The morning watch: a narrative ...

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MORNING WATCH

^ Naivalibc.

Say to them that are of n fearful heart Be strong , fear not.

I

In silence and sadness, cometh the Night ; In joy and gladness, cometh the Night ; In glory, majesty, and might,

Cometh the Night !

But tell me again : what of the Night ? Has it a look of calm delight ? Are the watchers out ? are the winds asleep ? How looks the sky ? what saith the deep ?

Silently the Night comes on :

The first of the moon and last of the sun

Are blended that they seem but one ; 1*

The stars are few that out of the blue The high and scattering haze look through ; But a small white cloud, its plumes scarce

stirr'd, Lies afloat below like a white-wing'd bird, Where up and down from the quiet sea The lightning playeth noiselessly. The little white cloud would be at rest, It hath couched its head and smooth'd its

breast, But sleepeth not ; for aye and ever

And whithersoever.

As willeth the wind, it fain must do. Falling away like a ship hove-to ; And momently, as it falls away, The voiceless thought of the busy day Around its weary head doth play. Thus of the Night : the stars are few, The scattering haze it hides the blue ;

The sea is murmuring deep, not loud,

The hghtning plays with the little white cloud,

And only the voices, gentle and meet

For the ear of the Night will the wind repeat ;

For the wind it cometh from there-away,

And only this has the wind to say :

The Night comes silently.

What more of the Night? Has it a power To shadow forth the changeless hour — The midnight-hour of a night to some. Whose morning light shall never come ? What saith the Night ?

Silent and voiceless, answering not, But wdth a noiseless step, like one Whose eye thou durst not look upon, Oh ! fearfully the Night comes on !

For out of the darkness and the gloom Shall come to thee in thy lonely room, The secret thought and vision of dread : And forms of the living, with looks of the dead. Shall rise about thy desolate bed ; And fearful words be whispered there Of a Night whose endless watches are Ever in darkness and despair ; And ever changing, ever the same, Remorse, and terror, and guilt, and shame ; Ever the same, the vision of dread. Ever the same, the face of the dead, And ever the same, and over all, Speechless, hopeless, like a pall, The look of woe unutterable !

Look yet once more, and let thine eye Soar upward and beyond the sky.

Comes there a morning ever bright,

A morning of Eternal Light !

What of the stars that gem the Night ?

Messengers they, come down to say. That God's bright Heaven lies there-away ! Oh ! gently and kindly the Night cometh on ; Like unto one who waiteth upon The sick and the dying, the weary and sad ; One whose coming shall make thee glad ! For till the morrow the cares that press And weigh thee down with weariness, The doubt and fear which are ever near In a life which is but sad at best ; The wordless grief and fruitless quest, And trouble and sorrow — shall he at rest ; And the beautiful Night shall bring to thee A promise of that which soon shall be ; The vision of a happier home,

Where care and sorrow shall never come. For in glory, and power, and wisdom, and

might, Like the presence of God, cometh the Night !

It is enough. It is the home I seek, Fair as the light upon yon mountain peak. How sharp the line that cuts it from beneath, As from a world of shadows and of death ! How calmly, grandly, in his place so high, The towering headland sits beneath the sky ! Oh, sunlight, playing on the mountain's brow. Would I were pure as thou !

Oh, mountain- top, with thy one crowning

palm.

Would I as thou were calm !

Oh, sunset glory, would I might with thee Thus, day by day, go bless the rounded world, Walking upon the Highlands of the earth,

And ever in thy light baptized be ; And as we hnger on each mountain height, Unto the darkness that we leave below, The pain and sorrow, weariness and woe. As gently leave our kind " Good night. Goodnight!"

Thus spake the Traveller on the rock so high,

So like a picture on the sky ;

The rock that overhangs the sea ;

When suddenly,

As though some hidden train

Of thought had flashed upon his brain.

He rose, and with uplifted hands, cried he,

" Oh, God ! stay Thou the Night !—

Stay thou the rushing Night, or grant me

Power to wing my flight

To travel on with yon bright sun ! —

Oh, God ! stay thou the Night !"

Will the Night stay for him ? and will The old moon halt upon meridian, And sunrise in the west roll up the hill, And tarry, as of old, on Ascalon ?

Look, how the light upon his face Reveals through lines of thought and care, And look expectant, but resigned, the trace Of something other, — not despair. But mightier — which, far within, Down crushing all the might of sin. Dwells calmly on the struggle there !

Will the Night stay ? Lo, the sunlight slowly, But with an even step, rounds up the

mountain-top.

Glowing and rapt, as some pure thing and holy, Bound up and homeward, ere Night's curtain

drop,

THE M O R N I N li W A I C II . \1

Till now is left but one small, I'osy spot, Close to the heavens — and now again — 'tis not!

But in its stead, comes from the hill,

And from the waters, and the stars.

As through dungeon-bars —

In one quick wave, — the gloom — the chill

Of Night — Night — the all-surrounding Night !

And on, on, the Night moves on —

Ever and ever towards the sun :

Westward, ho ! the Night doth go.

And the little white cloud is following slow

Westward, ho ! the Night doth go,

And the pale white stars are following slow !

Then said that voice which spake with him before, —

What more, oh, Traveller! would'st thou

with the day ?

Its pleasant hours were here — and passed

away.

All things move on — what would'st thou

with the day ?

And looking up, he answered not, but said, —

It is enough — the stars will go with me — My old companions, they are not yet dim ! And the soft wind that comes up from the sea, The gentle wind and stars will go with me — With the same silent footfall, we Will press on to our destiny !

But whither would'st thou go, oh Traveller ! Who hast companions with the far-off stars ?

And still he answered not again,

But sinking to the ground, as if in pain,

A sudden and convulsive tremor shook

His old worn limbs, as in a book

The leaves a wind doth play with — then

with a look Not sad, but tempered, as with joy, he said,

It may be that my journey's end is near, That even now — this night — my travel here — Whate'er my home may be, beyond this

shore, Amid the untravelled worlds — shall cease

and be no more!

No more to rest by whispering tree or

stream In meadow-lawns, for music to my dreams^ — No more go up the valley-aisles that lead To the hill-altars of the Lord Most High,

And in the motions of the lone stars read The path that I must take adown the

western sky.

But the night wears : — thou hast ask'd me why I love the sunlight better than the Night.

Dost see the two large stars that in the sun's

wake lie, Where the low tide-wave drifts upon the sky ? Look now they dip and flash, — and now go

down Each with its troop of happy worlds around ; But sightless in the distance infinite ! Those stars and worlds, thou knowest, will

come again, And in their place in Heaven bring as bright And pure a glory, as they wear to-night, — Look now, far eastward, where above the

plain

The mountain-range lies dark ; — Lo ! other

two As bright and glorious, with as much to do, And with a path, in Heaven, fair as they — Dashing their Hght broad-cast Upon their else-dark worlds, roll lightly on

their way.

And thus the Heavens are round, and fail

not any- where ; But ever, in all time, each in its path of air, The bright and everlasting stars are there ! Thus heaven-around, or waking, or asleep. Oh in safe arms we sail the glittering deep ; For since Creation's morn, no blank hath

been above, And we are good friends, all, — and over all

is Love !

But listen to the sea-bird coming home

From his long day amid the spray and foam. Is there no sadness in that sharp shrill cry ? He's coming to his home ; — his little ones

are nigh ; And now, if ever, should his joy be great. Ah ! doubtless in his wanderings far and late, The sea-bird knoweth pain, and weariness, And cold, and hunger, grief, and love's

distress, For who shall tell him that his young ones be All safe as when at morn he left them for

the sea ?

But thou hast ask'd me whither I would go, — If thou would'st hear the history of one, Whose life — amid the crowd that day by day

press on The self-same way, — is rare in only this ; That it is seldom pictur'd to the world ;

TKE MORNING WATCn. 23

Whose only prayer is peace, — and whose

high hope is In a loftier fame ; — then listen now ; And if pure thoughts of prayer, and lifting

words Of praise, have strengthen 'd with thee from

a boy ; So that thy happy life, like some sweet bird's, Hath been all rich with music and with joy ; —

Thank God, — and mock not me ! And if thus living, safely housed within The strong church walls, set free from death

and sin ; If thou within the golden gates canst look And read within the Everlasting Book Thy name there written ; Thank thou the most High God — and judge

not me.

And turning Eastwaixi, — his dark eyes Gleaming like light in tropic skies, 'Twas thus spake he.

II

There is a small deeji sea, Mountain-surrounded, save where southward through The cleft-hills you may see far down the blue Of the outer ocean ; likewise the light Of high, calm riding seas, uplifted like white Hands in benediction — tropic seas, Midway the Persian and the Bengalese — That roll in flush, and warm, And broad-lunged, as from some late storm ; Some headlong fray, or Ocean-carnival, Upon the borders equatorial, Amid the Ocean-Pampas, where all Life glows full and tense ; and from the poles. Poised equally, the balanced world rolls

Down the deeps, sunward for ever,

Smiting the ether, as a blade the air —

But here, within

The everlasting hills, and from the din

A haven found, a rest at last made sure.

And home so quiet by the grassy shore.

The weary seas, far-travelled, sail no more.

Oh, very beautiful is that quiet sea ! Calm as a child on bended knee, That whether waking or half-sleeping, Trusts so surely in God's keeping ; Murmuring its great thanks so lowly, Yet urging its warm love so boldly ; Pausing with the low " Amen,"

To whisper to its God, " Good night !" As to some friend 'twill see again, And welcome with the morning light !

THE MOKNING WATCH. 27

Far inland, in the billowy tract

Of mountains crowding to the sky,

Is heard a wondrous cataract,

Loud calling to the outer sea ;

Like thunder, when the clouds run high —

In broken speech of pomps and wars.

And of the generations born,

Since first, with all the morning stars,

It shouted at Creation's morn ;

As a dreamer tells in his troubled sleep.

Solemnly tells himself, as news,

The strange and wonderful things he does.

Silently, upon the mountains,

Up above the gleaming fountains,

As on the battlements and walls

Of some huge fort, like sentinels,

In their light ranks the white clouds stand,

And in a circle belt the land ;

And mostly is the air so still,

You hear but only from the hill

The fountain's leap, and from the sea

The deep tone of its lullaby :

Or the grand movement, deep and hoarse,

Of the Cataract's discourse.

And every day the crimson rise

And silver setting of the sun,

Play up and down the sapphire skies,

Until the golden day is done ;

For all between, the air, the sky,

The mountains dim, the sounding sea,

And sentry clouds, dwell peacefully.

But we who lived within that land Were but as children on a strand. Whom shells, and grasses, and wild flowers, Led wandering through the dreamy hours ;

And whose so happy Hfe was all made up Of but one mixture, brimming all the cup ; A wonder — a sweet wonder at all things, Fresh every morning ; as a bird that sings And newly ever, an unwritten melody ; And, with a guess, which was a prophecy, A feeling as of joy that everywhere Flew, like a living thing, through all the

summer air!

Then, of the sun, to know that it was warm, And of the lightning that it brought the storm, And of the gold and silver clouds, that they Had fashions of their own, and pass'd away, — All this seem'd quite enough, for children at

their play.

Now in those days, one morning glorious, An old grey man came down the mountainside.

And from the lands beyond the seas,

The Headlands of the Earth, where night

broods wide.

And crimson-lighted, as o'er Hebrides, — Brought down the glad news of a God in

Heaven !

The High and Holy One, To whom, of old, all majesty was given ; In whom hath been, and is, and shall be ever. The joy, and glory, of all things for ever !

Then suddenly, but slowly, a most rare And graspless beauty, — fused thro' all the air — Folded itself about the rounded world ; Which, ever looking unto Him above, Roll'd in still glories wondering as a child, And comely like a countenance made fair, And radiantly beautiful with love ! Then, day by day, the crimson rise,

And silver setting of the sun,

Were as Angels in the Skies,

From that High and Holy One ;

Angels two, who from on high.

Brought down our morning to the sky,

And when its light was dimm'd, and far

In the blue Heaven flashed the star,

The first bright star of the evening, —

Long-lingering above the west.

With faces mute and sad, but peaceful still,

and bless'd, Rais'd slow their fading wings, and bore it

to its rest !

Upon the margin of that sea, Where closely down the grass was green. And bright with scented blossoms, she Who was the glory of that scene, Look'd daily in my eyes, to read

32 THE MORNING -VTATCH.

What those two Angels said to me ;

And daily as their flashing feet,

Upon the mountains, far and fleet,

Stepp'd light and free ;

She went dowai to the water's brim,

And in the first light pale and dim,

Kneeling upon the snowy sands,

With low sweet voice, and clasped hands.

She asked of Him,

Who giveth all things unto prayer,

Whose angels ever are at hand

With good gifts from that spirit land —

That as the sunlight, and the air.

And fruit, and flowers, every-where.

Were pure, and fair ; — ^her life might be.

As fair and pure, continually.

But mostly for her child, prayed she,

That God would care for him alway.

And lead him in His perfect way.

And whatsoever of alloy,

Were mingled in her song of praise,

Or pain, and suffering, and disease,

And waking nights, and weary days ;

Still would it be a song of joy,

If a kind Father would protect her boy.

But thou art merciful, she said, and wise,

Oh guide thou all his destinies !

Not this world's fame I ask for him.

Or power, or place, or length of days ;

But give him strength, pure thoughts, and

praise.

And make his great heart in all things

Constant in giving, — as a fountain flings

Sweet waters momently.

But if the time shall be,

When he no more will hearken unto Thee ;

Follow no more thy counsels ; and astray,

His feet go down that way, 2*

Which leadeth unto darkness and the grave ;

And there be none to save ;

And then amid the shoutings and the strife,

And rushing of the wheels of life,

Shadows, terrible and dim,

Fold round him, till he see no more

The beacon on the far-off shore, —

Fold round him, and no angel stay

His quick step down that starless way.

Oh, Father ! let me die for him ! —

Let him not die ! — but in that day.

Oh, let me die for him !

Thus daily on the marbled beach, The morning and the evening each, Were hallowed ; and every day The two fair angels seemed to say, That strength was in that prayer, which would not pass away.

And often when the cooling east

Grew dark with shadows, and the grey

Of twilight melted into night,

Hushing the noises of the day ;

While the great voice of the cataract rang,

Deeper and louder, among the hills :

This song she sang — An ancient legend handed on From a distant generation.

Of a bright country — a far away country — A beautiful country, over the sea !

Have I told you of that happy land,

Far over the hills away — Far over the seas and mountains.

Where they say it is always day ?

Never the night shuts in that country, Or cometh the gloaming grey ;

But the day shines on for ever. In that coimtry far away.

All the golden hours of morning, Chiming ever the same sweet lay.

Singing of morning, morning only, In that country far away.

Oh my life is full of joy, As my heart is full alway ;

But often still I'm thinking Of that country far away.

The night is very beautiful, But more beautiful the day ;

Oh ! I think that God must live there. In that country far away.

Is there sorrow in that land ? Are there weary hearts, I pray ?

Do they seek for death, I ask you, In that country far away ?

There is no sorrow in that land,

And all weary hearts they say. Shall find rest, and joy, and peace.

In that country far away.

But unto him came other messengers.

And other voices, now, than her's,

And other white arms gleaming 'neath the

firs.

And unto him came sweet tones low, And hushed as with a weight of wo. Which they would hide — that weight of wo, And made a music in his ears.

Which rang through all the coming years. And they who sang, with faces veil'd (Half-veil'd faces, that were paled

And wan, with all that weight of wo),

Came gently to him in his dreams, —

Came sitting by the mountain streams, —

Came suddenly (as might arise

A vision from a world below).

With clasping hands and meaning eyes,

With strange light beaming, as from skies,

Whose angels are not God's — whose day

And night have been for ever

Dashed together ;

And dashed together, mingle never,

But ever each the other sunders,

And white lightnings, and quick thunders.

Fight the wintry weather !

Thus they gazed upon him, waking From a vision of their making ; And about him and around him Twining, with their white arms bound him,

And about him and around him,

With white orange-blossoms crowned him,

And Uke children, hand in hand,

Eastward o'er the fading strand,

They led him from his father's land.

But ere he reached the utmost range — The border range of that countree, Sloping downward to the sea.

He turned for one last look, before He passed for ever from that shore, A land which he might see no more ! The two bright angels in the west, They had gone up to their rest ; Their sweet faces were not there, And darkness gathered in the air !

But in their stead,

The white light of a single star,

(Small and dimly burnished,

In the mid-heaven buried far)

Came down through the quivering deep.

And wander'd as in sleep !

As to a house of death, The Night came softly ! scarce a breath Was on the waters, — and so clear. And still, the cloud-hung atmosphere. The soft voice, and the under-tone Of the small sea, and Ocean's moan, Were music separate, and alone! But he who look'd upon that scene. Saw not the buried star in Heaven ; Saw not the wild flowers on the green ; Heard not the music given ; But long he gazed, and fixedly. Where in the distance seem'd to be, A figure clad in robes of white,

Upon the margin of the sea.

A figure clad in robes of white

(Looking as an Angel might),

Who folding close each marble hand,

Knelt lowly on the glistening sand,

And with still pale lips rais'd to Heaven,

Look'd up, as to a brighter land !

Long and fixedly, he gazed Down upon that face uprais'd ; Then turning suddenly, — as one Who chooses madness, — as a stone, For one who is an-hunger'd — lone, (Oh all alone, for God went not) With only in his Heaven, the light Of that one star, so pale and deep, — His quick steps, wandering as in sleep, Lost! Lost! he fled within the Nisht!

III. Into that world wherein the quick and dead

Meet daily, but no word is said ;

No greeting, no warm shaking of the hands,

No orders, no commands ;

For look you, what is this man now ?

What good is he ? The chili is on his brow,

And all his heart is still.

Hath he not lived his day ? —

Take him away !

Into that world, which whoso entereth Receives upon his brow the mark of death ; But liveth for a space, and dies not utterly ; Where only of its own are strife, And all the bitterness of life.

And mocking hopes and sundered friends

(For all that's good God sends),

That world where faith, and truth,

And falsehood, fight for ever, fled the youth.

Not as the dead he entered there, Shut down beneath the coffin's lid, And wrapt about in his last shroud ; No train of mourners followed, Or funeral pomp, or wailings loud. This world-bound traveller ; No solemn prayers were said : He was not dead.

Oh, not as the dead he entered there ! Rather like one who everywhere Stands as a land-mark on the earth ; One of great deeds or noble birth, Or one who hath broad lands.

And giveth orders and commands ; For open arms and grasping hands Met and received him there.

Many and swift the years have sped Since that bright morning when they met, And down the gUttering pathway led The wanderer from his home.

Oh, fair-haired traveller ! well do I Remember thee and thy bright look. Child of the mountain-valley, Mate of the mountain-brook, For thou and I were one that day. But now the silver and the grey Of the swift-rounding years, doth lay Upon a pale, cold brow : There is no likeness now.

We had come down from a high land ;

(Thou, boy, and I) from a mountain land.

Where faith, and hope, and charity,

Walked daily with us hand-in-hand.

In the hope of immortality.

From thence all downward was the path,

Hanging the mountain's brow around.

And winding as a stair.

Which some huge shaft

Goes darkling down, .

To the broad lands of one who hath

The power and the dominion there.

A dim and shadowy land !

A sad and sorrowing land !

For vice and fear, remorse and wrath.

Are the companions there.

Oh ! let me not stain my lips to tell

The secrets of that hell.

God knoweth that the heavens are fair,

And all the round world beautiful ; But man without His Spirit, where, Oh Heaven, is the home for him ?

Tell me not now of golden skies,

And gardens fair as Paradise ;

And hope, and man's high destinies.

This tell me not, for now I see

Beneath a bright and azure sky

In a land that might be Paradise —

A vast and mighty host arise.

Where ranks of armed men amid,

The brazen mouths of war are hid,

And crest, and helm, and tossing plume.

Their quick flash dimly doth illume.

And the met armies of the world

(Bodies and souls of mortal men)

Mingle, and curse, and die ! Not yet hath curl'd

The smoke above that place of battle ;

But I see

(Oh God, too well) Famine, and Plague, and Misery ! And other fiends, which scarcely Hell Will welcome to their place again. I hear the struggle, and the rattle Of man's last agony : And see the clench'd hand grasping there Hate, and terror, and despair !

Ah ! dost thou not hear A shriek leap through the atmosphere, A million voices as in one ?

Dost thou not hear it out upon The broad old Heavens, uprising from A land in bondage, where they cry, " Help, save us or we die !"

Again, again, that long, wild cry, " Help, save us or we die."

Oh Christ, who heareth prayer, When shall theirs be the victory,

The many, and down-trodden ; they Who bear the burden of the day ?

Oh cheer and strengthen them, alway, And let them not despair :

Band them, the millions, all as one In the great might of unison ;

And with them, let thy right arm fight

The Battle of the Right ! /

Oh Christ, who heareth prayer, Thou knowest how the whole earth travaileth, And reeleth, with the shock Of war, and pestilence, and death ! Even the Heavens seem to mock At us, as prayers were wasted breath : Thou seest the dawning on the hill ; When shall be done thy will,

Oh when shall morning come ?

This is not home.

Oh let us not despair.

I listen — and a soft voice saith

" Peace — peace : the harvest is not past ;

The Summer is not ended yet.

But now behold one cometh,

My servant, whom I send

That there may be one mightier

Than hate, or vengeance, or despair ;

The angel's name is Death.

Oh is he not fair to see ?

Ailing art thou, outcast, and poor ?

He will not mock at thee, Nor do thee harm.

He hath the keys

That shall unlock for thee

Life's mysteries. 3

Fear not — trust thou his arm. Scorned of the world, And outcast, — thou shalt uplifted be And put on robes of immortality !"

Thou world, that like old Nineveh,

Art slowly buried, day by day :

Whose white sands rolling, death-bells tolling,

Tell of the same sure destiny :

" Ok, is he not fair to see ?"

Even while thy palace walls are gay

With paint, as for an holiday,

Lowly art thou buried,

And sittest meekly with the dead ;

And when the sands have drifted o'er

Thy painted chambers, as before.

Other pale and outworn faces,

Come up, seeking for the places.

Where they may rest and toil no more.

■r H 15 M O 11 N I N G WATCH. 51

So above thy palaces,

Wherein now no malice is,

Or trouble more, but eyelids closely press'd,

And folded hands, and slumber, and calm rest ;

So above thy palaces,

Where all pomp and glory is

(For there must be room,

Always, for the tomb),

Building deep, and broad, and strong.

As for a race that will hold it long ;

The ancient, pale-fac'd, outcast race,

They raise their last, still, dwelling-place.

There in marble beds they sleep. While above, the heavens are deep, And around, the white sands creep, And above, the warm winds sweep,

And night-dews weep.

Oh ! strong and mighty in that still place,

Each with his cold and ashen face, Is that ancient, outcast race !

But thou shalt arise, oh world ! one day

As by the breath of God! then shalt thou see

The paintings on thy palaces —

All whose beauty and glory is

Only in darkness and decay —

Like mist-lines fade away !

Even as old Nineveh,

In her palmiest day;

Lived I that thrice-accursed life ;

'Till now a feeling, as of doom,

Hung everywhere its cloud of gloom,

The herald of a bitter strife ;