01 H! ; : P.O. MS THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES SOMETIME AND OTHER POEMS BY MAY RILEY SMITH NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 3 I WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET I8 97 Copyright, 189S, BY ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY (INCORPORATED). Press of J. J. Little & Co. Astor Place, New York 7>5 "IS To him whose praises make my heart more -vain Than any recompense my life can know, Whose patient bands, through every doubt and pain, Make easy places where my feet may go; - And to the child, whose life has been to me The sweetest flower my bosom ever wore , IVbose little elbow leans upon my knee, The lightest burden mother ever bore! To these, the sharers of my household throne, IVbose names within my prayers together stand, I dedicate what always is their own, The pleasant labor of my unskilled hand. 626172 CONTENTS. PAGE SOMETIME n YE HAVE DONE IT UNTO ME 15 WHEN WE PRAY 20 CROSS-PURPOSES 22 MY UNINVITED GUEST 25 His NAME 29 IF THIS WERE TWENTY CENTURIES AGO . . 32 THE SLIGHTED FLOWERS 35 MARY WAKEFIELD 37 THE WEARY MODEL 44 PARTING COMRADES 49 UNSEEN GUESTS 51 THREESCORE AND TEN 55 A MARCH WEDDING 58 A GIFT OF GENTIANS 60 His BIRTHDAY 62 COMING HOME 65 A THANKSGIVING PRAYER 68 THE INN OF REST 71 A STRADIVARIUS VIOLIN 74 8 Contents. PAGE AN OCTOBER BANQUET 76 TRUST 77 THE PERFECT NICHE 79 CHRIST HAS RISEN 82 BEHOLD, I STAND AT THE DOOR .... 84 . DEAD BIRDS AND EASTER 86 PURPLE ASTER 91 AURORA BOREALIS 92 MEXICO 94 WEAKNESS 96 SOME VIOLETS 98 WE ARE UNFAITHFUL 100 THE BURIAL OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN . . . 102 CRITICISM 105 WHITE VIOLETS 108 IN PRISON in OBSCURITY 115 A FLOWER SERMON 117 THE NEW MESSAGE 119 CHRISTMAS ROSES 123 AVERAGE PEOPLE 125 MARCH 127 DISPROVED 130 SAILING AWAY 132 IF I COULD CHOOSE 134 GOOD-BY 137 MY CUP RUNNETH OVER 139 Contents. 9 PAGE IN EXTREMIS 141 MELANCHOLY DAYS 143 SNOW FLAKES 145 THE RAIN 147 A POMPEIAN PREACHER 149 EXPIATION 152 WHAT WILL IT MATTER? 156 YOUR BIRTHDAY 158 EASTER DAY 163 O BELLS IN THE STEEPLE . 165 IN SILENCE . . , 168 SOMETIME. OMETIME, when all life's les sons have been learned, And sun and stars forever- more have set, The things which our weak judgments here have spurned, The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet, Will flash before us out of life's dark night, As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how all God's plans are right, And how what seemed reproof was love most true. 1 2 Sometime. And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, God's plans go on as best for you and me, How, when we called, he needed not our cry, Because his wisdom to the end could see. And even as wise parents disallow Too much of sweet to craving baby hood, So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now Life's sweetest things, because it seem- eth good. And if sometimes, commingled with life's wine, We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink, Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine Pours out this potion for our lips to drink. Sometime. 13 And if some friend you love is lying low, Where human kisses cannot reach his face, Oh, do not blame the loving Father so, But wear your sorrow with obedient grace ! And you shall shortly know that length ened breath Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friend ; And that sometimes the sable pall of death Conceals the fairest boon his love can send. If we could push ajar the gates of life, And stand within and all God's work ings see, We could interpret all this doubt and strife, And for each mystery could find a key ! 14 Sometime. But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart ! God's plans, like lilies pure and white, unfold ; We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart, Time will reveal the chalices of gold. And if, through patient toil, we reach the land Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest, When we shall clearly see and under stand, I think that we will say, " God knew the best ! " "YE HAVE DONE IT UNTO ME." REMBLING she stood at the heavenly door, The world around her was strange and new; She had come through the dark from the earthly shore, And how should a pilgrim know what to do, Whether to knock, or whether to wait, When she finds herself at the shining Gate? "Thou hast crossed the Valley," an angel said, Touching the pilgrim's dampened hair, 1 6 "Ye have done it unto Me." "The lonely valley which travellers dread, As hither they wend from the land of Care. Wouldst thou greet the King? Dost wear his sign? Hast thou steadfast held to thy faith and shrine? " " It is many a year," the pilgrim sighed, " Since I have thought upon faith and creed; The burdened and poor at my threshold cried ; Had I time to study my lesser need? And when I would pray for my own soul's good, They interrupted with cries for food. " I should lift my head from the Father's breast, If I were in heaven, and heard their cry; " Ye have done it unto Me." 17 How could I selfishly take my rest, Thinking of wearier ones than I? I would slip from the ranks of the undefiled To comfort the woes of a little child ! " " Peace ! Has the Father forsaken his throne?" The angel answered with stern sur prise. " Has his arm grown short, that he needs thy own, Have the woes of the world escaped his eyes? But see ! the Master himself draws near, Thy foolish story hath reached his ear." The woman lifted her troubled brow, And the mists of earth from her spirit fell ; No stranger's face did she gaze on now, i8 " Ye have done it unto Me." She knew the Christ; she had loved Him well ; She had met those eyes, with their tender grace, On the earth in many a suffering face ! They had often looked from a beggar's hood, From under a motherless baby's hair ; They had pierced her often, reproached her, wooed, Had beckoned her here, had followed her there ; In many and many a strange disguise She had met the gaze of those pleading eyes! His voice was sweet to the tired one ; His touch was balm to her down-bent head, "What thou to the least of my poor hast done, " Ye have done it unto Me." 19 Thou hast done unto me," he gently said. " In my Father's house there are many rooms ; " And He led her in from the earthly glooms. WHEN WE PRAY. S tired children go at candle light, The glow in their young eyes quenched with the sun, Almost too languid, now that play is done, To seek their father's knee, and say " good-night," So, to our greater Father out of sight, When the brief gamut of the day is run, Defeats endured, and petty triumphs won, We kneel and listlessly his care invite. Wben we Pray. 21 Then, with no sense of gain, JIG ten der thrill, As when we leave the presence of a friend ; No lingering content our souls to steep, But reckoning our gains and losses still, We turn the leaf upon the dull day's end, And, oarless, drift out to the sea of sleep. CROSS-PURPOSES. HAT sorrow we should beckon unawares, What stinging nettles in our path would grow, If God should answer all our thought less prayers, Or bring to harvest the poor seed we sow! The storm for which you prayed, whose kindly shock Revived your fields and blessed the fainting air, Drove a strong ship upon the cruel rock, And one I loved went down in ship wreck there. Cross-purposes. 23 I ask for sunshine on my grapes to-day ; You plead for rain to kiss your drooping flowers; And thus within God's patient hand we lay These intricate cross-purposes of ours. I greeted with cold grace and doubting fears The guest who proved an angel at my side; And I have shed more bitter, burning tears Because of hopes fulfilled than prayers denied. Then be not clamorous, O restless soul, But hold thy trust in God's eternal plan; He views our life's dull weaving as a whole, Only its tangled threads are seen by man! 24 Cross-purposes. Dear Lord, vain repetitions are not meet When we would bring our messages to thee; Help us to lay them, then, at thy dear feet In acquiescence, not garrulity. MY UNINVITED GUEST. NE day there entered at my chamber door A presence whose light foot fall on the floor No token gave ; and, ere I could with stand, Within her clasp she drew my trembling hand. " Intrusive guest," I cried, " my palm I lend But to the gracious pressure of a friend ! Why comest thou, unbidden and in gloom, Trailing thy cold gray garments in my room? 26 My Uninvited Guest. " I know thee, Pain ! Thou art the sul len foe Of every sweet enjoyment here below; Thou art the comrade and ally of Death,' And timid mortals shrink from thy cold breath. " No fragrant balms grow in thy garden beds, Nor slumbrous poppies droop their crimson heads ; And well I know thou comest to me now To bind thy burning chains upon my brow ! " And though my puny will stood straightly up, From that day forth I drank her pun gent cup, And ate her bitter bread, with leaves of rue, Which in her sunless gardens rankly grew. My Uninvited Guest. 27 And now, so long it is, I scarce can tell When Pain within my chamber came to dwell ; And though she is not fair of mien or face, She hath attracted to my humble place A company most gracious and refined, Whose touches are like balm, whose voices kind : Sweet Sympathy, with box of ointment rare; Courage, who sings while she sits weaving there; Brave Patience, whom my heart esteem- eth much, And who hath wondrous virtue in her touch. Such is the chaste and sweet society Which Pain, my faithful foe, hath brought to me. 28 My Uninvited Guest. And now upon my threshold there she stands, Reaching to me her rough yet kindly hands In silent truce. Thus for a time we part, And a great gladness overflows my heart; For she is so ungentle in her way That no host welcomes her or bids her stay; Yet, though men bolt and bar their house from thee, To every door, O Pain, thou hast a key ! HIS NAME. HEN I shall go where my Redeemer is, In the far City, on the other side, And at the threshold of his palaces Shall loose my sandals, ever to abide, I know my Heavenly King will smiling wait To give me welcome as I reach the gate. Oh, joy ! oh, bliss ! for I shall see his face, And wear his blessed Name upon my brow, That Name which stands for pardon, love, and grace, 30 His Name. That Name before which every knee shall bow; No music half so sweet can ever be, As that dear Name which he shall write for me ! Crowned with this royal signet, I shall walk With lifted forehead through the eternal street, And with a holier mien and gentler talk Will tell my story to the friends I meet, Of how the King did stoop his Name to write Upon my brow in characters of light. Then, till I go to meet my Father's smile, I '11 keep my forehead smooth from passion's scars, His Name. 31 From angry frowns that trample and defile, And every sin that desecrates and mars, That I may lift a face unflushed with shame, Whereon my Lord may write his holy Name ! IF THIS WERE TWENTY CENTURIES AGO. F this were twenty centuries ago, And three wise men should seek my house, and say: " We bring glad tidings ! Christ is born to-day; Arise, and follow yonder star, whose glow Will lead you to the child ! " would I obey, If this were twenty centuries ago? From out my urn of precious, hoarded things Would I make haste to pour the richest share If this were Twenty Centuries Ago. 33 For him? The sweetest of my per fumes spare To bathe the feet of the young King of kings? Or break the costliest ointment on his hair From out my urn of precious, hoarded things? Alas ! I dare not say this would I do, Since I have slighted many another guest That came from God, have stayed from many a quest That would have led me to the good and true, To slumber on with head upon my breast ; Nay, nay ! I dare not say this would I do. My best resolves like shifting shadows are; Each day some holy light shines on unsought, 34 If this were Twenty Centuries Ago. And while my silly, fluttering wings are caught .By the world's rosy candle, Christ's own star How can I tell? might beckon me for naught; My best resolves like shifting shadows are. And when Christ comes again, as come he will And wise ones hasten forth with rapt delight To welcome him, and own his kingly right, Will men be questioning and doubting still, As when upon that first, far Christmas night, - When Christ shall come again, as come he will? THE SLIGHTED FLOWERS. HE slept ; and the dream of Heaven With its rapturous surprise, Had folded the silken lashes Over the tender eyes; And the peace which passeth knowl edge Seemed, to our mortal sight, To circle the pallid forehead With a ring of holy light. She lay while we piled the lilies, Like drifts of odorous snow, On the breast whose thoughts were whiter Than milkiest flowers that blow. 36 The Slighted Flowers. We braided them in her tresses, Their petals caressed her face, But she who had loved the lilies Was heedless now of their grace. She slighted the timid beauty Of violets, chaste and sweet, That trailed like a purple ribbon From girdle to unshod feet. And she uttered no word of chiding, When we crushed a rose in our hand; So we knew by these silent tokens She had gone to the Unknown Land. MARY WAKEFIELD. GAINST the painted hell of Angelo I set this living picture of despair: A burning ship, strong men distraught with woe, Rough seamen's oaths, which meant not oaths, but prayer; White pleading faces, little children's cries, And women's arms flung upward to the skies ! 38 Mary Wakefidd. Along the burning deck a woman sped While the red horror close and closer pressed Until its hot breath scorched her baby's head, Hiding itself within her throbbing breast; When, shrinking backward from the flames' mad kiss, She reeled into the water's black abyss ! Poor mother ! Was it granted her to see, Ere sight was veiled by the engulfing wave, The noble girl whose arms so lustily Wrested from her the babe she could not save ; And dared, in a baptismal scene so wild, To stand as sponsor to this orphaned child? Mary Wakefield. 39 And this was Mary Wakefield. Daunt less girl, Who, with a child across her shoulder thrown, Set out to wage with death against the whirl Of those mad waves, hand-fettered and alone ! A deed that gave her right to stand erect With seraphim, nor show them disre spect ! With one firm hand she held against the tide The sobbing child. The other tightly grasped A fender swinging from the steamer's side, By a stout cable to the railing clasped ; She drew the heavy beam on inch by inch Toward the nearest flame, nor did she flinch 40 Mary Wakefield. Though the hot tongues came hissing at her brow. With patient toil she guided on the rope To where the flame could bite at it ; and now She has the joyful answer to her hope ! It burns asunder, and the heavy beam Drops down before her into the black stream ! Upon this strange steed's back she then set down The little child. And pushing on before Holding between her teeth the baby's gown, She struck out bravely for the distant shore, A league away, with well-aimed, steady strides, While on its dripping steed the baby rides ! Mary Wakefield. 41 As rose and fell the girl's white oars, the rain Thrummed its dull monotone. The thunders rolled Their heavy drums. The wind swept a refrain. Some distant bells the hour of mid night told. And now and then the lightning's vivid thread Through the thick darkness wove a seam of red ! Strong men went shuddering down to death that night, Whose arms were like to knitted strands of steel, While this slight girl waged an unequal fight For two making no loud appeal To God, but praying mutely with her arms, Seeking the while to sooth the child's alarms ! 42 Mary Wake field. " Hush, little one ! Home is not far away, And I am here holding you by your gown, Just as old Rover holds you when at play; And with my strong arms plashing up and down, I make your queer horse gallop to the shore, And baby shall be cold and wet no more ! " Then, with a tenderness almost divine, She tried to thrust a merry nursery song Through her shut teeth ; and while each panting line Smote on her jaded breath like smart ing thong, I think God ringed her with an unseen crown, And every face in heaven bent softly down ! Mary Wakefield. 43 And thus she won the shore. There on the sands A seaman lay, half naked, cold and faint. Unfastening her gown with shivering hands, She laid it on him. Then this gentle saint Lifted the sleeping baby to her breast, And toiled, half-fainting, to a place of rest! THE WEARY MODEL. NE day, an artist in his studio, Upon his model draped a quaint old gown, Of some rare Indian stuff, wove long ago Of countless mellow shades of gold and brown, Sunshine and shadow, like the shining hair That Raphael made his sweet Madonnas wear. Silent and passive, as if carved of stone, Stood the young model in her love liness ; The Weary Model, 45 For now the tireless artist sought alone To paint the gold-brown shimmer of the dress ; Nor must she stir the robe which flashed and shone, Hers to be patient and be wrought upon. At last the sinuous folds were all com plete ; Like a soft wave they bathed the pliant girl, And, rippling from the shoulders to the feet, Fell on the carpet in a silken swirl : And then the painter on his canvas wrought, Trying to paint the language of his thought. All day the magic colors softly flowed, Until it seemed as if some wondrous spell 46 The Weary Model. Possessed the hour, and like a radiance glowed In the fair lines that on his canvas fell: And as the hours, down-shod, went slipping past, His dream of fame seemed blossoming at last. See how the witchery of that old dress Makes a soft mirror of the canvas, where, The artist, with a lover's tenderness, Bestows faint glints of lustre here and there ! Almost to his quick fancy the folds stir With their old scents of rosemary and myrrh ! Just then the weary girl forgetful grew And swept a hand along each flowing line, The Weary Model. 47 Alas, a hundred ripples straightway flew In answer to that little heedless sign ! The glistening folds were changed from belt to hem, All the familiar grace gone out of them. The startled girl looked in the artist's face And read the story of his loss and pain. She could not call the lines back to their place, Regret and sighing were alike in vain, Naught can revive an inspiration dead ; The golden vision had forever fled ! What lesson, O my soul, is here for thee That chideth this poor model over much? To stand henceforth more still and patiently 48 The Weary Model. Beneath the fashioning of God's fine touch ! For ah, what grace by the Great Artist planned Has been effaced by thy impatient hand! PARTING COMRADES. DIEU, kind Life, though thou hast often been Lavish of quip, and scant of courtesy, Beneath thy roughness I have found in thee A host who doth my parting favor win. Friend, teacher, sage, and sometimes harlequin, Thine every mood hath held some good for me, Nor ever friendlier seemed thy company Than on this night when I must quit thine inn. 4 50 Parting Comrades. I love thee, Life, in spite of thy rude ways ! Dear is thy pleasant house, so long my home. I thank thee for the hospitable days, The friends, the rugged cheer. Then, landlord, come ! Pour me a stirrup cup, our parting nears ; I ever liked thy wine, though salt with tears. UNSEEN GUESTS. have come back the absent whom you miss To pledge with you before the feast is done : You do not feel our tender clasp and kiss, Nor hear us softly enter one by one. Your voices drown our signals faint and low, But pledge your unseen guests before you go. We waft our souls to you as thistle- blooms Launch on the winds their airy mar iners, O Hearts ! Spread wide for us your pleasant rooms, 52 Unseen Guests. Nor coldly greet the eager travellers ! From your fair loving cup a draught bestow On friends of " auld lang syne," before you go. Our memory spells the very flowers you wear, The roses in their crystal chalices ! She knows the tricks of speech, of eyes, of hair : Ah ! 't is a faithful tapestry she weaves ! And since so fair and true her colors show, Then fill to Memory before you go. And who can tell? Perhaps they too are here, Our angels whom we wrongly name our dead! Leaving their bliss awhile to linger near Some heart that joy hath left unten- anted. Unseen Guests. 53 Ah, friends ! They may be nearer than we know, Then pledge them tenderly before you go! Why do we call them dead from whose hot grasp God kindly takes a tear-embittered bowl, And sets instead within the longing clasp His perfect cup of rapture? Nay, sad soul ! Name not God's richest gift to mortals so, But quaff to Life, full Life, before you go! Love is the pilot of our silent crew; No boat so stanch, no sails so trim and white. Full well he knew the path that led to you Through trackless air, and sea, and moonless night. 54 Unseen Guests. Nor aught cares he how wild the March winds blow ! Then fill a glass to Love before you go. Good-bye ! Good-bye ! though Love hath many ports Where winds are soft and ships may lie at rest, Home is the sheltered bay he fondliest courts, Home is the little harbor he loves best. Hither we sail away, yo ho ! yo ho ! Then drain the glass to Home before you go. THREESCORE AND TEN. AM past my threescore years and ten ; I have quaffed full cups of bliss and bane; Grown drunk on folly like other men, With its present sweet and after-pain ; I have had my share of cloud and sun ; And what is it all, when all is done? We have had our frolic, Life and I ; Jovial comrades we used to be. Full sails to-day, with a silver sky, Anon dead calm and a sullen sea. Now I fear the waves, so I hug the shore With my tattered sail and broken oar. 56 Threescore and Ten. I have worn love's flower upon my breast, And said my prayers to a woman's face. The saints forgive us ! If men addressed Such orisons to the heavenly Grace, They would upward mount, as strong birds do, And answer bring from the heavenly blue! I have known the best that life can hold Of fame and fortune, love and power. And when my riotous blood grew cold, I cheered with books the lingering hour; Banqueting on the costly wine Which Genius pours from her flagons fine. Yet I would rather lie to-day Where orchard blooms drift down their snow, And feel lost youth in my pulses play, Threescore and Ten. 5 7 Its rosy wine in my hot cheeks glow ; I would rather be young, and foolish, forsooth, Than own the baubles we buy with youth. I would barter fortune, fame, and power, All knowledge gained of books and men, For my old delight at the first spring flower, A robin's egg, or a captured wren From its nest hid under the tossing plume Of a sweet, old-fashioned lilac bloom. With the world's stale feast I am sur feited ; I long to-day for the old-time thrill At the purple pomp of a pansy bed, Or the fresh spring scent of a daffodil. Alas, I shall never be thrilled again ! I am old, yes, past threescore and ten. A MARCH WEDDING. M PATIENT lovers, have you then no care That summer holds a month divinely fair; When laughing brooks and softly whis pering trees Chime with the tune of birds and hum of bees ; When color, light, and perfume every where, Toss out their sumptuous banners to the air? Wait, then, for June, and pin the bridal veil With hyacinths and lilies sweet and pale. A March Wedding. 59 And yet, what matter how the March winds blow? You make your own fair summer as you go; Love hath, like death, all seasons for her own, And in each month sets up her rosy throne. And I, worn, weary, and oppressed with care, The dust of travel white upon my hair, Would give the listless years now left to me For one swift moment of your ecstasy ! A GIFT OF GENTIANS. E timid, fluttering things, whose fringes rare Are dipped in colors drawn from babies' eyes ; Whose robe of gossamer is spun of air, In the same loom with June's deli cious skies ; Whose dainty hems, and skirts so silken fine, The fairies trust no awkward brush to trace ; Much do I marvel that, with added line, A mortal's hand can paint each flower- face ! But know you not the one who sought you out A Gift of Gentians. 61 Holds in his palm such magic strong and fine That it has even wrapped thy grace about With something more delightful and divine? And so, with glad obeisance, do I greet Our first acquaintance, tender, blue- eyed things ! For with a benediction good and sweet, You fold within my hands your feathery wings. And from this day your azure wells shall be The mirror of a face so true and good, Your sweet suggestions can but be to me The impulse to a better womanhood ! HIS BIRTHDAY. HE day the Christ-child's tender eyes Unveiled their beauty on the earth, God lit a new star in the skies To flash the message of his birth; And wise men read the glowing sign, And came to greet the Child divine. Low kneeling in the stable's gloom Their precious treasures they un rolled ; The place was rich with sweet perfume; Upon the floor lay gifts of gold. And thus, adoring, they did bring To Christ the earliest offering. His Birthday. . 63 I think no nimbus wreathed the head Of the young King so rudely throned ; The quilt of hay beneath him spread The sleepy kine beside him owned ; And here and there in the torn thatch The sky thrust in a starry patch. Oh, when was new-born monarch shrined Within such canopy as this? The birds have cradles feather-lined; And for their new babes princesses Have sheets of lace without a flaw, His pillow was a wisp of straw ! He chose this way, it may have been, That those poor mothers, everywhere, Whose babies in the world's great inn Find scanty cradle-room and fare, As did the babe of Bethlehem, May find somewhat to comfort them. 64 His Birthday. Thus was he born. And since that time We crown the day with wreath and song; The bells laugh out in merry chime, And he his royal Guest doth wrong Who welcomes him with gloomy fears, Or salts the birthday feast with tears. COMING HOME. HAVE come to the dear old threshold, With eager, hurrying feet, To scent the odorous lilies That once were so white and sweet. To taste the apricots mellow That crimson the garden wall ; To gather the golden pippins That down in the orchard fall. I passed by the uncut hedges, And up through the thistled walk, And beside the fall of my footsteps There was only the crickets' talk. The weeds grew high in the arbor, And the nettles, rank and tall, Had throttled the sweet-breathed lilies That leaned on the latticed wall. 5 66 Coming Home. The little white house is empty, Its ceilings are cobwebbed o'er, And the dust and mould are lying Thick on the trackless floor. There are no prints in the doorway, No garments hung in the hall, And the ghosts of death and silence Sit and gloat over all ! No eager faces of children Brightened the window-pane, Never a peal of laughter Rippled along the lane; So I turned through the daisies yellow, That nodded to see me pass, To seek for the mellow pippins That drop in the orchard grass. But I found a worm in my apples, And flung them sadly away ; The pool that I thought eternal All foul and poisonous lay. Coming Home. 67 A black snake crept from its hiding And hissed in the marshes wild, And I bent my head in the rushes And sobbed like a homesick child ! A THANKSGIVING PRAYER. OR toil that is a medicine for woe, For strength that grows with every lifted cross, For thorns, since with each thorn a rose did grow, For gain that I have wrongly reck oned loss, For ignorance, where it were harm to know, Teach me to thank thee, Lord. For cups of honeyed pleasure thou didst spill Before their foam had quenched my purer sense ; For that my soul has power to struggle still, A Thanksgiving Prayer. 69 Though panting in the trappings of pretence ; And for mistakes that saved from greater ill, Teach me to thank thee, Lord. That thou dost ravel out the tinselled thread Of my poor work I thought so bravely done; That thou dost show me every flimsy shred In the thin coat of honor I have spun, And pluck'st the slender garland from my head, Teach me to thank thee, Lord. For ills averted, all unseen by me, For darkened days that healed my dazzled eyes, For suffering which brought a com pany 70 A Thanksgiving Prayer. Of gentle ministers, in stern disguise; For weariness, which made me lean on thee, Teach me to thank thee, Lord. For chalices of tears that thou dost pour, For unrequited love and wounded pride; If they but tempt my lonesome heart the more To seek the faithful shelter of thy side; For homelessness, which drives me to thy door, Teach me to thank thee, Lord. THE INN OF REST. OILING among my garden thorns one day, While in a stirless swoon the hot air lay, A traveller passed toward the glowing west, Who seemed intent upon some cheer ful quest, For with a song he did beguile the way. Perhaps some question stirred within my eyes, For thus he spake : " In yonder valley lies, Among the murmurous trees, the Inn called Rest; Where all the pillows are with poppies strewn, Where toil-worn feet are shod with silken shoon, 72 The Inn of Rest. And bed of down awaits each jaded guest; I haste at this good Inn to make request, For see ! the dial marks the hour of noon." "God grant," I cried, "you reach that threshold soon ! " The singer passed, and in the winding lane I lost at length the thread of his refrain. One Sabbath eve, consoled and com forted By chant and prayer at vesper-service said, With a Laus Deo thrilling through my pain, I left the church, and careless where I went, Behind its ivied walls my footsteps bent, Among the low green tents where dwell the dead. The Inn- of Rest. 73 The chill winds sobbed among the grasses sere Which thatched the narrow roofs. The sky was drear, And drops of rain fell on my down-bent head. Turning to go, upon a stone I read A name, and dropped upon these words a tear : " He sought an Inn of Rest, and found it here." A STRADIVARIUS VIOLIN. HE music of this ancient violin Is haunted as men's chambers sometimes are. Along the liquid ladder of each bar Phantoms of pleasure dance ; Regret steals in, With happier ghosts, and Fate her wheel doth spin. Torn butterflies of hope a breath did mar Here flutter, like the flame within a star. And if thou wouldst, O soul, nepenthe win, Pause not beside this portal, lest thou hear The voice of thy dead sorrow whis pering near ! A Stradivarius Violin. 75 For every passion that thy life hath known, Anguish benumbed, and love thou thought'st flown, Among these peerless octaves veiled, wait To speak to thee across the stringed gate. AN OCTOBER BANQUET. ]ITH many a curve of her brown wrist, The hospitable vine, In clustered bowls of amethyst, Hands down her unpressed wine. A gentle courtesy is hers ; She works her guests no ill; The simple goblet she confers Imparts no fever-thrill. I fling the drained and broken cups Among the garden trees ; While butterfly comes down and sups Upon the honeyed lees. TRUST. ITHIN the slender chalice of thy hand Hold fast what I give thee ; and drop down, too, The fringes of those tender flowers of blue, Thy wondering eyes, nor question nor withstand What I may give. Perhaps my love hath planned Some sweet surprise, or test if love be true. What if it be a sprig of bitterest rue, A swift, strange summons to an un known land, A hurting thorn, a cross? Strange gifts, 1 know, 78 Trust. For love to bring ; but wouldst thou trust me still? Quick, dear, thine answer! " I should trust until The hidden meaning in thy gift should show." Ah, sweet ! when God sends just such gifts to thee Canst thou not answer him as thou dost me? THE PERFECT NICHE. IKE some rare structure seen but in our dreams, And builded of aerial warp and woof, Milan Cathedral to my vision seems, With its fair towers and transcendent roof. I see it now as on that perfect day, When last I climbed to where its glistening spires, Like a great field of sculptured lilies lay, Fadeless and bright beneath the noonday fires. 8o The Perfect Niche. Through the rich fretwork the Italian sky Thrusts its fine color, like an azure flower ; And in the silent night the stars on high Hang their soft lamps within each slender tower. And niched away within the airy loft, Where the bell's clamor wounds the quiet air, And the world's noises grow subdued and soft When they have climbed to the white chambers there, ' Within an arch, enriched with chiselled lace, Is a pure image, by Canova wrought, Where none may mount its snowy lines to trace, Or read the graceful language of his thought. The Perfect Niche. 81 Art may not slake her eager, burning gaze Beside this frozen fountain of delight ; Nor golden hammer break the carven vase That hides the costly incense from our sight. Like one white petal of a perfect bloom, Enfolded where no human eye can see, Canova's statue stands through sun and gloom, And makes its shrine a snowy har mony. O life, my life ! that cravest larger place, Prating of rusted gifts, of pinioned feet, Peace ! thou wilt need thine own and borrowed grace, If thou wouldst make thy narrow niche complete. 6 CHRIST HAS RISEN! sad-faced mourners, who each day are wending Through churchyard paths of cypress and of yew, Leave, for to-day, the low graves you are tending, And lift your eyes to God's eternal blue! Leave, for to-day, all murmuring and sadness ; Twine Easter lilies, and not aspho dels; Let your souls answer to the thrill of gladness, And to the melody of Easter bells. Christ Has Risen! 83 If Christ were still within the grave's low prison, A captive to the enemy you dread ; If from that mouldering cell he had not risen, Who then could chide the bitter tears you shed? Poor hearts ! the butterfly, with pinions golden, Spurns the gray cell which erst its freedom barred ; And the freed soul, with wings no longer holden, Smiles back on life as on a broken shard. If Christ were dead, you would have need to sorrow; But he has risen, and conquered death for aye ! Then dry your tears, if only till the morrow ; Arise, and give your grief a holiday ! " BEHOLD, I STAND AT THE DOOR." HEAR thy knock, O Lord, but, woe is me ! I have been busy in the world's great mart, And have no table spread within my heart, Nor any room made beautiful for thee With burnished lamp and sprigs of rosemary; And should thy stainless hands the curtains part, Thy tender eyes would miss the joyous start, The happy tears, the reverent ecstasy. " "Behold, I Stand at the Door." 85 Neglected is the house thy love doth lend; The ashes of dead fires bestrew the hearth ; And still I hear thy voice. O Heavenly Friend, Come down to sup with me upon the earth, What if at last thou shouldst the slight repay, And welcome me as I do thee to-day? DEAD BIRDS AND EASTER. T was an Easter morning, bright and calm, And life, not death, was the glad theme that day; The air was full of spring's delicious balm ; The maple buds were drooping on the way ; And one sweet leaf, with flush of crim son on it, Fell on the dead birds of a woman's bonnet. What say the bells at these good Easter times? They tell of vanquished death and risen life. Dead Birds and Easter. 87 Hush, then, O bells, your inconsistent chimes, You and the dull old world are hard at strife ; For surely, when the crimson leaf fell on it, I saw dead birds upon a woman's bonnet ! What does it cost, this garniture of death ? It costs the life which God alone can give ; It costs dull silence where was music's breath ; It costs dead joy, that foolish pride may live. Ah, life, and joy, and song depend upon it Are costly trimmings for a woman's bonnet ! 88 Dead Birds and Easter. Oh, who would stop the sweet pulse of a lark, That flutters in such ecstacy of bliss, Or lay a robin's bright breast cold and stark, For such a paltry recompense as this? Oh, you who love your babies, think upon it, Mothers are slaughtered, just to trim your bonnet ! Will Herod never cease to rule the land, That we must slay sweet innocency so? Is joy so cheap, or happiness sure planned? Tell me, O friend, who art acquaint with woe ! Does thy sad heart proclaim no protest on it? Wouldst thou slay happiness, just for a bonnet? Dead Birds and Easter. 89 And must God's choirs that through his forests rove, Granting sweet matinees to high and low, Must his own orchestra of field and grove Himself their leader be disbanded so? Nay, nay! O God, proclaim thy ban upon it, Guard thy dear birds from sport, and greed, and bonnet ! Their fine-spun hammocks, swinging in the breeze, Should be as safe as babies' cradles are; And no rude hand that tears them from the trees, Or dares a sweet bird's property to mar, 90 Dead Birds and Easter. Deserves a woman's touch or kiss upon it, Unless she wears dead birds upon her bonnet! Dead birds ! and dead for gentle woman's sake, To feed awhile her vanity's poor breath ; And yet the foolish bells sweet clamor make And tell of One whose power hath van quished death ! Ah, Easter-time has a reproach upon it While birds are slain to trim a woman's bonnet! PURPLE ASTER. RAVELY my sweet flower resists Heat of August, autumn cold ; And though she has amethysts For her dower, and some gold, Never roadside beggar passed her Without nod from purple aster. Dear plebeian, but for thee And thy lover, golden-rod, Lonesomer the road would be Which the country folk must plod ; And each little maid and master Would regret thee, purple aster ! When November winds blow chill, And the fields are brown and sear, You will find her, cheerful still, With her lover standing near, While old Winter fast and faster Comes to claim brave purple aster. AURORA BOREALIS. HE northern cheek of the heavens, By a sudden glory kissed, Blushed to the tint of roses, And hid in an amber mist, And through the northern pathway, Trailing her robe of flame, The queenly Borealis In her dazzling beauty came ! I stood and watched the tilting Of each dainty, rosy lance, As it seemed to pierce the bosom Of an emerald expanse ; And I thought if heaven's gateway Is so very fair to see, What must the inner glory Of the "many mansions" be? Aurora Borealis. 93 I thought of the " Golden City," Where the wondrous lights unfurl ; Of its sea of clearest crystal, Of its gates, each one a pearl ; Thought, till the glowing splendor Had quietly passed us by, And the track of Aurora's chariot Bleached out from the northern sky ! MEXICO. ITHIN thy blue-domed Garden of Delight, Dwells the elusive Spirit of Content, And makes thy people's lot benefi cent. With thee her wings forget their trick of flight, And brood above thy dwellers day and night. For thee Euterpe brings her blandish ment, And Beauty hath her cornucopia spent. Thy winds are sheathed with velvet, and their might Is tempered to the little naked child. Mexico. 95 God made thee for the old and shelter less, And bids fair Nature hide her moods morose. Thy patios with violets are tiled, The air enfolds thee in its warm caress, And Summer never bids thee adios! WEAKNESS. ;HAT ills escape upon the world Through the loose meshes of a pliant will ! Weakness is an ignoble mistress ; still, While Passion may with bolder weapons slay, Insidious Weakness doth hold equal sway, For with such drugs she does men's senses fill, They sleep upon her knees, nor dream of ill; Then Samson has the old sad price to pay. Weakness. 97 From Pilate's hand she drew the sceptre down ; For while he cried, " What evil hath He done?" " He feared the people " and King Caesar's frown More than the anguish of the Sinless One, And Weakness made him miss the truest fame That ever stooped to crown a ruler's name ! SOME VIOLETS. EAR friend, I give thee violets ; And for my fee, The fragrant secret of thy life Disclose to me. For through it, like a guiding thread, I scent the rue, And faintly track the odorous feet Of heart's-ease too. Reach down on patient cords to me Thy brimming cup Of wise, sweet thoughts, that I may drink, And thus toil up To where thou art, so meekly high, So far away, I can but kiss my eager hands To thee to-day. Some Violets. 99 Or, if I may not reach so high, Then be it so ; If I may sit beside thy feet, 'T will not be low. And, listening soft, my soul may catch In some far sense The tuneful impulse of a life Serene, intense. Ah, me ! I do but spoil my work With clumsy phrase ; And mar, with my uncultured speech, Where I would praise. So I will lay my heart's-ease down At thy kind feet ; Regretting sore their broken stems, Their vanished sweet, Yet praying that their faded blue Some type may be Of the fair badge my heart shall wear Always for thee ! WE ARE UNFAITHFUL. F man could rule, his love of change would mar The purple dignity that wraps the hills ; Pluck out from the blue sky some per fect star, And set it elsewhere, as his fancy wills : Train the gnarled apple-tree more straightly up ; Lift violet's head, so long and meekly bowed ; With some new odor fill her purple cup, And gild the rosy fringes of a cloud. We are Unfaithful. 101 For, mark ! last year I loved the violet best, And tied her tender colors in my hair ; To-day I wear on my inconstant breast A crimson rose, and count her just as fair. We are unfaithful. Only God is true To hold secure the landmarks of the past, To paint year after year the harebell blue, And in the same sweet mould its shape to cast. Oh, steadfast Nature, let us learn of thee! Thou canst create a new flower at thy will, And yet through all the years canst faithful be To the sweet pattern of a daffodil. THE BURIAL OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN* |E mourn for him whose soul on heights divine Has reached the stature of the undefiled, In whom a judgment ripe and honor fine Were blended with the nature of a child; Whose pen with patient toil and godlike grace Picked out the puzzled knot of slavery ; Unclasped the gyves that bound a hap less race, And dared to write " the bondman shall be free." * Written by request, for the occasion of the depositing of Abraham Lincoln's remains in the tomb at Oak Ridge Cemetery, Spring field, 111. The Burial of Abraham Lincoln. 103 The kind humanities that graced his life, The tenderness which through his justice shone ; The sympathy that softened human strife And made a brother's suffering his own ; The life which shadowed forth the per fect plan Of heaven's law of equity and right : Such were the attributes, and such the man Whom death has hidden from our mortal sight. His deeds move Onward, though his life is done; His words still sway us like a mighty host. " Write down," he said, " my humble name as one Whose love of country was his highest boast." io4 The Burial of Abraham Lincoln. O man of men, whose name we all revere ! The dearest name in Liberty's fair crown ! < Only thy corse rests in these chambers here; Death cannot touch thy honor and renown ! Along the years his gentle words shall fall, " With malice towards none, with charity for all ; " And men shall write in tears upon his grave, " He bound the nation, and unbound the slave." CRITICISM. SONG-SPARROW who had her choice of place PH 1^. * S-r* . _?/* i-pt , * I he orchards over, Espied within a bare, unsheltered space A tuft of clover; And here, almost beneath the passers' feet, Her nest confided, While robin, with a trill of laughter sweet, Softly derided. An English sparrow, curious at her choice, Peeped boldly under, And cried out, in his pert plebeian voice, " Oh, what a blunder ! " io6 Criticism. But when the roses came, I sought the nest Of my brown sitter, And heard, beneath her patient brood ing breast, Young sparrows twitter. And when the withered roses strewed the ground, The fields were ringing With the delicious and uncertain sound Of young birds singing. It was the sparrows, safely fledged ! and yet To human reason That open nest, amid such dangers set, Seemed arrant treason. And while these birds, serene and un afraid, As in a tower, Dwelt in the careless nest that they had made Beneath a flower, Criticism. 107 A wind had rent the sturdy apple-tree, Where robin nested ; And from their snug, round bed her babies three Were rudely wrested. WHITE VIOLETS. E sought for the white violet, My little love and I ; Among the pastures cool and wet, Our feet in eager quest were set The dainty bloom to spy. We knew where purple ones and blue Were thick as stars at night; But all our forest journeys through We had not found a spot where grew A violet of white. Like some sweet nun, ethereal thin, You 'd know her anywhere, With snowy wimple folded in About her pale and serious chin, And head bent as in prayer. White l/iolets. 109 In firry cloisters, spicy sweet, We sought our pale-faced nun. No trace was here of her light feet; Only a spider, trim and neat, Sat in the door and spun. Where the May-apple leaves had spread A tent of shining green, A moth in his gray hammock stayed, A hermit snail sulked in the shade, But Violet was not seen. The snowy star of Bethlehem Twinkled beside our way; The forest's fern-embroidered hem Glowed with red lilies, stem on stern : But where did Violet stay? "Why seek white violets alone, My love," at last I cried, " When banks with purple ones are strewn, Fit for the cover of a throne, And coronet beside?" no WUte Violets. " Things won," she said, " with little care Are seldom coveted ; White violets, like pearls, are rare, Like amethysts the purple are, I choose the pearls," she said. We heard the insects' drowsy croon, Bees in the thistles slept ; The wood-thrush piped his liquid tune, The morn led up to sultry noon, The noon to evening crept. We found not one white violet ; We know not where they grow. But there are fairer treasures yet, Sometimes, in woods and hollows wet, As we who found them know. IN PRISON. OD pity the wretched prisoners, In their lonely cells to-day; Whatever the sins that tripped them, God pity them, still I say. Only a strip of sunshine, Cleft by rusty bars ; Only a patch of azure, Only a cluster ot stars ; Only a barren future To starve their hope upon ; Only stinging memories Of love and honor gone; Only scorn from women, Only hate from men, Only remorse to whisper Of a life that might have been. ii2 In Prison. Once they were little children, And perhaps their unstained feet Were led by a gentle mother Toward the golden street; Therefore, if in life's forest They since have lost their way, For the sake of her who loved them, God pity them, still I say. O mothers, gone to heaven ! With earnest heart I ask That your eyes may not look earthward On the failure of your task ! For even in those mansions The choking tears would rise, Though the fairest hand in heaven Should wipe them from your eyes ! And you, who judge so harshly, Are you sure the stumbling-stone That tripped the feet of others Might not have bruised your own? In Prison. 113 Are you sure the sad-faced angel Who writes our errors down, Will ascribe to you more honor Than to those on whom you frown? Or, if a steadier purpose Unto your life is given, A stronger will to conquer, A smoother path to heaven ; If, when temptations meet you, You crush them with a smile ; If you can chain pale passion And keep your lips from guile, Then bless the Hand that crowned you, Remembering, as you go, 'T was not your own endeavor That shaped your nature so ; And sneer not at the weakness Which made a brother fall, For the hand that lifts the fallen God loves the best of all ! ii4 In Prison. And pray for the wretched prisoners All over the land to-day, That a holy Hand in pity May wipe their guilt away. OBSCURITY. IKE jewels hid in Ethiopian's breast The forest wears its orchids, and the sea Hath richer pearls than glow in any mart ; Nature despiseth not obscurity. She paints a world of rainbow-tinted things Upon the curtains of her solitudes ; And gems the air with countless flashing things, In places where no human foot in trudes. Nor does she send her wood-thrush where its notes Will win the noisy plaudits of the street ; n6 Obscurity. Along the leafy aisles its echoes float, And mingle with pine odours moist and sweet. What matter that no ear the song hath heard? That no applause along the dim woods ran? God needed just the music of this bird To round the perfect octave of His plan. A FLOWER SERMON. FOUND, within a churchyard gray, A marigold abloom one day, And hotly said, " Oh, saucy elf, Shame on thy pert and graceless self To flaunt thy robes of yellow bloom Among the shadows of the tomb, And o'er the faces of the dead To nod thy disrespectful head ! There is no fitness in thy dress, Nor art thou modest, thus to press Thy gaudy presence in the place Where gladness never shows its face." The startled flower replied : " What claim Hast thou to judge me ? Or what shame Should burn my cheeks because I wear This yellow dress, which is my share Of Nature's brightness, given to grace The sombre shadows of this place? n8 A Flower Sermon. I cannot harm the sleeping dead Because I toss my golden head ; 'T is all God meant for me to do, To nod and smile the summer through. Nor do I laugh while others weep Through any malice, but to keep God's perfect plan for my small life, Unmarred by dissonance or strife ; For this I bloom beside a grave, And wear the color that he gave." I turned my flushing face away; Nor will I try another day To question any thought or plan That God designs for flower or man. Some lives are blithe their journey through, While others early find the rue. Whatever color God hath wrought Into our life or plan or thought, He knows the best. There is no flaw Nor dulness in God's perfect law ! THE NEW MESSAGE. F ghosts of women dead a cen tury Steal back to earth, Then verily to-night one talked to me Upon my hearth. And the pathetic minor of her tones, Liquid with tears, Was like a plaintive murmur from far zones And distant years. " Think not that I am come to you," she said, " This hallowed night To gossip of the secrets of the dead Or tell their plight. 120 The New Message. " I could not sleep ; for lo ! the Christ mas bells A new tune rang: 1 New birth to woman ! ' loud the paean swells In rhythmic clang. " ' New birth to woman ! ' Once no right had she To choose her place ; Nor place had she save as man's cour tesy Did grant her grace. " Sometimes, by beauty, trick, or acci dent, Grim fate she crossed ; But when from her obeisance she unbent, Her power was lost. " O woman ! fitly robed at last, and crowned With dignity; The New Message. 121 Walking with lifted head your chosen round, Unfettered, free; " The barbarous traditions of the past Loosed from your feet; Life's richest goblet held to you at last, Brimming and sweet, " Forget not those for whom too late, alas ! Dawn flushed the sky, And to their spirits drain a silent glass. Of such am I. " Hark to the Christmas bells ! ' Good will toward men, Peace on the earth ! ' 'And unto woman ! ' chime they forth again ' New birth ! New birth ! ' " 1 2 2 The New Message. If ghosts of women dead a century Steal back to earth, Then this same hour one came and talked to me Beside my hearth. CHRISTMAS ROSES. GAVE into a brown and tired hand A stem of roses, sweet and creamy white. I know the bells rang merry tunes that night, For it was Christmas-time throughout the land, And all the skies were hung with lan terns bright. The brown hand held my roses awk wardly ; They seemed more white within their dusky vase ; The pale face glowed with pleasure and with praise : 124 Christmas Roses. " These are for daintier hands than mine ! " cried she ; " Such beauty was riot fashioned for my gaze." Nay, tired one ! Think, rather, that for you These flowers have struggled upward from the clay And journeyed on their patient, leafy way Brimming their cups with light, per fume, and dew, To lay them in your palm this Christ mas day. "AVERAGE" PEOPLE. HE genius soars far to the foun tain That feeds the snow-cap in the sky; But though our wings break in the flying, And though our souls faint in the trying, Our flight cannot follow so high ; And the eagle swoops not from the mountain To answer the ground-bird's low cry. The world has a gay guerdon ready To hail the fleet foot in the race ; But on the dull highway of duty, Aloof from the pomp and the beauty, i26 "Average" People. The stir and the chance of the chase, Are toilers, with step true and steady, Pursuing their wearisome pace. False prowess and noisy insistence May capture the garrulous throng; But the " average " father and brother, The home-keeping sister and mother, Grown gentle and patient and strong, Shall learn in the fast-nearing distance Wherein life's awards have been wrong. Then here 's to the " average" people, The makers of home and its rest ! To them the world turns for a blessing When life its hard burdens is press ing, For stay-at-home hearts are the best. Birds build if they will in the steeple, But safer the eaves for a nest. MARCH. N the dark silence of her cham bers low, March works out sweeter things than mortals know. Her noiseless looms ply on with busy care, Weaving the fine cloth that the flowers wear. She sews the seams in violet's queer hood, And paints the sweet arbutus of the wood. Out of a bit of sky's delicious blue She fashions hyacinths, and harebells too; iz8 March, And from a sunbeam makes a cowslip fair, Or spins a gown for daffodil to wear. She pulls the cover from the crocus beds And bids the sleepers lift their drowsy heads. She marshals the close armies of the grass, And polishes their green blades as they pass. And all the blossoms of the fruit-trees sweet Are piled in rosy shells about her feet. Within her great alembic she distils The dainty odor which each flower fills. Nor does she err, and give to migno nette The perfume which belongs to violet. March. 129 Nature does well whatever task she tries, Because obedient. Here the secret lies. What matter, then, that wild the March winds blow? Bear patiently her lingering frost and snow ! For all the sweet beginnings of the spring Beneath her cold brown breast lie flut tering. DISPROVED. CANNOT think the dead come ever back ; Else thou, my mother, wouldst not calmly lie Within thy grassy tent, but swiftly fly Back through the shadowy and lonely track To seek the child who does thy comfort lack. The bliss of heaven thou wouldst thy soul deny, And, though so weary, all its rest put by, Rather than loneliness my heart should rack. Do souls return, my mother, and thy kiss Anoints not my sad eyes? Come back and prove Disproved. 131 How deeper than the grave is thy dear love ! Never till now didst thou the pathway miss That led to me. Alas, no couriers move From heaven to earth ! Thine ab sence proveth this. SAILING AWAY. AILING away from our friendly shores, Passing the cloud-ships here and there, I watch the dip of your feathered oars, Wise little mariners of the air ! With map nor guide-book under your wing, You safely travel the azure track, And reckon the days from fall to spring With never a sign of an almanac. As I watch your flight to the summer- land, I long to sail with your merry crew; My caged heart flutters beneath my hand To try its wings in the upper blue. Sailing Away. 133 But I have no chart of your sun-lit shores ; And my heart is heavy, it cannot fly. Dip, dip, dip with your velvet oars ; Happier travellers you than I ! IF I COULD CHOOSE. WOULD not dare, though it were offered me, To plan my lot for but a sin gle day, So sure am I that all my life would be Marked with a blot in token of my sway. But were it granted me this day to choose One shining bead from the world's jewelled string, Favor and fortune I would quick refuse To grasp a richer and more costly thing. With this brave talisman upon my breast, I could be ruler of my rebel soul ; To own this gem is to command the rest : It is the Kohinoor called Self-Control I If I could Choose. 135 It is the sesame to broad estates, To peaceful slopes and mountains blue and fair ; Calm-browed Content beyond its border waits, And even Love sits in the sunshine there. No sullen faces frown upon the street, No grated windows, no grim prison walls ; No clanking chains are bound on con vict's feet, And on the ear no angry discord falls. My life's swift river widens to the sea, The careless babble of the brook is past; A few late roses blossom still for me, But spring is gone, and summer can not last. 136 If I could Choose. Had I begun with morning's rosy strength To seek the flower that on life's sum mit grows, I might have found my edelweis at length, And on the purple heights have gained repose. Put I have loitered, and the hour is late; Worn are my feet, and weary is my hand; I can but push ajar the massive gate ; I can but look into the Beulah land. But, friends, if my poor love could have its way, And blossom into blessing on each soul, This is the very prayer that I should pray: " Grant to men's lives the power of self-control ! " GOOD-BY. O-MORROW night, when the flush has fled From the beautiful face of day, And other lovers with clinging hands Under my lattices stray ; I shall sit in the dusk alone, And you will be far away. Perhaps we never shall meet again Till our burdens have been laid down, And we have passed through the grave's dark aisle, With its ceilings so low and brown, Into the warmth of the Father's smile, Or theshadow of his frown. 138 Good-By. And should I reach the end of the road Before your journey is done, I will lean and listen beside the gate For the travellers, one by one ; And when I have heard your foot- fall, love, My heaven will have begun ! "MY CUP RUNNETH OVER." UST for to-day may I not sing For gratitude alone, Nor interrupt my praise to bring Petitions to the throne? Just for to-day may I not eat From yesterday's full store? While gathered manna still is sweet, Shall I entreat for more? And yet, dear Lord, I cannot live One hour without thy care ; So in the cup of thanks I give Petition, too, must share. 140 "My Cup Runneth Over." I am too ignorant to name The blessings best for me ; The wisest prayer my lips can frame Is simpleness to thee. Yet take, O God, and Friend of friends, My chalice, poor and rude, Wherein one strong petition blends, Give me more gratitude ! IN EXTREMIS. HILE children lean their cheeks in drowsy prayer Against their mother's knees, and all the air Is sweet with vesper bell ; See the spent day against the sunset stand, Her smouldering torch down-drooping from her hand In token of farewell. With vague regret I watch each ebbing grace. Come, twilight, gentle nun, before her face 142 In Extremis. Shall cold and ashen be ; Fold thy gray veil above her as she lies, And sprinkle her with incense from thine eyes: She hath been kind to me. MELANCHOLY DAYS. HE vine upon the old church- wall Has dropped its scarlet gown, And stands, a discrowned cardinal, In a monk's garb of brown. Along each maple-bordered lane, Which Autumn late has trod, Her wounded feet have left a stain On every leaf and sod. And here, where its own spicy scent ItsJiiding has betrayed, Safe from the frost within the tent Some tattered leaves have made, 144 Melancholy Days. Is one belated pink as pale As some meek convent nun, Whose color fades behind her veil For want of wind and sun. The golden-rod, a spendthrift gay, Who poured for asking hands Palms-full of gold, himself to-day Rusty and ragged stands ! And now, like doves with cold, gray breasts, The snow-flakes flutter by, And brood within the empty nests Where young birds used to lie. Oh, who would guess that skies so cold Hold in their cloaks of gray The perfect blue and radiant gold Of Spring's delicious May? SNOWFLAKES. N their errand of purity softly they go, A million fair doves from the clouds swooping low ! They light in my window, and brood on my sill, With milky-white pinions down-folded and still. They tenderly flutter through by-way and street, And fold their wings over each stain that they meet; Until all the hedges, so ragged and bare, Seem dressed for a bridal resplendent and fair. 146 Snowflakes. Our little brown cottage is battered and worn, Its hinges are rusty, its shutters are torn ; But this morning the raggedest roof in the town Is shingled all over with feathers of down ! doves, as you light upon meadow and plain 1 wish you could cover man's weakness and stain ! Yes, I wish and I wish that the fast- falling snow Could brood with its pinions our faults here below! THE RAIN. HE brooks leaped up to catch it, And the breezes held their breath ; The lilies sprang up boldly, And shook their heads at death. The roses blushed to crimson At the kisses of the rain ; And the sun looked out and saw it With a flush of jealous pain. The thirsty little river, Through the faded grass that led, Began to flash and sparkle Like a chain of silver thread. It tinkled through the meadow Where the unraked clover lay, Lifting its rosy blossoms, As the rain-king passed that way. 148 The Rain. It left its fragrant blessing Along the dingy street; It cooled the heated pavement For the tread of tired feet ; It stole within the chamber Where a sick one longed for death, And filled the slender nostrils With its life-giving breath. Upon the fluttering pulses It laid a wondrous calm, And on the quivering eyelids It poured a slumberous balm. It drew from the hot forehead The burning darts of pain, And tired watchers slumbered, Lulled by its soft refrain. A POMPEIAN PREACHER. EAR, dainty little " Maiden Hair," Whose slender figure, trim and fair, Apparelled in the softest green, Seems fit for court of faerie queen, I marvel much that without fear Your tender life finds shelter here, Where silence, death, and grim decay Stalk like pale phantoms day by day ! No little child with dancing feet Embroiders, by its presence sweet, A thread of grace within the gloom That curtains every silent room. 150 A Pompeian Preacher. The sunshine, with its soft, warm feet, Shrinks back from the unfriendly street, And God's free light steals through the doors, And shivers on the marble floors. The timid lizard noiseless glides, The slothful snail in calm abides ; But nothing that is fresh or fair Dwells here save thee, dear " Maiden Hair!" The place where thou dost choose to be Was once a hall of equity ; A court, where Justice, stern and cold, Untouched by Mercy, ruled of old. Too delicate art thou, and fair, To dwell in such a chilling air; And yet, within these ruins gray, Thou livest thy perfect life to-day. A Pompeian Preacher. 151 Thou art a preacher, sweet and good, And this low niche where thou hast stood, Thy pulpit, from whose tiny walls A sermon, quaint and earnest, falls. O patient lives that sunless are, From whom bright fortune stands afar ! Ye came not to your present state By any careless chance ; but Fate, Whose name is God, hath planned it so, With kinder forethought than we know ! And if athwart thy web of gray, Thou runnest no brightness day by day, Be sure thou hast not wrought so well As this shy flower, whose name I tell, This dweller in Pompeian air, My little preacher, " Maiden Hair ! " EXPIATION. DEATH ! we call thee tyrant in our blindness, And yet thou showest us full gentle ways; And teachest far more charity and kind ness Than the gay flatterer, Life, whom most we praise ! The sword which we had bared for angry smiting Thou hidest in a sheath of flowers, O Death ! And wrongs we fancied needed stern requiting Fade out like morning mists at thy chaste breath. Expiation. 153 Before some vanished friend we swing our censer, And burn our candles at her empty shrine; As if for past neglect to recompense her, Or memory to drug with perfumes fine. We wound the living heart, yet clip the briers From roses that we lay in pulseless hands ; We build for frozen hearts our tardy fires, And pour love's chalice upon grave yard sands. *T was ever thus. Men scourged the living Saviour, And plaited thorns among His holy hair ; 154 Expiation. Then sought to expiate their mad be havior By climbing on their knees some sacred stair. Life hath one path to heights of expi ation, Where souls stung by remorse may gather balm; But by no single bound or swift trans lation May eager pilgrims reach their purple calm. The debt thou ovvest the dead, pay to the living; For every guilt-spot on thy memory Drop into some sad hand that needs thy giving A shining bead from love's rich rosary. Expiation. 155 Haste, if the debt be thine, for time is pressing ! Soon must the beads upon thy thread be spent, And thou set down thy cup of dole and blessing To pass within the curtain of Death's tent. WHAT WILL IT MATTER? HAT will it matter in a little while That for a day We met and gave a word, a touch, a smile, Upon the way? What will it matter whether hearts were brave, And lives were true; That you gave me the sympathy I crave, As I gave you? These trifles, can it be they make or mar A human life? Are souls as lightly swayed as rushes are, By love, or strife? What Will it Matter? 157 Yea, yea ! a look the fainting heart may break, Or make it whole : And just one word, if said for love's sweet sake, May save a soul ! YOUR BIRTHDAY. HIS is the day my friend was born to me ! " I cried this morning with a thrill and start ; " O birthday bells, ring out right merrily, And hang your banners out, my happy heart! It matters not what the storm-signals say, It is fair weather in my soul to-day ! " Not like all other days is this, O friend, And I would make some grateful, glad ado; What signal message can I straightway send To prove I consecrate the hours to you? Your Birthday. 159 I would salute each silent, shadowy mast Of your good years as they go sailing past. What have they brought to you, these phantom ships? Some silver dust, to sprinkle on the hair? A faded rose, to lay upon the lips? Some shining tears? A green grave here and there? A jagged cross? A tired brain and heart? Ah, friend, are these of thy rich freight a part? Or are they pirate ships whose dark offence Is stealing from us youth so fair and good? The " sweet first time " of glad expe rience 160 Your Birthday. Of hope, and dewy love, and parent hood? Is it for this their misty sails unfurl, Just to make plunder of our gold and pearl? Nay, nay ! if so, more fit were funeral knells And wreaths of cypress, one for each dead year, Than the sweet jangle of the joyous bells, The glad " God bless you ! " and the birthday cheer. God guides the years, and freights them as is best; Let us have patience till we know the rest. Ah, how like little children we are led Up to the threshold of the future years, To every waiting sorrow blindfolded, Your Birthday. 161 And all unconscious of to-morrow's tears ! And when to-morrow comes, we find it still Holds just the strength sufficient for its ill! O gentle Trust ! if to possess thy grace Needed long journeys to some ancient shrine, Though faint and weary, we would seek the place From rosy dawn till midnight stars should shine ! But they who find thy presence know full well That in no far-off country dost thou dwell. Oh, what can not her gentle presence do? It is a flower upon sick pillows thrown ; ii 1 62 Your Birthday. The rose that hides the rankling thorn from view; The velvet moss upon old towers grown. It is a box of ointment rare and sweet, Which we may break upon the Holy feet. And now, dear friend, I think you understand, That if to-day some happy prayer of mine Could bring a white gift fluttering to your hand, I would not ask for things that flash and shine, But that upon your threshold God might lay This flower of trust to crown your natal day. EASTER DAY. SAD, sad soul, fling wide your doors, And make your windows cur- tainless ; Strew odours on your silent floors, And all your walls with lilies dress ! Throw open every sombre place ; Roll every hindering stone away; Let Easter sunshine gild your face, And bless you with its warmth to-day ! Let friends renew each bygone hour ; Let children fling the world a kiss ; And every hand tie in some flower, To crown a day so good as this ! 1 64 Easter Day. And whether skies are sad or clear, We '11 give the day to joy and song ; For since the Christ is surely here, All things are right, and naught is wrong O BELLS IN THE STEEPLE. BELLS in the steeple, Ring out to all people That Christ has arisen, that Jesus is here ! Touch heaven's blue ceiling With your happy pealing ; O bells in the steeple, ring out full and clear ! O soft April showers, Call out the young flowers, Touch each little sleeper, and bid her obey; Set daffodils blowing, And fresh grasses growing, To thrill the old world on this new Easter-day ! 1 66 Bells in the Steeple. O lilies so stately, Like maids tall and shapely, Christ loved you, and talked of your beauty of old ; Stand up in your places, And bend your white faces, While swinging before Him your censers of gold ! O violets tender, Your shy tribute render ! Tie round your wet faces your soft hoods of blue ; And carry your sweetness, Your dainty completeness, To some tired hand that is longing for you. O velvet-bloomed willows, Go comfort sick pillows With visions of meadow-lands, peace ful and brown ! Bells in the Steeple. 167 The breath of Spring lingers Within your cold fingers, And the brook's song is caught in your fringes of down. O world, bowed and broken With anguish unspoken, Take heart and be glad, for the Lord is not dead ! On some bright to-morrow, Your black cloud of sorrow Will break in a sweet rain of joy on your head. O bells in the steeple, Ring out to all people That Christ has arisen, that Jesus is here ! Touch heaven's blue ceiling With your happy pealing; O bells in the steeple, ring out full and clear ! IN SILENCE. S loving friends sit sometimes hand in hand, Nor mar with sound the sweet speech of their eyes ; So in soft silence let us oftener kneel, Nor try with words to make God understand. Longing is prayer; upon its wings we rise To where the airs of heaven around us steal. MY MOTHER. The sweetest face in all the world to me, Set in a frame of shining silver hair, With eyes whose language is fidelity : This is my mother. Is she not most fair? Ten little heads have found their sweetest rest Upon the pillow of her loving breast : The world is wide ; yet nowhere does it keep So safe a haven, so secure a rest. 'TYf counted something great to be a queen, And bend a kingdom to a woman" 1 * will. To be a mother such as mine, I ween, Is something better and more noble still. mother ! in the changeful years now flown, Since, as a child, I leaned upon your knee, Life has not brought to me, nor fortune shown, Such tender love .' such yearning sympathy ! Let fortune smile or frown, whichever she will ; It matters not, I scorn her fickle ways > 1 never shall be quite bereft until I lose my mother's honest blame and praise! CONTENTS. PAGE SHE CAME TO ME 9 THE BABY OVER THE WAY u FOUR 14 ELIZABETH 17 A LITTLE PILLOW 18 "LOST A GIRL" 20 MY BABY'S MOUTH 22 NESTS 24 THE CHILD THAT BELONGS TO ME ... 27 IN THE DOOR 30 TIRED MOTHERS 32 THE SANTA CLAUS STORY 35 COMPENSATION 38 Two VALENTINES 42 JOE'S MERCIES 47 MY LITTLE BOY 51 WHAT CAN I DO? 55 WHO HATH MADE THEM TO DIFFER . 57 PAPA'S BIRTHDAY . . 60 Contents, PAGE THE LOST CHRISTMAS 61 A SWEET OLD LEGEND 65 PLOUGHED UNDER 68 WAITING 70 IN VANITY FAIR 73 IF 77 BUDGE, TOM, AND HONEST JOE .... 80 IN MEMORY OF MR. CROWLEY OF CENTRAL PARK 85 LININGS 88 A PRAYER 91 A LITTLE CYNIC 93 CHRISTMAS EVE 98 JAMIE'S PRAYER 101 SHOCKING 103 THE SCARECROW 106 IF WE KNEW 108 A LITTLE ROBBER 1 1 1 " SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME" 113 " A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM " . 115 OUR BOBBY WAS PINCHING THE KITTEN . 120 HE KNOWS BEST 123 COMFORT 126 A SUBPCENA 128 DEPARTING DAY 130 SHE CAME TO ME. with the rustle of strange wings, Not as an angel garmented ; No aureole shone round her head, She did not speak of heavenly things. She came and stood beside my knee, Leaning upon it as of old; Until my sorrow, fold on fold, Like an old garment fell from me. The very frock she used to wear, The lace about her sweet, round wrist ; The warm moist hand that I had kissed ; The wayward trick of the bright hair. io She Came to Me. That on her lifted forehead fell, I saw it all in rapt surprise, As smiling upward with her eyes She said, " 1 'm all well now all well." O little queen, whose realm on earth In ruin lies ! leave not the road Between thy world and ours untrod ; Come sometimes back to the old hearth ! We will not bar the chamber door, To hinder thy departing feet : We know thou canst not tarry, Sweet, But come, O come to us once more ! THE BABY OVER THE WAY. CROSS in my neighbor's window, With its folds of satin and lace, I see, with its crown of ringlets, A baby's innocent face. The throng in the street look upward, And every one, grave or gay, Has a nod and a smile for the baby, In the mansion over the way. Just here in my cottage window, His chin in his dimpled hands, And a patch on his faded apron, The child that I live for stands. He has kept my heart from breaking For many a weary day ; And his face is as pure and handsome As the baby's over the way. 2 The Baby over the Way. Sometimes, when we sit together, My grave little man of three, Sore vexes me with the question, " Does God up in Heaven like me? " And I say, " Yes, yes, my darling," Though I almost answer " Nay " : As I see the nursery candles, In the mansion over the way. And oft when I draw the stocking From his little tired feet, And loosen the clumsy garments From his limbs so round and sweet, I grow too bitter for singing, My heart too heavy to pray, As I think of the dainty raiment Of the baby over the way. Oh God in Heaven forgive me For all I have thought and said ! My envious heart is humbled : My neighbor's baby is dead ! The Baby over the Way. 13 I saw the little white coffin As they carried it out to-day, And the heart of a mother's is breaking In the mansion over the way! The light is fair in my window, The flowers bloom at my door; My boy is chasing the sunbeams That dance on the cottage floor. The roses of health are crowning My darling's forehead to-day ; But the baby is gone from the window Of the mansion over the way ! FOUR. - H, wind of the sweet May morning ! Tell me the rarest thing, The fittest for birthday token, That your rosy hands can bring. Oh, army of loving mothers, Lend me your counsel, pray, And tell me a gift for a darling Who is four years old to-day ! I have hunted the clover meadow And the blossoming orchards through For a bit of the robin's crimson, Or the jay-bird's dainty blue; But robin, at home with her babies, Was having a holiday, And when I made love to the blue-bird, She whistled and fluttered away. ELIZABETH. CANNOT tell How it befell As you came sailing straight to me, That no sweet hail, Nor rustling sail Proclaimed my coming argosy. Yet every day Upon its way Your boat was speeding sure and fast ; Until my eyes With glad surprise Beheld and welcomed you at last. I cannot see How it could be I saw no signal from your hand ; Yet this I know, With happy glow, Your boat to-day is at my strand. A LITTLE PILLOW. ITTLE pillow, do you think, With your frills and bows of pink, You can faithful be and true, To the trust I give to you ? In your laces, here and there, I have stitched a silent prayer For the little child, whose face Soon will give a needed grace To the work my hands have wrought With full many a tender thought. Underneath each knot of pink Hides a sleepy elf, I think, Who, with tricks so sly and wise, Fastens down the baby's eyes ; Wraps him round from brow to feet With a rest so soft and sweet, A Little Pillow. 19 That he cries in grieved surprise, When he opens wide his eyes, Just because he cannot keep All the treasures of his sleep ! To each feather soft and white I have whispered dreams so light, That the baby's sleep will be Full of peace and purity. What though velvet cheek and lips, With their rosiness eclipse Every touch of puny skill, I have wrought with loving will? How could anything compare With a baby fresh and fair? How could God's work pure and fine ; Ever harmonize with mine? Little pillow do you think, With your frills and bows of pink You can faithful be and true To the trust I give to you ? ''LOST A GIRL." H, say ! have you seen my Alice Anywhere on Life's street, Among the army of children Everywhere that you meet? Her hair was in yellow tangles, There were prints of sweets on her face, She spoke in a broken language, And lisped with a child's rare grace. Has nobody seen this hoyden, This queer little girl in blue, With a rent in her wee white apron And a gap in each scarlet shoe? Her shoe-strings were always dangling, And her stockings sure to be Loosed and showing the dimples Set in each rosy knee. "Lost A Girl." 21 If angels had stolen our Alice Away from. her life of play; If under a cover of daisies We had hidden our girl away; If I could know she had wandered The Heavenly gateway through, I should think some day to find her, My little daughter in blue. The birds have learned to answer When her name I sadly call, But the voice of my little truant Is silent, in room and hall. I see a beautiful woman With my grandchild at her knee, But my little heedless Alice Will never come back to me ! MY BABY'S MOUTH. HE had not compassed much of human speech With that small mouth, like two rose-petals curled ; But the short octave that her tongue could reach, Out-sweetened all the music in the world. Yet when my child was with me every day, I wore her heedlessly upon my breast, My tender flower ! It is our human way; We mothers are too thoughtless at the best. For had some angel stooped from heaven to touch With that same tenderness my brow and hair, My Baby's Mouth. 23 I should have thrilled and trembled over much, And set some consecrated signet there. I seal it now, God and the angels know ! And on the strength of every slighted kiss I will drink humbly my full cup of woe, Nor grudge the price for my neglected bliss. world, you nothing hold that I regret : I covet neither honors, wealth, nor place ; 1 want my baby's mouth all sweet and wet, Rubbing its dew against my lonely face ! NESTS. KNOW where meadow-grasses rank and high A cradle cover, Because two bobolinks with tell-tale cry Above them hover. Some mullein leaves beside my garden wall Grow unmolested ; And under their pale velvet parasol Sparrows have nested. An oriole toiled on from day to day The cunning weaver ! Tying her hammock to that leafy spray Above the river. Nests. 25 No wingless thief can climb that elm's frail stair ; . Nor guest unbidden Can reach the snug, aerial chamber where Her eggs are hidden. A marsh-wren's cunning hermitage I see, As my boat passes, Moored to the green stems of a fleur-de-lis With strong sea grasses. And stay ! I know another pretty nest Of braided willow, With dainty lace, and knots of ribbon drest, And feather pillow. And just one bird, with moist and downy head, Herein reposes ; He has no wings, his shoulders grow instead Dimples and roses ! 26 Nests. You have a nest and little wingless bird At your house, may be; Of course you know without another word I mean a baby ! THE CHILD THAT BELONGS TO ME. jO pure is my child, that I dare to say His Maker would not despise To color the sky on some rare June day From the blue in his handsome eyes ; And I am as proud as mother can be Of this beautiful boy that belongs to me ! Sometimes when we walk where the lily blows, She frowns with a sullen grace ; The gentle violet jealous grows When my little one breathes in her face ; And even the rose bends courteously To the beautiful boy that belongs to me. 28 The Child that belongs to Me. His voice is as clear and sweet as the bell That swings in the robin's throat ; I have asked him oft, but he cannot tell Wherever he caught its note ; And where is the bird more happy and free Than the beautiful boy that belongs to me ! Whenever I go to the market-place I carry him proud and high, That all may catch a glimpse of his face Before we have passed them by ; So eager am I that the world shall see This beautiful boy that belongs to me ! They tell me the world is a dreary place, And heavily sown with tears ; But when I look in my child's dear face, My heart is too glad for fears ; And all I can give seems a worthless fee For the beautiful boy that belongs to me. The Child that belongs to Me. 29 Nor will I burden my days with sighs, Lest God for my child should send ; For whether he lives or whether he dies, He is mine till Eternity's end. And I fear no harm to my child or me, Since both, O Father, belong to Thee ! IN THE DOOR. OR forty years this old gray sentinel Has braved the tempest and the driving rain ; For forty years its rusty hinge has creaked To let the sunshine in and out again. The little hands that reached to clasp the latch Are clean enough to-day, the angels know ; For they were emptied of the toys of life, And folded passively long years ago. I brush away the cobwebs and the dust, And sit me down upon the sunken sill; And through the gate and up the garden walk, I seem to see my children trooping still. In the Door. 31 Their merry voices cheer my lonesome ear; Their little garments brush me as they pass ; And all along the path their feet have come A trail of sunshine parts the bended grass. I am no longer tired, worn, and gray; My children cling about me as of yore ; And with their hands clasped tightly in my own, We watch the sunset from the open door. TIRED MOTHERS. LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee, Your tired knee, that has so much to bear; A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of shining hair: Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight, You do not prize this blessing overmuch You almost are too tired to pray, to-night ! But it is blessedness ! A year ago I did not see it as I do to-day, We are so dull and thankless; and too slow To catch the sunshine e'er it slips away. Tired Mothers. 33 And now it seems surpassing strange to me, That while I wore the badge of mother hood, I did not kiss more oft and tenderly The little child that brought me only good ! And if some night when you sit down to rest, You miss this elbow from your tired knee; This restless, curling head from off your breast, This lisping tongue that chatters constantly ; If from your own the dimpled hand had slipped, . And ne'er would nestle in your palm again ; If the white feet into their grave had tripped, I could not blame you for your heart ache then! 3 34 Tired Mothers. I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children, clinging to their gown ; Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown ! If I could find a little muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor; If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear its music in my home once more; If I could mend a broken cart to-day, To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, There is no woman in God's world could say She was more blissfully content than I. But, ah ! the dainty pillow next my own Is never rumpled by a shining head ; My singing birdling from its nest is flown : The little boy I used to kiss is dead ! THE SANTA GLAUS STORY. OW sweet it all was ! The red firelight, The cat purring soft on the rug, The wife flitting backwards and forwards, The egg-nog afoam in the mug. And when I looked up at the starlight, And down at this picture so fair, I just dropped my head, and in silence Gave thanks to the Giver right there. The parson came in, and we told him How happy our boy Fritzy was, A-hanging his little gray stocking, And prattling about Santa Claus. And how Alice said as she kissed me, A-reaching my neck on tip-toe : "I touldn't hold any more dladness, Dear papa, unless I should drow." 36 The Santa Clam Story. But the parson sat gloomy and solemn, And wife looked just ready to cry When he said, "Is it right, my good brother, To tell them that old-fashioned lie? You can't expect roses and lilies In a garden where thistles are sown, Nor truth from the lips of your children, If you let falsehood blacken your own." Then he said " Merry Christmas," and left us, That dazed, and so kind of unstrung, That we stared at those little gray stockings, Till the bells in the church steeple rung. And their chimes took me back to my mother, And I stood a wee chap at her knee, And heard the same Santa Claus story That Mary and Fritz have, from me. The Santa Claus Story. 37 And if the Lord reckons it sinful I hope He will punish it light: Just think what a world full of sinners Have told that old story to-night ! COMPENSATION. HE folded up the worn and mended frock And smoothed it tenderly upon her knee, Then through the soft web of a wee red sock She wove the bright wool, musing thoughtfully, " Can this be all ? The great world is so fair, I hunger for its green and pleasant ways ; A cripple prisoned in her restless chair, Looks from her window with a wistful gaze. " The fruits I cannot reach are red and sweet, The paths forbidden are both green and wide; Compensation. 39 O God ! there is no boon to helpless feet So altogether sweet as paths denied. Home is most fair: bright are my household fires, And children are a gift without alloy : But who would bound the field of her desires By the prim hedges of mere fireside joy? " I can but weave a faint thread to and fro, Making a frail woof in a baby's sock; Into the world's sweet tumult I would go, At its strong gates my trembling hand would knock." Just then the children came, the father too, Their eager faces lit the twilight gloom, " Dear heart," he whispered, as he nearer drew, " How sweet it is within this little room ! 40 Compensation " God puts my strongest comfort here to draw When thirst is great, and common wells are dry. Your pure desire is my unerring law; Tell me, dear one, who is so safe as I? Home is the pasture where my soul may feed, This room a paradise has grown to be, And only where these patient feet shall lead Can it be home for these dear ones and me." He touched with reverent hand the helpless feet, The children crowded close and kissed her hair. " Our mother is so good, and kind, and sweet, There 's not another like her anywhere ! " The baby in her low bed opened wide The soft blue flowers of her timid eyes, Compensation. 4 1 And viewed the group about the cradle side With smiles of glad and innocent surprise. The mother drew the baby to her breast And smiling said: "The stars shine soft to-night; My world is fair; its hedges, too, are best And whatsoever is, dear Lord, is right." TWO VALENTINES. j|NE was the loveliest thing ! A pink sachet Trimmed with soft ribbons and point applique, While heliotropes upon their rosy field The daintiest of perfumes seemed to yield. Tom thought it just the thing, and then he knew The nicest girl in town would think so too; And, best of all, within the folds was laid A valentine to please the little maid : " What is daintier, can you tell, Than the lichen groves where the fairies dwell? Two Valentines. 43 What is a still more delicate thing Than the silken stuff of a butterfly's wing? What has a lining do you think As fair as the mushroom's fluted pink? "Are you so dull? Why, the rarest thing Is the heart of the girl whose praise I sing ! " This he addressed to Miss Maude Alice Browne. Another how I blush to write it down He sent in spite to poor lame Meg McCray, Who won the prize in algebra that day. " There is a young person I know, Whose shoes are all out at the toe ; She has very large feet, Her gown is not neat, And her petticoats hang down below. 44 Two Valentines. " I may ride a broom to the sky, A snow-storm may fall in July, And my slatternly friend Her habits may mend ; But do you believe it? Not I." But can you tell me how it came about That Miss Maude Alice Browne, with laugh and shout, Received Meg's valentine? And, strange to tell, Miss Meg McCray received Miss Browne's as well. 'O Tom!" Meg cried with innocent, round eyes, '' I Ve had the dearest kind of a sur prise ! Now who could love a poor, lame girl like me Enough to send this valentine? Just see! Two Valentines. 45 " If I were rich like Miss Maude Alice Browne, And pretty, too Why, Tom, what makes you frown ? It could not be so sweet to me, you know, To feel that some kind person loves me so. " But now whenever things seem hard to bear, I think it will be easier not to care, And being lame will not seem quite so bad, The thought that some one cares makes me so glad. Tom looked perplexed. What could the fellow do But say, " Well, Meg, I 'm just as glad as you ! " And so he was : the jealous fiend had flown And in his eyes a true repentance shone. 46 Two Valentines. And Miss Maude Alice Brown cried with a laugh, " Some one has sent me my own photo graph ! Well it 's a joke, and here 's the best of it, It does n't hurt because it does n't hit ! " That night Tom's sister touched him on the knee : " I say, dear Tom," she said michievously, " I wonder if the Lord will credit you With what you did, or what you meant to do." JOE'S MERCIES. Well, I 've been counting my mercies, As my grandmother would say, And I have n't got many to brag of, If it is Thanksgiving Day. There 's mother, of course, and the baby, They 're down in big letters, you know, But between you and me, the remainder Don't make an exceeding long row. For grandma is very uncertain, And likely as not, before long, To quietly slip off and leave us She is seventy, and not very strong. And I would n't give a brass button For a palace, no matter how fine, That has n't a grandmother in it That looks pretty nearly like mine. 48 Joe's Mercies. And then, you will own, it's a trial, To be so exceedingly poor; It takes just a few extra mercies To make up for that, I am sure. To-day, we '11 have beef and rice pudding, Thanksgiving at that What a feast ! One ought to expect a plump turkey And cranberry sauce, at least. And you can't guess how lonesome it is Jack, For a shaver no bigger than I, To manage without any father, And I hope that you won't have to try. And the more I try to be thankful And think of my blessings and such ; The more it appears, on that subject, What I have to say is not much. And as for the weather it 's horrid ! Just look at the frost on the glass ! Why, I could n't catch sight of a circus If one should happen to pass. Joe's Mercies. 49 Say, Jacky just come to the window; What is it on Benny Bright's door? It 's a strip of white crape and a ribbon ! O Jack, had you seen it before ? And there goes a little white coffin And flowers. Yes, Jack, now I see ! It is Ben's little rosy-faced brother, Who always threw kisses at me. Oh, I am the worst of boys, Jacky, Don't any one dare tell me " No," I tell you I '11 whip the first fellow That offers to say it ain't so. But, Jack, it never once struck me Till I saw that small coffin, to-day, How much a little round baby, Like the one at our house, can weigh, But I say, if in counting his mercies A boy is inclined to be slow, A hearse at the door of his neighbor Will quicken his senses, I know. 4 50 Joe's Mercies. At any rate that's my opinion ; And I think, if the Lord does n't care, I '11 reckon my mercies all over; For, Jacky, I didn't count fair. MY LITTLE BOY. 'HE old square clock had struck the hour of eight. Outside the starry lamps were shining high, The silver moon in regal splendor sate In the blue glory of the Christmas sky, And tired workers toiling homeward late Hummed Christmas carols as they plodded by. My little boy was standing by my chair, One small white foot was bare upon the floor; His shining eyes beheld a world all fair; His face was eloquent with hopes in store, For hanging in the chimney corner there Was the small fleecy sock my darling wore. 52 My Little Boy. He had been telling me in eager speech Of all the treasures Santa Claus would bring; There were no bounds his sweet faith could not reach, His trust was simple and unquestion ing, While I had learned the whole that life could teach Of bitter doubt and cruel suffering ! I listened to him with a wistful prayer, I longed to make some helpful faith my own ; That into my poor life of grief and care Might creep a truer grace than it had known Some blessed trust that would not prove a snare, Some love more honest than the world had shown. My Little Boy. 53 And then I said, " The Christmas is to me More sad, my boy, than you can understand ; It brings me gifts of pain and treachery, And deals them through a loved and trusted hand. It brings a broken truth my staff to be, And leaves me nothing that will hold or stand ! My blessed child broke in upon my woe, Half loving, half reproachfully he said, " You still have something left ; there 's me, you know ! Why, one might think your little boy was dead ! I 'm little now, but when I larger grow I will take care of you, mamma," he said. I caught him with a passionate surprise ; I covered him with kisses burning sweet ! 54 My Little Boy. My life grew richer, looking in his eyes, Though other loves were poor and incomplete ; And praying God to make him good and wise, I tucked the cover soft about his feet. WHAT CAN I DO? can I do, O heavy heart within, That shall atone For this most sacrilegious sin That I have done? For when my soul would seek the King alone A round bright head Lifts up its aureole before the throne And shines instead. Nor gates of pearl, nor walls of amethyst That flash and glow, Have grace and color like the eyes I kissed A year ago. 56 What can I do? And Christ forgive me ! All the bliss and balm Of that rare land Are held, for me, within the slender palm Of one small hand ! One day my soul may climb on holier round To Heaven's fair place : But now, ah me ! my fierce desire is bound By one sweet face. WHO HATH MADE THEM TO DIFFER. HO hath made them to differ Your little child and mine? Each with a face like the flower, Each with the stamp divine ! Who hath made them to differ The lamb in the sheltering fold, And the waif with never a pasture, Bleating for hunger and cold? Is it God that wrought the evil? Does He fashion the tender flower Only to trample its chalice Under the tread of His power? Is it God, the Father of Mercies, The Blameless, the Undefiled, Who hath wrought this pitiful evil In the life of a little child? 58 Who hath made Them to differ. Hath He erred somehow like a mortal, That the children cry for bread? Is it God hath failed in His weaving And twisted and soiled the thread? Nay, nay, He is just, and our Father, He cannot beget a wrong ! We clash the keys of His organ And then blame Him for the song. We thrust our hands in His purpose, And tangle them in His wheel, And then cry out like children, For the hurt we needs must feel. We shatter our cup of blessing, Its portion we waste or spill, And then complain and wonder That the poor are hungry still. When wast Thou sick, O Saviour ! And I ministered not to Thee? " If thou didst it not to my brother Thou didst it not unto me." Who hath made Them to differ. 59 Then haste while the pool is troubled ! Haste in the name of Him ! And lift with the clasp of a mother Some sufferer over the brim ! PAPA'S BIRTHDAY. HAT is a birthday, papa? Is it something nice for you? Are they good for little fellows? And can / have one, too ? This world is full of puzzles To bother boys about ; But it 's a pretty hard one My papa can't make out. Mamma says love is fairest Of all the gifts we bring ; A very great deal sweeter Than any other thing. Then, if there's nothing better, And mamma tells me true, Oh, take it for your birthday From your little boy to you ! THE LOST CHRISTMAS. " Seek ye first the King." HE Russian peasants tell to-day A legend old and dear to them, How, when the wise men went their way To find the Babe at Bethlehem, They paused to let their camels rest Beside a peasant's lowly door ; And all intent upon their quest They talked their sacred errand o'er. " Come with us," said the eager three ; " Come, seek with us the heavenly Child ; What prouder honor can there be For mortals, sinful and defiled? 62 The Lost Christmas. " And bid each child in Sunday clothes Bring of his treasures the most rare, Bundles of myrrh and whitest doves, With ointment for the Christ- King's hair. " Who knows what blessing may befall If they but touch His garment's hem? And only once for them and all Will Christ be born at Bethlehem ! " " Alas ! My task must first be done," The mother answered with a sigh ; " But I would see the holy one, And I will follow by and by." The wise men frowned and onward went, Leaving the children all aglow, And pleading till the day was spent, "When may we go? When may we go?" The Lost Christmas. 63 And while their cheeks flushed rosy red, They shouted in a chorus sweet : "And may we touch His pretty head? And may we kiss His blessed feet?" But women still will brew and bake, No matter what sweet honors wait; And petty tasks they undertake, Though angels tarry at the gate ! And when all things were in their place, And every child was neat and trim ; When each tear-stained and tired face Was bathed and tied its hood within ; The sky was purpling in the west, The silent night was hurrying on ; The three wise men had onward pressed, The star from out the east had gone ! What could the foolish mother do? She turned her footsteps home again ; And never, all her sad life through, Did she behold the three wise men. 64 The Lost Christmas. And thus through weak delaying she Her sweetest privilege had missed ; Nor ever did her children see The Holy Babe they might have kissed. A SWEET OLD LEGEND. RING that low footstool from the corner, Ted; Mary and Jack you cannot crowd too near; While baby Bess will curl her pretty head Against my heart, that holds you all so dear. Now for the legend. Once, long years ago, When in our world the blessed Lord was seen, He walked one evening, tired, sad, and slow, With His disciples through the meadows green. 5 66 A Sweet Old Legend. Why was He sad? Dear child, I cannot say What burdens pressed upon His heart divine Perhaps none had believed on Him that day; Perhaps He thought upon your sins and mine. Along the way the sweet field lilies grew In rich apparel, finer than a king's; Above His head the twittering sparrows flew (He drew His sermons from these simple things). Now as they walked on holy thoughts intent, Upon the path a poor dead dog they spied : One spurned him with his foot as on he went, And "What an ugly beast," another cried. A Sweet Old Legend. 67 But in their Master's eyes compassion shone ; He stooped and touched the creature's shaggy head, " At least, my dear disciples, you will own His teeth are white as pearls," He gently said. Then they passed on. Dears, is it strange to you That mothers with their babies round Him pressed? That Peter learned to be so good and true, And John leaned close upon His loving breast? PLOUGHED UNDER. T grieves me much, the homes that I have spoiled, Of nest and burrow; As in my barley-field to-day I toiled, Ploughing the furrow. Armies of ants that grain by grain had laid Their snug embankment, Were overwhelmed by my unhappy raid Fort and encampment. The silver ropes a cunning gymnast spun Met such disaster That a wise fly who watched the spider run, Buzzed out with laughter! Ploughed Under. 69 Beneath a roof, where dandelion stars The rafters gilded, Secured by no distrustful bolts or bars, Some birds had builded. I peeped within, despite a sentry bold Of doughty metal, Whose stinging impudence I knew of old- His name was Nettle ! It was not his rude protest made me spare My sparrow tenants ; I vanquished him, but left still fluttering there The flower pennants. And oh ! I grieve that I who hate to roam From my own burrow, Have turned blind little moles out of their home Beneath my furrow ! WAITING. 'HEN the crickets chirp in the evening And the stars flash out in the sky, Lonely I sit in my doorway And watch the children go by; I look at their fresh young faces, And hark to each merry word, For to me a child's own language Is the sweetest ever heard. I sit in my lonely doorway In the hour that I love the best, And think, as I see them passing, My child will come with the rest ; Think, as I hear the clicking Of the little garden gate, My darling's hand is upon it Oh, why has she come so late? Waiting. 7 1 But the days have been slowly weaving Their warp of toil in my life ; The weeks have brought me their burden Of waiting and patience and strife; The flowers that came with the sunshine Have finished their errand so sweet, And Autumn is dropping her harvests Mellow and ripe at my feet. And yet my little girl comes not, So I think she has missed her way, And strayed from this cold, dark country To one of perpetual day. Perhaps. But I long to enfold her, To tangle my hand in her hair, To feast my starved mouth on her kisses, To hear her light foot on the stair. Some day I am sure I shall find her, But the road is lonesome between, My spirit grows sick and impatient For glimpses of pastures so green ; 72 Waiting. Waiting I sit in the doorway, In the hour my heart loves best, And think, when the children pass home ward, My child will come with the rest. IN VANITY FAIR. RANDMOTHER sits in the cor ner there Watching the comers to Vanity Fair, For Madame, her daughter, "receives" to-day, And a throng of carriages bars the way ; While color and perfume, and rare waltz- note In my lady's corridors blend and float. Yes, grandmother calls it "Vanity Fair," As she views the scene from her cushioned chair; With a curious shadow of grave surprise Troubling the depths of her fine old eyes At the shimmering robes, the laces fine, And the splendid jewels that flash and shine. 74 In Vanity Fair. As she watches her daughter debonnaire, Greeting the guests to Vanity Fair, Does she not look like a picture old, With her stiff brocade, and her kerchief's fold? Or a somewhat prim, old-fashioned flower In the hot-house air of my lady's bower? Standing under the candles' flare, In the tinted light of Vanity Fair, Is her granddaughter, with eyes so blue That a pair of stars mistook their hue For the larger heavens and softly hid Behind the cloud of each snowy lid ! And grandmother sighs with a troubled air 'They will spoil you, dear, in Vanity Fair; They will brush the dew from your youth, I know, And I trust not fully the handsome beau Who bent to your hand with so fine a bow And gave you the crimson rose but now? " In Vanity Fair. 75 And she mutters, " Poor little fly, take care Of the webs they weave in Vanity Fair ! " And no philosopher in the land Could make this grandmother understand That Vanity Fair, with its tricks and ways, Was much the same in her younger days. Grandmother, brooding on days that were, You are out of place in Vanity Fair ! As a sweet old psalm is out of chime With a prancing tune, or a laughing rhyme ; You are out of place in this modern room With its garish light, and its rich perfume. Let us wheel you out of the aching glare From the lights and sounds of Vanity Fair; Up the stairs to the restful gloom Of your own old-fashioned, quiet room, Where the same clock ticks the hours away That wakened you on your wedding-day. 76 In Vanity Fair. Let us leave all schemes that vex and snare To the belles and beaux of Vanity Fair. You have had your day; now your night is near, Let us come away to your chamber here, Where peaceful slumber your eyes invite, Turn the light low; sleep well; good night ! IF. F, sitting with this little worn-out shoe And scarlet stocking lying on my knee, I knew the careless feet had pattered through The pearl -set gates that lie 'twixt Heaven and me, And I could see beyond the mists of blue God's tender hand, I could submissive be. If, in the morning, when the song of birds Reminds me of a music far more sweet, I listen for his pretty broken words And for the music of his dimpled feet, I could be almost happy, though I heard No answer, and but saw his vacant seat. 7 8 I could be glad, if, when the day is done, And all its cares and heartaches laid away, I could look westward to the hidden sun, And, with a heart full of sweet yearn ings, say, " To-night I'm nearer to my little one By just the travel of a single day." If I could know those little feet were shod In sandals wrought of light in better lands, And that the foot-prints of a tender God Ran side by side with his in golden sands, I could bow cheerfully and kiss the rod, Knowing he was in wiser, safer hands. If he had died, as little, children do, I would not stain the wee sock on my knee With bitter tears, nor kiss the empty shoe // 79 And cry, " Bring back my little boy to me ! " I could be patient, until patience grew Into the gladness of Eternity. But oh, to know the feet once pure and white, The haunts of vice have boldly ven tured in ! The hands that should have battled for the right Have been wrung crimson in the clasp of sin ! And should he knock at Heaven's gate to-night, My boy, alas, could scarce an entrance win ! BUDGE, TOM, AND HONEST JOE. ITHIN it wanted just an hour of four; Without, the world in summer beauty lay, And wistfully beyond the school-room door Budge, Tom, and Joseph looked this hot June day. They knew that in the fields the clover spread A rosy carpet, velvety and sweet ; They knew the path that to the old bridge led, Where children loved to sit and swing their feet. Budge, Tom, and Honest Joe. 81 They knew that cherries hung upon the trees, That trusting fishes swarmed the singing brook; The robins seemed to call them from the leaves, " Come out ! Come out ! and leave that hateful book ! " Budge dropped his drowsy head upon his breast, Tom watched a fly upon the window- pane, While Joseph, less lethargic than the rest, Made horrid faces at his sister Jane. The teacher saw the action with a smile, Their flushed young faces made her pitiful ; "Which will you do, go out and play awhile, Or stay with me," she said, " till close of school? " 6 82 Budge, Tom, and Honest Joe. Budge raised his sleepy head with glad surprise, (Just then a robin past the doorway flew!) He choked, grew rosy red, then dropped his eyes ; " I guess I *d rather stay in here with you." "And you, my Tommy?" Should not Tommy dare To follow whither Spartan Budge had led? (The robin called, the sky was oh, so fair !) " I '11 stay with Budge, I guess," he gasping said. But Joseph, with a look half bold, half shy, His brown toes twisting in an awkward way, Budge, Tom, and Honest Joe. 83 Said, with a slight contempt in tone and eye, " There ain't no use to talk, / 'd rather play." The teacher smiled ; " I fear, my little Joe, You only have been honest of the three. I take each at his word ; so you may go, While Budge and Tommy will remain with me." Poor little boys ! for such a sacrifice This was a fee they could not under stand ; But when they said good night she kissed them thrice, And patted each round head with gentle hand. And were they wholly wrong, and Joe all right? I leave the answer for your tongues to fill. 84 Budge, Tom, and Honest Joe. Talk it all over by the fire to-night, And gather from the story what you will. But often do the world's sweet flatteries Remind me of a day long years ago, Around which cluster funny memories Of three small boys, Budge, Tom, and honest Joe. IN MEMORY OF MR. CROWLEY OF CENTRAL PARK. ;O citizen of inferior name Has yielded up life's languid spark, But a chimpanzee of goodly fame, Mr. Crowley of Central Park, Who from interior Africa came. Many a slave of the pen we see, Who scribbles away from dawn till dark, Nor earns the fame of this chimpanzee, Who could neither write nor make his mark, Paradoxical though it be. Many a player his lines may croon, Nor happily win, when his form lies stark, 86 Mr. Crowley of Central Park. An editorial in the Tribune Like Mr. Crowley of Central Park, Late trapeze player ! Poor dead buffoon ! And many a poacher upon life's joys, Bagging his spoils with a snarl and bark, To meaner purpose his life employs Than Mr. Crowley of Central Park ; Jester at court of the girls and boys. For a chimpanzee that can cheat dull care, And break a tooth of that hungry shark ; Who lightens the pack that the poor must bear Like Mr. Crowley of Central Park, Is a better thing than the poacher there. No more, poor clown, will your pranks beguile Life's weary labor and ceaseless cark ; You will be set up in a life-like style, And hold levees in a crystal ark, With a very fixed and bias/ smile. Mr. Crowley of Central Park. 87 Then, an revoir, with a kind regret ! Death interfered in your jolly lark, And many a child's dear eyes are wet For Mr. Crowley of Central Park, The dearest monkey they ever met ! LININGS. AY, nay, dear child, I cannot let you slight Those inner stitches on your gown's fair hem Because, you say, they will be out of sight, And no stern critic will discover them. You do but build a most inviting hedge, Behind which falsehood and deceit may lurk, When you embroider fair the outer edge, And to the inner give no honest work. The silken chain of habit which you wear So lightly now upon your careless youth Will strengthen strand by strand ; then have a care ! Else it may throttle the sweet soul of truth. Linings. 89 I hold that every stitch untruly set Weaves a soiled thread along your web of fate; And each deceitful seam may prove a net To hurt and hinder, trust me, soon or late. Ah, dearest child, on everything you do Let the white seal of honor stamp its grace. Keep all your soul as clean with heaven's dew As the pink flower of your tender face. God makes no clumsy linings. Mark this bloom ! A " fairy's glove ; " and though it grieves my heart To send the smallest blossom to its tomb, We '11 tear this dainty little glove apart. 90 Linings. In this and every flower that we behold, From crimson rose to pansy's purple vest, God sews the velvet on the inner fold, And makes His linings fairer than the rest. Is it not perfect, from the slender stem To the brown dapples on the curling rim? God folds not carelessly the foxglove's hem; Then try, my little child, to be like Him. A PRAYER. H, long strong breaths of salt sea air, Oh, north winds rough and south winds fair, Toss all your rosy gifts about, And blow afar our weary doubt ! Milk-white foam roses, break for me From the green gardens of the sea, And bring thy fragrance, briny sweet, To wrap our love from brow to feet ! Bring rosy color to her mouth; And from the warm and humid South Waft spices to the fevered breath, And antidote the spell of death ! 92 A Prayer. And from thy green o'erflowing cup My hand shall dip a potion up, And in thy wine, to thee I '11 quaff With relish sweet and joyous laugh. Then bring to her the jewel health. For naught of all thy treasured wealth Is half so precious as this pearl This drooping lily of a girl ! A LITTLE CYNIC. g|||p]ANDELION and clover-top, Growing close together, Bobbed their bright young heads and talked In the sweet spring weather. Just across the little path In a grassy hollow, Buttercup was coquetting With a noisy swallow. " Do you know," said Dandelion, Growing stiff and sullen, "That this minx, who used to rank With milk-weed and mullein, " Goes to parties, matinees, And all such queer places, And is quite the rage they say, With her airs and graces?" 94 A Little Cynic. " Well," laughed Clover, merrily, " This will we agree on, That she wears her honors well For such a plebeian ! " I should quite disgrace myself Spill my dew at dinner, When it comes to etiquette I 'm a dreadful sinner." " There is Madam Hollyhock," Still pursued the other, " Used to be on friendly terms With my great grandmother. " Then she wore a narrow skirt With a simple tunic; Now she looks like some grand dame Just arrived from Munich ! " Then she leant upon the wall Or the lattice, may be, Now she rings the front door bell Just like any lady ! " A Little Cynic. 95 " Why, you must be jealous, dear! " Clover said serenely ; " For her colors are superb, And her manners queenly. " Her quaint bodice of pale green Fits her to perfection, And a ruffle more or less Is no great objection." Just then Violet passed by In her soft, blue bonnet; Dandelion's face grew dark With the frown upon it. " See ! " she cried, " the whole, glad world Greets her as she passes, While our lives are hidden here In the weeds and grasses ! " How I hate her artless ways ! Hate her queer poke bonnet ! Hate her modest drooping face, With the soft smile on it ! g6 A Little Cynic. " ' Modest Violet,' indeed, When her very glory Is the meek humility Granted her in story ! "Tell me, does God love her best? Count her blue gown fairer? Are her graces sweet to Him? Is her perfume rarer? " " Hush! " said Clover, sweetly grave, " God is God forever ; Doubt whatever else you will, But His goodness never! " Violet gives lavishly Of her wealth of sweetness ; And the world requites the debt From its own completeness. " Do not wrong the God above And our brown earth-mother. Why not like your own life best, Sighing for no other? A Little Cynic. 97 " I would never change my lot With my wild bee lover For a world of violets ; No, not I ! " trilled Clover. " Humph ! " that little cynic said With her bright eyes closing; And the rest I never heard, For she fell a-dozing. CHRISTMAS EVE. OD bless the little stockings All over the land to-night, Hung in the choicest corners In a glow of crimson light ! The tiny scarlet stocking, With a hole in heel and toe, Worn by wonderful journeys The darlings have had to go. And Heaven pity the children, Wherever their home may be, Who wake at the first gray dawning An empty stocking to see, Left in the faith of childhood Hanging against the wall, Just where the dazzling glory Of Santa's light will fall ! Christmas Eve. 99 Alas, for the lonely mother Whose home is empty and still, Who has no scarlet stockings With childish toys to fill ! But sits in the deepening twilight, With her face against the pane, And grieves for the little baby Whose grave lies out in the rain ! O empty shoes and stockings, Forever laid aside ! The tangled, broken shoe-strings That will never more be tied ! O little graves, at the mercy Of the cold December rain ! The feet in their snow-white sandals, That never can trip again ! But happier they who slumber With marble at foot and head, Than the child who has no shelter, No raiment, nor food, nor bed. ioo Christmas Eve. Yes ! Heaven help the living ! Children of want and pain, Knowing no fold nor pasture Outside to-night in the rain ! JAMIE'S PRAYER. ; AY'S weary burdens are laid by; The world's great throbbing heart is still ; The stars flash out, the moon's fair face Rests on the peak of yonder hill. I hear the katydids contend The rustling maple leaves among; And leaning toward the apple boughs, I hear the robin brood her young. It is the hour when children's prayers Like perfume from the lilies rise, When all the angels cry, " Oh, list ! " And God makes silence in the skies. Two small brown hands, unsoiled by sin, Are folded softly on my knee, And over them my child's dear head Is bowed in sweet humility. >2 Jamie's Prayer. Hark to the little honest prayer ! " Dear God, I am too tired to pray, And 't ain't as if you didn't know Just all I 've said and done to-day. " I know it takes a sight of love To make a boy's sins white, but then You don't go back on what you say, And I am not afraid Amen." SHOCKING! HE smallest wheel in the rector's clock, The busiest worker in that queer mill, Grew tired of hearing the same tick-tock, So a Sunday morning it stood stock- still ! And what befell? Why, the rector good Arrived at his church full a half hour late, With a flying gown as no parson should While all the parish amazed did wait. With childish wonder our little Sue, Who never had been in a church before Jaw, from her high-backed, oaken pew, The rector enter the chancel door. 104 Shocking! The wonder grew in the child's brown eyes, What she was thinking we could not tell, But a look of shame and of shocked sur prise Over her face like a shadow fell. ''What did you see at the church, my sweet?" Said grandmother, kissing the lifted chin, When at dinner the two did meet. "Oh, grandma! the preacher came flying in, So late that he did n't get on his clothes, And had just a great, long nightgown on ; He had to hurry so, I suppose ! " Said the innocent child, while her round eyes shone. " I guess he was drefful ashamed of hisself ; Would n't you be, grandma, in his place? For he knelt right down on a little shelf, And held his two hands over his face ! Shocking! 105 And, grandma, it was a minute before He would lift his head and read from his book. He '11 not wear his nightgown, I guess any more. Oh, dear!" and she sighed, " how queer it did look ! " THE SCARECROW.* HOREAU surveyed the effigy with scorn. " Well ! well ! " laughed he, " some urchin must have planned This man of straw. No crow in all the land Was ever frightened from a feast of corn By such a sentinel. No blackbird born Would hesitate to perch upon its hand. Crows are too knowing not to under stand That this poor, stuffed-out thing, battered and worn, With dangling arms and shapeless, jointless pegs, Was never made by God." Thoreau paused here * A true anecdote of Thoreau. The Scarecrow. 107 In his wise dissertation upon crows ; For lo ! the scarecrow moved its "joint- less " legs And walked away to a gray farmhouse near. That was a funny blunder of Thoreau's ! IF WE KNEW. F we knew the baby fingers Pressed against the window- pane Would be cold and stiff to-morrow Never trouble us again ; Would the bright eyes of our darling Catch the frown upon our brow? Would the prints of rosy fingers Vex us then as they do now? Ah, these little ice-cold fingers, How they point our memories back To the hasty words and actions Strewn along our backward track ! How these little hands remind us, As in snowy grace they lie, Not to scatter thorns but roses For our reaping by and by ! If We knew. 109 Strange we never prize the music Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown ; Strange that we should slight the violets Till the lovely flowers are gone ; Strange that summer skies and sunshine Never seem one-half so fair As when winter's snowy pinions Shake their white down in the air ! Lips from which the seal of silence None but God can roll away, Never blossomed in such beauty As adorns the mouth to-day; And sweet words that freight our memory With their beautiful perfume, Come to us in sweeter accents Through the portals of the tomb. Let us gather up the sunbeams Lying all around our path ; Let us keep the wheat and roses, Casting out the thorns and chaff; no If We knew. Let us find our sweetest comfort In the blessings of to-day ; With a patient hand removing All the briars from our way. A LITTLE ROBBER. LITTLE robber whom I know Came to my house nine years ago, And, with the most provoking ease, Found out my casket and my keys, And of the treasures I possessed Purloined the dearest and the best. The way this robber came to me Is wrapped in sweetest mystery ; But the bewitching little thief, Without remorse or touch of grief, First stole, in many a pretty way, Three times eight jewels every day; Then, with his soft and rosy hands, He pulled down all my strong commands, The cherished plan, the ripened thought, By years of rich experience bought. My favorite opinions, too, He into wildest chaos threw. ii2 A Little Robber. Some prim old maxims, quaintly wrought With silver thread and pious thought, By long consent had grown to be Proud souvenirs of ancestry ; These, by mere love of mischief led, He picked to pieces thread by thread, Until I feared my grandma's ghost Would chain me to a whipping-post ! When I reproached, his wondrous eyes Took on such look of grieved surprise, I could but say, " Take what you will, Your plunderings continue still; Purloin my time, my heart, my pelf, Take everything except yourself! For what would all earth's treasures be Without your blessed company?" And so, throughout the years and days, Content this young marauder stays, To be my comfort and my joy, His name? Why, he's my little boy! " SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME." T was long years ago that He uttered This message, so tender and sweet, As women were crowding about Him And laying their babes at His feet ; He looked, with a gentle compassion, On the mothers in old Galilee, While He comforted them with this saying, " Let the little ones come unto me." From over the hills of Judea, Down through the long line of the years, That Voice of ineffable sweetness Still comforts the mother's sad tears. O Heart that has bled for our sorrows ! O Voice that can quiet the sea ! Come often to me with Thy whisper : " Let the little ones come unto me ! " n4 " Suffer Little Children." O mothers, whose children are lying Out under the snow and the rain, Let the beautiful words of the Master, Give ease to your sorrow and pain ! He holds their bright heads on His bosom, He gathers them close to His knee ; And tenderly still He is saying, " Let the little ones come unto me ! " "A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM." HE land is wondrous fair," the angel said. " Its sapphire skies are wrought with tints of gold ; Its jewelled gates admit nor heat nor cold; And all along the way that you shall tread A perfume marvellously sweet is shed From lilies that eternally unfold." The lovely woman raised her timid face, And to the messenger of death she spoke : " I know that human sight can not invoke n 6 "A Little Child shall lead Them." A vision of such fair, surpassing grace, As those fair mansions in the heavenly place, But life and I have never friendship broke. " Therefore I fain would stay," she pleaded low. The angel's face wore nothing of o o command ; He smiling said, " Behold, unarmed I stand ! I left behind my arrows and my bow. I shall not force you, lovely one, to go ; I only wait till you shall clasp my hand. " But even now your eyes are wet with tears : Come where a holy hand will wipe them dry! Oh, be my bride, my own beloved ! and I "A Little Child shall lead Them." 117 Will kiss away your doublings and your fears, And lead you gently through the eternal years, And prove a love that will not change or die ! " The woman shrank from his caressing hand. " But life hath loyal love as well," she cried ; " A trusting heart would break of me denied ; A faithful foot would track me to your land. And at the gates of pearl would waiting stand. This life is fair and sweet to me," she sighed. " The swaying reed hath not a frailer grace Than human love. It will not mourn you long; In Heaven your voice is needed in the song. 1 1 8 "A Little Child shall lead Them." Through countless ages God has kept your place. Then, in my bosom hide your weeping face, And let me bear you to the waiting throng." " Nay, nay, sweet angel ! Spare me this alarm ; For I am timid of the lonesome way. A voice I love is begging me to stay ! A precious hand is clinging to my arm, A hand that never brought me pain or harm ! Oh, leave me now, and come another day ! " The angel drew her close and whispered sweet, " Dear Heart ! the streets are fair with children there, God's sunlight hides its kisses in their hair, "A Little Child shall lead Them." 119 And everywhere in Heaven a child you meet." The woman clasped his hand, and toward the street So bright with children, smiling went the pair. OUR BOBBY WAS PINCHING THE KITTEN. UR Bobby was pinching the kitten, And kicking his primer about, And pulling a beetle to pieces, His face all awry in a pout ; His mother, who, patient and loving, Could coax her dear Bobby no more, Now reached for the whip on the mantel And looked at her boy on the floor. But grandma, with soft, muslin kerchief Pinned over her warm, loving breast, Where ten little heads had been pillowed And rocked into childhood's sweet rest, Looked up from the little wool stocking Just finished and laid on her knee, And said, " Dear, you '11 ruin his temper, You had far better let the child be. Our Bobby wzs pinching the Kitten. 121 "Don't whip him his father before him Was punished and shut in the dark, And stood on one foot in the corner, And disciplined up to the mark; We gave him no credit for honor, But watched him as spiders watch flies. I wonder that it did n't teach him To practise deceit and tell lies. "We called it affection and duty God knows we were fond of the boy But I guess his remembrance of child hood Is not quite a well-spring of joy. So put up that willow whip, daughter, And try little Bobby once more. You see he 's forgotten his passion, And lies half asleep on the floor." Then grandmother lifted her darling, And patted his head on her breast, And sang in a tremulous treble, Till all Bobby's woes were at rest/ i 2 2 Our Bobby was pinching the Kitten. And so the wee whip, bright and yellow, Was laid on the mantel again And that is the way that the grandmas Spoil nine little boys out of ten. HE KNOWS BEST. F I could utter some new magic word To lull the pain in one poor troubled soul ; Or when Bethesda's shining pool is stirred Could lift some cripple in and make him whole ; If I could set some bruised and tired feet Where they could henceforth tread a smoother way, I would not ask a gift more fair and sweet, To bless me on this happy Christmas day. Ah, foolish heart, be still ! Nor any more Distrust the tenderness that is divine ! 124 He knows best. He knows wherever feet are bruised and sore, And gives them pity, gentler far than thine. Our keenest sorrow may be sent to bring The dearest guest our life has ever known, Sweet patience, who in gathering the sting From other's lives forgets about her own. And there are old sweet words of truth and love, As full of meaning as a mother's kiss, Which fall like benedictions from above, And never weary in a world like this. Bethesda's pool is nearer than we think, It springs wherever there are tired feet; The gift you crave lies trembling on its brink, You still may make your Christmas day complete ! He knows best. 125 And though it may be hard to understand The way through which He leads your life and mine, May we not safely trust the gracious hand That brings to us so good a Christmas time? COMFORT. F I could lay my hand upon the heart That moulders underneath the church-yard snows, And bid the sleeping pulses wake and start, And to the faded lips restore the rose ; If I could lead the precious child you love With shrinking footsteps to his earthly place ; If I could bring him from the fold above, The tangled paths of life again to trace ; Say ! would you bid him lay his glory by That you might hold him to your troubled breast? And would your yearning mother-heart deny The good to him that you might thus be blest? Comfort. 127 I know your answer ! Tenderly enough Has God's sweet mercy through His smiting shone. Young feet are tender, and the way is rough ; Be glad that you can tread the thorns alone ! It is not long. The way is short between, And we are near the gates of pearl and gold; And yonder rise the hills of living green, Where children never die, nor yet grow old! And when the storms shall beat, and rains shall fall, And when you faint beneath the sun's fierce ray, O friend be glad ! and sing above it all, " My child is safe from all these ills to-day ! " A SUBPCENA. OISTEROUS Wind! Prince Weather's clown ! You have raised such a breeze in Blossom-town, That the undersigned bid you appear And answer the charges mentioned here. Robin is there quite red in the breast With rage, at the loss of a brand-new nest. Bumble-bee draggled from sting to chin Crawls from the pool you tumbled him in. Violet looks so wicked and sly With her tattered bonnet blown all awry ! Hyacinth, blue, and with head cast down, Has a breadth torn out of her bell-shaped gown. A Subpoena. 129 Butterfly holds up a crippled wing; - (How could you spoil such a dainty thing?) Some sweet young buds that were coming out Fetchingly gowned for their opening rout, You whirled away to a dance of your own With never a sign of a chaperone ! And worst of all, in your headlong race You drew your switches across the face Of that pet of the forest, Anemone, Bravest and frailest of flowers that be. Then haste, rude Jester ! Prince Weather's clown ! By the air-line route to Blossom-town. For, I give you warning, there 's much ado In the circles there, on account of you. DEPARTING DAY. HILE children lean their cheeks in drowsy prayer Against their mother's knees, and all the air Is sweet with vesper bell ; See, the spent Day faints on the sunset strand, Her smouldering torch down-drooping from her hand In token of farewell ! With vague regret I watch each ebbing grace : Come Twilight, gentle nun ! before her face Shall cold and ashen be ; Departing Day. 131 Fold thy gray veil above her as she lies, And sprinkle her with dews from thy soft eyes; She hath been kind to me. THE END. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-42m-8,'49(B5573)444 THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF C \LIFORNU LOS ANGELES PS Smith - 2869 Sometime and S3s other poems THERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 001219578 PS 2869 S3s UCLA-Young Research Library PS2869 .S3s y L 009 600 538 4