Volume Ii Part 3 (1/2)
VERSE: THE REQUITAL
Loud roared the Tempest, Fast fell the sleet; A little Child Angel Pa.s.sed down the street, With trailing pinions, And weary feet.
The moon was hidden; No stars were bright; So she could not shelter In heaven that night, For the Angels' ladders Are rays of light.
She beat her wings At each window pane, And pleaded for shelter, But all in vain:-- ”Listen,” they said, ”To the pelting rain!”
She sobbed, as the laughter And mirth grew higher, ”Give me rest and shelter Beside your fire, And I will give you Your heart's desire.”
The dreamer sat watching His embers gleam, While his heart was floating Down hope's bright stream; . . . So he wove her wailing Into his dream.
The worker toiled on, For his time was brief; The mourner was nursing Her own pale grief: They heard not the promise That brought relief.
But fiercer the Tempest Rose than before, When the Angel paused At a humble door, And asked for shelter And help once more.
A weary woman, Pale, worn, and thin, With the brand upon her Of want and sin, Heard the Child Angel And took her in.
Took her in gently, And did her best To dry her pinions; And made her rest With tender pity Upon her breast.
When the eastern morning Grew bright and red, Up the first sunbeam The Angel fled; Having kissed the woman And left her--dead.
VERSE: RETURNED--”MISSING” (FIVE YEARS AFTER)
Yes, I was sad and anxious, But now, dear, I am gay; I know that it is wisest To put all hope away:- Thank G.o.d that I have done so And can be calm to-day.
For hope deferred--you know it, Once made my heart so sick: Now, I expect no longer; It is but the old trick Of hope, that makes me tremble, And makes my heart beat quick.
All day I sit here calmly; Not as I did before, Watching for one whose footstep Comes never, never more . . .
Hus.h.!.+ was that someone pa.s.sing, Who paused beside the door?
For years I hung on chances, Longing for just one word; At last I feel it:- silence Will never more be stirred . . .
Tell me once more that rumour, You fancied you had heard.
Life has more things to dwell on Than just one useless pain, Useless and past for ever; But n.o.ble things remain, And wait us all: . . . you too, dear, Do you think hope quite vain?
All others have forgotten, 'Tis right I should forget, Nor live on a keen longing Which shadows forth regret: . . .
Are not the letters coming?
The sun is almost set.
Now that my restless legion Of hopes and fears is fled, Reading is joy and comfort . . .