Personal Poems I, vol 4, part 1 | Page 7

strength as from above.

How the sad captive listened to the Word,
Until his chain
Grew
lighter, and his wounded spirit felt
The healing balm of consolation
melt
Upon its life-long pain
How the armed warrior sat him down to hear
Of Peace and Truth,

And the proud ruler and his Creole dame,
Jewelled and gorgeous in
her beauty came,
And fair and bright-eyed youth.
Oh, far away beneath New England's sky,
Even when a boy,

Following my plough by Merrimac's green shore,
His simple record I
have pondered o'er
With deep and quiet joy.
And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm,--
Its woods around,
Its
still stream winding on in light and shade,
Its soft, green meadows
and its upland glade,--
To me is holy ground.
And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps
His vigils still;

Than that where Avon's son of song is laid,
Or Vaucluse hallowed by
its Petrarch's shade,
Or Virgil's laurelled hill.
To the gray walls of fallen Paraclete,
To Juliet's urn,
Fair Arno and
Sorrento's orange-grove,
Where Tasso sang, let young Romance and
Love
Like brother pilgrims turn.
But here a deeper and serener charm
To all is given;
And blessed
memories of the faithful dead
O'er wood and vale and
meadow-stream have shed
The holy hues of Heaven!
1843.
GONE
Another hand is beckoning us,
Another call is given;
And glows
once more with Angel-steps
The path which reaches Heaven.
Our young and gentle friend, whose smile
Made brighter summer
hours,
Amid the frosts of autumn time
Has left us with the flowers.

No paling of the cheek of bloom
Forewarned us of decay;
No
shadow from the Silent Land
Fell round our sister's way.
The light of her young life went down,
As sinks behind the hill
The
glory of a setting star,
Clear, suddenly, and still.
As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed
Eternal as the sky;
And
like the brook's low song, her voice,--
A sound which could not die.
And half we deemed she needed not
The changing of her sphere,
To
give to Heaven a Shining One,
Who walked an Angel here.
The blessing of her quiet life
Fell on us like the dew;
And good
thoughts where her footsteps pressed
Like fairy blossoms grew.
Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds
Were in her very look;
We
read her face, as one who reads
A true and holy book,
The measure of a blessed hymn,
To which our hearts could move;

The breathing of an inward psalm,
A canticle of love.
We miss her in the place of prayer,
And by the hearth-fire's light;

We pause beside her door to hear
Once more her sweet
"Good-night!"
There seems a shadow on the day,
Her smile no longer cheers;
A
dimness on the stars of night,
Like eyes that look through tears.
Alone unto our Father's will
One thought hath reconciled;
That He
whose love exceedeth ours
Hath taken home His child.
Fold her, O Father! in Thine arms,
And let her henceforth be
A
messenger of love between
Our human hearts and Thee.
Still let her mild rebuking stand
Between us and the wrong,
And

her dear memory serve to make
Our faith in Goodness strong.
And grant that she who, trembling, here
Distrusted all her powers,

May welcome to her holier home
The well-beloved of ours.
1845.
TO RONGE.
This was written after reading the powerful and manly protest of
Johannes Ronge against the "pious fraud" of the Bishop of Treves. The
bold movement of the young Catholic priest of Prussian Silesia seemed
to me full of promise to the cause of political as well as religious liberty
in Europe. That it failed was due partly to the faults of the reformer, but
mainly to the disagreement of the Liberals of Germany upon a matter
of dogma, which prevented them from unity of action. Rouge was born
in Silesia in 1813 and died in October, 1887. His autobiography was
translated into English and published in London in 1846.
Strike home, strong-hearted man! Down to the root
Of old oppression
sink the Saxon steel.
Thy work is to hew down. In God's name then

Put nerve into thy task. Let other men
Plant, as they may, that better
tree whose fruit
The wounded bosom of the Church shall heal.
Be
thou the image-breaker. Let thy blows
Fall heavy as the Suabian's
iron hand,
On crown or crosier, which shall interpose
Between thee
and the weal of Fatherland.
Leave creeds to closet idlers. First of all,

Shake thou all German dream-land with the fall
Of that accursed
tree, whose evil trunk
Was spared of old by Erfurt's stalwart monk.

Fight not with ghosts and shadows. Let us hear
The snap of
chain-links. Let our gladdened ear
Catch the pale prisoner's welcome,
as the light
Follows thy axe-stroke, through his cell of night.
Be
faithful to both worlds; nor think to feed
Earth's starving millions
with the husks of creed.
Servant of Him whose mission high and holy

Was to the wronged, the sorrowing, and the lowly,
Thrust not his
Eden promise from our sphere,
Distant and dim beyond the blue sky's
span;
Like him of Patmos, see it, now and here,
The New Jerusalem
comes down to man
Be warned by Luther's error. Nor like him,


When the roused Teuton dashes from his limb
The rusted chain of
ages, help to bind
His hands