Martha Lavinia Hoffman Poems

Angels are singing, angels of light!
Angels are winging their homeward flight,
Lo, while we grope in the darkness today
Guardian angels are leading the way!

Had we but visions like Jacob of old
In dreams Elysian their forms to behold,
Would we not see them seraphic and fair
Treading the steeps of the sun-gilded air?

Lightly descending, or rising above,
Each one attending an errand of love;
Each on a mission of mercy intent;
Each on a wonderful pilgrimage sent.

What are they noting, of hearts and of homes?
What message floating to yonder bright domes?
What through those gates will their entering bring?
What are they bearing aloft to their King?

Some may be telling of souls clad in white
Patiently dwelling in sorrow and night,
Some may be telling of evil and wrong
Saddening the strains of their beautiful song.

(Long years ago with this wonderful skill
Michelangelo sought to fulfill
All his high thoughts of the angels of light
Thronging our pathway in daytime and night.

In the cathedral where grandly he wrought,
Toiling on, faithful and true to his thought,
Angels look down from their stations today
Though the great artist has long passed away.

Angels encamping around and on high,
Angels adorning the miniature sky,
Legions of angels in fanciful air
Lovingly guarding the worshipers there.

Beautiful thought, may our life-work be crowned
By troops of angels encamping around,
Guardian hosts that their vigil shall keep
Through the long years while from labor we sleep.)

Oh, are we treading the beautiful way?
Angels encamping around us today
Gladly will bear up the message tonight
Souls have been walking in garments of white.

What thought the road seemeth tedious and long,
What though no word of their beautiful song
Floats from the heavens our pathway to cheer,
Angels are singing and angels are near.

Far, far, above us their glad songs arise
Oh, do they love us at home in the skies?
Sometimes our harps to their choir we will bring,
Learn their glad anthem and sing as they sing.
...

Beautiful leaves of Autumn,
With the sunset hues they vie;
Gems for the glorious setting
Of the pale and pensive sky.
Bright as the flaming opals,
That gleam in the amber West,
Is the Autumn's rich creation
Of gold and amethyst.

Beautiful leaves of Autumn,
How brief is their rich display;
Like all other earthly glories
They must perish and decay.
And where through the lovely summer,
They hung in their stations high;
Trodden by careless footsteps,
Their moldering forms shall lie.

Beautiful leaves of Autumn,
They are robed for an early bier;
Destined to fade and wither
On the grave of the dying year.
And a strange sweet theme of sadness,
With their gorgeous splendor weaves
For all, yes all that is earthly
Doth fade like the Autumn leaves.

Beautiful leaves of Autumn,
Where the breezes of Spring rejoice;
The Autumn winds are chanting,
In a sadder, sweeter voice.
And while in gorgeous splendor,
The Summer glories wane;
In plaintive tones they murmur
Their soul-subduing strain.

Beautiful leaves of Autumn,
Glowing with hectic hues;
Dripping with pearly rain-drops,
Or laden with honey-dews.
Bright is your reign of beauty,
But beauty is always brief;
And human pride and glory,
Shall fade like an Autumn leaf.

Beautiful woods of Autumn,
I love your pensive shades;
Where each silent aisle of brightness,
A solemn air pervades.
'Till I pause midst the fading beauty,
So gorgeous and so brief;
And say with the ancient prophet:
'We all do fade as a leaf.'
...

From the past, the beautiful misty past,
Float faint, sweet melodies,
Strains that were all too dear to last
But whose hidden beauty we but half guessed
As they flitted away from us swift and fast,
Linked with loved memories.

But now as we gaze on those far off shores
They seem clad in robes sublime,
And we see where we dropped our restless oars
Where the ripple plays and the cataract roars,
And the tide of golden moments pours
Down the silent river of time.

Those scenes are past and those days have fled
With their weight of joy or woe,
But sometimes they come like a noiseless tread,
Like the footsteps of nations, long since dead;
And a gleam of mystical light is shed
O'er the scenes of the long ago.

And faces rise from the light and gloom,
Faces we used to see
Ere we changed, alas! it was all too soon,
The morning dew for the heat of noon,
And have mingled with Life's ever-changing tune
And sailed on her troubled sea.

But we look ahead to the far off skies,
For the years are flying fast,
And we know that the present that round us lies
Ere the light of a few more moments dies,
Will with many loved and severed ties
Fade into the mist-veiled past.

The Summer is waning to Autumn time
And Winter will soon be here,
Let us lay out our work in Love's design,
That golden deeds may our pathway line,
And leave in the past a jeweled mine;
Ere we welcome another year.

And then when we reach our journey's close,
The last look, backward cast,
Will rest on a scene of sweet repose
Where a peaceful river of good deeds flows;
And no cloud of darkness can interpose
To mar our beautiful past.
...

Dip the light oar by the shadowy shore,
And raise it twined with a dripping wreath
Of trailing mosses, tangled and torn,
Curls from some nymph of the lakeside shorn,
Or fringes from the mantle worn
By some emerald-robed mermaid reclining there.
O, gladly the sun with his brightest smile
Bursts forth from his cloudy sheath,
And the blue, blue heavens lie overhead,
And the blue, blue waters beneath!

The beautiful azure lake unrolled
Mirrors her fringèd brim
The sunbeams quiver in pools of gold,
And the gnarled old trees, and the mountains old,
And the vines that droop o'er the waters cold,
Are reflected the depths within.
Merrily sing, while the light boat speeds
Away from the shore with its tangled weeds;
Sing! till the hoary hills awake
And the forest trees into music break.
Countless gifts at her hands we take,
Have we no songs for the bonny blue lake?
O, the glorious sun with a smile benign
Has burst from his cloudy sheath,
And the blue, blue heavens above me shine,
And the blue, blue waters beneath!

Lilies, lilies along the shore,
They stand in the rushes high,
Lightly they bend to the dripping oar,
Around them the blue, blue waters pour
And above them the blue, blue sky.

The tremulous sunbeams quiver and dance,
Then pause as if held in a magic trance.
What care we for aught beside,
As o'er the beautiful lake we glide?
Do we sigh for a glimpse of sunny France,
Could Switzerland's snow-capped mountains stern
Or Italy's breeze our joy enhance?
Let the German sing of his catled Rhine,
And the Scot of his hills of heath,
When my own blue heavens above me shine,
And the blue, blue waters beneath.
...

Oh Bridal Bell, lone Bridal Bell!
Who shall thy vanished glory tell,
Where by rude hands now cast aside,
Thou liest stripped of all thy pride?
Where are the pale, sweet flowers that wound
Thy wire frame gaily 'round and 'round,
And where thy lily clapper white,
That trembled in the dazzling light?

Oh Bridal Bell, changed Bridal Bell!
What peri rung thy fairy knell?
What elfin hung thy walls with bloom?
What wizard wrought thy sudden doom
In dust and darkness to repine?
What king deplored a fall like thine?
The spider strings his voiceless lyre
In busy haste from wire to wire.

Oh Bridal Bell, lone Bridal Bell!
What magic shall thy gloom dispel?
Shall hands again thy bareness deck
Or Beauty yet reclaim her wreck
From out the debris of the past,
Where all her vessels lie at last?
Alas, thy latest meed is won,
Thou weird, unsightly skeleton!

Oh Bridal Bell, lone Bridal Bell!
Vague fancies in thy cavern dwell;
Thou seem'st like that institute
To which each minstrel tunes his flute;
Like thine the Bridal's brief display
Oft blossoms but to fade away,
'Till but its legal ties are left
Of all Love's faded flowers bereft;
Its blighted buds of Hope and Trust
Are trodden rudely in the dust,
'Till cast aside it lies undone,
A rude, unsightly skeleton.

Oh Bridal Bell, lone Bridal Bell!
Thou hast a voice for sorrow's knell,
Yet sing'st not of this alone,
Thou hast for joy a final tone,
For fabrics beautiful and rare,
Fashioned of plighted vows and prayer,
Whose ties were never stripped of bloom,
Whose frame no rags of rust could doom,
For every part of gold was wrought,
Each coigne with priceless jewels fraught,
Whence flash the diamond rays of Love,
Pure pearls of Trust and Faith above,
And every flower an immortelle,
Beneath thy belfry, Bridal Bell.
...

Unearthly monster that with fiery eyes
In anger glaring
Mocks sullenly the looks and hopeless cries
Of deep despairing,
Art thou a demon from whose evil heart
Roll fire and ashes
'Till to destruction every writhing part
Thine anger dashes?
Morn saw thy walls in strength and beauty stand
And rich with treasure,
Eve shall behold thy smoldering ashes fanned
In fiendish pleasure.
With crash on crash, the solid hold gives way
Of beam and rafter
While the fierce flames devour their helpless prey
With mocking laughter,
Great oceans lock the gates along their shores
While blazing structures totter
Rivers and lakes are sealed though man implores
The blessed boon of water,
Cool clouds float overhead but powerless all
The raindrops beating-
None saw the mystic writing on the wall
'Till Hope's defeating.
A hurried sound, the victor's final blow
Resounding loudly,
A death-like hush and all is lying low
That rose so proudly;
Blighted and blasted like a fragile flower
Consumed e'en as it flashes,
Unconquered foe, recorded is thy power
In dust and ashes.
Ah! still the hand that on Belshazzar's walls
Doomed grandeur's station
In lines of flame on human glory falls
With plain interpretation;
Lo, thus shall perish with consuming heat
All earthly treasure
Before whose ashes yet shall pause the feet
Of reckless pleasure.
...

A land with peace and plenty crowned,
Where luxury and wealth abound;
A land where Freedom's goddess reigns
Unfettered by Oppression's chains.
A land where every clime is found,
Where different races till the ground.
Here tropic fruits and flowers grow
And Summer's softest breezes blow.
Here too, tall mountain-columns glow
In regions of perpetual snow;
While various climates lie between
Hills clad in robes of living green,
And vales with golden harvests blest,
By sunbeams and soft winds caressed.
The great Pacific's broad expanse
Spreads out before the traveler's glance,
And in her ceaseless song, he hears
The memories of forgotten years;
Ere man beheld her peaceful shore
Or listened to the breaker's roar.
Yosemite lifts her domes and spires
And tunes to Heaven her native lyres,
Her cataracts in torrents fall,
Her mountains form a mighty wall;
And all their princely peaks combine
To guard proud Grandeur's loftiest shrine.
The mammoth trees, like giants stand,
Stationed to guard their native land.
Kings of the forest's leafy throne
By countless angry tempests blown;
Resisting ruin and decay,
They live, while nations pass away.
The tall Sierras, towering high,
Print the pale arches of the sky;
And like proud, princely monarchs, throw
Their shadows in the lakes below;
And o'er the flowery bowers of green,
Where Calliope dwells unseen,
The grandeur of their lofty domes
Falls softly o'er the peaceful homes;
Where man can undisturbed abide
Far from the gilded pomp of Pride.
The birds, their flight through tree-tops wing
And sing at eve their vesper hymn,
And when the sunlight hails the morn,
Chant through the woods their native song.
The rivers, flowing from the hills,
The flowers, low-bending o'er the rills-
All help to make the land more fair,
And scatter beauty everywhere.
Long years ago, our fathers came
To seek a land, whose wide-spread fame
Had echoed through the world abroad,
And sounded o'er the eastern sod;
'Till hundreds with bright hopes, elate,
Journeyed to find the golden State.
O'er wastes of land, through trials untold,
They came to dig the precious gold.
At night they made their lonely bed
Beside some winding, silvery thread.
At morn the trackless plain they pressed
And faced again the sunlit west.
O'er mountain paths, their way they wound;
'Till on fair California's ground,
They stood beneath her stately pines
And viewed at last her famous mines.
Some chose no more abroad to roam
And made the western State their home;
Some, who had come for grain and gold,
Went back to find their homes of old;
But all unsatisfied were they
From such a golden realm to stay,
So crossed the wilderness again
To find the land of gold and grain.
The dark-browed natives gazed in awe
And with fierce, war-like anger saw
Their loved and cherished hunting-ground
Changed into farms and peopled towns;
What wonder that in rage they rose
For vengeance on their pale-faced foes?
What wonder that each swarthy brave
Strove his Elysian home to save?
But all in vain, there soon shall be
None left to tell their history;
And even now, earth can but trace
A remnant of that mighty race.
* * *
Fair California, land of gold!
My hopes for thee are yet untold,
But ere I lay my pen aside
These wishes I would here inscribe:
That vice should haunt thy hills no more
Nor crime infest Pacific's shore,
But right and loyal truth increase,
And all the votaries of peace
Should enter at thy Golden Gate;
My childhood's home, my native State!
...

Ye timbered pastures, bright with Autumn splendor,
Yet softened with the haze by distance lent,
What hallowed memories, sublime and tender,
Are with your glories blent!
Thrilled by the passing touch of magic fingers,
From pathless thicket to sky-reaching dome,
A peaceful solace ever gently lingers
And breathes of home.
Home! that one spot, wherever situated,
Clothed with grace no other clime may share,
From her bright precincts, by her love created,
Spring fadeless wreaths that later years shall wear;
Around her lowliest paths of daily duty
Gush rippling fountains, from Youth's glistening sands
Flow down the years, and dim with heaven-born beauty,
The glare and glitter of all other lands.
So in your shades, I love to muse and ponder
On moments yet to be,
When no more fresh to Youth's awakening wonder,
Your joys shall steal the shades of memory.
In your still aisles and forest sanctuaries,
Sacred as with the silent hush of prayer,
Spring for her farewell kiss the longer tarries
On Summer's golden stair;
And here old Autumn paints in rich profusion
Madroña berries and bright leaves of flame,
Then steals from out the forest's sweet seclusion,
Telling not whence he goes, or whence he came.
Beneath those gnarled old trees, antique and hoary,
Sear leaves have echoed to the Indian's tread,
And lovers oft have told the old-time story,
While birds sang overhead.

When Spring with fragrant breath and flower-wreathed tresses
Returns with dewdrops in her silken locks,
With lavish hands the frozen woods she blesses
And the mad cataracts leap o'er the rocks;
The tiny lake beneath the oak's gaunt branches
Shall overflow her rim,
While eddying circles whirl in graceful dances,
And dainty violets wreathe her mossy brim;
Then the proud fir in vernal gladness carries
Above her dark green branches, lighter plumes,
The forests change their bright madroña berries
For manzanita blooms.
But now they lie in Autumn's pensive glory,
Like the bright sunset of a shorter day
That only burns to end the beauteous story
And pass away;
So all these gleaming flames of gold and amber
A sad, sweet theme pervades,
Down shining steeps, the gloaming shadows clamber
And the bright sunset fades;
So o'er these Autumn woods, now robed in splendor,
Winter will spread his pall;
The lonely pines in sighings soft and tender
Shall mourn their fall.
...

We bring no rich gifts like the wise men of old;
No myrrh and frankincense, no silver and gold;
No glittering treasures afar do we bring
To lay at the feet of our glorious King.

The songs the glad shepherds heard ages ago
Have melted away like the flakes of the snow;
The costly gifts glittered to molder and rust;
The Bethlehem manger has crumbled to dust.

His voice like the breath of the lilies so fair
Has floated away on the wings of the air;
And the places He trod, whether pathway or street,
Are hallowed no more by the prints of His feet.

We bring no rich gifts like the wise men of old;
No myrrh and frankincense, no silver and gold;
We go not to worship o'er Judea's plain
The King who was born through all ages to reign.

For reigning in heavenly glory arrayed,
He wants not earth's gifts, that but glitter to fade
Her gold would be dim by those pavements so fair;
Her incense a cloud in that glorified air.

But dearer the hearts full of love that we bring,
And sweeter our prayers to our glorious King,
Than all the rich gifts that they brought Him of old;
Than myrrh and frankincense, than silver and gold.

And the throne where He reigneth shall never decay,
Though the heavens and earth shall have vanished away;
And the hearts that we bring in His temple shall shine,
When melted, like all the bright gold of the mine.

So, we bring no gifts like the wise men of old;
No myrrh and frankincense, no silver and gold,
And go not to worship o'er Judea's plain
The King now enthroned in a heavenly fane.
...

Forth from his lonely haunt,
Lean, evil-eyed and gaunt
Stealthily stealing
To where on low chemise
Hang tattered shreds of fleece
Guiding to where in peace
The flocks are kneeling.

Crackling of underbrush
Breaks on the forest's hush
Some wanderer telling,
Then on the startled ear
Far off and then more near
Sounds forth distinct and clear
A hideous yelling.

Haste little lambs and flee,
Quick comes an enemy
Reckless with hunger,
Lean are his ugly jaws,
Hollow his evil eyes,
As from his den he goes
Seeking for plunder.

Sheep running here and there
Helpless from sudden fear
Warned of their danger,
What has the calm flock seen?
Close by the wild ravine
With fierce and threatening mien
Stands a gaunt stranger.

Short is the cruel chase,
Then from a sheltered place
Strange sounds ensuing
Tell of a victim dead,
Tell of a meal soon spread,
Tell of a fate most dread
Wily pursuing.

Hark! Now from far away
Echoes a low, deep bay
From ridge to hollow,
Ears pricked up at the sound,
Then with a sudden bound
Clears he the gory ground;
Hounds soon will follow.

Crackling of underbrush,
Then, as before, a hush
Deep and oppressive
Save for the frightened feet
Far off in quick retreat
And now and then a bleat
Still apprehensive.

Soon on the ridge's height
Hunters appear in sight,
Hounds traveling faster
Find where the prey was slain
Down in the wild ravine;
Where has the culprit gone?
No one can answer.

Hunters of high repute
Back from a vain pursuit
Weary and baffled,
Stealthy and cunning foe
Still your sly ends pursue.
Culprits more low than you
Escape the scaffold.
...