Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 59

Well the Weaver seems to know What each motion And commotion, What each fusion And confusion, In the grand result will show, As the nations, Kings and stations, Upward, downward, hither, thither, As in mystic dances, go.

In the present all is mystery; In the past, 'tis beauteous history.

O'er the mixing and the mingling, How the signal bells are jingling!

See you not the Weaver leaving Finished work behind, in weaving?

See you not the reason subtle, As the web and woof diminish, Changing into beauteous finish, _Why_ the Weaver makes his shuttle, Hither, thither, scud and scuttle?

Glorious wonder! what a weaving!

To the dull beyond believing!

Such, no fabled ages know.

Only _Faith_ can see the mystery, How, along the aisle of history Where the feet of sages go, Loveliest to the purest eyes, Grand the mystic tapet lies,-- Soft and smooth, and even spreading Every figure has its plaidings, As if made for angels' treading; Tufted circles touching ever, Inwrought figures fading never; Brighter form and softer shadings; Each illumined,--what a riddle From a cross that gems the middle.

'Tis a saying--some reject it-- That its light is all reflected; That the tapet's hues are given By a sun that s.h.i.+nes in heaven!

'Tis believed, by all believing, That great G.o.d himself is weaving,-- Bringing out the world's dark mystery, In the light of truth and history; And as web and woof diminish, Comes the grand and glorious finish; When begin the golden ages Long foretold by seers and sages.

The Mortgage on the Farm

'Tis gone at last, and I am glad; it stayed a fearful while, And when the world was light and gay, I could not even smile; It stood before me like a giant, outstretched its iron arm; No matter where I looked, I saw the mortgage on the farm.

I'll tell you how it happened, for I want the world to know How glad I am this winter day whilst earth is white with snow; I'm just as happy as a lark. No cause for rude alarm Confronts us now, for lifted is the mortgage on the farm.

The children they were growing up and they were smart and trim.

To some big college in the East we'd sent our youngest, Jim; And every time he wrote us, at the bottom of his screed He tacked some Latin fol-de-rol which none of us could read.

The girls they ran to music, and to painting, and to rhymes, They said the house was out of style and far behind the times; They suddenly diskivered that it didn't keep'm warm-- Another step of course towards a mortgage on the farm.

We took a cranky notion, Hannah Jane and me one day, While we were coming home from town, a-talking all the way; The old house wasn't big enough for us, although for years Beneath its humble roof we'd shared each other's joys and tears.

We built it o'er and when 'twas done, I wish you could have seen it, It was a most tremendous thing--I really didn't mean it; Why, it was big enough to hold the people of the town And not one half as cosy as the old one we pulled down.

I bought a fine pianner and it shortened still the pile, But, then, it pleased the children and they banged it all the while; No matter what they played for me, their music had no charm, For every tune said plainly: "There's a mortgage on the farm!"

I worked from morn till eve, and toiled as often toils the slave To meet that grisly interest; I tried hard to be brave, And oft when I came home at night with tired brain and arm, The chickens hung their heads, they felt the mortgage on the farm.--

But we saved a penny now and then, we laid them in a row, The girls they played the same old tunes, and let the new ones go; And when from college came our Jim with laurels on his brow, I led him to the stumpy field and put him to the plow.

He something said in Latin which I didn't understand, But it did me good to see his plow turn up the dewy land; And when the year had ended and empty were the cribs, We found we'd hit the mortgage, sir, a blow between the ribs.

To-day I harnessed up the team and thundered off to town, And in the lawyer's sight I planked the last bright dollar down; And when I trotted up the lanes a-feeling good and warm, The old red rooster crowed his best: "No mortgage on the farm!"

I'll sleep almighty good to-night, the best for many a day, The skeleton that haunted us has pa.s.sed fore'er away.

The girls can play the brand-new tunes with no fears to alarm, And Jim can go to Congress, with no mortgage on the farm!

The Legend Beautiful

"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"

That is what the vision said.

In his chamber all alone, Kneeling on the floor of stone, Prayed the Monk in deep contrition For his sins of indecision, Prayed for greater self-denial In temptation and in trial; It was noonday by the dial, And the Monk was all alone.

Suddenly, as if it lightened, An unwonted splendor brightened All within him and without him In that narrow cell of stone; And he saw the blessed vision Of our Lord, with light Elysian Like a vesture wrapped about Him, Like a garment round Him thrown.

Not as crucified and slain Not in agonies of pain, Not with bleeding hands and feet, Did the Monk his Master see; But as in the village street, In the house or harvest field, Halt and lame and blind He healed, When He walked in Galilee.

In as att.i.tude imploring, Hands upon his bosom crossed, Wondering, wors.h.i.+ping, adoring, Knelt the Monk, in rapture lost, Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, Who am I that thus Thou deignest To reveal Thyself to me?

Who am I, that from the center Of Thy glory Thou shouldst enter This poor cell, my guest to be?

Then amid his exaltation, Loud the convent bell appalling, From its belfrey calling, calling, Rang through court and corridor With persistent iteration, He had never heard before.

It was now the appointed hour When alike in s.h.i.+ne or shower, Winter's cold or summer's heat, To the convent portals came All the blind and halt and lame, All the beggars of the street, For their daily dole of food Dealt them by the brotherhood;

And their almoner was he Who upon his bended knees Rapt in silent ecstasy Of divinest self-surrender, Saw the vision and the splendor.

Deep distress and hesitation Mingled with his adoration; Should he go, or should he stay?

Should he leave the poor to wait Hungry at the convent gate, Till the vision pa.s.sed away?

Should he slight his radiant guest, Slight this visitant celestial For a crowd of ragged, b.e.s.t.i.a.l Beggars at the convent gate?

Would the vision there remain?

Would the vision come again?

Then a voice within his breast Whispered audible and clear, As if to the outward ear: "Do thy duty; that is best; Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"

Straightway to his feet he started, And with longing look intent On the blessed vision bent, Slowly from his cell departed, Slowly on his errand went.

At the gate the poor were waiting, Looking through the iron grating, With that terror in the eye That is only seen in those Who amid their wants and woes Hear the sound of doors that close.

And of feet that pa.s.s them by: Grown familiar with disfavor, Grown familiar with the savor Of the bread by which men die; But to-day, they knew not why, Like the gate of Paradise Seemed the convent gate to rise, Like a sacrament divine Seemed to them the bread and wine.

In his heart the Monk was praying, Thinking of the homeless poor, What they suffer and endure; What we see not, what we see; And the inward voice was saying: "Whatsoever thing thou doest To the least of mine and lowest, That thou doest unto me."

Unto me! but had the vision Come to him in beggar's clothing, Come a mendicant imploring, Would he then have knelt adoring, Or have listened with derision, And have turned away with loathing?

Thus his conscience put the question, Full of troublesome suggestion, As at length, with hurried pace, Toward his cell he turned his face, And beheld the convent bright With a supernatural light, Like a luminous cloud expanding Over floor and wall and ceiling.

But he paused with awe-struck feeling At the threshold of his door, For the vision still was standing As he left it there before, When the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Summoned him to feed the poor.

Through the long hour intervening It had waited his return, And he felt his bosom burn, Comprehending all the meaning, When the blessed vision said: "Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled."

_Henry W. Longfellow._

Somebody's Darling

Into a ward of the whitewashed halls, Where the dead and dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, sh.e.l.ls, and b.a.l.l.s, Somebody's Darling was borne one day--

Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave, Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.