Volume I Part 13 (1/2)

VERSE: THE PILGRIMS

The way is long and dreary, The path is bleak and bare; Our feet are worn and weary, But we will not despair.

More heavy was Thy burthen, More desolate Thy way;-- Oh Lamb of G.o.d who takest The sin of the world away, Have mercy on us.

The snows lie thick around us In the dark and gloomy night; And the tempest wails above us, And the stars have hid their light; But blacker was the darkness Round Calvary's Cross that day;-- Oh Lamb of G.o.d who takest The sin of the world away, Have mercy on us.

Our hearts are faint with sorrow, Heavy and hard to bear; For we dread the bitter morrow, But we will not despair: Thou knowest all our anguish, And Thou wilt bid it cease,-- Oh Lamb of G.o.d who takest The sin of the world away, Give us Thy Peace!

VERSE: INCOMPLETENESS

Nothing resting in its own completeness Can have worth or beauty: but alone Because it leads and tends to farther sweetness, Fuller, higher, deeper than its own.

Spring's real glory dwells not in the meaning, Gracious though it be, of her blue hours; But is hidden in her tender leaning To the Summer's richer wealth of flowers.

Dawn is fair, because the mists fade slowly Into Day, which floods the world with light; Twilight's mystery is so sweet and holy Just because it ends in starry Night.

Childhood's smiles unconscious graces borrow From Strife, that in a far-off future lies; And angel glances (veiled now by Life's sorrow) Draw our hearts to some beloved eyes.

Life is only bright when it proceedeth Towards a truer, deeper Life above; Human Love is sweetest when it leadeth To a more divine and perfect Love.

Learn the mystery of Progression duly: Do not call each glorious change, Decay; But know we only hold our treasures truly, When it seems as if they pa.s.sed away.

Nor dare to blame G.o.d's gifts for incompleteness; In that want their beauty lies: they roll Towards some infinite depth of love and sweetness, Bearing onward man's reluctant soul.

VERSE: A LEGEND OF BREGENZ

Girt round with rugged mountains The fair Lake Constance lies; In her blue heart reflected s.h.i.+ne back the starry skies; And, watching each white cloudlet Float silently and slow, You think a piece of Heaven Lies on our earth below!

Midnight is there: and Silence, Enthroned in Heaven, looks down Upon her own calm mirror, Upon a sleeping town: For Bregenz, that quaint city Upon the Tyrol sh.o.r.e, Has stood above Lake Constance, A thousand years and more.

Her battlements and towers, From off their rocky steep, Have cast their trembling shadow For ages on the deep: Mountain, and lake, and valley, A sacred legend know, Of how the town was saved, one night, Three hundred years ago.

Far from her home and kindred, A Tyrol maid had fled, To serve in the Swiss valleys, And toil for daily bread; And every year that fleeted So silently and fast, Seemed to bear farther from her The memory of the Past.

She served kind, gentle masters, Nor asked for rest or change; Her friends seemed no more new ones, Their speech seemed no more strange; And when she led her cattle To pasture every day, She ceased to look and wonder On which side Bregenz lay.

She spoke no more of Bregenz, With longing and with tears: Her Tyrol home seemed faded In a deep mist of years; She heeded not the rumours Of Austrian war and strife; Each day she rose contented, To the calm toils of life.

Yet, when her master's children Would cl.u.s.tering round her stand, She sang them ancient ballads Of her own native land; And when at morn and evening She knelt before G.o.d's throne, The accents of her childhood Rose to her lips alone.

And so she dwelt: the valley More peaceful year by year; When suddenly strange portents, Of some great deed seemed near.

The golden corn was bending Upon its fragile stalk, While farmers, heedless of their fields, Paced up and down in talk.

The men seemed stern and altered, With looks cast on the ground; With anxious faces, one by one, The women gathered round; All talk of flax, or spinning, Or work, was put away; The very children seemed afraid To go alone to play.

One day, out in the meadow With strangers from the town, Some secret plan discussing, The men walked up and down.

Yet, now and then seemed watching, A strange uncertain gleam, That looked like lances 'mid the trees, That stood below the stream.