\ i^y y Ij ^^ ^^1^^ I r^T^^srij EKi^^^jn . r:]^A^ai , LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Shelf UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. :^i^^^ljb -^immmii? /\ AKER LOYE STORY AND OTHER POEMS MRRIR ¥. JONES, CHICAGO ; J, L. REGAN & CO , PRINTERS !885- ^-, 7. t 5" I 7^j^ ^1 Copyright by MARIA W. JONES. 1885. TO MY SISTER FRANCES, WHO FIRST SUGGESTED, THEN INSISTED, THEN PERSISTED THAT I SHOULD PUBLISH THIS LITTLE VOLUME, IT IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED, WITH THE COM- FORTABLE ASSURANCE THAT IF IT PROVE A FAIL- URE, I SHALL HIDE BEHIND HER MY DIMINISHED HEAD. (5) dorifer^l'il). Pkelude -.._...„ii A Quaker Love Story ------ 13 My Riches --.----. 33 A Vision -------_ 35 What Dost Thou Fear? ---. = . 37 Enough --.--.-_ 33 OoMMONPiiACE -------- 39 Waiting -------- 41 The Cherry Festival of Hamburg - - . - 44 Carrie ----=._, 43 For Others' Sake ----.-. 50 King Water - - - - - - -53 Beyond the Hills -----_. 56 Love - - - ^ - „ . 59 In Embryo ---- = -_- 61 Edith -..._,._ 63 In Memoriam --.».--- 65 The Message of the Snow - - . = - 67 Cui Bono ?---_-. ^ . 69 A Friend, Married in April ----- 73 Lines Written on Birch Bark to a Friend - - - 74 SOHHETS. Paradise Regained ------- 76 Onward to the Sea ------ 77 To A Friend in England upon Her Wedding-Day - - 78 To M. H. P. - - 79 To a Pansy - - - - - - - - 80 (7) Rofe The followiiig Quaker Love Story, told first by the hero- ine nearly sixty years ago, and now retold in verse, has, I fear, little to recommend it but its simplicity and truthful- ness; ''A certain sweet New Testament plainness"' — to bor- row one of Charles Lamb's inimitable expressions — having always been a distinguishing characteristic of the Friends. The greater number of the remaining poems have already appeared in The Scribner, Century, Current, Independent, Christian Union, Weekly Magazine, and other publications of the day. "What is writ is writ; Would it were worthier." M. W. J. Chicago, 9th mo., 1885. (9) p refuel e. The dear old twilight stories I heard at mother's knee Still float, in echoed sweetness, Down through the years to me. And still, as then, seems better And dearer than the rest, A quaint ancestral story — One mother loved the best — Of a sweet Quaker maiden, Who, in one far spring day, Rode off to do God's errand. And lost her heart away. (11) R QUAKER LOYE STORY OF THE OLDEN TIME. 1. A ND so my dear, thou fain wouldst hear about my girl- -^ ^ hood days, And my long ride with Tacy Gray across rough mountain ways. To-day I've thought it over, as I went about my tasks, And I believe it will be right to grant thee what thou asks. 2. For it may be a strength to thee, to know how I was led Through all these years along life's path, and gently shep- herded. I have not yet forgotten how, in my earliest youth, By mother's side in meeting, I felt tenderings of Truth. 13 14 A QUAKER LOVE STOKY. 3. By the solemn silence quickened, the conscious tear would start ; And now and then a trembling sigh, from some contrited heart, Would rise and beat its viewless wings a moment 'gainst the air, And emphasize the stillness, as an amen does a prayer. 4. If. when a Friend was moved to speak, the Word with power came, I felt it search my little heart like penetrating flame. Again, like dew upon the grass, the Spirit's precious dole Fell on the tender leaves of faith unfolding in my soul. 5. But yet the world attracted me, and, as I grew in years, My plain dress was a cross I bore with some rebellious tears. It seems strange now, in looking back, what weight the out- ward had. And how I tried to compromise betwixt the good and bad. A QUAKER LOVE STORY. 15 6. But compromises only feed the tempted heart's unrest. A clear renunciation ends the struggle, and is best. The Lord helped me to see it so, and gave me sweet release. And then, I wore our garb, and yet was clothed upon with peace. 7. I think it was soon after that, when I was twenty-three, It was borne in on my mind that the Master called for me To go as a companion for our dear friend Tacy Gray To Virginia Yearly Meeting, and the meetings there away. 8. We started in the spring-time, one early Fifth-month morn, A dewy freshness filled the air, the world seemed newly born, — The birds like joys embodied went floating in the sheen, Or sang amid brown twigs outlined in mists of tender green. 16 A QUAKER LOVE STORY. 9. And I remember now, as if it Avere but yesterday, How quickly joyous Nature brushed my farewell tears away. Ah, when we are at peace within, the heart will lightly rise Like a free bird, and earth will seem the long lost paradise. 10. There were no public coaches went across the mountains then — For this Avas twenty years ago, in eighteen hundred ten — And the usual way of travel was by horseback in that day. And even now it seems to me 'tis the ideal way. 11. I can come so near to nature, for my horse finds all paths free; Between him and his rider is so close a sympathy, That the sinewy, swift motion which to him belongs alone, Gives me a sense of freest strength as if it were my own. A QUAKER LOVE STORY. 17 12. Just at the last Friend David Gray concluded not to go; He could not see his way quite clear, but Jabez Shillito — A kind of inexperienced man — was going part our way, Whom father thought would be no use, but I heard mother say, 13. "Nay, William! like the effigy thou in thy field didst set, I really think the man will do; for people are not yet Much wiser than the birds, — we often say: 'There some man goes ;' When, after all, the creature owes his sole importance to his clothes." 14. It was a goodly distance — four hundred miles or more — For two women upon horseback ; but the Holy Spirit bore Us company and comfort, and we never had a fear ; Our greatest dangers are the ones that lurk within, my dear. 2 18 A QUAKER LOVE STORY. 15. I had never seen the mountains; and now, when from some steep, I saw, e'en to the sky's pale brim, the circling, billowy sweep Of verdant fields, and forests — now shadowed and now bright — ■ Earth's glory broke upon me in a flood of deep delight. IG. We stopped at night at any house near which we chanced to be. At wayside inn, or farmer's home, and Tacy, frequently. Was shown the state of some dear souls which were in bond- age led ; And, faithful to the inwaid voice, she left them comforted. 17. One evening near our journey's end (we had been ten days out). We queried with a colored man, upon the road, about Our way. We hoped to find some Friends residing in that part, — For Friends, though strangers in the flesh, are always friends in heart. A QUAKER LOVE STORY. 19 18. " Down clis road liy'ar, aboot a mile, lives Massa Clark," he said; "And down dat lane, aboot de same, lives Massa Ben White- head. Dey's bof yous kind of people, 'taint no diffaence, I s'pose, Which way you takes; for heaps of Friends to bof der houses goes." 19. We say: "This way or that? It does not matter which we name." Lightly we choose, and lo! our lives are nevermore the same! But they who take the Spirit for their Comforter and Guide May rest content, for, soon or late, they shall be satisfied. 20. Tacy a moment waited for the inward "yea" or "nay," Then, turning down the lane, she said: "Come, dear, we go this way.'' We found our host a bachelor, with servants quite rdone; Then, I wondered if dear Tacy had indeed been rightly shown ! 20 A QUAKER LOVE STORY. 21. Next day we went to Wain Oak, where the Meeting was to be, A Friend took Tacy in his gig; our host lode off by me! And somehow after that, all through the Yearly Meeting week. When he spoke to me, 'twas as if, a friend from home did speak. 22. It came to pass that Friends arranged when Yearly Meeting closed, That he, as he had time and was seriously disposed, Should attend with us the meetings belonging to our sect. And visit scattered families as Best Wisdom might direct. 23. Of course, Benjamin rode mostly along by Tacy's side, And I, a silent listener, was content, and edified To hear them talk of Early Friends — how clear their call, and sure, To come out from the world, and be separate and pure. A QUAKER LOVE STORY. 21 24. And Tacy thought that in our day the call was still the same ; She tenderly admonished us, in the dear Master's name. To keep ourselves unspotted from the world; take up the cross And follow Him, count all men brothers, and Time's glory dross. 25. And, dear, I feel to counsel thee, as she did us two then, To read George Fox's journal through ; there thou wilt find why men Were once constrained to think the vcrUij of Quaker Fox Was more than the strong oaths of men who haled him to the stocks. 20. In stocks, in prison, stoned and scofl'ed, our Early Fidends stood true ; They spoke the word, they did the deed God gave to them to do. And Cromwell said, when he had looked upon George Fox's face, "Now is a people risen, not won by gift nor place." 22 A QUAKER LOVE STORY. 27. Thus ran our talk, by field and stream, as we went on our way, But lapsing into silence at the far end of the day ; Or, Avhen we entered some pine wood, where each tall, dusky tree Stood like a grave, black cowled monk, whisp'ring — Eternity. 28. Sometimes, when it would happen so that Benjamin would ride. In all the goings to and fro, a brief time at my side, I was half scared and half ashamed the moment he had gone; For, like a child which thinks aloud, I feared my tongue ran on. 29. I think though that our thoughts unfold more freely in the air, Where birds and trees, and bloom and bees, their sweets together share. 'Tis nature's way! do life with her keeps to itself apart; And so I shared the thoughts which then kept budding in my heart. A QUAKER LOVE STORY. 23 30. Those long rides and the meeting hours were times of deep content. The cross I bore when leaving home was gone ; but how it went, Or why 'twas gone, I neither asked myself nor understood, I only knew it never seemed so easy to be good. 31. But, dear, take heed! when our lines fall into a pleasant place, It is not always safe to think that 'tis God's precious grace Within our hearts, which mellows them and makes them glad and kind ; For, mayhap, we, when trouble comes, our old hard hearts shall find. 32. One day at Black Creek Meeting, when Benjamin had led Our horses up, as usual, for us "to mount," he said, While looking up at Tacy — it was well he turned from me — " I find that I must say farewell, and here part company."' 24 A QUAKER LOVE STORY. 33. I heard no more — my heart stood still — the earth swam in eclipse ; Though when at last he came to me, I said, with steady lips, Some farewell words, then rode away — I would not have him know How, like a ship in sudden storm, my heart reeled to and fro. 34 But after that, while Ave remained among Virginia Friends, I listened as one listens when the hungry heart attends. For some news dropped of Benjamin, some talk of his intent; But all in vain! I heard no word of why or where he went. 33. The next week Tacy's husband came, and in a few weeks more We to Ohio all returned, and Tacy truly bore The sheaves of Peace, but I — I bore a heart of sad unrest. Though still the Spirit whispered, ''The Lord knows what is best." A QUAKER LOVE STORY. 25 36. Autumn had come ere we went back. On hill and mountain side Nature had built her altar fires ; the trees stood glorified In unconsuming wondrous flame, like unto sunset dyes, And morning mists rose up from them as incense to the skies. 37. Yet sadness like a sombre vail lay spread o'er everything, I thought it was the difference between the Fall and Spring ; But, dear, the difference was in me — the vail was on my eyes ; The earth was just as beautiful and just as glad the skies. 38. '" Elizabeth," said father, in the evening after tea — That first home-coming night when they left mother, him and me. To have a little talk alone — '^\ friend of thine was here — A friend from Old Yirginia, Elizabeth, my dear, — " 26 A QUAKEll LOVE STORY. 89. Spoke mother, breaking in, for mother had her views Of what was right in keeping back the best of any news. "I reckon tliou canst guess his name " Avith slow speech fa- ther said. Then mother spoke right out: " My child, 'twas Benjamin Whitehead!^' 40. And once again my heart stood still, then loudly on it went, I almost thought they'd hear it beat, and wonder what it meant, "He seems a w^ell-concerned young man," said father, talk- ing on. And then I faltered out: ''Thou saidst he had been here, and gone?" 41. "Yes," father made reply, " he has gone on about some land." " William," coaxed mother, reaching out her kind, persua- sive hand, "Thou art too slow!" "He asked our leave. Elizabeth, my dear. To speak to thee, and child," she said, " Fifth-day he will be here." A QUAKER LOVE STORY. 27 42. And so he came, and all was well ; my dear, what didst thou say ? yes! he found at Black Creek, in the meeting that last day, That all his heart was turned to me. hut then he could not say One word without my parents' leave ; for that he went away. 43. We handed our intentions into meeting the next spring, And Avere married in the Fifth month. Dear Tacy's offering Of fervent prayer, when we had said the words that made us one. Fell sweetly on our wedded hearts, like holy benison. 44. 1 little thought, when I came home, that I so soon should ride Across those same rough mountain ways, by Benjamin's own side. God's purposes are hid with Him, and silently they grow Until wdiat perfect time He wills we too shall see and know. 28 A QUAKER LOVE STORY. 45. Before we went, the way seemed clear for Benjamin to buy This farm right next to father's, and together he and I This lofty site chose for our home, and named it Prospect Hill; We thought it then earth's fairest spot, and, dear, we think so still. PROSPECT HILIi. A QFAKEll LOVE STORY. 29 40. I do not mean there really is no other spot so fair; But when we sauntered arm in arm, a neAvly-wedded paij-. Through the long lane up to our farm, in evening's sunset glow. And watched the shadows slowly creep up from the vale below, 47. And saw upon the Tillage hill the sunlit windows shine, I think no hearts were happier than Benjamin's and mine. It was the happy inner glow, as well as that without — That sweet, syllabic sound of '' ou7^s,'' I haven't any doubt, 48. Which made it then, and makes it now to us the place most fair : We relatively judge such things, but we must have a care. In intercourse with others, about the words we use ; For language is a precious gift that suffers much abuse. 30 A QUAKER LOVE STORY. 49. There's Benjamin just coming in; I hear him at the door: I wish that thou wouldst see about — but wait, this one thing more I want to add, while on my mind, for nothing is more sure: Truth is the salt of character which keeps it sweet and pure. ©f]^ep f ©err) s. MY RICHES. 33 MY BICHES. GEAY as the day. and poor and cold Seemed life to me; my tears dropped down, Blurring from sight the garment old That lay nnpatched the while I told My grieving heart how Fortune's frown Grew darker still. To others came Beauty and wealth, dear love and fame; But I — I had my torn old gown. I said — and wept more bitterly — I might as well be stricken blind, If there is naught all day to see But four bare walls staring at me. Blank as my life. O, fate, unkind! So prodigal of gifts to some, Shall gracious beauty never come In shape or tint, my home to find? 3 34 MY RICHES. Like a rebuke from God, there came A sunbeam to my small, bare room, And held my gaze in its pure flame Till rebel thought and fretful blame In it seemed slowly to consume . At peace once more, I raised my eyes, And saw that in the western skies The cold gray day had burst in bloom. I watched its sunset flower grow From matchless bud to matchless rose; Then saw new glory overflow And drown the rose in brighter glow Of golden light, and still disclose New loveliness of shape and hue, AVhich, ever as I gazed, updrew My heart to heights of sweet repose. Riches and beauty for the world! I cried. Thou unlost Paradise! Changing from bloom to isles impearled In golden seas, to flags unfurled M\ RICHES. O'er domes and minarets that rise From jeweled walls, then disappear Lost, in a fire-fringed sapphire mere, Where white and weird a great ship lies. God surely meant no life should be All bare of beauty — wondrous sky! When, in His love, endowing thee AVith richest grace of land and sea. He gave thee place to overlie All life. So mine! I am not poor; For thy gold falls upon my fioor, Thv priceless pictuies chnrm my eye. 35 B6 A VISION. A VISIOK A LOVELY being, sweet and fair, Lips parted, as in blessing, A briglit'ning halo round her hair. Hands outstretched for caressing. And night by night her glad wise eyes Foreshine their nearer glory With glimpse and gleam of Paradise, And grand prophetic story. But morn by morn I w^ake to find The old unlifted sorrow. And just as far away the kind, Dear vision — called To-morrow. WHAT DOST THOU FEAR? 37 WHAT DOST THOU FEAR? '^TJtc 2Corhh ihc flesh, and the devil:' WHAT dost thou fear, O coward heart, That thou dost tremble so? Though thunderbolts are hurled At thee, dost thou not know That God Himself doth take thy part Against a stormv world? Why long for rest, O weary heart? Though care and pain and strife Hinder and mar the mesh Thou weavest of thy life : Yet God Himself doth take thy part Ao-ainst rebellious flesh. O, why despair, thou doubting heart? God put thee here! No right Hast thou to moan— ^' At length, Adversely goes the fights For God Himself doth take thy part Against the devil's strength. 38 ENOUGH. EKOUGH. FEOM a cleft in a rock a harebell grew, And gathered of rain, and sunshine, and dew, Its measure of life, in its cup of blue. In a cabin, out in a western wild. A maiden bent over her work, and smiled — For the old, old story her heart beguiled. The world is wide; but a bit of its earth. In the cleft of the rock, gave beauty birth And nourishment meet for its own sweet worth. The world is wide! but the maiden well knew No heart in it all was more fond and true Than the one that her troth was plighted to. COMMONPLACE. 39 COMMONPLACE. r^NCE I heard a dandelion say — ^^ Some folks hear, in a curious way, Voices mute to others — "Dandelions are so commonplace, Without any special gift or grace, What's the use of blooming? " Could I only be a tube rose sweet, Life indeed Avould offer something meet For my best endeavor. But a dandelion! Dear, O dear! I have yearnings for another sphere Not so rcrij common."' Hardly had she ceased her mournful plaint, Huno^ her head, with fjrief and chaofrin faint, When some children spied her. And in chorus all began to shout: "The dandelions are coming out; The dear dandelions.'' 40 COMMONPLACE. Later on, a poet of sweet note Smiled upon her, and a poem wrote, Calling dandelions The bright gold which Spring, with lavish hand, Scatters broadcast over all the land For dear little people. "It were better," wrote he, "to forego All the stately flowers that may blow In conservatories Than that little children should e'er miss Largess full and golden, such as this — Spring time's dandelions.'" It were better, thought I, to forego All the wonders that the saraus know. Than life's lowly duties. Thus I took the lesson to my heart. Glad, once more, to do my simple part 'Mongst the commonplaces. WAITING. 41 WAITING. STEEPED in sunshine, bathed in dew, Year by year, the strange plant * grew, But no grace of flower knew. Seeing it a zealot said, Hotly shaking his young }iead, '* AYithout works one is as dead." Did it start impatient then. Try to break its bands of green With the life which throbbed between ? Nay! it seemed but as before, Though it may have more and more Life's sweet pain have pondered o'er. Many years had come and passed, And the plant, still bloomless, cast Broader shadows. But, at last, * The Contury Plant. 42 WAITING. One fair morning, going by. Some one looked, and, with a cry, Called the people far and nigh. For, from out the circling green There uprose a wondrous sheen, Bud and bloom did overlean The broad leaves, and climb so high, All their beauty none could spy, Save the tender, smiling sky. "*Tis a tree of soft, pale flame, Greenly whorled," said one who came, Trying vainly thus to name Such unwonted loveliness. In their prodigal excess. Bud and bloom seemed numberless. But the zealot humbly said, Bowing low his hoary head: " Lo! it teaches in my stead. WAITING. 48 " Now I know that soul is great, Which, aware of its estate, Nobly is content to wait. ''As for me. O foolish man! I have learned that no one can Sit in judgment on God's plan. •• When 'tis time for deed or flower, He alone can strike the hour From the heights of His watch-tower." 44 THE CHERRY FESTIVAL OF HAMBURG. THE CHERBY FESTIVAL OF HAMBURG. T T AKD by the walls of Hamburg town, ^ ^ Four centuries ago, Procopius his soldiers led To fight their German foe. The blue sky bent above the earth In benediction mute, The traijquil fields reposed content In blossom, grain, and fruit. But vain the ^'bcncdfciic^^ Of tender brooding sky, And vain, the peaceful, smiling fields Gave eloquent reply. Unsoothed! unmoved! in nature's calm, The Hussite army lay, A threatening, deadly, Imnum storm. With Hamburg in its way. THE CHERRY FESTIVAL OF HAMBURG^ 45 To swift destruction now seemed doomed The dear old German town. Before Procopins the Great The strongest walls went doAvn. But, hark! what means this muffled sound Of swift advancing feet? Was Hamburg ready after all Its hated foe to meet? The Hussites quickly sprang to arms! The great gate opened wide: And out there poured, not armed men, But, marching side by side, Camo little children of the town. Whose round eyes met their gaze With innocence that courage was Unlearned in worldly Avays. The men threw all their weapons down At sight so strange and fair! They took the children in their arms. They smoothed their flaxen hair; 46 THE CHERRY FESTIVAL OF HAMBURG. They kissed their cheeks and sweet red lips, They told how, back at home, They left such little ones as they, And then they bade them come To cherry orchards, close at hand, And there they stripped the trees Of branches rich with clustered fruit. Their little arms with these They filled, and with kind words of peace, They sent them back to town, And all the soldiers marched away, Nor thought of their renown. And now, each year in cherry time In Hamburg, one may see The little children celebrate This strange sweet victory. Again the tramp of little feet Is heard, as side by side They march all through the quaint old town In childhood's joyous pride. THE CHERRY FESTIVAL OF HAMBURG 47 Again, within their arms they bear Green branches, through whose leaves Eipe cherries gleam, and tell a tale More strange than fancy weaves, About a bloodless battle fought Four hundred years ago. When children saved old Hamburg town By conquering its foe. 48 CAimiE . A WINSOME little girl, As pure as milk-wliite pearl, As sweet as fragrant rose, As blitlie as bird that knows Only to soar and sing, On swift ecstatic wing. So glad of life — of love — Of snnny sky above, Of all these things, so glad! Can she be ever sad? CARRIE. Ah, yes ! so sad is she O'er broken wing of bee, O'er homeless dog or cat, Or any creature that God made and man forgets To care for, that she sets Me wondering how He, More pitiful than she, Endures so patiently Man's inhumanity. 49 50 FOR others' sake. FOR OTHERS' SAKE. ' Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow The Christ — els wherefore born?''— Idyls of the King. A KOUND-Kiiig Artliur's table came ^ ^ Brave, stalwart men, who, soon or late. Won for themselves a famous name. And climbed up to a knight's estate. And each one sought some maiden's smile. Her "favor" on his helmet wore, On deeds of errantry — the while She praised and loved him more and more. And poet's idyls, new and old. Cease not to tell the wondrous tale. How these good knights, so true and bold, Kode forth to make some tyrant quail. In his stronghold; for ladies fair Risked life and limb, and thought no deed Too hard for them to do or dare. Could they but win the hero's meed. FOR 0THEK."5 SAKE. 51 O, grand the story of brave deed. And sweet the guerdon bravely won; So brave, so sweet, that as we read, Electric currents swiftly run From noble lives of ages past, And thrill our hearts, until we fain Would live as they, as they at last, Such love, such praise, such honor gain. Nor are there wanting men of might. Nor Avrongs to tilt a free lance for ; Nor now need maidens, out of sight. Wait weeping till the battle's o'er. Some cycles nearer has earth rolled To the eternities, whose light On it more broadly falls. Behold! God^s truths shine out in clearer sight. And now has gentle woman found To do is finer than to b(\ That our King at whose ''Table Round" There sitteth '^ neither bond nor free, i^?=^ 54 KING WATEK. Anon he flings over the sun Such curtains of mist that not one Tiny ray can creep through, and run To earth with its light. Fiery flames, too, own his command, They leap up! but cannot withstand The weight of his cool, mighty hand — They sink out of sight. The earth with its harvests is crowned. The great wheels of labor go round. The mills' golden grain heaps are ground By help from his throne. The traveler is sped on his quest By a steed that needeth no rest; For this king hath breathed in his breast The life of his own. His voice in the cataract's roar. In the waves that break on the shore, Proclaims in our ears evermore His glorious might. KING WATER. 55 And, again, in the musical flow Of the brook, 'tis silv'ry and low As the laugh of a child when we know It laughs with delight. But another has set up his throne In the land this king calls his own, And by deeds dark and evil has grown Kincr Alcohol's fame. He makes of earth's fruit and its grain A poison that maddens the brain — His subjects seek honor in vain. They only find shame. But lo! he now trembles, afraid Of the nations whose trust he's betrayed. Whose homes he has desolate made — And fain would he bring Peace offerings of money — but no! A voice like the cataracts flow Shall thunder: "The tyrant must go, For Water is King.'' 56 BEYOND THE HILLS. BEYOHD THE HILLS. •^ T WISH that I could go away," sighed Claire, -■' Leaning a pensive face upon her hand. And looking off with wistful eyes, where fair And far, the hills shut in the quiet land Whereon her gaze had fallen every day Since her young life began. " I've half a mind," She said, "that I will start and run away — Like boys do in the story books — and find What lies beyond those far-off w^atchful hills." " I almost feel that I am rooted here As are the trees within our door-yard small. They can do naught but stand there year by year, Until at last they, gnarled and bent, shall fall As I shall some day on my wrinkled face — Still looking toward the hills, and old and gaunt, Still standing in the same familiar place. BEYOND THE HILLS. 57 I cannot bear it, mother dear, I want To go — I must go — off beyond the hills." "And do the trees indeed stand still, my dear?" Queried the patient mother. " Do they not grow A little nearer the blue sky each year? Do not their spreading branches ever throw A little broader shadow in the sun, To shelter man and insect, bird and beast "^ Of all the gracious leafy trees, which one Has not a better thought, for you at least. Than wayward flight beyond the untried hills?" " Well, I have heard," said Claire, with a slow smile, Still gazing at the hills, ^'that there will come In time — whether one waits upon an isle Amid the ocean waves or sits at home — The thing that one above all else desires. The heart is its own oracle of fate, The inborn need its prophecy inspires, And mine to me has whispered, ' Soon or late, Thou shalt go forth beyond the circling hills.' " 58 BEYOND THE HILLS. Not late, but soon! O grievous, dread surprise, When sobbing friends beheld sweet Claire depart: Not as she oft had dreamed, but with her eyes Fast closed in death. Upon her pulseless heart And smiling lips, death's solemn secret seal. " She never had her wish," grieved they with tears, " How strange it seems that the dear Lord should deal So sternly with the child. In all these years She longed in vain to go beyond the hills." " She lias her wish," the gray-haired pastor said, " She has gone forth beyond the barring hills, Not w4th slow feet, a beaten path to tread: But with swift wdngs to bear her where she wills. AYhat matters it if life's periphery Be small or great? What traveler now so wise As this young girl, who sees eternity — Sees God Himself with her clear angel eyes! While we are still environed by the hills." LOVE. 59 LOVE. TTfE'VE all had our lovers; some constant, some not- ^ ' Tlioiigli each vowed to us everlasting affection — Some left us in anger; some only forgot, And some were dispatched by a simple rejection. But these people — Ah these! love on without end, Eegardless of failings of flesh or of temper. More constant than lover, more loving than friend, Though all others fail, they are fidelcs semper. They pour out our love for our commonest use. Unmindful of circumstance, care, or requiting; If smitten on one cheek, they condone the abuse. And turn us the other for kissing or smiting. Ah! when was a lover's love ever like this? Enduring all things, still hoping, believing. Depending on neither a smile nor a kiss. Lavish in giving, e'en if little receiving. 60 LOVE. No others — not even ourselves — with such zest Hear sounded our praises, nor think us so clever; They hold as better than other folks best — God bless these dear fathers and mothers forever! IN EMBRYO. "^ IH EMBRYO. TO E. B. w HAT was life to the moth in its chrysalid thrall? Did it wake "twixt its dreamings and ask: "Is this all"'! Did it thnll to the tips of its embryo wings With an impulse for flight born of bright visionings Flashing by in the wildering maze of a dream. Then lost as the cloud loses the lightning's swift gleam? Did the light filter through its soft, silken cocoon And strike its closed eyes with a vague sense of that boon- The power of sight? Did the ambient air break Softly in waves o'er its walls and bid it awake And pierce through the strange silence and darkness around To a beautiful world full of sunlight and sound? Did it struggle against its invisible chain Till it grew almost mad with the longing and pain? 62 ' • IN EMBRYO. I know not. But I know that a hand, never seen. Cut its bonds all away with strokes subtle and keen, And one day it came forth from its close prison cell, Free! strong-winged and clear-eyed! Thus at last it befell That the great sunlit world, which had once seemed so strange, This rejoicing, freed creature had now for its range. My dear friend, dost thou guess what my thought is for thee ? Does the strain of thy soul reveal captivity? Dost thou know thy own self, in relation to life. As only a something with a something at strife? Does the silence but echo thy wild questionings? The Divine life within thee is stirring its wings. Abide! Thy strong soul grows large for its shell, And some glad blessed day, the same bliss which befell The beautiful moth shall happen to thee, And thou, too, slialt know what it is to be free; What sight is, what life is, and heaven — yea, more — When thy wings vail thy face as thou bowest before The Creator of life, life's Kedeemer and Guide, Thou shalt know what it is to be aye satisfied. EDITH. 63 EDITH. 7th MO. 3, 1880. ONLY a year since she entered Our goodly and beautiful land, AYliere at once she set up her kingdom, At once besran her command. '& With smiles and tears she has conquered Her royal will knows no excuse : She has no reason for doubting That the world was made for her use. She snares us all by her dimples; She enchants us all by her eyes: She seemeth a pure white lily Sweetly blooming in human guise. Whatever is good and lovely. Whatever is dainty and bright, Appears to her little Highness Her own indisputable right. 64 EDITH. No gem so rare, nor so costly That she wonki not quietly take As part of her great possessions, And of it a plaything make, I saw her look at Niagara With a cool, indifferent air. As if she had seen falls grander, And didn't for these much care. Wonderful things she's been used to! That is evident every day; And nothing so much surprises Her as not to have her own w^ay. Dear little lily-like princess! Her strength in her helplessness lies. She captures our worldly wisdom By her looks so unworldly wise. O may she rule long and sweetly; Have happy returns of the day, And find that they who best govern Are they who first learn to obey. IN MEMOKIAM. 65 IK MEMORIAM. Died— Suddenly, Sabbath evening, April 20, 1879, Miss Jennie Koberts. l'~\ID a strange, sweet exaltation thrill ^ Her soul that fair last clay, as she drew So near to heaven? Albeit, still Unconscious, it was opening to her view. Did the light within, inform her eyes ? That she turned so oft to say To friends — farther off from Paradise — '' This is such a lovely, lovely day." That light, strange and tender, which has place In souls, but was ne'er on sea nor land. Faded with the eve a little space, Then to heaven brightened as Christ's hand Led her from death's valley, cold and dim, x\nd before the Father on His throne 6 66 IN MEMOEIAM. Her confessed who erst had confessed Him In the fleeting earth-life she had known. So she passed! A soul as sweet and shy As a violet which, unaware, Tells to every one who goeth by That a fragrant life is blooming there. Does the violet, when gathered, miss The twin flower blooming by her side ? For God's human flowers. He reserves the bliss Of again together blooming glorified. O, bereaved ones! if true love alway Seeks the happiness of the beloved — Of its own unmindful — ye can say, Witli a strong affection deeply proved, And the strength that trusting faith imparts, "Heaven is hers! We but count her gain!" Folding close within your wounded hearts Thoughts of her sweet peace, to heal them of their pain. THE MESSAGE OF THE SNOW. 67 THE MESSAGE OF THE SHOW. THE spring Avilh sud, soft airs and rain Had wrought its miracles and gone ; Summer and fall, in long, bright train Of bloom and fruit and wavintj gfiain, Had passed, and sweeter treasures borne. " Is life," I moaned, " a fateful breath Forever drawn aAvay by death ? Is there no joy lives on and on? ''The trees grieve over branches bare, And stretch them up with sobbing cry, But all in vain is moan or prayer, I only seem to hear or care. And helpless watch the leaden sky And hopeless think of other prayers — Then wonder if indeed God cares. Or — if — He's there, to make reply." Lo! while I wonder, the gray gloom, Which typified my heart's despair, 68 THE MESSAGE OF THE SNOW. Breaks softly into starry bloom So pure, nor tint, nor faint perfume Stains these white blossoms of the air, Which spread, in prodigal excess Of nature's need, their loveliness Upon the earth. The branches bare That shivered erst in wintry air. No longer mourn their lush green leaves, And purer are the robes they wear Than fuller makes with utmost care. And softer far than weaver weaves. The humblest shrub, or meanest thing Now stands in white apparelling. And speaks — God's priest — to her who grieves. " O, troubled heart! Now wilt thou dare To longer hopeless mourn? Behold, What wondrous beauty budding where To thee was only empty air. Thou knowest naught! Joys manifold Shall bloom from out thy sorrow's night Changing its darkness into light, For know dear heart, that God is there." GUI BONO? 69 GUI BOKO? ^^ r 'M disappointed, tired of life, *- If this be all — to eat, to sleep, to rise And go about the same dnll round Of graceless tasks — to ask with sighs What means this riddle we call life? Perpetuated for what end? Its days like drops of water run In tedious, ceaseless repetend. "Nothing I do seems worth the while, As well the world without my deeds, Since every one can do the same They are as commonplace as weeds. Insipid is the cup I drink, And hateful is my common fate; My soul immortal fain would read The mysteries that palpitate 70 CUI BONO? •' Upon the winds, upon the waves, And in the bosom of the sky; From longing soul and universe. Deep calls to deep, with endless cry. Wherefore that cry ? O, wherefore life ? Stranore orift! which none can tell about Until the breath of unseen death Shall blow the feeble taper out." Thus spoke the girl, impatient grown With self — with hard, dull circumstance That hedged her in from paths up which Her restless feet would fain advance. Her heart was sick with hope deferred, With purposes all unfulfilled. In the world's work-shop of great deeds There seemed no place for her to build. Sighing, she turned to her loved books. As daily sh e was wont to ( lo, In them to ilrown accusing thoughts Which held her empty life in view. cur BONO? 71 Half unaware, her wancFriDg hand Was stayed upon a volume old, Whose truths unto her holden eyes Had been no more than fables told. But now God's Spirit in her soul To her remembrance once more brought The old, old story, read so oft, And henceforth with new meaning fraught. " My child/' He said, " from heaven once, The King's own son came down to earth And lived earth's life of petty toil. And set His royal seal of worth "On smallest deed or simplest task For love or homely duty done. And noAV shouldst thou but give a cup Of water to a thirsty one; Or, even take a little child Up in thy arms and win its smile. Thou still wouldst do a kingly thing, The thing that Christ thought worth His while. 72 GUI BONO? " He helped the hungry, erring, sad, And daily taught — not how to solve Some problem fine, of how the stars Around some central sun revolve. But how each one hath sacred part In life's great common brotherhood; And they live best, who, like God's Christ Find their life's use in doing good." TO A FRIEND. 73 TO A FRIEHD. Married ix April,. r\ APRIL! month of miracles, ^ What wonders dost thou bring to pass! Leaves burgeon on the naked trees. Brown fields grow green with tender grass, Sweet violets, all purple clad, Steal gently forth and, one by one, Their hoods throw back from faces glad To meet the kisses of the sun. But sweeter miracle than these, O, month of violets! is wrouofht Within the garden of the heart, Where suddenly love comes unsought, And makes of life a summer day — Though April winds blow cold and chill — For true love blooms for aye and aye. And will not fade as violets will. 74 LINES WRITTEN ON BIRCH BARK TO A FRIEND. LIHES WRITTEH OH BIRCH BARK TO A FRIEKD. PKOM a dryad of the wood ^ Stolen was this tablet fine, 'Twas her stylus that engraved Clearly each unfading line. Scarcely do I dare to write, In my clumsy, human way, These few words, lest I efface Tale or poem of some fay. But between my written lines Thou, with clearer eyes, may'st see Characters and occult signs Untranslatable by me. Thou may'st read what the wild wind — Rover from all lands and seas — LINES WRITTEN ON BIRCH BARK TO A FRIEND. 75 Whispered when he told his love To the palpitating trees. Thou may'st find the mysteries Eevealed here, of all the wood, Happy secrets of the birds. Bees, and streamlets, understood And interpreted by none, Save the fairies and the heart That the world hath never won, Which must needs go oft apart From the busy haunts of men, To the woods and fields to find Eespite, from the "madding crowd" Healing, for its wounds unkind. ©nnels. T 1)1) PARADISE REGAIHED. HE circling hills of woods and clouds snow-white Held, in the golden hour of eventide. The lake by which I walked, and seemed to hide From view a world yet lovelier, whose light Streamed up behind their heights and made them glow, As wrapped in purest flame, and flung on high Bright flakes of glory 'gainst the pale blue sky, AVliich bridged with paths of fire the lake below. I felt sweet music that I could not hear, I saw a poem that I could not read, "AVhat place is this?" I cried! Lo, at my need Two lovers passed — 'twas Paradise! for clear I saw it shining in his happy eyes, I heard it murmured in her low replies. 76 ONWAED TO THE SEA. 77 OHWABD TO THE SEA. ON that broad stream, which bears upon its breast A thousand isles, we sailed one summer day, And gazing forward, we were quick to say, " The green shores meet beyond and must arrest Our progress." Lo! while yet our lips confest Our fears, our good ship neared and found a way Safe and secure, to speed us on our quest. Some parted links in every barring chain We found alway — and sailing on and on, We came at last into the open main ; As birds on wing, all ways were ours — for, gone Was every limit, save the circling sky Which still encompassed as the days went by. II. Sailor upon life's stream ! dost thou descry Before thy way high rocks which seem to rise To thrust thee back? Trust not thy holden eyes, They cannot see! events shall by and by Their poor, short-sighted evidence deny: Give not thy heart to fears, thy lips to sighs, 78 WEDDING-DAY. Nor falter back, and thou, in glad surprise, Shalt find ere long how God hath made reply Unto thy need, while yet thou couldst not see; Between the shores thy pathway lies secure, The stream flows onward to Eternity And fain shall carry thee into that pure, Broad ocean which God's love enspheres — a sky — Alway encompassing as time goes by. WEDDIHG-DAY. A friend's in ENGLAND. AKAINY April day! with fitful gleams Of sun, and fitful flight, from dripping eaves, Of chirping birds to trees whose tender leaves Scarce lovelier than summer's bloom we deem; So fair to winter-weary eyes they seem. But by that necromancy which retrieves The past, or future happiness perceives, I conquer time and space, as in a dream, And see no longer this wet April day; But one more fair, born under England's skies, And nearer by a fortnight to sweet May. But fair or dark, or in whatever guise It comes — within two hearts it is a day More bright than any out of Paradise. April 14, 1882. TO M. H. P. 79 TO M. H. P. MISSIONARY TO CHINA. T^O mine own understanding did I lean ^ When — having thee in mind — I said, one day 'Twonkl be like death to go so far away That the whole earth would interpose, between My home and me, its dense opacity. It would be death — not life — so far sipart From all that feeds and satisfies the heart. So spake I: but, years later, seeing thee, I saw I had but uttered half a truth. Thy face revealed the rest — '' Whoso shall lose His life for Christ's dear sake, fJie same in sooth Shall find ity Some death pangs — then God renews The life! Thy happy eyes the secret told Of blessed gain — not loss — an hundred fold. 80 TO A PANSY. TO A PAKSY. " Pansy— that's for thoughts." '^PHOU lovely thought of God! perfect and fair, ^ Unflawed by sin! I cannot e'er repeat Thy tender meanings, thou dear paraclete; Be thou my messenger to-day, and bear Unto my friend — with whom I fain would share All good and pleasant thoughts — thy beauty sweet, Through which I feel, like unseen pulses, beat God's love and power. Then, wilt thou declare. In gentle breathings to my absent friend, My love, solicitude, and blessings more Than I can think or ask for? Let these blend AVith heaven's message, thou didst bear before; And so the deepest feelings of my heart — For which there are no words — shalt thou impart. I ^jj^^jj.. ■-'jk'^i^'^j*^- -*JJt^^^^^i4!^i^HiJ i^'i:^^iA^^.2±f^t±§^>=iii LIBRARY OF CONGRESS m mi \ J :-.-lii />.