Were I a pilgrim in search of peace, Were I a pastor of Holy Church, More than a Bishop's diocese Should I prize this place of rest, and release From farther longing and farther search.
Here would I stay, and let the world With its distant thunder roar and roll;Storms do not rend the sail that is furled;Nor like a dead leaf, tossed and whirled In an eddy of wind, is the anchored soul.
FOLK SONGS
THE SIFTING OF PETER
In St.Luke's Gospel we are told How Peter in the days of old Was sifted;And now, though ages intervene, Sin is the same, while time and scene Are shifted.
Satan desires us, great and small, As wheat to sift us, and we all Are tempted;Not one, however rich or great, Is by his station or estate Exempted.
No house so safely guarded is But he, by some device of his, Can enter;No heart hath armor so complete But he can pierce with arrows fleet Its centre.
For all at last the cock will crow, Who hear the warning voice, but go Unheeding, Till thrice and more they have denied The Man of Sorrows, crucified And bleeding.
One look of that pale suffering face Will make us feel the deep disgrace Of weakness;We shall be sifted till the strength Of self-conceit be changed at length To meekness.
Wounds of the soul, though healed will ache;The reddening scars remain, and make Confession;Lost innocence returns no more;
We are not what we were before Transgression.
But noble souls, through dust and heat, Rise from disaster and defeat The stronger, And conscious still of the divine Within them, lie on earth supine No longer.
MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK
MAIDEN
O weathercock on the village spire, With your golden feathers all on fire, Tell me, what can you see from your perch Above there over the tower of the church?
WEATHERCOCK.
I can see the roofs and the streets below, And the people moving to and fro, And beyond, without either roof or street, The great salt sea, and the fisherman's fleet.
I can see a ship come sailing in Beyond the headlands and harbor of Lynn, And a young man standing on the deck, With a silken kerchief round his neck.
Now he is pressing it to his lips, And now he is kissing his finger-tips, And now he is lifting and waving his hand And blowing the kisses toward the land.
MAIDEN.
Ah, that is the ship from over the sea, That is bringing my lover back to me, Bringing my lover so fond and true, Who does not change with the wind like you.
WEATHERCOCK.
If I change with all the winds that blow, It is only because they made me so, And people would think it wondrous strange, If I, a Weathercock, should not change.
O pretty Maiden, so fine and fair, With your dreamy eyes and your golden hair, When you and your lover meet to-day You will thank me for looking some other way.
THE WINDMILL
Behold! a giant am I!
Aloft here in my tower, With my granite jaws I devour The maize, and the wheat, and the rye, And grind them into flour.
I look down over the farms;
In the fields of grain I see The harvest that is to be, And I fling to the air my arms, For I know it is all for me.
I hear the sound of flails Far off, from the threshing-floors In barns, with their open doors, And the wind, the wind in my sails, Louder and louder roars.
I stand here in my place, With my foot on the rock below, And whichever way it may blow I meet it face to face, As a brave man meets his foe.
And while we wrestle and strive My master, the miller, stands And feeds me with his hands;For he knows who makes him thrive, Who makes him lord of lands.
On Sundays I take my rest;
Church-going bells begin Their low, melodious din;I cross my arms on my breast, And all is peace within.
THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE FALLS
The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;Along the sea-sands damp and brown The traveller hastens toward the town, And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea in the darkness calls and calls;The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls.
The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveller to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls.
SONNETS
MY CATHEDRAL
Like two cathedral towers these stately pines Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;The arch beneath them is not built with stones, Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines, And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;No organ but the wind here sighs and moans, No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones.
No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.
Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves, Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!
Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds, In leafy galleries beneath the eaves, Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled, And learn there may be worship with out words.
THE BURIAL OF THE POET
RICHARD HENRY DANA
In the old churchyard of his native town, And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall, We laid him in the sleep that comes to all, And left him to his rest and his renown.
The snow was falling, as if Heaven dropped down White flowers of Paradise to strew his pall;--The dead around him seemed to wake, and call His name, as worthy of so white a crown.
And now the moon is shining on the scene, And the broad sheet of snow is written o'er With shadows cruciform of leafless trees, As once the winding-sheet of Saladin With chapters of the Koran; but, ah! more Mysterious and triumphant signs are these.
NIGHT
Into the darkness and the hush of night Slowly the landscape sinks, and fades away, And with it fade the phantoms of the day, The ghosts of men and things, that haunt the light, The crowd, the clamor, the pursuit, the flight, The unprofitable splendor and display, The agitations, and the cares that prey Upon our hearts, all vanish out of sight.
The better life begins; the world no more Molests us; all its records we erase From the dull common-place book of our lives, That like a palimpsest is written o'er With trivial incidents of time and place, And lo! the ideal, hidden beneath, revives.
L'ENVOI
THE POET AND HIS SONGS
