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DRIFT: 
 
 A SEA-SHORE IDYL 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY ; G, ; ,<) .& < E A R: iS OLD, 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 
 1866. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in th year 1866, by 
 
 * * **** ^ 
 
 TICKjvUOR A N W FIJ[? Q t S, 
 
 in the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the Djstrjft oTMassachusetts. 
 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS : WELCH, BIGELOW, & Co., 
 CAMBRIDGE. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR .7 
 
 DRIFT . . . 25 
 
 THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE . . . . .36 
 
 RECRIMINATION . . . - 41 
 
 INTROSPECTION . . . 49 
 
 WOOL-GATHERING 57 
 
 THE Two AUTUMNS 63 
 
 ALONE BY THE HEARTH 67 
 
 THE GARDEN OF MEMORY . . . . . 70 
 
 AN IDYL OF OCTOBER 75 
 
 " ALL FOR LOVE "... 80 
 
 THE BALLAD OF ROSALIE . . ... . . 83 
 
 TRAILING ARBUTUS 86 
 
 THE OLD PLACE ........ 89 
 
 THE GIFT OF LOVE 90 
 
 MY LOVE 93 
 
 MINNIE S ANSWER 95 
 
 Au COMBLE 97 
 
 938589 
 
4 , Contents. 
 
 SWEET IMPATIENCE 99 
 
 AN AUTUMN JOY ........ 103 
 
 IN VAIN . . . 106 
 
 GONE . . . . 108 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS . . .109 
 
 A FAREWELL no 
 
 VALE! .-. .. 112 
 
 EXPRESSION ........ . 115 
 
 THE TRYST 117 
 
 AMONG THE HEATHER . . . . 119 
 
 THE LEES OF LIFE . 120 
 
 FARCEUR DE POETE ! . 121 
 
 BEER . . . . 123 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE .... .... 126 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY AND THE POET 127 
 
 GUI BONO? 128 
 
 THE GOLDEN FISH 130 
 
 CA M EST EGAL 131 
 
 GOLD AND PURPLE 133 
 
 PARTING . 134 
 
 THEN AND Now 135 
 
 SUMMER WINDS 137 
 
 LAZINESS 141 
 
 THE SIMPLE RHYME . -. 142 
 
 MEADOW SWEET 144 
 
Contents. 5 
 
 FAREWELL TO SUMMER 145 
 
 SEPTEMBER 148 
 
 THE HEART S REST . . . . . . 151 
 
 THE SIREN OF THE ROSE 153 
 
 ON THE SANDS 155 
 
 FOUL WEATHER . 157 
 
 APART 158 
 
 AT DUSK 1 60 
 
 SERENADE 162 
 
 VIA CRUCIS 164 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE 165 
 
 NEW-YEAR S EVE 168 
 
 JUBILATE 17 
 
 THE MATRON YEAR 171 
 
 REQUIESCAM 174 
 
 IN THE DARK .176 
 
GEORGE ARNOLD. 
 
 r I ^HE author of the poems contained in this 
 -*- volume was very dear to me as a comrade, 
 and so I do not pretend to speak impartially of 
 his character and his writings. During a period 
 of six years it was my fortune to be associated 
 with him under a variety of circumstances, and 
 to participate in many of his pleasures and in 
 some of his sorrows. Not many weeks have 
 passed, since all that was mortal of him was laid 
 in the tomb. It may chance, therefore, that ten 
 derness for his memory and grief for his loss 
 will somewhat color the language of this me 
 moir. Affection is not critical. But, whatever 
 be the faults of this attempt to depict the de 
 parted poet, I confidently believe that every ap 
 preciative reader of these poems will recognize 
 
George Arnold. 
 
 them as the exponents of genius and of a re 
 markable and winning character. 
 
 George Arnold was born in Bedford Street, 
 New York city, on the 24th of June, 1834, and 
 died at Strawberry Farms, Monmouth County, 
 New Jersey, on the Qth of November, 1865. 
 The events of his short life were neither numer 
 ous nor striking. His parents continued to re 
 side in New York till he was three years of 
 age, when they removed to Alton, in the State 
 of Illinois. There he passed twelve years of his 
 boyhood, happy, buoyant years, diversified by 
 exercise and study, and blessed by free commu 
 nication with Nature, amidst some of her most 
 picturesque and inspiring scenery. There, doubt 
 less, he laid the foundations of that profound 
 love and genuine knowledge of Nature which he 
 manifested in after years. He never went to 
 school. His education was conducted by his par 
 ents, from whom he learned, in a happy home, 
 those lessons of truth and fact, and those sim 
 ple principles of action, which are the sufficient 
 
George Arnold. 9 
 
 basis of an honorable life. Those teachings he 
 never forgot ; and, though his later years were 
 not unblemished with errors, he was, from first 
 to last, in all things and to all persons, straight 
 forward, sincere, and manly. Nor was this re 
 sult altogether due to early training. Simplicity 
 and truthfulness of character were born attri 
 butes of the man. His nature was frank, gen 
 tle, and sweet, and all his impulses were gen 
 erous and good. 
 
 In the summer of 1849 his parents removed 
 from Illinois, and settled at Strawberry Farms, 
 in the State of New Jersey. A Fourierite Pha- 
 lansterie had been established there ; but, at this 
 time, it was gradually breaking up. Residing 
 there during the next three years, seeing many 
 social reformers, some of them peculiarly ra 
 tional, and some of them peculiarly eccentric, 
 and hearing continually of social reform, the im 
 pressible mind of the young poet took a philo 
 sophical bent, and began very early to speculate 
 upon the difference between things as they are 
 
io George Arnold. 
 
 and things as they ought to be. This habit of 
 thought continued with him to the end of his 
 life. He was never a reformer, indeed, and for 
 professional reformers he entertained a cordial 
 contempt. His conviction appeared to be, and 
 it is, perhaps, as sound as any doctrine of con 
 temporary social philosophy, that " the world 
 is out of joint," and that no mere human power 
 is available to set it right. With his philosophy, 
 however, or his lack of it, the reader is not 
 concerned ; and I refer to his youthful acquaint 
 ance with reformers and doctrines of reform, only 
 to explain that bias toward speculation which 
 appears in certain of his poems, notably in 
 " Wool-Gathering," and that independent men 
 tal custom of viewing all subjects through the 
 eyes of common sense, to which may be attrib 
 uted the vigor and freshness of much that he 
 has written. 
 
 In the autumn of 1852, having developed a 
 strong preference and natural aptitude for the 
 art of Painting, he was placed in the studio of 
 
George Arnold. 1 1 
 
 a portrait-painter in New York city. This was 
 the beginning of his career as a worker in the 
 fine arts. Experience proved, however, that he 
 had mistaken his vocation. He speedily became 
 a good draughtsman, and manifested skill and 
 taste in the minor department of landscape-paint 
 ing. This cleverness in sketching landscapes 
 grew with his years, and afforded him great en 
 joyment. Several of his friends possess little 
 sketches that he gave them, chiefly in water- 
 colors, which, if much less complete as works of 
 art, are often as characteristic of the author as 
 even his poems themselves. Such a sketch is 
 before me, as I write these words. It represents 
 a square in an old German city. Around the 
 square are quaint houses, with diamond-paned 
 windows and staring gargoyles. In the back 
 ground a vast cathedral lifts its spire toward 
 the blue sky of summer, flecked with clouds of 
 fleece. The lame beggar halts along in the 
 shadow. Hooded monks stand apart, conversing. 
 The whole scene is gentle, slumbrous, poetic, 
 
12 George Arnold. 
 
 and suggestive. But it was oftener with the 
 sweet or stern aspects of Nature that the poet s 
 fancy held genial communion. He loved to think 
 of quiet woodland places ; of moss-grown rocks, 
 and the bright green of creeping vines ; of the 
 musical purl and tinkle of lonely brooks ; of 
 thick-clustering, dewy roses ; of the burnished 
 glories of autumnal woods ; of the wind among 
 the pine-trees, on sombre autumn nights ; of lone 
 ly beaches, whereon forever echoes the ancient, 
 solemn dirge of the sorrowing, desolate ocean, 
 mindful not alone of its own mysterious grief, 
 but of missing ships, and vanished forms, and 
 "wrecks far out at sea." His poems very beau 
 tifully manifest these moods of his fancy ; and 
 these moods also tinged his little sketches, and 
 gave them a characteristic quality. But he did 
 not succeed as a painter of faces and figures, 
 and so he very soon abandoned the effort to be 
 come an artist with the brush. His early stud 
 ies of Painting, however, were not wasted. Lov 
 ing the art, and knowing its technicalities, he 
 
George Arnold. 13 
 
 subsequently became an excellent art-critic. His 
 criticisms of paintings, scattered far and wide in 
 the daily and weekly press of New York city, 
 are numerous, and are animated by genuine sym 
 pathy with noble and beautiful ideals, cordial 
 appreciation as well of minor merits as of lofty 
 conceptions, and a frank and hearty contempt 
 for mere prettiness and charlatanism. He was 
 unusually competent for the proper performance 
 of this work, and, as far as is possible in ephem 
 eral journalism, he faithfully served the art in 
 which he had once hoped to win distinction. 
 
 The transition from the brush to the pen is 
 not uncommon. With him it was natural and 
 inevitable. Though his temperament was dreamy, 
 his will never became the slave of dreams. He 
 laM down the brush with a sigh ; but he laid it 
 down : and, thenceforward, to the end of his life, 
 he worked with the pen, incurring the perils, 
 bearing the sorrows, surmounting the obstacles, 
 and enjoying the pleasures of the noble and fas 
 cinating profession of letters. His literary career 
 
14 George Arnold. 
 
 extended over a period of about twelve years. 
 In the course of that time he wrote, with equal 
 fluency and versatility, stories, sketches, essays, 
 poems, comic and satirical verses, criticisms of 
 books and of pictures, editorial articles, jokes 
 and pointed paragraphs, everything, in short, 
 for which there is a demand in the literary mag 
 azines of the country, and in New York journal 
 ism. The quantity of written material which he 
 thus produced is surprisingly large. Much of it, 
 of course, is of an ephemeral character. As is 
 usual with men of letters, who live by their pens, 
 Arnold was obliged to combine the profession 
 of journalism with that of literature ; and in 
 journalism, sufficient unto the day is the article 
 thereof. But, while he wrote much for the mo 
 ment, he wrote much also that will endure. He 
 was not merely a journalist. The original mind, 
 the large, warm heart, and the sleepless fire of 
 genius often gave accidental worth to even his 
 lightest compositions. In this way "he builded 
 better than he knew." The reader of his " Me- 
 
George Arnold. 15 
 
 Arone " papers, commenced in " Vanity Fair," 
 November 24, 1860, and continued, in that and 
 other journals, with but slight intermissions, 
 until October 14, 1865, will especially appreci 
 ate the truth of this remark. Those papers, in 
 which the Chevalier Me Arone records his own 
 exploits and reflections, aim to excite mirth by 
 their perfectly preposterous absurdity. (I ex 
 cept, of course, those written toward the close 
 of the author s life, which are inexpressibly pa 
 thetic.) Yet, beneath their sunny vein of non 
 sense, runs an often perceptible current of strong 
 thought and delicate sentiment, revealing the 
 profound convictions and ardent, persuasive sym 
 pathy of a great nature. Similar indications ap 
 pear in his stories. The poems, of the best of 
 which (selected and arranged by the present 
 writer) this volume is composed, reveal their au 
 thor yet more distinctly. A subtle knowledge 
 of the human heart, a quick sympathy with ideals 
 of purity, innocence, and beauty, a thorough love 
 for Nature, combined with real knowledge of the 
 
1 6 George Arnold. 
 
 subject, in reference to which most poets man 
 ifest laborious ignorance, a fine appreciation 
 of the holiest human emotions, a profound ac 
 quaintance with grief, an exhaustless impulse of 
 tender humanity underlying the workings of a 
 critical intellect, a sad, playful humor closejy 
 blended with pathos, a vein of religious senti 
 ment, a manly spirit, proud and aspiring, yet 
 capable of calm endurance and gentle resigna 
 tion, these qualities of mind and of character 
 are clearly manifested in these poems, which 
 are, moreover, with scarcely an exception, mould 
 ed and finished in deference to the dictates of 
 thoughtful culture and severest taste. They do 
 not attempt high, imaginative flights. Their con 
 ception was due to no merely artistic impulse. 
 They were born in the writer s heart, and ut 
 tered naturally, in strains of simple and delicious 
 music. 
 
 It does not seem necessary here to enumerate 
 the various magazines and newspapers in which 
 Arnold s pen found employmen^. He wrote for 
 
George Arnold. 17 
 
 bread, and he sold his writings to whomsoever 
 would buy them. It was noticeable, too, espe 
 cially so in his later years, that he had no de 
 sire for literary reputation. He was industrious, 
 in order that he might be independent of the 
 world. He lived simply, because he could not 
 afford to live magnificently. A poet, he was not 
 lacking in luxurious and eccentric tastes. A 
 young bachelor, he was not lacking in the care 
 less liberality of jovial good-fellowship. Yet he 
 accomplished a great deal of work, and he always 
 did it promptly, and faithfully, and well. In this 
 respect, and, indeed, in all respects, his private 
 life was governed by the strictest principles of 
 personal integrity. He had, despite his youth, a 
 marvellous knowledge of the world, and he wisely 
 chose to conquer his place in it, by ability, indus 
 try, honor, and cheerfulness. The principal mo 
 tive of his conduct (and this, possibly, explains 
 his indifference toward literary reputation, and 
 his habitual neglect of the expedients by which 
 commonly it is attained) was a desire to be, rath- 
 
1 8 George Arnold. 
 
 er than to seem, to develop his own character, 
 to act ingenuously, to deserve the love of his 
 friends, to surround himself with an atmosphere 
 of cheerfulness, and thus to make the best of the 
 serio-comic drama of human life. In this he suc 
 ceeded. Those who knew him well, loved him 
 dearly. They knew that he was genuine, that he 
 scorned every description of imposture, and that 
 his friendship never idly bestowed was, when 
 once given, steadfast and true, alike in storm and 
 sunshine. 
 
 This genuineness of character, revealed through 
 the medium of a peculiarly cheerful temperament, 
 all the more winning for its latent sadness, 
 was the source of his peculiar personal influence, 
 and of his capacity to inspire affection. He at 
 tracted the good side of every nature. Those 
 who came in contact with him somehow exhib 
 ited themselves to the best advantage. He had 
 none of the conceit of intellectual superiority, 
 neither did he flourish his quill in the face of 
 society. His manners had the repose that dis- 
 
George Arnold. 19 
 
 tinguishes the gentleman, and something of the 
 autumnal ripeness and beauty which he so much 
 loved in Nature, and of -which he has written so 
 well. Even his little superficial affectations were 
 not unpleasant He was fond of representing 
 himself as an utterly selfish and heartless man, 
 and of attributing selfish motives to the whole 
 human race. He liked, also, to suggest the ludi 
 crous side of serious subjects, and to dampen the 
 fire of sentiment with the cold water of cynicism. 
 But he wore the mask of Mephistopheles with an 
 ill grace, and, toward the last, he laid it altogether 
 aside. Gentle, simple, and affectionate, " a soul 
 of God s best earthly mould," such he appeared 
 to me in those last days, and such I faithfully be 
 lieve him to have been. 
 
 It is pleasant to remember that the closing 
 days of his life were passed in the society of dear 
 friends, and that he entered into his rest amidst 
 scenes that were hallowed to him by tender asso 
 ciations of a happy and hopeful youth. His cus 
 tom, for years, had been to spend occasional weeks 
 
2O George Arnold. 
 
 of the summer and autumn at Strawberry Farms. 
 Thither, accordingly, he went, in August last, 
 having been ill for some time previously. His 
 face, though it wore then a weary look, gave no 
 sign of approaching death. Yet his thoughts 
 had dwelt often upon that solemn theme, and I 
 think he knew that the end was near. In spite, 
 however, of sickness, pain, and despondency, his 
 habitual mood of mind remained calm, and even 
 cheerful. He continued to write for the press 
 up to within four weeks of his death. The last 
 prose article that he wrote was the last of the 
 McArone papers, humorously yet very sadly ex 
 pressive of a wish to be an Old Lady. The last 
 poem that he prepared for publication was " The 
 Matron Year." I think, however, that he subse 
 quently wrote several little songs, which, being 
 intended merely for his own amusement, are, to 
 gether with many similar trifles, of earlier date, 
 omitted from this collection. He had a happy ap 
 titude for composing melodies to match his words, 
 and, in private, he used often to sing his own 
 
George Arnold. 21 
 
 songs. They were simple and sweet, and he sang 
 them sweetly. Many an afternoon, in that gold 
 en autumn which was his last on earth, he sat 
 alone in the parlor of the old house at Straw 
 berry Farms, playing the piano and singing softly 
 to himself. I picture him thus, as the end drew 
 near, his handsome face calm with the repose of 
 resignation, his gentle, blue eyes full of a kind, 
 sad light, his rich voice, soft and tremulous and 
 low, breathing out his own glad hymn of faith in 
 the protecting love of the Great Master : 
 
 " To-day a song is on my lips : 
 
 Earth seems a paradise to me : 
 For God is good, and lo ! my ships 
 Are coming home from sea." 
 
 They have come home now, all the high hopes, 
 all the ventures of aspiration, that his soul sent 
 forth, in the holy season of innocent youth. His 
 dreams of happiness are all realized : his life that 
 was broken on earth is fulfilled in heaven. 
 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 
 NEW YORK, January 21, 1866. 
 
POEMS. 
 
DRIFT. 
 
 A SEA-SHORE IDYL. 
 
 I. 
 
 T WEARIED once of inland fields and hills, 
 * Of low-lying meadows and of sluggish streams, 
 Creeping beneath the trees that summer-heats 
 Had parched to dusty dryness ; and a dream 
 Of fresh, cool breezes and of salty waves, 
 Of azure skies o erarching azure seas, 
 Of tangled seaweed from unfathomed deeps, 
 Came over me ; and so I left the hills, 
 To sojourn, through the riper summer-months, 
 Upon the shore. 
 
 There, in a lonely house, 
 So near the breakers that their misty foam 
 Whitely enwrapped it when the storm raged high, 
 
26 Drift. 
 
 I let my summer-days pass idly by. 
 Yet not all idly : when the morn was fair, 
 And soft winds bore strange odors from the sea 
 Through open casements, oftentimes I wrote 
 Weaving brief rhymes, disjointed, and, perhaps, 
 Too simple for the lovers of great poems. 
 
 A ship went sailing from the shore, 
 And vanished in the gleaming west, 
 
 Where purple clouds a lining bore 
 Of gold and amethyst. 
 
 Poised in the air, a sea-gull flashed 
 His white wings in the sun s last ray ; 
 
 A moment hung, then downward dashed, 
 To revel in the spray. 
 
 The fishers drew their long nets in 
 With careful eye and steady hand, 
 
 Till olive back and silvery fin 
 Strewed all the tawny sand. 
 
Drift. 27 
 
 Again I trod the shore ; again 
 The sea-gull circled high in air ; 
 
 Again the sturdy fishermen 
 Drew in their nets with care. 
 
 The sunset s gold and amethyst 
 Shone fairly, as I paced the shore, 
 
 But back from out the gleaming west 
 The ship came nevermore ! 
 
 n. 
 
 After the first days, goodly company 
 Came to the lonely house beside the sea : 
 Bright eyes and tresses, voices of young girls, 
 Made joy within those somewhat mouldy halls ; 
 And a piano, that had long stood mute 
 In the old parlor, on the landward side, 
 Grew musical and merry to the touch 
 Of jewelled fingers. 
 
 What rare days were those, 
 When my chief duty was to write a song, 
 As often as the brown-eyed Marian 
 
28 Drift. 
 
 Grew weary of my last ! And thus our time 
 Passed, smoothly as a river-current flows. 
 Music and reading, strolling on the beach, 
 Gathering colored pebble-stones and shells, 
 And sea-weed from the rocks beyond the bar, 
 Were all our pastime. 
 
 A flood of sunlight through a rift 
 
 Between two mounds of yellow sand ; 
 
 Three sea-gulls on a bit of drift 
 
 Slow surging inward toward the land : 
 
 An old dumb-beacon, all awry, 
 
 With drabbled sea-weed round its feet ; 
 
 A star-like sail against the sky, 
 
 Where sapphire heaven and ocean meet 
 
 This, with the waters swirling o er 
 A shifting stretch of sand and shell, 
 
 Will make, for him who loves the shore, 
 A picture that may please him well. 
 
Drift. 29 
 
 in. 
 
 Ere the sun went down 
 We mostly loved to linger by the sea, 
 Where, seated on some wave-worn slab of stone, 
 We watched the furrowed waves that rose and fell, 
 Chasing each other down the beaten strand ; 
 But when the shadows lengthened toward the east, 
 And the red glory of the sunset shone 
 Upon the light-house, and the fading sails, 
 The yellow sand-hills with their sickly grass 
 And inland-leaning cedars, we returned 
 To the old parlor ; and, as dusk came on, 
 Sang to each other till the moon rode high. 
 
 The light-house keeper s daughter, 
 Her hair is golden as the sand ; 
 
 Her eyes are blue as summer-seas 
 That melt into the land. 
 
 Her brow and neck are whiter 
 Than sea-foam flying on the wind, 
 
 Her mouth is rosy as the shells 
 That strew the coast of Ind. 
 
3 Drift. 
 
 The winds caress her ringlets 
 
 That down her neck in clusters stray, 
 
 And frothy waves flow tenderly 
 About her feet, in play. 
 
 I love this simple maiden, 
 
 She grows upon me more and more, 
 And ask the moon who t was that kissed, 
 
 Last night, upon the shore ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 At times, when moonlight danced upon the sea, 
 And all the air was musical with sounds 
 Of waters slowly breaking on the beach, 
 We sought the bar, and climbed its farthest rocks, 
 Against whose weedy feet the waves uprose 
 In phosphorescent foam ; and, seated there, 
 The maidens picturesquely grouped around, 
 We talked philosophy, or told quaint tales 
 Of most romantic sort, of ghosts and ghouls, 
 Of strange things seen by those whom we had 
 known ; 
 
Drift. 3 1 
 
 Of strange things we, perchance, ourselves had 
 seen ; 
 
 Of marvels told by ancient mariners, 
 
 The Maelstrom, and the heaven-dropped water 
 spouts, 
 
 Or sadder tales, of wrecks far out at sea, 
 
 Of missing vessels, and of sailors drowned. 
 
 The river down to the ocean flows 
 By reedy flats and marshes bare ; 
 
 And the leafless poplars stand in rows 
 Like ghostly sentinels watching there. 
 
 An osprey sails, with wings spread wide, 
 Down-slanting from his even flight, 
 
 To a sedgy spot, where the falling tide 
 Has left some kind of drift in sight. 
 
 A blackened mass, by the tide left bare, 
 In the tangled weeds and the slimy mud. 
 
 The osprey shrieks as he settles there, 
 And a deathly horror chills my blood ! 
 
32 Drift. 
 
 v. 
 
 So passed the summer, and we had our fill 
 
 Of lotos-eating by the ocean side ; 
 
 We came to know and love each pleasant spot 
 
 About the place ; the sheltered nooks where grew 
 
 Dwarfed flowers, whose downy seeds had come, 
 
 mayhap, 
 
 Upon the wings of Autumn s winds upborne, 
 A thousand miles, to drop, and germinate, 
 In the dry sand ; to grow, and blow, and bloom, 
 And then to wither t were a happy fate 
 In brown-eyed Marian s bosom. And we knew 
 Each craggy rock that overhung the sea, 
 Whence we could gaze far out across the waste 
 Of heaving waters, dotted here and there 
 With sails that shone and glimmered in the sun, 
 Like planets in a mellow evening sky. 
 Sometimes we went adventurously forth 
 When northeast tempests raged along the coast, 
 Flinging the white foam upward in great sheets, 
 Like hungry monsters rushing from the deep 
 To swallow up the land. 
 
Drift. 33 
 
 Then, bits of wrecks, 
 Odd timbers spiked with rusty iron bolts, 
 Fragments of masts, and empty water-casks, 
 Sad debris of the storm, came up next day, 
 Drifting ashore on smooth, unbroken swells. 
 
 O cool, green waves that ebb and flow, 
 Reflecting calm, blue skies above, 
 
 How gently now ye come and go, 
 Since ye have drowned my love ! 
 
 Ye lap the shore of beaten sand, 
 With cool, salt ripples circling by ; 
 
 But from your depths a ghostly hand 
 Points upward to the sky. 
 
 O waves ! strew corals, white and red, 
 
 With shells and strange weeds from the deep, 
 
 To make a rare and regal bed 
 Whereon my love may sleep : 
 
 May sleep, and, sleeping, dream of me, 
 In dreams that lovers find so sweet ; 
 3 
 
34 Drift. 
 
 And I will couch me by the sea, 
 That we in dreams may meet. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But, while the pleasant season lasted still, 
 My friends deserted me for other scenes, 
 Leaving me lonely in the lonely house, 
 With memory s ghosts to bear me company. 
 Alone I sang the plaintive little songs, 
 That brown-eyed Marian had sung with me : 
 Alone I trod the path along the shore, 
 Where we so often had together strolled : 
 Alone I watched the moonrise, from the rocks 
 Where Marian had erstwhile walked with me, 
 To let the salt breeze, freshening with the night, 
 Play in her ringlets, and bring up the bloom 
 Of rose and lily to her cheek. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 If I should tell the whole of what I felt, 
 In waking these dear memories of the past, 
 This simple idyl would be lengthened out 
 Into a history of two hearts, that met 
 That met and parted ! 
 
Drift. 35 
 
 Ah ! the theme is old, 
 
 And worn quite threadbare, not alone in books, 
 But in the hearts of men and maids as well. 
 But then, all stories that are true are old. 
 
 The breakers come and the breakers go, 
 
 Along the silvery sand, 
 With a changing line of feathery snow, 
 
 Between the water .and land. 
 
 Sea-weeds gleam in the sunset light, 
 
 On the ledges of wave-worn stone ; 
 Orange and crimson, purple and white, 
 
 In regular windrows strewn. 
 
 The waves grow calm in the dusk of eve, 
 When the wind goes down with the sun ; 
 
 So fade the smiles of those who deceive, 
 When the coveted heart is won. 
 
 This seaweed wreath that hangs on the wall, 
 
 She twined one day by the sea : 
 Of the weeds, and the waves, and her love, it is all 
 
 That the Past has left to me ! 
 
THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 
 
 ^ I ^ WAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, 
 
 -^ Tall and slender, and sallow and dry ; 
 His form was bent, and his gait was slow, 
 His long, thin hair was as white as snow, 
 
 But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye ; 
 And he sang every night as he went to bed, 
 
 " Let us be happy down here below ; 
 The living should live, though the dead be dead, 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 II. 
 
 He taught his scholars the rule of three, 
 
 Writing, and reading, and history, too ; 
 He took the little ones up on his knee, 
 For a kind old heart in his breast had he, 
 And the wants of the littlest child he knew : 
 
The Jolly Old Pedagogue. 37 
 
 " Learn while you re young," he often said, 
 " There is much to enjoy, down here below ; 
 
 Life for the living, and rest for the dead ! " 
 Sa?d the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 in. 
 With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool, 
 
 Speaking only in gentlest tones ; 
 The rod was hardly known in his school . . . 
 Whipping, to him, was a barbarous rule, 
 
 And too hard work for his poor old bones ; 
 Beside, it was painful, he sometimes said : 
 
 " We should make life pleasant, down here below, 
 The living need charity more than the dead," 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, 
 
 With roses and woodbine over the door ; 
 His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain, 
 But a spirit of comfort there held reign, 
 And made him forget he was old and poor ; 
 
38 The Jolly Old Pedagogue, 
 
 " I need so little," he often said ; 
 
 " And my friends and relatives here below 
 Won t litigate over me when I am dead," 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 v. 
 But the pleasantest times that he had, of all, 
 
 Were the sociable hours he used to pass, 
 With his chair tipped back to a neighbor s wall, 
 Making an unceremonious call, 
 
 Over a pipe and a friendly glass : 
 This was the finest pleasure, he said, 
 
 Of the many he tasted, here below ; 
 " Who has no cronies, had better be dead ! " 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then the jolly old pedagogue s wrinkled face 
 
 Melted all over in sunshiny smiles ; 
 He stirred his glass with an old-school grace, 
 Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace, 
 
 Till the house grew merry, from cellar to tiles 
 
The Jolly Old Pedagogue. 39 
 
 " I m a pretty old man," he gently said, 
 " I have lingered a long while, here below ; 
 
 But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled ! " 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, 
 
 Every night when the sun went down, 
 While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, 
 Leaving its tenderest kisses there, 
 
 On the jolly old pedagogue s jolly old crown : 
 And, feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said, 
 
 T was a glorious world, down here below ; 
 " Why wait for happiness till we are dead ? " 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He sat at his door, one midsummer night, 
 
 After the sun had sunk in the west, 
 And the lingering beams of golden light 
 Made his kindly old face look warm and bright, 
 While the odorous night-wind whispered, " Rest !" 
 
4O The Jolly Old Pedagogue. 
 
 Gently, gently, he bowed his head . . . 
 
 There were angels waiting for him, I know ; 
 He was sure of happiness, living or dead, 
 
 This jolly old pedagogue, long ago ! 
 
RECRIMINATION. 
 
 i. 
 
 r I ^HE prime of summer is coming, and with it 
 
 -* there comes, to-day, 
 A thought of another summer, whose garlands 
 
 have faded away. 
 The tall laburnums are covered with tresses of 
 
 yellow flowers, 
 As they were when under their shadow you used 
 
 to loiter for hours ; 
 And the blackberry s starry blossom and the 
 
 buttercup s chalice of gold 
 Bloom bright in the ancient forest where you 
 
 loved to wander of old, 
 
 Where you loved to wander at even, but wan 
 dered never alone ; 
 For a manly form was beside you, and a voice of 
 
 manly tone 
 
42 Recrimination. 
 
 Told ever the olden story ; the tale that you know 
 
 so well, 
 You seem to think it the only one it is worth 
 
 man s while to tell. 
 Come, sit you down here and listen ; I have many 
 
 things to say, 
 And though I am loath to blame you, yet pity I 
 
 surely may. 
 
 n. 
 
 Ay, ay, you wince ! I fancy you had rather have 
 blame instead. 
 
 O girl ! will you never learn wisdom ? I had 
 hoped your pride was dead ; 
 
 But no, it will last and flourish so long as vani 
 ties live, 
 
 So long as you hunger for worship, so long as 
 your subjects give. 
 
 It was strange that he thought you loved him ; it 
 was strange that he never knew 
 
 Your heart, except by the shadow that others 
 mistook for you : 
 
Recrimination. 43 
 
 But you went well masked, and no one, whether 
 
 you laughed or wept, 
 Knew aught of the secret chamber where your 
 
 broken relics were kept ; 
 You hid them so very securely the wisest had 
 
 hardly guessed, 
 From your light-hearted tone and manner, your 
 
 outer seeming of rest, 
 That your heart was a drear Golgotha, where all 
 
 the ground was white 
 With the wrecks of joys that had perished, the 
 
 skeletons of delight! 
 
 in. 
 He loved you ; his soul was in earnest ; at your 
 
 dainty feet he poured 
 The purest and best libation that human hearts 
 
 can afford : 
 He dreamed of you morn and even ; he cherished 
 
 the flowers you gave ; 
 And I tell you, though they are withered now, 
 
 they will go with him to the grave ! 
 
44 Recrimination. 
 
 But you how was it ? you met him with 
 marvellous glances and smiles ; 
 
 You wove your glittering meshes ; you compassed 
 him with your wiles ; 
 
 You sang the songs he had written ; you talked 
 in your sweetest voice, 
 
 Till he thought his bondage was freedom, and 
 wore your fetters by choice. 
 
 Then a great joy flooded his spirit, and the yellow 
 laburnum, flowers 
 
 Heard wondrous vows and pledges, in the dusk of 
 the evening hours ; 
 
 While there, in your heart, close hidden with jeal 
 ously watchful care, 
 
 Lay that strange Golgotha of passion, that arid 
 waste of despair ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 It is well that I know your story : I know that 
 
 your first love came, 
 As of old came Jove to Semele, a splendid and 
 
 fatal flame : 
 
Recrimination. 45 
 
 And it left your heart in ashes, dead ashes, that 
 cooled and lay 
 
 A wearisome weight in your bosom, a burden to 
 bear for aye. 
 
 Since then you have shown no mercy to any that 
 circle around 
 
 The dangerous blaze of your beauty, for you no 
 mercy had found. 
 
 Tis for this I offer you pity, and blame you not, 
 as I should 
 
 Had you still a heart that was human, with a 
 human knowledge of good ; 
 
 But the glass of your life is darkened, and darkly 
 through it you see 
 
 Distorted and ghastly fragments of duty and des 
 tiny. 
 
 Yet you still can flirt and trifle, still live in folly 
 and mirth, 
 
 Ah ! they say that revenge is sweeter than any 
 thing else on earth. 
 
46 Recrimination. 
 
 v. 
 But are there no better moments better ? or 
 
 are they worse ? 
 When flattery loses its sweetness, and beauty 
 
 becomes a curse ? 
 When you come from the world of pleasure, the 
 
 whirl, and glitter, and glare, 
 The tattle instead of wisdom, the perfume instead 
 
 of air ; 
 When the hot-house garlands are withered, and 
 
 the gray dawn breaks in the east, 
 And the wine grows stale in the goblets that 
 
 shone so fair at the feast ; 
 When rouge hides paleness no longer, and folly 
 
 gives way to thought, 
 Do love, and life, and emotion still count in your 
 
 creed for naught ? 
 Do you never gaze in your mirror, when your 
 
 beauty at daybreak goes, 
 And, pressing your throbbing temples, pray God 
 
 to give you repose ? 
 
Recrim ination . 4 7 
 
 Repose ! it is tardy in coming : when the bitter 
 
 chalice is filled, 
 We must wait till the feverish pulses and the 
 
 passionate heart are stilled. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There is one, that we know, thus waiting, wait 
 ing and thinking to-day, 
 Perchance, of the happy summer whose blossoms 
 
 have faded away : 
 He walks beneath the laburnums, but not with 
 
 the hopeful pride 
 That made his world such an Eden when you 
 
 walked there by his side. 
 O love ! t is a wonderful passion ; it makes or it 
 
 mars us all ; 
 By love men may walk with the angels, by love 
 
 the angels may fall ! 
 And you it has changed your nature, it has 
 
 warped you, heart and soul, 
 Till you flee, with fierce desperation, the genii 
 
 you cannot control. 
 
48 Recrimination. 
 
 What, tears ? they are not becoming ; let others 
 
 such weakness show, 
 The hall is garnished for dancing, the wine and 
 
 the gaslights glow : 
 Go, stifle your sobs with laughter, let your eyes, 
 
 like your heart, be dry, 
 And pray, when the ball is over, to be forgiven 
 
 and die ! 
 
INTROSPECTION. 
 
 i. 
 
 HAVE you sent her back her letters ? have 
 you given her back her ring ? 
 Have you tried to forget the haunting songs that 
 
 you loved to hear her sing ? 
 Have you cursed the day you met her first ? 
 
 thanked God that you were free, 
 And said in your inmost heart, as you thought, 
 
 " She never was dear to me " ? 
 You have cast her off ; your pride is touched ; 
 
 you fancy that all is done ; 
 That for you the world is bright again, and 
 
 bravely shines the sun : 
 You have washed your hands of passion ; you 
 
 have whistled her down the wind, 
 O Tom, old friend, this goes before, the sharpest 
 
 comes behind ! 
 4 
 
5O Introspection. 
 
 Yes, the sharpest is yet to come, for Love is a 
 
 plant that never dies ; 
 Its roots are deep as the earth itself, its branches 
 
 wide as the skies ; 
 And wherever once it has taken hold, it flourishes 
 
 evermore, 
 Bearing a fruit that is fair outside, but bitter 
 
 ashes at core. 
 
 ii. 
 
 You will learn this, Tom, hereafter, when anger 
 has cooled, and you 
 
 Have time for introspection ; you will find my 
 words are true ; 
 
 You will sit and gaze in your fire alone, and fancy 
 that you can see 
 
 Her face, with its classic oval, her ringlets flutter 
 ing free, 
 
 Her soft blue eyes, wide opened, her sweet red 
 lips apart, 
 
 As she used to look, in the golden days when you 
 fancied she had a heart : 
 
Introspection. 5 1 
 
 Whatever you do, wherever you turn, you will see 
 
 that glorious face 
 Coming with shadowy beauty, to haunt all time 
 
 and space : 
 Those songs you wrote for her singing will sing 
 
 themselves into your brain 
 Till your life seems set to their rhythm, and your 
 
 thoughts to their refrain 
 Their old, old burden of love and grief the 
 
 passion you have forsworn : 
 I tell you, Tom, it is not thrown off so well as 
 
 you think, this morn ! 
 
 in. 
 
 But the worst, perhaps the worst of all, will be 
 when the day has flown, 
 
 When darkness favors reflection, and your com 
 rades leave you alone : 
 
 You will try to sleep, but the memories of unfor- 
 gotten years 
 
 Will come with a storm of wild regret mayhap 
 with a storm of tears ; 
 
5 2 Introspection. 
 
 Each look, each word, each playful tone, each 
 
 timid little caress, 
 The golden gleam of her ringlets, the rustling of 
 
 her dress, 
 The delicate touch of her ungloved hand, that 
 
 woke such an exquisite thrill, 
 The flowers she gave you, the night of the ball, 
 
 I think you treasure them still, 
 All these will come, till you slumber, worn out by 
 
 sheer despair, 
 And then you will hear vague -echoes of song on 
 
 the darkened air, 
 Vague echoes, rising and falling, of the voice you 
 
 know so well, 
 Like the songs that were sung by the Lurlei- 
 
 maids, sweet with a deadly spell ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 In dreams, her heart will ever again be yours, and 
 
 you will see 
 Fair glimpses of what might have been, what 
 
 now can never be ; 
 
Introspection. 5 3 
 
 And as she comes to meet you, with a sudden 
 
 wild unrest 
 You stretch your arms forth lovingly, to fold her 
 
 to your breast : 
 But the Lurlei-song will faint and die, and with 
 
 its fading tone 
 You wake to find you clasp the thin and empty 
 
 air alone, 
 While the fire-bell s clanging dissonance, on the 
 
 gusty night-wind borne 
 
 Will seem an iron-tongued demon s voice, laugh 
 ing your grief to scorn. 
 O Tom, you say it is over, you talk of letters 
 
 and rings, 
 Do you think that Love s mighty spirit, then, is 
 
 held .by such trifling things ? 
 No ! if you once have truly loved, you will still 
 
 love on, I know, 
 Till the churchyard .myrtles blossom above, and 
 
 you lie mute below ! 
 
54 Introspection. 
 
 v. 
 
 How is it, I wonder, hereafter ? Faith teaches us 
 
 little, here, 
 Of the ones we have loved and lost on earth, do 
 
 you think they will still be dear ? 
 Shall we live the lives we might have led ? will 
 
 those who are severed now 
 
 Remember the pledge of a lower sphere, and re 
 new the broken vow ? 
 It almost drives me wild to think of the gifts we 
 
 throw away 
 Unthinking whether or no we lose Life s honey 
 
 and wine for aye ! 
 But then, again, t is a mighty joy greater than 
 
 I can tell 
 To trust that the parted may some time meet, 
 
 that all may again be well : 
 However it be, I hold that all the evil we know 
 
 on earth 
 Finds in this violence done to Love its true and 
 
 legitimate birth, 
 
Introspection. 5 5 
 
 And the agonies we suffer, when the heart is left 
 
 alone, 
 For every sin of Humanity should fully and well 
 
 atone ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 I see that you marvel greatly, Tom, to hear such 
 
 words from me, 
 But, if you knew my inmost heart, t would be no 
 
 mystery. 
 
 Experience is bitter, but its teachings we retain ; 
 It has taught me this, who once has loved, loves 
 
 never on earth again ! 
 And I, too, have my closet, with a ghastly form 
 
 inside, 
 The skeleton of a perished love, killed by a cruel 
 
 pride : 
 I sit by the fire at evening, as you will some time 
 
 sit, 
 And watch, in the roseate half-light, the ghosts of 
 
 happiness flit : 
 
56 Introspection. 
 
 I, too, awaken at midnight, and stretch my arms 
 
 to enfold 
 A vague and shadowy image, with tresses of 
 
 brown and gold : 
 Experience is bitter indeed, I have learned at a 
 
 heavy cost 
 The secret of Love s persistency : I, too, have 
 
 loved and lost ! 
 
WOOL-GATHERING. 
 
 A PLEASANT golden light fills all the cham- 
 -*~*- her where I sit, 
 The amber curtains close are drawn, and shadows 
 
 o er them flit, 
 The swaying, shifting shadows of the honeysuckle 
 
 vine, 
 Whose bare and leafless branches still about the 
 
 porch entwine : 
 
 In summer, fresh and fair they grow, with blos 
 soms for the bees, 
 But now in wintry nakedness they swing upon the 
 
 breeze ; 
 Yet here, inside, t is warm and bright, and I am 
 
 quite inclined 
 To let this golden demi-jour make summer in my 
 
 mind : 
 
5 8 Wool- Gathering. 
 
 I sit with Jack my terrier-dog upon my lap 
 
 curled up, 
 And, smoking thoughtfully, I seem to sip the 
 
 classic cup 
 The Ancients called Nepenthe, t is a draught 
 
 that brings repose 
 When one has lived or loved too much, a balm 
 
 for mental woes. 
 Yet, in this same Nepenthe cup, I know that some 
 
 will see 
 Another name for laziness, a common fault with 
 
 me! 
 
 ii. 
 Well, why not preach up laziness ? I think it 
 
 would be well 
 If some who cry it down a sin could only feel its 
 
 spell ! 
 The hard, ascetic natures those who look for 
 
 naught but Use 
 In everything one says or does whose spirits 
 
 are obtuse 
 
Wool-Gathering. 59 
 
 To all the glorious gains of Art, to all the joys of 
 
 sense, 
 And who cut their hard paths straightly by Poor 
 
 Richard s eloquence ! 
 
 Cid bono? Is there not a Power above the hu 
 man mind 
 That works out all our problems, be they e er so 
 
 darkly blind ? 
 And, after all, does Man, the unit, when his life is 
 
 done 
 Ever look back upon its field to see the battle 
 
 won ? 
 No ; I think not : we lay our plans, but when our 
 
 life-star pales 
 We learn that human prescience inevitably 
 
 fails. 
 Napoleon on his island, and Columbus in his 
 
 chains, 
 Are these the proud successes, then, for which we 
 
 take such pains ? 
 
60 Wool-Gathering. 
 
 in. 
 Ah, many a one has started forth with hope and 
 
 purpose high ; 
 Has fought throughout a weary life, and passed 
 
 all pleasure by ; 
 Has burst all flowery chains by which men aye 
 
 have been enthralled ; 
 Has been stone-deaf to voices sweet, that softly, 
 
 sadly called ; 
 Has scorned the flashing goblet with the bubbles 
 
 on its brim ; 
 Has turned his back on jewelled hands that madly 
 
 beckoned him ; 
 Has, in a word, condemned himself to follow out 
 
 his plan 
 
 By stern and lonely labor, and has died, a con 
 quered man ! 
 Look back, ye men of lofty aims, who in your 
 
 youth aspired 
 To win some prize, with love of gold or glory 
 
 ye were fired ; 
 
Wool- Gathering. 6 1 
 
 But now ? let those who count threescore-and-ten 
 
 full circles past 
 Tell how much they have gained and lost, how 
 
 much they hold at last ! 
 Napoleon and Columbus, and legions more whose 
 
 names 
 We never even heard of, these were men of lofty 
 
 aims ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 So, in this softened, yellow light, with Jack upon 
 my knees, 
 
 I find my good in being just as lazy as I 
 please ; 
 
 My pipe-smoke floats aspiringly, and that, I m 
 fain to say, 
 
 Is as much of aspiration as I care to see to 
 day ; 
 
 Though Jack, disturbed by canine dreams, gives 
 forth a sleepy cry, 
 
 And, full of lofty aims, prepares to conquer or to 
 die; 
 
62 Wool-Gathering. 
 
 No doubt some mighty, spectral rat glares through 
 his visions dim, 
 
 Which Jack is bound to vanquish, or the rat will 
 vanquish him ! 
 
 Well, well, my dog, be wise, and all these high am 
 bitions keep ; 
 
 Unlike poor man, indulge them only when you are 
 asleep ! 
 
 What s this ? I find that while in praise of lazi 
 ness I sang, 
 
 I Ve worked quite hard to write a metaphysical 
 harangue ! 
 
 Well, thus it is ; consistency exists on earth no 
 more, 
 
 My pipe is out, my dog has waked, my laziness is 
 o er ! 
 
T 
 
 THE TWO AUTUMNS. 
 
 HE tall grass waves o er lowly graves, 
 The golden sunshine floods the meadows, 
 And in the breeze, the willow-trees, 
 That guard the tomb of Eloise, 
 Wave to and fro, with flickering shadows. 
 
 And here I sit, while bright birds flit 
 Among the gravestones whitely gleaming, 
 And muse away the summer day 
 Beneath the vines and willows sway, 
 On that fair maiden s memory dreaming. 
 
 O er fields unmown the poppy shone, 
 The .earliest rose had hardly perished, 
 
 When she confessed that in her breast 
 Young Love was throned, a royal guest,- 
 My image there alone she cherished. 
 
64 The Two Autumns, 
 
 O happy hour, when from her bower, 
 With clambering grape-vines close entangled, 
 We saw the moon of leafy June 
 Rise calmly o er the wide lagoon, 
 And climb the sky with bright stars spangled. 
 
 Her deep blue eyes, like tropic skies, 
 Not less profound, and never colder, 
 Were fixed on mine with gaze divine, 
 And, golden as the German wine, 
 Her regal ringlets swept her shoulder. 
 
 Her little hand, which scarcely spanned 
 With timid clasp my first three fingers, 
 
 Her lip, her cheek, which bees might seek ; 
 
 Her voice but, ah ! mere words are weak 
 To paint the joys where memory lingers! 
 
 The summer passed, and autumn s blast 
 Swept bleakly cold across the heather ; 
 
The Two Autumns. 65 
 
 The bright leaves browned, neath skies that 
 
 frowned, 
 
 Then whirled in circles to the ground, 
 And strewed the paths we trod together. 
 
 heavy grief! with autumn s leaf 
 
 They told me that her days were numbered : 
 She passed away, her mortal clay 
 In death s pale beauty silent lay, .* 
 
 As calm as if she only slumbered. 
 
 1 sit among the graves o erhung 
 With many a slender-threaded willow ; 
 
 The churchyard mould seems now less cold 
 Since, deep beneath, those locks of gold 
 Have found a soft and dreamless pillow. 
 
 About the tombs the laurel blooms, 
 I hear the bees above it humming, 
 The zephyrs sigh, in floating by ; 
 They bring the scent of ripened rye, 
 And tell another autumn coming. 
 5 
 
66 The Two Autumns. 
 
 Far down upon the horizon 
 
 A purple haze is softly falling, 
 
 The fading rose of summer goes, 
 And distant bells, at day s repose, 
 
 Unto my inner ear are calling. 
 
 Ah, dreamily they say to me 
 That those, who here are called to sever, 
 
 Are elsewhere blessed with peace and rest, 
 
 And I, unto this lonely breast 
 Shall clasp my Eloise forever. 
 
ALONE BY THE HEARTH. 
 
 HERE, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, 
 Sit I alone ; 
 
 And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember 
 Days long agone. 
 
 Saddening it is, when the night has descended, 
 
 Thus to sit here, 
 
 Pensively musing on episodes, ended 
 Many a year. 
 
 Still in my visions a golden-haired glory 
 
 Floats to and fro ; 
 She whom I loved, but t is just the old story, 
 
 Dead, long ago ! 
 
 T is but the wraith of a love ; yet I linger 
 (Thus passion errs), 
 
68 Alone by the Hearth. 
 
 Foolishly kissing the ring on my finger, 
 Once it was hers. 
 
 Nothing has changed since her spirit departed, 
 
 Here, in this room, 
 Save I, who, weary and half broken-hearted, 
 
 Sit in the gloom. 
 
 Loud gainst the window the winter. rain dashes, 
 
 Dreary and cold ; 
 Over the floor the red fire-light flashes 
 
 Just as of old. 
 
 Just as of old, but the embers are scattered, 
 
 Whose ruddy blaze 
 Flashed o er the floor where her fairy feet pattered 
 
 In other days ! 
 
 Then, her dear voice, like a silver-chime ringing, 
 
 Melted away ; 
 Often these walls have re-echoed her singing 
 
 Now hushed for aye ! 
 
Alone by the Hearth. 69 
 
 Why should love bring naught but sorrow, I won 
 der ? 
 
 Everything dies ! 
 Time and Death, sooner or later, must sunder 
 
 Holiest ties. 
 
 Years have rolled by ; I am wiser and older, 
 
 Wiser, but yet, 
 Not till my heart and its feelings grow colder, 
 
 Can I forget. 
 
 So, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, 
 
 Sit I alone ; 
 And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember 
 
 Days long agone ! 
 
THE GARDEN OF MEMORY. 
 
 r I ^HERE is a garden which my memory knows, 
 * A grand old garden of the days gone by, 
 
 Where lofty trees invite the breeze, 
 And underneath them blooms full many a rose, 
 
 Of rarest crimson or deep purple dye ; 
 And there extend as far as eye can see, 
 Dim vistas of cool greenery. 
 
 Quaint marble statues, clothed with vines and 
 
 mould, 
 
 Gleam gray and spectral mid the foliage there : 
 Grimly they stand on every hand, 
 Along the walk whose sands are smoothly rolled, 
 And borders trimmed with constant, watchful 
 
 care : 
 
 There Memory sits, and hears soft voices call 
 Above the plashing waterfall. 
 
The Garden of Memory. 71 
 
 Old, faded bowers, with their rustic seats 
 Of knotted branches closely intertwined, 
 May there be seen the walks between : 
 
 Within their shade the dove at noon retreats, 
 And gives her sad voice to the summer wind ; 
 
 Around them bloom rich flowers, where all day 
 long 
 
 The wild bee drones his dreamy song. 
 
 The garden stretches downward to a lake, 
 Where gentle ripples kiss a pebbly shore : 
 All cool and deep the waters sleep, 
 
 With naught the calm of their repose to break 
 Save now and then the plashing of an oar, 
 
 Or the long train of diamond sparkles bright 
 
 Left by the wayward swallow s flight. 
 
 Within that garden Memory oft recalls 
 
 Gay friends, who lived, and loved, and passed 
 
 away : 
 Who met at morn upon the lawn, 
 
72 The Garden of Memory. 
 
 And strolled in couples by the garden-walls, 
 
 Or on the grass beneath the maples lay, 
 And passed the hours as gayly as might be, 
 With olden tales of chivalry. 
 
 The younger maidens, each with silken net, 
 
 Chased butterflies that hung, on painted wings, 
 Above the beds where poppy-heads 
 
 Drooped heavily with morning dew-drops wet : 
 In recollection still their laughter rings, 
 
 And still I seem to see them sport among 
 
 The statues gray, with vines o erhung 
 
 One sainted maiden I remember well, 
 
 And shall remember, though all else should 
 fade: 
 
 Her dreamy eyes, her gentle sighs, 
 Her golden hair in tangled curls that fell, 
 
 Her queen-like beauty and demeanor staid, 
 And O, her smile, that played at hide-and-seek 
 With dimples on her chin and cheek ! 
 
The Garden of Memory. 73 
 
 O Edith ! often have we sat at rest, 
 
 And watched the sunset from the Lover s 
 
 Hill, 
 
 When few, faint stars shone through the bars 
 Of purple cloud that stretched athwart the west ; 
 
 And Nature s pulse seemed silently to thrill, 
 While Night came o er the moorlands wide and 
 
 brown, 
 On dusky pinions sweeping down. 
 
 Long years have faded since those happy days, 
 Yet still in memory are their joys enshrined. 
 Tall grasses wave o er Edith s grave ; 
 
 Above her breast the birds sing plaintive lays ; 
 Yet still I feel her arms about me twined ; 
 
 Still float her tangled tresses in the breeze ; 
 
 Still sit we neath the maple-trees. 
 
 Thus may it be, until I too am gone ! 
 
 Thus let me ever dream of youth and love ! 
 And when the strife of earthly life 
 
74 The Garden of Memory. 
 
 Is past ; when all my weary tasks are done, 
 I know that in some garden there, above, 
 My angel EDITH waits to welcome me 
 Unto thy halls, Eternity 1 
 
AN IDYL OF OCTOBER. 
 
 T ULIE, Mary, Billy, and I, 
 
 J Walked down the cedar-lane one day, 
 When the sun was bright in an autumn sky, 
 
 And the trees with their autumn tints were gay ; 
 Down to the bridge our way we took, 
 
 Past the chestnuts that crown the hill, 
 Down to the bridge that crosses the brook, 
 
 On the road to the cider-mill. 
 
 A year before, we had trod the lane, 
 
 And then, half-jesting, ourselves we bound 
 To take the selfsame walk again, 
 
 When another year had rolled around ; 
 So, when another October glowed 
 
 On shrubby hollow and wooded ridge, 
 It found us threading the cedar-road, 
 
 And loitering on the bridge. 
 
76 An Idyl of October. 
 
 The water swirled mong the oaken posts, 
 
 In long, dark currents, eddying by, 
 And floating leaves, like shadowy ghosts, 
 
 Were borne on its bosom silently. 
 The breezes dallied with Julie s hair, 
 
 Where mingling gold and amber played ; 
 Fair Mary s face seemed still more fair 
 
 In the flickering shine and shade. 
 
 We feasted our eyes on the pleasant scene, 
 
 We gathered leaves of a thousand dyes, : 
 Speckled with crimson, spotted with green, 
 
 And shaded with hues from Paradise ; 
 We sang and shouted, we laughed and talked, 
 
 Till the woods were loud with our echoed glee ; 
 O, never a merrier party walked 
 
 In a place more fair to see ! 
 
 Last year, when under the autumn sky, 
 
 Through these bright autumn woods we strolled, 
 
 We met a lassie, pretty and shy, 
 
 Mayhap some seventeen summers old : 
 
An Idyl of October. 77 
 
 A blue-eyed, bashful country maid, 
 
 Who passed us, timidly glancing down, 
 
 Her blue eyes taking a deeper shade 
 From their lashes long and brown. 
 
 I, who have ever been farceur, 
 
 Loving a merry word alway, 
 Feigned to have fallen in love with her, 
 
 A new-born passion, to last for aye. 
 So, when we spoke of the cedar-lane, 
 
 And plans for this year s ramble laid, 
 We wondered if we should meet again 
 
 With the blue-eyed, bashful maid. 
 
 Then, I said that if we should meet 
 
 With the country lassie, modest and fair, 
 There on the bridge would I kneel at her feet, 
 
 And all my passion for her declare . . . 
 Well, as we came to the foot of the hill, 
 
 Where the maples glow like a colored flame, 
 Down the road to the cider-mill, 
 
 The blue-eyed damsel came ! 
 
78 An Idyl of October. 
 
 But, alas for the ways of destiny ! 
 
 I spied some leaves so gorgeously hued, 
 Decking the boughs of a maple-tree, 
 
 By a fence between the road and the wood, 
 That I vowed to have them whether or no, 
 
 Coveting beauty as some covet pelf, 
 And, venturing where the ground was low, 
 
 In a swamp I found myself. 
 
 There I gathered the prettiest leaves, 
 
 Standing, the while, on treacherous ground, 
 Such fair chaplets as Nature weaves 
 
 When Autumn, King of the Year, is crowned, 
 And there, alone, long after its time, 
 
 I found a heaven-blue violet, 
 Gleaming up from the ooze and slime 
 
 Like a jewel, foully set. 
 
 Many a leaf of orange and red, 
 
 Gold and purple, scarlet and brown, 
 
 I found on the branches overhead, 
 
 Or where the wind had rustled them down ; 
 
An Idyl of October. 79 
 
 Gathering these, no heed I paid 
 
 To anything save my leafy load, 
 And the blue-eyed, bashful country maid 
 
 Had gone, when I gained the road ! 
 
 But Julie and Mary both were there, 
 
 Better than bashful maids are they, 
 The blue-eyed lassie is not more fair, 
 
 And not more modest, as I dare say ; 
 I felt some pride, as surely I might, 
 
 When I showed my leaves and my violet ; 
 Those autumn colors were wondrous bright, 
 
 But those faces were brighter yet ! 
 
 Whenever I see those leaves again, 
 
 Pressed and varnished by Julie s skill, 
 I shall think of our walk in the cedar-lane, 
 
 And the bridge on the road to the cider-mill ; 
 And if e er for the bashful lassie I sigh, 
 
 I, who have ever been farceur, 
 I will see that she does not pass me by ; 
 
 I 11 wait on the bridge for her ! 
 
-ALL FOR LOVE." 
 
 ABOUT the pool the pansies blow, 
 Fair they bloom in the summer sun, 
 With violets on the bank below 
 
 And tangled vines that at random run ; 
 The water is dark, and cool, and green, 
 
 Its surface touched by misty rays 
 That slant the willow boughs between 
 On sunny, summer days. 
 
 Across the pool the winged seeds 
 
 Hither and thither lightly flaunt, 
 Blown from the shore of bristling reeds 
 
 That gauzy dragon-flies love to haunt ; 
 The shallows all are thickly set 
 
 With lily-leaves and blossoms white, 
 Their fragrant petals glistening wet 
 
 With dewdrops, diamond-bright. 
 
All for Love. 81 
 
 A silence reigns upon the air, 
 
 Upon the pansies by the shore, 
 Upon the violets, pale and fair, 
 
 Upon the willow, bending o er ; 
 The reeds and lilies silent grow, 
 
 The dark green waters silent sleep, 
 Save when the summer breezes blow, 
 
 Or silvery minnows leap. 
 
 Adown the path, that hidden lies 
 
 Under the chestnuts on the hill, 
 Came pretty May with the hazel eyes, 
 
 Whose father kept the neighboring mill. 
 Wild she muttered and long she gazed, 
 
 Loosely floated her fair, brown hair : 
 Like one by a heavy sorrow crazed 
 
 She laughed and whispered there. 
 
 Alas ! her story was just the same 
 
 That poets have told since poets have sung, 
 Beginning in love, to end in shame, 
 
 When hope grows old while life is young ! 
 
82 All for Love. 
 
 So, sighing wearily, down she strayed, 
 
 While the sunshine slept on the silent pool, 
 
 To the flowery bank, and the willow s shade, 
 And the water, deep and cool. 
 
 About the pool the pansies blow, 
 
 Fair in the summer sun they bloom, 
 But the water is dark that lies below, 
 
 Dark and silent as is the tomb : 
 And I seem to see, wherever I tread 
 
 The reedy shore where the willow stands, 
 The sorrowing wraith of one long dead, 
 
 Wringing her ghostly hands. 
 
 The mill and miller have long been gone, 
 
 The father sleeps by his daughter s side, 
 And many a summer s sun has shone 
 
 Since hazel-eyed May lived, loved, and died ; 
 Yet still in passing, the neighbors pause, 
 
 And say, as they glance from the hill above, 
 " Let us forgive the child, because 
 
 Her sorrow was born of love ! " 
 
THE BALLAD OF ROSALIE 
 
 T") OS A LIE was strangely fair 
 * ^ Slow and weary the days go by 
 With her splendid torrent of tawny hair, 
 And her terrible, beautiful eye. 
 
 Love for her had made me blind, 
 
 Slow and weary the days go by 
 Her heart was false as the summer wind, 
 
 Her truest truth was a lie. 
 
 O, but she vowed by that and by this ! 
 
 Slow and weary the days go by 
 O, but her lips were sweet to kiss, 
 
 And, O, but her heart was dry. 
 
 A chaplet once I saw her weave, 
 
 Slow and weary the days go by 
 
84 The Ballad of Rosalie. 
 
 Her girdle pressed against my sleeve ; 
 My cheek warmed to her sigh. 
 
 That night, wine in the cup was red, 
 
 Slow and weary the days go by 
 The chaplet shone on Rosalie s head, 
 
 So Roland s time drew nigh. 
 
 Song and laughter, peal on peal ! 
 
 Slow and weary the days go by 
 They could not hear the clash of steel, 
 
 Their merriment rang so high. 
 
 Under the trees I left the knight, 
 
 Slow and weary the days go by 
 My blade was crimson ; his face was white ; 
 
 I wear good steel on thigh. 
 
 Morning came and the broad light shone, 
 
 Slow and weary the days go by 
 The dancers and revellers all had gone 
 
 When the sun climbed up the sky. 
 
The Ballad of Rosalie. 85 
 
 Rosalie lay by the castle moat, 
 
 Slow and weary the days go by 
 A dark, red line across her throat. 
 
 T were pity that she should die ! 
 
 Her bright hair gleamed by the water-side, 
 
 Slow and weary the days go by 
 How she was loved and how she died 
 
 Nobody knows but I. 
 
TRAILING ARBUTUS. 
 
 \ T 7ANDERING over the breezy slopes 
 
 * * Where the trailing arbutus grows, 
 (That little flower that timidly opes, 
 While the wind of March still blows, 
 Its delicate buds of the palest rose, 
 And blossoms white as eternal snows), 
 O Love, we walked, and cheerily talked, 
 That breezy, blustering day, 
 Where the March winds blow, and the pink buds 
 
 grow, 
 
 Wet with the morning s crystalline dew, 
 And far below us, stretching away 
 Neath the sky with its spring-time azure hue, 
 The heaving, flashing, glittering bay 
 In solemn breadth and beauty lay ! 
 
Trailing Arbutus. 87 
 
 n. 
 
 Sitcing under the cedar-trees, 
 Inhaling their odor rare, 
 With the swaying, swinging, dallying breeze 
 Playing among thy hair, 
 Ah, still my fancy thy image sees, 
 The checkered shadow and shine on thy face, 
 Lighting the place with a holy grace, 
 While thy voice was lifted in ballads old 
 Of maids who were fair, and men who were bold, 
 Ah, heaven ! thou too wert fair ! 
 
 III. 
 
 The wind is blowing and blustering still 
 
 On the lofty cedared slopes, 
 
 And still on the southerly face of the hill 
 
 The trailing arbutus opes ; 
 
 But alone I sit neath the cedar-trees, 
 
 Alone with the boisterous, blustering breeze, 
 
 The flowers, and my own sad memories ; 
 
 While the murmur that comes from the flashing seas 
 
 Whispers to me, all solemnly, 
 
88 Trailing Arbutus. 
 
 That love is only a vanity ! . . . 
 
 Well, it has flown, as the winds have blown 
 
 Last autumn s dead leaves rustling down. 
 
 Each spring, the trailing arbutus grows 
 
 When the March wind blows, but love, when it 
 
 goes, 
 Alas, is forever gone ! 
 
THE OLD PLACE. 
 
 T STAND on the shore of a moonlit sea, 
 
 Under the stars of a summer sky, 
 And sad are the thoughts that come to me, 
 As the sorrowful night-wind whispers by. 
 
 T is the same old sea whose voices call, 
 
 The same old stars, with their twinkling eyes, 
 
 The same old moonlight silvers all, 
 
 And the same old solemn thoughts arise. 
 
 Naught in the scene has changed, for years, 
 Waves, nor stars, nor moonlight fair ; 
 
 And here in my eyes are the same old tears, 
 For the same old hopeless love I bear. 
 
THE GIFT OF LOVE. 
 
 GIVE me," I said, " that ring, 
 Which on thy taper finger gleams ; 
 Sweet thoughts to me t will bring, 
 When summer sunset s beams 
 Have faded o er the western sea, 
 And left me dreaming, Love, of thee ! " 
 
 " O no ! " the maiden cried ; 
 " This shining ring is bright, but cold : 
 
 That bond is loosely tied 
 Which must be clasped with gold ! 
 
 The ring would soon forgotten be : 
 
 Some better gift I 11 give to thee ! " 
 
 " Then give me that red rose," 
 Said I, " which on thy bosom heaves 
 In ecstasied repose, 
 
The Gift of Love. 91 
 
 And droops its blushing leaves : 
 
 If thou wouldst have me think of thee, 
 Fair maiden, give the rose to me ! " 
 
 " O no ! " she softly said, 
 " I will not give thee any flower : 
 
 This rose will surely fade ; 
 It passes with the hour : 
 
 A faded rose can never be 
 
 An emblem of my love for thee ! " 
 
 " Then give me but thy word, 
 A vow of love, t were better yet," 
 
 I cried ; " who once has heard 
 Such vows, can ne er forget ! 
 
 If thou wilt give this pledge to me, 
 
 Nor ring nor rose I 11 ask of thee ! " 
 
 " O no ! " she said again ; 
 " For spoken vows are empty breath, 
 
 Whose memory is vain 
 When passion perisheth : 
 
92 The Gift of Love. 
 
 If e er I lose my love for thee, 
 My vows must all forgotten be ! " 
 
 " Then what," I asked, " wilt thou, 
 O dearest ! to thy lover give ? 
 
 Nor ring nor rose nor vow 
 May I from thee receive ; 
 
 And yet some symbol should there be 
 
 To typify thy love for me ! " 
 
 Then dropped her silvery voice 
 Unto a whisper, soft and low : 
 
 " Here, take this gift, my choice, 
 The sweetest love can know ! " 
 
 She raised her head all lovingly, 
 
 And smiling, gave a kiss to me ! 
 
T 
 
 MY LOVE. 
 
 1 HINE is a little hand, 
 A tiny, little hand, 
 
 Yet if it clasp 
 
 .With timid grasp 
 
 Mine own, ah me ! I well can understand 
 The pressure of that little hand ! 
 
 Thine is a little mouth, 
 A very little mouth, 
 Yet, ah ! what bliss 
 To steal a kiss, 
 
 Sweet as the honeyed zephyrs of the south, 
 From that same rosy little mouth ! 
 
 Thine is a little heart, 
 A little, fluttering heart, 
 
94 My Love. 
 
 Yet is it warm 
 And pure and calm, 
 
 And loves me with its whole untutored art, 
 That fond and faithful little heart ! 
 
 Thou art a little girl, 
 Only a little girl, 
 
 Yet art thou worth 
 The wealth of earth 
 
 Diamond and ruby, sapphire, gold, and pearl 
 To me, thou blessed little girl ! 
 
MINNIE S ANSWER. 
 
 T^HERE S a certain girlish grace 
 
 Hovers round thy form ; 
 Sits upon thy beaming face, 
 Sweetly blended with a trace 
 
 Of a riper charm. 
 Should I say, " I love but thee," 
 Minnie, were it safe for me ? 
 
 There s a certain burning look 
 Darting from thine eye, 
 
 Reads my soul as t were a book, 
 
 Searches every hidden nook 
 E en in passing by. 
 
 Shouldst thou fall in love with me, 
 
 Minnie, were it safe for thee ? 
 
 Then this loveliest of girls 
 Raised her eyes to mine, 
 
Q6 Minnie s Answer. 
 
 Smiled, and brushed away her curls, 
 Smiled, with teeth like matchless pearls, 
 
 Lips like matchless wine, 
 And she softly said to me, 
 
 " I would take my chance with thee." 
 
AU COMBLE. 
 
 T T EART of hearts and pearl of pearls, 
 -*- - Dearest of all darling girls ! 
 
 Can I make mere language say 
 
 How I love thee, night and day ? 
 
 Can I find, in head or heart, 
 
 Words to tell how fair thou art ? 
 
 Suns and moons may never shine 
 
 On a face and form like thine : 
 
 Rolling years may never see 
 
 Love more deep than mine for thee ! 
 
 I have known diviner rest, 
 
 Softly pillowed on thy breast, 
 
 Than could ever haunt at night 
 
 Rosy couch of Sybarite ; 
 
 And no music ever fell - 
 
 Song of bird, or silver bell 
 
 Half so sweetly on mine ear 
 
 As thy laughter, rich and clear ! 
 7 
 
Au Comble. 
 
 Now, since love is life to us, 
 Let us love forever thus ! 
 Knowing that a brighter day 
 Shall behold us joined for aye ; 
 For, to us, to love t is given, 
 Here on earth and there in heaven. 
 
SWEET IMPATIENCE. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE sunlight glimmers dull and gray 
 Upon my wall to-day ; 
 This summer is too long : 
 The hot days go 
 Weary and slow 
 As if time s reckoning were perverse and wrong 
 
 But when the flowers 
 
 Have faded, and their bloom has passed away, 
 Then shall my song 
 Be all of happier hours, 
 And more than one fond heart shall then be gay. 
 
 n. 
 But song can never tell 
 
 How much I long to hear 
 One voice, that like the echo of a silver bell, 
 
ioo Sweet Impatience. 
 
 Unconscious, low, and clear, 
 Falls, as aforetime angel-voices fell 
 On Saint Cecelia s ear : 
 And it will come again, 
 And I shall hear it, when 
 The droning summer bee forgets his song 
 And frosty autumn crimsons hill and dell : 
 
 I shall not murmur, then, 
 " This summer is too long ! " 
 
 in. 
 The trellised grapes shall purple be, 
 
 And all 
 
 The forest aisles re-echo merrily 
 The brown quail s call, 
 And glossy chestnuts fall 
 In pattering plenty from the leafless tree 
 
 When autumn winds blow strong : 
 Then shall I see 
 
 Her worshipped face once more, and in its sun 
 shine, I 
 Shall cease to sigh 
 
 " This summer is too long ! " 
 
Sweet Impatience. 101 
 
 IV. 
 
 Meanwhile, I wander up and down 
 The noisy town, 
 Alone : 
 
 I miss the lithe form from my side, 
 The kind, caressing tone, 
 The gentle eyes 
 In whose soft depths so much of loving lies ; 
 
 And lonely in the throng, , 
 
 Each jostling, bustling, grasping for his own, 
 The weary words arise, 
 
 " This summer is too long ! " 
 
 v. 
 
 Haste, happy hours, 
 Fade, tardy, lingering flowers ! 
 Your fragrance has departed, long ago ; 
 
 I yearn for cold winds, whistling through the 
 
 ruined bowers, 
 For winter s snow, 
 
 If with them, she 
 May come to teach my heart a cheerier song, 
 
Sweet Impatience. 
 
 And lovingly 
 Make me forget all weariness and severance and 
 
 wrong, 
 
 Whispering close and low, 
 " Here are we still together, Love, although 
 The summer was so long ! " 
 
i 
 
 AN AUTUMN JOY. 
 
 T is a fair autumnal day, 
 
 The ground is strewn with yellow leaves ; 
 The maple stems gleam bare and gray, 
 
 The grain is piled in golden sheaves ; 
 Afar I hear the speckled quails 
 
 Pipe shrill amid the stubble dry, 
 And muffled beats from busy flails 
 
 Within the barn near by. 
 
 The latest roses now are dead, 
 
 Their petals scattered far and wide, 
 The sumac-berries, richly red, 
 
 Bedeck the lane on either side ; 
 A dreamy calm is in the air, 
 
 A dreamy echo on the sea : 
 Ah, never was a day more fair 
 
 Than this, which comes to me ! 
 
IO4 -An Autumn Joy. 
 
 I see the stacks of ripened corn, 
 
 The golden sunshine on the roof, 
 The diamond dew-drops of the morn, 
 
 That string with gems the spider s woof ; 
 An azure haze is hanging low 
 
 About the outline of the hills, 
 And chanting sea-fowl southward go 
 
 From marshes, lakes, and kils. 
 
 For many years, the autumn brought 
 
 A plaintive sadness to my soul, 
 That shaded e en my brightest thought, 
 
 And on my gayest moments stole ; 
 T was sad, yet sweet, a strange alloy 
 
 Of hope and sorrow intertwined : 
 This autumn brings me only joy, 
 
 No shadow haunts my mind. 
 
 And why is this ? The dead leaves fall, 
 The blossoms wither, as of old, 
 
 And winter comes, with snowy pall, 
 To wrap the earth so deathly cold ; 
 
An Atitumn Joy. 105 
 
 The sea-fowl, strung athwart the sky, 
 Still chant their plaintive monotone ; 
 
 And why, when leaves and blossoms die, 
 Should I feel joy alone ? 
 
 O, ask me not, I dare not tell ; 
 
 I must not all my heart disclose. 
 I think a fairy wove a spell 
 
 About me, when decayed the rose ! 
 Two gifts did dying summer bring, 
 
 Two symbols of undying bliss, 
 Upon my finger glows a ring, 
 
 Upon my lips, a kiss ! 
 
IN VAIN. 
 
 \T7HY were you kind, O, why ? 
 
 * * Why did you smile instead of frowning, 
 When Love in Lethe s wave was drowning ? 
 Why were you kind, O, why ? 
 
 If you had looked on me 
 With scorn, or wrath, or cold disdaining, 
 My love for you had now been waning ; 
 
 Why did you smile on me ? 
 
 Long had I loved ; but Time, 
 Who softens all things, was beguiling 
 My weary heart, when, with your smiling, 
 
 You came a second time ! 
 
 And now, alas ! again 
 I bear love s chains, and, musing lonely, 
 
In Vain. 107 
 
 Hear your sweet voice and see you only, 
 Why were you kind again ? 
 
 If all your love were dead, 
 Why did you kiss me, when we parted ? 
 Do we " forget," when broken-hearted ? 
 
 Ah that I, too, were dead ! 
 
GONE. 
 
 HT^HE summer was long and sweet, 
 
 The roses blossomed for me 
 Over a porch where fairy feet 
 Went pattering merrily. 
 
 All summer the roses smiled, 
 Hiding their thorns from sight ; 
 
 All summer my passionate heart beat wild 
 With a feverish love and delight. 
 
 Now, autumn s rain-drops beat 
 
 On the casement, drearily ; 
 The summer I found so long and sweet 
 
 Has faded forever from me ! 
 
 Under each thorny bough 
 
 The roses are withering fast, 
 And my passionate heart beats slower, now, 
 
 For the fever of love is past ! 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 / T^H ROUGH the vague rifts in pearly clouds 
 
 that lie 
 
 Along the horizon, twixt sky and sea, 
 A planet s trembling radiance gleams on high, 
 Far, far from me. 
 
 The gentle breeze of evening loiters on, 
 
 Faint with the breath of many a tropic tree, 
 But groves of sandal, spice, and cinnamon 
 Are far from me. 
 
 O Love ! I see thee glittering from afar ; 
 
 Sweet airs and silvery lights encompass thee, 
 But like the spice groves and the evening star 
 Far, far from me ! 
 
A FAREWELL. 
 
 THE west-wind, laden with fragrance, blows, 
 The dewdrops shine in the crimson rose ; 
 
 Is there something yet to tell ? 
 Ay, winds must pass and dewdrops fall ; 
 Naught that is gone can we recall : 
 
 So now, dear Love, farewell ! 
 
 Sweet lips prattle and laugh and sing, 
 White arms tenderly, closely cling ; 
 
 Is there something sad to tell ? 
 Ay, the sweet lips shall silent be, 
 And the arms unclasp in their agony : 
 
 So now, dear Love, farewell ! 
 
 Then is there nothing that God has made 
 That will not one day fall or fade ? 
 
 O Poet, in mercy tell ! 
 
A Farewell. in 
 
 Ay, love shall reign in these hearts of ours 
 When eyes and lips and wind-waved flowers 
 Have known their last farewell. 
 
 For love is purer than dewdrops are, 
 The winds go never so wide and far, 
 
 And none may truly tell 
 How, when the close caress is gone, 
 And words are silent, true love lives on, 
 
 Never to say farewell ! 
 
VALE ! 
 
 GENTLEST season of the changing year, 
 
 Though thy bright days are past, 
 Our hearts will ever hold thy memory dear 
 
 So long as memories last : 
 Gladly each year we see thy pageant glow 
 Through amber days with air like hydromel, 
 And now we sigh in whispers sad and slow, 
 " Farewell, farewell ! " 
 
 Through the dim vista of the forest nook 
 
 Fall bars of shade and shine, 
 And o er the shimmering ripples of the brook 
 
 Swings the clematis vine : 
 The breeze comes faintly from the far-off sea 
 To linger in the leafy inland dell, 
 And sings October s dreamy monody, 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! 
 
Vale ! 113 
 
 The withered meadow-grasses, white and brown, 
 
 Gleam in the autumn air, 
 Where shining stars of silvery cotton-down 
 
 Go sailing here and there : 
 Decadence sits upon the fading earth, 
 Her flowers have felt the touch of Azrael ; 
 To blooming sights and chirping sounds of mirth, 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! 
 
 The day declines, and cloudy phantoms drift 
 
 About the distant west, 
 Where many a purple peak and golden rift 
 
 Welcome the sun to rest : 
 As goes this happy day, the season goes, 
 Its dying murmurs chant the autumn s knell, 
 The solemn requiem of the earth s repose, 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! 
 
 Fade gently, gently, in the western sky, 
 
 O fair October day ! 
 Let rustling trees give back the parting sigh 
 
 Of winds that die away ! 
 
H4 Vale! 
 
 Let the broad sunlight deepen into shade, 
 Let the kine homeward sound the tinkling bell, 
 To all thy glories that in twilight fade, 
 Farewell, farewell ! 
 
 The twittering birds may seek their hidden homes 
 
 In the dark cedar-tree, 
 And hived bees, in honey-laden combs, 
 
 Hum low and lazily : 
 
 O er the wide landscape falls the shadowy night, 
 On field, and hill, and blue horizon s swell, 
 The sun gives forth his last expiring light, 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! 
 
EXPRESSION. 
 
 A HACKNEYED burden, to a hackneyed air, 
 *-** "I love thee only, thou art wondrous fair ! " 
 Alas ! the poets have worn the theme threadbare ! 
 
 Can I not find some words less tame and old, 
 To paint thy form and face of perfect mould, 
 Thy dewy lips, thy hair of brown and gold ? 
 
 Can I not sing in somewhat fresher strain 
 The love I lavish and receive again, 
 The thrilling joy, so like to thrilling pain ? 
 
 Can I not, by some metaphor divine, 
 Describe the life I quaff like nectared wine 
 In being thine, and knowing thou art mine ? 
 
Ii6 Expression. 
 
 Ah, no ! this halting verse can naught express ; 
 No English words can half the truth confess, 
 That have not all been rhymed to weariness ! 
 
 So let me cease my scribbling for to-day, 
 And maiden, turn thy lovely face this way, 
 Words will not do, but haply kisses may ! 
 
THE TRYST. 
 
 speary grass and starry bloom 
 The tiny globes of dew are lying ; 
 The broad moon rises through the gloom 
 
 Of twilight haze ; and night-winds sighing 
 In long-drawn whispers say to me, 
 " T is eventide . . . she comes to thee ! " 
 
 A heavy fragrance floods the air, 
 
 Where crimson roses climb and cluster ; 
 
 Heaven seems more near, and earth more fair, 
 The broad moon shines with holier lustre ; 
 
 A white robe through the dusk I see . . . 
 
 O Joy ! O Love ! she comes to me ! 
 
 PALINODE. 
 
 Athwart the west, where dies the day, 
 A stormy rack of cloud is drifting, 
 
Ii8 The Tryst. 
 
 And round the uplands bleak and gray 
 
 The wind its mournful voice is lifting : 
 With every moan it says to me ... 
 " T is night, but she comes not to thee ! " 
 
 Sharp thorns now grimly deck the bough 
 Where clustered once the crimson roses 
 
 With roses once She wreathed this brow 
 Where now a thorny crown reposes. 
 
 A bitter past alone I see . . . 
 
 Ah Heaven ! she comes no more to me ! 
 
AMONG THE HEATHER. 
 
 WINTRY winds. are blowing cold 
 On the moors of purple heather 
 Where, in sunnier days of old 
 Hand in hand we idly strolled, 
 
 Thou and I together. 
 But those sunny days are past, 
 
 And no more we walk together 
 Where the snow, on every blast, 
 Whirls above the heather. 
 
 On the dreary moorland, now, 
 
 In the storm I wander lonely, 
 Longing love alone knows how 
 For thy kiss on lip and brow, 
 
 Longing for thee only : 
 Life can bring me naught but pain, 
 
 Till among the purple heather 
 Hand in hand we walk again, 
 
 Thou and I together ! 
 
THE LEES OF LIFE 
 
 T HAVE had my will, 
 
 Tasted every pleasure ; 
 
 I have drank my fill 
 Of the purple measure ; 
 
 It has lost its zest, 
 
 Sorrow is my guest, 
 O, the lees are bitter, bitter, 
 
 Give .me rest ! 
 
 Love once filled the bowl 
 Running o er with blisses, 
 
 Made my very soul 
 Drunk with crimson kisses ; 
 
 But I drank it dry, 
 
 Love has passed me by, 
 O, the lees are bitter, bitter, 
 
 Let me die ! 
 
FARCEUR DE POETE! 
 
 O, fare you well, true love, farewell ! 
 
 Did you think you saw an earnest woe 
 In the tear that just now flashed and fell ? 
 It was not so , . . 
 I am a mere farceur, you know ! 
 
 So, fare you well, true love ! you said, 
 
 One fair June night, when the moon was low 
 
 That you would love me, living or dead . . . 
 I thought t was so ... 
 But I am a mere farceur, you know ! 
 
 So, fare you well, true love ! though you 
 Find peace and pleasure, here below, 
 
 I cannot : perhaps your heart is true . . . 
 I hope t is so ... 
 But I am a mere farceur, you know ! 
 
122 Farceur de Poete ! 
 
 So, fare you well, true love ; we part ! 
 
 The paths diverge whereon we go : 
 T is said I carry a broken heart . . . 
 
 Can that be so ? ... 
 
 I am a mere farceur, you know ! 
 
BEER. 
 
 H ERE 
 
 A A With my beer 
 I sit, 
 
 While golden moments flit : 
 , Alas ! 
 
 They pass 
 Unheeded by : 
 And, as they fly, 
 I, 
 Being dry, 
 
 Sit, idly sipping here 
 
 My beer. 
 
 O, finer far 
 
 Than fame, or riches, are 
 
 The graceful smoke-wreaths of this free cigar ! 
 
124 Beer. 
 
 i 
 
 Why 
 
 Should I 
 
 Weep, wail, or sigh ? 
 
 What if luck has passed me by ? 
 What if my hopes are dead, 
 My pleasures fled ? 
 
 Have I not still 
 
 My fill 
 
 Of right good cheer, 
 Cigars and beer ? 
 
 Go, whining youth, 
 
 Forsooth ! 
 Go, weep and wail, 
 Sigh and grow pale, 
 
 Weave melancholy rhymes 
 
 On the old times, 
 
 Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear, 
 But leave to me my beer ! 
 
 Gold is dross, 
 
 Love is loss, 
 So, if I gulp my sorrows down, 
 
Beer. 125 
 
 Or see them drown 
 In foamy draughts of old nut-brown, 
 Then do I wear the crown, 
 Without the cross ! 
 
YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 "\7"OUTH hath many charms, 
 
 *- Hath many joys, and much delight ; 
 Even its doubts, and vague alarms, 
 
 By contrast make it bright-: 
 And yet and yet forsooth, 
 I love Age as well as Youth ! 
 
 Well, since I love them both, 
 
 The good of both I will combine, 
 In women, I will look for Youth, 
 
 And look for Age, in wine : 
 And then and then I 11 bless 
 This twain that give me happiness ! 
 
THE BUTTERFLY AND THE POET. 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 ON gorgeous wings he floateth along, 
 Little for this world careth he, 
 Save for the wild bee s somnolent song 
 
 And the sweets in flowers that be : 
 He sippeth to-day from the Lily s bell ; 
 To-morrow, he loveth the Rose as well. 
 
 THE POET. 
 ON gorgeous dreams he floateth along, 
 
 Nothing for this world careth he, 
 Save for the maidens laughter and song 
 
 And the sweets on their lips that be : 
 To-day, blonde Edith he loveth well ; . . . 
 To-morrow, t is brown-eyed Isabel. 
 
GUI BONO? 
 
 A HARMLESS fellow, wasting useless days, 
 Am I : I love my comfort and my leisure : 
 Let those who wish them, toil for gold and praise, 
 To me, this summer-day brings more of pleasure. 
 
 So, here upon the grass I lie at ease, 
 
 While solemn voices from the Past are calling, 
 
 Mingled with rustling whispers in the trees, 
 And pleasant sounds of water idly falling. 
 
 There was a time when I had higher aims 
 
 Than thus to lie among the flowers, and listen 
 
 To lisping birds, or watch the sunset s flames 
 On the broad river s surface glow and glisten. 
 
 There was a time, perhaps, when I had thought 
 To make a name, a home, a bright existence : 
 
Cui Bono. 129 
 
 But time has shown me that my dreams were naught 
 Save a mirage that vanished with the distance. 
 
 Well, it is gone : I care no longer now 
 
 For fame, for fortune, or for empty praises ; 
 
 Rather than wear a crown upon my brow, 
 I d lie forever here among the daisies. 
 
 So you, who wish for fame, good friend, pass by : 
 With you I surely cannot think to quarrel : 
 
 Give me peace, rest, this bank whereon I lie, 
 And spare me both the labor and the laurel ! 
 
THE GOLDEN FISH. 
 
 T OVE is a little golden fish, 
 
 * Wondrous shy ... ah, wondrous shy 
 
 You may catch him, if you wish, 
 
 He might make a dainty dish . . . 
 
 But I ... 
 
 Ah, I Ve other fish to fry ! 
 
 For when I try to snare this prize, 
 
 Earnestly, and patiently, 
 All my skill the rogue defies, 
 Lurking safe in Aimee s eyes . . . 
 
 So you see, 
 
 I am caught, and love goes free ! 
 
CA M EST EGAL! 
 
 I WAS made for the present time ! 
 5 The present time was made for me ! 
 I sing my song or weave my rhyme, 
 
 From fear of future troubles free, 
 For they are naught to me ! 
 
 T is well with me at the present day : 
 
 My brown-eyed Alice sits by me : 
 T is true 4:he moments pass away, 
 
 And time is fleeting silently, 
 
 But that is naught to me ! 
 
 I will not mourn for the silent past, 
 
 Though pleasures fine it brought to me ; 
 The present moments cannot last, 
 
 But if they leave no vacancy, 
 
 The past is naught to me ! 
 
132 Camest Egal! 
 
 I fill a bowl with rose-foamed wine, 
 My Alice quaffs a health to me ; 
 
 The present joyous day is mine, 
 
 The coming woe I cannot see, 
 So that is naught to me ! 
 
 And thus I find in the present time, 
 That life is fresh and sweet to me ; 
 
 I still will sit and weave my rhyme ; 
 The future soon will present be, 
 And bring new joys to me ! 
 
GOLD AND PURPLE. 
 
 T N this little, old-fashioned garden of mine 
 Poppies, and pinks, and pansies grow ; 
 Yellow of gold and purple of wine 
 
 Within their clustering blossoms glow ; 
 And a purple ribbon is fluttering there, 
 From tangled ringlets of golden hair. 
 
 I love the pansies, poppies, and pinks, 
 
 Their glistening eyes with the dewdrops wet 
 
 I love them, but in the garden, methinks, 
 There is something that I love better yet ; 
 
 For a purple ribbon is fluttering there, 
 
 From tangled tresses of golden hair. 
 
PARTING. 
 
 \ yl 7HITE and small was the hand I pressed 
 * * Behind the rose-covered cottage door, 
 While the moon rode low in the azure west, 
 And the tremulous vines, by the wind caressed, 
 
 Cast flickering shadows over the floor, 
 Swinging, swaying, and sighing lowly, 
 " Perfect love is the one thing holy ! " 
 
 Rosy and ripe were the lips I pressed 
 
 Behind the rose-covered cottage door, 
 While the orioles slept in their downy nest 
 That swung in the vines, by the wind caressed, 
 
 Casting weird shadows over the floor, 
 But the wind in the tremulous vines sang ever, 
 " Love must perish and hearts must sever ! " 
 
THEN AND NOW. 
 
 YOU loved me once, ... ah, well I knew it then ! 
 One night you kissed me, underneath the 
 
 roses, 
 
 And said that we must never kiss again . . . 
 That was the parting . . . that strange moment, 
 
 when 
 
 The heart its weakness and its strength dis 
 closes . . . 
 I knew you loved me then ! 
 
 You love me yet ... ah, well I know it now ! 
 
 By these few stolen kisses, sad as tender, 
 That give my spirit strength, I know not how, 
 Falling like benisons on lip and brow, . 
 
 To fill my soul with mingled gloom and splen 
 dor . . . 
 I know you love me now ! 
 
136 Then and Now. 
 
 As then, and now, O let it be for aye ! 
 
 Let those dear lips still tell the sweet old story. 
 Let these kind kisses still drive grief away, 
 Lighten my heavy cross from day to day, 
 
 And make my crown of thorns a crown of glory 
 For ever and for aye ! 
 
SUMMER WINDS. 
 
 OUMMER winds, whispering over the rye, 
 ^ Kissing the roses and hurrying by, 
 
 Where have ye latest been, O where ? 
 
 Merrily tangling my maiden s hair, 
 Wafting the tresses over her cheek, 
 Playing among them at hide and seek, 
 
 Or trying with delicate scents of the south 
 
 To rival the breath from her own sweet mouth ? 
 Tell me, summer winds, fresh and fair, 
 Where have ye latest been, O where ? 
 
 But the balmy breezes floated away, 
 Daintily sighing, no word said they. 
 
 II. 
 
 Bear ye no word from my maiden to me ? 
 Did she not whisper her love to ye ? 
 
138 Summer Winds. 
 
 Ah, well do I know that her fondest dream 
 By the sun s warm light or the moon s pale beam 
 Is ever of me, and the love she bears 
 Oft breaks from her sweet lips, unawares. 
 Has she not murmured some tender word 
 That ye, as ye wafted by, have heard ? 
 Tell me, summer winds, frolic and free, 
 Bring ye no message from her to me ? 
 
 But the balmy breezes frolicked away, 
 Daintily sighing, no word said they. 
 
 in. 
 
 O faithless winds, since thus ye are still, 
 And bring no message my heart to thrill, 
 I will send ye again to my maiden s side 
 To tell her I 11 meet her at eventide ; 
 Then fly, fly fast o er the waving rye, 
 The roses are lovely, but pass them by, - 
 Bid them to wait for the kisses they crave, 
 And linger not on the rivulet s wave : 
 Haste, O summer winds, sighing above, 
 Tell her this night shall she meet her love ! 
 
Summer Winds. 139 
 
 The balmy breezes floated away, 
 
 And the roses wept that they would not stay. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Over the hill the summer winds sped, 
 Whirling and eddying overhead, 
 
 Waving the moss on the cottage eaves, 
 
 Rustling the feathery locust-leaves, 
 Brushing the dew-drops lingering yet 
 On the odorous blooms of the mignonette, 
 
 Till they reached a garden kept with care, 
 
 And found a beautiful maiden there, 
 Alone in an arbor, where misty lines 
 Of sunshine fell through the tangled vines. 
 
 Then the balmy breezes sought her ear, 
 
 And the words they whispered were low but clear. 
 
 v. 
 
 They raised the tresses of gold and brown 
 That over her snowy neck swept down, 
 They said, in a musical, breezy voice, 
 "Thy lover is coming, sweet child, rejoice ! 
 
140 Summer Winds. 
 
 When Hesperus light in the west grows dim, 
 Thy lover will seek thee ; be ready for him ! " 
 The maiden heard, and a rosy glow 
 Flushed up to her cheek from her heart below, 
 And e en as the summer winds fleeted by 
 They bore from her bosom a gentle sigh. 
 
 Then the balmy breezes floated away, 
 
 And soon mong the rose-leaves nestled they. 
 
LAZINESS. 
 
 TV /T Y window-curtain sweeps 
 ,*-* To and fro, in the lazy breeze, 
 As sea-weeds swing and sway in the deeps 
 Of southern summer seas. 
 
 The lazy sunshine sleeps 
 
 On the rose and snow of the apple-trees, 
 And lazy spring my spirit steeps 
 
 In a lotos-dream of ease. 
 
THE SIMPLE RHYME. 
 
 BENEATH the blue of summer skies, 
 Among the flowers of summer-time, 
 With loitering steps and half-closed eyes 
 I walk, and weave a simple rhyme. 
 
 The summer breezes go and come, 
 And blowing, musical and free, 
 
 Bring sounds of bees that idly hum 
 About the tangled briony. 
 
 Beneath the blue of summer skies, 
 Among the flowers of summer-time, 
 
 With loitering steps and dreamy eyes, 
 Fair maids shall sing my simple rhyme, 
 
The Simple Rhyme. 143 
 
 And may its echoes go and come 
 
 As fresh, as musical, as free, 
 As honey-bees that idly hum 
 
 About the tangled briony ! 
 
MEADOW-SWEET. 
 
 * 
 
 / T~^HE creamy banks of meadow-sweet 
 * Along the mill-stream s margin grow, 
 Where honey-bees with pollened feet 
 Hum softly to and fro. 
 
 The sound is sweet, the fragrance rare, 
 
 As summer breezes float along, 
 And round me all the summer air 
 Is full of scent and song. 
 
 O, what to me are wealth and rank ? 
 
 O, what are men, and their deceit ? 
 While I lie here, on the mill-stream s bank, 
 
 Among the meadow-sweet ! 
 
FAREWELL TO SUMMER. 
 
 SUMMER is fading ; the broad leaves that grew 
 So freshly green, when June was young, are 
 
 falling ; 
 And, all the whisper-haunted forest through, 
 
 The restless birds in saddened tones are calling, 
 From rustling hazel copse and tangled dell, 
 " Farewell, sweet Summer, 
 Fragrant, fruity Summer, 
 Sweet, farewell ! " 
 
 Upon the windy hills, in many a field, 
 
 The honey-bees hum slow, above the clover, 
 Gleaning the latest sweets its blooms may yield, 
 And, knowing that their harvest-time is over, 
 Sing, half a lullaby and half a knell, 
 " Farewell, sweet Summer, 
 Honey-laden Summer, 
 Sweet, farewell ! " 
 
146 Farewell to Summer. 
 
 The little brook that babbles mid the ferns, 
 
 O er twisted roots and sandy shallows playing, 
 Seems fain to linger in its eddied turns, 
 
 And with a plaintive, purling voice, is saying, 
 (Sadder and sweeter than my song can tell,) 
 " Farewell, sweet Summer, 
 Warm and dreamy Summer, 
 Sweet, farewell ! " 
 
 The fitful breeze sweeps down the winding lane 
 With gold and crimson leaves before it flying ; 
 Its gusty laughter has no sound of pain, 
 
 But in the lulls it sinks to gentle sighing, 
 And mourns the Summer s early broken spell, 
 "Farewell, sweet Summer, 
 Rosy, blooming Summer, 
 Sweet, farewell ! " 
 
 So bird, and bee, and brook, and breeze make 
 
 moan, 
 
 With melancholy song their loss complaining. 
 I too must join them, as I walk alone 
 
Farewell to Summer. 147 
 
 Among the sights and sounds of Summer s wan 
 ing ... 
 
 I too have loved the season passing well 
 So, farewell, Summer, 
 Fair but faded Summer, 
 Sweet, farewell ! 
 
s 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 WEET is the voice that calls 
 
 From babbling waterfalls 
 In meadows where the downy seeds are flying ; 
 And soft the breezes blow, 
 And eddying come and go, 
 In faded gardens where the rose is dying. 
 
 Among the s tubbled corn 
 
 The blithe quail pipes at morn, 
 The merry partridge drums in hidden places, 
 
 And glittering insects gleam 
 
 Above the reedy stream 
 Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. 
 
 At eve, cool shadows fall 
 Across the garden wall, 
 And on the clustered grapes to purple turning, 
 
September.^ 149 
 
 And pearly vapors lie 
 Along the eastern sky, 
 Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning. 
 
 Ah, soon on field and hill 
 
 The winds shall whistle chill, 
 And patriarch swallows call their flocks together 
 
 To fly from frost and snow, 
 
 And seek for lands where blow 
 The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. 
 
 The pollen-dusted bees 
 
 Search for the honey-lees 
 That linger in the last flowers of September, 
 
 While plaintive mourning doves 
 
 Coo sadly to their loves 
 Of the dead summer they so well remember. 
 
 The cricket chirps all day, 
 " O fairest Summer, stay ! " 
 The squirrel-eyes askance the chestnuts browning ; 
 
150 September. 
 
 The wild-fowl fly afar 
 Above the foamy bar 
 And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. 
 
 Now comes a fragrant breeze 
 
 Through the dark cedar-trees 
 And round about my temples fondly lingers, 
 
 In gentle playfulness, 
 
 Like to the soft caress 
 Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. 
 
 Yet, though a sense of grief 
 
 Comes with the falling leaf, 
 And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, 
 
 In all my autumn dreams 
 
 A future summer gleams 
 Passing the fairest glories of the present ! 
 
THE HEART S REST. 
 
 [GERMAN.] 
 
 r I ^HE wind is idly blowing 
 
 -*- And spilling its perfume rare ; 
 The brook with its ceaseless flowing, 
 Is singing a quaint old air. 
 
 But night o er nature comes stealing, 
 And the wind will die on the hill : 
 
 Cold Winter s ice, congealing, 
 Will hush the song of the rill. 
 
 My heart, like the wind, is moaning, 
 The day seems heavy and long, * 
 
 And memory s voice is droning 
 A sad, monotonous song. 
 
152 The Heart s Rest. 
 
 But, heart, thou shalt rest at even, 
 And memory s voice shall cease, 
 
 For the weary find rest in heaven, 
 And the troubled shall be at peace. 
 
THE SIREN OF THE ROSE. 
 
 in an ancient garden I found a maid, 
 Who sat, entranced by perfumes from many 
 
 a blossom ; 
 Between the trees the sunlight, down -gliding, 
 
 played 
 
 Upon her shining tresses and snowy bosom : 
 She was so fair, I fancied she could but be 
 
 Some fairy thing, immortal, and more than 
 
 human ; 
 
 I gave her purest lilies : she answered me, 
 Die Sftofe ift tic fcfyimjle son alien S3(umen ! " 
 
 I offered her bright pansies, and meadow-sweet, 
 Great daffodils, and tulips in regal splendor, 
 
 I laid green wreaths of laurel before her feet, 
 And while I knelt her glances were dark and 
 tender : 
 
154 The Siren of the Rose. 
 
 Yet still she shook, though gently, her beauteous 
 head ; 
 
 Who had resisted, surely, were one of few men ! 
 And meekly still, in answer, she smiled and said, 
 
 Die 3tofe ift t)ie fcfyonfte oott alien 23lumen ! " 
 
 I gazed about me, troubled : lo ! on my breast 
 
 A crimson rose shone fairly, half bud, half 
 
 blossom ; 
 I laid it, in its beauty, among the rest. . . 
 
 She placed the fragrant secret within her bosom ! 
 " Ah ! with it," cried I, stricken, " thou hast my 
 heart ! 
 
 I love thee, be thou fairy, or mortal woman ! " 
 She whispered : " We are wedded, no more to part . . . 
 
 Die 9lofe ift bie fdjb nfte son alien 33lumen ! " 
 
ON THE SANDS. 
 
 I MET Jessie Leigh 
 On the sands ; 
 Sweetly she smiled on me, 
 While breezes from the sea 
 
 Brought dreamy odors as from distant lands, 
 And the warm sunshine fell 
 O er weed, and pebble, and shell, 
 Upon the sands. 
 
 I sat with Jessie Leigh 
 
 On the sands ; 
 Very fair was she, 
 And very kind to me ; 
 
 I kissed her forehead, and her dainty hands, 
 While the white moon above 
 Witnessed our vows of love, 
 
 Upon the sands. 
 
156 On the Sands. 
 
 I saw Jessie Leigh 
 
 On the sands ; 
 Cold and white lay she, 
 Drowned in the cruel sea, 
 
 Her fair hair floating in dishevelled strands. 
 Would God I too had died, 
 And slept there by her side, 
 
 Upon the sands ! 
 
FOUL WEATHER. 
 
 r 1 ^HE rain, upon the sodden grass, 
 
 -*- Is beating, beating wearily ; 
 Gray clouds of mist, like phantoms, pass, 
 And the salt, wet wind wails drearily, 
 As it brings to me, from the shore afar, 
 The dirge of the surf on the outer bar. 
 
 My heart, within my fevered breast, 
 
 Is beating, beating wearily, 
 And memory, with a sad unrest, 
 
 Wails through its chambers drearily, 
 Till I almost wish that the surf afar 
 Were singing my dirge on the outer bar. 
 
APART. 
 
 A WAVE, mid-ocean, sorrowed for the shore, 
 * ^- " O, may I never see the smiling land ? 
 Must I, then, break, and be a wave no more, 
 Before I kiss the sand ? " 
 
 A caged bird sang from early dawn till late, 
 " Must I in gilded loneliness still pine, 
 
 Nor know the joy of nesting with my mate, 
 Her rosy beak to mine ? " 
 
 A tropic blossom drooped its bell above 
 
 The northern loam : " O, may I never strew 
 
 My thirsty pollen in the blooms I love, 
 And drink their honeyed dew ? " 
 
 So I, O Love ! am yearning for thy smile ; 
 So, mateless, I a sorrowing song upraise ; 
 
Apart. 159 
 
 So for thy bloom I thirst and sigh, the while 
 I count the weary days ! 
 
 But though the wave may break its foamy crest, 
 The bird be captive till its days are done, 
 
 The lonely blossom wither all unblest, 
 Our lives shall yet be one ! 
 
AT DUSK. 
 
 A SHADOWY dance of ghostly images 
 By the red firelight on the wall is flung, 
 And ivory fingers on the ivory keys 
 
 Wake the old waltz we loved when love was 
 young. 
 
 On music is poetic fancy fed, 
 
 And these soft strains bring many a thought to 
 
 me, 
 Sad with the knell of hopes and pleasures dead, 
 
 Sweet with the promise of new joys to be. 
 
 In the warm firelight s glow thy shining hair 
 Seems half transmuted into precious gold, 
 
 And, faintly falling on the dusky air, 
 
 The olden cadence wakes the dream of old. 
 
At Dusk. 161 
 
 O Love ! the cup was bitter, but its lees 
 
 Are sweet as honeyed dew in Hybla s flowers, 
 
 And all our days are fraught with prophecies 
 Of sweeter draughts to come in future hours. 
 
SERENADE. 
 
 T HEAR the dry-voiced insects call, 
 * And " Come," they say, " the night grows brief! " 
 I hear the dew-drops pattering fall 
 From leaf to leaf, from leaf to leaf. 
 
 Your night-lamp glimmers fitfully ; 
 
 I watch below, you sleep above ; 
 Yet on your blind I seem to see 
 
 Your shadow, love, your shadow, love ! 
 
 The roses in the night-wind sway, 
 Their petals glistening with the dew ; 
 
 As they are longing for the day, 
 I long for you, I long for you 
 
 But you are in the land of dreams ; 
 
 Your eyes are closed, your gentle breath 
 
Serenade. 163 
 
 So faintly comes, your slumber seems 
 Almost like death, almost like death ! 
 
 Sleep on ; but may my music twine 
 Your sleep with strands of melody, 
 
 And lead you, gentle love of mine, 
 To dream of me, to dream of me ! 
 
VIA CRUCIS. 
 
 \ T 7 HO treads the path of love and loss, 
 
 With humble steps and head bowed down, 
 May bear on earth the heaviest cross, 
 
 But wears in heaven the brightest crown. 
 
 Then let us bless the weary way, 
 
 The cross, the thorn, the cruel rod, 
 That lift us from our gods of clay 
 
 To know the true, the living God ! 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 SUCH a wee, white stocking 
 
 As Clare by the fireside hung, 
 When the Christmas-eve fire was waning 
 
 And the Christmas-eve hymn was sung. 
 O, such a wee, wee stocking, 
 
 So dainty, so snowily white, 
 That she hung on a branch of green holly, 
 Ere bidding us all " Good-night ! " 
 
 What shall I put in her stocking ? 
 
 Some pleasant book ? or a rhyme ? 
 Shall I write her a gentle lyric 
 
 Of love and the holiday time ? 
 No : books are better for scholars ; 
 
 At best they are silent friends ; 
 My rhymes, alas ! they are many, 
 
 But there their virtue ends. 
 
1 66 Christmas Eve. 
 
 Then what shall I put in the stocking 
 That the hazel-eyed maiden hung 
 
 On a twig of red-berried holly 
 
 When the Christmas-eve hymn was sung ? 
 
 Let me put my heart in the stocking 
 
 A fitting gift it would be ! 
 
 But my heart is large, it is boundless, 
 And the stocking is dainty and wee. 
 
 Well, here is the ring on my finger, 
 
 I ve worn it many a year ; 
 T was the gift of an ancient comrade 
 
 Whose memory I hold dear. 
 Yet nothing on earth I treasure 
 
 So much that she might not say, 
 " O, give me this if you love me," 
 
 And bear it a trophy away ! 
 
 So I drop my ring in the stocking 
 
 She knows it is mine full well. 
 (Good comrade, I prithee, forgive me ! 
 
 None other my love could tell.) 
 
Christmas Eve. 167 
 
 I drop my ring in the stocking 
 So dainty, so snowy, so small, 
 
 O Clare, as I cherish and love thee, 
 May God love and cherish us all !. 
 
 Ah me ! my heart is boundless, 
 
 The stocking is dainty and wee ; 
 But love has a wonderful magic 
 
 And wonderful power on me : 
 When I dropped my ring in the stocking, 
 
 Breathing that earnest prayer, 
 My heart went in with the jewel, 
 
 A present for maiden Clare. 
 
NEW-YEAR S EVE. 
 
 \ T 7ITH a bottle and a friend 
 
 * * Friend is Tom and bottle Sherry 
 I shall now begin and end 
 This brief space where two years blend, 
 Wondrous wise and merry. 
 
 Never yet was there a woe 
 
 That had not a pleasure pressing 
 Close upon its heels ; and so 
 Through the Old and New we go, 
 Each at some time blessing. 
 
 Though the Old Year brought to me 
 Little joy and much of sorrow, 
 
 In the New I hope to be 
 
 Happier : my joys, you see, 
 Always come to-morrow. 
 
New-Year s Eve. 169 
 
 So, as New-Year s Eve doth end, 
 
 Tom, and I, and golden Sherry 
 Finest wine and oldest friend 
 Kill the space where two years blend, 
 
 Making wondrous merry. 
 
J UBI LATE. 
 
 GRAY distance hid each shining sail, 
 By ruthless breezes borne from me ; 
 And, lessening, fading, faint and pale, 
 My ships went forth to sea. 
 
 Where misty breakers rose and fell 
 I stood and sorrowed hopelessly ; 
 
 For every wave had tales to tell 
 Of wrecks far out at sea. 
 
 To-day, a song is on my lips : 
 Earth seems a paradise to me : 
 
 For God is good, and, lo, my ships 
 Are coming home from sea ! 
 
THE MATRON YEAR. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE leaves that made our forest pathways 
 shady 
 
 Begin to rustle down upon the breeze ; 
 The year is fading, like a stately lady 
 
 Who lays aside her youthful vanities : 
 Yet, while the memory of her beauty lingers, 
 
 She cannot wear the livery of the old, 
 So Autumn comes, to paint with frosty fingers 
 Some leaves with hues of crimson and of gold. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Matron s voice filled all the hills and valleys 
 With full-toned music, when the leaves were 
 young ; 
 
 While now, in forest dells and garden-alleys, 
 A chirping, reedy song at eve is sung ; 
 
172 The Matron Year. 
 
 Yet sometimes, too, when sunlight gilds the morn 
 ing, 
 
 A carol bursts from some half-naked tree, 
 As if, her slow but sure decadence scorning, 
 
 She woke again the olden melody. 
 
 in. 
 With odorous May-buds, sweet as youthful pleasures, 
 
 She made her beauty bright and debonair : 
 But now, the sad earth yields no floral treasures, 
 
 And twines no roses for the Matron s hair : 
 Still can she not all lovely things surrender ; 
 
 Right regal is her drapery even now, 
 Gold, purple, green, inwrought with every splendor, 
 
 And clustering grapes in garlands on her brow ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 In June, she brought us tufts of fragrant clover 
 Rife with the wild bee s cheery monotone, 
 
 And, when the earliest bloom was past and over, 
 Offered us sweeter scents from fields new-mown : 
 
The Matron Year. 173 
 
 Now, upland orchards yield, with pattering 
 laughter, 
 
 Their red-cheeked bounty to the groaning wain, 
 And heavy-laden racks go creeping after, 
 
 Piled high with sheaves of golden-bearded grain. 
 
 v. 
 Erelong, when all to love and life are clinging, 
 
 And festal holly shines on every wall, 
 Her knell shall be the New- Year bells, outringing ; 
 
 The drifted snow, her stainless burial-pall : 
 She fades and fails, but proudly and sedately, 
 
 This Matron Year, who has such largess given, 
 Her brow still tranquil, and her presence stately, 
 
 As one who, losing earth, holds fast to heaven ! 
 
REQUIESCAM. 
 
 GIVE me, when I die, 
 A grave among the corn and clover. 
 Let me peaceful lie 
 In some field, with forests nigh, 
 Where the blossoms bending over 
 
 Mingle sigh for sigh 
 With ever rustling leaves 
 Whispering to the rustling sheaves. 
 
 Let the tall grass wave 
 
 High above my grave, 
 And strew, each fall, their treasures o er me ; 
 
 Leaves of gold, and brown, 
 
 Softly floating down, 
 Or driven wildly onward, when t is stor-my. 
 
 O give me not a tomb 
 White, and marble-cold, and dreary, 
 
Requ iescam. 175 
 
 In the churchyard s gloom ! 
 Rather, when I m weary, 
 Let me lie at rest 
 
 Neath the clover, growing fair, 
 
 In the warm, sunshiny air, 
 With its thready tendrils twining round my 
 breast. 
 
 So, tranquil be my sleep, 
 When the hazy, slanting beams 
 
 Rest on forest, vale, and steep, 
 Through long, summer afternoons 
 
 Be my slumber still and deep. 
 Let the new and waning moons 
 Come, and go, and bring me dreams. 
 
IN THE DARK. 
 
 [While this book was passing through the press, a fortunate ac 
 cident placed in my possession the original manuscript of this, the 
 last poem that Arnold wrote. It was written within a few days 
 of his death, when the shadow of the night that knows no earthly 
 dawn was already closing around him. W. W.] 
 
 A LL moveless stand the ancient cedar-trees 
 ** Along the drifted sand-hills where they 
 
 grow ; ^ 
 And from the dark west comes a wandering 
 
 breeze, 
 And waves them to and fro. 
 
 A murky darkness lies along the sand, 
 
 Where bright the sunbeams of the morning 
 shone ; 
 
 And the eye vainly seeks, by sea and land, 
 Some light to rest upon. 
 
In the Dark. 177 
 
 No large, pale star its glimmering vigil keeps ; 
 
 An inky sea reflects an inky sky ; 
 And the dark river, like a serpent, creeps 
 
 To where its black piers lie. 
 
 Strange, salty odors through the darkness steal, 
 And through the dark the ocean-thunders roll. 
 
 Thick darkness gathers, stifling, till I feel 
 Its weight upon my soul ! 
 
 I stretch my hands out in the empty air ; 
 
 I strain my eyes into the heavy night ; 
 Blackness of darkness ! . . . Father, hear my prayer . . . 
 
 Grant me to see the light ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
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