CHARITY
[Written in a friend’s book of autographs, 1876.]
Bear and forbear, I counsel thee,
Forgive and be forgiven,
For Charity is the golden key
That opens the gate of heaven.
SAILOR-BOY’S SONG
Away, away, o’er the bounding sea
My spirit flies like a gull;
For I know my Mary is watching for me,
And the moon is bright and full.
She sits on the rock by the sounding shore,
And gazes over the sea;
And she sighs, “Will my sailor-boy come no more?
Will he never come back to me?”
The moonbeams play in her raven hair;
And the soft breeze kisses her brow;
But if your sailor-boy, love, were there,
He would kiss your sweet lips I trow.
And mother—she sits in the cottage-door;
But her heart is out on the sea;
And she sighs, “Will my sailor-boy come no more?
Will he never come back to me?”
Ye winds that over the billows roam
With a low and sullen moan,
O swiftly come to waft me home;
O bear me back to my own.
For long have I been on the billowy deep,
On the boundless waste of sea;
And while I sleep there are two who weep,
And watch and pray for me.
When the mad storm roars till the stoutest fear
And the thunders roll over the sea,
I think of you, Mary and mother dear,
For I know you are thinking of me.
Then blow, ye winds, for my swift return;
Let the tempest roar o’er the main;
Let the billows yearn and the lightning burn;
They will hasten me home again.
MY DEAD
Last night in my feverish dreams I heard
A voice like the moan of an autumn sea,
Or the low, sad wail of a widowed bird,
And it said—“My darling, come home
to me.”
Then a hand was laid on my throbbing head—
As cold as clay, but it soothed my pain:
I wakened and knew from among the dead
My darling stood by my coach again.
DUST TO DUST
Dust to dust: Fall and perish love and lust: Life is one brief autumn day; Sin and sorrow haunt the way To the narrow house of clay, Clutching at the good and just: Dust to dust.
Dust to dust:
Still we strive and toil and trust,
From the cradle to the grave:
Vainly crying, “Jesus, save!”
Fall the coward and the brave,
Fall the felon and the just:
Dust to dust.
Dust to dust:
Hark, I hear the wintry gust;
Yet the roses bloom to-day,
Blushing to the kiss of May,
While the north winds sigh and say:
“Lo we bring the cruel frost—
Dust to dust.”
Dust to dust:
Yet we live and love and trust,
Lifting burning brow and eye
To the mountain peaks on high:
From the peaks the ages cry,
Strewing ashes, rime and rust:
“Dust to dust!”