The Mistress of the Manse | Page 4

held the priceless dower?Of love and eloquence, that reach?And move the hearts of men with power.
Ah poor the music of the choir?That voiced the Psalter after him!?And strong the prayer that, touched with fire,?Flamed upward, past the seraphim,?And wrapped the throne of his desire!
She watched and heard as in a dream,?When, in the old, familiar ground?Of sacred truth, he found his theme,?And led it forth, until it wound?Through meadows broad--a swollen stream
That flashed and eddied in the light,?And fed the grasses at its edge,?Or thundered in its onward might?O'er interposing weir and ledge,?And left them hidden in the white;
While on it pressed, and, to the eye,?Grew broader, till its breadth became?A solemn river, sweeping by,?That, quick with ships and red with flame,?Reached far away and kissed the sky!
Strong men were moved as trees are bowed?Before a swift and sounding wind;?And sighs were long and sobs were loud,?Of those who loved and those who sinned,?Among the deeply listening crowd.
XII.
And Mildred, in the whelming tide?Of thought and feeling, quite forgot?That he who thus had magnified?His office, held a common lot?With her, and owned her as his bride.
But when, at length, the thought returned?That she was his in plighted truth,?And she with humbled soul discerned?That, though her youth was given to youth,?And love by love was fairly earned,
She could not match him wing-and-wing?Through all his broad and lofty range,?And feared what passing years might bring?No change for good, but only change?That would degrade her to a thing
Of homely use and household care,?And love by duty basely kept--?She bowed her head upon the bare?Cold rail that hid her face, and wept,?And poured her passion in a prayer.
XIII.
"Oh Father, Father!" thus she prayed:?"Thou know'st the priceless boon I seek!?Before my life, abashed, dismayed,?I stand, with hopeless hands and weak,?Of him and of myself afraid!
"Teach me and lead me where to find,?Beyond the touch of hand and lip,?That vital charm of heart, and mind?Which, in a true companionship,?My feebler life to his shall bind!
"His ladder leans upon the sun:?I cannot climb it: give me wings!?Grant that my deeds, divinely done,?May be appraised divinest things,?Though they be little every one.
"His stride is strong; his steps are high?May not my deeds be little stairs?That, counted swift, shall keep me nigh,?Till at the summit, unawares,?We stand with equal foot and eye?
"If further down toward Nature's heart?His root is struck, commanding springs?In whose deep life I have no part,?Send me, on recompensing wings,?The rain that gathers where thou art!
"Oh give me vision to divine?What he with delving hand explores!?Feed me with flame that shall refine?To finest gold the rugged ores?His strong hands gather from the mine!
"O dearest Father! May no sloth,?Or weakness of my weaker soul,?Delay him in his kingly growth,?Or hold him meanly from the goal?That shines with guerdon for us both!"
XIV.
Then all arose as if a spell?Had been dissolved for their release,?The while the benediction fell?Which breathed the gentle Master's peace?On all the souls that loved him well.
And Philip, coming from his place,?Like Moses from the mountain pyre,?Bore on his brow the shining grace?Of one who, in the cloud and fire,?Had met his Maker, face to face.
And men and women, young and old,?Pressed up to meet him as he came,?And children, by their love made bold,?Grasped both his hands and spoke his name,?And in their simple language told
Their joy to see his face once more;?While half in pleasure, half in pain,?His bride stood waiting at her door?The passage of the friendly train?That slowly swept the crowded floor.
Half-bows were tendered and returned;?And welcomes fell from lips and eyes;?But in her heart she meekly spurned?The love that came in love's disguise?Of sympathy--the love unearned.
XV.
Then out beneath the noon-day sun?Of the old Temple, cool and dim,?She walked beside her chosen one,?And lost her loneliness in him;?But hardly was her walk begun
When, straight before her in the street,?With tender shock her eye descried?A little child, with naked feet?And scanty dress, that, hollow-eyed,?Looked up and begged for bread to eat.
Nor pride of place nor dainty spleen?Felt with her heart the sickening shock.?She took the hand so soiled and lean;?And silken robe and ragged frock?Moved side by side across the green.
She looked for love, and, low and wild,?She found it--looking, too, for love!?So in each other's eyes they smiled,?As, dark brown hand in snowy glove,?The bride led home the hungry child.
And men and women in amaze?Paused in their homeward steps to see?The bride retreating from their gaze,?Clasped hand in hand with misery;?Then brushed their eyes, and went their ways.
When the long parley found a close,?And, clean and kempt, the little oaf--?Disburdened of her wants and woes,?And burdened with her wheaten loaf--?Went forth to minister to those
Who sent her on her bitter quest,?The bride stood smiling at her door,?And in her happiness confessed?That she had found a friend; nay, more--?Had entertained a heavenly guest.
And as