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

279

PHŒBE CARY'S POEMS.

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BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS.

DOVECOTE MILL.

THE HOMESTEAD.

From the old Squire's dwelling, gloomy and grand,
Stretching away on either hand,
Lie fields of broad and fertile land.

Acres on acres everywhere
The look of smiling plenty wear,
That tells of the master's thoughtful care.

Here blossoms the clover, white and red,
Here the heavy oats in a tangle spread;
And the millet lifts her golden head.

And, ripening, closely neighbored by
Fields of barley and pale white rye,
The yellow wheat grows strong and high.

And near, untried through the summer days,
Lifting their spears in the sun's fierce blaze,
Stand the bearded ranks of the maize.

Straying over the side of the hill,
Here the sheep run to and fro at will,
Nibbling of short green grass their fill.

Sleek cows down the pasture take their ways,
Or lie in the shade through the sultry days,
Idle, and too full-fed to graze.

Ah, you might wander far and wide,
Nor find a spot in the country side,
So fair to see as our valley's pride!

How, just beyond, if it will not tire
Your feet to climb this green knoll higher,
We can see the pretty village spire;

And, mystic haunt of the whippoor-wills,
The wood, that all the background fills,
Crowning the tops to the mill-creek hills.

There, miles away, like a faint blue line,
Whenever the day is clear and fine
You can see the track of a river shine.

Near it a city hides unseen,
Shut close the verdant hills between,
As an acorn set in its cup of green.

And right beneath, at the foot of the hill,
The little creek flows swift and still,
That turns the wheel of Dovecote Mill.

Nearer the grand old house one sees
Fair rows of thrifty apple-trees,
And tall straight pears, o'ertopping these.

And down at the foot of the garden, low,
On a rustic bench, a pretty show,
White bee-hives, standing in a row.

Here trimmed in sprigs with blossoms, each
Of the little bees in easy reach,
Hang the boughs of the plum and peach.

At the garden's head are poplars, tall,
And peacocks, making their harsh loud call,
Sun themselves all day on the wall.

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And here you will find on every hand
Walks, and fountains, and statues grand,
And trees from many a foreign land.

And flowers, that only the learned can name,
Here glow and burn like a gorgeous flame,
Putting the poor man's blooms to shame.

Far away from their native air
The Norway pines their green dress wear;
And larches swing their long loose hair.

Near the porch grows the broad catalpa tree
And o'er it the grand wistaria,
Born to the purple of royalty.

There looking the same for a weary while,—
'T was built in this heavy, gloomy style,—
Stands the mansion, a grand old pile.

Always closed, as it is to-day,
And the proud Squire, so the neighbors say,
Frowns each unwelcome guest away.

Though some who knew him long ago,
If you ask, will shake their heads of snow,
And tell you he was not always so,

Though grave and quiet at any time,—
But that now, his head in manhood's prime,
Is growing white as the winter's rime.

THE GARDENER'S HOME.

Well, you have seen it—a tempting spot!
Now come with me through the orchard plot
And down the lane to the gardener's cot.

Look where it hides almost unseen,
And peeps the sheltering vines between,
Like a white flower out of a bush of green.

Cosy as nest of a bird inside,
Here is no room for show or pride,
And the open door swings free and wide.

Across the well-worn stepping-stone,
With sweet ground-ivy half o'ergrown,
You may pass, as if the house were your own.

You are welcome here to come or stay,
For to all the host has enough to say;
And the good-wife smiles in a pleasant way.

'T is a pretty place to see in the time,
When the vines in bloom o'er the rude walls climb,
And Nature laughs in her joyful prime.

Bordered by roses, early and late,
A narrow graveled walk leads straight
Up to the door from the rustic gate.

Here the lilac flings her perfume wide,
And the sweet-brier, up to the lattice tied,
Seems trying to push herself inside.

A little off to the right, one sees
Some black and sturdy walnut-trees,
And locusts, whose white flowers scent the breeze.

And the Dovecote Mill stands just beyond,
With its dull red walls, and the droning sound
Of the slow wheel, turning round and round.

Here the full creek rushes noisily,
Though oft in summer it runs half dry,
And its song is only a lullaby.

But the prettiest sight when all is done,
That the eye or mind can rest upon,
Or in the house or out in the sun;—

And whatever beside you may have met,
The picture you will not soon forget,—
Is little Bethy, the gardener's pet.

Ever his honest laughing eyes
Beam with a new and glad surprise,
At the wit of her childish, quaint replies.

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While the mother seems with a love more deep
To guard her always, awake or asleep,
As one with a sacred trust to keep.

Here in the square room, parlor and hall,
Stand the stiff-backed chairs against the wall,
And the clock in the corner, straight and tall.

Ranged on the cupboard shelf in sight,
Glistens the china, snowy white,
And the spoons and platters, burnished bright.

Oft will a bird, or a butterfly dare
To venture in through the window, bare,
And opened wide for the summer air.

And sitting near it you may feel
Faint scent of herbs from the garden steal,
And catch the sound of the miller's wheel.

With wife and child, and his plot to till,
Here the gardener lives contented still,
Let the world outside go on as it will

THE MILL.

With cobwebs and dust on the window spread,
On the walls and the rafters overhead,
Rises the old mill, rusty red.

Grim as the man who calls it his own,
Outside, from the gray foundation stone
To the roof with spongy moss o'ergrown.

Through a loop-hole made in the gable high,
In and out like arrows fly
The slender swallows, swift and shy.

And with bosoms purple, brown, and white,
Along the eves, in the shimmering light,
Sits a row of doves from morn till night.

Less quiet far is the place within,
Where the falling meal o'erruns the bin,
And you hear the busy stir and din.

Grave is the miller's mien and pace,
But his boy, with ruddy, laughing face,
Is good to see in this sombre place.

And little Bethy will say to you,
That he is good and brave and true,
And the wisest boy you ever knew!

“Why Robert,” she says, “was never heard
To speak a cross or a wicked word,
And he would n't injure even a bird!”

And he, with boyish love and pride,
Ever since she could walk by his side,
Has been her playmate and her guide.

For he lived in the world three years before
Bethy her baby beauty wore;
And is taller than she by a head or more.

Up the plank and over the sill,
In and out at their childish will,
They played about the old red mill.

They watched the mice through the corn-sacks steal,
The steady shower of the snowy meal,
And the water falling over the wheel.

They loved to stray in the garden walks,
Bordered by stately hollyhocks
And pinks and odorous marigold stalks.

Where lilies and tulips stood in line
By the candytuft and the columbine,
And lady-grass, like a ribbon fine.

Where the daffodil wore her golden lace,
And the prince's-feather blushed in the face,
And the cockscomb looked as vain as his race.

And here, as gay as the birds in the bowers,
Our children lived through their life's first hours,
And grew till their heads o'ertopped the flowers.

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SUGAR-MAKING.

Swiftly onward the seasons flew,
And enough to see and enough to do
Our children found the long year through.

They played in the hay when the fields were mowed,
With the sun-burnt harvesters they rode
Home to the barn a-top of the load,

When her fragrant fruit the orchard shed,
They helped to gather the apples spread
On the soft grass—yellow, russet, and red.

Down hill in winter they used to slide,
And over the frozen mill-creek glide,
Or play by the great bright fire inside

The house; or sit in the chimney nook,
Pleased for the hundredth time to look
Over the self-same picture-book.

Castles, and men of snow they made,
And fed with crumbs the robins, that stayed
Near the house—half tame, and half afraid.

So ever the winter-time flew fast,
And after the cold short months were past
Came the sugar-making on at last.

'T was just ere the old folks used to say,
“Now the oaks are turning gray,
'T is time for the farmer to plant away!”

Before the early bluebird was there;
Or down by the brook the willow fair
Loosed to the winds her yellow hair.

Ah! then there was life and fun enough,
In making the “spile” and setting the trough,
And all, till the time of the “stirring off.”

They followed the sturdy hired man,
With his brawny arms and face of tan,
Who gathered the sap each day as it ran,

And they thought it a very funny sight,
The yoke that he wore, like “Buck and Bright,”
Across his shoulders, broad, upright.

They watched the fires, with awe profound,
Go lapping the great black kettles round,
And out the chimney, with rushing sound.

They loved the noise of the brook, that slid
Swift under its icy, broken lid,
And they knew where that delicate flower was hid,

That first in March her head upheaves;
And they found the tender “adam-and-eves”
Beneath their bower of glossy leaves.

They gathered spice-wood and ginseng roots,
And the boy could fashion whistles and flutes
Out of the paw-pan and walnut shoots.

So every season its pleasure found;
Though the children never strayed beyond
The dear old hills that hemmed them round.

THE PLAYMATES.

Behind the cottage the mill—creek flowed,
And before it, white and winding, showed
The narrow track of the winter road,

The creek when low, showed a sandy floor,
And many a green old sycamore
Threw its shade in summer from shore to shore.

And just a quiet country lane,
Fringed close by fields of grass and grain,
Was the crooked road that crossed the plain.

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Out of the fragrant fennel's bed
On its bank, the purple iron-weed spread
Her broad top over the mullein's head.

Off through the straggling town it wound,
Then led you down to beech-wood pond,
And up to the school-house, just beyond.

Not far away was a wood's deep shade
Where, larger grown, the boy and maid,
Searching for flowers and berries, strayed,

And oft they went the field-paths through,
Where all the things she liked he knew,
And the very places where they grew.

The hidden nook where Nature set
The wind-flower and the violet,
And the mountain-fringe in hollows wet.

The solomon's-seal, of gold so fine,
And the king-cup, holding its dewy wine
Up to the crownèd dandèlion.

He gathered the ripe nuts in the fall,
And berries that grew by fence and wall
So high she could not reach them at all.

The fruit of the hawthorn, black and red,
Wild grapes, and the hip that came instead,
Of the sweet wild roses, faded and dead.

Then the curious ways of birds he knew,
And where they lived the season through,
And how they built, and sang, and flew.

Sometimes the boughs he bended down,
And Bethy counted with eyes that shone,
Eggs, white and speckled, blue and brown.

And oft they watched with wondering eye
The swallows, up on the rafters high
Teaching their timid young to fly.

For many a dull and rainy day
They wiled the hours till night away
Up in the mow on the scented hay.

And many a dress was soiled and torn
In climbing about the dusty barn
And up to the lofts of wheat and corn.

For they loved to hear on the roof, the rain,
And to count the bins, again and again,
Heaped with their treasures of golden grain.

They played with the maize's sword-like leaves,
And tossed the rye and the oaten sheaves,
In autumn piled to the very eaves.

They peeped in the stalls where the cattle fed,
They fixed their swing to the beam o'erhead,—
Turned the wind-mill, huge, and round, and red.

And the treasure of treasures, the pet and toy,
The source alike of his care and joy,
Was the timid girl to the brave bright boy.

When they went to school, her hand he took,
Lead her, and helped her over stile and brook,
And carried her basket, slate, and book.

And he was a scholar, if Bethy said true,
The hardest book he could read right through,
And there was n't a “sum” that he could n't “do!”

Oh, youth, whatever we lose or secure,
One good we can all keep safe and sure,
Who remember a childhood, happy and pure!

And hard indeed must a man be made,
By the toil and traffic of gain and trade,
Who loves not the spot where a boy he played.

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And I pity that woman, or grave or gay,
Who keeps not fresh in her heart alway
The tender dreams of her life's young day!

THE SCHOOL.

Swiftly the seasons sped away,
And soon to our children came the day
When their life had work as well as play.

When they trudged each morn to the school-house set
Where the winter road and the highway met—
Ah! how plainly I see it yet!

With its noisy play-ground trampled so
By the quick feet, running to and fro,
That not a blade of grass could grow.

And the maple-grove across the road,
The hollow where the cool spring flowed,
And greenly the mint and calamus showed.

And the house—unpainted, dingy, low,
Shielded a little from sun and snow,
By its three stiff locusts, in a row.

I can see the floor, all dusty and bare,
The benches hacked, the drawings rare
On the walls, and the master's desk and chair:

And himself, not withered, cross, and grim,
But a youth, well-favored, shy, and slim;
More awed by the girls than they by him.

With a poet's eye and a lover's voice,
Unused to the ways of rustic boys,
And shrinking from all rude speech and noise.

Where is he? Where should we find again
The children who played together there?
If alive, sad women and thoughtful men:

Where now is Eleanor proud and fine?
And where is dark-eyed Angivine,
Rebecca, Annie, and Caroline?

And timid Lucy with pale gold hair,
And soft brown eyes that unaware
Drew your heart to her, and held it there?

There was blushing Rose, the beauty and pride
Of her home, and all the country side;
She was the first we loved who died.

And the joy and pride of our life's young years,
The one we loved without doubts or fears,
Alas! to-day he is named with tears.

And Alice, with quiet, thoughtful way
Yet joining always in fun and play,
God knows she is changed enough today!

I think of the boy no father claimed,
Of him, a fall from the swing had lamed,
And the girl whose hand in the mill was maimed.

And the lad too sick and sad to play,
Who ceased to come to school one day,
And on the next he had passed away.

And I know the look the master wore
When he told us our mate of the day before
Would never be with us any more!

And how on a grassy slope he was laid—
We could see the place from where we played—
A sight to make young hearts afraid.

Sometimes we went by two and three,
And read on his tombstone thoughtfully,
“As I am now so you must be.”

Brothers with brothers fighting, slain,
From out those school-boys some have lain
Their bones to bleach on the battle-plain.

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Some have wandered o'er lands and seas,
Some haply sit in families,
With children's children on their knees.

Some may have gone in sin astray,
Many asleep by their kindred lay,
Dust to dust, till the judgment day!

YOUTH AND MAIDEN.

A half score years have sped away
Since Robert and Bethy used to play
About the yard and the mill, all day.

For time must go, whatever we do;
And the boy as it went, to manhood grew,
Steady and honest, good and true.

Going on with the mill, when his father died;
He lived untempted there, untried,
Knowing little of life beside.

Striving not to be rich or great,
Never questioning fortune or fate,
Contented slowly to earn, and wait.

Doing the work that was near his hand,
Still of Bethy he thought and planned,
To him the flower of all the land.

And tall shy Bethy more quiet seems,
With a tenderer light her soft eye beams,
And her thoughts are vague as the dream of dreams.

Oft she sings in an undertone
Of fears and sorrows not her own,—
The pains that love-lorn maids have known.

Does she think as she breathes the tender sigh,
Of the lover that's coming, by and by?
If she will not tell you, how should I?

And when she walks in the evening bland
Over the rich Squire's pleasant land,
Does she long to be a lady, grand,

And to have her fingers, soft and white,
Lie in her lap, with jewels bright,
And with never a task from morn till night?

Often, walking about the place,
With bended head and thoughtful face,
She meets the owner face to face.

Sometimes he eyes her wistfully,
As blushing with rustic modesty,
She drops him a pretty courtesy,

And looks as if inclined to say
Some friendly word to bid her stay,
Then, silent, turns abrupt away.

And though to speak she never dares,
She is sad to think that no one cares
For the lonely man, with thin gray hairs.

The good-wife, just as the girl was grown,
Went from the places she had known,
And the gardener and Bethy live alone.

THE COUNTRY GRAVE—YARD.

So she goes sometimes past Dovecote Mill,
To the place of humble graves on the hill,
Where the mother rests in the shadows still.

Here, sleeping well as the sons of fame,
Lie youth and maiden, sire and dame,
With never a record but their name.

And some, their very names forgot,
Not even a stone to mark the spot,
Yet sleep in peace; so it matters not!

Here lieth one, who shouldered his gun,
When the news was brought from Lexington:
And laid it down, when peace was won.

Still he wore his coat of “army blue,”
Silver buckles on knee and shoe,
And sometimes even his good sword, too.

For however the world might change or gaze,

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He kept his ancient dress and ways,
Nor learned the fashion of modern days.

But here he had laid aside his staff,
And you read half-worn, and guessed it half
His quaint and self-made epitaph,—

“Stoop down, my friends, and view his dust
Who turned out one among the first
To secure the rights you hold in trust.

“Support the Constitution, plain!
By being united we form the chain
That binds the tyrant o'er the main!”

Here from the good dead shut away
By a dismal paling, broken and gray,
Down in the lonesomest corner lay,

A baby, dead in its life's first spring,
And its hapless mother, a fair sad thing,
Who never wore a wedding ring!

Often the maiden's steps are led
Away to a lonely, grassy bed,
With a marble headstone at its head:

And carved there for memorial,
Half hid by the willow branches' fall,
The one word, “Mercy,” that is all.

Whether her life had praise or blame,
All that was told was just the same,
She was a woman, this her name.

What beside there was naught to show,
Though always Bethy longed to know
The story of her who slept below.

What had she been ere she joined the dead;—
Was she bowed with years, or young instead;
Was she a maiden, or was she wed?

Never another footstep here
But the maiden's seemed to come anear,
Yet flowers were blooming from year to year.

Something, whether of good or harm,
Down to the dead one, like a charm
Drew the living heart, fresh and warm;

Yet haunts more cheerful our Bethy had,
For youth loves not the things that are sad,
But turns to the hopeful and the glad.

Though somehow she has grown more shy,
More silent than in days gone by,
Whenever the tall young miller is nigh.

As they walk together, grave and slow,
No longer hand in hand they go:
Who can tell what has changed them so?

Till the sea shall cease to kiss the shore,
Till men and maidens shall be no more,
'T is the same old story, o'er and o'er.

Secret hoping, and secret fears,
Blushing and sighing, smiles and tears,
The charm and the glory of life's young years!

WOOING.

Now in the waning autumn days
The dull red sun, with lurid blaze,
Shines through the soft and smoky haze.

Fallen across the garden bed,
Many a flower that reared its head
Proudly in summer, lies stiff and dead.

The pinks and roses have ceased to blow,
The foxgloves stand in a long black row,
And the daffodils perished long ago.

Now the poplar rears his yellow spire,
The maple lights his funeral pyre,
And the dog-wood burns like a bush of fire.

The harvest fields are bare again,
The barns are filled to the full with grain
And the orchard trees of their load complain.

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Huge sacks of corn o'er the floor are strewn,
And Dovecote Mill grinds on and on,
And the miller's work seems never done.

But now 't is the Sabbath eve, and still
For a little while is the noisy mill,
And Robert is free to go where he will.

But think or do whatever he may,
The face of Bethy he sees alway
Just as she looked in the choir to-day.

And as his thoughts the picture paint,
The hope within his heart grows faint,
As it might before a passionless saint.

Looking away from the book on her knees,
Pretty Bethy at sunset sees,
Some one under the sycamore trees,

Walking and musing slow, apart;—
But why should the blood with sudden start,
Leap to her cheek from her foolish heart?

Oh, if he came now, and if he spake,
What answer should she, could she make?
This was the way her thought would take.

Now, troubled maid on the cottage sill,
Be wise, and keep your pulses still,
He has turned, he is coming up the hill!

How he spake, or she made reply,
How she came on his breast to lie,
She could not tell you, better than I.

But when the stars came out in the skies
He has told his love, in whispered sighs,
And she has answered, with downcast eyes.

For somehow, since the world went round,
For men who are simple, or men profound,
Hath a time and a way to woo been found.

And maids, for a thousand, thousand years,
With trusting hopes, or trembling fears
Have answered blushing through smiles and tears.

And why should these two lovers have more
Of thoughtless folly or wisdom's lore
Than all the world who have lived before?

Nay, she gives her hand to him who won
Her heart, and she says, when this is done,
There is no other under the sun

Could be to her what he hath been;
For he to her girlish fancy then
Was the only man in the world of men.

She is ready to take his hand and name,
For better or worse, for honor or blame;—
God grant it may alway be the same.

PLIGHTED.

Oh, the tender joy of those autumn hours,
When fancy clothed with spring the bowers,
And the dead leaves under the feet seemed flowers!

Oh, the blessèd, blessèd days of youth,
When the heart is filled with gentle ruth,
And lovers take their dreams for truth.

Oh, the hopes they had, and the plans they planned,
The man and the maid, as hand in hand,
They walked in a fair, enchanted land!

Marred with no jealousy, fear, or doubt,
At worst, but a little pet or pout,
Just for the “making up,” no doubt!

Have I said how looked our wood nymph, wild?
And how in these days she always smiled,
Guileless and glad as a little child?

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Her voice had a tender pleading tone,
She was just a rose-bud, almost grown
And before its leaves are fully blown.

Graceful and tall as a lily fair,
The peach lent the bloom to her blushes rare,
And the thrush the brown of her rippling hair.

Colored with violet, blue were her eyes,
Stolen from the breeze her gentle sighs,
And her soul was borrowed from the skies.

And you, if a man, could hardly fail,
If you saw her tripping down the dale,
To think her a Princess of fairy tale;

Doomed for a time by charm or spell,
Deep in some lonely, haunted dell,
With mischief-loving elves to dwell.

Or bound for a season, body and soul,
Underneath a great green knoll,
To live alone with a wicked Troll.

You would have feared her form so slight
Would vanish into the air or light,
Or sudden, sink in the earth from sight.

And you must have looked, and longed to see
The handsome Prince who should set her free
Come riding his good steed gallantly.

Just as fair as the good year's prime,
To our lovers was the cold and rime,
For their bright lives had no winter-time.

The drifts might pile, and the winds might blow,
Still, up from the mill to the cottage, low,
There was a straight path cut through the snow.

And it only added another charm
To the cheerful hearth, secure and warm,
To hear on the roof and pane, the storm.

Sometimes Bethy would lightly say,
Partly in earnest, partly in play,—
“I wish it would never again be May!”

And he would answer, half pleased, half tried,
As he drew her nearer to his side,
“Nay, nay, for in spring I shall have my bride.”

And she 'd cry in a pretty childish pet,
“Ah! then you must have whom you can get;
I shall not marry for ages yet.”

Then gravely he 'd shake his head at this:
But things went never so far amiss
They were not righted at last by a kiss.

And so the seasons sped merry and fast,
And the budding spring-time came, and passed,
And the wedding day was set at last.

With never a quarrel, scarce a fear,
Each to the other growing more dear,
They kept their wooing a whole sweet year.

WEDDED.

In the village church where a child she was led,
Where a maiden she sang in the choir o'erhead,
There were Bethy and Robert wed.

Strong, yet tender and good looked he,
As he took her almost reverently,
And she was a pleasant sight to see.

And men and women, far and wide,
Came from village and country side
To wish them joy and to greet the bride.

The friends who knew them since they were born,
Each with his best and bravest worn
Did honor to them on their marriage morn.

But one at the church was heard to say:

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“The Squire, whom none has seen to-day,
Might have given the bride away,

“Yet his is a face 't were best to miss;
And what could he do at a time like this,
But be a cloud on its happiness?

“So let him stay with his gloom and pride,
For he is not fit to sit beside
The wedding guests, or to kiss the bride.”

But Bethy, her heart was soft you know,
To herself, as she heard it, whispered low,
“Who knows what sorrow has made him so?”

And looking away towards the gloomy hall,
And then at the bridegroom fine and tall,
She said, “I wish he had come for all!”

Home through the green and shady lane,
The way their childish feet had ta'en,
They came as man and wife again.

Just to the low old cottage here,
Among the friends and places dear
(For the gardener was not dead a year).

And why, as the great do, should they range?
They needs must find enough of change,
They are come to a world that is new and strange.

Lovingly eventide comes on,
The feast is eaten, the friends are gone,
And wife and husband are left alone.

In kindly parting they have prest
The hand of every lingering guest,
And now they shut us out with the rest.

Oh, joy too sacred to look upon,
The very angels may leave alone,
Two happy souls by love made one!

But whatever they gain or whatever they miss,
The poor have no time in a world like this,
To waste in sorrow or happiness.

For men who have their bread to earn
Must plant and gather and grind the corn,
And the miller goes to the mill at morn.

He blushes a little, it may be,
As with jokes about his family
The rough hands tease him merrily.

But lightly, gayly, as he replies,
A braver, prouder light in his eyes
Shows that he loves and can guard his prize.

And the voice o'er the roar of the mill-wheel heard,
In the house is as soft in every word,
As if the wife were some timid bird;

And he strokes her hair as we handle such
Dear things that we love to pet so much,
And yet are half afraid to touch.

And Bethy, pretty, young, and gay,
Trying the strange new matron way,
Seems to “make believe,” like a child at play,

In and out the whole day long,
At work in the house, or her flowers among,
You scarce can hear the birds for her song.

Though many times does she steal, I ween,
A glance at the mill, the blinds between,
Blushing, and careful not to be seen.

But busy with sewing, broom, or meal,
Swiftly away the moments steal,
And she hears the last slow turn of the wheel.

And the miller glad, but tired and slow,
Comes, looking white as the man of snow
They made in the winter, long ago.

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Oft the cottage door is opened wide,
Before his hand the latch has tried,
By the eager wife who waits inside.

Though sometimes out from a hiding-place,
She slyly peeps, when he comes, to trace
The puzzled wonder of his face.

And she loves to see the glad surprise,
That, when from her secret nook she flies,
Shines in his happy, laughing eyes.

And he, before from his hand she slips,
Leaves the mark on her waist of finger tips,
And powders her pretty face and lips.

THE BABY.

O'er the miller's cottage the seasons glide,
And at the next year's Christmas-tide
We see her a mother, we saw a bride.

All in the spring was the brown flax spun,
All in the summer it bleached in the sun;
In the autumn days was the sewing done.

And just when the Babe was born of old,
Close wrapped in many a dainty fold,
She gave the mother her babe to hold.

Ah, sweetly the maiden's ditties rung,
And sweet was the song the young wife sung;
But never trembled yet on her tongue,

Such tender notes as the lullabies,
That now beside the cradle rise
Where softly sleeping the baby lies.

And the child has made the father grow
Prouder, as all who see may know,
Than he was of his bride, a year ago.

He kinder too has grown to all,
And oft as the gloomy shadows fall,
He speaks of the Squire in his lonely hall.

And Bethy, even more tender grown,
Says, almost with tears in her tone,
How he 's growing old in his home alone.

For now, that her life is so bright and fair,
She thinks of all men with griefs to bear;
And of sorrowful women everywhere,

Who sit with empty hands to hold,
And weep for babies dead and cold,—
And of such as never had babes to hold.

So the miller and wife live on in their cot
Untroubled, content with what they have got;—
Hath the whole wide world a happier lot?

And the neighbors all about declare,
That never a better, handsomer pair,
Are seen at market, church, or fair.

So free from envy, pride, or guile,
They keep their rustic simple style,
And bask in fortune's kindliest smile.

Though time and tide must go as they will,
And change must even cross the sill
Of the happy Miller of Dovecote Mill.

THE FATHER.

Hushed is the even-song of the bird,
Naught but the katydid is heard,
And the sound of leaves by the night wind stirred.

Swarms of fireflies rise and shine
Out of the green grass, short and fine,
Where, dotting the meadows, sleep the kine.

And the bees, done flying to and fro,
In the fields of buckwheat, white as snow,
Cling to the hive, in a long black row.

Closed are the pink and the poppy red,
And the lily near them hangs her head,
And the camomile sleeps on the garden bed.

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The wheel is still that has turned all day,
And the mill stream runs unvexed away,
Under the thin mist, cool and gray,

And the little vine-clad home in the dell
With this quiet beauty suiteth well,
For it seems a place where peace should dwell.

And sitting to-night on the cottage sill
Is the wife of the Miller of Dovecote Mill,—
Quiet Bethy, thoughtful and still.

As she hears the cricket chirping low,
And the pendulum swinging to and fro,
And the child in the cradle, breathing slow;

Are her thoughts with her baby, fast asleep,
Or do they wander away, and keep
With him she waits for as night grows deep?

Or are they back to the days gone by,
When free as the birds that swing and fly,
She lived with never a care or tie?

Ah! who of us all has ever known
The hidden thought and the undertone
Of the bosom nearest to our own!

For the one we deemed devoid of art
May have lain and dreamed on our trusting heart
The dreams in which we had no part!

And Bethy, the honest miller's wife,
Whom he loves as he loves his very life,
May be with him and herself at strife.

For she was only a child that day,
When she gave her hand in the church away,
And the friends who loved her used to say,—

(For you know she was the country's pride,)
If she ever had had a suitor beside
She might not be such a willing bride!

Though never one would hint but he
Was as true and good and fair as she,
They wondered still that the match should be,

And said, were she like a lady drest,
There was not a fairer, east nor west;—
And yet it might be all for the best!

So who can guess her thoughts as her sight
Rests on the road-track, dusty and white,
The way the miller must come to-night!

Up in his gloomy house on the hill,
He lies in his chamber, white and still,—
The Squire, who owns the Dovecote Mill.

What hath the rich man been in his day?
“Hard and cruel and stern, alway;”—
This is the thing his neighbors say,

“Silent and grim as a man could be;”—
But the miller's wife, says, tenderly,
“He has always a smile for the babe and me.”

But whatever he was, in days gone by,
Let us stand in his presence reverently,
For to him the great change draweth nigh.

There the light is dim, and the June winds blow
The heavy curtains to and fro,
And the watchers, near him, whisper low.

Something the sick man asks from his bed;
Is it the leech or the priest? they said.
“Nay, bring me Bethy, here,” he said.

“Have you not heard me; will you not heed;
Go to the miller's wife with speed,
And tell her the dying of her hath need.”

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Slowly the watchers shook the head,
They knew that his poor wits wanderèd;
“Yet, now let him have his way,” they said.

So when the turn of the night has come,
She stands at his bedside, frightened, dumb,
Holding his fingers, cold and numb.

He has sent the watchers and nurse away,
And now he is keeping death at bay,
Till he rids his soul of what he would say.

“Now, hear me, Bethy. I am not wild,
As I hope to God to be reconciled,
I am thy father—thou my child!

“I loved a maiden, the noblest one
That ever the good sun shone upon:
I had wealth and honors, she had none.

“And when I wooed her, she answered me,—
‘Nay, I am too humble to wed with thee,
Let me rather thine handmaid be!’

“From home with me, for love, she fled
The night that in secret we were wed;
And she kept the secret, living and dead.

“Serving for wages duly paid,
In my home she lived, as an humble maid,
Till under the grass of the churchyard laid.

“Twenty years has remorse been fed,
Twenty years has she lain there dead,
With her sweet name Mercy, at her head.

“How you came to the world was known
But to the gardener's wife alone,
Who took, and reared you up as her own.

“Though conscience whispered, early and late,
Your child is worthy a higher fate,
Still shame and pride said, always, wait.

“But alas! a debt unpaid grows vast.
And whether it come, or slow or fast,
The day of reckoning comes at last.

“So, all there was left to do, I have done,
And the gold and the acres I have won
Shall come to you with the morning's sun.

“And may this atone; oh would that it might,
And lessen the guilt of my soul to-night,
For the one great wrong that I cannot right.”

Scarcely the daughter breathed or stirred,
As she listened close for another word;
But “Mercy!” was all that she ever heard.

She clung to his breast, she bade him stay,
But ere the words to her lips found way,
She knew the thing that she held was clay.

All that she had was a father's gold,
Never his kind warm hand to hold,
Never a kiss till his lips were cold!

THE WIFE.

Brightly the morning sunshine glowed,
As slowly, thoughtfully, Bethy trode
Towards the mill by the winter road.

Now she sees the mansion proud and gray,
And its goodly acres stretching away,
And she knows that these are hers to-day.

Glad visions surely before her rise,
For bright in her cheek the color lies,
And a strange new light in her tender eyes.

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Now she is rich, and a lady born,
Does she think of her last year's wedding morn,
And the house where she came a bride, with scorn?

And to him, unfit for a lady, grand,
To whom she gave her willing hand,
Though he brought her neither house nor land?

How will she meet him? what is his fate,
Who eager leans o'er the rustic gate
To watch her coming? Hush and wait!

No word she says as over the sill,
And into the cottage low and still,
She walks by the Miller of Dovecote Mill.

Why does she tremble, the goodman's dame.
And turn away as she speaks his name?
Is it for love, or alas! for shame?

“Last night,” she says, “as I watched for thee,
Came those from the great house hurriedly,
Who said that the master sent for me:

“That his life was burned to a feeble flame.
But sleeping or waking all the same,
And day and night he called my name.

“So I followed wondering, where they led,
And half bewildered, half in dread,
I stood at midnight by his bed.

“What matter, to tell what he said again:
The dreams perchance of a wandering brain!
Only one thing is sure and plain.

“Of his gold and land and houses fine,
All that he had, to-day is thine,
Since in dying he made them mine.

“I would that the gift were in thy name,
Yet mine or thine it is all the same;
And we must not speak of the dead with blame.

“And who but thee should be his heir?
Thou hast served him ever with faithful care,
And he had no son his name to bear!”

Slowly, as one who marveled still,
Answered the Miller of Dovecote Mill,
“'T is a puzzle, tell it how you will,

“Why his child could never better fare
Than thou, with wealth enough and to spare,
For it is not I but thou who art heir.

“'T is not so strange it should come to thee,
Thou wert fit for a lady, as all could see,
And rich or poor, too good for me.”

Meek before him she bowed her head;
“I want nor honor nor gold,” she said,
“I take my lot as it is instead.

“Keep gold and lands and houses fine,
But give me thy love, as I give thee mine,
And my wealth shall still be more than thine!

“And if I had been in a mansion bred,
And not in a humble cot,” she said,
“I think we two should still have wed.

“For if I had owned the acres grand,
Instead of the gardener's scanty land,
I had given them all for thy heart and hand.

“So, heiress or lady, what you will,
This only title I covet still,
Wife of the Miller of Dovecote Mill!”

A BALLAD OF LAUDERDALE.

A shepherd's child young Barbara grew,
A wild flower of the vale;
While gallant Duncan was the heir
Of the Laird of Lauderdale.

He sat at ease in bower and hall
With ladies gay and fine;

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She led her father's sheep at morn,
At eve she milked the kine.

O'er field and fell his steed he rode,
The foremost in the race;
She bounded graceful as the deer
He followed in the chase.

Yet oft he left his pleasant friends,
And, musing, walked apart;
For vague unrest and soft desire
Were stirring in his heart.

One morn, when others merrily
Wound horn within the wood,
He on the hill-side strayed alone,
In tender, thoughtful mood.

And there, with yellow snooded hair,
And plaid about her flung,
Tending her pretty flock of sheep,
Fair Barbara sat and sung.

The very heath-flower bent to hear,
The echoes seemed to pause,
As sweet and clear the maiden sang
The song of “Leader Haughs.”

And, while young Duncan, gazing, stood
Enchanted by the sound,
He from the arrows of her eyes
Received a mortal wound!

“Sweet maid,” he cried, “the first whose power
Hath ever held me fast;
Now take my love, or scorn my love,
You still shall be the last!”

She felt her heart with pity move,
Yet hope within her died;
She knew her friendless poverty,
She knew his wealth and pride.

“Alas! your father's scorn,” she said,
“Alas! my humble state.”
“'T were pity,” Duncan gayly cried,
But love were strong as hate!”

He took her little trembling hand,
He kissed her fears away;
“Whate'er the morrow brings,” he said,
“We 'll live and love to-day!”

So all the summer through they met,
Nor thought what might betide,
Till the purple heather all about
The hills grew brown and died.

One eve they, parting, lingered long
Together in the dell,
When suddenly a shadow black
As fate between them fell.

The hot blood rushed to Duncan's brow,
The maiden's cheek grew pale,
For right across their pathway frowned
The Laird of Lauderdale.

Ah! cruel was the word he spake,
And cruel was his deed;
He would not see the maiden's face,
Nor hear the lover plead.

He called his followers, in wrath,
They came in haste and fright;
They tore the youth from out her arms,
They bore him from her sight.

And he at eve may come no more;
Her song no more she trills;
Her cheek is whiter than the lambs
She leads along the hills.

For Barbara now is left alone
Through all the weary hours,
While Duncan pines a prisoner, fast
Within his father's towers.

And autumn goes, and spring-time comes,
And Duncan, true and bold,
Has scorned alike his father's threats
And bribes of land and gold.

And autumn goes, and spring-time comes,
And Barbara sings and smiles:
“'T is fair for love,” she softly says,
“To use love's arts and wiles.”

No other counselor hath she
But her own sweet constancy;
Yet hath her wit devised a way
To set her true love free.

One night, when slumber brooded deep
O'er all the peaceful glen,
She baked a cake, the like of which
Was never baked till then.

For first she took a slender cord,
And wound it close and small;

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Then in the barley bannock safe
She hid the mystic ball.

Next morn her father missed his child,
He searched the valley round;
But not a maid like her within
Twice twenty miles was found.

For she hath ta'en the maiden snood
And the bright curls from her head,
And now she wears the bonnet blue
Of a shepherd lad instead.

And she hath crossed the silent hills,
And crossed the lonely vale;
And safe at morn she stands before
The towers of Lauderdale.

And not a hand is raised to harm
The pretty youth and tall,
With just a bannock in his scrip,
Who stands without the wall.

Careless awhile he wanders round,
But when the daylight dies
He comes and stands beneath the tower
Where faithful Duncan lies.

Fond man! nor sunset dyes he sees,
Nor stars come out above;
His thoughts are all upon the hills,
Where first he learned to love;

When suddenly he hears a voice,
That makes his pulses start—
A sweet voice singing “Leader Haughs,”
The song that won his heart.

He leans across the casement high;
A minstrel boy he spies;
He knows the maiden of his love
Through all her strange disguise!

She made a sign, she spake no word,
And never a word spake he;
She took the bannock from her scrip
And brake it on her knee!

She threw the slender cord aloft,
He caught and made it fast;
One moment more and he is safe,
Free as the winds at last!

No time is this for speech or kiss,
No time for aught but flight;
His good steed standing in the stall
Must bear them far to-night.

So swiftly Duncan brought him forth,
He mounted hastily;
“Now, set your foot on mine,” he said,
“And give your hand to me!”

He lifts her up; they sweep the hills,
They ford the foaming beck;
He kisses soft the loving hands
That cling about his neck.

In vain at morn the Laird, in wrath,
Would follow where they fled;
They 're o'er the Border, far away,
Before the east is red.

And when the third day's sun at eve
Puts on his purple state,
Brave Duncan checks his foaming steed
Before his father's gate.

Out came the Laird, with cruel look,
With quick and angry stride;
When at his feet down knelt his son,
With Barbara at his side,

“Forgive me, father,” low he said,
No single word she spake;
But the tender face she lifted up
Plead for her lover's sake.

She raised to him her trembling hands,
In her eyes the tears were bright,
And any but a heart of stone
Had melted at the sight.

“Let love,” cried Duncan, “bear the blame,
Love would not be denied;
Fast were we wedded yestermorn,
I bring you here my bride!”

Then the Laird looked down into her eyes,
And his tears were near to fall;
He raised them both from off the ground,
He led them toward the Hall.

Wondering the mute retainers stood,
“Why give you not,” he said,
“The homage due unto my son,
And to her whom he hath wed?”

Then every knee was lowly bent,
And every head was bare;

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“Long live,” they cried, “his fair young bride,
And our master's honored heir!

Years come and go, and in his stall
The good steed idly stands;
The Laird is laid with his line to rest,
By his children's loving hands.

And now within the castle proud
They lead a happy life;
For he is Laird of Lauderdale,
And she his Lady wife.

And oft, when hand in hand they sit,
And watch the day depart,
She sings the song of “Leader Haughs,”
The song that won his heart!

THE THREE WRENS.

Mr. Wren and his dear began early one year—
They were maried, of course, on St. Valentine's Day,—
To build such a nest as was safest and best,
And to get it all finished and ready by May.

Their house, snug and fine, they set up in a vine
That sheltered a cottage from sunshine and heat:
Mrs. Wren said: “I am sure, this is nice and secure;
And besides, I can see in the house, or the street.”

Mr. Wren, who began, like a wise married man,
To check his mate's weak inclination to roam,
Shook his little brown head, and reprovingly said:
“My dear, you had better be looking at home.

“You 'll be trying the street pretty soon with your feet,
And neglecting your house and my comfort, no doubt,
And you 'll find a pretext for a call on them next,
If you watch to see what other folks are about.

“There 's your own home to see, and besides there is me,
And this visiting neighbors is nonsense and stuff!
You would like to know why? well, you 'd better not try;—
I don't choose to have you, and that is enough!”

Mrs. Wren did not say she would have her own way,—
In fact, she seemed wonderfully meek and serene;
But she thought, I am sure, though she looked so demure,
“Well I don't care; I think you 're most awfully mean!”

Mr. Wren soon flew off, thinking, likely enough,
I could manage a dozen such creatures with ease;
She began to reflect, I see what you expect,
But if I know myself, I shall look where I please!

However, at night, when he came from his flight,
Both acted as if there was nothing amiss:
Put a wing o'er their head, and went chirping to bed,
To dream of a summer of sunshine and bliss.

I need scarcely remark, they were up with the lark,
And by noon they were tired of work without play;
And thought it was best for the present to rest,
And then finish their task in the cool of the day.

So, concealed by the leaves that grew thick to the eaves,
He shut himself in, and he shut the world out;—
“Now,” said she, “he 's asleep, I will just take a peep
In the cottage, and see what the folks are about.”

Then she looked very sly, from her perch safe and high,
Through the great open window, left wide for the sun;

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And she said: “I can't see what the danger can be,
I am sure here is nothing to fear or to shun!

“There 's an old stupid cat, half asleep on the mat,
But I think she 's too lazy to stir or to walk;—
Oh, you just want to show your importance, I know,
But you can't frighten me, Mr. Wren, with your talk!

“Now to have my own will, I 'll step down on that sill;
I 'm not an inquisitive person—oh, no;
I don't want to see what 's improper for me,
But I like to find out for myself that it 's so.”

Then this rash little wren hopped on farther again,
And grown bolder, flew in, and sat perched on a chair;
Saying, “What there is here that is dreadful or queer,
I have n't been able to find, I declare.

“Well, I wish for your sake, Mr. Wren, you would wake,
And see what effect all your warning has had;
Ah! I 'll call up that cat, and we 'll have a nice chat,
And rouse him with talking—oh, won't he be mad!”

So she cried, loud and clear, “Good-day, Tabby, my dear!
I think neighbors a neighborly feeling should show.”
“How your friendliness charms,” said Puss; “come to my arms,
I have had my eye on you some time, do you know!”

Something like a sharp snap broke that moment his nap,
And Mr. Wren said, with a stretch and a wink:
“I suppose, dear, your sleep has been tranquil and deep;
I just lost myself for a moment, I think.

“Why! she 's gone, I declare! well, I 'd like to know where?”
And his head up and down peering round him he dips;
All he saw in the gloom of the shadowy room,
Was an innocent cat meekly licking her lips!

“'T is too bad she 's away; for, of course, I can't stay,”
Said the great Mr. Wren, “shut in this little space:
We must come and must go, but these females, you know,
Never need any changes of work or of place.

And then he began, like a badly-used man;
To twitter and chirp with an impatient cry;
But soon pausing, sang out, “She 's gone off in a pout,
But if she prefers being alone, so do I!

“Yet the place is quite still, so I 'll whistle until
She returns to her home full of shame and remorse;
I 'm not lonesome at all, but it 's no harm to call;
She 'll come back fast enough when she hears me, of course!”

So he started his tune, but broke off very soon,
As if he'd been wasting his time, like a dunce;
For he suddenly caught at a very wise thought,
And he altered his whole plan of action at once.

“Now, that cat,” he exclaimed, “may be wrongfully blamed;
And since it 's a delicate matter to broach,
I don't say of her, that she is not sans peur,
But I 'm sure in this matter she 's not sans reproche!

“Ah! I can't love a wren, as I loved her, again,
But I 'll try to be manly and act as I ought;

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And the birds in the trees, like the fish in the seas,
May be just as good ones as ever were caught.

“And if one in the hand, as all men understand,
Is worth two in the bush,” Mr. Wren gravely said,
“Then it seems to me plain, by that same rule again,
That a bird in the bush is worth two that are dead.”

So he dropped his sad note, and he smoothed down his coat,
Till his late-ruffled plumage shone glossy and bright;
And light as a breeze, through the fields and the trees,
He floated and caroled till lost to the sight.

And in no longer time than it takes for my rhyme,—
Now would you believe it? and is n't it strange!—
He returned all elate, bringing home a new mate:
But birds are but birds, and are given to change.

Of course, larger folks are quite crushed by such strokes,
And never are guilty of like fickle freaks;—
Ah! a bird's woe is brief, but our great human grief
Will sometimes affect us for days and for weeks!

But this does not belong of good right to my song.
For I started to tell about birds and their kind:
So I 'll say Mr. Wren, when he married again,
Took a wife who had not an inquiring mind.

For he said what was true: “Mrs. Wren, number two,
You would not have had such good fortune, my dear,
If the first, who is dead, had believed what I said,
And contented herself in her own proper sphere.”

Now, to some it might seem like the very extreme
Of folly to ask what you know very well;
But this Mrs. Wren did, and behaved as he bid,
Never asking the wherefore, and he did n't tell.

Yes, this meek little bird never thought, never stirred,
Without craving leave in the properest way:
She said, with the rest, “Shall I sit on my nest
For three weeks or thirteen? I 'll do just as you say!”

Now I think, in the main, it is best to explain
The right and the reason of what we command;
But he would n't, not he; a poor female was she,
And he was a male bird as large as your hand!

And one more thing, I find, is borne in on my mind:
Mr. Wren may be right, but it seems to me strange,
That while both his grief and his love were so brief,
He should claim such devotion and trust in exchange!

And yet I 've been told, that with birds young and old,
All the males should direct, all the females obey;
Though, to speak for a bird, so at least I have heard,
You must be one:—as I never was, I can't say!

DOROTHY'S DOWER.

IN THREE PARTS.

PART I.

“My sweetest Dorothy,” said John,
Of course before the wedding,
As metaphorically he stood,
His gold upon her shedding,
“Whatever thing you wish or want
Shall be hereafter granted,

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For all my worldly goods are yours.”
The fellow was enchanted!

“About that little dower you have,
You thought might yet come handy,
Throw it away, do what you please,
Spend it on sugar-candy!
I like your sweet, dependent ways,
I love you when you tease me;
The more you ask, the more you spend,
The better you will please me.”

PART II.

“Confound it, Dorothy!” said John,
“I have n't got it by me.
You have n't, have you, spent that sum,
The dower from Aunt Jemima?
No; well that 's sensible for you;
This fix is most unpleasant;
But money 's tight, so just take yours
And use it for the present.
Now I must go—to—meet a man!
By George! I 'll have to borrow!
Lend me a twenty—that 's all right!
I 'll pay you back to-morrow.”

PART III.

“Madam,” says John to Dorothy,
And past her rudely pushes,
“You think a man is made of gold,
And money grows on bushes!
Tom's shoes! your doctor! Can't you now
Get up some new disaster?
You and your children are enough
To break John Jacob Astor.
Where 's what you had yourself when I
Was fool enough to court you?
That little sum, till you got me,
'T was what had to support you!”
“It 's lent and gone, not very far;
Pray don't be apprehensive.”
“Lent! I 've had use enough for it:
My family is expensive.
I did n't, as a woman would,
Spend it on sugar-candy!”
“No, John, I think the most of it
Went for cigars and brandy!”

BLACK RANALD.

In the time when the little flowers are born,
The joyfulest time of the year,
Fair Marion from the Hall rode forth
To chase the fleet red deer.

She moved among her comely maids
With such a stately mien
That they seemed like humble violets
By the side of a lily queen.

For she, of beauties fair, was named
The fairest in the land;
And lovelorn youths had pined and died
For the clasp of her lady hand.

But never suitor yet had pressed
Her dainty finger-tips;
And never cheek that wore a beard
Had touched her maiden lips.

She laughed and danced, she laughed and sang;
She bade her lovers wait;
Till the gallant Stuart Græme, one morn,
Checked rein at her father's gate.

She blushed and sighed; she laughed no more;
She sang a low refrain;
And, when the bold young Stuart wooed,
He did not woo in vain.

And now, as to the chase she rides,
Across her father's land,
She wears a bright betrothal ring
Upon her snowy hand.

She loosed the rein, she touched the flank
Of her royal red-roan steed.
“Now, who among my friends,” she said,
“Will vie with me in speed?”

She looked at Græme before them all,
Though her face was rosy red.
“He who can catch me as I ride
Shall be my squire,” she said.

Away! they scarce can follow
Even with their eager eyes;
She clears the stream, she skims the plain
Swift as the swallow flies.

Alack! no charger in the train
Can match with hers to-day;

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The very deer-hounds, left behind,
Are yelling in dismay.

Far out upon the lonely moor
Her speed she checks at last;
One single horseman follows her,
With hoof-strokes gaining fast.

She 's smiling softly to herself,
She 's speaking soft and low:
“None but the gallant Stuart Græme
Could follow where I go!”

She wheels her horse: she sees a sight
That makes her pulses stand;
Her very cheek, but now so red,
Grows whiter than her hand.

For, while no friend she sees the way
Her frightened eyes look back,
Black Ranald, of the Haunted Tower,
Is close upon her track!

He 's gained her side; he 's seized her rein—
The cruelest man in the land;
And he has clasped her virgin waist
With his wicked, wicked hand.

She feels his breath upon her face,
She hears his mocking tone,
As he lifts her from her red-roan steed
And sets her on his own.

“Proud Mistress Marion,” he cries,
“In spite of all your scorn,
Black Ranald is your squire to-day,
He 'll be your lord at morn!”

She hears no more, she sees no more,
For many a weary hour,
Till from her deadly swoon she wakes
In Ranald's Haunted Tower.

For, in the highest turret there,
With never a friend in call,
He has tied her hands with a silver chain
And bound them to the wall.

She fears no ghosts that haunt the dark,
But she fears the coming dawn;
And her heart grows sick when at day she hears
The prison-bolts withdrawn.

She summons all her strength, as they
Who for the headsman wait;
And she prays to every virgin saint
To help her in her strait;

For she sees her jailer cross the sill.
“Now, if you will wed with me,”
He said, “henceforth of my house and land
You shall queen and ruler be.”

“Bold Ranald of the Tower,” she said,
“With heart as black as your name,
I will only be the bride of Death
Or the bride of Stuart Græme.

“I will make the coldest, darkest bed
In the dismal church-yard mine,
And lay me down to sleep in it,
Or ever I sleep in thine!”

“I shall tame you yet, proud girl,” he cried,
“For you shall not be free,
Nor bread nor wine shall pass your lips
Till you vow to wed with me!”

She turned; she laughed in his very face:
“Sir Knave, your threats are vain;
Nor bread nor wine shall pass my lips
Till I am free again!”

He echoed back her mocking laugh,
He turned him on his heel;
When something smote upon his ear
Like the ringing clang of steel.

The bolts are snapped; the strong door falls;
The Græme is standing there;
And a hundred armèd men at his back
Are swarming up the stair!

Black Ranald put his horn to his lips
And blew a warning note.
“Your followers lie,” brave Stuart said,
“Six deep within the moat!

“Alone, a prisoner in your tower,
Now yield, or you are dead!”
Black Ranald gnashed his teeth in rage,
“I yield to none,” he said.

They drew their swords. “Now die the death,”
Said Græme, “you merit well.”

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And as he spake, at Marion's feet
The lifeless Ranald fell.

The Stuart raised the death-pale maid;
He broke her silver chain;
He bore her down, and set her safe
On her good red-roan again.

Now closely at his side she rides,
Nor heeds them one and all;
And his hand ne'er quits her bridle-rein
Till they reach her father's Hall.

Then the glad sire clasps that hand in his own,
While the tears to his beard drop slow;
“You have saved my child and rid the land,”
He cries, “of a cruel foe;

“And if this maiden say not nay,”—
Her cheeks burned like a flame,—
“Then you shall be my son to-night,
And she shall bear your name.”

They have set the lights in every room;
They have spread the wedding-feast;
And from the neighboring cloister's cell
They have brought the holy priest.

And she is a captive once again—
The timid, tender dove!
For she slipped the silver chain to wear
The golden chain of love!

Sweet Marion, under her snow-white veil,
Stands fast by her captor's side,
As he binds her hands with the marriage-ring
And kisses her first, a bride!

THE LEAK IN THE DIKE.

A STORY OF HOLLAND.

The good dame looked from her cottage
At the close of the pleasant day,
And cheerily called to her little son
Outside the door at play:
“Come, Peter, come! I want you to go,
While there is light to see,
To the hut of the blind old man who lives
Across the dike, for me;
And take these cakes I made for him—
They are hot and smoking yet;
You have time enough to go and come
Before the sun is set.”

Then the good-wife turned to her labor,
Humming a simple song,
And thought of her husband, working hard
At the sluices all day long;
And set the turf a-blazing,
And brought the coarse black bread;
That he might find a fire at night,
And find the table spread.

And Peter left the brother,
With whom all day he had played,
And the sister who had watched their sports
In the willow's tender shade;
And told them they 'd see him back before
They saw a star in sight,
Though he would n't be afraid to go
In the very darkest night!
For he was a brave, bright fellow,
With eye and conscience clear;
He could do whatever a boy might do,
And he had not learned to fear.
Why, he would n't have robbed a bird's nest,
Nor brought a stork to harm,
Though never a law in Holland
Had stood to stay his arm!

And now, with his face all glowing,
And eyes as bright as the day
With the thoughts of his pleasant errand,
He trudged along the way;
And soon his joyous prattle
Made glad a lonesome place—
Alas! if only the blind old man
Could have seen that happy face!
Yet he somehow caught the brightness
Which his voice and presence lent;
And he felt the sunshine come and go
As Peter came and went.

And now, as the day was sinking,
And the winds began to rise,
The mother looked from her door again,
Shading her anxious eyes;

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And saw the shadows deepen
And birds to their homes come back,
But never a sign of Peter
Along the level track.
But she said: “He will come at morning,
So I need not fret or grieve—
Though it is n't like my boy at all
To stay without my leave.”

But where was the child delaying?
On the homeward way was he,
And across the dike while the sun was up
An hour above the sea.
He was stopping now to gather flowers,
Now listening to the sound,
As the angry waters dashed themselves
Against their narrow bound.
“Ah! well for us,” said Peter,
“That the gates are good and strong,
And my father tends them carefully,
Or they would not hold you long!
You 're a wicked sea.” said Peter;
“I know why you fret and chafe;
You would like to spoil our lands and homes;
But our sluices keep you safe!”

But hark! Through the noise of waters
Comes a low, clear, trickling sound;
And the child's face pales with terror,
And his blossoms drop to the ground.
He is up the bank in a moment,
And, stealing through the sand,
He sees a stream not yet so large
As his slender, childish hand.
'T is a leak in the dike! He is but a boy,
Unused to fearful scenes;
But, young as he is, he has learned to know
The dreadful thing that means.
A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart
Grows faint that cry to hear,
And the bravest man in all the land
Turns white with mortal fear.
For he knows the smallest leak may grow
To a flood in a single night;
And he knows the strength of the cruel sea
When loosed in its angry might.
And the boy! He has seen the danger,
And, shouting a wild alarm,
He forces back the weight of the sea
With the strength of his single arm!
He listens for the joyful sound
Of a footstep passing nigh;
And lays his ear to the ground, to catch
The answer to his cry.
And he hears the rough winds blowing,
And the waters rise and fall,
But never an answer comes to him,
Save the echo of his call.
He sees no hope, no succor,
His feeble voice is lost;
Yet what shall he do but watch and wait,
Though he perish at his post!

So, faintly calling and crying
Till the sun is under the sea;
Crying and moaning till the stars
Come out for company;
He thinks of his brother and sister,
Asleep in their safe warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother,
Of himself as dying—and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last:
But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast.

The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,
For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all night.
And now she watches the pathway,
As yester eve she had done;
But what does she see so strange and black
Against the rising sun?
Her neighbors are bearing between them
Something straight to her door;
Her child is coming home, but not
As he ever came before!

“He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!”
And the startled father hears,
And comes and looks the way she looks,
And fears the thing she fears:
Till a glad shout from the bearers
Thrills the stricken man and wife—

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“Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,
And God has saved his life!”
So, there in the morning sunshine
They knelt about the boy;
And every head was bared and bent
In tearful, reverent joy.

'T is many a year since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,
Their boys are taught what a boy can do
Who is brave and true and good.
For every man in that country
Takes his son by the hand,
And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.

They have many a valiant hero,
Remembered through the years:
But never one whose name so oft
Is named with loving tears.
And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,
And told to the child on the knee,
So long as the dikes of Holland
Divide the land from the sea!

THE LANDLORD OF THE BLUE HEN.

Once, a long time ago, so good stories begin,
There stood by a roadside an old-fashioned inn;
An inn, which the landlord had named “The Blue Hen,”
While he, by his neighbors, was called “Uncle Ben;”

At least, they quite often addressed him that way
When ready to drink but not ready to pay;
Though when he insisted on having the cash,
They went off, muttering “Rummy,” and “Old Brandy Smash.”

He sold barrels of liquor, but still the old “Hen”
Seemed never to flourish, and neither did “Ben;”
For he drank up the profits, as every one knew,
Even those who were drinking their profits up, too.

So, with all they could drink, and with all they could pay,
The landlord grew poorer and poorer each day;
Men said, as he took down the gin from the shelf,
“The steadiest customer there was himself.”

There was hardly a man living in the same street
But had too much to drink and too little to eat;
The women about the old “Hen” got the blues;
The girls had no bonnets, the boys had no shoes.

When a poor fellow died, he was borne on his bier
By his comrades, whose hands shook with brandy and fear;
For of course, they were terribly frightened, and yet,
They went back to “The Blue Hen” to drink and forget!

There was one jovial farmer who could n't get by
The door of “The Blue Hen” without feeling dry;
One day he discovered his purse growing light,
“There must be a leak somewhere,” he said. He was right!

Then there was the blacksmith (the best ever known
Folks said, if he 'd only let liquor alone)
Let his forge cool so often, at last he forgot
To heat up his iron and strike when 't was hot.

Once a miller, going home from “The Blue Hen,” 't was said,
While his wife sat and wept by his sick baby's bed,
Had made a false step, and slept all night alone
In the bed of the river, instead of his own.

Even poor “Ben” himself could not drink of the cup
Of fire forever without burning up;

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He grew sick, fell to raving, declared that he knew
No doctors could help him; and they said so, too.

He told those about him, the ghosts of the men
Who used in their life-times to haunt “The Blue Hen,
Had come back each one bringing his children and wife,
And trying to frighten him out of his life.

Now he thought he was burning; the very next breath
He shivered and cried, he was freezing to death;
That the peddler lay by him, who, long years ago,
Was put out of “The Blue Hen,” and died in the snow.

He said that the blacksmith who turned to a sot,
Laid him out on an anvil and beat him, red-hot;
That the builder, who swallowed his brandy fourth proof,
Was pitching him downward, head first, from the roof.

At last he grew frantic; he clutched at the sheet,
And cried that the miller had hold of his feet;
Then leaped from his bed with a terrible scream,
That the dead man was dragging him under the stream.

Then he ran, and so swift that no mortal could save;
He went over the bank and went under the wave;
And his poor lifeless body next morning was found
In the very same spot where the miller was drowned.

“'T was n't liquor that killed him,” some said, “that was plain;
He was crazy, and sober folks might be insane!”
“'T was delirium tremens,” the coroner said,
But whatever it was, he was certainly dead!

THE KING'S JEWEL.

'T was a night to make the bravest
Shrink from the tempest's breath,
For the winter snows were bitter,
And the winds were cruel as death.

All day on the roofs of Warsaw
Had the white storm sifted down
Till it almost hid the humble huts
Of the poor, outside the town.

And it beat upon one low cottage
With a sort of reckless spite
As if to add to their wretchedness
Who sat by its hearth that night;

Where Dorby, the Polish peasant,
Took his pale wife by the hand,
And told her that when the morrow came
They would have no home in the land.

No human hand would aid him
With the rent that was due at morn;
And his cold, hard-hearted landlord
Had spurned his prayers with scorn.

Then the poor man took his Bible,
And read, while his eyes grew dim,
To see if any comfort
Were written there for him;

When he suddenly heard a knocking
On the casement, soft and light;
It was n't the storm; but what else could be
Abroad in such a night?

Then he went and opened the window,
But for wonder scarce could speak,
As a bird flew in with a jeweled ring
Held flashing in his beak.

'T is the bird I trained, said Dorby,
And that is the precious ring,
That once I saw on the royal hand
Of our good and gracious King.

And if birds, as our lesson tells us,
Once came with food to men,
Who knows, said the foolish peasant,
But they might be sent again!

So he hopefully went with the morning,
And knocked at the palace gate,

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And gave to the King the jewel
They had searched for long and late.

And when he had heard the story
Which the peasant had to tell;
He gave him a fruitful garden,
And a home wherein to dwell.

And Dorby wrote o'er the doorway
These words that all might see:
“Thou hast called on the Lord in trouble,
And He hath delivered thee!”

EDGAR'S WIFE.

I know that Edgar's kind and good,
And I know my home is fine,
If I only could live in it, mother,
And only could make it mine.

You need not look at me and smile,
In such a strange, sad way;
I am not out of my head at all,
And I know just what I say.

I know that Edgar freely gives
Whate'er he thinks will please;
But it 's what we love that brings us good,
And my heart is not in these.

Oh, I wish I could stand where the maples
Drop their shadows, cool and dim;
Or lie in the sweet red clover,
Where I walked, but not with him!

Nay, you need not mind me, mother,
I love him—or at the worst,
I try to shut the past from my heart;
But you know he was not the first!

And I strive to make him feel my life
Is his, and here, as I ought;
But he never can come into the world
That I live in, in my thought.

For whether I wake, or whether I sleep,
It is always just the same;
I am far away to the time that was,
Or the time that never came.

Sometimes I walk in the paradise,
That, alas! was not to be;
Sometimes I sit the whole night long
A child on my father's knee;

And when my sweet sad fancies fun
Unheeded as they list,
They go and search about to find
The things my life has missed.

Aye! this love is a tyrant always,
And whether for evil or good,
Neither comes nor goes for our bidding,—
But I 've done the best I could.

And Edgar 's a worthy man I know,
And I know my house is fine;
But I never shall live in it, mother,
And I never shall make it mine!

THE FICKLE DAY.

Last night, when the sweet young moon shone clear
In her hall of starry splendor,
I said what a maiden loves to hear,
To a maiden true and tender.
She promised to walk with me at noon,
In the meadow red with clover;
And I set her words to a pleasant tune,
And sang them over and over.
So awake in the early dawn I lay,
And heard the stir and humming
The glad earth makes when her orchestra
Of a thousand birds is coming.

I saw the waning lights in the skies
Blown out by the breath of morning;
And the morn grow pale as a maid who dies,
When her loving wins but scorning.
And I said, the day will never rise;
On her cloudy couch she lingers,
Still pressing the lids of her sweet blue eyes
Close shut with her rosy fingers.
But she rose at last, and stood arrayed
Like a queen for a royal crowning,
And I thought her look was never made
For changing or for frowning.

But alas for the dreams that round us play!
For the plans of mortal making!
And alas for the false and fickle day
That looked so fair at waking!

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For suddenly on the world she frowned,
Till the birds grew still in their places,
And the blossoms turned their eyes on the ground
To hide their frightened faces.
And the light grew checkered where it lay,
Across the hill and meadow,
For she hid her sunny hair away
Under a net of shadow.

And close in the folds of a cloudy veil,
Her altered beauty keeping,
She breathed a low and lonesome wail,
And softly fell a-weeping.
And now, my dream of the time to be,
My beautiful dream is over;
For no maiden will walk at noon with me
In the meadow red with clover.
And within and without I feel and see
But woeful, weary weather;
Ah! wretched day; ah! wretched me—
We well may weep together!

THE MAID OF KIRCONNEL.

Fair Kirtle, hastening to the sea,
Through lands of sunniest green,
But for thy tender witchery
“Fair Helen of Kirconnel lea,”
A happier fate had seen.

And wood-bower sweet, whose vines displayed
A royal wreath of flowers;
Why did you lure the dreaming maid,
So oft beneath your haunted shade,
To pass the charmèd hours?

For hidden, like the feathery choir,
There from the noontide's glance,
She lit the heart's first vestal fire,
And fed its flame of soft desire,
With dreams of old romance.

Poor, frightened doe, that sought the shade
Of that sequestered place;
And led the tender, timid maid,
Blushing, surprised, and half afraid,
To meet the hunter's face.

Not thine the fault, but thine the deed,
Blind, harmless innocent;
When to that bosom, doomed to bleed,
With cruel, swift, unerring speed,
The fatal arrow went.

Why came no warning voice to save,
No cry upon the blast,
When Helen fair, and Fleming brave,
Sat on the dead Kirconnel's grave,
And spake, and kissed their last?

O Mary, gone in life's young bloom,
O “Mary of the lea,”
Couldst thou not leave one hour the tomb,
To save her from that hapless doom,
So soon to sleep by thee?

Vain, vain, to say what might have been,
Or strive with cruel Fate;
Evil the world hath entered in,
And sin is death, and death is sin,
And love must trust and wait.

For here the crown of lovers true
Still hides its flowers beneath—
The sharpest thorns that ever grew,
The thorns that pierce us through and through,
And make us bleed to death!

SAINT MACARIUS OF THE DESERT.

Good Saint Macarius, full of grace,
And happy as none but a saint can be,
Abode in his cell, in a desert place,
With only angels for company;
And fasting daily till vesper time,
And praying oft till the hour of prime;
He wept so freely for all the sin
That ever had stained his soul below,
That, though the hue of his guilt had been
As scarlet, it must have changed to snow.

The Tempter scarce could charm his sight
Who came transformed to an angel of light;
The demons that pursued his track
He sent to a fiercer torment back;
And he wearied, with fast and penance grim,
The fiends that were sent to weary him,

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Until at last it came about
That he vanquished the fiercest of Satan's brood,
And the powers of darkness, tired out,
Had left the anchoret unsubdued.

Yet I marvel what they could have been
The sins that he strove to wash away;
For he had fled from the haunts of men
In the pure, sweet dawn of his manhood's day.
But surely now they were all forgiven,
For alone in the desert, for sixty years,
He had eat of its scant herbs morn and even,
And black bread, moistened with bitter tears.

Yet so cunning and subtle is the mesh
For the souls of the unwary laid,
And so strong is the power of the world and flesh,
That the very elect have been betrayed.
And therefore even our holy saint,
When fast and penance and watch were done,
Made often bitter and loud complaint
Of the artful wiles of the Evil One.
For he found that none may flee from his ire,
Or find a refuge and safe retreat,
In the time when Satan doth desire
To have and to sift the soul like wheat.

Good Saint Macarius, having passed
The long, hot hours of the day in prayer,
Rose once an hungered, after a fast
That was long for even a saint to bear.
And looking without, where the shadows fell—
'T was a sight most rare in that lonely place—
Just at the door of his humble cell
He saw a stranger face to face,
Who greeted him in a tender tone,
That fell on his weary heart like balm,
As graciously from out his own
He dropped in the hermit's open palm
A cluster plucked from a fruitful vine,
Ripe and ruddy, and full of wine.
“Thanks,” said the saint, for his heart was glad,
“My blessing take for a righteous deed;
'T is the very gift I would have had
For one in his sore distress and need.”

Then, seizing a staff in his eager hand,
He hurried over the burning sand,
To a cell where a holy brother lay,
Wasting and dying day by day,
And gave, his dying thirst to slake,
The fruit 't were a sin for himself to take.

Alas! the fainting hermit said,
To the holy brother who watched his bed,
Short at the worst can be my stay
In this vile and wretched house of clay;
For my night is almost done below,
And at break of day I must rise and go,
Shall I yield at last the flesh to please,
And lose my soul for a moment's ease?
Nay, take this gift to my precious son,
Whose weary journey is scarce begun,
For the burden of penance and fast and prayer
Is a heavier thing for the young to bear.
Therefore his sin were not as mine,
Though he ate the pleasant fruit of the vine.

So, before another hour had gone,
The will of the dying man was done;
And the fair young monk, who had come to dwell
For the good of his soul in a desert-cell,
Had bound the sandals on his feet,
And drawn his hood about his head,
And, bearing the cluster ripe and sweet,
Was crossing the desert with cheerful tread.

For he said, 'T were well that an aged saint
Should break his fast with fruits like these:
But I in my vigor dare not taint
My soul with self-indulgencies.

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And the holy father whom I seek,
By praying and fasting oft and long,
I fear me makes the flesh too weak
To keep the spirit brave and strong.

At the day-break Saint Macarius rose
From his peaceful sleep with conscience clear.
And lo! the youngest monk of those
Who lived in a desert-cell drew near;
And, greeting his father in the Lord,
Passed reverently the open door.
And again the hermit had on his board
The fruit untouched as it was before.

Then Saint Macarius joyful raised
His thankful eyes and hands to heaven,
And cried aloud: “The saints be praised
That unto all my sons was given
Such strength that, tempted as they have been,
Not a single soul hath yielded to sin.”

And then, though he had not broken fast,
The lure was firmly put aside;
And in the future, as in the past,
A self-denying man to the last,
Good Saint Macarius lived and died.
And he never tasted the fruit of the vine,
Till he went to a righteous man's reward,
And took of the heavenly bread and wine
New in the kingdom of the Lord.

FAIR ELEANOR.

When the birds were mating and building
To the sound of a pleasant tune,
Fair Eleanor sat on the porch and spun
All the long bright afternoon.
She wound the flax on the distaff,
She spun it fine and strong;
She sung as it slipped through her hands, and this
Was the burden of her song:
“I sit here spinning, spinning,
And my heart beats joyfully,
Though my lover is riding away from me
To his home by the hills of the sea.”

When the shining skeins were finished,
And the loom its work had done,
Fair Eleanor brought her linen out
To spread on the grass in the sun.
She sprinkled it over with water,
She turned and bleached it white;
And still she sung, and the burden
Was gay, as her heart was light:
“O sun, keep shining, shining!
O web, bleach white for me!
For now my lover is riding back
From his home by the hills of the sea.”

When the sun, through the leaves of autumn,
Burned with a dull-red flame,
Fair Eleanor had made the robes
To wear when her lover came.
And she stood at the open clothes-press,
And the roses burned in her face,
As she strewed with roses and lavender
Her folded linen and lace;
And she murmured softly, softly:
“My bridegroom draws near to me,
And we shall ride back together
To his home by the hills of the sea.”

When the desolate clouds of winter
Shrouded the face of the sun,
Then the fair, fair Eleanor, wedded,
Was dressed in the robes she had spun.
But never again in music
Did her silent lips dispart,
Though her lover came from his home by the sea,
And clasped her to his heart;
Though he cried, as he kissed and kissed her,
Till his sobs through the house were heard—
Ah, she was too happy where she had gone,
I ween, to answer a word!

BREAKING THE ROADS.

About the cottage, cold and white,
The snow-drifts heap the ground;
Through its curtains closely drawn to-night
There scarcely steals a sound.

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The task is done that patient hands
Through all the day have plied;
And the flax-wheel, with its loosened bands,
Is idly set aside.

Above the hearth-fire's pleasant glare,
Sings now the streaming spout;
The housewife, at her evening care,
Is passing in and out.

And still as here and there she flits,
With cheerful, bustling sound,
Musing, her daughter silent sits,
With eyes upon the ground.

A maiden, womanly and true,
Sweet as the mountain-rose;
No fairer form than hers ere grew
Amid the winter snows.

A rosy mouth, and o'er her brow
Brown, smoothly-braided hair,
Surely the youth beside her now
Must covet flower so fair.

For bashfulness she dare not meet
His eyes that keep their place,
So steadfastly and long in sweet
Perusal of her face.

Herself is Lucy's only charm,
To make her prized or sought;
And Ralph hath but the goodly farm
Whereon his fathers wrought.

He, with his neighbors, toiling slow
To-day till sunset's gleam,
Breaking a road-track through the snow,
Has urged his patient team.

They came at morn from every home,
They have labored cheerily;
They have cut a way through the snowy foam.
As a good ship cuts the sea.

And when his tired friends were gone,
Their pleasant labors o'er,
Ralph stayed to make a path, alone,
To Lucy's cottage-door.

The thankful dame her friend must press
To share her hearth's warm blaze:
What could the daughter give him less
Than words of grateful praise?

And now the board has given its cheer,
The eve has nearly gone,
Yet by the hearth-fire bright and clear
The youth still lingers on.

The mother rouses from her nap,
Her task awhile she keeps;
At last, with knitting on her lap,
Tired nature calmly sleeps.

Then Lucy, bringing from the shelf
Apples that mock her cheeks,
Falls working busily herself,
And half in whisper speaks.

And Ralph, for very bashfulness,
Is held a moment mute;
Then drawing near, he takes in his
The hand that pares the fruit.

Then Lucy strives to draw away
Her hand, yet kindly too,
And half in his she lets it stay,—
She knows not what to do.

“Darling,” he cries, with flushing cheek,
“Forego awhile your task;
Lift up your downcast eyes and speak,
'T is but a word I ask!”

He sees the color rise and wane
Upon the maiden's face;
Then with a kiss he sets again
The red rose in its place.

The mother wakes in strange surprise,
And wondering looks about,—
“How careless, Lucy dear,” she cries;
“You 've let the fire go out!”

Then Lucy turned her face away,
She did not even speak;
But she looked as if the live coals lay
A-burning in her cheek.

“Ralph,” said the dame, “you ne'er before
Played such a double part:
Have you made the way both to my door
And to my daughter's heart?”

“I 've tried my best,” cried happy Ralph,
“And if she 'll be my wife,
I 'll make a pathway smooth and safe
For my darling all her life!”

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All winter from his home to that
Where Lucy lived content,
Along a path made hard and straight,
Her lover came and went.

And when spring smiled in all her bowers,
And birds sang far and wide,
He trod a pathway through the flowers,
And led her home a bride!

THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF.

“Now, good-wife, bring your precious hoard,”
The Norland farmer cried;
“And heap the hearth, and heap the board,
For the blessed Christmas-tide.

“And bid the children fetch,” he said,
“The last ripe sheaf of wheat,
And set it on the roof o'erhead,
That the birds may come and eat.

“And this we do for his dear sake,
The Master kind and good,
Who, of the loaves He blest and brake,
Fed all the multitude.”

Then Fredrica, and Franz, and Paul,
When they heard their father's words,
Put up the sheaf, and one and all
Seemed merry as the birds.

Till suddenly the maiden sighed,
The boys were hushed in fear,
As, covering all her face, she cried,
“If Hansei were but here!”

And when, at dark, about the hearth
They gathered still and slow,
You heard no more the childish mirth
So loud an hour ago.

And on their tender cheeks the tears
Shone in the flickering light;
For they were four in other years
Who are but three to-night.

And tears are in the mother's tone;
As she speaks, she trembles, too:
“Come, children, come, for the supper's done,
And your father waits for you.”

Then Fredrica, and Franz, and Paul,
Stood each beside his chair;
The boys were comely lads, and tall,
The girl was good and fair.

The father's hand was raised to crave
A grace before the meat,
When the daughter spake; her words were brave
But her voice was low and sweet:

“Dear father, should we give the wheat
To all the birds of the air?
Shall we let the kite and the raven eat
Such choice and dainty fare?

“For if to-morrow from our store
We drive them not away,
The good little birds will get no more
Than the evil birds of prey.”

“Nay, nay, my child,” he gravely said,
“You have spoken to your shame,
For the good, good Father overhead,
“Feeds all the birds the same.

“He hears the ravens when they cry,
He keeps the fowls of the air;
And a single sparrow cannot lie
On the ground without his care.”

“Yea, father, yea; and tell me this,”—
Her words came fast and wild,—
“Are not a thousand sparrows less
To Him than a single child?

“Even though it sinned and strayed from home?”
The father groaned in pain
As she cried, “oh, let our Hansei come
And live with us again!

“I know he did what was not right”—
Sadly he shook his head;
“If he knew I longed for him to-night,
He would not come,” he said.

“He went from me in wrath and pride;
God! shield him tenderly!
For I hear the wild wind cry outside,
Like a soul in agony.”

“Nay, it is a soul!” Oh, eagerly
The maiden answered then;
“And, father, what if it should be he,
Come back to us again!”

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She stops—the portal open flies;
Her fear is turned to joy:
“Hansei!” the startled father cries;
And the mother sobs, “My boy!”

'T is a bowed and humbled man they greet,
With loving lips and eyes,
Who fain would kneel at his father's feet,
But he softly bids him rise;

And he says, “I bless thee, O mine own;
Yea, and thou shalt be blest!”
While the happy mother holds her son
Like a baby on her breast.

Their house and love again to share
The Prodigal has come!
And now there will be no empty chair,
Nor empty heart in their home.

And they think, as they see their joy and pride
Safe back in the sheltering fold,
Of the child that was born at Christmas-tide
In Bethlehem of old.

And all the hours glide swift away
With loving, hopeful words,
Till the Christmas sheaf at break of day
Is alive with happy birds!

LITTLE GOTTLIEB.

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

Across the German Ocean,
In a country far from our own,
Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb,
Lived with his mother alone.

They dwelt in the part of a village
Where the houses were poor and small,
But the home of little Gottlieb,
Was the poorest one of all.

He was not large enough to work,
And his mother could do no more
(Though she scarcely laid her knitting down)
Than keep the wolf from the door.

She had to take their threadbare clothes,
And turn, and patch, and darn;
For never any woman yet
Grew rich by knitting yarn.

And oft at night, beside her chair,
Would Gottlieb sit, and plan
The wonderful things he would do for her,
When he grew to be a man.

One night she sat and knitted,
And Gottlieb sat and dreamed,
When a happy fancy all at once
Upon his vision beamed.

'T was only a week till Christmas,
And Gottlieb knew that then
The Christ-child, who was born that day,
Sent down good gifts to men.

But he said, “He will never find us,
Our home is so mean and small.
And we, who have most need of them,
Will get no gifts at all.”

When all at once, a happy light
Came into his eyes so blue,
And lighted up his face with smiles,
As he thought what he could do.

Next day when the postman's letters
Came from all over the land;
Came one for the Christ-child, written
In a child's poor trembling hand.

You may think he was sorely puzzled
What in the world to do;
So he went to the Burgomaster,
As the wisest man he knew.

And when they opened the letter,
They stood almost dismayed
That such a little child should dare
To ask the Lord for aid.

Then the Burgomaster stammered,
And scarce knew what to speak,
And hastily he brushed aside
A drop, like a tear, from his cheek.

Then up he spoke right gruffly,
And turned himself about:

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This must be a very foolish boy,
And a small one, too, no doubt.”

But when six rosy children
That night about him pressed,
Poor, trusting little Gottlieb
Stood near him, with the rest.

And he heard his simple, touching prayer,
Through all their noisy play;
Though he tried his very best to put
The thought of him away.

A wise and learned man was he,
Men called him good and just;
But his wisdom seemed like foolishness,
By that weak child's simple trust.

Now when the morn of Christmas came
And the long, long week was done,
Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep,
Rose up before the sun,

And hastened to his mother,
But he scarce might speak for fear,
When he saw her wondering look, and saw
The Burgomaster near.

He was n't afraid of the Holy Babe,
Nor his mother, meek and mild;
But he felt as if so great a man
Had never been a child.

Amazed the poor child looked, to find
The hearth was piled with wood,
And the table, never full before,
Was heaped with dainty food.

Then half to hide from himself the truth
The Burgomaster said,
While the mother blessed him on her knees,
And Gottlieb shook for dread:

“Nay, give no thanks, my good dame,
To such as me for aid,
Be grateful to your little son,
And the Lord to whom he prayed!”

Then turning round to Gottlieb,
“Your written prayer, you see,
Come not to whom it was addressed,
It only came to me!

“'T was but a foolish thing you did,
As you must understand;
For though the gifts are yours, you know,
You have them from my hand.”

Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly,
Where he humbly stood apart,
“But the Christ-child sent them all the same,
He put the thought in your heart!”

[Note.—In Norway the last sheaf from the harvest-field is never threshed, but it is always reserved till Christmas Eve, when it is set up on the roof as a feast for the hungry birds.]

A MONKISH LEGEND.

Beautiful stories, by tongue and pen,
Are told of holy women and men,
Who have heard, entranced in some lonely cell,
The things not lawful for lip to tell;
And seen, when their souls were caught away,
What they might not say.

But one of the sweetest in tale or rhyme
Is told of a monk of the olden time,
Who read all day in his sacred nook
The words of the good Saint Austin's book,
Where he tells of the city of God, that best
Last place of rest.

Sighing, the holy father said,
As he shut the volume he had read:
“Methinks if heaven shall only be
A Sabbath long as eternity,
Its bliss will at last be a weary reign,
And its peace be pain.”

So he wandered, musing under his hood,
Far into the depths of a solemn wood;
Where a bird was singing, so soft and clear,
That he paused and listened with charmèd ear;
Listened, nor knew, while thus intent,
How the moments went.

But the music ceased, and the sweet spell broke,
And as if from a guilty dream he woke,
That holy man, and he cried aghast,
“Mea culpa! an hour has passed,

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And I have not counted my beads, nor prayed
To the saints for aid!”

Then, amazed he fled; but his horror grew,
For the wood was strange, and the pathway new;
Yet, with trembling step, he hurried on,
Till at last the open plain was won,
Where, grim and black, o'er the vale around,
The convent frowned.

“Holy Saint Austin!” cried the monk,
And down on the ground for terror sunk;
For lo! the convent, tower, and cell,
Sacred crucifix, blessèd bell,
Had passed away, and in their stead,
Was a ruin spread.

In that hour, while the rapture held him fast,
A century had come and passed;
And he rose an altered man, and went
His way, and knew what the vision meant;
For a mighty truth, till then unknown,
By that trance was shown.

And he saw how the saints, with their Lord, shall say.
A thousand years are but as a day;
Since bliss itself must grow from bliss,
And holiness from holiness;
And love, while eternity's ages move,
Cannot tire of love!

ARTHUR'S WIFE.

I'm getting better, Miriam, though it tires me yet to speak;
And the fever, clinging to me, keeps me spiritless and weak,
And leaves me with a headache always when it passes off;
But I 'm better, almost well at last, except this wretched cough!

I should have passed the livelong day alone here but for you;
For Arthur never comes till night, he has so much to do!
And so sometimes I lie and think, till my heart seems nigh to burst,
Of the hope that lit my future, when I I watched his coming first.

I wonder why it is that now he does not seem the same;
Perhaps my fancy is at fault, and he is not to blame;
It surely cannot be because he has me always near,
For I feared and felt it long before the time he brought me here.

Yet still, I said, his wife will charm each shadow from his brow,
What can I do to win his love, or prove my loving now?
So I waited, studying patiently his every look and thought;
But I fear that I shall never learn to please him as I ought.

I 've tried so many ways, to smooth his path where it was rough,
But I always either do too much, or fail to do enough;
And at times, as if it wearied him, he pushes off my arm—
The very things that used to please have somehow lost their charm.

Once, when I wore a pretty gown, a gown he use to praise,
I asked him, laughing, if I seemed the sweetheart of old days.
He did not know the dress, and said, he never could have told,
'T was not that unbecoming one, which made me look so old!

I cannot tell how anything I do may seems to him.
Sometimes he thinks me childish, and sometimes stiff and prim;
Yet you must not think I blame him, dear; I could not wrong him so—
He is very good to me, and I am happy, too, you know!

But I am often troublesome, and sick too much, I fear,
And sometimes let the children cry when he is home to hear.
Ah me! if I should leave them, with no other care than his!

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Yet he says his love is wiser than my foolish fondness is.

I think he 'd care about the babe. I called him Arthur, too—
Hoping to please him when I said, I named him, love, for you!
He never noticed any child of mine, except this one,
So the girls would only have to do as they have always done.

Give me my wrapper, Miriam. Help me a little, dear!
When Arthur comes home, vexed and tired, he must not find me here.
Why, I can even go down-stairs: I always make the tea.
He does not like that any one should wait on him but me.

He never sees me lying down when he is home, you know,
And I seldom tell him how I feel, he hates to hear it so;
Yet I 'm sure he grieves in secret at the thought that I may die,
Though he often laughs at me, and says, “You 're stronger now than I.”

Perhaps there are some men who love more than they ever say:
He does not show his feelings, but that may not be his way.
Why, how foolishly I 'm talking, when I know he 's good and kind!
But we women always ask too much; more than we ever find.

My slippers, Miriam! No, not those; bring me the easy pair.
I surely heard the door below; I hear him on the stair!
There comes the old, sharp pain again, that almost makes me frown;
And it seems to me I always cough when I try to keep it down.

Ah, Arthur! take this chair of mine; I feel so well and strong;
Besides, I am getting tired of it—I 've sat here all day long.
Poor dear! you work so hard for me, and I 'm so useless, too!
A trouble to myself, and, worse, a trouble now to you.

GRACIE.

Gracie rises with a light
In her clear face like the sun,
Like the regal, crownèd sun
That at morning meets her sight:
Mirthful, merry little one,
Happy, hopeful little one;
What has made her day so bright?

Who her sweet thoughts shall divine,
As she draweth water up,
Water from the well-spring up?
What hath made the draught so fine,
That she drinketh of the cup,
Of the dewy, dripping cup,
As if tasting royal wine?

Tripping up and down the stair,
Hers are pleasant tasks to-day,
Hers are easy tasks to-day;
Done without a thought of care,
Something makes her work but play,
All her work delightful play,
And the time a holiday.

And her lips make melody,
Like a silver-ringing rill,
Like a laughing, leaping rill:
Then she breaks off suddenly;
But her heart seems singing still,
Beating out its music still,
Though it beateth silently.

And I wonder what she thinks;
Only to herself she speaks,
Very low and soft she speaks.
As she plants the scarlet pinks,
Something plants them in her cheeks,
Sets them blushing in her cheeks.
How I wonder what she thinks!

To a bruisèd vine she goes;
Tenderly she does her part,
Carefully she does her part,
As if, while she bound the rose,
She were binding up a heart,
Binding up a broken heart.
Doth she think but of the rose?

Bringing odorous leaf and flower
To her bird she comes elate,
Comes as one, with step elate,
Cometh in a happy hour
To a true and tender mate.
Doth she think of such a mate?
Is she trimming cage and bower?

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How she loves the flower she brings!
See her press her lips to this,
Press her rosy mouth to this,
In a kiss that clings and clings.
Hath the maiden learned that kiss,
Learned that lingering, loving kiss,
From such cold insensate things?

What has changed our pretty one?
A new light is in her eyes,
In her downcast, drooping eyes,
As she walks beneath the moon.
What has waked those piteous sighs,
Waked her touching, tender sighs?
Has love found her out so soon?

Even her mother wonderingly
Saith: “How strange our darling seems,
How unlike herself she seems.”
And I answer: “Oft we see
Women living as in dreams,
When love comes into their dreams.
What if hers such dreaming be?”

But she says, undoubtingly:
“Whatsoever else it mean,
This it surely cannot mean.
Gracie is a babe to me,
Just a child of scarce sixteen,
And it seems but yestere'en
That she sat upon my knee.”

Ah wise mother! if you proved
Lover never crossed her way,
I would think the self-same way.
Ever since the world has moved,
Babes seemed women in a day;
And, alas! and welladay!
Men have wooed and maidens loved!

POOR MARGARET.

We always called her “poor Margaret,”
And spoke about her in mournful phrase;
And so she comes to my memory yet
As she seemed to me in my childish days.

For in that which changing, waxeth old,
In things which perish, we saw her poor,
But we never saw the wealth untold,
She kept where treasures alone endure.

We saw her wrinkled, and pale, and thin.
And bowed with toil, but we could not see
That her patient spirit grew straight within,
In the power of its upright purity.

Over and over, every day,
Bleaching her linen in sun and rain,
We saw her turn it until it lay
As white on the grass as the snow had lain;

But we could not see how her Father's smile,
Shining over her spirit there,
Was whitening for her all the while
The spotless raiment his people wear.

She crimped and folded, smooth and nice,
All our sister's clothes, when she came to wed,—
(Alas! that she only wore them twice,
Once when living, and once when dead!)

And we said, she can have no wedding-day;
Speaking sorrowfully, under our breath;
While her thoughts were all where they give away
No brides to lovers, and none to death.

Poor Margaret! she sleeps now under the sod,
And the ills of her mortal life are past;
But heir with her Saviour, and heir of God,
She is rich in her Father's House at last.

LADY MARJORY.

The Lady Marjory lay on her bed,
Though the clock had struck the hour of noon,
And her cheek on the pillow burned as red
As the bleeding heart of a rose in June;

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Like the shimmer and gleam of a golden mist
Shone her yellow hair in the chamber dim;
And a fairer hand was never kissed
Than hers, with its fingers white and slim.

She spake to her women, suddenly,—
“I have lain here long enough,” she said;
“Lain here a year, by night and day,
And I hate the pillow, and hate the bed.
So carry me where I used to sit,
I am not much for your arms to hold:
Strange phantoms now through my fancy flit,
And my head is hot and my feet are cold!”

They sat her up once more in her chair,
And Alice, behind her, grew pale with dread
As she combed and combed her lady's hair,
For the fever never left her head.
And before her, Rose on a humble seat
Sat, but her young face wore no smile,
As she held in her lap her mistress' feet
And chafed them tenderly all the while.

“Once I saw,” said the lady, “a saintly nun,
Who turned from the world and its pleasures vain;—
When they clipped her tresses, one by one,
How it must have eased her aching brain!
If it ached and burned as mine does now,
And they cooled it thus, it was worth the price;—
Good Alice, lay your hand on my brow,
For my head is fire and my feet are ice!”

So the patient Alice stood in her place
For hours behind her mistress' chair,
Bathing her fevered brow and face,
Parting and combing her golden hair:
And Rose, whose cheek belied her name,
Sitting before her, awed and still,
Kept at her hopeless task the same
Till she felt, through all her frame, the chill.

“How my thoughts,” the Lady Marjory said,
“Go slipping into the past once more;
As the beads we are stringing slide down a thread,
When we drop the end along the floor:
Only a moment past, they slid
Thus into the old time, dim and sweet;
I was where the honeysuckles hid
My head and the daisies hid my feet.
I heard my Philip's step again,
I felt the thrill of his kiss on my brow;
Ah! my cheek was not so crimson then,
Nor my feet in the daisies cold as now!

“Dizzily still my senses swim,
I am far away in a fairy land;
To the night when first I danced with him,
And felt his look, as he touched my hand;
Then my cheeks were bright with the flush and glow
Of the joy that made the hours so fleet;
And my feet were rosy with warmth I know,
As time to the music they lightly beat.

“'T is strange how the things I remember, seem
Blended together, and nothing plain;
A dream is like truth, and truth like a dream,
With this terrible fever in my brain.
But of all the visions that ever I had,
There is one returns to plague me most;
If it were not false it would drive me mad,
Haunting me thus, like an evil ghost.

“It came to me first a year ago,
Though I never have told a soul before,
But I dreamed, in the dead of the night, you know,
That under the vines beside the door,

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I watched for a step I did not hear,
Stayed for a kiss I did not feel;
But I heard a something hiss in my ear
Words that I shudder still to reveal.
I made no sound, and I gave no start,
But I stood as the dead on the sea-floor stand,
While the demon's words fell slow on my heart
As burning drops from a torturer's hand.

“‘Your Philip stays,’ it said, ‘to-night,
Where dark eyes hold him with magic spell;
Eyes from the stars that caught their light,
Not from some pretty blue flower's bell!
With raven tresses he waits to play,
They have bound him fast as a bird in a snare,
Did you think to hold him more than a day
In the feeble mesh of your yellow hair?

“‘Flowers or pearls in your tresses twist,
As your fancy suits you, smile or sigh;
Or give your dainty hand to be kissed
By other lips, and he will not die:
Hide your eyes in the veil of a nun,
Weep till the rose in your cheek is dim;
Or turn to any beneath the sun,
Henceforth it is all the same to him!’

“This was before I took my bed;—
Do you think a dream could make me ill,
Could put a fever in my head,
And touch my feet with an icy chill?
Yet I 've hardly been myself I know
At times since then, for before my eyes
The wildest visions come and go,
Full of all wicked and cruel lies.

“Once the peal of marriage-bells, without,
Fell, or seemed to fall on my ear;
And I thought you went, and softly shut
The window, so that I might not hear;
That you turned from my eager look away,
And sadly bent your eyes on the ground,
As if you said, 'tis his wedding-day,
And her heart will break if she hears the sound.

“And dreaming once, I dreamed I woke,
And heard you whisper, close at hand,
Men said, Sir Philip's heart was broke,
Since he gave himself for his wife's broad land;
That he smiled on none, but frowned instead,
As he stalked through his halls, like a ghost forlorn;
And the nurse who had held him, a baby, said,
He had better have died in the day he was born!”

So, till the low sun, fading, cast
Across her chamber his dying beams,
The Lady Marjory lived in the past.
Telling her women of all her dreams.
Then she changed;—“I am almost well,” she said,
“I feel so strangly free from pain;
Oh, if only the fever would leave my head,
And if only my feet were warm again!
And something whispers me, clear and low,
I shall soon be done with lying there,
So to-morrow, when I am better, you know,
You must come, good Alice, and dress my hair.

“We will give Sir Philip a glad surprise,
He will come, I know, at morn or night;
And I want the help of your hands and eyes
To dress me daintily all in white;
Bring snowy lilies for my hair;—
And, Rose, when all the rest is done,
Take from my satin slippers the pair
That are softest and whitest, and put them on.
But take me to bed now, where in the past
You have placed me many a time and oft;

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I am so tired, I think at last
I shall sleep, if the pillow is cool and soft.”

So the patient Alice took her head,
And the sweet Rose took her mistress' feet,
And they laid her tenderly on the bed,
And smoothed the pillow, and smoothed the sheet.
Then she wearily closed her eyes, they say,
On this world, with all its sorrow and sin;
And her head and her heart at the break of day,
Were as cold as ever her feet had been!

THE OLD MAN'S DARLING.

So I'm “crazy,” in loving a man of three-score;
Why, I never had come to my senses before,
But I 'm doubtful of yours, if your 're thinking to prove
My insanity, just by the fact of my love.

You would like to know what are his wonderful wiles?
Only delicate praises, and flattering smiles!
'T is no spell of enchantment, no magical art,
But the way he says “darling,” that goes to my heart.

Yes, he 's “sixty,” I cannot dispute with you there,
But you 'd make him a hundred, I think, if you dare;
And I 'm glad all his folly of first love is past,
Since I 'm sure, of the two, it is best to be last.

“His hair is as white as the snow-drift,” you say;
Then I never shall see it change slowly to gray;
But I almost could wish, for his dear sake alone,
That my tresses were nearer the hue of his own.

“He can't see;” then I 'll help him to see and to hear,
If it 's needful, you know, I can sit very near;
And he 's young enough yet to interpret the tone
Of a heart that is beating up close to his own.

I “must aid him;” ah! that is my pleasure and pride,
I should love him for this if for nothing beside;
And though I 've more reasons than I can recall,
Yet the one that “he needs me” is strongest of all.

So, if I 'm insane, you will own, I am sure,
That the case is so hopeless it 's past any cure;
And, besides, it is acting no very wise part,
To be treating the head for disease of the heart.

And if anything could make a woman believe
That no dream can delude, and no fancy deceive;
That she never knew lover's enchantment before,
It 's being the darling of one of three-score!

A TENT SCENE.

Our generals sat in their tent one night,
On the Mississippi's banks,
Where Vicksburg sullenly still held out
Against the assaulting ranks.

They could hear the firing as they talked,
Long after set of sun;
And the blended noise of a thousand guns
In the distance seemed as one.

All at once Sherman started to his feet,
And listened to the roar,
His practiced ear had caught a sound,
That he had not heard before.

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“They have mounted another gun on the walls;
'T is new,” he said, “I know;
I can tell the voice of a gun, as a man
Can tell the voice of his foe!

“What! not a soul of you hears but me?
No matter, I am right;
Bring me my horse! I must silence this
Before I sleep to-night!”

He was gone; and they listened to the ring
Of hoofs on the distant track;
Then talked and wondered for a while,—
In an hour he was back.

“Well, General! what is the news?” they cried,
As he entered flush and worn;
“We have picked their gunners off, and the gun
Will be dislodged at morn!”

THE LADY JAQUELINE.

“False and fickle, or fair and sweet,
I care not for the rest,
The lover that knelt last night at my feet
Was the bravest and the best.
Let them perish all, for their power has waned,
And their glory waxèd dim;
They were well enough while they lived and reigned,
But never was one like him!
And never one from the past would I bring
Again, and call him mine:—
The King is dead, long live the King!”
Said the Lady Jaqueline.

“In the old, old days, when life was new,
And the world upon me smiled,
A pretty, dainty lover I had,
Whom I loved with the heart of a child.
When the buried sun of yesterday
Comes back from the shadows dim,
Then may his love return to me,
And the love I had for him!
But since to-day hath a better thing
To give, I 'll ne'er repine;—
The King is dead, long live the King!”
Said the Lady Jaqueline.

“And yet it almost makes me weep,
Aye! weep, and cry, alas!
When I think of one who lies asleep
Down under the quiet grass.
For he loved me well, and I loved again,
And low in homage bent,
And prayed for his long and prosperous reign,
In our realm of sweet content.
But not to the dead may the living cling,
Nor kneel at an empty shrine;—
The King is dead, long live the King!”
Said the Lady Jaqueline.

“Once, caught by the sheen of stars and lace,
I bowed for a single day,
To a poor pretender, mean and base,
Unfit for place or sway.
That must have been the work of a spell,
For the foolish glamour fled,
As the sceptre from his weak hand fell,
And the crown from his feeble head;
But homage true at last I bring
To this rightful lord of mine,—
The King is dead, long live the King!”
Said the Lady Jaqueline.

“By the hand of one I held most dear,
And called my liege, my own!
I was set aside in a single year,
And a new queen shares his throne.
To him who is false, and him who is wed,
Shall I give my fealty?
Nay, the dead one is not half so dead
As the false one is to me!
My faith to the faithful now I bring,
The faithless I resign;—
The King is dead, long live the King!”
Said the Lady Jaqueline.

“Yea, all my lovers and kings that were
Are dead, and hid away,
In the past, as in a sepulchre,
Shut up till the judgment day.
False or fickle, or weak or wed,
They are all alike to me;

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And mine eyes no more can be misled,—
They have looked on royalty!
Then bring me wine, and garlands bring
For my king of the right divine;—
The King is dead, long live the King!”
Said the Lady Jaqueline.

THE WIFE'S CHRISTMAS.

How can you speak to me so, Charlie!
It is n't kind, nor right;
You would n't have talked a year ago,
As you have done to-night.

You are sorry to see me sit and cry,
Like a baby vexed, you say;
When you did n't know I wanted a gift,
Nor think about the day!

But I 'm not like a baby, Charlie,
Crying for something fine;
Only a loving woman pained,
Could shed such tears as mine.

For every Christmas time till now—
And that is why I grieve—
It was you that wanted to give, Charlie,
More than I to receive.

And all I ever had from you
I have carefully laid aside;
From the first June rose you pulled for me,
To the veil I wore as a bride.

And I would n't have cared to-night, Charlie,
How poor the gift or small;
If you only had brought me something to show
That you thought of me at all.

The merest trifle of any kind,
That I could keep or wear;
A flimsy bit of lace for my neck,
Or a ribbon for my hair.

Some pretty story of lovers true,
Or a book of pleasant rhyme;
A flower, or a holly branch, to mark
The blessèd Christmas time.

But to be forgotten, Charlie!
'T is that that brings the tear;
And just to think, that I have n't been
Your wife but a single year!

COMING ROUND.

'T is all right, as I knew it would be by and by;
We have kissed and made up again, Archie and I;
And that quarrel, or nonsense, whatever you will,
I think makes us love more devotedly still.

The trouble was all upon my side, you know;
I 'm exacting sometimes, rather foolishly so;
And let any one tell me the veriest lie
About Archie, I 'm sure to get angry and cry.

Things will go on between us again just the same,—
For as he explains matters he was n't to blame;
But 't is useless to tell you; I can't make you see
How it was, quite as plainly as he has made me.

You thought “I would make him come round when we met!”
You thought “there were slights I could never forget!”
Oh you did! let me tell you, my dear, to your face,
That your thinking these things does n't alter the case!

You “can tell what I said?” I don't wish you to tell!
You know what a temper I have, very well;
That I 'm sometimes unjust to my friends who are best;
But you 've turned against Archie the same as the rest!

“Why has n't he written? what kept him so still?”—
His silence was sorely against his own will;
He has faults, that I own; but he, he would n't deceive;
He was ill, or was busy,—was both, I believe!

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Did he flirt with that lady? I s'pose I should say,
Why, yes,—when she threw herself right in the way;
He was led off, was foolish, but that is the worst,—
And she was to blame for it all, from the first.

And he 's so glad to come back again, and to find
A woman once more with a heart and a mind;
For though others may please and amuse for an hour,
I hold all his future—his life—in my power!

And now, if things don't go persistently wrong,
Our destinies cannot be parted for long:
For he said he would give me his fortune and name,—
Not those words, but he told me what meant just the same.

So what could I do, after all, at the last,
But just ask him to pardon my doubts in the past;
For though he had been wrong, I should still, all the same,
Rather take it myself than let him bear the blame.

And, poor fellow! he felt so bad, I could not bear
To drive him by cruelty quite to despair;
And so, to confess the whole truth, when I found
He was willing to do so himself, I came round!

THE LAMP ON THE PRAIRIE.

The grass lies flat beneath the wind
That is loosed in its angry might,
Where a man is wandering, faint and blind,
On the prairie, lost at night.

No soft, sweet light of moon or star.
No sound but the tempest's tramp;
When suddenly he sees afar
The flame of a friendly lamp!

And hope revives his failing strength,
He struggles on, succeeds,—
He nears a humble roof at length,
And loud for its shelter pleads.

And a voice replies, “Whoever you be
That knock so loud at my door,
Come in, come in! and bide with me
Till this dreadful storm is o'er.

“And no wilder, fiercer time in March
Have I seen since I was born;
If a wolf for shelter sought my porch
To-night, he might lie till morn.”

As he enters, there meets the stranger's gaze
One bowed by many a year,—
A woman, alone by the hearth's bright blaze,
Tending her lamp anear.

“Right glad will I come,” he said, “for the sweep
Of the wind is keen and strong;
But tell me, good neighbor, why you keep
Your fire ablaze so long?

“You dwell so far from the beaten way
It might burn for many a night;
And only belated men, astray,
Would ever see the light.”

“Aye, aye, 't is true as you have said,
But few this way have crossed;
But why should not fires be lit and fed
For the sake of men who are lost?

“There are women enough to smile when they come,
Enough to watch and pray
For those who never were lost from home,
And never were out of the way.

“And hard it were if there were not some
To love and welcome back
The poor misguided souls who have gone
Aside from the beaten track.

“And if a clear and steady light
In my home had always shone,
My own good boy had sat to-night
By the hearth, where I sit alone.

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“But alas! there was no faintest spark
The night when he should have come;
And what had he, when the pane was dark,
To guide his footsteps home?

“But since, each night that comes and goes,
My beacon fires I burn;
For no one knows but he lives, nor knows
The time when he may return!”

“And a lonesome life you must have had,
Good neighbor, but tell me, pray,
How old when he went was your little lad?
And how long has he been away?”

“'T is thirty years, by my reckoning,
Since he sat here last with me;
And he was but twenty in the spring,—
He was only a boy, you see!

“And though never yet has my fire been low,
Nor my lamp in the window dim,
It seems not long to be waiting so,
Nor much to do for him!

“And if mine eyes may see the lad
But in death, 't is enough of joy;
What mother on earth would not be glad
To wait for such a boy!

“You think 't is long to watch at home,
Talking with fear and doubt!
But long is the time that a son may roam
Ere he tire his mother out!

“And if you had seen my good boy go,
As I saw him go from home,
With a promise to come at night, you would know
That, some good night, he would come.”

“But suppose he perished where never pass
E'en the feet of the hunter bold,
His bones might bleach in the prairie grass
Unseen till the world is old!”

“Aye, he might have died: you answer well
And truly, friend, he might;
And this good old earth on which we dwell
Might come to an end to-night!

“But I know that here in its place, instead,
It will firm and fast remain;
And I know that my son, alive or dead,
Will return to me again!

“So your idle fancies have no power
To move me or appall;
He is likelier now to come in an hour
Than never to come at all!

“And he shall find me watching yet,
Return whenever he may;
My house has been in order set
For his coming many a day.

“You were rightly shamed if his young feet crossed
That threshold stone to-night,
For your foolish words, that he might be lost,
And his bones be hid from sight!

“And oh, if I heard his light step fall,
If I saw him at night or morn
Far off, I should know my son from all
The sons that ever were born.

“And, hark! there is something strange about,
For my dull old blood is stirred:
That was n't the feet of the storm without,
Nor the voice of the storm I heard!

“It was but the wind! nay, friend, be still,
Do you think that the night wind's breath
Through my very soul could send a thrill
Like the blast of the angel, Death?

“'T is my boy! he is coming home, he is near
Or I could not hear him pass;
For his step is as light as the step of the deer
On the velvet prairie grass.

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“How the tempest roars! how my cabin rocks!
Yet I hear him through the din;
Lo! he stands without the door—he knocks—
I must rise and let him in!”

She rose, she stood erect, serene;
She swiftly crossed the floor;
And the hand of the wind, or a hand unseen,
Threw open wide the door.

Through the portal rushed the cruel blast,
With a wail on its awful swell;
As she cried, “My boy, you have come at last!”
And prone o'er the threshold fell.

And the stranger heard no other sound,
And saw no form appear;
But whoever came at the midnight found
Her lamp was burning clear!

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POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING.

A WEARY HEART.

Ye winds, that talk among the pines,
In pity whisper soft and low;
And from my trailing garden vines,
Bear the faint odors as ye go;

Take fragrance from the orchard trees,
From the meek violet in the dell;
Gather the honey that the bees
Had left you in the lily's bell;

Pass tenderly as lovers pass,
Stoop to the clover-blooms your wings,
Find out the daisies in the grass,
The sweets of all insensate things;

With muffled feet, o'er beds of flowers,
Go through the valley to the height,
Where frowning walls and lofty towers
Shut in a weary heart to-night;

Go comfort her, who fain would give
Her wealth below, her hopes above,
For the wild freedom that ye have
To kiss the humblest flower ye love!

COMING HOME.

O brothers and sisters, growing old,
Do you all remember yet
That home, in the shade of the rustling trees,
Where once our household met?

Do you know how we used to come from school,
Through the summer's pleasant heat;
With the yellow fennel's golden dust
On our tired little feet?

And how sometimes in an idle mood
We loitered by the way;
And stopped in the woods to gather flowers
And in the fields to play;

Till warned by the deep'ning shadow's fall,
That told of the coming night,
We climbed to the top of the last, long hill,
And saw our home in sight!

And, brothers and sisters, older now
Than she whose life is o'er,
Do you think of the mother's loving face,
That looked from the open door?

Alas, for the changing things of time;
That home in the dust is low;
And that loving smile was hid from us,
In the darkness, long ago!

And we have come to life's last hill,
From which our weary eyes
Can almost look on the home that shines
Eternal in the skies.

So, brothers and sisters, as we go,
Still let us move as one,
Always together keeping step,
Till the march of life is done.

For that mother, who waited for us here,
Wearing a smile so sweet,
Now waits on the hills of paradise
For her children's coming feet!

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HIDDEN SORROW.

He has gone at last; yet I could not see
When he passed to his final rest;
For he dropped asleep as quietly
As the moon drops out of the west.

And I only saw, though I kept my place,
That his mortal life was o'er,
By the look of peace across his face,
That never was there before.

Sorrow he surely had in the past,
Yet he uttered never a breath;
His lips were sealed in life as fast
As you see them sealed in death.

Why he went from the world I do not know,
Hiding a grief so deep;
But I think, if he ever had told his woe,
He had found a better sleep.

For our trouble must some time see the light,
And our anguish will have way;
And the infant, crying out in the night,
Reveals what it hid by day.

And just like a needful, sweet relief
To that bursting heart it seems,
When the little child's unspoken grief
Runs into its pretty dreams.

And I think, though his face looks hushed and mild,
And his slumber seems so deep,
He will sob in his grave, as a little child
Keeps sobbing on in its sleep.

A WOMAN'S CONCLUSIONS.

I said, if I might go back again
To the very hour and place of my birth;
Might have my life whatever I chose,
And live it in any part of the earth;

Put perfect sunshine into my sky,
Banish the shadow of sorrow and doubt;
Have all my happiness multiplied,
And all my suffering stricken out;

If I could have known in the years now gone,
The best that a woman comes to know;
Could have had whatever will make her blest,
Or whatever she thinks will make her so;

Have found the highest and purest bliss
That the bridal-wreath and ring inclose;
And gained the one out of all the world,
That my heart as well as my reason chose;

And if this had been, and I stood to-night
By my children, lying asleep in their beds
And could count in my prayers, for a rosary,
The shining row of their golden heads;

Yea! I said, if a miracle such as this
Could be wrought for me, at my bidding, still
I would choose to have my past as it is,
And to let my future come as it will!

I would not make the path I have trod
More pleasant or even, more straight or wide;
Nor change my course the breadth of a hair,
This way or that way, to either side.

My past is mine, and I take it all;
Its weakness—its folly, if you please;
Nay, even my sins, if you come to that,
May have been my helps, not hindrances!

If I saved my body from the flames
Because that once I had burned my hand;
Or kept myself from a greater sin
By doing a less—you will understand;

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It was better I suffered a little pain,
Better I sinned for a little time,
If the smarting warned me back from death,
And the sting of sin withheld from crime.

Who knows his strength, by trial, will know
What strength must be set against a sin;
And how temptation is overcome
He has learned, who has felt its power within!

And who knows how a life at the last may show?
Why, look at the moon from where we stand!
Opaque, uneven, you say; yet it shines,
A luminous sphere, complete and grand!

So let my past stand, just as it stands,
And let me now, as I may, grow old;
I am what I am, and my life for me
Is the best—or it had not been, I hold.

ANSWERED.

I thought to find some healing clime
For her I loved; she found that shore,
That city, whose inhabitants
Are sick and sorrowful no more.

I asked for human love for her;
The Loving knew how best to still
The infinite yearning of a heart,
Which but infinity could fill.

Such sweet communion had been ours
I prayed that it might never end;
My prayer is more than answered; now
I have an angel for my friend.

I wished for perfect peace, to soothe
The troubled anguish of her breast;
And, numbered with the loved and called,
She entered on untroubled rest.

Life was so fair a thing to her,
I wept and pleaded for its stay.
My wish was granted me, for lo!
She hath eternal life to-day.

DISENCHANTED.

The time has come, as I knew it must,
She said, when we should part,
But I ceased to love when I ceased to trust,
And you cannot break my heart.

Nay, I know not even if I am sad,
And it must be for the best,
Since you only take what I thought I had,
And leave to me the rest.

Not all the stars of my hope are set,
Though one is in eclipse;
And I know there is truth in the wide world yet
If it be not on your lips.

And though I have loved you, who can tell
If you ever had been so dear,
But that my heart was prodigal
Of its wealth, and you were near.

I brought each rich and beautiful thing
From my love's great treasury;
And I thought in myself to make a king
With the robes of royalty.

But you lightly laid my honors down,
And you taught me thus to know,
Not every head can wear the crown
That the hands of love bestow.

So, take whatever you can from me,
And leave me as you will;
The dear romance and the poesy
Were mine, and I have them still.

I have them still; and even now,
When my fancy has her way,
She can make a king of such as thou,
Or a god of common clay.

ALAS!

Since, if you stood by my side to-day,
Only our hands could meet,
What matter that half the weary world
Lies out between our feet;

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That I am here by the lonesome sea,
You by the pleasant Rhine?—
Our hearts were just as far apart
If I held your hand in mine!

Therefore, with never a backward glance,
I leave the past behind;
And standing here by the sea alone,
I give it to the wind.

I give it all to the cruel wind,
And I have no word to say;
Yet, alas! to be as we have been,
And to be as we are to-day!

MOTHER AND SON.

Brightly for him the future smiled,
The world was all untried;
He had been a boy, almost a child,
In your household till he died.

And you saw him, young and strong and fair,
But yesterday depart;
And you now know he is lying there
Shot to death through the heart!

Alas, for the step so proud and true
That struck on the war-path's track;
Alas, to go, as he went from you,
And to come, as they brought him back!

One shining curl from that bright young head,
Held sacred in your home,
Is all you will have to keep in his stead
In the years that are to come.

You may claim of his beauty and his youth
Only this little part—
It is not much with which to stanch
The wound in a mother's heart!

It is not much with which to dry
The bitter tears that flow;
Not much in your empty hands to lie
As the seasons come and go.

Yet he has not lived and died in vain,
For proudly you may say,
He has left a name, with never a stain
For your tears to wash away.

And evermore shall your life be blest,
Though your treasures now are few,
Since you gave for your country's good the best
God ever gave to you!

THEODORA.

By that name you will not know her,
But if words of mine can show her
In such way that you may see
How she doth appear to me;
If, attending you shall find
The fair picture in my mind,
You will think this title meetest,
Gift of God, the best and sweetest.

All her free, impulsive acting,
Is so charming, so distracting,
Lovers think her made, I know,
Only for a play-fellow.
Coral lips, concealing pearls,
Hath she, 'twixt dark rows of curls;
And her words, dropt soft and slowly,
Seem half ravishing, half holy.

She is for a saint too human,
Yet too saintly for a woman;
Something childish in her face
Blended with maturer grace,
Shows a nature pure and good,
Perfected by motherhood;—
Eyes Madonna-like, love-laden,
Holier than befit a maiden.

Simple in her faith unshrinking,
Wise as sages in her thinking;
Showing in her artless speech
All she of herself can teach;
Hiding love and thought profound,
In such depths as none may sound;
One, though known and comprehended,
Yet with wondrous mystery blended.

Sitting meekly and serenely,
Sitting in a state most queenly;
Knowing, though dethroned, discrowned,
That her kingdom shall be found;
That her Father's child must be
Heir of immortality:
This is still her highest merit,
That she ruleth her own spirit.

Thou to whom is given this treasure,
Guard it, love it without measure;

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If forgotten it should lie
In a weak hand carelessly,
Thou mayst wake to miss and weep,
That which thou didst fail to keep;
Crying, when the gift is taken,
“I am desolate, forsaken!”

UP AND DOWN.

The sun of a sweet summer morning
Smiled joyously down from the sky,
As we climbed up the mountain together,—
My charming companion and I;
The wild birds that live in the bushes
Sang love, without fear or disguise,
And the flowers, with soft, blushing faces,
Looked love from their wide-open eyes.

In and out, through the sunshine and shadow,
We went where the odors are sweet;
And the pathway that led from the valley
Was pleasant and soft to our feet:
And while we were hopefully talking—
For our hearts and our thoughts seemed in tune—
Unaware, we had climbed to the summit,
And the sun of the morning, to noon.

For my genial and pleasant companion
Was so kind and so helpful the while,
That I felt how the path of a life-time
Might be brightened and cheered by his smile;
And how blest, with his care and his guidance.
Some true, loving woman might be,—
Of course never hoping or wishing
Such fortune would happen to me!

We spoke of life, death, truth, and friendship.—
Things hoped for, below and above,
And then sitting down at the summit,
We talked about loving, and love;
And he told me the years of his lifetime
Till now had been barren and drear,
In tones that were touching and tender
As exquisite music to hear.

And I saw in the eyes looking on me,
A meaning that could not be hid,
Till I blushed—oh, it makes me so angry,
Even now, to remember I did!—
As, taking my hand, he drew nearer,
And said, in his tenderest tone,
'T was like the dear hand that so often
Had lovingly lain in his own.

And that, 't was not flattery only,
But honest and merited praise,
To say I resembled his sweetheart
Sometimes in my words and my ways.
That I had the same womanly feelings,
My thoughts were as noble and high;
But that she was a trifle, say, fairer,
And a year or two younger than I.

Then he told me my welfare was dearer
To him than I might understand,
And he wished he knew any one worthy
To claim such a prize as my hand;
And his darling, I surely must love her,
Because she was charming and good,
And because she had made him so happy;
And I said I was sure that I should—

That nothing could make me so happy
As seeing him happy; but then
I was wretchedly tired and stupid,
And wished myself back in the glen.
That the sun, so delightful at morning,
Burned now with a merciless flame;
And I dreaded again to go over
The long, weary way that we came.

So we started to go down the mountain;
But the wild birds, the poor silly things,
Had finished their season of courting,
And put their heads under their wings;
And the flowers that opened at morning,
All blushing with joy and surprise,
Had turned from the sun's burning glances,
And sleepily shut up their eyes.

Everything I had thought so delightful
Was gone, leaving scarcely a trace;
And even my charming companion
Grew stupid and quite commonplace.

331

He was not the same man that I thought him—
I can't divine why; but at once,
The fellow, who had been so charming
Was changed from a dear to a dunce.

But if any young man needs advising,
Let me whisper a word in his ear:—
Don't talk of the lady that 's absent
Too much to the lady that 's near.
My kindness is disinterested;
So in speaking to me never mind;
But the course I advise you to follow
Is safe, as a rule, you will find.

You may talk about love in the abstract,
Say the ladies are charming and dear;
But you need not select an example,
Nor say she is there, or is here.
When it comes to that last application,
Just leave it entirely out,
And give to the lady that 's present
The benefit still of the doubt!

BEYOND.

When you would have sweet flowers to smell and hold,
You do not seek them underneath the cold
Close-knitted sod, that hides away the mould;
Where in the spring-time past
The precious seed was cast.

Not down, but up, you turn your eager eyes;
You find in summer the fair flowery prize
On the green stalk, that reaches towards the skies,
And, bending down its top,
Gather the fragrant crop.

If you would find the goal of some pure rill,
That, following her unrestrainèd will,
Runs laughing down the bright slope of the hill.
Or, with a serious mien,
Walks through the valley green,

You do not seek the spot where she was born,
The cavernous mountain chamber, dim, forlorn,
That never saw the fair face of the morn,
Where she, with wailing sound,
First started from the ground;

But rather will you track her windings free,
To where at last she rushes eagerly
Into the white arms of her love, the sea,
And hides in his embrace
The rapture on her face!

If, from the branches of a neighboring tree,
A bird some morn were missing suddenly,
That all the summer sang for ecstasy,
And made your season seem
Like a melodious dream,

You would not search about the leafless dell,
In places where the nestling used to dwell,
To find the white walls of her broken shell,
Thinking your child of air,
Your wingèd joy, was there!

But rather, hurrying from the autumn gale,
Your feet would follow summer's flowery trail
To find her spicy grove, and odorous vale;
Knowing that birds and song
To pleasant climes belong.

Then wherefore, when you see a soul set free
From this poor seed of its mortality,
And know you sow not that which is to be,
Watch you about the tomb,
For the immortal bloom?

Search for your flowers in the celestial grove,
Look for your precious stream of human love
In the unfathomable sea above;
Follow your missing bird,
Where songs are always heard!

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FAVORED.

Upon her cheek such color glows,
And in her eye such light appears,
As comes, and only comes to those,
Whose hearts are all untouched by years.

Yet half her wealth she doth not see,
Nor half the kindness Heaven hath shown,
She never felt the poverty
Of souls less favored than her own.

When all is hers that life can give,
How can she tell how drear it seems
To those, uncomforted, who live
In dreaming of their vanished dreams.

Supplied beyond her greatest need
With lavish hoard of love and trust,
How shall she pity such as feed
On hearts that years have turned to dust?

When sighs are smothered down, and lost
In tenderest kisses ere they start,
What knows she of the bitter cost
Of hiding sorrow in the heart?

While fondest care each wish supplies,
And heart-strings for her frowning break,
What can she know of one who dies
For love she scarcely deigns to take?

What should she know? No weak complaint,
No cry of pain should come to her,
If mine were all the woes I paint,
And she could be my comforter!

WOMEN.

'Tis a sad truth, yet 'tis a truth
That does not need the proving:
They give their hearts away, unasked,
And are not loved for loving.

Striving to win a little back,
For all they feel they hide it;
And lips that tremble with their love,
In trembling have denied it.

Sometimes they deem the kiss and smile
Is life and love's beginning;
While he who wins the heart away,
Is satisfied with winning.

Sometimes they think they have not found
The right one for their mating;
And go on till the hair is white,
And eyes are blind with waiting.

And if the mortal tarry still,
They fill their lamps, undying;
And till the midnight wait to hear
The “Heavenly Bridegroom” crying.

For while she lives, the best of them
Is less a saint than woman;
And when her lips ask love divine,
Her heart asks love that 's human!

THE ONLY ORNAMENT.

Even as a child too well she knew
Her lack of loveliness and grace;
So, like an unprized weed she grew,
Grudging the meanest flower its face.

Often with tears her sad eyes filled,
Watching the plainest birds that went
About her home to pair, and build
Their humble nests in sweet content.

No melody was in her words;
You thought her, as she passed along,
As brown and homely as the birds
She envied, but without their song.

She saw, and sighed to see how glad
Earth makes her fair and favored child;
While all the beauty that she had
Was in her smile, nor oft she smiled.

So seasons passed her and were gone,
She musing by herself apart;
Till the vague longing that is known
To woman came into her heart.

That feeling born when fancy teems
With all that makes this life a good,
Came to her, with its wondrous dreams,
That bless and trouble maidenhood.

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She would have deemed it joy to sit
In any home, or great or small,
Could she have hoped to brighten it
For one who thought of her at all.

At night, or in some secret place,
She used to think, with tender pain,
How infants love the mother's face,
And know not if 't is fair or plain.

She longed to feast her hungry eyes
On anything her own could please;
To sing soft, loving lullabies
To children lying on her knees.

And yet beyond the world she went,
Unmissed, as if she had not been,
Taking her only ornament,
A meek and quiet soul within.

None ever knew her heart was pained,
Or that she grieved to live unsought;
They deemed her cold and self-contained,
Contented in her realm of thought.

Her patient life, when it was o'er,
Was one that all the world approved;
Some marveled at, some pitied her,
But neither man nor woman loved.

Even little children felt the same;
Were shy of her, from awe or fear;—
I wonder if she knew they came,
And scattered roses on her bier!

EQUALITY.

Most favored lady in the land,
I well can bear your scorn or pride;
For in all truest wealth, to-day,
I stand an equal by your side!

No better parentage have you,—
One is our Father, one our Friend;
The same inheritance awaits
Our claiming, at the journey's end.

No broader flight your thought can take,—
Faith on no firmer basis rest;
Nor can the dreams of fancy wake
A sweeter tumult in your breast.

Life may to you bring every good,
Which from a Father's hand can fall;
But if true lips have said to me,
“I love you,” I have known it all!

EBB-TIDE.

With her white face full of agony,
Under her dripping locks,
I hear the wretched, restless sea,
Complaining to the rocks.

Helplessly in her great despair,
She shudders on the sand,
The bright weeds dropping from her hair,
And the pale shells from her hand.

'T is pitiful thus to see her lie,
With her beating, heaving breast,
Here, where she fell, when cast aside,
Sobbing herself to rest.

Alas, alas! for the foolish sea,
Why was there none to say:
The wave that strikes on the heartless stone
Must break and fall away?

Why could she not have known that this
Would be her fate at length;—
For the hand, unheld, must slip at last,
Though it cling with love's own strength?

HAPPY WOMEN.

Impatient women, as you wait
In cheerful homes to-night, to hear
The sound of steps that, soon or late,
Shall come as music to your ear;

Forget yourselves a little while,
And think in pity of the pain
Of women who will never smile
To hear a coming step again.

With babes that in their cradle sleep,
Or cling to you in perfect trust;
Think of the mothers left to weep,
Their babies lying in the dust.

And when the step you wait for comes,
And all your world is full of light,
O women, safe in happy homes,
Pray for all lonesome souls to-night!

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LOSS AND GAIN.

Life grows better every day,
If we live in deed and truth;
So I am not used to grieve
For the vanished joys of youth.

For though early hopes may die,
Early dreams be rudely crossed;
Of the past we still can keep
Treasures more than we have lost.

For if we but try to gain
Life's best good, and hold it fast,
We grow very rich in love
Ere our mortal days are past.

Rich in golden stores of thought,
Hopes that give us wealth untold;
Rich in all sweet memories,
That grow dearer, growing old.

For when we have lived and loved,
Tasted suffering and bliss,
All the common things of life
Have been sanctified by this.

What my eyes behold to-day
Of this good world is not all,
Earth and sky are crowded full
Of the beauties they recall.

When I watch the sunset now,
As its glories change and glow,
I can see the light of suns
That were faded long ago.

When I look up to the stars,
I find burning overhead
All the stars that ever shone
In the nights that now are dead.

And a loving, tender word,
Dropping from the lips of truth,
Brings each dear remembered tone
Echoing backward from my youth.

When I meet a human face,
Lit for me with light divine,
I recall all loving eyes
That have ever answered mine.

Therefore, they who were my friends
Never can be changed or old;
For the beauty of their youth
Fond remembrance well can hold.

And even they whose feet here crossed
O'er the noiseless, calm abyss,
To the better shore which seemed
Once so far away from this;

Are to me as dwelling now
Just across a pleasant stream,
Over which they come and go,
As we journey in a dream.

A PRAYER.

I ask not wealth, but power to take
And use the things I have aright,
Not years, but wisdom that shall make
My life a profit and delight.

I ask not, that for me, the plan
Of good and ill be set aside;
But that the common lot of man
Be nobly borne, and glorified.

I know I may not always keep
My steps in places green and sweet,
Nor find the pathway of the deep
A path of safety for my feet;

But pray, that when the tempest's breath
Shall fiercely sweep my way about,
I make not shipwreck of my faith
In the unbottomed sea of doubt;

And that, though it be mine to know
How hard the stoniest pillow seems,
Good angels still may come and go,
About the places of my dreams.

I do not ask for love below,
That friends shall never be estranged;
But for the power of loving, so
My heart may keep its youth unchanged.

Youth, joy, wealth—Fate I give thee these;
Leave faith and hope till life is past;
And leave my heart's best impulses
Fresh and unfailing to the last!

MEMORIAL.

Toiling early, and toiling late,
Though her name was never heard,

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To the least of her Saviour's little ones,
She meekly ministered,—

Publishing good news to the poor;
She came to their homes unsought,
And her feet on the hills were beautiful,
For the blessings which they brought.

Such a perfect life as hers, again,
In the world we may not see;
For her heart was full of love, and her hands
Were full of charity.

Oh woe for us! cried the weak and poor,
And the weary ones made moan;
And the mourners went about the streets,
When she went to her home alone.

And, seeing her go from the field of life,
From toiling, early and late,
We said, What good has she gained, to show
For a sacrifice so great?

We might have learned from the husbandman
To wait more patiently,
Since his seed of wheat lies under the snow,
Not quickened, except it die.

For when we raised our eyes again
From their sorrow's wintry night,
We saw how the deeds of good she hid
Were pushing up to the light.

And still the precious seed she showed,
In patient, sorrowing trust,
Though not for her mortal eyes to see,
Comes blossoming out of the dust.

THE HARMLESS LUXURY.

Her skies, of whom I sing, are hung
With sad clouds, dropping saddest tears;
Yet some white days, like pearls, are strung
Upon the dark thread of her years.

And as remembrance turns to slip
Through fingers fond the treasures rare,
Ever her thankful heart and lip
Run over into song and prayer.

With joys more exquisite and deep
Than hers, she knows this good world teems,
Yet only asks that she may keep
The harmless luxury of dreams.

Thankful that, though her life has lost
The best it hoped, the best it willed,
Her sweetest dream has not been crossed,
Or worse—but only half fulfilled.

And that beside her still, to wile
Her thought from sad and sober truth,
Are Hope and Fancy, all the while
Feeding her heart's eternal youth.

And who shall say that they who close
Their eyes to Hope and Fancy's beams,
Are living truer lives than those,
The dreamers, who believe their dreams

TRIED AND TRUE.

Our life is like a march, where some
Fall early from the ranks, and die;
And some, when times of conflict come,
Go over to the enemy.

And he who halts upon the way—
Wearied in spirit and in frame—
To call his roll of friends, will find
How few make answer to their name!

And those who share our youth and joy,
Not always keep our love and trust,
When days of awful anguish bow
Our heads with sorrow to the dust.

My friend! in such a fearful hour,
When heart and spirit sank dismayed,
From thee the words of comfort came—
From thee, the true and tender aid.

Therefore, though many another friend
With youth and youthful pleasure goes,

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Thou art of such as I would have
Walk with me till life's solemn close.

Yea, with me when earth's trials are done,—
If I be found, when these shall cease,
Worthy to stand with those who wear
White raiment on the hills of peace.

PEACE.

O Land, of every land the best—
O Land, whose glory shall increase;
Now in your whitest raiment drest
For the great festival of peace:

Take from your flag its fold of gloom,
And let it float undimmed above,
Till over all our vales shall bloom
The sacred colors that we love.

On mountain high, in valley low,
Set Freedom's living fires to burn;
Until the midnight sky shall show
A redder pathway than the morn.

Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride,
Your veterans from the war-path's track;
You gave your boys, untrained, untried;
You bring them men and heroes back!

And shed no tear, though think you must
With sorrow of the martyred band;
Not even for him whose hallowed dust
Has made our prairies holy land.

Though by the places where they fell,
The places that are sacred ground,
Death, like a sullen sentinel,
Paces his everlasting round.

Yet when they set their country free
And gave her traitors fitting doom,
They left their last great enemy,
Baffled, beside an empty tomb.

Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go
Where all the paths are sweet with flowers;
They fought to give us peace, and lo!
They gained a better peace than ours.

SUNSET.

Away in the dim and distant past
That little valley lies,
Where the clouds that dimmed life's morning hours
Were tinged with hope's sweet dyes.

That peaceful spot from which I looked
To the future—unaware
That the heat and burden of the day
Were meant for me to bear.

Alas, alas! I have borne the heat,
To the burden learned to bow;
For I stand on the top of the hill of life,
And I see the sunset now!

I stand on the top, but I look not back
To the way behind me spread;
Not to the path my feet have trod,
But the path they still must tread.

And straight and plain before my gaze
The certain future lies;
But my sun grows larger all the while
As he travels down the skies.

Yea, the sun of my hope grows large and grand;
For, with my childish years,
I have left the mist that dimmed my sight,
I have left my doubts and fears.

And I have gained in hope and trust,
Till the future looks so bright,
That, letting go of the hand of Faith,
I walk, at times, by sight.

For we only feel that faith is life,
And death is the fear of death,
When we suffer up to the solemn heights
Of a true and living faith.

When we do not say, the dead shall rise
At the resurrection's call;
But when we trust in the Lord, and know
That we cannot die at all!

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APOLOGY.

Nay, darling, darling, do not frown,
Nor call my words unkind:
For my speech was but an idle jest,
As idle as the wind.

And now that I see your tender heart,
By my thoughtlessness is grieved,
I suffer both for the pain I gave,
And the pain that you received.

For if ever I have a thought of you,
That cold or cruel seems.
I have murdered my peace, and robbed my sleep
Of the joy of its happy dreams.

And when I have brought a cloud of grief
To your sweet face unaware,
Its shadow covers all my sky
With the blackness of despair.

And if in your pillow I have set
But one sharp thorn, alone,
That cruel, careless deed, transplants
A thousand to my own.

I grieve with your grief, I die in your frown,
In your joy alone I live:
And the blow that it pained your heart to feel,
I would break my own to give!

THE SHADOW.

She was so good, we thought before she died
To see new glory on her path descend;
And could not tell, till she has gone inside,
Why there was darkness at her journey's end.

And then we saw that she had stood, of late,
So near the entrance to that holy place,
That, from the Eternal City's open gate,
The awful shadow fell across her face.

MORNING AND AFTERNOON.

Fair girl, the light of whose morning keeps
The flush of its dawning glow,
Do you ask why that faded woman weeps,
Whose sun is sinking low?

You look to the future, on, above,
She only looks to the past;
You are dreaming your first sweet dream of love,
And she has dreamed her last.

You watch for feet that are yet to tread
With yours, on a pleasant track;
She hears but the echoes dull and dread
Of feet that come not back.

You are passing up the flowery slope
She left so long ago;
Your rainbows shine through the drops of hope,
And hers through the drops of woe.

Your night in its visions glides away
And at morn you live them o'er;
From her dreams by night and dreams by day
She has waked to dream no more.

You are reaching forth with spirit glad
To hopes that are still untried;
She is burying the hopes she had,
That have slipped from her arms and died.

You think of the good, for you in store,
Which the future yet will send;
While she, she knows it were well for her
If she made a peaceful end!

LIVING BY FAITH.

When the way we should tread runs evenly on,
And light as of noonday is over it all,
'T is strange how our feet will turn aside
To paths where we needs must grope and fall;

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How we suffer, knowing it all the while,
Some phantom between ourselves and the light,
That shuts in disastrous, strange eclipse,
The very powers of sense and sight.

Yet we live so, all of us, I think,
Hiding whatever of truth we choose,
And deceiving ourselves with a subtilty
That never a soul but our own could use.

We see the love in another's eyes,
Where our own, reflected, is backward sent;
Or we hear a tone, that is not in a tone,
And find a meaning that is not meant.

We put our faith in the help of those
Who never have been a help at all;
And lean on an object that all the while
We know we are holding back from its fall!

When words seem thoughtless, or deed unkind,
We are soothed with the kind intent instead;
And we say of the absent, silent one:
He is faithful—but he is sick, or dead!

We have loved some dear familiar step,
That once in its fall was firm and clear;
And that household music's sweetest sound
Came fainter every day to our ear;

And then we have talked of the faraway—
Of the springs to come and the years to be,
When the rose should bloom in our dear one's cheek,
And her feet should tread in the meadows free!

We have turned from death, to speak of life,
When we knew that earthly hope was past;
Yet thinking that somehow, God would work
A miracle for us, to the last.

We have seen the bed of a cherished friend
Pushing daily nearer and nearer, till
It stood at the very edge of the grave,
And we looked across and beyond it, still.

Aye, more than this—we have come and gazed
Down where that dear one's mortal part
Was lowered forever away from our sight;
And we did not die of a broken heart.

Are we blind! nay, we know the world unknown
Is all we would make the present seem;
That our Father keeps, till his own good time,
The things we dream of, and more than we dream.

For we shall not sleep; but we shall be changed;
And when that change at the last is made,
We shall bring realities face to face
With our souls, and we shall not be afraid.

MY LADY.

As violets, modest, tender-eyed,
The light of their beauty love to hide
In deepest solitudes;
Even thus, to dwell unseen, she chose,
My flower of womanhood, my rose,
My lady of the woods!

Full of the deepest, truest thought,
Doing the very things she ought,
Stooping to all good deeds:
Her eyes too pure to shrink from such,
And her hands too clean to fear the touch
Of the sinfulest in his needs.

There is no line of beauty or grace
That was not found in her pleasant face,
And no heart can ever stir,
With a sense of human wants and needs,

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With promptings unto the holiest deeds,
But had their birth in her.

With never a taint of the world's untruth,
She lived from infancy to youth,
From youth to womanhood:
Taking no soil in the ways she trod,
But pure as she came from the hand of God,
Before His face she stood.

My sweetest darling, my tenderest care!
The hardest thing that I have to bear
Is to know my work is past;
That nothing now I can say or do
Will bring any comfort or aid to you,—
I have said and done the last.

Yet I know I never was good enough,
That my tenderest efforts were all too rough
To help a soul so fine;
So the lovingest angel among them all,
Whose touches fell, with the softest fall,
Has pushed my hand from thine!

PASSING FEET.

All these hours she sits and counts,
As they pass her slow and sad,
Are the headsmen cutting off
Every flower of hope she had;

And the feet that come and go
In the darkness past her door,
If they trod upon her heart,
Could not pain it any more.

Friends hastening now to friends,
Faster as the night grows late;
Through all places men can go,
To all homes where women wait.

Some are pressing through the wood
Where the path is faint and new;
Some strike out a shorter way,
Across meadows wet with dew.

Some, along the highway's track,
Music to their footsteps keep;
Some are pushing into port,
From their exile on the deep.

But the hope she had at eve
From her wretched soul has fled;
For the lamp of love she lit
Has burned useless, and is dead.

So the feet that come and go,
In the darkness past her door,
If they trod upon her heart
Could not pain it any more!

MY RICHES.

There is no comfort in the world
But I, in thought, have known;
No bliss for any human heart,
I have not dreamed my own;
And fancied joys may sometimes be
More real than reality.

I have a house in which to live,
Pleasant, and fair, and good,
Its hearth is crowned with warmth and light,
Its board with daintiest food.
And I, when tired with care or doubt,
Go in and shut my sorrows out.

I have a father, one whose care
Goes with me where I roam;
A mother, waiting anxiously
To see her child come home;
And sisters, from whose tender eyes
The love in mine hath sweet replies.

I have a friend, who sees in me
What none beside can see,
Not faultless, but as firm and true,
And pure, as man may be;
A friend, whose love is never dim,
And I can never change to him.

My boys are very gentle boys,
And after they are grown,
They 're nobler, better, braver men
Than any I have known!
And all my girls are fair and good
From infancy to womanhood.

So with few blessings in the world
That men can see or name,
Home, love, and all that love can bring
My mind has power to claim;
And life can never cease to be
A good and pleasant thing to me.

340

FIGS OF THISTLES.

As laborers set in a vineyard
Are we set in life's field,
To plant and to garner the harvest
Our future shall yield.

And never since harvests were ripened,
Or laborers born.
Have men gathered figs of the thistle,
Or grapes of the thorn!

Even he who has faithfully scattered
Clean seed in the ground,
Has seen, where the green blade was growing,
Tares of evil abound.

Our labor ends not with the planting,
Sure watch must we keep,
For the enemy sows in the night-time
While husbandmen sleep.

And sins, all unsought and unbidden,
Take root in the mind;
As the weeds grow, to choke up the blossoms
Chance-sown by the wind.

But no good crop, our hands never planted,
Doth Providence send;
Nor doth that which we planted have increase
Till we water and tend.

By our fruits, whether good, whether evil,
At last are we shown;
And he who has nothing to gather,
By his lack shall be known.

And no useless creature escapeth
His righteous reward;
For the tree or the soul that is barren
Is cursed of the Lord!

IMPATIENCE.

Will the mocking daylight never be done:
Is the moon her hour forgetting?
O weary sun! O merciless sun!
You have grown so slow in setting!

And yet, if the days could come and go
As fast as I count them over,
They would seem to me like years, I know,
Till they brought me back my lover.

Down through the valleys, down to the south,
O west wind, go with fleetness,
Kiss, with your daintiest kisses, his mouth,
And bring to me all its sweetness.

Go when he lieth in slumber deep,
And put your arms about him,
And hear if he whisper my name in his sleep,
And tell him, I die without him.

O birds, that sail in the air like ships,
To me such discord bringing,
If you heard the sound of my lover's lips,
You would be ashamed of your singing!

O rose, from whose heart such a crimson rain
Up to your soft cheek gushes,
You never could show your face again,
If you saw my lover's blushes!

O hateful stars, in hateful skies,
Can you think your light is tender,
When you steal it all from my lover's eyes,
And shine with a borrowed splendor?

O sun, going over the western wall,
If you stay there none will heed you;
For why should you rise or shine at all
When he is not here to need you?

Will the mocking daylight never be done?
Is the moon her hour forgetting?
O weary sun! O merciless sun!
You have grown so slow in setting!

THOU AND I.

Strange, strange for thee and me,
Sadly afar;

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Thou safe beyond, above,
I 'neath the star;
Thou where flowers deathless spring,
I where they fade;
Thou in God's paradise,
I 'mid time's shade!

Thou where each gale breathes balm,
I tempest-tossed;
Thou where true joy is found,
I where 't is lost;
Thou counting ages thine,
I not the morrow;
Thou learning more of bliss,
I more of sorrow.

Thou in eternal peace,
I 'mid earth's strife;
Thou where care hath no name,
I where 't is life;
Thou without need of hope,
I where 't is vain;
Thou with wings dropping light,
I with time's chain.

Strange, strange for thee and me,
Loved, loving ever;
Thou by Life's deathless fount,
I near Death's river:
Thou winning Wisdom's love,
I strength to trust;
Thou 'mid the seraphim,
I in the dust!

NOBODY'S CHILD.

Only a newsboy, under the light
Of the lamp-post plying his trade in vain:
Men are too busy to stop to-night,
Hurrying home through the sleet and rain.
Never since dark a paper sold;
Where shall he sleep, or how be fed?
He thinks as he shivers there in the cold,
While happy children are safe abed.

Is it strange if he turns about
With angry words, then comes to blows,
When his little neighbor, just sold out,
Tossing his pennies, past him goes?
“Stop!”—some one looks at him, sweet and mild,
And the voice that speaks is a tender one:
“You should not strike such a little child,
And you should not use such words, my son!”

Is it his anger or his fears
That have hushed his voice and stopped his arm?
“Don't tremble,” these are the words he hears;
“Do you think that I would do you harm?”
“It is n't that,” and the hand drops down;
“I would n't care for kicks and blows;
But nobody ever called me son,
Because I 'm nobody's child, I s'pose.”

O men! as ye careless pass along,
Remember the love that has cared for you;
And blush for the awful shame and wrong
Of a world where such a thing could be true!
Think what the child at your knee had been
If thus on life's lonely billows tossed;
And who shall bear the weight of the sin,
If one of these “little ones” be lost!

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POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME.

AN APRIL WELCOME.

Come up, April, through the valley,
In your robes of beauty drest,
Come and wake your flowery children
From their wintry beds of rest;
Come and overblow them softly
With the sweet breath of the south;
Drop upon them, warm and loving,
Tenderest kisses of your mouth.

Touch them with your rosy fingers,
Wake them with your pleasant tread,
Push away the leaf-brown covers,
Over all their faces spread;
Tell them how the sun is waiting
Longer daily in the skies,
Looking for the bright uplifting
Of their softly-fringèd eyes.

Call the crow-foot and the crocus,
Call the pale anemone,
Call the violet and the daisy,
Clothed with careful modesty;
Seek the low and humble blossoms,
Of their beauties unaware,
Let the dandelion and fennel,
Show their shining yellow hair.

Bid the little homely sparrows
Chirping, in the cold and rain,
Their impatient sweet complaining,
Sing out from their hearts again;
Bid them set themselves to mating,
Cooling love in softest words,
Crowd their nests, all cold and empty,
Full of little callow birds.

Come up, April, through the valley,
Where the fountain sleeps to-day,
Let him, freed from icy fetters,
Go rejoicing on his way;
Through the flower-enameled meadows
Let him run his laughing race,
Making love to all the blossoms
That o'erlean and kiss his face.

But not birds and blossoms only,
Not alone the streams complain,
Men and maidens too are calling,
Come up, April, come again!
Waiting with the sweet impatience
Of a lover for the hours
They shall set the tender beauty
Of thy feet among the flowers!

MY NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE.

In the years that now are dead and gone—
Aye, dead, but ne'er forgot—
My neighbor's stately house looked down
On the walls of my humble cot.

I had my flowers and trees, 't is true,
But they looked not fine and tall
As my neighbor's flowers and trees, that grew
On the other side of the wall.

Through the autumn leaves his ripe fruits gleamed
With richer tints than mine,
And his grapes in the summer sunshine seemed
More full of precious wine.

Through garden walk and bower I stray
Unbidden now and free;
For my neighbor long has passed away,
And his wealth has come to me.

I pace those stately halls at last,
But a darker shadow falls

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Within the house than once it cast
On my lowly cottage walls.

I pluck the fruit, the wine I waste,
I drag through the weary hours;
But the fruit is bitter to my taste,
And I tire of the scent of flowers.

And I 'd take my poverty instead
And all that I have resign,
To feel as I felt when I coveted
The wealth that now is mine.

THE FORTUNE IN THE DAISY.

Of what are you dreaming, my pretty maid,
With your feet in the summer clover?
Ah! you need not hang your modest head:
I know 't is about your lover.

I know by the blushes on your cheek,
Though you strive to hide the token;
And I know because you will not speak,
The thought that is unspoken.

You are counting the petals, one by one,
Of your dainty, dewy posies,
To find from their number, when 't is done,
The secret it discloses.

You would see if he comes with gold and land—
The lover that is to woo you;
Or only brings his heart and his hand,
For your heart and your hand to sue you.

Beware, beware, what you say and do,
Fair maid, with your feet in the clover;
For the poorest man that comes to woo,
May be the richest lover!

Since not by outward show and sign
Can you reckon worth's true measure,
Who only is rich in soul and mind,
May offer the greatest treasure.

Ah! there never was power in gems alone
To bind a brow from aching;
Nor strength enough in a jeweled zone
To hold a heart from breaking.

Then be not caught by the sheen and glare
Of worldly wealth and splendor;
But speak him soft, and speak him fair,
Whose heart is true and tender.

You may wear your virtues as a crown.
As you walk through life serenely;
And grace your simple rustic gown
With a beauty more than queenly—

Though only one for you shall care,
One only speak your praises;
And you never wear, in your shining hair,
A richer flower than daisies!

A PICTURE.

Her brown hair plainly put away
Under her broad hat's rustic brim;
That threw across her placid brow
Its veil-like shadow, cool and dim:

Her shut lips sweet as if they moved
Only to accents good and true;
Her eyes down-dropt, yet bright and clear
As violets shining out of dew:

And folded close together now
The tender hands that seemed to prove
Their wondrous fitness to perform
The works of charitable love.

Such is her picture, but too fair
For pencil or for pen to paint;
For who could show you all in one
The child, the woman, and the saint?

I needs must fail; for mortal hand
Her full completeness may not trace,
Whose meek and quiet spirit gives
Heaven's beauty to an earthly face!

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FAITH.

Dear, gentle Faith! on the sheltered porch
She used to sit by the hour,
As still and white as the whitest rose
That graced the vines of her bower.
She watched the motes in the sun, the bees,
And the glad birds come and go;
The butterflies, and the children bright
That chased them to and fro.
She saw them happy, one and all,
And she said that God was good;
Though she never had walked on the sweet green grass,
And, alas! she never would!

She saw the happy maid fulfill
Her woman's destiny;
The trusting bride on the lover's arm,
And the babe on the mother's knee.
She folded meek, her empty hands,
And she blest them, all and each,
While the treasure that she coveted
Was put beyond her reach.

“Yea, if God wills it so,” she said,
“Even so 't is mine to live.
What to withhold He knoweth best,
As well as what to give!”

At last, for her, the very sight
Of the good, fair earth was done.
She could not reach the porch, nor see
The grass, nor the motes in the sun;
Yet still her smile of sweet content
Made heavenly all the place,
As if they sat about her bed
Who see the Father's face;
For to his will she bent her head,
As bends to the rain the rose.
“We know not what is best,” she said;
“We only know He knows!”

Poor, crippled Faith! glad, happy Faith!
Even in affliction blest;
For she made the cross we thought so hard
A sweet support and rest.
Wise, trusting Faith! when she gave her hand
To One we could not see,
She told us all she was happier
Than we could ever be.
And we knew she thought how her feet, that ne'er
On the good, green earth had trod,
Would walk at last on the lily-beds
That bloom in the smile of God!

TO AN ELF ON A BUTTERCUP.

Cunning little fairy,
Where the breezes blow,
Rocking in a buttercup,
Lightly to and fro;
Little folks for nothing
Look not so demure;
You are planning mischief,
I am very sure!

You will soon be dancing
Down beside the spring;
On the velvet meadow,
In a fairy ring;
Spoiling where the ewes feed
All the tender grass;
And making charmèd circles,
Mortals dare not pass.

Darkening light where lovers
Modest sit apart,
You will kiss the maiden,
With your wicked art;
Make her think her wooer
Woefully to blame;
Through her frowns and blushes
Crying out, “For shame!”

Ah! my little fairy,
With your mystic charms,
You have slipped the infant
From its mother's arms;
And have left a changeling
In its place at night;
While you turned the mortal
To a tricksy sprite.

Thus you mix folks up so,
Wicked, willful elf;
Never one of us can know
If he be himself:
And sitting here and telling
Of the tricks you do;
I wonder whether I am I,
Or whether I am you!

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PROVIDENCE.

“Ah! what will become of the lily,
When the summer-time is dead?
Must she lay her spotless robes away,
And hide in the dust her head?”

“My child, the hand that bows her head
Can lift it up anew;
And weave another shining robe
Of sunshine and of dew.”

“But, father, what will the sparrows do?
Though they chirp so blithe and bold,
When the shelter of the leaves is gone
They must perish with the cold.”

“The sparrows are little things, my child,
And the cold is hard to bear;
Yet never one of these shall fall
Without our Father's care.”

“But how will the tender lambs be clothed?
For you know the shepherd said,
He must take their fleeces all away,
For us to wear instead.”

“They are warm enough to-day, my child,
And so soon their fleeces grow,
They each will have another one
Before they feel the snow.”

“I know you will keep me, father;
That I shall be clothed and fed;
But suppose that I were lost from home,
Oh, suppose that you were dead!”

“My child, there is One who seeks you,
No matter where you roam:
And you may not stray so far away,
That He cannot bring you home.”

“For you have a better Father,
In a better home above;
And the very hairs of your precious head
Are numbered by His love!”

OLD PICTURES.

Old pictures, faded long, to-night
Come out revealed by memory's gleam;
And years of checkered dark and light
Vanish behind me like a dream.

I see the cottage, brown and low,
The rustic porch, the roof-tree's shade,
And all the place where long ago
A group of happy children played.

I see the brother, bravest, best,
The prompt to act, the bold to speak;
The baby, dear and honored guest!
The timid sister, shy and meek.

I see her loving face who oft
Watched, that their slumbers might be sweet;
And his whose dear hand made so soft
The path for all their tender feet.

I see, far off, the woods whose screen
Bounded the little world we knew;
And near, in fairy rings of green,
The grass that round the door-stones grew.

I watch at morn the oxen come,
And bow their meek necks to the yoke;
Or stand at noontide, patient, dumb,
In the great shadow of the oak.

The barn with crowded mows of hay,
And roof upheld by golden sheaves;
Its rows of doves, at close of day,
Cooing together on the eaves.

I see, above the garden-beds,
The bee at work with laden wing;
The dandelions' yellow heads
Crowding about the orchard spring;

The little, sweet-voiced, homely thrush;
The field-lark, with her speckled breast;
The finches in the currant-bush;
And where the bluebirds hid their nest.

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I see the comely apple-trees,
In spring, a-blush with blossoms sweet;
Or, bending with the autumn breeze,
Shake down their ripe fruits at our feet.

I see, when hurtling through the air
The arrows of the winter fly,
And all the frozen earth lies bare,
A group about the hearth draw nigh,

Of little ones that never tire
Of stories told and told again;
I see the pictures in the fire,
The firelight pictures in the pane.

I almost feel the stir and buzz
Of day; the evening's holy calm;
Yea, all that made me what I was,
And helped to make me what I am.

Then lo! it dies, as died our youth;
And things so strange about me seem,
I know not what should be the truth,
Nor whether I would wake or dream.

I have not found to-day so vain,
Nor yesterday so fair and good,
That I would have my life again,
And live it over if I could.

Not every hope for me has proved
A house on weak foundation built;
I have not seen the feet I loved
Caught in the awful snares of guilt.

But when I see the paths so hard
Kept soft and smooth in days gone by;
The lives that years have made or marred,
Out of my loneliness I cry:

Oh, for the friends that made so bright
The days, alas! too soon to wane!
Oh, but to be one hour to-night
Set in their midst, a child again!

THE PLAYMATES.

Two careless, happy children,
Up when the east was red,
And never tired and never still
Till the sun had gone to bed;
Helping the winds in winter
To toss the snows about;
Gathering the early flowers,
When spring-time called them out;
Playing among the windrows
Where the mowers mowed the hay;
Finding the place where the skylark
Had hidden her nest away;
Treading the cool, damp furrows
Behind the shining plough;
Up in the barn with the swallows,
And sliding over the mow;
Pleased with the same old stories,
Heard a thousand times;
Believing all the wonders
Written in tales or rhymes;
Counting the hours in summer
When even a day seemed long;
Counting the hours in winter
Till the time of leaves and song.
Thinking it took forever
For little children to grow,
And that seventy years of a life-time
Never could come and go.
Oh, I know they were happier children
Than the world again may see,
For one was my little playmate,
And one, ah! one was me!

A sad-faced man and woman,
Leagues and leagues apart,
Doing their work as best they may
With weary hand and heart;
Shrinking from winter's tempests,
And summer's burning heat;
Thinking that skies were brighter
And flowers were once more sweet;
Wondering why the skylark
So early tries his wings;
And if green fields are hidden
Beyond the gate where he sings!
Feeling that time is slipping
Faster and faster away;
That a day is but as a moment,
And the years of life as a day;
Seeing the heights and places
Others have reached and won;
Sighing o'er things accomplished,
And things that are left undone;
And yet still trusting, somehow,
In his own good time to become
Again as little children,
In their Heavenly Father's home;
One crowding memories backward,
In the busy, restless mart.
One pondering on them ever.
And keeping them in her heart;

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Going on by their separate pathways
To the same eternity—
And one of these is my playmate,
And one, alas! is me!

“THE BAREFOOT BOY.”

Ah! “Barefoot Boy!” you have led me back
O'er the waste of years profound,
To the still, sweet spots, which memory
Hath kept as haunted ground.
You have led me back to the western hills,
Where I played through the summer hours;
And called my little playmate up,
To stand among the flowers.

We are hand in hand in the fields again,
We are treading through the dew!
And not the poet's “barefoot boy,”
Nor him the artist drew,
Is half so brave and bold and good,
Though bright their colors glow,
As the darling playmate that I had
And lost, so long ago!

I touch the spring-time's tender grass,
I find the daisy buds;
I feel the shadows deep and cool,
In the heart of the summer woods;
I see the ripened autumn nuts,
Like thick hail strew the earth;
I catch the fall of the winter snow,
And the glow of the cheerful hearth!

But alas! my playmate, loved and lost,
My heart is full of tears,
For the dead and buried hopes, that are more
Than our dead and buried years:
And I cannot see the poet's rhymes,
Nor the lines the artist drew.
But only the boy that held my hand,
And led my feet through the dew!

WINTER FLOWERS.

Though Nature's lonesome, leafless bowers,
With winter's awful snows are white,
The tender smell of leaves and flowers
Makes May-time in my room to-night:

While some, in homeless poverty,
Shrink moaning from the bitter blast;
What am I, that my lines should be
In good and pleasant places cast?

When other souls despairing stand,
And plead with famished lips to-day,
Why is it that a loving hand
Should scatter blossoms in my way?

O flowers, with soft and dewy eyes,
To God my gratitude reveal;
Send up your incense to the skies,
And utter, for me, what I feel!

O innocent roses, in your buds
Hiding for very modesty;
O violets, smelling of the woods,
Thank Him, with all your sweets for me!

And tell him, I would give this hour
All that is mine of good beside,
To have the pure heart of a flower,
That has no stain of sin to hide.

MARCH CROCUSES.

O fickle and uncertain March,
How could you have the heart,
To make the tender crocuses
From their beds untimely start?

Those foolish, unsuspecting flowers,
Too credulous to see
That the sweetest promises of March
Are not May's certainty.

When you smiled a few short hours ago,
What said your whisper, light,
That made them lift their pretty heads
So hopeful and so bright?

I could not catch a single word,
But I saw your light caress;
And heard your rough voice softened down
To a lover's tenderness.

O cruel and perfidious month,
It makes me sick and sad,

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To think how yesterday your smile
Made all the blossoms glad!

O trustful, unsuspecting flowers,
It breaks my heart to know,
That all your golden heads to-day
Are underneath the snow!

HOMESICK.

Comfort me with apples!
I am sick unto death, I am sad to despair;
My trouble is more than my strength is to bear;
Back again to the green hills that first met my sight
I come, as a child to its mother, to-night;—
Comfort me with apples!

Comfort me with apples!
Bring the ripe mellow fruit from the early “sweet bough,”—
(Is the tree that we used to climb growing there now?)
And “russets,” whose cheeks are as freckled and dun
As the cheeks of the children that play in the sun;—
Comfort me with apples!

Comfort me with apples!
Gather those streaked with red, that we named “morning-light.”
Our good father set, when his hair had grown white,
The tree, though he said when he planted the root.
“The hands of another shall gather the fruit;”—
Comfort me with apples!

Comfort me with apples!
Go down to the end of the orchard, and bring
The fair “lady-fingers” that grew by the spring;
Pale “bell-flowers,” and “pippins,” all burnished with gold.
Like the fruit the Hesperides guarded of old;—
Comfort me with apples!

Comfort me with apples!
Get the sweet “junietta,” so loved by the bees,
And the “pearmain,” that grew on the queen of the trees;
And close by the brook, where they hang ripe and lush;
Go and shake down the best of them all,—“maiden's-blush;”—
Comfort me with apples!

Comfort me with apples!
For lo! I am sick; I am sad and opprest;
I come back to the place where, a child, I was blest.
Hope is false, love is vain, for the old things I sigh;
And if these cannot comfort me, then I must die!
Comfort me with apples!

“FIELD PREACHING.”

I have been out to-day in field and wood,
Listening to praises sweet and counsel good
Such as a little child had understood,
That, in its tender youth,
Discerns the simple eloquence of truth.

The modest blossoms, crowding round my way,
Though they had nothing great or grand to say,
Gave out their fragrance to the wind all day;
Because his loving breath,
With soft persistence, won them back from death.

And the right royal lily, putting on
Her robes, more rich than those of Solomon,
Opened her gorgeous missal in the sun,
And thanked Him, soft and low,
Whose gracious, liberal hand had clothed her so.

When wearied, on the meadow-grass I sank;
So narrow was the rill from which I drank,
An infant might have stepped from bank to bank;
And the tall rushes near
Lapping together, hid its waters clear.

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Yet to the ocean joyously it went;
And rippling in the fullness of content,
Watered the pretty flowers that o'er it leant;
For all the banks were spread
With delicate flowers that on its bounty fed.

The stately maize, a fair and goodly sight,
With serried spear-points bristling sharp and bright,
Shook out his yellow tresses, for delight,
To all their tawny length,
Like Samson, glorying in his lusty strength.

And every little bird upon the tree,
Ruffling his plumage bright, for ecstasy,
Sang in the wild insanity of glee;
And seemed, in the same lays,
Calling his mate and uttering songs of praise.

The golden grasshopper did chirp and sing;
The plain bee, busy with her housekeeping,
Kept humming cheerfully upon the wing,
As if she understood
That, with contentment, labor was a good.

I saw each creature, in his own best place,
To the Creator lift a smiling face,
Praising continually his wondrous grace;
As if the best of all
Life's countless blessings was to live at all!

So with a book of sermons, plain and true,
Hid in my heart, where I might turn them through,
I went home softly, through the falling dew,
Still listening, rapt and calm,
To Nature giving out her evening psalm.

While, far along the west, mine eyes discerned,
Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset burned,
The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame were turned;
And I, in that great hush,
Talked with his angels in each burning bush!

GATHERING BLACKBERRIES.

Little Daisy smiling wakes
From her sleep as morning breaks,
Why, she knoweth well;
Yet if you should ask her, surely
She would answer you demurely,
That she cannot tell.

Careful Daisy, with no sound,
Slips her white feet to the ground,
Saying, very low,
She must rise and help her mother,
And be ready, if her brother
Needs her aid, to go!

Foolish Daisy, o'er her lips
Only that poor falsehood slips,
Truth is in her cheeks;
Her own words cannot deceive her,
Her own heart will not believe her
In a blush it speaks.

Daisy knows that, when the heat
Dries the dew upon the wheat,
She will be away;
She and Ernest, just another
Who, she says, is like a brother,
Making holiday.

For the blackberries to-day
Will be ripe, the reapers say,
Ripe as they can be:
And not wholly for the pleasure,
But lest others find the treasure,
She must go and see.

Eager Daisy, at the gate
Meeting Ernest, scarce can wait,
But she checks her heart;
And she says, her soft eyes beaming
With an innocent, grave seeming;
“Is it time to start?”

Cunning Daisy tries to go
Very womanly and slow,
And to act so well

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That, if any one had seen them,
With the dusty road between them,
What was there to tell?

Happy Daisy, when they gain
The green windings of the lane,
Where the hedge is thick;
For they find, beneath its shadow,
Wild sweet roses in the meadow,
More than they can pick.

Bending low, and rising higher,
Scarlet pinks their lamps of fire
Lightly swing about;
And the wind that blows them over
Out of sight among the clover,
Seems to blow them out!

Doubting Daisy, as she hies
Toward the field of berries, cries:
“What if they be red?”
Black and ripe they find them rather,
Black and ripe enough to gather,
As the reapers said.

Lucky Daisy, Ernest finds
Berries for her in the vines,
Hidden where she stands;
And with fearless arm he pushes
Back the cruel, briery bushes,
That would hurt her hands.

He would have her hold her cup
Just for him to fill it up,
But away she trips:
Picking daintily, she lingers
Till she dyes her pretty fingers
Redder than her lips.

Thoughtful Daisy, what she hears,
What she hopes, or what she fears,
Who of us can tell?
For if, going home, she carries
Richer treasure than her berries,
She will guard it well!

Puzzled Daisy does not know
Why the sun, who rises slow,
Hurries overhead:
He, that lingered at the morning,
Drops at night with scarce a warning
On his cloudy bed.

All too narrow at the start
Seemed the path, they kept apart,
Though the way was rough;
Now the path, that through the hollow
Closely side by side they follow,
Seemeth wide enough.

Hopeful Daisy, will the days
That are brightening to her gaze
Brighter grow than this?
Will she, mornings without number,
Wake up restless from her slumber,
Just for happiness?

Will the friend so kind to-day,
Always push the thorns away,
With which earth is rife?
Will he be her true, true lover,
Will he make her cup run over
With the wine of life?

Blessèd Daisy, will she be,
If above mortality
Thus she stands apart;
Cursèd, if the hand, unsparing,
Let the thorns fly backward, tearing
All her bleeding heart!

Periled Daisy, none can know
What the future has to show:
There must come what must;
But, if blessings be forbidden,
Let the truth awhile be hidden—
Let her hope and trust.

Let all women born to weep,
Their heart's breaking—all who keep
Hearts still young and whole,
Pray, as fearing no denying,
Pray with me, as for the dying,
For this maiden's soul!

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SPRING AFTER THE WAR.

Come, loveliest season of the year,
And every quickened pulse shall beat,
Your footsteps in the grass to hear,
And feel your kisses, soft and sweet!

Come, and bestow new happiness
Upon the heart that hopeful thrills;
Sing with the lips that sing for bliss,
And laugh with children on the hills.

Lead dancing streams through meadows green,
And in the deep, deserted dells
Where poets love to walk unseen,
Plant flowers, with all delicious smells.

To humble cabins kindly go,
And train your shady vines, to creep
About the porches, cool and low,
Where mothers rock their babes to sleep.

But come with hushed and reverent tread,
And bring your gifts, most pure and sweet,
To hallowed places where our dead
Are sleeping underneath your feet.

There let the turf be lightly pressed,
And be your tears that softly flow
The sweetest, and the sacredest,
That ever pity shed for woe!

Scatter your holiest drop of dew,
Sing hymns of sacred melody;
And keep your choicest flowers to strew
The places where our heroes lie.

But most of all, go watch about
The unknown beds of such as sleep,
Where love can never find them out,
Nor faithful friendship come to weep.

Go where the ocean moans and cries,
For those her waters hide from sight;
And where the billows heave and rise,
Scatter the flowery foam-wreaths, white.

Aye, all your dearest treasures keep;
We shall not miss them, but instead
Will give them joyfully, to heap
The holy altars of our dead!

The poet from his wood-paths wild,
I know will take his sweetest flower,
The mother, singing to her child,
Will strip the green vines from her bower;

The poor man from his garden bed
The unpretending blooms will spare;

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The lover give the roses red
He gathered for his darling's hair.

Yea, all thy gifts we love and prize
We ask thee reverently to bring,
And lay them on the darkened eyes,
That wait their everlasting spring!

THE BOOK OF NATURE.

We scarce could doubt our Father's power,
Though his greatness were untold
In the sacred record made for us
By the prophet-bards of old.

We must have felt his watchfulness
About us everywhere;
Though we had not learned, in the Holy Word,
How He keeps us in his care.

I almost think we should know his love,
And dream of his pardoning grace,
If we never had read how the Saviour came,
To die for a sinful race.

For the sweetest parables of truth
In our daily pathway lie,
And we read, without interpreter,
The writing on the sky.

The ravens, fed when they clamor, teach
The human heart to trust;
And the rain of goodness speaks, as it falls
On the unjust and the just.

The sunshine drops, like a leaf of gold,
From the book of light above;
And the lily's missal is written full
Of the words of a Father's love.

So, when we turn from the sacred page
Where the holy record lies,
And its gracious plans and promises
Are hidden from our eyes;

One open volume still is ours,
To read and understand;
And its living characters are writ
By our Father's loving hand!

SUGAR-MAKING.

The crocus rose from her snowy bed
As she felt the spring's caresses,
And the willow from her graceful head
Shook out her yellow tresses.

Through the crumbling walls of his icy cell
Stole the brook, a happy rover;
And he made a noise like a silver bell
In running under and over.

The earth was pushing the old dead grass
With lily hand from her bosom,
And the sweet brown buds of the sassafras
Could scarcely hide the blossom.

And breaking nature's solitude
Came the axe strokes clearly ringing,
For the chopper was busy in the wood
Ere the early birds were singing.

All day the hardy settler now
At his tasks was toiling steady;
His fields were cleared, and his shining plow
Was set by the furrow ready.

And down in the woods, where the sun appeared
Through the naked branches breaking,
His rustic cabin had been reared
For the time of sugar-making.

And now, as about it he came and went,
Cheerfully planning and toiling,
His good child sat there, with eyes intent
On the fire and the kettles boiling.

With the beauty Nature gave as her dower,
And the artless grace she taught her,
The woods could boast no fairer flower,
Than Rose, the settler's daughter.

She watched the pleasant fire anear,
And her father coming and going,
And her thoughts were all as sweet and clear
As the drops his pail o'erflowing.

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For she scarce had dreamed of earthly ills,
And love had never found her;
She lived shut in by the pleasant hills
That stood as a guard around her;

And she might have lived the self-same way
Through all the springs to follow,
But for a youth, who came one day
Across her in the hollow.

He did not look like a wicked man,
And yet, when he saw that blossom,
He said, “I will steal this Rose if I can,
And hide it in my bosom.”

That he could be tired you had not guessed
Had you seen him lightly walking;
But he must have been, for he stopped to rest
So long that they fell to talking.

Alas! he was athirst, he said,
Yet he feared there was no slaking
The deep and quenchless thirst he had
For a draught beyond his taking.

Then she filled the cup and gave to him.
The settler's blushing daughter,
And he looked at her across the brim
As he slowly drank the water.

And he sighed as he put the cup away,
For lips and soul were drinking;
But what he drew from her eyes that day
Was the sweetest, to his thinking.

I do not know if her love awoke
Before his words awoke it;
If she guessed at his before he spoke,
Or not until he spoke it.

But howsoe'er she made it known,
And howsoe'er he told her,
Each unto each the heart had shown
When the year was little older.

For oft he came her voice to hear,
And to taste of the sugar-water;
And she was a settler's wife next year
Who had been a settler's daughter.

And now their days are fair and fleet
As the days of sugar weather,
While they drink the water, clear and sweet,
Of the cup of life together.

SPRING FLOWERS.

O sweet and charitable friend,
Your gift of fragrant bloom
Has brought the spring-time and the woods,
To cheer my lonesome room.

It rests my weary, aching eyes,
And soothes my heart and brain;
To see the tender green of the leaves,
And the blossoms wet with rain.

I know not which I love the most,
Nor which the comeliest shows,
The timid, bashful violet,
Or the royal-hearted rose:

The pansy in her purple dress,
The pink with cheek of red,
Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs,
Like a bashful maid, her head.

For I love and prize you one and all,
From the least low bloom of spring
To the lily fair, whose clothes outshine
The raiment of a king.

And when my soul considers these,
The sweet, the grand, the gay,
I marvel how we shall be clothed
With fairer robes than they;

And almost long to sleep, and rise
And gain that fadeless shore,
And put immortal splendor on,
And live, to die no more.

The last poem written by Phœbe Cary.

354

POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

AMY'S LOVE-LETTER.

Turning some papers carelessly
That were hid away in a desk unused,
I came upon something yesterday
O'er which I pondered and mused:

A letter, faded now and dim,
And stained in places, as if by tears;
And yet I had hardly thought of him
Who traced its pages for years.

Though once the happy tears made dim
My eyes, and my blushing cheeks grew hot,
To have but a single word from him,
Fond or foolish, no matter what.

If he ever quoted another's rhymes,
Poor in themselves and common-place,
I said them over a thousand times,
As if he had lent them a grace.

The single color that pleased his taste
Was the only one I would have, or wear,
Even in the girdle about my waist
Or the ribbon that bound my hair.

Then my flowers were the self-same kind and hue:
And yet how strangely one forgets—
I cannot think which one of the two
It was, or roses or violets!

But oh, the visions I knew and nursed,
While I walked in a world unseen before!
For my world began when I knew him first,
And must end when he came no more.

We would have died for each other's sake,
Would have given all else in the world below;
And we said and thought that our hearts would break
When we parted, years ago.

How the pain as well as the rapture seems
A shadowy thing I scarce recall,
Passed wholly out of my life and dreams,
As though it had never been at all.

And is this the end, and is here the grave
Of our steadfast love and our changeless faith
About which the poets sing and rave,
Naming it strong as death?

At least 't is what mine has come to at last,
Stript of all charm and all disguise;
And I wonder if, when he thinks of the past,
He thinks we were foolish or wise?

Well, I am content, so it matters not;
And, speaking about him, some one said—
I wish I could only remember what—
But he 's either married or dead.

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DO YOU BLAME HER?

Ne'er lover spake in tenderer words,
While mine were calm, unbroken;
Though I suffered all the pain I gave
In the No, so firmly spoken.

I marvel what he would think of me,
Who called it a cruel sentence,
If he knew I had almost learned to-day
What it is to feel repentance.

For it seems like a strange perversity,
And blind beyond excusing,
To lose the thing we could have kept,
And after, mourn the losing.

And this, the prize I might have won,
Was worth a queen's obtaining;
And one, if far beyond my reach,
I had sighed, perchance, for gaining.

And I know—ah! no one knows so well,
Though my heart is far from breaking—
'T was a loving heart, and an honest hand,
I might have had for the taking.

And yet, though never one beside
Has place in my thought above him,
I only like him when he is by,
'T is when he is gone I love him.

Sadly of absence poets sing,
And timid lovers fear it;
But an idol has been worshiped less
Sometimes when we came too near it.

And for him my fancy throws to-day
A thousand graces o'er him;
For he seems a god when he stands afar
And I kneel in my thought before him.

But if he were here, and knelt to me
With a lover's fond persistence,
Would the halo brighten to my eyes
That crowns him now in the distance?

Could I change the words I have said, and say
Till one of us two shall perish,
Forsaking others, I take this man
Alone, to love and to cherish?

Alas! whatever beside to-day
I might dream like a fond romancer,
I know my heart so well that I know
I should give him the self-same answer.

SONG.

Laugh out, O stream, from your bed of green,
Where you lie in the sun's embrace;
And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean
To touch your dimpled face;
But let your talk be sweet as it will,
And your laughter be as gay,
You cannot laugh as I laugh in my heart,
For my lover will come to-day!

Sing sweet, little bird, sing out to your mate
That hides in the leafy grove;
Sing clear and tell him for him you wait,
And tell him of all your love;
But though you sing till you shake the buds
And the tender leaves of May,
My spirit thrills with a sweeter song,
For my lover must come to-day!

Come up, O winds, come up from the south
With eager hurrying feet,
And kiss your red rose on her mouth
In the bower where she blushes sweet;
But you cannot kiss your darling flower,
Though you clasp her as you may,
As I kiss in my thought the lover dear
I shall hold in my arms to-day!

SOMEBODY'S LOVERS.

Too meek by half was he who came
A-wooing me one morn,
For he thought so little of himself
I learned to share his scorn.

At night I had a suitor, vain
As the vainest in the land;

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Almost he seemed to condescend
In the offer of his hand.

In one who pressed his suit I missed
Courage and manly pride;
And how could I think of such a one
As a leader and a guide?

And then there came a worshiper
With such undoubting trust,
That when he knelt he seemed not worth
Upraising from the dust.

The next was never in the wrong,
Was not too smooth nor rough;
So faultless and so good was he,
That that was fault enough.

But one, the last of all who came,
I know not how to paint;
No angel do I seem to him—
He scarcely calls me saint!

He hath such sins and weaknesses
As mortal man befall;
He hath a thousand faults, and yet
I love him with them all!

He never asked me yea nor nay,
Nor knelt to me one hour;
But he took my heart, and holds my heart
With a lover's tender power.

And I bow, as needs I must, and say,
In proud humility.
Love's might is right, and I yield at last
To manhood's royalty!

ON THE RIVER.

Darling, while the tender moon
Of this soft, delicious June,
Watches o'er thee like a lover;
While we journey to the sea,
Silently,
Let me tell my story over.

Ah! how clear before my sight
Rises up that summer night,
When I told thee first my passion;
And the little crimson streak,
In thy cheek.
Showed thy love in comeliest fashion.

When I pleaded for reply,
Silent lip and downcast eye,
Turning from me both dissembled;
But the lily hand that shone
In mine own,
Like a lily softly trembled.

And the pretty words that passed
O'er thy coral lips at last,
Still as precious pearls I treasure;
And the payment lovers give,
While I live,
Shall be given thee without measure.

For I may not offer thee
Such poor words as mine must be;
I perforce must speak my blisses
In the language of mine eyes,
Mixed with sighs,
And the tender speech of kisses.

Heart, encompassed in my heart!
Hopeful, happy as thou art,
Will I keep and ne'er forsake thee;
Yea, my love shall hold thee fast,
Till the last,
So that heaven alone can take thee!

And if sorrow ever spread
Threatening showers o'er thy head,
All about thee will I gather,
Whatsoever things are bright,
That thy sight
May be tempted earthward rather;

From thy pathway, for love's sake,
Carefully my hand will take,
Every thorn anear it growing;
And my lamb within my arms,
Safe from harms,
Will I shield when winds are blowing.

Fairest woman, holiest saint!
If my words of praise could paint
Thee, as liberal Nature made thee;
All who saw my picture, sweet,
Would repeat,
“He who painted, loved the lady!”

Has the wide world anything
Thou wilt take or I may bring,
I will treat no work disdainful;
Set me some true lover's task,
Dearest, ask
Any service, sweet or painful.

If it please thee, over me,
Practice petty tyranny,

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Punish me as for misdoing,
Let me make of penitence
Sad pretense,
At thy feet for pardon suing.

Darling, all our life must be,
Thou with me, and I with thee,
Calm as this delicious weather;
We will keep our honeymoon
Every June,
Voyaging through life together.

You and me, we used to say,
We were two but yesterday;
We were as the sea and river;
Now our lives have all the sweetness,
And completeness
Of two souls made one forever!

INCONSTANCY.

All in a dreary April day,
When the light of my sky was changed to gloom,
My first love drooped and faded away,
While I sorrowed over its waning bloom.

And I buried it, saying bitterly,
As I watered its grave with a rain of tears;
“No flower of love will bloom for me
Save this one, dead in my early years!”

But the May-time pushes the April out,
And the summer of life succeeds the May;
And the heaviest clouds of grief and doubt,
In weeping, weep themselves away.

And ere I had ceased to mourn above
My cherished flower's untimely tomb,
Right out of the grave of that buried love
There sprang another and fairer bloom.

And I cried, “Sleep softly, my perished rose,
My pretty bud of an April hour;
While I live in the beauty that burns and glows,
In the summer heart of my passion flower!”

LOVE CANNOT DIE.

Once, when my youth was in its flower,
I lived in an enchanted bower,
Unvexed with fear or care,
With one who made my world so bright,
I thought no darkness and no blight
Could ever enter there.

I have no friend like that to-day,
The very bower has passed away;
It was not what it seemed;
I know in all the world of men
There is not and there ne'er has been,
That one of whom I dreamed!

And one I loved and called my friend,
And hoped to walk with to the end,
And on the better shore,
Has changed so cruelly that she,
Out of my years that are to be,
Is lost for evermore.

With his dear eyes in death shut fast,
Sleeps one who loved me to the last,
Beneath the church-yard stone;
Yet hath his spirit always been
Near me to cheer the world wherein
I seem to walk alone.

There was a little golden head
A few brief seasons pillowèd
Softly my own beside;
That pillow long has been unprest—
That child yet sleeps upon my breast
As though she had not died,

And seeing that I always hold
Mine earthly loves, in love's sweet fold,
I thus have learned to know,
That He, whose tenderness divine
Surpasses every thought of mine,
Will never let me go.

Yea, thou, whose love, so strong, so great,
Nor life nor death can separate
From souls within thy care;
I know that though in heaven I dwell,
Or go to make my bed in hell,
Thou still art with me there!

HELPLESS.

You never said a word to me
That was cruel, under the sun;

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It is n't the things you do, darling,
But the things you leave undone.

If you could but know a wish or want
You would grant it joyfully;
Ah! that is the worst of all, darling,
That you cannot know nor see.

For favors free alone are sweet,
Not those that we must seek;
If you loved as I love you, darling,
I would not need to speak.

But to-day I am helpless as a child
That must be led along;
Then put your hand in mine, darling,
And make me brave and strong.

There 's a heavy care upon my mind,
A trouble on my brain;
Now gently stroke my hair, darling,
And take away the pain.

I feel a weight within my breast,
As if all had gone amiss;
Oh, kiss me with your lips, darling,
And fill my heart with bliss.

Enough! no deeper joy than this
For souls below is given;
Now take me in your arms, darling,
And lift me up to heaven!

MY HELPER.

We stood, my soul and I,
In fearful jeopardy,
The while the fire and tempest passed us by.

For I was pushed by fate
Into that fearful strait,
Where there was nothing but to stand and wait.

I had no company—
The world was dark to me:
Whence any light might come I could not see.

I lacked each common good,
Nor raiment had nor food;
The earth seemed slipping from me where I stood.

One who had wealth essayed;
Gold in my hand he laid;
He proffered all his treasures for my aid.

Yet from his gilded roof,
I needs must stand aloof;
I could not put his kindness to the proof.

One who had wisdom, said,
“By me be taught and led,
And thou, thyself, mayst win both home and bread.

Too strong and wise was he,
Too far away from me,
To help me in my great necessity.

Came one, with modest guise,
With tender, downcast eyes,
With voice as sweet as mothers' lullabies.

Softly his words did fall,
“My riches are so small
I cannot give thee anything at all.

“I cannot guide thy way,
As wiser mortals may;
But all my true heart at thy feet I lay.”

No more earth seemed to move,
The skies grew bright above;
He gave me everything, who gave me love!

I had sweet company,
Food, raiment, luxury;
Had all the world—had heaven come down to me!

And now such peace is mine,
Surely a light divine
Must make my face with holiest joy to shine.

So that my heart's delight
Is published in men's sight;
And night and day I cry, and day and night;

O soul, no more alone,
Such bliss as thine is known
But to the angels nearest love's white throne!

359

FAITHFUL.

Fainter and fainter may fall on my ear
The voice that is sweeter than music to hear;
More and more eagerly then will I list,
That never a word or an accent be missed.

Slower and slower the footstep may grow,
Whose fall is the pleasantest sound that I know;
Quicker and quicker my glad heart shall learn
To catch its faint echo and bless its return.

Whiter and whiter may turn with each day
The locks that so sadly are changing to gray;
Dearer and dearer shall these seem to me,
The fewer and whiter and thinner they be.

Weaker and weaker may be the light clasp
Of the hand that I hold so secure in my grasp;
Stronger and stronger my own to the last
Will cling to it, holding it tenderly fast.

Darker and darker above thee may spread
The clouds of a fate that is hopeless and dread;
Brighter and brighter the sun of my love
Will shine, all the shadows and mists to remove.

Envy and malice thy life may assail,
Favor and fortune and friendship may fail;
But perfect and sure, and undying shall be
The trust of this heart that is centred in thee!

THE LAST ACT.

A wretched farce is our life at best,
A weariness under the sun;
I am sick of the part I have to play,
And I would that it were done.

I would that all the smiles and sighs
Of its mimic scenes could end;
That we could see the curtain fall
On the last poor act, my friend!

Thin, faded hair, a beard of snow,
A thoughtful, furrowed brow;
And this is all the world can see
When it looks upon you now.

And I, it almost makes me smile,
'T is counterfeit so true,
To see how Time hath got me up
For the part I have to do.

'T is strange that we can keep in mind,
Through all this tedious play,
The way we needs must act and look,
And the words that we should say.

And I marvel if the young and gay
Believe us sad and old;
If they think our pulses slow and calm,
And our feelings dead and cold!

But I cannot hide myself from you,
Be the semblance e'er so good;
For under it all and through it all
You would know the womanhood.

And you cannot make me doubt your truth,
For all your strange disguise;
For the soul is drawn through your tender voice,
And the heart through the loving eyes.

And I see, where other eyes behold
Thin, whitened locks fall down,
A god-like head, that proudly wears
Its curls like a royal crown.

And I see the smile of the tender lip,
'Neath its manly fringe of jet,
That won my heart, when I had a heart,
And that holds and keeps it yet.

Ah! how shall we act this wretched part
Till its weary, weary close?
For our souls are young, we are lovers yet,
For all our shams and shows!

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Let us go and lay our masks aside
In that cool and green retreat,
That is softly curtained from the world
By the daisies fair and sweet.

And far away from this weary life,
In the light of Love's white throne,
We shall see, at last, as we are seen,
And know as we are known!

TRUE LOVE.

I think true love is never blind,
But rather brings an added light;
An inner vision quick to find
The beauties hid from common sight.

No soul can ever clearly see
Another's highest, noblest part;
Save through the sweet philosophy
And loving wisdom of the heart.

Your unanointed eyes shall fall
On him who fills my world with light;
You do not see my friend at all,
You see what hides him from your sight.

I see the feet that fain would climb,
You, but the steps that turn astray:
I see the soul unharmed, sublime;
You, but the garment, and the clay.

You see a mortal, weak, misled,
Dwarfed ever by the earthly clod;
I see how manhood, perfected,
May reach the stature of a god.

Blinded I stood, as now you stand,
Till on mine eyes, with touches sweet,
Love, the deliverer, laid his hand,
And lo! I worship at his feet!

COMPLAINT.

“Though we were parted, or though he had died,”
She said, “I could bear the worst,
If he only had loved me at the last,
As he loved me at the first.

“But woe is me!” said the hapless maid.
“That ever a lover came;
Since he who lit in my heart the fire,
Has failed to tend the flame.

“Ah! why did he pour in my life's poor cup
A nectar so divine,
If he had no power to fill it up
With a draught as pure and fine?

“Why did he give me one holiday,
Then send me back to toil?
Why did he set a lamp in my house,
And leave it lacking oil?

“Why did he plant the rose in my cheeks
When he knew it could not thrive—
That the dew of kisses, only, keeps
The true blush-rose alive?

“If he tired so soon of the song I sung
In our love's delicious June,
Why did he set the thoughts of my heart
All to one blessed tune?

“Oh, if he were either true or false,
My torment might have end:
He hath been, for a lover, too unkind;
Too loving for a friend!

“And there is not a soul in all the world
So wretched as mine must be,
For I cannot live on his love,” she said,
“Nor die of his cruelty.”

DOVES' EYES.

There are eyes that look through us,
With the power to undo us,
Eyes of the lovingest, tenderest blue,
Clear as the heavens and as truthful too;
But these are not my love's eyes,
For, behold, he hath doves' eyes!

There are eyes half defiant,
Half meek and compliant;
Black eyes, with a wondrous, witching charm
To bring us good or to work us harm;
But these are not my love's eyes,
For, behold he hath doves' eyes!

361

There are eyes to our feeling
Forever appealing;
Eyes of a helpless, pleading brown,
That into our very souls look down;
But these are not my love's eyes,
For, behold, he hath doves' eyes!

Oh eyes, dearest, sweetest.
In beauty completest;
Whose perfectness cannot be told in a word,—
Clear and deep as the eyes of a soft, brooding bird;
These, these are my love's eyes,
For, behold, he hath doves' eyes!

THE HUNTER'S WIFE.

My head is sick and my heart is faint,
I am wearied out with my own complaint.
Answer me, come to me, then;
For, lo! I have pleaded by everything
My brain could dream, or my lips could sing.
I have called you lover, and called you king,
And man of the race of men!

Come to me glad, and I will be glad;
But if you are weary, or if you are sad,
I will be patient and meek.
Nor word, nor smile will I seem to crave;
But I 'll sit and wait, like an Eastern slave,
Or wife, in the lodge of an Indian brave,
In silence, till you speak.

Come, for the power of life and death
Hangs for me on the lightest breath
Of the lips that I believe;
Only pause by the cooling lake.
Till your weary mule her thirst shall slake;
'T were a fearful thing if a heart should break
And you held its sweet reprieve!

Sleep lightly under the loving moon;
Rise with the morning, and ride till noon;
Ride till the stars are above;
And as you distance the mountain herds,
And shame the flight of the summer birds,
Say softly over the tenderest words
The poets have sung of love.

You will come—you are coming—a thousand miles
Away, I can see you press through the aisles
Of the forest, cool and gray;
And my lips shall be dumb till our lips have met,
For never skill of a mortal yet,
To mortal words such music set,
As beats in my heart to-day!

LOVERS AND SWEETHEARTS.

Fair youth, too timid to lift your eyes
To the maiden with downcast look,
As you mingle the gold and brown of your curls
Together over a book;
A fluttering hope that she dare not name
Her trembling bosom heaves;
And your heart is thrilled, when your fingers meet,
As you softly turn the leaves.

Perchance you two will walk alone
Next year at some sweet day's close,
And your talk will fall to a tenderer tone,
As you liken her cheek to a rose;
And then her face will flush and glow,
With a hopeful, happy red;
Outblushing all the flowers that grow
Anear in the garden-bed.

If you plead for hope, she may bashful drop
Her head on your shoulder, low;
And you will be lovers and sweethearts then
As youths and maidens go:
Lovers and sweethearts, dreaming dreams,
And seeing visions that please,
With never a thought that life is made
Of great realities;

That the cords of love must be strong as death
Which hold and keep a heart,

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Not daisy-chains, that snap in the breeze,
Or break with their weight apart;
For the pretty colors of youth's fair morn
Fade out from the noonday sky;
And blushing loves, in the roses born,
Alas! with the roses die!

But the love, that when youth's morn is past,
Still sweet and true survives,
Is the faith we need to lean upon
In the crises of our lives:
The love that shines in the eyes grown dim,
In the voice that trembles speaks;
And sees the roses, that a year ago
Withered and died in our cheeks;

That sheds a halo round us still,
Of soft immortal light,
When we change youth's golden coronal
For a crown of silver white:
A love for sickness and for health,
For rapture and for tears;
That will live for us, and bear with us
Through all our mortal years.

And such there is; there are lovers here,
On the brink of the grave that stand,
Who shall cross to the hills beyond, and walk
Forever hand in hand!
Pray, youth and maid, that your end be theirs,
Who are joined no more to part;
For death comes not to the living soul,
Nor age to the loving heart!

THE ROSE.

The sun, who smiles wherever he goes,
Till the flowers all smile again,
Fell in love one day with a bashful rose,
That had been a bud till then.

So he pushed back the folds of the soft green hood
That covered her modest grace,
And kissed her as only the bold sun could,
Till the crimson burned in her face.

But woe for the day when his golden hair
Tangled her heart in a net;
And woe for the night of her dark despair,
When her cheek with tears was wet!

For she loved him as only a young rose could:
And he left her crushed and weak,
Striving in vain with her faded hood
To cover her burning cheek.

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A DAY DREAM.

If fancy do not all deceive,
If dreams have any truth,
Thy love must summon back to me
The glories of my youth;
For if but hope unto my thought
Such transformation brings,
May not fruition have the power
To change all outward things!

Come, then, and look into mine eyes
Till faith hath left no doubt;
So shalt thou set in them a light
That never can go out;
Or lay thy hand upon my hair,
And keep it black as night;
The tresses that had felt that touch
Would shame to turn to white.

To me it were no miracle,
If, when I hear thee speak.
Lilies around my neck should bloom
And roses in my cheek;
Or if the joy of thy caress,
The wonder of thy smiles,
Smoothed all my forehead out again
As perfect as a child's.

My lip is trembling with such bliss
As mortal never heard;
My heart, exulting to itself,
Keeps singing like a bird;
And while about my tasks I go
Quietly all the day,
I could laugh out, as children laugh,
Upon the hills at play.

O thou, whom fancy brings to me
With morning's earliest beams,
Who walkest with me down the night,
The paradise of dreams;
I charge thee, by the power of love,
To answer to love's call;
Wake me to perfect happiness,
Or wake me not at all!

THE PRIZE.

Hope wafts my bark, and round my way
Her pleasant sunshine lies;
For I sail with a royal argosy
To win a royal prize.

A maiden sits in her loveliness
On the shore of a distant stream,
And over the waters at her feet
The lilies float, and dream.

She reaches down, and draws them in,
With a hand that hath no stain;
And that lily of all the lilies, her hand,
Is the prize I go to gain.

Her hair in a yellow flood falls down
From her forehead low and white;
I would bathe in its billowy gold, and dream,
In its sea of soft delight.

Her cheek is as fair as a tender flower,
When its blushing leaves dispart;
Oh, my rose of the world, my regal rose,
I must wear you on my heart!

I must kiss your lips, so sweetly closed
O'er their pearly treasures fair;
Or strike on their coral reef, and sink
In the waves of my dark despair!

A WOMAN'S ANSWER.

“Love thee?” Thou canst not ask of me
So freely as I fain would give;
'T is woman's great necessity
To love so long as she shall live;
Therefore, if thou dost lovely prove,
I cannot choose but give thee love!

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“Honor thee?” By her reverence
The truest woman best is known;
She needs must honor where she finds
A nature loftier than her own;
I shall not turn from thee away,
Unless I find my idol clay!

“Obey?” Doth not the stronger will
The weaker govern and restrain?
Most sweet obedience woman yields
Where wisdom, power, manhood reign.
I 'll give thee, if thou canst control,
The meek submission of my soul!

Henceforward all my life shall be
Moulded and fashioned by thine own;
If wisdom, power, and constancy
In all thy words and deeds are shown;
Whether my vow be yea or nay,
I 'll “love, and honor, and obey.”

IN ABSENCE.

Watch her kindly, stars;
From the sweet protecting skies
Follow her with tender eyes,
Look so lovingly that she
Cannot choose but think of me:
Watch her kindly, stars!

Soothe her sweetly, night:
On her eyes, o'erwearied, press
The tired lids with light caress;
Let that shadowy hand of thine
Ever in her dreams seem mine:
Soothe her sweetly, night!

Wake her gently, morn:
Let the notes of early birds
Seem like love's melodious words;
Every pleasant sound my dear,
When she stirs from sleep should hear:
Wake her gently, morn!

Kiss her softly, winds:
Softly, that she may not miss
Any sweet, accustomed bliss;
On her lips, her eyes, her face,
Till I come to take your place,
Kiss and kiss her, winds!

ENCHANTMENT.

Her cup of life with joy is full,
And her heart is thrilling so
That the beaker shakes in her trembling hand.
Till its sweet drops overflow.

All day she walks as in a trance;
And the thought she does not speak,
But tries to hide from the world away,
Burns out in her tell-tale cheek.

And often from her dreams of night
She wakes to consciousness,
As the golden thread of her slumber breaks
With the burden of its bliss.

She is almost troubled with the wealth
Of a joy so great and good,
That she may not keep it to herself,
Nor tell it if she would.

'T is strange that this should come to one
Who, all her life before,
Content in her quiet household ways,
Has asked for nothing more.

And stranger, that he, in whom the power,
The wonderful magic lay,
That has changed her world to a paradise,
Was a man but yesterday!

WOOED AND WON.

The maiden has listened to loving words,
She has seen a heart like a flower unclose;
And yet she would almost hide its truth,
And shut the leaves of the blushing rose.

For the spell of enchantment is broken now,
And all the future is seen so clear,
That she longs for the very longing gone,
For the restless pleasure of hope and fear.

She stands so close to her painting now
That its smallest failings are revealed,—

365

Ah, that beautiful picture, that looked so sweet,
By the misty distance half concealed!

“Alas,” she says, “can it then be true
That all is vanity, as they preach.—
That the good is in striving after the good,
And the best is the thing we never reach?

“Are not the sweetest words we can speak:
‘It is mine, and I hold my treasure fast?’
And the saddest wrung from the human heart:
‘It might have been, but the time is past?’

“I do not know, and I will not say,
But yet of a truth it seems to me,
I would give my certain knowledge back
For my hope, with its sweet uncertainty!”

LOVE'S RECOMPENSE.

Her heart was light as human heart can be,
When blushingly she listened to the praise
Of him who talked of love in those sweet days
When first she kept a lover's company.

That was hope's spring-time; now its flowers are dead.
And she, grown tired of life before its close,
Weaves melancholy stories out of woes,
Across whose dismal threads her heart has bled.

Yet even for such we need not quite despair
Since from our wrong God can bring forth his right;
And He, though all are precious in his sight,
Doth give the uncared-for his peculiar care.

So, in the good life that shall follow this,
He, being love, may make her love to be
One golden thread, spun out eternally,
Through her white fingers, trembling with their bliss.

JEALOUSY.

I love my love so well, I would
There were no eyes but mine that could
See my sweet piece of womanhood,
And marvel of delight.

I dread that even the sun should rise;
That bold, bright rover of the skies,
Who dares to touch her closèd eyes,
And put her dreams to flight.

No maid could be more kind to me,
No truer maiden lives than she,
But yet I die of jealousy,
A thousand deaths in one.

I cannot bear to see her stop,
With her soft hand a flower to crop;
I envy even the clover-top
Her dear foot treads upon.

How cruel in my sight to bless
Even her bird with the caress
Of fingers that I dare not press,—
Those lady fingers, white;

That nestle oft in that dear place
Between her pillow and her face,
And, never asking leave or grace,
Caress her cheek at night!

'T is torture more than I can bear
To see the wanton summer air
Lift the bright tresses of her hair,
And careless let them fall.

The wind that through the roses slips,
And every sparkling dew-drop sips,
Without rebuke may kiss her lips,
The sweetest rose of all.

I envy, on her neck of snow,
The white pearls hanging in a row,
The opals on her heart that glow
Flushed with a tender red.

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I would not, in her chamber fair,
The curious stars should see her, where
I, even in thought, may scarcely dare
For reverence to tread.

O maiden, hear and answer me
In kindness or in cruelty;
Tell me to live or let me die,
I cry, and cry again!

Give me to touch one golden tress,
Give me thy white hand to caress,
Give me thy red, red lips to press,
And ease my jealous pain!

SONG.

I see him part the careless throng,
I catch his eager eye;
He hurries towards me where I wait;—
Beat high, my heart, beat high!

I feel the glow upon my cheek,
And all my pulses thrill;
He sees me, passes careless by;—
Be still, my heart, be still!

He takes another hand than mine,
It trembles for his sake;
I see his joy, I feel my doom;—
Break, oh my heart-strings, break!

I CANNOT TELL.

Once, being charmèd by thy smile,
And listening to thy praises, such
As women, hearing all the while,
I think could never hear too much,—

I had a pleasing fantasy
Of souls that meet, and meeting blend,
And hearing that same dream from thee,
I said I loved thee, O my friend!

That was the flood-tide of my youth,
And now its calm waves backward flow;
I cannot tell if it were truth,
If what I feel be love, or no.

My days and nights pass pleasantly,
Serenely on my seasons glide,
And though I think and dream of thee,
I dream of many things beside.

Most eagerly thy praise is sought,
'T is sweet to meet, and sad to part;
But all my best and deepest thought
Is hidden from thee in my heart.

And still the while a charm or spell
Half holds, and will not let me go;
'T is strange, and yet I cannot tell
If what I feel be love, or no!

DEAD LOVE.

We are face to face, and between us here
Is the love we thought could never die;
Why has it only lived a year?
Who has murdered it—you or I?

No matter who—the deed was done
By one or both, and there it lies;
The smile from the lip forever gone,
And darkness over the beautiful eyes.

Our love is dead, and our hope is wrecked;
So what does it profit to talk and rave,
Whether it perished by my neglect,
Or whether your cruelty dug its grave!

Why should you say that I am to blame,
Or why should I charge the sin on you?
Our work is before us all the same,
And the guilt of it lies between us two.

We have praised our love for its beauty and grace;
Now we stand here, and hardly dare
To turn the face-cloth back from the face,
And see the thing that is hidden there.

Yet look! ah, that heart has beat its last,
And the beautiful life of our life is o'er,

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And when we have buried and left the past,
We two, together, can walk no more.

You might stretch yourself on the dead, and weep,
And pray as the Prophet prayed, in pain;
But not like him could you break the sleep,
And bring the soul to the clay again.

Its head in my bosom I can lay,
And shower my woe there, kiss on kiss,
But there never was resurrection-day
In the world for a love so dead as this

And, since we cannot lessen the sin
By mourning over the deed we did,
Let us draw the winding-sheet up to the chin,
Aye, up till the death-blind eyes are hid!

MY FRIEND.

O my friend, O my dearly belovèd!
Do you feel, do you know,
How the times and the seasons are going;
Are they weary and slow?
Does it seem to you long, in the heavens,
My true, tender mate,
Since here we were living together,
Where dying I wait?
'T is three years, as we count by the spring-times,
By the birth of the flowers,
What are years, aye! eternities even,
To love such as ours?
Side by side are we still, though a shadow
Between us doth fall;
We are parted, and yet are not parted,
Not wholly, and all.
For still you are round and about me,
Almost in my reach,
Though I miss the old pleasant communion
Of smile and of speech.
And I long to hear what you are seeing,
And what you have done,
Since the earth faded out from your vision,
And the heavens begun;
Since you dropped off the darkening fillet
Of clay from your sight,
And opened your eyes upon glory
Ineffably bright!
Though little my life has accomplished,
My poor hands have wrought;
I have lived what has seemed to be ages
In feeling and thought,
Since the time when our path grew so narrow,
So near the unknown,
That I turned back from following after,
And you went on alone.
For we speak of you cheerfully, always,
As journeying on;
Not as one who is dead do we name you;
We say, you are gone.
For how could we speak of you sadly,
We, who watched while the grace
Of eternity's wonderful beauty
Grew over your face!

Do we call the star lost that is hidden
In the great light of morn?
Or fashion a shroud for the young child
In the day it is born?
Yet behold this were wise to their folly,
Who mourn, sore distressed,
When a soul, that is summoned, believing,
Enters into its rest!
And for you, never any more sweetly
Went to rest, true and deep,
Since the first of our Lord's blessèd martyrs,
Having prayed, fell asleep.

What to you was the change, the transition,
When looking before,
You felt that the places which knew you
Should know you no more?
Did the soul rise exultant, ecstatic?
Did it cry, all is well?
What it was to the left and the loving
We only can tell.
'T was as if one took from us sweet roses
And we caught their last breath;
'T was like anything beautiful passing,—
It was not like death!

368

Like the flight of a bird, when still rising,
And singing aloud,
He goes towards the summer-time, over
The top of the cloud.
Now seen and now lost in the distance,
Borne up and along,
From the sight of the eyes that are watching
On a trail of sweet song.
As sometimes, in the midst of the blackness,
A great shining spark
Flames up from the wick of a candle,
Blown out in the dark;
So while we were watching and waiting,
'Twixt hoping and doubt,
The light of the soul flashed upon us,
When we thought it gone out.
And we scarce could believe it forever
Withdrawn from our sight,
When the cold lifeless ashes before us
Fell silent and white!
Ah! the strength of your love was so wondrous,
So great was its sway,
It forced back the spirit half-parted
Away from the clay;
In its dread of the great separation,
For not then did we know,
Love can never be left, O belovèd,
And never can go!

As when from some beautiful casement
Illumined at night,
While we steadfastly gaze on its brightness,
A hand takes the light;
And our eyes still transfixed by the splendor
Look earnestly on,
At the place where we lately beheld it,
Even when it has gone:
So we looked in your soul's darkening windows,
Those luminous eyes,
Till the light taken from them fell on us
From out of the skies!
Though you wore something earthly about you
That once we called you,
A robe all transparent, and brightened
By the soul shining through:
Yet when you had dropped it in going,
'T was but yours for a day,
Safe back in the bosom of nature
We laid it away.
Strewing over it odorous blossoms
Their perfume to shed,
But you never were buried beneath them,
And never were dead!
What we brought there and left for the darkness
Forever to hide,
Was but precious because you had worn it,
And put it aside.
As a garment might be, you had fashioned
In exquisite taste;
A book which your touch had made sacred,
A flower you had graced.
For all that was yours we hold precious,
We keep for your sake
Every relic our saint on her journey
Has not needed to take.

Who that knew what your spirit, though fettered,
Aspired to, adored,
When as far as the body would loose it
It mounted and soared;
What soul in the world that had loved you,
Or known you aright,
Would look for you down in the darkness,
Not up in the light?
Why, the seed in the ground that we planted,
And left there to die,
Being quickened, breaks out of its prison,
And grows towards the sky.
The small fire that but slowly was kindled,
And feebly begun,
Gaining strength as it burns, flashes upward,
And mounts to the sun.
And could such a soul, free for ascending,
Could that luminous spark,
Blown to flame by the breath of Jehovah,
Go out in the dark?
Doth the bird stay behind when the window
Wide open is set?

369

Or, freed from the snare of the fowler,
Hasten back to his net?
And you pined in the flesh, being burdened
By its great weight of ills,
As a slave, who has tasted wild freedom,
Still pines for the hills.
And therefore it is that I seek you
In full, open day,
Where the universe stretches the farthest
From darkness away.
And think of you always as rising
And spurning the gloom;
All the width of infinity keeping
'Twixt yourself and the tomb!

Sometimes in white raiment I see you,
Treading higher and higher,
On the great sea of glass, ever shining,
And mingled with fire.
With the crown and the harp of the victor,
Exultant you stand;
And the melody drops, as if jewels
Dropped off from your hand.
You walk in that beautiful city,
Adorned as a bride,
Whose twelve gates of pearl are forever
Opened freely and wide.
Whose walls upon jasper foundations
Shall firmly endure;
Set with topaz, and beryl, and sapphire,
And amethyst pure.
You are where there is not any dying,
Any pain, any cries;
And God's hand has wiped softly forever,
The tears from your eyes:
For if spirits because of much loving
Come nearest the throne,
You must be with the saints and the children
Our Lord calls his own!

Sometimes you are led in green pastures,
The sweetest and best;
Sometimes as a lamb in the bosom
Of Jesus you rest.
Where you linger the spiciest odors
Of paradise blow,
And under your feet drifts of blossoms
Lie soft as the snow.
If you follow the life-giving river,
Or rest on its bank,
You are set round by troops of white lilies,
In rank after rank.
And the loveliest things, and the fairest,
That near you are seen
Seem as beautiful handmaids, who wait on
The step of a queen.
For always, wherever I see you,
Below or above,
I think all the good which surrounds you
Is born of your love.
And the best place is that where I find you,
The best thing what you do;
For you seem to have fashioned the heaven
That was fashioned for you!

But as from his essence and nature
Our God, ever blest,
Cannot do anything for his children
But that which is best;
And till He hath gathered them to Him,
In the heavens above,
Cannot joy over them as one singing,
Nor rest in his love;
So you, who have drawn from his goodness
Your portion of good,
Must help where your hand can be helpful,
Cannot rest if you would;
For you could not be happy in heaven,
By glory shut in,
While any soul whom you might comfort
Should suffer and sin.
So unto the heirs of salvation
Have you freely appeared;
And the earth by your sweet ministration
Is brightened and cheered.

I am sure you are near to the dying!
For often we mark
A smile on their faces, whose brightness
Lights the soul through the dark;
Sure, that you have for man in his direst
Necessity cared;
Preparing him then for whatever
The Lord hath prepared.
So, whenever you tenderly loosen
A hand from our grasp,

370

We feel, you can hold it and keep it
More safe in your clasp;
And that he, whose dear smile for a season
Our love must resign,
Gains the infinite comfort and sweetness
Of love such as thine.

Yea, lost mortal, immortal forever!
And saved evermore!
You revisit the world and the people,
That saw you of yore.
To the sorrowful house, to the death-room,
The prison and tomb,
You come, as on wings of the morning,
To scatter the gloom.
Wherever in desolate places
Earth's misery abides;
Wherever in dark habitations
Her cruelty hides;
If there the good seek for the wretched,
And lessen their woes,
Surely they are led on by the angels,
And you are of those.

In the holds of oppression, where captives
Sit silent and weep,
Your face as the face of a seraph
Has shined in their sleep:
And your white hand away from the dungeon
His free step has led,
When the slave slipped his feet from the fetters,
And the man rose instead;
Free, at least in his dreams and his visions,
That one to behold,
Who walked through the billows of fire
With the faithful of old.
And what are the walls of the prison,
The rack and the rod,
To him, who in thought and in spirit,
Bows only to God?
If his doors are swung back by the angels
That visit his sleep—
If his singing ascend at the midnight,
Triumphant and deep;
He is freer than they who have bound him,
For his spirit may rise
And as far as infinity reaches
May travel the skies!
And who knows but the wide world of slumber
Is real as it seems?
God giveth them sleep, his belovèd,
And in sleep giveth dreams!
And happy are we if such visions
Our souls can receive;
If we sleep at the gateway of heaven,
And wake and believe.
If angels for us on that ladder
Ascend and descend,
Whose top reaches into the heavens,
With God at the end!
If our souls can raise up for a Bethel
E'en the great stone that lies
At the mouth of the sepulchre, hiding
Our dead from our eyes!
But alas! if our sight be withholden,
If faithless, bereft,
We stoop down, looking in at the grave-clothes
The Risen hath left;
And see not the face of the angel
All dazzling and white,
Who points us away from the darkness,
And up to the light!
And alas! when our Helper is passing,
If then we delay,
To cast off the hindering garments
And follow his way!

Yet how blindly humanity gropeth,
While clad in this veil;
When we seek for the truths that are nearest,
How often we fail.
How little we learn of each other,
How little we teach;
How poorly the wisest interpret
The look and the speech!
Only that which in nearest communion
We give and receive,
That which spirit to spirit imparteth,
Can we know and believe.
Thus I know that you live, live forever,
Free from death, free from harms;
For in dreams of the night, and at noonday
Have you been in my arms!
And I know that, when I shall be like you,
We shall meet face to face;
That all souls, who are joined by affection,
Are joined by God's grace;

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And that, O my dearly belovèd,
But the Father above,
Who made us and joined us can part us;
And He cannot for love.

DREAMS AND REALITIES.

O Rosamond, thou fair and good,
And perfect flower of womanhood,
Thou royal rose of June,
Why didst thou droop before thy time?
Why wither in thy first sweet prime?
Why didst thou die so soon?

For looking backward through my tears
On thee, and on my wasted years,
I cannot choose but say,
If thou hadst lived to be my guide,
Or thou hadst lived and I had died,
'T were better far to-day.

O child of light, O golden head—
Bright sunbeam for one moment shed
Upon life's lonely way—
Why didst thou vanish from our sight?
Could they not spare my little light
From heaven's unclouded day?

O friend so true, O friend so good—
Thou one dream of my maidenhood,
That gave youth all its charms—
What had I done, or what hadst thou,
That through this lonesome world till now
We walk with empty arms?

And yet, had this poor soul been fed
With all it loved and coveted—
Had life been always fair—
Would these dear dreams that ne'er depart,
That thrill with bliss my inmost heart,
Forever tremble there?

If still they kept their earthly place,
The friends I held in my embrace,
And gave to death, alas!
Could I have learned that clear, calm faith
That looks beyond the bounds of death,
And almost longs to pass?

Sometimes, I think, the things we see
Are shadows of the things to be;
That what we plan we build;
That every hope that hath been crossed,
And every dream we thought was lost,
In heaven shall be fulfilled;

That even the children of the brain
Have not been born and died in vain,
Though here unclothed and dumb;
But on some brighter, better shore
They live, embodied evermore,
And wait for us to come.

And when on that last day we rise,
Caught up between the earth and skies,
Then shall we hear our Lord
Say, “Thou hast done with doubt and death;
Henceforth, according to thy faith,
Shall be thy faith's reward.”

372

RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS.

MANY MANSIONS.

Her silver lamp half-filled with oil,
Night came, to still the day's turmoil,
And bring a respite from its toil.

Gliding about with noiseless tread,
Her white sheets on the ground she spread,
That wearied men might go to bed.

No watch was there for me to keep,
Yet could I neither rest nor sleep,
A recent loss had struck so deep.

I felt as if Omnipotence
Had given us no full recompense
For all the ills of time and sense.

So I went, wandering silently,
Where a great river sought the sea;
And fashioned out the life to be.

It was not drawn from book or creed,
And yet, in very truth and deed,
It answered to my greatest need.

And satisfied myself, I thought,
A heaven so good and perfect ought
To give to each what all have sought.

Near where I slowly chanced to stray,
A youth, and old man, worn and gray,
Down through the silence took their way;

And the night brought within my reach,
As each made answer unto each,
Some portion of their earnest speech.

The patriarch said: “Of all we know,
Or all that we can dream below,
Of that far land to which we go,

“This one assurance hath expressed,
To me, its blessedness the best—
‘He giveth his beloved rest.’”

373

And the youth answered: “If it be
A place of inactivity,
It cannot be a heaven to me.

“Surely its joy must be to lack
These hindrances that keep us back
From rising on a shining track;

“Where each shall find his own true height,
Though in our place, and in our light,
We differ as the stars of night.”

I listened, till they ceased to speak;
And my heart answered, faint and weak,
Their heaven is not the heaven I seek!

Yet their discourse awoke again
Some hidden memories that had lain
Long undisturbed within my brain.

For oft, when bowed earth's care beneath,
I had asked others of their faith
In the life following after death;

And what that better world could be,
Where, from mortality set free,
We put on immortality.

And each in his reply had shown
That he had shaped and made his own
By the best things which he had known:

Or fashioned it to heal the woe
Of some great sorrow, which below
It was his hapless lot to know.

A mother once had said to me,
Over her dead: “My heaven will be
An undivided family.”

One sick with mortal doubts and fears,
With looking blindly through her tears,
The way that she had looked for years,

Told me: “That world could have no pain,
Since there we should not wait in vain
For feet that will not come again.”

A lover dreamed that heaven would be
Life's hour of perfect ecstasy,
Drawn out into eternity!

Men bending to their hopeless doom,
Toiling as in a living tomb,
Down shafts of everlasting gloom,

Out of the dark had answered me:
“Where there is light for us to see
Each other's faces, heaven must be.”

An aged man, who bowed his head
With reverence o'er the page, and read
The words that ancient prophets said,

Talked of a glory never dim,
Of the veiled face of cherubim,
And harp, and everlasting hymn;—

Saw golden streets and glittering towers—
Saw peaceful valleys, white with flowers,
Kept never-ending Sabbath hours.

One, who the cruel sea had crossed,
And seen, through billows madly tossed,
Great shipwrecks, where brave souls were lost.

Thus of the final voyage spake:
“Coming to heaven must be to make
Safe port, and no more journeys take.”

And now their words of various kind
Come back to my bewildered mind,
And my faith staggered, faint and blind,

One moment; then this truth seemed plain,
These have not trusted God in vain;
To ask of Him must be to gain.

Every imaginable good,
We, erring, sinful, mortal, would
Give me belovèd, if we could;

And shall not He, whose care enfolds
Our life, and all our way controls,
Yet satisfy our longing souls?

Since mortal step hath never been,
And mortal eye hath never seen,
Past death's impenetrable screen,

Who shall dare limit Him above,
Or tell the ways in which He 'll prove
Unto his children all his love?

374

Then joy through all my being spread,
And, comforted myself, I said:
O weary world, be comforted!

Souls, in your quest of bliss grown weak—
Souls, whose great woe no words can speak—
Not always shall ye vainly seek!

Men whose whole lives have been a night,
Shall come from darkness to the light;
Wanderers shall hail the land in sight.

Old saints, and martyrs of the Lamb,
Shall rise to sing their triumph psalm,
And wear the crown, and bear the palm.

And the pale mourner, with bowed head,
Who, for the living lost, or dead,
Here weeps, shall there be gently led,

To feel, in that celestial place,
The tears wiped softly from her face,
And know love's comforting embrace.

So shall we all, who groan in this,
Find, in that new life's perfectness,
Our own peculiar heaven of bliss—

More glorious than our faith believed,
Brighter than dreams our hope has weaved,
Better than all our hearts conceived.

Therefore will I wait patiently,
Trusting, where all God's mansions be
There hath been one prepared for me;

And go down calmly to death's tide,
Knowing, when on the other side
I wake, I shall be satisfied.

THE SPIRITUAL BODY.

I have a heavenly home,
To which my soul may come,
And where forever safe it may abide;
Firmly and sure it stands,
That house not made with hands,
And garnished as a chamber for a bride!

'T is such as angels use,
Such as good men would choose;
It hath all fair and pleasant things in sight:
Its walls as white and fine
As polished ivory shine,
And through its windows comes celestial light.

'T is builded fair and good,
In the similitude
Of the most royal palace of a king;
And sorrow may not come
Into that heavenly home,
Nor pain, nor death, nor any evil thing.

Near it that stream doth pass
Whose waters, clear as glass,
Make glad the city of our God with song;
Whose banks are fair as those
Whereon stray milk-white does,
Feeding among the lilies all day long.

And friends who once were here
Abide in dwellings near;
They went up thither on a heavenly road;
While I, though warned to go,
Yet linger here below,
Clinging to a most miserable abode.

The evil blasts drive in
Through chinks, which time and sin
Have battered in my wretched house of clay;
Yet in so vile a place,
Poor, unadorned with grace
I choose to live, or rather choose to stay.

And here I make my moan
About the days now gone,
About the souls passed on to their reward;
The souls that now have come
Into a better home,
And sit in heavenly places with their Lord.

'T is strange that I should cling
To this despised thing,
To this poor dwelling crumbling round my head;
Making myself content
In a low tenement
After my joys and friends alike are fled!

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Yet I shall not, I know,
Be ready hence to go,
And dwell in my good palace, fair and whole,
Till unrelenting Death
Blows with his icy breath
Upon my naked and unsheltered soul!

A GOOD DAY.

Earth seems as peaceful and as bright
As if the year that might not stay,
Had made a sweet pause in her flight,
To keep another Sabbath day.

And I, as past the moments roll,
Forgetting human fear and doubt.
Hold better Sabbath, in my soul,
Than that which Nature holds without.

Help me, O Lord, if I shall see
Times when I walk from hope apart,
Till all my days but seem to be
The troubled week-days of the heart.

Help me to find, in seasons past,
The hours that have been good or fair,
And bid remembrance hold them fast,
To keep me wholly from despair.

Help me to look behind, before,
To make my past and future form
A bow of promise, meeting o'er
The darkness of my day of storm.

HYMN.

How dare I in thy courts appear,
Or raise to thee my voice!
I only serve thee, Lord, with fear,
With trembling I rejoice.

I have not all forgot thy word,
Nor wholly gone astray;
I follow thee, but oh, my Lord,
So faint, so far away!

That thou wilt pardon and receive
Of sinners even the chief,
Lord, I believe,—Lord, I believe;
Help thou mine unbelief!

DRAWING WATER.

He had drunk from founts of pleasure,
And his thirst returned again;
He had hewn out broken cisterns,
And behold! his work was vain.

And he said, “Life is a desert,
Hot, and measureless, and dry;
And God will not give me water,
Though I strive, and faint, and die.”

Then he heard a voice make answer,
“Rise and roll the stone away;
Sweet and precious springs lie hidden
In thy pathway every day.”

And he said, his heart was sinful,
Very sinful was his speech:
“All the cooling wells I thirst for
Are too deep for me to reach.”

But the voice cried, “Hope and labor;
Doubt and idleness is death;
Shape a clear and goodly vessel,
With the patient hands of faith.”

So he wrought and shaped the vessel,
Looked, and lo! a well was there;
And he drew up living water,
With a golden chain of prayer.

TOO LATE.

Blessings, alas! unmerited,
Freely as evening dews are shed
Each day on my unworthy head.

So that my very sins but prove
The sinlessness of Him above
And his unutterable love.

And yet, as if no ear took heed,
Not what I ask, but what I need,
Comes down in answer, when I plead.

So that my heart with anguish cries,
My soul almost within me dies,
'T wixt what God gives, and what denies.

For howsoe'er with good it teems,
The life accomplished never seems
The blest fulfillment of its dreams.

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Therefore, when nearest happiness,
I only say, The thing I miss—
That would have perfected my bliss!

When harvests great are mine to reap,
Too late, too late! I sit and weep,
My best belovèd lies asleep!

Sometimes my griefs are hard to bear,
Sometimes my comforts I would share,
And the one dearest is not there.

That which is mine to-day, I know,
Had made a paradise below,
Only a little year ago.

The sunshine we then did crave,
As having almost power to save,
Keeps now the greenness of a grave.

To have our dear one safe from gloom.
We planned a fair and pleasant room,
And lo! Fate builded up a tomb.

An empty heart, with cries unstilled,
An empty house, with love unfilled,
These are the things our Father willed.

And bowing to Him, as we must,
Whose name is Love, whose way is just,
We have no refuge, but our trust.

RETROSPECT.

O Loving, One, O Bounteous One,
What have I not received from thee,
Throughout the seasons that have gone
Into the past eternity!

For looking backward through the year,
Along the way my feet have pressed,
I see sweet places everywhere,
Sweet places, where my soul had rest.

And, though some human hopes of mine
Are dead, and buried from my sight,
Yet from their graves immortal flowers
Have sprung, and blossomed into light.

Body, and heart, and soul, have been
Fed by the most convenient food;
My nights are peaceful all the while,
And all my mortal days are good.

My sorrows have not been so light,
The chastening hand I could not trace;
Nor have my blessings been so great
That they have hid my Father's face.

HUMAN AND DIVINE.

Vile, and deformed by sin I stand,
A creature earthy of the earth;
Yet fashioned by God's perfect hand,
And in his likeness at my birth.

Here in a wretched land I roam,
As one who had no home but this;
Yet am invited to become
Partaker in a world of bliss.

A tenement of misery,
Of clay is this to which I cling:
A royal palace waits for me,
Built by the pleasure of my King!

My heavenly birthright I forsake,—
An outcast, and unreconciled;
The manner of his love doth make
My Father own me as his child.

Shortened by reason of man's wrong,
My evil days I here bemoan;
Yet know my life must last as long
As his, who struck it from his own.

Turned wholly am I from the way,—
Lost, and eternally undone;
I am of those, though gone astray,
The Father seeketh through the Son.

I wander in a maze of fear,
Hid in impenetrable night,
Afar from God—and yet so near,
He keeps me always in his sight.

I am as dross, and less than dross,
Worthless as worthlessness can be;
I am so precious that the cross
Darkened the universe for me!

I am unfit, even from the dust,
Master! to kiss thy garment's hem:
I am so dear, that thou, though just,
Wilt not despise me nor condemn.

Accounted am I as the least
Of creatures valueless and mean;

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Yet heaven's own joy shall be increased
If e'er repentance wash me clean.

Naked, ashamed, I hide my face,
All seamed by guilt's defacing scars;
I may be clothed with righteousness
Above the brightness of the stars.

Lord, I do fear that I shall go
Where death and darkness wait for me;
Lord, I believe, and therefore know
I have eternal life in thee!

OVER-PAYMENT.

I took a little good seed in my hand,
And cast it tearfully upon the land;
Saying, of this the fowls of heaven shall eat,
Or the sun scorch it with his burning heat.

Yet I, who sowed, oppressed by doubts and fears,
Rejoicing gathered in the ripened ears;
For when the harvest turned the fields to gold,
Mine yielded back to me a thousandfold.

A little child begged humbly at my door;
Small was the gift I gave her, being poor,
But let my heart go with it: therefore we
Were both made richer by that charity.

My soul with grief was darkened, I was bowed
Beneath the shadow of an awful cloud;
When one, whose sky was wholly overspread,
Came to me asking to be comforted.

It roused me from my weak and selfish fears:
It dried my own to dry another's tears;
The bow, to which I pointed in his skies,
Set all my cloud with sweetest promises.

Once, seeing the inevitable way
My feet must tread, through difficult places lay;
I cannot go alone, I cried, dismayed,—
I faint, I fail, I perish, without aid!

Yet, when I looked to see if help were nigh,
A creature weaker, wretcheder than I,
One on whose head life's fiercest storms had beat,
Clung to my garments, falling at my feet.

I saw, I paused no more: my courage found,
I stooped and raised her gently from the ground:
Through every peril safe I passed at length,
For she who leaned upon me gave me strength.

Once, when I hid my wretched self from Him,
My Father's brightness seemed withdrawn and dim:
But when I lifted up mine eyes I learned
His face to those who seek is always turned.

A half-unwilling sacrifice I made:
Ten thousand blessings on my head were laid:
I asked a comforting spirit to descend:
God made Himself my comforter and friend.

I sought his mercy in a faltering prayer,
And lo! his infinite tenderness and care,
Like a great sea, that hath no ebbing tide,
Encompassed me with love on every side!

VAIN REPENTANCE.

Do we not say, forgive us, Lord,
Oft when too well we understand
Our sorrow is not such as thou
Requirest at the sinner's hand?

Have we not sought thy face in tears,
When our desire hath rather been
Deliverance from the punishment,
Than full deliverance from the sin?

Alas! we mourn because we fain
Would keep the things we should resign:

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And pray, because we cannot pray—
Not my rebellious will, but thine!

IN EXTREMITY.

Think on him, Lord! we ask thy aid
In life's most dreaded extremity:
For evil days have come to him,
Who in his youth remembered thee.

Look on him, Lord! for heart and flesh,
Alike, must fail without thy grace:
Part back the clouds, that he may see
The brightness of his Father's face.

Speak to him, Lord! as thou didst talk
To Adam, in the Garden's shade,
And grant it unto him to hear
Thy voice, and not to be afraid.

Support him, Lord! that he may come,
Leaning on thee, in faith sublime,
Up to that awful landmark, set
Between eternity and time.

And, Lord! if it must be that we
Shall walk with him no more below,
Reach out of heaven thy loving hand,
And lead him where we cannot go.

PECCAVI.

I have sinned, I have sinned, before thee, the Most Holy!
And I come as a penitent, bowing down lowly,
With my lips making freely their awful admission,
And mine eyes raining bitterest tears of contrition;
And I cry unto thee, with my mouth in the dust:
O God! be not just!

O God! be not just; but be merciful rather,—
Let me see not the face of my Judge but my Father:
A sinner, a culprit, I stand self-convicted,
Yet the pardoning power is thine unrestricted;
I am weak; thou art strong: in thy goodness and might,
Let my sentence be light!

I have turned from all gifts which thy kindness supplied me,
Because of the one which thy wisdom denied me;
I have bandaged mine eyes—yea, mine own hands have bound me;
I have made me a darkness, when light was around me:
And I cry by the way-side: O Lord that I might
Receive back my sight!

For the sake of my guilt, may my guilt be forgiven,
And because mine iniquities mount unto heaven!
Let my sins, which are crimson, be snow in their brightness;
Let my sins, which are scarlet, be wool in their whiteness.
I am out of the way, and my soul is dismayed—
I am lost, and afraid.

I have sinned, and against Him whose justice may doom me;
Insulted his power whose wrath can consume me:
Yet, by that blest name by which angels adore Him—
That name through which mortals may dare come before Him—
I come, saying only, My Father above,
My God, be thou Love!

CHRISTMAS.

O time by holy prophets long foretold,
Time waited for by saints in days of old,
O sweet, auspicious morn
When Christ, the Lord, was born!

Again the fixèd changes of the year
Have brought that season to the world most dear,
When angels, all aflame,
Bringing good tidings came.

Again we think of her, the meek, the mild,

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The dove-eyed mother of the holy Child,
The chosen, and the best,
Among all women blest.

We think about the shepherds, who, dismayed,
Fell on their faces, trembling and afraid,
Until they heard the cry,
Glory to God on high!

And we remember those who from afar
Followed the changing glory of the star
To where its light was shed
Upon the sacred head:

And how each trembling, awe-struck worshiper
Brought gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh,
And spread them on the ground
In reverence profound.

We think what joy it would have been to share
In their high privilege who came to bear
Sweet spice and costly gem
To Christ, in Bethlehem.

And in that thought we half forget that He
Is wheresoe'er we seek Him earnestly;
Still filling every place
With sweet, abounding grace.

And though in garments of the flesh, as then,
No more He walks this sinful earth with men;
The poor, to Him most dear,
Are always with us here.

And He saith, Inasmuch as ye shall take
Good to these little ones for my dear sake,
In that same measure ye
Have brought it unto me!

Therefore, O men in prosperous homes who live,
Having all blessings earthly wealth can give,
Remember their sad doom
For whom there is no room—

No room in any home, in any bed,
No soft white pillow waiting for the head,
And spare from treasures great
To help their low estate.

Mothers whose sons fill all your homes with light,
Think of the sons who once made homes as bright,
Now laid in sleep profound
On some sad battle-ground;

And into darkened dwellings come with cheer,
With pitying hand to wipe the falling tear,
Comfort for Christ's dear sake
To childless mothers take!

Children whose lives are blest with love untold,
Whose gifts are greater than your arms can hold,
Think of the child who stands
To-day with empty hands!

Go fill them up, and you will also fill
Their empty hearts, that lie so cold and still,
And brighten longing eyes
With grateful, glad surprise.

May all who have, at this blest season seek
His precious little ones, the poor and weak,
In joyful, sweet accord,
Thus lending to the Lord.

Yea, Crucified Redeemer, who didst give
Thy toil, thy tears, thy life, that we might live,
Thy Spirit grant, that we
May live one day for thee!

COMPENSATION.

Crooked and dwarfed the tree must stay,
Nor lift its green head to the day,
Till useless growths are lopped away,

And thus doth human nature do;
Till it hath careful pruning too,
It cannot grow up straight and true.

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For, but for chastenings severe,
No soul could ever tell how near
God comes, to whom He loveth, here.

Without life's ills, we could not feel
The blessèd change from woe to weal;
Only the wounded limb can heal.

The sick and suffering learn below,
That which the whole can never know,
Of the soft hand that soothes their woe.

And never man is blest as he,
Who, freed from some infirmity,
Rejoices in his liberty.

He sees, with new and glad surprise,
The world that round about him lies,
Who slips the bandage from his eyes;

And comes from where he long hath lain,
Comes from the darkness and the pain,
Out into God's full light again.

They only know who wait in fear
The music of a footstep near,
Falling upon the listening ear.

And life's great depths are soonest stirred
In him who hath but seldom heard
The magic of a loving word.

Joy after grief is more complete;
And kisses never fall so sweet
As when long-parted lovers meet.

One who is little used to such,
Surely can tell us best how much
There is in a kind smile or touch.

'T is like the spring wind from the south,
Or water to the fevered mouth,
Or sweet rain falling after drouth.

By him the deepest rest is won
Who toils beneath the noonday sun
Faithful until his work is done.

And watchers through the weary night
Have learned how pleasantly the light
Of morning breaks upon the sight.

Perchance the jewel seems most fair
To him whose patient toil and care
Has brought it to the upper air.

And other lips can never taste
A draught like that he finds at last
Who seeks it in the burning waste.

When to the mother's arms is lent,
That sweet reward for suffering sent
To her, from the Omnipotent,

I think its helpless, pleading cry
Touches her heart more tenderly,
Because of her past agony.

We learn at last how good and brave
Was the dear friend we could not save,
When he has slipped into the grave.

And after he has come to hide
Our lambs upon the other side,
We know our Shepherd and our Guide.

And thus, by ways not understood,
Out of each dark vicissitude,
God brings us compensating good.

For Faith is perfected by fears,
And souls renew their youth with years,
And Love looks into heaven through tears.

RECONCILED.

O years, gone down into the past;
What pleasant memories come to me,
Of your untroubled days of peace,
And hours almost of ecstasy!

Yet would I have no moon stand still
Where life's most pleasant valleys lie;
Nor wheel the planet of the day
Back on his pathway through the sky.

For though, when youthful pleasures died,
My youth itself went with them, too;
To-day, aye! even this very hour,
Is the best time I ever knew.

Not that my Father gives to me
More blessings than in days gone by;
Dropping in my uplifted hands
All things for which I blindly cry:

But that his plans and purposes
Have grown to me less strange and dim;

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And where I cannot understand,
I trust the issues unto Him.

And, spite of many broken dreams,
This have I truly learned to say,—
The prayers I thought unanswered once,
Were answered in God's own best way.

And though some dearly cherished hopes
Perished untimely ere their birth,
Yet have I been beloved and blessed
Beyond the measure of my worth.

And sometimes in my hours of grief,
For moments I have come to stand
Where in the sorrows on me laid,
I felt a loving Father's hand.

And I have learned, the weakest ones
Are kept securest from life's harms;
And that the tender lambs alone
Are carried in the Shepherd's arms.

And, sitting by the way-side, blind,
He is the nearest to the light,
Who crieth out most earnestly,
“Lord, that I might receive my sight!”

O feet, grown weary as ye walk,
Where down life's hill my pathway lies,
What care I, while my soul can mount,
As the young eagle mounts the skies!

O eyes, with weeping faded out,
What matters it how dim ye be!
My inner vision sweeps untired
The reaches of eternity!

O Death, most dreaded power of all,
When the last moment comes, and thou
Darkenest the windows of my soul,
Through which I look on Nature now;

Yea, when mortality dissolves,
Shall I not meet thine hour unawed?
My house eternal in the heavens
Is lighted by the smile of God!

THOU KNOWEST.

Lord, with what body do they come
Who in corruption here are sown,
When with humiliation done,
They wear the likeness of thine own?

Lord, of what manner didst thou make
The fruits upon life's healing tree?
Where flows that water we may take
And thirst not through eternity?

Where lie the beds of lilies prest
By virgins whiter than their snow?
What can we liken to the rest
Thy well-beloved yet shall know?

And where no moon shall shine by night,
No sun shall rise and take his place,
How shall we look upon the light,
O Lamb of God, that lights thy face?

How shall we speak our joy that day
We stand upon the peaceful shore,
Where blest inhabitants shall say,
Lo! we are sick and sad no more?

What anthems shall they raise to thee,
The host upon the other side?
What will our depths of rapture be
When heart and soul are satisfied?

How will life seem when fear, nor dread,
Nor mortal weakness chains our powers;
When sin is crushed, and death is dead,
And all eternity is ours?

When, with our lover and our spouse,
We shall as angels be above,
And plight no troths and breathe no vows,
How shall we tell and prove our love?

How can we take in faith thy hand,
And walk the way that we must tread?
How can we trust and understand
That Christ will raise us from the dead?

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We cannot see nor know to-day.
For He hath made us of the dust;
We can but wait his time, and say,
Even though He slay me, will I trust!

Swift to the dead we hasten now,
And know not even the way we go;
Yet quick and dead are thine, and thou—
Thou knowest all we do not know!

CHRISTMAS.

This happy day, whose risen sun
Shall set not through eternity,
This holy day when Christ, the Lord,
Took on Him our humanity,

For little children everywhere
A joyous season still we make;
We bring our precious gifts to them,
Even for the dear child Jesus' sake.

The glory from the manger shed,
Wherein the lowly Saviour lay,
Shines as a halo round the head
Of every human child to-day.

And each unconscious infant sleeps
Intrusted to his guardian care;
Hears his dear name in cradle hymns,
And lisps it in its earliest prayer.

Thou blessed Babe of Bethlehem!
Whose life we love, whose name we laud;
Thou Brother, through whose poverty,
We have become the heirs of God;

Thou sorrowful, yet tempted Man—
Tempted in all things like as we,
Treading with tender, human feet,
The sharp, rough way of Calvary;

We do remember how, by thee,
The sick were healed, the halting led;
How thou didst take the little ones
And pour thy blessings on their head.

We know for what unworthy men
Thou once didst deign to toil and live;
What weak and sinful women thou
Didst love, and pity, and forgive.

And, Lord, if to the sick and poor
We go with generous hearts to-day,
Or in forbidden places seek
For such as wander from the way;

And by our loving words or deeds
Make this a hallowed time to them;
Though we ourselves be found unmeet,
For sin, to touch thy garment's hem;

Wilt thou not, for thy wondrous grace,
And for thy tender charity,
Accept the good we do to these,
As we had done it unto thee?

And for the precious little ones,
Here from their native heaven astray,
Strong in their very helplessness,
To lead us in the better way;

If we shall make thy natal day
A season of delight to these,
A season always crowded full
Of sweet and pleasant memories;

Wilt thou not grant us to forget
Awhile our weight of care and pain,
And in their joys, bring back their joy
Of early innocence again?

O holy Child, about whose bed
The virgin mother softly trod;
Dead once, yet living evermore,
O Son of Mary, and of God!

If any act that we can do,
If any thought of ours is right,
If any prayer we lift to thee,
May find acceptance in thy sight,

Hear us, and give to us, to-day,
In answer to our earnest cries,
Some portion of that sacred love
That drew thee to us from the skies!

PRODIGALS.

Again, in the Book of Books, to-day
I read of that Prodigal, far away
In the centuries agone,
Who took the portion that to him fell,
And went from friends and home to dwell
In a distant land alone.

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And when his riotous living was done,
And his course of foolish pleasure run,
And a fearful famine rose.
He fain would have fed with the very swine,
And no man gave him bread nor wine,
For his friends were changed to foes.

And I thought, when at last his state he knew
What a little thing he had to do,
To win again his place:
Only the madness of sin to learn,
To come to himself, repent, and turn,
And seek his father's face.

Then I thought however vile we are,
Not one of us hath strayed so far
From the things that are good and pure,
But if to gain his home he tried,
He would find the portal open wide,
And find his welcome sure.

My fellow-sinners, though you dwell
In haunts where the feet take hold on hell,
Where the downward way is plain;
Think, who is waiting for you at home,
Repent, and come to yourself, and come
To your Father's house again!

Say, out of the depths of humility,
“I have lost the claim of a child on thee,
I would serve thee with the least!”
And He will a royal robe prepare,
He will call you son, and call you heir;
And seat you at the feast.

Yea, fellow-sinner, rise to-day,
And run till He meets you on the way,
Till you hear the glad words said,—
“Let joy through all the heavens resound,
For this, my son, who was lost is found,
And he lives who once was dead.”

ST. BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX.

In the shade of the cloister, long ago—
They are dead and buried for centuries—
The pious monks walked to and fro,
Talking of holy mysteries.

By a blameless life and penance hard,
Each brother there had proved his call;
But the one we name the St. Bernard
Was the sweetest soul among them all.

And oft as a silence on them fell,
He would pause, and listen, and whisper low,
“There is One who waits for me in my cell;
I hear Him calling, and I must go!”

No charm of human fellowship
His soul from its dearest love can bind;
With a “Jesu Dulcis” on his lip,
He leaves all else that is sweet behind.

The only hand that he longs to take,
Pierced, from the cross is reaching down;
And the head he loves, for his dear sake
Was wounded once with a thorny crown.

Ah! men and brethren, He whose call
Drew that holy monk with a power divine,
Was the One who is calling for us all,
Was the Friend of sinners—yours and mine!

From the sleep of the cradle to the grave,
From the first low cry till the lip is dumb,
Ready to help us, and strong to save,
He is calling, and waiting till we come.

Lord! teach us always thy voice to know,
And to turn to thee from the world beside,
Prepared when our time has come to go,
Whether at morn or eventide.

And to say when the heavens are rent in twain,
When suns are darkened, and stars shall flee,

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Lo! thou hast not called for us in vain,
And we shall not call in vain for thee!

THE WIDOW'S THANKSGIVING.

Of the precious years of my life, to-day
I count another one;
And I thank thee, Lord, for the light is good,
And 't is sweet to see the sun.

To watch the seasons as they pass,
Their wondrous wealth unfold,
Till the silvery treasures of the snow
Are changed to the harvest's gold.

For kindly still does the teeming earth
Her stores of plenty yield,
Whether we come to bind the sheaves,
Or only to glean in the field.

And dwelling in such a pleasant land,
Though poor in goods and friends,
We may still be rich, if we live content
With what our Father sends.

If we feel that life is a blessed thing—
A boon to be desired;
And where not much to us is given,
Not much will be required;

And keep our natures sweet with the sense
Of fervent gratitude,
That we have been left to live in the world,
And to know that God is good!

And since there is naught of all we have,
That we have not received:
Shall we dare, though our treasures be reclaimed,
To call ourselves bereaved?

For 't is easy to walk by sight in the day;
'T is the night that tries our faith;
And what is that worth if we render thanks
For life and not for death?

Lo! I glean alone! and the children, Lord,
Thou gavest unto me,
Have one by one fled out of my arms,
And into eternity.

Aye, the last and the bravest of them died
In prison, far away;
And no man, of his sepulchre,
Knoweth the place to-day.

Yet is not mine the bitterness
Of the soul that doth repent;
If I had it now to do again,
I would bless him that he went.

There are many writ in the book of life
Whose graves are marked unknown;
For his country and his God he died,
And He will know his own!

In the ranks he fought; but he stood the first
And bravest in the lines;
And no fairer, brighter name than his
On the roll of honor shines.

And because he faltered not, nor failed
In the march, nor under fire;
His great promotion came at last,
In the call to go up higher.

Fair wives, whose homes are guarded round
By love's securities:
Mothers, who gather all your flock
At night about your knees;

Thrice happy, happy girls, who hold
The hand of your lovers fast;
Widows, who keep an only son
To be your stay to the last:

You never felt, though you give God thanks
For his blessings day by day,
That perfect peace which blesses Him
For the good He takes away;

The joy of a soul that even in pain
Beholds his love's decrees,
Who sets the solitary ones
In the midst of families.

Lord, help me still, at the midnight hour,
My lamp of faith to trim;

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And so sing from my heart, at the break of day,
A glad thanksgiving hymn:

Nor doubt thy love, though my earthly joys
Were narrowed down to this one,
So long as the sweet day shines for me,
And mine eyes behold the sun.

VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS.

Questioning, blind, unsatisfied,
Out of the dark my spirit cried,—
Wherefore for sinners, lost, undone,
Gave the Father his only Son?

Clear and sweet there came reply,—
Out of my soul or out of the sky
A voice like music answered:—
God so loved the world, it said.

Could not the Lord from heaven give aid?
Why was He born of the mother-maid?
Only the Son of man could be
Touched with man's infirmity!

Why must He lay his infant head
In the manger, where the beasts were fed?
So that the poorest here might cry,
My Lord was as lowly born as I!

Why for friends did He choose to know
Sinners and harlots here below?
Not to the righteous did He come,
But to find and bring the wanderers home.

He was tempted? Yes, He sounded then
And that hides in the hearts of men;
And He knoweth, when we intercede,
How to succor our souls in their need.

Why should they whom He called his own,
Deny, betray Him, leave Him alone?
That He might know their direst pain,
Who have trusted human love in vain!

Must He needs have washed the traitor's feet
Ere his abasement was made complete?
Yea, for women have thus laid down
Their hearts for a Judas to trample on!

By one cup might He not drink less;
Nor lose one drop of the bitterness;
Must He suffer, though without blame,
Stripes and buffeting, scorn and shame?

Alas! and wherefore should it be
That He must die on Calvary;
Must bear the pain and the cruel thrust,
Till his heart with its very anguish burst?

That martyrs, dying for his name,
Whether by cross, or flood, or flame,
Might know they were called to bear no more
Than He, their blessed Master, bore.

What did He feel in that last dread cry?
The height and the depth of agony!
All the anguish a mortal can,
Who dies forsaken of God and man!

Is there no way to Him at last
But that where His bleeding feet have passed?
Did he not to his followers say,
I am the Life, the Light, the Way?

Yea, and still from the heavens He saith
The gate of life is the gate of death;
Peace is the crown of faith's good fight,
And the way of the cross is the way of light!

HYMN.

Come down, O Lord, and with us live!
For here with tender, earnest call,
The gospel thou didst freely give,
We freely offer unto all.

Come, with such power and saving grace,
That we shall cry, with one accord,
“How sweet and awful is this place,—
This sacred temple of the Lord.”

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Let friend and stranger, one in thee,
Feel with such power thy Spirit move,
That every man's own speech shall be,
The sweet eternal speech of love.

Yea, fill us with the Holy Ghost,
Let burning hearts and tongues be given,
Make this a day of Pentecost,
A foretaste of the bliss of heaven!

OF ONE FLESH.

A man he was who loved the good,
Yet strayed in crooked ways apart;
He could not do the thing he would,
Because of evil in his heart.

He saw men garner wealth and fame,
Ripe in due time, a precious load;
He fainted ere the harvest came,
And failed to gather what he sowed.

He looked if haply grapes had grown
On the wild thorns that choked his vines;
When clear the truth before him shone
He sought for wonders and for signs.

Others Faith's sheltered harbor found,
The while his bark was tossed about;
Drifting and dragging anchor round
The troubled, shoreless sea of doubt.

Where he would win, he could not choose
But yield to weakness and despair;
He ran as they who fear to lose,
And fought as one who beats the air.

Walking where hosts of souls have passed,
By faith and hope made strong and brave,
He, gropping, stumbled at the last,
And blindly fell across the grave.

Yet speak of him in charity,
O man! nor write of blame one line;
Say that thou wert not such as he—
He was thy brother, and was mine!

TEACH US TO WAIT!

Why are we so impatient of delay,
Longing forever for the time to be?
For thus we live to-morrow in to-day,
Yea, sad to-morrows we may never see.

We are too hasty; are not reconciled
To let kind Nature do her work alone:
We plant our seed, and like a foolish child
We dig it up to see if it has grown.

The good that is to be we covet now,
We cannot wait for the appointed hour;
Before the fruit is ripe, we shake the bough,
And seize the bud that folds away the flower.

When midnight darkness reigns we do not see
That the sad night is mother of the morn;
We cannot think our own sharp agony
May be the birth-pang of a joy unborn.

Into the dust we see our idols cast,
And cry, that death has triumphed, life is void!
We do not trust the promise, that the last
Of all our enemies shall be destroyed!

With rest almost in sight the spirit faints,
And heart and flesh grow weary at the last:
Our feet would walk the city of the saints,
Even before the silent gate is passed.

Teach us to wait until thou shalt appear—
To know that all thy ways and times are just;
Thou seest that we do believe, and fear,
Lord, make us also to believe and trust!

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IN HIS ARMS.

If when thy children, O my friend,
Were clasped by thee, in love's embrace,
Their guardian angels, that in heaven
Always behold the Father's face;

Thine earthly home, on shining wings,
Had entered, as of old they came,
To grant to these whatever good,
Thou shouldst desire, in Jesus' name;—

Or as the loving sinner came,
And worshiped when He sat at meat,
Couldst thou, thyself have come to Him,
And bowed thy forehead to his feet;

And prayed Him by that tender love,
He feels for those to whom He came,
To give to thy beloved ones,
The best thou couldst desire or name;—

What couldst thou ask so great as this,
Out of his love's rich treasury,
That He should take them in his arms,
And bless, and keep them safe for thee?

Ah! favored friend, nor faith, nor prayers,
Nor richest offering ever brought
A token of the Saviour's love
So sweet, as thou hast gained unsought!

[The heart is not satisfied]

The heart is not satisfied:
For more than the world can give it pleads;
It has infinite wants and infinite needs;
And its every beat is an awful cry
For love that never can change nor die;
The heart is not satisfied!

UNBELIEF.

Faithless, perverse, and blind,
We sit in our house of fear,
When the winter of sorrow comes to our souls,
And the days of our life are drear.

For when in darkness and clouds
The way of God is concealed,
We doubt the words of his promises,
And the glory to be revealed.

We do but trust in part;
We grope in the dark alone;
Lord, when shall we see thee as thou art,
And know as we are known?

When shall we live to thee
And die to thee, resigned,
Nor fear to hide what we would keep,
And lose what we would find?

For we doubt our Father's care,
We cover our faces and cry,
If a little cloud, like the hand of a man,
Darkens the face of our sky.

We judge of his perfect day
By our life's poor glimmering spark;
And measure eternity's circle
By the segment of an arc.

We say, they have taken our Lord,
And we know not where He lies,
When the light of his resurrection morn
Is breaking out of the skies.

And we stumble at last when we come
On the brink of the grave to stand;
As if the souls that are born of his love
Could slip their Father's hand?

THE VISION ON THE MOUNT.

Oh, if this living soul, that many a time
Above the low things of the earth doth climb,
Up to the mountain-top of faith sublime,
If she could only stay
In that high place alway,
And hear, in reverence bowed,
God's voice behind the cloud:

Or if descending to the earth again
Its lesson in the heart might still remain;
If we could keep the vision, clear and plain,

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Nor let one jot escape,
So that we still might shape
Our lives to deeds sublime
By that exalted time:

Ah! what a world were ours to journey through!
What deeds of love and mercy we should do:
Making our lives so beautiful and true,
That in our face would shine
The light of love divine,
Showing that we had stood
Upon the mount of God.

But earthly of the earth, we downward tend,
From the pure height of faith our feet descend,
The hour of exaltation hath its end.
And we, alas! forget,
In life's turmoil and fret,
The pattern to us shown,
When on the mount alone.

Yea, we forget the rapture we had known,
Forget the voice that talked to us alone,
Forget the brightness past, the cloud that shone;
We have no need to veil
Our faces, dim and pale,
So soon from out them dies
The sweet light of the skies.

We come down from the height where we have been.
And build our tabernacles low and mean,
Not by the pattern in the vision seen
Remembering no more,
When once the hour is o'er,
How in the safe cleft of the rock on high,
The shadow of the Lord has passed us by.

A CANTICLE.

Be with me, O Lord, when my life hath increase
Of the riches that make it complete;
When, favored, I walk in the pathway of peace,
That is pleasant and safe to the feet:
Be with me and keep me, when all the day long
Delight hath no taint of alloy;
When my heart runneth over with laughter and song,
And my cup with the fullness of joy.

Be with me, O Lord, when I make my complaint
Because of my sorrow and care;
Take the weight from my soul, that is ready to faint,
And give me thy burden to bear.
If the sun of the desert at noontide, in wrath
Descends on my shelterless head,
Be thou the cool shadow and rock in the path
Of a land that is weary to tread.

In the season of sorest affliction and dread,
When my soul is encompassed with fears,
Till I lie in the darkness awake on my bed,
And water my pillow with tears;
When lonely and sick, for the tender delight
Of thy comforting presence I pray,
Come into my chamber, O Lord, in the night,
And stay till the break of the day.

Through the devious paths of the world be my guide,
Till its trials, and its dangers are past;
If I walk through the furnace, be thou by my side,
Be my rod and my staff to the last.
When my cruelest enemy presses me hard
To my last earthly refuge and rest—
Put thy arms underneath and about me, O Lord,
Let me lie tenderly on thy breast.

Come down when in silence I slumber alone,
When the death seal is set on mine eyes;
Break open the sepulchre, roll off the stone,
And bear me away to the skies.
Lord, lay me to rest by the river, that bright
From the throne of thy glory doth flow;

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Where the odorous beds of the lilies are white
And the roses of paradise blow!

THE CRY OF THE HEART AND FLESH.

When her mind was sore bewildered,
And her feet were gone astray,
When she saw no fiery column,
And no cloud before her way,—
Then, with earnest supplication.
To the mighty One she prayed,
“Thou for whom we were created,
And by whom the worlds were made,—
By thy pity for our weakness,
By thy wisdom and thy might,
Son of God, Divine Redeemer!
Guide and keep me in the right!”

When Faith had broke her moorings,
And upon a sea of doubt,
Her soul with fear and darkness
Was encompassed round about;
Then she said, “O Elder Brother!
By thy human nature, when
Thou wert made to be in all things
Like unto the sons of men:
By the hour of thy temptation,
By thy one forsaken cry,
Son of God and man! have mercy,
Send thy light down from on high!”

When her very heart was broken.
Bearing more than it could bear.
Then she clasped her anguish, crying,
In her passionate despair,—
“Thou who wert beloved of women,
And who gav'st them love again,
By the strength of thine affection,
By its rapture and its pain,
Son of God and Son of woman!
Lo! 't is now the eventide!
Come from heaven, O sacred lover!
With thine handmaid to abide:
Come down as the bridegroom cometh
From his chamber to the bride!”

OUR PATTERN.

A weaver sat one day at his loom,
Among the colors bright,
With the pattern for his copying
Hung fair and plain in sight.

But the weaver's thoughts were wandering
Away on a distant track,
As he threw the shuttle in his hand
Wearily forward and back.

And he turned his dim eyes to the ground,
And tears fell on the woof,
For his thoughts, alas! were not with his home,
Nor the wife beneath its roof;

When her voice recalled him suddenly
To himself, as she sadly said:
“Ah! woe is me! for your work is spoiled,
And what will we do for bread?”

And then the weaver looked, and saw
His work must be undone;
For the threads were wrong, and the colors dimmed,
Where the bitter tears had run.

“Alack, alack!” said the weaver,
“And this had all been right
If I had not looked at my work, but kept
The pattern in my sight!”

Ah! sad it was for the weaver,
And sad for his luckless wife:
And sad will it be for us, if we say,
At the end of our task of life:

“The colors that we had to weave
Were bright in our early years:
But we wove the tissue wrong, and stained
The woof with bitter tears.

“We wove a web of doubt and fear—
Not faith, and hope, and love—
Because we looked at our work, and not
At our Pattern up above!”

THE EARTHLY HOUSE.

“Ye are the temple of God. . . . . If any man defile the temple of God, him will God destroy: for the the temple of God is holy.”

I Corinthians iii. 16, 17.

Once—in the ages that have passed away,
Since the fair morning of that fairest day,

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When earth, in all her innocent beauty, stood
Near her Creator, and He called her good—
He who had weighed the planets in his hand,
And dropped them in the places where they stand,
Builded a little temple white and fair,
And of a workmanship so fine and rare
Even the star that led to Bethlehem
Had not the value of this wondrous gem.

Then, that its strength and beauty might endure,
He placed within, to keep it clean and pure,
A living human soul. To him He said:
“This is the temple which my hands have made
To be thy dwelling-place, or foul or fair,
As thou shalt make it by neglect or care.
Mar or deface this temple's sacred wall,
And swift destruction on the work shall fall:
Preserve it perfect in its purity,
And God Himself shall come and dwell with thee!”

Then he for whom that holy place was built,
Fair as a palace—ah, what fearful guilt!—
Grew, after tending it a little while,
Careless, then reckless, and then wholly vile.
The evil spirits came and dwelt with him;
The walls decayed, and through the windows dim
He saw not this world's beauty any more,
Heard no good angel knocking at his door;
And all his house, because of sin and crime,
Tumbled and fell in ruin ere its time.

Oh, men and brethren! we who live to-day
In dwellings made by God, though made of clay,
Have these our mortal bodies ever been
Kept fit for Him who made them pure and clean;
Or was that soul in evil sunk so deep,
He spoiled the temple he was set to keep,
And turned to wastefulness and to abuse
The tastes and passions that were meant for use;
So like ourselves, that we, afraid, might cry:
“Lord, who destroyest the temple—is it I?”

YE DID IT UNTO ME.

Sinner, careless, proud, and cold,
Straying from the sheltering fold,
Hast thou thought how patiently
The Good Shepherd follows thee;
Still with tireless, toiling feet,
Through the tempest and the heat—
Thought upon that yearning breast,
Where He fain would have thee rest,
And of all its tender pain,
While He seeks for thee in vain?

Dost thou know what He must feel,
Making vainly his appeal:
When He knocketh at thy door
Present entrance to implore;
Saying, “Open unto Me,
I will come and sup with thee”—
Forced to turn away at last
From the portal shut and fast?
Wilt thou careless slumber on,
Even till thy Lord has gone,
Heedless of his high behest,
His desire to be thy guest?

Sinner, sinner, dost thou know
What it is to slight Him so?
Sitting careless by the sea
While He calleth, “Follow me”;
Sleeping, thoughtless, unaware
Of his agonizing prayer,
While thy sins his soul o'erpower,
And thou canst not watch one hour?
Our infirmities He bore,
And our mortal form He wore;
Yea, our Lord was made to be
Here in all things like as we,
And, that pardon we might win,
He, the sinless, bare our sin!

Sinner, though He comes no more
Faint and fasting to thy door,
His disciples here instead
Thou canst give the cup and bread.

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If his lambs thou dost not feed,
He it is that feels their need:
He that suffers their distress,
Hunger, thirst, and weariness:
He that loving them again
Beareth all their bitter pain!
Canst thou then so reckless prove,
Canst thou, darest thou slight his love?

Do not, sinner, for thy sake
Make Him still the cross to take,
And ascend again for thee
Dark and dreadful Calvary!
Do not set the crown of pain
On that sacred head again;
Open all afresh and wide
Closèd wounds in hands and side.
Do not, do not scorn his name,
Putting Him to open shame!

Oh, by all the love He knew,
For his followers, dear and true;
By the sacred tears He wept
At the tomb where Lazarus slept;
By Gethsemane's bitter cry,
That the cup might pass Him by;
By that wail of agony,
Why hast thou forsaken me?
By that last and heaviest stroke,
When his heart for sinners broke,
Do not let Him lose the price
Of his awful sacrifice!

THE SINNER AT THE CROSS.

Helpless before the cross I lay,
With all to lose, or all to win,
My steps had wandered from the way,
My soul was burdened with her sin;
I spoke no word, I made no plea,
But this, Be merciful to me!

To meet his gaze, I could not brook,
Who for my sake ascended there;
I could not bear the angry look
My dear offended Lord must wear;
Remembering how I had denied
His name, my heart within me died.

Almost, I heard his awful voice,
Sounding above my head in wrath;
Fixing my everlasting choice
With such as tread the downward path;
I waited for the words, Depart
From me, accursed as thou art!

One moment, all the world was stilled,
Then, He who saw my anguish, spoke;
I heard, I breathed, my pulses thrilled,
And heart, and brain, and soul awoke;
No scorn, no wrath was in that tone,
But pitying love, and love alone!

“And dost thou know, and love not me,”
He said, “when I have loved thee so;
It was for guilty men like thee
I came into this world of woe;
To save the lost I lived and died,
For sinners was I crucified.”

The fountain of my tears was dried,
My eyes were lifted from the dust:
“Jesus! my blessed Lord! I cried,
And is it thou, I feared to trust?
And art thou He, I deemed my foe;
The Friend to whom I dared not go?

“How could I shrink from such as thou,
Divine Redeemer, as thou art!
I know thy loving kindness now,
I see thy wounded, bleeding heart;
I know that thou didst give me thine,
And all that thou dost ask is mine!

“My Lord, my God! I know at last
Whose mercy I have dared offend;
I own thee now, I hold thee fast,
My Brother, Lover, and my Friend!
Take me and clasp me to thy breast,
Bless me again, and keep me blest!

“Thou art the man, who ne'er refused
With sinful men to sit at meat;
Who spake to her who was accused
Of men, and trembling at thy feet,
As lips had never spoke before,
Go uncondemned, and sin no more.

“Dear Lord! not all eternity
Thy image from my heart can move,
When thou didst turn and look on me,
When first I heard thy words of love;
Repent, believe, and thou shalt be,
To-night in Paradise with me.”

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THE HEIR.

An orphan, through the world
Unfriended did I roam,
I knew not that my Father lived,
Nor that I had a home.

No kindred might I claim,
No lover sought for me;
Mine was a solitary life,
Set in no family.

I yielded to despair,
I sorrowed night and morn—
I cried, “Ah! good it were for me,
If I had not been born!”

At midnight came a man—
He knocked upon my door;
He spake such tender words as man
Ne'er spake to me before.

I rose to let him in,
I shook with fear and dread;
A lamp was shining in his hand,
A brightness round his head.

“And who art thou,” I cried;
“I scarce for awe might speak;
And why for such a wretch as I
Dost thou at midnight seek?”

“Though thou hast strayed,” He said,
“From me thou couldst not flee;
I am thy Brother and thy Friend,
And thou shalt share with me!

“For me thou hast not sought,
I sought thee everywhere;
Thou hast a Father and a home,
With mansions grand and fair.

“To thine inheritance
I came thy soul to bring;
Thou art the royal heir of heaven—
The daughter of the King!”

REALITIES.

Things that I have to hold and keep, ah! these
Are not the treasures to my heart most dear;
Though many sweet and precious promises
Have had their sweet fulfillment, even here.

And yet to others, what I name my own
Poor unrealities and shows might seem;
Since my best house hath no foundation-stone.
My tenderest lover is a tender dream.

And would you learn who leads me, if below
I choose the good or from the ill forbear?
A little child He suffered long ago
To come unto his arms, and keeps her there!

The alms I give the beggar at my gate
I do but lend to One who thrice repays;
The only heavenly bread I ever ate
Came back to find me, after many days.

The single friend whose presence cannot fail,
Whose face I always see without disguise,
Went down into the grave and left the veil
Of mortal flesh that hid her from my eyes!

My clearest way is that which faith hath shown,
Not that in which by sight I daily move;
And the most precious thing my soul hath known
Is that which passeth knowledge, God's dear love.

HYMN.

When the world no solace gives,
When in deep distress I groan;
When my lover and my friend
Leave me with my grief alone;
When a weary land I tread,
Fainting for the rocks and springs,

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Overshadow me, O Lord,
With the comfort of thy wings!

When my heart and flesh shall fail,
When I yield my mortal breath,
When I gather up my feet,
Icy with the chill of death;
Strengthen and sustain me, Lord,
With thine all-sufficient grace:
Overlean my dying bed
With the sweetness of thy face!

When the pang, the strife is past,
When my spirit mounts on high,
Catch me up in thine embrace,
In thy bosom let me lie!
Freed from sin and freed from death,
Hid with thee, in heaven above,
Oversplendor me, O God,
With the glory of thy love.

WOUNDED

O men, with wounded souls,
O women, with broken hearts,
That have suffered since ever the world was made,
And nobly borne your parts;

Suffered and borne as well
As the martyrs whom we name,
That went rejoicing home, through flood,
Or singing through the flame;

Ye have had of Him reward
For your battles fought and won,
Who giveth his beloved rest
When the day of their work is done.

Ye have changed for perfect peace
The pain of the ways ye trod;
And laid your burdens softly down,
At the merciful feet of God!

A CRY OF THE HEART.

Oh, for a mind more clear to see,
A hand to work more earnestly
For every good intent;
Oh, for a Peter's fiery zeal,
His conscience always quick to feel,
And instant to repent!

Oh, for a faith more strong and true
Than that which doubting Thomas knew,
A faith assured and clear;
To know that He who for us died,
Rejected, scorned, and crucified,
Lives, and is with us here.

Oh, for the blessing shed upon
That humble, loving, sinful one,
Who, when He sat at meat,
With precious store of ointment came;
Hid from her Lord her face for shame,
And laid it on his feet.

Oh, for that look of pity seen
By her, the guilty Magdalene,
Who stood her Judge before;
And listening, for her comfort heard,
The tender, sweet, forgiving word:—
Go thou, and sin no more!

Oh, to have stood with James and John,
Where brightness round the Saviour shone,
Whiter than light of day;
When by the voice and cloud dismayed,
They fell upon the ground afraid,
And wist not what to say.

Oh, to have been the favored guest,
That leaned at supper on his breast,
And heard his dear Lord say:
He who shall testify of Me,
The Comforter, ye may not see
Except I go away.

Oh, for the honor won by her,
Who early to the sepulchre
Hastened in tearful gloom;
To whom He gave his high behest,
To tell to Peter and the rest,
Their Lord had left the tomb.

Oh, for the vision that sufficed
That first blest martyr after Christ,
And gave a peace so deep,
That while he saw with raptured eyes
Jesus with God in Paradise,
He, praying, feel asleep.

But if such heights I may not gain,
O thou, to whom no soul in vain
Or cries, or makes complaints;
This only favor grant to me,—
That I of sinners chief, may be
The least of all thy saints!

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POEMS OF GRIEF AND CONSOLATION.

EARTH TO EARTH.

His hands with earthly work are done,
His feet are done with roving;
We bring him now to thee and ask,
The loved to take the loving.

Part back thy mantle, fringed with green,
Broidered with leaf and blossom,
And lay him tenderly to sleep,
Dear Earth, upon thy bosom.

Thy cheerful birds, thy liberal flowers,
Thy woods and waters only
Gave him their sweet companionship
And made his hours less lonely.

Though friendship never blest his way,
And love denied her blisses;
No flower concealed her face from him,
No wind withheld her kisses.

Nor man hath sighed, nor woman wept
To go their ways without him;
So, lying here, he still will have
His truest friends about him.

Then part thy mantle, fringed with green,
Broidered with leaf and blossom,
And lay him tenderly to sleep,
Dear Earth, upon thy bosom!

THE UNHONORED.

Alas, alas! how many sighs
Are breathed for his sad fate, who dies
With triumph dawning on his eyes.

What thousands for the soldier weep,
From his first battle gone to sleep
That slumber which is long and deep.

But who about his fate can tell,
Who struggled manfully and well;
Yet fainted on the march, and fell?

Or who above his rest makes moan,
Who dies in the sick-tent alone—
“Only a private, name unknown!”

What tears down Pity's cheek have run
For poets singing in the sun,
Stopped suddenly, their song half done.

But for the hosts of souls below,
Who to eternal silence go,
Hiding their great unspoken woe;

Who sees amid their ranks go down,
Heroes, that never won renown,
And martyrs, with no martyr's crown?

Unrecognized, a poet slips
Into death's total, long eclipse,
With breaking heart, and wordless lips;

And never any brother true
Utters the praise that was his due—
“This man was greater than ye knew!”

No maiden by his grave appears,
Crying out in long after years,
“I would have loved him,” through her tears.

We weep for her, untimely dead,
Who would have pressed the marriage-bed,
Yet to death's chamber went instead.

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But who deplores the sadder fate,
Of her who finds no mortal mate,
And lives and dies most desolate?

Alas! 't is sorrowful to know
That she who finds least love below,
Finds least pity for her woe.

Hard is her fate who feels life past,
When loving hands still hold her fast,
And loving eyes watch to the last.

But she, whose lids no kisses prest,
Who crossed her own hands on her breast,
And went to her eternal rest;

She had so sad a lot below,
That her unutterable woe
Only the pitying God can know!

When little hands are dropped away
From the warm bosom where they lay,
And the poor mother holds but clay;

What human lip that does not moan,
What heart that does not inly groan,
And make such suffering its own?

Yet, sitting mute in their despair,
With their unnoticed griefs to bear,
Are childless women everywhere;

Who never knew, nor understood,
That which is woman's greatest good,
The sacredness of motherhood.

But putting down their hopes and fears,
Claiming no pity and no tears,
They live the measure of their years.

They see age stealing on apace,
And put the gray hairs from their face,
No children's fingers shall displace!

Though grief hath many a form and show,
I think that unloved women know
The very bottom of life's woe!

And that the God, who pitying sees,
Hath yet a recompense for these,
Kept in the long eternities!

JENNIE.

You have sent me from her tomb
A poor withered flower to keep,
Broken off in perfect bloom,
Such as hers, who lies asleep—
Underneath the roses lies,
Hidden from your mortal eyes,
Never from your heart concealed,
Always to your soul revealed.

Oh, to think, as day and night
Come and go, and go and come,
How the smile which was its light
Hath been darkened in your home!
Oh, to think that those dear eyes,
Copied from the summer skies,
Could have veiled their heavenly blue
From the sunshine, and from you!

Oh, to have that tender mouth,
With its loveliness complete,
Shut up in its budding youth
From all kisses, fond and sweet!
Fairest blossom, red and rare,
Could not with her lips compare;
Yea, her mouth's young beauty shamed
All the roses ever named.

Why God hid her from your sight,
Leaving anguish in her place,
At the noonday sent the night,
Night that almost hid his face,
Not to us is fully shown,
Not to mortals can be known,
Though they strive, through tears and doubt,
Still to guess his meaning out.

Full of mystery 't is, and yet
If you claspèd still those charms,
Mother, might you not forget
Mothers who have empty arms?
If you satisfied in her
Every want and every need,
Could you be a comforter
To the hearts that moan and bleed?

Take this solace for your woe:
God's love never groweth dim;
All of goodness that you know,
All your loving comes from him!
You say, “She has gone to death!”
Very tenderly, God saith:
“Better so; I make her mine,
And my love exceedeth thine!”

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COWPER'S CONSOLATION.

He knew what mortals know when tried
By suffering's worst and last extreme;
He knew the ecstacy allied
To bliss supreme.

Souls, hanging on his melody,
Have caught his rapture of belief;
The heart of all humanity
Has felt his grief.

In sweet compassion and in love
Poets about his tomb have trod;
And softly hung their wreaths above
The hallowed sod.

His hymns of victory, clear and strong,
Over the hosts of sin and doubt,
Still make the Christian's battle-song,
And triumph-shout.

Tasting sometimes his Father's grace,
Yet for wise purposes allowed
Seldom to see the “smiling face”
Behind the cloud;

Surely when he was left the prey
Of torments only Heaven can still,
“God moved in a mysterious way”
To work his will.

Yet many a soul through life has trod
Untroubled o'er securest ground,
Nor knew that “closer walk with God”
His footsteps found.

With its great load of grief to bear,
The reed, though bruisèd, might not break;
God did not leave him to despair,
Nor quite forsake.

The pillow by his tear-drops wet,
The stoniest couch that heard his cries,
Had near a golden ladder set
That touched the skies.

And at the morning on his bed,
And in sweet visions of the night,
Angels, descending, comforted
His soul with light.

Standing upon the hither side,
How few of all the earthly host
Have signaled those whose feet have trod
The heavenly coast.

Yet his it was at times to see,
In glimpses faint and half-revealed,
That strange and awful mystery
By death concealed.

And, as the glory thus discerned
His heart desired, with strong desire;
By seraphs touched, his sad lips burned
With sacred fire.

As ravens to Elijah bare,
At morn and eve, the promised bread;
So by the spirits of the air
His soul was fed.

And, even as the prophet rose
Triumphant on the flames of love,
The fiery chariot of his woes
Bore him above.

Oh, shed no tears for such a lot,
Nor deem he passed uncheered, alone;
He walked with God, and he was not,
God took his own!

The most important events of Cowper's latter years were audibly announced to him before they occurred. We find him writing of Mrs. Unwin's “approaching and sudden death,” when her health, although feeble, was not such as to occasion alarm. His lucid intervals, and the return of his disorder, were announced to him in the same remarkable manner.— Cowper's Audible Illusions.

TWICE SMITTEN.

O doubly-bowed and bruisèd reed,
What can I offer in thy need?

O heart, twice broken with its grief,
What words of mine can bring relief?

O soul, o'erwhelmed with woe again,
How can I soothe thy bitter pain?

Abashed and still, I stand and see
Thy sorrow's awful majesty.

Only dumb silence may convey
That which my lip can never say.

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I cannot comfort thee at all;
On the Great Comforter I call;

Praying that He may make thee see
How near He hath been drawn to thee.

For unto man the angel guest
Still comes through gates of suffering best;

And most our Heavenly Father cares
For whom He smites, not whom He spares.

So, to his chastening meekly bow,
Thou art of his beloved now!

BORDER-LAND.

I know you are always by my side
And I know you love me, Winifred dear,
For I never called on you since you died,
But you answered, tenderly, I am here!

So come from the misty shadows, where
You came last night, and the night before,
Put back the veil of your golden hair,
And let me look in your face once more.

Ah! it is you; with that brow of truth,
Ever too pure for the least disguise;
With the same dear smile on the loving mouth,
And the same sweet light in the tender eyes.

You are my own, my darling still,
So do not vanish or turn aside,
Wait till my eyes have had their fill,—
Wait till my heart is pacified!

You have left the light of your higher place,
And ever thoughtful, and kind, and good,
You come with your old familiar face,
And not with the look of your angelhood.

Still the touch of your hand is soft and light,
And your voice is gentle, and kind, and low,
And the very roses you wear to-night,
You were in the summers long ago.

O world, you may tell me I dream or rave,
So long as my darling comes to prove
That the feet of the spirit cross the grave,
And the loving live, and the living love!

THE LAST BED.

'T was a lonesome couch we came to spread
For her, when her little life was o'er,
And a narrower one than any bed
Whereon she had ever slept before.

And we feared that she could not slumber so,
As we stood about her when all was done,
For the pillow seemed too hard and low
For her precious head to rest upon.

But, when we had followed her two by two,
And lowered her down there where she lies,
There was nothing left for us to do,
But to hide it all from our tearful eyes.

So we softly and tenderly spread between
Our face and the face our love regrets,
A covering, woven of leafy green,
And spotted over with violets.

LIGHT.

While I had mine eyes, I feared;
The heavens in wrath seemed bowed;
I look, and the sun with a smile breaks forth,
And a rainbow spans the cloud.

398

I thought the winter was here,
That the earth was cold and bare,
But I feel the coming of birds and flowers,
And the spring-time in the air.

I said that all the lips
I ever had kissed were dumb;
That my dearest ones were dead and gone,
And never a friend would come.

But I hear a voice as sweet
As the fall of summer showers;
And the grave that yawned at my very feet
Is filled to the top with flowers!

As if 't were the midnight hour,
I sat with gloom opprest;
When a light was breaking out of the east,
And shining unto the west.

I heard the angels call
Across from the beautiful shore;
And I saw a look in my darling's eyes,
That never was there before.

Transfigured, lost to me,
She had slipped from my embrace;
Now lo! I hold her fast once more,
With the light of God on her face!

WAITING THE CHANGE.

I have no moan to make,
No bitter tears to shed:
No heart, that for rebellious grief,
Will not be comforted.

There is no friend of mine
Laid in the earth to sleep;
No grave, or green or heaped afresh,
By which I stand and weep.

Though some, whose presence once
Sweet comfort round me shed,
Here in the body walk no more
The way that I must tread,

Not they, but what they wore
Went to the house of fear;
They were the incorruptible,
They left corruption here.

The veil of flesh that hid
Is softly drawn aside;
More clearly I behold them now
Than those who never died.

Who died! what means that word
Of men so much abhorred?
Caught up in clouds of heaven to be
Forever with the Lord!

To give this body, racked
With mortal ills and cares,
For one as glorious and as fair,
As our Redeemer wears;

To leave our shame and sin,
Our hunger and disgrace;
To come unto ourselves, to turn
And find our Father's face;

To run, to leap, to walk,
To quit our beds of pain,
And live where the inhabitants
Are never sick again;

To sit no longer dumb,
Nor halt, nor blind; to rise—
To praise the Healer with our tongue,
And see him with our eyes;

To leave cold winter snows,
And burning summer heats,
And walk in soft, white, tender light,
About the golden streets.

Thank God! for all my loved,
That out of pain and care,
Have safely reached the heavenly heights,
And stay to meet me there!

Not these I mourn; I know
Their joy by faith sublime—
But for myself, that still below
Must wait my appointed time.

399

PERSONAL POEMS.

READY.

Loaded with gallant soldiers,
A boat shot in to the land,
And lay at the right of Rodman's Point,
With her keel upon the sand.

Lightly, gayly, they came to shore,
And never a man afraid,
When sudden the enemy opened fire,
From his deadly ambuscade.

Each man fell flat on the bottom
Of the boat; and the captain said:
“If we lie here, we all are captured,
And the first who moves is dead!”

Then out spoke a negro sailor,
No slavish soul had he;
“Somebody 's got to die, boys,
And it might as well be me!”

Firmly he rose, and fearlessly
Stepped out into the tide;
He pushed the vessel safely off,
Then fell across her side:

Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets,
As the boat swung clear and free;—
But there was n't a man of them that day
Who was fitter to die than he!

DICKENS.

“One story more,” the whole world cried.
The great magician smiled in doubt:
“I am so tired that, if I tried,
I fear I could not tell it out.”

“But one is all we ask,” they said;
“You surely cannot faint nor fail.”
Again he raised his weary head,
And slow began the witching tale.

The fierce debater's tongue grew mute,
Wise men were silent for his sake;
The poet threw aside his lute,
And paused enraptured while he spake.

The proudest lady in the land
Forgot that praise and power were sweet;
She dropped the jewels from her hand,
And sat enchanted at his feet.

Lovers, with clasped hands lightly prest,
Saw Hope's sweet blossoms bud and bloom;
Men, hastening to their final rest,
Stopped, half-enraptured with the tomb.

Children, with locks of brown and gold,
Gathered about like flocks of birds;
The poor, whose story he had told,
Drew near and loved him for his words.

His eye burns bright, his voice is strong,
A waiting people eager stands;
Men on the outskirts of the throng
Interpret him to distant lands.

When lo! his accents, faltering, fall;
The nations, awe-struck, hold their breath;

400

The great magician, loved of all,
Has sunk to slumber, tired to death!

His human eyes in blind eclipse
Are from the world forever sealed;
The “mystery” trembling on his lips
Shall never, never be revealed.

Yet who would miss that tale half told,
Though weird and strange, or sweet and true;
Who care to listen to the old,
If he could hear the strange and new?

Alas! alas! it cannot be;
We too must sleep and change and rise,
To learn the eternal mystery
That dawned upon his waking eyes!

THADDEUS STEVENS.

An eye with the piercing eagle's fire,
Not the look of the gentle dove;
Not his the form that men admire,
Nor the face that tender women love.

Working first for his daily bread
With the humblest toilers of the earth;
Never walking with free, proud tread—
Crippled and halting from his birth.

Wearing outside a thorny suit
Of sharp, sarcastic, stinging power;
Sweet at the core as sweetest fruit,
Or inmost heart of fragrant flower.

Fierce and trenchant, the haughty foe
Felt his words like a sword of flame;
But to the humble, poor, and low
Soft as a woman's his accents came.

Not his the closest, tenderest friend—
No children blessed his lonely way;
But down in his heart until the end
The tender dream of his boyhood lay.

His mother's faith he held not fast;
But he loved her living, mourned her dead,
And he kept her memory to the last
As green as the sod above her bed.

He held as sacred in his home
Whatever things she wrought or planned,
And never suffered change to come
To the work of her “industrious hand.”

For her who pillowed first his head
He heaped with a wealth of flowers the grave,
While he chose to sleep in an unmarked bed,
By his Master's humblest poor—the slave.

Suppose he swerved from the straightest course—
That the things he should not do he did—
That he hid from the eyes of mortals, close,
Such sins as you and I have hid?

Or suppose him worse than you; what then?
Judge not, lest you be judged for sin!
One said who knew the hearts of men:
Who loveth much shall a pardon win.

The Prince of Glory for sinners bled;
His soul was bought with a royal price;
And his beautified feet on flowers may tread
To-day with his Lord in Paradise.

Thaddeus Stevens, who cared nothing about his own burial-place, except that the spot should be one from which the humblest of his fellow-creatures were not excluded, left by will one thousand dollars to beautify and adorn the grave of his mother.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Great master of the poet's art!
Surely the sources of thy powers
Lie in that true and tender heart
Whose every utterance touches ours.

For, better than thy words, that glow
With sunset dyes or noontide heat,
That count the treasures of the snow,
Or paint the blossoms at our feet,

Are those that teach the sorrowing how
To lay aside their fear and doubt,

401

And in submissive love to bow
To love that passeth finding out.

And thou for such hast come to be
In every home an honored guest—
Even from the cities by the sea
To the broad prairies of the West.

Thy lays have cheered the humble home
Where men who prayed for freedom knelt;
And women, in their anguish dumb,
Have heard thee utter what they felt.

And thou hast battled for the right
With many a brave and trenchant word.
And shown us how the pen may fight
A mightier battle than the sword.

And therefore men in coming years
Shall chant thy praises loud and long;
And woman name thee through their tears
A poet greater than his song.

But not thy strains, with courage rife,
Nor holiest hymns, shall rank above
The rhythmic beauty of thy life,
Itself a canticle of love!

THE HERO OF FORT WAGNER.

Fort Wagner! that is a place for us
To remember well, my lad!
For us, who were under the guns, and know
The bloody work we had.

I should not speak to one so young,
Perhaps, as I do to you;
But you are a soldier's son, my boy,
And you know what soldiers do.

And when peace comes to our land again,
And your father sits in his home,
You will hear such tales of war as this,
For many a year to come.

We were repulsed from the Fort, you know,
And saw our heroes fall,
Till the dead were piled in bloody heaps
Under the frowning wall.

Yet crushed as we were and beaten back,
Our spirits never bowed;
And gallant deeds that day were done
To make a soldier proud.

Brave men were there, for their country's sake
To spend their latest breath;
But the bravest was one who gave his life
And his body after death.

No greater words than his dying ones
Have been spoken under the sun;
Not even his, who brought the news
On the field at Ratisbon.

I was pressing up; to try if yet
Our men might take the place,
And my feet had slipped in his oozing blood
Before I saw his face.

His face! it was black as the skies o'erhead
With the smoke of the angry guns;
And a gash in his bosom showed the work
Of our country's traitor sons.

Your pardon, my poor boy! I said,
I did not see you here;
But I will not hurt you as I pass;
I 'll have a care; no fear!

He smiled; he had only strength to say
These words, and that was all:
“I 'm done gone, Massa; step on me;
And you can scale the wall!”

GARIBALDI IN PIEDMONT.

Hemmed in by the hosts of the Austrians,
No succor at hand,
Adown the green passes of Piedmont,
That beautiful land,
Moves a patriot band.

Two long days and nights, watchful, sleepless,
Have they ridden nor yet
Checked the rein, though the feet of their horses,

402

In the ripe vineyard set,
By its wine have been wet.

What know they of weariness, hunger,
What good can they lack,
While they follow their brave Garibaldi,
Who never turns back,
Never halts on his track?

By the Austrians outnumbered, surrounded,
On left and on right;
Strong and fearless he moves as a giant,
Who rouses to fight
From the slumbers of night.

So, over the paths of Orfano,
His brave horsemen tread,
Long after the sun, halting wearied,
Hath hidden his head
In his tent-folds of red.

Every man with his eye on his leader,
Whom a spell must have bound,
For he rideth as still as the shadow,
That keeps step on the ground,
In a silence profound.

With the harmony Nature is breathing,
His soul is in tune;
He is bathed in a bath of the splendor
Of the beautiful moon,
Of the air soft as June!

But what sound meets the ear of the soldier;
What menacing tone?
For look! how the horse and the rider
Have suddenly grown
As if carvèd in stone.

Leaning down toward that fair grove of olives
He waits; doth it mean
That he catches the tramp of the Austrians,
That his quick eye hath seen
Their bayonets' sheen?

Nay! there, where the thick leaves about her
By the music are stirred,
Sits a nightingale singing her rapture,
And the hero hath heard
But the voice of a bird!

A hero! aye, more than a hero
By this he appears;
A man, with a heart that is tender,
Unhardened by years;
Who shall tell what he hears?

Not the voice of the nightingale only,
Floating soft on the breeze,
But the music of dear human voices,
And blended with these
The sound of the seas.

Ah, the sea, the dear sea! from the cradle
She took him to rest;
Leaping out from the arms of his mother,
He went to her breast
And was softly caressed.

Perchance he is back on her bosom,
Safe from fear or alarms,
Clasping close as of old that first mistress
Whose wonderful charms
Drew him down to her arms.

By the memories that come with that singing
His soul has been wiled
Far away from the danger of battle;
Transported, beguiled,
He again is a child,

Sitting down at the feet of the mother,
Whose prayers are the charm
That ever in conflict and peril
Has strengthened his arm,
And kept him from harm.

Nay, who knows but his spirit that moment
Was gone in its quest
Of that bright bird of paradise, vanished
Too soon from the nest
Where her lover was blest!

For unerring the soul finds its kindred,
Below or above;
And, as over the great waste of waters
To her mate goes the dove,
So love seeks its love.

Did he see her first blush, burning softly
His kisses beneath;
Or her dear look of love, when he held her

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Disputing with Death
For the last precious breath?

Lost Anita! sweet vision of beauty,
Too sacred to tell
Is the tale of her dear life, that, hidden
In his heart's deepest cell,
Is kept safely and well.

And what matter his dreams! He whose bosom
With such rapture can glow
Hath something within him more sacred
Than the hero may show,
Or the patriot know.

And this praise, for man or for hero,
The best were, in sooth;
His heart, through life's conflict and peril,
Has kept its first truth,
And the dreams of its youth.

JOHN BROWN.

Men silenced on his faithful lips
Words of resistless truth and power;—
Those words, reëchoing now, have made
The gathering war-cry of the hour.

They thought to darken down in blood
The light of freedom's burning rays;
The beacon-fires we tend to-day
Were lit in that undying blaze.

They took the earthly prop and staff
Out of an unresisting hand;
God came, and led him safely on,
By ways they could not understand.

They knew not, when from his old eyes
They shut the world for evermore,
The ladder by which angels come
Rests firmly on the dungeon's floor.

They deemed no vision bright could cheer
His stony couch and prison ward;
He slept to dream of Heaven, and rose
To build a Bethel to the Lord!

They showed to his unshrinking gaze
The “sentence” men have paled to see:
He read God's writing of “reprieve,”
And grant of endless liberty.

They tried to conquer and subdue
By marshaled power and bitter hate;
The simple manhood of the man
Was braver than an armèd state.

They hoped at last to make him feel
The felon's shame, and felon's dread;
And lo! the martyr's crown of joy
Settled forever on his head!

OTWAY.

Poet, whose lays our memory still
Back from the past is bringing,
Whose sweetest songs were in thy life
And never in thy singing;

For chords thy hand had scarcely touched
By death were rudely broken,
And poems, trembling on thy lip,
Alas! were never spoken.

We say thy words of hope and cheer
When hope of ours would languish,
And keep them always in our hearts
For comfort in our anguish.

Yet not for thee we mourn as those
Who feel by God forsaken;
We would rejoice that thou wert lent,
Nor weep that thou wert taken.

For thou didst lead us up from earth
To walk in fields elysian,
And show to us the heavenly shore
In many a raptured vision.

Thy faith was strong from earth's last trial
The spirit to deliver,
And throw a golden bridge across
Death's dark and silent river;

A bridge, where fearless thou didst pass
The stern and awful warder,
And enter with triumphant songs
Upon the heavenly border.

Oh, for a harp like thine to sing
The songs that are immortal;
Oh, for a faith like thine to cross
The everlasting portal!

Then might we tell to all the world
Redemption's wondrous story;

404

Go down to death as thou didst go,
And up from death to glory.

OUR GOOD PRESIDENT.

Our sun hath gone down at the noon-day,
The heavens are black;
And over the morning, the shadows
Of night-time are back.

Stop the proud boasting mouth of the cannon;
Hush the mirth and the shout;—
God is God! and the ways of Jehovah
Are past finding out.

Lo! the beautiful feet on the mountains,
That yesterday stood,
The white feet that came with glad tidings
Are dabbled in blood.

The Nation that firmly was settling
The crown on her head,
Sits like Rizpah, in sackcloth and ashes,
And watches her dead.

Who is dead? who, unmoved by our wailing,
Is lying so low?
O my Land, stricken dumb in your anguish,
Do you feel, do you know,

That the hand which reached out of the darkness
Hath taken the whole;
Yea, the arm and the head of the people,—
The heart and the soul?

And that heart, o'er whose dread awful silence
A nation has wept;
Was the truest, and gentlest, and sweetest,
A man ever kept.

Why, he heard from the dungeons, the rice-fields,
The dark holds of ships
Every faint, feeble cry which oppression
Smothered down on men's lips.

In her furnace, the centuries had welded
Their fetter and chain;
And like withes, in the hands of his purpose,
He snapped them in twain.

Who can be what he was to the people,—
What he was to the state?
Shall the ages bring to us another
As good and as great?

Our hearts with their anguish are broken,
Our wet eyes are dim;
For us is the loss and the sorrow,
The triumph for him!

For, ere this, face to face with his Father
Our martyr hath stood;
Giving into his hand a white record,
With its great seal of blood!

405

POEMS FOR CHILDREN.

TO THE CHILDREN.

Dear little children, where'er you be,
Who are watched and cherished tenderly
By father and by mother;
Who are comforted by the love that lies
In the kindly depths of a sister's eyes,
Or the helpful words of a brother:

I charge you by the years to come,
When some shall be far away from your home,
And some shall be gone forever;
By all you will have to feel at the last,
When you stand alone and think of the past,
That you speak unkindly never!

For cruel words, nay, even less,
Words spoken only in thoughtlessness,
Nor kept against you after;
If they made the face of a mother sad,
Or a tender sister's heart less glad,
Or checked a brother's laughter;

Will rise again, and they will be heard,
And every thoughtless, foolish word
That ever your lips have spoken,
After the lapse of years and years,
Will wring from you such bitters tears
As fall when the heart is broken.

May you never, never have to say,
When a wave from the past on some dreary day
Its wrecks at your feet is strewing,
“My father had not been bowed so low,
Nor my mother left us long ago,
But for deeds of my misdoing!”

May you never stand alone to weep
Where a little sister lies asleep,
With the flowery turf upon her,
And know you would have gone down to the dead
To save one curl of her shining head
From sorrow or dishonor:

Yet have to think, with bitter tears,
Of some little sin of your childish years,
Till your soul is anguish-riven;
And cry, when there comes no word or smile,
“I sinned, but I loved you all the while,
And I wait to be forgiven!”

May you never say of a brother dear,
“Did I do enough to aid and cheer,
Did I try to help and guide him?
Now the snares of the world about him lie,
And if unhonored he live and die,
I shall wish I were dead beside him!”

Dear little innocent, precious ones,
Be loving, dutiful daughters and sons,
To father and to mother;
And, to save yourselves from the bitter pain
That comes when regret and remorse are vain,
Be good to one another!

GRISELDA GOOSE.

Near to a farm-house, and bordered round
By a meadow, sweet with clover,
There lay as clear and smooth a pond
As ever a goose swam over.

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The farmer had failures in corn and hops,
From drought and various reasons;
But his geese had never failed in their crops
In the very worst of seasons.

And he had a flock, that any day
Could defy all sneers and slanders;
They were certainly handsome,—that is to say,
They were handsome for geese and ganders!

And, once upon a time, in spring,
A goose hatched out another,—
The softest, cunningest, downiest thing,
That ever gladdened a mother.

There was never such a gosling born,
So the geese cried out by dozens;
She was praised and petted, night and morn,
By aunts, and uncles, and cousins.

She must have a name with a lofty sound,
Said all, when they beheld her;
So they proudly led her down to the pond,
And christened her, Griselda!

Now you think, no doubt, such love and pride,
Must perfectly content her;
That she grew to goosehood satisfied
To be what Nature meant her.

But folk with gifts will find it out,
Though the world neglects that duty;
And a lovely female will seldom doubt,
Though others may, her beauty!

And if she had thought herself a fright,
And been content with her station,
She would n't have had a story to write,
Nor I, my occupation.

But indeed the truth compels me to own,
Whoever may be offended,
That my heroine's vanity was shown
Ere her gosling days were ended.

When the mother tried to teach the art
Of swimming to her daughter,
She said that she did n't like to start,
Because it ruffled the water.

“My stars!” cried the parent, “do I dream,
Or do I rightly hear her?
Can it be she would rather sit still on the stream,
Than spoil her beautiful mirror?”

Yet, if any creature could be so fond
Of herself, as to reach insanity,
A goose, who lives on a glassy pond,
Has most excuse for such vanity!

And I do not agree with those who said
They would glory in her disgraces;
Hers is n't the only goose's head
That ever was turned by praises.

And Griselda swallowed all their praise:
Though she said to her doting mother,
“Still, a goose is a goose, to the end of her days,
From one side of the world to the other!

“And as to my name it is well enough
To say, or sing, or whistle;
But you just wait till I 'm old and tough,
And you 'll see they will call me Gristle!”

So she went, for the most of the time, alone,
Because she was such a scoffer;
And, awful to tell! she was nearly grown
Before she received an offer!

“Nobody will have her, that is clear,”
Said those who spitefully eyed her;
Though they knew every gander, far and near,
Was dying to waddle beside her.

And some of those that she used to slight,
Now come to matronly honor,
Began to feel that they had a right
To quite look down upon her.

407

And some she had jilted were heard to declare,
“I do not understand her;
And I should n't wonder, and should n't care,
If she never got a gander!”

But she said so all could overhear,—
And she hoped their ears might tingle,—
“If she could n't marry above their sphere,
She preferred remaining single!”

She was praised and flattered to her face,
And blamed when she was not present;
And between her friends and foes, her place
Was anything but pleasant.

One day she learned what gave her a fright,
And a fit of deep dejection;
And she said to herself, that come what might,
She would cut the whole connection.

The farmer's wife to the geese proposed,
Their spending the day in the stable;
And the younger ones, left out, supposed
She would set an extra table.

So they watched and waited till day was done,
With curiosity burning;
For it was n't till after set of sun,
That they saw them back returning.

Slowly they came, and each was bowed
As if some disgrace was upon her;
They did n't look as those who are proud
Of an unexpected honor!

Each told the naked truth: 't was a shock,
But who that saw, could doubt her?
They had plucked the pluckiest goose of the flock,
Of all the down about her.

Said Miss Griselda, “That 's my doom,
If I stay another season;”
So she thought she 'd leave her roosting room;
And I think she had some reason.

Besides, there was something else she feared;
For oft in a kind of flurry,
A goose mysteriously disappeared,
And did n't come back in a hurry.

And scattered afterwards on the ground,—
Such things there is no mistaking,—
Familiar looking bones were found,
Which set her own a quaking.

She said, “There is danger if I stay,
From which there are none exempted;
So, though I perish in getting away,
The thing shall be attempted.”

And, perfectly satisfied about
Her claims to a foreign mission,
She slipped away, and started out
On a secret expedition.

And oh! how her bosom swelled with pride;
How eager hope upbore her;
As floating down the stream, she spied
A broad lake spread before her.

And bearing towards her, fair and white,
The pleasant breezes courting,
A flock of swans came full in sight,
On the crystal waters sporting.

She saw the lake spread clear and wide,
And the rich man's stately dwelling,
And felt the thrill of hope and pride
Her very gizzard swelling.

“These swans,” she said, “are quite unknown,
Even to their ranks and stations;
Yet I think I need not fear to own
Such looking birds for relations.

“Besides, no birds that walk on lawns
Are made for common uses;
Men do not take their pick of swans
In the way they do of gooses.

408

“Blanch Swan! I think I 'll take that name,
Nor be ashamed to wear it;
Griselda Goose! that sounds so tame
And low, I cannot bear it!”

Thought she, the brave deserve to win,
And only they can do it:
So she made her plan, and sailed right in,
Determined to go through it.

Straight up she went to the biggest swan,
The one who talked the loudest;
For she knew the secret of getting on
Was standing up with the proudest.

“Madam,” she said, “I am glad you 're home,
And I hope to know you better;
You' re an aunt of mine, I think, but I come
With an introductory letter.”

Then she fumbled, and said, “I 've lost the thing!
No matter! I can quote it;
And here 's the pen,” and she raised her wing,
“With which Lord Swansdown wrote it.

“Of course you never heard of me,
As I 'm rather below your station;
But a lady famed like yourself, you see,
Is known to all creation.”

Then to herself the old swan said,
“Such talk 's not reprehensible;
Indeed, for a creature country-bred,
She 's very shrewd and sensible.”

Griselda saw how her flattery took,
And cried, on the silence breaking,
“You see I have the family look,
My neck there is no mistaking.

“It does n't compare with yours; you know
I 've a touch of the democracy;
While your style and manner plainly show
Your perfect aristocracy.”

Such happy flattery did the thing:
Though the young swans doubtfully eyed her,
My Lady took her under her wing,
And kept her close beside her.

And Griselda tried at ease to appear,
And forget the home she had quitted;
For she told herself she had reached a sphere
At last for which she was fitted.

Though she had some fits of common sense,
And at times grew quite dejected;
For she was n't deceived by her own pretense,
And she knew what others suspected.

If ever she went alone to stray,
Some pert young swan to tease her
Would ask, in a patronizing way,
If their poor home did n't please her?

Sometimes when a party went to sail
On the lake, in pleasant weather,
As if she was not within the pale,
She was left out altogether.

And then she would take a haughty tone,
As if she scorned them, maybe;
But often she hid in the weeds alone,
And cried like a homesick baby.

One day when she had gone to her room,
With the plea that she was ailing,
They asked some rather gay birds to come
For the day, and try the sailing.

But they said, “She will surely hear the stir,
So we 'll have to let her know it;
Of course we are all ashamed of her,
But it will not do to show it.”

So one of them went to her, and said,
With a sort of stately rustle:
“I suppose you would rather spare your head
Than join in our noise and bustle!

If you wish to send the slightest excuse,
I 'll be very happy to take it;
And I hope you 're not such a little goose
As to hesitate to make it!”

409

Too well Griselda understood;
And said, “Though my pain 's distressing,
I think the change will do me good,
And I do not mind the dressing.”

'T was the “little goose” that made her mad,
So mad she would n't refuse her;
Though she saw from the first how very glad
Her friend would be to excuse her.

She had overdone the thing, poor swan!
As her ill success had shown her;
Shot quite beyond the mark, and her gun
Recoiled and hit the owner.

“Don't you think,” she cried, “I 've done my best;
But as sure as I 'm a sinner,
That little dowdy, frightfully dressed,
Is coming down to dinner!

“I tried in every way to show
That I thought it an impropriety;
But I s'pose the creature does n't know
The manners of good society!”

Griselda thought, “If it comes to that,
With the weapon she takes I 'll meet her.
She 's sharp, but I 'll give her tit for tat,
And I think that I can beat her.”

So she came among them quite at ease,
By her very look contriving
To say, “I 'm certain there 's nothing could please
You so much as my arriving.”

And her friend contrived to whisper low,
As she made her genuflexion:
“A country cousin of ours, you know;
A very distant connection!

“She has n't much of an air, you see,
And is rather new to the city;
Aunt took her up quite from charity,
And keeps her just from pity.”

But Griselda paid her, fair and square,
For all her sneers and scorning;
And “the fête was quite a successful affair,”
So the papers said next morning.

And yet she cried at the close of day,
Till the lake almost ran over,
To think what a price she had to pay
To get into a sphere above her.

“Alas!” she said, “that our common sense
Should be lost when others flatter;
I was born a goose, and no pretense
Will change or help the matter!”

At last she did nothing but mope and fret,
And think of effecting a clearance!
She got as low as a lady can get,—
She did n't regard her appearance!

She got her pretty pink slippers soiled
By wearing them out in bad weather;
And as for her feathers, they were not oiled
Sometimes for a week together.

Had she seen just how to bring it about,
She would have left in a minute;
But she found it was harder getting out
Of trouble than getting in it.

She looked down at the fish with envious eyes,
Because each mother's daughter,
Content in her element, never tries,
To keep her head above water!

She wished she was by some good luck,
Turned into a salmon finny;
Into a chicken, or into a duck:
She wished herself in Guinea.

One day the Keeper came to the lake,
And if he did n't dissemble,
She saw that to her he meant to take,
In a way that made her tremble.

With a chill of fear her feathers shook,
Although to her friend she boasted
He had such a warm, admiring look,
That she feared she should be roasted;

And that for very modesty's sake,
Since nothing else could shield her,
She would go to the other end of the lake,
And stay till the night concealed her.

410

So, taking no leave, she stole away,
And nobody cared or missed her;
But the geese on the pond were surprised, next day,
By the sight of their missing sister.

She told them she strayed too far and got lost;
And though being from home had pained her,
Some wealthy friends that she came across,
Against her will detained her.

But it leaked from the lake, or a bird of the air
Had carried to them the matter;
For even before her, her story was there,
And they all looked doubtfully at her.

Poor Griselda! unprotected, alone,
By their slights and sneers was nettled;
For all the friends that her youth had known
Were respectably married and settled;

Or all but one,—a poor old coot,
That she used to scorn for a lover;
He was shabbier now, and had lost a foot,
That a cart-wheel had run over.

But she said, “There is but one thing to be done
For stopping sneers and slanders;
For a lame excuse is better than none,
And so is the lamest of ganders!”

So she married him, but do you know,
They did not cease to flout her;
For she somehow could n't make it go
With herself, nor those about her.

They spoke of it with scornful lip,
Though they did n't exactly drop her;
As if 't was a limited partnership,
And not a marriage proper.

And yet in truth I 'm bound to say
Her state was a little better;
Though I heard her friend say yesterday
To another one, who met her,—

“Oh, I saw old Gristle Goose to-night,
(Of course I did not seek it);
I suppose she is really Mrs. White,
Though it sticks in my crop to speak it!”

THE ROBIN'S NEST.

Jenny Brown has as pretty a house of her own
As ever a bird need to want, I should think;
And the sheltering vine that about it had grown,
Half hid it in green leaves and roses of pink.

As she never looked shabby, or seemed out of date,
It was surely enough, though she had but one dress;
And Robin, the fellow she took for her mate,
Was quite constant—that is, for a Robin, I guess.

Jenny Brown had four birdies, the cunningest things
That ever peeped back to a mother-bird's call;
That only could flutter their soft downy wings,
And open their mouths to take food—that was all.

Now I dare say you think she was happy and gay,
And she was almost always contented; but yet,
Though I know you will hardly believe what I say,
Sometimes she would ruffle her feathers and fret.

One day, tired of flying about in the heat,
She came home in her crossest and sulkiest mood;
And though she brought back not a morsel to eat,
She pecked little Robin for crying for food.

Just then Robin came and looked in through the trees,
And saw with a quick glance that all was not right,

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But he sung out as cheerful and gay as you please:
“Why, Jenny, dear Jenny, how are you to-night?”

It made her more angry to see him so calm,
While she suffered all that a bird could endure;
And she answered, “‘How am I?’ who cares how I am?
It is n't you, Robin, for one, I am sure!

“You know I 've been tied here day in and day out,
Till I 'm tired almost of my home and my life,
While you—you go carelessly roving about,
And singing to every one else but your wife.”

Then Robin replied: “Little reason you 've got
To complain of me, Jenny; wherever I roam
I still think of you, and your quieter lot,
And wish 't was my place to stay here at home.

“And as to my singing, I give you my word,
'T is in concert, and always in public, beside;
For excepting yourself, there is no lady-bird
Knows the softest and lovingest notes I have tried.

“And, Jenny,”—and here he spoke tenderly quite,
As with head drooped aside he drew nearer and stood,—
“I heard some sad news as I came home to-night,
About our poor neighbors that live in the wood.

“You know Nelly Jay, that wild, thoughtless young thing,
Who takes in her children and home no delight,
But early and late is abroad on the wing,
To chatter and gossip from morning till night,—

“Well, yesterday, just after noon, she went out,
And strayed till the sun had gone down in the west;
Complaining to some of her friends, I 've no doubt,
Of the trouble she had taking care of her nest;

“And her sweet little Nelly,—you 've seen her, my dear,
The brightest and sprightliest bird of them all,
The age of our Jenny, I think, very near,
Tumbled out of the nest and was killed by the fall.

“I saw the poor thing lying stiff on the ground,
With its little wing broke and the film o'er its eyes,
While the mother was flying distractedly round
And startling the wood with her piteous cries.

“As I stopped, just to say a kind, comforting word,
I thought how my own home was guarded and blessed;
For, Jenny, my darling, my beauty, my bird,
I knew I should find you content in the nest!

“And how are our birdies?—the dear little things;
How softly and snugly asleep they are laid;
But don't fold them quite so close under your wings,
Or you 'll kill them with kindness, my pet, I 'm afraid.

“And, Jenny, I 'll stay with them now,—nay, I must,
While you go out a moment, and take the fresh air;
You sit here too much by yourself, I mistrust,
And are quite overburdened with work and with care.

“What, you don't want to go! you want nothing so long
As your dear little ones and your Robin are here?

412

Then I 'll stay with you, Jenny, and sing the old song
I sang when I courted you—shall I, my dear?”

RAIN AND SUNSHINE.

I was out in the country
To feel the sweet spring,
I was out in the country
To hear the birds sing;
To bask in the sunshine,
Breathe air pure and sweet,
And walk where the blossoms
Grew under my feet.

So at morning I woke
While my chamber was dark,
And was up—or I should have been—
Up with the lark,
Only no lark was rising;
And never a throat
Of bird since the morning
Had uttered a note.

It was raining, and sadly
I gazed on the skies,
Saying, “Nothing is left us
To gladden our eyes;
And no pleasanter sound
Than this drip on the pane!”
When I caught a soft patter
That was not the rain.

First I heard the light falling
Of feet on the stair.
Then the voice of a child
Ringing clear through the air,
And with eyes wide awake,
And curls tumbled about,
Came Freddy, the darling,
With laugh and with shout.

No longer we heeded
The rain or the gloom;
His smile, like the sunshine,
Illumined the room:
We missed not the birds
While his glad voice was nigh:
His lips were our roses,
His eyes were our sky.

Sweet pet of the household,
And hope of each heart,
God keep thee, dear Freddy,
As pure as thou art,
And make thee, when changes
And sorrows shall come,
The comfort and sweetness
And sunshine of home!

BABY'S RING.

Mother's quite distracted,
Sister 's in despair;
All the household is astir,
Searching everywhere.
Every nook must be explored,
Every corner scanned—
Baby 's lost the tiny ring
From her little hand.

Surely never such a babe
Made a mother glad;
Never such a dainty hand
Any baby had!
Smallest ring was ever made
Off her finger slips;
She should have a fairy's ring
For such rosy tips.

When she comes to womanhood,
If she keeps so fair,
She will surely wear the ring
Maidens love to wear:
And lest she should lose it then,
(She 'll be wise and deep)
She will give to somebody
Ring and hand to keep.

DON'T GIVE UP.

If you tried and have not won,
Never stop for crying;
All that 's great and good is done
Just by patient trying.

Though young birds, in flying, fall,
Still their wings grow stronger;
And the next time they can keep
Up a little longer.

Though the sturdy oak has known
Many a blast that bowed her,
She has risen again, and grown
Loftier and prouder.

If by easy work you beat,
Who the more will prize you?
Gaining victory from defeat,
That 's the test that tries you!

413

THE GOOD LITTLE SISTER.

That was a bitter winter
When Jenny was four years old
And lived in a lonely farm-house—
Bitter, and long, and cold.

The crops had been a failure—
In the barns there was room to spare;
And Jenny's hard-working father
Was full of anxious care.

Neither his wife nor children
Knew lack of fire or bread;
They had whatever was needful,
Were sheltered, and clothed, and fed.

But the mother, alas! was ailing—
'T was a struggle just to live;
And they scarce had even hopeful words,
Or cheerful smiles to give.

A good, kind man was the father,
He loved his girls and boys;
But he whose hands are his riches
Has little for gifts and toys.

So when it drew near the season
That makes the world so glad—
When Jenny knew 't was the time for gifts,
Her childish heart was sad.

For she thought, “I shall get no present
When Christmas comes, I am sure;”
Ah! the poor man's child learns early
Just what it means to be poor.

Yet still on the holy even
As she sat by the hearth-stone bright,
And her sister told good stories,
Her heart grew almost light.

For the hopeful skies of childhood
Are never quite o'ercast:
And she said, “Who knows but somehow,
Something will come at last!”

Lo, before she went to her pillow,
Her pretty stockings were tied
Safely together and slyly hung,
Close to the chimney side.

There was little room for hoping,
One would say who had lived more years;
Yet the faith of the child is wiser
Sometimes than our doubts and fears.

Jenny had a good little sister,
Very big to her childish eyes,
Who was womanly, sweet, and patient,
And kind as she was wise.

And she had thought of this Christmas,
And the little it could bring,
Ever since the crops were half destroyed
By the freshet in the spring.

So the sweetest nuts of the autumn
She had safely hidden away;
And the ripest and reddest apples
Hoarded for many a day.

And last she mixed some seed-cakes
(Jenny was sleeping then),
And moulded them grotesquely,
Like birds, and beasts, and men.

Then she slipped them into the stockings,
And smiled to think about
The joyful wonder of her pet,
When she found and poured them out.

And you could n't have seen next morning
A gladder child in the land
Than that humble farmer's daughter,
With her simple gifts in her hand.

And the loving sister? ah! you know
How blessèd 't is to give;
And they who think of others most
Are the happiest folks that live!

She had done what she could, my children,
To brighten that Christmas Day;
And whether her heart or Jenny's
Was lightest, it is hard to say.

And this, if you have but little,
Is what I would say to you:
Make all you can of that little—
Do all the good you can do.

And though your gifts may be humble,
Let no little child, I pray,

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Find only an empty stocking
On the morn of the Christmas Day!

'T is years and years since that sister
Went to dwell with the just;
And over her body the roses
Blossom and turn to dust.

And Jenny 's a happy woman,
With wealth enough and to spare;
And every year her lap is filled
With presents fine and rare.

But whenever she thanks the givers
For favors great and small,
She thinks of the good little sister
Who gave her more than they all!

NOW.

If something waits, and you should now
Begin and go right through it,
Don't think, if 't is put off a day,
You 'll not mind to do it.

Waste not moments, no nor words,
In telling what you could do
Some other time; the present is
For doing what you should do.

Don't do right unwillingly,
And stop to plan and measure;
'T is working with the heart and soul,
That makes our duty pleasure.

THE CHICKEN'S MISTAKE.

A little downy chicken one day
Asked leave to go on the water,
Where she saw a duck with her brood at play,
Swimming and splashing about her.

Indeed, she began to peep and cry,
When her mother would n't let her:
“If the ducks can swim there, why can't I;
Are they any bigger or better?”

Then the old hen answered, “Listen to me,
And hush your foolish talking;
Just look at your feet, and you will see
They were only made for walking.”

But chicky wistfully eyed the brook,
And did n't half believe her,
For she seemed to say, by a knowing look,
“Such stories could n't deceive her.”

And as her mother was scratching the ground,
She muttered lower and lower,
“I know I can go there and not be drowned,
And so I think I 'll show her.”

Then she made a plunge, where the stream was deep,
And saw too late her blunder;
For she had n't hardly time to peep
Till her foolish head went under.

And now I hope her fate will show
The child, my story reading,
That those who are older sometimes know
What you will do well in heeding,

That each content in his place should dwell,
And envy not his brother;
And any part that is acted well,
Is just as good as another.

For we all have our proper sphere below,
And this is a truth worth knowing.
You will come to grief if you try to go
Where you never were made for going!

EFFIE'S REASONS.

Tell me, Effie, while you are sitting,
Cosily beside me here,
Talking all about your brothers,
Which you like the best, my dear.

“Tom is good sometimes,” said Effie,
“Good as any boy can be;
But at other times he does n't
Seem to care a bit for me.

“Half the days he will not help me,
Though the way to school is rough;
Nor assist me with my lessons,
When he knows them well enough.

“But, of course, I love him dearly—
He 's a brother like the rest,

415

Though I know he 's not the best one;
And I do not love him best.

“Now there 's Charlie, my big brother,
Oh! he 's always just as kind!
All day I may ask him questions,
And he does n't seem to mind.

“He with every lesson helps me,
And he 's sure to take my part;
So I think I ought to love him—
And I do with all my heart.

“But there 's cunning little Neddy—
Well, he 's not so awful good;
But he never seems to mean it
When he answers cross or rude.

“Sometimes, half in fun, he strikes me,
Just, I mean, a little blow;
But he 'd never, never do it
If he thought it hurt, I know.

“Then again he 's nice and pleasant,
Coaxing me and kissing me;
When he wants to ask a favor,
He 's as good as he can be.

“He can't help me with my lessons,
He has hardly learned to spell;
But in everything I help him,
And I like it just as well.

“He is never good as Charlie;
Naughtier oft than Tom, I know;
But for all that I love him,
Just because I love him so!”

FEATHERS.

You restless, curious little Jo,
I have told you all the stories I know,
Written in poem or fable;
I have turned them over, and let you look
At everything like a picture-book
Upon my desk or table.

I think it 's enough to drive one wild
To be shut up with a single child,
And try for a day to please her.
Oh, dear me! what does a mother do,
Especially one who lives in a shoe,
And has a dozen to tease her?

“Aha! I 've found the very thing,”
I cried, as I saw the beautiful wing
Of a bird, and I said demurely:
“Now, If you 'll be good the rest of the day,
I 'll give you a bird with which to play;
You know what a bird is, surely?”

“Oh, yes!” and she opened wide her eyes,
“A bird is alive, and sings and flies;”
Then, folding her hands together,
She archly shook her wise little head,
And, looking very innocent, said,
“I know a bird from a feather!”

Well! of all the smart things uttered yet
By a baby three years old, my pet!
It 's enough to frighten your mother.
Why, I 've seen women—yes, and men,
Who have lived for threescore years and ten,
Who did n't know one from the other!

Now there is Kitty, past sixteen—
The one with the soldier beau, I mean—
When he makes his bayonet rattle,
And acts so bravely on parade,
She thinks he would n't be afraid
In the very front of battle.

But yet, if I were allowed to guess,
I should say her soldier was all in the dress,
And you 'll find my guess is the right one.
If ever he has to meet the foe,
The first, and only feather he 'll show
That day will be a white one.

There 's Mrs. Pie, in her gorgeous plumes;
Why, half the folks who visit her rooms,
Because she is dressed so finely
And holds herself at the highest price,
Pronounce her a bird of paradise,
And say she sings divinely;

While many a one, with a sweeter lay,
Because her feathers are plain and gray,
The world's approval misses,
And only gets its scorn and abuse;
She is called a failure, and called a goose,
And her song is met with hisses.

416

Men will stick as many plumes on their head
As an Indian chief who has bravely shed
The blood of a hostile nation,
When all the killing they 've done or seen
Was killing themselves—that is, I mean
In the public estimation.

When Tom to his pretty wife was wed,
“She 's fuss and feathers,” people said,
That any woman could borrow;
And sure enough, her feathers fell,
Though the fuss was the genuine article,
As Tom has found to his sorrow.

When Mrs. Butterfly, who was a grub,
First got her wings, she was such a snob,
She scorned the folks around her,
And made, as she said, the feathers fly;
But when she fell, she had gone so high,
She was smashed as flat as a flounder.

Alas, alas! my little Jo,
I 'm sorry to tell it, and sorry it 's so;
But as to deceiving, I scorn to.
And I only hope that when you are grown
You will keep the wonderful wisdom you 've shown,
Nor lose the wit you were born to.

But whether folks, so wise when they 're small,
Can ever live to grow up at all,
Is one of the doubtful whethers.
I 'm sure it happens but seldom, though,
Or there would n't be so many, you know,
Who can't tell birds from feathers.

THE PRAIRIE ON FIRE.

The long grass burned brown
In the summer's fierce heat,
Snaps brittle and dry
'Neath the traveler's feet,
As over the prairie,
Through all the long day,
His white, tent-like wagon
Moves slow on its way.

Safe and snug with the goods
Are the little ones stowed,
And the big boys trudge on
By the team in the road;
While his sweet, patient wife,
With the babe on her breast,
Sees their new home in fancy,
And longs for its rest.

But hark! in the distance
That dull, trampling tread;
And see how the sky
Has grown suddenly red!
What has lighted the west
At the hour of noon?
It is not the sunset,
It is not the moon!

The horses are rearing
And snorting with fear,
And over the prairie
Come flying the deer
With hot smoking haunches,
And eyes rolling back,
As if the fierce hunter
Were hard on their track.

The mother clasps closer
The babe on her arm,
While the children cling to her
In wildest alarm;
And the father speaks low
As the red light mounts higher:
“We are lost! we are lost!
'T is the prairie on fire!”

The boys, terror-stricken,
Stand still, all but one:
He has seen in a moment
The thing to be done;
He has lighted the grass,
The quick flames leap in air;
And the pathway before them
Lies blackened and bare.

How the fire-fiend behind
Rushes on in his power;
But nothing is left
For his wrath to devour.
On the scarred smoking earth
They stand safe, every one,
While the flames in the distance
Sweep harmlessly on.

Then reverently under
The wide sky they kneel,
With spirits too thankful
To speak what they feel;

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But the father in silence
Is blessing his boy,
While the mother and chidren
Are weeping for joy.

DAPPLEDUN.

A little boy who, strange to say,
Was called by the name of John,
Once bought himself a little horse
To ride behind, and upon.

A handsomer beast you never saw,
He was so sleek and fat;
“He has but a single fault,” said John,
“And a trifling one at that.”

His mane and tail grew thick and long,
He was quick to trot or run;
His coat was yellow, flecked with brown;
John called him Dappledun.

He never kicked and never bit;
In harness well he drew;
But this was the single foolish thing
That Dappledun would do.

He ran in clover up to his knees,
His trough was filled with stuff;
Yet he 'd jump the neighbor's fence, and act
As if he had n't enough.

If he only could have been content
With his feed of oats and hay,
Poor headstrong, foolish Dappledun
Had been alive to-day.

But one night when his rack was filled
With what he ought to eat.
He thrust his nose out of his stall,
And into a bin of wheat.

And there he ate, and ate, and ate,
And when he reached the tank
Where Johnny watered him next morn,
He drank, and drank, and drank.

And when that night John carried him
The sweet hay from the rick,
He lay and groaned, and groaned, and groaned,
For Dappledun was sick.

And when another morning came
And John rose from his bed
And went to water Dappledun,
Poor Dappledun was dead!

SUPPOSE!

Suppose, my little lady,
Your doll should break her head,
Could you make it whole by crying
Till your eyes and nose are red?
And would n't it be pleasanter
To treat it as a joke;
And say you 're glad “'T was Dolly's
And not your head that broke?”

Suppose you 're dressed for walking,
And the rain comes pouring down,
Will it clear off any sooner
Because you scold and frown?
And would n't it be nicer
For you to smile than pout,
And so make sunshine in the house
When there is none without?

Suppose your task, my little man,
Is very hard to get,
Will it make it any easier
For you to sit and fret?
And would n't it be wiser
Than waiting like a dunce,
To go to work in earnest
And learn the thing at once?

Suppose that some boys have a horse,
And some a coach and pair.
Will it tire you less while walking
To say, “It is n't fair?”
And would n't it be nobler
To keep your temper sweet,
And in your heart be thankful
You can walk upon your feet?

And suppose the world don't please you,
Nor the way some people do,
Do you think the whole creation
Will be altered just for you?
And is n't it, my boy or girl,
The wisest, bravest plan,
Whatever comes, or does n't come,
To do the best you can?

A LEGEND OF THE NORTHLAND.

Away, away in the Northland,
Where the hours of the day are few,

418

And the nights are so long in winter,
They cannot sleep them through;

Where they harness the swift reindeer
To the sledges, when it snows;
And the children look like bear's cubs
In their funny, furry clothes:

They tell them a curious story—
I don't believe 't is true;
And yet you may learn a lesson
If I tell the tale to you.

Once, when the good Saint Peter
Lived in the world below,
And walked about it, preaching,
Just as he did, you know;

He came to the door of a cottage,
In traveling round the earth,
Where a little woman was making cakes,
And baking them on the hearth;

And being faint with fasting,
For the day was almost done,
He asked her, from her store of cakes,
To give him a single one.

So she made a very little cake,
But as it baking lay,
She looked at it, and thought it seemed
Too large to give away.

Therefore she kneaded another,
And still a smaller one;
But it looked, when she turned it over,
As large as the first had done.

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough,
And rolled and rolled it flat;
And baked it thin as a wafer—
But she could n't part with that.

For she said, “My cakes that seem too small
When I eat of them myself,
Are yet too large to give away.”
So she put them on the shelf.

Then good Saint Peter grew angry,
For he was hungry and faint;
And surely such a woman
Was enough to provoke a saint.

And he said, “You are far too selfish
To dwell in a human form,
To have both food and shelter,
And fire to keep you warm.

“Now, you shall build as the birds do,
And shall get your scanty food
By boring, and boring, and boring,
All day in the hard dry wood.”

Then up she went through the chimney,
Never speaking a word,
And out of the top flew a woodpecker,
For she was changed to a bird.

She had a scarlet cap on her head,
And that was left the same,
But all the rest of her clothes were burned
Black as a coal in the flame.

And every country school-boy
Has seen her in the wood;
Where she lives in the trees till this very day,
Boring and boring for food.

And this is the lesson she teaches:
Live not for yourself alone,
Lest the needs you will not pity
Shall one day be your own.

Give plenty of what is given to you,
Listen to pity's call;
Don't think the little you give is great,
And the much you get is small.

Now, my little boy, remember that,
And try to be kind and good,
When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress,
And see her scarlet hood.

You may n't be changed to a bird, though you live
As selfishly as you can;
But you will be changed to a smaller thing—
A mean and selfish man.

EASY LESSONS.

Come, little children, come with me,
Where the winds are singing merrily,
As they toss the crimson clover;
We 'll walk on the hills and by the brooks,

419

And I 'll show you stories in prettier books
Than the ones you are poring over.

Do you think you could learn to sing a song,
Though you drummed and hummed it all day long,
Till hands and brains were aching,
That would match the clear, untutored notes
That drop from the pretty, tender throats
Of birds, when the day is breaking?

Did you ever read, on any page,
Though written with all the wisdom of age,
And all the truth of preaching,
Any lesson that taught you so plain
Content with your humble work and gain,
As the golden bee is teaching?

For see, as she floats on her airy wings,
How she sings and works, and works and sings,
Never stopping nor staying;
Showing us clearly what to do
To make of duty a pleasure, too,
And to make our work but playing.

Do you suppose that a book can tell
Maxims of prudence, half so well
As the little ant, who is telling
To man, as she patiently goes and comes,
Bearing her precious grains and crumbs,
How want is kept from the dwelling?

Whatever a story can teach to you
Of the good a little thing may do,
The hidden brook is showing,
Whose quiet way is only seen
Because of its banks, so fresh and green,
And the flowers beside it growing.

If we go where the golden lily grows,
Where, clothed in raiment fine, she glows
Like a king in all his glory,
And ponder over each precious leaf,
We shall find there, written bright and brief,
The words of a wondrous story.

We shall learn the beautiful lesson there
That our Heavenly Father's loving care,
Even the lily winneth;
For rich in beauty thus she stands,
Arrayed by his gracious, tender hands,
Though she toileth not, nor spinneth.

There is n't a blossom under our feet,
But has some teaching, short and sweet,
That is richly worth the knowing;
And the roughest hedge, or the sharpest thorn,
Is blest with a power to guard or warn,
If we will but heed its showing.

So do not spoil your happy looks
By poring always over your books,
Written by scholars and sages;
For there 's many a lesson in brooks or birds,
Told in plainer and prettier words
Than those in your printed pages.

And yet, I would not have you think
No wisdom comes through pen and ink,
And all books are dull and dreary;
For not all of life can be pleasant play,
Nor every day a holiday,
And tasks must be hard and weary.

And that is the very reason why
I would have you learn from earth and sky
Their lessons of good, and heed them:
For there our Father, with loving hand,
Writes truths that a child may understand,
So plain that a child can read them.

OBEDIENCE.

If you're told to do a thing,
And mean to do it really;
Never let it be by halves;
Do it fully, freely!

Do not make a poor excuse,
Waiting, weak, unsteady;
All obedience worth the name,
Must be prompt and ready.

420

THE CROW'S CHILDREN.

A huntsman, bearing his gun a-field,
Went whistling merrily;
When he heard the blackest of black crows
Call out from a withered tree:

“You are going to kill the thievish birds,
And I would if I were you;
But you mus n't touch my family,
Whatever else you do!”

“I 'm only going to kill the birds
That are eating up my crop;
And if your young ones do such things,
Be sure they 'll have to stop.”

“Oh,” said the crow, “my children
Are the best ones ever born;
There is n't one among them all
Would steal a grain of corn.”

“But how shall I know which ones they are?
Do they resemble you?”
“Oh, no,” said the crow, “they 're the prettiest birds,
And the whitest that ever flew!”

So off went the sportsman, whistling,
And off, too, went his gun;
And its startling echoes never ceased
Again till the day was done.

And the old crow sat untroubled,
Cawing away in her nook;
For she said, “He 'll never kill my birds,
Since I told him how they look.

“Now there 's the hawk, my neighbor,
She 'll see what she will see, soon;
And that saucy whistling blackbird
May have to change his tune!”

When, lo! she saw the hunter
Taking his homeward track,
With a string of crows as long as his gun,
Hanging down his back.

“Alack, alack!” said the mother,
“What in the world have you done?
You promised to spare my pretty birds,
And you 've killed them every one.”

“Your birds!” said the puzzled hunter;
“Why, I found them in my corn;
And besides, they are black and ugly
As any that ever were born!”

“Get out of my sight, you stupid!”
Said the angriest of crows;
“How good and fair her children are,
There 's none but a parent knows!”

“Ah! I see, I see,” said the hunter,
“But not as you do, quite;
It takes a mother to be so blind
She can't tell black from white!”

HIVES AND HOMES.

When March has gone with his cruel wind,
That frightens back the swallow,
And the pleasant April sun has shined
Out through her showery clouds, we find
Pale blooms in the wood and hollow.

But after the darling May awakes,
Bedecked with flowers like a fairy;
About the meadows and streams and lakes
She drops them every step she takes,
For she has too many to carry.

And when June has set in the leafy trees
Her bird-tunes all a-ringing,
Wherever a blossom nods in the breeze
The good, contented, cheerful bees
Are found at work and singing.

Ah, the wise little bees! they know how to live,
Each one in peace with his neighbor;
For though they dwell in a narrow hive,
They never seem too thick to thrive,
Nor so many they spoil their labor.

And well may they sing a pleasant tune,
Since their life has such completeness;
Their hay is made in the sun of June,
And every moon is a honeymoon,
And home a home of sweetness.

The golden belts they wear each day
Are lighter than belts of money;

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And making work as pleasant as play,
The stings of life they give away,
And only keep the honey.

They are teaching lessons, good and true,
To each idle drone and beauty,
And, my youthful friends, if any of you
Should think (though, of course, you never do)
Of love, and home, and duty—

And yet it often happens, you know,
True to the very letter,
That youths and maidens, when they grow,
Swarm off from the dear old hive and go
To another, for worse or better!

So you 'd better learn that this life of ours
Is not all show and glitter,
And skillfully use your noblest powers
To suck the sweets from its poison flowers,
And leave behind the bitter.

But wherever you stay, or wherever you roam,
In the days while you live in clover,
You should gather your honey and bring it home,
Because the winter will surely come,
When the summer of life is over.

NORA'S CHARM.

'T was the fisher's wife at her neighbor's door,
And she cried, as she wrung her hands,
“O Nora, get your cloak and hood,
And haste with me o'er the sands.”

Now a kind man was the fisherman,
And a lucky man was he;
And never a steadier sailed away
From the Bay of Cromarty.

And the wife had plenty on her board,
And the babe in her arms was fair;
But her heart was always full of fear,
And her brow was black with care.

And she stood at her neighbor's door and cried,
“Oh, woe is me this night!
For the fairies have stolen my pretty babe,
And left me an ugly sprite.

“My pretty babe, that was more than all
The wealth of the world to me;
With his coral lips, and his hair of gold,
And his teeth like pearls of the sea!

“I went to look for his father's boat,
When I heard the stroke of the oar;
And I left him cooing soft in his bed,
As the bird in her nest by the door.

“And there was the father fair in sight,
And pulling hard to the land;
And my foot was back o'er the sill again,
Ere his keel had struck the sand.

“But the fairies had time to steal my babe,
And leave me in his place
A restless imp, with a wicked grin,
And never a smile on his face.”

And Nora took her cloak and hood,
And softly by the hand
She led the fisher's wife through the night,
Across the yellow sand.

“Nay, do not rave, and talk so wild;”
'T was Nora thus that spoke;
“We must have our wits to work against
The arts of fairy folk.

“There 's a charm to help us in our need,
But its power we cannot try,
With the black cloud hanging o'er the brow,
And the salt tear in the eye.

“For wicked things may gibe and grin
With noisy jeer and shout;
But the joyous peal of a happy laugh
Has power to drive them out.

“And if this sprite we can but please,
Till he laughs with merry glee,
We shall break the spell that holds him here,
And keeps the babe from your knee.”

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So the mother wiped her tears away,
And patiently and long
They plied the restless, stubborn imp
With cunning trick and song.

They blew a blast on the fisher's horn,
Each curious prank they tried;
They rocked the cradle where he lay,
As a boat is rocked on the tide.

But there the hateful creature kept,
In place of the human child;
And never once his writhing ceased,
And never once he smiled.

Then Nora cried, “Take yonder egg
That lies upon the shelf,
And make of it two hollow cups,
Like tiny cups of delf.”

And the mother took the sea-mew's egg,
And broke in twain the shell,
And made of it two tiny cups,
And filled them at the well.

She filled them up as Nora bade,
And set them on the coals:
And the imp grew still, for he ne'er had seen
In fairy-land such bowls.

And when the water bubbled and boiled,
Like a fountain in its play,
Mirth bubbled up to his lips, and he laughed
Till he laughed himself away!

And the mother turned about, and felt
The heart in her bosom leap;
For the imp was gone, and there in his place
Lay her baby fast asleep.

And Nora said to her neighbor, “Now
There sure can be no doubt
But a merry heart and a merry laugh
Drive evil spirits out!

“And who can say but the dismal frown
And the doleful sigh are the sin
That keeps the good from our homes and hearts,
And lets the evil in!”

THEY DID N'T THINK.

Once a trap was baited
With a piece of cheese;
It tickled so a little mouse
It almost made him sneeze;
An old rat said, “There's danger,
Be careful where you go!”
“Nonsense!” said the other,
“I don't think you know!”
So he walked in boldly—
Nobody in sight;
First he took a nibble,
Then he took a bite;
Close the trap together
Snapped as quick as wink,
Catching mousey fast there,
'Cause he did n't think.

Once a little turkey,
Fond of her own way,
Would n't ask the old ones
Where to go or stay;
She said, “I 'm not a baby,
Here I am half-grown;
Surely I am big enough
To run about alone!”
Off she went, but somebody
Hiding saw her pass;
Soon like snow her feathers
Covered all the grass.
So she made a supper
For a sly young mink,
'Cause she was so headstrong
That she would n't think.

Once there was a robin
Lived outside the door,
Who wanted to go inside
And hop upon the floor
“Ho, no,” said the mother,
“You must stay with me;
Little birds are safest
Sitting in a tree.”
“I don't care,” said Robin,
And gave his tail a fling,
“I don't think the old folks
Know quite everything.”
Down he flew, and Kitty seized him,
Before he 'd time to blink.
“Oh,” he cried, “I 'm sorry,
But I did n't think.”

Now, my little children,
You who read this song,
Don't you see what trouble
Comes of thinking wrong?

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And can't you take a warning
From their dreadful fate
Who began their thinking
When it was too late?
Don't think there 's always safety
Where no danger shows.
Don't suppose you know more
Than anybody knows;
But when you 're warned of ruin,
Pause upon the brink.
And don't go under headlong,
'Cause you did n't think.

AJAX.

Old Ajax was a faithful dog,
Of the best and bravest sort;
And we made a friend and pet of him,
And called him “Jax” for short.
He served us well for many a year.
But at last there came a day
When, a superannuated dog,
In the sun he idly lay.

And though as kindly as before
He still was housed and fed,
We brought a younger, sprightlier dog
For service in his stead.
Poor “Jax!” he knew and felt it all,
As well as you or I;
He laid his head on his trembling paws,
And his whine was like a cry.

And then he rose: he would not stay
Near where the intruder stayed:
He took the other side of the house,
Though that was in the shade.
And he never answered when we called,
He would not touch his bone;
'T was more than he could bear to have
A rival near his throne.

We tried to soothe his wounded pride
By every kindly art:
But if ever creature did, poor “Jax”
Died of a broken heart.
Alas! he would not learn the truth,
He was not still a pup;
That every dog must have his day,
And then must give it up!

“KEEP A STIFF UPPER LIP!”

There has something gone wrong
My brave boy, it appears,
For I see your proud struggle
To keep back the tears.
That is right. When you cannot
Give trouble the slip,
Then bear it, still keeping
“A stiff upper lip!”

Though you cannot escape
Disappointment and care,
The next best thing to do
Is to learn how to bear.
If when for life's prizes
You 're running, you trip,
Get up, start again—
“Keep a stiff upper lip!”

Let your hands and your conscience
Be honest and clean:
Scorn to touch or to think of
The thing that is mean;
But hold on to the pure
And the right with firm grip,
And though hard be the task,
“Keep a stiff upper lip!”

Through childhood, through manhood,
Through life to the end.
Struggle bravely and stand
By your colors, my friend.
Only yield when you must:
Never “give up the ship,”
But fight on to the last
“With a stiff upper lip!”

WHAT THE FROGS SING.

“I've got such a cold I cannot sing,”
Said a bull-frog living close to the spring,—
“And it keeps me all the time so hoarse,
That my voice is very bass of course.
I hate to live in this nasty bog;
It is n't fit for a decent frog:
Now there 's that bird, just hear the note
So soft and sweet, from out her throat.”
He said, as a thrush in the tree above
Was trilling her liquid song of love:
“And what pretty feathers on her back,
While mine is mottled, yellow and black:
And then for moving she has her wings,
They must be very handy things;—
And this all comes, as one may see,
Just from living up in a tree;
She 'd look as queer as I do, I 'll bet,
If she had to live down here in the wet,

424

And be as hoarse, if doomed to tramp
About all day where her feet got damp.

“As the world is managed, I do declare,
Things do not seem exactly fair;
For instance, here on the ground I lie,
While the bird lives up there, high and dry;
Some frogs may n't care, perhaps they don't,
But I can't stand such things and I won't;
So I 'll see if I can't make a rise.
Who knows what he can do till he tries?”

So this cunning frog he winked his eye,
He was lying low and playing sly;
For he did not want the frogs about
To find his precious secret out:
But when they were all in the mud a-bed,
And the thrush in her wing had hid her head,
Then Mr. Bull his legs uncurled,
And began to take a start in the world.
'T was from the foot of the tree to hop,
But how was he to reach the top?
For it was n't fun, as he learned in time,
To climb with feet not made to climb;
And twenty times he fell on his head,
But he would n't give it up, he said,
For nobody saw him in the dark.
So he clutched once more at the scraggy bark,
And just as the stars were growing dim,
He sat and swung on the topmost limb;
He was damp with sweat from foot to head;
“Why it 's wet enough up here,” he said,
“And I 've been nicely fooled, I see,
In thinking it dry to live in a tree.
Why what with the rain, and with the dews,
I shall have more water than I can use!”
And so he sat there, gay as a grig,
And saw the sun rise bright and big;
And when he caught the thrush's note,
He, too, began to tune his throat;
But his style of music seemed to sound
Even worse than it did on the ground;
So all the frightened birds took wing,
And he felt, himself, that it was n't the thing,
Though he said, “I don't believe what I 've heard
That a frog in a tree won't be a bird.”
But soon the sun rose higher and higher,
And froggy's back got drier and drier,
Till he thought perhaps it might be better,
If the place was just a little wetter;
But when he felt the mid-day glare,
He said “high life was a poor affair!”
No wings on his back were coming out,
He did n't feel even a feather sprout;
He could n't sing; and began to see
He was just a bull-frog up a tree;
But he feared the sneers of his friends in the bog,
For he was proud as any other frog;
And he knew, if they saw him coming down,
He would be the laugh and jest of the town.
So he waited there, while his poor dry back
Seemed burning up, and ready to crack;
His yellow sides looked pale and dim,
And his eyes with tears began to swim,
And he said, “You learn when you come to roam,
That nature is nature, and home is home.”

And when at last the sun was gone,
And the shadows cool were stealing on,
With many a slow and feeble hop
He got himself away from the top;
He reached the trunk, and then with a bound
He landed safely on the ground,
And managed back to the spring to creep,
While all his friends were fast asleep.
Next morning, those who were sitting near,
Saw that he looked a little queer,
So they asked, hoping to have some fun,
Where he had been, and what he had done.
Now, though our hero scorned to lie,
He thought he had a right to be sly;
For, said he, if the fellows find me out,
I 'd better have been “up the spout.”
So he told them he 'd been very dry,
And, to own the truth, got rather high!

Then all the frogs about the spring
Began at once this song to sing:
First high it rose, and then it sunk:—

425

“A frog-got-drunk-got-drunk-got-drunk—
We 'll-search-the-spring-for-his-whiskey-jug—
Ka-chee, ka-chi, ka-cho, ka-chug!”
And my story's true, as you may know,
For still the bull-frogs sing just so;
But that Mr. Bull was up a tree,
There 's nobody knows but himself and me.

THE HUNCHBACK.

If he walked he could not keep beside
The lads that were straight and well;
And yet, poor boy, how hard he tried,
There 's none of us can tell.
To get himself in trim for school
Was weary work, and slow;
And once his thoughtless brother said,
“You 're never ready, Joe!”

He sat in the sun, against the wall,
When the rest were blithe and gay;
For he could not run and catch the ball
Nor join in the noisy play.
And first or last he would not share
In a quarrel or a fight;
But he was prompt enough to say,
“No, boys, it is n't right!”

And when a lad o'er a puzzling “sum”
Perplexed his head in doubt,
Poor little, patient, hunchbacked Joe,
Could always help him out.
And surely as the time came round
To read, define, and spell,
Poor little Joe was ready first,
And knew his lessons well.

And not a child in Sunday-school
Was half so quick as he,
To tell who blessed the children once
And took them on his knee.
And if you could but draw him out,
'T was good to hear him talk
Of Him who made the blind to see
And caused the lame to walk.

When sick upon his bed he lay,
He uttered no complaint;
For scarce in patient gentleness
Was he behind a saint.
And when the summons came, that soon
Or late must come to all,
Poor little, happy, hunchbacked Joe,
Was ready for the call.

THE ENVIOUS WREN.

On the ground lived a hen,
In a tree lived a wren,
Who picked up her food here and there;
While biddy had wheat
And all nice things to eat.
Said the wren, I declare, 't is n't fair!”

“It is really too bad!”
She exclaimed—she was mad—
“To go out when it is raining this way!
And to earn what you eat,
Does n't make your food sweet,
In spite of what some folks may say.

“Now there is that hen,”
Said this cross little wren,
“She 's fed till she 's fat as a drum;
While I strive and sweat
For each bug that I get,
And nobody gives me a crumb.

“I can't see for my life
Why the old farmer's wife
Treats her so much better than me;
Suppose on the ground
I hop carelessly round
For a while, and just see what I 'll see.”

Said this 'cute little wren,
“I 'll make friends with the hen,
And perhaps she will ask me to stay;
And then upon bread
Every day I 'd be fed,
And life would be nothing but play.”

So down flew the wren.
“Stop to tea,” said the hen;
And soon biddy's supper was sent;
But scarce stopping to taste,
The poor bird left in haste,
And this was the reason she went:

When the farmer's kind dame
To the poultry-yard came,
She said—and the wren shook with fright—
“Biddy's so fat she 'll do
For a pie or a stew.
And I guess I shall kill her to-night.”

426

THE HAPPY LITTLE WIFE.

“Now, Gudhand, have you sold the cow
You took this morn to town?
And did you get the silver groats
In your hand, paid safely down?

“And yet I hardly need to ask;
You hardly need to tell;
For I see by the cheerful face you bring,
That you have done right well.”

“Well! I did not exactly sell her,
Nor give her away, of course;
But I 'll tell you what I did, good wife,
I swapped her for a horse.”

“A horse! Oh, Gudhand, you have done
Just what will please me best,
For now we can have a carriage,
And ride as well as the rest.”

“Nay, not so fast, my good dame,
We shall not want a gig:
I had not ridden half a mile
Till I swapped my horse for a pig.”

“That 's just the thing,” she answered,
“I would have done myself:
We can have a flitch of bacon now
To put upon the shelf.

“And when our neighbors come to dine
With us, they 'll have a treat;
There is no need that we should ride,
But there is that we should eat.”

“Alack! alack!” said Gudhand,
“I fear you 'll change your note,
When I tell you I have n't got the pig—
I swapped him for a goat.”

“Now, bless us!” cried the good wife,
“You manage things so well;
What I should ever do with a pig
I 'm sure I cannot tell.

“If I put my bacon on the shelf,
Or put it in the pot,
The folks would point at us and say
‘They eat up all they 've got!’

“But a good milch goat, ah! that 's the thing
I 've wanted all my life;
And now we 'll have both milk and cheese,”
Cried the happy little wife.

“Nay, not so fast,” said Gudhand,
“You make too long a leap;
When I found I could n't drive my goat,
I swapped him for a sheep.”

“A sheep, my dear! you must have tried
To suit me all the time;
'T would plague me so to have a goat,
Because the things will climb!

“But a sheep! the wool will make us clothes
To keep us from the cold;
Run out, my dear, this very night,
And build for him a fold.”

“Nay, wife, it is n't me that cares
If he be penned or loosed:
I do not own the sheep at all,
I swapped him for a goose.”

“There, Gudhand, I am so relieved;
It almost made me sick
To think that I should have the wool
To clip, and wash, and pick!

“'T is cheaper, too, to buy our clothes,
Than make them up at home;
And I have n't got a spinning-wheel,
Nor got a carding-comb.

“But a goose! I love the taste of goose,
When roasted nice and brown;
And then we want a feather bed,
And pillows stuffed with down.”

“Now stop a bit,” cried Gudhand,
“Your tongue runs like a clock;
The goose is neither here nor there,
I swapped him for a cock.”

“Dear me, you manage everything
As I would have it done;
We 'll know now when to stir our stumps,
And rise before the sun.

427

“A goose would be quite troublesome
For me to roast and stuff;
And then our pillows and our beds
You know, are soft enough.”

“Well, soft or hard,” said Gudhand,
“I guess they 'll have to do;
And that we 'll have to wake at morn,
Without the crowing, too!

“For you know I could n't travel
All day with naught to eat;
So I took a shilling for my cock,
And bought myself some meat.”

“That was the wisest thing of all,”
Said the good wife, fond and true;
“You do just after my own heart,
Whatever thing you do.

“We do not want a cock to crow,
Nor want a clock to strike;
Thank God that we may lie in bed
As long now as we like!”

And then she took him by the beard
That fell about his throat,
And said, “While you are mine, I want
Nor goose, nor swine, nor goat!”

And so the wife kissed Gudhand,
And Gudhand kissed his wife;
And they promised to each other
To be all in all through life.

University of Virginia Library

PHŒBE CARY'S POEMS.

BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS.

DOVECOTE MILL.

THE HOMESTEAD.

THE GARDENER'S HOME.

THE MILL.

SUGAR-MAKING.

THE PLAYMATES.

THE SCHOOL.

YOUTH AND MAIDEN.

THE COUNTRY GRAVE—YARD.

WOOING.

PLIGHTED.

WEDDED.

THE BABY.

THE FATHER.

THE WIFE.

A BALLAD OF LAUDERDALE.

THE THREE WRENS.

DOROTHY'S DOWER.

IN THREE PARTS.

PART I.

PART II.

PART III.

BLACK RANALD.

THE LEAK IN THE DIKE.

A STORY OF HOLLAND.

THE LANDLORD OF THE BLUE HEN.

THE KING'S JEWEL.

EDGAR'S WIFE.

THE FICKLE DAY.

THE MAID OF KIRCONNEL.

SAINT MACARIUS OF THE DESERT.

FAIR ELEANOR.

BREAKING THE ROADS.

THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF.

LITTLE GOTTLIEB.

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

A MONKISH LEGEND.

ARTHUR'S WIFE.

GRACIE.

POOR MARGARET.

LADY MARJORY.

THE OLD MAN'S DARLING.

A TENT SCENE.

THE LADY JAQUELINE.

THE WIFE'S CHRISTMAS.

COMING ROUND.

THE LAMP ON THE PRAIRIE.

POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING.

A WEARY HEART.

COMING HOME.

HIDDEN SORROW.

A WOMAN'S CONCLUSIONS.

ANSWERED.

DISENCHANTED.

ALAS!

MOTHER AND SON.

THEODORA.

UP AND DOWN.

BEYOND.

FAVORED.

WOMEN.

THE ONLY ORNAMENT.

EQUALITY.

EBB-TIDE.

HAPPY WOMEN.

LOSS AND GAIN.

A PRAYER.

MEMORIAL.

THE HARMLESS LUXURY.

TRIED AND TRUE.

PEACE.

SUNSET.

APOLOGY.

THE SHADOW.

MORNING AND AFTERNOON.

LIVING BY FAITH.

MY LADY.