me - Old pJRD€N If March Rer j FROM THE LIBRARY OF REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO THE LIBRARY OF PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY IMviaioa S^C5 Section ^ooftfi bp Jflarjraret SDiianU* THE OLD GARDEN, AND OTHER VERSES. Enlarged Edition. i6mo, gilt top, $1.25. JOHN WARD, PREACHER. A Novel. i6rao, $1.25; paper, 50 cents. SIDNEY. A Novel. i6mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents. THE STORY OF A CHILD. i6mo. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY, Boston and New York. THE OLD GAR, Jjtt OF PB/j^s 'N FEB 6 1933 ' AND OTHER VERGES v ^ BY /y MARGARET DELAND BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY Wbe Cttoersibe press, CTanibriD0e 1892 Copyright, 1887, By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COo All rights reserved. TWELFTH EDITION. Tke Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. Sweet, every rhyme here writ Is yours, not mine ; Your heart did dictate it, Mine wrote the line ! So, then, to you, whose wit Did make each song, My heart and book, H is fit Should both belong! Boston, August, 1886. Put all thy faith in Time, Nor trust in me; Grant Life, and Love, and Rhyme, Eternity! I CONTENTS. THE OLD GARDEN. The Old Garden . The Succory Butter and Eggs . The Pansy . The Myrtle . The Morning-Glory The Sweet-Pea The Rosemary . The Clover . The Yellow Daisy The Blue-Bell The Quaker Lady The Mignonette . NATURE Affaire d'Amour May The Wild Rose June August Wind Sunrise on Crag Mountain Hepatica .... The Golden Rod . Studies for Pictures The Night Mist . Bloodroot Blossoms . PAGE 3 10 ii 12 13 14 is 16 17 18 19 20 21 2 5 27 29 30 32 33 35 37 38 41 42 Vlll CONTENTS. Spring's Beacon 43 Summer 44 LOVE SONGS. To Thee 49 On being asked by Phyllis for a Picture of Love 50 The Death of Love 5[ To Jealousie 53 Is It ? 54 To a Pansy 56 Hinc Ill/e Lacrim^e 57 A Lover to his Mistress .... 59 Arriere Pensee 60 Uncertainty 62 Many Waters cannot quench Love . . 63 On Presenting a Scentless Rose to a Young Gentlewoman ....... 65 Love and Death 66 Love's Wisdom 67 Two Lovers 68 Inconstancy 70 Lines to a Very Shy Young Woman . . 71 Love's Coup d'etat 72 Sent with a Rose to a Young Lady . . 74 On being reproached by my Love for Cold- ness 75 Verses 77 POEMS OF LIFE. Life . 81 Death 8^ Doubt 84 As One who watcheth for the Morning . 86 When Love and Sorrow meet . . . .87 CONTENTS. IX On a Child's Grave in Dorchester Burying- Ground 89 Easter Music 90 To the Child of the Sistine Madonna . 91 The Message of the Lilies . . . .92 Hymn 93 To E. W. W 95 VERSES FOR CHILDREN. The Bird and the Butterfly . . . .99 While Shepherds watched their Flocks by Night 102 Bossy and the Daisy 104 The Dance of the Fairies . . . .105 The Fairies' Shopping 107 The Buttercup no Night in Polly 113 The Waits 114 THE OLD GARDEN. OLD gray house, whose broken case- ments stare Like sad, dim eyes, at the retreating years, Once more I see thee, but forlorn and bare, And desolate of human hopes and fears. Sagging on rusty hinges hang thy doors, And in thy empty rooms no sound is heard Save only when upon the echoing floors Last autumn's drifted leaves are faintly stirred. Braiding the darkness of the wide, bare hall, The flick'ring sunshine softly comes and goes, And 'gainst the broken plaster of the wall Is blown the shadow of a climbing rose. Oh, none but Silence and the Past, to greet The weary heart that on the threshold stands, Only the wind to answer eager feet, And only shades to touch the outstretched hands ! The house is but poor Love's neglected grave, While young and glad and bright with sum- mer's glow, 4 THE OLD GARDEN. Like strange sweet spray upon Time's beating wave, Against its grief the happy flowers grow. Closed on three sides by crumbling walls of brick, All spotted by slow-creeping lichen stains, And nearly hid by ivy, matted thick, And dim with clinging mists of years of rains, The Garden lies. Peaceful as upland farm That from all noise and tumult stands apart, Yet round it is the street, a restless arm That clasps the country to the city's heart ; All day, outside the mildewed walls does beat The roar of traffic and the factory's din, The endless tramp of tired, busy feet, Or roll of funeral car, or laugh of sin. — Only the wall between this rush of life And the deep quiet of the Garden old, But yet as separate as peace and strife, Or June's sweet sunshine from December's cold. When all outside is vexed by summer rains, Whose dash and rush will bend the stateliest rose, And blur the street with dull and tearful stains, The freshened Garden but the brighter glows ; THE OLD GARDEN. 5 The swaying flowers lift their sweet, wet eyes, And burst of perfume fills the shining air, The drenched and dreary street feels vague surprise At the strange fragrance overflowing there. It is as though some wind of memory blew Across the fields where earth was freshly ploughed, Or over pastures, dim with early dew, Or down from hilltops hid in wreaths of cloud. Again the drifting shadows wheel and pass Across the roof of some far cottage home Set where the waves of golden meadow-grass Break with white ripples into daisy foam. O long dead Past ! O pang of strange regret — O crimson roses bending in the rain — Alas for hearts that may not e'en forget, And yet would not go back to thee again ! Inside the walls, the tall ailanthus' shade Is tangled in the meshes of the grass, Or flecks the path, whose mossy flags were laid For childish feet, long since grown old, to pass ; Between the stones, the scarlet pimpernel Finds room to spread its thread-like roots and grow; And all self-sown, the portulaca's bell Lights up the ground with tender, rosy glow. The walks are hedged with dusky green of box, That once enclosed long borders, trim and neat ; 6 THE OLD GARDEN. Within them stood great clumps of snowy phlox, That shone at dusk, and grew more deeply sweet. But now the phlox wild morning-glories seek, Whose silky blossoms rove the Garden through, And press pure faces 'gainst the thistle's cheek, Or star-like gleam amid the grass and dew — A thousand pushing weeds the borders hold, And standing with them, wild and rank as they, Are tender blossoms, now grown over-bold, And careless of the Garden's slow decay. Oh, far away, in some serener air, The eyes that loved them see a heavenly dawn : How can they bloom without her tender care ? Why should they live, when her sweet life is gone? Still from the far-off pastures comes the bee, And swings all day inside the hollyhock, Or steals her honey from the winged sweet- pea, Or the striped glory of the four-o'clock ; The pale sweet-william, ringed with pink and white, Grows yet within the damp shade of the wall ; /Vnd there the primrose stands, that as the night Begins to gather, and the dews to fall, THE OLD GARDEN. J Flings wide to circling moths her twisted buds, That shine like yellow moons with pale, cold glow, And all the air her heavy fragrance floods, And gives largess to any winds that blow. Here, in warm darkness of a night in June, While rhythmic pulses of the factory's flame Lighted with sudden flare of red the gloom, And deepened long black shadows, children came To watch the primrose blow ! Silent they stood, Hand clasped in hand, in breathless hush around, And saw her shyly doff her soft green hood And blossom — with a silken burst of sound ! Once more I listen for the trembling chime From purple-throated Canterbury bell \ For surely, in that far-off golden time, Strange fragrant music from it softly fell. Beneath the lilacs, on whose heart-shaped leaves The dust has settled and white stains of mould, The money-vine with clinging myrtle weaves A thick dark carpet, starred with blue and gold. A wedge of vivid blue the larkspur shines From out the thorny heart of the sweetbrier, And at its side are velvet brandy-wines, Shadowed by honeysuckles' fringe of fire. 3 THE OLD GARDEN. On the long grass, where still the drops of dew Are threaded like a necklace for the dawn, The flaming poppies their soft petals strew, Then stand and shiver, all their brav'ry gone. Each crumpled, crepe-like leaf is soft as silk ; Long, long ago the children saw them there, Scarlet and rose, with fringes white as milk, And called them "shawls for fairies' dainty wear ! " They were not finer, those laid safe away In that low attic, 'neath the brown, warm eaves, Where yellow sunshine on the rafters lay, Or danced with shadows of the outside leaves — The scent of cedarn chest in each soft fold, And ling'ring sweetness of dried lavender, Or pale pressed rose-leaves. Still the grapevines hold The leaning arbor, where the leaves scarce stir, In cool green darkness that shuts out the sky ; For, if a sunbeam wandered there, 'twas lost, Or flitted like a golden butterfly Across the ceiling that the fruit embossed. 'Neath it the path was worn and mossy green, And here, on long, still, Sunday afternoons, The Garden hidden by the leafy screen, A child would walk, crooning to low, strange tunes, Her catechism, or the evening hymn ; But ever gazing with a wistful eye, THE OLD GARDEN. 9 From out the quiet of the arbor dim, At the bright Garden, Sunday did deny. The house is empty of the old, sweet life ; The outside world long since has claimed the child, And gone forever from its bitter strife The gentle face that always on her smiled. Yet, though untended, still the Garden glows, And 'gainst its walls the city's heart still beats, And out from it each summer wind that blows Carries some sweetness to the tired streets ! IO THE SUCCORY. THE SUCCORY. H, not in ladies' gardens, My peasant Posy ! Smile thy dear, blue eyes, Nor only — nearer to the skies — In upland pastures, dim and sweet, But by the dusty road Where tired feet Toil to and fro ; Where flaunting Sin May see thy heavenly hue, Or weary Sorrow look from thee Toward a tenderer blue ! % "BUTTER AND EGGS." II "BUTTER AND EGGS." N orange cap and yellow skirt She stands — this arrant farmer flirt ! She knows the thoughts he dare not utter, The while he buys her eggs and butter. He knows his fate ! And yet this silly lover begs, 11 Oh, will you sell A kiss, as well As butter and eggs ? " % 12 THE PANSY. THE PANSY. DAINTY Pansy ! hooded all in blue, With chastely folding cloak of green, A maid whom Eros never knew, Nor Love has seen ! I yet must fancy, scarce dreamt by thee, That 'neath thy most discreetest thought There lurks a will which may be taught, By Love — and me ! \ THE MYRTLE. 1 3 THE MYRTLE. N. W. C TS clinging, mournful leaves, I said, Seem made to thatch a grave, Around the roots of cypress-trees, Too deep in gloom for sun or breeze, It lives to mourn the dead. But when I kissed her name, I saw, Above the dear, dead maid, A starry flower of tender blue, A bit of heaven, shining through The leaves upon her grave !