CXLVI.THE EASTER VIOLETS.
I
I spoke by chance of modest flowers,
And how, in all the banks and bowers
Of vernal Bagley's greenwood ways,
They ever added to my store
Of festal joys, a charm the more
To Christian holidays.
II
A kind heart, little known to me,
Amid the various company
That night this random mention heard.
I spoke with truth, but never thought
What welcome service would be wrought
For me by that stray word.
III
Yet when we utter what we feel,
The homeliest, simplest things will steal
To many an ear and heart unknown;
And most in song will quiet truth
In right of its unfading youth
Find out and win its own.
IV
The sun shone fair on Easter Eve,
The day when festal fancies weave
Bright threads into the Lenten gloom,
When our free thoughts, Good Friday over,
Doubtful 'twixt joy and penance, hover
About the Garden Tomb.
V
My new-made friend that very day,
His face with radiant humor gay
A little sheaf of violets brought,
Large blossoms singled out with care,
And with long searching here and there
At that chill season got.
VI
“I've looked the college garden through
To find each one of freshest hue,
That from its purple censer flings
True fragrance to the old March breeze;
You are a priest,” said he, “take these
For Easter offerings.”
VII
He tendered them with smiling glance
And playful grace, which might enhance
The courteous tribute that he brought.
It was a gentle act, and stirred
My soul to think how simple word
In simple heart had wrought.
VIII
A trivial act! Yet kindness stored
In common vessels is a hoard,
Which we more palpably discover.
We fancy there is better measure
Dealt out unto us when the treasure
From lesser gifts runs over.
IX
The single drop of pearly dew
Which falls from out the harebell blue,
When on the breezy heath it quivers,
The meek observant heart will move,
As proof, more touching, of God's love
Than the abounding rivers.
X
O sweet is kindliness unbought
By service we ourselves have wrought,
Or long-tried friendship's winning arts!
O sweet is sympathy which springs
From chance occasions, random things,
And unexpected hearts!
XI
There are who on vast purpose bent
With these stray joys are ill content,
These angel-scattered shreds of bliss,
The wild-flowers of the lavish earth,
Her natural growth of blameless mirth;—
Alas! how much they miss!
XII
The thoughts of kind acts long ago
Will one day, like a fountain, flow;
And, when old age upon us sets,
We shall need memory then to cheer
A flagging mood, or dry a tear,
With such stray violets.
XIII
They say that gentle soul is now
Beneath dire sorrow drooping low,
O'ershadowed by a clouded mind.
May Heaven to his meek heart restore
The radiant spirit as of yore,
And that rude spell unbind!
