Poems by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper Part 13

I had a dream, a varied dream: Before my ravished sight The city of my Lord arose, With all its love and light.

The music of a myriad harps Flowed out with sweet accord; And saints were casting down their crowns In homage to our Lord.

"FISHERS OF MEN." 83

My heart leaped up with untold joy, Life's toil and pain were o'er; My weary feet at last had found The bright and restful sh.o.r.e.

Just as I reached the gates of light, Ready to enter in, From earth arose a fearful cry Of sorrow and of sin.

I turned, and saw behind me surge A wild and stormy sea; And drowning men were reaching out Imploring hands to me.

And ev'ry lip was blanched with dread, And moaning for relief; The music of the golden harps Grew fainter for their grief.

Let me return, I quickly said, Close to the pearly gate; My work is with these wretched ones, So wrecked and desolate.

An angel smiled and gently said: This is the gate of life, Wilt thou return to earth's sad scenes, Its weariness and strife,

84 SIGNING THE PLEDGE.

To comfort hearts that sigh and break, To dry the falling tear, Wilt thou forego the music sweet Entrancing now thy ear?

I must return, I firmly said, The strugglers in that sea Shall not reach out beseeching hands In vain for help to me.

I turned to go; but as I turned The gloomy sea grew bright, And from my heart there seemed to flow Ten thousand cords of light.

And sin-wrecked men, with eager hands Did grasp each golden cord; And with my heart I drew them on To see my gracious Lord.

Again I stood beside the gate.

My heart was glad and free; For with me stood a rescued throng The Lord had given me.

THE LOST BELLS. 85

THE LOST BELLS.

Year after year the artist wrought With earnest, loving care, The music flooding all his soul To pour upon the air.

For this no metal was too rare, He counted not the cost; Nor deemed the years in which he toiled As labor vainly lost.

When morning flushed with crimson light The golden gates of day, He longed to fill the air with chimes Sweet as a matin's lay.

And when the sun was sinking low Within the distant West, He gladly heard the bells he wrought Herald the hour of rest.

The music of a thousand harps Could never be so dear As when those solemn chants and thrills Fell on his list'ning ear.

He poured his soul into their chimes, And felt his toil repaid; He called them children of his soul, His home a'near them made.

86 THE LOST BELLS.

But evil days came on apace, War spread his banner wide, And from his village s.n.a.t.c.hed away The artist's love and pride.

At dewy morn and stilly eve The chimes no more he heard; With dull and restless agony His spirit's depths was stirred.

A weary longing filled his soul, It bound him like a spell; He left his home to seek the chimes-- The chimes he loved so well.

Where lofty fanes in grandeur rose, Upon his ear there fell No music like the long lost chimes Of his beloved bell.

And thus he wandered year by year.

Touched by the hand of time, Seeking to hear with anxious heart Each well remembered chime.

And to that worn and weary heart There came a glad surcease: He heard again the dear old chimes, And smiled and uttered peace.

THE LOST BELLS. 87

"The chimes! the chimes!" the old man cried, "I hear their tones at last;"

A sudden rapture filled his heart, And all his cares were past.

Yes, peace had come with death's sweet calm, His journeying was o'er, The weary, restless wanderer Had reached the restful sh.o.r.e.

It may be that he met again, Enfolded in the air, The dear old chimes beside the gates Where all is bright and fair;

That he who crossed and bowed his head When Angelus was sung In clearer light touched golden harps By angel fingers strung.

88 "DO NOT CHEER, MEN ARE DYING."

"DO NOT CHEER, MEN ARE DYING," SAID CAPT. PHILLIPS, IN THE SPANISH-AMERICAN WAR.

Do not cheer, for men are dying From their distant homes in pain; And the restless sea is darkened By a flood of crimson rain.

Do not cheer, for anxious mothers Wait and watch in lonely dread; Vainly waiting for the footsteps Never more their paths to tread.

Do not cheer, while little children Gather round the widowed wife, Wondering why an unknown people Sought their own dear father's life.

Do not cheer, for aged fathers Bend above their staves and weep, While the ocean sings the requiem Where their fallen children sleep.

Do not cheer, for lips are paling On which lay the mother's kiss; 'Mid the dreadful roar of battle How that mother's hand they miss!

"DO NOT CHEER, MEN ARE DYING." 89

Do not cheer: once joyous maidens, Who the mazy dance did tread, Bow their heads in bitter anguish, Mourning o'er their cherished dead.

Do not cheer while maid and matron In this strife must bear a part; While the blow that strikes a soldier Reaches to some woman's heart.