UC-NRLF ^ rryrv- H-<^u ^^^t_^ ■-,^_ Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/dreamroadotherveOOgoolrich THE DREAM-ROAD AND OTHER VERSES BY WILLIAM D. GOOLD BOSTON SHERMAN, FRENCH ^ COMPANY 1910 Copyright, 1910 Sherman, French & Company TO MY WIFE ivil9i942 CONTENTS PAGB THE DREAM-ROAD 1 THE OPENING DOOR 3 SO GROWS MY LOVE 4 THE LAMBS AND THE SHEPHERD . . 5 A TRAGEDY 6 THE ECHO 7 MARTIUS MENSIS 8 IN LIFE'S FOREST 9 MY ACTINIDIA 10 CRUCIFIED 12 HE IS RISEN 14 A FLOWER OF NEW ENGLAND ... 16 THE SACRED HILLS 17 A DAY OF THE LONG AGO .... 18 THE MARCH OF THE MEN IN BLUE . . 20 O NIGHT THE DARKEST EARTH HAS SEEN 22 A TRIBUTE 24 RECOMPENSE 26 THE WEARY TEACHER 27 THE FLOWER TRANSPLANTED ... 28 WHY THE BIRDS SING 29 THE CALLING WATER 30 ABSENCE 32 MOTHER'S BAKING DAY 34 A SUMMER NOON 38 THE WOOD ROAD 40 THERE IS MY HOME 42 BURIED TREASURE 43 FATHER'S HOLIDAY 44 PAGE THE VISION 46 THE ORGAN MASTER 48 WORK ON 50 THE WIFE 51 HER EYES ARE WINDOWS . ... 62 MEMORY 53 TWO DAYS 54 THE OLD YELLOW HIGH CHAIR ... 55 A DAY AT SEA 61 AFTER SIXTY YEARS 62 A PICTURE 63 THE PRODIGAL SON'S AWAKENING . . 64 THE AUGUST CROAKER 65 SUMMER PASSES 66 THROUGH THE VALLEY 67 MY SHINGLE ROOF 68 THE VANISHED SPIRIT 70 BUILD NOT THINE EARTHLY HOME SO FAIR 71 NIGHTFALL ON THE LAKE .... 72 THE LIVING FLAG 74 THE ROOM BEYOND 76 THE WINDING OF THE CLOCKS ... 77 THE CHILDLESS WOMAN'S CRY ... 81 AT THE YEAR'S END 82 THE LIVING LINCOLN 84 IF ONLY — ! . 86 DISCONTENT . 87 THE NEW BOOK 88 O SWEET MY VALENTINE! .... 89 LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF ST. PIERRE 90 PAGE IT IS THE SAME 91 JESUS GARCIA'S RIDE 92 TO MY OLD ARMCHAIR .... 94 THE ENGINEER 95 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP .... 97 GROWING OLD 98 THE OLD BRICK HOUSE ACROSS THE WAY 99 THE TREE OF THE CROSS .... 103 NOTES 109 THE DREAM-ROAD »»»■»> » There's a broad highway that windeth down And out, and up, and far away ; From the closing gates of Slumber Town To the opening portals of Peep O' Day. The road lies dim in the crawling mist And the drowsy night winds wander there. And touch, with the wand of an alchemist. The shapes that along that highway fare. wonder of wonders, that open eyes Gain never a glimpse of that well worn way; That none of the Dream-Road's mysteries Are known to the children of Peep O' Day! For only the fast-closed eyes can see The shapes that are crowding that stretch of mist; The lift of an eyelid turns the key, And locks the door which the sun had kissed. 1 have seen — and you — at dead of night, A motley throng go trooping by ; Spirits of darkness, angels of light. All shifting, changing, constantly. [1] r o t> V *' r For the poppied breath of the night wind seems, At a touch, to melt some shapes, and some Take on new forms, for the children of dreams Forever change as they go and come. Often we see our loved ones there, — Those who have long since gone before, — For a moment brief, then the vision fair Dies, as a wave on the ocean shore. Thank God for the Dream-Road winding down. And out, and up, and far away ; From the closing gates of Slumber Town To the opening portals of Peep O' Day! [«i THE OPENING DOOR The door that shuts the winter from the spring, Swings slowly open, and with eager eyes. We look abroad and search the earth and skies For friends to gladden with our welcoming. Some blades of green beside a sunny wall — The pussy-willow yonder in the field — The tiny stream that wanders through the weald — The scudding cloud that shadow-tints them aU,— How glad we are to see them back again! How we have missed them through the months of cold. These friends, forever new, forever old, — Truer, more steadfast than the sons of men! To-day, a crow, bound North on pinion strong. Flung down his welcome as he went his way ; I heard a robin singing yesterday, — The Bethlehem shepherds heard no sweeter song! The door that shuts the winter from the spring Ere long shall stand wide open, and a host Of those old friends that glad our hearts the most Will seek and find an old-time welcoming. [8] so GROWS MY LOVE As MATIN songs succeed the midnight hushes, As night's soft breath distils in drops of dew; As daylight grows from dawn's first timorous blushes, So in my heart there grows my love for you. As some far spring steals from the rock's cool shadow. And leaps in gladness down the mountain side, Then glides 'twixt widening banks across the meadow, So love for you grows ever deep and wide. Through April's smiles and tears the buds are swelling. And burst in blossom just to welcome May ; So love for you — but, ah ! 'tis past the telling. So great, sweetheart, has grown my love to-day ! [4] THE LAMBS AND THE SHEPHERD A PLEASANT meadow and a Shepherd's call Beyond the confines of a crumbling wall. I and a flock of lambs together stay Upon this side and wait the coming day; And when that kindly Voice is heard afar The lambs in gladness leap the wall's slight bar And run to meet the Shepherd. I am old And without help I cannot reach the fold, But lo ! He comes to where I, trembling, stand And reaching o'er the wall He takes my hand, And now, within the meadow, He and I Watch for the brightening of the eastern sky. [S] A TRAGEDY A siiiENT figure standing by the door, Watching the postman as he comes across the way; Then quivering lips, repeating o'er and o'er The man's brief message, "None for you to- day!" [6] THE ECHO In the brick-walled gullies which men call streets, Our hurrying footsteps fall, While tortured Echo madly beats In vain from wall to wall. In the wide green places which God has made Eternal Stillness keeps Her faithful watch while, unafraid, The wearied Echo sleeps. [7 MARTIUS MENSIS Hebald of April! Thou art boisterous, rough; A queen's forerunner should of gentler stuff Be made! The jade! Methinks, perchance, she sends thee on ahead. While she a little longer lies abed And takes her beauty sleep. 'Tis like the minx ! Nor is it past all reason that she thinks Our love for her may all the greater be Because of what we find to hate in thee. And there is over-much. We scan in vain Thy rough, rude ways For aught to praise; We count the days remaining of thy reign As doth the prisoner, doomed for some brief while To dungeon deep, look forward to the smile Of liberty. O March ! Who are thy friends ? Not the old tree on yonder hill, that bends His head when thou dost speak. Nor yet the birds Which shiver when thou passest by ; nor herds Which at thy rough approach show thee their backs. And seek the shelter of the friendly stacks. Thou hast no friends ! Go bid thy lagging queen Make haste, and when her smiling face is seen, She shall have welcome; Thou, O Martins Mensis Begone ! Thy blustering presence an offense is. [8] IN LIFE'S FOREST The years are as a forest wherein days Are trees, 'mongst which the countless winding ways Of life are found. Upon these paths men go And come. They meet, and pass, and it is so Sometimes, that there is chance for but one cry Of greeting; just one glance from eye to eye, Then they are gone, perhaps to meet no more Till they have passed beyond the Eternal Shore. If it were given me to live again The life which I have lived on earth with men, — To pass once more along the way from birth To that last day when endeth life's to-morrow, — I'd try and live so that each hour some sorrow Might holpen be or some pain eased away; Would try and leave some mark upon each day As I passed on my journey. So, to those Who followed after, as the guide post shows The hidden road, my marks along life's way Should be so plain that men would note and say " He hath been here but yesterday ! " [9] MY ACTINIDIA Outside my landing window my Actinidia climbs — (O shades of Shakespeare! tell me what with Actinidia rhymes?) And I love my Actinida for his coat of glossy green, Which he wears from earliest springtime till the first snowflake is seen. With his long, far-reaching fingers he lays hold of slat or blind. And if he search in vain and can no friendly ob- ject find. He ne'er gives up, but reaches out and clutches at the wind. Across my landing window he hath woven lattice green. Where the birds of early morning meet to carol and to preen. And through the leaves the level rays of the setting sun are seen. [10] Each morning I have greeting from this sturdy friend who keeps His faithful watch while all the weary household safely sleeps; And his the face I look on last when all good nights are said, And I have passed the window on my way up stairs to bed. All through the long, cold winter months the window, closed and fast. Shut him without to face alone the snow and sleet and blast. And there he clung and waited with a patience unsurpassed. You should have seen his greeting when I flung the window wide And he saw me on the landing of the stairway just inside! Shame filled my heart and I must own the truth — I almost cried ! So I love my Actinidia with his coat of bright- est green. For he giveth good for evil as no other friend I've seen. Which were a God-like thing and one most dif- ficult, I ween. [11] CRUCIFIED They wait in far Capernaum, On Galilee's blest shore; They wait and hope, and long to feel His healing touch once more. How oft He trod their busy streets, And healed each one that came; The deaf, the dumb, the sick, the blind, The palsied and the lame. With eager eyes they scan each sail Which may the Master bear ; They search the mountain and the vale. The Healer is not there! The women of Samaria To Jacob's well repair. Hoping to hear again that voice. But Jesus rests not there! Within the home in Bethany To which the Master's feet Turned at the close of weary day. And found a refuge sweet. The sisters sit and wait in vain; The sunset tints the West Ere dies the lingering hope that He May be, to-night, their guest. [12] O weep, ye sick by Galilee, Ye blind and deaf and dumb; Ye lame and halt who sit and wait, Still hoping He may come! Weep ye who heard that gracious voice, Beside the deep, cool well. And ye who watched until the shade Of Olive's Mountain fell! For, Him ye wait for, Him ye love, Hangs yonder on a tree; They crucified the Son of God To-day, on Calvary! [IS] HE IS RISEN Doubt sits enthroned among the gloomy hours, Night's wide dominion knows no gladdening ray; Grief holdeth fast Hope's swiftly fading flowers, Joy died long since, and this is that third Day ! But look! What light, down-dropping, cleaves the sky. Like meteor swift that shames the brightest star; And hark! On listening ears earth's tremblings die. Then live again in footsteps felt afar. 'Tis Heaven's host come down to wake their Lord From self-imposed sleep within the tomb; And, breathless, Heaven waits to hear that word Which lifts a world from its abyssmal gloom. Back from the rocky vault an angel band In silence rolls the great stone seal away; Then forth, with blessings in His outstretched hand. Comes He whom death had sought in vain to stay. [14] " The Lord is risen ! " Shout, ye Heavenly throng ! '* The Lord is risen ! " Earth take up the cry ! And unborn ages shall the song prolong — " He lives again who died on Calvary ! " [15] K A FLOWER OF NEW ENGLAND There is a flower whose name I need not call, Which shyly hides beside the crumbling wall, Or lifts, through drifts of leaves, her modest head And looks about, and asks, "Is winter dead?" venturous flower! Scarce waiting for the spring Ere thou dost come again with blossoming. But, through belated snows, Thy hardy petal shows. As 'neath its downy blanket peeps My baby's pink-white toes. 1 love thee well. New England flower! In many a dell, full many an hour I've spent in search of thee; I love thee well, for those I love — Some of them dwell in Heaven above And some on earth with me — Have held thee dear; And every year thy smiling face Reminds me of a time and place More sacred than a pilgrim's shrine. More holy than the vesper hour, O sweet New England flower! [16] THE SACRED HILLS Three hills looking down on the river, That silently rolls to the sea Through the silvery mists that shiver In the valley below the three. Three hills, and they hold in their keeping. Making holy the soil and the sod, Our dead who beneath them are sleeping. Awaiting the call of their God. O sweet is the rest they are taking, The hills and the valleys among; And gone from our hearts is the aching That venomed the lip and the tongue. Forgotten, almost, is the story Of bitterness, bloodshed and strife ; Forgotten the battlefield gory. Where our loved one bought peace with his life. The scars of the nation are hidden. The mounds on the hillsides scarce show, But memory lives, and, unbidden. The tears for our dead softly flow. Blow soft o'er their turf, winds of Heaven, Lie gently, O blossoms of May; Till the hills everlasting are riven. When Cometh God's judgment day! [H] A DAY OF THE LONG AGO There's a day I know of the long ago When the sky was all one blue ; And the robin's song the whole day long Voiced the love in my heart for you : 'Twas the self same day in the far away When the wind blew soft from the sea, And the blue bird's song the whole day long Told the love in your heart for me. 'Twas an April day that was almost May, A day that was made for love ; And life was all good as we roamed the wood , While the sun smiled down from above. We sought the place where the pure sweet face Of the modest star flower showed, In the sheltered nook where the singing brook Runs down by the old mill road. For the Mayflower's bloom with its faint per- fume We searched where the old oak stands ; And how could I miss when you paid with a kiss For the blossoms I placed in your hands.'* [18] Ah, how could I know that my love would grow Since that day in the bright spring weather, Truer, stronger, through the years that have known both smiles and tears O happy, happy years we've spent together! [19] THE MARCH OF THE MEN IN BLUE Down the broad street, with tattered banners flying, They march, those men in blue, As they have marched year after year, defying Old Time his worst to do. Feebler the steps, but hearts are true and steady. While hope lights every eye; To-day, as fifty years ago, they're ready To suffer or to die. But year by year the ranks are thinner growing. For Time will have his toll. And since a year ago new names are showing On Fame's immortal roll. On life's wide field Death's scouts are busy ever, And one by one they go — Brave men in blue who battled oft, but never With such relentless foe! In that great camp beyond the last wide river, The army of the dead Sleeps undisturbed, while shadowy pontoons quiver Beneath their comrades' tread. [20] When they have all passed on and memories only Within our hearts remain, Tears from our eyes shall fall, sad, and as lonely As the autumnal rain. So long they have been with us! Forms and faces Part of our lives have grown ; God keep them still in the familiar places Which they so long have known! Up to the hills they march with banners flying, Grand Army men in blue; Up where their comrades rest who counted dying The least that they could do. Our hearts go with them and we render gladly The tribute of our love. Tears mingling with the bloom of May as, sadly. We bend their graves above. [21] O NIGHT THE DARKEST EARTH HAS SEEN Night on the slopes of Calvary's hill, Night like a funeral pall, Where lie the blood-stained crosses still. Beyond the city's wall. Night where the Roman soldiers pace Beside the sealed rock, Where lies the hope of all the race. Dead Shepherd of the flock ! Night in Gethsemane's garden where So oft the sheltering trees Caught the low whisper of His prayer And shared His agonies. Night broods o'er Pilate's restless sleep, Night fills his soul with dread; Remorse within his heart gnaws deep, — His dreams are of the Dead! Night where Iscariot's body lies Dishonored and abhorred; Shed bitter tears, ye Syrian skies Por him who sold his Lord ! [22] Night where the mother Mary mourns Her well beloved son, — " O cruel cross ! O crown of thorns ! What evil had he done ! " Night in the home at Bethany, Where oft He loved to go ; Night in the hearts of the well loved three As they watch and whisper low. O night the darkest earth has seen Since chaos reigned afar! The hate that slew the Nazarene Quenched Heaven's brightest Star! [23] A TRIBUTE (g. h. r.) In a safe harbor where the Southern Sea Earth's cirding arms caressed unceasingly, I lay at anchor when there drifted in A battered ship, with sails and cordage gone, Masts cut away, and decks of all stripped clean A storm-tossed hulk but laden, one did say, With cargo that would ransom all the kings Of earth. So was it with our friend. Life's storms Did buffet him and here and yon did drive; Adversity beset him oft and beat him back; The waves of trouble o'er him broke and when In all his sky no star of hope appeared, Infirmity's full tide upon him rolled And almost overwhelmed. Yet, through it all. No cry save that of prayer escaped his lips, No murmur of complaint was ever heard. But oft a cheery hail to those cast down Or hidden in the mist of doubt and woe. While ever was his hand outstretched to those Whose needs were more than his. [24] We may not grieve, We who are left behind, for well we know That he whom favoring wind did seldom kiss Hath long ere this felt heavenly zephyrs blow. Wafting him onward to that far-off shore Where wait his loved ones long since gone before. [25] RECOMPENSE Beneath a leaden sky in cold November I planted roses all one afternoon — Rough, thorny things; While to my bleeding hands I cried "Remember, Winter and Spring shall pass and then fair June With all her wealth of blossomings, shall hide These cruel stings." [26] THE WEARY TEACHER Her day is ended. All the girls and boys Have gone away and now the hideous noise Which marked their flight gives place to peace- ful calm; And how the quiet of the moment steals like balm, Into her weary heart! How long the hours Have been the while the scent of earth and flowers Called from without! Faint on the summer breeze Come Nature's myriad sounds, — the hum of bees, — The birds' sweet song within the nearby trees, The ploughman calling to his weary team — The drowsy murmur of the winding stream Where lazy cattle stand knee deep and seem Asleep. How grateful to the tired ears, These summer sounds the weary teacher hears ! The sun's low rays creep through the open door Making a shining pathway on the floor. And still she sits, with head upon her hand — In weariness that few can understand — The weary teacher when her day is done ! [2T] THE FLOWER TRANSPLANTED The Gardener's gift, the flower, which through the long Bright summer days made glad the passing hours. And gave its fragrance, as the birds their song — Or as the April sky its freshening showers — Drooped as the summer waned. The Gardener's hand Lifts tenderly the fading plant and sweet and low Soundeth His voice — " To some fair Heavenly Land I will transplant thy flower and thou shalt know Some day, that I was kind and good to thee, When clothed in radiant beauty, thou shalt see Its fadeless bloom throughout eternity ! " [28] WHY THE BIRDS SING Because the sky is all one blue, Because the soft, sweet summer winds are blow- ing; Because the grass is wet with dew, And fragrant wild flowers in the woods are showing ; Because they hear the hum of bees, Among the blossoms of the orchard yonder. And catch the drowsy melodies Of brooks which through the grassy meadows wander ; Because they hear the cattle call As slowly down the valley they are heading To where the deep, cool shadows fall And giant oaks their sheltering arms are spreading. One day in seven doth man sing And offer thanks and praise for Grod's bestow- ing, But these small creatures of the wing Through every hour their gratitude are show- ing. O heart of mine! Pour out a song, Nor hold thy peace while blessings fall in showers ; The world is thine ! To thee belong Sky, wind, bees, brooks, wild woods and fra- grant flowers. [29] THE CALLING WATER The Water calls! — There, on the Eastern Shore, — The breakers' sullen roar, — The rise and fall of tide, — The stretch of heaving blue, horizon-wide, — Ah, as the bridegroom calleth for his bride. So calls the restless sea, — Calls with insistent, ceaseless voice, Come ! Come to me! The Water calls! Down where the hurrying brook Makes pause, a quiet nook — How well I know the place ! Often the clear, cool depths have held my face As in a mirror. Now, — O God of grace ! — Something within me calls To that deep pool whereon the sunlight never falls ! The Water calls ! The river hastening down. Cleaving the quiet town, Slips past the rocks that try Its course to stay, but still it hurries by And I can hear it calling, — hear that cry. The same that came to me From that dark pool and from the restless, surging sea! [80] The Water called her ! Sea and brook and river (Ah, man must needs forgive her!) Promised the end of pain For weary heart, for fevered, tortured brain: And now let tears of love and pity rain Upon the upturned face From which the calling river washed care's every trace ! [31] ABSENCE She is gone and the house is so still and so lonely ! 'Tis the ghost of a home, and my heart whispers low, " Ah ! now you well know it is she and she only, Who gladdens your life as the days come and go." Her chair by the window, a bit of her sewing, Her thimble left just where she laid it that day, — Her basket, — a bit of unfinished work showing. Her clothes in the closet in sweet disarray, — All, all as she left them, but she, their bright spirit. Has gone, and 'tis like looking down on the clay, When a cold, lifeless form is the gift we inherit From Death when some loved one is taken away. Oh the best of my life went away with her going, — The brightness, the sweetness, the joy and the zest ! In my grief -clouded heavens no sunshine is showing. My heart lieth heavy and cold in my breast! [32] Should there be — O my God — should there be no returning ! — Should the days and the months and the years still to come, Hold never an answer to love's tender yearning. Should I live on alone in my desolate home! There's a step on the stair and the odor of roses Steals into the room as I wait by the door ; And then — she is back ! and my arm 'round her closes, As softly she whispers, " I will leave you no more ! " [33 MOTHER'S BAKING DAY I WAS dozing in my armchair with a book upon my knees, While through the open window came sweet summer's melodies, — The sound of many song birds and the hum- ming of the bees ; And the breath of June's red roses drifted with the summer wind — (Now I love the scent of roses and the wander- ing breeze was kind, And he bore his lovely burden till he found my half -closed blind). In the culinary region underneath, I thought I heard, Now and then, its clever goddess as about her work she stirred; And I caught the sound of singing though I understood no word. Now I wonder if you've noticed as you've gone along life's way. How some odor will bring suddenly to mind a certain day. Or a scene, a pain or pleasure, which till then forgotten lay. [34] As I dozed within my armchair came my friend the summer breeze — Came and stirred the leaves of that old book that lay upon my knees; Then he whispered to me, gently, " Here's a something that will please." 'Twas the smell of ginger cookies from the re- gion down below! And my thought went back to childhood as an arrow from a bow, And I stood in mother's kitchen in the years of long ago. With her sleeves above her elbows and her hair all tidied back, (She used to say a frowsy-headed girl was al- ways slack). She would spend the half of Saturday in baking up a stack Of cookies, bread and doughnuts, pies and pud- dings. Johnny-cake — Oh I cannot call to mind the half the things she used to make, But I know I always liked to stay around and watch her bake. [35] And I'm sure I must have bothered her, for oft I've heard her wish " I wouldn't get right under foot," then with a sudden " sh !" She drove me out (but afterward she let me lick the dish) ! 'Twas fun to watch her mix the dough and use the rolling pin; And when she had it all rolled out (I always thought too thin). To see her cut out cookies with a heart-shaped cooky tin. And how I teased to have " what's left," to make a cooky man! And what a time I had to get him safely in the pan! And when I had him baked he looked just like a palm leaf fan. As still I dreamed of baking days in which I'd taken part, I was suddenly awakened from my dreaming with a start. And there stood the kitchen goddess with a fresh baked cooky heart! [36] Now I wonder if you've noticed as you passed along life's ways How the smell of something baking, on the mo- ment, seemed to raise A long-forgotten memory of your mother's baking days? [37] A SUMMER NOON The dusty highway and the city street Alike are blistering in the noontide heat. Quiet is over all. The dying grass UpHfts no finger to the sky of brass ; Even the leaves of yonder poplar trees, Responsive ever to the slightest breeze, Hang motionless. The shrinking shadows crawl Beneath the trees. Beside the garden wall, Backed to its cooling bulk, the house dog lies With dripping tongue. His enemies, the flies, Give him no rest and presently he goes To the dark cellar to escape his foes. A robin on the fence post lifts his wings To cool his burning body; then he sings, But seemingly his dry and parched throat Unequal is to its accustomed note. Listless and drooping stand the ranks of com, Longing to feel again the dews of morn. Down where the brook has widened to a pool. And paused beneath the old oak's shadow cool, The cattle stand knee deep and chew their cud, Their hot hoofs buried in the cooling mud. Up from the meadows basking in the heat The smell of new mown hay, like incense sweet. Drifts slowly o'er the heads of nodding wheat. For one brief hour the reapers' blades are still — For one brief hour no sound from yonder mill Betrays the whirling stones. The pounding feet [38] Of weary horses, as they slowly eat, Scarcely disturb the reapers as they rest Within the half-filled mow. Up on her nest A swallow twitters softly to her brood And for a time forbears her quest for food. Rest rules the welcome hour; but all too soon That hour has ended and 'tis afternoon! [39J THE WOOD ROAD Sweet with the smell of pine and fragrant fern, Bordered with laurel and the late wild rose, Charm adding unto charm with each new turn. In sinuous beauty through the wood it goes. How fair each step of all that winding way Carpeted deep with needles of the pine. Which 'neath a lace of flickering shadows lay Where sunlight softly fell through tree and vine. The wind that sighed among the whispering trees — The faint, far call of some lone wandering bird — The rustling of a squirrel — the hum of bees — Our own soft footfalls — only these we heard. Like a dim aisle in old cathedral vast The arborous arches shut us from the sky, Beauty to beauty added as we passed The living pillars lifted up on high. Like a cool hand in benediction laid. Or the low tones of long forgotten prayers, Fell on our hearts, within that grateful shade, Forgetfulness of earth and all its cares. [40] And O the sacred peace that lingered there Within the wide, deep places of the wood ! The stillness of the ages seemed to share With us that holy, tranquil solitude. [41] THERE IS MY HOME There is my home where giant elm trees meet In graceful arches o'er the wide old street; Where locusts lift to Heaven their fern-like leaves And the wistarias clamber to the eaves. There, where the woodbine paints in living green The shingled slopes, and weaves a grateful screen Beside my deep cool porch from which I see Twin birches, ever dear to memory. There, where my actinidia's tendrils reach The roof; where modest lillies gently teach Their lesson; where the fragrant roses bloom And honeysuckles scent the evening gloom — There is my home ; and to my grateful eyes It seems the opening gate of Paradise When o'er the lawn the lengthening shadows creep, And nightfall sends me home to rest and sleep. Fair is my home, but there's one fairer still Where ends the slope of life's last, longest hill; And so along my way, steadfast, I fare. Faith whispering to my heart, " Thy Home is There!" [42] BURIED TREASURE With pick and spade deep down the delvers go Beneath the ruins buried ages since. Where Vulcan cast his scoria far and wide, A city's parks and streets are drifted full Of ash and molten rock. The centuries Have flung with careless hand the sifting sand In temple court and market place. And now Mole-like, the antiquary, bit by bit. Delves deep and labors long to clear away The wreck which time has made. How happy he If, after days of toil, by chance he finds A bit of pottery or an ancient coin On whose worn face he may discern, perhaps. The imprint of some king whose dust long since Has blended with the sand from which the coin Was dug. Seekers of treasure in the dust Of bygone centuries ! Here at our hand And in our midst ye may, even now, to-day. Find buried underneath the wrecks of sin And want and woe, vessels the Potter made Who formed the plastic earth ; may find the face Of Heaven's King show faint on human coin Lost, years ago, by careless hands or cast In anger off by those who should have saved. [43] FATHER'S HOLIDAY We're always glad when Father has a holiday, for then He stays at home and tinkers (Ma says, " like the best of men" ) ; And when night comes and we look 'round to see what he has done. We wonder when he says his holiday was lots of fun! That rocker in the parlor which would squeak like all possessed, He fixed that up so now we think it's just the very best Of all the chairs. But sister don't. She always has to blow 'Bout something. Guess the reason is 'twont hold her and her beau. The tall clock in the hallway hadn't struck for awful long, And not a single one of us could tell just what was wrong; But that's the kind of tinkering that Father seems to like, — In twenty minutes by the clock we heard the old thing strike! [44] You ought to see him soldering! The tinman isn't in it! He'll take a leaky milk pan and in just about a minute It's just as good as ever, so Ma says; (She's awful proud Of Father, but she never tells him so right out 'loud). The doors with broken hinges and the lock with key that's lost, The back steps heaved 'way out of place (I s'pose that was the frost) ; The coffee pot with lid broke off, the dish pan with a leak. The dinner bell with clapper gone, the screen door spring too weak — All these odd jobs and O, lots more, did Father do to-day. And just a little while ago he said 'twas just like play! I'll bet when I'm grown up like him I won't stay home and work On holidays like Father does; I'll lay 'round like a Turk! [45] THE VISION Child in whose upturned eyes Shineth a light hke that of some lone star, What dost thou see which sight to us denies Of that bright world afar? Hast thou a vision bright Of golden streets where crystal waters flow, — Where radiant angels, bathed in Heavenly light. Pass ever to and fro? Tell us, thou star-eyed one If, in that throng around the great White Throne Are those we love, whose work on earth is done, — Child, canst thou see our own? Oh, that our eyes, like thine. Could pierce beyond the farthest realm of night ! Where neither sun nor moon need ever shine. For the Lamb giveth light ! Falls on thy listening ear Sweet harmony as many an angel hand Sweeps soft o'er golden harp? Say, canst thou hear The music of that Land? [46] Speak, child ! What dost thou see ? Our eyes are holden, — blind to Heavenly things ; Tell us what vision is revealed to thee, What song through Heaven rings ! [47] THE ORGAN MASTER Within the gilded pipes sweet notes unnum- bered In silence slept Until the organ master, with caressing hands — Gentle as love's commands — The keyboard swept, waking each sleeping tone. And forth they came ; softly at first, alone, Then, bolder grown, A mighty throng. They filled the sacred place With wordless song, And all the vast dim space That lies between the arches overhead And the worn pave where sleep the holy dead Was sweet with music which the master mind Had dreamed. Almost it seemed as though the informing wind That softly breathed into the pipes must be The echo of some angel melody ; For into bruised hearts it stole And whispering " Peace ! " lo, they were whole ; Bowed forms were lifted when was heard That heavenly music. Souls were stirred To better, truer, nobler things [48] And from the deeps of tear-dimmed eyes The beams of heavenly hope arise As from the forest pool there springs The clear reflection of a star That hangs in evening skies. Dream on! and tell the world thy wondrous dream, O man of music ! and thy melodies Shall cheer the camps that stretch along life's stream, Where hearts grow weary for the home that lies Beyond the sunset gleam. [49 WORK ON CouEAGE, ye lesser ones! There rides on high Only one sun, ruling the hours of day, But in the blackness of the midnight sky Shines many a star that points the homeward way For mariners upon the trackless sea. Who knows for whom his life a star may be? Work on, nor count thy work a trivial thing, — No earnest life was ever lived in vain ; The fragrance of a wild flower's blossoming May soothe a grieving heart or ease a pain. Omnipotence upholds each distant star, — Omniscient love knows where the flowers are. [50] THE WIFE I KNOW a heart as pure and sweet As any drop of dew that glows Within the petals of a rose. I know a pair of dainty feet That never rest nor know content Unless on love's sweet errands bent. I know a pair of hands that seek Each moment's chance to minister To him who is the life of her. I know dear lips that ceaseless speak The words of comfort soft and low She sends adrift like thistle blow. I know of eyes that e'en the dark Would pierce to see if her love's face Bore of distress or pain a trace. I know of ears that ever hark Lest her beloved's faintest cry Of pain or need should pass them by. Kindness and mercy, truth and grace, These, like soft draperies she wears, As gently on life's way she fares. And ever the brightness of her face Makes radiant sunshine as she goes — God bless her life till life shall close ! [51] HER EYES ARE WINDOWS Hee eyes are windows of a soul Fragrant with all that's good, As soft, sweet odors downward drift From the pine hearted wood. Her smile is like the light that falls On mountain, lake and plain. When, after some brief summer shower, The sun shines out again. Her lips are sweet with many a word Of comfort, spoken low; Her ears the chalices wherein Rests many a tale of woe. Her feet are mercy's messengers. Swiftly obedient To do the promptings of a heart Ever on goodness bent. Her willing hands no rest may know When love or duty calls ; She scatters kindness as, of old, The Heavenly manna falls. Ah, he who wins her heart of love Shall find himself more blessed Than he of old whose touch to gold Turned all that he possessed ! [52] MEMORY (An answer to William Watson's "The Fatal Prayer") Who looks but once on beauty's face Can ne'er forget that sight, Though blindness banish every trace Of Heaven's effulgent light. For there's a hidden chamber where Fond memory often goes, And Oh! that room is wondrous fair, And many a picture shows Upon those walls. Nay, poet, nay, Blind eyes no armor wear. For memory's halls are bright as day To those who wander there. Close thou thine eyes and thou shalt see (And seeing shalt be blest!) Thy mother's eyes that looked on thee Asleep, upon her breast. And though an ocean roll between Thy best-beloved and thee. Still plainly her dear face is seen. Revealed by memory. [53] TWO DAYS Shoet was the road and bright, though no least ray Found the wood path that wound among the trees ; For one dear presence made as light as day That darkening trail the sunlight never sees. O drear and never ending is the way Across the mountain meadow's sun-kissed height, Untrodden by the feet which, yesterday, Led through the gloom and made the darkness light. [54] THE OLD YELLOW HIGH CHAIR Down the line from father to son The old yellow high-chair came ; And now, because of the good it has done, And not because it is lame In its arms or legs, or is getting rheumatic, Up there in the attic, Under the eaves. Where the falling leaves And the pattering rain Tell over again The story of what's going on outside, The old high-chair is allowed to bide In peace and quiet ; While the rush and riot — The scramble of life, And the world's mad strife, Are all shut out by the friendly roof. There can certainly be no better proof Of its friendship than all those little chinks So carefully left in its shingled slopes. Through which the North star sometimes winks And asks if the old high-chair has hopes Of finding his way down stairs once more ! And then, far back along time's shore In thought the old chair wanders ; And dreamily he ponders On that glad day, so far away, [65] When he was young, and to him clung That wonderful first-bom baby ! Gripping his arms (he can feel it yet!) And kicking his legs (will he ever forget?) Thumping a soft head, maybe, Against his back, and resting there, So smooth and round and void of hair, That wonderful first-born baby ! Seventy years have passed since then: More babies came and grew to men ; But never a one was so sweet and fair As the one that christened the old high-chair. War! and the first born, held so dear, Grown to a man, was a volunteer When his country called. Ah, many a tear The mother shed; And the farewell said Was said forever. For, back to her never Returned her boy, her priceless joy. And he rests to-day in a far away And unmarked grave 'neath Southern skies; While the waiting mother's tear-dimmed eyes Were closed long since and now she sleeps Where the old pine tree forever keeps His watch on the middle ridge up yonder — Where the sighing night winds meet and pon- der Of Death and the harvest that he reaps. [56] Down the line from father to son — And seventy years is a long, long time ! The old chair thinks of them one by one: That first baby's father was in his prime When the last baby came and the proud chair's arms Received the girl with her winsome charms; But alas ! it was scarcely more than a year That she tarried here ; Then she went away, And the light of day Died out of the sky: And the weeks went by On leaden feet. While all there was left For the mother bereft Was a memory sweet. Sad thoughts? Ah yes, but the years that lay Between that first and this last birthday, — How filled they were with joy for the chair! For nine little babies soft and fair He held in his arms and sheltered there. And the sixth of the nine when he grew to a man And had married a wife and really began To live a real life, To him, down the line, came the old high-chair With coat of yellow and stripes of green ; [57] And the proudest chair that ever was seen When the sixth son's first born baby boy — His father's pride and his mother's joy — Was put in his arms to hold ! And now, for fifteen years or more, The old yellow chair graced the nursery floor, As proud of the new coat of paint he wore As he was of the heads of gold That bumped and thumped and rumpled and rolled Against his back, till he thought they must crack — Six little heads, all told. "Old friends are best," is a saying true Which appeals to me as it does to you ; And whether the friend be man or chair, Or the tree at the foot of the garden there. Or the grandfather's clock at the head of the stair. Give me the old friends though they be few — Let those who will, take the young and the new. The years went by as a dream is dreamed And the babies wore all the paint off the arms Of the yellow chair till the bare wood gleamed. But that only heightened the old friend's charms. The babies grew (as they always do) [58] And there came a day Alas for the chair ! When they took him away — Up the attic stair — And they put him aside, like an outgrown shoe ; And there he stood for many a year, While sometimes hope and sometimes fear Came into his life 'neath the sloping eaves ; For the whispering leaves Would tell of the happenings down below, How the children continued to thrive and grow ; How the eldest was almost to manhood grown When Death came by and claimed his own; And the old pine tree saw a new grave made Where the first born boy was tenderly laid And covered away from the snow and the cold When the year was new and the century old. But time works wonders and heals all scars ; The prisoner, waiting behind the bars, Fixes his thought on that far away, But steadily coming nearer, day Which again shall set him at liberty. So in silence waits the old high-chair For the sound of a step on the attic stair ; For he knows, as the years go, one by one. That down the line from father to son His way shall lead ; and he hopes to see The sixth son's son coming up some day [59] To take him away; Then his arms shall hold, As in days of old, A wonderful first-bom baby! And who of us knows — Save the wind that blows Over the tree tops and under the rose, — How soon that glad time may be? Wait patiently, old yellow chair For the mounting step on the attic stair ; Tell over again, O pattering rain. And whisper, ye leaves, To the sloping eaves. The story of what goes on outside. That the old high chair May not despair, But in patience and hope may bide. [60] A DAY AT SEA Sunshine and whispering breeze, A cloud-flecked summer sky ; All day we watch the shimmering seas And so the hours drift by. [61 AFTER SIXTY YEARS A YOUNG man walking in a garden fair Well filled with flowers whose fragrance filled the air, Found only one that pleased him, just one rare Sweet Marigold. An old man standing in the sunset light Is clasping still his flower and still 'tis bright. "O Blossom sweet ! " he cries, " God bless, to- night. My Marigold ! " [62] A PICTURE The night was chill and by my study fire I sat and nursed my lately kindled ire ; For just within the hour my little girl Had done some trifling wrong and, like a churl, In anger I had struck the child a blow And driven her from me. O may God do so To me and more also if I repeat The folly of that hour ! With lagging feet She crept away, and through the open door I saw her cHmb the stair. Now heretofore Each night she came and sat upon my knee And eased her troubled heart, or else in glee She told of something that had caused her mirth. Ah me ! My fire seemed now but little worth ; — Its warmth and brightness vanished with her flight. And how I missed her kiss and low " Good night." A white robed figure steals into the room, Like some fair lily full of sweet perfume, And with her face pressed close against my breast, I am forgiven and she sinks to rest. [63] THE PRODIGAL SON'S AWAKENING Outcast and stranger still in this far land! The fires which flamed so hot within his heart Have burned to ashes now, and hand in hand With want, he wanders while with maddening smart His conscience pricks him deep. At night, alone, His eyes, uplifted, see in every star The eye of God. The night wind from afar Finds him as, with no pillow but a stone. He tries to sleep, and whispers in his ear. He dreams of home. Again he seems to hear His father's voice and see the kindly face. So filled with love, and for a little space He is a boy again and back at home ! Was it the wind that whispered that sweet word.? Was it the father's prayer that God had heard.? The sin-sick dreamer woke. Beneath the dome Of Heaven he was alone, but there had stirred Within his heart some impulse toward the good, And when at last the morning broke, he stood, A man once more; and as a wounded bird Will seek its nest, so did the wanderer, — come Again to self, — turn back once more toward home. [64] THE AUGUST CROAKER O SINGER of the fading summer light ! Thy strident, never-ending monotone, Shot, thread-like, through the warp and woof of night. Makes through the hours a music all its own. Both requiem and prophecy thy lay; The summer dies and for her thou must sing ; While Autumn's footsteps sound far down the way, And thou art herald to the season's King. [65] SUMMER PASSES So FAIR my garden is, so rich with bloom, Scarce for another blossom is there room. All Summer long, with love and tender care, I've watched the countless flowers growing there. And all the air Was laden with their delicate perfume. All Summer long! Sad words, for Summer wanes. And the warm days, blue skies and blossoming lanes, Give place to Autumn's haze, skies overcast, And yellowing leaves. All nature grieves That Summer's pleasant reign so soon is past. So fair my garden is ! And now, some night, With killing blight. The frost will lay a ruthless hand on all The blooms which hold my heart in loving thrall ; And in the morn of some gray, cold to-morrow. Will come to me that bitter grief and sorrow Which mothers know Who weep and mourn their well-beloved dead ; And I will go And mourn, nor will my heart be comforted. [66] THROUGH THE VALLEY If it were mine to choose how I would go When, at the last, Death's summons comes to me, I'd crave of him our meeting place might be In some fair, quiet valley, where the flow Of crystal water greets the listening ear ; Where sentinel peaks look on the scene below And guard, with jealous care, the vale held dear. I'd ask that it might be some autumn day. When Indian summer's glamour holds in thrall The warm, bright world; when the lone wood bird's call Comes faintly, like an echo gone astray. In such a place, on such a day, died he Whom I have known and loved for twoscore years ; And when, unbidden, to my eyes the tears Will come, I chide my heart and say "Let be! He would not have thee grieve; rather rejoice That he, who loved the mountains and the wood. The sunlight and the sea and all that good Which sprang to being at the primal Voice, Knew not Death's valley, 'twas so passing fair. Nor knew that Death himself was waiting there. Until, beyond the stream, One took his hand And bade him welcome to Immanuel's Land." [67] MY SHINGLE ROOF Battalion on battalion, Brigade upon brigade, Rank after rank, flank touching flank, They wait, all undismayed. Never was such an army In battle line arrayed ; Row after row they wait the foe, — But bear no shining blade. No banners o'er them flying. No thunderous cannonade. No roll of drums, no shrieking bombs. No bursting of grenade. But braver, truer soldiers Ne'er formed on esplanade. They scoffs at fate, in silence wait Time's furious enfilade. Winds sweep down on them fiercely, But never a renegade Slips from his place or hides his face From the enemy's cavalcade. [68] By the heat all bent and twisted, All drenched in the rain's cascade, Tom by the gale, beaten by hail, Still they hold their barricade. And we, in our home underneath them, As we ponder the part they have played. Have our hearts a glow? Do glad tears flow. As we think of them there, unafraid? Then here's to the battered old soldiers! All honor the stand they have made! Every foe held aloof on the slopes of my roof, — Hats off to the shingle brigade! [69] THE VANISHED SPIRIT I SAW her here but yesterday, Spirit of Summer, bright and warm — O whither has she fled away with all her graces multiform ? But yesterday I felt her breath, sweet with the scent of fern and pine — To-day, one whispers of her death and even the sun forbears to shine. She was too fair to die, too fair; she seemed of life a very part, Sweet Spirit, wandering everywhere but always shrined within my heart; Beyond the brook, beside the wood, where meadows blushed with blossomed clover — O all the earth was warm and good with Sum- mer's Spirit hovering over. The daisies and the golden rod, the jasmine and the meadow sweet — How well they knew the way she trod, how watched they for her coming feet ! They droop and pine with grief to-day, they shiver in the Autumn storm — O whither has she fled away. Spirit of Summer, bright and warm.? [70] BUILD NOT THINE EARTHLY HOME SO FAIR Build not thine earthly home so fair, So filled with things which may thy soul delight, Lest thou forget that Mansion in the skies Which ever lies Beyond thy sight. Let not earth's music dull thy listening ear To those sweet tones which float forever down From that far Sphere, As though to drown The Noise of life which thou mayest hold too dear. [71] NIGHTFALL ON THE LAKE A DROP of dew within the rose, One star lies in the West; And mirrored in the lake one shows, That in the zenith burns and glows — Diamond upon my lady's breast. The far off cries of whip-poor-will Faint wandering echoes wake, and hill Sends answer back to hill. The brake Stirs gently where the ripples kiss And die. Upon the pebbled shore A boat grounds softly. Now an oar Stirs the still waters far away In the deep shadows on the bay. The fragrant breath of night drifts down The wooded slopes. The soft wind stirs Among the lifted heads of firs And pines. The low-browed mountains frown Upon the Lake asleep below. But guard her with a jealous care. As knights of old their lady fair. Beside the road that creeps around The slumbering water, cattle stray ; Faint and still fainter comes the sound Of tinkling cow bells low and sweet Across the water of the bay — Meet Angelus for the closing day. [72] Dear Lake! In memory oft, our feet Shall tread again that happy strand, Or, on her bosom, we, content. Shall live again the days we spent. Thrice happy days ! But if Fate cries " It shall not be ! " or Love denies To you and me the boon we crave, Faith whispers low, " A fairer wave Breaks yonder on that Heavenly shore! There all shall meet and sandaled feet Find rest beside the crystal tide That laves the golden street." [73] THE LIVING FLAG O wONDEOUs fair was the sight we saw And it thrilled us through and through, For there, at the doors of the courts of law, Was the red, the white and the blue, A living flag ! our flesh and blood, It spread before our eyes ; Tear-dimmed before that sight we stood, 'Neath the fair October skies. Henceforth those steps of carven stone That front the coming day. Are sacred as the cross whereon The Crucified once lay. Makers of law! when next you tread That way of the entering in. Go softly, with uncovered head. And purge your hearts of sin ; For twice a thousand mothers' tears Baptized the fabric fair. Of which was wrought, throughout the years, The living banner there — [74] And twice a thousand mothers' pain Has hallowed all the spot Whereon its priceless folds have lain — Defile, degrade it not! O wondrous fair was the sight we saw And it thrilled us through and through, To see at the doors of the courts of law, The living red, white and blue ! [75] THE ROOM BEYOND "Where's Mother?" cries my little child to- day And I, impatient at her noise, though fond, Bid her be quiet ; then, more softly, say, " Your mother rests, child, in the room beyond." " Where are our loved ones ? " is the cry which breaks From anguished hearts when Death has cut the bond Between us; and 'tis Faith quick answer makes, — " They rest and wait you in the Room Beyond." [76] THE WINDING OF THE CLOCKS There's a scene I oft recall when Sunday morn- ing comes around, And I lie abed and listen to the ticking of the clocks ; And, as I listen, thought goes back to child- hood with a bound, And one old door in memory's hall that ceaseless tick unlocks. I can see as though 'twere yesterday and I a child again, Among the countless pictures hung for those dear walls' adorning. One that stands out from the others, bright with joy and dark with pain. Of my father as he wound his countless clocks on Sunday morning. Much I wondered in my boyhood why so many clocks he had, For I never saw in other homes the half of those he owned; Nor a clock that could compare, or so it seemed to me, a lad. With the great tall one I loved, which seemed to me the sweetest toned. [77] He would take me with him often when he went around to wind them, And I never thought then how the scene would linger through the years ; But all clocks remind me now of him, no matter where I find them. And their hands point back to childhood's time and all its hopes and fears. One dark, rainy Sunday morning, he and I, to- gether standing, Watched the heavy old brass pendulum swing slowly to and fro ; 'Twas the tall grandfather's clock that stood upon the stairway landing, With the bell I always loved to hear so sweet it was and low. Always I had thought my father harsh and stern and void of feeling. For he seldom showed to any one the love his heart might know; But to me, this rainy Sunday, came a sudden brief revealing And it smote my tender boyish heart as one might strike a blow. [78] We had stood for some time silent, he with hands upon my shoulder, And the ticking of the old clock blended with the beating rain; Somehow, as we stood there watching, silence seemed to make me bolder. And I glanced up in his face but quickly dropped my eyes again. For my glance had caught the shining of big tear drops, all unshed. And his mouth was tense with feeling and his face with grief was marred ; Quickly stooping down he drew me to his breast and stroked my head. Then flung both his arms around my little form and squeezed me hard. Not a word he spoke and never have I known just why was given That brief glimpse of love and feeling which I saw in him that day; Nearly forty years have vanished since he went his way to Heaven, But the memory of that morning shall forever with me stay; [79] For, when cometh Sunday morning, and I listen, as to singing, To the ceaseless tick, tick, ticking which fond memory's door unlocks, I can see, as though 'twere yesterday, that shadowy portal swinging. And again I'm with my father as he stands and winds his clocks! [80] THE CHILDLESS WOMAN'S CRY No CHILD ! O pitying Christ, why, through these years, Hast Thou that priceless gift to me denied. Though often I have plead with Thee and tears The greatness of my grief have testified? Nightly I've dreamed these longing arms have held A tiny form whose eyes were like my own; Then waked, to find the vision sweet dispelled. And I with mocking sorrow left alone ! O there are some, dear Lord, whose arms are filled. And still to them Thou sendest more and more, While I am childless! Deem me not self-willed. But give, O Thou whom sweet-faced Mary bore, Give me one only child ! Birth-pains were sweet And death itself a gift I'll gladly take May I but feel my baby's heart throbs beat Against my own ; feel clinging lips that slake Their need at generous breasts, dry all these years. O Thou who wast a child ! For His dear sake Grant me, at last, surcease of these sad tears. [81] AT THE YEAR'S END The house is still ! Those whom I love have gone To rest, and sleep has claimed them for her own. The house is stiU: and yet full many a sound Falls on the listening ear. Up from the ground The snow is caught and on the midnight gale Goes swirling through the air and lips grow pale When suddenly it dashes 'gainst the pane As though the shrieking wind would entrance gain. In cheerful contrast with the world outside I watch the glowing logs within the wide Old smoky fireplace, while the flame's soft lap Makes pleasant music. Now a quick, sharp snap Beneath the porch tells of the heaving frost. In a far corner where the light is lost Among the shadows, lurks a prowling mouse, Waiting his chance to search the sleeping house. The old clock's solemn tick marks steadily The march of time toward eternity, And I am minded that the hour is near Which ends the old and brings the glad new Year. I sit alone and with a thoughtful heart Recall the vanished days, setting apart Each in its turn and noting how the good Or evil marked the hours. Some of them stood [82] In sharpest contrast with the rest. Dark days There were, when Nature's face and heart all haze — Enwrapped, reflected well my own sad mood. And seemingly the world held nothing good. Then there were other days when, like a song, The hours seemed but to sing themselves along, And never was the sky so clear a blue ! Well do I know, to-night, that ever, through Dark days and bright, a Father's clasping hand Was leading me, as toward the promised land In days of old, it led His chosen ones. Ah ! well for us if we, acknowledged sons Of His, would take Him at His word. Then might There be for us no more recurring night And day of doubt and faith but that sweet trust Which children have in us. A bitter gust Brings from the east the sound of chiming bells And glancing upward at the clock, it tells Me, with both hands upraised as if in prayer, " The New Year is at hand; the old is— there! »* [83] THE LIVING LINCOLN " She is not dead but sleepeth." Thus the Lord To those who mourned and wept, long years ago Beside the bier of one by death laid low. But even death was vanquished by His word And when He spake, bidding the maid arise, Her willing soul came back from Paradise And life and health looked from her opening eyes, Obedient to the living Voice they heard. Thou, Lincoln, art not dead ! We call thy name And lo ! Out of the past thou dost arise. And once again those sad and tender eyes Where shone the truth with pure and steady flame Look in our own. We see thy grief -scarred face Where years of war had left their lasting trace, — The rugged, homely face which oft became The butt of fools and, to their lasting shame. The jester's sport, the target of buffoons. We listen and across the stretch of years, — Soft as the lullaby the mother croons, — Cometh thy voice and into willing ears [84] Findeth sure entrance. Heart and soul are thrilled As by some sweet and well remembered strain, Dear to our youth and now heard once again, — Echoes of voices loved but long since stilled. Thou livest still! Not more the gracious sun Doth bless the earth which soon he shall have won From Winter's icy grasp than doth fond mem- ory Warm us and cheer to-day. O rare sad smile. Flashing like sunshine o'er the stern, set face ! O face where sorrow dwelt, but never trace Of anger, passion, hate, resentment, guile! We may not call thee dead ! It is not death To leave a moldering body whence the breath Has taken flight and find a holy shrine Set up in every loyal, loving heart Throughout our land ! Nay, that great life of thine. Till time shall end, is of our lives a part. We bless the day that marks thy humble birth, Counting our land the favored land of earth Because it nurtured thee. O Man of men, Ne'er shall we look upon thy like again ! [85] IF ONLY- When we stand looking down on some dear face, Death having done his work and gone away, Scarce can we find it in our hearts to say *' 'Tis well ! " but we would have our dead retrace The steps that led from us away. With tears And choking voice we cry aloud and say *' Dear heart, come back for just one little day !" And shudder as we think of wasted years. Ah, could we only look far down the way Which we shall travel with our well beloved. And could we only realize that day. Swift coming, when from us shall be removed Our heart's delight! Then often would we show The love we feel but all too often hide — And when Death comes and it is time to go, Almost would our poor hearts be satisfied. [86] DISCONTENT The rose that blooms within my garden yonder Sigheth ofttimes — " Might I but scale these frowning walls and wander To other climes ! " There is no heart in home's safe shelter hiding But sometimes cries : " O that I were some otherwhere abiding, — Beyond home ties ! " Cold are the winds that sweep from yonder mountain, O sheltered rose! From many a homeless heart a bitter fountain Of sorrow flows. [87] THE NEW BOOK At mid of yesternight one came to me As by my burned out fire I sat, and thus He spake : " Here is a book whose leaves are fair And clean and pure as is a virgin's heart; Take it, — thou hast no choice, — and thou must write On every page ; that task thou may est not shun. Remember, too, no line that thou shalt write On these fair pages may erased be But must forever stand, and shall be read By all thy fellows and thy God. So write. Therefore, that shame's red dye stain not thy cheek, Nor the sharp tooth of gaunt remorse sink deep Into thy heart when thou shalt turn thine eyes, In backward glance, upon the pages where Thy pen hath left, indelibly, its mark." [88] O SWEET, MY VALENTINE Unsatisfied mine eyes had roamed afar Nor lingered long on sun or moon or star, But when, by chance, they met those eyes of thine. They roamed no more, O Sweet, my Valentine! Mine ears had searched the ether many a year Nor found one voice than others yet more dear, But when they heard that tender voice of thine, The long search ended, Sweet, my Valentine ! Some meed of bliss my lips had sought in vain And to their parched selves returned again. But when at last they found those lips of thine, They sought no farther. Sweet, my Valentine! Vainly my heart, with tender yearnings filled. Beat on in loneliness until there thrilled Against it that warm, loving heart of thine, O heart of hearts, O Sweet, my Valentine I [89] LINES Written among the Ruins of St. Pierre, Beneath our feet unnumbered thousands lie Who drank but once of Pelee's poisoned breath, Then, sending heavenward one despairing cry. They sank in silence to their dreadful death. No chance was theirs to flee impending fate. For Pelee spake but once and all was o'er; And like a blast from Hell's wide opened gate. His fiery breath rolled downward to the shore. Veiled for a season was Heaven's smiling face. The sun withdrew in horror from the sight. The while the sea fled, quivering, from the place. And neighboring mountains trembled in their fright. O city resting so confidingly Beside the mountain, towering to the skies! O happy people of the Southern sea. Upon whose heart no thought of danger lies ! To-day thy city lies in ruined heaps. Thy dwellings are thy people's only tomb ; The sea sings softly and forever keeps Her faithful watch beside thy place of doom. Beneath our feet unnumbered thousands lie Who worked and loved and lived without a care. And only crumbling ruins meet the eye. Where once lay peaceful, trusting Saint Pierre. [90] IT IS THE SAME The wind that drives against my window pane The icy rain — That makes the shivering old trees rock and groan, And send wild moan Into the wintry sky — Tossing gaunt arms on high — Is this the wind that seems so kind When June her joy prolongs? That fans my cheek as though to speak Some message past all uttering? That like the faintest fluttering Of angel wings, its echo brings Of long forgotten summer songs. When long forgotten summers came? Is it the same? Is it the same? The Voice that bids His radiant angels go (O sad, sad hour!) And pluck from love's fair garden here below Its fairest flower, — Is it the same that bade that garden bloom ? Can the same Voice be Blessing and its Doom? Answers the Voice of Him who overcame — " The Voice that gave Me life in Mary's womb. Gave Me both death and life in Joseph's tomb, — It is the same ! It is the same ! " [91] JESUS GARCIA'S RIDE Jesus Gaecia, Hero, died As of old, that other One Who for man was crucified, — Son of man and God's dear Son. His own life he might have saved, Had he loved his fellows less ; Death in awful form he braved, Proving his unselfishness. Not with nations looking on, — Waiting victory or defeat; Not where flashing sabers shone — Not to drum's inspiring beat, — All alone he rides at Death, Gripping hard his iron rein ; Never once he wavereth. This brave son of Mexic-Spain! Nacozari, stricken dumb. Saw him thundering down the track, Nearer, nearer, watched him come, Grim Destruction at his back ! [92] Never once he slackened rein, Urged his steed to do its best, Swept past like a hurricane — Nacozari knows the rest. Jesus Garcia, Hero, died! But his name shall never die; Nor the story of his ride Fade from grateful memory ! J93t TO MY OLD ARM CHAIR In the business of life we've been partners, old friend, For many a year, for many a year ; And partners we'll be till the business shall end, With many a tear, I there, and you here. How often I've found in your sheltering arms. When at rest there I lay, at the close of the day, A solace and comfort surpassing the charms That would lure me away, that would tempt me to stray. And sometimes, when sorely beset in the fight. When foes have been strong and the hours have been long. Then, your back to mine, we have fought through the night. And we vanquished the wrong, met the day with a song! Stay with me, old friend, to the close of life's day, And when the lights fade and the shadows in- vade. Let me rest in your arms where so often I lay. And pass, unafraid, to the Valley's dim shade. [94] THE ENGINEER With his hand upon the throttle, With his eyes upon the track, Thinking only of the safety Of the sleepers at his back; With the lives of half a thousand In the hollow of his hand, Hero of the age of iron — At " attention " see him stand. The Engineer ! You have seen him, or can see him, Any day or any night. And your eyes have never rested On a more worth-seeing sight; Sticking grimly to his saddle. Urging on his steed of steel ; Though he knows that Death is waiting For the turning of a wheel, — He knows no fear! Fear? He never knew the meaning Of a word so mean and base. But his courage knows no measure. See it shining in his face ! Seemingly in love with duty. As a bridegroom with his bride. Hundreds, yea, a thousand, trust him And their trust has deified The Engineer! [95] Sing not of the brilliant charges Of your far-flung battle line! This man hourly charges danger With a bravery divine. Not a voice to cheer him onward, Not an eye to see but God's ; Not the sound of drum or bugle, Just the clanking of his rods Comes to his ear! Boring into unknown blackness With Cyclopean eye of light; Reeling off the miles which endless Stretch before him into night ; Watching ever for the signal Which may tell of waiting death ; With a hand that feels the pulse beats, Ears that note each panting breath, — The Engineer! So through life he rides at danger. But at last will come a day When ahead will flash the signal " Stop ! Death has the right of way." Pray Thee, Lord, that of Thy mercy, There may be reserved for him. Place on high among the angels, — Seat among the Seraphim, Brave Engineer! [96] LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP Love, like the summer flower that in my garden blows, May bloom and quickly die; While friendship, like the vine which o'er my lat- tice grows, Shall winter storms defy. [97] GROWING OLD Mt cat grows old. The sign? Is this,- For years when bedtime, mine and his, Would come around he seemed to know Somehow, the time of night, and so Would hide away in some dark place, Which plainly meant, when all was said, " I'm not quite ready for my bed." But lately, long before the hour Has sounded from the old church tower, He sits beside the cellar's steep And narrow stair that leads to sleep, Begging me with his upturned eyes And with his vibrant tail that tries So hard to make me understand, — Begging that I put out my hand And do the thing he cannot do, — Unbar the door and let him through. So we, sometimes, as years increase, Sigh for the hour that brings release; And often when the way grows steep Or rough, we tire and long for sleep, And for the Master's lifted hand. That shall admit us to that land Where he doth shepherd all his sheep, — And give to his beloved, sleep. [98] THE OLD BRICK HOUSE ACROSS THE WAY 'Tis Christmas night. A flood of moonlight falls Upon the old square house across the way, The old brick house, whose solid, well-built walls Have, for a hundred years, defied decay. Another hundred might have tried in vain To batter down those walls or entrance gain Through the stout door that shut the wind and rain Of summer, and the winter's driving snow From those within, but built for use, not show, The modern houses standing near cried, " Slow \ Old-fashioned ! Tear the old house down ! " and so The landmark of a century must go ! The roof is off, and all the windows gone ; The rafters fling black shadows to the floor That lies so strangely bare and ghastly white Through the long hours of the December night. No sound, no movement, save one chamber door That creaks upon its rusty hinge, and throws Slow moving shadows when the night wind blows. The hour is late, but from my window's height, Looking upon the beauty of the night, I see, through swift-transforming mists of tears, That ghastly, moon-lit skeleton of Home ; I see the ghosts that throng the hundred years. [99] Dead, bygone years. Out of the past they come, As forms loom suddenly in fog or night, And then as quickly vanish from the sight. I see the ghost of that first year when two Came hand in hand, and standing at the door. Thanked God for home. How fair it was ! How new! How radiant the bride as she passed through The welcoming home door, and was lost to view ! Vanish the year! Another takes its place, And through the mist I see another face, A dainty, fairy face. How soon 'tis gone — How fast the phantom years come crowding on, And how they fill with faces new and forms That shift and drift like clouds in summer storms. Out of the Past they come, but whither go.'' And why are some so radiantly bright. While others seem to merge into the night And be its counterpart.? Burdened with woe Are these, and my unwilling eyes see Death With sorrow's garments trailing on the wind. Then more bright years, but as I look upon Their fading brightness they are quickly gone — So fleet is Time when to his children kind. The wintry wind sweeps through the wide old street. Making the aged elm trees moan and rock. [100] Far off I hear the old cathedral clock Strike twelve, and as the last note softly dies, The moon goes out, and now the old house lies Deep in the shadow of a passing cloud. As darkness makes the phosphored dial show More clearly to the weary watcher's eyes. So now an old-time picture stands revealed Against the blackness of the clouded skies. And ghostly, vanished years their secrets yield. I see the house as on old Christmas nights It stood adorned with flowers, ablaze with lights ; Cheerful with fires that cast their ruddy glow Out where the old post road lay deep with snow. Dim spectral forms fill every room. The fair. The brave, the young, the old are gathered there. And see ! The ghosts of that first happy pair Receive their ghostly guests with welcoming smile. Standing before the fireplace where, the while, The fire burns on and on but grows no less ! A happ3^ pair, but O, how older grown ! A loving pair ; I note the soft caress She gives the white-haired groom ; nor I alone, — Children and children's children gathered there Make sly and jocund comment and the fair Old bride protests her right. A happy pair! They are not old to-night; love keeps them young, [101] And as I watch them move about among The merry guests that crowd each spacious room I wonder which is happier, bride or groom. O ghost of happiness, seen through falling tears ! O ghost of love that blessed the hundred years ! O fireside ghosts of happy Christmas days ! This is the end ! To-morrow earth's highways Shall be your trysting place, for the old home Shall vanish utterly and nevermore May you on Christmas nights together come. And, as to-night, with one another meet There, in the old brick house across the street. [102] THE TREE OF THE CROSS A Legend Once when I wandered in a silent wood With eyes uplifted to the mighty trees That people those dim realms of solitude — Grim guardians of Nature's mysteries — My thought turned backward to an olden time And older country by the sacred sea, — Dwelling on that which was the age's crime, The age's blessing to humanity ; And from much thinking of the cross where He Laid down his life I came to think at last Of one thing only, the accursed tree From which the cross was fashioned, and its past. Did it, like these around me, spring from earth? Did it, like these, through ripening centuries grow ? Or did it have, Minerva-like, its birth Full grown, inheritor of awful woe? Was it well favored? Had it aught of grace. [103] Or was the curse of Heaven its only boon? Clustered the fragrant wild flowers at its base ? These questions asked my heart from morn till noon, And when the lengthening shadows eastward crept, Wearied, I threw myself beneath a tree To rest, and as I rested must have slept. And as I slept this legend came to me, — Upon that night when Mary's Child was born Beneath the Star which hung o'er Bethlehem, A little tree stood shivering in the wind. Within a wood outside Jersualem. The mother tree was O so fair and tall. And stately as a ship upon the sea ; Her little one, so helpless and so small, The tiniest tree in all the wood was he. Down through the latticed leaves a strange new light Made flickering shadows underneath the trees, And on the stillness of the winter night There fell the strains of Angel melodies. " O Mother, what sweet music do we hear? Why do the angels sing in yonder sky? " And though the mother's heart was sick with fear She said, " They sing my baby's lullaby." [104] " O Mother, why has God hung in the sky That bright new star that makes the shadows here?" " Thou shalt know all when thou art tall as I, Now sleep, my child, thy mother watches " But Mother ! see how dark my shadow shows Upon the ground, and how my arms have grown! Now you are trembling though the night wind blows So gently: Why? " " O hush and sleep, my own!" O prescient mother love ! O wordless fears ! O cankering grief that may be shared with none! O vista through the three and thirty years! O death in life and life but just begun! Upon that night when Judas sold his lord. Above Jerusalem, the listening moon Heard from a wooded slope, a wailing chord That through the clustering tree tops seemed to swoon; [106] And then, upon the rising wind was borne The sickening sound of woodman's cleaving blade ; And ere the crowing cock proclaimed the morn, Three rough-hewn crosses had the craftsman made. Three rough-hewn crosses and the mother tree Looks on and knows what fruit the three shall bear ! Knows what the morrow's midday sun shall see On Calvary while Mary watches there ! *' O had I human speech ! Then should her ears Drink in what comfort it were mine to spare ; Then should she know my heart, through all these years, Held of her grief and mine an equal share ! " Upon that night when Joseph's tomb was sealed. Two mothers grieved within a moon-lit wood, And each to each the mother heart revealed, Though neither knew the other understood. For all unwittingly had Mary come And thrown herself beneath the mother tree, — - Spent with her sacrificial grief, and dumb With impotent and tearless agony. [106] She sleeps, but in her troubled dreams, again She stands before the cross on Calvary; She hears her first horn's cry of mortal pain, And fears, then hopes, that death may pass Him by. She sees the hands which had so oft caressed Her own, with cruel, blood-stained spikes thrust through; Then, in her dream, she drew upon her breast The head which never softer pillow knew. She sleeps, and stirring, as the night grows chill, The old tree softly covers her with leaves, While o'er the upturned face, so white and still. The kindly moon a veil of shadows weaves. At dawn she wakes, and, as her opening eyes Note the kind deed which marked the chill night hours. Clasps with her arms the rough old trunk and cries " O, next to me He loved the trees and flowers ! " " And yet upon a tree they nailed my Son, And I had thought to curse all such as thee. But now, because of this that thou hast done, The cross forevermore shall sacred be." [107] The night had fallen when at length I woke, And through the trees I saw the moonlight gleam ; In soft low whispers kindly nature spoke, Making more real the substance of my dream ; And hastening homeward, quickly I trans- ferred To paper all the legend I had dreamed. So real to me was every spoken word, So sweet and tender every picture seemed. [108] NOTES NOTES The Lambs and The Shepherd — ^Written on the occasion of a church communion service when twenty young people united with the church and one aged woman, unable to be present, had the elements administered to her at her home. Memory — ^William Watson's "Fatal Prayer" is given below. " I vanquish," said the youthful King, " My foes on every field ; Yet, ye strong Gods, to one vain thing How helplessly I yield: " Behold me falPn a slave each hour To some dark long-lashed eye ! Oh, grant me. Kings of Heaven, the power That sorcery to defy." They heard ; and from their ruthless height The dreadful gift was thrown — The armour against Beauty's might Worn by the blind alone. The Living Flag — During the Hudson-Ful- ton Celebration, 1909, 2,500 school children were massed on the steps of the state capitol at Al- bany, N. Y. so as to form an enormous living flag. [Ill] Jesus G^rcia's Ride — On Nov. 8, 1907, Jesus Garcia, engineer on a mining railroad in North- ern Mexico, pulled a blazing train of blasting powder and dynamite past the little town of Nacozari and sticking to his engine till he had reached the open country, perished when the ex- plosion came which utterly annihilated the en- tire train. [iia] Ml919^2 " rf THE UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA UBRARY