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Field Preaching
Poet: Phoebe Cary
I have been out to-day in field and wood,
Listening to praises sweet, and counsel good,
Such as a little child had understood,
That, in its tender youth,
Discerns the simple eloquence of truth.
The modest blossoms, crowding round my way.
Though they had nothing great or grand to say.
Gave out their fragrance to the wind all day;
Because his loving breath,
With soft persistence, won them back from death.
The stately maize, a fair and goodly sight.
With serried spear-points bristling sharp and bright
Shook out his yellow tresses, for delight,
To all their tawny length.
Like Samson, glorying in his lusty strength.
And every little bird upon the tree,
Ruffling his plumage bright, for ecstacy.
Sang in the wild insanity of glee;
And seemed, in the same lays.
Calling his mate, and uttering songs of praise.
The golden grasshopper did chirp and sing;
The plain bee, busy with her housekeeping.
Kept humming cheerfully upon the wing.
As if she understood
That, with contentment, labor was a good.
I saw each creature, in his own best place.
To the Creator lift a smiling face.
Praising continually his wondrous grace;
As if the best of all
Life's countless blessings was to live at all!
So, with a book of sermons, plain and true.
Hid in my heart, where I might turn them through,
I went home softly, through the falling dew.
Still listening, rapt and calm,
To Nature giving out her evening psalm.
While, far along the west, mine eyes discerned,
Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset burned,
The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame were turned;
And I, in that great hush.
Talked with his angels in each burning bush! -
Reconciled
Poet: Phoebe Cary
O years, gone down into the past;
What pleasant memories come to me.
Of your untroubled days of peace,
And hours almost of ecstasy!
Yet would I have no moon stand still,
Where life's most pleasant valleys lie;
Nor wheel the planet of the day
Back on his pathway through the sky.
For though, when youthful pleasures died,
My youth itself went with them, too;
To-day, aye! even this very hour.
Is the best time I ever knew.
Not that my Father gives to rne
More blessings than in days gone by;
Dropping in ray uplifted hands
All things for which I blindly cry:
But that his plans and purposes
Have grown to me less strange and dim;
And where I cannot understand,
I trust the issues unto Him,
And, spite of many broken dreams,
This have I truly learned to say, -
The prayers I thought unanswered once,
Were answered in God's own best way.
And though some dearly cherished hopes
Perished untimely ere their birth.
Yet have I been beloved and blessed
Beyond the measure of my worth.
And sometimes in my hours of grief,
For moments I have come to stand
Where, in the sorrows on me laid
I felt a loving Father's hand.
And I have learned the weakest ones
Are kept securest from life's harms;
And that the tender lambs alone
Are carried in the Shepherd's arms.
And sitting by the wayside blind,
He is the nearest to the light,
Who crieth out most earnestly,
"Lord, that I might receive my sight!"
O feet, grown weary as ye walk.
Where down life's hill my pathway lies,
What care I, while my soul can mount.
As the young eagle mounts the skies!
O eyes, with weeping faded out,
What matters it how dim ye be?
My inner vision sweeps, untired,
The reaches of eternity!
O death, most dreaded power of all,
When the last moment comes, and thou
Darkenest the windows of my soul,
Through which I look on nature now;
Yea, when mortality dissolves,
Shall I not meet thine hour unawed?
My house eternal in the heavens
Is lighted by the smile of God -
Nearer Home
Poet: Phoebe Cary
One sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er;
I am nearer home to-day
Than I ever have been before;
Nearer my Father's house,
Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the great white throne,
Nearer the crystal sea;
Nearer the bound of life.
Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer leaving the cross,
Nearer gaining the crown
But lying darkly between.
Winding down through the nighty
Is the silent, unknown stream,
That leads at last to the light.
Closer and closer my steps
Come to the dread abysm:
Closer Death to my lips
Presses the awful chrism,
O, if my mortal feet
Have almost gained the brink;
If it be I am nearer home
Even to-day than I think;
Father, perfect my trust;
Let my spirit feel in death
That her feet are firmly set
On the rock of a living faith! -
Christmas
Poet: Phoebe Cary
This happy day, whose risen sun
Shall set not through eternity,
This holy day when Christ, the Lord,
Took on Him our humanity,
For little children everywhere
A joyous season still we make;
We bring our precious gifts to them,
Even for the dear child Jesus' sake.
The glory from the manger shed,
Wherein the lowly Saviour lay,
Shines as a halo round the head
Of every human child to-day.
And each unconscious infant sleeps
Entrusted to his guardian care;
Hears his dear name in cradle hymns.
And lisps it in its earliest prayer.
Thou blessed Babe of Bethlehem!
Whose life we love, whose name we laud;
Thou Brother, through whose poverty.
We have become the heirs of God;
Thou sorrowful, yet sinless Man -
Tempted in all things like as we,
Treading with tender, human feet.
The sharp, rough way of Calvary;
We do remember how, by Thee,
The sick were healed, the halting led;
How Thou didst take the little ones
And pour thy blessings on their head.
We know for what unworthy men
Thou once didst deign to toil and live;
What weak and sinful women Thou
Didst love, and pity, and forgive.
And, Lord, if to the sick and poor
We go with generous hearts to-day,
Or in forbidden places seek
For such as wander from the way;
And by our loving words or deeds
Make this a hallowed time to them;
Though we ourselves be found unmeet,
For sin, to touch thy garment's hem;
Wilt Thou not, for thy wondrous grace,
And for thy tender charity.
Accept the good we do to these,
As we had done it unto Thee?
And for the precious little ones.
Here from their native heaven astray
Strong in their very helplessness.
To lead us in the better way;
If we shall make thy natal day
A season of delight to these,
A season always crowded full
Of sweet and pleasant memories;
Wilt Thou not grant us to forget
Awhile our weight of care and pain.
And in their joys, bring back their Joy
Of early innocence again?
O holy Child, about whose bed
The virgin mother softly trod;
Dead once, yet living evermore,
O, Son of Mary, and of God!
If any act that we can do,
If any thought of ours is right,
If any prayer we lift to Thee,
May find acceptance in thy sight.
Hear us, and give to us, to-day,
In answer to our earnest cries.
Some portion of that sacred love,
That drew Thee to us from the skies! -
Amy's Love-Letter
Poet: Phoebe Cary
Turning some papers carelessly
That were hid away in a desk unused,
I came upon something yesterday
O'er which I pondered and mused:
A letter, faded now and dim,
And stained in places, as if by tears;
And yet I had hardly thought of him
Who traced its pages for years.
Though once the happy tears made dim
My eyes, and my blushing cheeks grew hot,
To have but a single word from him.
Fond or foolish, no matter what.
If he ever quoted another's rhymes.
Poor in themselves and commonplace,
I said them over a thousand times.
As if he had lent them a grace.
The single color that pleased his taste
Was the only one I would have, or wear,
Even in the girdle about ray waist
Or the ribbon that bound my hair.
Then my flowers were the self-same kind and hue;
And yet how strangely one forgets -
I cannot think which one of the two
It was, or roses or violets!
But O, the visions I knew and nursed,
While I walked in a world unseen before!
For my world began when I knew him first,
And must end when he came no more.
We would have died for each other's sake,
Would have given all else in the world below;
And we said and thought that our hearts would break
When we parted; years ago.
How the pain as well as the rapture seems
A shadowy thing I scarce recall,
Passed wholly out of my life and dreams,
As though it had never been at all.
And is this the end, and is here the grave
Of our steadfast love and our changeless faith
About which the poets sing and rave,
Naming it strong as death?
At least 'tis what mine has come to at last,
Stript of all charm and all disguise;
And I wonder if, when he thinks of the past,
He thinks we were foolish or wise?
Well, I am content, so it matters not;
And, speaking about him, some one said -
I wish I could only remember what -
But he's either married or dead. -
Song
Poet: Phoebe Cary
Laugh out, O Stream, from your bed of green,
Where you lie in the sun's embrace;
And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean
To touch your dimpled face;
But let your talk be sweet as it will.
And your laughter be as gay.
You cannot laugh as I laugh in my heart,
For my lover will come to-day!
Sing sweet, little bird, sing out to your mate
That hides in the leafy grove;
Sing clear and tell him for him you wait,
And tell him of all your love;
But though you sing till you shake the buds
And the tender leaves of May,
My spirit thrills with a sweeter song.
For my lover must come to-day!
Come up, O winds, come up from the south
With eager hurrying feet,
And kiss your red rose on her mouth
In the bower where she blushes sweet;
But you cannot kiss your darling flower,
Though you clasp her as you may,
As I kiss in my thought the lover dear
I shall hold in my arms to-day! -
Where Dwells My Lord
Poet: Phoebe Cary
Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills,
Recedes, and fades away;
Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills;
Ye gates of death, give way!
My soul is full of whispered song;
My blindness is my sight;
The shadows that I feared so long
Are all alive with light.
The while my pulses faintly beat,
My faith doth so abound,
I feel grow firm beneath my feet
The green, immortal ground.
That faith to me a courage gives,
Low as the grave to go:
I know that ray Redeemer lives -
That I shall live I know.
The palace walls I almost see
Where dwells my Lord and King;
O grave! where is thy victory?
O death! where is thy sting?
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