Honour

Me let the world disparage and despise --
   As one unfettered with its gilded chains,
   As one untempted by its sordid gains,
Its pleasant vice, its profitable lies;
Let Justice, blind and halt and maimed, chastise
   The rebel spirit surging in my veins,
   Let the Law deal me penalties and pains
And make me hideous in my neighbours' eyes.

But let me fall not in mine own esteem,
   By poor deceit or selfish greed debased.
   Let me be clean from secret stain and shame,
Know myself true, though false as hell I seem --
   Know myself worthy, howsoe'er disgraced --
   Know myself right, though every tongue should blame.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Dawn

All the wild waves rock'd in shadow,
And the world was dim and grey,
Dark and silent, hush'd and breathless,
Waiting calmly for the day.

And the golden light came stealing
O'er the mountain-tops at last—
Flooding vale and wood and upland,—
It was morning—night was past.

There they lay—the silvery waters,
Fruitful forests, glade and lawn,—
All in beauty, new-created
By the angel of the dawn.

* * * * *
So my spirit slept in twilight;—
All was quiet, grey, and still,
Till the dawn of Love came stealing,
Over Hope's snow-crested hill.

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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To-morrow

The lighthouse shines across the sea;
The homing fieldfares sing for glee:
'Behold the shore!'
Alas for shattered wing and breast!
The lighthouse breakers make their nest,
And hedges bloom for them no more -
No more.

In their old church the lovers stand.
His wedding ring is on her hand,
All partings o'er.
Alas for mother still and cold
The babe her dead young arms enfold!
Her lover will know love no more -
No more.

What fate is this for birds and men?
The blue empyrean theirs - and then -
This fast-closed door.
One answers from his bended knee:

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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A Lesson

1.

I know now why the world was sad,
With so much good to make it glad;
Why all things loveliest and best
Have stirred vague sorrows in my breast,
And sweetest days that life has had
Have vexed me with such vast unrest.

2.

I know why I have pined and toiled,
And found all aspirations foiled;
I know why I have gained and spent,
And never learned what riches meant;
I know what lack and loss have spoiled
The treasure of my soul's content.

3.

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Dawn of God's Sabbath

The dawn of God’s dear Sabbath
Breaks o’er the earth again,
As some sweet summer morning
After a night of pain;
It comes as cooling showers
To some exhausted land,
As shade of clustered palm trees
’Mid weary wastes of sand.

Lord, we would bring for offering
Though marred with earthly soil,
Our week of earnest labor,
Of useful daily toil;
Fair fruits of self denial,
Of strong, deep love to Thee,
Fostered by Thine own Spirit
In our humility.

And, we would bring our burden
Of sinful thought and deed,

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Soldier's Grave

Twas long ago, in the summer-time,
On a day as sad as this,
That I laid my babe in its father's arms,
And he gave it his farewell kiss;
When the army sail'd from the English shores
In a mist of sun and rain,
To the vine-clad hills and citadels
And the olive groves of Spain.

I set my face to the balmy south,
And listen'd, intent and dumb,
As though a cry from the battle-grounds
On the fragrant wind might come.
I yearn'd for a gleam of the red camp fires
Which burn'd through the watchful nights,
For the shine of the bayonets that clash'd one day
On the dread Albuera heights.

Ah me! And my face cannot turn away,
Though the ashes are on my brow,—

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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Awake

Calm as that moonbeam on the wall,
Sleep broods on baby's eyes;
Arms, hush'd and still, but pulsing quick,
Enfold him as he lies;
My brain is full of thronging thoughts,
Strange passions thrill my breast,
My heart aches with a load of love
That will not let me rest.

The dim years stand about my bed,
They neither smile nor weep;
Like softest kisses, on my face
The little fingers creep.
I hear slow footfalls, in the night
Of fates upon his track,—
O love, I cannot let you go!
I cannot keep you back!

Lord, let him shelter in my arms,
Or take us both to Thine;

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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Good-bye

Good-bye! -- 'tis like a churchyard bell -- good-bye!
   Poor weeping eyes! Poor head, bowed down with woe!
   Kiss me again, dear love, before you go.
Ah, me, how fast the precious moments fly!
   Good-bye! Good-bye!

We are like mourners when they stand and cry
   At open grave in wintry wind and rain.
   Yes, it is death. But you shall rise again --
Your sun return to this benighted sky.
   Good-bye! Good-bye!

The great physician, Time, shall pacify
   This parting anguish with another friend.
   Your heart is broken now, but it will mend.
Though it is death, yet still you will not die.
   Good-bye! Good-bye!

Dear heart! dear eyes! dear tongue, that cannot lie!
   Your love is true, your grief is deep and sore;

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Future Verdict

How will our unborn children scoff at us
In the good years to come,
The happier ears to come,
Because, like driven sheep, we yielded thus,
Before the shearers dumb.

What are the words their wiser lips will say?
'These men had gained the light;
'These women knew the right;
'They had their chance, and let it slip away.
'They did not, when they might.

'They were the first to hear the gospel preached,
'And to believe therein;
'Yet they remained in sin.
'They saw the promised land they might have reached,
'And dared not enter in.

'They might have won their freedom, had they tried;
'No savage laws forbade;

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Easter Decorations

O take away your dried and painted garlands!
The snow-cloth's fallen from each quicken'd brow,
The stone's rolled off the sepulchre of winter,
And risen leaves and flowers are wanted now.

Send out the little ones, that they may gather
With their pure hands the firstlings of the birth,—
Green-golden tufts and delicate half-blown blossoms,
Sweet with the fragrance of the Easter earth;

Great primrose bunches, with soft, damp moss clinging
To their brown fibres, nursed in hazel roots;
And violets from the shady banks and copses,
And wood-anemones, and white hawthorn shoots;

And tender curling fronds of fern, and grasses
And crumpled leaves from brink of babbling rills,
With cottage-garden treasures—pale narcissi
And lilac plumes and yellow daffodils.

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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