VERSE: TRUE HONOURS

Is my darling tired already,

Tired of her day of play?

Draw your little stool beside me,

Smooth this tangled hair away.

Can she put the logs together,

Till they make a cheerful blaze?

Shall her blind old Uncle tell her

Something of his youthful days?

Hark! The wind among the cedars

Waves their white arms to and fro;

I remember how I watched them

Sixty Christmas Days ago:

Then I dreamt a glorious vision

Of great deeds to crown each year —

Sixty Christmas Days have found me

Useless, helpless, blind — and here!

Yes, I feel my darling stealing

Warm soft fingers into mine —

Shall I tell her what I fancied

In that strange old dream of mine?

I was kneeling by the window,

Reading how a noble band,

With the red cross on their breast-plates,

Went to gain the Holy Land.

While with eager eyes of wonder

Over the dark page I bent,

Slowly twilight shadows gathered

Till the letters came and went;

Slowly, till the night was round me;

Then my heart beat loud and fast,

For I felt before I saw it

That a spirit near me passed.

Then I raised my eyes, and shining

Where the moon's first ray was bright

Stood a winged Angel-warrior

Clothed and panoplied in light:

So, with Heaven's love upon him,

Stern in calm and resolute will,

Looked St. Michael — does the picture

Hang in the old cloister still?

Ah, that dream! Long years that gave me

Joy and grief as real things

Never touched the tender memory

Sweet and solemn that it brings —

Never quite effaced the feeling

Of those white and shadowing wings.

Do those blue eyes open wider?

Does my faith too foolish seem?

Yes, my darling, years have taught me

It was nothing but a dream.

Soon, too soon, the bitter knowledge

Of a fearful trial rose,

Rose to crush my heart, and sternly

Bade my young ambition close.

More and more my eyes were clouded,

Till at last God's glorious light

Passed away from me for ever,

And I lived and live in night.

Dear, I will not dim your pleasure,

Christmas should be only gay —

In my night the stars have risen,

And I wait the dawn of day.

Spite of all I could be happy;

For my brothers’ tender care

In their boyish pastimes ever

Made me take, or feel a share.

Philip, even then so thoughtful,

Max so noble, brave and tall,

And your father, little Godfrey,

The most loving of them all.

Philip reasoned down my sorrow,

Max would laugh my gloom away,

Godfrey's little arms put round me,

Helped me through my dreariest day;

While the promise of my Angel,

Like a star, now bright, now pale,

Hung in blackest night above me,

And I felt it could not fail.

Years passed on, my brothers left me,

Each went out to take his share

In the struggle of life; my portion

Was a humble one — to bear.

Here I dwelt, and learnt to wander

Through the woods and fields alone,

Every cottage in the village

Had a corner called my own.

Old and young, all brought their troubles,

Great or small, for me to hear;

I have often blessed my sorrow

That drew others’ grief so near.

Ah, the people needed helping —

Needed love — ( for Love and Heaven

Are the only gifts not bartered,

They alone are freely given ) —

And I gave it. Philip's bounty,

( We were orphans, dear,) made toil

Prosper, and want never fastened

On the tenants of the soil.

Philip's name ( Oh, how I gloried,

He so young, to see it rise! )

Soon grew noted among statesmen

As a patriot true and wise.

And his people all felt honoured

To be ruled by such a name;

I was proud too that they loved me;

Through their pride in him it came.

He had gained what I had longed for,

I meanwhile grew glad and gay,

‘ Mid his people, to be serving

Him and them, in some poor way.

Max meanwhile — ah, you, my darling,

Can his loving words recall —

‘ Mid the bravest and the noblest,

Braver, nobler, than them all.

How I loved him! how my heart thrilled

When his sword clanked by his side.

When I touched his gold embroidery,

Almost saw him in his pride!

So we parted; he all eager

To uphold the name he bore,

Leaving in my charge — he loved me —

Some one whom he loved still more:

I must tend this gentle flower,

I must speak to her of him,

For he feared — Love still is fearful —

That his memory might grow dim.

I must guard her from all sorrow,

I must play a brother's part,

Shield all grief and trial from her,

If it need be, with my heart.

Years passed, and his name grew famous;

We were proud, both she and I;

And we lived upon his letters,

While the slow days fleeted by.

Then at last — you know the story,

How a fearful rumour spread,

Till all hope had slowly faded,

And we heard that he was dead.

Dead! Oh, those were bitter hours;

Yet within my soul there dwelt

A warning, and while others mourned him,

Something like a hope I felt.

His was no weak life as mine was,

But a life, so full and strong —

No, I could not think he perished

Nameless,‘ mid a conquered throng.

How she drooped! Years passed; no tidings

Came, and yet that little flame

Of strange hope within my spirit

Still burnt on, and lived the same.

Ah! my child, our hearts will fail us,

When to us they strongest seem;

I can look back on those hours

As a fearful, evil dream.

She had long despaired; what wonder

That her heart had turned to mine?

Earthly loves are deep and tender,

Not eternal and divine!

Can I say how bright a future

Rose before my soul that day?

Oh, so strange, so sweet, so tender —

And I had to turn away.

Hard and terrible the struggle,

For the pain not mine alone;

I called back my Brother's spirit,

And I bade him claim his own.

Told her — now I dared to do it —

That I felt the day would rise

When he would return to gladden

My weak heart and her bright eyes.

And I pleaded — pleaded sternly —

In his name, and for his sake:

Now, I can speak calmly of it,

Then, I thought my heart would break.

Soon — ah, Love had not deceived me,

( Love's true instincts never err,)

Wounded, weak, escaped from prison,

He returned to me; to her.

I could thank God that bright morning,

When I felt my Brother's gaze,

That my heart was true and loyal,

As in our old boyish days.

Well, my darling, almost weary

Of my story? Wait awhile;

For the rest is only joyful;

I can tell it with a smile.

One bright promise still was left me,

Wound so close about my soul,

That, as one by one had failed me,

This dream now absorbed the whole.