Rose Terry Cooke: Verses about Fire

Golden-colored miller,
Leave the lamp, and fly away!
In that flame so brightly gleaming,
Sure, though smiling, death is beaming;
Hasten to thy play!

Nearer? foolish miller!
Look! thy tiny wings will burn.
Just escaped,-but soon 'twill reach thee;
Ah! can dying only teach thee
Truths thou wilt not learn?

Didst thou whisper, miller?
Something like a voice and sigh
Seemed to say,-'in all thy teaching,
Is there practice, or but preaching;
Doest thou more than I?'

Wisest little miller!
I indeed have hung too long
Round a flame more wildly burning,
And, with heart too fond and yearning,
Heard no charmer's song.

Blinder than a miller
Hovering with devoted gaze,
Where such visions vain I cherish,
Either they or I must perish,
Like that flickering blaze.

But the moonlight, miller,
Better far befits our mirth;
That calm, streaming light is given
From the silent depths of heaven;
Fire is born of earth!

A WEEK ago to-day, when red-haired Sally
DOWN to the sugar-camp came to see me,
I saw her checked frock coming down the valley,
Far as anybody’s eyes could see.
Now I sit before the camp-fire,
And I can’t see the pine-knots blaze,
Nor Sally’s pretty face a-shining,
Though I hear the good words she says.

A week ago to-night I was tired and lonely,
Sally was gone back to Mason’s fort,
And the boys by the sugar-kettles left me only;
They were hunting coons for sport.
By there snaked a painted Pawnee,
I was asleep before the fire;
He creased my two eyes with his hatchet,
And scalped me to his heart’s desire.

There they found me on the dry tussocks lying,
Bloody and cold as a live man could be;
A hoot-owl on the branches overhead was crying,
Crying murder to the red Pawnee.
They brought me to the camp-fire,
They washed me in the sweet white spring;
But my eyes were full of flashes,
And all night my ears would sing.

I thought I was a hunter on the prairie,
But they saved me for an old blind dog;
When the hunting-grounds are cool and airy,
I shall lie here like a helpless log.
I can’t ride the little wiry pony,
That scrambles over hills high and low;
I can’t set my traps for the cony,
Or bring down the black buffalo.

I ’m no better than a rusty, bursted rifle,
And I don’t see signs of any other trail;
Here by the camp-fire blaze I lie and stifle,
And hear Jim fill the kettles with his pail.
It ’s no use groaning. I like Sally,
But a Digger squaw would n’t have me!
I wish they had n’t found me in the valley,—
It ’s twice dead not to see!

The death of holy Tankerfield,
That martyr of the Lord's,
And his great worth I do set forth
As seasonable words.

In young King Edward's blessed time,
A Papist vile was he;
Uncleansèd from the filthy slime
Of vain idolatry.

But when it pleased the Lord most high
To take the king away,
Unto his everlasting rest,
To be with him alway,-

When bloody Mary's reign began,
Wherein the flock of Christ
Did wander through the valleys low,
And stumble in the mist,-

Then, as he saw what cruel pains
From men they did endure,
And suffered pangs of many deaths
To make their glory sure-

His heart was moved and stirred within
To see their evil tide,
And that foul church which wrought the sin
He might no more abide.

But turned unto the sacred Word,
To light his darksome soul;
And learned to leave that faith abhorred
That would his mind control.

And did his feeble voice uplift
To make a protest bold,
Renouncing all the devil's works,
To which he clave of old.

Thereat unto his house there came
A man of cruel mind,
By name one Byrd, who thought no shame
This godly youth to bind.

Before the judge they haled him then,
Who sent him back apace,
Unto a doleful prison-cell,
Where he remained a space.

But when before the court he came,
To answer for his faith,
Of Christ the Lord he was not shamed,
But owned him unto death.

So, when the summer-tide was come,
And all the fields were green,
And flowers upon the dewy meads
Were joyful to be seen,

They brought him from his dungeon-cell
Unto a certain Inn,
And bade him to remember well
The wages of his sin.

For that he never more should see
The rising of the sun.
'Then,' with a cheerful voice, quoth he,
'Good Lord, thy will be done!'

'Now, bring me here a cup of wine,
Withal a wheaten cake,
To keep the Supper of the Lord,
Ere I my end do make.

'I may not have a minister
To break this bread to me,
But by the passion, gracious Lord,
Lay not the sin to me!

'I fain would keep thy feast again
Before I drink it new,
To aid my flesh in deathly pain,
And keep my spirit true.'

So, giving thanks, he took the bread,
And drank the sacred wine,
Which now in heaven he doth partake
From chalices divine.

Then prayed he them to light a fire,
That he his strength might try;
The host did grant him his desire,
And stood amazèd by:

For, lo! he stretched his naked food
Into the scorching flame,
But bone and sinew quivering shrank,
And loud he spake in pain:

'Ho, flesh! thou wilt not gladly burn,
But spirit shall endure;
Ho, sense! thou wouldst from glory turn,
But soul thou shalt make sure!'

Then, as the time drew on apace
That he by fire should die,
He kneeled again and prayed for grace
To bear his agony.

Then, with a calm and pleasant smile,
Saith he,-'However long
The day may seem, yet at the last
It rings for even-song.'

The sheriffs brought him to a green,
Hard by the abbey-wall,
And seeing there the fagots piled,
They spake aloud to all.

'A dinner sharp is mine today,'
Quoth he, with joyful faith,
'But I shall sup on heavenly cates,
And triumph over death.'

When he was fettered to the stake,
They heaped the pile full high,
And called a priest, with subtle words
To shake his constancy.

But loudly he denied the mass
And all the works of Rome,
So might not Babylonish tricks
Delay his passage home.

A certain knight, who stood thereby,
Laid hold upon his hand.
Quoth he, 'Good brother in the Lord,
Be strong in Christ, and stand.'

'Oh, sir!' the martyr made reply,
'I give you thanks indeed.
May God be lauded, I am strong!'
With that they bade him heed.

And set the fire unto the pile:
When, as the flame shot high,
Unto the strong and mighty One
He powerfully did cry.

Yea, from the depths uplifted he
A cry for help to God,
And homeward then, on fiery wings,
Right joyfully he rode.