SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR

I read within a poet's book A word that starred the page: “Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage!”

Yes, that is true, and something more: You'll find, where'er you roam, That marble floors and gilded walls Can never make a home.

But every house where Love abides, And Friendship is a guest, Is surely home, and home-sweet-home: For there the heart can rest.

Furl your sail, my little boatie; Here's the haven still and deep, Where the dreaming tides in-streaming Up the channel creep. Now the sunset breeze is dying; Hear the plover, landward flying, Softly down the twilight crying; Come to anchor, little boatie, In the port of Sleep.

Far away, my little boatie, Roaring waves are white with foam; Ships are striving, onward driving, Day and night they roam. Father's at the deep-sea trawling, In the darkness, rowing, hauling, While the hungry winds are calling,— God protect him, little boatie, Bring him safely home!

Not for you, my little boatie, Is the wide and weary sea; You're too slender, and too tender, You must bide with me. All day long you have been straying Up and down the shore and playing; Come to harbour, no delaying! Day is over, little boatie, Night falls suddenly.

Furl your sail, my little boatie, Fold your wings, my weary dove. Dews are sprinkling, stars are twinkling Drowsily above. Cease from sailing, cease from rowing; Rock upon the dream-tide, knowing Safely o'er your rest are glowing, All the night, my little boatie, Harbour-lights of love.

Lord Jesus, Thou hast known A mother's love and tender care: And Thou wilt hear, While for my own Mother most dear I make this birthday prayer.

Protect her life, I pray, Who gave the gift of life to me; And may she know, From day to day, The deepening glow Of joy that comes from Thee.

As once upon her breast Fearless and well content I lay, So let her heart, On Thee at rest, Feel fear depart And trouble fade away.

Ah, hold her by the hand, As once her hand held mine; And though she may Not understand Life's winding way, Lead her in peace divine.

I cannot pay my debt For all the love that she has given; But Thou, love's Lord, Wilt not forget Her due reward,— Bless her in earth and heaven.

Only a little shrivelled seed, It might be flower, or grass, or weed; Only a box of earth on the edge Of a narrow, dusty window-ledge; Only a few scant summer showers; Only a few clear shining hours; That was all. Yet God could make Out of these, for a sick child's sake, A blossom-wonder, fair and sweet As ever broke at an angel's feet.

Only a life of barren pain, Wet with sorrowful tears for rain, Warmed sometimes by a wandering gleam Of joy, that seemed but a happy dream; A life as common and brown and bare As the box of earth in the window there; Yet it bore, at last, the precious bloom Of a perfect soul in that narrow room; Pure as the snowy leaves that fold Over the flower's heart of gold.

I count that friendship little worth Which has not many things untold, Great longings that no words can hold, And passion-secrets waiting birth.

Along the slender wires of speech Some message from the heart is sent; But who can tell the whole that's meant? Our dearest thoughts are out of reach.

I have not seen thee, though mine eyes Hold now the image of thy face; In vain, through form, I strive to trace The soul I love: that deeper lies.

A thousand accidents control Our meeting here. Clasp hand in hand, And swear to meet me in that land Where friends hold converse soul to soul.

“Do you give thanks for this?—or that?” No, God be thanked I am not grateful In that cold, calculating way, with blessings ranked As one, two, three, and four,—that would be hateful.

I only know that every day brings good above My poor deserving; I only feel that in the road of Life true Love Is leading me along and never swerving.

Whatever gifts and mercies to my lot may fall, I would not measure As worth a certain price in praise, or great or small; But take and use them all with simple pleasure.

For when we gladly eat our daily bread, we bless The Hand that feeds us; And when we tread the road of Life in cheerfulness, Our very heart-beats praise the Love that leads us.

With eager heart and will on fire, I strove to win my great desire. “Peace shall be mine,” I said; but life Grew bitter in the barren strife.

My soul was weary, and my pride Was wounded deep; to Heaven I cried, “God grant me peace or I must die;” The dumb stars glittered no reply.

Broken at last, I bowed my head, Forgetting all myself, and said, “Whatever comes, His will be done;” And in that moment peace was won.

Saints are God's flowers, fragrant souls That His own hand hath planted, Not in some far-off heavenly place, Or solitude enchanted, But here and there and everywhere,— In lonely field, or crowded town, God sees a flower when He looks down.

Some wear the lily's stainless white, And some the rose of passion, And some the violet's heavenly blue, But each in its own fashion, With silent bloom and soft perfume, Is praising Him who from above Beholds each lifted face of love.

One such I knew,—and had the grace To thank my God for knowing: The beauty of her quiet life Was like a rose in blowing, So fair and sweet, so all-complete And all unconscious, as a flower, That light and fragrance were her dower.

No convent-garden held this rose, Concealed like secret treasure; No royal terrace guarded her For some sole monarch's pleasure. She made her shrine, this saint of mine, In a bright home where children played; And there she wrought and there she prayed.

In sunshine, when the days were glad, She had the art of keeping The clearest rays, to give again In days of rain and weeping; Her blessed heart could still impart Some portion of its secret grace, And charity shone in her face.

In joy she grew from year to year; And sorrow made her sweeter; And every comfort, still more kind; And every loss, completer. Her children came to love her name,— “Christina,”—'twas a lip's caress; And when they called, they seemed to bless.

No more they call, for she is gone Too far away to hear them; And yet they often breathe her name As if she lingered near them; They cannot reach her with love's speech, But when they say “Christina” now 'Tis like a prayer or like a vow:

A vow to keep her life alive In deeds of pure affection, So that her love shall find in them A daily resurrection; A constant prayer that they may wear Some touch of that supernal light With which she blossoms in God's sight.

What shall I give for thee, Thou Pearl of greatest price? For all the treasures I possess Would not suffice.

I give my store of gold; It is but earthly dross: But thou wilt make me rich, beyond All fear of loss.

Mine honours I resign; They are but small at best: Thou like a royal star wilt shine Upon my breast.

My worldly joys I give, The flowers with which I played; Thy beauty, far more heavenly fair, Shall never fade.

Dear Lord, is that enough? Nay, not a thousandth part. Well, then, I have but one thing more: Take Thou my heart.

Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again, A happy human child, among the homes of men, The age of doubt would pass,—the vision of Thy face Would silently restore the childhood of the race.

Thou wayfaring Jesus, a pilgrim and stranger, Exiled from heaven by love at thy birth, Exiled again from thy rest in the manger, A fugitive child 'mid the perils of earth,— Cheer with thy fellowship all who are weary, Wandering far from the land that they love; Guide every heart that is homeless and dreary, Safe to its home in thy presence above.

Just to give up, and trust All to a Fate unknown, Plodding along life's road in the dust, Bounded by walls of stone; Never to have a heart at peace; Never to see when care will cease; Just to be still when sorrows fall— This is the bitterest lesson of all.

Just to give up, and rest All on a Love secure, Out of a world that's hard at the best, Looking to heaven as sure; Ever to hope, through cloud and fear, In darkest night, that the dawn is near; Just to wait at the Master's feet— Surely, now, the bitter is sweet.

Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, God of glory, Lord of love; Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee, Praising Thee their sun above. Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; Drive the dark of doubt away; Giver of immortal gladness, Fill us with the light of day!

All Thy works with joy surround Thee, Earth and heaven reflect Thy rays, Stars and angels sing around Thee, Centre of unbroken praise: Field and forest, vale and mountain, Blooming meadow, flashing sea, Chanting bird and flowing fountain, Call us to rejoice in Thee.

Thou art giving and forgiving, Ever blessing, ever blest, Well-spring of the joy of living, Ocean-depth of happy rest! Thou our Father, Christ our Brother,— All who live in love are Thine: Teach us how to love each other, Lift us to the Joy Divine.

Mortals join the mighty chorus, Which the morning stars began; Father-love is reigning o'er us, Brother-love binds man to man. Ever singing march we onward, Victors in the midst of strife; Joyful music lifts us sunward In the triumph song of life.

March on, my soul, nor like a laggard stay! March swiftly on. Yet err not from the way Where all the nobly wise of old have trod,— The path of faith, made by the sons of God.

Follow the marks that they have set beside The narrow, cloud-swept track, to be thy guide: Follow, and honour what the past has gained, And forward still, that more may be attained.

Something to learn, and something to forget: Hold fast the good, and seek the better yet: Press on, and prove the pilgrim-hope of youth: The Creeds are milestones on the road to Truth.

Two dwellings, Peace, are thine. One is the mountain-height, Uplifted in the loneliness of light Beyond the realm of shadows,—fine, And far, and clear,—where advent of the night Means only glorious nearness of the stars, And dawn unhindered breaks above the bars That long the lower world in twilight keep. Thou sleepest not, and hast no need of sleep, For all thy cares and fears have dropped away; The night's fatigue, the fever-fret of day, Are far below thee; and earth's weary wars, In vain expense of passion, pass Before thy sight like visions in a glass,— Or like the wrinkles of the storm that creep Across the sea and leave no trace Of trouble on that immemorial face,— So brief appear the conflicts, and so slight The wounds men give, the things for which they fight! Here hangs a fortress on the distant steep,— A lichen clinging to the rock. There sails a fleet upon the deep,— A wandering flock Of snow-winged gulls. And yonder, in the plain, A marble palace shines,—a grain Of mica glittering in the rain. Beneath thy feet the clouds are rolled By voiceless winds: and far between The rolling clouds, new shores and peaks are seen, In shimmering robes of green and gold, And faint aerial hue That silent fades into the silent blue. Thou, from thy mountain-hold, All day in tranquil wisdom looking down On distant scenes of human toil and strife, All night, with eyes aware of loftier life Uplifted to the sky where stars are sown, Dost watch the everlasting fields grow white Unto the harvest of the sons of light, And welcome to thy dwelling-place sublime The few strong souls that dare to climb The slippery crags, and find thee on the height.

But in the depth thou hast another home, For hearts less daring, or more frail. Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale; And pilgrim-souls that roam With weary feet o'er hill and dale, Bearing the burden and the heat Of toilful days, Turn from the dusty ways To find thee in thy green and still retreat. Here is no vision wide outspread Before the lonely and exalted seat Of all-embracing knowledge. Here, instead, A little cottage, and a garden-nook, With outlooks brief and sweet Across the meadows, and along the brook,— A little stream that nothing knows Of the great sea to which it gladly flows,— A little field that bears a little wheat To make a portion of earth's daily bread. The vast cloud-armies overhead Are marshalled, and the wild wind blows Its trumpet, but thou canst not tell Whence comes the wind nor where it goes; Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well. Thy daily task is done, And now the wages of repose are won. Here friendship lights the fire, and every heart, Sure of itself and sure of all the rest, Dares to be true, and gladly takes its part In open converse, bringing forth its best: And here is music, melting every chain Of lassitude and pain: And here, at last, is sleep with silent gifts,— Kind sleep, the tender nurse who lifts The soul grown weary of the waking world, And lays it, with its thoughts all furled, Its fears forgotten, and its passions still, On the deep bosom of the Eternal Will.

Ere thou sleepest gently lay Every troubled thought away: Put off worry and distress As thou puttest off thy dress: Drop thy burden and thy care In the quiet arms of prayer.

Lord, Thou knowest how I live, All I've done amiss forgive: All of good I've tried to do, Strengthen, bless, and carry through, All I love in safety keep, While in Thee I fall asleep.

If slumber should forsake Thy pillow in the dark, Fret not thyself to mark How long thou liest awake. There is a better way; Let go the strife and strain, Thine eyes will close again, If thou wilt only pray.

Lord, Thy peaceful gift restore, Give my body sleep once more: While I wait my soul will rest Like a child upon Thy breast.

Ere thou risest from thy bed, Speak to God Whose wings were spread O'er thee in the helpless night: Lo, He wakes thee now with light! Lift thy burden and thy care In the mighty arms of prayer.

Lord, the newness of this day Calls me to an untried way: Let me gladly take the road, Give me strength to bear my load, Thou my guide and helper be— I will travel through with Thee.

If on the closed curtain of my sight My fancy paints thy portrait far away, I see thee still the same, by night or day; Crossing the crowded street, or moving bright 'Mid festal throngs, or reading by the light Of shaded lamp some friendly poet's lay, Or shepherding the children at their play,— The same sweet self, and my unchanged delight.

But when I see thee near, I recognize In every dear familiar way some strange Perfection, and behold in April guise The magic of thy beauty that doth range Through many moods with infinite surprise,— Never the same, and sweeter with each change.

The fire of love was burning, yet so low That in the peaceful dark it made no rays, And in the light of perfect-placid days The ashes hid the smouldering embers' glow. Vainly, for love's delight, we sought to throw New pleasures on the pyre to make it blaze: In life's calm air and tranquil-prosperous ways We missed the radiant heat of long ago.

Then in the night, a night of sad alarms, Bitter with pain and black with fog of fears That drove us trembling to each other's arms, Across the gulf of darkness and salt tears Into life's calm the wind of sorrow came, And fanned the fire of love to clearest name.

All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still, All the fleecy flocks of cloud, gone beyond the hill; Through the noon-day silence, down the woods of June, Hark, a little hunter's voice, running with a tune. “Hide and seek! When I speak, You must answer me: Call again, Merry men, Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!”

Now I hear his footsteps rustling in the grass: Hidden in my leafy nook, shall I let him pass? Just a low, soft whistle,—quick the hunter turns, Leaps upon me laughing loud, rolls me in the ferns. “Hold him fast, Caught at last! Now you're it, you see. Hide your eye, Till I cry, Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!”

Long ago he left me, long and long ago; Now I wander thro' the world, seeking high and low. Hidden safe and happy, in some pleasant place,— If I could but hear his voice, soon I'd see his face! Far away, Many a day, Where can Barney be? Answer, dear, Don't you hear? Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!

Birds that every spring-time sung him full of joy, Flowers he loved to pick for me, mind me of my boy. Somewhere he is waiting till my steps come nigh; Love may hide itself awhile, but love can never die. Heart, be glad, The little lad Will call again to thee: “Father dear, Heaven is here, Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!”

When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark Makes its mark On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves Over fallen leaves; Then my olden garden, where the golden soil Through the toil Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep, Whispers in its sleep.

'Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox, Where the box Borders with its glossy green the ancient walks, There's a voice that talks Of the human hopes that bloomed and withered here Year by year,— And the dreams that brightened all the labouring hours. Fading as the flowers.

Yet the whispered story does not deepen grief; But relief For the loneliness of sorrow seems to flow From the Long-Ago, When I think of other lives that learned, like mine, To resign, And remember that the sadness of the fall Comes alike to all.

What regrets, what longings for the lost were theirs I And what prayers For the silent strength that nerves us to endure Things we cannot cure! Pacing up and down the garden where they paced, I have traced All their well-worn paths of patience, till I find Comfort in my mind.

Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear: Yet how near Is the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face, Of the human race! Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart,— Not apart! They who know the sorrows other lives have known Never walk alone.

Waking from tender sleep, My neighbour's little child Put out his baby hand to me, Looked in my face, and smiled.

It seems as if he came Home from a happy land, To bring a message to my heart And make me understand.

Somewhere, among bright dreams, A child that once was mine Has whispered wordless love to him, And given him a sign.

Comfort of kindly speech, And counsel of the wise, Have helped me less than what I read In those deep-smiling eyes.

Sleep sweetly, little friend, And dream again of heaven: With double love I kiss your hand,— Your message has been given.

Long, long ago I heard a little song, (Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?) So lowly, slowly wound the tune along, That far into my heart it found the way: A melody consoling and endearing; And now, in silent hours, I'm often hearing The small, sweet song that does not die away.

Long, long ago I saw a little flower— (Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?) So fair of face and fragrant for an hour, That something dear to me it seemed to say,— A wordless joy that blossomed into being; And now, in winter days, I'm often seeing The friendly flower that does not fade away.

Long, long ago we had a little child,— (Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?) Into his mother's eyes and mine he smiled Unconscious love; warm in our arms he lay. An angel called! Dear heart, we could not hold him; Yet secretly your arms and mine infold him— Our little child who does not go away.

Long, long ago? Ah, memory, make it clear— (It was not long ago, but yesterday.) So little and so helpless and so dear— Let not the song be lost, the flower decay! His voice, his waking eyes, his gentle sleeping: The smallest things are safest in thy keeping,— Sweet memory, keep our child with us alway.

All night long, by a distant bell The passing hours were notched On the dark, while her breathing rose and fell; And the spark of life I watched In her face was glowing, or fading,—who could tell?— And the open window of the room, With a flare of yellow light, Was peering out into the gloom, Like an eye that searched the night.

Oh, what do you see in the dark, little window, and why do you peer? “I see that the garden is crowded with creeping forms of fear: Little white ghosts in the locust-tree, wave in the night-wind's breath, And low in the leafy laurels the lurking shadow of death.”

Sweet, clear notes of a waking bird Told of the passing away Of the dark,—and my darling may have heard; For she smiled in her sleep, while the ray Of the rising dawn spoke joy without a word, Till the splendour born in the east outburned The yellow lamplight, pale and thin, And the open window slowly turned To the eye of the morning, looking in.

Oh, what do you see in the room, little window, that makes you so bright? “I see that a child is asleep on her pillow, soft and white: With the rose of life on her lips, the pulse of life in her breast, And the arms of God around her, she quietly takes her rest.”

The day returns by which we date our years: Day of the joy of giving,—that means love; Day of the joy of living,—that means hope; Day of the Royal Child,—and day that brings To older hearts the gift of Christmas tears!

Look, how the candles twinkle through the tree, The children shout when baby claps his hands, The room is full of laughter and of song! Your lips are smiling, dearest,—tell me why Your eyes are brimming full of Christmas tears?

Was it a silent voice that joined the song? A vanished face that glimmered once again Among the happy circle round the tree? Was it an unseen hand that touched your cheek And brought the secret gift of Christmas tears?

Not dark and angry like the winter storm Of selfish grief,—but full of starry gleams, And soft and still that others may not weep,— Dews of remembered happiness descend To bless us with the gift of Christmas tears.

Ah, lose them not, dear heart,—life has no pearls More pure than memories of joy love-shared. See, while we count them one by one with prayer, The Heavenly hope that lights the Christmas tree Has made a rainbow in our Christmas tears!

A deeper crimson in the rose, A deeper blue in sky and sea, And ever, as the summer goes, A deeper loss in losing thee!

A deeper music in the strain Of hermit-thrush from lonely tree; And deeper grows the sense of gain My life has found in having thee.

A deeper love, a deeper rest, A deeper joy in all I see; And ever deeper in my breast A silver song that comes from thee!