The Works Alexander Brown Bell

With eyes like quiet pools, within whose deeps 

A restful yet an ardent spirit hides; 

A frame whose supple ease and grace derides 

Fatigue through strenuous days; a soul that steeps 

Thoughts and events in beauteous colours, weeps 

Over all woes around it, and abides still lover 

Still lover, loving even when it chides, 

And even in chiding its self-mastery keeps. 

But most I praise her for her mother-love, 

Which, taking husband, children, friends, in broad

And comprehensive sweep without surcease, 

Makes here a home, foretaste of joys above-- 

A home fast-rooted in the fear of God, 

And walled about with His eternal peace. 

God laid His fingers on the ivories 

Of her pure members, as on smoothed keys, 

And thence out-breathed her spirit's harmonies. 

--Francis Thompson. 

Take all the beauty that the poets dream 

Of womanhood, and then forget it quite; 

For it is but the outward tenement-- 

A rarely figured shade through which there shines 

The lamp of her fair spirit, nobler far 

Than its mere earthly home. If I could paint 

Her soul, so wise and gentle, so calm-breathed, 

So resolute, so full of charity, 

The angels peering from high heaven might thrill 

With envy; but, alas! "twould need their brush, 

Dipped in celestial colours, to limn here 

Its fit expression. A frail human pen 

Can but suggest the masterpiece--a line 

Here, a tint there--and leave the whole unsaid. 

And yet, such is our rashness, we are fain 

To borrow Venus form and Hebe's grace, 

Diana's lips and Pallas’ resolute brow, 

To picture in faint outline a pure spirit 

Surpassing these as the sun's radiant glow 

Outshines the gleam it casts upon the shimmering sea. 

O Thou that framedst all that's good and great, 

And mad'st earth's beauty reflex of Thine own, 

So that the glory of the heavens, the green 

Of earth, whisper the ineffable secret at the heart 

Of thee! to Thee we bend in humbleness, 

And praise, and joy that out of Thy great heart 

Thou givest such to be a beacon-light 

For men. Because they breathe out goodness, we 

Find goodness possible, and, in their love, 

See, as far off in little, that great love 

Of Thine that wills our good, even though the cost 

Is pain and death to Thee. And so we own 

Thee Lord of Life and Death, and for Thy love, 

And all it ‘showers upon us, are constrained 

To yield the love thou cravest. 

O Thou Great Heart. 

Deem us not over-bold if here we see 

In some rare, lovely beings Thou hast made 

Firm stepping stones by which we climb with slow 

Uncertain feet to higher levels, where 

Thy glory is the light of everlasting day. 

For fifty years and more we've jogged along 

Life's road together. Now we're drawing nigh 

The hour of its sunsetting. In its light 

I pause, and, turning, see the long shadows fall. 

Full fifty years, and yet how short the way 

Seems as I backward view its course. Ah me! 

I look upon it very wistfully. 

Where now are all the glad brave dreams of youth, 

The hopes that leaped so high, ambitions that 

Were spur and goad to my untutored spirit? 

Gone with the light that rosy-fingered morn 

Cast o'er the future; gone in the clearer light 

Of noon, that with its unimaginative 

And pitiless truth measured my large:"I would" 

With the small stature of:“I can", But most 

Of all gone because feeble heart and will 

Shrank from life's buffets, and too basely sought 

The easy and more comfortable road. 

Ah. I remember well that day when we 

Before God's altar stood and plighted troth. 

I deemed myself as some strong oak, 'gainst which 

Thy tenderness might lean and find support. 

Now I know well, and here with shame confess, 

‘Tis thou hast been the strong one, I the frail. A

 poor weak thing I am, But how much more 

Poorer and weaker, lacking thee to aid? 

Truly the marriage tie makes us one flesh: 

We are warp and woof, together of one piece; 

For Life, the weaver, on his loom has plied 

His shuttle, and has interwoven our minds

 And spirits kill him but in part myself, And partly thee.

Forgive me, sweet, 

That my strange nature makes me seeming-cold, 

And shrouds too oft in silence and restraint 

The love I bear thee; all the little things 

I might have done to show my love, and failed; 

The hasty words and sullen moods; the days 

Of dreaming when thought took me far from thee 

And the earth around me; most of all because I

 have too light esteemed thy mothering-- 

The thoughtful care that tried to ease life's jolts 

For me, and save the fret and wear of nerve 

Begot of little things neglected till 

Man, with his clumsy fingers, feels all lost 

Without them, 

We have known sorrow and care, 

The pinch of want, the comfort of enough; 

Days when the world seemed kindly; and again 

Days when light failed, and we could only grope 

In darkness for a Hand to guide us through. 

Now, in the evening of our days, we can 

Look back, and thank the Giver of all Good 

For that He failed us not; for many joys 

Of spirit, children, friends. Life has been good,

 And still is good even though the pulse's beat 

Has lost its spring, and rest means more than action, 

As hand in hand we journey towards the night, 

And the new dawning.