The Great Mirror of Same-Sex Love - Poetry - 66. ...he's with me still...

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“He’s with me still” –-

A Selection of Henry Stevenson Washburn poems

 

 

 

If, O cherished friend of mine,

You shall trace in any line

Aught herein which will impart

Strength and courage to your heart –

Something making life more dear

As your footsteps linger here –

Then not all in vain is flung

To the breeze the verse I’ve sung;

Doing better than I knew,

When I sang a strain for you. [i]

 

 

 

from The Boy Bathers

 

Twelve boys, one sultry summer day,

Had fun and frolic with the spray

Out in the waters of South Bay,

 

Upon our southern margin, where

The people breathe a purer air

Than the hot city has to spare.

 

The small waves played a merry chime,

While the boys had a jolly time,

And knew not that it was a crime.

 

And handsome brows which bore a stain

Grew fairer in the briny main,

And they all came out clean again.

 

That night those boys in prison lay

For this glad frolic with the spray

Upon this sultry summer day.

 

And the grim law imposed a fine

On those who made their faces shine

By plunging in the cleansing brine!

 

Oh, tell it not, my friends, in Gath,

That here poor boys can’t take a bath,

But they incur the law’s stem wrath;

 

That the great sea which laves our shores

And health through every artery pours,

Keeping the plague-spot from our doors,

 

May not its healing powers dispense

For him who has less pounds than pence,

Lest thereby some should take offence.

 

Proud domes and palaces arise,

And towering spires salute the skies,

Filling the great world with surprise;

 

But nowhere has sweet Charity

Reared a fair temple by the sea,

Inscribing on its portals, FREE! [ii]

 

 

Brook of My Boyhood

 

 

There is a brook, a merry brook,

Whose waters glide away,

And creep into each tiny nook,

Like a little child at play.

 

It runneth by my grandsire’s door

The same as when a child

‘T was my delight to hear it pour,

Its music on the wild.

 

The passing stranger may not heed

This modest little rill,

Which wanders through the verdant mead

Its pleasant journey still:

 

But unto me, O stream! a voice

Hast thou of bygone years;

I cannot see thee but rejoice,

I cannot but with tears.

 

‘T is not because the hills and vales

Through which thy pathway lies

Are fairer than the hills and dales

Beneath a thousand skies –

 

Nor yet because thy waters leap,

So joyously and free;

No, not alone for these I keep

This early love for thee.

 

‘T is for the past that thou canst stir

Fond memories at thy will,

For halcyon days that I prefer

Thy sparkling waters still.

 

Still mirrored on thy breast I trace

Bright visions flitting by;

I see a boy with sun-browned face,

And laughter in his eye,

 

Who cares not, in his fair young prime,

With spirits all aglow,

That there may be a coming time,

When tears, alas! will flow.

 

Oh, memory! priceless boon to all!

When of thee we ‘re denied,

How hard the struggle to recall,

Who lived, who loved, who died. [iii]

 

 

For J[ames] T[homas] F[ields]

 

 

Accept, I pray, this wayside flower,

It blossomed by a mountain rill;

I plucked it at that early hour

When birds the brakes with music fill.

 

I thought it only bloomed for me;

It answered, “Nay, for thee, for thee;”

And so I ‘ve brought it all the way,

To cheer thy heart, friend Fields, to-day. [iv]

 

 

The Secret

 

 

A little brook went singing on

Where M. and I were straying;

It held a secret in its breast,

Yet evermore was saying,

“Some day.”

 

The days sped on, and still the brook,

Through all our smiles and sighing,

The secret kept, whilst merrily

The selfsame words replying,

“Some day.”

 

Somehow a robin chanced to guess

The secret we were keeping,

And told it to his gentle mate,

The very words repeating,

“Some day.”

 

But brook and bird, whilst seemingly

Our earnest wishes heeding,

Could not refrain from whispering

Each rosy morn succeeding,

“Some day.”

 

Dear little stream, there came a time

Of very sweet reveling,

When we no longer wished nor cared

For any more concealing,

One day.

 

We rank it with the golden hours

Which blessed our life’s young morning;

And see fulfilled at eventide,

The promise of its dawning,

That day! [v]

 

 

Boston Light in November

 

 

I look from my window over the bay;

The cold east wind has a sorrowful tone;

The light of this dreary November day

Departs, and I’m left with my thoughts alone.

 

No star will be seen in the murky skies;

The sullen clouds hang heavy and low;

Beyond where the shadowy fortress lies,

The belated sea-gulls wearily go.

 

The heart has no words in which to express

Its secret emotions of grief and pain;

The hidden depths of its loneliness –

Its longings for something it cannot attain.

 

But lo! through the gathering mist and gloom,

The light of a far-away lighthouse gleams;

It enters, a welcome guest, my room,

With courage emblazoned upon its beams

 

And to other hearts afar down the bay,

Out on the troubled and stormy sea,

To the homeward bound, it has brave words to say,

Even more gladsome than unto me.

 

Ho, beacon-light on this rock-bound strand!

I hail thee ever as lover and friend;

Thou dost take the desolate one by the hand,

And benisons over the billows send.

 

No matter how lonely and dark the night,

Or wildly the tempest-tossed barque may stray,

The ruddy gleams of thy sentinel light,

Like angels of mercy, glide over the bay. [vi]

 

 

Upon the Sea

 

 

Tonight, O God, upon the sea,

The sufferer turns his eyes to Thee;

Through the dark day the howling blast

Has swept with fearful fury past;

And many hearts in wild despair

Have bowed in agony of prayer;

For, tempest tossed, on half a wreck,

The sailor treads the quivering deck:

He prayed that one faint ray of light

Might break the clouds ere came the night;

But now the night is overspread

Upon his poor defenseless head,

And whither can the sailor flee,

Oh, whither, Father, but to Thee!

 

Just now I dreamed that by my side

He stood in all his manly pride;

I looked upon his earnest face,

Still radiant in its boyhood’s grace;

I pressed him to my heart, but lo!

Against the casement beats the snow;

And through my struggling tears I see

Him clinging to a wreck at sea.

 

Speak THOU! and whisper, “Peace be still,”

O THOU! the waves obey Thy will;

And succor to the needy send,

O THOU! who art the sufferer’s friend;

And spare to-night upon the sea

The soul that turns, O Lord, to thee! [vii]

 

 

Henry Morton Dexter

 

 

I could not know when last we met

His sun of life so soon would set;

Yet he appeared to me as one

Who felt his earthly race was run;

A reaper gathering his sheaves

As fell the brown October leaves;

A traveler at the close of day,

With shadows length’ning on his way,

Waiting a few to-morrows more,

Till Time and trial all were o’er.

 

What though the once elastic limb

And strong right arm were failing him ?

I thought he never fairer seemed;

His mild eyes never kindlier beamed;

It was that charm which comes with age,

The beauty of the saint and sage;

The spirit, loosened from its clay,

E’en then was on its upward way;

I followed him with love more strong,

As quietly he moved along,

And could not fonder glances cast

Had I been sure they were the last.

 

And now, as cometh day by day,

I linger on this well-worn way;

Amid the tread of busy feet

We nevermore as old friends meet;

And yet, and yet, he’s with me still,

A bearer ever of good will;

All that in life made him most dear

Remains a benediction here:

I feel the pressure of his hand,

That touch the heart can understand,

And fain would lift, O mystery,

The veil between himself and me! [viii]

 

 

The Still Small Voice

 

 

There is a voice to which the heart must listen,

Where’er in life our erring feet may go;

A still small voice, whose whisperings we may never

Tell to another, and alone can know.

 

And so there comes the doubting and the chiding

Of souls who fain would aid us on our way;

They cannot hear that hidden, silent mandate,

We oft may question, but still must obey. [ix]

 

 

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