TO A DEAD CLASSMATE
He started on the left road and I went on the
right,
We were young and strong and the way was long
and we travelled day an' night;
And O the haste and O the waste! and the rush
of the busy throng!
The worried eye, and the quick good-bye, and
the need to hurry along!
Odd times we met on the main highway and told
our hopes and fears,
And after every parting came a wider flood of
years.
I love to tell of the last farewell, and this is the way
it ran:
"I don't know when I'll see you again—take care
of yourself, ol' man."
Put the Beta pin upon his breast, with rosemary
and rue,
The cap and gown, the scarlet and brown and the
symbol of '82,
And lay him low with a simple word as the loving
eye grows dim:
"He took care of more than his share—O Christ!
take care of him."
The snow is falling on the head and aye the heart
grows cold;
The new friend comes to claim a share of that we
gave the old,
And men forget while the eye is wet and bend to
the lug of the load,
And whether or when they will meet you again is
ever a chance of the road.
The babes are boys, the boys are men, and slowly,
year by year,
New faces throng the storied halls and old ones
disappear.
As the hair is grayed and the red lips fade let
friend be friend, for aye
We come and go and ere we know have spoken
a long good-bye.
TO MY FRIEND A. B.
The veil of care is lifted from his face!
How smooth the brow where toil had left its trace!
How confident the look, how calm the eyes
Once keen with life and restless enterprise!
And gone the lines that marked the spirit's haste
To do its work, nor any moment waste.
Imperial peace and beauty crown his head,
God's superscription writ upon the dead.
Behold, herein, his dream, his inmost thought
As if in time-washed Parian marble wrought.
Truly he read the law we must obey:
Man moulds the image and God gives the clay,
And if it's cast of God or Cæsar is
To each all render what is rightly his.
Thousands at noontide are climbing the hills under
Nain, like an army
Fleeing the carnage of war, seeking where it may
rest and take counsel;
Some with the blind or the palsied, some bearing
the sick on their shoulders,
Lagging but laboring hard, so they be not too far
from the Prophet;
Some bringing only a burden of deep and inveterate
longing.
Hard by the gate of the city their Captain halts
and is waiting.
Closer the multitude presses and widens afar on
the hillside;
Thronged are the ways to the city with eager and
hastening comers.
Heard ye? A man was delivered from death by
his power, and the story
Crosses the murmuring host like a wave passing
over the waters,
How at the touch of his finger this day, the dead
rose and was living.
Hushed are the people; the Prophet is speaking;
his hand is uplifted—
Lo! the frail hand that ere long was to stop the mad
rush of the tempest.
Quickly their voices are hushed, and the fear of
Jehovah is on them.
Jesus stood high on a hillock. His face, so divinely
impassioned,
Shone with the light that of old had illumined the
dreams of the prophets.
Gently he spake, like a shepherd who calleth his
flock to green pastures.
Hiding her face and apart from the people, a woman
stood weeping,
Daughter of woe! on a rosary strung with her
tears ever counting
Treasures her heart had surrendered and writ on
her brow was the record.
Hope and the love of her kindred and peace and
all pleasure had left her
Chained to the pillar of life like a captive, and
Shame was her keeper.
Long spake the Prophet, and scarcely had finished
when came the afflicted,
Loudly entreating: "Make way for the blind!" and
the people were parted,
Silent with pity, and many were suffered to pass;
but the woman
Felt no miraculous touch, for the press kept her
back and rebuked her.
"Why comest thou to the Prophet?" they said.
"Get thee hence and be silent;
"He hath no mercy for thee or thy kind"; and
the woman stood weeping.
Now when the even was come over Nain, and the
bridge of the twilight,
Silently floating aloft on the deepening flood of the
shadows,
Rested its timbers of gold on the summits of Tabor
and Hermon,
Jesus came, weary, to sup at the house of one
Simon, a Pharisee,
Dwelling at Nain. Far behind him the woman
came, following slowly;
Entered the gate in the dusk, and when all were
reclining at supper,
Stood by the Prophet, afraid, like a soul that has
come to its judgment,
Weeping, her head bowing low, her hair hanging
loose on her shoulders.
Then there was silence, and Jesus was moved, so
he spake to the woman:
"Daughter, what grieves thee so sore?" and she
spake not, but dumb with her weeping
Sank at his feet; and her tears fell upon them like
rain, and she kissed them.
Simon, amazed when the Prophet forbade not the
woman to touch him,
Rose to rebuke her; but seeing His face, how it
shone with compassion,
Waited; and Jesus then spake: "I have somewhat
to say to thee, Simon.
"A man had two debtors of pence, and the one
owed five hundred,
"The other owed fifty; and when they had nothing
to pay he forgave them
"All that they owed; wherefore which of the two
will most love him?"
Simon said, thoughtfully: "He, I suppose, to whom
most was forgiven."
Jesus made answer: "Thou judgest well. Consider
this woman.
"Weary with travel and sore were my feet, but
thou gavest no water;
"She, to wash them, hath given the tears of her
love and her sorrow,
"Wiping them dry with her hair; and hath kissed
them and bathed them with ointment.
"Wherefore, O woman, weep not! I forgive thee
thy sins which are many.
"Go thou in peace."
And those who were with Him at meat were astonished.
"Lo! she spoke not, she asked not and yet He forgave
her," they whispered.
* * * *
Dear to my God are the rills that flow from the
mountains of sorrow
Over the faces of men and in them is a rainbow of
promise.
Strong is the prayer of the rills that oft bathed the
feet of The Master.