Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

Sonnet.

MARTHA, THY MAIDEN FOOT.

MARTHA, thy maiden foot is still so light

It leaves no legible trace on virgin snows:
And yet I ween that busily it goes
In duty's path, from happy morn to night,
Thy dimpled cheek is gay and softly bright
As the fixed beauty of the mossy rose ;
Yet will it change its hue for others' woes,
And native red exchange for virgin white.
Thou bear'st a name by Jesus known and loved,
And Jesus gently did the maid reprove
For too much haste to show her eager love:
But blessed is she that may be so reproved:
Be Martha still in deed, and good endeavor,
In faith like Mary-at his feet forever.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

THIS

The Chambered Nautilus.

HIS is the ship of pearl which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main-

The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purple wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the syren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl:
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And every chambered cell

Where its dim-dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed-

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed.

Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil:

Still as the spiral grew,

He left the past year's dwelling for the new,

Stole with soft step its shining archway through,

Built up its idle door,

371

Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!

While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a doom more vast,
Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

OLIVER W. HOLMES.

Haste Not! Rest Not.

WITHOUT haste! without rest!

WITHO

Bind the motto to thy breast;

Bear it with thee as a spell;

Storm or sunshine, guard it well!

Heed not flowers that round thee bloom,

Bear it onward to the tomb!

Haste not! Let no thoughtless deed
Mar for ate the spirit's speed!
Ponder well, and know the right,
Onward then, with all thy might!
Haste not! years can ne'er atone
For one reckless action done.

Rest not! Life is sweeping by,
Go and dare, before you die;
Something mighty and sublime
Leave behind to conquer time!
Glorious 'tis to live for aye,

When these forms have passed away.

Haste not! rest not! calmly wait;

Meekly bear the storms of fate !
Duty be thy polar guide ;—
Do the right, whate'er betide!
Haste not! rest not! conflicts past,
God shall crown thy work at last.

JOHANN W. VON GOETHE.

BRINGING OUR SHEAVES WITH US.

373

Bringing our Sheaves with us.

ΤΗ

HE time for toil has passed, and night has come,-
The last and saddest of the harvest eves;

Worn out with labor long and wearisome,
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,
Each laden with his sheaves.

Last of the laborers, thy feet I gain,

Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves
That I am burdened, not so much with grain,
As with a heaviness of heart and brain ;-
Master, behold my sheaves !

Few, light, and worthless,-yet their trifling weight
Through all my frame a weary aching leaves;
For long I struggled with my hopeless fate,
And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late—
Yet these are all my sheaves.

Full well I know I have more tares than wheat,

Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves; Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet

I kneel down reverently and repeat,

66

Master, behold my sheaves !"

I know these blossoms, clustering heavily,
With evening dew upon their folded leaves,
Can claim no value or utility,—

Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be
The glory of my sheaves.

So do I gather strength and hope anew;
For well I know thy patient love perceives
Not what I did, but what I strove to do,-
And though the full ripe ears be sadly few,
Thou wilt accept my sheaves.

ELIZABETH AKERS.

G

"It is more Blessed."

IVE! as the morning that flows out of heaven;

Give! as the waves when their channel is riven; Give! as the free air and sunshine are given;

Lavishly, utterly, joyfully give :—

Not the waste drops of thy cup overflowing,
Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever glowing,
Not a pale bud from the June roses blowing;

Give, as He gave thee, who gave thee to live.

Pour out thy love, like the rush of a river,
Wasting its waters, forever and ever,

Through the burnt sands that reward not the giver;
Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea.

Scatter thy life, as the summer showers pouring!
What if no bird through the pearl-rain is soaring?
What if no blossom looks upward adoring?

Look to the life that was lavished for thee!

So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses,
Evil and thankless the desert it blesses,
Bitter the wave that its soft pinion presses,

Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing.
What if the hard heart give thorns for thy roses?
What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes?
Sweetest is music with minor-keyed closes,

Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling.

Almost the day of thy giving is over;

Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted clover,
Thou wilt have vanished from friend and from lover;
What shall thy longing avail in the grave?
Give, as the heart gives, whose fetters are breaking,
Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and thy waking,
Soon heaven's river thy soul-fever slaking,

Thou shalt know God, and the gift that he gave.
ANONYMOUS.

« VorigeDoorgaan »