Martha Lavinia Hoffman

Butterfly, butterfly, where are you going?
Do you dine today with the regal rose
Or nectar sip with the lilies blowing
...

The tropical islands of Tonga
In the Southern Pacific sea lie
Like fragments of cool rainbow color
Dropped down from the melting blue sky.
...

Sublime and wonderful art thou, O deep,
Illustrious ocean, vast unmeasured waste!
Lost in thy contemplation, I do seem
...

Old Ocean, none knoweth thy story;
Man cannot thy secrets unfold,
Thy blue waves sing songs of thy glory
...

Backward across the lapse of years,
With its ebbing tide of smiles and tears,
Memory turns her wistful gaze
And sighs for the pleasures of by-gone days,
...

I watched the clouds at evening
When the Summer day neared its close,
As above the sentinal mountain peaks
Their pinnacled temples rose.

Mistily blending together
The faint, fleecy curtains unfold;
In the sky's magic mirror revealing,
Linings of silver and gold.

And here and there in the fluffy foam,
A twinkling star shines through;
Mingling a golden radiance
With the filmy tints of blue.

'Till they seem like the pearly gateway,
With the city towers just behind;
O'er whose walls of glittering jasper
Eternal day has dawned.

Oh! I almost catch the melody
That the angels sing in Heaven;
As I watch the faint, fair Summer clouds,
O'er the sky's blue curtain driven.

And my soul mounts up on eagle's wings,
To explore the realms unknown,
While life and death in a new, strange light,
Seem but a part to the throne.

When I think of the joy awaiting,
Beyond the bier and the shroud,
Death seems but a transient shadow,
A passing Summer cloud.
...

One thought of holy ecstasy
Breaks on my spirit's sight
Like a bright, flashing meteor
...

O, can I be happy in Heaven,
Though free from earth's trouble and care;
Though glories undreamed of be given,
...

Trackless and bare are the sands of the desert
No verdure adorns them, no green tree is there;
Parched by the winds and the hot, scorching sun rays,
Strewn with white bones lying bleaching and bare,
Like a vast ocean of rolling sand surges
Beaten and driven like waves on the deep,
Changing and shifting in wildest confusion
In the hot wind-storms that over them sweep.
Patiently, slowly, across the vast ocean
Plod the strong camels, so faithful and true;
Ships of the desert, with merchandise laden,
Gladly for them comes the harbor in view.
Onward they toil on their long, weary voyage,
While never a blade of grass blesses their sight;
Cheered through the day by the songs of the Arabs,
Resting upon the bare sand-waves by night.
...

When sunset tints the western skies
With evening's roseate flush,
When the woodlands lie in shadows
In the twilight's deepening hush;
When the shadows lengthen round the
Lowly cot and stately dome,
When the toilsome day is over,
Do they think of me at home?

Do they think of me when morning
Calls from slumber to awake,
When the lark is skimming gaily
O'er the bosom of the lake,
When the meadows lie serenely
'Neath the blue ethereal skies;
And the saucy sprightly bluejay
Wakes the forest with his cries?

Do they think of me and miss me,
In the noontide's glowing heat,
When the cottage echoes gaily
To the tread of little feet;
When the oriole and warbler
Sing their merry roundelay;
Do they think of me and miss me
In the busy, bustling day?

Do they think of me in winter,
When the falling of the rain
Makes a pattering on the shingles,
Trickles down the window-pain;
When the low night-winds are whispering,
Like some far-off mournful lyre,
When they gather in the evening,
'Round a brightly glowing fire?

When the children's merry laughter
Makes the cozy home-nest ring;
Do they think of me, I wonder,
When the evening songs they sing?
What is sweeter than that music,
When their childish voices raise
In their songs of flowers and fancies,
In their songs of prayer and praise.

Oft I sit beside my window,
When the day's long march is o'er,
When the waves are slowly creeping
O'er the distant ocean's shore;
And I wonder as I sit there,
In the twilight, all alone,
Do they pause amid life's bustle
To think of me at home?
...

I dream of a land where no thunder-cloud gathers,
Where across the calm waters no tempest may sweep
And where, while we chill in our bleak wintry weather,
The vales in perpetual Summer-time sleep.

I dream of a city across whose bright portals
The sunbeams are rolling in waves of delight,
Where brightness and gladness and joy are immortal,
Where there is no darkness, no winter, no night.

I dream of a meadow where lilies are growing
And fairer than Solomon's glory arrayed,
I dream of a garden where roses are glowing
And never a rose or a lily shall fade.

I dream of a clime where the palm tree is waving
O'er rivers of crystal and pavements of gold,
And seraphs amid the bright waters are laving-
A realm more serene than the Eden of old.

I dream of a song that is ever ascending
O, oft of that anthem of joy have I dreamed!
To Him who hath loved us be praises unending
To Him who from sin unto God hath redeemed.

O Summer, bright Summer! my thoughts still are roaming
Through thy beautiful day that so lately was mine
And now in the gathering shades of thy gloaming
I dream of a Summer that knows no decline.

'Till yonder rude tempest of desolate seeming
Is melting before the more real unseen
And only the mystery wrought with my dreaming
Like a thin veil of gossamer lieth between.
...

(Arise, shine; for thy light is come and the glory of the Lord is risen upon the. - Isaiah 60:1.)
The Lord liveth, alleluia!
Let the heavens and earth be glad;
Lo, with her unnumbered voices
All the universe rejoices
In the excellence of glory He from the beginning had.
The Lord liveth, alleluia!
Let the heavens and earth be glad.

The Lord liveth, alleluia!
Let the stars together sing,
With His glory on them falling,
Higher yet His name extolling,
In exceeding rapture telling of the universal King.
The Lord liveth, alleluia!
Let the stars together sing.

The Lord liveth, alleluia!
Let the cedars clap their hands,
With His sunshine o'er them streaming,
With His glory 'round them gleaming;
Lo, from out death's darkness risen, in eternal life He stands!
The Lord liveth, alleluia!
Let the cedars clap their hands.

The Lord liveth, alleluia!
Open wide the starry gates
Of the universe before Him;
All His wondrous works adore Him;
Lo, he cometh, cometh; for His word His chariot waits.
The Lord liveth, alleluia!
Open wide the starry gates.

The Lord liveth, alleluia!
Everlasting life is thine,
Thine the glorious life He liveth,
Thine the light He only giveth;
In His own exceeding brightness, oh, arise and shine!
The Lord liveth, alleluia!
Everlasting life is thine.

The Lord liveth, alleluia!
Angels rolled the stone away,
Praises winged from harps and timbrels
Hover o'er earth's living symbols,
Lilies wake from dark earth's keeping; bright wings burst your bands today
The Lord liveth, alleluia!
Angels rolled the stone away.
...

Sweet Eden garden of delight
Abode of innocence,
Alas, that sin should ever blight
Thy halcyon loveliness!

Amid thy bowers of fadeless Spring
Love hastened to abide
And Purity with spotless wing
Dwelt ever at her side;

In thee, the wild beast's savage power
To gentleness was awed
And in the cool of evening hour
Was heard the voice of God.

Rejoicing angels sang their psalms,
Glad heralds of thy birth,
And peace breathed through thy waving palms
Thou emerald gem of earth!

Brightness and freshness, love and peace
And changeless joy were thine
O why should all thy promise cease
Thy dawn so soon decline!

Lost is thy dower of sweet content,
Fallen thy matchless worth,
Soon was thy day of glory spent
Thou paradise of earth!

Sweet Eden, garden of delight!
Great was thy sudden fall
But Memory throughout Time's swift flight
Oft doth thy charms recall.

No more the joys of thy brief reign
To thy dim aisles belong
Yet doth thy beauty bloom again
In Earth's immortal song.
...

Dark was her brow, and darker
The depths of her liquid eyes
And her hair was dark as the blackness
Of the moonless midnight skies,
Her robe was the gorgeous colors
Of the Tropic's brazen shield
And costliest incense smoldered
In its Isis folds concealed,
Dawn, noontide and evening together wove
The fabric she loved to wear
And fashioned the rainbow crescent
That shone in her midnight hair,
As she clasped in her hot embraces
And bore through the jungle wild
To her tents in the tangled forest
The cursed and homeless child.

Darker then grew her visage
And fiercer her deep eyes shone
As the smoke from her pagan altars
Curled over her ivory throne,
And the nations quailed before her
And trembled beneath her frown
Nor dared to enter her empire
Or gaze on her crescent crown,
'Till desolate, feared, forgotten,
She reigned in her realm alone,
With the cursed and homeless Canaan
'Till they called her, the Great Unknown.
Once the sweet singer of Israel
Linked with his melody
Of the pagan queen in her darkness
A golden prophecy
That shone in the stars above her
And gleamed from her pagan sod-
'Soon, soon shall proud Ethiopia
Stretch forth her hands unto God.'

Dark grew her brow and darker
Grew the darkness about her throne
No ray pierced the midnight blackness
No star in her midnight shone
The suns of the burning Tropics
For centuries scorched her bloom
But they strove in vain to lighten
With one pale ray, her gloom.
Lo! in the listening ages
From the chords where it slumbered long
In the light of its glad fulfillment
Awakes the prophetic song,
'Tis sung by the stars above her,
'Tis harped from her teeming sod
Beautiful, dark Ethiopia
Stretches her hands unto God.

Lo! she hath dashed her idols
And her pagan altars down,
Robed in her gorgeous garments
Crowned with her crescent crown
She stands with benighted Canaan,
She turns from her gory sod
She looks to the stars above her
And stretches her hands unto God.

A light on her midnight breaketh
A brightening, growing light
It darks through her gloom and slowly
Illumines her fearful night,
Her scepter was stained with crimson
Vice lurked in her smile to mar
And over her glorious beauty
Burned Crime's unsightly scar,
And lo, from her pagan palace
Girt 'round with its burning zone
To his Father's righteous dwelling
Canaan is coming home.
...

Millions have gazed upon thy towering height,
O envied Fame!
And millions fain would on thy record write
A fadeless name.

But oh, how many of this mighty throng
While years have flown,
Have lived and died and left life's changing song,
To fame unknown!

Ah! many a fair ambition-gilded gem,
So dearly prized,
Has faded from Hope's golden diadem
Unrealized.

And are they lost- gone never to return
Dead songs of vanished years-
And nothing left but lessons hard to learn,
Through bitter, blinding tears?

Yes; many who might stand at Honor's side
With laurels crowned,
But struggle to fulfil through Time's slow tide,
Life's common round.

And some, who might have found Fame's golden throne
A well-earned destiny,
Leave not behind a monumental stone
To tell their history;

Too good to leave for other hands to do
Their common daily task,
Faithful to duty, to their Maker true;
No higher lot they ask.

Forgotten? Oh, those many unmarked graves,
Strewn over land and sea!
Naught but the desert winds and ocean waves
Rehearse their memory.

But oh! in immortality arrayed
In Heaven they dwell,
Though years have vanished, since to earth they bade
A long farewell.

But not alone the poor and humble rest
Where willows wave,
The highest paths of power and fame, at last
Lead to the grave.

Ah! hear the dirge that all mankind must learn:
Place not on earth thy trust,
For dust thou art, to dust shalt thou return,
Dust unto dust.

A queen lay on her death-bed, 'round her shone
Beauty and luxury;
But what to her was now her princely throne
And mighty monarchy?

Lost to the world would soon her presence be,
And ghosts of vanished years,
Thronged 'round her bed, laughed at her misery
And mocked her tears.

But memory saw another being there,
Her crown of gold,
The jewels sparkling on her waving hair
Roused fears untold.

Again she saw the warrant she had signed
To seal another's fate,
And sought for peace and mercy but to find
Her search too late,

And uttered; knowing that 'twould soon be o'er,
The last words she could say
Before the proud tongue paused to speak no more,
'A kingdom for a day!'

A kingdom- all its wealth and princely dowers
To gladly give,
Just for a few more, wear, lingering hours
In which to live.

In which to make her peace with Heaven secure
Before her tongue was dumb,
In which to make her blackened record pure
Ere death should come.

How short is human Fame, how very soon
Is passed Life's little day,
Her wealth and beauty journey to the tomb;
Her glories fade away.

How small is Fame- beyond her golden sands,
Beyond the clouds, we see
The shining bow of promise, spans
Time and eternity.
...

Loitering, midst the tropic glory of a large conservatory
Where the warm moist air was heavy with a cloud of rich perfume,
I beheld a strange plant flowering, where the stately palms were towering,
With a quaint, peculiar odor and an oddly fashioned bloom.

Not the beauty of its color, nor the sweetness of its odor,
Lured me to the unknown stranger, as above its bloom I bent,
But a tiny dove perched quaintly, with an air serene and saintly
In the heart of each odd blossom, nestling there in sweet content.

O'er each opening bud I pondered, and in after moments wondered
If each passer-by who saw it, learned its voiceless ministry;
In each flower a revelation, a symbolic-like creation
Of a heart where sweetly dwelleth the white dove of purity.

From its native land they brought it, but a higher wisdom wrought it.
For a high and nobler calling, rocks may preach and ripples sing;
But who from its sanctum turning, no grand lesson from it learning,
Hears not eloquence in Nature, gains not good from everything.

Odd dove orchid, silent preacher, thou hast come a living teacher
Of the rarest human virtue, of the noblest excellence
How these thronging thousands need you, but alas! how few will heed you
And their hearts' dark raven banish for the doves of innocence!
...

This fragile hothouse plant of mine
In perfect bloom,
This flower whose varied tints combine
The costliest jewel to outshine,
This native of some tropic clime,
This princess of a royal line,
Ah! would she own
That low, coarse weed by yonder fence,
A cousin to her excellence?

And yet the truth must needs proclaim,
With Fate's stern pen;
The weed, a thing of blight and blame,
Bears in its coarse low life the same
Remote and honored family name,
As this, my pet of floral fame;
With flowers and men
The ties of nature sometimes bind
To rudest natures left behind.

The honored, virtuous life must blush
Ofttimes in vain,
For kindred lives whose baseness crush
The buds of promise in their flush,
And make their names a funeral hush,
And pure affection's fountains gush,
To bear a stain;
Condemn not truth for error's deeds,
While flowers are flowers and weeds are weeds.
...

Beside a lonely and neglected grave
I paused and watched the tangled grasses wave
Mournfully to and fro;
A rude, unlettered slab still strove to keep
Its lonely vigil o'er the grass-grown heap
Where bereaved love had wept and ceased to weep,
Long years ago.

The lonely pines wailed forth a plaintive dirge,
Like the low moaning of the ocean surge
Through hollow caves,
Till with an inner consciousness, I heard
A voice, that through the moaning branches stirred
With the weird melody in every word
Of restless waves.

'I am forgotten, summers bloom and die
And careless strangers wander heedless by
My lonely tomb;
But long, long years my pulseless heart has slept
Since love above its moldering ashes wept,
And where the myrtle's graceful garlands crept
Rude thistles bloom.

'I am forgotten, yonder marble pile,
Where through the golden days tall lilies smile
And jasmines cling,
Is decked anew each day with loving care
While sorrow kneels in tearful anguish there
And love bestows in silent, mute despair
Her offering.

'I am forgotten, not a tear doth fall,
Memory no more my image shall recall
Or mourn my doom;
Nature's impartial hand alone doth strew
My silent bed with tears of crystal dew
And sunbeams slanting rifted cloud-drifts through
Deck my lone tomb.

'I am forgotten, fragile flowers of yore,
Choked by the weeds, gave the brief conflict o'er,
Nor left a trace;
Farther each year my tidal wave recedes
From memory's shore, but no one heeds
Or calls to mind my long-forgotten deeds,
Lost form or face.

'I am forgotten, yet from my still bed
I hear the names of the illustrious dead
In deathless song;
Often these eyes on honor's scroll have gazed
Where deathless eulogies triumphant blazed,
Alas! to pass unhonored and unpraised
From out the throng.

'I am forgotten, Fate's austere decree
Marked out for mine that dreaded destiny
To be forgot;
My little day of hope and fear is done,
I lie unnoticed now from sun to sun
And wail from thy lone depths, oblivion,
Remembered not.'

Among the pines the last wild wail was lost,
But still the wind their moaning branches tossed
Against the sky;
When in my heart a slumbering voice awoke,
And, though no sound the solemn stillness broke,
From out my inner consciousness it spoke
And made reply:

'O lonely pines, chant your sad dirge no more,
O melancholy voice, no more deplore
Thy common lot;
I stand above the earth, below the sky,
Below the angel choirs that sing on high,
Above the unknown dead whose ashes lie
By man forgot.

'There is a love that hath its vigil kept;
There is a power, an eye that hath not slept
Above thy dearth;
Mortal, whate'er thy long-lost form may be,
In the vast archives of eternity
Still lives above frail human memory
Thy name, thy worth.'
...

'Tis the tramp of mighty nations
Borne across the surging sea,
'Tis the tread of martialed armies
Echoed through immensity;
Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp,
Hark! I hear their heavy tread,
From the city of the living
To the city of the dead.

'Tis the tolling bell's low dirges,
Borne aloft on every breeze,
Rolling on in solemn surges
Over mountains, plains, and seas,
Tolling, tolling, softly tolling
While the short, swift years have fled,
From the city of the living
To the city of the dead.

From old ocean's rock-ribbed islands,
From Sahara's parching floors,
From fair Scotia's health-clad highlands,
Or from Iceland's frozen shores,
Rolls that march in solemn measure
While the hosts of earth are led
From the city of the living
To the city of the dead.

Over Egypt's tombs and temples,
Over ashen Indian braves,
Over England's ivied abbeys,
Over old Peruvian graves,
Rolls the dirge that sadly follows
Each unto his silent bed
From the city of the living
To the city of the dead.

Not a day but hears its sadness
Not a home but knows its sound,
Not a town aglow with gladness
With no graveyard's sacred ground,
Life enwrapt with brightest promise,
Hush! the last decree is said
From the city of the living
To the city of the dead.

When shall life's long march be over,
When shall death's grim victors halt,
When shall requiems roll no longer
O'er cold urn or chiseled vault,
When shall falling clods be silent,
When the last sad rite be read,
From the city of the living
To the city of the dead?

Not till all these streets are lonely,
Not till vacant temples stand,
Not till homes and shops are empty
Over every clime and land,
Not till none are left to sorrow,
Listening to the ceaseless tread
From the city of the living
To the city of the dead.

Traveling to that silent city,
One by one to be forgot,
Would we not lost heart and courage,
Hope and purpose- were it not
For our Father's loving mercy,
Like the golden sunshine shed
On the city of the living
And the city of the dead?
...

Gather the wild flowers from sunniest slopes,
Bring them to me with their wealth of perfume,
Cheering as happiness, charming as hope;
What varied phases of joy they assume!

Gather the wild flowers, a crown I would wreathe,
Crown thee a queen on this gray, mossy stone;
Did ever princess a purer air breathe?
Had ever queen a more beautiful throne?

Gather the wild flowers beneath the tall trees,
Bright wayside beauties and gems from the lake,
Rare floral bells from the arched canopies
What lovely garlands their bright faces make!

Sweet woodland children, ye bloom for a day,
Symbols of love and bright emblems of trust;
Twilight falls softly, ye wither away,
Other days dawn, ye have moldered to dust.

In the rich garden a gorgeous array
Coquette with sunbeams through long Summer hours,
But a less generous master have they,
These rustic treasures of God's own free flowers.

Gather the wild flowers for rich and for poor,
Lowliest cottage or stateliest hall,
Childhood and old age their bright smiles allure,
Free as the sunbeams, they blossom for all.

Gather the wild flowers, Spring's purest pleasure,
Beautiful harvest for little brown hands,
Singing and laughing o'er each new-found treasure
Let your glad voices float over all lands.

And when some Spring day, all peaceful and still
Calmly I sleep where the tall grasses wave,
While the warm sunbeams kiss river and hill
Gather the wild flowers to lay on my grave.
...