Isabella Fyvie Mayo: Verses about Love

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.

Good-Bye, good-bye!
And one goes out, and one stays standing still,
And that day's sun sink, o'er the low green hill.

Good-bye, good-bye!
And he goes on, far over field and moor,
And she turns back, goes in, and shuts the door.

Good-bye, good-bye!
She smiled upon him to the very last;
He'll never know what came when that was past.

Good-bye, good-bye!
And he who goes—he has but half the the pain,
His world is new, her empty rooms remain.

Good-bye, good-bye!
The books he opened, can she bear to close?
The rose he gathered; she will keep that rose!

Good-bye, good-bye!
And yet a day shall come when she shall say
''T was well that he who loved me went away.'

Good-bye, good-bye!
Love scarce is true until it has been tried;
And hearts can hold when hands are severed wide.

Good-bye, good-bye!
The last strong light of love in dying eyes
Pierces the mists of death that o'er them rise.

Good-bye, good-bye!
Nor Life nor Death has power to sever Love
It moves the world and builds the heaven above.

Good-bye, good-bye!
It ever has a sound of tears and sorrow;
Yet while we sleep, it changes to 'Good-morrow.'

See a lark in the far summer sky,
My darling seated at her harp I see,
Playing the while our little children sing:
The world is full of music—not for me!

I dreamed last night of some dim abbey choir:
The lights were burning where the singers stood
Chanting my anthem. I crouched in the dark,
Weeping for joy to hear they called it good!

O music of my sleep, that mocks my soul
With cruel joys that are fulfilled no more
Than his who dreams of light and love at home,
And wakes to find himself on Arctic shore!

It haunts me always through my silent days,
With life before me like a closed gate.
If God had only bidden me to die;
Or anything but this hard work—to wait.

To wait and work, and know my work but as
Some poor fond mother from her infant reft,
Shuts the sweet memory safe from change and time,
And dreams to find her boy the babe she left!

And yet there is a thought will sometimes creep
It even mingled in my dream last night
I'd rather make my music in the dark,
Than only stand and sing it in the light!

Maybe the dream is nearer truth than sound,
And could I hear my tune, mine eyes might miss
Some of the sweetness soaring in my soul:
Better go wanting that, and having this!

And there are songs in heaven. God forgive
A poor deaf man for wondering what they are.
Perchance it is their echo that I catch,
And I shall hear those same songs sweeter far!

I'm sitting in a shady room,
A dainty scent pervades its gloom,
The perfume from a withered flower
Gathered—who knows in what sweet hour?
Or pressed by what fair lips which must
Have mingled long ere this with dust?
The relic of a grandsire's love
Stored with a letter and a glove!

And all about the room are spread
The handiworks of ladies dead:
A great aunt's miracles in lace,
A Dian coming from the chase
Worked by great-grandmothers of mine
While great-grandfathers sipped their wine;
And here's a valentine so torn
I think it was received in scorn.

And from the wall the pictured face
Of one, the glory of our race,
Looks down at me with earnest gaze,
As if he wondered at the ways
By which the old world rumbles on,
Though all he counted best is gone,
And that old fealty is dead
For which he bravely fought and bled.

And in yon ancient chest there hide
Charters of farms and acres wide,
Traces of what we once possessed.
Well, perchance poverty is best,
And we can still afford to keep
(Since harmless pride is always cheap)
Our boast that those lost lands were due
For packs of wolves our forbears slew.

And have they left no more behind,
These soldiers brave, those ladies kind?
Of beings vanished like a dream
How little do such relics seem!
And what of those who strayed and fell,
Records of sad defeat to swell?
Or those who only loved and prayed,
'Mid homely duties on them laid?

There seems a whisper in the air,
'We're there, and here, and everywhere!
Why need you wish that you had more
Of these poor shadows which you store,
When all the life in which you move
Is outgrowth of our life and love?
The very thoughts you call your own,
But flowers from seeds which we have sown!

'And none have left a stronger trace
Than some who lived in silent grace;
The maid who faded in her bloom
Brightened the pathway to the tomb,
With hopes from soul to soul which flow
Like streams whose sources none may know,
And he who perished at his post
Inspired the leader of a host!

'The dead are nearer than some say
(Stars shine on through the sunshine day!),
Nor must we chain the Present fast
About the ankles of the Past,
For both are living, and most move
In step to God's great march of Love.
We need not fear that any soul
Can leave but rose leaves in a bowl!'

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!