The Crown of Thorns
“And unto Adam He said . . . . cursed is the ground for thy sake. Thorns . .
. . shall it bring forth.”
“And the soldiers platted a crown of thorns, and put it on His head.”
In bitterest sorrow did the ground bring forth
Its fatal seed. Thine eyes beheld the birth—
Beheld the travail of accursèd earth;
E'en then, O Lord! in greater love than wrath!
Thou sawest the sin that none could gather out—
The vineyard cover'd with the thorn and briar;
Thou sawest the fair land ready for the fire—
And still Thy pity compass'd it about.
Thou, O most merciful! didst spare the brand;
Thou didst redeem the Paradise of God;
The thorns were rooted from the stubborn sod,
In pain and toil, by Thine own blessèd hand.
How was our path to heaven o'ergrown with sin—
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poem by Ada Cambridge
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In Memoriam
“He asked life of thee, and thou gavest him a long life, even for ever and ever.”
Life—length of days—the time to work and strive
In his Lord's vineyard; to bring heavenly light
Into the drear, dark places of the earth,
And make them fair and fruitful in His sight.
Life—it seem'd all so bright and beautiful once!
It lay spread out before his kindling eyes,
A land of sunny hills, in white mist veil'd,
Of sweet green valleys under summer skies.
Such tender light and tender shadows there!
No dazzling blaze, no savage blots of gloom,
No keen-cut outline of the barren cliff,
No glaring waste,—but all one gentle bloom
Of happy, innocent hope,—a morning tint
Of pearly grey and gold, with just a shade
Of bright cloud-colour, giving life to it,—
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poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Winged Mariners
Through the wild night, the silence and the dark,
Through league on league of the uncharted sky,
Lonelier than dove of fable from its ark,
The fieldfares fly.
Mate with his tiny mate, and younglings frail,
That only knew the crevice of their tree
Until, in faith stupendous, they set sail
Across the sea.
The black North Sea, that takes such savage toll
Of ships and men - and yet could not appal
These little mariners, who seek their goal
Beyond it all.
Turning those soft, indomitable breasts
To meet the unchained Titans of the deep -
Calm, as if cradled in Norwegian nests,
Their course they keep.
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poem by Ada Cambridge
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This Enlightened Age
I Say it to myself—in meekest awe
Of Progress, electricity and steam,
Of this almighty age—this liberal age,
That has no time to breathe, or think, or dream,—
I ask it of myself, with bated breath,
Casting a furtive glance about the hall,—
Our fathers, were their times so very dark?
Were they benighted heathens after all?
Had they not their Galileo—Newton too—
And men as great, though not a Stephenson?
Had they not passable scholars in fair Greece,
Who traced the paths we deign to walk upon
Had they not poets in those dismal days—
Homer and Shakespeare, and a few between?
Had they not rulers in their barbarous states,
Who scattered laws for our wise hands to glean?
Had they not painters, who knew how to paint—
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poem by Ada Cambridge
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A Sermon
Midsummer, 1867.
We have heard many sermons, you and I,
And many more may hear,
When sitting quiet in cathedral nave,
With folded palms and faces meek and grave;—
But few like this one, dear.
We ofttimes watch together 'fore the veil,
With reverent, gleaming eyes,
While priestly hands are busy with the folds,—
And pant to see the holy place, which holds
Life's dreadest mysteries.
We watch weak, foolish fingers straying o'er
The broidered boss, to grasp
Vaguely at some small end of thread, and twist
And shake the glorious pattern into mist,
And leave us nought to clasp.
We watch, with eyes dilated, some strong hand
Of nerve and muscle, trace
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poem by Ada Cambridge
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An Anniversary
I.
AS flower to sun its drop of dew
Gives from its crystal cup,
So I, as morning gift to you,
This poor verse offer up.
II.
As flowers upon the summer wind
Their air-born odours shake,
So, in all fragrance you may find,
I give but what I take.
III.
My tree blooms green through snow and heat;
Your love is sap and root,—
And this is but the breathing sweet
Of fairest blossom-shoot.
IV.
An outgrowth of the happy days
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poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Baptistry
One winter eve, at twilight, when the sound
Of sorrowful winds scarce troubled Nature's rest,
As she lay sleeping, with her hair unbound,
Holding her grey robe to her shivering breast,
I enter'd through a low-arch'd oaken door,
Circled with curious sculpture; and I crept
With slow, hush'd footsteps, o'er the shadow'd floor,
Where organ notes in sudden silence slept;
Far down the aisle, where darkness seem'd to brood
With such wide-spreading wings, and where the sigh
Of murmur'd prayer scarce came,—until I stood
In the deep stillness of the Baptistry.
There, in the dim side-chapel, no bright glow
From jewelled windows on the wall was shed;
No sunbeams rested on the font below,
Or kiss'd those mighty arches overhead.
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poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Vain Question
Why should we court the storms that rave and rend,
Safe at our household hearth?
Why, starved and naked, without home or friend,
Unknowing whence we came or where we wend,
Follow from no beginning to no end
An uncrowned martyr's path?
Is it worth while to waste our all in vain?
To seek, and not to know?
To strive for something we can never gain,
To labour blindly for a wage of pain,
And crack our heartstrings with the stress and strain,
And reap no field we sow?
What does it matter whether love or hate,
Or praise or blame, be theirs
Who pass like shadows, with no time to wait
For understanding of the ways of fate,
Which makes the hopeless desert blossom late,
And kills good wheat with tares?
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poem by Ada Cambridge
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Lord Nevil's Advice
“Friend,” quoth Lord Nevil, “thou art young
To face the world, and thou art blind
To subtle ways of womankind;
The meshes thou wilt fall among.
“Take an old married man's advice;
Use the experience I have earned;
Watch well where women are concerned,—
They're not all birds of paradise!
“Be circumspect, or thou mayst fall;
Abjure a blind faith—nay, trust none—
Till thou hast chosen, proven one;
Then trust her truly—trust in all.
“Keep a calm brain and quiet eye,
And watch. The doll of powder and paint,
The flirt, the artificial saint,
The loud man-woman—pass them by.
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poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Resting-Place
“Because I live, ye shall live also.”
Calmly the Paschal moonlight now is sleeping
On mossy hillock and on headstone grey,
Where still our Mother holds in faithful keeping
Such as, while living, in her dear arms lay.
Ah! loving and beloved, we know ye rest,
E'en in the grave, upon her hallow'd breast.
Where is the cumbrous robe—the flesh—the matter
Which held the spirit in such painful thrall?
A little dust that scarce a breath would scatter,
Darkness, and void, and silence—this seems all.
Yet somewhere, safe, the waiting body lies,
While the freed spirit is in Paradise.
Ah! in that day, when earth is all refinèd
From death and sin, the darkness and the stain;
When Eden's perfect beauty is enshrinèd
In unmarred purity and light again;
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poem by Ada Cambridge
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