Martha Lavinia Hoffman Poems

'Tick, tick, tick,' for many a long, long year
The old clock has welcomed the birth of the hours
And mourned when their end drew near,
And still it sings its changeless tune, the same note o'er and o'er
But its language is changed for it tells me today
That I am a child no more,
And the message is not an unwelcome one
For the real race is only begun
And yet the old clock's settled decree
Wakes the solemn voices of Memory
And a sober coloring dims the light
As a rainbow of childhood fades from sight.
Where has it gone and when did it go?
The glimmering tints in that transient bow
Have melted away in some dreamland sea
But its image still lives in memory
And comes and comes and comes again
In shapes of pleasure and shapes of pain;
For childhood is not all gladness and joy
But purest gold mixed with base alloy,
And children's troubles to them are as real
As the greatest trials their elders feel.

'Tick, tick, tick,' hark! the children's voices float
And intrude on that well known note,
Out in the sunshine they laugh and leap
While the old clock and I our vigil keep
O'er the old-time dreamings cold and dead,
O'er the joys and sorrows of moments fled,
O'er thoughts of forgotten Summer-times,
O'er Winters that came with their Christmas chimes,
O'er friends and farewells, o'er smiles and tears
And the many phases of by-gone years;
They are gone but the future shines brightly yet
To illumine my path and I will not let
The regret for my loss undervalue my gain
For well I know though Youth's sun may wane
There is work in which old and young can engage
And blessings alike for youth and old age.
Childhood like a rippling brooklet speeds
Through a tangled meadow of flowers and weeds,
Then swells to a deeper, broader tide
And the creek rushes down to the mountain side
And grows to a river broad and deep
Where the song of the creek and brooklet sleep
Swallowed up in the voice of a mighty flood,
As the full blown rose absorbs the bud,
And gaining more depth and sublimity
'Till lost in the ocean- eternity.

'Tick, tick, tick,' my old, old friend's voice is still clear
Though for many, many a year
That same solemn voice has warned the gay
That the moments were swiftly gliding away,
Has tolled the refrain of the funeral knell,
Has echoed the sound of the marriage bell,
Has chanted from dawn 'till the shadows creep
And kept faithful watch when the house was asleep.
'Tick, tick, tick, be quick, be quick, be quick
What is to be done must be done in haste
There is not a single moment to waste
For though time may seem to drag slowly on
Before you will know it, time will be gone
And then comes eternity.'
Thus the old clock seems to speak to me
And then in a deeper tone repeats,
'How swiftly the little brooklet fleets
Childhood, sweet childhood can come no more
Look for the flowers on the river's shore.'
But a new thought thrills me, the old clock's voice.
...

We shall sleep but we shall waken
In the morning bright and fair,
We, by sudden night o'ertaken
In a land of dark despair;
Whatsoever may befall us
Though our rest be long and deep,
Jesus in the morn will call us
Call us from our silent sleep.

We shall sleep but we shall waken
Though the night be cold and drear,
Not forgotten, not forsaken,
With a dear Friend watching near;
Long may be the night of sadness
Yet that Friend, His watch shall keep
'Till the glorious morn of gladness
When He wakes us from our sleep.

We shall sleep, but we shall waken
At the sound of that dear voice
At whose murmur thrones have shaken,
At whose whisper saints rejoice;
O'er our newly wakened vision
Floods of holy light shall sweep
From that morning-dawn Elysian
When He wakes us from our sleep.

We shall sleep but we shall waken,
Jesus slept, and woke before;
We shall sleep and we shall waken
When our silent sleep is o'er;
On the stillness of our slumbers
Shall break forth that music deep
From glad hosts in countless numbers
When He wakes us from our sleep.

We shall sleep but we shall waken,
We shall meet with friends long dead,
Those who from our sights were taken
To a cold and narrow bed;
From the loftiest tomb's dark prison,
From the lowliest grass-grown heap,
We shall rise as Christ has risen
When he wakes us from our sleep.

We shall sleep but we shall waken
In the resurrection morn,
We, by sudden night o'ertaken,
Wanderers lost amid the storm;
Whatsoever may befall us,
Though our rest be long and deep,
Jesus in the morn will call us,
Call us from our silent sleep.
...

Spread out thy ivory wings, bird of the waters,
In shades the willow flings, some foeman loiters.
Tempting the trout that swim
Under the boulder grim,
Yet by the river's rim
Wait the sly plotters,
Thou in the distance dim
Bird of the waters.

Far down the placid stream fold each wide pinion,
Or where in distance screams thy lone companion,
Lonely beside her nest
In her white garments dressed,
Stainless her faithful breast,
Or in the canyon
Midst the tall ferns to rest
Fold each wide pinion.

Oft have I watched thy tall form by the river,
Where the long willows fall that the winds shiver,
Stately, majestic, lone,
Perched on a low-washed stone
With mosses overgrown,
By skill so clever
Watching the fish that come
Down the clear river.

Where is thy lonely nest deep in seclusion?
Where mayst thou turn to rest safe from intrusion?
Where is thy hidden haunt,
Secure from fear or want,
Close by some ferny font
Far from confusion,
Shut in by tree-trunks gaunt,
Deep in seclusion?

O, in some distant marsh, midst the tall grasses
Where thy cry shrill and harsh through the trees passes,
Where the bright musk-flowers bloom,
Shedding their quaint perfume,
Flaming the twilight gloom,
No stranger guesses
Where folds each ivory plume
Midst the tall grasses!

Art thou a hermit lone, stranger so stately,
Long to our stream unknown, coming so lately
Venturing forth for food
Vainly our gaze elude?
Some with intent most rude
To harm thee greatly
On thy calm peace intrude
Stranger so stately.

Back then lone anchorite, bird of the waters,
Spread thy broad wings for flight from the sky plotters;
Man has thy solace sought
In lonely tower or grot
Living in silent thought
'Till his tower totters,
Thine is of grasses wrought
Bird of the waters.
...

Fly for thy life, fleet, frightened crature, fly!
Fly for thy life, or thou art doomed to die!
Swift in thy track, the hounds, thy hoof-prints scent,
Faster and faster, on their prey intent.
O, pause not in the grassy dingle now,
Nor think to rest upon the mountain's brow;
For life and liberty, thy speed increase!
Broken is now the forest's slumbrous peace,
As bounding onward, swift as a gazelle,
Through manzanita brush and chaparral;
With panting sides, but fleet, unfailing limbs,
O'er fallen trees, down gorges, grand and grim.
The startled rabbit, swift before him flies;
Quick! to his hole, the frightened ground-squirrel hies.
The quail flocks, feeding, in the forest's shade,
With whirring wings, desert the weedy glade.
Nearer and nearer, come the fearless hounds
But far and swift, the frightened creature bounds,
Through tangled thickets, reedy marshes through;
Until his graceful form is lost to view.
With hopeless zeal, the fierce hounds follow on;
They turn, they pause, the fleet-limbed prey is gone.
They snuff the mountain air, but all in vain,
They try to scent the missing track again;
At last they stop- give up the useless chase-
The fleet-limbed deer has won the breathless race.
* * *
Away beyond the ridge's pine-fringed crest
The panting creature stops at last to rest,
Sad-eyed and beautiful, but trembling still,
He scans with anxious gaze the distant hill;
Fear not, proud, gentle creature, still for thee
All Nature spreads her table, thou art free,
Free, to quaff nectar from the spring's fair face,
To view in glassy pools, thy mirrored grace;
Free, to roam leisurely the grassy hills,
Or browse the tender herbage by the rills;
Free, to wade knee-deep in the reed-fringed pond
Or rest, at noon-tide, in the shade beyond.
Thy late pursuers, baffled, cease their chase,
No foe will harm thee, in thy resting-place;
Soon, with thy faithful, boon companions near,
Forgotten all thy terror, danger, fear,
Thy fearless feet shall roam thy native sward
Unstained, unsullied by thy warm life blood.
The hunter's tiresome search is all in vain,
Lost is the splendid prize he hoped to gain;
Yet I can but rejoice that thou art free,
Fleet, gentle creature, born to liberty.
...

Will there be no flowers in heaven,
No soul-like blossoms there
In the land of the pure and lovely
In the home of the good and fair;
Where all that is best and brightest
In matchless splendor shall shine
And night cannot lend one shadow
To darken the courts divine?

Will there be no flowers in heaven,
Where the streets are paved with gold
Where a moment reveals more glory
Than the ages of earth unfold;
Where the light is all too dazzling
For earth-born eyes to view,
Where harps are thrilling such music
As this world never knew?

Will there be no flowers in heaven?
No flowers by the river's side?
No lilies to bathe their pearly crowns
In the spray of the crystal tide?
No violets to lend their fragrance
To perfume the balmy air,
No roses to cling to the jasper walls
And vie with the jewels there?

Will there be no flowers in heaven?
Would not heaven be incomplete
With no wreaths of immortal freshness
To cast at the Saviour's feet;
With no sprays of living beauty
To droop o'er the streets of gold,
With no gardens to blossom forever
Untouched by earth's blight and mold?

Ah! there will be flowers in heaven
In those realms of immortal bloom,
But never as here shall they wither
On a desolate, darkened tomb;
We know not their forms or their fragrance,
We know not their changeless years
But we know they shall outshine the blossoms
That gladden this vale of tears.

Our beautiful earth-born blossoms!
Can imagination weave?
Can mind in its silent chambers
One missing charm conceive,
That lost in their earthly glory
Might spring from a holier sod
And sprinkle with sweeter incense
The glorious courts of God?

No; to our limited vision
They are fair as a seraph's song,
One of the relics of Eden
That still to our earth belong.
We love them, oh, who would chide us
For loving the few bright things
That have not grown tired of our cold bleak world
And flown on their soul-like wings!

Beautiful flowers of heaven!
They shall bloom in immortal youth,
Holding within their spotless cups
The bright dew-pearls of truth;
Wafting from out their petals fair
The holy innocence of love,
Made lovelier for the adorning
Of the glittering courts above.

Never, never, to wither,
Never to fade or blight,
Nevermore to droop in sadness
In a land of cloud and night;
Bathed in eternal sunshine,
Nurtured in heavenly soil,
They shall bloom through unmeasured ages
Where frost cannot come to spoil.
...

We spend our lives as a tale that is told in a lonely watch of the night,
Like a changing story written down on the pages, pure and white,
By a flickering taper giving out its weak, uncertain light.

The days of our years, ah! these the links of which the chain is wrought,
With the heart's deep feeling intertwined and the mind's unceasing thought,
Each hath its romance interwove with its own peculiar plot.

They are strangest stories, these lives of ours, that our aching hands have penned,
Success and failure, joy and grief, through their mystical mazes blend,
Strength, labor, and sorrow, their broken thread from beginning unto end.

O, many a blot and sad mistake do the pages white contain,
And the things we are writing with feeble hands, we may never erase again,
'Till our living chapters are brought to light from the dark where they long have lain!

Many critic eyes on the story gaze, but they cannot read the whole,
Not 'till the hidden histories shall the hand of God unroll,
Not 'till the eye of God shall read and perfect the blotted scroll.

He shall correct the sad mistakes we have thoughtlessly put therein,
He shall the hateful blots erase, till as white as when we begin,
Nor cast the work of our lives aside for aught but uncanceled sin.

Then shall the loving angels read, with their vision deep and clear,
The beautiful, faultless chapters kept of every erring year,
When in the archives of all time, our humble lives shall appear.
...

There is no climax in Ambition's scope,
Behold her wrestling with the angel, Hope,
And beating back the Demon of Despair,
Yet looking for a brighter crown to wear;
...

Angel with the noiseless wings
Meek and gentle presence, thou,
Waiting life's uncertain things,
How I need thy guidance now;
...

The birds are happy, singing all day through
Their little psalms of praise,
And just because the sky is clear and blue,
The grasses green, the trees in leafage new;
...

Rocked on many a bending bough
Empty nests are swaying now
In the Autumn wind,
Hanging o'er the cool cascade,
...