Bees in Amber | Page 3

End!"

In accents winning,
Came the answer,--"_Friend,
There is no Death!
I am the Beginning,
--Not the End_!"
THE POTTER
A Potter, playing with his lump of clay,
Fashioned an image of supremest worth.

"_Never was nobler image made on earth,
Than this that I have fashioned of my clay.

And I, of mine own skill, did fashion it,--
I--from this lump of clay_."
The Master, looking out on Pots and Men,
Heard his vain boasting, smiled at that he
said.
"_The clay is Mine, and I the Potter made,
As I made all things,--stars, and clay,
and men.
In what doth this man overpass the rest?
--Be thou as other men_!"
He touched the Image,--and it fell to dust,
He touched the Potter,--he to dust did fall.

Gently the Master,--"_I did make them all,--
All things and men, heaven's glories, and
the dust.
Who with Me works shall quicken death itself,
Without Me--dust is dust_."
NIGHTFALL
Fold up the tent!
The sun is in the West.
To-morrow my untented soul will range

Among the blest.
And I am well content,
For what is sent, is sent,
And God knows best.
Fold up the tent,
And speed the parting guest!
The night draws on, though night and
day are one
On this long quest.
This house was only lent
For my apprenticement--
What is, is best.
Fold up the tent!
Its slack ropes all undone,
Its pole all broken, and its cover rent,--

Its work is done.
But mine--tho' spoiled and spent
Mine earthly tenement--
Is but begun.
Fold up the tent!
Its tenant would be gone,
To fairer skies than mortal eyes
May
look upon.
All that I loved has passed,
And left me at the last
Alone!--alone!
Fold up the tent!

Above the mountain's crest,
I hear a clear voice calling, calling
clear,--
"To rest! To rest!"
And I am glad to go,
For the sweet oil is low,
And rest is best!
THE PRUNER

God is a zealous pruner,
For He knows--
Who, falsely tender, spares the knife
But
spoils the rose.
THE WAYS
To every man there openeth
A Way, and Ways, and a Way.
And the High Soul
climbs the High way,
And the Low Soul gropes the Low,
And in between, on the
misty flats,
The rest drift to and fro.
But to every man there openeth
A High Way,
and a Low.
And every man decideth
The Way his soul shall go.
SEEDS
What shall we be like when
We cast this earthly body and attain
To immortality?

What shall we be like then?
Ah, who shall say
What vast expansions shall be ours that day?
What transformations
of this house of clay,
To fit the heavenly mansions and the light of day?
Ah, who
shall say?
But this we know,--
We drop a seed into the ground,
A tiny, shapeless thing,
shrivelled and dry,
And, in the fulness of its time, is seen
A form of peerless beauty,
robed and crowned
Beyond the pride of any earthly queen,
Instinct with loveliness,
and sweet and rare,
The perfect emblem of its Maker's care.
This from a shrivelled seed?--
--Then may man hope indeed!
For man is but the seed of what he shall be.
When, in the fulness of his perfecting,
He
drops the husk and cleaves his upward way,
Through earth's retardings and the clinging
clay,
Into the sunshine of God's perfect day.
No fetters then! No bonds of time or
space!
But powers as ample as the boundless grace
That suffered man, and death, and
yet, in tenderness,
Set wide the door, and passed Himself before--
As He had
promised--to prepare a place.
Yea, we may hope!
For we are seeds,

Dropped into earth for heavenly blossoming.

Perchance, when comes the time of harvesting,
His loving care
May find some use for
even a humble tare.
We know not what we shall be--only this--
That we shall be made like Him--as He is.
WHIRRING WHEELS
Lord, when on my bed I lie,
Sleepless, unto Thee I'll cry;
When my brain works
overmuch,
Stay the wheels with Thy soft touch.
Just a quiet thought of Thee,
And of Thy sweet charity,--
Just a little prayer, and then


I will turn to sleep again.
THE BELLS OF YS
When the Bells of Ys rang softly,--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low,
Not a sound was heard in the old gray town,
As the silvery
tones came floating down,
But life stood still with uncovered head,
And doers of ill
did good instead,
And abroad the Peace of God was shed,
_When the bells aloft sang
softly--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low,--
The Silver Bells and the Golden Bells,--

Aloft, and aloft, and alow_.
And still those Bells ring softly--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low.
Though full twelve hundred years have gone,
Since the
waves rolled over the old gray town,
Bold men of the sea, in the grip of the flow,
Still
hear the Bells, as they pass and go,
Or win to life with their hearts aglow,
_When the
Bells below sing softly--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low,--
The Silver Bells and the
Golden Bells,--
Alow, and alow, and alow_.
O the Mystical Bells, they still ring softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low,--
For the sound of their singing shall never die
In the hearts
that are tuned to their melody;
And down in the world's wild rush and roar,
That
sweeps us along to the Opening Door.
Hearts still beat high as they beat of yore,
_When the