THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 A. M. Botaford 
 
 *
 
 MOLY 
 
 A BOOK OF POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 CURTIS MAY 
 
 NEW YORK & LONDON 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 1887
 
 COPYRIGHT BY 
 
 CURTIS MAY 
 
 1887 
 
 Press of 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 New York
 
 PS 
 
 2-31 L, 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MOLY . - I 
 
 THE SECRET OF THE TOWER 2 
 
 BEATRICE CENCI 7 
 
 IN SORROW 8 
 
 TRANSPLANTED 9 
 
 LITTLE HANDS 9 
 
 To LIZZIE 10 
 
 THE GOLDEN-ROD 10 
 
 THE SUMMER RAIN 12 
 
 THE FLOWER- ANGELS 13 
 
 THE ALPINE HORN 13 
 
 THREE SHIPBOARD PICTURES 14 
 
 APRIL 17 
 
 THE SONG OF A DREAM-ANGEI ig 
 
 CLINTON Two YEARS OLD ig 
 
 AMONG THE LILY-PADS .22 
 
 OCTOBER SNOW 23 
 
 THE EAGLE ON THE MOUNTAIN TOP .... 23 
 
 A WONDER 24 
 
 THE BROKEN FRIENDSHIP 24 
 
 CONVENT LACE 25 
 
 CORNER GRATT 27 
 
 A STORY ......... 27 
 
 HOMESPUN 29 
 
 IN THE DARK 30 
 
 THE LILY 31 
 
 THE OCKLAWAHA RIVER 32 
 
 DEAD HANDS 33 
 
 iii 
 
 790340
 
 IV CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 MAY THIRTIETH 34 
 
 A NlGHT-SONG AT SEA 34 
 
 AWAY FROM HOME 35 
 
 LULLABY 37 
 
 THE STATUE 37 
 
 BEAUTIFUL EYES 38 
 
 THE BOY'S CONFESSION 39 
 
 THE BELLS ACROSS THE WATER 41 
 
 THE FIRTH OF CLYDE 41 
 
 THE CAMP-FIRE 42 
 
 SABBATH SONGS 44 
 
 THE SKELETON IN THE DUNGEON . . . 45 
 
 THE STORM OVER 46 
 
 THE GOLDEN WEDDING 46 
 
 THE CHILD I NEVER HAD 49 
 
 THE SLAVE-MARKET AT ST. AUGUSTINE ... 50 
 
 YE CROONING WAVES 51 
 
 GROWING OLD 52 
 
 THE DIFFERENCE 53 
 
 DONALD 54 
 
 My SONG 55 
 
 IN THE COLOGNE CATHEDRAL 56 
 
 PRESIDENT GARFIELD DEAD 57 
 
 THE MATTERHORN 58 
 
 How THE BROOK CAME DOWN 59 
 
 SINCE I HAVE KNOWN You . . . , . 60 
 
 THE " ANGEL'S MEADOW " 61 
 
 THE STORK'S NEST 62 
 
 THE LITTLE GERMAN GIRL 63 
 
 THE FISHER-BOY 64 
 
 GOOD-BY, HEIDELBERG ...... 65 
 
 SHE SINGS . . 66
 
 CONTENTS. V 
 
 PAGB 
 
 THE HOPES OF LONG AGO 67 
 
 A YEAR'S HISTORY 68 
 
 LEAVING THE BODY 69 
 
 THE WOOD-WIFE .70 
 
 A ROSE-BUD ........ 72 
 
 A HOPE FOR LEIGH 72 
 
 THE ROSE ......... 73 
 
 OPEN THE WINDOW 75 
 
 A SONG FOR MARGARET 76 
 
 IT is THE MOON 77 
 
 HE LOVES ME 78 
 
 O STAR, SHINE ON ! 79 
 
 WHEN IT FADES 79 
 
 MIZPAH 80 
 
 THEN AND Now 81 
 
 His MONUMENT 82 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE ALPS 83 
 
 THE EDELWEISS 84 
 
 THE DROP IN THE CLOUD 85 
 
 LOVE RESURRECTED 86 
 
 TWILIGHT SONG 87 
 
 THE TALE OF THE BOAT 87 
 
 THE SENTINEL 88 
 
 ELIZABETH . 89 
 
 GRIEF A FRIEND go 
 
 YOUR KINGDOM 91 
 
 LITTLE BESSIE 92 
 
 SONNET ON SEPARATION 93 
 
 THE MEASURE OF LOVE 94 
 
 THE OLD GRAY HOUSE 95 
 
 TIME 96 
 
 WAITING 08
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 HEART OF MINE 99 
 
 FROM MY WINDOW 100 
 
 A CHANCE LOOK 101 
 
 GREECE 102 
 
 GOOD-BY TO THE OLD HOUSE IO4 
 
 GONE AWAY 105 
 
 UNTRUE 107 
 
 IF THEY KNEW 107 
 
 I HAVE SEEN THEM TOGETHER 108 
 
 THE MIRACLE 109 
 
 THOUGHTS no 
 
 A MEETING m 
 
 A PORTRAIT in 
 
 A DREAM OF PYGMALION 112 
 
 WAIT 113 
 
 A WHITE ROSE 114 
 
 WINTER 115 
 
 A SONG TO LOVE 118 
 
 To A MARBLE MERCURY 119 
 
 JESSIE 120 
 
 THE BROKEN SPAR 122 
 
 THE LITTLE WIFE AT HOME 122 
 
 AWAKENMENT 123 
 
 ISRAFlL 124 
 
 PROHIBITION PARTY SONG 125 
 
 THE CHARGE 126 
 
 THE OLD MAID'S CLUB 127 
 
 LASTING BEAUTY 129 
 
 ON SHAKESPEARE . . ; 130 
 
 ON LONGFELLOW 130 
 
 HOBNER'S CHRIST-CHILD 131 
 
 THE JEWISH FLUTE 133
 
 MOLY. 
 
 A PLANT whose little candle lights the leaves 
 With one white flame, fed by a bulbous root ! 
 No garland from its stars the maiden weaves ; 
 The peasant treads it with unheeding foot. 
 Yet Homer pressed it on an endless page. 
 Ah, dull, black root, what growth has burst from 
 
 thee 
 
 And lived to be the schoolboy's heritage, 
 Preserved by thought for all the world to see ! 
 
 Thou hast a blessing that is all thy own. 
 
 Thou dost preserve from danger and from sin ; 
 No Circe-charm from unclean thoughts have grown 
 
 Where thy faint essence finds an entrance in. 
 Dull, homely flower that blooms in fancied ground ! 
 
 Unseen the fingers are that break thy stem, 
 Yet virtue in thy wholesome draught is found, 
 
 And they that sip no snares are spread for 
 them. 
 
 I, too, have gathered moly where it grows 
 Some in dense forest, some in shady glen, 
 
 Some in the sun, with heart's-ease and with rose, 
 Some in the fields, self-sown amid the grain.
 
 2 THE SECRET OF THE TOWER. 
 
 And some, where frightened thought vibrates tow 
 ard God, 
 
 My reverent hand has gathered over graves, 
 Where the close seam knits ruptured sod to sod, 
 
 And all the churchyard rolls in verdant waves. 
 
 My bunch of moly, plucked in after time ! 
 
 A hand that loves thee lays thee on the leaf. 
 And binds thy modest fragrance into rhyme 
 
 That thou mayst live thy life, however brief. 
 If some tired hand should hold thee for a space, 
 
 Or, hung above thee, some sad eye grow bright, 
 Yield up all that thou hast of humble grace, 
 
 Nor mourn that after day there must be night. 
 
 THE SECRET OF THE TOWER. 
 
 TT ARK ! The old tower-bell peals one ! 
 * * An hour ago, and all was still 
 As when the crimson-setting sun 
 
 Sank down behind the western hill. 
 All was as still, an hour ago, 
 As those low, dreaming reeds, that grow 
 Upon the waveless river shore ; 
 Or lips, that never shall speak more. 
 
 Is it the wind that wails aloud 
 Around the gray, old castle wall ? 
 
 Or did a heavy-hearted cloud 
 
 Send out from heaven that piteous call ?
 
 THE SECRET OF THE TOWER. 3 
 
 There is not wind enough to shake 
 The lilies in their placid lake, 
 And not a cloud obscures the light 
 That points the torches of the night. 
 
 And, yet, the cry is shrill and clear 
 
 That echoes through the quiet night, 
 And falls upon the startled ear 
 
 With timorous quavers of affright. 
 And see ! Up in the old gray tower, 
 Veiled by the shadows of the hour, 
 A strange, dim radiance is shed ; 
 And yet the moonlight long is dead. 
 
 Up in the little, lofty room, 
 
 Where the wide windows faintly glow, 
 The tranquil spiders plied the loom 
 
 In careless toil, an hour ago. 
 Now, all is changed ! The stained walls seem 
 Hung with the glories of a dream, 
 And tapestries, fold thick on fold, 
 Are caught apart by clasps of gold. 
 
 And, here and there, a picture lends 
 
 Its magic to the magic scene, 
 And in the shadowy corner bends 
 
 Against the wall the painted screen ; 
 The antique, carven mantel shows 
 Its inlaid wealth of India snows, 
 And ebon panels, richly set, 
 With gleams of red and violet.
 
 THE SECRET OF THE TOWER. 
 
 There in the centre two men stand, 
 
 Just where the light shines full and bright, 
 And one holds in his clenched hand 
 
 A sword that flames far in the night. 
 And one is young, and one is old : 
 The three score years of one are told, 
 While, for the other, life's fair spring 
 Sends all her flying birds to sing. 
 
 Why does that dark brow, like a cloud 
 
 Hang heavy o'er the angry eyes ? 
 What does that cruel mouth shriek loud 
 
 That echoes in such fearful wise ? 
 "Life has no more for you, old man ! 
 Now guard your honor if you can ! " 
 From sheath to hand leaps up the blade, 
 But, ere it falls, the hand is stayed. 
 
 " Oh, think before you strike the blow ! 
 
 Life's pleasant springs shall walk in green 
 And sparkling winters come and go, 
 
 Nor shall that blood-stained hand grow clean. 
 Yet pause ! The rigid arm of Death 
 Must stop erelong this fluttering breath, 
 And, though you hated to the end, 
 At last there is not foe nor friend. 
 
 " Still life is precious to the old ! 
 
 What matter if the pulse be slow, 
 Or if Time's falling sands of gold 
 
 Are tarnished when the glass runs low. 
 The old songs thrill upon the tongue, 
 The heart forgets it is not young,
 
 THE SECRET OF THE TOWER. i 
 
 And life's last embers blaze once more 
 Before their grateful warmth is o'er." 
 
 Alas ! The young arm, lifted high, 
 
 Has no respect before old age, 
 And that fierce glow that lights the eye 
 
 Reflects a burning inward rage. 
 A moment, and the deed is done ! 
 Oh, haste away, before the sun 
 Shines down upon that frozen face, 
 And seeks in vain life's last faint trace. 
 
 But now the first dim beams of day 
 
 Come shimmering through the sunken glade, 
 
 And those weird figures melt away, 
 Departing with departing shade. 
 
 Two faces, locked in deadly hate, 
 
 Sullen, defiant, glare at fate, 
 
 Then dimmer, dimmer, dimmer gleam, 
 
 Like broken tangles of a dream. 
 
 The tapestries, that sweep about 
 
 And fold their richness through the room 
 
 Have lost their silken garlands out, 
 
 And vanished with the vanished gloom. 
 
 A ray of light comes stealing in, 
 
 And creeps along a floor worn thin, 
 
 And fretted ceiling, woven across 
 
 With lacey webs of spider-floss. 
 
 The ivy clings, with small, green hands, 
 
 Around the weather-beaten eaves ; 
 The great oak rustles, where he stands,
 
 6 THE SECRET OF THE TOWER 
 
 And breathes through all his thousand leaves. 
 The doves, with crimson-padded feet, 
 Sedately pace the window-seat, 
 And cast their shadows on the floor 
 Where human footsteps sound no more. 
 
 If one should ask, what was the strife, 
 And if the shapes were mortal men, 
 
 Tradition wakes her tongue to life, 
 
 And whispers through the years since then : 
 
 " Two knights, who bore a common name ; 
 
 A crime that stained their arms with shame : 
 
 Two souls that never can forget, 
 
 But wander unforgiving yet ! " 
 
 Old tower, gray tower, so bleak and high ! 
 
 A long hill kneels before your face, 
 And cloudy outlines of the sky 
 
 Float downward toward you, in your place. 
 What is the all-pervading charm 
 To fold that past crime in your arm, 
 To claim a dead wrath for your own, 
 And press it to your heart of stone ? 
 
 Do you not know that years will bring 
 
 A slow, sure change to your grim height ? 
 Where ivy-fingers clasp and cling, 
 
 Where dappled pigeons whir and light, 
 The wall will crumble, bit by bit, 
 And sweeping round and over it, 
 The wind will wrench great stones away 
 And whirl them in the glade some day.
 
 BEATRICE CENCI. 
 
 And, sometime, when the world is old, 
 
 A dreaming youth shall wander past, 
 
 And watch the broken threads of gold 
 
 That sun-striped clouds upon you cast ; 
 And he will say ; " This fallen heap 
 Was built for men ; but now, they sleep ! 
 If love, if hate, or joy, or woe 
 Had being here ah, who can know ! " 
 
 And, sometime, when the autumn air 
 Veils all things with its filmy gauze, 
 
 A flock of pigeons, flying there, 
 
 Shall see the stately oak, and pause. 
 
 And they will coo, u There was a day 
 
 Doves fluttered here ! " and fly away. 
 
 Then sink your hopes, strong mass of stone ! 
 
 Thereafter you shall be alone. 
 
 BEATRICE CENCI. 
 
 OH, sad, sweet mouth of the picture, 
 If only your lips could part 
 They would tell a tale of anguish, 
 
 That pierced, once, a blithe, young heart ! 
 But the heart broke 
 Ere the lips spoke. 
 
 The tender hopes of a maiden 
 One day froze into despair. 
 
 No word rang out in the silence 
 To speak of the struggle there.
 
 IN SORROW. 
 
 Was it less true 
 
 In that none knew ? 
 
 Oh, eyes of sorrow eternal ! 
 
 A world has wept at your grief ! 
 Long life has the painted shadow, 
 But the real, hard life was brief. 
 You have known long, 
 Sighs become song. 
 
 IN SORROW. 
 
 SORROW has laid its heavy hand, 
 O Friend, upon thine heart to still it : 
 Yet doubt not thou shalt rise up knight 
 From that long touch, if thou dost will it. 
 
 There is, in grief's unwished-for call, 
 
 An undertone, " Friend, come up higher ! " 
 
 For every mountain ever formed 
 Sprang forth from agonies of fire. 
 
 Think not to tremble at the stroke, 
 
 But bare thy breast, nor fear to rue it : 
 
 And, if thy body wear away, 
 
 'T is but to let the soul shine through it.
 
 TRANSPLANTED. LITTLE HANDS. 
 
 TRANSPLANTED. 
 
 HPHERE were three lilies, tinct with cream, 
 * That blew upon a single stem, 
 'T was in the garden of a dream, 
 
 And heart-shaped leaves surrounded them 
 In close, cool groups, knit edge on edge, 
 That danced upon a shelving ledge. 
 
 A cloudy hand of silver mist 
 
 Stretched down, and broke the stalk in two. 
 The leaves, hemmed in a woven twist, 
 
 Closed o'er the wound, as hurt hearts do. 
 A humming-bird went darting by, 
 And drained each waxen chalice dry. 
 
 My friend, I know it was a dream ! 
 
 But, as I turn and mark you there, 
 Three scentless lilies, tinct with cream, 
 
 Star the fine darkness of your hair. 
 You smile ; and, as I look at you, 
 I almost think the dream is true. 
 
 LITTLE HANDS. 
 
 '"TWO little hands of white, 
 * Folded upon the breast, 
 Draw me into the night, 
 
 Away from home and rest,
 
 JO TO LIZZIE. THE GOLDEN ROD. 
 
 Out to a churchyard dim 
 
 Where wavering shadows fall, 
 
 And quivers in every limb 
 The willow beside the wall, 
 
 On to a tiny mound, 
 With hollow either side, 
 
 Where, in the cold, damp ground, 
 We laid the child that died. 
 
 TO LIZZIE. 
 
 MAY the peaceful years, as they roll along, 
 Be marked by snatches of faint, sweet song 
 May the fingers of Time be lightly laid 
 On the ringlet caught into silver braid, 
 And may no sad tears from thine eyes be wrung, 
 But tender hope keep the old heart young. 
 
 THE GOLDEN-ROD. 
 
 T^HE golden-rod ! The golden-rod ! 
 * Its shining clusters pierced the sod, 
 And sunbeams slipped down from the sky 
 To view their doubles, eye to eye. 
 We pressed the fallen gentian-stars, 
 And, through the open meadow-bars, 
 We passed where tasselled corn stood green, 
 With broad leaves opening between. 
 We looked, with innocent, great eyes, 
 And cheeks that glowed with glad surprise,
 
 THE GOLDEN-ROD. II 
 
 We looked, and found that all was good. 
 Soft voices called us from the wood, 
 Sweet faces smiled, amid the fern, 
 With joy that we were swift to learn. 
 The whole wide universe was ours. 
 For us the summer gave her flowers, 
 For us the spring came bubbling up, 
 And soft dews filled the lily's cup, 
 For us the evening sky grew red, 
 And burned in blushes overhead. 
 But naught cared we for gentian blue 
 That burst the broken hedges through, 
 Nor did we watch the corn-ears nod. 
 With gathered bloom of golden-rod 
 We trudged along the grassy way 
 To where the village churchyard lay : 
 With little faces shy, yet brave, 
 We sought the stranger's sunken grave, 
 And heaped our yellow treasure there 
 Like sunshine, pressed out from the air. 
 
 Ah well ! The years have slipped away, 
 
 And life's first 'twilight dims our day. 
 
 The shadows overlap the red, 
 
 And sorrows come, with stealthy tread. 
 
 Broad coins are dearer than the store 
 
 Of yellow flowers we counted o'er. 
 
 Yet, sometimes, when the children come, 
 
 And stand within the cheerful room, 
 
 They bring the fallen gentian-stars 
 
 That twinkle round the meadow-bars, 
 
 And heavy plumes of golden-rod 
 
 That burst their bright path through the sod.
 
 12 THE SUMMER RAIN. 
 
 Oh, then our childish dreams creep in 
 And purify our hearts from sin : 
 The spirits of those by-gone years 
 Glide past, and look at us through tears. 
 We see the happy little band, 
 The big bunch in the baby-hand, 
 And where the stranger's grave is found 
 They heap their blossoms on the ground. 
 
 O pardoned soul, in realms remote ! 
 Leave from thy song one single note ; 
 Lean down from heaven's parapet, 
 And turn thy gaze on earth once yet. 
 Behold those innocent child-eyes, 
 Upturned to watch the solemn skies, 
 If, haply, through the shaken air, 
 An angel sweep down, unaware. 
 Mark but the tender thought they bring : 
 And then begin once more to sing ; 
 Turn full thy face to that of God. 
 Dost thou not bless the golden-rod ? 
 
 THE SUMMER RAIN. 
 
 TT falls the beautiful summer rain ! 
 * The pearly drops on my window beat ; 
 I hear them patter against the pane, 
 Bright little fairies with dew-shod feet. 
 
 It falls ! It beats on the open grave, 
 It raises the lily's drooping head ; 
 
 But no sweet shower can healing have 
 That thrills the blank heart of the dead.
 
 THE FLOWER-ANGELS. 13 
 
 THE FLOWER-ANGELS. 
 
 \\ 7HEN evening comes, with drooping wing, 
 ^ * To fold o'er fairy bells that swing 
 
 Vibrating everywhere, 
 Down on the moon's long rays of light 
 The flower-sprites, with robes of white, 
 Glide through the darkening air. 
 
 In tiny tubes the dew they bring, 
 And tender strains they faintly sing, 
 
 As to each bud they fly ; 
 The thirsty blossom holds its cup, 
 The heaven-sent angels fill it up, 
 
 Then swiftly flutter by. 
 
 But when the first faint flush of dawn 
 Proves night's brief sway has quickly gone, 
 
 They melt into the mist, 
 Their wind-tossed tresses backward spread, 
 And round their brows a halo shed 
 
 Golden and amethyst. 
 
 THE ALPINE HORN. 
 
 listen, listen ! O'er the mountains ringing 
 Comes the deep echo of the Alpine horn ; 
 High with the avalanche's white foot clinging, 
 The melody to distant peaks is borne.
 
 14 THREE SHIPBOARD PICTURES. 
 
 The reeds that fringe the mountain-lake are bend 
 ing, 
 
 And stir in answer to that mellow call ; 
 The eagle, from his lofty heights descending, 
 
 Seeks the strong nest built on the rocky wall. 
 
 The chasms are full of music. Golden glisten 
 The snowy caps that crown the ruddy morn. 
 
 We breathe the harmony. Oh, listen, listen ! 
 Hail the clear ringing of the Alpine horn. 
 
 THREE SHIPBOARD PICTURES. 
 
 NO ship is in sight ! The wide horizon 
 Unites with its faint line sky and ocean. 
 There hovers above the last blue motion 
 The fiery cloud the red sun lies on. 
 He lies there in state a moment only. 
 The cloud closes up, like clutching fingers, 
 And holds in its grasp the sun suspended, 
 Then hurls to the waves that beat below it. 
 But still in the sky his glory lingers, 
 It waves and it quivers, in golden rims on 
 Those trumpets of cloud that breathe and blow it ; 
 As, tremulous, fading, kindling, dying, 
 It mocks with its glow the straining vision, 
 Till ocean and sky are dark and lonely. 
 Yet, after the sunset long is ended,
 
 THREE SHIPBOARD PICTURES. 15 
 
 There lives in the soul a dream Elysian 
 
 Of wandering lights on a field of crimson, 
 
 Of fiery arrows forever flying, 
 
 With ripples, and mist, and cloud-streaks blended. 
 
 n. 
 
 Slow and deep, the water's song 
 Breathes the lifted keel along. 
 Calm and low, the evening sky 
 Hangs its banners out on high. 
 Would you think that all could be 
 Brightly flushed on cloud and sea, 
 When a baby sinks down, down, 
 To the sea-weeds, dank and brown ? 
 
 Hugging to his marble breast 
 
 One white rose to share his rest, 
 
 Living rose and baby dead 
 
 Through the parted waves have sped. 
 
 Mother, in the home you seek, 
 
 Will you kiss a little cheek, 
 
 Will you smooth back tangled hair, 
 
 And forget that this was fair ? 
 
 When the lightning hurls its dart 
 Will it pierce your restless heart ? 
 When the waves dash to and fro, 
 And the tossing vessels go, 
 Laden deep, from land to land, 
 Will you see an icy hand, 
 In its grasp a single rose, 
 Folded where the sea-grass grows ?
 
 1 6 THREE SHIPBOARD PICTURES. 
 
 Some one's baby in the sea 
 Draws a parting thought from me. 
 Still the cut bud leaves a scar 
 Where the other roses are : 
 While the freighted ship goes on, 
 Still a mother sits alone, 
 And her frightened eyes stare back 
 Toward the wee grave in our track. 
 
 in. 
 
 The star-lighter, with broadened wing 
 
 Behind the red wheels of the day 
 Flew, where the twisted ladders cling 
 
 That link long leagues of milky way. 
 His breath swept onward, like the gale 
 That strikes the white breast of the sail 
 His eyes, aflame with bootless wrath, 
 Before him burnt his giddy path. 
 
 We could not see his angry look 
 
 From where we sat within the ship, 
 The finger shut within the book, 
 
 The word as close within the lip. 
 We only saw that, here and there, 
 A mellow ray stretched through the air, 
 And, star by star, the sky became 
 A trembling, waving sea of flame. 
 
 A sea above, a sea below ; 
 
 Between two seas we floated on ! 
 All this was but an hour ago, 
 
 Yet every yellow gleam is gone.
 
 APRIL. 
 
 They hung and shook, with beauteous fear, 
 Until the cruel wind came near, 
 Who caught his breath, with wail and shout, 
 And blew the starry candles out. 
 
 When will the spirit come again 
 That lit those far fires in the sky ? 
 
 Will he not brush the heaving main 
 And hurl his torch where shadows lie ? 
 
 Not even the moon dares show her light 
 
 To dip and whisper in the night. 
 
 As quiet as the breast in sleep, 
 
 The ship lies black upon the deep. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 O APRIL, sacred to tears and laughter ! 
 Thou modest dweller in country lanes ! 
 Glad beams of sunshine shall follow after 
 The crystal drops of thy gentle rains. 
 
 For what if few are the blossoms willing 
 
 To heed the glance of thy quiet eyes ! 
 The primrose sits in her low chair, filling 
 
 The earth's quick ear with impatient sighs. 
 The shooting-star has his fires all ready, 
 
 The snow-drop puts on her fresh white gown, 
 And grass-blades are holding a raindrop steady 
 
 For thirsty fibres to carry down.
 
 1 8 APRIL. 
 
 The first anemone, flushed and trembling, 
 
 Is groping now with her slender hand ; 
 Forget-me-nots are in throngs assembling, 
 
 Beneath the ceiling of turf and sand ; 
 The violet fastens, with eager fingers, 
 
 Her peaked hood under her dainty chin ; 
 The soft-eyed daisy-bud shyly lingers, 
 
 Afraid of meeting the outside din. 
 The brook throws off all her frosty fetters, 
 
 And dons her bodice of meadow-grass ; 
 And ants spell stories, in rugged letters, 
 
 Wherever their dusky clusters pass. 
 The bees hum brokenly in the hedges, 
 
 The beetles form into caravans, 
 And ferns, that tremble along the ledges, 
 
 Are waving their green and half-curled fans. 
 
 O April, gleam into joyous smiling ! 
 
 O April, cloud into sudden tears ! 
 And free thy heart in a song, beguiling 
 
 The rosy springs of our few brief years ! 
 If scarce thy flowers, yet thy buds are many, 
 
 And wild birds swing on thy branches bare, 
 And deep in woods and in reed-beds fenny 
 
 Is swept thy blessing of perfumed air. 
 Thou knowest naught of decay or sorrow : 
 
 Thou hast no thought that thy buds must die. 
 Why shouldst thou care for the dim to-morrow ? 
 
 To-day laughs yonder the wide, blue sky. 
 If grief is thine that no strong endeavor, 
 
 No end attained to thy lot may fall, 
 Yet think that, in life and in action, ever 
 
 The vague, sweet promise is best of all. .
 
 THE SONG OF A DREAM-ANGEL. 19 
 
 THE SONG OF A DREAM-ANGEL. 
 
 LITTLE one, sleep ! The snows gather fast, 
 And drearily float through the air. 
 Swiftly the cold, on the wings of the blast, 
 Sweepeth down from the Northland bare. 
 But dreamland is bright with lovely flowers, 
 And time rolls by in golden hours, 
 And little rills through meadows flow 
 Where bending reeds are dipping low, 
 And shining trout from the waters leap. 
 Sleep, little one, sleep ! 
 
 Little one, sleep ! The darkness has flown 
 To chill the earth with its breath : 
 
 Paling, the sweet stars dimmer have grown, 
 Like eyes as they close in death. 
 
 But the wee dream-angels, robed in white, 
 
 Over the daisies roam all night ; 
 
 And they press the little sleeper's hand, 
 
 And softly guide her o'er the land. 
 
 At morn, when the baby wakes, they weep. 
 
 Sleep, little one, sleep ! 
 
 CLINTON TWO YEARS OLD. 
 
 \~\ 7 HAT is loveliest, sweetest, best ? 
 
 ' The tinted down on the dove's brown breast ? 
 The vivid fire of the berries red 
 That cling to the green vines overhead ?
 
 2O CLINTON TWO YEARS OLD. 
 
 The scent that dwells in the lily's heart ? 
 
 The storm whence fiery arrows dart ? 
 
 The breath of the sweet south, in the breeze 
 
 That sweeps through the fragrant locust-trees ? 
 
 The faint rose-flush on the ocean-shell ? 
 
 The gleams and glints on the waves that swell ? 
 
 But the dove's soft breast will fall to dust, 
 
 And the scarlet berries shrink and rust. 
 
 The thirsty air will soon drink up 
 
 The perfume in the lily's cup. 
 
 The storm bears down upon its wing 
 
 Disease, and death, and suffering. 
 
 The odorous breeze goes quickly by ; 
 
 The ocean-shell, with murmuring sigh, 
 
 Disintegrates upon the shore. 
 
 The gleams and glints are seen no more. 
 
 I know of something dearer far 
 Than sweet wild-phlox and roses are. 
 Two fearless eyes of honest brown 
 That melt to smiles the firmest frown ; 
 A sunny mass of tangled hair 
 That dances, curling, in the air ; 
 Two curving lips, that never yet 
 Have said one word they need regret ; 
 Two dimpled hands, two sturdy feet, 
 In daring brave, in mischief fleet. 
 
 But if he grows to manhood's years, 
 And learns the need of bitter tears, 
 And finds his sweetest dreams untrue, 
 Yet cannot take his life anew
 
 CLINTON TWO YEARS OLD. 21 
 
 To build it up with knowledge gained, 
 Until the end sought is attained ; 
 And if his yearning heart is thrilled 
 With longings not to be fulfilled, 
 And he, a man, like other men, 
 Must bear his load of grief what then ? 
 
 Oh, then, with eyes that are not dim 
 Because misfortune falls to him ; 
 With tender lips that bravely smile 
 Though dark his life looms up the while ; 
 Too proud, of work to be ashamed, 
 Although he never may be famed, 
 Though genius may not sit enthroned 
 Upon that brow, with patience crowned, 
 Acting as his own artisan 
 He shall become a gentleman. 
 
 But if the frank, brown eyes should close, 
 And from the round cheeks fade the rose, 
 And if the golden hair should lie 
 By time's rough hand left tenderly 
 Unturned to manhood's darker hue, 
 Caught from the shadows wandered through,- 
 And if those lips should ne'er unseal 
 To words that tenderness reveal, 
 But keep, like robin, thrush, or wren, 
 An inarticulate love, what then ? 
 
 Oh ! In some world exceeding ours, 
 Whose every path is sweet with flowers, 
 His soul, the purest thing there known, 
 By some wise instinct of its own
 
 22 AMONG THE LILY-PADS. 
 
 Selecting elements, will frame 
 
 Again a body, with the same 
 
 Sweet merry face, not older grown, 
 
 But unafraid, before the Throne ; 
 
 And he, an angel, baby-wise 
 
 Will smile in God's own answering eyes. 
 
 AMONG THE LILY-PADS. 
 
 IN among the lily-pads, 
 In the warm, clear weather, 
 Rocking in our tiny boat, 
 Just we three together. 
 O'er our heads, the clouded sky 
 
 Bends its shining arches, 
 As the day, in sullen pride, 
 All unnoticed, marches. 
 
 Years may come, and years may go ; 
 
 Life may find new meaning ; 
 Distant seas our barks may sail, 
 
 Strange skies o'er us leaning. 
 What is gained ? We only know 
 
 Foul or pleasant weather 
 Never shall we float again, 
 
 Just we three together.
 
 THE EAGLE ON THE MOUNTAIN TOP. 2$ 
 
 OCTOBER SNOW. 
 
 THE gentian droops her fringed lid ; 
 The green fern curls her tender feet ; 
 The last late rose, her beauty hid, 
 Sheds her sad petals, dried but sweet. 
 
 The mad wind tears across the wood ; 
 
 The long vines loose their tendril hold ; 
 The leaves that through the frost have stood 
 
 Pave all the ground with red and gold. 
 
 The white flakes dazzle as they pass 
 From branch to branch of yon tall tree, 
 
 Then gleam a moment on the grass, 
 And fade from being and from me. 
 
 THE EAGLE ON THE MOUNTAIN TOP. 
 
 THE eagle on the mountain top, 
 With wide wing beating through the sky, 
 With long, strong effort gathered up 
 His forces for one mighty cry. 
 
 It was not that an arrow's point 
 
 Had pierced that throbbing breast in twain ; 
 It was not that he missed his prey, 
 
 Or strove to reach the heights in vain :
 
 24 THE BROKEN FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 It was not that his eye was dimmed, 
 
 Nor that his speed must yield to rest ; 
 
 He only missed from off the crag 
 One high and solitary nest. 
 
 A WONDER. 
 
 T WONDER, when the flying bird 
 
 * Shook his glad wings, and paused for rest, 
 
 And all the air around was stirred 
 
 By sweetest music ever heard, 
 
 I wonder if a distant nest, 
 Its plaited straws entwined with care, 
 Seemed for an instant present there ! 
 
 I wonder, when he flew away, 
 
 If ever, on another tree, 
 He thrilled the golden summer-day 
 With notes from Paradise astray ! 
 
 I wonder if alone to me 
 He came through cloudy miles of sky, 
 A message couched in minstrelsy. 
 
 THE BROKEN FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 IT was so beautiful, while it lasted ! 
 If ever were friends, they were we two ! 
 But, like a home that the storm has blasted, 
 The love was shaken that had been true.
 
 CONVENT LACE. 2$ 
 
 He heard a rumor that went a-flying, 
 
 Only a story that some one told ; 
 And his face grew pinched as he were dying, 
 
 And two lives dropped from their heaven of gold, 
 
 For we tore our long-joined selves asunder, 
 Hope and memory, fact and thought ; 
 
 And we lost the rapture, peace, and wonder, 
 The painful pleasure the union wrought. 
 
 The exquisite dream, that had yet seemed real, 
 The tearful smile and the smiling tear, 
 
 The love that had sheltered a pure ideal, 
 Gave place to a void both dark and drear. 
 
 Yet it was beautiful while it lasted ! 
 
 We loved so dearly, we loved so true ! 
 And now that the friendship long is blasted, 
 
 We still have a kindred chord, we too. 
 
 CONVENT LACE. 
 
 SHE sits within her lonely cell, 
 From all she loves apart ; 
 The sunshine floods her narrow pane, 
 But shadows cloud her heart. 
 
 Outside the barred and heavy gate 
 The great world's din is heard 
 
 The wagon's creak, the horse's tread, 
 The driver's cheery word.
 
 26 CONVENT LACE. 
 
 The interests of an active life, 
 
 'T is hers no more to heed ; 
 Her part to wear the nun's straight dress, 
 
 And tell the holy bead. 
 
 The shuttle flies within her hand, 
 The thread winds in and out ; 
 
 The bobbins yield their treasures up 
 She works in mood devout. 
 
 Like frost upon the window pane, 
 When winter's breath is white, 
 
 The lace, with tracings delicate, 
 Glows in the golden light. 
 
 As fashioned from the moon's pale beam, 
 
 Too frail for human skill, 
 'T will yet outlast the longest life 
 
 That shrines an iron will. 
 
 Yet, O pale nun ! the thoughts that burn, 
 And wake the sleeping heart 
 
 The tender word, the merry laugh 
 In these you have no part. 
 
 By you no manly strength is roused, 
 
 To action brave and true ; 
 No little child upon your breast, 
 
 Has kindled hope anew. 
 
 While other women with their love 
 Have saved an erring one, 
 
 While they have built a home, and blessed 
 A father, husband, son,
 
 CORNER GRATT. A STORY. 2? 
 
 While, breaking holy bread, their lives 
 
 Have proved one sacrament, 
 You leave behind this bit of lace, 
 
 Your only monument. 
 
 CORNER GRATT. 
 
 GOD'S finger drew a solemn line of snow 
 Around thy high horizon, lofty peak ! 
 The crimson evening glory quivers low, 
 
 Fades, kindles, dies : the stars come out to seek 
 Respondent lights, that gleam along the ice 
 Bereft of warmth, a glow in chrysalis. 
 
 In that green valley nestled at thy feet 
 
 A hundred happy homes have lit their fires ; 
 
 The weary find their evening rest is sweet, 
 Who own no hope that loftier aspires. 
 
 But thy last gleam rolls not upon their sight 
 
 Peace in the valley, glory on the height ! 
 
 A STORY. 
 
 YOU have known the frog that went a-wooing, 
 And the spotted doves, whose tender cooing 
 Lulled the two children in the wood : 
 You have slyly peeped, with eyes of wonder, 
 In the wicker basket, swinging under 
 The arm of wee Red Riding Hood :
 
 28 A STORY. 
 
 It was you, no doubt, and not another, 
 Who stood by the fairy old Godmother, 
 
 When Cinderella wept that night ; 
 And I think you knew what girl knows better ! 
 The hopes and wishes that beset her 
 
 For unknown splendor and delight. 
 
 You have sought along the thorny hedges 
 When the Prince broke through their crowded 
 edges, 
 
 And woke the Beauty from her sleep : 
 Your sweet, red lips are brimming over 
 With childish lore, like tubes of clover 
 
 That nod where grass grows green and deep. 
 
 Yet I must tell a new, long story 
 
 Of brave old knights, and battles gory, 
 
 That you have never heard before ! 
 You lay in mine your fingers slender, 
 And look at me with eyes so tender 
 
 I cannot think of stories more. 
 
 I can only think, " I love you, Baby ! " 
 'T is an old tale ; but, sometime, may be 
 
 It will seem strange and sweet to you. 
 For sometimes even an old, old story, 
 Told by new lips, seems touched with glory, 
 
 The dearer that it is so true.
 
 HOMESPUN. 29 
 
 HOMESPUN. 
 
 OF homespun is the modest gown, 
 Wherein my Love goes clad ; 
 And yet her regal eyes shine down, 
 As if their splendid deeps of brown 
 From under pressure of a crown 
 Were making my heart glad. 
 
 And wooden are the little shoon, 
 That hold her slender feet ; 
 
 But, when the heart of leafy June 
 
 Is shaken by a merry tune, 
 
 How light she trips beneath the moon, 
 With smiles how warm, how sweet ! 
 
 No glove is drawn upon the hand 
 
 I dearly love to hold : 
 But when upon the silver sand 
 The sunset hurls its burning brand, 
 I kiss her fingers, where we stand 
 
 Full in the cloven gold. 
 
 What marvel if I love her true, 
 
 My little peasant lass ! 
 The very air the sun shines through 
 Distils for her a special dew, 
 And harebells fringe, with sudden blue, 
 
 Her footprints in the grass.
 
 3<D IN THE DARK. 
 
 IN THE DARK. 
 
 DARK, dark ! I cannot see 
 One step before me. 
 Clouds gather threateningly, 
 Dimming Thy glory. 
 I cannot understand 
 What Thou for me hast planned, 
 But I can feel Thy hand 
 Leading. 
 
 Once on a human heart 
 I leant securely, 
 Learned in the simple art 
 Of loving purely. 
 If, in this soul of mine, 
 Grief keeps a hidden shrine, 
 Measure my love by Thine, 
 Judging ! 
 
 Dark, dark ! And yet the wrong 
 Lies in me only, 
 That life should seem so long, 
 And hard, and lonely. 
 Even in the dark, a prayer 
 Reaches Thy listening ear, 
 And grief falls off, and care, 
 Praying.
 
 THE LILY. 31 
 
 THE LILY. 
 
 '"THOU art a link from the seen to the unseen, 
 * O sweet, white lily ! 
 The elements of the universe thou siftest 
 And choosest what thou wilt. 
 By subtle power thou mouldest them between 
 Thy shadowy fingers : 
 
 Then all thy force in one tall shaft thou liftest, 
 In silence planned and built. 
 
 A golden glory nestles in thy heart, 
 
 O sparkling lily ! 
 
 A thousand snows condensed thy flower outshineth, 
 
 Thy self-formed monument. 
 
 From out the caldron of thy root, apart 
 
 By night distilling, 
 
 Hour after hour, thine upward growth refineth 
 
 Thine own delicious scent. 
 
 A message God has sent to me in thee, 
 
 O fragrant lily ! 
 
 If from the earth's black depths thou pure arisest; 
 
 By some plant-instinct wise, 
 
 Then shall I doubt an equal power in me 
 
 For rising higher ? 
 
 Rooted in darkness, thou, O soul ! suffices! 
 
 For bloom in Paradise.
 
 32 THE OCKLAWAHA RIVER. 
 
 THE OCKLAWAHA RIVER. 
 
 ' 'T'WIXT marshy banks on either side, 
 
 * With watery threads extending wide, 
 The river winds along her way, 
 Her sombre darkness wreathed with spray. 
 
 A river ! 'T is a sentient thing ! 
 A fitful pulse, the eddying 
 Throbs in and out, with feeble force, 
 Along the current's steady course. 
 
 The sun shines down his calm good-day, 
 The river sparkles 'mid her gray. 
 'T is a soul that answers back a soul, 
 One look interpreting the whole. 
 
 Majestic palms along the shore 
 Repeat their grandeur, o'er and o'er : 
 The tall white cypress trees are crowned 
 With mistletoe from fairy ground. 
 
 The blushing maples' vivid red 
 Flames in the branches overhead : 
 What heeds the little river how 
 The birds sing on yon jutting bough ? 
 
 What heeds she that the holly, kissed 
 Into deep blushes, in the mist 
 Of soft, gray moss has veiled her face, 
 Clinging in intertwined embrace ?
 
 DEAD HANDS. 33 
 
 Her only care, to find, at last, 
 A resting-place, her course all past, 
 And pour her fluent beauty down, 
 A perfect gem in St. John's crown. 
 
 DEAD HANDS. 
 
 DEAR hands, so long from service weary, 
 So swift in duty, howe'er dreary, 
 So prone to right, so slow to wrong, 
 To-night I hold thee fast and long, 
 Yet cannot wake the will in thee 
 To render kindness unto me. 
 
 Dear hands, so skilled in household ways, 
 
 So kind in smoothing gloomy days 
 
 Into a sunny happiness ! 
 
 Oh, without thee to aid and bless, 
 
 How shall I lead the path aright 
 
 That winds to thee, from out the night ? 
 
 But yesterday I held thee close. 
 I could not dream this tide of woes 
 Would plunge me deep into despair 
 More gloomy than thy peace is fair ! 
 To-day these tender hands have found 
 The way to give my heart a wound. 
 
 No more, no more, these hands of thine 
 Shall quiver to a touch of mine ! 
 No more shall open wide the door 
 That seals my spirit-sepulchre ! 
 Alas ! wave beaten on life's sands, 
 I only hold these poor, dead hands.
 
 34 A NIGHT SONG AT SEA. 
 
 MAY THIRTIETH. 
 
 BURIED in the narrow grave, 
 Friend and foe are laid together : 
 Slender grasses nod and wave, 
 
 Blowing in the warm spring weather. 
 Let them rest ! Let them rest ! 
 With their brave hands on the breast. 
 In these graves below the sod 
 Waiting God. 
 
 Cheek to cheek, and heart to heart, 
 So the bitter strife was ended. 
 
 Who shall wrench the thoughts apart 
 Where their memories are blended ? 
 
 They have kept the peace for years, 
 Under snow, and under clover. 
 
 We bring only flowers and tears 
 To the free the grass grows over. 
 
 A NIGHT-SONG AT SEA. 
 
 WE lie at rest, 
 O God, upon Thy sea ! 
 The tides that come and go 
 
 Are heavings of Thy breast : 
 Thy great heart beats below, 
 And what have we to fear ? 
 We know that Thou art near, 
 And trust our all to Thee.
 
 A WA Y FROM HOME. 35 
 
 We sleep secure ! 
 Nothing Thy care can move, 
 Nothing can shake our faith. 
 Thy watchfulness is sure, 
 And, if Thou send us death, 
 Still, in Thy mighty sea, 
 Our hearts shall lean on Thee, 
 Pillowed upon Thy love. 
 
 AWAY FROM HOME. 
 
 'T'HE grand old organ sounded 
 1 In the proud cathedral to-day : 
 Then swung the cloudy censer, 
 
 And the people knelt to pray. 
 But I thought of a quiet city 
 
 Across the shining sea, 
 And my prayer went over the distance, 
 
 O mother, to home and thee. 
 
 O mother, mother, mother ! 
 
 There 's not a saint on the wall, 
 In the niche not a Holy Mary, 
 
 But thine image blurs it all. 
 For I think of the gloomy forest, 
 
 And the old home at its rim, 
 And the dear ones around the fireside, 
 
 Till my eyes with tears are dim. 
 
 Oft in the quiet night-time, 
 
 When my eyes are closed in sleep,
 
 36 AWAY FROM HOME. 
 
 There comes to me a vision, 
 And then my content is deep. 
 
 I see the little island 
 
 Where the sturdy oak-trees stand, 
 
 And the river, red with sunset, 
 Set between dark curves of land. 
 
 I see the shady garden, 
 
 I hear the sweet bird-trill ; 
 The ripening grapes hang clustered 
 
 Down on the terraced hill : 
 We children play in the clover 
 
 Abloom in the summer sun, 
 And mother sews at the window, 
 
 And I wake, the dream is done. 
 
 O mother, the dream is over, 
 
 And only the night remains ! 
 The children are no more children, 
 
 And life brings sorrows and pains. 
 The sun sets red on the river, 
 
 And the trees their old guard keep, 
 But one lies under the clover 
 
 In rest that is long and deep. 
 
 And yet, although months divide us, 
 
 And to-day we are leagues apart, 
 There is one thing closely joins us, 
 
 And that is a loving heart. 
 'T is a loving heart has written 
 
 To bridge the wide, deep sea, 
 And send a page of remembrance, 
 
 O mother, to home and thee.
 
 LULLABY. THE STATUE. 37 
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 T ULLABY ! shut your eyes ! 
 *-** If an evil spirit 
 Sweep up from the shaken earth, 
 Do not think to fear it ! 
 What can do the baby harm, 
 Held so fast in mother's arm ? 
 
 Lullaby ! lullaby ! 
 
 If an angel, singing, 
 
 Fly down from the holy choirs, 
 
 Life immortal bringing, 
 
 Mother's arm must yield, 't is true, 
 
 But her love will go with you ! 
 
 THE STATUE. 
 
 A PAIR of pleading, childish eyes ; 
 -** A little outstretched hand ; 
 A soft, straight length of loosened hair ; 
 
 Two bare feet in the sand : 
 The sculptor passed her by, and yet 
 That vision he could not forget. 
 
 He stood before the uncut stone, 
 A dream absorbed his thought ; 
 
 The hand that held the chisel moved. 
 Unknowing what it wrought ;
 
 38 BEAUTIFUL EYES. 
 
 And as he cut the stone away, 
 
 Down streamed the golden light of day. 
 
 A pair of pleading, childish eyes ; 
 
 A little outstretched hand ; 
 A soft, straight length of loosened hair ; 
 
 Two bare feet in the sand ; 
 She begs forever there in stone, 
 Like that fair land she calls her own. 
 
 You almost see a marble tear 
 Roll o'er the round cheek down. 
 
 The bosom seems to rise and fall 
 Beneath the sculptured gown. 
 
 Almost she breathes there need but be 
 
 One touch to give vitality. 
 
 One touch but that he cannot add : 
 
 Not all the sculptor's skill 
 Can lodge within that perfect head 
 
 One spark of human will. 
 Here lie the bounds that must confine : 
 One step more, and it were divine. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL EYES. 
 
 "DEAUTIFUL eyes ! O beautiful eyes, 
 - ' Lit from the fires of Paradise ! 
 Bright with the light of girlhood's morn, 
 Strong with the knowledge of power new-born, 
 Softer and dearer they grow to me, 
 Those two deep wells of eternity.
 
 THE BOY'S CONFESSION. 39 
 
 I see, in their depths, a struggle past, 
 And Peace on her quiet throne, at last ; 
 And Hope looks from the shining door, 
 Where Grief and Anger sat before : 
 I see the careful Self-Control, 
 Brave guardian of a conquered soul. 
 
 I 've watched those eyes when all was bright, 
 And seen them filled with love's soft light : 
 I 've marked them when the tear-drops fell ; 
 But never have I loved so well 
 As now, when, from the mortal strife, 
 Shines out a saved, but wounded life. 
 
 THE BOY'S CONFESSION. 
 
 C\ MOTHER, did you ever see 
 ^^ A caged bird that was just set free ? 
 And did you see him stretch each wing, 
 And mount toward heaven, and gayly sing, 
 And sing, and mount, till heaven was won, 
 Greeting once more the well-known sun ? 
 You never saw it ? But you know 
 How the warm life must bound and glow 
 Beneath the breast of speckled down ! 
 To-day I saw a tiny, brown, 
 Pulsating thing, that shook and thrilled, 
 And could not be a moment stilled. 
 It turned its little, frightened eyes 
 From side to side, in such surprise
 
 4O THE BOY'S CONFESSION. 
 
 And terror ! If I could forget ! 
 But that look haunts my being yet. 
 
 mother, I will tell you all ! 
 
 It fluttered down upon our wall, 
 And was so pretty, and it sang 
 Until the whole great garden rang. 
 
 1 knew it would be very wrong 
 To rob its nest of that sweet song, 
 But still I wanted it so ! Well, 
 
 I threw a stone and then it fell. 
 'T was only wounded in the wing, 
 But it had ceased to thrill and sing, 
 And looked as if it were in pain, 
 And tried to fly and sank again. 
 Within my hand the bird grew cold, 
 And so the story all is told. 
 For all the tears that have been shed 
 Never brought back a thing once dead. 
 
 The story all is told, I said, 
 
 I only meant the bird is dead. 
 
 But I there burns within my breast 
 
 A vision of that empty nest. 
 
 I see it ruined, and I know 
 
 That but for me it were not so ; 
 
 I see the sad mate fluttering round, 
 
 Call for the bird dead in the ground. 
 
 I do not mourn the being blamed 
 
 I did wrong, and I am ashamed. 
 
 I cannot sleep ! It almost seems 
 
 The bird would come to me in dreams. 
 
 But I am glad you know the whole, 
 
 A weight is rolled off from my soul.
 
 THE FIRTH OF CLYDE. 41 
 
 I never could have told another ! 
 How good it is to have a mother ! 
 
 THE BELLS ACROSS THE WATER. 
 
 AS sweet as fairy pipes in June, 
 When every rose is blowing ; 
 As tender as earth's harmony, 
 When Nature's heart is glowing : 
 The bells across the water. 
 
 As faint as echoes from the past 
 That in the heart are swelling ; 
 
 As tuneful as the reed, when Pan 
 His inmost soul was telling : 
 The bells across the water. 
 
 As swift as parting hours before 
 Our loved ones go forever ; 
 
 They tinkle in our memory 
 
 Though vanished from the river, 
 The bells across the water. 
 
 THE FIRTH OF CLYDE. 
 
 "THE Firth of Clyde ! 
 * Between its shores the vessels sail, 
 With long wings waving to the gale. 
 The little towns are strung along 
 Like notes that dot a page of song.
 
 42 THE CAMP-FIRE. 
 
 The mountains lift their misty heads, 
 Half-rising from their solid beds, 
 As on the waters glide. 
 
 The Firth of Clyde ! 
 
 The storm may beat its surging waves, 
 
 And hurl the sailors to their graves ; 
 
 But in my fancy there will be 
 
 A picture, fair in memory, 
 
 With village huts, with castles gray, 
 
 Unknowing increase or decay 
 
 To changeless calm allied. 
 
 THE CAMP-FIRE. 
 
 \I 7E sat around the fitful light 
 
 * " Our brushwood fire sent high ; 
 The brands peered far into the night 
 With red and restless eye. 
 
 The thick cross-stick of charring wood 
 
 Our gypsy kettle bent ; 
 Close by, white in the bushes, stood, 
 
 Half-lit, the nearest tent. 
 
 One silent fisherman far out, 
 Leaned from his silent boat ; 
 
 In silvery waters leapt a trout ; 
 We heard one last bird-note.
 
 SABBATH SONGS. 43 
 
 Through lashes made of trailing clouds 
 
 One quiet moon looked down ; 
 Where ripples tossed their arms in crowds 
 
 There shone a fainter one. 
 
 No softer hummed the ancient bees, 
 
 On sweet Hymettus' brim, 
 Than, through the stirring boughs, the breeze 
 
 Low-breathed his vesper-hymn. 
 
 The firelight plucked at each still face 
 
 With long and eager hands, 
 While shadows hurried through the place 
 
 And met in restless bands. 
 
 Of fires built on the hill we spoke 
 
 Where Persian sunlight streams, 
 Where kneel the simple Eastern folk 
 
 To worship those bright gleams. 
 
 We told full many an olden tale, 
 
 And many a laugh went round, 
 Till Echo held in her deep dale 
 
 A carnival of sound. 
 
 And other words were whispered low : 
 
 But, and thou wilt know more, 
 Go, ask it of the reeds that grow 
 
 On that calm river-shore !
 
 44 SABBATH SONGS. 
 
 SABBATH SONGS. 
 
 SWEET Sabbath songs of days gone by, 
 Ye fill mine eyes to-night with tears, 
 Like incense on some altar laid, 
 Whose odor steals from other years. 
 
 Not sacred songs alone were wont 
 To send to heaven their tuneful lay, 
 
 But those that steal into the soul 
 And melt the coarser self away. 
 
 Dear " Annie Laurie " ran along : 
 
 " Across the far, blue hills, Marie ! " 
 
 " I cannot sing the old songs," too, 
 And then, " We 'd better bide a wee." 
 
 " Nearer, my God, to thee ! " we sang. 
 
 God sent his angel down to hear, 
 And, from our happy household band, 
 
 He drew one, ever to be near. 
 
 Gone now for aye, sweet Sabbath songs ! 
 
 In all the world none sound for me : 
 Yet, echoing in mine inmost heart 
 
 Rings music struck by memory. 
 
 Forever gone from out my life : 
 
 Yet, not all lost to noble use, 
 Ye lift me to my higher self, 
 
 And all my bonds of being loose.
 
 THE SKELETON IN THE DUNGEON. 45 
 
 THE SKELETON IN THE DUNGEON. 
 
 AT ST. AUGUSTINE, FLORIDA. 
 
 FOUR heavy walls, a low, stone roof 
 That with eternal moisture drips ; 
 A tiny corner kept aloof, 
 
 Where fungus from the gray rock sips : 
 What hands have hewn this nook, for sin 
 To hide some dreaded secret in ? 
 
 Oh, worse than Chillon's storied cell 
 
 'Neath calm Lake Leman's swelling breast, 
 
 Where dim gray light in baptism fell, 
 And broke the eye's unwelcome rest ; 
 
 No glimmer here the shadows woke, 
 
 No sound the awful silence broke. 
 
 Imprisoned here when life was young, 
 To wail for Death's delivering hand : 
 
 While every nerve with health was strung, 
 And golden ran each minute's sand : 
 
 All hope of rescue cut away, 
 
 A living corpse they shut from day. 
 
 But, Essence delicate and strange ! 
 
 Free soul that cannot be confined ! 
 Beyond the heavens' utmost range 
 
 By God's own finger scrolled and lined, 
 Thou smilest, where forgiveness is, 
 On this, thy worn-out chrysalis.
 
 46 THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 THE STORM OVER. 
 
 A THOUSAND Marguerites opened their eyes, 
 *" This morning out in the meadow, 
 Where the golden wings of the butterflies 
 
 Tremble through sun and shadow. 
 The brown lark rose from her grass-hid nest, 
 Where the wild night through, she had found 
 safe rest. 
 
 The sweet wild violets shook their heads, 
 
 Each in its light blue bonnet : 
 The bees that swarmed round the garden beds 
 
 Hummed still their olden sonnet : 
 But the oak, that fell with the lightning stroke, 
 Lies on its face where its brave heart broke. 
 
 THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 IF ever skies are faintly blue, 
 And stars look down with golden eyes, 
 And wide, thin veils of cloud hang down, 
 
 Blown out through chinks from Paradise ; 
 When all the solemn woods are thrilled 
 With songs that drift and float away, 
 And every plant sings out in buds 
 Be sure it is the month of May,
 
 THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 47 
 
 Sweet May brings flowers with lavish hands 
 
 To scatter on the springing grass : 
 The peasant girls in mended gowns 
 
 May stoop and pluck them, as they pass. 
 And May brings thoughts of Long Ago, 
 
 With hopes to soothe the bitter heart ; 
 And, best and tenderest of all, 
 
 The Golden Wedding stands apart. 
 
 O wedding-day of years gone by ! 
 
 O holy words, and spoken prayer, 
 And blushes sweet as apple-blooms 
 
 That shape their pink stars through the air ! 
 If Heaven is shut to longing souls, 
 
 Yet sometimes Eden opens wide : 
 And angels smile out through the eyes 
 
 That light the fair face of a bride. 
 
 The years sped by, as years must speed, 
 
 And children's fingers, soft and warm, 
 Were laid upon the mother's lips, 
 
 And held the father's steady arm. 
 The baby-voices died away, 
 
 Yet vibrate in the ends of space : 
 The parents' eyes still trace with love 
 
 The child-looks in the grown-up face. 
 
 'T is fifty years ! The children went 
 To new homes dearer than the old : 
 
 The tale of life is long and sweet, 
 But still the story soon is told. 
 
 As men and women in the world 
 
 They mix with life, they work, and roam :
 
 48 THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 And some God took, with loving arms 
 To hold them till the parents come. 
 
 'T is fifty years ! The hair is white 
 
 That frames the temples worn with care, 
 'T is fifty years ! The feeble step 
 
 No longer now is light as air. 
 Not old ! With seventy years behind 
 
 And God's eternity before ! 
 Not old ! Yet stepping toward the boat 
 
 That nears so fast a distant shore. 
 
 They are not old ! Their eyes have gained 
 
 A look of Heaven that is so near. 
 Young hearts may beat in aged breasts 
 
 To melodies we cannot hear. 
 To-day, for daughter, son, and friend, 
 
 The smile of love is clear and bright, 
 And we rejoice to hear the words, 
 
 " My children all, come home to-night ! " 
 
 The way is long to those far homes, 
 
 But still they come, from South and West, 
 To press the withered cheek once more, 
 
 And rest upon a mother's breast. 
 If you should hear a sound of wings, 
 
 And almost see you know not what ! 
 Parents of angels ! Could you think 
 
 Your Golden Wedding was forgot ? 
 
 It may be that the time is short 
 Before a Father's voice shall call,
 
 THE CHILD I NEVER HAD. 49 
 
 It may be that another year 
 
 Will drop the message sure to all. 
 What then ! From age to endless youth, 
 
 From shadowy paths to perfect light 
 They go, and seek His waiting arms 
 
 Who soon will say, " Come home to-night ! " 
 
 THE CHILD I NEVER HAD. 
 
 A BABY with rings of dusky hair, 
 And beautiful eyes of deepest brown, 
 With doubled pink fists, and dimpled arms, 
 A comfort, a trouble, a joy, a care, 
 Now sleeping soft in its trailing gown, 
 Now crying over its own alarms, 
 Or cooing low that its heart is glad, 
 This is the child that I never had. 
 
 When low in the crimson the pale sun lies, 
 My wicker chair in its place I set, 
 I look out over the dreamy skies, 
 And suddenly feel that my eyes grow wet. 
 I long to press on my lonely breast 
 A wee, sweet face that was never mine, 
 As I watch the glow creep out of the west 
 And die on the dim horizon-line. 
 
 O happy mother, with fretted life, 
 And hands that hurry in endless tasks, 
 Barred in by the holy vow of wife 
 That gives all freely, and nothing asks.
 
 50 THE SLAVE-MARKET. 
 
 When the work is hard, and the rest is brief, 
 When the fingers ache, and the heart is sad, 
 And scalding tears give a short relief, 
 Think once of the child that I never had. 
 
 By the little cradle that, to and fro, 
 Rocks gently, timed with your tender song : 
 By the baby-clothes that you sit and sew, 
 Think not that your story is dull and long. 
 Remember only, the mother-heart 
 In some has never a child to own, 
 And love and liberty dwell apart, 
 Since rest from labor means life alone. 
 
 THE SLAVE-MARKET AT ST. AUGUSTINE. 
 
 SEVEN massive pillars on a side 
 Hewn from coquina, rough and gray, 
 Uphold a strong and lofty roof 
 That glimmers in the light of day. 
 The pavement shows no time-worn break, 
 No crumbling dust portends decay. 
 
 This is the spot where, as the morn 
 Hung coyly out her red and gold, 
 And the soft scroll of earth and sky 
 From cloudy darkness was unrolled, 
 A group of negroes, huddled close, 
 Sleepless, were waiting to be sold. 
 
 From home and friends forever torn, 
 What anguish pierced each anxious heart.
 
 YE CROONING WAVES. 51 
 
 Whom God had joined in marriage-bonds 
 Almighty Gold had power to part. 
 What Christ had bought with flowing blood 
 Men bartered at the unhallowed mart. 
 
 Yet all is past ! And round about 
 The old slave-market beauty smiles. 
 The great salt bay its arms extends 
 In blessing over sunken miles, 
 And, folded on its heaving breast, 
 Sparkle and glisten fairy isles. 
 
 The rude old columns upright stand : 
 Yet no mark on the place is set ! 
 And on the roof the dews of heaven 
 Glitter when morning grass is wet. 
 While, o'er the base, an ivy flings 
 Its green and ever-flickering net. 
 
 YE CROONING WAVES. 
 
 V/"E crooning waves that weep forever, 
 
 1 Lapped on the broad, blue ocean, 
 
 No power your tossing plain shall sever 
 
 From infinite commotion. 
 Ye roll in dull, eternal sorrow, 
 
 With strength and blessing mingled, 
 Unaltered still, as each to-morrow 
 
 From God's unknown is singled. 
 
 Ye weep the dead that sleep forgotten, 
 Ye seized in stormy weather :
 
 52 GROWING OLD. 
 
 Ye mourn the stout beam, now grown rotten, 
 
 That held the ship together. 
 The light that fell in golden dashes 
 
 Through dim, translucent distance, 
 To myriad rainbow sparks and flashes 
 
 Is shattered by your mist-lance. 
 
 With feet that hesitate and tremble 
 
 Ye touch each country shyly : 
 Ye see the seeming-true dissemble, 
 
 The simple planning slyly. 
 Ye grieve ; ye cannot see the ending 
 
 Of all earth's pain and anger. 
 Your soft, monotonous voice is sending 
 
 A moan from out its languor. 
 
 GROWING OLD. 
 
 I CANNOT bear to think of growing old : 
 To feel the hand, at morn and evening laid 
 In tender benison upon my head, 
 Falter and fail, as strength declining wanes, 
 And time draws out the current from its veins 
 To leave it withered, motionless, and cold. 
 
 I am afraid to think of growing old ! 
 
 There is a voice that daily in my ear 
 
 Has uttered praise, the sweetest I can hear. 
 
 It leads me by a chord from soul to soul. 
 
 How can I bear, as future years shall roll, 
 
 To find that voice the last dear word has told !
 
 THE DIFFERENCE. 53 
 
 How often have I felt a joyous thrill 
 Steal over me at thought of being young ! 
 A sudden song has moved upon my tongue, 
 My feet have danced to music never heard, 
 My whole glad being carolled, like a bird 
 Whose brief life has no grief its voice to still. 
 
 My foot the verdant heather-moor has pressed 
 
 And left the bells unshaken in its wake : 
 
 My boat has skimmed the tiny mountain lake, 
 
 But touched no fountain in them all, in sooth, 
 
 That brings its finder an eternal youth, 
 
 And seals the long unquiet of the breast. 
 
 Oh, that some charm the wisest could unfold, 
 Whatever painful penance might attend, 
 That to the hungry wish could magic lend 
 To keep the midnight darkness on the hair, 
 And, for the eyes, forever prison there 
 The soul that will decline on growing old ! 
 
 THE DIFFERENCE. 
 
 T HAVE seen eyes that were more tender ! 
 ^ I know not why I cannot brook 
 One gentle, half-indifferent look 
 That flashes on me, thrilled with splendor. 
 
 I have heard voices that were sweeter ! 
 Why does my spirit spread its wings 
 And fly to meet her, as she sings ? 
 
 Why is my life a thing completer ?
 
 54 DONALD. 
 
 I felt no lack before I met her. 
 
 But if some dread power should remove 
 This one fair woman whom I love 
 
 Break then, O Heart, thine earthly fetter. 
 
 DONALD. 
 
 BY a trick of falling eyelids, 
 And a gracious gift of speech, 
 By a smile that trembles faintly 
 Just within the dimples' reach, 
 By a practised look of wonder 
 
 Shining in her false, blue eyes, 
 She has won my bonny Donald, 
 And my life in ruin lies. 
 
 I I only stood before him 
 
 With a love so warm and true, 
 That I never thought of blushing, 
 
 As I looked him through and through. 
 What the need of drooping lashes 
 
 When I only thought of him. 
 And I had not learned the cunning 
 
 That should blur her beauty dim. 
 
 Donald, Donald, dear, if erring, 
 
 Strong of heart, but weak in love ! 
 Sometime will her smile be wanting, 
 
 Just as stars fall from above. 
 May the great God pour down blessings 
 
 Till they fill your wandering heart ! 
 Yet I fear, lad, in your future, 
 
 Sorrow, too, may have its part !
 
 MY SONG. 55 
 
 MY SONG. 
 
 T SANG a song. 
 
 * I was but a child crouching down in the clover, 
 
 And looking for fairy-horns hid in the moss. 
 
 A heartful of joy from my young lips ran over, 
 
 A bliss of completeness unshadowed by loss. 
 
 I dreamed of a hundred faint silver bells, ringing 
 
 'Mid the flowers which their delicate odors were 
 
 flinging, 
 
 And of wind-shaken reeds that were tangled together 
 Along the soft rims of a wide moor of heather. 
 My heart sang the song : my lips only expressed it. 
 My joy had been less, if I must have suppressed it. 
 So I sang. 
 
 Sing the song now ? 
 
 But the clover all fell by the hand of the mower, 
 
 And the elfin-bells long since have rung their last 
 
 chime, 
 And the wild-flower that blooms bows its head so 
 
 much lower 
 
 That it hides from my eyes that intangible rhyme. 
 No more the reeds tremble that border the heather, 
 Nor sway at the breath of the chill autumn weather. 
 The song all has fled that I sang happy-hearted : 
 Its charm of unconsciousness all has departed. 
 Yet I cannot forget that, in innocent dreaming, 
 Once I lived from my heart, without caring for 
 
 seeming, 
 And so, sang.
 
 56 77V THE COLOGNE CA THEDRAL. 
 
 IN THE COLOGNE CATHEDRAL. 
 
 THE air was filled with sounds of bells 
 That drifted down like flakes of snow ; 
 Long rays of light shook to and fro, 
 As if by trembling angels blown 
 Whose pure eyes gazed upon God's throne, 
 Where endless glory dwells. 
 
 From every pillar's shadowy side 
 A saint cast down his quiet eyes, 
 A spirit fixed in marble guise. 
 A mystery of holiness 
 Brooded upon the sacred place, 
 With wings extended wide. 
 
 As in some forest's leafy gloom, 
 
 Whose arching trees meet overhead, 
 
 Shut out the tender evening red, 
 
 Shut in the million songs of birds, 
 
 The love expressed, but not through words, 
 
 Stole through the vaulted room. 
 
 The gray-haired priest has done his prayer ; 
 
 The swelling echoes die away; 
 
 Yet something lives to mark the day ! 
 
 That solemn grandeur, unforgot, 
 
 Sweeps through the soul where peace is not, 
 
 And leaves its image there.
 
 PRESIDENT GARFIELD DEAD. 57 
 
 PRESIDENT GARFIELD DEAD. 
 
 MOURN, mourn for the great heart stilled ; 
 Mourn for the life that was in its prime, 
 For the narrow grave too early filled, 
 
 Undug by the careless hand of time. 
 Let tears fall fast on the quiet bed 
 Where lies at rest a nation's dead ! 
 
 Mourn for the life now offered up 
 
 That broken laws might be made whole ; 
 
 Grieve for that last long sorrow-cup 
 
 Whose bitter drops have freed his soul : 
 
 Prove that it was not all in vain 
 
 That wasted form was racked by pain. 
 
 Mourn for the Christless party-hate, 
 That thrilled to deed a coward hand ; 
 
 For the Real small, and the Ideal great, 
 That breed corruption in our land! 
 
 Mourn ! we do not mourn alone, 
 
 All nations share our anguished moan. 
 
 Out from the highest Paradise 
 
 In that blue heaven above us spead, 
 
 A spirit looks with watching eyes, 
 A martyr's crown upon his head. 
 
 Mourn for the wrong that he must see 
 
 With that glance of immortality.
 
 58 THE MATTERHORN. 
 
 THE MATTERHORN. 
 
 '""THOU grand, triangular peak ! 
 * On thy proud head the heavy sky is propped, 
 
 And, like a vail, the floating mist is dropped 
 That hangs its banner from thy fortress bleak. 
 The whistling wind creeps round thy sides in vain, 
 
 The soft snow cannot find a resting-place ; 
 
 Thy face o'erlooks the vast and sunless space, 
 Unfurrowed by the fall of snow and rain. 
 
 No human foot shall dare 
 
 With rash impunity to scale thy height ; 
 
 The trembling limb and horror-swimming sight 
 Attend the passage through thy rarer air. 
 The rumbling avalanche pours ruin down, 
 
 And hurls the wanderer to his lower sphere. 
 
 The ringing echoes drop his last groan clear, 
 Chasms the sound in awful silence drown. 
 
 What power is then in Him 
 
 Who raised thee from the level-lying land 
 
 With one uplifting of his mighty hand ! 
 Who grouped about thy distance-purpled rim 
 The thousand tints that warm a sunset sky ; 
 
 Below them heaped the century-frozen ice ; 
 
 Gave isolation as thy grandeur's price, 
 And set thee guard upon eternity.
 
 HOW THE BROOK CAME DOWN. 59 
 
 HOW THE BROOK CAME DOWN. 
 
 \1 7ITH icicle-fringe from the frost fairy's hand 
 
 ' ' Edging the desolate, hard-frozen land, 
 There rippled a brook from under the snow, 
 Up where the pink Alpine roses all blow. 
 
 From the cold speeding, she ran down a hill ; 
 Low on its base stood a half-ruined mill ; 
 Above it, a cottage was flooded with song : 
 The brook flashed responsive, and hurried along. 
 
 Bordered by heather, and bordered by broom, 
 Yellow with threads from the sun's busy loom ; 
 Here with a flourish, and there with a nod, 
 Here edged with jagged rocks, there over sod ; 
 
 Here through the meadows, where sweet violets 
 
 grow, 
 
 Bending to see their reflection below ; 
 Here with her silver hair caught on a stone, 
 There for a wounded wave making her moan ; 
 
 Here with a ripple, and there with a flower 
 Whirling to death in its first rosy hour ; 
 Now, when the Day-God's swift arrows were bright, 
 Now, through the silent hours solemn with night; 
 
 So went the widening brook, in her course 
 Dashing her waters with greatening force.
 
 60 SINCE I HAVE KNOWN YOU. 
 
 Far in her wake shone the wee, glinted pearls 
 Lavishly scattered in swift-twisted whirls. 
 
 Here o'er the trunk of a down-fallen tree, 
 Laid in her path to the low-growling sea, 
 Foaming and dashing she springs on her way, 
 Limpid with moonshine and brilliant with day. 
 
 Now to the unbounded sea she has pressed, 
 Lies like a throbbing vein traced on his breast ; 
 And in mid-ocean, high up on the mast, 
 Listening, the sailor-boy thinks of his past ; 
 
 Dreams of his home where the brook flows along, 
 Hears once again a long-quieted song ; 
 Tears to the past dim, a moment, his eye, 
 Then fall in the wave but he cannot tell why ! 
 
 SINCE I HAVE KNOWN YOU. 
 
 SINCE I have known you, life has been 
 Sweet beyond all imaginings, 
 Not wholly free from care and pain, 
 Or the sad trail of broken wings ; 
 Nor have I, like a cradled child, 
 Seen naught beyond my safe retreat, 
 Nor can the voice of love call out 
 The ready violet at my feet. 
 Still Labor claims me as his own : 
 Love can but lend to common things 
 The glory of a heart at peace, 
 Sweet beyond all imaginings.
 
 THE ANGEL'S MEADOW. 6 1 
 
 THE "ANGEL'S MEADOW." 
 
 T KNOW a spot where heaven drops down, 
 From cloudy hands, rich tints of brown, 
 That fall where, dim before our eyes, 
 Afar the ruined castle lies. 
 Below, like crystal dipped in fire, 
 On feet that speed, but never tire, 
 The Neckar runs between her shores, 
 Furrowed by trailing tracks of oars. 
 
 I know a spring, whose coolness drips 
 Like breath, from rough red-sandstone lips. 
 There moss holds out its wee, green cup, 
 And feathery grass springs nodding up. 
 The foxglove shakes her purple bells 
 That tinkle through the wind-swept dells, 
 And bees hum music for the ear 
 That holds small insect-voices dear. 
 
 I know a field where daisies close 
 Their steadfast eyes, in long, white rows. 
 Along the edge, high stalks of grain 
 Send flute-like notes in faint refrain ; 
 And, interwoven here and there, 
 Like some rich pattern wrought with care, 
 All wrapt in mystic blossom-trance, 
 Corn-flowers and poppies dart and dance. 
 
 Forget-me-nots, that blossom low 
 
 And star the meadow where they grow,
 
 62 THE STORK'S NEST. 
 
 With faces hidden from the light 
 Come first before my mental sight. 
 It seems as if eternal May 
 Had lent that field one perfect day, 
 One, only one ! and formed this flower 
 To say, " Do not forget this hour ! " 
 
 THE STORK'S NEST. 
 
 A WHOLE wide villageful of homes 
 Lies close within the hill's brown hand 
 The shadows strike the quaint, red roofs, 
 And fall upon the wooded land. 
 Just where the last dim sunbeams drop 
 Upon our ancient chimney-top, 
 The stork, in meditative rest, 
 Serene, stands on her twig-built nest. 
 
 And shall I tell you what I think ? 
 
 A thought is an unbidden guest, 
 
 That comes when we expect him least, 
 
 And draws the bolts that close the breast. 
 
 I think the stork flew all about 
 
 To seek earth's cosiest corner out ; 
 
 Saw how our cottage-fire shone, 
 
 And perched her home above our own
 
 THE LITTLE GERMAN GIRL. 63 
 
 THE LITTLE GERMAN GIRL. 
 
 \\ 7 HAT does she think of, as she goes 
 * * Sedately down the narrow street, 
 Her either cheek a dainty rose, 
 
 Her baby-mouth demure and sweet ? 
 Beneath the silken lashes dance, 
 
 With childish hope, the big blue eyes, 
 Yet gravity is in her glance, 
 
 And questionings of shy surprise. 
 
 I 'd like her painted, as she stands 
 
 A moment still, in mended gown, 
 The knitting growing in her hands 
 
 That are so little and so brown. 
 I 'd like to keep that honest face 
 
 Forever shut within my power, 
 To cheer me with its modest grace, 
 
 And wile away some listless hour. 
 
 What does she think of ? In her dreams 
 
 Is she a queen in bright array ! 
 Methinks a look of splendor seems 
 
 To dawn into the sinking day ! 
 Or does she fancy that a knight 
 
 Comes leaping from his fiery steed, 
 To strike for her with loving might, 
 
 And win her through his worthy deed ! 
 
 Believe me, little German girl, 
 There 's many a lady fair to view, 
 
 With pale, proud face, and drooping curl, 
 Would give her all to be like you.
 
 64 THE FISHER-BOY. 
 
 There 's not a queen upon her throne, 
 Whose power extends to life and death, 
 
 Can count that happiness her own 
 Which you inhale with every breath. 
 
 So count your stitches, little friend, 
 
 And make your knitting-work complete. 
 May Holy Care your path attend, 
 
 Even if it be a village street ! 
 Though none would paint you, as you stood 
 
 Here in my sight, a moment's time, 
 Yet I have done the best I could, 
 
 And painted you all out in rhyme. 
 
 THE FISHER-BOY. 
 
 A CALM sea in the morning red, 
 A fisher-boy upon the shore ; 
 A white sail for the soft breeze spread, 
 A shout that joined the billows' roar, 
 A " Good-by, mother !" gayly said. 
 
 And the mother shaded her eyes with her hand, 
 And looked at the boat as it danced from land. 
 
 A wild sea in the evening red, 
 
 A fisher-boy far off from shore, 
 A tangled sail to rough winds spread, 
 
 A deep voice in the breaker's roar : 
 A " Good-by, mother," faintly said. 
 
 And the mother shaded her eyes with her hand, 
 And prayed for the boat that should never land.
 
 GOOD-BY, HEIDELBERG. 65 
 
 GOOD-BY, HEIDELBERG. 
 
 HOW strange it is that love will cling, 
 Like ivy, to a ruined thing, 
 And make more charming in its fall 
 This sunken arch of crumbling wall, 
 This broken pillar's curving grace, 
 Than when they first grew into place ! 
 How strange it is that you and I, 
 Born far beneath a western sky, 
 Have wandered, led by fortune, here, 
 And count this spot so dear, so dear ! 
 
 And yet, in truth, both you and I 
 Are glad to breathe our last " Good-by." 
 We have been happy here to roam, 
 But far across the sea is Home. 
 We, tearless, meet the warm hand-clasp 
 Of friends who weep to give the grasp. 
 How strange it is, that, more than all 
 Our human fellowship, this wall, 
 This fallen landmark of the past, 
 Wrings sorrow from our hearts at last ! 
 
 Not those skilled hands that once long wrought, 
 
 Have made it sacred to our thought ; 
 
 Not those brave knights and ladies fair 
 
 Who lived, and loved, and perished there. 
 
 For us it is a casket, dim, 
 
 But filled with memories to the brim.
 
 66 SHE SINGS. 
 
 Our dreams have pierced this shattered wall 
 And here are fixed beyond recall. 
 We are not loath to say " Good-by," 
 Yet we leave something, you and I. 
 
 SHE SINGS. 
 
 SHE sings ! I do not know the words 
 That shake the summer air : 
 And yet that joyous flood of notes 
 Seems present everywhere. 
 
 What are the words ? She carols on 
 
 As free as bird in June : 
 Her life is boundless as the air, 
 
 Her very breath a tune. 
 
 I know not if she ever lived 
 
 Until I strolled along, 
 Nor if her being dies away 
 
 With that exultant song, 
 
 But this I know ! The summer day 
 
 Had lost one golden gleam, 
 If that rich voice had failed to lend 
 
 Its meaning to the dream.
 
 THE HOPES OF LONG AGO. 
 
 THE HOPES OF LONG AGO. 
 
 IT is so long, so long ago, 
 That I almost forget how long, 
 
 And then it seemeth very near ! 
 The sun scarce shone, he was so low, 
 The thin air trembled with a song 
 
 That from the heart struck on the ear. 
 
 Oh, golden sunset that has fled ! 
 Oh, quiet lake, that, at our feet, 
 
 Lay smooth and waveless as the sky ! 
 What cry can bring again the dead, 
 
 The once lived hours that were so sweet, 
 The moments that are gone for aye ! 
 
 And we were sitting on the shore, 
 
 And words were said I know not what. 
 
 But, over land and over sea, 
 Although that time can come no more, 
 Although its fancied joys are not, 
 
 Those half-said thoughts have followed me. 
 
 How sad it is, at forty years, 
 
 When wrinkles lie upon the face, 
 
 And gray hairs peep amid the brown, 
 To weep again the bitter tears 
 
 That stole our youth's first subtle grace, 
 When our first god went crashing down ! 
 
 We do not mourn the offered heart, 
 We do not grieve for vanished love ! 
 But sometimes, in the hours of rest,
 
 68 A YEAR'S HISTORY. 
 
 We mourn that we have learned the art 
 To hide the thoughts that in us move, 
 Within the recess of the breast. 
 
 But, as the autumn sometimes brings 
 A few warm days amid her frost, 
 
 When earth spreads out her fairest page, 
 When every little songster sings, 
 And Nature holds her Pentecost 
 So with the autumn of our age. 
 
 And as we feel the pleasant glow, 
 A lost sense comes to us again, 
 
 Again life seems a noble thing. 
 Oh, golden hopes of Long Ago, 
 Freed from accompanying pain, 
 Ourselves unto ourselves ye bring. 
 
 A YEAR'S HISTORY. 
 
 OPRINGTIME : and the sleepy plant 
 ^ Throws aside its warm snow-cover, 
 Tosses up its small green head, 
 
 That the April sky bends over ; 
 Stretches all its finger-leaves 
 Out for presents it receives 
 Bits of sunshine, drops of rain 
 Pattering their sweet refrain. 
 
 Summer : and the plant grows tall, 
 Like a slender-waisted maiden,
 
 LEAVING THE BODY. 69 
 
 And the bud upon its breast 
 
 Swells and deepens, color-laden. 
 Painted wings of butterflies 
 All about it- fall and rise, 
 Bees hum for it, breezes blow 
 All to make its blossoms grow. 
 
 Autumn : and the flower lies dead, 
 Swaying on the stalk that bore it. 
 
 Butterflies go swinging by, 
 Bees no longer murmur o'er it. 
 
 But the secrets of past days 
 
 Falling dew, and golden rays 
 
 Changed to fragrance, twinge and dart 
 
 From its never-dying heart. 
 
 Winter : and the leaves are brown, 
 
 And the bitter wind comes sweeping, 
 
 " It is time you went to bed, 
 
 Since the other plants are sleeping ! " 
 
 So he tucks it snugly in 
 
 With snow-blankets to the chin : 
 
 And it hears a whispering, 
 
 " Sleep ! there comes another spring ! " 
 
 LEAVING THE BODY. 
 
 RISE, Spirit, rise, 
 Up to thy late-left realms of day ! 
 Take from the fringed nooks of the eyes 
 The expression I have learned to prize.
 
 70 THE WOOD-WIFE. 
 
 Draw from the azure veins 
 Life, with its pangs and pains, 
 And speed away. 
 
 Make whiter still 
 
 The awful whiteness of that brow : 
 Bend, and the quiet chamber fill 
 With that calm rest that knows no will 
 And gather to a smile 
 The breath he breathed erewhile, 
 And hasten now. 
 
 Yet have no fear ! 
 
 There is no might that is so strong 
 Can steal from me thee who art dear. 
 Incline upon me. Canst thou hear 
 Clearly the words I say ? 
 I love thee, not thy clay, 
 And love is long ! 
 
 THE WOOD-WIFE. 
 
 '""FHE house was little, and brown, and low ; 
 * The moss hung down from the ragged eaves, 
 And, over the sunken roof, a row 
 
 Of shivering poplars shook their leaves. 
 The sun shone in on the old stone floor, 
 
 Where the ancient Roman altar stood, 
 And the wood-wife sat at the open door 
 
 And gazed down the long trail through the wood.
 
 THE WOOD-WIFE. J\ 
 
 The priest stood near with his open book, 
 
 And traced on the page the narrow word, 
 But the wood-wife turned with an absent look, 
 
 And an ear that was tuned unto things unheard. 
 She thought of the days that were long gone by, 
 
 When the axe-man led her, with honest pride, 
 Through the long trail, under the shining sky, 
 
 And kissed at the threshold his rosy bride. 
 
 She thought of the children, low they lie ! 
 
 Whose heads had rested upon her breast : 
 Of sweet child-songs and the baby-cry 
 
 That stilled as she lulled them into rest. 
 They had chosen homes in the busy town, 
 
 They had lived, and married, but all were dead. 
 Yet the mother's heart still folded down, 
 
 In its deepest nook, each little head. 
 
 Her life passed, touching her like a dream 
 
 That fades and deepens within the brain ; 
 Long walks that bordered the forest stream, 
 
 Long nights shut in by the twists of rain. 
 The first pale violets of the spring 
 
 That raised their eyes when they felt her near ; 
 The thick, short thoughts that the years may bring 
 
 Came, fanned by sorrow, and love, and fear. 
 
 " My gods are the sun and the grand old oak ; 
 
 And what are your gods to me ? " she said. 
 Her voice to quavering whispers broke ; 
 
 Her face grew set, like a face just dead. 
 But the cold priest rustled the printed page, 
 
 And read the prayers in a hollow tone,
 
 72 A ROSE-BUD. A HOPE FOR LEIGH. 
 
 Unheeding the tremulous form of age 
 
 That shook, and dropped on the threshold stone. 
 
 She thought : " I will die in my own, old faith, 
 
 The only faith that my loved ones knew ! " 
 Read on, stern priest ! With that struggling breath 
 
 A soul that is worn with life breaks through. 
 Read on ! For the wood-wife hears no more. 
 
 This moment, into the thin, clear air, 
 A spirit flew from the old stone floor, 
 
 And stretched its wings for its journey where ? 
 
 A ROSE-BUD. 
 
 I BROUGHT her a rose-bud yesterday. 
 She took it, and held it to the light, 
 And smiled with a pathos sweet and slight ; 
 And, smiling, she laid the bud away. 
 
 To-day, on the pillow's dented snows 
 She lies, with the smile still on her lips, 
 And cold to the folded finger-tips. 
 
 To-day, and the bud has bloomed a rose. 
 
 A HOPE FOR LEIGH. 
 
 \WHAT shall I hope for the little child 
 
 * * Whose days are as yet so few ? 
 Shall I wish for paths that are blossom-sweet, 
 And skies that are ever blue ?
 
 THE ROSE. 73 
 
 But winter comes, with its piercing cold, 
 
 And finds its way to the heart ; 
 While snows fall fast from the darkened sky, 
 
 And the old friends stand apart. 
 
 But what shall I ask ? Wealth ? Honor ? Fame ? 
 
 But riches bring no content, 
 And fame is a mocking wreath, that crowns 
 
 The being whose joys are spent ; 
 And honor fades as a rose, whose breath 
 
 Is sweet, while the buds unfold. 
 Oh ! what is the wish for the little child 
 
 Whose story is all untold ? 
 
 Smile from your cradle, little child, 
 
 Whose life amid smiles began ; 
 My hope for you is a loving heart 
 
 That believes in God and in man. 
 The world is kind to the innocent, 
 
 And it will repay your trust ; 
 While love is a plant that cannot die, 
 
 But flowers when all is dust. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 THE painter of the evening sky 
 Drew long, bright lines across the west ; 
 He veiled the sun's great, gleaming eye 
 
 With cloudy mists that half expressed 
 And half concealed what they would hide ; 
 As, in its distant niche, aside
 
 74 THE ROSE. 
 
 From eyes that look and then forget, 
 Some dim saint longs for heaven yet. 
 
 Broad bands of purple and of dun, 
 
 Irregularly grouped with skill, 
 Now glimmered round the dying sun 
 
 And shadowed forth the artist's will. 
 With faint, soft shades of beauteous pink, 
 Joined in a long chain, link on link, 
 He bound the darkening heavens round 
 And then his brush slipped to the ground. 
 
 Oh, strange mischance to spirit's power ! 
 
 Oh, blessed miracle that sprang 
 To being in that holy hour ! 
 
 Oh, low, sweet, vesper chimes that rang ! 
 The dim sky lost one tender shade, 
 Although in loveliness arrayed : 
 But where the artist's pencil fell 
 A rose nods blushing to the dell. 
 
 Day after day, all summer through, 
 
 Though clouds may shroud, or rains may fall, 
 There rises to enraptured view 
 
 The sweet wild-rose that blooms for all. 
 The princess pins it in her lace, 
 The beggar holds it to her face ; 
 And the same Hand its care bestows 
 On evening sky, and blossoming rose.
 
 OPEN THE WINDOW. 75 
 
 OPEN THE WINDOW. 
 
 OPEN the window wide, Love, and let me feel 
 the air, 
 
 Warm with the slender beams that quiver every 
 where. 
 
 Do you remember the old oak tree 
 
 That stood with head far in the sky ? 
 It seemed to us steeped in melody 
 
 So dense that it almost met the eye. 
 The lightning clove its sturdy breast : 
 
 In tortured shreds the branches hang ! 
 But a bird flew from her fire-wrecked nest, 
 
 And, poised above for an instant sang ! 
 
 My life is riven so, yet my heart is sweet with song: 
 I heard them say " No Hope ! " and I shall not 
 linger long. 
 
 The dearest thing I take from earth 
 
 Is the eager, sweet betrothal kiss, 
 That taught me all your love's true worth 
 
 And swept me with pulsating bliss. 
 No years could wear it irom my mouth ; 
 
 It goes through death's dark suffering 
 As breezes blow from the fragrant south, 
 
 And burst the chill air with their wing. 
 
 There is no power on earth, and none in the world 
 
 to be, 
 That shall sever our souls even by taking me.
 
 76 A SONG FOR MARGARET. 
 
 What tender word can I breathe to-night 
 
 To last through the coming parted years ! 
 How can I seal your clouded sight 
 
 So that it may not dim with tears ! 
 Lay down your head a moment here : 
 
 Look at me with your loving eyes. 
 I want to feel your presence near 
 
 When I begin to immortalize ! 
 
 A SONG FOR MARGARET. 
 
 A SONG for little Margaret ! 
 A happy song for the shining eyes 
 In which no brooding shadow lies ! 
 O singing birds, that cleave the sky 
 And dip in music as ye fly, 
 Think of her face, a mirrored soul ; 
 Her soft, loose hair that frames the whole ; 
 Think of her eyes so innocent, 
 Two crystal spheres from heaven lent ; 
 The baby-voice, whose daily prayer 
 Pierces the vast unknown of air ; 
 Her dimpled hands, O mark them well ! 
 And when your wordless raptures swell, 
 Think of the rock upon whose breast 
 Is set your warm, deep, laden nest ; 
 Think of the tender twitterings, 
 The hush of night, the sound of wings, 
 The crimson flush of evening skies, 
 The warmth that in the desert lies ; 
 Think of the joy of that swift motion
 
 IT IS THE MOON. 
 
 With which ye cross the cloudy ocean ! 
 
 All that is loveliest and best, 
 
 All that with pleasure fills your breast, 
 
 Into one mad joy garner it, 
 
 And drop a song for Margaret ! 
 
 IT IS THE MOON. 
 
 TT is the moon, the silver moon, 
 
 * Sada, dear Sada ! 
 
 The friends who are so far away, 
 
 Whose hands we cannot press to-day, 
 
 For them it is but noon. 
 
 For them the moon, a small white cloud, 
 
 Lies empty, like an unused shroud, 
 
 All waiting for the night 
 
 To fill its folds with light. 
 
 It is the moon, the shining moon, 
 Sada, dear Sada ! 
 
 One long beam stretches to the west, 
 Straight to a mother's longing breast, 
 Who hopes to meet us soon : 
 Another gush of light, in showers 
 Springs out from heaven's heart to ours. 
 And our bright bond of love, 
 See ! There it gleams above !
 
 78 HE LOVES ME, 
 
 HE LOVES ME. 
 
 HE loves me ! He loves me ! 
 It has been such a weary time ! 
 I never thought my life's hard prose 
 
 Could alter so to sudden rhyme. 
 I almost fear to be so glad ; 
 Yet what can ever make me sad, 
 Since he loves me ? 
 
 He loves me ! he loves me ! 
 
 His place is far above my own, 
 And yet he stoops, from all the world 
 
 To single to him me alone. 
 The day from all days stands apart : 
 The thought is burned into my heart 
 That he loves me ! 
 
 He loves me ! he loves me ! 
 
 There 's something terrible in joy, 
 When some slight change may make it less, 
 
 Or some quick sorrow quite destroy. 
 If heaven's grand anthem, ringing clear, 
 Should need his voice, who is so dear 
 And who loves me ! 
 
 He loves me ! he loves me ! 
 
 I must grow better every day, 
 Must bend my soul to higher things, 
 
 Lest I should wear his love away. 
 Come, sorrows of a woman's life ! 
 Come, softening pain ! ennobling strife ! 
 
 For he loves me !
 
 STAR, SHINE ON. WHEN IT FADES. 79 
 
 O STAR, SHINE ON ! 
 
 OSTAR, shine on ! 
 The moon is rising in the sky, 
 And, bending low, the archer nigh 
 Tips his bright arrow with a sigh, 
 That, like a wail, goes sobbing by. 
 
 O star, shine on ! 
 
 Just as a silvering water-fall 
 
 Splashed along its rocky wall, 
 
 So let thy sundrops, keen and small, 
 
 Flow through the night's great quiet hall. 
 
 O star, shine on ! 
 
 Thou art no mighty globe for me : 
 
 Thou art a spirit, grand and free, 
 
 Whose glowing wings have brushed the sea 
 
 That circles round eternity. 
 
 WHEN IT FADES. 
 
 HE stooped to a wayside bush 
 And culled its fairest flower ; 
 Fastened it on his breast, 
 
 And wore it there an hour. 
 And then the rose grew pale, 
 And he threw it into the dust.
 
 8O MIZPAH. 
 
 Roses are plenty, you know, 
 
 And if they must fade, they must. 
 
 No thought of the long, still hours 
 
 The rose was growing fair ! 
 No sigh for the scented tax 
 
 It paid to the tyrant Air ! 
 Why should he trouble so ? 
 
 It had been sweet in its day, 
 But when it withered and died, . 
 
 He could only throw it away. 
 
 A hundred roses may smile, 
 
 Nodding upon his breast ; 
 But the one he flung away 
 
 Has lost its fairest and best. 
 With gathering fled its bloom : 
 
 Its petals are grimed and torn. 
 And its long night of despair 
 
 Never shall roll to morn. 
 
 MIZPAH. 
 
 OH tender meaning, flashing through 
 The riven bars that guard our speech, 
 Like lily-bells swung low with dew, 
 
 The heart is heavy that you reach ! 
 We part ! Why should I add a word 
 
 That can but hint at our regret ? 
 Each happy hope that in us stirred, 
 As star that dips in cloud, has set.
 
 THEN AND NOW. 8 1 
 
 The weary years will wear away 
 
 With blinding snow, with gentle rain, 
 Yet cannot bring us back To-day, 
 
 Nor make us what we were, again. 
 Our thoughts will compass half a world 
 
 And leave behind the sluggard sight, 
 While, with earth's circling surface whirled, 
 
 One dwells in darkness, one in light. 
 
 Yet, Mizpah ! Here we raise a heap 
 
 That witnesses the love we bear. 
 We know that One a watch will keep, 
 
 And, for the other, each will spare. 
 The joys that future days will bring 
 
 Will make our present sorrow seem 
 Only a trembling minor string 
 
 Across the music of a dream. 
 
 THEN AND NOW. 
 
 WHEN we parted, what was life ? 
 'T was a sweet, a sleepless dream 
 Two bright paths along a stream, 
 That should lead to meadows, rife 
 With the golden-headed grain, 
 Happy mowers loaded wain 
 Where we two, all partings past, 
 Should united reap, at last. 
 
 Now we meet, and life is what ? 
 'T is a dream, a broken glass
 
 82 HIS MONUMENT. 
 
 Where the gloomy shadows pass 
 Of that glory which is not. 
 In the rain and in the wold, 
 Fearing for the winter's cold, 
 Empty-handed we have met 
 Where our early hopes were set. 
 
 HIS MONUMENT. 
 
 WHERE shall we build his monument 
 Whose life in our behalf was spent ? 
 
 There is an island wondrous fair 
 
 Hid in the sea's deep breast ; 
 The rarest flowers shed fragrance there 
 
 Oh, shall he there find rest ? 
 How sweet the wild-bird's untaught song 
 Floats those free-curving slopes along ! 
 A silver splash, with scarlet tip, 
 Darts where the crystal waters dip. 
 Say, shall we rear with careful hand 
 A costly pile in that far land ? 
 
 No, for no tender eyes would weep, 
 In that bright land, his quiet sleep. 
 
 There is a little inner world 
 
 Locked in each human heart, 
 And there, in miniature, lies furled 
 
 Life's glowing counterpart. 
 How pure within that sacred shrine 
 Flames the soft light of life divine !
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE ALPS. 83 
 
 The hopes that thrill the eager soul, 
 Like waves, in quick succession roll. 
 From all love's noblest offerings blent, 
 Here we will frame his monument ; 
 For, in the sad heart, history 
 Writes records that can never die. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE ALPS. 
 
 T T E climbs the cliff with steady nerve, 
 * * His step is sure and slow ; 
 Below him yawns the precipice, 
 
 Above gleam peaks of snow. 
 Upon the jutting granite crag 
 
 Are fixed his eager eyes, 
 Where, just beyond his straining grasp, 
 
 Fair blooms the edelweiss. 
 
 One last, hard step, and it is won ! 
 
 It rests within his hand. 
 Its roots still quiver with the shock 
 
 That rent them from the sand. 
 Now what remains but to return 
 
 The weary way he came ? 
 Why gaze his eyes so wildly round ? 
 
 What sets his cheeks aflame ? 
 
 Around his neck an unseen arm 
 
 Has laid its circling snow : 
 A hand he cannot choose but feel 
 
 Points to the depths below.
 
 84 THE EDELWEISS. 
 
 A floating robe of pearly mist 
 Gleams where his hold is strong ; 
 
 A silver voice, like falling rain, 
 Murmurs a pleading song : 
 
 " See where the sunbeams dart and play, 
 
 Down in yon chasm-bed ! 
 There lies a rest from every care, 
 
 A respite for the dead ! 
 Thence thy freed soul shall scale the sky 
 
 Ten thousand leagues above, 
 And Eden's white, perpetual flower 
 
 Shall bloom for thee in love ! " 
 
 His eyes grow dim, his hands grow weak. 
 
 The dews bedamp his face. 
 He looks up at the distant sky, 
 
 And prays, a moment's space. 
 His hands grow weak, he cannot stay ; 
 
 He sinks, no more to rise ; 
 But his closed hand yet holds in death 
 
 That bunch of edelweiss. 
 
 THE EDELWEISS. 
 
 LET others praise the crimson rose, 
 Or chant the tulip's song, 
 Or boast the snowy, slender cup 
 The lily bears along : 
 Let others tell of tender thoughts 
 
 Sprung in the violet's eyes ; 
 While life shall last, while heart shall beat, 
 Sing I the edelweiss.
 
 THE DROP IN THE CLOUD. 8"5 
 
 The edelweiss dwells on the height 
 
 Where sweeps the piercing air ; 
 The cruel rocks that rise around 
 
 Clutch at her silver hair. 
 Her foot sinks deep in snow and ice 
 
 To strike the warmer sand ; 
 Her slender stalk bends to and fro, 
 
 By Alpine breezes fanned. 
 
 All day the rocking icicles 
 
 And wind-blown waves of snow 
 Tell her their secrets as they pass, 
 
 In voices deep and low. 
 All night she lays her gleaming head 
 
 Upon the mountain's breast, 
 And those strange sounds that thrill the earth 
 
 Do not disturb her rest. 
 
 The edelweiss is small and pale ; 
 
 No glow is on her cheek. 
 She bears a thought within her breast 
 
 Which yet she does not speak. 
 Pure, lonely, born to wintry life, 
 
 Heir to perpetual ice ! 
 He must ascend by constant pains 
 
 Who wins the edelweiss. 
 
 THE DROP IN THE CLOUD. 
 
 A WATER-DROP and a star together 
 ** Sat in a crimson cloud, 
 When, in the frosty winter weather, 
 The merry bells rang loud.
 
 86 LOVE RESURRECTED. 
 
 A tiny snow-flake floated, drifted, 
 
 Quivering to the ground. 
 On crystal-woven wings uplifted 
 
 It fluttered round and round. 
 
 And when the spring's first sunrise, blushing, 
 
 Reddened the sky afar, 
 A snow-drop, through the hard earth pushing, 
 
 Smiled at the distant star. 
 
 LOVE RESURRECTED. 
 
 I BURIED my love deep, deep, 
 In the dimple of Nan's cheek. 
 " Love," said I, " long be thy sleep ! 
 Brief, but sweet, thy life has been, 
 Dear the grave I lay thee in. 
 
 All my grief I dare not speak, 
 But in death the heart reposes : 
 Rest, beneath those faint blush-roses." 
 
 I spoke, and a whisper came, 
 
 Both a whisper and a thrill : 
 " Life to thee is not the same, 
 Will not be the same again." 
 Then Nan smiled, to ease my pain. 
 Lo ! against my hope and will, 
 Deep the dimple I selected, 
 But my love was resurrected.
 
 THE TALE OF THE BOAT. 8/ 
 
 TWILIGHT SONG. 
 
 '"THERE is a yellow butterfly 
 * Swaying upon this little flower ; 
 
 The cool breeze swings him to and fro, 
 Yet never swings too low, too high. 
 It is the happy silence-hour, 
 
 And, where the short-stemmed grasses grow, 
 The firefly lights her little lamp 
 To guide her children through the damp. 
 
 A rain of silver, shimmering light 
 Falls from the moon's inverted horn ; 
 
 A wee star lends a twinkling ray 
 To tremble in the gathering night, 
 
 And wait through darkness for the morn. 
 
 For there shall come another day 
 That will unfurl those folded wings, 
 And empty this sweet flower that swings. 
 
 THE TALE OF THE BOAT. 
 
 '"THE boat, the boat, the little boat ! 
 * It danced away one morning, 
 Its sails spread like a dove's pure wings, 
 
 The flags its mast adorning. 
 And the boy who offered its precious freight 
 
 Looked till his eyes could see no more, 
 And then remained to watch and wait 
 
 Till the boat came back to the quiet shore
 
 88 THE SENTINEL. 
 
 But a storm came, and the cloud bent down 
 
 Its brow all black with thunder, 
 And the sea grew livid with despair, 
 
 And dashed its crests asunder. 
 For a wind lashed, like a mighty whip, 
 
 The waves that late had gleamed so white, 
 And down went many a valiant ship 
 
 And bore its crew from mortal sight. 
 
 And the little boat ? Gray age has laid 
 
 On the boy his frosty fingers, 
 And still, where the boat rocked gayly out, 
 
 An old man dreams and lingers ; 
 And what is so hard as to watch and wait, 
 
 To wait and watch, as the slow years go, 
 And ask what came of youth's sacred freight, 
 
 And hope, and wonder, but never know ! 
 
 THE SENTINEL. 
 
 \ I 7 HERE Russia swells, with freezing breath, 
 ^ ' The streams that vein her snowy breast, 
 And dooms each bud to early death 
 
 That lifts its head from sluggish rest ; 
 Where every bush is fringed with frost, 
 
 And long, white fingers streak the ground, 
 The sentinel stands at his post, 
 
 And views the dreary plain around. 
 
 A storm sweeps down upon the place : 
 The dark clouds burst in cracks of gold, 
 
 And pour upon his upturned face 
 Soft drops of winter from each fold.
 
 ELIZABETH. 89 
 
 Thick, thick, and white, his winding-sheet 
 
 Is lowered to him from the sky ; 
 The air in kisses keen and sweet 
 
 Breathes on his mouth, his cheek, his eye. 
 
 The night comes on, and, bathed in light, 
 
 The moon looks on her midnight lands ; 
 The long, loose curtains of the night 
 
 The winds draw back, with shifting hands. 
 With arms crossed tightly on his breast, 
 
 With snowy hollows in his face, 
 Until God sends his day of rest 
 
 The sentinel stands in his place. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 TTUSH ! here is a nook in the dim old aisle 
 
 * * Where never the sun unveils his face, 
 But leaves just the lingering, tender trace, 
 
 Half-look, half-dream, of a daily smile. 
 
 A tomb on the marble floor stands here. 
 Upon it a girl that is carved at rest, 
 With slight arms folded across her breast, 
 
 Has slept in silence this many a year. 
 
 Within lies the body, wrapt in death. 
 
 They could not hold, though they loved, their own, 
 So they made her semblance of lasting stone, 
 And cut at the feet, " Elizabeth." 
 The name was sent, like a sharp, quick cry, 
 
 Through the swinging doors, as they opened 
 then,
 
 90 GRIEF A FRIEND. 
 
 To call her back to the life of men 
 In vain ! In vain ! from the closing sky. 
 
 If good, if ill, were her earthly days 
 
 What voice shall tell through a thousand years ! 
 
 Long since were dried her impassioned tears, 
 Long since grew silent her hymn of praise. 
 The very lily her young hand pressed, 
 
 So sweet and white when they laid her down, 
 
 Each moment darkened to deeper brown, 
 And fell to dust on her quiet breast. 
 
 A cherub, high on the pillared wall, 
 
 Bends down his head 'twixt his two crossed wings, 
 And lights her gloom with the smile he brings 
 
 While centuries vanish. And this is all. 
 
 Elizabeth ! For a little while 
 
 Come back, and whisper but once, apart, 
 What peace lies sealed in the pulseless heart 
 
 Forever stilled in an angel's smile ? 
 
 GRIEF A FRIEND. 
 
 I GIVE thee my hand, O Grief ! 
 I will not shrink, nor dread 
 So close at thy side to tread ; 
 I will not loosen my hold 
 From thine, that is firm and cold ; 
 I will not pine in regret 
 For joys that I might have yet ; 
 I will not ask for release ;
 
 YOUR KINGDOM. 9! 
 
 We will walk together in peace 
 The way, be it long or brief, 
 If only thy grasp secure 
 That I keep my own hand pure. 
 
 Grief, I give thee my heart ; 
 My thoughts, that are all my own, 
 Yet reach to God's distant throne, 
 
 1 give thee the kiss I wear 
 
 On my lips, to charm despair ; 
 I leaned on a coffin-lid 
 And wrested it from my Dead ! 
 My life, my love, and my all, 
 I bring at thy sacred call, 
 For thou a true friend art. 
 Whose hand thou once dost take 
 Thou never dost forsake. 
 
 YOUR KINGDOM. 
 
 THERE is a corner in my heart, 
 A little corner kept apart, 
 Where what is pure, and good, and high, 
 Is shut away from careless eye. 
 The curious stranger well may see 
 The common thoughts that surge through me, 
 But here I come to be alone, 
 To feel myself, and be my own. 
 
 This small soul-chamber is the place, 
 Beloved, where I keep your face ;
 
 92 LITTLE BESSIE. 
 
 And here I fit your name to prayers, 
 And loose myself from trivial cares. 
 No other yet has ventured here ; 
 But would you learn what is most dear, 
 Most tender in me, and most true, 
 It never shall be closed to you. 
 
 LITTLE BESSIE. 
 
 COME back, little Bessie, come back ! 
 The door that was opened beneath the snow 
 Leads through to a wonderful heaven, we know. 
 We cannot doubt that your heart is glad, 
 But we we sit in the dark, and are sad. 
 We miss the laugh in your great, brown eyes, 
 We miss your look of perplexed surprise ; 
 Our arms are empty ; we cannot feel 
 Your soft breath over our eyelids steal. 
 We dream at night you are all our own ; 
 We wake, and the beautiful dream is gone. 
 Your crossed arms lie on your placid breast ; 
 You do not start from that calm, deep rest. 
 You always heard when we called before, 
 But now you are voiceless forevermore. 
 Come back, little Bessie, come back ! 
 
 Our thoughts flew out into future years, 
 
 And painted pictures of smiles and tears. 
 
 We watched the promising bud unclose 
 
 And blossom into a perfect rose. 
 
 The child that wondered at every thing ; 
 
 The slender maiden, that time would bring ; 
 
 The bride betrothed, with her shy, sweet grace ;
 
 SONNET ON SEPARATION. 93 
 
 The wife, with tenderness in her face ; 
 
 The proud young mother, with anxious care 
 
 Smoothing the ringlets of baby-hair ; 
 
 The stately matron, the grand dame old, 
 
 And then but then would the tale be told. 
 
 The story of sorrow still is one, 
 
 And death must finish what life begun. 
 
 All this in the little child was hid, 
 
 And we closed it in with the coffin-lid. 
 
 So many angels their voices raise 
 
 In ringing anthems that hymn God's praise ; 
 
 They stand by thousands around the throne, 
 
 Could He not spare us this single one ? 
 
 O Christ ! Thou didst stoop at Lazarus' tomb, 
 
 And weep, and call out into its gloom 
 
 " Come back, come back ! " For the tears then shed 
 
 The grim death-angel brought back the dead. 
 
 We stoop, it'e weep ; again and again 
 
 We call aloud, but our cry is vain. 
 
 Our baffled love totters back dismayed ; 
 
 We veil our hearts and are sore afraid, 
 
 Till, sitting dumb with our grief alone, 
 
 We hear the sound of an undertone : 
 
 " Grieve not, grieve not ! for I love her best. 
 
 She is safe at rest ! She is safe at rest ! " 
 
 SONNET ON SEPARATION. 
 
 DEAR, must I always miss thy tender face, 
 And that large love that dwelt within thine eyes, 
 And must I, when my soul on heaven cries, 
 Leave out thy name from its familiar place ?
 
 94 THE MEASURE OF LOVE. 
 
 May God forbid ! Somewhere in His domain 
 The angel in thee shakes its unbound wings 
 In joy to feel itself so free, and sings, 
 With silences that echo to our pain. 
 Thou hast not gone beyond the reach of prayer, 
 Since where thou art God bends His listening ear ; 
 And Death's cold breath, that wintered all the air, 
 But formed a cloud around a form so dear, 
 That, in the darkness, it might seem more fair 
 To sit apart, yet know that each is near. 
 
 THE MEASURE OF LOVE. 
 
 HOW do I love thee ? Dear, I cannot tell. 
 Thou dost not think to count the shining 
 
 beams 
 
 That slip off from the sun to warm our earth : 
 The oak-leaf, folded to a living cup, 
 May serve to hold a single drop of dew 
 That hangs its crystal globe against the green, 
 But it will never tremble round a sea. 
 So is our language, when we fit the words 
 To deepest thoughts. All speech is but a growth 
 Whose germ lies dormant in necessities ; 
 It never reaches out to the divine. 
 What we can fully tell is slight indeed. 
 We turn, and twist, and narrow by degrees, 
 And lose the thought in the expressing it. 
 But God is love, and what we feel of heaven 
 Is love, too ; and my all I gather up
 
 THE OLD GRA Y HOUSE. 95 
 
 In my full soul to make a gift to thee. 
 Look in my eyes, and read thy title there, 
 Interpreting by love. The infinite 
 Alone can comprehend the infinite. 
 
 I 
 
 THE OLD GRAY HOUSE. 
 COULD paint you a picture if I would. 
 
 An old gray house that for years has stood ; 
 A swift, bright river that flows beside, 
 And folds an isle to its bosom wide ; 
 A yard that slopes down a low, brown hill, 
 Where summer-juices the grape-skins fill. 
 I could paint the leaves of wind-stirred trees, 
 And the dusty coats of the honey-bees, 
 And the just-poised wings of the butterflies, 
 But what would it be to a stranger's eyes ? 
 A great old house on the river shore, 
 A grassy garden, and nothing more ! 
 
 I could paint you a mother's tender face, 
 Thrilled through and through with the soul's own 
 
 grace, 
 
 The large, dark eyes, and the silver hair 
 That waves away from a brow still fair. 
 My four sweet sisters ! my brother dear ! 
 Could I paint this picture and you not here ? 
 By the memories of our bygone years, 
 By our childish laughter, our causeless tears ; 
 By the games we played in that yard of old, 
 The hopes we cherished, the tales we told, 
 As the picture deepened beneath my hand 
 You would smile, and tremble, and understand.
 
 g6 TIME. 
 
 You would know the branch of the apple-tree 
 Where we sat afloat on a blossom-sea ; 
 You would smell the odors from garden-beds 
 Where the pansies nodded their pretty heads ; 
 You could find in the dark the fragrant spots 
 That were sweet with the ghosts of forget-me-nots, 
 And of white day-lilies, that show a face 
 That can smile but once in a gloomy place. 
 The old gray house would be full for you 
 Of dreams and memories, dear and true ; 
 Of childhood's fancies that no child tells ; 
 Of lover's kisses and marriage-bells. 
 
 You would hear the echo of each old song 
 
 That the sweet piano shook out so long, 
 
 When our flying fingers along the keys 
 
 Went pressing the springs of hid melodies. 
 
 I could paint you all that is bright and glad, 
 
 But should draw the veil where the times were sad. 
 
 Shall the stranger know how our tears were shed ; 
 
 Shall he count the hopes that lie still and dead ? 
 
 Our joys fly swiftly from tongue to tongue, 
 
 But the tried friend knows when the heart is wrung. 
 
 Yes, the old gray house of our lives is part. 
 
 I have painted the picture from my heart. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 OTIME, swift runner between birth and death ! 
 Thy face is radiant with imprisoned light 
 Poured out on thee from two eternities, 
 That edge, on either side, thy narrow beat.
 
 TIME. 97 
 
 Thy breast is shaken with thy stormy breath. 
 Thy left hand robs our treasures, but the right 
 Holds gifts to gild our coming destinies, 
 That thou, in passing, droppest at our feet. 
 
 Thou art the healer of all human ill. 
 
 Thy solemn eyes send out a single look, 
 
 And, of our deepest sorrow, we but trace 
 
 A tingling in the chords of memory. 
 
 What heart is that thy cold touch cannot still ? 
 
 What tear-stained page in life's unfinished book 
 
 But thou dost set a poem in its place ? 
 
 What love that grows no more nor less for thee ? 
 
 Cruel Time ! thou bringest heaps of gradual snow 
 To scatter it on childhood's sunny hair, 
 And filmy veils to cast on sparkling eyes 
 Whose gleam has magic for all spells but thine. 
 Thou teachest lips the song of Long Ago ; 
 Thou bringest wrinkles for the cheek that 's fair, 
 And, close behind thee, Death's dark angel flies 
 To stamp thy labor with a seal divine. 
 
 And yet thou art the kindest friend of all. 
 Thy hand holds honors out for men to reach, 
 And drops down gold for hungry want to grasp. 
 Thy fingers drape the folds of bridal lace 
 When pale cheeks flush, and eyelids shyly fall ; 
 And thou, when hearts beat faster than our speech 
 Has power to utter, teachest that firm clasp 
 When friends long parted first stand face to face.
 
 98 WAITING. 
 
 O Time ! thy brow is passionless and grim. 
 When hast thou wept where bitter tears were shed ? 
 When hast thou smiled where merry laughs were 
 
 heard ? 
 
 Thou givest, and thy bosom knows no pain ; 
 Thou takest, but no tears thy keen eyes dim, 
 For thou hast seen the angels of the dead, 
 And thine ears listen to God's mystic word 
 That makes the meaning of earth's puzzle plain. 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 I STAND on the shore of the tossing sea, 
 And look at the ship that is just in sight, 
 And dream of the peace it will bring to me 
 
 When Dawn from her garland drops buds of light. 
 I know that for many the hopes must fail 
 
 That open the arms, that suffuse the eye ; 
 Yet gladly I smile as the harp-shaped sail 
 Is painted white on the far-off sky. 
 
 I know that within it the people speak 
 
 Of home and of friends they shall meet once more, 
 And tears all unnoticed roll down the cheek 
 
 At sight of the long broken line of shore. 
 And one gazes eagerly on, apart, 
 
 Half-patient, half-yielding to sweet unrest. 
 O Ocean ! breathe quietly, for my heart 
 
 Is beating out there on your shining breast.
 
 HEART OF MINE. 99 
 
 HEART OF MINE. 
 
 '"PEACH me, O Heart of mine, some word 
 I More tender than words have ever been ! 
 
 Brim it with love's most cordial wine, 
 Thrill it with melody never heard. 
 Pure as juices that form within 
 
 The globes that hang on the low grape-vine, 
 Sweet as aught that the sun goes round 
 On his daily track, make the little sound. 
 
 O Heart, how long have we sat alone 
 
 In that inmost inner that none else knows, 
 
 And mourned our weakness, both thou and I ? 
 We fain would smile, but the bitter groan 
 Breaks unaware when the lips unclose. 
 
 We stretch the hand, but no help is nigh. 
 So we learn the lesson of silent pain, 
 And fasten the bolts on our tears again. 
 
 Yet teach me the song that is born of tears ; 
 O sweet and tender that song must be ! 
 
 And teach me to lean on my mother's breast, 
 And say that word in her waiting ears. 
 O Heart, I turn in my need to thee ! 
 
 Make me as one who, in deep unrest 
 On surging waters tossed to and fro, 
 Speaks peace to others he cannot know. 
 
 Breathe not a word of a fair young face 
 Fast wearing down to the prisoned soul !
 
 100 FROM MY WINDOW. 
 
 Say not that violets on her heart 
 Will lie full soon in a pulseless place, 
 And greet no eye, as the thick years roll. 
 
 What words thou must speak, as deep tears 
 
 start, 
 
 Must first be wrung from grief's bitter cup, 
 And from love's clear chalice be offered up. 
 
 I will not utter in friendship's ear 
 
 The word, O Heart, that thou givest me. 
 
 Nor cheek of lover shall ever glow 
 In warm response to that whisper dear. 
 No careless stranger shall ever see 
 
 The printed word that we only know. 
 I would but charm from its dwelling-place 
 That anxious look on my mother's face. 
 
 FROM MY WINDOW. 
 
 MY narrow window frames a square 
 Of sky cut from the full, wide west, 
 And sweeping with the sweeping air 
 
 Or quiet as the sleep-stilled breast. 
 Sometimes the clouds, in fleecy heaps, 
 
 Obstruct the shining paths of day, 
 Or build intangible, thin steeps, 
 
 A zephyr's wing might brush away ; 
 Or night draws down her filmy lids 
 
 To shade her thousand starry eyes, 
 Or, throned on sable banks, she bids 
 
 Her moon cleave through the stormy skies.
 
 A CHANCE LOOK. IOI 
 
 Now flocks of birds go flying by 
 
 And in and out the casement dip, 
 And shake my little bit of sky 
 
 Like words that falter on the lip. 
 And now a rainbow points its end 
 
 Down toward the tops of three tall trees, 
 That all their swinging branches blend 
 
 And interlace, in every breeze. 
 The leaves in summer dance and toss, 
 
 Each pendant on its slender stem, 
 And sunset flings her jewels across 
 
 The spaces, and embroiders them. 
 
 Or on a clear December night 
 
 The bare, brown branches touch the sky, 
 And rifted clouds drop streaks of light 
 
 That fleck the tree-tops brokenly ; 
 Till, suddenly, a rosy tinge 
 
 Begins to hint the rising day, 
 And stars, thick-braided in a fringe 
 
 That drapes the high boughs, melt away. 
 O, western sky, and flying birds ! 
 
 O, early hours, and vigils late ! 
 Shall man have power to fix in words 
 
 What God must daily re-create ! 
 
 A CHANCE LOOK. 
 
 SHE at her window sat, and spun ; 
 He walked past in the street : 
 And was it then so very strange 
 Their eyes should just once meet ?
 
 IO2 GREECE. 
 
 For he looked in as she looked out 
 Her eyelids fell ere long ! 
 
 And then again she twirled her wheel, 
 And tuned her broken song. 
 
 She could not follow if she would, 
 
 So he went on alone ; 
 And days and weeks that lay between 
 
 To weary years have grown. 
 And yet her face bursts on his soul 
 
 On many a foreign shore, 
 While she, why does she at her work 
 
 Sing that old rhyme no more ? 
 
 GREECE. 
 
 O GLORIOUS Greece ! O land where twilight 
 lingers ! 
 
 O home where beauty long held joyous sway ! 
 Why dost thou stretch thy thin and shadowy fingers 
 
 Out to me, dwelling in the light of day ? 
 What is the song those cold lips murmur over ? 
 
 What is the charm that dwells within thine eye ? 
 
 Robbed of thy treasures, wouldst thou still recover 
 
 Fame for the hearts that throbbed beneath thy 
 
 sky ? 
 Gone are thy marbles, and thy temples broken ; 
 
 Even thy graves have given up what was dear ; 
 Still are the lips that once thy praise have spoken ; 
 Closed are the eyes that shed for thee a tear.
 
 GREECE. IO3 
 
 Once in thy depths dwelt naiads in the fountains, 
 
 And in thy dells the nymphs roved glad and free ; 
 Gods had their homes upon thine ancient moun 
 tains ; 
 
 Dryads were happy in each stately tree. 
 Tingling, the warm life thrilled thy verdant bosom, 
 Swayed in thy tall reeds, flowed along thy 
 
 streams, 
 
 Shook with its wild throbs every trembling blos 
 som, 
 
 Flushed in the warm sky, mingled in thy dreams. 
 Pan played his reed-pipe in Arcadian meadows, 
 
 Orpheus enchanted hard rocks with his lay, 
 Psyche's bright wing moved through both sun and 
 
 shadow, 
 All, all have vanished from the world away ! 
 
 If thy proud trees sigh, whispering together, 
 
 They but remember pleasures that are past, 
 When lovely nymphs, in laughing April weather, 
 
 Hid in their rough bark, safely held and fast. 
 Long, long they grieved, when dryads ran no longer, 
 
 With their light feet, a shelter to implore. 
 Once their close hold was tenderer, was stronger, 
 
 Than death itself had power to triumph o'er. 
 Long, long the branches, thick with foliage laden, 
 
 Shook when a quick step sounded through the 
 
 glen ; 
 But it was always some warm, human maiden, 
 
 Goddesses, once gone, never come again. 
 
 How did thy pools mourn, tremulous with anguish, 
 When they reflected shining eyes no more !
 
 104 GOOD-BY TO THE OLD HOUSE. 
 
 How did thy sweet buds pale with grief, and lan 
 guish, 
 
 Drooping their heads on the deserted shore ! 
 Great, melting eyes from which the lovelight gushes, 
 
 Rich depths of tresses floating in the air, 
 Bare, snowy breasts, feet rosy on the rushes, 
 
 Why were ye transient, since ye were so fair ? 
 Where Pan once cooled his feet in whirling water, 
 
 All prints of goat-hoofs long have passed away ; 
 The sun-browned hands of Homer's dusky daughter 
 
 Plunges the urn in those clear founts to-day. 
 
 Yet grieve not, Greece, because thy gods are ban 
 ished, 
 
 Nor deem the myths thou trustedst were untrue. 
 'T is but the outward form they wore has vanished, 
 
 The soul it clothed is ever born anew. 
 Thy yellow marbles are our types of beauty, 
 
 Thy temples' fame has spread to every shore ; 
 Thy wise men teach us still of worth and duty, 
 
 Thy deeds of valor circle as of yore. 
 Who would drink deep of sorrow and of pleasure, 
 
 Or pants to know life's holy mysteries, 
 Must stretch his hands to raise thy hidden treasure, 
 
 And light his torch at thy fallen fanes, O Greece. 
 
 GOOD-BY TO THE OLD HOUSE. 
 
 T_T ERE is the chamber of my rest, 
 * * Where I in dreams beheld his face ; 
 Where waking thoughts with peace were blest, 
 And smiles went twinkling through the place.
 
 GONE AWAY. 10$ 
 
 And here the quiet parlor stands, 
 
 Where whispered words were low and sweet 
 When first, with strong and tender hands, 
 
 He raised me till our lips could meet. 
 
 The white sleep-angel folds his wings 
 
 But once across my closing eyes, 
 Before the pictures that he brings 
 
 Out from the hidden past arise. 
 The old life blossoms to the new, 
 
 Yet joy still finds room for a tear ; 
 Good-by, old house ! Your walls are true, 
 
 So keep my secret treasured here. 
 
 GONE AWAY. 
 
 SHE has gone into the sea of space, 
 Held in the arms of the dying year ; 
 Minute by minute, upon her face 
 He laid a smile for eternity ; 
 Minute by minute, he wore the trace 
 Of earthly sorrow and pain away, 
 Weakened the flesh that bound her here, 
 Strengthened the part that can never die, 
 Till the finished soul flashed out one day, 
 Lingered a moment to say " Good-by " ; 
 And the Old Year carried her on his breast 
 Forth to the portals that guard her rest ; 
 And the grief she shook from her hands forever, 
 Fell on our hearts to leave them never.
 
 106 GONE AWAY. 
 
 O men and women, forbear to speak 
 
 Of what shall be as the years roll on ! 
 
 Lift those long eyelashes from the cheek 
 
 Our kisses wonder to find so cold. 
 
 Our love is strong, if our strength is weak ! 
 
 Kindle the light of those clear, gray eyes ! 
 
 Call back the something we feel is gone, 
 
 The mystic something we found of old ! 
 
 Rend asunder the golden skies, 
 
 And give her back for our arms to hold ! 
 
 Or, if your power does not reach to this, 
 
 All is idle and meaningless. 
 
 Words are dry as the clods above her, 
 
 When you speak them to those who love her. 
 
 Be still, for grief is a sacred thing, 
 
 And alien lips may not soothe the smart ; 
 
 Your words are strange to the sorrowing ; 
 
 They flow too smooth from the happy lips 
 
 That else part only to smile and sing. 
 
 O my sweet sister, my sister yet, 
 
 Though Death's chill whisper has stilled your heart, 
 
 And hid your spirit in swift eclipse ! 
 
 How glad that smile, and without regret, 
 
 That, as alive, on your dead mouth keeps ! 
 
 O let me joy, by that death-long smile, 
 
 To feel you guarded from pain or guile ! 
 
 If one must weep for the other parted, 
 
 God knew the one that was stronger-hearted.
 
 UNTRUE. IF THEY KNEW. IO/ 
 
 UNTRUE. 
 
 SHE wears a kiss upon her lips, 
 A ring upon her finger. 
 Why should that look of restless woe 
 
 Around her sad eyes linger ? 
 Why should she glance with hate and fear 
 
 Upon that sacred symbol, 
 While yet, along life's pleasant walks, 
 Her steps are light and nimble ? 
 
 It is my kiss upon her mouth, 
 
 And his the ring she 's wearing : 
 Her truth passed like a parting soul, 
 
 And left us both despairing. 
 If love has found one woman pure 
 
 Where sin's dark cup runs over, 
 My soul elects her for a judge 
 
 Between this maid and lover 
 
 IF THEY KNEW. 
 
 IF only my mother knew 
 How my heart is hurt within me, 
 She would take my face in her tender hands 
 And smooth my cheek, as she used to do 
 In the days that seem so long ago, 
 When childish tears were quick to flow ; 
 She would smooth my face with her tender hands 
 If she felt the grief within me.
 
 108 / HAVE SEEN THEM TOGETHER. 
 
 If only my lover knew 
 
 Of the surging, passionate sorrow, 
 
 He would hold me close to his sturdy breast, 
 
 As once he held me the long hours through, 
 
 When we had not learned to live apart, 
 
 But leaned for love on each other's heart ; 
 
 He would hold me close to his heaving breast, 
 
 If he guessed my passionate sorrow. 
 
 But it pierces me like a knife 
 
 To think that they do not know it ; 
 
 To think they can look in my pleading eyes, 
 
 Yet never question my hidden life ; 
 
 Can touch my lips in the same old place 
 
 Yet never look for the soul in my face. 
 
 Oh, the tears are bitter that fill my eyes 
 
 To know that they do not know it ! 
 
 I HAVE SEEN THEM TOGETHER. 
 
 I HAVE seen them together, 
 As I sat alone. 
 
 His eyes shone with pleasure ; 
 The tears filled my own. 
 
 I have seen them together ; 
 
 His kisses were sweet. 
 O Heart ! hast thou felt this, 
 
 And dost thou still beat ?
 
 THE MIRACLE. 109 
 
 THE MIRACLE. 
 
 TN the old, sweet story that John wrote down 
 
 * To stir the hearts of a world of men, 
 
 A blind man begged in Jerusalem. 
 
 It was nothing strange. Who remembers when 
 
 In this great, glad world, in the midst of all 
 
 The joy and glory, none sat apart, 
 
 With a dead hope kept from the common sight, 
 
 And the closing stone rolled against his heart ? 
 
 It was nothing new ; so the multitudes 
 Went surging by, without thought or care, 
 Until One drew out from the busy throng 
 And paused by the blind man waiting there. 
 No silver shone in His outstretched hand, 
 Yet priceless the gift that He bore that day ; 
 For His love reached out to the springs of sight, 
 And the life-long darkness was torn away. 
 
 In the old, sweet story that John wrote down 
 
 No word is whispered of after-years, 
 
 Did he follow Christ through the sunny streets, 
 
 And pour out worship like falling tears ? 
 
 When the Master spoke, was there one who heard 
 
 The large truths said, though the words were brief? 
 
 When the Master died, was he kneeling there 
 
 His whole soul shaken with love and grief ? 
 
 Or did he turn to the world again 
 
 The world made bright to his seeing eyes,
 
 HO THOUGHTS. 
 
 And lose the thankfulness from his heart, 
 And those pulsations of glad surprise ? 
 Was his life belittled by anxious cares 
 And reckonings for the morrow's gain ? 
 Did his heart forget all its sad, dark days ? 
 Was Love's great miracle wrought in vain ? 
 
 What tongue shall tell us ? One after one 
 
 The solemn centuries fall to dust, 
 
 And the old, old mystery still remains 
 
 Of blinded eyes, and of wavering trust. 
 
 Love works his miracles in our hearts ; 
 
 Faith points her hand to the distant skies. 
 
 We shall know, perhaps, when the touch of death 
 
 At last leaves open the soul's dim eyes. 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 OH, what may be an angel's thoughts 
 Just brought before God's sacred throne, 
 Who, 'mid ten million breathing harps, 
 Half human, first essays his own ! 
 
 But what may be a mortal's thoughts 
 Who holds God's secrets in his eyes, 
 
 As the Norse mountain, peak by peak, 
 Reflected in the still lake lies !
 
 A MEETING. A PORTRAIT. Ill 
 
 A MEETING. 
 
 WE took each other by the hand 
 Who had not met for years, 
 And on our cheeks we felt the warmth 
 Of sudden-falling tears. 
 
 Our joy and grief together poured 
 As still our feelings wrought, 
 
 And love could scarcely find the words 
 That fitted to our thought. 
 
 For we remembered, when we last 
 
 Looked in each other's face 
 A woman's eyes shone on us both, 
 
 And blessed the whole dim place. 
 
 O, have you ever closed the eyes 
 That looked most sweet to you, 
 
 And leaned above the coffin-lid, 
 
 And felt your heart drawn through ? 
 
 And do you think that we could meet 
 
 Without a shaken heart, 
 When death for her and life for us 
 
 Held our tired hands apart ? 
 
 O 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 MEMORY, swing the shut doors back for me, 
 And let me see again the face I loved ! 
 
 Eyes gray and tender as the morning gloom, 
 When the warm light comes through it ; snowy lids
 
 112 A DREAM OF PYGMALION. 
 
 That rose and fell like the bright tides of love ; 
 The whole closed round with thick, brown, curling 
 
 hair. 
 
 A brow whose innocence made one afraid 
 To tell his own wild thoughts to his own soul ; 
 A look so childlike that one half forgot 
 She was a woman grown, until the blush 
 Grew in her cheek to find it gazed upon. 
 Withal, a sensitive, sweet mouth a mouth 
 That had a glad smile for me always ! 
 
 O Memory, swing fast the door again ! 
 My heart will break if I remember more ! 
 
 A DREAM OF PYGMALION. 
 
 OLOVE, to dream myself back through the 
 centuries, 
 
 And be Pygmalion ! To feel the thrill 
 Creep tingling through my veins, as the deep eyes 
 
 Came forth, the lovely creatures of my will ! 
 To set the fine veins in the dimpled hands ! 
 
 To round the curves about the unstirred breast ! 
 To poise the light foot on the rippled sands, 
 And fix the beauty I but half had guessed ! 
 
 And then the hush and glory of surprise 
 When from her pedestal the goddess moved, 
 
 By love made woman, sweet with mysteries 
 
 Of blush and downcast eyes that told she loved
 
 WAIT. 113 
 
 golden moment, when the veins he traced 
 First throbbed, and first the unsealed lips did 
 
 part, 
 
 And, where his careful hand the clasp had placed, 
 The carven robe swelled on a beating heart ! 
 
 And yet the sculptor, had he but the might 
 
 To dream a happy dream of present days, 
 Could Galatea's eyes have won their light, 
 
 Her form its soul, from his impassioned praise ? 
 A subtler mind than his hath thought thee, Love, 
 
 A Hand divine moulded each perfect limb. 
 Thy face was drawn from angel choirs above ; 
 
 Thy soul was kindled at a star by Him. 
 
 1 dare not say that none may equal thee. 
 
 The Mind that made thee holdeth many a 
 
 thought. 
 
 Why should His power be narrowed down by me, 
 That I should measure out what He has 
 
 wrought ? 
 But at thine eyes my spirit drinks full deep 
 
 A cordial nobler than all earthly wine ; 
 And all my heart swells till I fain would weep, 
 Because I know thee mine. I swear it ! Mine ! 
 
 WAIT. 
 
 \1 7 AIT, wait ! In the bud the flower lies sleeping, 
 
 * ' Her white arm under her golden head. 
 The dreams that into her heart come creeping 
 Will leave their memories in her keeping.
 
 114 A WHITE ROSE. 
 
 Some day, when the flower stands straight at your 
 
 feet 
 
 And you find that her breath is pure and sweet, 
 Be you sure, in the dusty garden bed 
 The flower remembers a dream that is dead. 
 
 The mummied butterfly low is swinging 
 
 His dim brown case where the thick leaves cling ; 
 
 Their bright paths into the blossoms winging 
 
 The merry bees at their work go singing ; 
 
 The butterfly lies secure in rest, 
 
 With gay wings wrapped on his dusky breast. 
 
 Wait, wait ! For waiting and silence bring 
 
 The strength and ardor for every thing. 
 
 Wait, only wait ! For your life shall sweeten 
 Down to its core in the suns of years. 
 Ere golden grain from the chaff be beaten, 
 Ere we crown the year with a garland wheaten, 
 Long months of ripening must go by ; 
 Slow moons crawl over the changing sky. 
 Shake off the hurry and needless fears, 
 And smiles will shine in the place of tears. 
 
 A WHITE ROSE. 
 
 THERE grows a rose within my sight, 
 Set high upon its pliant stem. 
 All other roses in the place 
 Look close ! One will not fail to see 
 A trace of earthliness in them. 
 If one half-hides a blushing face
 
 WINTER. 1 1 5 
 
 The sun has looked too warmly there ; 
 And one through soft, green, mossy hair 
 Looks coyly out to peep at me ; 
 Or, if one pull the leaves apart, 
 A burning thought deep in the heart 
 Has left its stain on one sweet rose ; 
 And one in vivid crimson glows ; 
 But this this single rose is white. 
 
 And what am I that I should dare 
 
 To claim this white rose for my own ? 
 
 There is but one in all the town 
 
 May fitly wear it on her breast ; 
 
 The bud kept pure for her alone. 
 
 Sweet, if those modest eyes of brown 
 
 Fall on this flower before it dies, 
 
 And in those folds of lace it lies, 
 
 To rise and fall in cradled rest, 
 
 It may be that its quick fine ear 
 
 The heart-beats underneath may hear. 
 
 O bid that heart say to the rose : 
 
 " The whitest love the longest glows, 
 
 And more than sweetness nestles there ! " 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 O WINTER, come ! 
 For we remember frosty nights when moon 
 light 
 
 Dropped in long rays down through the biting air, 
 And all the stars were caught in films of silver 
 
 Punctured by vagrant glitter everywhere. 
 Come, hang on our low eaves thy icy banners,
 
 1 16 WINTER. 
 
 And rim for every pond its shallow bowl, 
 And sift thy fine, white powder through the grasses, 
 
 And fringe the bushes with thy aureole. 
 Lay thick thy folds across the earth's cold bosom, 
 
 Depend thy jewels in the hill's brown ear, 
 And, where the last leaves tremble on the branches, 
 
 Give to their constancy a gleaming tear. 
 The patient evergreen has long been waiting 
 
 For whom the summer bears no gorgeous crown ; 
 She only of the trees still wears, to grace thee, 
 
 Her dull green garments folded closely down. 
 O Winter, point with white each tiny needle, 
 
 And in and out the branches toss thy hands 
 Until, half-hid in pearly mists of splendor, 
 
 Thy long, slow kisses move her, as she stands. 
 Here, where the wood-plants shroud their wrinkled 
 blossoms, 
 
 With thy stiff finger trace the shrivelled vein ; 
 Fill all the hollows where the Fall is dying 
 
 With the kind level of thy frozen rain. 
 
 O Winter, set thy lips to thy great trumpet 
 
 And send a long, strong blast out into space ! 
 Spring, when she sings, shakes all her bordering 
 daisies : 
 
 Glad. Summer, with the smile warm on her face, 
 Sends those low songs she loves like winged things 
 skyward : 
 
 While Autumn, glass in hand, is hoarse with wine. 
 But thou, O Winter ! Thou, great Music-Spirit ! 
 
 Dost claim all melody as rightly thine, 
 Like some old Master brooding o'er his organ, 
 
 Whose soul steals, bit by bit, into the keys.
 
 WINTER. 117 
 
 Dumb is the sky ; its vast, dark porch is silent, 
 
 Until thy hands stretch toward the waiting trees. 
 Thy fingers are the winds : the trees bend over 
 
 And speak thy thoughts through every twirling 
 
 leaf- 
 One wild, swift chord that whips the boughs to 
 gether 
 
 As if a prisoned anger sought relief ; 
 Then, one by one, the notes are flung asunder, 
 
 Still bound forever by one solemn strain, 
 And through the dissonance one almost loses 
 
 The dim completeness of that weird refrain. 
 The blowing grasses speak throughout the pauses 
 
 And fill the stops with faint songs of their own ; 
 While, underneath its cloak of ice, the river 
 
 Keeps muttering its ceaseless monotone. 
 Yet come not as a warrior. Drear and barren 
 
 Are those bleak stars that thou hast made thy own. 
 And none are left to praise thee where, victorious, 
 
 Above extinguished fires is set thy throne. 
 In every home we build an altar to thee, 
 
 Heaped high with treasures from an age gone by, 
 And here the growth of many a fragrant summer 
 
 Ascends in smoke to greet a wintry sky. 
 Where power is great and greatly used, we love it ; 
 
 But, where thy wheel in widening circles rolls, 
 Where thy strong hand buffets an airless planet, 
 
 Yet, know a mightier Power than thine controls. 
 There is a Law that moves in constant cycles ; 
 
 It moulds the burning globe of every sun ; 
 It draws in curves a million unseen pathways, 
 
 And drives a plunging light on every one. 
 When He has measured out thy long dominion
 
 Il8 A SONG TO LOVE. 
 
 Quick from thy straining hand the rod shall fall, 
 And summer's shrill, high treble shall sound farther 
 
 Than thy deep bass urged to its utmost call. 
 Roses shall blow ; the jointed reeds shall whisper ; 
 
 Forget-me-nots shall paint an earthly sky ; 
 Through every leaf the fire of life shall quiver, 
 
 And thou shalt live but as a memory. 
 
 A SONG TO LOVE. 
 
 OLOVE, come near ! I would sing thee a song. 
 I sang for the world, but she turned away. 
 These are not her times for song ; her ear 
 When coins are counted is quick to hear, 
 But she spares no thought for the birds of May, 
 If they sing her right or they sing her wrong. 
 Her hand is rounded to scrape up gold ; 
 A flower would drop from its spurning hold. 
 If she turn her eyes 
 To the sunset skies, 
 
 She may miss a tithe of her yellow prize ; 
 And, held and bound 
 From outside sound, 
 
 Her thoughts turn aimlessly round and round. 
 So, Love, come near. I would sing thee a song. 
 
 Oh ! many a poet has sung for thee, 
 
 With words that glowed as they left the heart 
 
 In verses fashioned in every clime. 
 
 Yet know, if my thoughts could flow out in rhyme, 
 
 As strong as a mountain, as swift as a dart, 
 
 As high as to heaven, as deep as the sea,
 
 TO A MARBLE MERCURY. 1 19 
 
 Upholding the right, and outbarring the wrong, 
 
 Would peal forth the notes of my beautiful song. 
 
 As solemn as death, 
 
 As gentle as breath, 
 
 They would brighten all hope, and sweeten all faith. 
 
 So, Love, come near 
 
 To pause and hear 
 
 The fountain-bursts from my brain to thy ear 
 
 Though many a poet has sung for thee. 
 
 TO A MARBLE MERCURY. 
 
 BENEATH thy marble mask, what pains must 
 tear thee 
 
 Since, having bound thy sandals on thy feet, 
 Earth holds thee captive here, and will not spare 
 
 thee, 
 
 For that thy image is so fair and sweet ! 
 Long in thy chains, what visions were entrancing 
 
 Of skies when morning in her soft, pink ear 
 Hangs one bright star, her loveliness enhancing ; 
 Or when the lark drops through the dewy air, 
 His early song half glory and half prayer. 
 Or dost thou yearn for purple clouds and golden 
 
 That surge in waves across the sun's bright 
 
 shield, 
 Remembering the fires of sunsets olden 
 
 When thy swift wings beat toward the Olym 
 pian field ?
 
 I2O JESSIE. 
 
 What is the message that thou must deliver, 
 
 Delayed for many a year, but treasured still ? 
 In what deep vale, or by what sparkling river, 
 
 Have the gods charged thee to reveal their will ? 
 Those mute, cold lips are parted not for laughter ; 
 
 They would but tell those mystic words alone ; 
 But genius, searching the world's corners after 
 
 Some fair ideal, froze thee into stone. 
 
 O Mercury, thy destiny is human ! 
 
 Upon our souls are bound the eager wings. 
 Be sure to every mortal, man or woman, 
 
 A quick, fine spirit some one message brings. 
 Whence was it given? We know not. Each to 
 morrow 
 
 We hear the words go echoing through the brain. 
 Clogged with our earth, and riveted to sorrow, 
 
 We struggle to translate, but seek in vain. 
 
 JESSIE. 
 
 WE knew for months that she was going to die, 
 And watched the spirit ebbing from her 
 slowly. 
 We saw the shadows deepen in her eye, 
 
 And felt her faint smile change to be more holy 
 
 She daily grew more weak, more pale, more thin ; 
 
 Death's purpose seemed by her sweet patience 
 
 shaken. 
 We almost saw the soul that dwelt within 
 
 Come lifting its glad arms up to be taken,
 
 JESSIE. 121 
 
 At last, the quiet change came over her. 
 
 Death stooped to kiss her, knowing her pure- 
 hearted, 
 And, rising, left a breast that did not stir, 
 
 And lips that at the angel's passage parted. 
 
 There were the hands we had so often pressed, 
 The engagement-ring still shining on the finger ; 
 
 That was her weary head at last at rest ; 
 
 That was her mouth, where smiles were wont to 
 linger. 
 
 A tall gray shaft stands near her narrow bed 
 Not on it for she was so young and slender, 
 
 We could not heap the marble o'er her head, 
 Nor burden that weak frame, so tired and tender. 
 
 Sometimes we stretch our arms out towards the sky 
 And dream she comes down from the fields 
 Elysian, 
 
 And weep in ecstacy but by and by 
 
 We wring our hands to find it was a vision. 
 
 If, sometimes, stealing from the starry street, 
 An angel looks out from the beauteous portal, 
 
 And listens for the tread of coming feet 
 Along the path from mortal to immortal, 
 
 And if she lays her tuneful harp aside, 
 
 And if her song stops for a moment only, 
 
 Although her love grows deeper since she died 
 She waits so calmly she cannot be lonely.
 
 122 THE LITTLE WIFE AT HOME. 
 
 THE BROKEN SPAR. 
 
 WHAT drives so fast through the stormy sea, 
 Now watched, now lost, by yon pallid star ? 
 Two men lashed close to a broken spar, 
 And whirled along toward eternity. 
 
 Can life exist where the wind and wave 
 
 With greed and menace clutch hand on throat ? 
 These live, these speak, in the night afloat, 
 
 Where the ship shrank down to a grassless grave. 
 
 One voice ! " My brother, our grave below 
 
 Is drawing us with her fingers cold. 
 
 Has death forgiveness within his hold ? 
 O grant me pardon before we go ! " 
 
 A voice in answer : " If heaven for me 
 Meant solely this, that I should forgive 
 Yet know, I die even as I live, 
 
 And hate goes down with me in the sea." 
 
 What drives so fast through the storm and night ? 
 
 Two dead men, bound to a shattered beam. 
 
 One face is lit by an angry gleam, 
 And one is warmed by a smile of light. 
 
 THE LITTLE WIFE AT HOME. 
 
 MINE eyes run o 'er with pleasant drops ; 
 My life is set in tune. 
 No nightingale on starry eves 
 Has poured such music from the leaves
 
 A WAKENMENT. 1 2 3 
 
 That crown the locks of June. 
 The queen that rules me sits alone ; 
 No other shall divide her throne 
 Until this heart its beating stops 
 The little wife at home ! 
 
 She makes my house the happy place 
 
 Where I delight to be 
 
 Love's temple, kept by her dear care 
 
 As clean as if a god dwelt there, 
 
 And purer far to me. 
 
 With busy hands she touches all, 
 
 And order follows at her call, 
 
 As round she moves with quiet grace 
 
 The little wife at home ! 
 
 I see the thronging people pass 
 Along the crowded street, 
 And wonder if each home can be 
 As glad, as dear, as this to me, 
 And as supremely sweet. 
 Whatever sorrows may betide, 
 God send this hope be not denied : 
 For every man his own sweet lass 
 The little wife at home ! 
 
 AWAKENMENT. 
 
 'T'HE fires are kindled in the eastern skies, 
 * Yet no one looks to see. My love, awake ! 
 Too long sleep locks the portals of thine eyes. 
 Stay not to braid thy coal-black hair ; arise,
 
 124 ISRAFIL. 
 
 And the nice fingers of the errant breeze 
 
 Shall play thy handmaid, while the twinkling lake 
 Shall be a mirror worthy her who sees. 
 
 Come, let us idly those vague outlines trace 
 That mark the skyey giant, hoar and grim, 
 
 Whose lidless eye, the sun, burns in his face, 
 
 Unquenched by years, and with impartial gaze 
 
 Beholds the generations, one by one, 
 
 Which rise and die with eyes upturned to him, 
 
 And see him changeless still, their race being done. 
 
 Arise ! arise ! Shake off the drowsy sprite 
 That weaves his feigning web within thy brain. 
 
 Give day his due, and banish lingering night. 
 
 May no dull lotos dim thy fuller sight ! 
 
 Thine be the glowing heart, the thrilling tongue, 
 The daily labor that inures to pain, 
 
 But lends such rest as keeps the spirit young ! 
 
 ISRAFIL. 
 
 HARK ! What dread blast rides on the trem 
 bling air ? 
 
 It is the angel Israfil who calls. 
 He puts the trumpet to his mouth, and blows, 
 And the deep sound goes echoing everywhere. 
 Arising bodies burst their clay-lined walls ; 
 From heights of ether souls fall down like snows ; 
 They lodge within the trumpet's mighty mouth, 
 And, with his breath, to East, West, North, and South 
 They fly out in a swarm that fills all space, 
 And, searching through recumbent ranks, find each 
 its dwelling-place.
 
 PROHIBITION' PARTY SONG. 1 25 
 
 Hast thou had grief, O Soul, to leave the frame ? 
 And hast thou, kept in duress, longed to dart 
 At will within the caverns of the brain ? 
 Has thy long, forced composure known the same 
 Old mortal feeling of unrest ? A heart 
 Deprived of beating, hast thou gasped in pain ? 
 O has it moved thee that the tender grass 
 Should spead its carpet where thou couldst not pass ? 
 And have the spendthrift roses wooed thy love 
 To thoughts of well-known garden, or dim glade, 
 or rustling grove ? 
 
 Then come ! Mohammed leads the way. The bell, 
 The silver tongue of joy, rings with the light. 
 Celestial choirs are carolling on high ; 
 Heaven's courts are emptied that this song may 
 
 swell. 
 
 Thou art alone. No eye holds thee in sight 
 Save that familiar Cyclops of the sky 
 That long has been thy confidant. Come near 
 The springs of life, and drink new vigor here. 
 Eternity is more than man can think, 
 And thou shalt be, when worlds shall rage along 
 
 destruction's brink. 
 
 PROHIBITION PARTY SONG. 
 
 \ 1 7 HENCE comes that peal that shakes the sky ? 
 
 ' ' 'T is God who thunders from on high : 
 " Ye that have borne my name so long, 
 Nor stretched your hand to right the wrong, 
 Arise ! For this I made you strong."
 
 126 THE CHARGE. 
 
 Freemen, arise ! The votes that fall 
 Are counted in heaven's justice-hall ; 
 And with them rise the mother's prayer, 
 The children's cry, the man's despair, 
 The grief that sears us everywhere. 
 
 Come, join with us. Our force is strong, 
 For arming angels round us throng. 
 No fight for right is fought in vain. 
 Christ died for souls ; we strive to gain 
 The kindred ransom of the brain. 
 
 THE CHARGE. 
 
 MEN who won the battles 
 Fought in years gone by ! 
 Men who bore the banner, 
 
 Sworn to do or die ! 
 Do you sit in quiet ? 
 
 Do you shrink or fear ? 
 Up ! The country calls you. 
 Up ! The foe is here. 
 
 Hear the cry of childhood, 
 
 Bowed with bitter woe. 
 See the wife fall, stricken 
 
 By a drunken blow. 
 Now an evil threatens, 
 
 Scorching to the soul 
 Would you know its nature ? 
 
 Seek it in the bowl
 
 THE OLD MAIDS' CLUB. I2/ 
 
 Hear the charge we bring you, 
 
 You who act for all ! 
 Meet the need that beckons 
 
 Though the bravest fall. 
 Strike the evil crouching 
 
 At the nation's heart. 
 Who dares not be loyal, 
 
 Let him stand apart. 
 
 By the child that prattles 
 
 On your knee to-night ; 
 By the wife whose smiling 
 
 Fills your house with light ; 
 By the tender mother 
 
 Who bent over you, 
 We who can but charge you 
 
 Charge you to be true. 
 
 THE OLD MAIDS' CLUB. 
 
 OTIME ! here prostrate at thy feet, 
 Thy mercy we with tears implore ; 
 If thou hast taken what was sweet, 
 
 Yet have we ever loved thee more. 
 What can we say to gain thine ear ? 
 Thy every moment is most dear ; 
 Thou art a spirit to be wooed 
 That dwellest amid solitude. 
 
 Well may we say, with trembling lip, 
 That we have never been forgot ;
 
 128 THE OLD MAIDS' CLUB. 
 
 Thy frosts have taken care to nip 
 
 Our roses and forget-me-not. 
 Thy steady, never-stopping hand 
 Has calmly poured our measured sand, 
 And not one grain or fast or slow 
 Fell out because we wished it so. 
 
 The wrinkles lie across the face 
 
 That lovers' lips have praised as fair, 
 
 And gray hairs lurk around the place 
 
 Where once lay warm, thick waves of hair. 
 
 A shadow from the spirit lies 
 
 In the embrazure of the eyes ; 
 
 Our feet walk slowly on the way, 
 
 That ran in spring's first merry day. 
 
 We would not mourn that this must be : 
 
 Life is too hard to live again. 
 'T is not for this we kneel to thee, 
 
 And tell our bosoms' inmost pain. 
 O Time, our secret we have kept ; 
 But, when we waked and when we slept 
 One thought came ever, as thoughts can 
 A man ! a man ! a man ! a man ! 
 
 We ask no gift, no herald new 
 
 Of youth that never shall decay. 
 Who asks the mid-day sun for dew, 
 Or in December looks for May ? 
 But grant we may so hold the net 
 That we may take some straggler yet, 
 And be to Hymen's altar led ; 
 For woman's life-work is to wed !
 
 LASTING BEAUTY. 
 
 LASTING BEAUTY. 
 
 "Vf OUR smile is like the first sweet dawn 
 * That blushed away the night ; 
 Your glances cut like tempered steel ; 
 
 Your step is proud and light. 
 Yet, when I fain would sing your praise 
 
 And string my whispering lute, 
 Distrust, her hand laid on her mouth, 
 
 Compels me to be mute. 
 
 O Lady ! mark the hidden charm 
 
 That underlies the face. 
 Undo your soul's barred prison-door 
 
 And learn a truer grace. 
 The rose that fed June's perfumed breath 
 
 What hand shall pluck to-day ? 
 And she whose beauty is of earth 
 
 Is heiress to decay. 
 
 Who sings to Helen songs of praise ? 
 
 Her glory all is rust. 
 The worm alone can reach the ear 
 
 That listens in the dust. 
 When angels' wings vibrate and flash 
 
 Within the cloudless eyes, 
 A beauty quickens at the root 
 
 Whose growth is for the skies.
 
 130 . ON LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ON SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 MY Shakespeare ! Thou art mine by that close 
 claim 
 
 In which the noblest is a gift to each 
 Who will but stretch to bring it into reach ; 
 And he who will not, owns alone in name, 
 And drags the banner of a lofty aim. 
 Thou Cheops of the mind ! For thou didst teach 
 How men might build the pyramid of speech, 
 And, thought by thought, lead up the ponderous 
 
 frame. 
 
 Full many a poet has, in his own day, 
 Explored thy passages and breathed thy air, 
 Traced thy inscriptions, and then passed away. 
 Their dust is dust : thine, granite. What shall wear 
 Thy huge, hewn blocks to weaken and decay, 
 Or lay thy rocky intersections bare ? 
 
 ON LONGFELLOW. 
 
 OUR Longfellow ! Our poet whom we love ! 
 Voice of the heart that beats in every breast ! 
 Thou, like a skilled physician, hast addressed 
 Thy finger to the quick pulse of unrest ; 
 And in thy touch we feel the hand of love, 
 We lose the weak despair that is akin 
 To the black fledglings in the nest of sin. 
 We feel the song more lasting than the groan, 
 And see Eternal Mercy on His throne.
 
 HUBNER'S CHRIST-CHILD. 131 
 
 Thou dost not wheel the chariot of war, 
 Nor pour rich wine into a golden bowl. 
 Thus kings are served for hire ; the thirsty soul 
 Seeks at thy fountain an unfailing dole. 
 With upraised eyes we mark the distant star 
 That gleams, a diamond on the zone of night, 
 And dream the radiance of its nearer light. 
 But, for the warmth our daily needs require, 
 We spread our hands before the household fire. 
 
 As Moses, gathering for his history 
 
 The tales that man had never writ before, 
 Passed in and out of every humble door 
 And sifted from traditions his full store 
 Of knowledge hoarded but in memory ; 
 So, in the common round of life, thou, too, 
 Didst part the dross from what is pure and true, 
 And what our grosser minds had pictured dull 
 Thy gentle touch has rendered beautiful. 
 
 HUBNER'S CHRIST-CHILD. 
 
 WELL hast thou, Hiibner, guessed the little 
 child 
 
 Full of incipient divinity 
 That lay on Mary's breast, or may have cast 
 
 Soft hazel glances, perched on Joseph's knee ! 
 Encircled by a glory of bright hair 
 
 Those small, sweet, Jewish features seem to show 
 A sudden dream, that raised the chubby hand 
 
 And set the curved cheeks quietly aglow. 
 On one round shoulder rests a lily-stem
 
 132 HUBNER'S CHRIST-CHILD, 
 
 Where three Ascension-lilies open wide. 
 Bare, save for beauty, are the childish feet 
 Such feet as every mother loves to hide 
 In her warm hands, nestled against her side. 
 
 It is the baby-Christ that we behold, 
 
 Clad in the little robe that Mary wrought 
 With golden borders broidered on the white, 
 
 And every golden stitch a tender thought. 
 It is the child that watched the shavings fly, 
 
 Or followed Joseph through the quiet town ; 
 The child that pattered through the little home, 
 
 Or hid his face within his mother's gown. 
 O babyhood, exempt from later cares ! 
 
 Time of vague thought and frequent warm caress ! 
 First twilight of the senses ! We are glad 
 
 That Christ, though God, was human none the 
 less, 
 
 And on life's edge was wrapped in tenderness. 
 
 O little feet, rough was your path, though short ! 
 
 O shining hair, thorns grew to press on thee ! 
 O little dreamer, life was kind and hard 
 
 First rosy childhood, then Gethsemane ! 
 Thy life was spoken in antithesis, 
 
 The cradle and the cross ! Thou hast felt all. 
 Joy sang the prelude to the immortal psalm, 
 
 And shuddering anguish let the last notes fall. 
 For thy life, lonely in its perfectness, 
 
 We strain our eyes towards distant Galilee ; 
 Yet joy to think thou hadst thy opening hours 
 
 Of human childhood, bright and sorrow-free, 
 
 That Hiibner painted not unworthy thee.
 
 THE JE WISH FLUTE. 133 
 
 THE JEWISH FLUTE. 
 
 TT was but a reed in a sedgy place 
 
 * Where Israel pitched their camps one night, 
 
 With root tight-bound to the narrow space 
 
 Where its life-force gathered, hid from sight. 
 Only a long, green, living line 
 
 That summer drew on the heavy air ; 
 No Jewish maiden would ever twine 
 
 Its jointed length in her dusky hair. 
 But one in a regiment of spears 
 
 That nature pushed aloft to glisten ; 
 Or one of those sharply-pointed ears 
 
 That the eager earth sends out to listen. 
 
 A dreamy man cut the dreamy reed, 
 
 And brought it out from its marshy bed ; 
 He trimmed and notched it to suit his need 
 
 Until it was empty and smooth and dead. 
 He gave it the breath of a human soul, 
 
 He filled it with melodies all his own 
 Hast thou heard the echoing thunder roll ? 
 
 Hast thou heard the low wave's murmuring tone ? 
 Dost thou know a fiend's despairing cry ? 
 
 Dost thou know the note of an angel's singing, 
 The swish of a planet, the hush of a sigh ? 
 
 Sounds like these through the reed went ringing. 
 
 Long centuries after, the Jews still kept 
 That simple flute in their sacred heed. 
 
 They loved the spirit that in it slept 
 
 Or woke to sob through the rough, hacked reed.
 
 134 THE JEWISH FLUTE. 
 
 In the holy temple they gave it room, 
 
 They hid its fibres with beaten gold ; 
 With one long wail, like a voice of doom, 
 
 The music faltered and loosed its hold. 
 The splendid flute in its jewelled case 
 
 Hangs voiceless now when the song is swelling ; 
 For song still chooses the rustic place, 
 
 And steals away from the gilded dwelling. 
 
 THE END.
 
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