Thine was no stern and harsh rebuke;
No 'friend's advice,' so true, so cold;
No message wise, such as in book,
Or by the teacher oft is told,
Which, like the pointless arrow, falls,
And rings perhaps with hollow sound,
But ne'er the wanderer recalls,
And ne'er inflicts the healing wound.
Thy voice was gentle, winning, mild;
Thy words told thou wert from above,
Like those with which the wayward child
Is wooed by a fond mother's love;
Or like a strain of music stealing
Across the calm and moonlit seas,
Which moves the heart of sternest feeling,
And wakes its deeper harmonies.
Sweet was thy presence, welcomed guest;
And I, responsive to thy call,
Arose, and felt within my breast
A power that made the fetters fall
From off my long enthrallèd soul,
And woke, as with a magic spell,
Griefs which yet owned the soft control
Of hopes that all might still be well.
But ah, thou wast an injured guest!
How soon departed, soon forgot,
Were all the hopes of coming rest
That clustered round the Better Thought—
The tender griefs, the firm resolves,
The yearnings after better days,
Like transient sunlight which dissolves,
And leaves no traces of its rays!
Yet I despair not—through the night
That long has reigned with tyrant sway,
E'en now I see the opening light,
The harbinger of coming day;
To Heaven I now direct my prayer—
O God of love, forsake me not!
Grant that my waywardness may ne'er
Quench the returning Better Thought!
Garvald. J. F.
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