When I heard you who had heard it--that first song--perhaps in dreaming, Till it filled you with fine fervour and the hopes of its refrain; And I knew that G.o.d was gracious and had led me in the gleaming Of a song-shine that is holy and that quiets all my pain.

Though the birds sing in the meadows and fill all the air with sweetness, They sing only in the present, and they sing because they must; They are wanton in their pureness, and in all their fine completeness, They trill out their lives forgotten to the silence of the dust.

But if you should pa.s.s to-morrow where your songs could never reach us, There would still be throbbing through us all the music of your voice; And your spirit would speak through the chords, as though it would beseech us To remember that the n.o.blest ends have ever n.o.blest choice.

NEVERTHELESS

In your onward march, O men, White of face, in promise whiter, You unsheathe the sword, and then Blame the wronged as the fighter.

Time, ah, Time, rolls onward o'er All these foetid fields of evil, While hard at the nation's core Eat the burning rust and weevil!

Nathless, out beyond the stars Reigns the Wiser and the Stronger, Seeing in all strifes and wars Who the wronged, who the wronger.

ISHMAEL

"No man cared for my soul."

Blind, Lord, so blind! I wander far From Thee among the haunts of men, Most like some lone, faint, flickering star Gone from its place, nor knoweth when The sun shall give it shining dole Lord! no man careth for my soul.

Blind, Lord, so blind! In loneliness By crowded mart or busy street, I fold my hands and feel how less Am I to any one I meet, Than to Thee one lost billow's roll: Lord! no man careth for my soul.

Blind, Lord, so blind! And I have knelt 'Mong myriads in Thy house of prayer; And still sad desolation felt, Though heavy freighted was the air With litanies of love: one ghoul Cried, "No man careth for thy soul!"

Blind, Lord, so blind! The world is blind; It feeds me, fainting, with a stone: I cry for bread. Before, behind, Are hurrying feet; yet all alone I walk, and no one points the goal Lord! no man careth for my soul.

Blind, Lord, Oh very blind am I!

If sin of mine sets up the wall Between my poor sight and Thy sky, O Friend of man, Who cares for all, Send sweet peace ere the last bell toll-- Yea, Lord, Thou carest for my soul!

OVER THE HILLS

Over the hills they are waiting to greet us, They who have scanned all the ultimate places, Fathomed the world and the things that defeat us-- Evils and graces.

They have no thought for the toiling or spinning, Striving for bread that is dust in the gaining, They have won all that is well worth the winning-- Past all distaining.

Now they have done with the pain and the error, Nevermore here shall the dark things a.s.sail them, Void man's devices and dreams have no terror-- Shall we bewail them?

They have cast off all the strife and derision, They have put on all the joy of our yearning; We falter feebly from vision to vision, Never discerning.

Faint light before us, and shadows to grope in, Stretching out hands to the starbeams to guide us, Finding no place but our life's loves to hope in, Doubt to deride us--

So we climb upward with eyes growing dimmer, Looking back only to sigh through our smiling, Wondering still if the palpitant glimmer Leads past defiling.

They whom we loved have gone over the mountains, Hands beckon to us like wings of the swallow, Voices we knew from delectable fountains Cry to us, "Follow!"

Some were so young when they left us, that morning Seemed to have flashed and then died into gloaming, Leaving us wearier 'neath the world's scorning, Blinder in roaming.

Some, in the time when the manhood is bravest, Strongest to bear and the hands to endeavour, When all the life is the firmest and gravest, Left us for ever.

Some, when the Springtime had grown to December, Said, "It is done: now the last thing befall me; I shall sleep well--ah! dear hearts but remember: Farewell, they call me!"

So the tale runs, and the end, who shall fear it?

Is it not better to sleep than to sorrow?

Tokens will come from the bourne as we near it-- Time's peace, to-morrow.

THE DELIVERER

How has the cloud fallen, and the leaf withered on the tree, The lemontree, that standeth by the door?

The melon and the date have gone bitter to the taste, The weevil, it has eaten at the core-- The core of my heart, the mildew findeth it; My music, it is but the drip of tears, The garner empty standeth, the oven hath no fire, Night filleth me with fears.

O Nile that floweth deeply, hast thou not heard his voice?

His footsteps hast thou covered with thy flood?

He was as one who lifteth up the yoke, He was as one who taketh off the chain, As one who sheltereth from the rain, As one who scattereth bread to the pigeons flying.

His purse was at his side, his mantle was for me, For any who pa.s.seth were his mantle and his purse, And now like a gourd is he withered from our eyes.

His friendship, it was like a shady wood-- Whither has he gone?--Who shall speak for us?

Who shall save us from the kourbash and the stripes?

Who shall proclaim us in the palace?

Who shall contend for us in the gate?

The sakkia turneth no more; the oxen they are gone; The young go forth in chains, the old waken in the night, They waken and weep, for the wheel turns backward, And the dark days are come again upon us-- Will he return no more?

His friendship was like a shady wood, O Nile that floweth deeply, hast thou not heard his voice?

Hast thou covered up his footsteps with thy flood?

The core of my heart, the mildew findeth it!

When his footsteps were among us there was peace; War entered not the village, nor the call of war: Now our homes are as those that have no roofs.

As a nest decayed, as a cave forsaken, As a ship that lieth broken on the beach, Is the house where we were born.

Out in the desert did we bury our gold, We buried it where no man robbed us, for his arm was strong.

Now are the jars empty, gold did not avail To save our young men, to keep them from the chains.