Yale University Prize Poem 1900 -"_. - I UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 8061 -\i -m iw in3 'nowixns SJ3MW japui.8 jemduuBd YALE UNIVERSITY PRIZE POEM IQOO THE MOTHER'S SLEEP BY CHARLES ALEXIS KELLOGG, JR. NEW HAVEN THE TUTTLE, MOREHOUSE & TAYLOR Co. 1900 y PREFATORY NOTE This poem received the third award of the prize offered by Professor Albert S. Cook to Yale Uni versity for the best unpublished verse, the committee of award consisting of Professors Charlton M. Lewis, George E. Woodberry, and Charles F. Richardson. THE MOTHER'S SLEEP i Soft-borne and drowsy, muffled in the dark, The sheepfold's tinkling rises ; in long notes The cowherd drones his call ; and, floating faint From a distant hilltop, horn-blasts swell and die. The oaks have ceased their rustling and are still, Save for the dreamy twittering deep within. In heaven the little, lonesome clouds are pale With wandering, and nestle to their rest, Unhoused. All garish lights are hid, and night Is kindling soft-flamed watch-fires o'er the Earth. Closing her weary eyes, and drawing close Her darkling robe, the Earth breathes soft and sighs, And sinks asleep. I would that I, too, slept. II O would that I might sleep And dream like the Mother dreaming ; So wondrous calm and deep, A sleep that is past our deeming ! We close our gloom-pressed eyes ; Our souls are for ever waking. We couch our limbs, and rise With hearts that are ever aching. And all our wish is rest, Short rest and a little slumber, That we may fight our best Through battles that have no number. Ill The sleep of the Mother is dewy and soft, And balms from her breath arise As sweet as the honey-flowered locust aloft, And fresh as the morn-streaked skies. Her bosom is calm, and her breathing is still And soft as the sea-breeze blows ; But deep in her breast is a wondrous thrill Like that in an unblown rose. And all through the dark swells the joy in her breast To burst with the rose-rimmed light In bird-caroled paeans of joy for her rest, And joy for her fresh-limbed might. The lovely-haired goddess all-radiant springs To greet with a song the morn ; " The toils of the ages are nothing " she sings, " Then hail to the toils unborn ! " IV Great Mother, may it be That, when the life-springs cease flowing And men return to Thee, They enter that sleep past knowing ? A sleep which, full and strong, Is deep, yet prepares a waking ; For though the night be long The morn will again be breaking, And we shall have our rest, Sweet rest and a welcome slumber, And rise to fight our best Through battles that have no number. The Earth sleeps on. The sheepfold now is hushed ; No horn-blast wakes an echo ; all the birds Are mute and dreaming save the owl, whose notes, Forlorn and querulous, bemoan her lot Of outcast. Cradled on the sky's broad breast Float still the cloudlets, now not pale, but topped With shade, and downy-bosomed. Star-fires wane ; The eastern heaven is filled with liquid light ; And lo, the great-eyed moon upthrusts her head Above yon hill and stares across to this. Softly she cometh not to wake but watch The Sleeper. Slow she mounts and peers below. The darkness melts and passes from the vales ; The meadow-lands are mellowed in the light ; Even the grim and black-browed forests smile, Grow radiant, and drink deep the silver flood. N1A UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY II I II I II II I III Illlllllll Hill AA 001 220 292 5