Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In the dawn of the day, when the sea and the earth
Reflected the sunrise above,
I set forth, with a heart full of courage and mirth,
To seek for the Kingdom of Love.
I asked of a Poet I met on the way,
Which cross-road would lead me aright,
And he said: “Follow me, and ere long you will see
Its glistening turrets of Light.”

And soon in the distance a city shone fair;
“Look yonder,” he said, “there it gleams!”
But alas! for the hopes that were doomed to despair,
It was only the Kingdom of Dreams.
Then the next man I asked was a gay cavalier,
And he said: “Follow me, follow me.”
And with laughter and song we went speeding along
By the shores of life's beautiful sea,

Till we came to a valley more tropical far
Than the wonderful Vale of Cashmere,
And I saw from a bower a face like a flower
Smile out on the gay cavalier,

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And he said: “We have come to humanity's goal—
Here love and delight are intense.”
But alas! and alas! for the hope of my soul—
It was only the Kingdom of Sense.

As I journeyed more slowly, I met on the road
A coach with retainers behind,
And they said: “Follow us, for our lady's abode
Belongs in the realm you would find.”
'Twas a grand dame of fashion, a newly-wed bride;
I followed, encouraged and bold.
But my hope died away, like the last gleams of day,
For we came to the Kingdom of Gold.

At the door of a cottage I asked a fair maid.
“I have heard of that Realm,” she replied,
“But my feet never roam from the Kingdom of Home,
So I know not the way,” and she sighed.
I looked on the cottage, how restful it seemed!
And the maid was as fair as a dove.
Great light glorified my soul as I cried,
“Why, home is the Kingdom of Love!”

LOVE

The day is drawing near, my dear,
When you and I must sever;
Yet whether near or far we are,
Our hearts will love forever,
Our hearts will love forever.

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O sweet, I will be true, and you
Must never fail or falter;
I hold a love like mine divine,
And yours—it must not alter,
O, swear it will not alter.

A FATAL IMPRESS

A little leaf just in the forest's edge,
All summer long, had listened to the wooing
Of amorous birds that flew across the hedge,
Singing their blithe sweet songs for her undoing.
So many were the flattering things they told her,
The parent tree seemed quite too small to hold her.

At last one lonesome day she saw them fly
Across the fields behind the coquette summer,
They passed her with a laughing light good-bye,
When from the north, there strode a strange new comer;
Bold was his mien, as he gazed on her, crying,
“How comes it, then, that thou art left here sighing!

“Now by my faith thou art a lovely leaf—
May I not kiss that cheek so fair and tender?”
Her slighted heart welled full of bitter grief,
The rudeness of his words did not offend her,
She felt so sad, so desolate, so deserted,
Oh, if her lonely fate might be averted.

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“One little kiss,” he sighed, “I ask no more—”
His face was cold, his lips too pale for passion.
She smiled assent; and then bold Frost leaned lower,
And clasped her close, and kissed in lover's fashion.
Her smooth cheek flushed to sudden guilty splendour,
Another kiss, and then complete surrender.

Just for a day she was a beauteous sight,
The world looked on to pity and admire
This modest little leaf, that in a night
Had seemed to set the forest all on fire.
And then—this victim of a broken trust,
A withered thing, was trodden in the dust.

LOVE WILL WANE

When your love begins to wane,
Spare me from the cruel pain
Of all speech that tells me so—
Spare me words, for I shall know,

By the half-averted eyes,
By the breast that no more sighs,
By the rapture I shall miss
From you strangely-altered kiss;

By the arms that still enfold
But have lost their clinging hold,
And, too willing, let me go,
I shall know, love, I shall know.

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Bitter will the knowledge be,
Bitterer than death to me.
Yet, 'twill come to me some day,
For it is the sad world's way.

Make no vows—vows cannot bind
Changing hearts or wayward mind.
Men grow weary of a bliss
Passionate and fond as this.

Love will wane. But I shall know,
If you do not tell me so.
Know it, tho' you smile and say,
That you love me more each day.

Know it by the inner sight
That forever sees aright.
Words could but increase my woe,
And without them, I shall know.

THREE-FOLD

Somewhere I've read a thoughtful mind's reflection:
“All perfect things are three-fold”; and I know
Our love has this rare symbol of perfection;
The brain's response, the warm blood's rapturous glow
The soul's sweet language, silent and unspoken.
All these unite us with a deathless tie.
For when our frail, clay tenement is broken,
Our spirits will be lovers still, on high.

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My dearest wish, you speak before I word it.
You understand the workings of my heart.
My soul's thought, breathed where only God has heard it,
You fathom with your strange divining art.
And like a fire, that cheers, and lights, and blesses,
And floods a mansion full of happy heat,
So does the subtle warmth of your caresses,
Pervade me with rapture, keen as sweet.

And so sometimes, as you and I together
Exult in all dear love's three-fold delights,
I cannot help but vaguely wonder whether
When our freed souls attain their spirit heights,
E'en if we reach that upper realm where God is,
And find the tales of heavenly glory true,
I wonder if we shall not miss our bodies,
And long, at times, for hours on earth we knew.

As now, we sometimes pray to leave our prison
And soar beyond all physical demands,
So may we not sigh, when we have arisen,
For just one old-time touch of lips and hands?
I know, dear heart, a thought like this seems daring
Concerning God's vast Government above,
Yet, even There, I shrink from wholly sparing
One element, from this, our Three-fold Love.

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A MAIDEN'S SECRET

I have written this day down in my heart
As the sweetest day in the season;
From all of the others I've set it apart—
But I will not tell you the reason,
That is my secret—I must not tell;
But the skies are soft and tender,
And never before, I know full well,
Was the earth so full of splendour.

I sing at my labour the whole day long,
And my heart is as light as a feather;
And there is a reason for my glad song
Besides the beautiful weather.
But I will not tell it to you; and though
That thrush in the maple heard it,
And would shout it aloud if he could, I know
He hasn't the power to word it.

Up, where I was sewing, this morn came one
Who told me the sweetest stories,
He said I had stolen my hair from the sun,
And my eyes from the morning glories.
Grandmother says that I must not believe
A word men say, for they flatter;
But I'm sure he would never try to deceive,
For he told me—but there—no matter!

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Last night I was sad, and the world to me
Seemed a lonely and dreary dwelling,
But some one then had not asked me to be—
There now! I am almost telling.
Not another word shall my two lips say,
I will shut them fast together,
And never a mortal shall know to-day
Why my heart is as light as a feather.

ART AND LOVE

For many long uninterrupted years
She was the friend and confidant of Art;
They walked together, heart communed with heart
In that sweet comradeship that so endears.
Her fondest hopes, her sorrows and her fears
She told her mate; who would in turn impart
Important truths and secrets. But a dart,

Shot by that unskilled, mischievous boy, who peers
From ambush on us, struck one day her breast,
And Love sprang forth to kiss away her tears.
She thought his brow shone with a wondrous grace;
But, when she turned to introduce her guest
To Art, behold, she found an empty place,
The goddess fled, with sad, averted face.

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RIVER AND SEA

Under the light of the silver moon
We two sat, when our hearts were young;
The night was warm with the breath of June,
And loud from the meadow the cricket sung,
And darker and deeper, oh, love, than the sea,
Were your dear eyes, as they beamed on me.

The moon hung clear, and the night was still:
The waters reflected the glittering skies:
The nightingale sang on the distant hill;
But sweeter than all was the light in your eyes—
Your dear, dark eyes, your eyes like the sea—
And up from the depths shone love for me.

My heart, like a river, was mad and wild—
And a river is not deep, like the sea;
But I said your love was the love of a child,
Compared with the love that was felt by me;
A river leaps noisily, kissing the land,
But the sea is fathomless, deep and grand.

I vowed to love you, for ever and ever!
I called you cold, on that night in June,
But my fierce love, like a reckless river,
Dashed on, and away, and was spent too soon;
While yours—ah, yours was deep like the sea;
I cheated you, love, but you died for me!

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WHEN YOU GO AWAY

When you go away, my friend,
When you say your last good-bye,
Then the summer time will end,
And the winter will be nigh.

Though the green grass decks the heather,
And the birds sing all the day,
There will be no summer weather
After you have gone away.

When I look into your eyes,
I shall thrill with deepest pain,
Thinking that beneath the skies
I may never look again.

You will feel a moment's sorrow,
I shall feel a lasting grief;
You forgetting on the morrow,
I to mourn with no relief.

When we say the last sad word,
And you are no longer near,
And the winds and all the birds
Cannot keep the summer here,

Life will lose its full completeness—
Lose it not for you, but me;
All the beauty and the sweetness
Each can hold, I shall not see.

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A BABY IN THE HOUSE

I knew that a baby was hid in that house,
Though I saw no cradle and heard no cry;
But the husband was tip-toeing 'round like a mouse
And the good wife was humming a soft lullaby;
And there was a look on the face of the mother,
That I knew could mean only one thing, and no other.

The mother, I said to myself, for I knew
That the woman before me was certainly that;
And there lay in a corner a tiny cloth shoe,
And I saw on a stand such a wee little hat;
And the beard of the husband said, plain as could be,
“Two fat chubby hands have been tugging at me.”

And he took from his pocket a gay picture-book,
And a dog that could bark, if you pulled on a string;
And the wife laid them up, with such a pleased look;
And I said to myself, “There is no other thing
But a babe that could bring about all this, and so
That one is in hiding here somewhere, I know.”

I stayed but a moment, and saw nothing more,
And heard not a sound, yet I know I was right;
What else could the shoe mean that lay on the floor,
The book and the toy, and the faces so bright;
And what made the husband as still as a mouse?
I am sure, very sure, there's a babe in that house.

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IN FAITH

When the soft sweet wind o' the south went by,
I dwelt in the light of a dark brown eye;
And out where the robin sang his song,
We lived and loved, while the days were long.

In the sweet, sweet eves, when the moon swung high,
We wandered under the starry sky;
Or sat in the porch, and the moon looked through
The latticed wall, where the roses grew.

My lips, that had known no lover's kiss,
You taught the art, till they thrilled in bliss;
And the moon, and the stars, and the roses knew
That the heart you won was pure and true.

But true hearts weary men, maybe,
For you grew weary of love, and me.
Over the porch the dead vines hang,
And a mourning dove sobs where the robin sang.

In a warmer clime does another sigh
Under the light of your dark brown eye?
Did you follow the soft sweet wind o' the south,
And are you kissing a redder mouth?

Lips may be redder, and eyes more bright;
The face may be fairer you see to-night;
But never, love, while the stars shall shine,
Will you find a heart that is truer than mine.

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Sometime, perhaps, when south winds blow,
You will think of a love you used to know;
Sometime, perhaps, when a robin sings,
Your heart will go back to olden things.

Sometime you will weary of this world's arts,
Of deceit and change and hollow hearts,
And, wearying, sigh for the “used to be,”
And your feet will turn to the porch, and me.

I shall watch for you here when days grow long;
I shall list for your step through the robin's song;
I shall sit in the porch where the moon looks through,
And a vacant chair will wait—for you.

You may stray, and forget, and rove afar,
But my changeless love, like the polar star,
Will draw you at length o'er land and sea—
And I know you will yet come back to me.

The years may come, and the years may go,
But sometime again, when south winds blow,
When roses bloom, and the moon swings high,
I shall live in the light of your dark brown eye.

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I TOLD YOU

I told you the winter would go, love,
I told you the winter would go,
That he'd flee in shame when the south wind came,
And you smiled when I told you so.
You said the blustering fellow
Would never yield to a breeze,
That his cold, icy breath had frozen to death
The flowers, and birds, and trees.

And I told you the snow would melt, love,
In the passionate glance o' the sun;
And the leaves o' the trees, and the flowers and bees,
Would come back again, one by one.
That the great, gray clouds would vanish,
And the sky turn tender and blue;
And the sweet birds would sing, and talk of the spring,
And, love, it has all come true.

I told you that sorrow would fade, love,
And you would forget half your pain;
That the sweet bird of song would waken ere long,
And sing in your bosom again.
That hope would creep out of the shadows,
And back to its nest in your heart,
And gladness would come, and find its old home,
And that sorrow at length would depart.

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I told you that grief seldom killed, love,
Though the heart might seem dead for awhile.
But the world is so bright, and so full of warm light
That 'twould waken at length, in its smile.
Ah, love! was I not a true prophet?
There's a sweet happy smile on your face;
Your sadness has flown—the snow-drift is gone,
And the buttercups bloom in its place.

IN THE GARDEN

One moment alone in the garden,
Under the August skies;
The moon had gone, but the stars shone on,—
Shone like your beautiful eyes.
Away from the glitter and gaslight,
Alone in the garden there,
While the mirth of the throng, in laugh and song,
Floated out on the air.

You looked down through the starlight,
And I looked up at you;
And a feeling came that I could not name,—
Something strange and new.
Friends of a few weeks only,—
Why should it give me pain
To know you would go on the morrow,
And would not come again?

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Formal friends of a season.
What matter that we must part?
But under the skies, with a swift surprise,
Each read the other's heart.
We did not speak, but your breath on my cheek
Was like a breeze of the south:
And your dark hair brushed my forehead
And your kiss fell on my mouth.

Some one was searching for me,—
Some one to say good-night;
And we went in from the garden,
Out of the sweet starlight,
Back to the glitter and music,
And we said “Good-bye” in the hall,
When a dozen heard and echoed the word,
And then—well, that was all.

The river that rolls between us
Can never be crossed, I know,
For the waters are deep and the shores are steep,
And a maelstrom whirls below;
But I think we shall always remember,
Though we both may strive to forget,
How you looked in my eyes, 'neath the August skies,
After the moon had set;—

How you kissed my lips in the garden,
And we stood in a trance of bliss,
And our hearts seemed speaking together
In that one thrilling kiss.

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LOST

You left me with the autumn time;
When winter stripped the forest bare,
Then dressed it in his spotless rime;
When frosts were lurking in the air
You left me here and went away.
The winds were cold; you could not stay.

You sought a warmer clime, until
The south wind, artful maid, should break
The winter's trumpets, and should fill
The air with songs of birds; and wake
The sleeping blossoms on the plain
And make the brooks to flow again.

I thought the winter desolate,
And all times felt a sense of loss.
I taught my longing heart to wait,
And said, “When Spring shall come across
The hills, with blossoms in her track,
Then she, our loved one, will come back.”

And now the hills with grass and moss
The spring with cunning hands has spread,
And yet I feel my grievous loss.
My heart will not be comforted,
But crieth daily, “Where is she
You promised should come back to me?”

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Oh, love! where are you? day by day
I seek to find you, but in vain.
Men point me to a grave, and say:
“There is her bed upon the plain.”
But though I see no trace of you,
I cannot think their words are true.

You were too sweet to wholly pass
Away from earth, and leave no trace;
You were too fair to let the grass
Grow rank and tall above your face.
Your voice, that mocked the robin's trill,
I cannot think is hushed and still.

I thought I saw your golden hair
One day, and reached to touch a strand;
I found but yellow sunbeams there—
The bright rays fell aslant my hand,
And seemed to mock, with lights and shades,
The silken meshes of your braids.

Again, I thought I saw your hand
Wave, as if beckoning to me;
I found 'twas but a lily, fanned
But the cool zephyrs from the sea.
Oh, love! I find no trace of you—
I wonder if their words were true?

One day I heard a singing voice;
A burst of music, trill on trill.

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It made my very soul rejoice;
My heart gave an exultant thrill.
I cried, “Oh, heart, we've found her—hush!”
But no—'twas the silver-throated thrush.

And once I thought I saw your face,
And wild with joy I ran to you;
But found, when I had reached the place,
'Twas but a blush rose, bathed in dew.
Ah, love! I think you must be dead;
And I believe the words they said.

“THE OLD MOON IN THE NEW MOON'S ARMS”

The beautiful and slender young New Moon,
In trailing robes of pink and palest blue,
Swept close to Venus, and breathed low: “A boon,
A precious boon, I ask, dear friend, of you.

“O queen of light and beauty, you have known
The pangs of love—its passions and alarms;
Then grant me this one favour, let my own—
My lost Old Moon be once more in my arms.”

Swift thro' the vapours and the golden mist—
The Full Moon's shadowy shape shone on the night,
The New Moon reached out clasping arms and kissed
Her phantom lover in the whole world's sight.

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THE WILD BLUE BELLS

Came a bouquet from the city,
Fragrant, rich and debonair—
Sweet carnation and geranium,
Heliotrope and roses rare.

Down beside the crystal river,
Where the moss-grown rocks are high;
And the ferns, from niche and crevice,
Stretch to greet the azure sky;

In the chaste October sunlight,
High above the path below,
Grew a tuft of lovely blue-bells,
Softly wind-swung to and fro.

Reached a dainty hand to grasp them,
Bore them home with loving care,
Tenderly and proudly placed them
'Mid the flowers so sweet and fair.

But my timid little blue-bells,
Children of the leafy wild,
Dazzled by their city sisters,
Turned away and, tearful, smiled.

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When, alone, I bent to kiss them,
Pleadingly they sighed to me,
“Take us, when we die, we pray thee,
Back beneath the dear old tree

“We would sleep where first the sunshine
Kissed us in the dewy morn;
Where, while soft, warm zephyrs fanned us,
Leaf and bud and flower were born.”

So I bore them, when they faded,
Back to where love sighed for them;
Laid them near the ferns and mosses,
'Neath the dear old parent stem;—

Deeply grieved that all things lovely
Must so soon forever die,—
That upon the gentle blue-bells
Winter's cold, deep snow must lie.

And I half arraigned the goodness
That made Death king everywhere—
Stretching forth his cruel sceptre—
Lord of sea, and earth, and air.

Summer came, and all the hillsides
Wore a shim'ring robe of green;
And with rifts of sky and cloudlet
Flashed the river's golden sheen.

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I was walking the old pathway,
When a tiny shout I heard;
Harken! was it elfin fairy,
Or some truant mocking bird?

No! a family of blue-bells
Waved their slender arms on high,
Clapped their tiny arms in triumph,
Crying, “See! we did not die.

“Never more distrust the Master,
Love and Truth His ways attend;
Death is but a darkened portal
Of a life that ne'er shall end.

“Loved ones, parted from in anguish,
Your glad eyes again shall see,—
Brighter than the hopes you cherished
Shall the glad fruition be.”

A WAIF

My soul is like a poor caged bird to-night,
Beating its wings against the prison bars,
Longing to reach the outer world of light,
And, all untrammelled, soar among the stars.
Wild, mighty thoughts struggle within my soul
For utterance. Great waves of passion roll

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Through all my being. As the lightnings play
Through thunder clouds, so beams of blinding light
Flash for a moment on my darkened brain—
Quick, sudden, glaring beams, that fade away
And leave me in a darker, deeper night.

Oh, poet souls! that struggle all in vain
To live in peace and harmony with earth,
It cannot be! They must endure the pain
Of conscience and of unacknowledged worth,
Moving and dwelling with the common herd,
Whose highest thought has never strayed as far,
Or never strayed beyond the horizon's bar;
Whose narrow hearts and souls are never stirred
With keenest pleasures, or with sharpest pain;
Who rise and eat and sleep, and rise again,
Nor question why or wherefore. Men whose minds
Are never shaken by wild passion winds;

Women whose broadest, deepest realm of thought
The bridal veil will cover.
Who see not
God's mighty work lying undone to-day,—
Work that a woman's hands can do as well,
Oh, soul of mine; better to live alway
In this tumultuous inward pain and strife,
Doing the work that in thy reach doth fall,
Weeping because thou canst not do it all;
Oh, better, my soul, in this unrest to dwell,
Than grovel as they grovel on through life.

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SEARCHING

These quiet Autumn days,
My soul, like Noah's dove, on airy wings
Goes out and searches for the hidden things
Beyond the hills of haze.

With mournful, pleading cries,
Above the waters of the voiceless sea
That laps the shore of broad Eternity,
Day after day, it flies,

Searching, but all in vain,
For some stray leaf that it may light upon,
And read the future, as the days agone—
Its pleasures, and its pain.

Listening patiently
For some voice speaking from the mighty deep
Revealing all the things that it doth keep
In secret there for me.

Come back and wait, my soul!
Day after day thy search has been in vain.
Voiceless and silent o'er the future's plain
Its mystic waters roll.

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God, seeing, knoweth best,
And in His time the waters shall subside,
And thou shalt know what lies beneath the tide,
Then wait, my soul, and rest,

OUR BLESSINGS

Sitting to-day in the sunshine,
That touched me with fingers of love,
I thought of the manifold blessings
God scatters on earth, from above;
And they seemed, as I numbered them over,
Far more than we merit, or need,
And all that we lack is the angels
To make earth a heaven indeed.

The winter brings long, pleasant evenings,
The spring brings a promise of flowers
That summer breathes into fruition,
And autumn brings glad, golden hours.
The woodlands re-echo with music,
The moonbeams ensilver the sea;
There is sunlight and beauty about us,
And the world is as fair as can be.

But mortals are always complaining,
Each one thinks his own a sad lot;
And forgetting the good things about him,
Goes mourning for those he has not.

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Instead of the star-spangled heavens,
We look on the dust at our feet;
We drain out the cup that is bitter,
Forgetting the one that is sweet.

We mourn o'er the thorn in the flower,
Forgetting its odour and bloom;
We pass by a garden of blossoms,
To weep o'er the dust of the tomb.
There are blessings unnumbered about us,—
Like the leaves of the forest they grow;
And the fault is our own—not the Giver's—
That we have not an Eden below.

GOING AWAY

Walking to-day on the Common,
I heard a stranger say
To a friend who was standing near him,
“Do you know I am going away?”
I had never seen their faces,
May never see them again;
Yet the words the stranger uttered,
Stirred me with nameless pain.

For I knew some heart would miss him,
Would ache at his going away!
And the earth would seem all cheerless
For many and many a day.

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No matter how light my spirits,
No matter how glad my heart,
If I hear those two words spoken,
The teardrops always start.

They are so sad and solemn,
So full of a lonely sound;
Like dead leaves rustling downward,
And dropping upon the ground,
Oh, I pity the naked branches,
When the skies are dull and gray,
And the last leaf whispers softly,
“Good-bye, I am going away.”

In the dreary, dripping autumn,
The wings of the flying birds,
As they soar away to the south land,
Seem always to say those words.
Wherever they may be spoken,
They fall with a sob and sigh;
And heartaches follow the sentence,
“I am going away, Good-bye.”

O God, in Thy blessed kingdom,
No lips shall ever say,
No ears shall ever hearken
To the words “I am going away.”
For no soul ever wearies
Of the dear, bright angel land,
And no saint ever wanders
From the sunny golden land.

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BE NOT WEARY

Sometimes, when I am toil-worn and aweary,
And tired out with working long and well,
And earth is dark, and skies above are dreary,
And heart and soul are all too sick to tell,
These words have come to me like angel fingers
Pressing the spirit's eyelids down in sleep,
“Oh let us not be weary in well doing,
For in due season we shall surely reap.”

Oh, blessed promise! When I seem to hear it,
Whispered by angel voices on the air,
It breathes new life and courage to my spirit,
And gives me strength to suffer and forbear.
And I can wait most patiently for harvest,
And cast my seeds, nor ever faint, nor weep,
If I know surely that my work availeth,
And in God's season, I at last shall reap.

When mind and body were borne down completely,
And I have thought my efforts were all in vain,
These words have come to me so softly, sweetly,
And whispered hope, and urged me on again.
And though my labour seems all unavailing,
And all my striving fruitless, yet the Lord
Doth treasure up each little seed I scatter,
And sometime, sometime, I shall reap reward.

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THE SUMMONS

Some day, when the golden glory
Of June is over the earth,
And the birds are singing together
In a wild, mad strain of mirth;
When the skies are as clear and cloudless
As the skies of June can be,
I would like to have the summons
Sent down from God to me.

Some glowing, golden morning
In the heart of the summer time,
As I stand in the perfect vigour
And strength of my youth's glad prime;
When my heart is light and happy,
And the world seems bright to me,
I would like to drop from this earth life,
As a green leaf drops from the tree.

I would not wait for the furrows—
For the faded eyes and hair;
But pass out swift and sudden,
Ere I grow heart-sick with care;
I would break some morn in my singing—
Or fall in my springing walk
As a full-blown flower will sometimes
Drop, all a-bloom, from the stalk.

190

I think the leaf would sooner
Be the first to break away,
Than to hang alone in the orchard
In the bleak November day.
And I think the fate of the flower
That falls in the midst of bloom
Is sweeter than if it lingered
To die in the autumn's gloom.

And so, in my youth's glad morning,
While the summer walks abroad,
I would like to hear the summons,
That must come, sometime, from God.
I would pass from the earth's perfection
To the endless June above:
From the fullness of living and loving,
To the noon of Immortal Love.

DENIED

The winds came out of the west one day,
And hurried the clouds before them;
And drove the shadows and mists away,
And over the mountains bore them.
And I wept, “Oh, wind, blow into my mind,
Blow into my soul and heart,
And scatter the clouds that hang like shrouds,
And make the shadows depart.”

191

The rain came out of the leaden skies
And beat on the earth's cold bosom.
It said to the sleeping grass, “Arise,”
And the young buds sprang in blossom.
And I wept in pain, “Oh, blessèd rain,
Beat into my heart to-day;
Thaw out the snows that are chilling it so,
Till it blossoms in hope, I pray.”

The sunshine fell on the bare-armed trees,
In a wonderful sheen of glory;
And the young leaves rustled and sang to the breeze,
And whispered a love-fraught story.
And “Sun, oh, shine on this heart of mine,
And woo it to life,” I cried;
But the wind, and sun, and rain, each one
The coveted boon denied.

OVER THE ALLEY

Here in my office I sit and write
Hour on hour, and day on day,
With no one to speak to from morn till night,
Though I have a neighbour just over the way.
Across the alley that yawns between
A maiden sits sewing the whole day long;
A face more lovely is seldom seen
In hall or castle or country throng.

192

Her curling tresses are golden brown;
Her eyes, I think, are violet blue,
Though her long, thick lashes are always down,
Jealously hiding the orbs from view;
Her neck is slender, and round, and white,
And this way and that way her soft hair blows,
As there in the window, from morn till night,
She sits in her beauty, and sings and sews.

And I, in my office chair, lounge and dream,
In an idle way, of a sweet “might be,”
While the maid at her window sews her seam,
With never a glance or a thought for me.
Perhaps she is angry because I look
So long and often across the way,
Over the top of my ledger book;
But those stolen glances brighten the day.

And I am blameless of any wrong;—
She the transgressor, by sitting there
And making my eyes turn oft and long
To a face so delicate, pure and fair.
Work is forgotten; the page lies clean,
Untouched by the pen, while hours go by.
Oh, maid of the pensive air and mien!
Give me one glance of your violet eye.

Drop your thimble or spool of thread
Down in the alley, I pray, my sweet,
Or the comb or ribbon from that fair head,
That I may follow with nimble feet;

193

For how can I tell you my heart has gone
Across the alley, and lingers there,
Till I know your name, my beautiful one?
How could I venture, and how could I dare?

Just one day longer I'll wait and dream,
And then, if you grant me no other way,
I shall write you a letter: “Maid of the seam,
You have stolen my property; now give pay,
Beautiful robber and charming thief!
Give but a glance for the deed you've done.”
Thus shall I tell you my loss and grief,
Over the alley, my beautiful one.

AT THE WINDOW

Every morning, as I walk down
From my dreary lodgings, toward the town,
I see at a window, near the street,
The face of a woman, fair and sweet,
With soft brown eyes and chestnut hair,
And red lips, warm with the kiss left there.
And she stands there as long as she can see
The man who walks just ahead of me.

At night, when I come from my office down town,
There stands the woman with eyes of brown,
Smiling out through the window blind
At the man who is walking just behind.

194

This fellow and I resemble each other—
At least so I'm told by one and another,
(Though I think I'm the handsomer far, of the two,)
I don't know him at all, save to “how d'ye do,”
Or nod when I meet him. I think he's at work
In a dry-goods store, as a salaried clerk.
And I am a lawyer of high renown,
Have a snug bank account and an office down town,—
Yet I feel for that fellow an envious spite,
(It has no other name, so I speak it outright.)
There were symptoms before; but it's grown, I believe,
Alarmingly fast, since one cloudy eve,
When passing the little house close by the street,
I heard the patter of two little feet,
And a figure in pink fluttered down to the gate,
And a sweet voice exclaimed, “Oh, Will, you are late!
And, darling, I've watched at the window until—
Sir, I beg pardon! I thought it was Will!”

I passed on my way, with such a strange feeling
Down in my heart. My brain seemed to be reeling;
For, as it happens, my name, too, is Will,
And that voice, crying “darling,” sent such an odd thrill
Throughout my whole being! “How nice it would be,”
Thought I, “if it were in reality me
That she's watched and longed for, instead of that lout!”
(It was envy that made me use that word, no doubt,)
For he's a fine fellow, and handsome!—(ahem!)
But then it's absurd that this rare little gem
Of a woman should stand there and look out for him

195

Till she brings on a headache, and makes her eyes dim,
While I go to lodgings, dull, dreary and bare,
With no one to welcome me, no one to care
If I'm early or late. No soft eyes of brown
To watch when I go to, or come from the town.

This bleak, wretched, bachelor life is about
(If I may be allowed the expression) played out.
Somewhere there must be, in the wide world, I think,
Another fair woman who dresses in pink,
And I know of a cottage, for sale, just below,
And it has a French window in front, and—heigho!
I wonder how long, at the longest, 'twill be
Before, coming home from the office, I'll see
A nice little woman there, watching for me.

MY SHIP

If all the ships I have at sea
Should come a-sailing home to me,
Laden with precious gems and gold,
Ah, well! the harbour could not hold
So many sails as there would be,
If all my ships came in from sea.

If half my ships came home from sea,
And brought their precious freight to me,
Ah, well! I should have wealth as great
As any king who rules in state,
So rich the treasures that would be
If half my ships now out at sea.

196

If just one ship I have at sea
Should come a-sailing home to me,
Ah, well! the storm clouds then might frown;
For if the others all went down,
Still rich, and proud, and glad, I'd be
If that one ship came back to me.

If that one ship went down at sea,
And all the others came to me,
Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,
With glory, honour, riches, gold—
The poorest soul on earth I'd be
If that one ship came not to me.

O skies, be calm! O winds, blow free!
Blow all my ships safe home to me;
But if thou sendest some a-wrack
To never more come sailing back,
Send any—all that skim the sea,
But bring my love-ship home to me.

INDEPENDENCE ODE

Columbia, fair queen in your glory!
Columbia, the pride of the earth!
We crown you with song-wreath and story;
We honour the day of your birth!

197

The wrath of a king and his minions
You braved, to be free, on that day;
And the eagle sailed up on strong pinions,
And frightened the lion at bay.

Since the chains and the shackles are broken,
And citizens now replace slaves,
Since the hearts of your heroes have spoken
How dear they held freedom—by graves.

Your beautiful banner is blotless
As it floats to the breezes unfurled,
And but for one blemish, all spotless
Is the record you show to the world.

Like a scar on the features of beauty,
Lies Utah, sin-cursed, in the west.
Columbia! Columbia! your duty
Is to wipe out that stain with the rest!

Not only in freedom, and science,
And letters, should you lead the earth;
But let the earth learn your reliance
In honour and true moral worth.

When Liberty's torch shall be lighted,
Let her brightest most far-reaching rays
Discover no wrong that's unrighted—
Go challenge the jealous world's gaze!

198

Columbia, your star is ascending!
Columbia, all lands own your sway!
May your reign be as proud and unending
As your glory is brilliant to-day.

“SWEET DANGER”

The danger of war, with its havoc of life,
The danger of ocean, when storms are rife,
The danger of jungles, where wild beasts hide,
The danger that lies in the mountain slide—
Why, what are they but all mere child's play,
Or the idle sport of a summer day,
Beside those battles that stir and vex
The world forever, of sex with sex?

The warrior returns from the captured fort,
The mariner sails to a peaceful port;
The wild beast quails 'neath the strong man's eye,
The avalanche passes the traveller by—
But who can rescue from passion's pyre
The hearts that were offered to feed its fire?
Ah! he who emerges from that fierce flame
Is scarred with sorrow or blackened with shame.

Battle and billow, and beast of prey,
They only threaten the mortal clay;
The soul unfettered can take to wing,
But the danger of love is another thing.

199

Once under the tyrant Passion's control,
He crushes body, and heart, and soul.
An hour of rapture, an age of despair,
Ah! these are the trophies of love's warfare.

And yet forever, since time began,
Has man dared woman and woman lured man
To that sweet danger that lurks and lies
In the bloodless battle of eyes with eyes;
That reckless danger, as vast as sweet,
Whose bitter ending is joy's defeat.
Ah! thus forever, while time shall last,
On passion's altar must hearts be cast!

ONE WOMAN'S PLEA

Now God be with the men who stand
In legislative halls, to-day.
Those chosen princes of our land—
May God be with them all, I say,
And may His wisdom guide and shield them,
For mighty is the trust we yield them.

Oh, men! who hold a people's fate,
There in the hollow of your hand,
Each word you utter, soon or late,
Shall leave its impress on our land—
Forth from the halls of legislation,
Shall speed its way through all our nation.

200

Then, may the Source of Truth, and Light,
Be ever o'er them, ever near,
And may He guide each word aright;
May no false precept greet the ear,
No selfish love, for purse, or faction,
Stay Justice's hand, or guide one action.

And may no one among these men
Lift to his lips the damning glass,
Let no man say, with truth, again,
What has been said, in truth, alas!
“Men drink, in halls of legislation—
Why shouldn't we, of lower station?”

And may God's lasting curses fall
On those who hint, or boldly say,
That men have need of alcohol,
Or that wine helps them, anyway.
These imps of hell—for all who aid them
May God's eternal curse upbraid them.

Oh, men! you see, you hear this beast,
This fiend that pillages the earth,
Whose work is death—whose hourly feast,
Is noble souls, and minds of worth—
You see—and if you will not chain him,
Nor reach one hand forth, to detain him,

For God's sake, do not give him aid,
Nor urge him onward. Oh, to me

201

It seems so strange that laws are made
To crush all other crimes, while he
Who bears down through Hell's gaping portals
The countless souls of rum-wrecked mortals

Is left to wander, to and fro,
In perfect freedom through the land,
And those who ought to see, and know,
Will lift no warning voice or hand.
Oh, men in halls of legislation,
Rise to the combat, save the nation!

IF

If I were sent to represent
A portion of a nation
I would not chat, on this and that,
In the halls of legislation.
To show my power, I'd waste no hour
In aimless talk and bother,
Nor fritter away a precious day
On this and that and the other.

Whether the food a dog consumes
Wouldn't make a porker fatter,
And about a thousand useless things
Of no import or matter—

202

Whether each day a man should pray
For our welfare, or shouldn't.
Now I do not say men do this way;
I merely say I wouldn't!

No! were I sent to represent
A state, or town, or county,
I'd do some good, and all I could,
To earn the people's bounty.
Instead of a dog, or a fattening hog,
I'd talk about men's drinking!
And, with words of fire, I would inspire
The stolid and unthinking.

And the time that I might idly waste,
(I don't say men do waste it),
I'd spend in pleading for my cause,
And, with tongue and pen, I'd haste it
Through all the land, till a mighty band,
With laws and legislation,
Should cleanse the stain and cut the chain
That binds our helpless nation.

And little need would there be then,
When that bright sun had risen,
Of asylum wings or building sites—
Of county or State prison.
The need is made by the liquor trade!
Oh, ye wise, sage law-makers,
'Tis the friend you smile upon that makes
Our madmen and law-breakers.

203

BOHEMIA

Bohemia, o'er thy unatlased borders
How many cross, with half-reluctant feet,
And unformed fears of dangers and disorders,
To find delights, more wholesome and more sweet
Than ever yet were known the “élite.”

Herein can dwell no pretence and no seeming;
No stilted pride thrives in this atmosphere,
Which stimulates a tendency to dreaming.
The shores of the ideal world, from here,
Seem sometimes to be tangible and near.

We have no use for formal codes of fashion;
No “Etiquette of Courts” we emulate;
We know it needs sincerity and passion
To carry out the plans of God, or fate;
We do not strive to seem inanimate.

We call no time lost that we give to pleasure;
Life's hurrying river speeds to Death's great sea;
We cast out no vain plummet-line to measure
Imagined depths of that unknown To Be,
But grasp the Now, and fill it full of glee.

204

All creeds have room here, and we all together
Devoutly worship at Art's sacred shrine;
But he who dwells once in thy golden weather,
Bohemia—sweet, lovely land of mine—
Can find no joy outside thy border-line.

PENALTY

Because of the fullness of what I had,
All that I have seems poor and vain.
If I had not been happy, I were not sad—
Tho' my salt is savourless, why complain?

From the ripe perfection of what was mine,
All that is mine seems worse than naught;
Yet I know, as I sit in the dark and pine,
No cup could be drained which had not been fraught.

From the throb and thrill of a day that was,
The day that now is seems dull with gloom;
Yet I bear the dullness and darkness, because
'Tis but the reaction of glow and bloom.

From the royal feast that of old was spread
I am starved on the diet that now is mine;
Yet, I could not turn hungry from water and bread
If I had not been sated on fruit and wine.

205

ONLY DREAMS

A maiden sat in the sunset glow
Of the shadowy, beautiful Long Ago,
That we see through a mist of tears.
She sat and dreamed, with lips apart,
With thoughtful eyes and a beating heart,
Of the mystical future years;
And brighter far than the sunset skies
Was the vision seen by the maiden's eyes.

There were castles built of the summer air,
And beautiful voices were singing there,
In a soft and floating strain.
There were skies of azure and fields of green,
With never a cloud to come between,
And never a thought of pain;
There was music, sweet as the silvery notes
That flow from a score of thrushes' throats.

There were hands to clasp with a loving hold;
There were lips to kiss, and eyes that told
More than the lips could say.
And all the faces she loved were there,
With their snowy brows untouched by care,
And locks that were never grey.
And Love was the melody each heart beat,
And the beautiful vision was all complete.

206

But the castles built of the summer wind
I have vainly sought. I only find
Shadows, all grim and cold;—
For I was the maiden who thought to see
Into the future years,—Ah, me!
And I am grey and old.
My dream of earth was as fair and bright
As my hope of heaven is to-night.

Dreams are but dreams at the very best,
And the friends I loved lay down to rest
With their faces hid away.
They had furrowed brows and snowy hair,
And they willingly laid their burdens where
Mine shall be laid one day.
A shadow came over my vision scene
As the clouds of sorrow came in between.

The hands that I thought to clasp are crossed,
The lips and the beautiful eyes are lost,
And I seek them all in vain.
The gushes of melody, sweet and clear,
And the floating voices, I do not hear,
But only a sob of pain;
And the beating hearts have paused to rest.
Ah! dreams are but dreams at the very best.

207

WHEN

I dwell in the western inland,
Afar from the sounding sea,
But I seem to hear it sobbing
And calling aloud to me,
And my heart cries out for the ocean
As a child for its mother's breast,
And I long to lie on its waters
And be lulled in its arms to rest.

I can close my eyes and fancy
That I hear its mighty roar,
And I see its blue waves splashing
And plunging against the shore;
And the white foam caps the billow,
And the sea-gulls wheel and cry,
And the cool wild wind is blowing,
And the ships go sailing by.

Oh, wonderful, mighty ocean!
When shall I ever stand,
Where my heart has gone already,
There on thy gleaming strand!
When shall I ever wander
Away from this inland west,
And stand by thy side, dear ocean,
And rock on thy heaving breast?

208

CONTENTMENT

If any line that I ever penned,
Or any word I have spoken,
Has comforted heart of foe or friend—
In any way, why my life, I'll say,
Has reaped the reward of labour,
If aught I have said, or written, has made
Gladder the heart o' my neighbour.

If any deed that I ever did
Lightened a sad heart's sorrow,
If I have lifted a drooping lid
Up to the bright to-morrow,
Though the world knows not, nor gives me a thought,
Nor ever can know, nor praise me,
Yet still I shall say, to my heart alway,
That my life and labour repay me.

If in any way I have helped a soul,
Or given a spirit pleasure,
Then my cup of joy, I shall think, is full
With an overflowing measure.
Though never an eye but the one on high
Looks on my kindly action,
Yet, O my heart, we shall think of our part
In the drama, with satisfaction.

209

MOTHER'S LOSS

If I could clasp my little babe
Upon my breast to-night,
I would not mind the blowing wind
That shrieketh in affright.
Oh, my lost babe! my little babe,
My babe with dreamful eyes;
Thy bed is cold; and night wind bold
Shrieks woeful lullabies.

My breast is softer than the sod;
This room, with lighter hearth,
Is better place for thy sweet face
Than frozen mother earth.
Oh, my babe! oh, my lost babe!
Oh, babe with waxen hands,
I want thee so, I need thee so—
Come from thy mystic lands!

No love that, like a mother's, fills
Each corner of the heart;
No loss like hers, that rends, and chills,
And tears the soul apart.
Oh, babe—my babe, my helpless babe!
I miss thy little form.
Would I might creep where thou dost sleep,
And clasp thee through the storm.

210

I hold thy pillow to my breast,
To bring a vague relief;
I sing the songs that soothed thy rest—
Ah me! no cheating grief.
My breathing babe! my sobbing babe!
I miss thy plaintive moan,
I cannot hear—thou art not near—
My little one, my own.

Thy father sleeps. He mourns thy loss,
But little fathers know
The pain that makes a mother toss
Through sleepless nights of woe.
My clinging babe! my nursing babe!
What knows thy father—man—
How my breasts miss thy lips' soft kiss—
None but a mother can.

Worn out, I sleep; I wake—I weep—
I sleep—hush, hush, my dear;
Sweet lamb, fear not—Oh, God! I thought—
I thought my babe was here.

THE LITTLE BIRD

The father sits in his lonely room,
Outside sings a little bird.
But the shadows are laden with death and gloom,
And the song is all unheard.

211

The father's heart is the home of sorrow;
His breast is the seat of grief!
Who will hunt the paper for him on the morrow—
Who will bring him sweet relief
From wearing thought with innocent chat?
Who will find his slippers and bring his hat?
Still the little bird sings
And flutters her wings;
The refrain of her song is, “God knows best!
He giveth His little children rest.”
What can she know of these sorrowful things?

The mother sits by the desolate hearth,
And weeps o'er a vacant chair.
Sorrow has taken the place of mirth—
Joy has resigned to despair.
Bitter the cup the mother is drinking,
So bitter the tear-drops start.
Sad are the thoughts the mother is thinking—
Oh, they will break her heart.
Who will run on errands, and romp and play,
And mimic the robins the livelong day?
Still the little bird sings
And flutters her wings;
“God reigns in heaven, and He will keep
The dear little children that fall asleep.”
What can she know of these sorrowful things?

Grandmother sits by the open door,
And her tears fall down like rain.

212

Was there ever a household so sad before,
Will it ever be glad again?
Many unwelcome thoughts come flitting
Into the granddame's mind.
Who will take up the stitches she drops in knitting?
Who will her snuff-box find?
Who'll bring her glasses, and wheel her chair,
And tie her kerchief, and comb her hair?
Still the little bird sings
And flutters her wings;
“God above doeth all things well,
I sang it the same when my nestlings fell.”
Ah! this knows the bird of these sorrowful things.

THE KING AND SIREN

The harsh King—Winter—sat upon the hills,
And reigned and ruled the earth right royally.
He locked the rivers, lakes, and all the rills—
“I am no puny, maudlin king,” quoth he,
“But a stern monarch, born to rule, and reign;
And I'll show my power to the end.
The Summer's flowery retinue I've slain,
And taken the bold free North Wind for my friend.

“Spring, Summer, Autumn—feeble queens they were,
With their vast troops of flowers, birds and bees,
Soft winds, that made the long green grasses stir—
They lost their own identity in things like these!

213

I scorn them all! nay, I defy them all!
And none can wrest the sceptre from my hand.
And trusty North Wind answers to my call,
And breathes his icy breath upon the land.”

The Siren—South Wind—listening the while,
Now floated airily across the lea.
“O King!” she cried, with tender tone and smile,
“I come to do all homage unto thee.
In all the sunny region, whence I came,
I find none like thee, King, so brave and grand!
Thine is a well-deserved, unrivalled fame;
I kiss, in awe, dear King, thy cold white hand.”

Her words were pleasing, and most fair her face,
He listened rapt to her soft-whispered praise.
She nestled nearer, in her Siren grace.
“Dear King,” she said, “henceforth my voice shall raise
But songs of thy unrivalled splendour! Lo!
How white thy brow is! How thy garments shine!
I tremble 'neath thy beaming glance, for oh,
Thy wondrous beauty makes thee seem divine.”

The vain King listened, in a trance of bliss,
To this most sweet-voiced Siren from the South.
She nestled close, and pressed a lingering kiss
Upon the stern white pallor of his mouth.
She hung upon his breast, she pressed his cheek,
And he was nothing loath to hold her there,
While she such tender, loving words did speak,
And combed his white locks with her fingers fair.

214

And so she bound him, in her Siren wiles,
And stole his strength, with every kiss she gave,
And stabbed him through and through, with tender smiles,
And with her loving words, she dug his grave;
And then she left him, old, and weak, and blind,
And unlocked all the rivers, lakes, and rills,
While the queen Spring, with her whole troop, behind,
Of flowers, and birds, and bees, came o'er the hills.

SUNSHINE AND SHADOW

Life has its shadows, as well as its sun;
Its lights and its shades, all twined together.
I tried to single them out, one by one,
Single and count them, determining whether
There was less blue than there was grey,
And more of the deep night than of the day.
But dear me, dear me, my task's but begun,
And I am not half way into the sun.

For the longer I look on the bright side of earth,
The more of the beautiful do I discover;
And really, I never knew what life was worth
Till I searched the wide storehouse of happiness over.
It is filled from the cellar well up to the skies,
With things meant to gladden the heart and the eyes.
The doors are unlocked, you can enter each room,
That lies like a beautiful garden in bloom.

215

Yet life has its shadow, as well as its sun;
Earth has its storehouse of joy and of sorrow.
But the first is so wide—and my task's but begun—
That the last must be left for a far-distant morrow.
I will count up the blessings God gave in a row,
But dear me! when I get through them, I know
I shall have little time left for the rest,
For life is a swift-flowing river at best.

WORLDLY WISDOM

If it were in my dead Past's power
To let my Present bask
In some lost pleasure for an hour,
This is the boon I'd ask:

Re-pedestal from out the dust
Where long ago 'twas hurled,
My beautiful incautious trust
In this unworthy world.

The symbol of my own soul's truth—
I saw it go with tears—
The sweet unwisdom of my youth—
That vanished with the years.

Since knowledge brings us only grief,
I would return again
To happy ignorance and belief
In motives and in men.

216

For worldly wisdom learned in pain
Is in itself a cross,
Significant mayhap of gain,
Yet sign of saddest loss.

SO LONG IN COMING

When shall I hear the thrushes sing,
And see their graceful, round throats swelling?
When shall I watch the bluebirds bring
The straws and twiglets for their dwelling?
When shall I hear among the trees
The little martial partridge drumming?
Oh! hasten! sights and sounds that please—
The summer is so long in coming.

The winds are talking with the sun;
I hope they will combine together
And melt the snow—drifts, one by one,
And bring again the golden weather.
Oh, haste, make haste, dear sun and wind,
I long to hear the brown bee humming;
I seek for blooms I cannot find,
The summer is so long in coming.

The winter has been cold, so cold;
Its winds are harsh, and bleak, and dreary,
And all its sports are stale and old;
We wait for something now more cheery.

217

Come up, O summer, from the south,
And bring the harps your hands are thrumming.
We pine for kisses from your mouth!
Oh! do not be so long in coming.

LAY IT AWAY

We will lay our summer away, my friend,
So tenderly lay it away.
It was bright and sweet to the very end,
Like one long, golden day.
Nothing sweeter could come to me,
Nothing sweeter to you.
We will lay it away, and let it be,
Hid from the whole world's view.

We will lay it away like a dear, dead thing—
Dead, yet for ever fair;
And the fresh green robes of a deathless spring,
Though dead, it shall always wear.
We will not hide it in grave or tomb,
But lay it away to sleep,
Guarded by beauty, and light, and bloom,
Wrapped in a slumber deep.

We were willing to let the summer go—
Willing to go our ways;
But never on earth again I know
Will either find such days.

218

You are my friend, and it may seem strange,
But I would not see you again;
I would think of you, though all things change,
Just as I knew you then.

If we should go back to the olden place,
And the summer time went too,
It would be like looking a ghost in the face,
So much would be changed and new.
We cannot live it over again,
Not even a single day;
And as something sweet, and free from pain,
We had better lay it away.

PERISHED

I called to the summer sun,
“Come over the hills to-day!
Unlock the rivers, and tell them to run,
And kiss the snow-drifts and melt them away.”
And the sun came over—a tardy lover—
And unlocked the river, and told it to glide,
And kissed the snow-drift till it fainted and died.

I called to the robin, “Come back!
Come up from the south and sing!”
And robin sailed up on an airy track,
And smoothed down his feathers and oiled his wing.
And the notes came gushing, gurgling, rushing,
In trills and quavers, clear, mellow, and strong,
Till the glad air quivered and rang with song.

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I said to the orchard, “Blow!”
I said to the meadow, “Bloom!”
And the trees stood white, like brides in a row,
And the breeze was laden with rare perfume.
And over the meadows, in lights and shadows,
The daisies white and violets blue,
And yellow-haired buttercups blossomed and grew.

I called to a hope, that died
With the death of the flowers and grass,
“Come back! for the river is free to glide—
The robin sings, and the daisies bloom.” Alas!
For the hope I cherished too rudely perished
To ever awaken and live again,
Though a hundred summers creep over the plain.

THE BELLE'S SOLILOQUY

Heigh ho! well, the season's over!
Once again we've come to Lent!
Programme's changed from balls and parties—
Now we're ordered to repent.
Forty days of self-denial!
Tell you what, I think it pays—
Know't'l freshen my complexion
Going slow for forty days.

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No more savoury French suppers—
Such as Madame R--- can give.
Well, I need a little thinning—
Just a trifle—sure's you live.
Sometimes been afraid my plumpness
Might grow into downright fat.
Rector urges need of fasting—
Think there's lot of truth in that.

We must meditate, he tells us,
On our several acts of sin,
And repent them. Let me see now—
Whereabouts shall I begin!
Flirting—yes, they say 'tis wicked;
Well, I'm awful penitent.
(Wonder if my handsome major
Goes to early Mass through Lent?)

Love of dress! I'm guilty there too—
Guess it's my besetting sin.
Still I'm somewhat like the lilies,
For I neither toil nor spin.
Forty days I'll wear my plainest—
Could repentance be more true?
What a saving on my dresses!
They'll make over just like new.

Pride, and worldliness and all that,
Rector bade us pray about
Every day through Lenten season,
And I mean to be devout!

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Papa always talks retrenchment—
Lent is just the very thing.
Hope he'll get enough in pocket
So we'll move up town next spring.

MY VISION

Wherever my feet may wander,
Wherever I chance to be,
There comes with the coming of even-time
A vision sweet to me.
I see my mother sitting
In the old familiar place,
And she rocks to the tune her needles sing,
And thinks of an absent face.

I can hear the roar of the city
About me now as I write;
But over an hundred miles of snow
My thought-steeds fly to-night,
To the dear little cosy cottage,
And the room where mother sits,
And slowly rocks in her easy-chair
And thinks of me as she knits.

Sometimes with the merry dancers
When my feet are keeping time,
And my heart beats high, as young hearts will
To the music's rhythmic chime,

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My spirit slips over the distance,
Over the glitter and whirl,
To my mother who sits, and rocks, and knits,
And thinks of her “little girl.”

When I listen to voices that flatter,
And smile, as women do,
To whispered words that may be sweet,
But are not always true;
I think of the sweet, quaint picture
Afar in quiet ways,
And I know one smile of my mother's eyes
Is better than all their praise.

And I know I can never wander
Far from the path of right,
Though snares are set for a woman's feet
In places that seem most bright.
For the vision is with me always,
Wherever I chance to be,
Of mother sitting, rocking and knitting,
Thinking and praying for me.

SING TO ME

Sing to me! something of sunlight and bloom,
I am so compassed with sorrow and gloom,
I am so sick with the world's noise and strife,—
Sing of the beauty and brightness of life—
Sing to me, sing to me!

223

Sing to me! something that's jubilant, glad!
I am so weary, my soul is so sad.
All my earth riches are covered with rust,
All my bright dreams are but ashes and dust.
Sing to me, sing to me!

Sing of the blossoms that open in spring,
How the sweet flowers blow, and the long lichens cling,
Say, though the winter is round about me,
There are bright summers and springs yet to be.
Sing to me, sing to me!

Sing me a song full of hope and of truth,
Brimming with all the sweet fancies of youth!
Say, though my sorrow I may not forget,
I have not quite done with happiness yet.
Sing to me, sing to me!

Lay your soft fingers just here, on my cheek;
Turn the light lower—there—no, do not speak,
But sing! My heart thrills at your beautiful voice;
Sing till I turn from my grief and rejoice.
Sing to me, sing to me!

SUMMER SONG

The meadow lark's trill and the brown thrush's whistle
From morning to evening fill all the sweet air,
And my heart is as light as the down of a thistle—
The world is so bright and the earth is so fair.

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There is life in the wood, there is bloom on the meadow;
The air drips with songs that the merry birds sing.
The sunshine has won, in the battle with shadow,
And she's dressed the glad earth with robes of the spring.

The bee leaves his hive for the field of red clover
And the vale where the daisies bloom white as the snow,
And a mantle of warm yellow sunshine hangs over
The calm little pond, where the pale lilies grow.
In the woodland beyond it, a thousand gay voices
Are singing in chorus some jubilant air.
The bird and the bee and all nature rejoices,
The world is so bright, and the earth is so fair.

I am glad as a child, in this beautiful weather;
I have tossed all my burdens and trials away;
My heart is as light—yes, as light as a feather;—
I am care-free, and careless, and happy to-day.
Can it be there approaches a dark, dreary to-morrow?
Can shadows e'er fall on this beautiful earth?
Ah! to-day is my own! no forebodings of sorrow
Shall darken my skies, or shall dampen my mirth.

JOY

My heart is like a little bird
That sits and sings for very gladness.
Sorrow is some forgotten word,
And so, except in rhyme, is sadness.

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The world is very fair to me—
Such azure skies, such golden weather,
I'm like a long caged bird set free,
My heart is lighter than a feather.

I rise rejoicing in my life;
I live with love for God and neighbour;
My days flow on unmarred by strife,
And sweetened by my pleasant labour.

O youth! O spring! O happy days,
Ye are so passing sweet, and tender,
And while the fleeting season stays,
I revel care-free, in its splendour.

BIRD OF HOPE

Soar not too high, O bird of Hope!
Because the skies are fair;
The tempests may come on apace
And overcome thee there.

When far above the mountain tops
Thou soarest, over all—
If, then, the storm should press thee back,
How great would be thy fall!

And thou wouldst lie here at my feet,
A poor and lifeless thing,—
A torn and bleeding birdling,
With a limp and broken wing.

226

Sing not too loud, O bird of Hope!
Because the day is bright;
The sunshine cannot always last—
The morn precedes the night.

And if thy song is of the day,
Then when the day grows dim,
Forlorn and voiceless thou wouldst sit
Among the shadows grim.

Oh! I would have thee soar and sing,
But not too high, or loud,
Remembering that day meets night—
The brilliant sun the cloud.

A GOLDEN DAY

The subtle beauty of this day
Hangs o'er me like a fairy spell,
And care and grief have flown away,
And every breeze sings, “All is well.”
I ask, “Holds earth of sin, or woe?”
My heart replies, “I do not know.”

Nay! all we know, or feel, my heart,
To-day is joy undimmed, complete;
In tears or pain we have no part;
The act of breathing is so sweet,
We care no higher joy to name.
What reck we now of wealth or fame?

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The past—what matters it to me?
The pain it gave has passed away.
The future—that I cannot see!
I care for nothing save to-day—
This is a respite from all care,
And trouble flies—I know not where.

Go on, oh, noisy, restless life!
Pass by, oh, feet that seek for heights!
I have no part in aught of strife;
I do not want your vain delights.
The day wraps round me like a spell,
And every breeze sings, “All is well.”

FADING

All in the beautiful Autumn weather
One thought lingers with me and stays;
Death and winter are coming together,
Though both are veiled by the amber haze.
I look on the forest of royal splendour!
I look on the face in my quiet room;
A face all beautiful, sad and tender,
And both are stamped with the seal of doom.

All through the days of Indian summer,
Minute by minute and hour by hour,
I feel the approach of a dreaded Comer—
A ghastly presence of awful power.

228

I hear the birds in the early morning,
As they fly from the fields that are turning brown,
And at noon and at night my heart takes warning,
For the maple leaves fall down and down.

The sumac bushes are all a-flaming!
The world is scarlet, and gold, and green,
And my darling's beautiful cheeks are shaming
The painted bloom of the ball-room queen.
Why talk of winter, amid such glory?
Why speak of death of a thing so fair?
Oh, but the forest king white and hoary
Is weaving a mantle for both to wear.

God! if I could by the soft deceiving
Of forests of splendour and cheeks of bloom
Lull my heart into sweet believing
Just for a moment and drown my gloom;
If I could forget for a second only
And rest from the pain of this awful dread
Of days that are coming long and lonely
When the Autumn goes and she is dead.

But all the while the sun gilds wood and meadow
And the fair cheeks, hectic glows and cheats,
I know grim death sits veiled in shadow
Weaving for both their winding sheets.
I cannot help, and I cannot save her.
My hands are as weak as a babe's, new-born;
I must yield her up to One who gave her
And wait for the resurrection morn.

229

THE CHANGE

She leaned out into the soft June weather,
With her long loose tresses the night breeze played;
Her eyes were as blue as the bells on the heather:
Oh, what is so fair as a fair young maid!

She folded her hands, like the leaves of a lily,
“My life,” she said, “is a night in June,
Fair and quiet, and calm and stilly;
Bring me a change, O changeful moon!

“Who would drift on a lake for ever?
Young hearts weary—it is not strange,
And sigh for the beautiful bounding river;
New moon, true moon, bring me a change!”

The rose that rivalled her maiden blushes
Dropped from her breast, at a stranger's feet;
Only a glance; but the hot blood rushes
To mantle a fair face, shy and sweet.

To and fro, while the moon is waning,
They walk, and the stars shine on above;
And one is in earnest, and one is feigning—
Oh, what is so sweet as a sweet young love?

230

A young life crushed, and a young heart broken,
A bleak wind blows through the lovely bower,
And all that remains of the love vows spoken—
Is the trampled leaf of a faded flower.

The night is dark, for the moon is failing—
And what is so pale as a pale old moon!
Cold is the wind through the tree-tops wailing—
Woe that the change should come so soon.

THE MUSICIANS

The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure,
And I laughed when the music fell on my ear,
For he and Mirth played a joyful measure,
And they played so loud that I could not hear
The wailing and mourning of souls a-weary—
The strains of sorrow that floated around,
For my heart's notes rang out loud and cheery,
And I heard no other sound.

Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers,
Played louder and louder in joyful glee;
But sometimes a discord was heard by others—
Though only the rhythm was heard by me.
Louder and louder, and faster and faster
The hands of the brothers played strain on strain,
When all of a sudden a Mighty Master
Swept them aside; and Pain,

231

Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner,
Restrung the strings of my quivering heart,
And the air that he played was a plaintive minor,
So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start;
Each note was an echo of awful anguish,
As shrill as solemn, as sharp as slow,
And my soul for a season seemed to languish
And faint with its weight of woe.

With skilful hands that were never weary,
This Master of Music played strain on strain,
And between the bars of the miserere,
He drew up the strings of my heart again,
And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder,
To see that they did not snap in two.
“They are drawn so tight, they will break asunder,”
I thought, but instead, they grew,

In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger;
And I could hear on the stilly air—
Now my ears were deafened by Mirth no longer—
The sound of sorrow, and grief, and despair;
And my soul grew kinder and tender to others,
My nature grew sweeter, my mind grew broad,
And I held all men to be my brothers,
Linked by the chastening rod.

My soul was lifted to God and heaven,
And when on my heart-strings fell again
The hands of Mirth, and Pleasure, even,
There was never a discord to mar the strain.

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For Pain, the musician, and soul-refiner,
Attuned the strings with a master hand,
And whether the music be major or minor,
It is always sweet and grand.

PRESUMPTION

Whenever I am prone to doubt or wonder—
I check myself, and say, “That mighty One
Who made the solar system cannot blunder—
And for the best all things are being done.”
Who set the stars on their eternal courses
Has fashioned this strange earth by some sure plan.
Bow low, bow low to those majestic forces,
Nor dare to doubt their wisdom—puny man.

You cannot put one little star in motion,
You cannot shape one single forest leaf,
Nor fling a mountain up, nor sink an ocean,
Presumptuous pigmy, large with unbelief.
You cannot bring one dawn of regal splendour,
Nor bid the day to shadowy twilight fall,
Nor send the pale moon forth with radiance tender,
And dare you doubt the One who has done all?

“So much is wrong, there is such pain—such sinning.”
Yet look again—behold how much is right!
And He who formed the world from its beginning
Knows how to guide it upward to the light.

233

Your task, O man, is not to carp and cavil
At God's achievements, but with purpose strong
To cling to good, and turn away from evil—
That is the way to help the world along.

LISTEN!

Whoever you are as you read this,
Whatever your trouble or grief,
I want you to know and to heed this:
The day draweth near with relief.

No sorrow, no woe is unending,
Though heaven seems voiceless and dumb;
So sure as your cry is ascending,
So surely an answer will come.

Whatever temptation is near you,
Whose eyes on this simple verse fall;
Remember good angels will hear you
And help you to stand, if you call.

Though stunned with despair, I beseech you,
Whatever your losses, your need,
Believe, when these printed words reach you,
Believe you were born to succeed.

You are stronger, I tell you, this minute,
Than any unfortunate fate!
And the coveted prize—you can win it;
While life lasts 'tis never too late!

234

DAFT

In the warm yellow smile of the morning,
She stands at the lattice pane,
And watches the strong young binders
Stride down to the fields of grain.
And she counts them over and over
As they pass her cottage door:
Are they six, she counts them seven;
Are they seven, she counts one more.

When the sun swings high in the heavens,
And the reapers go shouting home,
She calls to the household, saying,
“Make haste! for the binders have come!
And Johnnie will want his dinner—
He was always a hungry child”;
And they answer, “Yes, it is waiting”;
Then tell you, “Her brain is wild.”

Again, in the hush of the evening,
When the work of the day is done,
And the binders go singing homeward
In the last red rays of the sun,
She will sit at the threshold waiting,
And her withered face lights with joy:
“Come, Johnnie,” she says, as they pass her,
“Come into the house, my boy.”

235

Five summers ago her Johnnie
Went out in the smile of the morn,
Singing across the meadow,
Striding down through the corn—
He towered above the binders,
Walking on either side,
And the mother's heart within her
Swelled with exultant pride.

For he was the light of the household—
His brown eyes were wells of truth,
And his face was the face of the morning,
Lit with its pure, fresh youth,
And his song rang out from the hilltops
Like the mellow blast of a horn,
And he strode o'er the fresh shorn meadows,
And down through the rows of corn.

But hushed were the voices of singing,
Hushed by the presence of death,
As back to the cottage they bore him—
In the noontide's scorching breath,
For the heat of the sun had slain him,
Had smitten the heart in his breast,
And he who had towered above them
Lay lower than all the rest.

The grain grows ripe in the sunshine,
And the summers ebb and flow,
And the binders stride to their labour
And sing as they come and go;

236

But never again from the hilltops
Echoes the voice like a horn;
Never up from the meadows,
Never back from the corn.

Yet the poor, crazed brain of the mother
Fancies him always near;
She is blest in her strange delusion,
For she knoweth no pain nor fear,
And always she counts the binders
As they pass her cottage door;
Are they six, she counts them seven;
Are they seven, she counts one more.

WHEN I AM DEAD

When I am dead, if some chastened one
Seeing the “item,” or hearing it said
That my play is over and my part done
And I lie asleep in my narrow bed—
If I could know that some soul would say,
Speaking aloud or silently,
“In the heat and the burden of the day
She gave a refreshing draught to me”;

Or, “When I was lying nigh unto death
She nursed me to life and to strength again,
And when I laboured and struggled for breath
She smoothed and quieted down my pain”;

237

Or, “When I was groping in grief and doubt,
Lost, and turned from the light o' the day,
Her hand reached me and helped me out
And led me up to the better way”;

Or, “When I was hated and shunned by all,
Bowing under my sin and my shame,
She, once in passing me by, let fall
Words of pity and hope, that came
Into my heart like a blessed calm
Over the waves of the stormy sea,
Words of comfort like oil and balm,
She spake, and the desert blossomed for me”;

Better, by far, than a marble tomb—
Than a monument towering over my head
(What shall I care, in my quiet room,
For headboard or footboard when I am dead?);
Better than glory, or honours, or fame
(Though I am striving for those to-day),
To know that some heart would cherish my name
And think of me kindly, with blessings, alway.

TWILIGHT THOUGHTS

The God of the day has vanished,
The light from the hills has fled,
And the hand of an unseen artist
Is painting the west all red.

238

All threaded with gold and crimson,
And burnished with amber dye,
And tipped with purple shadows,
The glory flameth high.

Fair, beautiful world of ours!
Fair, beautiful world, but oh,
How darkened by pain and sorrow,
How blackened by sin and woe.
The splendour pales in the heavens
And dies in a golden gleam,
And alone in the hush of twilight,
I sit, in a chequered dream.

I think of the souls that are straying,
In shadows as black as night,
Of hands that are groping blindly
In search of a shining light;
Of hearts that are mutely crying,
And praying for just one ray,
To lead them out of the shadows
Into the better way.

And I think of the Father's children
Who are trying to walk alone,
Who have dropped the hand of the Parent,
And wander in ways unknown.
Oh, the paths are rough and thorny,
And I know they cannot stand.
They will faint and fall by the wayside,
Unguarded by God's right hand.

239

And I think of the souls that are yearning
To follow the good and true;
They are striving to live unsullied,
Yet I know not what to do.
And I wonder when God, the Master,
Shall end this weary strife,
And lead us out of the shadows
Into the deathless life.

SONG OF THE SPIRIT

Too sweet and too subtle for pen or for tongue
In phrases unwritten and measures unsung,
As deep and as strange as the sounds of the sea,
Is the song that my spirit is singing to me.

In the midnight and tempest when forest trees shiver,
In the roar of the surf, and the rush of the river,
In the rustle of leaves and the fall of the rain,
And on the low breezes I catch the refrain.

From the vapours that frame and envelop the earth,
And beyond, from the realms where my spirit had birth,
From the mists of the land and the fogs of the sea,
For ever and ever the song comes to me.

I know not its wording—its import I know—
For the rhythm is broken, the measure runs low,
When vexed or allured by the things of this life
My soul is merged into its pleasures or strife.

240

When up to the hilltops of beauty and light
My soul like a lark in the ether takes flight,
And the white gates of heaven shine brighter and nearer,
The song of the spirit grows sweeter and clearer.

Up, up to the realms where no mortal has trod—
Into space and infinity near to my God—
With whiteness, and silence, and beautiful things,
I am borne when the voice of eternity sings.

When once in the winds or the drop of the rain
Thy spirit shall listen and hear the refrain,
Thy soul shall soar up like a bird on the breeze,
And the things that have pleased thee will never more please.

FADING

She sits beside the window. All who pass
Turn once again to gaze on her sweet face.
She is so fair; but soon, too soon, alas,
To lie down in her last resting-place.

No gems are brighter than her sparkling eyes,
Her brow like polished marble, white and fair—
Her cheeks are glowing as the sunset skies—
You would not dream that Death was lurking there.

241

But, oh! he lingers closely at her side,
And when the forest dons her Autumn dress,
We know that he will claim her as his bride,
And earth will number one fair spirit less.

She sees the meadow robed in richest green—
The laughing stream—the willows bending o'er.
With tear-dimmed eyes she views each sylvan scene,
And thinks earth never was so fair before.

We do not sigh for heaven, till we have known
Something of sorrow, something of grief and woe,
And as a summer day her life has flown.
Oh, can we wonder she is loth to go?

She has no friends in heaven: all are here.
No lost one waits her in that unknown land,
And life grows doubly, trebly sweet and dear
As day by day she nears the mystic strand.

We love her and we grieve to see her go.
But it is Christ who calls her to His breast,
And He shall greet her, and she soon shall know
The joys of souls that dwell among the blest.

UNTIL THE NIGHT

Over the ocean of life's commotion
We sail till the night comes on,
Sail and sail in a tiny boat,
Drifting wherever the billows go.

242

Out on the treacherous sea afloat,
Beat by the cruel winds that blow,
Hither and thither our boat is drawn,
Till the day dies out and the night comes on.

Over a meadow of light and shadow
We wander with weary feet,
Seeking a bauble men call “Fame,”
Grasping the dead-sea fruit named “wealth,”
Finding each but an empty name,
And the night—the night steals on by stealth.
And we count the season of slumber sweet,
When hope lies dead in the arms of defeat.

Over the river a great Forever
Stretches beyond our sight.
But I know by the glistening pearly gates
Afar from the region of strife and sin,
A beautiful angel always waits
To welcome the sheep of the shepherd in.
And out of the shadows of gloom and night,
They enter the mansion of peace and light.

BEYOND

It seemeth such a little way to me
Across to that strange country—the Beyond;
And yet, not strange, for it has grown to be
The home of those of whom I am so fond;
They make it seem familiar and most dear,
As journeying friends bring distant regions near.

243

So close it lies, that when my sight is clear
I think I almost see the gleaming strand.
I know I feel those who have gone from here
Come near enough sometimes, to touch my hand.
I often think, but for our veilèd eyes,
We should find heaven right round about us lies.

I cannot make it seem a day to dread,
When from this dear earth I shall journey out
To that still dearer country of the dead,
And join the lost ones, so long dreamed about.
I love this world, yet shall I love to go
And meet the friends who wait for me, I know.

I never stand above a bier and see
The seal of death set on some well-loved face
But that I think, “One more to welcome me,
When I shall cross the intervening space
Between this land and that one ‘over there’;
One more to make the strange Beyond seem fair.”

And so for me there is no sting to death,
And so the grave has lost its victory.
It is but crossing—with a bated breath,
And white, set face—a little strip of sea,
To find the loved ones waiting on the shore,
More beautiful, more precious than before.

244

IDLER'S SONG

I sit in the twilight dim
At the close of an idle day,
And I list to the soft, sweet hymn
That rises far away,
And dies on the evening air.
Oh, all day long,
They sing their song,
Who toil in the valley there.

But never a song sing I,
Sitting with folded hands,
The hours pass me by—
Dropping their golden sands—
And I list, from day to day,
To the “tick, tick, tock”
Of the old brown clock,
Ticking my life away.

And I see the twilight fade,
And I see the night come on,
And then, in the gloom and shade,
I weep for the day that's gone—
Weep and wail in pain,
For the misspent day
That has flown away,
And will not come again.

245

Another morning beams,
And I forget the last,
And I sit in idle dreams
Till the day is over—past.
Oh, the toiler's heart is glad!
When the day is gone
And the night comes on,
But mine is sore and sad.

For I dare not look behind!
No shining, golden sheaves
Can I ever hope to find:
Nothing but withered leaves,
Ah, dreams are very sweet!
But will not please
If only these
I lay at the Master's feet.

And what will the Master say
To dreams and nothing more!
Oh, Idler, all the day!
Think, ere thy life is o'er!
And when the day grows late,
Oh, soul of sin!
Will He let you in,
There at the pearly gate?

Oh, idle heart, beware!
On, to the field of strife!

246

On, to the valley there!
And live a useful life!
Up, do not wait a day!
For the old brown clock,
With its “tick, tick, tock,”
Is ticking your life away.

University of Virginia Library

POEMS OF LOVE

THE KINGDOM OF LOVE

LOVE

A FATAL IMPRESS

LOVE WILL WANE

THREE-FOLD

A MAIDEN'S SECRET

ART AND LOVE

RIVER AND SEA

WHEN YOU GO AWAY

A BABY IN THE HOUSE

IN FAITH

I TOLD YOU

IN THE GARDEN

LOST

“THE OLD MOON IN THE NEW MOON'S ARMS”

THE WILD BLUE BELLS

A WAIF

SEARCHING

OUR BLESSINGS

GOING AWAY

BE NOT WEARY

THE SUMMONS

DENIED

OVER THE ALLEY

AT THE WINDOW

MY SHIP

INDEPENDENCE ODE

“SWEET DANGER”

ONE WOMAN'S PLEA

IF

BOHEMIA

PENALTY

ONLY DREAMS

WHEN

CONTENTMENT

MOTHER'S LOSS

THE LITTLE BIRD

THE KING AND SIREN

SUNSHINE AND SHADOW

WORLDLY WISDOM

SO LONG IN COMING

LAY IT AWAY

PERISHED

THE BELLE'S SOLILOQUY

MY VISION

SING TO ME

SUMMER SONG

JOY

BIRD OF HOPE

A GOLDEN DAY

FADING

THE CHANGE

THE MUSICIANS

PRESUMPTION

LISTEN!

DAFT

WHEN I AM DEAD

TWILIGHT THOUGHTS

SONG OF THE SPIRIT

FADING

UNTIL THE NIGHT

BEYOND

IDLER'S SONG