The Weight of a Word.
HAVE you ever thought of the weight of a word
That falls in the heart like the song of a bird,
That gladdens the springtime of memory and youth
And garlands with cedar the banner of Truth,
That moistens the harvesting spot of the brain
Like dew-drops that fall on the meadow of grain
Or that shrivels the germ and destroys the fruit
And lies like a worm at the lifeless root?
I saw a farmer at break of day
Hoeing his corn in a careful way;
An enemy came with a drouth in his eye,
Discouraged the worker and hurried by.
The keen-edged blade of the faithful hoe
Dulled on the earth in the long corn row;
The weeds sprung up and their feathers tossed
Over the field and the crop was—lost.
A sailor launched on an angry bay
When the heavens entombed the face of day
The wind arose like a beast in pain,
And shook on the billows his yellow name,
The storm beat down as if cursed the cloud,
And the waves held up a dripping shroud—
But, hark! o’er the waters that wildly raved
Came a word of cheer and he was—saved.
A poet passed with a song of God
Hid in his heart like a gem in a clod.
His lips were framed to pronounce the thought,
And the music of rhythm its magic wrought;
Feeble at first was the happy trill,
Low was the echo that answered the hill,
But a jealous friend spoke near his side,
And on his lips the sweet song—died.
A woman paused where a chandelier
Threw in the darkness its poisoned spear;
Weary and footsore from journeying long,
She had strayed unawares from the right to the wrong.
Angels were beck’ning her back from the den,
Hell and its demons were beck’ning her in;
The tone of an urchin, like one who forgives,
Drew her back and in heaven that sweet word—lives.
Words! Words! They are little, yet mighty and brave;
They rescue a nation, an empire save;
They close up the gaps in a fresh bleeding heart
That sickness and sorrow have severed apart,
They fall on the path, like a ray of the sun,
Where the shadows of death lay so heavy upon;
They lighten the earth over our blessed dead,
A word that will comfort, oh! leave not unsaid.
An Apology.
TO J. D. N.
MY pen is mournful—you ask why
When all the time my face is glad,
And though contentment lights my eye,
You say my verse is strangely sad;
So serious that e’en the strain
You can detect, as on the pane
You know the patter in the night,
Although the cloud is hid from sight.
You asked me once to change my tone,
“To trim my pen for gayer verse,”
And, laughing, said ’twas like a moan
That followed close behind a hearse.
My muse was saddened at the stroke,
And in my heart new chords awoke,
Chords that vibrate like the bell
That tolled one day a funeral knell.
I would not have them otherwise;
I claim my caged bird’s song more sweet
Because ’tis sad, than one which tries
The echo merrier to repeat.
How quickly I would turn aside,
And soon forget a boist’rous tide,
To hear the brooklet, sad and low,
Sing in a minor key I know.
I’ll not attempt Hood’s humorous style,
I do not crave John Gilpin’s ride.
It was my custom, when a child,
To linger at my mother’s side
When she would sing “The Old Church Yard,”
That told how soft and green its sward.
“The angels that watched ’round the tomb”
Crept, as she sang, into our room.
’Tis said the clown will never jest
When folded is the showman’s tent;
That she who pathos renders best
Has loudest laugh in merriment.
Thus, vice versa is the theme,
Or, “all things are not what they seem.”
Sadness to Joy is as a twin,
One rules without, one rules within.
My life is full of love and joy,
My heart-strings, though, with sadness tuned.
Then do not ask me to destroy
The mournful measures; it would wound
My Muse—the playmate of my youth—
Who taught me early many a truth
From others’ woes, and bid me think
While she supplied the pen and ink.
