Elizabeth Porter Gould

“ Porter Manse, Wenham, Mass.
14
A QUESTION.
Is life a farce?
Tell me, O breeze,
Bearing the perfume of flowers and trees,
While gaily decked birds
Pour forth their gladness in songs beyond words,
And cloudlets coquette in the fresh summer air
Rejoicing in everything being so fair—
Is life a farce?
How can it be, child,
When Nature at heart
Is but the great spirit of love and of art
Eternally saying, "I must God impart."
15
Is life a farce?
Tell me, O soul,
Struggling to act out humanity's whole
'Midst Error and Wrong,
And failure in sight of true victory's song ”

“ If only the breezes had followed their will,
And loitered among the pure cloudlets so still,
They'd have met a fair soul from the earth just set free
In search of their help for its message to me;
The message my darling, with last fleeting breath,
In vain tried to utter, o'ertaken by death.
The breezes, fresh breezes, have blown on since then,
With messages laden again and again.
As for me, I send none. I wait only their will
To bring me that message my lone heart to fill.
25 They'll find it some day in a light zephyr chase,
For nothing is lost in pure love's boundless space. ”

“ The breezes sighing round me,
A network glimpse of bluest sky
To meet the upturned seeing eye,
The greenest lawn beneath me,
Loved flowers and birds to greet me,
A well-kept house of ancient days
To tell of human nature's ways,—
Oh happy, happy hour!
Whence comes all this to bless me,
The soft wind to caress me,
The life which does my strength renew
For purer visions of the true?
Alas! no one can tell me.
19 But, hush! let Nature lead me.
Let even wisest questions cease
While I breathe in such life and peace
This happy, happy hour.
Porter Manse, Wenham, Mass. ”

“ The charming freedom of the Porter Manse,
None were more worthy of inheritance
Than she who now presides as lady there.
Her gracious calm makes hospitality wear
A beauteous crown of peace. Kind tolerance
And wide-embracing sympathy enhance
Her power to please and lighten daily care.
'Tis only such rare souls who pierce the truth
Of home-life secrets, and through tact and grace,
168 Make growing years reflect the joys of youth.
They lose not hope, though sorrow leave a trace
In all their joy. ”

“ Nor in the fair heavens, though cloudlets say must.
But blow through the valleys where flowers await
To give of their essence ere yielding to fate;
Or blow on the hill tops where atmospheres lie
Imbued with the health which no money can buy.
23 But fail not, O breezes, on Love's swiftest wing
To bear her the message my heart dares to sing.
The breezes, thus ladened, sped on in their flight,
As, cradled in hammock, I sang in delight,
On that blest summer day in the years long ago,
When life was all sunshine and youth all aglow. ”

“ Alas! not even music's best
Could put in form my soul's behest
For thee, my dear.
That only will expression find
In purest depths of thine own mind
This coming year;
As, guided by the inner light,
There'll come to thee the new-born sight
Of ravished seer.
But in this sight thou may'st so feel
Eternal beauty o'er thee steal—
God's gift, my dear—
That thou can'st find the blessed art
47 By which to make e'en depths of heart
In form appear. ”

“ Thy fair soul's bidding, as it estimates
The wealth the parting year has left untold.
Clothed in chameleon garments, which unfold
The fresh new days thine eye ne'er underrates,
It brings continued hope of life that dates
Man's finest being. Thou its secrets hold!
174 Are not such birthdays restful stepping stones,
To aid the growing soul pick out the way
To life eternal? ”

“ It may not be at once or soon, 'tis true.
For you may be among the blessed few
Who'll sooner reach the blissful heights—your due
For pure life here—
But sometime, sure as God is love and truth,
We'll meet, my dear.
Some precious, long-forgotten look or word
Breathed through the softest, sweetest music heard,
Or some vibration rare of soul depths stirred
By memory's tear,
Will, like a flash of light, reveal our souls
Together, dear,
To live the fuller life we've dreamed of here.
80
SHADOWED CIRCLES.
Why weepest thou, O dear one? ”

“ A soul-inspiring rest,
Beyond the wealth of fame or art,
To satisfy my woman-heart,
Or make it blest.
And as I live in this my gift,
My heaven-sent, blessed gift,
121 Thoughts such as Mary pondered o'er
Deep in her heart in days of yore
Come to uplift,
And make the claims of motherhood,
Dear sacred motherhood,
Become creation's mountain height,
Whereon e'er shines the beacon-light
Of womanhood. ”

“ When soul met soul in rapture sweet—
Oh, pure love's burning kiss!
The third was laid away with him,
A kiss for heaven's day,
(O heart abide God's way) —
When in the life beyond earth's change,
49
Beyond these mysteries sad and strange,
New life will spring from out the old,
New thoughts will larger truth unfold,
And love have endless sway. ”

“ I hope 'twill be at sunset when he knocks at my soul's door;
For, somehow, it much easier seems to go the unknown way
Attended by the beauty of the sun's last glorious ray.
But as I calmly wait and think, it does seem rather queer
That what you 'blessed angel' call has seemed my chief curse here.
Alas! how much we suffer before God's ways appear. ”

“ Then you at Beauty's shrine might freely dine,
A welcome guest
For joy's bequest.
But, dear, if this were so,—
If I were Beauty's child, all undefiled,
To make you blest
In beauty's quest,
You might forget to see
The soul's pure hidden shrine wherein e'er shine
The things that test
Love's true behest. ”

“ More precious when the day is done,
Or when the morning is begun,
Than, "Not my will, but Thine, be done."
78
TOGETHER.
Transformed, redeemed from all that dwarfs or blights,
In perfect harmony with beauteous sights
Beyond imagination's highest flights
Ere reached by seer,
We shall together walk the golden streets
Sometime, my dear.
But how, you ask, shall we each other know,
So changed from what we were while here below,
When, caged like birds, we longed and suffered so?
Ah, do not fear.
79 Will not the soul, when free, seek like the bird
Its own, my dear? ”

“ POEMS OF NATURE. TO WALT WHITMAN.
"I loafe and invite my soul."
And what do I feel?
An influx of life from the great central power
That generates beauty from seedling to flower.
"I loafe and invite my soul."
And what do I hear?
Original harmonies piercing the din
Of measureless tragedy, sorrow, and sin.
"I loafe and invite my soul." ”

“ In hammock-nook 'midst scenery wild and bold,
The spirit of the waters, as of old,
Broods o'er my soul, its secrets to confide,
It whispers of the anguish, joy, and pride,
The heart of man has on its bosom told ”

“ Hushed are our souls before what thy soul sees!
Guard tenderly, O earth, O sky, O fates,
This precious earthly temple of Art's shrine!
176 May chilling poverty, or sin that dates
Soul loss, ne'er hinder Genius' wise design
To have full sway—as she anticipates—
In working out, in time, her laws divine. ”

“ II. GETHSEMANE.
Matthew 26:36–46.
"Could ye not watch with me one hour?" O heart
Of Christ, still longing in the bitterest hour
For human sympathy and love to shower
A needed strength beyond words to impart!
Humanity is richer for this art
Of seeing in poor finite man a power—
Before which even ministering angels cower—
To know all truth, e'en dread Gethsemane's smart.
180 Alas! the power to know will bring the pain. ”

“ The little doubter cried.
215 And, full of joy at victory won,
She danced with childish pride.
The mother watched with tearful eyes
Her child's transparent joy,
But dared not quench the glad surprise,
Or victory's power destroy.
"Perhaps she'll need this proof," she sighed,
"Of hidden things made plain,
When in the depths of life she's tried,
And all fond hopes are slain." ”

“ To be a special help and strength, the selfish clouds to lift,
Or—what, perhaps, we need as much—the wheat from chaff to sift.
Through all my lonely, widowed life I lived in their sweet ways,
And found no sacrifice too great in work for future days. ”

“ Life ending on earth is but heaven begun.
87
THE UNDER-WORLD.
Under the restless surface
Of ocean's vast domain,
The god of perfect quiet
Holds ever peaceful reign.
Under the restless surface
Of passions strong and wild,
The still small voice of conscience
Is heard in accents mild.
Under the restless surface
Of all man's life on earth,
The Christ of sacred story
Renews each day his birth.
88
SHE KNOWS. (Written at Mountain Cottage, on Mount Wachusett, where Louisa M. Alcott spent the last summer of her life.) ”

“ Cannot forget that life to ends thus curved
Made time for us to plant our own pet seed.
The world owes much to many a sister dear,
172 Who, banishing with tears in midnight hour
A fond desire for larger, happier sphere,
Strives faithfully in lowly life to shower
Rich daily blessings. ”

“ BABY MILDRED.
Darling baby Mildred, playing on the floor—
I see!
Creeping here and creeping there,
Into mischief everywhere,
Mamma's little pet and care—
I see!
Fearless baby Mildred, on her rocking horse—
I see!
Never slipping from her place,
Joyous laughter keeping pace
With a motion full of grace—
I see!
193
Thoughtful baby Mildred, papa's pet and pride—
I know!
Lighting up the passing days
With such happy, winsome ways,
Joy of household life that pays—
I know!
Tired baby Mildred, lovely eyes all closed—
Sleep on! ”

“ Two hundred years ago with life and power.
I breathe the essence of sweet joys that flower
166 In light of home; while life that only seemed
On history's page becomes the real, redeemed
From all the chaff that time fails not to shower.
Ah, such old places, holding through the years
Continuous life of man's activity,
Reveal a wealth beyond that which appears
In modern homes built e'er so lovingly. ”

“ Life will pay.
145
AUXILIUM AB ALTO.
The poet young e'er finds a tongue
To tell the joys of love.
The poet bold e'en dares behold
The mystery above.
The poet brave e'er loves to rave
Of wars and victories gained.
The poet sweet e'en dares repeat
The angels' songs unfeigned.
And to each one we say, "Well done,
Go on and do thy best."
Though still we feel each doth but seal
A part of life's bequest.
146
But yet we cry, "O goddess high,
Must thou thy wealth so share?
America feign would have the reign
Of one thy gift to bear. ”

“ Of spirit-life divine,
Which even through a winding course
Leads in to Wisdom's shrine.
151
AN IMPROMPTU.
(Written for G. H. T., on the death of W. S. T., March, 1889.)
As brothers here we've shared the smiles,
The tears of boyhood's hour,
And felt the sweet companionship
Of manhood's love and power.
But now the tie is snapped. He's fled
Beyond the mortal sight.
The grave with all its mystery
Asserts Death's power to blight.
Alas! Death seems the cruel thing
In this bright world of ours.
The bravest soul shrinks from its hold
Though loving faith empowers. ”

“ But Bertram's thought sank deep in sister's mind,
206 And left behind
The wonder how dear Mac to heaven had gone.
At last, when ready for their sweet "Good Night,"
She softly said, "It can't be very dark,
Not very dark
For Mac, I know, 'cause God will make it light."
Oh, lovely faith of childhood's trusting days,
Sent fresh from heaven to be our loving guide,
When sadly tried
By doubt or sorrow's strange, mysterious ways.
D MacLaurin Cooke Gould, died in Maplewood, Mass., November 8, 1887. ”

“ O no! 'Tis when we breathe love's atmosphere,
And live like thee the life of heavenly birth.
Boston, 1890.
165
AT THE "PORTER MANSE."
[That part of the Porter Manse containing the room referred to was built early in the last half of the seventeenth century. It was the house which Wenham (the first distinct township set off—in 1639—from Salem) gave to the second pastor of its church, Rev. Antipas Newman, who married, while living there, Governor Winthrop's daughter. It was bought by John Porter in 1703, and has remained in his family name without alienation to this day.] ”

“ Way up so far
That we can't ever see him till we die."
"He's not up there," said Bertram. "He can't be.
I saw them put him in the cold dark ground,
And I went round
And threw some flowers in for him to see."
"He isn't there," replied the four-year old,
"He's up in heaven. My mamma told me so.
He is, I know.
He isn't in the ground all dark and cold."
A moment Bertram sat absorbed in thought,
While Miriam felt the joy of victory.
205 Then suddenly
The lovely six-year-old this idea caught:
"I tell you what, Mac's body's in the ground ”