[Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary ::

ALICE CARY'S POEMS.

TO THE SPIRIT OF SONG.

APOLOGY.

O ever true and comfortable mate,
For whom my love outwore the fleeting red
Of my young cheeks, nor did one jot abate,
I pray thee now, as by a dying bed,
Wait yet a little longer! Hear me tell
How much my will transcends my feeble powers:
As one with blind eyes feeling out in flowers
Their tender hues, or, with no skill to spell
His poor, poor name, but only makes his mark,
And guesses at the sunshine in the dark,
So I have been. A sense of things divine
Lying broad above the little things I knew,
The while I made my poems for a sign
Of the great melodies I felt were true.
Pray thee accept my sad apology,
Sweet master, mending, as we go along,
My homely fortunes with a thread of song,
That all my years harmoniously may run;
Less by the tasks accomplished judging me,
Than by the better things I would have done.
I would not lose thy gracious company
Out of my house and heart for all the good
Besides, that ever comes to womanhood,—
And this is much: I know what I resign,
But at that great price I would have thee mine.

BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS.

THE YOUNG SOLDIER.

Into the house ran Lettice,
With hair so long and so bright,
Crying, “Mother! Johnny has 'listed!
He has 'listed into the fight!”

“Don't talk so wild, little Lettice!”
And she smoothed her darling's brow,
“'Tis true you'll see—as true can be—
He told me so just now!”

“Ah, that 's a likely story!
Why, darling, don't you see,
If Johnny had 'listed into the war
He would tell your father and me!”

“But he is going to go, mother,
Whether it 's right or wrong;
He is thinking of it all the while,
And he won't be with us long.”

“Our Johnny going to go to the war!”
“Aye, aye, and the time is near;
He said, when the corn was once in the ground,
We could n't keep him here!”

“Hush, child! your brother Johnny
Meant to give you a fright.”
“Mother, he'll go,—I tell you I know
He 's listed into the fight!

“Plucking a rose from the bush, he said,
Before its leaves were black
He 'd have have a soldier's cap on his head,
And a knapsack on his back!”

“A dream! a dream! little Lettice,
A wild dream of the night;
Go find and fetch your brother in,
And he will set us right.”

So out of the house ran Lettice,
Calling near and far,—
“Johnny, tell me, and tell me true,
Are you going to go to the war?”

At last she came and found him
In the dusty cattle-close,
Whistling Hail Columbia,
And beating time with his rose.

The rose he broke from the bush, when he said,
Before its leaves were black
He 'd have a soldier's cap on his head,
And a knapsack on his back.

Then all in gay mock-anger,
He plucked her by the sleeve,
Saying, “Dear little, sweet little rebel,
I am going, by your leave!”

“O Johnny! Johnny!” low he stooped,
And kissed her wet cheeks dry,
And took her golden head in his hands,
And told her he would not die.

“But, Letty, if anything happens—
There won't!” and he spoke more low—
“But if anything should, you must be twice as good
As you are, to mother, you know!

“Not but that you are good, Letty,
As good as you can be;

But then you know it might be so,
You 'd have to be good for me!”

So straight to the house they went, his cheeks
Flushing under his brim;
And his two broad-shouldered oxen
Turned their great eyes after him.

That night in the good old farmstead
Was many a sob of pain;
“O Johnny, stay! if you go away,
It will never be home again!”

But Time its still sure comfort lent,
Crawling, crawling past,
And Johnny's gallant regiment
Was going to march at last.

And steadying up her stricken soul,
The mother turned about,
Took what was Johnny's from the drawer
And shook the rose-leaves out;

And brought the cap she had lined with silk,
And strapped his knapsack on,
And her heart, though it bled, was proud as she said,
“You would hardly know our John!”

Another year, and the roses
Were bright on the bush by the door;
And into the house ran Lettice,
Her pale cheeks glad once more.

“O mother! news has come to-day!
'T is flying all about;
Our John's regiment, they say,
Is all to be mustered out!

“O mother, you must buy me a dress,
And ribbons of blue and buff!
Oh what shall we say to make the day
Merry and mad enough!

“The brightest day that ever yet
The sweet sun looked upon,
When we shall be dressed in our very best,
To welcome home our John!”

So up and down ran Lettice,
And all the farmstead rung
With where he would set his bayonet,
And where his cap would be hung!

And the mother put away her look
Of weary, waiting gloom,
And a feast was set and the neighbors met
To welcome Johnny home.

The good old father silent stood,
With his eager face at the pane,
And Lettice was out at the door to shout
When she saw him in the lane.

And by and by, a soldier
Came o'er the grassy hill;
It was not he they looked to see,
And every heart stood still.

He brought them Johnny's knapsack,
'T was all that he could do,
And the cap he had worn begrimed and torn,
With a bullet-hole straight through!

RUTH AND I.

It was not day, and was not night;
The eve had just begun to light,
Along the lovely west,
His golden candles, one by one,
And girded up with clouds, the sun
Was sunken to his rest.

Between the furrows, brown and dry,
We walked in silence—Ruth and I;
We two had been, since morn
Began her tender tunes to beat
Upon the May-leaves young and sweet,
Together, planting corn.

Homeward the evening cattle went
In patient, slow, full-fed content,
Led by a rough, strong steer,
His forehead all with burs thick set,
His horns of silver tipt with jet,
And shapeless shadow, near.

With timid, half-reluctant grace,
Like lovers in some favored place,
The light and darkness met,
And the air trembled, near and far,
With many a little tuneful jar
Of milk-pans being set.

We heard the house-maids at their cares,
Pouring their hearts out unawares
In some sad poet's ditty,

And heard the fluttering echoes round
Reply like souls all softly drowned
In heavenly love and pity.

All sights, all sounds in earth and air
Were of the sweetest; everywhere
Ear, eye, and heart were fed;
The grass with one small burning flower
Blushed bright, as if the elves that hour
Their coats thereon had spread.

One moment, where we crossed the brook
Two little sunburnt hands I took,—
Why did I let them go?
I've been since then in many a land,
Touched, held, kissed many a fairer hand,
But none that thrilled me so.

Why, when the bliss Heaven for us made
Is in our very bosoms laid,
Should we be all unmoved,
And walk, as now do Ruth and I,
'Twixt th' world's furrows, brown and dry,
Unloving and unloved?

HAGEN WALDER.

The day, with a cold, dead color
Was rising over the hill,
When little Hagen Walder
Went out to grind in th' mill.

All vainly the light in zigzags
Fell through the frozen leaves,
And like a broidery of gold
Shone on his ragged sleeves.

No mother had he to brighten
His cheek with a kiss, and say,
“'T is cold for my little Hagen
To grind in the mill to-day.”

And that was why the north winds
Seemed all in his path to meet,
And why the stones were so cruel
And sharp beneath his feet.

And that was why he hid his face
So oft, despite his will.
Against the necks of the oxen
That turned the wheel of th' mill.

And that was why the tear-drops
So oft did fall and stand
Upon their silken coats that were
As white as a lady's hand.

So little Hagen Walder
Looked at the sea and th' sky,
And wished that he were a salmon,
In the silver waves to lie;

And wished that he were an eagle,
Away through th' air to soar,
Where never the groaning mill-wheel
Might vex him any more:

And wished that he were a pirate,
To burn some cottage down,
And warm himself; or that he were
A market-lad in the town,

With bowls of bright red strawberries
Shining on his stall,
And that some gentle maiden
Would come and buy them all!

So little Hagen Walder
Passed, as the story says,
Through dreams, as through a golden gate,
Into realities.

And when the years changed places,
Like the billows, bright and still,
In th' ocean, Hagen Walder
Was the master of the mill.

And all his bowls of strawberries
Were not so fine a show
As are his boys and girls at church
Sitting in a row!

OUR SCHOOL-MASTER.

We used to think it was so queer
To see him, in his thin gray hair,
Sticking our quills behind his ear,
And straight forgetting they were there.

We used to think it was so strange
That he should twist such hair to curls,
And that his wrinkled cheek should change
Its color like a bashful girl's.

Our foolish mirth defied all rule,
As glances, each of each, we stole,
The morning that he wore to school
A rose-bud in his button-hole.

And very sagely we agreed
That such a dunce was never known—
Fifty! and trying still to read
Love-verses with a tender tone!

No joyous smile would ever stir
Our sober looks, we often said,
If we were but a School-master,
And had, withal, his old white head.

One day we cut his knotty staff
Nearly in two, and each and all
Of us declared that we should laugh
To see it break and let him fall.

Upon his old pine desk we drew
His picture—pitiful to see,
Wrinkled and bald—half false, half true,
And wrote beneath it, Twenty-three!

Next day came eight o'clock and nine,
But he came not: our pulses quick
With play, we said it would be fine
If the old School-master were sick.

And still the beech-trees bear the scars
Of wounds which we that morning made,
Cutting their silvery bark to stars
Whereon to count the games we played.

At last, as tired as we could be,
Upon a clay-bank, strangely still,
We sat down in a row to see
His worn-out hat come up the hill.

'T was hanging up at home—a quill
Notched down, and sticking in the band,
And leaned against his arm-chair, still
His staff was waiting for his hand.

Across his feet his threadbare coat
Was lying, stuffed with many a roll
Of “copy-plates,” and, sad to note,
A dead rose in the button-hole.

And he no more might take his place
Our lessons and our lives to plan:
Cold Death had kissed the wrinkled face
Of that most gentle gentleman.

Ah me, what bitter tears made blind
Our young eyes, for our thoughtless sin,
As two and two we walked behind
The long black coffin he was in.

And all, sad women now, and men
With wrinkles and gray hairs, can see
How he might wear a rose-bud then,
And read love-verses tenderly.

THE GRAY SWAN.

“Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true,
Is my little lad, my Elihu,
A-sailing with your ship?”
The sailor's eyes were dim with dew,—
“Your little lad, your Elihu?”
He said, with trembling lip,—
“What little lad? what ship?”

“What little lad! as if there could be
Another such an one as he!
What little lad, do you say?
Why, Elihu, that took to the sea
The moment I put him off my knee!
It was just the other day
The Gray Swan sailed away.”

“The other day?” the sailor's eyes
Stood open with a great surprise,—
“The other day? the Swan?”
His heart began in his throat to rise.
“Aye, aye, sir, here in the cupboard lies
The jacket he had on.”
“And so your lad is gone?”

“Gone with the Swan.” “And did she stand
With her anchor clutching hold of the sand,
For a month, and never stir?”
“Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land,
Like a lover kissing his lady's hand,
The wild sea kissing her,—
A sight to remember, sir.”

“But, my good mother, do you know
All this was twenty years ago?
I stood on the Gray Swan's deck,
And to that lad I saw you throw,
Taking it off, as it might be, so!
The kerchief from your neck,”
“Aye, and he'll bring it back!”

“And did the little lawless lad
That has made you sick and made you sad,
Sail with the Gray Swan's crew?”
“Lawless! the man is going mad!
The best boy ever mother had,—
Be sure he sailed with the crew!
What would you have him do?”

“And he has never written line,
Nor sent you word, nor made you sign
To say he was alive?”
“Hold! if 't was wrong, the wrong is mine;
Besides, he may be in the brine,
And could he write from the grave?
Tut, man! what would you have?”

“Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise,—
'T was wicked thus your love to abuse;
But if the lad still live,
And come back home, think you you can
Forgive him?”—“Miserable man,
You 're mad as the sea,—you rave,—
What have I to forgive?”

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,
And from within his bosom drew
The kerchief. She was wild.
“My God! my Father! is it true?
My little lad, my Elihu!
My blessed boy, my child!
My dead, my living child!”

THE WASHERWOMAN.

At the north end of our village stands,
With gable black and high,
A weather-beaten house,—I 've stopt
Often as I went by,

To see the strip of bleaching grass
Slipped brightly in between
The long straight rows of hollyhocks,
And currant-bushes green;

The clumsy bench beside the door,
And oaken washing-tub,
Where poor old Rachel used to stand,
And rub, and rub, and rub!

Her blue-checked apron speckled with
The suds, so snowy white;
From morning when I went to school
Till I went home at night,

She never took her sunburnt arms
Out of the steaming tub:
We used to say 't was weary work
Only to hear her rub.

With sleeves stretched straight upon the grass
The washed shirts used to lie;
By dozens I have counted them
Some days, as I went by.

The burly blacksmith, battering at
His red-hot iron bands,
Would make a joke of wishing that
He had old Rachel's hands!

And when the sharp and ringing strokes
Had doubled up his shoe,
As crooked as old Rachel's back,
He used to say 't would do.

And every village housewife, with
A conscience clear and light,
Would send for her to come and wash
An hour or two at night!

Her hair beneath her cotton cap
Grew silver white and thin;
And the deep furrows in her face
Ploughed all the roses in.

Yet patiently she kept at work,—
We school-girls used to say
The smile about her sunken mouth
Would quite go out some day.

Nobody ever thought the spark
That in her sad eyes shone,
Burned outward from a living soul
Immortal as their own.

And though a tender flush sometimes
Into her cheek would start,
Nobody dreamed old Rachel had
A woman's loving heart!

At last she left her heaps of clothes
One quiet autumn day,
And stript from off her sunburnt arms
The weary suds away;

That night within her moonlit door
She sat alone,—her chin
Sunk in her hand,—her eyes shut up,
As if to look within.

Her face uplifted to the star
That stood so sweet and low
Against old crazy Peter's house—
(He loved her long ago!)

Her heart had worn her body to
A handful of poor dust,—
Her soul was gone to be arrayed
In marriage-robes, I trust.

GROWING RICH.

And why are you pale, my Nora?
And why do you sigh and fret?
The black ewe had twin lambs to-day,
And we shall be rich folk yet.

Do you mind the clover-ridge, Nora,
That slopes to the crooked stream?
The brown cow pastured there this week,
And her milk is sweet as cream.

The old gray mare that last year fell
As thin as any ghost,
Is getting a new white coat, and looks
As young as her colt, almost.

And if the corn-land should do well,
And so, please God, it may,
I'll buy the white-faced bull a bell,
To make the meadows gay.

I know we are growing rich, Johnny,
And that is why I fret,
For my little brother Phil is down
In the dismal coal-pit yet.

And when the sunshine sets in th' corn,
The tassels green and gay,
It will not touch my father's eyes,
That are going blind, they say.

But if I were not sad for him,
Nor yet for little Phil,
Why, darling Molly's hand, last year,
Was cut off in the mill.

And so, nor mare nor brown milch-cow,
Nor lambs can joy impart,
For the blind old man and th' mill and mine
Are all upon my heart.

SANDY MACLEOD.

When I think of the weary nights and days
Of poor, hard-working folk, always
I see, with his head on his bosom bowed,
The luckless shoemaker, Sandy Macleod.

Jeering school-boys used to say
His chimney would never be raked away
By the moon, and you by a jest so rough
May know that his cabin was low enough.

Nothing throve with him; his colt and cow
Got their living, he did n't know how,—
Yokes on their scraggy necks swinging about,
Beating and bruising them year in and out.

Out at the elbow he used to go,—
Alas for him that he did not know
The way to make poverty regal,—not he,
If such way under the sun there be.

Sundays all day in the door he sat,
A string of withered-up crape on his hat,
The crown half fallen against his head,
And half sewed in with a shoemaker's thread.

Sometimes with his hard and toil-worn hand
He would smooth and straighten th' faded band,
Thinking perhaps of a little mound
Black with nettles the long year round.

Blacksmith and carpenter, both were poor,
And there was the school-master who, to be sure,
Had seen rough weather, but after all
When they met Sandy he went to the wall.

His wife was a lady, they used to say,
Repenting at leisure her wedding day,
And that she was come of a race too proud
E'er to have mated with Sandy Macleod!

So fretting she sat from December to June,
While Sandy, poor soul, to a funeral tune
Would beat out his hard, heavy leather, until
He set himself up, and got strength to be still.

It was not the full moon that made it so light
In the poor little dwelling of Sandy one night,
It was not the candles all shining around,—
Ah, no! 't was the light of the day he had found.

THE PICTURE-BOOK.

The black walnut-logs in the chimney
Made ruddy the house with their light,
And the pool in the hollow was covered
With ice like a lid,—it was night;

And Roslyn and I were together,—
I know now the pleased look he wore,
And the shapes of the shadows that checkered
The hard yellow planks of the floor;

And how, when the wind stirred the candle,
Affrighted they ran from its gleams,
And crept up the wall to the ceiling
Of cedar, and hid by the beams.

There were books on the mantel-shelf, dusty,
And shut, and I see in my mind,
The pink-colored primer of pictures
We stood on our tiptoes to find.

We opened the leaves where a camel
Was seen on a sand-covered track,
A-snuffing for water, and bearing
A great bag of gold on his back;

And talked of the free flowing rivers
A tithe of his burden would buy,
And said, when the lips of the sunshine
Had sucked his last water-skin dry;

With thick breath and mouth gaping open,
And red eyes a-strain in his head,
His bones would push out as if buzzards
Had picked him before he was dead!

Then turned the leaf over, and finding
A palace that banners made gay,
Forgot the bright splendor of roses
That shone through our windows in May;

And sighed for the great beds of princes,
While pillows for him and for me
Lay soft among ripples of ruffles
As sweet and as white as could be.

And sighed for their valleys, forgetting
How warmly the morning sun kissed
Our hills, as they shrugged their green shoulders
Above the white sheets of the mist.

Their carpets of dyed wool were softer,
We said, than the planks of our floor,
Forgetting the flowers that in summer
Spread out their gold mats at our door.

The storm spit its wrath in the chimney,
And blew the cold ashes aside,
And only one poor little faggot
Hung out its red tongue as it died,

When Roslyn and I through the darkness
Crept off to our shivering beds,
A thousand vague fancies and wishes
Still wildly astir in our heads:

Not guessing that we, too, were straying
In thought on a sand-covered track,
Like the camel a-dying for water,
And bearing the gold on his back.

A WALK THROUGH THE SNOW.

I walked from our wild north country once,
In a driving storm of snow;

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Forty and seven miles in a day—
You smile,—do you think it slow?
You would n't if ever you had ploughed
Through a storm like that, I trow.

There was n't a cloud as big as my hand,
The summer before, in the sky;
The grass in th' meadows was ground to dust,
The springs and wells went dry;
We must have corn, and three stout men
Were picked to go and buy.

Well, I was one; two bags I swung
Across my shoulder, so!
And kissed my wife and boys,—their eyes
Were blind to see me go.
'T was a bitter day, and just as th' sun
Went down, we met the snow!

At first we whistled and laughed and sung,
Our blood so nimbly stirred;
But as the snow-clogs dragged at our feet,
And the air grew black and blurred,
We walked together for miles and miles,
And did not speak a word!

I never saw a wilder storm:
It blew and beat with a will;
Beside me, like two men of sleet,
Walked my two mates, until
They fell asleep in their armor of ice,
And both of them stood still.

I knew that they were warm enough,
And yet I could not bear
To strip them of their cloaks; their eyes
Were open and a-stare;
And so I laid their hands across
Their breasts, and left them there.

And ran,—O Lord, I cannot tell
How fast! in my dismay
I thought the fences and the trees—
The cattle, where they lay
So black against their stacks of snow—
All swam the other way!

And when at dawn I saw a hut,
With smoke upcurling wide,
I thought it must have been my mates
That lived, and I that died;
'T was heaven to see through th' frosty panes
The warm, red cheeks inside!

THE WATER-BEARER.

'T was in the middle of summer,
And burning hot the sun,
That Margaret sat on the low-roofed porch,
A-singing as she spun:

Singing a ditty of slighted love,
That shook with every note
The softly shining hair that fell
In ripples round her throat.

The changeful color of her cheek
At a breath would fall and rise,
And even th' sunny lights of hope
Made shadows in her eyes.

Beneath the snowy petticoat
You guessed the feet were bare,
By the slippers near her on the floor,—
A dainty little pair.

She loved the low and tender tones
The wearied summer yields,
When out of her wheaten leash she slips
And strays into frosty fields.

And better than th' time that all
The air with music fills,
She loved the little sheltered nest
Alive with yellow bills.

But why delay my tale, to make
A poem in her praise?
Enough that truth and virtue shone
In all her modest ways.

'T was noon-day when the housewife said,
“Now, Margaret, leave undone
Your task of spinning-work, and set
Your wheel out of the sun;

“And tie your slippers on, and take
The cedar-pail with bands
Yellow as gold, and bear to the field
Cool water for the hands!”

And Margaret set her wheel aside,
And breaking off her thread,

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Went forth into the harvest-field
With her pail upon her head,—

Her pail of sweetest cedar-wood,
With shining yellow bands,
Through clover reaching its red tops
Almost into her hands.

Her ditty flowing on the air,
For she did not break her song,
And the water dripping o'er th' grass,
From her pail as she went along,—

Over the grass that said to her,
Trembling through all its leaves,
“A bright rose for some harvester
To bind among his sheaves!”

And clouds of gay green grasshoppers
Flew up the way she went,
And beat their wings against their sides,
And chirped their discontent.

And the blackbird left the piping of
His amorous, airy glee,
And put his head beneath his wing,—
An evil sign to see.

The meadow-herbs, as if they felt
Some secret wound, in showers
Shook down their bright buds till her way
Was ankle-deep with flowers.

But Margaret never heard th' voice
That sighed in th' grassy leaves,
“A bright rose for some harvester
To bind among his sheaves!”

Nor saw the clouds of grasshoppers
Along her path arise,
Nor th' daisy hang her head aside
And shut her golden eyes.

She never saw the blackbird when
He hushed his amorous glee,
And put his head beneath his wing,—
That evil sign to see.

Nor did she know the meadow-herbs
Shook down their buds in showers
To choke her pathway, though her feet
Were ankle-deep in flowers.

But humming still of slighted love,
That shook at every note
The softly shining hair that fell
In ripples round her throat,

She came 'twixt winrows heaped as high,
And higher than her waist,
And under a bush of sassafras
The cedar-pail she placed.

And with the drops like starry rain
A-glittering in her hair,
She gave to every harvester
His cool and grateful share.

But there was one with eyes so sweet
Beneath his shady brim,
That thrice within the cedar-pail
She dipped her cup for him!

What wonder if a young man's heart
Should feel her beauty's charm,
And in his fancy clasp her like
The sheaf within his arm;

What wonder if his tender looks,
That seemed the sweet disguise
Of sweeter things unsaid, should make
A picture in her eyes!

What wonder if the single rose
That graced her cheek erewhile,
Deepened its cloudy crimson, till
It doubled in his smile!

Ah me! the housewife never said,
Again, when Margaret spun,—
“Now leave your task a while, and set
Your wheel out of the sun;

“And tie your slippers on, and take
The pail with yellow bands,
And bear into the harvest-field
Cool water for the hands.”

For every day, and twice a-day,
Did Margaret break her thread,
And singing, hasten to the field,
With her pail upon her head,—

Her pail of sweetest cedar-wood,
And shining yellow bands,—
For all her care was now to bear
Cool water to the hands.

What marvel if the young man's love
Unfolded leaf by leaf,
Until within his arms ere long
He clasped her like a sheaf!

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What marvel if 't was Margaret's heart
With fondest hopes that beat,
While th' young man's fancy idly lay
As his sickle in the wheat.

That, while her thought flew, maiden-like,
To years of marriage bliss,
His lay like a bee in a flower, shut up
Within the moment's kiss!

What marvel if his love grew cold,
And fell off leaf by leaf,
And that her heart was choked to death,
Like the rose within his sheaf.

When autumn filled her lap with leaves,
Yellow, and cold, and wet,
The bands of th' pail turned black, and th' wheel
On the porch-side, idle set.

And Margaret's hair was combed and tied
Under a cap of lace,
And th' housewife held the baby up
To kiss her quiet face;

And all the sunburnt harvesters
Stood round the door,—each one
Telling of some good word or deed
That she had said or done.

Nay, there was one that pulled about
His face his shady brim,
As if it were his kiss, not Death's,
That made her eyes so dim.

And while the tearful women told
That when they pinned her shroud,
One trees from th' ripples round her neck
Was gone, he wept aloud;

And answered, pulling down his brim
Until he could not see,
It was some ghost that stole the tress,
For that is was not he!

'T is years since on the cedar-pail
The yellow bands grew black,—
'T is years since in the harvest-field
They turned th' green sod back

To give poor Margaret room, and all
Who chance that way to pass,
May see at the head of her narrow bed
A bush of sassafras.

Yet often in the time o' th' year
When the hay is mown and spread,
There walks a maid in th' midnight shade
With a pail upon her head.

THE BEST JUDGMENT.

Get up, my little handmaid,
And see what you will see;
The stubble-fields and all the fields
Are white as they can be.

Put on your crimson cashmere,
And hood so soft and warm,
With all its woolen linings,
And never heed the storm.

For you must find the miller
In the west of Wertburg-town,
And bring me meal to feed my cows,
Before the sun is down.

Then woke the little handmaid,
From sleeping on her arm,
And took her crimson cashmere,
And hood with woolen warm;

And bridle, with its buckles
Of silver, from the wall,
And rode until the golden sun
Was sloping to his fall.

Then on the miller's door-stone,
In the west of Wertburg-town,
She dropt the bridle from her hands,
And quietly slid down.

And when to her sweet face her beast
Turned round, as if he said,
“How cold I am!” she took her hood
And put it on his head.

Soft spoke she to the miller,
“Nine cows are stalled at home,
And hither for three bags of meal,
To feed them, I am come.”

Now when the miller saw the price
She brought was not by half
Enough to buy three bags of meal,
He filled up two with chaff.

The night was wild and windy,
The moon was thin and old,
As home the little handmaid rode
All shivering with the cold,

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Beside the river, black with ice,
And through the lonesome wood;
The snow upon her hair the while
A-gathering like a hood.

And when beside the roof-tree
Her good beast neighed aloud,
Her pretty crimson cashmere
Was whiter than a shroud.

“Get down, you silly handmaid,”
The old dame cried, “get down,—
You 've been a long time riding
From the west of Wertburg-town!”

And from her oaken settle
Forth hobbled she amain,—
Alas! the slender little hands
Were frozen to the rein.

Then came the neighbors, one and all,
With melancholy brows,
Mourning because the dame had lost
The keeper of her cows.

And cursing the rich miller,
In blind, misguided zeal,
Because he sent two bags of chaff
And only one of meal.

Dear Lord, how little man's award
The right or wrong attest,
And he who judges least, I think,
Is he who judges best.

HUGH THORNDYKE.

Egalton's hills are sunny,
And brave with oak and pine,
And Egalton's sons and daughters
Are tall and straight and fine.

The harvests in the summer
Cover the land like a smile,
For Egalton's men and women
Are busy all the while.

'Tis merry in the mowing
To see the great swath fall,
And the little laughing maidens
Raking, one and all.

Their heads like golden lilies
Shining over the hay,
And every one among them
As sweet as a rose in May.

And yet despite the favor
Which Heaven doth thus alot,
Egalton has its goblin,
As what good land has not?

Hugh Thorndyke—(peace be with him,
He is not living now)—
Was tempted by this creature
One day to leave his plow,

And sit beside the furrow
In a shadow cool and sweet,
For the lying goblin told him
That he would sow his wheat.

And told him this, morever,
That if he would not mind,
His house should burn to ashes,
His children be struck blind!

So, trusting half, half frightened,
Poor Hugh with many a groan
Waited beside the furrow,
But the wheat was never sown.

And when the fields about him
Grew white,—with very shame
He told his story, giving
The goblin all the blame.

Now Hugh's wife loved her husband,
And when he told her this,
She took his brawny hands in hers
And gave them each a kiss,

Saying, we ourselves this goblin
Shall straightway lay to rest,—
The more he does his worst, dear Hugh,
The more we'll do our best!

To work they went, and all turned out
Just as the good wife said,
And Hugh was blest,—his corn that year,
Grew higher than his head.

They sing a song in Egalton
Hugh made there, long ago,
Which says that honest love and work
Are all we need below.

FAITHLESS.

Seven great windows looking seaward,
Seven smooth columns white and high;

104

Here it was we made our bright plans,
Mildred Jocelyn and I.

Soft and sweet the water murmured
By yon stone wall, low and gray,
'T was the moonlight and the midnight
Of the middle of the May.

On the porch, now dark and lonesome,
Sat we as the hours went by,
Fearing nothing, hoping all things,
Mildred Jocelyn and I.

Singing low and pleasant ditties,
Kept the tireless wind his way,
Through the moonlight and the midnight
Of the middle of the May.

Not for sake of pleasant ditties,
Such as winds may sing or sigh,
Sat we on the porch together,
Mildred Jocelyn and I.

Shrilly crew the cock so watchful,
Answering to the watch-dog's bay,
In the moonlight and the midnight
Of the middle of the May.

Had the gates of Heaven been open
We would then have passed them by,
Well content with earthly pleasures,
Mildred Jocelyn and I.

I have seen the bees thick-flying,—
Azure-winged and ringed with gold;
I have seen the sheep from washing
Come back snowy to the fold;

And her hair was bright as bees are,
Bees with shining golden bands;
And no wool was ever whiter
Than her little dimpled hands.

Oft we promised to be lovers,
Howe'er fate our faith should try;
Giving kisses back for kisses,
Mildred Jocelyn and I.

Tears, sad tears, be stayed from falling;
Ye can bring no faintest ray
From the moonlight and the midnight
Of the middle of the May.

If some friend would come and tell me,
“On your Mildred's eyes so blue
Grass has grown, but on her death-bed
She was saying prayers for you;”

Here beside the smooth white columns
I should not so grieve to-day,
For the moonlight and the midnight
Of the middle of the May.

MY FADED SHAWL.

Tell you a story, do you say?
Whatever my wits remember?
Well, going down to the woods one day
Through the winds o' the wild November,
I met a lad, called Charley.

We lived on the crest o' the Krumley ridge,
And I was a farmer's daughter,
And under the hill by the Krumley bridge
Of the crazy Krumley water,
Lived this poor lad, Charley.

Right well I knew his ruddy cheek,
And step as light as a feather,
Although we never were used to speak,
And never to play together,
I and this poor lad Charley.

So, when I saw him hurrying down
My path, will you believe me?
I knit my brow to an ugly frown,—
Forgive me, oh forgive me!
Sweet shade of little Charley.

The dull clouds dropped their skirts of snow
On the hills, and made them colder;
I was only twelve years old, or so,
And may be a twelve-month older
Was Charley, dearest Charley.

A faded shawl, with flowers o' blue,
All tenderly and fairly
Enwrought by his mother's hand, I knew,
He wore that day, my Charley,
My little love, my Charley.

His great glad eyes with light were lit
Like the dewy light o' the morning;
His homespun jacket, not a whit
Less proudly, for my scorning,
He wore, brave-hearted Charley.

105

I bore a pitcher,—'t was our pride,—
At the fair my father won it,
And consciously I turned the side
With the golden lilies on it,
To dazzle the eyes o' Charley.

This pitcher, and a milk-white loaf,
Piping hot from the platter,
When, where the path turned sharply off
To the crazy Krumley water,
I came upon my Charley.

He smiled,—my pulses never stirred
From their still and steady measures,
Till the wind came flapping down like a bird
And caught away my treasures.
“Help me, O Charley! Charley!

My loaf, my golden lilies gone!”
My heart was all a-flutter;
For I saw them whirling on and on
To the frozen Krumley water,
And then I saw my Charley,

The frayed and faded shawl from his neck
Unknot, with a quick, wise cunning,
And speckled with snow-flakes, toss it back,
That he might be free for running.
My good, great-hearted Charley.

I laid it softly on my arm,
I warmed it in my bosom,
And traced each broider-stitch to the form
Of its wilding model blossom,
For sake of my gentle Charley.

Away, away! like a shadow fleet!
The air was thick and blinding;
The icy stones were under his feet,
And the way was steep and winding.
Come back! come back my Charley!

He waved his ragged cap in the air,
My childish fears to scatter;
Dear Lord, was it Charley? Was he there,
On th' treacherous crust o' th' water?
No more! 't is death! my Charley.

The thin blue glittering sheet of ice
Bends, breaks, and falls asunder;
His arms are lifted once, and twice!
My God! he is going under!
He is drowned! he is dead! my Charley.

The wild call stops,—the blood runs chill;
I dash the tears from my lashes,
And strain my gaze to th' foot o' th' hill,—
Who flies so fast through the rushes?
My drownèd love? my Charley?

My brain is wild,—I laugh, I cry,—
The chill blood thaws and rallies;
What holds he thus, so safe and high?
My loaf? and my golden lilies?
Charley! my sweet, sweet Charley!

Across my mad brain word on word
Of tenderness went whirling;
I kissed him, called him my little bird
O' th' woods, my dove, my darling,—
My true, true love, my Charley.

In what sweet phrases he replied
I know not now—no matter—
This only, that he would have died
In the crazy Krumley water
To win my praise,—dear Charley!

He took the frayed and faded shawl,
For his sake warmed all over,
And wrapped me round and round with all
The tenderness of a lover,—
My best, my bravest Charley!

And when his shoes o' the snows were full,—
Aye, full to their tops,—a-smiling
He said they were lined with a fleece o' wool,
The pain o' th' frost beguiling.
Was ever a lad like Charley?

So down the slope o' th' Krumley ridge.
Our hands locked fast together,
And over the crazy Krumley bridge,
We went through the freezing weather,—
I and my drownèd Charley.

The corn fields all of ears were bare;
But the stalks, so bright and brittle,

106

And the black and empty husks were there
For the mouths of the hungry cattle.
We passed them, I and Charley.

And passed the willow-tree that went
With the wind, as light as a feather,
And th' two proud oaks with their shoulders bent
Till their faces came together,—
Whispering, I said to Charley:

The hollow sycamore, so white,
The old gum, straight and solemn,
With never the curve of a root in sight;
But set in the ground like a column,—
I, prattling to my Charley.

We left behind the sumach hedge,
And the waste of stubble crossing,
Came at last to the dusky edge
Of the woods, so wildly tossing,—
I and my quiet Charley.

Ankle-deep in the leaves we stood,—
The leaves that were brown as leather
And saw the choppers chopping the wood,—
Seven rough men together,—
I and my drooping Charley.

I see him now as I saw him stand
With my loaf—he had hardly won it—
And the beautiful pitcher in his hand,
With the golden lilies on it,—
My little saint—my Charley.

The stubs were burning hear and there,
The winds the fierce flames blowing,
And the arms o' th' choppers, brown and bare,
Now up, now down are going,—
I turn to them from Charley.

Right merrily the echoes ring
From the sturdy work a-doing,
And as the woodsmen chop, they sing
Of the girls that they are wooing.
O what a song for Charley!

This way an elm begins to lop,
And that, its balance losing,
And the squirrel comes from his nest in the top,
And sits in the boughs a-musing.
What ails my little Charley?

The loaf from out his hand he drops,
His eyelid flutters, closes;
He tries to speak, he whispers, stops,—
His mouth its rose-red loses,—
One look, just one, my Charley.

And now his white and frozen cheek
Each wild-eyed chopper-fixes,
And never a man is heard to speak
As they set their steel-blue axes,
And haste to the help o' Charley!

Say, what does your beautiful pitcher hold?
Come tell us if you can, sir!
The chopper's question was loud and bold,
But never a sign nor answer:
All fast asleep was Charley.

The stubs are burning low to th' earth,
The winds the fierce flames flaring,
And now to the edge of the crystal hearth
The men in their arms are bearing
The clay-cold body of Charley.

O'er heart, o'er temple those rude hands go,
Each hand as light as a brother's,
As they gather about him in the snow,
Like a company of mothers,—
My dead, my darling Charley.

Before them all (my heart grew bold,)
From off my trembling bosom,
I unwound the mantle, fold by fold,
All for my blighted blossom,
My sweet white flower,—my Charley.

I have tokens large, I have tokens small
Of all my life's lost pleasures,
But that poor frayed and faded shawl
Is the treasure of my treasures,—
The first, last gift of Charley.

OLD CHUMS.

Is it you, Jack? Old boy, is it really you?
I should n't have known you but that I was told
You might be expected;—pray how do you do?
But what, under heaven, has made you so old?

107

Your hair! why, you 've only a little gray fuzz!
And your beard 's white! but that can be beautifully dyed;
And your legs are n't but just half as long as they was;
And then—stars and garters! your vest is so wide!

Is that your hand? Lord, how I envied you that
In the time of our courting,—so soft and so small,
And now it is callous inside, and so fat,—
Well, you beat the very old deuce, that is all.

Turn round! let me look at you! is n't it odd,
How strange in a few years a fellow's chum grows!
Your eye is shrunk up like a bean in a pod,
And what are these lines branching out from your nose?

Your back has gone up and your shoulders gone down,
And all the old roses are under the plough;
Why, Jack, if we 'd happened to meet about town,
I would n't have known you from Adam, I vow!

You 've had trouble, have you? I'm sorry; but John,
All trouble sits lightly at your time of life.
How's Billy, my namesake? You don't say he 's gone
To the war, John, and that you have buried your wife?

Poor Katharine! so she has left you—ah me!
I thought she would live to be fifty, or more.
What is it you tell me? She was fifty-three!
Oh no, Jack! she was n't so much, by a score!

Well, there 's little Katy,—was that her name, John?
She'll rule your house one of these days like a queen.
That baby! good Lord! is she married and gone?
With a Jack ten years old! and a Katy fourteen!

Then I give it up! Why, you 're younger than I
By ten or twelve years, and to think you 've come back
A sober old graybeard, just ready to die!
I don't understand how it is—do you, Jack?

I 've got all my faculties yet, sound and bright;
Slight failure my eyes are beginning to hint;
But still, with my spectacles on, and a light
'Twixt them and the page, I can read any print.

My hearing is dull, and my leg is more spare,
Perhaps, than it was when I beat you at ball;
My breath gives out, too, if I go up a stair,—
But nothing worth mentioning, nothing at all!

My hair is just turning a little you see,
And lately I 've put on a broader-brimmed hat
Than I wore at your wedding, but you will agree,
Old fellow, I look all the better for that.

I'm sometimes a little rheumatic, 't is true,
And my nose is n't quite on a straight line, they say;
For all that, I don't think I 've changed much, do you?
And I don't feel a day older, Jack, not a day.

THE SHOEMAKER.

Now the hickory with its hum
Cheers the wild and rainy weather,
And the shoemaker has come
With his lapstone, last, and leather.

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With his head as white as wool,
With the wrinkles getting bolder,
And his heart with news as full
As the wallet on his shoulder.

How the children's hearts will beat,
How their eyes will shine with pleasure
As he sets their little feet,
Bare and rosy, in his measure,

And how, behind his chair,
They will steal grave looks to summon,
As he ties away his hair
From his forehead, like a woman.

When he tells the merry news
How their eyes will laugh and glisten,
While the mother binds the shoes
And they gather round and listen.

But each one, leaning low
On his lapstone, will be crying,
As he tells how little Jo,
With a broken back is dying.

Of the way he came to fall
In the flowery April weather,
Of the new shoes on the wall
That are hanging, tied together.

How the face of little Jo
Has grown white, and they who love him
See the shadows come and go,
As if angels flew above him.

And the old shoemaker, true
To the woe of the disaster,
Will uplift his apron blue
To his eyes, then work the faster.

TO THE WIND.

Steer hither, rough old mariner,
Keeping your jolly crew
Beating about in the seas of life,—
Steer hither, and tell me true
About my little son Maximus,
Who sailed away with you!

Seven and twenty years ago
He came to us,—ah me!
The snow that fell that whistling night
Was not so pure as he,
And I was rich enough, I trow,
When I took him on my knee.

I was rich enough, and when I met
A man, unthrift and lorn,
Whom I a hundred times had met
With less of pity than scorn,
I opened my purse,—it was well for him
That Maximus was born!

We have five boys at home, erect
And straight of limb, and tall,
Gentle, and loving all that God
Has made, or great or small,
But Maximus, our youngest born,
Was the gentlest of them all!

Yet was he brave,—they all are brave,
Not one for favor or frown
That fears to set his strength against
The bravest of the town,
But this, our little Maximus,
Could fight when he was down.

Six darling boys! not one of all,
If we had had to choose,
Could we have singled from the rest
To sail on such a cruise,
But surely little Maximus
Was not the one to lose!

His hair divided into slips,
And tumbled every way,—
His mother always called them curls,
She has one to this day,—
And th' nails of his hands were thin and red
As the leaves of a rose in May.

Steer hither, rough mariner, and bring
Some news of our little lad,—
If he be anywhere out of th' grave
It will make his mother glad,
Tho' he grieved her more with his waywardness
Than all the boys she had.

I know it was against himself,
For he was good and kind,
That he left us, though he saw our eyes
With tears, for his sake, blind,—
Oh how can you give to such as he,
Your nature, willful wind!

109

LITTLE CYRUS.

Emily Mayfield all the day
Sits and rocks her cradle alone,
And never a neighbor comes to say
How pretty little Cyrus has grown.

Meekly Emily's head is hung,
Many a sigh from her bosom breaks,
And ne'er such pitiful tune was sung
As that her lowly lullaby makes.

Near where the village school-house stands,
On the grass by the mossy spring,
Merry children are linking hands,
But little Cyrus is not in the ring.

“They might make room for me, if they tried,”
He thinks as he listens to call and shout,
And his eyes so pretty are open wide,
Wondering why they have left him out.

Nightly hurrying home they go,
Each, of the praise he has had to boast
But never an honor can Cyrus show,
And yet he studies his book the most.

Little Cyrus is out in the hay,—
Not where the clover is sweet and red,
With mates of his tender years at play,
But where the stubble is sharp, instead,

And every flowerless shrub and tree
That takes the twinkling noontide heat,
Is dry and dusty as it can be;
There with his tired, sunburnt feet

Dragging wearily, Cyrus goes,
Trying to sing as the others do,
But never the stoutest hand that mows
Says, “It is work too hard for you,

Little Cyrus, your hands so small
Bleed with straining to keep your place,
And the look that says I must bear it all
Is sadder than tears in your childish face:

So give me your knotty swath to mow,
And rest a while on the shady sward,
Else your body will crooked grow,
Little Cyrus, from working hard.”

If he could listen to words like that,
The stubble would not be half so rough
To his naked feet, and his ragged hat
Would shield him from sunshine well enough.

But ne'er a moment the mowers check
Song or whistle, to think of him,
With blisters burning over his neck,
Under his straw hat's ragged brim.

So, stooping over the field he goes,
With none to pity if he complain,
And so the crook in his body grows,
And he never can stand up straight again.

The cattle lie down in the lane so still,—
The scythes in the apple-tree shine bright,
And Cyrus sits on the ashen sill
Watching the motes, in the streaks of light,

Quietly slanting out of the sky,
Over the hill to the porch so low,
Wondering if in the world on high
There will be any briery fields to mow.

Emily Mayfield, pale and weak,
Steals to his side in the light so dim,
And the single rose in his swarthy cheek
Grows double, the while she says to him,—

Little Cyrus, 't is many a day
Since one with just your own sweet eyes,
And a voice as rich as a bird's in May,
(Gently she kisses the boy and sighs,)

Here on the porch when the work was done,
Sat with a young girl, (not like me,)
Her heart was light as the wool she spun,
And her laughter merry as it could be;

110

Her hair was silken, he used to say,
When they sat on the porch-side, “woeful when,”
And I know the clover you mowed today
Was not more red than her cheeks were then.

He told her many a story wild,
Like this, perhaps, which I tell to you,
And she was a woman less than child,
And thought whatever he said was true.

From home and kindred,—ah me, ah me!
With only her faith in his love, she fled,
'T was all like a dreaming, and when she could see
She owned she was sinful and prayed to be dead.

But always, however long she may live,
Desolate, desolate, she shall repine,
And so with no love to receive or to give,
Her face is as sad and as wrinkled as mine.

Little Cyrus, trembling, lays
His head on his mother's knee to cry,
And kissing his sunburnt cheek, she says,
“Hush, my darling, it was not I.”

FIFTEEN AND FIFTY.

Come, darling, put your frown aside!
I own my fault, 't is true, 't is true,
There is one picture that I hide,
Even away from you!

Why, then, I do not love you? Nay,
You wrong me there, my pretty one:
Remember you are in your May;
My summer days are done,

My autumn days are come, in truth,
And blighting frosts begin to fall;
You are the sunny light of youth,
That glorifies it all.

Even when winter clouds shall break
In storms, I shall not mind, my dear,
For you within my heart shall make
The springtime of the year!

In short, life did its best for me,
When first our paths together ran;
But I had lived, you will agree,
One life, ere yours began.

I must have smiled, I must have wept,
Ere mirth or moan could do you wrong;
But come, and see the picture, kept
Hidden away so long!

The walk will not be strange nor far,—
Across the meadow, toward the tree
From whose thick top one silver star
Uplifting slow, you see.

So darling, we have gained the hight
Where lights and shadows softly meet;
Rest you a moment,—full in sight,
My picture lies complete.

A hill-side dark, with woods behind,
A strip of emerald grass before,—
A homely house; some trees that blind
Window, and wall, and door.

A singing streamlet,—either side
Bordered with flowers, geraniums gay,
And pinks, with red mouths open wide
For sunshine, all the day.

A tasseled corn field on one hand,
And on the other meadows green,
With angles of bright harvest bend
Wedged sunnily between.

A world of smiling ways and walks,
The hop-vines twisting through the pales,
The crimson cups o' the hollyhocks,
The lilies, in white veils;

The porch with morning-glories gay,
And sunken step, the well-sweep tall,
The barn, with roof 'twixt black and gray,
And warpt, wind-shaken wall;

The garden with the fence of stone,
The lane so dusky at the close,

111

The door-yard gate all overgrown
With one wild smothering rose;

The honeysuckle that has blown
His trumpet till his throat is red,
And the wild swallow, mateless flown
Under the lonesome shed;

The corn, with bean-pods showing through,
The fields that to the sunset lean,
The crooked paths along the dew,
Telling of flocks unseen.

The bird in scarlet-colored coat
Flying about the apple-tree;
The new moon in her shallow boat,
Sailing alone, you see;

The aspen at the window-pane,—
The pair of bluebirds on the peach,—
The yellow waves of ripening grain,—
You see them all and each.

The shadows stretching to the door,
From far-off hills, and nearer trees,
I cannot show you any more,—
The landscape holds but these.

And yet, my darling, after all
'T is not my picture you behold;
Your house is ruined near to fall,—
Your flowers are dew and mould.

I wish that you could only see,
While the glad garden shines its best,
The little rose that was to me
The queen of all the rest.

The bluebirds,—he with scarlet wings,—
The silver brook, the sunset glow,
To me are but the signs of things
The landscape cannot show.

That old house was our home—not ours!
You were not born—how could it be?
That window where you see the flowers,
Is where she watched for me,

So pale, so patient, night by night,
Her eyes upon this pathway here,
Until at last I came in sight,—
Nay, do not frown, my dear,

That was another world! and so
Between us there can be no strife;
I was but twenty, you must know,
And she my baby-wife!

Twin violets by a shady brook
Were like her eyes,—their beauteousness
Was in a rainy, moonlight look
Of tears and tenderness.

Her fingers had dewy touch;
Grace was in all her modest ways;
Forgive my praising her so much,—
She cannot hear my praise.

Beneath the window where you see
The trembling, tearful flowers, she lay,
Her arms as if they reached for me,—
Her hair put smooth away.

The closèd mouth still smiling sweet,
The waxen eyelids, drooping low,
The marriage-slippers on the feet,—
The marriage-dress of snow!

And still, as in my dreams, I do,
I kiss the sweet white hands, the eyes;
My heart with pain is broken anew,
My soul with sorrow dies.

It was, they said, her spirit's birth,—
That she was gone, a saint to be;
Alas! a poor, pale piece of earth
Was all that I could see.

In tears, my darling! that fair brow
With jealous shadows overrun?
A score of flowers upon one bough
May bloom as well as one!

This ragged bush, from spring to fall
Stands here with living glories lit;
And every flower a-blush, with all
That doth belong to it!

Look on it! learn the lesson then,—
No more than we evoke, is ours!
The great law holdeth good with men,
The same as with the flowers.

And if that lost, that sweet white hand
Had never blessed me with its light,
You had not been, you understand,
More than you are to-night.

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This foolish pride that women have
To play upon us,—to enthrall,
To absorb, doth hinder what they crave,—
Their being loved at all!

Never the mistress of the arts
They practice on us, still again
And o'er again, they wring our hearts
With pain that giveth pain!

They make their tyranny a boast,
And in their petulance will not see
That he is always bound the most,
Who in the most is free!

They prize us more for what they screen
From censure, than for what is best;
And you, my darling, at fifteen,
Why, you are like the rest!

Your arms would find me now, though I
Were low as ever guilt can fall;
And that, my little love, is why
I love you, after all!

Smiling! “the pain is worth the cost,
That wins a homily so wise?”
Ah, little tyrant, I am lost,
When thus you tyrannize.

JENNY DUNLEATH.

Jenny Dunleath coming back to the town?
What! coming back here for good, and for all?
Well, that 's the last thing for Jenny to do,—
I 'd go to the ends of the earth,—would n't you?
Before I 'd come back! She'll be pushed to the wall.
Some slips, I can tell her, are never lived down,
And she ought to know it. It 's really true,
You think, that she 's coming? How dreadfully bold!
But one don't know what will be done, nowadays,
And Jenny was never the girl to be moved
By what the world said of her. What she approved,
She would do, in despite of its blame or its praise.
She ought to be wiser by this time—let 's see;
Why, sure as you live, she is forty years old!
The day I was married she stood up with me,
And my Kate is twenty: ah yes, it must be
That Jenny is forty, at least—forty-three,
It may be, or four. She was older, I know,
A good deal, when she was bridesmaid, than I,
And that 's twenty years, now, and longer, ago;
So if she intends to come back and deny
Her age, as 't is likely she will, I can show
The plain honest truth, by the age of my Kate,
And I will, too! To see an old maid tell a lie,
Just to seem to be young, is a thing that I hate.

You thought we were friends? No, my dear, not at all!
'T is true we were friendly, as friendliness goes,
But one gets one's friends as one chooses one's clothes,
And just as the fashion goes out, lets them fall.
I will not deny we were often together
About the time Jenny was in her high feather;
And she was a beauty! No rose of the May
Looked ever so lovely as she on the day
I was married. She, somehow, could grace
Whatever thing touched her. The knots of soft lace
On her little white shoes,—the gay cap that half hid
Her womanly forehead,—the bright hair that slid
Like sunshine adown her bare shoulders,—the gauze
That rippled about her sweet arms, just because
'T was Jenny that wore it,—the flower in her belt,—
No matter what color, 't was fittest, you felt.

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If she sighed, if she smiled, if she played with her fan,
A sort of religious coquettishness ran
Through it all,—a bewitching and wildering way,
All tearfully tender and graciously gay.
If e'er you were foolish in word or in speech,
The approval she gave with her serious eyes
Would make your own foolishness seem to you wise;
So all from her magical presence, and each,
Went happy away: 't was her art to confer
A self-love, that ended in your loving her.

And so she is coming back here! a mishap
To her friends, if she have any friends, one would say.
Well, well, she can't take her old place in the lap
Of holiday fortune: her head must be gray;
And those dazzling cheeks! I would just like to see
How she looks, if I could without her seeing me.

To think of the Jenny Dunleath that I knew,
A dreary old maid with nobody to love her,—
Her hair silver-white and no roof-tree above her.—
One ought to have pity upon her,—'tis true!
But I never liked her; in truth, I was glad
In my own secret heart when she came to her fall;
When praise of her meekness was ringing the loudest
I always would say she was proud as the proudest;
That meekness was only a trick that she had,—
She was too proud to seem to be proud, that was all.

She stood up with me, I was saying: that day
Was the last of her going abroad for long years;
I never had seen her so bright and so gay,
Yet, spite of the lightness, I had my own fears
That all was not well with her: 't was but her pride
Made her sing the old songs when they asked her to sing,
For when it was done with, and we were aside,
A look wan and weary came over her brow,
And still I can feel just as if it were now,
How she slipped up and down on my finger, the ring,
And so hid her face in my bosom and cried.

When the fiddlers were come, and young Archibald Mill
Was dancing with Hetty, I saw how it was;
Nor was I misled when she said she was ill,
For the dews were not standing so thick in the grass
As the drops on her cheeks. So you never have heard
How she fell in disgrace with young Archibald! No?
I won't be the first, then, to whisper a word,—
Poor thing! if she only repent, let it go!

Let it go! let what go? My good madam, I pray,
Whereof do I stand here accused? I would know,—
I am Jenny Dunleath, that you knew long ago,
A dreary old maid, and unloved, as you say:
God keep you, my sister, from knowing such woe!
Forty years old, madam, that I agree,
The roses washed out of my cheeks by the tears;
And counting my barren and desolate years
By the bright little heads dropping over your knee,
You look on my sorrow with scorn, it appears.

Well, smile, if you can, as you hold up in sight

114

Your matronly honors, for all men to see;
But I cannot discern, madam, what there can be
To move your proud mirth, in the wildness of night
Falling round me; no hearth for my coming alight,—
No rosy-red cheeks at the windows for me.

My love is my shame,—in your love you are crowned,—
But as we are women, our natures are one;
By need of its nature, the dew and the sun
Belong to the poorest, pale flower o' the ground.
And think you that He who created the heart
Has struck it all helpless and hopeless apart
From these lesser works? Nay, I hold He has bound
Our rights with our needs in so sacred a knot,
We cannot undo them with any mere lie;
Nay, more, my proud lady,—the love you have got.
May belong to another as dreary as I!
You have all the world's recognition,—your bond.—
But have you that better right, lying beyond?—
Agreement with Conscience?—that sanction whereby
You can live in the face of the cruelest scorns?
Aye, set your bare bosom against the sharp thorns
Of jealousy, hatred,—against all the harms
Bad fortune can gather,—and say, With these arms
About me, I stand here to live and to die!
I take you to keep for my patron and saint,
And you shall be bound by that sweetest constraint
Of a liberty wide as the love that you give;
And so to the glory of God we will live,
Through health and through sickness, dear lover and friend,
Through light and through darkness,—through all, to the end!

Let it go! Let what go? Make me answer, I pray.
You were speaking just now of some terrible fall,—
My love for young Archibald Mill,—is that all?
I loved him with all my young heart, as you say,—
Nay, what is more, madam, I love him to-day,—
My cheeks thin and wan, and my hair gray on gray!
And so I am bold to come back to the town,
In hope that at last I may lay my bones down,
And have the green grasses blow over my face,
Among the old hills where my love had its birth!
If love were a trifle, the morning to grace,
And fade when the night came, why, what were it worth?

He is married! and I am come hither too late?
Your vision misleads you,—so pray you, untie
That knot from your sweet brow,—I come here to die,
And not make a moan for the chances of fate!
I know that all love that is true is divine,
And when this low incident, Time, shall have sped,
I know the desire of my soul shall be mine,—
That, weary, or wounded, or dying, or dead,
The end is secure, so I bear the estate—
Despised of the world's favored women—and wait.

TRICKSEY'S RING.

O what a day it was to us,—
My wits were upside down,

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When cousin Joseph Nicholas
Came visiting from town!

His curls they were so smooth and bright,
His frills they were so fine,
I thought perhaps the stars that night
Would be ashamed to shine.

But when the dews had touched the grass,
They came out, large and small,
As if our cousin Nicholas
Had not been there at all!

Our old house never seemed to me
So poor and mean a thing
As then, and just because that he
Was come a-visiting!

I never thought the sun prolonged
His light a single whit
Too much, till then, nor thought he wronged
My face, by kissing it.

But now I sought to pull my dress
Of faded homespun down,
Because my cousin Nicholas
Would see my feet were brown.

The butterflies—bright airy things—
From off the lilac buds
I scared, for having on their wings
The shadows of the woods.

I thought my straight and jet black hair
Was almost a disgrace,
Since Joseph Nicholas had fair
Smooth curls about his face.

I wished our rosy window sprays
Were laces, dropping down,
That he might think we knew the ways
Of rich folks in the town.

I wished the twittering's swallow had
A finer tune to sing,
Since such a stylish city lad
Was come a-visiting.

I wished the hedges, as they swayed,
Were each a solid wall,
And that our grassy lane were made
A market street withal.

I wished the drooping heads of rye,
Set full of silver dews,
Were silken tassels all to tie
The ribbons of his shoes!

And when, by homely household slight,
They called me Tricksey True,
I thought my cheeks would blaze, in spite
Of all that I could do.

Tricksey!—that name would surely be
A shock to ears polite;
In short I thought that nothing we
Could say or do was right.

For injured pride I could have wept,
Until my heart and I
Fell musing how my mother kept
So equable and high.

She did not cast her eyelids down,
Ashamed of being poor:
To her a gay young man from town,
Was no discomfiture.

She reverenced honor's sacred laws
As much, aye more than he,
And was not put about because
He had more gold than she;

But held her house beneath a hand
As steady and serene,
As though it were a palace, and
As though she were a queen.

And when she set our silver cup
Upon the cloth of snow,
For Nicholas, I lifted up
My timid eyes, I know;

And saw a ring, as needs I must,
Upon his finger shine;
O how I longed to have it just
A minute upon mine!

I thought of fairy folk that led
Their lives in sylvan shades,
And brought fine things, as I had read,
To little rustic maids.

And so I mused within my heart,
How I would search about
The fields and woodlands, for my part,
Till I should spy them out.

And so when down the western sky
The sun had dropped at last,
Right softly and right cunningly
From out the house I passed.

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It was as if awake I dreamed,
All Nature was so sweet
The small round dandelions seemed
Like stars beneath my feet.

Fresh greenness as I went along
The grass did seem to take,
And birds beyond the time of song
Kept singing for my sake.

The dew o'erran the lily's cup,
The ground-moss shone so well,
That if the sky were down or up,
Was hard for me to tell.

I never felt my heart to sit
So lightly on its throne;
Ah, who knew what would come of it,
With fairy folk alone!

An hour,—another hour went by,
All harmless arts I tried,
And tried in vain, and wearily
My hopes within me died.

No tent of moonshine, and no ring
Of dancers could I find,—
The fairy rich folk and their king
For once would be unkind!

My spirit, nameless fear oppressed;
My courage went adrift,
As all out of the low dark west
The clouds began to lift.

I lost my way within the wood,—
The path I could not guess,
When, Heaven be praised, before me stood
My cousin Nicholas!

Right tenderly within his arm
My shrinking hand he drew;
He spoke so low, “these damps will harm
My little Tricksey True.”

I know not how it was: my shame
In new delight was drowned;
His accent gave my rustic name
Almost a royal sound.

He bent his cheek against my face,—
He whispered in my ear,
“Why came you to this dismal place?
Tell me, my little dear!”

Betwixt the boughs that o'er us hung
The light began to fall;
His praises loosed my silent tongue,—
At last I told him all.

I felt his lips my forehead touch;
I shook and could not stand;
The ring I coveted so much
Was shining on my hand!

We talked about the little elves
And fairies of the grove,
And then we talked about ourselves,
And then we talked of love.

'T was at the ending of the lane,—
The garden yet to pass,
I offered back his ring again
To my good Nicholas.

“Dear Tricksey, don't you understand,
You foolish little thing.”
He said, “that I must have the hand,
As well as have the ring?”

“To-night—just now! I pray you wait!
The hand is little worth!”
“Nay darling—now! we 're at the gate!”
And so he had them both!

CRAZY CHRISTOPHER.

Neighbored by a maple wood,
Dim and dusty, old and low;
Thus our little school-house stood,
Two and twenty years ago.

On the roof of clapboards, dried
Smoothly in the summer heat,
Of the hundred boys that tried,
Never one could keep his feet.

Near the door the cross-roads were,
A stone's throw, perhaps, away,
And to read the sign-board there,
Made a pastime every day.

He who turned the index down,
So it pointed on the sign
To the nearest market-town,
Was, we thought, a painter fine:

And the childish wonder rose,
As we gazed with puzzled looks

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On the letters, good as those
Printed in our spelling-books.

Near it was a well,—how deep!
With its bucket warped and dry,
Broken curb, and leaning sweep,
And a plum-tree growing by,

Which, with low and tangly top,
Made the grass so bright and cool,
Travelers would sometimes stop,
For a half-hour's rest—in school,

Not an eye could keep the place
Of the lesson then,—intent
Each to con the stranger's face,
And to see the road he went.

Scattered are we far and wide,—
Careless, curious children then;
Wanderers some, and some have died;
Some, thank God, are honest men.

But, as playmates, large or small,
Noisy, thoughtful, or demure,
I can see them, one and all,
The great world in miniature.

Common flowers, with common names,
Filled the woods and meadows round:
Dandelions with their flames
Smothered flat against the ground;

Mullein stocks, with gray braids set
Full of yellow; thistles speared;
Violets, purple near to jet;
Crowfoot, and the old-man's-beard.

And along the dusty way,
Thick as prints of naked feet,
Iron-weeds and fennel gay
Blossomed in the summer heat.

Hedges of wild blackberries,
Pears, and honey-locusts tall,
Spice-wood, and “good apple-trees,”
Well enough we knew them all.

But the ripest blackberries,
Nor the mulleins topped with gold,
Peach nor honey-locust trees,
Nor the flowers, when all are told,

Pleased us like the cabin, near
Which a silver river ran,
And where lived, for many a year,
Christopher, the crazy man.

Hair as white as snow he had,
Mixing with a beard that fell
Down his breast; if he were mad,
Passed our little wits to tell.

In his eyes' unfathomed blue
Burned a ray so clear and bright,
Oftentimes we said we knew
It would shame the candlelight.

Mystic was the life he led;
Picking herbs in secret nooks,—
Finding, as the old folks said,
“Tongues in trees and books in brooks.”

Waking sometimes in the gloom
Of the solemn middle night,
He had seen his narrow room
Full of angels dressed in white;

So he said in all good faith,
And one day, with tearful eye,
Told us that he heard old Death
Sharpening his scythe, close by.

Whether it were prophecy,
Or a dream, I cannot say;
But good little Emily
Died the evening of that day.

In the woods, where up and down
We had searched, and only seen
Adder's-tongue, with dull, dead brown,
Mottled with the heavy green;

May-apples, or wild birds sweet,
Going through the shadows dim,
Spirits, with white, noiseless feet,
Walked, he said, and talked with him.

“What is all the toiling for,
And the spinning?” he would say;
“See the lilies at my door,—
Never dressed a queen as they.

“He who gives the ravens food
For our wants as well will care;
O my children! He is good,—
Better than your fathers are.”

So he lived from year to year,
Never toiling, mystery-clad,—
Spirits, if they did appear,
Being all the friends he had.

118

Alternating seasons sped,
And there fell no night so rough,
But his cabin fire, he said,
Made it light and warm enough.

Soft and slow our steps would be,
As the silver river ran,
Days when we had been to see
Christopher, the crazy man.

Soft and slow, to number o'er
The delights he said he had;
Wondering always, more and more,
Whether he were wise or mad.

On a hill-side next the sun,
Where the school-boys quiet keep,
And to seed the clovers run,
He is lying, fast asleep.

But at last (to Heaven be praise),
Gabriel his bed will find,
Giving love for lonely days,
And for visions, his right mind.

Sometimes, when I think about
How he lived among the flowers,
Gently going in and out,
With no cares nor fretful hours,—

Of the deep serene of light,
In his blue, unfathomed eyes,—
Seems the childish fancy right,
That could half believe him wise.

THE FERRY OF GALLAWAY.

In the stormy waters of Gallaway
My boat had been idle the livelong day,
Tossing and tumbling to and fro,
For the wind was high and the tide was low.

The tide was low and the wind was high,
And we were heavy, my heart and I,
For not a traveler all the day
Had crossed the ferry of Gallaway.

At set o' th' sun, the clouds outspread
Like wings of darkness overhead,
When, out o' th' west, my eyes took heed
Of a lady, riding at full speed.

The hoof-strokes struck on the flinty hill
Like silver ringing on silver, till
I saw the veil in her fair hand float,
And flutter a signal for my boat.

The waves ran backward as if 'ware
Of a presence more than mortal fair,
And my little craft leaned down and lay
With her side to th' sands o' th' Gallaway.

“Haste, good boatman! haste!” she cried,
“And row me over the other side!”
And she stript from her finger the shining ring,
And gave it me for the ferrying.

“Woe 's me! my Lady, I may not go,
For the wind is high and th' tide is low,
And rocks like dragons lie in the wave,—
Slip back on your finger the ring you gave!”

“Nay, nay! for the rocks will be melted down,
And the waters, they never will let me drown,
And the wind a pilot will prove to thee,
For my dying lover, he waits for me!”

Then bridle-ribbon and silver spur
She put in my hand, but I answered her:
“The wind is high and the tide is low,—
I must not, dare not, and will not go!”

Her face grew deadly white with pain,
And she took her champing steed by th' mane,
And bent his neck to th' ribbon and spur
That lay in my hand,—but I answered her:

“Though you should proffer me twice and thrice
Of ring and ribbon and steed, the price,—
The leave of kissing your lily-like hand!
I never could row you safe to th' land.”

119

“Then God have mercy!” she faintly cried,
“For my lover is dying the other side!
O cruel, O cruellest Gallaway,
Be parted, and make me a path, I pray!”

Of a sudden, the sun shone large and bright
As if he were staying away the night,
And the rain on the river fell as sweet
As the pitying tread of an angel's feet.

And spanning the water from edge to edge
A rainbow stretched like a golden bridge,
And I put the rein in her hand so fair,
And she sat in her saddle, th' queen o' th' air.

And over the river, from edge to edge,
She rode on the shifting and shimmering bridge,
And landing safe on the farther side,—
“Love is thy conqueror, Death!” she cried.

REVOLUTIONARY STORY.

“Good mother, what quaint legend are you reading,
In that old-fashioned book?
Beside your door I 've been this half-hour pleading
All vainly for one look.

“About your chair the little birds fly bolder
Than in the woods they fly,
With heads dropt slantwise, as if o'er your shoulder
They read as they went by;

“Each with his glossy collar ruffling double
Around his neck so slim,
Even as with that atmosphere of trouble.
Through which our blessings swim.

“Is it that years throw on us chillier shadows,
The longer time they run,
That, with your sad face fronting yonder meadows,
You creep into the sun?

“I'll sit upon the ground and hear your story.”
Sadly she shook her head,
And, pushing back the thin, white veil of glory
'Twixt her and heaven, she said:

“Ah! wondering child, I knew not of your pleading;
My thoughts were chained, indeed,
Upon my book, and yet what you call reading
I have no skill to read.

“There was a time once when I had a lover;
Why look you in such doubt?
True, I am old now—ninety years and over:”
A crumpled flower fell out

From 'twixt the book-leaves. “Seventy years they 've pressed it:
'T was like a living flame,
When he that plucked it, by the plucking blessed it;”
I knew the smile that came,

And flickered on her lips in wannish splendor,
Was lighted at that flower,
For even yet its radiance, faint and tender,
Reached to its primal hour.

“God bless you! seventy years since it was gathered?”
“Aye, I remember well;”
And in her old hand, palsy-struck, and withered,
She held it up to smell.

“And is it true, as poets say, good mother,
That love can never die?
And that for all it gives unto another
It grows the richer?” “Aye,

“The white wall-brier, from spring till summer closes,
All the great world around,
Hangs by its thorny arms to keep its roses
From off the low, black ground;

“And love is like it: sufferings but try it;
Death but evokes the might

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That, all, too mighty to be thwarted by it,
Breaks through into the light.”

“Then frosty age may wrap about its bosom
The light of fires long dead?”
Kissing the piece of dust she called a blossom,
She shut the book, and said:

“You see yon ash-tree with its thick leaves, blowing
The blue side out? (Great Power,
Keep its head green!) My sweetheart, in the mowing
Beneath it found my flower.

“A mile off all that day the shots were flying,
And mothers, from the door,
Looked for the sons, who, on their faces lying,
Would come home never more.

“Across the battle-field the dogs went whining;
I saw, from where I stood,
Horses with quivering flanks, and strained eyes, shining
Like thin skins full of blood.

“Brave fellows we had then: there was my neighbor,—
The British lines he saw;
Took his old scythe and ground it to a sabre,
And mowed them down like straw!

“And there were women, then, of giant spirit,—
Nay, though the blushes start,
The garments their degenerate race inherit
Hang loose about the heart.

“Where was I, child? how is my story going?”
“Why, where by yonder tree
With leaves so rough your sweetheart, in the mowing.
Gathered your flower!” “Ah me!

“My poor lad dreamed not of the redcoat devil,
That, just for pastime, drew
To his bright epaulet his musket level,
And shot him through and through.

“Beside him I was kneeling the next minute;
From the red grass he took
The shattered hand up, and the flower was in it
You saw within my book.”

“He died.” “Then you have seen some stormy weather?”
“Aye, more of foul than fair;
And all the snows we should have shared together
Have fallen on my hair.”

“And has your life been worth the living, mother,
With all its sorrows?” “Aye,
I 'd live it o'er again, were there no other,
For this one memory.”

I answered soft,—I felt the place was holy—
One maxim stands approved:
“They know the best of life, however lowly,
Who ever have been loved.”

121

THE MIGHT OF LOVE.

“There is work, good man, for you to-day!”
So the wife of Jamie cried.
“For a ship at Garl'ston, on Solway,
Is beached, and her coal 's to be got away
At the ebbing time of tide.”

“And, lassie, would you have me start,
And make for Solway sands?
You know that I, for my poor part,
To help me, have nor horse nor cart—
I have only just my hands!”

“But, Jamie, be not, till ye try,
Of honest chances balked;
For, mind ye, man, I'll prophesy
That while the old ship 's high and dry
Her master'll have her calked.”

And far and near the men were pressed,
As the wife saw in her dreams.
“Aye,” Jamie said, “she knew the best,”
As he went under with the rest
To calk the open seams.

And while the outward-flowing tide
Moaned like a dirge of woe,
The ship's mate from the beach-belt cried:
“Her hull is heeling toward the side
Where the men are at work below!”

And the cartmen, wild and open-eyed,
Made for the Solway sands—
Men heaving men like coals aside,
For now it was the master cried:
“Run for your lives, all hands!”

Like dead leaves in the sudden swell
Of the storm, upon that shout,
Brown hands went fluttering up and fell,
As, grazed by the sinking planks, pell mell
The men came hurtling out!

Thank God, thank God, the peril's past!
“No! no!” with blanching lip,
The master cries. “One man, the last,
Is caught, drawn in, and grappled fast
Betwixt the sands and the ship!”

“Back, back, all hands! Get what you can—
Or pick, or oar, or stave.”
This way and that they breathless ran,
And came and fell to, every man,
To dig him out of his grave!

“Too slow! too slow! The weight will kill!
Up make your hawsers fast!”
Then every man took hold with a will—
A long pull and a strong pull—still
With never a stir o' th' mast!

“Out with the cargo!” Then they go
At it with might and main.
“Back to the sands! too slow, too slow!
He 's dying, dying! yet, heave ho!
Heave ho! there, once again!”

And now on the beach at Garl'ston stood
A woman whose pale brow wore
Its love like a queenly crown; and the blood
Ran curdled and cold as she watched the flood
That was racing in to the shore.

122

On, on it trampled, stride by stride.
It was death to stand and wait;
And all that were free threw picks aside,
And came up dripping out o' th' tide,
And left the doomed to his fate.

But lo! the great sea trembling stands;
Then, crawling under the ship,
As if for the sake of the two white hands
Reaching over the wild, wet sands,
Slackened that terrible grip.

“Come to me, Jamie! God grants the way,”
She cries, “for lovers to meet.”
And the sea, so cruel, grew kind, they say,
And, wrapping him tenderly round with spray,
Laid him dead at her feet.

“THE GRACE WIFE OF KEITH.”

No whit is gained, do you say to me,
In a hundred years, nor in two nor three,
In wise things, nor in holy—
No whit since Bacon trod his ways,
And William Shakespeare wrote his plays!
Aye, aye, the world moves slowly.

But here is a lesson, man, to heed;
I have marked the pages, open and read;
We are yet enough unloving,
Given to evil and prone to fall,
But the record will show you, after all,
That still the world keeps moving.

All in the times of the good King James—
I have marked the deeds and their doers' names.
And over my pencil drawing—
One Geillis Duncan standeth the first
For helping of “anie kinde sick” accursed,
And doomed, without trial, to “thrawing.”

Read of her torturers given their scope
Of wrenching and binding her head with a rope,
Of taunting her word and her honor,
And of searching her body sae pure and fair
From the lady-white feet to the gouden hair
For the wizard's mark upon her!

Of how through fair coaxings and agonies' dread
She came to acknowledge whatever they said,
And, lastly, her shaken wits losing,
To prattle from nonsense and blasphemies wild
To the silly entreaties and tears of a child,
And then to the fatal accusing.

First naming Euphemia Macalzean,
A lord's young daughter, and fair as a queen;
Then Agnes, whose wisdom surpassed her;
“Grace Wyff of Keith,” so her sentence lies,
“Adjudged at Holyrood under the eyes
Of the King, her royal master.”

Oh, think of this Grace wife, fine and tall,
With a witch's bridle tied to the wall!
Her peril and pain enhancing
With owning the lie that on Hallowmas Eve
She with a witch crew sailed in a sieve
To Berwick Church, for a dancing!

Think of her owning, through brain-sick fright
How Geillis a Jew's-harp played that night,
And of Majesty sending speady
Across the border and far away
For that same Geillis to dance and play,
Of infernal news made greedy!

Think of her true tongue made to tell
How she had raised a dog from a well
To conjure a Lady's daughters:
And how she had gript him neck and skin.
And, growling, thrust him down and in
To his hiding under the waters!

How Rob the Rower, so stout and brave,
Helped her rifle a dead man's grave,
And how, with enchantments arming,
Husbands false she had put in chains,

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And gone to the beds of women in pains
And brought them through by charming!

Think of her owning that out at sea
The Devil had marked her on the knee,
And think of the prelates round her
Twitching backward their old gray hairs
And bowing themselves to their awful prayers
Before they took her and bound her!

The world moves! Witch-fires, say what you will
Are lighted no more on the Castle Hill
By the breath of a crazy story;
Nor are men riven at horses' tails,
Or done to death through pincered nails,
In the name of God and his glory.

The world moves on! Say what you can,
No more may a maiden's love for a man,
Into scorn and hatred turning,
Wrap him in rosin stiff and stark,
And roll him along like a log in its bark
To the place of fiery burning.

And such like things were done in the days
When one Will Shakespeare wrote his plays;
And when Bacon thought, for a wonder:
And when Luther had hurled, at the spirit's call,
Inkstand, Bible, himself, and all
At the head of the Papal thunder.

JOHNNY RIGHT.

Johnny Right, his hand was brown,
And so was his honest, open face,
For the sunshine kissed him up and down,
But Johnny counted all for grace;
And when he looked in the glass at night
He said that brown was as good as white!

A little farm our Johnny owned,
Some pasture-fields, both green and good,
A bit of pleasant garden ground,
A meadow, and a strip of wood.
“Enough for any man,” said John,
“To earn his livelihood upon!”

Two oxen, speckled red and white,
And a cow that gave him a pail of milk,
He combed and curried morn and night
Until their coats were as soft as silk.
“Cattle on all the hills,” said he,
“Could give no more of joy to me.”

He never thought the world was wrong
Because rough weather chanced a day;
“The night is always hedged along
With daybreak roses, he would say;
He did not ask for manna, but said,
“Give me but strength—I will get the bread!”

Kindly he took for good and all
Whatever fortune chanced to bring,
And he never wished that spring were fall,
And he never wished that fall were spring;
But set the plough with a joy akin
To the joy of putting the sickle in.

He never stopped to sigh “Oho!”
Because of the ground he needs must till,
For he knew right well that a man must sow
Before he can reap, and he sowed with a will;
And still as he went to his rye-straw bed,
“Work brings the sweetest of rest,” he said.

Johnny's house was little and low,
And his fare was hard; and that was why
He used to say, with his cheeks aglow,
That he must keep his heart up high:
Aye, keep it high, and keep it light!
He used to say—wise Johnny Right!

He never fancied one was two;
But according to his strength he planned,
And oft to his Meggy would say he knew
That gold was gold, and sand was sand;

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And that each was good and best in its place,
For he counted everything for grace.

Now Meggy Right was Meggy Wrong,
For things with her went all awry;
She always found the day too long
Or the day too short, and would mope and sigh;
For, somehow, the time and place that were,
Were never the time and place for her!

“O Johnny, Johnny!” she used to say,
If she saw a cloud in the sky at morn,
“There will be a hurricane to-day;”
Or, “The rain will come and drench the corn!”
And Johnny would answer with a smile,
“Wait, dear Meggy, wait for a while!”

And often before an ear was lost,
Or a single hope of the harvest gone,
She would cry, “Suppose there should fall a frost,
What should we do then, John, O John!”
And Johnny would answer, rubbing his thumbs,
“Wait, dear Meggy, wait till it comes!”

But when she saw the first gray hair,
Her hands together she wrung and wrung.
And cried, in her wicked and weak despair,
“Ah, for the day when we both were young!”
And Johnny answered, kissing her brow.
“Then was then, Meg—now is now!”

And when he spectacles put on,
And read at ease the paper through,
She whimpered, “Oh, hard-hearted John.
It is n't the way you used to do!”
And Johnny, wiser than wiser men,
Said, “Now is now, Meg—then was then!”

So night and day, with this and that,
She gave a bitter to all the bliss,
Now for Johnny to give her a hat,
And now for Johnny to give her a kiss,
Till, patience failing, he cried, “Peg, Peg!
You 're enough to turn a man's head, Meg!”

Oh, then she fell into despair—
No coaxing could her temper mend;
For her part now she did n't care
How soon her sad life had an end.
And Johnny, sneering, made reply,
“Well, Meg, don't die before you die!”

Then foolish Meg began to scold,
And call her Johnny ugly names;
She wished the little farm was sold,
And that she had no household claims,
So that she might go and starve or beg,
And Johnny answered, “O Meg, Meg!”

Ah, yes, she did—she did n't care!
That were a living to prefer;
What had she left to save despair?
A man that did n't care for her!
Indeed, in truth she 'd rather go!
“Don't, Meg,” says Johnny, “don't say so!”

She left his stockings all undarned,
She set his supper for him cold;
And every day she said she yearned
To have the hateful homestead sold.
She could n't live, and would n't try!
John only answered with a sigh.

Passing the tavern one cold night,
Says Johnny, “I 've a mind to stop,
It looks so cheery and so bright
Within, and take a little drop,
And then I'll go straight home to Meg.”
There was the serpent in the egg.

He stopped, alas, alas for John.
That careless step foredoomed his fall.
Next year the little farm was gone,—
Corn fields and cattle, house and all;
And Meggy learned too late, too late,
Her own self had evoked her fate.

THE SETTLER'S CHRISTMAS EVE.

In a patch of clearing, scarcely more
Than his brawny double hands,

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With woods behind and woods before,
The Settler's cabin stands;
A little, low, and lonesome shed,
With a roof of clapboards overhead.

Aye, low, so low the wind-warped eave
Hangs close against the door;
You might almost stretch a bishop's sleeve
From the rafter to the floor;
And the window is not too large, a whit,
For a lady's veil to curtain it.

The roof-tree's bent and knotty knees
By the Settler's axe are braced,
And the door-yard fence is three felled trees
With their bare arms interlaced;
And a grape-vine, shaggy and rough and red,
Swings from the well-sweep's high, sharp head.

And among the stubs, all charred and black,
Away to the distant huts,
Winds in and out the wagon-track,
Cut full of zigzag ruts:
And down and down to the sluggish pond,
And through and up to the swamps beyond.

And do you ask beneath such thatch
What heart or hope may be?
Just pull the string of the wooden latch,
And see what you shall see:
A hearth-stone broad and warm and wide,
With master and mistress either side.

And 'twixt them, in the radiant glow,
Prattling of Christmas joys,
With faces in a shining row,
Six children, girls and boys;
And in the cradle a head half-hid
By the shaggy wolf-skin coverlid.

For the baby sleeps in the shaded light
As gently as a lamb,
And two little stockings, scarlet bright,
Are hanging 'gainst the jamb;
And the yellow cat lies all of a curl
In the lap of a two-years' blue-eyed girl.

On the dresser, saved for weeks and weeks,
A hamper of apples stands,
And some are red as the children's cheeks,
And some are brown as their hands;
For cakes and apples must stead, you see,
The rich man's costlier Christmas-tree.

A clock that looks like a skeleton,
From the corner ticks out bold;
And that never was such a clock to run
You would hardly need be told,
If you were to see the glances proud
Drawn toward it when it strikes so loud.

The Settler's rifle, bright and brown,
Hangs high on the rafter-hooks.
And swinging a hand's breadth lower down
Is a modest shelf of books;
Bible and Hymn-book, thumbed all through,
“Baxter's Call,” and a novel or two.

“Peter Wilkins,” “The Bloody Hand,”
“The Sailor's Bride and Bark,”
“Jerusalem and the Holy Land,”
“The Travels of Lewis and Clarke;”
Some tracts: among them, “The Milkmaid's Fall,”
“Pleasure Punished,” and “Death at a Ball.”

A branch of sumach, shining bright,
And a stag-horn, deck the wall,
With a string of birds'-eggs, blue and white,
Beneath. But after all,
You will say the six little heads in a row
By the hearth-stone make the prettiest show.

The boldest urchin dares not stir;
But each heart, be sure, rebels
As the father taps on the newspaper
With his brass-bowed spectacles;
And knitting-needle with needle clicks
As the mother waits for the politics.

He has rubbed the glass and rubbed the bow,
And now is a fearful pause:

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“Come, Molly!” he says, “come Sue, come Joe,
And I'll tell you of Santa Claus!”
How the faces shine with glad surprise,
As if the souls looked out of the eyes.

In a trice the dozen ruddy legs
Are bare; and speckled and brown
And blue and gray, from the wall-side peg
The stockings dangle down;
And the baby with wondering eyes, looks out
To see what the clatter is all about.

“And what will Santa Claus bring?” they tease,
“And, say, is he tall and fair?”
While the younger climb the good man's knees.
And the elder scale his chair;
And the mother jogs the cradle, and tries
The charm of the dear old lullabies.

So happily the hours fly past,
'T is pity to have them o'er;
But the rusty weights of the clock, at last
Are dragging near the floor;
And the knitting-needles, one and all,
Are stuck in the round, red knitting-ball.

Now, all of a sudden the father twirls
The empty apple-plate;
“Old Santa Claus don't like his girls
And boys to be up so late!”
He says, “And I'll warrant our star-faced cow.
He 's waiting astride o' the chimney now.”

Down the back of his chair they slide,
They slide down arm and knee:
“If Santa Claus is indeed outside,
He sha'n't be kept for me!”
Cry one and all: and away they go,
Hurrying, flurrying, six in a row.

In the mother's eyes are happy tears
As she sees them flutter away;
“My man,” she says, “it is sixteen years
Since our blessed wedding-day;
And I would n't think it but just a year
If it was n't for all these children here.”

And then they talk of what they will do
As the years shall come and go;
Of schooling for little Molly and Sue,
And of land for John and Joe;
And Dick is so wise, and Dolly so fair,
“They,” says the mother, “will have luck to spare!”

“Aye, aye, good wife, that 's clear, that 's clear!”
Then, with eyes on the cradle bent,
“And what if he in the wolf-skin here
Turned out to be President?
Just think! Oh, would n't it be fine,—
Such fortune for your boy and mine!”

She stopped—her heart with hope elate—
And kissed the golden head:
Then, with the brawny hand of her mate
Folded in hers, she said:
“Walls as narrow, and a roof as low,
Have sheltered a President, you know.”

And then they said they would work and wait,
The good, sweet-hearted pair—
You must have pulled the latch-string straight,
Had you in truth been there,
Feeling that you were not by leave
At the Settler's hearth that Christmas Eve.

THE OLD STORY.

The waiting-women wait at her feet,
And the day is fading into the night,
And close at her pillow, and round and sweet,
The red rose burns like a lamp alight,
And under and over the gray mists fold;
And down and down from the mossy eaves,
And down from the sycamore's long wild leaves
The slow rain droppeth so cold, so cold.

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Ah! never had sleeper a sleep so fair;
And the waiting-women that weep around,
Have taken the combs from her golden hair,
And it slideth over her face to the ground.
They have hidden the light from her lovely eyes;
And down from the eaves where the mosses grow
The rain is dripping so slow, so slow,
And the night wind cries and cries and cries.

From her hand they have taken the shining ring,
They have brought the linen her shroud to make:
Oh, the lark she was never so loath to sing,
And the morn she was never so loath to awake!
And at their sewing they hear the rain,—
Drip-drop, drip-drop over the eaves,
And drip-drop over the sycamore leaves,
As if there would never be sunshine again.

The mourning train to the grave have gone,
And the waiting women are here and are there,
With birds at the windows, and gleams of the sun,
Making the chamber of death to be fair.
And under and over the mist unlaps,
And ruby and amethyst burn through the gray,
And driest bushes grow green with spray,
And the dimpled water its glad hands claps.

The leaves of the sycamore dance and wave.
And the mourners put off the mourning shows:
And over the pathway down to the grave
The long grass blows and blows and blows.
And every drip-drop rounds to a flower,
And love in the heart of the young man springs,
And the hands of the maidens shine with rings,
As if all life were a festival hour.

BALDER'S WIFE.

Her casement like a watchful eye
From the face of the wall looks down,
Lashed round with ivy vines so dry,
And with ivy leaves so brown.
Her golden head in her lily hand
Like a star in the spray o' th' sea,
And wearily rocking to and fro,
She sings so sweet and she sings so low
To the little babe on her knee.
But let her sing what tune she may,
Never so light and never so gay,
It slips and slides and dies away
To the moan of the willow water.

Like some bright honey-hearted rose
That the wild wind rudely mocks,
She blooms from the dawn to the day's sweet close
Hemmed in with a world of rocks.
The livelong night she doth not stir,
But keeps at her casement lorn,
And the skirts of the darkness shine with her
As they shine with the light o' the morn
And all who pass may hear her lay,
But let it be what tune it may,
It slips and slides and dies away
To the moan of the willow water.

And there, within that one-eyed tower,
Lashed round with the ivy brown.
She droops like some unpitied flower
That the rain-fall washes down:
The damp o' th' dew in her golden hair,
Her cheek like the spray o' th' sea,
And wearily rocking to and fro
She sings so sweet and she sings so low
To the little babe on her knee.
But let her sing what tune she may,
Never so glad and never so gay,
It slips and slides and dies away
To the moan of the willow water.

128

AT REHEARSAL.

O Cousin Kit MacDonald,
I 've been all the day among
The places and the faces
That we knew when we were young;

And, like a hope that shineth down
The shadow of its fears,
I found this bit of color on
The groundwork of the years.

So with words I tried to paint it,
All so merry and so bright—
And here, my Kit MacDonald,
Is the picture light on light.

It was night—the cows were stabled,
And the sheep were in their fold,
And our garret had a double roof—
Pearl all across the gold.

The winds were gay as dancers—
We could hear them waltz and whirl
Above the roof of yellow pine,
And the other roof of pearl.

We had gathered sticks from the snow-drift,
And now that the fire was lit,
We made a ring about the hearth
And watched for you, dear Kit.

We planned our pleasant pastimes,
But never a game begun—
For Cousin Kit was the leader
Of all the frolic and fun.

With moss and with bark, for his sake,
The fire we strove to mend—
For the fore-stick, blazing at middle,
Was frosty at either end;

But after all of the blowing
Till our cheeks were puffed and red,
No warm glow lighted the umber
Of the rafters overhead;

And after all of the mending,
We could not choose but see
That the little low, square window
Was as dark as dark could be.

The chill crept in from our fingers
Till our hearts grew fairly numb—
Oh, what if he should n't see the light,
And what if he should n't come!

Then pale-cheeked little Annie,
With a hand behind her ear
Slipt out of the ring and listened
To learn if his step were near;

And Philip followed, striding
Through the garret to and fro—
To show us that our Cousin Kit
Was marching through the snow;

While Rose stood all a-tiptoe,
With face to the window pressed,
To spy him, haply, over the hill,
And tell the news to the rest.

And at last there was shout and laughter,
And the watching all was done—
For Kit came limping and whimpering,
And the playing was begun.

“A poor old man, good neighbors,
Who has nearly lost his sight,
Has come,” he said, “to eat your bread,
And lodge by your fire to-night.

“I have no wife nor children,
And the night is bitter cold;
And you see (he showed the snow on his hair)—
You see I am very old!”

“We have seen your face too often,
Old Mr. Kit,” we said;
“How comes it that you 're houseless—
And why are you starved for bread?

“Because you were thriftless and lazy,
And would not plough nor sow;
And because you drank at the tavern—
Ah! that is why, you know!

“We don't give beggars lodging,
And we want our fire and bread;
And so good-day, and go your way,
Old Mr. Kit,” we said.

Then showing his ragged jacket,
He said that his money was spent—
And said he was old, and the night was cold,
And with body doubly bent

He reached his empty hat to us,
And then he wiped his eye,
And said he had n't a friend in the world
That would give him room to die.

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“But it was n't for you,” we answered,
“That our hearth to-night was lit.”
And so we turned him out o' the house—
O Kit, my Cousin Kit!

As I sit here painting over
The night, and the fire, and the snow,
And all your boyish make-believe
In that garret rude and low,

My heart is broken within me,
For my love must needs allow
That you were at the rehearsal then
Of the part you are playing now.

THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE.

Peace! for my brain is on the rack!
Peace of your idle prattling, John!
Ere peep o' daylight he was gone:
And my thoughts they run as wild and black
As the clouds in the sky, from fear to fear.
Mother o' mercy! would he were here—
Oh! would that he only were safely here—
Would that I knew he would ever come back!
Yet surely he will come anon;
Let's see—the clock is almost on
The stroke o' ten. Even ere it strike,
His hand will be at the latch belike.
Set up his chair in the corner, John,
Add a fresh log, and stir the coals:
We can afford it. I reckon, yet.
The night is chilly and wild and wet,
And all the fishers' wives, poor souls,
Must watch and wait! There are otherwhere
Burdens heavy as mine to bear,
Though not so bitter. It was my fret
And worry that sent him to his boat.
Here, Johnny, come kneel down by me,
And pray the best man keep afloat
That ever trusted his life at sea!
So: let your pretty head be bowed,
Like a stricken flower, upon my knee;
And when you come to the sweet, sweet word
Of best, my little one—my bird,
Say it over twice, and say it loud.
I do not dare to lift my eyes
To our meek Master in the skies;
For it was my wicked pride, alas!
That brought me to the heavy pass
Of weary waiting and listening sad
To the winds as they drearily drift and drive.
So pray in your praying for me, my lad!
Oh! if he were there in the chair you set,
With never a silvery fish in his net,
I 'd be the happiest woman alive!

But he will come ere long, I know:
Here, Johnny, put your hand in mine,
And climb up to my shoulder—so:
Upon the cupboard's highest shelf
You'll see a bottle of good old wine—
I pressed the berry-juice myself.
Ah! how it sparkles in the light,
To make us loath to break the seal;
But though its warm red life could feel,
We would not spare it—not to-night!

Another hour! and he comes not yet:
And I hear the long waves wash the beach,
With the moan of a drowning man in each,
And the star of hope is near to set.
The proudest lady in all the land
That sits in her chamber fine and high,
That sits in her chamber large and grand,
I would not envy to-night—not I—
If I had his cold wet locks in my hand,
To make them warm and to make them dry,
And to comb them with my fingers free
From the clinging sea-weed and the sand
Washing over them, it may be.
Ah! how should I envy the lady fair
With white arms hidden in folds of lace,
If my dear old fisher were sitting there,
His pipe in his hand, and his sun-brown face
Turning this way and that to me,
As I broiled the salmon and steeped the tea.
O empty heart! and O empty chair!
My boy, my Johnny, say over your prayer;
And straight to the words I told you keep,
Till you pass the best man out on the deep,

130

And then say this: If thou grantest, Lord,
That he come back alive, and with fish in his net,
The church shall have them for her reward,
And we, of our thankfulness, will set
A day for fasting and scourge and pain.
Hark! hark to the crazy winds again!
The tide is high as high can be,
The waters are boiling over the bar,
And drawing under them near and far
The low black land. Ah me! ah me!
I can only think of the mad, mad sea;
I can only think, and think, and think
How quickly a foundered boat would sink,
And how soon the stoutest arms would fail.
'T is all of my worry and all of my fret,
For I brewed the bitter draught I drink:
I teased for a foolish, flimsy veil.
And teased and teased for a spangled gown,
And to have a holiday in the town.
There was only just one way, one way,
And he mended his net and trimmed his sail,
And trusted his life to the pitiless sea,
My dear old fisher, for love of me,
When a better wife would have said him nay;
And so my folly forlorn I bewail.
Hark! Midnight! All the hearth is dim
And cold; but sure we need not strive
To keep it warm and bright for him—
He never will come back alive.
I hear the creak of masts a-strain,
As the mad winds rush madly on.
Kneel down and say yet once again
The prayer I told you a while ago;
And be not loud, my boy, my John—
Nay, it befits us to be low—
Nor yet so straight to the wording keep,
As I did give you charge before:
The best man ever was on the deep
Pray for; and say the best twice o'er.
But when through our blessèd Redeemer you say
The sweet supplication for him that 's away,
That saints bring him back to us savèd from ill,
Add this to the Father: If so be Thy will.
And I, lest again my temptation assail,
Will yield to my chast'ning, and cover up head
With blackness of darkness, instead of the veil
I pined for in worry and pined for in fret,
Till my good man was fain to be gone with his net
Where but the winds scolded. Now get from your knees,
For I, from the depths of contrition, have said
The Amen before you. And we'll to the seas:
Belike some kind wave may be washing ashore,
With coils of rope and salt sea-weed, some sign
To be as a letter sent out of the brine
To tell us the last news—to say if he struck
On the rocks and went down—but hush! breathe not, my lad.
O sweet Lord of Mercy! my brain is gone mad!
Or that was the tune that he whistles for luck!
Run! run to the door! open wide—wider yet!
He is there!—he is here! and my arms are outspread
I am clasping and kissing his hands rough and brown.
Are you living? or are you the ghost of my dead?
'T is all of my worry and all of my fret;
Ashamed in his bosom I hung down my head.
He has been with his fishes to sell in the town,
For I see, snugly wrapt in the folds of his net,
The hindering veil and the spangled new gown.

MAID AND MAN.

All in the gay and golden weather,
Two fair travelers, maid and man,
Sailed in a birchen boat together,
And sailed the way that the river ran:
The sun was low, not set, and the west
Was colored like a robin's breast.

131

The moon was moving sweetly o'er them,
And her shadow, in the waves afloat,
Moved softly on and on before them
Like a silver swan, that drew their boat;
And they were lovers, and well content,
Sailing the way the river went.

And these two saw in her grassy bower
As they sailed the way the river run,
A little, modest, slim-necked flower
Nodding and nodding up to the sun,
And they made about her a little song
And sung it as they sailed along:

“Pull down the grass about your bosom,
Nor look at the sun in the royal sky,
'T is dangerous, dangerous, little blossom,
You are so low, and he is so high—
'T is dangerous nodding up to him,
He is so bright, and you are so dim!”

Sweetly over, and sadly under,
They turned the tune as they sailed along,
And they did not see the cloud, for a wonder,
Break in the water, the shape of the swan;
Nor yet, for a wonder, see at all
The river narrowing toward the fall.

“Be warned, my beauty—'t is not the fashion
Of the king to wed with the waiting-maid—
Make not from sleep his fiery passion,
But turn your red cheek into the shade—
The dew is a-tremble to kiss your eyes—
And there is but danger in the skies!”

Close on the precipice rang the ditty,
But they looked behind them, and not before,
And went down singing their doleful pity
About the blossom safe on the shore—
“There is danger, danger! frail one, list!”
Backward whirled in the whirling mist.

THE DOUBLE SKEIN.

Up ere the throstle is out of the thorn,
Or the east a-blush with a rosy break,
For she wakens earlier now of a morn;
Earlier now than she used to wake,
Such troublous moanings the sea-waves make.

She leans to her distaff a weary brow,
And her cheeks seem ready the flax to burn,
And the wheel in her hand turns heavier now;
Heavier now than it used to turn,
When strong hands helped her the bread to earn.

She lists to the school-boy's laugh and shout,
And her eyes have the old expectant gleam;
And she draws the fine thread out and out,
Till it drags her back from her tender dream,
And wide and homeless the world doth seem.

Over the fields to the sands so brown,
And over the sands to the restless tides
She looks, and her heart tilts up and down;
Up and down with the boat as it rides,
And she cries, “God steady the hand that guides!”

She watches the lights from the sea-cliffs go,
Bedazed with a wonder of vague surprise,
For the sun seems now to be always low,
And never to rise as he used to rise—
The gracious glory of land and skies.

She shrinks from the pattered plash of the rain,
For it taps not now as it used to do,
Like a tearful Spirit of Love at the pane,

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And the gray mist sweeping across the blue
Never so lightly, chills her through.

So spins she ever a double skein,
And the thread on her finger all eyes may see,
But the other is spun in her whirling brain
And out of the sea-fog over the sea,
For still with its treasure the heart will be.

SELFISH SORROW.

The house lay snug as a robin's nest
Beneath its sheltering tree,
And a field of flowers was toward the west,
And toward the east the sea,
Where a belt of weedy and wet black sand
Was always pushing in to the land,

And with her face away from the sun
And toward the sea so wild,
The grandam sat, and spun and spun,
And never heeded the child,
So wistfully waiting beside her chair,
More than she heeded the bird of the air.

Fret and fret, and spin and spin,
With her face the way of the sea:
And whether the tide were out or in,
A-sighing, “Woe is me!”
In spite of the waiting and wistful eyes
Pleading so sweetly against the sighs.

And spin, spin, and fret, fret,
And at last the day was done,
And the light of the fire went out and met
The light o' the setting sun.
“It will be a stormy night—ah me!”
Sighed the grandam, looking at the sea.

“Oh no, it is n't a-going to rain!”
Cries the dove-eyed little girl,
Pressing her cheek to the window-pane
And pulling her hair out of curl.
But the grandam answered with a sigh,
Just as she answered the cricket's cry,

“If it rains, let it rain; we shall not drown!”
Says the child, so glad and gay;
“The leaves of the aspen are blowing down;
A sign of fair weather, they say!”
And the grandam moaned, as if the sea
Were beating her life out, “Woe is me!”

The heart of the dove-eyed little girl
Began in her throat to rise,
And she says, pulling golden curl upon curl
All over her face and her eyes,
“I wish we were out of sight of the sea!”
And the grandam answered, “Woe is me!”

The sun in a sudden darkness slid,
The winds began to plain,
And all the flowery field was hid
With the cold gray mist and the rain.
Then knelt the child on the hearth so low,
And blew the embers all aglow.

On one small hand so lily white
She propped her golden head,
And lying along the rosy light
She took her book and read:
And the grandam heard her laughter low,
As she rocked in the shadows to and fro.

At length she put her spectacles on
And drew the book to her knee:
“And does it tell,” she said, “about John,
My lad, who was lost at sea?”
“Why, no,” says the child, turning face about,
“'T is a fairy tale: shall I read it out?”

The grandam lowlier bent upon
The page as it lay on her knee:
“No, not if it does n't tell about John,”
She says, “who was lost at sea.”
And the little girl, with a saddened face,
Shut her hair in the leaves to keep the place.

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And climbing up and over the chair,
The way that her sweet heart led,
She put one arm, so round and fair,
Like a crown, on the old gray head.
“So, child,” says the grandam—keeping on
With her thoughts—“your book does n't tell about John?”

“No, ma'am, it tells of a fairy old
Who lived in a daffodil bell,
And who had a heart so hard and cold
That she kept the dews to sell;
And when a butterfly wanted a drink,
How much did she ask him, do you think?”

“O foolish child, I cannot tell,
May be a crown, or so.”
“But the fairy lived in a daffodil bell,
And could n't hoard crowns, you know!”
And the grandam answered—her thought joined on
To the old thought—“Not a word about John?”

“But grandam”—“Nay, for pity's sake
Don't vex me about your crown,
But say if the ribs of a ship should break
And the ship's crew all go down
Of a night like this, how long it would take
For a strong-limbed lad to drown!”

“But, grandam,”—Nay, have done,” she said,
“With your fairy and her crown!
Besides, your arm upon my head
Is heavy; get you down!”
“O ma'am, I'm so sorry to give you a pain!”
And the child kissed the wrinkled face time and again.

And then she told the story through
Of the fairy of the dell,
Who sold God's blessed gift of the dew
When it was n't hers to sell,
And who shut the sweet light all away
With her thick black wings, and pined all day.

And how at last God struck her blind.
The grandam wiped a tear,
And then she said, “I should n't mind
If you read to me now, my dear!”
And the little girl, with a wondering look,
Slipped her golden hair from the leaves of the book.

As the grandam pulled her down to her knee,
And pressed her close in her arm,
And kissing her, said, “Run out and see
If there is n't a lull in the storm!
I think the moon, or at least some star,
Must shine, and the wind grows faint and far.”

Next day again the grandam spun,
And oh, how sweet were the hours!
For she sat at the window toward the sun,
And next the field of flowers,
And never looked at the long gray sea,
Nor sighed for her lad that was lost, “Ah, me!”

THE EDGE OF DOOM.

Heart-sick, homeless, weak, and weary,
On the edge of doom she stands,
Fighting back the wily Tempter
With her trembling woman's hands.
On her lip a moan of pleading,
In her eyes a look of pain,
Men and women, men and women,
Shall her cry go up in vain?

On the edge of doom and darkness—
Darker, deeper than the grave—
Off with pride, that devil's virtue!
While there yet is time to save,
Clinging for her life, and shrinking
Lower, lower from your frown:
Men and women, men and women,
Will you, can you, crowd her down?

On that head, so early faded,
Pitiless the rains have beat;
Famine down the pavements tracked her
By her bruised and bleeding feet.
Through the years, sweet old Naomi,
Lead her in the gleaners' way;
Boaz, oh, command your young men
To reproach her not, I pray.

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Face to face with shame and insult
Since she drew her baby-breath,
Were it strange to find her knocking
At the cruel door of death?
Were it strange if she should parley
With the great arch-fiend of sin?
Open wide, O gates of mercy,
Wider, wider!—let her in!

Ah! my proud and scornful lady,
Lapped in laces fair and fine,
But for God's good grace and mercy
Such a fate as hers were thine.
Therefore, breaking combs of honey,
Breaking loaves of snowy bread,
If she ask a crumb, I charge you
Give her not a stone instead.

Never lullaby, sung softly,
Made her silken cradle stir;
Never ring of gay young playmates
Opened to make room for her!
Therefore, winds, sing up your sweetest,
Rocking lightly on the leaves;
And, O reapers, careless reapers,
Let her glean among your sheaves!

Never mother, by her pillow,
Knelt and taught her how to say,
Lead me not into temptation,
Give me daily bread this day.
Therefore, reapers, while the cornstalks
To your shining sickles lean,
Drop, oh drop some golden handfuls—
Let her freely come and glean!

Never mellow furrows crumbled
Softly to her childish tread—
She but sowed in stony places,
And the seed is choked and dead.
Therefore, let her rest among you
When the sunbeams fiercely shine—
Barley reapers, let her with you
Dip her morsel in the wine!

And entreat her not to leave you
When the harvest week is o'er,
Nor depart from following after,
Even to the threshing-floor.
But when stars through fields of shadow
Shepherd in the evening gray,
Fill her veil with beaten measures,
Send her empty not away.

Then the city round about her,
As she moveth by, shall stir
As it moved to meet Naomi
Home from famine—yea, for her!
And the Lord, whose name is Mercy,
Steadfast by your deed shall stand,
And shall make her even as Rachel,
Even as Leah, to the land.

THE CHOPPER'S CHILD.

A STORY FOR THANKSGIVING DAY.

The smoke of the Indian Summer
Darkened and doubled the rills,
And the ripe corn, like a sunset,
Shimmered along the hills;
Like a gracious glowing sunset,
Interlaced with the rainbow light
Of vanishing wings a-trailing
And trembling out of sight;

As, with the brier-buds gleaming
In her darling, dimpled hands,
Toddling slow adown the sheep-paths
Of the yellow stubble-lands—
Her sweet eyes full of the shadows
Of the woodland, darkly brown—
Came the chopper's little daughter,
In her simple hood and gown.

Behind her streamed the splendors
Of the oaks and elms so grand,
Before her gleamed the gardens
Of the rich man of the land;
Gardens about whose gateways
The gloomy ivy swayed,
Setting all her heart a-tremble
As she struck within their shade.

Now the chopper's lowly cabin
It lay nestled in the wood,
And the dwelling of the rich man
By the open highway stood,
With its pleasant porches facing
All against the morning hills,
And each separate window shining
Like a bed of daffodils.

Up above the tallest poplars
In its stateliness it rose,
With its carved and curious gables,
And its marble porticoes:
But she did not see the grandeur,
And she thought her father's oaks
Were finer than the cedars
Clipt so close along the walks.

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So, in that full confiding
The unworldly only know,
Through the gateway, down the garden,
Up the marble portico,
Her bare feet brown as bees' wings,
And her hands of brier-buds full,
On, along the fleecy crimson
Of the carpets of dyed wool,

With a modest glance uplifted
Through the lashes drooping down,
Came the chopper's little daughter,
In her simple hood and gown;
Still and steady, like a shadow
Sliding inward from the wood,
Till before the lady-mistress
Of the house, at last, she stood.

Oh, as sweet as summer sunshine
Was that lady-dame to see,
With the chopper's little daughter,
Like a shadow at her knee!
Oh, green as leaves of clover
Were the broideries of her train,
And her hand it shone with jewels
Like a lily with the rain.

And the priest before the altar,
As she swam along the aisle,
Reading out the sacred lesson,
Read it consciously, the while;
The long roll of the organ
Drew across a silken stir,
And when he named a saint, it was
As if he named but her.

But the chopper's child undazzled
In her lady-presence stood—
(She was born amid the spendors
Of the glorious autumn wood)—
And so sweetly and serenely
Met the cold and careless face,
Her own alive with blushes,
E'en as one who gives a grace;

As she said, the accents falling
In a pretty, childish way:
“To-morrow, then to-morrow
Will have brought Thanksgiving day;
And my mother will be happy,
And be honored, so she said,
To have the landlord's lady
Taste her honey and her bread.”

Then slowly spake the lady,
As disdainfully she smiled,
“Live you not in yonder cabin?
Are you not the chopper's child?
And your foolish mother bids me
To Thanksgiving, do you say?
What is it, little starveling,
That you give your thanks for, pray?”

One bashful moment's silence—
Then hushing up her pain,
And sweetness growing out of it
As the rose does out of rain—
She stript the woolen kerchief
From off her shining head.
As one might strip the outer husk
From the golden ear, and said:

“What have we to give thanks for?
Why, just for daily bread!”
And then, with all her little pride
A-blushing out so red—
“Perhaps, too, that the sunshine
Can come and lie on our floor,
With none of your icy columns
To shut it from the door!”

“What have we to give thanks for?”
And a smile illumed her tears,
As a star the broken vapors,
When it suddenly appears;
And she answered, all her bosom
Throbbing up and down so fast:
“Because my poor sick brother
Is asleep at last, at last.

“Asleep beneath the daisies:
But when the drenching rain
Has put them out, we know the dew
Will light them up again;
And we make and keep Thanksgiving
With the best the house affords,
Since, if we live, or if we die,
We know we are the Lord's:

“That out his hands of mercy
Not the least of us can fall;
But we have ten thousand blessings,
And I cannot name them all!
Oh, see them yourself, good madam—
I will come and show you the way—
After the morrow, the morrow again
Will be the great, glad day.”

And, tucking up her tresses
In the kerchief of gray wool,
Where they gleamed like golden woodlights
In the autumn mists so dull,
She crossed the crimson carpets,
With her rose-buds in her hands,

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And, climbing up the sheep-paths
Of the yellow stubble-lands,

Passed the marsh wherein the starlings
Shut so close their horny bills,
And lighted with her loveliness
The gateway of the hills.
Oh, the eagle has the sunshine,
And his way is grand and still;
But the lark can turn the cloud into
A temple when she will!

That evening, when the corn fields
Had lost the rainbow light
Of vanishing wings a-trailing
And trembling out of sight,
Apart from her great possessions
And from all the world apart,
Knelt the lady-wife and mistress
Of the rich man's house and heart.

Knelt she, all her spirit broken,
And the shame she could not speak,
Burning out upon the darkness
From the fires upon her cheek;
And prayed the Lord of the harvest
To make her meek and mild,
And as faithful in Thanksgiving
As the chopper's little child.

THE DEAD-HOUSE.

In the dead of night to the Dead-house,
She cometh—a maiden fair—
By the feet so slight and slender,
By the hand so white and tender,
And by the silken and shining lengths
Of the girlish, golden hair,
Dragging under and over
The arms of the men that bear.
Oh! make of your pity a cover,
And softly, silently bear:
Perhaps for the sake of a lover,
Loved all too well she is there!

In the dead of night to the Dead-house!
So lovely and so lorn—
Straighten the tangled tresses,
They have known a mother's kisses,
And hide with their shining veil of grace
The sightless eyes and the pale, sad face
From men and women's scorn.
Aye, veil the poor face over,
And softly, silently bear:
Perhaps for the sake of a lover,
Loved all too well, she is there.

In the dead of night to the Dead-house!
Bear her in from the street:
The watch at his watching found her—
Ah! say it low nor wound her,
For though the heart in the bosom
Has ceased to throb and beat,
Speak low, when you say how they found her
Buried alive in the sleet.
Speak low, and make her a cover
All out of her shining hair:
Perhaps for the sake of a lover,
Loved all too well, she was there.

Desolate left in the Dead-house!
Your cruel judgments spare,
Ye know not why she is there:
Be slow to pronounce your “mene,”
Remember the Magdalene;
Be slow with your harsh award—
Remember the Magdalene;
Remember the dear, dear Lord!
Holy, and high above her,
By the length of her sin and shame,
He could take her and love her—
Praise to his precious name.

With oil of gentle mercy
The tide of your censure stem;
Have ye no scarlet sinning?
No need for yourselves of winning
Those sweetest words man ever spake
In all the world for pity's sake,
Those words the heardest heart that break:
“Neither do I condemn.”

In the light of morn to the Dead-house
There cometh a man so old—
“My child!” he cries; “I will wake her;
Close, close in my arms I will take her,
And bear her back on my shoulder,
My poor stray lamb to the fold!
How came she in this dreadful place?”
And he stoops and puts away from the face
The queenly cover of gold.
“No, no!” he says, “it is not my girl!”
As he lifts the tresses curl by curl,
“She was never so pale and cold!”

137

In the light of morn in the Dead-house,
He prattleth like a child—
“No, no!” he says, “it cannot be—
Her sweet eyes would have answered me,
And her sweet mouth must have smiled—
She would have asked for her mother,
And for the good little brother
That thought it pastime and pleasure
To be up and at work for her.
And she doth not smile nor stir.”
And then, with his arms outspread
From the slender feet to the head,
He taketh the fearful measure.
“No, no!” he says, “she would wake and smile”—
But he listens breathless all the while
If haply the heart may beat,
And tenderly with trembling hands
Out of the shining silken bands
Combs the frozen sleet.

In the light of morn in the Dead-house,
He prattleth on and on—
“As like her mother's as can be
These two white hands; but if 'twere she
Who out of our house is gone,
I must have found here by her side
He to whom she was promised bride:
And yet this way along the sleet
We tracked the little wandering feet.
And yesterday, her mother said,
When she waked and called her from her bed,
She looked like one a dream had crazed—
Her mother thought the sunshine dazed,
And thought it childish passion
That made her, when she knelt to pray,
Falter, and be afraid to say,
Lord, keep us from temptation.
And I bethink, the mother said—
(What puts such thoughts into my head?)
That never once the live-long day
Her darling sung the old love-lay
That 't was her use to sing and hum
As hums the bee to the blossom;
And that when night was nearly come
She took from its place in her bosom
The picture worn and cherished long,
And as if that had done her wrong,
Or, as if in sudden ire,
And it were something to abhor,
She laid it, not as she used at night
Among the rose-leaves in the drawer,
But out of her bosom and out of sight
With its face against the fire.

“But why should I torment my heart
(And the tear from his cheek he dashes)
As if such thoughts had any part
With these pale, piteous ashes?”
He opens the lids, and the eyes are blue,
“But these are frost and my child's were dew!
No, no! it is not my poor lost girl.”
And he takes the tresses curl by curl
And tenderly feels them over.
“If it were she, the watch I know
Would never have dragged her out of the snow—
Why, where should be her lover!”
And down the face and bosom fair
He spread the long loose flood of hair,
And left her in the Dead-house there,
All under her queenly cover.

ONE MOMENT.

One moment, to strictly run out by the sands—
Time, in the old way just to say the old saying—
Enough for your giving—enough for my playing
The hope of a life in your sinless white hands—
To call you my sweetheart, and ask you to be
My fond little fairy and live by the sea!

Five minutes—ten—twenty! but little to spare,
Yet enough to repeat, in the homely old fashion,
A story of true love, unfrenzied with passion—
To say, “Will you make my rough weather be fair,
And give me each day your red cheek to be kissed?
My dear one, my darling, my rose of the mist?”

An half hour!—would I dare say longer yet—
And the time (is so much you will yield to my wishes).

138

When luck-thriven fishermen draw their last fishes,
Whose silver sleek sides in the sea dripping net,
And speckles of red gold, and scales thin and crisp,
Through the fog-drizzle shine like a Will-o'-the-wisp.

An hour! nay more—until star after star
Takes his watch while the west-wind through shadows thick falling,
Holds parley, in moans, with the tide, outward crawling,
And licking the long shaggy back of the bar,
As if in lamenting some ship gone aground,
Or sailor, love-lorn, in the dead waters drowned.

Two hours! and not a hair's breadth from the grace
Of your innocent trust would I any more vary
Than rob of her lilies the virginal Mary;
But just in my two hands would hold your fair face,
And look in your dove-eyes, and ask you to be
My good little housewife, and live by the sea!

Till midnight! till morning! old Time has fleet wings,
And the space will be brief, so my courage to steady,
As say, “Who weds me may not be a fine lady
With silk gowns to wear, and twenty gold rings,
But with only a nest in the rocks, leaving me
Her praises to sing as I sail on the sea.”

I would buy her a wheel, and some flax-wisps, and wool,
So when the wild gusts of the winter were blowing.
And poor little bird-nest half hid in the snowing.
The time never need to be dreary nor dull—
But smiling the brighter, the darker the day,
Her sunshine would scatter the shadows away.

At eve, when the mist, like a shawl of fine lace,
Wrapt her softly about, like a queen in her splendor,
She still would sing over old sea-songs, so tender,
To keep her in mind of her sailor's brown face—
Of his distance and danger, and make her to be
His good little housewife content by the sea.

Believe me, sweet sweetheart, they have but hard lives
Who go down to sea in great ships, never knowing
How soon cruel waves o'er their heads will be flowing
And fatherless children, and true-hearted wives,
The place of their dead never see, never know—
But the nest waits, my darling, ah! say, will you go?

THE FLAX-BEATER.

“Now give me your burden if burden you bear,”
So the flax-beater said,
“And press out and wring out the rain from your hair,
And come into my shed;
The sweetest sweet-milk you shall have for your fare,
And the whitest white-bread,
With a sheaf of the goldenest straw for your bed;
Then give me your burden, if burden you bear,
And come into my shed!

“I make bold to press my poor lodging and fare,
For the wood-path is lone,
Aye, lonely and dark as a dungeon-house stair,
And jagged with stone.
Sheer down the wild hills, and with thorn-brush o'ergrown,
I have lost it myself in despite of my care,

139

Though I'm used to rough ways and have courage to spare;
And then, my good friend, if the truth must be known,
The huts of the settlers that stand here and there
Are as rude as my own.

“The night will be black when the day shall have gone;
'T is the old of the moon,
And the winds will blow stiff, and more stiffly right on,
By the cry of the loon;
Those terrible storm-harps, the oaks, are in tune.
That creaking will fall to a crashing anon;
For the sake of your pitiful, poor little one,
You cannot, good woman, have lodging too soon!

“Hark! thunder! and see how the waters are piled,
Cloud on cloud, overhead;
Mayhap I'm too bold, but I once had a child—
Sweet lady, she's dead—
The daffodil growing so bright and so wild
At the door of my shed
Is not yet so bright as her glad golden head,
And her smile! ah, if you could have seen how she smiled
But what need of praises—you too have a child!”
So the flax-beater said.

“Ah, the soft summer-days, they were all just as one,
And how swiftly they sped;
When the daisy scarce bent to her fairy-like tread,
And the wife, as she sat at her wheel in the sun,
Sang sea-songs and ditties of true-love that run
All as smooth as her thread;
When her darling was gone then the singing was done,
And she sewed her a shroud of the flax she had spun,
And a cap for her head.

“See, that cloud running over the last little star,
Like a great inky blot,
And now, in the low river hollows afar,
You can hear the wild waters through driftwood and bar,
Boil up like a pot;
It is as if the wide world was at war,
So give me your burden, if such you have got,
And come to my shed, for you must, will or not.”

“Get gone you old man! I 've no burden to bear;
You at best are misled!
And as for the rain, let it fall on my hair;
Is that so much to dread,
That I should be begging for lodging and fare
At a flax-beater's shed?
Get gone, and have done with your insolent stare,
And keep your gold straw, if you leave me instead
But the ground for my bed!”
'T was thus the strange woman with wringing wet hair
In her wretchedness said.

“No burden! and what is it then that I trace
Wrapt so close in your shawl?
I remember the look of the dear little face,
And remember the look of the head, round and small,
That I saw once for all
Under thin, filmy folds, like the folds of your shawl!”
“Why, then, 't is my bride-veil and gown, have the grace
To believe—they are rolled in my kerchief of lace;
And that, old man, is all!”

“Woman! woman! bethink what it is that you say,
Lest it bring you to harm.
A bride-veil and gown are not hid such a way
As the thing in your arm!”
“My good man, my dear man, remember, I pray,
What trifles were sacred your own wedding day,
And leave me my bride-veil and gown hid away

140

From the fret of the storm.
Oh, soften your heart to accept what I say—
It is these, only these that I have in my arm!”

“Only these! just a touch of this thing, and I know
That my thoughts were misled!
But why turn you pale? and why tremble you so?
If it be as you said,
You have nothing from me nor from mortal to dread.”
Her voice fell to sobs, and she hung down her head,
Hugged his knees, kissed his hands, kissed his feet as she said:
“Now spare me, oh spare me this death-dealing blow,
And give me your cold, coldest pity, instead;
I was crazed, and I spake you a lie in my woe;
I am bearing my dead,
To bury it out of my sight, you must know;
But, good and sweet sir, I am wed, I am wed!”

“Unswathe you the corpse, then, and give it to me,
If that all be so well;
But what are these slender blue marks that I see
At the throat? Can you tell?”
“The kisses I gave it as it lay on my knee!”
“And dare you, false woman, to lie so to me?”
“Why, then 't was the spell
And work of a demon that came out of hell.”
“Now God give you mercy, if mercy there be,
For the angels that fell,
Because, if there came up a demon from hell,
That demon was thee!”

COTTAGE AND HALL.

With eyes to her sewing-work dropped down,
And with hair in a tangled shower,
And with roses kissed by the sun, so brown,
Young Janey sat in her bower—
A garden nook with work and book;
And the bars that crossed her girlish gown
Were as blue as the flaxen flower.
And her little heart it beat and beat,
Till the work shook on her knee,
For the golden combs are not so sweet
To the honey-fasting bee
As to her thoughts of Alexis.

And across a good green piece of wood,
And across a field of flowers,
A modest, lowly house there stood
That held her eyes for hours—
A cottage low, hid under the snow
Of cherry and bean-vine flowers.
Sometimes it held her all day long,
For there at her distaff bent,
And spinning a double thread of song
And of wool, in her sweet content,
Sat the mother of young Alexis.

And Janey turned things in and out,
As foolish maids will do.
What could the song be all about?
Yet well enough she knew
That while the fingers drew the wool
As fine as fine could be,
The loving mother-heart was full
Of her boy gone to sea—
Her blue-eyed boy, her pride and joy,
On the cold and cruel sea—
Her darling boy, Alexis.

And beyond the good green piece of wood,
And the field of flowers so gay,
Among its ancient oaks there stood,
With gables high and gray,
A lofty hall, where mistress of all
She might dance the night away.
And as she sat and sewed her seam
In the garden bower that day
Alike from seam and alike from dream
Her truant thoughts would stray;
It would be so fine like a lady to shine,
And to dance the night away!
And oh, and alas for Alexis!

And suns have risen and suns gone down
On cherry and bean-vine bowers,
And the tangled curls o'er the eyes dove-brown
They fall no more in showers;

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Nor are there bars in the homespun gown
As blue as the flaxen flowers.
Aye, winter wind and winter rain
Have beaten away the bowers,
And little Janey is Lady Jane,
And dances away the hours!
Maidens she hath to play and sing,
And her mother's house and land
Could never buy the jeweled ring
She wears on her lily hand—
The hand that is false to Alexis!

Ah, bright were the sweet young cheeks and eyes,
And the silken gown was gay,
When first to the hall as mistress of all
She came on her wedding-day.
“Now where, my bride,” says the groom in pride—
“Now where will your chamber be?”
And from wall to wall she praises all,
But chooses the one by the sea!
And the suns they rise and the suns they set.
But she rarely sees their gleam,
For often her eyes with tears are wet.
And the sewing-work is unfinished yet,
And so is the girlish dream.

For when her ladies gird at her,
And her lord is cold and stern,
Old memories in her heart must stir,
And she cannot choose but mourn
For the gentle boy, Alexis!

And alway, when the dance is done,
And her weary feet are free,
She sits in her chamber all alone
At the window next the sea,
And combs her shining tresses down
By the light of the fading stars,
And may be thinks of her homespun gown
With the pretty flax-flower bars.
For when the foam of wintry gales
Runs white along the blue,
Hearing the rattle of stiffened sails,
She trembles through and through,
And may be thinks of Alexis.

THE MINES OF AVONDALE.

Old Death proclaims a holocaust—
Two hundred men must die!
And he cometh not like a thief in the night,
But with banners lifted high.
He calleth the North wind out o' th' North
To blow him a signal blast,
And to plough the air with a fiery share,
And to sow the sparks, broadcast.
No fear hath he of the arm of flesh,
And he maketh the winds to cry,
Let come who will to this awful hill
And his strength against me try!

So quick those sparks along the land
Into blades of flame have sprung;
So quick the piteous face of Heaven
With a veil of black is hung:
And men are telling the news with words,
And women with tears and sighs,
And the children with the frightened souls
That are staring from their eyes.
“Death, death is holding a holocaust!
And never was seen such pyre—
Head packed to head and above them spread
Full forty feet of fire!”

From hill to hill-top runs the cry.
Through farm and village and town,
And high and higher—“The mine 's on fire!
Two hundred men sealed down!
And not with the dewy hand o' th' earth,
And not with the leaves of the trees—
Nor is it the waves that roof their graves—
Oh no, it is none of these—
From sight and sound walled round and round—
For God's sake haste to the pyre!
In the black coal-beds, and above their heads
Full forty feet of fire!”

And now the villages swarm like bees,
And the miners catch the sound,
And climb to the land with their picks in hand
From their chambers in the ground.
For high and low and rich and poor,
To a holy instinct true,
Stand forth as if all hearts were one
And a-tremble through and through.

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On, side by side they roll like a tide,
And the voice grows high and higher,
“Come woe, come weal, we must break the seal
Of that forty feet of fire.”

Now cries of fear, shrill, far and near,
And a palsy shakes the hands,
And the blood runs cold, for behold, behold
The gap where the enemy stands!
Oh, never had painter scenes to paint
So ghastly and grim as these—
Mothers that comfortless sit on the ground
With their babies on their knees;
The brown-cheeked lad and the maid as sad
As the grandame and the sire,
And 'twixt them all and their loved, that wall—
That terrible wall of fire!

And the grapple begins and the foremost set
Their lives against death's laws,
And the blazing timbers catch in their arms
And bear them off like straws.
They have lowered the flaunting flag from its place—
They will die in the gap, or save;
For this they have done, whate'er be won—
They have conquered fear of the grave.
They have baffled—have driven the enemy,
And with better courage strive;
“Who knoweth,” they say, “God's mercy to-day,
And the souls He may save alive!”

So now the hands have digged through the brands—
They can see the awful stairs,
And there falls a hush that is only stirred
By the weeping women's prayers.
“Now who will peril his limb and life,
In the damps of the dreadful mine?”
“I, I, and I!” a dozen cry,
As they forward step from line!
And down from the light and out o' th' sight,
Man after man they go,
And now arise th' unanswered cries
As they beat on the doors below.

And night came down—what a woeful night!
To the youths and maidens fair,
What a night in the lives of the miners' wives
At the gate of a dumb despair.
And the stars have set their solemn watch
In silence o'er the hill,
And the children sleep and the women weep,
And the workers work with a will.
And so the hours drag on and on,
And so the night goes by,
And at last the east is gray with dawn,
And the sun is in the sky.

Hark, hark! the barricades are down,
The torchlights farther spread,
The doubt is past—they are found at last—
Dead, dead! two hundred dead!
Face, close to face, in a long embrace,
And the young and the faded hair—
Gold over the snow as if meant to show
Love stayed beyond despair.
Two hundred men at yester morn
With the work of the world to strive;
Two hundred yet when the day was set,
And not a soul alive!

Oh, long the brawny Plymouth men,
As they sit by their winter fires,
Shall tell the tale of Avondale
And its awful pyre of pyres.
Shall hush their breath and tell how Death
His flag did wildly wave,
And how in shrouds of smoky clouds
The miners fought in their graves.
And how in a still procession
They passed from that fearful glen,
And there shall be wail in Avondale,
For the brave two hundred men.

THE VICTORY OF PERRY.

SEPTEMBER 10TH, 1813.

Lift up the years! lift up the years,
Whose shadows around us spread;
Let us tribute pay to the brave to-day
Who are half a century dead.

Oh, not with tears—no, not with tears,
The grateful nation comes,

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But with flags out-thrown, and bugles blown,
And the martial roll of drums!

Beat up, beat up! till memory glows
And sets our hearts aflame!
Ah, they did well in the fight who fell,
And we leave them to their fame;

Their fame, that larger, grander grows
As time runs into the past,
For the Erie-waves chant over their graves,
And shall, while the world shall last.

O beautiful cities of the Lake,
As ye sit by your peaceful shore,
Make glad and sing till the echoes ring,
For our brave young Commodore!

He knew your stormy oaks to take
And their ribs into ships contrive,
And to set them so fine in battle line,
With their timbers yet alive.

We see our squadron lie in the Bay
Where it lay so long ago,
And hear the cry from the mast-head high,
Three times, and three, “Sail ho!”

Through half a century to-day
We hear the signal of fight—
“Get under way! Get under way!
The enemy is in sight!”

Our hearts leap up—our pulses thrill,
As the boatswains' pipes of joy
So loudly play o'er the dash o' the spray,
“All hands up anchor ahoy!”

Now all is still, aye, deathly still;
The enemy's guns are in view!
“To the royal fore!” cries the Commodore,
And up run the lilies and blue.

And hark to the cry, the great glad cry,—
All a-tremble the squadron stands—
From lip to lip, “Don't give up the ship!”
And then “To quarters, all hands!”

An hour, an awful hour drags by—
There 's a shot from the enemy's gun!
“More sail! More sail! Let the canister hail!”
Cries Perry, and forward, as one,

Caledonia, Lawrence, and Scorpion, all
Bear down and stand fast, till the flood
Away from their track sends the scared billows back
With their faces bedabbled in blood.

The Queen and her allies their broadsides let fall—
Oh, the Lawrence is riddled with storms—
Where is Perry? afloat! he is safe in his boat,
And his battle-flag up in his arms!

The bullets they hiss and the Englishmen shout—
Oh, the Lawrence is sinking, a wreck—
But with flag yet a-swing like a great bloody wing
Perry treads the Niagara's deck!

With a wave of his hand he has wheeled her about—
Oh, the nation is holding its breath—
Headforemost he goes in the midst of his foes
And breaks them and rakes them to death!

And lo, the enemy, after the fray,
On the deck that his dead have lined,
With his sword-hilt before to our Commodore,
And his war-dogs in leash behind!

And well, the nation does well to-day,
Setting her bugles to blow,
And her drums to beat for the glorious fleet
That humbled her haughty foe.

Ah, well to come with her autumn flowers,
A tribute for the brave

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Who died to make our Erie Lake
Echo through every wave—

“We 've met the enemy and they 're ours!”
And who died, that we might stand,
A country free and mistress at Sea
As well as on the Land.

Perry, it will be remembered, cut down the trees, built and launched the ships of his fleet, all within three months.

The famous fighting flag was inscribed with the immortal words of the dying Lawrence, in large white letters on a blue ground, legible throughout the squadron.

Queen Charlotte of the British line.

THE WINDOW JUST OVER THE STREET.

I sit in my sorrow a-weary, alone;
I have nothing sweet to hope or remember,
For the spring o' th' year and of life has flown;
'T is the wildest night o' the wild December,
And dark in my spirit and dark in my chamber.

I sit and list to the steps in the street,
Going and coming, and coming and going,
And the winds at my shutter they blow and beat;
'T is the middle of night and the clouds are snowing;
And the winds are bitterly beating and blowing.

I list to the steps as they come and go,
And list to the winds that are beating and blowing,
And my heart sinks down so low, so low;
No step is stayed from me by the snowing,
Nor stayed by the wind so bitterly blowing.

I think of the ships that are out at sea,
Of the wheels in th' cold, black waters turning:
Not one of the ships beareth news to me,
And my head is sick, and my heart is yearning.
As I think of the wheels in the black waters turning.

Of the mother I think, by her sick baby's bed,
Away in her cabin as lonesome and dreary,
And little and low as the flax-breaker's shed;
Of her patience so sweet, and her silence so weary,
With cries of the hungry wolf hid in the prairie.

I think of all things in the world that are sad;
Of children in homesick and comfortless places;
Of prisons, of dungeons, of men that are mad;
Of wicked, unwomanly light in the faces
Of women that fortune has wronged with disgraces.

I think of a dear little sun-lighted head,
That came where no hand of us all could deliver;
And crazed with the cruelest pain went to bed
Where the sheets were the foam-fretted waves of the river;
Poor darling! may God in his mercy forgive her.

The footsteps grow faint and more faint in the snow;
I put back the curtain in very despairing;
The masts creak and groan as th' winds come and go;
And the light in the light-house all weirdly is flaring;
But what glory is this, in the gloom of despairing!

I see at the window just over the street,
A maid in the lamplight her love-letter reading.
Her red mouth is smiling, her news is so sweet;
And the heart in my bosom is cured of its bleeding,
As I look on the maiden her love-letter reading.

She has finished the letter, and folding it, kisses,
And hides it—a secret too sacred to know;
And now in the hearth-light she softly undresses:

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A vision of grace in the roseate glow,
I see her unbinding the braids of her tresses.

And now as she stoops to the ribbon that fastens
Her slipper, they tumble o'er shoulder and face;
And now, as she patters in bare feet, she hastens
To gather them up in a fillet of lace;
And now she is gone, but in fancy I trace

The lavendered linen updrawn, the round arm
Half sunk in the counterpane's broidered roses.,
Revealing the exquisite outline of form;
A willowy wonder of grace that reposes
Beneath the white counterpane, fleecy with roses.

I see the small hand lying over the heart,
Where the passionate dreams are so sweet in their sally;
The fair little fingers they tremble and part,
As part to th' warm waves the leaves of the lily,
And they play with her hand like the waves with the lily.

In white fleecy flowers, the queen o' the flowers!
What to her is the world with its bad, bitter weather?
Wide she opens her arms—ah, her world is not ours!
And now she has closed them and clasped them together—
What to her is our world, with its clouds and rough weather?

Hark! midnight! the winds and the snows blow and beat;
I drop down the curtain and say to my sorrow,
Thank God for the window just over the street;
Thank God there is always a light whence to borrow
When darkness is darkest, and sorrow most sorrow.

A FABLE OF CLOUD-LAND

Two clouds in the early morning
Came sailing up the sky—
'T was summer, and the meadow-lands
Were brown and baked and dry.

And the higher cloud was large and black,
And of a scornful mind,
And he sailed as though he turned his back
On the smaller one behind.

At length, in a voice of thunder,
He said to his mate so small,
“If I was n't a bigger cloud than you,
I would n't be one at all!”

And the little cloud that held her place
So low along the sky,
Grew red, then purple, in the face,
And then she began to cry!

And the great cloud thundered out again
As loud as loud could be,
“Lag lowly still, and cry if you will,
I'm going to go to sea!

“The land don't give me back a smile,
I will leave it to the sun,
And will show you something worth your while,
Before the day is done!”

So off he ran, without a stop,
Upon his sea voyage bent,
And he never shed a single drop
On the dry land as he went.

And directly came a rumble
Along the air so dim;
And then a crash, and then a dash,
And the sea had swallowed him!

“I don't make any stir at all,”
Said the little cloud, with a sigh,
And her tears began like rain to fall
On the meadows parched and dry.

And over the rye and the barley
They fell and fell all day,
And soft and sweet on the fields of wheat,
Till she wept her heart away.

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And the bean-flowers and the buck-wheat,
They scented all the air,
And in the time of the harvest
There was bread enough and to spare.

I know a man like that great cloud
As much as he can live,
And he gives his alms with thunder-cloud
Where there is no need to give.

And I know a woman who doth keep
Where praise comes not at all,
Like the modest cloud that could but weep
Because she was so small.

The name of the one the poor will bless
When her day shall cease to be,
And the other will fall as profitless
As the cloud did in the sea.

BARBARA AT THE WINDOW.

Close at the window-pane Barbara stands;
The walls o' th' dingy old house are aglow;
Pressing her cheeks are her two little hands,
Drooping her eyelids so meek and so low.

What do you see little Barbara? Say!
The walls o' th' dingy old house are aglow;
The leaves they are down, and the birds are away,
And lilac and rosebush are white with the snow.

An hour the sun has been out o' th' west;
The walls o' th' poor little house are aglow;
Come, Barbara, come to th' hearth with th' rest,
Right gayly she tosses her curls for a “No!”

The grandmother sits in her strawbottom chair;
And rafter and wall they are brightly aglow;
The dear little mother is knitting a pair
Of scarlet-wool stockings tipt white at th' toe.

A glad girl and boy are at play by her knee;
The walls o' th' poor little house are aglow!
Now driving th' crickets, for cows, in their glee,
Now rolling the yarn-balls o' scarlet and snow.

And now they are fishers, with nets in the stream;
And rafter and wall o' the house are aglow;
Or sleeping, or waking, their lives are a dream;
But what seeth Barbara, there in the snow?

And th' voice of Barbara ringeth out clear;
The walls, the rough rafters, how brightly they glow;
If you will believe me, I see you all here!
Our dear little room seemeth double, you know.

The fire, the tea-kettle swung on the crane;
And rafter and wall with the candle aglow;
Grandmother and mother, right over again!
And Peter, and Katharine, all in the snow.

Sweet Barbara, standing so close to th' pane,
With the walls o' th' little house brightly aglow;
You will only see everything over again,
Whatever you see, and wherever you go!

BARBARA IN THE MEADOW.

The morn is hanging her fire-fringed veil,
Made of the mist, o'er the walnut boughs,
And Barbara, with her cedar pail,
Comes to the meadow to call the cows.

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“The little people that live in the air
Are not for my human hands to wrong,”
Says Barbara, and her loving prayer
Takes them up as it goes along.

Gay sings the miller, and Barbara's mouth
Purses with echoes it will not repeat,
And the rose on her cheek hath a Mayday's growth
In the line with the ending, “I love you, sweet.”

Yonder the mill is, small and white,
Hung like a vapor among the rocks—
Good spirits say to her morn and night,
“Barbara, Barbara! stay with your flocks.”

Stay for the treasures you have to keep,
Cherish the love that you know is true;
Though stars should shine in the tears you weep,
They never would come out of heaven to you.

And were you to follow the violet veins
Over the hills—to the ends of the earth,
Barbara, what would you get for your pains,
More than your true-love's love is worth?

So, never a thought about braver mills,
Of prouder lovers your dreaming cease;
A world is shut in among these hills—
Stay in it, Barbara, stay, for your peace!

BALLAD OF UNCLE JOE.

When I was young—it seems as though
There never were such when—
There lived a man that now I know
Was just the best of men;
I'll name him to you, “Uncle Joe,”
For so we called him then.

A poor man he, that for his bread
Must work with might and main.
The humble roof above his head
Scarce kept him from the rain;
But so his dog and he were fed,
He sought no other gain.

His steel-blue axe, it was his pride,
And over wood and wave
Its music rang out far and wide,
His strokes they were so brave;
Excepting that some neighbor died,
And then he dug his grave.

And whether it were wife or child,
An old man, or a maid,
An infant that had hardly smiled,
Or youth, so lowly laid,
The yellow earth was always piled
Above them by his spade.

For spade he had, and grubbing-hoe,
And hence the people said
It was not much that Uncle Joe
Should bury all the dead;
So rich and poor, and high and low,
He made them each a bed.

The funeral-bell was like a jog
Upon his wits, they say,
That made him leave his half-cut log
At any time of day,
And whistle to his brindle dog
And light his pipe of clay.

When winter winds around him drave
And made the snow-flakes spin,
I 've seen him—for he did not save
His strength, for thick nor thin—
His bare head just above the grave
That he was standing in.

His simple mind was almost dark
To school-lore, that is true;
The wisdom he had gained at work
Was nearly all he knew;
But ah, the way he made his mark
Was honest, through and through.

'T was not among the rulers then
That he in council sat;
They used to say that with his pen
His fingers were not pat;
But he was still a gentleman
For all and all of that.

The preacher in his silken gown
Was not so well at ease
As he, with collar lopping down
And patches at his knees,
The envy of our little town,
He had n't a soul to please;

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Nor wife nor brother, chick nor child,
Nor any kith nor kin.
Perhaps the townsfolk were beguiled
And the envy was a sin,
But his look of sweetness when he smiled
Betokened joy within.

He sometimes took his holiday,
And 't was a pleasant sight
To see him smoke his pipe of clay,
As if all the world went right,
While his brindle dog beside him lay
A-winking at the light.

He took his holiday, and so
His face with gladness shone;
But, ah! I cannot make you know
One bliss he held alone,
Unless the heart of Uncle Joe
Were beating in your own!

He had an old cracked violin,
And I just may whisper you
The music was so weak and thin
'T was like to an ado,
As he drew the long bow out and in
To all the tune he knew.

From January on till June,
And back again to snow,
Or in the tender light o' the moon,
Or by the hearth-fire's glow,
To that old-fashioned, crazy tune
He made his elbow go!

Ah! then his smile would come so sweet
It brightened all the air,
And heel and toe would beat and beat
Till the ground of grass was bare,
As if that little lady feet
Were dancing with him there!

His finger nails, so bruised and flat,
Would grow in this employ
To such a rosy roundness that
He almost seemed a boy,
And even the old crape on his hat
Would tremble as with joy.

So, digging graves, and chopping wood,
He spent the busy day,
And always, as a wise man should,
Kept evil thoughts at bay;
For when he could not speak the good,
He had n't a word to say.

And so the years in shine and storm
Went by, as years will go,
Until at last his palsied arm
Could hardly draw the bow;
Until he crooked through all his form,
Much like his grubbing-hoe.

And then his axe he deeply set,
And on the wall-side pegs
Hung hoe and spade; no fear nor fret
That life was at the dregs,
But walked about of a warm day yet,
With his dog between his legs.

Sometimes, as one who almost grieves,
His memory would recall
The merry-making Christmas Eves,
The frolic, and the ball,
Till his hands would shake like withered leaves
And his pipe go out and fall.

Then all his face would grow as bright—
So I have oft heard say—
As if that, being lost in the night,
He saw the dawn o' the day;
As if from a churlish, chilling height
He saw the light o' the May.

One winter night the fiddle-bow
His fingers ceased to tease,
And they found him by the morning glow
Beneath his door-yard trees,
Wrapt in the ermine of the snow,
And royally at ease.

What matter that the winds were wild!
He did not hear their din,
But hugging, as it were his child,
Against his grizzly chin,
The treasure of his life, he smiled,
For all was peace within.

And when they drew the vest apart
To fold the hands away,
They found a picture past all art
Of painting, so they say;
And they turned the face upon the heart,
And left it where it lay.

And one, a boy with golden head,
Made haste and strung full soon
The crazy viol; for he said,
Mayhap beneath the moon

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They danced sometime a merry tread
To the belovèd tune.

And many an eye with tears was dim
The while his corse they bore;
No hands had ever worked for him
Since he was born before;
Nor could there come an hour so grim
That he should need them more.

The viol, ready tuned to play,
The sadly-silent bow,
The axe, the pipe of yellow clay,
Are in his grave so low;
And there is nothing more to say
Of poor old Uncle Joe.

THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER.

Her voice was tender as a lullaby,
Making you think of milk-white dews that creep
Among th' mid-May violets, when they lie,
All in yellow moonlight fast asleep.

Aye, tender as that most melodious tone
The lark has, when within some covert dim
With leaves, he talks with morning all alone,
Persuading her to rise and come to him.

Shy in her ways; her father's cattle knew—
No neighbor half so well—her footstep light,
For by the pond where mint and mallows grew
Always she came and called them home at night.

A sad, low pond that cut the field in two
Wherein they ran, and never billow sent
To play with any breeze, but still withdrew
Into itself, in wrinkled, dull content.

And here, through mint and mallows she would stray,
Musing the while she called, as it might be
On th' cold clouds, or winds that with rough gray
Shingled the landward slope of the near sea.

God knows! not I, on what she mused o' nights
Straying about the pond: she had no woe
To think upon, they said, nor such delights
As maids are wont to hide. I only know

We do not know the weakness or the worth
Of any one: th' Sun as he will may trim
His golden lights; he cannot see the earth
He loves, but on the side she turns to him.

I only know that when this lonesome pond
Lifted the buried lilies from its breast
One warm, wet day (I nothing know beyond),
It lifted her white face up with the rest.

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POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING.

ON SEEING A DROWNING MOTH.

Poor little moth! thy summer sports were done.
Had I not happened by this pool to lie;
But thou hast pierced my conscience very sore
With thy vain flounderings, so come ashore
In the safe hollow of my helpful hand,—
Rest thee a little on the warm, dry sand,
Then crawling out into the friendly sun,
As best thou mayest, get thy wet wings dry.
Aye, it has touched my conscience, little moth,
To see thy bright wings made for other use,
Haply for just a moment's chance abuse,
Dragging thee, thus, to death; yet am I loath
To heed the lesson, for I fain would lie
Along the margin of this water low
And watch the sunshine run in tender gleams
Down the gray elders—watch those flowers of light,—
If flowers they be, and not the golden dreams
Left in her grassy pillows by the night,—
The dandelions, that trim the shadows so,
And watch the wild flag, with her eyes of blue
Wide open for the sun to look into,—
Her green skirts laid along the wind, and she,
As if to mar fair fortune wantonly,
Wading along the water, half her height.
Fain would I lie, with arms across my breast,
As quiet as yon wood-duck on her nest,
That sits the livelong day with ruffled quills,
Waiting to see the little yellow bills
Breach the white walls about them,—would that I
Could find out some sweet charm wherewith to buy
A too uneasy conscience,—then would Rest
Gather and fold me to itself; and last,
Forgetting the hereafter and the past,
My soul would have the present for its guest,
And grow immortal.
So, my little fool,
Thou 'rt back upon the water! Lord! how vain
The strife to save or man or moth from pain
Merited justly,—having thy wild way
To travel all the air, thou comest here
To try with spongy feet the treacherous pool;
Well, thou at least hast made one truth more clear,—
Men make their fate, and do not fate obey.

GOOD AND EVIL.

The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones.
Julius Cæsar.

Once when the messenger that stays
For all, beside me stood,

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I mused on what great Shakespeare says
Of evil and of good.

And shall the evil I have done
Live after me? I said;
When lo! a splendor like the sun
Shone round about my bed.

And a sweet spirit of the skies
Near me, yet all apart,
In whispers like the low wind's sighs,
Spake to my listening heart;

Saying, your poet, reverenced thus,
For once hath been unwise;
The good we do lives after us,
The evil 't is that dies!

Evil is earthy, of the earth,—
A thing of pain and crime,
That scarcely sends a shadow forth
Beyond the bounds of time.

But good, in substance, dwells above
This discontented sphere,
Extending only, through God's love,
Uncertain shadows here.

STROLLER'S SONG.

The clouds all round the sky are black,
As it never would shine again;
But I'll sling my wallet over my back,
And trudge in spite of the rain!

And if there rise no star to guide
My feet when day is gone,
I'll shift my wallet the other side,
And trudge right on and on.

For this of a truth I always note,
And shape my course thereby,
That Nature has never an overcoat
To keep her furrows dry.

And how should the hills be clothed with grain,
The vales with flowers be crowned,
But for the chain of the silver rain
That draws them out of the ground!

So I will trudge with heart elate,
And feet with courage shod,
For that which men call chance and fate
Is the handiwork of God.

There 's time for the night as well as the morn,
For the dark as the shining sky;
The grain of the corn and the flower unborn
Have rights as well as I.

A LESSON.

One autumn-time I went into the woods
When Nature grieves,
And wails the drying up of the bright floods
Of summer leaves.

The rose had drawn the green quilt of the grass
Over her head,
And, taking off her pretty, rustling dress,
Had gone to bed.

And, while the wind went ruffling through her bower
To do her harm,
She lay and slept away the frosty hour,
All safe and warm.

The little bird that came when May was new,
And sang her best,
Had gone,—I put my double hand into
Her chilly nest.

Then, sitting down beneath a naked tree,
I looked about,—
Saying, in these, if there a lesson be,
I'll spy it out.

And presently the teaching that was meant
I thought I saw,—
That I, in trial, should patiently consent
To God's great law.

[He spoils his house and throws his pains away]

He spoils his house and throws his pains away
Who, as the sun veers, builds his windows o'er,
For, should he wait, the Light, some time of day,
Would come and sit beside him in his door.

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ON SEEING A WILD BIRD.

Beautiful symbol of a freer life,
Knowing no purpose, and yet true to one;
Would I could learn thy wisdom, I who run
This way and that, striving against my strife.

No fancy vague, no object half unknown,
Diverts thee from thyself. By stops and starts
I live the while by little broken parts
A thousand lives,—not one of all, my own.

Thou sing'st thy full heart out, and low or high
Flyest at pleasure; who of us can say
He lives his inmost self e'en for a day,
And does the thing he would? alas, not I.

We hesitate, go backward, and return,
And when the earth with living sunshine gleams,
We make a darkness round us with our dreams,
And wait for that which we ourselves should earn.

For we shall work out answers to our needs
If we have continuity of will
To hold our shifting purposes until
They germinate, and bring forth fruit in deeds.

We ask and hope too much,—too lightly press
Toward the end sought, and haply learn, at length,
That we have vainly dissipated strength
Which, concentrated, would have brought success.

But Truth is sure, and can afford to wait
Our slow perception, (error ebbs and flows:)
Her essence is eternal, and she knows
The world must swing round to her, soon or late.

RICH, THOUGH POOR.

Red in the east the morning broke,
And in three chambers three men woke;
One through curtains wove that night
In the loom of the spider, saw the light
Lighting the rafters black and old,
And sighed for the genii to make them gold.

One in a chamber, high and fair,
With paneled ceilings, enameled rare,
On the purple canopy of his bed
Saw the light with a sluggard's dread,
And buried his sullen and sickly face
Deep in his pillow fringed with lace.

One, from a low and grassy bed,
With the golden air for a coverlet;
No ornaments had he to wear
But his curling beard and his coal-black hair;
His wealth was his acres, and oxen twain,
And health was his cheerful chamberlain.

Night fell stormy—“Woe is me!”
Sighed so wearily two of the three;
“The corn I planted to-day will sprout,”
Said one, “and the roses be blushing out;”
And his heart with its joyful hope o'erran:
Think you he was the poorest man?

[Still from the unsatisfying quest]

Still from the unsatisfying quest
To know the final plan,
I turn my soul to what is best
In nature and in man.

[The glance that doth thy neighbor doubt]

The glance that doth thy neighbor doubt
Turn thou, O man, within,
And see if it will not bring out
Some unsuspected sin.

To hide from shame the branded brow,
Make broad thy charity,
And judge no man, except as thou
Wouldst have him judge of thee.

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SIXTEEN.

Suppose your hand with power supplied,—
Say, would you slip it 'neath my hair,
And turn it to the golden side
Of sixteen years? Suppose you dare?

And I stood here with smiling mouth,
Red cheeks, and hands all softly white,
Exceeding beautiful with youth,
And that some sly, consenting sprite,

Brought dreams as bright as dreams can be,
To keep the shadows from my brow,
And plucked down hearts to pleasure me,
As you would roses from a bough;

What could I do then? idly wear—
While all my mates went on before—
The bashful looks and golden hair
Of sixteen years, and nothing more!

Nay, done with youth is my desire,
To Time I give no false abuse,
Experience is the marvelous fire
That welds our knowledge into use.

And all its fires of heart, or brain,
Where purpose into power was wrought,
I'd bear, and gladly bear again,
Rather than be put back one thought.

So sigh no more, my gentle friend,
That I have reached the time of day
When white hairs come, and heartbeats send
No blushes through the cheeks astray.

For, could you mould my destiny
As clay within your loving hand,
I 'd leave my youth's sweet company,
And suffer back to where I stand.

PRAYER FOR LIGHT.

Oh what is Thy will toward us mortals,
Most Holy and High?
Shall we die unto life while we 're living?
Or die while we die?

Can we serve Thee and wait on Thee only
In cells, dark and low?
Must the altars we build Thee be built with
The stones of our woe?

Shall we only attain the great measures
Of grace and of bliss
In the life that awaits us, by cruelly
Warring on this?

Or, may we still watch while we work, and
Be glad while we pray?
So reverent, we cast the poor shows of
Our reverence away!

Shall the nature thou gav'st us, pronouncing it
Good, and not ill,
Be warped by our pride or our passion
Outside of Thy will?

Shall the sins which we do in our blindness
Thy mercy transcend,
And drag us down deeper and deeper
Through worlds without end?

Or, are we stayed back in sure limits,
And Thou, high above,
O'erruling our trials for our triumph,
Our hatreds for love?

And is each soul rising, though slowly,
As onward it fares,
And are life's good things and its evil
The steps in the stairs?

All day with my heart and my spirit,
In fear and in awe,
I strive to feel out through my darkness
Thy light and Thy law.

And this, when the sun from his shining
Goes sadly away,
And the moon looketh out of her chamber,
Is all I can say;

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That He who foresaw of transgression
The might and the length,
Has fashioned the law to exceed not
Our poor human strength!

THE UNCUT LEAF.

You think I do not love you! Why,
Because I have my secret grief?
Because in reading I pass by,
Time and again, the uncut leaf?

One rainy night you read to me
In some old book, I know not what,
About the woods of Eldersie,
And a great hunt—I have forgot

What all the story was—ah, well,
It touched me, and I felt the pain
With which the poor dumb creature fell
To his weak knees, then rose again,

And shuddering, dying, turned about,
Lifted his antlered head in pride,
And from his wounded face shook out
The bloody arrows ere he died!

That night I almost dared, I think,
To cut the leaf, and let the sun
Shine in upon the mouldy ink,—
You ask me why it was not done.

Because I rather feel than know
The truth which every soul receives
From kindred souls that long ago
You read me through the double leaves!

So pray you, leave my tears to blot
The record of my secret grief,
And though I know you know, seem not
Ever to see the uncut leaf.

THE MIGHT OF TRUTH.

We are proclaimed, even against our wills—
If we are silent, then our silence speaks—
Children from tumbling on the summer-hills
Come home with roses rooted in their cheeks.
I think no man can make his lie hold good,—
One way or other, truth is understood.

The still sweet influence of a life of prayer
Quickens their hearts who never bow the knee,—
So come fresh draughts of living inland air
To weary homesick men, far out at sea.
Acquaint thyself with God, O man, and lo!
His light shall, like a garment, round thee flow.

The selfishness that with our lives has grown,
Though outward grace its full expression bar,
Will crop out here and there like belts of stone
From shallow soil, discovering what we are.
The thing most specious cannot stead the true,—
Who would appear clean, must be clean all through.

In vain doth Satan say, “My heart is glad,
I wear of Paradise the morning gem;”
While on his brow, magnificently sad,
Hangs like a crag his blasted diadem.
Still doth the truth the hollow lie invest,
And all the immortal ruin stands confessed.

TWO TRAVELERS.

Two travelers, meeting by the way,
Arose, and at the peep of day
Brake bread, paid reckoning, and they say

Set out together, and so trode
Till where upon the forking road
A gray and good old man abode.

There each began his heart to strip,
And all that light companionship
That cometh of the eye and lip

Had sudden end, for each began
To ask the gray and good old man
Whither the roads before them ran.

One, as they saw, was shining bright,

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With such a great and gracious light,
It seemed that heaven must be in sight.

“This,” said the old man, “doth begin
Full sweetly, but its end is in
The dark and desert-place of sin.

“And this, that seemeth all to lie
In gloomy shadow,—by-and-by,
Maketh the gateway of the sky.

“Bide ye a little; fast and pray,
And 'twixt the good and evil way,
Choose ye, my brethren, this day.”

And as the day was at the close
The two wayfaring men arose,
And each the road that pleased him chose.

One took the pathway that began
So brightly, and so smoothly ran
Through flowery fields,—deluded man!

Ere long he saw, alas! alas!
All darkly, and as through a glass,
Flames, and not flowers, along the grass.

Then shadows round about him fell,
And in his soul he knew full well
His feet were taking hold on hell.

He tried all vainly to retrace
His pathway; horrors blocked the place,
And demons mocked him to his face.

Broken in spirit, crushed in pride,
One morning by the highway-side
He fell, and all unfriended, died.

The other, after fast and prayer,
Pursued the road that seemed less fair,
And peace went with him, unaware.

And when the old man saw where lay
The traveler's choice, he said, “I pray,
Take this to help you on the way;”

And gave to him a lovely book,
Wherein for guidance he must look,
He told him, if the path should crook.

And so, through labyrinths of shade,
When terror pressed, or doubt dismayed,
He walked in armor all arrayed.

So, over pitfalls traveled he,
And passed the gates of harlotry,
Safe with his heavenly company.

And when the road did low descend,
He found a good inn, and a friend,
And made a comfortable end.

THE BLIND TRAVELER.

A poor blind man was traveling one day,
The guiding staff from out his hand was gone,
And the road crooked, so he lost his way,
And the night fell, and a great storm came on.

He was not, therefore, troubled and afraid,
Nor did he vex the silence with his cries,
But on the rainy grass his cheek he laid,
And waited for the morning sun to rise.

Saying to his heart,—Be still, my heart, and wait,
For if a good man happen to go by,
He will not leave us to our dark estate
And the cold cover of the storm, to die;

But he will sweetly take us by the hand,
And lead us back into the straight highway;
Full soon the clouds will have evanished, and
All the wide east be blazoned with the day.

And we are like that blind man, all of us,—
Benighted, lost! But while the storm doth fall
Shall we not stay our sinking hearts up, thus,—
Above us there is One who sees it all;

And if His name be Love, as we are told,
He will not leave us to unequal strife;
But to that city with the streets of gold
Bring us, and give us everlasting life.

156

MY GOOD ANGEL.

Very simple are my pleasures,—
O good angel, stay with me,
While I number what they be,—
Easy 't is to count my treasures.

Easy 't is,—they are not many:
Friends for love and company,
O good angel grant to me;
Strength to work; and is there any

Man or woman, evil seeing
In my daily walk and way,
Grant, and give me grace to pray
For a less imperfect being.

Grant a larger light, and better,
To inform my foe and me,
So we quickly shall agree;
Grant forgiveness to my debtor.

Make my heart, I pray, of kindness
Always full, as clouds of showers;
Keep my mortal eyes from blindness;
I would see the sun and flowers.

From temptation pray deliver;
And, good angel, grant to me
That my heart be grateful ever:
Herein all my askings be.

CARE.

Care is like a husbandman
Who doth guard our treasures:
And the while, all ways he can,
Spoils our harmless pleasures.

Loving hearts and laughing brows,
Most he seeks to plunder,
And each furrow that he ploughs
Turns the roses under.

MORE LIFE.

When spring-time prospers in the grass,
And fills the vales with tender bloom,
And light winds whisper as they pass
Of sunnier days to come:

In spite of all the joy she brings
To flood and field, to hill and grove,
This is the song my spirit sings,—
More light, more life, more love!

And when, her time fulfilled, she goes
So gently from her vernal place,
And meadow wide and woodland glows
With sober summer grace:

When on the stalk the ear is set,
With all the harvest promise bright,
My spirit sings the old song yet,—
More love, more life, more light.

When stubble takes the place of grain,
And shrunken streams steal slow along,
And all the faded woods complain
Like one who suffers wrong;

When fires are lit, and everywhere
The pleasures of the household rife,
My song is solemnized to prayer,—
More love, more light, more life!

CONTRADICTORY.

We contradictory creatures
Have something in us alien to our birth,
That doth suffuse us with the infinite,
While downward through our natures
Run adverse thoughts, that only find delight
In the poor perishable things of earth.

Blindly we feel about
Our little circle,—ever on the quest
Of knowledge, which is only, at the best,
Pushing the boundaries of our ignorance out.

But while we know all things are miracles,
And that we cannot set
An ear of corn, nor tell a blade of grass
The way to grow, our vanity o'erswells
The limit of our wisdom, and we yet
Audaciously o'erpass
This narrow promontory
Of low, dark land, into the unseen glory,
And with unhallowed zeal
Unto our fellow-men God's judgments deal.

157

Sometimes along the gloom
We meet a traveler, striking hands with whom,
Maketh a little sweet and tender light
To bless our sight,
And change the clouds around us and above
Into celestial shapes,—and this is love.

Morn cometh, trailing storms,
Even while she wakes a thousand grateful psalms
And with her golden calms
All the wide valley fills;
Darkly they lie below
The purple fire,—the glow,
Where, on the high tops of the eastern hills,
She rests her cloudy arms.

And we are like the morning,—heavenly light
Blowing about our heads, and th' dumb night
Before us and behind us; ceaseless ills
Make up our years; and as from off the hills
The white mists melt, and leave them bare and rough,
So melt from us the fancies of our youth
Until we stand against the last black truth
Naked and cold, and desolate enough.

THIS IS ALL.

Trying, trying—always trying—
Falling down to save a fall;
Living by the dint of dying,—
This is all!

Giving, giving—always giving—
Gathering just abroad to cast;
Dying by the dint of living
At the last!

Sighing, smiling—smiling, sighing—
Sun in shade, and shade in sun;
Dying, living—living, dying—
Both in one!

Hoping in our very fearing,
Striving hard against our strife;
Drifting in the stead of steering,—
This is life!

Seeming to believe in seeming,
Half disproving, to approve;
Knowing that we dream, in dreaming,—
This is love!

Being in our weakness stronger,—
Living where there is no breath;
Feeling harm can harm no longer,—
This is death.

IN VAIN.

Down the peach-tree slid
The milk-white drops of th' dew,
All in that merry time of th' year
When the world is made anew.

The daisy dressed in white,
The paw-paw flower in brown,
And th' violet sat by her lover, th' brook,
With her golden eyelids down.

Gayly its own best hue
Shone in each leaf and stem,—
Gayly the children rolled on th' grass,
With their shadows after them.

I said, Be sweet for me,
O little wild flowers! for I
Have larger need, and shut in myself,
I wither and waste and die!

Pity me, sing for me!
I cried to the tuneful bird;
My heart is full of th' spirit of song,
And I cannot sing a word!

Like a buried stream that longs
Through th' upper world to run,
And kiss the dawn in her rosy mouth,
And lie in th' light of th' sun;

So in me, is my soul,
Wasting in darkness the hours,
Ever fretted and sullen and sad
With a sense of its unused powers.

In vain! each little flower
Must be sweet for itself, nor part
With its white or brown, and every bird
Must sing from its own full heart.

158

BEST, TO THE BEST.

The wind blows where it listeth,
Out of the east and west,
And the sinner's way is as dark as death,
And life is best, to the best.

The touch of evil corrupteth;
Tarry not on its track;
The grass where the serpent crawls is stirred
As if it grew on his back.

To know the beauty of cleanness
The heart must be clean and sweet;
We must love our neighbor to get his his love,—
As we measure, he will mete.

Cold black crusts to the beggar,
A cloak of rags and woe;
And the furrows are warm to the sower's feet,
And his bread is white as snow.

Can blind eyes see the even,
As he hangs on th' days' soft close,
Like a lusty boy on his mother's neck,
Bright in the face as a rose?

The grave is cold and cruel,—
Rest, pregnant with unrest;
And woman must moan and man must groan;
But life is best, to the best.

THORNS.

I do not think the Providence unkind
That gives its bad things to this life of ours;
They are the thorns whereby we, travelers blind.
Feel out our flowers.

I think hate shows the quality of love,—
That wrong attests that somewhere there is right:
Do not the darkest shadows serve to prove
The power of light?

On tyrannous ways the feet of Freedom press;
The green bough broken off, lets sunshine in;
And where sin is, aboundeth righteousness,
Much more than sin.

Man cannot be all selfish; separate good
Is nowhere found beneath the shining sun:
All adverse interests, truly understood,
Resolve to one!

I do believe all worship doth ascend,—
Whether from temple floors by heathen trod,
Or from the shrines where Christian praises blend,—
To the true God,

Blessed forever: that His love prepares
The raven's food; the sparrow's fall doth see;
And, simple, sinful as I am, He cares
Even for me.

OLD ADAM.

The wind is blowing cold from the west,
And your hair is gray and thin;
Come in, old Adam, and shut the door,—
Come in, old Adam, come in!
“The wind is blowing out o' the west,
Cold, cold, and my hair is thin;
But it is not there, that face so fair,
And why should I go in?”

The wind is blowing cold from the west;
The day is almost gone;
The cock is abed, the cattle fed,
And the night is coming on!
Come in, old Adam, and shut the door,
And leave without your care.
“Nay, nay, for the sun of my life is down,
And the night is everywhere.”

The cricket chirps, and your chair is set
Where the fire shines warm and clear:

159

Come in, old Adam, and you will forget
It is not the spring o' the year.
Come in! the wind blows wild from the west,
And your hair is gray and thin.
“'T is not there now, that sweet, sweet brow,
And why should I go in?”

SOMETIMES.

Sometimes for days
Along the fields that I of time have leased,
I go, nor find a single leaf increased;
And hopeless, graze
With forehead stooping downward like a beast.

O heavy hours!
My life seems all a failure, and I sigh,
What is there left for me to do, but die?
So small my powers
That I can only stretch them to a cry!

But while I stretch
What strength I have, though only to a cry,
I gain an utterance that men know me by:
Create, and fetch
A something out of chaos,—that is I.

Good comes to pass
We know not when nor how, for, looking to
What seemed a barren waste, there starts to view
Some bunch of grass,
Or snarl of violets, shining with the dew.

I do believe
The very impotence to pray, is prayer;
The hope that all will end, is in despair,
And while we grieve,
Comfort abideth with us, unaware.

[Too much of joy is sorrowful]

Too much of joy is sorrowful,
So cares must needs abound;
The vine that bears too many flowers
Will trail upon the ground.

THE SEA-SIDE CAVE.

“A bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings tell the matter.”

At the dead of night by the side of the Sea
I met my gray-haired enemy,—
The glittering light of his serpent eye
Was all I had to see him by.

At the dead of night, and stormy weather
We went into a cave together,—
Into a cave by the side of the Sea,
And—he never came out with me!

The flower that up through the April mould
Comes like a miser dragging his gold,
Never made spot of earth so bright
As was the ground in the cave that night.

Dead of night, and stormy weather!
Who should see us going together
Under the black and dripping stone
Of the cave from whence I came alone!

Next day as my boy sat on my knee
He picked the gray hairs off from me,
And told with eyes brimful of fear
How a bird in the meadow near

Over her clay-built nest had spread
Sticks and leaves all bloody red,
Brought from a cave by the side of the Sea
Where some murdered man must be.

THE MEASURE OF TIME.

A breath, like the wind's breath, may carry
A name far and wide,
But the measure of time does not tally
With any man's pride.

'T is not a wild chorus of praises,
Nor chance, nor yet fate,—
'T is the greatness born with him, and in him,
That makes the man great.

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And when in the calm self-possession
That birthright confers,
The man is stretched out to her measure,
Fame claims him for hers.

Too proud too fall back on achievement,
With work in his sight,
His triumph may not overtake him
This side of the night.

And men, with his honors about them,
His grave-mound may pass,
Nor dream what a great heart lies under
Its short knotty grass.

But though he has lived thus unprospered,
And died thus, alone,
His face may not always be hid by
A hand-breadth of stone.

The long years are wiser than any
Wise day of them all,
And the hero at last shall stand upright,—
The base image fall.

The counterfeit may for a season
Deceive the wide earth,
But the lie, waxing great, comes to labor.
And truth has its birth.

IDLE FEARS.

In my lost childhood old folks said to me,
“Now is the time and season of your bliss;
All joy is in the hope of joy to be,
Not in possession; and in after years
You will look back with longing sighs and tears
To the young days when you from care were free.”
It was not true; they nurtured idle fears;
I never saw so good a day as this!

And youth and I have parted: long ago
I looked into my glass, and saw one day
A little silver line that told me so:
At first I shut my eyes and cried, and then
I hid it under girlish flowers, but when
Persuasion would not make my mate to stay,
I bowed my faded head, and said, “Amen!”
And all my peace is since she went away.

My window opens toward the autumn woods;
I see the ghosts of thistles walk the air
O'er the long, level stubble-land that broods;
Beneath the herbless rocks that jutting lie,
Summer has gathered her white family
Of shrinking daisies; all the hills are bare,
And in the meadows not a limb of buds
Through the brown bushes showeth anywhere.

Dear, beauteous season, we must say good-bye,
And can afford to, we have been so blest,
And farewells suit the time; the year doth lie
With cloudy skirts composed, and pallid face
Hid under yellow leaves, with touching grace,
So that her bright-haired sweetheart of the sky
The image of her prime may not displace.

[Do not look for wrong and evil]

Do not look for wrong and evil—
You will find them if you do;
As you measure for your neighbor
He will measure back to you.

Look for goodness, look for gladness,
You will meet them all the while;
If you bring a smiling visage
To the glass, you meet a smile.

[Our unwise purposes are wisely crossed;]

Our unwise purposes are wisely crossed;
Being small ourselves, we must essay small things:
Th' adventurous mote, with wide, outwearied wings
Crawling across a water-drop, is lost.

161

HINTS.

Two thirsty travelers chanced one day to meet
Where a spring bubbled from the burning sand;
One drank out of the hollow of his hand,
And found the water very cool and sweet.

The other waited for a smith to beat
And fashion for his use a golden cup;
And while he waited, fainting in the heat,
The sunshine came and drank the fountain up!

In a green field two little flowers there were,
And both were fair in th' face and tender-eyed:
One took the light and dew that heaven supplied,
And all the summer gusts were sweet with her.

The other, to her nature false, denied
That she had any need of sun and dew,
And hung her silly head, and sickly grew,
And frayed and faded, all untimely died.

A vine o' th' bean, that had been early wed
To a tall peach, conceiving that he hid
Her glories from the world, unwisely slid
Out of his arms, and vainly chafing, said:

“This fellow is an enemy of mine,
And dwarfs me with his shade:” she would not see
That she was made a vine, and not a tree,
And that a tree is stronger than a vine.

TO A STAGNANT RIVER.

O river, why lie with your beautiful face
To the hill? Can you move him away from his place?
You may moan,—you may clasp him with soft arms forever,—
He will still be a flinty hill,—you be a river.

'T is willful, 't is wicked to waste in despair
The treasure so many are dying to share,
The gifts that we have, Heaven lends for right using,
And not for ignoring, and not for abusing.

Let the moss have his love, and the grass and the dew,—
By God's law he cannot be mated with you.
His friend is the stubble, his life is the dust,
You are not what you would,—you must be what you must.

If into his keeping your fortune you cast,
I tell you the end will be hatred at last,
Or death through stagnation; your rest is in motion;
The aim of your being, the cloud and the ocean.

Love cannot be love, with itself set at strife;
To sin against Nature is death and not life.
You may freeze in the shadow or seethe in the sun,
But the oil and the water will not be at one.

Your pride and your peace, when this passion is crossed,
Will pay for the struggle whatever it cost;
But though earth dissolve, though the heavens should fall,
To yourself, your Creator, be true first of all.

[Apart from the woes that are dead and gone,]

Apart from the woes that are dead and gone,
And the shadow of future care,
The heaviest yoke of the present hour
Is easy enough to bear.

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COUNSEL.

Seek not to walk by borrowed light,
But keep unto thine own:
Do what thou doest with thy might,
And trust thyself alone!

Work for some good, nor idly lie
Within the human hive;
And though the outward man should die,
Keep thou the heart alive!

Strive not to banish pain and doubt,
In pleasure's noisy din;
The peace thou seekest for without
Is only found within.

If fortune disregard thy claim,
By worth, her slight attest;
Nor blush and hang the head for shame
When thou hast done thy best.

What thy experience teaches true,
Be vigilant to heed;
The wisdom that we suffer to,
Is wiser than a creed.

Disdain neglect, ignore despair,
On loves and friendships gone
Plant thou thy feet, as on a stair,
And mount right up and on!

LATENT LIFE.

Though never shown by word or deed,
Within us lies some germ of power,
As lies unguessed, within the seed,
The latent flower.

And under every common sense
That doth its daily use fulfill,
There lies another, more intense,
And beauteous still.

This dusty house, wherein is shrined
The soul, is but the counterfeit
Of that which shall be, more refined,
And exquisite.

The light which to our sight belongs,
Enfolds a light more broad and clear;
Music but intimates the songs
We do not hear.

The fond embrace, the tender kiss
Which love to its expression brings,
Are but the husk the chrysalis
Wears on its wings.

The vigor falling to decay,
Hopes, impulses that fade and die,
Are but the layers peeled away
From life more high.

When death shall come and disallow
These rough and ugly masks we wear,
I think, that we shall be as now,—
Only more fair.

And He who makes his love to be
Always around me, sure and calm,
Sees what is possible to me,
Not what I am.

HOW AND WHERE.

How are we living?
Like herbs in a garden that stand in a row,
And have nothing to do but to stand there and grow?
Our powers of perceiving
So dull and so dead,
They simply extend to the objects about us,—
The moth, having all his dark pleasure without us,—
The worm in his bed!

If thus we are living,
And fading and falling, and rotting, alas!—
Like the grass, or the flowers that grow in the grass,—
Is life worth our having?
The insect a-humming—
The wild bird is better, that sings as it flies,—
The ox, that turns up his great face to the skies,
When the thunder is coming.

Where are we living?
In passion, and pain, and remorse do we dwell,—
Creating, yet terribly hating, our hell?
No triumph achieving?
No grossness refining?

163

The wild tree does more; for his coat of rough barks
He trims with green mosses, and checks with the marks
Of the long summer shining.

We 're dying, not living:
Our senses shut up, and our hearts faint and cold:
Upholding old things just because they are old;
Our good spirits grieving,
We suffer our springs
Of promise to pass without sowing the land,
And hungry and sad in the harvest-time stand,
Expecting good things!

THE FELLED TREE.

They set me up, and bade me stand
Beside a dark, dark sea,
In the befogged, low-lying land
Of this mortality.

I slipped my roots round the stony soil
Like rings on the hand of a bride,
And my boughs took hold of the summer's smile
And grew out green and wide.

Crooked, and shaggy on all sides,
I was homeliest of trees,
But the cattle rubbed their speckled hides
Against my knotty knees;

And lambs, in white rows on the grass,
Lay down within my shade;
So I knew, all homely as I was,
For a good use I was made.

And my contentment served me well;
My heart grew strong and sweet,
And my shaggy bark cracked off and fell
In layers at my feet.

I felt when the darkest storm was rife
The day of its wrath was brief,
And that I drew from the centre of life
The life of my smallest leaf.

At last a woodman came one day
With axe to a sharp edge ground,
And hewed at my heart till I stood a-sway,
But I never felt the wound.

I knew immortal seed was sown
Within me at my birth,
And I feel without a single groan,
With my green face to the earth.

Now all men pity me, and must,
Who see me lie so low,
But the Power that changes me to dust
Is the same that made me grow.

A DREAM.

I dreamed I had a plot of ground,
Once when I chanced asleep to drop,
And that a green hedge fenced it round,
Cloudy with roses at the top.

I saw a hundred mornings rise,—
So far a little dream may reach,—
And spring with summer in her eyes
Making the chiefest charm of each.

A thousand vines were climbing o'er
The hedge, I thought, but as I tried
To pull them down, for evermore
The flowers dropt off the other side!

Waking, I said, these things are signs
Sent to instruct us that 't is ours
Duly to keep and dress our vines,—
Waiting in patience for the flowers.

And when the angel feared of all
Across my hearth its shadow spread,
The rose that climbed my garden wall
Has bloomed the other side, I said.

WORK.

Down and up, and up and down,
Over and over and over;
Turn in the little seed, dry and brown,
Turn out the bright red clover.
Work, and the sun your work will share,
And the rain in its time will fall;
For Nature, she worketh everywhere,
And the grace of God through all.

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With hand on the spade and heart in the sky,
Dress the ground, and till it;
Turn in the little seed, brown and dry,
Turn out the golden millet.
Work, and your house shall be duly fed;
Work, and rest shall be won;
I hold that a man had better be dead
Than alive, when his work is done!

Down and up, and up and down,
On the hill-top, low in the valley;
Turn in the little seed, dry and brown,
Turn out the rose and lily.
Work with a plan, or without a plan,
And your ends they shall be shaped true;
Work, and learn at first hand, like a man,—
The best way to know is to do!

Down and up till life shall close,
Ceasing not your praises;
Turn in the wild white winter snows,
Turn out the sweet spring daisies.
Work, and the sun your work will share,
And the rain in its time will fall;
For Nature, she worketh everywhere,
And the grace of God through all.

COMFORT.

Boatman, boatman! my brain is wild,
As wild as the stormy seas;
My poor little child, my sweet little child,
Is a corpse upon my knees.

No holy choir to sing so low,
No priest to kneel in prayer,
No tire-woman to help me sew
A cap for his golden hair.

Dropping his oars in the rainy sea,
The pious boatman cried,
Not without Him who is life to thee
Could the little child have died!

His grace the same, and the same His power,
Demanding our love and trust,
Whether He makes of the dust a flower,
Or changes a flower to dust.

On the land and the water, all in all,
The strength to be still or pray,
To blight the leaves in their time to fall,
Or light up the hills with May.

FAITH AND WORKS.

Not what we think, but what we do,
Makes saints of us: all stiff and cold,
The outlines of the corpse show through
The cloth of gold.

And in despite the outward sin,—
Despite belief with creeds at strife,—
The principle of love within
Leavens the life.

For, 't is for fancied good, I claim,
That men do wrong,—not wrong's desire;
Wrapping themselves, as 't were, in flame
To cheat the fire.

Not what God gives, but what He takes,
Uplifts us to the holiest height;
On truth's rough crags life's current breaks
To diamond light.

From transient evil I do trust
That we a final good shall draw;
That in confusion, death, and dust
Are light and law.

That He whose glory shines among
The eternal stars, descends to mark
This foolish little atom swung
Loose in the dark.

But though I should not thus receive
A sense of order and control,
My God, I could not disbelieve
My sense of soul.

For though, alas! I can but see
A hand's breadth backward, or before,
I am, and since I am, must be
For evermore.

THE RUSTIC PAINTER.

His sheep went idly over the hills,—
Idly down and up,—

165

As he sat and painted his sweetheart's face
On a little ivory cup.

All round him roses lay in the grass
That were hardly out of buds;
For sake of her mouth and cheek, I knew
He had murdered them in the woods.

The ant, that good little housekeeper,
Was not at work so hard;
And yet the semblance of a smile
Was all of his reward:

And the golden-belted gentleman
That travels in the air,
Hummed not so sweet to the clover-buds
As he to his picture there.

The while for his ivory cup he made
An easel of his knee,
And painted his little sweetheart's face
Truly and tenderly.

Thus we are marking on all our work
Whatever we have of grace;
As the rustic painted his ivory cup
With his little sweetheart's face.

ONE OF MANY.

I knew a man—I know him still
In part, in all I ever knew,—
Whose life runs counter to his will,
Leaving the things he fain would do,

Undone. His hopes are shapes of sands,
That cannot with themselves agree;
As one whose eager outstretched hands
Take hold on water—so is he.

Fame is a bauble, to his ken;
Mirth cannot move his aspect grim;
The holidays of other men
Are only battle-days to him.

He locks his heart within his breast,
Believing life to such as he
Is but a change of ills, at best,—
A crossed and crazy tragedy.

His cheek is wan; his limbs are faint
With fetters which they never wore;
No wheel that ever crushed a saint,
But breaks his body o'er and o'er.

Though woman's grace he never sought
By tender look, or word of praise,
He dwells upon her in his thought,
With all a lover's lingering phrase.

A very martyr to the truth,
All that 's best in him is belied;
Humble, yet proud withal; in sooth
His pride is his disdain of pride.

He sees in what he does amiss
A continuity of ill;
The next life dropping out of this,
Stained with its many colors still.

His kindliest pity is for those
Who are the slaves of guilty lusts;
And virtue, shining till it shows
Another's frailty, he distrusts.

Nature, he holds, since time began
Has been reviled,—misunderstood;
And that we first must love a man
To judge him,—be he bad or good.

Often his path is crook'd and low.
And is so in his own despite;
For still the path he meant to go
Runs straight, and level with the right.

No heart has he to strive with fate
For less things than our great men gone
Achieved, who, with their single weight,
Turned Time's slow wheels a century on.

His waiting silence is his prayer;
His darkness is his plea for light;
And loving all men everywhere
He lives, a more than anchorite.

O friends, if you this man should see,
Be not your scorn too hardly hurled,
Believe me, whatsoe'er he be,
There be more like him in the world.

THE SHADOW.

One summer night,
The full moon, 'tired in her golden cloak,

166

Did beckon me, I thought; and I awoke,
And saw a light,

Most soft and fair,
Shine in the brook, as if, in love's distress,
The parting sun had shear'd a dazzling tress.
And left it there.

Toward the sweet banks
Of the bright stream straightly I bent my way;
And in my heart good thoughts the while did stay,
Giving God thanks.

The wheat-stocks stood
Along the field like little fairy men,
And mists stole, white and bashful, through the glen,
As maidens would.

In rich content
My soul was growing toward immortal height,
When, lo! I saw that by me, through the light,
A shadow went.

I stopped, afraid:
It was the bad sign of some evil done:
That stopping, too, right swiftly did I run;
So did the shade.

At length I drew
Close to the bank of the delightful brook,
And sitting in the moonshine, turn'd to look;
It sat there too.

Ere long I spied
A weed with goodly flowers upon its top;
And when I saw that such sweet things did drop
Black shadows, cried,—

Lo! I have found,
Hid in this ugly riddle, a good sign;
My life is twofold, earthly and divine,—
Buried and crown'd.

Sown darkly; raised
Light within light, when death from mortal soil
Undresses me, and makes me spiritual;—
Dear Lord, be praised.

THE UNWISE CHOICE.

Two young men, when I was poor,
Came and stood at my open door;

One said to me, “I have gold to give;”
And one, “I will love you while I live!”

My sight was dazzled; woe 's the day!
And I sent the poor young man away;

Sent him away, I know not where,
And my heart went with him, unaware.

He did not give me any sighs,
But he left his picture in my eyes;

And in my eyes it has always been:
I have no heart to keep it in!

Beside the lane with hedges sweet,
Where we parted, never more to meet,

He pulled a flower of love's own hue,
And where it had been came out two!

And in th' grass where he stood, for years,
The dews of th' morning looked like tears.

Still smiles the house where I was born
Among its fields of wheat and corn.

Wheat and corn that strangers bind,—
I reap as I sowed, and I sowed to th' wind.

As one who feels the truth break through
His dream, and knows his dream untrue,

I live where splendors shine, and sigh,
For the peace that splendor cannot buy;

Sigh for the day I was rich tho' poor,
And saw th' two young men at my door!

167

PROVIDENCE.

“From seeming evil, still educing good.”

The stone upon the wayside seed that fell,
And kept the spring rain from it, kept it too
From the bird's mouth; and in that silent cell
It quickened, after many days, and grew,
Till, by-and-by, a rose, a single one,
Lifted its little face into the sun.

It chanced a wicked man approached one day,
And saw the tender piteous look it wore:
Perhaps one like it somewhere far away
Grew in a garden-bed, or by the door
That he in childish days had played around,
For his knees, trembling, sunk upon the ground.

Then, o'er this piece of bleeding earth, the tears
Of penitence were wrung, until at last
The golden key of love, that sin for years
In his unquiet soul had rusted fast,
Was loosened, and his heart, that very hour.
Opened to God's good sunshine, like a flower.

THE LIVING PRESENT.

Friends, let us slight no pleasant spring
That bubbles up in life's dry sands,
And yet be careful what good thing
We touch with sacrilegious hands.

Our blessings should be sought, not claimed,—
Cherished, not watched with jealous eye;
Love is too precious to be named,
Save with a reverence deep and high.

In all that lives, exists the power
To avenge the invasion of its right;
We cannot bruise and break our flower,
And have our flower, alive and bright.

Let us think less of what appears,—
More of what is; for this, hold I,
It is the sentence no man hears
That makes us live, or makes us die.

Trust hearsay less; seek more to prove
And know if things be what they seem;
Not sink supinely in some groove,
And hope and hope, and dream and dream.

Some days must needs be full of gloom,
Yet must we use them as we may;
Talk less about the years to come,—
Live, love, and labor more, to-day.

What our hand findeth, do with might;
Ask less for help, but stand or fall,
Each one of us, in life's great fight,
As if himself and God were all.

THE WEAVER'S DREAM.

He sat all alone in his dark little room,
His fingers aweary with work at the loom,
His eyes seeing not the fine threads, for the tears,
As he carefully counted the months and the years
He had been a poor weaver.

Not a traveler went on the dusty highway,
But he thought, “He has nothing to do but be gay;”
No matter how burdened or bent he might be,
The weaver believed him more happy than he,
And sighed at his weaving.

He saw not the roses so sweet and so red
That looked through his window; he thought to be dead
And carried away from his dark little room,

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Wrapt up in the linen he had in his loom,
Were better than weaving.

Just then a white angel came out of the skies,
And shut up his senses, and sealed up his eyes,
And bore him away from the work at his loom
In a vision, and left him alone by the tomb
Of his dear little daughter.

“My darling!” he cries, “what a blessing was mine!
How I sinned, having you, against goodness divine!
Awake! O my lost one, my sweet one, awake!
And I never, as long as I live, for your sake,
Will sigh at my weaving!”

The sunset was gilding his low little room
When the weaver awoke from his dream at the loom,
And close at his knee saw a dear little head
Alight with long curls,—she was living, not dead,—
His pride and his treasure.

He winds the fine thread on his shuttle anew,
(At thought of his blessing 't was easy to do,)
And sings as he weaves, for the joy in his breast,
Peace cometh of striving, and labor is rest:
Grown wise was the weaver.

NOT NOW.

The path of duty I clearly trace,
I stand with conscience face to face,
And all her pleas allow;
Calling and crying the while for grace,—
“Some other time, and some other place:
Oh, not to-day; not now!”

I know 't is a demon boding ill,
I know I have power to do if I will,
And I put my hand to th' plough;
I have fair, sweet seeds in my barn, and lo!
When all the furrows are ready to sow,
The voice says, “Oh, not now!”

My peace I sell at the price of woe;
In heart and in spirit I suffer so,
The anguish wrings my brow;
But still I linger and cry for grace,—
“Some other time, and some other place:
Oh, not to-day; not now!”

I talk to my stubborn heart and say,
The work I must do I will do to-day;
I will make to the Lord a vow:
And I will not rest and I will not sleep
Till the vow I have vowed I rise and keep;
And the demon cries, “Not now!”

And so the days and the years go by,
And so I register lie upon lie,
And break with Heaven my vow;
For when I would boldly take my stand,
This terrible demon stays my hand,—
“Oh, not to-day: not now!”

CRAGS.

There was a good and reverend man
Whose day of life, serene and bright,
Was wearing hard upon the gloom
Beyond which we can see no light.

And as his vision back to morn,
And forward to the evening sped,
He bowed himself upon his staff,
And with his heart communing, said:

From mystery on to mystery
My way has been; yet as I near
The eternal shore, against the sky
These crags of truth stand sharp and clear.

Where'er its hidden fountain be,
Time is a many-colored jet
Of good and evil, light and shade,
And we evoke the things we get.

The hues that our to-morrows wear
Are by our yesterdays forecast;
Our future takes into itself
The true impression of our past.

169

The attrition of conflicting thoughts
To clear conclusions, wears the groove;
The love that seems to die, dies not,
But is absorbed in larger love.

We cannot cramp ourselves unharmed,
In bonds of iron, nor of creeds;
The rights that rightfully belong
To man, are measured by his needs.

The daisy is entitled to
The nurture of the dew and light;
The green house of the grasshopper
In his by Nature's sacred right.

MAN.

In what a kingly fashion man doth dwell:
He hath but to prefer
His want, and Nature, like a servitor,
Maketh him answer with some miracle.

And yet his thoughts do keep along the ground,
And neither leap nor run,
Though capable to climb above the sun;
He seemeth free, and yet is strangely bound.

What name would suit his case, or great or small?
Poor, but exceeding proud;
Importunate and still, humble and loud;
Most wise, and yet most ignorant, withal.

The world that lieth in the golden air,
Like a great emerald,
Knoweth the law by which she is upheld,
And in her motions keepeth steady there.

But in his foolishness proud man defies
The law, wherewith is bound
The peace he seeks, and fluttering moth-like round
Some dangerous light, experimenting, dies.

And all his subtle reasoning can obtain
To tell his fortune by,
Is only that he liveth and must die,
And dieth in the hope to live again.

TO SOLITUDE.

I am weary of the working.
Weary of the long day's heat;
To thy comfortable bosom,
Wilt thou take me, spirit sweet?

Weary of the long, blind struggle
For a pathway bright and high,—
Weary of the dimly dying
Hopes that never quite all die.

Weary searching a bad cipher
For a good that must be meant;
Discontent with being weary,—
Weary with my discontent.

I am weary of the trusting
Where my trusts but torments prove;
Wilt thou keep faith with me? wilt thou
Be my true and tender love?

I am weary drifting, driving
Like a helmless bark at sea;
Kindly, comfortable spirit,
Wilt thou give thyself to me?

Give thy birds to sing me sonnets?
Give thy winds my cheeks to kiss?
And thy mossy rocks to stand for
The memorials of our bliss?

I in reverence will hold thee,
Never vexed with jealous ills,
Though thy wild and wimpling waters
Wind about a thousand hills.

THE LAW OF LIBERTY.

This extent hath freedom's ground,—
In my freedom I am bound
Never any soul to wound.

Not my own: it is not mine,
Lord, except to make it thine,
By good works through grace divine.

Not another's: Thou alone
Keepest judgment for thine own;
Only unto Thee is known

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What to pity, what to blame;
How the fierce temptation came:
What is honor, what is shame.

Right is bound in this—to win
Good till injury begin;
That, and only that, is sin.

Selfish good may not befall
Any man, or great or small;
Best for one is best for all.

And who vainly doth desire
Good through evil to acquire,
In his bosom taketh fire.

Wronging no man, Lord, nor Thee
Vexing, I do pray to be
In my soul, my body, free.

Free to freely leave behind
When the better things I find,
Worser things, howe'er enshrined.

So that pain may peace enhance,
And through every change and chance,
I upon myself, advance.

MY CREED.

I hold that Christian grace abounds
Where charity is seen; that when
We climb to Heaven, 't is on the rounds
Of love to men.

I hold all else, named piety,
A selfish scheme, a vain pretense;
Where centre is not—can there be
Circumference?

This I moreover hold, and dare
Affirm where'er my rhyme may go,—
Whatever things be sweet or fair,
Love makes them so.

Whether it be the lullabies
That charm to rest the nursling bird,
Or that sweet confidence of sighs
And blushes, made without a word.

Whether the dazzling and the flush
Of softly sumptuous garden bowers,
Or by some cabin door, a bush
Of ragged flowers.

'T is not the wide phylactery,
Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers,
That make us saints: we judge the tree
By what it bears.

And when a man can live apart
From works, on theologic trust,
I know the blood about his heart
Is dry as dust.

OPEN SECRETS.

The truth lies round about us, all
Too closely to be sought,—
So open to our vision that
'T is hidden to our thought.

We know not what the glories
Of the grass, the flower, may be;
We needs must struggle for the sight
Of what we always see.

Waiting for storms and whirlwinds,
And to have a sign appear,
We deem not God is speaking in
The still small voice we hear.

In reasoning proud, blind leaders of
The blind, through life we go,
And do not know the things we see,
Nor see the things we know.

Single and indivisible,
We pass from change to change,
Familiar with the strangest things,
And with familiar, strange.

We make the light through which we see
The light, and make the dark:
To hear the lark sing, we must be
At heaven's gate with the lark.

THE SADDEST SIGHT.

As one that leadeth a blind man
In a city, to and fro,
Thought, even so,
Leadeth me still wherever it will
Through scenes of joy and woe.

I have seen Lear, his white head crowned
With poor straws, playing King;
And, wearying
Her cheeks' young flowers “with true-love showers,”
I have heard Ophelia sing.

171

I have been in battles, and I have seen
Stones at the martyrs hurled,—
Seen th' flames curled
Round foreheads bold, and lips whence rolled
The litanies of the world.

But of all sad sights that ever I saw,
The saddest under the sun,
Is a little one,
Whose poor pale face was despoiled of grace
Ere yet its life begun.

No glimpse of the good green Nature
To gladden with sweet surprise
The staring eyes,
That only have seen, close walls between,
A hand-breadth of the skies.

Ah, never a bird is heard to sing
At the windows under ground,
The long year round;
There, never the morn on her pipes of corn
Maketh a cheerful sound.

Oh, little white cloud of witnesses
Against your parentage,
May Heaven assuage
The woes that wait on your dark estate,—
Unorphaned orphanage.

THE BRIDAL HOUR.

“The moon's gray tent is up: another hour,
And yet another one will bring the time
To which, through many cares and checks, so slowly,
The golden day did climb.

“Take all the books away, and let no noises
Be in the house while softly I undress
My soul from broideries of disguise, and wait for
My own true love's caress.

“The sweetest sound will tire to-night; the dewdrops
Setting the green ears in the corn and wheat,
Would make a discord in the heart attuned to
The bridegroom's coming feet.

“Love! blessed Love! if we could hang our walls with
The splendors of a thousand rosy Mays,
Surely they would not shine so well as thou dost,
Lighting our dusty days.

“Without thee, what a dim and woeful story
Our years would be, oh, excellence sublime!
Slip of the life eternal, brightly growing
In the low soil of time!”

IDLE.

I heard the gay spring coming,
I saw the clover blooming,
Red and white along the meadows;
Red and white along the streams;
I heard the bluebird singing,
I saw the green grass springing,
All as I lay a-dreaming,—
A-dreaming idle dreams.

I heard the ploughman's whistle,
I saw the rough burr thistle
In the sharp teeth of the harrow,—
Saw the summer's yellow gleams
In the walnuts, in the fennel,
In the mulleins, lined with flannel,
All as I lay a-dreaming,—
A-dreaming idle dreams.

I felt the warm, bright weather;
Saw the harvest,—saw them gather
Corn and millet, wheat and apples,—
Saw the gray barns with their seams
Pressing wide,—the bare-armed shearers,—
The ruddy water-bearers,—
All as I lay a-dreaming,—
A-dreaming idle dreams.

The bluebird and her nestling
Flew away; the leaves fell rustling,
The cold rain killed the roses,
The sun withdrew his beams;

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No creature cared about me,
The world could do without me,
All as I lay a-dreaming,—
A-dreaming idle dreams.

GOD IS LOVE.

Ah, there are mighty things under the sun,
Great deeds have been acted, great words have been said,
Not just uplifting some fortunate one,
But lifting up all men the more by a head.

Aye, the more by the head, and the shoulders too!
Ten thousand may sin, and a thousand may fall,
And it may have been me, and it yet may be you,
But the angel in one proves the angel in all.

And whatever is mighty, whatever is high,
Lifting men, lifting woman their natures above,
And close to the kinship they hold to the sky,
Why, this I affirm, that its essence is Love.

The poorest, the meanest has right to his share—
For the life of his heart, for the strength of his hand,
'Tis the sinew of work, 't is the spirit of prayer—
And here, and God help me, I take up my stand.

No pain but it hushes to peace in its arms,
No pale cheek it cannot with kisses make bright,
Its wonder of splendors has made the world's storms
To shine as with rainbows, since first there was light.

Go, bring me whatever the poets have praised,
The mantles of queens, the red roses of May,
I'll match them, I care not how grandly emblazed,
With the love of the beggar who sits by the way.

When I think of the gifts that have honored Love's shrine—
Heart, hope, soul, and body, all mortal can give—
For the sake of a passion superbly divine,
I am glad, nay, and more, I am proud that I live!

Fair women have made them espousals with death,
And through the white flames as through lilies have trod,
And men have with cloven tongues preached for their faith,
And held up their hands, stiff with thumb-screws, to God.

I have seen a great people its vantage defer
To the love that had moved it as love only can,
A whole nation stooping with conscience astir
To a chattel with crop ears, and calling it man.

Compared, O my beautiful Country, to thee,
In this tenderest touch of the manacled hand,
The tops of the pyramids sink to the sea,
And the thrones of the earth slide together like sand.

Immortal with beauty and vital with youth,
Thou standest, O Love, as thou always hast stood
From the wastes of the ages, proclaiming this truth,
All peoples and nations are made of one blood.

Ennobled by scoffing and honored by shame,
The chiefest of great ones, the crown and the head,
Attested by miracles done in thy name
For the blind, for the lame, for the sick and the dead.

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Because He in all things was tempted like me,
Through the sweet human hope, by the cross that He bore,
For the love which so much to the Marys could be,
Christ Jesus the man, not the God, I adore.

LIFE'S MYSTERIES.

Round and round the wheel doth run,
And now doth rise, and now doth fall:
How many lives we live in one,
And how much less than one, in all!

The past as present as to-day—
How strange, how wonderful! it seems
A player playing in a play,
A dreamer dreaming that he dreams!

But when the mind through devious glooms
Drifts onward to the dark amain,
Her wand stern Conscience reassumes,
And holds us to ourselves again.

Vague reminiscences come back
Of things we seem, in part, to have known.
And Fancy pieces what they lack
With shreds and colors all her own.

Fancy, whose wing so high can soar,
Whose vision hath so broad a glance,
We feel sometimes as if no more
Amenable to change and chance.

And yet, one tiny thread being broke—
One idol taken from our hands,
The eternal hills roll up like smoke,
The earth's foundations shake like sands!

Ah! how the colder pulse still starts
To think of that one hour sublime,
We hugged heaven down into our hearts,
And clutched eternity in time!

When love's dear eyes first looked in ours.
When love's dear brows were strange to frowns,
When all the stars were burning flowers
That we might pluck and wear for crowns.

We cannot choose but cry and cry—
Oh, that its joys we might repeat!
When just its mutability
Made all the sweetness of it sweet.

Close to the precipice's brink
We press, look down, and, while we quail
From the bad thought we dare not think,
Lift curiously the awful vail.

We do the thing we would not do—
Our wills being set against our wills,
And suffer o'er and o'er anew
The penalty our peace that kills.

Great God, we know not what we know
Or what we are, or are to be!
We only trust we cannot go
Through sin's disgrace outside of thee.

And trust that though we are driven in
And forced upon the name to call
At last, by very strength of sin,
Thou wilt have mercy on us all!

[We are the mariners, and God the Sea]

We are the mariners, and God the Sea,
And though we make false reckonings, and run
Wide of a righteous course, and are undone,
Out of his deeps of love we cannot be.

For by those heavy strokes we misname ill,
Through the fierce fire of sin, through tempering doubt,
Our natures more and more are beaten out
To perfecter reflections of his will!

[The best man should never pass by]

The best man should never pass by
The worst, but to brotherhood true,
Entreat him thus gently, “Lo, I
Am tempted in all things as you.”

Of one dust all peoples are made,
One sky doth above them extend,

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And whether through sunshine or shade
Their paths run, they meet at the end.

And whatever his honors may be,—
Of riches, or genius, or blood,
God never made any man free
To find out a separate good.

PLEDGES.

Sometimes the softness of the embracing air,
The tender beauty of the grass and sky,
The look of still repose the mountains wear,
The sea-waves that beside each other lie
Contented in the sun—the flowery gleams
Of gardens by the doors of cottages,
The sweet, delusive blessedness of dreams,
The pleasant murmurs of the forest trees
Clinging to one another—all I see,
And hear, and all that fancy paints,
Do touch me with a deep humility,
And make me be ashamed of my complaints.
Then, in my meditations, I resolve
That I will never, while I live, again
Ruffle the graceful ministries of love
With brows distrustful, or with wishes vain.
Then I make pledges to my heart and say
We two will live serener lives henceforth;
For what is all the outward beauty worth,
The golden opening of the sweetest day
That ever shone, if we arise to hide,
Not from ourselves, but from men's eyes away,
The last night's petulance unpacified!

PROVERBS IN RHYME.

Time makes us eagle-eyed:
Our fantasies befriend us in our youth,
And build the shadowy tents wherein we hide
Out of the glare of truth.

Make no haste to despise
The proud of spirit: ofttimes pride but is
An armor worn to shield from insolent eyes
Our human weaknesses.

Be slow to blame his course
Or name him coward who disdains to fight:
Courage is just a blind impelling force,
And often wrong as right.

Condemn not her whose hours
Are not all given to spinning nor to care:
Has not God planted every path with flowers
Whose end is to be fair?

Think not that he is cold
Who runneth not your proffered hand to touch:
On feeling's heights 't is wise the step to hold
From trembling overmuch;

And though its household sweets
Affection may through daily channels give,
The heart is chary, and ecstatic beats
Once only while we live.

FAME.

Fame guards the wreath we call a crown
With other wreaths of fire,
And dragging this or that man down
Will not raise you the higher!
Fear not too much the open seas,
Nor yet yourself misdoubt;
Clear the bright wake of geniuses,
Then steadily steer out.
That wicked men in league should be
To push your craft aside,
Is not the hint of modesty,
But the poor conceit of pride.

GENIUS.

A cunning and curious splendor,
That glorifies commonest things—
Palissy, with clay from the river,
Moulds cups for the tables of kings.

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A marvel of sweet and wise madness,
That passes our skill to define;
It clothes the poor peasant with grandeur,
And turns his rude hut to a shrine.

Full many a dear little daisy
Had passed from the light of the sun,
Ere Burns, with his pen and his ploughshare,
Upturned and immortalled that one.

And just with a touch of its magic
It gives to the poet's rough rhyme
A something that makes the world listen,
And will, to the ending of time.

It puts a great price upon shadows—
Holds visions, all rubies above,
And shreds of old tapestries pieces
To legends of glory and love.

The ruin it builds into beauty,
Uplifting the low-lying towers,
Makes green the waste place with a garden,
And shapes the dead dust into flowers.

It shows us the lovely court ladies,
All shining in lace and brocade;
The knights, for their gloves who did battle,
In terrible armor arrayed.

It gives to the gray head a glory,
And grace to the eyelids that weep,
And makes our last enemy even,
To be as the brother of sleep.

A marvel of madness celestial,
That causes the weed at our feet,
The thistle that grows at the wayside,
To somehow look strange and be sweet.

No heirs hath it, neither ancestry;
But just as it listeth, and when,
It seals with its own royal signet
The foreheads of women and men.

IN BONDS.

While shines the sun, the storm even then
Has struck his bargain with the sea—
Oh, lives of women, lives of men,
How pressed, how poor, how pinched ye be!

It is as if, having granted power
Almost omnipotent to man,
Heaven grudged the splendor of the dower,
And going back upon her plan,

Mortised his free feet in the ground,
Closed him in walls of ignorance,
And all the soul within him bound
In the dull hindrances of sense.

Hence, while he goads his will to rise,
As one his fallen ox might urge,
The conflict of the impatient cries
Within him wastes him like a scourge.

Even as dreams his days depart,
His work no sure foundation forms,
Immortal yearnings in his heart,
And empty shadows in his arms!

It is as if, being come to land,
Some pestilence, with fingers black,
Loosed from the wheel the master hand
And drove the homesick vessel back;

As if the nurslings of his care
Chilled him to death with their embrace;
As if that she he held most fair
Turned round and mocked him to his face.

And thus he stands, and ever stands,
Tempted without and torn within;
Ashes of ashes in his hands,
Famished and faint, and sick with sin.

Seeing the cross, and not the crown;
The o'erwhelming flood, and not the ark;
Till gap by gap his faith throws down
Its guards, and leaves him to the dark.

And when the last dear hope has fled,
And all is weary, dreary pain,
That enemy, most darkly dread,
Grows pitiful, and snaps the chain.

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NOBILITY.

True worth is in being, not seeming,—
In doing each day that goes by
Some little good—not in the dreaming
Of great things to do by and by.
For whatever men say in blindness,
And spite of the fancies of youth,
There 's nothing so kingly as kindness,
And nothing so royal as truth.

We get back our mete as we measure—
We cannot do wrong and feel right,
Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure,
For justice avenges each slight.
The air for the wing of the sparrow,
The bush for the robin and wren,
But alway the path that is narrow
And straight, for the children of men.

'T is not in the pages of story
The heart of its ills to beguile,
Though he who makes courtship to glory
Gives all that he hath for her smile.
For when from her heights he has won her,
Alas! it is only to prove
That nothing 's so sacred as honor,
And nothing so loyal as love!

We cannot make bargains for blisses,
Nor catch them like fishes in nets;
And sometimes the thing our life misses,
Helps more than the thing which it gets.
For good lieth not in pursuing,
Nor gaining of great nor of small,
But just in the doing, and doing
As we would be done by, is all.

Through envy, through malice, through hating,
Against the world, early and late,
No jot of our courage abating—
Our part is to work and to wait.
And slight is the sting of his trouble
Whose winnings are less than his worth;
For he who is honest is noble.
Whatever his fortunes or birth.

TO THE MUSE.

Phantoms come and crowd me thick,
And my heart is sick, so sick;
Kindness no more refresh
Brain nor body, mind nor flesh.
Good Muse, sweet Muse, comfort me
With thy heavenly company.

Thieves beset me on my way,
Day and night and night and day,
Stealing all the lovely light
That did make my dreams so bright.
Good Muse, sweet Muse, hide my treasures
High among immortal pleasures.

Friendship's watch is weary grown,
And I lie alone, alone;
Love against me flower-like closes,
Blushing, opening toward the roses.
Good Muse, sweet Muse, keep my friend
To the sad and sunless end.

Oh, the darkness of the estate
Where I, stript and bleeding, wait,
Torn with thorns and with wild woe,
In my house of dust so low
Good Muse, sweet Muse, make my faith
Strong to triumph over death.

Rock me both at morns and eves
In a cradle lined with leaves—
Light as winds that stir the willows
Stir my hard and heavy pillows.
Good Muse, sweet Muse, rock me soft,
Till my thoughts soar all aloft.

Seal my eyes from earthly things
With the shadow of thy wings,
Fill with songs the wildering spaces,
Till I see the old, old faces,
Rise forever, on forever—
Good Muse, sweet Muse, leave me never.

[Her voice was sweet and low; her face]

Her voice was sweet and low; her face
No words can make appear,
For it looked out of heaven but long enough
To leave a shadow here.

And I only knew that I saw the face,
And saw the shadow fall,
And that she carried my heart away
And keeps it; that is all.

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NO RING.

What is it that doth spoil the fair adorning
With which her body she would dignify,
When from her bed she rises in the morning
To comb, and plait, and tie
Her hair with ribbons, colored like the sky?

What is it that her pleasure discomposes
When she would sit and sing the sun away—
Making her see dead roses in red roses,
And in the downfall gray
A blight that seems the world to overlay?

What is it makes the trembling look of trouble
About her tender mouth and eyelids fair?
Ah me, ah me! she feels her heart beat double,
Without the mother's prayer,
And her wild fears are more than she can bear.

To the poor sightless lark new powers are given,
Not only with a golden tongue to sing,
But still to make her wavering way toward heaven
With undiscerning wing;
But what to her doth her sick sorrow bring?

Her days she turns, and yet keeps overturning,
And her flesh shrinks as if she felt the rod;
For 'gainst her will she thinks hard things concerning
The everlasting God,
And longs to be insensate like the clod.

Sweet Heaven, be pitiful! rain down upon her
The saintly charities ordained for such;
She was so poor in everything but honor,
And she loved much—loved much!
Would, Lord, she had thy garment's hem to touch.

Haply, it was the hungry heart within her,
The woman's heart, denied its natural right,
That made her the thing men call sinner,
Even in her own despite:
Lord, that her judges might receive their sight!

TEXT AND MORAL.

Full early in that dewy time of year
When wheat and barley fields are gay and green,
And when the flag uplifts his dull gray spear,
And cowslips in their yellow coats are seen,
And every grass-tuft by the common ways
Holdeth some red-mouthed flower to give it praise:

Just as the dawn was at that primal hour
That brings such tender golden sweetness in,
Ere yet the sun had left his eastern bower
And set upon the hills his rounded chin,
I heard a little song—three notes—not more—
Plained like a low petition at my door.

And all that day and other days I heard
The same low asking note, and then I found
My beggar in the likeness of a bird.
Surely, I said, she hideth some deep wound
Under the speckled beauty of her wing,
That she doth seem to rather cry than sing.

Haply some treacherous man, and evil-eyed,
Hath spoiled her nest or snared her lovely mate,

178

But while I spoke, a bird unharmed I spied
High in the elm-top, all his heart elate,
And splitting with its joy his shining bill,
Unmindful of that low, sad “trill-a-trill!”

At sunset came my boys with cheeks ablush,
And fairly flying on their arms and legs,
To tell that they had found within a bush
A bird's-nest, lined with little rose-leaf eggs!
Then, inly musing, I renewed my quest
Knowing that no bird singeth on her nest.

And still, the softest morns, the sweetest eves,
And when from out the midnight blue and still,
The tender moon looked in between the leaves,
That little, plaining, pleading trill-a-trill!
Would tremble out, and fall away, and fade,
And so I mused and mused, until I made

A text at last of the melodious cry,
And drew this moral (was it fetched too far?)
Life's inequalities so underlie
The things we have, so rest in what we are,
That each must steadfast to his nature keep,
And one must soar and sing, and one must weep.

TO MY FRIEND.

If we should see one sowing seed
With patient care and toil and pain,
Then to some other garden speed
And sow again;

And so right on from day to day,
And so right on through months and years,
Watering the furrows all the way
With rain of tears;

Ne'er gladdened by the yellowing top
Of harvest, nor of ripened rose,
Till suddenly the plough should stop,—
The work-day close;

Should we not, as hte day ran by,
Wonder to see him take no ease,
And cry at nightfall, “Vanity
Of Vanities!”

And yet 't is thus, my friend, the hours
And days go by, with you and me.
We, too, are sowing seeds of flowers
We never see.

Sometimes we sow in soil of sin;
Sometimes where choking thorns abound;
And sometimes cast our good seed in
Dry, stony ground.

Our stalks spring up and fade and die
Under the burning noontide heat,
And hopes and plans about us lie
All incomplete;

And as the toilsome days go by
Unrespited with flowery ease,
Angels may cry out, “Vanity
Of Vanities!”

Oh, when, fruitionless, the night
Descends upon our day of ills,
God grant we find our harvests white
On heavenly hills.

ONE OF MANY.

Because I have not done the things I know
I ought to do, my very soul is sad;
And furthermore, because that I have had
Delights that should have made to overflow
My cup of gladness, and have not been glad.

All in the midst of plenty, poor I live;
My house, my friend, with heavy heart I see,
As if that mine they were not meant to be;

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For of the sweetness of the things I have
A churlish conscience dispossesses me.

I do desire, nay, long, to put my powers
To better service than I yet have done—
Not hither, thither, without purpose run,
And gather just a handful of the flowers,
And catch a little sunlight of the sun.

Lamenting all the night and all the day
Occasion lost, and losing in lament
The golden chances that I know were meant
For wiser uses—asking overpay
When nothing has been earned, and all was lent.

Keeping in dim and desolated ways,
And where the wild winds whistle loud and shrill
Through leafless bushes, and the birds are still,
And where the lights are lights of other days—
A sad insanity o'ermastering will.

And saddest of the sadness is to know
It is not fortune's fault, but only mine,
That far away the hills of roses shine—
And far away the pipes of pleasure blow—
That we, and not our stars, our fates assign.

LIGHT.

Be not much troubled about many things,
Fear often hath no whit of substance in it,
And lives but just a minute;
While from the very snow the wheat-blade springs.
And light is like a flower,
That bursts in full leaf from the darkest hour.
And He who made the night,
Made, too, the flowery sweetness of the light.
Be it thy task, through his good grace, to win it.

TRUST.

Sometimes when hopes have vanished, one and all,
Soft lights drop round about me in their stead,
As if there had been cast across Heaven's wall
Handfuls of roses down upon my bed;
Then through my darkness pleasures come in crowds,
Shining like larks' wings in the sombre clouds,

And I am fed with sweetness, as of dew
Strained through the leaves of pansies at day dawn;
But not the flowery lights that overstrew
The bed my weary body rests upon,
Is it that maketh all my house so bright,
And feedeth all my soul with such delight.

Nay, ne'er could heavenly, veritable flowers
Make the rude time to run so smoothly by,
And tie with amity the alien hours,
As might some maiden, with her ribbon, tie
A bunch of homely posies into one,
Making all fair, when none were fair alone.

But lying disenchanted of my fear,
'Neath the gold borders of my “coverlid”
So overstrown, I feel my flesh so near
Things lovely, that, my body being hid
Out of the sunshine, shall not harm endure,
But mix with daisies, and grow fair and pure.

Oh, comfortable thought! yet not of this
Get I the peace that drieth all my tears;
For, wrapped within this truth, another is
Sweeter and stronger to dispel my fears:

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If through its change my flesh shall death defy
Surely my soul shall not be left to die.

Our God, who taketh knowledge of the flowers
Making our bodies change to things so fine,
Knoweth the insatiate longings that are ours,
For fadeless blooms and suns that always shine.
His name is Love, and love can work no ill;
Hence, though He slay me, I will trust Him still.

LIFE.

Solitude—Life is inviolate solitude—
Never was truth so apart from the dreaming
As lieth the selfhood inside of the seeming,
Guarded with triple shield out of all quest,
So that the sisterhood nearest and sweetest,
So that the brotherhood kindest, completest.
Is but an exchanging of signals at best.

Desolate—Life is so dreary and desolate—
Women and men in the crowd meet and mingle,
Yet with itself every soul standeth single,
Deep out of sympathy moaning its moan—
Holding and having its brief exultation—
Making its lonesome and low lamentation—
Fighting its terrible conflicts alone.

Separate—Life is so sad and so separate—
Under love's ceiling with roses for lining.
Heart mates with heart in a tender entwining.
Yet never the sweet cup of love filleth full—
Eye looks in eye with a questioning wonder,
Why are we thus in our meeting asunder?
Why are our pulses so slow and so dull?

Fruitless, fruitionless—Life is fruitionless—
Never the heaped up and generous measure—
Never the substance of satisfied pleasure—
Never the moment with rapture elate—
But draining the chalice, we long for the chalice,
And live as an alien inside of our palace,
Bereft of our title and deeds of estate.

Pitiful—Life is so poor and so pitiful—
Cometh the cloud on the goldenest weather—
Briefly the man and his youth stay together—
Falleth the frost ere the harvest is in,
And conscience descends from the open aggression
To timid and troubled and tearful concession,
And downward and down into parley with sin.

Purposeless—Life is so wayward and purposeless—
Always before us the object is shifting.
Always the means and the method are drifting,
We rue what is done—what is undone deplore—
More striving for high things than things that are holy.
And so we go down to the valley so lowly
Wherein there is work, and device never more.

Vanity, vanity—all would be vanity,
Whether in seeking or getting our pleasures—
Whether in spending or hoarding our treasures—
Whether in indolence, whether in strife—
Whether in feasting and whether in fasting,
But for our faith in the Love everlasting—
But for the life that is better than life.

181

PLEA FOR CHARITY.

If one had never seen the full completeness
Of the round year, but tarried half the way,
How should he guess the fair and flowery sweetness
That cometh with the May—
Guess of the bloom, and of the rainy sweetness
That come in with the May!

Suppose he had but heard the winds a-blowing,
And seen the brooks in icy chains fast bound,
How should he guess that waters in their flowing
Could make so glad a sound—
Guess how their silver tongues should be set going
To such a tuneful sound!

Suppose he had not seen the bluebirds winging,
Nor seen the day set, nor the morning rise,
Nor seen the golden balancing and swinging
Of the gay butterflies—
Who could paint April pictures, worth the bringing
To notice of his eyes?

Suppose he had not seen the living daisies,
Nor seen the rose, so glorious and bright,
Were it not better than your far-off praises
Of all their lovely light,
To give his hands the holding of the daisies,
And of the roses bright?

O Christian man, deal gently with the sinner—
Think what an utter wintry waste is his
Whose heart of love has never been the winner,
To know how sweet it is—
Be pitiful. O Christian, to the sinner.
Think what a world is his!

He never heard the lisping and the trembling
Of Eden's gracious leaves about his head—
His mirth is nothing but the poor dissembling
Of a great soul unfed—
Oh, bring him where the Eden-leaves are trembling,
And give him heavenly bread.

As Winter doth her shriveled branches cover
With greenness, knowing springtime's soft desire,
Even so the soul, knowing Jesus for a lover,
Puts on a new attire—
A garment fair as snow, to meet the Lover
Who bids her come up higher.

SECOND SIGHT.

My thoughts, I fear, run less to right than wrong,
And I am selfish, sinful, being human;
But yet sometimes an impulse sweet and strong
Touches my heart, for I am still a woman;
And yesterday, beside my cradle sitting,
And broidering lilies through my lullabies,
My heart stirred in me, just as if the flitting
Of some chance angel touched me, and my eyes
Filled all at once to tender overflowing,
And my song ended—breaking up in sighs;
I could not see the lilies I was sewing
For the hot tears, thick coming to my eyes.

The unborn years, like rose-leaves in a flame,
Shriveled together, and this vision came,
For I was gifted with a second seeing:

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'T was night, and darkly terrible with storms,
And I beheld my cherished darling fleeing
In all her lily broideries from my arms—
A babe no longer. Wild the wind was blowing,
And the snows round her soddened as they fell;
And when a whisper told me she was going
That way wherein the feet take hold on hell,
I could not cry, I could not speak nor stir,
Held in mute torture by my love of her.

We make the least ado o'er greatest troubles;
Our very anguish doth our anguish drown;
The sea forms only just a few faint bubbles
Of stifled breathing when a ship goes down.

'T was but a moment—then the merry laughter
Of my sweet baby on the nurse's knee
Rippled across the mists of fantasy;
And sunshine, stretching like a golden rafter
From cornice on to cornice o'er my head,
Scattered the darkness, and my vision fled.

Times fall when Fate just misses of her blows,
And, being warned, the victim slips aside;
And thus it was with me—the idle shows,
The foolish pomp of vanity and pride,
The work of cunning hands and curious looms,
Shining about my house like poppy-blooms,
Like poppy-blooms had drowsed me, heart and brain;
And all the currents of my blood were setting
To that bad dullness that is worse than pain.
The moth will spoil the garment with its fretting
Surer and faster than the work-day wear.
The quickening vision came—not all too late:
I saw that there were griefs for me to share,
And the poor worldling missed the worldling's fate.

There was my baby—there was I, the mother,
Broidering my lilies by the golden gleam
Of the glad sunshine; but was there no other
Fleeing, as fled the phantom in my dream?
Were there no hearts, because of their great loving,
Bound to the wheel of torture past all moving?
No storms of awful sorrow to be stemmed?
Yea, out of my own heart I stood condemned.

Leaving the silken splendor of my rooms,
The sunshine stretching like a golden rafter
From cornice on to cornice, and the laughter
Of my sweet baby on the nurse's knee,
Calling me back, and almost keeping me—
Leaving my windows bright with flowery blooms,
I passed adown my broad emblazoned hall,
Along the soft mats, tufted thick across—
Scarlet and green, like roses grown with moss;
And parting from my pleasures, one and all,
Threaded my way through many a narrow street,
From whose low cellars, lit with scanty embers,
Came great-eyed children, with bare, shivering feet,
And wondered at me, through the doors gaped wide,
Till they were crowded back, or pushed aside,

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By some lean-elbowed man, or flabby crone,
Upon whose foreheads discontent had grown,
As grows the mildew on decaying timbers.

“All thine is mine,” came to me from the fall
Of every beggar's footstep, and the glooms
That hung around held yet this other call:
“Who to himself lives only is not living;
He hath no gain who does not get by giving.”
And so I came beneath the cold gray wall
That shapes the awful prison of the Tombs.
Humility had been my gentle guide—
I saw her not, a heavenly spirit she—
And when the fearful door swung open wide
I heard her pleasant steps go in with me.

Oh for a tongue, and oh! for words to tell
Of the young creature, masked with sinful guise,
That stood before me in her narrow cell
And dragged my heart out with her pleading eyes.

I shook from head to foot, and could not stir—
Afraid, but not so much afraid of her
As of myself—made like her—of one dust,
And holding an immortal soul in trust
The same as she—perhaps not even so good,
Tempted with her temptations. Was 't for me
To hold myself apart and call her sinner?
Not so; and silent, face to face we stood,
And as some traveler in the night belated
Waits for the star he knows must rise, so I
Patient within the prison darkness waited,
Trusting to see the better self within her
Rise from the ruins of her womanhood.

Nor did I wait in vain. At last, at last,
Her eager hand reached forth and held me fast,
And drawing just a little broken breath,
As if she stood upon that narrow ground
That lies a-tremble betwixt life and death,
Her yearning, fearful soul expression found:

“I'm dying—dying, and your dewy hand
Is like the shadow to the sickly plant
Whose root is in the dry and burning sand.
Pity, sweet Pity—that is what I want.
You bring it—ah! you would not, if you knew.
I clasped her closer: “Friend, dear friend, I do!
I know it all—from first to last,” I said.
“'T was but a blind, mistaken search for good;
Premeditated evil never led
To this sad end.” As one entranced she stood,
And I went on: “Nay, but 't is not the end:
God were not God if such a thing could be—
If not in time, then in eternity,
There must be room for penitence to mend
Life's broken chance, else noise of wars
Would unmake heaven.

The shadows of the bars
That darkened the poor face like devils' fingers
Faded away, and still in memory lingers
The look of tender, tearful, glad surprise
That brought the saint's soul to the sinner's eyes.

Life out of death; it seemed to me as when
The anchor, clutching, holds the driven ship,

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And to the cry scarce formed upon her lip,
“Lord God be praised!” I answered with “Amen.”

LIFE'S ROSES.

When the morning first uncloses,
And before the mists are gone,
All the hills seem bright with roses,
Just a little farther on!

Roses red as wings of starlings,
And with diamond dew-drops wet;
“Wait,” says Patience, “wait, my darlings—
Wait a little longer yet!”
So, with eager, upturned faces,
Wait the children for the hours
That shall bring them to the places
Of the tantalizing flowers.

Wild with wonder, sweet with guesses,
Vexed with only fleeting fears;
So the broader day advances,
And the twilight disappears.
Hands begin to clutch at posies,
Eyes to flash with new delight,
And the roses, oh! the roses,
Burning, blushing full in sight!

Now with bosoms softly beating,
Heart in heart, and hand in hand,
Youths and maids together meeting
Crowd the flowery harvest land.
Not a thought of rainy weather,
Nor of thorns to sting and grieve,
Gather, gather, gather, gather,
All the care is what to leave!

Noon to afternoon advances,
Rosy red grows russet brown;
Sad eyes turn to backward glances,
So the sun of youth goes down.
And as rose by rose is withered,
Sober sight begins to find

Many a false heart has been gathered,
Many a true one left behind.
Hands are clasped with fainter holding,
Unfilled souls begin to sigh
For the golden, glad unfolding
Of the morn beyond the sky.

SECRET WRITING.

From the outward world about us,
From the hurry and the din,
Oh, how little do we gather
Of the other world within!
For the brow may wear upon it
All the seeming of repose
When the brain is worn and weary,
And the mind oppressed with woes:
And the eye may shine and sparkle
As it were with pleasure's glow,
When 't is only just the flashing
Of the fires of pain below.
And the tongue may have the sweetness
That doth seem of bliss a part,
When 't is only just the tremble
Of the weak and wounded heart.
Oh, the cheek may have the color
Of the red rose, with the rest,
When 't is only just the hectic
Of the dying leaf, at best.

But when the hearth is kindled,
And the house is hushed at night—
Ah, then the secret writing
Of the spirit comes to light!
Through the mother's light caressing
Of the baby on her knee,
We see the mystic writing
That she does not know we see—
By the love-light as it flashes
In her tender-lidded eyes,
We know if that her vision rest
On earth, or in the skies;
And by the song she chooses,
By the very tune she sings,
We know if that her heart be set
On seen, or unseen things.

Oh, when the hearth is kindled—
When the house is hushed—'t is then
We see the hidden springs that move
The open deeds of men.
As the father turns the lesson
For the boy or girl to learn,
We perceive the inner letters
That he knows not we discern.
For either by the deed he does,
Or that he leaves undone,
We find and trace the channels
Where his thoughts and feelings run.
And often as the unconscious act,
Or smile, or word we scan,
Our hearts revoke the judgments
We have passed upon the man.

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Sometimes we find that he who says
The least about his faith,
Has steadfastness and sanctity
To suffer unto death;
And find that he who prays aloud
With ostentatious mien,
Prays only to be heard of men,
And only to be seen.
For when the hearth is kindled,
And the house is hushed at night—
Ah, then the secret writing
Of the spirit comes to light.

DREAMS.

Often I sit and spend my hour,
Linking my dreams from heart to brain,
And as the child joins flower to flower,
Then breaks and joins them on again,

Casting the bright ones in disgrace,
And weaving pale ones in their stead,
Changing the honors and the place
Of white and scarlet, blue and red;

And finding after all his pains
Of sorting and selecting dyes,
No single chain of all the chains
The fond caprice that satisfies;

So I from all things bright and brave,
Select what brightest, bravest seems,
And, with the utmost skill I have,
Contrive the fashion of my dreams.

Sometimes ambitious thoughts abound,
And then I draw my pattern bold,
And have my shuttle only wound
With silken threads or threads of gold.

Sometimes my heart reproaches me,
And mesh from cunning mesh I pull,
And weave in sad humility
With flaxen threads or threads of wool.

For here the hue too brightly gleams,
And there the grain too dark is cast,
And so no dream of all my dreams
Is ever finished, first, or last.

And looking back upon my past
Thronged with so many a wasted hour,
I think that I should fear to cast
My fortunes if I had the power.

And think that he is mainly wise,
Who takes what comes of good or ill,
Trusting that wisdom underlies
And worketh in the end—His will.

MY POET.

Ah, could I my poet only draw
In lines of a living light,
You would say that Shakespeare never saw
In his dreams a fairer sight.

Along the bright crisp grass where by
A beautiful water lay,
We walked—my fancies and I—
One morn in the early May.

And there, betwixt the water sweet
And the gay and grassy land,
I found the print of two little feet
Upon the silvery sand.

These following, and following on,
Allured by the place and time,
I, all of a sudden, came upon
This poet of my rhyme.

Betwixt my hands I longed to take
His two cheeks brown with tan,
To kiss him for my true love's sake,
And call him a little man.

A rustic of the rustics he,
By every look and sign,
And I knew, when he turned his face to me,
'T was his spirit made him fine.

His ignorance he had sweetly turned
Into uses passing words:
He had cut a pipe of corn, and learned
Thereon to talk to the birds.

And now it was the bluebird's trill,
Now the blackbird on the thorn.
Now a speckle-breast, or tawny-bill
That answered his pipe of corn,

And now, though he turned him north and south,
And called upon bird by bird,
There was never a little golden mouth
Would answer him back a word.

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For all, from the red-bird bold and gay,
To the linnet dull and plain,
Had fallen on beds of the leafy spray,
To listen in envious pain.

“Ah, do as you like, my golden quill;”
So he said, for his wise share;
“And the same to you, my tawny-bill,
There are pleasures everywhere.”

Then his heart fell in him dancing so,
It spun to his cheek the red,
As he spied himself in the wave below
A-standing on his head.

Ah, could I but this picture draw,
Thus glad by his nature's right,
You would say that Shakespeare never saw
In his dreams a fairer sight.

WRITTEN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1864.

Once more, despite the noise of wars,
And the smoke gathering fold on fold,
Our daisies set their stainless stars
Against the sunshine's cloth of gold.

Lord, make us feel, if so thou will,
The blessings crowning us to-day,
And the yet greater blessing still,
Of blessings thou hast taken away.

Unworthy of the favors lent,
We fell into apostasy;
And lo! our country's chastisement
Has brought her to herself, and thee!

Nearer by all this grief than when
She dared her weak ones to oppress,
And played away her States to men
Who scorned her for her foolishness.

Oh, bless for us this holiday,
Men keep like children loose from school,
And put it in their hearts, we pray,
To choose them rulers fit to rule.

Good men, who shall their country's pride
And honor to their own prefer;
Her sinews to their hearts so tied
That they can only live through her.

Men sturdy—of discerning eyes,
And souls to apprehend the right;
Not with their little light so wise
They set themselves against thy light.

Men of small reverence for names,
Courageous, and of fortitude
To put aside the narrow aims
Of factor, for the public good.

Men loving justice for the race,
Not for the great ones, and the few,
Less studious of outward grace
Than careful to be clean all through.

Men holding state, not self, the first,
Ready when all the deep is tossed
With storms, and worst is come to worst,
To save the Ship at any cost.

Men upright, and of steady knees,
That only to the truth will bow;
Lord, help us choose such men as these,
For only such can save us now.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

FOULLY ASSASSINATED, APRIL, 1865.—INSCRIBED TO PUNCH.

No glittering chaplet brought from other lands!
As in his life, this man, in death, is ours;
His own loved prairies o'er his “gaunt gnarled hands”
Have fitly drawn their sheet of summer flowers!

What need hath he now of a tardy crown,
His name from mocking jest and sneer to save?
When every ploughman turns his furrow down
As soft as though it fell upon his grave.

He was a man whose like the world again
Shall never see, to vex with blame or praise;
The landmarks that attest his bright, brief reign
Are battles, not the pomps of gala-days!

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The grandest leader of the grandest war
That ever time in history gave a place;
What were the tinsel flattery of a star
To such a breast! or what a ribbon's grace!

'T is to th' man, and th' man's honest worth,
The nation's loyalty in tears upsprings:
Through him the soil of labor shines henceforth
High o'er the silken broideries of kings.

The mechanism of external forms—
The shrifts that courtiers put their bodies through,
Were alien ways to him—his brawny arms
Had other work than posturing to do!

Born of the people, well he knew to grasp
The wants and wishes of the weak and small;
Therefore we hold him with no shadowy clasp—
Therefore his name is household to us all.

Therefore we love him with a love apart
From any fawning love of pedigree—
His was the royal soul and mind and heart—
Not the poor outward shows of royalty.

Forgive us then, O friends, if we are slow
To meet your recognition of his worth—
We 're jealous of the very tears that flow
From eyes that never loved a humble hearth.

SAVED.

No tears for him! his light was not your light;
From earth to heaven his spirit went and came,
Seeing, where ye but saw the blank, black night,
The golden breaking of the day of fame.

Faded by the diviner life, and worn,
Dust has returned to dust, and what ye see
Is but the ruined house wherein were borne
The birth-pangs of his immortality.

Hither and thither drifting drearily,
The glory of serener worlds he won,
As some strange shifting column of the sea
Catches the steadfast splendor of the sun.

What was your shallow love? or what the gleam
Of smiles that chance and accident could chill,
To him whose soul could make its mate a dream,
And wander through the universe at will?

When your weak hearts to stormy passion woke,
His from its loftier bent was only stirred,
As is the broad green bosom of the oak
By the light flutter of the summer bird.

His joys, in realms forbidden to you, he sought,
And bodiless servitors, at his commands,
Hovered about the watchfires of his thought
On the dim borders of poetic lands.

The times he lived in, like a hard, dark wall,
He grandly painted with his woes and wrongs—
Come nearer, friends, and see how brightly all
Is joined with silvery mortises of songs.

Weep for yourselves bereft, but not for him;
Wrong reaches to the compensating right,

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And clouds that make the day of genius dim,
Shine at the sunset with eternal light.

SPENT AND MISSPENT.

Stay yet a little longer in the sky,
O golden color of the evening sun!
Let not the sweet day in its sweetness die,
While my day's work is only just begun.

Counting the happy chances strewn about
Thick as the leaves, and saying which was best,
The rosy lights of morning all went out,
And it was burning noon, and time to rest.

Then leaning low upon a piece of shade,
Fringed round with violets and pansies sweet,
My heart and I, I said, will be delayed,
And plan our work while cools the sultry heat.

Deep in the hills, and out of silence vast,
A waterfall played up his silver tune;
My plans lost purpose, fell to dreams at last,
And held me late into the afternoon.

But when the idle pleasure ceased to please,
And I awoke, and not a plan was planned,
Just as a drowning man at what he sees
Catches for life, I caught the thing at hand.

And so life's little work-day hour has all
Been spent and misspent doing what I could,
And in regrets and efforts to recall
The chance of having, being, what I would.

And so sometimes I cannot choose but cry,
Seeing my late-sown flowers are hardly set—
O darkening color of the evening sky,
Spare me the day a little longer yet!

LAST AND BEST.

Sometimes, when rude, cold shadows run
Across whatever light I see;
When all the work that I have done,
Or can do, seems but vanity;

I strive, nor vainly strive, to get
Some little heart's ease from the day
When all the weariness and fret
Shall vanish from my life away;

For I, with grandeur clothed upon,
Shall lie in state and take my rest,
And all my household, strangers grown,
Shall hold me for an honored guest.

But ere that day when all is set
In order, very still and grand,
And while my feet are lingering yet
Along this troubled border-land,

What things will be the first to fade,
And down to utter darkness sink?
The treasures that my hands have laid
Where moth and rust corrupt, I think.

And Love will be the last to wait
And light my gloom with gracious gleams;
For Love lies nearer heaven's glad gate,
Than all imagination dreams.

Aye, when my soul its mask shall drop,
The twain to be no more at one,
Love, with its prayers, shall bear me up
Beyond the lark's wings, and the sun.

189

POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME.

IF AND IF.

If I were a painter, I could paint
The dwarfed and straggling wood,
And the hill-side where the meeting-house
With the wooden belfry stood,
A dozen steps from the door,—alone,
On four square pillars of rough gray stone.

We school-boys used to write our names
With our finger-tips each day
In th' dust o' th' cross-beams,—once it shone,
I have heard the old folks say,
(Praising the time past, as old folks will,)
Like a pillar o' fire on the side o' th' hill.

I could paint the lonesome lime-kilns,
And the lime-burners, wild and proud,
Their red sleeves gleaming in the smoke
Like a rainbow in a cloud,—
Their huts by the brook, and their mimicking crew—
Making believe to be lime-burners too!

I could paint the brawny wood-cutter,
With the patches at his knees,—
He 's been asleep these twenty years,
Among his friends, the trees:
The day that he died, the best oak o' the wood
Came up by the roots, and he lies where it stood.

I could paint the blacksmith's dingy shop,—
Its sign, a pillar of smoke;
The farm-horse halt, the rough-haired colt,
And the jade with her neck in a yoke;
The pony that made to himself a law,
And would n't go under the saddle, nor draw!

The poor old mare at the door-post,
With joints as stiff as its pegs,—
Her one white eye, and her neck awry,—
Trembling the flies from her legs,
And the thriftless farmer that used to stand
And curry her ribs with a kindly hand.

I could paint his quaint old-fashioned house,
With its windows, square and small,
And the seams of clay running every way
Between the stones o' the wall:
The roof, with furrows of mosses green,
And new bright shingles set between.

The oven, bulging big behind,
And the narrow porch before,
And the weather-cock for ornament
On the pole beside the door;
And th' row of milk-pans, shining bright
As silver, in the summer light.

And I could paint his girls and boys,
Each and every one,
Hepzibah sweet, with her little bare feet,
And Shubal, the stalwart son,
And wife and mother, with homespun gown,
And roses beginning to shade into brown.

190

I could paint the garden, with its paths
Cut smooth, and running straight,—
The gray sage bed, the poppies red,
And the lady-grass at the gate,—
The black warped slab with its hive of bees,
In the corner, under the apple-trees.

I could paint the fields, in the middle hush
Of winter, bleak and bare,
Some snow like a lamb that is caught in a bush,
Hanging here and there,—
The mildewed haystacks, all a-lop,
And the old dead stub with the crow at the top.

The cow, with a board across her eyes,
And her udder dry as dust,
Her hide so brown, her horn turned down,
And her nose the color of rust,—
The walnut-tree so stiff and high,
With its black bark twisted all awry.

The hill-side, and the small space set
With broken palings round,—
The long loose grass, and the little grave
With the head-stone on the ground,
And the willow, like the spirit of grace
Bending tenderly over the place.

The miller's face, half smile, half frown,
Were a picture I could paint,
And the mill, with gable steep and brown,
And dripping wheel aslant,—
The weather-beaten door, set wide,
And the heaps of meal-bags either side.

The timbers cracked to gaping seams,
The swallows' clay-built nests,
And the rows of doves that sit on the beams
With plump and glossy breasts,—
The bear by his post sitting upright to eat,
With half of his clumsy legs in his feet.

I could paint the mill-stream, cut in two
By the heat o' the summer skies,
And the sand-bar, with its long brown back,
And round and bubbly eyes,
And the bridge, that hung so high o'er the tide,
Creaking and swinging from side to side.

The miller's pretty little wife,
In the cottage that she loves,—
Her hand so white, and her step so light,
And her eyes as brown as th' dove's,
Her tiny waist, and belt of blue,
And her hair that almost dazzles you.

I could paint the White-Hawk tavern, flanked
With broken and wind-warped sheds,
And the rock where the black clouds used to sit,
And trim their watery heads
With little sprinkles of shining light,
Night and morning, morning and night.

The road, where slow and wearily,
The dusty teamster came,—
The sign on its post and the round-faced host,
And the high arched door, aflame
With trumpet-flowers,—the well-sweep, high,
And the flowing water-trough, close by.

If I were a painter, and if my hand
Were cunning, as it is not,
I could paint you a picture that would stand
When all the rest were forgot;
But why should I tell you what it would be?
I never shall paint it, nor you ever see.

AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.

Oh, good painter, tell me true,
Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw?
Aye? Well, here is an order for you.

Woods and corn fields, a little brown,—
The picture must not be overbright,—
Yet all in the golden and gracious light

191

Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.
Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn
Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
When the wind can hardly find breathing-room
Under their tassels,—cattle near,
Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around,—
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)—
These, and the house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows, open wide,—
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush:
Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the self-same way,
Out of a wilding, wayside bush.

Listen closer. When you have done
With woods and corn fields and grazing herds,
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun
Looked down upon you must paint for me:
Oh, if I only could make you see
The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman's soul, and the angel's face
That are beaming on me all the while,
I need not speak these foolish words:
Yet one word tells you all I would say,—
She is my mother: you will agree
That all the rest may be thrown away.

Two little urchins at her knee
You must paint, sir: one like me,—
The other with a clearer brow,
And the light of his adventurous eyes
Flashing with boldest enterprise:
At ten years old he went to sea,—
God knoweth if he be living now,—
He sailed in the good ship Commodore,
Nobody ever crossed her track
To bring us news, and she never came back.
Ah, it is twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay
With my great-hearted brother on her deck:
I watched him till he shrank to a speck,
And his face was toward me all the way.
Bright his hair was, a golden brown,
The time we stood at our mother's knee:
That beauteous head, if it did go down,
Carried sunshine into the sea!

Out in the fields one summer night
We were together, half afraid
Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade
Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,—
Loitering till after the low little light
Of the candle shone through the open door,
And over the hay-stack's pointed top,
All of a tremble and ready to drop,
The first half-hour, the great yellow star,
That we, with staring, ignorant eyes,
Had often and often watched to see
Propped and held in its place in the skies
By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree,
Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,—
Dead at the top,—just one branch full
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,
From which it tenderly shook the dew
Over our heads, when we came to play
In its hand-breadth of shadow, day after day.
Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,—
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,
Not so big as a straw of wheat:
The berries we gave her she would n't eat,

192

But cried and cried, till we held her bill,
So slim and shining, to keep her still.

At last we stood at our mother's knee.
Do you think, sir, if you try,
You can paint the look of a lie?
If you can, pray have the grace
To put it solely in the face
Of the urchin that is likest me:
I think 't was solely mine, indeed:
But that 's no matter,—paint it so;
The eyes of our mother—(take good heed)—
Looking not on the nestful of eggs,
Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs,
But straight through our faces down to our lies,
And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise!
I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though
A sharp blade struck through it.
You, sir, know
That you on the canvas are to repeat
Things that are fairest, things most sweet,—
Woods and corn fields and mulberry-tree,—
The mother,—the lads, with their bird, at her knee:
But, oh, that look of reproachful woe!
High as the heavens your name I'll shout,
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.

THE SUMMER STORM.

At noon-time I stood in the door-way to see
The spots, burnt like blisters, as white as could be,
Along the near meadow, shoved in like a wedge
Betwixt the high-road, and the stubble-land's edge.

The leaves of the elm-tree were dusty and brown,
The birds sat with shut eyes and wings hanging down,
The corn reached its blades out, as if in the pain
Of crisping and scorching it felt for the rain.

Their meek faces turning away from the sun,
The cows waded up to their flanks in the run,
The sheep, so herd-loving, divided their flocks,
And singly lay down by the sides of the rocks.

At sunset there rose and stood black in the east
A cloud with the forehead and horns of a beast,
That quick to the zenith went higher and higher,
With feet that were thunder and eyes that were fire.

Then came a hot sough, like a gust of his breath,
And the leaves took the tremble and whiteness of death,—
The dog, to his master, from kennel and kin,
Came whining and shaking, with back crouching in.

At twilight the darkness was fearful to see:
“Make room,” cried the children, “O mother, for me!”
As climbing her chair and her lap, with alarm,
And whisper,—“Was ever there seen such a storm!”

At morning, the run where the cows cooled their flanks
Had washed up a hedge of white roots from its banks;
The turnpike was left a blue streak, and each side
The gutters like rivers ran muddy and wide.

The barefooted lad started merry to school,
And the way was the nearest that led through the pool:
The red-bird wore never so shining a coat,
Nor the pigeon so glossy a ring on her throat.

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The teamster sat straight in his place, for the nonce,
And sang to his sweetheart and team, both at once;
And neighbors shook hands o'er the fences that day,
And talked of their homesteads instead of their hay.

THE SPECIAL DARLING.

Along the grassy lane one day,
Outside the dull old-fashioned town,
A dozen children were at play;
From noontide till the even-fall,
Curly-heads flaxen and curly-heads brown
Were busily bobbing up and down
Behind the blackberry wall.

And near these merry-makers wild
A piteous little creature was,
With face unlike the face of a child,—
Eyes fixed, and seeming frozen still,
And legs all doubled up in th' grass,
Disjointed from his will.

No dream deceived his dreary hours,
Nor made him merry nor made him grave;
He did not hear the children call,
Tumbling under the blackberry-wall,
With shoulders white with flowers;
But sat with great wide eyes one way,
And body limberly a-sway,
Like a water-plant in a wave.

He did not hear the little stir
The ants made, working in their hills,
Nor see the pale, gray daffodils
Lifting about him their dull points,
Nor yet the curious grasshopper
Transport his green and angular joints
From bush to bush. Poor simple boy,—
His senses cheated of their birth,
He might as well have grown in th' earth,
For all he knew of joy.

Near where the children took their fill
Of play, outside the dull old town,
And neighbored by a wide-flanked hill,
Where mists like phantoms up and down
Moved all the time, a homestead was,
With window toward the plot of grass
Where sat this child, and oft and again
Tender eyes peered through the pane,
Whose glances still were dim,
Till leaping under the blackberry-wall,
Curly-heads flaxen, brown and all,
They rested at last on him.

Ah, who shall say but that such love
Is the type of His who made us all,
And that from the Kingdom up above
The eyes that note the sparrow's fall,
O'er the incapable, weak and small,
Watch with tenderest care:
Such is my hope and prayer.

A DREAM OF HOME.

Sunset! a hush is on the air,
Their gray old heads the mountains bare,
As if the winds were saying prayer.

The woodland, with its broad, green wing,
Shuts close the insect whispering,
And lo! the sea gets up to sing.

The day's last splendor fades and dies,
And shadows one by one arise,
To light the candles of the skies.

O wild flowers, wet with tearful dew,
O woods, with starlight shining through!
My heart is back to-night with you!

I know each beech and maple tree,
Each climbing brier and shrub I see,—
Like friends they stand to welcome me.

Musing, I go along the streams,
Sweetly believing in my dreams;
For Fancy like a prophet seems.

Footsteps beside me tread the sod
As in the twilights gone they trod;
And I unlearn my doubts, thank God!

Unlearn my doubts, forget my fears,
And that bad carelessness that sears,
And makes me older than my years.

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I hear a dear, familiar tone,
A loving hand is in my own,
And earth seems made for me alone.

If I my fortunes could have planned,
I would not have let go that hand;
But they must fall who learn to stand.

And how to blend life's varied hues,
What ill to find, what good to lose,
My Father knoweth best to choose.

EVENING PASTIMES.

Sitting by my fire alone,
When the winds are rough and cold,
And I feel myself grow old
Thinking of the summers flown,

I have many a harmless art
To beguile the tedious time:
Sometimes reading some old rhyme
I already know by heart;

Sometimes singing over words
Which in youth's dear day gone by
Sounded sweet, so sweet that I
Had no praises for the birds.

Then, from off its secret shelf
I from dust and moth remove
The old garment of my love,
In the which I wrap myself.

And a little while am vain;
But its rose hue will not bear
The sad light of faded hair;
So I fold it up again,

More in patience than regret
Not a leaf the forest through
But is sung and whispered to.
I shall wear that garment yet.

FADED LEAVES.

The hills are bright with maples yet;
But down the level land
The beech leaves rustle in the wind
As dry and brown as sand.

The clouds in bars of rusty red
Along the hill-tops glow,
And in the still, sharp air, the frost
Is like a dream of snow.

The berries of the brier-rose
Have lost their rounded pride:
The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums
Are drooping heavy-eyed.

The cricket grows more friendly now,
The dormouse sly and wise,
Hiding away in the disgrace
Of nature, from men's eyes.

The pigeons in black wavering lines
Are swinging toward the sun;
And all the wide and withered fields
Proclaim the summer done.

His store of nuts and acorns now
The squirrel hastes to gain,
And sets his house in order for
The winter's dreary reign.

'T is time to light the evening fire,
To read good books, to sing
The low and lovely songs that breathe
Of the eternal spring.

THE LIGHT OF DAYS GONE BY.

Some comfort when all else is night,
About his fortune plays,
Who sets his dark to-days in the light
Of the sunnier yesterdays.

In memory of joy that 's been
Something of joy is, still;
Where no dew is, we may dabble in
A dream of the dew at will.

All with the dusty city's throng
Walled round, I mused to-day
Of flowery sheets lying white along
The pleasant grass of the way.

Under the hedge by the brawling brook
I heard the woodpecker's tap,
And the drunken trills of the blackbirds shook
The sassafras leaves in my lap.

I thought of the rainy morning air
Dropping down through the pine,
Of furrows fresh from the shining share,
And smelling sweeter than wine.

Of the soft, thick moss, and how it grew
With silver beads impearled,

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In the well that we used to think ran through
To the other side of the world.

I thought of the old barn set about
With its stacks of sweet, dry hay;
Of the swallows flying in and out
Through the gables, steep and gray;

Thought of the golden hum of the bees,
Of the cocks with their heads so high,
Making it morn in the tops of the trees
Before it was morn in the sky.

And of the home, of the dear old home,
With its brown and rose-bound wall,
Where we fancied death could never come—
I thought of it more than of all.

Each childish play-ground memory claims,
Telling me here, and thus,
We called to the echoes by their names,
Till we made them answer us.

Thank God, when other power decays,
And other pleasures die,
We still may set our dark to-days
In the light of days gone by.

A SEA SONG.

Come, make for me a little song—
'T was so a spirit said to me—
And make it just four verses long,
And made it sweet as it can be,
And make it all about the sea.

Sing me about the wild waste shore,
Where, long and long ago, with me
You watched the silver sails that bore
The great, strong ships across the sea—
The blue, the bright, the boundless sea.

Sing me about the plans we planned:
How one of those good ships should be
My way to find some flowery land
Away beyond the misty sea,
Where, alway, you should live with me.

Sing, lastly, how our hearts were caught
Up into heaven, because that we
Knew not the flowery land we sought
Lay all beyond that other sea—
That soundless, sailless, solemn sea.

SERMONS IN STONES.

Flower of the deep red zone,
Rain the fine light about thee, near and far,
Hold the wide earth, so as the evening star
Holdeth all heaven, alone,
And with thy wondrous glory make men see
His greater glory who did fashion thee!

Sing, little goldfinch, sing!
Make the rough billows lift their curly ears
And listen, fill the violet's eyes with tears,
Make the green leaves to swing
As in a dance, when thou dost hie along,
Showing the sweetness whence thou get'st thy song.

O daisies of the hills,
When winds do pipe to charm ye, be not slow.
Crowd up, crowd up, and make your shoulders show
White o'er the daffodils!
Yea, shadow forth through your excelling grace
With whom ye have held counsel face to face.

Fill full our desire,
Gray grasses; trick your lowly stems with green,
And wear your splendors even as a queen
Weareth her soft attire.
Unfold the cunning mystery of design
That combs out all your skirts to ribbons fine.

And O my heart, my heart,
Be careful to go strewing in and out
Thy way with good deeds, lest it come about
That when thou shalt depart,

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No low lamenting tongue be found to say,
The world is poorer since thou went'st away!

Thou shouldst not idly beat,
While beauty draweth good men's thoughts to prayer
Even as the bird's wing draweth out the air,
But make so fair and sweet
Thy house of clay, some dusk shall spread about,
When death unlocks the door and lets thee out.

MY PICTURE.

Ah, how the eye on the picture stops
Where the lights of memory shine!
My friend, to thee I will leave the sea,
If only this be mine,
For the thought of the breeze in the tops of the trees
Stirs my blood like wine!

I will leave the sea and leave the ships,
And the light-house, taper and tall,
The bar so low, whence the fishers go,
And the fishers' wives and all,
If thou wilt agree to leave to me
This picture for my wall.

I leave thee all the palaces,
With their turrets in the sky—
The hunting-grounds, the hawks and hounds—
They please nor ear nor eye;
But the sturdy strokes on the sides o' the oaks
Make my pulses fly.

The old cathedral, filling all
The street with its shadow brown,
The organ grand, and the choiring band,
And the priest with his shaven crown;
'T is the wail of the hymn in the wildwood dim,
That bends and bows me down.

The shepherd piping to his flock
In the merry month of the May,
The lady fair with the golden hair,
And the knight so gallant and gay—
For the wood so drear that is pictured here,
I give them all away.

I give the cities and give the sea,
The ships and the bar so low,
And fishers and wives whose dreary lives
Speak from the canvas so;
And for all of these I must have the trees—
The trees on the hills of snow!

And shall we be agreed, my friend?
Shall it stand as I have said?
For the sake of the shade wherein I played,
And for the sake of my dead,
That lie so low on the hills of snow,
Shall it be as I have said?

MORNING IN THE MOUNTAINS.

Morn on the mountains! streaks of roseate light
Up the high east athwart the shadows run;
The last low star fades softly out of sight,
And the gray mists go forth to meet the sun.

And now from every sheltering shrub and vine,
And thicket wild with many a tangled spray,
And from the birch and elm and rough-browed pine,
The birds begin to serenade the day.

And now the cock his sleepy harem thrills
With clarion calls, and down the flowery dells;
And from their mossy hollows in the hills;
The sheep have started all their tinkling bells.

Lo, the great sun! and Nature everywhere
Is all alive, and sweet as she can be;
A thousand happy sounds are in the air,
A thousand by the rivers and the sea.

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The dipping oar, the boatman's cheerful horn,
The well-sweep, creaking in its rise and fall;
And pleasantly along the springing corn.
The music of the ploughshare, best of all,—

The insect's little hum, the whir and beat
Of myriad wings, the mower's song so blithe,
The patter of the school-boy's naked feet,
The joyous ringing of the whetted scythe,—

The low of kine, the falling meadow bar,
The teamster's whistle gay, the droning round
Of the wet mill-wheel, and the tuneful jar
Of hollow milk-pans, swell the general sound.

And by the sea, and in each vale and glen
Are happy sights, as well as sounds to hear.
The world of things, and the great world of men,
All, all is busy, busy far and near.

The ant is hard at work, and everywhere
The bee is balanced on her wings so brown:
And the black spider on her slender stair
Is running down and up, and up and down.

The pine-wood smoke in bright, fantastic curls,
Above the low-roofed homestead sweeps away,
And o'er the groups of merry boys and girls
That pick the berries bright, or rake the hay.

Morn on the mountains! the enkindling skies,
The flowery fields, the meadows, and the sea,
All are so fair, the heart within me cries,
How good, how wondrous good our God must be.

THE THISTLE FLOWER.

My homely flower that blooms along
The dry and dusty ways,
I have a mind to make a song,
And make it in thy praise;
For thou art favored of my heart,
Humble and outcast as thou art.

Though never with the plants of grace
In garden borders set,
Full often have I seen thy face
With tender tear-drops wet,
And seen thy gray and ragged sleeves
All wringing with them, morns and eves.

Albeit thou livest in a bush
Of such unsightly form,
Thou hast not any need to blush—
Thou hast thine own sweet charm;
And for that charm I love thee so,
And not for any outward show.

The iron-weed, so straight and fine,
Above thy head may rise,
And all in glossy purple shine;
But to my partial eyes
It cannot harm thee—thou hast still
A place no finer flower can fill.

The fennel, she is courted at
The porch-side and the door—
Thou hast no lovers, and for that
I love thee all the more;
Only the wind and rain to be
Thy friends, and keep thee company.

So, being left to take thine ease
Behind thy thorny wall,
Thy little head with vanities
Has not been turned at all,
And all field beauties give me grace
To praise thee to thy very face.

So, thou shalt evermore belong
To me from this sweet hour,
And I will take thee for my song,
And take thee for my flower,
And by the great, and proud, and high
Unenvied, we will live and die.

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MY DARLINGS.

My Rose, so red and round,
My Daisy, darling of the summer weather,
You must go down now, and keep house together,
Low underground!

O little silver line
Of meadow water, ere the cloud rise darkling,
Slip out of sight, and with your comely sparkling
Make their hearth shine.

Leaves of the garden bowers,
The frost is coming soon,—your prime is over;
So gently fall, and make a soft, warm cover
To house my flowers.

Lithe willow, too, forego
The crown that makes you queen of woodland graces,
Nor leave the winds to shear the lady tresses
From your drooped brow.

Oak, held by strength apart
From all the trees, stop now your stems from growing,
And send the sap, while yet 't is bravely flowing,
Back to your heart.

And ere the autumn sleet
Freeze into ice, or sift to bitter snowing,
Make compact with your peers for overstrowing
My darlings sweet.

So when their sleepy eyes
Shall be unlocked by May with rainy kisses,
They to the sweet renewal of old blisses
Refreshed may rise.

Lord, in that evil day
When my own wicked thoughts like thieves waylay me,
Or when pricked conscience rises up to slay me,
Shield me, I pray.

Aye, when the storm shall drive,
Spread thy two blessed hands like leaves above me,
And with thy great love, though none else should love me,
Save me alive!

Heal with thy peace my strife;
And as the poet with his golden versing
Lights his low house, give me, thy praise rehearsing,
To light my life.

Shed down thy grace in showers,
And if some roots of good, at thy appearing,
Be found in me, transplant them for the rearing
Of heavenly flowers.

THE FIELD SWEET-BRIER.

I love the flowers that come about with spring,
And whether they be scarlet, white, or blue,
It mattereth to me not anything;
For when I see them full of sun and dew,
My heart doth get so full with its delight,
I know not blue from red, nor red from white.

Sometimes I choose the lily, without stain;
The royal rose sometimes the best I call;
Then the low daisy, dancing with the rain,
Doth seem to me the finest flower of all;
And yet if only one could bloom for me—
I know right well what flower that one would be!

Yea, so I think my native wilding brier,
With just her thin four leaves, and stem so rough,
Could, with her sweetness, give me my desire,
Aye, all my life long give me sweets enough;

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For though she be not vaunted to excel,
She in all modest grace aboundeth well.

And I would have no whit the less content,
Because she hath not won the poet's voice,
To pluck her little stars for ornament,
And that no man were poorer for my choice,
Since she perforce must shine above the rest
In comely looks, because I love her best!

When fancy taketh wing, and wills to go
Where all selected glories blush and bloom,
I search and find the flower that used to grow
Close by the door-stone of the dear old home—
The flower whose knitted roots we did divide
For sad transplanting, when the mother died.

All of the early and the latter May,
And through the windless heats of middle June,
Our green-armed brier held for us day by day.
The morning coolness till the afternoon:
And every bird that took his grateful share,
Sang with a heavenlier tongue than otherwhere.

And when from out the west the low sun shone,
If used to make our pulses leap and thrill
To see her lift her shadows from the stone,
And push it in among us o'er the sill—
O'erstrow with flowers, and then push softly in,
As if she were our very kith and kin.

So, seeing still at evening's golden close
This shadow with our childish shadows blend,
We came to love our simple four-leaved rose,
As if she were a sister or a friend.
And if my eyes all flowers but one must lose,
Our wild sweet-brier would be the one to choose.

THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE HILL.

O Memory, be sweet to me—
Take, take all else at will,
So thou but leave me safe and sound,
Without a token my heart to wound,
The little house on the hill!

Take all of best from east to west,
So thou but leave me still
The chamber, where in the starry light
I used to lie awake at night
And list to the whip-poor-will.

Take violet-bed, and rose-tree red,
And the purple flags by the mill,
The meadow gay, and the garden-ground,
But leave, oh leave me safe and sound
The little house on the hill!

The daisy-lane, and the dove's low plain
And the cuckoo's tender bill,
Take one and all, but leave the dreams
That turned the rafters to golden beams,
In the little house on the hill!

The gables brown, they have tumbled down,
And dry is the brook by the mill;
The sheets I used with care to keep
Have wrapt my dead for the last long sleep,
In the valley, low and still.

But, Memory, be sweet to me,
And build the walls, at will,
Of the chamber where I used to mark,
So softly rippling over the dark,
The song of the whip-poor-will!

Ah, Memory, be sweet to me!
All other fountains chill;
But leave that song so weird and wild,
Dear as its life to the heart of the child,
In the little house on the hill!

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THE OLD HOUSE.

My little birds, with backs as brown
As sand, and throats as white as frost,
I 've searched the summer up and down,
And think the other birds have lost
The tunes you sang, so sweet, so low,
About the old house, long ago.

My little flowers, that with your bloom
So hid the grass you grew upon,
A child's foot scarce had any room
Between you,—are you dead and gone?
I 've searched through fields and gardens rare,
Nor found your likeness anywhere.

My little hearts, that beat so high
With love to God, and trust in men,
Oh, come to me, and say if I
But dream, or was I dreaming then,
What time we sat within the glow
Of the old house hearth, long ago?

My little hearts, so fond, so true,
I searched the world all far and wide,
And never found the like of you:
God grant we meet the other side
The darkness 'twixt us now that stands,
In that new house not made with hands!

THE BLACKBIRD.

“I could not think so plain a bird
Could sing so fine a song.”

One on another against the wall
Pile up the books,—I am done with them all!
I shall be wise, if I ever am wise,
Out of my own ears, and of my own eyes.

One day of the woods and their balmy light,—
One hour on the top of a breezy hill,
Where in the sassafras all out of sight
The blackbird is splitting his slender bill
For the ease of his heart!
Do you think if he said
I will sing like this bird with the mud-colored back
And the two little spots of gold over his eyes,
Or like to this shy little creature that flies
So low to the ground, with the amethyst rings
About her small throat,—all alive when she sings
With a glitter of shivering green,—for the rest,
Gray shading to gray, with the sheen of her breast
Half rose and half fawn,—
Or like this one so proud,
That flutters so restless, and cries out so loud,
With stiff horny beak and a topknotted head,
And a lining of scarlet laid under his wings,—
Do you think, if he said, “I'm ashamed to be black!”
That he could have shaken the sassafras-tree
As he does with the song he was born to? not he!

CRADLE SONG.

All by the sides of the wide wild river
Surging sad through the sodden land,
There be the black reeds washing together—
Washing together in rain and sand;
Going, blowing, flowing, together—
Rough are the winds, and the tide runs high—
Hush little babe in thy silken cradle—
Lull lull, lull lull, lull lullaby!

Father is riding home, little baby,
Riding home through the wind and rain;
Flinty hoofs on the flag stems beating
Thrum like a flail on the golden grain.
All in the wild, wet reeds of the lowlands,
Dashed and plashed with the freezing foam,
There be the blood-red wings of the starlings
Shining to light and lead him home.

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Spurring hard o'er the grass-gray ridges—
Slacking rein in the low, wet land,
Where be the black reeds washing together—
Washing together in rain and sand.
Down of the yellow-throated creeper—
Plumes of the woodcock, green and black—
Boughs of salix, and combs of honey—
These be the gifts he is bearing back.

Yester morning four sweet ground-doves
Sung so gay to their nest in the wall—
Oh, by the moaning, and oh, by the droning,
The wild, wild water is over them all!
Come, O morning, come with thy roses,
Flame like a burning bush in the sky—
Hush, little babe, in thy silken cradle—
Lull lull, lull lull, lull lullaby!

GOING TO COURT.

The farm-lad quarried from the mow
The golden bundles, hastily,
And, giving oxen, colt, and cow
Their separate portions, he was free.

Then, emptying all the sweet delight
Of his young heart into his eyes,
As if he might not go that night,
He lingered, looking at the skies.

The evening's silver plough had gone
Through twilight's bank of yellow haze,
And turned two little stars thereon—
Still artfully he stayed to praise

The hedge-row's bloom—the trickling run—
The crooked lane, and valley low—
Each pleasant walk, indeed, save one,
And that the way he meant to go!

In truth, for Nature's simple shows
He had no thoughts that night, to spare,
In vain to please his eyes, the rose
Climbed redly out upon the air.

The bean-flower, in her white attire
Displayed in vain her modest charms,
And apple-blossoms, all on fire,
Fell uninvited in his arms.

When Annie raked the summer hay
Last year, a little thorn he drew
Out of her white hand, such a way,
It pierced his heart all through and through.

Poor farmer-lad! could he that night
Have seen how fortune's leaves were writ,
His eyes had emptied all their light
Back to his heart, and broken it.

ON THE SEA.

I will call her when she comes to me
My lily, and not my wife,
So whitely and so tenderly
She was set in my stormy life.

In vain her gentle eyes to please
The year had done her best,
Setting her tides of crocuses
All softly toward the west:

The bright west, where our love was born
And grew to perfect bloom,
And where the broad leaves of the corn
Hang low about her tomb.

I hid from men my cruel wound
And sailed away on the sea,
But like waves around some hulk aground
Her love enfoldeth me.

My clumsy hands are cracked and brown;
My chin is rough as a bur,
But under the dry husk soft as down
Lieth my love for her.

One night when storms were in the sky—
Sailing away on the sea,
I dreamed that I was doomed to die,
And that she came to me.

They bound my eyes, but I had sight
And saw her take that hour
My head so bright in her apron white
As if it had been a flower!

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No child when I sit alone at night
Comes climbing on my knee,
But I dream of love and my heart is light
As I sail away on the sea.

A FRAGMENT.

It was a sandy level wherein stood
The old and lonesome house; far as the eye
Could measure, on the green back of the wood,
The smoke lay always, low and lazily.

Down the high gable windows, all one way,
Hung the long, drowsy curtains, and across
The sunken shingles, where the rain would stay,
The roof was ridged, a hand's breadth deep, with moss.

The place was all so still you would have said
The picture of the Summer, drawn, should be
With golden ears, laid back against her head,
And listening to the far, low-lying sea.

But from the rock, rough-grained and icy-crowned.
Some little flower from out some cleft will rise:
And in this quiet land my love I found,
With all their soft light, sleepy, in her eyes.

No bush to lure a bird to sing to her—
In depths of calm the gnats' faint hum was drowned,
And the wind's voice was like a little stir
Of the uneasy silence, not like sound.

No tender trembles of the dew at close
Of day,—at morn, no insect choir;
No sweet bees at sweet work about the rose,
Like little housewife fairies round their fire.

And yet the place, suffused with her, seemed fair—
Ah, I would be immortal, could I write
How from her forehead fell the shining hair,
As morning falls from heaven—so bright! so bright.

SHADOWS.

When I see the long wild briers
Waving in the winds like fires,
See the green skirts of the maples
Barred with scarlet and with gold,
See the sunflower, heavy-hearted,
Shadows then from days departed
Come and with their tender trembles
Wrap my bosom, fold on fold.

I can hear sweet invitations
Through the sobbing, sad vibrations
Of the winds that follow, follow,
As from self I seek to fly—
Come up hither! come up hither!
Leave the rough and rainy weather!
Come up where the royal roses
Never fade and never die!

'T was when May was blushing, blooming,
Brown bee, bluebirds, singing, humming,
That we built and walled our chamber
With the emerald of leaves;
Made our bed of yellow mosses,
Soft as pile of silken flosses,
Dreamed our dreams in dewy brightness
Radiant like the morns and eves.

And it was when woods were gleaming,
And when clouds were wildly streaming
Gray and umber, white and ember,
Streaming in the north wind's breath,
That my little rose-mouthed blossom
Fell and faded on my bosom,
Cankered by the coming coldness,
Blighted by the frosts of death.

Therefore, when I see the shadows,
Drifting in across the meadows,
See the troops of summer wild birds
Flying from us, cloud on cloud,
Memory with that May-time lingers,
And I seem to feel the fingers
Of my lost and lovely darling
Wrap my heart up in her shroud.

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APRIL.

The wild and windy March once more
Has shut his gates of sleet,
And given us back the April-time,
So fickle and so sweet.

Now blighting with our fears, our hopes—
Now kindling hopes with fears—
Now softly weeping through her smiles—
Now smiling through her tears.

Ah, month that comes with rainbows crowned,
And golden shadows dressed—
Constant to her inconstancy,
And faithful to unrest.

The swallows 'round the homestead eaves—
The bluebirds in the bowers
Twitter their sweet songs for thy sake,
Gay mother of the flowers.

The brooks that moaned but yesterday
Through bunches of dead grass,
Climb up their banks with dimpled hands,
And watch to see thee pass.

The willow, for thy grace's sake,
Has dressed with tender spray,
And all the rivers send their mists
To meet thee on the way.

The morning sets her rosy clouds
Like hedges in the sky,
And o'er and o'er their dear old tunes
The winds of evening try.

Before another week has gone,
Each bush, and shrub, and tree,
Will be as full of buds and leaves
As ever it can be.

I welcome thee with all my heart,
Glad herald of the spring,
And yet I cannot choose but think
Of all thou dost not bring.

The violet opes her eyes beneath
The dew-fall and the rain—
But oh, the tender, drooping lids
That open not again!

Thou set'sts the red familiar rose
Beside the household door,
But oh, the friends, the sweet, sweet friends
Thou bringest back no more!

But shall I mourn that thou no more
A short-lived joy can bring,
Since death has lifted up the gates
Of their eternal spring?

POPPIES.

O ladies, softly fair,
Who curl and comb your hair,
And deck your dainty bodies, eve and morn,
With pearls, and flowery spray,
And knots of ribbons gay,
As if ye were for idlesse only born:
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
But foolish poppies in among the corn!

Whose lives but parts repeat—
Whose little dancing feet
Swim lightly as the silverly mists of morn:
Whose pretty palms unclose
Like some fresh dewy rose,
For dainty dalliance, not for distaffs born;
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
But flaunting poppies in among the corn!

O women, sad of face,
Whose crowns of girlish grace
Sin has plucked off, and left ye all forlorn—
Whose pleasures do not please—
Whose hearts have no hearts'-ease—
Whose seeming honor is of honor shorn:
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, one and all,
But painted poppies in among the corn!

Women, to name whose name
All good men blush for shame,
And bad men even, with the speech of scorn;
Who have nor sacred sight
For Vesta's lamps so white,

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Nor hearing for old Triton's wreathèd horn:
Oh, hark to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, one and all,
But poison poppies in among the corn!

Women, who will not cease
From toil, nor be at peace
Either at purple eve or yellowing morn,
But drive with pitiless hand,
Your ploughshares through the land
Quick with the lives of daisies yet unborn:
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
But troublous poppies in among the corn!

Blighting with fretful looks
The tender-tasseled stocks—
Sweeping your wide-floored barns with sighs forlorn
About the unfilled grains
And starving hunger-pains
That on the morrow, haply, shall be borne:
Oh, hark to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
But forward poppies in among the corn!

O virgins, whose pure eyes
Hold commerce with the skies—
Whose lives lament that ever ye were born;
The cross whose joy to wear
Never the rose, but only just the thorn:
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
Better than poppies in among the corn!

What better? who abuse
The gifts wise women use,
With locks sheared off, and bosoms scourged and torn;
Lapping your veils so white
Betwixt ye and the light,
Composed in heaven's sweet cisterns, morn by morn:
Oh, hark to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all
Better than poppies in among the corn!

O women, rare and fine,
Whose mouths are red with wine
Of kisses of your children, night and morn,
Whose ways are virtue's ways—
Whose good works are your praise—
Whose hearts hold nothing God has made in scorn:
Though Fame may never call
Your names, ye are, for all,
The Ruths that stand breast-high amid the corn!

Your steadfast love and sure
Makes all beside it poor;
Your cares like royal ornaments are worn;
Wise women! what so sweet,
So queenly, so complete
To name ye by, since ever one was born?
Since she, whom poets call,
The sweetest of you all,
First gleaned with Boaz in among the corn.

A SEA SONG.

Nor far nor near grew shrub nor tree,
The bare hills stood up bleak behind,
And in between the marsh weeds gray
Some tawny-colored sand-drift lay,
Opening a pathway to the sea,
The which I took to please my mind.

In full sight of the open seas
A patch of flowers I chance to find,
As if the May, being thereabout,
Had from her apron spilled them out;
And there I lay and took my ease,
And made a song to please my mind.

Sweet bed! if you should live full long,
A sweeter you will never find—
Some flowers were red, and some were white;
And in their low and tender light
I meditated on my song,
Fitting the words to please my mind.

Some sea-waves on the sands upthrown,
And left there by the wanton wind,
With lips all curled in homesick pain
For the old mother's arms again,
Moved me, and to their piteous moan
I set the tune to please my mind.

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But now I would in very truth
The flowers I had not chanced to find,
Nor lain their speckled leaves along,
Nor set to that sad tune my song;
For that which pleased my careless youth
It faileth now to please my mind.

And this thing I do know for true,
A truer you will never find,
No false step e'er so lightly rung
But that some echo giving tongue
Did like a hound all steps pursue,
Until the world was left behind.

WINTER AND SUMMER.

The winter goes and the summer comes,
And the cloud descends in warm, wet showers;
The grass grows green where the frost has been,
And waste and wayside are fringed with flowers.

The winter goes and the summer comes,
And the merry bluebirds twitter and trill,
And the swallow swings on his steel-blue wings,
This way and that way, at wildest will.

The winter goes and the summer comes,
And the swallow he swingeth no more aloft.
And the bluebird's breast swells out of her nest.
And the horniest bill of them all grows soft.

The summer goes and the winter comes,
And the daisy dies and the daffodil dies,
And the softest bill grows horny and still,
And the days set dimly and dimly rise.

The summer goes and the winter comes
And the red fire fades from the heart o' th' rose,
And the snow lies white where the grass was bright,
And the wild wind bitterly blows and blows.

The winter comes and the winter stays,
Aye, cold and long and long and cold,
And the pulses beat to the weary feet,
And the head feels sick and the heart grows cold.

The winter comes and the winter stays,
And all the glory behind us lies,
The cheery light drops into the night,
And the snow drifts over our sightless eyes.

AUTUMN.

Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips
The days, as through the sunset gates they crowd,
And Summer from her golden collar slips
And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aloud,

Save when by fits the warmer air deceives,
And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,
She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves,
And tries the old tunes over for an hour.

The wind, whose tender whisper in the May
Set all the young blooms listening through th' grove,
Sits rustling in the faded boughs today
And makes his cold and unsuccessful love.

The rose has taken off her tire of red—
The mullein-stalk its yellow stars have lost,
And the proud meadow-pink hangs down her head
Against earth's chilly bosom, witched with frost.

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The robin, that was busy all the June,
Before the sun had kissed the topmost bough,
Catching our hearts up in his golden tune,
Has given place to the brown cricket now.

The very cock crows lonesomely at morn—
Each flag and fern the shrinking stream divides—
Uneasy cattle low, and lambs forlorn
Creep to their strawy sheds with nettled sides.

Shut up the door: who loves me must not look
Upon the withered world, but haste to bring
His lighted candle, and his story-book,
And live with me the poetry of spring.

DAMARIS.

You know th' forks of th' road, and th' brown mill?
And how th' mill-stream, where th' three elms grow,
Flattens its curly head and slips below
That shelf of rocks which juts from out th' hill?

You know th' field of sandstone, red and gray,
Sloped to th' south? and where th' sign-post stands,
Silently lifting up its two black hands
To point th' uneasy traveler on his way?

You must remember the long rippling ridge
Of rye, that cut the level land in two,
And changed from blue to green, from green to blue,
Summer after summer? And th' one-arched bridge,

Under the which, with joy surpassing words,
We stole to see beneath the speckled breast
Of th' wild mother, all the clay-built nest
Set round with shining heads of little birds.

Well, midway 'twixt th' rye-ridge and th' mill,
In the old house with windows to the morn,
The village beauty, Damaris, was born—
There lives, in “maiden meditation,” still.

Stop you and mark, if you that way should pass,
The old familiar quince and apple-trees,
Chafing against the wall with every breeze,
And at the door the flag-stones, set in grass.

There is the sunflower, with her starry face
Leaned to her love; and there, with pride elate,
The prince's-feather—at th' garden-gate
The green-haired plants, all gracious in their place.

You'll think you have not been an hour away—
Seeing the stones, th' flowers, the knotty trees,
And 'twixt the palings, strings of yellow bees,
Shining like streaks of light—but, welladay!

If Damaris happen at the modest door,
In gown of silver gray and cap of snow—
Your May-day sweetheart, forty years ago—
The brief delusion can delude no more.

A LESSON.

Woodland, green and gay with dew,
Here, to-day, I pledge anew
All the love I gave to you

When my heart was young and glad,

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And in dress of homespun plaid,
Bright as any flower you had,

Through your bushy ways I trod,
Or, lay hushed upon your sod
With my silence praising God.

Never sighing for the town—
Never giving back a frown
To the sun that kissed me brown.

When my hopes were of such stuff,
That my days, though crude enough,
Were with golden gladness rough—

Timid creatures of the air—
Little ground-mice, shy and fair—
You were friendly with me there.

Beeches gray, and solemn firs,
Thickets full of bees and burs,
You were then my school-masters,

Teaching me as best you could,
How the evil by the good—
Thorns by flowers must be construed.

Rivulets of silvery sound,
Searching close, I always found
Fretting over stony ground.

And in hollows, cold and wet,
Violets purpled into jet
As if bad blood had been let;

While in every sunny place,
Each one wore upon her face
Looks of true and tender grace.

Leaning from the hedge-row wall,
Gave the rose her sweets to all,
Like a royal prodigal.

And the lily, priestly white,
Made a little saintly light
In her chapel out of sight.

Heedless how the spider spun—
Heedless of the brook that run
Boldly winking at the sun.

When the autumn clouds did pack
Hue on hue, unto that black
That 's bluish, like a serpent's back,

Emptying all their cisterns out,
While the winds in fear and doubt
Whirled like dervises about,

And the mushroom, brown and dry,
On the meadow's face did lie,
Shrunken like an evil eye—

Shrunken all its fleshy skin,
Like a lid that wrinkles in
Where an eyeball once had been.

How my soul within me cried,
As along the woodland side
All the flowers fell sick and died.

But when Spring returned, she said,
“They were sleeping, and not dead—
Thus must light and darkness wed.”

Since that lesson, even death
Lies upon the glass of faith,
Like the dimness of a breath.

KATRINA ON THE PORCH.

A BIT OF TURNER PUT INTO WORDS.

An old, old house by the side of the sea,
And never a picture poet would paint;
But I hold the woman above the saint,
And the light of the hearth is more to me
Than shimmer of air-built castle.

It fits as it grew to the landscape there—
One hardly feels as he stands aloof
Where the sandstone ends, and the red slate roof
Juts over the window, low and square,
That looks on the wild sea-water.

From the top of the hill so green and high
There slopeth a level of golden moss,
That bars of scarlet and amber cross,
And rolling out to the farther sky
Is the world of wild sea-water.

Some starved grape-vineyards round about—
A zigzag road cut deep with ruts—
A little cluster of fisher's huts,
And the black sand scalloping in and out
'Twixt th' land and th' wild sea-water.

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Gray fragments of some border towers,
Flat, pellmell on a circling mound,
With a furrow deeply worn all round
By the feet of children through the flowers,
And all by the wild sea-water.

And there, from the silvery break o' th' day
Till the evening purple drops to the land,
She sits with her cheek like a rose in her hand,
And her sad and wistful eyes one way—
The way of the wild sea-water.

And there, from night till the yellowing morn
Falls over the huts and th' scallops of sand—
A tangle of curls like a torch in her hand—
She sits and maketh her moan so lorn,
With the moan of the wild sea-water.

Only a study for homely eyes,
And never a picture poet would paint;
But I hold the woman above the saint,
And the light of the humblest hearth I prize
O'er the luminous air-built castle.

THE WEST COUNTRY.

Have you been in our wild west country? then
You have often had to pass
Its cabins lying like birds' nests in
The wild green prairie grass.

Have you seen the women forget their wheels
As they sat at the door to spin—
Have you seen the darning fall away
From their fingers worn and thin,

As they asked you news of the villages
Where they were used to be,
Gay girls at work in the factories
With their lovers gone to sea!

Ah, have you thought of the bravery
That no loud praise provokes—
Of the tragedies acted in the lives
Of poor, hard-working folks!

Of the little more, and the little more
Of hardship which they press
Upon their own tired hands to make
The toil for the children less:

And not in vain; for many a lad
Born to rough work and ways,
Strips off his ragged coat, and makes
Men clothe him with their praise.

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CONTRADICTION.

I love the deep quiet—all buried in leaves,
To sit the day long just as idle as air,
Till the spider grows tame at my elbow, and weaves,
And toadstools come up in a row round my chair.

I love the new furrows—the cones of the pine,
The grasshopper's chirp, and the hum of the mote;
And short pasture-grass where the clover-blooms shine
Like red buttons set on a holiday coat.

Flocks packed in the hollows—the droning of bees,
The stubble so brittle—the damp and flat fen;
Old homesteads I love, in their clusters of trees,
And children and books, but not women nor men.

Yet, strange contradiction! I live in the sound
Of a sea-girdled city—'t is thus that it fell,
And years, oh, how many! have gone since I bound
A sheaf for the harvest, or drank at a well.

And if, kindly reader, one moment you wait
To measure the poor little niche that you fill,
I think you will own it is custom or fate
That has made you the creature you are, not your will.

MY DREAM OF DREAMS.

Alone within my house I sit;
The lights are not for me,
The music, nor the mirth; and yet
I lack not company.

So gayly go the gay to meet,
Nor wait my griefs to mend—
My entertainment is more sweet
Than thine, to-night, my friend.

Whilst thou, one blossom in thy hand,
Bewail'st my weary hours,
Upon my native hills I stand
Waist-deep among the flowers.

I envy not a joy of thine;
For while I sit apart
Soft summer, oh, fond friend of mine,
Is with me in my heart.

Aye, aye, I'm young to-night once more;
The years their hold have loosed,
And on the dear old homestead door
I'm watching, as I used,

The sunset hang its scarlet fringe
Along the low white clouds,

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While, radiant with their tender tinge,
My visions come in crowds.

The doves fly homeward over me,
The red rose bravely gleams,
And first and last and midst I see
The dream of all my dreams.

I need not say what dream it was,
Nor how in life's lost hours
It made the glory of the grass
The splendor of the flowers.

I need not wait to paint its glow
With rainbow light nor sun;
Who ever loved that did not know
There is no dream but one?

My frosty locks grow bright and brown;
My step is light once more;
The world now dropping darkly down
Comes greenly up before.

Comes greenly up before my eyes,
With gracious splendor clad,
That world which now behind me lies
So darkly dim, so sad.

Shot over with the purpling morn,
I see the long mists roll,
And hear beneath the tasseled corn
The winds make tender dole.

I hear, and all my pulses rouse
And give back trembling thrills,
The farm-boy calling with his cows
The echoes from the hills.

So soft the plashing of the rain
Upon the peach-tree leaves,
It hardly breaks the silvery skein
The dark-browed spider weaves.

The grasshopper so faintly cries
Beneath the dock's round burs
That in the shadow where she lies
The silence scarcely stirs.

Bright tangles of the wings of birds
Along the thickets shine,
But oh, how poor are common words
To tell of bliss divine!

So let thy soft tears cease to fall,
My friend, nor longer wait;
I have my recompense for all
Thou pitiest in my fate,

The joys thou hold'st within thy glance
Thou canst not make to last;
Mine are uplifted to romance—
Immortal, changeless, fast.

When pleasures fly too far aloof,
Or pain too sorely crowds,
I go and sit beneath my roof
Of golden morning clouds.

There back to life my dead hope starts,
And well her pledge redeems,
As close within my heart of hearts
I hug my dream of dreams.

IN THE DARK.

Has the spring come back, my darling,
Has the long and soaking rain
Been moulded into the tender leaves
Of the gay and growing grain—
The leaves so sweet of barley and wheat
All moulded out of the rain?
Oh, and I would I could see them grow,
Oh, and I would I could see them blow,
All over field and plain—
The billows sweet of barley and wheat
All moulded out of the rain.

Are the flowers dressed out, my darling,
In their kerchiefs plain or bright—
The groundwort gay, and the lady of May,
In her petticoat pink and white?
The fair little flowers, the rare little flowers,
Taking and making the light?
Oh, and I would I could see them all,
The little and low, the proud and tall,
In their kerchiefs brave and bright,
Stealing out of the morns and eves,
To braid embroidery round their leaves,
The gold and scarlet light.

Have the birds come back, my darling,
The birds from over the sea?
Are they cooing and courting together
In bush and bower and tree?
The mad little birds, the glad little birds,
The birds from over the sea!
Oh, and I would I could hear them sing,

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Oh, and I would I could see them swing
In the top of our garden tree!
The mad little birds, the glad little birds,
The birds from over the sea!

Are they building their nests, my darling,
In the stubble, brittle and brown?
Are they gathering threads, and silken shreds,
And wisps of wool and down,
With their silver throats and speckled coats,
And eyes so bright and so brown?
Oh, and I would I could see them make
And line their nests for love's sweet sake,
With shreds of wool and down,
With their eyes so bright and brown!

AN INVALID'S PLEA.

O summer! my beautiful, beautiful summer!
I look in thy face, and I long so to live;
But ah! hast thou room for an idle newcomer,
With all things to take, and with nothing to give?
With all things to take of thy dear loving-kindness.
The wine of thy sunshine, the dew of thy air;
And with nothing to give but the deafness and blindness
Begot in the depths of an utter despair?

As if the gay harvester meant but to screen her,
The black spider sits in her low loom, and weaves:
A lesson of trust to the tender-eyed gleaner
That bears in her brown arms the gold of the sheaves.
The blue-bird that trills her low lay in the bushes
Provokes from the robin a merrier glee;
The rose pays the sun for his kiss with her blushes,
And all things pay tithes to thee—all things but me.

At even, the fire-flies trim with their glimmers
The wild, weedy skirts of the field and the wood;
At morning, those dear little yellow-winged swimmers,
The butterflies, hasten to make their place good.
The violet, always so white and so saintly;
The cardinal, warming the frost with her blaze:
The ant, keeping house at her sand-hearth so quaintly
Reproaches my idle and indolent ways.

When o'er the high east the red morning is breaking,
And driving the amber of starlight behind,
The land of enchantment I leave, on awaking,
Is not so enchanted as that which I find.
And when the low west by the sunset is flattered,
And locust and katydid sing up their best,
Peace comes to my thoughts, that were used to be fluttered,
Like doves when an eagle's wing darkens their nest.

The green little grasshopper, weak as we deem her,
Chirps, day in and out, for the sweet right to live;
And canst thou, O summer! make room for a dreamer,
With all things to take, and with nothing to give?
Room only to wrap her hot cheeks in thy shadows,
And all on thy daisy-fringed pillows to lie,
And dream of the gates of the glorious meadows,
Where never a rose of the roses shall die!

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POEMS OF LOVE.

THE BRIDAL VEIL.

We're married, they say, and you think you have won me,—
Well, take this white veil from my head, and look on me;
Here 's matter to vex you, and matter to grieve you.
Here 's doubt to distrust you, and faith to believe you.—
I am all as you see, common earth, common dew:
Be wary, and mould me to roses, not rue!

Ah! shake out the filmy thing, fold after fold.
And see if you have me to keep and to hold,—
Look close on my heart—see the worst of its sinning,—
It is not yours to-day for the yesterday's winning—
The past is not mine—I am too proud to borrow—
You must grow to new heights if I love you to-morrow.

We 're married! I'm plighted to hold up your praises,
As the turf at your feet does its handful of daisies;
That way lies my honor,—my pathway of pride,
But, mark you, if greener grass grow either side,
I shall know it, and keeping in body with you.
Shall walk in my spirit with feet on the dew!

We 're married! Oh, pray that our love do not fail!
I have wings flattened down and hid under my veil:
They are subtle as light—you can never undo them,
And swift in their flight—you can never pursue them,
And spite of all clasping, and spite of all bands,
I can slip like a shadow, a dream, from your hands.

Nay, call me not cruel, and fear not to take me,
I am yours for my life-time, to be what you make me,—
To wear my white veil for a sign, or a cover,
As you shall be proven my lord, or my lover;
A cover for peace that is dead, or a token
Of bliss that can never be written or spoken.

PITILESS FATE.

I saw in my dream a wonderful stream,
And over the stream was a bridge so slender,
And over the white there was scarlet light,
And over the scarlet a golden splendor.

And beyond the bridge was a goodly ridge
Where bees made honey and corn was growing,
And down that way through the gold and gray
A gay young man in a boat was rowing.

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I could see from the shore that a rose he wore
Stuck in his button-hole, rare as the rarest,
And singing a song and rowing along,
I guessed his face to be fair as the fairest.

And all by the corn where the bees at morn
Made combs of honey—with breathing bated.
I saw by the stream (it was only a dream)
A lovely lady that watched and waited.

There were fair green leaves in her silken sleeves,
And loose her locks in the winds were blowing,
And she kissed to land with her milk-white hand
The gay young man in the boat a-rowing.

And all so light in her apron white
She caught the little red rose he cast her,
And, “Haste!” she cried, with her arms so wide,
“Haste, sweetheart, haste!” but the boat was past her.

And the gray so cold ran over the gold,
And she sighed with only the winds to hear her—
“He loves me still, and he rowed with a will,
But pitiless Fate, not he, was steerer!”

And there till the morn blushed over the corn.
And over the bees in their sweet combs humming,
Her locks with the dew drenched through and through
She watched and waited for her false love's coming!

But the maid to-day who reads my lay
May keep her young heart light as a feather—
It was only a dream, the bridge and the stream,
And lady and lover, and all together.

THE LOVER'S INTERDICT.

Stop, traveler, just a moment at my gate,
And I will give you news so very sweet
That you will thank me. Where the branches meet
Across your road, and droop, as with the weight
Of shadows laid upon them, pause, I pray,
And turn aside a little from your way.

You see the drooping branches overspread
With shadows, as I told you—look you now
To the high elm-tree with the dead white bough
Loose swinging out of joint, and there, with head
Tricked out with scarlet, pouring his wild lay,
You see a blackbird: turn your step that way.

Holding along the honeysuckle hedge,
Make for the meadows lying down so low;
Ah! now I need not say that you must go
No farther than that little silver wedge
Of daisy-land, pushed inward by the flood
Betwixt the hills—you could not, if you would.

For you will see there, as the sun goes down,
And freckles all the daisy leaves with gold,
A little maiden, in their evening fold
Penning two lambs—her soft, fawn-colored gown
Tucked over hems of violet, by a hand
Dainty as any lady's in the land.

Such gracious light she will about her bring,
That, when the day, being wedded to the shade,
Wears the moon's circle, blushing, as the maid

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Blushes to wear the unused marriage-ring,
And all the quickened clouds do fall astir
With daffodils, your thoughts will stay with her.

No ornaments but her two sapphire eyes,
And the twin roses in her cheeks that grow,
The nice-set pearls, that make so fine a show
When that she either softly smiles or sighs,
And the long tresses, colored like a bee—
Brown, with a sunlight shimmer. You will see,

When you have ceased to watch the airy spring
Of her white feet, a fallen beech hard by,
The yellow earth about the gnarled roots dry,
And if you hide there, you will hear her sing
That song Kit Marlowe made so long ago—
“Come live with me, and be my love,” you know.

Dear soul, you would not be at heaven's high gate
Among the larks, that constellated hour,
Nor locked alone in some green-hearted bower
Among the nightingales, being in your fate,
By fortune's sweet selection, graced above
All grace, to hear that—Come, and be my love!

But when the singer singeth down the sweets
To that most maiden-like and lovely bed—
All out of soft persuasive roses spread—
You must not touch the fair and flowery sheets
Even in your thought! and from your perfect bliss
I furthermore must interdict you this:

When all the wayward mists, because of her,
Lie in their white wings, moveless, on the air,
You must not let the loose net of her hair
Drag your heart to her! nor from hushed breath stir
Out of your sacred hiding. As you guess
She is my love—this woodland shepherdess.

The cap, the clasps, the kirtle fringed along
With myrtles, as the hand of dear old Kit
Did of his cunning pleasure broider it,
To ornament that dulcet piece of song
Immortalled with refrains of—Live with me!
These to your fancy, one and all are free.

But, favored traveler, ere you quit my gate,
Promise to hold it, in your mind to be
Enamored only of the melody,
Else will I pray that all yon woody weight
Of branch and shadow, as you pass along,
Crush you among the echoes of the song.

SNOWED UNDER.

Come let us talk together,
While the sunset fades and dies,
And, darling, look into my heart,
And not into my eyes.

Let us sit and talk together
In the old, familiar place,
But look deep down into my heart,
Not up into my face.

And with tender pity shield me—
I am just a withered bough—
I was used to have your praises,
And you cannot praise me now.

You would nip the blushing roses;
They were blighted long ago,

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But the precious roots, my darling,
Are alive beneath the snow.

And in the coming spring-time
They will all to beauty start—
Oh, look not in my face, beloved,
But only in my heart!

You will not find the little buds,
So tender and so bright;
They are snowed so deeply under,
They will never come to light.

So look, I pray you, in my heart,
And not into my face,
And think about that coming spring
Of greenness and of grace,

When from the winter-laden bough
The weight of snow shall drop away,
And give it strength to spring into
The life of endless May.

AN EMBLEM.

What is my little sweetheart like, d' you say?
A simple question, yet a hard, to answer;
But I will tell you in my stammering way
The best I can, sir.

When I was young—that 's neither here nor there—
I read, and reading made my eyelids glisten;
But I'll repeat the story, if you care
To stay and listen.

A wild rose, born within a modest glen,
And sheltered by the leaves of thorny bushes,
Drooped, being commended to the eyes of men,
And died of blushes.

Now, if there were—and one may well suppose
There never was a flower of such rare splendor,
Much less a rudely nurtured wilding rose,
Withal so tender—

But say there were; what is a rose the less,
When all from east to west the May is blazing,
That any tuneful bard her face should miss,
And give her praising?

Yet say there did, and that her heart did break,
As tells the romance of my early reading,
Then I that fair, fond flower for emblem take—
Sir, are you heeding?—

Aye, say there were, and that she spent her days
In ignorance of her proud poetic glory;
Only her soft death making to the praise
Of her brief story:

Even such a wild, bright flower, and so apart
In her low modest house, my little maid is—
Sweet-hearted, shy, and strange to all the art
Of your fine ladies.

So tender, that to death she needs must grieve,
Stabbed by the glances of bold eyes, is certain;
Take you the emblem, then, and give me leave
To drop the curtain.

QUEEN OF ROSES.

My little love hath made
A garden that all sweetest sweetness holds,
And there for hours upon a piece of shade
Fringed round with marjoram and marigolds,
She lieth dreaming, on her arm of pearl,
My pretty little love—my garden-girl.

The walks are one and all
Enriched along their borders with wild mint,

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And pinks, and gilliflowers, both large and small;
But where her little feet do leave a print,
Whether on grass or ground, it doth displace
And make of non-effect all other grace.

Her speech is all so fair
The winds disgraced, do from her presence run,
And when she combeth loose her heavenly hair
She giveth entertainment to the sun.
Oh, just to touch the least of all thy curls,
My golden head—my queen of garden-girls.

Her shawl-corners of snow
Like wings drop down about her when she stands
And never queen's lace made so fair a show
As that doth, knitted in her two white hands;
The while some sudden look of cold surprise
Shoots like an angry comet to her eyes.

When she doth walk abroad
Her subject flowers do one and all arise;
The low ones housèd meekly in the sod
Do kiss her feet—the lofty ones, her eyes.
Oh sad for him whose seeing hath not seen
My rose of roses, and my heart's dear queen.

I'm tying all my hours
With sighs together—“Welladay! ah me!”
Because I cannot choose nor words, nor flowers,
Wherewith to lure my love to marry me!
I'll ask her what the wretched man must say
Who loves a saint, and woo her just that way.

Else in some honeyed phrase
I'll fit a barb no clearest sight can see,
And toss it up and down all cunning ways,
Until I catch and drag her heart to me!
Ah, then I'll tease her, for my life of pain,
For she shall never have it back again.

NOW AND THEN.

“Sing me a song, my nightingale,
Hid in among the twilight flowers;
And make it low,” he said, “I pray,
And make it sweet.” But she said, “Nay;
Come when the morn begins to trail
Her golden glories o'er the gray—
Morn is the time for love's all-hail!”
He said, “The morning is not ours!

“Then give me back, my heart's delight,
Hid in among the twilight flowers,
The kiss I gave you yesterday—
See how the moon this way has leant,
As if to yield a soft consent.
Surely,” he said, “you will requite
My love in this?” But she said, “Nay.”
“Yea, now,” he said. But she said, “Hush!
And come to me at morning-blush.”
He said, “The morning is not ours!

“But say, at least, you love me, love.
Hid in among the twilight flowers;
No winds are listening, far or near—
The sleepy doves will never hear.”
“Ah, leave me in my sacred glen;
And when the saffron morn shall close
Her misty arms about the rose,
Come, and my speech, my thought shall prove—
Not now,” she said; “not now, but then.”
He said, “The morning is not ours!”

THE LADY TO THE LOVER.

Since thou wouldst have me show
In what sweet way our love appears to me,
Think of sweet ways, the sweetest that can be,

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And thou may'st partly dream, but canst not know:
For out of heaven no bliss—
Disshadowed lies, like this,
Therefore similitudes thou must forego.

Thou seem'st myself's lost part,
That hath, in a new compact, dearer close;
And if that thou shouldst take a broken rose
And fit the leaves again about the heart,
That mended flower would be
A poor, faint sign to thee
Of how one's self about the other grows.

Think of the sun and dew
Walled in some little house of leaves from sight,
Each from the other taking, giving light,
And interpenetrated through and through;
Feeding, and fed upon—
All given, and nothing gone,
And thou art still as far as day from night.

Sweeter than honey-comb
To little hungry bees, when rude winds blow;
Brighter than wayside window-lights that glow
Through the cold rain, to one that has no home;
But out of heaven, no bliss
Disshadowed lies, like this,—
Therefore similitudes thou must forego.

LOVE'S SECRET SPRINGS.

In asking how I came to choose
This flower that makes my brow to shine,
You seem to say, you did not lose
Your choice, my friend, when I had mine!
And by your lifted brow, exclaim,
“What charms have charmed you? name their name!”

Nay, pardon me—I cannot say
These are the charms, and those the powers,
And being in a trance one day,
I took her for my flower of flowers.
Love doth not flatter what he gives—
But here, sir, are some negatives.

'T is not the little milk-white hands
That grace whatever work they do;
'T is not the braided silken bands
That shade the eyes of tender blue;
And not the voice so low and sweet
That holds me captive at her feet.

'T is not in frowns, knit up with smiles,
Wherewith she scolds me for my sins,
Nor yet in tricksy ways nor wiles
That I can say true love begins!
Out of such soil it did not grow;
It was,—and that is all I know.

'T is not her twinkling feet so small,
Nor shoulder glancing from her sleeve,
Nor yet her virtues, one nor all—
Love were not love to ask our leave;
She was not woed, nor was I won—
What draws the dew-drop to the sun?

Pardon me, then, I cannot tell,—
Nor can you hope to understand,—
Why I should love my love so well;
Nor how, upon this border land,
It fell that she should go with me
Through time into eternity.

AT SEA.

Brown-faced sailor, tell me true—
Our ship I fear is but illy thriving,
Some clouds are black and some are blue,
The women are huddled together below,
Above the captain treads to and fro;
Tell me, for who shall tell but you,
Whither away our ship is driving!

The wind is blowing a storm this way,
The bubbles in my face are winking—
'T is growing dark in the middle of day
And I cannot see the good green land,
Nor a ridge of rock, nor a belt of sand;
Oh, kind sailor, speak and say,
How long might a little boat be sinking?

More saucily the bubbles wink;
God's mercy keep us from foul weather,

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And from drought with nothing but brine to drink.
I dreamed of a ship with her ribs stove in,
Last night, and waking thought of my sin;
How long would a strong man swim, d' y' think,
If we were all in th' sea together?

The sailor frowned a bitter frown,
And answered, “Aye, there will be foul weather,—
All men must die, and some must drown,
And there is n't water enough in the sea
To cleanse a sinner like you or me;
O Lord, the ships I 've seen go down,
Crew and captain and all together!”

The sailor smiled a smile of cheer,
And looked at me a look of wonder,
And said, as he wiped away a tear,
“Forty years I've been off the land
And God has held me safe in his hand:
He ruleth the storm—He is with us here,
And his love for us no sin can sunder.”

A CONFESSION.

I know a little damsel
As light of foot as the air,
And with smile as gay
As th' sun o' th' May
And clouds of golden hair.
She sings with the larks at morning,
And sings with the doves at e'en,
And her cheeks they shine
Like a rose on the vine,
And her name is Charlamine.
To plague me and to please me
She knows a thousand arts,
And against my will
I love her still
With all my heart of hearts!

I know another damsel
With eyelids lowly weighed,
And so pale is she
That she seems to me
Like a blossom blown in the shade.
Her hands are white as charity,
And her voice is low and sweet,
And she runneth quick
To the sinful and sick,
And her name is Marguerite.
The broken and bowed in spirit
She maketh straight and whole,
And I sit at her knee
And she sings to me,
And I love her with my soul.

I know a lofty lady,
And her name is Heleanore.
And th' king o' the sky
In her lap doth lie
When she sitteth at her door.
Her shoulder is curved like an eagle's wing
When he riseth on his way,
And my two little maids
They lay in braids
Her dark locks day by day.
Her heart in the folds of her kerchief
It doth not fall or rise,
And afar I wait
At her royal gate,
And I love her with my eyes!

Now you that are wise in love-lore,
Come teach your arts to me,
For each of the darling damsels
Is as sweet as she can be!
And if I wed with Charlamine
Of the airy little feet.
I shall sicken and sigh,
I shall droop and die,
For my gentle Marguerite!
And if I wed with Marguerite,
Whom I so much adore,
I shall long to go
From her hand of snow
To my Lady Heleanore!
And if I wed with Heleanore,
Whom with my eyes I love,
'Gainst all that is right,
In my own despite,
I shall false and faithless prove.

EASTER BRIDAL SONG.

Haste, little fingers, haste, haste!
Haste, little fingers, pearly;
And all along the slender waist,
And up and down the silken sleeves
Knot the darling and dainty leaves,
And wind o' the south, blow light and fast,
And bring the flowers so early!

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Low, droop low, my tender eyes,
Low, and all demurely,
And make the shining seams to run
Like little streaks o' th' morning sun
Through silver clouds so purely;
And fall, sweet rain, fall out o' th' skies,
And bring the flowers so early!

Push, little hands, from the bended face,
The tresses crumpled curly,
And stitch the hem in the frill of snow
And give to the veil its misty flow,
And melt, ye frosts, so surly;
And shine out, spring, with your days of grace,
And bring the flowers so early!

PRODIGAL'S PLEA.

Shine down, little head, so fair,
From thy window in the wall;
Oh, my slighted golden hair,
Like the sunshine round me fall—
Little head, so fair, so bright,
Fill my darkness with thy light!

Reach me down thy helping hand,
Little sweetheart, good and true;
Shamed, and self-condemned, I stand,
And wilt thou condemn me too?
Soilure of sin, be sure
Cannot harm thy hand so pure.

With thy quiet, calm my cry
Pleading to thee from afar.
Is it not enough that I
With myself should be at war?
With thy cleanness, cleanse my blood;
With thy goodness, make me good.

Eyes that loved me once, I pray,
Be not crueller than death;
Hide each sharp-edged glance away
Underneath its tender sheath!
Make me not, sweet eyes, with scorn
Mourn that ever I was born!

Oh, my roses! are ye dead;
That in love's delicious day,
Used to flower out ripe and red,
Fast as kisses plucked away?
Turn thy pale cheek, little wife;
Let me warm them back to life.

I have wandered, oh, so far!
From the way of truth and right;
Shine out for my guiding star,
Little head, so dear and bright;
Dust of sin is on my brow—
Good enough for both, art thou!

THE SEAL FISHER'S WIFE.

The west shines out through lines of jet,
Like the side of a fish through the fisher's net,
Silver and golden-brown;
And rocking the cradle, she sings so low,
As backward and forward, and to and fro,
She cards the wool for her gown.

She sings her sweetest, she sings her best,
And all the silver fades in the west,
And all the golden-brown,
And lowly leaning cradle across,
She mends the fire with faggots and moss,
And cards the wool for her gown.

Gray and cold, and cold and gray,
Over the look-out and over the bay,
The sleet comes sliding down,
And the blaze of the faggots flickers thin,
And the wind is beating the ice-blocks in,
As she cards the wool for her gown.

The fisher's boats in the ice are crushed.
And now her lullaby-song is hushed,—
For sighs the singing drown,—
And all, with fingers stiff and cold,
She covers the cradle, fold on fold,
With the carded wool of her gown.

And there—the cards upon her knee,
And her eyes wide open toward the sea,
Where the fisher's boats went down—
They found her all as cold as sleet,
And her baby smiling up so sweet,
From the carded wool of her gown.

CARMIA.

My Carmia, my life, my saint,
No flower is sweet enough to paint
Thy sweet, sweet face for me!

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The rose-leaf nails, the slender wrist,
The hand, the whitest ever kissed—
Dear Carmia, what has Raphael missed
In never seeing thee!

Oh to be back among the days
Wherein she blessed me with her praise—
She knew not how to frown!
The memory of that time doth seem
Like dreaming of a lovely dream,
Or like a golden broider-seam
Stitched in some homely gown.

No silken skein is half so soft
As those long locks I combed so oft—
No tender tearful skies—
No violet darkling into jet—
And all with daybreak dew-drops wet—
No star, when first the sun is set,
Is like my Carmia's eyes.

But not the dainty little wrist,
Nor hand, the whitest ever kissed,
Nor face, so sweet to see,
Nor words of praise, that so did bless,
Nor rose-leaf nail, nor silken tress,
Made her so dear to me.

'T was nothing my poor words can tell,
Nor charm of chance, nor magic spell
To wane, and waste, and fall—
I loved her to the utmost strain
Of heart and soul and mind and brain,
And Carmia loved me back again,
And that is all-and-all!

EPITHALAMIUM.

In the pleasant spring-time weather—
Rosy morns and purple eves—
When the little birds together
Sit and sing among the leaves,
Then it seems as if the shadows,
With their interlacing boughs,
Had been hung above the meadows
For the plighting of their vows!

In the lighter, warmer weather,
When the music softly rests,
And they go to work together
For the building of their nests;
Then the branches, for a wonder,
Seem uplifted everywhere,
To be props and pillars under
Little houses in the air.

But when we see the meeting
Of the lives that are to run
Henceforward to the beating
Of two hearts that are as one,
When we hear the holy taking
Of the vows that cannot break,
Then it seems as if the making
Of the world was for their sake.

JENNIE.

Now tell me all my fate, Jennie,—
Why need I plainer speak?
For you see my foolish heart has bled
Its secret in my cheek!

You must not leave me thus, Jennie,—
You will not, when you know,
It is my life you 're treading on
At every step you go.

Ah, should you smile as now, Jennie,
When the wintry weather blows,
The daisy, waking out of sleep,
Would come up through the snows.

Shall our house be on the hill, Jennie,
Where the sumach hedges grow?
You must kiss me, darling, if it's yes,
And kiss me if it 's no.

It shall be very fine—the door
With bean-vines overrun,
And th' window toward the harvest-field
Where first our love begun.

What marvel that I could not mow
When you came to rake the hay,
For I cannot speak your name, Jennie,
If I 've nothing else to say.

Nor is it strange that when I saw
Your sweet face in a frown,
I hung my scythe in the apple-tree,
And thought the sun was down.

For when you sung the tune that ends
With such a golden ring,
The lark was made ashamed, and sat
With her head beneath her wing.

You need not try to speak, Jennie,
You blush and tremble so,
But kiss me, darling, if it 's yes,
And kiss me if it 's no!

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MIRIAM.

Like to that little homely flower
That never from her rough house stirs
While summer lasts, but sits and combs
The sunbeams with her purple burs,

So kept she in her house content
While love's bright summer with her stayed:
But change works change, and since she met
A shadow from the land of shade;

The ghost of that wild flower that sits
In her rough house, and never stirs
While summer lasts, has not a face
So dead of meaning, as is hers.

In vain the pitying year puts on
Her rose-red mornings, for like streams
Lost from the sunlight under banks
Of wintry darkness, are her dreams.

In vain among their clouds of green
The wild birds sing—she says with tears
Their sweet tongues stammer in the tunes
They sang so well in other years.

Her home in ruins lies, and thorns
Choke with their briery arms, the door;
What matter, says she, since that love
Will cross the threshold, never more.

[O winds! ye are too rough, too rough]

O winds! ye are too rough, too rough!
O spring! thou art not long enough
For sweetness; and for thee,
O love! thou still must overpass
Time's low and dark and narrow glass,
And fill eternity.

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POEMS OF GRIEF AND CONSOLATION.

MOURN NOT.

O mourner, mourn not vanished light,
But fix your fearful hopes above;
The watcher, through the long, dark night,
Shall see the daybreak of God's love.

A land all green and bright and fair,
Lies just beyond this vale of tears,
And we shall meet, immortal there,
The pleasures of our mortal years.

He who to death has doomed our race,
With steadfast faith our souls has armed,
And made us children of his grace
To go into the grave, unharmed.

The storm may beat, the night may close,
The face may change, the blood run chill,
But his great love no limit knows,
And therefore we should fear no ill.

Dust as we are, and steeped in guilt,
How strange, how wondrous, how divine,
That He hath for us mansions built,
Where everlasting splendors shine.

Our days with beauty let us trim,
As Nature trims with flowers the sod;
Giving the glory all to Him,—
Our Friend, our Father, and our God.

CONSOLATION.

O friends, we are drawing nearer home
As day by day goes by;
Nearer the fields of fadeless bloom,
The joys that never die.

Ye doubting souls, from doubt be free,—
Ye mourners, mourn no more,
For every wave of death's dark sea
Breaks on that blissful shore.

God's ways are high above our ways,—
So shall we learn at length,
And tune our lives to sing his praise
With all our mind, might, strength.

About our devious paths of ill
He sets his stern decrees,
And works the wonder of his will
Through pains and promises.

Strange are the mysteries He employs,
Yet we his love will trust,
Though it should blight our dearest joys,
And bruise us into dust.

UNDER THE SHADOW.

My sorrowing friend, arise and go
About thy house with patient care;
The hand that bows thy head so low
Will bear the ills thou canst not bear.

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Arise, and all thy tasks fulfill,
And as thy day thy strength shall be;
Were there no power beyond the ill,
The ill could not have come to thee.

Though cloud and storm encompass thee,
Be not afflicted nor afraid;
Thou knowest the shadow could not be
Were there no sun beyond the shade.

For thy beloved, dead and gone,
Let sweet, not bitter, tears be shed;
Nor “open thy dark saying on
The harp,” as though thy faith were dead.

Couldst thou even have them reappear
In bodies plain to mortal sense,
How were the miracle more clear
To bring them than to take them hence?

Then let thy soul cry in thee thus
No more, nor let thine eyes thus weep;
Nothing can be withdrawn from us
That we have any need to keep.

Arise, and seek some height to gain
From life's dark lesson day by day,
Not just rehearse its peace and pain—
A wearied actor at the play.

Nor grieve that will so much transcends
Thy feeble powers, but in content
Do what thou canst, and leave the ends
And issues with the Omnipotent.

Dust as thou art, and born to woe,
Seeing darkly, and as through a glass,
He made thee thus to be, for lo!
He made the grass, and flower of grass.

The tempest's cry, the thunder's moan,
The waste of waters, wild and dim,
The still small voice thou hear'st alone—
All, all alike interpret Him.

Arise, my friend, and go about
Thy darkened house with cheerful feet;
Yield not one jot to fear nor doubt,
But, baffled, broken, still repeat:

“'T is mine to work, and not to win;
The soul must wait to have her wings;
Even time is but a landmark in
The great eternity of things.

“Is it so much that thou below,
O heart, shouldst fail of thy desire,
When death, as we believe and know,
Is but a call to come up higher?”

LOST LILIES.

Show you her picture? Here it lies!
Hands of lilies, and lily-like brow;
Mouth that is bright as a rose, and eyes
That are just the soul's sweetest overflow.

Darling shoulders, softly pale,
Borne by the undulating play
Of the life below, up out of their veil,
Like lilies out o' the waves o' the May.

Throat as white as the throat of a swan,
And all as proudly graceful held;
Fair, bare bosom, “clothed upon
With chastity,” like the lady of eld.

Tender lids, that drooping down,
Chide your glances overbold;
Fair, with a golden gleam in the brown,
And brown again in the gleamy gold.

These on your eyes like a splendor fall,
And you marvel not at my love, I see;
But it was not one, and it was not all,
That made her the angel she was to me.

So shut the picture and put it away,
Your fancy is only thus misled:
What can the dull, cold semblance say,
When the spirit and life of the life is fled?

Seven long years, and seven again,
And three to the seven—a weary space—
The weary fingers of the rain
Have drawn the daisies over her face.

224

Seven and seven years, and three,
The leaves have faded to death in the frost,
Since the shadow that made for me
The world a shadow my pathway crossed.

And now and then some meteor gleam
Has broken the gloom of my life apart,
Or the only thread of some raveled dream
Has slid like sunshine in my heart.

But never a planet, steady and still,
And never a rainbow, brave and fine,
And never the flowery head of a hill
Has made the cloud of my life to shine.

Yet God is love! and this I trust,
Though summer is over and sweetness done,
That all my lilies are safe, in the dust,
As they were in the glow of the great, glad sun.

Yea, God is love, and love is might!
Mighty as surely to keep as to make;
And the sleepers, sleeping in death's dark night,
In the resurrection of life shall wake.

A WONDER.

Still alway groweth in me the great wonder,
When all the fields are blushing like the dawn,
And only one poor little flower ploughed under,
That I can see no flowers, that one being gone:
No flower of all, because of one being gone.

Aye, ever in me groweth the great wonder,
When all the hills are shining, white and red,
And only one poor little flower ploughed under,
That it were all as one if all were dead:
Aye, all as one if all the flowers were dead.

I cannot feel the beauty of the roses;
Their soft leaves seem to me but layers of dust;
Out of my opening hand each blessing closes:
Nothing is left to me but my hope and trust,
Nothing but heavenly hope and heavenly trust.

I get no sweetness of the sweetest places;
My house, my friends no longer comfort me;
Strange somehow grow the old familiar faces;
For I can nothing have, not having thee:
All my possessions I possessed through thee.

Having, I have them not—strange contradiction!
Heaven needs must cast its shadow on our earth;
Yea, drown us in the waters of affliction
Breast high, to make us know our treasure's worth,
To make us know how much our love is worth.

And while I mourn, the anguish of my story
Breaks, as the wave breaks on the hindering bar:
Thou art but hidden in the deeps of glory,
Even as the sunshine hides the lessening star,
And with true love I love thee from afar.

I know our Father must be good, not evil,
And murmur not, for faith's sake, at my ill;
Nor at the mystery of the working cavil,
That somehow bindeth all things in his will,
And, though He slay me, makes me trust Him still.

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MOST BELOVED.

My heart thou makest void, and full;
Thou giv'st, thou tak'st away my care;
O most beloved! most beautiful!
I miss, and find thee everywhere!

In the sweet water, as it flows;
The winds, that kiss me as they pass;
The starry shadow of the rose,
Sitting beside her on the grass;

The daffodilly trying to bless
With better light the beauteous air;
The lily, wearing the white dress
Of sanctuary, to be more fair;

The lithe-armed, dainty-fingered brier,
That in the woods, so dim and drear,
Lights up betimes her tender fire
To soothe the homesick pioneer;

The moth, his brown sails balancing
Along the stubble, crisp and dry;
The ground-flower, with a blood-red ring
On either hand: the pewet's cry;

The friendly robin's gracious note;
The hills, with curious weeds o'errun;
The althea, in her crimson coat
Tricked out to please the wearied sun;

The dandelion, whose golden share
Is set before the rustic's plough;
The hum of insects in the air;
The blooming bush; the withered bough;

The coming on of eve; the springs
Of daybreak, soft and silver bright;
The frost, that with rough, rugged wings
Blows down the cankered buds; the white,

Long drifts of winter snow; the heat
Of August falling still and wide;
Broad corn fields; one chance stalk of wheat,
Standing with bright head hung aside:

All things, my darling, all things seem
In some strange way to speak of thee;
Nothing is half so much a dream,
Nothing so much reality.

MY DARLINGS.

When steps are hurrying homeward,
And night the world o'erspreads,
And I see at the open windows
The shining of little heads,
I think of you, my darlings,
In your low and lonesome beds.

And when the latch is lifted,
And I hear the voices glad,
I feel my arms more empty,
My heart more widely sad;
For we measure dearth of blessings
By the blessings we have had.

But sometimes in sweet visions
My faith to sight expands,
And with my babes in his bosom,
My Lord before me stands,
And I feel on my head bowed lowly
The touches of little hands.

Then pain is lost in patience,
And tears no longer flow:
They are only dead to the sorrow
And sin of life, I know;
For if they were not immortal
My love would make them so.

WAIT.

Go not far in the land of light!
A little while by the golden gate,
Lest that I lose you out of sight,
Wait, my darling, wait.

Forever now from your happy eyes
Life's scenic picture has passed away;
You have entered into realities,
And I am yet at the play!

Yet at the play of time—through all,
Thinking of you, and your high estate;
A little while, and the curtain will fall—
Wait, my darling, wait!

Mine is a dreary part to do—
A mask of mirth on a mourning brow;
The chance approval, the flower or two,
Are nothing—nothing now!

The last sad act is drawing on;
A little while by the golden gate
Of the holy heaven to which you are gone,
Wait, my darling, wait.

THE OTHER SIDE.

I dreamed I had a plot of ground.
Once on a time, as story saith,
All closèd in and closèd round
With a great wall, as black as death.

I saw a hundred mornings break,
So far a little dream may reach;
And, like a blush on some fair cheek,
The spring-time mantling over each.

Sweet vines o'erhung, like vernal floods,
The wall, I thought, and though I spied
The glorious promise of the buds,
They only bloomed the other side.

Tears, torments, darkened all my ground,
Yet Heaven, by starts, above me gleamed;
I saw, with senses strangely bound,
And in my dreaming knew I dreamed.

Saying to my heart, these things are signs
Sent to instruct us that 't is ours
Duly to dress and keep our vines,
Waiting in patience for the flowers.

227

But when the angel, feared by all,
Across my hearth his shadow spread,
The rose that climbed my garden wall
Had bloomed, the other side, I said.

A WINTRY WASTE.

The boughs they blow across the pane,
And my heart is stirred with sudden joy,
For I think 't is the shadow of my boy,
My long lost boy, come home again
To love, and to live with me;
And I put the work from off my knee,
And open the door with eager haste—
There lieth the cold, wild winter waste,
And that is all I see!

The boughs they drag against the eaves.
I hear them early, I hear them late,
And I think 't is the latch of the dooryard gate.
Or a step on the frozen leaves.
And I say to my heart, he is slow, he is slow.
And I call him loud and I call him low,
And listen, and listen, again and again,
And I see the wild shadows go over the pane.
And the dead leaves, as they fall,
I hear, and that is all.

But fancy only half deceives—
My joys are counterfeits of joy,
For I know he never will come, my boy;
And I see through my make-believes,
Only the wintry waste of snow,
Where he lieth so cold, and lieth so low,
And so far from the light and me:
And boughs go over the window-pane,
And drag on the lonely eaves, in vain,—
That waste is all I see.

THE SHADOW.

In vain the morning trims her brows,
A shadow all the sunshine shrouds;
The moon at evening vainly ploughs
Her golden furrows in the clouds.

In vain the morn her splendor hath;
The stars, in vain, their gracious cheer;
There moves a phantom on my path,
A shapeless phantom that I fear.

The summer wears a weary smile,
A weary hum the woodland fills;
The dusty road looks tired the while
It climbs along the sleepy hills.

Still do I strive to build my song
Against this grim aggressive gloom;
O hope, I say, be strong, be strong!
Some special, saving grace must come.

I sit and talk of sunnier skies,
Of flowers with healing in their gleams,
But still the shapeless shadow flies
Before me to the land of dreams.

O friends of mine, who sit dismayed
And watch, I cry, with bated breath;
Yet from their answering shrink afraid,
Lest that they name the name of Death.

HOW PEACE CAME.

As the still hours toward midnight wore,
She called to me—her voice was low
And soft as snow that falls in snow—
She called my name, and nothing more.

Sleeping, I felt the life-blood stir
With piercing anguish all my heart—
I felt my dreams like curtains part,
And straightway passed through them to her.

Yet, 'twixt my answer and her call,
My thoughts had time enough to run
Through everything that I had done
From my youth upward. One and all.

228

The harmful words which I had said—
The sinful thoughts, the looks untrue,
Straight into fearful phantoms grew,
And ranged themselves about her bed.

Weeping, I called her names most sweet,
But still the phantoms, evil-eyed,
Between us stood, and though I died,
I could not even touch her feet.

My soul within me seemed to groan—
My cheek was burning up with shame—
I called each dark deed by its name,
And humbly owned it for my own.

My tongue was loosed—my heart was free—
I took the little shining head
Betwixt my palms—the phantoms fled.
And Heaven was moved, and came to me.

BE STILL.

Come, bring me wild pinks from the valleys,
Ablaze with the fire o' the sun—
No poor little pitiful lilies
That speak of a life that is done!

And open the windows to lighten
The wearisome chamber of pain—
The eyes of my darling will brighten
To see the green hill-tops again.

Choose tunes with a lullaby flowing,
And sing through the watches you keep
Be soft with your coming and going—
Be soft! she is falling asleep.

Ah, what would my life be without her!
Pray God that I never may know!
Dear friends, as you gather about her,
Be low with your weeping—be low.

Be low, oh, be low with your weeping!
Your sobs would be sorrow to her;
I tremble lest while she is sleeping
A rose on her pillow should stir.

Sing slower, sing softer and slower!
Her sweet cheek is losing its red—
Sing low, aye, sing lower and lower—
Be still, oh, be still! She is dead.

VANISHED.

Out of the wild and weary night
I see the morning softly rise,
But oh, my lovely, lovely eyes!
The world is dim without your light.

I see the young buds break and start
To fresher life when frosts are o'er,
But oh, my rose-red mouth! no more
Will kiss of yours delight my heart.

The worm that knows nor hope nor trust
Comes forth with glorious wings dispread,
But oh, my little golden head!
I see you only in the dust.

I hear the calling of the lark,
Despite the cloud, despite the rain;
But oh, my snow-white hands! in vain
I search to find you through the dark.

When the strong whirlwind's rage is o'er,
A whisper bids the land rejoice;
But oh, my gentle, gentle voice
Your music gladdens me no more.

But though no earthly joy dispel
This gloom that fills my life with woe,
My sweetest, and my best! I know
That you are still alive and well.

Alive and well: oh, blissful thought!
In some sweet clime, I know not where;
I only know that you are there,
And sickness, pain, and death are not.

SAFE.

Ah, she was not an angel to adore,
She was not perfect—she was only this:
A woman to be prattled to, to kiss,
To praise with all sweet praises, and before

229

Whose face you never were ashamed to lay
The affections of your pride away.

I have kept Fancy traveling to and fro
Full many an hour, to find what name were best,
If there were any sweeter than the rest,
That I might always call my darling so;
And this of woman seems to me the sweetest,
The finest, the most gracious, the completest.

The dust she wore about her I agree
Was poor and sickly, even to make you sad,
But this rough world we live in never had
An ornament more excellent than she;
The earthly dress was all so frail that you
Could see the beauteous spirit shining through.

Not what she was, but what she was to me
Is what I fain would tell—from her was drawn
The softness of the eve, the light of dawn:
With her and for her I could only see
What things were sweet and sensible and pure;
Now all is dull, slow guessing, nothing sure.

My sorrow with this comfort yet is stilled—
I do not dread to hear the winter stir
His wild winds up—I have no fear for her:
And all my love could never hope to build
A place so sweet beneath heaven's arch of blue,
As she by death has been elected to.

WAITING.

Ah yes, I see the sunshine play,
I hear the robin's cheerful call,
But I am thinking of the day
My darling left me—that is all.

I do not grieve for her—ah no!
To her the way is clear, I trust;
But for myself I grieve, so low,
So weak, so in, and of the dust.

And for my sadness I am sad—
I would be gay if so I might,
But she was all the joy I had—
My life, my love, my heart's delight,

We came together to the door
Of our sweet home that is to be,
And knowing, she went in before,
To put on marriage robes for me.

'T is weary work to wait so long,
But true love knows not how to doubt;
God's wisdom fashions seeming wrong,
That we may find right meanings out.

INTIMATIONS.

There is hovering about me
A power so sweet, so sweet,
That I know, despite my sorrow,
We assuredly shall meet.
I know, and thus the darkness
In between us, is defied,
That death is but a shadow
With the sunshine either side.

The world is very weary,
But I never cease to know
That still there is a border-land
Where spirits come and go;
For you send me intimations
In the morning's gentle beams,
And at night you come and meet me
In the golden gate of dreams.

I am desolate and dreary,
But mortal pain and doubt
Are blessings, and our part it is
To find their meanings out:
To find their blessed meanings,
And to wait in hope and trust,
Till our gracious Lord and Master
Shall redeem us from the dust.

THE GREAT QUESTION.

“How are the dead raised up, and with what body do they come?”

The waves, they are wildly heaving,
And bearing me out from the shore,

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And I know of the things I am leaving,
But not of the things before.
O Lord of love, whom the shape of a dove
Came down and hovered o'er,
Descend to-night with heavenly light,
And show me the farther shore.

There is midnight darkness o'er me,
And 't is light, more light, I crave;
The billows behind and before me
Are gaping, each with a grave:
Descend to-night, O Lord of might,
Who died our souls to save;
Descend to-night, my Lord, my Light,
And walk with me on the wave!

My heart is heavy to breaking
Because of the mourners' sighs,
For they cannot see the awak'ning,
Nor the body with which we arise.
Thou, who for sake of men didst break
The awful seal of the tomb—
Show them the way into life, I pray,
And the body with which we come!

Comfort their pain and pining
For the nearly wasted sands,
With the many mansions shining
In the house not made with hands:
And help them by faith to see through death
To that brighter and better shore,
Where they never shall weep who are fallen asleep
And never be sick any more.

[What comfort, when with clouds of woe]

What comfort, when with clouds of woe
The heart is burdened, and must weep,
To feel that pain must end,—to know,
“He giveth his beloved sleep.”

When in the mid-day march we meet
The outstretched shadows of the night,
The promise, how divinely sweet,
“At even-time it shall be light.”

231

RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS.

THANKSGIVING.

For the sharp conflicts I have had with sin,
Wherein.
I have been wedged and pressed
Nigh unto death, I thank thee, with the rest
Of my befallings, Lord, of brighter guise,
And named by mortals, good,
Which to my hungry heart have given food,
Or costly entertainment to my eyes.

For I can only see,
With spirit truly reconciled to thee,
In the sad evils with our lives that blend,
A means, and not an end:

Since thou wert free
To do thy will—knewest the bitter worth
Of sin, and all its possibility,
Ere that, by thy decree,
The ancient silence of eternity
Was broken by the music of man's birth.

Therefore I lay my brows
Discrowned of youth, within thy gracious hands,
Or rise while daybreak dew is on the boughs
To strew thy road with sweets, for thy commands
Do make the current of my life to run
Through lost and cavernous ways,
Bordered with cloudy days,
In its slow working out into the sun.
Hills, clap your hands, and all ye mountains, shout:
Hie, fainting hart, to where the waters flow;
Children of men, put off your fear and doubt;
The Lord who chasteneth, loveth you, for, lo!
The wild herb's wounded stalk He cares about,
And shields the ravens when the rough winds blow;
He sendeth down the drop of shining dew
To light the daisy from her house of death,
And shall He, then, forget the like of you,
O ye, of little faith!

He speaketh to the willing soul and heart
By dreams, and in the visions of the night,
And happy is the man who, for his part,
Rejoiceth in the light
Of all his revelations, whether found
In the old books, so sacredly upbound,
And clasped with golden clasps, or whether writ
Through later instillations of his power,
Where he that runneth still perceiveth it
Illuminating every humble flower
That springeth from the ground.

His testimony all the time is sure;
The smallest star that keepeth in the night
His silver candle bright,
And every deed of good that anywhere

232

Maketh the hands of holy women white;
All sweet religious work, all earnest prayer,
Of uttered, or unutterable speech;
Whatever things are peaceable and pure,
Whatever things are right,
These are his witnesses, aye, all and each!

Thrice happy is the man who doth obey
The Lord of love, through love; who fears to break
The righteous law for th' law's righteous sake;
And who, by daily use of blessings, gives
Thanks for the daily blessings he receives;
His spirit grown so reverent, it dares
Cast the poor shows of reverence away,
Believing they
More glorify the Giver, who partake
Of his good gifts, than they who fast and make
Burnt offerings and Pharisaic prayers.

The wintry snows that blind
The air, and blight what things were glorified
By summer's reign, we do not think unkind
When that we see them changed, afar and wide,
To rain, that, fretting in the rose's face,
Brings out a softer grace,
And makes the troops of rustic daffodils
Shake out their yellow skirts along the hills,
And all the valleys blush from side to side.

And as we climb the stair,
Of rough and ugly fortune, by the props
Of faith and charity, and hope and prayer,
To the serene and beauteous mountaintops
Of our best human possibility,
Where haunts the spirit of eternity,
The world below looks fair,—
Its seeming inequalities subdued,
And level, all, to purposes of good.

I thank thee, gracious Lord,
For the divine award
Of strength that helps me up the heavy heights
Of mortal sorrow, where, through tears forlorn,
My eyes get glimpses of the authentic lights
Of love's eternal morn.

For thereby do I trust
That our afflictions springs not from the dust,
And that they are not sent
In arbitrary chastisement,
Nor as avengers to put out the light
And let our souls loose in some damnèd night
That holds the balance of thy glory, just;
But rather, that as lessons they are meant,
And as the fire tempers the iron, so
Are we refined by woe.

I thank thee for my common blessings, still
Rained through thy will
Upon my head; the air
That knows so many tunes which grief beguile,
Breathing its light love to me everywhere,
And that will still be kissing all the while,

I thank thee that my childhood's vanished days
Were cast in rural ways,
Where I beheld, with gladness ever new,
That sort of vagrant dew
Which lodges in the beggarly tents of such
Vile weeds as virtuous plants disdain to touch,
And with rough-bearded burs, night after night,
Upgathered by the morning, tender and true,
Into her clear, chaste light.

Such ways I learned to know
That free will cannot go
Outside of mercy; learned to bless his name
Whose revelations, ever thus renewed
Along the varied year, in field and wood,
His loving care proclaim.

233

I thank thee that the grass and the red rose
Do what they can to tell
How spirit through all forms of matter flows;
For every thistle by the common way
Wearing its homely beauty,—for each spring
That sweet and homeless, runneth where it will,—
For night and day,
For the alternate seasons,—everything
Pertaining to life's marvelous miracle.

Even for the lowly flower
That, living, dwarfed and bent
Under some beetling rock, in gloom profound,
Far from her pretty sisters of the ground.
And shut from sun and shower,
Seemeth endowed with human discontent.

Ah! what a tender hold
She taketh of us in our own despite,—
A sadly-solemn creature,
Crooked, despoiled of nature,
Leaning from out the shadows, dull and cold,
To lay her little white face in the light.

The chopper going by her rude abode,
Thinks of his own rough hut, his old wife's smile,
And of the bare young feet
That run through th' frost to meet
His coming, and forgets the weary load
Of sticks that bends his shoulders down the while.

I thank thee, Lord, that Nature is so wise,
So capable of painting in men's eyes
Pictures whose airy hues
Do blend and interfuse
With all the darkness that about us lies,—
That clearly in our hearts
Her law she writes,
Reserving cunning past our mortal arts,
Whereby she is avenged for all her slights.

And I would make thanksgiving
For the sweet, double living,
That gives the pleasures that have passed away,
The sweetness and the sunshine of to-day.

I see the furrows ploughed and see them planted,
See the young cornstalks rising green and fair;
Mute things are friendly, and I am acquainted
With all the luminous creatures of the air;
And with the cunning workers of the ground
That have their trades born with them, and with all
The insects, large and small,
That fill the summer with a wave of sound.
I watch the wood-bird line
Her pretty nest, with eyes that never tire,
And watch the sunbeams trail their wisps of fire
Along the bloomless bushes, till they shine.

The violet, gathering up her tender blue
From th' dull ground, is a good sight to see;
And it delighteth me
To have the mushroom push his round head through
The dry and brittle stubble, as I pass,
His smooth and shining coat, half rose half fawn,
But just put on;
And to have April slip her showery grass
Under my feet, as she was used to do,
In the dear spring-times gone.

I make the brook, my Nile,
And hour by hour beguile,
Tracking its devious course
Through briery banks to its mysterious source,
That I discover, always, at my will,—
A little silver star,
Under the shaggy forehead of some hill,
From traveled ways afar.

Forgetting wind and flood,
I build my house of unsubstantial sand,
Shaping the roof upon my double hand,

234

And setting up the dry and sliding grains,
With infinite pains,
In the similitude
Of beam and rafter,—then
Where to the ground the dock its broad leaf crooks,
I hunt long whiles to find the little men
That I have read of in my story-books.

Often, in lawless wise,
Some obvious work of duty I delay,
Taking my fill
Of an uneasy liberty, and still
Close shutting up my eyes,
As though it were not given me to see
The avenging ghost of opportunity
Thus slighted, far away.

I linger when I know
That I should forward go;
Now, haply for the katydid's wild shrill,
Now listening to the low,
Dull noise of mill-wheels—counting, now, the row
Of clouds about the shoulder of the hill.

My heart anew rejoices
In th' old familiar voices
That come back to me like a lullaby;
Now 't is the church-bell's call,
And now a teamster's whistle,—now, perhaps,
The silvery lapse
Of waters in among the reeds that meet;
And now, down-dropping to a whispery fall,
Some milkmaid, chiding with love's privilege,
Through the green wall
Of the dividing hedge,
And the so sadly eloquent reply
Of the belated cow-boy, low and sweet.

I see, as in a dream,
The farmer plodding home behind his team,
With all the tired shadows following,
And see him standing in his threshing-floor,
The hungry cattle gathered in a ring
About the great barn-door.

I see him in the sowing,
And see him in the mowing,
The air about him thick with gray-winged moths;
The day's work nearly over,
And the long meadow ridged with double swaths
Of sunset-light and clover.

When falls the time of solemn Sabbath rest,
In all he has of best
I see him going (for he never fails)
To church, in either equitable hand
A shining little one, and all his band
Trooping about him like a flock of quails.
With necks bowed low, and hid to half their length
Under the jutting load of new-made hay,
I see the oxen give their liberal strength
Day after day,
And see the mower stay
His scythe, and leave a patch of grass to spread
Its shelter round the bed
Of the poor frighted ground-bird in his way.

I see the joyous vine,
And see the wheat set up its rustling spears,
And see the sun with golden fingers sign
The promise of full ears.

I see the slender moon
Time after time grow old and round in th' face,
And see the autumn take the summer's place,
And shake the ripe nuts down,
In their thick, bitter hulls of green and brown,
To make the periods of the school-boy's tune;
I see the apples, with their russet cheeks
Shaming the wealth of June;
And see the bean-pods, gay with purple freaks,
And all the hills with yellow leaves o'erblown,
As through the fading woods I walk alone,
And hear the wind o'erhead
Touching the joyless boughs and making moan,

235

Like some old crone,
Who on her withered fingers counts her dead.

I hear the beetle's hum, and see the gnats
Sagging along the air in strings of jet,
And from their stubs I see the weak-eyed bats
Flying an hour before the sun is set.
Picture on picture crowds,
And by the gray and priestlike silence led,
Comes the first star through evening's steely gates
And chides the day to bed
Within the ruddy curtains of the clouds;
So gently com'st thou, Death,
To him who waits,
In the assurance of our blessed faith,
To be acquainted with thy quiet arms,
His good deeds, great and small,
Builded about him like a silver wall,
And bearing back the deluge of alarms.

The mother doth not tenderer appear
When, from her heart her tired darling laid,
She trims his cradle all about with shade,
And will not kiss his sleepy eyes for fear.

I see the windows of the homestead bright
With the warm evening light,
And by the winter fire
I see the gray-haired sire
Serenely sitting,
Forgetful of the work-day toil and care,
The old wife by his elbow, at her knitting;
The cricket on the hearth-stone singing shrill,
And the spoiled darling of the house at will
Climbing the good man's chair,
A furtive glimpse to catch
Of her fair face in his round silver watch,
That she in her high privilege must wear,
And listen to the music that is in it,
Though only for a minute.
I thank thee, Lord, for every saddest cross;
Gain comes to us through loss,
The while we go,
Blind travelers holding by the wall of time,
And seeking out through woe
The things that are eternal and sublime.

Ah! sad are they of whom no poet writes
Nor ever any story-teller hears,—
The childless mothers, who on lonesome nights
Sit by their fires and weep, having the chores
Done for the day, and time enough to see
All the wide floors
Swept clean of playthings; they, as needs must be,
Have time enough for tears.

But there are griefs more sad
Than ever any childless mother had,—
You know them, who do smother Nature's cries
Under poor masks
Of smiling, slow despair,—
Who put your white and unadorning hair
Out of your way, and keep at homely tasks,
Unblest with any praises of men's eyes,
Till Death comes to you with his piteous care,
And to unmarriageable beds you go,
Saying, “It is not much; 't is well, if so
We only be made fair
And looks of love await us when we rise.”

My cross is not as hard as theirs to bear,
And yet alike to me are storms, or calms;
My life's young joy,
The brown-cheeked farmer-boy,
Who led the daisies with him like his lambs,—
Carved his sweet picture on my milking-pail,
And cut my name upon his threshing-flail,
One day stopped singing at his plough; alas!
Before that summer-time was gone, the grass

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Had choked the path which to the sheep-field led,
Where I had watched him tread
So oft on evening's trail,—
A shining oat-sheaf balanced on his head,
And nodding to the gale.

Rough wintry weather came, and when it sped,
The emerald wave
Swelling above my little sweetheart's grave,
With such bright, bubbly flowers was set about,
I thought he blew them out,
And so took comfort that he was not dead.

For I was of a rude and ignorant crew,
And hence believed whatever things I saw
Were the expression of a hidden law;
And, with a wisdom wiser than I knew,
Evoked the simple meanings out of things
By childlike questionings.

And he they named with shudderings of fear
Had never, in his life, been half so near
As when I sat all day with cheeks unkissed,
And listened to the whisper, very low,
That said our love above death's wave of woe
Was joined together like the seamless mist.

God's yea and nay
Are not so far away,
I said, but I can hear them when I please;
Nor could I understand
Their doubting faith, who only touch his hand
Across the blind, bewildering centuries.

And often yet, upon the shining track
Of the old faith, come back
My childish fancies, never quite subdued;
And when the sunset shuts up in the wood
The whispery sweetness of uncertainty,
And Night, with misty locks that loosely drop
About his ears, brings rest, a welcome boon,
Playing his pipe with many a starry stop
That makes a golden snarling in his tune;

I see my little lad
Under the leafy shelter of the boughs,
Driving his noiseless, visionary cows,
Clad in a beauty I alone can see:
Laugh, you, who never had
Your dead come back, but do not take from me
The harmless comfort of my foolish dream,
That these, our mortal eyes,
Which outwardly reflect the earth and skies
Do introvert upon eternity:

And that the shapes you deem
Imaginations, just as clearly fall;
Each from its own divine original,
And through some subtle element of light,
Upon the inward, spiritual eye,
As do the things which round about them lie,
Gross and material, on the external sight.

[Hope in our hearts doth only stay]

Hope in our hearts doth only stay
Like a traveler at an inn,
Who riseth up at the break of day
His journey to begin.

Faith, when her soul has known the blight
Of noisy doubts and fears,
Goes thenceforward clad in the light
Of the still eternal years.

Truth is truth: no more in the prayers
Of the righteous Pharisee;
No less in the humblest sinner that wears
This poor mortality.

But Love is greatest of all: no loss
Can shadow its face with gloom,—
As glorious hanging on the cross
As breaking out of the tomb.

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MORNING.

Wake, Dillie, my darling, and kiss me,
The daybreak is nigh,—
I can see, through the half-open curtain,
A strip of blue sky.

Yon lake, in her valley-bed lying,
Looks fair as a bride,
And pushes, to greet the sun's coming,
The mist sheets aside.

The birds, to the wood-temple flying,
Their matins to chant,
Are chirping their love to each other,
With wings dropt aslant.

Not a tree, that the morning's bright edges
With silver illumes,
But trembles and stirs with its pleasure
Through all its green plumes.

Wake, Dillie, and join in the praises
All nature doth give;
Clap hands, and rejoice in the goodness
That leaves you to live.

For what is the world in her glory
To that which thou art?
Thank God for the soul that is in you,—
Thank God for your heart!

The world that had never a lover
Her bright face to kiss,—
With her splendors of stars and of noontides
How poor is her bliss!

Wake, Dillie,—the white vest of morning
With crimson is laced:
And why should delights of God's giving
Be running to waste!

Full measures, pressed down, are awaiting
Our provident use;
And is there no sin in neglecting
As well as abuse?

The cornstalk exults in its tassel,
The flint in its spark,—
And shall the seed planted within me
Rot out in the dark?

Shall I be ashamed to give culture
To what God has sown?
When nature asks bread, shall I offer
A serpent, or stone?

For could I out-weary its yearnings
By fasting, or pain,—
Would life have a better fulfillment,
Or death have a gain?

Nay, God will not leave us unanswered
In any true need;
His will may be writ in an instinct,
As well as a creed.

And, Dillie, my darling, believe me,
That life is the best,
That, loving here, truly and sweetly,
With Him leaves the rest.

Its head to the sweep of the whirlwind
The wise willow suits,—
While the oak, that 's too stubborn for bending.
Comes up by the roots.

Such lessons, each day, round about us,
Our good Mother writes,—
To show us that Nature, in some way,
Avenges her slights.

ONE DUST.

Thou, under Satan's fierce control,
Shall Heaven its final rest bestow?
I know not, but I know a soul
That might have fallen as darkly low.

I judge thee not, what depths of ill
Soe'er thy feet have found, or trod:
I know a spirit and a will
As weak, but for the grace of God.

Shalt thou with full-day laborers stand.
Who hardly canst have pruned one vine?
I know not, but I know a hand
With an infirmity like thine.

Shalt thou who hast with scoffers part,
E'er wear the crown the Christian wears?
I know not; but I know a heart
As flinty, but for tears and prayers.

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Have mercy, O thou Crucified!
For even while I name thy name,
I know a tongue that might have lied
Like Peter's, and am bowed with shame.

Fighters of good fights,—just, unjust,—
The weak who faint, the frail who fall,—
Of one blood, of the self-same dust,
Thou, God of love, hast made them all.

SIGNS OF GRACE.

Come thou, my heavy soul, and lay
Thy sorrows all aside,
And let us see, if so we may,
How God is glorified.

Forget the storms that darkly beat,
Forget the woe and crime,
And tie of consolations sweet
A posie for the time.

Some blessed token everywhere
Doth grace to men allow;
The daisy sets her silver share
Beside the rustic's plough.

The wintry wind that naked strips
The bushes, stoopeth low,
And round their rugged arms enwraps
The fleeces of the snow.

The blackbird, idly whistling till
The storm begins to pour,
Finds ever with his golden bill
A hospitable door.

From love, and love's protecting power
We cannot go apart;
The shadows round the fainting flower
Rebuke the drooping heart.

Our strivings are not reckoned less,
Although we fail to win;
The lily wears a royal dress,
And yet she doth not spin.

So, soul, forget thy evil days,
Thy sorrow lay aside,
And strive to see in all his ways
How God is glorified.

JANUARY.

The year has lost its leaves again,
The world looks old and grim;
God folds his robe of glory thus,
That we may see but Him.

And all his stormy messengers,
That come with whirlwind breath,
Beat out our chaff of vanity,
And leave the grains of faith.

We will not feel, while summer waits
Her rich delights to share,
What sinners, miserably bad,—
How weak and poor we are.

We tread through fields of speckled flowers
As if we did not know
Our Father made them beautiful,
Because He loves us so.

We hold his splendors in our hands
As if we held the dust,
And deal his judgment, as if man
Than God could be more just.

We seek, in prayers and penances,
To do the martyr's part,
Remembering not, the promises
Are to the pure in heart.

From evil and forbidden things,
Some good we think to win,
And to the last analysis
Experiment with sin.

We seek no oil in summer time
Our winter lamp to trim,
But strive to bring God down to us,
More than to rise to Him.

And when that He is nearest, most
Our weak complaints we raise,
Lacking the wisdom to perceive
The mystery of his ways.

For, when drawn closest to himself,
Then least his love we mark;
The very wings that shelter us
From peril, make it dark.

Sometimes He takes his hands from us,
When storms the loudest blow,
That we may learn how weak, alone,—
How strong in Him, we grow.

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Through the cross iron of our free will
And fate, we plead for light,
As if God gave us not enough
To do our work aright.

We will not see, but madly take
The wrong and crooked path,
And in our own hearts light the fires
Of a consuming wrath.

The fashion of his Providence
Our way is so above,
We serve Him most who take the most
Of his exhaustless love.

We serve Him in the good we do,
The blessings we embrace,
Not lighting farthing candles for
The palace of his grace.

He has no need of our poor aid
His purpose to pursue;
'T is for our pleasure, not for his,
That we his work must do.

Then blow, O wild winds, as ye list,
And let the world look grim,—
God folds his robe of glory thus
That we may see but Him.

ALONE.

What shall I do when I stand in my place,
Unclothed of this garment of cloud and dust,
Unclothed of this garment of selfish lust,
With my Maker, face to face?

What shall I say for my worldly pride?
What for the things I have done and not done?
There will be no cloud then over the sun,
And no grave wherein to hide.

No time for waiting, no time for prayer,—
No friend that with me my life-path trod
To help me,—only my soul and my God,
And all my sins laid bare.

No dear human pity, no low loving speech,
About me that terrible day shall there be,
Remitted back into myself, I shall see
All sweetest things out of reach.

But why should I tremble before th' unknown,
And put off the blushing and shame? Now,—to-day!
The friend close beside me seems far, far away,
And I stand at God's judgment alone!

A PRAYER.

I have been little used to frame
Wishes to speech and call it prayer;
To-day, my Father, in thy name,
I ask to have my soul stript bare
Of all its vain pretense,—to see
Myself, as I am seen by thee.

I want to know how much the pain
And passion here, its powers abate;
To take its thoughts, a tangled skein,
And stretch them out all smooth and straight;
To track its wavering course through sin
And sorrow, to its origin.

I want to know if in the night
Of evil, grace doth so abound,
That from its darkness we draw light,
As flowers do beauty from the ground;
Or, if the sins of time shall be
The shadows of eternity.

I want, though only for an hour,
To be myself,—to get more near
The wondrous mystery and power
Of love, whose echoes floating here,
Between us and the waiting grave,
Make all of light, of heaven, we have.

COUNSEL.

Though sin hath marked thy brother's brow
Love him in sin's despite,
But for his darkness, haply thou
Hadst never known the light.

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Be thou an angel to his life,
And not a demon grim,—
Since with himself he is at strife,
Oh be at peace with him.

Speak gently of his evil ways
And all his pleas allow,
For since he knows not why he strays
From virtue, how shouldst thou?

Love him, though all thy love he slights,
For ah, thou canst not say
But that his prayerless days and nights
Have taught thee how to pray.

Outside themselves all things have laws,
The atom and the sun,—
Thou art thyself, perhaps, the cause
Of sins which he has done.

If guiltless thou, why surely then
Thy place is by his side.—
It was for sinners, not just men,
That Christ the Saviour died.

SUPPLICATION.

Dear gracious Lord, if that thy pain
Doth make me well, if I have strayed
Past mercy, let my hands be laid
One in the other; not in vain
Would I be dressed, Lord, in the beauteous clay
Which thou did'st put away.

But if thou yet canst find in me
A vine, though trailing on the ground,
That might be straightened up, and bound
To any good, so let it be;
And, haply at the last, some tendril-ring
Unto thy hand shall cling.

I have been too much used, I know,
To tell my needs in fretful words.
The clamoring of the silly birds,
Impatient for their wings to grow,
Has thy forgiveness; O my blessed Lord,
The like to me accord.

Of grace, as much as will complete
Thy will in me, I pray thee for;
Even as a rose shut in a drawer,
That maketh all about it sweet,
I would be, rather than the cedar, fine,
Help me, thou Power divine.

Fill thou my heart with love as full
As any lily with the rain;
Unteach me ever to complain,
And make my scarlet sins as wool;
Yea, wash me, even with sorrows, clean and fair,
As lightnings do the air.

PUTTING OFF THE ARMOR.

Why weep ye for the falling
Of the transient twilight gloom?
I am weary of the journey,
And have come in sight of home.

I can see a white procession
Sweep melodiously along,
And I would not have your mourning
Drown the sweetness of their song.

The battle-strife is ended;
I have scaled the hindering wall,
And am putting off the armor
Of the soldier—that is all!

Would you hide me from my pleasures?
Would you hold me from my rest?
From my serving and my waiting
I am called to be a guest!

Of its heavy, hurtful burdens
Now my spirit is released:
I am done with fasts and scourges,
And am bidden to the feast.

While you see the sun descending,
While you lose me in the night,
Lo, the heavenly morn is breaking,
And my soul is in the light.

I from faith to sight am rising
While in deeps of doubt you sink;
'T is the glory that divides us,
Not the darkness, as you think.

Then lift up your drooping eyelids,
And take heart of better cheer;
'T is the cloud of coming spirits
Makes the shadows that ye fear.

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Oh, they come to bear me upward
To the mansion of the sky,
And to change as I am changing
Is to live, and not to die;

Is to leave the pain, the sickness,
And the smiting of the rod,
And to dwell among the angels,
In the City of our God.

FORGIVENESS.

O thou who dost the sinner meet,
Fearing his garment's hem,
Think of the Master, and repeat,
“Neither do I condemn!”
And while the eager rabble stay,
Their storms of wrath to pour,
Think of the Master still, and say,
“Go thou, and sin no more!”

THE GOLDEN MEAN.

Lest to evil ways I run
When I go abroad,
Shine about me, like the sun,
O my gracious Lord!
Make the clouds, with silver glowing,
Like a mist of lilies blowing
O'er the summer sward;
And mine eyes keep thou from being
Ever satisfied with seeing,
O my light, my Lord!

Lest my thoughts on discontent
Should in sleep be fed,
Make the darkness like a tent
Round about my bed:
Sweet as honey to the taster,
Make my dreams be, O my Master,
Sweet as honey, ere it loses
Spice of meadow-blooms,
While the taster tastes the roses
In the golden combs.

Lest I live in lowly ease,
Or in loftly scorn,
Make me like the strawberries
That run among the corn;
Grateful in the shadows keeping,
Of the broad leaves o'er me sweeping;
In the gold crop's stead, to render
Some small berries, red and tender,
Like the blushing morn.

Lest that pain to pain be placed—
Weary day to day,
Let me sit at good men's feasts
When the house is gay:
Let my heart beat up to measures
Of all comfortable pleasures,
Till the morning gray,
O'er the eastern hill-tops glancing,
Sets the woodlands all to dancing,
And scares night away.

Lest that I in vain pretense
Careless live and move,
Heart and mind, and soul and sense,
Quicken thou with love!
Fold its music over, under,
Breath of flute and boom of thunder,
Nor make satisfied my hearing
As I go on, nearing, nearing
Him whose name is Love.

THE FIRE BY THE SEA.

There were seven fishers, with nets in their hands,
And they walked and talked by the sea-side sands;
Yet sweet as the sweet dew-fall
The words they spake, though they spake so low,
Across the long, dim centuries, flow,
And we know them, one and all—
Aye! know them and love them all.

Seven sad men in the days of old,
And one was gentle, and one was bold,
And they walked with downward eyes;
The bold was Peter, the gentle was John,
And they all were sad, it for the Lord was gone,
And they knew not if He would rise—
Knew not if the dead would rise.

The livelong night, till the moon went out
In the drowning waters, they beat about;
Beat slow through the fog their way;
And the sails drooped down with wringing wet,

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And no man drew but an empty net,
And now 'twas the break of the day—
The great, glad break of the day.

“Cast in your nets on the other side!”
('T was Jesus speaking across the tide;)
And they cast and were dragging hard;
But that disciple whom Jesus loved
Cried straightway out, for his heart was moved:
“It is our risen Lord—
Our Master, and our Lord!”

Then Simon, girding his fisher's coat,
Went over the nets and out of the boat—
Aye! first of them all was he;
Repenting sore the denial past,
He feared no longer his heart to cast
Like an anchor into the sea—
Down deep in the hungry sea.

And the others, through the mists so dim,
In a little ship came after him,
Dragging their net through the tide;
And when they had gotten close to the land
They saw a fire of coals on the sand,
And, with arms of love so wide,
Jesus, the crucified!

'T is long, and long, and long ago
Since the rosy lights began to flow
O'er the hills of Galilee;
And with eager eyes and lifted hands
The seven fishers saw on the sands
The fire of coals by the sea—
On the wet, wild sands by the sea.

'T is long ago, yet faith in our souls
Is kindled just by that fire of coals
That streamed o'er the mists of the sea;
Where Peter, girding his fisher's coat,
Went over the nets and out of the boat,
To answer, “Lov'st thou me?”
Thrice over, “Lov'st thou me?”

THE SURE WITNESS.

The solemn wood had spread
Shadows around my head;
“Curtains they are,” I said,
“Hung dim and still about the house of prayer.”
Softly among the limbs,
Turning the leaves of hymns,
I heard the winds, and asked if God were there.
No voice replied, but while I listening stood,
Sweet peace made holy hushes through the wood.

With ruddy, open hand,
I saw the wild rose stand
Beside the green gate of the summer hills;
And pulling at her dress,
I cried, “Sweet hermitess,
Hast thou beheld Him who the dew distills?”
No voice replied, but while I listening bent,
Her gracious beauty made my heart content.

The moon in splendor shone;
“She walketh heaven alone,
And seeth all things,” to myself I mused;
“Hast thou beheld Him, then,
Who hides Himself from men
In that great power through nature interfused?”
No speech made answer, and no sign appeared,
But in the silence I was soothed and cheered.

Waking one time, strange awe
Thrilling my soul, I saw
A kingly splendor round about the night;
Such cunning work the hand
Of spinner never planned,—
The finest wool may not be washed so white.
“Hast thou come out of heaven?” I asked; and lo!
The snow was all the answer of the snow.

Then my heart said, “Give o'er;
Question no more, no more!
The wind, the snow-storm, the wild hermit flower,
The illuminated air,
The pleasure after prayer,
Proclaim the unoriginated Power!

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The mystery that hides Him here and there.
Bears the sure witness He is everywhere.”

A PENITENT'S PLEA.

Like a child that is lost
From its home in the night,
I grope through the darkness
And cry for the light;
Yea, all that is in me
Cries out for the day—
Come Jesus, my Master,
Illumine my way!

In the conflicts that pass
'Twixt my soul and my God,
I walk as one walketh
A fire-path, unshod;
And in my despairing
Sit dumb by the way—
Come Jesus, my Master,
And heal me, I pray!

I know the fierce flames
Will not cease to uproll,
Till thou rainest the dew
Of thy love on my soul;
And I know the dumb spirit
Will never depart,
Till thou comest and makest
Thy house in my heart.

My thoughts lie within me
As waste as the sands;
Oh make them be musical
Strings in thy hands!
My sins, red as scarlet,
Wash white as a fleece—
Come Jesus, my Master,
And give me thy peace!

LOVE IS LIFE.

Our days are few and full of strife;
Like leaves our pleasures fade and fall;
But Thou who art the all in all,
Thy name is Love, and love is Life!

We walk in sleep and think we see;
Our little lives are clothed with dreams;
For that to us which substance seems
Is shadow, 'twixt ourselves and thee.

We are immortal now, and here,
Chances and changes, night and day,
Are landmarks in the eternal way;
Our fear is all we have to fear.

Our lives are dew-drops in thy sun;
Thou breakest them, and lo! we see
A thousand gracious shapes of thee,—
A thousand shapes, instead of one.

The soul that drifts all darkly dim
Through floods that seem outside of grace,
Is only surging toward the place
Which thou hast made and meant for him.

For this we hold,—ill could not be
Were there no power beyond the ill;
Our wills are held within thy will;
The ends of goodness rest with thee.

Fall storms of winter as you may,
The dry boughs in the warm spring rain
Shall put their green leaves forth again,
And surely we are more than they.

[Thy works, O Lord, interpret thee]

Thy works, O Lord, interpret thee,
And through them all thy love is shown;
Flowing about us like a sea,
Yet steadfast as the eternal throne.

Out of the light that runneth through
Thy hand, the lily's dress is spun;
Thine is the brightness of the dew,
And thine the glory of the sun.

[Our God is love, and that which we miscall]

Our God is love, and that which we miscall
Evil, in this good world that He has made,
Is meant to be a little tender shade
Between us and His glory,—that is all;
And he who loves the best his fellowman
Is loving God, the holiest way he can.

244

TIME.

What is time, O glorious Giver,
With its restlessness and might,
But a lost and wandering river
Working back into the light?

Every gloomy rock that troubles
Its smooth passage, strikes to life
Beautiful and joyous bubbles
That are only born through strife.

Overhung with mist-like shadows,
Stretch its shores away, away,
To the long, delightful meadows
Shining with immortal May:

Where its moaning reaches never,
Passion, pain, or fear to move,
And the changes bring us ever
Sabbaths and new moons of love.

SUPPLICATION.

O thou, who all my life hast crowned
With better things than I could ask,
Be it to-day my humble task
To own from depths of grief profound,
The many sins, which darken through
What little good I do.

I have been too much used, I own,
To tell my needs in fretful words;
The clamoring of the silly birds,
Impatient till their wings be grown,
Have thy forgiveness. O my blessed Lord,
The like to me accord.

Of grace, as much as will complete
Thy will in me. I pray thee for;
Even as a rose shut in a drawer
That maketh all about it sweet,
I would be, rather than the cedar fine:
Help me, thou Power divine.

With charity fill thou my heart,
As summer fills the grass with dews,
And as th' year itself renews
In th' sun, when winter days depart,
Blessed forever, grant thou me
To be renewed in thee.

WHITHER.

All the time my soul is calling,
“Whither, whither do I go?”
For my days like leaves are falling
From my tree of life below.

Who will come and be my lover!
Who is strong enough to save,
When that I am leaning over
The dark silence of the grave?

Wherefore should my soul be calling,
“Whither, whither do I go?”
For my days like leaves are falling
In the hand of God, I know.

As the seasons touch their ending,
As the dim years fade and flee,
Let me rather still be sending
Some good deed to plead for me.

Then, though none should stay to weep me,
Lover-like, within the shade,
He will hold me, He will keep me,
And I will not be afraid.

SURE ANCHOR.

Out of the heavens come down to me,
O Lord, and hear my earnest prayer;
On life above the life I see
Fix thou my soul, and keep it there.

The richest joys of earth are poor;
The fairest forms are all unfair;
On what is peaceable and pure
Set thou my heart, and keep it there.

Pride builds her house upon the sand;
Ambition treads the spider's stair;
On whatsoever things will stand
Set thou my feet, and keep them there.

The past is vanished in the past;
The future doth a shadow wear;
On whatsoever things are fast
Fix thou mine eyes, and keep them there.

In spite of slander's tongue, in spite
Of burdens grievous hard to bear,
To whatsoever things are right
Set thou my hand, and keep it there.

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Life is a little troubled breath,
Love but another name for care;
Lord, anchor thou my hope and faith
In things eternal,—only there.

REMEMBER.

In thy time, and times of mourning,
When grief doeth all she can
To hide the prosperous sunshine,
Remember this, O man,—
“He setteth an end to darkness.”

Sad saint, of the world forgotten,
Who workest thy work apart,
Take thou this promise for comfort,
And hold it in thy heart,—
“He searcheth out all perfection.”

O foolish and faithless sailor,
When the ship is driven away,
When the waves forget their places,
And the anchor will not stay,—
“He weigheth the waters by measure.”

O outcast, homeless, bewildered,
Let now thy murmurs be still,
Go in at the gates of gladness
And eat of the feast at will,—
“For wisdom is better than riches.”

O diligent, diligent sower,
Who sowest thy seed in vain,
When the corn in the ear is withered,
And the young flax dies for rain,—
“Through rocks He cutteth out rivers.”

SUNDAY MORNING.

O day to sweet religious thought
So wisely set apart,
Back to the silent strength of life
Help thou my wavering heart.

Nor let the obtrusive lies of sense
My meditations draw
From the composed, majestic realm
Of everlasting law.

Break down whatever hindering shapes
I see, or seem to see,
And make my soul acquainted with
Celestial company.

Beyond the wintry waste of death
Shine fields of heavenly light;
Let not this incident of time
Absorb me from their sight.

I know these outward forms wherein
So much my hopes I stay,
Are but the shadowy hints of that
Which cannot pass away.

That just outside the work-day path
By man's volition trod,
Lie the resistless issues of
The things ordained of God.

IN THE DARK.

Out of the earthly years we live
How small a profit springs;
I cannot think but life should give
Higher and better things.

The very ground whereon we tread
Is clothed to please our sight;
I cannot think that we have read
Our dusty lesson right.

So little comfort we receive,
Except through what we see,

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I cannot think we half believe
Our immortality.

We disallow and trample so
The rights of poor weak men,
I cannot think we feel and know
They are our brethren.

So rarely our affections move
Without a selfish guard,
I cannot think we know that love
Is all of love's reward.

To him who smites, the cheek is turned
With such a slow consent,
I cannot think that we have learned
The holy Testament.

Blind, ignorant, we grope along
A path misunderstood,
Mingling with folly and with wrong
Some providential good.

Striving with vain and idle strife
In outward shows to live,
We famish, knowing not that life
Has better things to give.

PARTING SONG.

The long day is closing,
Ah, why should you weep?
'T is thus that God gives
His beloved ones sleep.

I see the wide water
So deep and so black,—
Love waits me beyond it,—
I would not go back!

I would not go back
Where its joys scarce may gleam,—
Where even in dreaming
We know that we dream;

For though life filled for me
All measures of bliss,
Has it anything better
Or sweeter than this?

I would not go back
To the torment of fear,—
To the wastes of uncomfort
When home is so near.

Each night is a prison-bar
Broken and gone,—
Each morning a golden gate,
On,—farther on!

On, on toward the city
So shining and fair;
And He that hath loved me—
Died for me—is there.

THE HEAVEN THAT'S HERE.

My God, I feel thy wondrous might
In Nature's various shows.—
The whirlwind's breath,—the tender light
Of the rejoicing rose.

For doth not that same power enfold
Whatever things are new,
Which shone about the saints of old
And struck the seas in two?

Ashamed, I veil my fearful eyes
From this, thy earthly reign;
What shall I do when I arise
From death, but die again.

What shall I do but prostrate fall
Before the splendor there,
That here, so dazzles me through all
The dusty robes I wear.

Life's outward and material laws,—
Love, sunshine, all things bright,—
Are curtains which thy mercy draws
To shield us from that light.

I falter when I try to seek
The world which these conceal;
I stammer when I fain would speak
The reverence that I feel.

I dare not pray to thee to give
That heaven which shall appear;
My cry is, Help me, thou, to live
Within the heaven that's here.

[Among the pitfalls in our way]

Among the pitfalls in our way
The best of us walk blindly;
O man, be wary! watch and pray,
And judge your brother kindly.

Help back his feet, if they have slid,
Nor count him still your debtor;
Perhaps the very wrong he did
Has made yourself the better.

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THE STREAM OF LIFE.

The stream of life is going dry;
Thank God, that more and more
I see the golden sands, which I
Could never see before.

The banks are dark with graves of friends;
Thank God, for faith sublime
In the eternity that sends
Its shadows into time.

The flowres are gone that with their glow
Of sunshine filled the grass;
Thank God, they were but dim and low
Reflections in a glass.

The autumn winds are blowing chill;
The summer warmth is done;
Thank God, the little dew-drop still
Is drawn into the sun.

Strange stream, to be exhaled so fast
In cloudy cares and tears;
Thank God, that it should shine at last
Along the immortal years.

DEAD AND ALIVE.

Till I learned to love thy name,
Lord, thy grace denying,
I was lost in sin and shame,
Dying, dying, dying!

Nothing could the world impart;
Darkness held no morrow;
In my soul and in my heart
Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!

All the blossoms came to blight;
Noon was dull and dreary;
Night and day, and day and night,
Weary, weary, weary!

When I learned to love thy name,
Peace beyond all measure
Came, and in the stead of shame,
Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure!

Winds may beat, and storms may fall,
Thou, the meek and lowly,
Reignest, and I sing through all,—
Holy, holy, holy!

Life may henceforth never be
Like a dismal story,
For beyond its bound I see
Glory, glory, glory!

INVOCATION.

Come down to us, help and heal us,
Thou that once life's pathway trod,
Knowing all its gloom and glory,—
Son of man, and Son of God.

Come down to us, help and heal us,
When our hopes before us flee;
Thou hast been a man of sorrows,
Tried and tempted, even as we.

By the weakness of our nature,
By the burdens of our care,
Steady up our fainting courage,—
Save, oh save us from despair!

By the still and strong temptation
Of consenting hearts within;
By the power of outward evil,
Save, oh save us from our sin!

By the infirm and bowed together,—
By the demons far and near,—
By all sick and sad possessions,
Save, oh save us from our fear!

From the dim and dreary doubting
That with faith a warfare make,
Save us, through thy sweet compassion,—
Save us, for thy own name's sake.

And when all of life is finished
To the last low fainting breath,
Meet us in the awful shadows,
And deliver us from death.

LIFE OF LIFE.

To Him who is the Life of life,
My soul its vows would pay;
He leads the flowery seasons on,
And gives the storm its way.

The winds run backward to their caves
At his divine command,—

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And the great deep He folds within
The hollow of his hand.

He clothes the grass, He makes the rose
To wear her good attire;
The moon He gives her patient grace,
And all the stars their fire.

He hears the hungry raven's cry,
And sends her young their food,
And through our evil intimates
His purposes of good.

He stretches out the north, He binds
The tempest in his care;
The mountains cannot strike their roots
So deep He is not there.

Hid in the garment of his works,
We feel his presence still
With us, and through us fashioning
The mystery of his will.

MERCIES.

Lest the great glory from on high
Should make our senses swim,
Our blessèd Lord hath spread the sky
Between ourselves and Him.

He made the Sabbath shine before
The work-days and the care,
And set about its golden door
The messengers of prayer.

Across our earthly pleasures fled
He sends his heavenly light,
Like morning streaming broad and red
Adown the skirts of night.

He nearest comes when most his face
Is wrapt in clouds of gloom;
The firmest pillars of his grace
Are planted in the tomb.

Oh shall we not the power of sin
And vanity withstand,
When thus our Father holds us in
The hollow of his hand?

PLEASURE AND PAIN.

Pleasure and pain walk hand in hand,
Each is the other's poise;
The borders of the silent land
Are full of troubled noise.

While harvests yellow as the day
In plenteous billows roll,
Men go about in blank dismay,
Hungry of heart and soul.

Like chance-sown weeds they grow, and drift
On to the drowning main;
Oh, for a lever that would lift
Thought to a higher plane!

Sin is destructive: he is dead
Whose soul is lost to truth;
While virtue makes the hoary head
Bright with eternal youth.

There is a courage that partakes
Of cowardice; a high
And honest-hearted fear that makes
The man afraid to lie.

When no low thoughts of self intrude,
Angels adjust our rights;
And love that seeks its selfish good
Dies in its own delights.

How much we take,—how little give,—
Yet every life is meant
To help all lives; each man should live
For all men's betterment.

MYSTERIES.

Clouds, with a little light between;
Pain, passion, fear, and doubt,—
What voice shall tell me what they mean?
I cannot find them out!

Hopeless my task is, to begin,
Who fail with all my power,
To read the crimson lettering in
The modest meadow flower.

Death, with shut eyes and icy cheek,
Bearing that bitter cup;
Oh, who is wise enough to speak,
And break its silence up!

Or read the evil writing on
The wall of good, for, oh,
The more my reason shines upon
Its lines, the less I know:

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Or show how dust became a rose,
And what it is above
All mysteries that doth compose
Discordance into love.

I only know that wisdom planned,
And that it is my part
To trust, who cannot understand
The beating of my heart.

LYRIC.

Thou givest, Lord, to Nature law,
And she in turn doth give
Her poorest flower a right to draw
Whate'er she needs to live.

The dews upon her forehead fall,
The sunbeams round her lean,
And dress her humble form with all
The glory of a queen.

In thickets wild, in woodland bowers,
By waysides, everywhere,
The plainest flower of all the flowers
Is shining with thy care.

And shall I, through my fear and doubt,
Be less than one of these,
And come from seeking thee without
By blessed influences?

Thou who hast crowned my life with powers
So large,—so high above
The fairest flower of all the flowers,—
Forbid it by thy love.

TRUST.

Away with all life's memories,
Away with hopes, away!
Lord, take me up into thy love,
And keep me there to-day.

I cannot trust to mortal eyes
My weakness and my sin;
Temptations He alone can judge,
Who knows what they have been.

But I can trust Him who provides
The thirsty ground with dew,
And round the wounded beetle builds
His grassy house anew.

For the same hand that smites with pain,
And sends the wintry snows,
Doth mould the frozen clod again
Into the summer rose.

My soul is melted by that love,
So tender and so true;
I can but cry, My Lord and God,
What wilt thou have me do?

My blessings all come back to me,
And round about me stand;
Help me to climb their dizzy stairs
Until I touch thy hand.

ALL IN ALL.

Aweary, wounded unto death,—
Unfavored of men's eyes,
I have a house not made with hands,
Eternal, in the skies.

A house where but the steps of faith
Through the white light have trod,
Steadfast among the mansions of
The City of our God.

There never shall the sun go down
From the lamenting day;
There storms shall never rise to beat
The light of love away.

There living streams through deathless flowres
Are flowing free and wide;
There souls that thirsted here below
Drink, and are satisfied.

I know my longing shall be filled
When this weak, wasting clay
Is folded like a garment from
My soul, and laid away.

I know it by th' immortal hopes
That wrestle down my fear,—
By all the awful mysteries
That hide heaven from us here.

Oh what a blissful heritage
On such as I to fall;
Possessed of thee, my Lord and God,
I am possessed of all.

250

THE PURE IN HEART.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

I asked the angels in my prayer,
With bitter tears and pains,
To show mine eyes the kingdom where
The Lord of glory reigns.

I said, My way with doubt is dim,
My heart is sick with fear;
Oh come, and help me build to Him
A tabernacle here!

The storms of sorrow wildly beat,
The clouds with death are chill;
I long to hear his voice so sweet,
Who whispered, “Peace; be still!”

The angels said, God giveth you
His love,—what more is ours?
And even as the gentle dew
Descends upon the flowers,

His grace descends; and, as of old,
He walks with man apart,
Keeping the promise as foretold,
With all the pure in heart.

Thou needst not ask the angels where
His habitations be;
Keep thou thy spirit clean and fair,
And He shall dwell with thee.

UNSATISFIED.

Come out from heaven, O Lord, and be my guide,
Come, I implore;
To my dark questionings unsatisfied,
Leave me no more,—
No more, O Lord, no more!

Forgetting how my nights and how my days
Run sweetly by,—
Forgetting that thy ways above our ways
Are all so high,—
I cry, and ever cry—

Since that thou leavest not the wildest glen,
For flowers to wait,
How leavest thou the hearts of living men
So desolate,—
So darkly desolate?

Thou keepest safe beneath the wintry snow
The little seed,
And leavest under all its weights of woe,
The heart to bleed,
And vainly, vainly plead.

In the dry root thou stirrest up the sap;
At thy commands
Cometh the rain, and all the bushes clap
Their rosy hands:
Man only, thirsting, stands.

Is it for envy, or from wrath that springs
From foolish pride,
Thou leavest him to his dark questionings
Unsatisfied,—
Always unsatisfied?

MORE LIFE.

When spring-time prospers in the grass,
And fills the vales with tender bloom,
And light winds whisper as they pass
Of sunnier days to come;

In spite of all the joy she brings
To flood and field, to hill and grove,
This is the song my spirit sings,—
More light, more life, more love!

And when, her time fulfilled, she goes
So gently from her vernal place,
And all the outstretched landscape glows
With sober summer grace;

When on the stalk the ear is set,
With all the harvest promise bright,
My spirit sings the old song yet,—
More love, more life, more light!

When stubble takes the place of grain,
And shrunken streams steal slow along,

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And all the faded woods complain
Like one who suffers wrong;

When fires are lit, and everywhere
The pleasures of the household rife,
My song is solemnized to prayer,—
More love, more light, more life!

LIGHT AND DARKNESS.

Darkness, blind darkness every way,
With low illuminings of light;
Hints, intimations of the day
That never breaks to full, clear light.

High longing for a larger light
Urges us onward o'er life's hill;
Low fear of darkness and of night
Presses us back and holds us still.

So while to Hope we give one hand,
The other hand to Fear we lend;
And thus 'twixt high and low we stand,
Waiting and wavering to the end.

Eager for some ungotten good,
We mind the false and miss the true;
Leaving undone the things we would,
We do the things we would not do.

For ill in good and good in ill,
The verity, the thing that seems,—
They run into each other still,
Like dreams in truth, like truth in dreams.

Seeing the world with sin imbued,
We trust that in the eternal plan
Some little drop of brightest blood
Runs through the darkest heart of man.

Living afar from what is near,
Uplooking while we downward tend;
In light and shadow, hope and fear,
We sin and suffer to the end.

SUBSTANCE.

Each fearful storm that o'er us rolls,
Each path of peril trod,
Is but a means whereby our souls
Acquaint themselves with God.

Our want and weakness, shame and sin,
His pitying kindness prove;
And all our lives are folded in
The mystery of his love.

The grassy land, the flowering trees,
The waters; wild and dim,—
These are the cloud of witnesses
That testify of Him.

His sun is shining, sure and fast,
O'er all our nights of dread;
Our darkness by his light, at last
Shall be interpreted.

No promise shall He fail to keep
Until we see his face;
E'en death is but a tender sleep
In the eternal race.

Time's empty shadow cheats our eyes,
But all the heavens declare
The substance of the things we prize
Is there and only there.

LIFE'S MYSTERY.

Life's sadly solemn mystery
Hangs o'er me like a weight;
The glorious longing to be free,
The gloomy bars of fate.

Alternately the good and ill,
The light and dark, are strung;
Fountains of love within my heart,
And hate upon my tongue.

Beneath my feet the unstable ground,
Above my head the skies;
Immortal longings in my soul,
And death before my eyes.

No purely pure, and perfect good,
No high, unhindered power:
A beauteous promise in the bud,
And mildew on the flower.

The glad, green brightness of the spring;
The summer, soft and warm;
The faded autumn's fluttering gold,
The whirlwind and the storm.

To find some sure interpreter
My spirit vainly tries;
I only know that God is love.
And know that love is wise.

252

FOR SELF-HELP.

Master, I do not ask that thou
With milk and wine my table spread,
So much, as for the will to plough
And sow my fields, and earn my bread;
Lest at thy coming I be found
A useless cumberer of the ground.

I do not ask that thou wilt bless
With gifts of heavenly sort my day,
So much, as that my hands may dress
The borders of my lowly way
With constant deeds of good and right,
Thereby reflecting heavenly light.

I do not ask that thou shouldst lift
My feet to mountain-heights sublime,
So much, as for the heavenly gift
Of strength, with which myself may climb,
Making the power thou madest mine
For using, by that use, divine.

I do not ask that there may flow
Glory about me from the skies;
The knowledge, that doth knowledge know;
The wisdom that is not too wise
To see in all things good and fair,
Thy love attested, is my prayer.

DYING HYMN.

Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills,
Recedes, and fades away;
Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills;
Ye gates of death, give way!

My soul is full of whispered song;
My blindness is my sight;
The shadows that I feared so long
Are all alive with light.

The while my pulses faintly beat,
My faith doth so abound,
I feel grow firm beneath my feet
The green immortal ground.

That faith to me a courage gives,
Low as the grave, to go;
I know that my Redeemer lives:
That I shall live, I know.

The palace walls I almost see,
Where dwells my Lord and King;
O grave, where is thy victory!
O death, where is thy sting!

EXTREMITIES.

When the mildew's blight we see
Over all the harvest spread,
Humbly, Lord, we cry to thee,
Give, oh give us, daily bread!
But the full and plenteous ears
Many a time we reap with tears.

When the whirlwind rocks the land,
When the gathering clouds alarm,
Lord, within thy sheltering hand,
Hide, oh hide us from the storm!
So with trembling souls we cry,
Till the cloud and noise pass by.

When our pleasures fade away,
When our hopes delusive prove,
Prostrate at thy feet we pray,
Shield, oh shield us with thy love!
But, our anxious plea allowed,
We grow petulant and proud.

When life's little day turns dull,
When the avenging shades begin,
Save us, O most Merciful,
Save us, save us from our sin!
So, the last dread foe being near,
We entreat thee, through our fear.

Ere the dark our light efface,
Ere our pleasure fleeth far,
Make us worthier of thy grace,
Stubborn rebels that we are;
While our good days round us shine,
O our Father, make us thine.

HERE AND THERE.

Here is the sorrow, the sighing,
Here are the cloud and the night;
Here is the sickness, the dying,
There are the life and the light!

Here is the fading, the wasting,
The foe that so watchfully waits;
There are the hills everlasting,
The city with beautiful gates.

253

Here are the locks growing hoary,
The glass with the vanishing sands;
There are the crown and the glory,
The house that is made not with hands.

Here is the longing, the vision,
The hopes that so swiftly remove;
There is the blessed fruition,
The feast, and the fullness of love.

Here are the heart-strings a-tremble
And here is the chastening rod;
There is the song and the cymbal,
And there is our Father and God.

THE DAWN OF PEACE.

After the cloud and the whirlwind,
After the long, dark night,
After the dull, slow marches,
And the thick, tumultuous fight,
Thank God, we see the lifting
Of the golden, glorious light!

After the sorrowful partings,
After the sickening fear,
And after the bitter sealing
With blood, of year to year,
Thank God, the light is breaking;
Thank God, the day is here!

The land is filled with mourning
For husbands and brothers slain,
But a hymn of glad thanksgiving
Rises over the pain;
Thank God, our gallant soldiers
Have not gone down in vain!

The cloud is spent; the whirlwind
That vexed the night is past;
And the day whose blessed dawning
We see, shall surely last,
Till all the broken fetters
To ploughshares shall be cast!

When over the field of battle
The grass grows green, and when
The Spirit of Peace shall have planted
Her olives once again,
Oh, how the hosts of the people
Shall cry, Amen, Amen!

OCCASIONAL.

Our mightiest in our midst is slain;
The mourners weep around,
Broken and bowed with bitter pain,
And bleeding through his wound.

Prostrate, o'erwhelmed, with anguish torn,
We cry, great God, for aid;
Night fell upon us, even at morn,
And we are sore afraid.

Afraid of our infirmities,
In this, our woeful woe,—
Afraid to breast the bloody seas
That hard against us flow.

The sword we sheathed, our enemy
Has bared, and struck us through;
And heart, and soul, and spirit cry,
What wilt thou have us do!

Be with our country in this grief
That lies across her path,
Lest that she mourn her martyred chief
With an unrighteous wrath.

Give her that steadfast faith and trust
That look through all, to Thee;
And in her mercy keep her just,
And through her justice, free.

[Why should our spirits be opprest]

Why should our spirits be opprest
When days of darkness fall?
Our Father knoweth what is best,
And He hath made them all.

He made them, and to all their length
Set parallels of gain;
We gather from our pain the strength
To rise above our pain.

All, all beneath the shining sun
Is vanity and dust;
Help us, O high and holy One,
To fix in thee our trust;

And in the change, and interfuse
Of change, with every hour,
To recognize the shifting hues
Of never-changing Power.

254

POEMS FOR CHILDREN.

THE LITTLE BLACKSMITH.

We heard his hammer all day long
On the anvil ring and ring,
But he always came when the sun went down
To sit on the gate and sing.

His little hands so hard and brown
Crossed idly on his knee,
And straw hat lopping over cheeks
As red as they could be;

His blue and faded jacket trimmed
With signs of work,—his feet
All bare and fair upon the grass,
He made a picture sweet.

For still his shoes, with iron shod,
On the smithy-wall he hung;
As forth he came when the sun went down,
And sat on the gate and sung.

The whistling rustic tending cows,
Would keep in pastures near,
And half the busy villagers
Lean from their doors to hear.

And from the time the bluebirds came
And made the hedges bright,
Until the stubble yellow grew,
He never missed a night.

The hammer's stroke on the anvil filled
His heart with a happy ring,
And that was why, when the sun went down,
He came to the gate to sing.

LITTLE CHILDREN.

Blessings, blessings on the beds
Whose white pillows softly bear,
Rows of little shining heads
That have never known a care.

Pity for the heart that bleeds
In the homestead desolate
Where no little troubling needs
Make the weary working wait.

Safely, safely to the fold
Bring them wheresoe'er they be,
Thou, who saidst of them, of old,
“Suffer them to come to me.”

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

TO BE READ BY ALL WHO DEAL HARDLY WITH YOUNG CHILDREN.

PART I.

Up, Gregory! the cloudy east
Is bright with the break o' the day;
'T is time to yoke our cattle, and time
To eat our crust and away.
Up, out o' your bed! for the rosy red
Will soon be growing gray.

Aye, straight to your feet, my lazy lad,
And button your jacket on—
Already neighbor Joe is afield,
And so is our neighbor John—
The golden light is turned to white,
And 't is time that we were gone!

Nay, leave your shoes hung high and dry—
Do you fear a little sleet?

255

Your mother to-day is not by half
So dainty with her feet,
And I'll warrant you she had n't a shoe
At your age upon her feet!

What! shiv'ring on an April day?
Why this is pretty news!
The frosts before an hour will all
Be melted into dews,
And Christmas week will do, I think,
To talk about your shoes!

Waiting to brew another cup
Of porridge? sure you 're mad—
One cup at your age, Gregory,
And precious small, I had.
We cannot bake the Christmas cake
At such a rate, my lad!

Out, out at once! and on with the yoke,
Your feet will never freeze!
The sun before we have done a stroke
Will be in the tops o' the trees.
A-Christmas Day you may eat and play
As much as ever you please!

So out of the house, and into the sleet,
With his jacket open wide,
Went pale and patient Gregory—
All present joy denied—
And yoked his team like one in a dream,
Hungry and sleepy-eyed.

PART II.

It seemed to our little harvester
He could hear the shadows creep;
For the scythe lay idle in the grass,
And the reaper had ceased to reap.
'T was the burning noon of the leafy June,
And the birds were all asleep.

And he seemed to rather see than hear
The wind through the long leaves draw,
As he sat and notched the stops along
His pipe of hollow straw.
On Christmas Day he had planned to play
His tune without a flaw.

Upon his sleeve the spider's web
Hung loose like points of lace,
And he looked like a picture painted there,
He was so full of grace.
For his cheeks they shone as if there had blown
Fresh roses in his face.

Ah, never on his lady's arm
A lover's hand was laid
With touches soft as his upon
The flute that he had made,
As he bent his ear and watched to hear
The sweet, low tune he played.

But all at once from out his cheek
The light o' the roses fled—
He had heard a coming step that crushed
The daisies 'neath its tread.
O happiness! thou art held by less
Than the spider's tiniest thread!

A moment, and the old harsh call
Had broken his silver tune,
And with his sickle all as bright
And bent as the early moon,
He cut his way through the thick set hay
In the burning heat o' the June.

As one who by a river stands,
Weary and worn and sad,
And sees the flowers the other side—
So was it with the lad.
There was Christmas light in his dream at night,
But a dream was all he had.

Work, work in the light o' th' rosy morns,
Work, work in the dusky eves;
For now they must plough, and now they must plant,
And now they must bind the sheaves.
And far away was the holiday
All under the Christmas leaves.

For still it brought the same old cry,
If he would rest or play,
Some other week, or month, or year,
But not now—not to-day!
Nor feast, nor flower, for th' passing hour,
But all for the far away.

PART III.

Now Christmas came, and Gregory
With the dawn was broad awake;
But there was the crumple cow to milk,
And there was the cheese to make;

256

And so it was noon ere he went to the town
To buy the Christmas cake.

“You'll leave your warm, new coat at home,
And keep it fresh and bright
To wear,” the careful old man said,
“When you come back to-night.”
“Aye,” answered the lad, for his heart was glad,
And he whistled out o' their sight.

The frugal couple sat by the fire
And talked the hours away,
Turning over the years like leaves
To the friends of their wedding-day—
Saying who was wed, and who was dead,
And who was growing gray.

And so at last the day went by,
As, somehow, all days will;
And when the evening winds began
To blow up wild and shrill,
They looked to see if their Gregory
Were coming across the hill.

They saw the snow-cloud on the sky,
With its rough and ragged edge,
And thought of the river running high,
And thought of the broken bridge;
But they did not see their Gregory
Keeping his morning's pledge!

The old wife rose, her fear to hide,
And set the house aright,
But oft she paused at the window side,
And looked out on the night.
The candles fine, they were all a-shine,
But they could not make it light.

The very clock ticked mournfully,
And the cricket was not glad,
And to the old folks sitting alone,
The time was, oh! so sad;
For the Christmas light, it lacked that night
The cheeks of their little lad.

The winds and the woods fall wrestling now,
And they cry, as the storm draws near,
“If Gregory were but home alive,
He should not work all this year!”
For they saw him dead in the river's bed,
Through the surges of their fear.

Of ghosts that walk o' nights they tell—
A sorry Christmas theme—
And of signs and tokens in the air,
And of many a warning dream,
Till the bough at the pane through th' sleet and rain
Drags like a corpse in a stream.

There was the warm, new coat unworn,
And the flute of straw unplayed;
And these were dreadfuller than ghosts
To make their souls afraid,
As the years that were gone came one by one,
And their slights before them laid.

The Easter days and the Christmas days
Bereft of their sweet employ,
And working and waiting through them all
Their little pale-eyed boy,
Looking away to the holiday
That should bring the promised joy.

“God's mercy on us!” cried they both,
“We have been so blind and deaf;
And justly are our gray heads bowed
To the very grave with grief.”
But hark! is 't the rain that taps at the pane,
Or the fluttering, falling leaf?

Nay, fluttering leaf, nor snow, nor rain,
However hard they strive,
Can make a sound so sweet and soft,
Like a bee's wing in the hive.
Joy! joy! oh joy! it is their boy!
Safe, home, in their arms alive!

Ah, never was there pair so rich
As they that night, I trow,
And never a lad in all the world
With a merrier pipe to blow,
Nor Christmas light that shone so bright
At midnight on the snow.

NOVEMBER.

The leaves are fading and falling,
The winds are rough and wild,

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The birds have ceased their calling,
But let me tell you, my child,

Though day by day, as it closes,
Doth darker and colder grow,
The roots of the bright red roses
Will keep alive in the snow.

And when the winter is over,
The boughs will get new leaves,
The quail come back to the clover,
And the swallow back to the eaves.

The robin will wear on his bosom
A vest that is bright and new,
And the lovliest way-side blossom
Will shine with the sun and dew.

The leaves to-day are whirling,
The brooks are all dry and dumb,
But let me tell you, my darling,
The spring will be sure to come.

There must be rough, cold weather,
And winds and rains so wild;
Not all good things together
Come to us here, my child.

So, when some dear joy loses
Its beauteous summer glow,
Think how the roots of the roses
Are kept alive in the snow.

MAKE-BELIEVE.

All upon a summer day,
Seven children, girls and boys,
Raking in the meadow hay,
Waked the echoes with their noise.

You must know them by their names—
Fanny Field and Mary,
Benjamin and Susan James,
Joe and John M'Clary.

Then a child, so very small,
She was only come for play—
Little Miss Matilda May,
And you have them one and all.

'T was a pretty sight to see—
Seven girls and boys together
Raking in the summer weather,
Merry as they well could be!

But one lad that we must own
Many a lad has represented,
Doing well, was not contented
To let well enough alone!

This was Master Benny James,
Brother, you will see, to Sue,
If you glance along the names
As I set them down for you.

Out he spoke—this Benjamin—
Standing with his lazy back
Close against a fragrant stack.
Out and up he spoke, and then
Called with much ado and noise
All the seven girls and boys
From their raking in the hay—
Fanny Field and Mary,
Sister Sue and Tilly May,
Joe and John M'Clary.

Two by two, and one by one
Turned upon their work their backs,
And with skip, and hop, and run
In and out among the stacks,

Came with faces flushed and red
As the flowers along the glen,
And began to question Ben,
Who made answer back, and said—
Speaking out so very loud—
Holding up his head so proud,
As he leaned his lazy back
Close against the fragrant stack:
“Listen will you, girls and boys!
This is what I have to say—
I 've invented a new play!”
Then they cried with merry noise—
“Tell us all about it, Ben!”
And he answered—“First of all,
All we boys, or large or small,
Must pretend that we are men!

“And you girls, Fan, Sue, and Molly,
Must pretend that you 're birds,
And must chirp and sing your words—
Never was there play so jolly!

“I'm to be called Captain Gray,
And, of course, the rest of you
All must do as I shall say.”
Here he called his sister Sue,
Telling her she must be blue,
And must answer to her name
When the call of Bluebird came.

Fanny Field must be a Jay,
And the rest—no matter what—

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Anything that they were not!
Mary might be Tilly May,
And Matilda, as for her,
She might be a Grasshopper!

All cried out, “Oh, what a play!”
Fanny Field and Mary,
Susy James and Tilly May,
Joe and John M'Clary.

Here Ben said he was not Ben
Any more, but Captain Gray!
And gave order first—“My men,
Forward! march! and rake the hay!”

Then he told his sister Sue
She must go and do the same,
But, forgetting she was blue,
Called her by her proper name.

Loud enough laughed Susan then,
And declared she would not say
Any longer Captain Gray,
But would only call him Ben!

This was such a dreadful falling
Ben got angry, and alas,
Made the matter worse, by calling
Little Tilly, Hoppergrass!

Fanny Field, he did make out
To call Jay-bird, once or twice,
And, in turn, she flew about,
Chirping very wild and nice.

Once she tried to make a wing,
Holding wide her linsey gown,
And went flapping up and down,
Laughing so she couldn't sing.

But the captain to obey
When he called her Tilly May,
Was too hard for Mary,
And Matilda—praise to her—
Could not play the grasshopper,
But in honesty of heart,
Quite forgetful of her part,
Spoke to John M'Clary!

Thus the hay-making went on,
Very bad and very slow—
All the worse that Joe and John
Now were Mister John and Joe!

Work is work, and play is play,
And the two will not be one;
Therefore half the meadow-hay
Lay unraked at set of sun.

Then the farmer who had hired
All the seven girls and boys,
Being out of heart, and tired
With no work and much of noise,

Came upon them all at once,
And made havoc of their play.
Calling Benjamin a dunce,
In the stead of Captain Gray!

So to make excuse, in part,
For the unraked field of hay,
Tilly—bless her honest heart!
Up and told about the play.

How that Benny, discontented
With the work of raking hay,
Of his own head had invented
Such a pretty, pretty play!

“Benny calls it Make-believe!”
Tilly said, with cheeks aglow,
“Not at all, sir, to deceive,
But to make things fine, you know?”

Then she said, that he might see
Just how charming it must be,
“Fanny Field, sir, is a jay,
And her sister Mary,
Is myself, Matilda May,
Joe and John M'Clary,
Mister Joe and Mister John—
Sue a bluebird and so on
Up to lofty Captain Gray.
Oh it is the funniest play!
Would n't you like to play it, sir?
I was just a grasshopper,
But I could n't play my part!
Hopping, I was sure to fall—
Somehow, 't was not in my heart,
But 't was very nice, for all!”

Looking in the farmer's eyes,
All a-tiptoe stood the child;
Half in kindliness he smiled,
Half in pitiful surprise.

Then he said, “My little friends,”
Calling one by one their names,
Fanny Field and Mary,
Benjamin and Susan James,
Joe and John M'Clary,
And Matilda—“Life's great ends
Are not gained by make-believe.

259

This you all must learn at length,
Lies are weak and truth is strong,
And as much as you deceive,
Just so much you lose of strength—
Right is right, and wrong is wrong.

“If 't is hay you want to make,
Mind this, every one of you!
You must call a rake, a rake,
And must use it smartly, too.

“Oh, be honest through and through!
Cherish truth until it grows,
And through all your being shows
Like the sunshine in the dew!

“Using power is getting power—
He that giveth seldom lacks,
Doing right, wrong done retrieves.”
Then the children turned their backs
On their foolish make-believes.
And in just a single hour
Filled the meadow full of stacks!

And as home they went that night,
Each and all had double pay
For the raking of that hay,
And the best pay was delight.

And I think without a doubt,
If they lived they all became
Wiser women, wiser men
For the lesson learned that day
Simple-hearted Tilly May,
Fanny Field and Mary.

Susan James and Benjamin,
Joe and John M'Clary,
Leaving in their lives the game
Of the make-believing out;
Yes, I think so, without doubt.

A NUT HARD TO CRACK.

Says John to his mother, “Look here! look here!
For my brain is on the rack—
I have gotten a nut as smooth to the sight
As the shell of an egg, and as fair and white,
Except for a streak of black.
Why that should mar it I can't make clear.”
And Johnny's mother replied, “My dear,
Your nut will be hard to crack.”

John, calling louder, “Look here! look here!
I want to get on the track,
And trace the meaning, for never a nut
Had outside fairer than this one, but
For this ugly streak of black!
I can't for my life its use make clear.”
And Johnny's mother replied, “My dear,
Your nut will be hard to crack.”

Then John, indignant, “Look here! look here!
And he gave the hammer a thwack;
And there was the nut quite broke in two,
And all across it, and through and through,
The damaging streak of black!
“It grew with his growth,” he says, “that 's clear,
But why!” And his mother replied, “My dear,
That nut will be hard to crack.”

Then John, in anger, “Look here! look here!
You may have your wisdom back.
The nut is cracked—broke all to splint,
But it does n't give me even a hint
Toward showing why the black
Should spoil the else sweet meat.” “My dear,”
Says Johnny's mother, “it's very clear
Your nut will be hard to crack.

“For, John, whichever way we steer,
There is evil on our track;
And whence it came, or how it fell,
No wisest man of all can tell.
We only know that black
Is mixed with white, and pain with bliss,
So all that I can say is this,
Your nut will be hard to crack.”

HIDE AND SEEK.

As I sit and watch at the window-pane
The light in the sunset skies,
The pictures rise in my heart and brain,
As the stars do in the skies.

Among the rest, doth rise and pass,
With the blue smoke curling o'er,

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The house I was born in, with the grass
And roses round the door.

I see the well-sweep, rough and brown,
And I hear the creaking tell
Of the bucket going up and down
On the stony sides of the well.

I see the cows, by the water-side—
Red Lily, and Pink, and Star,—
And the oxen with their horns so wide,
Close locked in playful war.

I see the field where the mowers stand
In the clover-flowers, knee-deep;
And the one with his head upon his hand,
In the locust-shade asleep.

I see beneath his shady brim,
The heavy eyelids sealed,
And the mowers stopping to look at him,
As they mow across the field.

I hear the bluebird's twit-te-tweet!
And the robin's whistle blithe;
And then I see him spring to his feet,
And take up his shining scythe.

I see the barn with the door swung out,—
Still dark with its mildew streak,—
And the stacks, and the bushes all about,
Where we played at Hide and Seek!

I see and count the rafters o'er,
'Neath which the swallow sails,
And I see the sheaves on the threshing-floor,
And the threshers with the flails.

I hear the merry shout and laugh
Of the careless boys and girls,
As the wind-mill drops the golden chaff,
Like sunshine in their curls.

The shadow of all the years that stand
'Twixt me and my childhood's day,
I strip like a glove from off my hand,
And am there with the rest at play.

Out there, half hid in its leafy screen,
I can see a rose-red cheek,
And up in the hay-mow I catch the sheen
Of the darling head I seek.

Just where that whoop was smothered low,
I have seen the branches stir;
It is there that Margaret hides, I know,
And away I chase for her!

And now with curls that toss so wide
They shade his eyes like a brim,
Runs Dick for a safer place to hide,
And I turn and chase for him!

And rounding close by the jutting stack,
Where it hangs in a rustling sheet,
In spite of the body that presses back,
I espy two tell-tale feet!

Now all at once with a reckless shout,
Alphonse from his covert springs,
And whizzes by, with his elbows out,
Like a pair of sturdy wings.

Then Charley leaps from the cattle-rack,
And spins at so wild a pace,
The grass seems fairly swimming back
As he shouts, “I am home! Base! Base!”

While modest Mary, shy as a nun,
Keeps close by the grape-vine wall,
And waits, and waits, till our game is done,
And never is found at all.

But suddenly, at my crimson pane,
The lights grow dim and die,
And the pictures fade from heart and brain,
As the stars do from the sky.

The bundles slide from the threshing-floor,
And the mill no longer whirls,
And I find my playmates now no more
By their shining cheeks and curls.

I call them far, and I call them wide,
From the prairie, and over the sea,
“Oh why do you tarry, and where do you hide?”
But they may not answer me.

God grant that when the sunset sky
Of my life shall cease to glow,
I may find them waiting me on high,
As I waited them below.

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THREE BUGS.

Three little bugs in a basket,
And hardly room for two!
And one was yellow, and one was black,
And one like me, or you.
The space was small, no doubt, for all;
But what should three bugs do?

Three little bugs in a basket,
And hardly crumbs for two;
And all were selfish in their hearts,
The same as I or you:
So the strong ones said, “We will eat the bread,
And that is what we'll do.”

Three little bugs in a basket,
And the beds but two would hold;
So they all three fell to quarreling—
The white, and black, and the gold;
And two of the bugs got under the rugs,
And one was out in the cold!

So he that was left in the basket,
Without a crumb to chew,
Or a thread to wrap himself withal,
When the wind across him blew,
Pulled one of the rugs from one of the bugs,
And so the quarrel grew!

And so there was war in the basket,
Ah, pity, 't is, 't is true!
But he that was frozen and starved at last,
A strength from his weakness drew,
And pulled the rugs from both of the bugs,
And killed and ate them, too!

Now, when bugs live in a basket,
Though more than it well can hold,
It seems to me they had better agree—
The white, and the black, and the gold—
And share what comes of the beds and crumbs,
And leave no bug in the cold!

WAITING FOR SOMETHING TO TURN UP.

“And why do you throw down your hoe by the way
As if that furrow were done?”
It was the good farmer, Bartholomew Grey,
That spoke on this wise to his son.

Now Barty, the younger, was not very bad,
But he did n't take kindly to work,
And the father had oftentimes said of the lad
That the thing he did best was to shirk!

It was early in May, and a beautiful morn—
The rosebuds tipt softly with red—
The pea putting on her white bloom, and the corn
Being just gotten up out of bed.

And after the first little break of the day
Had broadened itself on the blue,
The provident farmer, Bartholomew Grey,
Had driven afield through the dew.

His brown mare, Fair Fanny, in collar and harness
Went before him, so sturdy and stout,
And ere the sun's fire yet had kindled to flames,
They had furrowed the field twice about.

And still as they came to the southerly slope
He reined in Fair Fanny, with Whoa!
And gazed toward the homestead, and gazed, in the hope
Of seeing young Barty—but no!

“Asleep yet?” he said —“in a minute the horn
That shall call to the breakfast, will sound,
And all these long rows of the tender young corn
Left choking, and ploughed in the ground!”

Now this was the work, which the farmer had planned
For Barty—a task kindly meant,
To follow the plough, with the hoe in his hand,
And to set up the stalks as he went.

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But not till the minutes to hours had run,
And the heat was aglow far and wide,
Did he see his slow-footed and sleepy-eyed son
A-dragging his hoe by his side.

Midway of the corn field he stopped, gaped around;
“What use is there working?” says he,
And saying so, threw himself flat on the ground
In the shade of a wide-spreading tree.

And this was the time that Bartholomew Grey,
Fearing bad things might come to the worst,
Drew rein on Fair Fanny, the sweat wiped away.
And spoke as we quoted at first.

He had thought to have given the lad such a start
As would bring him at once to his feet,
And he stood in the furrow, amazed, as young Bart.
Lying lazy, and smiling so sweet,

Replied—“The world owes me a living, you see,
And something, or sooner or late,
I'm certain as can be, will turn up for me,
And I am contented to wait!”

“My son,” says the farmer, “take this to your heart.
For to live in the world is to learn,
The good things that turn up are for the most part
The things we ourselves help to turn!

“So boy, if you want to be sure of your bread
Ere the good time of working is gone,
Brush the cobwebs of nonsense all out of your head.
And take up your hoe, and move on!”

SUPPOSE.

How dreary would the meadows be
In the pleasant summer light,
Suppose there was n't a bird to sing.
And suppose the grass was white!

And dreary would the garden be,
With all its flowery trees,
Suppose there were no butterflies,
And suppose there were no bees.

And what would all the beauty be,
And what the song that cheers,
Suppose we had n't any eyes,
And suppose we had n't ears?

For though the grass were gay and green,
And song-birds filled the glen,
And the air were purple with butterflies,
What good would they do us then?

Ah, think of it, my little friends;
And when some pleasure flies,
Why, let it go, and still be glad
That you have your ears and eyes.

A GOOD RULE.

A farmer, who owned a fine orchard, one day
Went out with his sons to take a survey,
The time of the year being April or May.

The buds were beginning to break into bloom,
The air all about him was rich with perfume,
And nothing, at first, waked a feeling of gloom.

But all at once, going from this place to that,
He shaded his eyes with the brim of his hat,
Saying, “Here is a tree dying out, that is flat!”

He called his sons, Joseph and John, and said he,
“This sweeting, you know, was my favorite tree—
Just look at the top now, and see what you see!

“The blossoms are blighted, and, sure as you live,

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It won't have a bushel of apples to give!
What ails it? the rest of the trees seem to thrive.

“Run, boys, bring hither your tools, and don't stop,
But take every branch that is falling alop,
And saw it out quickly, from bottom to top!”

“Yes, father,” they said, and away they both ran—
For they always said father, and never old man,
And for my part I don't see how good children can.

And before a half hour of the morning was gone.
They were back in the orchard, both Joseph and John,
And presently all the dead branches were sawn.

“Well, boys,” said the farmer, “I think, for my share,
If the rain and the sunshine but second our care,
The old sweeting yet will be driven to bear!”

And so when a month, may be more, had gone by,
And borne out the June, and brought in the July,
He came back the luck of the pruning to try.

And lo! when the sweeting was reached, it was found
That windfalls enough were strewn over the ground,
But never an apple all blushing and sound.

Then the farmer said, shaping his motions to suit,
First up to the boughs and then down to the fruit,
“Come Johnny, come Joseph, and dig to the root!”

And straightway they came with their spades and their hoes,
And threw off their jackets, and shouting, “Here goes!”
They digged down and down with the sturdiest blows.

And, by and by, Joseph his grubbing-hoe drew
From the earth and the roots, crying. “Father, look! do!”
And he pointed his words with the toe of his shoe!

And the farmer said, shaping a gesture to suit,
“I see why our sweeting has brought us no fruit—
There 's a worm sucking out all the sap at the root!”

Then John took his spade with an awful grimace,
And lifted the ugly thing out of its place,
And put the loose earth back in very short space.

And when the next year came, it only is fair
To say, that the sweeting rewarded the care,
And bore them good apples, enough and to spare.

And now, my dear children, whenever you see
A life that is profitless, think of that tree;
For ten chances to one, you'll find there will be

Some habit of evil indulged day by day,
And hid as the earth-worm was hid in the clay,
That is steadily sapping the life-blood away.

The fruit, when the blossom is blighted, will fall;
The sin will be searched out, no matter how small;
So, what you 're ashamed to do, don't do at all.

TO MOTHER FAIRIE.

Good old mother Fairie,
Sitting by your fire,
Have you any little folk
You would like to hire?

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I want no chubby drudges
To milk, and churn, and spin,
Nor old and wrinkled Brownies,
With grisly beards, and thin:

But patient little people,
With hands of busy care,
And gentle speech, and loving hearts;
Say, have you such to spare?

I know a poor, pale body,
Who cannot sleep at night,
And I want the little people
To keep her chamber bright;

To chase away the shadows
That make her moan and weep,
To sing her loving lullabies,
And kiss her eyes asleep.

And when in dreams she reaches
For pleasures dead and gone,
To hold her wasted fingers,
And make the rings stay on.

They must be very cunning
To make the future shine
Like leaves, and flowers, and strawberries,
A-growing on one vine.

Good old mother Fairie,
Since my need you know,
Tell me, have you any folk
Wise enough to go?

BARBARA BLUE.

There was an old woman
Named Barbara Blue,
But not the old woman
Who lived in a shoe,
And did n't know what
With her children to do.

For she that I tell of
Lived all alone.
A miserly creature
As ever was known.
And had never a chick
Or child of her own.

She kept very still,
Some said she was meek;
Others said she was only
Too stingy to speak;
That her little dog fed
On one bone for a week!

She made apple-pies,
And she made them so tart
That the mouths of the children
Who ate them would smart;
And these she went peddling
About in a cart.

One day, on her travels,
She happened to meet
A farmer, who said
He had apples so sweet
That all the town's-people
Would have them to eat.

“And how do you sell them?”
Says Barbara Blue.
“Why, if you want only
A bushel or two,”
Says the farmer, “I don't mind
To give them to you.”

“What! give me a bushel?”
Cries Barbara Blue,
“A bushel of apples,
And sweet apples, too!”
“Be sure,” says the farmer,
“Be sure, ma'am, I do.”

And then he said if she
Would give him a tart
(She had a great basket full
There in her cart),
He would show her the orchard,
And then they would part.

So she picked out a little one,
Burnt at the top,
And held it a moment,
And then let it drop,
And then said she had n't
A moment to stop,
And drove her old horse
Away, hippity hop!

One night when the air was
All blind with the snow,
Dame Barbara, driving
So soft and so slow
That the farmer her whereabouts
Never would know,

Went after the apples;
And avarice grew
When she saw their red coats,
Till, before she was through,

265

She took twenty bushels,
Instead of the two!

She filled the cart full,
And she heaped it a-top,
And if just an apple
Fell off, she would stop,
And then drive ahead again,
Hippity hop!

Her horse now would stumble,
And now he would fall,
And where the high river-bank
Sloped like a wall,
Sheer down, they went over it,
Apples and all!

TAKE CARE.

Little children, you must seek
Rather to be good than wise,
For the thoughts you do not speak
Shine out in your cheeks and eyes.

If you think that you can be
Cross or cruel, and look fair,
Let me tell you how to see
You are quite mistaken there.

Go and stand before the glass,
And some ugly thought contrive,
And my word will come to pass
Just as sure as you 're alive!

What you have, and what you lack,
All the same as what you wear,
You will see reflected back;
So, my little folks, take care!

And not only in the glass
Will your secrets come to view;
All beholders, as they pass,
Will perceive and know them too.

Goodness shows in blushes bright,
Or in eyelids dropping down,
Like a violet from the light;
Badness, in a sneer or frown.

Out of sight, my boys and girls,
Every root of beauty starts;
So think less about your curls,
More about your minds and hearts.

Cherish what is good, and drive
Evil thoughts and feelings far;
For, as sure as you 're alive,
You will show for what you are.

THE GRATEFUL SWAN.

One day, a poor peddler,
Who carried a pack,
Felt something come
Flippity-flop on his back.

He looked east and west,
He turned white, he turned red,
Then bent his back lower,
And traveled ahead.

The sun was gone down
When he entered his door,
And loosened the straps
From his shoulders once more.

Then up sprang his wife,
Crying, “Bless your heart, John,
Here, sitting atop of your pack,
Is a swan.

“A wing like a lily,
A beak like a rose;
Now good luck go with her
Wherever she goes!”

“Dear me!” cried the peddler,
“What fullness of crop!
No wonder I felt her
Come flippity-flop!

“I'll bet you, good wife,
All the weight of my pack,
I've carried that bird
For ten miles on my back!”

“Perhaps,” the wife answered,
“She'll lay a gold egg
To pay you; but, bless me!
She 's broken a leg.”

Then went to the cupboard,
And brought from the shelf
A part of the supper
She 'd meant for herself.

Of course two such nurses
Effected a cure;
One leg stiff, but better
Than none, to be sure!

“No wonder,” says John,
As she stood there a-lop,

266

“That I should have felt her
Come flippity-flop!”

Then straight to his pack
For a bandage he ran,
While Jannet, the good wife,
To splints broke her fan;

And, thinking no longer
About the gold egg,
All tenderly held her
And bound up the leg;

All summer they lived
Thus together—the swan,
And peddler and peddler's wife
Jannet and John.

At length, when the leaves
In the garden grew brown,
The bird came one day
With her head hanging down;

And told her kind master
And mistress so dear,
She was going to leave them
Perhaps for a year.

“What mean you?” cried Jannet,
“What mean you?” cried John.
“You will see, if I ever
Come back,” said the swan.

And so, with the tears
Rolling down, drip-a-drop,
She lifted her snowy wings,
Flippity-flop!

And sailed away, stretching
Her legs and her neck,
Till all they could see
Was a little white speck.

Then Jannet said, turning
Her eyes upon John,
But speaking, no doubt,
Of the bird that was gone:

“A wing like a lily,
A beak like a rose;
And good luck go with her
Wherever she goes!”

The winter was weary,
But vanished at last,
As all winters will do;
And when it was past,

And doffies beginning
To show their bright heads,
One day as our Jannet
Was making the beds—

The beds in the garden,
I 'd have you to know,
She saw in the distance
A speck white as snow.

She saw it sail nearer
And nearer, then stop
And land in her garden path,
Flippity-flop!

One moment of wonder,
Then cried she, “O John!
As true as you 're living, man,
Here is our swan!

“And by her sleek feathers,
She comes from the south;
But what thing is this
Shining so in her mouth?”

“A diamond!” cried Johnny;
The swan nearer drew,
And dropped it in Jannet's
Nice apron of blue;

Then held up the mended leg
Quite to her crop,
And danced her great wings
About, flippity-flop!

“I never beheld such a bird
In my life!”
Cried Johnny, the peddler;
“Nor I!” said his wife.

A SHORT SERMON.

Children, who read my lay,
Thus much I have to say:
Each day, and every day,
Do what is right!
Right things, in great and small;
Then, though the sky should fall,
Sun, moon, and stars, and all,
You shall have light!

This further I would say:
Be you tempted as you may,
Each day, and every day,
Speak what is true!

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True things, in great and small;
Then, though the sky should fall,
Sun, moon, and stars, and all.
Heaven would show through!

Figs, as you see and know,
Do not out of thistles grow:
And, though the blossoms blow
White on the tree,
Grapes never, never yet
On the limbs of thorns were set;
So, if you a good would get,
Good you must be!

Life's journey, through and through,
Speaking what is just and true;
Doing what is right to do
Unto one and all,
When you work and when you play,
Each day, and every day:
Then peace shall gild your way,
Though the sky should fall.

STORY OF A BLACKBIRD.

Come, gather round me, children,
Who just as you please would do,
And hear me tell what fate befell,
A blackbird that I knew.

He lived one year in our orchard,
From spring till fall, you see,
And swung and swung, and sung and sung,
In the top of the highest tree.

He had a blood-red top-knot.
And wings that were tipped to match:
And he held his head as if he said,
“I'm a fellow hard to catch!”

And never built himself a nest,
Nor took a mate—not he!
But swung and swung, and sung and sung,
In the top of the highest tree.

And yet, the little bluebird,
So modest and so shy.
Could beat him to death with a single breath,
If she had but a mind to try.

And the honest, friendly robin,
That went in a russet coat,
Though he was n't the bird that sung to be heard,
Had twice as golden a throat.

But robin, bluebird, and all the birds,
Were afraid as they could be;
He looked so proud and sung so loud,
Atop of the highest tree.

We often said, we children,
He only wants to be seen!
For his bosom set like a piece of jet,
In the glossy leaves of green.

He dressed his feathers again and again,
Till the oil did fairly run,
And the tuft on his head, of bright blood-red,
Like a ruby shone in the sun.

But summer lasts not always,
And the leaves they faded brown;
And when the breeze went over the trees,
They fluttered down and down.

The robin, and wren, and bluebird,
They sought a kindlier clime;
But the blackbird cried, in his foolish pride,
“I'll see my own good time!”

And whistled, whistled, and whistled,
Perhaps to hide his pain;
Until, one day, the air grew gray,
With the slant of the dull, slow rain.

And then, wing-tip and top-knot,
They lost their blood-red shine;
Unhoused to be, in the top of a tree,
Was not so very fine!

At first he cowered and shivered,
And then he ceased to sing,
And then he spread about his head,
One drenched and dripping wing.

And stiffer winds at sunset,
Began to beat and blow;
And next daylight the ground was white
With a good inch-depth of snow!

And oh, for the foolish blackbird,
That had n't a house for his head!
The bitter sleet began at his feet
And chilled and killed him dead!

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And the rabbit, when he saw him,
Enrapt in his snowy shroud,
Let drop his ears and said, with tears,
“This comes of being proud.”

FAIRY-FOLK.

The story-books have told you
Of the fairy-folks so nice,
That make them leathern aprons
Of the ears of little mice;
And wear the leaves of roses,
Like a cap upon their heads,
And sleep at night on thistle-down,
Instead of feather beds!

These stories, too, have told you,
No doubt to your surprise,
That the fairies ride in coaches
That are drawn by butterflies;
And come into your chambers,
When you are locked in dreams,
And right across your counterpanes
Make bold to drive their teams;
And that they heap your pillows
With their gifts of rings and pearls;
But do not heed such idle tales,
My little boys and girls.

There are no fairy-folk that ride
About the world at night,
Who give you rings and other things,
To pay for doing right.
But if you do to others what
You 'd have them do to you,
You'll be as blest as if the best
Of story-books were true.

BURIED GOLD.

In a little bird's-nest of a house,
About the color of a mouse,
And low, and quaint, and square—
Twenty feet, perhaps, in all—
With never a chamber nor a hall,
There lived a queer old pair
Once on a time. They are dead and gone;
But in their day their names were John
And Emeline Adair.

John used to sit and take his ease,
With two great patches at his knees,
And spectacles on his nose,
With a bit of twine or other thread,
That met behind his heavy head
And tied the big brass bows.

His jacket was a snuffy brown,
His coat was just a farmer's gown,
That once had been bright blue;
But the oldest man could hardly say
When it was not less blue than gray,
It was frayed and faded such a way,
And both the elbows through!

But, somehow or other, Emeline
Went dressed in silks and laces fine;
She was proud and high of head,
And she used to go, and go, and go,
Through mud and mire, and rain and snow,
Visiting high and visiting low,
As idle gossips will you know;
And many a thing that was n't so
She told, the neighbors said.

Amongst the rest that her husband John,
Though his gown was poor to look upon,
And his trowsers patched and old,
Had money to spend, and money to spare,
As sure as her name was Mrs. Adair;
And though she said it, who say it should not,
Somewhere back or front of their lot,
He had buried her iron dinner-pot,
A pewter pan, and she did n't know what
Beside, chock-full of gold!

Well, by and by her tongue got still,
That had clattered and clattered like a mill,
Little for good, and a good deal for ill,
Having all her life-time had her will—
The poor old woman died:
And John, when he missed the whirl and whir
Of her goosey-gabble, refused to stir,
But moped till he broke his heart for her:
And they laid him by her side.

And lo! his neighbors, young and old,
Who had heard about the pot of gold
Of which old Mrs. Adair had told,
Got spades, and picks, and bars.
You would have thought, had you seen them dig,
Sage and simple, little and big,

269

Up and down and across the lot,
They expected not only to find the pot
And the pan, but the moon and stars!

Just one, and only one man stayed
At home and plied an honest trade,
Contented to be told
How they digged down under the shed,
And up and out through the turnip-bed,
Turning every inch of the lot,
And never finding sign of the pot
That was buried full of gold!

And when ten years were come and gone.
And poor old Emeline and John
Had nearly been forgot,
This careful, quiet man that stayed
At home and plied an honest trade,
Was the owner of the lot—
Such luck to industry doth fall.
And he built a house with a stately hall,
Full fifty feet from wall to wall:

And the foolish ones were envious
That he should be rewarded thus
Upon the very spot
Where they had digged their strength away,
Day and night, till their heads were gray,
In search of the pan and pot
Which Mrs. Emeline Adair
Had made believe were buried there,
As buried they were not.

RECIPE FOR AN APPETITE.

My lad, who sits at breakfast
With forehead in a frown,
Because the chop is under-done,
And the fritter over-brown,—

Just leave your dainty mincing,
And take, to mend your fare,
A slice of golden sunshine,
And a cup of the morning air.

And when you have eat and drunken,
If you want a little fun,
Throw by your jacket of broadcloth,
And take an up-hill run.

And what with one and the other
You will be so strong and gay,
That work will be only a pleasure
Through all the rest of the day.

And when it is time for supper,
Your bread and milk will be
As sweet as a comb of honey.
Will you try my recipe?

THE PIG AND THE HEN.

The pig and the hen,
They both got in one pen,
And the hen said she would n't go out.
“Mistress Hen,” says the pig,
“Don't you be quite so big!”
And he gave her a push with his snout.

“You are rough, and you 're fat,
But who cares for all that:
I will stay if I choose,” says the hen.
“No, mistress, no longer!”
Says pig: “ I'm the stronger,
And mean to be boss of my pen!”

Then the hen cackled out
Just as close to his snout
As she dare: “You 're an ill-natured brute;
And if I had the corn,
Just as sure as I'm born,
I would send you to starve or to root!”

“But you don't own the cribs;
So I think that my ribs
Will be never the leaner for you:
This trough is my trough,
And the sooner you 're off,”
Says the pig, “why the better you'll do!”

“ You 're not a bit fair,
And you 're cross as a bear:
What harm do I do in your pen?
But a pig is a pig,
And I don't care a fig
For the worst you can say,” says the hen.

Says the pig, “You will care
If I act like a bear
And tear your two wings from your neck.”
“What a nice little pen
You have got!” says the hen.
Beginning to scratch and to peck.

Now the pig stood amazed,
And the bristles, upraised
A moment past, fell down so sleek.
“Neighbor Biddy,” says he,

270

“If you'll just allow me,
I will show you a nice place to pick!”

So she followed him off,
And they ate from one trough—
They had quarreled for nothing, they saw;
And when they had fed,
“Neighbor Hen,” the pig said,
“Won't you stay here and roost in my straw?”

“No, I thank you: you see
That I sleep in a tree,”
Says the hen; “but I must go away;
So a grateful good-by.”
“Make your home in my sty,”
Says the pig, “and come in every day.”

Now my child will not miss
The true moral of this
Little story of anger and strife;
For a word spoken soft
Will turn enemies oft
Into friends that will stay friends for life.

SPIDER AND FLY.

Once when morn was flowing in,
Broader, redder, wider,
In her house with walls so thin
That they could not hide her,
Just as she would never spin,
Sat a little spider—
Sat she on her silver stairs,
Meek as if she said her prayers.

Came a fly, whose wings had been
Making circles wider,
Having but the buzz and din
Of herself to guide her.
Nearer to these walls so thin,
Nearer to the spider,
Sitting on her silver stairs,
Meek as if she said her prayers.

Said the silly fly, “Too long
Malice has belied her;
How should she do any wrong,
With no walls to hide her?”
So she buzzed her pretty song
To the wily spider,
Sitting on her silver stairs
Meek as though she said her prayers.

But in spite her modest mien,
Had the fly but eyed her
Close enough, she would have seen
Fame had not belied her—
That, as she had always been,
She was still a spider;
And that she was not at prayers,
Sitting on her silver stairs.

A LESSON OF MERCY.

A boy named Peter
Found once in the road
All harmless and helpless,
A poor little toad;

And ran to his playmate,
And all out of breath
Cried, “John, come and help,
And we'll stone him to death!”

And picking up stones,
The two went on the run,
Saying, one to the other,
“Oh won't we have fun?”

Thus primed and all ready,
They 'd got nearly back,
When a donkey came
Dragging a cart on the track.

Now the cart was as much
As the donkey could draw,
And he came with his head
Hanging down; so he saw,

All harmless and helpless,
The poor little toad,
A-taking his morning nap
Right in the road.

He shivered at first,
Then he drew back his leg,
And set up his ears,
Never moving a peg.

Then he gave the poor toad,
With his warm nose a dump,
And he woke and got off
With a hop and a jump.

And then with an eye
Turned on Peter and John,
And hanging his homely head
Down, he went on.

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“We can't kill him now, John,”
Says Peter, “that 's flat,
In the face of an eye and
An action like that!”

“For my part, I have n't
The heart to,” says John;
“But the load is too heavy
That donkey has on:

“Let 's help him;” so both lads
Set off with a will
And came up with the cart
At the foot of the hill.

And when each a shoulder
Had put to the wheel,
They helped the poor donkey
A wonderful deal.

When they got to the top
Back again they both run,
Agreeing they never
Had had better fun.

THE FLOWER SPIDER.

You've read of a spider, I suppose,
Dear children, or been told,
That has a back as red as a rose,
And legs as yellow as gold.

Well, one of these fine creatures ran
In a bed of flowers, you see,
Until a drop of dew in the sun
Was hardly as bright as she.

Her two plump sides, they were besprent
With speckles of all dyes,
And little shimmering streaks were bent
Like rainbows round her eyes.

Well, when she saw her legs a-shine,
And her back as red as a rose,
She thought that she herself was fine
Because she had fine clothes!

Then wild she grew, like one possessed,
For she thought, upon my word,
That she was n't a spider with the rest,
And set up for a bird!

Aye, for a humming-bird at that!
And the summer day all through,
With her head in a tulip-bell she sat,
The same as the hum-birds do.

She had her little foolish day,
But her pride was doomed to fall,
And what do you think she had to pay
In the ending of it all?

Just this; on dew she could not sup,
And she could not sup on pride,
And so, with her head in the tulip cup,
She starved until she died!

For in despite of the golden legs,
And the back as red as a rose,
With what is hatched from the spider's eggs
The spider's nature goes!

A spider that lives among flowers, and takes its color from them.

DAN AND DIMPLE, AND HOW THEY QUARRELED.

To begin, in things quite simple
Quarrels scarcely ever fail—
And they fell out, Dan and Dimple,
All about a horse's tail!

So that by and by the quarrel
Quite broke up and spoiled their play;
Danny said the tail was sorrel,
Dimple said that it was gray!

“Gray!” said Danny, “you are simple!”
“Just as gray as mother's shawl!”
“And that 's red!” Said saucy Dimple,
“You 're a fool, and that is all!”

Then the sister and the brother—
As indeed they scarce could fail,
In such anger, struck each other—
All about the horse's tail!

“Red!” cried Dimple, speaking loudly,
“How you play at fast and loose!”
“Yes,” said Danny, still more proudly,
“When I'm playing with a goose!”

In between them came the mother:
“What is all this fuss about?”
Then the sister and the brother
Told the story, out and out.

272

And she answered, “I must label
Each of you a little dunce,
Since to look into the stable
Would have settled it at once!”

Forth ran Dan with Dimple after,
And full soon came hurrying back
Shouting, all aglee with laughter,
That the horse's tail was black!

So they both agreed to profit
By the lesson they had learned,
And to tell each other of it
Often as the fit returned.

TO A HONEY-BEE.

“Busy-body, busy-body,
Always on the wing.
Wait a bit, where you have lit,
And tell me why you sing.”

Up, and in the air again,
Flap, flap, flap!
And now she stops, and now she drops
Into the rose's lap.

“Come, just a minute come,
From your rose so red.”
Hum, hum, hum, hum—
That was all she said.

Busy-body, busy-body,
Always light and gay,
It seems to me, for all I see,
Your work is only play.

And now the day is sinking to
The goldenest of eves,
And she doth creep for quiet sleep
Among the lily-leaves.

“Come, just a moment come,
From your snowy bed.”
Hum, hum, hum, hum—
That was all she said.

But, the while I mused, I learned
The secret of her way:
Do my part with cheerful heart,
And turn my work to play.

AT THE TAVERN.

“What'll you have, John?
Cider or gin?
Or something stronger?
Walk right in.
Hurry up, landlord,
With main and might,
And don't make a thirsty man
Wait all night!

“Not any cider?
And ale won't do.
A brandy-smasher, then,
Glasses for two!
And mind you, landlord,
Mix it strong,
And don't keep us waiting here
All night long!

“Not any brandy?
Landlord, drum
Something or other up.
Got any rum?
Step about lively!
Hot and strong,
And don't keep us waiting here
All night long!

“Not any toddy?
Not the least little bit?
Whiskey and water, then,
That must be it!
Step about, landlord,
We 're all right,
And don't make a thirsty man
Wait all night!”

“What 's wrong now, John?
Come, sit down.
Don't you like white sugar?
Then have brown.
And, landlord, hark ye,
Cigars and a light,
And don't keep us waiting here
Quite all night!”

“What'll I have, man?
The right, to be sure,
To keep all the sense that
God gave me secure!
The right to myself, man,
And, in the next place,
The right to look all
Honest men in the face!

“So, waiter, you need not
Be off on the run
Till I've countermanded
All orders but one:
No liquor, no sugar,
Nor brown, nor yet white,

273

And don't fetch cigars in,
And don't fetch a light!

“We 're on our way home
To our children and wives,
And would n't stay plaguing them
Not for our lives;
Fetch only the water,
The rest is all wrong,
We can't take the chances
Of staying too long.”

WHAT A BIRD TAUGHT.

“Why do you come to my apple-tree,
Little bird so gray?”
Twit-twit, twit-twit, twit-twit-twee!
That was all he would say.

“Why do you lock your rosy feet
So closely round the spray?”
Twit-twit, twit-twit, twit-tweet!
That was all he would say.

“Why on the topmost bough do you get,
Little bird so gray?”
Twit-twit-twee! twit-twit-twit!
That was all he would say.

“Where is your mate? come answer me,
Little bird so gray?”
Twit-twit-twit! twit-twit-twee!
That was all he would say.

“And has she little rosy feet?
And is her body gray?”
Twit-twit-twee! twit-twit-twit!
That was all he would say.

“And will she come with you and sit
In my apple-tree some day?”
Twit-twit-twee! twit-twit-twit!
He said as he flew away.

“Twit-twit! twit-twit! twit! tweet!”
Why, what in that should be
To make it seem so very sweet?
And then it came to me.

This little wilding of the wood,
With wing so gray and fleet,
Did just the best for you he could,
And that is why 't was sweet.

OLD MAXIMS.

I think there are some maxims
Under the sun,
Scarce worth preservation;
But here, boys, is one
So sound and so simple
'T is worth while to know;
And all in the single line,
“Hoe your own row!”

If you want to have riches,
And want to have friends,
Don't trample the means down
And look for the ends;
But always remember
Wherever you go,
The wisdom of practicing,
“Hoe your own row!”

Don't just sit and pray
For increase of your store,
But work; who will help himself,
Heaven helps more.
The weeds while you 're sleeping,
Will come up and grow,
But if you would have the
Full ear, you must hoe!

Nor will it do only
To hoe out the weeds,
You must make your ground mellow
And put in the seeds;
And when the young blade
Pushes through, you must know
There is nothing will strengthen
Its growth like the hoe!

There 's no use of saying
What will be, will be;
Once try it, my lack-brain,
And see what you'll see!
Why, just small potatoes,
And few in a row:
You 'd better take hold then,
And honestly hoe!

A good many workers
I 've known in my time—
Some builders of houses,
Some builders of rhyme;
And they that were prospered,
Were prospered, I know,
By the intent and meaning of
“Hoe your own row!”

274

I 've known, too, a good many
Idlers, who said,
“I 've right to my living,
The world owes me bread!”
A right! lazy lubber!
A thousand times No!
'T is his, and his only
Who hoes his own row.

PETER GREY.

Honest little Peter Grey
Keeps at work the livelong day,
For his mother is as poor as a mouse;
Now running up and down
Doing errands in the town,
And now doing chores about the house.

The boys along the street
Often call him Hungry Pete,
Because that his face is so pale;
And ask, by way of jest,
If his ragged coat and vest
And his old-fashioned hat are for sale.

But little Peter Grey
Never any shape nor way
Doth evil for evil return;
He is finer than his clothes,
And no matter where he goes
There is some one the fact to discern.

You might think a sneer, mayhap,
Just a feather in your cap,
If you saw him being pushed to the wall;
But my proudly-foolish friend,
You might find out in the end
You had sneered at your betters, after all.

He is climbing up his way
On life's ladder day by day;
And you who, to laugh at him, stop
On the lower rounds, will wake,
If I do not much mistake,
To find him sitting snug at the top.

A SERMON

FOR YOUNG FOLKS.

Don't ever go hunting for pleasures—
They cannot be found thus I know;
Nor yet fall a-digging for treasures,
Unless with the spade and the hoe!

The bee has to work for the honey,
The drone has no right to the food,
And he who has not earned his money
Will get out of his money no good.

The ant builds her house with her labor,
The squirrel looks out for his mast,
And he who depends on his neighbor
Will never have friends, first or last.

In short, 't is no better than thieving.
Though thief is a harsh name to call;
Good things to be always receiving,
And never to give back at all.

And do not put off till to-morrow
The thing that you ought to do now,
But first set the share in the furrow,
And then set your hand to the plough.

The time is too short to be waiting,
The day maketh haste to the night,
And it's just as hard work to be hating
Your work as to do it outright.

Know this, too, before you are older,
And all the fresh morning is gone,
Who puts to the world's wheel a shoulder
Is he that will move the world on!

Don't weary out will with delaying,
And when you are crowded, don't stop;
Believe me there 's truth in the saying:
“There always is room at the top.”

To conscience be true, and to man true,
Keep faith, hope, and love, in your breast,
And when you have done all you can do,
Why, then you may trust for the rest.

TELLING FORTUNES.

“Be not among wine-bibbers; among riotous eaters of flesh; for the drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty; and drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags.”—

Prov. xxiii. 20, 21.

I'll tell you two fortunes, my fine little lad,
For you to accept or refuse.

275

The one of them good, and the other one bad;
Now hear them, and say which you choose!

I see by my gift, within reach of your hand,
A fortune right fair to behold;
A house and a hundred good acres of land,
With harvest fields yellow as gold.

I see a great orchard, the boughs hanging down
With apples of russet and red;
I see droves of cattle, some white and brown,
But all of them sleek and well-fed.

I see doves and swallows about the barn doors,
See the fanning-mill whirling so fast,
See men that are threshing the wheat on the floors;
And now the bright picture is past!

And I see, rising dismally up in the place
Of the beautiful house and the land,
A man with a fire-red nose on his face,
And a little brown jug in his hand!

Oh! if you beheld him, my lad, you would wish
That he were less wretched to see;
For his boot-toes, they gape like the mouth of a fish,
And his trousers are out at the knee!

In walking he staggers, now this way, now that,
And his eyes they stand out like a bug's,
And he wears an old coat and a battered-in hat,
And I think that the fault is the jug's!

For our text says the drunkard shall come to be poor.
And drowsiness clothes men with rags;
And he does n't look much like a man, I am sure,
Who has honest hard cash in his bags.

Now which will you choose? to be thrifty and snug,
And to be right side up with your dish;
Or to go with your eyes like the eyes of a bug,
And your shoes like the mouth of a fish!

THE WISE FAIRY.

Once, in a rough, wild country,
On the other side of the sea,
There lived a dear little fairy,
And her home was in a tree.
A dear little, queer little fairy,
And as rich as she could be.

To northward and to southward,
She could overlook the land,
And that was why she had her house
In a tree, you understand.
For she was the friend of the friendless,
And her heart was in her hand.

And when she saw poor women
Patiently, day by day,
Spinning, spinning, and spinning
Their lonesome lives away,
She would hide in the flax of their distaffs
A lump of gold, they say.

And when she saw poor ditchers,
Knee-deep in some wet dyke,
Digging, digging, and digging,
To their very graves, belike,
She would hide a shining lump of gold
Where their spades would be sure to strike.

And when she saw poor children
Their goats from the pastures take,
Or saw them milking and milking,
Till their arms were ready to break,
What a plashing in their milking-pails
Her gifts of gold would make!

Sometimes in the night, a fisher
Would hear her sweet low call,
And all at once a salmon of gold
Right out of his net would fall;
But what I have to tell you
Is the strangest thing of all.

276

If any ditcher, or fisher.
Or child, or spinner old,
Bought shoes for his feet, or bread to eat,
Or a coat to keep from the cold,
The gift of the good old fairy
Was always trusty gold.

But if a ditcher, or fisher,
Or spinner, or child so gay,
Bought jewels, or wine, or silks so fine,
Or staked his pleasure at play,
The fairy's gold in his very hold
Would turn to a lump of clay.

So, by and by the people
Got open their stupid eyes:
“We must learn to spend to some good end,”
They said, “if we are wise;
'T is not in the gold we waste or hold,
That a golden blessing lies.”

A CHILD'S WISDOM.

When the cares of day are ended,
And I take my evening rest,
Of the windows of my chamber
This is that I love the best;
This one facing to the hill-tops
And the orchards of the west.

All the woodlands, dim and dusky,
All the fields of waving grain,
All the valleys sprinkled over
With the drops of sunlit rain,
I can see them through the twilight,
Sitting here beside my pane.

I can see the hilly places,
With the sheep-paths trod across;
See the fountains by the waysides,
Each one in her house of moss,
Holding up the mist above her
Like a skein of silken floss.

Garden corners bright with roses,
Garden borders set with mint,
Garden beds, wherein the maidens
Sow their seeds, as love doth hint,
To some rhyme of mystic charming
That shall come back all in print.

Ah! with what a world of blushes
Then they read it through and through,
Weeding out the tangled sentence
From the commas of the dew:
Little ladies, choose ye wisely,
Lest some day the choice ye rue.

I can see a troop of children,
Merry-hearted boys and girls,
Eyes of light and eyes of darkness,
Feet of coral, legs of pearls,
Racing toward the morning school-house
Half a head before their curls.

One from all the rest I single,
Not for brighter mouth or eyes,
Not for being sweet and simple,
Not for being sage and wise:
With my whole full heart I loved him,
And therein my secret lies.

Cheeks as brown as sun could kiss them,
All in careless homespun dressed,
Eager for the romp or wrestle,
Just a rustic with the rest:
Who shall say what love is made of?
'T is enough I loved him best.

Haply, Effie loved me better—
She with arms so lily fair,
In her sadness, in her gladness,
Stealing round me unaware;
Dusky shadows of the cairngorms
All among her golden hair.

Haply, so did willful Annie,
With the tender eyes and mouth,
And the languors and the angers
Of her birth-land of the South:
Still my darling was my darling—
“I can love,” I said, “for both.”

So I left the pleasure-places,
Gayest, gladdest, best of all—
Hedge-row mazes, lanes of daisies,
Bluebirds' twitter, blackbirds' call—
For the robbing of the crow's nest,
For the games of race and ball.

So I left my book of poems
Lying in the hawthorn's shade,
Milky flowers sometimes for hours
Drifting down the page unread.
“He was found a better poet;
I will read with him,” I said.

Thus he led me, hither, thither,
To his young heart's wild content,

277

Where so surly and so curly,
With his black horns round him bent,
Fed the ram that ruled the meadow—
For where'er he called I went:

Where the old oak, black and blasted,
Trembled on his knotty knees,
Where the nettle teased the cattle,
Where the wild crab-apple trees
Blushed with bitter fruit to mock us;
'T was not I that was to please:

Where the ox, with horn for pushing,
Chafed within his prison stall;
Where the long-leaved poison-ivy
Clambered up the broken wall:
Ah! no matter, still I loved him
First and last and best of all.

When before the frowning master
Late and lagging in we came,
I would stand up straight before him,
And would take my even blame:
Ah! my darling was my darling;
Good or bad 't was all the same.

One day, when the lowering storm-cloud
South and east began to frown,
Flat along the waves of grasses,
Like a swimmer, he lay down,
With his head propped up and resting
On his two arms strong and brown.

On the sloping ridge behind us
Shone the yet ungarnered sheaves;
Round about us ran the shadows
Of the overhanging leaves,
Rustling in the wind as softly
As a lady's silken sleeves.

Where a sudden notch before us
Made a gateway in the hill,
And a sense of desolation
Seemed the very air to fill,
There beneath the weeping willows
Lay the grave-yard, hushed and still.

Pointing over to the shoulders
Of the head-stones, white and high,
Said I, in his bright face looking,
“Think you you shall ever lie
In among those weeping willows?”
“No!” he said, “I cannot die!”

“Cannot die? my little darling,
'T is the way we all must go!”
Then the bold bright spirit in him
Setting all his cheek aglow,
He repeated still the answer,
“I shall never die, I know!”

“Wait and think. On yonder hillside
There are graves as short as you.
Death is strong.”—“But He who made Death
Is as strong, and stronger too.
Death may take me, God will wake me,
And will make me live anew.”

Since we sat within the elm shade
Talking as the storm came on,
Many a blessed hope has vanished,
Many a year has come and gone;
But that simple, sweet believing
Is the staff I lean upon.

From my arms, so closely clasping,
Long ago my darling fled;
Morning brightness makes no lightness
In the darkness where I tread:
He is lost, and I am lonely,
But I know he is not dead.

University of Virginia Library

ALICE CARY'S POEMS.

TO THE SPIRIT OF SONG.

APOLOGY.

BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS.

THE YOUNG SOLDIER.

RUTH AND I.

HAGEN WALDER.

OUR SCHOOL-MASTER.

THE GRAY SWAN.

THE WASHERWOMAN.

GROWING RICH.

SANDY MACLEOD.

THE PICTURE-BOOK.

A WALK THROUGH THE SNOW.

THE WATER-BEARER.

THE BEST JUDGMENT.

HUGH THORNDYKE.

FAITHLESS.

MY FADED SHAWL.

OLD CHUMS.

THE SHOEMAKER.

TO THE WIND.

LITTLE CYRUS.

FIFTEEN AND FIFTY.

JENNY DUNLEATH.

TRICKSEY'S RING.

CRAZY CHRISTOPHER.

THE FERRY OF GALLAWAY.

REVOLUTIONARY STORY.

THE MIGHT OF LOVE.

“THE GRACE WIFE OF KEITH.”

JOHNNY RIGHT.

THE SETTLER'S CHRISTMAS EVE.

THE OLD STORY.

BALDER'S WIFE.

AT REHEARSAL.

THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE.

MAID AND MAN.

THE DOUBLE SKEIN.

SELFISH SORROW.

THE EDGE OF DOOM.

THE CHOPPER'S CHILD.

A STORY FOR THANKSGIVING DAY.

THE DEAD-HOUSE.

ONE MOMENT.

THE FLAX-BEATER.

COTTAGE AND HALL.

THE MINES OF AVONDALE.

THE VICTORY OF PERRY.

SEPTEMBER 10TH, 1813.

THE WINDOW JUST OVER THE STREET.

A FABLE OF CLOUD-LAND

BARBARA AT THE WINDOW.

BARBARA IN THE MEADOW.

BALLAD OF UNCLE JOE.

THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER.

POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING.

ON SEEING A DROWNING MOTH.

GOOD AND EVIL.

STROLLER'S SONG.

A LESSON.

[He spoils his house and throws his pains away]

ON SEEING A WILD BIRD.

RICH, THOUGH POOR.

[Still from the unsatisfying quest]

[The glance that doth thy neighbor doubt]

SIXTEEN.

PRAYER FOR LIGHT.

THE UNCUT LEAF.

THE MIGHT OF TRUTH.

TWO TRAVELERS.

THE BLIND TRAVELER.

MY GOOD ANGEL.

CARE.

MORE LIFE.

CONTRADICTORY.

THIS IS ALL.

IN VAIN.

BEST, TO THE BEST.