heart flow largely from out its narrow span, And meet thee freely, fairly, as man should meet with man. What was lost, and what resisted, is known to One alone: Then let him who stands here guiltless "be first to cast a stone"!

Farewell! We give, with mourning, back to thy mother Earth The robes thy soul rejected at its celestial birth!

A mightier one and stronger may stand where thou wast tried, Yet he shall be the wiser that thou hast lived and died; Thy greatness be his glory, thine errors let him shun, And let him finish nobly what thou hast left undone.

Farewell! The granite mountains, the hill-side, and the sea, Thy harvest-fields and orchards, will all lament for thee! Farewell! A mighty nation awards thee deathless fame, And future generations shall honor WEBSTER'S name!

THE PARTING OF SIGURD AND GERDA.

She stood beneath the moonlight pale, With calm, uplifted eye, While all her being, weak and frail, Thrilled with her purpose high; For she, the long affianced bride, Must seal the fount of tears, And break, with woman's lofty pride, The plighted faith of years.

Ay! she had loved as in a dream, And woke, at length, to find How coldly on her spirit gleamed The dazzling light of mind. For little was the true, deep love Of that pure spirit known To him, the cold, the selfish one, Who claimed her as his own.

And what to him were all her dreams Of purer, holier life? Such idle fancies ill became A meek, submissive wife. And what were all her yearnings high For God and "Fatherland" But vain chimeras, lofty flights, While Sigurd held her hand?

And then uprose the bitter thought, "Why bow to his control? Why sacrifice, before his pride, The freedom of my soul? Better to break the golden chain, And live and love apart, Than feel the galling, grinding links Wearing upon my heart."

He came,--and, with a soft, low voice, In the pale gleaming light, She laid her gentle hand in his-- "Sigurd, we part to-night. Long have these bitter words been kept Within this heart of mine, And often have I lonely wept,-- I never can be thine."

Proudly, with folded arms he stood, And cold, sarcastic smile-- "Ha! this is but a wayward mood, An artful woman's wile. But this I know: so long--so long I've held thee to thy vow, That I have made the bond too strong For thee to break it now."

THE MEETING OF SIGURD AND GERDA.

"O, early love! O, early love! Why does this memory haunt me yet? Peace! I invoke thee from above,-- I cannot, though I would, forget. How I have sought, with prayers and tears, To quench this wasting passion-flame! But after long, long, weary years, It burns within my heart the same."

She wept--poor, sorrowing Gerda wept, In the dark pine-wood wandering lone, While cold the night-winds past her swept, And bright the stars above her shone. Poor, suffering dove! her song was hushed, The blithesome song of other days, Yet, O! when such true hearts are crushed, They breathe their holiest, sweetest lays.

A step was heard. Her heart beat high; Through the dim shadows of the wood She glanced with quick and anxious eye-- Lo! Sigurd by her stood;-- And as the moon's pale, quivering rays Stole through that lonely place, He stood, with calm, impassioned gaze Fixed on her tearful face.

"Gerda," he said, "I come to speak A long, a last farewell; Some distant land and home I seek, Far, far from thee to dwell. O, since I lost thee, gentle one, My truest and my best, I have rushed madly, blindly on, Nor dared to think of rest.

"The night that spreads her starry wing Beyond the Northern Sea, Does not a deeper darkness bring Than that which rests on me. Yet, no! I will not ask thy tears For my deep tale of woe; Forgetfulness will come with years; Gerda--my love--I go!"

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