IN KING’S CHAPEL
(Boston, November 3, 1878)
O, Lord of Hosts, how sacred is this place, Where, though the tides of time resistless flow, And the long generations come and go, Thou still abidest! In this holy space The very airs are hushed before Thy face, And wait in reverent calm, as voices low Blend in the prayers and chantings, soft and slow, And the gray twilight stealeth on apace. Hark! There are whispers from the time-worn walls; The mighty dead glide up the shadowy aisle; And there are rustlings as of angels’ wings While from the choir the heavenly music falls! Well may we bow in grateful praise the while— In the King’s Chapel reigns the King of Kings!
TO-DAY
What dost thou bring to me, O fair To-day, That comest o’er the mountains with swift feet? All the young birds make haste thy steps to greet, And all the dewy roses of the May Turn red and white with joy. The breezes play On their soft harps a welcome low and sweet; All nature hails thee, glad thy face to meet, And owns thy presence in a brighter ray. But my poor soul distrusts thee! One as fair As thou art, O To-day, drew near to me, Serene and smiling, yet she bade me wear The sudden sackcloth of a great despair! O, pitiless! that through the wandering air Sent no kind warning of the ill to be!
F. A. F.
When upon eyes long dim, to whom the light Of sun and stars had unfamiliar grown— Eyes that so long in deepening shades had known The mystic visions of the inner sight— Day broke, at last, after the weary night, I cannot think its sudden glory shone In pitiless brightness, dazzling, clear, and white— A piercing splendor on the darkness thrown! Softly as moonlight steals upon the skies, Slowly as shadows creep at set of sun, Gently as falls a mother’s tender kiss, So softly stole the light upon his eyes; So slowly passed the shadows one by one; So gently dawned the morning of his bliss!
DAY AND NIGHT
I.
When I awake at morn, refreshed, renewed, Glad with the gladness of the jocund day And jubilant with all the birds of May, My spirit shrinks from Night’s dull quietude. With it and Sleep I have a deadly feud. I hear the young winds in the maples play, The river singing on its happy way, The swallows twittering to their callow brood. The fresh, fair earth is full of joyous life; The tree-tops toss in billowy unrest; The very mountain shadows are astir! With eager heart I thrill to join the strife; Doing, not dreaming, to my soul seems best, And I am lordly Day’s true worshipper!