"GOOD-BYE, my mother!" The brown-haired boy, with merry reverence, Turned from the window where she leant, to meet His holiday companions, blithely bound With bat and ball for healthy English sport. She watched his lithesome form, so slight yet strong, Till, passing from the gate, he waved his cap And vanished. Then she sighed. Beside her sat A friend of years. A different portrait each Who knew her would have drawn, for different traits Shone out in turns as sympathetic gleams Fell on them or flashed out. And few could tell The color of her eyes, or gray or brown, Because the hue was lost in light or shade; Nor if her mouth were large or small, because The play of thought made visible was there, Like shifting rainbows on white foam. Her hair Was dark, and she was rather tall: and this Was all in which most people would agree. Not always sigh for sigh or smile for smile She gave; for now and then fine tact of heart Suggests an opposite as best response, Completing by contrasting, like a scarlet flower With soft green leaves. So with her rippling voice, Like waters that now murmur low, now leap In spray-like laughter, Beatrice replied To Eleanor's low sigh: "When he comes home, How full of cricket stories he will be! 'Tis most amusing when he gives accounts, Sparkling with boyish wit, yet earnestly, As if an empire hung upon the match: Only one needs a glossary of terms! How well he knows the interest with which You hear! I mark, he intersperses all With rough pet names, shy veils of tenderness For his dear mother. Eleanor, I think Your Hubert has not merely head and hand, As all his comrades know, but true heart too, As you alone know fully. Well for him That he has such a heart to meet his own, And well for you; for 'tis a blessed gift, Not shared by all alike -- the power to love: And not less blessed for proportioned pain, Its fiery seal, its royal crown of thorns." "So seems it, Beatrice, to you who find No lurking danger in its concentration, Because you have so many near and dear. Not so to me. I tremble when I think How much I love him; but I turn away From thinking of it, just to love him more; -- Indeed, I fear too much." "Dear Eleanor, Do you love him as much as Christ loves us? Let your lips answer me." "Why ask me, dear? Our hearts are finite, Christ is infinite." "Then, till you reach the standard of that love, Let neither fears nor well-meant warning voice Distress you with 'too much.' For HE hath said -- How much -- and who shall dare to change His measure? -- 'That ye should love AS I have loved you.' Oh, sweet command, that goes so far beyond The mightiest impulse of the tenderest heart! A bare permission had been much: but He Who knows our yearnings and our fearfulness, Chose graciously to bid us do the thing That makes our earthly happiness, and set A limit that we need not fear to pass, Because we cannot. Oh, the breadth, and length, And depth, and height of love that passeth knowledge! Yet Jesus said 'AS I have loved you.'" "O Beatrice, I long to feel the sunshine That this should bring; but there are other words Which fall in chill eclipse. 'Tis written, 'Keep Yourselves from idols.' How shall I obey?" "Dear, not by loving less, but loving more. It is not that we love our precious ones Too much, but God too little. As the lamp A miner bears upon his shadowed brow, Is only dazzling in the grimy dark, And has no glare against the summer sky, So, set the tiny torch of our best love In the great sunshine of the Love of God, And, though full fed and fanned, it casts no shade And dazzles not, o'erflowed with mightier light." She watched, in hope to see the pale lips curve More peacefully in answer to her words. But Eleanor's quick spirit bridged too soon The gap between one ridge of anxious thought And that beyond, to see the glen between, Where pastures green and waters still were spread. So, answering not her friend's thought but her own, She said, "'Tis but half true that love is power; 'Tis sometimes weakness." "Nay! You have not found It thus at all. See how the bold bright boy, Willful and wayward else, will follow prompt The magnet of your wish, with sudden swerve From his own bent or fancy." "That is true, And oh, so sweet to me! But by the power I gauge the weakness. Beatrice, your heart Has ached with longing for some stranger soul That it might flee from danger to the one, The Only Refuge; you have felt keen pain In calling those who will not come to Him Who waits to give them life; but I, I strive For one far more than all the world to me, -- My boy, my only one, and fatherless, Just entering the labyrinth of life Without its only clue, with nothing but My feeble hand to shield from powers of ill. "His mind is opening fast, and I have tried To show the excellency of the knowledge Of Jesus Christ our Lord! he listens well, To please his mother, whom he would not grieve; But never pulse of interest I feel, And echoless the name of Jesus falls, While classic heroes stir him with delight. My boy, my only one! I taught him words, When years ago his tiny feet peeped out From the white nightgown in the nursery hush; And folding firm the busy little hands, He lisped 'Our Father.' But words are not prayer. I put the lamp of life in his small hand, Filling his memory with shining truths And starry promises. He learnt them all For love of me, just as he would have learnt Some uncouth string of barbarous names, Had I so wished: no more. They are no light To him, no strength, no joy. O Beatrice, 'Tis this that presses on my weary heart, And makes it more than widowed. For I know That he who is not lost, but gone before, Is only waiting till I come; for death Has only parted us a little while, And has not severed e'en the finest strand In the eternal cable of our love: The very strain has twined it closer still, And added strength. The music of his life Is nowise stilled, but blended so with songs Around the throne of God, that our poor ears No longer hear it. Hubert's life is mute As yet; and what if all my tuning fail!" And Eleanor looked up among the clouds With weary, wistful eyes, while Beatrice Sent a far-passing glance beyond them all, Beyond the sunshine too. A sudden smile Rose from within and overflowed her lips And made them beautiful. Poor Eleanor Deemed it the herald of some happy thought, Some message, it might be, from God to her, Wrapped in the simple words of friend to friend. We do not always know it when we have The privilege to be God's messengers, Nor who shall be His messengers to us. Unconsciously a pale responsive smile Gleamed out to welcome it, and hardly waned As unexpected change of subject came. "I did not tell you, did I, of my gift, My beautiful AEolian harp?" "Oh, no! I was too full of mine, my boy, and you Too full of ready sympathy with me." "Nay, do not say 'too full,' that could not be, Yours is so great a gift, so great a care! I shall not tire of thinking with you thus, Until I do not love you, which means never. But, as we turn from gazing on the sea To lift admiringly a tiny shell, So you shall turn from your great interest To hear of my AEolian treasure now. Say, have you ever seen one?" "Never, dear; But visible, and almost audible, Your words shall make it." "There's not much to see: Two plain smooth boards, one thick, one very thin, With seven tensioned strings upon the under, Just covered by the upper, and a space That you might lay a finger in between. Yet one can almost reverence the thing For very marvel at its spirit tones And mysteries of music that we love But cannot understand." "But tell me more, Dear Beatrice: what is its music like? Whence comes it? and what does it say to you?" "Tis easier to answer what and whence Than your third question, for not twice I hear the same soul-message from its strings. But I will tell you of the first it brought; Your heart will follow mine, and trace the underthought. I. "A friend, a kind, dear friend, Gave me this harp, that should be all my own, That it might speak to me in twilight lone When other sounds were fled; that it might send Sweet messages of calming, cheering might, Sweet sudden thrills of strange and exquisite delight. II. "Upon the strings I laid my hand, And all were tuned in unison; one tone Was yielded by the seven, one alone, In quick obedience to my touch-command. It could not be that this was all he meant Of promised music, when my little harp was sent. III. "To win the tones I found the way In his own letter, mine before the gift; 'You cannot wake its music till you lift The closed sash. Take up and gently lay Your harp where it may meet the freshening air, Then wait and listen.' This I did, and left it there. IV. "I waited till the sun had set, And twilight fell upon the autumn sea; I watched and saw the north wind touch a tree, Dark outlined on the paling gold, and yet My harp was mute. I cried, 'Awake, O north! Come to my harp, and call its answering music forth.' V. "Like stars that tremble into light Out of the purple dark, a low, sweet note Just trembled out of silence, antidote To any doubt; for never finger might Produce that note, so different, so new: Melodious pledge that all he promised should come true. VI. "It seemed to die; but who could say Whether or when it passed the border-line 'Twixt sound and silence? for no ear so fine That it can trace the subtle shades away; Like prism-rays prolonged beyond our ken, Like memories that fade, we know not how or when. VII. "Then strange vibrations rose and fell, Like far sea-murmurs blending in a dream With madrigals, whose fairy singers seem Now near, now distant; and a curfew bell, Whose proper tone in one air-filling crowd Of strong harmonics hides, as in a dazzling cloud. VIII. "Then delicately twining falls Of silvery chords that quiver with sweet pain, And melt in tremulous minors, mount again, Brightening to fullest concords, calm recalls, And measured pulsings, soft, and sweet, and slow, Which emphasizing touch love's quiet underglow. IX. "A silence. Then a solemn wail, Swelling far up among the harmonies, And shattering the crystal melodies To fleeting fragments glisteringly pale, Yet only to combine them all anew By resolutions strange, yet always sweet and true. X. "Anon a thrill of all the strings; And then a flash of music, swift and bright, Like the first throb of weird Auroral light. Then crimson coruscations from the wings Of the Pole-Spirit; then ecstatic beat, As if an angel-host went forth on shining feet. XI. "Soon passed the sounding starlit march, And then one swelling note grew full and long, While, like a far-off old cathedral song, Through dreamy length of echoing aisle and arch, Float softest harmonies around, above, Like flowing chordal robes of blessing and of love. XII. "Thus, while the holy stars did shine And listen, these AEolian marvels breathed; While love and peace and gratitude enwreathed With rich delight in one fair crown were mine. The wind that bloweth where it listeth brought This glory of harp-music, -- not my skill or thought." She ceased. Then Eleanor looked up, And said, "O Beatrice, I too have tried My finger-skill in vain. But opening now My window, like wise Daniel, I will set My little harp therein, and listening wait The breath of heaven, the Spirit of our God." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TEMPTRESS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE SOWER AND HIS SEED by WILLIAM EDWARD HARTPOLE LECKY THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER by ALEXANDER POPE AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN REDBEAST by SAMUEL ROGERS CITY ROOFS by CHARLES HANSON TOWNE |