Susan Coolidge

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world of eyes all bent on me!

      “Go out! My lamps go out! alas!

      It were a woeful day

      If ever it should come to pass

      That I must live to say,

      A ship went down in storm and night,

      Because there failed it Calais Light.”

      Ah, Christian, in your watch-tower set,

      Fill all your lamps and trim;

      For though there seem no watchers, yet

      Far in the darkness dim,

      Where souls are tossing out of view,

      A hundred eyes are fixed on you!

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      ALL diamonded with glittering stars

      The vast blue arch of air;

      Pent in behind these mortal bars

      We strain our eyes to where,

      Oh noblest heart, thou walkest apart

      Amid thy heavenly kin.

      Though blinded with the veils of sense,

      We may not look within.

      Oh eyes so tender with command!

      Oh eloquent lips and true,

      Whose speech fell like a quickening fire,

      Fell like a healing dew!

      Oh zeal so strong to right the wrong,

      Oh rich, abounding heart!

      Oh stintless, tireless, kindest hand—

      God bless thee where thou art!

      Not thine the common fate to live

      Through life’s long weary days,

      And give all that thou had’st to give

      Uncheered by love and praise.

      Men did not wait to call thee great

      Till death had sealed thy brow.

      They crowned thy living head with bays;

      What does it matter now?

      Thy grave mound is a shrinèd place,

      Where pilgrim hearts may go,

      With loving thoughts and thankful prayers,

      Soft passing to and fro.

      Seldom with word the air is stirred,

      Seldom with sob or sigh;

      All silently and ceaselessly

      The march of hearts goes by.

      Now half our lives seems lived on earth,

      And half in heaven with thee.

      Our heart-beats measure out the road

      To where we fain would be—

      Beyond this strife of mortal life,

      This lonely ache and pain,

      Where we who miss and mourn thee so

      May find thee once again.

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      HOT on the pavement burns the summer sun,

      In the deep shadow of the ilex tree

      The Master rests, while gathering one by one

      The neighbors enter, crowding silently

      To hear His words, which drop like honey-dew;

      I may not hear, there is too much to do.

      How can I pause? I seem the only one

      To take a thought about this multitude

      Who, the day past and all the preaching done,

      Will need to be refreshed with wine and food;

      We cannot send the people home unfed—

      What words were those? “I am the living bread.”

      There is my sister sitting the day long

      Close to His side, serene and free from care,

      Helping me not; and surely it is wrong

      To leave to me the task that she should share.

      Master, rebuke her, just and true Thou art—

      What do I hear? “She hath the better part.”

      If all chose thus then all would go unfed—

      Souls hunger, yes! but bodies have their need.

      Some one must grind and mix the daily bread,

      Some one wake early that the rest may feed,

      Some one bear burdens, face the summer sun—

      But must I always, always be the one?

      “Cumbered with serving,” thus the Master spake;

      But ’twas to serve Him that I worked so hard

      (And I would serve the year long for His sake).

      I dare not take the rest which is reward

      Lest He should suffer while I stay my hand.

      How hard it is, how hard to understand!

      What does a voice say? “He whose power divine

      Could feed the thousands on the mountain side

      Needeth no fretting, puny aid like thine.

      One thing is needful, trust him to provide;

      The Heavenly Chance comes once nor tarries long”—

      Master, forgive me, teach me, I was wrong!

       1894

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      IN the quaint Norman city, far apart,

      A width of humming distance set between,

      They rest who once lived closely heart to heart,

      William the conquering Duke and his fair Queen.

      Too near of kin to wed, the Church averred,

      And barred the way which joy was fain to tread;

      But hearts spoke louder than the priestly word,

      And youth and love o’erleaped the barrier dread.

      No will of wax had England’s future King;

      With iron hand he brushed the curse aside,

      As ’twere a slight and disregarded thing,

      And asking leave of no man, claimed his bride.

      And they were happy, spite of ban and blame,

      Rich in renown, estate, in valiant deed;

      And