Isabella Fyvie Mayo: Verses about Faith

He whom she loves is far away
From her and summer trees;
Daily he toils by dying beds,
Whose woe God only sees.

She cannot share his holy task,
She sits at home and prays,
To sends her dainty handicraft
To cheer his dreary ways.

Each stitch is set in faith and hope;
He feels their mystic spell:
And how they aid his skill and strength
He knows, but cannot tell.

Not all of us may bear the gloom
Where sins and sorrows blend,
But those who do may feel our love
On all their steps attend.

Sitting alone in the twilight time,
Alas! how silent the old house seems
Kissing the voices that only chime
In waking fancies or sleeping dreams!
I sit in my mother's old arm-chair,
But where are the others? Ah where? ah where?

Where is our Willie, so grave and wise?
And where is Harry, so true and bold?
Where is Mabel with laughing eyes,
And tresses sprinkled with molten gold?
On Willie's tombstone the moss is gray,
And Harry is sleeping in Biscay Bay.

But Mabel? Mabel may come again:
Her name is still in my daily prayer;
Yet when I stand where our dead are lain,
I'd rather that it were written there.
They heard God call them, and they obeyed;
But Earth called Mabel—and Mabel strayed.

Yet while God spares, it is not too late
To turn away from the Tempter's smile;
And so in the lonely house I wait,
Because I expect her all the while:
If strangers mot her the day she came,
She might go back to her sin and shame.

I can see the city lie far away,
A sloping path from our house leads down;
And surely, surely, some summer day,
A fading woman will leave the town,
And climb the hill, and traverse the moor,
And enter in at my open door.

The stormy afternoon was past,
And in the dim grey sky,
Between great hoary clouds, the sun
Looked out with lurid eye:
And we, two strangers from the town, the sea breeze yearning for,
Walked down between the fishers' cots, and went toward the shore.

The beach was still enough, but yet
The tempest left its track,
And almost fearfully we passed
Torn nets and heaps of wrack:
There is a mystic mockery about the wind and storm,
They make such rude and simple things so like a human form!

My sister's face was strangely pale,
A thrill was in her tone,
Her brown eyes looked like those who watch
To have some mystery shown:
I only thought, 'Hope wears the heart,—ay, even more than Fear,
And Bessie waits for one she loves,—I would that he were here!'

The lurid sun sank in the sea,
But left a glare behind;
And the slow tide those treasures left
Which loiterers love to find;
My sister turned aside to pick what seemed a glittering shell;
And from some church I could not see, there tolled a solemn knell.

I turned and saw that Bessie knelt
Upon the crunching sand;
'O God, Thy help! ' she said, and kissed
That something in her hand,
And then she held it out to me—a grievous sight to bear—
A locket I had seen before, filled with her own bright hair.

The waves had left it at her feet,
To bid her hope no more;
He whom she waited, watched for her
Upon a calmer shore:
And very soon she went to him: our youngest and our best
Sleeps sweetly by the moaning sea, with its message on her breast.

Falls the sunlight, dim and faint,
On her face, like face of saint,
On her thin, white hand:
Oh, the patient spirit pines
For the brighter sun which shines
In a brighter land!

Down her wan cheeks never steal
Quiet tears, which sweetly heal
The unspoken woe:
For although they often rise
Like a mist before her eyes,
Yet they do not flow.

That which sacrifice doth ask,
That which gives a noble task,
Soon our love obtains.
And when one hath given all
At a martyred country's call,
What a love it gains!

She has given youth and health,
And her father's modest wealth,
And her mother's smile:
Gazing at the fresh blue skies,
Mute upon her couch she lies,
All the weary while.

Has her father toiled for nought?
Have his comrades sternly fought
Only for a grave?
Fettered must their country weep,
Those who on her bosom sleep,
Beautiful and brave?

Shall it never rise again,
Better for its martyr's pain,
That dear sunny land?
Ah! she sends the thought away,
She can love, and she can pray,
But not understand.

So the fair brow fadeth fast,
It is very near the last,
And 'tis growing late:
See, the sunbeams fade away,
They will come another day,
But she cannot wait!

Falls the starlight, dim and faint,
On her face, like face of saint,
On her thin white hand:
And no more her spirit pines
For the brighter sun which shines
In the Brighter Land.

Since I walked careless in the noisy street,
With common words for any I might meet,
And did the petty duties each day brought,
And grievous troubles from small sources wrought,
Ah, me! it seems a weary while ago.

'Tis dreary desolation here to wait
The dreadful hour when I shall meet my fate!
Whilst others all the sweet of living share,
Nor of the hapless captive think or care.
Yet once it bore as little on my mind,
When other men in other prisons pined.
I too in heedless, over-hasty blame,
Forgot the human heart beat on the same;
Forgot the subtle agony which wrings
A wounded soul, remembering common things
As when the sunlight on this prison floor
Recalls some scene that I shall see no more!

Perchance some gentle hearts may grant my pain
The justice they would hope themselves to gain;
Nor blindly every accusation trust,
When he, who only can refute, is dust.
And in the end, most lives appeal above;
Some cry for 'Rest,' and others wait for 'Love:'
For 'Justice' to the one just Judge I call!—
And Heaven provides a recompense for all.

Yet still, 'tis very hard to die like this!
No household hearth my presence there to miss;
Nothing to leave, except this dismal cell,
No loving lip to press a last farewell!
But through the tumult of a rabble rout,
Mid grave hard faces, full of stinging doubt,
Forlornly lone, this hunted soul must go,
And bear to heaven few memories but woe!

And yet I could not join the world again;
My heart has withered in this bitter pain.
Wounded by finding mortal Justice blind,
I've almost lost my faith in human kind.
'Tis best to bow beneath man's erring rod,
And ask no more for justice—save from God!

Do I not wish I was like other folk?
Well, if a wish would do me any good
I think,—I almost think, sir,—that I should.
But if a lame limb's my appointed yoke,
It's not as bad as many a one might be,
It's easier p'raps to carry than to see!

I was not born here,—No, it must be hard
To be a poor lame child in such a place.
Why wonder at his pinched and wearied face,
When he's from God's own grass and trees debarred?
But just because I pity him, I guess
The God who made him does not pity less!

Lincoln's my place,—I hear they call it flat
The country thereabouts; but to my mind
It's just the sweetest spot you'll ever find:
But then the place one's born in's always that!
I know you'll smile, sir, but I often sit,
Hear parson talk of Heaven, and think of it!

They were as kind at home, as kind can be;
If father carried Kate or little Joe,
The rest would fret, and want a turn, you know,
But never minded how he carried me!
I've travelled over many a mile like that,
(God help the folks who call you country flat!)

If you've a trouble any one can see,
I think you'll always find them very kind:
It's when you go a-limping in your mind,
You get pushed over, or let coldly be.
Do I know aught of that? Well, sir, I do,
We cripples have our hearts, sir, just like you!

I could not play among the boys so strong,
But played among the girls! And there was one
Would leave her comrades to their dance or furl,
Beside my halting crutch to move along.
Lent me her books, and gave herself no rest
To find the flowers she knew I liked the best.

And at the old church steps she'd always wait,
To give a friendly hand to help me down,
Till prouder of my crutch than of a crown
I grew ! Out of such threads God weaves our fate.
And it went on—and I grew up with her,
And was bewitched to ask—you guess it, sir?

We two were walking in a long green lane:
'Why, Jem,' she said, 'I never thought you'd care,
You seemed so different to the rest, but there,
Forget it ! Let us be ourselves again.'
She pitied me, and yet with half a smile!
I should have understood it all the while.
I was so foolish that I couldn't bear
The fields with all their dear old pollard trees
There always seemed a voice upon the breeze
Saying, 'Why, Jem, I never thought you'd care.'
So now, the old folks dead, I came away,
And found this court—a change of scene, you'll say!

When I went back again, she was not there,
I'd thought to find her wed, and wish her joy.
But she was gone, sir, with a baby-boy!
And where she'd gone the people did not care;
They gave her bitter names and foul disgrace;
O, sir, I only saw the sweet good childish face!

I've never found her, sir; I've gone about
Over this city, when my work was done,
But, sir, they're many, and she's only one!
And now, I think, that I must die without.
She's dead, I fear, in some black city sod;
I loved her sir, and so, I hope, did God!

I've help'd a few poor girls for her dear sake;
I do not fear their paint and evil tongue;
Somebody knew them, sir, when they were young;
They've told me stories fit your heart to break,
And if I'm kind to them, it helps my faith
God sent her comfort in a peaceful death.

I've had a hard life?—Did you say so, sir?
No, no! You see see, I often ponder thus:
The very Bible seems express for us;
Christ healed the lame, and spoke to girls like her.
No, sir, I think my sort of life's the best,
Just makes one tired enough to like one's rest.

It's sixty years I've hobbled on my way,
She must be dead, and I—I can't last long.
I'll know her voice in all the burst of song
When Heaven's gate opens. If she's there, d'ye say?
We mustn't judge our foes, says God above,
Surely some ground of hope for those we love!