So, from off converse with life's wintry gales, Should man learn how to clasp with tougher roots The inspiring earth;--how otherwise avails The leaf-creating sap that sunward shoots?

So every year that falls with noiseless flake Should fill old scars upon the stormward side, And make h.o.a.r age revered for age's sake, Not for traditions of youth's leafy pride.

So from the pinched soil of a churlish fate, True hearts compel the sap of st.u.r.dier growth, So between earth and heaven stand simply great, That these shall seem but their attendants both; For nature's forces with obedient zeal Wait on the rooted faith and oaken will; As quickly the pretender's cheat they feel, And turn mad Pucks to flout and mock him still.

Lord! all thy works are lessons,--each contains Some emblem of man's all-containing soul; Shall he make fruitless all thy glorious pains, Delving within thy grace an eyeless mole?

Make me the least of thy Dodona-grove, Cause me some message of thy truth to bring, Speak but a word through me, nor let thy love Among my boughs disdain to perch and sing.

AMBROSE.

Never, surely, was holier man Than Ambrose, since the world began; With diet spare and raiment thin, He shielded himself from the father of sin; With bed of iron and scourgings oft, His heart to G.o.d's hand as wax made soft.

Through earnest prayer and watchings long He sought to know 'twixt right and wrong, Much wrestling with the blessed Word To make it yield the sense of the Lord, That he might build a storm-proof creed To fold the flock in at their need.

At last he builded a perfect faith, Fenced round about with _The Lord thus saith_; To himself he fitted the doorway's size, Meted the light to the need of his eyes, And knew, by a sure and inward sign, That the work of his fingers was divine.

Then Ambrose said, "All those shall die The eternal death who believe not as I;"

And some were boiled, some burned in fire, Some sawn in twain, that his heart's desire, For the good of men's souls, might be satisfied, By the drawing of all to the righteous side.

One day, as Ambrose was seeking the truth In his lonely walk, he saw a youth Resting himself in the shade of a tree; It had never been given him to see So shining a face, and the good man thought 'T were pity he should not believe as he ought.

So he set himself by the young man's side, And the state of his soul with questions tried; But the heart of the stranger was hardened indeed Nor received the stamp of the one true creed, And the spirit of Ambrose waxed sore to find Such face the porch of so narrow a mind.

"As each beholds in cloud and fire The shape that answers his own desire, So each," said the youth, "in the Law shall find The figure and features of his mind; And to each in his mercy hath G.o.d allowed His several pillar of fire and cloud."

The soul of Ambrose burned with zeal And holy wrath for the young man's weal: "Believest thou then, most wretched youth,"

Cried he, "a dividual essence in Truth?

I fear me thy heart is too cramped with sin To take the Lord in his glory in."

Now there bubbled beside them where they stood, A fountain of waters sweet and good; The youth to the streamlet's brink drew near Saying, "Ambrose, thou maker of creeds, look here!"

Six vases of crystal then he took, And set them along the edge of the brook.

"As into these vessels the water I pour, There shall one hold less, another more, And the water unchanged, in every case, Shall put on the figure of the vase; O thou, who wouldst unity make through strife, Canst thou fit this sign to the Water of Life?"

When Ambrose looked up, he stood alone, The youth and the stream and the vases were gone; But he knew, by a sense of humbled grace, He had talked with an angel face to face, And felt his heart change inwardly, As he fell on his knees beneath the tree.

ABOVE AND BELOW.

I.

O dwellers in the valley-land, Who in deep twilight grope and cower, Till the slow mountain's dial-hand Shortens to noon's triumphal hour,-- While ye sit idle, do ye think The Lord's great work sits idle too?

That light dare not o'erleap the brink Of morn, because 'tis dark with you?

Though yet your valleys skulk in night, In G.o.d's ripe fields the day is cried, And reapers with their sickles bright, Troop, singing, down the mountain side.

Come up, and feel what health there is In the frank Dawn's delighted eyes, As, bending with a pitying kiss, The night-shed tears of Earth she dries!

The Lord wants reapers: O, mount up, Before night comes, and says,--"Too late!"

Stay not for taking scrip or cup, The Master hungers while ye wait; 'Tis from these heights alone your eyes The advancing spears of day can see, Which o'er the eastern hill-tops rise, To break your long captivity.

II.

Lone watcher on the mountain-height!

It is right precious to behold The first long surf of climbing light Flood all the thirsty east with gold; But we, who in the shadow sit, Know also when the day is nigh, Seeing thy shining forehead lit With his inspiring prophecy.

Thou hast thine office; we have ours; G.o.d lacks not early service here, But what are thine eleventh hours He counts with us for morning cheer Our day, for Him, is long enough, And when he giveth work to do, The bruised reed is amply tough To pierce the shield of error through.

But not the less do thou aspire Light's earlier messages to preach; Keep back no syllable of fire,-- Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech.

Yet G.o.d deems not thine aeried sight More worthy than our twilight dim,-- For meek Obedience, too, is Light, And following that is finding Him.

THE CAPTIVE.

It was past the hour of trysting, But she lingered for him still; Like a child, the eager streamlet Leaped and laughed adown the hill, Happy to be free at twilight From its toiling at the mill.

Then the great moon on a sudden Ominous, and red as blood, Startling as a new creation, O'er the eastern hill-top stood, Casting deep and deeper shadows Through the mystery of the wood.

Dread closed huge and vague about her, And her thoughts turned fearfully To her heart, if there some shelter From the silence there might be, Like bare cedars leaning inland From the blighting of the sea.

Yet he came not, and the stillness Dampened round her like a tomb; She could feel cold eyes of spirits Looking on her through the gloom, She could hear the groping footsteps Of some blind, gigantic doom.

Suddenly the silence wavered Like a light mist in the wind, For a voice broke gently through it, Felt like sunshine by the blind, And the dread, like mist in sunshine, Furled serenely from her mind.

"Once my love, my love forever,-- Flesh or spirit still the same; If I missed the hour of trysting, Do not think my faith to blame.

I, alas, was made a captive, As from Holy Land I came.

"On a green spot in the desert, Gleaming like an emerald star, Where a palm-tree, in lone silence, Yearning for its mate afar, Droops above a silver runnel, Slender as a scimitar,--

"There thou'lt find the humble postern To the castle of my foe; If thy love burn clear and faithful, Strike the gateway, green and low, Ask to enter, and the warder Surely will not say thee no."

Slept again the aspen silence, But her loneliness was o'er; Round her heart a motherly patience Wrapt its arms for evermore; From her soul ebbed back the sorrow, Leaving smooth the golden sh.o.r.e.

Donned she now the pilgrim scallop, Took the pilgrim staff in hand; Like a cloud-shade, flitting eastward, Wandered she o'er sea and land; And her footsteps in the desert Fell like cool rain on the sand.

Soon, beneath the palm-tree's shadow, Knelt she at the postern low; And thereat she knocketh gently, Fearing much the warder's no; All her heart stood still and listened, As the door swung backward slow.

There she saw no surly warder With an eye like bolt and bar; Through her soul a sense of music Throbbed,--and, like a guardian Lar, On the threshold stood an angel, Bright and silent as a star.

Fairest seemed he of G.o.d's seraphs, And her spirit, lily-wise, Blossomed when he turned upon her The deep welcome of his eyes, Sending upward to that sunlight All its dew for sacrifice.