Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr

Maud in a crimson velvet chair
Strings her pearls on a silken thread,
While, lovingly lifting her golden hair,
Soft airs wander about her head.
She has silken robes of the softest flow,
She has jewels rare and a chain of gold,
And her two white hands flit to and fro,
Fair as the dainty toys they hold.

She has tropical birds and rare perfumes;
Pictures that speak to the heart and eye;
For her each flower of the Orient blooms,—
For her the song and the lute swell high;
But daintily stringing her gleaming pearls
She dreams to-day in her velvet chair,
While the sunlight sleeps in her golden curls,
Lightly stirred by the odorous air.

Down on the beach, when the tide goes out,
Madge is gathering shining shells;
The sea-breeze blows her locks about;
O'er bare, brown feet the white sand swells.
Coarsest serge is her gown of gray,
Faded and torn her apron blue,
And there in the beautiful, dying day
The girl still thinks of the work to do.

Stains of labor are on her hands,
Lost is the young form's airy grace;
And standing there on the shining sands
You read her fate in her weary face.
Up with the dawn to toil all day
For meagre fare and a place to sleep;
Seldom a moment to dream or play,
Little leisure to laugh or weep.

Beautiful Maud, you think, maybe,
Lying back in your velvet chair,
There is naught in common with her and thee,—
You scarce could breathe in the self-same air.
But the warm blood in her girlish heart
Leaps quick as yours at her nature's call,
And ye, though moving so far apart,
Must share one destiny after all.

Love shall come to you both one day,
For still must be what aye hath been;
And under satin or russet gray
Hearts will open to let him in.
Motherhood with its joy and woe
Each must compass through burning pain,—
You, fair Maud, with your brow of snow,
Madge with her brown hands labor-stained.

Each shall sorrow and each shall weep,
Though one is in hovel, one in hall;
Over your gold the frost shall creep,
As over her jet the snows will fall.
Exquisite Maud, you lift your eyes
At Madge out yonder under the sun;
Yet know ye both by the countless ties
Of a common womanhood ye are one!

A MOTHER'S QUESTION

What mother-angel tended thee last night,
Sweet baby mine?
Cradled upon what breast all soft and white
Didst thou recline?

Who took thee, frail and tender as thou art,
Within her arms?
And shielded thee, close claspéd to her heart.
From all alarms?

Surely that God who lured thee from the breast
That hoped to be
The softest pillow and the sweetest rest
Thenceforth to thee,

Sent thee not forth into the dread unknown
Without a guide,
To grope in darkness, treading all alone
The path untried.

Compassionate is He who called thee, child;
And well I know
He sent some Blessed One of aspect mild
With thee to go

Through the dark valley, where the shadows dim
Forever brood,
That the low music of an angel's hymn
Might cheer the solitude!

OVER THE WALL

I know a spot where the wild vines creep,
And the coral moss-cups grow,
And where, at the foot of the rocky steep,
The sweet blue violets blow.
There all day long, in the summer-time,
You may hear the river's dreamy rhyme;
There all day long does the honey-bee
Murmur and hum in the hollow tree.

And there the feathery hemlock makes
A shadow cool and sweet,
While from its emerald wing it shakes
Rare incense at your feet.
There do the silvery lichens cling,
There does the tremulous harebell swing;
And many a scarlet berry shines
Deep in the green of the tangled vines.

Over the wall at dawn of day,
Over the wall at noon,
Over the wall when the shadows say
That night is coming soon,
A little maiden with laughing eyes
Climbs in her eager haste, and hies
Down to the spot where the wild vines creep,
And violets bloom by the rocky steep.

All wild things love her. The murmuring bee
Scarce stirs when she draws near,
And sings the bird in the hemlock-tree
Its sweetest for her ear.
The harebells nod as she passes by,
The violet lifts its tender eye,
The low ferns bend her steps to greet,
And the mosses creep to her dancing feet.

Up in her pathway seems to spring
All that is sweet or rare,—
Chrysalis quaint, or the moth's bright wing,
Or flower-buds strangely fair.
She watches the tiniest bird's-nest hid
The thickly clustering leaves amid;
And the small brown tree-toad on her arm
Quietly hops, and fears no harm.

Ah, child of the laughing eyes, and heart
Attuned to Nature's voice!
Thou hast found a bliss that will ne'er depart
While earth can say, “Rejoice!”
The years must come, and the years must go;
But the flowers will bloom, and the breezes blow,
And bird and butterfly, moth and bee,
Bring on their swift wings joy to thee!

OUTGROWN

Nay, you wrong her, my friend, she's not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown;
One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one's own.

Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say,
And you know we were children together, have quarreled and “made up” in play.

And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the truth,
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.

Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the self-same plane,
Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls could be parted again.

She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life's early May,
And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you to-day.

Nature never stands still, nor souls either. They ever go up or go down;
And hers has been steadily soaring,—but how has it been with your own?

She has struggled, and yearned, and aspired,—grown stronger and wiser each year;
The stars are not farther above you, in yon luminous atmosphere!

For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, five summers ago,
Has learned that the first of our duties to God and ourselves is to grow.

Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer, but their vision is clearer as well;
Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but it rings like a silver bell.

Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his angels have talked;
The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom she has walked.

And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and prayed?
Have you looked upon evil unsullied? have you conquered it undismayed?

Have you, too, grown stronger and wiser, as the months and the years have rolled on?
Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of victory won?

Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you. When to-day in her presence you stood,
Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her womanhood?

Go measure yourself by her standard. Look back on the years that have fled;
Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her girlhood is dead!

She cannot look down to her lover; her love, like her soul, aspires;
He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires.

Now, farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth,
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.

A SONG FOR TWO

Not for its sunsets burning clear and low,
Its purple splendors on the eastern hills,
Bless I the Year that now makes haste to go
While sad Earth listens for its dying thrills.

Not that its days were sweet with sun and showers;
Its summer nights all luminous with stars:
Not that its vales were studded thick with flowers;
Not that its mountains pierced the azure bars;

Not that from our dear land, by slow degrees,
Some mists of error it hath blown away;
Not for its noble deeds—ah! not for these—
Fain would I twine this wreath of song to-day.

But for one gift that it has brought to me
My grateful heart would crown the dying Year:
Because, O best-beloved, it gave me thee,
I drop this garland on the passing bier!

A PICTURE

A lovely bit of dappled green
Shut in the circling hills between,
While farther off blue mountains stand
Like giant guards on either hand.

The quiet road in still repose
Follows where'er the river flows;
And in and out it glides along,
Enchanted by the rippling song.

Afar, I see the steepled town
From yonder hillside looking down;
And sometimes, when the south wind swells,
Hear the faint chiming of its bells.

But under these embowering trees,
Lulled by the hum of droning bees,
The old brown farmhouse seems to sleep,
So calm its rest is and so deep.

Yonder, beside the rustic bridge,
From which the path climbs yonder ridge,
The lazy cattle seek the shade
By the umbrageous willows made.

The sky is like a hollow pearl,
Save where warm sunset clouds unfurl
Their flaming colors. Lo! a star,
Even as I gaze, gleams forth afar!

HYMN TO LIFE

Ah, Life, dear Life, how beautiful art thou!
All day sweet, chiming voices in my heart
Have hymned thy praises joyfully as now,
Telling how fair thou art!

This morn, while yet the dew was on the flowers,
They sang like skylarks, soaring while they sing;
This noon, like birds within their leafy bowers,
Warbled with folded wing.

Slow fades the twilight from the glowing west,
And one pale star hangs o'er yon mountain's brow;
With deeper joy, that may not be repressed,
O Life, they hail thee now!

And not alone from this poor heart of mine
Do these glad notes of grateful love ascend;
Voices from mount and vale and woodland shrine
In the full chorus blend.

The young leaves feel thy presence and rejoice
The while they frolic with the happy breeze;
And pæans sweeter than a seraph's voice
Rise from the swaying trees.

Each flower that hides within the forest dim,
Where mortal eye may ne'er its beauty see,
Waves its light censer, while it breathes a hymn
In humble praise of thee.

Through quivering pines the gentle south winds stray,
Singing low songs that bid the tear-drops start;
And thoughts of thee are in each trembling lay,
Thrilling the listener's heart.

Old Ocean lifts his solemn voice on high,
Thy name, O Life, repeating evermore,
While sweeping gales and rushing storms reply
From many a far-off shore.

The stars are gathering in the darkening skies,
But our dull ears their music may not hear,
Though, while we list, their swelling anthems rise
Exultingly and clear!

O Earth is beautiful! She weareth still
The golden radiance of life's early day;
Still Love and Hope for me their chalice fill,—
Life, turn not thou away!

THE CHIMNEY SWALLOW

One night as I sat by my table,
Tired of books and pen,
With wandering thoughts far straying
Out into the world of men;—
That world where the busy workers
Such magical deeds are doing,
Each one with a steady purpose
His own pet plans pursuing;

When the house was wrapt in silence,
And the children were all asleep,
And even the mouse in the wainscot
Had ceased to run and leap,
All at once from the open chimney
Came a hum and a rustle and whirring,
That startled me out of my dreaming,
And set my pulses stirring.

What was it? I paused and listened;
The roses were all in bloom,
And in from the garden floated
The violet's rich perfume.
So it could not be Kriss Kringle,
For he only comes, you know,
When the Christmas bells are chiming,
And the hills are white with snow.

Hark! a sound as of rushing waters,
Or the rustle of falling leaves,
Or the patter of eager raindrops
Yonder among the eaves!
Then out from the dark, old chimney,
Blackened with soot and smoke,
With a whir of fluttering pinions
A startled birdling broke.

Dashing against the window;
Lighting a moment where
My sculptured angel folded
Its soft white wings in prayer;
Swinging upon the curtains;
Perched on the ivy-vine;
At last it rested trembling
In tender hands of mine.

No stain upon its plumage;
No dust upon its wings;
No hint of its companionship
With darkly soiling things!
O, happy bird, thou spirit!
Stretch thy glad plumes and soar
Where breath of soil or sorrow
Shall reach thee nevermore!

HEIRSHIP

Little store of wealth have I;
Not a rood of land I own;
Nor a mansion fair and high
Built with towers of fretted stone.
Stocks, nor bonds, nor title-deeds,
Flocks nor herds have I to show;
When I ride, no Arab steeds
Toss for me their manes of snow.

I have neither pearls nor gold,
Massive plate, nor jewels rare;
Broidered silks of worth untold,
Nor rich robes a queen might wear.
In my garden's narrow bound
Flaunt no costly tropic blooms,
Ladening all the air around
With a weight of rare perfumes.

Yet to an immense estate
Am I heir, by grace of God,—
Richer, grander than doth wait
Any earthly monarch's nod.
Heir of all the Ages, I—
Heir of all that they have wrought,
All their store of emprise high,
All their wealth of precious thought.

Every golden deed of theirs
Sheds its lustre on my way;
All their labors, all their prayers,
Sanctify this present day!
Heir of all that they have earned
By their passion and their tears,—
Heir of all that they have learned
Through the weary, toiling years!

Heir of all the faith sublime
On whose wings they soared to heaven;
Heir of every hope that Time
To Earth's fainting sons hath given!
Aspirations pure and high—
Strength to dare and to endure—
Heir of all the Ages, I—
Lo! I am no longer poor!

HILDA, SPINNING

Spinning, spinning, by the sea,
All the night!
On a stormy, rock-ribbed shore,
Where the north winds downward pour,
And the tempests fiercely sweep
From the mountains to the deep,
Hilda spins beside the sea,
All the night!

Spinning, at her lonely window,
By the sea!
With her candle burning clear,
Every night of all the year,
And her sweet voice crooning low,
Quaint old songs of love and woe,
Spins she at her lonely window,
By the sea.

On a bitter night in March,
Long ago,
Hilda, very young and fair,
With a crown of golden hair,
Watched the tempest raging wild,
Watched the roaring sea—and smiled
Through that woeful night in March,
Long ago!

What though all the winds were out
In their might?
Richard's boat was tried and true;
Stanch and brave his hardy crew;
Strongest he to do or dare.
Said she, breathing forth a prayer,
“He is safe, though winds are out
In their might!”

But at length the morning dawned,
Still and clear!
Calm, in azure splendor, lay
All the waters of the bay;
And the ocean's angry moans
Sank to solemn undertones,
As at last the morning dawned,
Still and clear!

With her waves of golden hair
Floating free,
Hilda ran along the shore,
Gazing off the waters o'er;
And the fishermen replied,
“He will come in with the tide,”
As they saw her golden hair
Floating free!

Ah! he came in with the tide—
Came alone!
Tossed upon the shining sands—
Ghastly face and clutching hands—
Seaweed tangled in his hair—
Bruised and torn his forehead fair—
Thus he came in with the tide,
All alone!

Hilda watched beside her dead,
Day and night.
Of those hours of mortal woe
Human ken may never know;
She was silent, and his ear
Kept the secret, close and dear,
Of her watch beside her dead,
Day and night!

What she promised in the darkness,
Who can tell?
But upon that rock-ribbed shore
Burns a beacon evermore!
And beside it, all the night,
Hilda guards the lonely light,
Though what vowed she in the darkness,
None may tell!

Spinning, spinning by the sea,
All the night!
While her candle, gleaming wide
O'er the restless, rolling tide,
Guides with steady, changeless ray
The lone fisher up the bay,
Hilda spins beside the sea,
Through the night!

Fifty years of patient spinning
By the sea!
Old and worn, she sleeps to-day,
While the sunshine gilds the bay;
But her candle, shining clear,
Every night of all the year,
Still is telling of her spinning
By the sea!

HEREAFTER

O land beyond the setting sun!
O realm more fair than poet's dream!
How clear thy silver rivers run,
How bright thy golden glories gleam!

Earth holds no counterpart of thine;
The dark-browed Orient, jewel-crowned,
Pales as she bows before thy shrine,
Shrouded in mystery profound.

The dazzling North, the stately West,
Whose waters flow from mount to sea;
The South, flower-wreathed in languid rest—
What are they all, compared with thee?

All lands, all realms beneath yon dome,
Where God's own hand hath hung the stars,
To thee with humblest homage come,
O world beyond the crystal bars!

Thou blest Hereafter! Mortal tongue
Hath striven in vain thy speech to learn,
And Fancy wanders, lost among
The flowery paths for which we yearn.

But well we know that fair and bright,
Far beyond human ken or dream,
Too glorious for our feeble sight,
Thy skies of cloudless azure beam.

We know thy happy valleys lie
In green repose, supremely blest;
We know against thy sapphire sky
Thy mountain-peaks sublimely rest.

For sometimes even now we catch
Faint gleamings from thy far-off shore,
While still with eager eyes we watch
For one sweet sign or token more.

The loved, the deeply loved, are there!
The brave, the fair, the good, the wise,
Who pined for thy serener air,
Nor shunned thy solemn mysteries.

There are the hopes that, one by one,
Died even as we gave them birth;
The dreams that passed ere well begun,
Too dear, too beautiful for earth.

The aspirations, strong of wing,
Aiming at heights we could not reach;
The songs we tried in vain to sing;
The thoughts too vast for human speech;

Thou hast them all, Hereafter! Thou
Shalt keep them safely till that hour
When, with God's seal on heart and brow,
We claim them in immortal power!

WITHOUT AND WITHIN

Softly the gold has faded from the sky,
Slowly the stars have gathered one by one,
Calmly the crescent moon mounts up on high,
And the long day is done.

With quiet heart my garden-walks I tread,
Feeling the beauty that I cannot see;
Beauty and fragrance all around me shed
By flower, and shrub, and tree.

Often I linger where the roses pour
Exquisite odors from each glowing cup;
Or where the violet, brimmed with sweetness o'er,
Lifts its small chalice up.

With fragrant breath the lilies woo me now,
And softly speaks the sweet-voiced mignonette,
While heliotropes, with meekly lifted brow,
Say to me, “Go not yet.”

So for awhile I linger, but not long.
High in the heavens rideth fiery Mars,
Careering proudly 'mid the glorious throng,
Brightest of all the stars.

But softly gleaming through the curtain's fold,
The home-star beams with more alluring ray,
And, as a star led sage and seer of old,
So it directs my way;

And leads me in where my young children lie,
Rosy and beautiful in tranquil rest;
The seal of sleep is on each fast-shut eye,
Heaven's peace within each breast.

I bring them gifts. Not frankincense nor myrrh—
Gifts the adoring Magi humbly brought
The young child, cradled in the arms of her
Blest beyond mortal thought;

But love—the love that fills my mother-heart
With a sweet rapture oft akin to pain;
Such yearning love as bids the tear-drops start
And fall like summer rain.

And faith—that dares, for their dear sakes, to climb
Boldly, where once it would have feared to go,
And calmly standing upon heights sublime,
Fears not the storm below.

And prayer! O God! unto thy throne I come,
Bringing my darlings—but I cannot speak.
With love and awe oppressed, my lips are dumb:
Grant what my heart would seek!

VASHTI'S SCROLL

Dethroned and crownless, I so late a queen!
Forsaken, poor and lonely, I who wore
The crown of Persia with such stately grace!
But yesterday a royal wife; but now
From my estate cast down, and fallen so low
That beggars scoff at me! Men toss my name
Backward and forward on their mocking tongues.
In all the king's broad realm there is not one
To do poor Vashti homage. Even the dog
My hand had fondled, in the palace walls
Fawns on my rival. When I left the court,
Weeping and sore distressed, he followed me,
Licking my fingers, leaping in my face,
And frisking round me till I reached the gates.
Then with long pauses, as of one perplexed,
And frequent lookings backward, and low whines
Of puzzled wonder—that had made me smile
If I had been less lorn—with drooping ears,
Dropt eyes, and downcast forehead he went back,
Leaving me desolate. So went they all
Who, when Ahasuerus on my brow
Set his own royal crown and called me queen,
Made the air ring with plaudits! Loud they cried,
“Long live Queen Vashti, Persia's fairest Rose,
Mother of Princes, and the nation's Hope!”
The rose is withered now; the queen's no more.
To these lorn breasts no princely boy shall cling
Or now, or ever. Yet on this poor scroll

I will rehearse the story of my woes,
And bid them lay it in the grave with me
When I depart to join the unnumbered dead.

Oh, thou unknown, unborn, who through the gloom
And mists of ages in my vaulted tomb
Shalt find this parchment, and with reverent care
Shalt bear it outward to the sun and air:
Oh, thou whose patient fingers shall unroll
With slow, persuasive touch this little scroll:
Oh, loving, tender eyes that, like twin stars,
I seem to see through yonder cloudy bars:
Read Vashti's story, and I pray ye tell
The whole wide world if she did ill or well!

Ahasuerus reigned. On Persia's throne,
Lord of a mighty realm, he sat alone,
And stretched his sceptre from the farthest slope
Of India's hills, to where the Ethiop
Dwelt in barbaric splendor. Kinglier king
Never did poet praise or minstrel sing!
He had no peers. Among his lords he shone
As shines a planet, single and alone;
And I, alas! I loved him, and we two
Such bliss as peasant lovers joy in, knew!
No lowly home in all our wide domain
Held more of peace than ours, or less of pain.
But one dark day—O, woeful day of days,
Whose hours I number now in sad amaze,
Thou hadst no prophet of the ills to be,
Nor sign nor omen came to succor me!—
That day Ahasuerus smiled and said,
“Since first I wore this crown upon my head
Thrice have the emerald clusters of the vine
Changed to translucent globes of ruby wine;

And thrice the peaches on the loaded walls
Have slowly rounded into wondrous balls
Of gold and crimson. I will make a feast.
Princes and lords, the greatest and the least,
All Persia and all Media, shall see
The pomp and splendor that encompass me.
The riches of my kingdom shall be shown,
And all my glorious majesty made known
Where'er the shadow of my sceptred hand
Sways a great people with its mute command!”
Then came from far and near a hurrying throng
Of skilled and cunning workmen. All day long
And far into the startled night, they wrought
Most quaint and beautiful devices—still
Responsive to their master's eager will,
And giving form to his creative thought—
Till Shushan grew a marvel!
Never yet
Yon rolling sun on fairer scene has set:
The palace windows were ablaze with light;
And Persia's lords were there, most richly dight
In broidered silks, or costliest cloth of gold,
That kept the sunshine in each lustrous fold,
Or softly flowing tissues, pure and white
As fleecy clouds at noonday. Clear and bright
Shone the pure gold of Ophir, and the gleam
Of burning gems, that mocked the pallid beam
Of the dim, wondering stars, made radiance there,
Splendor undreamed of, and beyond compare!
Up from the gardens floated the perfume
Of rose and myrtle, in their perfect bloom;
The red pomegranate cleft its heart in twain,
Pouring its life blood in a crimson rain;
The slight acacia waved its yellow plumes,
And afar off amid the starlit glooms

Were sweet recesses, where the orange bowers
Dropt their pure blossoms down in snowy showers,
And night reigned undisturbed.
From cups of gold
Diverse one from another, meet to hold
The king's most costly wines, or to be raised
To princely lips, the gay guests drank, and praised
Their rich abundance. Rapturous music swept
Through the vast arches and the secret kept
Of its own joy; while in slow, rhythmic time
To clash of cymbal and the lute's clear chime,
The dancing-girls stole through the fragrant night
With wreathéd arms, flushed cheeks and eyes alight,
And softly rounded forms that rose and fell
To the voluptuous music's dreamy swell,
As if the air were pulsing waves that bore
Them up and onward to some longed-for shore!

Wild waxed the revel. On an ivory throne
Inlaid with ebony and gems that shone
With a surpassing lustre, sat my lord,
The King Ahasuerus. His great sword,
Blazing with diamonds on hilt and blade,—
The mighty sword that made his foes afraid,—
And the proud sceptre he was wont to grasp,
With all the monarch in his kingly clasp,
Against the crouching lions (guard that kept
On either side the throne and never slept),
Leaned carelessly. And flowing downward o'er
The ivory steps even to the marble floor,
Swept the rich royal robes in many a fold
Of Tyrian purple flecked with yellow gold.
The jewelled crown his young head scorned to wear,
More fitly crowned by its own clustering hair,
Lay on a pearl-wrought cushion by his side,

Mute symbol of great Persia's power and pride;
While on his brow some courtier's hand had placed
The fairest chaplet monarch ever graced,
A wreath of dewy roses, fresh and sweet,
Just brought from out the garden's cool retreat.

Louder and louder grew the sounds of mirth;
Faster and faster flowed the red wine forth;
In high, exulting strains the minstrels sang
The monarch's glory, till the great roof rang;
And flushed at length with pride and song and wine,
The king rose up and said, “O nobles mine!
Princes of Persia, Media's hope and pride,
Stars of my kingdom, will ye aught beside?
Speak! and I swear your sovereign's will shall be
On this fair night to please and honor ye!”
Then rose a shout from out the glittering throng
Drowning the voice of merriment and song.
Humming and murmuring like a hive of bees—
What would they more each charmèd sense to please?

Out spoke at last a tongue that should have been
Palsied in foul dishonor there and then.
“O great Ahasuerus! ne'er before
Reigned such a king so blest a people o'er!
What shall we ask? What great and wondrous boon
To crown the hours that fly away too soon?
There is but one. 'Tis said that mortal eyes
Never yet gazed, in rapturous surprise,
Upon a face like that of her who wears
Thy signet-ring, and all thy glory shares,—
Thy fair Queen Vashti, she who yet shall be
Mother of him who reigneth after thee!
Show us that face, O king! For nought beside
Can make our cup of joy o'erflow with pride.”

A murmur ran throughout the startled crowd,
Swelling at last to plaudits long and loud.
Maddened with wine, they knew not what they said.
Ahasuerus bent his haughty head,
And for an instant o'er his face there swept
A look his courtiers in their memory kept
For many a day—a look of doubt and pain,
They scarcely caught ere it had passed again.
“My word is pledged,” he said. Then to the seven
Lord chamberlains to whom the keys were given:
“Haste ye, and to this noble presence bring
Vashti, the Queen, with royal crown and ring;
That all my lords may see the matchless charms
Kind Heaven has sent to bless my kingly arms.”

They did their errand, those old, gray-haired men,
Who should have braved the lion in his den,
Or ere they bore such message to their queen,
Or took such words their aged lips between.
What! I, the daughter of a royal race,
Step down, unblushing, from my lofty place,
And, like a common dancing-girl who wears
Her beauty unconcealed, and, shameless, bares
Her brow to every gazer, boldly go
To those wild revellers my face to show?
I—who had kept my beauty pure and bright
Only because 'twas precious in his sight,
Guarding it ever as a holy thing,
Sacred to him, my lover, lord, and king,—
Could I unveil it to the curious eyes
Of the mad rabble that with drunken cries
Were shouting “Vashti! Vashti?”—Sooner far,
Beyond the rays of sun, or moon, or star,
I would have buried it in endless night!
Pale and dismayed, in wonder and affright,

My maidens hung around me as I told
Those seven lord chamberlains, so gray and old,
To bear this answer back: “It may not be.
My lord, my king, I cannot come to thee.
It is not meet that Persia's queen, like one
Who treads the market-place from sun to sun,
Should bare her beauty to the hungry crowd,
Who name her name in accents hoarse and loud.”
With stern, cold looks they left me. Ah! I knew
If my dear lord to his best self were true,
That he would hold me guiltless, and would say,
“I thank thee, love, that thou didst not obey!”
But the red wine was ruling o'er his brain;
The cruel wine that recked not of my pain.
Up from the angry throng a clamor rose;
The flattering sycophants were now my foes;
And evil counsellors about the throne,
Hiding the jealous joy they dared not own,
With slow, wise words, and many a virtuous frown,
Said, “Be the queen from her estate cast down!
Let her not see the king's face evermore,
Nor come within his presence as of yore;
So disobedient wives through all the land
Shall read the lesson, heed and understand.”
Up spoke another, eager to be heard,
In royal councils fain to have a word,—
“Let this commandment of the king be writ,
In the law of the Medes and Persians, as is fit,—
The perfect law that man may alter not
Nor of its bitter end abate one jot.”
Alas! the king was wroth. Before his face
I could not go to plead my piteous case;
But, pitiless, with scarce dissembled sneers,
And poisoned words that rankled in his ears,
My wily foes, afraid to let him pause,

Brought the great book that held the Persian laws,
And ere the rising of the morrow's sun,
My bitter doom was sealed, the deed was done!

Scarce had two moons passed when one dreary night
I sat within my bower in woeful plight,
When suddenly upon my presence stole
A muffled form, whose shadow stirred my soul
I knew not wherefore. Ere my tongue could speak,
Or with a breath the brooding silence break,
A low voice murmured “Vashti!”
Pale and still,
Hushing my heart's cry with an iron will,
“What would the king?” I asked. No answer came,
But to his sad eyes leaped a sudden flame;
With clasping arms he raised me to his breast
And on my brow and lips such kisses pressed
As one might give the dead. I may not tell
All the wild words that I remember well.
Oh! was it joy or was it pain to know
That not alone I wept my weary woe?
Alas! I know not. But I know to-day—
If this be sin, forgive me, Heaven, I pray!—
That though his eyes have never looked on mine
Since that dark night when stars refused to shine,
And fair Queen Esther sits, a beauteous bride,
In stately Shushan at the monarch's side,
The king remembers Vashti, even yet
Breathing her name sometimes with vain regret,
Or murmuring, haply, in a whisper low,—
“O pure, proud heart that loved me long ago!”

WHAT MY FRIEND SAID TO ME

Trouble? dear friend, I know her not. God sent
His angel Sorrow on my heart to lay
Her hand in benediction, and to say,
“Restore, O child, that which thy Father lent,
For He doth now recall it,” long ago.
His blessed angel Sorrow! She has walked
For years beside me, and we two have talked
As chosen friends together. Thus I know
Trouble and Sorrow are not near of kin.
Trouble distrusteth God, and ever wears
Upon her brow the seal of many cares;
But Sorrow oft hast deepest peace within.
She sits with Patience in perpetual calm,
Waiting till Heaven shall send the healing balm.

HYMN

FOR THE DEDICATION OF A CEMETERY

Ye Pines, with solemn grandeur crowned,
Put on your priestly robes to-day;
Henceforth ye stand on holy ground,
Where Love and Death hold equal sway.

Lift up to Heaven each crested head,
And raise your giant arms on high,
And swear that o'er our slumbering dead
Ye will keep watch and ward for aye.

For month by month, and year by year,
While shine the stars, and rolls the sea,
Our silent ones shall gather here,
To rest beneath the greenwood tree.

Here no rude sight nor sound shall break
The calmness of their last, long sleep,
And Earth and Heaven, for Love's sweet sake,
Shall o'er them ceaseless vigils keep.

Our silent ones! Their very dust
Is precious in our longing eyes;
O, guard ye well the sacred trust,
Till God's own voice shall bid them rise!

YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY

But yesterday among us here,
One with ourselves in hope and fear:
Joying like us in little things,
The sheen of gorgeous insect wings,
The song of bird, the hum of bee,
The white foam of the heaving sea.

But yesterday your simplest speech,
Your lightest breath, our hearts could reach;
Your very thoughts were ours. Our eyes
Found in your own no mysteries.
Your griefs, your joys, your prayers, we knew,
The hopes that with your girlhood grew.

But yesterday we dared to say,
“'Twere better you should walk this way
Or that, dear child! Do thus or so;
Older and wiser we, you know.”
We gave you flowers and curled your hair,
And brought new robes for you to wear.

To-day how far away thou art!
In all thy life we have no part.
Hast thou a want? We know it not;
Utterly parted from our lot,
The veriest stranger is to thee
All those who loved thee best can be.

Deaf to our calls, our prayers, our cries,
Thou dost not lift thy heavy eyes;
Nor heed the tender words that flow
From lips whose kisses thrilled thee so
But yesterday! To-day in vain
We wait for kisses back again.

To-day no awful mystery hid
The dark and mazy past amid
Is half so great as this that lies
Beneath the lids of thy shut eyes,
And in those frozen lips of stone,
Impassive lips, that smile nor moan.

But yesterday with loving care
We petted, praised thee, called thee fair;
To-day, oppressed with awe, we stand
Before that ring-unfettered hand,
And scarcely dare to lift one tress
In mute and reverent caress.

But yesterday with us. To-day
Where thou art dwelling, who can say?
In heaven? But where? Oh for some spell
To make thy tongue this secret tell!
To break the silence strange and deep,
That thy sealed lips so closely keep!

LYRIC

FOR THE DEDICATION OF A MUSIC-HALL

No grand Cathedral's vaulted space
Where, through the “dim, religious light,”
Gleam pictured saint and cross and crown,
We consecrate with song to-night;

No stately temple lifting high
Its dome against the starlit skies,
Where lofty arch and glittering spire
Like miracles of beauty rise.

Yet here beneath this humbler roof
With reverent hearts and lips we come;
Hail, music! Song and Beauty, hail!
Henceforth be these poor walls your home.

Here speak to hearts that long have yearned
Your presence and your spells to know;
Here touch the lips athirst to drink
Where your perennial fountains flow.

Here, where our glorious mountain-peaks
Sublimely pierce the ether blue,
Lift ye our souls, and bid them rise
In aspirations grand and true!

O Music, Art, and Science, hail!
We greet you now with glad acclaims;
Ye bay-crowned ones! the listening air
Waits to re-echo with your names;

Waits for your voices ringing clear
Above this weary, work-day world;
Waits till ye bid fair Truth arise,
While Error from her throne is hurled!

WHAT I LOST

Wandering in the dewy twilight
Of a golden summer day,
When the mists upon the mountains
Flushed with purple splendor lay:
When the sunlight kissed the hilltops
And the vales were hushed and dim,
And from out the forest arches
Rose a holy vesper hymn—
I lost something. Have you seen it,
Children, ye who passed that way?
Did you chance to find the treasure
That I lost that summer day?

It was neither gold nor silver,
Orient pearl nor jewel rare;
Neither amethyst nor ruby,
Nor an opal gleaming fair;
'Twas no curious, quaint mosaic
Wrought by cunning master-hands,
Nor a cameo where Hebe,
Crowned with deathless beauty, stands.
Yet have I lost something precious;
Children, ye who passed that way—
Tell me, have you found the treasure
That I lost one summer day?

Then, you say, it was a casket
Filled with India's perfumes rare,

Or a tiny flask of crystal
Meet the rose's breath to bear;
Or a bird of wondrous plumage,
With a voice of sweetest tone,
That, escaping from my bosom,
To the greenwood deep has flown.
Ah! not these, I answer vainly;
Children, ye who passed that way,
Ye can never find the treasure
That I lost that summer day!

You may call it bird or blossom;
Name my treasure what you will;
Here no more its song or fragrance
Shall my soul with rapture fill.
But, thank God! our earthly losses
In no darksome void are cast;
Safely garnered, some to-morrow
Shall restore them all at last.
Somewhere in the great hereafter,
Children, ye who pass this way,
I shall find again the treasure
That I lost one summer day!

ONCE!

Once in your sight,
As May buds swell in the sun's warm light,
So grew her soul,
Yielding itself to your sweet control.

Once if you spoke,
Echoing strains in her heart awoke,
Sending a thrill
All through its chambers sweet and still.

Once if you said,
“Sweet, with Love's garland I crown your head,”
Ah! how the rose
Flooded her forehead's pale repose!

Once if your lip
Dared the pure sweetness of hers to sip,
Softly and meek
Dark lashes drooped on a white rose cheek!

Once if your name
Some one but whispered, a sudden flame
Burned on her cheek,
Telling a story she would not speak!

You do but wait
At a sepulchre's sealed gate!
Her love is dead,
Bound hand and foot in its narrow bed.

Why did it die?
Ask of your soul the reason why!
Question it well,
And surely the secret it will tell.

But if your heart
Ever again plays the lover's part,
Let this truth be
Blent with the solemn mystery:

Pure flame aspires;
Downward flow not the altar fires;
And skylarks soar
Up where the earth-mists vex no more.

Now loose your hold
From her white garment's spotless fold,
And let her pass—
While both hearts murmur, “Alas! alas!”

CATHARINE

O wondrous mystery of death!
I yield me to thine awful sway,
And with hushed heart and bated breath
Bow down before thy shrine to-day!

But yesterday these pallid lips
Breathed reverently my humble name;
These eyes now closed in drear eclipse
Brightened with gratitude's soft flame.

These poor, pale hands were swift to do
The lowliest service I might ask;
These palsied feet the long day through
Moved gladly to each wonted task.

O faithful, patient, loving one,
Who from earth's great ones shrank afar,
Canst bear the presence of The Son,
And dwell where holy angels are?

Dost thou not meekly bow thine head,
And stand apart with humblest mien,
Nor dare with softest step to tread
The ranks of shining Ones between?

Dost thou not kneel with downcast eyes
The hem of some white robe to touch,
While on thine own meek forehead lies
The crown of her who “lovèd much?”

O vain imaginings! To-day
Earth's loftiest prince is not thy peer.
Come, Sage and Seer! mute homage pay
To this Pale Wonder lying here!

THE NAME

I know not by what name to call thee, thou
Who reignest supreme, sole sovereign of my heart!
Thou who the lode-star of my being art,
Thou before whom my soul delights to bow!
What shall I call thee? Teach me some dear name
Better than all the rest, that I may pour
All that the years have taught me of love's lore
In one fond word. “Lover?” But that's too tame,
And “Friend” 's too cold, though thou art both to me.
Art thou my King? Kings sit enthroned afar,
And crowns less meet for love than reverence are,
While both my heart gives joyfully to thee.
Art thou—but, ah! I'll cease the idle quest:
I cannot tell what name befits thee best!

UNDER THE PALM-TREES

We were children together, you and I;
We trod the same paths in days of old;
Together we watched the sunset sky,
And counted its bars of massive gold.
And when from the dark horizon's brim
The moon stole up with its silver rim,
And slowly sailed through the fields of air,
We thought there was nothing on earth so fair.

You walk to-night where the jasmines grow,
And the Cross looks down from the tropic skies;
Where the spicy breezes softly blow,
And the slender shafts of the palm-trees rise.
You breathe the breath of the orange-flowers,
And the perfumed air of the myrtle-bowers;
You pluck the acacia's golden balls,
And mark where the red pomegranate falls.

I stand to-night on the breezy hill,
Where the pine-trees sing as they sang of yore;
The north star burneth clear and still,
And the moonbeams silver your father's door.
I can see the hound as he lies asleep,
In the shadow close by the old well-sweep,
And hear the river's murmuring flow
As we two heard it long ago.

Do you think of the firs on the mountain-side
As you walk to-night where the palm-trees grow?
Of the brook where the trout in the darkness hide?
Of the yellow willows waving slow?
Do you long to drink of the crystal spring,
In the dell where the purple harebells swing?
Would your pulses leap could you hear once more
The sound of the flail on the threshing-floor?

Ah! the years are long, and the world is wide,
And the salt sea rolls our hearts between;
And never again at eventide
Shall we two gaze on the same fair scene.
But under the palm-trees wandering slow,
You think of the spreading elms I know;
And you deem our daisies fairer far
Than the gorgeous blooms of the tropics are!

NIGHT AND MORNING

I.

Night and darkness over all!
Nature sleeps beneath a pall;
Not a ray from moon or stars
Glimmers through the cloudy bars;
Huge and black the mountains stand
Frowning upon either hand,
And the river, dark and deep,
Gropes its way from steep to steep.
Yonder tree, whose young leaves played
In the sunshine and the shade,
Stretches out its arms like one
Sudden blindness hath undone.
Pale and dim the rose-queen lies
Robbed of all her gorgeous dyes,
And the lily bendeth low,
Mourner in a garb of woe.
Never a shadow comes or goes,
Never a gleam its glory throws
Over cottage or over hall—
Darkness broodeth over all!

II.

Lo! the glorious morning breaks!
Nature from her sleep awakes,
And, in purple pomp, the day
Bids the darkness flee away.

Crowned with light the mountains stand
Royally on either hand,
And the laughing waters run
In glad haste to meet the sun.
Stately trees, exultant, raise
Their proud heads in grateful praise;
Flowers, dew-laden, everywhere
Pour rich incense on the air,
And the ascending vapors rise
Like the smoke of sacrifice.
Birds are trilling, bees are humming,
Swift to greet the new day coming,
And earth's myriad voices sing
Hymns of grateful welcoming.
Bursting from night's heavy thrall,
Heaven's own light is over all!

AGNES

Agnes! Agnes! is it thus
Thou, at last, dost come to us?
From the land of balm and bloom,
Blandest airs and sweet perfume,
Where the jasmine's golden stars
Glimmer soft through emerald bars,
And the fragrant orange flowers
Fall to earth in silver showers,
Agnes! Agnes!
With thy pale hands on thy breast,
Comest thou here to take thy rest?

Agnes! Agnes! o'er thy grave
Loud the winter winds will rave,
And the snow fall fast around,
Heaping high thy burial mound;
Yet, within its soft embrace,
Thy dear form and earnest face,
Wrapt away from burning pain,
Ne'er shall know one pang again.
Agnes! Agnes!
Nevermore shall anguish vex thee,
Nevermore shall care perplex thee.

Agnes! Agnes! wait, ah! wait
Just one moment at the gate,
Ere your pure feet enter in
Where is neither pain nor sin.

Thou art blest, but how shall we
Bear the pang of losing thee?
List! we love thee! By that word
Once thy heart of hearts was stirred.
Agnes! Agnes!
By that love we bid thee wait
Just one moment at the gate!

Agnes! Agnes! No! Pass on
To the heaven that thou hast won!
By thy life of brave endeavor,
Up the heights aspiring ever,
Whence thy voice, like clarion clear,
Rang out words of lofty cheer;
By thy laboring not in vain,
By thy martyrdom of pain,
Our Saint Agnes—
From our yearning sight pass on
To the rest that thou hast won!

“INTO THY HANDS”

Into thy hands, O Father! Now at last,
Weary with struggling and with long unrest,
Vext by remembrances of conflicts past
And by a host of present cares opprest,

I come to thee and cry, Thy will be done!
Take thou the burden I have borne too long.
Into thy hands, O mighty, loving One,
My weakness gives its all, for thou art strong!

For life—for death. I cannot see the way;
I blindly wander on to meet the night;
The path grows steeper, and the dying day
Soon with its shadows will shut out the light.

Hold thou my hand, O Father! I am tired
As a young child that wearies of the road;
And the far heights toward which I once aspired
Have lost the glory with which erst they glowed.

Take thou my life, and mold it to thy will;
Into thy hands commit I all my way;
Fain would I lift each cup that thou dost fill,
Nor from its brim my pale lips ever stay.

Take thou my life. I lay it at thy feet;
And in my death my sure support be thou;
So shall I sink to slumber calm and sweet,
And wake at morn before thy face to bow!

IDLE WORDS

I.

Once I said,
Seeing two soft, starry eyes
Darkly bright as midnight skies,—
Eyes prophetic of the power
Sure to be thy woman's dower,
When the years should crown thee queen
Of the realm as yet unseen,—
“Some time, sweet, those eyes shall make
Lovers mad for their sweet sake!”

II.

Once I said,
Seeing tresses, golden-brown,
In a bright shower falling down
Over neck and bosom white
As an angel's clad in light—
Odorous tresses drooping low
O'er a forehead pure as snow,—
“Some time, sweet, in thy soft hair
Love shall set a shining snare!”

III.

Once I said,
Seeing lips whose crimson hue
Mocked the roses wet with dew,—

Warm, sweet lips, whose breath was balm,—
Pure, proud lips, serenely calm,—
Tender lips, whose smiling grace
Lit with splendor all the face,—
“Sweet, for kiss of thine some day
Men will barter souls away!”

IV.

Idly said!
God hath taken care of all
Joy or pain that might befall!
Lover's lip shall never thrill
At thy kisses, soft and still;
Lover's heart shall never break
In sore anguish for thy sake;
Lover's soul for thee shall know
Nor love's rapture, nor its woe;—
All is said!

THE SPARROW TO THE SKYLARK

O skylark, soaring, soaring,
Ere day is well begun,
Thy full, glad song outpouring
To greet the rising sun,—
So high, so high in heaven
Thy swift wing cleaves the blue,
We sparrows in the hedges
Can scarcely follow you!

O strong, unwearied singer!
By summer winds caressed,
Among the white clouds floating
With sunshine on thy breast,
We hear thy clear notes dropping
In showers of golden rain,
A glad, triumphant music
That hath no thought of pain!

We twitter in the hedges;
We chirp our little songs,
Whose low, monotonous murmur
To homeliest life belongs;
We perch in lowly places,
We hop from bough to bough,
While in the wide sky-spaces,
On strong wing soarest thou!

Yet we—we share the rapture
And glory of thy flight—
Thou'rt still a bird, O skylark,—
Thou spirit glad and bright!
And ah! no sparrow knoweth
But its low note may be
Part of earth's joy and gladness
That finds full voice in thee!

THE BELL OF ST. PAUL'S

“The great bell of St. Paul's, which only sounds when the King is dead.”

Toll, toll, thou solemn bell!
A royal head lies low,
And mourners through the palace halls
Slowly and sadly go.
Lift up thine awful voice,
Thou, silent for so long!
Say that a monarch's soul has passed
To join the shadowy throng.

Toll yet again, thou bell!
Mutely thine iron tongue,
Prisoned within yon lofty tower,
For many a year has hung.
But now its mournful peal
Startles a nation's ear,
And swells from listening shore to shore,
That the whole world may hear.

A whisper from the past
Blends with each solemn tone
That from those brazen lips of thine
Upon the air is thrown.
Never had trumpet's peal,
On clarion sounding shrill,
Such power as that deep undertone
The listener's heart to thrill.

Come, tell us tales, thou bell,
Of those of old renown,
Those sturdy warrior kings who fought
For sceptre and for crown.
Tell of the lion-hearts
Whose pulses moved the world;
Whose banners flew so swift and far,
O'er land and sea unfurled!

From out the buried years,
From many a vaulted tomb,
Whence neither pomp nor power could chase
The dim, sepulchral gloom,
Lo, now, a pale, proud line,
They glide before our eyes!—
Art thou a wizard, mighty bell,
To bid the dead arise?

But toll, toll on, thou bell!
Toll for the royal dead;
Toll—for the hand now sceptreless;
Toll—for the crownless head;
Toll—for the human heart
With all its loves and woes;
Toll—for the soul that passes now
Unto its long repose!

DECEMBER 26, 1910

A BALLAD OF MAJOR ANDERSON

Come, children, leave your playing this dark and stormy night,
Shut fast the rattling window-blinds, and make the fire burn bright;
And hear an old man's story, while loud the fierce winds blow,
Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago.

I was a young man then, boys, but twenty-nine years old,
And all my comrades knew me for a soldier brave and bold;
My eye was bright, my step was firm, I measured six feet two,
And I knew not what it was to shirk when there was work to do.

We were stationed at Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor, then,
A brave band, though a small one, of scarcely seventy men;
And day and night we waited for the coming of the foe,
With noble Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.

Were they French or English, ask you? Oh, neither, neither, child!
We were at peace with other lands, and all the nations smiled
On the stars and stripes, wherever they floated far and free,
And all the foes we had to meet we found this side the sea.

But even between brothers bitter feuds will sometimes rise,
And 'twas the cloud of civil war that darkened in the skies;
I have not time to tell you how the quarrel first began,
Or how it grew, till o'er our land the strife like wildfire ran.

I will not use hard words, my boys, for I am old and gray,
And I've learned it is an easy thing for the best to go astray;
Some wrong there was on either part, I do not doubt at all;
There are two sides to a quarrel—be it great or be it small!

You scarce believe me, children. Grief and doubt are in your eyes,
Fixed steadily upon me in wonder and surprise;
Don't forget to thank our Father, when to-night you kneel to pray,
That an undivided people rule America to-day.

We were stationed at Fort Moultrie—but about a mile away,
The battlements of Sumter stood proudly in the bay;
'Twas by far the best position, as he could not help but know,
Our gallant Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.

Yes, 'twas just after Christmas, fifty years ago to-night;
The sky was calm and cloudless, the moon was large and bright;
At six o'clock the drum beat to call us to parade,
And not a man suspected the plan that had been laid.

But the first thing a soldier learns is that he must obey,
And that when an order's given he has not a word to say;
So when told to man the boats, not a question did we ask,
But silently, yet eagerly, began our hurried task.

We did a deal of work that night, though our numbers were but few;
We had all our stores to carry, and our ammunition too;
And the guard-ship—'twas the Nina—set to watch us in the bay,
Never dreamed what we were doing, though 'twas almost light as day.

We spiked the guns we left behind, and cut the flag-staff down,—
From its top should float no colors if it might not hold our own,—
Then we sailed away for Sumter as fast as we could go,
With our good Major Anderson, just fifty years ago.

I never can forget, my boys, how the next day, at noon,
The drums beat and the band played a stirring martial tune,
And silently we gathered round the flag-staff, strong and high,
Forever pointing upward to God's temple in the sky.

Our noble Major Anderson was good as he was brave,
And he knew without His blessing no banner long could wave;
So he knelt, with head uncovered, while the chaplain read a prayer,
And as the last amen was said, the flag rose high in air.

Then our loud huzzas rang out, far and widely o'er the sea!
We shouted for the stars and stripes, the standard of the free!
Every eye was fixed upon it, every heart beat warm and fast,
As with eager lips we promised to defend it to the last!

'Twas a sight to be remembered, boys—the chaplain with his book,
Our leader humbly kneeling', with his calm, undaunted look;
And the officers and men, crushing tears they would not shed,—
And the blue sea all around us, and the blue sky overhead!

Now, go to bed, my children, the old man's story's told,—
Stir up the fire before you go, 'tis bitter, bitter cold;
And I'll tell you more to-morrow night, when loud the fierce winds blow,
Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago.

FROM BATON ROUGE

From the fierce conflict and the deadly fray
A patriot hero comes to us this day.

Greet him with music and with loud acclaim,
And let our hills re-echo with his name.

Bring rarest flowers their rich perfume to shed,
Like sweetest incense, round the warrior's head.

Let heart and voice cry “welcome,” and a shout,
Upon the summer air, ring gayly out,

To hail the hero, who from fierce affray
And deadly conflict comes to us this day.

Alas! alas! for smiles ye give but tears,
And wordless sorrow on each face appears.

And for glad music, jubilant and clear,
The tolling bell, the muffled drum, we hear.

Woe to us, soldier, loyal, tried, and brave,
That we have naught to give thee but a grave.

Woe that the wreath that should have decked thy brow,
Can but be laid upon thy coffin now.

Woe that thou canst not hear us when we say,—
“Hail to thee, brother, welcome home to-day!”

O God, we lift our waiting eyes to Thee,
And sadly cry, how long must these things be?

How long must noble blood be poured like rain,
Flooding our land from mountain unto main?

How long from desolated hearths must rise
The smoke of life's most costly sacrifice?

Our brothers languish upon beds of pain,—
Father, O Father, have they bled in vain?

Is it for naught that they have drunken up
The very dregs of this most bitter cup?

How long? how long? O God! our cause is just,
And in Thee only do we put our trust.

As Thou didst guide the Israelites of old
Through the Red Sea, and through the desert wold,

Lead Thou our leaders, and our land shall be
For evermore, the land where all are free!

Hail and farewell,—we whisper in one breath,
As thus we meet thee, hand in hand with death!

God give thy ashes undisturbed repose
Where drum-beat wakens neither friend nor foes;

God take thy spirit to eternal rest,
And, for Christ's sake, enroll thee with the blest!

IN THE WILDERNESS

May 6, 1864

How beautiful was earth that day!
The far blue sky had not a cloud;
The river rippled on its way,
Singing sweet songs aloud.

The delicate beauty of the spring
Pervaded all the murmuring air;
It touched with grace the meanest thing
And made it very fair.

The blithe birds darted to and fro,
The bees were humming round the hive,
So happy in that radiant glow!
So glad to be alive!

And I? My heart was calmly blest.
I knew afar the war-cloud rolled
Lurid and dark, in fierce unrest,
Laden with woes untold.

But on that day my fears were stilled;
The very air I breathed was joy;
The rest and peace my soul that filled
Had nothing of alloy.

I took the flower he loved the best,
The arbutus,—fairest child of May,—
And with its perfume half oppressed,
Twined many a lovely spray

About his picture on the wall;
His eyes were on me all the while,
And when I had arranged them all
I thought he seemed to smile.

O Christ, be pitiful! That hour
Saw him fall bleeding on the sod;
And while I toyed with leaf and flower
His soul went up to God!

For him one pang—and then a crown;
For him the laurels heroes wear;
For him a name whose long renown
Ages shall onward bear.

For me the cross without the crown;
For me the drear and lonely life;
O God! My sun, not his, went down
On that red field of strife.

CHARLEY OF MALVERN HILL

A war-worn soldier, bronzed and seamed
By weary march and battle stroke;
'Twas thus, while leaning on his crutch,
The wounded veteran spoke,—

“The blue-eyed boy of Malvern Hill!
A hero every inch was he,
Though scarcely larger than the child
You hold, sir, on your knee.

“Some mother's darling! On that field
He seemed so strangely out of place,
With his pure brow, his shining hair,
His sweet, unconscious grace.

“But not a bearded warrior there
Watched with a more undaunted eye
The blackness of the battle-cloud,
As the fierce storm rose high.

“That morn—ah! what a morn was that!—
We thought to send him to the rear;
We loved the lad—and love, you know,
Is near akin to fear.

“We knew that many a gallant soul
Must pass away in one long sigh,
Ere nightfall. On that bloody field,
'Twas not for boys to die.

“But he—could you have seen him then,
As, with his blue eyes full of fire,
He poured forth tears and pleadings, half
Of shame and half of ire!

“‘Oh! do not bid me go!’ he cried;
‘I love yon flag as well as you!
I did not join your ranks to run
When there is work to do!

“‘I did not come to beat my drum
Only upon some gala day.’
The colonel shook his head, but said,
‘Well, Charley, you may stay.’

“Ah! then his tears were quickly dried,
A few glad words he strove to say;
But there was little time to talk,
And hardly time to pray.

“For bitter, bitter was the strife
That raged that day on Malvern Hill;
Blue coats and gray in great heaps lay,
Ere that wild storm grew still.

“At length we charged. My very heart
Sank down within me, cold and dumb,
When to the front, and far ahead,
Rushed Charley with his drum!

“Above the cannon's thundering boom,
The din and shriek of shot and shell,
We heard its clear peal rolling out
Right gallantly and well.

“A moment's awful waiting! Then
There came a sullen, angry roar,—

O God! An empty void remained
Where Charley stood before.

“What did we then? With souls on fire
We swept upon the advancing foe,
And bade good angels guard the dust
O'er which no tears might flow!”

SUPPLICAMUS

1864

O laggard Sun! make haste to wake
From her long trance the slumbering earth;
Make haste this icy spell to break,
That she may give new glories birth!

O April rain! so soft, so warm,
Bounteous in blessing, rich in gifts,
Drop tenderly upon her form,
And bathe the forehead she uplifts.

O springing grass! make haste to run
With swift feet o'er the meadows bare;
O'er hill and dale, through forest dun,
And where the wandering brooklets are!

O sweet wild flowers! the darksome mould
Hasten with subtle strength to rift;
Serene in beauty, meek yet bold,
Your fair brows to the sunlight lift!

O haste ye all! for far away
In lonely beds our heroes sleep,
O'er which no wife may ever pray,
Nor child nor mother ever weep.

No quaintly carved memorial stone
May tell us that their ashes lie

Where southern pines make solemn moan,
And wailing winds give sad reply.

But deep in dreary, lonesome shades,
On many a barren, sandy plain,
By rock pass, in tangled glades,
And by the rolling, restless main;

By rushing stream, by silent lake,
Uncoffined in their lowly graves,
Until the earth's last morn shall break,
Must sleep our unforgotten braves!

O sun! O rain! O gentle dew!
O fresh young grass, and opening flowers!
With yearning hearts we leave to you
The holy task that should be ours!

Light up the darkling forest's gloom;
Cover the bare, unsightly clay
With tenderest verdure, with the bloom,
The beauty and perfume of May!

O sweet blue violets! softly creep
Beside the slumbering warrior's bed;
O roses! let your red hearts leap
For joy your rarest sweets to shed;

O humble mosses! such as make
New England's woods and pastures fair,
Over each mound, for Love's sweet sake,
Spread your soft folds with tender care.

Dear Nature, to your loving breast
Clasp our dead heroes! In your arms
Sweet be their sleep, serene their rest,
Unmoved by Battle's loud alarms!

THE LAST OF SIX

Come in; you are welcome, neighbor; all day I've been alone,
And heard the wailing, wintry wind sweep by with bitter moan;
And to-night beside my lonely fire, I mutely wonder why
I, who once wept as others weep, sit here with tearless eye.

To-day this letter came to me. At first I could not brook
Upon the unfamiliar lines by strangers penned, to look;
The dread of evil tidings shook my soul with wild alarm—
But Harry's in the hospital, and has only lost an arm.

He is the last—the last of six brave boys as e'er were seen!
How short, to memory's vision, seem the years that lie between
This hour and those most blessed ones, when round this hearth's bright blaze
They charmed their mother's heart and eye with all their pretty ways!

My William was the eldest son, and he was first to go.
It did not at all surprise me, for I knew it would be so,
From that fearful April Sunday when the news from Sumter came,
And his lips grew white as ashes, while his eyes were all aflame.

He sprang to join the three months' men. I could not say him nay,
Though my heart stood still within me when I saw him march away;
At the corner of the street he smiled, and waved the flag he bore;
I never saw him smile again—he was slain at Baltimore.

They sent his body back to me, and as we stood around
His grave, beside his father's, in yonder burial-ground,
John laid his hand upon my arm and whispered, “Mother dear,
I have Willy's work and mine to do. I cannot loiter here.”

I turned and looked at Paul, for he and John were twins, you know,
Born on a happy Christmas, four-and-twenty years ago;
I looked upon them both, while my tears fell down like rain,
For I knew what one had spoken, had been spoken by the twain.

In a month or more they left me—the merry, handsome boys,
Who had kept the old house ringing with their laughter, fun, and noise.
Then James came home to mind the farm; my younger sons were still
Mere children, at their lessons in the school-house on the hill.

O days of weary waiting! O days of doubt and dread!
I feared to read the papers, or to see the lists of dead;

But when full many a battle-storm had left them both unharmed,
I taught my foolish heart to think the double lives were charmed.

Their colonel since has told me that no braver boys than they
Ever rallied round the colors, in the thickest of the fray;
Upon the wall behind you their swords are hanging still—
For John was killed at Fair Oaks, and Paul at Malvern Hill.

Then came the dark days, darker than any known before;
There was another call for men—“three hundred thousand more;”
I saw the cloud on Jamie's brow grow deeper day by day;
I shrank before the impending blow, and scarce had strength to pray.

And yet at last I bade him go, while on my cheek and brow
His loving tears and kisses fell; I feel them even now,
Though the eyes that shed the tears, and the lips so warm on mine
Are hidden under southern sands, beneath a blasted pine!

He did not die in battle-smoke, but for a weary year
He languished in close prison walls, a prey to hope and fear;
I dare not trust myself to think of the fruitless pangs he bore,
My brain grows wild when in my dreams I count his sufferings o'er.

Only two left! I thought the worst was surely over then;
But lo! at once my school-boy sons sprang up before me—men!

They heard their brothers' martyr blood call from the hallowed ground;
A loud, imperious summons that all other voices drowned.

I did not say a single word. My very heart seemed dead.
What could I do but take the cup, and bow my weary head
To drink the bitter draught again? I dared not hold them back;
I would as soon have tried to check the whirlwind on its track.

You know the rest. At Cedar Creek my Frederick bravely fell;
They say his young arm did its work right nobly and right well;
His comrades breathe the hero's name with mingled love and pride;
I miss the gentle blue-eyed boy, who frolicked at my side.

For me, I ne'er shall weep again. I think my heart is dead;
I, who could weep for lighter griefs, have now no tears to shed.
But read this letter, neighbor. There is nothing to alarm,
For Harry's in the hospital, and has only lost an arm!

THE DRUMMER BOY'S BURIAL

All day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept;
All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept.

Oh, the ghastly, upturned faces, gleaming whitely through the night!
Oh, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim, sepulchral light!

One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke;
But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke.

Slowly passed the golden hours of the long bright summer day,
And upon the field of carnage still the dead unburied lay;

Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer,
For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air.

Once again the night dropped round them—night so holy and so calm
That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm.

On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest,
Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.

Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep;
Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber, calm and deep.

For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face,
And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace

To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose,
Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes.

And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told;
How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled.

Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars,
While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars.

Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low—
Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow?

Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round
As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground,

Came two little maidens—sisters—with a light and hasty tread,
And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread.

And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood
Where the Drummer-Boy was lying in that partial solitude.

They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store,
And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore.

Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears,
For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.

And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame
Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame.

For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need,
And they felt that Death was holy and it sanctified the deed.

But they smiled and kissed each other when their new, strange task was o'er,
And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore.

Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out,
And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about.

But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done,
And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun.

And then those little maidens—they were children of our foes—
Laid the body of our Drummer-Boy to undisturbed repose.

1865

O darkest Year! O brightest Year!
O changeful Year of joy and woe,
To-day we stand beside thy bier,
Still loth to let thee go!

We look upon thy brow, and say,
“How old he is,—how old and worn!”
Has but a twelvemonth passed away
Since thou wert newly born?

So long it seems since on the air
The joy-bells rang to hail thy birth—
And pale lips strove to call thee fair,
And sing the songs of mirth!

For dark the heavens that o'er thee hung;
By stormy winds thy couch was rocked;
Thy cradle-hymn the Furies sung,
While sneering Demons mocked!

We held our very breath for dread;
Shadowed by clouds, that, like a pall,
Darkened the blue sky overhead,
And night hung over all.

But thou wert better than our fears,
And bade our land's long anguish cease;
And gave us, O thou Year of years,
The costly pearl of Peace!

So dearly bought! By precious blood
Of patriot heroes—sire and son—
And that of him, the pure and good,
Our wearied, martyred One;

Who bore for us the heavy load—
The cross our hands upon him laid;
Who trod for us the toilsome road
Meekly, yet undismayed!

And for that gift—although thy graves
Lie thick beneath December's snow,
Though every hamlet mourns its braves,
And bears its weight of woe—

We bless thee! Yet, O bounteous year,
For more than Peace we thank thee now,
As bending o'er thine honored bier,
We crown thy pallid brow!

We bless thee, though we scarcely dare
Give to our new-born joy a tongue;
O mighty Year, upon the air
Thy voice triumphant rung,

Even in death! and at the sound,
From myriad limbs the fetters fell
Into the dim and vast profound,
While tolled thy passing bell!

Farewell, farewell, thou storied Year!
Thou wondrous Year of joy and gloom!
With grateful hearts we crown thee, ere
We lay thee in thy tomb!

OUR FLAGS AT THE CAPITOL

Remove them not! Above our fallen braves
Nature not yet her perfect work hath wrought;
Scarce has the turf grown green upon their graves,
The martyr graves for whose embrace they fought.

The wounds of our long conflict are not healed;
Our land's fair face is seamed with many a scar;
And woeful sights, on many a battle-field,
Show ghastly grim beneath the evening star.

Still does the sad Earth tremble with affright,
Lest she the tread of armèd hosts should feel
Once more upon her bosom. Still the Night
Hears, in wild dreams, the cannon's thundering peal.

Still do the black-robed mothers come and go;
Still do lone wives by dreary hearthstones weep;
Still does a Nation, in her pride and woe,
For her dead sons a mournful vigil keep.

Ah, then, awhile delay! Remove ye not
These drooping banners from their place on high;
They make of each proud hall a hallowed spot,
Where Truth must dwell and Freedom cannot die.

Now slowly waving in this tranquil air,
What wondrous eloquence is in their speech!
No prophet “silver tongued,” no poet rare,
Even in dreams may hope such heights to reach.

They tell of Life that calmly looked on Death—
Of peerless valor and of trust sublime—
Of costly sacrifice, of holiest faith,
Of lofty hopes that ended not with Time.

Oh! each worn fold is hallowed! set apart
To minister unto us in our needs—
To bear henceforth to many a fainting heart,
The cordial wine of noble thoughts and deeds.

Then leave them yet awhile where, day by day,
The lessons that they teach, your souls may learn;
So shall ye work for righteousness alway,
And for its faithful service ever yearn.

Now may God bless our land for evermore!
And from all strife and turmoil grant surcease;
While from the mountains to the farthest shore
Accordant voices softly whisper—Peace!

MY MOCKING-BIRD

Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! swinging high
Aloft in your gilded cage,
The clouds are hurrying over the sky,
The wild winds fiercely rage.
But soft and warm is the air you breathe
Up there with the tremulous ivy wreath,
And never an icy blast can chill
The perfumed silence sweet and still.

Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! from your throat
Breaks forth no flood of song,
Nor even one perfect golden note,
Triumphant, glad, and strong!
But now and then a pitiful wail,
Like the plaintive sigh of the dying gale,
Comes from that arching breast of thine
Swinging up there with the ivy-vine.

Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! well I know
Your heart is far away,
Where the golden stars of the jasmine glow,
And the roses bloom alway!
For your cradle-nest was softly made
In the depth of a blossoming myrtle's shade;
And you heard the chant of the southern seas
Borne inland by the favoring breeze.

But, ah, my beautiful mocking-bird!
Should I bear you back again,
Never would song of yours be heard
Echoing through the glen.
For once, ah! once at the dawn of day,
You waked to the roar of the deadly fray,
When the terrible clash of armèd foes
Startled the vale from its dim repose.

At first you sat on a swaying bough,
Mocking the bugle's blare,
Fearless and free in the fervid glow
Of the heated, sulphurous air.
Your voice rang out like a trumpet's note,
With a martial ring in its upward float,
And stern men smiled, for you seemed to be
Cheering them on to victory!

But at length, as the awful day wore on,
You flew to a tree-top high,
And sat like a spectre grim and wan,
Outlined against the sky;
Sat silently watching the fiery fray
Till, heaps upon heaps, the Blue and Gray
Lay together, a silent band,
Whose souls had passed to the shadowy land.

Ah, my mocking-bird! swinging there
Under the ivy-vine,
You still remember the bugle's blare,
And the blood poured forth like wine.
The soul of song in your gentle breast
Died in that hour of fierce unrest,
When like a spectre grim and wan,
You watched to see how the strife went on.

COMING HOME

When the winter winds were loud,
And Earth wore a snowy shroud,
Oft our darling wrote to us,
And the words ran ever thus—
“I am coming in the spring!
With the mayflower's blossoming,
With the young leaves on the tree,
O my dear ones, look for me!”

And she came. One dreary day,
When the skies were dull and gray,
Softly through the open door
Our belovèd came once more.
Came with folded hands that lay
Very quietly alway—
Came with heavy-lidded eyes,
Lifted not in glad surprise.

Not a single word she spoke;
Laugh nor sigh her silence broke
As across the quiet room,
Darkening in the twilight gloom,
On she passed in stillest guise,
Calm as saint in Paradise,
To the spot where—woe betide!—
Four years since she stood a bride.

Then, you think, we sprang to greet her—
Sprang with outstretched hands, to meet her;
Clasped her in our arms once more,
As in happy days of yore;
Poured warm kisses on her cheek,
Passive lips and forehead meek,
Till the barrier melted down
That had thus between us grown.

Ah no!—Darling, did you know
When we bent above you so?
When our tears fell down like rain,
And our hearts were wild with pain?
Did you pity us that day,
Even as holy angels may
Pity mortals here below,
While they wonder at their woe?

Who can tell us? Word nor sign
Came from those pale lips of thine;
Loving hearts and yearning breast
Lay in coldest, calmest rest.
Is thy Heaven so very fair
That thou dost forget us there?
Speak, belovèd! Woe is me
That in vain I call on thee!

WAKENING EARLY

In loving jest you wrote—“Ah, me!
My babe's blue eyes are fair to see;
And sweet his cooing love-notes be
That waken me too early!”

Oh! would to God, beloved, to-day
That merry shout or gleeful play
Might drive your heavy sleep away,
And bid you waken early.

But vain are all our prayers and cries;
From your low bed you will not rise;
No kisses falling on your eyes,
Can waken you right early.

Bright are the skies above your bed,
And through the elm-boughs overhead
Are golden sunbeams softly shed,
That wake you late nor early.

Beside you through these summer days
The murmuring fountain, as it plays,
Fills the soft air with diamond sprays,
But does not wake you early!

We bring the flowers you loved so well,
The pure white rose and lily bell;
Their sweets break not this fearful spell;
They do not wake you early!

We sing your songs; we pause to hear
Your bird-like voice rise full and clear;
Ah! dull and heavy is your ear;
We cannot wake you early.

You will not wake? Then may your sleep,
If it be long, be calm and deep;
Thank God, the eyes forget to weep
That do not waken early!

BLEST

Dec. 1865

Sinking to thine eternal rest,
O dying Year! I call thee blest;
Blest as no coming year may be
This side of vast Eternity!

Thy cheek is pale, thy brow is worn;
Thine arms are weary, that have borne
The heaviest burdens ever laid
On any, since the world was made.

But thou didst know her whom to-day
My fond heart mourns, and must alway;
She loved thee, claimed thee, called thee dear,
Hailing with joy the glad New Year!

Thou didst behold her, fair and good,
The perfect flower of womanhood;
Simple and pure in thought and deed,
Yet strong in every hour of need.

Ah! other years shall come and go,
Bidding the sweet June roses blow;
But never on their yearning eyes
Shall her fair presence once arise!

The Spring shall miss her, and the long,
Bright Summer days hear not her song;

And hoary Winter, draped in snow,
Finding her not, shall haste to go!

Therefore, Old Year, I call thee blest,
Thus sinking to eternal rest;
Blest as no other Year may be
This side of vast Eternity!

HELEN

Dear Helen, if thine earnest eyes,
So deeply blue, so darkly bright,
Look downward from the azure skies
That hide thee from my yearning sight:

Think not, because my days go on
Just as they did when thou wert here,
Sometimes in shade, sometimes in sun,
From month to month, from year to year,

That I forget thee! Fresh and green
Over each grave the grass must grow
In God's good time, and, all unseen,
The violets take deep root below.

But yet the grave itself remains
Beneath the verdure and the bloom;
And all kind Nature's loving pains
Can but conceal the enduring tomb.

I work, I read, I sing, I smile,
I train my vines and tend my flowers;
But under thoughts of thee, the while,
Haunt me through all the passing hours.

And still my heart cries out for thee,
As it must cry till life is past,
And in some land beyond the sea
I meet thy clasping hand at last!

University of Virginia Library

EARLIER POEMS

THE THREE SHIPS

MAUD AND MADGE