Love

WHAT if a soul redeemed, a spirit that lovedWhile yet on earth and was beloved in turn,And still remembered every look and toneOf that dear earthly sister who was leftAmong the unwise virgins at the gate,--Itself admitted with the bridegroom's train,--What if this spirit redeemed, amid the hostOf chanting angels, in some transient lullOf the eternal anthem, heard the cryOf its lost darling, whom in evil hourSome wilder pulse of nature led astrayAnd left an outcast in a world of fire,Condemned to be the sport of cruel fiends,Sleepless, unpitying, masters of the skillTo wring the maddest ecstasies of painFrom worn-out souls that only ask to die,--Would it not long to leave the bliss of heaven,--Bearing a little water in its handTo moisten those poor lips that plead in vainWith Him we call our Father? Or is allSo changed in such as taste celestial joyThey hear unmoved the endless wail of woe;The daughter in the same dear tones that hushedHer cradle slumbers; she who once had heldA babe upon her bosom from its voiceHoarse with its cry of anguish, yet the same?

No! not in ages when the Dreadful BirdStamped his huge footprints, and the Fearful BeastStrode with the flesh about those fossil bonesWe build to mimic life with pygmy hands,--Not in those earliest days when men ran wildAnd gashed each other with their knives of stone,When their low foreheads bulged in ridgy browsAnd their flat hands were callous in the palmWith walking in the fashion of their sires,Grope as they might to find a cruel godTo work their will on such as human wrathHad wrought its worst to torture, and had leftWith rage unsated, white and stark and cold,Could hate have shaped a demon more malignThan him the dead men mummied in their creedAnd taught their trembling children to adore!

Made in his image! Sweet and gracious soulsDear to my heart by nature's fondest names,Is not your memory still the precious mouldThat lends its form to Him who hears my prayer?Thus only I behold Him, like to them,Long-suffering, gentle, ever slow to wrath,If wrath it be that only wounds to heal,Ready to meet the wanderer ere he reachThe door he seeks, forgetful of his sin,Longing to clasp him in a father's arms,And seal his pardon with a pitying tear!

Four gospels tell their story to mankind,And none so full of soft, caressing wordsThat bring the Maid of Bethlehem and her BabeBefore our tear-dimmed eyes, as his who learnedIn the meek service of his gracious artThe tones which, like the medicinal balmsThat calm the sufferer's anguish, soothe our souls.Oh that the loving woman, she who satSo long a listener at her Master's feet,Had left us Mary's Gospel,--all she heardToo sweet, too subtle for the ear of man!Mark how the tender-hearted mothers readThe messages of love between the linesOf the same page that loads the bitter tongueOf him who deals in terror as his tradeWith threatening words of wrath that scorch like flameThey tell of angels whispering round the bedOf the sweet infant smiling in its dream,Of lambs enfolded in the Shepherd's arms,Of Him who blessed the children; of the landWhere crystal rivers feed unfading flowers,Of cities golden-paved with streets of pearl,Of the white robes the winged creatures wear,The crowns and harps from whose melodious stringsOne long, sweet anthem flows forevermore!We too had human mothers, even as Thou,Whom we have learned to worship as remoteFrom mortal kindred, wast a cradled babe.The milk of woman filled our branching veins,She lulled us with her tender nursery-song,And folded round us her untiring arms,While the first unremembered twilight yeasShaped us to conscious being; still we feelHer pulses in our own,--too faintly feel;Would that the heart of woman warmed our creeds!

Not from the sad-eyed hermit's lonely cell,Not from the conclave where the holy menGlare on each other, as with angry eyesThey battle for God's glory and their own,Till, sick of wordy strife, a show of handsFixes the faith of ages yet unborn,--Ah, not from these the listening soul can hearThe Father's voice that speaks itself divine!Love must be still our Master; till we learnWhat he can teach us of a woman's heart,We know not His whose love embraces all.