Joy!

Look at his glittering rainbow wings-- No alloy Lies in the radiant gifts he brings; Tender and sweet, He is come to-day, Tender and sweet: While chains of love on his silver feet Will hold him in lingering fond delay.

But greet him quickly, he will not stay, Soon he will leave us; but though for others All his brightest treasures are stored;-- "Blessed is he that cometh In the name of the Lord!"

III.

Who is the Angel that cometh?

Pain!

Let us arise and go forth to greet him; Not in vain Is the summons come for us to meet him; He will stay, And darken our sun; He will stay A desolate night, a weary day.

Since in that shadow our work is done, And in that shadow our crowns are won, Let us say still, while his bitter chalice Slowly into our hearts is poured,-- "Blessed is he that cometh In the name of the Lord!"

IV.

Who is the Angel that cometh?

Death!

But do not shudder and do not fear; Hold your breath, For a kingly presence is drawing near.

Cold and bright Is his flashing steel, Cold and bright The smile that comes like a starry light To calm the terror and grief we feel; He comes to help and to save and heal: Then let us, baring our hearts and kneeling, Sing, while we wait this Angel's sword,-- "Blessed is he that cometh In the name of the Lord!"

VERSE: DREAM-LIFE

Listen, friend, and I will tell you Why I sometimes seem so glad, Then, without a reason changing, Soon become so grave and sad.

Half my life I live a beggar, Ragged, helpless, and alone; But the other half a monarch, With my courtiers round my throne.

Half my life is full of sorrow, Half of joy, still fresh and new; One of these lives is a fancy, But the other one is true.

While I live and feast on gladness, Still I feel the thought remain, This must soon end,--nearer, nearer Comes the life of grief and pain.

While I live a wretched beggar, One bright hope my lot can cheer; Soon, soon, thou shalt have thy kingdom, Brighter hours are drawing near.

So you see my life is twofold, Half a pleasure, half a grief; Thus all joy is somewhat tempered, And all sorrow finds relief.

Which, you ask me, is the real life, Which the Dream--the joy, or woe?

Hush, friend! it is little matter, And, indeed--I never know.

VERSE: REST

Spread, spread thy silver wings, oh Dove!

And seek for rest by land and sea, And bring the tidings back to me For thee and me and those I love.

Look how my Dove soars far away; Go with her, heart of mine, I pray; Go where her fluttering silver pinions Follow the track of the crimson day.

Is rest where cloudlets slowly creep, And sobbing winds forget to grieve, And quiet waters gently heave, As if they rocked the ship to sleep?

Ah no! that southern vapour white Will bring a tempest ere the night, And thunder through the quiet Heaven, Lashing the sea in its angry might.

The battle-field lies still and cold, While stars that watch in silent light Gleam here and there on weapons bright, In weary sleepers' slackened hold; Nay, though they dream of no alarm, One bugle sound will stir that calm, And all the strength of two great nations, Eager for battle, will rise and arm.

Pause where the Pilgrim's day is done, Where scrip and staff aside are laid, And, resting in the silent shade, They watch the slowly sinking sun.

Ah no! that worn and weary band Must journey long before they stand, With bleeding feet, and hearts rejoicing, Kissing the dust of the Holy Land.

Then find a soul who meets at last A n.o.ble prize but hard to gain, Or joy long pleaded for in vain, Now sweeter for a bitter past.

Ah no! for Time can rob her yet, And even should cruel Time forget, Then Death will come, and, unrelenting, Brand her with sorrowful long regret.

Seek farther, farther yet, oh Dove!

Beyond the Land, beyond the Sea, There shall be rest for thee and me, For thee and me and those I love.

I heard a promise gently fall, I heard a far-off Shepherd call The weary and the broken-hearted, Promising rest unto each and all.

It is not marred by outward strife, It is not lost in calm repose, It heedeth neither joys nor woes, Is not disturbed by death or life; Through, and beyond them, lies our Rest: Then cease, oh Heart, thy longing quest!

And thou, my Dove, with silver pinions Flutter again to thy quiet nest!

VERSE: THE TYRANT AND THE CAPTIVE

It was midnight when I listened, And I heard two Voices speak; One was harsh, and stern, and cruel, And the other soft and weak: Yet I saw no Vision enter, And I heard no steps depart, Of this Tyrant and his Captive, . . .

Fate it might be and a Heart.

Thus the stern Voice spake in triumph:- "I have shut your life away From the radiant world of nature, And the perfumed light of day.

You, who loved to steep your spirit In the charm of Earth's delight, See no glory of the daytime, And no sweetness of the night."

But the soft Voice answered calmly: "Nay, for when the March winds bring Just a whisper to my window, I can dream the rest of Spring; And to-day I saw a Swallow Flitting past my prison bars, And my cell has just one corner Whence at night I see the stars."

But its bitter taunt repeating, Cried the harsh Voice:--"Where are they-- All the friends of former hours, Who forget your name to-day?

All the links of love are shattered, Which you thought so strong before; And your very heart is lonely, And alone since loved no more."

But the low Voice spoke still lower:-- "Nay, I know the golden chain Of my love is purer, stronger, For the cruel fire of pain: They remember me no longer, But I, grieving here alone, Bind their souls to me for ever By the love within their own."

But the Voice cried:- "Once remember You devoted soul and mind To the welfare of your brethren, And the service of your kind.

Now, what sorrow can you comfort?

You, who lie in helpless pain, With an impotent compa.s.sion Fretting out your life in vain."

"Nay;" and then the gentle answer Rose more loud, and full, and clear: "For the sake of all my brethren I thank G.o.d that I am here!

Poor had been my Life's best efforts, Now I waste no thought or breath-- For the prayer of those who suffer Has the strength of Love and Death."

VERSE: THE CARVER'S LESSON

Trust me, no mere skill of subtle tracery, No mere practice of a dexterous hand, Will suffice, without a hidden spirit, That we may, or may not, understand.