The Works Alexander Brown Bell

The air was shrewd, and o'er the darkling sky 

Masses of cloud, driven by an eager wind, 

Hurried, all-ominous of coming rain. 

A fitful gleam of sunshine lighted up 

The garden where I stood, and flooded all 

The grass and flowers with radiance. Fluttering 

In the wind that blew across the hay-strewn fields 

Fair linen, white as driven snow 

O,Himalayan tops, hung stretched on lines 

Over the greensward near the old farmhouse. 

Fresh from the washtub, where the cleansing touch 

Of women had rubbed it till the soil of wear 

Had vanished, with much pain and fret of hands-- 

Image of soul washed pure from earthly stain, 

And fluttering lustrous in the golden glow 

Of Heaven. 

Two mighty sheets, billowing like sails 

Of some great galleon bearing down at sea 

Upon its hapless prey, were parted by 

A sudden gust; and, lo! she stood disclosed. 

How shall I picture her? Lissome she stood, 

Erect amid the fruits of her hard toil. 

Her raven hair, coiled o'er her ample brow, 

Shone lustrous in the sun. Her shapely head 

Was poised upon her shoulders like a bird 

Ready to swoop from some tall crag. Her cheeks 

Glowed with the hue of health, like Cyprian wine 

Spilt on a snowdrift. Body and limbs 

Moved free as fawns of Artemis amid 

The glades of far Mycene, or the trees 

That deck Parnassus where the Oreads play. 

The picture thrilled me to the soul. I stood 

And gave her friendly greeting. With merry voice, 

And smile that rippled o'er her face as then 

The sun was rippling o'er the corn, she answered. 

Then the billowing sails closed up again, and shut 

Her from my view. 

Clouds blotted out the sun 

As I passed on my way. The sky grew dark. 

But with me went a joyous memory: 

A thing to see and cherish--a whole-hearted 

And happy English girl, free as the air, 

And beauteous as the morn; a light to gladden 

Young men's eyes, a lodestar for their hearts. 

And I, who down the vale of years am fast 

Declining, breathed out from my heart a prayer 

That thus she might in spirit ever stand 

Amid things pure and lovely to the end. 

Your face, my dear, still haunts me in my dreams. 

Yes; in that shadow world it grows so clear 

In line and contour that it really seems 

Your face, my dear. 

Now there's but space between us, not austere 

And unresponsive Death. Yet, when he deems 

The moment apt, and his sword parts us here, 

The after-glory, with its brightest beams, 

Will be half-dark to me, till, full and clear, 

In all Heaven's splendour on my face there gleams 

Your face, my dear.

The Lady in Grey

When she trips down the stair in the morning, 

And wishes us all “Good-day”, 

She is fresh as a flower, washed clean by a shower, 

The beautiful Lady in Grey. 

When she goes for a walk in the meadow, 

The lilies acknowledge her sway. 

They look up and smile as she crosses the stile, 

Our dainty young Lady in Grey. 

When she sits at the table at dinner, 

She may not have much to say; 

But she sees to our wants with a grace that enchants, 

This courteous Lady in Grey. 

And if you should chance to be ailing 

There’s concern in her face all day. 

So there's nothing too sweet to lay at the feet 

Of our dear little Lady in Grey. 

I see her now, tall, clad in white, her dark 

Hair drawn back from her lofty brow, 

And wound up in a simple coil behind. 

Her eyes were black and lustrous, but expressed 

Such weariness as if the burden 

And the fret of life had been too much for her;

A pallor as of death sat on her face; 

So quiet she was, so still, so statuesque, 

Save that she mowed she seemed a marble lady. 

But the days passed, and, almost hour by hour, 

We saw the hue of health steel back to her-- 

A tinge of colour on the cheeks, a livelier 

Light in the eye, a quickening of soul. 

Gentle she was, with a sweet voice and smile, 

And yet she seemed to wear--no, not a mask, 

But as it were a veil that hid from us 

Her own true self: a curtain that revealed 

Just so much as she chose that we should see. 

Good, wholesome was she, fair to look upon, 

But always left the sense that there was more 

Behind that veil than ere we dreamed of-- 

A something that would make her character complete, 

Fill up and round it, not in itself, 

But to the consciousness of those who viewed 

It from without. 

And then one day it came, 

The revealing flash, The moment when the veil

Was rent in twain, and she stood all-confessed. 

She spoke of home and husband; of two 

Little ones, her children left behind; 

And in her eyes there gleamed a lovelier light, 

And her sweet voice took on a sweeter tone, 

And all the yearning of her heart was manifest. 

She was that thing most wondrous, holy-sweet, 

Essential Motherhood. Her truest life was that, 

Its seal and centre. Mother Love 

Had thinned her blood, had sapped her strength; the cares 

Of a young household, the unending strain 

To make her husband and her children happy, 

Had been at once her joy, delight, and-Her undoing. 

O Mother love! earth's purest and earth's best, 

The thing with least of soil and sin upon it, 

What dare man do when face to face with thee 

But stand with head uncovered, bowed with awe, 

Because he feels the ground he treads is hallowed? 

In that great love that loves us to the death, 

Prepared for any sacrifice, we catch a glimpse-- 

Far off, indeed, and but in little, still 

A glimpse-- of that still greater love that yearns 

To make and keep the lives of all men blest. 

O sweet and gracious Motherhood! the thing 

That hedges in our wayward hearts from folly, 

And wandering in evil, perilous ways; 

That makes man's home a heaven, strews his path 

With comforts soft as rose leaves freely strewn 

Before a bride; that fills his soul with joy 

Unspeakable, till he feels himself indeed 

But little lower than the angels, crowned 

Like them with glory!what art thou but a giving, 

An endless giving, of love and life and strength, 

A laying down of self upon love's altar, 

A constant sacrifice, a daily dying, 

A glorious surrender that, in yielding, 

Crowns both itself and all it touches with 

A glory from above? 

I bowed my head 

Before the light that shone from that sweet face 

As in the presence of essential God. 

I realised the primal truth that Love

Cannot but die, glories in dying, 

And in the dying gives new life to others, 

While rising to more glorious life itself; 

For Love and Death are one. 

What joys will be yours in the waiting years, 

Marjorie, my Marjorie? 

And sorrows, too, since they must come? 

For of our life this is the sum: 

A web of laughter, shot with tears, 

Marjorie, my Marjorie. 

But all will be well if love wraps you round, 

Marjorie, my Marjorie. 

The love of home and the love of friends 

For many a buffet will make amends A

nd pour a balm into every wound, 

Marjorie, my Marjorie. 

And if a greater love befall, 

Marjorie, my Marjorie, 

Take it as God's good gift to you. 

For in life's quicksands one path is true, 

And love will guide to it through all, 

Marjorie, my Marjorie. 

But love is strong as well as sweet, 

Marjorie, my Marjorie. 

He bids give all, nor count the price: 

Naught is too dear for sacrifice, 

And we win to the end with bleeding feet, 

Marjorie, my Marjorie. 

Heaven's roses bloom where the blood-drops fall, 

Marjorie, my Marjorie. 

You are too young yet for these high things; 

But the heart that bleeds is the heart that sings, 

And God's tears lie at the heart of all, 

Marjorie, my Marjorie.