The Harvest of the Sea

The earth grows white with harvest; all day long

      The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves

Her web of silence o'er the thankful song

      Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.

The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear,

      And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap;

But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear

      The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep.

The Dying of Pere Pierre

". . . with two other priests; the same night he died,
and was buried by the shores of the lake that bears his name."
              Chronicle.

"Nay, grieve not that ye can no honour give

      To these poor bones that presently must be

But carrion; since I have sought to live

      Upon God's earth, as He hath guided me,

I shall not lack! Where would ye have me lie?

      High heaven is higher than cathedral nave:

Do men paint chancels fairer than the sky?"

      Beside the darkened lake they made his grave,

Below the altar of the hills; and night

      Swung incense clouds of mist in creeping lines

That twisted through the tree-trunks, where the light

      Groped through the arches of the silent pines:

And he, beside the lonely path he trod,

Lay, tombed in splendour, in the House of God.

Eventide

The day is past and the toilers cease;

The land grows dim 'mid the shadows grey,

And hearts are glad, for the dark brings peace

                                          At the close of day.

Each weary toiler, with lingering pace,

As he homeward turns, with the long day done,

Looks out to the west, with the light on his face

                                          Of the setting sun.

Yet some see not (with their sin-dimmed eyes)

The promise of rest in the fading light;

But the clouds loom dark in the angry skies

                                          At the fall of night.

And some see only a golden sky

Where the elms their welcoming arms stretch wide

To the calling rooks, as they homeward fly

                                          At the eventide.

It speaks of peace that comes after strife,

Of the rest He sends to the hearts He tried,

Of the calm that follows the stormiest life -- -

                                          God's eventide.

Upon Watts' Picture "Sic Transit"

But yesterday the tourney, all the eager joy of life,

      The waving of the banners, and the rattle of the spears,

The clash of sword and harness, and the madness of the strife;

      To-night begin the silence and the peace of endless years.

                                         ( One sings within.)

But yesterday the glory and the prize,

      And best of all, to lay it at her feet,

To find my guerdon in her speaking eyes:

      I grudge them not, -- - they pass, albeit sweet.

The ring of spears, the winning of the fight,

      The careless song, the cup, the love of friends,

The earth in spring -- - to live, to feel the light -- -

      'Twas good the while it lasted: here it ends.

Remain the well-wrought deed in honour done,

      The dole for Christ's dear sake, the words that fall

In kindliness upon some outcast one, -- -

      They seemed so little: now they are my All.

A Song of Comfort

"Sleep, weary ones, while ye may -- -

Sleep, oh, sleep!"

Eugene Field.

Thro' May time blossoms, with whisper low,

The soft wind sang to the dead below:

      "Think not with regret on the Springtime's song

      And the task ye left while your hands were strong.

      The song would have ceased when the Spring was past,

      And the task that was joyous be weary at last."

To the winter sky when the nights were long

The tree-tops tossed with a ceaseless song:

      "Do ye think with regret on the sunny days

      And the path ye left, with its untrod ways?

      The sun might sink in a storm cloud's frown

      And the path grow rough when the night came down."

In the grey twilight of the autumn eves,

It sighed as it sang through the dying leaves:

      "Ye think with regret that the world was bright,

      That your path was short and your task was light;

      The path, though short, was perhaps the best

      And the toil was sweet, that it led to rest."

The Pilgrims

An uphill path, sun-gleams between the showers,

      Where every beam that broke the leaden sky

Lit other hills with fairer ways than ours;

      Some clustered graves where half our memories lie;

And one grim Shadow creeping ever nigh:

                                          And this was Life.

Wherein we did another's burden seek,

      The tired feet we helped upon the road,

The hand we gave the weary and the weak,

      The miles we lightened one another's load,

When, faint to falling, onward yet we strode:

                                          This too was Life.

Till, at the upland, as we turned to go

      Amid fair meadows, dusky in the night,

The mists fell back upon the road below;

      Broke on our tired eyes the western light;

The very graves were for a moment bright:

                                          And this was Death.

The Shadow of the Cross

At the drowsy dusk when the shadows creep

From the golden west, where the sunbeams sleep,

An angel mused: "Is there good or ill

In the mad world's heart, since on Calvary's hill

'Round the cross a mid-day twilight fell

That darkened earth and o'ershadowed hell?"

Through the streets of a city the angel sped;

Like an open scroll men's hearts he read.

In a monarch's ear his courtiers lied

And humble faces hid hearts of pride.

Men's hate waxed hot, and their hearts grew cold,

As they haggled and fought for the lust of gold.

Despairing, he cried, "After all these years

Is there naught but hatred and strife and tears?"

He found two waifs in an attic bare;

-- A single crust was their meagre fare -- -

One strove to quiet the other's cries,

And the love-light dawned in her famished eyes

As she kissed the child with a motherly air:

"I don't need mine, you can have my share."

Then the angel knew that the earthly cross

And the sorrow and shame were not wholly loss.

At dawn, when hushed was earth's busy hum

And men looked not for their Christ to come,

From the attic poor to the palace grand,

The King and the beggar went hand in hand.

The Night Cometh

Cometh the night. The wind falls low,

The trees swing slowly to and fro:

      Around the church the headstones grey

      Cluster, like children strayed away

But found again, and folded so.

No chiding look doth she bestow:

If she is glad, they cannot know;

      If ill or well they spend their day,

                                          Cometh the night.

Singing or sad, intent they go;

They do not see the shadows grow;

      "There yet is time," they lightly say,

      "Before our work aside we lay";

Their task is but half-done, and lo!

                                          Cometh the night.

In Due Season

If night should come and find me at my toil,

      When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought,

And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil

      Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught

If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,

      Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?

"Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand

      Thy work: the harvest rests with Him alone."