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Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul cliche, il est film6 d partir de Tangle sup6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants iliustrent la mdthode. rata ) elure. 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 3 .1 I A DAY'S SONG. « T i A DAY'S SONG BV JOHN STUART THOMSON TORONTO : WILLIAM BRIGGS WESLBY BUILDINGS. Montreal : C. W. COAXES. Halifax : S. F. HUESTIS. 1900 filtered according to Act of tbr Parliament of Canada, in tlie year one thuucand nine hundred, by William Brioos, at the Depart- ment of Agriculture. Verse collected from the Toronti) Week Massey'sf Magazine, Canadian Magmive, Chap-Book, Peterson Magazine, GocUy's, Criterion, Argosy, East and West, New York Home Journal, Dixie Magazine. Anglo- American, National, ChdVibers's Journal ; and for permission of publishers to reprint the author's thanks are extended. I TO MY FRIEND XLbc Donorable IKIimiam S. apielMno, /R.p. MINISTER OF FINANCE, CANADA. From eve to deeper shade, — And doubt is long ; But ever grief or joy has made At noon a sotig. CONTENTS. POEMS OF SENTIMENT. INSPIRATION Sweet thoughts are whispering in my loved one's ears 17 PAGE THE ARBUTUS Here love, with straying feet, shall go ELONIE The wind is in her hair - 18 20 TRANSFORMED 'Twas in the purple-flowering month we met PRETTY ONE Oh ! bring thy lips and kiss the sun 22 23 '■% ^^ CONTENTS. LOVE'S CASTLE My heart, my Love, a castle is LADY MERCY Oh ! come, ye fickle loves ! and see - THE ROSE Of all the towers that love gave rre THE PROGRESSION Why have ye waked me ? Yes, I know - TO A PICTURE Dear eyes ! come to me nightly ULALINE Ulaline ! lost Ulaline - . A PASTORAL I guide my sheep to dewy meads - THE TROUBADOUR I never breathe the sweet and tuneful gale INTENSITY Short is life's day from birth's morn to the setting PACK 25 27 29 31 33 36 39 41 42 PACK 25 CONTENTS. n LOVE Why do we strive, and fetter our pained souls - PAGE 43 27 29 31 33 36 POEMS OF NATURE. SPRING. THE CALL OF SPRING Melt, melt, white fields, and let the freed streams flow 47 A SPRING SONG An alien in the land of song - ELDON-WOOD In Eldon-wood the wind is loud APRIL GROVES Following a breathless rumor of the spring 49 51 53 SUMMER. A SUMMER DAY I know a sunny winding vale - 56 SUMMER EVE The air is full of whisperings 57 12 CONTENTS. EVEN-TIME In meadows deep with hay I see DREAM-PLACES O ! pearly Orient, where Aurora smiles - AUTUMN. AUTUMN Rich is the time, great peace is o'er the land LATE AUTUMN Behold ! the maize fields set their pennons free WINTER. THE WHITE LAND The wide wood lies in silent wonderment A WINTER VILLAGE Now as I wander o'er the hard-worn roads PHILOSOPHICAL. THE BIRD What moves the little wanderer thus to sing THE LAST WATCH The voice of the singer is dumb FAce 59 60 64 71 73 77 85 88 V •tft CONTENTS. THE GLAMOR In the long quiet at the close of day THE MONTHS What ruthless feet have trampled in the mead THE STOIC Tears cleared my view, and sorrow, pain - THE BOBOLINK Blithe ranger of the sunny leagues of air - THE RAVEN First discord in the flowing theme of earth THE HOURIS Palm trees sighing, voices dying 13 PAGE 90 91 92 94 96 98 MISCELLANEOUS. THE VALE OF ESTABELLE They hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell THE TUBA-TREE Unto great Allah's garden lured 103 107 14 CONTENTS. ISRAFEL He touched the chords, he heard the sound PSYCHE IN TEMPE What is this beauty ; Psyche said - ECHO Ah ! Oread Echo ! how Queen Juno' s ears MUSIC Music, what art thou not ! the soul of things THE FISHER'S GARDEN A place I know where columned rocks uprise 4 RECLAIMED 'Tis sweet to have no sterner thing to do - THE WORSHIP Is she a saint that she should be PilGB tl I [4 117 119 121 122 123 119 121 ''# POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 17 h . I INSPIRATION. Sweet thoughts are whispering in my loved one's ears, Soft as the zephyrs at the gate of morn. Oh, surely wooing music 'tis she hears, That smiles and tears her dewy eyes adorn ; So does the breeze, o'er Hybla's meadows blowing. Catch up the hummings of the spring's content, And melt the young Theocritus to sighs, That almost without knowing He breathes bucolics ; or deep blooms, shade-sprent, Move him to lyrics on Sicilian eyes. f li i8 THE ARBUTUS. Here love, with straj-ing feet, shall go Where Spring's paths meet together ; One way the Winter went, I know And it was blustrous weather. The snow waj tailing, wide and white. In calm it melted slowly ; Again I looked, for well I might, I saw a blossom holy : A cream-cheeked thing on slender stalk, So timid and so vagrant, I might to tropic gardens walk And find no bloom so fragrant. THE ARBUTUS. We gathered lilies in the south, You and I together ; You pressed them to your chin and mouth, And laughed— 'twas s' Timer weather. You loosed a lock to fix a rose, That crowned a dreamy valley ; Caressing it, I saw the pose, With lightsome wit and sally. Among the deep blooms of the fall I watched your soft hand reaching Unto (I saw no cardinal) An answering heaven, beseeching. But, dear ! this trailing, pink-lipped flower. First of Spring's gentle creatures, I tender in life's hopeful hour The picture of your features. Green for your gown, pink for your blush, White wreath, for beauty gleaming; This perfect perfume for the hush Of love, when it is dreaming. 19 20 ELONIE. The wind is in her hair : Elonie ; It cannot dim the starlight there : The glinting gold her tresses wear, So flowing, free. Laughter when cares are light, Elonie ! The Spring is like a violet bright, Thine eyes were spring-time to my sight, When thou lovedst me. Waked by the robin's call, Elonie ! The lyric answers rise and fall, Thy voice I miss, and thus lose all The melody. ELONIE. Thy feet have pressed the grass, Elonie ! And I can trace thee as I pass : Thy fleeting vision in a glass Eluding me. Bloom of the slender vine, Elonie ! Red rose ta'cn by a hand not mine, Too precious in my wreath to twine, Yet I wished thee. 2t I 22 TRANSFORMED. 'Twas in the purple-flowering month we met, And I had gathered flcurs de-lis for her, And sought the dim wood where the fern leaves stir To find an orchis, fringed and s.veet and wet. These in her simple joy she coyly set Among her tresses, but I knew her not, Some passing wind a sylph or nymph had brought. And ere I sighed or spoke a vain regret. She led me to a green and shadowy grove, Where fallow-deer, large-eyed, did shyly rove. And on a bank of thyme we two did sit. Words were forgotten ; in her wide blue eyes I read some symbol language, though my wit Had passed away; I dwelt in Paradise. 23 PRETTY ONE. Oh ! bring thy lips and kiss the sun, Pretty One ! It surely woos thee, yea as I Would flash and die, A tribute at thy feet, a raptured cry. Oh ! loose thy hair and fill my hands With the strands : The poppy wreath, the vein of gold, The veil I hold : A Tyrian flutter of the queens of old. Oh ! lift thy tangled lashes up To the cup : My lips ; or chooL:e the morning's blue, If you love dew, And love the light, as my soul loveth you. i 24 PRETTY ONE. Oh ! ivy-falling beauty fair : Glances, hair ! The drooping, sleeping evening vine : The eglantine, Is not as love-flowered as this heart of mine. 25 LOVE'S CASTLE. My heart, my Love, a castle is, Strong barred from foemen's lances ; But yielding, nobler i.i the bliss, A captive to your glances. I held it sure, I held it long ; I warred 'gainst arms, not graces ; Twis Mars I served, not Venus' song, Thou Queen of pretty faces ! fT* I watched through nights, I strove through days. In our fair war of wooing ; I thought I conquered till your gaze Revealed life's dear undoing. » 26 LOVE'S CASTLE. Then teach me that all power is skill, Not castle walls, or lances ; But rather, where the softened will Succumbs to what entrances. For they may war, and they may woo, But pleading is the winning ; And truth can point God's love unto The pity in the sinning. My heart, my Love, a castle is, Not walls or sterner duty. But flowered in thy myriad kiss A bright array of beauty. 27 LADY MERCY. Oh ! come ye fickle loves ! and see, Nor be your spirit spiteful, Where Lady Mercy bends the knee In pieties delightful. My lady of a thousand beaux, When the swift dance is singing, Put dr( )ping now, a cloister rose, When holy bells are ringing. And sin of her were beauty fair ; It were an added pleasure For Love to add unto her share, Sweet pity, in the measure. i; 28 LADY MERCY. I love her for her eyes alone, Fonts, absolution, graces. Cannot for my heart's needs atone As does that pearl of faces. My lady of a thousand tears, But faultless she, my sinning Implores the answer to her fears, And sweet iove be the winning ! Oh ! come ye constant loves ! and be The servitors of beauty, And I at Lady Mercy's knee Shall breathe the prayerful duty : To make her eyes forgiveness ; Her tears, like honey-showers. To sweeten what her word shall bless A life set out in flowers. 29 THE ROSE. Of all the flowers that love gave me, My memory gives one ; As looking at the galaxy, Or at the flooding sun, Thine eye pale Hesper chooseth, When the wide day is done. Though beauty be the queen of all, First find thee graces there ! The gorgeous with the virginal, In truth, dare not compare ; Mayhap, for beauty looking, Grace adds thy needed share. i^^m^m 30 THE ROSE. And so I found her maiden true, In qualities supreme, The softness of the morning's dew, The brilliance of its beam : The royal and the modest, Where each may either seem. What hold I here, plucked from her breast ? Ye gods ! a red warm rose. Oh ! all my fancies go to nest, For o'er me rapture flows, I had not dreamed that loving Would find truth at the close. m§ 31 THE PROGRESSION. Why have ye waked me ? Yes, I know, The East's a brimming glass of wine, It melts the borders of the snow, And paints the mayflower-vine. A censer, swung from unseen hands, A holy shrine makes of the glade ; Meek snowdrops bow in humble bands, They were for worship made. The beauty broods deep in the stream, Shadow to sunshine blossomed up ; The marigold, of dew and gleam, Spring finds, a flowing cup. ■imi 33 TH^ PROGRESSION. A perfect song breathes from the reed ; It spreads until my eyelids close ; I dream, and for my dearest need Love gives her kiss, a rose. 33 TO A PICTURE. Dear eyes ! come to me nightly, As when the stars look in, Half shadow, and half brightly, So you my wonder win. Dear hair ! of many roses, Be round ray fingers blown : A bower, where Love discloses The treasures that I own. 'i Thy brow, that like the morning Swells full with light and dream Where pride gives her adorning. And beauty gives her gleam. 3 i i 9 34 TO A PICTURE. And where your smiles are breaking, A soft surprise of pearls, You seem a Queen awaking Among a thousand girls. Oh ! you are more than summer, You are the year complete ; A late, a last new-comer, To find all at your feet. And yet, you take no guerdon, Nor claim your own, nor know You are the pretty burden Of songs that used to flow. Your eyes have held a palace ; Your temples borne a crown ; Your lips, a fateful chalice That brought a kingdom down. But yet, for my undoing, And yet, for my desire, With love you drown my rueing, And wake the deeper fire. «■ TO A PICTURE. Kin of my soul, my longing ! I close mine eyes, I call ; A thousand voices thronging. And you, the Name in all. 35 4 36 ULALINE. Ulaline ! lost Ulaline ! So, in the pause of the dirge of the night, The white sad faces seem to breathe the light Upon my spirit, with your name. I leap up to it, with my lips in flame ; And throw my soul with cries, and hunger, madness, to The echoes,— bitter ashes, bitter laughter,— falling through The cold wud space, that held not Ulaline. Ulaline, if Death would come ! Sweet as the breeze when it kisses the flower. Or if my stony soul could in this bower Tempt it and flaunt it to a cry ULALINR. 37 Of pain, until its witless rage would die In merciless content, to have me underneath, How I would, flo'vcr-like, seed-like, mingle with the trysting-heath, Where Ulaline shall not hereafter come. Ulaline ! that you were dead ! Then could I find you and bathe you with tears, And fleeting hope, and change, and varied years, And death, and God, and life, and Love, Could droop their honeyed, resting wings above Your flower-face, ambered in a smiling youth; And we should kiss, kis3» you, and pass the kiss of constant truth ; But Ulaline is lost, she is not dead. Ulaline ! whose name and words Broke like the attar that dripped from the rose, You far have gone, but listening, my heart flows On memory that rises to A star serene, — God keep it, — more than you : Your chastened love, purer than summer's kindliest sun, 38 ULALINE. I kneel there, life passed, death most, greatest courage greatly done, And lift to Faith your promise and your words. Ulaline ! you mock me yet, Sweetness shall break from the heart of the comb, And you must journey, weary, tearful, home ; The full grapes of the promised South I grasp to cool my soul's lips ; give your mouth ! And feed your sins, your needs, your pale dear face, With pity, pardon, love, and God's eternal ambient grace To flow around us, so we may forget. 39 A PASTORAL. I guide my sheep to dewy meads, Where daffodils are gHnting yellow ; I pipe the morning on my reeds, And flute the noontinxe mellow. I harvest tall and golden bloom. And stain my pale feet in the grasses ; I risk my foothold, for the plume Of vines in marshy passes. I sing Oh ! ho ! The birds in flight Return the far-flown rippled laughter ; I strive and follow, till my sight In dreams mus* wander after. ^H' 40 A PASTORAL. I wave my arms against the sun, And vie the mid-day in my blushes ; I laugh, for youth-time is not done : My heart my brave cheek flushes. I break a juicy sapling lithe, And whip my flocks, and harp the summer ; I am a long-tressed maiden blithe : A tripping, light new-comer. I hear a crooning in the leaves : Ripe-headed barley brushing sweetly ; And Evening setting o'er the sheaves, Ah ! I am soothed completely. My flocks shall sleep low in the west ; My fresh-cut crook is almost falling; A stray lamb, at my feet at rest, And I, hear young love calling. 4t THE TROUBADOUR. I never breathe the sweet and tuneful gale But longings for old song within me rise, That with some Troubadour adown the vale I might pursue the field-lark's echoing cries ; Sweet converse we would hold of careless days, Of ballads tender as a maiden's sighs ; Of lyrics voiceful of the wood-bird's note, And old romantic lays ; Perhaps a couplet " to My Lady's eyes," Would please us more than all the odes we wrote. 42 INTENSITY. (( (< (( Short is life's day from birth's morn to the setting, " And even then not all hours are unclouded ; " Sweet golden moments wane in vain regretting ; Unknowing bliss, soon many souls are shrouded ; " Life's cup of wine, put by, soon loses fire : — " So, while the lips are full, and the arm strong, Take it," Death said, " e'en with its fateful lees, " Careless if thou expire ; For 'tis life's height that gladdens, not how long "Ye sail, in ease, its smooth and fleckless seas." pB' 43 LOVE. Why do we strive, and fetter our pained souls With bonds unnatural, forgetting all Transporting joy that through the spring-time rolls, Melting the winter in its icy pall ? What of the virgin morning full of song ; Sweet memories of lutes of tender sound. And struck with burning fingers in soft eves, When to rapt love belong The hours ? Oh ! let the lucent fanes abound With harp-strings trembling 'neath the sacred leaves. How love could find a summer of delight, Hid in the roses of her budding lips ; Ah ! no unclosing blossom in the night Tastes rarer nectar, in delicious sips 1 fe I 44 LOVE. Of dew ; and he should pensive hold her hands, Cool as a flower-bud plucked at the new moon ; And sweet to smell, as O lent calamus, Would be the twisted bands About her hair ; and lutes would sound the time Of youth returned to old Odysseus. POEMS OF NATURE. 47 Spring, THE CALL OF SPRING. Melt, melt, white fields, and let the freed streams flow Between your banks of snow ; And may young Love's heart find An answer to his mind, In every bud that swells, and leaves that grow. Unfold, ye cloud-set skies of softest blue ! And call the violet through The earth that seals it up ; Release its lucent cup From lips that with dull scents its wine imbrue, I 48 THE CALL OF SPRING. Great Boreas ! stay thy strong-winged blasts this morn ; For unto Joy is born A child, a blossom frail : The May-flower, timid, pale ; That, were it not for hope, would be forlorn. I see thy palace shine, proud Winter ! cold, Ice-buttressed, towers bold. But what a song is here, To greet the waking year : A stranger piping on a flute of gold. 49 A SPRING SONG. An alien in the land of song, I hear the Spring come to my doors, As those who watch the sea, along The sweep of unfamiliar shores. Sometimes the rain, with soft surprise, Showers through a cloud its music sweet ; And when I drop my vagrant eyes, A violet glistens by my feet. Clear, full, a bell swells up the glen, The flowing air clings to the sound ; The world is open, free, again. The pulse of life is in the ground. 4 50 A SPRING SONG. A snowy bough, but one of bloom, Floats on the wind : a censer hung ; And hands unseen the thick perfume Spread, as a mist, the walks among. A drop of purple, fused in cream, Too ardent for the leaves to spring, Hepaticas wake from their dream. And blend in young love's garlanding. I know a bud of dappled sheath, Pendent by many marshes cool. Yellow by borders of the heath : The Dog's-tooth, mirrored in the pool. Upon the garden gate I lean, And hear the birds start from the mead A voice, as warm as Love's, between My ancient losses, and my need, And I am won ; old Grief, good-bye ! No alien, I will join the throng Of those that march with minstrelsy. Their cares lost in the vernal song. 5» ELDON-WOOD. In Eldon-wood the wind m V)ud, The leaves come rustling down th^ hill ; They clothed the bare slopes like a shroud, That trembled ever to the breeze's will. And if it be a leaf, or bird, That floats across the glowing west, I cannot tell ; no note is heard, But what could sing unless its soul were blessed An oak, with withered leaves arrayed. Stands in the light, and to me seems ! As radiant as when Autumn made Its boughs a shrine to lure a poet's dreams. 52 ELDON-WOOD. Yonder, the hemlocks still are bright ; Tall slendei birches here and there Like fairy wands, sway in the light, And almost blossom in the sunny air. Yet, not without some verdant cheer. The barren wood unfolds its glades ; A treasured spray of moss is here : A wreath of promise, beauteous in the shi^des. And where the vale is deepest, gleams A spring, already rippling bright. It times its motion to the dreams Of lilies, rising to the coming light. I 53 2S. APRIL GROVES. Following a breathless rumor of the spring, Close pressed the sparkling verdure, and the wild Glad chorus of the birds made forests ring, And velvet lawns resound and meadows mild ; Finches, with gold-adorned and olive wings,' Chattered of sunshine in a budding hedge, They sang a roundelay of vernal hopes, Of bees and whispering things, Of balmy airs and azure skies, the pledge Of summer lingering on her bloom-starred slopes. The cheerless blackbird waked to hear the rain Falling at night upon the lifeless land, And coursing softly down the barren plain, And eie the morn he knew the spring at hand ; 54 APRIL GROVES. Dales long forlorn now smile in fearless green ; The morning answers, of the earth revived, And silvery maple groves with new buds bright. O! April of soft mien, I hear thee singing with the bees unhived, All unrestrained by winter's chilling night. Where tnc fresh leaves drooped in a curtain green, Glistening like silk from Persia's gorgeous looms, I saw a robin flit the boughs between, Fluting his joy through these, his shady rooms ; Catkins of willows ; buds of birches sweet Tempered the air with cool aromas moist, And the swamp-maples swung red censers free ; A vernal zephyr fleet Related how the balsam groves rejoiced, And bore an echo of a fountain's glee. What rare employment hath the vernal wind, Blowing to yellow flames the daffodil, How spends the spring the riches of her mind To form and dye another blossom still, A wild bud rarer than the lotus bloom, Touched with a tint of pink unknown before, APRIL GROVES. And petals polished smooth as Kashmire's rose, Woven on finer loom Than those that knit the veils the Tyrians wore, Lucent as stream that over marble flows. 55 56 Summer^ A SUMMER DAY. I know a sunny winding vale, Where cool and bubbling springs ne'er fail ; And where a hollow dips, A lakelet lifts its cup of blue (As Ganymede to Zeus) unto The great green world's bright lips. Forsaken pasture lands slope to a stream ; And wing-tired insects dream The hot noon through. Swinging on blooms of meadow rue. O'er fruiting orchards bobolinks Sing mellow songs. My thirsty spirit drinks A golden fill of liquid notes, Spent wantonly from happy throats ; While censers of the clematis Diffuse incense and bliss. I 57 I SUMMER EVE. The air is full of whisperings, And gentle-voiced content to-day, The vesper-sparrow lights and sings A hymn of joy, an evening lay. Sometimes the slumbering breeze awakes, And waves the shadows of the trees ; Or moves along the thorny brakes ; Or shakes the daisies on the leas. Soft valleys wind by sunny streams. Where cardinal-flowers limn their plumes ; And Summer, full of golden dreams. Nods by a bed of tansy blooms. m 58 SUMMER EVE. The flood of Evening's glory fills The quiet places of a wood, The hum of bees, the purling rills Speak a sweet faith, that life is good. Tall meadow-rues, in green and white, Toss their proud coronals in glee, The sun has robed them like the light. That graceful lovely company. And underneath a spreading tree I saw the yarrow, hardly fair, Its bloom was dim, but oh ! to see The leafy beauty it could wear. So still the scene, that it would seem Soft clouds would ever float above, Bright with the glory of the dieam That joy is alway, life is love. 59 EVEN-TIME. In meadows deep with hay I see The reapers' steel flash sparklingly, And boboHnks at play; And in the iris-bordered coves Frail lilies, shaded by the groves, Moor all the golden day. I watch a flicker rise on sun-lit wings High where a pewee sings, Apollo's messenger To the lone piper of the fir. Where rolling western hills look like Waves of aerial seas, the sunsets strike, And, wrecking, dye the clouds with gold. Moon-wheeled, Eve's chariot is rolled On through the high, star-spangled doors, To Night's dark murmurous shores. 6o DREAM PLACES. O ! fiearly Orient, where Aurora smiles, Endowed with rose — gifts, fragrant, dewy, cool, Find me a dell among thy happy isles, A mossy couch above a crystal pool, A seat 'neath branches where thy songbirds hyrnn, And where the half-ripe fruit is blushing slightly ; There dreaming would I pass the hours, until The eve was full and dim ; There I would hear the oreads tripping lightly, Like fluttering leaves, as each sought its chaste hill. There a whole summer would 1 careless dwell. And watch great Thaumas' daughter, o'er the storm. Build her bright arch upon the waters' swell. DREAM PLACES. 6i Tinctured with melting color, fair of form, Curved like the flight of Eos from the east ; With various heavenly ravishment of sound, The lingering sunny afternoons I'd spend. Lost in the blissful feast ; And easeful, lying on the grassy ground, Mine ear would catch earth's tunes that never end. Soft as the summer journeys from the south, •The whispers of the breeze would come to me, And I should almost feel upon my mouth The sweetness of the evening's minstrelsy ; Then would the den-s drip through the thickets dense. Cooling the fragrant clusters blushing there ; Forgotten converse of the golden time, God-like, sublime, intense. Would in my thoughts revive ; and, unaware. Old Pan would pipe for me his pastoral rhyme. And I should hear at eve his bleating flocks, And see the enchanted waves lit by the moon ; And sleepless Echo o'er Arcadian rocks ;|i 6a DREAM PLACES. Would wander, humming still her faltering tune ; Or idle satyrs on their mellow flutes Would pipe for nymphs a tricksy merry dance ; Apollo's throbbing harp upon the breeze, Or Cytherean lutes, Distant I'd hear ; or see a dryad glance, With star-deep eyes, from her embowering trees. A bee's deep murmur frorr a bending flower Would speak to me a message of ripe combs : A dripping richness, a twice-sweetened dower Of summer to her swarm in wintry homes ; And from the deep lush clover fields of June Birds, sunny-hearted, would arise with songs, Piercing with ecstasy the silence round, In long-continued tune ; Oh, season of repose ! what joy belongs To thee ; with what soft hymns thy vales resound. Now whispering leaves lull the deep wood to sleep, For Hyacinthus dreams in silence there ; O zephyr ! it avails thee not to weep, No more the beauteous boy with thee wilt share The playful game in the sweet Dorian land ; DREAM PLACES. 63 Mourn him, ye breezes ! in the twilight sad, And clustering vines, contribute your laments ; His unsuspecting hand No more Apollo's lyre with music glad Will touch, soothing the shepherds in their tents. 64 Hutumn^ AUTUMN. Rich is the time, great peace is o'er the land ; And sovereign Na-re with a golden smile Beams on the gleaners passing, band on band. Upon the mowers as they rest a while ; Flower-crowned, the slender maidens raise a hymn. And the deep burning west intenser grows ; Altar to altar kindles with the flame ; In worship, palely dim. The stars pass in a light half-gold, half-rose, Till all songs sink to silence whence they came. AUTUMN. 65 Now dreams fall on the valleys of the night; The last red popi)y stills its ardent breast ; No more the morning, with a hand of light, Will wake its petals from their dreamy rest ; Sighs from each breeze the sad, sweet slumber song; Sleep, like the dew, falls from the Evening's wings. And every Beauty veils its eyes in tears ; What woes to thee belong, Most mournful time ! that not a robin sings. To melt thy heart shut up in friendless fears. Where are the rose-warmed lyrics of the morn ; The Lesbian's lyre, the full-blown Sappho's sigh ? See ! far and wide the Autumn waves her corn, 'Tis her adieu, her signal she will die ; Wake once again, ere partings sad are told, The careless throbbings of the Evian lyre. The mad, glad, Bacchus-ivied festival ; Ah, ye stern cynics old. Why do ye strive to quench our natural fire, And tear to shreds our youthful coronal ? Where now the chequered leas of sunny bloom, A paradise of beauty for the eye ? 66 AUTUMN, The glorious colors to an ashen doom Have faded, and the summer with a sigh Has cast away the vermeil-hearted rose She ravished at her lips ; and flowers, that burned To seraph-faces brooding o'er their dreams, Have passed, and no one knows Their bourne ; demure, and almost unconcerned, I too could pass with these outgoing streams. But whither would we go, we who are blind ? As the worn slumberer takes his cares to bed. His dreams again into the world unkind. For no condition are we meet ; instead, We come to life with no experience. Out of the past from which we bring No memory ; we stumble and we fail ; Grant, stars that light us hence ! Our souls will cleave those airs with stronger wing, Free and exultant, mount each higher gale. Between the hills in green and fertile courses These valleys wound to meet the blithesome spring, Now from unnumbered Lethe-tinctured sources Their streams the general desolation bring ; AUTUMN. First from smooth uplands was the barley shorn, Where crickets tinkled silvery roundelays, And now a palsy pales the tender wheat Late sown ; and, sadly borne Upon the breeze, I hear the thrushes raise Their pipe, too melancholy to be sweet. 67 What pure delight the lucid dew must thrill As bud to bud it falls on April's flowers. And what a sense of dun bereavement chill Must tinge the rains upon the Autumn bowers. Bowers where no leaves glance golden in the light, Trembling to some mysterious ecstasy. Where heavy branches to a rhythm grand, Erewhile at the wind's might. Spoke out the changes of a melody That might have fallen from an angel's hand. Oh ! cloying slumber, dense and imminent. Brother of Death and leagued with his designs Unloose thy spell awhile from the world, shent Of all its clinging glories, moss and vines, And clematis robed like a holy bride ; Like the high pines, that in serener air 68 AUTUMN. Flourish above the rigor of the year, Grant us a breath allied To life awhile, or lingering blossom fair, Blue-eyed to smile sweet through a beauteous tear. Departing glory leaves the world forlorn ; E'en as the moon, above the Delian shrine Forsaken, through these barren fields of corn A pallid light, a sorrow half divine, Falls on the silent moody wilderness ; No bar vest bells, laughter of lovers young. No music of the ringing scythe, is heard ; Almost a god's distress Hangs o'er these valleys, where of eld was sung The fluted joyance of a summer's bird. A purple lake, framed in a silvery strand, Erewhile bore pearly lilies to the sun ; Alas ! the sterner season is at hand ; The favorite seats of summer are undone ; Cold are the margins of once lucent waves ; The heavy waters, brooded o'er by night, And treacherous, like dark Lethe, lick the shore. Or suck to cheerless graves AUTUMN. 69 The Autumn's leafage, pencilled with the light, Or chilled to wondrous gleams by mornings frore. How I have loved thee. Earth ! scenes that I leave, Gardens of musing walled in laurel white ; Eve's bowers, whence the vesper-bird would grieve In plaintive numbers for the waning light, And pour its swelling heart of love abroad ; Soft winding valleys of deep dewy grass, Grazed o'er by sleek and slowly-wandering kine ; Old roads, with golden-rod Lined festive, as though Orient kings should pass Now all is lost, the song, fruit, sun, and wine. The matin bird, that hurried his clear flute, The swift unfolding glories of the day To praise, has now departed, or is mute ; The feathery birches of the woodland way. Whose h I ves like to a thousand lamps of light Twinkled cross the waning sun, are bare ; The Hebe-blush of life is lost ; the smile Of hope from my dim sight Passes away ; the hooded face of prayer Lingers alone o'er Earth's cold shrine awhile. "' "" 11 1 70 AUTUMN. And thou hast ta'en my flowers, conspiring Death ! That Love and I had chosen for our speech : Roses for ardor, with a passioned breath ; LiHes for Love's own soul ; and unto each Sweet blossom we had given qualities : Pansies for innocence, because their eyes Are always open wide ; daises for grace ; Poppies for that rich ease. That trust of love, whose only words are sighs ; All thou hast ta'en, and veiled too e'en Love's face. ?i LATE AUTUMN. Behold ! the maize fields set their pennons free, In this rich golden ending of the year ; And asters bloom upon the sunny lea, Smiling as sweet as May, though leaves turn sere. Deep in the dell the gentle turtle-head Lifts up its tiny spire of pearly bells, And cardinals ring out a richer chime ; A last brave bee seeks in the gentians' cells A farewell taste of honeyed spring, for dead Is all the clover on its fragrant bed, And bloomless rose vines o'er the trellis climb. Sometimes across the still and cheerless night The farewells of the flocks are softly heard, As to the warm savannahs they take flight, Following the sad and tuneful mocking-bird. Id LATE AUTUMN. And numerous winds are murmering sudden loss, Like cries for Hylas through the Mysian land, Or doleful chords on Grecian citherns played By tearful maidens of a funeral band. Of all the wealth of Autumn now is left But that to wound the memory ; bereft Is he who wanders in this barren glade. No more I linger in the Lydian wood, And wait Silenos by each dell and spring ; No more the gloaming seems or warm or good, When everything of joy has taken wing. I e'en despair of Hellas in my pain ; I walk an endless line of cypress shade ; I wreck upon the tossing coast of night, When everything of loveliness light made Dissolves into the cold swift autumn rain, That sweeps interminably o'er the plain, And leaves the dyir -x, world in piteous blight. ss, U m\ntci\ )d, THE WHITE LAND. The wide wood lies in silent wonderment, Robed in the ermine of a northern queen ; It is not hfe or joy, or deep content, That gives it rest and grace, for I have been Within its borders when its pulse was strong, And life unto its highest leaf was felt ; Then would it pour the vernal hymn around In ever-varied song ; This is the charm occult by Boreas spelt. To frozen sleep the magic glade has swooned. Few sounds take flight, and they are not of life ; The bonds of ice burst with a sullen noise ; The shackled world is shut too close for strife ; 74 THE WHITE LAND. There is no cry of grief, or sweet-toned joys To wake the stillness of this house of death ; Sometimes the icy beads the winds will shake And sow the glistening floor with pearls of light, But no flushed maiden's breath Is held to see the Orient necklace break ; No ravished dryad views the lavish sight. Deep in the darkest night the first snow fell ; There was a hush ; the very winds were still ; The moon delayed to rise, checked by the spell ; A presence, vast as death, of potent will. Spoke without voice unto the air and land : Unto the night ; unto each mist-banked star ; And as it came, on viewless wings it went ; Then rose on every hand The watchers of the morning ; near and far They saw the world with wondrous whiteness sprent. A -splendor lies upon the wood and hill, And every outline of the earth is soft ; With fairy glamor the hushed world is still ; THE WHITE LAND. 75 The cheery snowbirds only sport aloft ; Asleep and motionless, the eternal pines Tower like the night above the changeful scene ; Winter to them alone has brought no sorrow ; While o'er a casement's vines I look, and ask if they'll again be green ; If grief will end, and love look out to-morrow. Death ! thou art good, cool, comforting and still ; For roses thou hast given lilies fair ; See ye those stones that mark the funeral hill, White as the snow-wreaths that the valleys wear ? There were they laid, the troubled ones of earth, And the light veils of snow, blown by the breeze, Feel more of change than those blest sleepers know ; Lamentings ! swell to mirth, Ye human mourners, bend no sorrowing knees ; Like rivers souls to God's last ocean flow. Treasures of crystal, white and diamond-pure, The wind, a hoarder-elf who never sleeps. Piles in his woodland dens, branch-hid and sure ; 76 THE WHITE LAND. Pearls lucent more than light the Indian deeps. Toledo's dazzling towers, and sunny bowers ; A castle in old Spain, these not for me Hold half the magic splendor of a bank. Crowned with cold ice-carved flowers, Machicolated like a fort of chivalry, And by Orion's stars watched, rank on rank. 77 A WINTER VILLAGE. Now as I wander o'er the hard- worn roads, Pure as a crystal pavement, early eve Comes sudden on, and bright from the abodes Of men the social lamp gleams ; still I grieve For the imprisonment of lovely things ; Deep in the snow-banks sleep the glorious flowers ; And frozen is the music of the field, That swelled the pipes of springs ; Only the screaming jay the silent hours Alarms, or vespers by far church-bells pealed. Where shines the cheerful glow of sparkling fires. Felt warmer for the blustering winds without, The farmer, glad that all that he requires 78 A WINTER VILLAGE. Is closely housed at hand, gathers about The hearth his family and friends and dogs ; November chestnuts brown, of yellow meat Rich with a woodland flavor, there they toast, Close by the half-charred logs ; And as the hours grow stiller, each his seat Draws closer to the coals, around his host, Who boasts of hunts displayed upon the walls, The claws of mighty bears, shaggy and brown ; The antlered elk which leaped o'er water-falls. But tumbled to his aim the cliff adown ; Skins of fierce lynxes, whose wiid flaming eyes Unnerved the hand upon his trusty gun, The prying fox which preyed on his barn-yard ; Until at last they rise, Each in his bosom feeling he has done Some feat surpassing, venturous and hard. What of the cold! warm are the coverings soft, That make a downy nest for each thai night ; What of the winds! that shake the chimney oft. And through the window blow the far starlight Into dim flickering beams, and almost out ; A WINTER VILLAGE. 79 Winter is here, and heaped arc winter's stores ; The best enjoyment of the year is now : Long rest, and tours about The confines of the house ; peace within doors, And on the plain a respite to the plough. Nor is the barn inhospitable; rows Of oxen sleek, and kine, full-uddered, greet With lowings glad the opened door, w'lere blows The unabated winter, storm and sleet ; Their steamy breath congeals upon the hay O'erheacl, so richly stored that every loft Groans and bends low beneath its burden sweet ; And here to spend the day The herdsmen gather, and their tales told, oft The milkmaid Phyllis makes their themes complete. Late rising, and with shortened, cheerless beam, The pallid sun unveils the gray cold day ; The biting wind along the imprisoned stream Whistles and swells, like furies in their play ; The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys wear a hue Of cloudy blue ; they flutter and are lost ; The runners of the sleighs ring silver-clear ; Little have they to do 8o A WINTER VILLAGE. Outdoors to-day, the village folk, the frost Alone is busy o'er each booming were. Blast of the north! awake, and give the storm, The ancient voice of chaos down the wind, The midnight terror, seen in many a form : Drift of the snow-wreath, and the sleet-fall blind ; Clash of the tempest ; stars dispersed like fire. When brands are dashed against a rough-faced rock ; Perpetual whistlings ; sighing of the fray ; Till wrath itself expire, And the torn world, disheartened by the shock. Veils her worn visage from the awakening day. Winter ! the strangest season of the earth. Cold as dead hearts ; semblance of final peace ; Bare, bleak and lone, with the unlovely dearth Of natural joy ; with thee my longings cease ; I cannot overcome the endless light, Light without warmth, form without pulse or hlush; Movement where joy has not impelled, or that Supreme, diviner might Of love. Soul! ureathe not in this densest hush, This is no peak of life, no Ararat. A WINTER VILLAGE. 8i Spring gave her gifts, and they were new-born flowers ; Summer her treasure, the full burst of song ; The golden autumn smiled between her showers; But winter! cold-eyed, d'"e?»7 winter, long We wait to feel some vital boon bestowed By thee ; thy cold hands cannot ope a bloom ; Thy beam cannot illume a rosy cloud ; The world to its edge snowed, A spectral shadow in a dreamless gloom. Sleeps past the call of love, dead in its shroud ; Dead in its smiles; love and its roses fair, Fame and its laurel in the poet's locks. Ambition's brow, unfurrowed now by care, Sleep ; and the venom jealousy, that mocks At every guerdon that the great receive, Cannot across this gulf be heard ; strong, long, May ye sleep on, ye nobler, weary ones, And to the little leave Their base small souis and cries ; the higher song Sweeps on, for those who rise beyond earth's suns. Ah ! this is life : the passing of a leaf, From green to gold, from ruby-brown and sere, 6 Si A WINTER VILLAGE. To the white frost-work, and the numbing grief; From the full-blooded bud to bare woods drear ; Ah ! this is love, from sighs and smiles and vows, And trust and hope, and youth's supreme delight, To strife and unbelief and weariness ; Temper o'er once fair brows, And then thv. passing of love's flame from sight ; And speech, like winter's wind that cannot bless. Recorders of old time, still must they come, These winters chill that mark the approach of fate Freedom to sorrow ; rent to grief, and some They give (the imperial souls) an openf^'^] gate From earth's last phase unto the tbi'. k ueyond ; Nothing is better to them than new trials ; Eadi summer brings its thrush and song the same, And lilies to the pond ; Welcome tht- d.^..^- last shadow of earth's dials ; A newer strife they seek, a larger fame. )WS, ght, JSS. fate PHILOSOPHICAL. ne, THE BIRD. What moves the Httle wanderer thus to sing, Whether from open field or shaded bovver, In the expectant silence of the spring ? Is it an idle impulse of the hour, A memory of songs sung once or heard ? Do strange pulsations in its breast awake, Or do these silvery flutings only serve For the expressive word ? Do sudden wonders on its vision break. Or doth it praise the blossom's dyes and curve ? The dewy freshness of the last-blown flower, A melting vmrmth upon its vocal tongue. The lively odors of a morning shower, 86 THE BIRD. A flowery stalk with many sweet buds hung ; These, do its little happy soul uplift ? These, or the soft and spreading rosy morn ? Of honeyed nectars does its glad bill taste, Or do the shadows swift, That lightly flutter past its spray of thorn, Move it to sing in such delightful haste ? Is it familiar with rich Ar^by, And many a spicy zephyr blowing there ; Hath it been down beside the murmur' g sea. And heard the sirens, seen the evening flare. Or listened to a Triton's far-blown horn ? With what iiidulgenre hath it ripened such A deep pure note of faultless melody j About the tawny corn, 'fo hent the breezes, hath it liiig< r/ d much, Or is it endowed bf love's clear fostering sky? Hath it seen nymphs, and does iliaig of tfeim. Or the rich flowings of Aurom's lobes. Brocaded with deep rubies at die hem^ THE BIRD. 87 Hath its freed vision reached the starry globes, Its hearing ventured near the rolHng spheres, Where full-voiced anthems fill the holy pauses Throughout the hallowed night, when everything Slumbers the sleep of years ; Does some low voice propound the eternal causes, Or some hid hand support its daring wing ? What gives the manumission of its soul, Till it is free as is a ray of light ; And barred from no long-dre^^med of, wished-for goal ; iJiiiMttitntWed as the vvhite rider of the night ; The bloom is fettered to its thorny stalk. The odor hardly rises from the flower. And at the most its breezy journey's short Along the bordered walk ; But esKimble bird, in one short hour, "Wm iAk far climes thy heart and song resort ! 88 THE LAST WATCH. The voice of the singer is dumb, Where ye come, Rose-summer sealed up sweet, and none to greet ; No throb of the lyre, or the air on fire ; Only the ghost of the spirit of heat. Here all that shall pass have gone by. Gone to die; Both those illumed by song, or dark with wrong ; The murmurs are stilled, as the player willed, iPnly the pulse of the silence is strong. The call that came out of the east Now hgs ceased ; THE LAST WATCH. The lover, who for fame had chose her name, And others of earth, who to sorrow, mirth. Power, gave their lives, find the end is the same. 89 The arms of the night shall take hold Of the old Grim hills before unstirred ; without a word Of hope in the gloom, and shall bar the tomb ; Nor from the grave shall a protest be heard. t; Care, Grief, and the labor of Sin, Ye closed in ; But that which warmed the flute, when it was mute ; The sound that had gone, when ye passed it on, Where found ye that ! do the wires make a lute ? ig 9^ THE GLAMOR. In the long quiet at the close of day, When bush-tops flowered golden in the sun, And hills put on their glory, one by one, And deepening shadows veiled the valleys gray ; I heard a flute tone on the stillness play : A dewy showering of melodious peace, To which the raptured ear gave no surcease ; An influence kindling like a morning ray. It held the passing evening to my sight, And gave again old visions I had dreamed ; Loved hopes stood near me in the hngering light. And tall as summer gardens to me seemed. Bound by that spell, the bloom my soul had kept Within its reach, to grasp ere it had slept. 9« THE MONTHS. What ruthless feet have trampled in the mead The long-stemmed violets, matched to Venus' eye ; What merry maids, what laughter, here passed by, When one late hand plucked marigolds in seed ! Here were a springy lawn, where they might lead Light-footed dances 'tween the daisy rows ; But they passed early, and no watcher knows What fingers poppies from their sleep have freed. ht, kept The harebell trembled to a touch unseen ; Succeeding bloom, the aster. Autumn's queen, The last, meek flower that drank the morning-dew. Shed their rich gifts and spread their fragrance mild; The quest speeds on, and still the Months pursue Beauty, of Love and Life the deathless child. IMAGE EVALUATSON TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 1.4 m 2.0 1.8 1.6 '-^ /^ Photographic Sdences Corporation 33 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 ?. fi '^ (p ^- #^ o \ 92 THE STOIC. Tears cleared my view, and sorrow, pain, Anguish, and losses bore me on To bloomless heights where falls no rain Of pity their cdld slopes upon. Chastened by disappointment, I Was heir to that beatitude ; That calm of the uplifted sky, Where resignation is life's mood. Denial asks such favors small ; Yea, greater is my dignity : So rich am I, I give up all ; Longings nor hopes now conquer me. THE STOIC. Possessing nothing, I give o'er The wish for joy, so am supreme ; A sated Croesus has not more ; Or Sappho, in her Orphean dream. Only the great grieve, and the mean ; One fears to die and leave his name ; One trembles lest Death come between Oblivion and a living shame. But where I go, at least there's rest Forever, — what this earth gave not, — Or if to wake agam is best. The Fates no less joy can allot. Greater, not lesser, thou must win, Soul ! in this final, deepest mood ; Victor o'er life, death, evil, in The poi ie of supreme solitude. 93 "",1 94 THE BOBOLINK. Blithe ranger of the sunny leagues of air ! When the cool shadows sleep by drowsy trees, And poppy influence woos the languid breeze ; Into what blinding spaces dost thou fare, A trill of wildness, soaring unaware In freedom, to the very heart of light, In heavenly joy, beyond our earthly sight ; Link, lift our woes to some supreme sweet care. There resting on the bosom of our God, Who gives thy wing its strengthened flight to Him, We shall repose in contemplation meet ; We, too, are children springing from the sod, A broken cry from shores whose sweep is dim, And where we hear the passing of His feet. THE BOBOLINK. 95 Thou to His throne, 'ipon a summer's day, Hast gone on beating wi.ig and silver be^tiin, Winding, far up, where rays of noontime stream. And on thy breast hast felt Plis glory play With the deep wonder of the rains of May, And tender sighing of a zephyr-breath. Akin to bliss, and drooping like dear Death, That clasps tired Flora in fall lanes astray. Like to a distant bell, I hear thee shower Thy spirit melodies upon the wind, A spell immortal, sealing up my soul, Calling, like dreams, to that still, radiant hour, That calm rich leisure of a vagrant mind. When it has passed in peace its last hard goal. 96 THE RAVEN. First discord in the flowing theme of earth, Dark stranger ! knows thy heart no thrill of song ? Does no bright melody to thee belong, No gladness fill thy throat with tuneful mirth ? I watch thee, heavy-winged, flap thy dull flight, And almost scatter melancholy o'er The grove that would awake in smiling flowers ; I know thee new, thy voice is from the shore Of seas that sob and cry from out the night. Yet never loosed from the relentless hours. Unwelcome shadow in the noon of spring, Fade from the day, and leave God's lilies free, By pure, white streams to wander peacefully, And o'er quiet coves their happy wreaths to fling THE RAVEN. So that the mead and wave may breathe their vows; Still fearless, dost thou soar upon the wind ? Perchance thou knowest the sterner side of truth, And art akin to sorrow of the mind, Seemg, aloc^, the pain of laurelled brows, The final vanity of untried youth. 97 Ah, yes, with all the bloom, bind thy dark form, And blend thy alien feeling with our bliss, Lest love too keenly cheat u^ with her kiss ; For after sunshine surely comes the storm, And we will later find our bliss undone ; Joy steals our strength ; we are for bolder woes. The heirs of stricken Titans of the past ; We slight grief's message, toying with the rose. Dreaming we are the children of the sun Ere the night's throes, though we reach peace at last. 98 THE HOURIS. Palm trees sighing, voices dying, In the rhythmic ebb of eve ; Soft winds calling, waters falling, These ye know awhile, then leave, Fleeting mortals ! for the portals Opening beyond your ken ; Resting ever, we can never Sever bonds like mortal men. Rich in beauties, poor in duties. Sung by poets for our eyes. Large as flowers, sweet as showers ; But we crave some high emprise THE HOURIS. Clay your being, dim your seeing, We are born of rarest musk ; Pearls our houses ; what arouses You, to waken from your dusk ? Changes coming j great spheres humming On their bright transcendent way ; Full-blown roses in God's closes, Buds, fruit never ; thus we stay : Youth undying, never trying Age or grief to tinge our sweet ; Sorrow, Morrow, thus ye borrow Something new to speed your feet. Dates, pomegranates, dewy planets Drop their gifts upon our knees. Vines o'erladen give each maiden Garlands scattered by the breeze. 99 vi'l! But employment is enjoyment, What are winds asleep at eve ! O ! the strife, the doubting life, the Privilege of men to grieve. lOO THE HOURIS. O ! the waking, and the breaking From the seed and from the sod, From sin's places, by long graces, To the aureole of God. MISCELLANEOUS. 9)1 I03 THE VALE OF ESTABELLE. They hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell, The little, time-stained headstones, in the vale of Estabelle. I often looked across them, when I lounged upon the hill, I never walked among them, nor could cross the moody rill. I had a dread of seeing e'er the dead of pallid face, And feared at night to meet their ghosts haunting a lonely place. Bl 104 THE VALE OF ESTABELLE. The church \yA\ rang at night-time, just one hollow, dismal toll, The aged by the cranny heard, and sighed : " Kow grows death's roll ! " Each meadow has its sparrow and each copse its note of spring, But seasons through I never heard a bird in grave- yard sing. A solemn man, the sexton, and 'twas he you saw at eve Look at the sun, lay down his spade, wipe brow upon his sleeve. The church was old, its tower bold, and dust- bedimmed the panes ; The preacher ever paused a while when fell the autumn rains. The goodwives ceased from musing, and some fear upon them came •*'Tis ill to be from church to-day, when one's not blind or lame." THE VALE OF ESTABELLE. 105 They often asked me why it was I shunned the head- stones so ; " I fear them not," I said, "to some new grave with you I'll go." I thought perhaps a patriarch would tire of life, and sleep, I'd walk behind, he was so old, there'd be no need to weep. The morrow morn came darkly, there was awe within the town ; Three days of dread before they said, " 'Twas pretty Alice Brown." Oh! 'tis not she of hazel eyes, of plaited golden hair, Whose smiles of greeting always beamed like heaven on my care ; Not Alice of the sidelong glance, soft heart, and tender sigh That kissed the rose aswoon ; tell me ! did God let Alice die ? ro6 THE VALE OF ESTABELLE. "The third day past came darkly; there was awe within the town, "They called her long, but ne'er will wake your pretty Alice Brown." I linger in the village still, I cannot go away : I walk the ways alone at eve ; sometimes I pause and pray; It is not much I say of her, I say it very low, But somehow it is sweet to think, "Perhaps the spirits know." One house there is I never pass, one way I never look ; I never climb the hill at eve, I never cross the brook, But over there, amid the rest, is carved into a stone, Her name and day, and that sad word I feel the most : " Alone." They hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell, Those little, crumbling headstones, in the vale of Estabelle. I07 THE TUBA-TREE. Unto great Allah's garden lured By loves and longings of my prayer, I found my happy soul immured In walls of light, high as the noon-day fair. A breath of Paradise had borne Me o'er the shining minarets ; And for the robes that I had worn, The chains of opal, gold, and polished jets. My spirit wandered in a cloud Of moist musk perfumes, by a stream ; My body elsewhere had its shroud, Perchance it saw me glorious in its dieam. I io8 THE TUBA-TREE. 'fi' El Tehyet^s branches, like a tent, Spread o'er me with delicious shade. And farther than day's sunset went, Its shadows coolness dropped adown the glade. Close by its leaves a river flowed. Deep pearly gates unloosed the flood. And silver moons a radiance snowed On countless joys, soft swelling in the bud. El Tehyet's trunk is twisted gold, Stouter than any Dervish spear, And on the lawn its fruit is rolled, Like dates of Hejaz, sweetest of the year. Mina's dark grapes of coolest wine, Like Zamzam's waters to my taste ; And oranges, golden as a mine Of Padishahs, drop down in luscious waste. And opening their creamy rinds, Innumerous virtues are revealed ; Would that I had a thousand minds. And could enjoy the pleasures that they yield : THE TUBA-TREE. 109 Swift flight upon a bridled steed, Whose trappings gleam like virgin stars ; A myriad houri-glances freed From casements shut in rose-encircled bars. From Tuba's branches sweeps a bird, Selavat, diving in the stream, And hardly is the water stirred Till every spreading spray seems, in my dream, An angel radiant by the throne, Pleading forgiveness with its tears. For greater sins of mine to atone, And shames uprising from forgotten years. I TO ISRAFEL. " IV/iose heart-strings V}ere a lute^ He touched the chords, he heard the sound Spread like the moon at night ; He was an angel who had found Reverie, delight. Unto himself he played, nor knew What trembled on the strings ; As the uprising lark the dew Shakes from his wings, His fingers scattered showers shrill Of palpitating notes, Surprised, he ceased, but wider still The music floats ; ISRAFEL. It was a golden rain that fell Like Autumn on the earth ; It woke the purple asphodel To sunny mirth. Flushed with the joy, again he shook The starry-beaming strings, They chirned accordant, as a brook That flows and sings. With rising passion, keener fire. He crushed between his palms The wires, and heard the notes expire Like vesper-psalms ; Or heavenly music in a cloud, Smothered in blissful death ; Or as a saint stills, with his shroud. His earthly breath. Ill He heard the harps of higher choirs. Like bells and cymbals clear. Swell to the thrill of their desires. And flood his ear. ( ' 112 ISRAFEL. He saw the seraphs, Hke a flame, Rise to the blinding throne ; Cherubs and angels, name on name, And he alone Absent, the guardian wings descend, To bear a mortal's prayer. Or save a man's soul at the end Of his despair. But he was held by this content Of helpless, thralling joy. As fading petals close the scent That they destroy. He was no hero, yet the flow Of those far echoes seemed The plaudits that the victors know, Or, sleeping, dreamed. Like incense of a secret prayer. Breathed from the holy night ; Like the warm auburn of his hair, It soothed his sight. ISRAFEL. He dreamed, and still he struck the harp, And sprayed the crystal shower, A burst of bird-notes, clear and sharp. In a spring hour ; Recurrent melodies that blend, As rainbow colors melt ; Notes glowing, self-consumed, that end Before half-felt. He was God's angel innocent. Called to no glorious strife : Love's pureness, that in its fragrance spent Its beauteous life. "3 8 114 PSYCHE IN TEMPE. What is this beauty ! Psyche said, And laughed, as ripples a spring stream, She tossed the tresses of her head. That hid her temples 'neath a sunny gleam. Just to be blown a lily fair. Held in the sister hands of June ! To slumber nightly by a stair, That melts into the starry heights of tune. So to pass through the days, and wake When the first roses fire the east ; To pick full coronals, and make Twin thornless garlands for a guestless feast. PSYCHE IN TEMPE. "5 To pillow in my lap at eve These slender arms, like flowers asleep ; And then to drop my eyes, and leave Their lids close-sealed, to hide the tears I weep : The tears that course back to my heart. And swell the rising anguish there : The cries that falter ere they start, And drown with sobs the half-unspoken prayer. I hid red roses in my breast, My heart has blanched them pale and cold ; Ah, well ! I bind them with the rest. And place them in this wreath of faded gold. Wild birds ! ye need not come to me With whispers of your trysting bowers ; Your song is but a threnody. For I have waited through unanswered hours ; And held my poor hands to the skies. And only felt the moonbeams chill ; And wooed with wide-eyed sympathies The passing shades to give my love's form still. ii6 PSYCHE IN TEMPE. She held her sorrows in her hands, And, hopeless, hardly dreamed at all ; If she had looked across the lands. The sun had dazed her like an eve in fall. He held her in his arms, a flower : Chief bud that drooped within his sight ; He caught within his heart the shower Of tears, that dimmed her scattered garlands bright. He fashioned o'er and o'er her name, In many metaphors of praise ; He pled the barriers whence he came. Until his grief had veiled her like a haze. He tried old broken themes of song. And laughed as though his heart were light ; And moved his pulsing hands along The slumbering lilies of her dreamy sight. Until her eyes woke to his own ; But ere she held him, he had gone, Lost in the founts of morn, rose-blown. Her Cupid draws her to the yearning dawn. til ECHO. Ah ! Oread Echo ! how Queen Juno's ears Thou fillest with talcs of thy sweet straying-places : Beds bowered with vines, where hardly the nymph hears Silvanus piping her unnumbered graces ; But what a fate is thine ! to wait until An alien voice unloosens thy sealed tongue, Thy heart o'erswelling for Narcissus fair. Deep pictured in the rill : Narcissus, loveliest of all beings young, For whom thine eyes a veil of sorrows w^ear. I see the thoughtful Pan rise from his bed, And shake the leaves of roses from his locks ; And follow, like a shade by evening led. ii8 ECHO. AIon,5 the vales and high among tho rocks ; Thee seeking, dear elusive one ! upon his reed Blowing the tenderest melodies he knows ; Oh, art thou heartless ? why not wait beside Some vernal dappled mead, The midst whereof a laughing streamlet flows, Where golden flowers on mimic billows ride ? 119 MUSIC. Music, what art thou not ! the soul of things The lyre of Amphion in the Theban eve Moving the stones, or when great Orpheus sings, The trees and rocks Olympian places leave. Music ! the soft employment of far spheres, \^/ here they alone can hear their drifted song ; The deep inspirer of the joy divine That wakes returning years ; The blissful voice of the great vernal throng. That from Apollo brought their lyrics fine. O ! nightingale, singing o'er Orpheus' grave. At lone Libethra, in the Grecian night. What classic woe is thine ! what love can save 120 MUSIC. Thee from thy grief and from thy mournful plight ! Yet sing, thou kin of singing stars sublime; Orpheus yet hears thee on Olympus' side ; His lyre and soul move with thee through the spring, Hym.ning the golden time, And Argonauts upon the ocean wide, And sirens, his unmatched song silencing. 121 THE FISHER'S GARDEN. A place I know where columned rocks uprise, A Stonehenge gathered in a tossing sea ; From pillars gray the petrel's dismal cries Answer the ocean's endless misery ; The rocks and winds raise war with clouds of surf, Where fishers' meagre huts creep to the shore, And their wild gardens of foam-flowers white ; No smoothly swelling turf Lies spread for them with blossoms scattered o'er, Their lilies blow upon the billow's height. -„«»"' .-'■«■? fi '•i, 122 RECLAIMED. 'Tis sweet to have no sterner thing to do Than wander on the shore, lulled by the breeze That blows o'er gardens of the Hesperides, Dropping its balmy freights and odors new; Or by the hedge to stray, where briars strew Their pink-edged petals on the flowering grass, Lading with scents the zephyrs as they pass ; And so to waste the lazy noon hour through, And fading day ; or watch th'i sedges wave Good-byes to ocean hurrying to its cave. But when I saw the Evening, like a nun, Wrap the dun shades about her pensive brow. And kiss the crossed rays of the dying sun, I, too, a votary, took Nature's vow. 123 THE WORSHIP. Is she a saint that she should be Clothed with a garment radiant ? Eve's altar-fires burn gloriously, Where sunset is the celebrant. A sacred hush is in the wood, A blinding flame illumes the glade. Soft-passing shadows in a hood Conceal their sinful brows, afraid. The aureole is high above : A cloud, with mystic colors stained, The censer holds a breath of love : Lilies and herbs, where night has rained. 124 THE WORSHIP. Star-rosaries, an eremite Tells to the cadence of a psalm ; The presence hides its face in light, And breathes a rapture from the calm. The tribute of a hymn is heard, Played by the breeze through leaves entwined, And golden-winged, a little bird Soars to the God it cannot find, It d'-ps its song, that falls like dew Upon earth's open hearts and flowers ; And answering, the deep boughs through, The blessing came in healing showers. The choristers each bent a spray. Their full throats budded into song ; Ap.tiphonal, before the day, The swelling chorus swept along ; It gathered tributes of the morn : Dream, mystery and full repose. The minor chords of woes forlorn, The perfect worslu'p of the rose. ESTABELLE By J. ST U ART THOMSON PRICE St.OO, POSTPAID " His work says much for the progress of poetry in the Dominion. The pieces fall into two divisions, Sonnets and Lyrical pieces, al! charac- terized by a rich sensuousness of fancy akin to that of Keats. . . . Bal- lads, half narrative, half meditation,— in these the author seems deliber- ately to eschew the RorKeousness of the others, and to study a nnisical siniplicitj' like that of the ' May Queen.' He is no less successful in the one manner than in the other. The poems display substantial imaginative powers." — Scotsman, Edinburgh, Scotland. "Averse of plea.sant flavor, old-fashioned and classical, now and again. ... It has been noted recently that the physical features of the Dominion of Canada have given strength to the voices of her children who sing ; here it is to be noted that the lovely evanescence of the northern spring has given delicacy as well." — The Cfiap-Book, Chicago. " One cannot read his productions without feeling that the author is a man of refinement, with a well-developed spiritual nature, and an extraordinary sense of the beautiful and the majestic in nature." — Cana- dian Magazine. " The times have not furnished a better poet of feeling." — Bachelor of Arts Magazine, New York. "A spontaneously lyrical facility."— Poet-Lore Quarterly, Boston, Mass. " His verse is simple and musical, and contains some graceful imagery." — New York Sun. " Here is a bit of genuine inspiration in 'The Vale of P'stabelle.' In its simple but harmonious movement, its sorrow for the death of children, and the sincerely intimate touch, this poem almost vieb with Words- worth's 'Lucy.'" — Tranmrijyt, Boston, Mass. "' Apollo Oramus ' is a spirited mythological ode, in lively tripping measure. . . . The interpretation of Eastern luxury in the ' ^.loorish Captive ' is a fine picture. A pleasant volume altogether —spirited, feel- ing, ornate. ... A classic writer, one who unites grace and elegance with the gift of learning." — Home Journal, New York City. "In his sonnets we think him at his best; those on 'Summer,' 'Autumn' and 'Reclaimed' are charming, especially the last." — Literary World, Boston, Mass. ' ' Some true idyls of rural life, — not such as charm the ear merely, as a painter's brush, laden and guided by genius, can charm the eye, but quick with pathos." -JI/o7i(reai Gazette. "His ' Estabelle and Other Verse ' is a noteworthy production. It is remarkable how close to the heart of nature these young Canadian poets contrive to keep. They have the faculty of observation— minute, accu- rate, and at the same time sympathetic— in a degree quite extraordinary even to-day, and almost unknown in English poetry before Tennyson opened our eyes. Mr. Thomson's poems are nearly all '.yrics of nature, and many of them strika a note of pure and singular beauty." — The Dial Chicago. WILLIAM BRIGGS, Publisher, TOROSITO.