Thy sorrow shall no more be pain, Its tears shall fall in sunlit rain, Writing the grave with flowers: "Arisen again!” THE SUMMONS. Y ear is full of summer sounds, My of its my eye; Of summer sights my languid Beyond the dusty village bounds I loiter in my daily rounds, And in the noon-time shadows lie. I hear the wild bee wind his horn, The bird swings on the ripened wheat, The long green lances of the corn Are tilting in the winds of morn, The locust shrills his song of heat. Another sound my spirit hears, A deeper sound that drowns them all, A voice of pleading choked with tears, The storm-bell rings, the trumpet blows; Shamed be the hands that idly fold, And lips that woo the reed's accord, When laggard Time the hour has tolled For true with false and new with old To fight the battles of the Lord! O brothers! blest by partial Fate With power to match the will and deed, To him your summons comes too late Who sinks beneath his armor's weight, And has no answer but God-speed ! I WAIT and watch: before my eyes Methinks the night grows thin and gray; I wait and watch the eastern skies To see the golden spears uprise Beneath the oriflamme of day! Like one whose limbs are bound in trance The shining ones with plumes of snow! I know the errand of their feet, I know what mighty work is theirs ; I can but lift up hands unmeet, The threshing-floors of God to beat, And speed them with unworthy prayers. I will not dream in vain despair The steps of progress wait for me: The planet's impulse well may spare, The loss, if loss there be, is mine, O power to do! O baffled will! O prayer and action! ye are one; Who may not strive, may yet fulfil The harder task of standing still, And good but wished with God is done! |