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POEMS. 
 
 
 ZQ3 
 
 BY 
 
 GOLD-PEN 
 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO 
 
 1856. 
 

 Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1855. by 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 
 
 In the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States in and for 
 the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
The gem that doth, surprise the gazer's eye 
 
 Was found by long, tired search. Its pent up rays 
 
 Of darting light were loosed by patient toil. 
 
 And so the work that bringeth sudden joy 
 
 Costless, unsought — was weariness to him 
 
 Who wrought its each proportion, long before 
 
 As a new thing 'twas greeted by the world. 
 
 But having fashioned it, and turned away 
 
 From its stale contemplation, he at length 
 
 Looks back, and with fond eye, what others praise 
 
 Sees doubly fair— thus reaping a reward! 
 3 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGS 
 
 Silent Influences, 13 
 
 Labour, , 15 
 
 Nature, 19 
 
 Thought Astray, 24 
 
 The Necessity of Faith, 30 
 
 Praise, 32 
 
 My Desk,, 34 
 
 A Spring in the Woods, 39 
 
 The Angel's Visit, 42 
 
 A Bat, 58 
 
 The Angler, 6 
 
 The Philadelphia Library, 61 
 
 Sabbath Afternoon, 65 
 
 Premeditation, 71 
 
 The Lofty Place, 73 
 
 Little Ellie, 76 
 
 The Poet, 85 
 
 Autumn, 39 
 
 Eventide, , , 90 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 The Secret Sin, 94 
 
 Self Love, 97 
 
 Our Appointed Place, 99 
 
 Our Changing Frames, 103 
 
 The Sculptor, 105 
 
 Our Life, 106 
 
 "Putting Off," 108 
 
 The Dining Room of the Old House, 110 
 
 The Release, 133 
 
 A Cloud, 134 
 
POEMS. 
 
 SILENT INFLUENCES. 
 
 The sunshine silent .falls upon the bud, 
 
 No voice doth answer, but the secret cell 
 
 Within enlargeth, and the embryo hid 
 
 Swells and perfects itself to the full flower. 
 
 The writer sits in some lone room apart; 
 
 He uttereth there no word, his arm toils not : 
 
 He holds his pen, and as an idler seems ; 
 
 Yet from that quietude do thoughts come forth 
 
 That as with wings do fly from heart to heart 
 
 O'er the wide world with moving influence. 
 
 It is not by the sound nor show without 
 
 We judge of the result. He who doth all, 
 
 Curbing this fleeting world and all the stars, 
 9 
 
14 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Doeth it silently. Canst thou stand forth 
 Far in the forest, when each early shoot 
 Peeps from the rugged bark, and every blade 
 From the moist earth springs up in its own place, 
 Canst thou hear then a whispering 'niong the leaves 
 New- waked to life ? Or canst thou from on high 
 Discern the voice that calls them ? From the world 
 That marks the limit of an angel's flight 
 To this our lower world ; from this again 
 To that most distant in the opposite space, 
 An unseen silent influence pervades 
 And orders all things. 
 
LABOUR. 
 
 The artist seeks when his last piece is done 
 For a new subject. Many in review 
 Are led by fancy. He doth choose but one. 
 To it he yields his thought and for the time 
 Seeks that it may enamour him, by love, 
 To summon forth to effort all his powers. 
 How can he woo the thing he doth not love ? 
 Or what he thus hath sought with entreaty 
 Till oft repulsed, desire has turned aside, 
 How can he follow longer? 
 
 The miner feels no hardship in his toil 
 When all the ground is rich. It yields reward 
 At each upturning ! then each thing puts on 
 A look attractive, — the surrounding scene, — 
 The lonely vale — the stream that waters it, 
 "Bearing down from the mountain scales of gold, 
 
16 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Seem separate from the wealth they hold for him. 
 
 To have a luring beauty of their own. 
 
 But let him pass the richly yielding spot, 
 
 And labour by its side with no return, 
 
 Forth from him slowly spreads an influence 
 
 "Which seems to change what is in truth not changed. 
 
 So is it with our verse. We, as it were, 
 Walk on the margin of some lonely lake, 
 Looking beneath its waters. When still, clear, 
 We see the pebbly bottom and discern 
 Strewed there the pearls we seek for, where we may 
 Stretch forth our hand and gather them, or where 
 At greater depths they lie yet in our sight, — 
 So by descending we may bring them up — 
 Then all the air invigorates, — we haste 
 Joyous upon our way ! But while we walk, 
 If these same waters dim and muddied grow, 
 And we must search at random here and there, 
 Groping for what we see not, weary soon 
 Both of the place and labour we become. 
 One moment we do love our page, it brings, 
 Drawing them swiftly forth in definite form, 
 Thoughts that had shapeless flitted thro' our mind ; 
 Or sometimes those we never knew before, 
 
LABOUR. 17 
 
 Robed in fair words, drop finished from our pen ! 
 
 We look upon them with their first delight, 
 
 And lay them by, gladly enticing more. 
 
 1 Tis but one moment, but a backward step 
 
 From this to deep disgust ! — the current ceased, — 
 
 Or all it offers inappropriate 
 
 There comes confusion and bewilderment, 
 
 That robs us even of the power of choice ! 
 
 Toil hath been ordered as the lot of man, 
 And so is its infliction carried out 
 That not one, poor or rich in mental gifts, 
 But if he will excel where lies his task, 
 Must so excel by labour. Thou may'st bear 
 Great talents, and some great work yet undone 
 3Iay be reserved for thee ; yet if thou dost 
 Reach thy high place and honoured destiny, 
 Not in the smooth dress of the man of ease, 
 Biit in the labourer's garments thou shalt come. 
 
 Look through the world, of all that is possessed 
 By men, that thou would'st covet to possess, — 
 Of skill or high attainment, what is found 
 That hath been reached by any other road ! 
 Though thou inherit the high seat that rests 
 
18 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Upon the summit of a kingdom's throne, 
 Still, if thou would'st bring honour to thy name, 
 And well dispense the powers that cluster there, 
 For wisdom thou must labour, — searching far 
 Through her great garners where alike she calls 
 Peasant and Prince to gather for himself. 
 
 The poet, whatsoe'er his gifts may be, 
 Still finds the brightest veins lie hidden deep. 
 Is he who tracks the silver thro' the rock, 
 Or sifts the grains of gold, less diligent 
 Than he who doth more plenteous metal seek ? 
 Our place we choose not. One doth cast our lot 
 Where He hath formed us for, — yet all alike 
 To labour. His day labourers are we. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 A FROG upon the margin of a spring! 
 
 Part of the furniture by nature placed 
 
 To quite complete this still, inanimate scene. 
 
 What sentiment, thou green and croaking thing, 
 
 Can I now gather from thy panting form ? 
 
 If thou could'st tell thy history, no lack 
 
 Of subject would there be, lone sentinel! 
 
 Here is a world we think not of. From here — 
 
 This little fount — this basin ever full — 
 
 How many draw new life up day by day ? 
 
 The tortoise comes here, pauses on the brink, 
 
 And drinks, — in that one necessary act 
 
 Perfect by instinct as we are by thought. 
 
 What small proportion of full rational thought 
 
 Is in the impulse which doth it impel 
 
 To turn amid the far off furrowed field, 
 
 And truly, by an unmarked lowly path, 
 19 
 
20 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. . 
 
 Seek the wet margin of this gurgling spring? 
 The infinite irradiations sent 
 Of intellect through all the countless ranks 
 And orders of his creatures, God doth know, 
 And he alone the measure marks of each. 
 
 Now while I stand beneath the shade, methinks 
 This is misnamed a silent solitude; 
 For countless voices from the mossy ground 
 Rise up around me, — not the din of trade, 
 But the loud humming of the insect world, 
 As busy here as man is where he dwells. 
 Hark, from the trees! birds to each other call, 
 And though they know it not, carol to me. 
 Far as my eye can through the forest reach 
 I see bright beams from the meridian sun 
 Fall here and there between the parted boughs, 
 Check'ring the green pathless floor beneath. 
 
 Often when pent within the city walls, 
 And scenes like this have risen in my thought, 
 I have believed that could I thus but stand 
 Free amid nature and her outspread works, 
 My thirst were satisfied. I stand there now — 
 The visible reality more full 
 
NATUKE. 21 
 
 Of beauty than the unreal picture was. 
 Am I then satisfied, and is that thirst 
 For something yet untasted quenched within ? 
 Oh no, the stream I parch for flows not here ! 
 Why do I cheat myself and promise still 
 My heart this comfort ? yet not all deceived, 
 For well I know, as to my final faith, 
 And those last joys which only can be full, 
 That Heaven alone can yield them. Still I find 
 From day to day as on life's path I go, 
 Impatient to have nothing, that I look 
 For some repose at each turn of the way, 
 And so reap disappointment ! Better far, 
 Both for the sake of duty and content, 
 To tell my heart, and crown it with belief 
 That here it hath no portion, but must go 
 Stripped save of hope, unto the journey's end: 
 
 And yet, oh nature, did He not spread forth 
 Thy fair green fields, and rear thy mountains up, 
 "Who placed within us the discerning mind 
 To see their beauties? Did He thee adorn 
 And give us eye and ear and answering sense 
 To feel delight when looking in thy face 
 
22 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 That tills sweet harmony between us both 
 Should be but void and empty? 
 
 Thou lookest on some fragment of the past — 
 Some carved sarcophagus which hid hath lain 
 Covered up, unknown for a thousand years ; 
 And the dim fancies that around it throng — 
 Fictions upsummoned but from thine own brain 
 Give it an interest. But when in thy search 
 Through all its parts, the closer scrutiny 
 Reveals some strange inscription that doth tell 
 Who slept there in his ancient sleep of death, — 
 Giving the name and lineage of a king, 
 How doth that interest deepen into awe ! 
 
 Thus, once I walked beside a murmuring brook 
 
 In early youth (I know the stream yet well, 
 
 And where far through a wooded glen it winds,) 
 
 Feeling a consciousness of strange delight 
 
 Indefinite, such as I could not speak 
 
 The nature of, nor the source whence it sprang. 
 
 Yet as I followed on its grassy brink 
 
 Noting its falls and eddies — -leaping now 
 
 Across its bosom to the firmer side, — 
 
 Now sitting down beneath some spreading tree, 
 
NATURE. 23 
 
 Gazing and listening to its gentle song, 
 
 There was imparted to my childish soul 
 
 A sense of beauty and a real joy. 
 
 This was the first touch of that answering chord ■ 
 
 Placed in my bosom,— the first opening 
 
 Of that perception which notes nature's charms. 
 
 But as I grew, and this instinctive sense 
 
 Deepened with years, it was made known to me 
 
 That all these charms were fashioned by the hand 
 
 Of one who loved me, and that nature stood 
 
 Robed as she was, not to embody forth 
 
 Some unknown God, some dim unformed belief 
 
 That we, kept back from any near approach, 
 
 Should darkly worship her, or Him in her; 
 
 But by God's hand thus veiled from my sight, 
 
 To witness of his present power and love. 
 
 As thou would' st walk amid mementos spread 
 
 From one beloved, yet hidden from thine eyes, 
 
 So walk I amid nature ! and if now, 
 
 After a circling pilgrimage of years, 
 
 My steps were led back to that early stream, 
 
 Not by the mind's maturer growth alone, 
 
 But by this new interpretation given, 
 
 Would all its beauties show to me more fair. 
 
THOUGHT ASTKAY. 
 
 Thou lovest me ! Tell me now what is love ? 
 Four letters and one impulse of the voice ! 
 Thus much it is in sound — oft 'tis no more ; 
 But what in truth is love ? 
 
 Far to the north, 
 Ev'n from the centre of its frozen plain, 
 I start upon my search. Each lone recess 
 And icy cavern or wide snowy waste, 
 I tread with downcast eye, till to the edge 
 Of winter come, I overstep his reign 
 And pass into the intermediate space — 
 Fruitful, — a mighty field of waving grain, 
 That lies between it and the burning zone. 
 Then following on, cross the imagined line 
 That like a belt binds endless summer in. 
 Still seeking, on I pass till the great world 
 
THOUGHT ASTRAY. 3 
 
 Is compassed by my footsteps, and I stand 
 Upon the icy pedestal first left. 
 And yet in all the search I have not found 
 One visible thing that shapes this feeling forth. 
 The world is void of it ! where shall I look 
 For love's sweet likeness, or its palpable form ? 
 
 Thou'st trod the world in the vain search !— now stand 
 
 Still where thou art and turn thine eyes within. 
 
 Is it dark to thee ? — burns no candle there ? 
 
 Eyes that do reach without the stars of heaven, 
 
 Within, pierce not a single finger's length ! 
 
 But there are some who too much look within. 
 
 For as to look without alone, doth dim 
 
 And blur the mirror of thy consciousness; 
 
 To gaze in it forever and to grow 
 
 Enamoured with the study, doth neglect 
 
 A most demanding part of thee — thy flesh; 
 
 Letting its ties unto the outer world 
 
 Decay for want of use and separate. 
 
 And when these ties are once so broken off, 
 
 Believe me, such a shrinking fills the soul 
 
 From seeking to unite their bonds again ; 
 
 That mostly the dividing space doth grow, 
 
 Wider and deeper, till the sensitive gulf 
 
26 POEMS- — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Thou passest not and none do pass to thee. 
 
 A winter lies about thee : round thy heart — 
 
 Between it and all others it is cold, — - 
 
 A snowy space — a barrier of ice 
 
 Invisible, but felt, doth hem thee in. 
 
 Thou comest forth, dost jostle by the way 
 
 Thy fellows — treadest the same earth with them — 
 
 Breathest the air they breathe — dost feel their sun — 
 
 Speakest with many, yet in brotherhood 
 
 Of purpose and uniting sympathy 
 
 Thou walkest separate in another world ! 
 
 And thou art conscious of it. They know not 
 
 What 'tis that chills them while insensibly 
 
 They wrap the formal mantle when ye meet; 
 
 But thou dost know, the cause lies at thy door. 
 
 Thou watchest every motion, every look, — 
 
 A smile hath power thy need demandeth not, — 
 
 A frown doth wound where swords sh'd blunt their edge. 
 
 Thou hast grown sensitive to looks and breaths, 
 
 Motions and glances, all these magnified 
 
 And changed from their own unessential life, 
 
 Are armed against thee — fancied enemies — 
 
 All quick — the zephyr's breath doth wound at last, 
 
 Till life to thee hath grown a weariness. 
 
THOUGHT ASTRAY. 27 
 
 Then by the narrowings of thy fate impelled 
 Thou dost retreat back from the dreaded world 
 One more remove. Less frequent now thy foot 
 Treadeth the open highway — it doth seek 
 Some solitary walk — the approaching form 
 Doth startle thee. The child's gaze fetters hath, 
 The ball and chain of the poor criminal. 
 The thoughtless salutation from the lips 
 Of some chance passer reacheth to thy heart, 
 Quickeneth its motion — maketh pale thy cheek ; 
 And thou all out of tune, the faith which held 
 Thy manly power up while it scaled the wall 
 Now broken, lost, would fain forever hide, 
 At least if no more, rescued from thy shame. 
 What an eclipse to the bright lamp that burns 
 Of intellect within! not that for thee 
 It should shed lignt alone, but that its rays 
 Uplifted should shine through a darkened world. 
 
 Yet better far to dim thus and go out 
 Unnoted, useless, if beneath neglect, 
 Discouragement and loss, thou hidden hast 
 The pearl of promise of a better life, 
 Than lacking it, to attach unto thyself 
 Each coveted and honoured quality 
 
28 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 That decks a man out for this world's esteem. 
 
 For after all, as finished with itself 
 
 What is this life ? Take from me ev'n the guess 
 
 Of an hereafter. Let me contemplate 
 
 The thing alone. I track it from the first, 
 
 And note its windings careful to the end. 
 
 Mark its ascending steps, the level plane 
 
 Upon its summit, and its downward way; 
 
 Then when I come to the extremest verge 
 
 I gather up, upon the silent shore, 
 
 Some name illustrious, place it in the scale, 
 
 And in the opposite balance one unknown. 
 
 Lo, they do weigh alike, nor this nor that 
 
 Can bring the other down — a grain of dust 
 
 Will give the victory to either one ! 
 
 Yet though this were the sum and measurement 
 
 Of life — if it did finish with this world; 
 
 And though this is the most true measurement 
 
 Of those distinctions which do perish here, 
 
 Yet when we leave this fancied briefness out, 
 
 And join this life with that which lies beyond, 
 
 Another estimate doth fill our thoughts. 
 
 We then are taught that though ambition's goad 
 
 Doth urge us but to folly, a command 
 
 Of true authority, and the world's need, — ■ 
 
THOUGHT ASTRAY. 29 
 
 Its destitution in the highest good 
 Doth move us to fling every fetter off 
 And gird us, as no laggards in the race. 
 
 But I have wandered far from that first thought 
 Which led us to communion. What is love? 
 There is no definition. Love doth fill, 
 The scriptures tell us, all the breasts in heaven ; 
 And more, that G-od himself is Love. But what 
 Is this high quality ? And who can tell 
 How by despotic government it rules, 
 Gentle and just, but with resistless sway, 
 When it hath made its throne within the breast ? 
 We may speak of its influence benign, 
 Its power and its effects, but to draw forth 
 The monarch's form and visible lineaments, 
 The sceptre and the dazzling royal robe, 
 Is not for mortal pencil. 
 
THE NECESSITY OF FAITH. 
 
 "We are hemmed in by possibilities 
 
 Of so great evil, that without a trust 
 
 In One whose sway doth overreach them all, 
 
 Our minds would be companioned but with fears. 
 
 My body, hale to-day, may soon become 
 
 The lodgement of some most abhorred disease. 
 
 My intellect, now in its many parts, 
 
 Laid like the atoms of transparent glass 
 
 Each in its place, but one in harmony, 
 
 May by some shock be so disquieted 
 
 That order and all just proportion gone, 
 
 Darkness shall fill the room and place of light. 
 
 There is not one possession of my joy 
 
 But as it is the more beloved as such, 
 
 May so be changed into a heavier wo ! 
 
 The currents that bring joy and sorrow down 
 
 Are viewless, unknown, and beyond our reach. 
 
THE NECESSITY OF FAITH. 31 
 
 How could we live and bear the consciousness 
 That it is thus, midst quiet smiling peace, 
 If we held not this firm persuasion safe, 
 That not by chance these currents ebb and flow, 
 But as poured forth or held back by the hand 
 Of One whose wisdom compasseth our fate — 
 Who better knows our need. From day to day, 
 Save but for this, shut in the dark I go, 
 With treasures both to forfeit and to gain, 
 Yet never fearful save when letting slip 
 This sweet belief, I trust in mine own strength. 
 Then am I tost and sore disquieted, 
 Seeing how great my hazard, and how weak 
 I am to combat, o'er-rule or defend ! 
 
PRAISE. 
 
 As every thing in nature, from the star 
 
 That sparkles in the zenith, to the worm 
 
 That on the earth I tread between my feet, 
 
 Telleth of a Creator; and as more 
 
 We do unfold its parts, it telleth more 
 
 Of that Creator's wisdom, goodness, power, 
 
 So I could wish that every thought drawn forth, 
 
 And image from the store-house of my mind, 
 
 Might speak thanksgiving ! and as from the depths, 
 
 Deeper within that treasury it was born, 
 
 So it might higher rise in rendering praise. 
 
 Praise is the one great utterance ! the song 
 
 Of all things round me ! Nature in her haunts, 
 
 And man as I behold him, for the sum 
 
 Of all his acts and checkered history 
 
 Is the fulfilling of a supreme will. 
 
 Not that God moves to sin, but man intent 
 
PRAISE. 33 
 
 Upon his purpose, wealth or pleasure here, 
 
 Chooseth his way, but Grod appoints the end. 
 
 God's enemies do praise him, for their zeal 
 
 In guilt he turneth to his own account, 
 
 Making them strive unconsciously for good. 
 
 The wicked have been scourges in his hand 
 
 To scourge their fellows ; or their stripes laid on 
 
 Have humbled saints whom pride held back from heaven. 
 
 The righteous praise Him, even when they fall, 
 
 And miss the path, in that true penitence 
 
 Which weeping doth retrace each erring step. 
 
MY DESK. 
 
 This pierced box upon my writing desk 
 
 Is filled with grains of sand. They to the sea 
 
 Were once a barrier. For years gone by, 
 
 For centuries and trains of ages passed 
 
 They did receive the billows as the y rolled 
 
 And thinly spread far up along the beach. 
 
 The fisher's foot hath pressed them, or the form 
 
 Uncovered, delicate, cast from the wreck, — 
 
 The hand of beauty in her lonely walk 
 
 Upon the summer's evening, there hath writ, 
 
 With outstretched finder the desired name. 
 
 It hath beheld, this little heap of sand, 
 
 The midnight tempest charging o'er the deep, 
 
 Or glistened as it gently rolled away 
 
 With morn or evening sun. Now it hath come 
 
 Thus prisoned to me for a baser use. 
 
 Here is my pen too — a small scale of gold 
 
MY DESK. 35 
 
 First hid in the dark bosom of the earth 
 
 Is given shape in it. I cannot tell 
 
 From whence 'twas brought, or by whom it was found. 
 
 Some arm hath toiled for it — some eager hand 
 
 Has gladly stretched to clutch it. Then it passed 
 
 Into how many forms before it reached 
 
 This one in me ! And yet how many more 
 
 "Will it yet wear when it is lost to me ! 
 
 Gold keeps good company, its servants say. 
 
 It lodgeth with the rich, lineth their purse, 
 
 Or sits enthroned above some lovely brow, 
 
 Clasping a jewel there — but with the poor 
 
 It stays not ! 
 
 My porcelain inkstand, where were dug those earths 
 Which amid flames were to each other joined, 
 Made one fair mass in it ? What foreign hand 
 Did with such art create these mingled flowers ? 
 Who studied out its shape to please the eye, 
 And gave the whole thing beauty ? Can I fix 
 A date, or habitation, or a name 
 For one of these ? I cannot. All I know 
 Is what my eye now tells me as I turn 
 And see it here. This is the smallest part 
 Of the withheld recital ! 
 
36 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Next I see 
 This small mock weapon close by my right hand, 
 Its blade of fine grained polished ivory — 
 Its handle silver-studded bears a hoof 
 Yet perfect in its form— -the light brown hide 
 Still as in life about it. Could I tell 
 Of the far wastes where roamed the elephant, 
 Or paint the yet green fields where leaped the deer 
 That did unite to furnish me this toy, 
 I might, perchance, not heedless lay it down 
 As I do now each hour. That very thing 
 Which seems most worthless, and which we least prize, 
 If it had utterance to tell us all 
 That hath passed near it, might the dullest ear 
 Detain in wrapt attention day by day, 
 Until its tale were told. This polished oak 
 Of which my desk is framed, had it such voice, 
 Thus might it speak: " A century ago, 
 The tree from out whose bark-embraced side 
 I came, was but a small and tender shoot. 
 The spot whereon it grew, was near the top 
 Of a high wooded hill. From year to year 
 Left to the nurturing of the winter's storm 
 And summer's gentler care, — I upward sprang 
 
MY DESK. 37 
 
 "From the green level of the grassy earth, 
 Until I pierced the forest's roof above. 
 
 Ye men stand under us, 
 And looking up behold our branches spread 
 One o'er another, deepening for your shade. 
 But ye see not the even boundless plain 
 That like a rippling sea, far from its coast, 
 Lies at the forest's top ! Above it soar 
 The eagle — all the plumed inhabitants 
 Of th' untrod woods. The armed and mounted blast 
 There sporteth at his will, — the driven clouds, 
 Or those that sleep like the leviathan 
 Unmoved in the still deep, look down on us, 
 Or stooping kiss our topmost trembling leaves. 
 Beneath upon my trunk, grew tufts of moss- 
 Unnumbered creatures clung to me, and found 
 Somewhere upon my surface, spread abroad, 
 A home. The lizard, mottled like my bark, 
 Lay close and still as neared the Indian's tread, — 
 He his own blind to vision. Up my side 
 Coursed the untired ant; and when the months 
 Of summer and sad autumn were all gone, 
 And I had seen that ocean of green leaves 
 Put countless colours on, and fade and fall, — 
 "Then fell the snow through all the winter's day, 
 
38 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 And at the eve still fell. Then the great owl 
 Stood up in his high place, and shook his wings, 
 Scattering a downy shower from all the branch. 
 He hooted through the woods till the wild night 
 Seemed wailing in his voice. At spring again, 
 Close to my root, the early flowers came forth 
 Untended by man's hand, while the vast bulk, 
 Compassed by all my arms and boughs outspread, 
 Was decked with new-come buds. I heard the song- 
 The first cry of the birds returned to me, 
 And knew from where ? mid endless spring they came. 
 Thus taught I have been of the secret ways 
 Of nature ; and could speak more of the lives, 
 And hid conversings of her multitudes 
 Than men in most learned books!" 
 
A SPRING IN THE WOODS. 
 
 Not far I walked, when from the road 
 
 A path wound as to some abode, — 
 
 I turned on it, and following 
 
 Came to a hidden crystal spring. 
 
 As close beside its grassy brink 
 
 I prostrate kneeling bent to drink, 
 
 y Neath its smooth surface, imaged there, 
 
 I saw tall boughs as in the air, 
 
 While through their openings farther down 
 
 Spots of the deep blue heaven shone. 
 
 Then when I broke the falling light, 
 
 Lifting my hand to shade my sight, 
 
 These pictures from the surface fled 
 
 And but a little way below 
 
 The white sand boiling, gleamed instead, 
 
 Pure, spotless, like a bed of snow ! 
 
40 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 I noted to the cool wet side 
 
 "Welled up the placid silent tide, 
 
 Then overflowed and stole away 
 
 Where thicker foliage dimmed the day — 
 
 The rivulet not heard nor seen, 
 
 But marked by growth of deeper green, 
 
 With here and there amid the gloom 
 
 A wild rose in its desert bloom. 
 
 How long it was I cannot tell, 
 Ere I now in deep slumber fell; 
 When to my closed eyes came a sight 
 Hidden from them when ope'd to light. 
 Methought the trees about me drew 
 Apart, and the long vista through, 
 I looked on the descending sun, 
 As oft before then I had done, — 
 Only the clouds and sea of gold 
 Seemed like a gateway to unfold, 
 Mighty and glorious to behold ! 
 Within those gates undimmed and clear, 
 'Mid heaven's unclouded atmosphere, 
 I saw afar a shining band 
 Look out toward our desert land, 
 I saw them on the threshold stand ! 
 Soon upward borne as they had been, 
 
A SPRING IN THE WOODS. 41 
 
 Glad heralds from this world of sin, 
 
 Three angels to them, entered in. 
 
 Then quick that bright host gathered round, 
 
 I heard unnumbered voices sound, 
 
 "The dead hath life! the lost is found!" 
 
 At this I saw the heavens no more, 
 
 The earth closed 'round me as before ; 
 
 Then as I lay there wondering, 
 
 Methought beside that hidden spring, 
 
 Even with me in that lonely wood, 
 
 One of these same bright beings stood. 
 
 " Know'st thou what thou hast seen?" said he. 
 
 "Dimly," I answered, "doth dust see? 
 
 Ev'n though I know, yet tell thou me." 
 
 "Whene'er," he said, "on swift glad wing 
 
 Angels to heaven tidings bring, 
 
 That but one soul hath turned to God, 
 
 Joy filleth all his vast abode." 
 
THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 
 
 Disciple. I would speak reverently to one of thy form, 
 Enrobed as thou art — who hast never known, 
 Through all the history of thy rational part, 
 One thought of sin. Thy dwelling too, hath been ' 
 Ever before His presence whom to name 
 With lips so foul as mine, to such as thou, 
 I dare not. 
 
 Angel, — Fear not to speak with me for I am made 
 By the same hand as thou; diviner power 
 Was not in my creation than in thine. 
 Brethren, one common Father's sons are we. 
 
 Dis. — Why, oh descended spirit speak' st thou thus? 
 Lo, what a space divides us, not so great 
 In distance that we sum by measurement, 
 That have thy radiant wings now traversed o'er, 
 But in respect of purity, what flight 
 Can bring thee near? 
 
THE angel's visit. 43 
 
 Ang. — Christian, would' st thou now drive me from thy 
 presence ? 
 Let me remain — I would commune with thee. 
 
 Dis. — I am a worm, clothed but in clods of clay, 
 A cumberer of the earth's fair face I am; 
 Yet from my degradation do look up ! 
 
 Ang. — Thou art a Prince and wear'st a royal robe, — 
 A golden chain is round thy neck. Behold, 
 Thou shalt sit higher than I ! 
 
 Dis. — Depart from me ! I am a sinful man. 
 
 Ang. — "Where sin abounded grace did more abound. 
 We who did never fall — our lower place — 
 Blissful, yet as the creatures of his hand, 
 Have never lost. Thou thine original place 
 Hast fallen from to be exalted more. 
 Thou wast a creature then as I am now, 
 In thine appointed order. Thou art now 
 One with Him who created me — an heir 
 To his high throne I 
 
 Dis. — I did look for deliverance from hell, 
 And had some premonition dim, unformed, 
 Of the new life to come. But thou dost shape 
 What had no definite form. From angel lips, 
 To hear these things foretold doth move the prayer 
 For grace to bear them. 
 
44 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Ang. — Eor grace thy lips were wont to supplicate, 
 Wherewith to bear thy sorrows; dost thou now 
 Need it because of joy? 
 
 Dis. — With such a flood it comes, the narrow space 
 Within my heart for heavenly delights, 
 I feel cannot contain it. 
 
 Ang. — It shall ebb, 
 And tears shall flow again, — 
 
 Dis.— 'Tis well. 
 
 Ang. — The mystery entangled in thy life 
 Shall be unravelled. It is plain to Him 
 Who holds its thread, it shall be plain to thee. 
 Thou measurest thy sojourn here by years, 
 Those years by months and days down to the space 
 Of moments; and thy progress step by step. 
 Thou shalt see in another light when all 
 These moments that do measure out thy life, 
 Seeming unnumbered, shall be proved but one. 
 One moment all these years, one step this life, 
 From nothing to a throne in endless bliss ! 
 
 Dis. — How dost thou sum my joys and sorrows up 
 Into so small an unit ? 
 
 Ang. — In the far counsels of eternity 
 Thy name was named, — "My love doth choose this soul 
 To sit in glory where I shall ordain." 
 
THE angel's visit. 45 
 
 This is thy generation — travailing now 
 In birth thou art! 
 
 Dis. — Oh that I might depart with thee ! I faint 
 Upon this journey. Brief in truth it is, 
 But my endurance measured not with it, 
 At times seems briefer still. My hope leaps up 
 Beyond the level of mortality 
 And I long to be gone ! 
 
 Ang. — 'Twere sin, the harboured thought of discontent, 
 And not as such I name it, for to change 
 The place ordained ev'n for one higher up, 
 Were but to lose the smile that seeks me out 
 In mine own rank and fixed seat in heaven. 
 I would not change with seraphs — thus doth joy 
 Make us all loyal there ! And yet oh man, 
 Christian, thou son of God, I say to thee 
 That leaving out their bent already formed — 
 But the two ends brought in comparison — 
 Angels might well thy mortal burden take, 
 Yielding thee freely up their own estate 
 So that at last they might thy right obtain 
 Through endless years to sing redeeming love ! 
 
 Dis. — Why is it I who am inheritor 
 Of so great wealth, keep myself now so poor ? 
 A little burden bends my shoulders down 
 
46 POEMS. — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 And I go sighing like a criminal 
 
 Led forth to execution. Day by day 
 
 The moving dungeon of my own sad thoughts 
 
 Shutteth out joy. I am in prison here — 
 
 And mine own jailer — yet between the bars 
 
 Ever can see afar the promised land. 
 
 Aug. — Thou should'st behold it near, with open face. 
 It is thy want of faith. If thou wilt live 
 By sight alone thou still shalt go in chains. 
 
 Yet freedom is thy privilege; cast off 
 
 These voluntary fetters from thj soul, 
 
 Thou art enfranchised — bondage is thy choice/ 
 
 Not thy necessity, for thou art bought — 
 
 The ransom paid for thee. Th' enslaver hath 
 
 No right, and thou art serving o'er thy time. 
 
 JDis. — Canst thou oh Spirit, who art wont to look 
 
 Upon the fields of heaven, stoop so low 
 
 As to regard the sorrows that do fill 
 
 The narrow compass of a human heart? 
 
 Aug. — Name them each one. Is that too low for me, 
 
 Which He who sitteth on the highest throne, 
 
 Doth day by day ? 
 
 Dis. — At first I walked in ignorance among 
 
 This world's delights. Hither and thither led, 
 
 For years I wandered towards no certain mark. 
 
THE angel's visit. 47 
 
 The natural light of intellect shut out, 
 
 That guiding star which should have led my course ; 
 
 But when night fell on me ; that brighter light 
 
 Shone forth and I was changed. I followed then 
 
 The heavenly influence, rather by its force' 
 
 I was impelled. Those things I sought before, 
 
 And gladly bore nor felt a feather's weight, 
 
 Now crushed me — an insufferable load. 
 
 Thus was it till a hand outstretched from heaven 
 
 Threw off the burden and the balm of peace 
 
 Laid on my breast, that knew not such before. 
 
 I thought now my deliverance was full, 
 
 That I had but a level path to walk, 
 
 And it not long, while freed from every weight, 
 
 I would go singing to my journey's end. 
 
 But that path hath stretched far — I am grown weak, — 
 
 Those weights again oppress. — 
 
 Ang. — Name them to me. 
 
 Dis. — Thou knowest not within thy spotless thought, 
 Sin's nature, and no comprehension hast 
 To take in its expression. Canst thou feel, 
 Or feeling not conceive, the thirst and pang 
 Of covetousness withering up thy soul? 
 What want hast thou, but that it is supplied ? 
 
 Ang. — Not by that closer sympathy which springs 
 
48 POEMS— BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 From like endurance can I know thy pangs, 
 
 But sin" in its own quality— the gall 
 
 That bitters the great fountain and the streams, 
 
 Tasting alike in every kindred drop, 
 
 I may conceive by letting but the thought 
 
 Come up to me, of God's averted face. 
 
 Dis. — Shall I teach thee in what but to forget 
 And be like thee, I covet while I speak ? 
 Methinks if I stood cleansed from this taint, 
 As thou dost, oh angelic visitor, 
 I would count him mine enemy who sought 
 If not t' engraft it, yet to mar my sight 
 With its abhorred resemblance. 
 
 Ang. — Mine enemy ! Thou who art putting off, 
 In thy approach that hastens day by day, 
 Thy clay, that thou may'st wear a robe of light ! 
 Who is my friend then if thou art my foe ? 
 Christian, these sorrows, this remaining taint, 
 That clings to thee, fill not much in my sight. 
 I see thee at the end- — the interval 
 That lies between thee and salvation passed. 
 For thou art washed and made already pure 
 Before His sight who counts redeeming blood, 
 For what it shall do. He who plants a seed 
 Within the bosom of the fruitful earth, 
 
THE angel's visit. 49 
 
 And watching sees its tender blade spring forth, 
 Bearing its blossoms, saith his fruit is won. 
 Yet he may err — the dark and silent night 
 May cover up the treacherous, nipping frost, 
 Or whirlwinds may blast his unfinished hope. 
 But in the vineyard where thou growest, thou, 
 Oh heir of immortality ! no blight 
 Can touch the feeblest shoot. All planted there 
 Shall come unto perfection ! 
 
 Dis. — And as I watched beside the bed of one 
 Who in the flesh was dear to me, there came 
 Over his changed. countenance a hue 
 That took me 'midst the little mounds of green 
 That fill the church-yard — then I knew the time 
 Was near at hand when there would be his bed. 
 I moved my place and hidden from his sight, 
 Covered my face and prayed for him — oh angel, 
 Curse me not now, I pray thee ! As I sat 
 Even by my dying friend, there came a thought 
 Rising amid my prayers, how he had left 
 Me great possessions; and about that bed, 
 And through my soul, bat-like it flitted ! 
 
 Ang. — Tell me on. 
 
 Dis. — One heart there was, which though of mortal 
 nature, 
 
50 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 And therefore partner of our common guilt, 
 Yet by the soft'ning influence of grace 
 On gentler traits which sometimes nature gives, 
 Was grown and transformed to so fair a shape, 
 'Twas easily beloved. Of all on earth 
 'Twas bound to me by the most tender tie, 
 And in that close relation, which demands 
 The service even of the wandering glance, 
 Till I shall be a covering to the eyes, 
 Was faithful. Tea I looked upon the sight, 
 Though in my bosom, as a most strange thing. 
 Yet angel, oh, even while it nestled there, 
 Confident in its innocence, my eye 
 Trait'rous to love, in guilt looked on another. 
 
 Ang. — Yet tell me on ! 
 
 Dis. — That child which God hath given me — the first 
 To open in my heart the long-closed doors 
 Of filial affection — he is clothed 
 About his infant limbs and all his form, 
 With power to draw forth love unto himself, 
 And wears it as a vesture knowing not. 
 He by the sin inherited from me, 
 By me laid as a burden on his soul 
 Deep planted, wrapt up in its hidden folds, 
 Did err and err again, till in me roused 
 
THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 51 
 
 Was that fierce humour which doth blind the eye, 
 O'ercome the spirit, lift the vengeful arm — 
 And I was conscious — I from whom he sprang — 
 Of hatred. 
 
 Aug. — While thou dost tremble 'neath these pressing 
 weights 
 That crush thee down to earth, I see the hand 
 That marks their limit on the other side. 
 Yet will I ask thee now as tho' the proof 
 Unseen by thee, were hid too from my eye, 
 Do these things thou recountest answer to 
 Thy longings ? Dost thou look on them with love ? 
 
 Bis. — Canst thou, clothed as thou art, look down so far 
 And mock me? As the weary man that lies 
 Beside the path across the wilderness, 
 To rest and sleep when silent eve comes on, 
 And wakes to feel a serpent's tight'ning form 
 Wound round him, while its fangs pierce to his heart, 
 As he doth love the thing that hugs him in, 
 And stings him unto death, so love I these ! 
 
 Aug. — This is the argument I now hold up 
 For thee, against thyself. Who made thee thus 
 To hate what most by nature thou would' st love? 
 Can he who fain would have thee feed on sin, 
 Who would prepare and dress it to thy taste, 
 
52 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN, 
 
 That thou might' st eat and die? 
 No, wert thou his, no pure and healing draught 
 Would be more sweet to thy perverted taste 
 Than that now most abhorred. For tho' deceived 
 By these foul outward shapes in which 'twas dressed, 
 Sin in its nature were most lovely still. 
 Learn then to see aright thy sojourn here — 
 Be filled with sorrow when this hostile world 
 Shall turn to thee in love. Feel thou affright 
 When these temptations thee oppress no more. 
 To be exempt is not the favoured lot, 
 But with them to have grace. 
 
 Dis. — What one corpse is to a strewed battle-field, 
 What one grave opened to earth's millions hid, 
 Is my small speech to the great silence left! 
 I thought to bare my bosom, and at once 
 To show its sufferings and its dread disease; 
 But 'tis like turning traitor to myself! 
 Thou angel, perfect in thy life of thought 
 As in the beauty of thy visible form, 
 May take this covering off — but as for me, 
 I hold the secret of so steeped a soul, 
 With all the intricate windings of its guilt, 
 That I do loathe myself to look within, 
 
the angel's visit. 53 
 
 Yet for myself have still left that regard 
 Which would not have thee loathe me as myself. 
 
 Ang. — Know'st thou not that two natures strive in thee ? 
 The things thou would'st not, thou art made to do — 
 While seeking good, evil is present with thee. 
 Not to thy charge then, shall these things be laid. 
 I am a minister sent forth to those 
 Who shall be heirs of glory. Ere I left 
 That radiant coast, oh Christian, in my flight 
 Thy name was named so lovingly by Him 
 Who bought thee with his blood, that all thy sins 
 The weights and burdens fastened to thy soul 
 By its great foe, do but my pity move. 
 Know of myself I have no separate being, 
 But as my throned Master is, am I, 
 And he doth love thee ! 
 
 Dist — Open, oh earth, to some great humble depth, 
 That I therein may fallen prostrate lie 
 While comes this crushing weight of mercy down ! 
 For what am I, that thou should' st visit me? 
 
 Aug. — When I do leave thee, it shall be to pass 
 Swiftly unto those upper courts where dwell 
 The multitudes of heaven. The redeemed 
 Who journeyed on this earth where thou dost now — 
 Brought safely to the end, I shall meet there. 
 
54 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Know that as I do minister to thee 
 
 I did descend to them. Yea, through the course 
 
 Of years unnumbered this hath been my task. 
 
 And of them all, that countless multitude, 
 
 Through those unnumbered years, there is not one 
 
 Who left to wander, came not to that rest ! 
 
 Deem it not strange then, if thou art to me 
 
 As one of them. And for this I am sent 
 
 For differing messages to different souls, 
 
 Or to the same soul as its need may change, 
 
 I bring; because beneath thy mortal load, 
 
 From that high tower which watcheth all the called 
 
 ; Twas seen thou now dost bend — too much oppressed. 
 
 I would not then make light of sin, but help 
 
 Him whose ascending steps are too much clogged 
 
 By its retarding weight, that he may freed, 
 
 Forget the things behind and onward press 
 
 To those before! 
 
 Dis. — Tell me, before thou leavest me, some word 
 Of that great height which draweth all my hopes — 
 Of Heaven. 
 
 Ang. — Be patient, 'tis not yet. And if I might 
 Relate it or spread forth its fields to view, 
 How should I mar by such light gone before 
 The }oy of first possession ! Yet I this 
 
THE angel's visit. 55 
 
 Will tell thee. As to mind and spirit most 
 Pure high and glorious, yet without a shape, 
 Beholden by the eye, thou dost refer 
 Thine ever-reaching, far-off thought of God, 
 So there his great perfections he sets forth 
 In corresponding beauty, and the house 
 Of his abode in all its furniture, 
 Its scenes and angel orders round his throne, 
 Makes visible, and doth embody forth 
 Unto the eye, his love and attributes, 
 Which lost to man's perception were before, 
 And swallowed up in light ! 
 
 Dost thou esteem 
 This form in which my spirit hath been shaped } 
 And these the robes which have been given it, 
 As beautiful? 
 
 Dis. — Had I not known by intimation sent 
 Thine order in the kingdom, when at first 
 I saw thee I had knelt, as even now 
 My mortal part doth tempt my soul to do. 
 
 Aug. — And yet, oh Christian, in my downward flight 
 As I neared earth and touched its atmosphere, 
 The brightness from my dress was taken off, 
 Leaving it dimmed ! 
 
56 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Was it a dream? No ; it hath not the part 
 
 Of the reality a brief dream hath, 
 
 For it though sleep-deceived, we seem to see. 
 
 But here no startling vision hath stood up 
 
 Before my wondering eyes. 'Twas but the work 
 
 Of my imagination, slowly wrought ! 
 
 Yet not without some principle of truth 
 
 Answering its chief est part, I trust it is. 
 
 For though we camp here in a hostile world — 
 
 War our vocation and our business strife, 
 
 Yet if I have the deeper counsel reached 
 
 Of Him who formed us, and doth hold us up, 
 
 Stronger than we — beyond and out of us 
 
 The pow'r is that doth guard our passage here, 
 
 And bring us safe in triumph to the end. 
 
 I know how willing Sin is to put on 
 
 Whatever vesture pleases to deceive, 
 
 And that she will, so we but let her come 
 
 And bind our hands up, wear an angel's dress, 
 
 Yea, and sing angel's songs. First let me lose 
 
 The power of thought, ere I myself deceived 
 
 Shall for her flatter souls to idleness. 
 
 Yet is there a temptation I have known 
 
 In the long daily warfare of this life, 
 
 When not so much in foremost perilous fight 
 
THE angel's visit. 57. 
 
 Our station hath been as to watch and wait, — - 
 Then have I known come stealing o'er the soul, 
 That looketh ever inward on its sin, 
 Too much of longing for the freeing morn ! 
 For such as know this, and have sat them down 
 Not tempted here to linger, but repine, 
 I draw this unreal picture, full of fault, 
 And yet of warm endeavour, that they may 
 Bethink themselves how light the burden is 
 Now laid upon them — how brief as to time 
 This season of their trial ] and how near 
 Their victory draws which God himself hath won, 
 
A BAT. 
 
 One summer's evening when around 
 Our lamp a merry group was found, 
 And up went many a joyous sound, 
 While fell the rain, 
 
 One quickly cried "a bat ! a bat !" 
 I saw it dart this way and that ; 
 None moved, but shouted as they sat, 
 TilTt rang again ! 
 
 I rising, gave it chase alone, 
 Till when to every corner flown, 
 It struck the wall, came slowly down, 
 And silent laid. 
 
 Cautious I now, with stealthy haste 
 Drew near it — with my foot I pressed, 
 Till it all power to harm had passed, 
 And was quite dead. 
 
A BAT. 59 
 
 Then stooping, yet not willing quite 
 To hold th' offender to the light, 
 Lo ; a wet sparrow met my sight 
 With drooping head ! 
 
 It caused a pang ! Partly, no doubt, 
 From shame, part from the pain it brought, 
 I from the window cast it out, 
 And no word said. 
 
 Here was no fault, no cruelty— 
 The stars were farther not from me 
 Than wish to harm or cause to die, 
 So meek a thing. 
 
 TThy happened it ? Hast thou not learned 
 How thoughts are to each other* joined? 
 Perhaps too rash, too quick I burned 
 This thought to bring. 
 
 That should I in some evil hour 
 The heart crush, brought within my power, 
 I may feel when the deed is o'er 
 A keener pang. 
 
THE ANGLER. 
 
 See how this angler patient watches o'er 
 
 The line he holds ! Its armed, enticing bait 
 
 Is hidden from his sight. So is the place— 
 
 The wat'ry chambers and the wand'ring prey 
 
 Whereto it hangs beneath. He can but note 
 
 The painted float above, and draw it forth 
 
 Not sure of a reward. So do I watch 
 
 Above the peopled current of the mind, 
 
 And with my pen whate'er it offers take 
 
 And lay it*by, not hasty to reject 
 
 Even seemless useless gifts, lest I may lose 
 
 With them those of more worth. But when my store, 
 
 My little basket for the time is full 
 
 I cease to toil, and after interval 
 
 Of changed pursuit back to its hoard return, 
 
 What suits my lacking not, then cast away, 
 
 What serves my need apply unto its use. 
 
THE PHILADELPHIA LIBRARY, 
 
 Founded 1731, containing now 70,000 Vols. 
 
 Demure and without pomp, but strong in mighi 
 Here marshalled is a host all officered — 
 
 Unarmed, yet ever ready for the fight — 
 Silent, yet even by the deaf ear heard. 
 
 Soldiers not fleshly, but that cope with thought, 
 Their wounds are to the surgeon never told; 
 
 Husbandmen who the seeds of truth have brought, 
 That buried deep bring forth an hundred fold. 
 
 They go forth noiselessly to conflict, each 
 Some separate field, some single foe to find, 
 
 They fight where the swift bullet cannot reach, 
 Upon the battle ground of heart and mind. 
 
 And here are thousands of them ! at their call, 
 Though voiceless, youth and hoary age I see, 
 
 Come to bear forth this host, who one and all 
 Aim but for good or ill, at victory. 
 5 
 
62 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Friend, were I to approach thee now and seek 
 As but a stranger to press my discourse, 
 
 Thou would' st esteem me rude, and strong or weak, 
 My argument unsought would lack its force. 
 
 Yet one as strange thou bearest with thee hence, 
 As true to succour, or as bold for strife, 
 
 One without form of flesh or utterance, 
 But to thy rational part as full of life. 
 
 Unto thy home thou hast' nest with it : there 
 Wilt bring it to thy chamber, and when night 
 
 Lifteth a little while man's load of care, 
 
 Wilt trim for it perchance, thy lonely light ; 
 
 Then, as the young disciple doth draw near, 
 When Wisdom whispers of her hidden way, 
 
 Thou patient waiting wilt bend down to hear, 
 And search what in its treasure-house may lay. 
 
 Sweet poison that enravishes the taste, 
 
 Hangs like a fragrant spell upon the breath, 
 
 But turns the budding heart into a waste 
 Barren and noxious, a wide waste of death ! 
 
 Or doth that treasure-house rare jewels hold, 
 Hidden there by some pilgrim gone before ? 
 
 Kobes undefined that may the soul unfold, 
 Clothing it as a prince forevennore ? 
 
THE PHILADELPHIA LIBRARY. 63 
 
 Oh. reader ; or thou man of sober thought,, 
 
 Come forth with me. Look through a golden gate, 
 
 The sun departs ! Yet not for this I brought 
 Thee to behold his fading, regal state. 
 
 But turn thy back toward him and gaze on hio-h 
 The light from out heaven's spreading arch of blue 
 
 Ebbs like a flood ! Now searching all the skv, 
 One star burns faint— and there another too ! 
 
 They come, they eonie, th' innumerable host. 
 See how they thicken thro' the unveiled height ! 
 
 Oh sea that knoweth not a boundary coast ! 
 Oh ; space eternal stretching from my sight ! 
 
 Know'st thou that disembodied soon, thy soul 
 
 May pass from world to world, through that far space 
 
 When He, whom all worlds worship as they roll, 
 Shall call thee to behold Him, face to face ? 
 
 Little we know the value of an hour — 
 
 Whether we read, or speak, or muse or write 
 
 Risen again, — clothed with condemning power, 
 Moments shall stretch like armies on our skat! 
 
 Up from the tomb their multitudes shall climb, 
 And gather 'round us. The awaken'nino- eve 
 
 Op'ning from death, shall look again on Time 
 
 Unsepulchred, its deeds and thoughts brought nigh. 
 
64 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Methinks the years are finished, and once more 
 Standing within this ancient house I see 
 
 An angel reaper, crying " Give me store, 
 Fruits for the garners of eternity." 
 
 Swift gath'ring from these shelves, a part he brings 
 As 'twere the few ears left in time of blight, 
 
 "These must not burn," he saith — unfolds his wings, 
 And heavenward lifted, parteth from my sight ! 
 
 Kemaining still, I countless works behold 
 Of Poets, Orators and most learned men, 
 
 Who stood god-like upon fame's heights of old, 
 Whom I looked up to, and did envy then. 
 
 O'erthrown with these, now 'round me seem to fall 
 
 Statues and monuments carved with their names- 
 Busts crowned with parched and faded laurels — all 
 Heaped up as men heap stubble for the flames. 
 
 This is the solemn pause which follows death ; 
 The earth of life and beauty that hath been, 
 
 Lies like a corpse just ceased from the last breath- 
 One passage more shall finish all the scene ! 
 
 Where is the orator's rapt radiance now? 
 
 The poet's bright creations who may see? 
 Oh bind another chaplet round my brow — 
 
 Give me a better immortality ! 
 
SABBATH AFTERNOON. 
 
 One Sabbath afternoon in May, 
 When church and Sunday-school 
 
 Were out, and long and tapering lay 
 
 The shadows up and down my way, 
 And rose the evening cool, 
 By her dear hand, my little one 
 I led forth toward the setting sun. 
 
 Not 'midst the open fields were we, 
 Nor in the wild wood. On each side 
 
 But rows of houses could we see, 
 
 While by us passed unceasingly 
 Crowds like the river's tide; 
 
 But we were used to this, nor felt 
 Pent up, as if we fetters wore, 
 For as our fathers had before 
 
 We in the city dwelt. 
 
 So as we walked, her hand in mine 
 
66 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Close covered up, (how near ties start 
 From out the soft touch, and entwine 
 
 Far in, around the parent's heart!) 
 She looking up asked o'er and o'er 
 Whither I now was leading her ? 
 I answered not, but passing on 
 Still listened to her prattling tongue 
 Till the high dwellings all passed by, 
 A long, low wall stretched on the eye; 
 Then by a narrow gate in view 
 We to the space within passed through. 
 
 At the first glance it seemed to spread 
 
 A simple field of green around, 
 But as beyond the steps were led 
 
 Amid the solitude profound, 
 The eye might note, small hillocks rose, 
 
 Though covered all with freshest green, 
 With now, at twilight's deep'ning close 
 
 Shadows more darkened, laid between. 
 Up through the midst a wide smooth way 
 Amid this field of hillocks lay, 
 On each side in straight order stood, 
 Trees whose new dress was in the bud. 
 "My darling," now I gently said, 
 "Here one who loved you lieth dead, 
 
SABBATH AFTERNOON. 67 
 
 Here your dear grandmother is laid." 
 She answered not, but presently 
 
 Stepping a little way apart 
 
 Stooped to a flower. " See, father, see ! " 
 She cried — what I had meant to be, 
 
 An armed shaft reached not the heart ! 
 
 Still passing on I came to where 
 The path ceased — mingling with the green, 
 
 Then helping her with reverent care 
 O'er those who laid to rest had been, 
 
 I found one mound amid all there. 
 "This is her grave," I said: "beneath, 
 She who once held you, sleeps in death. 
 
 Under this hillock she is laid. 
 She loved her Saviour-: — at his call 
 
 Sha trembled not : was not afraid, 
 But for him gladly left us all." 
 I looked if outwardly confessed, 
 The arrow yet had pierced her breast; 
 But though some undefined sense 
 Had hushed the sweet child's utterance, 
 She scarce knew what it was, nor whence. 
 
 Turning back now, I gained once more 
 The gravelled path we trod before, 
 
98 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Still leading her close by my side, 
 
 Then pausing 'midst the silent way 
 I said, " She glad and happy died. 
 
 Now if to you were sent to-day 
 Sickness and suffering, so that I 
 
 Would stoop down to your bed and say 
 My darling one must die, 
 What would you tell me ? Could you trust 
 In Jesus, laid here in the dust?" 
 
 Then with full tears about to start 
 She answered tremblingly and low, 
 
 Her voice choked by her swelling heart, 
 " Father, I do not know I" 
 
 Oh, not to me was given power 
 The fallen nature to renew. 
 
 I felt it then, and yearning more 
 Over this soul I turned my view 
 
 From the green graves around me there 
 
 Toward heaven, all helpless but in prayer. 
 I have not power. No, though above 
 
 All gifts I crave it for this one 
 My first born, heir of tenderest love, 
 
 God doth reserve it as his own. 
 I stood still and was taught again, 
 The Lord — the Lord alone doth reign! 
 
SABBATH AFTERNOON. 69 
 
 Yes, he doth reign, but have I not 
 His promises? "The seed of those 
 
 Who love him, never more forgot 
 Delivered shall be from their foes ; " 
 
 And can he unheard, cast away 
 
 A whole life's prayer by night and day ? 
 No, glorious truth that he doth reign; 
 
 I step these faithless doublings o'er: 
 He can renew this soul again, 
 
 Than I, he loves my children more, 
 And I believe, though they be led 
 
 Through want and suffering thro' this waste, 
 Whate'er the pathway they may tread 
 
 That his they all shall be at last: 
 Yea more, that now they are his, known 
 Where such their names have written down ! 
 
 And oh, my soul, so prone to sleep 
 If this thy thirst be, this thy want, 
 
 How watchful wilt thou be to keep 
 Thy part in the blest covenant ! 
 
 How to his presence wilt dwell near 
 
 Who loves the seed of those who fear ! 
 The right hand or the treasured eye, 
 
 Though harmless else, if they would take 
 
70 POEMS— BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Aught from the power that lures on high 
 
 Thou'lt cut off — pluck out for their sake, 
 Then not for this world's heaped up store 
 
 Chiefly thou'lt covet, but that grace 
 May be their portion — grace before 
 
 Riches or health, or honoured place. 
 But oh, how diligent within, 
 
 How earnest, filled with constant care, 
 Thou wilt be evermore to win 
 
 God's priceless gift for them by prayer, 
 For all thy works short-coming are, 
 Thy strong, prevailing power is there. 
 
PREMEDITATION, 
 
 Premeditation stares the rising thought 
 
 Or image out of countenance. I wait 
 
 Before I write it down, to see it fair 
 
 In all its full proportion, turn it o'er 
 
 And o'er — and all its charms flee from my sight ! 
 
 Or else the thread I gather not at first 
 
 But follow back too far into the skein 
 
 Grows tangled, and the whole is cast aside. 
 
 Nor is it all that these themselves are lost — 
 
 Baffled endeavour is defeat, which blunts 
 
 And wastes the ardour of the next attack. 
 
 We need as in our spiritual life, 
 
 So in our mental labours, well to know 
 
 And study out ourselves. Mind marks the man. 
 
 The beast that daily bears for us his load 
 
 We learn to humour as we note his strength, 
 
72 POEMS— BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Whether by quickened or by gentler gait 
 With loosed or tightened rein he best shall find 
 And soonest reach the journey's distant end. 
 The ship that bears us has its favourite tack, 
 Nor is there one upon the boundless sea 
 But he who standeth at the helm can tell 
 Whence come the winds that drive her swiftest on. 
 So we ourselves may not at first discern 
 Our surest path of progress, and long years 
 May be consumed in seeming wasted toil, 
 But having found it, and at last put off 
 The weights that had before held back our steps 
 We learn, but not till then, our sum of strength. 
 
THE LOFTY PLACE. 
 
 He who fills a lofty place 
 
 Though he climbed there to do good, 
 If one spot his nobes deface 
 
 Shows it to the world abroad. 
 
 So the man who to some work 
 
 Of kindness would devote his days, 
 
 If 'mid his virtues one fault lurk 
 
 May gain perchance more blame than praise, 
 
 And some, it may be, who in heart 
 Are true— and long with earnest will 
 
 To act, take not the labourer's part 
 Because they feel their frailties still. 
 
 And truly, bitterness he reaps 
 
 Who sowing zeal, the world calls it — 
 
 For some sin o'er which he too weeps— 
 The cloaking of the hypocrite ! 
 
74 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN." 
 
 Yet is it just, thus to desert 
 
 For our small loss the world's great cause ? 
 Willing to toil but bear no hurt, 
 
 Serve we our King for man's applause? 
 
 No, nor doth censure me defraud, 
 Though battling in my place I be, 
 
 The good I do belongs to God, 
 My faults alone belong to me. 
 
 And why should I so keenly feel 
 What foes may even falsely say — 
 
 Am I not for sins deeper still 
 Mine own accuser day by day? 
 
 My Master but fulfils my word, 
 
 I tell him for his sake alone, 
 Not mine own gain, I wield the sword 
 
 And praise him for my victories won ! 
 
 'Tis well. In mine infirmity, 
 
 Not in my strength shall swell my song. 
 
 Mine own need shall my glory be, 
 When weak I am, then am I strong ! 
 
 Only, oh Lord, thou near me keep, 
 Lest not her foes, but Truth, I bind, 
 
 Nor let me from man's scoffing reap 
 New pride, but lowliness of mind. 
 
THE LOFTY PLACE. 75 
 
 Then shall thy "Word be far proclaimed, 
 But I who speak, unhonoured passed — 
 
 My crown not by ray merits gained, 
 Yet worn, thine own free gift at last ! 
 
LITTLE ELLIE. 
 
 "Where has little Ellie gone? 
 By the garden gate below 
 I saw her as the sun went down." 
 "No mother, 'twas an hour ago, 
 I climbed the mount with you to bring 
 Water from the upper spring." 
 
 "Where is Bruno? Since last night 
 I erring punished him for theft 
 The dog has hidden from my sight." 
 "As the first grove above we left, 
 
 I thought beneath the maple's shade, 
 Watching our steps I saw him laid." 
 "Go to the forest's edge, my dear, 
 
 And call your sister. She has strayed 
 To gather flowers. Sound loud and clear 
 Her name — she loiters somewhere near." 
 
LITTLE ELLXE. 77 
 
 So spake the mother, and turned then 
 To her accustomed tasks again. 
 Upon the spotless board were spread 
 Fresh fruit and milk and new-made bread — 
 Soon upturned plates were by them found. 
 Three plates, then three seats grouped around: 
 One rudely made, a child's high-chair. 
 But had some eye been watching there, 
 It would have marked as each she placed, 
 Her restless look and step of haste. 
 
 tt 
 
 Down by the forest's edge I stood, 
 
 And called my sister loud and plain, 
 But, mother, from the dreary wood 
 
 Echo alone came back again." 
 11 Go rouse the neighbours ! haste my child, 
 
 Nor stay by any cottage door, 
 But tell them in the forest wild 
 
 Ellie is lost!" Love's cheat was o'er, 
 And like a mountain stream forth burst 
 The fears her trembling heart had nursed. 
 
 But as he on his errand sped 
 She out of sight as swift was gone, 
 
 Shut in her chamber. By her bed 
 She all alone to prayer knelt down. 
 
78 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 They came from many a rugged hearth 
 Ans'ring her call, nor tarried long — 
 Brave men who knew each dangerous path, 
 
 Their hearts true as their arms were strong. 
 Nor they alone, the summons drew 
 Full many a hardy mother too, 
 For Bertha was a widow. Here 
 Since when the earth's handmaiden, Spring, 
 Did o'er her wintry bosom fling 
 Mantle of waving grass and grain, 
 Within th' enclosed grave-yard near 
 Her husband slumbering had lain. 
 Still here she dwelt, yet not alone, 
 As dawn comes when the night is gone — 
 Her children grew and cheered her sight, 
 Late darkened, with reviving light. 
 The bough by storms torn from its place 
 Each tendril left fills larger space. 
 
 Then rose a gray-haired man and said, 
 "I longest through the forest wild 
 Have roamed. Let my word be obeyed 
 
 In seeking for the child. 
 Thou, Leonard, toward the deep wind-gap, 
 Thou, Donald, toward the water-fall 
 
LITTLE ELLIE. 79 
 
 Direct your steps. I to the top 
 Of Thor will hasten; and ye all 
 
 Spread out between us, far and near 
 
 As when we hunt the autumn deer. 
 
 Then when each o'er his search has passed 
 
 We'll meet at Dripping Rock at last." 
 
 Full fifty voices answered back 
 "So will we do." 
 
 By many a track 
 
 Through the dark forest torches gleamed — 
 
 The lighted trunks vast pillars seemed. 
 
 Each hardy hunter hastened on 
 
 As though his own the loved, lost one, 
 
 And Bertha led her boy alone. 
 "Mother, I heard my sister say, 
 
 In the dark woods where no one sees 
 
 Were bushes filled with blackberries, 
 
 And that when you were gone away, 
 
 That she might bring them to you home, 
 
 She would go there and gather some." 
 "Why this before did you not speak? 
 
 My child, my child, you did not well." 
 "Surely my aching heart will break ! 
 
 At first I did no notice take, 
 
 And since I feared to tell." 
 
80 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 " Oh weep no more, her words forgot 
 I might myself have answered not, 
 
 So often prattled forth unmeant. 
 Though found or lost— whatever her lot — 
 
 Thou only left, art innocent." 
 
 They see the circle stretching far 
 Of blazing lights. None resting are, 
 But through the double night they move 
 A little army led by love. 
 u Ah see the heavens, how calm, how bright, 
 Each unchanged planet sheds its light. 
 Think at this hour how oft I slept, 
 And safe my lost one by me kept, 
 Nor knew my blessings till bereft! " 
 
 At intervals the call would sound 
 From far off voices of her name, 
 
 Filling the solitudes around, 
 But back no wished-for answer came. 
 
 "Hark was that not a human cry? 
 Hush ! stop, and listen ! All is still, 
 
 It sounds again, now brought more nigh. 
 'Tis but some startled whip-poor-will." 
 Onward they pressed till one faint streak 
 Showed the new day about to break, 
 
LITTLE ELLIE. 81 
 
 And as grew bright the purple dawn, 
 All, filled yet with the midnight's gloom, 
 Met at the rock appointed on. 
 
 Then spoke the gray-haired man again, 
 " Our zeal hath carried us too far. 
 
 Such tender lamb on the smooth plain 
 Could not have reached where we now are, 
 Much less o'er ground so rude and bold, 
 Escaped so lately from the fold ! 
 Back then, we have the light of day 
 Wherewith to search again our way. 
 Swift shall we our night's steps retrace — 
 Search ye each nook, each covered place — 
 Soon shall we see the lost child's face !" 
 Backward they turn with strength anew. 
 How may one trusting soul endue 
 Desponding hearts by words of faith ! 
 Hope lives or dies oft by a breath. 
 
 Now all the forest multitude 
 
 Uprose, as rose the morning's sun — ■ 
 
 Bird, insect, beast to seek its food — 
 Their day of glad toil was begun ; 
 
 But every joyous call or note 
 
 From locust's wing or warbler's throat, 
 
82 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Th' accustomed chord not reaching now 
 Of joy, touched that which deepens wo. 
 Her way, bereaved, the mother traced, 
 Wat' ring with tears the forest waste. 
 "What is it though ten thousand more 
 For love to me search every spot, 
 If the dear one they search now for 
 They find me not, they find me not ? 
 Kindness methought I valued most, 
 But 'midst such suffering it is lost!" 
 Hark, mother, through the rising morn 
 The shrill blast of a hunter's horn, 
 The signal he should quick send back 
 Who first should cross the wanderer's track. 
 Another swells the loud note too, 
 It rings afar the forest through ! 
 Come Bertha, haste! "Oh heart be still/' 
 
 This is the time we trembling wait 
 When known not which, comes good or ill, 
 
 But it is fixed, the doom of fate ! 
 By the lone, lofty water-fall 
 That seems with joyous shout to call, 
 See where thy little one now sleeps 
 Laid on the grass 'neath spreading trees, 
 
LITTLE ELLIE. 83 
 
 Near her a cup of blackberries, 
 While watch o'er both stern Bruno keeps ! 
 She wakes not, but her gentle breath 
 Tells of the beating heart beneath, 
 And the rich hues upon her cheek 
 Of health and full deliverance speak. 
 The hunters panting, thither press 
 From the surrounding wilderness; 
 Their hopes yet captive held by fears, 
 They gaze upon the upturned face, 
 And turn to hide unwonted tears. 
 "Awake, my love, your mother see!" 
 Her eyes are opened toward the light — 
 She smiles. " Beside this bush last night, 
 Mother, an angel was with me. 
 But if I did sleep by the trees, 
 I filled your cup with blackberries ! " 
 Take back thy child, thy tremblings o'er, 
 
 And learn to trust in Him whose arm 
 Doth shield the tender lambs. No more 
 
 Repine or doubt: dismay nor harm 
 Come not or go at thy command. 
 He watcheth, and his guiding hand 
 Leads her through perils ever near, 
 When far thou art as when thou'rt here. 
 
84 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Yet limit not his sovereign ways. 
 Though not returned Vat given to death 
 Thy darling were, still would' st thou praise 
 If from this darkened world beneath 
 Thou could' st discern, how for her sake 
 And thine, he called her. We may take 
 Not yet the thick film from our eye, 
 Nor rend the cloud that wraps this dust > 
 But in our brief captivity 
 What is not seen, we may intrust! 
 
THE POST. 
 
 Come up from the soft earth, ye blades of grass, 
 
 Ye opening buds that spring in millions come, 
 
 Each one a new and wondrous miracle ! 
 
 And thou, oh sun, that standest in th' heavens, 
 
 Still in the midst! while through the eternal space 
 
 We and unnumbered worlds for evermore 
 
 Roll 'round thy light in voiceless company ! 
 
 Ye worlds, ye sounding floods, ye murmuring rills, 
 
 Ye precipices, caverns, solitudes, 
 
 Yea, all ye voiced and unvoiced witnesses, 
 
 Pleading in argument unto the soul — 
 
 Come, help me magnify the one great name ! 
 
 The poet said, What am I in this world 
 Of busy men ? Men who are strong to act, 
 Who bind each breath of favouring circumstance, 
 Helped on and wafted to the wished for end ! 
 
86 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 While I ashamed and lonely steal aside 
 Unnoted, unadapted, useless, weak, 
 By some inscrutable, deep influence 
 Still longing for the loneliest of all haunts, 
 Living but when I am in solitude ! 
 
 Tell me what hand invisible it is 
 
 That through the far off depths of forests wild 
 
 Scatters the seeds of fragrant, tinted flowers, 
 
 So that they spring 'midst the untrodden shade 
 
 As in a garden, though no eye doth see ? 
 
 Who is it from the circling firmament 
 
 Draweth the clouds at evening toward the west, 
 
 And drapes and groups them round the setting sun ? 
 
 If bare and unadorned use alone 
 
 Hath merit in God's sight, then why are these? 
 
 Lo, all his works are perfect, both for use 
 
 And beauty! Doth the black unseemly ore 
 
 Because of the strong particles it yields 
 
 More speak and magnify the Maker's praise 
 
 Than the frail rose that useless o'er it blooms ? 
 
 Beware! his creatures all have use, and serve 
 
 Somewhere within the scale and compass vast 
 
 Of his designs, the purpose of their being. 
 
 So thou, oh poet, may not idly pine 
 
THE POET. 87 
 
 Amid these scenes of louder sounding toil, 
 Nor from them, shrinking to some haunt aside, 
 Waste, more than the day-labourer, thine hours. 
 If God hath given thee a different mind 
 'Tis but for other work ! 'Tis thine to bear 
 The small bright lamp he places in thy hand, 
 Through the dark paths of nature and the soul, 
 That thou mayest on the parting threshold stand 
 And speak to mankind — an interpreter ! 
 Thy fellows may not leave their toil for this, 
 Nor thou thy meditations for their gains. 
 
 And thou, oh poet, though thy lot hath been 
 To loiter thus far on the path of life 
 "Without apurpose, while crowds passed thee by. 
 Each earnest, burdened with some warm intent, 
 Till it hath seemed there was no work for thee, 
 An idler — one in number o'er the plan — 
 Thou too shalt know the gladness that he feels, 
 Who sees beneath his busy hand and brain 
 Some task increase and toward perfection grow, 
 While every gift and talent of the mind 
 Stretcheth in action ! 
 
 Can He whose foresight and creative power 
 Mingle in giving life but to a worm, 
 
88 * POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 So that its place awaits it, and its use 
 
 Ere, not alone to be, but to serve both 
 
 That place and use, it cometh from his hand — 
 
 Can He have made thee half-way, without aim ? 
 
 Be patient. Learn to wait, yea willingly 
 
 To be still as thou art. He measureth 
 
 Man's work not by its visible results 
 
 But by its fitting to his own high will. 
 
 And if that will toward thee, is to await 
 
 Even as thou art the grave — there lies thy task- 
 
 And toil that thwarts it, is but idleness. 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 From the vale up the mountain's side 
 Like a vast billow, now we see 
 
 Autumn doth roll her golden tide 
 O'er field and forest, flower and tree, 
 
 In wailing gusts the winds grown chill, 
 
 Mock at the weak bright shining sun, 
 The cry comes forth from vale and hill 
 " Summer is done, sweet summer's done!" 
 
EVENTIDE. 
 
 This is the hour when far back in old time 
 
 Isaac at eve, walked forth to meditate. 
 
 Amid green fields he walked, with lowing herds 
 
 Far scattered 'round him. Who can tell how oft 
 
 At this same hour through all the ages since 
 
 Lone wanderers amid like solitude 
 
 Have mused with holy thought as he did then ? 
 
 There is an influence uttered not, but strong, 
 
 That nature doth shed forth to win men now, 
 
 And they do yield to it, yet knowing not 
 
 The softened fetters nor the leading hand, — 
 
 I tread not the green fields, but on the brink 
 
 Of the steep shore beside the river's flood 
 
 I sit me down alone. The many winds 
 
 That play by day and night o'er this expanse — 
 
 All are departed — leaving the wide plain 
 
 Smooth as a mirror. In the distant west 
 
EVENTIDE. 91 
 
 The sun goes down \ his brightest rajs are gone, 
 
 And clouds that did receive him passing through 
 
 With gorgeous colours, faded once again 
 
 Deepen in purple as he far descends. 
 
 But scattered through the heaven outspread above 
 
 Lone, loftier clouds still catch the crimson tints 
 
 And cast their shadows in the tide below. 
 
 Look at the scene. That purple wall again, 
 
 Built 'gainst the west, inverted now we see. 
 
 Those forests that the opposite shore do fringe 
 
 Are doubled, each tree spreading dark beneath, 
 
 While over all the glassy surface spread 
 
 At intervals the red clouds in the sky 
 
 Are pictured yet more soft deep — deep below. 
 
 The heavens grow dark — between those crimson spots 
 
 The ans'ring waters blacken, and the stars 
 
 Just shown above, I see relighted there. 
 
 Oh beautiful 1 Can I no farther reach ? 
 
 Often thus far Fve come and looked upon 
 
 The works spread 'round me, till they filled my soul 
 
 And every capable sense it doth contain 
 
 With the acknowledgment of nature's charms. 
 
 But ever with them seems to come a bar, 
 
 A barrier to some farther sought advance. 
 
 They are most beautiful, yet they impart 
 
92 POEMS— BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 No other speech to me, no larger being ! 
 
 I pause upon the brink of the beyond, 
 
 And am not satisfied ! My soul still thirsts 
 
 For something more. As far as they extend 
 
 ; Tis well ; and fills me with a deep delight, 
 
 Yet that which whets the spirit's appetite 
 
 Not satisfies its hunger ! Ah, my soul, 
 
 Be thou content to learn what this would teach. 
 
 Nature is not thy God. It holdeth not 
 
 The final good. Yet coming from God's hand 
 
 Doth witness of him. It is not prepared 
 
 To take the place which He alone can fill 
 
 Upon the heart's yet vacant throne of love. 
 
 Nor are the charms so thick about thee spread 
 
 That whereon thou must feed ! Toil is thy lot, 
 
 Labour thy portion. Rest nor pleasure here, 
 
 From any visible nor from unseen things 
 
 Can be thine occupation clothed in clay; 
 
 But in the intervals between the toils 
 
 And stern tasks of thine upward pilgrimage, 
 
 Nature, with all the viewless, beauteous acts 
 
 And works of the Creator, are to help 
 
 As glimpses, — springs of water by the way, 
 
 That lead toward the great river, tasting faint 
 
 Of that pure Stream of Life ! When then, beguiled 
 
EVENTIDE. 93 
 
 With these beginnings of that final draught. 
 
 Thou treadest now no more the path of toil, 
 
 But seekest here to linger and draw forth 
 
 The soul's full cup of bliss, the stream so sweet 
 
 For its true purpose, stagnates to thy taste ! 
 
 Nature, however woo'd or looked upon, 
 
 Will yield but that for which she hath been sent. 
 
 I have then too much sought to fill my mouth 
 
 With fruits plucked from her — in those shaded bowers 
 
 Meant to refresh, I have made my abode, 
 
 And so I find by wisdom's ordered rule 
 
 Which may not bend for me, that her delights 
 
 Rather than adding more unto their store 
 
 Have lost of what was at the first their bulk. 
 
THE SECEET SIN. 
 
 Can I in secret cherish now this sin, 
 
 And hope to rea£ not, some time, punishment ? 
 
 What though I it confess not to myself, 
 
 And utter forth anew each morn a prayer 
 
 Against the tempter, when as eve comes on 
 
 I welcome him again with smiling look ? 
 
 Is there uncertainty or blinding doubt 
 
 Between me and my fault? Can I not tell 
 
 Whether 'tis mine or laid on me unknown ? 
 
 Ah yes, the turning of my ear away 
 
 From the loud condemnation of my heart 
 
 Drowns not that inward sense which needs no tongue 
 
 To tell me I am guilty ! And if guilt 
 
 I thus permit to spread with clinging root, 
 
 I know with blood it must be plucked at length. 
 
 The terms whereon we hold our inward peace 
 
 Have not been changed, nor is the sleepless eye 
 
THE SECRET SIN. 95 
 
 That marks each taker of the covenant, 
 Dimmed that it cannot see. Th' avenging arm 
 Still doth exist and hoard its dreaded strength 
 When nothing hurts, and we, secure, sin on, 
 As in the moment when descends its blow! 
 What then is needed? That these wav'rings cease 
 Between indulgence and infirm regret, 
 That I let conscience cry into my ear, 
 How but to taste of what we dare not drink, 
 Partakes in the true nature of the deed 
 Of the full crime, and shares its penalty. 
 For look, my soul, how thou art hemmed within 
 Cherished possessions! These are all a mark 
 For the correcting shaft, or may become 
 Keen instruments of torture. Are there not 
 Some bound to thee by such close union 
 They seem to be not separate in their being, 
 But part of self, and self s most tender part ? 
 Lo, but to touch them or to breathe upon, 
 How dost thou tremble! Pleasures that have led 
 Thee upon doubtful paths for many years, 
 Holding thee chained by their returning spell, 
 Do in a moment lose their prolonged power, 
 Their fascination turned to loathed defects. — 
 Thou hatest them— because linked with the thought 
 
96 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Of retribution now poured on the head 
 Of one whose wounds bleed chiefly in thyself! 
 Yet may such pay the forfeit of the love 
 Thou hast for him who bids thee put away 
 All known sin for his sake, can move thee not. 
 
SELF-LOVE. 
 
 Conceit a thousand forms will take, 
 Though we be humble — seeking right, 
 
 Some bandage for the eyes she'll make, 
 That blinds us in the very light. 
 
 If all our thirst is to be known,— 
 - The poor idolatry of fame, 
 She points where loftiest names have flown, 
 And whispers "Thy powers are the same!" 
 
 But when she finds a straggler weak, 
 From Life's path wand'ring o'er the plain 
 
 Pretending him she came to seek 
 She plieth swift God's name in vain. 
 
 'There is," she says, "a work reserved 
 For thee to do — the time is come, — 
 Arise! thy weak arm hath been nerved — 
 Not for thy gain, but God alone." 
 
98 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Oh knew we not there is a Power 
 That hemmeth in our goings aside, 
 
 Faithful in our most faithless hour: 
 
 Following e'en when our steps backslide ; 
 
 How could we ever hope to gain 
 The goal that seems removed so far, 
 
 Or 'scape the dangers of the plain, 
 Where no assisting angels are? 
 
OUR APPOINTED PLACE. 
 
 We may not sum with talent as a part 
 
 Of it the favouring opportunity; 
 
 And yet the want of this/ when still closed up 
 
 Each door is by which talent may come forth, 
 
 Doth paralyze it in its unseen cell! 
 
 But roused by brief success, tho' it had seemed 
 
 Already dead, yet doth the clod put on 
 
 Such vigour as its life had not before. 
 
 Thou needest then two gifts ere thou canst rise 
 
 Above thine earthly tasks pre-eminent — 
 
 The inward power, the outward happening. 
 
 Tell not of those who have this triumph won 
 
 By courage of their own. The obstacles 
 
 And seeming bars, their preludes to success 
 
 Were but th' appointed way laid out before. 
 
 All meet them, and to our dim-seeing eye 
 
 Unknown the goal which farther on they hide — 
 
100 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Such hinderings should not abate our strength. 
 Yet after all, if it hath been ordained 
 Thy lamp shall covered be through life's long night, 
 Its ray shall find no crevice to the end! 
 
 What then? Is thy lot hard? Are there not left 
 Tasks lowlier for thee? Art thou and thine 
 Left without food and raiment ? Sift the wish 
 That impotent doth chafe from day to day 
 Toward some high object. Savours it the most 
 Of zeal for good, or thirstings for renown ? 
 God needeth not thine aid. The minds of men 
 Are his, and formed each in its separate mould, 
 Adorned with gifts or laid to straitest measure 
 According to his purpose. None can lose 
 By thy restrainment then but thou thyself, 
 And with thee 'tis but pen ting up a part 
 Which soareth by ambition. For if not 
 Ambition, springing from rebellious self, 
 It would from God's own orclerings be held back 
 And die by his opposing providence. 
 Thy sighs then at this seeming idleness 
 Do clothe with sorrow's garb what is not grief, 
 But an unwillingness to lose what seems m 
 Within thy reach of honour, wealth or fame. 
 
OUR APPOINTED PLACE. 101 
 
 If He who knows the world's necessity, 
 And thy strength to supply it, calls thee not, 
 What need for this thy zeal to labour still ? 
 
 Oh for that high attainment, willingness 
 To be as nothing! not to mark the steep 
 Up which we would be led, nor name the toils 
 That drawing praise to us we would endure, 
 But to feel glad, and humbly be content 
 While others are led by us to the tan, 
 And we — not tried — pine in the rear unknown! 
 God's ways are not those of his children's choice, 
 For nature tempts us still, though formed again — 
 Oft he who shrinks and dreads th' admirer's gaze 
 We see exalted, crowned against his will, 
 While he who dowered walks — as born to rule, 
 Some thread of chance holds back from destiny! 
 
 If thou a Christian art, bound to thy lot 
 
 Shall be some cross. It is the load all bear 
 
 Whose footsteps tend toward heaven. When at length 
 
 After long bafflings thou hast found out thine — 
 
 Seek not to loose it more. Turn thou around 
 
 And clasp it, for whatever shape it wear 
 
 It is, in truth, thy friend. The ease it spoils, 
 
102 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Or the good gifts it seems to hold thee from, 
 Are nothing to those blessings yet unknown, 
 Which in th' mysterious orderings of thy fate 
 Are knit with it, and it alone for thee! 
 
OUR CHANGING FRAMES. 
 
 I had a glimpse of heaven. Not by the eye 
 
 Of flesh, nor yet that rayless, inward sight/ 
 
 Which looketh through no organ, but discerns 
 
 By spiritual knowledge forms that are, — 
 
 It was a state of feeling; a still calm 
 
 Within, by which each passion, all subdued, 
 
 Was as if chained forever! while my love 
 
 For those whom I should love — not marred by doubt 
 
 Of their affection, nor by unkind thought, 
 
 Watered my heart as some pure gushing stream. 
 
 -Then too, sin, in those forms which she puts on, 
 
 Mostly to tempt me, (which none know but me,) 
 
 Seemed, tho' I warred not with her, all withdrawn. 
 
 I noted the great change — how silently 
 
 It came, un wrought by effort of mine own; 
 
 And said, "This is a gift — a glimpse of heaven I" 
 
 Why cannot I abide thus ? oh my soul 
 
104 POEMS— BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Is this thy rest? Can glimpses satisfy — 
 
 Glimpses far off, though never more obscured ? 
 
 They might, and hold thee back from near approach. 
 
 'Tis not reward then, but encouragement 
 
 To press toward that reward! Not the great feast, 
 
 But a faint foretaste of it, to thee sent 
 
 To cheer thee, drooping, — for the Christian state 
 
 Here, is not one of quietude but war, 
 
 War that shall truce nor brief cessation know 
 
 For him who must die fighting — whose release 
 
 Shall not be brought by friendly hands at length, 
 
 But sent upon the point of some keen shaft, 
 
 That erreth not, aimed by the enemy, 
 
THE SCULPTOR. 
 
 See* st thou, high up on yon unfinished wall, 
 A small rough habitation ? There it hangs, 
 Near to the summit. But one hostile stroke, 
 \Tell dealt, would spread its ruins far beneath. 
 That is the place, where hidden out of sight, 
 The sculptor slowly shapes the rough-hewn block. 
 That at some future day, his labours o'er, • 
 He may take off th/ unsightly covering 
 And show triumphant, his fair statue done. 
 So toil I, shut apart and separate, 
 While the great throng unnoted pass me by, 
 Hoping that by His aid, for whom my task 
 I may form with the instruments of thought, 
 Some shape that shall anew embody Truth 
 Clothed in fair dress, or words of flowery srarb 
 That may at length draw loye into herself. 
 
• OUR LIFE. 
 
 Unto the watchful mind which doth compare, 
 
 And weigh its inward pleasures day by day • 
 
 With those more perfect shaped by its desire, 
 
 How doth this life, when in the balance laid, 
 
 Seem wanting! There are elements enough 
 
 Of pure sensation in the new-born heart; 
 
 But there remain too, roots of bitterness. 
 
 These contraries the heart itself contains, 
 
 And, at the best, would muddied streams bring forth, 
 
 But when beside its want, we count the world 
 
 Wherein His placed, the hourly influences 
 
 It lends to ruffle and disturb, we find 
 
 How like a thing placed far beyond our grasp, 
 
 Reached but by sight, is perfect happiness! 
 
 The torrent bursting from the mountain's side, 
 
 Foaming 'midst rocks until it reach the base, 
 
 If poured at first on some smooth marbled way 
 
ON LIFE. 107 
 
 Would flow with scarce a ripple. But its course 
 
 Thus rugged and uneven, was marked out 
 
 By Him who called it from its secret spring. 
 
 Take from us the deep consciousness we feel 
 
 Of a capacity for purer joys. 
 
 And we will want them not, insensible! 
 
 But leave this consciousness, and from our lot 
 
 Eemove the opposing trials of this life, 
 
 How can we crave to ever see fulfilled 
 
 Its now continual prophecy of heaven! 
 
"PUTTING OFF, 
 
 Striving in coward listlessness 
 
 Each effort still to shun, — 
 How can the aid we pray for ; bless 
 
 Our labours ne'er begun? 
 
 Go boldly up,— -each hind'rance nieet, 
 
 Assail that nearest by. 
 To win a part, to bear defeat 
 
 Is better than to fly ! 
 
 How know'st thou but some gem most rare 
 
 Hid in this moment lies? 
 Time is a mine. Nor here nor there — 
 
 Sure are we of the prize. 
 
 He who the search unwearied keeps 
 
 With zealous, constant mind, 
 May gain perchance, but he who sleeps 
 
 Surely no wealth shall find. 
 
"putting, off." 109 
 
 The hour will not fold its wings, 
 
 Onward thy steps are pressed — 
 Slothful and diligent it brings 
 
 Where both alike must rest. 
 
 If it be sweet when day is past. 
 
 Though not increased thy store, 
 To think not to th' endeavour lost 
 
 Its fruitless moments were, 
 
 How, sweeter far, will be at length 
 
 As wanes life's setting sun, 
 The thought, not wasted was its strength, 
 
 Though nothing more be won. 
 
 8 
 
THE DINING-ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 
 
 The cheerful group that gathered 'round me 
 
 One by one to rest has gone, 
 And this later hour hath found me 
 
 Sitting by the fire alone. 
 The vacant chairs about me stand 
 As they were left, on either hand, — 
 I will now draw mine own up nigher, 
 
 And looking in the bright grate see 
 If in this winter-midnight's fire 
 
 One may not find some company. 
 In feeble, harmless mockery 
 Of the rude storm that blows without, 
 1 Look how a viewless breath of air 
 Traverses the red plane about, 
 
 Swaying each flame now here, now there ! 
 As one in some lone room aside, 
 
 Sees pictured by the camera, 
 
THE DINING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. Ill 
 
 Within a spot a city wide. 
 
 With thousands thronging by the way, 
 So musing by this fire alone, 
 
 All o'er its narrow breadth to-ni^lrt 
 A pencilled hand doth seem to come, 
 
 Painting the world in mimic light. 
 
 A handful of red coals! the earth 
 
 In the deep caverns of her breast 
 Did cover up their unknown birth — 
 
 Hidden as in eternal rest. 
 High o'er them wild flowers blossoming 
 Led on sweet summer. None to sow 
 Nor reap were there. As waters flow, 
 Came autumn's frost and winter's snow; 
 And swift again returned the spring, — 
 Even races changed, until at last 
 Each age, each fleeting moment passed 
 That should th' appointed period bring, 
 Men ope'd the mine, and from long night 
 Brought forth this handful to the light, 
 Not dreaming of that sure decree, 
 By which at first 'twas formed for me. 
 To fall to ashes in my sight. 
 What an unwritten history, 
 
112 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Or unknown future yet to gain, 
 Doth to each casual thing pertain ! 
 Thou feelest pride. The gem is thine, 
 That doth from o'er thy bosom shine. 
 But what is thy possession? Know 
 That as it beauteous now appears 
 
 From breast to breast, from brow to brow, 
 It hath passed for a thousand years, 
 
 And so will pass — thou, not it lost, 
 Thou'rt but one of a mouldering host 
 That o'er its glittering path hath crossed! 
 
 Or come forth with me to the field — 
 
 The slender stem beside thy feet 
 Shall from its bark small fibres yield, 
 
 Which maiden hands shall bind and' beat, 
 Combing each thin thread separate, 
 Till spun and wove, and bleached pure white 
 ' Twill show fair linen in men's sight. 
 Then who can give it place or date ? 
 Above some bold, stout heart 'twill rest, 
 Or covering the more sensitive breast, 
 Will feel the oft hid throbs beneath. 
 Or worthless rags become at last, 
 Upon the trodden highway cast, 
 
THE DINING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 113 
 
 From out the gath'rer's loathsome store, 
 'Tis brought to change its shape once more. 
 Mingled with water pure and clean, 
 
 Torn to minutest particles, 
 Forth flows th' affluent pulpy stream, 
 
 Beneath th' rejected liquid falls 
 Above, along the wirey plain 
 White spotless paper doth remain ! 
 This will be written on. Some eye 
 That now would noteless pass it by, 
 (Though first must intervene long years,) 
 Will brighter grow or dim with tears, 
 When searching what this plant shall bear, 
 It reads the few words written there. 
 Perhaps within some volume bound 
 Impressed with words indelible, 
 
 ; Twill wisdom's hidden ways expound, 
 Yielding him truth who loves it well. — 
 
 What will it teach, or where be found 
 This lowly thing ? Who, who can tell ? 
 
 But other thoughts this place doth bring, 
 This was my father's roof ! From here 
 
 The path from summer back to spring, 
 Doth at a glance now reappear. 
 
114 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Where, while I passed unconscious on, 
 
 As living things take root and start, 
 Sprang those deep feelings one by one, 
 
 And powers that fill man's mind and heart. 
 These too slow forming, buried deep 
 As treasures of the mine do sleep, 
 And as this handful in my sight, 
 Was formed to cheer this hour to-night, 
 So, for some good work in my day, 
 Each better trait within doth lay, 
 . Till by God's help that work is done, 
 And I back unto dust have gone. 
 Nor though he causeth none to sin, 
 
 Was the Creator ignorant, 
 That when I had a wanderer been 
 
 From virtue's paths, where I was sent, 
 My passions wasting at their will, 
 
 Would quench affection, kindle strife, 
 Mingling the good with how much ill, 
 
 According to my checkered life. 
 He knew it all. Through centuries, 
 That gathered were as autumn leaves, 
 He ne'er fore-ordered, kindly care, • 
 Nor act of love or friendship fair, 
 But one to do the deed was there. 
 
THE DINING ROOM OE THE OLD HOUSE. 115 
 
 So too each evil act foreseen, 
 Had long before so thwarted been, 
 That e'en with virtue it took part, 
 And worked good for the new-born heart. 
 
 How different then his view from ours, 
 
 We dimly scan a few dark hours — * 
 
 But before him, as one page lie, 
 
 The past and all futurity ! 
 
 We wait th' event that shall befall, 
 
 He doth each in its order call, 
 
 And e'er the first had summed up all! 
 
 To us what hath been, is forgot, 
 
 What shall be, yet unknown, is not. 
 
 To him all equidistant, clear, 
 
 The age long gone, the moment here — 
 
 By doubts, nor fears, nor hopes, ere tost 
 
 Naught new nor old is, found nor lost. 
 
 While musing thus secure and warm, 
 As in some fortress shut from harm, 
 Still howls the wintry wind without, 
 Still tosseth each blue flame about, 
 While from far wastes or ocean's shore, 
 The storm beats to my very door. 
 
116 POEMS. — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 What thin partition His divides 
 From icy cold and swelling tides ! 
 What different scenes each other pass, 
 Parted but by a pane of glass I 
 
 But rising now from my warm seat, 
 
 (Not in the body ; but in thought,) 
 I go forth from this calm retreat. 
 
 Ah, by one step what distance brought I 
 Here it is bleak, no warmth, no light — 
 All earth and heaven wrapt in night, 
 While viewless, but with loud wild cry 
 The armies of the air rush by. 
 I journey on, for though storms blow 
 O'er rising floods, through fire or snow 
 Thought on its path unharmed may go, — 
 Till where a river spreadeth wide, 
 And lofty shores rise by its side, 
 I open a small wicket gate. 
 'Tis midnight, dark and desolate. 
 Against the black skies dimly seen 
 Rock a few boughs of evergreen. 
 Along the narrow path I tread, 
 
 (Oft have I trodden it before,) 
 Till 'neath a latticed archway led, 
 
THE DINING BOOM OP THE OLD HOUSE. 117 
 
 I ope th' inhospitable door, 
 Then like some spirit through the gloom, 
 
 For living thing nor light is there, — 
 Above, below, from room to room, 
 
 O'er vacant hall and quiet stair 
 I pass 'midst unused furniture. 
 
 This is the place where when glad Spring 
 Doth from the deep earth blossoms bring,— 
 I come, with those I love, to dwell. 
 Winter, her brother, robed in snow, 
 Not as some say, her envious foe, 
 She meeteth here, and bids farewell, 
 While round the stream her warblers sing, 
 And this white cottage by its side. 
 Lo, what a change ! Then, open wide 
 Doors, windows, tempt the gentle air 
 Now stripping mighty forests bare, — 
 The winds as for its ruin sent 
 Do shake this trembling tenement. 
 
 Standing all lonely in the dark, 
 I hear a rustling near me, hark ! 
 And over by the opposite wall 
 Something is moving white and tall, 
 
118 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 What is it? Ah, now I can see 
 
 'Tis but the window's drapery! 
 
 Though sash and shutter both are fast, 
 
 Through some small crevice creeps the blast, 
 
 A little rill from storms that blow, 
 
 Tossing the curtains to and fro. 
 
 Ha! what strange doings sounds and sights, 
 
 Are here through the long winter nights ! 
 
 I might be sad. The sombre thought 
 
 To me by less is often brought, 
 
 But I will rather think of when, 
 
 'Neath calm and cloudless heavens serene, 
 Sweet summer will be here again, 
 
 Waving her leafy robes of green. 
 Soon shall break forth that milder day, 
 Soon 'neath the shade my child shall play, 
 Watching the robin twine his nest ; 
 
 Or, grouped all on the bank's steep brink, 
 We'll stand in presence of the west, 
 
 While down its steep the sun doth sink. 
 For so the full and bounteous scope, 
 Of the good promise gone before, 
 That seed-time, harvest, autumn's store, 
 Revolving shall fail never more, 
 Giveth me liberty to hope! 
 
THE DIXING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 119 
 
 Only this one remembrance 
 
 Driveth these glad thoughts blushing hence. 
 
 It is that for long summers past 
 
 Given me in this place of good, 
 I at the Giver's feet have cast, 
 
 But moments brief of gratitude. 
 Not that the prospect far and fair, 
 
 Which nature spreads before this place, 
 Mingling her floods with earth and air, 
 
 Till of a still morn I can trace — 
 As 'twere let down to wet mine eyes, 
 An image faint of paradise ; 
 Not that this doth entrance my sight, 
 
 For ever while I gaze I see 
 Written in hues of deeper light, 
 
 My own and their mortality ! 
 Not that the love of beings here, 
 
 Which filleth up, doth drown my heart; 
 In the fond gaze of those most dear 
 
 Still frames the sentence, "we must part." 
 Nay, as for these things well I know 
 
 All that earth to the spirit yields, 
 Are but the seeds of flowers that grow 
 
 To fullest bloom on heaven's fields; 
 
120 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 But 'tis, that sin or indolence 
 
 Doth fetter still each new-born sense. 
 
 Oh, when at times roused from their sleep ! 
 
 Or broken from their captive's chain, 
 My passions do new revels keep, 
 
 Reigning as 'twere within again, 
 When at such times a viewless hand, 
 
 Leads me to some still spot aside, 
 And lifts the veil, amazed I stand, 
 
 That such dread tenants may abide, 
 Still in a heart that loveth God, 
 The place he chose for his abode. 
 And could I mine own madness tame, 
 Or with foul hands wash out the stain, 
 If none now to my succour came ? 
 Ah, I have seen. Let others boast 
 Of deep gulfs in their own strength crossed, 
 But as for me, since that first day 
 
 When moved by grace, I turned toward heaven, 
 Each briefest footstep of the way 
 
 Was made in strength by Jesus given, 
 Strength that whate'er its cost may be 
 Was given costless unto me. 
 
 The old clock in the hall strikes "one!" 
 Its sound doth summon wandering thought 
 
THE DINING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 121 
 
 That far beyond the storm had gone. 
 Back to the fireside I am brought — 
 The fireside ! Ah, we may write 
 
 Strange things of it — how greatest men, — 
 Men who sway kingdoms by their might, 
 
 When from the world returned again 
 They sit thus musing here alone, 
 Are conscious that their hearts are one, 
 Even with the lowliest of their kind. 
 Forced back upon the unflattering mind 
 They learn once more how little things 
 Oft touch the deepest, tenderest strings. 
 The trifles of their childhood set 
 
 In none of fame's thin drapery, 
 Kising before them, homely yet, 
 
 Move them as they move thee or me. 
 
 Thou scarce can'st see by this dim light 
 
 Yonder where mingled shadows fall, 
 Near to the ceiling's dusky height, 
 
 A nail driven part way in the wall. 
 It is a spot where one bright ray 
 Used every morn to herald day, 
 Nay heralds yet the morn — come far 
 By many an unknown world and star 
 
122 POEMS, — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Ere there its glittering flight doth stay. 
 In years long gone — I count them not, 
 My sister hung beside that spot 
 The cage that held her singing bird. 
 Trilling all day, its dotes were heard 
 Seeming thanksgivings for her care, 
 Sending sweet music everywhere. 
 Now, were she sitting by my side 
 
 Still, when the recollection came, 
 'Twere one that might a time abide. 
 
 Much since hath changed, much is the same, 
 The smile would mingle with the tear, 
 But, oh, my friend, she is not here ! 
 Is it not strange that at this hour, 
 
 When all her past crowds to my breast, 
 One lone remembrance comes with power 
 
 Rising undimmed above the rest? 
 That of an unkind word by me 
 "Which she once wept at silently. 
 Why doth it thus come? ; Twas forgiven 
 
 And blotted by a hand above, 
 I trust, from out the book of heaven. 
 
 Were there no words of tender love 
 That as I muse to-night alone 
 With melancholy joy might come? 
 
THE DINING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 123 
 
 Ah, not for joy is it now sent 
 
 By him who summons up the thought, 
 For me a better gift is meant, 
 
 To me instruction hath it brought. 
 The present shall become the past, 
 
 Even as those years have from me fled, 
 May I not, lingering till the last, 
 
 Number those living with the dead ? 
 The word to-day, told in the ear, 
 
 That makes some wounded heart to burn, 
 May, when that heart shall not be here, 
 
 Back to my bosom barbed, return. 
 
 When we do look within to find, 
 
 Whose image on our breasts we wear, 
 We learn that not the loftiest mind 
 
 Doth grave its name most deeply there, 
 But the forgiving, true and kind; 
 And knowing this, and that above 
 
 All offerings that can rendered be, 
 To us, we most do covet love, 
 
 It hath a marvel been to me, 
 That o'er ourselves the victory 
 We strive not harder to attain, 
 Though for ourselves alone the gain. 
 
124 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Doth not a hasty spirit fling 
 
 That one first drop of bitterness 
 Into love's never-failing spring, 
 
 That else would flow forth but to bless? 
 Or like an unquenched spark it lies, 
 
 Even 'midst the gathered bonds of home, 
 It fires, it snaps the tender ties 
 
 That do bind brethren into one. 
 And I have marked its wondrous power — 
 
 One early frost blights all the plain, 
 It nips the bud, it kills the flower — 
 
 'Tis winter ere they bloom again. 
 For (to put simile apart,) 
 
 The passion lodged in me so deep, 
 Its likeness hath in every heart, 
 
 Which but a word may rouse from sleep. 
 
 Oh for that calm and equal mind 
 
 Whose peace a breath may not disturb, 
 Who, though the soil seems all unkind, 
 Some hidden virtue still will find, 
 
 And its own enmity doth curb. 
 Few spots of earth have fruitless proved 
 
 When faithful hands have come to till, 
 Few hearts but some have justly loved, 
 
 Few but we may love if we will. 
 
THE DIXIXG ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 125 
 
 Are any pure? Hath love a law 
 
 By which unmingled, spotless worth 
 Alone may claim fair gifts from her? 
 
 Then, may she turn to-day from earth ! 
 But bands who live by lawless strife, 
 
 Some pledges from her still do keep, 
 True each to each they war through life; 
 
 And when the parting cometh, weep. 
 
 Affection then asks to be sought 
 
 Like veins in treasure-yielding ground, 
 
 Perchance from depths it must be brought, 
 Upon the surface may abound- 
 Somewhere the ore is always found. 
 
 And having found it, oh how fair 
 
 Th' uncovered mass shows to the light! 
 
 The whole, wide, stony waste doth wear 
 Xew worth and beauty in our sight. 
 
 The gold is reached ! Its hue we see, 
 All hid in our own breasts of such 
 
 By some mysterious alchemy 
 
 Thrills at its first life-giving touch— - 
 
 Love is the child of sympathy! 
 
 Yet well I know that reasoning, 
 Xor the most finished argument 
 9 
 
126 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Can to our hearts this temper bring, 
 By which we seek in every thing, 
 
 For cause to love : 'tis heaven-sent. 
 Much less can pictured portrait fair 
 
 Of its mild beauty and its power, 
 Give it a lasting being there, — • 
 
 Mere sentiment dies with the hour. 
 For like all virtues this must bear, — 
 Here, banished from its native place, 
 Housed, pent up with a hostile race, 
 Its cross, and even thorns must wear. 
 He who would keep it must go armed, 
 
 Marshaling his powers, not 'gainst the foe, 
 But that the foe may pass unharmed, 
 
 Willing to deal his own the blow. 
 Nay, even friends, when thought hath gone, 
 By very kindness tempted on, 
 And virtue's seeming helplessness, 
 May wound him whom they first should bless. 
 
 How shall we gain this treasure then, 
 This charity which doth let fall 
 
 The veil that malice lifts, again ? 
 Thus come wc to the sum of all, 
 
THE DINING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 127 
 
 As earth in no far desert hold, 
 
 Nor to the centre of her sphere 
 Doth treasure such as this enfold, 
 More pure than is her virgin gold — 
 Vain is the hope that searcheth here. 
 We must look up. As fair appear, 
 Wide stretching o'er some moonless night, 
 The countless worlds there robed in light, 
 So all heaven's virtues, glorious too 
 Hang o'er us hidden from our view, 
 And as those worlds revolving far 
 Beyond the gazer's influence are, 
 So when the soul with opened eye 
 Those stars sees in that upper sky, 
 It feels its deep infirmity, — 
 If thou canst curb by thine own force 
 One planet rolling in its course, 
 And bring it captive unto thee, 
 Then hast thou gained the power at length ] 
 Unaided by thy native strength, 
 To pluck one spotless virtue down 
 From heaven and cry, "It is mine own! 7 / 
 
 Yet 'neath these virtues do we live, 
 And though with blind polluted sense 
 
128 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 May of their healing power receive 
 And be ruled by their influence. 
 
 They are for us, for knowest thou not, 
 Who, when ascending up on high 
 
 Bore with him gifts his blood had bought, 
 And captive led captivity ? 
 
 He will bestow them still on thee, 
 If humbly sought with reverend care, 
 
 So now come we to victory, 
 
 Yea, the reward too is hid there — 
 The power that virtue wins is prayer. 
 
 Oh, wondrous power, by which alone, 
 
 I, born to want and poverty, 
 May to the glorious threshold come, 
 Yea, pass up to the very Throne — 
 How am I poor possessing thee ? 
 
 I stand on earth — thou lift'st me hence — 
 
 I reach to starry heights sublime, 
 I touch their loftiest eminence, 
 I deathless virtues pluck from thence, 
 And fill my bosom — they are mine! 
 
 Flickering within its socket, weak 
 My candle scarce doth hold its flame, 
 
THE DINING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 129 
 
 It sinketh now — now doth it seek, 
 
 Running swift down the wick again. 
 To draw new life and sustenance 
 As it was wont to draw it thence. 
 Slow it returns, the store is done, — 
 Now but a spot it hath become, 
 'Tis fainter, fainter — it is gone ! 
 But the spark left is not quite fled, 
 It sends forth wreaths of smoke overhead, 
 It varieth like the flame before; 
 Plays the same game to hope once more 
 Till it too darkens, and is dead. 
 
 I marvel not that men have seen, 
 Ever in this slight incident, 
 
 Pictured, the moment when hath been 
 A summons to the spirit sent, — 
 So doth the body hoard its breath, 
 And yield unwillingly to death; 
 
 But in this likeness we forget 
 That all of languor imaged there 
 
 Is of the body — youthful, yet, 
 The soul doth but its wrappings wear, 
 Which loosened, falling off at length, 
 Leave it freed in immortal strength! 
 
130 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 Methinks, at such a time and place 
 
 Did heavenly heralds, as of old, 
 Meet and speak with us face to face, 
 
 I might celestial converse hold. 
 He who by darkness compassed round, 
 Slumb'ring upon the desert ground, 
 Saw angels in th' illumined air 
 Ascending and descending there, 
 While One above more glorious stood, 
 Lay not in deeper solitude. 
 But this may not be, day nor night 
 Shall e'er unveil Him to my sight, 
 Who, from all flesh hath hid in light. 
 Is he then not? Is there no God? 
 Do I whose wisdom cannot show 
 How the green blade doth spring and grow, 
 'Midst worlds that mock at me from thence, 
 Stand the first, high intelligence ? 
 
 Yet banished here, far from the skies, 
 
 Groping 'midst this world's gloom about — 
 
 My lamp obscured by mists that rise, 
 Not of the Truth, but mine own doubt, 
 
 I've said, "To see Him with mine eyes, 
 Oh, that some path might find Him out!" 
 
THE DINING ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 131 
 
 So foolish am I? — Hath his word 
 
 Then ceased ? or is his providence 
 With daily utterance no more heard? 
 
 Turn I from these to grosser sense ? 
 Should some pure seraph, even now, 
 
 In answer to my call appear 
 Bright from the throne where such do bow, — 
 
 Doth not a still voice yet more near 
 Whisper all that I then might hear? 
 Thus would he speak, " Though legions were 
 
 Like me, to teach, they could impart 
 To thee no more abounding light 
 
 Than that now shed upon thine heart. 
 Wandering long since in rayless night 
 
 Thy Saviour found thee. On a way 
 He placed thy feet that upward led, 
 
 Yet told thee dark clouds round it lay. 
 Thy soul rejoiced, was comforted 
 
 Through darkness even, to hope for day. 
 Now, dost thou murmur, faint and pine 
 Because those promised clouds are thine ? 
 Think'st thou such mists can blind his eye, 
 Or seen not, he hath passed thee by? 
 
 Canst thou not trust? Be still, oh man, 
 And when 'midst shadows thou must wait, 
 
132 POEMS — BY GOLD PEN. 
 
 "Know they are part of love's great plan, 
 Remember now thy first estate. 
 
 Weary not of thine earthly days — 
 
 Cut off from these, how could' st thou rear 
 An offering to thy Maker's praise? 
 Nor let thine earthly task appear 
 Beneath thee; and in secret cry, 
 
 "All things are brief and fleeting here, — 
 My soul doth loathe them, let me die!" 
 Doth he who polisheth the gem 
 To deck some royal diadem, 
 Or shapes the block for palace walls 
 Work velvet-clothed, in gilded halls? 
 So is thy task to thee unknown, 
 But when it shall be done at last, 
 These fleshly garments from thee cast, 
 And this vast house of toil o'erthrown, 
 Then shall its end to thee be shown — 
 Each block, each jewel shalt thou see 
 Fixed beauteous in eternity." 
 
THE KELEASB. 
 
 I thought, as by my friend's sick couch I stood, 
 How like the way is made we all must tread, 
 Feeble and suffering, downward to the tomb! 
 If we could take this from our portion off, 
 Disease and the accompaniments of death, 
 And go up lifted as Elijah was, 
 Unto that rest now reached alone through them, 
 How many who do shrink from year to year, 
 And tremble o'er the last delivering step 
 Would crowd life's farther threshold! It is well 
 Some slight, imagined bar should hold us back, 
 Or clamours for deliverance would arise 
 Till they should trouble Heaven. 
 133 
 
A CLOUD. 
 
 The morning's sun was risen high, 
 One white cloud floated in the sky, 
 Its great full folds like silver shone 
 Against the blue it trod alone. 
 
 Beside my path I sat me down, 
 And gazing on the heavenly isle 
 
 Methought, " If tempests are thy frown, 
 Sweet cloud, this calm rest is thy smile. 
 If now, from heaven's depths afar, 
 Or some unknown and nameless star, 
 A spirit in descending flight 
 Should break on mine uplifted sight, 
 
 Nearer, and nearer — yet more bright, 
 Until I saw his wings enfold, 
 
 And him on thy steep brink alight, 
 How would it ravish to behold!" 
 But what is this? All fancy's boast 
 Is nothing to that living host 
 134 
 
A CLOUD. 135 
 
 Who flit around Heav'n's viewless coast! 
 
 Viewless as yet; no eye can see 
 
 Those borders of eternity, 
 
 But soon to all 'twill opened be. 
 
 Oh, may I then behold that land, 
 
 And with th' uprisen nations stand, 
 
 Who gather at the Lamb's right hand ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
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