Jane Caroline Reed's commonplace  Book

THREE KISSES OF FAREWELL

[these exquisite verses are from on of “Esther Wynn’s Love Letters” in Scribner’s for December]

Three, only three, my darling,

Separate, solemn, slow;

Not like the swift and joyous ones

We used to know

When we kissed because we loved each other

Simply to taste Love’s sweet,

And lavished our kisses as the summer

Lavishes heat,-

But as they kiss whose hearts and wrong,

When hope and fear are spent,

And nothing is left to give, except

A sacrament

First of the three, my darling,

Os sacred unto pain;

We have hurt each other often;

We shall again,

When we pine because we miss each other,

And do not understand

How the written words are so much colder

Than eye and hand.

I kiss thee, dear for all such pain

Which we may give or take;

Buried, forgiven, before it comes

For our love’s sake!

The second kiss, my darling,

Is full of joy’s sweet thrill;

We have blessed each other always;

We always will.

We shall reach until we feel each other.

Past all of time and space;

We shall listen till we hear each other

In every place;

The earth is full of messengers,

Which love sends to and fro;

I kiss thee, darling, for all joy

Which we shall know!

The last kiss, oh, my darling,

My love-I cannot see

Through my tears, as I remember

What it may be.

We may die and never see each other,

Die with no time to give

Any sign that our hearts are faithful

To Die as live.

Token of what they will not see

Who see our parting breath.

This one last kiss, my darling, seals

The kiss of death!

HERE AND THERE A GEM

GATHERED FROM THE NEW YORK OBSERVER

Like a cradle rocking, rocking,

Silent, peaceful, to and fro.

Like a mother’s sweet looks dropping

On the little face below

Hangs the green earth, swinging, turning

Jarless, noiseless, safe and slow;

Falls the light of God’s face bending

Down and watching us below.

And as feeble babes that suffer,

Toss, and cry, and will not rest,

Are the ones the tender mother

Holds the closest, loves the best,-

So when we are weak and wretched,

By our sins weighed down, distressed,

Then it is the God’s great patience

Holds us closest, loves us best.

-Saxe Holm

Katie Lee and Willie Gray

Two brown heads with tossing curls,

Red lips shutting over pearls,

Bare feet white + wet with dew,

Two eyes black + two eyes blue;

Little boy + girl were they,

Katie Lee + Willie Gray.

They were standing where a brook,

Bending like a shepherd’s crook,

Flashing its silver + thick ranks

Of willow fringed its banks;-

Half in thought + half in play.

Katie Lee + Willie Gray.

They had cheeks like Cherries hot;

He was taller, most a head-

She, with arms like wreaths of snow,

Swung a basket to and fro

As they loitered, half in play,

Chatting to Willie Gray.

“Pretty Katie,” Willie said

And there came a dash of red

Through the brownness of his cheek;

“Boys are strong + girls are weak,”

And I’ll carry, so I will, 

Katie’s basket up the hill.”

Katie answered with a  laugh,

“You shall carry only half;”

Then said, tossing back her curls,

“Boys as weak as well as girls.”

Do you think that Katie guessed

Half the wisdom she expressed!

Men are only boys grown tall:

Hearts don’t change much, after all;

And when, long years from that day,

Katie Lee + Willie Gray.

Stood again beside the brook

Bending like a shepherd's crook

Is it strange that Willie said,

While again a dash of red

Crossed the brownness of his cheek

“I am strong and you are weak;

Life is but a slipper steep,

Hung with shadows cold + deep.

“Will you trust me Katie Lee?

Walk beside me without fear;

May I carry, if I will,

All your burdens up the hill!”

And she answered, with a  laugh,

“No, but you may carry half.”

Close beside the little brook

Bending like a shepherd’s crook

Washing, with it silver hands.

Late + Early t the sand,

Stands a cottage where today

Katie lives with Willie Gray

In the porch she sits, and, lo!

Swings a basket to + fro.

Vastly different from the one

That she swung in year agone;

This is long, + deep, + wide!

And has rockers at the side

From Frank Summer

Northampton, June 1866

Unknown Poem

Yet, on life’s current, he who drifts

Is one with him who rows or sails;

And he who wanders widest lifts

No more of beauty’s jealous vails

Than he who from his doorway sees

The miracle of flowers and trees,

Feels the warm Orient in the noonday air,

And from cloud minarets hears the sunset call to prayer.

Whittier

Unknown Poem

Better to stem with heart and hand

The roaring tide of life, than lie,

Unmindful, on its flowery strand,

Of God’s occasions drifting by!

Better with naked nerve to bear

The needles of this goading air

Than, in lap of sensual ease, forego

The godlike power to do, the godlike aim to know.

Whittier

Fear Not

Deeper, Father, grow the shadows,

Darker still the night comes on,

Every human hope departing,

Now I look to Thee alone.

Hopes which I have fondly cherished

Thou hast laid in ruins low;

Props on which I leaned have failed me;

Like a broken reed I bow.

Over all the distant landscape,

Stretching dark and cold away.

Say, my Father, will will thou keep me,

Shall I never lose my way?

Hark! I hear a voice a cheating,

Sounding through the gathering night

Fear not, for I have redeemed thee,

I will be thy guide and light

Only floor when I call thee,

Let no fear turn thee aside

Not a for shall dare to harm thee,

While I am thy constant guide.

Father, full of all compassion

I will take thee at Thy word, 

Meeting danger and temptation

Is the strength of Christ, my Lord

Nov 1865

New York Observer

THE THREE LITTLE CHAIRS

They sat alone by bright wood fire.

The gray-haired dame and the aged sire,

Dreaming of the days gone by:

The tear drops fell on each wrinkled check,

They both had thoughts that they could not speak,

As each heart uttered a sigh.

For their sad and tearful eyes descried.

Three little chairs, places side by side,

Against the sitting-room wall:

Old fashioned enough as there they stood,

Their seats flag and their frames of wood,

With their bucks so straight and tall.

Then the sire shook his silvery head,

And, with trembling voice, he gently said:

“Mother, those empty chairs!

They bring us such sad, sad thoughts, to-night,

We’ll put them forever out of sight.

In the small, dark room up-stairs.”

But she answered, “Father, no, not yet,

For I look at them and I forget

That the children went away:

The boys come back, and our Mary, too,

With her apron on of checkered blue,

And sit here every day.

Johnny still whittles a ship’s tall masts,

And Willie his leaden bullets casts,

While Mary her patchwork sews;

At evening time three childish prayers

Go up to God from those little chairs,

So softly that no one knows.

Johnny comes from billowy deep,

Willie wakes from his battle-field sleep,

To say good-night to me;

Mary’s a wife and mother no more,

But a tired child whose play time is o’er,

And comes to rest on my knee.

So let them stand there, though empty now,

And, every time when alone we bow

At the Father’s throne to pray.

We’ll ask to meet the children above,

In our Savior’s home of rest and love,

Where no child goeth away.”

Mrs. H.T. Perry, in Evangelist

Christmas

Over the hills of Palestine

The silver stars began to shine;

Night drew her shadows softly round

The slumbering earth, without a sound.

Among the fields and dewy rocks

The shepherds kept their quiet flocks,

And looks along the darkening land

That waited the Divine command

When lo! Through all the opening blue,

Far up the deep, dark heavens withdrew,

And angles in a solemn light

Praised God to all the listening night.

Ah! Said the lowly shepherds then,

The Seraph sang good-will to men:

O hasten, earth, to meet the morn,

The Prince, the Prince of Peace is born!

Again the sky was deep and dark,

Each star relumed its silver spark,

The dreaming land in silence lay,

And waited for the dawning day.

But in a stable low and rude,

Where white-horned, mild eyed oxen stood,

The gate of heaven were still displayed,

For Christ was in the manger laid.

“Our Young Folks”

Harriett E. Prescott

Dec. 1865

 Labor + Rest

Two hands upon the breast,

    And Labor's done;

Two pale feet crossed in rest,

    The race is won;

Two eyes with coin-weights shut,

    And all tears cease;

Two lips where grief is mute,

    And at peace;

So pray we oftentimes morning our lot;

God in his kindness answereth not;

Two hands to work addrest,

    Aye for his praise;

Two feet that never rest, 

    Walking his ways;

Two eyes that look above

    Strive, through all tears;

Two lips that breath out love,

    Not wrath, nor fears

So pray we afterwards, low at our knees;

Pardon those erring prayers, Father, hear thee!

Miss Mulock

Minneapolis, Minn.

Oct. 18, 1868

 Rest-from hymnbook

Rest is not quitting

The busy career;

Rest is the fitting

Of self to one's sphere.

'Tis the brook's motion

Clear without strife.

Fleeting to ocean

After this life

'Tis loving + serving.

The highest + best;

'Tis onward, unswerving.

And this is true rest.

Minneapolis Oct 18th, 1868

Goethe

Battle Hymn of the Republic

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:

He is trapling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored:

He hath loosed the faiteful lightning of his terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps:

They have builded him an alter in the evening dews + damps:

I can read his righteous sentence by the dim + flaring lamps;

His truth is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:

As ye deal with my condemners, so with you my grace shall deal;

Let the hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,

His truth is marching on.

He has sounded form the trumpet that shall never call retreat:

He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgement seat;

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him, be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea.

With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me;

As he died to make men holy let us die to make men free,

While God is marching on.

Mrs. Julia Ward Howe

 The Burial of Moses

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,

In a vale in the land of Moab,

There lies a lonely grave:

And no man knows the sepulchre,

And no man saw it e'er;

For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral

That ever passed on earth.

And no man heard the trampling.

Or saw the train go forth.

Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes back when night is done,

And the crimson steak on ocean's check

Grows into the great sun:

Noiselessly as the springtime

Her crest if verdure means.

And all the trees on all the hills

Open their thousand leaves-

So without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,

Silently down from the mountain crown

The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle

On gray Beth-peor's height,

Out of his lonely eyrie

Looked on the wondrous sight.

Perchance the lion, stalking,

Still shuns the hallowed spot,

For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

But with the warrior dieth

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drum,

Follow the funeral car;

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his matchless steed.

While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

They lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honored place,

With costly marble drest,

In the great minister transept.

Where lights like glory fall,

While the organ rings and the sweet choir sings,

Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the truest warrior

That ever buckled sword;

This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word;

And never earth's philosopher

Trace, with his golden pen

On the deathless page, truths half so sage

As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor-

The hillside for his pall.

To lie in state while angels wait

With stars for tapers tall.

While the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes.

Over his bier to wave.

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,

To lay him in his grave;

In that strange grave without a name.

Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again, O wonderous thought!

Before the judgement day,

And stand with glory wrapt around

On the hills he never trod.

And speak of the strife that won our life.

With the incarnate Son of God.

O lonely grave in Moab's land!

O dark Beth-peor's hill!

Speak to theses curious hearts of ours,

And teach them to be still.

God hath his mysteries of grace.

Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep

Of him He loved so well.

Ms. C.F. Alexander

Only

Only a woman's face,

In the dark night and cold,

But oh! the ghost of a vanish'd grace,

And the pitiful tale it told!

Wrapt in a ragged shawl

(Why was it not her shroud?)

It look'd as white as the moon at night,

Through a rift in a driving cloud.

Only a few poor pence,

And a few kind words addressing;

And all they brought was a kindly thought

And a poor lost woman's blessing.

The Power of Life

They are safe in his hands, the tempests

    In his, but not in ours;

No hand may wield the lightning

    But the hand that folds the flowers.

He is the Lord of the winds + thunder,

    But has stronger powers then they;

And the Lord of Life is working,

    He is working everyday.

For the Lord of life is working,

    And his strongest force is life;

Ever with death it wagest

    Silent, victorious strife.

And Truth is strongest then Falsehood,

    And needs but an open field;

And Love is stronger the hatred,

    And Love will never yield.

And one breath of life is stronger

    Than all the hosts of death.

                                        Mrs Charlie

The Mills of God

Though the mills of God grind slowly

    yet the grind exceedingly small;

Though with patience he stands waiting.

    with exactness grinds he all.

                                    H. W. Longfellow

Excerpt from The Builders

Nothing useless is or low;

    Each thing in its place is best;

And what seems but idle show

    Strengthens and supports the rest.

Build today, then, strong and sure,

    With a firm + ample base;

And ascending + Secure

    Shall tomorrow find its place.

                            H. W. Longfellow

Excerpts from Resignation

There is no Death! What seems so is transition;

    This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

    Whose portal we call death.

And though at times impetuous with emotion

    And anguish long suppressed,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,

    That cannot be at rest,--

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

    We may not wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

    The grief that must have way.

  Longfellow

A Quote by Walter Scott

O woman! in our hours of ease

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,

And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made;

When pain ad anguish wring the brow,

A ministering angel thou!

                                            Mainion

This was actually written by Walter Scott by she attributes it to someone else.

An excerpt from the poem Locksley Hall by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"Love took up the glass of time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands;

Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.

Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the cords with might;

Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.

    Locksley Hall

An excerpt for Gasper Becerra by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

O thou sculptor, painter, poet!

Take this lesson to thy heart:

That is best which lieth nearest;

From that shape thy work of art.

    H.W.L.

An excerpt from Vivien's Song by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

It is the little rift within the lute

That by and by will make the music mute,

And ever widening slowly silence all."

    Vivien's Song

An Excerpt from the "Cherubic Pilgrim by Johannes Angelus Silesius

We pray, "On earth, in Heaven, O Lord, be done thy will,"

And yet God has no will, but is forever still.

    Johannes Angelus Silesius

Remonstrance by Jean Ingelow

Remonstrance

"Daughters of Eve your mother did not well;

She laid the apple in your father's hand,

And we have read, O wonder what befell--

The man was not deceived, not yet could stand;

He chose to lose, for love of her, his throne

For her could die but could not live alone.

Daughters of Eve he did not fall so low

Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell;

For something better than as gods to know,

That husband in that home left off to dwell;

For this, till love be reckoned less then lore,

Shall man be first + best forevermore.

Daughters of Eve, it was for your dear sake

The world's first hero died an uncrowned king;

But God's great pity touched the grand mistake,

And made his married love a sacred thing;

For yet his nobler sons, if aught be true,

Find their lost Eden in their love to you."

    Jean Ingelow

Excerpts from The Burial of the Dead by the Rev Thomas Tylecott

When Autumn leaves are falling

And Golden gleams the West;

We seem to lay more gently

Our dear ones down to rest;

Safe in kind Nature's bosom

We lay them down to sleep,

And pray that holy angels

Round them their watch may keep.

x  x   x  x  x

Yet hush; thou troubled spirit,

Be calm thou restless will.

For thee come o'er the waters

Those sweet word "Peace be still".

For thee those angel whispers,

That breathe the hope ere long

With them to share the Palm-wreath,

To sing the conqueror's song.

Miss Tylecott

Living age

Aug 24. 1867

Kathrina by Josiah Gilbert Holland

Kathrina-Complaint

Yet within my inmost spirit I can hear an undertone,

That by law of prime relation hold these voices as its own, -

The full tonic whose harmonic grandeurs rise through 

    Nature's words. 

From the ocean's thunderous rolling to the trolling of the birds.

Spirit, O my spirit! Is it thou art out of tune?

Art thou clinging to December while the earth is in 

    its June?

Hast thou dropped they part in nature? Hast thou

    touched another key?

Art thou angry that the anthem will not, cannot,

    wait for thee?

Spirit thou art left alone - alone on waters wild;

For God is gone, and Love is dead, + Nature spurns

    her child.

Thou art drifting in a deluge, waves below + clouds

    above,

And with weary wings come back to thee, thy raven + thy dove.

Oct 15, 1887                                            Dr. Holland

The Heart of the War by Josiah Gilbert Holland

The Heart of the War

Peace in the clover-scented air,

And stars within the dome;

And underneath, in dim repose;

A plain, New-England home.

Within, a murmur of low tones

And sighs from hearts oppressed,

Merging in prayer, at last, that brings

The balm of silent rest.

I've closed a hard day's work, Marty,-

The evening chores are done;

And you are weary with the house,

And with the little one.

But he is sleeping sweetly now,

With all our pretty brood;

So come and sit upon my knee,

And it will do me good.

Oh, Marty! I must tell you all

The trouble in my heart,

And you must do the best you can

To take + bear your part.

You've seen the shadow on my face,

You've felt it day and night;

For it has filled our little home,

And banished all its light.

I did not mean it should be so, 

And yet I might have known

That hearts the live as close as ours

Can never keep their own.

But we are fallen on evil times,

And, do whate'er I may,

My heart grows sad about the war,

And sadder every day.

I think about it when I work,

And when I try to rest,

And never more than when your head

Is pillowed on my breast;

For then I see the camp-fired blaze,

And sleeping men around,

Who turn their faces toward their homes,

And dream upon the ground.

I think about the dear, brave boys,

My mates in other years,

Who pine for home and those they love,

Till I am choked with tears.

With shouts + sheers they march away

On glory's shining track,

But ah! low long, how long they stay!

How few of them come back!

One sleeps beside the Tennessee,

And one beside the James,

And one fought on a gallant ship

And perished in its flames.

And some, struck down by fell disease,

Are breathing out their life;

And others, maimed by cruel wounds,

Have left the deadly strife.

Ah, Marty! Marty!, only think

Of all the boys have done

And suffered in this weary war!

Brave heroes, every one!

Oh! often, often in the night,

I hear their voices call:

"Come on and help us! Is it right

That we should bear it all?"

And when I knell + try to pray,

My thoughts are never free,

But cling to those who toil + fight

And die for you and me.

And when I pray for victory,

It seems almost a sin

To fold my hands and ask for what

I will not help to win.

Oh! do not cling to me and cry,

For it will break my heart;

I'm sure you'd rather have me die

Than not to bear my part.

You think that some should stay at home

To care for those away;

But still I'm helpless to decide

If I should go or stay.

For, Marty, all the soldiers love,

And all are loved again;

And I am loved, and love, perhaps,

No more than other men.

I cannot tell, I do not know -

Which way my duty lies,

Or where the Lord would have me build

My fire of sacrifice.

I feel-I know-I am not mean;

And though I seem to boast,

I'm sure that I would give my life

To those who need it most.

Perhaps the Spirit will reveal

That which is fair + right;

So, Marty, let us humbly kneel

And pray to Heaven for light.

Peace in the clover-scented air,

And stars within the dome;

And understand, in dim repose,

A plain New England home.

Within, a widow in her weeds,

From whom all joy is flown,

Who kneels among her sleeping babes,

And weeps and prays alone!

                            J.G. Holland

Atlantic Monthly

Aug. 1864

The Blue and the Gray by F.M. Finch

The Blue + the Gray

By the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of the iron have fled,

Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,

Asleep are the ranks of the dead;-

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;-

Under the one, the Blue;

Under the other, the Gray.

Those in the robings of glory,

Those in the gloom of defeat,

All with the battle-blood gory

In the duck of eternity meet;-

Under the sod + the dew;

Waiting the judgement day;-

Under the laurel, the Blue;

Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hearts

The desolate mourners go,

Lovingly laden with flowers

Alike, for the friend + the foe;-

Under the sod + the dew,

Waiting the judgement day;-

Under the roses, the Blue,

Under the lilies, the Gray.

So with an equal splendor

The morning sun-rays fall,

With a touch, impartially tender,

On the blossoms blooming for all;

Under the sod + the dew,

Waiting the judgement day;-

Broidered with gold, the Blue;

Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So when the Summer calleth,

On forest + field of grain

With an equal murmur falleth

The cooling drip of the rain;-

Under the sod + the dew,

Waiting for judgement day;-

Wet with the rain, the Blue:

Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done;

In the storm of the years that are fading,

No braver battle was won;-

Under the sod + the dew,

Waiting the judgement day;-

Under the blossoms, the Blue.

Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever, 

Or the winding rivers be red;

They banish our anger forever

When they laurel the graves of our dead!

Under the sod + the dew,

Waiting the judgement day;-

Love + tears for the Blue,

Tears + love the Gray.

Atlantic Monthly

September 1867-

Excerpt from Haste not! Rest not by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe, 1769

"Haste not! rest not! calmly wait,

Meekly fear the storms of fate;

Duty be thy polar guide;-

Do the right whate'er betide!

Haste not! rest not! conflicts past,

God shall crown they work at last."

Goethe

Excerpt from an Unknown poem

Two eyes hast every soul; one into time shall see, the other binds its gaze into Eternity.

Woman's Heart from the German

Gods angels took a little drop of dew,

New fallen from heaven's far-off blue,

And a fair rivlet of the valley's green.

Shedding its perfumes in the morn's soft sheen

And a forget-me-not so small and bright-

Laid all together gently, out of sight,

Within the chalice of the lily white!

With humbleness and grace they covered it-

Made purity and sadness near to sit;

And added pride to this, and sighs - a few,

One wish, but half a hope, and bright tears too;

Courage and sweetness in misfortune's smart,

And out of this they moulded-Woman's heart!

Northampton, Mass. Cassell's Magazine

Dec 7, 1867

Excerpt from Locksley Hall by  Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new;

That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do."

                                                                                     Locksley Hall

Excerpt from an unknown poem by G.S. Laxer

"It is all well! God's good design I see,

That Whom our treasure is, our heart may be."

                                                     G.S. Laxer