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

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 for whom thou claim'st the freedom of?the mind?1846.
CHANNING.
The last time I saw Dr. Channing was in the summer of 1841, when, in company with my English friend, Joseph Sturge, so well known for his philanthropic labors and liberal political opinions, I visited him in his summer residence in Rhode Island. In recalling the impressions of that visit, it can scarcely be necessary to say, that I have no reference to the peculiar religious opinions of a man whose life, beautifully and truly manifested above the atmosphere of sect, is now the world's common legacy.
Not vainly did old poets tell,?Nor vainly did old genius paint?God's great and crowning miracle,?The hero and the saint!
For even in a faithless day?Can we our sainted ones discern;?And feel, while with them on the way,?Our hearts within us burn.
And thus the common tongue and pen?Which, world-wide, echo Channing's fame,?As one of Heaven's anointed men,?Have sanctified his name.
In vain shall Rome her portals bar,?And shut from him her saintly prize,?Whom, in the world's great calendar,?All men shall canonize.
By Narragansett's sunny bay,?Beneath his green embowering wood,?To me it seems