Ada Cambridge: Verses about Work

The red-rose flush fades slowly in the west.
The golden water, basking in the light,
Pales to clear amber and to silver white.
The velvet shadow of a flame-crowned crest
Lies dark and darker on its shining breast,
Till lonely mere and isle and mountain-height
Grow dim as dreams in tender mist of night,
And all is tranquil as a babe at rest.

So still! So calm! Will our life's eve come thus?
No sound of strife, of labour or of pain,
No ring of woodman's axe, no dip of oar.
Will work be done, and night's rest earned, for us?
And shall we wake to see sunrise again?
Or shall we sleep, to see and know no more?

Poor, staggering brute, whom one and all disdain!
Maybe 'twas outraged Nature bade him slake
His thirst like this — to still the gnawing ache
Of weary bones that else would ache in vain.
Maybe crushed spirit and stagnating brain
Only in this delirious fever wake
To transient joys of fancy that can take
The sting from want, the bitterness from pain.

Punish the drunkard! Confiscate the bowl!
But give fair wage for work, give health and hope
To check the waste that calls for such repair;
Give food to toil- worn body and starved soul,
And give the pinched imagination scope
For sensuous pleasure in a purer air.

The dawn of God’s dear Sabbath
Breaks o’er the earth again,
As some sweet summer morning
After a night of pain;
It comes as cooling showers
To some exhausted land,
As shade of clustered palm trees
’Mid weary wastes of sand.

Lord, we would bring for offering
Though marred with earthly soil,
Our week of earnest labor,
Of useful daily toil;
Fair fruits of self denial,
Of strong, deep love to Thee,
Fostered by Thine own Spirit
In our humility.

And, we would bring our burden
Of sinful thought and deed,
In Thy pure presence kneeling,
From bondage to be freed;
Our heart’s most bitter sorrow
For all Thy work undone;
So many talents wasted!
So few bright laurels won!

And with that sorrow mingling,
A steadfast faith, and sure,
And love so deep and fervent,
That tries to make it pure;
In His dear presence finding
The pardon that we need;
And then the peace so lasting,
Celestial peace indeed!

“Thou waterest her furrows, thou sendest rain into the little valleys
thereof; thou makest it soft with the drops of rain, and blessest the increase
of it.”

Fret not thyself so sorely, heart of mine,
For that the pain hath roughly broke thy rest,—
That thy wild flowers lie dead upon thy breast,
Whereon the cloud-veiled sun hath ceased to shine.

Fret not that thou art seam'd and scarr'd and torn;
That clods are piled where tinted vetches were;
That long worms crawl to light, and brown rifts, bare
Of green and tender grasses, widely yawn.

God's hand is on the plough—so be thou still.
Thou canst not see Him, for thine eyes are dim;
But wait in patience, put thy trust in Him;
Give thanks for love, and leave thee to His will.

Ah! in due time the lowering clouds shall rain
Soft drops on my parch'd furrows; I shall sow
In tears and prayers, and green corn-blades will grow;
I shall not wish the wild flowers back again.

I shall be glad that I did work and weep—
Be glad, O God! my slumbering soul did wake—
Be glad my stubborn heart did heave and break
Beneath the plough—when angels come to reap.

Be glad, O Father! that my land was till'd
And sown and water'd, in the harvest-day
When Thou wilt cast the weeds and tares away,
And when with ripen'd fruit Thy barns are fill'd.

Keep me my faith, I pray. I cannot see,
And fear to intermeddle with Thy work.
Oh, though I wince and fret, I would not shirk
The discipline that is so good for me!

I know that Thou wilt make my grief to cease,
Wilt send the cool, soft drops of healing rain,
And make my scarred heart green with springing grain,
That after patient waiting cometh peace;

That after beautiful labour I shall rest,
And after weeping have my fill of joy.
Thou breakest down to build up, not destroy;
Thou doest right, O Lord! Thou knowest best.

Is it a will-o'-the-wisp, or is dawn breaking,
That our horizon wears so strange a hue?
Is it but one more dream, or are we waking
To find that dreams, at last, are coming true?

Aye, surely, in that golden glimmer streaking
The cloudy sky-line of the life of man,
We see the blessed day he has been seeking
In all directions since the world began.

Sign to each struggling and exhausted nation
Of hope fulfilled, redemption and release;
Sign of the end of needless tribulation,
And the beginning of the reign of Peace.

Country with country, brother with his brother,
Content to share, and not to grab and steal;
Ceasing the wild-beast battle, each with other,
To work in concert for the common weal.

No class-strife more, neighbour with differing neighbour;
No waste or want, to breed the plague of crime;
No soul-debasing pomp and sordid labour,
No wars, no famines, in the coming time!

But swords of slaughter - valour and brains and money -
Turned into ploughshares for the lands redeemed,
To fill men's homes, as full as hives of honey,
With wealth unknown and happiness undreamed.

Great Art no more the plaything of the idle,
But nurse and minister to every need;
Nature no longer cowed with bit and bridle;
Conscience enfranchised and Religion freed.

All round our darksome isle the tide encroaches,
Distant and dim as yet, but spreading fast.
The reign of Love and Liberty approaches!
The heirs are coming to their own at last!
. . . . .

Hark! What was that? The vanquished devil howling,
With guns and bombs, for brother devil's blood?
The primal savage out again - befouling
All this fair promise with his primal mud?

Alas! So soon to see our lovely morning
Back in the hopeless night whence it arose,
And have no time to wait another dawning!
O Lord, how long - how long . . . . . . . .

“And unto Adam He said . . . . cursed is the ground for thy sake. Thorns . .
. . shall it bring forth.”
“And the soldiers platted a crown of thorns, and put it on His head.”

In bitterest sorrow did the ground bring forth
Its fatal seed. Thine eyes beheld the birth—
Beheld the travail of accursèd earth;
E'en then, O Lord! in greater love than wrath!

Thou sawest the sin that none could gather out—
The vineyard cover'd with the thorn and briar;
Thou sawest the fair land ready for the fire—
And still Thy pity compass'd it about.

Thou, O most merciful! didst spare the brand;
Thou didst redeem the Paradise of God;
The thorns were rooted from the stubborn sod,
In pain and toil, by Thine own blessèd hand.

How was our path to heaven o'ergrown with sin—
Bramble, and thistle, and the poisonous weed!
Though hearts should break, and patient feet should bleed,
And strive and struggle, none could walk therein.

And Thou didst call us when we went astray—
Didst make our high road straight for evermore;
And, for our guidance, passèd on before,
Leaving Thy shining footprints in the way.

Still do the wild thorns hedge us round about;
Still grow the thistles from the ancient stock;
Still trails the bramble on the blasted rock—
But we can dig, and Thou wilt pull them out.

Ay, we can work—oh, help us in the strife!
Labour is sweet, for Thou dost share it now.
And we shall eat, in sweat of furrow'd brow,
Not earthly food, but Thine own Bread of Life.

And there are thorns of suffering left behind—
Sorrow and loss—that weigh our courage down;
But, ah! we know Thy sacramental crown
Was made of sin and sorrow, intertwined.

Give us of Thy sweet patience, Lord, we pray.
We would not spurn them with rebellious kicks,
Nor fret and strive, for Thou canst feel the pricks;
We too would wear them as a crown for aye.

We would put on Thy likeness—we, the least
And most unworthy. Ay, each piercing thorn,
In Thy name patiently and meekly worn,
Shall bear a blossom for the bridal feast.

Look down, O Brother with the yearning eyes!
Behold us kneeling at Thy bitter cross!
Grant us a share in all Thine earthly loss,
That we may share Thy gain in Paradise.

O weary Head! we see Thee drooping now
Beneath that diadem of mortal pain:
We see Thee sprinkled with the scarlet stain;—
Drop down the chrism on our polluted brow!

O sacred Head!—pale, beautiful, benign—
On our heads be Thy precious blood, we cry!
Lo, the destroying angel, passing by,
Shall spare to smite us—reverencing the sign.

“He asked life of thee, and thou gavest him a long life, even for ever and ever.”

Life—length of days—the time to work and strive
In his Lord's vineyard; to bring heavenly light
Into the drear, dark places of the earth,
And make them fair and fruitful in His sight.

Life—it seem'd all so bright and beautiful once!
It lay spread out before his kindling eyes,
A land of sunny hills, in white mist veil'd,
Of sweet green valleys under summer skies.

Such tender light and tender shadows there!
No dazzling blaze, no savage blots of gloom,
No keen-cut outline of the barren cliff,
No glaring waste,—but all one gentle bloom

Of happy, innocent hope,—a morning tint
Of pearly grey and gold, with just a shade
Of bright cloud-colour, giving life to it,—
He saw not then the havoc death had made.

But soon the white mist melted in the heat
Of noonday, and the wasted fields lay bare—
Vineyard of Eden—like a bright face, scarred
With sin and shame and weariness and care.

And his vague aspiration took a shape.
“Grant me, dear Lord, if it seem good to Thee,
To labour here, with manhood's utter strength,—
O Lord, good Lord, intrust this work to me!

“Let me have time to toil—a long, long day—
To dig and delve and root out wasteful weeds,
To cut down briars and thorns, and help to plough
Furrows where angels may sow heavenly seeds.

“Give me to foster, with my faith and love,
Frail, early flowers, that fear to droop and fade!
Father, I will not shrink for bleeding hands,
For heat nor cold—I do not feel afraid!”

His voice was heard—his will accepted. God
Gave deep and true fulfilment to his prayer,—
Life—life eternal, which should nevermore
The taint of death, or sin, or sorrow bear!

Oh pray, ye blind ones, as the beggar pray'd
When He of Nazareth pass'd by! Oh pray
With simple faith and worship,—fear ye not
God's gracious ear will deafly turn away.

Ye know He bids us to tell out our wants,
Knowing them all; give up to Him your will,
And trust Him—trust Him. In his wondrous love
He deigns the lowliest longing to fulfil.

Ay, and with that fulfilment which we ne'er
Shall grasp or fathom—till we come to see
Our strange, mysterious human life unveil'd
In the clear daylight of eternity.

The beggar ask'd for sight—Christ answer'd him,
For his faith's sake, and gave him sight indeed.
Just so his silent hands and darken'd eyes
Were lifted once, for grace of “life” to plead.

And God fulfilled his prayer as utterly!
He gave him life—the life of saints above,
Beyond all earthly dreaming sweet and glad—
An endless life in His eternal love!

Why should we court the storms that rave and rend,
Safe at our household hearth?
Why, starved and naked, without home or friend,
Unknowing whence we came or where we wend,
Follow from no beginning to no end
An uncrowned martyr's path?

Is it worth while to waste our all in vain?
To seek, and not to know?
To strive for something we can never gain,
To labour blindly for a wage of pain,
And crack our heartstrings with the stress and strain,
And reap no field we sow?

What does it matter whether love or hate,
Or praise or blame, be theirs
Who pass like shadows, with no time to wait
For understanding of the ways of fate,
Which makes the hopeless desert blossom late,
And kills good wheat with tares?

Why do we choose to suffer, when we might
Lie down to sleep and dream?
Is praise for men who try to do the right?
Is blame for him who shirks the deadly fight?
And whose the friendship that is heart's delight?
And whose the love supreme?

Wide do we set our sanctuary door
That fairest guest to greet,
And find too late, when we have shown our store,
The sacred places rudely trampled o'er,
Bereaved, profaned, and soiled for evermore
With tread of vulgar feet.

And nothing left to solace us but this,
At such a frightful cost -
A taste, a glimpse, the memory of a kiss;
Only a sense of what diviner bliss,
That might have been, we have contrived to miss;
Only what love has lost.

And brother-bond - the loyal comradeship
That comes to every call -
What worth the smiling eye, the warm hand-grip,
The benediction of the kindly lip?
Sickness, old age or poverty can strip
The value from them all.

And faith, embalmed in immemorial creed -
Once our supreme support,
Our staff and beacon to uphold and lead -
A light extinguished and a broken reed!
And where, O where, in bitter time of need,
Shall substitute be sought?

Wherefore this anguish of desire to see
That which concerns us not -
The evolution of the life to be,
The distant course, the final destiny
Of worlds and men - the ages wherein we
Shall have no part or lot?

Why not shut eyes of spirit and of brain
That can torment us thus?
Why not take something to assuage the pain,
And shut the doors and go to sleep again?
The Search may be successful or in vain,
What matters it to us?

Is it worth while, when house and home are here,
And we can dwell at ease,
To go forth, lonely, and in mortal fear,
To travel roads that lead not anywhere,
As bare of lamp or signpost, far or near,
And full of thorns, as these?

To leave the Good whereof we are possest,
To seek, in senseless grief,
For some divine but ever unknown Best,
And see no goal and find no place of rest -
Is it worth while, on such a fruitless quest
To waste a life so brief?

We must not ask - we must not ask again.
We have to wait and see.
Press on, poor soul, along the path of pain
That is the one thing absolutely plain.
The last assessment of the loss and gain
Is not a task for thee.

1.

Is it a will o' the wisp, or is dawn breaking,
That our horizon wears so strange a hue?
Is it but one more dream, or are we waking
To find at last that dreams are coming true?

2.

Far off and faint, a golden line is streaking
The cloudy night that shrouds the life of man;
It is the sun that dim eyes have been seeking,
Through all blind pathways, since the world began.

3.

The sign to weary heart and waiting nation
That day will come to bring them their release
That, late or soon, through storm and tribulation,
Or with slow change, the earth shall rest in peace.

4.

That One, invoked, with half- despairing passion.
Through years and years of wrong, will right us then;
Will take away, in rude or gentle fashion,
The curse that man has laid on brother- men.

5.

Ah, blessed One! our souls go out to meet thee,
At whose feet Hope will fold her tired wing;
And yet we know not how we ought to greet thee,
And take the gifts thy bounteous arms will bring.

6.

Come not, O friend! with vengeful weapons, borrowed
Of them that warred against thee — sword and flame;
For all alike have suffered and have sorrowed,
And all alike have sinned against thy name.

7.

Come thou to men who groan in sore affliction
A breathing spirit of new life and grace;
Come in thy robes of light and benediction,
That all may recognize thy perfect face.

8.

Yet, as thou must, come soon, for them than need thee —
And thou wilt come — Deliverer great and strong!
Brighten, O tender dawn, though few may heed thee,
And bring the day that we have sought so long!

9.

No class strife then, each man against his neighbour,
No waste, no want, to breed the plague of crime;
No insolent pomp, no hard and sordid labour,
No wars, no famines, in that happier time!

10.

But pleasant homes, and good days growing better;
Contented hearts throughout the tranquil land,
That keep the law, in spirit and in letter,
Which we have been so dull to understand.

11.

And fruitful work, instead of barren duty,
With fruitful rest and leisure interweaved;
And life made bright with plenty and with beauty,
And souls made strong with noble aims achieved.

12.

Great Art, no more the plaything of the idle,
But nurse and handmaid to all human needs;
Great Nature, curbed no more with bit and bridle,
Nor men's religion crushed in bitter creeds.

13.

Nor sacred Love a crime, a jest, an error,
To keep or lose, to give or to suppress,
A secret shame, an anguish and a terror,
A curse to them that it was meant to bless.

14.

All round our narrow lives the tide encroaches,
Distant and dim, but spreading far and fast.
O Liberty, thy longed- for reign approaches
That is to give man's birthright back at last!
vasts;

15.

And must we go, who see the new age dawning,
While yet we suffer in the pangs of birth,
Nor breathe one breath of the divinest morning
That yet has come to bless our waiting earth?

16.

Oh, must we go, just when the day is growing?
Oh, must we waste with vast and vain desires,
Like sparks put out when viewless winds are blowing,
We, lit and quickened with supernal fires

17.

Are we to read no more the wondrous pages
Of this great tale that evermore goes on?
Will suns and stars light up eternal ages
With happier worlds — and we alone be gone?

18.

Never to learn the moral of the story —
Why we have toiled for what we must not keep,
Why we have fought to win no crown of glory,
Why we have sown what unborn hands will reap.

19.

Never to learn wherefore our Maker sent us
With these immortal passions in our breast.
Ah me! Ah me! Wherewith can we content us
To know so much, and not to know the rest!