Poems (Emma M. Ballard Bell)/Crucè and Corona
CRUCÈ AND CORONA.
'Tis night upon the sea; the heav'ns are black;And storms and whirlwinds sweep the foaming deep;And ever and anon, electric lightTerrific splendor flashes on the scene,Revealing by its bright and fearful gleamA noble vessel wrestling with the storm.And wilder round it do the whirlwinds sweep,And higher round it do the billows roll,Until at last the tempests dash the shipTheir yielding prey upon the wreck-strewn reef. Then 'midst the din of elements ariseThe cries of human anguish, while despairLike clouds of darkness gathers round each soul,And hope its starlight quenches in the gloom. Each pow'r that sways the empire of the soulGrows still with terror,—all save Memory,Who to and fro, on time's fast-dark'ning shores,Walks solitary by the sea of death.
Amid this band of hope-bereaven onesA mother clasps in agony her child; But in one moment of her anguish keenRush visions of the past upon her soul.The hopes, the fears, the joys, of buried years;The care Divine on all her life bestowed.Faith's star dispels the clouds of dark despair.Then in the mighty rush of roaring waves,The thunders' awful and death-threat'ning sound,She hears the footsteps of her Father-God,And calmly, quietly as little childWould seat itself upon some grassy knollTo watch its father's labors, so doth sheSit down upon that tempest-beaten reef,Her little one still cradled in her arms,In childhood's ill-unconscious peaceful rest.
Broad sheets of lightning spread across the heav'ns,And by its light a cavern she beholdsWithin a cliff that towers overhead.A Heav'n-sent thought comes quickly to her soul;She bows her head in pray'r, and, rising now,Bends earnest gaze upon her sleeping child;Then, reaching high, she lays it in the cave.She may not come there, for no human feet,Amid the darkness of tempestuous night,Can pass the rocky paths that thither lead;And, praying still, she stands upon the reef. Still wildly on the foaming billows dash,And higher round the reef each moment roll,Some mortal sweeping to the depths beneath.With calm sublime the mother meets her fate.The darkness of the hour just ere the dawnBroods o'er the reef; no human form is there.'Tis morn upon the sea. With sails unfurledTo gentle breezes, o'er the azure wavesMajesticly a stately vessel glides.A piteous cry floats o'er the heaving waves,And startles ev'ry soul within the ship,A wailing cry that vibrates on the heartWith pow'r as can no sound but human voice.The ship moves on; and soon before the viewThere tow'rs a cliff high o'er a wreck-strewn reef.A boat is lowered from the vessel's side,Two sailors brave row swiftly to the reef,In silence tread among the wrecks, and comeWhere still within its cavern cradle liesThe little one that in the last night's stormThe mother left in trembling hope and trust.
Upon the child the wond'ring sailors gaze,And wonder in the child's soul stills her cries.But wonder gives to disappointment place,As suddenly to consciousness there comesThe mem'ry of her mother. From the cave The sailors lift the sobbing child, and henceIn silence bear her to the waiting boat,That glides to meet the vessel far away.
'Tis sunset's hour; and grand old ocean rollsIts gold-tinged billows up the em'rald steeps,The moss-grown rocks that circle in their strengthA beauteous isle; though on one side the rocksComplete above their circle by an arch,Thus giving entrance to the waves below,That rolling on in gentler motion flow,A sea-born river, 'tween the verdant slopesThat lie on either side. The stately ship,Returned from voyaging the distant main,Now furls its sails, and anchors in the haven.
A throng of human beings press the shore,And joyful greetings wait the vessel's crew,Who hasten from the ship. And now at lastThe ship's commander, leading by the handThe child they rescued from the wreck-strewn reef,Steps on the land; and, greetings interchanged,Speaks thus he to the throng which gathers round:"My friends, I bring to your most lovely isleA little stranger. On a distant reefSome fragments of a shattered vessel lie,—We doubt not, stranded there in last night's storm; And none survive to tell the fearful taleOf those who perished, nor what hand had placedWithin a cave, deep in o'erhanging rocks,Above the water's reach, this little child,Who yet, it seems, hath only learned to lispThe name of 'mother,' and her own, 'Crucè.'Oh, well, my friends, ye know my only homeIs on the deep. But who of ye that dwellUpon this island fair will welcome homeThe stranger child? Whoe'er thou be, O friend!I pray that thou mayst in her presence findThe blessing of an angel unaware."
The eyes of all are fixed in wond'ring gazeUpon the child, whom now the speaker liftsUpon a moss-grown rock. Around her browThe light of sunset like a halo rests;Her locks, as dark as plumes of raven, glowWith wondrous luster in the setting beams.With eyes cast down a moment thus she stands,Then, slowly raising them, her gaze is caughtBy brilliant tinted clouds that glorifyThe dim horizon's verge. Now on the throngShe looks with timid, half-averted eyes;Yet in the transient glance from those dark depthsA high, mysterious expression comes,That tells of something in the childish soul That scarce three earthly years hath sojourned here,Which touches ev'ry soul with interestMore sad, more tender e'en, than that called forthBy what they know already of her fate. The little stranger now, as if her soulHad felt the sympathy of those around,Turns on them full her deep and pensive gaze.It seems as through her eyes a spirit gazedWhose being all had passed amid the shadesOf sorrow's land; yet in her glance is blentWith that mysterious sadness, other look,Prophetic, high, that seems to tell of pow'rTo triumph o'er all sorrow at the last.
Now from the silent throng advancing comesA man, who stands beside the moss-grown rock;And thus he to the ship's commander speaks:"This morn, O friend! beheld the island turfPlaced o'er the coffin of my little child.This little stranger to my lonely homeI welcome. There a mother she will find;And little sister in the lost one's placeShall be the stranger to my only child.
"Crucè, my little one, wilt go with me?"Two little outreached hands are his reply.He takes her in his arms, and to his home He bears her through the deep'ning twilight shades.Within the dwelling all is hushed and still;Through all bereavement's presence seems to breathe.He enters silently, and soon to herThe promised mother tells the story sad,The shipwreck on the reef in ocean storm,And how within the cavern they had foundThe sole survivor. To the stranger childThe mother's heart a mother's welcome gives;And lips maternal sing the lullabyThey sang the little one who sleeps in death.This night the little stranger's ringlets darkFloat o'er the pillow where few nights agoThe golden tresses of the lost one lay.
Now morning dawns upon this lovely isle.The sun's ascending beams with beauty crownIts groves, its moss-grown rocks, and happy homes.Beneath a vine-embowered shade, besideThe lovely home Crucè should call her own,Sits he who bore her thither, all absorbedIn deep reflective thought. The entrance-wayThat opens to that bow'r is toward the east.Within the golden light that inward streams,A childish form appears. Her broad fair brow,So white in pureness that a seraph's lipsMight touch with holy kiss its fair expanse, Betokens wondrous pow'r of intellect.Her clear blue eyes, within whose placid depthsA rare celestial brightness softly gleams,Are fixed in thoughtful gaze upon the man,Who seems not yet to note her entrance there,But soon as thought returns to outward thingsPerceives amid the shadows of the leavesThe shadow of the childish form; and then,Without uplifted glance, he gently says,"Corona, is it thou? Come hither, child."And, seated by her father's side, the childWith wonder listens to the story sad,The shipwreck on the reef in ocean storm,And how within the cavern they had foundThe sole survivor. For on yester eve,When he the tale repeated, she had slept,In grief and weariness, a troubled sleep.And when of her the father asks, "Wilt thou,Corona, welcome home this little child?"She answers with a happy smile, and joyBeams radiantly from her clear blue eyes.But when he to his question adding says,"To be a sister in the lost one's place?"The bright smile vanishes, the lips compress,And tears beneath the drooping eyelids flow.
Is it the mem'ry of the little one Awakened by that one word, "sister," worksThis quick transition? or with this did comeA fear lest in a void within her soulA stranger rudely ent'ring should intrude?Though only seven summers o'er her headHave floated in their beauty, yet hath sheThoughts far more high, emotions deeper e'enThan many who have entered death's dark vale,Their hair all whitened with the snows of age.Howe'er it be, the father questions not,But, rising, only says, "Corona, come."
Before an open window, where the lightThrough vines of honeysuckle trembling beams,Crucè is standing. On her clasping handsHer little head is leaned. From window-vinesBy morning's breezes dropped, the blossoms redLie 'mong her ringlets black. Her large dark eyesAre gazing in the deep-blue sky beyond.
Corona and her father enter there,And gaze in silence on the stranger child.Some moments pass, and then she turns her head;Her sad eyes, shining with a loving light,Are fixed upon the father; and he comesAnd lays his hand in blessing on her head.Corona comes,—and, while the little form Her arms entwine, in rev'rent tones she says,"My little sister God hath sent to me."
II.
'Tis morn again upon this lovely isle;And years have passed since 'neath that bow'r of vinesCorona heard the story of Crucè.Corona now is seated in that bow'r,Her childhood flown, in youth's bright, lovely dawn;The rare celestial light within her eyesHath deepened, brightened. Now her gaze is bentUpon a volume that before her lies.
Beside Corona stands an aged man.With thoughtful aspect on her doth he gaze,Absorbed in meditation. Now and thenThe girl looks up and interrupts his thoughtBy questioning upon the volume's thought.Sometimes his answers quickly come; and longOn subjects of high import his discourse.
Whene'er Corona's question doth relateTo aught that doth concern the human soul,Its workings, destiny, or duties highTo God above and to its fellow-souls,There comes a light within the old man's eyes Like that of inspiration; and his soulSoars upward into realms of thought where oftHis soul hath traversed in life's bygone years.
Crucè is seated too within the bow'r;And when Corona thus her questions asks,And thus the old man unto them replies,The volume in her hand is closed; her eyesWith brighter luster glow; and o'er them oftThe shadow of mysterious sadness comes,That in her childhood's now fast-fleeting days,When happy home and kindly hearts are hers,Is still the same, unless still deeper grown,As that which touched the chords of sympathyIn hearts of those who thronged the island shoreWhen she a stranger to that island came.
This aged man upon this island fairHath dwelt for many years. But whence he came,Or wherefore thither, few that know or ask.He dwells alone, within a little cotAmong majestic steeps of moss-grown rocks,In solitude his life hath mostly passed;But there is not a home upon this isleWhere sorrow deep or some great joy hath come,But there he comes to weep with those who weepOr joy in others' joy. And thus it was,When death's dark shadow fell upon his home,Corona's father saw the old man standBeside the coffin of his little childAnd offer up this prayer:"O Father! ThouThe spirit gem hast from the casket borne.O grant that he to whom this gem was giv'nThrough faith's clear vision may behold it shineWithin thy diadem, O Saviour crowned!And, by its bright endearing luster drawn,May come and bow at Calv'ry's holy shrine,And own thy saving power, O Lamb of God!"
Long afterward within that father's soulA still small voice had uttered o'er and o'er,"And own thy saving pow'r, O Lamb of God!"For though this man his great Creator GodAcknowledged both in matter and in mind,And though his soul in adoration bowedTo all that's beautiful and good and true,To wisdom, virtue, ev'ry noble pow'r,Yet had not claimed he as his own the FriendAbove all other friends—the Saviour God.
Corona from her early years was taughtThe worship of the beautiful. Her soul Transfused with all the glory of its pow'r,Emotion, thought had yielded to its sway.The one great worship too her soul had learned:In holy accents from her mother's lips,The story of Redemption she had heard;And oft herself perused the sacred page. In childhood's holy trust her soul she gaveTo Christ her Saviour; and it ever wasThat through the beautiful she worshiped God.But still her father through Redemption's way,The soul's true living way, approached not God;Until the still small voice within his soul,That uttered o'er and o'er the old man's prayer,Awakened all the energies of thought,And unbelief's foundations trembling shook.A pow'r more mighty than the earthquake's shockSeemed rending all his soul; and then to Christ,In anguish and humility, he cried,And light, and peace, and pardon answ'ring came.
"The aged man is versed in wondrous loreOf bygone times. The pathway he has tracedPhilosophy has trod descending downThe course of ages; and great truths, unveiledBy science, history, to him are known.The three great sources of divinest loreTo man e'er given, most his soul doth prize,— The Book of Revelation, nature's page,The wondrous volume of the human soul.This aged man philosopher is called,And rev'rend friend, by most upon this isle.
Corona's father by his earnest wishHad won the old man from his solitude,From day to day instruction to impartTo these young girls, Corona and Crucè.And thus it is, this lovely morn doth findThese three within the shadow of the bow'r.
The years revolve. It is the sunset hour;The quiet sunset of a Sabbath eve.Again beneath the shadow of the bow'rThese three are met. The aged teacher claspsThe sacred volume; and the dying gleamsOf sunset o'er the hallowed pages rest.In clear deep tones, of Jesus doth he readWhen, passing by, the blind one He did heal.
And now, the volume closing, o'er his handHis hoary head he bows in solemn thought.With reverence his pupils on him gaze.A moment o'er Crucè's dark pensive eyeThe shadow of mysterious sadness comes, But passes soon before the bright'ning gleamProphetic of a high triumphant pow'r.
Upon Corona seems to rest the spellOf some celestial vision; and her eyesTurn heavenward with inspiration bright.
And when at last the aged one looks up,His eyes are bright with hope that shines through tears,And thus he to his pupils now doth speak:
"My children, I was thinking of the wordsWhich Jesus spoke to His disciples here,When of Himself He said that while 'twas dayThe work of Him that sent Him He must work.I thought, too, of that night of which He speaks,The night that cometh when no man can work.I know to me that night is coming soon:The record of my life is almost closed;And whether I my life-work well have wrought,He knoweth only Who all things doth know.But in my soul there is a holy faithThat I shall stand at last at God's right hand."
The old man ceases. And then Corona saith,"O rev'rend friend! the lessons thou hast taughtHave left an impress for eternity. How often hast thou told us that to allGod sends a mission!In my childhood daysThe mission God hath sent me was revealed;And now, when o'er me dawns the golden lightOf womanhood's bright years, to thee I tellThe work to which my soul and life are giv'n.And when the vision I to thee repeatThat yesternight to my glad spirit came,I know that thou wilt understand it all.
Along a lonely narrow path I trod,Shut in from vision of the outer worldBy lofty trees with overarching boughs;But whither led this pathway knew I not,Till all at once before my vision roseHigh mountain steeps. And on one summit stoodA lofty temple; and at my approachUpon its dome a beauteous form appeared,Unfurled a gleaming banner. On its foldsWere traced, in golden letters, 'Genius, hail!'Then by my side another form appeared,And whispered gently, 'I will be thy guide.'And we, those mountain steeps ascending long,At length before the temple's entrance stood,And, passing through long corridors and aisles,Beheld a throng of those whose honored names Are sacred in the memories of earth.Musicians, sculptors, poets by me passedIn glorious array.My guide moved on;And, ent'ring what an inner temple seemed,I saw a golden altar rainbow-crowned;Beside it knelt the priestess of that artWhose gifted children on those walls had traced,In hues immortal, their immortal thoughts.
My guide withdrew. And from the altar roseThe priestess from her ministries, and gazedUpon me with her holy eyes; then said,'O child of genius, welcome! thou art comeTo Art's high temple, and before the shrineOf painting, glorious art.My child, receiveThe blessing of its priestess. Go thy way;With holy ardor be thy labor wrought;A bright reward awaits thee: Win thy crown.'"
The vision thus repeated, silence comes;And not a sound is heard within the bow'r,Save rustling of the vine-leaves in the breeze.Corona's gaze is on the old man bent,As if his words awaiting; and his eyesAre fixed on her with look of calm, deep joy. He only says, "Corona, unto theeI give thy teacher's blessing, and repeatThe priestess' words at parting: 'Win thy crown.'"
Then, turning to Crucè, he says, My child,I know thou too hast of thy life-work thought;Oh, ere my spirit wings its flight from earth,Let me my blessing on thee too bestow."
And thus she answers: "O my friend revered!No happy vision hath to me revealedMy destiny, my life-work. Oh, I feelAs if with pen of iron on my soulThese words are deeply graven: 'Bear thy cross.'"
"I know: it, O my child!" the old man cries;"I knew it when upon the moss-grown rockA little child I saw thee stand and gazeWith such mysterious sadness on the throng."
Crucè continues: "Where the Ganges rollsIts dark life-sacrificing tide, I goTo bear the holy light of Heaven's truth."The teacher answers not, but only looksOn her with eyes in which his blessing shinesWith gentle pity mingled.Twilight shadesAre dark'ning round; and friend and pupils part. Again it is the quiet Sabbath ev'n.Corona and Crucè within the bow'rHave waited for their aged teacher long.He comes not; though a Sabbath's sunset lightIn beauty resting on this lovely isleCorona and Crucè shall see no more;For when a few more morning dawns shall come,The mission-ship shall bear them far away,Crucè to heathen lands; in Italy,The shrine of Art, Corona's home shall be.Now, weary with their waiting, from the bow'rThey wend their way along the circling ridgeOf moss-grown rocks, and reach the old man's cot.
But not in solitude, as was his wont,With welcome smile their teacher meets them there;For friends with pallid faces at the doorThe pupils meet; in pitying silence gazedUpon them; for they know the sacred tieThat to his pupils binds the teacher's soul. They enter. By a window, where the lightOf sunset's dying gleams with glory crownHis head so hoary, sits the aged man,A holy rapture resting on his brow,And in his eye the far-beholding lightThat comes to many in the dying hour; And one look to Corona and CrucèReveals the presence of the angel Death.
The dying one his look upon them castsOf recognition; and he breathes a pray'r: "O Saviour! Thou who once upon this earthDidst walk with thy disciples, Thou dost knowThe holy tie which now by death is rent.As Thou didst love thine own, so I have lovedThese young disciples; and for them I pray,As Thou didst pray for thine.O Father! keepThose whom to me Thou'st giv'n, through thy name;And grant to her who goes to ministerWithin the temple of the beautiful,A clear perception of thy will divine.In her remembrance may she ever keepThis truth: that through the cross the crown is won. To her who sorrow as her birthright holds,Oh, when in far-off heathen lands she dwells,Grant her thy all-sustaining conq'ring strength,And while she nobly bears her earthly cross,May she behold the crown that shines above."
His dying eyes upon those ones for whomHis spirit thus hath breathed a parting pray'r,A benediction beam, then softly close. He clasps his hands in holy peace, and says,"For so He giveth His beloved sleep."
The Sabbath twilight veils the sacred sceneOf solemn tenderness and holy grief.
The starry spheres, that look on earth to-nightWith that same aspect which of old they wore,Ere our young earth had known of grief or death,By influence mysterious seem to drawThe spirits of Corona and Crucè,Who lift unconsciously their tearful gazeTo heav'n's bright concave, while they wend their way—Each sorrow's silence keeping—to their home.
III.
'Tis sunset on the isle; and in its hav'nThe mission-ship, arriving, anchors now.The stranger missionaries on the shoreAre welcomed; for their holy work invitesThe kind regards which Christian hearts should showTo Christ's ambassadors.In prime of lifeThe most appear, a zealous youthful band.Now comes on shore the leader of this band, A man of noble bearing, on whose browLong, earnest.thought hath left its traces deep,With gray his dark locks silvered lightly o'er.Corona's father greets him. To his wordsOf courteous inquiry, then repliesAre by the stranger giv'n. To his homeThe missionary wends with him his way.They enter at the nightfall. Lights withinThe rooms illumine. To the stranger guestCorona's mother doth her welcome give.When hours have flown in Christian converse passed,She saith, "I'll bid Corona and CrucèCome join our number."Quickly at her callThey enter; and the father, rising, says,"My Christian friend, these are the youthful onesWho on the morrow in thy vessel sail."With loving admiration then he says,"This one, Corona, who at Art's fair shrineTo worship to Italia's land doth go.And this my sad-eyed lonely one, Crucè:Long years ago a noble vessel sailedAt eve within our harbor, bringing her,A little one, just rescued on that mornFrom rocks o'er reef all strewn with ocean wrecks.The stranger entertaining, I have foundThe presence of an angel unawares." These words are said in deep and rev'rent tones,While on Crucè with rev'rence he doth gaze.
The stranger seems as one who hears him not.When first the father spoke the name "Crucè,"And she, advancing, 'neath the lamplight stood,The missionary's gaze was rivetedOn her as though a vision of the deadRe-entered into life before him stood.He gazes still, unconscious of all else;And o'er his soul the tides of mem'ry surge;Across these surges glide the specters dimOf griefs long buried in the tomb of years.And now, while intervening years are lost,The past becomes the present. Smiles of joyAre on his lips, and peace upon his brow.The mem'ry now of intervening yearsBetween the past and present rushes back;Of joy bereft, he says, "It cannot be!"
To consciousness returning, now his thoughtsRevert unto the words the father spoke:"Long years ago"—"a vessel"—"bringing her"—"From rocks o'er reef all strewn with ocean wrecks."And then he says, "O friend! long, long ago,When first I bade my native land farewell, And sailed for far-off heathen climes, I boreA fair companion with me to my toils.
A few years passed, and 'neath that burning climeShe drooped and faded. And I bade her goAcross the ocean to her childhood's home,In hope, when strength and bloom of health returned,Upon that tropic shore to meet again.Then, placing in her arms the little childWhich God to us had given, in the shipI saw them enter; watched the vessel sailBeyond my anxious vision. NevermoreOn those beloved beings did I gaze.
She sent me tidings from her childhood's home.A message came to me that o'er the seasThey had embarked, and soon our mission homeShould welcome them. But ah! they never came.The ship which bore them ne'er was heard of more.
And when this maiden stood before my gaze,Such strange resemblance to that one she boreWhom I on earth shall never meet again,With such o'erwhelming sudden pow'r it sweptAcross my mem'ry waves, past years seemed naught;All consciousness absorbed in this one thought,That I beheld my lost, lamented one. The rapture-waking fantasy is fled.Yet still methinks upon the maiden's faceI trace the strange resemblance. Canst thou tellAught more concerning that sad fate of thoseBy ocean storm wrecked on the far-off deep,And how this one was rescued? Ah! methinksThou calledst her Crucè, the selfsame nameThat to our child was given. Tell me, friend,What more thou knowest, and who named her thus."
And now is told how on that morning calmThe sailors heard afar the wailing cry,And, coming on the reef, within the caveBeheld the little child, and bore her hence.
A golden circlet round her neck was clasped,And on the clasp was grav'n her name, "Crucè;"The name the little one herself had lisped.
While all these words are uttered, stands Crucè,A calm and wondrous light within her eye,Like that perchance with which the prophets gazedWhen they beheld their prophecies fulfilled.And when the mother whispers to her low,She vanishes, but soon to reappear,The little golden circlet in her hand. The missionary's eye is on it fixedBut for a moment; then upon CrucèIt glances recognition, and he cries,"My daughter, O my daughter!"
Morning dawnsUpon that lovely isle. Farewells are said.The spirit of Crucè in its new joySeems not to feel the burden of the cross.The parting words with recollections fraught,The sacred mem'ries of her childhood days,With tender sadness said, have less of griefThan "good-nights" that before have passed her lips.
Corona, with her ardent spirit thrilledWith bright anticipations, feels that joy,However deep or lofty it may be,On earth with sorrow oft walks side by side.
And now with sails unfurled the ship moves on,And soon the island fair is lost to view.Around them ocean spreads its vast domain,Whose bound'ries seem the far horizon's verge.
Corona and Crucè behold the sunDescend beneath the waters, with a mien Of kingly majesty, the cloudless skiesResigning to the reign of night's fair queen.With regal grace ascending in the east,She glances beauty on the tranquil waves;Ere long attended by the-fleecy cloudsThat love to float within her silv'ry light.
But clouds that ventured not the day-king's pathTo darken with their presence, fearing notFair Luna's gentler scepter, in the westConfront her with their huge and darkened forms.But while above her hangs a silv'ry cloud,Perchance as beautiful as angel's wing,In unveiled splendor on those clouds she looks.With admiration and with sorrow moved,Within the depths beneath, repentant tearsThose clouds are weeping; but the night-queen's smile,Bright glancing through those drops, is arching nowA beauteous rainbow on those western clouds,A token of forgiveness.And when theyHave wept away their darkness, breezes softShall waft them till they join her fleecy train.
But once upon the ocean comes a nightWhen neither moon, nor stars, nor fleecy clouds Appear to greet the gazers' anxious sight;A night of tempests on the lonely deep.Each moment dangers new throng round the crew.At last the ship, long tossed upon the waves,Spurns all control of human will and pow'r.All useless now, the sailors' courage fails;The ship's commander, confidence all lost,Stands mute, despairing, gazing on the crew.
The father of Crucè to Heaven liftsA pray'r; but not of piteous distressOr anxious fear; but that the Mighty OneWho holds the waters in his hand will stayThe tempests, if his glory thus be wrought;If not, from raging storms receive their soulsTo the unruffled calm of Heaven's peace.
The pray'r is answered. And when morning dawns,The sun in majesty its clear, broad beamsIs flashing o'er the ocean's tranquil waves.
All hail! Italia's genius-haunted land,Whose skies drop inspiration; where the soulsOf great departed ones still live and glowIn their ideas, o'er which time and deathAre ever pow'rless; and which still do speakThrough silent marble their sublimity, Through lines and colors rare still thrill the soulWith beauty's holy and mysterious pow'r. Yes, hail! Italia, though thy fallen RomeHath verified the great, the solemn truthThat pow'r and strength with virtue unalliedThemselves work out their own sad overthrow.But Art, the Heaven—born, immortal lives,And while Art lives, Italia cannot die.
Receive, O Art! this worshiper who comesFrom her far island home to meet thee here;And may the light of hope within her soulGrow brighter at thy presence, while she hearsBy thee these words repeated, "Win thy crown."
O gorgeous land of India! unto thee,Upon her life-cross leaning, cometh she,The sad-eyed one, upon the Gospel shrineHer lovely life to offer. Fragile sheAs snowy.lily of the island dell.Blow lightly o'er her, O ye tropic airs!And waft no poison-vapors on your wing.And long, O India! may she dwell with thee,To bless thy children with her ministries.Now light to her the burden of the cross,The cross her birthright, her inheritance;Her youthful spirit leaning on the strength Of him whose long-lost presence now restoredWith joy complete her spirit's depths doth fill.
O Great and Holy Father, in thy care,Thy kind, all-pow'rful care, we leave this one;And through her may thy holy will be done.
IV.
How bright, and yet how softly, falls the lightOf morn's clear beams upon those palm-trees tall,Whose broad green leaves hang mute and motionlessWithin the breezeless air!Beneath their shadeThe missionary's home. Here dwells Crucè.Within the walls where first her infant eyesBeheld the light of earth, her presence nowCreates the home-light. Like an exiled birdRegaining after lonely wearinessIts native place, spreads glad its flutt'ring wingsOr folds them quietly in peace and rest,So doth the maiden's spirit in the joyAnd peace of her new-found, lost native home.
Through long, bright hours of golden summer-time,Crucè bends over volumes strangely writ;For through their native language must the light Of holy truth reach darkened souls around.And with that language on her lips at lastHer ministries begin.
The night is dark.The rain drops heavily from palm-tree boughs,And drearily against the window beats,A window of the missionary's home.Beside it, with a more than dreary lookOf helpless woe within her eyes' dark depths,Crucè is watching o'er her father's faceThe falling of death's shadow cold and pale.
The sad hours of the weary night are past.Soft breaking through the mists the morning dawns.Beside the open grave the mourners stand;A brother missionary o'er the graveBends tearfully, and lifts his voice in pray'r.
Crucè beside her father's coffin stands.She sees the coffin, sees the open grave,She hears the slow and solemn tones of pray'r,She sees, she hears, but realizes not.
While o'er her father's eyes death's shadow fell,The pow'r by which her spirit chords were riv'n Had sealed the soul-founts both of hope and grief,In icy fetters bound emotion's streams,And at one blow her consciousness struck blind. Where reason, though inactive, keeps its throne,While in unconsciousness the soul may keepThe semblance of oblivion's deep trance,Then fearfully at last in woe there comesThe waking up into reality.
'Tis Sabbath morn. The mission chapel bellRings out its peals, deep, clear, upon the air;And to the spirit of Crucè they comeWith an awak'ning pow'r.How oft the callTo worship hath her father answered! Now,Alas! the summons are for him no more.And, on her mem'ry swiftly rushing nowThe scenes of parting, death, and burial,And realizing fearfully her loss,A cold, cold weight upon her spirit falls;The weight of this one dreary, dreary thought,—In life's vast wilderness, all, all alone.
The Mighty One who sits at God's right hand,Who reigned with Him in glory ere this worldResponsive to creation's mandate came,Divinely human, once upon this earthWithin Gethsemane in anguish knelt. Oh! never o'er the narrow death-stream yetHath passed a Christian soul but on this earthHath known in anguish its Gethsemane.
O Saviour! O Divinely human! comeAnd hover near this soul, who sorrows nowWithin the shades of her Gethsemane.
From earthly pain oft cometh heav'nly strength;Who wait upon the Lord their strength renew. Crucè amid her mission pupils sits;Within her eyes' dark depths the light of peaceDispels the shade of sadness, and the gleamOf high triumphant pow'r is shining there.
Her pupils on her gaze with wond'ring awe.She speaks to them of immortality;And while she speaks, the strength and holy hopeThat from her eyes beam forth in heav'nly pow'rImpress for aye the lesson on their souls.
And when the tidings of her grief and lossAre borne afar to Italy, there come,With words of touching sadness, words of hope,Of holy strength and trust that ne'er shall fail.
And answering these tidings soon there comesA beauteous picture from Corona's hand. On barren ground uprising, stands a cross,By storm and tempest marred and light'ning's fire.Its surface only bears defacing marks;For strong beneath a firm unyielding rockIt stands, defying all the storms of time.And round and o'er its rough marred surface twineFrail vines, with lovely blossoms, buds, and leaves,And here and there, by some rough wind unclasped,Hang tendrils drooping. Buds that once were fairBend dark and blighted. Green stems here and there,Dissevered from their blossoms, lonely hang.And o'er this cross, all gold and silver tinged,Are clouds of wondrous glory. Angel handsReach softly from them, twining round this crossImmortal wreaths of ever-blooming flow'rs,That those whose saddened eyes beheld with griefThe blighting of the buds of hope, the fallUntimely of joy's blossoms bright and fair,May lift above their tearful eyes and seeThe angel-given flowers, and weep no more.
But, oh! more happy still, above the cross,And in the clouds' clear glory softly veiled,A crown, whereon, in lines of wondrous light,By angel's fingers traced, these words, "In Heav'n." And with the picture these few greeting words:"O sister of my soul! my thoughts to-nightAre flown to thee, where fain I too would be.Though parted far, one gladd'ning thought is mine;The same bright holy stars bend over each,And one bright home awaits us in the heav'ns."
A glorious night in Italy. The moonWith softened splendor lights the sculptured formsThere grouped in majesty.Corona standsBeside a vine-wreathed pillar near her home;Her hands are clasped in reverence; her eyesWith admiration lifted to the heav'ns;And, gazing in their clear and wondrous depths,Upon imagination's wing her soulDoth pass beyond the boundaries of earth.The limited, the finite, all are lost,And with the infinite she dwells alone.
The moon with regal grace descending lowBehind the distant hills, its parting beamsUpon the vine-wreathed pillar linger yet.Corona from the heav'ns withdraws her gaze;Within her eyes there shines a new-born lightOf revelation; for her soul hath knownBaptism of the infinite from God. Its beauty, its sublimity shall restA strong eternal pow'r within her soul.
None ever came aright to Art's high shrineTo minister, whose souls have never knownBaptism of the infinite; and noneWithout it can the crown of genius claim.As yet, the revelation in her soulIs but the dawning of creative pow'r.With rapture thrills her spirit gazing onThe master-works of mighty artist souls.These works become her study, and she dwellsAmid the regions of the beautiful,As in her true, her Heav'n-appointed sphere.
One only central thought, one wish, is hers;That heights of her ideals she may reach,And know at death her destiny fulfilled.
Within a temple dedicate to artCorona in her studio is seen.Her fingers, wand'ring o'er the canvas, traceThe likenesses of forms by others traced,Now gone to win the laurel crowns of Heav'n.
A few short years have passed. The wreath of fameIs resting brightly on Corona's brow; And glory in its true, best sense is hers,—That which a noble thinker called "the cryOf sympathy and recognition" hers.
The pictures many whose ideas highWere of her soul the bright and holy birth;Yet no one gives such luster to her fameAs this whereon we gaze, and there beholdThe transcript of her vision, which she toldHer teacher in that far-off island homeIn holy quiet of the Sabbath eve.
The setting sun on Venice shines. The west,With almost fearful splendor all aglow,With glist'ning brightness gilds cathedral spires,And on the waters down its glory casts.
Before her canvas sits Corona now,The canvas bright with beauteous imagery.Her pencil, wand'ring o'er it here and there,The last perfecting touches ling'ring gives.And now the pencil from her fingers drops.She gazes. The mysterious, sacred aweThat only to the genius-gifted comesWhen on their souls' creation they can look,And feel. like God's creation, it is good,Intense and holy moves through all her soul. Upon her hand her head is softly bowed;While, gliding through the window, sunset beamsGleam like ethereal jewels in her hair,And with a golden halo crown her brow.
Approaching footsteps fall upon her ear,And, rising, she beholds an aged man.His long white hair upon his shoulders sweeps,And wearily he leans upon his staff,While his own trembling hand a child-hand clasps.
They enter there, the pilgrim and the child,And thus the old man to Corona speaks:
"I come, O daughter of a glorious art!I come, that, while the light may visit stillThese eyes fast closing to its beams, thy works,The beautiful creations of thy soul,Whose fame hath reached me o'er the rolling seas,May grant their beauty to my waning sight.I've wandered through some fair and wondrous climes;Yes, from my youth a wand'rer I have been.The friends who loved me once, whom I have loved,Are dwellers on this lonely earth no more;Save this one child. Her mother—and my child—Lies buried in a vale of Palestine. And yet one brother's fate I cannot tell.This only like some legend I have heard:That when my father and my mother closedTheir eyes in that last sleep that comes to all,And when our only sister passed from earthTo join the angels in the upper spheres,My brother, in his sorrow strong and great,Departed from that home, then home no more,And dwelt alone in some far lovely isle;Yet never hope I him to meet on earth.
And now I journey to my childhood's home.I go to kneel by those three sacred graves;And if the roof that sheltered me in youthStill rests upon its ivy-mantled walls,I hope that thence my soul may pass to heav'n.
Ah! if I only knew upon what isleMy only brother reared his lonely home,How gladly would I journey there! If deathHath parted him from earth, I still would goTo kneel in holy sorrow by his tomb.
Ah, daughter! why to thee I this have toldI know not; and self-wonder it doth wake.For rarely to another soul I tellAught that concerns my own. Perchance 'tis well. I'm old, as thou dost see, and growing blind;And when not many suns shall rise and set,The light of earth shall visit me no more."
Upon the pilgrim doth Corona gazeWith reverence; and in his presence nowShe seemeth to herself a child again.And, with this touching thought within her soul,—He's growing blind, and that his aged eyes,To which the sunlight soon shall come no more,May view my soul's creations, he hath come,—She in a low and rev'rent tone doth say,"O rev'rend friend! I gladly greet thee here."
The sunlight soft and beautiful illumesEach picture round with radiance brightly sweet.
The old man moves among them; and his soul,While gazing, in its inmost depths receivesTheir all of beauty and sublimity.
He pauses now before the pictured scenesOf that bright vision which Corona's soulReceived when in her far-off island home;And in his soul there comes a happy glowLike youth's enthusiasm; and a smileLike that which springs from hope is on his lips. And then to him Corona doth repeatThe vision as she told it once before,And at another sunset time, and farAway within her own sweet island home.And while the same enthusiasm glowsAs then upon the altar of her soul.
She ceases, and the aged pilgrim speaks,In cadence slow and solemn, almost sad:"Ah! friend, young friend, whose soul with all its pow'rsThy life is shaping by that vision fair,Across whose spirit intuition tellsFew clouds of sorrow have their shadows cast,The time will come when on thy youthful headDark clouds will gather blackness,—round thy pathWill sweep in thund'ring fury,—saddest still,Will hide from thee thy Heav'nly Father's face.The deep foundations of thy faiths and hopes,Thy pow'rs of suffering, thy strength t" endure,Shall all be tried; and at this costly priceIt is at last the lesson thou shalt learn,That through the cross alone the crown is won."
Corona unto these prophetic wordsDoth list intently. When the last she hears,Her eyes, before with somewhat awe downcast, Now quickly lifted, with an earnest gazeAre bent upon the speaker. For these wordsIn thought transport her to a lonely cot'Mong moss-grown rocks, where, kneeling, on her earIn dying accents falls her teacher's pray'r,"In her remembrance may she ever keepThis truth, that through the cross the crown is won."
And is it fancy that Corona nowDoth trace resemblance in the stranger's faceTo that of him who breathed that dying pray'r?For such resemblance doth there seem. And nowShe tells him of her own far island home;Her days of childhood and of youth there spent;Of him who in that Sabbath sunset hourSo peacefully to heaven passed; then says,"Perchance it is thy brother, O my friend!Above whose grave, when each returning yearDoth bring again that Sabbath sunset hour,The islanders, with reverential love,Strew amaranthine blossoms, and entwineHis monument with ever-verdant sprays.'Tis thus, I've heard, they outwardly evinceThe memories of him they keep within.
But few are they upon that isle who knowHis early history. Yet, shouldst thou choose To learn if 'twas thy brother, there are two,If still in life, can tell thee many things:The white-haired captain of the ship>which boreMy teacher to our isle, the minister,Through childhood-days and youth his pupil, thenHis friend in after-years. And ev'ry one,When each the wherefore of thy coming learns,Will gladly greet thee. In my father's homeThrice welcome shalt thou be: for thine own sake,For mine, and for the sake of him who taughtMy youthful years."The pilgrim thus replies:"For these, thy words of kindness, thanks, my friend;And if the God who guides His children, grantMe journey thither safe, and safe return,And if this hope thou hast awakened findReality, when to my native landAnd home returning, then to tell thee thisI'll see thee once again. But oh! so soonHave I forgotten that the darkness comesTo seal my vision, and to make my lifeOn earth henceforth one night, though soon to end!And though I never here shall see thee more,Yet in the land of everlasting dayI'll see thee crowned among the angels stand.And this I now do know, that for the hourWhen on the fair creations of thy soul My waning vision rested, my own soulShall happier be through all eternity.'Tis twilight now—God bless thee, friend—farewell."
The twilight shades, with silence solemn, deepAre gathering within that room. AloneOnce more, Corona by the window stands,The star of evening looking down on herIn mild yet solemn beauty. But her thoughtsAre wandering through times whose length exceedsThe unimagined distance of that star,Or stars ten thousand times more distant still,—Are in eternity; and in her soulThe echo and re-echo of these words,"Shall happier be through all eternity,"A solemn joy diffuse, a blessing bringLike God's own benediction. For whoe'erA joy eternal brings to any soulDoth cause it to draw nearer to its God;And such, when standing by the great white Throne,Shall hear, "Ye blessed of my Father, come."
V.
'Tis night in India: 'tis the midnight hour.The moonlight, streaming through the window, fallsUpon the bowed head of Crucè, and casts Its fair, pale beams upon the sheeted dead.It is a night-watch in the room of death;And this night-watch Crucè now keeps alone.The young girl, her companion watcher, sleeps.Crucè, remembering the weary hoursOf vigils never tiring, kept so longBy this young sleeper near her mother's sideTill life and hope departed, wakes her not,But bows her head and there in silence weeps.
These tears are not of grief for this one dead,Though long her mission-pupil she hath been;But that this soul but faint hope left behindOf life immortal in the blessed land.Yet for this soul how earnestly she toiled,With naught to show but that 'twas all in vainBut this alone, that since this soul had heardOf that one God, Creator of all things,And Ruler of the destinies of men,No idol temple had her presence known,No false god's altar had her gift received!
The morning dawns. When hours have passed away,A group of friends are gathered round the dead;Then others fill the room, and others waitTo bear the dead to its last resting-place.There they in silence for the coming wait Of him who to the dead may give the ritesOf Christian burial. Though long they wait,The missionary comes not; and they castEach on the other an inquiring gaze,Then gaze upon Crucè, with saddened mienAmong them waiting as the rest. And now,Her soul recalling from its mournful thoughts,And understanding their mute questioning,She takes the holy volume, opes, and reads.
She reads of Him who bowed His head in death,The human soul to ransom from its pow'r,And Conq'ror of the grave on high, to Heav'nAscended, there to reign for evermore.And then in deep solemnity she speaksOf great eternity's dread, awful scenes,When in the clouds of glory shall descendThe Crucified, the Risen One, to judgeThe earth in equity and righteousness.
Then some who listen, and who have receivedThe truth in part before, but entered notThe path that leads to Christ, now feel their soulsMoved by invisible and mighty pow'r.
When she in earnest words, made eloquentBy her deep sorrow, pointeth out the gate, The gate of hope, which death doth close for aye,And urges them—how pleadingly!—to come,And, ent'ring there, give all their souls to HimWho gave, in love so great, His life for them;Then there in solemn presence of the deadArise the wailing cries of penitence,Wherein so many voices blend, the voiceThat pleads, no longer to be heard, doth cease.
But soon this cry of mourning grows subdued;And then Crucè invokes the God of loveTo send the new life to those mourning hearts.And, quick as lightning-flash, the sounds of woeAre changed to songs of praise to Christ their God.And when are given to the dead the lastSad ministries, then to their homes returnA band of new disciples of the cross.
And soon within that heathen city comesA change. And soon each idol temple standsBy all deserted save the temple priests.But they, of numbers many, have no thoughtThat they will silent this desertion bear,But vow that on each head shall vengeance fall.
Nor vow they vainly. Their appeal is heardBy kingly pow'r. And soon the mandate comes, That they who to their gods will not returnShall have their homes all leveled with the dust,And they be branded with the name of slaves.
And those who uttered first the words that drewThese idol-worshipers to leave those shrines,Shall hear the prison-bars behind them close,Shall find the prison-walls to be their home.Crucè with others now doth meet this fate.
The glory of the morn on sea and shoreIn dawning splendor gleams. Upon the strandA throng of human beings wait, the whileA ship is from its moorings loosed. ApartFrom all the rest who wait, a trio stand,And, gazing on the mighty rolling waves,Behold this image of the infiniteWith awe and exaltation of the soulSuch as sublimity alone can bring.
And of this trio is Corona one;Her father, mother making it complete.For they have come from their far island homeTo meet their child beneath Italian skies, To view the wonders of this land of art,And tread the classic ground the ancients trod,When on the sev'n-hilled city had not setThe star of Roman greatness. Soon this shipShall waft them over seas to lands remote.
And what high hopes now fill Corona's soulAt thought of lands which she hath longed to seeE'en from her childhood days! Now groups of friendsAround them gather, bidding them farewell.
And now Corona greets that pilgrim old,Whose eyes from earthly light are closed for aye,And now, as once before, by child-hand led.Among his parting words he these doth speak:"I've knelt beside that grave in yonder isle,And known it was my brother's. Youthful friend,When to Italia's land thou shalt return,I shall be sleeping as my brother sleeps.But grateful thoughts of thee shall in my pray'rsBe mingled even to the final hour;And then in heav'n thou'lt be remembered still."
The ship now entered, moving from the shore,With graceful majesty sweeps o'er the deep,And casts its anchor on the Grecian shore. O Greece! thou wondrous, Heaven-gifted land,Where art and song arose so grandly high;Thou birthplace of philosophy, all hail!Thy noble thinkers of the elder days,Who swayed the human mind with sceptered pow'r,Still wield a sceptered pow'r o'er minds to-day,To perish not when earth shall be no more!
Ah! if those heathen minds could now beholdHow all their longing for the infinite,Their aspirations for the highest good,Have found their answer in the world's to-day,Through Christianity the Heaven-sentTo earth descending, how would they rejoice,How wonder, too, at those who turn aside,While o'er their way truth's dazzling splendor streams,To seek the darkness rather than the light!
And now Corona and her parents roamThe vales of Greece; ascend its mountain heights.Olympus, with its coronet of snow,With lofty grandeur rises to their view.They stand on Marathon's mount-circled plain,—That plain—when even centuries had passedSince on the victors and the vanquished gleamedThe sunset of its memorable day—Believed of spectral warriors the haunt, Where nightly rang the shouts of combatants.And then in Athens, once the queen of artAnd learning, do they linger, while their gazeUpon its architectural wonders rests,Its sculpture, and its painting. Then farewellThey bid to Grecian shores. And when some daysAnd nights have passed, they greet the rising sunUpon a sacred plain of Palestine.
And as they gaze upon the lakes and mountsForever hallowed by the gaze Divine,An awe, a reverence comes o'er their souls,Which Nature's grandest scenes, and all of Art'sAchievements, noblest, highest, had no pow'rTo waken when in other lands they roamed.
They tread the winding paths of Olivet;They walk where once in anguish, pray'r, and tears,And bowed with grief, the Man of Sorrows trod.Across the centuries that intervene,Transported by imagination's pow'r,They seem to hear, in deep bewailing tones,The lamentation o'er Jerusalem.
And once, as shades of night are gath'ring round,They sit in silent thought 'neath olive-trees,And o'er their souls a somewhat shadow comes Of sad Gethsemane's great anguish-scene.And oh! what utter woe in that dark hourCould from Omnipotence thus wring the cry,"If it be possible, let this cup pass"!
If love mean sacrifice, then here it foundA sacrifice full equal to itself;Love infinite, its sacrifice the same.
And in this silent meditative hourA pow'r upon Corona's soul doth move,A mighty pow'r it never knew before.
From early childhood she had loved the OneWho came to earth to ope the gates of heav'n.She knew that God doth all His children love;But as upon her soul there rushes nowMost vivid consciousness of that great love,In length, breadth, depth, and height immeasurable,She realizes first in all her lifeThe pow'r, the beauty of God's love to her,The holy friendship of the Crucified. It is as if some fountain in her soulBy some celestial touch hath been unsealed;And calmly, yet resistlessly, it flowsTo meet its primal source,—the heart of God. Through many lands and scenes the trav'lers roam,And sometimes, too, in crowded cities pause,Where throngs of anxious, restless beings pass,Who still shall live when all this wondrous world,With its dissolving beauties, rushes backTo voids chaotic.The meridian sunO'er calmly-rolling waters casts its sheen,And o'er those waters glides a ship that bearsThe trio toward Italia's sunny shores.
VI.
But prison-walls are powerless to dimThe light of faith, that with Crucè doth growMore strong, and stronger still. This light dispelsThe sadness deep her eyes have shadowed forthThrough many days of many former years.The high triumphant pow'r is shining there.
A night hath passed; and now the crimson lightOf early morn illumes the dungeon-bars.Crucè looks out upon demolished homes,And reads the triumphs of a holy faithIn true brave souls who fear no one but God;And in her soul there comes a mighty joyIt never knew before. And when she hears The tidings that no one of those who leftThe idol-worship, to those shrines returned,Exultingly upon those dungeon-wallsShe gazes, then amid its gloom doth pray,"My Father, only speed thy work begun,And on this earth I ask no fairer home."
A year hath passed. The suff'rings nobly borneBy those brave souls have moved the kingly heartTo send a mandate forth that shall redeemTheir lives from slavery, and give the pow'rTo rear their homes anew; but brings no hopeTo those imprisoned. As Crucè oft thinksOf souls all eager for the words of life,For holy teachings, o'er her soul there comesA sadness for some moments, soon to pass;~And then she whispers, "'Tis my Father's will,And He will call when He hath need of me."Within that prison now, she learns the lastOf three great lessons of this life on earth,—To do, to suffer, and to wait God's will.
At last, one day, from those dark prison-wallsThe prisoners go forth, and to their workOf holy ministries return again.Now, for awhile, each day upon some soulThe Holy Spirit sets redemption's seal. The teachings of Crucè are fraught with pow'rThat ne'er before had oft to her been given;And some serene celestial light withinDoth lead her on to grander heights of truth.
And now an answer doth there seem vouchsafed,An answer to her teacher's dying pray'r:"And while she nobly bears her earthly cross,May she behold the crown that shines above."
How wildly fierce, O storms! ye sweep to-nightThe ocean, rousing all its waves to wrath,Until around the ship they dash and surge,And, mounting high, with snowy-crested foamEnfold it as it were its winding-sheet.
Within that ship, within a silent room,Is one who recks your presence not; the whileA dim and flick'ring taper casts its lightOn brows where death hath set its icy seal,And forms like statues motionless and cold.
With eyes averted from those lifeless formsAnd fixed in silence on the silent walls, She stands who recks not those fierce storms without.And in her eyes there is no gleam of hope,Enthusiasm, joy; all these have fled,And in their place a stony fixednessOf look that changes not. Her hands are clasped,Clasped tightly, in a mute, still agony.
A strange, a deathlike fixedness of soulComes now; the work of suffering that triedEndurance' pow'rs, until at last its pow'rTo torture was at end, and so gave o'er.And is it thus the pilgrim's prophecyBegins to find fulfillment? Even so.It is Corona who thus mutely stands;It is her parents who in death repose.
Kind friends within that room pass to and fro,And gaze upon Corona with a lookIn which compassion doth with terror blend.Her wan face in that dim and flick'ring lightLooks ghastly as the faces of the dead.Approaching gently now, they whisper low.She moves not, neither doth her aspect change;But when they seek to loose the clasping hands,Convulsively they seek to clasp again,And then her head droops low. They lead her thence, And, human consolation void of pow'r,They leave her with her sorrow, and with God.
Soft breezes o'er the tranquil waters blow,And waft the homeward vessel on its way;And on Italia's sunset-lighted shoresAt last in anchorage it safely rests.But oh! the glory of Italian skiesNo joy of beauty to the orphan brings.And in her studio once more, alone,The throngs of memories that o'er her rushUnseal at last the fountain of her tears. Night passes. In the twilight of the mornThe star of dawn beholds her weeping still.But not in cloudless splendor doth the sunBegin this day his journey through the heav'ns.His brightness mists are veiling; and the cloudsEre long drop down upon the earth their tears.All nature seems to weep. The trees that shadeThe orphan's window without ceasing weep,And vines that wreathe the pillars of yon dome,The temple of her art, bend ev'ry leafAll heavy-freighted with the crystal drops.
It is the sunset now; and never gleamedA brighter sunset o'er this sunny land.On golden-tinted, crimson-bordered clouds Corona's gaze is resting listlessly.She sees not for awhile the childish formThat near her door for recognition waits,Then enters silently and by her stands.It is the child-guide of the pilgrim blind.She brings a message. And Corona readsThe words he uttered in his dying hour.He asks that to her care the little childMay be intrusted; and he closes thus:"Perchance around thee even now, my friend,The clouds of sorrow gather. Standing nowUpon the borders of the blessed land,My prescient vision bids me not recallThe words of prophecy to thee I spake.But never in thy soul let faith and hopeGrow weary. Thou at last thy crown shalt win.Be faithful unto death, till eventide,And then at eventide it shall be light."
The coming of this little child, that bringsNew duties, from her meditative griefRecalls Corona into active life.Her thoughts, that days and weeks within the pastHave wandered, dwelling ever with the dead,Now turn confiding to the orphan's God,And in the promise that the blessed dead Shall live in blessed immortality,She makes her stronghold, and her soul grows calm.
But o'er her intellect now comes a change.The hopes, beliefs, that from her childhood daysOn faith's foundations lay, unquestioned e'erBy reason till this hour, now seem called forthBy reason, grown impatient to demandThe why of these. "Why hopest thou, O soul,To meet the dead from whom thou'rt parted here?"These questionings she meets with God's own word.But reason still, like something grown apartE'en from her very self, still further onDoth press its questioning to other truths.Yet all this while, within her soul no doubtDoth come of all these truths. And reason tooDenies them not, but only asks the why.
Thus days and weeks are passed. She studies, weeps,And prays. The light by human genius shedOn these same truths, that cometh in her reach,Is welcomed eagerly.And once she turnsFrom all this weary thinking to her art.But not as in her bright unsorrowed daysThe bright fair imagery around her throngs,And ev'ry faculty now seems spell-bound. But, as the days pass on, the clouds and mistsRoll slowly from her intellectual heav'ns,Where shine like stars, with light more clear than day,The truths which reason so severely tried.And in their midst new constellations brightOf truths her spirit never knew before,Now by Divine illumination giv'n,And on her canvas hath she never tracedSuch high and glorious imagery as nowEnraps her mental vision; while returnsThe beautiful with all its gifts divine.The change doth seem as great as that from deathTo life. It is her intellectual birth.The language of her soul, "Once have I known,Yea, twice, that pow'r belongeth unto God."
God promises to those who first shall seekHis kingdom, and His righteousness, all thingsShall added be. Among these '"all things," then,Why not the intellect regenerate?To some it may not come until in heav'nThey dwell in God's own presence; unto someIt comes on earth, according to their faith,According to the works that follow faith.The time may come when men no more will doubtThat God our Saviour purchased by His death This birth of intellect for man, than nowThey doubt His heart-regenerating pow'r.
********
God is the Holy. So is He the True,The Source of all the everlasting truthsTowards which all science, knowing it or not,Doth climb, and must forever climb, nor restUntil at last it sees them face to face.God is the Beautiful; for which the soulWithin its inmost depths doth ever long;The Real of the great Ideal,—God.The intellect, the heart cry out for God.He is the all in all of human thought,He is the all in all of human love,And thought and love at last in Him shall rest.The pow'r to reach the holy, unto manIs given by the cross. So is the pow'rTo reach the beautiful, to reach the true.And thus, O Father, may thy kingdom come!
Though with new panoplies of strength her soulDoth from this trial come, as burnished goldDoth from its crucible come forth, yet stillThe anguish of those watchings on the deep,The grief of loss, and, last nor least in pow'r,This intellectual trial, not in vain Have wrought upon the dwelling of the soulTheir fatal work. And day by day her stepGrows slower and more weary; and the glowThat fled her cheek upon that fearful nightWhen in the presence of the dead she stoodWith face as ghastly as their own, shall ne'erReturn. Yet for her art she still would live,And patiently yet longingly she waitsFor strength to paint ideals of her soulThat strongly for their own expression urge.
But hope deferred grows weary; and resolveAt length attempts alone, what strength denies;And on the canvas traced with trembling handAre outlined forms that coloring but waitTo give to them most wondrous lovely life,And then her hand drops pow'rless from its task.A mighty desolation fills her soul,—The signal of the death of hope. She cries,"My soul, this earth hath nothing more for thee.Where art thou, O my Father? take me home!"
And soon a message to Crucè she sends,Transcribed by friendly hand, and reading thus:"My days are few. I'm passing swiftly hence.Had I not so much suffered, not so greatHad been this strength of soul, these added pow'rs; My crown on earth, and herald of my crownIn heav'n. The thoughts of beauty in my soulShall find expression there, denied them here.My work is over. Sundered ev'ry tieThat bound me here. While from my spirit's depthsThere comes a sad beseeching cry for rest,That God alone can answer, God alone,Across the lands and seas that lie betweenI call to thee, my friend, my sister, come."
Then gently as descend the dews of heav'nThe pilgrim's words do to her spirit come:"And then at eventide it shall be light."And softly to herself she murmurs low,"A little longer, O my weary soul!A little longer, and the night shall break,And o'er thee, in its holy splendor, streamThe calm, eternal light of heaven's dawn."
VI.
The sun shines bright within the western heav'ns,Its glory resting on a vine-wreathed bow'r;And lights and shadows, quivering within,Surround Corona. On her snowy browA crown of sunbeams dropped 'tween leaves above, Upon her countenance celestial peaceReposes with a beauty most serene.
The sun that shines so brightly in the heav'nsIs waiting now the hour of its eclipse;To witness this, e'en with her dying gaze,Corona waiteth now within this bow'r.
Crucè beside her stands in silence sad,And tearfully she gazes on her friend,—Companion of the days of early youth,And playmate of her childhood, in that home,That far, sweet island home, which nevermoreThe eyes of either shall again behold.
Time passes. To her friend she whispers low.Corona's eyes unclose; and now she seesThe dying sunlight resting on the leaves,The sun grow lesser, dimmer all the while.Then in a twilight strange the stars come forth,A mighty shadow falls, and folds the earthIn what doth seem a supernatural night.The full-orbed night-queen, hanging in the heav'ns,Confronts the sun, and hides his kingly face. A perfect crown, a circlet of bright rays,Surrounds her, and yet still is not her ownIt is the day-king's royal signet ring. In queenly grace she from his presence glides;In momentary twilight vanish nowThe moon and stars; the sun is left alone.
Once more Crucè doth turn her tearful gazeUpon Corona. On her death-white faceThe peace ascends to rapture, and her eyesAre lit with radiance from upper lands.In clear, sweet tones like sound of seraph lute,She cries, "'Tis come, 'tis come, th' eternal day!Love folds its white wings o' er my soul, and cries,'Thou camest from the Infinite, and now,O soul! to that same Infinite return.'"
Her eyes close softly in the beautiful,The last sweet sleep, the type of perfect rest.The airs around, within that bow'r are fraughtWith angel benedictions. And her lipsMove lightly, whisp'ring from the shores of death,"I see the land that is very far off,I see the King in his beauty."
The yearsThrice circling now have joined the silent past.'Tis past the midnight hour; the silent stars Look down in solemn beauty on the earth.The crescent moon is rising o'er the hills:Its slight beams, falling now on dungeon-barsAnd entering through the blackened gratings, restAmong Crucè's dark locks; for once againThe prison-walls have shut her from her work.
But Heav'n is drawing nigh, and weary earthReceding from her soul. Her lips revealThe vision that before her spirit gleams,And in their dying accents whisper low, "They come, my father, mother, sister-friend!They come, the angels a resplendent band!I wait, O Saviour! yes, Thou too art come,And I to Thee am swiftly coming now.I pass the angels round me whisp'ring low,'The crown! the crown!' and still to Thee I come,And, to thy holy presence now received,Thou'lt crown me with the glory of thy love,With its infinitude of depth and height.My soul forever asks no other crown!"