Poems of Nature, part 6, Religious Poems 2 | Page 8

Him. He is farther than we thought,
Or,
haply, nearer. To this very spot
Whereon we wait, this commonplace
of home,
As to the well of Jacob, He may come
And tell us all
things." As I listened there,
Through the expectant silences of prayer,

Somewhat I seemed to hear, which hath to me
Been hope, strength,
comfort, and I give it thee.
"The riddle of the world is understood
Only by him who feels that
God is good,
As only he can feel who makes his love
The ladder of
his faith, and climbs above
On th' rounds of his best instincts; draws
no line
Between mere human goodness and divine,
But, judging
God by what in him is best,
With a child's trust leans on a Father's
breast,
And hears unmoved the old creeds babble still
Of kingly
power and dread caprice of will,
Chary of blessing, prodigal of curse,

The pitiless doomsman of the universe.
Can Hatred ask for love?
Can Selfishness
Invite to self-denial? Is He less
Than man in kindly
dealing? Can He break
His own great law of fatherhood, forsake

And curse His children? Not for earth and heaven
Can separate tables
of the law be given.
No rule can bind which He himself denies;
The
truths of time are not eternal lies."
So heard I; and the chaos round me spread
To light and order grew;
and, "Lord," I said,
"Our sins are our tormentors, worst of all

Felt in
distrustful shame that dares not call
Upon Thee as our Father. We
have set
A strange god up, but Thou remainest yet.
All that I feel of
pity Thou hast known
Before I was; my best is all Thy own.
From
Thy great heart of goodness mine but drew
Wishes and prayers; but

Thou, O Lord, wilt do,
In Thy own time, by ways I cannot see,
All
that I feel when I am nearest Thee!"
1873.
THE FRIEND'S BURIAL.
My thoughts are all in yonder town,
Where, wept by many tears,

To-day my mother's friend lays down
The burden of her years.
True as in life, no poor disguise
Of death with her is seen,
And on
her simple casket lies
No wreath of bloom and green.
Oh, not for her the florist's art,
The mocking weeds of woe;
Dear
memories in each mourner's heart
Like heaven's white lilies blow.
And all about the softening air
Of new-born sweetness tells,
And
the ungathered May-flowers wear
The tints of ocean shells.
The old, assuring miracle
Is fresh as heretofore;
And earth takes up
its parable
Of life from death once more.
Here organ-swell and church-bell toll
Methinks but discord were;

The prayerful silence of the soul
Is best befitting her.
No sound should break the quietude
Alike of earth and sky
O
wandering wind in Seabrook wood,
Breathe but a half-heard sigh!
Sing softly, spring-bird, for her sake;
And thou not distant sea,

Lapse lightly as if Jesus spake,
And thou wert Galilee!
For all her quiet life flowed on
As meadow streamlets flow,
Where
fresher green reveals alone
The noiseless ways they go.
From her loved place of prayer I see
The plain-robed mourners pass,

With slow feet treading reverently
The graveyard's springing grass.
Make room, O mourning ones, for me,
Where, like the friends of Paul,


That you no more her face shall see
You sorrow most of all.
Her path shall brighten more and more
Unto the perfect day;
She
cannot fail of peace who bore
Such peace with her away.
O sweet, calm face that seemed to wear
The look of sins forgiven!

O voice of prayer that seemed to bear
Our own needs up to heaven!
How reverent in our midst she stood,
Or knelt in grateful praise!

What grace of Christian womanhood
Was in her household ways!
For still her holy living meant
No duty left undone;
The heavenly
and the human blent
Their kindred loves in one.
And if her life small leisure found
For feasting ear and eye,
And
Pleasure, on her daily round,
She passed unpausing by,
Yet with her went a secret sense
Of all things sweet and fair,
And
Beauty's gracious providence
Refreshed her unaware.
She kept her line of rectitude
With love's unconscious ease;
Her
kindly instincts understood
All gentle courtesies.
An inborn charm of graciousness
Made sweet her smile and tone,

And glorified her farm-wife dress
With beauty not its own.
The dear Lord's best interpreters
Are humble human souls;
The
Gospel of a life like hers
Is more than books or scrolls.
From scheme and creed the light goes out,
The saintly fact survives;

The blessed Master none can doubt
Revealed in holy lives.
1873.
A CHRISTMAS CARMEN.
I.
Sound over all waters, reach out from all lands,
The chorus of
voices, the clasping of hands;
Sing hymns that were sung by the stars

of the morn,
Sing songs of the angels when Jesus was born!
With
glad jubilations
Bring hope to the nations
The dark night is ending
and dawn has begun
Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun,
All
speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!
II.
Sing the bridal of nations! with chorals of love
Sing out the
war-vulture and sing in the dove,
Till the hearts of the peoples keep
time in accord,
And the voice of the world is the voice of the Lord!

Clasp hands of the nations
In strong gratulations:
The dark night is
ending and dawn has