IC-N SB POEMS OF MARCUS FAYETTE BRIDGMAN. TALES AT THE MANSE AND OTHER POEMS BY MARCUS FAYETTE BRIDGMAN Boston, fftass. FRED S. COLLINS 20 BRATTLE ST. 1894 COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY FRED S. COLLINS. To F. S. C. I LOOK ACROSS THE YEARS WHICH SEPARATE US, AND OCTOBER SENDS A GREETING TO JUNE. M191801 Of the poems originally printed in the volumes entitled "Mosses" and "Under the Pine," seventeen have been retained with some changes in the present collection. CONTENTS. TALES AT THE MANSE. PAGE Preamble . . . . . . . n Tale I. Mary Lane . 12 Tale II. Hester Heyne 18 Tale III. The Miller s Daughter . . . . 34 Tale. IV. The Insane Artist . . . . 31 Tale V. The Musician and his (Daughter . . 36 MOSSES. First Poems. After the Summer . 43 Under the Willow . . . . .. . 45 fDrift . . . .. .. ... . . 48 Under Tine ^Boughs ... . . . 50 In the La<p of Earth . . . . ji On Looking at the Portrait of (Burns . . . 54 One Eve, . . . . . . . . . . J7 CONTENTS. SEAWEED. PAGE A Gleam of Memory ... 61 The Sexton . oj Toward the (Bourne ... .67 The Soul s Eclipse 6g The Reconciliation . . 71 The Two Travellers ...... 7j? The Man of (Books . .... 75 Adeline ... . 77 To (Death s Messenger . -79 As He Leaned Over His Awl . So After the Wreck . 82, At the Burial . 84 The Two Ways . . . . 86 UNDER THE PINE. The Likeness on the Wall . 8g A Mill-Idyl . g$ Inside the Gate .... g6 Low-Tide - 98 Seaward "... ... 100 Nepenthe .... 102, Agnes .... 104 The Church by the Green . . . .108 The Last (Request ... log A (kevery . . . . . . . .11-2, TALES AT THE MANSE, Here fall the rays of Memory on the fields That once were green, Like moonlight in a tranquil autumn eve, Upon a far-off scene. PREAMBLE. HAI.F a mile beyond the vale, Where the highway climbs the slope, White with orchard bloom in May, Near the weather-beaten church, With the shadow of its spire Stealing o er the grassy graves, Looks the mansion through the trees Still across the vacant street. Heavy is the perfume there Of the lilacs every spring, And beside the silent path Blossoms yet the guelder-rose. Ancient is the lonely Manse, With its faded yellow walls, And its roof with moss is green, And the sombre window-panes, \Vhere the daylight steals within, 12 Tales at the Manse. Mary Lane. Half are hid by mantling vines, While the honeysuckle creeps, Rank about the sleepy porch. There as seasons come and go, Distant is the outer world, Life itself a quiet dream. Lingering in the frosty years, In the twilight of the Past, In the dim, wainscoted room, Sits a wrinkled, white-haired dame And relates these simple tales, As I tarry for a night, Late in summer, at the Manse, On my walk to Stokeley Green. As here through uneventful days I sit Amid the shadows of my lengthen d life, I think of hours so oft that are no more. And o er the Present, like a setting sun, The light of Memory ever softly glows ! I still remember well, I say, the time, (And you must know twas many a year ago,) The season Edward Randolph led his bride From yonder church. Twas when the locust-tree Was scenting still the air of June. She wore A wreath of smilax, and six wild-flowers in Her hair. Yet, Ralph, how fresh and fair they look, Tales at the Manse. 13 Through five and forty years, as I recall The scene ! As fresh and fair was Mary Lane, As any flower that day. And all the scene Conies back to me, as twere but yesterday. Two miles away within a sleepy dell, There is a little rustic bridge that spans The brooklet slowly slipping through the run, And where the sunshine scarcely steals at noon. The crowfoot every summer lightly swims In the dark waters of the silent stream, While o er the channel leans the celandine From the moist margin which is rank with sedge. And every season rocks the willow tree Across the bridge where creeps the narrow way. The path crawls upward from the lonely run Through birches and a growth of underbrush, Winds through a copse of stunted oak and pine, And then descends a gentle slope to join A by-road, shaded oft by ash and elm. Well, yes, so many times the path I ve trod To Mary s doorstep, when the orchard slopes Were white, or days were balmy with the first Spring buds. And still behind a pleasant yard Tales at the Manse. That blossoms every May with snowballs, where The rosebush blushes by the path in June, Where morning-glories half the windows hide, Looks the small doorway on the by-road near, In autumn skirt with yellow goldenrod. Twelve years had whitened yonder button-wood, Each May, since tidings of the Falcon sunk In Bengal Bay the story told how half The crew with Randolph, master of the ship Which foundered off the isles of Andaman, One mournful day went down, as outward bound It voyaged from the coast of Hindoostan. To-night I recollect the afternoon So well, when Edward s fate in Bengal Bay, At length, was but a scarce repeated tale, That Mary Time had made us warmer friends Sat in her room twas in the self -same room Whose threshold she had crossed as Randolph s bride. Again the orchard blossoms scented all The air, and heavy was the perfume yet Of lilacs in the yard. Then while his song The bobolink across the grassland sent, We caught the sight of neighboring fields, the brook, The slope hard by, the wood beyond. Meantime We turned the leaves of Memory o er and o er, M c iinc. Tales at the Manse. 15 As toward the by-gone years we look d, where some Had kept for us their freshness still. "Sad breaks The sea forever on its sands," she said, "One word repeating ever, Nevermore!" "And yet," I said, "to-day the fair sun shines, The vale is rich with orchard bloom, and fresh With scent of lilacs and of snowballs, all The air so fragrant with the balmy life Which still the spring renews. So hearts may break, And dead hopes rustle like the autumn leaves With a sad sound beneath our feet for us Shall Nature smile, and woo us oft to its Deep peace and Hope, and Joy, and Faith, and Love, Shall make the present and the future still So rich with golden days." And then, at length, We both sat silent. Well, I thought the years Had changed her since her wedding-day. So calm Her face in its pale beauty, and the eyes, Overshadowed by the pleasant lids, at times Were instinct with a quiet pensiveness. A sweet expression had the countenance, But it was thoughtful, and thereon I saw The shadow of an unhealed grief, as when A cloud darkens still water. 16 Tales at the Manse. "True it is," She said, as o er the pleasant fields awhile She gazed, "that Nature woos us oft to its Deep peace. Yet oft to broken hearts, Hope, Joy, And Love, are empty words. With me the Faith Remains and Peace but not the Peace which Time Or Nature brings to wounded souls." Beyond The Manse, in later months, the sumac leaves Are red beside the churchyard gate, and shines The scarlet hazel every year hard by. Not distant from the path that yonder runs Between the crowded, grassy graves, there is A moss-grown stone. The poplar o er it waves Each year, where blooms the goldenrod, and glows The ripe fruit of the eglantine. The mound Is eastward of the middle path, and o er The marble creeps the vine. There half the name Perchance the eye will read. The bramble leans Against the footstone where the children come To pluck its berries oft in summer-time, The hawkweed and the aster in the short Autumnal days. And oft the bluebird sings In the gray aspen, in the mountain ash The oriole. So many times I ve heard iviSy~ e i!ane. Tales at the Manse. 17 The linnet in the willow there, and once The redstart in the solitary pine That sighs above the low, dark wall. I ve sat An hour sometimes by that still mound, or lean d Across the headstone. In that silent earth, So peaceful is the sleep of Mary Lane. I saw upon old Elinor s pale cheek A tear. She bent her head in silent thought, Then buried deep her face within her hand. But Myra toucht, at length, the harpsichord, And to its music sang a quiet song: When shall Time its solace bring, For the hopes that fade to-day? In the yellow year? Will it warm the autumn fields, When from Life the summer goes, And the leaf is sere? When shall Love in calmer days Fairer be than fairest flower ? y In the yellow year? When the blush of June is gone, When the bloom has left the rose, And the leaf is sere. 18 Tales at the Manse. So died the song of Myra on the ear, As in the dusk}?- room we silent sat, And on the dame I gazed in thoughtful mood. She raised her head, but spoke not. as she looked Through the still woodbine at the moonlit sky, And soon again began : In yonder vale, Where two low willows drink the sluggish stream, And spans the bridge the brook, the still road turns, Creeps through a copse of maple, then by one Low sycamore before a silent lawn. Behind the lawn that every year is green When the low sycamore is bare, and fields By autumn frosts are brown d, a mansion stands, Whose walls are mantled thick with clambering vines. The windows ever have a gloomy look Where sleeps the heavy honeysuckle shade When no winds stir. The straight and smooth-flagg d path Between the flower-beds from the gateway runs To the worn footstep of a sombre porch, While one lone locust leans against the eaves, And steals its shadow o er the ancient roof, As sinks the sun. Each year the yard with grass Is overgrown, the shrubbery untrimm d, The flower-beds oft are choked with summer weeds, HeS^Heyne. TdUS dt the MCUTlSe. 19 And scarce the window-panes are visible Through the thick greenery. So dimly Day, Between the curtains and the dark-leaved vines, Illumes the solitary, spacious rooms, Or peers on cloudless nights the mellow moon, Where Hester Heyne, sole heir And tenant of the mansion, sits or glides Amid the shadows of a distant Past. Her face is thin, and snowy-white her hair, Her features wrinkled, but there lingers still A waning lustre in her mild, grey eye, And light is still her step her form as yet Erect, or scarcely by the strong years bent. Yes, long do I remember her as old A lonely woman with a high-bred air, And with the manners of the olden time. There often as the noiseless seasons go, She spectre-like within the twilight walks, Or near the great high window keeps her seat, But sometimes in the lonesome later years, Stands thoughtful by a portrait on the wall. The likeness is of him who in her youth Her fresh heart won, but died upon the day They would have wed. The face, which still survives 20 Tales at the Manse. H e The dull and cankering tooth of Time, is young, With pleasant lineaments and handsome mouth, And lustrous eyes, and finely moulded chin. The hair, of chestnut hue, in wavy lines Falls to the shoulders, and the brow is fair. Ah ! when upon the canvas streams a ray Of golden sunshine, all the countenance Is life-like, where the lips forever seem About to speak. From a small casket nigh, Long kept within an antique cabinet, She takes a single, slender, dark-brown lock, Whereon she gazes in her revery, Yet from it she will often cast her glance To the still portrait. But, at length, the lock Replacing in its alabaster case, She slowly shuts the cabinet and sits, Her face deep buried in her hand for hours In silent thought. I know not if the dead Ever come back to earth, or if they do, Can be by human eye discern d. Yet so It is affirmed, and manifest themselves, At times, to our gross sense. Perhaps they do. For who can tell what mystic ties may link . . . . ASCENDS THE LARGE STONE STEPS, THE THRESHOLD CROSSES, ENTERING THE ROOM WITHOUT A FOOTFALL, WHERE OLD HESTER SITS, AS EKIDE FOR BRIDEGROOM WAITS. HeJte^Heyne. TdUS Cbt the MCUTlSe. 21 The spirits of the Unseen World to this? But I, indeed, believe if from their sphere They can to mundane scenes return, they must Revisit oft the earthly haunts they loved. Who knows but sometimes they are visible To mortal sight? Tis said, that as the time Comes round that should have been her bridal-eve, Old Hester for her lover patiently Her vigil keeps. All night she is arrayed As for a bridal of the olden days, In costly but half -faded dress, and rich Adornments of a fashion worn no more. The story runs, that at a certain hour, Alighting from a spectral carriage near, A manly form ascends the large stone steps, The threshold crosses, entering the room Without a footfall, where old Hester sits, As bride for bridegroom waits. And noiselessly With scarce a gesture, it will seat itself Beside the aged, withered dame. The lips Oft move as if in speech, but do not speak. The features are of one in early life, Fair-brow d, with many a dark-brown lock, the face Yet handsome, but the countenance is pale, 22 Tales at the Manse. The eyes lack-lustred. Its allotted space May stay the speechless and mysterious guest, The still, strange visitor. But when the clock, "Which heavily ticks out the fleeting hours, Strikes twelve within the dimly lighted hall, The form departs, while not an echo breaks The silence crosses with a noiseless step The threshold quits the mansion then is lost In moonlight, or the viewless air! Hard by, The breeze sighs in the single cedar-tree, And year by year the one lone locust leans Against the ancient eaves, and ever there Are mystic whispers of the night and day. And I have heard that oft on summer nights, A wandering strain of fitful melody Will through a window and the clustering vines Steal softly on the silent air. So wild And yet ethereal it seems, but dies At times, or on the silence swells, like some Rare harmony. At length, the strain will cease, And quietly a feeble voice will sing Some snatches of a half-forgotten song, Or simple ballad to a plaintive air, Tales at the Manse. 23 Which once, perchance, was often heard in days Of Hutchinson and Howe. The thorn-tree stands, Where creeps the grapevine o er the wall, and rank The poppy grows beside the path that runs Between the beds of marjoram and rue, To the low grass-plot by a lonely tarn. Thereby you ll see a button-wood and one Sad fir, whose roots have deeply struck within The darksome soil, and o er the margin lean The willows. Blossoms every summer there The trumpet honeysuckle, every year The marigold and celandine. The sun Scarce lights the waters where the pickerel-weed Crawls from the reedy bank. The owl will sit In the high hollow of the button-wood From the first flush of morn to dusky eve, And hoot, yes, often in the moonlight pale, Or in the moonless gloom. Indeed, the place At night-fall is a spot which persons shun. And plantive were the words which Myra sang, As then her fingers toucht the harpsichord: 24 TnJp<i nf t~hp Mnn*P Tale in. J.(M,et> CIL Trie JU.a7^Se. The Miller s Daughter. Long we talk d of autumn days, Oft of golden sunset skies, And the quiet words she spoke In my ear are lingering yet : "Southward soon the swallow flies, But erelong with spring returns, In the spring will you forget?" Warm the field beyond me lies, Blooms to-day the guelder-rose, And the honeysuckle blows, While the swallow northward flies : Swallow, you may bring the spring, One the May will not restore, Nor the spring forevermore "She will not wake," said one, "More still her breath at last, Than low winds husht at eve, Whose pain, we know, is past." Fresh stole the early air Across the summer corn; The night had brought her rest, Nepenthe at the morn. Long has the small house yonder overlooked The orchard, where the well-worn pathway runs To Dawson s mill. And from the wide highway Which climbs the slope to meet the silent street The MiTkr s Daughter. T(lleS dt the MCWSO. 25 A little lane between the hedges leads To the still cottage. Thence the eye may catch, Above the orchard and neglected hedge, A distant prospect of the vale below, The winding brook that steals between the elms, And peaceful meadow-lands, or upland farms, With rustling grain-fields glistening in the sun. Well, no, the cottage is not far away, Just up the shady, sleepy lane hard by. There lives the white-hair d miller, there has lived, I m thinking, now two score of years or more. And I remember at this hour so well, The miller s daughter. Pleasant is her face As I recall it, and the hazel eyes Are full of tenderness, and fair is yet The brow. What matters it if she has lain For years beneath the aspen-tree? The dead live oft In Memory, and my thoughts .are in the Past To-night. It was, but it was autumns since, Upon a Hallowe en, and in the rites Yet practiced at that superstitious eve, *Twas said she saw a lover s handsome face, * Tales at the Manse. A mask, a coffin, and a snow-white stone. And thinking of the face which she beheld, Within the mirror of the darkened room, She laughed. Nor ceased the giddy merriment Until the bell within the ivied tower Of yonder church, toll d forth the midnight hour. That night like other Hallowe ens had gone, And often was recall d to mind the scene, Whose rites had once evoked the mystic signs Of Love and Death. And in the course of time The maiden s love was won, to her were pledged The hand, the faith, the troth of Edward Earl. The months went by, the seasons passed, a year. But toward her lukewarm grew his heart. And still At times, the two would walk the orchard path In pleasant afternoons, or twilight grey, Or sometimes loiter in the quiet lane, Or sit an hour beside the cottage door, As softly waned the light of setting suns. October came ere long with mellow days. He went more seldom to the cottage. Yet Less frequent. Then, one evening at the gate, The Tales at the Manse. 27 He press d her hand, and said a calm "good by." The "good by " coldly fell upon her ear, And woke a mournful echo in her soul. So fickle was her lover, it was said. Nay, nay, but false the heart of Edward Earl. One night, old Montague, the sexton, sat Late in the sacristy, I ve heard him say, As through a window shone the summer moon. And while he gazed upon the headstones near, He thought how often he had ply d his spade And laid the dead to rest hard by. And oft He thought of them he d brought to slumber there Since the wild wintry night he last had rung The old year out, the new year in. "So fast The hour-glass runs," he thought, "the years slide by! At best life s but a span. And well I know The travellers reach the self-same goal at last, Where all roads meet. To-night old Floyd sleeps well, And sound by yonder locust Roger Hand. To-night the grass beneath the willow-tree Is green on Nancy Gavin s grave." The breeze Stole o er the sexton s cheek, but scarcely stirr d The ivy at the casement. Softly gleam d 28 Tales at the Manse. The A moment in the west a setting star, But lower d o er Langley s wood a gloomy cloud. And gazed old Montague upon the scene, The landscape glimmering in the moonlight pale, Where vague the valley in the distance lay, While far along the warm horizon loom d The dusky outlines of the silent hills. And white the headstones in the churchyard gleam ! As in the sacristy the sexton sits Buried in thought. But in the low church tower The bell, at length, the hour of midnight tolls, And wakes him from his revery. The tones Die on his ear, and faint the lamp burns yet Upon the table. Did he fancy it, Or did a face peer on him through the vines, A woman s face, a woman s figure glide Among the tombstones, hasten down the path, And straightway vanish through the churchyard gate? The grass grows rank by Dawson s pond, and low The willows o er its margin lean, but bloom The honeysuckle and the celandine, The wild rosemary every summer there. Dark is its water in the moonless nights, At p. 29. AH! HER GRAVE WAS DEEP, IN QUIET WATEK. The M.T& Daughter. Tales at the Manse. And silent is the gloomy water-way, As oft the beetle whirs among the reeds, Or sometimes when the days are long, the crow Will sit within the solitary ash Hard by, or near it in the button-wood, Half-dead at top, the blackbird watch the sun. Still is the mill, and still the water-way, And cool the shadows sleep in Dawson s pond. They slowly bear her from the water s edge, The miller s daughter, on the morrow when Above the willows broke the morning light. Yes, slowly in the early morning air, They bear her lifeless up the narrow path That winds among the ancient orchard trees, To yonder doorway where the woodbine hides The miller s cottage. Ah! her grave was deep, In quiet water. And beyond the church They gently laid her, but with many a tear, A few rods from the churchyard wall. And when The sexton broke the fresh turf for her grave, At morn, tis said the raven thrice he heard Above him, in the grey light of the dawn. 30 Tales at the Manse. The Yet blossoms over her the goldenrod, Each year the daisy. Late in autumn once I pluck d an aster from her peaceful mound. So ran the tale that Elinor rehearsed, And thus the words, at length, which Myra sang The earth is green to-day Above the lifeless clay, There droops the locust-tree, And each year hums the bee, Where blooms the sweet brier-rose, And many a wild flower grows. There silent is the ville, The moon looks down so still, And o er it from afar Each night the evening star. The dew at morning glows Upon the sweet brier-rose. There as the seasons go, No rude winds ever blow, The sunbeams softly sleep, And stars their vigils keep, Where in the silent dell To-day lies Isabel. The Insane Artist. Tales at the Manse. 31 Beyond the highway is the quaint old house, Deep-gabled, and two dormer windows look Upon the quiet lawn. There sometime lived An inmate of the doctor s family, I recollect, the insane artist. Whence He came, or what his history, was oft The question by the villagers discuss d, But left as often to conjecture. Time Has since refused to answer it, and Death- Which sealed the old physician s lips, has kept The mystery. Twas one mid-summer eve, (Mid-summer, for the sultry days had come,) I sat within the artist s studio, As oft I did with him. That hour I well Recall. The quiet gleam of the still moon Stole softly through the chamber window-panes, And filled the room with pale and mellow light. No sound was heard in all the village street. But now and then the faint breeze gently stirred The honeysuckle at the casement. I Remarked that night the paleness of his face, The lustre of his eye, which fixt on me A look of strange intelligence, and yet 32 Tales at the Manse. The Insane Artist, Was instinct with a dreamy melancholy. The story of his life my fancy solved So oft, as in the moonlit room I watch d The settled shadow on his countenance, Or listened to his talk, which seemed, at times, Like wild words uttered in a troubled dream. And oft the village gossip I recall d, Of one whose history baffled every tongue. In many a visit to his studio, My eyes upon some picture long had dwelt, Which showed, I thought, so well the artist s skill. In one, at morn, two children on the shore, With glowing faces looking from the strand, Upon an unknown sea and both were fair. Another scene the artist s hand had sketch d, Two lovers sitting in a pleasant vale, Hand claspt in hand, and where they sat, their heads Were both within one aureola, and that Was love. The youth s fixt countenance was bent, As I remember, on the maiden s face. Upon them from the valley s slope look d down A low-towered church. And in that quiet dell The light and shade with summer slept. I saw The Insane Artist. Tales at the Manse. 33 Before the altar of the low-tower d church A bride and bridegroom stand. Above them shone The chancel window glowing in the sun, And on a happy day the twain were wed. Another scene comes back to me. A sea Whose ebbing tide had left the white sands bare, A boatman and his boat upon the shore, Two forms that with the strong years now were bent, But in their youth I d seen by Life s wide main, And at the altar of the low-tower d church, When on a happy day the two were wed. Upon the table burned the evening lamp, No sound was heard in all the vacant street, While higher climbed the moon. Sweet was the scent Which we inhaled of new-mown summer fields That lay beyond the hedge-rows and the lanes. "I ve finished it," at length, the artist said, In a low voice, unveiling to my gaze A portrait. "On this canvas you behold Her face." I thought it beautiful and still Recall it, Ralph. The eyes were mild But pensive, pleasant was the brow. 5 34 Tales at the Manse. The T e J v A The Insane Artist. " The days Go by, but I shall see her soon," he said, "And she will say the portrait is so like, Yes, praise my poor, poor skill. And I shall look Upon this face once more, that always seemed So full of pity for her love and mine. But will she still have pity for our love, Or will her heart be cold? 0, no, not cold, But still have pity for our love." Just then Athwart the moon there crept a cloud, and threw Its shadow on his face. And yet the words Were in my ears, " For pity of her love And mine." Twas on a quiet autumn day I saw him, when six pallmen down the aisle Had borne him to the church. Few were the words The parson uttered at that hour. At last One rose and o er the lifeless artist bent, And kiss d the pale dead face. And then her own I well remarked. It was the one I d seen Upon the painter s canvas, as I sat That night within his studio. Yes, thrice She stoopt and kiss d the clay-cold face and wept. The Sn^Artist. TaUS dl the MCUYlSe. 35 Then Myra s fingers toucht the harpsichord, While soft and low she sang a quiet song : Often do I recall the summer hour When slowly walking on the sandy shore, We paused at length beside the restless sea, And said, " So far apart our paths would be, That never could be one forevermore." And softly o er us shone the sinking sun, That warmed the hills beyond the level lea, And as we lingered by the solemn main, We knew how far apart our paths would be, Which never, never could be one again. 36 Tales at the Manse. The and his Daughter. Yes, I remember one to-night who lived At Stokeley Green, a score of years ago, The rare musician. Often I recall The pale Annette, his only child, and scarce Seventeen, his sole companion. Other kin The man had none. Born in a foreign land, By masters taught in Germany, He was himself a master of his art, And played his violin with such a skill That few could equal it beyond the sea, Much less in all the region hereabout. Annette, (she always seemed to me so frail,) Not little of old Herman s genius had, And none who ever heard her sing forgot Her voice, for marvelous I thought it was, And lingers in my memory yet despite The lapse of time. You ve heard in some deep wood The thrush, as you have lingering stood to catch Its clear, ethereal strain, that charmed at times The stillness and your ear. Such the young girl. She was the thrush Indeed that charmed all ears. A gentle nature ever I remarked In her. Mild were her darkly hazel eyes That always had a dreamy look. Her face, The Musician and his TCileS dt the Daughter. I say, as I have said, was pale, yet were The features beautiful. Scarcely was heard The music of the old man s violin, But with it Annette s voice. And villagers Whene er they went along the way at night, Would often stop to listen to her tones, The strains of his rare instrument. The face Of Annette paler grew as months went by, And yet a brighter lustre had her eye, Her voice lost nothing of its marvelous tones, But more and more ethereal they seemed, Evoking strange, unearthly harmony, Like that the air from some .^Eolian harp Breathes on the ravish d ear. " She must not sing," The old physician said to Hoff one day. 4 Too weak the girl to exercise her gift Of song. I know whereof I speak. Her hold On Life is by a slender thread. So bid Her for the present sing no more." And went The summer, came the mellow days, With the sere leaves of autumn. Tales at the Manse. The Musician and Daughter. It was one October night. The wind was up. The vines Against the window-panes and casement swung, The broken clouds across the sky were driven, Obscuring oft the moon. And fitfully Upon the lawn, from Herman s cottage, shone The lamp-light through the restless honeysuckle. Then was it that along the chilly air, At length, to ear of villager, were borne The strains of the musician s violin, The rare tones of Annette. Twas said the notes Were from a famous foreign opera, Composed by some old master. Hour by hour Ceased not the strains, against the windows toss d The woodbine in the gusty wind, the rack Across the moon was driven. More rapturous The music grew of Herman s violin, The tones of Annette s voice. And still the light Flares from the narrow casement on the lawn, As from it yet the rapturous harmony Floats on the autumn breeze. But suddenly It ceases. Nothing breaks, at last, the hush, The solemn stillness of the lonely room, But the wild night! So quiet was her sleep Tale V. The Musician and his TdleS dt tU& MOTlSe. 39 Daughter. At morn a dreamless sleep. Look d warm the sun At noon through rifts of golden cloud. They bore Her through the churchyard gate, and laid Her by the locust, ere its yellow leaves Were shed. Twas said, that afterward, at night, From yonder cottage could be often heard Old Herman s violin and Annette s tones. Gently broke the languid tide On the strand beyond the lea Faded from their sight the ships, As they watched the sinking sun, Sitting by the sea. Went at length the sunset flush, Stole the shadows o er the lea Heard the quiet listening moon, But reveals no words they spoke, Sitting by the sea. And ceased the music of the harpsichord, The voice of Myra on the listening ear. MOSSES. First Poems. Spirit of Beauty, I obeyed thy will, Let me follow thee still AFTER THE SUMMER. THIS afternoon the autumn winds are silent, Which crept so chill along the slope at morning, And looks to-day so bare the lonely orchard. At length has come the dreamy, sere October : The daylight sleeps upon the noiseless upland, And soft the haze that fills the voiceless valley. A mile away, the river burns and glistens, Through yonder willow gleams the distant village A shaft of fire above it flames the church-spire. The woodbine listless droops about the casement, Nor stirs the maple by the quiet doorway, And sheer against the sky leans the still locust. 44 Mosses. Poem L After the Summer. As in my room I sit with busy fancy, And thinking of the vanished days of summer, Sings Zilla at her task a plaintive ballad : The landscape no longer is smiling, The leaves in the woodland are sere; The note of the robin is husht, And pale is the wane of the year. The cowslip blows not in the meadow, The rose and the lily are dead, The sparrows and kinglets have come, But the thrush and the swallow have fled. But the thrush will come back and the swallow, When the sun shall have melted the snows, To the meadow the lily return, At length, to the cottage the rose. Yet the spring to man s life twice comes not, Not twice to its landscape its flush; Blooms the rose or the lily but once, But once comes the swallow and thrush ! Warm is the sunshine on the honeysuckle, Beyond I catch the sight of sombre hemlocks, And far-off glimpses of the dusty highway. Below the vacant garden gleams the sumac, White on the hillside are the leafless birches, And o er the grave of summer broods the autumn. UNDER THE WILLOW. A RUSTIC fence upon the slope, Not far beyond the orchard trees, Surrounds a plot of freshest sward, A hillock mark d by two white stones. On the rich soil the clover blooms, So green is there the eglantine, A willow by a headstone droops, And moss half hides the simple name. In Elmer s field the mowers swing Their scythes below in rhythmic time, And through the orchard conies the talk Of laborers in the curling corn. Under the Willow. Leans one against the fence hard by The peaceful spot and headstone pale, As gently stirs the summer breeze The willow-tree and eglantine. To-day the bramble bush is rank, Its ripe fruit glowing through the leaves, And nodding near the wooden gate, It shifts its shadow on the wall. " Twas here we walkt one quiet eve The path beyond the ash," he said, "And lingers over Wayland s wood In fancy still the sinking sun, When friendships we recall d so oft, AVhich then were dead with buried years, And fortune s fickle change but oft What ruthless Death from Time had won. And swing with rhythmic strokes their scythes The mowers in the sultry field, While through the orchard comes the talk Of laborers in the curling corn. win,*. Mosses. 47 w.iow. And swings the bramble in the wind, Its ripe fruit glowing through the leaves. As nodding by the wooden gate, It shifts its shadow on the wall. The sunlight sleeps upon the grass, The soft breeze steals along the slope, The willow rustles o er the mound, And near it rocks the eglantine ! DRIFT. WE sat that evening in the yellow mansion, As shone the glimmering firelight on the hearthstone, And o er the landscape glowed the autumn sunset. And in the pauses of our talk our faces Turned long and often to the narrow windows, Where in the sunlight, swung the restless woodbine. Hard by the oaks were red among the pine-trees, Brown were the fields of meadow land beyond us, And burned the maple by the ancient doorway. Mosses. Gleamed in the glimmer of the waning daylight The light spray of the restless surf below us. And on the shore we heard the long waves breaking. Beyond we looked so often to the lighthouse Which rose so still and dark above the waters, Or sometimes gazed upon the dusky headland. While in the distance, as our eyes turned seaward, We saw three white sails on the far horizon, And over them the pale moon at its quarter. Then as the evening stole so softly o er us, And faded from our sight the distant village, The fields of autumn in the deepening shadows, And in the twilight of the quiet landscape, The dark hills loomed beyond the silent meadow So dim and vague to our imperfect vision, Within was warm revived our ancient friendship, The Past yet glowing from its half -dead ashes, While in the fireplace burned the dying embers. 7 UNDER PIN*: BOUGHS. So darksome are your boughs, unquiet pine-tree, Within the mellow moonlight, and so heavy Your midnight shadow on the summer greensward. And over me where now I lie and listen, I hear like whispers from mysterious voices, The faint, low murmur of the fitful night-wind. pine-tree ! so unquiet in the midnight, And always in your sombre branches sighing, Like some unhappy spirit earthward straying, In all the burden of your constant sadness, One plaint you have tis u Nevermore " and "Never, Whispers of Yesterday and To-morrow ! IN THE LAP OF EARTH. HARD by the dusty highway of the village, Not far from the well- The ancient wall secludes the still inclosure, worn road. A peaceful plot of earth, the village churchyard. And near it stands the ancient church whose windows , Near it the On one side from the high and narrow casements, . rustlc fane> Look silent o er it with their panes so sombre. Rank grows the grass beneath its solemn shadow, Luxuriant So dense and wild on that dark soil the greenery, greenery there. And rank the elder by the gloomy gateway. 52 Mosses. Poem V. In the Lap of Earth. Across the wall luxuriant creeps the bramble, And groups of children in the pleasant weattu Will often come to pluck its o er-ripe berries. And there you ll see the red fruit of the eglantine, And here and there a sad, low shrub of hemlock, About the place can be seen evergreen, A stunted fir, a scarlet-colored sumac. Sometimes a willow or a scattered aspen^ A willow or A rosebush there which early blooms in summer, an aspen. On some low mound the green leaves of the ivy. Man an There oft you ll see the white flowers of the bindweed, And every May the violet or the bellwort, In later months the aster and the cinquefoil. in autumn The l eaves y et glowing on the wrinkled grapevine, % le g7ap s e f In the bare birches and the leafless locust, vl birches e Or by the fence a lingering goldenrod. and locust. Soft is the twilight there. The shades of night upon the grass are falling, "Where yet a woman lingers in the twilight, And through the plaintive silence steal these accents : In the Lap of Earth. Mosses. 53 u G-reen is their turf, so green, who here are sleeping ! The hillock long be green where weeps the willow, a bSbck, And twines the ivy round this quiet headstone. Here oft is seen the king-cup and the daisy, And ever on this spot the year s first violet, A voice. Here every coming autumn late the aster." ON LOOKING AT THE PORTRAIT OF BURNS. IN fancy winds the Doon and blooms the heather, Still waves on Coila s sunny rigs the thistle, And caller gowans deck the field each season. There Spring its soft flush brings to all the landscape. Looks fair on bonnie braes the skies of Summer, And golden Autumn shines on fell and dingle. Oft as the light of morning gilds the upland, Or in the shaw the Doon at mid-day lingers, Or nightly sleeps the moon upon its bosom, Poem VI. On Looking at the, Portrait of Burns. Mosses 55 Oft as are heard in mellow days the voices Of can tie harvesters within the ryefield, Or talk of reapers in the bearded barley, The reapers and the harvest. Or lads and lassies gather at the hamlet, In moonlight dance upon the leesome greensward, Or in the gloamin chat beneath the hawthorn, The moon light dance, the chat beneath the hawthorn. Or often as the cotter sits at even With ruddy face before the glowing hearthstane, And near, with quiet air, the gentle guidwife, The cotter sitting by the fire, the guidwife hard by. Or caddies clatter idly at the alehouse, Or household tale is told by winter fireside, Or caiiin croons her song beside the chimlie, Or caddies clattering at the hamlet, or fireside talk, orcarlin crooning her song, So long shall there each rural scene and pleasure, Lang Syne to every Scot so oft reviving, Recall the name of Scotia s rustic poet! So long Lang Syne shall return, So fresh his memory shall be kept forever By every breeze that whispers in the brachen, Or curls the grass beside each Scottish burnie, So fresh shall be kept the memory of Scotia s poet. 56 Mosses. Poem VI. On Looking at the Portrait of Burns. By every By every wind that sways the summer thistle, rustles Or stirs the heather on the lonely moorlan, the barley. Or gently rustles in the bearded barley, So fresh his hSfib2ept and C h"mfet. -^y evel T l af l au ^ l ass i e at the clachau, In every dance upon the leesome greensward, In every cottage by the lighted ingle ! BONNIE, beautiful. BRACKEN, ferns. BRAE, a bank, a declivity. BURN, BURNIE, water, a rivulet. CALLER, fresh. CANTIE, cheerful, merry. CLACHAN, a small hamlet. CLATTER, to tell little, idle stories. COILA, a district of Ayershire. COTTER, the inhabitant of a cottage. CARLIN, a stout, old woman. CHIMLIE, a fireplace. CADDIE, a young fellow. DINGLB, a dale. FELL, a level field on the side or top of a hill. GOWANS, daisy, dandelion, hawkweek, etc. GLOAMIN, the twilight. GUIDWIFB, the mistress of a house. HEARTHSTANE, the hearthstone. HEATHER, the heath. INGLE, a fireplace. LASSIE, a young woman, a girl applied particularly to a country girl. LEESOME, pleasant. RIG, a ridge. SHAW, a small wood. At p. WHEN THE LIGHT BREEZE OF EVENING WOOED YOUR TRESSES, AND HEAVY WAS THE AIR WITH ORCHARD PERFUME, WITH ODORS OF THE LILACS AND THE PEAR-TREES. ONE EVE. WELL, here, at even, o er the gate I m leaning, By the still way that leads to yonder village, Whose panes against the western sky are gleaming. And from the Past one far-off eve is shining, So warm in fancy is a vanished sunset, When all the air was genial with the spring-time : When the light breeze of evening wooed your tresses, And heavy was the air with orchard perfume, With odors of the lilacs and the pear-trees : 8 58 Mosses. Poemvn - One Eve. When half in shadow lay the vale beyond us, And half the elms below were toucht with sunshine, While at our feet the shallow streamlet lingered : When long we talked of the bright days of summer, Which soon would bring the field-sparrow to the upland At length the wood-thrush to the silent forest. And here, at even, o er the gate I m leaning, While now, I think, so softly sleep the shadows On one pale stone among the quiet willows ! SEAWEED. Some seaweed strewn upon the shore, Where breaks the tide of Life forevermore, A GLEAM OF MEMORY. THE hour I well recall, The pleasant lawn, the vacant way, Before the porch the ancient fir, The room wherein I sat with her, The flower-piece on the wall, The sunset flush That softly shone between The quiet vines, As stole the dreamy hush Of evening over all the scene. And I remember still When the warm light went out above the hill, 62 Seaweed. And through the ivy faintly gleam d The lamp hard by within the sacristy, So long across the fields we looked Upon the moonlit sea. Yet in the hush Of summer eves, Warm glows and dies the sunset flush Among the honeysuckle leaves, And in my fancy one, Within the shadows of the silent room, Though over her the summer grass is rank, Still fixes oft her wistful look on me, Then gazes through the moonlit air Across the shimmering sea ! THE SEXTON. I M thinking, sir, I know it, every rod And foot of ground hard by, and I have been The sexton here for many a year, I ll say, And made the graves here bouts. Well, yes, the place Is getting pretty full of mounds. He stood Beneath the locust-tree and lean d across His spade. You see that headstone green with moss, Between two smaller ones beyond the path. I well remember when Job Randall went To his last home. Twas in a nipping air, Faith, it was in the bitter wind of one December day. He s never minded much The weather since I laid him bv the wall. Seaweed. The Sexton. You see the grave a few rods from the gate, Where falls the shadow of the bramble-bush, O afternoons, upon a low, white stone. Seth Peters I remember well. Twas on A sharp mid-winter day I buried him Beneath the snow. But snug he s laid, I m sure, In yonder spot since then. There at your left, The third one in the row, my friend, I call A handsome slab. Tis not a score of years Ago I heap d the earth on Lijah Lane, Old Lijah, may be you have never heard Of him, and you re a stranger in these parts. But in the mansion over there he lived, Where you can see the sycamore. He had A deal of money when he died, and hugged His gold. Yet little has he, but enough To-day, a tombstone and that patch of ground. Just there the headstone at your right, may be A rod from yonder ash which shades the path, I used to think, too, was a handsome slab. But o er it yearly creeps the dull, gray moss, Which almost hides the name of Walter Clare. Folks said he was a poet. All I know, He sometimes walked about the village street, The Sexton. Seaweed. 65 Yet oft would wander through the fields and lanes Alone in pleasant weather, sit for hours Beside a brook and listen to the sound It made among the alders. Once it was, A bright June day, that by old Lockwood s mound He lingered as I broke the greensward there, One afternoon. " "Tis not so poor a spot To rest in when one lays his burden down," He said. Just then the shadow of the church Had toucht the grave beyond. The robin sang A pleasant song upon the aspen-tree. And here the poet, too, was brought one day, Before the next year went. But by the ash So early blooms the king-cup over him, So late the aster and the gotdenrod. I like to see a willow by a grave. Tis not so gloomy as your fir or pine, And casts a pleasant shade. The willow- tree Is green to-day where waves the eglantine On Ellen Archer s grave. Ah ! she was young, A lily, sir, that faded summers since. So rank is there the grass ! Yet as I lean Across my spade, still young I fancy her, As when it was a pleasant sight to see Her face at church upon a Sabbath morn, 66 Seaweed. T , Po m Ihe Sexton Or hear her sweetly sing the evening hymn. Too young, too young and fair to die, I thought. Twas when I saw her cold, fair face, and placed A single rose-bud in her snow-white hand. Then at the funeral they sung the hymn I d heard her sing but three short months before. The other day, twas but the other day, I stood a half -hour by her hillock. You May be will think it strange. But somehow, friend, The thought of her fill d both my eyes with tears. I know the dead forever are at rest. The young who die sleep well, and sound th-2 old, In this still spot. Yes, yes, the young lie down At morning, but the old, I m sure, are glad To reach the goal ^t night. There s some that say A churchyard is a lonesome place. To me It is a kind o pleasant spot. And here I often think I ll knock at Life s last inn At nightfall, when the weary day is done. TOWARD THE BOURNE. IMPALPABLE, yet visible, One wandering in the dewy air, Beside me walkt with gentle mien, With pensive face and flowing hair. No word she spoke, but beckoned oft To one low star whose steady light Gleamed over fields beyond our ken, As on we wended in the night. So long we kept our westward course, We roamed as in a world of dreams, In moonlit vales, o er lengthening plains, And trod the banks of unknown streams. Seaweed. Toward the Bourne. Behind us lay the dusky fields O er which our feet had fared so far, But in the west so brightly shone Upon us still the one low star. We walkt the strand so chill and drear, We sailed the low tide lightly o er, As rode the boat the silent sea, And gently dipt the boatman s oar ! THE SOUL S ECLIPSE. THE seasons pass, And yet so much from all the world is gone, Since the one hour Which I recall, alas ! There is for me no glory of the dawn Or mid-day, or of setting suns, Or starlit night, Nor beauty of the flower Or summer grass, Or shadows sleeping where the winds are still, Nor music to my ear of purling rill, 70 Seaweed. Poem IV. The Soul s Eclipse. Nor calm delight of solitude Within the pathless wood, And glows no more the golden haze That fill d the quiet autumn days. The months go by apace, Abides with me But Memory. Henceforth one hour shall unforgotten be, The hour I looked on Death s pale face. THE RECONCILIATION. So long a while, remember, we ve been friends. It s nigh two score of years that you ve known me, And I ve known you, James Strong. I see your farm, And you see mine. Hard by is each to each, Between them but a scant half-mile. And we Were friendly neighbors not three months ago. I ll own my temper sometimes is too quick, And some hard things the other day I said Of you, at Foskett s. Let them pass. Old friends Should be old friends. I never was the man To envy your prosperity, James Strong. Why should I? Yonder farm of moderate size I call my own, and where s the man will say To-day I owe him aught? But you, you look Seaweed. Each morning from your doorway there on your Two hundred acres. Citizens are we Of whom the people of this goodly town Speak well. We ve had enough of angry talk About a paltry bit of pasture land. Well, yonder is the horse I bought of Rugg, Above a year ago. the dappled gray. The animal has some fine points, you see, A handsome leg and neck, a head I call, Mark you, a beauty. Body not too long, But well-proportioned, and an eye I like. And there s the dark-bay horse beyond the roan. I bought him when a colt. No animal With fancy points, you see, and yet there s not A better roadster than the bay. But come, The horn has sounded. Now the dinner waits. So no excuses, you shall dine with me, When we ll discuss a sirloin roast, the crops And markets, try the wine which Kate has made. THE TWO TRAVELLERS. WHERE the sunset glows through the leafless top Of a single sycamore tree, From the sunburnt edge of the short, crisp grass The path creeps down to the sea. Here as I sit by the cedar-copse In sight of the summer grain, Breaks on the hazy air so low The moan of the distant main. 10 74 S\PmilP0ri Poem VI. o eaweea . The Two Travellers> Beyond me on the shadowy cliff, I hear at times the jay, While yonder traveller s steady pace Plods over the lonely way. But I will watch the warm light wane Till the day to its goal has run, I will seaward go at the voice of the sea, And follow the track of the sun ! THE MAN OF BOOKS. You see those sycamores. He lives thereby, And has resided, stranger, many a year In that square mansion. Little does he stir Abroad, but spends his days among his books, And, sir, he has no end of books. Year in, Year out, he reads them, and tis wonderful How much there is of learning in his head. You ve heard of cyclopedias, and yet He is a library in himself, my friend. Ah, well, he knows a deal about the men Who lived so long ago. One afternoon, Twas at the mansion but the other week, He learnedly discoursed an hour or more Of ancient times, and much he had to say About the famous days of Greece and Rome, 76 RpmilPPfl Poem VII. o vuwvvus. The Man of books The mighty things which then were done, he said, By Alexander, Caesar, Hannibal, And others in the by-gone ages, sir. I say, it is amazing, hearing him Discoursing of the orators of old. He handles them like any scholar. Yes, He s just an ancient with the ancients. All The greatest orators are ancient, sir, At least, so he has often told me. Quoth He, twas the afternoon that I have said, "Ah! tell me, what s your modern eloquence, Compared with that of hoar antiquity ?" And he will talk you by the hour, perchance, About Demosthenes or Cicero. You see the gateway. Yonder is the house. You ll find him there behind the sycamores. ADELINE. IN the depths of the deep dark wood There s a hush where the calm winds sleep, Not a leaf in the thick gloom stirs, Nor the stars through the thick leaves peer, Where the wandering moon comes not, And the sounds of the day fall dead. All day long sits the horn6d owl In the depths of the deep dark wood, But the silence is broken there By the flap of his wings at night, When he flies at the midnight hour From his nook in the old oak tree. There at mid-day sits Adeline At the foot of the gnarled oak, In the shade of the forest still And a plaint through the forest steals: 78 Seaweed. Adeline. At yester-eve I pluckt a rose, (O heart forlorn,) My lover left me yester-eve, He did not come at morn. Alas, for the rose That left with me the thorn. Fair sun may rise and set, (O heart forlorn,) He will not come to-morrow eve, He will not come at morn. So rare was the rose, But leaves with me the thorn. TO DEATH S MESSENGER. TEMPT him with pleasant tones, Allure him like the soft and gentle night, From the oppressive, garish light, The ways that men with weary footsteps tread, To thy serene abode Where comes surcease of sorrow, And they who weep to-day will sleep to-morrow. Entice him with sweet speech, Win him to thy still realm Where storms are husht, Where winds are lull d as at a summer eve, Where the harsh sounds that pierce the day No more are loud, And wrap thy darkness round him like a shroud. AS HE LEANED OVER HIS AWL. I STICK, sir, to my last, and keep my shop. Here at my work I ve sat, my shop I ve kept, For many a year. No stopping place, I find. Drops in the parson of an afternoon To chat with me, and no one better likes A joke than parson Dale. In other days Old Leonard here would come to sit an hour, Talk of the weather and the crops, rehearse The gossip of the town. No more the door He opens now, nor in the village street His face is seen. I recollect the time They bore him to the churchyard on the hill. Well, yes, mine is an honest trade, I say. And yet, my friend, I do not occupy, 81 You know, the first seat in the synagogue. There is Squire Anderson, up the broad aisle, At church, he walks, the sexton with a bow Shows the pew-door to him, and when he speaks To men, they reckon it an honor. Folks Are proud to shake the hand of lawyer Ladd, Not mine. Yet mine, sir, is an honest trade. 11 AFTER THE WRECK. AT the edge of the wind-blown pines, The fisherman s cottage stands, Down by the beach, And the long, straight reach Of the white ^ea-sands. Sits in the cottage one Gazing far over the main Toward the quietly setting sun. And there by the window-pane Is a child with a sweet, sad face, That wistfully Looks out on the rippling sea. Poem XI. V /> A/ ~7 //?/>/"/ o*"i After the Wreck. lOCCllVeeU . " Not to-Dight, alas! He comes not to-night," The mother says, with a sigh, And the fair child weeps, And the mother gazes over the waves With tearful eyes at the sunset sky. But down by the beach And the long, straight reach Of the white sea-sands, To the fisherman s door Comes the fisherman no more. AT THE BURIAL, AT length, with heavy steps, They bear him to his rest, One with the weight of life oppress d. The pallmen slow Their burden through the gateway bear, And up the churchyard go. There is the fresh, damp heap of earth, In it is thrust the sexton s spade, With which, at morn, the grave he made. But soon the final words are said. They slowly lower the dead, And when all rites are done, WANES THE SUMMER DAY, SHINE THE HEADSTONES COLD. AT SUNSET FROM THE CHURCHYARD GATE, WENT THE SEXTON OLD. At the Burial. Seaweed. 85 The pallmen, one by one, Walk out of the shadow into the sun. Wanes the summer day, Shine the headstones cold. At sunset from the churchyard gate, Went the sexton old. THE TWO WAYS. TWAS at the parting of the ways we stood, And goes the by-way there Across the level lea, The other by the silent wood. We parted at the parting of the ways, That never could for us be one, And since so far apart our paths have run. There winds the homeward way, The other o er the lea Forever to the deep blue sea! UNDER THE PINE. Here, as I sit beneath the pine-tree, Which sighs and moans, Awake within my soul the echoes Of its low tones. THE LIKENESS ON THE WALL. HERE is her portrait o er the marble bust, And oftentimes upon the silent face I gaze, when I am in a musing mood. I m sure you ll say the countenance is fine. The quiet eyes are fair and full of thought, But mild and dreamy as an autumn day. The forehead is not high but beautiful The brows, I think, are delicately arch d, The nose as rare as Ariadne s. Yes, The skill of Valentine so well has limn d The lineaments. See, now the hair looks warm, 12 Poem I. 90 Under the Pine. The P^ e f, s on the Wall. Which falls about the temples, lending half Its lustre to the neck in this soft sun That through the casement gleams. And sometimes here I linger in these quiet days an hour Before this portrait. The original, At rest, lies in the classic soil of Rome, Hard by the pyramid of Cestius. It is a still, secluded spot on which The turf, moist with the soft Italian dew. Each year is green. The violets blossom now Upon it every Roman winter. There Might one sleep well. Quite true, you ll trace, I think, Some features in the physiognomy And mine a family resemblance - but The likeness is not marked. Younger than I By fifteen years, one mother had we both, Not the same father. Of a gentle nature Of better mould, indeed, than common clay, Tis ever thus that I recall her. I Remember well twas only three short months Before we laid her in her Roman grave One cloudless evening of an autumn day Under the Pine. 91 We sat upon the Palatine, and saw The clear sun set as all the Sabiue hills, The summits of the distant Apennines, With crimson glowed and purple, till at last. The lingering sunlight through the ancient trees Fell on the ruins at our feet, and stole The deepening shadows over all the scene. There as we sat beneath the cypresses And watched at times the evening star, As one by one the silent hours slid by Long talk d we of that path our feet had trod, And oft of what had been, but what would be No more forever of the mystery Of Life, and how the glory of the world Doth fade, while Faith and Love remain. There as we sat beneath the cypresses And watched the evening star as on her face The moonlight fell. "A few short mouths," she said, "And this frail frame of mine will quite succumb, This transitory dream be o er and here Amid the shadows of a twilight Past, My sleep be calm even in an alien soil." And through the solemn silence then we heard The convent bell upon the Co3lian Hill Tolling for midnight orisons. Ah, sir, 92 Under the Pine. Poem I. The Likeness on the Wall. How often with the memory of her, Comes back the hour ! So mellow falls the light Upon the face ! There something you will learn Of that fair spirit whose remembrance still Through every year is fragrant in my soul. A MILL-IDYL. The Mill. IF, when you go toward Landis Green, you turn A short half-mile this side the noiseless vill, And cross the low-arched bridge that spans the brook, Where leans a clump of alders o er the bank, You ll see beside the smooth and narrow way, A dozen rods beyond the babbling stream, Behind a locust and a sycamore^ The mill and scarce a rod above it where The willows, rank with ooze and moisture, droop Above a shallow pond. In summer days A pleasant and a dreamy shade is cast 94 Under the Pine. Along the by-road and about the mill, And on the bosom of the quiet pond. There by it every year the spearwort blooms, And at its margin flarnes the marigold, While bars of golden light the water streak, And through the leaves the warm west glows, whene r The sun is low. You mount the great stone step, Across the ancient well-worn threshold pass, As swims the light dust in the beams that steal Through the dim window-panes. And there the sound Of grinding swells the hazy air within, Which shakes the heavy cobwebs as tiiey hang About the windows where the huge flies buzz And die. Therein so oft on cloudless nights The silent moon looks wan. And window-frames There rattle with a melancholy sound, By gusty night-winds stirred. Then sway the long, Lithe willows in the moonlight, and no more The tranquil shadows sleep, but wildly dance About the lonesome spot, and sleeps no more Within the wrinkled pond the midnight sky. In at the eastern window faintly peers The morn. And half the long warm afternoons, Through the great doorway burns the westering sun, And creeps the shade athwart the dusty panes, A p Mm-idii. Under the Pine. As swift the swallow flits about the eaves, Or sits the blackbird in the alder-bush Hard by o noons within the sleepy run. The Miller. The world is old, And the burden thereof, But the phoebe swings In the reeds to-day, On the water-way. Thinks the miller as he By the hopper stands, u So long have spun The mill-stones round, As the grain I ve ground ! Yet the great wheel turns, And the mill-stones spin, And still I grind, By the hopper here, The grain each year. So the seasons go, While to-morrow brings The selfsame task, Till the wheel at the mill, And Life stand still." INSIDE THE GATE. YOU LL see it near the ancient gateway, But a rod from the low, dark pine I cannot tell how many summers Has bloom d over Alice The clover. It can be scarcely less than twenty Since the willow was planted there And many autumns I remember Has swung by the headstone The aster. Inside the Gate. Under the Pine. 97 It can be scarcely less than twenty Since the eglantine nodded there, And waved above the spot the daisy Or crept o er her bosom The ivy. And so beyond the ancient gateway But a rod from the low, dark pine, To-day the earth is over Alice, And leans o er the footstone The yarrow. 13 LOW-TIDE. He askt if it was the tide. I said it was the tide, Breaking on the shore, "WAS it the Sea?" He asked And far off broke the tide. The words In slow and faltering speech he spoke. I gazed upon his countenance so pale, Then out into the soft midsummer night. "It is the tide Which breaks below Upon the solemn shore, The never-resting waves That o er the shingly beach Are breaking on the midnight strand," I said And stole the moonlight Low-Tide. Under the Pine. 99 Through the woodbine Which the faint air scarcely stirr d u There shines upon the Sea The mellow Moon. And at the dawn will yonder set so warm! Yes, it is the tide, The breaking of the surf upon the shore, Be t he ath The moaning of the main beneath the full-orb d Moon !" Moon Was it the sea? Or broke the tide of Life so low? th e Tide? So calmly broke the tide of Life, So low in Death s deep silence there. And at my window, Looking out between the vines Upon the moonlit bay, I Iea d against the As long I lean d against the panes, anTErd I heard no sound but of the Sea. the n sea. SEAWARD. ON the shore I stood, By the ebbing tide, Faintly on the long beach breaking. And afar I saw, On the deep, blue main, Three ships slowly sailing seaward. Three ships in the sun, O er the deep, blue main, Toward the summer sunset sailing. Poem V. Seaward. Under the Pine. 101 Till I saw them sink, Slowly dipping low, To the golden gates of evening ! Ah ! the ships that go Over Life s wide main, Time-borne barks returning never Will ye furl your sails Yet in calmer climes, Keeping still your courses seaward? NEPENTHE. So silent is the room so husht and dim "Where nothing breaks the stillness but the sound Of our low voices and the sombre gloom Is pale with that scant light which yonder steals Through close-drawn curtains and the darkened panes, And yet why speak in undertones, or shut The sunshine out? The ear of Death is cold, Nor would the eyes that closed at yester-eve, Be dazed by this May morn. So fair, say you? Not Life itself could ever give to her The beauty which this marble paleness does, This marble-like repose. The quiet brow, The calm and long-lashed lids, the lips, their sweet Expression keeping yet, the dark-brown hair Which softly falls about the pleasant neck, Under the Pine. 103 Are passing fair. You can but mark, I m sure, The chin so finely modeled while the cheek, Where scarce you see the ravage of disease, Is in its wanness beautiful with that Stray lock upon t. To-morrow they will bear Her hence, and lay her loveliness away Beneath the shadow of the aspen-tree, By yonder church. They ll well perform their task ! Alas, too well, as they will coldly heap The clods upon her there. And then I ll wish The earth that covers her would cover me. If I could lie within the quiet grave Which shall forever hide this lifeless form, I d closely press the clay-cold face to mine, And think Death lovely, for I d rest, I know, In blessed peace with her. So by the church They ll break the turf to-morrow, at the morn. Yes, in the faint, gray daylight of the dawn. AGNES. TWAS by an altar, in an ancient church, At Michaelmas, a maiden prayed for death And this the prayer she prayed so earnestly, Low-kneeling there before the crucifix: "O Son of Mary, who art pitiful! The freshness and the greenness of my life Is gone and oft my breath is but a sigh. I am as one who sits in cheerless days Above the dead, dry mould of summer fields, And hears the mournful autumn sigh, or hears The bleak winds wildly wail in all the woods Of spring. So dreary and so joyless seem, Alas, all days to me, from morn to eve, Under the Pine. ios At length this boon I ask that I may taste The sweetness and the blessedness of death." The hoar frost came, then went the wintry days, And warmer breezes stir the maple leaf, The bramble-berry ripens by the wall. Late is the hour, and scarce the wandering wind Disturbs the hush of yonder lonely spot, When underneath the silent summer moon, She with a lover in the churchyard walks. Why seek the two the churchyard lone and still, Or there rewalk the grass-grown path so oft, Where headstones glisten in the moonlight pale? Below the quiet moon they tell their love, And plight their troth beneath the cypress tree ! And so All-Hallows soon should make them one, The two be wed within the ancient church, That stood with ivied walls and tower thereby, Where once the maiden knelt, at Michaelmas, And prayed before the crucifix for death. All-Hallow night; for months have come and gone. Dim burn the lights within the ancient church, 14 106 Under the Pine. p m nes VIL While in the west the waning moon is wan. So dense the throng, that scarcely there is seen The haggard sexton s form, whose grave hard by, Within the shadow of the gloomy fir, To-night is green or hers, the withered belle, Who died so long ago, or that frail form Which so sepulchral looks amid the crowd, On whom in autumn late the aster blows Each year or hers, with face so blanch d, who pass d One summer morn from earth, and yonder stands Before the picture of the risen Christ Or hers, the maiden by a lighted shrine, Whose eyes on yon Madonna oft are bent, Who faded like a rare and fragile flower One far-off June or scarce is noticed hera, On earth a castaway, who gazes long Upon the likeness of the Magdalen Or hers, on whom the grass ia rank, who turns So often to the painting on the wall, The martyrdom of St. Sebastian Or hers, within the twilight of a niche, Whose life went out upon her wedding-day, On whom each spring has waved the guelder-rose Or hers, the fair bride once, but standing there With countenance so white against the panes, Under the Pine. 107 Who faded with the orange-bloom she wore, And lies to-night beneath the eglantine ! Lo, up the aisle the bridegroom and the bride To the high altar walk. And there, as sets The waning moon, and tolls the midnight bell Within the ivied tower the twain are wed. And closely to his breast he presses her, In his embrace ! Then o er her features stole A mortal paleness while in low, faint tones, As when a breeze is dying in the pines, She breathed these words in slow, expiring breath "Sweet is thy kiss, and yet thy lips so cold! " THE CHURCH BY THE GREEN. YET stands the church by the village lawn, And looks so dim o er the churchyard still. (Death, the reaper, gathers his sheaves!) About the windows the woodbine crawls, And creeps o er the eaves. By its walls the leaves of the locust are green, And green is the ash by the low church door. (Leaves grow sere, like the hopes of men!) The swallow builds in the belfry its nest, In the gable the wren. And tolls for the dead each season still The sexton old the churchyard bell. ("^4/i/" he says, "dies the bloom on the flower!" And a peal far out he rings each day From the ivied tower ! THE LAST REQUEST. I D hoped that I might SBe another morn, But, doctor, ebb s the tide with me. The pain That rack d my side is gone, and now my brain, Which was a whirling world of cloudy thoughts At last is clear. I ve something on my mind I d say, before the tide goes out. You ve done What you could do, but well I know, too well, I ll never in the good ship Neptune make Another voyage. Ah, sir, closer come, Or you ll not hear. If you d but take the load From off my chest which makes my breath so short But no, you cannot if you could, I d try no Under the Pine. To speak above this faint, low tone. Come close, For I must make you understand. O, yes, At Inveran I said she lived, hard by The Galway coast. It comforts me to think That I shall never know one bitter tear She ll shed for me. No, long this sleep will be, I m sure, and then I shall not heed her tears. What sound is that? Is it the low night-wind I hear a-moaning hoarsely in the pines In yonder yard? I thought it was the gale, And we d been struck by some no theaster. So The message, doctor, I ve not told you yet? Here is a locket with her miniature. This with the message send her, that to-night My thoughts ofttimes went back to her, and say, Why, say the voyage ended in a calm, At last, after rough weather. But a bell I hear. The clock s which strikes the hour of twelve, Say you? I thought it was a knell and toll d The fate of some poor comrade, doctor. Well, No clay-clods pile on me when I am dead They d press me down the earth would lie Poem IX. JT-nrloT /7? P PlTlP 111 The Last Request. U 110,61 11X6 r^JlV . So like a stone upon my breast I could not sleep. Ah ! tis low water and the tide will not Come in. Two mornings when the ship leaves port, Make me a shroud o the ship s sail and then Let some short service or a prayer be said And be my grave the wide, the wide, wild waves The bosom of the all-embracing sea. A REVERY. THE time, the place, I think, are now so distant, It was an August eve, as I remember, And we were sitting on the quiet grass-plot. So gently o er us stole the night s slow shadow, So faint the lamp-light through the casement glimmer d, So lightly in our ears the woodbine rustled. So long we sat and watched the distant lighthouse, The far-off village and the dusky headland, So long the river flowing darkly seaward. So oft the languid night-wind stirred your tresses, So long our hands were claspt in that still starlight, So low and earnest were the accents spoken. So mellow d is the scene as I recall it, As when upon a tranquil night in autumn, The moon on some far field is softly shining! UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY BERKELEY Return to desk from which borrowed. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. LD 21-100m-9, 48(B399sl6)476 YC160534 MI918Q1 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY