"To THE GIRL THAT SANG ALTO, THE GIRL THAT SANG AIR."
She doubted, once upon a time,
Because it took away her sight, She looked and said, "There is no light!" It was thine eyes, poor Italy! That knew not dark apart from bright.
This flame which burnt for Italy,
It would not let her haters sleep. They blew at it with angry breath, And only fed its upward leap, And only made it hot and deep.
Its burning showed us Italy, And all the hopes she had to keep.
This light is out in Italy,
Her eyes shall seek for it in vain! For her sweet sake it spent itself,
Too early flickering to its wane, Too long blown over by her pain. Bow down and weep, O Italy, Thou canst not kindle it again!
THE wind was whispering to the vines
The secret of the summer night;
The tinted oriel window gleamed
But faintly in the misty light;
Beneath it we together sat
In the sweet stillness of content.
Till from a slow-consenting cloud
Came forth Diana, bright and bold,
And drowned us, ere we were aware,
In a great shower of liquid gold;
And, shyly lifting up my eyes,
I made acquaintance with your face.
And sudden something in me stirred,
And moved me to impulsive speech,
With little flutterings between,
And little pauses to beseech,
From your sweet graciousness of mind,
Indulgence and a kindly ear.
Ah! glad was I as any bird
That softly pipes a timid note,
To hear it taken up and trilled
Out cheerily by a stronger throat,
When, free from discord and constraint,
Your thought responded to my thought.
I had a carven missal once,
With
graven scenes of "Christ, his Woe.
One picture in that quaint old book
Will never from my memory go,
Though merely in a childish wise
I used to search for it betimes.
It showed the face of God in man
Abandoned to his watch of pain,
And given of his own good-will
To every weaker thing's disdain ;
But from the darkness overhead
Two pitying angel eyes looked down.
How often in the bitter night
Have I not fallen on my face,
Too sick and tired of heart to ask
God's pity in my grievous case;
Till the dank deadness of the dark,
Receding, left me, pitiless.
Then have I said: "Ah! Christ the Lord!
God sent his angel unto thee;
But both ye leave me to myself,
Perchance ye do not even see!"
Then was it as a mighty stone
Above my sunken heart were rolled.
Now, in the moon's transfiguring light,
I seemed to see you in a dream;
Your listening face was silvered o'er
By one divinely radiant beam;
I leant towards you, and my talk
Was dimly of the haunting past.
I took you through deep soundings where
My freighted ships went down at noon, -
Gave glimpses of deflowered plains,
Blown over by the hot Simoon;
Then I was silent for a space:
"God sends no angel unto me!"
My heart withdrew into itself,
When lo! a knocking at the door:
"Am I so soon a stranger here,
Who was an honored guest before?"
Then looking in your eyes, I knew
You were God's angel sent to me!
A WOMAN'S LOVE.
A SENTINEL angel sitting high in glory Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory:
"Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!
"I loved, and, blind with passionate ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS.
ON THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
IT chanceth once to every soul,
Within a narrow hour of doubt and dole,
Upon Life's Bridge of Sighs to stand,
A palace and a prison on each hand.
O palace of the rose-heart's hue!
How like a flower the warm light falls
from you!
O prison with the hollow eyes!
Beneath your stony stare no flowers arise.
O palace of the rose-sweet sin!
How safe the heart that does not enter in!
blessed prison-walls! how true
The freedom of the soul that chooseth you!
Here, too, a little child Stood by the drift, now blackened and defiled;
And with his rosy hands, in earnest play, Scraped the dark crust away.
Checking my hurried pace,
To watch the busy hands and earnest face, I heard him laugh aloud in pure delight, That underneath, 't was white.
Then, through a broken pane,
A woman's voice summoned him in again, With softened mother-tones, that half excused
The unclean words she used.
And as I lingered near,
His baby accents fell upon my ear: "See, I can make the snow again for you, All clean and white and new!"
Ah! surely God knows best.
Our sight is short; faith trusts to him the rest.
Sometimes, we know, he gives to human
To work out his commands.
Perhaps he holds apart,
By baby fingers, in that mother's heart,
One fair, clean spot that yet may spread
and grow,
Till all be white as snow.
I HEAR it often in the dark,
I hear it in the light,
Where is the voice that calls to me
With such a quiet might?
It seems but echo to my thought,
And yet beyond the stars;
It seems a heart-beat in a hush,
And yet the planet jars.
O, may it be that far within
My inmost soul there lies
A spirit-sky, that opens with
Those voices of surprise?
And can it be, by night and day,
That firmament serene
Is just the heaven where God himself,
The Father, dwells unseen?
O God within, so close to me
That every thought is plain, Be judge, be friend, be Father still, And in thy heaven reign! Thy heaven is mine, my very soul! Thy words are sweet and strong; They fill my inward silences
With music and with song.
They send me challenges to right,
And loud rebuke my ill;
They ring my bells of victory,
They breathe my "Peace, be still!"
They ever seem to say, "My child,
Why seek me so all day?
Now journey inward to thyself,
And listen by the way.'
I KNOW not what shall befall me,
God hangs a mist o'er my eyes,
And so, each step of my onward path,
He makes new scenes to rise,
And every joy he sends me comes
As a sweet and glad surprise.
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