Martha Lavinia Hoffman Poems

What is your pageantry, O earth!
And what is your wealth, O sea!
What is your grandeur, spangled heavens,
Upheld in majesty?

Resplendent jewels flash and gleam
On earth's triumphant breast,
But midst her brightest galaxies
Man goeth to his rest.

Down in the depths, the coral reefs
Shine through the glistening wave;
But midst the gardens of the deep
The mortal makes his grave.

Yon heavens in seas of azure lie,
And continents of cloud,
They wrap our frail humanity
In one vast burial shroud.

Beauty and glory vie to claim
Earth's fruitage and her bloom,
To wreathe in posthumous designs
The universal tomb.

They gather up the sea's rare pearls
And strew them o'er her bed,
They chant with all her troubled waves
The dirges of her dead.

They visit on their starry wings
The heaven's celestial spheres,
And from the precincts of the clouds
They shed the mourner's tears.

Yet shall earth see her treasures raised
From out her moldering sod,
Yet shall the sea behold her waves
Yield up their spoil to God.

Yet shall yon heavens, now looking down
On mortal blight and ban,
See immortality come forth
From the great tomb of man.What is your pageantry, O earth!
And what is your wealth, O sea!
What is your grandeur, spangled heavens,
Upheld in majesty?

Resplendent jewels flash and gleam
On earth's triumphant breast,
But midst her brightest galaxies
Man goeth to his rest.

Down in the depths, the coral reefs
Shine through the glistening wave;
But midst the gardens of the deep
The mortal makes his grave.

Yon heavens in seas of azure lie,
And continents of cloud,
They wrap our frail humanity
In one vast burial shroud.

Beauty and glory vie to claim
Earth's fruitage and her bloom,
To wreathe in posthumous designs
The universal tomb.

They gather up the sea's rare pearls
And strew them o'er her bed,
They chant with all her troubled waves
The dirges of her dead.

They visit on their starry wings
The heaven's celestial spheres,
And from the precincts of the clouds
They shed the mourner's tears.

Yet shall earth see her treasures raised
From out her moldering sod,
Yet shall the sea behold her waves
Yield up their spoil to God.

Yet shall yon heavens, now looking down
On mortal blight and ban,
See immortality come forth
From the great tomb of man.
...

Gone are the changing shadows of the gloaming,
Lost the weird fascination of their spell;
My thoughts like twilight truants idly roaming
Turn sadly homeward, loath to say farewell.

Darkness has veiled the landscape from my vision
But Fancy chooses shadows for her art,
She wreathes the stilly night in flowers Elysian
And strews the silent threshold of the heart.

She comes and gathers up the heartaches olden
And flings them out upon the wandering breeze,
She scatters Hope's bright buds but half unfolden
Where grew the briers of Fate's austere decrees.

She tunes the rusting lyres of Love and Beauty
And times them to the twinkling of the stars,
She covers up life's page of hard, plain duty
With glory like the sunset's lustrous bars.

All o'er our happy land fond hearts are breaking
And tears are bathing ruins, wrecks and blight,
Thousands of souls with awful guilt are quaking
And many a home is desolate tonight.

But over all a seraph spreads her pinions
Her graceful form is poised in breezeless air,
Her mission to all nations and dominions
To sprinkle holy balm on earth's despair;

So though so many hearts are bowed with sorrow
And Love is weeping o'er time's wreck and blight,
Hope giveth promise of a bright tomorrow
And hovers o'er the world tonight.
...

O lark, whose joyous warbling comes
Across the flowery field to me;
O red-winged leaders of the gay
And music-gifted company
Who gave the Spring's first matinee,
The blackbirds' jubilee.

O swallows, perching on the eaves
Or circling in the air;
O linnets, chirping in the vines
Where wild rose coyly intervines
With virgin's bower and wild woodbines
That clamber, here and there.

O ruby-throated humming-birds,
That gem the sunbeam's gold;
Perching, your ditty to repeat,
Tasting the honey-suckle sweet
Or whirring near my cloistered seat,
Half timorous and half bold.

No nightingale pours forth at eve
His famous solo here.
No sky-lark soars to yonder sky
To carol Nature's praise on high
Or gush his heaven-born rhapsody
From fields of upper air.

Not unto these, for whom the bard
His richest number lends;
But unto you, who build and brood
By yonder stream, in yonder wood,
Companions of my solitude,
My little feathered friends.

To you I sing, though others may
Their far-famed gifts rehearse
And sing of sky-larks on the wing
Where none were ever heard to sing;
And nightingales, triumphant bring
To grace their native verse.

Doubtless the Scottish poet finds
In these a lasting joy.
He loves his own green spot of earth,
Of heath-clad hill and foaming firth;
But holds not our broad land enough
Our homage to employ.

Ye golden warblers, darting now,
Through peach-bloom canopies;
Ye orioles, who seek the grove
To sing the sonnets of your love,
In joyous warblings, interwove
With softest melodies.

Ye wild canaries, caroling
Beneath the alders' shade;
Ye sprightly grosbeaks, whose rich lay
From apple-boughs at close of day,
When sauntering on my homeward way,
My willing feet have stayed.

And last, but loveliest of them all,
In fields, or woods, or dales,
The shy lazuli-finch, whose song
Is borne the forest aisles along,
Woodsy and wild, to you belong
Wild hills and wooded vales.

And many another chorister
That time would fail to tell,
Who helps to make the woods resound
With bursts of rich melodious sound
That answering echoes from around
To one grand chorus swell.

Long may your notes of blithesome cheer
The rounds of life beguile.
Long may your bright hues flash and shine
In this proud, happy land of mine,
In this free, joyous land of thine,
Gay choir of forest aisle!

Come when the dove's low cooing calls
To Spring's first bursting bud.
Come when the honey-bee invites,
To Summer's bounteous delights
To sunny days and moonlight nights
The fruitful field and wood.

And when the sere and yellow leaf
Falls murmuring to the ground,
Tarry, to chant creation's praise
In your own sunny, witching ways,
So long as bloom and fruitage stays
Or sheltering nooks are found.

And when my life's glad Spring is past,
Its apple-blooms decayed;
And when my life's sweet Summer goes
No more its beauties to unclose;
When time has bloomed its latest rose
In loneliness to fade.

In Autumn sheaves all gathered in
Its flame to ashes burned.
I still would ask thy ministry.
Come to my grave and sing to me
Creation's sweetest melody
That man has never learned.

Though far away, I may not hear,
Yet sweet will be the thought
That they who nearest Heaven soar,
From earth's green fields and wave-beat shore,
Still sing to me when life is o'er
And others have forgot.
...

Bright little day stars
Scattered all over the earth,
Ye drape the house of mourning
And ye deck the hall of mirth.

Ye are gathered to grace the ballroom,
Ye are borne to the house of prayer,
Ye wither upon the snowy shroud,
Ye fade in the bride's jeweled hair.

Ye are relics of bygone ages,
From Eden inherited,
To gladden the homes of the living,
And mourn on the graves of the dead.
...

Kneeling at her window,
Solemn eyes uplifted
To blue skies, where sunbeams
Through soft clouds are sifted.

Two hands clasped together,
Mute lips sweet and pleading;
Looking in the future,
Life's great problem reading.

Looking in the future,
With a silent yearning;
Little in the distance
Are thine eyes discerning.

No faint answer cometh,
From the deep blue zenith,
To thy heart's deep question
What thy future meaneth.

Lady, like an angel's
Is thine upturned face;
Thou hast surely wandered
From thy natal place.

Lost thy way and straying
From the pearly portals;
The way back forgetting,
Cast thy lot with mortals.

Well mayst thou be kneeling,
With thine eyes uplifted;
To a troubled ocean
Hath thy life-barque drifted.

Midst life's earliest promise,
Twineth sorrow's omen;
Thou hast taken up the new,
Untried lot of woman.

Looking in the future,
Lady, may the years
Bring thee hopes to triumph
Over all thy fears.

But should they deny thee
Thy life's happiness,
Prove thine angel mission,
Other lives to bless.

Trust no smiling fortune,
Fear no frowning fate;
While the present calleth,
Let the future wait.

Now a still voice whispers:
'Cast on Me thy care';
Kneeling at thy window
Lift thine eyes in prayer.
...

Trees of the forest and the wooded glen,
Say will ye claim companionship with men
Who with a smaller, weaker arm have dared
To spill thy life-sap on thy native sward,
And with remorseless hand thy fibers rend,
Say, canst thou make this enemy thy friend?
Not ours to choose, a thousand gifts attest
That we by thy existence are but blest,
We at thy feet might sit and learn,
Nor feel a spark of just resentment burn;
But ye possess a more than human grace
To smile upon the spoilers of thy race.
...

I am sitting in the gloaming,
In the gloaming all alone;
Listening only to the moaning
Of the organ's plaintive tone;
Hearing but the distant footsteps
Of the ages that have fled;
Seeing but the shadowy faces
Of the nations long since dead.

Long, long years ago they wandered
In the paths we daily tread,
For a little while they pondered
On the living and the dead;
Then they passed away in silence
To the cities of the dumb;
Making way for those who followed,
Making room for us to come.

O remote and distant ages,
Unknown tribes or empires grand;
Whether savages or sages,
Ye have written on the sand,
And the sands of time dissolving
Into life's great ocean tossed,
Year by year grow faint and fainter,
Few indeed are never lost.

These, like monuments are standing,
O'er the tombs of millions more;
Names that age to age are handing,
Landmarks left along the shore
Teaching us how brief our stations,
How our glories must decay,
Pointing to the generations
Who have lived and passed away.

So I'm sitting on the gloaming,
In the gloaming all alone;
While my phantom thoughts are roaming
Through the ages that have flown;
Musing here in solemn silence
By the landmarks on the shore,
How each moment bears us farther
From the great and good of yore.

Farther from their grief and glory,
Nearer to the close of ours;
Farther from their song and story,
Nearer to our fading flowers;
For our feet are daily slipping,
Slipping from life's changing stage;
Making room for nations coming,
Nations of a later age.
...

Holly-berries on the hills,
Bright above the rocks and rills,
Mistletoe in tree-tops high,
Throned against the wintry sky.
Unattended flocks that stray
O'er the hill-slopes far away.
In the East, bright stars that shine
With a radiance half divine;
Christmas carols on the air
Gladly sounding, everywhere,
Chimes from many a bell-tower tall
Falling sweetly over all;
Fair the scene, but dim and cold,
When we look on that of old,
Bethlehem of prophecy,
Looking out toward the sea,
Lying midst her hills of green
Glistening in her starlight sheen;
While the shepherds guard their flocks
Resting by the silent rocks;
And the wise men, from afar
Watch their glorious, guiding star.
Hush! the air with music swells
Sweeter than the chime of bells,
Look! a heavenly choir attends
Glory's light from heaven descends;
Sweetly o'er those vine-wreathed knolls,
That majestic chorus rolls,
'Till the shepherds catch the strain:
'Peace on earth, good will to men.'

No bright angels throng these skies
Making earth a paradise,
But the glorious song they sung
Trembles now on every tongue;
Infant voices now proclaim:
'Peace on earth, good will to men.'
So we gaze on each bright scene
Where long ages roll between
That, more glorious bright
This, in a serener light;
But the reign of peace begun
Evermore its race shall run;
Now we see its silvery tide
Down the rolling ages glide;
And each Christmas, sing again:
'Peace on earth, good will to men.'
...

Here within the alder's shadow, in this cool retreat,
Sheltered by the leafy branches
From the scorching heat;
I have found a sweet seclusion
From all outward things,
Flinging every care and worry
On the zephyr's wings.

In the liquid depths and ripples of the slumbrous stream,
With the wild-bird's song vibrating
Vine-wreathed banks between,
I have sunk life's proud ambitions
And her petty strife,
Gleaning fresher thought and vigor
For the march of life.

Could I ask a throne more charming than this rocky ledge,
Sloping down in gradual cadence
To the water's edge?
Could I ask a song more thrilling
Than the anthem sung
By choristers coquetting
Dark-green boughs among?

Not a sound to interrupt them comes from groves or hills,
Here they chatter, scream and carol
At their own sweet wills;
Save that down the dusty roadway, winding bare and brown,
Now and then a carriage passes
To the distant town,
Or some teamster noisily rattles o'er the wooden bridge,
Making all the sleeping echoes
Bound from ridge to ridge.

Or perhaps, a dark-browed Indian wanders slowly by
Glancing at this tranquil shelter
With his fierce dark eye.
Do these gnarled heroic warriors
Towering side by side,
Waken no vague recollection
Of his vanquished tribe?

Do no thoughts of nature's grandeur light his darkened mind,
As with noiseless tread, he slowly
Leaves them all behind?
Poor, lone man, a cloud of darkness
O'er your mental vision frowns,
Will not the 'Great Spirit' lift it
In those upper hunting grounds?

Overhead the boughs uniting form a temple high
With its massive domes extending
Toward the filmy sky;
While amid its cloistered stillness
On warm Sabbath eves,
One may hear the sweetest praises
Floating through the leaves.

Nature here unclasps her volume, wrought in flowers and vines,
From each page I gladly study
Her own fair designs;
Rugged rocks and sands and mosses
Lessons sweet impart,
Stamping many a thought of beauty
Deep on mind and heart.

Sitting in this old cathedral, in its sombre shades
Where the eloquence of nature
Every heart persuades;
He who does not feel its grandeur
In his very soul
Must be in his nature frozen
As the Arctic pole.

Grand old trees, a thousand questions,
I would yet propound,
For I know with weird traditions
Your past lives abound;
I would bid you tell your story
Since your lives began,
But I know you never told it
To the ear of man;

So content with simply knowing what you are today,
Happy as the laughing children
'Neath your boughs at play,
I can gather stores of wisdom
From your very looks;
I can feel what sages never
Found in hoards of books.
...

Under the violets blue, under the lilies white
Dearest, must I or you hidden be first from sight,
One left to mourn behind, one nevermore to sorrow?
O, while we live be kind, glad bells may toll tomorrow!

Waken fond heart to prize
Sweet days too brief- too brief for careless, vain forgetting,
Soft light from happy eyes
Heart knows no sorrow like the sorrow of regretting.
Look, from the morning skies
In clouds and in glory the golden sun is setting.

Over the violets blue cast wrong and strife behind,
O, while we live be true! O, while we live be kind!
Over the lilies white make sweet life's deepest sorrow,
Ring happy bells tonight, bells that may toll tomorrow.
...