LIBRAr,7 OF CONGRESS. 
 
 UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. 
 
THE 
 
 RAG FAIR 
 
 Other Reveries. 
 
 L. CLARKSON, 
 
 Author of ''Violet" and ''Gathering of the Lilies. 
 
 Jw^.L.C. Ujtitzir.U 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 F. W. ROBINSON & CO. 
 
 1879. 
 
t^ 
 
 .N^7 
 
 11^ 
 
 1^- 
 
 Copyright 1S78 
 
 BY 
 
 F. W. RouiNsoN & Co. 
 
 Allen, Lane & Scott, 
 Printers. 
 
 Drawing by 
 
 E. B. Bensell. 
 
 Engraving by 
 
 J. W. Lauderbach. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE RAG FAIR: A Twilight Reverie. 
 
 Illustrations. 
 
 Title-page. 
 
 "I have read somewhere of a marvellous Rag Fair." 
 
 "What a wonderful collection." 
 
 "There are tiny robes." 
 
 "There are boyish frocks." 
 
 "There, too, is the lover's knot of blue." 
 
 "Tattered bits of the brave self-trust." 
 
 "And banished there are the locked-up cerements." 
 
 "Truly, 'twould be a ghostly array." 
 
 "And the life goes on." 
 
 " How strange to stand in that strange land." 
 
 "God help us all, as these earth-robes fall." 
 
 "We cannot know." 
 
 "God help us all! He knows our righteousness is but as filthy rags." 
 
 " So let us hope." 
 
 HADES : The Reverie of a Philosophc, 
 LIFE : The Parson's Reverie. 
 BREVIARY : A Last Reverie. 
 
 Illustrations. 
 "They come, and come from a vague somewhere.' 
 " They wake and sleep, and cry for bread." 
 "They watch and wait, they toil and fret." 
 " Pausing at last on the shelving shore." 
 "They go and go to the vague somewhere." 
 
DEDICATED 
 
 MRS. D. L. BART LETT. 
 
 It is true that " I have read soine-wJierc" of this fanciful "Rag Fair for Spiritual 
 Garments" but where or what, I know not. It is one of those dim impressions which 
 render it difficult to recognize an occasional idea as a possible memory. I have therefore 
 used the conscientious quotation-marks to indicate a few thoughts which seemed to linger 
 in my mind as recollections. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
The Rag Fair. 
 
 A TWILIGHT REVERIE. 
 
I have read somewhen 
 
 of a marvellous "Rag 
 
 For Spiritual Garments, to be found 
 
 In some far, unknown region, on the bound 
 
 Of this angel-forsaken Eden, where 
 
 Our fall hath shamed our souls from standing bare 
 
 Before the god of Self, wise in their sin ; 
 
 And so, for decency, we clothe them in 
 
 ^ Vestments of Earth which Time filches away 
 
 And keeps in hiding 'till some 
 better day. 
 
What a wonderlul collection it would be, 
 
 And how it would amaze, 
 
 If one could see in some grim place. 
 
 Gathered together for eternity, 
 
 The cast-off raiment that men's souls have worn 
 
 To hide their barren want ; or to adorn 
 
 Their shapely fullness; or belie their ill 
 
 In the sheep's-clothing made for wolf- wear still ! 
 
There are boyish frocks that were crimson when 
 
 We stood sturdy in them and said we were "men;" 
 
 But they faded to grey, and were dropt. And there 
 
 Is youth's many-colored cloak, once fair 
 
 As Joseph's, but dyed with the fatal stain 
 
 Of the blood of our lamb of innocence slain. 
 
 And there is the mail of a hero's pride, 
 
 Rusted and shattered and gaping wide 
 
 Where the arrows pierced; and broken and bent 
 
 Where the hard blows fell making many a rent. 
 
 Near by is the mantle of withered prime, 
 
 Filthy and worn with abuse and time; 
 
 It scantily clad the shivering soul 
 
 That blamed the world for each stain and hole. 
 
<^^ 
 
 -( 
 
 There, too, is the lover's 
 
 knot of blue, 
 That bound us fast, 
 and seemed as true 
 
 As God ; but 
 
 we watched the 
 
 color fade 
 
 Into the ghasdy ashen shade 
 Of death. And into that Fair are tost 
 All those marvellous things which are lost: 
 Shreds of bright hopes, too early torn ; 
 Remnants of joys too soon forlorn ; 
 Rags of those promises we thought 
 Into the "silver cord" were wrought; 
 Draggled ambitions, remembered not ; 
 Sack-cloths of penitence, long forgot: 
 
Tattered bits of the brave self-trust, 
 
 Drawn round us when we sprang from the dust 
 
 Of a confidence betrayed and cast 
 
 Under foot. And there we'll touch at last 
 
 The shroud of doubt in which, some night. 
 
 The angel. Faith, lay hid from sight ; 
 
 And know how 'twas made on the loom of sin, 
 
 Its woof— unbelief— woven out and in 
 
 With the tangled warp of bitter strife 
 
 'Gamst Him who gave our ano-el life. 
 
And banished diere are the locked-up cerements 
 
 Of lost, lost loves (not as cast-off garments 
 
 Ihrust into dim corners of the Fair, 
 
 For they are more tiian perishing wear,) 
 
 By memory carefully laid upon shelves. 
 Identified only by God and ourselves 
 
 Each tied with the harmless bit of crape 
 That once, to our sad eyes, seemed to drape 
 The whole of the beautiful, glad world:— 
 It is but a string, now, limp and curled. 
 Perhaps, at first, we would scarcely know 
 The shrunken sign of our shrunken woe 
 
Truly 'twould be a ghostly array ! 
 
 They clothed us once but were "clutched away 
 
 By the fingers" of Fates ; or rent one day 
 
 By the thorns of disaster ; or flung aside 
 
 In some sharp moment of wounded pride, 
 
 When apish Envy heard their gloss 
 
 Was wearing off. Or worse, our loss 
 
 May have been but a pitiful decay, — 
 
 A dropping off — a falling away 
 
In tatters. — So, silently, one by one 
 
 They are left, and forgot. 
 Goes on exulting towards 
 
 And the Life goes on : — 
 ts goal ; 
 
 For the ties of earth 
 cannot bind the 
 Soul 
 
 And when the hori- 
 zon grows low 
 and wide, 
 
 And near and plain 
 seems the other 
 side, 
 
 Naught follows the Soul from the world over past, 
 But its own swift shadow, downward cast. 
 
^^gsr riches are (prrupiM 
 
 How strange to stand — -:^ 
 
 In that strange land, 
 
 And hold these wretched fragments in our hand ! 
 How we would search and linger by the heap, 
 Too sore to smile, too curious to weep ; — 
 We'd lift each one up reverently, and try 
 To recognize it, pass it slowly by, 
 Sighing as much with wonder as with pain : 
 So strange 'twould be to meet spent lives again— 
 To shake hands with ourselves in long lost places- 
 Feeling half stranger with our own old faces. 
 'Twould be like lifting up the cofifin-lid 
 To peer at some dead neighbor, so long hid 
 We scarcely think it worth our being shocked. 
 But look, — because the casket is unlocked. 
 
God help us all 
 As these earth-robes fall ! 
 For we know not what vestures we shall wear 
 The next: — whether a purple, princely gown 
 Of high success; or ease, like robes of down; 
 Or harsh denials, like the camel's hair 
 The Prophet wore; or sable weeds of grief; 
 Or smooth white burial robes of last relief. 
 
We cannot know. 
 We breathe below 
 The purer air of heavenly things made plain: 
 And what we choose, 
 And what we lose, 
 Are given or taken by hands unshaken 
 By mere desires; and when our souls awaken 
 The next glad dawn, 
 They will sing on. 
 Through all eternity, the wondrous strain: — 
 " IFc are the redeemed ; for ice are 
 tJicy whieh came out of great 
 trikilation. We have washed, 
 our ivbcs and made them luhite 
 in the Lamb's blood." 
 
God help us all! — He knows "our righteousness 
 Is but as filthy rags," yet none the less 
 Has promised, as through earthly mire we toil. 
 To wash us at the last from every soil. 
 Yet scarce we stop, as our garments drop, 
 To ponder on the beauty of the thought, 
 That, with all changing, we are never brought 
 To utter nakedness; even when we 
 Put off the passion of mortality. 
 
 '-" believing God will put on us the peace 
 Of immortality, we smooth each crease 
 From out our wrinkled fame; we patch our pride 
 And darn our reputation — our best side 
 Turned outward, but our seams and stains concealed 
 From all but Christ — to whom all is revealed; — 
 By whom our rags are purged, and we are healed. 
 
So 
 
 I cars liiat i^i'uijr, 
 
 () I when poisin-- <mi tin- " <\' r hriok 
 
 y.Ji mis numanity, to catch sunn L.ik 
 Between all earthly joys and heavenl\ 
 May find in some far limbo such a 
 The fairest garments they have ever worn: — 
 The seamless robes that cruel hands have torn; 
 The fadeless vestures of unchanging love, 
 Folded within God's care, and laid above 
 Our reach, where moth of jealousy, or rust 
 Of doubt cannot corrupt. Though gathering dust 
 Of long years lies upon them, we will take 
 Them from their shelves when we are risen, and sliake 
 Earth's dimness from their shining threads, and press 
 Them 'neath the new robe of Christ's Righteousness; 
 For they no more have trailed their hems below, 
 But long ago were washed as white as snow. 
 
Hades. 
 
 THE REVERIE OF A PHILOSOPHER. 
 
HADES 
 
 THE REVERIE OF A PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 Where the earthly shade is 
 
 Growing deep, 
 Lies the silent Hades 
 
 Of our sleep. 
 
 No man knows the region, 
 
 Cold and grim, 
 Where his hopes, a legion. 
 
 Vanished dim. 
 
Very strange and dreamless 
 
 Is that rest, 
 Where the sun goes beamless 
 
 Down the west. 
 
 Earth grows fainter, dimmer 
 
 To our thought ; 
 Heaven's far-off gHmmer 
 
 Scarce is caught. 
 
 Sights and shapes and fancies 
 
 Mock our gaze. 
 And the Soul advances 
 
 In amaze. 
 
 Vaguely seen, a river 
 
 Hurries by ; 
 We would halt and shiver ; 
 
 We would fly 
 
 From the flood beneath the 
 
 Shelving brink — 
 Nearer is the Lethe 
 
 Than we think. 
 
But our groping spirits, 
 
 Onward led, 
 Cannot pause to fear its 
 
 Solemn tread. 
 
 Can we stem the water ? 
 
 In a breath. 
 While we gasp and falter, 
 
 Pass we Death. 
 
 What is lying yonder? 
 
 Wait and see. 
 One day we shall wander, 
 
 I, with thee, 
 
 In the land of shadows. 
 
 Nothing seen ; 
 And in all the meadows. 
 
 Nothing green. 
 
 Not a palm tree growing 
 
 High and sweet ; 
 Not a daisy blowing 
 
 At our feet. 
 
Not a glad bird singino- 
 
 Through the air; 
 Not a zephyr flinging 
 
 Perfumes there. 
 
 Sad and low, the tuneless 
 
 Winds are dead, 
 And the mists are moonless 
 
 Over head ; 
 
 Yet no sunlight quivers 
 
 From that sky 
 To the cold, gray rivers 
 
 Stealing by. 
 
 Is it eve, or sunrise? 
 
 I know nought ; 
 And the Soul is unwise 
 
 Asking aught. 
 
 A strange land, where summer 
 
 Has no part. 
 And forever dumber 
 
 Grows thy heart. 
 
A strange land ! and lonely 
 
 Is thy soul; 
 For each heart knows only 
 
 Its own dole. 
 
 Just thy conscious spirit 
 
 In all space ; 
 Not an answer near it; 
 
 Not a face, 
 
 Save the phantom faces, 
 
 Sad, forlorn, 
 Shorn of earthly graces 
 
 They had worn. 
 
 That will pass thee, dreary. 
 
 Up and down, 
 Never chill nor cheer thee. 
 
 Laugh nor frown. 
 
 Not a sense that made these 
 
 Faces sweet 
 Will have place in Hades, 
 
 When we meet. 
 
Not a sound is human ; 
 
 Not a view ; 
 Not a man nor woman 
 
 Whom we knew; 
 
 Not a breathing mortal, 
 
 Loved before, 
 Greets us at the portal 
 
 Of a door. 
 
 'Though that door stands open, 
 
 Friend, beware! 
 Thou canst never grope in 
 
 Blindly there. 
 
 Hast thou come down fearless. 
 
 Through the night? 
 Was the river cheerless? 
 
 Was it bright? 
 
 When earth-loves receded 
 
 To depart, 
 Came some one and pleaded 
 
 For thy heart? 
 
Hadst thou loved Him dearly, 
 
 All the way? 
 Didst thou see Him clearly 
 
 After day? 
 
 Then for thee are laid these 
 
 Golden streets ; 
 At the edge of Hades 
 
 Some one greets; 
 
 Some one who has waited 
 
 Since thy birth, 
 Whilst thou were belated 
 
 On the earth ; 
 
 Some one who will leave thee 
 
 Not alone, 
 But who will receive thee 
 
 As His own. 
 
I^IFE. 
 
 777^ PARSON'S REVERIE. 
 
r <y 
 
 LIFE 
 
 THE PARSON'S REVERIE. 
 
 O BUSTLING and bewildering world, 
 Into whose din our lives are hurled, 
 How many souls with many voices 
 Fill you full of racking noises ! 
 And tempers clash and hard wills jar. 
 And God's dear peace our passions mar. 
 
Each thread of destiny is twined 
 Into the fate of humankind. 
 Our tears dim other spirits' brightness ; 
 Our sins soil other spirits' whiteness — 
 (The father's crime is visited 
 Upon the children's guiltless head) ; 
 It drags us down that some will creep, 
 And we are clogs to some that leap ; 
 " But some are fallen asleep." 
 
 O toiling lives, so poorly filled ! 
 O troubled hearts, so seldom stilled! 
 How shifted needs, and duties slighted, 
 And broken vows, — loves unrequited, — 
 Jostle each other rudely through 
 The crowded days ! How some must screw 
 And pinch to live ; some live to clutch 
 From poor men's "little" all their "much"; 
 But want will sweeten hardest bread, 
 Remorse will pierce the softest bed. 
 While grief has comforts of her own 
 And is not left to mourn alone. 
 For still some sow, while others reap. 
 And many starve that few may heap ; 
 "And some are fallen asleep." 
 
 There are so many ways in life ; 
 This one is peace, and that one strife. 
 A few run smoothly day by day, 
 The most are stony all the way. 
 To some, the storms of woe come never, 
 To some, the rain seems falling ever. 
 Men who are faithless grasp no trust 
 To call their souls up from the dust, 
 
While some climb blindly, with the hope 
 Their hands will, some day, cease to grope. 
 Full-satisfied ; and God — He knows 
 How each blind-driven pilgrim goes ; 
 For He is just to me and you, 
 And makes His endless balance true, 
 And, holding all things in His keep. 
 He wisely gives to laugh or weep. 
 And some " He giveth sleep." 
 
 O men ! ye schemers, workers, drones, — 
 Ye misers, spendthrifts, how your tones 
 Grate on each other. Is there none, 
 Of all the choir around the throne 
 Where heavenly harmonies are poured, 
 Can sweep the angel's decachord, 
 And find a higher, nobler key 
 To tune the world's discordancy ! 
 Does God hear voices of His own, 
 Amid the universal moan? 
 For men who live cry out for death. 
 And dying men shriek back for breath. 
 While He (who never checks our prayers 
 To tell us of the many cares 
 His children, in all times, let fall 
 On Him), still "careth" for them all. 
 And heeds the bleating of His sheep. 
 Guiding them down the earthly steep: 
 "He giveth His beloved sleep," 
 
Breviary. 
 
 A LAST REVERIE. 
 
They come and come """^ ^ 
 
 From a vague somewhere, ^ 
 Tiny and dumb, ^ 
 
 Helpless and bare. "^ 
 
 What are diey seeking? — 
 
 Grovvdi and speech, 
 Food and raiment, 
 
 And room for each. 
 
 Ye Gates of Life, lift up anew, 
 
 And let earth's litde travelers through! 
 
 II. 
 
 They wake and sleep. 
 
 And cry for bread; 
 They laugh and weep, 
 
 And their wants are fed. 
 What do they ask now? — 
 
 Love and hope. 
 And after pleasures 
 
 Grope and grope. 
 Lift up, ye pearly Gates of Peace, 
 And let their resdess 
 
 longings cease ! 
 
They watch and wait, 
 They toil and fret; 
 Across each fate 
 
 They write "regret." 
 Over each joy 
 
 They say "undone," 
 And drop their treasures 
 
 One by one. 
 Stand open, rusty 
 Gates of Time, 
 Into your portal see 
 m climb ! 
 
They go and go 
 
 To the vague somewhere ; 
 Little they know 
 
 Of the future there — 
 Naught they take 
 
 From the years of earth, — 
 Empty-handed 
 As at their birth. 
 Fling wide, O golden gates of Heaven 
 Let in the world — redeemed, forgiven. 
 
^8 603 iioT *^