Lost in the Flood
When God drave the ruthless waters
From our cornfields to the sea,
Came she where our wives and daughters
Sobbed their thanks on bended knee.
Hidden faces! there ye found her
Mute as death, and staring wild
At the shadow waxing round her
Like the presence of her child—
Of her drenched and drowning child!
Dark thoughts live when tears won't gather;
Who can tell us what she felt?
It was human, O my Father,
If she blamed Thee while she knelt!
Ever, as a benediction
Fell like balm on all and each,
Rose a young face whose affliction
Choked and stayed the founts of speech—
Stayed and shut the founts of speech!
Often doth she sit and ponder
Over gleams of happy hair!
How her white hands used to wander,
Like a flood of moonlight there!
Lord—our Lord! Thou know'st her weakness:
Give her faith that she may pray;
And the subtle strength of meekness,
Lest she falter by the way—
Falter, fainting, by the way!
"Darling!" saith she, wildly moaning
Where the grass-grown silence lies,
"Is there rest from sobs and groaning—
Rest with you beyond the skies?
Child of mine, so far above me!
Late it waxeth—dark and late;
Will the love with which I love thee,
Lift me where you sit and wait—
Darling! where you sit and wait?"
Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Four
I hear no footfall beating through the dark,
A lonely gust is loitering at the pane;
There is no sound within these forests stark
Beyond a splash or two of sullen rain;
But you are with us! and our patient land
Is filled with long-expected change at last,
Though we have scarce the heart to lift a hand
Of welcome, after all the yearning past!
Ah! marvel not; the days and nights were long
And cold and dull and dashed with many tears;
And lately there hath been a doleful song,
Of "Mene, Mene," in our restless ears!
Indeed, we've said, "The royal son of Time,
Whose feet will shortly cross our threshold floor,
May lead us to those outer heights sublime
Our Sires have sold their lives to see before!
We'll follow him! Beyond the waves and wrecks
Of years fulfilled, some fine results must lie;
We'll pass the last of all wild things that vex
The pale, sad face of our Humanity!"
But now our fainting feet are loth to stray
From trodden paths; our eyes with pain are blind!
We've lost fair treasures by the weary way;
We cry, like children, to be left behind.
Our human speech is dim. Yet, latest born
Of God's Eternity, there came to me,
In saddened streets last week, from lips forlorn
A sound more solemn than the sleepless sea!
O, Rachael! Rachael! We have heard the cries
In Rama, stranger, o'er our darling dead;
And seen our mothers with the heavy eyes,
Who would not hearken to be comforted!
Then lead us gently! It must come to pass
That some of us shall halt and faint and fall;
For we are looking through a darkened glass,
And Heaven seems far, and faith grows cold and pale.
I know, for one, I need a subtle strength
I have not yet to hold me from a fall;
What time I cry to God within the length
Of weary hours; my face against the wall!
My mourning brothers! in the long, still nights,
When sleep is wilful, and the lone moon shines,
Bethink you of the silent, silver lights,
And darks with Death amongst the moody pines!
Then, though you cannot shut a stricken face
Away from you, this hope will come about
That Christ hath sent again throughout the place
Some signs of Love to worst and weaken doubt.
So you may find in every afterthought
A peace beyond your best expression dear;
And haply hearken to the Voice which wrought
Such strength in Peter on the seas of fear!
To——
Ah, often do I wait and watch,
And look up, straining through the Real
With longing eyes, my friend, to catch
Faint glimpses of your white Ideal.
I know she loved to rest her feet
By slumbrous seas and hidden strand;
But mostly hints of her I meet
On moony spots of mountain land.
I've never reached her shining place,
And only cross at times a gleam;
As one might pass a fleeting face
Just on the outside of a Dream.
But you may climb, her happy Choice!
She knows your step, the maiden true,
And ever when she hears your voice,
She turns and sits and waits for you.
How sweet to rest on breezy crest
With such a Love, what time the Morn
Looks from his halls of rosy rest,
Across green miles of gleaming corn!
How sweet to find a leafy nook,
When bees are out, and Day burns mute,
Where you may hear a passion'd brook
Play past you, like a mellow flute!
Or, turning from the sunken sun,
On fields of dim delight to lie—
To close your eyes and muse upon
The twilight's strange divinity!
Or through the Night's mysterious noon,
While Sound lies hushed among the trees,
To sit and watch a mirror'd moon
Float over silver-sleeping seas!
Oh, vain regret! why should I stay
To think and dream of joys unknown?
You walk with her from day to day,
I faint afar off—and alone.