Gertrude Bloede ("Stuart Sterne") (1845-?)
"'Stuart Sterne' was born on August 10, 1845; a daughter
of the late Dr. G. Bloede, formerly editor of the New Yorker Democrat,
and his wife, Marie von Sallet, an authoress, descended from a prominent
Silesian family. An uncle, Friedrich von Sallet, was a noted poet of
Germany. She lives in Brooklyn, and is a devoted literary worker.
Angelo her first poem, reached thirteen editions. Giorgio and
other Poems, Beyond the Shadow and other Poems, and Piero da
Castiglione have followed, all being
published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co." (Crandall
"From out eternal silence do we come"
From out eternal silence do we come,
Into eternal silence do we go;
For was there not a time, and swift or slow
Must come again, when all this world's loud hum
Was naught to us, and shall again grow dumb
Through all eternity?--Between two low,
Dark, stony portals, with much empty show
Of tinkling brass and sounding fife and drum,
The endless Caravan of Life moves on;
Or whence or whither, to what destiny,
But He who dwells beyond the farthest dawn
Knows, yet reveals not, evermore even He
In silence wrapt, for all the thunders roll,
Save for His deathless message to our soul!
text from American Sonnets)
"Give me the wine of happiness," I cried,
"The bread of life!— O ye benign, unknown,
Immortal powers!— I crave them for my own,
I am athirst, I will not be denied
Though Hell were up in arms!" No sound replied,
But, turning back to my rude board and lone,
My soul, confounded, there beheld— a stone,
Pale water in a shallow cup beside!
With gushing tears, in utter hopelessness,
I stood and gazed. Then rose a voice that spoke,—
"God gave this, too, and what He gives will bless!"
And 'neath the hands that trembling took and broke,
Lo, truly a sweet miracle divine,
The stone turned bread, the water ruby wine!
I love thee, O thou Beautiful and Strong,
Invisible comrade, mute, sweet company,
More dear than friend or lover! But to thee
My fondest hopes, my fairest dreams, belong
Forevermore! Amid the world's gay throng
I yearn for thy soft arms that lovingly
Soothe all the fevered wounds once fretting me.
At thy deep heart there springs the fount of song
Whose drops shall cool my burning lips athirst,—
At thy swift beck within my sight arise
(Their bonds of silence and dim darkness burst)
All my beloved dead, with shining eyes,—
At thy blest hand, by starlit paths untrod,
My soul draws near unto the face of God!
Ay, and thee, too, who wield'st a power divine,
Greater than loudest speech or fairest lay!
The dead, millions on millions, own thy sway
In realms where suns to rise no more, decline.
Thine is the lover's sweetest rapture, thine
the deepest cup of grief or joy that aye
The lips of mortal tasted, thine— yet stay!
How may I name thee, with what sound so fine
It shall not snap thy life's frail, golden thread?
O Solitude and Silence, bid me learn
A little of your greatness! Long are fled
The lesser gods of life, now let me turn
To ye alone, to ye in worship come,
The accents of this faltering tongue grown