Read Ebook: Religious Poems by Stowe Harriet Beecher

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 256 lines and 15082 words, and 6 pages

Far, far beneath, the noise of tempest dieth, And silver waves chime ever peacefully; And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he flieth, Disturbs the sabbath of that deeper sea.

So to the soul that knows thy love, O Purest, There is a temple peaceful evermore! And all the babble of life's angry voices Die in hushed stillness at its sacred door.

Far, far away the noise of passion dieth, And loving thoughts rise ever peacefully; And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he flieth Disturbs that deeper rest, O Lord, in thee.

O rest of rests! O peace serene, eternal! Thou ever livest and thou changest never; And in the secret of thy presence dwelleth Fulness of joy, forever and forever.

THINK NOT ALL IS OVER.

THINK not, when the wailing winds of autumn Drive the shivering leaflets from the tree,-- Think not all is over: spring returneth, Buds and leaves and blossoms thou shalt see.

Think not, when the earth lies cold and sealed, And the weary birds above her mourn,-- Think not all is over: God still liveth, Songs and sunshine shall again return.

Think not, when thy heart is waste and dreary, When thy cherished hopes lie chill and sere,-- Think not all is over: God still loveth, He will wipe away thy every tear.

Weeping for a night alone endureth, God at last shall bring a morning hour; In the frozen buds of every winter Sleep the blossoms of a future flower.

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860.

"Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him."--JOHN xx. 15.

IN the fair gardens of celestial peace Walketh a Gardener in meekness clad; Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks, And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad.

Fair are the silent foldings of his robes, Falling with saintly calmness to his feet; And when he walks, each floweret to his will With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.

Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart, In the mild summer radiance of his eye; No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost, Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh.

And all our pleasant haunts of earthly love Are nurseries to those gardens of the air; And his far-darting eye, with starry beam, Watcheth the growing of his treasures there.

We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears, O'erwatched with restless longings night and day; Forgetful of the high, mysterious right He holds to bear our cherished plants away.

But when some sunny spot in those bright fields Needs the fair presence of an added flower, Down sweeps a starry angel in the night: At morn, the rose has vanished from our bower.

Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave! Blank, silent, vacant, but in worlds above, Like a new star outblossomed in the skies, The angels hail an added flower of love.

Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound, Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf, Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eye Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief.

Thy garden rose-bud bore, within its breast, Those mysteries of color, warm and bright, That the bleak climate of this lower sphere Could never waken into form and light.

Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence, Nor must thou ask to take her thence away; Thou shalt behold her in some coming hour, Full-blossomed in his fields of cloudless day.

THE CROCUS.

BENEATH the sunny autumn sky, With gold leaves dropping round, We sought, my little friend and I, The consecrated ground, Where, calm beneath the holy cross, O'ershadowed by sweet skies, Sleeps tranquilly that youthful form, Those blue unclouded eyes.

Around the soft, green swelling mound We scooped the earth away, And buried deep the crocus-bulbs Against a coming day. "These roots are dry, and brown, and sere; Why plant them here?" he said, "To leave them, all the winter long, So desolate and dead."

"Dear child, within each sere dead form There sleeps a living flower, And angel-like it shall arise In spring's returning hour." Ah, deeper down--cold, dark, and chill-- We buried our heart's flower, But angel-like shall he arise In spring's immortal hour.

In blue and yellow from its grave Springs up the crocus fair, And God shall raise those bright blue eyes, Those sunny waves of hair. Not for a fading summer's morn, Not for a fleeting hour, But for an endless age of bliss, Shall rise our heart's dear flower.

CONSOLATION.

WRITTEN AFTER THE SECOND BATTLE OF BULL RUN.

"And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea."

AH, many-voiced and angry! how the waves Beat turbulent with terrible uproar! Is there no rest from tossing,--no repose? Where shall we find a haven and a shore?

What is secure from the loud-dashing wave? There go our riches, and our hopes fly there; There go the faces of our best beloved, Whelmed in the vortex of its wild despair.

Rocks on all sides, and breakers! at the helm Weak human hand and weary human eyes. The shout and clamor of our dreary strife Goes up conflicting to the angry skies.

No sea, no tossing, no unrestful storm! Forever past the anguish and the strife; The poor old weary earth shall bloom again, With the bright foliage of that better life.

Be still, be still, and know that he is God; Be calm, be trustful; work, and watch, and pray, Till from the throes of this last anguish rise The light and gladness of that better day.

"ONLY A YEAR."

ONE year ago,--a ringing voice, A clear blue eye, And clustering curls of sunny hair, Too fair to die.

Only a year,--no voice, no smile, No glance of eye, No clustering curls of golden hair, Fair but to die!

One year ago,--what loves, what schemes Far into life! What joyous hopes, what high resolves, What generous strife!

The silent picture on the wall, The burial stone, Of all that beauty, life, and joy Remain alone!

One year,--one year,--one little year, And so much gone! And yet the even flow of life Moves calmly on.

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, Above that head; No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray Says he is dead.

No pause or hush of merry birds, That sing above, Tells us how coldly sleeps below The form we love.

Where hast thou been this year, beloved? What hast thou seen? What visions fair, what glorious life, Where thou hast been?

The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong! 'Twixt us and thee; The mystic veil! when shall it fall, That we may see?

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, But present still, And waiting for the coming hour Of God's sweet will.

Lord of the living and the dead, Our Saviour dear! We lay in silence at thy feet This sad, sad year!

BELOW.

LOUDLY sweep the winds of autumn O'er that lone, beloved grave, Where we laid those sunny ringlets, When those blue eyes set like stars, Leaving us to outer darkness. O the longing and the aching! O the sere deserted grave!

Let the grass turn brown upon thee, Brown and withered like our dreams! Let the wind moan through the pine-trees With a dreary, dirge-like whistle, Sweep the dead leaves on its bosom,-- Moaning, sobbing through the branches, Where the summer laughed so gayly.

ABOVE.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet