Harriet Beecher Stowe

“ In my heart a drear complaining,
And a chilly, sad unrest!
Ah, this knocking! It disturbs me,
[13] Scares my sleep with dreams unblest!
Give me rest,
Rest,—ah, rest!
Rest, dear soul, He longs to give thee;
Thou hast only dreamed of pleasure,
Dreamed of gifts and golden treasure,
Dreamed of jewels in thy keeping,
Waked to weariness of weeping;—
Open to thy soul's one Lover,
And thy night of dreams is over,—
The true gifts He brings have seeming
More than all thy faded dreaming!
Did she open? Doth she? Will she? ”

“ When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber,
Its closing eye looks up to Thee in prayer;
Sweet the repose beneath the wings o'ershading,
But sweeter still to wake and find Thee there.
So shall it be at last, in that bright morning
When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee;
O, in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning,
Shall rise the glorious thought, I am with Thee! ”

“ Let thy soul put the wedding garment on.
All fringed with festal gold the barberry stands;
The ferns, exultant, clap their new-made wings;
The hemlock rustles broideries of fresh green,
And thousand bells of pearl the blueberry rings.
The long, weird fingers of the old white-pines
Do beckon thee into the flickering wood,
Where moving spots of light show mystic flowers,
And wavering music fills the dreamy hours. ”

“ And veils in dust thy kindly-guiding eye.
"Where is that Charmer whom thou bidst us seek?
On what far shores may his sweet voice be heard?
When shall these questions of our yearning souls
[8] Be answered by the bright Eternal Word?"
So spake the youth of Athens, weeping round,
When Socrates lay calmly down to die;
So spake the sage, prophetic of the hour
When earth's fair morning star should rise on high.
They found Him not, those youths of soul divine,
Long seeking, wandering, watching on life's shore ”

“ THAT cry hath stirred the deadness of my soul;
I feel a heart-string throb, as throbs a chord
When breaks the master chord of some great harp;
My heart responsive answers, "Why?" O Lord.
O cross of pain! O crown of cruel thorns!
O piercing nails! O spotless Sufferer there!
Wert thou forsaken in thy deadly strife?
[69] Then canst thou pity me in my despair.
Take my dead heart, O Jesus, down with thee
To that still sepulchre where thou didst rest;
Lay it in the fair linen's spicy folds,
As a dear mother lays her babe to rest. ”

“ The muffled drum, the death march, shakes the soul!
Rocks on all sides, and breakers! at the helm
Weak human hand and weary human eyes.
The shout and clamor of our dreary strife
Goes up conflicting to the angry skies. ”

“ A shiver as of wings trembling the air,
As if God's shining doves, his spotless birds,
Wailed with a nightingale's heart-break of grief,
In this their starless night, when for our sins
Their sun, their life, their love, hangs darkly there,
Like a slain lamb, bleeding his life away! ”

“ When the bright-sandalled stars their watches keep.
And trembling hope, and fainting, sorrowing love,
On thy dear word for comfort doth rely;
And clear-eyed Faith, with strong forereaching gaze,
Beholds thee here, unseen, but ever nigh.
Walking in white with thee, she dimly sees,
All beautiful, these lovely ones withdrawn,
With whom my heart went upward, as they rose,
[87] Like morning stars, to light a coming dawn. ”

“ And human loves and hopes fly as the chaff
Borne by the whirlwind from the ripened grain.
Ah! when before that blast my hopes all flee,
[75] Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in thee!
Between the mysteries of death and life
Thou standest, loving, guiding, not explaining;
We ask, and thou art silent; yet we gaze,
And our charmed hearts forget their drear complaining. ”

“ His martyrs suffering in their patient pain.
The rack, the cross, life's weary wrench of woe,
The world sees not, as slow, from day to day,
In calm, unspoken patience, sadly still,
The loving spirit bleeds itself away. ”

“ Hail! in this bitter anguish thou art blest,—
Blest in the holy power with Him to suffer
[27] Those deep death-pangs that lead to higher rest.
All now is darkness; and in that deep stillness
The God-man wrestles with that mighty woe;
Hark to that cry, the rock of ages rending,—
"'Tis finished!" Mother, all is glory now!
By sufferings mighty as his mighty soul
Hath the Redeemer risen forever blest;
And through all ages must his heart-beloved
Through the same baptism enter the same rest.
[28]
THE INNER VOICE.
"Come ye yourselves into a desert place and rest awhile ”

“ But bear my cross, O Jesus, after thee.
[74]
IV.
THIRD HOUR.
THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.
"Let my heart calm itself in thee. Let the great sea of my heart, that swelleth with waves, calm itself in thee."
St. Augustine's Manual.
LIFE'S mystery—deep, restless as the ocean—
Hath surged and wailed for ages to and fro;
Earth's generations watch its ceaseless motion,
As in and out its hollow moanings flow.
Shivering and yearning by that unknown sea,
Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in thee!
Life's sorrows, with inexorable power,
Sweep desolation o'er this mortal plain ”

“ Let us endeavor to persuade him not to be afraid of death, as of hobgoblins.'
"'But you must charm him every day,' said Socrates, 'until you have quieted his fears.'
"'But whence, O Socrates,' he said, 'can we procure a skilful charmer for such a case, now you are about to leave us.'
"'Greece is wide, Cebes,' he said, 'and in it surely there are skilful men; and there are many barbarous nations, all of which you should search, seeking such a charmer, sparing neither money nor toil.'"—Last words of Socrates, as narrated by Plato in the Phædo. ”

“ Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in thee! ”

“ E'er the bright flush shall kindle all her pines,
And her woods blaze with autumn's heraldry.
By the old mossy wall the golden-rod
Waves as aforetime, and the purple sprays
Of starry asters quiver to the breeze,
[54] Rustling all stilly through the forest ways.
No voice of triumph from those silent skies
Breaks on the calm, and speaks of glories near,
Nor bright wings flutter, nor fair glistening robes
Proclaim that heavenly messengers are here.
Yet in our midst an angel hath come down,
Troubling the waters in a peaceful home ”

“ ST. CATHERINE BORNE BY ANGELS. [A]
SLOW through the solemn air, in silence sailing,
Borne by mysterious angels, strong and fair,
She sleeps at last, blest dreams her eyelids veiling,
[2] Above this weary world of strife and care.
Lo how she passeth!—dreamy, slow, and calm:
Scarce wave those broad, white wings, so silvery bright;
Those cloudy robes, in star-emblazoned folding,
Sweep mistily athwart the evening light.
Far, far below, the dim, forsaken earth,
The foes that threaten, or the friends that weep ”

“ But the angels descended, so says the story, rent the wheel, and bore her away, through the air, far over the sea, to Mount Sinai, where her body was left to repose, and her soul ascended with them to heaven.
[6]
THE CHARMER.
"Socrates. However, you and Simmias appear to me as if you wished to sift this subject more thoroughly, and to be afraid, like children, lest, on the soul's departure from the body, winds should blow it away.
"Upon this Cebes said, 'Endeavor to teach us better, Socrates. Perhaps there is a childish spirit in our breast that has such a dread. ”

“ Press nearer to our side;
Into our thoughts, into our prayers,
With gentle helpings glide. ”

“ WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860.
"Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him."—John xx. 15.
IN the fair gardens of celestial peace
Walketh a Gardener in meekness clad;
Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks,
And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad.
Fair are the silent foldings of his robes,
Falling with saintly calmness to his feet ”